Octobers Baby

SIX: The Mercenaries

i) A matter of discipline

"Looks just like army," said Mocker, as he and Ragnarson descended the slope of the valley where Blackfang and Kildragon had established their training camp. The River Porthune was near, and beyond it, Kendel, northernmost of the Lesser Kingdoms.

They were a week behind Blackfang. It had taken Bragi that long to conclude his business and convince Uthe that he and Dahl dared return to Elana unaccompanied. He had finally explained the situation fully, trusting Uthe's discretion. Even then Bragi had been forced to compose a long explanatory letter admonishing Elana and Bevold to cooperate with the Minister's agents.

"Uhn." Ragnarson grunted. "A baby one. Or an overgrown street gang." He had been sour for days. First, Mocker had insisted on coming south. Bragi would rather he were in charge at home. Elana was unpredictable. Bevold had no imagination. And the two were sure to feud.

His last hope of evading the Kavelin committment had evaporated when Royalist rowdies, at the gate of Itaskia's citadel, had murdered Duke Greyfells.

The shock waves were still rattling windows and walls. A quiet little war between Haroun's partisans and those of El Murid, in the ghetto, was no cause for excitement. But an assassination...

Half of Itaskia had gone into shock. The other half had gone on a witchhunt.

"Look what Reskird's recruited. Children." Ragnar-son indicated a line of young swordsmen being drilled by a grizzled veteran.

"Self," Mocker observed with a chuckle, "remember boy from icy northland, big as a horse, bald-chinned ..."

"That was different. My father raised me right."

"Hai!" Mocker cried. "'Raised right,' says he. As reever, arsonist, Her in ambush..."

Bragi was in no mood for banter. He didn't argue. He continued surveying the encampment. The area occupied by Kildragon's trainees pleased him. They had even put up a log stockade behind a good deep ditch.

But the Trolledyngjan camp was a despair. He had seen better among savages. This had come on recently, too. There had been no sloppiness when they had camped at his place.

"The families. We'll have to do something, or there'll be trouble. First time some girl gets caught in the puckerbushes with an Itaskian..."

"Self, am no expert... Hai! Such strange expression. Am, admittedly, expert in most things, being genius equal to girth, but even for genius of such breadth, self, all things not known. But don't tell. Public thinks fat old reprobate infallible, omniscient, near divine in wisdom."

"How about turning your omniscience to the point?"

Mocker did so, but Ragnarson paid little attention.

They entered the Trolledyngjan encampment. Ragnar-son's nose rose. Trolledyngjans were notoriously undisci­plined and unfastidious, but this much filth meant deep trouble and a lack of leadership.

He heard angry voices. "May get to try your sug­gestion."

"Uhn," the fat man grunted. He, too, had been surveying the surly faces watching from tents and wagons. "Self, will keep hand to hilt."

The voices proved to be those of Blackfang and a large, brutish young man, arguing amidst a mass of grumbling Trolledyngjans. With Mocker's donkey in his wake, Bragi forced his mount into the press.

The onlookers moved reluctantly, with hard glares. How could Haaken have let it go this far?

Ragnarson thundered. "What the hell is this, Black-fang? A pigsty?" He studied the man facing his foster brother.

A brute. A young swine. But that was more in mind and manner than appearance. Not too bright, greedy, and a catspaw, Ragnarson guessed.

Blackfang saluted, replied, "A bit of difficulty explaining something, sir. Some folks think we ought to be raiding, not running off to some bird-in-the-bush Lesser Kingdom."

"Eh? What kind of fool are you? You recruit suicides? Settle it. Thrash the lout, get this camp cleaned up, and report to my quarters."

Blackfang's antagonist could contain himself no longer. "Who's this old swineherd muck-mouth, and where's she get off giving orders to men?" Ragnarson wore Itaskian dress. "Are we slaves to every eunuch who rides in?..."

Ragnarson's boot found his mouth. He looked up from the ground puzzledly, a finger feeling loosened teeth.

"Ten lashes," Bragi said. "Special consideration so it won't be said I spite the children of old enemies. But I'll hang him next time."

The man was about to spring. Discretion bit him. He frowned questioningly.

"Up, you," Ragnarson ordered. "Which of Bjorn Thorfinson's whelps are you?"

"Eh? Ragnar..."

"Ragnar? The gall of the man. But no matter. It's an honorable name. Wear it with honor. There's a saying, 'Like father, like son.' I hope it's not true in your case. Blackfang, somewhere there's a man with a purse full of gold. Someone who was poor when he left the north. Bring him when you report."

He nudged his mount forward. Mocker followed, grinning hugely.

ii) Child with the ways of a woman

Ragnarson had met the Trolledyngjans and Itaskians who were to be his staff. Though Kildragon had nominal control of the latter, a question of loyalties might arise. Most of the Itaskians were raw youths, but their officers and sergeants were obvious veterans, and almost as obviously the Minister's hand-picked men, detached from regular service.

But the Trolledyngjans were the pressing problem. Their leaders were solid, experienced men who knew the lay of things. The young men had never seen a real war. They wanted to plunder the countryside, called wiser heads cowards for demurring. Their exposure to Itaskian military procedures had been sketchy. Wolf-strikes by coast-reevers gave the raiders no true picture of the capacity of the attacked.

"Reskird," said Ragnarson, after a lot of useless talk, "clear your drill ground. Dig a trench down the middle, as wide and deep as you can in two hours. Arm your best men with shields and pikes. Scare up blunt arrows for the rest, and pad the tips. Blackfang will attack you in the Trolledyngjan fashion. We'll give your youngsters some confidence and knock the cockiness out of Haaken's."

Kildragon, a dour man, replied, "Two birds, eh? Show them Itaskian firepower, they'll lose interest in plunder. And we'll build some mutual respect."

"Right." To the Trolledyngjan officers, Ragnarson said, "Push the Itaskians hard. Try to break them. Straight frontal attack, no tricks. See how they stand up..."

A racket approached. Blackfang stalked in, pushing a scared Trolledyngjan. "Here's our gold man," he growled. "Caught him trying to sneak into the hills."

Ragnarson considered the youth, who had been one of Haaken's bodyguards in Itaskia. "Took you long enough, and then you didn't get the right one."

"Eh? He had it when we caught him."

"When did he get it? He was with us in Itaskia. Mocker?" The fat man nodded. "He ever give you any trouble before?"

"No."

"Where'd you get it, Wulf?"

The soldier wouldn't answer.

Blackfang drew back a fist.

"Self," said Mocker, "being accustomed to use of brain instead of fist, would suggest is time for brainwork. Who does boy have for friends? Is friend rabble-rouser? Is friend?..."

"Don't have no friends," Blackfang interjected. "Just that girl Astrid he's always sniffing round..."

"Ah?" said Mocker. "Girl? Is said, 'Look for woman.' Might same be sister of mouth-man in camp in morning? Saw same with boy on trek to Itaskia."

"Bjorn had a daughter?" Ragnarson asked. Vague recollection of a face. Young. What was it the Star Rider had said? Beware of the girl who acts like a woman? "Get her."

"Never thought about a woman," Blackfang said, leaving.

He soon returned with a howling, kicking adolescent in tow and a group of sullen youths trailing. "Where's her brother?" Ragnarson asked. "I want him here too." Ragnar appeared almost instantly. "Wulf, you and Ragnar stand back, out of the way." To Reskird, "If they move, cut them down. Girl, shut up."

The girl had been alternating threats, pleas, and calls for help.

"Blackfang, watch the door. Kill anybody who sticks his head in."

His officers stirred nervously. He was daring mutiny. "Sit down, girl," said Ragnarson, offering his chair. "Mocker?"

The fat man grunted, began playing with an Itaskian gold piece taken from Wulf. The girl watched fearfully. Sometimes the coin seemed to vanish, but reappeared in his other hand. Over and over it turned. Droning, Bragi told his officers the tale of how her father, while young, r had betrayed his father to the Pretender's followers.

The coin turned over, vanished, appeared. Ragnarson spoke of their mission in Kavelin. He talked till everyone was thoroughly bored.

Then Mocker took over whispering. He reminded the girl that she was weary, weary...

She had no chance. At last Mocker was satisfied. "Has been long time," he said, "but is ready. Ask questions gently."

"What's your name?" Ragnarson asked.

"Astrid Bjornesdatter."

"Are you rich, Astrid?"

"Yes."

"Very rich?"

"Yes."

"Have you been rich long?"

"No."

"Did you get rich in Itaskia?"

"Yes."

"A man gave you gold to do something?"

"Yes."

"An old man? A thin man?"

"Yes. Yes."

Ragnarson and Mocker exchanged glances. "Grey-fells."

"Sorcery!" Wulf hissed. "It's sorcery..." Kildragon's blade touched his throat.

"Did the man want you to cause trouble? To keep your people from going to Kavelin?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Satisfies me," said Ragnarson. "You. Ragnar. Want to ask her anything?" The boy did, and showed unexpected intelligence. He followed Bragi's lead and kept his questions simple. It took but a few to convince him that he had been used.

Wulf refused his opportunity. Ragnarson didn't push. Let him keep his illusions.

"Well, gentlemen," Bragi said, "you see a problem partially resolved. My friend will make the girl forget. But what about the men? This can happen again as long as we've got camp followers. I want them left here."

After the gathering dispersed, Bragi told Kildragon, Blackfang, and the fat man, "Keep an eye on Ragnar and Wulf. I tried to plant a seed. If it takes root, they'll handle our problem with the Trolledyngjans."

iii) News from Kavelin

The sham battle had been on an hour. The Trolledyngjans were getting trounced.

"My point's been made," said Ragnarson to a runner. "The Itaskians look good. Tell Blackfang to withdraw." As the messenger departed, a dust-covered rider ap­proached from the direction of the Porthune. He was a tall, lean man, weathered, grim, who rode spear-straight. A soldier, Ragnarson thought. A man too proud to show weariness.

"Colonel Ragnarson?" the rider asked as he came up.

"Right."

"Eanred Tarlson, Colonel, commanding the Queen's Own Guard, Kavelin. I have a letter from Haroun bin Yousif."

Ragnarson took the letter, sent a runner to prepare quarters. "Queen's Own?"

"The King was dying when I left Vorgreberg."

Ragnarson finished Haroun's brief missive, which urged that he waste no time moving south. "You came alone? With trouble brewing?"

"No. I had a squadron when I left."

"Uhm," Ragnarson grunted. "Well, you're here. Relax. Rest."

"How soon can you move?" Tarlson demanded. "You're desperately needed. The Queen had little but my regiment, and that likely to disappear if someone spreads the rumor that I'm dead."

"The problem of succession, eh? The changeling and the foreign queen."

Tarlson gave him an odd look. "Yes. How soon?"

"Not today. Tomorrow if it's desperate. If I had my druthers, not for weeks. The men are green, not used to working together."

"Tomorrow, then," said Tarlson, as if yielding a major point.

Ragnarson recognized a strong-willed man who might cause problems unless things were made clear immedi­ately. "Colonel, I'm my own man. These men march to my drum. I take orders only from my paymaster. Or mistress. I appreciate the need for haste. You wouldn't have come otherwise. But I won't be pushed."

Tarlson flashed a brief, weary smile. "Understood. I've been there. I'd rather you took the extra days and arrived able to fight, anyway." He glanced at the Trolledyngjan encampment. "You're bringing families?"

"No. They're staying. Shouldn't you get some rest? We'll start early."

"Yes, I suppose."

Ragnarson turned to greet Kildragon and Blackfang, who were arguing as they rode up, Haaken claiming Reskird had cheated. "Looked good. They mightdo if we can get them an easy first fight. Any injuries?"

Headshakes. "Just bruises, mostly egos," said Black-fang.

"Good. We move out tomorrow. Haroun says the arrow's in the air."

Both men claimed they needed more time.

"You can have all the time you want. On the march. Haaken, get the families settled in the stockade."

The leading elements moved out at first light. By noon the rearguard was over the Porthune.

An officer from Kendel's army, as if by magic, appeared to lead them through back country, by obscure ways, out of the sight of most eyes, to the Ruderin border, where they were passed on to a Ruderiner for the march down the Anstokin border to the River Scarlotti, over which they would ferry to Altea.

Days went by. Miles and clouds of dust passed. Ragnarson did not push the pace, but kept moving from dawn till dusk, with only brief pauses to eat and rest the animals, for whom the march was punishing. Cavalry mounts were expensive. He had as yet received no advance from Ravelin's Queen.

Ten days into the march, in Ruderin, near the northernmost finger of Anstokin, he decided it was time for a rest.

Tarlson protested. "We've got to keep moving! Every minute wasted ..." Each day he grew more pessimistic, more dour. Ragnarson had tried to get to know him, but the man's anxieties got in the way. He grew ever more worried as no news came north to meet them.

Ragnarson, while his troops were involved in mainte­nance and training, asked Tarlson if he would care to go boar hunting. Their guide said a small but vicious wild pig inhabited the region. Tarlson accepted, apparently more to keep occupied than because he was interested. Mocker tagged along, for once deigning to mount a beast other than his donkey.

They had no luck, but Ragnarson was glad just to escape the cares of command. He had always loved the solitude of forests. These, so much like those around his grant, infected him with homesickness. For the most part they rode quietly, though Mocker couldn't stifle himself completely. He mentioned homesickness too.

Toward midafternoon Tarlson loosened up. In the course of conversation, Ragnarson found the opportu­nity to ask a question that intrigued him.

"Suppose we find the Queen deposed?"

"We restore her."

"Even if the usurper is supported by the Thing?"

Tarlson took a long time answering, as if he hadn't considered the possibility. "My loyalty is to the Throne, not to man or woman. But no one could manage a majority."

"Uhm." Ragnarson remained thoughtful. He hoped Haroun's scheme wouldn't put them on opposite sides. Tarlson was the only Kaveliner with any military reputation, and he clearly had the will to manage armies.

Ragnarson wrestled serious self-doubts. He had never commanded such a large force, nor one so green and ethnically mixed. He feared that, in the crunch, control would slip away.

It was nearly dark before they abandoned the hunt, never having heard a grunt.

On the way back they struck the remnants of a road.

"Probably an Imperial highway," Tarlson mused. "The legions were active here in the last years."

iv) A castle in the darkness

Darkness had fallen. There was a quarter-moon, points up, that reminded Ragnarson of artists' renderings of Trolledyngjan warships. "What warriors," he mused aloud, "go reeving in yonder nightship?"

"The souls of the damned," Tarlson replied. "They pursue the rich lands eternally, their captain's eyes fiery with greed, but the shores of the earth retreat as fast as they approach, no matter how hard they row, or how much sail they put on."

Ragnarson started. This was another side of Eanred. He had begun to fear the man was a small-minded, undereducated boor.

"Varvares Codice," said Mocker, "same being attrib­uted to Shurnas Brankel, legend collector of pre-Imperial Ilkazar. Hai! They send fire arrows."

A half-dozen meteors streaked down the night.

"Ho! What's this?"asked Ragnarson. They had topped a rise. Something huge and dark lay in the vale below.

"Castle," said Mocker.

"Odd," said Tarlson. "The guide didn't mention any strongholds around here."

"Maybe ruin left over from Imperial times," Mocker suggested. There was hardly a place in the west not within a few hours' ride of some Imperial remnant.

They drew close enough to make out generalities. "I don't think so," said Ragnarson. "The Empire built low, blockish walls with regularly spaced square towers for enfilading fire. This's got high walls with rounded towers. And the crenallated battlement didn't become common till the last century."

Tarlson reacted much as Ragnarson had minutes before. Mocker laughed.

The road ran right into the fortress, which made no sense. There were no lights, no watchfires, no sounds or smells of life.

"Must be a ruin," Ragnarson opined.

Curiosity had always been a weakness of Mocker's. "We see what's what, eh? Hai! Maybe find chest of jewels forgotten by fleeing tenants. Pot of gold buried during siege, waiting to jump into hands of portly investigator. Secret passage with skeletons of discarded paramours of castle lord, rings still on finger bones. Maybe dungeon mausoleum full of ancestors buried with riches ripe for plucking by intrepid grave robbers..."

"Ghoul!" Tarlson snapped.

"Pay him no mind," said Ragnarson. "Weird sense of humor. Just wants to poke around."

"We should get back."

He was right, but Ragnarson, too, was intrigued. "Like the old days, eh, Lard Bottom?"

Mocker exploded gleefully, "Hai! Truth told. Getting old, we. Calcification of brainpan setting in. We go, pretending twentieth birthday coming still, and no sense, not care if dawn comes. Immortals, we. Nothing can harm."

That was the way they had been, Ragnarson reflected.

"We explore, hey, Hulk?" Mocker stopped his mount beneath the teeth of a rusty portcullis.

"Go ahead," said Tarlson. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"Right. See you in the morning, then." Ragnarson followed Mocker into a small courtyard.

He got the feeling he had made a mistake. There was something wrong with the place. It seemed to be waiting... And a little surreal, as if he could turn suddenly and find nothing behind him.

Overactive imagination, he told himself. Came of remembering what they had gotten into in the old days.

Mocker dismounted and entered a door. Ragnarson hurried to catch him.

It was dark as a crypt inside. He pursued Mocker's shuffling footsteps, cursing himself for not having brought a light. He bumped into something large and yielding. Mocker squawked like a kicked hen.

"Do something," Bragi growled, "but don't block the road."

"Self, am listening. And trying not to be trampled by lead-footed stumbler about without sense to bring light. Am wondering about sound heard over stampede rumble of feet of same."

"Let's go back, then. We can come by tomorrow."

Logic had no weight with Mocker. He moved ahead.

So gradually that they did not immediately realize it, light entered their ken. Before they had advanced a hundred feet, they could see dimly, as through heavy fog at false dawn.

"Something's wrong here," said Ragnarson. "I smell sorcery. We'd better get out before we stir something up."

"Pusillanimous dullard," Mocker retorted. "In old days friend Hulk would have led charge."

"In the old days I didn't have any sense. Thought you'd grown up some, too."

Mocker shrugged. He no longer was anxious to go on. "Just to end of passage," he said. "Then we follow example of Tarlson."

The corridor ended in a blank wall. What was the sense of a passage that went nowhere, that had no doors opening off it?

"We'd better go," said Ragnarson. The sourceless light was bright now. He turned. "Huh?" His sword jumped into his hand.

Blocking their withdrawal was a curtain of darkness, as if someone had taken a pane of starless night and stretched it from wall to wall.

Mocker slid round him and probed the darkness with his blade. A deep thrust got results. Laughter like the cackling of a mad god.

"Woe!" Mocker cried. "Such petty end for great mind of age, caught like stupidest mouse in trap..." He charged the darkness, sword preceeding him.

"You idiot!" Ragnarson bellowed. He muttered, "What the hell?" when his companion seemed to slide out of existence as he hit the blackness.

"Might as well." He hit the darkness seconds behind the fat man.

He felt like he was tumbling down the entire well of eternity, rolling aimlessly through a storm of color and sound underlaid by the whispering of wicked things. It went on and on and on and... Without breaking stride he entered a vast, poorly lighted chamber.

That room, or hall, was an assault on rationality. The air was overpoweringly foul. From all-surrounding, shadowed mists came rustlings, and for a moment he thought he saw a manlike, winged thing with the head of a dog, then a small, apelike dwarf with prodigious fangs. Everything seemed unstable, shifting, except the floor, which was of jet, and a huge black throne carved with exceptionally hideous designs. They reminded him of reliefs he had seen in the temples of Arundeputh and Merthregul at Gundgatchcatil. Yet these were worse, as if carved by hands washed more deeply in evil.

Mocker, sword in hand, prowled round that throne. "What is it?" Ragnarson asked, seldom having seen the fat man so upset.

"Shinsan."

They were trapped fools indeed.

The mists stirred. An old man stepped forth. "Good evening," he said. "I trust you speak Necremnen? Good."

The old man turned to the throne, knelt, touched forehead to floor, muttered something Ragnarson couldn't understand. For an instant new mists gathered there. An incredibly beautiful woman wavered in their depths. She nodded and disappeared. The old man rose and turned.

"My Lady honors me. But to business. You're going where My Lady wishes you wouldn't. Kavelin is already too complex. Go home."

Ragnarson retorted, "Simple as that, eh? Might interfere with your plans, so we should turn back?"

"Yes."

"I can't do that." His fingers, in deaf-mute signs, flashed a message to Mocker. "I've given my word."

"I've tried to be reasonable. My Lady won't tolerate disobedience."

"Terrible. Hate to disappoint her."

Mocker suddenly lunged, sword reaching.

A silvery filament lightninged from the old man's hand, brushed Mocker's cheek. The fat man collapsed. By then Ragnarson was moving in. The thread darted out again. Bragi tangled it on his blade, ripped it from the old man's grasp, continued to bore in. \

The sorcerer sprang straight up and disappeared in the mists overhead. Bragi, mystified, tried a few desultory sword swipes that got no result, then knelt to check Mocker's pulse.

A shimmering, sparkling dust drifted down upon him. When the first scintillating flakelet touched his skin, he tumbled across his friend.