Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

“You may spend the night in the protection of our village,” she announced. “And we will feast you as heroes. For slaughtering the apes!”

  CHAPTER 27: AN OFFER OF FATE

  Fieron Tarmull stood in line for water, alongside seven other men with thirsty comrades and a myriad of wounds that needed washing. They came from various forces aligned on Telros’ side of the conflict, a conflict that had opened with satisfying intensity the day before but now lingered in an ugly, festering state of uncertainty. And none of them was sure if he’d be allied with any of the others by the end of that day.

  The well had been dug hastily and though it offered a more convenient and fresher source of water than the bladders and kegs bound to the backs of mules in the main camp, its sides were crumbling and sandy soil had to be strained from each gallon brought up.

  Fieron wiped sweat from his brow and pushed back some of the dark locks that clung to his face. He’d let his hair grow far longer than regulation length in the old legion. And he didn’t feel like cutting it any time soon. Especially not if the pay they’d come north to get was going to be yanked away from them like a bone from a hungry dog.

  The men all looked up when the raised voices of the sentries signaled a horseman’s arrival. Fieron could see the man, coming alone from the direction of Baron Vocke’s fortress. He was picking his way carefully across the battlefield, sidestepping the weapons and bodies of the previous day’s fallen. Then he broke into a trot and approached the camp directly.

  “A messenger?” the man next to him asked.

  Fieron grunted affirmatively.

  A few minutes later Vocke’s horse messenger was standing in front of an array of armed men, gathered tightly around Baron Telros’ tent. Fieron crowded nearer with several others that had been in the area when the man arrived. He couldn’t see anyone else from the Tooth and Blade in the vicinity, so it was important that he hear everything and relay it swiftly to his captain.

  The messenger was not a young fellow, and he had light brown hair curling down around his shoulders. His eyes were lined with weariness and streaks of sweat. None in Vocke’s town had likely slept during the night, nor had the luxury of washing and breakfasting like the troops waiting in Telros’ camp had.

  “Come to surrender for your lord?” Telros loudly asked, after he’d stepped out of his tent.

  The messenger cast his eyes down, then quickly back up. He didn’t say anything at first.

  “Milord Baron Vocke bids you listen well to his words,” the man finally said. “It is the only offer he will make.”

  The bluster and pride witnessed the day before was gone now. This man spoke with hard, final certainty like a man with nothing left to hide.

  “Speak on,” Telros tersely replied.

  “Part of our town was laid waste by the red devil-spawn. Thousands lie dead in our streets. But the worms kept away from the water and the rocky high ground under milord’s castle. So we yet have a force to keep your armies at bay, and will do so if attacked. Milord will not come out to combat on the open field again.”

  The man spoke in a rehearsed tone, quickly passing over the mention of the dead.

  “So the worms have gone back into their holes?” Telros asked with a sneer. “Leaving Vocke to stew in his defeat?”

  “We are not defeated, though we have much death to deal with and ruin to repair. Milord could hold the fort against you for many weeks. Until your mercenary army grows tired of waiting, and leaves your side before they starve.”

  Telros shrugged dramatically. “Vocke is in the same place. How long will his hired men stay at his side, with disease creeping in and hunger knocking at the door?”

  The messenger nodded. “Neither of our armies desire a siege. Whichever of the two outlasted the other, it would hardly be worth the cost, not as things now stand. So milord Vocke offers you this: a single combat, to take place between champions of either side on the sand by the sea this very evening. The winner of the combat decides the entire issue.”

  Telros blinked. “A duel? Vocke would capitulate if his man is bested by mine?”

  The messenger nodded. “He agrees to cede the port and its castle to you in their entirety if you come off the victor in this duel.”

  “What’s left of the port, you mean.”

  The messenger continued, ignoring the interruption. “And in turn, if your man is beaten, you must leave this place with your armies. Leave the baron to pick up his pieces and begin mending all the ruin that has taken place here.”

  Telros sighed, thinking hard.

  Fieron held his breath along with the rest of the men watching. Was Telros truly considering an acceptance of the challenge? He had a wounded fox trapped in its burrow. He’d be an idiot to walk away from it all on the gambled outcome of a single duel. This offer was all to Vocke’s favor.

  And yet the face of the baron twisted in serious thought for another moment. Then he spoke.

  “I accept.”

  A gasp went up from among the watching men, even Telros’ own loyal soldiers. Fieron shook his head in wonder.

  The messenger stared back at the baron. “Very well. I will relay your acceptance to milord. As the challenged, your champion may choose arms. The duel will take place before sundown at a place we will mark along the beach north of the town.”

  “Why not here, mid-way between us two?” Telros countered.

  The messenger shook his head. “None of my people will leave the water’s edge. I was the only one willing to cross that field today.”

  Telros tilted his head back and laughed.

  “Sunset it is, then. I hope you have someone left who dares lift a sword, else this will be a swift duel indeed.” Telros eyed the weary man and his quiet mount with obvious skepticism.

  The messenger ignored the slight and turned to canter back the way he’d come.

  Telros laughed again and went back into his tent, surrounded by followers.

  Fieron hurried back toward his own camp area, the water run forgotten. He had important news to tell.

  As he went, he began to wonder what the nobleman knew, of which he, an enlisted man, might be ignorant. What influenced the scheming baron’s reply such that the obvious risk of open defeat was acceptable?

  Fieron knew that all of Telros’ mercenary allies were unhappy with the outcome of the battle. Damicos had told the men how the argument in the command tent had ended. More than one of the free companies was within a hair’s breadth of leaving. Whether Vocke knew or not, Telros certainly knew that he couldn’t sustain a siege for any length of time. So there was that.

  And of course the prize to be taken wasn’t quite as appealing as it had once seemed. Apart from the blood that now soaked Vocke’s streets and the disease that would inevitably follow, the port city had now been revealed as the site of one of Ostora’s more hideous dangers. Merchant caravans would chart a wide course around the battlefield and its hidden threat. Some would choose to travel on to a more distant but safer port for their business.

  But Fieron had been certain the vindictive, prideful baron would push forward his effort to destroy his adversary while he could. This was about Telros’ personal rise to power as much as the grasping of material riches. He’d lose face if he was sent back to his own land by a single warrior in a duel.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Fieron ran for Damicos’ tent, giving up the mental struggle for the time being. Who could tell what made the brains of these noble barons work, and what they wouldn’t do on a whim? Perhaps the arrogant baron had simply grown tired of the conflict he’d started, gotten a taste of what war was really like and decided he’d seen enough of it.

  Damicos stood at the back of the baron’s tent, listening in sullen silence. The pompous fool was making a grand speech of it, trying to show his hired troops that he was once again entirely in control of the situation.

  None of the fighting men were buying it; they knew that even the best fighter might fall to an opponent by chance, especially
in a single duel with no place to maneuver. It was playing dice with men’s lives, and throwing all the blood that had been spilled so far into the stake.

  “We must have our champion,” Telros called out. “You free company men are keen on getting your pay, so let’s see some fighters step forward. I’ll reward the duelist with an hundred silvers!”

  That raised eyebrows, and a mutter arose among the men. A hundred wasn’t enough to pay a whole company with, but for a single man… even shared out among several comrades, it could float each one for a year in any of the coastal towns.

  And yet, despite the excitement, none of the mercenary captains or their accompanying sergeants took up the offer.

  “One of your own should do it,” Hamon of the Deep Shields growled back. “That tall fellow Lorcos, maybe. Why’d you want one of us, aren’t your own men any good at real fighting?”

  Telros tilted his head to one side. “I’ve some experienced fighters, like Lorcos. And they’re all loyal servants, to be sure. But I brought you men here specifically for your fighting prowess. Surely there’s one among you who fancies his chance at glory?”

  Leon whispered moodily at Damicos’ side. “A hundred silvers or three, I’ll not do this nobleman’s work for him any longer. Not until he pledges coin to the whole company and makes good on it.”

  Those around that could hear nodded. None doubted Leon’s bravery, but privately Damicos had to admit that part of his own reluctance to even consider the critical role in the combat was his lack of confidence. In full armor with spearmen at his side, he knew he could face anything. But alone in a ring with nothing but his sword and quick footwork? It could go badly wrong, even for a man that won a technical victory. If you later died of your wounds, or spent the rest of your life maimed, a hundred silver was precious little to cling to.

  Someone else must have been thinking along similar lines, because a voice called out a question that Damicos wanted to ask himself.

  “Who’s the opponent to be, any word yet? Does Vocke have a serious contender that escaped the battle unscathed?”

  Telros nodded. “He must, or he probably wouldn’t have dared make us this offer. A man from one of the smaller, newer companies.” He turned to his lieutenant. “What was the name?”

  “Felca, milord.”

  “Yes. That was it. I’ve never heard of him before, so however good he is, he’s no legend.”

  Damicos was dumbfounded. He stepped forward, pushing men aside. “Chiss Felca?”

  “The very same. Served Lord Iscabos until recently, someone told me.” Telros was lazy and nonchalant in his reply, evidently trying to convey a lack of fear for the challenger.

  A fierce mask had come over the infantry captain’s face. Leon pressed close at Damicos’ elbow, whispering urgently.

  “Don’t think of it, sir. Not our fight, not worth it. Let the nobles resolve their own squabbles, all we care about is the coin now.”

  But that wasn’t all Damicos cared about. And the anger that had been turning in his gut since watching so many of his side fall to Vocke’s arrows the day before was lunging to get out. Here was a chance to bring all of that back around again, to right a great wrong that had kept his company struggling for a place ever since the fight on the beach where the generals had died.

  “Don’t do it, sir,” Leon warned again. “Telros just wants an easy exit from this whole thing.” He was whispering so only the captain could hear now. “He doesn’t want a ruined port. He accepted Vocke’s offer so that he wins either way, that’s why he wants a mercenary to take up the challenge. Not his fault if he has to retreat to his home, and no risk to his own retinue either way.”

  Damicos thought quickly, his eyes shifting rapidly from Telros to the tent door, and down to the sword hilt at his belt.

  Then he stepped in front of the baron and squared his shoulders.

  “I will fight and kill Chiss Felca. If you raise the prize to two hundred silvers.”

  Telros eyed him with a soft smile playing about his thin lips. The lazy eyes fluttered slightly.

  “Two hundred, then… if you kill the man. If you lose, or if Vocke backs away from his offer, there is no reward.”

  Damicos nodded. “You have your man. I’ll be ready at sunset.”

  CHAPTER 28: AMONG THE BARBARIANS

  The suddenness of the reversal was bewildering. A moment earlier the cavalrymen of the Tooth and Blade had been ready to fight their way out, and now they were invited to dinner.

  Sergeant Deltan leaned slightly toward the captain, discreetly lowering his voice. “It could be a ruse.”

  Pelekarr acknowledged him with a nod. “We gratefully accept, my lady.”

  Perian beamed and beckoned him to follow. She and the old crone led the way, Perian supporting the older woman’s arm. As they went, Pelekarr muttered to Deltan under his breath.

  “Refusing could offend them, turn an opportunity into a debacle. If they do mean us harm, they can pick us off tonight from the trees no matter where we are. Let us hear what they have to say, but tell the men to eat or drink nothing until our hosts do so first.”

  “As you think best, Captain,” Deltan replied, obviously unconvinced.

  Pelekarr didn’t blame him. He knew they walked a dangerous path. Poison and knives in the dark were real dangers, but the alternative was to spend another night lost in the forest with barbarians tracking their every move.

  It was close to full dark when they neared the village again and saw the red glow of fires through the trees. Here the escorting warriors stopped. They spoke with Perian and the old woman briefly, and pointed to the north. Perian nodded and turned to the captain.

  “He says your men may camp in the small meadow, over there. There is plenty of grass for your animals, and a stream runs along the western edge. There is not room enough in the village for all, but you and your officers may come inside.”

  “Armed?” Deltan quickly asked.

  “If you must. We will send food out to the rest of your men as well, what we can spare.”

  “Many thanks, lady,” Pelekarr said. “I also have wounded. If you have anything that can help them, we will be truly in your debt.”

  “It is we who are in your debt, Captain,” she said. “Any foe of the apes deserves our aid.”

  The village was arranged at the foot of a low ridge that blocked the westerly winds and reflected the heat and light from the fires. Overhead the rising moon cast its yellowed glow on the scene.

  Pelekarr turned to Deltan. “See to the encampment, Sergeant, as she said. And make certain the men behave themselves when these villagers come among them. Sergeant Caspar will remain in camp as commanding officer. Troopers Vipirion and Kuron will accompany us.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And Sergeant?”

  “Yessir?”

  “A double guard tonight, on the horses as well as the wounded.”

  Deltan went to carry out the order, and Pelekarr turned back to the young shaman. She was studying his face carefully.

  “We were attacked yesterday by two monstrous beasts, and our horses are still nervous. They need extra men to control them.” The truth, of course, was that he wanted no barbarian within a stone’s throw of the precious horses. “You do not object to having so many armed men at your village?”

  “Not if you have driven the apes from our lands,” the girl replied. Then her eyes glittered dangerously for a moment. “But let there be no sudden rushes; you are being watched closely. Let us trust that peace can prevail for the night.”

  “Of course. But tell me, where did you learn our language? I must know.”

  “I learned your sliding tongue as a girl,” Perian said, wrinkling her nose slightly as if this were no real honor. “My father was chieftain then, when my people were as numerous as yours in this land, and he had an Ostoran slave which he bade teach me. We have traded with Ostorans in the outlying frontier towns, and I know somewhat of your ways. More than most of my people.”<
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  Pelekarr and his small group sent their horses toward the meadow with the rest of the men. Then they followed Perian through the gate to a central fire in the village’s center. Woven mats and hides lay around the fire and Pelekarr’s party was invited to sit. Women and children filtered into the camp from the south, joining the men around the fires and taking up where they had left off with cooking and preparing for the coming night.

  Many of these carried hides and satchels of food; Pelekarr surmised that he had unintentionally led his men directly at the hiding place of the fleeing villagers. Little wonder the old shaman and her few warriors had made their desperate bid to stop the soldiers’ progress and defy them to go any farther. The entire population had probably been hidden just over the next ridge.

  There were a few more men among the villagers, mostly too old or too young to be fighters. The young ones were curious yet defiant, the old ones watchfully glum. The few warriors kept their weapons close to hand, still unwilling to trust the soldiers in their midst completely. The respect and deference they showed to Perian, however, was remarkable. And to the old woman, even more so.

  Both sides eyed each other across the fire, the barbarians studying the armor and sheathed bronze sabers of the mercenaries. Everyone was polite and very alert; no one was quite comfortable. Perian did her best to thaw the atmosphere, moving everywhere at once, speaking with both sides, teasing and cajoling.

  The old woman was seated on a stool brought for her. She sat near the flames and s stared at the newcomers, saying little. She sipped tea continuously from a small horn beaker, frequently refilled by a girl from a small pot over the fire.

  Women brought meaty stew in crude bowls fashioned from dried, hollowed gourds. Pelekarr accepted his with a smile and made a show of enjoying it. Deltan took his more gingerly, smelling it and thanking the old woman who delivered it, but sipping sparingly at the broth.

  Pelekarr nudged him. “It’s not poison. They’re all eating it. Dig in and smile.”

  Deltan quietly obliged. The meat in the stew tasted like horse meat, but gamier, and there were fibrous green vegetables in it as well. It wasn’t bad, Pelekarr thought. The barbarian men were drinking theirs straight from the bowl, so he did as well. All were served from the same central pot, which Pelekarr noticed was Kerathi-made copper, doubtless taken in some raid or perhaps traded for.