* * *
From the top of the frontier fort Lieutenant Rillish watched the mob of would-be settlers, squatters and plain shiftless land-rush opportunists surrounding his command grow each day. By the fifth they must have judged their sprawling strength great enough because they sent an envoy to discuss terms. At the Lieutenant's side his sergeant spat a great stream of brown juice from the rustleaf jammed into a cheek and raised his crossbow.
‘Skewer the bastards?’
‘No, not yet. Let's see who's taken charge of that mess out there.’
They waited, watching, while a gang of twenty approached the gate.
‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.
‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’
‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’
‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have, would you? No messenger has come in – how long has it been now – almost a month?’
So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’
The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’
Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away … He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would-be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust. Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.
‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’
His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard now!’
Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’
The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’
Rillish considered ordering his sergeant to skewer the bastard. Damned Untan Great Families – they'd feuded with the Wickans for generations. Now they saw their chance.
And he was in the way.
To his sergeant Rillish asked aside, ‘You are certain you saw no soldiers out there?’
‘None. Adventurers, opportunists, squatters, shiftless frontier malingerers. Nothing but filth.’
Rillish drew off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hot here on the plains. Not like down south. Or like Korel. It'd been damned cold all those years in Korel. He cinched tight the helmet. ‘Pack up your mob and decamp and I promise you we will not pursue.’
The envoy stared, frowning, as if the lieutenant had gibbered in some foreign language. Then he rallied, flushed. ‘Aren't you aware of your situation, you ox-brained foot soldier? You haven't even enough men to properly defend your walls!’
‘And you haven't the belly for a siege.’
Raising his voice, the envoy addressed the entire fort: ‘You fools! This man has just thrown away your lives!’
‘Now I'm gonna skewer the bastard.’
‘Is the parley over then?’ Rillish called. ‘Because if it is, my sergeant here would very much like to shoot you.’
The envoy's jaws worked as he swallowed the rest of his words. ‘We are done,’ he spat and turned his back to march away.
‘What now, sir?’ the sergeant, Chord, asked beneath his breath.
‘Quarter rations immediately. Confiscate all water. Double the watch. They'll probably try to rush us tonight.’
‘Aye–aye, sir. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this garrison's green, sir. Not like the old command.’
‘No new command is ever like the old one, Chord.’
‘Yes, sir. That's true as rain, sir.’
‘We could use some of that.’
‘Use some of what, sir?’
‘Rain.’
‘That's true, sir.’
Rillish looked out over the fort enclosure. The faces of the Wickan elders and children he'd managed to shelter turned up to him. Their eyes watched him, but not with worry, or with pleading, just watchful, patient. ‘A quiet posting until retirement, they said, Chord. A well-earned rest. I should've stayed in that chaos-hole of Korel.’
‘May the Gods answer you, sir.’
Rillish strode to the stairs. ‘Well, on second thought, let's hope they don't, Chord.’