The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [32]
“Good sir, we’re lost,” Maddyn said, and quickly, because he didn’t like the black look on Aethan’s face.
“Indeed? You found me easily enough.”
“Well, I was following one of the …” Maddyn broke off just in time.
As if she knew he was thinking of her, the blue sprite popped into existence, settling on his shoulder and kissing his hair. The fellow frankly stared and lowered his ax to lean on it like a walking stick. Quickly he darted a conspiratorial glance at Aethan, who of course had seen nothing, and then gave Maddyn a grudging smile.
“Well, perhaps I could take you to the old lodge after all, but your horses look worn out from all these wretched trees. There’s a spring over there, by that bit of stump. Give them a drink first. My name’s Otho, by the by.”
“And I’m Maddyn, and this is Aethan. My thanks for your help. Do you know this troop?”
“Somewhat. I did a bit of work for them this winter, fixing buckles and suchlike. I’m a smith, you see.”
It was Maddyn’s turn to stare. What was a smith doing out in the middle of a wilderness? Then it occurred to him that Otho might have some dishonor of his own behind him.
“Now, Caradoc—that’s their leader—isn’t a bad man, considering what he is,” Otho went on. “He wants me to ride south with him when they go. I’ve been thinking it over.”
While Aethan watered the horses, Otho went into his cabin, then reappeared wearing a leather vest over his tunic and carrying a different ax, one with a long handle banded with metal and obviously made as a weapon, which he used to good advantage for clearing brush and overhanging branches. The trail was so narrow and twisty that the men had to lead their horses. It was about the middle of the afternoon when they came into a vast clearing of some five acres and saw the high stone walls of what once had been a noble’s hunting lodge. The wooden gates were long since rotted away, letting them see the broch, still in reasonable repair, and a collection of tumbledown sheds inside.
As they walked up, Caradoc himself came out to meet them. Otho introduced him, a tall, slender man with the long, ropy arms of a born swordsman and the high cheekbones and pale hair of a southern man. He seemed about Aethan’s age, in his mid-thirties, and for all that he was a dishonored man, there was something impressive about Caradoc, the proud way he stood, the shrewd way he looked men over with eyes that seemed to have seen a lot of life.
“Since you’re looking for bodies to sell,” Otho said, “I brought you a couple.”
“Interesting.” Caradoc gave them each a pleasant smile. “Here’s Aethan with a Cantrae boar on his shirt, and Maddyn dressed like a farmer but carrying a sword. I looked like the pair of you once. Left a warband down in Cerrmor a bit … well, sudden, like. Never did bid a proper farewell to my lord. I’ll wager, Aethan, that there’s scars on your back, judging from the stains on your shirt.”
“More than a few. Cursed if I’ll tell you why.”
“I’d never ask. Now, here’s the terms, lads. I’ll take anyone on for a summer. If you can’t fight, then you’ll die in a scrap, and we’ll be rid of you. If you can fight, then you get an equal share of the coin. And remember: I’m the leader of this pack of dogs. You give me one bit of trouble, and I’ll beat the shit out of you. Scribe that deep into your ugly hearts: you ride at orders, or you don’t ride.”
It was obvious that Caradoc meant what he said as soon as they went into the dun. Instead of the banditlike pile of filth that Maddyn had been dreading, the camp was as clean as a great lord’s barracks. There were thirty-six men in the troop, and their gear was well tended, their horses good, healthy stock, and their discipline tighter, in fact, than that of Maddyn’s old warband. As Caradoc introduced the new recruits around, the other members of the band paid him such strict and respectful attention that Maddyn began to wonder if he were noble-born. Otho came along with them, listening to Caradoc and stroking his beard in thought, but he said naught a word until they all went outside