Chapter 40

  Day Eighteen – Morning

  The unlikely alliance had moved on with the first sunlight. In agreement with Zaber and Franque’s plan, they made a new camp closer to the fortified mines Sagir was transported to. Avoiding the major roads of the region, another forest in the mountains was found to hide in. Thyra sang to the injured throughout the night, and on the back of a moving wagon. The fugitive peasants had seven of these, with a couple more smaller hay carts.

  After setting up the new camp, the witch went to sleep, and Zaber used the opportunity to ignore her order to stay down. The veterans and brigands had business ahead of them. Soon enough, Zaber could rest as much as he wanted…

  “Time to talk strategy,” said Zaber promptly when he reached Roda, and Bigge.

  They sat under a prominent tree, sharing water and bread with the other two leaders whose names Zaber had already forgotten. The greasy and unkempt man was able to stand on his own two feet again, even though it was painful. Torm accompanied him in case his mentor needed a shoulder to lean on. On top of that, the young man didn’t have much to do right now. Buron and Breg didn’t need him to test the combat abilities of the peasants to find appropriate roles for them.

  Franque had regained his sense of balance, but still couldn’t hear much in his left ear. He laughed at the possibility that it might be permanent, beyond what magic could do. Much to Thyra’s displeasure. Only the brothers Ludi and Asti were at Franque’s side. Nancia and the other brigands prepared themselves to drive drill after drill into the peasants. The only thing that stopped them right now was that none of them spoke Albinian.

  “Sit with us,” said Attel, an old woman with free flowing, thinned out, and receding hair. The pantaloons she wore were too wide. A dirty white sash, that most likely used to be a headscarf, kept it all together.

  Everyone nodded at each other. A couple of chests and barrels served as seats, and everyone found a spot for their bums.

  “Let’s go through the logistics first,” said Roda and passed thin slices of bread around. “What kind of weapons do we need to make? Bigge will be in charge of that.” She looked at her brother-in-law, who lifted an axe next to him for show. “Spears I assume?”

  “No.” Zaber wasted no time. “It would be pikes anway,” he said, reaching for the bread, but faltered from bending his torso too much. Torm took over and gave it to him. “You said you’ve got a few who got levied? They were probably pikemen; archers if good enough. But we ain’t doing that.” There was no need to pull any punches. No matter how much his muscles ached. The veteran blinked more than usual, trying to focus. It was hard to decide which was worse: the feeling of his ribs piercing into his heart, his neck burning up, or that he still had the runs from the poppy juice. “Franque and I’ve been thinking hard about how to hammer y’all into shape. We ain’t making you into regulars any time soon. You don’t have the time to learn how to march, run, thrust and fall back as a unit.”

  “Sooo–” Bigge looked annoyed at Zaber and gasped. “What do you want us to do?” He turned towards Roda and flicked his wrist at the veteran to wave him away. “I told you, this fool–”

  “Shut up and listen, oxhead.” Glancing at Bigge, Zaber saw the man’s head boil red within breaths. “You want your first melee lesson?”

  “Stop it,” commanded Roda and stood up. “We’re not talking to each other like this. We’re on the same side now.”

  Zaber inhaled and rose as well. Getting looked down upon made him itch, and the voice from his neck more intense. His breath was unsteady, and he was too weak to be a better man. Nobody would look down on him ever again. “How do we talk to each other?”

  “Zaber?” Torm grabbed his mentor and pulled him back down, making him groan in pain but not budge. “She meant the both of you.”

  “You alright?” Bigge asked Roda, but didn’t join her. His hand moved towards her arm, and as he glimpsed at his axe. “Roda?”

  The one eyed woman’s sole eye met those of Zaber on equal ground. “Don’t worry,” she replied. “Y’all need us and we need y’all. We’re simply not used to your kind, please bear with us. The only fellas like you we’ve met worked for Sir Ludwald.”

  “’aight,” said Zaber and gave into Torm’s pull. He braced himself on the barrel he sat on, going down slowly.

  “We can all learn from each other. Bigge, Havel and Attel were elected to ‘present Penram, Bromwich and Luphton. And I was elected to be the head. We are in charge, because we have their trust.” Roda sat down too, fixing loose straings back into her hair bun. Her deep green eye never stopped fixating on Zaber. “We take turns when we talk, and everyone has a say. Please, continue. We are eager to learn how you plan on compensating for our shortcomings.”

  “Eh bien,” interjected Franque before Zaber said something. “Mon tour then. You get your breath and brains back first.” The bandit smirked, but his arms were crossed, and so was his gaze. “We do not have the temps, nor armes for adéquate training. We’ll make you battre them with what you have habitué with.” His hands were swirling around with the rhythm of his words, which was fast.

  The four Albinian peasants had very different expressions after hearing the Galázian bandit speak. Havel and Bigge were looking at each other, figuring out if the other one had understood the man. The old woman, Attel, moved her hand to her chin and lips, thinking with her face. Every time she thought she understood, she opened her mouth, but refrained from speaking. Only Roda’s stare hadn’t changed much, but went back and forth between Zaber and Franque.

  Torm lifted his hand like a school boy, putting a stop to Franque and Zaber before they could continue. “They have not understood a single word, Franque. You need to slow down,” said the young man and prepared himself to speak by tilting his felt cap and looking at Roda. “They want you to fight with your farm tools. Mount the scythes straight on top, drive studs into your flails, and fix them solid with rivets and chains.”

  Inflating his cheeks while thinking, Bigge ran his hands over his bald head. He fixed the mess right afterwards. Roda nodded the instructions off to hear more, while Havel and Attel nodded to look like they understood.

  Franque’s infectious laughter boomed up, as he read their faces. Shaking his head, Ludi only had a smile to share, while his younger brother grunted annoyed.

  “Don’t forget about the pavois,” said the bandit leader, gesturing a square into the air.

  “My comrades in arms will be in charge of drilling the basics into your folk,” said Zaber, scratching the scar along his jawline. He and Torm were glimpsing at each other. “We’ve been fighting smaller revolts in the past.” He waved over the brigands, clenching his fist at the end, and grimacing in pain. “Franque too. We gotta build on the minor successes we’ve seen and avoid their failings. How many crossbows do you have, and how many can your woodworkers make in three days?”

  “Uhm,” Roda looked at Bigge. “We have hunting bows for small game, and some of us can sling well. Most of it was done with traps.”

  “We can use their strings and copy the ones you have.” The man built like an underfex ox looked at his hands, counting materials. “We should be able to make… six? Maybe six. Although we have more planks for later”

  “Good, we’ll need those,” replied Zaber with a curt nod. “I need you to make pavise – large galázian shields. Use all the leather you can spare for them. They need to be able to stand on their own with a spike and strut.”

  “If you show us how, Bigge and nine other of our craftsmen can make them,” said Roda. “Comrades, I mean.”

  “’aight.” The veteran inhaled once more. “Now comes the hard part. There’s no winning if we fight their war. Winning means forcing your way of fighting onto your enemy. And what y’all have done your entire lives, and they haven’t done a single day in theirs, is work.” He closed his eyes, only thinking about what he has to explain. “Use the planks to fortify your wagons. Make them sturdy motherfuckers, able to withstand a charge of spell. The shields are for the gaps between them, with your best fighters to stand guard with a polearm. The rest shoots whatever you have at them, never stop, barraging them with all you got. They will outfight you in melee, so we gonna make this a siege.”

  “Damned,” uttered Bigge and slapped himself on the knees. “I can imagine that. I’ll take it back, this is the right kind of fools!”

  “Now we’re talking,” said Attel and jumped off her seat. “Me and the weaker folk can carry the bolts, arrows and stones; and reload them.”

  A faint twitch flashed over Roda’s lips, without losing her sharpness. Her one eye narrowed, as she rested her chin on one fist. “Go on,” she whispered.

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  “You gotta lure them out, make them think they’re stronger. Which they are.” Zaber’s voice trembled and broke. “I–” he stuttered. “Go on, rat-king. Explain it in your dirty language.” The greasy and unkempt man gasped and held his torso with both hands. “The b–” He paused. “Torm will translate.”

  Torm’s eyes flared up when he witnessed his mentor flounder. Pearls of sweat have been building up on Zaber’s forehead. The apprentice’s focus shifted away from the conversation, rubbing his wrists. “Man, are you alright?” he asked. “Want me to wake up Thyra?” The veteran’s answer was a weak handwave that made Torm grind his teeth.

  “At least my langue doesn’t sound like deux drunkards yelling at each other,” laughed Franque. He noticed Zaber falter, which made him act more flamboyantly. “Over here, gar?on!” He snapped his fingers at Torm before flooding him in his native tongue – slow, loud and emphasized.

  “He says we should split up. The labor camp will have between one and five hundred guards and be lightly fortified. Wooden palisades, something that’s easy to expand on. It’s not built to keep folk outside, but within.” Torm’s voice was devoid of emotion and nuance, as he paused and glimpsed at Zaber a lot. He wasn’t just breathing heavyly, but scratching his skin, sweating like a pig before the slaughter. “They’ll have line magicians, and at least two noblemen of unclear martial prowess. Their cavalry–” The young man fiddled with his leather jerkin, pulling his kerchief and handing it over to his mentor with a pressing gaze. “Cavalry will be light: more like messengers, or to look for runaways.” When Torm felt Roda’s eye piercing through him, he shook of his concern and turned his head towards the peasants. Everyone noticed Zaber’s breakdown, but the one-eyed woman ignored it and nodded along. “So, your few crossbowmen will have to work in tandem of two or three. Shooting, handing it back for someone to reload, shooting again. We, the proven fighters, will head in for an assault after you bait them outside.”

  “Wait–” Bigge raised his hand. “We’re going to face them alone, without any of you at the helm?”

  “Non, non.” Franque shook his head and hands. “I’ll leave you my s?ur. She’ll gardera and conseillera you. I assure you, if anybody can défendre you, it is her. Consider her–” He hesitated, rubbing his fingers in front of his mouth to pull out the words. “Une otage. I’ll get her back, because we won’t lose.”

  “I am sorry,” said Roda and sighed. “I didn’t understand a single word. Who’ll be with us?”

  Franque shooed Torm with his hands who did as he was told. The young man looked annoyed and concerned at the same time, keeping an eye on Zaber. The veteran held his ribs and had his nails buried into the scar on his jaw.

  “We need to scout ahead next, to find the best spot to take position,” translated Torm. “Intel on their manpower, the camp itself and its insides. And how to let the captives loose to join us; turn their numbers on them.” The young man’s face turned irritated at what Franque explained next. “Zaber and Asti will saddle up at sundown and ride ahead.” Torm’s head snapped to the side, at the wreck next to him. “What?” he asked. “Are you fucking with me? You can’t–”

  “Shut up!” Zaber’s fist twitched, as he exhaled. “Everyone else is needed for the drills.”

  “Look at you, you can’t even sit right,” replied Torm, and pointed at Asti. “And why him and not me? Thyra needs to sing to you more.”

  “What do you mean, why me?” Asti stood up and stepped in front of Torm, who rose as well, bumping chests.

  “His brother and Franque are valuable instructors,” said Zaber and straightened up against the pain, staring the two youngsters down. “The plan stands as is.”

  “If you go, I’ll follow. I don’t give a fuck what you say.” The young man ignored Asti’s posturing, enraging him even further. “I have nothing to teach, there’ll be no duels and I can barely do the drills myself.”

  “Fellas.” Roda walked next to Asti and Torm and put her hands on their shoulders. “Comrades,” she corrected herself. “None of you are showing us their best. Sort this out between yourself when our talk is over. Stay on point.”

  The brigands exchanged disgruntled eyes with Zaber and Torm until Franque broke the silence. “This is our last point,” he said. “Zabré, le glorieuse monstruosité, his petit ami and my men will do what we do best. Be maraudeurs.”

  “I didn’t understand half of this,” replied Roda, fixing her hair bun once more. “But I trust you know what you’re doing. What about the witch?”

  “Hothead here will be her garde.” Franque nodded at Torm, who was lost in a stare-off with Zaber that couldn’t be stopped by the most infectious laughter. “She’ll try to back us up with her magie as we br?lons the place to the ground,” he said with a smirk that gave no room for misinterpretation from the peasants. “Festival du fire.”

  “Let me go,” said Torm, ignoring everything around him. “I’ve snuck into enough houses, including the Westwatch. By the St–”

  “Alright.” Roda clapped her hands on her legs and shook her head. “We done?”

  “Ouais,” replied Franque, getting on his feet, and Ludi looking out for him. “Our camarades will soon drill your culs.” The two bandits walked past Asti, who brooded over what only Father Sun might know.

  “Wait,” said Zaber and ignored Torm. “You got good metalworkers?” he asked the peasants.

  “Yes, To? and his family from Luphton repair tools and make nails,” answered Bigge. None of the peasants were about to move, as they would continue their own meeting afterwards. “Need your weapons mended?”

  “Point me at them,” said the veteran, trying to get up, but fumbling. Torm’s grim face changed immediately, rushing to his mentor’s side. “I need–” Zaber panted. “I need something special. Nothing too complicated.”

  Roda stood up and let her eye wander around the camp. “How about I point them at you instead? If my son, like your–” She halted and mustered Torm benevolently. “Whatever you two are. But he is right, you need to rest, and you should know that.” Giving no room to reply, the one-eyed woman walked away, followed by her brother-in-law. The bickering was heard for quite a while.

  “Mind sharing?” asked Asti harshly. “We’re–”

  “Shut up,” interrupted Zaber, trying and failing to not lean on Torm’s shoulder. With the mentor’s slouched posture, the apprentice had gained the high ground. “I need to talk to you anyways,” he said to Asti, before he rubbed the scar on the back of his hand and glimpsed at Torm. “This ain’t one of your evening visits to steal kisses and get blown.”

  “I know,” said Torm. “I know what the fucking stakes are. You think I don’t want Sagir back?” He put Zaber back on his ass and pressed his kerchief into the greasy and unkempt man’s hand. “But I want you to survive this as well. I want all of us to be together and play dice again!” yelled Torm while forcing his mentor to wipe his forehead and showing him the sweat. “Look at you, man. Even without Asher, or Ceyhan, or Kell… I want to go back to normal.”

  Zaber let out the longest sigh his lungs let him produce, until the pain bit him and his entire right side twitched. “Argh, fuck it, damned–” he seethed through his teeth. “’aight, fucking go. Do it.”

  “Finally,” gasped Torm. “I am one of you now, you and Breg said it.”

  Franque and Ludi were waiting for Asti, who observed the pair of apprentice and mentor. The brigands’ leader still had trouble when he stood up too fast, but Buron told him that this was only temporary.

  “Ludi?” Zaber looked back, turning around as far as his body let him without screaming bloody murder.

  “Huh?” The older brother came back a step. “Sì?”

  “Can you go scouting with him?” Zaber waved at Torm. “I need your brother.”

  None of the veteran’s companions knew what Zaber was talking about. Suspicion seeped into their gazes as they checked on each other. Franque walked next to Zaber and braced himself on his ally’s shoulder. With some pressure, so that the veteran would understand. “Why so secret?” he asked. “If our plan changes, I should know, shouldn’t I?

  Zaber looked up and forced himself to smirk. “We ain’t sending two green ones, ain’t we?”

  Ludi moved between Zaber and his younger brother. Standing at full height, he rubbed the parts where his beard grew into his neck, irritated. “My brother is many things,” said the brigand. “But not vert.”

  Held back by his older brother’s whole posture, Asti grumbled a half-swallowed “Futtuto stronzo…”

  “Can you all stop this?” asked Torm, slouching his arms defeated. “We’re in this together, and there are a bunch of innocent folk involved now. Can you just spit it out, Zaber?” The young man pleaded with his eyes. “I am tired of your horseshit secrets.”

  “’aight,” said Zaber, standing up on weak knees. Without thinking about it, Torm helped him turn towards the bandits. “When we trained, Thyra said that a better understanding of the nature of what you wanna… sing–” He stumbled over his words. “Would help me learn the right tone. What fire feels like. I’ve been burned and branded before, but I ain’t getting it at all.”

  “Ohhh–” Asti’s face overflowed with smugness. “I can do something you can’t. Mi piace.”

  “Zaber,” said Torm tired. “You told them that we need to force our way of fighting onto our enemy.” The young man pointed at the whole peasantry around them. “What the fuck?”

  “Believe me, Torm.” Zaber’s fists itched in anticipation. “The last thing that perfume-drenched son of a noble whore will expect is what I’ll force onto him.”