Oath of Fealty (53 page)

Arcolin read the letter twice, feeling tears sting his eyes. Kieri had never expected to be king; he himself had never expected to inherit the entire company and domain. It was … ridiculous.

And yet the finality in the letter, Kieri’s determined turning away, the lack of questions, of any request for information, made it all real. Kieri had gone away—for a good reason—and left him a gift worth—he could not guess how many crowns or natas. A gift beyond price … and the greatest part, Kieri’s trust that he could—no, he would—nurture it as Kieri himself had done.

“Well,” he said aloud, to the person who was not there. “I will do that. I will.”

He refolded the letter and put it back in its case, tucking the case under the blanket of his camp bed.

Outside, he heard the sergeants scolding some hapless recruits for being lazy and slow with their shields. It had been days since he himself drilled; he walked to the area the sergeants had laid out.

“Captain!” Devlin called. Arcolin waved, pointed to the stack of bandas, and took one, shrugging into it, then put down his longsword to pick up a short one and a shield. The sounds died down; Stammel shouted at them, and the thuds and clangs speeded up again.

They had finished the warm-up drills and were well into file-on-file. Arcolin signaled Devlin, who made space for him on the second row and told one of the others to stand out. Short-sword formation
work wasn’t his usual way of fighting, but he practiced it regularly anyway—Kieri had done so, on the grounds that a commander might need to fight in formation in a tight spot. With only one cohort, that chance might come oftener.

“Shield position,” Devlin muttered. Arcolin shifted his shield a hand to the left. Devlin called the front rank to drop back through the second; Arcolin managed the side-step to open ranks and then close again. Now he was in front; the front-rank center of the opposing side made a tentative poke at him, easily blocked, and Stammel yelled.

In a few minutes, Arcolin was sweaty and had two new bruises, one for missing a parry and one from holding his shield at the wrong angle. He could feel the mood of the cohort better this way—they liked it when the captains got dusty and sweaty, too, and they particularly liked it when they took some lumps. Devlin called a shift to the right; Stammel, anticipating, moved his group, too, but Arcolin saw an opening and gave someone—Tam, he saw—a hit in the ribs that would bruise even through the banda.

Then he heard Burek call his name; the sergeants called a hold, and the noise stopped. Arcolin moved out of the formation with a wave to Devlin; Burek and a Gird’s Marshal were riding up to the drill field. Arcolin pulled off the banda, set the short sword and shield down, and picked up his longsword, sliding it into the hanger then wiping the sweat off his face.

“There’s a rumor from up north that your Company’s gone Girdish because a paladin visited you,” the Marshal said. “I’m Marshal Harak, and we’d be pleased to see you at the grange.”

“Not entirely Girdish,” Arcolin said. “It’s a long story. One of our soldiers—from this cohort, in fact—did become a paladin, but not everyone’s Girdish. I put no pressure on anyone to change faiths, if their character’s good. But there’s a grange building back home, in the stronghold, and a Marshal living in Duke’s West.”

“That’s good,” Marshal Harak said. “Some things happened that last year of Siniava’s War—”

“That none of us are proud of, yes,” Arcolin said. “I’ll not argue that. Did Burek tell you our problem here?”

“Something about bad blades—Siniava’s, do you think?”

“I can’t tell, but definitely evil. I felt the malice myself. We want to
destroy them, beat them into lumps, but our armorer thought we should have a Marshal or Captain present.”

“If the malice is strong enough for you to feel, then yes, you need help. Let us go.”

In the armory, the armorer had set the bad blades far from the others, near his forge. He had a fire going and his tools set out.

“These are the blades, Marshal,” Arcolin said.

“Bad blades indeed,” Marshal Harak said. “You did well to send for me. Let us see …” He took out his Gird’s symbol, freed the chain from his neck, and dangled the symbol above the blades. Arcolin was not sure, but fancied he saw a sickly yellow-green glow gather between the blades and the medallion. “Oh, that’s nasty,” Harak murmured. “Gird won’t like
that
.” Still holding the medallion, he held out his other hand. “Armorer, lay one of those blades on the anvil, and give me a hammer, if you please.”

“Marshal?”

Marshal Harak grinned. “My father was a smith; I’m no master of the craft, but I know the use of a hammer.”

“But the steel’s cold.” Gingerly, the armorer reached out with tongs, snatched a blade from under the steady swing of the medallion, and laid it on the anvil. Then he gave the Marshal a hammer.

“And Gird is not. We will need the fire, I know that, but this is more in the nature of the clout you give a mule or horse that’s not paying attention, before you teach it.” Marshal Harak lifted the hammer in his right hand. “By the strength of Gird Strong-arm, by the fire of the High Lord’s altar, be still!” He brought the hammer down on the blade. It squealed like an ungreased wagon wheel; the blade jerked sideways, narrowly missing the Marshal’s leg.

Arcolin shuddered; Marshal Harak laughed, repeated his abjuration, and slammed the hammer onto the blade again. This time it merely shivered and the sound was less, more that of someone shaking a saw blade. Again the Marshal prayed and hammered, and this time the blade lay still. The Marshal handed the hammer back to the armorer, took the blade, and shoved it into the fire. Then he picked up the next and repeated the process.

When he was through, he went to the bellows and began working them. “Your turn now,” he said to the armorer. “I’ll pump for you. If
you were taught the Runes of Sertig, now would be the time to recite them.”

The first blade was glowing. As its wooden handle burnt away, the armorer yanked it from the fire with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and hammered vigorously, muttering in dwarvish. The barbs and jagged edges sank back into the parent metal. When that blade cooled, he thrust it back and took another. When all were done, he took the first, bending it around the horn of the anvil and then pounding that bend flat. The Marshal meanwhile plied the bellows at the armorer’s command, sweat pouring down his face, and talking in jerky phrases.

“Those had to be … Siniava’s blades … special troops. If you’d heated them … the forge would … explode. Takes Gird’s power … or Falk’s … or a dwarf if you can find … to call on Sertig. If you find … more like that … must master the demon inside first … before the fire …”

“Will they explode an ordinary fire, a campfire?” Arcolin asked.

The Marshal nodded. “Ordinary fire … they fly out to kill. And the fire … goes wild. Buried … they work through … the ground … seeking blood prey.” He coughed in a gust of smoke, then spat. “Siniava … was not a good man.”

“Who put the demon in the iron, I wonder,” Arcolin said. “What if someone is still making blades like these, though Siniava’s dead?”

“That would be … most unfortunate … if you find such … send for me. Dangerous.”

“The metal’s safe now?”

“Only fire sprites like forge-fire,” the Marshal said, stepping back from the bellows and wiping his face. “And Sertig, of course. These were pure malice, hammered into the metal by—I would guess—an artificer-priest of Liart.” To the armorer, he said, “If you have other stout arms to pump the bellows, the metal’s now safe enough without me here.”

“Of course, Marshal,” the armorer said. “I’m sorry, I just …”

“No apologies needed, but in a camp full of healthy young soldiers, I see no need to sweat longer than I must to let you work safely.”

“Come out in the cool, Marshal,” Arcolin said. “Have some refreshment.”

“My thanks.” The Marshal walked with Arcolin to the edge of the temporary drill field, where Burek was now organizing the troops for supper. “It’s been too long since I saw these colors in the south. You and Halveric Company were the core of resistance to Siniava and even before that … the whole Mercenary Code, I understand, began with your Duke and the Halveric.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “Aliam had set out years before what he thought was right, and taught Kieri, so when Kieri formed his own company, that’s how he fought.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you back. I suppose with the Duke now king in Lyonya, the Halverics won’t be back at all …”

“I don’t know,” Arcolin said. “My thought was that Aliam stayed in Lyonya this year for Kieri’s coronation. He is older, though, and he might send a son with his company later.”

“Or disband it, if he has no need for the money. You will need an ally, Captain, to maintain the Code; other companies have fallen away from it since Siniava’s War.”

“So I understand,” Arcolin said, thinking of Andreson. The theft of the wounded man’s death fund still rankled. “Golden Company will stand with us. I met Aesil M’dierra in Valdaire and we agreed.”

“That’s good. It was one thing in which you mercenaries led the militias, your Code, and I would see that way spread, if fighting must.”

The Marshal refused Arcolin’s offer of wine. “I am too hot,” he said. “Small beer would suit me better, or water alone, if it was not drawn from the river.”

“Not ours,” Arcolin said. “We have no beer, but we do have good water.” He himself dipped a jug of water and set out two mugs and the Southern flavorings: a lump of dark honeycomb, a box divided into compartments each with a different spice. “I, too, am thirsty,” he said, “though I think drilling was not as hard work as what you did on the bellows. I should have called one of the soldiers in sooner.”

“No, indeed.” The Marshal had added a chunk of honeycomb, a sliver of dried lemon, and some dried mint to his mug, then poured in the water. He took a sip and smiled. “It was necessary that I control the bellows until I was sure the evil in the steel had vanished. As long as it was there, it tried to seize the wind and blow the fire into a
storm. Gird strengthened my arms to resist.” He drank again, and again, emptying the mug and pouring it full once more. “It was not hard to work the bellows fast enough—the difficulty was slowing and stopping.”

“What then should we do, if we find more such blades?”

“They cannot catch fire by themselves; keep them away from it. Keep them away from other iron or steel; I do not know that the evil in them can spread of its own will, but I do not know it can’t, either. They were near other steel in a wagon, were they not? When I’ve cooled off a bit more, I’ll examine the other swords you found, and ensure that none of them are contaminated.”

None were, but the Marshal noticed the Halveric sword. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Halverics were always careful with their arms.”

“Hm. It’s not new, either. What’s this mark?”

Arcolin had not examined the Halveric sword closely, being more interested in the danger presented by the bad blades. The Marshal pointed out the small CH stamped into the undercurve of the flared pommel.

“A Halveric family member, perhaps?”

Arcolin’s skin rose in goose-prickles. “Caliam,” he said. “Aliam’s son who was captured.”

“Killed? Wasn’t he the one at Dwarfwatch?”

“No. That was Seliam, his younger brother. He was killed, but his sword was recovered. Cal’s sword wasn’t.”

“So it would have been one of Siniava’s prizes?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said.

“Hmmm. The Halverics are Falkian, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should let me take it to the Captain of Falk here—have him bless it—before you return it to the Halverics. There’s an aura of terror clinging to it—”

Arcolin looked away a moment, then met the Marshal’s gaze. “No wonder. Caliam will father no more children. Our people found him beaten, bound, squeezed into a crate like a pig for market …” The old anger rose; he pushed it down.

“He fought bravely through the rest of the war, I heard,” the
Marshal said. Arcolin nodded. “Then Falk would want him to have it back again, without the pain. May I?”

“Certainly,” Arcolin said. “I’d intended to send it back to the Halverics in any case, but having it blessed by a Captain is a happy thought.” He took the blade, found a clean cloth in which to wrap it, and handed it to the Marshal. “I should write a note to accompany it—perhaps if you stay to supper—”

“Captain!” That was Burek. “There’s a messenger from the Council; they bid you to the city.”

The Marshal laughed. “So much for supper,” he said. “No, do not apologize. Shall we ride up together?”

In the long summer evening, they rode back to the city, Arcolin’s escort behind them. The guards at the gate passed them through without question. “Where is the Field of Falk?” Arcolin asked. “Or is there more than one?”

“Only one; we outnumber them, with three granges. In the northeast quadrant, a little north of the east gates. My grange, should you wish to visit another time, is in the smiths’ street, near the main market.”

“I will do so,” Arcolin said, “though I planned to march south in the morning; I will be back later. And here—I must make offering—” He reached into his belt pouch.

The Marshal held up a hand. “No, Captain. Not now. We worked together to defeat an evil; we did not exchange blows. Your contribution will be gratefully received another time, but not now.”

“You certainly gave enough blows,” Arcolin said. “That work—”

“Is well repaid by seeing good metal lose its evil taint. No, I know what Gird requires, and this day Gird requires no offering from you. Another time, I am sure he will.” The Marshal grinned, touched his riding whip to his head and reined his horse down a side street before Arcolin could say more.

The Council had gathered in the Council chamber; Arcolin recognized most of them from years past. Another boon he owed Kieri, for Kieri had ensured that his captains—especially the senior captains—met senior officials wherever they had a contract.

“My pardon, sirs, for appearing in such disarray,” Arcolin said. “We had a situation that demanded my attention all afternoon.”