To the High Redoubt (2 page)

“How bad was it?” Hedeon asked as Arkady appeared in the flap of the door.

“I can keep the leather armor, but I have to leave the steel. I can keep my weapons and my horse.” He held out the crumpled writ. “This declares me coward, Hedeon, for trying to save my men from destruction. The Margrave Fadey wants someone to blame for the way the battle went.” He kicked his saddle in anger. “He's an old fool, and dangerous. Take care he doesn't get you all killed.”

“He wishes to save us from the Turks,” Hedeon said, his voice cracking, for although he had been serving as an aide for more than a year, he was just twelve years old.

“At this rate, he will save us by sending us all to Heaven or Hell, to save the Turks the trouble.” As soon as these words were out, he lifted his finger. “No. Do not repeat that. You would be cast out, too, if you did, and you have less chance of making your way in the world than I do, and that is little enough for me.” He stared at the lanthorn, which was the only light in the tent. “Is there any wine left? I'd like to get roaring drunk tonight.”

“One skin,” the lad said apologetically. “You didn't ask for it, and so—”

Arkady waved him to silence. “Probably just as well. My head is bad enough now; tomorrow it would be intolerable if I drink.” He looked at his gear. “Do you think they'll let me take the helmet if I leave the helm?”

Hedeon did not venture an opinion, but he winked.

“Well, pack it for me in any case. I may need to sell it one day, to buy food.”

“It won't come to that,” Hedeon said with false certainty. “You will find another unit to take you on.”

“I will?” Arkady said bleakly. “Who will take me? What for? Contract soldiers might let me sign on, perhaps. Then it will be take any man's battle if he has enough gold. Or I could do what many another man in my position has done, and turn robber. Until they caught me and cut off my hands, or blinded me, or hanged me, I would live adequately, I suppose.” Abruptly he flung the writ away from him. “Thorns of God! What right has the Margrave to do this?” He went on without allowing Hedeon to speak. “Yes, I know, rank and place and all the rest of it. He believes he must make an example and I am it.” He dropped down onto the pile of blankets that served him as a bed. “What sorrows me the most is knowing that he will try and try to take that Turkish redoubt until every single soldier in his forces is dead. And what is the worst aspect to all of this is that it doesn't matter. That breastwork fortress means almost nothing to the Turks. Taking it would change very little.”

Hedeon listened nervously. “You're not being cautious, Captain Sól,” he warned. “There are those who can hear you.”

“What difference?” Arkady asked, then relented. “Very well. I don't want to see you compromised. If you have good sense, you will go to Captain Pliecs when I'm…not here. He is a good and sensible man and he will not abuse you.”

“Captain Tworek already has asked that I serve for him,” Hedeon said, trying to sound pleased.

Arkady shrugged. “He's a sensible man. He won't treat you badly. He's got more fleas on him than a heartsick camel, but there's nothing new in that.” No soldier was free of them, and if one officer attracted more than another, what did it matter?

“I'll take care,” Hedeon said, relieved that this was the only comment that Arkady made.

“And God guard you,” Arkady added as an afterthought. “You will need His protection, I am afraid.” He started to lean back. “See that my leather armor is packed, and my weapons.” He drew the cinquedea out of his belt and handed it to Hedeon. “I'll want to carry this with me, but the two swords and the maul…pack them as usual.” With that he leaned back and closed his eyes.

By morning, Hedeon had attended to his chores and had brought Arkady's horse around to the tent, where he waited now, bridled but not saddled, while Arkady went about the rough business of shaving with a knife edge. “There is food, Captain, if you want it,” the boy called out.

“Cheese will do. See if you can swipe a few extra rounds for me, so I'll have something to eat on the road. Don't get caught at it, or the Margrave will see you flogged for helping me.” He kept up his chore, dragging the blade over his wet face, wincing every now and then at the little cuts he gave himself.

“The priest has come to hear your confession,” Hedeon added a moment later.

“I will be ready shortly.” Why did he wish to go to such trouble to make himself a respectable figure, he wondered, when his departure was intended to disgrace him? It might be that he would not permit the Margrave to dictate everything to him. “Ask the priest to step inside.”

The tent flap was drawn back and a small, bent man came through the opening. He made a blessing in Arkady's general direction, then said, “It is unfortunate that you must leave us, my son.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” Arkady said with a lightness that he did not feel. “I will be with you in a moment, Father.”

The priest took his place on the three-legged campstool. “Sometimes it is in distress that we glimpse the Face of God,” he remarked, then waited for a response.

“I haven't seen Him so far,” Arkady said, nicking himself one last time. He blotted his face with the same rag he had used to clean his swords, then turned to the priest. “I appreciate your coming, Father, and I know that it is expected of us both for me to make some sort of accounting to you as my excuse for my actions. But I still believe that it was right to stay out of the defile, and I cannot apologize for helping my men live.”

“God is merciful,” the priest said quietly.

Arkady knelt and crossed himself. “I admit that I swear—all soldiers swear. I admit that I wench when I have the opportunity. I admit that I hanker after gold. I admit that I have killed men in battle. I admit that I have been drunk and made a great fool of myself over dice and women. All that is so. But I have never knowingly exposed my men to any more danger than is a soldier's due. That is why I refused to fight, and why the Margrave is sending me away.”

“Is this a confession, my son?” the priest asked, a bit bewildered in spite of years of experience listening to soldiers.

“No. I do not think this is a sin. I cannot confess it, Father. It would be a greater sin if I did.” He crossed himself again.

“I cannot offer you absolution without confession,” the priest reminded him.

“Then let me confess to drinking or wenching or gambling or stealing ducks from the Margrave's larder—it's all one to me.” He was ready to get to his feet but paused out of respect to the old man.

“I will give you a provisional absolution, my son, and that is all that I may do, properly. This is not what will please the Margrave, for it will be learned in the camp and questions will be asked.”

“As well they should be,” Arkady said brusquely, rising without the priest's permission. “But in a day or two it will all be forgot, and there will be another battle.” He looked at the neatly tied bundles that Hedeon had set out. “By tonight, some of the men will have put up a different tent here, and I will be nothing more than another officer who left.”

The priest got slowly to his feet. “I hope you will think about what I said. There are times when God is seen from the depth of the abyss.”

“Thank you, Father. I will remember it,” he said, doubting it would ever occur to him again.

Outside, Hedeon stood, the reins of Arkady's horse clutched in his hands. “I will pack the saddle,” he offered.

“I'd be grateful,” Arkady said, proffering one of the two bundles he carried. He made a studied effort not to look around him, for he knew that half the men in camp had been alerted that he was about to leave. If only I do not have to look at them, I can bear it, he thought as he went through the familiar motions of lugging the bundles of his belongings. “Make sure you tie that bag on well; that's food for me and the horse.”

Hedeon blinked back tears and did as he was told.

“We hate to see you go, Captain Sól,” one of the men said in an undervoice. He was standing not far away, and at these words, Arkady looked up, taken unaware. His eyes met the soldier's.

“I…” He shook his head, unable to risk saying more. His eyes stung.

There were other words he heard, whispered among the men as they stood, watching him prepare to leave them. Pride and grief almost overwhelmed him as Arkady listened, incapable of ignoring the approval of the soldiers. He tried to convince himself that this alone was enough and that because of it his leaving would not be as bitter as it had been.

“It's ready, Captain Sól,” Hedeon announced, no matter how obvious this was. “The saddle is—”

“I know, Hedeon.” He reached into his wallet, which was tied to belt, and tossed two silver coins to the lad. “Take care you don't lose them foolishly.”

Hedeon caught the coins and gave half a salute, then turned and ran away into the crowd.

The herald appeared and looked squarely at Arkady. “You must understand me: if it were up to me—”

“I realize that,” Arkady interrupted him, getting into the saddle as he spoke. “Let's get it over with. I don't fault you, man. Just don't take longer than you must.”

The herald nodded as he took his place ahead of Arkady's horse and raised his staff so that the men would clear a way for them, which eventually would lead to the edge of the camp. “This is Captain Arkady Todor Sól, from Sól, who has brought shame upon himself and disgrace upon his lord. He has refused to act in the face of the enemy and has shown himself to be unworthy of the rank he holds. May his name be vilified by every one of you for his cowardice and his insubordination.” The herald had repeated this more than seventeen times by the time the edge of the camp was reached, and his voice was growing worn.

“It is not on your head, herald,” Arkady told him as he leaned down and gave the man a silver coin. “Take care. Your master will bring you to ruin if you do not check him.”

The herald took the coin. “It is not right that I should listen to you.”

“No, it's not,” Arkady said. “But you are in danger if you do not. Well, I've said more than I ought and you have been patient with me. I am grateful to you for being so calm.”

“It was not I. The men were silent, that's all.” He looked back. “You need not tell me this, but which way will you go?”

“How should I know?” Arkady answered, more testily than before.

“As you wish,” the herald said, nodding. At last he stepped aside, permitting Arkady to go.

Chapter 2

Two days outside of camp, Arkady came to a main trade route. He looked at the road, weighing his choices. Westward was all of Europe, and the center of his faith, but westward also lay the fruits of his dishonor and the life of an outcast. “If I am truly exiled,” he said to his horse, “then let it be on my terms.” With that he turned east.

At the end of the third day, he came to a market town, a squalid, hot gathering of mud-covered buildings and old, crowded wells, where men, camels, horses, mules and goats congregated, all of them determined to make more noise than the other. Toward the center of the houses there was a large open square, and in this place a good number of merchants set up their awninged tents to show their wares. Many of the farmers brought produce to sell to the merchants, and the most enterprising of the villagers made food to sell to both merchants and farmers.

Arkady dismounted and led his horse toward the market square, smiling a bit at the bustle. He knew that as a soldier he attracted some attention, but as he was alone, most of the others avoided him, fearing that he was one of those men turned rogue who was not safe to deal with. He made his way to one of the food booths, and since he did not know the language the woman spoke, he did his best to make himself understood in mime. The woman accepted two copper coins in return for two puffs of bread filled with a highly spiced mixture of lamb and onions. Arkady smiled widely at her and gave her another coin for a third helping.

The woman returned his grin and said something in a friendly tone of voice, then scowled in the direction of a platform on the other side of the market square. She shook her head in disapproval and made another incomprehensible remark before giving her attention to a new customer.

Arkady munched at his food and led his horse toward the well where other horses were tied up. He looked around in the hope of finding a farmer selling grain, since he was low on food for his animal. “I'll try to find you some apples or dates, fellow,” he promised the horse.

A turbaned merchant in hodgepodge of clothes had climbed up on the platform and had started to harangue the crowd in a high, metallic voice. The attention he attracted was not entirely favorable, for some of the villagers whistled through their fingers at him in a derisive way. Others approached the platform, some of them holding wallets ready in their hands. Whatever he was selling, those merchants were interested in buying.

His curiousity piqued, Arkady strolled toward the platform, nibbling on the last of his food. He hoped to find out what it was the turbaned merchant had to offer.

An assistant was summoned, and he mounted the platform, pulling two large chains with him. Fifteen men and women, all shackled, stumbled up onto the platform. Most of them were dragged down by hunger, fatigue and the enervating weight of their wretchedness.

Arkady looked at the slaves in a little surprise, for although he had heard of open slave markets, he had never before seen one. He looked over the men and women offered for sale, wondering who they were and where they came from, that they should be where they were now. He had never seen clothes like they wore, or faces quite like theirs. He wished he knew enough of the local tongue to ask who the slaves were. He moved closer, as if proximity would explain matters to him. Once again he looked over the slaves as the turbaned merchant began to point out the various qualities of the first few men on the chain.