by Robert Beers
The sergeant's words bit deeper than intended. The priest remembered vividly his encounter with the obese Earl, and how the disgusting fellow had laughed at him. Apparently, word of that exchange had been circulated for the city guard's entertainment. His gut twisted with the thought. The butt of jokes, was he?
Vedder leaned forward and thrust his prominent nose into the guard sergeant's face. “Very well, then, we'll not share any of the gold with them. Not a single flake.”
The glint in the sergeant's widening eyes told Vedder he'd chosen the right tack.
“Yes, you heard me right, sergeant. Gold, mountains of it for the taking. I'm sure you heard the legends when you were a child. I'm sure you thought dragons were built of the same gossamer stuff as those stories of their treasure heaps. You've seen a dragon. Shall we go get its gold?”
The sergeant rubbed his chin. “You've got a point there, milord. Big bugger...” He mused. “Never woulda thought it.”
“Gold, sergeant.”
“I heard ya, milord. I heard ya.” The sergeant's face showed the struggle going on inside of the man.
“Dragon's gold. Mountains of it.”
Vedder saw the subtle change in the sergeant's expression and knew he had him. “Why don't you turn around, sergeant, and tell the men. Perhaps it will improve their aim.”
The sergeant did so and the men responded as Vedder had hoped. To a man, they raised their weapons into the air and shouted, stamping their feet in time to the shout. “Gold, gold, gold.”
Vedder's response was not the one the sergeant expected. There was no posturing or speech making. The priest simply turned in the saddle and waved the cohort onward. The sergeant followed along behind, with his corporals on either side, and the balance of the men walking behind the horses.
A grizzled veteran with the look of one who'd worn Sergeant stripes, and had them taken away several times, stepped over a fresh horse apple with the agility of long years of practice. He whispered to his companion in the formation out of the side of his mouth, his eyes staying fixed firmly on the back of the guard in front of him. “Oy, Vern. Whotcho think o’ this here gold bizness?”
Vern's eyes, like the veteran's, never shifted from their forward gaze. “Nice for us, iffn it's true. I hears dragon's got more gold than Souter's gots chins.”
“Whatcha think about our lord priest?”
Vern considered. “Strikes me as a bit of a twit, that one. What about you?”
The veteran stuck his tongue into his cheek, and then replied. “Cain't say as I agree with that, Vern. I think e's summat different.”
“And what would that be?”
“I'd say e's a twat.”
* * * *
“C'mon!” The burly Ortian Sergeant bellowed, his pitch dropping at the end of the command. “Get yer arses into motion. We won't git nowhere playin’ at bein’ rocks, now. Move it, move it, move it!”
The Ortian army was finally on the march, much too slowly to suit General Jarl-Tysyn, but at least they were covering ground. The towers of Ort, the seat of the southern Empire, had just vanished over the horizon. That placed their final camp objective at least a seven, if not a ten-day away. Plenty of time for the Duke of Grisham to marshal his forces and make a fight of it, unless the man was a total fool. Jarl-Tysyn had a few dealings with the fellow. Crazy, was the assessment, but no fool. They were going to have a fight on their hands, and unfortunately that meant conscripts had to be taken.
Stringers were sent out along either side of the Ort River, traveling northward in a skirmish line sure to flush out anyone unfortunate enough to be eligible. They had picked up three score since the first morning, mostly farm kids with a few of the farm holders mixed in. The General worked at keeping his thoughts away from those wives and mothers who would never see their husbands or sons again.
“Grandle! Whatcho playin’ at? This ain't no tea soshull, an’ you ain't no gen'mun. Git yer arse outta that ditch an’ on the road afore I climb down there an’ kick yer balls up ‘tween yer ears! Twern! What the pit is that? Some kinda country dance? It ain't marchin', that's fer skrud sure. One two. One two. Good. Now keep that rhythm goin', or the point o’ my blade'll be yer teacher. Awright! We're gonna sing a bit to keep you slugs in time...”
The sergeants kept it up as the army worked its way northward, absorbing conscripts here and there as it flowed along, like a miles-wide single-celled animal with the sole aim of devouring everything along the way that suited its purpose.
A company of engineers had been sent ahead to begin the preparations for what would eventually become a small city; military in its society, culture and law, but a city nonetheless, complete with shops, restaurants, stables, pubs, a hospital and, of course, those parts that all cities eventually develop to cater to the darker side of humanity.
Much to the Ortian underworld's dismay, Alford, Emperor of the Southern forces, had decreed that prostitution would be allowed only if those women involved were there because they wanted to be. Pimps were given leeway to try to do things the old-fashioned way if they wished; the only punishment was public castration, performed by those women they victimized. Painkillers were optional, at the woman's discretion. Very few pimps took Alford up on his offer. Apparently there was at least one thing a pimp wouldn't do for money.
Upon arriving at Cloudhook's base, the Ortian engineers set to their tasks with a will. Teams of oxen crisscrossed the acreage planned for the encampment, grading the ground into a flat expanse that would soon blossom into thousands and thousands of sandy brown tents. Following after the Oxen, a team of engineers put together their planning office from timbers and lattice pre-cut for just that purpose.
Further to the south, a skirmish line of conscript “recruiters” continued their northward sweep, though much more porous than when they first started out. Their encounters were becoming much fewer and farther between.
* * * *
Neely balanced gingerly on the two crutches, putting barely enough weight on his legs to keep himself from tipping over.
“You ain't gonna get far on those things, iffin you don't move yer feet,” Flynn called out from his side of the campfire where he and the cat were sharing the last bits of the trout he'd roasted for breakfast.
“I'll get there. Gimme some time to get used to the idea, all right?” Neely looked down at the splints that bound the lower halves of his legs. Both Charity and Flynn made sure they were as tight as possible each day since they were first put on.
Charity placed another piece of wood on the fire from the stack she sat next to. A longer, much larger stack stood yards away, next to the shelter she and Flynn had built for their stay while Neely recovered from his injury. “The bones should be healed enough by now to take the weight. You really should try walking on them. Do you need some more Willit?”
Neely made a grimace at the mention of the bitter white powder used as a general painkiller. “Ecch, no. If I have to drink any more of that brew, my mouth'll leave my face in protest.”
“Well, get on with it, then. This is a nice place, an’ all, but I'd just as soon be on me way, given me druthers.” Flynn waved a bit of trout in Neely's direction. The cat reached out and up and snagged a fragment of the treat as Flynn was bringing it back toward his mouth. He looked down in surprise, and then dropped the rest of it as she looked up in expectation.
Neely looked at his friend with an unappreciative glare. “S'easy for you to say. Yer not th’ one with th’ splints on his legs.”
Flynn picked out some of the last of the trout from the skeleton on the stick he held, and flicked to the cat, which plucked the bit out of the air. “Try doin’ it that direction. Th’ grass is softer.” He pointed off to Neely's left, away from the campfire.
“Come on, Neely. You can do it. I know you can.” Charity gave the tracker an encouraging smile.
“Ok. Ok. Here goes ... I don't know what.” He put a little more of his weight onto the crutches and swung out with his right leg co
ming down onto the soft grass. He tensed a bit and then relaxed, allowing some of his weight to be supported by the leg. To his surprise, and delight, the limb held.
“Attaboy, Neely. Yer doin’ it.” Flynn called out.
“Way to go.” Charity added.
Encouraged by not falling flat on his face as he thought he would, Neely swung his left leg out and repeated the motion. That leg held, as well. In very short order, he was stumping around the campsite on the crutches as pleased as a three-year old with his first hobbyhorse.
“I'm walkin'! I'm walkin!” He yelled out as he went by Charity and Neely for the second time.
“I knew you could do it!” Charity stood up and clapped her hands. The tracker grinned back at her as he began another circuit of the camp.
Flynn's draft horse wuffed, and the cat growled low in her throat as she looked southward into the trees beyond the perimeter of the clearing.
“Somethin's comin'.” Flynn stood up and drew his long knife.
Neely stumped back to the log they used as a bench before the fire and picked up the yew bow he had carved while convalescing. Charity bent and picked up the bow left to her by Labad, the last Emperor of the United Kingdoms, and fitted an arrow to it.
Several men on foot came into the firelight. Most of them were obviously military by the look of their uniforms. A few, in the back of the group, looked like prisoners. One of the military types, separated slightly from the group by a few yards, looked to be in slightly better shape than the others, this, in spite of being several years older. Charity thought he looked about the same age as Ethan had looked when she and Adam found him sleeping off a drunk outside the Village of Silgert. He walked over to the edge of the fire and looked at each of them in turn for a moment.
“Congratulations, the Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment.”
His only answer was a trio of laconic stares.
“I said,” the Ortian Sergeant placed his hands on his hips and raised his voice to command level. “The Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment!”
Flynn sheathed his long knife and walked over to the tisane pot hanging above the fire. He made a show of pouring himself a cup and then sipping from it. “What?” He sipped again as the sergeant's face grew red. “D'you mean by our enlistment?”
A few of the soldiers snickered. It wasn't a nice sound.
The sergeant stalked over to Flynn and slapped the cup out of his hand. “It means you an’ your skruddin’ friends here are now privates of the glorious Ortian military corps, an’ under this sergeant's gentle care. Iffin you don't fall in line, right now, yer gonna do so without the benefit of plums t'slow yer fat lazy arse down! Unnerstand!?” He finished the last as a full-throated shout and with his chest pressed against Flynn's belly.
Charity stood with her bow half-drawn. “Sergeant?”
He whirled at her call, his eyes widening at the sight of the bow. He didn't like the way she held it. She looked too skrudin’ competent.
Charity gave him a slow, broad smile. “I have no plums to worry about, but I'd love to discuss the matter with you, at length.” She pulled back on the bowstring, the arrow aimed directly at his heart. “Shall we talk?”
One of the soldiers off in the shadows made a move toward Charity on her blind side, but Neely whacked him up along the skull with the upper arm of his yew bow. The soldier dropped to the clearing floor, senseless.
A spearman moved into position to cast his weapon into Neely's back and then jumped back with a curse as an arrow drove it right out of his hand.
“Feisty, are ye? Well I ... ulp!” The sergeant found himself looking at another broadhead, this one aimed at his face instead of his middle.
Charity's voice sounded chillingly calm. “Now, sergeant. Tell your men to stand down right now, or you, my dear sergeant, will never enjoy another breakfast again.”
“I'd listen to her sergeant,” Flynn interjected. “Me an’ Neely here, from what I sees of your crew, could take yer men by usselves, an’ him with two broke legs. Miss Charity, there,” He pointed at her with his refilled cup of tisane, “She can take both of us at th’ same time.”
He gave the sergeant a lazy smile. “Now, does you wanna reconsider yer offer ‘bout our ‘listment, or does ya wanna go home tied to th’ back of a horse?”
The Ortian sergeant thought about his options. There wasn't but two he could see before him. One was him, having a go at that girl with the bow. Two was ... it seemed there was only one that'd leave him his manhood. He looked at the girl again. That broadhead did seem awfully steady.
Neely sniggered, imitating the sound the Ortian soldiers made earlier. “Interestin’ choice, isn't it? On the one hand, you get's ta keep what stones ya got, but ya don't live to enjoy them. On th’ other...” He left the rest of the thought hanging.
“Which eye should I take?” Charity asked. “The right? Or the left?”
The sergeant decided living was the better part of valor. After all, he wasn't an officer. “Stand down, men. No need for anyone to get kilt over a bit of fluff an’ two roustabouts.”
“But sarge...” One of the soldiers who'd sniggered earlier objected.
“I said, stand down!” The sergeant's shout caused a horse to snort with alarm, but the men put their weapons down.
Flynn relaxed and sat down on the log before the fire. “That's better. Come on over here, sarge.” He patted the log next to him. “Have a sit-down and a sip. There's a lad.”
Charity sat down at the same time as the sergeant, putting Flynn between them. Neely put his back to the tree closest to the fire and slid into a comfortable position. He kept his bow strung. Some of the morning birds picked up their song in the treetops.
“'Ere ya go, gov.” Flynn held a cup out to the sergeant. “Ave a nice cuppa an’ tell us what all this enlistment nonsense is about.”
“I'd like to know about it, as well.” Charity leaned forward and poured a cup of tisane for herself.
“Aye. I suppose you would, at that.” The sergeant took the proffered cup from Flynn and sipped.” Not bad,” he said, and then he gave Charity an appraising stare. “You really as good as he says?”
Charity just smiled.
Chapter Eighteen
“It's no use, lad. We've looked for a solid week. If she's still alive, she's not anywhere around Dunwattle or even the wood. We even went as far as the old wizard's place, nothing.”
Adam didn't answer the Butcher. He concentrated on his packing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hersh stood in the door to Adam's room.
Adam turned at the question. Hersh could see the dark circles under his eyes. “I don't want to, I have to. I have to find her,” His voice caught. “...Or her body. I can't ask you and the rest of the town to sacrifice from the time you need to rebuild.” Avern's soldiers had torched several of the town's buildings including the Church.
Hersh's eyes shifted in the direction of the gutted Church. “Aye, lad, yer right at that. Wise beyond the years, you seem, or at least gracious to an old man and his town.”
“It's just something I've got to do, that's all.” Adam returned to his packing. “I do want to thank you for the supplies, Hersh. It wasn't necessary.”
There was a catch in the Butcher's voice. “Yes, yes, lad, it was.” He turned and left Adam to finish his packing.
Hersh and Ornette met him at the door to the shop. Ornette was sniffling. Adam wondered what kind of man the boy would make if his feelings were kept that close to the surface.
“You take good care of yourself, lad. There's a home here waitin’ for you when you want it.” The Butcher's voice was thick with emotion.
Adam swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I'll...”
“Adam!” Willard came running up to the Butcher's porch. “My Da told me. I wanted to give you this.” He held something made of leather thongs in his hand.
Adam held it up after Willard handed it to him. “A sling?”
Adam looked at the sling again. “Thank you, Willard. I'll be sure to make use of it.” Willard swelled like a Pouter Pigeon under the praise.
He stuffed the sling into his belt and shouldered the supply pack. Either he was growing again, or he had failed to pack as much as he needed, because the pack felt nowhere near as heavy as the one he had carried from Milward's in the spring.
He turned and shook the Butcher's hand. “Thank you for everything, Hersh, I really mean it.”
The Butcher dabbed his eye. So, Ornette was his father's son. “I know, lad. I know you do.”
He shook hands with the blubbering Ornette, clapped Willard on the shoulder, and set off down the street toward the forest path. Some of the townsfolk who saw him pass by shouted his name and waved. He waved back but kept walking; he could feel the forest drawing him.
The fields outside of Dunwattle were empty of farm hands, “they're probably involved in the rebuilding,” he thought, as he made his way past them.
He planned to walk straight through to Milward's cave, if at all possible. Without being able to put a finger on the reason why, he felt the old man could help him better than anyone else in his search.
* * * *
Milward pulled his counterstroke over the red thread gently but steadily, and chuckled to himself as he felt the knot unravel. Gilgafed must be filling his drawers right now. He'd had some of his earlier shapings erased when he was studying Wizardry as a youth, and the feeling was not pleasant, especially ones he'd had to maintain with a loose connection. He chuckled again, shapings such as this one in particular.
* * * *
“Master! What is wrong?” Cobain came running at Gilgafed's scream. His master lay on the floor of his chamber. The usual olive complexion was deathly white, and a stain darkened the carpet where he lay.
The cords in Gilgafed's neck stood out like cables as he struggled to speak. He motioned with a twitching hand for Cobain to come closer. “That demon damned Wizard, bring me the Aleth.”