His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) Page 9

  “They’d have been heard if they’d called out for help,” he said.

  “Unless they didn’t call for help because there was no reason to call for help.” Tyren sat back on his heels. “For all I know they’re getting drunk down at the hall.”

  “Commander Risto,” Aino said.

  He’d gone some distance away, further up into the trees. Tyren stood up and went to look. He knew, before he got there, from the expression on Aino’s torch-lit face, the kind of thing he’d see. He made himself look anyway. Sælo was there, dead, sprawled on his back so Tyren could see his throat had been slit. He hadn’t been dead long. The blood was still wet, glistening in the torch-light. His sword and belt knife were gone. His helmet was off, upturned on the ground beside him. Rian wasn’t there, but another helmet lay in the grass some distance away.

  Tyren stood there and looked down at the body without moving, his mouth dry as dust, a tightness in his heart and throat. Behind him, Verio swore softly. Aino and Nevare said nothing.

  After a little while he went over to where the body lay and knelt beside it, unsteadily.

  “What’s the mark?” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his own; he heard it from a distance.

  The mark had been cut roughly into the skin of Sælo’s right cheek: two crossed lines within two concentric circles, spreading from ear to nose, eye socket to jaw.

  “The old Cesino sigil,” Verio said. “It’s been their sigil since before the Varri.”

  Aino said, quietly, “The rebels use that sigil.”

  “So this is the work of the rebellion.”

  “It seems that way, sir,” Verio said.

  “Rian isn’t here.”

  “He might have tried to run,” Verio said, “or he might have been taken alive. Hard to tell in this damn dark.”

  Tyren stood, indecisive, his thoughts running too quickly.

  “They must still be close, sir,” Aino said.

  “We won’t be able to track them tonight,” Verio said. “They know these woods, know the mountains—”

  “You,” Tyren said to Aino. “I want you to return to the fort and bring up a troop to search for Rian and take the body back down. The lieutenant and I and Nevare will stand guard. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Aino said. He gave his torch to Nevare and ran to his horse and mounted up and went riding back down towards the village at a hard gallop. There was silence after he’d gone. Verio crouched down on his heels and rubbed his face with his hands, blinking his eyes. Nevare stood a little way away, tensely, his hand still ready on his sword-hilt. Tyren looked round. The wood lay quiet about them. A mist was rising, clinging wetly to their clothes. No sign of the attackers he could discern, no sound except the trilling of a nightingale somewhere off in the dark.

  “What are you going to do, sir?” Verio said to him, after a while, in a low voice.

  “Go after them. Not tonight. Useless to try it tonight. I don’t want to be ambushed in the dark. But at first light tomorrow, while there still might be a trail.”

  “They’ll have gone into the Outland.”

  “You needn’t come, if that worries you,” Tyren said.

  Verio laughed at him.

  “This isn’t Choiro, Commander Risto. This isn’t some lesson in a Vione schoolroom. You do things here because they must be done, not because you want to do them or because you think they’ll make you look good in the capital. This is the wilderness, not a parade-ground. You do things here because they must be done.”

  “I’m doing what must be done.”

  “You’re being a damn fool.” Verio’s voice was harsh with sudden impatience, startlingly loud in the silence. “The Outland is their ground.”

  “Then tell me what must be done,” Tyren said, coldly.

  “These people need to learn there are consequences for this. If they realize what happens every time they make a move against us, if they realize there are consequences, hard consequences—they’ll turn against their own. You’ll defeat their rebellion without losing another man.”

  “You think I should punish the village folk for this?”

  “If you wish them to learn,” said Verio, shrugging.

  “So I punish innocent people rather than ride out to meet the men responsible. What exactly does that teach them, Lieutenant?”

  “None of these people are innocent, Commander Risto,” Verio said.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Tyren said. He was angry, suddenly. The words spilled out almost of their own. “I think you’re as much a coward as the bastards who did this. I think you’re content to sit in the village, waving your sword to frighten the farm wives, because if it came to a real fight we’d all see you’re words and nothing else.”

  There was silence between them. Verio sat without moving a muscle, his eyes narrowed, the torch-light snapping on his face. Nevare was staring at them open-mouthed. In the distance there were the hoof beats of Aino’s troop coming up from the village.

  “Another thing,” Tyren said. “No matter your opinion of me—my age or my upbringing or the way you think I handle this command—I’ll always be addressed as ‘sir.’ You needn’t bring my father’s name into it. I’m your commanding officer and you’ll address me as such, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Verio, very quietly.

  “I’ll be leading a troop of horse up into the Outland tomorrow and you’ll be riding with me. We leave at first light. Twelve men of your choice. You may return to the fort now and begin making the arrangements.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Verio.

  He got up and went to his horse, walking very stiffly. He mounted and rode away down the hill. Aino had ridden up now and dismounted, saluted briefly, started giving orders to the men who’d accompanied him. They’d brought a spare horse for the body, more torches for the search. Tyren took Risun’s reins and walked a short distance away while they did their work, letting the anger go out of him, breathing the night air deeply. He leaned against the gray horse’s neck and looked up to the mountains. He’d be up there tomorrow. He wondered briefly what would happen if he didn’t return, how long it would take for the word to reach Vessy. Wondered what his father’s reaction would be. Hard on his mother were he to die up there, but most likely Torien would say it was the result of his own foolishness, that it was inevitable. Maybe it was foolishness. In Choiro they talked about dying for the glory of the Empire, and that was always how you imagined dying, when you thought about it—always a good death, a meaningful death. But the cold truth of it was that if he died up there tomorrow, in the Outland, in battle against a ragged band of Cesino farmers, there’d be no glory in it. In all likelihood they wouldn’t even hear of it in Choiro.

  * * *

  There were fourteen horses saddled in the yard by the time the first pink light of dawn came over the pine trees to the east. He stood on the headquarters steps, Verio standing stiffly a little way behind him, and he watched the men make their preparations, saying nothing, his thoughts preoccupied. He’d never led an offensive movement before—had never even seen a battle before. He’d seen the wounded brought upriver by ship to the soldiers’ hospitals at Vione sometimes, from places like Tasso and Volenta, the far-flung edges of the Empire. Mureno had labored to ensure he was familiar with the sight of blood, with the treating of wounds. Invaluable knowledge. And he knew the theories of warfare, the old writings. He’d studied all of that in Choiro, studied under some of the Empire’s best tactical minds. Mureno was no laggard himself in that respect. But when it came down to it he’d never been in battle before, had never killed a man, and now, suddenly, he was leading a troop, and some of these men had been soldiering since before he was even born.

  Aino approached him from somewhere. He saluted and said, “Sir, you’ll want to see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Out on the common, sir. One of the gate guards reported it.”

  “Bring my horse,” Tyren said.

>   He rode with Aino and Verio out of the yard and down the fort road to the common. There were some village folk gathered in a loose circle round the white-marble column at the center of the common, watching with dumbly blank faces while Tyren and Aino and Verio came closer. The column was a Vareno thing, commemorating the Empire’s long-ago victory here, some forgotten general’s name etched carefully across the face of the stone. There were columns like this one all over the Empire. When he’d gotten close Tyren could see there was a kind of bundle hanging limply from the top of the column, swaying a little in the wind. He was confused a moment and then he saw it was a body, hung by the arms. There was blood running down the side of the column in dark streaks. There were letters written in the blood, Cesino letters, and the same symbol he’d seen last night: two crossed lines within two circles, the mark of the rebellion. It took him a while to puzzle out the letters. He could speak Cesino more readily than he could read it.

  “It says this is the penalty for blood traitors, sir,” Aino said from behind him, quietly.

  He recognized the body, then—the Cesino lord, Magryn. He’d been dead before he was hung up, throat cut as Sælo’s had been. The blood streaked on the column was dry, rust-colored.

  “How long has he been dead?” Tyren said.

  “Last night, sir,” Aino said. “The same time as the other.”

  He took that in, arranged it slowly and carefully in his mind. So the rebels had come down to the hall last night, had done their work and then run for the mountains, had killed Sælo as they fled.

  He said, “Cut him down. Then take a troop down to the hall, Corporal, and see what there is to be done. I’ll expect your report in my office when I return.”

  “Yes, sir,” Aino said.

  They rode back to the fort. Verio was tight-mouthed and said nothing while they watched the troop mount up in the yard. The men were uneasy. They hadn’t lost a man in a long time in this place. Now they’d lost two at once—they hadn’t found Rian’s body, but Tyren wasn’t harboring much hope he was alive—and Magryn was dead, and they’d been powerless to stop it. Tyren was uneasy too, his stomach clenched tight, but he tried not to show it, speaking coldly when he gave orders, trying to mask the unsteadiness in his voice. He had to show them he could bring this all back in hand.

  They rode out from the gate in six columns of two, he and Verio riding ahead, and they turned west to go up into the hills, leaving the village behind them.

  It was a longer and colder ride than he remembered, up to the rim where the patrols usually turned north to make the circle back round to the village. The going was slow. He was looking for signs men might have passed this way, left a trail in their haste, some little indication of the way they’d come and gone. But the dew-laden forest floor told him nothing. The rebels had hidden their tracks well.

  He halted the troop briefly on the patrol path so they could rest the horses before going on into the Outland. They’d be going in blindly and he hadn’t wanted to do that. Doubt was gnawing away at him now. Verio had spoken the truth, most likely; he was just throwing lives away, trying to meet the rebels out here. This was their ground. But he’d no choice. He couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t let himself be content just to sit idly and comfortably in the village, the way Verio wanted, waiting for the rebels to make another move, punishing the farm folk for it. No, this was the only way. Verio wasn’t in command here any more.

  When they’d rested a while he gave the order to mount up and they rode in file up the hill, leaving the patrol path behind them.

  From the crest of the hill, looking westward, they could see the heart of the Outland opened up before them: blue mountains to the north and south, far as the eye could see, a long spine dividing Cesin from Varen, the highest peaks eternally snow-clad, the valleys hidden in deep shadow even though the sun was shining brightly at their backs. Beautiful country, the Outland, the ancient homeland of the Cesini: they’d been a hardy mountain people long before they’d come down to the lowlands and built cities of stone along the seacoast. Beautiful and dangerous at once, this country. He took it in, sitting there in Risun’s saddle and letting his eyes travel along from north to south, back again, looking for any kind of sign—dust kicked up by horses, sunlight glinting on metal. But he could see nothing. He pressed his heels to Risun’s belly and started taking the horse carefully down the hill at a walk.

  Verio, speaking for the first time that morning, said, “Sir, there’s no sign any living thing has come this way.”

  “Maybe we can draw them to us,” Tyren said, over his shoulder.

  “That’s your plan, sir?”

  “You wish to suggest a better, Lieutenant?”

  Verio said, tightly, “No, sir.”

  They rode down the hill and came out onto the belt of sand and broken shale at its base—most likely a shallow stream when the rain fell. A good place for an ambush, Tyren thought. He led them across the dry stream bed and up onto the shoulder of the next hill and they rode along the hill with the stream bed below them on their left-hand side. There was the sound of wind in the trees, and of birds singing, the soft thrashing of wings somewhere, but other than that it was still, and the stillness made them all uneasy.

  But it seemed, as they went on, they were alone. They kept on a course straight west, or straight as could be managed over that ground, and by mid-day there was still no sign the rebels had passed that way. The men’s uneasiness was turning into surly impatience and he knew they wouldn’t be willing to go much further. He called them to a halt on the western slope of a tree-clad hill, above a broad, shallow, pebbly stream, and they rested a while and refilled their water-skins and let the horses drink. He squatted on his heels a little way up the hillside, his helmet couched on the ground beside him, and he let Risun crop some grass while he drank from his water-skin and looked out over the rough terrain before them, across the stream, weighing the options in his mind. He didn’t want to be in here after dark. He didn’t, on the other hand, have much desire to return to the fort having accomplished nothing. That was all he’d accomplished since taking this command.

  Verio came up to him from the water and said, keeping his face turned away, “Sir, I wouldn’t advise going much further.”

  He swallowed the water in his mouth. He spoke without turning his own head. “It’s your opinion we should abandon Rian?”

  Verio was silent a moment. Then he said, “You don’t know he’s still alive, sir. You don’t know for sure he was taken at all. I don’t see throwing more lives away on the off-chance that—”

  Risun picked up his head from the grass suddenly, black-tipped ears pricked forward. A horse whinnied off in the distance.

  “Keep the horses quiet,” Tyren said, sharply. He got up quickly to his feet to put a hand over Risun’s muzzle.

  He listened, carefully, but the sound wasn’t repeated. It had come from further west, a little south, beyond the next low ridge. He tied up his water-skin and took Risun’s reins in his right hand and went over to put his helmet back on. Then he pulled himself up into Risun’s saddle and took the horse down towards the stream. Verio hesitated. After a moment he let out a heavy breath and went to mount his own horse. The troop fell in quickly behind them. They crossed the stream and went up the hill. When they’d crested the ridge Tyren signaled for another halt so he could look over the long, wooded valley before them. He couldn’t see anything right away but Risun’s ears were pricked forward again. The ridge curved away westward, going round the valley like an embracing arm. He urged Risun forward along the crest, still watching the valley below, his heart tightening a little with anticipation.

  At the end of the long valley there was an open place among the trees, a bald patch of white gravel and puddled water run off from the hills round it. A horse was tethered down there in the open place. Tyren recognized the trappings, the military-issue saddle: Rian’s horse. Rian was in the saddle, slumped forward across the horse’s withers. Hard to tell, from this di
stance, whether he were alive; he was tied to the saddle, not moving. Tyren brought Risun up and just sat there and looked down at the horse and the body a while, putting his thoughts together.

  Verio said, through shut teeth, “A trap.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They’ll move against us soon as we go down to him, sir.”

  Tyren didn’t immediately reply. He was searching carefully with his eyes through the trees round the open place. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It’s a diversion, more likely. Think about it, Lieutenant. They’re running from us. They can’t be more than five men, to be able to cover their tracks as well as they have. They’re running from us and they’ve left us a diversion while they make their escape. Look.”

  He shook out Risun’s reins and took him forward along the crest. Verio came behind him, reluctantly. The land fell away again at the end of the ridge, into a broader valley beneath a tall, sheer-sided cliff. A narrow gap cut east-and-west through the cliff; that was the only outlet from the valley’s far end. Tyren reined Risun up again and searched through the thick black pine and pointed.

  “There,” he said.

  There were three, four horsemen in the trees below, riding hard towards the gap.

  Verio saw them. He shifted in his saddle. Then he nodded, shortly. “What’s your plan, then, sir?”

  “I want you to take half the troop and go in pursuit. I’ll see about Rian and observe from here. Do you understand?”

  Verio looked over to him in silence a moment, scowling, his mouth tight. But he said “Yes, sir,” without question and turned his horse away.