River of Spears (Kingdom's Forge Book 0) (2 page)

Boring was good, Dain and the other mercenaries knew. Boring was safe. Boring meant no dead comrades and no empty bunks.

But mercenaries weren’t paid for boring. They weren’t paid for safe. Their job was finding and killing the savage Tyberons—under the direct orders of an Esterian, of course. Mercenaries weren’t trusted to lead…to command.

The Esterians didn’t know how to win this war. Dain was sure of it. To his knowledge, a patrol had never actually found the enemy. Instead, the enemy found them. Found them, attacked, and then melted away into the grasslands that birthed them. The Esterian officer, should he be so lucky as to live, would then return to his commanders and claim success. No doubt Tindall was planning how best to claim his.

Dain shook his head ruefully.

For seven months now he’d seen the pattern repeat itself, and all that had been accomplished, all that the Esterians had to show for their efforts, was a chain of forlorn posts up the Tyber. His employers claimed they controlled a vast area around the river, but that was a lie told to lull their own citizens. A way of showing progress. In truth, they huddled in their forts each night like old men around a winter fire and listened to the Tyberons’ whooping taunts.

Even Balerion couldn’t act on his own. Among the mercs, he was a legend. The ebony-skinned mercenary had fought for the Esterians longer than any other. He’d survived more than two-dozen ambushes, and in the war’s only pitched battle he rallied their army to victory after the commanding general fell. Three times he had saved his own major’s life and taken near-mortal wounds for it. Still, he couldn’t lead his own men into battle.

Probably for the best
, Dain thought. If competent men like Balerion fought the war, their employers would actually have a chance at beating the Tyberons, and then the mercenaries would be out of work. As long as the Esterians were in charge, there was little chance of the war’s end.

The diminished patrol took the better part of the afternoon to return home. Post Eight sat atop a small rise, one that backed up to a steep bluff with the muddied Tyber curling below. A wooden staircase zigzagged down to the post’s only dock, and a large hoist hauled crates and barrels up from a squat supply barge below.

A pair of men held canepoles on the dock, fishing for whiskerfish. There were stories of the black, rubbery beasts that had grown to man-eating size and rumors of maidens who’d gone swimming and been swallowed whole.

Dain had never seen one that size, but they caught hundred-pounders off the dock often enough. He’d grown to hate the taste of them, though they were marginally better than the usual camp fare.

Ramshackle buildings, all of imported timber, housed the Esterians, and a low palisade of tightly driven stakes surrounded almost fifteen acres of former grassland. The mercenaries lived inside the staked line in tents of sun-faded blues and reds and greens. Looking like a traveling carnival, these covered all but the rallying grounds near the post’s outer gate.

Dain had been among Eight’s builders. If the pay was right, mercenaries did build defenses.

His first recommendation to the post commander—mercs were allowed to make recommendations, if not give orders—had been to raze every blade of grass within a mile of the post. It took two night raids before the man acted on it. The howling screams of unfortunate soldiers, spears run through their bodies, persuaded him.

As they neared camp, Dain studied the charred ground. A few hardy sprouts already poked their heads through the fine, black ash. When they reached ankle height, a party would form up and torch the area anew.

He grimaced. Meals in camp always tasted of ash after a burning. But poor taste was preferable to a spear in the gut.

Major Tindall led the patrol past the guards and through the tall wooden gates. Inside, the major stopped and turned his horse to Dain.

“I have to make a report to Commander Grayson. You will join me.” Without another word, Tindall dismounted and marched off toward the command office, a structure in the post’s center that dwarfed the other buildings.

A few of the other mercs shot Dain sympathetic looks. He would have preferred a long rest in his bunk, but that would have to wait. He dismounted, handed Boon’s reins to a hostler, and followed, mentally preparing himself to meet the camp’s commander.

Commander Grayson was a loyalist. He didn’t like mercs; not in his army, not in his camp, not in his presence. Despite the abundance of evidence to the contrary, Grayson believed that the Esterians could win the war themselves, and what held them back was their reliance on mercenaries. He spoke often of his nation’s superiority and cared not a bit if every merc in camp knew he detested them.

Dain had been on the receiving end of many of those lectures.

Tindall spoke briefly to the adjunct commander, a bald man who looked to be in his forties, and they waited but a short time before the man ushered them into the back office.

“Come in, Tindall,” Grayson said. He gazed up from his writing and stared at the new arrivals. Puffy bags hung beneath his eyes, and his formerly midnight hair was waging a losing battle with streaks of white.

Just months ago Grayson had been a picture of health, Dain remembered, and there hadn’t been any white in his hair. The time here was aging the commander. In another few months there would be little left of him.

Grayson turned a look of open disgust to Dain and, though he masked it better, an equal measure of distaste toward Tindall. The major, it seemed, had done something to put himself on Grayson’s bad side.
And what could that be
, Dain wondered.

“Make your report,” Grayson said, his expression grim.

Outlining their activities day-by-day, Tindall gave a concise account of the patrol’s journey, coming at last to their recent encounter. Dain said nothing during Tindall’s report until the major unexpectedly turned to him and asked, “Paladin Dain, was this afternoon’s raid consistent with what you’ve experienced?”

The question surprised him. It must have surprised Grayson, too. The commander’s face tightened further into a deep scowl and the bags under his eyes slipped deeper. On occasion, Dain had reported to the post commander at the request of his previous officers. They all knew Grayson’s reputation. He was a bureaucrat who fancied himself a warrior, and to a man they hadn’t agreed with his opinion on using mercs. Most of them had hated Grayson as much or more than the mercs did but, not wanting to appear weak or uninformed, none had ever asked Dain a question.

“Yes and no, sir.”

“Which is it, then?” Grayson asked icily. His scowl shifted into a half-snarl.

Dain knew the commander hated him more than the other mercenaries. His suggestion to burn the grasslands, although correct, hadn’t won him any favors.

“Explain yourself,” Tindall prompted. Dain could hear a tinge of nerves in the young major’s voice.

“The Tyberons fought with their usual tactics. They scattered when we crashed into them, but they broke too easily. And most of their warriors were young. Too young to be raiding. We usually face off with seasoned fighters, not untested youths, and they would have held out longer before fleeing. It was almost too easy.”

“Too easy?” Grayson’s bony fists struck his desk and he rose. “Major Tindall just reported that a third of his men were lost. That does not sound easy, does it? You are dismissed, paladin. I will have a word in private with your major. He needs to be reminded on what it is to be Esterian.”

With a nod, Dain wasted no time taking his leave of the two men. He was only too happy to go. His bed was missing him, and he still needed to care for Boon. The moody warhorse was particular about who stabled and fed him. Few would risk his wrath; Dain wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pausing at a shallow watering trough, he stripped off his leather and mail and stared at his reflection. He was just past twenty and already his green eyes had seen too much—too many wars, too much death. He wore his brown hair cropped close. It helped with the stifling heat and humidity. His face had bronzed, he noticed, but covered by armor, the rest of his muscled body remained pale. He was tall and strong and living without direction. His reflection, framed in by a blue clear sky, stared back.

What am I doing here? Surviving…moving a few gold closer to an escape…or a shallow grave. Is this enough?

He dipped his head beneath the water.

The day’s light was lost and only a shallow sliver of the moon hung among the stars after Dain finished getting Boon settled. The warhorse had picked up a thin cut on his leg, one that Dain hadn’t noticed earlier. Boon couldn’t be ridden until it healed. Briefly, he considered drawing the Light and healing it himself, but better to let the camp farrier do it.

He was just lifting his tent’s outer flap when Major Tindall found him once more.

“Paladin,” the little man called. He marched as if he were on parade. Likely he was angry at Dain’s answer in front of Grayson, and now he wanted to have another word in private.

First the commander’s scorn, then daring to ask a question in front of him, and now coming here?
Tindall was full of surprises.
Esterians, especially officers, avoided the mercenary section of the post like it held leprosy.

“Paladin Dain, I wanted to thank you for today. Your quick action saved us all.” Sincerity shone in his eyes. Dain was momentarily struck dumb. Esterians never thanked their hirelings.

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“No, you did more than that. You did your job
and
mine, and I need to thank you for it.”

“Major, no one wants to get killed out here. I did what I had to. I’m sure you’ll handle the next raid, sir.”

“That is the other reason I am here. I wanted to speak to you about our next patrol. I know that you—the mercenaries, that is—do not hold myself or my fellow Esterians in high regard. And I know that mercenary commanders lead several of the patrols even though it goes against our laws. The officer simply asks the merc for
suggestions
,” Tindall drew the word out, giving it a significance that Dain did not miss, “which are then followed to the word. I believe a merc named Balerion leads an entire battalion in this manner.”

Dain guarded his expression. The Esterians wouldn’t punish one of their own, but what Tindall had just suggested could get a mercenary dismissed.

Dain stood taller than most Esterians. The Major was no exception, and Dain also carried almost forty pounds more muscle than even the fittest Esterian officer, but it didn’t take size to intimidate. There were other ways. Dain knew that a hard glare from his green eyes could unsteady most men, no matter their size. A simple trick, one drilled into him by his father’s example. He glared now, testing the Major’s mettle.

Tindall met the look. He waited. He studied Dain with an active patience, as if seeking some sign of agreement. He didn’t waiver.

During the attack, when the Major had frozen, Dain had thought him only another glory-seeking noble. There were plenty of those in camp. There seemed to be no end to them. But perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps he had underestimated the man.

“Step into my tent, Major. Let us palaver,” Dain finally said, sweeping out an arm.

The tent was spacious. As a ranking merc, and one with skills his employers needed, Dain made an extra gold every week, and his prior officer had made sure he was well compensated and equipped with the best gear available. And Dain had spent a good portion of his gold to line the tent with a false roof of wooden planks. The burned area kept most of the Tyberons away, but every now and then one chose to test his bravery and see if he could hurl a spear into the post. More than one morning Dain had found a spear lodged in his planks. All but one of his collection stood on end in a clay vase near the tent’s corner. He’d rammed the most decorated specimen into the tent’s centerpole. A string of drying vegetables and fresh fruits hung from it.

“Bix, this is my new commanding officer, Major Tindall.”

A honey-blonde woman eased herself from a cushioned bench. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her short, blue skirt and bowed.

“Honored to meet you,” she said in a voice that matched the color of her hair.

Between the extended bow and the low cut of her white blouse, Tindall got more than an eyeful. The young Esterian blushed. He tried to speak, but a squeak emerged instead of words.

Dain stifled a laugh. Bix was tall, close to his own height and almost a full head above any Esterian, and to call her beautiful was to do her a disservice. Tindall hadn’t caught the quick flash of disgust on her face when she’d seen him step through the tent’s flaps—a look that she had erased from her features a sliver of a second after it appeared.

Most men would dismiss Bix as a simple camp follower. Early on, Dain himself made that mistake; now he knew better.

“Be a dear won’t you, Bix, and retrieve my maps.”

“As you wish,” she replied, straightening up to her full height. She caught the major’s blush and flashed a wide smile. Distracted as he was, he’d never notice that the smile didn’t extend to her eyes. Then she turned and began to rummage through a large chest.

Dain moved to a table and pulled out a chair for Tindall, placing it so that the Major faced the door. Talk would be impossible if the man kept staring at Bix in all her distracting glory.

Bix chuckled. She understood his purpose and arched an eyebrow playfully at him as she returned with the maps.

“Any refreshments, love?” She eased a silken hand beneath Dain’s shirt, then leaned in and gave him a kiss.

“Water, if you would. No tea tonight,” Dain replied when they broke apart. “The Major won’t be staying long. We have a small bit of business to discuss.”

“Don’t keep my man up long, major,” Bix said, turning to Tindall with a smile. “He’s been away with you too long already, and tonight I have a small bit of business of my own with him.”

Tindall’s blush deepened, and he began staring at the map with immense concentration while she set a vase of water down and retreated to a private, divided portion of the tent.

Dain watched her go. She sent him a promising smile and a smoldering stare, then untied a length of cord to close the sleeping section of the tent off. Inside, an oil lamp cast her silhouette in shadow—a silhouette that proceeded to remove its blouse and slide its skirt down over a long pair of silken legs. Bix eased herself into bed before blowing the lamp out.