Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

As he always did when troubled, he rode patrol. His thoughts drifted, and distance from Shakis made him feel cleaner. He’d had disputes with employers before, even if this scraped the hoof for lowness. He rode ahead of the three troops with him, just so he could feel more alone.

It was a cool night, slightly misty, and fires could be seen behind the town, of a small force preparing to support the town once attacked. Miklamar’s only good strategy was to use his larger army to spread the threat of his neighbors. Though that might be accidental rather than strategic planning.

Count Namhar showed far better sense, with his force high in the defense, prepared to rush in on a force bogged down even briefly in the town below. He knew he couldn’t save the village, so he’d use it as an anvil to hammer Shakis’ force against. He’d do far more damage that way, including to the Toughs.

Arden wondered if he could arrange to be where the counterattack would happen, so as to have an honorable fight against a decent enemy.

Something crept up through his mind and coalesced into a thought.

Yes. He just might be able to do that. It would take courage, risk his life, and save his oath. That made it worth doing.

He wheeled Fury about and galloped back to camp, leaving the other three soldiers to catch up while they wondered what their commander was doing.

Count Namhar watched the unfolding battle from a hilltop. Part of him craved to be down below with his brave men, doing what could be done to restrain a horror. A horror that not only outnumbered them, but had hired crack mercenaries.

He was thankful that the leadership used both mercenaries and indigenous forces poorly.

His presence on the hill was for tactical advantage. He had a small device from the mages that could potentially change the course of a battle, if used well.

The tube was a magic Eye. Its rippling patterns, almost oily, resolved to crystal clarity when stared through. He could see events far across the field and send swift messengers to maneuver his forces.

The Eye only let him see things larger. It couldn’t see things beyond obstacles, but did enhance anything within line of sight. And the mercenaries were just within that line.

It took only a moment’s glance to cause him to grin. A surge ran through him, of respect for a mercenary who embodied every virtue a soldier should have. There was loyalty, and then there was honor. Above those was courage, and it took tremendous courage to do what Arden’s troop was doing now.

Somewhere, they must have been ordered to attack the village. And that’s what they were doing. Arden was a genius, and brave beyond words to offer such a tactic. Exploiting it would cost lives. But the tactic was suicidally foolish, and Namhar could exploit that at once. He could wipe out the Toughs to the last troop. Though to do so would be a shame.

Then the true nature of it hit him.

“Send Rorsy’s force down to take them,” he ordered the nearest of his aides.

“At once. At the charge, or dismounted?”

“No, take them alive,” Namhar said. This had to be done just right. A man with a sword was still dangerous, and if he knew Arden as he felt he did, the man wouldn’t simply surrender.

“My Lord? I am confused,” his aide said.

“I will explain, but quickly. We have little time.”

And indeed, there was a risk. If Arden was what he seemed, it could be handled rather quietly. But the flash of steel could turn it into the bloodbath it had looked to be from the beginning.

“Attack the town,” Shakis had ordered. “Town” had two meanings; either the population and resources of the small settlement, or the physical structure of it. It was that way Arden had chosen to obey the order, and his troops had agreed, with hesitation and fear, but in support of their commander and in rebellion against the detestable creature who’d hired them and debased them. Their honor was their coin in trade. They would fight as hard to protect it as to earn it.

Arden kept his face impassive and hacked again, the daubed withes of the wall powdering under his onslaught. Yards away, Balyat crushed small beams with swings of his ax. The Toughs were arrayed along a front perhaps two hundred yards wide, surrounding the rude buildings and smashing them. To the south, Shakis’ other forces were slaughtering the helpless. Arden had killed one dweller who’d faced him with a staff. The others had run. Some had seen the mercenaries senselessly beating buildings and taken the opportunity to run away, or to the battle farther south. One didn’t question an enemy’s error.

Behind Arden, there were men approaching, in colors that made them allies of Lord Namhar. Each swing of his head let him see their approach. They were moving to flank him and were unarmed.