The screams and crashing of steel made Coreo’s skin crawl, but he forced himself to stare straight ahead as he marched, not looking back at the results of their betrayal.
Lord Eron had set up a pavilion on top of a low, treeless hill toward the rear of the lines, safely out of the direct conflict and bordered on three sides by rocky cliff, giving it a commanding view of the surroundings. It was to this stony knob that the Bonded Legion marched, faces grim but backs straight. At the hill’s foot, Eron’s honor guard stopped them, forming a wall of shields and helms.
Eron had apparently decided to decorate. All around the edges of the hill, tall pikes stood upright in the dirt, impaling naked corpses so fresh that some still twitched. Coreo refused to let himself search their faces. Jain couldn’t be among them. Not yet.
At the top of the hill, Lord Eron emerged from his tent. He was a surprisingly small man for a warlord, and wore simple black leather rather than the shining plate of Loremar’s commander. Coreo was surprised to find that the Butcher Lord was actually rather handsome, with a thin moustache and slicked-back black hair. He smiled warmly as he surveyed the defectors, hands clasped casually behind his back.
“I’ll admit,” he said, voice carrying easily over the now distant sounds of battle, “I had some doubts. Would the famed love of the Bonded Legion really be enough to make them forsake their duty, surrendering their whole force—their whole empire—for the sake of a few men?” The smile broadened. “Yet here you are.”
“Show us our men,” Dorson called. “Prove that they’re still alive.”
Lord Eron inclined his head. “Of course.”
He waved a hand, and several attendants leapt to one of the canvas-sided structures, pulling at knots and cords. A moment later, one whole side fell away, revealing that behind the stiff fabric was a huge cage of metal-reinforced wood. Inside, a group of men huddled together, naked except for their loincloths. Many were bloody, but all looked up in surprise as the canvas was removed.
One particularly large man, his head bandaged and beard flecked with dried blood, sat holding his knees to his chest. As he caught sight of Coreo, however, his slumped shoulders straightened.
Jain.
“As you see, they haven’t been harmed any more than necessary to pacify them,” Eron said. “I’m a man of honor. Despite the fact that you’re now surrounded by my forces, my offer still stands: fight for me, as passionately as you fought for Loremar, and you will be reunited with your men. You’ll be the shining spearhead of my invasion, with all the honors and privileges that entails. Neither I nor my soldiers will hold any grudges.”
Dorson’s thin-lipped expression didn’t change. “We’ve already agreed to your terms. Give us our men.”
Eron raised an index finger and waggled it admonishingly. “Please, Captain. I’m not a fool. Just because I’m a man of honor doesn’t mean I expect anyone else to be so. Your men will be returned to you safely—after you’ve led an attack against the center of Loremar’s lines. One so bloody and ruthless that there’s no way they’d ever take you back, even if you tried to switch sides again. Though I imagine your defection already burned most of your bridges in that regard.”
Dorson grunted. “Fair enough. But if it pleases you, my lord, I’d like to propose an alternative plan.”
Eron’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
The legion charged. There were no battle cries, no posturing—simply a wave of motion as more than a hundred men surged into motion. So disconcerting was the silence of their attack that many of Eron’s honor guard stood frozen, not believing their eyes even as swords and axes rammed home between plates of armor, blood spurting out around hilts and shafts.
Then the moment of surprise was past. With a roar, the full weight of Eron’s army crashed down on the legionaries.
Coreo was caught in a surging ocean of metal and flesh, awash in the hot stink of blood and shit as men gasped and died on all sides. He slammed his shield into the helm of one soldier, dropping him with a satisfying clang, then spun to slam his sword up under another soldier’s tasset, through the underlying padding and deep into his thigh. It felt strangely naked to be fighting without Jain, but that was the nature of kavapara—you fought alone, letting your fury carry you.
Except that he wasn’t kavapara. Not anymore.
They were hopelessly outnumbered. This deep in Eron’s camp, Loremar’s forces would never even know what happened to them, let alone be able to support them. Yet therein lay the legionaries’ one advantage.
Eron had been so focused on cutting them off from any escape or reinforcement that he’d placed most of his forces behind the legionaries, leaving only a fraction standing between him and the presumably defeated men. That honor guard still outnumbered the legionaries three to one—but the Bonded men didn’t need to kill them all. Only enough to break through.
Coreo let one man press him hard, feigning a stumble beneath the man’s axe blows, then ducked sideways as Hosch’s spear shot over his head and took the man in the throat. Coreo returned the favor by stretching out and cutting the legs from under another soldier who threatened the spearman. A savagely grinning Barcas streaked past him in a running crouch, face covered in blood and daggers in both hands. Then Coreo was back up and bringing his sword to bear on another man.
Foot by foot, the Bonded Legion moved up the hill.
Above, horns called for reinforcements, yet those reinforcements couldn’t reach the command tents without first passing through the fracas. The same cliffs that defended the command tents made it impossible for Eron to retreat.
Another of Eron’s soldiers fell, and Coreo was surprised to suddenly find himself in the open at the top of the rise. To his left, the honor guard was pulling back to form a defensive ring around Lord Eron and his retainers. Coreo ignored them and darted right instead, toward the cage.
The bars were thick wooden dowels wrapped with wire. Behind them, the men were standing now—not calling or pleading, but watching with silent anticipation. Coreo ignored them as best he could—Jain!—and focused on the door’s locking mechanism. It was a simple bar of iron as wide as Coreo’s forearm, slid horizontal across the door and locked with a padlock.
Damn. Coreo spun back toward the fight, and in a few seconds had what he needed: one of the honor guard’s bardiches, its head a thick crescent blade on the end of an eight-foot pole. Sheathing his sword, he picked it up and swung it hard at the lock.
Chink! The blade hit with a shock that Coreo felt up through his shoulders, yet only grazed the lock.
With a growl, Coreo twisted again, throwing all his weight into a spin that whipped the blade around and—
Snap! The blade sheared through the lock’s haft, its edge chipping horribly as the lock fell away. Coreo threw it aside and slammed the bar open.
Cheering men poured out, scooping up weapons and joining the fray. One of them grabbed Coreo and lifted him, squeezing the air from his lungs with arms like tree trunks.
“Jain,” Coreo croaked.
Tears of joy streaked down into the big man’s golden beard as he set Coreo back down and held him at arm’s length. Jain’s palms cupped Coreo’s cheeks, smearing the painted tears of the kavapara and the real ones that had appeared alongside them.
“What took you so long?” Jain asked.
Coreo laughed, then drew his sword. “Some of us didn’t get to sit around in a cage like a pampered songbird. Come on.”
“Pampered!” Jain stooped and grabbed the chipped bardiche, snapping its haft to turn it into an axe. “I’ll show you pampered!”
“I expect you will,” Coreo said, and then they were back in the fight.
The battle had turned into a series of rings. The Bonded Legion had Lord Eron’s retinue surrounded, yet at the same time was surrounded by Lord Eron’s seemingly endless host. The thin ring of Loremar warriors fought in two lines, one facing out and one facing in, with only a few paces between them. Coreo and Jain moved up the shifting corrid
or and threw themselves at the remaining honor guard.
Jain’s axe carved a swath, and Coreo followed it, keeping the enemy from getting inside the big man’s guard while the heavy weapon reversed. His shield protected Jain’s flank even as the man’s axe deflected a blow meant for Coreo’s head. They spun past each other, lunging in unison, and Coreo’s heart pounded to their shared rhythm.
Then the last man before them fell, helm sheared halfway through by Jain’s blow. Coreo leapt across the corpse and shoved aside panicked, perfumed courtesans.
Lord Eron’s sword thrust at Coreo’s left side, quick as a viper, and Coreo blocked it. He raised his own blade again just in time to see Jain step past him and slam a single meaty fist into the lord’s jaw.
The nobleman fell like a sack of onions, collapsing to the dirt. Coreo wrapped his fingers in that greased black hair and lifted, hauling the man to his feet. Lord Eron shrieked, only cutting off as Coreo’s sword touched his throat.
“Hold!” Jain’s deep bass thundered over the sounds of battle. “Hold or your lord dies!”
Jain’s words were picked up and repeated, rushing across the battle like a wind across waves. Slowly, the crash of combat faded to a ragged edge, distant yells, and the moans of the wounded. Those honor guard still left within the inner circle held their weapons ready, yet made no move to attack, turning their nervous attention on their lord. Beyond the line of legionaries, the rest of Eron’s forces moved back warily.
“Good work.” Captain Dorson limped through the press of bodies, leaning heavily on Raja’s shoulder. The captain’s left leg was a bloody mess, a leather belt cinched tight around his upper thigh. He motioned for Coreo to turn the captured lord to face him, and Coreo complied, twisting Eron’s hair even tighter.
“Eron the Pike,” Dorson said, “I hereby take you prisoner in the name of Loremar and the Imperial Council. Tell your men to stand down.”
Lord Eron spat. “Why? Your men are surrounded. Even if you kill me, you’ll never make it out alive. Every one of you will be butchered. My men will crack you open and nail your entrails to the trees.”
“True,” Dorson said quietly. “But you won’t be here to see it. That’s enough for me.”
Eron glared, but Coreo could feel the man’s body trembling. He let his sword slide up the lord’s neck, shaving off the tiniest curl of flesh.
“I yield!” Eron called. “Stand down, all of you!”
There was a murmur and a rustle, but the honor guards lowered their weapons. Several legionaries began to move among them, removing weapons and binding hands.
Dorson turned away, finding another pair of men. “You—Kriesa and Falos. Go through that tent behind us and find something to make a hostage flag. Use the canvas if you have to. Salo and Ebermeir, find some furniture in there and rig up a sedan chair—I want to make sure that our guest is clearly displayed. Everyone else, get ready to form up and march out of here. Stay alert—it may be there are some here who don’t care much for their lord’s safety.” The men he’d singled out nodded and turned away.
“Why?” Eron’s voice was low, almost conversational, yet it carried.
Dorson turned back. “Beg pardon, your highness?”
“Why?” Eron asked again. “You were outnumbered. I offered you a fair deal. Instead, you put your entire command at risk and lost men you didn’t have to.” His eyes flicked from Dorson to Coreo, Jain, and others. “It should have worked.”
Dorson laughed. “You don’t know the Legion, then.”
“But I had your men!” Eron’s indignant tone sounded as if he thought he might argue his way to victory. “Everyone knows about Loremar’s band of lovers. I wagered that you loved your own men more than you loved your empire, and I was right! Yet you fought anyway.”
“So we did.” Dorson gave the lord a smile, then turned it on Coreo. “Why is that, Coreo? Eron here had your man. Why’d you decide to fight?”
Coreo blinked. He was hardly a man for words. But . . . “Because I knew Jain wouldn’t accept anything less.” Behind him, Jain reached up and squeezed his shoulder.
“That’s what your type never understands,” Dorson said, turning back to Eron. “You think our love makes us vulnerable—that we’ll be afraid to risk our partners in battle.” He looked up at Raja. The lanky, black-skinned man smiled back at him and shook his head in amusement.
“Your soldiers,” Dorson continued, “they’ve got wives back home. Children. Something to distract them, make them wish for the war to be over—one way or another—so that they can just go home. But us? Our partners are warriors. Everything we have is out there on that field, fighting beside us.” He snaked an arm around Raja’s waist and drew him close against his side. “Your men want to go home. Mine are home.”
Lord Eron sniffed to show what he thought of that, and Coreo pressed his sword a little deeper, cutting him off mid-snort.
“Captain!” Four men came out of the tent holding an ornate wooden chair.
“Perfect,” Dorson said. “Strap him to it. Get the other prisoners in a rope line behind it.”
Several men moved forward, taking Eron from Coreo. Coreo let him go, wiping his hand on his tunic to try and remove the hair grease. Next to him, Jain laughed.
“A fine answer,” the big man said, pulling him close again. “Very fine.”
“Was I lying?” Coreo spoke directly into the big man’s shoulder. “Would you still love me if I had turned coat to save you, rather than trying to break you out?”
“No.” Jain’s voice was flat, cold. Coreo felt a chill run through him. He pushed against the big man’s chest, moving back until he could see Jain’s face. The northman’s features could have been carved out of stone.
Then he smiled, eyes crinkling and beard splitting wide. He ran fingers lightly through Coreo’s sweat-soaked hair.
“No,” the big man said again, softer. “But only because then you wouldn’t have been you.”
They kissed, beard meeting smooth-shaved chin. Around them, horns blew, and the Bonded Legion began to march.
Bone Candy
A Black Company Story
GLEN COOK
THE CAMPAIGN SEASON WAS OVER. THE WEATHER STANK. THE DARK Horse was packed elbow to asshole. There wasn’t enough make-work to keep the troops busy. Markeg Zhorab’s wife and sister had to help him serve. The wicked of mind hoped he would bring out his delectable daughter.
Otto checked his last card, cursed. A turn as dealer had not helped. His luck was still dreadful. “You’re damned grim for a guy that keeps winning, Croaker.”
“Bad nightmare last night. Still feeling it.”
Silent signed, “Same one?”
“Third night in a row.”
Otto grinned. “Your honey must be missing you.” The old canard.
Silent signed, “Stop that.”
My turn. I pounced, down with eleven. Otto cursed. Silent shook his head, resigned. Corey, in One-Eye’s usual seat, pretended to wipe away tears. “When is the battlefield not a battlefield?”
“Huh?” Sergeant Otto grunted. “That some dumb-ass riddle?”
“One-Eye asked me that last time we talked.”
Silent was the only wizard in the tavern. I asked, “Where are Goblin and One-Eye?”
Their apprentice, the Third, was missing, too. He did not usually stray far from the beer. Those two can drive anyone to drink.
Otto collected Silent’s deal like he feared the cards would bite. “Them two are gone together, that could be bad.”
Those two wizards are always up to no good but not usually together. The table fell into a deep disquiet. Corey muttered, “Definitely not good.” Silent nodded grimly.
Zhorab delivered an untimely pitcher, muttered, “Flies.” He hustled off, loath to leave his bar undefended.
I discarded. Corey snagged the card, spread a five-six-seven-eight, but nobody groused. Everybody suddenly had a whole lot of nothing to discuss. Cards and drinks had become totally fas
cinating.
Two Dead stepped into the room. Long, lean, skeletal, he needed more legs and eyes to complete himself.
Otto murmured, “When is the battlefield not a battlefield?”
That could be more than one question depending on how you heard it.
* * *
Two Dead. Real name, Shor Chodroze, wizard colonel from Eastern Army HQ with plenipotentiary powers. A blessing upon the Black Company bestowed by the Taken Whisper. He never volunteered anything about his real mission. He was said to be an unpredictably nasty sociopath. Our main wizards disappeared right after he arrived. He was Two Dead because when he rolled in with one oversize bodyguard, all bluster and self-regard, the lieutenant had declared, “That man ain’t worth two dead flies.”
Otto dealt. The rest of us shrank. Somebody was about to get unhappy.
I met Two Dead’s gaze, as always amazed that he owned two good eyes. The left side of his face featured a lightning bolt of bruise-colored scar tissue, forehead to chin, but his eye had survived. I suspected a glancing upward thrust from an infantry pole arm.
He headed our way. And . . . something had him spooked. Not good, a sorcerer with the heebie-jeebies.
We were not the cause. He held us in abiding contempt. Still, he kept his bodyguard close. He knew his Company history.
Where was Buzzard Neck now?
Two Dead pointed at me, then Silent. “You two. Come with me. Bring your gear.”
I always lug a bag. You never know when some idiot will need sewing up.
* * *
Silent took two steps out into the street, stopped dead. I banged into his back. “Hey! None of your mime stuff!” He had picked up the hobby recently.
This was not that. This was a response to the weather.
A wind hummed in from the north, flinging snow pellets into our faces.
The chill did not bother Two Dead. Nor had he been drinking. The cold shock had me hungry to piss, but Two Dead barked, “Come!”
I came.
Buzz awaited us in full battle gear, including a great goofy old-time kite shield. His expression was pinched. He had obvious stomach troubles.
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