The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  The general leaned forward on his horse. “The barrage from those catapults is killing us,” he said. “We’ve drawn their lines thin. Your job is to charge the pikes. The cavalry will be right behind you to trample the cowardly archers flat!”

  “Sir!” said Cimozjen.

  Cimozjen secured his helmet and ran back the long two hundred yards to his unit. It was awkward going. The dewy ground had been churned to a bloody, sticky muck by armored feet.

  The opposing army stood deployed across acres of wrecked farmland in Aundair. It was good defensive ground. Stone walls divided each parcel of land, giving the Aundairian army a decent redoubt every hundred yards or so. Nevertheless, the Karrnathi army, trying to force the Daskara Pass toward Fairhaven, had made solid headway throughout the misty early morning hours, grinding their way through the Aundairian defenses. On the river flank, the Iron Band had broken through, and rather than pursue the nigh-defenseless archers that had stood before them, they’d turned and flanked the next Aundairian unit in the line, cracking the entire left side of the line open. The Aundairian army had broken and fled, retreating rapidly into the mists, and the Karrns had reorganized rather than risk becoming separated in the fog and defeated piecemeal.

  But then the Aundairian mages had at last persuaded the fog to lift, and with that, General Kraal’s decision to reorganize turned from prudent action to a grave mistake.

  The Aundairian general had rallied his remaining forces around a full regiment of longbowmen, a formation of deadly missile mages, and a half dozen catapults all located on a hill a half mile away. To close the gap with the enemy, the Karrns had had to climb over wall after wall while the skies punished the troops with arrows, flaming missiles, and deadly blasts of magic.

  The Aundairian foot soldiers held their position at the base of the hill, reinforced by two hundred Deneith pikemen, stretched thin but determined and dug in. Karrnathi infantry kept the line preoccupied with skirmish tactics. General Kraal had sent the Rekkenmark-trained cavalry to harass one flank of the Aundairian line and Talenta mercenaries with their clawfoot mounts to harry the other. Confident in the tenacity of the Deneith pikemen, the Aundairians had stripped away their supporting units to bolster the flanks and extend the line to a full circle around their missile troops, leaving the Deneith mercenaries to hold their section of the arc by themselves.

  The general was happy. He planned to launch a full infantry assault to lock up the Aundairian flanks, then to send the Iron Band to smite the Deneith pike and thrust his cavalry through the breach to crush the archers and catapult crew beneath their hooves and claws.

  The Iron Band was formed up in a “soldier’s tent,” a defensive arrangement. The whole unit kneeled. The front rank held their shields to the fore, while the other ranks held them up at an angle to deflect the arrows. Cimozjen reached his unit just as another squall of arrows fell, and he dived under the protective cover of his comrades. The iron-tipped arrows sounded like hail as they struck the shields, and somewhere in the group a soldier cried in pain as an arrow slipped a gap and struck him.

  “We’re taking it to them, boys!” yelled Cimozjen. “We’re charging the pikes. Front two ranks, shield yourselves up as soon as the next volley hits, then charge on my command!”

  “Here it comes!” yelled Kraavel from the front of the formation.

  Another clatter of iron hail fell upon the roof of the soldier’s tent, and as it relented Cimozjen yelled, “Up!”

  The unit rose as one, and the soldiers in the front two ranks dropped their weapons and grabbed shields from the soldiers of the next two ranks.

  “Horseshoe says the cavalry will be right behind us!” yelled Cimozjen as he moved to the front. Torval handed over his shield, and took Cimozjen’s flail. “I say they’ll be too late! Charge!”

  The Iron Band surged forward as a pack. As they drew close to the Aundairian line, the Band let loose a thunder of war cries. Cimozjen ran near the van of the charge, along with a few others. He pulled the shields into a wedge, angled with one slightly overlapping the other, then he hit the pikes.

  The impact jammed his arms into his chest, but he felt the massed pikes sliding to one side or the other. One tore a hole in his shield and forced its way painfully between his left arm and the shield strap. Another pike, cleverly held low, ripped into his leg just below the knee. He felt another of the Iron Band slam into his back, shoving him forward. The extra inertia pushed the head of the pike completely through his shield strap, breaking it.

  Cimozjen hoisted the shield in his right hand and flopped himself hard to the left. The weight of his body and the shields pressed the pikes to the left and down, forcing a breach in what had been a thicket of iron spearheads. He felt the soldier behind him shove him further to widen the breach, then step on the small of his back. The sudden pressure wrenched his spine, trapped as he was between the pikes—including one still through his shield—and the soldier’s foot. He grunted in discomfort, though he was proud to be serving his purpose.

  The soldier jumped to the fray, yelling a mighty war cry. Cimozjen managed to raise his head and saw that it was Torval, each of his flails already trailing droplets of bright red blood. Another soldier charged over Cimozjen, striking him in the back of the head and stunning him momentarily.

  He shook his head to clear it, uncertain how much time had passed. He lay on a mattress of abandoned and broken pikes, the sounds of battle still around him. He shucked the damaged shield on his left arm, then found a broken pike nearby to use as a spear.

  He saw that the Deneith pike formation had been disrupted. Faced with ruthless Iron Band warriors close at hand, they’d had to abandon their long pikes in favor of the small axes they carried as secondary weapons. The axes were ill suited to cleave the Iron Band’s armor, and without shields to protect themselves, the Deneith warriors were easy prey for the Iron Band’s heavy weapons.

  Scattered groups of the Deneith warriors still fought. Cimozjen had expected no less, and he respected them for it. Some of the Iron Band contained them, distracted them, while others charged headlong for the vulnerable archers and engine crew.

  Cimozjen ran unevenly for the nearest knot of Deneith resistance, intending to add his spear to the fray. As he ran, he heard rolling thunder approaching him from behind, and then the cavalry stampeded past him, havoc and fury and flashing blades.

  Cimozjen laughed as he ran. “Too late!” he yelled. “We’ll get them first!”

  Then, limping on his wounded leg, he laid into the remaining resistance. It was grim, exhausting work, chopping the hopeless, but it had to be done.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  Soundings

  Zor, the 11th day of Sypheros, 998

  Cimozjen shook his head to clear it. “No, of course not. As I told someone just last night, I have seen more than enough fighting to last me the rest of my life.” He waved a hand dismissively and started to continue aft, then paused and looked at the man again. “Why do you ask?”

  The man smiled. He was a large man, over a hand’s span taller than Cimozjen and robust bordering on the rotund, with bags under his eyes and a slight jowl to his chin. His facial features were shaped pleasantly enough, however it seemed that they had never acquired the same size as the rest of his body. They were slightly too small, grouped just a tad too close to look agreeable on a head his size, thus his smile, too, looked constrained. A thick red surcoat embroidered with gold only added to his apparent size. It broadened his shoulders and swept the deck as he walked.

  “My apologies,” said the man, running a hand through his mouse-brown hair. “I speak without considering my manners. My name is Rophis Raanel’s Son, of Fairhaven, though most call me Rophis the Winemonger.” He extended his hand.

  “Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, shaking Rophis’s large palm with a firm grip.

  “And is this lovely creature your wife?” Rophis asked, gently taking Minrah’s hand and bowing deeply.

>   “Minrah, and pleased to meet you,” she said, blushing and nestling up against Cimozjen’s arm.

  “She’s not my wife,” added Cimozjen. Then he felt a sudden sharp pinch in the crook of his elbow, just under the hem of his chain mail shirt. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth, but managed to avoid vocalizing the unexpected pain. He glanced down at Minrah, who gazed back up at him, her face beaming.

  “Not yet,” she said, looking back to Rophis. “But a girl can always hope.”

  “Indeed,” said Rophis. “With a radiant face like yours, I would think that your hope would be enough to spur any suitor to the chase. Be that as it may, uh, Cimozjen, again let me offer my apologies. I spoke thusly only because, well, it took me aback to see someone wearing chain aboard ship. It’s a dangerous gambit to wear heavy mail on the water, even when sailing the relatively calm waters of Scions Sound. Were you to fall overboard, you’d find those extra pounds to be a very unwelcome weight.”

  Cimozjen looked down at his mail hauberk, largely concealed by his tunic. “I had not considered that possibility,” he said. “I wear it only because I find the weight easier to bear when the chain’s on my body rather than in my pack.”

  Rophis rubbed his nose. “At the risk of seeming improper, good warrior, I would also suggest that you not wear your pack strapped to your back in such a manner, especially with a heavy sword lashed to the very top. Again, were you to fall overboard, you’d be dragged down by your shoulders. A very difficult situation in any waters. You’ll take heed that most tars carry their bag slung over one shoulder, so that it can be readily shucked. I only bring this to your attention because the seas can be dangerous, and it would grieve me to see ill befall you or your lovely … companion.”

  “How do you know so much about sailing?” asked Minrah. “You don’t have the build of a sailor.”

  “Minrah!” scolded Cimozjen.

  “Well, he doesn’t.”

  Rophis laughed. “It’s all true, of course,” he said. “You’d not catch me climbing the ropes, not on your life. Not unless the ship had sunk that far beneath the waves, eh?” He laughed again. “But I have done a lot of sailing, my dear, from here, where I can buy Nightwood pale, to Fairhaven for Windshire rainbow wine, to Flamekeep for their thrakel-and-berry brandy. Once in a while, I’ll even go to Droaam. The Droaamites have this … this … I don’t know what to call it. It’s heavily distilled, and they won’t tell me what it’s made from, but their name for it translates roughly as Brain Sledge.”

  “So you buy and sell spirits.”

  Rophis shrugged. “It keeps me in coin. There are a lot of veteran soldiers these days who seem to think they have nothing better to do than duel a bottle of spirits to see who’ll come out the victor. Although it seems you’ve managed to avoid that fate thus far.”

  “I’ve more important things to do,” said Cimozjen. “And when I complete them, I may take a single glass for celebration.”

  “Just one glass?” asked Minrah. “Then we’d best keep you away from the Brain Sledge. Come, let’s go find our room.”

  “If you will excuse us, Rophis,” said Cimozjen with a slight bow.

  “We’ll be aboard several days,” Rophis said with a wave. “I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

  They found a suitable cabin belowdecks. Like all the others available to them, it was equipped with four berths, several squat candles, and a door with a latch but no lock.

  “Hammocks!” squealed Minrah, happily hopping into one and setting it swinging.

  Cimozjen grumbled deep in his throat.

  Minrah slung her pack across the small room to land in another hammock. “We’re here, and on the trail,” she said triumphantly, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt.

  Cimozjen peered out into the narrow hallway to ensure there were no others within earshot, then closed the door. “We are,” he said.

  “So let’s take stock of what we know.”

  “First, I think it would be best for us to clear up some misconceptions before they bring us more difficulties,” said Cimozjen. “For starters, you need to understand that you cannot be my wife. You see—”

  “Of course I can!” said Minrah. “I assure you my parents wouldn’t object.”

  “No, you cannot,” insisted Cimozjen, “for—”

  “Am I too young for you?” asked Minrah. “I’m not as young as I look, you know. I’ll bet I outpace you by a good twenty, thirty years.”

  “Wh—what?” asked Cimozjen.

  “I’ve seen over eighty winters now,” she said. “More than you, isn’t it?”

  “But you—you look—”

  “Elves grow slowly,” she said. “I won’t be considered an adult until I start my one hundred and eleventh year.”

  “An adult has to be one hundred and eleven years old?”

  “No, silly man, one hundred and ten.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said you’re an adult when you start your one hundred and eleventh year. Think about it. How old are you when you start your first year of life?”

  “Just born,” said Cimozjen.

  “Right. So you’re zero years old, and at the end of your first year, you’re one year old, right? So when you turn one hundred and ten, you start your one hundred and eleventh year of life. And that’s when you become an adult.”

  “It seems an odd number …”

  “It has something to do with Aerenal numerology,” said Minrah with a shrug. “That’s all my father ever told me about it. I don’t think he ever knew any more than that, to be candid.”

  Cimozjen nodded and marshaled his thoughts. “I understand. However, you’ve run off with our conversation here. Your age has nothing to do with—”

  “You don’t care about how old I am?”

  “No,” said Cimozjen, chopping the air with his hand. “I mean yes, but—”

  “Wonderful!” said Minrah. She rocked happily in the hammock, swaying back and forth.

  Cimozjen let out an exasperated sigh. “Minrah, I have my vows.”

  “I know you do, Cimmo, you’re an oathbound. And that’s fine. So are we going to talk about Torval, and draw up a plan of action, or are we going to spend the whole voyage mincing up our pasts? I’ve got the frayed end of a great story here, and I want to start tugging at it!”

  Cimozjen threw up his hands, resigning hope of being able to direct the course of the conversation. Dealing with people had been so much easier in the Iron Band. If they were Karrns, the military hierarchy made communication easy. If they weren’t Karrns, you killed them. Simple. “As you wish. Let’s review what we know.”

  “Torval was killed by an axe blow from a powerful strike. That means whoever killed him was strong.”

  “And carried an axe. This is not new to me, Minrah.”

  “Let me finish. Once he was killed, someone tied a rock to his foot and dumped him off a ship.”

  “Or off the end of a dock.”

  “No, not off a dock. Off a ship.”

  “Perhaps you could explain to me how we know that.”

  “I went to King’s Bay while you slept, and borrowed a fishing line. I weighted the line and measured the water depth at each of the docks. It’s not deep enough to be certain of hiding a body. I mean, Torval was over six feet tall, add another foot or two for the rope and the rock, and another foot for his arms floating upward once he started to … well, add all that together and we come up with, say nine feet of water for Torval to be fully submerged, with his fingertips barely below the surface. But the deepest water off one of the docks isn’t even ten feet deep, and the water is fairly clear. People would see him down there. And if you’re going to take all that trouble to hide a body in the water and keep it down, you’re going to ensure that it can’t be found by the first person who saunters by.”

  Cimozjen nodded. “In contrast, if he were dumped off a ship in the deeper waters away from the shore …”

  “He wouldn’t be found.
Except of course that the rock slipped off his ankle, and put him to drifting. Lucky, that. So do you know where he was dropped into the water?”

  “How could I know that?”

  “I also tossed wood chips into the bay, so see how the current flows. It moves against the sundial, did you know that? The river flows east to west across the north side of the bay, and as a result, the water in the bay moves slowly around from the north end to the west to the south, then back up the east to the river. It’s slow, but definite. Which, since he was dropped at night and found in the day, means that the most likely place for him to have been dropped is the west end of King’s Bay.”

  Cimozjen grunted as he considered this, pushing out his lower lip. “That’s the section of the bay that lies farthest from any of the docks,” he said. “The water has carved out the bluffs, so it’s not particularly useable for much of anything.”

  “Correct,” said Minrah. “So the ship that dumped him moved away from everyone else to do it.”

  “Might he have been tossed off the top of the bluff?”

  “Not without a catapult,” said Minrah. “The only fresh scrapes on his skin were on his naked foot. The bluffs aren’t so steep that one could hurl him and a heavy rock into the water without the body tumbling down the slope.”

  “Did you perhaps check if there was a ship in the harbor that had moved out there? If we find that ship, then we can find the murderer, or at least know that the captain abetted the deed by going to the best place to dump Torval’s body.”

  “I did check,” said Minrah. “And three vessels did. The longshoremen told me it’s not that uncommon in the spring or fall when shipping is heavy. If a ship is waiting on cargo, she may move over there to vacate a dock for another ship. That means that the captain might not even have known about Torval—and that the killer took advantage of a good opportunity. However,” she added, “I can tell you that this very ship is one of the ones that did move over there, and of those three, this is the largest.”