The Death Of A Legend

by Robert Adams

  At first the young thoheeks could spy no trace of the hundred-odd officers and men who had been trapped atop the rampart — thanks in no small part to the asinine dawdling of Sub-strahteegos Kahzos Kahlinz, who, Bili had noted, had been the very first man in the column to quit the fort — when it had gone down. It was with shock that he saw, as a gust of wind briefly blew away the covering smoke, that one of those lay almost at his feet.

  By his armor, the man appeared to be an officer . . . and condemned to an agonized and singularly unpleasant death. A massive timber, likely one of those which had pillared the huge trap, lay across both of the unfortunate’s legs. The far end of the timber was already blazing, and several feet more had commenced to smoke and smolder.

  Pawl Raikuh touched his lord’s arm. “Duke Bili, I could take two or three men and try to get him out . . . ?”

  Bili squinted down into the smoky slice of hell for a moment, then shook his head sadly. “No, Pawl, that would do no good. Look at the size of that timber, man! There must be a full Harzburk ton of hardwood there. It would take a score of men to even shift it and a couple more to pull the officer free.”

  “But we’ve got that many, Duke Bili,” said Raikuh. “For all he’s one of those damned spit-and-polish popinjays, he’s still a man.”

  Bili cupped his bands to his mouth and shouted down, “Can you hear me. soldier? There’s no way we can safely get to you. Enough men to lift that timber would likely start that mess to sliding again, kill you and them, too.”

  The bloody, dirt-caked head of the figure below could be seen to nod slowly, wearily, so Bili added, “The timber is already on fire, man. You’ll slowly roast alive if you don’t cut your throat!”

  The trapped man’s hands tumbled uncertainly at his waist but came away empty; apparently his belt had been torn off, and with it had gone his dirk. Moreover, his position made it impossible to draw the long broadsword strapped across his back. Now frantic, he pushed at the dead weight of rough-hewn wood which would so soon be the agent of his torturous death. But he could as easily have shifted a mountain, and presently he slumped back, defeat mirrored on his gory, battered countenance.

  Bili groaned. “Pawl . . . somebody . . Sun and Wind, get an archer or a dartman up here! We can’t just watch the poor bastard die like that!”

  A number of Freefighters drew, hefted and threw dirks or knives, but the blades all fell short. Then, only three feet from the suffering officer, a section of the timber puffed a great blob of smoke . . . just before bluish flames began to lick over the visible surfaces with hungry intensity.

  * * *

  Bili shivered all over and unconsciously bunched up his cloak-wrapped body on the bough bed in his mountain lean-to, his skin surfaces all goosefleshed. “And that was when it happened,” he thought. “That was when Geros did it, did something that I’m certain no one who failed to see it really believes and I can’t blame them. It was clearly impossible yet it happened.”

  * * *

  The young thoheeks had mindspoken the responsive mare about, determined to, despite his wounds and injuries, ride if necessary to the main camp of the Confederation troops and fetch back an archer to forestall the sure agonies of the officer trapped below. Then he heard Raikuh’s sudden bellow.

  “Damn your wormy guts, Geros! Come back here! That’s a fucking order, sergeant! Come back here!”

  The big mare started, recognizing her twolegs brother’s name, and willingly turned back to her former position. And then she and Bili astride her and Raikuh and all the rest were impotent to do more than stare.

  Sergeant Geros’ battered armor and helmet, his prized sword and even his canteen lay in a heap where he had shed and dropped them near the steadily crumbling verge of that yawning pit of fire and death. The man himself could be seen in a wavery, distorted fashion through the waves of heat beating up from the almost-fluid earth into which his jackboots sank nearly to the knees with each step he took. He moved slowly, obviously unsure of the insecure, constantly shifting footing; but move he did, ever closer to that pinioned and doomed officer.

  “He’ll most likely die with him, too,” thought Bili, a bit sadly, for like Pawl Raikuh, be had come to like and respect the efficient but humble young sergeant. Thinking aloud, he said to no one in particular, “That’s true, selfless bravery, yonder. And yet that man was worrying but a few hours back because he’d pissed his breeks a few times in combat!”

  Those watching saw the courageous young man win to the officer’s side, saw the flash of white teeth as the forcibly recumbent man smiled up at this man who had risked so much to assure him a relatively painless death. They saw the officer’s lips move, saw him pull something off his right thumb and drop it into Geros’ palm, then open his hand, awaiting Gero’s dirk or bootknife. They saw Geros own lips move, although, like the officer’s, his words were not audible to them above the roaring of the huge holocaust and the constant crash and rumble of shifting stones and timbers deeper in the crater.

  And then it happened! Geros turned and took a few steps until he could squat and work his two hands into the steaming, smoking earth under one end of the massive timber. Slowly, ever so slowly, he arose, the muscles swelling, bunching in shoulders, backs and thighs under his smoldering gambeson.

  And as the young sergeant arose, so did the timber! It did not rise far, true — perhaps a foot or even less — but it was enough for the officer to pull and claw with his two sound arms and hands and thus work his smashed legs from the impression beneath that crushing weight of solid oak.

  The moment that the officer’s feet slid from under the timber, Geros let go his grip and the ton or more of hardwood settled back in its place . . . but for only a moment, then it began a slow but increasingly faster slide downslope, toward the fires raging below.

  Somehow, working against the current of the now-flowing river of oven-hot earth and its flotsam of splintered wood and boulders, Geros half-dragged, half-carried the man be had so miraculously rescued from certain death back to the verge. There scores of willing hands drew them both back to safety.

  By that time, of course — badly injured to begin with and after the rough handling Geros had perforce had to employ to get then, both out — the officer had fainted, but old Djim Bohluh had identified him.

  “That’s young Captain Lehzlee, a good lad and a good just of’cer, he be, by Sacred Sun’s redhot arse, Thoheeks Bili, sir.”

  “A son of Ahrkeethoheeks Ahndroo, Chief of Lehzlee?” asked Bili, thinking that if it was a Lehzlee of that clan, Geros certainly had lucked out this time, for they were certainly the richest clan in Southern Karaleenos, if not in all the principality.

  “The Ahrkeethoheeks’ onliest son, now,” attested Bohluh. “The captain’s elder brother ’uz kilt mebbe six months agone a-flghtin’ the Ahfuht tribe, out west. This here’s young Hallz’s las’ campaign, his paw wants him back.”

  “Well, the ahrkeethoheeks and Clan Lehzlee will get their heir back now, thanks to the bravest man this or any other army will ever have. I already had intended to knight him, make him a vahrohneeskos in Morguhn — he saved my life, too, today. But in view of these last few scarce-believable minutes, I doubt me not that the High Lord and the Lehzlees will improve substantially upon a mere ennobling.”

  * * *

  And that they assuredly did, thought Bili, who at long last began to feel the needed sleep nibbling at the corners of his consciousness. A first-class silver cat, and the only reason it wasn’t gold was that Geros was a Freefighter and not a regular. And that meant thirty ounces of silver a year for as long as he lived.

  Thoughtful, as always, of his subjects, the High Lord deliberately delayed that ceremony, Bili sleepily recalled, so that the chief of Clan Lehzlee, old Ahrkeethoheeks Ahndroo might himself be there in the camp under the walls of besieged Vawnpolis to place the cat on its massy silver chain about the neck of the man whose matchless valor had saved his son and heir.

  “That wasn’t all, of
course,” Bili thought. “That old archduke is as proud as a solid-gold hilt and he couldn’t let it go at just that gesture. So Sir Geros — Sun grant that he and Komees Hari still live and are sleeping safe, this night — now rides in a suit of duke-grade Pitzburk worth a small fortune and carries a Yvuhz sword better than any blade I’ve ever owned.

  “The old man offered him, as well, any fit-trained destrier he fancied in all the Lehzlee herds, but Geros insisted that his mare, Ahnah, was all he needed or wanted, so now he holds title to rich lands in Lehzlee to add to the baronetcy I still mean to give him in Morguhn.

  “And the weird part about it all is that months back, poor old Pawl Raikuh — Wind guard his gallant soul — told Geros and me and several others that this man, who a bit over a year ago was a gentleman’s valet with as much knowledge of arms as a draft ox, would ere he died become a widely respected knight, a moderately wealthy minor nobleman and the castellan of a great lord’s burk.

  “Sun and Wind, there’s so much about this that makes no sense at all.”

  And then, Bili finally slept

  Chapter VI

  Lying warm in Meeree’s tender, familiar embrace, the brahbehrnuh slept until past Moonset. She awoke suddenly, fully and for no reason she could fathom. Above her, the evergreen boughs roofing their lean-to shelter crackled with frost, from afar came the cry of a hunting owl, and a single star winked palely above the summit of one of the hills that flanked the valley.

  The fire which had burned before the open side of the rude shelter was now but a few glowing coals, and the cold, despite the thick, woolen lining of her cloak and Meeree’s, was nibbling all along her left side; although her right cheek was warm with the soft, regular breaths of her lover, her left was all aprickle with the icy kiss of the frigid air.

  The winged predator of the night skies cried again, closer this time. The brahbehrnuh gently disengaged her hand from the limp clasp of the sleeping Meeree and used its warm palm to drive the chill from her numbing cheek; then she drew up a corner of a cloak to cover that side of her face, but did it ever so carefully, go as not to disturb Meeree.

  Somewhere on the blackness of the nearby hillside, there was the short, shrill deathcry of some small creature; then, with a loud flapping of powerful wings, a large, dark form flew low over the sleeping camp, momentarily blotting out the light of that single dim star. The brahbehrnuh knew then that the hunting owl had triumphed and soon would feast, and she breathed a silent prayer to the Lady, whose sacred messenger the huge-eyed birds were held to be.

  “Oh, my dear Lady,” she added plaintively but still silently, “what must I do? What will be best for your few, brave Maidens who now are left, the less than three score who depend upon me, trust my judgment and decisions?

  “Must we who have served You so faithfully, as did our mothers and grandmothers back to time past reckoning must we finally submit to the bitter rule of men, or will our Lady guide us to a haven of safety, wherein we can rebuild our hold, regenerate our sacred race and serve You faithfully as ever?”

  Then, abruptly, Meeree was no longer at her side and she stood erect on silver-bladed grass, growing out of silvery soil; the air about her was cool, but no longer cold, and everything glowed with a soft, silvery brightness. Only once before in all her young life had she found herself transported to this holy place, stood on this blessed turf; yet she remembered, knew at once where she now was, knew that her pleading prayer had been heard.

  From within the building of white, silver-veined stone came the Lady, moving across the intervening distance as lightly as a running doe, a smile of greeting on Her pale lips, but a deep sympathy welling up from Her silver-gray eyes. As She came closer, one of Her hands closed tinglingly on the brahbehrnuh’s and the other went to gently stroke the girl’s cheek.

  “Oh, my poor, dear, ever-faithful Rahksahnah, you have suffered so very much, my child, and it truly tears my heart that you must suffer still more. Yet, so must it be, dear one, so must it be; the pattern is tightly woven, now, and grim death snuffs close upon your trail.”

  The brahbehrnuh sighed deeply and bowed her head in meek surrender to the inevitable. “Then I soon will die, my Lady? Will . . . can it be honorably, a death in battle?”

  “Be not so abject, Rahksahnah.” Silvery fingers took her chin and raised her head. “Where is the proud, brave young Moon Maiden, that warrior and leader of warriors with whom I shared sweet love of my couch a bare twenty-five moons agone?”

  All at once, the tears she had so long withheld, not dared to shed before even her Meeree, poured from the brahbehrnuh’s dark eyes, cascading down her weather-darkened cheeks, over the calluses left by the cheekpieces of her helmet.

  She sobbed, “Dear my Lady, the Hold of the Moon Maidens is no more. Some monstrous force rent the living rocks of the mountain asunder and flung the very altar stone from Your holy shrine untold leagues through the air and sent it crashing into a brook before my very eyes — and it so hot that it turned all the waters of that brook to a cloud of hissing steam.

  “When I saw that unspeakable horror, all strength left my body and all awareness fled my mind. If such as that could happen, then all that Kokh Taishyuhn spoke is surely truth and I and my few Maidens are the very last of our race.

  “Oh, Lady, Lady, what are we few to do with no Hold to shelter us in this pitiless world of savagery and death?”

  But the Silver Lady did not immediately answer. Instead, she led the weeping girl to a soft couch set amid a grove of silver-leafed trees, their scintillating blossoms filling the air with a subtle fragrance which spoke of the peace and tranquillity of a still and restful night. There, seated, they two shared sips from a silver cup of a pale wine. Then the brahbehrnuh pressed once again to the cool, pale, ever-remembered lips of the Lady.

  Then, somehow, in the blinking of an eye, they lay nude together upon the couch, it now having become long and wide as a fine bed. And hilt-hardened palms and fingers pressed, caressed sacred Goddess flesh, while the silvery. cool-soft hands of the Lady traced tingling pleasure over the tenderest areas of the hard-muscled, olive-hued body.

  And, for the brahbehrnuh, time ceased to be for a timeless eternity of shared rapture. Seeking lips and darting, maddening tongues, the brush of nipple against hardening nipple, black hair mingled with silver hair, gasping to draw air into bodies convulsing with spasms of unbearable pleasure.

  When they could once again breathe normally and time once more held sway, they again shared the wine cup and then another long kiss. The Lady arose and draped Her silver loveliness in Her single, flowing garment, then helped the brahbehrnuh to don her own clothing, doing up the points of shirt and breeks with swift, nimble fingers.

  Carrying that wine cup which never seemed to become empty, the Lady led Her guest, Her lover, across the springy sward to where a fountain splashed misty water into a basin of whitest marble, seated Herself upon an alabaster bench and drew the Moon Maiden down beside Her.

  Clasping the brahbehrnuh’s hand in both of Her own. She said, “Sweet my love, you must no longer grieve the death of the Maidens’ Hold and your dear folk who died with it, for you must understand that death is the natural end of mortals and all their works, be that death soon or late; only god-flesh is eternal, god-flesh and mortal spirit. Mortal bodies are born, my child, they live a brief while and then they die and their substance goes to the nourishment of other life forms Just as the substance of other life forms went to their nourishment during their own short spans of life. But the spirits of mortals go on to seek and find another fleshly husk to house them for still another brief time.

  “If My way seems harsh and pitiless and wasteful to mortals, it is because they do not or will not understand My way, not truly. You see, dear one, nothing is ever wasted, not really, for the past fed the present and the present feeds the future. Yes, the Valley of the Moon Maidens is gone, along with the fleshly husks of all those who were within it: but even in death, the remains of those husks are
or will soon become new life, and the immortal spirits, freed now of their fleshy envelopes, are soaring far and wide over lands and seas and soon each will become the deathless core of new life. So you see, Rahksahnah, dearest, your grief should be rejoicing.

  “As for your own death, no matter, how tight the weavings, the deeds or misdeeds of mortals always can change, or rather realign, certain threads, slightly altering the final pattern. You, yourself, if you heed My advice and My portents, can do much to prolong your life, child. So, too, can the man Bili of Morguhn. Also, there are two other men, whom you have yet to meet . . . and another who is not really a man, at least, not wholly such.

  “But you and your Moon Maidens must give over the ways of the Hold, to a large degree. I know that it will be very hard for you all — especially so for sworn lovers like you and your dear Meeree — but you all must adopt many of the ways of the outer world, the world of men, if any of you are to survive in your present husks.

  “Times of great danger lie ahead for all those who camp about the place where your body now lies, Rahksahnah, and not all of them will live through those times. The Moon Maidens who do survive will be those who have courage to surrender the ways of the dead past for present life and a chance for future happiness.

  “Although you all must remain warriors for some while yet, you must all give over the other ways of the Hold, are you to live on to serve Me. I can feel that you know My meaning, my child, in the beginning, the change will be very difficult for most of you, for the men who now share the camp and will soon share the deadly danger with you are none of them at all akin to the meek and biddable men who were your sires and brothers. You and your sisters must learn to treat these men as equals. Each of you must pair with a man who appeals to her, take him as war companion and lover, share all things with him, both the good and the ill. Yes, it will seem strange and unnatural, at first, but those who persevere will soon find each succeeding day brighter and more fulfilling. On this, you have My word and My promise, dear Rahksahnah.