“Well, then,” Arcolin said. “Tell them we don’t trust you, would not pay you, and intend to stay on the road, not go haring off across the fields like a bunch of novices.”
“Is that true?”
“I’m telling you,” Arcolin said. He gave a covert hand signal, saw it picked up and passed along. In moments, Stammel was just in view at the far side of the fire, but well back. Arcolin stood abruptly, as if out of patience. “Take these two to the perimeter and send them away,” he said to the nearest soldiers. “Tell the sentries I don’t want them lurking around the camp.” He threw out his hand, as if tossing them away, then turned and went into his tent. Would they go back to the village, or would they go to meet the brigand? He trusted that either way one of his own expert scouts could follow without detection.
Burek was still up, copying the day’s notes onto the map. Arcolin looked over his shoulder. The younger man had neat handwriting, the writing of someone who had been schooled early. “I’m almost done,” Burek said.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Arcolin said. “If there’s trouble, it’ll come after the turn of night. One of us must be fresh, and if we’re lucky I’ll have a report coming in within the turn of the glass.”
“Thank you, sir,” Burek said. Another few minutes, and he sat back, fanning the map with his hand to dry the ink. “That’s all, I think.” Arcolin looked again.
“Very good. If I get a report before your watch, I’ll add it myself.”
Burek followed him outside and disappeared in the direction of the jacks; Arcolin began a circuit of the sentry posts. This was their first truly hostile camp, though after the attack on the road, he had insisted on a camp defense even under the walls of Cortes Vonja. Here they’d erected a barrier of bramble and stakes.
Arcolin heard nothing he should not hear—their own animals munching grain in their nosebags, the familiar night sounds of the south—grassfrogs, treefrogs, various insects, a night-bird singing in the distance—were what they should be at this time of year. A light breeze eased across the camp, moving away the smells of men and armor, fire and food, and bringing a hint of cow dung, sheep, and the stronger smell of spring grass and herbs. He greeted each sentry, took a report, and went on to the next. At the sunrising post, opposite the camp entrance, he met Devlin, making a circuit the other way.
“All’s well summer-side, Captain,” Devlin said.
“All’s well, winter-side, Sergeant,” he said. They each continued their respective circuit, meeting again at the camp entrance, sunsetting.
“A quiet night,” Devlin said. “But watchful, I think. Or maybe I’ve been away too long.”
“I threw two rocks in the water,” Arcolin said. “I’d like to hear a splash.”
As if in answer, a distant cry broke through the gentler night noises. When it cut off, not a sound came from frogs, insects, birds, for what seemed a long time, then something went “crrrrick … crrrrick …” again.
Stammel appeared out of the darkness. “Trouble?” he said to Arcolin.
“I don’t know yet.” They waited another while in silence, and then Arcolin said, “I hope that wasn’t one of ours—” He stopped abruptly as one of the horses stamped, then snorted. Then he heard the footsteps running this way and laboring breath.
Devlin, Stammel, and the sentries kindled more torches; Arcolin squinted into the gloom and could just make out something moving, coming nearer. He hoped it was his people, but he couldn’t yet tell.
Then they were panting up to the entrance, gasping the password, with a dark form trussed up in a Phelani cloak between them. “Stupid clods of dirt-grubbers.” That was Vik, the wiry redhead who had been one of Paks’s close friends. “If they’d just said what you told them—but they didn’t, and the brigands killed them before we could do anything.”
“And who’s this?” Arcolin asked. The bundle appeared to be breathing, or trying to.
“The live brigand,” Tam said. “We didn’t think he ought to go back and tell his friends that someone had attacked them out of the dark. Might be bad for the villagers.”
“And we thought you might want him,” Vik added, dropping his end of the prisoner with no concern for the prisoner’s welfare. “He must live on rocks; he weighs as much as a bullock.”
“Is he wounded?”
“A knock on the head is all,” Tam said. “He should live, I think, but it was dark.” Arcolin had his doubts. Tam’s fist had killed men before.
“He was breathing when we wrapped him up,” Vik said.
“Stammel, take charge of the prisoner. If he lives, we’ll see what he has to say when he wakes up. Devlin, check the perimeter again and let’s set an extra guard on the stock. Tam, Vik, come with me.”
Their report was brief and simple: The two men from the village had gone through the village and then out in the fields, where they’d met two other men. They’d been asked about the cohort; they’d first answered as Arcolin suggested, but when challenged, they’d elaborated.
“One of them said they weren’t afraid anymore, because you were going to get rid of all the bandits. The other threatened those two—it was ridiculous. There they are, no weapons, no reserve force, and they’re challenging men they must know have killed a dozen times, more.”
“I’m surprised they were killed quickly,” Arcolin said.
“The dead brigand had a temper,” Vik said. “Whipped out his sword—one of those curved ones from the coastal region—and had the head off the first man, so the second brigand ran the other one through.”
“We didn’t realize in time,” Tam said. “They had just this little light, and it was the shine of the sword that we saw, too late. Then they started arguing with each other, and we got to them.”
“Who yelled?” Arcolin said.
“This one,” Vik said, with a jerk of his head toward the camp. “We got the first one, but this one yelled, and then Tam hit him. Twice.”
“He didn’t hold still,” Tam said, scuffing one boot in the ashes. “And he still had his blade.”
“So,” Arcolin said, “in the morning I get to explain to the village headman that two of his friends were killed by brigands right under our noses?”
“Not right under, sir,” Vik said. “Way off there, where there’s that block of woods.”
“They might think their two stumbled on a brigand and killed him, after he wounded them, and then they died,” Tam said.
“The one with no head helping his friend stab the brigand, you mean?” Arcolin asked.
“He could’ve thrown a rock, before,” Tam said. His brow wrinkled. “See, he hears something—he throws a rock, it hits the brigand, who cuts off his head, and then his friend—”
“Without making a sound, manages to stab the brigand with his nonexistent sword while being stabbed. Of course. I’m sure the village will see it that way. I, on the other hand, am aware how easy it is to kill an unarmed peasant with any decent blade. I don’t suppose you brought it along?”
“Only one,” Tam said, producing it from behind his back. “We left only one brigand, so we could leave only one blade.”
The curved blade had a deadly elegance; Arcolin hefted it with care, not only for its edge but the stench of death on the blade. He handed it back to Tam. “See that it’s clean, and wrap it so no one gets cut. Then get some sleep, both of you.”
In his tent, Burek snored lightly, deeply asleep; Arcolin made his own notations on the map and in his log, then went out to walk the perimeter again.
27
At the change of watch, Arcolin told Burek what had happened.
“I slept through that?” Burek looked ashamed.
“No harm done,” Arcolin said. “I may sleep through the next little problem. Wake me if you need me.”
He woke to the smell of breakfast cooking. That meant it was near dawn or after; the tent wasn’t as dark as it had been. He had one boot on when Burek poked his head into the tent. “Sir—good, you’re awake—”