"I'll kill him now!" Swordsman Ugras was seething with anger. "Where are you leading us, you idiot?! Where's that damn army? We've already marched thirty li, no less, and there's no one here!"
"Keep quiet... don't touch the boy." Arnot glanced at the soldier with displeasure. "He said we'd be there soon. Boy, do you remember the way?"
"Why wouldn't you remember her?" the sixteen-year-old sniffled, pulling up his pants, tied with a piece of rope. "I've been hunting here all my life, I know what's what."
"What do you hunt with, you idiot?" Ugras persisted. "Do you kill animals with a rock or something?"
"Why the stone... the snares? And I had a bow... but yours took it away. Will they give me my bow back? My father gave it to me..."
"Where's your father?" Ned asked absently, carefully scanning the forest to the side of the path carved through the thick litter of fallen needles. The forest here was spruce, and as the party passed, the spruces waved their dark paw-like hands. Toward evening, a breeze picked up and a nasty, fine rain began to fall. Ned was already wondering how they would spend the night in the forest without a fire—lighting a fire so close to an enemy army would be rash.
"My father was a forester for an eighth-class nobleman, Yutir Tirasorsky. We lived in the forest. My father died last year—he ran into a bear. Someone must have shot it, but not quite, and it got angry at people. My father didn't have time to do anything—the bear killed him right away. But I avenged my father and killed the beast."
"Oh, come on, stop lying!" the swordsman shook his head in disbelief. "How did you kill him? Did you let him smell your pants, and the bear died, unable to bear your scent?"
The fighters started laughing, and the boy shrugged his shoulders calmly:
"I found my father's remains. Then I went home, took a shovel, and dug a large hole next to my father's remains, a deep hole. I lowered my father's body into it. When a bear came, he jumped into the hole—bears always return to those they've killed. They wait until the meat rots, and then they return. When I came back to the hole, he was already sitting there, that bear. And then I started killing him. I gouged out his eyes, shot him through the neck, and pierced his chest with a sharp stake. He died a long time ago. My father will be pleased in the next world—I have avenged his death. I buried the bear and my father in the same hole—the bear will serve my father in the next world. That's all. That's how I killed the bear.
"How terrifying!" one of the fighters, the crossbowman Yustan, shuddered, pointing his loaded crossbow at the thicket surrounding the path. "We're walking, and some bear looks at us from the thicket! And then, bam... it pounces! We should really put the less valuable members of the group forward—like Ugras, for example—what good is he? All he's good for is eating and polluting the air. The bear will gobble him up, be sated, and leave us alone."
"Why am I only good at polluting the air?" Ugras said, offended. "You're such a beast, Justan! A real pig! When you want to ask for food, you come to me, but when you want to feed it to a bear, you come to me first?! You're a bastard, that's all you're cracked up to be!"
"Actually, bears don't attack people unless you step on them, or unless they're wounded and really angry," explained Itrok, "and if they do attack, they'll most likely drag off the last one. It's easier that way—bang—and the person's gone. Gone."
"Justan must be placed last. The bear will devour him, choke on his thin bones, and die in agony. Especially since Justan's flesh is poisonous, like that of the southern lizard. Especially the tongue."
"You yourself, you yourself…" Yustan began and then stopped, falling silent at Ned's signal.
"Everyone, stop!" Ned commanded. "Someone or something is ahead! Arnot, take command. Hide in the bushes. I'll go ahead with Itrok. I'm not taking weapons—maybe I'll pass for a local. Well, no. I'll take swords. You never know... Is everything clear to everyone?"
"Okay, commander," Arnot nodded, "we'll wait here."
Ned continued along the path. A moment ago, he'd thought he heard someone else's thoughts. Someone else's. Or rather, he couldn't make out the thoughts; his ability to hear them had weakened considerably, but he could still discern a background noise, echoes. A hum, fragments of words, as if a group of tipsy people were sitting somewhere far away, noisily discussing pressing issues.
The young guide walked ahead, keeping a watchful eye, and Ned saw that he was right at home in the forest—there was no trace left of the frightened bat. Now it seemed plausible that this inconspicuous boy could have buried the bear next to his father's remains. Life in the forest is hard, and no weak man can survive here.
Ned wanted to ask the boy how he'd lived after his father died—alone, really? Where was his mother, for example? But there was no time. The buzz of thoughts ahead grew louder, and a minute later, when Ned and his guide reached the edge of the forest, they saw an army camp.
The camp was similar to the one the Corps had built, with one exception: it lacked the high ramparts the Corps soldiers had erected. The palisade was thinner, and the tents were pitched haphazardly. Ned's eye immediately noted something out of place—the latrines should have been dug further from the stream, so as not to contaminate the water with sewage. The horses should have been corralled, not confined to shackles—during an alarm, they were harder to catch if they weren't corralled. Also striking was the sheer number of wagons, filling the space almost to the horizon. The army was enormous, Ned's guess being that it must have numbered at least tens of thousands of fighters. And most of them were horsemen. At least, most of them. But most importantly, the flags of Zamara were flying over the army!
Where the Zamar army came from was unclear. It was a miracle. The only way to find out where they came from was to go and talk to them. Which is what Ned decided to do. He moved forward, but was stopped by the voice of the young guide:
- Can I go? Am I free? When will I get my bow back?
"I don't know when they'll return your bow," Ned replied thoughtfully. After a moment's thought, he ordered, "Go back to the boys. Tell them it's the Zamar army, and let them come here. And as for you... I'd suggest this to you—you're a hunter, an experienced, skilled man. You should join our Corps. I'll take you into my scouting group; we'll roam the forest, spy on the enemy. You know how to track prey—that's a valuable skill for a scout. Think about it. You have to make a living somehow. And they pay very well here. You've never seen such money. And you'll get a pension at the end of your service, or if you get crippled."
"A pension is good," the guy smiled, "but the 'maiming' part is bad. I'll think about it. If I still don't make up my mind, will you let me go? Will you give me a bow?"
"I will, I promise. If I live," Ned replied thoughtfully, looking at the small detachment of horsemen trotting towards them. "Tell you what, go to the boys quickly, tell them everything I said. And get everyone here quickly. Come on, come on – or else, look at those idiots galloping over there, they might kill us both in the rush."
Itrok slid into the bushes like a forest animal, and Ned walked towards the squad, raising his hands up as a sign that he was unarmed and did not pose any danger.
There were ten horsemen—riders in chainmail, pauldrons, and the colors of Zamara's flag. They charged as if Ned were not a man in civilian clothes, not even wearing chainmail, but an enemy warlord, whom they had dreamed of capturing at any cost. Spears with razor-sharp steel tips pointed at Ned, and eyes from beneath their pulled-down helmets studied the stranger intently.
"Spy?" one of the riders asked hoarsely, threateningly pressing the tip of his spear to Ned's chest.
"Sergeant Ned Black. Commander of the Marine Corps Reconnaissance Group," Ned replied calmly, warily watching the shiny tip swinging before him.
"Ha-ha-ha!" the riders laughed in unison, and the hoarse one, abruptly stopping laughing, barked:
"You're lying, you dog! The corps perished in battle with General Herag! Who are you and why are you here? Corps sergeants don't wear civilian clothes!"
"A smart man would have long ago figured out that a scout could disguise himself in civilian clothes to infiltrate enemy lines," Ned retorted coldly. "And who told you the Corps was defeated? What idiot? The Corps is alive, fighting, and currently in the city of Estkar. General Herag is dead, as is his entire army. Colonel Heverad sent me to scout out the army camped thirty li from the city. We believed them to be enemy troops sent to reinforce Herag, whom we had defeated."
"You've told three vanloads of lies!" Raspy replied just as coldly. "We'll take you to the camp now, let Security handle you. I bet you'll tell me everything when they start breaking your bones! Or maybe we should finish you off here? Why drag you to the camp?"
"Commander... maybe he's telling the truth?" one of the riders interjected timidly. "And if so, we'll be in big trouble if we don't deliver him to General Zhostar."
"Stay out of it! It's none of your business! If necessary, I'll hang him here! And no one can tell me what to do! And then let him write complaints to the command." The horse commander burst into laughter, and Ned realized he was dealing with a fool, a narcissistic tyrant who, to satisfy his ambitions, might do something he'd later regret, but it would be too late. Too late for Ned.
"Listen, I don't know your name, but I'll repeat it again: Colonel Heverad sent me personally, and we walked thirty li to your camp. And by the way, look behind you—there's a Corps crossbow pointed at your back. Maybe that'll convince you?"
The rider turned sharply and saw Justan looking at him over the stock of his crossbow. Such crossbows, capable of piercing even heavy armor, were well known to all the soldiers in Zamara's army. Besides Justan's, three more scout crossbows were aimed at him. Swordsmen stood nearby, blades drawn, awaiting the signal.
"They've captured the Corps' weapons! Men, cut them down!" the horseman's commander yelled, swinging his heavy spear at Ned's chest. Or rather, he tried to strike.
Ned intercepted the spear, pointed the tip at the ground, used the momentum of the blow to yank the rider from the saddle, and smashed him with all his might onto the hard rocks on the hillside.
The hundred-kilogram rider and the twenty kilograms of iron hanging on him made such a roar as if someone had hit a rock sticking out of the ground with an empty saucepan.
The riders drew their swords, and Ned cried out desperately:
– Don't shoot! Knock them off their horses, but don't hit them too hard!
Blades flashed, Ned drew his Right and Left Swords and began spinning among the horses, parrying blows and trying to dislodge the riders without killing them outright. Still, there were some injuries—splitting chainmail, a wounded arm—these were just a few of the injuries the riders sustained. Some of them didn't participate in the fight; they rode off to the side and silently watched as their comrades tried to deal with the insolent footsoldiers. Finally, five riders lay on the ground, the horses grazed peacefully nearby, and it was time for proper negotiations.
"That's it? Or are there still those who want to attack the Corps soldiers?" Ned spat in frustration. "Guys, who is this idiot? I told you everything clearly – we're on a mission, these are my subordinates, we'll come to your camp ourselves now – what's he so mad about?"
"Sergeant Erzon has some problems with his head," the rider who had warned the commander of future problems said with a grin. "He once got hit over the head with an axe; it didn't knock his brains out completely, but something in them still snapped. Guys, I'm so glad the Corps is alive. When we heard about your deaths, we got completely drunk. The Corps is the pride of Zamar. By the way, they say your Heverad has been appointed to command all the armies of Zamar. Our general has a decree from the king to that effect. And Heverad is no longer a colonel, but a general."
"That's good," Ned smiled, "let's go to camp, shall we?"
"And what about these? You didn't kill them? And you, Sergeant, are strong with a sword... I've never seen a foot soldier fight so deftly against mounted men. You're a demon!"
"They're alive. They'll rest for a bit, and everything will be fine. Your sergeant could use another... smack on the head. To get his mind back in order."
"No way... he'll go completely crazy then, he'll start seeing Isfir's spy in everyone. Even the regimental whore. Let's go to camp, everyone will be very happy."
The rider paused, sighed, turned to Ned, and added:
"Let's get these idiots, after all. We'll load the sergeant onto a horse, and these guys will walk on their own. By the way, I'm Corporal Niom Sunarak. We were urgently transferred from the capital when all hell broke loose here in the borderlands. And they really thought the Corps was dead. We were on patrol today, just leaving camp, and here you are. The sergeant ordered—let's, he said, take these... hmm... well, strangers. So we did," the corporal let out a low chuckle and grunted, hoisting the sergeant onto the saddle of his horse, which sagged under the weight. The sergeant hung like a sack, and Ned began to worry a little—the soldier would have to visit the mage-healers. It seemed the idiot had gotten more than Ned had bargained for. Well, what if he'd put his chest under the spear? He should be glad he didn't get his head chopped off..."
Fifteen minutes later, both detachments were descending the wooded hill toward the camp entrance. The closer they got, the more people noticed the procession—soldiers pointed, some laughed, some stood silently and watched, and some ran to report to their superiors—the Corps insignia on the sleeves of the soldiers in the detachment approaching the gates had been noticed by everyone. The soldiers began shouting, "Corps! Corps! Marines!" and Justan and Ugras smiled cheerfully and waved back.
The squad passed through a cluster of tents, and Ned was surprised to see women standing near them, cheerfully waving at the attractive marines. One of the women threw herself at Ned's neck; he automatically dodged, and she plopped down on Justan, engulfing him in a slobbering kiss. The crossbowman, however, wasn't at all opposed to this and immediately grabbed the woman by her ample backside, giggling contentedly and hooting like a bird in a swamp.
"Where are there women here, in the camp?" Ned asked the corporal, stunned. "Are they soldiers? Serving?"
"No," Niom chuckled, "there are a lot of mercenaries here, and these are their girlfriends, wives, daughters. And just tradeswomen and whores. They care for the soldiers, and also finish off wounded enemies and collect trophies. Strange, huh? After the Corps? You have strictness there, like the Creator's monks, iron discipline, and we have this kind of brothel on wheels. What can you do? That's life. They're irregular infantry; we had to scoop up all the soldier supplies the kingdom had. You can't do without infantry, and that damned Herag has destroyed all the regulars—may he ride demons in the afterlife! Or may they ride him..."
"So what? The cavalry are an irregular army? Mercenaries too?" Ned asked, surprised. "Where did they come from?"
"Here's the thing: in this mess, the backbone—the regular guard cavalry—is us. We were pulled from defending the capital. Ten thousand elite heavy cavalry. And twenty thousand irregular cavalry—mercenaries, the bulk of them horsemen, donated by the nobles and armed at their own expense. Incidentally, the majority of the infantry is also made up of these same militiamen."
"So how many troops are there in total, and how many of each type? How many are militias and how many are regular, trained troops? I'm a bit confused by what you're saying," Ned admitted. "Yes, the mess you have here is… astounding."
"No—what did you expect? Your Heverad is a true warrior, a true soldier, while our General Jostar is an old fart who spent his whole life sitting by the king's side and now he's off to war! We should be grateful to him that there's at least some semblance of order. That our soldiers haven't started fighting among themselves yet. However, there are occasional brawls—sometimes over women, sometimes over a careless word. Mercenaries don't like regulars, militias don't like either... and if you drink wine and see a woman wiggling her behind... oh, what happens. Yesterday, five men were hanged—they stabbed an archer sergeant to death in a fight and killed several others. Today, a hundred-strong mercenary detachment left. And I wouldn't be surprised if they soon show up among the enemy ranks.
"Wow! What do you mean, 'leave?'" Ugras, eavesdropping, was surprised. "What about chopping off their heads? If you'd sent the cavalry after them—that same sergeant of yours—he'd have put them on the spear! How could they just up and leave? What the hell is going on here?!"
"That's exactly what's going on," the rider nodded sullenly. "A complete mess, in a word. The general is too soft, too indecisive; we need to burn out the filth with an iron fist. If anyone's doing anything here, it's our Colonel Brogan; he's a warrior, just like Heverad. He commands the Guards Cavalry, but... he's under Zhostar's command and simply doesn't give a damn about what's going on. He sips wine and sits in a tent with women. He tried to somehow restore order, but Zhostar is blocking all his attempts to improve the situation."
"You know a lot," Ned chuckled, "for a corporal."
"So what if he's a corporal, then that makes him an idiot? Why can't I love my military service, care about it?" the corporal frowned.
"It's just that..." Ned smiled. "But you still haven't told us about the size of the army, its composition."
"Let Zhostar tell you that," the corporal winked slyly, "maybe you really are a disguised Isfirian spy. And I'll lay it all out for you, you see."
"You've already laid it all out," Ned laughed. "Our Corps would have crushed your army and not even noticed, with all your mess and women. Maybe you even have kids hanging around here? I wouldn't be surprised."
"Hmm… you know, there are children too," the corporal admitted, "this isn't an army, it's… it's… some kind of anthill!"
"Hmm…" Ned shook his head, "warriors… will we get there soon, or what?"
"There it is, see the white tent? That's where General Zhostar lives. I'll hand you over now and take our soldier to the doctors. Our sergeant took a real swig and still hasn't come to."
"He must have fallen on a stone," Justan intervened again. "I remember a guy in our village fell off his horse and right onto a cobblestone – he lay unconscious for three days, and then he started talking nonsense and went crazy…"
"And he joined the military service, calling himself Justan," Ugras finished to the laughter of his comrades, "that's why I see there's something wrong with your head!"
"You're a fool," Justan laughed good-naturedly, "that was a completely different guy, and…"
"Quiet, boys," Ned stopped him, "stay here and don't make too much noise. Corporal, report."
Sunarak disappeared behind the tent flap, he was gone for about three minutes, then he appeared, red and gloomy, and nodded to Ned:
"Come in!" He added quietly, "Be careful what you say… the general is very, very angry."
Ned passed the sentries, who eyed him with disapproving scrutiny, stepped over the canvas threshold of the tent, and found himself in a large room, a dead ringer for the tent Heverad had lived in. And no wonder—it was standard military tailoring. The only difference was that everything here was more opulent, more ornate—carpets on the floors, polished, varnished furniture along the walls, and a table with curved legs in the center, more suited to an estate library than a camp tent.
The general, a gray-haired, heavyset man of about sixty, sat at the table, slumped in his chair, gnawing on a chicken or some other game leg with a disgruntled expression. When Ned entered, he looked up and asked with disgust:
"What kind of a dummy is this? Is this that Corps sergeant? Heverad has disbanded them! There's no order! He walks around in civilian clothes, as if that's the way it should be! I'd give a sergeant like that a good beating! Report back, who are you and why are you here? Perhaps you're an Isfirian spy?"
"Ned Black, Sergeant, Marine Corps Reconnaissance Team Commander!" Ned reported calmly. "Sent by Colonel Haverad to reconnoiter your unit's location. The Colonel wanted to know what kind of unit is stationed here and what to expect from them."
"How can you prove you're a Corps sergeant?" the general snorted discontentedly. "There are a lot of you scoundrels hanging around here! Where's Colonel Heverad now? Where's his Corps? We've been informed that the Corps has been defeated by Herag!"
"And we were informed that your army was defeated by Herag," Ned shrugged. "The colonel is now in the city of Estkar, preparing for defense. We didn't know it was the Zamar army; we thought they were the enemy. Herag is dead, as is his army. They contacted black mages and activated some kind of magic that killed everyone."
"I always said you can't deal with mages!" the general nodded contentedly, suddenly softening. "So Heverad is alive. That's good. Or are you lying? Then they'll blow your head off! By the way, why did you attack our sergeant? And his patrol?"
"Hmm... actually, it was he who attacked us," Ned frowned. "We reported to him, demanded that he bring us to you for a debriefing. He refused, saying he'd hang us. We had to beat the crap out of him."
"That's right, we need to knock the nonsense out of them," Zhostar said even more benevolently. The chicken drumstick in his stomach put the general in a good mood. "That sergeant is a fool, of course. Here's what we'll do: I'll send a detachment with you. If you're not lying, the detachment will return, and we'll march to join up with Kheverad. But if you're lying, they'll chop off your heads and those of your men. Hey, adjutant, give them some horses and let them ride to Kheverad. That's it, get out of here... you won't let us dine in peace."