Conrad Starguard-The Radiant Warrior

by Leo Frankowski

  You see, war is an absolutely irrational phenomenon. There is not and never was any sane reason to risk your only life attacking someone for some possible material or emotional benefit. Even if one was absolutely immoral, the plain fact is that you have everything to lose and damn little to gain.

  It only makes sense to fight when someone else is attacking you, and even then there is a large element of the irrational in it.

  Any individual man in a battle line can improve his chances of survival by running away. If he runs and everyone else stands and fights, odds are that he will live, while a certain percentage of those that fight will die. Yet if everyone runs, that army will take far higher casualties than if everyone stands and fights. The vast majority of casualties endured by a defeated army happen after the battle, during the mop-up operation after the battle line has failed.

  So as irrational as it sounds, on the average your odds of survival are better if you stand and fight, even though as an individual your odds are better if you ran away.

  It is irrational. It's crazy! And therefore a winning army must be a special kind of crazy. The people in it must be insane enough to be willing to die so that the army may win. That special kind of insanity is called spirit.

  You build spirit in many strange and irrational ways. One is that you stage special ceremonies, and our "Sunrise Service" was our most important one.

  I wanted an oath of allegiance that would have emotional impact and be understandable to young and uneducated people. I carefully studied all the oaths that I could remember, but most of them were either too legalistic, like the military swearing-in ceremony, or they really didn't say much, like the American pledge to the flag. By far the best of the lot was the Boy Scout pledge and the Scout law. I modified it slightly to suit our circumstances, but every day of a trooper's life started out with this service.

  They woke at dawn to the sound of bugles and were out on the parade grounds before the sun peeked over the horizon. At the first sliver of sunlight, a very short mass was said, less than eight minutes and without a sermon, though it took work to get the priest to do this at first.

  I had a small band, some brass and percussion, play Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man." Then we raised our right arms to the sun and recited:

  "On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and to the Army. I will obey the Warrior's code, and I will keep myself physically fit, mentally awake, and morally straight.

  "The Warrior's code:

  "A Warrior is: Trustworthy, Loyal, and Reverent; Courteous, Kind, and Fatherly; Obedient, Cheerful, and Efficient; Brave, Clean, and Deadly."

  This was followed by the orders of the day, where the men were told what they'd be doing for the rest of the day.

  The whole ceremony took less than twelve minutes, but it was done every day of a warrior's life. Forever.

  Other things were done to build spirit. You wear the same kind of clothing, so you all look the same and start to think that you all really are the same. You march together, walking in exactly the same way. You sing together, sounding the same way. And you do great and impossible things together. You run difficult obstacle courses and eventually you win battles.

  But my army wasn't going to have a chance to win any battles, not until the Mongols arrived. This wouldn't be like a modern war that lasts for five years and gives you a chance to blood your troops before the final conflict. The war with the Mongols would be won in two months if it was going to be won at all.

  I needed something else to give the troops that magic feeling of invincibility, and I had two ideas. One was that notion of fire-walking.

  Various primitive tribes and the crazy people in California practice fire-walking, or at least walking on a hot bed of coals. If I could show them that they could now walk naked through fire, they would believe that they were unstoppable. And no one will run if he truly believes that he will win.

  The other is a curious optical phenomenon, called the glory. If you are on a high place early on a clear morning, and the valley below is very foggy, if everything is right, when you look at your shadow on the fog below, you see around your head beams of light radiating outward. It only shows up around your head and no one else's, at least from your perspective. They, of course, see it only around their own heads. I read about this in Scientific American, but their explanation for it was unconvincing.

  Yet one morning, when I was running the troops through the obstacle course, looking down to my left I saw this very same phenomenon. It was spooky, as though I was wearing some sort of halo!

  If I could show the men that they wore halos, that they were individually blessed by God, they would be true believers, absolute fanatics, the kind of crazy people who win wars.

  I changed the course of the morning run and made that spot off-limits, saying it was a holy place. Yet I went back there other mornings and three-quarters of the time I could see the same strange effect. I would definitely make it a part of the graduation ceremony!

  Chapter Twenty

  FROM THE DIARY OF PIOTR KULCZYNSKI

  After three months, there were less than half of us left. Eleven men had died, a dozen more were crippled for life, and others simply could not stand the strain of the training, but I was still there.

  Lady Richeza started teaching a course on Saturday afternoons. She taught courtesy and dancing on Saturday nights. Young ladies were brought in to assist her and it was all very carefully supervised. It was astounding to see female human beings again. Three months with none but male company does strange things to a young man's thoughts. Yet when the ladies were introduced, we grunts were all remarkably shy, and had to be ordered to associate with them! I never have understood my own feelings here.

  The next three months were equally rough, and we lost almost two dozen more grunts, but after that the drop-out rate fell off, and the only losses we had were due to injuries. It wasn't that the course became any easier. It didn't. But those of us who were left were the sort who could survive anything. Climbing a rope higher than a church steeple didn't bother us in the least. We did it every day before breakfast! Going up or down a cliff twice that high was child's play, and we got to enjoying it. Half a day with double-weight weapons? We could do it!

  Soon, we were issued plate armor of the sort that Sir Conrad wore, and we learned to do all our exercises while wearing it, no easy thing at first! We lost a few men on the cliffs when they misjudged their balance or the strength of rocks, but the rest of us learned the necessary reflexes.

  Then we got our first guns. Sir Conrad said that guns could be made of any size, but that the larger ones were useful only to attack cities and castles. Our opponents would all be horsemen, and our guns were therefore fairly small. He called them swivel guns, for they were mounted on swivels that enabled them to be easily pointed in any direction. They were as long as I was tall and had a bore that was bigger than my thumb. They could shoot six times farther than a crossbow, and one of the bullets could go through four pigs and four sets of armor. I know, for I did the shooting and helped to eat the pigs afterward.

  Six of these guns were mounted on a war cart that carried, besides the guns and ammunition, the weapons and supplies needed by forty-three men. That is to say, six squads of six men each, plus six squad leaders and a cart commander. The carts were large, six yards long, two wide and a yard and a half high, in addition to being a yard and a half off the ground. There were four huge wheels, and these were mounted on casters that could be locked in any of four positions. In transport, the wheels were locked so that they faced forward and back, and then pulled the long way. In combat, the casters were locked sideways, and the cart was pulled sideways so that all six guns could face the enemy.

  In combat, the lid of the cart was supported far off to the side on three pike shafts, providing a big shield for the thirty-six men who pulled it. Our armor had a ring in the back, near the waist, for attaching a rope, which was tied with a slip knot. This left the hands of the firs
t rank free to work their halberds, and those of the next five to hold their pikes.

  I had been a good shot with a bow, and it evolved that I was one of the best with a swivel gun as well. Part of the joy of being a gunner was being able to ride while the others pulled you along. You were high above them, and could sneer at them because they had to face forward and couldn't see you do it.

  In truth, my small size also had something to do with me being a gunner, for the less weight in the cart, the better. The strongest men were all made first rank axemen, and those best at first aid were in the sixth rank, where they could see any man fall.

  The plan was to have thousands of these carts, with the pikers protecting the guns, and the guns covering the pikers, shooting the enemy over the footmen's heads.

  Except for our eyeslits, our armor was proof against arrows, and it was difficult to imagine an enemy defeating us. It was hard to imagine anyone fool enough to fight us!

  * * *

  It was in the ninth month of my military training that the worst trouble occurred.

  My class was down to three dozen men then, from the gross we had started with, since Josep Karpenski had died the night before.

  It was a cold morning, with a bit of frost on the ground, so naturally Sir Conrad led us on the twelve mile run before breakfast completely naked. If the afternoon was hot, you may be assured that we would be working out in full winter armor, for he never missed an opportunity to make things as difficult as possible.

  We speculated why this was so, over our hurried meals and in the few brief moments a day that we had to ourselves. At least I speculated, for the others were convinced that Sir Conrad treated us thus out of pure cruelty. Myself, I was not convinced of that, for I alone had known the man before this form of hell began, and I knew that he never caused needless pain.

  That there was some method behind this apparent wastage of time and men was obvious to me, for it was not the stupid brutality of a dumb peasant whipping a dumber beast. It had more in common with the raw pain caused when white lightning was poured on an open wound to cleanse it, before the ragged edges were trimmed away and the wound sewn shut.

  That is to say, it was a precise, accurate sort of cruelty that was always on the very edge of the intolerable, but could still be survived somehow.

  I think this knowledge of my liege lord helped me in some spiritual way, and gave me some advantage over the others to help compensate for my physical shortcomings.

  The morning run was an everyday affair, and always done over the same course in one direction or the other.

  We were running in step, four abreast and singing one of the songs Sir Conrad wrote for us, as we rounded a curve and found ourselves surrounded by Baron Stefan's men. They were all on horseback and in full armor, and there must have been fifty of them, counting the squires as well as the knights.

  Baron Stefan, wearing his golden chain mail, his gold-trimmed helmet and gold-hilted sword, announced that we were on his land, that we were all trespassers and that since Sir Conrad had bewitched the duke as well as Count Lambert, it was time to take the law into his own hands and demonstrate by combat that this land was his.

  Sir Conrad said that this was ridiculous. It was against all law for two knights of the same lord to fight. Trial by Combat was not legal under these circumstances, and certainly not when he and his men were naked and the baron's were in full armor.

  The baron said that he was not going to fight Sir Conrad, but only make a demonstration by killing one of his peasants, and not even a very valuable one. He would only take the runt of the litter, and he pointed toward me!

  Both Sir Conrad and Sir Vladimir, who was also with us that morning, tried to talk and shame him out of it, but the baron was like one out of his mind. He said that I was marked for death!

  I thought about running, but on foot it was not likely that I could outrun a rested war-horse. I would be caught when I was exhausted and would have to fight with my strength gone. Further, if I must die, I would rather do it in as honorable a manner as possible. At least I had gone to mass and communion less than an hour before, so my soul was fit for death. I stood at attention and waited, trying to recite to myself a good act of contrition.

  Sir Conrad continued trying to reason with the mad baron, but the fact was that the baron's men could kill us all if he ordered it. Sir Conrad ridiculed the baron into vowing that he would fight me alone, and had the baron's men vow that they would stay out of the fight. Then he talked the baron into at least letting me have a stick to defend myself with. A tree was pointed out, and it was agreed that I should have the use of it.

  Sir Vladimir talked to one of his cousins who was sworn to the baron, and got me the temporary use of a war axe. Sir Conrad looked at me and softly said, "A pike and a quarterstaff."

  The tree was a young pine, tall and straight and as big around as my wrist. I made quick work of it, leaving the bark on to better the grip. Perforce, I returned the axe and went to the center of the meadow. I threw the quarterstaff I'd made to the ground a few yards away and stood with my pike raised and at the parade rest position, with my feet wide apart, my left hand behind my straight back and my pike vertical and at arm's length from me.

  I felt a bit silly, standing thus naked, but if anything was going to save my life, it would be the training I'd gotten in the last nine months. This was not the time to forget it! I found myself silently reciting every prayer I knew.

  Baron Stefan had his men arrayed to the north and Sir Conrad had his to the south, almost as if this were a legitimate Trial by Combat.

  Sir Conrad again made protest at the illegality of the procedure, and vowed vengeance if I was killed. I continued praying, and saluted him when he was done.

  The baron went to the edge of the meadow, put on his great helm, lowered his lance and charged. The crowd was silent as that huge black horse thundered toward me. Inside, I was terrified, but I think that I didn't show it, for the habits of the last months had been beaten deep into me. Doctrine was that a knight will seldom fight fairly with a man afoot, and that a Mongol doesn't know what fair means. Therefore, a footman is under no obligation to fight back in a manner that a horseman would call fair. When you were alone and with a pike against a horseman, go for the horse! If you can kill it, you might stand a chance against the knight. But if he's up there and you're down below, the odds are way against you.

  You don't always do this if there are more of you than there are horsemen. In that case, only the pikers in the middle go for the horse. Those on the outside go for the rider. If you can mob him, so much the better!

  I kept my pike high until the last instant, so as to give the baron as little warning as possible as to my intentions. Then I stepped forward to a crouch with my pike grounded behind me and had the point lowered just in time to skewer his war-horse at the base of the throat.

  And it went right in, just like a real pike does into the practice dummies! I threw myself to the side away from his lance, just like I was in a drill. The baron and his horse fell in a woeful heap right where I had been standing! The pike had gone in a full two yards before it had shattered, and the horse moved not at all.

  Doctrine was to hit the downed horseman as quickly as possible, but I thought he wouldn't get up and I didn't want the baron's men calling foul on me. I picked up the quarterstaff from where I had tossed it and stood, waiting to see what the baron would do.

  He tried to stand, but I could see that his leg had been broken in the fall, just above the knee. I relaxed, foolishly thinking that I had already won.

  The baron was struggling to get to his feet, despite his obviously broken leg.

  "Sir Conrad!" I shouted. "The baron's leg is broken! What should I do?"

  "Ask him if he yields to you! If he does, or if he's dead or unconscious, the fight is over! Otherwise it's still on, so watch yourself!"

  I turned to my opponent. "Baron Stefan, do you yield to me?"

  "Yield to you, you filthy peasa
nt! You've killed my best war-horse and he was worth fifty of you! You're going to die for that!" Then he somehow got up with only one good leg, drew his sword and swung it at me. I was so astounded at his toughness that I almost didn't get out of the way in time. The tip of his sword flashed by just grazing my throat. I actually felt it touch, though it didn't break the skin.

  I leaped backward and fell in the process. I scrambled to my feet to find that the baron was hopping after me on one leg! I left my quarterstaff on the ground and backed off. I couldn't figure out how this was possible! Did the man feel no pain at all? Or was he really so insane that he had the impossible strength that you hear of berserkers having?

  I didn't know, but I continued backing up, staying out of his way. Surely he couldn't keep this up for long! Yet he was attacking me at a remarkable speed, and had the advantage of being able to see where he was stepping, or rather hopping. I was keeping my eyes on the madman, and in the process I tripped over a tree root, again falling down. He swung at me and gave me a bad cut in the right calf. It hurt, but I didn't have much time to consider the pain. If I didn't fight him, he was going to kill me!

  I had to run back and circle around the baron to get my quarterstaff, and the baron's men jeered me as I did it. Well, let them! They weren't trying to fight an armed and armored madman while they were completely defenseless and naked!

  I got my staff and turned to find the baron only a few yards away. He had lost his great helm when his horse went down, and like most knights he wore an open-faced helmet under it. His face was red, his forehead was beaded with sweat and his eyes—there was no sanity in them!

  He swung at me, but I slapped his sword aside with my quarterstaff. This is necessary, because you dare not use a wooden stick to fend off a steel edge. Rather you must slap the side of his blade and still make it go somewhere that you are not! No easy thing, but my life depended on it.