Tal shouted, “All of you shut up!”
The talk quietened, and Tal said, “I’m Tal Hawkins. I’m a mercenary captain.” He took down the banner of Count Holmalee and threw it on the fire. “I need an army, so here’s your choice. You can leave now and take your chances on getting back home again. You know what it’s like on the road, so you have an idea of the risks. Or you can stay with us. You’ll be free soldiers, but you’ll obey me. You’ll get an equal share in any plunder, and you’ll get paid when we don’t fight.” He looked at a particularly beautiful young girl with black eyes and raven tresses who stepped to the front. “You women; there will be no camp followers in my army. No whores. Anyone who’s with us fights. That includes women. If you don’t know how to fight, we’ll teach you. Now, you have until dawn to decide. Stay and fight, or leave on your own and take your chances.”
He turned and went back to the fire to find out what else there was worth eating. He settled down with a block of hard cheese and some bread. Visniya had found a wine-skin and Tal took a deep drink before passing it on. With a mouth full of food, he said, “After we eat, let’s get rid of those bodies.”
Quint sat down next to him. “One thing.”
“What?”
“You may not have the best fighters around, but damn me if you don’t have the prettiest army I’ve ever seen.”
Tal laughed.
Seventeen
Mercenaries
The guard stared.
As strange a band of mercenaries as he had ever seen was approaching the gate of Karesh’kaar. Tal had taken the arms and armor from the six dead guards and passed it among the thirty slaves. Some wore only a helm or a breastplate with just a dagger at their belt, while others carried a sword and wore no armor, but they all had something that made them look like soldiers. Every morning before breaking camp, Tal had had his men instruct the former slaves as to the rudiments of fighting. Some learned slowly, but they grew in confidence by the day.
The sergeant of the guard at the gate studied them as the two wagons and thirty-five mercenaries rolled through the gate. They wore an assortment of ragged clothing: some wore boots, while others wore only sandals, and the women wore shifts instead of tunics and trousers—which hardly made them unique in the guard’s experience—but what was strangest was most of them were young and looked like pleasure slaves. Even odder was the leader, a one-armed man who looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in months.
The guard questioned Tal briefly, then waved them into the city. Tal organized them in a small market square. “Sell everything you can,” he instructed Quint. The wagons contained mostly foodstuffs, but also an assortment of cookware and a small box of trade items. “I’ll have gold for us in a day or two, but we need a place to stay for the night. Find the cheapest nearby inn where these children won’t get raped, have their throats cut, or get enslaved again, then send word to me where you are.”
“Where are you going to be?” asked Quint.
“At a different inn, the Anvil and Tong.”
“Why don’t we go there?”
“I have my reasons. Find somewhere nearby, then send word.” As Tal walked away, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Oh, and have Masterson stand behind you when you dicker price for the horses and wagons. It should help.”
Quint nodded with a laugh and turned to oversee his charges.
Tal asked several times for directions and at last spotted an old, faded sign displaying a pair of tongs holding an anvil. He entered and saw that the inn was empty. For this time of the day he had expected one or two customers, but he was just as happy for the privacy. He went to the bar and waited. A moment later a young woman came out, and said, “Can I get you something?”
“I need to send a message,” said Tal.
The girl looked surprised. “Sir? I don’t take your meaning?”
“Then get someone who does,” he said quietly. “I need to send a message to the Squire of Forest Deep.”
The girl nodded and left. In a few minutes, she returned with another woman, slightly older, behind her. The woman looked at him for a minute, then said, “Mayami said something about a message, sir?”
“I need to send a message to the Squire of Forest Deep.”
The second woman turned to the girl and said, “I’ll take care of this. Go to the kitchen and wait there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the girl was gone, the woman said, “Do you have the message?”
“No. Give me something to write on and I’ll pen one, or you can just tell Magnus or Nakor or Robert to use their arts and get here as soon as they can, tomorrow if possible, though tonight would be even better.”