Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

by Glen Cook

  There was no official comment till evening parade. Then a Colonel from the Citadel addressed the assembled troops, veterans and recruits alike. He said, yes, a commission had been accepted. A thousand men would be involved. General Hawkwind would command. Details he kept to himself, perhaps for security reasons. He urged all brothers not actively participating to remember Hawkwind's force in their prayers.

  "Hawkwind!" Reskird enthused. "What a break. First time out and we get the grand master. You hear what he did at Balewyne last year? Beat the whole Kisten army with five hundred men."

  Bragi grunted. "With five hundred veterans from his own and the White Company."

  "You're as bad as Haaken. Know that? What about Wadi el Kuf? Fifteen thousand enemy dead on the field. He's never lost a battle."

  "Always a first time," Haaken grumbled.

  "I don't believe you. How soon you think we'll head out?"

  The word passed through the barracks that night: the recruit company would complete its training. Five days of Hell remained.

  "So much for marching off to war, Reskird." Bragi whispered after lights out. "You're full of it, you know that? Enjoy the obstacle course."

  One regular company departed two days later, bound for a rendezvous with Hawkwind somewhere to the south. Word spread quickly: the recruit company would have to catch up on the road. Grim faces appeared. The pace would be hard. Graduation would provide no respite.

  Corporal Trubacik was amused. "You're all young men. In prime shape, I hear. You should be able to do it walking backward."

  Bragi said little the next few days. He went through the exercises and drills numbly. Haaken finally asked, "You all right? Sure you don't want to bow out?"

  "I started it. I'll finish it. I just have trouble when I think about dying out there. Wherever." They had not been told where they were going.

  Bragi could not buy all the brotherhood of the Guild. He felt solidarity with his squad and company, of course. That was one function of the training program. A group went through Hell together and learned to depend upon one another. But the larger belonging that made the Guild had not infected him. The honor and nobility had not become tangible to him. And that worried him. Those things were important to both his superiors and to his comrades. They made the Guild what it was.

  He tried hard to sell himself. It was like trying to force sleep. Self-defeating.

  It seemed to take forever arriving, but Shielding Day did come. All the grand old men, the great and famous generals, came down from the Citadel to review the recruits and make speeches. They kept their remarks refreshingly brief. The Castellan, the senior member of the order present, apologized because the recruits would have no opportunity to enjoy the leave traditional after completing training.

  Then came the final ceremony, when each new Guildsman was awarded the shield of a Guild footsoldier. Each had to go before the assembly to accept. Trainees who had excelled received honor ribbons with their shields. Bragi was awarded one for having had the best squad during inspections.

  The award embarrassed him terribly. He hustled back into line. His comrades grinned wolfishly. He knew he would not hear the end of it soon. He examined shield and ribbons, found a lump rising in his throat, felt his pride swelling. "Damn," he murmured. "They got to me after all."

  Corporal Trubacik bellowed, "Up and at them, lads. Up and at them. It's another glorious day in the outfit." He whipped blankets off the new young soldiers. "Let's go. Let's go. You know the drill. Company formation in half an hour." Out the door he went, leaving the lamp turned a little higher.

  "Damn," Reskird said. "Ain't nothing changed. I hoped we'd at least get to sleep in."

  Bragi did not say anything. He got his soap and razor and stumbled to the lavatory. His head was stuffed up and his temper was foul. He washed and shaved in silence, refusing to respond to jibes about his ribbon.

  "Fall in!" Trubacik bellowed across the parade yard. "Platoon leaders, report!" The platoon sergeants turned and bellowed for reports from the squads. Bragi reported all present and accounted for without checking. Nobody had missed muster yet.

  He was more interested in a number of men lounging behind Sanguinet. Why were they here? What were they up to?

  Minutes later his heart sank. The hangers-around proved to be veterans assigned as squad leaders. Though he had known it vain, he had hoped to retain that status himself.

  Each squad departed as it received its new corporal.

  Bragi's went to a wiry little Itaskian named Birdsong, who led them to the quartermasters. He did not have much to say at first, just watched while the quartermasters replaced gear worn or damaged during training. Each recruit received an extra pair of boots.

  "I don't like this," Reskird grumbled. "Extra boots means somebody figures us to wear out a lot of shoe leather."

  Bragi glanced at Birdsong. The little corporal smiled. Smiling made his mustache wiggle like a brown caterpillar.

  The armorers came after the quartermasters. They exchanged training weapons for battle weapons. Breastplates were issued. Bragi and Haaken went two rounds with an armorer who wanted to relieve them of the swords they had brought down from Trolledyngja. Birdsong interceded. He understood the importance of heirloom blades.

  "But they're not standard!" the armorer protested.

  And Birdsong, "But your budget will come up on the long side."

  End of dispute.

  There were two more stops. The kitchens, for field rations, where Reskird moaned at the size of the issue, and the paymaster, where Reskird's protests were noteworthy by their absence.

  Individual Guildsmen did not receive a large stipend. Not compared to other troops. Belonging was their great reward. But on this occasion the old men in the Citadel had awarded a substantial bounty because the trainees had been deprived of graduation leave. Each man also received a month's advance, which was customary on taking the field.

  Then it was time to gather in the courtyard again. There were other squads passing through the system. Birdsong took the opportunity to acquaint himself with his men. He proved to be a tad pompous, a lot self-conscious, a little unsure of himself. In short, he suffered the usual insecurities of anyone new to a supervisory role.

  Bragi told Haaken, "I think I'm going to like him."

  Haaken shrugged, indifferent. But Reskird threatened to drag his feet because he thought Bragi should have retained the squad leader's post.

  Bragi told him, "You do and I'll crack your back."

  Sanguinet returned to the drill yard on horseback, accompanied by Trubacik and the other noncoms who had guided the company through training. They wore new belts and badges proclaiming their elevated status. Sanguinet had been promoted to lieutenant.

  "Fall in!" Sergeant Trubacik roared. "We're moving out." And in five minutes, with the sun still barely above the horizon, the march began.

  It was rougher than any training hike. Dawn to dusk, forty and fifty miles every day, eating pemmican, dried fruit and toasted grain, drinking only water, and occasionally nibbling such fruits as could be purchased from wayside farmers. Living off the land was prohibited, except catch-as-catch-can in the forests. Guildsmen did not plunder, even to support themselves. They were schooled to consider themselves gentlemen, above the savageries of national soldiers.

  Kildragon complained. The northern custom was totally opposite.

  Day followed day. Mile followed mile. They headed south, ever south, into ever warmer lands. They gained on the veteran company, but couldn't seem to catch it.

  A horse troop joined them south and east of Hellin Daimiel. Their dust filled the lungs, parched the throat, and caked upon dried, cracking lips.

  "I don't like this," Haaken grumbled as they reached a crossroads and turned eastward. "There ain't nothing out this way."

  Kildragon grumped back. "What I don't like is getting screwed out of my shielding liberty. I had plans."

  "You've said that a hundred times. If you can't sing a new
song, don't sing at all."

  "We'll make up for it," Bragi promised. "After the victory, when we're heroes." He laughed a laugh he did not feel. That morning Sanguinet had assigned the Birdsong squad to the primus, or front battle line.

  Sanguinet had grinned over the announcement, explaining, "You do good, gentlemen, you work hard, and you reap your reward."

  Thus Bragi learned a basic fact: the more a man does, and the better he does it, the more is expected of him. The rewards and gratifications come either as afterthoughts or as carrots meant to get the old mule moving after it realizes that it has been taken.

  Bragi was no coward. There was little that he feared. But he had not inherited his father's battle lust. He was not eager to remain in the primus, which bore the brunt of combat.

  "Look on the bright side," Reskird said. "We get to loaf around on guard duty when the other guys have to dig the trenches and pitch camp."

  "Bah! Some silver lining." Bragi had a broad lazy streak, but in this case did not feel that escape from the drudge work was sufficient compensation.

  Birdsong watched over his shoulder, mustache wriggling. Bragi bared his teeth and growled. Birdsong laughed. "You know what they say. A bitching soldier is a happy soldier."

  "Then Reskird is the happiest fool on earth," Haaken grumbled. "A hog up to his collar in slops."

  Birdsong chuckled. "Every rule has its exceptions."

  "Where are we going, Corporal?" Bragi asked.

  "They haven't told me yet. But we're headed east. There isn't anything east of here but the border forts facing the Sahel."

  "The Sahel? What's that?"

  "The outer edge of Hammad al Nakir. That means the Desert of Death."

  "Oh, that sounds great."

  "You'll love it. Most godforsaken land you'll ever see." His eyes went vague.

  "You been there?"

  "I was at Wadi el Kuf with the General. We took this route then."

  Bragi exchanged glances with his brother.

  "Ha!" Reskird cried, suddenly enthusiastic. He started babbling cheerfully about Hawkwind's victory.

  Bragi and Haaken had listened to other veterans of the battle. It hadn't been the picnic Reskird thought. Haaken suggested Kildragon attempt a difficult autoerotic feat.

  They finally overhauled the other infantry company a day from the assembly point, a fortified town called Kasr el Helal. The veterans grinned a lot during night camp. They had made the overtaking intentionally difficult.

  Hawkwind and the remainder of the regiment were waiting at Kasr el Helal. Also on hand were several caravans hoping to slip into Hammad al Nakir in the regiment's safety shadow, and two hundred Royalist warriors sent to guide the Guildsmen. Bragi and Haaken found the desert men incredibly odd.

  Hawkwind allowed a day's rest at Kasr el Helal. Then the savage march resumed. Bragi soon understood why extra boots had been issued. Rumor said they had eight hundred miles to march, to some place called the Eastern Fortress. The actual distance was closer to five hundred miles, but it was long enough.

  The pace started slowly enough, passing through the wild, barren hills of the Sahel. The desert riders ranged far afield. The column traveled ready for combat. The primitive locals were fanatic adherents of the enemy, somebody called El Murid.

  The natives never offered battle. The Guildsmen never saw them. They saw almost no natives anywhere during the first twenty-seven days of the desert crossing.

  Hawkwind conducted repeated exercises during the march. The heavy support train acquired at Kasr el Helal was a severe drag on speed. Yet its professional camp followers, cooks and workers made military life easier to bear. Hawkwind, though, kept those people as segregated as he dared, fearing an infection of indiscipline. Their discipline was pure chaos compared to that of the Guildsmen.

  The youths from the north examined the barrens day after day. "I'll never get used to this," Bragi said.

  Haaken admitted, "It scares me. Makes me feel like I'm going to fall off the world, or something."

  Bragi tried to see a bright side. "Somebody wants to attack us, we'll see them coming."

  He was only partly right. Twenty-seven days out of Kasr el Helal, Reskird suddenly yelled, "Pay up, Haaken."

  "What?"

  "The van riders are coming in." Kildragon pointed. The native outriders were rushing toward the column like leaves aflutter on a brisk March wind. "That means a fight."

  Bragi looked at Haaken meaningfully. "You suckered him out of a month's pay, eh?" An hour earlier word had come back that they could expect to be within sight of their destination before nightfall. Haaken had begun crowing about how he had hornswoggled Reskird into betting they would see action before they arrived.

  Haaken suggested they both attempt the sexually impossible. He grumbled, "Those Invincibles wouldn't be this close to the castle anyway."

  "They're between us and the Fortress," Reskird said. "We have to break through. Pay me now, Haaken. Be hard to collect if you get taken dead."

  "Don't you ever shut up? You got a mouth like a crow."

  "You do have a way with words, Reskird," Bragi agreed.

  Horsemen indistinguishable from the outriders crested a ridgeline ahead. They studied the column, then flew back the way they had come.

  Hawkwind halted. The officers conferred, dispersed. Soon Bragi and his companions were double-timing into the selected formation, which was a broad, shallow line of heavy infantry with the native horsemen on the flanks. Bowmen scattered behind the infantry. The heavy horse, still donning armor and preparing mounts, massed behind the center. The camp followers circled wagons behind them to provide a fortress into which to retreat.

  Birdsong dressed the squad. "Looking good, lads," he said. "First action. Show the Lieutenant we can handle it." Sanguinet insisted they couldn't whip their weight in old women.

  "Set your shields. Stand ready with spears. Third rank. Stand by with your javelins."

  Bragi watched the ridgeline and worried about his courage. This was no proper way for a man to fight...

  Riders crested the hill. They swept toward the Guildsmen, hoofbeats rising into a continuous thunder. Bragi crouched behind his shield and awaited the order to set his spear. Some of his squadmates seemed to be wavering, certain they did not dare hold against the rush.

  The riders sheered off toward the flanks. Arrows from short saddle bows pattered against shields, crossing paths with a flight from longer Guild bows. Horses screamed. Men cursed and wailed. Bragi could see no casualties on his side.

  An arrow chunked into his shield. A quarter inch of sharp steel peeped through. A second shaft caromed off the peak of his helmet, elicited a startled curse behind him. He scrunched down another inch.

  The earth shuddered continuously. Dust poured over him. The taunting riders were racing past just thirty yards away.

  He could not restrain his curiosity. He popped up for a peek over the rim of his shield.

  An arrow plunked him squarely, smashing the iron of his helmet against his forehead. He tumbled onto his butt, losing his shield. Another arrow streaked through the gap in the shield wall, creased the inside of his right thigh. "Damn," he muttered, before it started hurting. "An inch higher and... "

  Reskird and Haaken shifted their shields, narrowing the gap till a man from the second rank could assume Bragi's place. Hands grabbed Ragnarson, dragged him backward. In a moment he was cursing at the feet of the bowmen. One shouted, "Get back to the wagons, lad."

  He didn't make it halfway before the encounter ended. The enemy tried to turn the flanks. The friendly natives pushed them back. Trumpets sounded. Hawkwind led the heavy horse through aisles in the infantry, formed for a charge. The enemy flew away, vanishing over the hill as swiftly as he had come. He remembered Wadi el Kuf, and had no taste for another bout with the men in iron.

  Though Bragi had perceived their undisciplined rush as an endless tide, there had been no more than five hundred of the riders. Outnumbered by a discipline
d foe, they had done nothing but probe. Even so, several dozen fallen comrades were left scattered across the regiment's front. Bragi was one of only four casualties on the Guild side.

  The camp followers rushed out to cut throats and loot. The Guildsmen remained standing at arms while their native auxiliaries went scouting again.

  Bragi settled down with his back against a wagon wheel, cursing himself for the stupidity that had gotten him hurt. All he had had to do was keep his head down, just as he had been taught.

  "Some people will do anything to get out of walking."

  He looked up, lips taut. His wound hurt bad now.

  Sanguinet dropped to one knee. "Might have known you'd be the first one hurt. Let me look at it." He grinned. "Close, eh? Don't look that bad, though." He squeezed Bragi's shoulder. "There's a reason behind every lesson we try to teach. Hope you learned something today. You paid a cheap enough price." He smiled. "I'll send the surgeon around. You'll need stitches. Ride the chow dray the rest of the way in."

  "Do I have to do KP? Sir?"

  "Got to pull your weight somewhere."

  "I'll walk, then. Just stay with my squad."

  "You'll do what you're told, son. Laziness isn't a good enough excuse for losing a leg."

  "Sir—"

  "You have your orders, Ragnarson. Don't compound foolishness with more foolishness." Today Sanguinet spoke as a Guildsman to a brother, not as a drillmaster belittling a recruit.

  Birdsong let Haaken and Reskird drop back to visit the afternoon the regiment started the long climb up the slope leading to the Eastern Fortress. They lifted him down off the chow wagon so he could look at the castle. "Gods. It's big," he said.

  "They call it the Eastern Fortress," Reskird told him. "Been here for like eight hundred years, or something, and them all the time adding on."

  Bragi looked around. How did the people of Hammad al Nakir survive in such desolation? The castle turned out its garrison in welcome. Ranks of silent men, dark of eye and skin, often beakish of nose, observed them without expression. Bragi sensed their disdain. The were all old, weathered veterans. He tried hard not to limp.