Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (15 page)

“Mercenaries?” Barryn asked. “Ow! What are mercenaries? Ach!”

“What are mercenaries?” Jesse asked in a mock heathen accent. “Mercenaries are freebooting soldiers of fortune, lad. They fight for the highest bidder, if they feel like fighting at all that season. Mercenaries fight when they’re
asked
, not when they’re told. They don’t kowtow to some master’s whims like the Imperial army and the lords’ vassals. They’re the only truly free men there are, if you ask me.”

“You undisciplined dogs,” the other watchman said. “If you want freedom and high pay—when it comes—go be a mercenary. If you want steady wages and guaranteed victory, you join the Imperial Army.”

Jesse scoffed. “Sure, victory is assured when all you do is keep the roads clear of bandits. Did you ever fight a real opponent, Farley?”

“None dare face the might of the Empire!” Farley said.
 

“See, lad, that’s what all these ex-Imperials say,” Jesse laughed. “What they mean is, ‘Gee, I wish I had balls enough when I was young to join a mercenary company!’ Then you can tell stories like the ones me and Sojak have. No shit, there I was…”

Farley scoffed. “This one again? Isn’t the boy in enough pain?”

“Not any pain like those fuckers in Hastrus were in after we got hold of ‘em at Victoria’s Crossing,” Jesse said. “So me and Sojak was in the Black Swan Company. This was before I got hurt and Sojak found religion. The Company had been hired by a count in Aternis to help settle a score over the border in Hastrus. I never knew what their fight was over, and I never asked. Didn’t fucking matter. Anyway, me and Sojak were armored up and set on our destriers, lances pointed to the sky, ready to charge the Hastrus infantry with the rest of the heavy horse. Then our sergeant lifts his visor and says, ‘Oh, hell no. Where the fuck’s their cavalry?’ So he and the other sergeants put their heads together real quick and then send a rider to the commander. ‘They’re going to hit our flank,’ was the message. Commander sent the rider back telling the sergeant ‘You have got your orders. Charge at the signal.’ The sergeant—yeah, bite down on this stick, lad. I know it hurts like a fucker. Anyway, the sergeant points off to our right says, ‘Fuck that, they’re going to hit us on the right flank. They’re going to come right between those two little hills.’ He rides out in front and tells all of us, ‘When you hear the bugles sound for the charge, wheel right and follow me.’ So sure enough, commander sounds ‘charge’ and we wheel right and walk the horses forward behind the sergeant. The commander sends a couple of staff officers to ride up to us and ask us what the fuck we think we’re doing. Then, lo and behold, over the next rise comes galloping the flower of the Hastrus chivalry, right at us. They was trying to roll our flank, you see. So the sergeant lifts his lance, waves the flag signal to charge, and we charge right into ‘em. Those poor staff officers were caught up in it! One moment they’re threatening our sergeant and the rest of us with the lash, the next they’re charging right beside him into the mess! We caught those poor bastards off guard, and then it was assholes and elbows, lad. I speared some banneret like a fish, and poor Sojak busted his lance on the first blow! Then out came our swords, and the real fun started. We scattered their cavalry, then came wheeling back left to roll up
their
flank, like they tried to do to us. The commander saw what was happening and had off two volleys from our crossbowmen by the time we made it to the main body. Those poor sons of bitches were pulling crossbow bolts out of their comrades’ asses when we charged in, and the rout began.”

Jesse sighed and gave an almost wistful smile. “You see, for all the rain and cold and shit food you have to suffer through, it’s fights like that what make this profession all worth it.”

Barryn muttered something, and Jesse took the bite stick out of his mouth. “What happened to your sergeant?”

“Well, he had saved all our skins that day,” Sojak said. “After the battle, the commander punched him in the jaw for disobeying him, then promoted him to lieutenant right there. His name is Alcuin Darkwood, and he runs the Company now. Good man.”

When Sojak was done, he gave Barryn instructions to keep his arm clean and wrapped lightly during the day, but to leave it uncovered at night so it can get air. He made a sling out of an old cravat and told Barryn to keep his arm near his heart for several days while it healed. “And pray for health,” Sojak said. “I only stitched up your hide. With Mahurin alone rests health and all good things.”
 

“So what are you going to do when your indenture is up?” Jesse asked as Barryn got up to leave the guardhouse.
 

That was almost a year away, and Barryn had been too busy learning and adapting to think that far ahead. “I don’t know, sir.”
 

“You’re a scrappy fighter and tough as boot leather,” Jesse said. “You should join one of the mercenary companies. I’m partial to our mates in the Black Swan Company, but all the Guild companies are good outfits.”
 

Barryn walked back to the House of Portia in the morning’s cheerful daylight considering what the watchmen had said. He would never be a druid—that much was certain. Perhaps he could yet be a warrior. He walked on in the warming morning. His purse was tucked away inside his clothes, and his good hand rested on the pommel of the robber’s dagger the watchmen had given him as a souvenir.
 

Grantham rode through the gates of Brynn at the head of his entourage, travel-stained as his followers and just as glad to be home after nearly a month on the hard road. The band of 20 nobles and their squires had ridden north on the main Imperial road through Hastrus and turned south to avoid the Shoraz-Athar Rift, a thousand-mile long channel rimmed with steep mountains that cut the Mergovan Empire almost in half. Only one abandoned road led to a pass and an ancient bridge that crossed that great rift—or used to, if the histories were to be trusted. Travelers avoided that road because it was a favorite haunt for bandits. Those foolish enough to run its gauntlet of treacherous wilderness and savage brigands met the wrath of the fearsome M’Tarr, the scaled, ruddy-skinned people of the Shoraz-Athar. If any had even seen the bridge in a century, they had not returned to their countrymen to tell of its condition. The M’Tarr, it seemed, had long memories.
 

Grantham’s party had avoided trouble with the bandits and made good time along the well-maintained road. The Imperial government, he mused, perhaps had some value after all.
 

“Clarice!” the duke greeted his daughter, a beautiful young woman of 17, when the cavalcade entered the gate of his villa. He dismounted and kissed his daughter’s cheeks. Stewards took hold of the knights’ horses and led them to the stables, and the wagons trundled off behind the great house to be unloaded and put up.
 

“I have a bath and a hot meal ready for you, Father,” she said. “The servants saw you coming through the city gate and ran straight home to tell me.”

“Your embrace is all the warmth my tired old bones need right now, Clarice,” he said, smiling down at her. “The villa looks to be in excellent order under your management. What news of your mother? Pack a trunk—we shall go see her at the estate as soon as I report to Lady Drucilla.”

“Mother is doing very well,” Clarice said. “She is ruling the estate in your absence with an iron fist.”

Grantham laughed and walked with his daughter toward the great house. “Then I must needs liberate my holdfast from the usurper with all haste. A brisk spanking to her bottom will make your mother docile enough.”

“Father! You lecherous old man. My dear mother is pure as the driven snow—a virgin who immaculately conceived me and Corrine,” Clarice said. She paused. “Gareth was conceived the regular way.”
 

“There is nothing immaculate about you three rascals, and especially not your mother,” Grantham said. He sighed and stroked his daughter’s hair. “We’ve been married more than 20 years, and I still miss her as much as ever when I have to be away.”

“I know, Papa. I miss her, too, even though I enjoy managing the villa,” Clarice said. “I even miss Corrine and Gareth, but don’t tell them.”

“I won’t breathe a word to them,” Grantham said. “Tell me all the family gossip I’ve missed—after I take that bath.”
 

Grantham set out early the next morning to meet the governor and render his report of this year’s council. He entered the great hall of the Governor’s Palace behind the chamberlain and found Lady Drucilla of the Rivers in a dark mood. She sat on a carved wooden throne set up on a dais at the far end of the hall. The yellows and blues in her brocaded dress accentuated her dark skin and long, tightly braided hair but did little to brighten her stern countenance.
 

Bishop Tarnez stood beside the governor on the dais affecting an air of calm condescendence mastered by princes of the Church. The cleric wore a gleaming cuirass with a golden Sun of Mahurin dominating the breastplate. A white woolen cloak attached to sun-disk conchos on his breastplate hung over his shoulders and brushed the stone floor. Grantham noticed with artfully concealed surprise that the bishop had shaved his head.
The call for church reform must be gaining real momentum if even our good bishop is moved to join the Knob Heads,
Grantham thought.

“My lady, brother bishop, I am pleased to render a full accounting of the annual Imperial Council,” Grantham said, and handed a bound roll of papers to the chamberlain.
 

“Do not concern yourself with the petty details, Duke Grantham,” Drucilla said. “We are on the brink of war with Relfast. We must prepare the realm.”
 

“My lady, we have at least a year to do so,” Grantham said. “All provinces voted this year to uphold the peace. The sanctions that the Imperial Seat can levy on those who break the peace are becoming more and more severe.”

Drucilla laughed mirthlessly and leaned forward in the throne. “What ‘empire’ do you speak of? And what ‘sanctions?’ When I see the Mergovan Eagle, it is carried by pompous road patrolmen or stamped on worthless pieces of paper. Duke Grantham, the rivalry between Brynn and Relfast is older than the Mergovans’ false empire and of far more consequence. And I intend to bring the rivalry to an end.”

“So, I am sure, does Lord Torune,” Grantham said. Now that he was safely behind Brynn’s walls, he felt safe using the title “lord” rather than “governor,” a title none recognized within the dominions. “We must be circumspect as we raise money and mobilize for the coming war.”

Drucilla raised her eyebrows. “You are uncharacteristically bellicose, Grantham. Do you actually advise in favor of war for once?”

“No, my lady,” he said. “But you are correct. War indeed is coming. Duchess Betina all but told me so. But the fact remains that we are resolved to peace this year, and we will find ourselves cut off from the Imperial roads and shunned by the guilds if Mergova suspects we are mobilizing for war. Relfast, of course, labors under the same restrictions.”

“Yes,” Drucilla said. “But we have a source of income that Relfast does not. I shan’t bother to check the tax ledgers to confirm this, but I am certain that the heathen tribes are far in arrears. Take what you need from the treasury to put the best mercenary companies you can find on retainer. They shall guard our borders with Relfast while you and Bishop Tarnez collect the clans’ back taxes—with penalties and interest, of course. I have already instructed your fellow dukes to quietly lay in provisions and to ensure their vassals are ready to muster when the time comes to march.”
 

Bishop Tarnez affected look of concern. “You seem ill at ease with Lady Drucilla’s instructions, Duke Grantham.”
 

“The clans will not pay willingly,” Grantham said. “At best, we risk losing good knights and Templars fighting the barbarians in their wooded highlands. At worst, we invite counterattacks all along the western marches.”
 

The bishop smiled. “Aye, we shall loose good men in the heathen woods. But there will be no counterattacks. While the secular knights are collecting what is due for the Brynn coffers, we Templars will be evangelizing to the heathen, leading them from their warlike, benighted ways and into the glorious light of Mahurin.”

“And if they do not accept your evangelizing?” Grantham asked, barely concealing his incredulity.
 

“Then they shall meet their false gods in the darkness of oblivion,” the bishop said. “And their treasure shall be forfeit.”
 

“It is said that you are a timid rabbit at the planning table, but a ravenous wolf in battle,” Bishop Tarnez said to Duke Grantham as they rode at the head of their combined force, a column more than 200 lances strong. The hot winds of summer now replaced the cool breezes of the springtime—it had taken that long to summon the men and organize them into a cohesive force.

More than 500 men rode behind the duke and the bishop. Each lance consisted of a knight or a Templar, his squire, and sometimes another man-at-arms. Pennons fluttered above the column when the breeze mercifully picked up, and the brutal sun shone on polished armor and gleaming weapons. Behind the column of horsemen labored scores of wagons, some laden with supplies for the expedition and others empty in anticipation of the barbarians’ tribute.
 

“Only a prince of the Temple would dare utter such words to a man of my station,” Grantham said wearily.
 

“I do not say such things, Duke,” the bishop said. “I only report to you what others say beyond your earshot. And I think it is a compliment, back-handed though it is.”
 

Grantham decided to take the bait and turned to look at the bishop. “Oh?”

“You are cautious, Grantham,” Tarnez said matter-of-factly. “You do not waste lives and treasure needlessly. By staying out of petty feuds and reckless adventures over the years, you have built up stores of goodwill among the nobility of Brynn. When you do go afield, it is with loyal peers in whom you inspire deeds of valor. That has earned you the admiration of even your bitterest enemies from Relfast and Hastrus. In short, you are deservedly the right hand of Lady Drucilla.”