Bal Ofursti snorted. As if Muzzlekrump would treat them as anything other than hostages to be held for ransom! Why, he had half a mind to leave the royal trollops here and take his guards in search of an army that was still resisting the invaders.
Hmm. Or … Actually, the women were pretty good looking, every one of them. Maybe he should parcel them out among his men and take them along. That bel Hrofa-Upp was really good looking, and she smiled so sweetly everytime she caught him looking at her. Yes, claim her for himself, then parcel the others out.
He had just about convinced himself to do that when bal Stanga called his name. What was that fool doing coming out of the trees on the east side of the road? And who were those two men who flanked him? And those other half doz … twenty, thir … How many men were there? All those armed men?
All of them soldiers—and of different armies! He recognized some of the uniforms. There were Skraglander Bloody Axes. Zobran Royal Lancers. And the two flanking bal Stanga—Frangerian Marines?—looking like nothing so much as prison guards, and the earl’s butler their prisoner? He dismissed as a figment of his imagination the half-naked golden woman behind them.
He scanned quickly right to left—and saw no officer. Were these renegades, cut off from their own forces, fleeing the Jokapcul, turned to banditry? They must be! Where were his men? Were they in position to fight off these—gods, there were so many!—brigands? They had to protect the earl’s consorts and their handmaidens! But he didn’t have enough men to defend against this force. Could he bluff them?
Of course he could! He was an officer, and they had none.
Captain bal Ofursti drew himself to attention and boomed in his best parade ground voice, “What is the meaning of this?” Behind him he heard the rustle of hurried movement and the clanking of weapons as his men suddenly realized the threat and formed up to fight, and squeals and running feet as the women and children ran in search of hiding places.
A man he hadn’t noticed before, a townsman of some sort by his garb who stood behind bal Stanga, said something, and one of the Frangerians, the one with the wicked-looking axe, nudged the butler.
“Ah, Captain bal Ofursti,” bal Stanga said in a voice far less self-important than the one he used to announce supplicants in the earl’s court. He cleared his throat and resumed, though still not in his normal court voice. “I fear Dartmutt is taken. I saw with my own eyes the sea wall collapse under assault from demon weapons.”
The Frangerian with the staff said something to the townsman, who in turn spoke to bal Stanga.
“Ah, yes.” The butler cleared his throat again. “These—These soldiers are escorting a large refugee caravan. They, ah, they have need of our wagons.” He swallowed and hung his head sheepishly. “They say we are welcome to join them, as Dartmutt is almost taken and t’would be folly for us to return thence.”
Bal Ofursti’s eyes widened. Was this, after all, a part of the resisting army he’d hoped for?
“I wish to speak to their commander. Where is he?” A feminine bark of laughter jerked his eyes a few yards to the side of the townsman and he almost missed what the butler said next because his eyes hadn’t fooled him, there really was a beautiful, half-naked, golden woman standing there!
“Ah,” bal Stanga shook his head, “these gentlemen are the commanders.” He lifted his hands to indicate the Frangerians who flanked him like prison guards.
He forced his eyes away from the woman and, with an effort of will, pulled the dignity of his rank about himself. He leaned forward and peered at the two men flanking bal Stanga. Frangerian ships made port at Dartmutt infrequently, but often enough that he was vaguely familiar with their rank insignia. No, he had been right the first time, they weren’t officers.
“They can’t be the commanders,” he snorted. “Look at them, they’re junior enlisted men!”
Bal Stanga flinched as the townsman obviously translated the retort. The Frangerian with the axe looked across the butler to the one with the staff and said something in Frangerian. Bal Ofursti knew enough of that language to almost understand him. But, no, he couldn’t really have said, “That’s what you get when commissions are handed out according to who you know instead of what you know—really dumb officers.” Could he?
The one with the staff touched bal Stanga on the arm, and that knot of four, including the townsman, came forward and stopped two paces in front of bal Ofursti. He blinked as the woman joined them. She was truly beautiful, and totally golden, wearing ballooned pants and a vest that didn’t completely close between her breasts. The coins that dangled from her girdle looked like real gold.
“Captain,” the townsman translated for the Frangerian with the staff, “we are Spinner and Haft, we command here. Your majordomo told you our requirements and terms. We require your wagons and goods. You will give them to us. You are welcome to join us or free to leave as you choose.”
Bal Ofursti thought for a moment. Dartmutt had fallen, or was falling, if he could believe the butler—majordomo? If bal Stanga told them he was the majordomo, then everything he said was suspect. He looked to his left rear and almost stammered as he shouted out an order for two of the soldiers to run to the end of the road and report back what they saw—his soldiers were all gaping at the golden woman. Some of the soldiers opposite moved to stop them, but at sharply snapped orders in Frangerian and rough Zobran from—Spinner and Haft? What kind of names are those for commanders?—let them pass.
The scouts had barely disappeared beyond the first curve in the road when a half-dozen farmers came pelting along it. At sight of the soldiers they began screaming, “Jokapcul! The Jokapcul are here,” and ran to hide behind the Earl’s Guards and the Zobrans.
Bal Ofursti and all the soldiers turned to face the road, but neither Jokapcul nor the two scouts appeared. The Frangerian with the staff—Spinner?—gave an order in Zobran and two of the Royal Lancers ran to the bend in the road. They looked and reported the road was clear.
The scouts were back quickly, running at full speed.
“Sir,” they reported, saluting bal Ofursti though their eyes were on the woman, “it is as the butler said. The Jokapcul have taken the city. The encamped refugees are being hunted down and killed in the fields.”
Dartmutt had fallen! Now Captain bal Ofursti had a decision to make. Should he obey the earl’s orders and take the women and children to Rak Adier for safekeeping? He seriously doubted the earl would be joining them—if the Jokapcul were inside the city, he would soon be dead. Going to that bandit Rak Adier seemed even less desirable an option than it had before. They had to go somewhere else. But where?
Just before bal Stanga had come with these soldiers, he’d been thinking of finding an army that was still resisting. Well, these soldiers seemed still to be resisting. They were a start. He was an officer, they would obey him. He could claim bel Hrofa-Upp and parcel out the other women tonight when they stopped for the day. His eyes flicked to the golden woman and wondered which of these men she belonged to. Perhaps he should claim her instead. Or why not both bel Hrofa-Upp and this golden woman? Commander’s prerogative, of course, he could claim both.
“You men,” he said, swinging a pointing finger to indicate the soldiers on the other side of the road—including the two Frangerians who claimed they were in command, “form up to protect the wagons and their passengers. We’re moving out.” He began to turn to order his men to harness the horses but was stopped by a finger that poked him in the base of his throat just above his breast plate. The finger belonged to the short Frangerian with the axe.
Haft said slowly and clearly in Zobran, “Did you understand what I said about officers and who you know and what you know?”
Bal Ofursti understood standard Zobran well enough. His jaws clenched and his face turned red. So he had heard right. “Yes, I did,” he gritted.
“Were you born stupid, or did you have to learn it?” Haft roared inches from his face. “You don’t give us orders. We’re taking the wa
gons. You and the passengers can come with us or not, but we don’t go with you.”
He began to draw his saber. Haft didn’t move a finger to defend himself, but forty men shifted their weapons, and bal Ofursti knew that if he drew, every one of them would do his utmost to kill him before his saber cleared its scabbard. He let go of the hilt and the blade slid back.
“Captain!” a voice said in very rough Zobran. Bal Ofursti looked at a sergeant of the Skragland Bloody Axes. The man looked like a barbarian in his fur cloak with its distinctive maroon stripes. “Sir Haft bears the rampant eagle. We follow him. You would be wise to do the same.”
Sir Haft? Was the sergeant claiming the low-ranking Frangerian was a knight of some sort? And what was this about a rampant eagle? Haft could tell by his expression he didn’t know what the eagle meant—he was glad he wasn’t the only ignorant person on that score. Before bal Ofursti could ask about the rampant eagle, another voice demanded his attention.
“The Royal Lancers of Zobra obey Lord Spinner’s commands,” said a man wearing a royal-blue doublet and carrying a wicked-looking lance.
Lord Spinner? What was going on here?
Then two other men announced that the Zobran Prince’s Swords and the Skraglander Blood Swords also followed Lords Spinner and Haft.
Lord Spinner, Lord—or was it Sir—Haft? Were they high-ranking officers in disguise? No, they couldn’t be, they were too young! But—But—
Nobles, that was it! They had to be nobles. Younger sons of dukes or princes or something. They had the arrogance for it, especially that Haft. He’d straighten this out later. He was the officer here, the trained leader of men. These younger sons would have to learn the difference, that it took time to gain the experience to be real officers. The most important thing right now was to get away from Dartmutt before the Jokapcul extended their perimeter. He bowed, still wondering why these young lordlings chose to disguise themselves as such junior men.
“Lord Spinner, Lord Haft. I am at your command.”
“Good.” Spinner nodded curtly. “I’m glad you decided to join us. We need every fighting man we can get. You will stay in command of your troops, you know them better than anyone I might assign to them. We want to go north. Do you know a route that circles far enough west to avoid Jokapcul patrols?”
Yes, he did.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
It took nearly an hour for the caravan to wend its way from the boulder field to the other road and line up behind the six wagons from Dartmutt. This time, the Zobran Border Warders formed a mobile picket screen to the rear and Haft led the Bloody Axes between them and the caravan’s tail as a strong rear guard. They had to be ready in case the Jokapcul sent a strong patrol in their direction. Half of the Earl’s Guard and a squad of Zobran Royal Lancers rode ahead to scout the way. Silent and Wolf dogged them—to make sure the Dartmutters weren’t leading the caravan into a trap.
There were twenty-three women in the Dartmutter party; bel Yfir, the Earl’s favorite concubine, with five handmaids; three other concubines, each with four handmaids; and two wet nurses to care for the two babes among the six children. Captain bal Ofursti had twenty mounted soldiers of the Earl’s Guard. The butler bal Stanga and six teamsters with their wives and five children filled out the royal party. Sixty-four people. The wagons and soldiers were the most welcome. As for the rest, well … The teamsters could be trained at arms—if they ever found time to stop and train them. The women were another matter. The concubines expected to be waited on and catered to. That didn’t cause much problem, their handmaids dealt directly with that. The problem arose when the concubines expected the march to be run according to their whims.
Nobody in the caravan had time or energy to spare to taking care of the women Alyline had quickly dubbed “the royal bed toys.” Certainly no one had the inclination.
“But we simply must stop now,” bel Yfir insisted two hours after they set out. “I—I must attend to private matters. And I grow weary from sitting on this harsh bench. And my tent must be erected so I can refresh myself before we continue this journey.” She waved a paper fan before her face. She had removed her travel gown because it “makes me perspire” too much. Her loose inner gown, finely stitched with delicate designs in gold and silver thread, clung in drapes to her body; a sheen of sweat turned the thin red material nearly transparent where the damp cloth clung to her flesh. One of her handmaids dabbed with a cloth at her neck and bare shoulders from just inside the body of the wagon behind her.
The wagon that carried her, her handmaids, and their goods was constructed like a small house, with a porch roof that extended over the driver’s bench on which she sat. The wagon was exceptionally well sprung and, despite her complaints of its harshness, boasted nicely upholstered benches. Most of the wagons—and none of the dog carts—that had begun the journey in Eikby didn’t have springs. Neither did any of them boast upholstered benches.
“Lady bel Yfir,” Plotniko said with notably less patience than he’d had the previous dozen times he’d been called upon to respond to one of her complaints, “if your bottom is sore from sitting for so long, get down and walk awhile. If you have to make water, find a bush and squat, like everybody else.” He strode off, leaving her gaping at him in shock at being so rudely spoken to, as though she was—was like everybody else!
She turned to Captain bal Ofursti, who was riding escort alongside her wagon, and sputtered indignantly. “Captain, chastise that man!” she finally said.
“Lady,” he replied with a gallant bow, “I doubt the nobles for whom he serves as translator would take kindly to my chastising him without their permission.”
She was nearly as shocked by that as by Plotniko’s response to her oh so reasonable request. The instant she recovered, she thrust out her arm, poking her driver in the cheek with a sharp fingernail—he flinched away but voiced no protest—and shrilled, “Quit my company this instant! You are dismissed from the guard! The earl shall attend to you when he joins us!”
Bal Ofursti shook his head, thinking how glad he was he hadn’t decided to claim this one for himself. “Lady, the Jokapcul took Dartmutt. I don’t think the earl will be joining us.” He wondered idly which of his men he disliked enough to give her to. It’s probably a good thing bel Hrofa-Upp isn’t one of her handmaids, he thought. He wondered again which of the nobles owned the golden woman. If neither did—or even if one of them did …
Bel Yfir brought him back to the present unpleasantness. “Of course he will,” she insisted. “If those barbarians from the west have taken him, we will simply pay the ransom and get him back.”
In pieces, he thought. If they haven’t already killed him.
“Now quit my sight!”
He bowed again and drew his horse aside to let the wagon proceed without him.
Sergeant Afi, a grizzled veteran of the Skragland King’s Outer Guards before he’d returned to Dartmutt to serve with the Earl’s Guards, pulled up next to him. “She’s beautiful to look at,” he rumbled, “I grant you that. But what a shrew! I don’t understand how the earl puts up with her.”
Ofursti shrugged. “I guess if a man has enough power and wealth, a woman will be sweet to him and do whatever he wants.”
“And think his power and wealth are hers so she can treat everyone else like chamber slops.” Afi spat into the trees and watched the wagon trundle away, then asked, “Do you want me to move up and take your place next to her?”
“No, let her ride without a visible escort for a time.” He shook his head. “I think tomorrow we’ll have to trade off teamsters. It’s cruel to have one man drive her every day.” He idly noted one of bel Yfir’s handmaids drop off the back of the wagon and walk boldly back along the column. Probably looking for one of the nobles, he thought.
The “noble” the handmaid bel Bra sought wasn’t Spinner or Haft. Chief concubine bel Yfir thought a lady would be more sympathetic to her plight. That gilded woman might dress like a wanton houri
, but she obviously had rank fully equal to the two noblemen who protected the mob of ragamuffin refugees.
There! The woman in the high-necked dress, she was one of the gilded lady’s handmaids. The handmaid was quite lovely in her own right, though not as striking as the gilded lady. She was probably made to dress so plainly so as to not detract from her mistress’s beauty—unlike the concubines’ handmaids, who wore gowns that would be indistinguishable from their mistresses’ except that they lacked the decorative filigree of gold and silver embroidery.
Bel Bra picked up her pace and headed directly to Doli.
“I don’t understand you, I don’t know that language,” Doli replied in Bostian when bel Bra spoke to her. She said it again in Skraglandish, Frangerian, and a couple of other languages, but gave up when it became obvious bel Bra only understood Dartmutter. Doli looked around for anyone who might know Dartmutter and called out to Plotniko, who was walking briskly away, toward the head of the column.
The master carpenter had seen the Dartmutter woman, whom he recognized as one of the chief concubine’s handmaids, and could guess why she had collared Doli. He didn’t want anything to do with the matter and made haste to get out of Doli’s sight before she could call on him to translate. When he heard his name, it felt like a stab between his shoulder blades, but he ignored the call and kept going. To no avail. A moment later a horseman cantered up to him and slowed his horse to a walk.
Demontech: Gulf Run Page 9