Cold Iron

by Miles Cameron

  Then he turned to Malconti.

  ‘You have until the count of three,’ the General said.

  ‘You know what to do,’ the duke said.

  ‘One,’ the General said.

  Malconti looked at the duke, and then at the General, his helmeted head turning like a hawk’s.

  ‘Two,’ the General said in her augmented voice.

  Men were dismounting all over the fields. But none of the men in the baroque armour had moved.

  ‘Dismount,’ Malconti called.

  Like automata, the whole troop of elaborately armoured men each swung a leg over their saddles and slid to the ground.

  ‘Really?’ the duke asked. ‘For what I pay you?’

  Aranthur was close enough to hear Malconti’s response, but the armoured man said nothing.

  ‘Your condotta is voided.’ the duke said. ‘You have wasted a great deal of my time.’

  Malconti said nothing.

  The duke walked back to his coach, and the door slammed shut behind him.

  Aranthur watched as the hundreds of men were gradually rounded up by the General’s black armoured cavalrymen. No resistance was offered, although there were some jibes, and some outright anger when Myr Jeninas began to take the captured horses and corral them separately from their owners.

  The General sat silent, watching, her banner fluttering over her head.

  Aranthur approached for orders. She gave him a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ she said. ‘You and your friend have done enough, and I’ll see to it that the Emperor remembers you, but I’m already worried all these bastards will remember you too. Don’t get involved.’

  ‘We’re already involved,’ Lecne said. He smiled; his head was up, and he looked like a hero from a romance. ‘I think we’d like to help.’

  The General seemed to see him for the first time. She nodded.

  ‘My thanks,’ she said. ‘And the Emperor’s. Help the Primos with the horses.’

  Aranthur followed his friend.

  ‘Bold,’ he said.

  ‘I like her,’ Lecne said.

  ‘Hard not to like her,’ Aranthur said.

  They worked past the fall of darkness, picketing and then feeding five hundred horses. The work went on and on, and troopers came and went, and at one point, deep kettles of beef with broth and greens were brought. Aranthur ate only the broth and greens. He was aware that the broth had meat in it, and he prayed, but he needed food. He was bone weary.

  The two of them slept curled in their cloaks and woke to a grey day, with fog over the farm fields. Their cloaks were wet through and there was no possibility of further sleep. In the darkness, the General had decreed that the prisoners be released, and now, two by two, they came and fetched their horses. The men – and they were all men, every one of them – were subdued, but not hostile. Their armour had rusted in the night. Every one of them came forward, in two long lines. Those who were wearing their own armour were allowed to keep it. Those wearing munition armour – armour apparently stolen or illegally purchased by the duke – had to take it off and hand it over to the Primos to receive their horses.

  Aranthur brought horses from the picket lines to one of the dekarks, a bow-legged man called Erp. He stood in the mist, already fully encased in his black armour, took the horses from Aranthur’s fist with a nod, and waited for the Primos to finish with each prisoner. Then he handed over the horses silently. It was all very quiet.

  When they were about half done, Lecne, who was working the other line, must have said something. Erp laughed a single, sharp bark like a dog.

  ‘Listen up, boys,’ he said quietly. ‘You want to take the fight out of a man? Give him no sleep, a little rain, and no food. These ain’t farm folk. These are rich boys.’ He gave a smile that was very like a frown. ‘We don’t want a fight. Right?’

  The Primos nodded. ‘Fightin’ is for fools,’ she said.

  She rubbed her neck, the most human gesture Aranthur had seen from any of the soldiers for hours. They were deliberately behaving inhumanly, and he understood that they were weaving a glamour, a suggestion of invulnerability. The black armour and the silence served the same purpose as Iralia’s hair.

  Aranthur was just pondering on glamours and other spells of influence when he saw a face he knew. Two faces he knew. They were close to each other, and both looked different – drier, and less defeated.

  He knew them both from Master Sparthos’ school. One was Syr Siran, and by him was Djinar, who was rooting in a pair of saddlebags on his shoulder.

  Erp stood motionless while the Primos spoke to the two young men, and Aranthur brought up their horses, a bay and a black.

  ‘You the lad who cooked breakfast?’ Erp asked Djinar.

  Djinar nodded. ‘I’m not a city boy. I know how to make a fire.’

  ‘What are you doing with this lot?’ Erp asked.

  Djinar shrugged. ‘I thought we were going to change the world. It needs some changing.’

  ‘Really?’

  Erp’s face closed. He’d clearly had enough talk. He took Djinar’s horse, and Djinar turned to take the reins and saw Aranthur.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The man who only fights with women.’

  ‘You know this one?’ Erp asked.

  ‘I do,’ Aranthur said.

  ‘Anything I should know?’ Erp asked.

  Aranthur thought for a moment. ‘No.’

  Djinar took his horse. ‘Sparthos should be more careful who he allows in his salle. It’s a place for gentlemen. Not bravos and government spies.’

  Aranthur nodded. ‘At your service.’

  ‘You say that to me?’ Djinar asked. ‘Do you even know what those words mean?’

  Aranthur shrugged. ‘I believe so.’

  His heart was hammering, but he kept his tone low and his words slow, with a massive investment of will that had more to do with his training at the Studion than in the salle.

  ‘You are challenging me to a duel?’ Djinar asked.

  Erp put a black-armoured hand on the rebel’s shoulder. He wasn’t gentle.

  ‘That’s all very nice, but you have no sword, and you are a rebel, a criminal, and right now, if you don’t take your horse and ride for home, I’ll revoke your bond and forfeit you.’

  ‘So he hides behind your skirts.’ Djinar didn’t seem a bit afraid.

  Erp dropped him, a simple leg sweep. He rotated the younger man’s arm behind his back and Djinar grunted.

  ‘Stupid,’ Erp said. ‘Go home. Last chance.’

  ‘Later,’ Djinar said to Aranthur. ‘You are dead. I will tell everyone in the City that you were with these hired killers, against true men.’

  Erp spat. But Djinar mounted easily and turned his horse. He pointed to Aranthur.

  ‘Look what I found, Siran,’ he said.

  Later, when all the rebels had dispersed and only the captured mercenaries were left, the whole group moved to the inn. The tone changed, as well, and Aranthur found the soldiers almost festive. Equally, it was clear to him that the soldiers and the mercenaries knew each other well enough to trade insults without heat, and even to chat.

  Malconti finally took off his helmet. He was a handsome man, younger than Aranthur had expected, with a narrow black moustache and a curled black beard and earring. His eyes were bright; his face was more a poet’s than a killer’s.

  Erp nodded. ‘We’ve shared a campfire or two,’ he said. ‘Malconti is one of the best. General likes him.’

  ‘Are they lovers?’ Aranthur asked, because it seemed like a proper question.

  Erp turned his head, and his blank stare rested for a moment on Aranthur.

  ‘We don’t ever talk about the General and her lovers,’ he said. ‘In fact, I only say this to you because today at least, ye’re family.’ There was no smile, and no warmth.

  ‘Understood,’ Aranthur said.

  Erp nodded. ‘You’re a quick lad. Ever think of being a soldier?’

>   Aranthur shook his head. ‘No. That is, yes.’ They both laughed.

  Aranthur noted that the General was riding with Lecne and Malconti, and both of them were leaning in to talk to his friend.

  ‘Well, I am in the militia, so I suppose I’m a soldier,’ he laughed.

  Erp laughed too. ‘Not so much,’ he said gruffly. ‘But I take yer point.’

  At the inn, the mercenaries were settled in the barn and Aranthur returned to being a part of Lecne’s extended family. There were hugs and stories, and then the General had to have the whole situation in the woods explained.

  ‘Lady Sophia protect us,’ she proclaimed. ‘That won’t wait.’

  Everyone was silent while Aranthur explained what he had seen – it seemed like weeks before.

  ‘Can you take us there?’ the General asked.

  She looked at the sun. It was after midday on a grey day.

  Aranthur was tired, but he forced a smile.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The General looked around. She had her bannerman and her primos close to hand.

  ‘Can we get this done today?’ she asked the air.

  Myr Jeninas nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Malconti had been sitting in the inn’s big window with a cup of wine. He stretched.

  ‘If we work for nothing, will you hold it in our favour?’ he asked.

  ‘Parole, and your word in addition,’ the General said.

  ‘Of course,’ Malconti said with a bow.

  The General stepped closer to the mercenary pennon.

  ‘Then I’d throw in my thanks, as well.’

  Malconti gave a very slight smile. ‘Well, that has some worth.’ He took both of the General’s hands and crossed them over his heart. ‘My word is given.’

  The General nodded. ‘Primos?’

  ‘Noted,’ Myr Jeninas said.

  An hour later, mounted again in the wet, they were riding through open woods of old tall trees that ran off into the Arnaut hills to the north. Aranthur knew the road well enough, although he’d only ridden it once, and he took them to the dozen bark hovels full of dead people.

  He’d ridden out with Lecne, who could not stop talking about how admirable the General was. But when they entered the little circle of hovels, he was summoned forward to the General. She dismounted, entered a hut, emerged, and looked into a second one.

  ‘Fucking Darkness,’ she said.

  Most of the soldiers made the sign of the Lady, but some made the sign of the Sun or the Eagle, and one made a horned sign.

  The General looked at Aranthur. ‘I am sorry I doubted you. There’s more of these?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She shook her head. ‘Darkness Falling, how has this happened?’

  ‘The Empire is falling apart,’ Malconti said.

  ‘You, keep your mouth shut,’ the General spat.

  ‘You know it as well as I,’ Malconti said. ‘Nothing is as it was. Nothing.’

  But the black-haired mercenary looked as discomfited by the dead children as the General.

  ‘All right. We’ll form skirmish lines. The woods are open enough. Twenty paces between each pair. Spread out, listen for bugle calls.’ She pointed with a short stick. ‘Primos, take first troop north and west. I’ll take second troop north and east. Malconti, take your people south due west towards Volta.’

  ‘I’ll need a guide,’ Malconti said.

  ‘Take this one,’ the General said, pointing to Aranthur. ‘I’ll keep the other one.’

  She smiled at Lecne, and Aranthur had a pang of something – it wasn’t jealousy, but it was like jealousy. His friend was about to become one of the General’s lovers – he could see it.

  Malconti flashed a toothy grin.

  ‘I get the pretty one? You are too kind.’ Then his smile changed and he glanced at Aranthur. ‘You know the ground?’

  Aranthur was hesitant. ‘I’ve been through these woods once. I know the valley over there pretty well.’

  Malconti nodded. ‘That’s good enough.’

  The mercenaries formed a long line, two deep. The distance between pairs was great enough that a loud-voiced man had to fuss, riding up and down until he was satisfied.

  ‘March!’ sang out Malconti. The mercenaries moved forward.

  It took two miserable hours. There were black flies in the woods, little midges that bit men and horses right under their armour, or anywhere that cloth met skin. The long skirmish line passed across terrible terrain: a marsh full of old dead trees; over a stream swollen with mountain snow melt; through open woods; back to bog and marsh. The line extended and contracted, and the men searched every pile of reeds. They worked hard.

  Aranthur followed the pennon, and was silent. No one spoke to him, and when the mercenaries spoke among themselves they tended to use the Western tongue, the one Nenia knew: Langarde, the bardic language of the Western Isles. But they were fast – fast enough that when there was still light in the sky, they came to the edge of the ridge where the ridge road met the road into the Valley of the Eagle. Aranthur was so tired by then that he was almost asleep in his saddle. They’d found forty Easterners alive; the refugees went into tents provided by the mercenaries. A pair of Imoters were looking them over while the cooks prepared food.

  ‘What’s over there?’ Malconti asked.

  He wasn’t pointing up the road, which led, eventually, to Aranthur’s home, but across it, towards Volta.

  ‘I don’t know, syr,’ Aranthur said.

  Malconti glanced at him. ‘Smell the smoke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Malconti’s voice was surprisingly light; he seemed far too much like a philosopher or a playwright to be a soldier.

  ‘They put out the fire when they saw us.’ Malconti said something in Langarde. His people began to move, fast.

  ‘Stay by me, boy,’ he said, and suddenly they were cantering through underbrush, and then they burst into a clearing.

  Malconti had his sword in his hand. Aranthur had drawn his own without thinking.

  But there was no resistance, only two old men, thin as scarecrows, and two women with children huddled in their arms.

  Malconti reined in as soldiers entered the clearing from every direction. It was very well done; even Aranthur, veteran only of militia training, knew how neatly the mercenaries had surrounded the clearing and entered it. On horseback. In near total silence.

  Aranthur could smell the occulta. It was a more sophisticated version of one he cast himself.

  Malconti smiled. ‘Do you know how to use that thing, boy? Or do you just wave it about?’

  Embarrassed, Aranthur put his sword in the scabbard.

  ‘Talk to them,’ Malconti said. ‘Men in armour aren’t anyone’s friends.’

  The children were weeping. Aranthur dismounted, unsure what to say, and he approached the two old men cautiously, as if they were wild animals.

  ‘Good day,’ he tried, in Armean.

  ‘The sele of the day of the Sun upon you,’ said the one with teeth. His Armean was odd, and sing-song.

  ‘We are here to help you,’ Aranthur said.

  The man didn’t even twitch. ‘Of course,’ he said heavily. ‘We are very hungry,’ he admitted.

  ‘Are there others?’ Aranthur asked.

  ‘Alive?’ the old man asked, as if it was not an important question.

  ‘Yes, alive.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the old man said.

  A day later, Aranthur couldn’t remember how long they had been riding through the woods. Two days later, he was no longer thinking in terms of fatigue. His borrowed horse was so tired that Aranthur was often walking beside him to rest his back.

  There were hundreds – or possibly even thousands – of Easterners in the dark, damp, cold, fly-ridden woods. Many were alive. And every little camp had a rumour of another, farther west, or north. Aranthur’s Armean was the most sought-after commodity after fresh horses and food. He scarcely knew five hundred words, but h
is vocabulary was expanded with every encounter.

  How many?

  Where?

  Alive?

  How many days ago?

  He fell asleep in the saddle, and he got lost multiple times, moving from one patrol to another, one cluster of wretched hovels to another, sometimes with Erp, once with Malconti. The dark-haired man was silent, and moved so fast that Aranthur had trouble keeping up with him. Erp was better company and taught Aranthur a little about packing his gear and moving quickly. The second night, Erp shared his blankets in a dry shelter made of bark, with a fire outside. Aranthur slept without waking once and woke to a clear day and a cup of hot soup before riding out again on a barely refreshed and very wet horse.

  ‘I’ll get you some hot mash,’ he promised.

  He did, too, in the early afternoon, when he rode into the mercenaries’ camp south of the main road, sixty stades and more from the inn.

  ‘You the boy that speaks Eastern?’ said a big man with bright red hair and tattoos all over his face.

  ‘Yes, syr,’ Aranthur said. ‘Can I get something hot for my horse?’

  ‘Ja,’ the man said with a nod. ‘The pennon wants to see you.’

  Aranthur found Malconti, in armour, drinking hot cider with two Easterners, a man and a very old woman. He already had a translator, and he listened to three full sentences before he realised it was Nenia in man’s clothing. In the City, women wore whatever they wanted, but in the country it was rare to see a girl dressed in breeches, unless it was for hard chores.

  Malconti glanced at Aranthur. ‘Timos,’ he said with a nod. ‘Syr Nenos has come to give you a rest.’

  It was the most pleasant that the mercenary pennon had been to him.

  ‘I didn’t know that you knew any Armean.’ Nenia was blushing furiously.

  ‘Not much. More now.’

  ‘You know your way back to Alis?’ Malconti asked.

  Aranthur nodded.

  ‘These have to be the last people,’ Malconti said. ‘We’re in Volta and Cursini would love to claim this as an act of war. He’ll ram a spear up my arse if he catches me, so I’m not eager to linger, am I, darlings?’

  Nenia looked at the mercenary, her face bright red. ‘Cursini?’

  ‘My rival. He overthrew my former paymaster and took Volta for his own.’ Malconti shrugged, despite the weight of his elaborate shoulder defences. ‘I am now an out of work sell-sword. Anyway, Syr Timos, I am out of men and out of food, and these two assure me there are no refugees west of here. Right, Syr Nenos?’