The Huntsman's War, page 7
“No. And that’s suspicious in and of itself, even you have to admit.”
Grunting, Gregan turned to Jellod as the thrasher came up with a sack of empty glass jars. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re paranoid?”
Parnit’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “In my line of work, it pays to be suspicious. Literally.”
Drawing two jars out of the sack, Gregan looked up to see Parnit suddenly go pale, grin disappearing, his jaw tightening. Gregan had to suppress a smile. In the last two weeks the man had been on ten hunts, but the harvesting still made him go queasy in the knees. Prying the beast’s jaw open, Gregan heard the supervisor moan as he began slicing at the base of the tongue. “I don’t understand why you must do this. Taking proof for the governor is one thing but this…”
Unable to stop the smile this time, Gregan glanced over his shoulder. Parnit had turned away and was pressing a handkerchief to his nose. Probably scented, knowing him. “I need the glands,” Gregan said, turning back to his work. “Make the scent rags.”
“I know.” Gods, Parnit sounded like he might actually vomit this time! “I just wish it wasn’t so… messy.”
Gregan looked back to see Parnit had lowered his handkerchief, but now he stared off into the distance, glassy eyed. Gods, he really was on the point of losing his stomach. Gregan turned back to Jellod and jerked his head at the supervisor, flashing a grin. Jellod met Gregan’s gaze levelly and did not smile back. Damn.
They finished their work in silence, harvesting the glands and cutting off the beast’s tail for the Collective to deliver to governor Kenat. That done, the hunt remounted and began the hack home, a hack that would take a couple of hours at least.
They picked their way back through the wilderness in silence. Not uncommon these days. They’d never been talkative, usually exhausted from hunting. This was different. This was a new, deliberate kind of silence. Dead gods, Tiod and Jellod stared straight ahead and rode as if he wasn’t there, as though Gregan didn’t even exist to them.
They’d been this way ever since the governor had come to see them, ever since Gregan had made what the other two called, “The Bargain with the Bloods.” Wasn’t his fault. They still clung to this idiotic notion that Gregan should have resisted somehow. Twice they had spoken outside of work since then, Tiod had all but called Gregan a traitor, and Jellod had made comments about him that would have earned any other man a mouthful of broken teeth. Gregan’s free hand, the one not holding his reins, tightened on the hilt of his knife. Well, if they wanted to be short-sighted, if they couldn’t accept the realities of their situation, to Hell with them. Gregan wasn’t just keeping them alive and working, he was keeping their hounds alive too. Damn fools didn’t have to be grateful, they just had to keep following his lead.
Reaching a dirt farm road, they turned south and began following it, the hounds padding silently around Gregan’s horse, Kizen and Rickton riding to either side of the pack. Gregan glanced down at his hounds and caught Ebony’s gaze. The black and tan bitch smiled at him, wriggling as he smiled back at her. Leaning over his horse’s shoulder Gregan reached out and she popped up, tapping her nose to his fingers. I won’t let anything happen to you, he vowed in his head. I’ll die before they get you.
They entered some of the more established farming country; the forest had been pushed back and houses and fields dotted the rolling hills ahead. Unlike the field where the manticore had been slain, places like this still held out against the encroachment of the frontier. Every year more civilized land was lost to the inexorable push of the wilderness as it drove humanity back. Gregan tapped the pommel of his knife and turned to glance over his shoulder. Beside him, he noticed Parnit frowning, glancing back toward the woods. “Something wrong?”
The weasley man frowned and glanced at him, shaking his head. They rode in silence for only a few moments though, before Parnit spoke up. “Why does it feel different?” Gregan glanced at him and found Parnit meeting his gaze. “Being in the woods, I mean. Out here it is normal, or at least close to it.” He gestured ahead, toward the rolling hills dotted with farmsteads. “But in there,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “I feel… crushed. Oppressed. Like the land itself is looming over my shoulder and if I stand still for too long, I’ll be snatched up and carried away.”
Nodding, Gregan turned his gaze back to the road ahead. “That’s how it is,” he said, teasing his horse’s mane between his fingers. “How it is everywhere. I first noticed it when I was a kid, but I grew up on the fringe. Guess if you’re from a city-”
“I’m the son of a lumberjack,” Parnit snapped, and Gregan had to suppress a flare of anger at being interrupted. “I know what it is to be in a forest, and that,” he twisted in his saddle, pointing back the way they had come, “that is not the same.”
Gregan frowned. “Can’t say I think about it much. Same way I don’t think about the color of the sky. Just the way it is, at least here. Not like that where you come from?”
“No,” Parnit muttered, shuddering. “What is it?”
Gregan grunted, trying to decide how to explain this. How did he explain something so fundamental? It was like trying to explain why water was wet. “This land is not made for men,” he said, falling back on a line from the Redhill Dialogues. “It doesn’t want us, and we were not meant to be here. The only reason we’ve been here for the last thousand years is everything we used to call home is burned away.”
“Yes,” Parnit muttered, “the Collective is familiar with that part of your history.”
That struck Gregan as slightly odd, but he ignored it, following his own line of thought as he tried to explain. “We’ve carved out our pieces of civilization on this land, but the wilderness pushes back. You forge one road, you lose another. You break ground on a new field, and a farm twenty miles south is overrun and has to be abandoned. The wilderness has plenty of tools at its disposal to keep pressing on us. Virulent plant growth, sudden changes in the soil.” He paused and turned to Parnit, staying silent until the overseer turned to look at him. “Monsters.”
Parnit frowned. “Truly?”
“If a region is lost, it’s usually because the monster population got out of control. That only happens if a hunt has become slack in its work.” He looked away. “Or is killed in a military takeover.”
Parnit didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. Gregan could almost hear the man thinking as he fell back behind the pack.
Their group passed over a small bridge and up a winding switchback to the top of a hill. Here the road became smoother, worn down by greater use, and began branching and winding as it connected the disparate collection of houses, fields, and sheds. Atop the next hill, in the center of the small community, stood a collection of barns and store houses silhouetted against the clear blue sky. The main road went right through this central point.
As they drew closer, Gregan frowned as he realized that the top of the hill was crowded with people, most gathered in a huddle before the largest of the store houses and surrounded by a group of men, some on foot but most on horseback. The riders glinted as the sunlight reflected off armor, but even from this distance Gregan could tell that it was not the red armor of the Collective.
Parnit was suddenly riding at his side, staring up at the gathering ahead. “We should go around,” the man said, voice pitched low for Gregan’s hearing alone. “I heard talk of this before we left. Bad business.”
“What is it?”
The Collective’s agent threw a quick frown at him, but his gaze returned to the gathering ahead. “Nothing to do with us, and it should be kept that way.”
Gregan raised one eyebrow as he studied the little man. Parnit might be a weasel, but he was also a man who was fully aware of the power he held over the hunters and had little fear of using it. If not quite arrogant, he at least possessed a healthy self-confidence. But now, Gregan could have sworn the man was actually nervous.
Shaking his head, Gregan turned back to the tableau before them. “If it doesn’t concern us, then there should be no problem. Especially if we are in the company of the Collective’s representative.” Clucking to his horse, Gregan began to trot, the pack trotting after him and his blooders suddenly clucking to their own horses to catch up. Parnit fell back, though Gregan caught frustrated mutterings from the man.
As they drew closer to the top of the rise, Gregan could make out words from up ahead. “You know the rules. They’re the same for you as for everyone else.”
“We gave you what you asked for. We met our quota!”
“With moldy grain?”
“The store house was leaking in one corner. We didn’t see it until it was too late.”
“Mhm. Could be, I suppose, could be. Or, and this is just me speaking off the top of my head, you could have been trying to sicken Collective soldiers. Sabotage the invading oppressors, that sort of thing.”
Gregan slowed the group to a walk and examined the show before him. The whole community must've been gathered before the store houses. Men, women, children, everyone from infants to ancient grandfathers who couldn’t so much as stand without support from a stick or friendly shoulder. At their head stood one man, tall with whipcord muscles and the harsh face of a man who made his living in the elements. That harsh face was blanched almost white. Likely he was the man who had just been accused of sabotage.
Soldiers formed a semi-circle around the gathered villagers, some afoot, most mounted, each armed and armored. The nature of armor varied from man to man, but each one bore the same painted symbol on their chest, a stylized black hand with a crown of red above it. To Gregan’s eye, the paint on the red crown looked much fresher than most of the black hands.
One man bearing the same mark stood before the pale farmer, wearing a breastplate and greaves that looked to be military made. A frayed blue cloak hung about his shoulders, but Gregan could see the hint of a mace hanging at the man’s side. His face was gaunt, drawn tight across his skull, and his red hair was cropped short. Military cut. He looked familiar, but Gregan was having a hard time placing him. The others had the rough, undisciplined look of sell-swords, but this man had real training, evident simply from the way he held himself. Gregan would have bet his horn that he was looking at the captain. He pulled his horse up to a stop, and the rest of the hunt stopped around him, watching what was happening.
Apparently not noticing them, the farmer pulled his hat off his head and held it before his chest, as though this would provide some kind of protection. “N-no sir. I swear to the Gods, we did our duty the way we thought we were supposed to. No harm was meant, honest.”
The captain smiled, and the man seemed to relax a fraction. Poor fool. That was an officer’s smile, the kind they gave enlisted men right before they assigned latrine duty. “No harm was meant,” the captain said, speaking slowly, as if tasting the words. “Do you know, I believe you Hamby. Honest. I really do.”
It came to him in a flash. Gregan knew this man, had seen him before. This was Derek Ironshaw, the Asalkan mercenary who had accompanied Kenat and her sorcerer in that inspection two weeks ago.
At the captain’s words, a relieved smile burst onto Hamby’s face, and he reached out a hand. “Oh, bless you sir, thank you, thank you!”
“Because of that,” Ironshaw said, speaking right over Hamby, “I shall be lenient with you and your village, and trust that you shall never make this mistake again.” He had not taken Hamby’s extended hand.
Hamby ignored the hanging shake, dropping his hand to his side and exclaiming, “Oh, never again sir, never.”
Gregan shook his head. Hamby could see the same smile as Gregan, but he didn’t know what he was looking at. That unflinching, unfeeling grin hadn’t slipped an inch on Ironshaw’s face.
“Good!” The captain’s gauntleted hand flashed out and clapped Hamby on the shoulder, and suddenly the farmer’s face became strained as the captain squeezed. “I just need a small guarantee of your continued cooperation.”
One of the soldiers noticed the hunt. He moved forward, whispering into his captain’s ear. Parnit was suddenly at Gregan’s side, whispering “We need to go, Gregan. They won’t like us being here.”
Glancing to Parnit, Gregan blinked. The supervisor was sweating. “Why? Aren’t these your people? I recognize the captain.”
“They’re the Black Fist,” Parnit muttered as Ironshaw looked past his men to inspect the hunt. “But they’re not exactly our people.”
“The Hell does that mean?”
Parnit grimaced, mopping at his forehead with one of those scented handkerchiefs of his. “Collective command hired them at the outset of the Tarbania campaign. They’re garrisoned in the city as a supplementary force for the governor.”
“Supplementary?”
Before Parnit could respond, Captain Ironshaw turned back to Hamby and spoke loud enough that his voice could carry easily across the hilltop. “A leaky store house, you say? Well, we can soon have that remedied.” Turning to his man, Ironshaw issued a few orders that Gregan could not hear, and then began making his way toward the hunt. His cloak billowed behind him in the force of his long stride. Now Gregan could see his eyes, and he found his hand drifting toward the long, curved blade of the kopesh that hung from his saddle. This man’s grey eyes were cold, flat, dead. He’d seen eyes like this before. It was the look of monsters that had their prey pinned.
Parnit was fidgeting on his horse. “We had enough soldiers to sack the city, but once that was done, they were needed to carry on the campaign to push north,” he said, as the captain approached. “We left a garrison here, but the Black Fist was hired to help the governor enforce Collective rule in the city and its district. But even before we hired them, we knew their reputation.”
“And that was?” Gregan asked, looking past the captain. Several of the Black Fist men had pushed into the crowd, sorting out a portion of the gathered people and separating them from the group. As they pushed their small portion away, more Black Fist men moved to fill the gap, cutting the gathering off from those being led away. Several people cried out in protest, only to be silenced by the menacing presence of the Black Fist men. Gregan swallowed and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“In a word,” Parnit muttered, glancing at the rest of the hunt, “not to sound trite but… bestial.”
Captain Ironshaw came to a stop before the hunt, throwing back his cloak and putting his hands on his hips. Now Gregan could see that he did indeed have a mace hanging on the side of his belt. He wore a smile again, as though he were on the verge of bursting out laughing. His eyes never changed though. They were the same cold, dead orbs that betrayed nothing of what was happening in this man’s mind.
Behind the captain, his men were leading the isolated group toward one of the store houses.
“Gregan Hadshaw!” the captain exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you again. And,” he pointed towards the rest of the hunt, “To see the dog and pony show still operating.”
Grunting, Gregan bowed his head, though he kept his eyes fixed on the man before him. “You honor me good captain, though I must admit I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe we had the pleasure of formal introductions at our last meeting.” He heard a surprised grunt from Parnit and suppressed a smirk. He understood Parnit’s surprise, but Gregan could be polite when needed.
The man gave a swift flourish of his cloak that fell just shy of being a salute. “Derek Ironshaw, Captain and Commander of the Black Fist Company. These men you see beyond me,” he made a sweeping, expansive gesture over his shoulder, “are a handful of some of the finest men in my company.”
Gregan grunted, glancing past Ironshaw to watch a handful of those “finest men” shove the last of the separated farmers into the chosen storehouse and shut the door behind them. A stir rippled through the other villagers hemmed in by the mercenaries. A few tried to edge away, but they were quickly stopped by Black Fist men, weapons drawn, making it clear that no one was to leave. What kind of demonstration did this Ironshaw have in mind? “Problems with the grain supply?”
“Sadly, yes,” the mercenary sighed, and he almost did a convincing job of making it seem like he truly regretted the issue. But the words were a little too fresh, a little too crisp.
You don’t give a shit, Gregan realized, staring into the man’s frigid eyes. This is a good excuse for you, isn’t it? Glancing back toward the storehouse, Gregan’s stomach dropped. Gods. Dead gods, he’s going to- “Didn’t I hear you say that you would be lenient with them?”
“I also said that I needed a guarantee that this would not happen again,” Derek said, glancing over his shoulder at the store house that now stood guarded by his men. “Leniency, in my view, is only taking less than a quarter of this shithole town.” The man’s voice was bright, almost chipper.
“Oh hell.”
Twisting to the source of the voice, Gregan saw Tiod just behind his pack, staring at the store house with narrowed eyes. He’d realized it too. Behind him, Jellod looked like he was going to be sick. Gregan understood, he was on the point of being sick himself, but he grunted and met the gaze of each man as they glanced at him. Do. Nothing.
Whether they took his message or not he couldn’t tell, but Gregan turned back to see Derek smiling at him with that same cold, insidious officer smile he had used on Hamby. Gregan forced himself not to fidget. “I wonder if the governor would take exception to your use of such,” he hesitated, eyes darting to the men setting brush around the base of the store house, “extreme measures over a simple issue of bad grain.”
For the first time, Derek’s gaze turned to Parnit. “Overseer, if you please?”
Parnit gave a dry cough and twisted in his saddle to look at Gregan. “Tarbania is currently under martial law, and the Black Fist’s contract stipulates that Captain Ironshaw is free to use whatever means he deems appropriate to enforce that law.”
