“Jiktar Robahan Vending’s Snarling Strigicaws, the Fifth of Spears.”
The Fifth Spears were called Snarling Strigicaws for their shields, which were red and brown and striped above and double-spotted below. In the center they carried the schturval of Falinur. They had not been, in my estimation, a top-line outfit; but they were four hundred and eighty men less to us.
“A bad business. I’ll only repeat the old saw; we’re better off having the desertions now than later on when we’re committed.”
“That will not be long now—”
“Thank Opaz!”
So, the next day we broke camp and set off. We were a tidy bunch. One cannot, on Kregen, say we marched off Horse, Foot and Guns. One says we marched off Air and Ground Cavalry, Foot and Varters.
The swods in the ranks sang the moment their swollen lips allowed them that surcease.
We marched west, toward the perfidious Layco Jhansi’s capital of Vendalume, and we marched looking for a fight.
Chapter ten
The Battle of Vendalume
The Battle inevitably came to be called the Battle of Vendalume.
Most, not all, battles are interesting. In an academic way they hold great fascination for the student not only of tactics but of human nature. The actuality of battles is disgusting.
I had grown in my seasons upon Kregen to dislike fighting and battles and violence exceedingly, as I am sure you will have perceived. Yet I was still the old intemperate Dray Prescot underneath all the acquired veneer of calm and rationality.
When your countrymen and women — as the peoples of Vallia certainly were by now — are enslaved and treated vilely, then if you are able to liberate them it seems a chivalrous notion to go out and do what you can to restore them to their former freedoms and dignity. I am very wary about this idea of chivalry, and although being called a chivalrous knight, much to my chagrin and inward amusement, I do subscribe to the idea that tasks to be done in this life must be done. If I can get out of the more awkward particulars, then I’ll get out sharpish. I am an old paktun, an old leem-hunter, and I value my hide as dearly as the next fellow.
The folk of Vallia had demanded that I become their emperor and lead them out of the Times of Troubles. To be honest, not every citizen of Vallia had demanded this; the dissenters were universally to be found in the ranks of those who profited by the country’s misery and who battened and fattened on slavery, confusion and strife.
As usual in my battles when he was present, Seg Segutorio would take the vaward.
These mainly consisted of those lithe and limber young lads, half-naked, armed with javelin, sling and bow, who formed the light infantry, the voltigeurs, the skirmishers. In general they were an unruly bunch. They were formed in regiments, bearing grandiose and pugnacious titles, and they served as a cloud before the storm.
The main of Seg’s effort lay with the bowmen. Here his painstaking labors saw fruit in the perfection of our army’s shooting. Our dustrectium could paralyze an opposing army.
Now I am aware that accounts of battles are not to everyone’s taste. But they do form part of human history, and one can learn much of human nature from their mystery, their patterns, even, if you will, their mystique.
To clear away once and for all any misconceptions, as we marched out onto the wide and dusty plain where we saw the opposing masses forming against us, it would be appropriate to settle finally the business of nomenclature. The pikemen in the Phalanx were called brumbytes, this from the mythical animal, the brumby, all thrusting horn and massive onslaught, that furnished the symbol at the center of their crimson shields. The heavy infantry, equipped with metal armor, with sword and shield and often with a short-range throwing weapon, were called churgurs. The skirmishers, as I have said, were called kreutzin. These Kregish names do not seem to me to be too hard to recall even in the heat and dust of battle.
Any man who rides a ground saddle animal is known as a jutman, or, in the case of a lady, a jutwoman. A rider is a vakka. On Kregen they are not horsemen.
The shrill and tumultuous screeches of Jhansi’s trumpets filled the air before us. His banners waved. The word for flag in Kregish is tresh. Our treshes waved back in defiance.
My people had advised me to wear the Mask of Recognition. This oversized mask of a thin gold plating over iron concealed my face, was damned hot and uncomfortable, gave some protection to my ugly old beakhead, I suppose, and marked me instantly to our men.
Our aerial reconnaissance told us the layout of Jhansi’s host. Its composition was more conjectural. He had his hordes of sorcerously inflamed crazies, and I felt a pang at thought of the revolting necessity of fighting them. He still had many paktuns, for I’d seen off successfully only a relative few by my ruse in the temple of Lem the Silver Leem. They’d fight and earn their hire this day. I could hope that when, as was damned-well going to happen, the day went against them, they’d have the sense to slope off even if they didn’t attempt to change sides.
I said to Seg and Kapt Erndor, standing by Turko and Nath na Kochwold: “The old barn door.”
“Right you are,” said Seg. “I’ll tickle ’em up, by the Veiled Froyvil.”
“The Phalanx,” said Nath, “will fight this day under its proper commander.” He indicated the Brumbytevax of the Fourth Phalanx, Brytevax Dekor.
I nodded, not speaking, waiting for my comrade to come out with what was clearly his own cunning scheme. Nath na Kochwold, the Krell-Kapt[i] of the entire Phalanx Force, all five Phalanxes of it, in theory had no real field command. Each half of a Phalanx, each Kerchuri, was commanded in action by its Kerchurivax, the men who did the work in battle. We already had the Sixth Kerchuri with the Ninth Army, and the losses from those damned frogs had been made up by Seg’s reinforcements. Also, he had flown up the Tenth Kerchuri, half of the newly raised Fifth Phalanx. So we had four Kerchuris.
Nath na Kochwold gazed at me with rather the expression a young man might bestow upon a flagon of the best ale of Vondium suddenly chanced upon in the Ochre Limits.
“This is the position,” I said. I spoke largely, for, Zair forgive me, I relished the serious and disciplined Nath’s anxious hanging-upon every word. This was a grievous sin on my part, and I own it, for I paid for it in the end, by Zair I paid, as you shall hear...
“We have the Seventh and Eighth Kerchuris of the Fourth Phalanx. These will be commanded by Brytevax Dekor. So well and good. We also have the veteran Sixth Kerchuri of the Third Phalanx, and they are superior lads in all senses.” I glanced at Nath and went on: “I’d rather thought I’d hold them in reserve.”
Nath managed to croak out: “I see, majis.”
I didn’t miss that use of majis, either...
“As for the newly arrived Tenth Kerchuri, of the Fifth Phalanx, they are not as green as they may seem. They inherit not only the glory but also many of the lads of the old Tenth who fought so valiantly at the Battle of Ovalia.”
“Also they inherit the insignia of the old Tenth,” pointed out Turko, “the Prychan grasping Thunderbolts. I was there. That was the Eighth Army. Oh, yes, we sprang the thorn ivy trap on them all right. Layco Jhansi ran off then with his tail between his legs, and he had some of the iron legions of Hamal to fight for him.”
“We’ve come a long way since then.” I spoke in a way that conveyed more to listeners than idle boasting. “We’ve driven Jhansi back, Turko has secured his kovnate of Falinur, and now we have driven into Vennar and have him forced to turn and fight for his capital. Slow we may be; but we are re-uniting Vallia, even if to the outside world who knows little of what goes on in the islands we seem to be doing nothing.”
Nath’s face was a wonder to behold; I hoped he wouldn’t blow up before he was put out of his misery.
To that charitable end, I said: “We have a few regiments of swarths, chief among them Jiktar Nath Roltran’s unruly mob, who I am told call themselves the Trampling Green Scaled Regiment.” Swarths, reptile mounts with four legs and w
edge-heads all, as it were, designed to lumber forward in a straight line, do have strength and power but their turn of speed leaves much to be desired. I went on: “Jhansi has received a sizeable reinforcement of swarthmen. It is probable that he has stopped running and turned to fight us because they do add considerably to his strength.”
“There’s Vendalume,” pointed out Turko. “That’s making him fight, too, I expect.” He was as well aware as I what went forward with the suffering Nath.
Seg said: “Or he didn’t relish running on and going slap-bang into old Inch. But, these swarthmen, now...” Seg, like Turko, had poor old Nath na Kochwold to rights.
Sharply, I said: “Nath! You will command the Sixth Kerchuri. In reserve. They are under your hand. You will have a flutduin reconnaissance flight. Those enemy swarths are yours. The moment you see their direction get the lads moving and chop ’em up.” Almost, I finished with a cracked out: “Dernun?” which means savvy, do you understand, and is not particularly polite.
Nath braced himself. He looked so relieved as to make Seg and Turko look out across the open plain toward the distant city.
“We will hit those swarthmen, Dray,” he said, and his voice was level and sure.
No doubt with all these high-flown commanders and officers in their correct positions, he’d actually contemplated not having a command this day...
Then Turko put his oar in.
“Ah, Dray — Seg brought up from Vondium the Fifth Churgurs. They were with us at Ovalia. I’d rather like—”
“Certainly. What do they call themselves now?”
“The Prickly Thorns.”
“Yes, well one or two regiments can play on that variety of name...”
So we sorted out what went where and who commanded whom. The regiments looked splendid under the suns, for not a cloud darkened the sky. The war had not so far ruined this part of Vennar and the grass sparkled, sweet-smelling and fresh. In the distance the walls and towers of Vendalume beckoned us on.
Already as the columns moved into position the swods were singing hymns, chants, paeans. The religious observances had been scrupulously performed with due solemnity and ceremony.
Now I have said that it was usual in my battles for Seg to take the vaward. But this battle rightfully belonged to Turko and Kapt Erndor.
Turko had matured into a first-class commander, and Kapt Erndor became more and more the Chief of Staff. I made a decision.
“I’ll drift across to my lads,” I told Turko. “I rather fancy a little arm-swinging will be good for all of us. You and Kapt Erndor can run the battle.”
“Well, now, Dray—”
“Good,” I said, briskly. “That’s settled.”
The standards of the Phalanx fluttered splendidly. Each Jodhri, six of which formed a Kerchuri, carried its own colors. The original Prescot flag, a plain yellow cross upon a scarlet field, specially presented to the Phalanx Force, was now variously identified by symbols for each formation. Also the colors carried battle honors. Bullion and golden threads weighted those colors... A wreath of thorn ivy decorated each color within the Tenth Kerchuri. A similar wreath gleamed from the standards of the Fifth Churgurs. Other regiments carried that proud battle honor — not many, for the Eighth Army had been a force remarkably few in numbers.
When I joined 1ESW, no thorn ivy wreaths decorated their standards, for 2ESW had fought at Ovalia. The battle honor gleamed above the treshes of 1EYJ. My lads set up a racketing yell when I trotted up aboard a borrowed zorca, Tuftears. They flashed their swords aloft and yelled, and the Hai Jikai roared to the heavens.
Just across from us the Twenty-first Brigade of Zorcabows waited, fidgeting a trifle, proud zorca heads tossing so that the spiral horns glittered in the light. This brigade, commanded by Chuktar Travok Ramplon, was part of Seg’s vaward, assigned the task of clearing away the enemy’s forward forces. To beef up the brigade somewhat, a regiment of Zorca Lances had been assigned to Chuktar Ramplon as an extra unit.
Seg, with his personal bodyguard, trotted past, standards fluttering, suns light glinting from armor and weapons. By Vox! But he looked an impressive sight!
The units gave responding cheers, and then Seg was gone, gone out to his post of command in the vaward to face the perils and dangers of being first into action.
Well, not quite first, for the aerial squadrons were already aloft and snuffing about ready to throw back any aerial advance made by Jhansi. Once that necessary preliminary had been accomplished the fliers and the flyers would swarm over to the attack. The torments they were likely to inflict on Jhansi’s forces could sway the course of the battle.
The Second Regiment of the Emperor’s Sword Watch, not a little cocky with their thorn ivy wreaths of honor in presence of the First Regiment, with that very same 1ESW and First and Second EYJ, formed the guard brigade here today. They were not often thus collected together with the emperor. And, still, Drak had regiments of ESW and EYJ with him in the southwest. I anticipated using the brigade of jurukkers as the final all-out battle-winning hammer stroke.
With steady pace and as impeccable a drill as one could legitimately expect on such an occasion, the swods formed the battle line.
Over there, between us and the ramparts of Vendalume, the dark masses of the enemy could be seen forming their battle line. Aerial scouts reported every movement, and attempted to deny the enemy air any observation of our own maneuvers.
Over there, Layco Jhansi and his cronies, chief among whom I suspected was still Malervo Norgoth, if he wasn’t already dead and gone down to the Ice Floes of you know where, would be anxiously preparing their people. The stinking sorcerer, Rovard the Murvish, would be inflaming the poor deluded dupes in the ranks. I’d spoken to Khe-Hi about this.
The Wizard of Loh had replied: “There is a limit to all things. Rovard will probably have drugged the wines, as well as using his brand of sorcerer’s art upon the people. We have been fully tied up combating Csitra and Phunik.” He spoke with his usual metallic precision. “Rovard will operate on an individual basis. We would have to take far too much time to rectify his mischief.”
“I understand.” Then I passed on to a more cheerful subject. “I suppose the moment the battle is won you and Ling-Li will wish to be married.”
He smiled. “We shall marry here in Vallia, for we wish to make this our home. But, of course, we shall have to travel to Loh at some time to ratify the contracts.”
“Oh, of course.” I knew there was a lot more sorcerous proceedings to be gone through in Loh to take them back there, and nothing much to do with ratifying contracts.
There is little I can tell you about the battle itself, for, as I have remarked, it is impossible for a single man to grasp at all that goes on during these absences of sanity from the world. Even the commander in chief can seize on only the salient points. To build up a picture of a battle one must patiently seek out many sources.
The aerial combats could be seen easily enough and our flutduins overmastered the enemy’s fluttrells and mirvols. Our force of vollers smashed his. Seg did his usual competent job and cleared the front so that we had the main of it from the beginning. Then he went off to make sure his archers — I will not say beloved archers, for Seg was as intolerant of his bowmen’s shooting as Nath was of his brumbytes in the files — added to the carnage.
Charges went in and were successful or were repulsed. The old barn door stratagem, by which one end of the line is firmly anchored and the whole then pivots about this fulcrum, smashing everything in the way, once again proved itself. Jhansi, at any rate, was caught by it. He no longer had the advantage of being counseled by experienced Hamalese Kapts.
Nath na Kochwold judged his particular moment to perfection and when the enemy swarths charged the Sixth Kerchuri received them and broke them as a wave is broken upon rocks.
When it came time for the guard brigade to charge, we went in with a whoop and a holler and slashed into the fleeing flanks of the mobs who were attempting to
run away from the charge of the Fourth Phalanx.
Oh, well, the battle went our way and the poor crazed idiots fought well, and died, and then, suddenly they were all running. The paktuns employed by Jhansi fought redoubtably for some time and then, being professionals, and seeing the way of the day, they sought to make good their escape.
We let them go.
After it was all over and the gates of Vendalume shut in our faces, we imagined that a siege must follow.
“Look!” Seg pointed, tall in the stirrups.
The gates of the city opened. A party appeared with flags of truce. Among the flags were three tall poles with bundles at their tips.
Nath said: “I think we can judge what this portends.”
“Aye.”
All over the stricken field the wounded were being collected and cared for. Fundal the Pestle-Breaker, an experienced doctor, reported that the crazies were crazed no more. They had returned to their senses and were bewildered by their situation and what they could not remember doing. There was a deal of wailing and yelling, I can tell you, and not all from the wounded.
“There’s your reason.” Turko indicated the bundles at the tips of the poles.
I suppose that of treacheries like these, empires are made.
Rovard the Murvish’s head still stank, even stuck on top of a pole. Alongside him the head of an extremely ugly woman even in death half-turned away. She had been called, I believe, the obi-stromni Dafeena Norgoth. These two heads dribbled blood down the shafts of the poles. Alongside them the sightless eyes of Layco Jhansi showed pits of reddened black horror. Little blood dripped down his pole.
The fellow who had torn his clothes and smeared mud upon himself yet wore a silver and gilt chain about his neck. He was the mobiumim, the chief representative of the civil power, equivalent in many ways to the mayor. He went into the full incline, nose in the dirt, rump in the air.
I let him.
The three heads moved against the sky, their bearers trembling beneath, faces pinched, hardly daring to look at the emperor. The other dignitaries all flopped down, following the example of the mobiumim, so that I was presented with a sea of rumps.
Witches of Kregen Page 8
