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Authors: David Andrews
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wounded.” She must demonstrate her value to the sergeant, the essential first step.
By the time the first company arrived, she was ready. A cauldron of tea simmered on one fire and thick slices of meat roasted on racks above another. One trestle table had slabs of hard bread and another, tumblers of watered wine. Her women had tidied themselves to be presentable and Helene stood clear of the rest, head up and hands clasped demurely in front of her.
* * * *
Beyorn, the Westlander, watched from shadows, smiling his satisfaction. The Federation had tasked him to set the sergeant on his path to amalgamating this fragmented planet into a cohesive whole, and he thought the advent of Helene a stroke of luck. Her presence would give the sergeant a semblance of legitimacy in the initial stages. Some prime idiot had sent the twelve fools, but he was glad they escaped, especially the redhead, because the setback brought the sergeant to this point of no return.
If he went after the redhead now, there’d be no turning back. The High Born fool in the Keep would want the smuggler’s loot returned immediately, and view any diversion as treason. Helene was the key. She’d manipulate the sergeant if she could, and it depended on whether she was ready for an open break. Her family was poor. They had everything to gain and little to lose.
Beyorn saw the sergeant.
He limped alongside a group of litter-born wounded, his right leg dark with dried blood from the hem of his chain mail coat down. He spoke to one man and raised a laugh from the others, by gesturing at the women waiting at the cave mouth and pretending to climb onto a litter.
Beyorn counted the wounded. Less than ten litters, the rest like the sergeant, marked, but not incapacitated. He estimated twenty dead by a rough count of the companies, all of them from the spearmen. It had been a tough engagement, with no survivors on the smugglers side.
* * * *
“Sergeant?”
Kamran turned. It was the servant girl, offering a beaker of wine and a platter of food. “Come sit and eat while I tend your wound.”
He glanced down at his leg. The wound was minor. The spear had glanced off the shield of the man on his right and slid into his leg without force. The smuggler had tried desperately to recover his thrust before the sergeant’s sword bit into the junction between shoulder and throat, to send him reeling back in a spray of blood.
“Attend the others,” he said, taking beaker and platter. “I need to select piquets and a guard commander.”
“He can do that.” The girl gestured at the Westlander. “He’s done nothing but watch over us.”
Kamran beckoned the Westlander. “I want piquets set in groups of three in a hundred yard ring around us. See they eat, and keep them alert through the night. We lost two corporals today. Do the job well and you’ll replace one of them.”
The man nodded and strode away.
Kamran turned back to the girl. “You’re no servant.”
She stood straight, chin up and eyes meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “I am Helene Geraint. Fleur d’Gracay betrayed me to the smugglers because she wanted me dead.”
“Why?”
“It clears an inheritance for her husband.”
“You were foolish to give her the opportunity.”
She shrugged. “I was distracted.”
“I can imagine.” He shook his head dismissively, knowing any comment was pointless. The High Born never learned. “Take one of the women as a servant and have her rig an enclosure at the rear of the cave. You may retire there until morning.”
“I have set my hand to a task. You will not interfere. Sit down and let me attend your wound.” Her tone had sharpened now that her position was established.
Kamran looked around. He’d been blind not to guess earlier. The women worked without discussion, organized by an imperious hand. No servant girl could have achieved this. He could hang Helene Geraint and earn Fleur d’Gracay’s gratitude or accept her help and commit himself.
By the time the first company arrived, she was ready. A cauldron of tea simmered on one fire and thick slices of meat roasted on racks above another. One trestle table had slabs of hard bread and another, tumblers of watered wine. Her women had tidied themselves to be presentable and Helene stood clear of the rest, head up and hands clasped demurely in front of her.
* * * *
Beyorn, the Westlander, watched from shadows, smiling his satisfaction. The Federation had tasked him to set the sergeant on his path to amalgamating this fragmented planet into a cohesive whole, and he thought the advent of Helene a stroke of luck. Her presence would give the sergeant a semblance of legitimacy in the initial stages. Some prime idiot had sent the twelve fools, but he was glad they escaped, especially the redhead, because the setback brought the sergeant to this point of no return.
If he went after the redhead now, there’d be no turning back. The High Born fool in the Keep would want the smuggler’s loot returned immediately, and view any diversion as treason. Helene was the key. She’d manipulate the sergeant if she could, and it depended on whether she was ready for an open break. Her family was poor. They had everything to gain and little to lose.
Beyorn saw the sergeant.
He limped alongside a group of litter-born wounded, his right leg dark with dried blood from the hem of his chain mail coat down. He spoke to one man and raised a laugh from the others, by gesturing at the women waiting at the cave mouth and pretending to climb onto a litter.
Beyorn counted the wounded. Less than ten litters, the rest like the sergeant, marked, but not incapacitated. He estimated twenty dead by a rough count of the companies, all of them from the spearmen. It had been a tough engagement, with no survivors on the smugglers side.
* * * *
“Sergeant?”
Kamran turned. It was the servant girl, offering a beaker of wine and a platter of food. “Come sit and eat while I tend your wound.”
He glanced down at his leg. The wound was minor. The spear had glanced off the shield of the man on his right and slid into his leg without force. The smuggler had tried desperately to recover his thrust before the sergeant’s sword bit into the junction between shoulder and throat, to send him reeling back in a spray of blood.
“Attend the others,” he said, taking beaker and platter. “I need to select piquets and a guard commander.”
“He can do that.” The girl gestured at the Westlander. “He’s done nothing but watch over us.”
Kamran beckoned the Westlander. “I want piquets set in groups of three in a hundred yard ring around us. See they eat, and keep them alert through the night. We lost two corporals today. Do the job well and you’ll replace one of them.”
The man nodded and strode away.
Kamran turned back to the girl. “You’re no servant.”
She stood straight, chin up and eyes meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “I am Helene Geraint. Fleur d’Gracay betrayed me to the smugglers because she wanted me dead.”
“Why?”
“It clears an inheritance for her husband.”
“You were foolish to give her the opportunity.”
She shrugged. “I was distracted.”
“I can imagine.” He shook his head dismissively, knowing any comment was pointless. The High Born never learned. “Take one of the women as a servant and have her rig an enclosure at the rear of the cave. You may retire there until morning.”
“I have set my hand to a task. You will not interfere. Sit down and let me attend your wound.” Her tone had sharpened now that her position was established.
Kamran looked around. He’d been blind not to guess earlier. The women worked without discussion, organized by an imperious hand. No servant girl could have achieved this. He could hang Helene Geraint and earn Fleur d’Gracay’s gratitude or accept her help and commit himself.
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