He met up with Balyat and two newer riders. Balyat and he were the scouts for the ride, the others backup and messengers if needed, and would gain experience in the skill.
Patrol gave him the chance to explore the area consciously, and to get a feel for it inside. It allowed part of his mind to relax and tour the terrain—rolling hills and copses of trees with small, growing streams. It let him ponder the job they had contracted.
The work was “good” in a sense. It was honest fighting at their end, the pay decent, and they had the benefits of a real army nearby. All the mercenaries were in the pay of one lord, meaning they weren’t killing other professionals. Of course, they were killing innocent people and leaving the survivors to suffer at the hands of that lord.
Fausan, Mirdu, Askauk, Shelin . . . tiny hamlets, nothing but farmers and hunters with a few basic crafters. Why it was necessary to fight them was beyond Arden. He would have simply bypassed them, taken control of a large city, say, Maujujir, and let the traders spread the word that there was a new ruler. The peasants never cared, as long as the taxes weren’t extreme and they were left to their lives.
Of course, that required a leader with self-confidence and who was secure in his power. Miklamar was not, and therefore wasteful. He’d been pacifying a very small province for years, proving to be a petty lord in every meaning of the word.
Riders ahead! The message came from a small part of Arden’s brain that never slept. He didn’t react at once, but let his mind go over what he’d seen.
Caravan, small. Not uncommon around an engagement area. It was foolish and inadvisable to fight, though both groups would report the presence of the other. To clash four on two wagons and a carriage would mean certain death for at least one rider, possibly all. Nor was Arden, as a hired sword, expected to fight outside of his contract. The train was not a massive provisioning effort, so it was not a threat to the war.
Still, a challenge and meeting were necessary, to determine the intent of the others, and their origin. Arden reined back and slowed slightly, watching to see that the others did. They were ahead to the left, crossing obliquely. One of their numbers took the lead, presumably the troop commander.
Shortly, the groups were drawn up facing each other, a safe twenty feet apart; too far for an immediate strike, too close for a charge.
“Arden, High Rider of the Toughs,” he introduced himself. “Patrolling my unit’s line.”
“Count Namhar, of the Anasauk Confederacy, escorting a Lord,” the other leader agreed. He wore striking blue-and-black colors, and had a slim lance with a small pennant. His horse was armored with light hardened leather and a few small plates that were more a status symbol than protection. Of the four others with him, two shared his colors and two were in a similar blue, black, and gray, marking them as belonging to some side branch of the family.
“You are mercenaries. For whom do you ride?” Namhar asked.
“We are on contract to Miklamar, through his deputy Shakis.” Arden wouldn’t lie anyway, and the truth was best. Dissemblance could be seen as a sign of espionage.
One of the others, quite young, snapped, “You are the butchers of Kiri!” He reined his horse and clutched reactively at his sword. His partner extended a hand and caught him.
“Steady,” the youth was told.
“Chal had friends in Kiri. He is still in mourning,” Namhar said.
“I understand,” Arden replied. “No threat offered, I take no offense.”
“You’re still a butchering scum!” the young man yelled.
“In Kiri,” Arden said. “All we did was crack the defenses.”
“You lie! I saw the desecrated corpses! The torn . . .” For a moment Chal was incoherent with rage.
“Shakis’ men,” Arden said. “We broke the line, as we were paid to, and he took what he calls ‘retribution’ on peasants too poor and weak to resist.” Thereby showing the sum of his courage.
For a moment, there was silence. Emotion swirled in the air, all of them negative.
At once, Namhar dismounted. Arden nodded and did likewise. His two junior troops stepped down, leaving Balyat mounted, tall, bearlike, and imposing, but wise enough to be a good lookout. One of Namhar’s men stayed astride his beast, too.
The soldiers faced each other on the ground, the tension lessened. A mounted man was much taller and more imposing, a greater threat. With the horses held and the men afoot, it would be harder to start trouble.
The shouts had brought the other travelers out. The teamsters dropped from their wagons and the passengers in the carriage hurried over. The young man’s outrage was contagious, and in moments the shouts of, “Butcher!” and “Violator!” were ringing.
Arden and his troops stood calmly and firmly, though the younger of the two trembled. Balyat sat solidly on his horse and refused to move. Namhar waved his arms and got control. The others acquiesced to his voice and presence, and the trouble downgraded to hard breaths and angry looks.
“I had a cousin in Kiri,” Chal said.
Balyat spoke, his voice deep and sonorous. “My thoughts are with you,” he said. “We fight only armed men. Shakis slaughtered the peasants. He left none if he could help it. He thought to show the kind of man he was.”
“And you let him?” Chal said, glancing between the two mercenaries.
Arden said, “The Toughs are hired to bear the brunt against the peasants. Against larger forces, we are skirmishers and outriders. If you know of our name, we fight as we are ordered, but the pillage and rapine are not the work of my soldiers. I would not hire on to such, nor is it worthy of my troops.”
Namhar nodded, recognizing the words as being the strongest condemnation the mercenary would utter.
“How can you fight for such animals? Is money so precious?” The man asking was a well-dressed merchant turned statesman. An honorable man, but not one to grasp the mercenary viewpoint.
Arden said nothing. He looked around evenly, finding only one pair of eyes showing understanding. Namhar nodded imperceptibly, but in empathy. He alone knew the conflict Arden faced, and why he could not unbind his contract. He wondered now, though, if Miklamar or Shakis were trying to ruin the Toughs’ reputation, to tie them here for lesser wages. Probably not. That would be subtle, and subtlety wasn’t something he’d seen much evidence of.
“It is the employment we have, until released, perhaps at month’s end.”
“Release now! There are worthier employers around.” The merchant tugged at a purse to emphasize the point.
“That is not possible,” Arden replied with a shake of his head. “We have troubled you enough. Good travel to you. I must resume my patrol. I will report this encounter with my other notes, after I return and care for my horse.”
“Bastard!” Chal growled.
“Quiet, Chal,” Namhar snapped. “High Rider, we thank you for the courtesy.”
Arden nodded as he swung up into the saddle. It would be as easy to report the incident at once, but there was no threat here, and he had no orders to do so. He wasn’t about to offer a grace before eating without pay or orders.
“If you do find your contract at an end soon, I can offer the pay of my lord for good skirmishers.”
“I will remember that, Namhar,” Arden replied. “Offers of support are always welcome.”
Shakis appeared outraged when the message was relayed hours later.
“You spoke to what amounts to an enemy patrol, and not only didn’t stop them; you report it to me after a leisurely dinner!”