Exile’s Return

• CHAPTER FIVE •

Soldier

KASPAR WAITED SILENTLY.

He crouched behind some low brush while a patrol of cavalry rode by. He had encountered two other patrols over the last week since leaving Jojanna’s farm. Given what little he knew of these people, he had decided to avoid contact with them. Common soldiers had a decided tendency to use weapons before asking questions, and Kaspar had no desire to end up dead, a prisoner, or enlisted into any army at the point of a sword.

Leaving the farm had proved more troubling than he had expected. Jorgen seemed especially disturbed by the prospect of being alone with his mother again. On the other hand, the mule would help with all the heavy work, and Kelpita had a son who would come and work with them during harvest so Jojanna wouldn’t lose her grain.

Kaspar considered how they would have fared had he never arrived. They’d still be scrabbling to run the farm and wouldn’t have had enough wood or the mule.

Still, it had been harder to say goodbye than he had anticipated.

A couple of days before, he had skirted a village that appeared to be a staging post for the local patrols, and then had bartered a day’s work at a farm just off the road for a meal. The food had been meagre and they had only offered him water to drink, but he had been glad for it. Kaspar remembered the lavish meals that had been the hallmark of his court, but quickly pushed the memory aside. He’d happily kill someone for a cut of hot rare beef, a bowl of his cook’s spiced vegetables and a flagon of good Ravensberg wine.

Certain the riders were now gone, Kaspar returned to trudging along the road. What had been a broken old highway appeared to be in better condition the farther south he moved. There were signs of relatively recent repair-work at various places he had passed over the last two days.

As he rounded a bend in the road, he saw a large town in the distance. The land around him was getting progressively more verdant and abundant. Whatever else this Raj of Muboya had done, he had pacified the territory around his capital to the point at which farmers were prospering again; farms lined the road and orchards were visible up on the hillsides. Perhaps in time this more peaceful aspect would be visited upon the area where Jorgen and his mother lived. He would like to think the boy had a chance for a better life.

As he approached the gate of the town he saw signs of harsh justice. A dozen corpses in various stages of decay were on display, as well as half a dozen heads impaled on stakes. The men had been hung by ropes on crosses of wood, ‘crucified’ in the Quegan language. He had been told it was a nasty way to die; after a while the body could not prevent fluid from gathering in the lungs and a man would drown in his own spit.

At the gate a squad of soldiers waited, each dressed like those he had seen on horseback, save that they lacked the cloaks and fancy hats. These ones also wore metal helms with chain guards over their necks.

One sauntered over to intercept Kaspar. ‘Your business in Delga?’

‘Just passing through on my way south.’

‘You have an odd accent.’

‘I’m not from around here.’

‘Your trade?’

‘I’m a hunter now. I was a soldier.’

‘Or maybe you’re a bandit?’

Kaspar studied the man. He was thin and nervous and had a habit of looking down his nose when he spoke. He had a weak chin and his teeth were grey. Whatever his rank here, he would be a corporal at the most in Kaspar’s army. He knew the type: self-important, not bright enough to realize he had risen as high as he ever would. Without taking obvious offence, Kaspar smiled. ‘If I were a bandit, I’d be a damn poor one. All I’d have to show for my labours is this sword, the clothing on my back, these boots, and my wits.’ The soldier started to speak, but Kaspar cut him off and continued, ‘I’m an honest man, and am willing to work for my keep.’

‘Well, I don’t think the Raj has need of any mercenaries today.’

Kaspar smiled. ‘I said I was a soldier, not a mercenary.’

‘Where did you serve?’

‘Somewhere I’m sure you’ve never heard of.’

‘Well, get along and see you don’t cause any trouble. I’ve got my eye on you.’ He waved him on.

Kaspar nodded and walked though the gate. Delga was the first real town he had visited in this land and it had more hallmarks of civilization than Kaspar had encountered in any settlement so far. The inns near the gate were run-down and as seedy as Sagrin’s, which was to be expected. The better inns would probably be located near the merchants’ quarter, so he walked until he reached a market square, which at this hour of the afternoon was thronged with people. Delga had all the signs of being a prosperous community and the people seemed content in their daily tasks.

Kaspar had studied governance all his life, for he had been born to rule. He had seen enough fools, madmen, and incompetents to last a lifetime and had read about many others. He knew that the populace were the foundation of a strong nation and they could only be taxed to a certain point. Kaspar’s plottings and intrigues had been designed, in part, to minimize the need for overt military confrontation, which was always an expensive undertaking that put a great burden on the people.

Not that Kaspar had cared much for his people’s happiness, one way or the other – he hadn’t even considered the plight of commoners until he had met Jojanna and Jorgen – but he was concerned for the welfare of his nation in general, and that meant maintaining a contented populace.

Whatever else, the people of Delga didn’t look overburdened or worried. They showed none of the signs of being concerned about government informants or tax officials seeing too many luxury goods on display.

The market was a riot of colours and sounds, busy with afternoon trading. Occasionally he heard the sound of coins being counted out or a jingling purse, so he judged that hard money was returning under the Raj’s care.

At first glance, it seemed this ruler had the support of his people. Uniformed men, wearing a different livery, were strolling through the market, their eyes constantly searching for trouble. Kaspar guessed they were constables or the town watch.

He made eye contact with one; a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and neck. The man stopped, but Kaspar didn’t avert his gaze and walked over to him. The man wore a blue tunic, but instead of displaying the high boots of a cavalryman with his trousers tucked in the tops, he wore balloon-legged pants that almost hid the boots entirely. His sword was a shorter weapon, and he wore no helm, but rather a felt hat with a broad brim.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Kaspar in greeting.

‘Stranger,’ said the man curtly.

‘I take it you are a constable?’

‘You take it correctly.’

‘I was wondering, where might I go to find work around here?’

‘Your trade?’

‘I’m a skilled hunter and a soldier,’ Kaspar continued politely.

‘If you bring in game, you can sell it at the inns, but the Raj has no need for mercenaries.’

Feeling as if he had already had this conversation, Kaspar didn’t debate this point. ‘What about labouring?’

‘There’s always need for those able to heft a bale or lift a crate at the caravanserai.’ He pointed south. ‘Through the town and outside the gate. But you’re too late today. All the hiring is done at first light.’

Kaspar nodded his thanks and moved through the town. All at once, he was struck by a sense of the alien and the familiar. These people dressed differently and their accents and voices sounded strange to his ear. He had thought himself comfortable with the language, but now he realized he was only used to hearing Jojanna’s and Jorgen’s two voices. This was a town, a good sized one, on its way to becoming a city. He passed new construction work and saw men eager to be about their business, and found the pace and rhythms of the settlement familiar.

Reaching the outer gate, Kaspar found that the caravanserai was indeed quiet. As the constable had warned him, most of the business of the day was done. Still, it was still an opportunity to ask questions. He went from caravan to caravan and after a few conversations he had the feel of the place. He discovered that a caravan making for the south would be departing in a week’s time, and the caravan owner said he should return then to seek a position as a guard, but in the meantime he had nothing to offer Kaspar.

By the time the sun began to set, Kaspar was tired and hungry. There was nothing he could do about the latter, but he could at least find a place to sleep if he was quiet about it. This land was hot, despite it being early spring – if he could judge the seasons on the other side of the world. The nights could get chilly, but they were far from cold.

He found some workers sitting around a fire and speaking softly, and asked permission to join them. They seemed content to let him, so he settled in and lay behind two men who spoke of things he could only imagine: villages whose names he had never heard before, rivers that coursed through alien landscapes, and other things familiar to them, but foreign to Kaspar. For the first time since coming to this continent, Kaspar wished not only to wreak destruction on Talwin Hawkins and those who had betrayed him, but simply to go home.

The wagons bumped along the old highway. It was a rugged ride, but it was a ride. Kaspar was glad not to be walking. He had finished an arduous week of work, loading and unloading wagons for scant wages – scarcely enough to pay for food. He had lost even more weight; he had to buy a whipcord belt to keep his trousers from falling down.

He had supplemented his income by playing knucklebones with some of the other workers, but on the last day his luck had faltered and now he was barely more than a few copper coins ahead. But at least he was ahead, and every little improvement was an advantage. He had endured. Though it had been one difficult week for him, the other men had suffered a lifetime of difficulty. For Kaspar, the most telling characteristic was their complete lack of hope. For these workers, each day was an exercise in survival; tomorrow would take care of itself.

Kaspar felt a mixture of impatience and resignation. He was anxious to make as much progress as possible every day and to return home as rapidly as he could to settle accounts, but he knew the journey would take time, and that time was also dependent on many factors outside of his control.

His struggle across the harsh wilderness before he found Jorgen and his mother had been simple physical hardship, but the week he had spent labouring at the caravanserai had been as miserable a week as he had ever spent. It had exposed him to a level of human wretchedness which he’d never experienced before in his privileged life.

He had learnt that the War, as it was known locally, had taken place when Kaspar was just a boy. The Kingdom of the Isles had defeated the armies of the Emerald Queen at the battle of Nightmare Ridge, when Kaspar had been barely out of nappies. Yet the effects were still being felt decades later.

Many of the labourers were the children of people driven from their homes by the advancing horde. The enemy had enlisted every able-bodied man they found, giving them the choice at sword-point: to fight for them, or die. Women were taken as whores, cooks, and menial labourers, and even some young boys were forced to serve with the luggage carts.

Thousands of children had been orphaned, and there had been no one to care for them. The weak had died, and those who did survive grew up wild, without any sense of family outside their gang of thugs, or loyalty beyond a petty bandit chieftain.

Bringing order to such a place would tax the wits of the most talented of rulers, Kaspar thought. He knew that if he was given the task, he would begin much the same way this Raj of Muboya had: by consolidating a core area, making sure it was stable and prosperous, and then expanding the sphere of influence, turning the influence into control. The young Raj might do this for most of his life before facing any organized opposition to the north.

As Kaspar had lived with the porters and teamsters for a week, they answered his questions and he had learned a great deal about the local area. To the east lay the Serpent River and beyond that the wasteland controlled by the nomadic Jeshandi; it seemed they had no interest in what occurred on this side of the river. But across the Serpent they ruled supreme; even the Emerald Queen’s army had been sorely pressed on that flank by the Jeshandi. Kaspar had read reports of the war from his father’s archives when he was a boy and given the immense size of the Queen’s army, Kaspar assumed the Jeshandi had to be a formidable cavalry to have avoided obliteration.

To the west rose the Sumanu Mountains and beyond them vast grasslands that rolled down to the River Vedra and a string of petty city-states. That natural barrier protected the Raj from conflict to the west. To the south, other minor nobles and self-styled rulers held territory, but from the rumours, the Raj was already halfway to winning a happy little war with one of his neighbours in that direction.

But far to the south, on the coast of the Blue Sea, lay the City of the Serpent River, about which these locals knew little. Once, it had held sway from the sea all the way up to the Serpent Lake, and had been ruled by a council of clans indigenous to the area. More than that, Kaspar didn’t know. Still, that was where ships docked, some from as far away as the Sunset Isles, the southern Keshian cities, and sometimes even Queg and the Kingdom. Which meant a way home for Kaspar. So, that was where he was bound, war or no war.

The wagons continued to bump along and Kaspar kept his eyes scanning the horizon in case trouble appeared unexpectedly. He thought it was unlikely, as the farther south they travelled from Muboya, the more peaceful the countryside seemed. At least, until they ran into the rumoured war.

Kaspar sat at the rear of the wagon. The only thing he had to watch, besides the horizon, was the team of horses pulling the wagon behind his, and the dour expression of Kafa: a taciturn old driver with little good to say when he said anything at all.

The driver of his wagon was a voluble man named Ledanu, whom Kaspar tended to ignore, since his words tumbled out aimlessly as his mind wandered. Still, Kaspar had grown tired of the relative silence and judged he could endure a little of Ledanu’s rambling if he could glean a bit of useful information from among the flood of words.

‘Tell me, Ledanu, of this next city.’

‘Ah! Kaspar, my friend,’ said the little man, eager to impress his new wagon mate with his expertise. ‘Simarah is a most wonderful place. There are inns and brothels, baths and gambling houses. It is very civilized.’ Kaspar sat back and endured a torrent of details about the establishments that Ledanu found most convivial in each aforementioned category. Kaspar realized that any useful intelligence, such as the disposition of soldiers, the politics of the region, its relationship with neighbouring cities and such would be lacking. Still, it was useful to hear something about the place, as it would be Kaspar’s next home until he could conspire to find a way south again.

Kaspar leaned against the doorway, waiting to see if anyone would appear this morning requiring labourers. It was traditional for those seeking day-labour to meet before sunrise in a small market near Simarah’s north gate. Kaspar had found work every morning for the first week after arriving in Simarah, and the pay was better than it had been in Muboya.

There wasn’t a full-scale war underway as yet, but some sort of border skirmish was developing down south, between Muboya and the realm of someone calling himself the King of Sasbataba. Soldiers were being recruited, and because the pay was relatively good, most workers were taking up arms. So, Kaspar had been constantly employed. He had also rediscovered his gambling luck, and so had enough coin in his purse to feed himself for another week should work stop. He could also afford a room – little more than a cot under the stairs – at a local boarding house. He ate simple food and didn’t drink, so he actually ended each day with a little more wealth than he had at the start.

He had hoped for another caravan to pass through the town, heading south and that he could again find a position as a guard, but during the conflict with King Sasbataba, all supplies and goods heading south were under strict military escort. A sense of urgency was overtaking him as he waited to continue his journey home.

Three men approached the market and all the workers came to their feet expectantly. Kaspar had seen these three before over the last few days. The first two always hired about two dozen men between them, but the third had lingered for a while, looking closely at the men in the area, as if searching for some unseen quality, and had then departed alone.

The first man shouted, ‘I need three pickers! Experienced orchard men only!’

The second said, ‘I need strong backs! I’ve got cargo to load. Ten men!’

But the third man simply walked past those racing to present themselves to the first two men hiring, and approached Kaspar. ‘You there,’ he said, his words coloured by a strange accent. ‘I’ve seen you here for a few days.’ He pointed to the sword at Kaspar’s side. ‘Know how to use that thing?’

Kaspar smiled, and it wasn’t friendly. ‘If I didn’t, would I be standing here?’

‘I need a man who can use a sword as well as having other talents.’

‘What talents?’

‘Can you ride?’

Kaspar studied his would-be employer and realized this man was dangerous. Whatever he was about to suggest was probably illegal, and if so, Kaspar stood to make good money from doing it. He studied the man’s face for a moment and found little in it to recommend itself. He had a thin nose that made his dark eyes look too close together. His hair was oiled and combed flat against his head, and his teeth were yellow and uneven. His clothing was of a fine weave, if simply cut, and Kaspar noticed that his dagger had an ivory handle. But the most noticeable thing about the man was his expression, one of fatigue and worry. Whatever he needed done would undoubtedly be dangerous, and that might mean a healthy wage. After considering the question, Kaspar said, ‘As good as some, better than most.’

‘I can’t place your accent. Where are you from?’

‘A lot of places, most of them very far from here, but most recently up north, around Heslagnam and Mastaba.’

‘You’re not from the south?’

‘No.’

‘Any problem with having to fight?’

Kaspar was silent for a moment, as if considering his answer. He knew that if a horse was involved in the bargain, he was taking the job, no matter what the task; he didn’t plan on returning to Simarah in this lifetime. If he didn’t like the job, he’d steal the horse and ride south. ‘If the job is to fight, I’m no mercenary. But if you mean can I fight if I need to, yes, I can.’

‘If things go as planned, you only need to be able to ride, my friend.’ He motioned for Kaspar to follow him. As he walked away, he said, ‘My name is Flynn.’

Kaspar stopped in his tracks. ‘Kinnoch?’

Flynn spun around and spoke in the language of the Kingdom of the Isles. ‘Deep Taunton. You?’

‘I’m from Olasko.’

Flynn glanced about and in the King’s Tongue said, ‘Then we’re both far from home, Olaskon. But this may be the gods’ way of providing us both with what we need, because unless I’m sadly mistaken you didn’t just decide to come down here to this godforsaken side of the world out of choice. Follow me.’

The man named Flynn hurried along a series of streets in the seedier part of the merchants’ quarter, then turned down a long alley. Kaspar kept his face immobile and tried to maintain a calm demeanour, but his heart raced. Flynn had been the surname of one of his boyhood instructors; a man from a region known as Kinnoch, part of a nation long ago overrun by the Kingdom of the Isles. But the inhabitants had retained their strong cultural identity and still spoke a language used only among their community. Kaspar’s instructor had taught him a few phrases, to indulge a curious boy, but even that much would have been considered a betrayal by other clan members. The men of Kinnoch were redoubtable fighters, poets, liars and thieves; prone to drunkenness, sudden bursts of rage and deep sorrow, but if this man had found a way to this godforsaken side of the world, he might well have the means to return to civilization.