The camp stank of poorly dug latrines, burning middens, and wood smoke from campfires. Even at this early hour the pathways among the tents were crowded with errand boys, officers, and all manner of tradesmen—cooks, weapon smiths—rubbing shoulders with soldiers, unshaven, unwashed, and already looking gaunt from leagues of hard marching. The noise was more than a carnival, with officers barking out commands, horses clomping through mud, swords jangling, and feet marching. Gail watched it all with rueful eyes—how easily she could have disappeared in all of it, how easily she could have found work, a place to earn her keep and eat.
But now she was mounted on the back of the very stallion she had caught, her chest hurting with every intake of breath, bound with her own length of rope. She looked sidelong at the bloody gash she had left on the face of the sergeant and the ripped, bloody sleeve of Ramsey.
At least I put up a fight.
Not that it had helped her. The blade had always been the answer for her but against five trained soldiers, she had been no match. Perhaps, she should not have run.
Shoulds are worth shite.
Still, she could not shake the niggling sense that she had been impetuous. What had worked in the Eastlands would not work here, a voice—she guessed her better judgment—told her in her head.
Soot followed, swooping from tent pole to tent pole, occasionally landing on the banner of the regiment quartered in the nearest vicinity. A tent in each regiment was marked by a flag flapping alongside, the house colors of whatever officer or captain commanded it, just under the colors of the seal of King Talamar—the crossed hammer and sword on a purple-blue field. But they did not stop at any of these tents, as Gail expected. Instead they continued to the center of the camp, to a camp-within-the-camp marked off by earthen ramparts and wooden palisades. Her bladder burned and her bowels felt loose as they passed the pillaring post where deserters stooped, locked by head and hands in wooden stocks, the remnants of rotting garbage in their hair and beards and at their feet.
Where I might end up, she thought.
One tent commanded the space of more than any other by its sheer size and towering center pole. By the colors and the banners hanging outside and the plethora of guards she knew it to be none other than the king’s own tent. Was she to be tried? If so, as whom? A nobody from Rivertown, or did they see through her disguise and recognize her as Avenger Red?
She felt a little relief when they turned away from the king’s tent to a row of smaller ones behind. These were still stately with ample guards standing by, servants milling about, and house colors flapping in the breeze. Nobles, she thought, and officers. Who else could command five men to go search for a horse?
They finally came to a stop next to a tent that was out of place among the grander ones. This one was smaller, plain, not unlike that of a regular soldier’s or sergeant’s outside in the camp proper. The colors were distinct as well, for they were green and white, a seal depicting a copper colored dragon running rampant on a background of green fields and blue sky.
The colors of Karrith.
The sergeant dismounted and stepped around a smoking fire pit and asked for admittance. A low voice replied from within, too muffled for Gail to understand. But the sergeant snapped back the tent flap, shooting her a glare that turned her blood to ice. The cut on his cheek was still wet and weeping. Inside, a quick conversation followed. Gail caught bits and pieces before a long silence. She pictured a fat noble nodding his head—double chins wagging—wearing shining armor—never used—and boots polished by another’s hand. Next, a vision of herself in the wooden stocks at the pillory posts came to mind. The ropes were chafing around her, her chest throbbing from where the hammer had struck her. How had things gone so wrong?
The sergeant slapped the flap aside and reemerged, followed by the Karrithian officer whose horse she had recovered—stolen as she imagined the story had been told. He was not what she expected. A mature man who had seen over thirty summers by the creases on his face and strands of silver in his sandy hair. He was freshly shaven, his boots indeed polished, but his half plate armor was dusty and dented, having seen its share of combat. His sword was sheathed but by the worn handle she could see it had been wielded often; the crossguard by contrast was of the finest make, intricately carved with flourishes, yet empty of the ridiculous jewels one often saw on the swords of nobles.
His eyes were piercing, but not without a softness in them. This surprised her as much did the faint smile lines bracketing his mouth, smile lines that deepened when he looked upon her.
“So this is the miscreant,” he said in a lilting Karrithian accent.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, the blood still unwiped from the side of his face, left as an indictment against her.
The Karrithian nodded, strolling up around the fire pit to take his stallion’s bridle and caress his nose. “Barnaby got a whiff of the mares in the hills, I imagine,” he said, speaking more to the animal than the men. As if to bring his attention back to the matter at hand, the sergeant cleaned his throat. “What shall we do with the boy, sir? The king’s justice—”
“Is only as good as his mercy, Sergeant Cullen,” the Karrithian interrupted. “You said he volunteered for duty?”
Gail met his eyes, wondering if she should answer herself, but the sergeant—Cullen—was quick.
“He did, but by his size I discounted that.”
“He has weapons though, perhaps he stole them,” one of the men added, his eye swollen from where she had kicked him when they were tying her up.
“Not stolen, freely given,” Gail said.
The Karrithian nodded, assessing her then the soldiers, “And by the looks of the five of you, this boy knows how to use his weapons. There is some fight in him.”
Sergeant Cullen mumbled something about underestimating the situation, while the other soldiers failed to make eye contact.
“My own squire is sick with the flux. I intend to send him home to convalesce. He won’t like it much, but we can’t have the sickness spreading throughout the camp, lest disease defeat us before we even reach the battlefield in Karrith. Untie him, return his weapons. We’ll see if he can serve as well as he boasts.”
The skin tightened around Sergeant Cullen’s eyes, his chin disappearing into his neck. “Sir, are you sure? He attacked us.”
“So he’s brave. We need that.”
“My wound?”
“Make up a good story. The tavern wenches will love you for it.”
The other soldiers could not help but smile and snort. “True that,” one said.
The sergeant’s nostrils flared as he reached up, yanked at the knots holding Gail, and freed her wrists.
“You are as wise as you are gracious, my lord,” she managed to say.
“Don’t get comfortable,” the Karrithian said. “You will work for three. These men were doing a service for me and you assaulted them. You owe me a debt and them an apology.”
The sergeant’s chest inflated and he stood a little taller. She could have spat in his face but she decided it best to restrain herself. “My deepest apologies and regrets for my impetuousness.”
Now it was the sergeant who did spit on the ground. She noted with some satisfaction that it was pink with blood. “Another warrior on the side of the kingdom is welcome, I reckon.” He gave a short bow to the captain and started for his own horse.
“Now get off my damn horse and into my tent. My breakfast needs making and my armor will not polish itself,” the Karrithian said, his eyes hard and flinty. She slid off the stallion while her new lord received her belongings from the other soldiers.
“If you need someone to put him through the paces, we’ll be more than obliged,” Sergeant Cullen said turning from his horse.
“I’ll remember that, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Karrithian narrowed his eyes on the bow, the knives, and the swords, but his expression turned to a scowl when he noticed Gail standing still, rubbing her chest.
“Didn’t you hear me? Inside.”
She ducked under the flap of the tent into the dark interior, the soldiers’ laughter following her. She felt the muscles in her jaw flex and her hands made a popping noise as she made them into fists. The room was sparse, a cot covered in furs, a shield standing in the corner with a target-like design on it. To her surprise, she noted a small book laying open on the furs and another—also opened—on the camp table in the center of the room. This was the tent for an officer who held meetings: four chairs were set around the table. She wondered if the king himself had sat in one. She felt lightheaded at the thought of being so close to royalty, to authority. But whether she saw the king or even lived to see another day would be up to this mysterious officer.
The horses trotted away and he strode into the tent, tossing her weapons down on the table, and collapsing into the canvas seat of one of the camp chairs.
“Take a seat,” he said, his features now made stark by the faint light coming in from the small opening at the center pole. “You are well equipped. Pardon the bluster outside, a show for the men. Please, sit down.”
The chair creaked beneath her, her weapons within her reach, but she was unsure whether or not she was welcome to take them back. As if reading her mind, the Karrithian nodded. “Take them. They are yours. Do you have a name?”
“Alex,” she said, surprised that a false one came to mind so quickly. “Alex Redbrook.”
“Well Alex, I am Darid Causland, Ranger Knight in the court of King Oean and Queen Amberlyn.”
“I am in your debt and your service.”
“I am in yours. You returned Barnaby to me. He’s a valuable steed when he is not trying to sire colts. Callum told me you rode him bareback before you gave the fight to five of the king’s own soldiers.”
“I would not say it was a close contest,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Still, brave and impressive, especially for a girl.”