Eventually I must have slept because I woke up to the sound of trumpets and started the day with some choice curses and a groan or two. The healers' hospitality had been generous and I had a pretty good hangover. Being woken rudely at dawn was something I had experienced before under the savage tutelage of my Uncle and had never wanted or expected to have to deal with again, especially with a bad head.
There must have been a dozen or more trumpets, so there was no stopping them, which left waiting them out as the only option, so this is what I resolved to do. Cracking open one eye and waiting, I could see Meran sitting up in the doorway to the tent. There was enough room in here for my bed, such as it was, a small table and chair, a little space with nothing in it and a couple of chest-sized canvas bags that were my luggage. A pale, cool light poked its unwelcome way through the flaps of the tent and cut a sharp swathe across the limited empty space before stinging my one open eye.
“Don't say a word,” I warned Meran, barely raising my voice above a whisper. “Just get rid of the light.”
He took me at my word and slipped silently out the tent, closing the flaps behind him to kill the light that so offended me. He did a good job but the canvas of the tent wasn't going to be thick enough to protect me from all the sunlight when the sun finally rose. The pale half-light of dawn was not enough to push its way through but I knew already that it wouldn't last. The noise of the trumpets swiftly faded away but left behind the sounds of voices, some raised to a shout but most not, and of course the sounds of feet and movement. Lots of voices, lots of feet, lots of movement. I was surrounded by six hundred people and not far away another six thousand or more were also adding a dull background din that I felt sure distance should have reduced more than it did. I closed my eye and hoped that things would settle down. Things didn't. One voice raised in laughter, another shouted in anger, and others less readily identifiable would suddenly ring out and die off to mingle with the incessant background noise.
I was in hell. No two ways about it. Just as I'd begun to think I could cope with the background rumble of voices and movement something sudden and jarring would shock me and make it clear that there was not going to be any more sleep for me that day. The only thing that would make sleep possible would be to get away from all these damn people. Not an option right now. So, the only thing that would make me less miserable would be to transfer some of that misery to someone else. And I had six people under my direct command. They would have to do.
I threw back the eiderdown and put my feet on the floor. There was a rug, small but thoughtfully placed so my feet wouldn't hit the ground. Point for Meran. Less misery for him today. It was cold. Not seriously cold but dawn-chilly; not warm. Nothing immediate to be done about that. I pulled on a kilt and strode to the entrance, stooped slightly, and stuck my head outside. I would have thrown the flaps open boldly and stepped outside but frankly I'm a little overweight and don't look great in just a kilt. Across from me, about twelve feet away, Sheo and Kerral were ostentatiously up and awake. The flaps of their tent, which was every bit as large as mine, thrown wide, they stood clearly visible bathing and shaving while a slave stood by with towels. Just to my left stood Meran, his expression devoid of meaning, a small brazier of hot coals at his feet right next to a bowl of hot water. He held a lamp in one hand and had a towel thrown over one shoulder. I nodded and stepped back inside where he shortly joined me, placing the brazier on a tripod. He slipped outside and then came back with the lamp and hot water. The bowl went on the table and the lamp hung from the place where two poles met to support the canvas of our ceiling. Seconds later the towel was laid on the back of the chair and a razor appeared with soap to be laid on another towel and a face cloth was placed beside them.
“Good.” I meant everything.
He left without saying a word and was back by the time I'd washed and shaved, bringing with him a steaming cup that he placed silently on the table. I finished drying, took the tea and gestured to the water as I turned away. “Go ahead.”
I sipped the tea and grumbled to myself as he stripped, washed, shaved, dried, dressed and left. I kept up the grumbling until he had gone, then dressed in clothes that had been left on top of one of the big canvas bags, slipped on some boots and prepared to face the world with no clue what I was supposed to be doing but a clear intent to make my command more miserable than I was. More trumpets sounded before I pulled back the flaps but I carried on regardless. Outside the sun was finally clearing the horizon. The camp was set up across the river from the city in a big meadow that could, and sometimes did, hold four legions or more. There were no permanent buildings. The road was a mile away and headed north. There were two other fields like this; one to the south-east and one to the west of the city, each near a major road, the road intended to be used by the assembled army that camped near it.
Sheo and Kerral were outside their tent, fully kitted out in armor, swords strapped to their sides and generally immaculate. I cursed inwardly. No armor or weapons had arrived for me, at least not yet. It didn't improve my mood but didn't help my case either; without military apparel I felt that my authority was diminished. Unfortunately I couldn't fault either of my friends and as soon as Sheo spoke I stopped wanting to.
“Ready to parade, sir. Just waiting for the signal.”
Only then did I notice my other four men standing round a communal fire, putting breakfast inside themselves but otherwise ready for the day. That would be what all the trumpets were about then; wake up, get ready, and sometime soon, parade. I was starting to remember the lectures about this sort of thing that had been a staple part of my childhood. I had pretended to absorb it, been able to answer well enough, but it was a good while ago and memories fade, especially when the material learned isn't of interest. There were eight watches to the day, dividing twenty four hours; the first watch of the day was also the wake-up call for the army as a whole. The commanders would be returning to their units about now with the watch password and orders of the day. Technically I was a commander. I hummed and nodded as though in response to Sheo's comment, but really I was deciding that I would pop along and see Tulian or his aide a bit later and get the password; not that I anticipated needing it; and also check to see if it was required for me to be up before dawn. Needless to say, I hoped for a negative response to that. Surely someone could drop by and give me the password?
Meran appeared at my side with a bowl of porridge. I took it with a nod of thanks, noticed that he had a chain mail shirt thrown over one shoulder, a sword belt hooked over the other and a helm on his head. The helm didn't fit but I really didn't need the extra clue. If he kept this kind of thing up I was going to have to think about thanking him in some way.
The porridge had some bacon for flavor and I forced the stuff into my rebelling stomach before I exchanged the empty bowl for the chain mail, which fit well enough. The cohorts around us were already moving through the camp, all heading the same way. I slipped the belt round my waist so that the sword rested at my left hip, tied off the belt so that the full weight of the chain didn't rest on my shoulders and slipped on the helm. It fit.
I didn't see who theatrically cleared their throat but both Sheo and Kerral were looking the same way when I glanced at them, so I did the same and saw the languid progression of the battle mages as they strolled past without so much as a glance at us.
“Time to move.” I tried to put some authority in my voice. Frankly I was feeling a bit off balance. I wanted to make someone miserable but events were putting me on the back foot and my stomach now hated me almost as much as my throbbing head did. I led the way and my command of six men followed. Walking into the rising sun didn't help but I didn't trip over any guide ropes and we were not last to the parade ground where something like seven thousand men, including the equestes, were forming up just as the trumpet sounded for parade. I followed the battle mages and healers who knew where they were going. Finding our unit was never going to be hard. The first centurion, a trumpeter, and a standard bearer stood out in front of the cohort. Our cohort was slightly aside from the legion that Orthand had brought to arms, and I recognized the Verrans family standard, that of the family of which Tulian was the head. The battle mages and healers formed a rough block of ten and left room for us to form up in front of them, so that's what I did, turning and facing the camp which was being hastily struck by the slaves. For every eight fighting men there were two servants; we had two, Meran and whatever Sheo's slave was called. None of the four rankers Kerral had picked had come with his own slave or servant, so two was our lot. The battle mages and healers, nobles to a man, had one each. In times not that long past all fighting men for the city were landowners and the servants numbered as many as the army. In modern times this meant that a century was actually only eighty fighting men.
The whole army fell silent just as I turned to Kerral, intending to ask him if he had had any hint that the army was on the move. In the sudden silence I decided against it but saw anyway from his expression that he'd no clue. It was I who should know. That, I remonstrated with myself silently, will teach you to get up before dawn and check in with the commander in chief. No more surprises. No more not knowing the damn password. The camp was being struck and we were on the move. On the bright side the next few hours would not be spent practicing weapons, at which I was well beyond rusty and deeply into clueless. Another of our little military foibles is that the officers, including the commander in chief, join in this group activity which thankfully only happens when in camp. We would now be on the march, and riding a horse is one thing I can do with great skill and aplomb.
The two commanders rode out from the camp, with their subordinate commanders. They rode together but soon separated to move to the front of their respective armies. The fact that one was ten times the size of the other meant nothing in terms of who commanded overall. I wondered how they were getting along. Would Tulian have conceded that this was Orthand's party and he the uninvited guest? In short, would we operate as one army or two? My guess would be the latter. Shared command meant shared glory. Technically, being a noble of an ancient family, I could take my command and call myself an army. Of course, not having held any office of any kind ever, I had no authority whatsoever to do any such thing, but if I shouted enough and blustered enough and my men followed me I could do it. The idea amused me but wasn't something any sane man would choose to do.
Tulian rode up and down a bit, inspecting the men to see if we were any damn good for anything. He looked content enough for most of the time, though when he got to us he caught my eye and glared. I shrugged back and he wheeled his horse without comment and rode back the other way. His aide stopped and walked his horse to a standstill close enough that I could have petted it and leaned out of the saddle. “Be at the commander's pavilion before dawn.”
“Be good enough to get your horse out of my face or we will crossing swords at dawn.”
“The commander in chief has instructed me…”
I cut him off. “To insult me and get yourself into a duel?”
It was pure bluff of course. Okay, Gatren Orans was a boy of seventeen or so, pretty much the usual age to be an aide and about the business of learning to command. In short, he was young and inexperienced. On the other hand he was a boy who was significantly fitter than I was, and probably trained with weapons every day as I had tried hard to avoid doing. It worked because of the arrogance of our class; and the fact that dressed and wrapped in armor I didn't look fat, I just looked big. He backed his horse away a pace or two.
“The commander in chief's compliments, he would be grateful if all commanders attended him for a briefing before dawn each morning.”
I nodded sharply. “Delighted.”
I held his glare until he had no choice but to accept that that was all he was going to get, at which point he turned his mount aside and walked the beast away, back straight and stiff with suppressed anger. I might have won the round but I'd made the beginnings of an enemy. It's a talent I have.
Having Gatren's horse in my face had put horses in general to the forefront of my mind, and when the parade broke up I asked Kerral if he had one.
“Sheo loaned me one of his spares.”
“Good, that's only three to find, then.”
“Three?”
“My slave will be traveling with the baggage so I have a spare for,” I gestured to my small command who followed me back toward the camp, “one of them.”
Most of the main force was still in place, the first cohort of Orthand's army marching off and the rest waiting for a hundred paces' worth of space to open up before following. Some of the equestes had struck out as vanguard and scouts, even though we were in about as friendly territory as you could get. My charges had wandered back toward the camp, presumably on the premise that standing around for an hour or more wasn't something they cared to do. Neither did I, and there was the small matter of horses to consider. My charges surely were not planning to walk. I had a horse, and so did Sheo, and I now knew Kerral had one. That left four men of my command on foot, which I felt was just plain silly.
“Can they all ride?”
Kerral threw the question over his shoulder and got a few terse but disciplined replies before he turned back to me with the answer, “Pretty much, yes.”
“Give the best rider my spare. I'll see about the rest.”
With that I picked up my pace and fell in alongside the healer, Lentro.
“How's your head?” He asked.
“Not good,” I told him honestly enough. “Remind me not to do that again, would you?”
He smiled. “Gladly.”
“Do your people have three spare horses I could borrow?”
He looked instantly suspicious. “Why?”
I outlined the problem and he thought about it before gesturing vaguely toward the city and wondering aloud why I didn't send my slave to go and buy what I needed.
“He doesn't have the money,” meaning that I didn't.
“Sumto Merian Ichatha Cerulian,” reminding me of my position was a fairly polite rebuke, “if one of our mounts goes lame we'll need the replacements.”
I wrinkled my brow in confusion. “You are healers..?”
He sighed. “Yes, bone is bone and flesh is flesh but a man with a broken arm that I have healed generally doesn't have to put it under immediate and constant stress, whereas a horse, using all four legs and with a man on his back, would. Bone healed isn't perfect. The body still has to finish the process.”
“Oh," I said. "I hadn't really thought about it.”
“People don't.”
He hadn't point blank refused, but as we walked on he didn't say any more and actually seemed in bad humor about the whole thing.
“There is clearly more to your calling than I thought. Perhaps I should consider learning more on the subject.”
“The College of healers requires payment. The rules are very strict. The penalties for breaking them harsh.”
I gave it up as a bad job. No horses and no free training.
Meran and the other slave were where we had left them but now everything was loaded onto a cart; two more held the gear of my charges, and horses had miraculously appeared. I needed three more. The indignity of having half my command walking was absolutely unbearable. Given a choice of two unbearable things, the least unbearable has to be done. I grabbed Meran and whispered to him fiercely for a moment, then ignored him as he jumped on my spare horse and pounded away as fast as he could, considering the press of men, mounts and wagons. Both Sheo and Kerral looked for a moment that they might ask but rightly judged by the look on my face that that would be a bad move if they wanted to stay on the right side of me. They merely exchanged glances and let the matter drop.
My own horse was saddled and ready so I mounted and looked around from the higher vantage. The camp had become, in effect, the baggage train. There were damn few men here who were not slaves or freedmen servants. I could tell who was who by the hairstyles and clothing. It was obvious. It wasn't long before my charges started to get into the saddle without order, consultation or fuss. I gestured their way, addressing Kerral and Sheo but keeping my voice just loud enough so that all my men could hear. “Go with them. You four, come with me.” I didn't wait, but urged my horse forward trying to look like I had an important chore to take care of rather than not wanting to be seen waiting about with four men on foot while the rest of my command rode off and left us.
Once free of the baggage train I dismounted and started fussing about the horse, checking her hooves unnecessarily and looking at her teeth. She put up with it. I figured I had at least an hour to kill, maybe two.
“Sir?”
I sighed. It was much earlier than I'd expected.
“Waiting for horses,” I told him curtly, dropping her right foreleg and turning around to face them as I dusted off my hands.
It was Pakat, a tall soldier of forty or so years. He seemed calm as ice and met my gaze steadily. His nose was flat and his eyes hard, face expressionless. He looked exactly the type I had expressly ordered Kerral to get for me. Hard as nails, experienced, lethal. Perfect.
“Yes sir.” He put one fist to his chest in a salute as he said it, then dropped into parade rest.
“Relax,” I told him.
“Yes sir.” He didn't move a muscle that I saw.
I sighed. It was going to be a long wait. Hell, I had nothing better to do and I knew it. “Pakat, isn't it? You a career soldier?”
“Yes sir. Twenty four years, sir.”
I glanced at the others who also stood at parade rest, though a couple of paces back from Pakat, making him their leader either by arrangement or pure instinct. Who knows how rankers sort these things out?
In any case he didn't need me to ask. “All career men, sir. Not less than twenty years.”
“Clients?”
He shook his head slowly. “Paid men sir.”
There was a big difference. A professional soldier could be in the clientele of one man and only go to war when their patron required them to do so. At other times they bimbled about the world guarding his interests in foreign lands, be they client kingdoms, conquered territories, border territories, whatever. In short they only saw action when it happened. Paid men joined a unit, initially when a new unit was recruited. They then stayed, were paid, and went to the war (why else would a unit be recruited?), but they, unlike a client, could leave any time not actually engaged in a war so long as they joined another unit. If refused permission to leave they could buy out of that unit by law. Any short-handed unit would take them. They saw more action than clients, had more experience, gained more booty. These four bastards probably had enough money to buy horses. Herds of damn horses. I carefully examined their gear. It was well worn, all of it. Well worn but of the highest quality, without being the gaudy stuff nobles tended to buy. They were each wearing a small estate's worth of equipment.
“Kerral chose well,” I commented under my breath.
“Good man, Kerral.”
No sir on the end of that comment. Oh no.
I felt like asking them if they had any spare gear but seriously bit my lip on that one. Father hadn't sent me a damn thing. Not that I could honestly blame him; I must have sold ten sets over the years, so why should he send another? Still, I admit to being a bit disappointed in him. After all, I was doing what he always wanted.
“Yes, he is. Saved my life once.”
Pakat didn't look surprised but his expression did relax just an iota. I guessed that he was relieved that Kerral thought my life was worth saving. Then I thought about it and decided that that was exactly it. These men were only following me because Kerral had asked them to do so and Pakat was a little relieved that Kerral thought I was worth it, worth enough to risk his life saving mine, not a fool, not someone who was going to put them in harm's way for stupid or trivial reasons. He didn't ask under what circumstances like anyone else would. For him it seemed enough that it was a fact. It occurred to me that these men would not consider having a casual chat with me, which left us standing around doing nothing while we waited. That just didn't seem right. Well, if in doubt, ask.
“We are going to be waiting for a while. What would you normally do?”
“Wait.” He said it as though waiting were an activity.
Well, I would normally read a book and I had been reading Tetrin's Study of the Barbarian Peoples, which seemed pertinent, so I dug the book out of my saddlebag, turned to the chapter regarding the Alendi and started reading. There was not much to distinguish them from the Ensibi; about the same in numbers and culture. Their lands edged the foothills to the Urnalin Mountains. Behind them a hundred smaller tribes controlled the valleys and highlands, generally a few villages and one stronghold to their name. The passes through the mountains were controlled by somewhat stronger tribes who controlled trade from the north. To the east were the Orduli and to the west the Prashuli. Much of a muchness. The Alendi produced charcoal and smelted iron. That was bad. Meant they had a good supply of weapons and armor, probably. And spare money if they sold their goods to other tribes. And trade relations and maybe treaties with some of the hundreds of small tribes at their back. But they were small tribes, a few villages. Say fifty to a village and ten villages each just for convenience. Populations of five hundred giving ten professional fighting men each tribe. Ten times hundreds wasn't many. Okay. No sweat. Memory told me that the other side of the pass was wasteland, hundreds of miles of it but set in its center a place called Battling Plain which was hotly contested by the surrounding nomadic, semi-nomadic and settled tribes simply because it was a large and well watered fertile plain where the bulk of what rivers flowed out of the mountains to the south and west joined together and ran on to the sea. The area fell outside the scope of the work I was reading but it sounded from what I recalled that there was nothing there to fret about even if our enemies had allies there. There were wild tales of strange magics and so on but then, aren't there always? Having the only source of magic known to us made us slightly paranoid on the subject. Spirit magic, we knew about and didn't worry over. It was small scale stuff, the spirits of the dead molded by priests to perform single simple tasks when called. Other potential rivals made us uneasy. I put that aside and read on. The Alendi had a single mighty fortress called the Eyrie, large enough to hold the entire tribe and to which they had apparently withdrawn several times in defense against greater tribes that no longer existed. In part that was our doing. No one had had any inclination to take control of these areas, but battles fought in order to plunder material wealth and slaves had been numerous in this area for the last two centuries, chipping away at their numbers. To the east, I knew, there were more numerous tribes that might extend for a thousand miles for all I knew. These other tribes also played a part in keeping down the numbers of the Gerrian tribes by their own raiding activities. There was an extensive section on the Eyrie that I read through even though I wasn't that interested; this was, after all, a punitive expedition and not a war of conquest. March there, meet the enemy, hit them hard, grab some booty and go.
My reading was interrupted by hoofbeats coming steadily closer. I closed the book with one finger marking my place and looked around. My men didn't seem to have moved an inch. From the direction of the city came three horses and three riders. Not what I was expecting. Two of them were women. Definitely not what I was expecting. As they came closer I recognized them as Orelia and Jocasta. The man with them was their brother Urik, all of the family Habrach, a family with a lineage not quite as ancient and august as mine. I had been betrothed to Orelia until her family decided I was a lost cause about five years ago. I put the book away and moved toward them, trailed by my own horse. I didn't see the point in mounting and I didn't want to hurry. I had guessed what was coming and wanted as long as possible to think about what to say in return. If I saw out some military time and returned, I guessed that the betrothal offer was on again. Well, did I want that? Damned if I knew but the best time to say forget it was sooner rather than later. The fact is, I like being single. Women consist of willing slaves or widows, neither of which expect any kind of commitment. Of course I could just put her off. After I had served a year we could discuss it. That, I decided, was the way to go.
I hadn't been paying much attention to the expressions on their faces as I thought through my own situation but all of a sudden they were close and no one looked happy. They looked worried, and that just didn't fit with what I'd been thinking. Worried for me? No. No, that didn't fit and would be insulting besides. Orelia wouldn't ride out here to insult me by showing contempt for my military prowess, non-existent though it might be.
As soon as they were close, Orelia pulled rein and slipped easily to the ground. She was definitely worried, not to mention cute and a very good horsewoman.
“Orelia, what is it?”
“Sumto, will you help me?”
“Of course.” Ouch. Suckered.
She took a step closer, almost close enough to touch. Her brother stiffened in his saddle and her sister came down off her own horse all in a rush. Overprotective, I thought, but honor can be a prickly thing amongst city nobles. I watched her expression change moment by moment, nervous, wary, worried.
“Orelia. Just tell me.”
“My betrothed is a prisoner of the barbarians,” she blurted.
I blinked, something had flashed in my eye but I paid no attention to that. I was busy. I didn't know whether to sigh at the inevitability of it or swear aloud at the injustice. I'd already said I'd do it, whatever it was. Now I just needed to know if I was breaking him free or paying a ransom. I prayed briefly for the latter before I asked.
“His name and status is known to them, and they have asked for something,” her expression went deep into fearful and her voice dropped to a whisper. There was a hint of shame in there as well.
“They asked for something? Not money?”
She shook her head. “Not money,” her sister said. “The head of the Ensibi King.”
That's when I started swearing.