“They were merely a lord’s retinue. Surely you wouldn’t wish me to attack possible allies?”
“Allies? There are no allies! Lord Miklamar will be the undisputed ruler, as is his right!”
“Then you need to deal with such things, not have me be your envoy, yes?” Arden asked with a cruel smile.
It took a moment for the petty underling to grasp the verbal spar. “Watch your tongue, mercenary,” Shakis rasped.
Shaking his head, he continued, “There has been more rebellion along the border. Lessons must be taught. I expect this entire village put to sword.” He pointed at a map, and to the south. “Manjeuk. Only another day’s march.”
A lesson of slaughtered peasants. Yes, Arden thought. That would surely teach other peasants not to try to live their lives. If he were planning, he would kill the village militia, then wait with baleful eye for the rest to flee. It was harsh, but it was war. It wasn’t as dangerous, tactically foolish or obscenely cruel as wanton butchery.
He reflected that Shakis was acting professionally by his own vulgar standards. He wasn’t sparing the town for looting, burning, and rapine.
Though not every occupant would be dead after the attack. Those left would be subject to the most vile humiliations this twisted troll could devise, he was sure.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to simply kill the armed men and drive off the rest? Why waste good steel on starving, rag-clothed peasants?”
It was a reasonable question. So he thought.
“Rider Arden,” Shakis said, caressing a jeweled dagger before him, with a blade that would turn on canvas, never mind leather or iron, “the plans are made here. You and your mercenaries,” that with a sniff, “are merely one small part of many in an engagement planned many hundreds of leauges away. All we ask, all we are paying for, is your men to swing their swords where we tell them to, and to not think too much.”
That decided Arden. He knew what course to take.
“As you command,” he said with a nod, and turned to his own camp. That order he would give. That exact order.
Before dusk, his troops were ready, aligned, and poised for inspection. The ranks were dead straight, the product of proud, expert riders. He felt a ripple of excitement. His troops, those of the unassailable repute. There was Ty’kara, the Shin’a’in woman, tall and quick and almost as strong as some men. Bukli, skilled at sending signals with flags, hands, or fires, and almost as handy with a sword. Balyat, tall and broad and powerful as an ox, with a cool, mature head. His troops, the best one could pay for.
His troops, under pay of a cretin.
Duty.
He turned through each rank, examining each raised arm, sword, or spear, to see that they fit his orders. All were clean, well cared for, and ready. All his troops quivered in eagerness and a little fear. The brave could admit fear. Fear was part of being human. Only the coward and the fool denied fear.
Every soldier, every weapon, fit and ready as he had demanded. And now to follow the orders of the cretin.
He passed behind the last rank, then turned between two troops. They flinched not a bit, nor did their horses shy, as he urged his mount, Fury, to a fair gallop.
Then he was through the front rank, and behind him came the snorts of horses and the “Yaaah!” of riders. Thunder rose from the ground, thunder that he commanded, thunder that shattered armies.
Far ahead, brave and fearful peasants in sorry, untrained formation prepared to die for their homes. They trembled in fear, armed with hooks and forks and an occasional spear. A handful with bows was arrayed in the rear. He respected them far more than the scum he worked for this night. But he did work for them.
Duty.
And he would see that duty done.
Perhaps five hundred yards, and the flickering lights of torches melded with a blood red sunset to set the mood for the work ahead. Manjeuk was the name of a quiet town in a forest meadow. Tonight, however, it was a dark-tinged collection of rude huts with little prettiness.
A hundred yards, and he could see faces, grubby and fearful and shifting in grimaces. That was just enough time to brace shield and lower sword.. . . .
He hit the defensive line and burst through the front rank. These poor peasants were no match in any fashion for professional soldiers. He chopped down and connected with a skull, feeling the crack through his arm. He let the impact swing his arm back, then brought it into a thrust that knocked another man from his feet. He brought the tip up as he swung his shield out on the other side. Two men sprawled, one of them nudged by Fury’s left forehoof.
Then he was through. That dismal line of men with inadequate stakes and pits had been the defense. They’d lasted not five seconds.
Urging Fury to a charge, he cleared the deadly, empty space ahead. Four good gallops did it, and no arrow came close. Few arrows came anywhere.
Then he was inside the town. A crone with a pitchfork thrust at him, and he dodged, slashing at her chest. She went down. Behind her was a cowering girl of perhaps twelve, who had dropped her stick and was whimpering. A slight poke was sufficient for her. A boy of fifteen or so wouldn’t succumb to a single blow, and had to be hit three times. Stupid of him not to stay down once hit, but that wasn’t Arden’s concern. He reined back, turned, and galloped on.
An old man in a doorway didn’t have time to raise his ancient, rust-caked sword. Two younger men drew out a rope. Arden cursed and ducked, snatching at it and twisting. The shock pulled them to the ground. Behind him, Ty’kara whacked one, dogged over and twisted, jabbed the other and recovered.
Then they were through the town and done. Few casualties, but no loot or anything positive to show for it. He sniffed in disgust as he waved his arm for the Toughs to form up.
Duty done.
Now to encamp again. They circled wide around the now flaming town. What was left was Shakis’ concern. And Arden found that most amusing.
The camp was as it had been, patrols far out, pickets at the outskirts, the wounded and support armed and still a threat to intruders, even if not the heavy combatants the “regulars” were. Only half the Toughs were involved in any given battle. The rest, including recruits and their sergeants, supported them.
The regimental fire was huge, the heat palpable many feet away. Farther out, squadrons and smaller elements had their own blazes, then there were those for the watch. Toughs’ Camp was a ring of fire, ever brighter toward the center, where Arden sat with his troop leaders.
Arden took a healthy slug of his ale. It was a good, rich brew that quenched and refreshed him. The bread had been baked that morning, with a chewy crust and nutty flavor. The cheese was dry, crumbly, and sharp. He dug in with gusto. Once Mirke had finished roasting that yearling stag, he would enjoy the flavor of it, the flavor that was already wafting through his nose and taking form.
Regardless of their orders, it had been a good night’s work, and he was proud of it. Pride and prowess in duty. It was the only really valuable thing he had. He cherished it. A faint warmth and tingle from the ale made it sweet.
Then Shakis, that damned foppish envoy, arrived, his horse clattering with ridiculous flashy accouterments. Arden wasn’t surprised, and knew exactly what his complaint was to be before the worm opened his mouth.
“High Rider Arden! Lord Miklamar is most displeased with your performance, if it can be called that, in Manjeuk!”
“We did as we were ordered,” he replied, stonefaced. “As we swore to.”
“You were ordered to put the village to the sword and spear!”
“And so we did,” he replied. He refused to get upset with the likes of this. It would not be honorable. Emotion he reserved for those worthy, who might be allied or enemy, but whom he would count as men. This was not a man.