Blood Ties (8 page)

Conversation naturally turned to stories about Major Swift, who became bigger and bigger in the retelling. It wasn't as if the real man wasn't formidable enough, but there had never been the anecdote told that couldn't be deftly exaggerated until the subject of it was near godlike in proportions.

“And so he just, calm as anything, takes his insignias off his uniform,” I was saying, “and lays them aside and says to this brute, who had to be drunk off his ass and about seven feet tall, the major, he says, ‘Okay. Now it's not an officer and an enlisted man. Now it's just man to man. Let's see what you've got.'”

“How long did it take him to put the man down?” said Baron, leaning eagerly forward while chewing on a piece of overcooked boar meat. “Thirty seconds?”

“Eleven,” I said.

There were howls of doubt and more of laughter, and I put up a hand, and said, “I swear. I was there, and I timed it. Eleven seconds. And that was only because the major was toying with him.”

Trevor had been watching me the entire time, not having said a word to me since I first arrived. But by then, with the shadows embracing him and the ale loosening his tongue a bit, he finally spoke. “And why, exactly, should we listen to anything you have to say about Major Swift?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, the soldiers looking around at each other uncertainly. “Because I was there, Trevor,” I said.

“Yeah. You were. And you know when else you were there?” His voice was starting to rise. “When that bastard Logan killed him. You were there, and our ‘heroic' ruler was there as well. And you both just stood there, the both of you utterly useless. Logan shot down the major, like a damned dog, just shot him down. And then”—and Trevor took another swig of his ale—“when there was an actual chance to get some vengeance—when Logan was called to account for his misdeeds—was there any real justice? No. Our beloved ruler gave him a free pass.”

“You think I was happy about that?” I said. “I was in favor of seeing Logan get the same treatment that he gave the major!”

“Yeah, but he didn't. And what did you do? You continued to serve our bloody ruler, that's what. That's how much you cared about the major.”

“There were things that needed to be done, including defending Albion, in case you've forgotten,” I said.

He regarded me with open disdain, and said, “Some of us managed to accomplish that deed without tossing the major to the vultures.”

“Look, maybe we should just agree to disagree about this,” said Baron. He'd always fancied himself the peacemaker and a big believer in allies working together seamlessly instead of having disagreements. I appreciated the hopefulness of his thinking, but unfortunately it wasn't always possible for the world to be that way.

“Do you think it was an easy decision for our ruler to make, sparing Logan?” I said.

“Royalty sticking together, covering each other's backsides. Yeah, that's never happened before,” said Trevor. Much to my annoyance, there was acknowledging laughter from some of the others.

“It had nothing to do with backside covering and everything to do with the fact that Logan had plenty of troops at his command. Troops who fought alongside ours when the land was overrun by the darkness. If Logan had been killed, do you think any of his soldiers would have fallen in line? No,” I said, before Trevor or anyone else could interrupt. “They would have dispersed. They would have been useless as a fighting force. Killing Logan would have done nothing to bring back the major, but it would have ensured that thousands more would have died.”

“Thousands of people that I don't give a damn about,” said Trevor.

“Our ruler didn't have the luxury of not caring about thousands of people. And maybe if it had been you who had become ruler, you might be seeing things a bit differently. Walking out in the public, under the eyes of all the people who depend on you. Yes. Yes, I think you might indeed see things differently.”

Trevor regarded me for a good, long time. The only sound to be heard in the encampment was the crackling of the cook fires. And then, finally, to my astonishment, he lowered his gaze and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

You have to understand that Trevor in an argument was like a dog with a bone in its mouth. Short of shooting him, he wasn't inclined to let anything go. So for him to make such an admission was one hell of a concession. Rather than give voice to my astonishment, I just inclined my head slightly, and said, “All right, then.”

“All right, then,” said Trevor.

Baron was visibly relieved although a few of the men around looked disappointed. Perhaps they'd been interested in easing their boredom by watching an all-out brawl erupt. How tragic that they were destined for disappointment.

Eager to turn conversation in another direction before someone else took up the spear and threatened more trouble, I turned quickly to Baron, and said, “So do you have anything in particular you're heading for at the moment? Anyplace that is in need of such an obviously formidable band as this?”

“Well,” said Baron, “there's the problem at Black-holm . . .”

Immediately there were moans from the other soldiers, and shouts of, “Not that again!” and “Don't start!”

I felt like I had wandered into the middle of a conversation that had been going on for some time. “Black-holm? I'm not sure I . . .”

Baron was clearly about to answer, but Trevor cut him off. “It's a nothing town, situated about midway between Millfields and Silverpines. They're having problems with some land grabber . . .”

“He's not just a land grabber,” Baron said. “Droogan is anything but a land grabber. He's a warlord—”

“A self-styled warlord,” Trevor shot back. “Just because you've got some men following you and you go around conquering towns that are too pitiful to stand up to you, that doesn't make you a warlord. Droogan is a spoiled nobleman who is busy burning through his inheritance while playing at soldiering. He's nothing. He's no one. He's not worth our time. It would be slumming for soldiers like us to bother with someone like him.”

I was able to read between the lines fairly easily. “Let me guess: The people of Blackholm don't have much in the way of money. Specifically, money to pay for defenders.”

“That's pretty much it,” said Baron, making no attempt to hide his annoyance with his fellow soldiers. “The fine gentlemen here don't seem to feel that the residents of Blackholm are worth our time.”

“This isn't a matter of opinion,” said Trevor. “They aren't worth our time because our time costs money, and it's money they don't have.” He turned to me as if it was pointless to address Baron, and continued, “They've sent runners in all directions, asking for mercenaries to come and aid them in their fight against this Droogan idiot who wants to take over their town, take their land, take their animals and women and whatever else they might have. Mostly he's been threatening to do it unless they give it over voluntarily. You know what that says to me?”

“That he's weak?”

“That he's weak!” Trevor said readily, and he thumped me on the shoulder in what he doubtless imagined was camaraderie. Me, I could practically feel the bruise forming already. “Yes, exactly. If he had the resources to take what he wanted, then he would just do it. So basically you've got a town with extremely limited financial resources in a battle against an arrogant poseur whose blood isn't even worth spilling.” He turned toward Baron and addressed the comment to him since Baron had clearly been advocating that they take up the challenge. “You see why we're not bothering with them?”

My mouth had been open, ready to reply, but those had not been my words. It was, however, an uncanny imitation of my voice.

Trevor's head snapped around, and his eyes narrowed. All the anger that he had been displaying earlier but had managed to shut down was roaring back to life. “
What
did you say?”

I started to answer, but before I could:
“Couldn't understand a two-syllable word like ‘coward'?”

Instantly, I clapped my hands over my mouth. That turned out to be a mistake, because then they couldn't see that my lips weren't moving. So they had to depend on what they heard, and what they heard was,
“You sure are a big strong hero . . . for a lady! Is this your sewing circle?”

I tried to salvage the situation, tried to say, “It's not me! I'm not saying this!” But it was too late. Trevor roared in fury, and none of the others sounded much happier. Most of them had been fairly indifferent to me; only one had genuinely been glad to see me. Furthermore, the lot of them had been drinking, and nothing makes one quick to react to insult like liquor.

Trevor lunged at me, and the only thing that saved me was the fact that he had no left arm because it gave me somewhere to go. I darted to his left, avoiding the sweep of his right arm, and he stumbled forward directly into the campfire.

He cried out in pain and immediately several of the soldiers went to him to help haul him clear. Several others, meantime, came straight at me. I was outnumbered, and there was no way I wanted any part of the fight, particularly since I wasn't the one who had instigated it.

A branch extended overhead. I leaped straight up for it, grabbing it and swinging my legs up and out so that I just managed to clear the heads of my attackers. I let the momentum of the swing carry me so that I landed just beyond them. They quickly corrected course and came right after me. Given the opportunity, there was no doubt in my mind that they would have caught me and pounded me into the ground.

So, obviously, it was in my best interests to not give them that opportunity.

Clash, that impressive and magnificent stallion, was just ahead of me, tethered to a tree. I sprinted up behind him and vaulted onto his back from behind. He let out a startled whinny, and I said, “It's me, big fella.”

Meanwhile “my” voice was shouting,
“The ladies must really love you lot! Do you share makeup tips and trade shoes?”

This did nothing to get me into their good graces.

There was no point in trying to explain. The combination of the harassment that my mouth seemed to be expelling like vomit and the fact that they'd been tossing back ale fairly heavily wasn't conducive to their being reasonable. I pulled out my sword, and they fell back a moment, doubtlessly concerned I was about to use it on them.

Instead, I sliced through the rope that was keeping Clash tied to the tree. It parted easily enough, and Clash reared up, pounding the air with his hooves and whinnying even louder than before. He certainly sounded happy to be free of his bonds.

Gripping the reins tightly, I wheeled the horse around and dug my heels in, shouting, “Yah!” because “Giddyap” was just
so
cliché. The only one who might have been willing to put his body between Clash's thundering hooves and my route out of there would have been Trevor, and he was busy snuffing out the last of the flames on his clothing. I caught a brief glimpse of Baron's distressed expression, then we were out of the clearing.

I couldn't open up the horse for a full gallop because it was dark, we were in the forest, and there was no clear path. But at least it wasn't a particularly dense forest, and I was able to maneuver Clash through it quickly. I heard the sounds of pursuit behind me, but Clash had four legs to their two, and it was just fast enough to stay ahead of them. Less than a minute later we made it to the main road, and that was when all the chasing in the world was reduced to irrelevancy. They shouted from behind, and I heard a gun or two go off in what amounted to little more than futile gestures. Clash had seized his freedom with all four hooves. Well, not actually seized per se since he had no opposable thumbs, but he clasped it firmly in . . .

Never mind. Let's just say that Clash was happy to have a chance to be unrestrained.

He literally hit the ground running, his hooves chewing up the dirt, the road hurtling past.

I snapped the reins, urging him on, and he was all too happy to comply. The shouts of the soldiers faded into the distance as Clash pounded down the road although I was happy to hear the words, “Which way did he go?” floating behind me. Anything that added to the difficulty of their following us was fine with me. There was no other horse back at the encampment that had a fraction of Clash's energy and power.

I also knew how the soldiers' minds worked. It wasn't as if I had shot any of them or in some substantive way had done them damage that required vengeance. Instead, from their point of view, I had hurled insults at them, then run away in a thoroughly cowardly fashion. They would decide that such a craven bastard as I wasn't worth the effort that pursuit would take. Instead, they would return to their encampment and say all manner of derogatory things about me, none of which I would hear or care about in the least.

Sadly, it would never occur to them that I hadn't really thrown about any insults at all.

“That damn gnome,” I snarled between gritted teeth, as Clash continued to gallop down the road.

“What about me?” came a hideously familiar voice from directly behind me.

Instantly, I reined up, causing a bewildered Clash to skid to a stop with such force that another horse might have upended. Clash remained upright, and I barely managed to hold on, slamming up against the back of his head. His mane got in my mouth and I spat out bits of it.

Happily, the gnome, who had perched on the horse's rump, was thrown completely clear. He tumbled through the air ass over teakettle several times before hitting the ground and bouncing several more times before rolling to a halt against a tree. Amazingly, his pointed hat remained firmly on his head.