by Robert Adams
The younger lieutenant assumed an exaggeratedly sanctimonious pose and expression, while his voice mocked the emoting tones of a priest. "And forget you not, Brothers in God, we fight not for base gold, but for The True Faith; not for crass loot, but for our souls' salvation!"
The captain made a rude noise and instantly regretted the pain it brought to his battered face.
"Mebbe!" snorted the other lieutenant. "But me, I don't give a cowpat fer them fur-faces and alla this here religious hogwash!" He slapped his well-worn hilt. "You guys is Ehleenee. Well I ain't, and Uncle Sharptooth here. He's the onlies' deesunt god fer a soljer. And when I fights, by cracky I fights for loot!"
"Yes," agreed the younger. "Loot is the reason most soldiers fight. But there is honor, as well. The Steel God of you barbarians demands that, above all."
The spikebeard took another long draught of the foul wine, then commented, "Well, it's scant honor any of us will bear from this campaign. I thought this was to be an honest civil war when I took gold and swore my oath and set about recruiting most of you. Fah! And here we are, helping a lunatic pervert and a gaggle of fanatic priests and a gang of gallows-bait commoners murder their rightful lords. We . . . Now what in thunder has got into the horses?"
Although theirs was but a small picket line, a certain amount of noise was a normal occurrence throughout any night, for these were all high-spirited warhorses, many of them uncut stallions and all bred and trained to fight. Of course, it was standard operating procedure in any war-camp that mares were picketed well away from full horses, but even so random bites and the occasional shrill combat were not uncommon. So the veteran cavalrymen had ignored the stampings and snortings and whinnyings, and even the first scream or two.
But now there had erupted a veritable chorus of high-pitched screams, screams not of rage but fear! The entire length of the horselines were vocalizing unmistakable terror. Nostrils dilated and eyes rolling whitely, they reared and jerked at the restraints without visible cause.
Abruptly, a picketline went down and two score of the fear-mad chargers fled mindlessly through the crowded camp, trampling or savaging all who sought to halt them! And unseen in the darkness and confusion, Lover-Of-Water and young Steelclaws loped away toward their next assignment, leaving Myros's tiny cavalry arm in utter chaos.
But the cavalry encampment was concealed from the sight of the headquarters area by an undulation of the terrain. The tumult was effectively swallowed by distance and the general racket of the intervening camps. It was not until screams of mortal agony smote their ears that some score of officers and priests came boiling out of Myros' pavilion, the men of Vawn tired and worn by their long, forced march and those of Morguhn all in some measure tiddly of a surfeit of the Vahrohnos' strong wines.
By then it was too late. Dozens of Sanderz fire arrows had set the wagons and the stores and most of the newly assembled war engines ablaze. Out of the darkness, swarms of black-lacquered shafts buzzed, bearing the sting of death to any and all who sought to subdue the blazes. A cask of strong cordial in one of the wagons exploded with a dull boom, showering glowing sparks and bits of flaming wood onto the fringes of the closely grouped officers' tents. The blue and green flames from the waterproofed canvas were soon rising higher and hotter than the red and yellow conflagration of the siege train.
While the knot of temporal and spiritual leaders reeled in exhausted or drunken confusion, shouting meaningless or contradictory orders to servants or horse-holders or empty air, a volley of heavy, well-aimed darts thudded in among them. A second volley took out most of the horse-holders. Then a horde of coal-black, demonic figures were among the terrified survivors, their swords and sabers and light axes hacking a wide swath of bloody ruin.
Myros had donned his ornate dress armor for the purpose of meeting his incoming allies, but the armor of his officers still lay within his pavilion; so they and the unarmed priests had suffered most heavily from the darts. The armed and armored officers of Vawn valiantly drew their steel and at least slowed the attackers. The Vahrohnos tore a target from the death grip of an officer whose eye socket sprouted two feet of dart shaft, then trotted over with naked sword to take his place amongst the dwindling ranks of the Vawnee.
Those officers and priests not dead or dying fled in every direction, their terrified shrieks lost in the cacophony of the burning camps. For his own part, "Captain" Nathos Evrehos, the goldsmith-moneylender, ran sobbing into the inky void, his face streaked with his tears and his legs streaked with his dung.
——«»——«»——«»——
"But, 'm not inna hall," slurred Milo into the pectoral cross. "Shcaped."
"Capital, Goldy!" crowed the mounted Kooreeos, his broad grin distinct from where Milo stood. "Capital! Where are you, now?"
——«»——«»——«»——
Whitetip's far-speak had reached first the familiar mind of Rik Sanderz, and it was that young clansman and one of his kin who opened the rear gates that Milo might drive the mules and the heavy burden they drew—now increased by the weight of the unconscious Kooreeos of Vawn. The handsome chestnut, captivated by Milo's mindspeak, trotted along behind the warn. The faces of the two clansmen were wreathed in grins at the Bard's successful exploit.
But there was no hint of a smile on the hard face of the Thoheeks, only restrained ferocity. Not even the warm glow of the torches could thaw the icy stare which bored into the black-robed back, as Milo descended from the lofty driver's seat and ripped off the hot, itchy "beard."
Bili's words were clipped and cold rage was in his voice. "Bard Klairuhnz, I assigned you to a critically important post. You saw fit to desert that post. There is but one fitting punishment for such an action at so grave a time as the present." His huge axe was gripped in his right hand and with his left he drew his dirk, saying, "You once fought well and faithfully for me, Kinsman, so I now allow you a choice. Will I take your head with my axe or heart-thrust you with the dirk?"
The corner of Milo's eye caught a stiff flickering of a white-tipped tail, as the great feline crouched and tensed to spring. "No!" he beamed urgently. "Let be, Cat-brother. This is as quick a way as any to confirm to the lad my true identity."
"The dirk, I think, Lord Bili," answered Milo, gravely. "But, for that, I must remove my brigandine."
At that, he doffed the robe and cross, loosened the crotch strap, grasped the hem of the steel-lined garment, and started to pull it over his head. In a blur of movement, Bili tossed axe to left and dirk to right hand, and his hard, true, straight-armed thrust thudded home between Milo's ribs, the force of the blow slamming him back against the high wheel of the warn.
Rik and the other Sanderz man gripped their sun medallions, but took in the deed with impassive faces. For Bili was a Chief and Bard Klairuhnz apparently had been his oathman. He had not attempted to dissuade his Chief, nor to stave off the execution, so obviously had he deemed death his just punishment. Their own Chief had admonished them that they must all bide by the ways of this land. Besides, they recognized their unpleasant affair to be none of Clan Sanderz's business.
Komees Djeen's limping run brought him to his young lord's side just as the dirk came free with ah obscene, sucking pop, and blood, glistening black in the torchlight, gushed forth to soak the shut above the wound.
"You damned thick-skulled young fool!" snarled the old man, furiously jerking Bili about. "You're not in Harzburk, dammit, what you've just done is murder! You . . . Sun and Wind!" His contorted, livid features suddenly slackened and blanched to the hue of curds, while his faded-blue eye seemed about to spring from its socket.
Bili whirled around, then unconsciously stepped back, his own eyes flitting back and forth between his blood-slimed dirk and his "victim."
Milo finished pulling the brigandine over his head and with it the blue black wig which had covered his own, close-cropped gray-and-black hair. He smiled fleetingly at the stunned Thoheeks, then inserted a forefinger into first one cheek, then the oth
er, wincing as he tore loose lumpy strips of some substance which had served to alter the shape of his face.
Then the "dead man" pulled off his shirt and Bili could see that the wide wound his blade had inflicted had almost ceased to bleed. His confused brain spun frenetically, registering what it saw, yet knowing that such could not be . . . unless . . .
Komees Djeen's sword came from its case in one smooth movement; then its hilt crashed against his breastplate in a stiff, military salute, as he croaked, "My Lord, my Dear Lord . . . !"
Almost simultaneously did two Sanderz sabers come out to render Horseclan honors, while two awestruck voices murmured, "God Milo!"
It was nearly an hour more before the sortiers straggled back to the hall. Although they had failed to capture any officer or priest, they had retired in good order, bearing with them both their wounded and their dead. But even when the last of them were sprawled gasping within the walls, the clash of arms still sounded from the creekside camps, as leaderless bands of hopelessly bewildered men took similar bands for the enemy in the darkness between fires. And the murderous chaos went on until the first roseate streaks of dawn were tinting the eastern sky.
When the coppery vanguard of Sacred Sun breasted the horizon, most of the garrison of the beleaguered hall gathered in the rear courtyard. While Clan Bard Gil sang first The Lament of Morguhn, then The Lament of Sanderz, the bodies were borne from indoors in stately procession, laid upon the enlarged pyre, and torches were set to its four corners by Bili, Spiros, Hwahltuh, and Raikuh.
Slowly at first, then ever more rapidly, the tongues of flame took hold and crept higher and higher, then began to nibble at the pitch-soaked boards whereon lay the seven corpses. Bili gazed woodenly but once more upon the faces of his kin and those who had fought for him, and stepped back as the heat became uncomfortable.
The column of smoke rose up and up and up, high into the pale-blue dawning sky, until a high-altitude current struck it powerfully and sent its tendrils roiling away to the west.
Hwahltuh and his clansmen stood bunched together, touching one another for comfort, whilst unashamed tears streaked their faces—tears not only for the losses of two loved kinsmen, but for pride that the smoke of Sanderz men should be borne to the Home of Sacred Wind in company with that of a Chief and his brave son. The Freefighters stood at attention behind their captain, with no need to force the appearance of emotionlessness, for—like eating, drinking, wenching, gambling, and fighting—death was but another facet of the existence of a professional soldier.
Despite himself, old Komees Djeen, standing ramrod-stiff at Milo's left rear, felt moisture creeping from his eye and down the folds and puckers and wrinkles of his leathery cheek. For his part Vahrohnos Spiros wept as openly as the Sanderz men.
Bili was the first upon the walls when the tower watch winded the alarm bugle. But he could see nothing other than individuals and small groups shuffling about the charred and bloody wreckage of the rebel encampments. So he quickly ascended the nearest tower. And there he did not need the guard's pointing spear to show him.
When the leading elements of Confederation cavalry were reported by the Vawnee scouts, the few remaining officers betook themselves to the commander's pavilion, but it stood empty and stripped of all small valuables. Vahrohnos Myros, the senior sub-priest, Rikos, and their guards were nowhere to be found! As the highest ranking noble remaining, Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz found himself in command of the self-battered siege forces.
If no soldier, Drehkos was at least a good administrator; so after sending the scouts back to their posts with orders to keep him informed of the progress of the leading force and the approximate size of the main element, he assembled such staff as was available and commenced a riding tour of the wrecked, wretched camps to assess just what he was in command of. Within the hour, he had ordered and was supervising immediate and rapid withdrawal to Morguhnpolis!
Leaning between the merlons, Bili shouted down to the Freefighter bugler, "You, trooper! Sound first the Officers' Call, then the Assembly!"
The Freefighter had not completed the first call ere the young Thoheeks was down from the tower and racing along the wallwalk toward the hall. The large central chamber was still filling up when he arrived, buckling on his gorget, the straps of his hastily donned cuirass dangling loose. As he gained the dais and strode to his place at the high table, Komees Djeen stumped up to confront him, angrily demanding: "Now just what in hell do you think you're up to? Have you no respect for the rites due your father and the honors for your poor, brave brother?"
"Who would not be dead, remember, had I not, against my better judgment, heeded your overly cautious advice and given into his leadership the raid I planned and should have led!" Ice crackled in Bili's voice and stare, and his tone brooked no argument. "Now you heed me, Lord Djeen, and heed me well, for I shall not repeat my words! You are a man grown old in war and there is much I may learn from you, but I will learn when and as I wish to learn, not at your pleasure!"
"Sacred Sun has made of me your rightful lord, not the reverse. Do not delude yourself into the belief that I will longer tolerate your browbeating. In the future, you will either obey my orders, or you have my leave to forthwith depart my presence! I tell you this before the face of Him who is the Ancient God of our ancestors and present overlord of us all."
"I know that you have meant well and that command is become habitual with you, but you have left me no choice, Lord Djeen. You must realize that although you are a Count and have been a General, I am a Duke and, my age notwithstanding, your temporal superior!"
"Am I understood, Lord Djeen?"
"Perfectly, My Lord Thoheeks." The Komees', words came as stiff as his military posture, but his eye showed grudging respect. "I await your orders."
"Very good," Bili nodded, then signed Raikuh's lieutenant to do up the loose straps of his armor while he spoke on. "Our erstwhile besiegers are breaking camp and withdrawing in some haste. Even as I quitted the watchtower, a large body of cavalry forded the creek and rode west, toward Morguhnpolis, I assume. Without horsemen to protect them, those rebel foot will be ripe for the slaughter and I mean to butcher me as many as I can lay axe to."
"You and Kinsman Sami will again have command of the hall. I will leave you Kinsman Vaskos, the six walking wounded, and your personal Freefighters."
Wordlessly, the old Strahteegos saluted, turned about, and stumped off, trailed by Vaskos and the castellan.
"Chief Hwahltuh, Captain Raikuh, get your men armed and mounted. I'll expect the column to be formed up and ready in fifteen minutes."
The little Chief whooped delightedly, vaulted the table, and sped toward the door, his shouting, laughing clansmen close behind him. Raikuh nodded his acknowledgment and saluted, but even he could not repress a grin.
Komees Hari stepped forward. "Bili . . . uh, My Lord Thoheeks, I may be old, but . . ."
Bili smiled warmly. "But you're not too old to swing a sword, eh? I had no thought of leaving you and our other Kinsmen behind, Lord Hari. It is only because he is wounded that I ordered your son to remain. But all of you hurry and get armed, for I want no unnecessary delay. I want to rout those bastards!"
When the nobles were gone, only Milo and Master Ahlee remained with Bili on the dais. "And I?" inquired the white-robed physician. "What would the Lord Thoheeks have me to do?"
Bili smiled again. "Whatever you wish, Lord Ahlee, for you have served me and my House well. I know you to be a stark warrior, for all that you profess to be a man of peace. You may remain with your patients or you may ride with me."
Ahlee's gentle smile answered Bili's. "Young Eeshmaheel is become as accomplished a physician as am I. Indeed, he already has a Volunteer apprentice, so the wounded here can receive no better care from me. I had long forgotten how exhilarating is combat. I will fetch my blade and see to my horse."
"And me, Bili?" inquired Milo.
The smile slipped from the young Thoheeks' face. "Who am I to giv
e orders to my Lord?" he answered uncomfortably, the memory of his attempt to execute this more-than-man still painfully fresh in his mind.
"No, Bili," Milo mindspoke. "Put that from your thoughts. I knew your intention and could easily have stopped you, had I so desired."
"But that was last night. May I ride with your force this morning?"
"Any sound horse in my stables is yours, my Lord," Bili silently assured him. "I will be most honored to do whatever the High Lord commands."
Milo grinned. "Remember that promise, Bili; for are you truly that which I believe you to be. I have great plans for you."
"But for now, for a little while longer, think of me only as your distant Kinsman Klairuhnz, and command me as you would him. You see, young Bili, the life of a High Lord is often boring, and I must return to that life soon enough."
"Now," he smiled, "shall we go and see if that witchman's big chestnut is the charger he claims to be?"
About The Author
ROBERT ADAMS lives in Seminole County, Florida. Like the characters in his books, he is partial to fencing and fancy swordplay, hunting and riding, good food and drink. And when he is not hard at work on his next science-fiction novel, Robert may be found slaving over a hot forge to make a new sword or busily reconstructing an historically accurate military costume.
