Себастьян Кастелл - Traitor's Blade

Trin gave him a suspicious look, probably thinking that he might be making fun of her, but Brasti smiled reassuringly. ‘My dear, truth be told, it’s a story that’s legendary in the telling, and these two louts have heard it before. Perhaps tomorrow night I might tell you the story in a more private setting?’

Trin blushed, Brasti grinned, and later that night Kest and I threatened to beat him senseless if he tried to bed the girl while we were with the caravan.

The next day we set out again on the ancient road that caravaners call ‘The Spear’ because it runs the north-south trade route in a fairly straight line. Having a long, straight thoroughfare was a good idea in principle, since you could make good time between trading destinations from Cheveran and Baern in the south all the way to Orison in the north, passing close enough to spit at other major cities like Hellan and even – though Saints keep me from it – Rijou. But if having a long, straight road was good for caravans, for brigands it was like sucking at the tit of Saint Laina. Since we had no King now, we had no proper military presence to protect the trade routes, and no foresters to keep trees and brush from turning both sides of the road into perfect hiding places for anyone with a sword and a hungry belly, planning on turning to banditry. The Dukes had no interest in maintaining the roads since the Lords Caravaner refused to pay tariffs, while the caravans themselves were usually in competition so no one wanted to pay for the bread that someone else would eat. So the clearings gradually began to grow over and the bandits laid ambushes at their leisure. Things got worse if you tried to run for it, as you were stuck in a long, straight tunnel, perfect for men on horseback to out-pace the nags pulling your heavy wagons. All in all, it was a good time to be a brigand.

We were attacked twice in that first week. The first time, we nearly lost a man because the others wouldn’t stand formation with Kest, Brasti and me. Fortunately, the brigands’ charge lasted only a few minutes and the three of us took them out with no serious damage to our own party. The wound I had taken in town had settled down a bit and I could move reasonably well, so long as I was willing to pay the price later when it ached like the devil at night.

After that fight, the caravan captain threatened the other guards with the lash and they quickly learned their lesson. When the second attack came, we were ready. Eight men on foot, four with crossbows, tried to ambush us. But Feltock had the wagons circle quickly while we rushed the brigands and Brasti took out the crossbows one at a time. A crossbow is a good weapon if it’s loaded and your opponent isn’t too far away, but a good bow can outdistance and outshoot a crossbow two-to-one – and, as I might have mentioned earlier, Brasti never missed.

Eventually the rest of the brigands realised they were likely going to get picked off one by one, so they charged us. I fought side by side with Kest and Blondie – who had a name, but it turned out everyone really did call him ‘Blondie’, so I did too. He was solid with the war-sword once you got him away from Kurg, the black-haired man with the long beard. The two had fought together for years and they had fallen into bad habits.

It didn’t take long for us to chase off the bandits, but Feltock still wasn’t happy with the crew’s performance and he decided it was our job to train the men, ready for any more attacks we might encounter.

‘I’m not paying you to just sit on your horses,’ he said. ‘If you’re supposed to be such great warriors, then let’s see some proof of it.’

‘We did beat back two groups of brigands already,’ I pointed out.

‘Piss-poor peasants with bad weapons and no discipline – barely covers your supper, if you ask me.’

‘We could beat up your men some more,’ Brasti offered helpfully.

‘Just you go and try it, tatter-cloak,’ Kurg shouted. Kurg – Black-beard – still hadn’t quite found it in his heart to forgive me for the beating he’d taken at the caravan market.

‘Shut your mouth,’ Feltock shouted back. ‘You’ll do what you’re damned well told. You’re the last man should be bragging right about now. Got beat like a girl, you did!’

‘See,’ I said to Kest, ‘it’s not just me.’

Kest ignored me. ‘There’s a problem,’ he said.

I was about to ask what, but Brasti grabbed his longbow and slid off his horse. ‘I hear it, too,’ he said.

‘What?’ Feltock demanded. ‘What in all the hells are you talking about?’

I couldn’t hear it either, but I’d learned to trust Kest and especially Brasti about these things.

‘Men,’ Brasti said. ‘A dozen at least, and from the sounds of the horses, they’ve been riding hard.’

‘Arms up!’ Feltock shouted. ‘Circle the damned wagons around the carriage and guard the Lady!’

‘There’s no time,’ I said. I could hear the horses now; they’d be here before we could rearrange the caravan.

‘Bloody trees,’ Feltock said. ‘Can’t see far enough to watch for bandits, and the damned Caravan Council ain’t got no protection on the roads since—’ He realised what he was about to say and let it slide.

I didn’t. ‘Since the Dukes killed our King and the Greatcoats were banned from protecting the trade roads?’ I offered.

‘Falcio,’ Kest said, pulling his sword from its sheath as the first of the horses came into view. ‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked, just to annoy him. I drew my rapiers, but then I got a good look at the man in the lead. ‘Shit,’ I said.

Feltock and his two injured men had crossbows out, and the rest of the guards had their usual weapons. ‘What is it? Are there enough of them to take the caravan?’ the captain asked, blinking furiously as he tried to squint the hundred yards between us and them. His vision obviously wasn’t quite as good as it used to be – maybe that was why someone who had obviously been military was now reduced to guarding caravans.

‘I don’t think they’re after the caravan,’ Kest said.

‘Then what in all the hells are they after?’

The men dropped from their horses and came towards us in tight formation: thirteen men, with one in the lead.

‘Drop your weapons, Trattari, and kneel on the ground,’ the one in front ordered. He was the only one of the group wearing armour – proper armour, mind you, not the kind of patchwork greaves and mismatched plates you might find on a jumped-up sergeant. This man was a Ducal Knight, probably a Knight-captain.

Now, you might be wondering what the differences are between a Knight and a Greatcoat, since we both apparently have at least some connection to the law and fighting. Well, there’s the obvious part: they wear armour, and we wear our coats. They’re suited for war, and we’re suited for duels. Then there’s the fact that they swear their oaths to a Duke or Duchess, while we swear ours to the King’s Law – not the King himself, mind you. The Knights consider an oath to an idea to be no oath at all, and furthermore, the fact that we bow before no one in the course of our duty is, to them, an abomination. There are other differences, of course, but the most important one is that Knights are absolutely honourable and prize their honour above all things. Greatcoats, on the other hand, value justice, and tend to have a difficult time understanding how theft, rape and murder all suddenly become honourable pursuits just because a man you swore an oath to asks you to commit them.

But being a Knight meant that this man knew how to fight, knew how to lead and, given how much he was probably looking for any excuse to rid the world of us, was someone we’d do well to deal with diplomatically.