Demontech: Rally Point: 2 (Demontech Book 2) (21 page)

“But we restrained our blows, sir!” one of the guardsmen objected. “To avoid badly injuring one of your soldiers.” The Skraglanders and Zobrans burst into laughter.

Fletcher instantly jumped in the face of the guardsman who’d spoken up. “These soldiers are professionals!” he roared. “You could lay a blade on them only by sheerest accident!”

The guardsman quailed.

“Now, change defenders,” he bellowed, “and this time
try
to hit them. Try hard!” He signaled to the soldiers, who laughingly formed up to attack the guards again.

The other squad of swordsmen and the squad of lancers, dismounted, set their formation in two ranks, swordsmen in front of the lancers who leveled their lances between the swordsmen.

The soldiers conferred among themselves for a moment, then faced the guards and charged in two ranks of their own, the Zobrans in front of the Skraglanders. The Zobrans stopped short of the guards and fenced at the lance points with their wooden swords. Angry at the taunting, Eikby’s lancers pushed ahead to get their weapons close enough to break past the Zobran swords, crowding their swordsmen ahead of them as the attackers pulled back. In seconds, their ranks were confused and the Skraglanders in the rear rank shouted then ran around the sides of the deteriorating guard formation and fell upon it from behind. In seconds, all the Eikby Guards were on the ground or staggering beneath blows from the wooden swords.

“Stop!”
Fletcher bellowed, red in the face. “What happened to your discipline? You fell for one of the oldest tricks swordsmen play against spears and pikes! Always remember to maintain your ranks and your discipline, or you will be killed as quickly as you would have been now if these soldiers hadn’t been using practice blades!”

Snorting heavily, he turned from the guards and stomped over to Spinner, Haft, and Stonearm. His chest heaved as he brought his breathing back under control. Normal color quickly returned to his face and he grinned at the trio.

“Captain, your men are willing enough, but they don’t know the first thing about fighting.”

“I’m not surprised,” Stonearm said sadly. “It’s as I keep saying—I was never allowed to give them proper training.” He paused, looking speculatively at Fletcher. “I mean no offense, you’re doing a good job, but do you have experience in training troops?”

Fletcher shook his head.

“But you do know fighting. I know fighting
and
training. Together, I think we can quickly teach them the basics, would you agree?”

Fletcher’s grin broadened. He, too, recognized the sergeant that Stonearm used to be. “I do indeed.”

“Then shall we?” He turned to Spinner and Haft. “May I?”

“Please do.”

“All ranks, form on me!” Stonearm called out in a drill sergeant’s voice as he strode toward the guards. “Now that you know you
don’t
know how to fight, we are going to teach you how
to
fight.”

Haft looked at Spinner and saw the sadness on his face. Whether it was because of the guardsmen’s fighting ability or the way Alyline and Doli had assaulted him, Haft didn’t care. He slapped Spinner’s shoulder and said, “Come on, my friend. We don’t know any more about how to train fighters than Fletcher does, and we both need a drink. Let’s visit that inn. We can get a meal, too. I’m hungry.”

Spinner nodded morosely and followed Haft into the center of Eikby.

The Middle of the Forest Inn was the second largest building in Eikby, but not by much. It had to be large to accommodate the large, heavily armed, groups that were all that could traverse the forest with any degree of safety from the bandit bands. Attended cloakrooms stood to each side of the main entrance. A prominent sign barred entry to the corridor that led to the main common room, two smaller commons, and the private dining rooms. Between them, they had just enough written Zobran to translate it:

ALL WEAPONS
ARE TO BE
CHECKED WITH
THE CLOAKS

Spinner and Haft looked at each other; they’d seen such signs only in the more formal common rooms of expensive inns in large cities, never in a wayside inn—and no matter how big the Middle of the Forest Inn was in Eikby, the whole town was small enough to count as little more than a wayside itself.

Word had come ahead that they were on their way and the innkeeper bustled up to greet them personally. He was a stout man, rather larger through the belly than the chest. He briskly wiped his hands on his apron.

“Welcome, Master Spinner, Master Haft,” he said with an innkeeper’s unctuous smile and a bow. “The Middle of the Forest Inn is most pleased to serve such distinguished visitors as you. My name is Dommuz, and this is my house.” He snapped his fingers and an attendant scurried over to accept their weapons.

Haft reluctantly turned over his axe; Spinner more readily divested himself of his quarterstaff. The attendant stood as though waiting for something more.

“We have several rooms for dining, each for a different taste,” Dommuz continued. “If mightily drinking is your pleasure, we have that. Another room has the most pleasant and pleasing music to serve as dining background. Or if you prefer to hear a skald tell stories, or watch jugglers and acrobats . . .”

“Lead us to the room with the best music, please,” Haft said, determined not to let giving up his axe bother him. He stepped toward the corridor.

“Ah, sir?” Dommuz said apologetically. “Your belt knife.”

Haft turned back to him. “My what?”

“Your belt knife, Master Haft.” The innkeeper shrugged and spread his hands. “The Middle of the Forest Inn allows no weapons of any sort within its public rooms.”

“But this isn’t a weapon,” Haft said, patting the scabbarded knife on his belt.

“Sir, it has a blade, no doubt a sharp one. It can easily be used to wound or, gods forbid, kill a man.”

“This madman wants me to give up my knife?” Haft said to Spinner.

“Why such strong insistence?” Spinner asked.

“You understand, sir, that we get many very rough men here, often violent men. So we allow no weapons. It is a town ordnance.”

Spinner nodded. “I understand.” He took the knife from his belt and handed it over. “Give it over,” he told Haft.

Haft gaped at him, then asked the innkeeper, “And with what do we cut our meat, or are we expected to gnaw it like wild beasts?”

With considerable effort the innkeeper puffed up his chest so that it stood almost directly above his belly instead of sloping back sharply from it. “Sirs, our meat is the most tender to be found within several days travel. And we cut it into bite-sized pieces in the kitchen before it is served. Eikby may not be a grand city like world travelers such as yourselves are accustomed to, but neither are we rustics. Our dining rooms offer
forks
for our guests to eat with!”

Grumbling, Haft handed his knife to the attendant.

Spinner laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but it was his first since they’d visited the hospital. He clapped Haft on the shoulder.

“Come, Haft. You heard Master Dommuz, they have
forks
. Even The Burnt Man Inn didn’t have forks. Anyway, if trouble comes I’m sure we will have warning enough to get our weapons before we are set upon.”

“What if we don’t have time?” Haft grumbled, almost to himself.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your hand-to-hand?”

Haft looked like he wanted to spit in disgust, but the cleanliness of the inn’s floor restrained him.

They followed the obviously relieved Master Dommuz along the corridor and into a common room holding not quite twenty tables, each with seating for six or so and sufficient room for the serving maids to maneuver between the tables even when they were all filled. More than half of the tables were occupied, and more than half of those had open seats. Several of the men who had been on the overnight raid were drinking and eating. They shouted and lifted flagons and cups in salute to their commanders. Haft cheerfully shouted and waved back, Spinner waved with less enthusiasm. The innkeeper led them to an open table near the small stage, where a troubadour played a mandolin. A young woman in milkmaid garb stood next to him as they sang a duet.

A serving maid appeared at their table as they were sitting.

“Serve Masters Spinner and Haft our best,” Master Dommuz said then bowed himself away.

“Ale, sirs?” she asked as Haft eyed her. She was lovely and blond, smiled prettily and was garbed modestly in a dress that left bare only a smallish triangle at the top of her chest, and whose skirt extended to midcalf. The bodice was snug but not tight, and the skirt was loose but not enough so for a rude hand to flip it up. She looked to Haft to be a year or two younger than he and Spinner.

Spinner, lost in his own thoughts, nodded absently.

“Ale,” Haft said.

“Our best,” she replied and hurried off. A moment later she was back and gracefully placed two cold tankards in front of them.

“Would you like some supper, masters?” she asked.

Haft had already looked over the menu posted above the kitchen door. “Do you have any specials today?” he asked and quaffed deeply of his ale.

“Everything we have is special,” she said proudly. “It’s all posted.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll have the Middle of the Forest stew. How about you, Spinner?”

Spinner shrugged, he wasn’t hungry.

“Make that two,” Haft said. “And another of these.” He hefted his tankard and drained it.

“An excellent choice, Master Haft,” the maid said. “I’ve had some today and it’s exceptional. The Middle of the Forest stew is venison mari—”

“Don’t tell me!” Haft raised a hand to stop her. “Please, I’m cosmopolitan enough that I like to be surprised when I order something I’ve never had before.”

She smiled delightedly. “So do I, Master Haft. I’m sure you’ll like it.” She turned to get their order, turned back when Haft asked how she knew which of them was which, when Dommuz had only given their names without saying who was who. “Oh, everybody knows which of the heroes who slew the bandits in their own lair is which.”

“Did you hear that?” Haft whispered to Spinner when she was gone. “She called us ‘the heroes who slew the bandits.’ ”

“Let’s hope she didn’t speak too soon.”

Haft looked at him oddly. “But we did. We went to the bandits lair and we killed them.”

“Not all.”

“A lot of them.”

“Maybe not enough.”

Haft shrugged. “Captain Stonearm thinks we did.” He turned his attention to the mandolin player and the singer. As cosmopolitan as Haft considered himself to be—and in some ways was—he didn’t really have a fine ear for the musical arts. The mandolin and voices sounded nice, but the love song they were crooning at each other wasn’t rousing enough to hold his attention. His eyes wandered.

The walls of the room were painted in pastels; lavender behind the small stage, one side wall yellow, the other pink, the wall with openings to the kitchen was pale green and the ceiling a pale blue. Paintings hung on the side walls; forest glades, streams, a lake, and a meadow on one; the other held scenes of happy people eating and drinking in a public room, picnickers frolicking on a grassy sward, boys and girls playing the games of childhood, young lovers hide-and-seeking among trees, a hunter bringing down a stag, mute musicians making frozen music. Nowhere were weapons hung or painted, no scenes or implements of battle. The room was a peaceful place.

Haft wondered whether such a bucolic setting really required the banning of weapons. He drank again of his ale and thought no man, no matter how rough and violent, could want to start a fight in such a pleasant place.

“Here you are, masters,” the serving maid said. She had approached unnoticed and quickly moved bowls of stew from the tray she carried to the table, followed by a plate with a loaf of bread.

“Thank you . . . ?” He looked into her eyes and gave her his most charming smile. “I don’t know your name.”

“Oh! I am Maid Marigold.” She curtsied.

“Maid Marigold! So lovely a name for so lovely a lass.” Haft took her right hand, free now that the tray was emptied, and lightly touched his lips to its back.

“Oh!” She blushed brightly, took her hand from his not quite quickly enough to truthfully say she’d snatched it away, held it to hide her smiling mouth, and backed away a couple of steps before spinning about and hurrying off.

“I don’t think the serving maids do that here,” Spinner said dryly.

“Don’t do what,” Haft asked innocently, “accept compliments?”

Spinner snorted. “Don’t act the dummy; you know what I mean.”

Then the aromas of the freshly baked bread and the savory stew in front of them caught their attention and reminded them that they hadn’t eaten since the night before. They set to ravenously.

Afterward, appetites sated, they contentedly sat back. Only a few crumbs of bread remained, too few for them to bother picking up and eating. Maid Marigold reappeared between them, fresh tankards in her hands.

“Was the Middle of the Forest Stew to your liking, masters?”

“It was every bit as excellent as you said, my lovely,” Haft said and patted his belly.

“I didn’t even feel hungry before I smelled it,” Spinner said with a broad, satisfied smile. “That was the best stew I’ve had since, since . . . I don’t know if I’ve
ever
before had stew that good.”

“Please let me know if you require
anything
else.” She deftly removed the bowls and plate, then curtsied and backed away, blushing.

Haft lifted his flagon and drank deeply. He put the tankard down and belched loudly. “If I wasn’t suddenly so sleepy,” he said, and yawned as if to demonstrate how sleepy he was, “I’d try to find out just what was covered by that ‘anything.’ ”

Spinner laughed, the laugh turned into a great yawn. “I still don’t think the serving maids do that here.”

A short while later they were nodding. They’d had no sleep the night before or yet this day, and fatigue was catching up with them. Maid Marigold once more popped up between them.

“Masters, you look so tired. Do you have a room above?”