The Mercenary Trilogy Boxed Set, page 33
part #1 of The Mercenary Series
She had two choices. Escape or slit my wrists. Father, have you forgotten your child?
***
Rylen Snake Eyes rolled to his feet and kicked off the blanket, his sharp instincts telling him something was amiss. He shoved his head through the tent flap. No one about. The fire had gone out and he saw no sentry on stag.
Alarm bells sounding in his head, Rylen strapped the broadsword to his belt and trousers, and ventured out into the cold desert morning. The first thing he saw was the vulture pecking out Gossil’s eyes. The man charged with the last two hours’ watch. Murdered. His throat gaping and eyes glazed over, a look of stunned surprise showing.
Those dead eyes stared accusingly at Rylen as he chased the birds off. Next up he checked the camels. Gone––predictably. Dracal had said they’d talk about things last night. That hadn’t happened. Instead Rylen and the boys had smoked into the late hours, forgetting the slaver and their current situation as the hemp laid heavy on them.
A stupid mistake, and he blamed himself. Dracal had left an unusually generous amount of weed in the mess tent. They’d taken the hint without wondering why. My fault, Stron wouldn’t have fallen for that ruse.
Rylen woke the others: down to eighteen men now. But they were mercenaries, hardened killers, not cowards like Dracal the slaver, running after his own tail. Besides, where the fuck could they run to?
“What now?” Duart said. The stocky Morwellan was seated on a rock sharpening his double-headed ax, some of the others gathered around. Long Thom, the ranger, Grizzle-Jaw Grillen, Poley Peet––named after the legendary length of his organ, the rest walking over.
“We wait and see who’s coming,” Rylen said. “And someone needs to bury Gossil before those fucking birds give our position away.” They were circling up there, a dozen perhaps more.
Duart held his position on the rock. “Slaver lose his nerve?”
“Looks like it,” Rylen said. “Must have shat himself in the wee hours. Left with that bastard mute, only took a couple of girls.”
“That mean we’re slavers now?” Long Thom grinned, seeming to like the idea.
“Until we sell ’em––yes,” Rylen said. “There’s what… thirty or more, and most are lasses. We’ll take em to Cappel. Flog them at the markets and then stay drunk for a month.”
“First we have to get to Cappel with our heads still on our shoulders,” Duart said, switching his attention to the second blade. “That bastard Dracal wouldn’t throw his livelihood away without good reason.”
“He fucked up in the city is all,” Rylen said. “You worry too much, Duart. The Crimson never leave Sedinadola. And even if they do the tossers can’t fight. They’re highly overrated. You know they hardly drew blood in the war, except to massacre villages and execute prisoners, then turn on our lads when the dirty work was done.”
“We’re eighteen,” Duart grumbled. “Could be a hundred fucking lancers coming our way.”
“Best we get ready then,” Rylen Snake Eyes grinned at the axman. “Don’t want to disappoint them.”
They buried Gossil a good distance from the camp. The slaves were fed and watered and ordered to lie low inside the tents.
It was a grim predicament, but Rylen had endured worse. They had water and food, enough for his men and the slaves. If some of the male ones died, so what? The girls, they’d look after.
Now to wait…
Some of the lads diced, others practiced steel on steel. Duart worked on his ax while Rylen shut his eyes and drifted off as the mid-morning heat fell heavy on the valley.
***
Ralance Jago called a halt as they rode closer to a ridge of brown hills, the odd rocky outcrop spilling down to the dry river bed they were negotiating. Rough country down here, and good for ambush too. Best they approach with caution.
“How far?” Jago asked his second, Coralion.
“Couple of miles as my memory serves––Can you not smell the water?”
“I smell death,” Jago looked up into the deep blue above and saw tiny shapes circling. Buzzards or vultures. Coralion saw where he was looking and grinned.
“Perhaps we are too late,” the captain said.
“More likely some dead animal,” Jago said. “Spread the word back. We proceed with caution from now on. Take our time. I want every man watching that ridge for movement or glint of steel.”
“Dracal’s a slaver, not a veteran campaigner.”
“He has those with him––doubtless they’ve advised him be watchful.” They rode slowly, the horses picking their way around stones and pebbles, the scree from the ridge above. Morning faded into early afternoon, the brown shimmer of heat like wax melting their faces, the red cloaks heavy and bodies sore.
The Crimson seldom left the city. But General Ralance Jago needed to make an impact. His men needed honing; they needed a kill. Gortansez had been too docile, content to preen his feathers and sit comfortable with the Crimson’s reputation. Jago was different. He had plans for his soldiers. The Sultan would see a marked improvement. Today was the start of a glorious campaign.
***
“And here they are,” Long Thom said, the eyeglass thrust against his lids.
“How many?” Rylen asked, as they lay flat on the southern end of the long ridge concealing camp and oasis, the palms shading the valley below.
“Fifty, maybe sixty?” Thom took another look.
“Hide that fucking thing before it gives our position away,” Duart nudged Thom in the ribs. “Sun catches that glass, be like a big flag saying ‘Here we are tosspots!’”
“I’ve already said you worry too much, Dui,” Rylen told the axman. “Relax. Those boys are green as lily stalks, and way over-confident to boot. City dwellers. They might outnumber us three to one, but we hold the position and have surprise on our side.” He was about to add something else when the dust kicked up a foot to his right, the crossbow bolt just missing them.
“Told you,” Duart almost smiled.
They rolled back, slid down the far side of the ridge and then hurried into camp. “Here they come!” Rylen yelled as he sprinted for the tents and noticed with satisfaction that the lads had got the makeshift barricade ready.
They waited several minutes then the thunder of hooves on stone announced company had arrived. The Crimson carried spears, lances and shields, though some had crossbows, and bolts were whizzing their way, striking the turned wagons, all missing.
They stopped at the edge of camp. A line of red-cloaked pretty boys, their armor dazzling and hard to set eyes on. A single rider rode out. He wore gauntlets, a scimitar swinging at his side.
Long Thom nocked arrow to string, pulled back. He grinned at Rylen who nodded. “Kill that silly bastard.”
***
Coralion saw his general cry out and pitch from his horse the arrow sticking in his chest. So much for Ralance Jago’s rising career. Guess I’m the general now. Coralion slammed his scimitar free of its sheath and spurred his horse to canter past the dying general.
“Take them!” Coralion screamed, looking back at his men as he thundered toward the makeshift barricade of wagons and broken-up lumber. In seconds they were with him, a red blaze of fire streaking towards the treacherous enemy, hidden behind their screens. “I want prisoners!” Coralion yelled, then the arrow took him in the knee and he fell from his horse.
***
Corin looked at the ground as he led the camel to water. Cart tracks and camel shit. Charred faggots from abandoned fires. A large organized camp, recently deserted. Dracal must be in trouble. That meant Nalissa would be in even greater danger. They needed to make haste. Time was running out for the merchant’s daughter.
“looks like the whole cavalcade went south,” Dol said. He’d been scouting at the southern end of the camp. Followed the dry river’s course.”
“How long?” Hagan was looking up at the sky.
“Two days,” Dol said. “And they have a troop of Crimson on their tale. Hoof prints clearly visible covering over some of the other marks.”
“The Crimson––out here?” Corin shook his head.
“Only riders allowed expensive horses as I recall,” Dol said. “Shod shoeprints in the dirt. Your slaver must have upset the big man in the city.” Corin thought of Selimo, but this had happened earlier. There was another factor playing out here, and even more the need for haste.
He vaulted onto the camel’s back. “Best get going,” Corin said. They looked at him surprised. “You want that gold––or what?” They joined him and rode south.
It was almost dusk when they saw the birds far off, over a hundred circling. Corin had a sinking feeling in his belly. Nalissa… She wasn’t dead––he had to hold on to that fading hope.
They filed along the dry river bed, eight hard-faced men, and two young people caught in their midst. Corin hadn’t had time to think about Dully and the girl, his mind had been preoccupied with the Lynx’s visit last night, and Vervandi’s words, and then his fear of what awaited them ahead.
He signaled the others forward and waited for the last two camels where Dully sat alongside his sister, her towing the pack animal behind.
“We part ways here,” Corin smiled at the pair.
“We’re with you,” Dully said, his face anxious.
“Nope,” Corin smiled. “Your responsibility is with your sister, Dully. You need to protect her from wild animals, and bad people. You cannot stay with us. We’re riding into battle.”
“We’re coming,” Dully said.
“I can look after myself,” his sister added.
“Look,” Corin said, aware the other men were leaving them behind. “I need both hands for my sword. I won’t be able to watch out for you. There’s a girl I need to save, might be too late already but I have to try, and I stand more chance of succeeding without worrying about you too.”
“A girl?” Talesa said.
“A slave…now.”
“Then you had better get going––hadn’t you,” Talesa had a tear in her eye.
“Make for Cappel Cormac,” Corin said. “Mention my name–- or Hagan’s–– at The Green Duck. You’ll be safe there until I return. Safer than staying here,” he added under his breath. “Take the pack animal and cut across country. Stay away from the cities until you reach The Silver Strand beyond Syrannos. You should have no problems entering Cappel Cormac during daylight. It’s a crowded filthy city, unlike Sedinadola.
“The Green Duck,” Dully nodded, but still looked unhappy.
“Look after your sister,” Corin told him. “I lost mine.”
“That was careless,” Dully said. Talesa had already turned back her camel, her face hidden in her hood.
Corin felt a pang of sorrow. He smiled sadly. “Aye, Dully. That it was,” he said.” Corin watched brother and sister ride back along the track, the pack beast clomping behind them.
Images of Ceilyn flashed through his mind. A beloved sister lost so long ago. Vanished in the desert beyond. Alive or just bones bleached by sun––he’d never know. I’m not failing this time. Corin turned his own animal around. “Yah!”
***
Rylen tore the lance from his side and crawled up the slope, the flies clustering around him. He’d found a gourd, drank deep, but the wound was deeper. The Crimson had proved unpredictably savage, their wounded officer having roused them into a fury after the death of their leader.
The fight had lasted an hour, no more. The makeshift camp was strewn with corpses, large birds down there feeding on flesh. Rylen had had to get away. He’d gouged out the last spearman’s eyes with broken finger-nails.
The fighting had been hard, a close call. Their initial charge had done for three of the lads; he’d seen Poley Peet fall with a bolt through his eye. Grillan had been torn open by three spears, he saw that happening again as a flash of images returned to him.
Another memory––Duart sitting on a rock, maybe the same rock he’d sat on this morning. Only difference was his head was missing. The others? Most likely dead, and the slaves left to starve in the wild.
They’d held their own, done well. The Crimson were dead, He’d killed the last one after taking the lancer’s weapon in his flank. The pain screamed at him.
Not dying here. No bird pecking my flesh.
Rylen crawled for over an hour until he slid down a slope and crashed into shrubby thorns. These trapped him and he lacked the strength to fight any longer. He closed his eyes, passed out.
Cool water slapped his face. His lips were parched and cracking, head throbbing as though beaten by hammers, and only one eye opened. He saw a shadow leaning over him.
“Still alive,” a rough voice said. A long face hovered over him, scarred, wild hair beneath a hood.
“Who are you?” Rylen wriggled his eyelid until the other one opened.
“Corin an Fol.”
“I’ve heard that name…” Rylen tried to move his head but the pain tore into his side. He passed out again briefly. When he came to another man stood over him. Lean, hard gray eyes, unsmiling. Another northerner.
“My mates?”
“Torn up by birds, me old son,” Gray Eyes said. “I expect you’ll join them soon––those wound looks bad.”
“Not planning on dying,” Rylen spat red phlegm on sandy soil. “Need a drink.” The other man who’d called himself Corin an Fol reached down with his water gourd.
“I said I need a drink,” Rylen said, closing his eyes again. The pain was getting worse.
A third man appeared, lanky, lopsided grin, bare headed, long sandy hair loosely tied back and lifting in the stiffening breeze. The sun had set and night would fall upon them shortly.
The fair-haired one reached down with a flask. “Just a drop mind,” he said.
“Don’t share it with that bastard, Coly––what’s the matter with you?” Gray Eyes snatched the flask away but Pony-Tail offered it to his lips again.
“He’s one of our own, Hagan,” Coly said. “A northerner.”
“Serving a slaver,” Corin an Fol said.
“Good point,” Coly took the grog away before Rylen got a taste. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Rylen said between chokes. “Give me that drink, for fuck’s sake…Please. I’m not feeling my best.”
“Tell us where your master is and you can finish that,” Scarface Corin said. “We found slaves, pitiful things, cringing inside that canvas. Lots of dead bodies too, but no fucking slaver. And more importantly no sign of the person I need to find. Where are they!” Corin grabbed Rylen’s tunic and pulled him up, the pain ripping at his side again.
“Gone,” Rylen said, coughing up blood. They waited for him to finish.
“Gone where?” Corin said when Rylen finally ceased his coughing.
“Don’t know––bastard stabbed the sentry last night and took two of the girls along with his henchman.”
“That’s all?” The men’s faces grew blurry. Someone thrust the flask in his lips and Rylen sucked at the fiery liquid.
“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll sleep for a while now before I get my breath back.” He closed his eyes and felt tingles along his spine like tiny fingers. They pulled him down hard into heavy nothingness.
Chapter 18 | A New Lead
Corin stared down at the dead mercenary lying at his feet. Tough bastard. The man’s guts were half hanging out and he’d crawled for quarter of a mile. Bad way to go––even for a lowlife killer.
“Snake Eye dead?” The voice came from Borgil walking up the slope, his ax slung across a shoulder.
“You knew this bastard?” Hagan asked Borgil, Corin not being on speaking terms with the axman.
“Used to,” Borgil grunted, kicking the corpse and making the flies dance. “Rylen the crafty. Good with a knife. Snake Eyes they called him, on account of his cold heart.”
“Didn’t know Kettle Head had a brother,” Corin said to Hagan, who barked a laugh. “The others?”
“Fifteen dead, and three score Crimson feeding the carrion.”
“They won’t like that when word gets back,” Coly said. “What now, Corin an Fol, and what about those slaves down there?”
Corin sighed. No Nalissa. He’d been hoping this would end today. At least she was still alive, or likely to be. But why would Dracal take her and leave the others. Nalissa was a beauty, but so were some of the other girls he’d seen.
“I don’t have time to spend worrying about them,” Corin said eventually.
“We could sell them at market,” Hagan said, and Borgil nodded enthusiastically,
“You’re as callous as he was,” Corin eyeing Rylen’s corpse. He left the others standing there and walked back down to where the rest of Hagan’s men were gathered around the main tent cluster, Dracal’s slaves still hiding within.
“What’s happening?” Rejen asked Corin, but he ignored the redhead and pulled back the flap to the largest tent. He counted six girls in there.
“Out you come,” Corin told them.
Rejen laughed when the women staggered out into the sun, their terrified, grimy faces looked like deer on edge of flight.
“Recreation time!” Rejen said, and some of the men laughed. “Pick your girl lads,” Rejen reached for one but Corin stopped him.
“Shut the fuck up,” Corin said. “We’re not slavers.”
“They’re captives of war––contraband,” Rejen’s smile had fled his lips and the color drained from that ruddy face.
“You’re not touching any of them,” Corin’s hand was on Clouter’s hilt. Rejen reached for his sword.
“Leave it, Rej,” Hagan said as he joined them. “Corin’s promised us gold. These wenches will only slow us down.”
Rejen said nothing but his eyes were on Corin. Another enemy to watch. But he didn’t have the time.
Corin studied the women. The rest had emerged from the other tents and half a dozen men were among them. Two of these looked like former warriors, black skinned, scarred and tough as wire.
“Your name?” Corin asked the larger of the two.
“Srolgo.”
