Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (15 page)

Naught But Duty

Mercedes Lackey e-mailed one day and asked if I’d like to write in her Valdemar universe. I’ve read a few of the many novels and liked them. She has a style that’s an unusual combination of spare and visual.

The problem is I’m not a huge fan of the universe, and don’t know the myriad intricacies of the Heralds and Companions. She suggested I move south on the main continent and develop some of that.

I had an interesting image of how a mercenary might protest without breaching contract. She told me to write it.

The aftermath of a battle
was always confusing and ugly. Arden rode through the fractured pockets of suffering, surveying everything with trained eyes. His concern was practical, casualties and effect; there was little pleasure in this aspect.

Pleasure came from a well-planned and executed attack, a lightning raid against a larger force that inflicted casualties while keeping his own troops whole, a good maneuver around the flank of a worthy foe, or a feint that misdirected an enemy so the Toughs cracked his shield wall or line of battle.

The burning huts, the moaning, writhing bodies and the indignities and rape weren’t pleasurable to any but the crass, the coward or the pervert. A common soldier could be forgiven a few hours’ brutality in the aftermath, his partner’s blood still splashed on his tunic. But pain inflicted against helpless civilians as a punitive measure was the mark of a scared weakling.

Crass, coward, pervert, scared weakling. Those words well described the Toughs’ current employer, Lord Miklamar. Jobs had been few and far between, and it had been necessary to move farther south to find employ. But the quality of the ruler varied greatly, and Arden had little time to sound out prospects. His concern had been for good and reliable pay with enough action to keep his troops interested, not enough to wipe out them or his reputation. Here in Acabarrin, the petty lords paid well enough, and the action was steady. But with the king dead, the squabbling princes and heirs, vassal-lords and slavering, power-mad seekers were carving the corpse of the kingdom to nothing. He’d known nothing of Miklamar’s reputation when he accepted the contract. He despised the man now that he did.

Arden’s reputation, and that of the Toughs, was still safe. Barring an occasional looted trinket and scavenged arms and armor,
his
soldiers had left the village alone, and were drawn back up in formation awaiting his orders. The colors of a household unit they had not, but discipline, pride and the poise of professionals they did.

Arden grimaced a bare fraction of an inch, watching six of Miklamar’s troops stretch a young woman, girl really, out on the ground. She screamed as they tore at her silken clothes. No mere peasant, she, but more likely the daughter of the chief or mayor, whatever he would be called around this land. Arden watched, acting as witness. Little he could do, other than remember the event. Nearby, others hacked a young man to pieces for the crime of having dared protect his house with a pruning hook.

Fire and blood tinged the air, turning the fresh breeze sickly sweet and metallic. Such a sunset was an ill omen for others. Arden turned his mount and headed out from the village, back past the lines of the allied force.

Ahead was the mounted figure he’d have to deal with, no matter how much it disgusted him. Shakis, the regional deputy to Miklamar, and the mind behind this battle. If “battle” could be applied to a bloody, one-sided slaughter and the present butchery.

He nodded in salute as he drew up. It was respect for the rank of the man who had bought his services, and nothing more. The gesture was not returned, which was as he expected.

“Lord Shakis, I see no point in brutalizing such peasants as these. It hardly seems worth the effort.” It was a hint, and far more diplomatic than he wanted to phrase it. “There are other enemies we could seek.”

Shakis gazed at him. The sneering contempt he had for the “mercenary” was concealed, but cut through to the surface anyway, flickering firelight from a blazing roof making it an even uglier caricature.

“It serves many purposes. The peasants will spread the word, that resistance brings only woe. It improves the take and the pay for my men. And it allows them some release, to take vengeance on enemy scum. It ensures they will have the right mindset for next time.”

My men
, Arden thought. Only male soldiers here. Arden would say
my troops
, because one in twenty was a woman. That had been part of the contract negotiations, too, as had swearing fealty to their employer’s god. Arden had conceded on a temporary allegiance to their god, whose name he’d already forgotten, but had demanded his women warriors be kept. He would have cancelled the bargain otherwise. All his soldiers were worthy, and he wouldn’t allow any suggestion otherwise.

The right mindset
, he thought. That of the bully and the coward and the robber. His own sneering contempt was locked down deep. It was not something he would share. No successful mercenary did.

“After the evening’s Triumph, will there be another movement?” he asked evenly.

Shakis missed the sarcasm, or ignored it, and said, “There will. Two more towns along this front require attention. Each will be a harder fight. Are your men up to it?”

“My troops are,” he agreed. “If you are done with us for now, my troops and I will encamp for the night, about a mile south. We are in need of rest and to care for our gear and horses.”

“As you wish, though the revelry will last all night.” Shakis chuckled and licked his lips slightly. The man was handsome enough physically, but his demeanor would strike fear into any civilian wench unlucky enough to meet him.

Arden wished he’d known of that ahead of time.

“Rest, and care of our gear and horses,” he repeated. “We have our own revels planned.” With ale they’d brought and hired wenches who were part of the entourage. Women who didn’t require a fight and wouldn’t slice your throat if you passed out. Ale that wasn’t poisoned at the last minute, or badly brewed and rotten. Though the vengeance and poison were part of Shakis’ calculations, most certainly, so that he could exact a price in response. Unprofessional. A professional took pride in his work, but didn’t needlessly create more.

Another day, another battle. The town of Kiri. Arden scarcely remembered which were which anymore. It was easy to remember the towns where tough, honorable battles were fought. Likewise the ones where they’d rescued an employer’s forces. The little villages, however, were never memorable, which made him uncomfortable. They were people, too.

The price of honor
, he thought. The stock in trade of a mercenary company was its competence and reliability. The ragged bands of sword fodder never amounted to much, nor earned much. Only the best units did.

Which made those best the equal of any state or nation’s army in quality and outlook. Which offended said “official” armies and earned sneers. Sneers the Toughs and the few outfits like them knew were part jealousy and part ignorance. And once you knew you were morally above the people you worked for . . .

It was rough work, and a conscience was both necessary and a hindrance. The Toughs owed allegiance to each other only. They protected each other at work, and in the taverns and camps afterwards. They thought not too hard about their opponents of the moment, who would shortly be defeated or dead as part of a cold deal and a week’s pay and food.

So Arden, as Kenchen before him, Ryala before Kenchen and Thoral who’d founded the Toughs tried for only the best contracts. Supporting a proud state at its border or chasing bandits were the choicest tasks. Caravan escort was boring but honorable, as was guard duty at a border town or trading center. But there were few such jobs, and between starvation and ethics was a gray line.

Once again the Toughs cracked the defenses of the town that stood in the way of Miklamar’s plan for expansion or peace or world conquest or whatever his motivation was. Were Arden a strategic planner for a nation, he’d find that information and use it. As a mercenary commander, he stuck to the closer, more local concerns of food, support and pay. Thinking too much made working for such people harder.

Once again, the rape, pillage, arson and looting began, the cowardly local troops reflecting the manner of their leader, as was always the case.

Arden wheeled his mount away from the spectacle, assured his own wounded and dead were being cared for by their serjeants, rode through the healthy ranks and nodded in salute. He always recognized his troops for doing well.

Shakis was waiting at the rear, as always. “Arden, you have done well again, for mercenaries,” he said as Arden entered his tent.

Such a greeting. “Well for mercenaries.” As if sword wounds felt different to the vanquished, depending on the colors worn by the soldier thrusting it home.

“I thank you,” he said.

“The campaign proceeds. We will keep your men another month, as we asked.”

“As long as they are paid, they will remain loyal to the contract,” he hinted.

Shakis barely scowled and with a nod one of his lackeys dropped a sack of coin in front of Arden. Arden took the time to count it. Those two acts summed up the relationship perfectly. Arden didn’t trust his employer, and the man was fervent enough in his religion to imagine that people should
want
to risk their lives for it.

Not for the first time, Arden pitied the towns falling to this excuse for a man.

Then it was out to ride patrol. Everyone took turns at the duties of camp and skirmish, even the squadron leaders and Arden himself. No good commander could understand the working soldiers without sharing in the menial tasks. Occasionally, he exercised his privilege not to, but it was good practice and good inspiration, so he dealt with the muck and tedium and did it most of the time.

He met up with Balyat and two newer riders. Balyat and he were the scouts for the ride, the others backup and messengers if needed, and would gain experience in the skill.

Patrol gave him the chance to explore the area consciously, and to get a feel for it inside. It allowed part of his mind to relax and tour the terrain—rolling hills and copses of trees with small, growing streams. It let him ponder the job they had contracted.

The work was “good” in a sense. It was honest fighting at their end, the pay decent, and they had the benefits of a real army nearby. All the mercenaries were in the pay of one lord, meaning they weren’t killing other professionals. Of course, they were killing innocent people and leaving the survivors to suffer at the hands of that lord.

Fausan, Mirdu, Askauk, Shelin . . . tiny hamlets, nothing but farmers and hunters with a few basic crafters. Why it was necessary to fight them was beyond Arden. He would have simply bypassed them, taken control of a large city, say, Maujujir, and let the traders spread the word that there was a new ruler. The peasants never cared, as long as the taxes weren’t extreme and they were left to their lives.

Of course, that required a leader with self-confidence and who was secure in his power. Miklamar was not, and therefore wasteful. He’d been pacifying a very small province for years, proving to be a petty lord in every meaning of the word.

Riders ahead!
The message came from a small part of Arden’s brain that never slept. He didn’t react at once, but let his mind go over what he’d seen.

Caravan, small. Not uncommon around an engagement area. It was foolish and inadvisable to fight, though both groups would report the presence of the other. To clash four on two wagons and a carriage would mean certain death for at least one rider, possibly all. Nor was Arden, as a hired sword, expected to fight outside of his contract. The train was not a massive provisioning effort, so it was not a threat to the war.

Still, a challenge and meeting were necessary, to determine the intent of the others, and their origin. Arden reined back and slowed slightly, watching to see that the others did. They were ahead to the left, crossing obliquely. One of their number took the lead, presumably the troop commander.

Shortly, the groups were drawn up facing each other, a safe twenty feet apart; too far for an immediate strike, too close for a charge.