The Lost Stories (4 page)

“Please! Lie still, Ranger! You need to rest.”

But Halt seized his forearm and managed to stand, swaying, by the bed. He blinked several times. The pain eased a little. But it was still there.

“I don't have time,” he said. “Get me something for this headache. I've got to find out where he lived.”

 

He remembered that the men he had been sent to lead were a mixed group from Seacliff, Aspienne and Culway. The soldiers around him when he forced his way through to the front rank had worn the crest of a black badger on their tunics. He had seen the same crest on Daniel's. He had no idea what group marched under that banner, so he headed for the command tent, and the King's Battlemaster.

When he reached the command center, he found the Battlemaster gone. Of course, he was leading the pursuit that was hounding Morgarath and the Wargals back to the southeast corner of the kingdom. But his secretary was still there, making notes as to casualties, replacements and promotions. He glanced up as Halt entered, and smiled warmly. The entire army had heard of Halt's feats during the battle.

“Good morning, Ranger,” he said. Then he noticed the bloodstained bandage and saw how Halt swayed as he entered the tent, reaching out to steady himself against the tabletop where the secretary sat.

“Are you all right?” he said anxiously. He rose and hurried to find a bench for Halt. The Ranger dropped onto it gratefully. He blinked several times. His vision was still blurry. He hoped that was only temporary. He couldn't imagine shooting with such poor vision.

“Just a headache,” he said. “I need some information. I took command of troops on the right wing in the final stages of the battle—”

“Indeed you did!” the secretary said warmly. “The whole army has heard about it.”

“There was a soldier. A sergeant named Daniel. He actually led the charge when I was knocked down. Did anyone mention his full name, or would anyone have a record of where he lived?”

But the clerk was shaking his head. “I don't keep the full roster. Each individual force looks after that for their own men. What unit did he belong to?”

“I'm not sure. They wore a black badger as their crest.”

The clerk's eyes narrowed in concentration for a few seconds, then his expression cleared. “A black badger? That'd be Captain Stanton's company, from Aspienne Fief. They're camped over to the north, on a small hill. Stanton was badly wounded before you rallied his men. He's been invalided back to Castle Aspienne. But his sergeant major should be able to help you.”

“Thanks for your help.” Halt left the tent. He paused for a moment, looking to the north. On a low hill several hundred meters away, he could see a group of tents clustered around a banner. It was too far to make out the device on the flag, but he could see that it was black in color. He headed toward the tents.

As was the custom, the banner marked the position of the commanding officer's tent. As Halt drew closer, he could see that he had been right. The device on the flag was a black badger. He paused at the open entrance. The command tent was larger than the simple four-man units that surrounded it. The commander and his staff worked here, so it was used as a company office. At the rear, a separate section was screened off, forming the captain's living quarters. Now, of course, that would be vacant. But a burly figure was sitting at a table in the front section, frowning over sheets of paper. He was an older man, somewhat grizzled and with an unmistakable look of experience and authority—undoubtedly the sergeant major the clerk had mentioned. He looked up as Halt stepped into the tent, taking in the Ranger cloak and the bandage around his head.

“You look as if you've been in the wars,” he said, grinning. Halt allowed himself a faint smile.

“Just one. Same one you've been in. I'm trying to find a home address for one of your men. A sergeant by the name of Daniel.”

The grin faded and the sergeant major shook his head sadly. “Daniel? He was a good man. We lost him in the final battle, I'm afraid.”

“I know. He saved my life just before he died.”

The older man regarded Halt with increased interest. “Oh,” he said, “you're that Ranger, are you?” He rose from behind the table and offered his hand. “It's an honor to meet you. My name's Griff.”

Halt shifted uncomfortably. He disliked being the center of attention. It wasn't his way. He preferred to move unobtrusively through life, going unnoticed wherever possible. But he shook the man's hand. “I'm called Halt,” he said.

Griff waved him to a seat and sat down himself once more. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Not sure I can tell you too much. Everything was pretty rushed when we mobilized the army, and Daniel was new to the fief. He and his wife had moved from Norgate not long before the war began.” He indicated the piles of paper and scrolls on the table that was serving as a desk. “We didn't get time to put down all the men's details before we had to march out. I'm trying to catch up on it now.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” Halt asked.

“He had a farm, I believe, somewhere in the southeast part of Aspienne. But where it might be, I have no idea.”

“Did he have any friends in the company who might know?”

The sergeant major was shaking his head before Halt even finished the question.

“He may have. Although as a sergeant he would have kept a little separate from the other men. You could ask around. He had command of the sixth squad. You'll find them one row over and halfway down.”

“I'm obliged,” Halt said. He rose to his feet, wincing once more as the pain lanced through his forehead. He put a hand on the table to steady himself and Griff looked at him with some concern.

“Should you be up and around? You don't look so good.”

Halt shook his head—and immediately wished he hadn't. “I'll be fine,” he said. “Just a bit of a knock. I'm better off in the fresh air than in a stuffy healer's tent.”

“That's true.” Griff looked back at the forms and papers on his desk with a degree of disappointment, as if he'd been hoping they'd fill themselves in while he talked. “Well . . . sorry I can't be of more help.”

Halt waved a hand in acknowledgment.“Every little bit of information helps,” he said.

He strolled down the neat tent lines, cutting through between two tents to reach the next row across. About ten meters farther down, he saw a placard mounted on top of a spear shaft with the numeral 6 on it. He looked down the next five tents and there was a similar marker, this time bearing the number 7. Five tents, four men to each, that made twenty men in the squad. Assuming they had all survived, which he knew they hadn't. Three soldiers were lounging in the sun outside the first tent. They looked up as his shadow fell across them. There was a hint of suspicion in their eyes, but since Crowley and he had re-formed the Ranger Corps, Halt was becoming used to that. Officers and sergeant majors might value the skills Rangers brought to the army, but the rank-and-file soldiers tended to be ill at ease around the gray-and-green-clad figures. He knew there were wild rumors circulating that Rangers practiced sorcery.

“Good morning,” he said evenly.

The men nodded, craning their necks to look up at him. They were seated on low stools. One was patching a ripped jerkin, a second was whittling a stick with a knife and the third was chewing slowly on a piece of dried beef. From where Halt stood, it looked as if the beef was winning the struggle. Halt indicated a spare stool, a few feet away.

“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?” he asked.

The man patching his jerkin nodded. “Why not?” he said, his tone neither welcoming nor dismissive.

His companion with the beef jerky was staring at Halt, a frown of recognition on his face.“I know you,” he said thoughtfully, trying to place the memory. Then it came to him. “You were at the battle!” he said. “We were being driven back and suddenly you were there, shoving forward and slashing away at the Wargals and yelling at us to follow you. You did an outstanding job. Outstanding!” He turned to the others. “Did you see him? First of all, he dropped at least a dozen of them with his bow, then he darted in among them, slashing and stabbing. And look at him! He's barely bigger than a boy.”

Halt raised an eyebrow at that. He wasn't the largest of men, but he knew the soldier was stretching it a little. However, he could see that no insult was intended, so he let the comment pass.

“Your sergeant gave me a hand,” he said, and the man nodded vigorously.

“He did! He took them on when you went down. Must have killed a dozen of them too!”

Halt smiled quietly at that. The man was inclined to exaggerate. “He did a great job,” he agreed.

The jerky chewer turned to his friends. “Did you see the sarge?”

Both of them shook their heads.

“We were farther over, on the right,” the jerkin patcher replied. “All we saw was that the line was about to break and run, then it started to move forward again. Then the Wargals were running instead.”

But the question had been rhetorical and the beef chewer was keen to continue his story.

“He did four or five of them with his spear. Then one of them chopped the head off it and he used it like a quarterstaff, spinning it around, knocking them over like ninepins. Then he grabbed a sword and killed eight or nine of them before they got him.” He looked to Halt for confirmation. “You saw it, Ranger! How many do you reckon he killed?”

“At least eight,” Halt said. He saw no reason to contradict the man. The atmosphere was suddenly a lot more welcoming than it had been at first. “I wanted some information about him,” he said. “Any idea where he lived?”

He was disappointed to see the three faces cloud over in a now familiar expression of uncertainty.

“Sorry,” said the man who had been extolling Daniel's deeds and courage.“He was new to the unit and the area. Got promoted quickly.”

“That's right,” said one of the others, laying aside the patched jerkin. “The captain liked the look of him. Made him a sergeant almost immediately. Apparently, he'd had some military experience in Norgate before he came to Aspienne.”

“He was promoted so quickly, we didn't really have time to get to know him,” said the man who had been whittling.“I think I heard him mention a farm somewhere . . .” He trailed off, unsure of his facts. There was an awkward silence. Halt made a move to rise from the stool, thinking that once again his efforts to trace Daniel's family were doomed to failure. The first man who had spoken, the beef jerky chewer, seemed to come to a decision.

“You could try Kord and Jerrel,” he said. “They might have an idea.”

“If they'd tell you,” the man with the repaired jerkin put in.

Halt looked from one to the other. “I take it you're not fond of these two?”

The three men exchanged glances. Then the one who had suggested the two names answered him.

“They're a pair of liars and cheats. They run a dice game and they tried to make a friend of Daniel initially, playing up to him and inviting him to play. My guess is they were letting him win at dice to get in his good books. But he saw through their scheme before long and they found themselves doing their fair share of fatigue duties. So they dropped him.”

“What makes you think they'd know where he lived?” Halt asked, and again there was an awkward pause. Finally, the whittler spoke.

“They always wanted to know where everyone lived. Always asking you questions about where you came from, what you did back home. Can't prove anything, but I reckon they were keeping a record, planning to go back after the war and rob people.”

“Particularly those who'd been killed in battle,” the jerkin patcher said heavily. “They'd know the families would be easy prey. It's the sort of thing they'd do, all right. They probably know where to find the sergeant's farm.”

“The trick will be getting them to tell you,” the beef jerky chewer said, and the others nodded. Halt looked around the small circle of faces, seeing the distaste for the two vultures called Kord and Jerrel.

“How would I get to meet these two?” he asked.

The jerkin patcher raised an eyebrow.

“Play dice with them,” he said. “But be prepared to lose.”

PRIVATE JERREL OF THE BLACK BADGER COMPANY WAS WORKING on a pair of dice. He'd finished the first one and he was almost done with the second. He was filing off two of the sharp corners on the die, rounding them slightly so that they would tend to roll to a preselected point, showing a score of six more often than sheer chance would allow. It wasn't as reliable as his alternative method of fixing a pair of dice. That involved carefully inserting weights to make it fall with the selected side faceup. But sanding the corners increased his chance of a winning roll.

In his pocket, he had a pair of counterweighted dice, carefully doctored to show scores of one and two. But weighting dice was a tricky business. It took a long time to remove all signs that something had been inserted in the little cubes. His other pair had been confiscated some days previously by a passing officer. Now he had to resort to rounding the corners to replace them. You needed two pairs of doctored dice to fleece a new victim. You used one pair to get him interested, letting him win the first few rolls. Then, when he thought his luck was in, you suggested raising the stakes. And when he agreed, you switched the dice so he'd roll a losing number.

A shadow fell across the entrance to the tent and Jerrel hastily shoved the die and the small file under a blanket. The entrance to the tent was blocked for a moment as a man entered. Jerrel looked up, frowning. The newcomer carried a kit bag and a sheathed sword and sword belt. He was wearing a soldier's uniform with a black badger on the left breast. He looked around the interior of the tent, saw an empty bunk and dropped his belongings on it.