The Cold Commands (13 page)

Ringil sat on a rise near the overseers’ tents and listened, staring into the early sunlight as if it were the wind. He was out of meaningful distractions; he’d cleaned the Ravensfriend with lengthy care, put it to rest in the scabbard on his back; he’d watched Eril’s ragtag mercenary crew check on the bodies of the march-masters and the imperials, slitting the odd throat where necessary but mostly just looting pockets; he’d searched Snarl’s tents for anything remotely useful, upending boxes and ripping the seals off parchment rolls, perusing ornately written documents that were either numbingly banal or in impenetrable cipher.

Pointless, all of it—the sounds of the rape stalked him whatever he did, Snarl’s screams winding down to sobbing and finally a low, infrequent moaning; the men’s grunting hilarity chasing an oddly similar
decline, as if the less resistance there was, the less they were comfortable with what they were doing.

It was the sound of the war, all over again.

Eril came and joined him, squatted at his side. Ringil nodded his acknowledgment, didn’t really look at him.

“How’d we do?”

“Pretty good all around. We lost seven men in the fight here, plus another four still unaccounted for, might have gotten lost in the forest. Couple of wounded. Pargil, the big fat guy? He got his arm hacked up pretty bad, probably going to lose it when we get him to a surgeon. But he can walk for now. The other’s gutted, we’ll have to carry him. No one else got worse than gashes.”

Ringil ran the count in his head.

“That leaves eighteen.”

“Nineteen. There’s that old guy we took on at Hreshim’s Landing last week.”

“Right. Forgot all about him.”

Quiet—and seeping into it the small, muffled noises that Poppy Snarl still made. The grunting of the men. Eril seemed to read something in Ringil’s face as they listened. He cleared his throat.

“You want me to stop that?”

Ringil switched a glance at him, saw how the Marsh Brotherhood man flinched from it. He looked away again, into the sun.

“I mean.” Eril hesitated. “You said, you didn’t want her to … ”

“Die?” The word ghosted out of him. He made an effort, pulled himself back in from the gray margins of his own thoughts. “Poppy Snarl came up in harbor end. She was running with the Brides of Silt before she was ten years old. Bossing them by the time she hit fifteen. It takes more than a gang rape to kill someone like that.”

Eril thought he heard a reluctant admiration behind the words. He shifted on his haunches, cleared his throat again.

“Okay, but … these men, you know, they’re not exactly … well, with the purse we had, how fast we had to do the hiring, they’re not going to be the most—”

“Soldiers rape,” Ringil said harshly. “Regardless of what they’re paid. It’s what they do. You think this is the first time I’ve had to listen to …”

His jaw tightened. He came to his feet abruptly, as if levered there by some mechanism Eril couldn’t see.

“Fuck this shit,” he whispered.

He stalked down the rise to where the latest in a short, scruffy queue of men was heaving himself up and down on Snarl’s spread-eagled naked form. The man had his breeches down to his boots, his unbuckled sword belt, sword, and sheath cast aside in a hasty tangle. He made a throaty gasping sound each time he thrust into the woman under him.

Ringil grabbed him by the unkempt hair and pulled him off. Got a strangled yelp from the man, dumped him sideways across his discarded belt and sword.

“That’s enough.”

The interrupted man scrabbled halfway to his feet, one hand cupping down to cover his still-erect and throbbing prick, the other fumbling for the hilt of his sword. His face was a mask of slit-eyed fury. His voice came out choking.

“You. Fucking … ”

Fingers found and fastened on the sword hilt.

“Do it,” Ringil told him. “Give me a reason.”

He held the stare. Hoped for the two heartbeats it took that the man wouldn’t back down. Because this one—he could feel it trembling through him now—this one, he’d do with his bare hands.

The man’s prick shrank and shriveled, hung like the neck on a plucked and slaughtered hen. His fingers slipped free of the sword hilt. He looked away, dribbled out a feeble, halfway laugh.

“Yeah, all right. Whatever.” He got awkwardly to his feet, tugged his breeches up his legs as he rose. “No fucking loss anyway. Had better up against a wharf post in Baldaran.”

Ringil thinned his lips, found the serrated edges of his front teeth with the tip of his tongue. He still wanted to kill this man.

“Get your gear back on,” he said tightly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, brushing the hilt of the Ravensfriend with his loosely curled knuckles. “Go do what you’ve been paid for. Get down there and start cutting the shackles off these people.”

The man hesitated, licked his lips. Something cheering seemed to occur to him, and the frown cleared off his face. He buckled his breeches
closed, bent, and picked up his sword. As he straightened up, Ringil stepped in close and grabbed him by the shoulder. Got in his face and nailed him with another stare.

“And you leave the women alone. You’ve had all the fun you’re going to today. I catch you trying this with anybody else, I’ll hamstring you and leave you out here for the hyenas. Got that?”

Stiff silence, and the death-house reek of the man’s breath in his face. Ringil’s free hand curled into a fist at his side.

“I
said:
Have you got that?”

The man swallowed, then dropped his gaze. He tugged sullenly free of Ringil’s grasp, stepped back.

“Yeah, man, I got it, I fucking got it—all right? Just leave me the fuck alone. What did I do, huh? What did I fucking do?”

He slouched away down the slope, jerking angrily at his sword belt where it had settled too high on his waist. Ringil turned to watch, and his gaze swept across the line of men still waiting there.

“You too. Fun’s over. We set these people free, we see that they’re fed. Jengthir, you make sure that’s what happens.”

The men looked at one another doubtfully. Jengthir cleared his throat.

“My lord, it’s uh … that’s going to take a long time. We’re not—”

“Do I look like I want your fucking advice?”

Jengthir flinched. He turned and muttered something to the men, gestured down the slope. They went, but not particularly fast, and with resentful glances cast back across their shoulders every second step. Ringil caught each glance and stared it back down. He could feel the command begin to unravel around him. Could not make himself much care.

At his feet, weak, coughing laughter.

He looked down. Poppy Snarl had propped herself up on one shaky elbow, was working to fold her legs back under her. Her mouth was broken and bruising fast across one corner; blood had run and crusted there. One eye was swollen almost closed, and there were bites everywhere on her exposed flesh.

“Lost the taste for your vengeance, have you, Eskiath?” She folded her arms across herself. She was starting to tremble, but still she stared up at him defiantly. “Fucking rich kids, you’re all the same. No guts
when it comes to the crunch. Spoiled stupid little Glades-blood queer. Findrich and the rest are so fucking wrong about you. You’re soft as pox pus.”

“It isn’t my vengeance,” he told her distantly.

“Oh, yes.” She bared her teeth, spat at his feet. “Poor little Sherin. Is this what she wanted done, then?”

“No. She just asked me to kill you.” Ringil took the dragon-tooth blade from his sleeve. He crouched to Snarl’s height. “She didn’t say anything about protecting your honor until I did it, though.”

“Honor.” An awful bubbling laugh came up out of Poppy Snarl’s throat. “Oh, but how the other half live.
Honor?
You think, you
really think
this is the first time I’ve been raped? You think it’s the
tenth
time, maybe? The twentieth?”

“I don’t care, Poppy.”

“Fuck you, Eskiath. You think I would have lived past
fourteen fucking years old
in harbor end if I’d broken as easily as your little bitch cousin? You tell them back at House Eskiath I was a dozen times the woman Sherin ever was, and before I was half her fucking age. You tell them I said that.”

“No, I won’t,” Ringil said quietly. “I’ll tell them you died screaming and begging for mercy.”

“Well, you always were a fucking liar.” She jerked her chin up at him, bared her throat, and sneered. “So what are you waiting for, you mincing aristo cunt? Get it done, why don’t you.”

AFTERWARD, HE LEFT HER BODY WHERE IT LAY AND WENT DOWN TO
stand among the coffles she had owned. Around him, the mercenaries went about with manacle cutters and much bad grace, setting free the slaves and throwing stale bread at their feet. None who passed him would meet his eye.

The men under your command may well hate you
, he’d once written, in a treatise on modern warfare that never saw publication.
And who can blame them? They see you dine on fine wine and meat while they subsist on gruel. They sleep under canvas and you under silk. They make do with rusting hand-me-down mail while you gleam in personally tailored plate
.
And where battle is joined against known and human foes, they know that if captured, you will likely as not be feted by noble commanders on the opposing side and ransomed safely home, while they will likely be tortured, mutilated, or killed
.

Who, without the careful massaging of illusory tribal pride or the promise of rape and pillage, would
not
hate their commander under such circumstances?

Of course, the Scaled Folk had come along and changed a lot of that. They didn’t differentiate—grunt-level soldiery or noble flesh, apparently it all tasted pretty much the same to them. Stumbling on the barbecue pits and cracked and blackened human bones the lizards habitually left behind at their camps, the League’s soldiers acquired a sudden, icy understanding of their common humanity and what it stood against. They were no longer fighting to plant a flag somewhere pointless, to avenge this or that slight to honor in the endless squabbling negotiations of the various noble families and city fathers who owned every fucking thing the eye could see.

They were fighting not to be eaten.

The clean, cold clarity of it washed over the young Ringil Eskiath—at the time a sinecure-posted junior liaison officer with Trelayne’s Majak mercenary units—like bathing at the Falls of Treligal. Where other men, other commanders from the noble families of the League, recoiled in horror before the change, Ringil embraced it like the tight-muscled torso of an unexpected back-alley lover.

It carried him through the war. It sent him up against the lizards at Gallows Gap fully expecting to die, and it made a hero of him instead.

And then, in the sick-to-the-stomach, hungover morning light of their victory over the Scaled Folk, like so many of those tight muscled back-alley lovers over the years, the promise of change melted from his side, and was gone.

At the time, it took him a while to understand what had happened. He was still young back then; he really had believed in the change. But as the norms shifted again, back to what had been before or near as fuck, his enduring belief started to get in the way. Later, it came close to killing him. Came closer in fact than the Scaled Folk had ever managed—toward the end, it had taken Archeth’s intervention to save him, to wake him to
the fact that they’d saved humanity from the lizards so that said humanity could go right back to wallowing in the same pit of ignorance and oppression it had seemed so comfortable with before.

He walked away.

Away from the honors and the offers, away from the collapsing unity between League and Empire, away from the thousand petty squabbles and land grabs the war had degenerated into. He spat out what he could of the taste the war had left in his throat, and among many other pointless exercises sat down to write his treatise.

Hate, then. Since it’s so fucking popular again.

But hate
, he reminded his putative audience of young, up-and-coming noble commanders,
is a curious emotion, often akin to love, in fact resembling love much as your image in the distorting mirror of a penny shriek-house resembles you. And even more curious—in the white heat of combat, the shriek-house of men killing and dying for causes undefined, passage across that mirror surface is sometimes possible. Make that transition, step through somehow, and their hate for you may transform, as well, into a pure, consuming love for which they may well follow you and give their lives
.

It was, he’d readily admit, weird beyond belief, but he’d seen it happen that way, more than once, in the raging chaos of the war, like quicksilver magic, like so much else that happened to him in those years. Twisted, and wonderful, and strange.

But that was the war and that was then.

Here and now, on the scrub-plain borderlands outside Hinerion, with a ragged band of the cheapest mercenary castoffs his depleted purse could buy, there would be no transformations. There would be no wonder.

He was trapped behind the mirror, and he knew it.

So he watched the freeing of the slaves, and tried not to feel, as his men evidently already did, that it was all a colossal waste of time.

Tried not to feel at all.

The slaves themselves seemed for the most part to have reached a similar state of numbness. Some few scrambled to their feet as soon as the chains came off, grabbed the bread they were thrown, and hurried away toward the fringes of the forest in ones and twos, glancing back
over their shoulders all the way; others, mostly the women, grabbed at the hands of their liberators and tried to kiss them or wept. And got startled curses and shruggings-off for their efforts. But these were the minority. Most just took the food and gnawed at it where they sat, staring into some hollow distance they’d excavated for themselves during their captivity. Perhaps they didn’t believe what was happening; perhaps they thought it was a trick. Or perhaps they no longer cared one way or the other. Certainly, if they grasped the fact they were free, it didn’t seem worth very much to them.