by Robert Adams
"My lord duke," said the siegemaster with evident restraint, "it has long been known that Myros of Deskahti possessed enviable talents at the twin arts of defense and siegecraft. The wonders he has performed on Vawnpolis are but additional proof of those talents. But, my lord duke, worthwhile and admirable though those talents be, they be the only ones he owns, militarily speaking. When it comes to marshaling troops and performing any sort of maneuver calling for split-second decisions on alternate strategies, his head might as well be filled with horse turds."
"But this Drehkos Daiviz," the ahrkeethoheeks took it up, "is a less likely candidate than even the vahrohnos. I myself talked with certain of young Morguhn's folk, men who've known this Vahrohneeskos Drehkos all his life, and they all agree that the only things at which he really excels are guzzling, screwing and spending money like a drunken Freefighter. Yet all who know assure me that a cavalryman of surpassing excellence was necessary to chew us up so badly with so small a band. I simply cannot see a debauched, middle-aged spendthrift with no more war training than have I performing so."
Milo laid aside his pipe, half-musing, "And yet, could it be possible that the Confederation has missed a bet on Drehkos Daiviz? Could he be one of those rare military geniuses who need but the proper combination of circumstances to reveal and utilize heretofore unguessed talents? True, I met and conversed with the vahrohneeskos, and he failed to impress me. But I find even so far fetched a theory as this more believable than that Myros of Deskahti, whom I came to know better than I would have preferred, either could or would change his spots."
Aldora's clear voice: "And, too, there be this, gentlemen. About fifty years ago, I wrote a treatise on proper employment of cavalry. It is hard to recall after so long, but I believe Thoheeks Sami of Vawn, grandfather of the recently deceased Thoheeks Vawn, had a copy made to add to his large collection of books and writings. Now if that book still be in Vawnpolis, this sudden cavalry expertise of either Myros or Drehkos may have a logical explanation, after all. What think you on this, Milo?"
"I say, Wind help us, if you are correct in your surmise," Milo said gravely. "Now that you jog my memory, I recall something else. Thoheeks Sami was a real scholar for his generation, with a penchant for collecting books on all aspects of warfare. If it be true that his library has survived and is in the hands of a rebel who can read, appreciate and utilize it, I may have to hie the rest of the Confederation Army down here or sacrifice a ruinous number of those we have to hack a way into Vawnpolis!"
Bill shrugged. "But why, my lord? Why not invest the city, throw up siegeworks, emplace our engines and simply sit and pound and burn and starve the bastards out?"
Sir Ehdt answered. "Time, Duke Bili—time."
"Yes, Kinsman," Thoheeks Skaht agreed. "You and I and Thoheeks Baikuh are not too far from our lands but most of our Kindred have a fair distance to go and harvest time be near."
Milo reiterated. "As I said earlier, gentlemen, I'd not plan on being home for harvest—especially not in the light of what the High Lady and I have recalled. Barring a miracle of some order, it may well be spring ere we see the inside of Vawnpolis."
While most sat in silence, striving to digest this unpleasantness, a guards officer bustled in and caught the High Lord's eye. "My lord, a… ahhh, delegation of mountain barbarians has suddenly appeared in the very center of the camp. Somehow they must have filtered through patrols, sentries and all. They are… most arrogant. They demand to have words with the commander of this army."
The men who at length were ushered into the conference chamber were fascinating to Bili, who had never before seen men of their race. He immediately decided they were the most villainous crew of unwashed cutthroats he had ever beheld. Yet their spokesman bore himself with a definite majesty and, despite their uniform tatters and lack of manners, all radiated a fierce pride and unmistakable self-assurance.
They were tall, big-nosed, large-eyed men, most of them as dark as kath-ahrohs Ehleenee. They were all muscle and sinew and scarred, dirty skin over large bones. Their loose, ragged homespun breeches were tucked into short boots of undressed hide, and a miscellany of antique armor was fitted over billowing sleeved shirts of the same material. Because they had stoutly refused to surrender their arms, they were almost surrounded by a score of guardsmen, arrows nocked and bows half-drawn.
Ignoring the other men, the leader—Bili surmised him to be a hereditary chief, since his age, roughly twenty-five, was less than that of most of his companions—swaggered forward and addressed himself to Milo.
"I am Hyk Ahrahkyuhn, Undying witchman. Are you come to steal more of our lands? You should have brought more fighters for this collection of dullards will win you only enough to hold their bleached bones. Take your landstealers back to their sties, witchman, and they'll live to breed you more shoats. For I warn you, my tribe will not be robbed again. Bring this herd of rooting swine into our mountains, and the treecats will be a-feasting on their stones and yards whilst their sows are wailing and taking their pleasures with carrots and corncobs!"
There was a concerted growl from those about the table. Both the Skaht and the Baikuh surreptitiously fingered their hilts, grim hatred on their faces at this confrontation with an ancient enemy. But Thoheeks Hwahltuh smiled, recognizing and appreciating the arrogance and courage of a kindred spirit.
Milo smiled too. Take your headmen back home, Der Hyk. We have no designs on your mountains—not this time, anyway. This army is in Vawn on other business. We'll only fight you if we have to, if you are so unwise as to force the issue."
The mountain chief drew himself up, his black eyes flashing defiance. "We have taken over the border forts, witchman; we will not give them back!"
"Then they'll be taken back!" snarled Thoheeks Skaht, half rising, hand gripping hilt, the big knuckles shining white. "And it's your wormy women will be breeding more of your kind to he-goats and jackasses, which latter must have been your paternity, from the look of your long donkey face!"
Big, white teeth flashing, the young chief grinned derisively at the furious thoheeks. "Ah, Chief Skaht, you have never been able to forgive my Uncle Moorehd for stealing your sister, have you? Yet he made her a far lustier husband than could any of your soft, womanly lowlanders. Do you know that he got at least one child a year on her for as long as she lived? Do you know that—"
The Skaht roared; his steel flashed clear as his chair crashed over and he commenced a stalking progress around the table, a hideous growl issuing from betwixt his bared teeth. The mountaineers' hands moved toward their own hilts, and the guardsmen's bows were drawn to the full.
"Damn you, Skaht, sit down!" Neither Mile's voice nor mindspeak could penetrate the berserk nobleman's rage. If this chief and his headmen were massacred here this night, there would be a full-scale war the length of the border.
But then Bili was blocking the Skaht's progress. Smiling disarmingly, he extended his hand, saying, "Give me your sword, Kinsman." But there was more than mere words to the encounter. Milo and Aldora, at least, could feel, could sense, some indefinable something being woven between the two men.
Suddenly the Skaht half-turned and lashed out with his blade. And Bili was on him. His sinewy arms locked about the older man's body, pinning his arms to his sides. Even so, Milo was gashed ere he could wrest the sword from the Skaht's hand.
Snapping, "Bind him until he's in control of himself again!" the High Lord turned back to the delegation. "Your ancestors were both proud and brave Der Hyk, but you disgrace their memory for you are neither, you are only foolhardy! Sun and Wind help your people if you do not soon gain a measure of wisdom to match your advancing years. If you wish to commit suicide, name a successor and do so privately and decently. Do not ask your headmen to die with you. And have the courtesy to go to Wind somewhere other than in this camp. As I said, I wish no war with your tribe this year.
"As for the forts, your headmen would be wise to see that they are abandoned, else the army about you will b
e but the vanguard for that which will surely come. Many of your people will die and I will drive those who do not into the Hills of Homeless Rocks. We will pull down your villages, stone by stone. Your horses and kine will graze lowland pastures and your maidens will bear lowlanders' sons. You all know that I can do these things, for many of them were done in the times of your ancestors.
"Keep the peace with me, go back into your fastnesses and leave my forts untenanted, and mayhap you and your children will live and die where your fathers were born."
Chapter Thirteen
Drehkos had had reason to commend himself for reinstating Myros. The cashiered Confederation officer immediately understood portions of the books which Drehkos had had to strain his mind to comprehend. Under the direction of a man who was well grounded in the principles of defensive warfare, the work on the walls and outer works and the fabrication of engines and missiles had proceeded faster and more smoothly than ever they had under Drehkos' sincere but oft-times bumbling aegis. Nor did the knowledge that those in Vawnpolis who did not fear him actively hated him seem to bother the Vahrohnos of Deskahti. Indeed, he seemed to revel in that fear, feed on that hate, and drive them all the harder for both.
But there were other aspects which frequently led Drehkos to question the sagacity of returning any degree of power to Myros. Chief among these, perhaps, were the man's sudden and usually senseless rages, gradually increasing both in frequency and violence, so that Drehkos had found it necessary to forbid Myros to bear either sword or dirk and had felt constrained to assign "bodyguards" principally for the purpose of restraining, not protecting, the erratic nobleman. Equally alarming, to Drehkos' way of thinking, were his deputy's lapses into unconsciousness with little or no warning. And he might remain in such a state for days… or only minutes.
Because both Ehleenee had had similar sexual preferences, Drehkos had originally designated young Kleetos of Mahrtospolis to command Myros' "guard," thinking that if the two became lovers it could do no one any harm and might even do all the good of possibly draining off some of the energy which otherwise could fuel those devilish rages. But his matchmaking had been futile, for this new, radically altered and sometimes terrifying Myros seemed totally asexual.
But poor young Kleetos had been lost when the enemy's van was ambushed. And even if any of the Vawnpolis noblemen had barely liked Myros, there were simply too few of them to assign one to devote his full time to watching over the valuable but unpredictable vahrohnos. No, the new commander of Myros' "guard" needs must be a non-noble. Drehkos immediately thought of Sergeant Danos.
He was now ashamed of his rage at and curses upon the hapless archer on the morning of the attack on the camp. He should have known better, he felt, for Danos had always been dependable and efficient at any assigned task. On the long ride back to Vawnpolis, several archers and dartmen had spoken of the senior sergeant's obvious illness that day, of how he had been seen to almost swoon after loosing the first shaft. Of how, despite his condition, he had emptied his quiver with his usual accuracy, then led a foot assault on the disorganized camp, slain at least two men with his short-sword and only withdrawn in the face of the charging kahtahfrahktoee— which last showed that his illness had left his reasoning unaffected anyway.
"And," Drehkos mused to himself, "I've been driving the poor lad pretty hard since he first arrived, given him damned few moments to himself. This will present me a chance to make it all up to him somewhat. He'll have to have more rank, of course. Let's see… I'll make him a lieutenant, let him pick a good man for his sergeant, and he can see to Myros whenever Danos wishes to get away for a while. That plus an unrestricted permission to all the town should make the boy happy. Who knows? He might find a girl or two to help him enjoy his evenings."
And so, misinterpreting Danes' pleas to retain his lower rank and station as modesty and the archer's terror as embarrassment, the well-meaning Drehkos precipitated a situation whose culmination was to be horror and tragedy.
When informed of his "good fortune," Danos could only stutter in his terror, "P—please… if—if—it p-please my 1-lord, I—I am not, I am unworthy of… of such…"
And, smiling as he had not in weeks, Drehkos slapped the quaking archer's shoulder. "Ah, young, faithful Danos. Son, your modesty is most refreshing, but if any here is worthy of advancement, it is you. My dear boy, I have been selfish. I have kept you near to me because you remind me of happier days, of home, and you have served me well. You have proved many times over your loyalty, honesty and bravery. Now I am in great need of those very qualities, so I call again upon you, you see."
"But—but, my lord, there be noblemen, and… and I… may I not remain a sergeant, an archer even, and… and stay by my lord?" Danes' voice broke on the last words and his terror sent tears cascading over his cheeks.
Drehkos was touched, deeply moved by the display he misread, and his own voice was husky. "If I had harbored any doubts as to the wisdom of this decision, good Danos, you have now erased them. So get you back to the barrack and choose a reliable man for your sergeant I'll have my man secure you a good servant and quarters suitable to your new rank. You'll command the existing guard, of course, and I'll introduce you to Lord Myros at breakfast tomorrow."
Danos would once more have spoken, would have pleaded, begged, even groveled, but Drehkos was now conversing with a member of his staff, and the adjutant, Tchahros, put a hand on Danos' elbow, saying with a smile, "There'll be plenty of time to thank our lord properly, lieutenant, but just now his mind is on more pressing matters."
And the moment that all within Vawnpolis had awaited and feared at last arrived. Up the traderoad came marching in their thousands the hosts of the heathen, ahorse, afoot, on wagons. The morning sun winked on armor and weapon points in the seemingly endless river of men and animals. And to the watchers on the walls, the dustcloud which overlay the column seemed to stretch to the end of the world.
Lord Aldos turned to Drehkos, his grim face belying his light words. "Quite a lot of the bastards, aren't there, my lord? Think you we've enough arrows and darts to properly serve them? I'd hate to think of a deserving pagan leaving this little party without a sharp souvenir."
But Drehkos made no answer, and, seeing his searching glances at the arriving troops, all about him fell silent, lest their chatter distract the strategies they were sure he must be planning.
Drehkos was planning no strategy. He was straining his eyes at the foremost group of mounted nobles, seeking the familiar, stocky form of his brother, Hari.
It took the better part of a week to fully invest the city, throw up the earthworks just beyond bowshot of the outer defenses, set up the smaller, portable engines and start scouring the countryside for timbers suitable for assembling the larger ones. There was but little fighting. Nor was there any polite parlaying, though Drehkos had attempted such, sending a man be considered expendable, the abbot, Djohsehfos, whose monastery he had sacked.
The answer which the churchman had brought back had been only what Drehkos expected. The High Lord and his nobles would not treat with rebels. Only unconditional surrender of Vawnpolis and all within its walls would be accepted. Any future emissaries, unless they came to announce such surrender, would be returned in pieces by catapult.
"In short," Drehkos addressed the assembled nobles and officers, "there is no option available to any in this city. We all are doomed. Our only choices regard the methods of our deaths, whether we die honorably by the sword, or dishonorably under the brutal hand of some executioner."
In the council chamber of the High Lord's pavilion, another meeting was in progress. Harvest time was fast approaching, and Milo had reached a decision which he was now announcing to the ranking nobles.
"And so, gentlemen, most of you and your people will begin to ride back to Morguhn, tomorrow. You'll be conducted by kahtahfrahktoee, leaving your hired Freefighters here. When your harvests are all in and when you are certain that there will be no trouble in your duchies, no
need for your presences until planting or shearing, you'll arm as many men as you can spare and return here. Assemble, as before, at Morguhnpolis and march up to me in a body.
"By that time, perhaps, we'll have softened up the defenses enough that an assault will be feasible. If not, you'll just celebrate your Midwinter Feast in camp."
"But, my lord—" began Thoheeks Duhnkin, a bit petulantly.
Milo raised a hand. "This is not a matter open to debate, gentlemen. This is the order of your lawful sovereign!"
With the dawn, the nobles marched.
And the siege of Vawnpolis commenced, tedious and boring at all times, sometimes deadly. It went slowly, though, for the immediate surroundings had been stripped of sizable timber and the engineer crews had to journey far afield to secure what they needed to go with their wagonloads of hardware.
And even when at last the long-range, heavy-duty engines were in place, the effect of their missiles seemed negligible— their pitchballs apparently caused few fires within the city, and those did not burn long. The great boulders sent hurtling against the walls caused dust and stone shards to fly, but it was obvious that a lengthy bombardment would be necessary to do any real damage.
That was about the time old Sir Ehdt informed the High Lord that he thought one and possibly both the hillock salients could be taken at minimum cost.
Milo chewed on his thumb, studying the sandtable model at length. Aldora and Bili watched silently.
Bili had but recently returned, unexpectedly, with two of his younger brothers in tow—fresh from the Middle Kingdoms and eager to get in on the fine war in progress in their homeland. The youngest, Djaikuhb, at fourteen, was nearly as tall as Bili, though slenderer, and already a dangerously accomplished swordsman. The merry-eyed Gilbuht, intensely proud of his flaring, reddish mustache—such as were the current vogue amongst the nobility of Zuhnburk, where he had been reared and trained—had aroused the interest of both the Undying, since his mindspeak abilities seemed almost as powerful as Bili's.
