Hidden Ability (Book 1) (18 page)

“Does anyone have an opinion about who these men might be?” asks Jalan.

“Deserters perhaps,” says Serks.

“Traitors more like,” says Reest.

“Is it really possible there would be 10 or 20 deserters from House Yen?” asks Jalan.

“There are always some, but 20? Most of the lancers are looking for a chance to make someone pay for what’s been done to us, not trying to run away from the fight,” says Serks.

“I can’t see it being deserters at all. Where would they have run off from? I don’t recall talk of deserters,” says Harna. “It means they had to run when the fighting started. How would they have time to find this encampment and join with the enemy that set them running in the first place? I can’t see it.”

“They’re traitors then. Lancers that allied with the Nakra before the fighting started.” The words taste bad as Jalan speaks them, but he does not know what else to think.

Reest turns his head and spits. “That and worse for those dirty traitors,” he says.

They caught their quarry, but what will keep the quarry from turning on the hunters? The traitors’ camp has Jalan’s lancers outnumbered three or four to one. Some of his men are inexperienced recruits barely adequate with their bows. His lancers are light cavalry at best. They can’t charge the enemy. They can’t even afford to stand and fight. Jalan tries to imagine fighting the men he grew up knowing, not for training or fun, but for blood and to the death. The idea is disturbing and leaves him feeling a little sick. No matter whom the traitors were, Jalan would know some of them, perhaps all of them. They are lancers that Jalan and his men would have willing fought beside and trusted. He feels his anger and disgust rising to join with his sense of violation. No wonder the punishment for treason is death.

“They outnumber us,” he tells the Fist Leaders. We cannot make a direct assault. We need to study the enemy, discover when and where they send out scouts or patrols. If we could capture one or two of their men we might be able to learn something useful. But, whatever we do, we need to be certain we only fight when we have superior numbers.”

No sooner did Jalan finish speaking then a panicked voice shouts, “To arms! To arms! The enemy! To arms!”

Jalan spins toward the shout but can only see his men straining to look past each other and their horses for a glimpse of the trouble. “Fist Leaders, rally your men on me!” he cries and sprints toward Axe. Jalan leaps up and vaults over the rear of his horse to land in the saddle. He snatches up the reins and begins to calm his mount. Axe must be well trained because the gelding barely protests Jalan’s sudden weight falling into place on his back. Letting the reins again hang loose across the back of Axe’s long neck, Jalan pulls his bow from its scabbard and strings it almost without thinking as it is a task he has long been trained to do on horseback.

With his bow held firmly in his gloved left hand and the reins grasped in his right, Jalan spurs Axe forward and swings him sharply toward the area from whence the warning shout came. He notices that Harna, Reest and Serks are all mounted. Several others are on horseback or mounting now that the Fist Leaders are back among them and chivying them to action. Jalan holds his bow horizontally above his head and the Fist Leaders look at him. He points the tip of the bow at Serks and swings it to his right. Then he points the tip at Reest and swings it to his left. Finally, he points the bow tip at Harna and swings the tip up to hold the bow vertically. Serks already has his Fist moving among the trees toward a position on Jalan’s right. Reest’s Fist is moving toward Jalan’s left. Harna rides toward Jalan to take up his position next to the captain.

Harna’s Fist had the watch and should already be engaged with the enemy. It should be possible to see what is happening from within the edge of the grove and Jalan plans to halt his line of lancers there. It should only take an instant to determine what to do. But, before the trotting horses are fully formed up and at the grove’s edge, two lancers gallop into the grove followed closely by a third that is turned in his saddle as he shoots an arrow at an unseen target behind him.

Jalan halts Axe, pulls an arrow from quiver strapped to his back and calls out, “Hold! Ready bows!” The Fist Leaders repeat the orders while Jalan nocks the arrow and raises his bow waiting for whatever is pursuing the three fleeing lancers.

The three riders slow as they are forced to weave between trees. Several arrows aimed at the fleeing riders strike tree trunks or are deflected by branches. An instant behind the arrows at least a half dozen mounted men charge into the grove in pursuit. A heartbeat later Jalan shouts, “Loose at will!” He hears Serks and Reest repeat the order as he trues up his aim again. A flash flies through Jalan’s peripheral vision just as he hears the sound of Harna’s bow. Jalan has studied his aim and releases his bowstring. He forces himself to hold position for an instant more to give his arrow time to leave the bow and then he pulls another from his quiver, nocks it and draws the bow for his second shot.

With his mounted archers picking their own targets and the interference of the trees limiting the choices, three of the enemy were hit with multiple shafts and unseated quickly while the remaining riders appear unharmed and try to turn their mounts to escape. Jalan calls out his next order and the Yen lancers began to ride forward while continuing to loose arrows. Unfortunately, Jalan’s men were still mostly new recruits with limited training and experience. When forced to steer their mounts with their knees and advance around obstacles while attempting to maintain their line and feather the enemy with arrows, his men’s aim suffered more than did the enemy. If not for Harna, Reest, Serks and Jalan several of the enemy riders would have gotten away.

The skirmish ends as quickly as it began. Four enemies are dead. Two are badly wounded. One is wounded but likely to recover and the last is uninjured expect for the bruises he suffered when his horse tripped and threw him. One of Harna’s Fist, Cail, was killed when the enemy riders spotted him and attacked. Cail had called the warning but the other watchers were overwhelmed by the number of enemy riders and could not save him before being forced to flee into the grove.

Jalan listens to the reports of his Fist Leaders. He inspects the enemy dead and captured. He tries to make himself hard so that the bodies and blood do not affect him. He did his duty. His men did their duty. They fought as they must and killed the enemy as they must. But when he came to Cail’s body and looked upon the dead face of one of his own men, he did not feel hard. He did not feel like a lancer captain. He felt like a boy. He felt like he had the first time he had seen a farm animal slaughtered. He remembered the knife and the killing stroke, the smell of blood and the struggle of the goat as it weakened and died.

He turns from Cail’s body and walks a few steps as his own guts twist and his stomach roils. Jalan steadies himself by placing his hand on a nearby tree and forces himself to take slow deep breaths hoping the queasy sick feeling in his belly passes soon.

“Don’t worry, captain. The others will be done soon,” says Reest. “It’s hard to hold your stomach when half the men around you lose theirs.”

The comment confuses Jalan at first. Then he realizes many of his men are scattered among the trees retching. That sound alone is almost enough to push his stomach over the edge, so many others with the same problem. It is so absurd. The horror of the dead and wounded mingled with the sickening sound and smell of vomit is so unexpected that Jalan almost starts to laugh. And then he does bend over and lose the contents of his stomach.

“Ah, well there it is,” says Reest in an aside to no one in particular. He follows his quite comment with a question. “Captain, may I ask you something?”

“Ungh,” says Jalan. Then he spits to try to clean some remnants from his mouth and eases himself upright, feeling a little dizzy and a little better at the same time.

Reest seems to assume Jalan’s grunt means yes when he continues by asking “Is this the first time you’ve killed a man?” The question is pitched quiet, hardly louder than Reest’s earlier side comment.

Images flash in swift succession through his mind. Taking aim. The arrow loosed. The first target is struck in the neck. The second target in the underarm as he appeared to be raising his arm and shouting to his companions. The third was well armored with the only clearly exposed area being the man’s face. Fourth and final was the last fleeing enemy. Jalan can see his arrow strike. The rider is hit with three shafts at almost the same time. A fourth arrow strikes the enemy’s mount. It could be that none of the three arrows pierced the rider’s armor, but when the horse was hit in the front leg the limb buckled and the animal tumbled and threw the rider beneath the weight of the rolling horse. Four arrows. Four targets. Four dead men.

Jalan shakes with little tremors that move through his muscles. His throat burns and the taste in his mouth is sour and foul. He pushes away the memories and takes a trembling step toward his horse. The next step is easier. After a few more he is almost walking normally. When he reaches Axe he takes a short pull from his water skin to rinse out his mouth and then a longer drink.

Reest is not where Jalan left him. The older man is checking on the members of his Fist now. Both Harna and Serks have their men mounted and formed up. Harna eases his dark gelding toward Jalan and says, “Captain, the men tell me those were not the only enemy riders. Two more turned back when those eight attacked. It’s likely they’ve gone to warn the others.”

Looking up at Harna, Jalan considers protesting that the Fist Leader should have told him sooner. But with his water skin still in his hand and his insides barely feeling regular again, he understands why it might have been pointless to report it sooner. “Remind your men of the importance of reporting what they observe promptly no matter what else is occurring.”

“Yes, captain. I’ll make certain there is no delay in the future.”

The delay was possibly Harna’s own choice. All Jalan’s men are older than their captain. Reest tried to help Jalan through the shock and fatigue following Jalan’s first battle. Now Harna may have given his captain time to recover before delivering bad news. If his lancers keep playing father to him they might protect him right into an early grave. It is too late to catch or even follow the two enemy riders that fled at the start of the battle. The only safe assumption is that the encampment will soon know Jalan is near.

Jalan calls Reest and Serks over. “Let’s talk with our one good captive and see what we can learn before the traitors come for us.”

Jalan tries to steel his expression and move toward the prisoner with a controlled confident walk.
Don’t trip. Don’t do anything foolish that might appear weak.
Beyond that advice to himself he has no idea what to do or say. But, Reest does.

The Fist Leader walks up to the prone captive. The man has been bound hand and foot and is lying on his side on the root entwined ground. The captive’s face is purpled on one side. The opposite eye is surrounded by a darkening bruise and his lower lip is bleeding. There is nothing about the man’s oval face that is familiar to Jalan despite the fact the stranger wears the House Yen Blue and Tan. Reest kicks the bound man in the stomach. Before the fellow can hope to recover from the kick, Reest grabs him and roughly sets the prisoner up against a nearby tree trunk.

Glancing up from the captive Reest calls to a nearby lancer, “Shrim!” and jerks his head toward the captive while drawing his own belt knife. Shrim draws his saber and quickly places the sharp tip of the weapon against the captive’s throat. Using his knife, Reest cuts the rope tied around the enemy’s wrists. He moves behind the captive and pulls the man’s arms back around the tree trunk, retying them with a set of leather laces. The captive starts gasping short shallow breaths, probably in an effort to recover from Reest’s kick. He holds his head back against the tree trunk. The captive’s eyes dart about but settle back onto Shrim’s sword. Once Reest finishes, he nods to Shrim. Shrim removes the sword tip from the prisoner’s neck and puts his saber back in its scabbard.

Reest moves around in front of the prisoner and crouches down, putting him somewhat eye to eye with the bound man. Without looking away from the prisoner Reest says, “Shrim, I’m thirsty. Would you get my water skin?”

Shrim retrieves the water skin from Reest’s horse and Reest takes a long drink. Then he offers some to the prisoner. The captive stares at him without responding. Reest shrugs and hands the water skin back to Shrim.

“I’m Reest. What’s your name?”

Again, the man does not respond.

“I’ve been a lancer with House Yen for a few years now. I know a lot of people. But, oddly, I don’t know you.”

Jalan sees the man’s mouth twitch as if he might have started to smile or speak.

“Harna, does this fellow look familiar to you?” says Reest to his fellow Fist Leader.

Harna rubs the stubble on his chin as he looks at the unknown lancer. “No. I don’t recall ever seeing him before.”

“Don’t ask,” says Serks before Reest can query him. “I don’t know him.”

“That’s unfortunate,” says Reest. He stands up from his crouch. “Very unfortunate. As I’m sure you know, wearing the colors of a house means you are in service to that house. But, we don’t seem to know you. It’s very difficult to imagine that you are truly a Yen lancer. That leaves us only a few possibilities.” Reest begins to count using the fingers on his left hand. “One, you are not a Yen lancer but you are wearing Yen colors. The punishment for impersonating a lancer is severe, but you’d probably live. However, you are wearing a captain’s braids and the punishment for impersonating an officer is death.” Reest raises a second finger and says, “Two, you really are a Yen lancer and somehow we have never met you, in which case you are welcome among us. Except, you were fighting against us and that would mean you are a traitor. Again, the punishment is death.” Reest pauses for a moment and then drops his left hand to his sword scabbard and reaches across his body to grasp the hilt with his right. “Which leaves only one option,” says Reest as he draws his saber in a measured and deliberate manner. “We have to kill you.”