Fight Like A Girl Read online

  Triggen grinned. “A couple of those wrapped around bacon. Nice and crisp if you please.”

  As Korose served several bowls of porridge Erlin watched the swordsman wander off with his breakfast, stopping to chat with someone every few paces.

  “Sundowners don’t take just anyone,” Korose breathed.

  “True,” Erlin agreed. “And they’d slap a cook’s boy silly for letting bacon burn.”

  “Shit!” Korose hastily lifted the smoking pan from the grating.

  “Good morning all!”

  Erlin looked up as the snake greeted everyone present with an expansive gesture and a smile.

  “Thank you for your attention! Now, I know Aft-Autumn’s not even turned to For-Winter—” he held up self-deprecating hands although no one had said a word “— but a sensible man thinks two steps ahead. We’ll need someone paying for our swords and skills before Spring Solstice. Better to have that agreement signed and sealed with a duke’s ring sooner than later?”

  He looked around but before anyone spoke, he nodded, as though satisfied with everyone’s agreement.

  “I’m Chellan, for those who don’t know me. I’ve fought with the Shearlings, the Wheelwrights and the Red Dyed Men. My sergeant is Acuri.” He gestured to the croppy-head at his side.

  “Show us your skills if you want to sign up. That’s all, for the moment. Carry on.” The snake nodded at Erlin before strolling off, dead-eyed Acuri at his side.

  Who was he to give Erlin permission to do anything? The cook gripped his ladle, wishing Chellan had come within reach of a hefty clout.

  “Chellan?” A mercenary looked at his tent mate. “What’s his company?”

  “Who’s to say there’s a company?” Erlin scraped a burned pancake off the griddle with his knife. “A man swaggers like a captain, that doesn’t make him one. If he’s fought with those fine companies, why’s he wintering here?”

  But he could see several men were tempted. Learning to take orders, quick and unquestioned, was a skill which kept mercenaries alive. Following any obvious leader soon became a habit.

  Erlin pondered as he cooked pancakes. Once their last customer was served, he hefted their biggest cauldron onto the grate’s iron bars and filled it from the water butt by the wagon.

  “Once this is hot, you wash the pots,” he told Korose. “I’ll take a turn around the camp before I scour the pans. See if anyone else is setting up a cook fire.”

  Strolling among the tents, he was pleased to find he had no rivals thus far. Though as he’d expected a good few mercenaries had dug small pits to cook for themselves. Along his way he noted Triggen falling into conversations. The burly swordsman must be a companionable fellow.

  When Erlin spotted a familiar face re-sewing a boot seam, he raised a hand. “Marsis!”

  The weathered warrior looked up, puzzled. His lined brow cleared. “Erlin? It must be three years, you dog!”

  That was invitation enough. Erlin sat down. “What have you been doing?”

  Marsis grinned. “That’s a story and a half.”

  As he told it, Erlin learned some useful information. In return he shared a few insights to help Marsis secure a profitable hire for the next year’s fighting.

  “So what do you know of this Chellan?” he asked casually as their conversation wound to a close.

  Marsis frowned. “Nothing, for all he acts like everyone should know his name.”

  “Wasn’t there some trouble with the Red Dyed Men back at the start of the summer?” mused Erlin.

  Marsis nodded. “Near split the company down the middle. Rankers whispering round the shit pits, stirring up any fools who’d listen. Refuse to fight unless they got more of the Duke of Draximal’s coin.”

  Erlin raised astonished eyebrows. “What happened?”

  Marsis shrugged. “The company didn’t split. I guess the sergeants traced the stink to its source, beat those fools black and blue and slung them out on their arses.”

  “Reckon so.” Erlin got to his feet. “Good to see you. Come over when you want a meal.”

  As he wandered back, Erlin wondered if Snake Chellan and Cropped Acuri still carried the scars of a Red Dyed sergeant’s kicking. If he was a betting man, he’d wager on it. But Erlin took bets. He didn’t lay them.

  Back at the wagon, Korose was looking guilty. It wasn’t hard to see why. The scrawny girl had scraps of scorched bacon in her bowl and the last crumbs of the burned pancake. As soon as she saw Erlin, she fled.

  In the daylight she was definitely no poult. Past her twentieth year, by Erlin’s guess, of an age to be wed with three or four brats if she’d stayed in whatever village bred her. Old enough to know her own mind if she chose to give Korose a thrill.

  He looked up to check the sun. “I’ll scour those pans and we can try some blade work before we make a start on this evening’s meal.”

  *

  Setting aside staffs and swords as the daylight faded, Erlin stirred and spiced while Korose chopped and sliced. A bull calf was on the spit this evening. Not worth costly fodder through the winter for a farmer but well worth fattening on summer grass to feed hungry mercenaries after autumn’s slaughter.

  Erlin noticed eager anticipation on the faces making their way to his fire. Though he soon learned it wasn’t for his food.

  “Thinking of trying your luck?” A scar-faced Caladhrian asked his Dalasorian friend.

  “Depends what they’re offering the winner.” The hawk-nosed man looked tempted.

  “I got through the summer without shedding blood,” a solid Lescari said to no one in particular. “I won’t risk a winter wound festering.”

  “Plenty of time to heal before spring,” countered the man beside him.

  “A bout will only be to first blood,” a Carlusian agreed. “They won’t want anyone badly injured, not looking to sign the best fighters onto their muster.”

  Erlin interrupted. “What’s this?”

  A handful of excited voices answered him.

  “A sword tourney?” Korose looked over the fire, bright-eyed.

  Erlin sucked his teeth. “At this Chellan’s behest, and Acuri’s?”

  Before anyone answered, half the men by the fire turned as someone exclaimed.

  “Here they come!”

  The snake and his croppy pal approached, to be bombarded with questions.

  “Will you make the winner a sergeant?”

  “What about the runner up? You’ll need more than one troop leader!”

  Some seemed less confident of their prospects.

  “You’ll give everyone’s skills a fair test?”

  “You wouldn’t write a man off for one unlucky slip?”

  A vital question fell into one of those unaccountable silences that open up in the noisiest of crowds.

  “How many days do we have to prepare?”

  The snake squared his narrow shoulders, head tilted back as he surveyed the crowd like a rich man buying a horse. “Three days,” he said tersely. “From tomorrow. We draw lots on the fourth morning from now and then we’ll see what you’re made of.”

  His last words were almost lost amid eager cheering. Chellan smiled thinly before he looked at Acuri, cold-eyed, and jerked his head towards the river. As Chellan turned and stalked away, the crop-headed man followed, scowling.

  “What do you reckon?” Korose bit his lip as he looked at Erlin.

  “No, I don’t reckon you should try your luck,” he said firmly. “You won’t learn anything from a beating and you might be unlucky enough to catch a bad wound.”

  He smiled to soften the blow of his words, seeing Korose crestfallen.

  “Watch how the skilled men practise these next few days. You’ll learn a lot from that. Once the tourney starts, look for what loses a man the bout, not just how his opponent wins. Here, you take charge of the spit. I won’t be long.”

  He handed the long meat knife to the lad and headed for the latrines. As soon as he was beyond the cookfire’s light, Er
lin changed direction. Cutting between tents and bivouacs, he headed straight towards the river.

  As he saw his quarry ahead, he slowed and proceeded carefully. Thankfully the dusk was thickening and Chellan and Acuri were intent on their conversation.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me before telling half the camp your bright idea?”

  “My idea?” Acuri growled. “Everyone was telling me you spread the word.”

  “Why?” spat Chellan. “We’ve no coin for a victory purse!”

  “So the notion sprang up like a toadstool?” Acuri challenged.

  “More like some fool mixed one rumour with another like a drunk with white brandy and ale.” Chellan exhaled with a hiss. “Does it matter? If no one claims the notion, we can steal it. Has anyone definitely said there’s a purse for the winner?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Acuri said cautiously.

  “So we say for certain there isn’t,” Chellan mused. “Offer sergeants’ rank for the last two standing? Banner sergeant for the winner?”

  “Where does that leave me?” Acuri snarled.

  “Lieutenant,” Chellan said testily.

  “Equal captain,” Acuri snapped back.

  Chellan drew a resolute breath. “We talked about that. Two captains means split loyalties and troublemakers always try to drive in a wedge.”

  “I—” Acuri broke off to stare into the darkness.

  Erlin stood as still as a tent pole, sliding his eyes sideways. Somewhere to his off hand, he saw a shadow move. He blinked. Or had he imagined it?

  “Let’s get a drink.” Chellan walked away along the river bank towards Jartan’s wine wagon.

  “We haven’t agreed—” Acuri stood stubborn for a moment, before following with a muttered obscenity.

  After waiting to be certain that neither glanced over his shoulder, Erlin took a roundabout path back to his hearth.

  *

  Korose was out of his blankets first the following morning and quick to do all his chores. He wasn’t the only early riser. Clashing steel rang through the camp before they were halfway done serving breakfast, interspersed with angry shouts or startled yelps from someone caught unawares.

  Erlin nodded when the lad asked for leave to watch the men practise for the tourney. Amiably resigned to doing the bulk of the day’s work, he was surprised when Korose returned halfway through the afternoon, scowling.

  Erlin stopped chopping cabbage. “Who stepped on your heel?”

  “Me? No, I’m fine.” Korose still looked troubled. “How many swordswomen have you known?” he asked abruptly. “How do they usually fare?”

  “None so many, though more than a few.” Erlin paused to consider the armed and armoured females he’d encountered in his time. Most mercenary companies had a handful on their roster.

  “For the most part, they fare as well, or as badly, as any man. You don’t last in this life without some talent for it. Some women rise to captain their own companies. You must have heard of Ridianne the Vixen?”

  That was barely a question. Everyone had heard of her. Any man in this camp would clean her boots with his tongue if that was the cost of joining her roster.

  “Do you know where she’s camped?”

  Erlin wasn’t expecting that. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

  “No.” Korose paused in his pacing. “Do you think she’d look more kindly on a woman asking for winter shelter?”

  Erlin laid down his knife. “What’s this about, lad?”

  Korose dropped onto the turf and moodily poked the fire’s ashy bed with a stick. “It’s Letsis. She wants to hone her skills, to make a decent showing in the tourney. Half the men won’t spar with her and those who will just want to beat her bloody.”

  Erlin guessed Korose meant the ragged girl. “If she chooses to set herself up, she must know she risks getting knocked down.”

  “It’s not fair,” Korose protested.

  “It’s not your business,” Erlin pointed out. “Who was giving a good showing? Who could you learn from?” He lowered his voice. “Help me decide what odds to offer, when I take bets on the tourney and you’ll earn a share of the profits.”

  Korose still looked inclined to argue on the girl’s account. After a long moment, he capitulated. “That swordsman, Triggen is a wonder. Wonderful light on his feet for all he’s so broad, and quick as lightning with his hands.”

  “Who else?” Erlin began chopping again. “Stir up that fire while you’re telling me. We can both do two things at once.”

  By the time they had the evening meal ready, he was more than satisfied with Korose. The lad definitely had a good eye and a sound brain to go with it. Just as long as his head wasn’t turned by that ragged lass Letsis.

  Erlin caught a glimpse of her slinking past while Korose was fetching that evening’s fat lamb from Rila Butcher. Looking for the lad, he guessed, and whatever scraps she could scrounge. He wasn’t sorry to see her gone before Korose got back. The boy would be a danger around the fire, distracted by the sight of her battered face.

  Seeing she carried herself stiff and careful, Erlin guessed she’d taken some hard falls, maybe even a kicking, leaving bruises hidden by her clothes. He hid his sympathy behind an impassive face. The sooner she learned this life showed no one mercy, the better for them all.

  “I wonder—?” Triggen’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Might I have a cup of hot water for a copper?”

  “Have it and welcome.” Erlin nodded towards the steaming cauldron. “No charge.”

  “My thanks.” Triggen carefully dipped a silver cup into the roiling water and dropped in a knotted scrap of muslin.

  Drinking herb tisane like a fine lady, Erlin noted. “Keeping clear of wine and ale until after the tourney?”

  “Something like that.” Triggen grinned. Then he stiffened like a hound sighting prey.

  Erlin pretended not to notice, concentrating on his flatbreads. But as Triggen strolled away, he covertly watched where the swordsman was going.

  Not obviously hurrying, Erlin approved. Not making too much of his apparent surprise. Not one man in a hundred would have guessed his path crossing Chellan’s was anything but happenstance.

  He glanced around the fire. What might be stolen if he wasn’t there to keep watch? Nothing he couldn’t afford to lose. Knowing what Chellan was thinking would be worth far more. Erlin slipped quickly between two tents, getting as close as he dared. To his relief, Triggen and Chellan were still exchanging pleasantries. Naturally the snake wanted to stay friends with such a promising recruit.

  “I hear you’ll be the man to watch, come the tourney.”

  “Don’t believe all you hear.” Triggen chuckled. “I’m just glad to know we’ll see you fight. No better way for a captain to win a man’s trust than showing his courage is equal to theirs.”

  “I haven’t said I’d take part, just yet.” Chellan cleared his throat. “Who told you so?”

  Triggen’s brow wrinkled. “The three-fingered man who fought with the Daybreakers? He was talking to Sergeant Acuri this morning?”

  “Malhen?” Chellan forced a laugh. “He never could keep a secret.”

  “Everyone will be pleased to hear you’ll show us your mettle,” Triggen assured him.

  “Quite so.” Chellan nodded a brisk farewell and strode off through the camp.

  Erlin glanced over his shoulder. He was still within sight of his fire and there was no one who shouldn’t be prowling round his wagon. Though if he followed Chellan he wouldn’t be able to see if a gang of robbers ransacked it. Where was Korose?

  He yielded though, pursuing the snake through the camp. At first he was poised to duck behind any concealment. Then he realised Chellan was so intent that he wouldn’t have noticed a troop of Dalasorian horsemen on his trail.

  Acuri was taking his ease outside a tent Erlin guessed was his own. Chellan strode up and grabbed the crop-headed man’s shoulder, all but dragging him inside. Erlin’s grin widened. It never fail
ed to amuse him how people assumed a canvas wall was as solid and soundproof as wood or stone. Especially when they were angry. He strolled casually up to the side of the tent and knelt, as though to retie a bootlace.

  “Why tell folk I’ll fight in this fucking tourney?” Chellan accused. “You’re hoping I’ll fall on my arse? Maybe get a knife in my ribs? So you’ll end up captain?”

  “I never said any such thing,” Acuri protested.

  “You expect me to believe that?” Chellan’s voice turned ugly. “I remember Inchra.”

  The whole tent shook with the scuffle inside. Erlin didn’t wait to see if they brought poles and canvas down. He hurried off, discreetly pleased. Better yet, he found Korose at their hearth, standing guard.

  *

  The day of the tourney dawned crisp and clear. Korose was up and about before the sun rose over the coppices. Erlin took his time preparing a modest pile of griddle cakes. No fighter would want a full belly and the rest wouldn’t linger for fear of missing a good bout. He saw Chellan and Acuri approaching. The croppy-head carried a bucket while the snake’s leather armour gleamed with fresh oil.

  “First bouts!” Chellan shouted. “Stand forth or fight in your nightshirt!”

  Acuri slapped a tent in passing. “I’ve got your token, Vendrish, so swap that cock in your hand for a sword hilt!”

  “How many in that bucket?” Erlin asked Korose quietly.

  “Near enough full, yesterday evening.” The lad looked anxiously at the gathering mercenaries. Searching for the girl no doubt.

  Erlin watched the crowd swell with mixed feelings. Having his fire become the camp’s meeting place would be profitable but he didn’t like Chellan and Acuri deciding that without a by-your-leave.

  Still, Erlin could get a good look at the men he’d taken most bets on, as Acuri drew pottery shards from his bucket and shouted out the men’s names scrawled on each one. Women were competing too. Letsis wasn’t the only female fighter in the camp, though two others trying their luck and skills overtopped her by a head.

  Several of the heavily backed men looked none too bright. Erlin had seen them over-indulge in ale last night. Over-confident.