Kellanved's Reach

‘In your view,’ she answered; she was second in command, officer-trained, and saw it as her duty to test her commander’s views. ‘They think these forces beaten already. Why rush?’

He shrugged. ‘Gives the enemy time to organize.’

‘You don’t understand, Orjin. They don’t consider the Purge military a real threat.’

He regarded the south once more. ‘Well,’ he mused, ‘I’m not of Purge.’

‘That’s for sure. You’re from some rotten little fishing village, right?’

‘I wouldn’t even call it a village.’ He gestured her to her post. ‘Looks like a dusk attack. Get everyone ready.’

The Untan duellist saluted smartly, hand to chest. ‘Aye aye.’ Watching her go, Orjin wondered once again what might have taken her from Unta; clearly she missed the city, her friends and family. Her silences and obvious discomfort when talk among Orjin’s troop came to love interests – who was currently chasing or pining for whom – made him suspect that an unhappy romance was involved in her quitting the city.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a bad love affair had driven someone to run away and join the military, mercenary company or not.

As for himself, well, it was hard growing up in a hamlet you could throw a fish across. Especially for anyone with a dollop of wanderlust. It hadn’t taken him long to sail across to the mainland and dive into the only thing he was ever good at – fighting.

Jeral’s hill-folk were accurate in their estimate; soon after they disappeared the first of the Quon Talian mounted scouts appeared, investigating the valley. Orjin made no secret about his occupation of the Two-River Fort. His troops on the walls watched the Quon Talians ride by on their way further down-valley.

Next came the foremost elements of the force’s van: light cavalry followed by loose parties of skirmishers and light infantry.

The infantry surrounded the fort, just outside bowshot, and squatted down to wait. Orjin knew what they were waiting for – orders from higher up.

He saw the main force long before he heard it; three dark columns appeared high in the pass to come crawling down – the famed Talian medium and heavy infantry. Cavalry flanked the columns, kicking up clouds of thin snow that rose like banners in the winds.

Orjin’s worried gaze climbed to the bare rocky slopes overlooking the valley but saw no sign of anyone; nor was there any alarm or excursion from the invading force betraying detection of Jeral’s troops.

He did a quick calculation of numbers and came up with close to thirty thousand. His brows rose: damn, they meant it this time. Troops enough to quell and control Purge. This was no quick punitive excursion. It looked as though the Quon Talians were coming to stay.

No wonder it had taken four days to pull together.

Still – not the way he’d have done it.

While Orjin and his troops watched from the palisades, more and more Quon Talians settled in to surround them. As the medium infantry arrived, the lights quit to continue on down the valley.

All this took most of the day. And still not one bow had been shot in anger; the investiture was handled in a very professional manner. Eventually, very late in the afternoon, a mounted delegation of ten approached the closed front gates. Here Orjin met them on the wall, together with Terath and Arkady – the Wickan scowling ferociously, his hands tight on the antler grips of the curved long-knives sheathed across his chest.

Terath noticed Arkady’s fierce expression and murmured to him, ‘I see you have your war-face on.’

He answered from the side of his mouth, ‘There’s a damned lot of them.’

Once the ten were close enough, one of their number called out: ‘Hail, Fort Two-River!’

‘Hail, invaders,’ Orjin answered.

The spokesman was a lean older fellow, in a mail coat set with larger plates of iron at his chest and upper and lower arms. He undid the strap of his helmet and pushed it up his head until it sat high above his brow, then he started pulling at the fingers of his leather gloves. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ he called.

‘Someone who asks that you pack up your dog and pony act and go.’

That got a small smile. The fellow leaned forward from the cantle of his high saddle, gloves dangling in one hand. ‘Come, come. Don’t be coy. You are obviously no Purge or Nom officer. Who are you?’

‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’ Orjin called back.

The fellow nodded. ‘Fair enough. I am Commander Renquill of the Quon Talian Legion. And you?’

‘Orjin Samarr, in the queen of Purge’s service.’

The fellow ducked his head once more. ‘Ah. I have heard of you.’ He gestured about with his gloves, and, leaning forward even further, asked, ‘What in Burn’s mercy do you think you are doing here?’

‘I’m about to kick a lot of pissant Talians off Purge territory.’

Renquill peered about at his infantry circumvallating the fort. ‘I’m told you can’t have more than a few hundred in there,’ he called.

Orjin’s long grey hair blew about and he pulled a hand through it to drag it back. ‘More than enough to beat you arselickers.’