by David Drake
“Sir,” Cabot Clerett said. “My mission?”
Raj looked at him for a moment, then slid his finger up the map. “Major Clerett, I’m giving you a rather different role. You’ll take your 1st Residence Life Guards, and the 21st Novy Haifa, and move right up here to the Waladavir River.”
Clerett looked crisp and warlike in the bright sun, helmet tucked under one arm and black curls tossing. “I’m to perform a screening function, sir?”
“Rather more than that,” Raj said. “I want you to secure the bridge over the Waladavir at Sna Chumbiha and the fords—put in earthworks and your guns—then send appropriately-sized raiding parties from the two cavalry battalions over the river westward to attack the magnates’ estates and small garrisons. Colonel Menyez will be moving four battalions of infantry up to occupy the bridge and the fords and relieve your men; they and the 21st Novy Haifa will anchor our line of advance.
“We want to conceal our intentions, and hopefully to panic every Brigadero between the Waladavir and the Padan River into thinking we’re on their doorstep. I want them running for Carson Barracks, carrying the family silver and howling about the boogeyman. Don’t try to hold territory west of your bridgeheads; kill and burn, but selectively, just the Brigaderos and men only as much as you can. I don’t want to have to march across a desert in a couple of weeks. Make the refugees overestimate your numbers by moving quickly so they think you’re everywhere at once. With luck the natives will rise on their own.”
“Sir!” Cabot was quivering with surprise and suspicious delight. It was an assignment with plenty of opportunities for dash and daring; he’d expected to be kept to something dull and safe.
“Major Clerett,” Raj went on. “Pay careful attention.” He waited an instant. “I’m confident of your courage and your will to combat; a cavalry officer without aggression is a sorry thing. This mission will also test your skills; I’m familiar with the weaknesses of aggressive young commanders, having been one myself back in the dawn of time.”
There were grins at that; Raj Whitehall was the youngest general in five hundred years, and his battalion commanders were nearly a decade below the average age. Only two of the Companions were over forty.
“Remember that the Brigaderos are thicker on the ground the further west you go; some of the great nobles have private armies of battalion size or better. Do not get out of touch, do not go too far in, and do not let your men get out of hand—a raid makes discipline difficult but more essential than ever. Colonel Staenbridge will be in constant communication, and he’s your reserve if you run into something bigger than the intelligence reports indicate; do not hesitate to call for help if you need it. You’re being sent to give an appearance of strength, so if any of your units is mousetrapped we’ll have a real problem up there. Give them the taste of victory, however small, and they’ll be attacking us instead of running away. We can beat any nobleman’s following, but that would take time. Keep your men moving, and don’t let yourself get bogged down.”
Which meant, among other things, keeping them from burdening themselves with too much loot; a real test of command skills, when they’d be fanning out on razziah across rich countryside.
Suzette spoke softly. “I’m sure Major Clerett won’t disappoint us, Raj.”
probability clerett will act according to instructions within acceptable parameters, 82% ±4 based on voice-stress and other analysis, Center said.
And Barholm can’t complain I’m not giving his nephew an opportunity to shine.
Cabot clicked heels. “Rest assured, Messa.”
Raj nodded. “I’m giving you no more than one week of raiding,” he went on. “Then I’ll need you back at Lion City. Throw out a wide net of scouts west of the river—the native locals will probably give you information enough, especially with some—” he rubbed finger and thumb together “—but you’ll have to check. Then turn over command to Major Istban and make tracks for the city, which will be invested.
“This is a complex set of movements, gentlemen, to be carried out at speed, but you’re all big boys now. Exercise your initiative.”
Gerrin cleared his throat. “What’ll you be doing, Raj?”
“Ah, well, our tribal auxiliaries have arrived. Including eight hundred Skinners.”
“The gentle, abstentious people,” someone muttered.
“A two-edged sword, but a sharp one,” Raj admitted. “They, and the two companies of the 5th, will form a central reserve under my direct command. When you run into anything unusual, gentlemen, tell me and I’ll bring them up. After that happens once or twice, even the most onerous surrender terms will start looking very good indeed.
“No more questions? Then let’s get our men together and be about our business.” The Companions and a few of the other battalion commanders stepped closer, and they slapped their raised fists together in a pyramid. The leather of their gauntlets made a hard cracking sound.
“Hell or plunder, dog-brothers.”
“Anither seven in t’ trees, ser,” M’lewis said, without turning his head. “Half a klick, loik.”
“Good eyes, Lieutenant,” Raj nodded.
Skinners didn’t set lookouts, really. It was just that there were always groups of men lying-up around one of their camps, and they saw and heard and probably scented everything. At home on the plains of the far northeast they lived by hunting sauroids. All shapes and sizes, from sicklefoot packs to the big grazers to carnivores ten meters tall. Bellevue’s sauroids hadn’t had a million years of exposure to hominids to give them an instinct to avoid men. Most inhabited areas had to be kept shot out of all the larger types; the Skinners lived among the native life, and throve.
“Trumpeter, sound the canter. Remember the instructions.”
The cool brassy notes sounded, and the two hundred men broke into a swift lope, the butts of their rifles resting on their thighs. As they broke through the screen of brush around the big meadow, they raised them and fired them into the sky, then flipped the long weapons down and sheathed them in the scabbards before their knees. A gesture of contempt, not reassurance . . . a statement: you’re not worth carrying a loaded gun to meet.
There was an etiquette to dealing with Skinners.
Nobody got up as the soldiers approached, unless they happened to be standing at the moment. Those who wanted to stare did; those who were sleeping or drinking kept on doing so. One man did amble out, peering as if in surprise.
“Eh, mun ami!” Chief Juluk Paypan said. He turned and shouted in Paytoiz, the Skinner tongue: “Iles de Gran’ wheetigo! E’ sun bruha. L’hum qes’ mal com nus!”
Many of the Skinners looked up at that; a few gave quick yelping barks of greeting, and started drifting toward their chief and the general who was—theoretically—their commander.
“Which means?” Suzette asked. She had ridden into a near-riot in the Skinner camp with him on the last campaign, to face down their chiefs after Raj hung two Skinners for murder. This was her first glimpse of them in a peaceful mood.
Of course, on that occasion they’d had four battalions with leveled rifles and a battery of artillery behind them.
Raj translated: “It’s The Big Devil and his witch. The man who’s bad like us.”
“Is that a compliment?”
Raj grimaced. “To a Skinner.”
He had never learned the Skinner tongue, not himself—the knowledge had the ice-edged hardness of something Center had implanted. Thinking about that always gave him a queasy feeling, like a mental image of bad pork.
It was not a good idea to think of smells when you were around Skinners. The bandy-legged little nomads had only been ashore a day, but the stink of their camp was already stunning. One man was standing in his sketchy saddle to urinate as they entered; he waved cheerfully and readjusted his breechclout without embarrassment, then rode off with a whoop. A few of them had put up leather shelters on poles, but most of the nomad mercenaries slept as they ate, defecated and fornicated—as and whe
re the impulse took them. Dung, human and canine, and bits and scraps of things unidentifiable dotted the encampment. A monohorn carcass lay in the center of a ring of fires; those were medium-sized browsers, about twice the weight of a large bull, with columnar legs and a bone shield that extended from the long horn on their nose to the top of their humped shoulders. A single round hole above one eye showed what had killed it; the Skinners had probably camped where it died. The body and the ground for meters around was black with a carpet of flies.
As Raj watched, a Skinner backed out of its stomach cavity with a length of huge glistening purple-gray intestine in his teeth. He sawed it free a foot or so from his mouth, then threw back his head to swallow it without chewing. A visible bulge went down his throat to the already rounded stomach as they watched.
Juluk was grinning from ear to ear. He was fairly typical of his race, shorter than Suzette but twice as broad, a normal man compressed halfway down to dwarf size. Face and body were the color of old oiled leather; it was difficult to tell what his shaven scalp-locked head and round button-nosed face would have looked like naturally, because of the mass of scar tissue. About half of it was tribal markings. He wore fringed leggings and breechclout of soft-tanned sauroid leather, with long knives on his thighs; crossed belts on his chest held shells for the two-meter-tall rifle he leaned on, and each brass cartridge was longer than a man’s hand, each bullet bigger than Raj’s thumb. His hound lay at his feet; it cocked an eye up at Horace and went back to sleep.
Only Skinners habitually rode hounds, and entire males at that. Horace was one reason they regarded Raj as a human being. Most of it was the number of bodies his battles had piled up, impressive even to the tribes the Church called the Scourge of the Spirit’s Wrath.
Juluk drank and passed him up the leather flask. “Hey, mebbe we kill you now, sojer-man, wait too long anyway. You come to hang more of mes gars for killing farmers? That why you bring half-men?”
He jerked his head at the two companies of the 5th sitting their dogs behind Raj and Suzette. Half-men was a compliment; the Skinners had a quasi-respect for Descotters. Their name for themselves translated into Sponglish as Real Men. Or The Only Real Men.
Raj took a long swig of the arrak, date gin yellow with distilling byproducts and spiked with cayenne peppers, chile and gunpowder. Then he leaned over and spat half of it on the nose of the Skinner’s dog. The big animal leapt to its feet, growling: Raj’s boot and stirrup-iron met its nose with a nicely-timed swing, and Horace showed teeth as long as a man’s fingers centimeters from the other animal’s throat. It reconsidered, turned its back and ambled off, dishcloth-sized ears flapping.
“I only keep you alive to make me laugh, Juluk,” Raj said, drinking again. He’d eaten half a loaf of bread soaked in olive oil just before coming to the Skinner camp. “I brought real men here to show your little boys how to fight. Where’d you get this sauroid-vomit? I piss it out on your bitch-mother’s grave.”
This time he swallowed most of it, forcing himself not to gag. To his surprise, Suzette took the skin next and managed a healthy swallow. Some of the Skinners frowned at her presumption, and one or two shook medicine bags at her, but most of them laughed uproariously, Juluk included. A woman with baraka, spirit-power, was an even bigger joke than a non-Skinner with real balls. His necklace of finger-long sauroid fangs clattered against his bandoliers.
“Eh, even your woman got balls, sojer-man! Big stone-house chief, he tell me you make war on the long-hairs of the west. Good fighting where you make war.”
“Where’s your friend Pha-air?” There had been two chiefs with this band on the last campaign.
“Oh, I kill him a season ago,” the Skinner chief said with a shrug. “He give me this—good man with knife.” A grimy thumb traced a new scar, still shiny, across the chief’s belly.
Raj raised his voice: “Are you women ready to go fight, or are you only good for drinking and eating sauroids that die of disease?”
More hoots and trills of laughter; the Skinners looked and smelled like trolls but their voices had the high pitch of excited schoolgirls.
Juluk fired the huge rifle over his shoulder without bothering to move it. The brass-cored fifteen-millimeters slug cracked by within a meter of Raj’s head, but he was as safe as if the weapon had been in East Residence. The Skinner chief would slit his own throat in shame if he ever shot a man without intending to.
Men and dogs boiled out of the camp, and out of thickets roundabout. It was chaos, an instant change from sleepy lethargy to whooping, screeching tumult—but in less than five minutes the liquor and ammunition had been thrown on spare dogs, and the warriors were mounted and ready to move.
Center had taught him Paytoiz, but Raj had always been able to get on with the Skinner mercenaries.
“Are they really worth the trouble?” Suzette asked, as her escort fell in around her for the short journey back to the base-camp.
“My sweet, you’ve only seen them twice, and in camp,” Raj said. “As soldiers, they’re a disaster—they devastate any place you station them, and you might as well try to discipline sauroids, and when they’re drunk, which is usually . . . But if you could see them fight—” He shook his head. “Yes, they’re worth the trouble.”
“Why’s the road so far inland?” Bartin Foley asked.
“Pirates,” Gerrin Staenbridge replied. “More profit in longshore raiding than attacking ships, if you’ve got a target that doesn’t have signal heliographs, a fleet of steam rams and quick-reaction forces the way the Civil Government does.”
Company A of the 5th was lead unit on the ride north, next to the battalion banner and the HQ squad. They were staying in column, for speed’s sake, with outriders flung out ahead and to either side; they could see them dodging into small woods and jumping fences occasionally, off at the edge of sight.
“Squadrone pirates?” Bartin went on.
“Probably not the last generation, but there are plenty of freelancers operating out of islands like Blanchfer and Sabatin, just south of here . . . Ah, that should be our Hereditary Colonel Makman’s place, coming up.”
The maps said this was a main military highway; in the Civil Government, even in Descott, they’d have called it a track and left it at that. Mostly it was beaten earth, possibly it had been graded with an ox-drawn scraper within the last couple of years, and somebody had scattered gravel on the low points at some time in the past. Snake-rail fences edged it on either side; inland of the belt of forest along the coast the country opened up into rolling fields. Small shaws of oak, hazelnut and some native tree with hexagonal-scaled bark and scarlet leaves topped an occasional hill. The wheatfields were long since reaped, but there were many fields of mais—kawn in Namerique and gruno in Spanjol—full of dry, rustling stocks chest-high to a rider.
A hogback ridge rose ahead and to the right, eastward of the road. The two officers raised their binoculars; the manor was a big foursquare building, whitewashed stone, with a squat tower rising from one corner flying the double lightning flash banner of the Brigade and a personal blazon of complicated interwoven loops, white on dark gray. The lower story was pierced only by narrow windows, but the upper had balconies and broad stretches of glazing. A number of long low structures stood nearby; stables undoubtedly, and the barracks.
“Almost homelike,” Gerrin said dryly.
Descott architecture had some of the same features and for the same reason, except that things had never been either peaceful or prosperous enough for long enough to widen the second-story windows.
Staenbridge threw up a hand, and the trumpet sounded. “Battalion—”
“Company—”
“Walk-march . . . halt.”
“Let’s hope Makman sees sense,” the commander of the 5th said.
“I hope so too,” Foley replied. He turned in the saddle: “Flag of truce, Lieutenant, and follow me if you please.” He turned back to Staenbridge. “Probably won’t, though. Not the first one we call on.
”
“You what?” the old man roared.
“Summon you to surrender in the name of the Civil Government of Holy Federation,” Foley said tightly.
His hand was on his pistol, but he was fully conscious of what a sniper could do. The white pennant snapped from his bannerman’s pole. That had been cold comfort to poor Mekkle Thiddo last year, after he’d delivered Connor Auburn’s head to his brother the Admiral. His mind tried to replay scenes of the Squadron blunderbusses belching smoke, the white flag falling . . . and instead it insisted on showing him Raj Whitehall’s face, as he rode down the row of thirty-one crosses, each bearing the twisting body of one of the men responsible for that violation of the laws of war.
That had probably been cold comfort to Thiddo too.
A bell was tolling in the tower of the estate; frightened faces peered out at him from the second-story window, and dogs were yowrping in the stables as men rushed to saddle them. Behind him the platoon’s mounts shifted and growled softly, conscious of the aggression of intruding on another pack’s territory but trained out of instinctive reluctance. The gravel of the driveway crunched under their paws; the smell of their massed breath was rank, overpowering the scents of woodsmoke and garden.
Hereditary Colonel Makman was tall, about a 190 centimeters, with little spare flesh on his heavy bones, and his red face contrasted violently with the white muttonchop whiskers that framed it. The unexpected visitors had evidently surprised him at lunch, and a napkin was tucked into the collar of his shirt.
He glared at Foley. “Grisuh, you’ve got your nerve, coming on to my land with a story like this,” he snapped, in the tones of a man who hasn’t been contradicted in a very long time.