Free Warlord by Jennifer Fallon Page A

back to Axelle Regis. “What are you offering?”
    “Your people will be paid the same as troops in the regular army and given the honorary rank of non-commissioned officers.”
    Chyler shook her head emphatically. “Unacceptable! They’ll be given the honorary rank of captain and paid accordingly, or we’re not interested.”
    “That’s preposterous!” Regis exclaimed. “You want me to accord your rabble the same rank as noblemen?”
    “They’re going to be taking the greatest risks,” Brak pointed out. “Why shouldn’t they be paid accordingly?”
    “But as officers?” The general was appalled. “That’s highway robbery!”
    Brak smiled. “Did you miss the bit about us being thieves?”
    Axelle Regis shook his head. “Absolutely not!”
    “Then find your own intelligence.” Chyler shrugged, rising to her feet again. She turned and headed to the door with Brak close behind her.
    “What if we paid them as officers?” Baraban suggested hurriedly. “But they retain the rank of say … sergeants?”
    Chyler stopped and looked up at Brak, before shaking her head and declaring, “They have to be captains.”
    “Why?” Regis asked impatiently.
    “Because,” Brak explained, with a faintly patronising air, “if one of our people is coming across the border with urgent intelligence, he needs to be able to get through your lines and back to the command post to deliver it, or he might as well find himself a nice little tavern behind enemy lines in Hythria somewhere, settle down and stay put for the duration of the war. An officer can commandeer a horse. An officer can make things happen. A non-commissioned officer is just as likely to be left languishing on the front lines, his intelligence rapidly becoming useless, while some jumped-up nobleman’s son with more money than military training decides to take it upon himself to judge whether or not the information this rabble of ours is carrying is worth passing up the line.”
    Regis glared at Brak and then, with a great deal of reluctance, he gave in. “I see you have some experience in this area, Master Brak.”
    “I’m older than I look.”
    “Can I assume, given the appropriate rank and remuneration, you’ll be volunteering your services?”
    Brak glanced at Chyler before he agreed. She shrugged, apparently resigned to the inevitable. She knew the last thing he wanted was a war fought every inch of the way to Greenharbour. It would empower Zegarnald to an insufferable degree. If he spied for the Fardohnyans, maybe their victory would be a little swifter, a little cleaner. The fewer men who died fighting, the less the God of War could benefit from their deaths. “You can count me in, I suppose.”
    “Madam Kantel?”
    Chyler sighed. “I’ll speak to my men. How many do you want?”
    “A dozen to start with. Maybe more if the Hythrun prove to be more organised than we anticipate.”
    An organised opposition , Brak thought. That’s all we need .
    Brak had no real interest in securing a victory for Hablet of Fardohnya, any more than he particularly cared if Lernen Wolfblade of Hythria was overthrown. He’d lived through dozens of monarchs in both countries. They had come in all varieties, good, bad, evil and benign. For a man who counted his age in centuries rather than years, this pending war was no better or worse than scores of others he’d seen fought.
    The only thing about war that never changed, Brak knew, was that Zegarnald grew stronger with every innocent human death, and for no other reason than it irked Brak to see Zegarnald win at anything, he was prepared to do whatever it took to see this war was over and done with in the shortest time possible.
    If that meant becoming a Fardohnyan spy, so be it.

CHAPTER 8
     
    T he Walsark Crossroads was the main junction of the roads that led from Krakandar City in the east of the province to Walsark in the north, Byamor, the capital of Elasapine Province in the west (the road Damin and his army