by Robert Adams
Finally, the High Lord spoke. "Either of those hillocks would give us a far better base of fire than we have at present, Sir Ehdt. We might even be able to loft clear to the citadel from the south one. You really think we could capture them that easily?"
Whilst their elder brother, the siegemaster and the two Undying discussed the finer points of the now decided assault, the two younger Morguhns withdrew unnoticed amid the corning and going of the various commanders. In the almost total absence of young men of their own rank, they made their way to the camp of their brother's Freefighters, a homier-feeling enclave than were the various Confederation Army camps, since most of the Freefighters were Middle Kingdoms men, many of the officers and sergeants being younger sons of burk lords and lesser nobility.
Almost all of the force were experienced campaigners, so there was no need to tell them of the impending attack. That sixth sense of veteran soldiers had already assured them that with the dawn would come danger and, for some, death. A few were drinking, silently and alone, and more than one was clearly smoking hemp, since a thread of its pungent smoke occasionally wafted across the area. Despite its proscription by the Cult of the Sword, the use of hemp was fairly common among professional soldiers, and even had it not been, an astute commander allowed great latitude of conduct before an attack.
Leathern bellows creaked and their huffs sent masses of brilliant sparks soaring up from the forge fires of farrier and smith, cadenced hammerstrokes ringing on horseshoe and blade. A trio of men skilled at fletching sat with their pots of evil-smelling fish glue and sacks of feathers and sharp little knives, haggling the charge with fellow archers even while their skilled fingers scurried about their tasks. Close by, large iron pots simmered, and in their steam—scented with sorrel leaves and resin—other archers straightened shafts.
There were no classes tonight, however. The weapons masters hustled about the camp, inspecting blades and spears, axes and armor and darts, chivvying the owners of many to the honing circle, some twoscore men squatting about the largest fire, their voices raised in an endless ballad, sung in cadence with the measured scrape of whetstones. The men with the best voices or memories took turns as lead singer, while the rest roared out the catchlines and choruses, and circulating skins of barely watered wine kept throats from drying.
"A wager, a wager, a wager I'll lay you, I'll lay you my gold to your brass."
And "TO YOUR BRASS!" swelled from the men.
"That no Undying King could tell of braver deeds Than were done at the Burk of Pehnduhgast."
THAT NO UNDYING KING COULD TELL OF BRAVER DEEDS THAN WERE DONE AT THE BURK OF PEHNDUHGAST. HONE YOUR STEEL!" came the chorus.
Humming the rune of the old familiar song, mustachioed Gilbuht nodded at the ever-expanding circle, saying, "How bides your steel, Brother Djaikuhb? My Uncle Sharptooth, here"—he slapped his scabbard—"might well do with a taste, of oil and stone."
Space was made for the brothers in the circle, and when they had bared and kissed their steel, a grizzled, one-eared weapons master strode over, gave them stones from the bag slung on his shoulder, then squatted and examined their swordblades, suggesting where on the edges their efforts be concentrated. Before he went on about his circuit, he checked out their dirks, as well, and their bootknives. He knew who they were, as did all around the fire, but he showed them no deference, for in such a gathering, on such a night, Freefighters recognized no lines or barriers of rank and caste. All were comrades-in-arms, Brothers of the Sword, some of whom must surely die tomorrow.
Beside Gilbuht knelt a handsome, black-haired sergeant standard-bearer, his clear, tenor voice leading a verse, while his well-formed hands placed the finishing touches on the edges of a new-looking broadsword bearing a distinguished hallmark.
He mindspoke his brother, "Djaik, look you at the sergeant's blade. Is it not a Slohn?" The House of Slohn had produced some of the best blades in the Kingdom of Pitzburk for three hundred years and more.
"Aye," beamed the younger brother. "And a top-quality one at that Look, it has not only the Slohn Foxhead but the personal device of the master-smith, as well. Yon steel probably cost as much or more than a full-trained warhorse. No wonder he lavishes such care on it."
Geros licked the oil from his lips—he had taken to kissing his blade, despite the fact that he was no Brother of the Sword, because he truly loved the splendid, well-balanced gift of Thoheeks Bili. He had politely declined princely offers from both Freefighter comrades and nobles; he wore the sword with pride, caring for it as tenderly as he did for his trusty mare, Ahnah. And he had drilled and practiced until the wire-wound hilt was one with his hand and the three feet of blade a mere extension of his arm.
Captain Raikuh—and many of his old comrades attested that the uncanny accuracy of his predictions bordered upon second sight—had taken to treating the standard sergeant as an equal and, one night in his cups, had assured him that, while he never would be truly wealthy, he would die honored and respected, castellan of a high nobleman's burk, with a minor title to leave his eldest son. It all sounded quite fantastic to Geros, but then, if this time last year anyone had told him that twelve moons would see him—quiet, gentle, unassuming Geros Lahvoheetos, son of a mere majordomo, bodyservant to a minor noble—riding to war in the company of hardbitten professional fighters, wearing the costly gift of a thoheeks, bearing a widely acknowledged reputation for valor and arms skills, he would have branded that person mad.
He had laid aside his sword and was about to start on his dirkblade when he realized that the young brother of his new lord was trying to mindspeak him.
Leaning closer and smiling, he spoke courteously, aloud. "Your pardon, young sir, but my mindspeak is a chancy thing, at best, which much pains sweet Ahnah, my good mare. What would you of me, noble sir? May I help with your good steel? I own some small skill."
At this, a scar-faced Nyahgrahee seated on Djaikuhb's left snorted a laugh. "Don't let our good sergeant's soft voice and girlish modesty fool you, friends. His 'small skill' is such that Old Pyk over there made him third-class weapons master. An' your own noble brother, the duke, noted his guts in the big ambush we fought on the march and give him that sword what half the gentry in ten duchies done tried to buy off him, and give the troop half a pipe of damn good wine to drink to him in—and damn if we didn', too."
Gilbuht Morguhn laughed then and slapped his thigh. "Then you can be none other but Geros the spearman. Our lord brother spoke of you on the ride up from Morguhnpolis. And that answers the question I would have asked. Damned few Freefighters carry steel so fine."
Added Djaikuhb, "And I've seen many Sword Brothers who did not treat their steel with such reverence."
Geros answered with another of his shy, gentle smiles, "I am not of your brotherhood, young sirs. I but value your noble brother's generous gift. It… it is a true work of art and I try to treat it with the respect which such a masterpiece deserves."
"Y'see, friends," grinned the Nyahgrahee, "our Sergeant Geros be a bit queer in the head, treatin' a sword better'n he does his pore horse. But for all o' it, he be a stout blade to have at your side, an' ain't no man in this here troop would gainsay me thet!"
Djaikuhb nodded once, grave-faced. "Comrade Geros, I, too, worship Steel, not simply for its godhood, but for its inherent strength and beauty, as your words proclaim you do. A man such as you, a right-thinking fighter, should long since have been of the Sacred Brotherhood." Waiting for a pause in the singing, he raised his voice. "How many true Sword Brothers do we number, comrades?"
Perhaps a score and a half hands went up about the circle, and he went on, "I be Djaikuhb Morguhn, Full Brother of the Sixth Order. Noble Lodge of the Kingdom of Pitzburk. I propose for membership in your local lodge that valorous warrior, Geros the spearman. Who will bare steel to oppose this membership?"
Captain Raikuh arose from his place in the circle. "Noble brother, I be Pawl Raikuh, commander of Duke Bili's troops and Master of the Freefighter Lodge o
f the Duchy of Morguhn." Then he bespoke all, saying, "Let all non-brothers, saving only the proposed brother, disperse. Brothers, let us tighten the circle and converse on this matter."
Chapter Fourteen
An hour before dawn, Aldora's maidservant wakened her. She and Bili arose, washed, broke fast on a bit of bread dipped in strong wine then helped each other to arm, and wended their way to the pavilion of the High Lord. There they separated, Aldora riding off to the cavalry camp, Bili remaining with Milo to accompany his sovereign at the head of the assaulting infantry.
No words were spoken or beamed at the lovers' parting, none were needed, for their straining, striving, pleasure-racked bodies had said all that was needful in the night now dying. As for Milo, he allowed himself a chuckle or two, for Aldora trotted off astride none other than Mahvros, Bill's own huge black warhorse.
Then he shook his head, thinking that he must watch this affair very closely. He could not recall Aldora so quickly forming so deep an attachment, not for any other of the many scores of lovers she had had in the course of her century and a half of life. The girl could be both willful and stubborn. And such were the mental attributes of Bili that the young thoheeks must breed more of his kind. Then he sighed, wondering for the hundred thousandth time over the near-millennium be had lived why Nature, which had gifted him and those few like him with so much, had denied them that one trait otherwise almost universal in her kingdom—the ability to sire or bear offspring.
But then the copper-hued sun peeked over the eastern hills and, with a crash and roll of drums, a shrilling of fifes, a pealing of trumpets, the gruesome day commenced. And there was no more time for thoughts unconcerned with attaining the objective and killing a maximum number of rebels, while keeping the largest possible number of his own troops alive.
When his younger brothers requested permission to ride with the mounted Freefighters, Bili was happy to grant it; it relieved him of two worries. He had already lost one brother to these rebels, and he had no wish to see two or even one more go to Wind. There was a chance that the mounted Freefighters and Confederation lancers would not fight at all today, and even if they were called upon to smash back any sortie which might be made to relieve or reinforce those salients, Djaik and Gil would be better off heavily armed and in the saddles of their fully trained destriers, fighting a kind of combat with which they were most familiar, than they'd be afoot, in half-armor, clawing through abattises and clambering up shaky ladders.
Bili did not much like the prospect himself but since the High Lord had elected to lead this attack personally, the Morguhn had felt honor-bound to serve at his side.
Aldora had shaved his head early last evening, and the rising sun glinted on the shiny scalp, as he personally checked the fit and fastenings of harness on the two horses which would bear him and the High Lord until the attack commenced. The High Lord's chestnut nuzzled Bili's leather-clad thigh and mindspoke.
"Am I to have no armor at all? Or did you forget mine as you forgot most of your own, two-leg?"
Bili slapped the muscular neck affectionately, answering, "It be a hot morn already, the day will be even hotter and very long. You two will be doing no fighting, so why burden you with armor, eh? Your brother, the High Lord, and I will not have your thews to help us bear the weight of plate in the coming battle, so we will wear only helms and cuirasses, plus gorgets, shoulderpieces, brassarts and kneecops, with our swords slung on our backs."
The chestnut stamped and snorted, rolling his eyes. "Stupid! That, two-leg, be a stupid way to fight. Yes, it be hot, but not so hot as the lands where I was foaled. Put on our armor and don your own. We can fight, as well."
Bili chuckled to himself. The chestnut could be as stubborn as could his own destrier, Mahvros. "Can you climb twelve-foot stone walls, brother? Will your plates stop sixty-pound boulders or eight-foot spears? Or do you intend to catch them all in your teeth?"
"My lord duke?"
Bili turned to face Pawl Raikuh, half-armored, the hilt of his broadsword jutting up behind his left shoulder, his left hand gripping a five-foot spearshaft with a two-foot double-edged pikeblade riveted to it. Behind the captain stood Sergeant Geros, similarly accoutered, holding a ten-foot staff about which was furled the Red Eagle Banner of the House and Clan of Morguhn.
"What are you doing here, Pawl?" demanded Bili, surprise in his voice. "I'd thought you'd send Hoguhn or Krahndahl to lead this contingent. Surely you're not depending on either of them to lead our cavalry today?"
Raikuh grinned. "No, my lord. My lord's brother, Lord Djaikuhb, vice-captains his horse for this engagement."
Bili started, then relaxed, smiling. "Oh, nominally, you mean, I thank you for that courtesy, Pawl."
"No courtesy that." Raikuh shook his head, his lobsterback napeguard rattling. "Lord Djaik will lead. And it comes to action, I'm sure he'll do my lord proud."
"Oh, come now. Pawl," snapped Bili. "Our troop is entirely made up of veterans. They'll not be putting their lives in the balance at the behest of a fourteen-year-old. Men have to respect a war leader."
Raikuh sobered. "And respect my lord's brother, they do. Any who chanced not to see Lord Djaik fence our senior weapons master, old Pyk, to a standstill have heard of it And besides, they be flattered to have my lord's brother to lead them."
"And what of my other brother, Gilbuht? He be anything but feckless. Will he then follow the dictates of a younger brother?"
Raikuh's grin returned to his scarred face. "Hardly, my lord. Your brothers had… ahhh, some words on the matter, and Lord Gil has elected to ride with Duke Hwahltuh's force."
I'll just bet they had some words on the matter, thought Bili. Since first the two cadets had been reunited, it had often been all that their older brother and chief could do to keep them from each other's throats. Both were experienced warriors and natural leaders, that last being a part of the problem. But the biggest bone of contention lay to the north, in the lands where they had had their upbringing and arms training. The Duchy of Zuhnburk, which had sheltered Gil for nearly eight years, was a traditional ally of the Kingdom of Harzburk; and Harzburk's ancient foe was the Kingdom of Pitzburk, which had for six years had the training of Djaik.
When Strahteegos Vahrohnos Ahrtos of Theeispolis reported his troops ready, the High Lord, wearing no more armor than did Bili and Captain Raikuh, emerged from his pavilion and mounted his chestnut, hanging a hooked and spiked war hammer on his pommel. At his mindspeak, his mount began a slow trot toward the waiting infantry ranks.
As there had been no desire to keep secret their objectives, engines had been pounding the fortifications crowning and ringing the two hillocks since there had been enough light to sight them. They were still at it Bili could see the dust spurts, hear the distance-muffled thuds of the boulders against masonry, timbers and earthworks, while the smoke of the blazes caused by the pitchballs and firespears rose high into the windless morning sky. The smoke columns reminded him of the similar columns which had borne to Wind the smoke of his brother Djef, and those others of his and Hwahltuh's folk killed by the rebels when they had sortied out against those besieging Morguhn Hall.
To his experienced eye, it did not appear that the engines had done much real damage to the salients. A few stones had been loosened or knocked askew here and there; the timber facings of some of the earthworks were smashed and splintered in places. But the bulk of the thick, wide, cunningly laid abattises—designed to hold attacking men in one place long enough for arrows and darts to thin their ranks—seemed virtually untouched.
The High Lord's mindspeak answered the question. "Oh, yes, Bili, my engineers know their work. But much of that is green wood, still in the bark and hard to fire. Too, the bastards apparently have plenty of water and they've quenched nearly every fire we've managed to start. I can but hope you're as good at axing wood as you are at axing men."
Accompanied by Bili, Strahteegos Ahrtos, Captain Raikuh and the commander of his own guard, Mehgah Aib Fahrle
e, the High Lord slowly inspected the formations of infantrymen—twelve thousand, in all, drawn up in battalion front The assault companies were foremost, bearing axes and hooked poles for hewing and pulling apart the outer entanglements. They were shieldless but armed with two-foot, hand-span-width cut-and-thrust swords and half-armored in plate. Behind were the infantry archers, their compound bows larger and more powerful than the cavalry weapon, whose mission would be to try to keep the defenders too busy ducking arrows to loose any of their own at the laboring assault companies until enough of the abattises were cleared for the actual attack to commence.
Then came rank on rank of heavy infantry, the backbone of the Army of the Confederation, spearbutts and iron-shod shields grounded. Their helms were fitted with napeguards, cheekpieces and nasals, the high collars of their knee-length scaleshirts guarded most of the throat, and the plate greaves strapped to their lower legs included a kneecop which was spiked to facilitate climbing. The long pikes which Bili had seen them bearing on the march had been replaced by broad-bladed six-foot spears, handier for the kind of fighting anticipated.
Bili studied the faces under those field-browned helms, and all—old or young, Ehleen-dark or Kindred-fair—were weather-tanned and seamed with scars. Here and there a copper cat crouched atop a helm, denoting the valor and battle prowess of its bearer. A very few helms boasted silver cats, but Bili saw only two gold cats throughout the progress. One adorned a slender, hard-eyed young lohkahgos, standing stiff and motionless as a stone statue before his assault company; the other crested the helm of a grizzled, short-legged, thick-bodied soldier, whose equipage sported no other marks of rank or achievement.
"Well, I'll be damned!" The High Lord reined up before the man and leaned over the chestnut's withers to peer into the green eyes under the white-flecked brick-red brows. "If it isn't Djim Bohluh. I thought you'd been pensioned off long ago. What's wrong, has that scaleshirt taken root in your scaly hide?"
