Exercises
Fifty horses came to a halt five hundred meters from the edge of the wooded hills. On the twenty-seven of those which bore men, the senior leftenant lifted his telescope to his right eye and scanned the effective border. His fellow officer did the same.
“The actual entrance is blocked”, Aodh observed. “Archer platforms in the tree line.”
“Loyalists, or rebels?” wondered Heueil. “From the description, they could be either.”
“Doesn’t matter, really”, his superior responded. “The only way to find out is to try them. The one answer would be wonderful, the other would doom us. So we ignore the official entrance.”
The two leftenants were products of Cavern Castle’s school for older students. Both were nineteen, both had adjusted quickly to patterns of thought and speech Snatched from modern America. Both excelled in reading and arithmetic; both were excellent marksmen; both had shown leadership since an early age. They were the best Ryan had been able to put his hands on for implementing his decision to not just send the horses Rigel had asked for, but kill two birds with one stone by sending riflemen to make sure those horses got where they were meant to and to provide aid for the Regent, Lord Ortega. Without Scout, Druid, or full Healer – two students rode with them – they had only themselves to rely on. That they’d become very much a team served Ryan’s intent well.
“I say we ride off some and circle left while we do. Disappear behind a ridge, then cut back right and make our way through some unprotected spot. There’s not much brush under those trees”, Heueil finished.
“Sounds workable.” We stop every now and then to survey the tree line, too.” He signaled; the company turned to follow.
They snuck in under the cover of darkness. Every piece of gear was padded and strapped snug, but not tight – tight could squeak, and squeaks carry in the night, as well as the clink of metal on metal. The three who led were veterans of the woods, good hunters with an instinct for paths without serious obstacles, able to distinguish by feel between a branch that could be bent aside over and over and one that had to be clipped or tied back. Aodh followed close on the leaders; Heueil shepherded the rear.
There were no ranks, and not much in the way of files. Despite horses’ hooves being larger, and not even the same shape, they wanted to leave a path looking as natural as possible. Aodh pondered what it might be like to hunt something as large as a horse – venison was fine, but having only rabbit for an option seemed limited. Occasionally he glanced back, not that he could see more than the next two or three horses. But the stealth made him nervous; their training had been for battle in an open field, not sneaking through the woods – and an odd woods at that; there were trees here unlike any he’d seen. Maybe there was game he’d never seen....
“Leftenant – light.” The rifleman’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. Instead of thick forest, they were among sparsely scattered trees. Ahead were fields; fields meant people, and people meant they could try starting the next part of their plan.
“Hate taking people’s clothes”, Heueil said to him more than an hour later. Some of their number were better at infiltration than others; those had spent the better part of an hour finding and making off with clothes to outfit the company.
“We left them copper”, Aodh reminded him, “enough they should be able to get better. Now all we have to do is make our horses look like their heavy pullers while we look like peasants.”
“Some wagons would help.”
“We’re not making off with wagons – we can try to buy a couple, though.” The expedition’s commander yawned. “But not close to here. And not soon – soon, we need a place to hide and sleep.”
Manuel saw the line of horses take a game trail into Lord Tempus’ protected wood. That was odd, so he watched. About one man per two horses, he judged – important horses, then, not that it was his place to wonder about the doings of lords. He’d heard some lords were trying to breed horses for speed, yet again; that would explain why they were moving with such protection and using back paths. He watched the last horse disappear among the trees, wished the lord luck with his breeding, and turned back to his watch; if he let vermin among the vendain plants, he’d be in trouble with his own lord.
Stefan saw a line of horses against the sky. In the dim light, they looked like ordinary Refuge horses, solid and patient. Men led them, two or three horses per man; two wagons moved in the middle.
It seemed unusual, and he tried to make sense of it. Perhaps a lord had acquired a large new number of horses? Perhaps a horse trader, making deliveries? He liked the second one better. Either way, he decided, he’d better tell the mayor – in the morning; he wasn’t going to skip supper over some horses, and would rather appear freshly washed with no dust from work.
“Two and a half kilometers”, the scout judged. Aodh agreed; he’d estimated three, but scouts were better at distances; it was one reason they were scouts.
“We have to go in parties”, Heueil stated. “All at once, we’d attract too much attention.” That was a problem they wanted to avoid: in the three and a half days it had taken them to wend their way toward San Tesifón, they’d learned enough about the local situation to know that the town was divided, and enemies of Earl Rigel’s ally the Regent abounded in the countryside.
“Even in parties we may attract attention”, Aodh pointed out. “So we’ll have to stay close enough together for support, in case. Two scout parties first, then the wagons – if the wagons get in trouble, there’ll be help ahead and behind. We stay close enough together for support.” His statements were turned into orders by their sergeants, so within ten minutes the first group had led off. Others circled as far as concealment allowed, so they wouldn’t all be coming from the same origin.
“Half a klick to go”, Aodh muttered. His party was the last; he was estimating the distance between the first party and the city. “Let’s close in.” That would signal the others to close the gaps more and more. He urged his horse to a fast walk, and started to jog – none were riding in most of the groups, since peasants didn’t do so often. Thirty seconds into his first walking break, he saw their first party pause at the gate – and stop.
To his right, Heueil’s party went to a trot. Aodh let them, but signaled to be ready to mount. He had no way to know why the first group was being detained, but if he assumed the worst and acted on it, they’d be discovered for certain. The only choice he saw was to keep on.
The first wagon reached the gate, then another party led by a scout. From the waving of arms, he guessed the gate guards had decided they needed to search the wagons. When they did, the masquerade would be over. Aodh preferred to end it on his own terms. Closer and closer they walked, his eyes on the guard pressing his rifleman. Finally his man yielded.
“Mount up!” he called. The men had been waiting for it; they took one jogging stride, bounced, and landed in their saddles. Half-hitch knots came free, the ties dropping in the road, loosening rifles in their scabbards; quick jerks free the scabbards to rest in their accustomed places.
The other parties followed his example. Attention, unimportant now, came. Yells in the fields turned the heads of the gate guards; with this new occurrence, the inspection of the wagon was forgotten. Surprise proved their great ally: they all arrived at the gate without incident. There, Aodh tugged off his peasant shirt to reveal his uniform underneath. He faced the sergeant in charge.
“Embassy from Lord Ryan of Horse Valley, to see the Lord Regent of the Refuge”, he declared. The others in his command were already abandoning their disguises, a few at a time while others kept watch.
The sergeant stared at him. Aodh let him; the longer he didn’t react, the more time for his men. Finally he found words: “Yes, sir – I’ll send word at once!”
“And a guide, if you please?” Aodh asked. The sergeant was regaining his composure; the presence and doings of foreign lords had been all the talk of the city, but to meet them! But that was better than not having heard anything about such strangers.
“Yes, sir....?”
“Leftenant Aodh, sergeant. We would like to see the Regent as soon as humanly possible.” Aodh liked that phrase, which he’d heard from Wizard Ryan one day on the practice range.
A teniente in House Guard uniform emerged from inside. “Leftenant Aodh, I’m Teniente Medina.” He bowed slightly. “I’ll guide you. Sergeant, tell Teniente Cruz I’ve left early to escort important visitors to Regent Ortega.”
“Sir!”
Aodh liked the snappy discipline. It was something that Captain Tanner insisted they all learn, but not be ‘chained to’. To Aodh, it showed understanding of a man’s place, and efficiency at his duties – but in the wrong place at the wrong time, it was not at all effective, their trek through the byways of Refuge a case in point. “Form it up”, he called softly over his shoulder, knowing that his people would ‘do it smartly’ just to show the teniente that they, too, were ‘sharp and on top of it’. He shook his head slightly at all the phrases from Captain Tanner and Wizard Ryan, Lady Breeze and Lady Crystal, and Mother Ocean – a title he recalled her giggling about once, but that was the honorary appellation given to respected herb women.
Lord Regent Ortega rose from his seat wearily to greet the newcomer. He noted the clean, tidy uniform, and the revolver on the man’s hip. That intrigued him; all he knew from Earl Rigel was that it was a small version of a rifle. They shook hands, and both sat.
“So you brought horses”, Ortega said. “I had hoped, but not counted on them.”
“Lord Ryan acted immediately on reading Earl Rigel’s letter. You were to have the aid of horses, so we were gathered within the hour, organized within four, and set off at dusk.” He smiled at Ortega’s raised eyebrows. “The first part of the way from Cavern Castle south is in a tunnel, the next across the Valley of Servants. Both are safe enough they can be ridden in minimal light. We camped in the Valley, and began in earnest the day following.”
Ortega nodded. “Are you permitted time to remain to teach something of horsemanship?”
Aodh grinned widely; beside him, Heueil chuckled. “Lord Ryan ventured to say he thought the snows might come early, and he would not want us lost in them, returning. He recommended we remain here until we can be certain of the weather. He also gave orders we were to practice our skills by engaging in ‘live fire exercises’ resulting in damage to the Lord Regent’s foes, if possible.”
Ortega laughed, losing tension he hadn’t realized was there. “I like your Lord Ryan! So you are a loan to me until spring!”
Heueil frowned and shook his head. “Not exactly a loan, my lord. We can and will cooperate with you on our live-fire training, but we aren’t under your orders. The men, by the way, are hoping for something soon – it’s been a quiet ride since the herd of gr’venstut that charged us.”
Aodh chuckled – the beasts that looked like huge ugly pigs had brains even smaller: they’d just kept charging while rifles killed them lengths before they reached a horse. “We covered the hides, in case your tanners might like them. Leftenant Heueil is right about some action. I’d like to move fast, and use the element of surprise. Tonight would be nice....”
Ortega shook his head slowly, regarding the pair in amazement. They’d just completed a long journey, had barely arrived, hadn’t settled in at all, and they wanted to go fight! “Tonight... if I send messages immediately, we might be able to do something.” The Regent reached over and pulled a rope; a bell rang not far away. “There’s a certain problem here I’ve been wanting to deal with....”
When the messenger the bell had summoned arrived a minute later, the three were bent over a map of the city. Ortega called over his shoulder. “Find that boy Teniente Bolivar left with us. Then alert all the Guard save the Fourth Section. After that, inform the Captain of the Watch that I’d like the watch near the walls doubled after the third hour.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Now, here’s what I’d like....”
Heueil checked everything one more time. They’d had only one chance to practice, which hadn’t been encouraging; there hadn’t been any opportunity to test their device.
The concept was simple: a fortress’ gates open outward, so they are hard to push inward. Getting them to go inward was a matter of great enough force properly applied. Greater speed gave greater force, Wizard Ryan said, as did repetition. They didn’t have time for repetition, so they were going for speed – and an extra punch. The wagon had extra wheels, the axles a half arm’s length out from the sides, so it wouldn’t tip. It was an “alley wagon”, long and narrow, so tipping was a real concern. The front had been opened, the wagon tongue reversed and underneath, now controlled from the back, where the wood from the front covered a seat for a steersman. In the wagon was a monstrous log, one that would have been put in a sling for a battering ram in other circumstances. The log was roped, strapped, and bolted to the wagon frame, and stuck out in front about an arm’s length. The end of the log had been hollowed, with thick walls, and in the hollow they’d packed powder from their supplies, covered it with a pottery lid, and put three different trigger devices on the front.
The idea was simple: eight horses would get the wagon started. Once the speed got high, the first two, pulling from ahead of the wagon, would loose their ropes and drop to the sides. The six remaining would pull until they couldn’t go faster, then they would loose their ropes and fall to the sides. Loosing the ropes was important; a tangle in an axle would ruin the ability of the remaining man, in the seat at the rear, to steer. Rolling on its own, the log was under the control of the steersman, who would ride it, aiming all the way, until just before it hit, then tie the reins and dive off. Since he would be steering, Heueil hoped he’d dive so he’d be clear when the log tip hit the gates, the charge in the end went off, and broken pieces of wagon and – hopefully! – gate went flying about. Then it would be his job to wait for the charge, shooting anyone who showed himself.
It all looked good. Somewhere, Ortega’s men, most of what he had in the city, were gathering. Heueil didn’t know where; he didn’t need to know – all he needed to know was their uniforms, so he wouldn’t shoot anyone friendly. Somewhere else, the thieves of the city were getting ready to fulfill their promise....
“We aren’t fighters, to be capturing gates”, the masked man had told Lord Ortega, when Ortega had revealed their objective.
“You just have to get men away from the gates”, Ortega had replied. “I trust you know the inside of the fortress. Just pick something you can do that will draw men from the walls and the gates.”
The masked man had studied the map, then grinned and tapped a point. “Here, I think. We can get in – but what of plunder?”
“As the Prince Heir’s man said.”
A satisfied nod. “Then watch this place....”
The top of a tall, slim tower burst into flame. The east wall leaned outward, then slowly toppled into air, heading for a roof below. Badly supported, the peaked roof sagged and collapsed into the flames. Fire raged. In eight seconds – good time, Aodh judged – a bell began ringing, followed by another three second later. Footsteps on stone sounded in the quiet night as men ran to fight the blaze. He saw two on the section of wall he faced disappear running.
Fire blossomed three floors from the top; glass shattered from the heat, sending splinters into the dark. Two more bells started ringing, urgently. More men disappeared from the walls. Aodh signaled Heueil, who whistled, and the eight horses began their charge. Screams came from within the walls; what the thieves were doing was their business, so long as it drew men as Lord Ortega wanted.
The lead horses loosed ropes and peeled off, slowing, to await the charge. That was Aodh’s signal to start moving. Silently, leather on their hooves, his dozen and a half mounted riflemen moved at a walk from their shadowed refuge behind a long hall and turned down the street. Once in two files, they began to trot, then a slow canter.
Heueil watched the street ahead. If there were obstacles, he’d never know it; they’d practiced on a leveled field of packed earth;
this was entirely different. Even with the immense mass of the log, the wagon bounced and jolted; it was all he could do to keep it pointed at the three lights by the fortress gates. He heard “Yippee-kai-ay!”, the signal for the six horses to let go – he was on his own.
Two blocks, he told himself,
just two blocks....
Lord Ortega stood unmoving, in his full armor, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. When he heard, faintly, that “Yippee-kai-ay!”, he smiled. “Time!” he called. Behind him, orders flew, sending one hundred eighty-four men of the House Guard into action. He waited till the last, then, despite his age, fell in with a squad bearing crossbows and jogged down the hill.
Aodh held on; he’d never been in a gallop on a stone surface before.
Tell Captain Tanner to get that in the training! he told himself. He yelped involuntarily as his mount swerved to avoid something he couldn’t see, slamming his tailbone against the saddle. Then he heard the Boom! that meant his fellow leftenant was either a hero or dead. “Charge!” he yelled. They broke into full, leg-breaking risky gallop.
Heueil couldn’t get the rope tied right; it was caught on something, and too short. He kicked hard at the frame of his wooden shelter; a piece an arm long and a palm wide splintered off. He wrapped the reins around it, aimed one last time, jammed the scrap against the back of the wagon, and dove.
Aodh didn’t see Heueil leave the wagon when he was supposed to.
Idiot! he cursed, unsure if he meant Heueil or himself. He thought he saw something leave the wagon just before it hit the gates....
Heueil kept one eye on the wagon while he dove. It swerved just at the end; his wood scrap must have come loose. But there wasn’t room or time for it to miss: the log slammed into the left gate with a boom and flash, and
Aodh barely made out a limp form to his left as he and his ‘wing rider’ hit the gap in the gate. He couldn’t give it attention; he was pulling out his rifle, slinging it to his arm, ready for targets. Then he was inside, shooting by reflex at anything that moved without friendly colors. He emptied his magazine. Switching it out, he noticed that someone had thrown up on his arm – the taste in his mouth suggested it was himself. To his right, battle erupted on the wall as twenty of Lord Ortega’s men arrived by means of ladders from a nearby building. In the distance, vaguely, he heard laughter – the thieves, no doubt, doing their plundering.
Four men down, no horses, his mind tallied. No more resistance in the courtyard, and now Ortega’s men held the eastern wall and part of the northern. To his right there was a stone stair leading to the top of the wall... “Sixth, to me!” he yelled, slinging his rifle. He drew his saber – Lord Ryan’s innovation for horsemen, made for slashing at fighters on foot. He started at a trot, picked up speed, and hit the bottom of the stairs at a canter. In twenty seconds he and the Sixth had ridden down a score of defenders from the rear. Leaving Ortega’s men to take surrenders, he swung and led his dozen the other way.
Heueil moaned. His right leg was on fire, his hip felt like he figured it would if someone stuck a sword through it. Both arms worked, though his legs weren’t cooperating. A noise got his attention; he rolled. Four paces away and advancing was an enemy. “If only you knew what you were up against”, he muttered, drew his Kinner-Ruger, and put two rounds in the man’s chest.
Cheap breastplate anyway, he noted, and moved to reload.
The top of the wall was clear. The tower ahead was another matter. Aodh considered it: fire would be nice, but Ortega didn’t want any getting loose. A battering ram would be nicer, but there wasn’t exactly spare time for making one. A trebuchet would be quite fine... But he’d only seen one in action once, and couldn’t have even explained one to an engineer. All he had was rifles.
“Sir, the back wall’s uncovered.” The voice was one of his youngest men, just eighteen – Lord Ryan’s minimum for new riflemen. “I can climb that – it’s sloppy, gaps all over.”
“Take two ropes”, Aodh responded. “Get up, and haul more up.” He didn’t have a plan, but figured he would by the time he had a half dozen men on the roof.
‘They’ll live”, Gavin decided. “You’re five men short for twelve days, but they’ll live.” Aodh sighed in relief. He knew Ortega had lost eleven for certain, with some touch-and go left
“Thanks to you, lad”, he told Gavin. He yawned.
“Get your sleep, Leftenant”, Gavin recommended.
“Can’t – gotta be at the official surrender.”
He didn’t have long to wait. Not even a minute later, a runner requested his presence in the great hall. Lord Ortega sat in the seat.
In front of him, the Captain-Commander of the Guardians looked like a cornered deer.
“I will not surrender!” the Captain-Commander declared, though there was fear in his voice. To Aodh, Ortega looked like he was going to try sweet reason – again. He had a different idea; from the argument so far, he’d deduced that the man three to the Captain-Commander’s left was the second-in-command – actually first in terms of the fortress itself; the Captain-Commander seemed to be in charge of all the Guardians.
“Fine”, the leftenant said. “If you won’t surrender, we’ll try your second-in-command. So we won’t be needing you any longer.” He’d drawn his Kinner-Ruger while he spoke, and brought it up to the man’s nose. He made sure there wasn’t anyone standing behind before he smiled and said, “Good-bye.” He pulled the trigger.
Ortega was on his feet, furious. “You must not do so!” he raged.
Aodh stared at him, then shrugged. He turned to the one he’d decided must be next in line. “Are you in charge now?” he asked, pleasantly, wearily.
The officer swallowed hard, his eyes dashing frequently to the shining metal weapon in Aodh’s hand. “Yes – of this castle. Second of the Guardians is in Tarentino.”
“Answer Lord Oretga’s question.”
The fortress commander’s eyes went involuntarily to the nearly-headless corpse still held upright next to him. He jerked them away and looked at Ortega. “Lord Oretga, I surrender the fortress.” He undid his sword belt and offered the whole to Aodh. The latter shook his head and stepped back.
Ortega stepped up and took it. “I accept your surrender”, he said gracefully.
Aodh spoke before Oretga could say more. “Lord Ortega, I apologize for upsetting you. I don’t apologize for shooting that imbecile. He wasn’t going to surrender no matter what he did, and even if he had, it would have been meaningless except here, anyway. I got rid of a problem. The main fortress of the Guardians is yours, now. If you don’t know what to do with the prisoners, I have an idea I’m authorized to discuss.” He bowed and backed up two steps before turning away.
Eyes followed him. “That is a frightening man”, the officer who’d just handed over his sword commented.
“So he is”, Ortega agreed. “Yet I think he is not honorless”, he added, as though the man he addressed weren’t a prisoner.
“He has his own sort of honor. I believe it says fools are to be removed.”
Ortega’s mouth curled into an unhappy half-smile. “So it seems. Now – as to collecting your men’s weapons....”
Heueil stared up at his superior. “I can’t move.” Aodh could hear the restrained panic.
“Gavin said he... untied the reins from your brain to your body. Your injuries... you won’t be riding, or fighting, for many days.”
“Fine. So we got the fortress?”
Aodh nodded. “One hundred seventy-eight prisoners. There were nine accused rapists – they go to trial.”
“What’s Ortega going to do with them?”
“For now, half are servants in the fortress, the others are locked up. In the spring, we’ll take them all north for Lord Ryan. They weren’t going to agree until I said they could still be Guardians, just guarding in a different place.”
Heueil frowned. “Guarding what?”
Aodh chuckled. “Lord Ortega said their Heir is sending a lot of people north to be vassals of Rigel and Antonio – and probably some for Ryan. They’re going to be busy fixing up ruins into places to live. I figured they could be border guards, once Captain Tanner retrains them.”
Heueil blinked. “Lord Ryan didn’t say anything about that!”
Aodh shrugged. “He said to use our imaginations – it’s called ‘initiative’, remember? He’ll like it, once he hears about it. Mix in some of our people, and it’s a great idea.”
Heueil disagreed. “Not many of ours. The appeal to them is they’ll still be guarding their own people, the Escobar people. Thin that out and have trouble.”
Aodh followed the reasoning, and decided he agreed. “Lord Ryan will know better.” He grinned weakly. “We just have to win, not run things.”
“And ride wagons with logs and black powder”, Heueil noted. “Next time it’s your turn.”
The teniente of the Watch accepted the silver, and passed the man through the postern gate in the city wall. The coin never reached his pocket; it landed in the hand of the man whose garotte was cutting into his neck, cutting off life. That man’s partner rejoined him in a moment, wearing the cloak of the man who’d just tried to leave the city.
“Good coin, he had”, the partner noted. “And a bit of a scroll.”
The first man took the offered item. “The rifle leftenant will pay well for that.” He looked down at the corpse. “Strip that and throw it in the cess pond. Then disappear for the night.” Almost as an afterthought, he tossed the man the copper the watch officer had accepted. As quickly as it flew to the second man, the first was gone.
Lord Heir Pena handed over the small bag of coin and the bottles of “hellfire”. “Half way between bells”, he instructed once again. “Then out the Potter’s Gate – the guard will be waiting.” He watched his hirelings go, enjoying the prospect of an inn, a smithy, and a storehouse belonging to one of Lopez’ friends going up in flames within the hour. The fist that met his face when he turned wasn’t as pleasant, nor the scrapes that cut through his coat and into his back as he was thrown onto a trash wagon and dragged across broken glass and pottery. The sleep that followed, granted by the oily substance on some of that glass, was quite pleasant; it wasn’t even disturbed when he was stripped of all valuables and rolled into the pit with the other refuse he’d been buried with.
The would-be arsonists awoke with lumps on their heads and throbbing aches in head and shoulders. The ropes that held them to a wall wiggled when they tested their bonds, the wiggling in turn jiggling, and thus jingling, small bells. “Ah, awake”, a voice said. “Time for lessons: first, no man does business with fire without paying the proper fee....” The whip that flicked away a piece of the first man’s ear returned quickly to the second, and the third....
Three men snuck through the shadows, then dashed to the gate. The guard was glad; he hadn’t heard any alarms yet, but he wanted these three out into the night as he’d been paid. But the three who came close were in uniform – House Guard, not city watch, and definitely not the three men he’d been told to expect. “Watchman Peres? You’re under arrest. Please try to resist!”
“That one”, the young man said. The man next to him was strange, out of his experience, as methodical and deliberate as a smith, and about as talkative as an empty ale mug. In the young man’s experience, killing was something to be enjoyed, or hated – depending on the situation – but this one treated it as business no different than buying bread or slicing meat.
He expected the man to ask if he was certain; adults almost always did. Instead he heard, “I see him”, then, “Cover your ears”. Two heartbeats later he learned what a “rifle” was, as flame shot forth, concussion slapped his face, and a man eighty meters away jerked and fell.
Lord Ortega regarded Aodh with mixed emotions. He turned to his side table and poured some strong wine, a beverage produced by leaving straight-sided pots of wine with a honey-oil covering to sit and freeze in the winter – the ice left alcohol behind, so what was left was stronger. A part of the enjoyment to him was that there was no way of making any two pots come out the same. Though the vintners had gotten better at it. When they realized that combining the results yielded a batch with the same content, it had been a loss – but then there were different years, with different strengths. It was one of those aspects of “progress” that reduced the joy in life, he considered – something like the rifle.
“Thirty-one men were reported dead this morning, half of them lords or lords’ sons, with holes in them that could only come from your ‘bullets’.” He tried to sound stern, but couldn’t help letting a little gratitude creep in.
Aodh heard that bit. “My lord Regent, two things: first, your reports are short; there were thirty-five; second, every one of those has been behind violence against an ally of my own lord, Earl Rigel. They were thus, by my orders, legitimate objects for live-fire exercises by my men. You can’t tell me you’re not glad they’re dead.”
Ortega gave the leftenant credit. He hoisted his glass in salute. “I won’t make that claim. But I object to the use of assassins’ methods!” That, he managed sternly indeed.
Aodh chuckled. “Good – object loudly, and the people will favor you for it. Blame it on the foreigners with their horrid weapons. But take advantage of the results, and when my lord Earl Rigel returns with your Heir, he can make a show of turning me over to the Heir, who can demonstrate his justice by punishing me, and then I’ll get to go somewhere else and be effective at my job again.” He pointed to the side table. “May I?”
Ortega grasped that he was facing a man far more dedicated to achieving a goal than he’d perhaps ever met. Honor, fair play... these things meant nothing to the leftenant; the only thing he valued was getting the job done. He sighed. “If you wish”, he allowed. His guest could have taken that as a victory, but he didn’t in the least – which made it almost harder for Ortega to bear.
“Is there anything else in your orders I should know about?” he asked, a bit bitingly.
Aodh paused in pouring; most men Ortega knew would have finished that before answering. “My lord, I’m instructed to cause maximum damage to your enemies by whatever means I deem effective, until your position here is secure, making maximum use of surprise whenever possible. I interpret that to mean that all opposition to you and the legitimate Heir are to be removed from the city. On our first night here, we made it possible for you to take the fortress of the Guardians. On our second, we and some friends eliminated all the remaining Guardians at large in the city. On our third, we have killed three dozen enemies by stealth, another two dozen in direct confrontation, and acted to achieve the arrest of nearly two dozen corrupt members of the city Watch. I haven’t slept in that time except for two hours this morning. I awoke to information that every lesser lord in the city is now standing with you, one greater lord tried to flee and is now being kept... confined, and another has barred himself in his fortified house, declaring himself neutral. That is no small doing.
“There are but three lords of any stature left who oppose you. I aim tonight to deal with two of those, and leave the third to some friends. When that is done, and those houses are left with heirs who understand things, you will be in control of the city – complete control. At that point I will move elsewhere, to aid you differently. Once I’ve left here, my orders specify only that I am to help your friends prosper and your enemies suffer.”
He finished pouring, and sipped, then let out a sigh. “You freeze it, to make it stronger? I live where we get trapped by snow two months of the year, and no one thought of this!”
“I believe it was an accidental discovery”, Ortega informed him drily. He looked at this own glass in a new light – did accidents govern the affairs of men at all levels? He wondered.
“Leftenant Aodh, I can’t decide whether to admire your dedication or despise your approach. Let that be; I accept your aid and will not impede your efforts. I will be glad to have control of this city in the name of the Prince Heir, and will also be glad when you are gone. And I will shudder at the thought of your assassin’s ways daily.”
Aodh grinned, his first non-serious look of the afternoon. “The assassins shudder, too”, he related. “Though not at the silver we paid them for their permission to operate.”
Ortega looked suddenly a bit ill. “You paid assassins to allow you to... do your work?”
Aodh restrained himself. “You didn’t know there was an assassins’ association? I didn’t either, until... someone mentioned it to me. Here’s something that should cheer you: the ones in San Tesifón are on your side.”
That jolted Ortega; he was still trying to adjust to knowing that assassins had their own... guild, he supposed he should call it. “Pray... why should they favor me?”
“Your enemies would turn the Refuge into... a place of war. Their leader sees that when war rages, things aren’t as profitable for assassins: killings are done more directly, and guard is tighter.” Aodh shook his head in his own bit of wonder: “And he foresees that contact with the wider world should provide more chances of employment.”
“He thinks to make Refuge a refuge for assassins, to kill elsewhere?” Ortega was deeply offended.
Aodh swirled his glass and sniffed; the liquid was almost as pleasant to smell as to sip. “Would you like to hear a suggestion?”
Ortega wasn’t sure he did, but knew he’d never stop wondering if he didn’t ask. “I believe I could tolerate one.
“Recruit them”, recommended the leftenant bluntly. “Hire them as official... agents. They don’t really care who pays them, but believe it or not, most are deeply loyal to the House. They find the idea of anyone but the proper heir being Heir offensive. They found the image of anyone taking the Seat who hadn’t earned it... despicable. Though their rules forbid killing without pay, they just might have broken that if your Raoul had won that day.
“Hire them. Give them a serious title. Make them a part of the service to your House – then put them to work.”
“Hire assassins? Never!”
“Regent, if you hire them, they won’t be ‘assassins’ any more, they’ll be soldiers with a useful set of skills”, Aodh suggested. “Besides, it’s better than letting, oh, Lord de Cadiz hire them.” The look on Ortega’s face told the leftenant his message had gone home. Likely before he’d left, certainly before Heueil had recovered, there would be an Escobar Secret Operations Force, or whatever the Regent decided to call it. Appealing to the usefulness to the House would never have persuaded him; that merely gave him an excuse. The danger to himself hadn’t been persuasive, either, Aodh was certain, not with a man like Ortega – but that he might be killed and thus unable to fulfill his duty to the man for whom he was Regent wouldn’t allow him to reject this.
There were advantages in being the second son of a man who tried to engineer a clan war, he thought – and more in having an occupation which let him get far, far away from a clan that despised him, however much they might pretend they didn’t.
The column of men in Guardians’ uniforms stumbled its way down the hill. Those in the camp blocking the road to the north gave them two looks – the new men looked sloppy, the horses looked scruffy – but no more. But they looked up again when the cracks of rifles filled the air – those who weren’t on the receiving end of what the rifles spat out. Twenty men rose then only to fall back to earth, leaking bright red life into soil or cloth.
“That’s forty-one”, Aodh’s aide counted. The man had an uncanny ability to tell how many of something had changed from their peers, without counting. The rifles cracked again. “Fifty-four.” Aodh didn’t even nod; he was waiting....
The image of a Guardian with captain’s bars on his helm and shoulders came into view, then into sights – then gone again, Aodh’s bullet sent through eye and brain. Next he found a teniente, who followed his first in command. He kept scanning, but saw no other officers – maybe they’d been shot already, maybe they were at the barrier? It didn’t matter, really.
“The company will charge!” he yelled, putting his rifle in its scabbard. “Sabers! Charge!!!”
“I hate killing”, Aodh confessed to the only surviving Guardian officer, a sub-teniente younger than he was. “I threw up after the third of your people I slashed dead with my sword. Now, please – give me what I need, so I won’t have to do this the bloody way again.”
Bloody it had been. Their charge had destroyed the enemy in the camp as any kind of a military force, but cost him two men. The teniente in command of the barrier had been good; he set fire to anything on the south side that would burn, and put his men on the north side. Even sending a circling group hadn’t prevented the butcher’s bill: he’d lost two more men. The four were the ones Gavin hadn’t been able to do anything for, a fact that had the young Healer student curled up in a ball, rocking himself, in a tent. But the cost for the Guardians had been worse; covering fire through the smoke had kept them pinned until his circling force had turned it into a slaughter: one hundred and six of the enemy lay dead, stretched out in rows, the corpses being picked clean of anything valuable by local farm lads he’d hired to dig graves.
“Lord leftant, here’s all the coin”, one of those lads told him minutes later. He hadn’t been aware of staring at the birds being shooed from the bodies by the youngest children who’d come. This one, ribs showing but tough with solid muscles, held out three bags bulging with coin.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Amistad, lord.”
Aodh shook his head. “I’m not a lord, just a leftenant – a teniente.” He took one of the bags; it was about the size of a baby’s head, and heavy. “How far can you count?” he asked.
“To a hundred, if I’m careful”, Amistad replied. “Pa taught me before he died.”
“You live with your ma?”
“She’s dead, too. I’ve just me.”
Aodh thought he heard a question in there. The eyes didn’t convince him it was real, but he tried anyway. “Want to ride with us?” he asked softly.
Amistad’s face broke open like clouds after a hail storm. “Oh, yes, teniente, sir!” he declared.
“All right. You can start by helping me count all this coin.” He sat on the blanket he’d spread out for... for something he’d forgotten – maybe to count the coin? – and poured his bag out. “It’s easiest if you just count to ten – ten in one pile, then make another, ten piles in a row....”
Heueil woke to Lord Ortega’s gentle shake. “Hmmmm?” he inquired sleepily.
“A letter from your captain”, Ortega told him. Aodh was officially a leftenant, but in Escobar terms, if you were the head officer of a unit, you were a captain by courtesy.
“Oh. And news?” Heueil knew Aodh wouldn’t waste paper on anything not personal.
“The road from here north is clear. He eliminated two camps along the way and destroyed the one at the border. Then local lords helped him capture the watch towers that didn’t surrender.
“Six of your people have been killed. The captain replaced them with volunteers. He’s got a little army out there, your men plus sixty young men with ideas of being heroes. They captured a small castle... by deceit, I’m afraid... and got a lot of weapons. Young men are going to him to help, one or more every day.” Ortega wasn’t happy about it; it wasn’t the way battle was supposed to be – and it showed in his voice.
Heueil tried to remember what Lord Wizard Ryan had told them. “Things change, Regent. Men have to all join together. We have to attack the Foe and get rid of them. That means new ways. If we have to fight other men, we do. We kill as few as possible, so we have more to fight the Foe. If we fight in ways that kill more men, we lose even if we win.”
Ortega sighed. “Your words sound like those of your Earl Rigel. I think he’s right, but older folks, and I’m one, won’t feel glad about it.”
“We don’t, either”, Heueil explained. “But we really wouldn’t be glad if the Foe won. Mother Ocean says we endure sadness so when the Foe are all gone, we’ll have great gladness.”
](/images/smilies/bang.gif "Brick wall ](*,)")
