The Outcast (Summoner #4)(36)
“Well, lad, are you coming or not?” a grizzled sergeant called from the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon. The middle-aged man patted the seat next to him, and though Arcturus looked longingly at the relative warmth within the vehicle’s canvas shell, he leaped up at the front.
“All ready!” called a voice from behind them, as dwarven servants scattered to make a path.
The wagon shook as the soldiers leaped in behind them; then they were trundling over the drawbridge, while Arcturus looked nervously at the murky waters on either side—knowing that if they tipped in, he would sink like a stone. He had never learned to swim.
“So, they’ve saddled you with our little band of ruffians,” the gruff sergeant beside him said, clicking his tongue as he turned their wagon onto the dirt track outside Vocans.
“Well, there was no room so…,” Arcturus mumbled.
“Aye, that Zacharias boy brought enough garments to clothe half of the king’s army,” the sergeant grumbled. “Though truth be told we could do with them, fancy though they may be.”
The sergeant grimaced picking at a loose thread on his breeches. Arcturus maintained a diplomatic silence, looking out at the rolling countryside.
“We’ll not be seeing any orcs around here,” the sergeant said, misunderstanding Arcturus’s gaze. “They don’t raid this far north. Nor would a gang of brigands attack a convoy under our protection, not to mention one carrying a group of novice summoners. You’re safe, lad.”
Arcturus was not so sure; Edmund had told him that the need for an escort was related to the riots. Still, it was a relief to hear that they were not in danger of orcs. He had never seen one, but the fearsome creatures were the stuff of nightmares, used to scare naughty children into behaving.
“You fight them?” Arcturus asked. “The orcs, I mean.”
“That’s the long and short of it,” the sergeant said. “Raiders mostly, after cattle. The southern villages are all but empty now—nobody wants to live there anymore. There’s only so much our soldiers can do.”
Arcturus shuddered at the thought, remembering the tales he had heard from the wounded veterans who had passed through the tavern, trading their tales of horror and bravery for a few pennies and a bed.
“How many of you are there?” Arcturus asked, remembering the paltry number of men in the wagon behind them.
“There’s maybe a few hundred of us,” the sergeant said. “A score or so of squads like mine. Hard to say really—we lose a lot of men, and recruit a lot of volunteers. Poor buggers. When they find out the reality of it, it’s too late to change their minds.”
“Is it really so bad?” Arcturus asked.
If he ever graduated Vocans, he assumed he would be on the front lines with men like these. At least, that was the case for the lesser nobles who had no money to raise their own soldiers, and instead became officers in the king’s army. It was a few years away yet, but that did not change the dread that suddenly seized his heart.
“Not for my lads,” the sergeant replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “We haven’t had a casualty in almost six months. It’s why our squad got picked for this escort mission, even if it is a babysitting job.”
“That’s a relief,” Arcturus replied, but the sergeant remained unconvinced.
“Don’t be fooled by our appearance. We do our best with what we have; our generals equipped us with hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs, rusty old swords and half-rotted crossbows. But you’ll find my men know how to use them. I keep them on a tight leash.”
“The tightest,” came a voice from behind them, muffled by the canvas. “He’s a harsh taskmaster, that’s the truth. Drills us night and day. It’s a miracle we even get any sleep.”
“Quiet in the ranks!” the sergeant barked, but with a grin on his face.
A head popped out between Arcturus and the sergeant, pushing through the parting of canvas behind them.
“Bloody hell, Sarge, you don’t half blather on. We’re trying to get some sleep back here.”
The soldier who had spoken was surprisingly old, aged at what Arcturus guessed was in his thirties. He had light brown hair and a wide, infectious grin.
“Private Rotter, you will get back to your station,” the sergeant growled, pushing the private’s head back with his elbow. “Or you’ll be digging our latrines for a week.”
“Right you are, Sergeant Caulder,” Rotter replied, saluting smartly and retreating back inside.
Sergeant Caulder shook his head and gave Arcturus a wry smile.
“Despite appearances, Rotter’s a damned good soldier.” Caulder whispered, “I’d have recommended his promotion a long time ago if he weren’t so damned immature.”
The muffled sound of a raucous, curse-filled shanty emanated from behind them.
“Shut it, Rotter,” groaned another soldier.
The singing only got louder.
Arcturus grinned. Maybe he hadn’t pulled the short straw after all.
CHAPTER
20
AS ARCTURUS GAZED AT the slow-changing surroundings, the gentle, green-carpeted fields filled with sleepy hamlets and lowing cows receded into the hills behind them, replaced by something wilder.
Untended, overgrown hedges began to mar the landscape, which was now scattered with outcrops of rocks and sprawling brambles. It was only when they began to see the first ruins of burned-out and abandoned houses, covered with invading tendrils of ivy, that they turned off the main path, forking to the southwest. The convoy was on the edge of orc-raiding territory now, and the sergeant laid a crossbow upon his lap, his eyes scanning their surroundings for signs of an ambush.