“Majister!” They were yelling. “The emperor is in danger from a wild beast! Shoot the zorca down!”
“Hold!” I bellowed. I really let go a shout that rattled the teeth in their heads. I gentled Fango and as the huge black zorca crashed alongside I laid a hand on his head.
“Shadow!”
And Shadow threw up his head and whinnied, glorious in his shining splendor. Shadow… A great-hearted zorca with whom I had built a special relationship of trust and affection, and whom I had thought lost in Vondium, and yet, and yet… Always I had known we would meet again. That was quickly sorted out. I was told Shadow had been found in Vond, dwaburs away from Vondium, and in our eternal quest for quality zorcas had been brought into the army. He had always given trouble, being highly independent-minded. The Jiktar to whom he had been issued sighed with relief when I said, “He is my zorca, Jiktar.” I dismounted. “Take Fango. He is a first-class animal and you will joy in him.”
“Quidang, majister!”
The saddles were swiftly changed and I stuck my boot into the stirrup and mounted up on Shadow. He showed his pleasure. We had been through many adventures together; we would go through many more. But in the heady moment of reunion all those perils could wait.
Then another little crisis developed. Long lines of yellow-clad men marched toward the gangplanks. I frowned.
“Larghos the Sko-Handed!” I bellowed.
Larghos came over, beaming. His shoulder wings stuck out far more than regulations allowed. He looked fit and tough.
“Where, Larghos, do you think you are going with those coys?” A coy is a recruit, a greenhorn.
“Coys, majister! Are not they damned assassins? They will fight! By Vox! I will see to that!”
I sighed. What would you do with these fellows?
Nath the Knife had sent us an initial seven hundred young men. They could fight, of course. But they weren’t swods.
Larghos saw my face. “You would not deny them the glory?”
About to break out into bitter invective against this stupid, shuddery, bloody idea of glory, I held my tongue. If our country was in the dire danger we all knew her to be, why should not these fine young men go off to fight? Why should they? Because it was their duty? Because they would be less than men if they did not? No — the reasons lay deeper than that…
Larghos’s slingers went on boarding. Drill the Eye shouted at his bowmen to carry on and rolled over, spluttering, to join his comrade. When Clardo the Clis, his scar burning, nudged his zorca across, I knew I was beaten.
“You are taking the Sword Watch,” pointed out Clardo, with consummate cunning. “They are coys, also-”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Nor neither are we!”
“Very well. You’ll have to skirmish forward. Your drill is not up to formed standards yet.”
“Aye, majister. We’ll skirmish the zigging Hamalian tripes out!”
So that was settled. The Emperor’s Yellow Jackets, the EYJ, joined the Second Regiment of the Emperor’s Sword Watch, the 2ESW, aboard the flying ships. Both men and swods would be created out of the lads embarking. That is life.
The return of the vollers enabled me to send off part of a regiment of totrix heavies. They would still arrive ahead of the sailing fliers. Other units went up to the northwest. Regular reports told me Ovalia was filling up, and the locals were helping with energy.
Consigning the rest of the paperwork to Enevon, confiding the city once again to Naghan Strandar and the Presidio, I collected the last of the troops we were taking and with Turko stepped aboard the voller, observing the fantamyrrh, and took off for Ovalia and destiny.
Chapter twenty
The Depths of Deb-Lu-Quienyin’s Eyes
The messenger stood before me in the Tower of Avoxdon in Ovalia where I had set up headquarters. His flying leathers were stained and travel worn. He looked exhausted. But before he would allow himself to sit down, this merker would deliver his message from Drak.
“The armies of the Prince Majister are fully committed. He has sent a number of provisional regiments to Vondium, mostly walking wounded and invalids. A brigade of churgurs is on the way to you and is following me within a day.”
Instead of saying anything I indicated the chair and the merker sat with a flummox. His bird was being cared for by the flutswods of my single squadron of flutduins. I stared at him.
“And cavalry?”
“Three squadrons of totrix javelinmen.”
We were short of cavalry, of the land and of the aerial kind. Well, all commanders are always short of cavalry, unless they be barbarian chieftains of a savage host of jutmen, as admirals are always short of frigates. Most of the force sent by Jhansi on this raid into our land consisted of jutmen; many were cavalry, some were mounted infantry riding a variety of animals. The balance of his infantry was carried in airboats. He had mirvols, powerful flying animals, with experienced flutswods to fly them, as his aerial cavalry component. Kapt Hangrol ham Thanoth commanded a powerful and fast-moving force. We had been operating out of Ovalia for three days now and our initial dispositions had been made. As I sat brooding on this travel-weary merker I thought back to that smart little dust-up Prince Tyfar, Quienyin and our comrades had gone through in the Humped Land. It all added up. Those damned swarthmen had ridden on, confidently, and we had enticed them and tricked them and dazzled them before we’d seen them off. What a fellow may do with half a dozen staunch comrades against superior numbers, surely the same fellow could do with a small army against a larger?
Sipping the wine poured by Deft-Fingered Minch, a crusty, bearded veteran who ran my field quarters, the merker answered questions and conveyed news. Kov Seg Segutorio fought in the vaward, as usual, and commanded the Second Army. His daughter had visited him and gone on to see Prince Drak, commanding the First Army. This numbering of armies was new to me, and, to my ears, smacked of magniloquence. The Presidio had dished out the numbers, following Drak’s instructions. Kov Vodun Alloran had marched into the West Country with the Fifth Army. Other numbered armies guarded our other provinces and frontiers. I gathered my little lot were the Eighth Army. All that flummery meant nothing, of course. You could call yourselves what you liked; what counted was your strength and tenacity, physical and moral.
The merker, he was a Hikdar and his name was Ortyg Lovin, an honored name in Vallia, went on with his news. Our enemies fought obsessively but we pushed them back. An assassination attempt on Prince Drak had been frustrated by the Sword Watch. At this I sat up straight and felt anger, and horror, and sickness. Zankov, the arch enemy, had not been seen in the enemy camps. Kov Inch of the Black Mountains made slow progress. Filbarrka was in the thick of it. There was more, much more, and I looked at the maps spread on the camp table and pondered. The red tide of war engulfed Vallia. Had I not been called by the people to lead them out of these miasmic shadows, I believe I would have thrown it all in and flown off to Strombor to see Velia and Didi. As it was — we had a damned raid to see off and to see off, by Vox, with far too few men.
Ovalia was the key to campaigning hereabouts. Had we not garrisoned the city first, Kapt Hangrol would have seized it and controlled the route for his onward march. As it was, daily we had small-scale aerial combats, and my single squadron of flutduinim would be worn down before long at this rate. As for our airboats, we had a weyver, which is a wide, flat, barge-like affair and which we had adapted to carry two hundred men. We had two vollers each carrying a hundred. And we had ten which could take fifty or so at a pinch. Of them all, only four of the latter were real fighting vollers. There were also a handful of smaller vollers for scouting and messenger duty. When the merker left and Turko and my Chuktars came in, I pointed to the maps and very simply said,
“We do it the thorn-ivy way.” At their gapes of non-comprehension I explained the plan in detail. And, to say plan is to dignify the harebrained scheme. But they nodded, bright-eyed, and vowed that it would work and that, by Vox, they’
d have the tripes out of these Hamalese rasts in a twinkling. Our air component left at once to set about the enticement part of the scheme. The three squadrons of totrix javelinmen came in and their transport, under orders to return at once, I would not touch. And, as you will see, stupid parental pride and dignity came in here! I would not let Drak see how hard-pressed we were, well-knowing the complexities of the problems he faced.
There was no question in my mind of sitting tight in Ovalia and allowing Kapt Hangrol to open a formal siege. He could hold us down quite adequately with a part of his force and, collecting up the rest, fly on. But we needed him to hold still just long enough for our forces, which had to move piecemeal, to reach their start lines. After that — thorn-ivy!
And, as though the gods joined in the scheme, I was apprised of the spirit of the army. One of the wide avenues of the city with its cobblestones was being torn up. Those stones were being loaded into carts, drawn by Quoffas, and would eventually be discharged against the Hamalese. Gangs of men worked with pick and crowbar. A number of taverns were well patronized by the thirsty off-duty. They gave me a yell as I cantered by.
One group of men attracted my attention. I knew who they were, of course. A stoutly formed, scarlet-faced man with shining black hair — unusual in a Vallian — bellowed his lads to attention. He was smiling, his face dimpled, good-humored, sweating a little, and as he saluted with his right hand, his left still clasped his tankard.
“When do we march out, majister?”
“As soon as you lot have drunk the taverns dry, Brad.”
His men chorused their appreciation of this. Brad the Berry was a publican of Vondium. But he was much more than that, by Vox! It was rumored he’d been a wizard in his time; certainly his magic tricks astonished all who witnessed them. He was also rumored to be the son of a prince, who had cleared off because he preferred the life of wizardry and pubs to that of the courts. He’d raised and equipped a regiment at his own expense, mainly recruited from the regulars of his establishment, the Hagli Bush. They were titled the Hagli Bush Irregulars. I glanced at the covered wagons parked nearby.
“And, Brad, I would take a bet that there is more beer than bows, more ale than arrows, more wine than weapons, in those carefully packed wagons.”
He laughed, cheerful and happy, supping along with his men.
“We’ll have ’em, you’ll see, majister,” he said. That was sufficiently obscure to cover the points raised. I had Brad the Berry marked out for high office. He was the Jiktar of his regiment now; he would prove of more use in other areas of life than that of going off to be a soldier. Much more use… The Hagli Bush Irregulars diligently went about their sworn duty of drinking every tavern in Ovalia dry
— 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.
A Victory for Kregen dp-22 Page 20
