Pelekarr ignored her and addressed the ranks. “Javelins!”
Fifteen hands were raised, again including some of those that had claimed expertise in other areas. Pelekarr surveyed and acknowledged them with a nod. “Another thing you should know: you’ll all be issued a blade in addition to your primary weaponry, and you will train in its use until you attain proficiency. You won’t need heavy armor now, but eventually some of you may be trained as hoplites or even replacement horsemen as needed. We envision a fluid, adaptable force that can become whatever the job requires, fighters that can take up a fallen spear or horse and fill the gap.
“That goes for our other troops as well, and you lot will be the ones to train them in the art of bow, sling, and javelin. Are there any former sergeants here?”
One man raised a hand. “Grutt, sir. Belvius Grutt. First sergeant. Formerly with the ninth skirmisher battalion, Lord Rokus’ legion.”
“Where is Lord Rokus?”
“Never made it off the beach.”
“And you’re an archer?”
“Yessir.”
“Show me.”
Grutt saluted smartly, stepped out of ranks, and walked to his bundle, set with the others to one side of the parade ground. He pulled a standard Kerathi flatbow from its wrappings and strung it with a bowstring he took from an oiled leather pouch on his belt. Taking up a belt quiver full of barbed shafts, he approached the captains.
“Which mark shall I try for, sir?” he said, squinting in the morning sun.
Pelekarr pointed to an assortment of targets the sergeants had arranged on a low wall thirty paces away: apples from the nearby tree, small pieces of wood, and bundles of grass twisted into knots. “The first one on the left, there.”
Grutt nodded. He nocked a dark-feathered shaft with crimson bands painted along its length, and stared at the target for a moment. The mark was a long one, but there was little wind. He was to hit a flat piece of bark propped up to face him, the width and height of a splayed hand.
The archer raised his bow, drew back until the fletchings rustled in the stubble on his upper jaw, and smoothly loosed.
The bowstring thrummed and his arrow whirred downrange, clipping the bark and spinning it away from the wall.
Damicos chuckled appreciatively, looked at Pelekarr. His fellow captain frowned.
“Again. Next target to the right.”
Grutt selected another arrow, drew, and loosed. This time the speeding shaft knocked a green apple from the wall, splitting off a chunk. Damicos whistled appreciatively. He might not have pin-cushioned the thing, but a man’s chest was far larger than these targets. Here was a competent archer.
Pelekarr nodded, satisfied.
“Thank you, Sergeant. You are now in command of this skirmisher troop. Pick your second, and weed out any archers you don’t want in battle alongside you. If they can’t shoot to your liking, let them try with the slingers or the javelin casters. Then draw what you need from the quartermasters and report to me at sundown in Dura.”
“Sir!” Grutt saluted. “You can count on me, sir.”
Damicos asked, “Any problem with a couple of women in your troop, Grutt?”
Grutt shrugged. “I watched them shoot earlier this morning, and they’re both skilled. Especially the short one, Harnwe Hassander. I know her brother. A good Ostoran family. If you want them, I’ll command them.”
“Very well. Slingers! Your turn.”
As the archers scrambled to string their bows and show their new sergeant how much they deserved a spot in the company, Damicos turned to face another side of the open square and pointed at a couple of those who had raised their hands as slingers.
“You, and you. Step up here.”
Two lanky, bearded men with dark curly hair moved out of the ranks. The captain seemed as if he was hand-picking men on the fly, but in truth he’d already been informed by the sergeants which of the recruits were likeliest to make good troop leaders.
“You two could be brothers, by Rukhal’s beard.”
“We are, Captain.”
“Ah. Do you see that section of wall, where the broken arch juts upward?”
Both men nodded.
“That arch is an advancing enemy spearman. Kill him.”
The brothers pulled long slings from belts, and fitted the noosed ends around their middle fingers. Then each brother took a round river pebble from its belt pouch, carefully selected for weight and smoothness. Each man fit the stone into his sling and in unison they began to swing the corded weapons around their bodies with a whirring sound. A moment later, the brothers let fly, ending the arc by releasing one of the straps at a precisely timed moment.
The stones moved faster than the eye could follow, striking the broken stone arch within a second of each other. There was a loud crackCRACK and dust puffed into the air from the impacts. The velocity was great enough to actually dislodge a portion of the crumbling mortared stone, which slid down to the grass and broke apart.
“Excellent. What are your names?”
“Lopontes Ukan, sir, and this is my brother Quelos. Also from Lord Rokus’ legion. Tenth battalion.”
“Corporals Ukan, now. You’re each in charge of half the slingers. You report to Sergeant Grutt. Pick your men, draw your gear, and inform your sergeant.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Javelins!” Pelekarr called as the Ukan brothers led their fellow slingers up and began taking shots at various pieces of masonry along the north side of the ruin. The remaining skirmishers perked up and the cavalry captain considered them each in turn. Finally he selected two: a dense slab of meat nearly as wide as he was tall, with arms like a gorilla, and a shorter, fairer, younger man with long tied-back sandy hair and quiet gray eyes.
“Names?”
“Stevos Adda, sir,” the large one replied. “They call me The Sickle.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m good at killing,” Stevos said simply. He was a hirsute specimen, sporting a full black beard, richly curled. Dark hair sprouted from his arms, chest, legs, and feet. He wore a sleeveless tunic and battered sandals.
“So you’ve seen your share of battle. How many men have you killed, Adda?”
Stevos shrugged. “More than my share. I never kept a tally, sir.”
“Indeed.” The captain turned to the shorter javelin thrower. “And who are you?”
“Sojac, Captain.”
“Sojac.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other name?”
“No, sir.”
“An orphan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ostoran?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen any combat?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that question, Captain.”
“Have you killed in battle?”
“Not yet.”
“But you think you’re good with a javelin?”
Sojac smiled. “I do all right, sir.”
“Better than all right, I hope. Show me. You and Adda.”
The two men grabbed their bundled javelin sets and eyed the archery targets that were still being pelted with feathered shafts. But Pelekarr pointed instead toward the southwest corner of the square they were in.
“You men will have a bit more fun with this. Sergeant Copper smelt it in the trees and dragged it out just for you.”
The men snorted at the reek that assailed their noses as they approached what appeared to be a decomposing deer strung up between two saplings. The final group of skirmishers gathered around to watch, covering their noses.
Sojac and The Sickle squared off against the target, taking their weapons in hand. The traditional peltast, or javelin-caster, kept one javelin always in his throwing hand, holding two or three more in a bundle in his other hand, from which often hung a broad wicker shield.
The Sickle’s javelins were long and tipped with heads of sharpened bronze. Sojac’s were shorter and sharpened on both ends; their tips w
ere not bladed but simply capped with tight bronze cones that tapered to wicked points. Where The Sickle’s version could serve as short spears for close-up killing, Sojac’s were pure penetration, just as heavy but smaller in profile.
The two javelin-throwers rolled their shoulders, stretching considerable arm muscles, and assumed a ready position.
“Cast!”
Both men pivoted and threw their missiles hard, sandals scuffing in the dirt. The long shafts hummed through the air and both hit the deer carcass. Stevos Adda’s sank in just behind the shoulder, and Sojac’s punched through the ribs. The deer swung with the impact, revealing that while Stevos’ javelin was deeply embedded, Sojac’s had gone right through. It lay on the grass several paces beyond, covered in viscera.
“Well done. Adda, back away and show me your range.”
The man quickly jogged back several paces, then kept going several more. He didn’t stop until he was a full thirty paces away, outside the ruined square. Pelekarr watched with raised eyebrows. “You think he can throw accurately at that distance?” he asked Damicos.
“If he’s good, he can. I’ve seen it done. He must be confident, this one.”
“Cast when ready,” Pelekarr shouted to the man.
Adda assumed his throwing position and waited for a few moments, judging the distance. Then he threw, arcing his missile higher this time in a long parabola that descended like doom itself, puncturing the deer again with a wet smack, just shy of the spine.
Several of the other skirmishers cried out in praise. It was a far cast for any javelin, but The Sickle’s ape-strong arms and his natural talent had made the feat look easy. Damicos felt a mild shiver imagining the long bronze leaf-blade coming down on him in battle. Even if his shield turned the point, it might well knock him to the ground.
“A fine throw. Come back, Adda.” Damicos turned to the other thrower. “I doubt any of the rest of us could exceed that display. Let’s try something a bit different with you.” He signaled to Copper, and the sergeant went and untied the deer carcass, holding his breath until he could finish uncoiling a long rope tied to its leg. The he quickly stepped away and began to drag the carcass quickly along the ground parallel to the square where Sojac and the captains stood.
“Cast when ready!” Damicos said. “And try not to hit the good sergeant.”
Had Sojac waited, the sergeant’s path would have taken him a few paces closer to where the watchers stood. But the young skirmisher instantly began to run, keeping a constant distance between the target and himself. Then he veered suddenly to a waist-high jumble of ruined wall and in two great leaping steps he mounted and launched himself off it. While still in the air, he cast his javelin.
The skirmishers cheered; the cheer became a roar when the missile hit the flopping deer body squarely in the middle and pinned the carcass to the ground so suddenly that Copper was nearly jerked off his feet. The men watching jumped and yelled, pounding each other on the back.
Damicos laughed out loud at the brash display of skill. Even Pelekarr broke into a smile, shaking his head.
Sojac retrieved his javelin, pausing to shake Copper’s hand with a grin so disarming that the sergeant clapped him on the back instead of growling at him for giving him a tumble. As he returned to the ranks he was greeted with more cheers. The skirmishers obviously loved him, and all were proud that their craft had been displayed so well that day in front of their new employer. The Sickle clapped him on the shoulder, and Sojac returned the gesture. Both men faced the captains and saluted, to more applause.
Pelekarr acknowledged the pair with a nod. “Well done, you two. I’ve never seen the like. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sojac, how is it you possess such skill and yet have never seen battle?”
“My battles haven’t been against men, sir.”
“A hunter.”
“You could describe it that way. Beast-slayer, I say.”
“Well, you two shall also be corporals, reporting to Sergeant Grutt. See to these other peltasts and report in once every man has what he needs.”
“Yes, sir!” They saluted and rejoined the ranks.
The captains watched a few of the archers for a while, still loosing shafts under the watchful eye of the newly appointed skirmisher sergeant. Ica the hunter was proving himself particularly deadly as a marksman with his Ostoran longbow, despite his weakened condition. When he finally unstrung his bow, Damicos approached.
“Good to see you up and walking,” he said, shaking the hunter’s hand. “And putting feathered shafts in targets just as steadily as the last time we saw you. When do you think you’ll be ready to march with us?”
Mistshaper smiled wanly. “I’ve shown I can still use my bow as well as I ever did. But marching, sir? It depends how far.”
“Deep into the interior this time. How deep, none can tell.”
Ica hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to be a burden on my troop mates, sir.”
Damicos clapped him on the shoulder. “We have need of you, Mistshaper. A bow-arm that can bring in game on the trail as well as it can bring down foemen is well worth its pay. Come with us as far as you can, and we’ll give you special leave to return to Dura if your strength gives out.”
Ica eyed the captain for a minute, desire for adventure flaring brightly. “I’ll go, then, sir. As far as I can.”
The captains left Sergeant Grutt and his corporals to continue the vetting, overseen by Lieutenant Leon. They walked back to Dura in the company of the rest of their officers, mulling over their plans as they passed through copses of roadside trees and along the dusty trail.
“Here we are, splitting up the company once again,” Damicos pointed out as they went over a small bridge that spanned a burbling stream. “Between the resupply effort and these recruits, there’s little time for any of the cross-training we preached to the troops.”
Pelekarr scratched his chin. “We have no control over when the jobs will appear, and it will be some time before we can afford to be choosy about whether we’ll take them. If we don’t, one of the other free companies will.”
“Aye. But that does nothing to bolster confidence among the ranks. Despite their rivalry, my boys know well the worth of horsemen in pitched battle. We missed having you on the beach, and I daresay you’d have done better had we come along on your forest jaunt.”
“Yes, the need is mutual. But there just isn’t a good way to move a column of horse through the kind of terrain you’re going to face, and no reliable forage for the animals. There are mountains there, if you have to go deep enough.”
“We’ll manage. If we come up against a more mobile enemy, those skirmishers will come in handy to keep them at bay. But you will need some infantry with you, I think. A balanced force will be to your advantage and could help avoid another debacle like the forest behemoths brought upon you. I will travel lighter and easier with, say, eighty of my men than with the full force. Take the other thirty with you.”
“I’ll do that,” Pelekarr said. “I’ll take Sergeant Copper and all those under him, if you can spare them. With infantry in front, skirmishers behind, and horse riding out to either flank, we’ll be unstoppable.”
“Settled. I’ll take the rest south, with an equal split of the new recruits. We’ll be ready to march to Garrim at noon tomorrow. For all we know, though, that’s as far as we’ll get; this whole thing is still unproven.”
Pelekarr looked over at his fellow captain, and there was something mystical in his gaze. “I think you’ll go farther than Garrim, no matter what job you end up taking. Much farther.”
“Why do you say that?” Damicos asked.
Pelekarr shrugged. “It seems to be the nature of this place. Everything we’ve done in Ostora as of yet has led to far more than we bargained on. Never less.”
Damicos slowly nodded.
CHAPTER 4: SPIDER AND FLY
The Wolfsbane shaman was blindfolded and his hands were bound with strong
cords. Only then was he permitted to enter the wooden city.
The brown-haired guardian that had confronted him at the gate was flanked by six others. Four had serrated spears pointed at him, and the other two kept a hand on the pommels of their daggers as they led him into the central chamber of the massive wooden building. When they finally took the blindfold from off his face, he marveled.
Loku had never dreamed of construction on this scale. He had never set foot inside a structure of Kerathi design, and though this was different (being built by men several generations removed from the land across the sea), to the barbarian shaman’s eyes it was like setting foot in an alien world. Wooden rafters arched high overhead, draped with woven banners, and the trophies of mighty hunts dotted the walls.
Twenty men and women stood in the large room, watching and waiting, dressed in Ostoran garb of a different style than those he had spied on while sneaking among the settlements on the coast. All these he ignored, however. The queen sitting on the throne in front of him commanded full attention once his eyes fell on her.
“Barbarian, what is your clan?” the regal woman haughtily demanded. She had pale yellow hair and sapphire eyes, and her dress was the finest Loku had ever seen. She looked at him with obvious distaste, but he was used to that reaction. The crimson lines tracing his shaved head turned off most Ostorans who had seen him up close—right before he bared his sharpened teeth and killed them.
“I am Loku of the Wolfsbane,” he rasped in her awkward tongue. “I have come to show you how you can break free of this place and take your vengeance to the coast.”
The queen regarded him coldly as she digested the unexpected information. Loku continued.
“Yes, I know of your flight. Driven here by the people you once called allies, you built a hidden kingdom. And here you have remained year after year, unable to escape the confines of the mountain’s foot.”
“If there is some secret you know,” the queen spat, suddenly vicious, “spill it to me before I have your throat cut. I have no need to treat with savages.”
“There is this secret, queen of exiles: you are not the only ones who have learned to harness the creatures of this place. The Red God makes all beasts malleable this close to the mountains he rules, and I too can bend them to my will.”
Red Valor Page 3