Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

The right mindset, he thought. That of the bully and the coward and the robber. His own sneering contempt was locked down deep. It was not something he would share. No successful mercenary did.

“After the evening’s Triumph, will there be another movement?” he asked evenly.

Shakis missed the sarcasm, or ignored it, and said, “There will. Two more towns along this front require attention. Each will be a harder fight. Are your men up to it?”

“My troops are,” he agreed. “If you are done with us for now, my troops and I will encamp for the night, about a mile south. We are in need of rest and to care for our gear and horses.”

“As you wish, though the revelry will last all night.” Shakis chuckled and licked his lips slightly. The man was handsome enough physically, but his demeanor would strike fear into any civilian wench unlucky enough to meet him.

Arden wished he’d known of that ahead of time.

“Rest, and care of our gear and horses,” he repeated. “We have our own revels planned.” With ale they’d brought and hired wenches who were part of the entourage. Women who didn’t require a fight and wouldn’t slice your throat if you passed out. Ale that wasn’t poisoned at the last minute, or badly brewed and rotten. Though the vengeance and poison were part of Shakis’ calculations, most certainly, so that he could exact a price in response. Unprofessional. A professional took pride in his work, but didn’t needlessly create more.

Another day, another battle. The town of Kiri. Arden scarcely remembered which were which anymore. It was easy to remember the towns where tough, honorable battles were fought. Likewise the ones where they’d rescued an employer’s forces. The little villages, however, were never memorable, which made him uncomfortable. They were people, too.

The price of honor, he thought. The stock in trade of a mercenary company was its competence and reliability. The ragged bands of sword fodder never amounted to much, nor earned much. Only the best units did.

Which made those best the equal of any state or nation’s army in quality and outlook. Which offended said “official” armies and earned sneers. Sneers the Toughs and the few outfits like them knew were part jealousy and part ignorance. And once you knew you were morally above the people you worked for . . .

It was rough work, and a conscience was both necessary and a hindrance. The Toughs owed allegiance to each other only. They protected each other at work, and in the taverns and camps afterward. They thought not too hard about their opponents of the moment, who would shortly be defeated or dead as part of a cold deal and a week’s pay and food.

So Arden, as Kenchen before him, Ryala before Kenchen, and Thoral who’d founded the Toughs tried for only the best contracts. Supporting a proud state at its border or chasing bandits were the choicest tasks. Caravan escort was boring but honorable, as was guard duty at a border town or trading center. But there were few such jobs, and between starvation and ethics was a gray line.

Once again the Toughs cracked the defenses of the town that stood in the way of Miklamar’s plan for expansion or peace or world conquest or whatever his motivation was. Were Arden a strategic planner for a nation, he’d find that information and use it. As a mercenary commander, he stuck to the closer, more local concerns of food, support, and pay. Thinking too much made working for such people harder.

Once again, the rape, pillage, arson, and looting began, the cowardly local troops reflecting the manner of their leader, as was always the case.

Arden wheeled his mount away from the spectacle, assured his own wounded and dead was being cared for by their sergeants, rode through the healthy ranks, and nodded in salute. He always recognized his troops for doing well.

Shakis was waiting at the rear, as always. “Arden, you have done well again, for mercenaries,” he said as Arden entered his tent.

Such a greeting. “Well for mercenaries.” As if sword wounds felt different to the vanquished, depending on the colors worn by the soldier thrusting it home.

“I thank you,” he said.

“The campaign proceeds. We will keep your men another month, as we asked.”

“As long as they are paid, they will remain loyal to the contract,” he hinted.

Shakis barely scowled and with a nod one of his lackeys dropped a sack of coin in front of Arden. Arden took the time to count it. Those two acts summed up the relationship perfectly. Arden didn’t trust his employer, and the man was fervent enough in his religion to imagine that people should want to risk their lives for it.

Not for the first time, Arden pitied the towns falling to this excuse for a man.