Red Valor

by Shad Callister

  Damicos let the rest of the infantry filter out of the trees onto the pond’s edge and begin to bunch up behind him. The sergeants gradually realized there was something up ahead and halted their men, but Damicos wanted the strange onlooker to see the full force he had behind him and he gave no command to keep the men back.

  He looked over at Jamson and saw the expedition organizer’s canny eyes analyzing what he saw for any clue, any scrap of meaning that would allow them to better understand what they faced.

  “A scout, or a hunter?” Damicos suggested. “He does not seem very afraid of us.”

  “I think he recognizes us,” Jamson replied. “Not us specifically, but he knows what he’s looking at. A barbarian would have melted into the trees by now. This is an Ostoran settler.”

  “He doesn’t look like any Ostoran I ever met,” the infantry captain said. “He’s wearing some kind of leather shirt, and his spear has great feathers dangling from its head. And that beast…”

  “Old Ostoran, then.”

  Damicos gestured for his nearest sergeants to gather around and pointed out the beast-rider to them. “Have the men ready themselves. No formation yet. I don’t want to spook him, whoever he is. But if I give the word, form an urchin, on the double.”

  The sergeants stared across the pond and set their jaws.

  “We’re ready, sir,” Kalabax said.

  “Aye,” Hundos replied. “It looks like we haven’t been chasing mere ghosts after all. But I don’t like it. He could be a flanker, or an advance scout for a larger force in those trees yonder. Why would he let himself be seen, but to draw us out?”

  “We don’t know if they’re foe or friend yet,” Jamson admonished. “It may be that they’ll welcome us. Leisha’s people haven’t met any Kerathi-speaking people in decades.”

  “If these are Leisha’s people,” Damicos mused. “We don’t know for certain yet.”

  “Who else could it be? Besides, this one’s done nothing thus far to give alarm. A good sign.”

  “Maybe,” Hundos replied. “But he’s watching us like we’re watching him.”

  “Get some archers into the trees, have them sing out if they see anything,” the captain ordered.

  “Aye, captain,” said sergeants Hocano and Hundos, hand signaling their juniors. Skirmishers jogged into the trees under the command of Stevos Adda, known as The Sickle, and the Ukan brothers, corporals among the slingers.

  “Weapons ready, sir,” Leon said, coming up behind the others. “I’ve moved supplies to the back and formed an additional rear-guard. We can move out at the double on your command.”

  Jamson suddenly pointed, and Damicos saw that the rider watching them had turned and was slipping away into the woods beyond the pond’s northern bank. The men watched him go.

  “All ready, then,” breathed the captain. Then he held one hand high. “Advance guard to the front. Keep a tight column, and watch the trees. Let’s move!”

  Damicos led the way, with Jamson and Kairm eagerly pushing forward on each side. A slanting row of infantrymen kept abreast of them with shields up, forming an advance guard that blocked attack to the captain’s position on both sides. The skirmishers followed parallel in the trees. Several minutes later they all reached the north side of the pond where they had seen the rider.

  He was nowhere to be found, but the tracks of the great six-legged beast were plain in the soft ground where the cataract tumbled into the water. Scanning the trees carefully, Damicos urged his men forward among the pines and towering firs. Sunlight slanted down here and there, making the forest floor glow and highlighting the butterflies and dust motes kicked up by the feet of the tramping men.

  “We may come into contact at any moment,” Damicos said to Kairm, “but if we do not, where are we headed from here?”

  “Last time, I went up to the top of the great cliff,” the trapper replied. “But if you want to meet the inhabitants directly, I think I can get us into the part of the valley where the city lies.”

  “Take us there. I am eager to meet these—”

  The captain stopped midsentence when a call sounded ahead in the trees, almost like a loud trumpet blast, but it was obvious it came from the lungs of some great creature. It scaled up on a rising note, then fell to a series of three short grunts. Damicos and his men paused, listening. Seconds later there were two answering calls, farther off, which rose and then fell sharply.

  “Ready, men!” the captain shouted. Turning to his sergeants, he called out, “Tighten up!”

  He pushed forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Jamson and the trapper shrank back to the shelter of the shieldwall on either side. The skirmishers moved slowly, scanning the trees with arrows on strings and javelins ready.

  As they passed a layer of trees with moss-crusted low-hanging branches, Damicos heard a low whoof from a large animal. A second later he came into view of not one mounted beast-rider but four.

  They were arrayed in a large clearing. Three stood scattered loosely behind the fourth, and this one was the man they had seen at the lake. His six-legged mount had one hairy limb perched tentatively atop a log at its feet, as if it were considering a charge or a retreat. But its rider stared hard ahead, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Brown hair framed a pair of penetrating hazel eyes, and his face was clean-shaven. He wore a lightly tanned vest open at the front, lined with dark fur and decorative beads. His legs were encased in homespun cloth with thicker leather sheaths reaching down to small leather shoes like the one Jamson had produced back in the inn at Garrim. He carried a spear with two sets of spiked lugs, the weapon cast downward at an angle to the ground in front of him. It was a stance Damicos knew well; it meant he wasn’t in fighting position yet, but he could be there in a heartbeat if needed.

  The three other riders behind him were dressed similarly, although one was old enough to be crowned with white instead of blonde, and one was a boy of perhaps seventeen. Two of these rode giant long-furred hounds that reminded Damicos of the desert wolves of Kerath, but they had blunter muzzles and sharper ears that stood straight up. Their rear quarters and long tails were gently striped, and their tawny forelegs were muscular and built for clawing or gripping at prey. The last rider, the boy, sat astride an enormous stag and held on to its antlers with each hand. None of them had traditional saddles, but Damicos noticed soft fitted-leather pads strapped to the beasts’ backs where their riders sat.

  The beast-riders remained frozen in the center of the glade, watching the oncoming soldiery, keeping their mounts still. They neither moved to retreat nor to advance. Damicos was fairly certain that there had been more but a few moments earlier—now busy spreading a warning, no doubt.

  Scanning the trees, he kept his nervous horse moving forward. The advance phalanx, shields squared against each other, kept pace. It was a contest of wills, and Damicos was pushing to see if the opposing side would break in the face of the intimidating line of spears.

  He stopped just shy of ten paces from the lead rider, close enough to see the weathered lines on the man’s face, and to smell the musky stench of the monster he rode. He paused there as the men around him tightened up and the column spread a few paces wider as they came into the clearing, presenting a broader front to the enemy.

  Several seconds went by as the two sides watched each other, but still Damicos said nothing. He was aware of Jamson and Kairm on either side of him, his sergeants standing ready further back. This first contact was crucial; he’d done what he could for security, and now it was up to Jamson.

  It wasn’t Jamson, or the leader in front that spoke first, however. It was the older man riding one of the great hounds. He pointed with his spear tip at Kairm, who was standing next to Damicos’ horse.

  “There he stands,” the old man said in a slightly shaky but nonetheless angry growl. “The trapper.” His Kerathi was natural enough, but had an old-fashioned ring to it. He seemed to be addressing his own leader, though he kept his eyes on Kairm a
nd Damicos. “I told you we should have slain him in the woods when first we saw him. It’s him brought these others.”

  The lead rider held up a hand for silence. Then he slowly lowered it and nodded at Damicos, a semi-defiant tilting of the chin that acknowledged his superiority in the current circumstance but ceded no authority beyond that. He had obviously singled out the captain as the leader here, and Damicos sensed Jamson’s mild irritation at the mistake.

  “None of you have penetrated this far into the forest until now, Kerathi,” the stranger said. “Why have you come?”

  Damicos looked at Jamson, who was taking in the scene before them with an expression of nervous satisfaction. Damicos had no intention of taking responsibility for negotiations. He cleared his throat pointedly, waiting.

  “I,” Jamson said, taking his time with the words, “am Uhl Jamson, a mapmaker by profession. We come here seeking new lands to survey and explore.”

  The rider sneered and pointed at Damicos with his spear. “One mapmaker, but a host of Kerathi bronze with you.”

  Jamson’s voice oozed earnest solicitude. “Rest assured, my friend, these soldiers are here merely as protective escort. The forests are fraught with peril, and even with our numbers we have not passed unscathed. We simply wish to rest and care for our wounded as we explore and chart this region. Is there a village nearby where we may see to our needs? We will pay what we can, of course.” He finished with a dazzling smile.

  The beast-rider listened to the speech with disdain and again waved his spear. “No village. No pay. You must leave. Now.”

  “Be reasonable, man!” Jamson spread his hands. “Think of the trade opportunities, the exchanges of goods that could flow into this place.” He rapped on Damicos’ breastplate with his knuckles. “I see you admiring this bronze armor—it could be yours, for a price. All we ask is your aid and cooperation. If not for what we offer, than by all the gods, for common decency and civilization! We have wounded, as I said.”

  Listening to Jamson’s impassioned voice, Damicos could almost believe him, but he was struggling to read the larger situation. The riders they faced were far too few to be a military response to their coming, but diplomats would be more cunning and verbose, while hunters would have carried bows. What were the odds of running into a small, incidental patrol near the river?

  The beast-rider stared back with a stony face. Damicos exchanged glances with Jamson, and the lanky adventurer shrugged. Damicos wondered if the patrol was merely a stalling tactic, to buy time for a larger force to encircle their position. He shifted in his saddle and glanced around. Jamson took note, and when he spoke again his tone was no longer so smooth.

  “You will not offer help? That is unfortunate. These soldiers have come a long way.”

  “That is no problem of mine,” the rider rejoined.

  “It might be. It would be a hard thing indeed to ask them to turn aside and leave at the first sign of inhabited land.”

  “Are you making threats?”

  “By Mishtan’s golden beard, no! Just voicing concern. We must have shelter, food, and healers. You say there’s no village. I say there is a small city, at least. We’ve a man here who’s seen it, in fact.”

  The riders stirred, exchanged glances. The leader shook his head. “Your man’s made a fool of you, then.”

  Jamson laughed aloud. “No, that is one thing I’m not. I’ve bought and sold yokels like you, and deny what you will, here we’re staying. Try anything against us and we’ll break you like twigs.”

  “What do you want, then?” the lead rider grated. “Not maps, after all?”

  “Take us to your queen. We’ll treat with your master from now on, not with you.” Jamson waved a grandiose hand, as if he had nothing further to say.

  To Damicos’ surprise, the man’s posturing seemed to do the trick. The beast-rider scowled enough to melt a leaden pot, but apparently came to the conclusion that further decisions were indeed above his authority. He turned to his three companions. “Chotto. You and the others ride back and inform the queen,” he muttered. “Return speedily to me with her decision, and tell the others to hold for now.”

  The youth on the stag turned without a word and loped off into the trees, followed by the other two riders. The soldiers made no move to stop them. The lead rider remained where he was, elaborately nonchalant despite standing alone before a host of warriors.

  Damicos turned in his saddle and inspected his column. The men were all in the clearing now, waiting in good order. They appeared suitably impressed with the monstrous mounts of the strangers, but not alarmed. Enemies on the ground, in the open, they could handle with ease. Damicos was proud of them.

  He turned to Jamson. “It’s not a good idea to wait here. Let’s move some distance ahead, take this one with us. Keep any enemy forces off balance.”

  Jamson nodded his understanding. “We will not wait here,” he announced to the stranger. “Lead the way toward your city. You will accompany us, and I warn you against trying to escape or mislead us. No harm will come to you if you prove true.”

  “How will my orders reach me then?” the stranger spluttered. “You treat me like a dog and traitor!”

  “We will watch for any messengers, have no fear,” Jamson replied. “Again, you are in no danger if all goes well.”

  The leader astride the six-legged creature looked up at the sky and closed his eyes. Then he again fixed Damicos with an unwavering stare. “I will lead you. But understand that if the queen does not welcome you, we will all die in battle this day.”

  “Some may. Others will not. It will be as the gods will it,” Damicos said. Without waiting for the lone rider to move, he gave the order to march, and the sergeants echoed it down the line.

  Sulkily, the rider turned his beast away from the soldiers and sidled out of the clearing to the southwest. Jamson, Damicos, and Kairm followed closely, and the tramping of hundreds of feet came after them. Flankers ranged out on the sides, mostly skirmishers who moved fast through the trees, a screen against ambushes.

  Damicos signaled to Sergeant Hocano, pointing at their temporary hostage, and the stocky sergeant nodded his understanding. He held his spear ready and pointed at the stranger, ready to kill at the first sign of treachery. Kairm kept his eyes on the direction they headed, ensuring their unwilling guide didn’t try to lead them off into the hills on a wild-goose chase.

  CHAPTER 22: A WAYWARD SMITH

  Ashon and his men leaned forward. “You’ll let us alone?”

  “I will not.”

  The chiefs murmured, but Ashon silenced them with a raised hand. “What, then?”

  Pelekarr reached into his tunic and drew forth an object. In the firelight it gleamed gray, a twisted and ugly metal lump full of holes.

  “You know what this is?” Pelekarr asked.

  Ashon’s eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  “Where is the smith who wrought it?”

  There was a silence, then Ashon said, “He perished. He was one of those the centipede killed, poor young fellow.”

  Pelekarr laughed. “I require the truth.”

  Ashon growled. “You call me a liar to my face?”

  “I saw the centipede’s victims, sir, and those men lacked the physique of a smith. No, your smith lives, and I want to meet him. The lives of your people depend on it.”

  Ashon glowered, and no one spoke for a long moment. All around, the Ostorans had gone still and silent, serving girls frozen in place and feasters silently watching their leaders.

  Then, from the shadows near a hut, a large shape stepped forward, feet crunching slightly on the graveled earth. The voice was low.

  “Here I stand.”

  Ashon growled in his throat. “Curse you, lad.”

  “I won’t be hidden away. Not if lives depend on it.” Heavy footsteps approached. Ashon glowered fiercely, but there was little he could do. A moment later the smith entered the firelight.

  The fellow was shir
tless, and from the breadth of his shoulders and biceps, Keltos could well believe he made his living swinging a hammer. The beginnings of what would one day grow into a thick brown beard dusted his chin, but it was obvious that he still hadn’t seen twenty years despite his impressive muscular development.

  “You are the smith?” Pelekarr asked.

  “Aye. The only one here.”

  “Come forward.”

  The young man hesitated, unwilling to jump at the captain’s order, but after a moment he circled the fire and stood defiantly before the captain.

  Pelekarr held up the metal lump. “You made this?”

  The young smith had been glowering, but now open anger clouded his face as he saw the object up close, and his brows drew together in a black bar. His hands balled into fists and he clenched his jaw muscle. “It’s nothing. Junk. Slag.”

  “But what kind of metal is it?”

  The smith waited another moment, and Keltos noted that his eyes flickered toward Ashon and then back to the object. “It’s iron,” he finally said.

  “How does a young smith on the Ostoran frontier know the working of iron?”

  The hulking youth opened his mouth to answer, but silenced himself before the first word had left his mouth. He stood, shaking with restrained rage, staring at Pelekarr. Then he folded his arms across his chest and jutted his jaw, not saying a word.

  Pelekarr glanced at Ashon with raised eyebrows.

  The chief reluctantly turned to the smith. “Answer him, lad. His soldiers hold us all in their power.” He looked back at Pelekarr. “I fear the captain’s price for mercy is information.”

  Keltos could hear the husky lad’s teeth grinding. Finally he spoke. “My father taught me iron-work.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “Dead.”

  “Where?”

  “Kerath.”

  “How came you here?”

  The smith eyed Pelekarr cautiously, judging his intent. “I did not want the king’s men to learn my father’s secrets.”

  “Why not?”