“An old comrade in arms. Man by the name of John Creed. He helped me in that business with Raven. He’s smart, tough, and knows mercenaries; he’ll get us men who won’t run at the first sign of trouble.”
“I don’t know, Tal,” said Quint. “You’re going to need more than just a few mercenary companies. You’re going to need a real army, and I mean support, food, weapons, chirurgeons, porters, boys for the luggage, commissaries, engineers. You’re going to need horse, siege machines, and that doesn’t even start to touch on what to do about that evil bastard Leso Varen.”
Tal said, “You’re wrong. I’m only going to need a crack company of maybe three hundred mercenaries, handpicked and ready to ride at my command. The others, the engineers, the support, all that, will be provided by others.”
“Who?”
Tal shrugged. “Roldem and the Isles.” He shrugged again. “Maybe Kesh, Miskalon, Roskalon, some others might want to get involved to.” He hiked his left thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of Lord Reslaz’s castle. “And we have no shortage of volunteers to help sack Olasko right around here.”
“Finding people to take booty is one thing; finding those will fight before there’s booty to take, that’s another. Remember, I built up Kaspar’s army for the past eleven years. It’s the best force in the region.”
“I know, and I’m counting on you to help me take it apart.”
“That won’t be easy, either in the doing or for me: a lot of those lads are friends, and others I’ve trained.”
“How many of those men would die for Kaspar?”
Quint shrugged. “I know a lot who would stand with me until the end.”
Tal nodded. “But how many would willingly stand against you? For Kaspar? Look, if facing men you’ve trained and served with is too difficult, you know that at any time you’re free to leave, Quint.”
The old soldier shrugged. “Got nothing better to do for the time being, so I might as well stay.”
“Good,” said Tal, standing up. “I’m going to head into the city and visit a friend.”
Quint grinned. “A lady friend?”
“Just so,” said Tal as he departed. Over his shoulder he said, “Don’t bother waiting up for me.”
Weeks passed, and Tal saw the very best of the freed slaves turn into soldiers before his eyes. Twelve of them, seven women and five men, had turned into decent riders, adept with the sword and bow and able to take orders. The only thing he didn’t know was how they would react when blood started flowing. Two gave up on trying to serve and arranged passage to the east on caravans, hoping to return safely home. The others were put to work in support capacities.
Tal noticed that several of the girls were establishing alliances with particular men and hoped he didn’t regret including women in his army. Jealousy could tear apart his little force before it ever became a coherent company. Still, what else could he do? Turn them over to a brothel-keeper?
His arm was starting to drive him to distraction. Two nights ago he had taken off the bandage to bathe the stump again and found it transformed. The five little bumps had lengthened and what appeared to be a tiny hand was growing on the end of his stump. It didn’t look so much like a baby’s hand as it did a tiny replica of his own before it had been severed. He wondered how long it would take to grow to full size, if it ever did. Given Nakor’s quirky nature, discovering the priest did a half-baked job wouldn’t surprise Tal.
By the end of the second month at the farm, Tal had recruited a core of seasoned fighters. He had decided to hire only the very best, both in terms of experience and reliability. He wanted a cadre of men around him he could rely upon, and knew that if things turned sour in battle, many mercenaries would throw down their weapons rather than fight to the death. He also knew that if his core fighters were the sort of men who could be counted on to fight until the end, those around them might be more resolute in the face of adversity.
It was midsummer, a week before the festival of Banapis, when one of the young former slaves ran into the farmhouse shouting, “Captain! Riders to the north.”
Tal stood up from the table where he had been reading messages and went outside. He looked northward and saw that a large company of riders was indeed approaching. By the time he could make out any details, he saw there were close to two hundred in the party. “Get everyone ready,” said Tal.
The youngster ran off and spread the word. As the company approached, Quint came to stand at Tal’s side. “Trouble?”
“If they keep riding in a file, no. If they spread out, they’re going to hit us.”
The column stayed in a file, and at last the lead rider could clearly be seen. Tal put his sword away and said, “It’s all right. It’s a friend.”
Tal walked forward and waved his left hand. The lead rider urged his horse forward to a trot. He was a brawny man with a drooping mustache and an oft-broken nose. When they reached one another, the rider reined in and said, “Tal Hawkins!”