again. Satisfied, he stepped into the saddle and continued on his way.
‘I have the face of a demon,’ said Dace suddenly.
‘I cannot tell,’ put in Tarantio. ‘I have never seen you.’
‘I have white hair, and a grey face. My eyes are yellow, and slitted like a cat. Why should I look like this?’
‘I do not know how souls are supposed to look.’
‘Am I a demon, Chio? Are you a man possessed?’
Tarantio thought about it for a while. ‘I do not know what we are, brother. Perhaps it is I who possesses you.’
‘Would you be happier if I were gone?’
Tarantio laughed. ‘Sometimes I think I would. But not often. We are brothers, Dace. It is just that we share the same form. And the truth is, I am fond of you. And I meant what I said to the old man . . . I do see good in you.’
‘Pah! You see what you want to see. As for me, I wish I could be rid of you.’
Tarantio shook his head and smiled. Dace fell silent and Tarantio rode on, passing the burned-out remains of two farming villages. There were no corpses, but a hastily built cairn showed where the bodies had been buried. The fields close by had not been harvested, the corn rotting on the stalk.
On the far side of the meadow he saw some women moving through the fields, carrying large wicker baskets. They stood silently as he rode by. Further on he came to a wide military road and passed a ruined postal station. Ten years ago, so he had been informed, there was an efficient postal service that connected all four Duchies. A letter written in Corduin, Gatien had told him, could be carried the 300 miles south-west to Hlobane in just
four days. From Hlobane to the Duke of The Marches’ capital of Prentuis – 570 miles east over rough country
– in ten days.
No letters were carried now. In fact, any private citizen who considered sending one to another Duchy would be arrested and probably hanged. The Duchies were engaged in a terrible war, composed of pitched battles, guerrilla raids, changing allegiances, betrayal and confusion. Mercenaries plied their trade from the southern sea at Loretheli to the northern mountains of Morgallis, from Hlobane in the west to Prentuis in the east. Few common warriors knew who was allied to whom. At the start of this summer campaign the Duke of The Marches had been allied with Duke Sirano of Romark against Belliese, the Corsair Duke, and Duke Albreck of Corduin. Belliese had switched sides early in June, and then the Duke of The Marches had quarrelled with Sirano and formed a new alliance with Albreck.
Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring nobility. Most soldiers did not try. Tarantio had been part of a mercenary regiment holding a fort against the besieging troops of Romark and The Marches. A herald brought news of his change of allegiance. It was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within the walls – some, like Tarantio, serving Belliese, others Corduin – found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the defenders
– who should now be attacking it – were already inside it. The council meeting went on for five days.
Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could all march away with honour satisfied.
Three hundred and twenty-nine men had died during the siege. Their bodies were buried in a communal grave.
Two weeks later, Tarantio and a thousand men were back at the fort, rebuilding the walls.