by Robert Adams
Letting his shield rest against his leg, the old soldier clasped both big, scarred hands about his spearshaft and raised one foot from the ground. Ignoring the venomous glare of a squad leader who looked young enough to be his grandson, he showed worn, yellow teeth in a broad grin. "Speak true, Lord Milo, can you see these here hands a-pushin' a plow or a-milkin' a cow?"
Milo chuckled. "You've a point there, right enough, Djim, but think on the rest of it, man. Your own piece of land, a snug cabin and a young wife to tend you and get you sons to fill the ranks?"
"No need to leave the army to do that last," the soldier cackled. "I been a-doin' that fer… well, fer more years 'n I cares to think on. In fact, Lord Milo, chances are least a comp'ny's worth of these here boys is my get, did they but know it! Fac', young Lohkeeas Froheeros, there"—he pointed his chin at the almost apoplectic squad leader—"do put me much in min' of a lil' gal I useta pleasure, down Sahvahnahs way."
Bili saw almost all the surrounding faces jerk or twitch to a muffled chorus of groans and gasps which told of strangled laughter, while the young sergeant's lividity deepened until it looked as if he were being garroted. Not even the stern-faced strahteegos could repress a grin.
"You insubordinate old reprobate." The High Lord crossed his hands on his pommel. "How old are you, anyway?"
Bohluh shifted uncomfortably. "Oh… ahh, I be unsure, Lord Milo, bein' such a ignorant man an' all. I thinks I be about forty-four… give 'r take a year."
"Give a dozen or more, you white-haired scoundrel!" Milo snorted derisively. "Djim, you were a man, grown, when I awarded you that cat, after the Battle of Wildrose River. And that was more than thirty years ago! Strahteegos Ahrtos"—he half turned to the senior infantry commander—"why hasn't this man been retired?"
The officer squirmed in his saddle. "Well, ahhh… well, my lord, it—"
"Lord Milo," interrupted Bohluh, "don't go blaming young Ahrtos, there, 'cause it ain't his fault. He be a damned good officer, allus has been. But all my records they got burnt up in that big fire at Goohm, fourteen year agone. An' when we set out tryin' to do 'em over, it might be some names 'n' dates got done wrong, is all."
Milo sighed. "Djim, you must be pushing sixty, half again the average lifespan these days. War is an activity for young men, old friend. I think I should retire you now. Report back to the camp. When I'm done in this field, I'll have orders drafted to get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs. Or you can retire in Morguhn, if you wish. There're right many widows there and Thoheeks Bili is going to need some loyal husbands for them."
Bohlub's spear fell, clattering. His lined, seamed face working, he stumbled forward, one big hand raised beseechingly, the other on the chestnut's reins. "Please, Lord Milo, please! Please let me stay. This be my home, Lord Milo, the only home I've knowed for over forty-five years. If I didn't hear the drum of a mornin', I'd… I couldn't, wouldn't want to… I mean—" Then his voice broke and he could but sob chokedly. "Please, Lord Milo. Please don't send me away."
And something in those swimming green eyes touched a nerve in Bili Morguhn. He urged his horse up beside Milo's and touched his arm. "My lord, if you please… ?"
The High Lord mindspoke impatiently. "This is none of your affair, Bili. It's army business, a matter of regulations. We can't afford the precedent of sixty-odd-year-old soldiers swinging a sword in the ranks."
"I… I understand your position, my lord. So, I think, does he. He knows this be the end of his long road. But I do not think my lord understands him."
"And you," beamed the High Lord sarcastically, "from the eminent wisdom of your less than twenty summers, do?"
"Your pardon, my lord. I bad no wish to offend."
"Your pardon, Bili." The edge was gone from Milo's mind-speak. "I don't suppose I'll ever get over being jumpy before a battle, and I sometimes forget your constantly expanding mental abilities. What do old Djim's words say to you?"
"He craves a last boon, my lord. A soldier's death. And this final battle in which to find it."
"And you know this, Bili?" asked the High Lord. "How?"
The answer came quickly and unhesitatingly. "My lord, I can just sense that we are much alike, Bohluh and I. And, were I in his position, this is what I would have of a man I'd served so long and so well."
"Bili," Milo mindspoke slowly, "discipline in my army is much stricter than what passes for such in your Middle Kingdoms hosts. Every ear within hearing heard me order him back to camp, and it would hurt morale if his pleas seemed to bring about a reversal of those orders. Besides, it's highly probable that his company won't even fight today. These regiments are drawn up for effect; we'll not use a third of them, if that many."
"Djim Bohluh has served you well, my lord?" prodded Bili.
"He'd not have that cat otherwise," retorted Milo. "He's been up and down the noncommissioned ladder so many times he's worn a path in the rungs. But that's because in garrison he's a boozing, brawling, insubordinate rakehell. But on campaign, in battle, he's been worth his weight in emeralds! Had I as few as one regiment like him, the western border of the Confederation would be somewhere on the Sea of Grass today. Yes, Bili, Djim Bohluh has indeed served me well."
"Then, my lord," suggested Bili, "let him find what he seeks with me in my guard. I know damned well that we'll wet our blades."
After his long months with the Morguhn Company of Freefighters, Geros had thought himself inured to every degree of foul language, but the massive old soldier that Thoheeks Bili had had seconded to serve as color shield, while friendly was unbelievably obscene. No three words came from his lips but one of them was a depthless crudity, and the Freefighters hung, grinning like opossums, on his every phrase, obviously highly appreciative of the oldster's seemingly limitless profane vocabulary.
"… So, I tol' thet lil' pissant sergeant thet if he din't git out'n the place ‘n' quit disturbin' us, I'd jam a fuckin' winejar up his gloryhole." Djim Bohluh paused in his "narrative" to take a long, gurgling pull from a proffered canteen of brandy and water. He grinned his thanks, belched, and went on. "If he'd had hisself the brains of a shitbug, he'd of reelized the winterwine an' hemp an' all had done got to us and backed off for a while. But the dumb asshole he went for his sword. So we—" He quite suddenly began to cough violently—so violently, in fact, that Geros was certain it was forced coughing; but it accomplished a purpose, for someone quickly pressed another canteen into his thick hand.
"… So, enyhow, we took his friggin' sword an' flang the thang out'n the winder. An' then we had down the Ehleen turdchomper's breeks an"…"
Geros had had enough. Jamming the ferrule of the standard's pole into the loam of the hillside, he left it and the sniggering, guzzling group of Freefighters to make his way to the crest, where stood Pawl Raikuh and Thoheeks Bili, observing the work of the assault companies and archers.
The thoheeks had fostered for nearly ten years at the court of King Gilbuht of Harzburk, and Captain Raikuh was a Harzburker born, so their conversation was in the rapid, slightly nasal dialect of that principality. But even so there was not enough difference between this dialect and the slower, softer, slurring Confederation Mehrikan to prevent Geros from understanding his commanders.
"They're doing fine on the right hill, Duke Bili, but whoever's archer captain on the left hill should have his arse kicked up around his ears. Look you, another of the axemen is down with… looks like a dart in his thigh. Those bow-pulling bastards just aren't close enough to give effective covering fire!"
But it was obvious that others had noticed the fault, for Geros saw a rider, toylike with the distance, gallop his mount to the rear of the archers. Shortly, the bowmen could be seen to sling their commodious siege quivers and trot forward. When they at last halted and recommenced their nights of shafts, those loosed by the defenders at the men laboring on the abatis slackened perceptibly.
Noticing Geros for the first time, Raikuh grinned and slapped his shoulder affectionately. "Ah, Sword Brother, come
up to see what you can learn, eh? I say again, my lord, can I but persuade our new Sword Brother to throw in his lot with my company, he'll he a famous—and very well-to-do!—officer of Freefighters one day. Now, true, he may not be nobleborn, but—"
"But," nodded Bili, "Freefighting be a craft where guts, brains and abilities mean far more than mere birth. When a lord goes to hire swords, a captain's pedigree weighs less than a pinch of turkey dung; it be his reputation determines how much gold is put on the scale. And the beginning of a good reputation be lieutenanting under a well-known captain."
All Geros could think to say was: "But… but Thoheeks Sword Brother, I am only a sergeant."
Chuckling gustily, Raikuh's brawny arm encircled Geros' armored shoulders. "That be easily righted, brother. Say you'll come with my company when Duke Bili no longer needs us, and you'll go up that hill as an ensign—an officer standard-bearer." He added, with unmistakable liking and respect to his voice, "And I, Pawl Raikuh, will be both pleased and honored to be able to number a fine, gutsy man such as you amongst my officers, Geros."
Geros felt embarrassed, ashamed and contrite; he felt he could no longer dissemble. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet the eyes of these two noblemen who believed him something he was not and had never really been. He stumbled over the words, at first, but finally got them out.
"From the beginning, it… it was all a lie. I have lived, been living, a lie since the… that night of the bridge fight. I really… I'm not brave. I'm terribly frightened to… whenever there's fighting."
"Really?" said Bili with dry amusement. "Well, I must say you hide it well."
"Yes, yes, my lord." Geros nodded quickly, glad that someone understood what be was finding so hard to phrase. "That's it I hide it, hide my fears. And a good officer or trooper… I mean, you want a truly fearless man, not a pretender such as me."
And it was what he had dreaded all along, that presentiment which had for so long kept him quiet on this matter had come horribly to pass. The young thoheeks and this gruff, kindly officer he had come to respect, whose friendship he had treasured, both were laughing. Laughing at him. At Geros-the-coward!
Bill's unusual mind, far more sensitive than most, was first to comprehend what their laughter was doing to the sergeant. He sobered immediately, saying, "Sergeant Geros, Sword Brother, had you been reared to arms, as were Captain Raikuh and I, you would know that fear is as much a part of a warrior's life as are fleas and wet blankets. Captain, have you ever known a Freefighter who had no fear?"
Pawl shrugged. "One or two, my lord, but such never live through the next battle. You see, Geros, fear is what keeps a fighter alive, what gives a dog-tired man the agility to dodge that last spear, raise the sword for one more cut. I dislike being around men who're truly without fear, for death hovers ever near to them."
"You see, sergeant," Bili continued gently, "all warriors know fear… and hide it Those who hide it most successfully, most consistently, are called 'brave.' Which be but a word saying that Sacred Sun has gifted a man with acting ability better than most."
"But… but, my lord…" Geros' guilt still felt painfully undischarged. "I…" He dropped his voice to a whisper and shame suffused his face. "I sometimes am so fearful that… that I… that I wet myself!"
Roaring with laughter, Raikuh once more squeezed Geros' shoulders. "You only piss yourself, comrade? But my steel! I once had a captain who seldom failed to ride in from a battle but he was stinking like a fanner's privy on a summer day. Sword help the man who was downwind of Dunghill Daituhn after any kind of a fight."
Softly, Bili asked, "Captain, you really rode with him they called the Blood Mark? Then you must be older than I'd thought."
Raikuh chuckled. "My house carry our ages well, my lord. I'll be fifty next year. But, yes, I rode with Markee Daituhn, in my wild youth. Of course, that was ere he was ennobled. He was just a famous captain, then, but the youngest son of a younger son, like me, felt damned lucky to win a place in the ranks of his company just the same."
"Now, you see, sergeant," nodded Bili, "there be an excellent example of the glory to which even a common-born Freefighter can aspire. Daituhn was born the son of a smith. But ere he died, he'd hacked his way to power and prestige, with a title to leave his son and gold to dower his daughters. You heard what the captain said of him, yet you certainly couldn't call such a man coward. For that matter, I've wet my own breeches more than once, and I'd lay you thrahkmehs to turds that the captain has too. So were I in your place, I'd accept his offer. A man with the kind of guts it took to admit, as you just did, to what you obviously felt were grievous faults—" »
But there was no time to say more, for the High Lord's mindspeak was clear and strong. "Bili, move your Freefighters down to Strahteegos Ahrtos' position. I'll be leading the attack on the left salient. Ahrtos will be in command of the assault on the right, but I want you with him because you own a quality he lacks—imagination. Take care of yourself, son. If anything happens to you, Aldora will no doubt make my life miserable for the next hundred years."
Chapter Fifteen
In after years, Bili was to recall that attack as absolutely hellish, with almost all that could going wrong. Only narrow gaps had been cleared through the interlaced abattis, and the Confederation infantry took heavy losses while threading slowly through the gaps. Slingstones and arrows and darts bailed thickly from the summit of the hillock, despite the shafts rained on the defenders by Confederation archers. Then, once the survivors were through the deadly hedge and were forming for the charge against the bristling breastworks, no less than three catapult stones—from Confederation engines, too!—fell short and bounced a sanguineous path through their ranks. The hundredweight missiles sent scales flying and mashed leather and flesh and bone into one indistinguishable jelly. Then, less than halfway through the charge, Strahteegos Ahrtos, his beaver down so that he could better shout orders, had his jaw smashed by a slingstone and fell clashing at Bill's feet.
The sub-strahteegos who immediately took the lead got but a few yards farther when a pitchball took him full on the breastplate, and Bill's last view of the unfortunate officer was of a writhing, shrieking, flame-shrouded figure rolling on the ground. The keeleeohstos who took over made it almost to the outer works—a chest-high earth-and-timber rampart— when a thick-shafted, four-foot engine dart spitted him through the belly, going through his high-grade plate as cleanly as a warm knife through soft cheese.
Then Bili had no time to see the succession of commanders. He leaped aside barely in time to avoid a trayful of red-hot sand, though a hideous scream from behind attested that the sand had landed on someone, but he surged forward and the powerful sweep of his heavy axe cleanly severed the tray holder's leg. And, somehow, Bili found himself atop the earthwork, wreaking bloody carnage on the swift succession of opponents who appeared for eyeblinks before him, dimly recording the shock of blows on his own plate and helm. Oblivious to the familiar cacophony of battle, he concentrated only on living—and on killing.
Then only the backs of rebels running up toward the stone-walled summit of the salient met his eyes, and someone—was that Raikuh's voice?—was shouting, "… Bili, Duke Bili, if we tail those bastards now, well take fewer casualties. The frigging archers won't be able to range us without ranging their own as well."
Bili tried to speak but had to work his tongue about in the desert of his mouth ere he could wet his throat enough to get the words out. "Whoever the new commander is, he'll take time to dress his troops, however many of them are left. You've seen how these Regulars operate, man."
Raikuh shook his armored head briskly. "There're damn-all officers left, Duke Bili! The highest-ranking one I can see now it a lieutenant, and he's missing a hand."
"Then who led them up here?" demanded Bili. "Somebody must have led them onto this rampart."
"If anyone did, it was you, Duke Bili!" snapped Raikuh bluntly. "They followed you once, they'll do it again. If we wait around for them to
forward another officer, damn few will make it up to those walls!"
Bili whirled to face the infantrymen and lifted his gory axe on high, roaring, "After them! After the bastards!"
For a moment, the Confederation Regulars wavered, partially reassured by the tone of command but on edge at the lack of formation.
"Sacred Sun fry your shitty arses!" bellowed a voice from their rear, its flavor unquestionably that of a parade ground and detail. "What are you pigfuckers waitin' for? You heard the friggin' order! Or has them there money fighters got more guts 'n you? Move, damn you, move!"
And it was just as Raikuh had said. The defenders of the walls had the bitter choice of loosing at the retreating remnants of the rampart force or having the bulk of their attackers run the slope unscathed. So they tried what they took to be a middle path, loosing at a high angle and hoping their shafts fell on the proper heads. Most of the rebel archers lived just long enough to rue the error.
Not that there were not close moments before the eventual victory. And one such brought the prescient Pawl Raikuh's predictions a few steps closer to fruition.
The shouting, cheering, screaming, howling broil of men swept over the gateless walls, their jabbing spears and dripping swords leaving red ruin behind them, while shrieking panic fled before them. Bili's pitiless axe scythed ruthlessly through the press atop the wall. At its inner edge, he kicked over a ladder down. which the less nimble defenders were fleeing, then jumped lightly to the stone paving of the inner court, briefly wondering where the defenders had lived in the absence of tents or huts within the fortification.
But the thought was necessarily short, for he was almost immediately confronted by a determined opponent with broadsword and huge bodyshield—a rebel officer, if the garish richness of the elaborately chased and inlaid full suit of plate was any indication. An experienced warrior, this one, for he handled longsword and weighty shield with practiced ease, catching Bili's hard-swung axe on sloping shieldface and rushing inside, too close for the axe to be effective, his flickering blade feinting at Bili's visorslits, before its needle point sank through leather and cloth and into the flesh and muscle high on the young thoheeks' thigh.
