The man beamed. “Yes, sir. All of us, and the children, too. And Tamis there—” He nodded at one of the others. “He was in the Foss militia two more years than I was.” He paused. “You’re one of Phelan’s captains, aren’t you? I saw a Phelani cohort pass by a while ago. Haven’t see one for the past few years; wondered if they were ever coming back.”
“Yes, I’m Captain Arcolin,” Arcolin said.
“So the Red Fox is back, is he?”
“No, not Phelan himself,” Arcolin said. “When you get to Valdaire, some of the rumors are true—he’s king of Lyonya now. I’m leading the Company.”
“Liss is hurt bad,” one of the other men said, coming up. “She won’t be able to walk.”
Arcolin led his horse closer. The woman on the ground had a lump on her head, but the worse injury was to her leg, trampled during the fight. The younger woman knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders to give her a sip of water.
“There’s a caravan headed east a ways behind me,” Arcolin said. “If we get you over onto the road, they may be able to help.”
His horse jerked up its head and looked back eastward. Arcolin looked along the road and saw a horseman approaching at speed, carrying a maroon and white pennant. Closer yet, he saw it was Sergeant Devlin, on one of the spare horses.
“Captain, what’s happened?” Devlin asked.
“Brigands,” Arcolin said, waving at the bodies on the ground. “Six of them attacked these travelers and me.”
“He came back to help us,” one of the men said. “Without him—”
Devlin looked at Arcolin, then pointedly at Arcolin’s mount with the helmet still hooked to the saddle. Arcolin grinned and shook his head. “No time,” he said. “This woman’s got a broken leg; she needs a physician. We’re a glass or less from Valdaire: ride in, tell the city guard what happened, and ask for a cart for them—”
“We don’t have money for a cart,” the man said.
“You’re still in Valdaire’s domain,” Arcolin said. “You can call on them for aid, since they haven’t cleared out those brigands.” To Devlin he said, “I’ll stay here until you return, then have you stay while I ride on to the cohort. I know they’ll be worried, but we can’t leave this party unprotected. If the caravan will lend me a few guards when they get this far, I’ll go ahead then.”
“At once, Captain,” Devlin said. He rode off at a canter. Arcolin unhooked his helmet, felt the slight dent where the sword had struck, felt inside—no change in the liner—and put it on. He checked the man who’d lost an arm—dead already from blood loss—and the two the travelers had downed. One still lived, unconscious; Arcolin finished him. Technically, he was due a bounty for proven brigands killed within the city’s outbounds, but he had no need for it, and these travelers did. He explained it to them.
“I don’t know what the current rate is, but I know the bounty’s still in effect.”
“But you killed some of them—”
“I have pay,” Arcolin said.
Before Devlin returned, the caravan appeared, trundling slowly along the road. Arcolin jumped the ditch with his mount again, and waited for them. They did not slow at first, but the caravan master climbed off the first wagon to speak to Arcolin.
“What is it? Someone in your colors rode by telling us there was danger ahead.”
“Brigands here—that party there has an injured woman, and we killed four of them—two got away into the woods.”
“So we keep moving and warn others, eh?”
“Yes, but I want to hire a couple of your guards to ward those travelers until the city sends a cart out for her. I need to go ahead and tell the cohort why I was delayed.”
The caravan master chewed his lips a moment. “Well. You are Phelan’s captain and you did give us warning. I can let you have two, but they must follow as soon as others come to help. And it will cost you a nata each.”
“Here.” Arcolin dug into his saddlebags and handed the man two natas.
“Jori! Baltis! Come down here.” Two guards slithered down from the loads atop their wagons. “These are good men,” the caravan master said, as they approached. “Four years with me on the road, and Jori knows wound care, as well.” He turned to them. “Stay and guard those people until help comes,” the caravan master said. “They fought off a brigand attack; there might be more.”
“The bounty for the four brigands killed so far goes to the travelers,” Arcolin said.
“Understood,” the caravan master said. He turned and jogged toward the front of the caravan, now three wagons ahead.
With the guards, Arcolin crossed the ditch again, this time on foot; his horse made no difficulty, hopping the deepest muck at the bottom and scrambling up the bank in two heaves of its hindquarters. It was dry again, breathing normally.
“These men will stand guard with you until a cart comes for her,” he said, nodding to the woman. “I must go now.”
“Gird’s grace go with you,” they all said in a ragged chorus. Arcolin mounted and turned his horse eastward again, letting the horse roll into a strong canter.
He caught up with the cohort at last, to the obvious relief of his new young captain; by then his mount was willing to walk quietly along as he explained what had happened. He did not mention leaving his helmet off; that story would be all over the cohort as soon as Devlin returned, he was sure.
The rest of the march to Cortes Vonja was uneventful as they followed the familiar trade road to Fossnir and Foss, then the river branch that led down the Immerest to Vonja and Silwan. The eve of the Spring Evener found them near enough Fossnir to see the bonfires on the city towers; Arcolin wondered where his old companions were. He imagined Kieri presiding over a formal celebration—blooding a ploughshare, perhaps, or a spade—and then lighting the ceremonial fire. If elves did that sort of thing. Dorrin, he was sure, would have a bonfire. As captain of the cohort, he cut his hand and blooded his own blade, then touched it to the others’. The next morning, the sun rose indecently early—with the others he had stayed up singing most of the night—and they went on.
Burek, though much younger, had all the qualities Aesil M’dierra had claimed, and Arcolin saw nothing in his manner that should have set off even the prickly Count of Andressat. Burek’s speech and behavior were both mannerly, respectful of all, without indicating any weakness. His sergeants liked him; Stammel, usually noncommittal about new officers, sought Arcolin out to commend the choice.
When they reached Cortes Vonja, the city militia commander, a man Arcolin remembered vaguely from the last year of the war against Siniava, explained why the militia needed help.
“It’s not like it was before,” he said. “No more campaigns of city against city, each one knowing why and when. Now it’s wandering troops, no allegiance but to themselves, some with a grudge against a city, and some without, but all hungry. Trade’s down—I’m sure you know that from over the mountains—and caravaners expect cities to patrol the trade roads and keep the brigands off ’em. There’ve even been attacks between here and Valdaire, if you can believe it.”
“I can,” Arcolin said. “I was in one. Brigands attacked a party of foot travelers in broad daylight, right beside the trade road, still in Valdaire’s outbounds.”
“With your cohort there?”
“No. I was riding alone, having been delayed leaving the city.”
“But you got away safely, I see,” the man said.
Arcolin felt a prickle of irritation. “We killed four of them,” he said. “The foot travelers were good with their staves.”
“You—pardon me, Captain, for my assumptions. I had forgotten the reputation of the Duke’s Company. You stopped to aid. That is exactly the attitude we need from the troops we hire, and so few have it—”
Arcolin, who remembered the Cortes Vonja militia scattering in disarray, said nothing, but their commander flushed a little.