Madman’s Army

by Robert Adams

  Bralos allowed a bit over two weeks for the re­turned army to refit itself to garrison life, then he requested an audience with Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos, overall commander of cavalry.

  The big, tall, black-haired officer greeted him warmly. "My very heartiest congratulations on your investi­ture, Lord Lieutenant Vahrohnos." He had smiled, waving Bralos to a chair. "I suppose that you now wish leave to quit the army for your civil responsibili­ties, and to feel so is reasonable, but please allow me to reason with you, nonetheless. You see, Council is going to need a strong army for some time yet to come, and officers of your water are most difficult to come by . . ."

  "Please, my lord Thoheeks, your pardon," Bralos courteously injected, "but it is not my desire to leave the army; rather do I desire to purchase higher rank in it. I would be a squadron captain of light or medium cavalry, my lord."

  Portos stared hard at him. "Is it then so, young Bralos? You must be aware that such rank does not come cheaply, nor is credit at all acceptable, nothing save hard coin—preferably, gold."

  Wordlessly, Bralos had lined ten golden Zenos on the desktop between them. Then the haggling had begun. By its end, some days later, he had purchased the captaincy of his lancer squadron for about two thirds of the sum that his barony had cost him.

  Thoheeks Sitheeros, nibbling at a crisp, deep-fried songbird, crunching the tiny, hollow bones between his big teeth, took a sip of his fine wine, then asked his guest, "But why did our late Grand Strahteegos try so hard to have you hung—you should've heard the un­holy row in Council when he was voted down on that score—and why did you take your squadron and leave the camp, the army and the environs of the capital until Pahvlos' demise?"

  Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos of Vohyül­tönpolis just shook his head, washed down a mouthful of spicy, salty crisp bread and said, "My lord Thoheeks, that is a sorry tale, but if you would hear it, then I'll tell it."

  Bralos' first, informal meeting with Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos was upon the occasion of the party welcoming the new captain vahrohnos to the brotherhood of the army's higher officers, the traditional festivities having been organized by Senior Captain of Cavalry Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, who had but just received word of his own civil promotion to thoheeks in his northern homeland of Karaleenos.

  After brief congratulations, the old man had chatted for some two hours with others, then sought out Bralos again, seating himself beside him and splashing a little watered wine into his goblet from a convenient ewer.

  "It is my understanding, Vahrohnos," he had said, "that you began your career with this army as a junior lieutenant of the foot-guards, distinguished yourself in battle at least twice, were commended for that and other services by both Senior Captain Portos and Thoheeks Grahvos. After you had purchased a lieu­tenancy and troop command in the lancers, you were mentioned in Portos' dispatches from the field of the Battle of Kahlkopolis, too. Yes, you own, have earned, the high regard of some exceedingly important men, both in the army and in the civil sphere. Your new overlord, in fact, Thoheeks Klaios, seems to regard you almost as a family member rather than as just a noble vassal."

  "My lord Grand Strahteegos knows far more of me and my life than I would have dreamed," said Bralos, wondering even as he spoke to just what purpose the senior officer had searched out these facts.

  Taking his goblet stem between his sinewy fingers and rolling it absently, the Grand Strahteegos had smiled and said, "The more that a commander knows of his men and, most especially, of his officers, the better; remember that, Captain Bralos. But that which I have not yet learned of you is this, my good captain: we both know that your younger son's patrimony was barely sufficient to buy your first, junior-lieutenant rank, and you just might've been able to have won enough gambling to have secured the troop-lieutenancy in the lancers. But when we are come to discuss baron­ies and squadron captaincies, we are speaking of really large sums, far and away more gold than any officer-mess gamblers ever saw in one place at one time. So just how did you come by so much hard gold in a land stripped so bare as ours?"

  It was in Bralos' mind, just then, to tell the prying old man that his personal finances were none of his business, but such an answer would not be politic, not to so high-ranking a man, so he used the reply on which he and Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos had long ago agreed. Smiling, he said, "Loot, my lord. The worth of some gems I took during a cam­paign before you came to command us."

  Old Pahvlos threw back his balding head and laughed, then reached and grasped Bralos' forearm, squeezing it warmly, cordially. "Young man, you will go very far in this or in any other army. We two will discuss this matter and that of your career with Council's army at some other time and place, but for now"—he raised his voice and, shoving back his chair, stood up—"my good Captain Vahrohnos, I must bid you and this company a fond good night, for old bones require more frequent rest than do younger bones."

  Bralos had done very well by his squadron, so that soon he had no slightest trouble filling the ranks, and indeed, was obliged to maintain a waiting list for would-be troopers and first-rate sergeants. At the sug­gestions of Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, he raised both the asking-price and the other requirements for ensigns, sub­lieutenants, troop-lieutenants, senior lieutenant and sub-captain, after first buying back the ranks of those few men who did not or could not work with or under him, and even so, hardly the day passed but that he found himself approached by top-notch officers or one time officers or wellborn young men, all clearly eager to lay their credentials and money before him.

  Of course, lieutenants and captains of units losing personnel to the Wolf Squadron grumbled and groused that he was pampering his unit, turning them into overfed, underworked, elegantly dressed, indulged show troops, unfit for anything save parades; but even as these few envious officers spoke, they knew well the falsity of their words of accusation, for Wolf Squadron was performing yeoman service in the seemingly end­less round of campaigns into which Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos the Warlike had plunged the army. Elegant as was the appearance of the officers and other ranks of Wolf Squadron when they were seen on occasions of formality, in the field they all fought with the ferocity of their totem beast, a lean winter wolf.

  Provided with the quantities of golden Zenos which kept coming, through Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos, from the north, Bralos found himself able to see to it that all ranks of his command possessed the necessities in quality as well as in quantity, plus not a few luxuries to compensate them for hard, faithful service.

  He had taken over his newly purchased squadron at the end of a cold, wet autumn, and after a detailed inspection of the weapons and equipment of the four hundred-odd officers and men, he had set up in his own mind a list of priorities, cleared them with Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos, gone to Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos for a weight of gold, then betaken himself to the collection of buildings at the base of the hills on which sat the fast-growing city of Mehseepolis and sought out certain suppliers of mili­tary paraphernalia.

  He had had to settle initially for plain, but thick and warm, blanket-cloaks for the most of his squadron, but with the promise in writing that immediately the requisite numbers of dense wolf-pelts were become available, they would be added to trim the hoods without additional charge; however, he had seen all of the cloaks bleached out, then dyed a uniform soft grey, with the same color being applied to the twenty-three-score horse-blankets he bought at the same time from the same family of dealers. This same family were able to also lead him to both a leatherworker and a specialty smith who contracted to undertake a joint project to produce knee-high boots with wrought-iron splints and elbow-high gauntlets sewn with iron or steel rings for all the squadron.

  The smith—a heavyset man with wavy brown hair and curly beard, an exceptionally hairy body and the largest, thickest moustache that Bralos could ever re­call having seen set under a big and raptorial
nose— had served his guests cups of a powerful cider and questioned them at length in relatively good Ehleenokos spoken with an unusual accent. Finally, shoving aside the sheaf of sketches he had made and the notes he had taken in a script that was not Ehleen or Merikan, either, though bearing more resemblance to the former than to the latter, he took a swallow of the cider, then spoke.

  "My lord Captain Vahrohnos, what if your trooper be sword-gashed between elbow and shoulder, what then?"

  Bralos sighed. "Then, Master Haigh, with luck, he'll be crippled, only. I can see where you're going, but be you apprised that it is traditional that lancers' armor be only helmet and light breastplate. And those who command this army insist upon almost-slavish adher­ence to tradition, alas."

  The smith frowned and pursed his lips for a mo­ment, then flitted the trace of a smile. "What would my noble lord think of a grade of fine, strong, but very light double mail that might be easily sewn into an arming shirt or a gambeson to protect troopers' upper arms and armpits, eh? Since it would not be visible, thus would this mad tradition be served."

  Bralos skeptically cast a glance into the rather small shop—only the smith, a brother and three lads— replied, "Man, it sounds good, but it would take your shop years to produce enough of the stuff for my command. We're talking here of two per man and between four and five hundred men."

  The smith's lip-corners twitched. "Oh, no, my lord, I do not make this fine mail; it is produced by some . . . relatives, in the north."

  Bralos barked a short, humorless laugh. "Master Haigh, not even I can afford Pitzburk prices plus wagoning costs to protect my men, much as I would so like to do."

  The smith shouted something through the doorway that led into the shop and forge, something in a harsh-sounding language, and in a moment, one of the lads came in with a bundle wrapped in oiled suede, placing it at a word from the smith atop the table, then departing to shortly return wheeling a carved wooden dummy of a man's torso and a brace of heavy-bladed shortswords in wood-and-leather scabbards.

  Still seated, the master smith unwrapped the oiled suede to show an underwrapping of coarse, unbleached woolen fabric as thick as blanketing and also oil-impregnated. Under the wool was the mail.

  Bralos thought that the gleaming metal mesh might have been wrought of fine silver, so lustrous was it; leaning close, he could see that each and every small ring was riveted—a quality product and no mistaking it, each ring joined to other rings in eight places and all finely finished and polished.

  Lifting one of the three hauberks, for such this lot were, the smith's big, scarred hands rolled and com­pressed it into a ball that looked impossibly small, then proffered it to his principal guest.

  Bralos found it extremely light, yet when he un­rolled it and laid part of it out on the tabletop, he could not get half a finger-width of the point of his boot-dagger through it, shove as he did.

  Standing, the smith took the hauberk from him and draped it over the scarred, dented wooden dummy. When it was draped to his critical satisfaction, the big man turned back to the table, selected one of the brace of shortswords and drew it from out its scab­bard, then he reversed and offered the weapon for Bralos' inspection.

  Handling it carefully, for the winking edges showed it to be honed to a very keen degree of sharpness all along both edges of the roughly two feet of broad blade, Bralos knew immediately that he had never seen or handled its exact like before. In some ways, it bore a similarity to the standard Ehleen army infantry shortsword, but it was wider, thicker and differently balanced from that weapon. The central rib would no doubt impart decided strength to it, while the four fullers down most of the length on both flats reduced significantly the overall weight.

  With the sword once more in his hand, the master smith shoved the dummy a little farther from the table and his guests, took a stance and, whirling the weapon up above and behind his head, shouted some phrase in the guttural foreign tongue and delivered several cuts and looping slashes at the mail-draped wooden form. No one could doubt that he was striking with all his not inconsiderable strength, for twice a shower of sparklets flew upward from the buffets, the fabric of the hardwood dummy creaked and groaned protestingly and, at the last blow, one of the axles of the dummy-cart bent and a freed wooden wheel went skittering across the floor.

  There having been no arms to help hold it in place on the dummy, the mail had of course been moved out of its original drape, but aside from this; Bralos was able to detect no slightest breaking or bending or even scarring of the rings anywhere on the fine steel shirt, for all that the edges of the sword showed the effects of hard contacts with steel. Even so, he rearranged the drape of the hauberk and went at it for a few strokes with the other sword. At last, he used his left hand to hold the dummy still and drew back his arm, clearly intending to thrust at the chest.

  "No," said the master smith, adding, "And it please my lord, no; that sword will break the mail and pene­trate, though one of your own swords probably would not do so. That sword was designed to pierce mail and scale armor at the hard thrust, you see."

  Bralos stepped back from the abused dummy and nodded, smiling. "I thought so when I saw that almost-edgeless, diamond-shaped point and that ribbed blade. It's a good design for a sword, though a bit short for my own tastes. You'd play hell trying to use so short a blade on horseback."

  "My peo . . . that is, the people who developed that sword live in mountains and mountainous foothills, my lord, and own precious few riding horses. They bestride mountain ponies to the site of battle, then fight on foot."

  Bralos nodded again. "Which is probably why and how this fine, very strong, but exceedingly light mail came to be, eh? Who are your people, Master Haigh?"

  The smith shrugged. "But another race of what my lord's folk call mountain barbarians, though our lands are in no way near to these Consolidated Thoheek­seeahnee. Would other tribes leave us to bide in peace, we would do naught save farm our valleys and graze our flocks on the heights, but such has never for long come to pass, and so have we been compelled to learn to practice the ways of war."

  Bralos shook his head. "Using those swords and this fantastic mail as indicators, I would say that your people have assured themselves of the wherewithal to practice war quite well. If you can fit it to me, I'd like to buy one of those hauberks from you, one that will hang to about mid-thigh.

  "So far as the half-sleeves for my men are con­cerned, how long would it take your tribe to produce five hundred pairs and get them here to Mehseepolis? Oh, and what will the pairs cost?"

  Once they had worked out a price that was mutually agreeable, the smith said, "My lord, much of the iron that my people use is smelted locally from ores or rendered from rusted ancient-times artifacts. If my lord desires quicker delivery and would be willing to advance a bit more gold to buy pig iron . . .?"

  Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos summoned Bralos to the heavy horse camp on a sunny but bone-chillingly cold January day, snow lying deeply on the ground. Within his plastered, wooden-walled office, a brace of braziers warmed the room to such degree that, with a cupful of brandy, a man could be almost comfortable.

  "We . . . you have a problem, Bralos," said the cavalry commander, with his usual bluntness.

  Bralos could think of no problems of any conse­quence within the squadron, so he raised his eyebrows quizzically and awaited elucidation in silence.

  "It has gotten back . . . rather, been borne back by certain envious officers," said Portos, "that you are coddling your squadron—overindulging them with rough, warm clothing, decent food and wine or beer, protective boots and gauntlets and ash lance-shafts, where the other squadron must make do with issue oaken shafts. Therefore, the Grand Strahteegos has decided that if you can afford to so pamper the com­mon troopers of your squadron, you can equally well afford to increase your squadron strength to four troops.

  "Look you, Bralos, I did try ... for all the good that it did me or you." Portos' dark face was a very study in f
rustration and anger. "I pointed out that it were eminently unfair to ask you to raise and arm and outfit another troop while allowing Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos to maintain only the three. But then that slimy Ehrrikos; waving a hand that bore gold and gems on its every finger, protested his near-penury, cited your flaunted affluence . . . and that was that, the old man signed the order.

  "So, now, my boy, you must recruit, and recruit most speedily, at the least ninety troopers, ten ser­geants, three cooks, probably one or two more farri­ers, a senior sergeant, another horse-leech and at least two more eeahtrohsee. Mounts, weapons and armor and horse-furnishings will, of course, be provided by the army. There is the fact, for what compensation that it will be, that you now will have ranks to put on the market—one troop-lieutenancy, two of sub-lieutenant and four of ensign. How long do you think it will take you? I'll get you all the time I can."

  By the end of that week, Bralos had over a hundred troopers, a senior sergeant and twelve section-sergeants, all of the needed specialist troops, a troop-lieutenant, a sub-lieutenant and three of the ensigns—all five of the officers, all but two of the sergeants and a goodly portion of the troopers come out of the other squad­ron of lancers, the Panther Squadron, commanded by none other than Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos of Thakhahrispolis.

  Portos rode up to the headquarters building of Wolf Squadron rocking in his saddle with laughter, tossed his reins to the waiting trooper and slid to the ground, still laughing. Seated in Bralos' snug office, with a goblet of brandied wine in his big hands, the senior captain controlled himself long enough to give his host the tale.

  Foaming with rage, Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos had stormed into the heavy horse headquarters and demanded immediate words with the overall commander of cavalry. Upon admission to Portos' office, he had brusquely refused the offer of a tipple and had begun to rant and rave of the loss of almost a full troop of his best troopers and sergeants—including two sergeants from out of his own headquarters detachment and, to add insult to injury, his personal batman—no less than three sub-lieutenants, two ensigns and the senior lieu­tenant who had been in charge of his headquarters for years.