“I expected you would take your swords out of your scabbards before striking with them! And use the sharp ends of your spears!”
“Then perhaps you should have so specified in your orders,” Arden said, smiling faintly. Behind him were snickers. No doubt everyone in Manjeuk had been confused to have the fiercest riders of the south gallop through, swatting and poking them with scabbarded swords. No doubt they were all bruised and broken from it. But none had been stabbed or cut. The orders had not specified that. And had specified the mercenaries were not to think too hard.
“Because of your cowardice,” Shakis said, and Balyat and Ty’kara growled with flinty gazes. Arden laid out a palm to hold them. It was all he needed to command them, despite the mortal insult. “Because of your cowardice, our men took near twenty deaths.”
“I lost a man, too,” Arden replied. “Bukli, my best messenger.”
“You have my pity, sell-sword,” Shakis replied. He was reaching a frothing level within, Arden could see. “No matter. The town was taken, and now our men show them what it means to lose.” The expression on his face was a combination of excitement and lust that was simply obscene.
It would have been better, Arden realized, to have killed the poor bastards quickly. He’d done them no favors as it was.
The grumbling around him rose to a barely audible level as Shakis rode out. Arden’s troops were no happier than he.
For a week the Toughs were kept in camp as other units fought. It was an insult, and a further waste of resources. Arden concealed his contempt, but his troops were not so reticent. They’d fought for harsh men before, and torture and agony were not unfamiliar sights to any of them, but any professional soldier had his limits. The Toughs were barely tolerating Miklamar’s strategy and the toady who relayed his wishes.
Something had to be done.
After nine days, Arden was called to a strategy meeting. He’d been shunned from the planning sessions even though he was merely an observer. That banishment couldn’t help his survival or plans, and his inclusion now, being “ordered to present” himself was yet another slap. He had expected it, of course. He’d hoped his disgusted protest in the last battle would have led to the contract being let, but either Miklamar or Shakis was too stupid or petty for that. They wasted pay to keep the Toughs doing nothing.
Arden arrived and was ignored. Movements were planned, orders given, messengers and commanders sent. Silence reigned around Arden, with no word or acknowledgment given him by anyone. Commanders of units he’d fought alongside, and who mutually respected him, gave him only a glance and then studiously avoided further interaction. For two hours, Arden sat in cold drafts at the wall of the tent, watching the flickering lamp flames in meditation. He refused to get angry, for that was what Shakis wanted.
When orders came at last, while Shakis loudly chewed a pork shank at his table, spitting and getting grease on his maps, they were insultingly direct.
“Arden, you have a chance before you to redeem yourself. This afternoon, we destroy the last vestiges of the old Kingdom in this district. You will strike in the van, and attack the village. That means, with your weapons in hand, with the sharp ends, fight as hard as you can. I will countenance no clever ploys this time, or I will have your men and yourself used for target practice by my archer regiment. You will fight any who oppose you, you will lay waste as your reputation demands, and once we are done, you will be sent on your way, since you are reluctant to help the rise of a strong empire. But I hold you to your contract yet.”
“Yes, Shakis. I will do as you command.”
There being no point in further discussion, Arden dismissed himself. Shakis was aware of his departure, but made no sign of noticing.
The orders created a conflict of moral outrage in Arden. He couldn’t obey an order to slaughter innocents. It was unprofessional, cowardly, and unmilitary. Nor could he break his sworn oath and contract.
As he always did when troubled, he rode patrol. His thoughts drifted, and distance from Shakis made him feel cleaner. He’d had disputes with employers before, even if this scraped the hoof for lowness. He rode ahead of the three troops with him, just so he could feel more alone.
It was a cool night, slightly misty, and fires could be seen behind the town, of a small force preparing to support the town once attacked. Miklamar’s only good strategy was to use his larger army to spread the threat of his neighbors. Though that might be accidental rather than strategic planning.
Count Namhar showed far better sense, with his force high in the defense, prepared to rush in on a force bogged down even briefly in the town below. He knew he couldn’t save the village, so he’d use it as an anvil to hammer Shakis’ force against. He’d do far more damage that way, including to the Toughs.
Arden wondered if he could arrange to be where the counterattack would happen, so as to have an honorable fight against a decent enemy.
Something crept up through his mind and coalesced into a thought.
Yes. He just might be able to do that. It would take courage, risk his life, and save his oath. That made it worth doing.
He wheeled Fury about and galloped back to camp, leaving the other three soldiers to catch up while they wondered what their commander was doing.
Count Namhar watched the unfolding battle from a hilltop. Part of him craved to be down below with his brave men, doing what could be done to restrain a horror. A horror that not only outnumbered them, but had hired crack mercenaries.
He was thankful that the leadership used both mercenaries and indigenous forces poorly.
His presence on the hill was for tactical advantage. He had a small device from the mages that could potentially change the course of a battle, if used well.
The tube was a magic Eye. Its rippling patterns, almost oily, resolved to crystal clarity when stared through. He could see events far across the field and send swift messengers to maneuver his forces.
The Eye only let him see things larger. It couldn’t see things beyond obstacles, but did enhance anything within line of sight. And the mercenaries were just within that line.
It took only a moment’s glance to cause him to grin. A surge ran through him, of respect for a mercenary who embodied every virtue a soldier should have. There was loyalty, and then there was honor. Above those was courage, and it took tremendous courage to do what Arden’s troop was doing now.
Somewhere, they must have been ordered to attack the village. And that’s what they were doing. Arden was a genius, and brave beyond words to offer such a tactic. Exploiting it would cost lives. But the tactic was suicidally foolish, and Namhar could exploit that at once. He could wipe out the Toughs to the last troop. Though to do so would be a shame.
Then the true nature of it hit him.
“Send Rorsy’s force down to take them,” he ordered the nearest of his aides.
“At once. At the charge, or dismounted?”
“No, take them alive,” Namhar said. This had to be done just right. A man with a sword was still dangerous, and if he knew Arden as he felt he did, the man wouldn’t simply surrender.
“My Lord? I am confused,” his aide said.
“I will explain, but quickly. We have little time.”
And indeed, there was a risk. If Arden was what he seemed, it could be handled rather quietly. But the flash of steel could turn it into the bloodbath it had looked to be from the beginning.
“Attack the town,” Shakis had ordered. “Town” had two meanings; either the population and resources of the small settlement, or the physical structure of it. It was that way Arden had chosen to obey the order, and his troops had agreed, with hesitation and fear, but in support of their commander and in rebellion against the detestable creature who’d hired them and debased them. Their honor was their coin in trade. They would fight as hard to protect it as to earn it.