Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (33 page)

Marek read the rest of the dispatches: news of troop movements and political maneuverings, a bull from the Primus denouncing the violence, reports on production and grain shipments. Marek smirked and snorted as he read the dispatches and tossed them one by one on the field desk in a small pile.
 

The last one seized his attention.
 

“I hate to think how much this cost Duchess Betina,” Marek said after he finished the dispatch. He shook his head and handed the paper to Gaston.

“What do you mean?” he asked, taking the dispatch and reading it himself.
 

“What is it, lords?” Aramand asked.

“She’s hired the Swans out from under Grantham,” Marek said. “They’re ours now, to do with what we please. And as if that weren’t enough, the Duchess has also hired the Battle Hags for us. Just to be certain, I’m sure.”
 

“Wonderful!” Aramand said. “We’ll have enough warriors to storm Oak Ridge outright. Then the door to Brynn will swing wide open for us.”
 

“Assuming our new allies in Berengal haven’t wrecked the Swans already,” Gaston said.
 

Marek rubbed the stubble on his jawline and chin, nodded, then turned to leave the tent.
 

“This certainly changes our circumstances,” he said. “I’m off to take a shit and think this through.”
 

“This means we’ll get Lord Rufus back,” Aramand said.
 

“Yes,” Marek said. “That’s splendid. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
 

Barryn and Delton pushed a cart full of burned timbers and dusty rubble toward a great pile in what used to be a market square. The once-busy public space was now a depot for scavenged building materials and rip-rap destined for the outer defensive works of the town. As quickly as the two crossbowmen dumped a load of rubble in the square, other mercenaries pushed another cart full of material out toward the earthen wall.
 

Other work gangs built emplacements jutting out of the crude fortification for the company’s artillery pieces and shored up the palisades atop the berm surrounding the town.
 

“Is this how you imagined the life of a knight, Good Sir Delton?” Barryn asked his squad mate as they chucked debris from the cart and onto the pile. He was beginning to warm to the husky mercenary, and they ribbed each other while they labored with the rubble. “Carting trash out of the road seems below your station.”
 

Delton helped Barryn pull a heavy length of wood out of the cart. “You can have it, Snowflake. I’d just as soon go back to lugging rocks around the farm and not have to worry about getting hacked to death for my trouble.”

“Soldiering must pay better than farming, I imagine,” Barryn said.
 

“It does that,” Delton said. “And folks take soldiers more seriously than they do farmers, that’s for sure. So what do barbarians do for a living?”
 

Barryn tensed at the slur, but he knew Delton meant no harm by it. “We call ourselves heathen, not barbarians. That’s an insult that castle dwellers hurl at us when they’re too afraid to fling a spear.”
 

“I’m sorry, Snowflake. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just what we call you people. So what do you do?”
 

Barryn grinned mischievously. “We eat babies and fuck our sisters.”
 

“Ha! That actually sounds kind of fun.”
 

“Not as much fun as fucking
your
sister.”
 

“At least the goats are safe,” Delton said. He reached into the cart, then recoiled with a curse.
 

“What is it?” Barryn asked and ran to Delton’s side to see.
 

“Are those little burned up ribs in there?”
 

Barryn sifted through the dirt and rocks in the bottom of the cart. “Gods. I think it’s a child. What’s left of him.”
 

Delton snatched a shovel out of one end of the cart and heaved the tiny ribcage and a spadeful of dirt onto the pile as if he were flinging a dead animal off of the steps of a farmhouse, then hurled the shovel at the pile.
 

Barryn pretended that he didn’t see Delton tearing up.
 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this shit, Snowflake,” Delton said. “Everywhere we go, there’s dead carcasses and body parts. If we aren’t digging them up or tripping over them, we’re lopping ‘em off of people while they’re still alive.”

“This is war, Delton. It’s just what we do.” The lame platitude nearly stuck in his throat.

“You can’t do this shit and be right in the head,” Delton said. “I just don’t see how the others do it.”
 

“Delton, the others
aren’t
right in the head. That’s how they do it.”
 

“I don’t know if I want to be like that, Snowflake.”
 

Barryn picked up the shovel and placed it gently in the cart. “It’s only a year, and not even that, really. Your contract will be up, and you can go anywhere you want. Save your money, sell your blade, and go buy a little farm somewhere. You can marry some milk maid with a wide ass and long hair and make 10 babies to run the farm for you.”
 

“That sounds really good, Snowflake,” Delton said. He dried his eyes, blew his nose on the sleeve of his doublet, and took up position next to Barryn to push the cart back to the rest of the detail. “How do you do it? You already act and sound like the veterans. It’s like you were born with a sword in your hand.”

“I am born Caeldrynn,” Barryn said with mock solemnity. “War is in our blood.”
 

Delton cracked a smile. They finished their shift in silence, and Barryn supposed Delton was lost in his own thoughts the same as he was. Truth be told, Barryn had stopped being horrified by the violence of combat very early. Now he felt…nothing. Even when he had killed the woman defending her wounded comrade, he felt none of the emotional turmoil that Delton was facing. His jangled nerves had forced him to empty his stomach on the floor, but afterwards he felt refreshed and ready to fight some more.
 

And for that, he was grateful. Barryn knew that he wasn’t becoming a heartless killer because he empathized with Delton and tried to cheer him up with the wise crack.
 

How can I joke around while we’re digging up burned body parts?
Barryn asked himself.
Maybe war
is
in our blood after all. Or maybe I am going crazy, too.

During evening formation, Lieutenant Delasarius announced to the platoon that the Black Swan Company had switched sides and that they would leave the town in the coming weeks to join their new employer’s march toward Oak Ridge. All Brynn colors were to be cased and turned in to the quartermaster, and the Company would begin flying Relfast’s colors effective immediately.
 

He paused to let the news sink in.

“Needless to say, every one of us will be drummed out of the Mercenaries Guild,” the Lieutenant said. “All we have now is each other, men. This is no bullshit, no poetic banality that’s supposed to make you feel better. Any hopes you had in this profession outside of the Black Swan Company are now at an end. Furthermore, every other Guild company will make it a point to deal harshly with us when we meet in battle. Being captured is no longer an option, and every fight we have from now on will be to the death. Squad leaders, make your people understand this. If you have any problems or questions, come see me.”
 

The news, however, was not all bad. The Lieutenant also informed his men that their pay would be doubled for this campaign as a result of the change of sides. And, as it happened, the platoon was on wall duty in two days—effectively, they had the next day off.

After the platoon was dismissed, Crossbow called Barryn and Delton behind the captured house in which the squad was billeted. Corporal Jarvik and the rest of the squad stood in a semicircle in the alley.
 

“The Lieutenant was serious about what he said, and he’s absolutely right,” Jarvik said. “If any of you have any doubts about where your loyalty lies, talk to me now before we march again. None of us will ever be safe outside of the Company from now on.”
 

“All due respect,” Hansid said, “but when the hell are we ever safe?”
 

“Fuck the Guild. We’re Black Swans!” Crossbow said. The rest nodded their agreement.
 

“Very well. Now the next order of business. Squad!
Fall in!
”

The mercenaries scrambled into line abreast at close intervals. “Snowflake and Sir Delton! One step forward, march! The rest of you, fall out and get them naked!”
 

Crossbow, Hansid, and the rest broke ranks with a chorus of whoops and ribald laughter and had Barryn Delton stripped to their braes and boots in less than a minute.
 

“What the hell are you doing?” Crossbow asked Delton when he tried to resist. “You’re at the position of attention! Nobody told you fall out!”
 

When the two mercenaries were in a proper state of undress, Jarvik took two pouches, each with a long leather thong, and looped them over the two nearly naked men’s heads. The pouches jingled with coins as they came to rest against the men’s sternums.

“We took up a collection for you two,” Jarvik said with a smile. “The rest of you, fall in on Snowflake and Delton! Now then. Right,
face
! Forward,
march
!”
 

Jarvik marched the squad past the other platoons’ billets and into the quartermasters’ area. Barryn tried to ignore the hollers and laughter from the other platoons. With growing excitement and alarm, he realized that Jarvik was marching them toward the prostitutes’ tents. At Jarvik’s order, they stopped and executed a right face. Several working women came out of their tents and giggled or catcalled at the mercenaries.

“Men, make sure they have a good time,” Jarvik said. Turning to Barryn and Delton, he said, “Welcome to the squad, new guys. Fall out!”
 

Magic was not gone from the world, Marek thought as he and his generals rode among the assembled ranks of his unified army. With a few scratches of inky pen on paper, Marek had caused the Black Swan Company and the Battle Hags to appear where they were bidden and more than doubled the size of his force.
 

He was suddenly able to take the Oak Ridge by direct assault. The transformation of disparate battalions of raiders into a true army was nothing short of miraculous. The only thing missing from the alchemical transformation was the puff of green smoke.
 

 
But the devils with whom Betina made this pact are far too subtle for green smoke
, Marek thought.
And they ride behind me disguised as loyal mercenary commanders
.

The inspection revealed to Marek the newfound strength of his army and the inherent weakness of his—and all the Dominions’—militaries. The formations of mercenaries Marek inspected silently exuded professionalism and discipline. Their banners were nearly identical save the numbers and glyphs denoting the subdivisions within the unit; their clothing and armor were uniform in color and design. By contrast, a vibrant and eclectic swath of colorful banners hovered over the heterogenous collection of units that comprised Marek’s feudal elements. Their armor and equipment ranged from non-existent to fabulously engraved plate with delicate gold accents, depending on the wealth and station of the wearer.
 

But the mercenaries’ demeanor set them apart from Marek’s troops even more than their kit. Beneath the Black Swans’ jaunty parade berets and the Battle Hag’s steel helms, the mercenaries’ eyes and faces showed nothing. Quiet professionalism, perhaps, if anything. There was a single-minded determination among the mercenaries to stand or hold their mounts perfectly still and look straight ahead during the inspection.
 

Marek could see fear, boredom, mild contempt, martial pride, blood lust, or pure stupidity in his own men’s faces and body language.
 

But they are men, not golems
.
Not machines built in the Imperial pattern of heartless efficiency, forged in the cold fires of bureaucracy
, Marek thought.
And that is why the Dominions will ultimately be free
.

Satisfied with what he saw, Marek released the army to their commanders and bid his generals follow him on a ride around the countryside surrounding the camp. Gaston, Aramand and Rufus rode next to him, while Alcuin Darkwood and the Morgane followed close behind. Six squires and valets rode a respectful distance behind them.
 

Marek led the party up a sparsely wooded hill overlooking the valley and the river bend in which the army camped.
 

“It is a strong position you have selected for the army,” Alcuin said.
 

“Yes,” Marek said. “But I did not bring you up here so that you can admire my formidable skills in selecting campsites. We are here so that we may speak to each other freely, away from the thousands of ears in the camp, and I shall begin. I trust none of you save Aramand. Rufus, you are simply incompetent. Gaston, you have spent most of this campaign joyriding, taking time to raid only when your supplies ran low. And you mercenaries—I trust Guild mercenaries as far as I can piss. And you are led by me, a man who is rumored to be half insane. And yet here we are together, within striking distance of Brynn. If history is to soon be made, it will be made by us. So let us air our grievances with each other on this hilltop and ride back down as conquerers.”
 

“You are wise to distrust the Black Swan Company, but they are no longer Guild mercenaries,” the Morgane said, shooting Alcuin a contemptuous glance. “The Battle Hags are yours to command so long as the contract is honored.”