by J. P. Ashman
‘Or in this camp,’ Fal interrupted. ‘Should the owner see them.’
Gleave grinned again before checking on his sleeping hen. Satisfied all was well with her, he turned and left the tent. Starks stood to follow.
‘No you don’t, lad.’ Fal shook his head. ‘You’ll end up on a knight’s sword, along with Gleave, if he’s seen prancing about in those.’
‘Typical,’ Starks said under his breath.
‘Not quiet enough, that.’ Fal smiled as he lay back down. ‘Now get some rest, we’ve no idea when we’re moving on. Might be sooner rather than later.’
Starks scowled. ‘Gleave’s in the best mood since we left Wesson, what with Pecker and his new armour. All I wanted was to make the most of it and build bridges with him.’
‘The bridges are fine and can wait if they’re not,’ Fal said, nodding towards the empty bunk.
‘Yes, Sergeant.’ Starks dropped onto it and folded his arms, eyes locked on the spindles branching out from the centre pole of the tent.
Sav laughed as he crossed his feet over one way, then the other. ‘You’ll find some plate of your own one day, Starks. I bet. Only don’t be too eager, as it’ll most likely be after an ugly fight and you’ll have to scrape the previous owner out of it before you can put it on.’
‘Wouldn’t bother me none.’ Starks continued to stare at the conical, canvas ceiling.
Fal and Sav glanced at one another knowingly.
Correia walked through the camp as darkness took its hold. She’d worked her way up and now circled the command tents, trying to catch a glimpse of an officer or better yet, the marquess’ son and heir, Sir Allon. Cloak tight about her, the hood of her woollen mantle pulled up, she skirted an occupied camp fire and passed through shadows, deftly avoiding guy ropes and camp rubbish scattered here and there. She passed several bell tents striped in the colours of Suttel, and others worked in the house colours of other minor lords and knights.
This young lord has pulled in an impressive number without his father present, Correia thought, looking down the hill, past the colourful, if not dulled by night, tents and on to the shanty-town-looking spread of white campaign tents beyond. The latter looked like ghosts rising from the darkness, creeping up to her position as if assaulting the staunch, colourfully striped defenders stood tall about her.
Taking in the scent of wood smoke, animals and sweaty bodies, Correia turned and continued up, weaving in and out of closely pitched canvas and avoiding the true walkways of the camp. She changed direction when she heard raised voices. A bellowing baritone of a man was trying to shout someone down. She made for the source of the sound.
‘It is folly,’ the hidden man said, ‘as I have said all along. Your father—’
‘Isn’t here, my lord. Now please, I want your council on what’s to come, not on decisions I have already made.’
Correia found the back of the large tent the voices came from. Its black and green panelled walls illuminated from within, but not enough to silhouette those inside. The second voice sounded young, but firm.
Giles Bratby’s son, surely? Correia thought, leaning in to the sloping side of the large double-belled tent as much as she dared without touching it.
A deep grunt preceded a voiced, yet reluctant Correia noticed, apology from the baritone within, before another, third man spoke.
‘I believe we have a visitor, my lords.’
Correia froze. All within the tent went quiet.
Turning to move away, Correia became aware of the moving of armoured men. Multiple boots on the ground, maille links against plate, and weapons being drawn. She ran.
Straining her eyes in the dark and attempting to listen to her surrounds over the blood rushing in her ears, Correia leapt over ropes and sleeping men alike, drawing shouts of alarm. She knew she had power, as King’s Spymaster, but it gave her little defence when spying on a noble, especially on his own land.
‘Watchya!’ a soldier shouted, cock in hand. Correia cursed as her leg became wet whilst pushing past him. He shouted at her some more as she disappeared into the darkness between camp fires.
A hue and cry went up.
‘Intruder in camp!’
‘Intruder!’
‘To arms to arms!’
Shit! Correia sped up as much as she dared, skidding round one corner as her hobnailed boots failed on the flattened grass. Managing to stay on her feet somehow, she sprinted down an open path, towards half-dressed men climbing out of tents, weapons in the hands of some, jugs and pots in others, their weary faces not expecting the passing, hooded figure.
‘Down the hill!’ Correia shouted with confidence, pointing as she ran. ‘He’s making off down the fucking hill, for ’morl’s sake!’
Men looked from her to the campaign tents spread out below them. She wasn’t surprised when more than one climbed back into their tents. The rest took off down the hill, swords, axes and jugs held aloft, shouting for others to take up the chase.
Gods below, I hope Gleave’s not down there, up to no good… Correia changed tack and turned across the hill rather than down, employing the same trick wherever she encountered armed men or scared camp women and children. Before long, torch wielding riders were thumping past, searching for a man who didn’t exist and calling for the pickets to turn inward.
Some poor bastard’s going to get mistaken for a spy at this rate, Correia thought as she slowed her pace, closing in on the tent she’d been given for the night.
A horn sounded from down the hill, followed by another. A mage somewhere launched a bright light into the sky, followed shortly after by another, and Correia mused that the mage was likely the one that’d known she was outside Sir Allon’s command tent. The mage’s lights descended slowly into the surrounding vale, illuminating tents, trees, men and horses alike. What Correia witnessed was like the chaos that ensues when one disturbed an ant nest.
Heaving in the cool night air, Correia stopped outside her tent, before ducking inside. She never thought why her pathfinders weren’t outside watching the madness; the unasked question was answered once she entered the tent.
‘Ah, Spymaster Burr,’ the sergeant who had led them through camp said. The following grin was wide. Correia did her best to calm her breathing, but it was clear to all she’d been running. Her pathfinders looked on with a mix of intrigue and amusement, their expressions dancing between the two.
‘Sir Allon would like to see you now, it seems,’ the sergeant said, inclining his head as he moved past her, exiting the tent. ‘If you would follow me,’ he added from outside, once it was apparent Correia hadn’t followed.
She took a deep breath and released a long sigh, all eyes on her, including Gleave’s, who it seemed had managed to green his new plate and return in the time it’d taken Correia to unintentionally rouse the camp.
‘Now who’s the naughty one?’ Gleave said, grinning uncontrollably.
Running her tongue over dry teeth, Correia couldn’t muster a response. Instead, she pointed to Fal and Sav and beckoned them to follow, before moving back outside.
‘Great,’ Sav cursed, trying to pick up the coins on the bunk he sat beside.
‘Ah ah,’ Gleave said, moving to scoop them up first, ‘you forfeit if you leave a dice game.’
‘Second thoughts,’ came Correia’s voice from beyond the red and black, ‘Gleave, you’re with me. Sav, you stay here.’
Gleave cursed, Sav laughed and so did Starks. Fal failed to hide his smirk as he and a reluctant Gleave pushed through the tent flap, the latter cursing his healing leg, despite all he’d been up to since their arrival in camp.
Chapter 14 – Soldier, soldier
The night was chilly, despite the heat of the day before. The thin linen shirt Lefey wore did little to keep out the cold, but it was all she wore up top, bar the under-binding. It was all she was used to wearing. Looking back, she saw the group of men at her back and smiled inwardly. When her shipmates were with her, it was all she needed, to k
eep a warmth inside, and that was why it was so damned important to rescue the three idiots who’d got themselves taken. She reached into her pouch and brought forth the ransom note she’d originally been given. Unfolding it, she took in the local scrawl. It wasn’t as if she could read, but she didn’t need to be able to read to understand the scribbled drawings that made up the unofficial scripture that was Hillside slang.
‘We’re lucky those they took didn’t fight back,’ Lefey said, to no one in particular.
‘I would’ve,’ Kareem said.
‘You’d be pit roasted,’ Lefey replied, eyes on the pictures before her.
‘What’s that mean?’
‘It’s pretty self-explanatory, ye fool. The Hillside gangers are known for it.’
‘Go on.’ Kareem again, his boarding axes held loosely, confidently.
Sighing, Lefey stowed the note away and turned on the big sailor, making cutting gestures with her hands. ‘They chop off your arms and legs and throw you in a shallow grave, before dousing you with whatever flammable substance they can find, usually fish-oil, and torching you there and then. Men, women… kids.’
Screwing his nose up, Kareem merely shrugged. ‘Seen worse.’
Shaking her head, Lefey turned back to the building they were watching. ‘Well let’s hope we don’t tonight, eh?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Kareem went on, ‘depends on whether—’
Kareem dropped dead, a crossbow bolt jutting from his throat, arterial blood arcing over Lefey’s back as he and his axes thumped and clattered to the cobbles.
‘Shit!’ one of the other sailors shouted, bursting into motion a heartbeat later, scimitar in hand. He sprinted past Lefey, towards the building opposite, his ebony skin and matching attire making him hard to see as he sprinted from shadow to shadow. Lefey wasted no time in following him, and heard the feet of the others following behind. There was no time to spare a thought for Kareem. His hot blood on her back and neck, she ran on, hoping the second group fared better. She didn’t even know how they’d been spotted, although giving it what little thought she could, she wasn’t surprised.
This is Hillside, Lefey thought, whilst running. This is the ganger’s territory and we’re slap bang in the middle of it…
A bolt clattered off the wall beside her as she reached the building they were targeting. ‘That bloody Quin better not have lied to us,’ Lefey managed, whilst gulping in the night air.
‘Fuckers strut around like they’re soldiers,’ she continued, putting her booted foot through the door they’d reached, before jumping aside in case anything came out to meet her.
‘They won’t think that after this,’ one of the other sailors said as he passed her, ducking in through the door as another crossbow bolt cracked off the wall besides them. The shot was followed by a blood curdling cry. The cry was followed by a body falling from a nearby roof. Lefey looked round at the noise to see two more sailors dropping lithely from said roof, both of them her sister mates. They made for her position.
With the flash of a smile, Lefey followed the ebony-skinned blade master through the door. ‘Leave some for me, Parry,’ she said, as the sounds of grunts, curses and metal on metal came from within.
The scene was pure chaos. Tables turned, stools and benches scattered; men lay slumped over both whilst others grappled and more slashed and hacked at the too few sailors storming their lair. There was no sign of any hostages, no sign of the crewmen that had been taken.
‘Where are ye, lads?’ Lefey said through gritted teeth whilst kicking out the knee of a ganger who ran at her from another room. Someone screamed from off to the side as Lefey stabbed at the dropped man, her rapier cutting into the man’s bare chest with a meaty squelch, pulling skin, flesh and blood free as she twisted and withdrew the weapon. Not stopping to see if the man was dead, Lefey moved on, close on the heels of Parry and her other shipmate ahead, who was now barrelling through into the far room.
A clatter behind marked the arrival of her sister mates. Lefey pushed on, through into the next room, where three gangers were brandishing falchions and axes. They jeered and held their arms out wide, taunting and egging her and her shipmates on. Their hubris was palpable.
‘You fucking dare come here?’ one of them shouted, an axe in each hand, much like Kareem had held. ‘You fucking come to my house, to my hill. I kill and burn you bitches. I cut and roast you fucking pigs! And I enjoy it whilst you scream.’
‘Well, come and try it,’ Parry offered. ‘But not before you tell us where our boys are.’ His deep voice was calm, very calm. That seemed to cause the gangers to falter a little. ‘You so-called soldiers tell us that and I’ll kill you quick, not slow—’
‘Parry!’ Lefey snapped. Squall take me, that’s not the way to get answers… Before her thoughts moved on, a gobbet of spit struck Parry’s face. Lefey and her companions closed their eyes and sighed as one. Before anything else happened, fresh shouting from the front of the building drew the sailors’ attentions. Lefey motioned for everyone to go back through, which they did, weapons leading whilst she stayed to watch Parry’s back.
The bolstering sound of more gangers had caused the three in the room to smile, but for a heartbeat. After that, Sessio’s blade master was amongst them… as was his scimitar.
Lefey grimaced as she saw limbs fall. She pulled yet more faces and choked back a mouthful of sick, despite all she’d seen and done in her life, as the back of a ganger’s skull came away with a sodden thwack, dropping the lifeless man to the floor where his brain eased out of his half-skull.
The sound of Parry finishing the axe-wielding man was enough for Lefey to want to be done with it all, for her to want to return to Sessio and be under way once again.
They’re bullies all, she told herself. Not soldiers, but bullies with bulk and weapons and numbers. Think of the roasting pits and what they do to folk around here. It hardly helped as she heard Parry’s final wet slap of blade through flesh.
The first room they’d entered, that Lefey now walked back into, wasn’t much better than the one she’d left. Her ship brothers and sisters stood there, checking bodies, blood spatter covering most of them, and the room. One of the women proceeded to smash the teeth from a dead ganger, surprised, she was muttering, at how white they were.
‘This was a damned waste,’ Lefey said, looking about the place.
‘It sends a message,’ Parry said from behind, startling Lefey.
‘Saying what?’ one of the other men said. ‘That we want a bloody war? Any more of this and the Adjunct’s Guard will be marching in, then we’re all for the scales.’
Two of the others nodded, before leaving the building.
‘He’s right,’ Lefey said over her shoulder to Parry.
‘I don’t rightly care,’ the gore spattered, black clad man said, picking his way across the destroyed room and making his way outside to join the others.
‘This wasn’t worth losing Kareem over,’ Lefey said to the two remaining sailors, both of whom nodded their agreement.
‘Nope,’ the one with a handful of bloody teeth said, ‘but saving the three idiots who got themselves caught is, and you know it, Lefey. And Kareem knew it too.’
Nodding, Lefey ushered the two women out. ‘I do,’ she said to their backs, ‘because it’s the fact we’d come for each other no matter what that keeps us all going.’
She followed the two nodding heads out into the dark street.
‘What now?’ Parry said, from the shadows by Lefey’s side.
‘Now, Parry, we go see that Quin lad again. We go see him blooded up as we are and we let him know it’s his last chance to do right by us.’
‘The captain won’t let me kill him, even if we don’t.’
‘Squall’s shit, Parry,’ one of the female sailors said, ‘you do know you creep even us out when you talk like that, don’t you?’
A white smile was the only response Parry gave, before he skulked off into the night, the rest of them
attempting to keep up, Kareem’s body slung over Lefey’s shoulder.
***
Badham strode into the room, picked up a clay jug and threw it against the wall, shards scattering every which way.
Emms jumped at the outburst, to which Badham merely grunted before dropping down onto the pile of furs she was sat on.
‘What is it?’ Emms managed, eyes trying to find her lover’s own.
Lying back against the piles of fur, Badham grunted again, but said nothing.
‘Sweets?’ Emms dared, but Badham’s raised hand quietened her. She knew better than to push him, despite their relatively short time together, and so let him be. He would turn to her when he was ready, and tell her what troubled him; like she didn’t already know, or suspect.
That’s when he’s himself, when he releases… That’s when I’m with the true Badham, the man no one else sees.
After what seemed like an age, with Emms closing on her love, hands caressing his bared chest, arms and shoulders, his eyes met hers.
Badham smiled and Emms smiled back.
‘You with me now, sweets?’
His smile broadened and he rolled over and on to her, pinning her to the furs by her wrists. Emms giggled, despite the pain. He doesn’t know how strong he is, she told herself, the thought of his power taking her breath away. He kissed her. Fully, passionately… forcefully.
‘Ouch!’ Emms pulled her head away, the tang of blood in her mouth.
Releasing a sigh, Badham let go of her wrists and rolled away. Sitting up, he rested his thick arms on his knees.
‘I’m sorry, sweets,’ Emms said, sitting up behind him and gripping his shoulders. ‘You’re a little too rough sometimes.’
He grunted, before turning and winking at her. ‘You like it, I know that much.’
‘Sometimes,’ Emms said, winking back. ‘You’re so tense though,’ she went on, pressing her fingers into his knotted neck.
‘There’s a lot on. I lost soldiers tonight.’
She swallowed hard, her mind’s eye flicking back to the sailor called Lefey.