Skeleton Company

Chapter 3

Hunter watched ash swirl with flurries of snow, then drift down to the flagstones of Northport’s main wharf. The ash came from a row of burnt-out warehouses. Ash and snow settled on dark crimson splotches of blood that stained the wharf all around him. Hunter scraped the toe of his boot across one of the stains and found the blood was dry, but the violence hadn’t been too long ago. The stench of fire and sudden death still clung to the place.

He scanned the wharf, counting a score or more of the bloodstains. Down the quay, a g**g of stevedores hustled sacks of grain out of a warehouse and onto a barge. A squad of leery crossbowmen in faded blue coats and trousers kept close watch over the grain and the wharf.

Hunter shouldered his pack and strolled toward the soldiers. One of them took a few steps towards him. The man had a blanket draped around his shoulders like a poncho, so Hunter couldn’t see if he had an officer’s piping on his jacket, but he seemed to be in charge.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” he guessed the man’s rank. The soldier stopped half a dozen paces away. He had a month’s growth of beard and his ochre hair cut short and rough with a knife instead of shears. Besides a threadbare uniform and the blanket, his boots were nearly worn through at the toe. But his crossbow was kept up, his sword belt was solid, and the hilt of the sword he wore on his right hip looked polished by frequent handling. Hunter nodded approvingly.

The man gave Hunter a good look up and down, and then he nodded too. “Afternoon, traveler. Have to ask you to stay back from the warehouses.”

“I just got off a boat,” Hunter said. “I’ve got no intention of making trouble.”

“Saw you. You and the little green fellow. He went straight for the tavern. Thirsty voyage, huh?”

Hunter nodded. “We sailed up from the south. Orzan province. Had a hell of a storm. Blew us so far east, only Quam knows how we made it back. Lost six weeks. Sailors ran out of grog. My friend’s making up for lost time. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here. It doesn’t look good.” He glanced meaningfully at a nearby bloodstain, then looked back at the sergeant with a raised eyebrow.

“I seen you scouting the wharf,” the sergeant replied. “Looks like you’ve scouted before, and seen blood stains before, too.”

“I wore the blue in my time. For twenty years.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow of his own. “Quamdamn. I been in seven years and I thought that was a long time. I bet you outrank me, huh?”

Hunter shook his head. “Maybe once, friend, but not anymore. I’m done with all that. But…I’m still curious. I’ve been out of the Kistrill Valley for a long time. What’s going on? We heard down south that the Emperor was dying.”

The sergeant grimaced. “How far south were you? Orzan, you say? Well, you’re in for a hell of a shock, traveler. Emperor Willard is dead. Crown Prince Willmun’s dead too. Lord Krodon declared himself emperor, but he won’t or can’t produce Kingmaker. Can you believe that? Kingmaker is missing.”

KingmakerHunter gave a low whistle, pretending to be surprised. “Kingmaker is missing? Quam save us. So…what about here in Northport?”

Kingmaker The soldier pulled a sour face. “It’s a turd parade. Lowking Cordice rules here…for now. He thought he could go it alone and pulled out of the Empire. We,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his companions, “were stupid enough to believe him. Well, at least we believed he’d pay good coin. We were wrong about that too. His coins are more lead than silver. And then…this.” He waved his hand at the burnt warehouses and the bloodstains.

“Food riots?” Hunter guessed.

The sergeant nodded. “Cordice thought he could hoard grain and force the neighboring lowkings to bow to him. They’re invading instead. Meanwhile the people are hungry, and scared, and mad as hell. Two nights ago things boiled over.” He waved at the flagstones again. “I’m glad I was on garrison duty and not down here shooting townsfolk.”

“Well, if you get tired of this, get on a boat to Orzan. The new governor down there is taking on veteran soldiers. Particularly the kind who keep their bows in good order but don’t like shooting townsfolk.”

“Appreciate the word, traveler, but I’m no deserter. I enlisted for six months, so I’ll be here awhile, yet. You better keep moving though…unless you want a share of Cordice’s coin too?”

“No,” Hunter laughed. “I said I’m done with all that, and I mean it. I’ve got a daughter to fetch and a woman to go home to.” He gave a little wave and turned to go find Chekwe.

“Good for you,” the sergeant called after him. “Just be careful in the taverns. They’re crawling with Schoolers…”

“What?” Hunter stopped short and turned back.

“Schoolers. Swordsmen from the School of Harmonious Blades and—”

“There’s Schoolers here?” Hunter snapped.

“You know ‘em? Then you know if your friend gets rowdy in there, he could get hurt….”

Hunter started running down the wharf. “It’s not my friend I’m worried about,” he yelled over his shoulder. “If you don’t want more blood on the streets you’d better follow along.”

Hunter raced across the flagstones towards a row of taverns and flophouses. Each place had a sign hanging out front, most with garish or lewd depictions of the food and drink and women that were available inside. He wasn’t sure which one Chekwe had gone into, but he guessed the one with only drink on its sign. It was the cheapest looking place in the row, and Chekwe was looking for booze, not food or flesh.

Hunter didn’t have to reach the door to find out he was right. The door banged open, and a troop of young men came swaggering out. They were dressed alike, with tall black riding boots with trousers stuffed into the tops, leather dueling vests over long-sleeved crimson tunics, fur-lined capes, and black caps worn at outrageously jaunty angles. They all wore slightly curved swords on their left hips, the scabbards hanging from wide silk sashes. Six of them had bright yellow sashes. The seventh had a black sash and a black plume in his cap.

Chekwe stumped out the door after the swordsmen, his pack in his left hand and a drinking horn in the right. His scarred green face was set in a dark scowl, but Hunter took one look at his friend’s silver eyes and saw a glint of glee. Bloodthirsty glee.

Quam help us, Hunter prayed as he hustled to Chekwe’s side. The swordsmen were fanning out in a skirmish line to face Chekwe, and a noisy crowd of afternoon drinkers were piling out of the tavern to watch the fun.

Quam help us,“Gentlemen!” Hunter cried, skidding to a stop. The swordsmen looked at him. They all sported wispy mustaches and patches of peach fuzz under their bottom lips. The one with the black sash was a bit older than the others, with carefully trimmed sideburns and a razor-thin scar at the top of his right cheekbone.

“Step back, stranger, this isn’t your business,” Black-sash snarled. He was trying to deepen his voice for ominous effect, and Chekwe giggled.

“I have offended the School of Harmonious Blades,” Chekwe warbled.

“You’re drunk, Chekwe,” Hunter muttered. “Let me talk them down. They’re barely boys.”

“They’re rakehells,” Chekwe announced to the crowd. “Fops. Fools. They need a lesson.”

“You can’t kill people just because they’re fops,” Hunter warned.

“What are you muttering about, stranger?” Black-sash barked. “Who are you? What are you doing in Northport?”

Hunter shot a glare at the youth, then tried to wipe the anger off his own face. He made patting gestures in the air.

“We are simple travelers. We’re traveling north, to my ancestral home. We’ll be on our way…”

“Not until the ugly little greenie apologizes and buys us a round of drinks,” Black-sash interrupted.

“What’s this all about, anyway?” Hunter asked Chekwe.

“They were bragging about driving a band of Refugees out of town. Kicked down some old men and made sport with the girls.”

“Oh,” Hunter said. He pointed a finger at Black-sash. “Is that right? Did you beat up old men and take advantage of young women?”

“They’re a bunch of Quamcursed heretics,” one of the yellow-sashed youngsters shouted, and the crowd murmured in agreement.

“They put a hex on the city,” Black-sash leered. “The girls are witches, but they’re pretty, too. We were just having fun, but you know how cowardly they are. They ran off before we really got started with them.”

“Then Quam protect you,” Hunter said, “because I’m done trying.” He unslung his pack and set it on the ground. “Go ahead, Chekwe.”

“A wager,” Chekwe sang. “Double or nothing. Double or nothing is always fun, don’t you think? You up for a wager? Here it is. You, with the black girdle. You and me fight to first blood. When I win, you and your dog-faced friends leave your purses with me as you leave town. If you win…well, that won’t happen. Well, Quam’s buttocks, that’s not much of a wager, is it?”

Black-sash’s grin turned feral. “You’re as stupid as you are ugly, greenie,” he barked. “I’m Submaster Tavin. You think you can beat a submaster? I’ll cut you six ways before you can get a sword out of your pack.”

“Tavin? I beat one of you Schoolers once, Tavin.” Chekwe laughed, setting his pack down beside him. He straightened and took a drink from his drinking horn. “He had a pretty purple sash. Is that a good color?”

“You lie. Purple is for pastmasters. No one beats a pastmaster, except another pastmaster. That’s how you get to be a pastmaster.”

“That’s Quamdamn funny,” Chekwe said. “I never seen a member of your School on the battlefield. Too busy practicing your poses to do any real fighting. How’s your ‘gliding swan’ and ‘raging ram rush’, Submaster Tavin?”

Tavin’s eyes narrowed. “You know the name of some of our poses, it seems. What are you, a failed acolyte?”

“I’d lick Quam’s muddy toes before I used your poses,” Chekwe laughed. “Your pastmaster came at me with ‘adder eye’, but I defeated him with ‘prancing pony passes a poop’.”

“You…what?”

what?Chekwe bent over his pack and undid the toggles that kept it closed, fumbling since he hadn’t put down his drinking horn. He finally got the pack open, pulled out a fluffy black kitten, and set it on the ground. The kitten let out a pitiable yowl.

“Meet Quarla,” Chekwe announced. “Quarla the kitten. Go on, Quarla, say hello to the nice submaster.”

The seven swordsmen of the School of Harmonious Blades and the afternoon crowd from the tavern gawked as Quarla took a few staggering steps off to her left, listing like a rudderless cog in a storm. She righted herself then, approached Tavin, and stopped to sniff his boot.

The whole crowd took a half step forward to watch. Tavin bent and reached towards Quarla’s fluffy fur. His reach was hardly more than a flinch and he caught himself almost right away, but almost was half a heartbeat too late.

Chekwe was already moving. He took two long steps and turned the third step into a driving kick. His booted foot connected squarely with Tavin’s groin.

Tavin squealed and he began to buckle at the waist in agony, but Chekwe ducked low and brought the crown of his head up into the submaster’s face. There was a crunch of breaking cartilage. Tavin’s knees buckled, Chekwe punched him in the throat with his left fist, and the youngster toppled over backwards. The back of his head thunked on the wharf’s paving stones and he lay still, breathing raggedly while blood gushed from his nose.

thunkedHunter hadn’t watched a thing. He took the opportunity of Chekwe’s burst of violence to swiftly undo his own pack and whip out a sword in his right hand and one-handed war ax in the other. He straightened in time to see Chekwe drain his drinking horn and toss it away, then stoop and pull Tavin’s sword from its sheath. Chekwe examined the blade thoughtfully, took a cut through the air with it, then stepped back next to Hunter.

“Remember, lads, ‘Cuddly kitten’ beats ‘pretentious dandy’ every Quamdamn time,” Chekwe chortled.

The swordsmen looked from Chekwe to their fallen leader and back again. They all had their hands on their sword hilts, and they dearly wanted to draw those blades. Hunter spoke up first.

“Chekwe made a wager. First blood. Looks like he won. You really don’t want to see what he can do when he’s actually armed, do you? Now turn your submaster on his side so he doesn’t drown in his own blood, and then get him the hell out of here.”

One of the swordsmen looked like he was about to speak when a call rang down the wharves.

“Ho! You there! No blades!”

Hunter turned and looked. The sergeant and his squad of soldiers jogged towards them, crossbows drawn and quarrels in their grooves.

“No blades!” The sergeant ordered again.

Chekwe looked up at Hunter. Hunter nodded to him. Chekwe rammed the sub-master’s sword into a c***k in the paving and gave the flat of the blade a sharp kick. The blade snapped with a clatter and Chekwe tossed the hilt and its six-inch stump of steel after his drinking horn. Hunter slowly tucked his sword and ax back into his pack.

One of the Schoolers pointed at Chekwe and piped, “He attacked our submaster!”

“Clear out, all of you!” the sergeant barked.

“But they started—”

“Out! Get back to your camp or we’ll shoot you full of holes. I’m arresting these two, so quit your whining.”

“Our master will demand justice,” the Schooler threatened, but he and his mates began to back away.

“Take your man and go,” the sergeant insisted, and they hoisted their fallen submaster and hauled him off. The crowd of gawkers looked at the crossbows and beat a retreat to the comfort of the tavern. The sergeant turned to Hunter.

“I’m not going to arrest you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you to the edge of town and banish you. I hate to throw out a couple of men who wore the blue, but I’ve got to do something. That kid was right, their master will be at the barracks gate first thing in the morning, howling for blood. Personally, I’m glad to see someone punch in one of their faces, but we can’t afford a battle in the streets right now. You understand?”

“Completely,” Hunter said. “Go ahead and escort us out.”

The sergeant stepped to Hunter and murmured, “People are watching. Too many of them prefer the Schoolers to King Cordice, and they’ll report to their master. I’ve got to make a show of it.” He put his hands on Hunter’s chest and gave him a good heave backward and shouted, “I said you’re under arrest, Quamdammit! Now move!”

Hunter hung his head in feigned defeat and scooped up his pack. Chekwe popped Quarla under his jacket and followed along, playacting with Hunter. They marched away down the wharf with six crossbows trained on their backs.

“Right turn,” the sergeant said behind them when they reached the burned warehouse. They swung up the street, a narrow, cobbled way that threaded between tight-packed rows of three-story buildings. Most had a lower story of stone and upper stories of timber, wattle, and daub. Many had signs that indicated a shop or business, a bakery or inn or shoemaker or tailor. Only a few, perhaps one of four, had light showing through windowpanes or shutters. The winter’s afternoon was giving way to dusk, and the shadows of the buildings were gathering to wrap the street in heavy gloom. Alleys and side streets intersected the main street at irregular intervals. Some were cobbled and some merely dirt, but all of them were utterly deserted.

The sergeant spoke again in a low voice. “You can relax. But keep your heads down and eyes straight ahead. People are watching. We want you to look like you’re good and arrested.”

The sergeant hustled them along, but by the time they reached the outskirts of Northport it was nearly dark, and the flurries were gathering into a good hard snow. He pulled up where the town finally gave way to some broad cornfields – harvested of course, and now nothing more than rough stubble – with timber lots on the far side. The road ran away north into the darkness.

“Sorry again,” the sergeant said. “Wish I could let you stay for a night in an inn, but…”

“We understand,” Hunter said. “It’s not a problem. We’ll find a haystack to sleep in.”

“Good luck. Cordice has hauled as much hay into the city as possible. The rest, at least for ten miles around, he torched. To deny it to his enemies. Speaking of which, by midday tomorrow you might start seeing enemy patrols. They’re no worse than us, but no better either. I don’t know how they’ll treat you. They may let you pass on through. They may conscript you. Hell, they may shoot you. So keep a sharp eye out.”

“Appreciate the word,” Hunter said. He looked the man in the eye, then around at his soldiers, nodding at each of them. They nodded back. Then the sergeant turned on his heel and led his squad back into Northport.

Hunter and Chekwe walked away from town. The clouds blotted out moon and stars, but the road was well paved and had good ditches making it easy to follow even as snow began to stick to the surface. After half a mile they came to a cottage with a couple of outbuildings. No light showed at the windows, but a couple of dogs kept up a vicious barking from inside. They went on. The snow fell heavier still, so that between the wet flakes and the darkness they couldn’t see further than the ditches. They passed several lanes, but the farms were too far off the road to see, and Hunter didn’t want to take a chance coming up on a nervous farmer with a twitchy finger on a crossbow. They went on. It was hard to gauge distance in the dark, but five miles or so later Chekwe spoke up.

“Hell of a welcome home. Quamdamned snow the very first day. No inn, no haystack. I didn’t even get enough ale. But at least you should be happy.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Food riots, blood in the streets, war, chaos, that sort of thing.”

“Why would food riots make me happy?”

“The empire is falling apart,” Chekwe observed, turning to look up and Hunter in the dark. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No!” Hunter protested.

“Then why the hell did we steal Kingmaker?”

Hunter sighed. “To topple Willard’s dynasty. To stop the Orgooth war.”

“You didn’t think the empire would fall apart if Willard’s dynasty failed?”

“I knew it might. But it’s not my fault. I always said we were giving the lowkings a choice about what to do when Willard was dead. I always said they might choose peace just as easily as they choose war.”

“Kings might choose peace as easily as they choose war? Are you mad?”

Hunter ground his teeth for a moment. “You never objected when we made the plans,” he growled.

“Why would I object? When did I ever care about your empire? Also,” Chekwe giggled, “It sounded like fun. And it was fun!”

“Well, if we end up walking all night, we’ll get to my father’s manor all the sooner. We’ll get Marna, get back to Orzan, and be with Dahlia.”

“Quam’s buttocks, is that woman all you think about? Hell, you should have kept those moonstones. Would have kept you feeling nice and close to her.”

“Heh,” Hunter grunted. He did wish he and Dahlia had each kept an enchanted moonstone. The little gems had given him a warm, delicious sense of her presence. He wished he had that now. He had turned all the moonstones over to Tennea, his sister, when he gave her Kingmaker. It had seemed right at the time, but now, missing Dahlia in the cold and the dark, he could curse himself for giving up the precious link.

They walked on, teeth chattering and toes turning to ice, hands tucked into their armpits for warmth. Every so often Chekwe cursed the snow or muttered about rum, but otherwise the world was still and silent. Eventually even Chekwe shut up and the only sound was the rumbling of their bellies. They plodded on, miles more, until a stand of fir trees loomed in the darkness.

“There,” Hunter muttered. “We’ll sleep under a tree. A bed would have been nice, but we’ve slept under firs plenty of other times.”

There was dry ground under the trees, and a deep bed of soft pine needles. They rummaged blankets out of their packs and huddled up, back-to-back. Hunter felt a very slight motion beside him – Chekwe petting Quarla in the dark. Twenty heartbeats later he heard the kitten’s soothing purr. Hunter closed his eyes, sleep crashing on him like a breaking wave.

Then, suddenly, Chekwe’s voice jolted him awake.

“What if Marna doesn’t want to go home with you? And what if Dahlia finds someone else while you’re gone? Hell, it didn’t take her more than a week to fall in love with you, why wouldn’t she fall right back out?”

Hunter’s eyes went wide, and his heart raced at a gallop. Quam, he prayed. You won’t let that happen. Would you? He shifted and squirmed. The pine needle bed didn’t seem so comfortable anymore. The wave of sleep was gone. Quarla was still purring and Chekwe was breathing the deep, even breath of sleep, but Hunter was very much awake.

Quam, You won’t let that happen. Would you?