The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter 1

Tinstafl, on the Plains of Danskagge

It's odd the way memory works. I just lifted a reed pen, scraped my thumbnail over the tip to see if it was sharp, and suddenly I wasn't sitting as I am now, in a cold, drafty stone hut in the middle of the winter with three days' growth of beard on my chin and a stomach sour from eating too much sausage, but enjoying the warmth of summer, sound of body with a good horse between my knees. It's HIS doing, I suppose, since it was he who taught me to hold a pen and first traced the letters for me.

I'll think of him. God knows it's better than letting my stomach churn while thinking of tomorrow's fighting. Maybe I won't be here tomorrow. Maybe I will, and right now I don't care.

Anakreon's sitting in the corner by the fire, older, more hacked, and more silent. He's afraid, too, I know. He's always afraid, but then a good mercenary has to be. He lives longer that way. Anakreon was the first to see him, the Swordsman.

We first saw him in summer, in Tinstafl on the plains of Danskagge. Tinstafl is one of those cities that should figure in the tales of magic as a place of evil spells. For one thing, the sewer system, built in the time of some fighting king or other, is a putrid network of open canals built by a man who diverted the wealth of the land from public works to war. And, the Danskaggans being what they are, no one has ever had the native wit to remedy the situation.

But Tinstafl's a nice enough city once you get used to the everlasting stench of the sewer and the constant noise of traders and camel‑drivers. It stands at the intersection of two major trade routes, and there's a bazaar thrice weekly, and also a slave auction. It was an afternoon's entertainment for some of our company to go to the auction and hoot at the ugliest slaves as they came to the block. I discouraged the practice.

That day Anakreon had his roan stallion saddled and called me to him to say he planned to look over the marketplace and wanted me to come along. I'd been making notches on a stick as an inventory of our men and supplies, a notch for each horse, an X for each pack animal. Not the best system, but the best I could do, since I didn't know how to write.

It annoyed me to be interrupted, and I said so, but it didn't impress Anakreon, so I got up and went, and Anakreon followed me outside, grinning his wolf's grin. The grin itself wasn't unpleasant, but Anakreon only has one good eye. The other socket is filled with a globe of dark blue glass. It makes him look very mean.

The smile mellowed slightly. "If you'd rather stay inside that dark room and peer at notches all day, Oristides," he said, "Then go on ahead."

I scowled and muttered something uncomplimentary, then called for my horse. By the time I was mounted Anakreon was already halfway down the road, the set of his shoulders showing his amusement.

** ** **

After we had smelled the spices and fingered the cloth and the girls for hire, we were both heartily bored and very thirsty. The crowd stank of dust and the sewer, and so did we. It was on my tongue to suggest a retreat to a nearby tavern when Anakreon pulled in his horse and directed his one‑eyed, incredulous gaze to the slave‑seller's podium.

There was nothing there to interest anyone. Clearly, the pick of the slaves had been sold and only the worn‑out, dull‑witted or unhealthy ones remained. I started to tug on Anakreon's sleeve when he hissed at me to shut up and reined his horse into the throng.

I stayed where I was. Anakreon can ride through crowds at a gallop and draw smiles from all the people he's trampled. Comes of being a prince. On the other hand, I get curses and dirty looks when I even so much as lead my quiet mare through a cluster of people. Several folks saw me and spat‑‑soldiers aren't well liked on the plains of Danskagge‑‑and turned back to the bidding.