Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  It took all six of them, for the stranger was strong beneath his fat, and fought with the terrified courage of a trapped boar. Cursing, panting, and lurching, the struggling knot crashed into what remained of the tent poles and lines, collapsing it further into a musty heap that thrashed along the muddy ground. Over all came the shrill screams of the fat stranger.

  “Lay off me! I’m innocent, by Mishtan. Innocent!”

  “If you’re innocent, stop fighting!” Makos shouted.

  “Rukhal’s guts! He has my ankle!” Arco swore.

  “You have the wrong man! This is all a misunderstanding, and I’ll defend myself as long as you keep—”

  The angry cries flew fast and thick between the horsemen and their desperate opponent.

  “Watch those teeth!”

  “Get him off, get him off!

  “I warned you, sir! I warned you! Now I bite you! Grrr!”

  “Grab his arm! No, his arm, you halfwit!”

  “Hell’s buttered onions!”

  “Stop him, he’s—aahhh!”

  “Damnation!”

  Finally Makos got a fist onto the top of the little man’s skull and knocked him senseless. They bound him tightly hand and foot, then left him on the pile of canvas in the corner where they’d found him.

  After the tent was put back together, no one had the strength left to eat or drink, much less deal with the prisoner any further. So they all fell asleep, laid out on stacks of tent fabric with the patter of rain outside lulling them into unconsciousness.

  The next morning, with sun replacing the cloud and rain of the previous night, the work of burials began. As the camp was to be stripped and abandoned to the crows, all outlaws were dumped unceremoniously off one side of the bluff. But the hoplites killed in battle had already been arrayed in orderly rows on the south slope where their fight had occurred, and now a common grave was dug there.

  Under a fresh, glorious sky and a sun that beamed through glowing greenery, Damicos intoned words of farewell and commendation to the gods.

  “A high price was paid here,” he finished. “These men bore the brunt of it. And they will be remembered.”

  When the grave was filled and turf laid over again, a memorial stone was erected over the spot. No stoneworking tools were found in the camp, so the big man known as The Yak used a broken whetstone to scratch two words into the marker’s surface: Storm Furies.

  Later, as the men ate their lunch, the sister of the fallen Duran elder approached Damicos. She was a little shorter than Ireth and several years younger. But her hair was snow white in the daylight, and her skin nearly matched its paleness. To Damicos’ eyes, she had a softer face, a gentler and easier air about her, though it was still the face of a Duran—tough and purposeful. Her teal green eyes blinked rapidly as she faced the captain.

  “I am Rafe Lantia, Ireth’s sister,” the woman said, glancing at Pelekarr as well, who leaned in the shade of a tree next to the table that had been spread with victuals. “I wish to thank you for the sacrifice of your men, on behalf of those of us who were taken from our homes.”

  Damicos nodded. “They freely spilt their blood so that you might live. I receive your thanks on their behalf.”

  Rafe hesitated. “My sister is no longer with us. I am to take her place among the elders of our town. Thus I am able to say this also: we Durans owe a larger debt of gratitude to your company.”

  Damicos began to deflect the woman with kind words, but she held up a hand.

  “I spoke long into the night with Meldus and Argaf. I believe our people underestimated the size and resilience of Black Tur’s bandit army. Had you not agreed to come, the strength of Dura would have undoubtedly been laid low, and neither I nor my sisters from the town would have made it away with our lives. The outlaws would have retaliated and slain our families that remain at home.

  “As you have paid the price in our place, we offer ourselves—all of Dura—to make good on this debt. We cannot pay you in gold, but I am told you are in need of a permanent place to quarter your men. We offer you the ruins outside Dura, and preferential prices in every shop, smithy, and tavern in town.”

  Damicos stuttered on a reply, then closed his mouth. He looked at Pelekarr, but the cavalry captain just nodded at him.

  “It is enough,” he said. “We accept your offer, and pledge in return to treat Dura and its people with respect and deference. If any of our men offend you on even the smallest count, simply speak with Captain Pelekarr or myself and we promise to rectify it swiftly.”

  Rafe nodded. Then she stuck out a hand, and Damicos shook it.

  “My people will begin returning to Dura soon,” the woman advised. “We have taken a few things to replace all that the bandits stole from us, but we leave all the rest of the spoils to your company. And a few of us will remain here to guide you back through the forest to Dura.”

  As the woman walked away, Damicos whistled softly. “Pelekarr, I think we’ve done a good thing here, as steep a price as it was to pay.”

  “Yes, and bought ourselves an Ostoran home, it seems.” The horse captain came over and took an apple from the table, buffing it on is cloak briefly. “Was it worth it? I want to hear your words, as you faced the stiffer opposition in this battle, by far.”

  Damicos sighed. “To hear that woman’s sweet words, certainly it was. But…”

  He looked down the hill at the stone marker resting on fresh-dug earth.

  “I must admit to an equal share of failure, Pelekarr. The battle up here last night was so near to disaster, it strikes me that only Mokar himself could have delivered us. And as it is, we’ve lost so much that I wonder if the men will face our next campaign with as much lust for glory.”

  “There are a lot of men buried out there,” Pelekarr agreed, also gazing down toward the grave site. “Had I known we would face such a terrible fight here, I would have lent you the half of my men to go up the slope with you.”

  Damicos shook his head. “No, they would only have added to the casualties. Your lancers don’t have the armor and shields, the long spears, the legs bred for pushing and lunging up that hill. No, Pelekarr, I am simply not the commander I hoped I was. I led many men to their deaths.”

  “You won! You carried the day—or night, as it were.”

  “But sustaining such losses, how can we fight on the next time, and the next? When only a handful of us remain to claim victory, it will ring awfully hollow.”

  “Yes. We know now that you and your men can fight as hard as lions. Now we need to ensure that we employ more cunning strategies so we can avoid the losses the next time.”

  “We’ll have to. Or there won’t be a next time.” Damicos chuckled without mirth. “Another victory like that one would finish us.”

  The two men lingered by the food table, but neither ate—Pelekarr tossed his apple absently from hand to hand, lost in thought.

  Their company had faced its first challenge. In the fight for Ostora—or against it? It sometimes felt like this land was the foe they marched against—they had not backed down nor been forced to their knees. But neither had they come away with a pure victory.

  They were dangerously near the edge of defeat in the long-term, losing so many men in a single engagement. And in these critical early days, the appearance of comprehensive victory was as important to the formation of a bright image as the reality. A baron or another town might well hire them without caring about the rate at which their men fell in combat. But how many more good men would sign on to a company that gained a reputation for massive loss of life in each campaign? A man that didn’t live to enjoy the spoils of a victory was a voice that cried from the ground to his surviving fellows, urging them to sit out the next fight—which could be their last.

  The quartermaster, Sergeant Trevaz, interrupted the captains’ reverie. He had a wax tablet in hand, and a sharpened stick for a stylus tucked behind one ear.

  “Ahem. Sir—sirs, is it true what I heard just now, that the Dur
ans mean to open their town to us again?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. It is. And the place they spoke of for a headquarters—it’s ours.”

  Trevaz blinked, then smiled. “That’s good. Because we’re going to need a big place to keep all of this.”

  Pelekarr put the apple back. “All of what, Sergeant?”

  Trevaz laid his tablet on the table and pointed. “I don’t think anyone’s realized just how much we captured last night, Captains. This Black Tur clearly had great ambitions.”

  Damicos looked at the tablet. Some of the figures ran into the hundreds.

  In and among the tents that covered the top of the hill, there were barrels of ale and wine, as the men had found the night before, and hard cheese and dried venison. But there was also a quantity of salt fish and salt pork, oiled wheat, twice-baked loaves and barley. Enough to feed many men, and it would keep to last through lean times.

  There were stacks of weapons: one entire tent was filled with bundles of new-made arrows floor to ceiling, and quite a few javelins as well. There were odds and ends of armor, and many bronze blades and spear-points, some obviously of Kerathi military make, even bearing the cast-mold seal of the king on the crosstrees.

  Pelekarr and Damicos noted these as evidence of black market profiteers, probably a baron who was diverting official shipments and selling them off for private gain. Corruption was nothing new, but Governor Spatha would want to know, so they made careful notes of all they found. Not that they intended to surrender any of it.

  Not least of all the gear were the tents themselves, solid canvas campaigning tents looted from some Kerathi supply line. They would provide the company a place to live on the march and in camp at their new headquarters outside Dura.

  The cache was a godsend, exactly what a fledgling company needed. Here were all the supplies and arms they could want—no longer would they be at the mercy of the governor, or whatever local settlers they could convince to put them up. With Dura as a refuge and these supplies for a stake, the company stood a real chance at making it through their first year.

  And there was already a small detail of men gathering up items from the battlefield and rifling the corpses that had been thrown off the bluff. Trevaz had noted enough gold and copper ornaments being taken from the dead bandits so far that it amounted to a serious addition to the company’s meager coffer.

  Bronze was precious on the frontier, and every blade they found was taken up. What wasn’t reused outright could be melted down and resold as ore ingots, or recast. The captains had purchased, with the last of the coin Spatha had given them, several molds of sword, spearhead, and arrowhead. Many sergeants in the legions had been trained in the art of bronze-work, and repaired or recast their bronze weapons as needed in the field. Armor was a different story; it required better molds and more skill, so an armorer was needed. Thus far the company had none among its ranks.

  Whether or not Black Tur might have actually amassed an army in time and become a legitimate force in Ostora was no longer relevant. But his ambitions were now being actively converted into the fortunes of the new mercenary company, and the Captains couldn’t help but smile as they reviewed the quartermaster’s records.

  “Telion was with us,” Damicos said, a measure of awe in his voice. “We’ve enough here to supply ourselves for months.”

  Pelekarr nodded. “The governor will be mortified to learn such a threat was rising under his nose, out here in the forest. This outlaw army could have become a serious threat.”

  “And to the barons. They would probably have paid good money to us if they’d known such a force was growing in the woods while their backs were turned. I wish there was a way to take advantage of it now.”

  “The advantage is in seizing all of this ourselves,” Pelekarr replied. “We must sacrifice to Drasss when we return to Dura. Another dozen jobs like this and we can retire!”

  He grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. But Damicos cocked is head.

  “Drasss? What god is that?”

  Pelekarr grimaced at the infantry captain’s lack of piety. “Drasss is the God of Wealth, and seeing as he’s blessed us so abundantly, we cannot think to ignore it. Damicos, you really must look to your duties and speak with the priests when we get back to a city.”

  Damicos shrugged. “There are so many of them, you know. And you nobles put a lot more weight behind them than my people.”

  “Your people? We are both Kerathis. We must respect our gods.”

  Damicos was slow to reply. “Are we, Pelekarr? And must we?”

  The cavalry captain eyed his companion sternly.

  “This is Ostora. Not Kerath.”

  “But we have not changed. We are officers of—”

  “Of a free company in Ostora. I’d argue that we have changed significantly.” Damicos patted the other’s arm. “But sacrifice all you want. It can only help.”

  Keltos Kuron and Makos Vipirion came up to the table, seemingly the next in an unending line of people who had business that required the captains’ attention. Between them, they supported a fat little man bound around and around with several lengths of rope. And behind trailed a few other cavalry troopers, looking tired and grumpy.

  “Who on earth—” Damicos began.

  “What have we here?” Pelekarr asked.

  CHAPTER 18: AND SOMEONE TO MANAGE THEM

  The plump man cursed and struggled, and the horse soldiers threw him unceremoniously to the ground in front of the captains. Makos in particular was venomous in his handling of the fellow, and Damicos noted a human bite mark on the trooper’s leg where their prisoner had apparently managed to get at him.

  The soldiers stood, chests heaving, and saluted.

  Damicos smiled, returning the salute. “Something to report, troopers?”

  “Prisoner, sir. Found him last night hiding in a tent. Careful, he bites.”

  Damicos laughed aloud. “So I see. You took him prisoner last night and you only come to make us aware now?”

  Makos looked uncomfortable. “He gave us a bit of trouble, sir. Wore us quite out last night, and we didn’t see him as a threat, so we just left him to come around and be reasonable.”

  “Is he a threat or is he not, soldier?” Pelekarr asked, keeping almost all the mockery from his voice as he glanced down at the trooper’s leg.

  Makos grimaced. “Not to the company, sir.”

  “And yet he may be able to answer important questions for us,” Damicos said. “If he’s willing to talk now, let’s untie him and have it out.”

  Keltos jabbed the man with his toe. “Well? Will you talk, or are you going to keep fighting?”

  The little man’s mouth had a strip of cloth pulled tight over it, and his reply was hopelessly muffled. Pelekarr nodded, and the soldiers began to untie the man.

  “Did you get anything out of him so far?” Damicos asked.

  “Only that he swears he’s innocent. Says he’s not one of the bandits, been held captive here for a few months.”

  “If that tale’s true, we’ll soon know,” the captain replied. He sent a man to fetch Rafe for help in identifying the man.

  The soldiers stood him on his feet. They left a close hobble around his ankles and one lead wrapped around his wrist so Vizar could yank him back if he tried to attack the captains.

  Damicos faced him. “Well? Speak up, my suety friend. If your tale is true you need have no fear of us. If it isn’t, though, we’ll hang you.”

  “No!” The man rose to his knees, imploring. “You must give me fair hearing.”

  He was mostly bald and had the light coppery skin of the Kerathi. He wore a stubby mustache, very much out of fashion, but his clothes were surprisingly clean for a man that had been imprisoned by bandits. Damicos’ keen eyes also noticed that the prisoner’s padding of fat masked real strength beneath. It wouldn’t do to underestimate this one, for all his trembling.

  “My lords,” the man said, in a quavering voice, eyes watery, “my n
ame is Tibion Alces, and I swear by all the gods that I was a captive of these villains. Yes! Send for the poor women you rescued! They will testify that I was cruelly used—beaten at times!—by the bandits. Forced to cook for them, to slave over cauldron and kettle, to chap these gifted hands in washing and scrubbing! Worked like a slave!”

  “Well, your scrubbing days may be over for good,” Pelekarr said as Rafe approached. “Milady, can you confirm that this man,” he pointed, “was a captive of the outlaws as he claims? His life is in your hands.”

  The brown-haired woman nodded. “I saw him when they brought us in. He was washing pots.”

  “How did they treat him? Was he privileged among the bandits, or was he a prisoner like you were?”

  “They kept us in the tent nearly the whole time, so I can hardly say. I think they chained him at night, though. I heard him cursing at them.”

  “He never tried to help you, or to escape from his captors?”

  “No, they kept him over by the supplies and the latrine. And we’re far enough out in the forest here, he probably wouldn’t have made it if he’d tried to escape.”

  “Thank you. That’s all we needed to know.”

  As the woman left, Pelekarr spoke to Tibion Alces. “Well, we’ll not send you back to whatever master lost you, unless there’s a reward for your safe return. As far as I’m concerned, you are a free man now. It’s your lucky day. I suggest you make your way back to Dura with the townspeople when they go.”

  The man choked and spluttered, face turning red. “You thought… you assume me to be a slave?”

  “Are you not?” Pelekarr asked, puzzled. “You spoke as if—”

  The switch from desperate supplicant to outraged pomp was instantaneous. “Slave? Slave? I am no slave, sirs! I come of good family, freemen all. The Alces family are paragons, pillars of virtue wherever they reside. Ask in my old village, ask in Baxtown. Testimonials will come forth, and I trust they will vindicate me fully.”

  The man struck such a pose of offended dignity that Damicos burst into laughter. “We crave your pardon!” he said through chortles of merriment. “But then tell us, how did you fall in with the outlaws? Were you captured in a raid? Did they need a cook so badly?”