“Armor up,” he said to Burek, back at the tent. “We’re going to scout the stream, on horseback to save time, while the cohort breaks fast.”
They rode up to the road first, looking for traces, but rain after the attack had washed away any traces between the camp and the road.
“Do you think they came on foot?” Burek said. “To coordinate, covering more ground …”
Arcolin shook his head. “I think they came at least partway ahorse. I’m hoping to find some evidence, and perhaps the horses will help us.” At that moment, his mount lifted its head and pointed its ears to the right, toward the stream. “Like that,” Arcolin said. He felt his mount’s sides swell and tremble, precursor to a whinny. He tapped the horse on the neck. “Quiet, you.”
Burek’s horse was looking the same direction; Burek slipped off and clamped the horse’s nostrils. Far to the east, Arcolin heard a distant whinny, then others nearer, from the direction of the camp. “At least three horses,” Burek said. “No … four, five …”
Arcolin raised his brows. “Are you that keen of hearing?”
“No, Captain. I spent years on a horse farm. Someone over there has a mare, and walked her past a stallion … that was the first whinny. They wanted to find out where our horses were.”
“Well … they don’t know we’re here, then. That’s good.” Arcolin rode on, attending to his horse’s reactions and to the look of the ground. There … a pile of wet, rained-on horse droppings. And there—a round hole, another, that could have been made only by horses carrying riders in the mud. The trail to the stream showed clearly when they came to it. Rain could not disguise the hoof-chopped leaves, the place where horse after horse had skidded a little on a steep downslope, creating a hillock at the bottom, the pock-marks of many hooves in the mud.
“Can you estimate how many?” Arcolin asked.
“Not more than a dozen, I think,” Burek said. He dismounted and looked more closely. “It’s muddled—they used this trail both ways, rode back over their tracks. Shod horses and barefoot both … this track’s distinctive, an unusual shoe. This … here’s a barefoot horse with a bad flare on the right fore. Much work in this muck and it’ll go lame.” He walked up and down the track while Arcolin held his horse, bending now and then to measure a track with his hand. When he came back he held a shoe, bent nails hanging from it.
“This one will definitely go lame if they don’t have a farrier,” he said. “I still think ten to twelve, and that they rode double on the way in—the few good tracks I could find pointing to the road were much deeper, even after the rain.” He put the horseshoe in his saddlebags and remounted. “The horses aren’t that good. By the hoofmarks, most have some problem. Bought cheap at a horse fair, I’m thinking, and overdue for hoof work.”
Arcolin reined around and they headed back for the road and camp. “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about horses.”
“It’s why I tried a cavalry company first,” Burek said. “I thought my background would be useful there.”
“Why not horse breeding or training?” Arcolin asked.
“I didn’t want to stay in one place,” Burek said. “And besides—I also like swords and fighting.” They were up at the road by then. “I had the chance, sir … to stay, to become a horsemaster … but it would be the same thing the rest of my life, year after year. I had seen the local militia drilling, and later saw the armies come through, in the war against Siniava. Including this one.”
“Where was that?” Arcolin asked. “We covered a lot of ground that last year.”
“Andressat,” Burek said. “That’s why the Count made complaint of me, I’m sure, when I was sent back there with troops he’d hired. I’d hoped he wouldn’t recognize me as a man grown, but he did, or someone else did, and told him.”
Arcolin had hoped Burek would mention Andressat and clear up that mystery; he had not expected this. “You were a horsemaster’s son?”
Burek nodded. “Though there were rumors, my looks being different than my father’s. At any rate, I grew up in the stables and fields of Andressat’s stud. As I grew older, the Count approved my work and named me successor to my father. The other prentices said it was only because my father was not my real father, and said things about my mother—and then there was a fight, and I was punished for it. So I ran off for a few days, and when I went back, the Count declared me outlaw and I left forever.”
“Are you angry with him?” Arcolin asked.
“Not anymore. At the time—I was sixteen perhaps—I thought it was unfair and hated him heartily, but he did me a greater favor than he knew and I’m grateful for it now. I like horses and I know a lot about them, but I found my true calling when I left.”
Arcolin looked at him. “Did you ever see your family again?”
“No. My duties with Golden Company sent me nowhere near the stud, and I was still hoping to go unnoticed. I sent messages—twice—but with no answer. Likely they were glad to be quit of me. My father never understood wanting to swing a sword.”
The camp was in sight now, busy and orderly, the thorn barrier repaired, sentries in their daytime locations.
“We have a choice,” Arcolin said. “We can spend the day pursuing them—though they have a good lead and know the ground better than we do—or we can move on and see what the next village tells us. Or we can sit here, as if planning to stay awhile. What would you do?”
As Arcolin expected, Burek was able to lay out reasons for and against each choice. “I don’t think I’d pursue them,” he said finally. “Too much chance of ambush, and on ground they know, they can move faster than we can. Staying—they’ll move away, won’t they?”
“They may move some of their force away, but they’ll need to keep an eye on us,” Arcolin said. “What I would worry about, given their use of poison so far, is whether they have the means to poison the water. We hurt them; that makes some men hot for revenge.” They had come to the camp entrance by then. Arcolin dismounted and led his horse to the horse lines. Burek followed, handed the roan to one of the grooms then went to see his other mount. It whuffled at him and he leaned to check the gash on its chest then breathed into its nostrils.
“So we move?” Burek asked on the way back to their tent.
“Yes,” Arcolin said. “After the promotion assembly.”
The newly promoted privates fairly glowed with pride—they were the ones actually engaged against the enemy—and the remaining recruits looked ready to attack any number of troops if only they could earn promotion. Arcolin glanced back as he led the cohort away from the camp, well pleased with their appearance. It still felt strange to have no one over him—no Kieri Phelan to approve what he had done, or correct his errors. It felt strange to have no other cohorts, too. He imagined himself coming down next year with another cohort to join this one, perhaps Cracolnya’s, to give him archery support.
The day brightened as the morning wore on, clouds lifting and thinning. The scouts reported nothing alarming; the next village, as they neared it, looked placid enough. His horse pricked its ears, and mules brayed ahead. Mules? The peasants here did not use mules, but oxen, in their fields.
In the village, he found two wagons blocking the way. Four armed men stood before them, obviously frightened but determined, a motley group with a tall skinny black-haired man on one end. Behind them, an obvious merchant and someone who might be an assistant or family member.
“Who are you?” one of the armed men said.
“Duke Phelan’s Company,” Arcolin said. “Hired by Cortes Vonja to restore peace to the countryside. And you?”