— in between laboring mightily to help the army along.
It ought to be said, in addition, that the uniform designed for the Hagli Bush Irregulars by Brad the Berry was a marvel of practicality and ornateness. It was rumored he had once served an apprenticeship to a goldsmith in his wizardry search for the secret of making gold out of straw. Like many and many another sorcerer and wise man, he might not have discovered that particular secret; but he could bring to anything he set his hands to, a wonderful felicity of invention. We needed men like Brad the Berry.
Riding Shadow back toward the Tower of Avoxdon I looked up and saw a magnificent scarlet and golden bird, circling in the upper air, blinding in the mingled streaming radiance of the Suns of Scorpio. I sucked in my breath. But I rode on. No one else could see that gorgeous raptor. He was the Gdoinye, the messenger and spy of the Star Lords, and I wondered if I was about to be dramatically transported to some other part of Kregen on business of the Star Lords. So I rode on and took no notice of the bird.
He eyed me for a space, winging wide above my head; then he flicked a wing and soared away, vanishing in the suns’ glare.
Well, now... Just keep the old cranium down and get on with the job in hand. That was the way of it, by Zair! The only way.
Jiktar Travok Ramplon, to whom I had given Fango in exchange for Shadow, led his zorca archers out to trail his skirts before the enemy. He would raise the dust and lure Hangrol on.
We had no Battle Maidens, no Jikai Vuvushis, with us, for which I was profoundly thankful.
The local people rallied round wonderfully and scraped up a wild assortment of riding animals. These were apportioned among the infantry, for neither men nor beasts would be fit to act as cavalry against the kind of opposition we were facing.
Our two regiments of swarthmen were weak, only around three hundred each; but they were going to have to take the brunt of it when the cavalry came to handstrokes. The totrixmen were good quality, and Drak’s three squadrons would help. But...
We marched out of Ovalia, heading for our start lines, and news came in that Hangrol had turned like a maddened graint to follow Jiktar Travok Ramplon and his zorca bows. Turko nodded in satisfaction.
“Grapple him, Dray, like any ordinary wrestler. Then throw him and twist his neck!”
“Aye.”
Very rapidly becoming accustomed to being addressed as a kov, our Turko the Shield. “Yes, kov,” and,
“Certainly, kov.” Oh, yes, Kov Turko of Falinur — living very high on the vosk, our Turko!
The flags flew in the light of the suns, the men marched, the dust rose, and as we of the Eighth Army swung along so the swods in the ranks sang. They sang old songs and new songs, sprightly ditties and scurrilous comments on their officers. They sang sickly love ballads like “She Lived by the Lily Canal.”
This was the song sung almost obsessively by the men on the night before that resounding affray, the Battle of Kochwold. Of a similar sentimental nature was “Wedding Dirge of Hondor Elaina.”
Then the veteran swods of the Fifth Churgurs struck up “Paktuns’s Promenade” and sang their own repeatable words, and when that was done they warbled out many a ditty I have mentioned to you. At last I half-turned in the saddle and glared at the Second Regiment of the Sword Watch. In my fruity old bellow I started to yodel out “The Bowmen of Loh.”
And, soon, the whole army bellowed out that brave old song and the imbalances of echoes as the words rolled down the lines sent tiny birds scurrying for shelter.
Seg Segutorio was not with me. Many of my fine Archer regiments of Valka, who used the Lohvian longbow, were with Drak. But we raggle-taggle bobtail of any army sang as we marched.
Continually I rode up and down the lines, observing the men. And, in their turn, they observed me. Many were the comradely greetings flung to and fro. And, as we marched, my thoughts insisted on dwelling on Prince Tyfar and our comrades and our experiences in Moderdrin. It seemed to me I had learned something there and I did not know what it could be. Certainly, a mere trick of thorn-ivy and its escalation into army scale could not be the reason I had found my way to the Humped Land. If Quienyin knew, I fancied he would tell me.
Marking how the Tenth Kerchuri marched, their pikes at ease, the Hakkodin with their axes or halberds over their shoulders, the attached Chodku of archers singing lustily, I thought of other times when we had marched singing into battle. Well, this time would be different and yet just the same. The differences became apparent as, wheeling to meet an attempt to flank us, I realized afresh the frightening smallness of our company. Kapt Hangrol was a seasoned campaigner, and he sought to pin and crush us. We had to work on him, out-march him — for all his aerial strength would avail him nothing if he could not put troops on the ground — and whittle away both his strength and his confidence.
We lost men in skirmishes. I raged and grieved; but we went on with the words of Clardo the Clis to sustain us.
“If one man dies for what he believes in — would you deny him that right? We all chose to be here!”
The maneuvers were complicated and pretty. We kept to good cover, making the utmost use of woods and darkness. The pace told on us and the men grew lean and hungry. The quoffa-drawn wagons caught up with us from time to time and yielded provisions and provender. Brad the Berry disgorged an amazing quantity of first-class food from his wagons, the Hagli Bush Irregulars delighting in showing how well they could provide. And we played Kapt Hangrol and his army, and in one classic attack we cut off and destroyed four full regiments of the iron legions of Hamal. With them went a shrieking collection of Layco Jhansi’s hoodwinked adherents, spearmen, savage, almost barbaric fanatics.
As a few miserable and shaking prisoners were interrogated, I reached the conclusion that Jhansi must be using sorcery to control and enflame these men. Only a few seasons ago, before the Time of Troubles, these same shrieking savages had been sober, industrious citizens of Vallia. It was not just civil war and all its attendant horrors that had brought this travesty into being.
“That rast Hangrol draws near,” said Turko, most cheerfully, on the day when the maps and the scouts’
reports showed the raiding army to be within a day’s march. All ideas of raiding farther into Orvendel had been abandoned by Layco Jhansi’s men. I could guess that Kapt Hangrol and Malervo Norgoth had been exchanging acrimonious words. That cheered me up, since I was a malignant sort of fellow. We had trailed the red rag and they were bedazzled and enflamed.
“Right, Turko — or should I say, Kov Turko?”
“And I say to you — do you wish to try a few falls?”
We laughed companionably together. For all the seriousness with which Turko took his new status as a kov, he, like my comrades and myself blessed or cursed with these noble titles, could see the ludicrousness, the pompous jackass nonsense, of putting too much store by rank and title. Estates, now
— ah! That was a different matter.
These intricate maneuvers were of absorbing interest. We pivoted so as to maintain the Tenth Kerchuri with its solid mass of pikes as our fulcrum. And, of course, the local folk of Orvendel were extremely severe on any raiders who fell into their clutches.
Absorbingly interesting or not, the purely maneuvering phase had to come to an end.
“You are right, Turko. Tomorrow should see them nicely positioned.”
“The spot you have chosen and worked them to is perfect. Now all that remains is for them to go in like idiot dermiflons, braying and charging full pelt.”
“I think they will. Empress Thyllis has sent men up here in a desperate attempt to recover her losses in Vallia. Hangrol knows his head is forfeit if he loses.”
My knowledge of mad Empress Thyllis encompassed her macabre Hall of Notor Zan where the wretches she deemed had failed her were thrown to the slavering fangs of her pet Manhounds.[8]
Everything was in order and to hand. The men sat around their campfires and a few songs lifted; but in the main they
got their heads down and tried to sleep. I fancy that most of them did not, not being veterans. So the morning dawned. Palest rose and apple green, the Suns of Scorpio, Zim and Genodras, rose into a dappled sky. The air tanged with a morning bite. Food was eaten by those whose appetites remained. The final polish to weapons, the last adjustment to harness, the bilious shouts of the Deldars bellowing the men into their ranks — so we raggedy little bunch, so magniloquently styled the Eighth Army, fell in.
The lay of the land was simple and all important. Not being sufficiently strong to meet Hangrol in open battle, we must perforce make him attack piecemeal, which, being a skillful general, he would not do unless hoodwinked. The plain was here cut by a wide gash, the bed of an ancient stream long since lost to the Canals of Vallia. Vegetation clothed its flanks. Here were posted the archers. At the end of the depression the Tenth Kerchuri stood, formed, solid, a glittering array of crimson and bronze. They were withdrawn just enough to be out of sight of the distant end. Our cavalry waited my orders on the flanks.
Scouts and skirmishers moved forward in clouds to deny the enemy clear observation. The churgurs waited just inboard of the archers. It was a simple arrangement to all seeming, and not a particularly military layout, either. I knew a fair old number of princes and generals who would blanch at the mere sight of the formations we adopted.
Our total aerial force went whirling off to put into effect the final dazzlement. Even the lumbering old weyver went, with a rascally gang of cutthroats concealed behind her low bulwarks and a dozen varters ready to spew out chunks of Ovalia’s fine street paving.
“You’ll never dupe all that cramph Hangrol’s aerial forces, Dray!” Turko rested his massive shield on his saddle. “By Morro the Muscle! We’ll have the hornets around our ears—”
“Difficult to say.” I spoke seriously, for this was a tactical and psychological problem. “If our fellows can draw off a goodly part, our archers can deal with the rest.”
“I just wish Seg was here,” said Turko, and gentled his zorca between his knees.
By Zair! And didn’t I! And Inch, too, and all the others!
We watched the lads of the Tenth Kerchuri running back down the dry, ancient riverbed scattering their caltrops. If you question — if you condemn — the use of youngsters here, I sympathize. But they were born on Kregen, Vallians, and they burned to do what they could. The chevaux de frise were unloaded from the krahnik carts and carried forward ready to be run out where needed. I lifted in the stirrups to survey the scene. There was no fleet voller for me now to oversee the dispositions. Our men melted into the shadows of the bushes, and were still. A lazy breeze tufted the leaves, which was most useful and was taken by many men as a sign of the direct assistance we had from Opaz and Vox.
Into that ravine trotted Jiktar Travok Ramplon’s regiment. The zorcas looked marvelous. The men had smartened themselves and their mounts up for the occasion, and wore their brightest uniforms. Red and gold glittered in the light. They rode forward and they suddenly seemed, despite their trim appearance and martial order, very small and lonely and isolated trotting up that dusty defile.
They trotted on and the hooves of the zorcas glittered through the dust, the spiral horns jutted proudly, the tails switched impatiently. Each trooper held his bow in his left hand, straight down his left leg, and his right hand gripped the nocked arrow. Jogging along in the trot, guiding their mounts with knees and body movement and voice, the swods of the zorca bows rode forward.
At the far end of the defile appeared the scouts from Hangrol’s forces. Overhead a bunch of mirvols flew up ready to swoop down. I held my breath. You can see the tricky situation. Too soon and Hangrol would never follow. Too late, and that fine zorca regiment would be a mangled ruin.
With faithful Fango between his knees, confident, exalted, Jiktar Ramplon judged it to a nicety.
His men loosed at the mirvols. The flying animals swerved away, preferring to leave to the advance guard of land cavalry the sweeping away of this troublesome zorca unit. Remember, Ramplon had been baiting these adversaries for the past days. They had blood in their eye. The leading units of enemy zorcas simply let rip a yell of rage and anger and charged like leems. Jiktar Ramplon gave his orders, his trumpeter blew, the regiment pivoted and pulled back, building up their speed into a fine, free gallop.
Around that kink in the defile Ramplon sent on his regiment, for he had chosen to ride last, for which I marked him. He had the Twenty-seventh Regiment of zorca archers. They raced around that bend, and the following cavalry roared around after them. Dust smoked into the air. When the pursuing cavalry were out of sight of their following main body, our archers let fly. Ramplon’s men hauled up, skidding, turned, and those bows came up and showered shafts into the abruptly huddled, terror-stricken mass.
Shot to pieces, the enemy zorcas tried to flee back, and ran full tilt into a wall of steel that closed as though on a hinge across the defile. The Tenth Kerchuri received the fleeing cavalry as though they received a charge. Perhaps half a dozen zorcamen survived to scramble around the edges and run for it
— and each one of that half-dozen was brought down by a marksman.
The noise was such, I hoped, as to convince Hangrol that his advance cavalry had successfully chased off the annoying hornets who had been stinging him so unmercifully. The first elements of his main body came into sight, and I judged that Hangrol did think so. Apart from those early mirvols, there was no sign of his aerial support.
I looked back to where the 2ESW and the EYJ lay waiting in the runnels in the ground. All our men waited in concealment. Hangrol’s forces advanced, led by more cavalry, with bunches of irregulars following, and backed by regiments of the iron legions of Hamal. I counted quickly. Ten regiments...
They were the hard nut we had to crack. Like the other troops in Hangrol’s force, the Hamalese swods were mounted up; they would dismount to go into action.
The moment approached and nothing was going to stop it now.
The Jiktars of the Archers awaited the signal. The churgurs gathered themselves. The kreutzin strained to get in among those brilliant adversaries. Close they came, nearer and nearer, riding with all the aplomb and confidence of men sure of themselves.
Any minute now...
Deb-Lu-Quienyin appeared at my side.
He was standing and leaning back, with his left hand pressed flat against thin air, as though he supported himself against an invisible wall. His clothes were filthy, torn, and tattered, and his turban was hanging over an ear. His face worked with passion and near despair, and he glared upon me with frightful meaning.
I bent from Shadow’s back to peer more closely.
With an effort, Quienyin motioned.
Not understanding what he wanted, and aware that Turko was taking no notice whatsoever, I for a moment thought I was hallucinating and imagining I saw the Wizard of Loh. Hangrol’s army marched on and the distance lessened. The giving of the signal could not be long delayed. I looked back at Quienyin, and he was still there, an apparition bold in the light of the suns.
He lifted his right hand with a gesture of weariness. The short sword in his fist was broken in half.
He dropped the sword. The moment it left his hand it vanished.
He pointed. He pointed with his right forefinger. He pointed at his eyes. I leaned from the zorca, staring.
I stared into the eyes of the Wizard of Loh...
I was looking into a stone-walled chamber pierced by tall windows through which the suns light streamed in emerald and ruby. Silda Segutorio, half-naked, blood staining her shoulder, was staggering up distraught and trying to wield a blood-crusted rapier. Crumpled in a corner lay the body of a man in clothes splashed with blood. I stared. I felt the sickness rising. The man’s fist rested on a sword, flat on the straw-covered stone.
My vision swung to the doorway. Men crowded in, fierce, bright, savage men, exulting. They were clansmen. Their weapons flickered in the brilliant light. They ki
cked aside the dreadful evidences of their handiwork. They trod contemptuously over the shattered corpses of men wearing the red-and-yellow uniforms of the Emperor’s Sword Watch. Clansmen, savage, horrific, far more lethal than any barbarian, they jostled in to be the first to slay the Wizard and Silda and the man who lay crumpled in the corner.
I knew that man. His fist made a sudden spasmodic attempt to seize the sword, and fell away, limp. I knew the sword.
That was a great Krozair longsword.
That man was my son Drak.
Chapter twenty-one
Victories for Vallia
Turko said, “Almost time, Dray! Another hundred paces or so, and then...”
He spoke, Turko the Shield, and I could not see him. I could hear the susurration of the breeze, hear the ominous drumroll of that advancing army; I could feel Shadow between my knees and the warmth of the suns, but I glared with awful fury into a stone chamber where some of the most ferocious warriors of all Kregen stalked down with bloodied weapons upon the helpless form of my son.
The vision’s view shifted again and I saw Silda drawing herself up. Her blood-spattered body glowed through her ripped russet leathers. The rapier trembled in her fist. But she staggered up, her face pallid and distraught, her eyes fierce, her brows downbent, and I knew she would hurl herself forward. Seg’s daughter would fling herself to destruction to protect my son!
The feral, bearded mouths of the clansmen opened and I knew they roared their appreciation of the gallantry of it, shouted compliments of the High Jikai; yet I could hear nothing of them, only the onward tramp of an enemy army dinning in my ears.
How could I give the signal to loose when I could not see Hangrol’s forces? How could I assist Drak and Silda when I was miles and miles away from them?
In my nostrils blew the sweet-scented breeze of Kregen. I could not smell the dust in that stone chamber or the raw stink of spilled blood. Among the refuse of swords scattered from the shattered Sword Watch lay a drexer, one of those swords we in Valka had designed and forged to make a superior weapon. It stirred.
A Victory for Kregen Page 21
