The Death Of A Legend

by Robert Adams

  Shaking his ringing head and dropping his gory sword to dangle by the knot, he gripped the shaft in both bands, stuck it at arm’s length above his head and sent his high tenor voice out to pierce the hellish din.

  “Up Morguhn! Up Morguhun! Duke Bili! All Rally! Rally to the Red Eagle! Up Morguhn!”

  A blade smashed against the back of his jazeran but be faithfully continued to follow his officer’s orders, wobbling the heavy, ill-balanced banner and shouting the rallying cry over and over again. From the corner of one eye, be caught the flash of the captain’s steel as Raikuh cut down the reckless Vawnee who had attacked the standardman,

  At first in slow dribbles, then in an increasing, steel-sheathed flood, the scattered noblemen and Freefighters fought their way out of the press to gather about the eagle banner. No more blades hacked at Geros, for he and Raikuh now were surrounded by a circle of steel, an ever-widening circle the sharp edges of which hacked and stabbed and slashed at the enveloping Vawnee ambushers.

  Thoheeks Bili jerked loose the wristknot and threw down a broken sword, then hurriedly uncased and grasped his huge double axe. “Raikuh, Krahndahl!” he shouted hoarsely. “See the standard’s guarded. We’re going to run those bastards back to their kennels!”

  The rebels did not long maintain a stand against the now-organized gentry and mercenaries; they broke and streamed back northward on an obviously predetermined course. They were pursued hotly, Bili of Morguhn in the van, coldly axing any rebel he came near out of the saddle. But when the surviving rebels disappeared among an expanse of gullies and dry creekbeds, Bili wisely halted the pursuit. Then the mixed band picked a weary but wary way back toward the littered, blood-muddy road.

  “But we all thought that Vahrohnos Myros, the cashiered Confederation Army officer, was the man responsible for all our reverses,” thought Bili, staring into the flames of the fire in that steep-sided little mountain valley. “Even when that young rebel noble we captured that day told us, and under hypnosis at that, that the Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Morgnhn was their overall commander and had both planned and led that ambush, we could hardly believe him, assuming that Myros was craftily using him for a figurehead and acting through him for some obscure reason or other.

  “And at that last big raid, when Drehkos was seen leading the raiders by noblemen who had met him, and recognized by his strong resemblance to Hari by men to whom he was unknown, hell, even then we tried to find ways to discount the tale.

  “Now, that dawn raid is a battle I’m sorry I missed. I’ve been permitted into the minds and memories of men who were there, but it’s not the same thing. That Confederation dragoon officer — what’s his name? Linstahk, I think — he’s the one who got all the credit for throwing the bastards back, and undoubtedly his charge with his squadron was the deciding blow, but he’d never have had the chance to strike that blow had old Thoheeks Kehn of Kahr and his few score Kindred nobility not stopped and held the rebel bastards and kept their host from overrunning the damned campsite.

  “Those damned spit-and-polish popinjays of the Confederation Army always take the credit for a victory, even if they arrive so late that they never wet their steel, And as for that pack who call themselves the officers of the Confederation Army, no sane man who hasn’t been exposed to them, soldiered in conjunction with the silly, posturing swine, would ever believe the extremes of their arrogance; even the lowliest, pink-cheeked Confederation ensign seems to think that adult noble warriors should jump at his command, his every command, no matter how pointless.

  “Such conduct is understandable in Ehleenee, but right many of those officers are Kindred-born and -bred; army life just seems to make them all as stiff-necked and supercilious as the worst kath-ahros Ehleen.”

  Then Bili shook his head, chiding himself. “Oh, there I go, generalizing again. Aldora has often warned me about that bad habit. I admit, there are some good men among the Confederation officers. Linstahk, for instance; he’s undoubtedly a brave man, and Hari Daiviz is quite fond of him, has much good to say of him. So, too, does the High Lord. And from what little I could sense besides his memories of the battle when he let the High Lord and me into his mind, he seemed an admirable type.”

  And Bili thought back, recalling most of Linstahk’s own recall of that hellish, bloody morning.

  With the light of the false dawn, the vanguard contingent moved out — including High Lord Milo, Thoheeks Bili with his nobles and Freefighters and near a squadron of Confederation dragoons as well as the High Lord’s personal guard; this had been the marching order of the van every day since the first ambush.

  The hulk of the noble warriors of the archduchy and their troops of hired Freefighters had taken to the road a bare half hour later. Then had the long, serried ranks of Confederation infantry set hide-shod feet to the measured beat of the drums, thankful that but two more days’ marching was said to separate them from Vawnpolis, cursing the muddy morass that last night’s rain and the earlier passage of cavalry had made of the road every bit as vociferously as they had cursed yesterday’s dust.

  At their departure, the exodus of the wagons of supplies and equipment commenced. While the servants of nobles and officers struck tents and loaded baggage and hitched teams apprentice sanitarians directed squads of sappers in filling in latrines and offal pits.

  While fires were smothered and harnesses adjusted, the flanker lancers and the rearguard kahtahfrahktoee fiddled needlessly with girths or sat upon stamping horses on the fringes of the bustle. Though all accoutered for the road, they had not yet assembled in marching order but were gathered here and there in small groups, chatting, jesting, spitting and watching the beehive of activity within the perimeter of the soon to be abandoned campsite.

  Because his superior officer, Amos Tchainee, lay ill with fever in one of the medical wagons now lumbering west on the Vawnpolis road, Captain Gaib Linstahk had, this dawn, found himself in nominal command of the entire squadron of heavy cavalry and with authority over the lancers as well, two troops of whom were trickling out in ones and twos on the flanks of the departing baggage train.

  Nor were these the least of the young officer’s problems, for, as the High Lady Aldora was traveling today in her huge, luxurious, wagonbed-mounted yurt, he found himself forced to deal with the frequently insubordinate commander of her mounted bodyguard, as well as with some three score country nobility, all surly and irascible at being placed this day in the rear rather than the van.

  Trailed by his bugler, the squadron colors and a couple of supernumerary junior noncoms. Gaib was leading his charger, who seemed on the verge of throwing a shoe, toward an as yet unpacked traveling forge. As he walked, his lips moved in silent curses at wellbred bumpkins who carried their feelings ill balanced on their shoulders and gave not one damn for his hard-earned military rank, rendering him what little deference they did solely because he was heir to a Kindred vahrohnos.

  A mindspoken warning from one of the accompanying noncoms caused the captain to glance back the way they had marched yesterday, at the body of mounted men now approaching the all but deserted campsite. Gaib snorted. More volunteer irregulars from duchies south and east of Morguhn, no doubt, though in a larger contingent than usual. And doubtless commanded by yet another noble arsehole who’d marched them through all the rainy night and . . .

  And then he heard the first shouts of fear and alarm, saw the first flights of shafted death arcing up from the nearest cover, heard or thought be heard that never to be forgotten, ominous hissing-hum.

  Flinging himself astride his mount, loose shoe or no loose shoe, be roared, “Bugler! Sound ‘To the colors’!” Then he snapped to the colorbearer and the two noncoms. “Follow me!” Adding, when he realized that they had none of them seen what he had, “Sun and Wind, lower your visors and clear your steel, men, we’re under attack!”

  Gaib’s first reaction was to reach a central point of the campsite and rally his kahtahfrahktoee. Better armed and more fully armored than t
he lancers, they and the even better protected nobles should be able to charge right into the fire of the hidden pack of sniping rebel archers, flush the bastards out of cover and ride them down like the vermin they were.

  But that was before it became obvious to his veteran eye that those horsemen approaching from the east were not now thundering up the road to reinforce, but rather to attack.

  He mindspoke the commander of the lancers, most of whom were gathered over on the north side, nearer to the road. “Captain Rahdjuhz, assemble your troops and draw them up behind the nobles who will presently form athwart the road, If those pigs aren’t slowed down, they’ll ride over the camp before I can form up my squadron for the counterattack.”

  Gaib thought he could actually hear the outraged yelp of the lancer officer. “Sun and Wind, man.” the reply came beaming into his mind, “have you taken leave of your senses? A good half of those Vawnee look to be heavily armed, and they’ll go through my two troops like shit through a goose! I —”

  With seconds precious as emeralds, Gaib coldly cut off his subordinate, furiously beaming, “Wind take you for a coward, Ahl! Follow my orders or turn over your command to a man with a full set of guts. I said you and yours would be the second fucking line, dammit; those heavily armed fire-eaters of ours will take the full brunt of it.”

  Then Gaib sought the mind of Thoheeks Kehn Kahr. “If you please, my lord thoheeks, has your group taken many casualties from the arrows?”

  In his minds eye, he could see the steamy-red face — for Thoheeks Kahr had gained many years and much superfluous flesh since last he had actively campaigned or worn armor in the heat of summer — but there was an ill-concealed and boyish eagerness in the return the middle-aged nobleman beamed. “Vahrohneeskos Berklee’s son, Steev, has a broken leg . . . I think. His poor horse took a dart and fell ere he could clear leather. And we’ve lost a few more horses, too, killed or wounded. But no more gentlemen, all thanks be to Wind and Pitzburk.

  “We await your instructions, Captain Vahrohnos’ son. When do you want us to fight? Where? Ahorse or afoot?”

  Gaib breathed a sigh of relief. The thoheeks and the three score gentlemen were only technically under cavalry command. They could all see the charging Vawnee from their position and must certainly be aware that the odds against them were something over ten to one. Had Kahr sanely opted for flight rather than fight, Gaib would have been powerless to do aught save curse him.

  “If it please my lord thoheeks, form a single rank just inside the camp and block the road. Place your left flank on the verge of that deep gully and your right at the perimeter ditch. The lancers will be forming behind you.

  “My lord, you and yours must hold them until the High Lady be safely away and my squadron be formed up. My bugles sounding ‘The Charge’ will be your signal to disengage.

  “Does it please my lord thoheeks to understand?”

  “Sacred Sun keep you, boy, nothing has pleased me more since my horse sister, Red Sarah, dropped twin foals by my horse brother, Axe-Hoof, and both of them colts — one coal black and one snow white! We’ll hold the bastards, Captain Vahrohnos’ son, by Sun and Wind and Steel, we’ll hold!”

  Next Gaib tried to range the mind of the arrogant Clan Linsee prick who commanded the High Lady’s guards. Meeting with no success, he beamed directly to the High Lady herself.

  “Yes, captain,” came her strongly beamed answer, “I am aware that we are under attack and I have but just farspoken the High Lord of the facts. He comes, but he is far up, with the van, and it will take time.

  “I’ve listened in on your beamings, as well, captain. You are a good officer and a true credit to our arms; your decisions have been sound. Would that I might this day sit a horse at your side, but it is my time of the moon and I earlier imbibed of a decoction of herbs; though they leave my mind clear, so seriously do they affect my balance and my physical coordination that I doubt that I could draw my saber, much less use it.”

  “But another reason, my lady, that I would have you on the road,” Gaib mindspoke emphatically. “As of this dawn, my squadron was understrength, and I doubt not but that we’ve lost horses and men to the missiles. Yonder looms a strong force, and, am I to have sufficient weight to smash their attack, I’ll need every horse and sword I can muster.

  “I recall that your team be hitched, my lady; let it please you to take the road forthwith. But you’d best leave some few of your archers somewhere along the road to retard pursuit should we fail here.”

  Aldora had agreed to adopt his plan, adding, “Sacred Sun guard you this day, young Linstahk; for the Confederation can ill afford the loss of men such as you.”

  While his lieutenants and sergeants formed up their half-strength units, mating sound, unwounded men with sound horses, where necessary, Gaib and his bugler and colorbearer sat their restive mounts with an outward show of calm. Their training and strict discipline proved, as often before, of inestimable aid in strengthening their force of will to seemingly ignore the incredible tumult and confusion of the feathered death still failing from the sunny morning sky and the milling and bleating of dying noncombatants within the perimeters of the campsite.

  Before him, the young officer could see through the slits of his steel visor the open stretch of campsite that lay between him and his objective, the flank of the mob of mounted embattled rebels. To his mind, there were far too many still or thrashing forms of men and beasts littering that stretch of ground; the arrow rain had been costly in unarmored service personnel and draft animals. But he also noted that those before him who could walk, hobble or crawl were stirring their stumps; they could see what was coming, and none of them apparently cared to be ridden down by charging kahtahfrahktoee.

  When his path seemed relatively clear, Gaib mindspoke the bugler and ‘Trot March’ pealed out, followed by the familiar increase in the noise level from the hoof-thumping, creaking, rattling squadron.

  And as never failed to happen at such a point of imminent action, Gaib’s chest felt unbearably constricted. His guts were aroll and uncomfortably full, his mouth was dry as dead leaves, and he knew for certain that his distended bladder soon would burst; so, drawing himself up even straighter in his kak, he began to sing, his voice booming in the confines of his helm.

  “. . . . then let us sing our battle song

  Of saber, spear and bow.

  Clan Linstahk, Clan Linstahk,

  Your courage we’ll show . . .”

  Noting the now-decreased distance, Gaib mindspoke again, and “Gallop March” blared from his bugler’s instrument, as before being taken up halfway through by the troop buglers.

  Gaib mindspoke his destrier stallion, Windsender, “I know that you lack that shoe, my brother, and I am sorry to cause you pain, but this must be; we must finish this fight before I can see to you.”

  “Your brother understands, my brother,” the big bay beamed back. “There is not much pain and, besides,” he added with a trace of eagerness in his beaming, “a good fight does not come every day.”

  At the moment he gauged best, Gaib raised his saber high over his head, twirled it twice, then swung it down to the horizontal, pointing straight forward . . . and five brass bugles screamed the “Charge.”

  Struck on the exposed flank by such a force, many of the rebels were impelled so far to their right that many a horse and rider plunged over the crumbly lip of the deep gully, to flounder in the shallow but cold water until another horse and rider landed atop them.

  Almost immediately the charge was delivered, the rebel commander astutely commenced a fighting withdrawal of his force, and, to his credit, Gaib estimated that a bit fewer than half the original force committed actually got away — surviving the bloody, breast-to-breast battle with Thoheeks Kahr’s men, the smashing charge of Gaib’s squadron and the running fight of the pursuit undertaken by the nobles, the lancers and two troops of the kahtahfrahktoee.

  “And I had to miss it,” thought Bili ruefully, “every dam
ned bit of it. By the time the High Lord and I got there, the pursuit was already trickling back into camp.”

  * * *

  A Freefighter with a dirty, blood-stained bandage wrapped about his head limped up to the fire and cast upon it most of a small evergreen tree, producing a momentarily brighter, hotter fire and sending a myriad of sparks dancing up into the sky.

  And that fiery crackling roar brought young Thoheeks Bili back to the present, where some of the leaders of his battered and singed command chatted in low, tired tones about the fire, wounded moaned and whimpered here and there, and horses stamped and whuffled downslope in the narrow strip of yellowed grass.

  He suspected that he and they were deep, far too deep, in the territory of the savage, sinister Muhkohee, for the plateau they had been forced to flee had been the westernmost of the Ahrmehnee lands, and they now were far west — he was not sure just how far west — of that area.

  They seemed secure for the nonce, however. The narrow vale had been scouted thoroughly while still there was light enough to do a good job of it and had proven to be almost boxed in by the high, rugged hills. Nor could the smoke and glare of their fires betray their location, not with so much smoke, so many fires spawned by the hot rocks still smoldering.

  While Bili had been a-musing, his Freefighter orderly had removed the young nobleman’s cuirass, brassarts, vambraces and tasses. Now he helped him to struggle out of his smelly, sweat-soaked gambeson. Freed of that much weight and hindrance, Bili stripped off his soggy shirt and, heedless alike of the chill night air and the gathering of men and women around the large fire, he paced down to the chuckling brook and dumped several helmetsful of icy water over his head and his thick, scarred torso, rubbing all the bared skin be could reach with the hard palms of his big hands before again dousing himself with the frigid water. Then be returned to the fireside and wrapped himself in his cloak.