“Your accent. From the north, you are,” Cara said. Her tone wasn’t questioning, but her eyes were narrowed in curiosity.
Uh oh, Perrin thought. He quietly set aside his bowl, and watched. She’s been traveling with us for days, and she’s only just now noticed?
Perrin looked around, trying to spot an authority figure. Aleksandr was sitting by the other campfire, honing his longsword and listening to Dylan tell some story. Yorrin was out of sight, riding around the perimeter of the camp. Prudence was absent as well, scouting the darkness with Yorrin.
“Ja,” Gunnar answered Cara’s question calmly. He raised a spoonful of stew to his lips.
“Svard?” Cara clarified.
“Ja.” Gunnar ate another bite of Robin’s camp stew, apparently unconcerned.
Cara’s knuckles clenched. Perrin swallowed nervously, preparing himself to dive between them and prevent bloodshed. The others sitting around them seemed oblivious, too far to hear the exchange clearly.
Cara closed her eyes, and unclenched her fists.
“You wear the cloak,” she said.
“Ja,” Gunnar said again.
“You joined up to fight them too? To kill your kin?”
Gunnar just stared at her. Cara frowned. “You know any words other than ja, Svard?”
Now he cracked a smile. “Ja,” he said.
Perrin laughed. “Alright, you set him up for that one,” he said to Cara.
She wrinkled her nose in annoyance. “Dodgin’ my questions,” she muttered.
“I don’t think he feels he owes you any answers,” Perrin said. “But for what it’s worth: we found Gunnar chained to an oar on a Svardic longship.” Perrin picked his bowl back up. “He was taken as a thrall—a slave—by Taerbjornsen’s army. Beaten and abused, because he wouldn’t follow them in their folly.”
Cara’s frown softened. She reached up and scratched the back of her head, tangling her hand in curly red locks. “Oh,” she said.
“Ja,” Gunnar said again. “I will kill Taerbjornsen’s dogs of war. Not my kin. My enemies. Same as you, I think.”
“Aye.” Cara nodded. “Reckon you’re right. Gunnar, is it?”
“It is,” he said.
Perrin thought he saw heard some warmth in the words, for the first time since Cara had begun speaking with him. Gunnar was a quiet man, mostly keeping to himself since they’d first picked him up. But he’d proven himself trustworthy several times over already.
Cara nodded again, but said nothing. She went back to her meal in silence.
I guess she just felt she had to clear the air, once she realized he was a Svard. Perrin took a bite of stew. That could’ve been a lot worse.
He hadn’t quite finished his supper when he heard hoofbeats. Prudence and Yorrin dismounted, Yorrin heading for Aleksandr and his fire. Prudence approached the fire where Perrin sat.
“Ready up,” she said.
Gunnar stood, picking up his shield as he did. He was clad in mail, sword hanging from his side, and looked ready enough. Cara stood as well, and strung her bow in a single smooth motion.
“Trouble?” Robin asked from where he sat across the fire. He did not jump to his feet, and took a lazy bite of stew. Beside him, Levin stood and immediately stalked off towards the horses. Orson hurried towards one of the supply wagons.
“Looks that way,” Prudence said. “Fires, a bit north. Come on, Robin.”
“A camp?” Perrin asked. He quickly gathered his own gear while he spoke.
“Not campfires,” Prudence clarified. “Too bright, too big.”
“Reavers,” Gunnar said quietly. He was staring out into the darkness.
“Burning out a village,” Perrin said. “Or a farmstead. Shit.”
“If we move fast, we might catch them,” said Prudence. “Yorrin hopes.”
Perrin strapped on his helmet. “Right. Robin, move your ass.”
Robin sighed, and finally put down his stew. “I don’t work for you, Perry. This isn’t Taraam.”
Gunnar glanced over his shoulder, giving Robin a look of disdain. “What, you want us to make Aleksandr come tell you the obvious? It is time to move. So move.”
Cara nodded. She moved to stand beside Gunnar. “Aye, the Svard’s—Gunnar’s got it right. Hurry it up, or what’re they payin’ you for?”
Robin sighed, and he began gearing up. He grumbled to himself while he did it—Perrin caught “not paying me much” but little else.
Robin’s just being Robin, he pushed his annoyance away. Gunnar and Cara walked off together to ready their horses, and Perrin followed them as soon as he could.
Robin followed well behind. Perrin prepped his horse for him, which had to have been the point, but this was not the time to indulge in squabbles. Not if some lives might hang in the balance. The last to reach the horses was Orson—Perrin saw him wiping his hands with a linen as he jogged over from the wagon, and he gave a nod of thanks as Levin passed him the reins to his horse.
He was checking on Anatoly, Perrin realized.
As far as the company knew, Anatoly’s condition had not changed much in the past few days. He was in a bad way, unconscious and hanging by a thread, but he had not yet passed. Orson didn’t speak of it to anyone but Aleksandr and Yorrin.
Perrin put the worrisome thoughts aside as he got into line with the rest of the company.
Aleksandr was already mounted up and waiting, his huge warhorse stamping the dirt impatiently. Dylan was in the saddle as well, beside Aleksandr. Perrin saw Yorrin riding off into the night.
“You have heard already,” Aleksandr said. “Yorrin spotted fires. Likely Svardic raiders. Not far north. We ride now, at full speed. It may be that we are too late to save anyone. But perhaps we will not be too late to stop them. To ensure that these raiders kill no one else. Are you all ready?”
A chorus of assent. Most of them just grunted, but Perrin’s voice joined a few others in a cry of “Yes sir!” or something like it.
Dylan nudged his horse forward. “Gunnar, Prudence, Nathan,” he said.
The three looked at him. “You’ll stay with me,” he said. “And protect Giancarlo’s wagons. His people are preparing to move, but they’ll be slow. We keep them safe, in case the Svards have come this way.”
Gunnar frowned. “I can go,” he said.
“I can take his spot!” Robin quickly offered.
“You could go,” Dylan spoke to Gunnar, ignoring Robin entirely. “But you won’t this time. You’ll stay with me.”
If we find survivors of a Svardic raiding party, Gunnar’s presence won’t help allay their fears, Perrin realized. Clever.
Gunnar just shrugged, and awkwardly urged his horse towards Dylan. He was visibly uncomfortable in the saddle, but getting better every day.
That settled, Aleksandr gave a single curt nod, then wheeled his horse around and set off after Yorrin at a full gallop. Steelshod followed.
They got there too late.
It was quiet as they rode in. The only sounds were crackle of the smoldering fires, the horses hooves on the dirt, and the quiet murmuring of a few members of the company as they took in the sight.
What else did we expect? Would’ve taken some time for the fires to grow so large.
It wasn’t much of a village. A farmstead and a handful of outbuildings. It was still planting season, and the fields were little more than rows of tilled earth. Nothing to burn there, so the Svards had contented themselves with burning some of the buildings.
They passed the first corpse out in the field. A young man, by the look of it, though it was hard to say for certain since his skull was hewn nearly in two. They saw more fallen scattered around the area. Most of them looked unarmed, or at least Perrin saw no fallen weapons in the dim light of moon and fire.
The barn and the main farmhouse were both still burning, but the fires were well on their way to dying out. A thick haze of smoke hung over the area. Perrin saw Cara dismount, and crouch in the dirt. She was near one of the dead, but not near enough to be examining them. Instead, she touched a few fingers to the dirt. She scuttled a few steps forward, tracing some invisible line on the ground.
“Not too many of them,” she said, loud enough to be heard in the quiet night. “Maybe three or four, I reckon.”
“Long gone, looks like,” said Conrad.
“Maybe, but they’ll be coming back,” Robin said. He pointed across the field, to a small but sturdy building behind the house that was not burning.
“Granary,” Perrin said, recognizing the squat structure with a raised floor.
“Good eye. They didn’t burn it,” Conrad said. “Might be they were scouts. More planning to come later, raid the food stores?”
“Cam, Levin, Orson,” Aleksandr said. “Check it. See if it is still stocked.”
“Aye,” Cam said. Orson nodded. Levin said nothing, and gave no sign that he’d heard the order save one: he immediately wheeled his horse towards the granary and led the way.
He’s not sociable, but he’s definitely reliable, Perrin thought.
“Robin, Bear, gather the fallen together,” Aleksandr said. “We will not leave them for the beasts.”
“Really?” Robin grumbled. “They’re dead, sir. I don’t think they mind.”
Aleksandr gave Robin a cool look, and the brigand held his tongue. He dismounted and joined Bear, who had already left the saddle eagerly.
“Is easy, Robin,” Bear said. He clapped Robin on the back. “We burn them maybe! Is faster than burying. Give their souls to god of fire.”
“Never heard of a ‘god of fire’ before,” Robin said. “That some heathen nonsense? What’s his deal?”
“Psh, Middish!” Bear complained. “You never hear of any god but little snake! Only worship one god, is big waste. Bear worship many gods. Then at least one of them will hear prayer.”
The two of them wandered off towards the nearest corpse, arguing amiably as if they were in a tavern and not cleaning up such a grisly site.
A few moments later, Orson’s voice rang out.
“Sir!” he hollered. “You’ll want to see this!”
Aleksandr frowned. He had been quietly conversing with Yorrin, and they both drew their steel blades in unison. They trotted towards Orson at a brisk pace, and Perrin urged his horse to follow. Conrad was right behind him, and Cara followed them on foot.
The door to the granary hung open. It wasn’t well-stocked, but it didn’t look ransacked either. That wasn’t what Orson had called them over for.
Perrin paused when he noticed the first corpse. It was the first one he’d seen that bore significant arms and armor—a mail hauberk on his back, sword and shield scattered nearby. For a moment, Perrin thought perhaps a Caedian man-at-arms had tried to defend the farm.
That’s a Svardic reaver, he realized. Even in the dim light it was obvious, once he got a good look. The man’s head was a pulpy ruin. Dark blood and chunky bits of skull and brain were spattered across the ground.
Perrin passed another dead Svard a few paces further on. But he found Orson, Cam, and Levin at the third corpse. Orson and Cam were out of their saddles, while Levin sat mounted a few feet away, eyes scanning the darkness.
“It’s alright,” Perrin heard Orson say. “Come on… easy there…”
“Calm down, lad,” Cam growled. “We ain’t here to hurt ye.”
A stranger was kneeling in the ground beside the third dead Svard. He stared at Orson with blank eyes, lips tight and unmoving. It took Perrin a moment to see what had the men on edge. The stranger was tightly gripping a weapon in his right hand: a heavy iron mace, its flanged head coated in blood, bits of flesh, and other viscera.
Orson reached down and offered his hand. The man took it, and let himself be pulled to his feet.
Aleksandr dismounted, and Perrin did the same.
“Is this your home?” Aleksandr asked. “This farm?”
No, Perrin thought.
Even in the dim light, he was taking in more details of the man. Scarcely more than a boy, with spotty stubble on his cheeks that spoke of an inability to grow a proper beard despite going some time without a shave. He was quite tall, but he slouched his shoulders and tucked his chin low—even hunching down as he was, he looked taller than Aleksandr. He was solidly built too, with a farmer’s broad shoulders. But if he had spent time on a farm, Perrin didn’t think it was this farm.
He was filthy. Not with the grime of a hard day’s work. More like the grime of days or weeks sleeping in hedgerows. He had leaves tangled in his blond hair. He didn’t wear a farmer’s garb, either. He wore a thin, poorly made gambeson shredded down to the batting in several places. His foot coverings looked more like threadbare wraps than proper shoes.
He looks like a brigand very down on his luck, Perrin decided. One of the desperate souls Robin used to sweet-talk into dying for him. Or maybe…
“Answer him, lad,” Cam prompted. “We’re here to fight Svards, not farmboys, ye ken?”
The boy swallowed. His lips looked chapped. Perrin reached into his saddlebags and withdrew a waterskin. “Here,” he said. He stepped forward and offered it.
The boy stared at the skin blankly for a moment. Then he took it and sucked down a long pull. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on a filthy shirtsleeve. He looked at Perrin with sad, scared eyes.
“It’s alright,” Perrin said softly. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“No,” the boy said.
“What’s your name?”
The boy furrowed his brow.
Is he simple? Perrin wondered. No, just scared.
“Miles,” he finally said.
“You kill those Svards by yourself?” Yorrin asked. He hadn’t dismounted, but he had sheathed his sword. He leaned forward, both hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle.
Miles gave Yorrin a blank look. The small man sighed, visibly irritated. “Is he a simpleton, or what?”
“Looks like he killed them,” Orson said, sidestepping Yorrin’s question. “Look at his mace. Fits the wounds on these men.”
“I did,” Miles said.
“All three, by yourself?” Cam asked. “Impressive work, lad.”
“I… I guess,” Miles said. “It just… sort of happened.”
Perrin nodded. “Your first time?” he asked.
Miles frowned. His eyes went distant again. “No,” he said.
Aleksandr had been silent for some time, studying the young man with unsettling intensity.
“You are clearly distressed. I am sorry, but we must know: were there more Svards, or did you slay all of them?”
“This is all of them,” Miles said. “Far as I saw.”
“Good,” Aleksandr said. “Well done then, Miles. Very well done.”
“I got here too late,” said Miles. He hunched his shoulders even lower than they already were. “Everyone was already dead.”
“As did we. It happens this way, sometimes,” Aleksandr said. “I see it pains you, but it is not your fault.”
I don’t think that’s all that pains him, Perrin thought.
“Least you got here in time to deliver some justice,” Orson said. “These poor folk deserve it.”
Miles didn’t seem comforted by the words.
“Must have taken some valor to face down three Svardic warriors by yourself,” said Conrad. He’d slipped up behind Perrin quietly.
Miles looked up at him. His face was inscrutable. After a long silence, he said simply: “No. Not really.”
Every time someone pays him a compliment he closes off.
“Here, Miles, come this way. You’re spattered with blood, but I’m not sure how much is yours and how much is theirs,” Orson said, taking the boy by the arm. “If you’re injured, let me take a look at it.”
“I’m fine,” Miles said. He shrugged out of Orson’s grip.
“Hey!” Robin called from behind them. Perrin heard him and Bear stomping over. “Any chance we could get a hand with—oh!” Robin stopped when he noticed Miles. He looked the young man up and down. “Who’s the deserter?”
Miles’ eyes widened, and his body tensed.
Perrin winced. Could’ve handled that more delicately, you smart-mouthed prick. “You’re a real piece of shit, Robin,” he said.
“His name is Miles,” Aleksandr answered Robin quickly, without any sign of concern. “He killed the Svards that took this place.”
“Wait, deserter? What makes you say that?” Orson asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
A dozen things and more, Perrin thought. Robin can spot it a mile away, same as I did. He was issued that gambeson by a Caedian quartermaster. He’s been on the run for a while now.
Robin just shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not really,” Yorrin said. “Deserters are cowards. What sort of coward faces down three Svards on his own?”
The kind that hates himself for his moment of cowardice. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Yorrin,” Perrin said.
Yorrin looked annoyed at the challenge. Aleksandr held up a hand, and Yorrin bit back whatever reply he’d been about to savage Perrin with.
“I think we are crowding Miles,” he said. “Give us some space, please. Ah, Perrin. Yorrin. You may stay.”
The others backed off a few paces. Yorrin looked like he might want to join them, but he stayed.
“Miles,” Aleksandr said. The boy looked at him. “I already suspected what Robin said openly. Please understand: we are not soldiers of any lord of Caedia. We are a mercenary company called Steelshod. We intend to offer our services to Caedia, but we have not yet done so.We are not here to force you to do anything.”
Miles nodded. He seemed to relax slightly, though he still clutched the mace in a tight fist.
“I would ask you for the truth, though I cannot compel you. Is Robin’s guess right?”
Miles nodded again. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Was it your first engagement?” Perrin asked. “When you broke? A pitched battle against the Svards?”
Miles’ head bobbed rapidly, continuing to nod. “Yes,” he said again. “I—yes. I panicked. I ran from the battle. And then I just… kept running.” He looked up at Yorrin, then looked down at his feet. “He’s right,” he murmured. “I’m a coward.”
“Would that every Caedian coward could do for three Svards on his own,” Perrin said. “This kingdom would win the war before it began.”
Miles just shrugged. “I wasn’t really thinking,” he said. “When I fought them it was just… I don’t know. Anger. This place… it reminds me of my parents’ farm, I suppose. That’s all I remember thinking. After that it all gets sort of hazy.”
Perrin nodded. “It’ll get easier each time,” he said.
“Miles,” Aleksandr interjected. “The army you fled… where was it?”
“The battle was… north of here. Near the coast. Just north of Torthing, I think. I heard we were on our way to join with Lord Marshal’s host at Arcadia.”
“How big of a battle was it? How many Svards?” Yorrin asked. “Did you rout them?”
Miles shrugged. “I—I’m not sure. I didn’t see the end. And it was… a few hundred? Sorry. I’m not good at counting so high…”
“Is fine,” Aleksandr said. “You were conscripted into that army by your lord?”
“Uh huh,” Miles said. “I’m—or, I was—a serf of Lord Glengill. But I failed him. I—”
“You made a mistake,” Aleksandr said. “Such things happen. Every man deserves another chance at doing good. You have proven your worth here tonight, Miles. In battle, da. But more importantly, by avenging the murders of these poor folk.”
Miles shrugged.
“You have it in you to be a good and righteous warrior, Miles,” Aleksandr said. “But you must atone for your mistakes.”
Miles swallowed, and met Aleksandr’s eyes. “How?” His voice was small. Scared.
“We are bound for Arcadia, to offer our services to your kingdom. Come with us. I will tell your lord what you did here tonight. He would have to be a fool not to see your worth. You will not make same mistake again. You will not break next time.”
Miles closed his eyes. Tears squeezed out of his eyelids, cutting tiny channels of clean skin down his filthy cheeks. “Why would you do that for me?” he asked.
Now it was Aleksandr’s turn to shrug. “Because it is the right thing to do.” He said the words as if they were the most obvious thing. A simple truth.
Because, Perrin realized, to Aleksandr that’s exactly what they are.
Aleksandr held out a hand to Miles. He offered his left, so that Miles would not need to let go of his mace to grasp it.
It took a few moments for the young man to open his eyes and see the offer. When he did, he reached out and grasped Aleksandr’s hand in a tight grip.
“Come,” Aleksandr said. He shook Miles’ hand warmly. “Until we get there, you travel as one of us. Orson will see to any wounds you have. After that, food and drink. Robin’s dinner is bland, but filling.”
Aleksandr gave Perrin a quiet look and a nod of his head, signaling for him to take the young man back towards the others.
“That sounds good,” Miles said, giving a meek smile.
Perrin put a gentle hand on Miles’ shoulder, guiding him along so that Aleksandr and Yorrin could have a moment to talk in private.
“It’s really not,” he said. “But we make do.”