24
BERA

“Where are we?” Zir shouted over the Jingle of harness.

“We’re in Mycena!” someone else called back.

Beka grinned in spite of herself. They’d worn the joke threadbare weeks ago, but every once in a while someone trotted it out again just to break the monotony.

Sergeant Mercalle’s riders were in high spirits this morning. Beka had received orders to take a decuria and ride to a nearby market town to buy supplies for the troop. Mercal le had won the toss.

For weeks they’d ridden through rolling, snow-covered hills, oak forest, and empty fields; past thatch-roof steadings and small country towns where soldiers of any sort were regarded with guarded resentment. Mycena was a country of farmers and tradesmen. Wars interrupted commerce.

It had taken the regiment nearly a month to reach the port city of Keston—a month of cold camps and thrown-together billets in garrisons and courtyards, and slow-march riding over frozen roads. At night, the green new officers sat around the fire and listened to the veterans’ war tales, hoping to pick up some of the things they hadn’t had time to learn during their brief six weeks of training.

The more Beka listened, the more she realized that despite all their drilling and individual prowess with horse, sword, and bow, it would take a battle or two to sort out how well the turma worked together and trusted one another.

And how much they trusted her.

She’d noticed that many of her riders still looked more often to her sergeants for guidance than to her. That stung a bit, but then, they were the turma’s only seasoned veterans. To their credit, they all showed the strictest respect for her rank, even Braknil, who was old enough to be her father.

In return, Beka was mindful of the fact that without Seregil’s patronage and the commission it had won her, sergeant would have been the highest rank she could’ve hoped for in such a regiment. Some of the other squadrons’ new lieutenants—the sons and daughters of Rhíminee lords—seemed to keep this in mind, too, and let her know with the occasional sneer or condescending remark. Fortunately, her brother officers in Myrhini’s troop were not among these.

At Keston the regimental commander, Prince Korathan, had taken Commander Perris’ Wolf Squadron and split off to follow the coastline. Commander Klia’s squadron headed inland toward the Folcwine Valley. The Folcwine River was the southern leg of the great trade route that ran north all the way to the Ironheart range in the distant northlands. The river was the first prize the Plenimarans were expected to reach for.

That had been two weeks ago; it would be another two before they came to the river.

Turning in the saddle, Beka looked back at the column snaking darkly over the hills behind her: nearly four hundred horsemen and officers of Lion Squadron, the sledges of the sutlers and armorers, provision wains, livestock and drivers. It was like traveling with a small town in tow. Scouting trips, vanguard duty, even mundane provision runs like this offered a welcome break.

Catching Mercalle’s eye, Beka said, “Sergeant, I think the horses could do with a run.”

“You’re right, Lieutenant,” Mercalle answered with the hint of a smile; they both knew it was the restless young riders who needed it more.

Beka scanned the rolling terrain ahead of them and spied a dark line of trees a mile or so off. “Pass the word, Sergeant. At my signal, race for the trees. The first one who gets there has first chance at the taverns.”

Mercalle’s riders fanned out smoothly, catcalling back and forth to each other. At Beka’s signal, they spurred their mounts forward, galloping for the trees.

Beka’s Wyvern could easily have outdistanced most of the other horses, but she held back, letting Kaylah and Zir end the race in a tie.

“I hear they always finish together,” Marten grumbled as the rest of the riders reined in around the winners. A few of the others smirked at this. Sexual relations in the ranks were frowned on, and a careless pregnancy got both parties cashiered, but it happened, nonetheless. Still celibate herself, Beka chose to turn a blind eye to who was sharing blankets with who. A number of her riders had come into the regiment already paired, including Kaylah and Zir. Others, like Mirn and Steb, had formed bonds during the march.

“Don’t worry about it,” Braknil had advised after she’d noticed certain blankets moving late at night. “So long as it’s honorable, it’ll just make them fight the enemy all the harder. No one wants to look a coward to their lover.”

Kaylah and Zir already seemed proof of this; during training they’d competed fiercely against each other and everyone else. Kaylah was a pretty blonde who looked almost too fragile for a warrior’s life, but she was like a centaur on horseback, and could match anyone in the turma with a bow. Zir, a young, black-bearded bear of a man, had Sakor’s own sword arm mounted or afoot.

The trees turned out to be a thick pine forest. Skirting along its edge, they struck a well-packed road that led through in the direction of the town. Just before noon they came out on the far side into a valley overlooking the town. It was a prosperous-looking place, with a palisade for protection and a busy market square.

Their dark green field tunics attracted less attention than their dress tabards might have, but the townspeople still looked askance at their swords, bows, and chain mail.

Better us than the Plenimaran marines, Beka thought, pulling her gorget from the neck of her tunic to show her rank.

Their Skalan gold was welcome enough, however. In less than an hour’s time they’d found all the supplies they’d been sent for—parchment, flints, wax, honey, meal and flour, dried fruit and beans, salt, smoked meats, ale, four fat sheep and a pig, oats and winter fodder for the horses—and hired three carters to haul the goods back to the column under escort.

Her riders had also found time to purchase items for themselves and those left behind with the rest of the turma: tobacco, playing cards, sweetmeats, fruit, and writing materials were always in demand. Some even had chickens and geese slung from their saddlebows. Mercalle shopped for the other sergeants; Portus was partial to nuts and raisins, Braknil to Mycenian cider brandy.

Mercalle glanced up at the sun as the carters secured the last of their load on their sledges and hitched up their oxen teams. “The column should have just about caught up by now. It’ll make a shorter return trip for the carters.”

“Everyone back?” asked Beka, counting faces.

“All accounted for, Lieutenant.”

“Good. You, Tobin, and Arna take the point. The rest of us will ride escort with the sledges. We’ll switch off point riders now and then, just to keep them from getting bored.”

Mercalle saluted, and galloped off with the two riders. Beka and the rest fell in around the sledges.

No one seemed to mind the slower pace; it was pleasant to saunter along with the sun on their backs and a cold breeze in their faces. Leaving town by the same road they’d entered, they wended their way back up into the pines.

“Do you travel this road often?” Beka asked, striking up a conversation with the lead driver.

The man twitched the reins across his team’s broad backs and nodded. “Often enough spring to autumn,” he replied, his accent thick as oat porridge. “My brothers and me drive goods up to Torburn-on-the-River. Boats take it on to the coast.”

“That must be a long trip at this pace.”

He shrugged. “Three weeks up, three back.”

“Have you heard much news here about a war coming?”

The carter spared her a sour glance. “I should think we have. Seeing as how we’re like to get trampled once again when you lot and the Plenimarans go at each other. There’s some say we ought to just trade land with one or t’other of ye, so’s ye can fight without bothering us.”

Beka bristled a bit at this. “We’re on our way east to keep that from happening. Otherwise, your armies will be left on their own when Plenimar comes after your land and the river.”

“They ain’t took it yet. And you lot ain’t never stopped ’em from wading in to try it.”

Beka bit back a retort and eased her mount away from the sledge. There was no sense arguing the point. “Marten and Barius, you go take point. Tell Sergeant Mercalle I’ll be up to relieve her as soon as the others get back.”

“Right, Lieutenant!” Barius said, grinning through his new beard. He and Marten set off at a gallop, cloaks streaming behind them as they raced each other out of sight around a bend in the road.

The sound of their hoofbeats had just faded out of earshot when the scream of a horse raised the hair on the back of Beka’s neck. Wheeling Wyvern, she saw Syrtas’ mount buck him off behind the third sledge! The horse screamed again, then bolted for the trees.

Rethus reined in beside the fallen man, then slung himself from the saddle.

“Ambush!” they shouted, dashing for cover behind the sledge.

An arrow sang past Beka’s horse and struck the side of the lead sledge. A glance told her that this was no military attack. The arrow was double fletched, rather than the military triple vane style, and the fletching was done clumsily, with one white vane and one a ragged brown.

“Bloody bandits!” the carter growled, pulling a short sword from under his seat and jumping over the side.

“Take cover!” Beka yelled, although the others were already doing just that. She slid off Wyvern with her bow in hand and whacked the horse on the haunches, hoping he’d get clear of the archers.

Heart pounding in her ears, Beka dove for the scant cover at the front of the sledge. Crouched there beside the carter, she tried to size up the situation.

The point riders weren’t back yet; that left Zir, Kaylah, Corbin, Rethus, Mikal, and Syrtas—assuming none of them were already killed—and the three drivers.

Judging by the hail of arrows whining at them from the cover of the trees, however, her group was considerably outnumbered. Worse yet, they were being fired on from both sides of the road.

“You said nothing about bandits when we set out,” she hissed to the driver.

“Ain’t seen any most of the winter,” he replied grudgingly. “This crew’s come north early. They must of laid for us until they saw you send off them other two.”

Beka moved to the opposite side of the sledge just in time to spot three swordsmen running at them from the woods. Almost without thinking, she fitted an arrow to her bowstring and shot one of them; the other two fell to someone else’s shafts.

Arrows snarled and hissed over her head as Beka dashed back to the next sledge, where she found Mikal, Zir, and Kaylah shooting wildly into the trees to either side.

“Stop shooting!” Beka ordered. “We can’t afford to waste the arrows.”

“What do we do?” Mikal demanded.

“Wait for a clear shot. And grab any spent arrow you can reach without getting hit.”

Ducking low, she made it to the last sledge. Rethus and Corbin were unscathed. Their carter lay panting beneath the sledge, an arrow shaft protruding from his hip.

That first enemy arrow had cut Syrtas just above the knee before striking his horse. The wound was bleeding freely, but it didn’t seem to be slowing him down much as he and the others shot into the trees.

Beka repeated the order, and then nocked another arrow on her bowstring, waiting for one of their attackers to show himself.

The bandits mistook their actions as a sign of surrender; in a moment the arrow storm stopped and swordsmen burst from the trees, yelling wildly as they charged the sledges on foot.

“Now hit them, both sides!” Beka shouted, scrambling to her feet. Heedless of any archers who might still be lurking in the trees, she sent shaft after shaft at the swordsmen running at her, downing three of them. For the first time since the skirmish began, it occurred to her that she was taking human lives, but the thought carried no emotion. The thrum of bowstrings and the cries and shouts of battle filled her mind, leaving room for nothing else. Beside her, Rethus fired with the same silent determination.

An arrow nicked the shoulder of her tunic and pinned her cloak to the side of the sledge behind her. Yanking the brooch pin loose, she dropped to one knee and continued to shoot.

A dozen or more bandits fell to their arrows, but an equal number were closing in around them.

“Swords!” Beka shouted. Drawing her blade, she strode out to meet a bearded man in scarred leather brigadine and ragged leggings. Ducking his wild swing with a broadsword, she whirled and struck at the back of his neck. She’d practiced the move a thousand times against her father and others; this time she drew blood.

There were plenty more with him, though, and she drew a long dagger in her left hand, using it to fend off thrusts to her open side.

Syrtas was to her right, Kaylah to the left. Covering each other as best they could, they waded into the knot of bandits.

The attackers outnumbered her side at least three to one, but Beka quickly realized that most of them relied more on brawn than skill. With almost disappointing ease, she ducked another swing and ran a man through, then pulled her blade free in time to strike another on the arm as he attacked Kaylah. The girl flashed her a grin, then lunged at a tall, scrawny youth who turned tail and fled.

Looking around, Beka realized that there were mounted fighters at work, too. Mercalle and the others had come back at some point and were charging into the fray, their helmets flashing in the sunlight as they scattered ambushers and struck down the stragglers with their swords.

The bandits were already beginning to fall back when more riders of the Horse Guard thundered down the road from the direction of the column. Tobin was at their head, with Portus and Braknil beside him.

The enemy broke for cover and the horsemen followed, driving them into the trees and dismounting to give chase.

“Come on!” cried Beka, rallying her blood-streaked comrades. “Let’s not let them steal all the fun!”

When the rout was over, more than twenty ambushers lay dead in the snow. Beka’s riders had sustained nothing worse than a few sword cuts and arrow wounds.

“By the Flame, that was a fair-sized gang,” Mercalle exclaimed.

The lead carter crawled from under his sledge. “Looks like old Garon’s crew. They been harrying the traders up and down the valley for nigh onto three years now. The sheriffs couldn’t never catch ’em.”

“They chose the wrong prey this time,” Sergeant Braknil remarked, grinning as he strode over to join them. “Looks to me like you had things pretty well in hand by the time we got here, Lieutenant.”

“I wasn’t so sure,” Beka said, noticing for the first time how shaky her legs felt. “What are you doing here, anyway? Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

“When Barius and Marten showed up, I sent Tobin and Arna back,” Mercalle explained. “But all of a sudden they came belting back with word that you were under attack. They didn’t know how big the force was or who, so I sent Arna back to the column for help and came on with the others. As it turns out, Braknil had talked the captain into letting the rest of the turma come meet you. He and Portus were less than a mile away when Arna met them.”

The rest of the turma had drifted over to listen. “Any losses?” she asked.

“Not a one, Lieutenant!” Corporal Nikides reported proudly. “Not bad for our first battle, eh?”

“I don’t know that I’d claim routing bandits as a battle, but we acquitted ourselves well enough,” Beka said, grinning around at the others. “You did well, all of you.”

Braknil exchanged a look with Mercalle and cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, there’s a custom some of the riders should observe. For their first kill, that is.”

“Drinking the blood of the first man you kill to keep off the ghosts, you mean?”

“That’s the one, Lieutenant. Some call it superstition nowadays, but I say the old ways are sound.”

“I agree,” said Beka. She’d heard of the custom from her father, and from Alec, who’d done the same after his first fight. “How many of you made your first kill today?”

Everyone in Mercalle’s decuria stepped forward, and several more from the others. “All right, then. All of you archers, find your first killing shaft. Come back here when you find it. The rest of you bring your swords.”

Beka walked to the body of the first swordsman she’d killed, a middle-aged brigand with a braided beard. He lay on his back, a look of mild surprise on his unremarkable face. She stared down at him a moment, making herself remember the murder in his eyes as he charged at her. She was glad to be alive, but not to have killed him. It was an odd mix of feelings. Shaking her head, she pulled the arrow from his chest and joined the others standing in a rough half circle beside the road. When everyone else had come back, she looked around and felt the weight of the moment settle upon her.

“Sergeants, I’m as new to this as the rest of them. Are there any special words to be spoken?”

“Whatever you want to say,” Braknil replied with a shrug.

Beka raised the arrow in front of her. “May we all fight together with honor, mercy, and strength.”

With that, she touched the arrowhead to her tongue and the coppery tang of the blood flooded her mouth. She wanted to grimace and spit, but she kept her face calm as she cleaned the arrowhead in the snow and dropped it back into her quiver.

“Honor, mercy, and strength!” echoed the others, doing the same with arrows and sword blades.

“I guess that’s it. Now we’ve got supplies to deliver,” she told them. “Anyone seen my horse?”

That evening Captain Myrhini’s troop feasted on the first fresh meat they’d had in weeks and drank the health of Beka and her turma several times over.

When they’d finished and were settling in their tents for another cold night, Captain Myrhini drew Beka aside.

“I’ve been talking with some of Mercalle’s riders,” she said as they walked together past the campfires of the various turmae. “Sounds to me like you kept your head and took care of your people.”

Beka shrugged. She’d been doing some thinking of her own. “It’s a good thing. I made a mistake sending out two riders when three were already up on point. I don’t think it was any accident that those ambushers jumped us when they did.”

“Oh?” Myrhini raised an eyebrow. “What could you have done differently?”

“I was going to relieve Mercalle anyway. I should’ve ridden up alone and sent the other two back for their replacements.”

“But that would have left your riders without an officer or sergeant.”

“Well, yes—”

“And the way I hear it, it was you who kept those green fighters from wasting all their arrows on the bushes, which the raiders were probably counting on. The fact is, it was me who made a mistake today.”

Beka looked at her in surprise, but Myrhini motioned for her not to interrupt. “I assumed that because we were in neutral territory, it was safe to send a decuria out on its own. If you’d had the turma with you, those brigands would never have attacked. Of course, you were far too tactful and inexperienced to bring this to my attention when I gave you that order, weren’t you?”

Beka couldn’t quite read the officer’s cryptic smile. “No, Captain, it just never occurred to me that we’d need any more people than that for a supply run.”

“Then we were both in error,” Myrhini said. “But learn and live, as a certain friend of ours always says. You did well, Lieutenant. Sergeant Mercalle thinks you’ve got the makings of a good fighter, by the way.”

“Oh?” Beka asked, caught between pleasure at the veteran’s appraisal and a certain pique that the sergeant had evidently not had the same confidence in her abilities before now. “What made her say that?”

“I think it was the way you were grinning as you fought,” Myrhini answered. “At least, that’s what she hears from those fighting beside you. Tell me, were you scared?”

Beka thought about that a moment. “Not really. Not during the fight, anyway.”

“Sakor touched!” the captain exclaimed, shaking her head. But Beka thought she sounded pleased.