Howl of Blades

by J Glenn Bauer

  “They have just a handful of warriors.” Rappo gestured at the column as it left the village. “That is foolishly asking to be robbed.” He sounded indignant.

  Caros eyed the villagers. There had been a time when travel between villages and towns was safe enough for small groups to make without undue concern. Such times were burned away now.

  “It is likely their best warriors are in Hasdrubal’s army or were in Hanno’s.”

  There had been many hundreds of Bastetani in the army Hanno had sought to defeat the Romans with at Cissa. Caros and his companions had led many of them out of that valley of death, but hundreds had fallen in the battle and the sack of the town.

  The column of villagers moved swiftly, intent on reaching Tagilit to trade their produce and return that same day. A single figure appeared from the village, hurrying after the column. A woman, sling pack bouncing at her hip, a spear balanced over her shoulder. She looked up the hill at the four men sitting their mounts on the hillside and Caros was caught by the way she tilted her slender neck and squared her shoulders. He raised a hand in greeting. The woman swept her graying hair from her eyes and turned her face away.

  Maleric snapped his twig and flicked it aside, sending a glob of spit after it.

  “Rappo is right. Too few of them to fight off even a half-determined band of thieves.”

  “We are not shepherds. Plus, you are only counting the shields. Every one of those villagers knows how to fight and has a blade within easy reach.”

  Caros flicked his reins and his mount lurched forward.

  Neugen chuckled. “I expect Maleric saw someone that has given him a thirst for something other than ale.”

  The Gaul grunted. “I can drink and still keep a woman warm and smiling, Bastetani.” He scowled. “Besides, the only thing I have done since I arrived in this land of yours is wear away my arse riding and kill Romans.”

  “The season for fighting is over. Tagilit will offer you opportunity to slack your other desires. But first…”

  “Here we go! Always something else first, eh?”

  Caros grinned at the Gaul and dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. “First, we ride some more!”

  His mount took off, clattering away down the track that intersected the trail the villagers traveled. Maleric cursed after him while Neugen and Rappo laughed and followed with whoops.

  Caros slowed as he neared the trail, raising his hand in greeting to the warriors and villagers who watched him and his companions pass on ahead of them suspiciously.

  He planned to be in Tagilit before nightfall, the largest and wealthiest of the Bastetani towns. Once there, he hoped to gather the support of the leading Bastetani, especially the venerable elders. With a delegation of high ranking Bastetani petitioning him, Hasdrubal might see the wisdom of reining in the commissars and tax men that were systematically making Bastetani villagers homeless.

  First though, Caros wished to pay his respects to his family by taking a short detour to the where their ashes were interred.

  A pair of bustards wheeled high above Caros, their long whistling cries reflecting his melancholic mood as he rejoined his three companions who had waited at the foot of the mountain while he had gone up to pray to his ancestors.

  Rappo, weaving a horsehair cord, offered him a somber smile which Caros returned.

  “Are you all rested and ready to ride?”

  Maleric and Neugen sat up, the former wiping away a string of saliva from his lips and rubbing his eyes.

  “I would prefer to sprout wings and fly.” Maleric rolled to his feet, his sword belt in his hand.

  Neugen gathered his helmet and sword.

  “I wish it too, if only so that we would not have to hear you complain about your arse.”

  Long practiced at moving at a moment’s notice, they were all astride their mounts and ready to continue their journey in heartbeats.

  They rode north, using a track cut into the hills by generations of hunters, nomads and shepherds. The sun burned sullenly from behind a thin pall of gray cloud.

  “I smell rain in the air.” Neugen took a deep breath as if to emphasis his comment.

  Maleric huffed and blew his nostrils noisily, one at a time.

  “It is late in the season. There should be snow already.”

  “Not much of that in these parts until later and then only in the high mountains.”

  Rappo suddenly clicked his tongue and his pony pulled ahead of the others. Caros studied the young Masulian’s shoulders, alert to the tension in the lad who had his head cocked to the side.

  Maleric’s big head turned as he scanned the rocky hillside and clusters of dense vegetation that overlooked the trail.

  “Hear something there?”

  “Ssst!” Rappo rose higher on his mount’s back, his knees supporting him while he cupped a hand to his ear.

  Caros reined in and the others stopped beside him. The call of a far-off grouse and the nearby trill of a warbler was accompanied only by the sighing of a breeze through dried grass.

  Rappo pointed north, in the direction they were travelling.

  “There! I hear horses and men.” He fell silent once more.

  Caros listened intently, holding his breath. A half-dozen heartbeats later, he heard a faint shout followed by gruff laughter and the whinny of a horse.

  “Good hearing, lad” Maleric admitted, having heard the sounds as well.

  Rappo turned, his forehead furrowed. “I heard women’s voices too.”

  Caros’ fist tightening around his spear for a moment. He knew of no village near this place except the one they had passed that morning.

  “Possibly the villagers we met earlier. This trail meets up with the road they would travel to reach Tagilit.”

  Neugen lifted his shield off his knee and thrust his left arm through the straps.

  “Maybe, but they were all on foot with just an ox-drawn wagon.”

  Maleric grinned and patted his sword.

  “Could be we are in time to save a few women. Nothing like a bit of gratitude to make a woman loosen up her thighs.”

  Caros checked his helmet strap was firmly knotted.

  “I think, for you, it will take more than gratitude.” He laughed at Maleric’s expression as he raked his mount’s flanks. “A cup of ale says there is no saving to be done.”

  Axleen stood straight, her jaw clenched tight. Her fellow villagers hovered about, their eyes on the score of hard-faced horsemen who watched them while a handful of their number dug through the produce stacked on the wagon.

  A dour looking rider dressed in a fine tunic and well worked leather, fingered his oiled beard while examining the contents of a chest that lay splintered on the road. Fired clay lamps, mats and other household items crafted by the villagers were scattered across the road.

  A rider lifted an amphora from beneath a coil of woven hemp rope, a wide grin betraying his brown teeth.

  “Oil. Smells fresh.”

  The finely dressed rider gestured to add it to the growing heap of goods he deemed worthy.

  Axleen tightened her grip on the bundle of cheese and the jug of vinegar she carried. She could not afford to lose either.

  The owner of the oil, a graybeard with one eye and too many children to feed, growled and began lifting his spear. At once, those around him put their hands on his shoulders and whispered for him to calm himself. The finely dressed rider noticed and smiled through his beard.

  “We take only what is owed and needed to fight the Romans.” He shook his head as though admonishing an errant child. “Pray to your gods it is enough and we defeat them for their demands would be far greater.”

  Axleen did not know the Romans, but she knew a thief when confronted by one. The goods being taken were the best of what the villagers had left after two visits by Barca tax collectors.

  The graybeard shook off the restraining hands of his fellows and stepped forward.

  “We have already given our due! Twice since
the harvest moon and now you take what remains?”

  The rider pulled on the reins of his horse and shuffled back a step, but already the watching horsemen were edging their mounts closer, eyes hard and spears swinging threateningly.

  The graybeard snarled; aware he was endangering the others.

  “Are you done yet? We have a way to go still.”

  The rider’s horse snorted and stamped, its ears flicking. A crack of hooves on stone drifted down the hillside. Four riders, backlit by the sun, were making their way down the hill.

  “Who are they?” The finely dressed rider called even as he scrambled onto his horse. None answered as the horsemen with him tensed, wary suddenly.

  Axleen shading her eyes, recognized the rider who sat his horse casually, long legs stretching down either side of the animal, shoulders straight and teeth shining between lips parted with a handsome smile.

  The riders picked their way down the hill, fanning out as they rode closer.

  The finely dressed rider turned his mount away from them and urged it around the wagon, his eyes wide.

  “Who are you? I am here on rightful command to collect what is owed by these people!” He flicked a delicate wrist at the sullen villagers. “Do not dare to obstruct me.”

  His voice became shriller with every word and even some among his own horsemen winced at the fear they heard.

  “Is that what I see? An honest tax collector?”

  The rider came closer and Axleen noticed that he was younger than she had thought. His dark eyes spoke of a quick mind and thoughtful actions. She felt a prickle of respect for the stranger who clearly knew what was happening. The other villagers stood taller, happy to see Bastetani warriors coming to their aid.

  “You have no business interfering here. These goods are needed in Qart Hadasht to pay for the warriors who keep the peace and fight off the Roman criminals.” The tax collector’s nerve was returning. “Ride on or risk our blades.”

  “Tell me this first. Since when are taxes collected along the road?” The rider flashed a look of feigned puzzlement at the pile of items collected on the road. The shattered chest and spilled contents trampled into the dirt by the tax collector’s mount. “Surely it is more onerous this way? Surely it is better to collect taxes all at once from each village?” He halted his mount between the villagers and the tax collector and his horsemen. His three companions sat their mounts in a wide crescent just off the road.

  Axleen looked beyond them, her eyes darting along the summit of the hill, between the trees and into the shadows, but there no more warriors appeared. Her relief soured in her belly and resignation weighted on her shoulders. Four warriors were nothing against the score of spears the tax collector hid behind. She quelled the desire to turn and flee, instead she stepped forward.

  “We have been taxed already. We told this one, but our protests are meaningless to him.” She lifted her voice so all could hear and spoke to the young rider who turned his eyes on her. There she glimpsed a deep mournfulness born of loss. These years there were many with such eyes, but in his she sensed also a smoldering anger waiting for the right breath to fan it to life.

  He turned his head away, his chin lifting and eyebrows rising.

  “It seems there is a misunderstanding here. These villagers have already paid their dues and no doubt they have the seal to validate the claim.”

  “Lies!” The tax collector spat. “They cannot show me a seal and so I have a right to tax them.”

  “There is no fool walking that would risk the value of such a seal with them on the road.” The young rider’s voice dropped, his air of casual interest turned sharp. “You are not taxing them. You are robbing them.”

  “I warned you not to interfere.” The tax collector gestured to his leading man, a barrel-chested graybeard with a rash of pox scars across his chin and throat. “Bind these Bastetani turds and lash them bloody. Take their mounts and weapons as your own.”

  Axleen shot a horrified glance at the young rider, expecting him to flee with his companions. Instead, he wore a smile, but no smile a person would mistake for warmth.

  The pox-faced warrior edged his mount forward. His eyes narrowed to stare suspiciously at the young rider.

  “You have not asked my name. Perhaps this would be a good time to do that.” The young rider shrugged. “You know? Before you do as your master says and your life becomes forfeit.”

  The pox-faced warrior glanced back at the tax collector. His men shifted uneasily. Outnumbered men with their backs about to be bloodied did not sit so confidently. Many of the warriors were looking around as Axleen had, afraid that a larger body of men was bearing down on them.

  “Go on then. Tell us your name.” The pox-faced warrior found his voice and lifted his spear. “Then we will know whose skin we are flaying.”

  Like the warrior he was, he fell back on violence to bolster his confidence and his smile grew uglier.

  “You probably do not know me, but thank you, I will.” The young rider looked beyond the pox-faced warrior to the horsemen. “If you fought on the Tagus, or at Sagunt, or unlikely as it may be, at Cissa, then you will have heard of The Claw.” He turned his stare on the tax collector. “Caros the Claw, killer of Romans and,” Caros paused, fixing the tax collector with eyes as sharp as arrow tips, “friend of Hannibal Barca.

  Chapter 3

  From the trees at the side road, a lone raven lifted into the sky with a raucous cawing. On another day, it might have caused a traveler to clutch tighter their spear and hasten their steps. Today, those standing on the road paid it no attention. Instead, every man and woman stared unblinking at the young rider who sat tall on his mount.

  The tax collector finally spluttered and coughed, his face pale and beaded with perspiration.

  “I have never heard of you! Anyone could claim to be a friend of the Barca general!”

  “Anyone could claim to be collecting taxes when in truth they are thieves.”

  Caros shrugged and looked pointedly at the goods that had been set aside.

  “This is your last warning, Bastetani.”

  “No.” The pox-faced leader of the warriors snapped, cutting off the tax collector. The man threw a cautioning look at the trembling official.

  “I have heard of this Caros the Claw who is indeed a friend of Hannibal Barca.” Many of his horsemen nodded their agreement. “It is said he was wounded once and carries a scar worthy of a champion.” He pointed the sharp end of his spear at Caros. “Show us.”

  The tax collector licked his lips with a lizard tongue, a sickly grin growing on them. The villagers shuffled and peered at Caros who sat unmoving. His companions were as still as rocks on their mounts, faces unreadable.

  The tax collector’s chest inflated and his grin grew with every heartbeat. The horsemen lifted their spears while their horses snorted in agitation.

  Caros released his spear, allowing it balance across his thighs and raised his hand to untie the leather strap beneath his chin. With eyes sharp as flint, pulled the helmet from his head.

  The tax collector’s eyes grew wide and his smile vanished. There was an audible gasp from the rigid villagers and the pox-faced warrior’s shoulders slumped.

  A scar, knotted like old rope, ran from above Caros’ right temple and along the side of his head to behind his ear. It was a scar that spoke of a grievous wound. A wound that had come close to taking off the top of his head and spilling his brains like the yolk of a goose egg.

  Caros grinned bleakly at the warrior.

  “Never go into battle with your helmet strap unfastened.”

  A strained silence followed before the warrior laughed and shook his head.

  “That is a fearful looking piece of work. I wager the blow set your eyes spinning for days.”

  “I ordered you to lash that man! See that it is done so that we can finish our work here. A scar is no proof of who he claims to be.”

  “Oh, it is almost certainly the same man. The scar i
s exactly as described.” The leader of the horsemen turned on the tax collector. “If you think I am going to be the man that harms the man that saved Hannibal Barca’s life before the walls of Sagunt, you are mistaken.” He waved a dismissive hand at the goods laying on the road. “Especially not for that pitiful pile of refuse.”

  “That pile of refuse is likely all that will sustain their village through the winter.” Caros growled. “If you take those goods, know that I will raise the matter personally with Hasdrubal Barca and demand that you are punished as a thief and nailed to boards.”

  The menace in his voice and cold anger in his eyes caused the tax collector to sway on his mount.

  The villagers began to rumble and curse. Some rattled their blades and stamped their feet.

  “Enough of that shit!” The leader of the horsemen snapped, cutting his spear through the air and silencing them. He jerked on his knotted chin strap with a wink at Caros. “The gods be with you. We will be on our way now.” He turned his horse and kicked it into a canter. “Move you lazy bastards.” He shouted to his riders who filed along behind him. The tax collector glanced fearfully at Caros, his mouth slack with shock. With a start, he bolted after his departing escort.

  The villagers spat insults and threw lewd gestures as he passed.

  “That was close. What would you have done if they had not recognized your name?”

  Although Maleric wore a broad grin, white edged his lips and the flesh beneath the man’s left eye twitched.

  “With you and your great sword at my back? There was never any danger.” Caros lifted his helmet and slapped it onto his head, noticing how his hand shook. While he retied the strap three of the village men bounded up to him, all wide smiles and full of thanks. One of the handful of warriors with the villagers also dipped his chin to Caros.