Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “She’s the one who came by it,” Balif said, nodding his head in Kit’s direction. “The general was very impressed. He asked to meet her. As I said, Lieutenant, we have an audience with him. Let us cross—both of us—or I will report you to your superior.”

  The lieutenant was not to be bullied. “I have my orders, Captain. My orders state that no one is to be allowed across the river today unless they’re part of the army. You can go across, sir, but I’m going to have to detain your friend.”

  “Damn your eyes!” Balif cursed, frustrated.

  The lieutenant was implacable, unmoving.

  Balif turned to Kit. “You wait here. I’ll go find the general.”

  “I’m beginning to think it’s not worth it,” Kitiara said, glowering at the soldiers.

  “It’s worth it, Kit,” Balif said quietly. “Be patient. There’s just been some sort of mix-up. I won’t be gone long.”

  He hastened across the bridge. The guards returned to their posts, both of them keeping their eyes on Kitiara. Taking care to appear uncaring, she sauntered over to the edge of the bridge, stared across the Lava River to the great Temple of Luerkhisis.

  Balif had termed the temple impressive. Kitiara was forced to agree with him. The side of the mountain had been carved into the likeness of the head of an enormous dragon. The dragon’s nostrils formed the entrance to the temple. Two huge incisors were observation towers, or so Balif had told her. The great audience hall was inside the dragon’s mouth. Formerly the Queen’s dark clerics had resided there, but they had been displaced by the arrival of the army. General Ariakas had taken over quarters for himself in the temple and established a barracks for his own personal bodyguard. The dark clerics remained, but they had had to make do with less sumptuous quarters.

  What must it be like to hold that much power? Kitiara wondered. Leaning on the parapet of the stone bridge, she stared over the turgid red river of lava at the temple, feeling the heat radiate from the river, a heat the dark clerics did their best to disperse, but which could not be cooled entirely. Nor did Ariakas want it cooled. The heat would enter the blood of his soldiers, send them pouring into Ansalon, a red river of death.

  Kitiara’s hands clenched tightly in longing. Someday, I’ll know the answer, she vowed silently to herself. Someday such power will be mine.

  Realizing she was gaping at the temple like a country-born yokel, Kitiara began to amuse herself by tossing stones down into the lava flow. Though the river was far below the bridge, she was soon bathed in sweat. Balif was right, though. One did get used to the smell.

  Balif returned, bringing with him one of Ariakas’s aides.

  “The general says that Uth Matar is to be allowed to pass,” said the aide. “And the general wants to know why he is being bothered by this.”

  Lieutenant Lugash paled, but he answered stoutly, “I thought—”

  “That was your first mistake,” said the captain dryly. “Uth Matar, I greet you in the name of General Ariakas. The general is not holding audience in the temple this day. He is engaged in training this afternoon. He asked that I escort you to his command tent.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Kitiara, with a charming smile. Accompanying the aide and Balif across the bridge, Kitiara glanced at the lieutenant, memorized every feature on his ugly face.

  Someday he’d pay for that sneer.

  6

  A THOUSAND MEN WERE ASSEMBLED ON THE PRACTICE FIELD IN FRONT of the Temple of Luerkhisis in ranks four deep and two hundred and fifty long. They stood at the guard position—left foot forward, right foot back, shield up and sword at the ready. The sun blazed down on the troops from a clear blue sky. The heat from the Lava River roiled over them. Sweat collected under their heavy steel helmets, dripped down their faces. Their bodies, encased in padding and practice armor, were soaked.

  In front of the line stood a single officer, wearing ornate bronze armor, a polished bronze helm, and a blue cloak, attached by large golden hasps at the shoulders. The cloak was thrown back, leaving his muscular arms bare. He was a large man, large-boned, muscular. Black hair, wet with sweat, flowed from beneath his helmet. He wore a sword at his side but did not draw it.

  “Prepare to thrust,” he ordered. “Thrust!”

  Every soldier took a pace forward and lunged with his sword, then froze in that position. A thousand voices shouted out the short attack yell. An uneasy silence fell. The officer was frowning, his brows lowering beneath his bronze helm. The men glanced sidelong at each other and panted in the glaring sun.

  General Ariakas had noticed several men in the front rank who, either from nervousness or eagerness to please, jumped before he gave the order, thrust their swords out too far. They had been off by only a few seconds, but it showed a lack of discipline.

  Ariakas pointed at one of the offending soldiers.

  “Company Master Kholos, take that man in the front rank and have him flogged. Never anticipate the word of command until it is given.”

  A human with the sallow skin and slavering jaws that bespoke some sort of goblin ancestry—one of four officers who stood behind the regiment—escorted the offending soldier to the side of the practice field. At his gesture, two sergeants, armed with whips, took their places.

  “Remove your armor,” the company master ordered.

  The soldier did so, stripping off his practice armor and the heavy padding beneath it.

  “Stand at attention.”

  The soldier, his face set rigid, stood stiff and straight. The company master nodded. The sergeants raised their whips and, one after the other, each struck the man’s bare back three lashes. The soldier tried to stifle his cries, but at the sixth, with the blood trickling down his back, he gave a strangled yell.

  The sergeants, their duty done, coiled their whips and stepped back along the sidelines. The soldier gritted his teeth against the pain as the salt sweat ran into his fresh wounds. Moving as rapidly as he could under the baleful eye of Ariakas, the soldier replaced his padding, which was quickly soaked in blood, and put the armor back on over it.

  The company master nodded again, and the soldier hastened to take up his position in the ranks, assuming the same stance as the other soldiers around him, who were still holding the thrust-forward stance. Arms and legs quivered with the strain.

  “Prepare to recover,” Ariakas commanded. “Recover!”

  Each man pulled back on his sword, as if recovering it from the belly of some phantom enemy, returning to the guard position. Resting, they waited tensely for the next order.

  “Better,” Ariakas stated flatly. “Prepare to thrust. Thrust! Prepare to recover. Recover!”

  The drill went on for nearly an hour. Twice more Ariakas paused to have men flogged. This time, he chose men in the rear ranks—a sign that he was watching more than just the front rank. At the end of an hour, he was almost satisfied. The soldiers were moving as a single unit, every man’s foot placed correctly, every shield held in the proper position, every sword exactly where it should be.

  “Prepare to thrust—” Ariakas began, then stopped. The words hung in the hot air.

  One soldier had not obeyed. Stepping forward, moving out of the front rank of the formation, the soldier tossed his sword into the dirt. He yanked off his helmet, threw it into the ground in front of him.

  “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I quit!”

  None of the other soldiers said a word. After one swift glance, they looked away, fearing that they might be taken for accomplices. Their faces stony, they kept their eyes forward.

  Ariakas nodded once, coolly.

  “Front rank, fourth company,” he said, addressing the rebellious soldier’s comrades. “Kill that man.”

  The doomed man turned to his friends, raised his hands.

  “Boys, it’s me! C’mon!”

  They stared at him, through him.

  The man turned to flee, but he stumbled over his own armor, fell to
the ground. Sixty-one men moved at once. Three of them, the three nearest the doomed man, performed just as they had practiced.

  Prepare to thrust. Thrust.

  The man screamed as three swords pierced his body.

  Prepare to recover. Recover.

  The soldiers jerked their weapons from the bloody corpse, fell back into position. The man’s screams ended abruptly.

  “Very good,” said Lord Ariakas. “That’s the first time I’ve seen any sign of disciplined behavior in the lot of you. Company Masters, have your companies break for twenty minutes, and make sure that the men are given water.”

  General Ariakas was conscious that he now had an audience—a young woman stood on the edge of the parade field, watching. Her hands were on her hips, her head tilted slightly to one side, a crooked smile on her lips. Removing his helmet, wiping the sweat from his face, Ariakas strode from the field to his command tent, a large tent over which flew his flag bearing a black eagle with outstretched wings. Company masters hurried onto the grounds, ordering the men to break out of formation. The thirsty men surged for the horse troughs that stood at the side of the parade ground. Dipping their hands into the tepid, sulfurous-tasting water, the men gulped it down and then splashed it over their bodies. Then they sank to the ground, exhausted, to watch the sergeants drag the dead body off to another area of the camp. The camp dogs would eat well this night.

  Inside his command tent, Ariakas took off the cloak, tossed it into a corner. An aide assisted him to remove the heavy bronze breastplate.

  “Damn, that was hot work!” Ariakas groaned and massaged his tight back muscles.

  A slave brought in a large gourd filled with water. Ariakas drank it, sent the slave back for another, drank part of that, and dumped the remainder over his head. He lay down on his bunk, ordered the slave to remove his boots.

  The four company masters came to the tent, knocked on the center pole.

  “Enter.” Ariakas remained lying at ease on the bunk.

  The company officers removed their helmets, saluted, and stood at attention, waiting. They were tense, wary.

  Kholos, Fourth Company Master, spoke first. “Lord Ariakas, I apologize for the insubordination—”

  Ariakus waved his hand. “No, don’t worry about it. We’re trying to beat buffoons and ruffians into some semblance of a decent fighting force. We’ve got to expect some setbacks. In fact, I commend you, Company Master. Your men behaved very well. All the men are shaping up better than I had hoped. They’re not to know that, though. The men should think I am disgusted with them. In fifteen minutes, go back out and commence company drill. The same thing—thrust and recover. Once they have that perfected, they can learn anything.”

  “Sir,” said the Second Company Master. “Should we order the sergeants to flog the men if necessary?”

  Ariakas shook his head. “No, Beren, flogging is my tool. I want them to fear me. With fear comes respect.” He grinned. “Content yourselves with being hated, gentlemen. Make do with stern looks and a few choice words. If any of the men disobey, send them to me, and I will deal with them.”

  “Yes, sir. Any other orders, sir?”

  “Yes. Drill for at least another hour and a half, then break for evening meal, let the men retire for the night. When it’s good and dark and the men are sound asleep, rouse them out of bed and have them shift their tents from the north to the south side of the camp. They must learn to wake quickly when the alarm sounds, learn to work in the dark and to keep organized so that they can break camp any time in any weather.”

  The four officers turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” Ariakas called after them. “Kholos, you will be taking command of this regiment in two weeks’ time. I will be forming a new regiment with all new recruits then. Beren, you will stay with me as my senior company master, and you other two will go with Kholos. I’ll promote new officers to fill the rest of the positions. Clear?”

  All four saluted and returned to their companies. Kholos looked particularly pleased. It was a good promotion and, after the unfortunate incident, showed that Ariakas still had confidence in him.

  Ariakas shifted his position on the bunk, groaned again as he willed the muscles in his back to relax. He recalled the days of his youth, when he had marched ten miles wearing thirty pounds of chain mail and a heavy steel breastplate over that and still had energy enough to enjoy the clash of battle—to revel in the exhilarating love of life that comes only when you may be about to lose your life, to hear again the thunderous crash when the front ranks come together, to recall the fierce struggle to determine who would live and who would die. …

  “Sir. Are you awake, sir?” His aide hovered at the tent pole.

  “Am I some old man, to indulge in an afternoon nap?” Ariakas sat bolt upright, glared at the aide. “Well, what is it?”

  “Captain Balif here, sir. As requested. And he has brought a visitor.”

  “Ah, yes.” Ariakas recalled the comely young woman standing on the edge of the parade ground. By the gods, he was getting old to have forgotten about her! He was clad only in his boots and the short skirt made of strips of leather, which he wore beneath his chain mail, but if the stories he had heard about this woman were true, she would not be disturbed by the sight of a half-naked man. “Send them in.”

  The woman entered the tent first, followed by Balif, who saluted and stood at attention. The woman took in her surroundings at a glance, then her gaze fixed on Ariakas. Here was no shy maiden, with modest downcast lashes. Here was no brazen whore, either, whose fluttering lashes concealed the hard glint of greed. This woman’s gaze was bold, unabashed, penetrating, and fearless. Ariakas, who had expected—naturally enough—to be the one doing the judging, found that he himself was being judged. She was sizing him up, appraising him, and if she didn’t like what she saw, she’d leave.

  At any other time, Ariakas might have been offended, even insulted, but he was pleased with the way the troops had performed today, and this woman with her curly hair, her well-formed figure, and her dark eyes intrigued him mightily.

  “Sir,” said Balif, “I present Kitiara uth Matar.”

  Solamnic. So that’s where she came by that proud, defiant air, as if daring the world to do its damnedest. Someone had taught her to wear a sword, to wear it with ease, as if it were just one more part of her body, and such a fine body at that. Yet there was something fey about this Kitiara. That crooked smile was not born of a self-righteous Knight.

  “Kitiara uth Matar,” said Ariakas, clasping his hands over the girdle of his leather skirt, “welcome to Sanction.” His gaze narrowed. “I have met you before, I believe.”

  “I cannot claim the honor, sir,” said Kitiara. The crooked smile widened slightly. In the dark, smoky eyes was a flicker of fire. “I am certain I would have remembered.”

  “You have seen her, sir,” interjected Balif, whose presence Ariakas had nearly forgotten. “You two did not meet. It was in Neraka. Last year, when you were there overseeing the construction of the great temple.”

  “Yes! I recall now. You’d been scouting out Qualinesti, as I recall. Commander Kholos was quite pleased with your report. You will be glad to know that we intend to put the information you gave us to good use against the heathen elves.”

  The crooked smile stiffened a moment, then hardened. The fire in the dark eyes flared, then was quickly quenched. Ariakas wondered what rock he’d struck his flint against, to cause such a spark.

  “I am glad to have been of service to you, sir,” was all she said, however, and her tone was cool, respectful.

  “Please, be seated. Andros!” Clapping his hands, Ariakas summoned one of the slaves, a boy of about sixteen, captured during a raid on some unfortunate town, who bore the marks of his hard life and ill usage on his bruised face. “Bring in wine and meat for our guests. You will share my supper, will you not?”

  “With pleasure, sir,” said Kitiara.

  Another slave was dispatched to fi
nd more folding camp chairs. Ariakas shoved a map of Abanasinia off a table onto the ground and the three took their seats.

  “Forgive the crudeness of the repast.” Ariakas spoke to both his guests, though his eyes were fixed on only one. “When you come to visit me in my headquarters, I will serve you one of the finest meals in all of Ansalon. One of my slaves is a most excellent cook. Her cooking saved her life, and so she puts her heart into it.”

  “I look forward to that, sir,” said Kitiara.

  “Eat! Eat!” Ariakas said, waving to the haunch of freshly roasted venison, which slaves brought in on a sizzling platter and placed on the table. Drawing his knife from his belt, he cut off a hunk of meat. “Do not stand on ceremony. By Her Dark Majesty, I am hungry! We had hot work out there today.”

  He glanced at the woman, to see what she would say.

  Kitiara, her own knife in her hand, cut off meat for herself.

  “You are a strict disciplinarian, sir,” she observed, eating the greasy meat with the relish of a longtime campaigner who is never certain when or where she will find her next meal. “And you have troops to spare, it would appear. Either that or you plan to raise another army of the dead.”

  “Those who join my army are well paid,” Ariakas replied. “And I pay on time. Unlike some commanders, I don’t lose half my troops in the spring so that they can go home to put in their crops. My soldiers are not required to live off the towns they capture and loot—that’s a bonus. Regular pay gives a man pride; it’s a reward for a job well done. But even then”—he shrugged his massive shoulders—“I still have malcontents, like any commander. Best to get rid of them right away. If I start to coddle them, cater to them, the rest will slack off. They’ll lose respect for me and my officers and next they’ll lose respect for themselves. And when an army loses respect for itself, it’s finished.”

  Kitiara had stopped eating to listen to him, was giving him the compliment of her full attention. When he was finished, she paid him a further compliment by considering his words, then she nodded once, abruptly, in agreement.