“Aye,” said the sergeant, “and it’s out of that hoard that Captain Devers sends a silver coin every other month, to each of the families of his troopers who have died.”
The young fool stared. “I’ve never heard of a mercenary captain doing that!”
“They don’t,” the sergeant growled. “Devers does. That’s why I stay with his Blue Company.” The captain paid the lieutenants, and each of them paid their men. Then they marched off on leave, each platoon bent on visiting a different village—the whole company together would have destroyed any town—each roaring to begin celebrating, eager to infest the inns, make the brewers and harlots rich, pester the decent women, and pick fights with the civilian men.
Cort had other plans, though. He had dropped a hint in each sergeant’s ear, and each sergeant had mentioned the town of Bozzeratle as his men were discussing possible destinations—so it wasn’t quite by accident that Cort’s platoon was marching toward the town in which his fiancée lived.
CHAPTER 2
Gar rode out of the forest onto the road, and the merchant shouted, “Bandits!” The spear he used for a staff snapped down, leveled at Gar’s stomach. One of his drivers plucked an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in one smooth motion while the other drivers swung their bows around from their backs and strung them.
“Peace, peace!” Gar held up his hands. “I’m no bandit! My name is Gar Pike, and I’m a mercenary looking for honest work!”
“What did you say?” The merchant frowned. “Oh—‘honest work.’ I can scarcely understand you, your accent’s so thick.”
He wouldn’t have understood Gar at all, a week before. The local dialect had drifted so far from Galactic Standard that Gar had taken quite a while puzzling out the vowel shifts, wandering through markets and sitting in taverns listening, then trying a halting imitation of their words. Now he could at least be understood.
The spear and bow held steady, and the rest of the drivers nocked arrows and drew.
“A soldier for hire?” The merchant frowned with suspicion. He was lean and tall, as these people went, looking hard enough to be a bandit himself, though his tunic and leggins were of broadcloth instead of homespun, with a sleeveless, knee-length robe over them. His colors were all brown and green, the better to blend into the forest around him. “How can we be sure you’re honest, not some bandit sent to strike from inside while your mates attack? What proof can you give?”
“No proof at all,” Gar said cheerfully, “except for this letter.” He had tucked the rolled parchment into the collar of his tunic, where they could see it easily; now he drew it out slowly and tossed it to the merchant. The man caught it and unrolled it, frowning as he studied it.
Gar studied him in return. He’d been surprised to see anything resembling a merchant in such a war-torn country, but he couldn’t think what else a commoner with a string of mules loaded with huge packs might be, especially since he was dressed a bit better than his helpers. A merchant had to look prosperous, after all, or no one would have confidence in the goods he sold. With the warlords constantly battling each other, trade should have been very risky indeed—a merchant could never know when a band of soldiers would descend on him to confiscate his gods. He guessed that this man, and the few others like him, must have become very good at finding out where the battles were, and planning routes that kept them far from the skirmishes.
“I can scarcely make out these words,” the merchant complained.
“It comes from very far away,” Gar explained. It did—about fifty light-years. “They don’t speak the language the way you do here.”
“Hardly the same language at all,” the merchant grumbled.
One more strike against the possibility of any sort of law or order on this planet. A strong government would have tried to keep things from changing too much, and words would take on new forms very slowly if at all. The fact that Galactic Standard had evolved into a local dialect whose speakers could scarcely understand its parent language meant there wasn’t anything to put the brakes on the headlong rush into confusion.
“Never heard of this Paolo Braccalese,” the merchant grumbled.
“As I say, he’s very far away,” Gar told him. “But he speaks well of you.” The merchant rolled up the parchment with sudden decision and thrust it back at Gar. “And we can surely use someone of your size. All right, you’re hired. I’m Ralke, and I’m your master now—but if you betray us, you’ll be looking for some new guts.” So Gar joined the caravan—and that afternoon, the bandits attacked.
They burst from the roadside trees howling like banshees, pikes up to skewer the drivers. Mules bawled and balked, and Gar barely had time to draw his sword. The driver-archer shouted even as he drew and loosed; then the next arrow was on his bowstring, and the other drivers had strung their bows, but the bandits were in among them, stabbing and swinging. One driver screamed as he fell from his mule.
“At them, lads! They don’t want your goods, they want your lives!” Ralke shouted as he parried a stabbing pike, then chopped off its head.
“Only goods!” one bandit shouted. “Throw down your weapons and we’ll spare you! We only want the goods to sell!” Then he snarled and swung the headless spear shaft at the merchant’s head.
Gar turned a pike with his shield and thrust into the bandit’s shoulder, roaring. The man fell back, and Gar turned, spurring his horse, riding back along the line of mules, chopping pikeheads and slashing at soldiers, bellowing bloody murder. The bandits fell back from the terrible giant long enough for the drivers to launch a flight of arrows. Several of the bandits fell, howling and clutching at shafts. Their mates shouted in rage and charged the drivers again, screaming, “Die, scum!”
The drivers dropped their bows and yanked short swords from the scabbards on their saddles. Another driver fell howling, a pike gash pumping blood, but Gar turned and chopped through the shaft, then struck the bandit on his steel cap. The blow rang, the man fell—and suddenly, the bandits were turning, running, leaping, disappearing back into the trees.
“Nock arrows!” Ralke shouted. “They might come again!”
“We’d better see to the wounded.” Gar started to dismount.
But Ralke shouted, “No! Let the drivers do the bandaging! You stay on guard! Johann!”
“Aye?” said one of the driver-archers.
“Tie up those soldiers. Karl! Watch the fallen ones and make sure none of them swings on Johann!”
Karl nodded and moved over to the prisoners, hard-faced.
Gar hesitated, then swung back into the saddle again, glancing at the trees, then at the half-dozen bandits who lay groaning and writhing on the ground—except for two who lay very still. He was amazed how well-equipped they were, each wearing a hardened leather breastplate and a steel cap.
Then he realized that they were all dressed alike.
“Master Ralke!” he cried. “They aren’t common bandits—they’re soldiers!”
“Yes, out of work and on furlough,” Ralke said grimly. “But soldiers will be ashamed of being beaten off by a train of traders, so they’re all the more likely to come back than common bandits would be. I was wise to invest in your services, Gar Pike. If it hadn’t been for you roaring like an ogre and slashing like a windmill, they would have slain us all!”
“Would they really?” Gar turned to him with a troubled frown.
“I’ve seen it happen,” Ralke answered, and two of his drivers nodded.
“I only escaped by pretending to be dead,” one said.
“I ran,” the other told him, “I was lucky. I looked back and saw the rest of my caravan being slaughtered.”