The Tale of Krispos (7 page)

He rubbed again. A beard, even a thin one, was a useful thing to be thoughtful with. Last time out in the woods, somewhere not far from here, he’d spotted an elm branch that had exactly the right curve for a plow handle. He would have paid more attention to it had he not been with a girl.

That oak looked familiar, or so he thought till he got close to it. He walked on. He didn’t remember the hazel tree beyond the oak. Sighing, he kept walking. By now he was sure he had come too far, but he didn’t want to go back, either. It would have been too much like an admission of failure.

Faint in the distance, he heard noise ahead. He frowned. Few villagers came this far east of home. He’d brought Likinia out here precisely because he had felt sure they’d get to be alone. He supposed men from the next village over could be doing some lumbering, but they’d have to drag the wood a long way back if they were.

The noise didn’t sound like lumbering, anyhow. He heard no axes, no sounds of falling branches or toppling trees. As he moved closer, a horse neighed softly. That confused him worse than ever. A horse would have been handy for hauling timber, but there was no timber.

What did that leave? His frown deepened—the most obvious answer was bandits. He hadn’t thought the nearby road had enough traffic to support a robber band, but he could have been wrong. He kept moving toward the noise, but now with all the caution he could muster. He just wanted to see if these really were bandits and then, if they were, to get back to the village and bring as many armed men here as he could.

He was flat on his belly by the time he wriggled up to the last brush that screened him from the noisemakers, whoever they were. Slowly, slowly, he raised his head until he could peer between two leafy branches whose shadows helped hide his face.

“Phos!” His lips shaped the word, but no sound came from between them. The men relaxing by the side of the road were not bandits. They were Kubratoi.

His lips moved silently again—twelve, thirteen, fourteen Kubratoi. The village had not had any word of invasion, but that meant nothing. The first word of trouble they’d had when he was a boy was the wild men howling out of darkness. He shivered; suddenly, reliving the terror of that night, he felt like a boy again.

The remembered fear also told him what he had wondered before—why the Kubratoi were sitting around taking their ease instead of storming straight for the village. They would hit at night, just as that other band had. With the advantage of surprise, with darkness making them seem three times as many as they really were, they would be irresistible.

Krispos gauged the shadows around him as he slithered backward even more carefully than he had approached. The sun was not far past noon. He could deal with the Kubratoi as he’d intended to treat the bandits. The villagers had learned weapons from the veterans settled with them to be ready for just this sort of moment.

Soon Krispos was far enough away from the wild men to get back to his feet. Fast and quiet as he could, he headed toward the village. He thought about cutting back to the road and running down it. That would be quickest—if the Kubratoi didn’t have a sentry posted somewhere along there to make sure no one gave the alarm. He decided he could not take the chance. Through the woods it would have to be.

He burst out of the forest an hour and a half later, his tunic torn, his arms and face scratched. His first try at a cry of alarm yielded only a rusty croak. He rushed over to the well, drew up the bucket, and drank deep. “The Kubratoi!” he shouted, loud as he could.

The men and women who heard him spun and stared. One of them was Idalkos. “How many, boy?” he barked. “Where?”

“I saw fourteen,” Krispos told him. “Down at the edge of the road…” He gasped out the story.

“Only fourteen, you say?” A fierce light kindled in Idalkos’ eyes. “If that’s all there really are, we can take ’em.”

“I thought so, too,” Krispos said. “You get the people here armed. I’ll go out to the fields and bring in the rest of the men.”

“Right you are.” Idalkos had been an underofficer for many years; when he heard orders that made sense, he started carrying them out without worrying about where they came from. Krispos never noticed he’d given an order. He was already running toward the largest group of men that he saw, shouting as he ran.

“The Kubratoi!” someone said fearfully. “How can we fight the Kubratoi?”

“How can we not?” Krispos shot back. “Do you want to go back to the other side of the mountains again? There’s only a dozen or so of them, and they won’t be expecting us to hit first. With three times as many men as they have, how can we lose? Idalkos thinks we can win, too.”

That brought around some of the farmers who stood there indecisively. Soon they all went pounding back toward the village. Idalkos and a couple of other men were already passing out weapons when they got there. Krispos found himself clutching a shield and a stout spear.

“We go through the woods?”

Idalkos made it sound like a question, but Krispos did not think he was really asking. “Aye,” he said. “If they have someone watching the road, he could ride back and warn the rest.”

“Right you are,” Idalkos said again. He went on, “And speaking of warning—Stankos, you saddle up one of those mules and ride for Imbros, fast as you can, cross-country. If you see the whole landscape crawling with Kubratoi, come back. I’m not sending you out to get yourself killed. But if you think you can make it through, well, I wouldn’t mind seeing a few garrison soldiers up this way. How about the rest of you lads?”

Nods and nervous grins showed him his guess was good. The villagers had nerved themselves to fight, but they were not eager.

Or most of them, the older, more settled farmers, were not. They kept looking back at the fields; their homes; their wives and daughters, who crowded round the knot of would-be warriors, some just standing silently, others wringing their hands and trying not to weep.

Krispos, though, was almost wild with excitement. “Come on!” he shouted.

Some of the other young men also raised a cry. They pelted after Krispos into the woods. The rest of the villagers followed more slowly. “Come on, come on, if we all fight we can do it,” Idalkos said. He and Varades and the rest of the veterans kept their amateur companions moving.

Before long, Idalkos had pushed his way up beside Krispos. “You’re going to have to lead us, at least till we get to the buggers,” he said. “You’re the one who knows where they are. It’d be good if we tried to get as quiet as we could
before
we’re close enough that they’re likely to hear us.”

“That makes sense,” Krispos said, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it himself. “I’ll remember.”

“Good.” Idalkos grinned at him. “Glad you’re not too proud to use a notion just on account of somebody else thought of it.”

“Of course not,” Krispos said, surprised. “That would be stupid.”

“So it would, but you’d be amazed how many captains are idiots.”

“Well, but then I’m no cap—” Krispos paused. He seemed to be leading the villagers, if anyone was. He shrugged. It was only because he’d been the one to find the Kubratoi, he thought.

He was still a mile away from the wild men when he walked past the elm with the curving branch he’d been looking for. He tried to note just where the tree was. Next time, he told himself, he’d find it on the first try.

A few minutes later, he stopped and waited for everyone to catch up. Only then did he think to wonder if there would be a next time after the fight ahead. He sternly suppressed that thought. Turning to the farmers, he said, “It isn’t far. From here on out, pretend you’re hunting deer—quiet as you go.”

“Not deer,” Varades said. “Wolves. The Kubratoi have teeth. And when we hit ’em, we all yell ‘Phos!’ That way nobody has any doubts about who’s who. Nothing to make you want to piss your breeches faster’n almost getting killed by your own side.”

The villagers stole forward. Soon Krispos heard men chattering, heard a horse snort. His comrades heard, too, and looked at one another. The Kubratoi were making no secret of where they were. “Quiet as we can now,” Krispos whispered. “Pass it along.” The whisper traveled through the group.

Try as they would, the farmers could not keep their presence secret as long as they wanted. They were still more than a hundred yards from the Kubratoi when the buzz of talk from the wild men suddenly changed. Idalkos bared his teeth, as if he were a fox realizing a rabbit had taken its scent. “Come on, lads,” he said. “They know we’re here. Phos!” The last word was a bellowed war cry.

“Phos!” The villagers shouted, too. They crashed through the brush toward the Kubratoi. “Phos!” Krispos yelled as loud as anyone. The idea of rushing into battle was enormously exciting. Soon, he thought, he would be a hero.

Then the brush was gone. Before Krispos could do more than catch sight of the Kubratoi, an arrow hissed past his face and another grazed his arm. He heard a meaty
thunk
as a shaft pierced a man beside him. The farmer fell, shrieking and writhing and clawing at it. Fear and pain suddenly seemed realer than glory.

Whether for glory or not, the fight was still before him. Peering over the top of his shield, he rushed at the nearest wild man. The Kubrati snatched for an arrow. Perhaps realizing he could not shoot before Krispos was upon him, he threw down the arrow and grabbed his sword.

Krispos thrust with his spear. He missed. The Kubrati closed with him. As much by luck as by skill, he turned the fellow’s first slash with his shield. The Kubrati cut at him again. He backpedaled, trying to get room to use the spearhead against the wild man. The Kubrati pursued. Feinting with the sword, he stuck out a foot and tripped Krispos.

He managed to keep his shield above him as he went down. Two villagers drove the wild man away before he could finish Krispos. Krispos scrambled to his feet. A couple of Kubratoi were down for good, and two or three villagers. He saw a man from north of the mountains trading sword strokes with Varades. Fighting a veteran, the wild man was fully occupied. He never noticed Krispos until the youth’s spear tore into his side.

The wild man grunted, then stared in absurd surprise at the red-dripping spearpoint that burst out through his belly. Then Varades’ sword bit his neck. More blood sprayed; some splashed Krispos in the face. The Kubrati folded in on himself and fell.

“Pull your spear out, boy!” Varades yelled in Krispos’ ear. “You think they’re going to wait for you?” Gulping, Krispos set a foot on the wild man’s hip and yanked the spear free. The soft resistance the Kubrati’s flesh gave reminded him of nothing so much as butchering time.
No, no glory here,
he thought again.

All across the small field, the villagers were swarming over the Kubratoi, two against one here, three against one there. Individually, each Kubrati was a better warrior than his foes. The wild men seldom got the chance to prove it. Soon only four or five of them were left on their feet. Krispos saw one look around, heard him yell something to his comrades.

Though he’d never learned the Kubrati tongue, he was sure he knew what the wild man had said. He shouted, “Don’t let them make it back to their horses! They still might get away.”

As he spoke, the Kubratoi broke off combat and ran toward the tethered animals. Along with the rest of the villagers, Krispos dashed after them. He wondered why they hadn’t mounted and fled when they first heard the villagers coming; probably, he supposed, because they’d imagined farmers would be easy meat. That had been true a decade ago. It wasn’t true anymore.

Krispos speared one of the Kubratoi in the back. The man flung his arms wide. Three villagers piled onto him. His scream cut off. In a moment, the rest of the Kubratoi were dragged down and slain. A couple of villagers took cuts in the last frantic seconds of the fight, but none seemed serious.

Krispos could hardly believe the little battle had ended so abruptly. He stared this way and that for more wild men to kill. All he saw was farmers doing the same thing. “We won!” he said. Then he started to laugh, surprised at how surprised he sounded.

“We won!” “By Phos, we won!” “We beat ’em!” The villagers took up the cry. They embraced, slapped one another on the back, showed off cuts and bruises. Krispos found himself clasping hands with Yphantes. The older farmer wore an enormous grin. “I saw you get two of the bastards, Krispos,” he said. “By the good god, you made me jealous. I think I wounded one, but I’m not even sure of that.”

“Aye, he fought well,” Idalkos said.

Praise from the veteran made Krispos glow. He also found he did not mind praise from Yphantes. Whether or not the man who had married Zoranne was jealous of Krispos, Krispos was no longer jealous of him. Zoranne remained special in his memory, but only because she had been his first. What he’d felt for her at fourteen seemed very far away after three years of growth and change.

Such thoughts fled as Krispos saw his father coming up with right hand clutched to left shoulder. Blood trickled between Phostis’ fingers and splashed his tunic. “Father!” Krispos exclaimed. “Are you—”

Phostis cut him off. “I’ll live, boy. I’ve done worse to myself with a sickle more than once. I’ve said often enough that I’m not cut out for this soldiering business.”

“You’re alive. That’s what counts,” Idalkos said. “And while you may not want to soldier, Phostis, your boy here has the knack for it, I’d say. He sees what needs doing and he does it—and if it’s giving an order, men listen to him. That’s Phos’ own gift, nothing else—I’ve seen officers without it. If ever he wanted to head to Videssos the city, the army’d be glad to have him.”

“The city? Me?” Krispos had never even imagined traveling to the great imperial capital. Now he tasted the idea. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’d sooner farm. It’s what I know. Besides, I don’t fancy killing any more than my father does.”

“Neither do I,” Idalkos said. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t needful sometimes. And, like I told you, I think you’d make a good soldier.”

“No, thanks. All I really want to make is a good crop of beans this year, so we don’t go hungry when winter comes.” Krispos spoke as firmly as he could, both to let Idalkos know he meant what he said and to reinforce that certainty in his own mind.