At least they knew more than before about how the folk of the north looked askance at the rule of Istar. With some, this was ancestral memories of being ruled by Karthay, or more recent experiences of being put off their land by the “barbarians” suppressed, with the aid of the Knights of Solamnia, at the time of the Great Meld.
With most, however, it was the simple fact that the farther from Istar, the less benign the mighty city’s rule. Pirvan was not a great student of history, but he had read enough in the libraries of the knights’ keeps, as well as in his own, to have learned somewhat of the lessons of the past.
One of those lessons was that any empire needed to be exceedingly careful that its outlying provinces were well governed. Farthest from the center of power, they were the easiest prey for corrupt governors and captains-and also found it easier to shift their allegiance to other rulers, a fertile source of every kind of war.
Not that there was anywhere the folk in this land could shift their allegiance, even if they wished. The dwarves of Thorbardin would laugh at the idea of human subjects, and Solamnia could hardly rend the Swordsheath Scroll. But a land perpetually steaming with discontent like an untended pot of soup was not a land at peace.
All of this weighed heavily on Pirvan’s mind as he watched the last of the overland column climb out of the boats and wade ashore. The sky was sullen from both cloud and the early hour, but the breeze had vanished. The water was black and so calm that it almost seemed oily.
Farther offshore, mist and rain were already swallowing even Sea Leopard, the nearest of the four ships. Several boats that had already unloaded were laboriously crawling back to the sea barbarian vessel. Pirvan wanted to believe that he could see Grimsoar standing in the prow, but knew that had to be mostly his imagination.
A very real splashing close by made him turn. Rubina was wading ashore from the boat, holding her skirts well above her knees to keep them dry. She had not been entirely successful in this, and she was being entirely too successful in attracting a great deal of notice.
Birak Epron cleared his throat. “My lady Rubina. I think you should have changed into more practical garb before entering the boat. I am sure that once your baggage is landed, the Lady Haimya will be glad to keep watch while you clothe yourself anew.”
Rubina stepped out of the water and let her skirts fall. Pirvan saw faces fall as well, as those shapely limbs vanished from sight.
Now the Black Robe stepped up to the mercenary captain and gave him one of her dazzling smiles. “I would far rather have your company in that endeavor-” she began.
Epron cut her off. “Lady. Never think me ungrateful. But I have duties to my men. For that matter, so do you. One we both have is to keep discipline among them.”
Rubina frowned. It was the frown of an exceedingly shrewd woman pretending to be a silly one. “My dear friend, you seem to wish to make my first war very harsh for me. Not only have I lost Tarothin, now it seems that I am to lose-”
“Lady Rubina,” Haimya said, in a tone that excluded all possibility of argument. “Let us go aside, and I will tell you, while you change your clothes, just how harsh war is.”
She then took a firm grip of Rubina’s arm. For a moment it seemed that the Black Robe would resist, physically or even magically, and Pirvan met Epron’s eyes in total agreement.
Unaware of her narrow escape, Rubina allowed herself to be marched off to a discreet clump of dragonstooth bush, which here on this coast grew to the size of young trees. When the women had disappeared, Pirvan turned to the mercenary captain.
“I thank you.”
“I guard my men from all dangers, and they me, Sir Pirvan. I keep that bargain even against all the Towers of High Sorcery. Has anything ever made you think that sell-swords have no honor?”
“Nothing whatever, and much to the contrary. But I have also learned not to overlook the power of-of-”
“A woman like Rubina making a man think with other parts of his body than his head?”
“That’s one way to say it, I suppose.”
The last boat’s keel grated on the gravel of the beach as it pushed off. Pirvan contemplated the mountain of equipment and supplies left behind, and the men already moving it to hiding places.
It was as well that Birak Epron was the senior mercenary captain and therefore next only to Pirvan in command ashore. His men were not only the best of the lot, but they were also doing a fair job of hammering their own skills and discipline into their motley comrades.
As for Rubina, Pirvan vowed to do his best to leave her to Haimya and Epron. If between them they could not make her more useful than useless to the expedition, then he would have to step in himself.
* * * * *
“I ask your pardon for this hospitality, but we lost our fields last year,” the man kneeling before Darin said. He placed a wooden tray of dried fruit and nuts surrounding a piece of salt meat harder and darker than the tray in front of the Heir to the Minotaur, then rose and stepped back.
By the flickering torchlight, Darin saw that his men were as alert as they needed to be in a strange camp. He could give his attention to the leader without worrying about surprises from the other band’s men.
Men-and others. Somewhere in this land, over the last few generations, ogres had made free with human women more than a few times. Of the thirty men Darin had counted (without seeming to do so; doing that openly could bring on a fight at once), at least ten showed signs of ogre blood.
Among them was the leader, who had just placed the gift of food before Darin. He was as tall as Darin, and would have been nearly as broad and strong had hard labor and scant food not fought against ogre blood. Nor was he even truly ugly, let alone misshapen. Brow ridges, the shape of his skull, the jawline, and the matted hair that grew everywhere except where old scars seamed the leader’s skin were all he showed of the ogre look.
But they had been enough to make him an outlaw. Not a successful one, though, from the state of his men, their weapons, and their camp-not one, in short, who could afford to refuse an alliance if one were offered him.
Darin wished for the tenth time in as many days that he was holding the stronghold and Waydol was moving about the country, offering alliances to outlaw bands, lone robbers, and the merely discontented or wild-spirited all across the land. However, this could not be. No horse could carry Waydol, and the work needed to be done quickly.
Nor, in truth, were all the outlaws of this land well disposed toward minotaurs merely because they were ill disposed toward Istar, or whoever happened to claim lawful authority over the land. The Heir to the Minotaur did not arouse suspicion or anger, as the Minotaur himself might have done.
Darin motioned his men forward on each side of him. When they formed a half-circle, opened toward the half-ogre and his fire, Darin began to eat.
He felt no hunger to lend savor to the coarse food, but as he ate he saw his men looking across the fire to see when their food would be ready. He frowned. It did not seem likely that the half-ogre had a meal for another twelve men in his storehouses. He himself was eating entirely as a gesture of peace, but he was eating when his men were not, much against his custom, honor, and sense.
“Brother of the greenwood, may I ask of you two things?” he said to the half-ogre.
“All may be asked here, but as to what may be granted …”
“I understand. First, is Pedoon the name by which you are known, or the one by which you wish to be known?”
The leader ran a thumb across his brow ridges. “I’ve answered to Pedoon and nothing else for years. I don’t think I’d know you were talking to me if you used any other.”
“Very well, Pedoon. Then is there aught to eat in your camp for my men? If there is not, are we at liberty to hunt on your land, so that we need not choose between tightening our belts and eating them?”