“Most died,” the corporal told Selfer after his arm was bandaged and while he was eating, he said, the first hot meal in two tendays. “There was fever, right enough, all through the city, but Commander Sobanai, he didn’t let us drink the well water wi’out boilin’ it, didn’t trust it. But then assassins killed him and his son and his captains—all in one night, that was, and before we knew what was what, cohorts of the Duke of Immer was all over us. We fought hard, but—there was too many.”
“Are there any of you besides these?” Selfer asked.
“Was some still in Rotengre when we marched out. Doubt they’re still alive. I’m surprised I am.” He took a swallow of sib, then grimaced. “We got nobody to ransom us, Captain Selfer. But I beg you, sir, don’t turn the lads over to the Debtor’s Court. I know we owe you for rescue and our keep, but—”
“You owe nothing,” Selfer said. “You were in Siniava’s War, just like me—I’m not going to mistreat a comrade, and that includes you. All of you.”
The man’s eyes glittered; he sniffed back tears. “Thank you, sir. But you can’t—”
“Duke Arcolin left me in charge. I can. Come now—I see the washpots are steaming. Let’s get you lot cleaned up and some clothes on and then some rest. We’ve a long march back to the city, though we’ll take it as slow as we can.”
Early the next morning, Selfer sent a mounted courier to Foss to request assistance and supplies for the Sobanai survivors. Fox Company had not brought more provisions than they needed for their own march. Despite their best efforts, it was a day and a half before they met the Foss Council militia, who had brought wagons as far as they could and then come on with loaded pack animals. Everyone was hungry, and the Sobanai men were exhausted despite everything the others could do to help them.
“They skirted Sorellin and Pler Vonja,” Selfer told the militia captain. “There’s an old drover’s track along the foothills out of Pler Vonja … that’s where they started cutting the new road, but they were headed straight west, not so far north as that track. There are—or were—more Sobanai prisoners in Rotengre, and if they send another group to work on the road, be ready for a dozen or more well-armed nasty characters with them.”
“What about your prisoner?”
Selfer glanced at the man, now wearing the same shackles the Sobanai men had worn and burdened with a pack from one of the mules so that an injured man could ride.
“He’s in your jurisdiction,” Selfer said. “I doubt he can tell you more than the Sobanai had told me, but he’s yours.”
“I doubt they’ll waste time on him,” the militia captain said. “But he can carry that load a ways.”
Once they reached the wagon the Foss militia had left—another day and a half—Selfer put the Sobanai survivors in the wagon, loaded pack animals with the supplies, and headed back to Foss and then Valdaire. He had been gone days longer than planned; he knew those left behind would be worried.
They were. Fox Company’s courier had ridden out to see where the company was and met them between Foss and Valdaire.
“The pass wasn’t open, after all. Clear enough on this side, but the gnomes say it’s closed on their side and will be at least another three hands of days. They’ll send a messenger down to Valdaire, they say, to prevent what they call too much traffic on mud.”
Selfer nodded. On the north side of the pass, the road ran across gnome territory; humans could use it only with gnomish permission. “We ran into—not exactly trouble—but what could be. Clandestine road from Pler Vonja west, up in the foothills … and the survivors of Sobanai Company, who were prisoner labor on it. Foss Council is not happy.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Go back to Valdaire, set up a separate area for the Sobanai—”
“You didn’t take them prisoner—”
“No, they’re under our protection. Mercenary Code, remember? Immer’s agents in Valdaire will want them dead. Send out one of our wagons; tell any who ask we have some injured soldiers.”
Chapter Three
Duke’s Stronghold, North Marches, Tsaia
The half-Evener storms arrived early, piling snowdrifts as high as the north wall of the stronghold and giving recruits plenty of exercise keeping pathways open from barracks to mess to stables and the main gate. The half-Evener itself dawned clear, the wind no more than an icy whisper across the expanse of white outside the walls.
Jandelir, Duke Arcolin looked out the window. Below, one of the cook’s assistants hammered on the thick ice of the inner court’s well with an iron bar. When the ice finally shattered, the water looked black against the white. Smoke rose from the mess hall chimney. Arcolin raked at the coals in the bedroom fireplace and put on more wood. Behind him, Calla stirred in the bed, then yawned.