by Robert Adams
Zenos, Milo, and all the senior officers had agreed that their present position was as good a defensive site as they might find. At this point, there was a bare forty miles of plains between the saltfens and the mountains. The River Lumbuh in itself presented a formidable barrier — for almost all of the forty miles of lowland, it ran both wide and deep, with but the one bridge spanning it. Miles upstream were a couple of fords, but they were said to be narrow and treacherous at best and could be easily defended by small forces.
Milo put the most of his forces and those of his new ally to vastly enlarging the camp and to making a true, palisaded castra of it — the artificers laid out and marked the courses of the huge rectangle, and then the troops were set to digging the ditch that would front all four sides. Milo put even the wounded to work, whittling points onto wooden stakes and making caltrops, then dumping their handiwork into old latrines to “season.”
The spoil from the ditch — twenty feet wide, ten feet deep — was mounded inside the enclosure and, held in place by forms made of split logs supported by stakes, tightly packed. And the work went on by day and by night. Other troops spent their days in a forest, half a mile to the north, felling trees and transporting them to camp, where the artificers topped them and shaped the trunks and larger branches. The tops were denuded of leaves and small twigs by walking-wounded and the tip of each and every remaining branch was given a sharp point — dumped in embankments or lashed together, these would make quite an effective abatis.
After a week, armed men began to trickle from north, west, and south: some were mounted; most were afoot; a few were disciplined Freefighters; the rest were straggling bands gathered together by one of Zenos’ officers, some noble or a village headman. One and all were immediately attached to one of Milo’s or Zenos’ units and put to work on the fortifications.
When a Freefighter officer grumbled within Milo’s hearing distance that at least some time should be devoted to drills and arms-practice, the High Lord had the officers and nobles assembled before his pavilion.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we have perhaps a month until the south bank of the Lumbuh will be aswarm with the largest single army these realms have ever seen. We mean to stop them there, on the south bank; but, if we fail, if those rapacious hordes manage to fight their way onto this side of the river, we must have a stronghold that can be defended by a minimum number of troops, while the bulk of the army withdraws northward. This stronghold must be so situated that the enemy will feel impelled to attack and overwhelm it. Ours is so placed, straddling as it does the eastern trade road, menacing the enemy’s lines of supply. Additionally, the castra must be strong enough to hold off as many troops as possible for every possible second.
“Now, I know that many of you professionals are somewhat incensed at the lack of unit drills, field maneuvering, and arms-training for the volunteers.”
There was a grumble of assent from among his listeners. He raised a hand to still it.
“As for unit drills, I doubt not that every Freefighter and Confederation soldier in this camp could perform them in his sleep . . . and probably often has.” He added with a grin, drawing answering grins, nods, and a few chuckles from the throng.
“As for training the volunteers, most are ill armed and we have scant equipment to supply them and, even had we mountains of arms and armor, one bare, month is just too short a time to teach plowboys to angle their pikes and stand firm in the face of a cavalry charge.
“As for field maneuvers, they are totally unnecessary, since I have no intention of engaging Zastros’ army in formal battle. Hopefully, by the time his army comes up to the Lumbuh, we will have sixty thousand troops here. King Zastros will outnumber us by more than two to one — not impossible odds if we wage purely defensive warfare, but sheer suicide for most of us if we allow ourselves to be lured into a formal engagement.
“Do not misunderstand me, gentlemen, I mean to fight! I mean to send the scattered remnants of King Zastros’ army running back southward as fast as their legs can carry them. But, gentlemen, I mean to fight at a time and place of my choosing. The place is here, if we can hold the river line long enough; the time is when the odds are a little more in our favor.
“And they will be, gentlemen, can we but hold our place for a maximum of eight weeks from this day! The Duke of Kumbuhlun is making ready to march with his entire army and that of his cousin, the Count of Mahrtuhnburk. By now, Captain Guhsz Helluh should be ensconced in Salzburk recruiting every uncommitted Freefighter within sight or hearing distance. We are in alliance with the Lord of the Sea Isles and he has agreed to furnish an unspecified number of fighters. And I received, less than an hour ago, a message that the King of Pitzburk is dispatching five hundred picked noblemen and six thousand dragoons, as well. He also assures the Confederation of financial assistance.
“So, you see, we are not alone, we are growing stronger, gaining more allies every day. All that we need is a little more time. I think that what we are doing here will buy us that time. But I must have the active support of you gentlemen to accomplish my plans.”
A short officer shouldered his way to the front, respectfully removed his helm from his grizzled head, and politely asked, “Can I be heard, Lord Milo?”
Milo stepped aside, making room on the earthen dais and the heavily scarred, one-eyed veteran joined him, walking with the rolling gait of an old cavalryman.
“I be Senior Lieutenant Erl Hohmun, of Mai’s Squadrons. I ain’t no gentleman, less you consider the youngest son of a younger son of a younger son such, so don’t nobody expec’ me to talk like one. But I’ve fought for Lord Milo’s gold for more’n thirty year now — I’uz a trooper under ol’ Djeen Mai, a sergeant and senior-sergeant under his son, Bili Mai, and now I’m servin’ Djeen’s grandson. In all that time, I ain’t never seen High Lord Milo lose a battle, ain’t never had to retreat from any set-to that he himself planned. Ol’ soljers, like me, can feel things in their bones, an’ right now I got me a strong feelin’. If we all stick by the Lord Milo, do ever’thin’ he tells us, an’ do it his way, we’ll still be a-lootin the Southern Kingdom, come this time nex’ year!”
A roar from the Freefighter officers was taken up by the Confederation professionals and, seriously outnumbered, the nobles could only join in. Milo could have hugged the ugly little one-eyed Lieutenant Hohmun, who in a few short, blunt words had saved the day for him and Kehnooryos Ehlahs through assuring him of the overwhelming support of the officer-corps. Milo had tried to appeal to such things as reason, honor and self-sacrifice . . . and never aroused any real enthusiasm; the gap-toothed dragoon, at least seven hundred years Milo’s junior, had won them with those two basic things for which soldiers fought in this savage world — leadership of a proven and undefeated lord, and loot.
Milo said a few closing words, called forward and introduced some recent arrivals, then dismissed the formation.
Maxos and Beros, both petty nobles of the Karaleenos city of Thalasopolis, who had grudgingly brought in what was to have been a band of anti-Confederation guerrillas, strolled off hand in hand, Maxos hissing, “But, darling, it was so obvious, to an intelligent man, at least. The High Lord had that disgusting barbarian creature planted . . . probably spent just days drumming those exact words into the little ape. . . .”
Not being mindspeakers, neither had a mindshield, so Milo was easily able to eavesdrop on their thoughts; those two would possibly bear watching. But their type was a very small minority; most of the departing nobles and officers radiated a new sense of purpose, expressions of dedication and loyalty and dreams of gold and women of the Southern Kingdom.
Milo could but wish that he felt as confident of victory.
5
At his own suggestion, Lord Alexandros had remained in Kehnooryos Atheenahs when his captains and ship returned to the Sea Isles. He informed them that he was hostage to their full cooperation in the effort to stop King Zastros.
Despite her burning curiosi
ty regarding the young man’s relationship to that man he so closely resembled — his namesake, the late Lord Strahtegos Alexandros of Pahpahspolis — Lady Mara could find no time for her hostage-lord for over a month, so filled were her days with the multitudinous chores engendered by her responsibilities. Nor, despite Milo’s gesture of solicitude, was Aldora of any immediate help. Without even reporting to Mara upon her arrival in the capital, she dismissed most of her guard, ordered a barge, and had herself rowed downriver to Ehlai, not returning until all the Tribe’s fighters had departed and the young and old were being boated up to Kehnooryos Atheenahs.
Nonetheless, Mara did the best she could to make the Sea Lord’s stay a happy one. Gooltes and Manos, his two bodyguard-servants, were augmented by a host of skilled slaves’ and a detachment of Lady Mara’s own private guard.
At the end of the first week, Lieutenant Komees Feeleepos, the detachment commander, reported to his mistress.
“My lady, Lord Alexandros makes friends quite easily. Indeed, I have come to admire and respect him . . . not that my personal feelings would in any way impair my loyalty to Your Grace, of course,” he added quickly.
“Of course.” She nodded. “He mixes well, then, with the court?”
The corners of the young officer’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “Oh, yes, my lady. He has received invitations to nearly every noble house in the city. Some, he has already accepted; five, he has attended.”
“Whose?” demanded Mara. “And what transpired?”
“Theftehrah, it was dinner with Lord Neeaheearkos Petros and some of his officers. They spent most of the evening discussing the sea, the various coasts, ships, fleet tactics, plus navigation and other mysteries. To my thinking, Lord Petros still doesn’t quite trust Lord Alexandros, but he now has respect for his skills and experience . . . he might even like him, in time.
“Treetee was a dinner party at the town house of Lord Vahrohnos Paulos of Notohpolis . . . the Vahrohnos’ usual variety of party, of course.”
Mara’s lips wrinkled in disgust. She had always found it difficult to be even marginally polite to High Lord Demetrios’ coterie of pederasts; but she had tried, mostly for the good of the Confederation, since many of them were powerful nobles and/or high-ranking and efficient officers. She had suffered many crushing disappointments in her long, long life; but, considering all that Alexandros’ name and physical appearance meant to her, she was fearful of asking her officer that question she knew she must. Trying desperately to mask any evidence of her inner turmoil, she inquired, “And how did Lord Alexandros enjoy the party?”
The lieutenant chuckled. “The Sea Lord wasn’t born yesterday, Your Grace. He obviously knew his host and fellow guests for just what they were. When he was offered the so-called place of honor — sharing Paulos’ dining couch — he very politely requested a chair, instead, saying that he suffered indigestion if he dined other than erect. He ate and drank and chatted in a most friendly fashion with all who addressed him. He lavishly complimented his host’s home, decorations, food, wines, and musicians; but he appeared to be completely unable to comprehend the meanings of a number of quite overt verbal overtures that the Vahrohnis, who seems rather taken by him, put to him. When the feasting was done and Paulos announced that the ‘entertainment’ was about to commence, Lord Alexandros rose, pleaded fatigue, thanked the Vahrohnos for the dinner, and we took our leave.
“I am reliably informed that, immediately subsequent to our departure, Lord Paulos threw a knife at one guest who made some comment or other, bashed in the front teeth of a second, then burst into tears and fled the dining hall.”
Mara felt as if the weight of a war horse had been suddenly lifted from her. She smiled broadly. Then another thought came to her and she frowned.
“Be very careful of the Vahrohnos and his clique, Fil, warn Lord Alexandros to be equally cautious. That kind of man can be petty and spiteful as an unpaid whore, when balked; furthermore, Vahrohnos Paulos is a veteran warrior and a duelist of some note, should he take it into his head that he has been publicly humiliated and decide to force Alexandros into a death match. Well, things could get very sticky with the men of the Sea Islands should any harm come to their Lord.”
Feeleepos smiled lazily. “Your Grace need have no fears in that direction.”
“Oh, I know,” said Mara impatiently. “You and your men will protect him from assassins, but if Paulos opts to call the Sea Lord out, man to man . . .”
“In the unlikely event, my lady,” he said, interrupting, “my money will go on Lord Alexandros. Have a death match between Paulos and Alexandros, and they’ll be putting a well-hacked buggerer in Paulos’ family tomb the next day! Believe me, my lady, I am a professional. I have seen the Vahrohnos fight and I have seen Lord Alexandros fight and . . .”
“When,” snapped Mara, her eyes flashing fire, “have you seen Lord Alexandros fight, Lieutenant?”
The officer squirmed under her glare. “My lady, Lord Alexandros spent his first two days touring the city, but on the morning after the Vahrohnos’ party, he said that he felt in need of some exercise. I took him to the main guard barracks, thinking that he might wish to swim or run or jump or throw spears, but he insisted that we stop at the practice yard, where he first requested, then demanded, a padded brigandine, weapons, and shield.
What could I do, Your Grace? I had him fitted out with regulation training weapons and a full-face, double-thick helm. Then I warned the weapon master that if any harm came to Alexandros, I’d have off his ears and nose.
“Well, they whacked away for a while, Weapons Master Rahn taking more blows than he gave. Then Lord Alexandros spun around and stalked over to the barrier where I was standing. He said that he had come for a practice bout, not a sword dance, that he’d rather fight me than old Rahn, and that I had better give him a real fight or I’d shortly wish I had.”
Mara could almost hear the quoted words, for they sounded so like that other Alexandros, that long years’ dead Alexandros. “And you fought him . . . really fought him?” she prodded.
Feeleepos nodded gravely. “Yes, Your Grace, I really fought him, and I pray that I never have to face him in actual battle. My lady, he is of slight frame and build, as you know. He was burdened with a thick, hot brigandine that reached to his knees and weighed exactly twice as much as a scaleshirt, ten pounds of helm, and double-weight infantry-style shield and sword; yet he danced around me like a cat toying with a mouse, a thrust here and a hack there, a slash at the legs, and a split second later a stab at the eyes. By straining every muscle, I was able to catch or deflect them all with either shield or sword; but when he shouted his war cry and closed with me, Your Grace, there was no way I could have stopped him. Then he stepped back and saluted me and thanked me for my efforts.
“Of course, a crowd of off-duty officers and men had gathered around to watch; we don’t discourage the pastime, for observation, too, is a form of training. At any rate, Lord Alexandros pulled off his helm and asked if any of the onlookers would care to give him a bout. When no one immediately came forward, he suggested that the swords be tarred and offered a silver piece for every tar mark an opponent could put on him.
“With my approval, the weapons master took him on . . . and lost. Then he took on two other officers and a dragoon sergeant of the Harzburk Ambassador’s retinue. When he finally tired and took off his brigandine and helm, there was not one speck of tar on either!”
Mara shook her head in wonderment. “What did this champion, after all that?”
“He threw spears for a while, and then we had a swim. And he’s like a fish. I’ve never known a man who could swim so far under water!”
“How did he spend that night, Fil?” Mara was again friendly, her worry erased. “Another banquet?”
“No, Your Grace, he said that he felt like having a quiet evening. We dined in his suite, played zahtreekeeohee for a while — he checkmated me quickly, two out of three times, and I’m not sure but that he al
lowed me my one win — and then we simply sipped wine and talked.”
“Of what did you and he talk, Fil?”
“Of so very many things, my lady, that I hardly know where to begin. He asked many questions concerning the court — who were the leaders and principal members of the various cliques, which cliques favored which High Lord or high-lady, the names of the most powerful men, and what were their vices or weaknesses. He asked many questions concerning our customs, not only of the court and palace, but of the city and countryside. He had me tell him all I knew of the Horseclans, He asked me to tell him of my hereditary city and lands, of my boyhood, of my campaigns and the different tribes I had fought, of my service and duties and various assignments since I entered Your Grace’s guard, of my future plans, of my hopes and aspirations. He dismissed me near midnight.”
“What did he do the next day?”
“Pemtee, he arose and broke his fast early, then spent the entire day, until sunset, in the palace library. My lady must, I fear, ask the librarian what Lord Alexandros read, for I assigned some guards and went about other duties of mine.”
Mara shrugged. “I can’t see that what he read is of import. And what of that night?”
“Dinner and entertainment at the palace of Lord Strahteegos Gabos.” The young officer grinned wickedly.
“Yes.” Mara cracked a knuckle. “I heard of that rout. Two duels came out of it, one a death match. And what sort of swath did our Sea Lord cut through the ranks of the grass-widows?”
“Lord Alexandros could have had any woman in that palace, Your Grace, merely by a nod or a look or a crook of one finger. The Lady Ioanna never took her eyes off him from the moment he arrived. In the course of the evening, she and a number of others managed to corner him, and the language used in some of their invitations would have embarrassed a stone statue!”
