by Robert Adams
Once his army was back on its own side of the river, he let them rest in Tradertown for only as much time as it took him to scrape together horses and mules to remount most of his cavalry. Then he marched southwest toward the border, with the primary intention of remanning the forts situated at the points at which the three principal trade routes from off the prairie entered his duchy.
The forts had first been erected fifty years prior to Alex’s birth and improved upon or at least kept in repair by most of his predecessors. The steady flow of monies from the transriverine cable had seen most of the original sod interior buildings rebuilt in brick and the more vulnerable stretches of the outer works — gateways and corners — done in brick and stone, with the addition of deep, broad, dry ditches fronting the gates and winch-controlled bridges to span them.
But what the conquering nomads had left of the three formerly stout fortifications caused Alex to rant, blaspheme and chew his fists in rage. He would have to forget about regarrisoning until there was time and peace for extensive rebuilding to be accomplished. The stretches of wooden palisade between the masonry strong points were become rows of charred, jagged stumps, and everything within that was susceptible to the ravages of fire had been subjected to it, which meant that not one building retained a roof. Weapons, armor, horses and their gear, wheeled transport, metal tools and artifacts and everything else that a nomad might fancy had been lifted, of course. Only the unburied remains of the defenders were left.
Even though his recent luck was bad and his judgment sometimes faulty, no one ever had need to question Alex’s personal courage. Sending the foot back to Traderstown, he rode on at the head of his dragoons and lancers — although many forked scratch horses and half-broken mules with no hint of war training — deliberately seeking out the bands of nomad raiders, widely acclaimed as the most savage and dangerous light cavalry known.
There were, over the next weeks, a few inconclusive running skirmishes between small bands of raiders on their speedy, skittering pony-size beasts and units of his heavy-armed force on their larger, slower mounts. He lost a few troopers and the occasional nomad was killed, but the bands always escaped onto the prairie with their loot and captives — mostly nubile girls — leaving their pursuers sweating, red-faced and drooping and their mounts near foundering.
Duke Alex then did the only thing that he could under the circumstances. He sent riders to every rural hall and village. Their message was simple: in its present poor condition, his army could not offer any measure of protection against the inroads of the nomads, and the border forts were no longer tenable. Therefore, they all should gather up their families and serfs, animals and valuables, and leave the land to seek the protection of Traderstown’s high stone walls and numerous well-armed soldiers.
Alex himself stayed in the field with his cavalry, returning to the city only long enough to draft and dispatch requests for troops, materia militaris and as many trained war horses as could be quickly located to King Uyr of Mehmfiz and to his late mother’s nephew, Ehvin, Grand Duke of Ehvinzburkport. Then he scraped again the already scraped barrel and, with the scanty supplies, replacements and remounts thus obtained, he went back to his sorely tried field troops.
Even with sails, favorable winds and a full complement of husky oarsmen on the benches, the war galley took an entire week to reach Ehvinsburkport up the winding loops of the river and against its swift current. In receipt of the plea from his cousin, however, Grand Duke Ehvin IX — reflecting on the plaintiffs well-known wealth and upon the possibility that he, too, might be in so tight a difficulty sometime or other — moved quickly and generously.
The first ships to arrive were loaded with foodstuffs for both man and beast. The next ships brought a full squadron of mercenary dragoons and their mounts, with wages paid for a month, at which time their contract with the Grand Duke would expire. Ehvin had found their terms crushingly expensive, and he felt that Alex, rich as Croesus, could better afford them.
Ehvin also cleaned out some old armories and sent down a shipload of archaic but still serviceable weapons and armor.
Last, he shipped some two hundred horses and sixscore mules.
He also sent a letter. It profusely apologized for the fact that, lamentably, he was unable to bring his own huge armies downriver to the aid of his esteemed cousin in the hour of need. It gave as explanation the fact that the bulk of those armies were, even as he wrote, massing in his northern marches for the full-scale war that now seemed imminent, in the wake of the repeated raids and other treacherous acts of the brazenly aggressive Duke of Tehrawt.
Alex saw to it that neither the mercenaries nor the remounts remained within Traderstown for any longer than it took them to disembark, form up and trot through the streets to the West Gate. His conscience told him that with the advent of nearly six hundred fresh cavalry, he should give at least that number of his run-ragged veterans a couple of weeks to rest and refit in Traderstown. But he knew that he could not, that he dared not, for he had urgent need of every man and mount.
* * *
In the tribal camp, which still sat upon the eastern verge of the prairie, Milo of Morai and Blind Hari of Krooguh squatted on the dais in their huge yurt, facing each other across a low folding table laid with mutton, cheese, fresh milk and dried fruit. At Hari’s side sat a gangly year-old prairiecat cub, whose vision the bard used whenever he needed to see something.
“The chiefs are all exultant,” remarked Hari. “They and their tribesmen are growing rich on the pickings of these raids, and precious few warriors of the tribe have even been wounded, and only a very small number slain. Many have said to me that had they but known how weak, how vulnerable and defenseless this particular aggregation of dirtmen really was, they should long since have banded together — a dozen or so tribes at a time — and regularly plundered them.”
Milo shook his head. “Had they been so rash, we’d now have considerably fewer Kindred clans, Hari. We have been very, very lucky, you know. Those three forts’ garrisons were at half-strength or less. Had they been fully manned — built, situated and equipped as they were — I assure you that they would never have fallen to the attack of unsupported light cavalry.
“As for the success of our raids, the earliest were made against no opposition worthy of the name. I have questioned captives, and all told me that the chief of this land and people — one Alehks, whose title is ‘Duke’ — had called up all his subchiefs and their warriors, had all but stripped the forts and the city of fighters and had hired on hundreds of warriors from far-distant tribes in order to cross the Great River and make war on a rival chief, one Tcharlz, also called ‘Duke.’ He had been across the river for some moons when we struck his forts.
“More recent captives say that this Alehks suffered great reverses in his war-making across the river. They say that he lost many men, all his horses and oxen, all his wagons and supplies, many of his weapons and armor and gear. They also say that those who survived to return with him to this side of the river had nearly starved to death during the winter past.
“I can well believe these stories, Hari, for the warriors who have recently been opposing us were fine-drawn when they first rode against us, most of them riding mules or poor crow-baits that were likely pulling dung carts a week before. But, old friend, our luck will not hold forever. It is a certainty that sooner or later this Alehks will bring in fresh, well-equipped and well-mounted troops. When that day comes, any chief or subchief who tries to deal with them as the clansmen so often have with the poor exhausted bastards we’ve faced up to now will find some sharp, painful surprises and all will probably awaken in the Home of Wind.”
Hari smiled, showing teeth worn down almost to the gums. “I think you exaggerate, war chief. I know, I know, you carry your duty to husband the tribe’s warriors, so your intentions are good. But our horses can easily outdistance these dirtman breeds, can run rings around them. And our bowmen . . .”
“Hari,” put in Milo,
“recall the breed of horse that the chiefs of the traders ride, the tall ones with the long legs and the small, fine heads. You’ve observed races between them and clansmen on our horses, haven’t you?”
At the bard’s nod, he went on, “Well, have you ever seen a Horseclans mount win one of those races?”
“Yes,” answered Hari slowly, trying to bridge the gap of years. “It was a . . . young subchief of Clan Makinnis, I believe.”
Milo snorted derisively. “All right, one win out of how many races, eh? Those horses, Hari, are of the eastern breed of warhorses, but those of the traders are far from the best examples; those are either culls, rejects from war training or retired warhorses. Even so, they are invariably faster than our own short-legged, big-headed breed over a short stretch. Also, being bigger and bulkier and heavier, they will be able to bowl over our mounts as easily as a prairiecat knocks over a lance-horn buck.
“As regards our bowmen, and the maiden archers, they’ve inflicted frightful losses on those scantily armored wretches, true enough. But properly equipped heavy cavalry are going to be armored from knee to pate, Hari, and all of steel, mind you — mail or scale or plate, but steel, none of this leather boiled in wax and, perhaps, covered with thin sheets of brass. Now, Hari, I would stake great odds that nine out of every ten arrows in this camp are tipped with either chipped stone or fired bone, both of which materials are cheap and first-rate for hunting; and, loosed at the proper angle and at close enough range, they’ll even pierce good-quality leather armor.
“But, my wise and musical friend, a clansman or maiden could loose such shafts at a steel-armored man all day and still do him no harm; both bone and stone shatter against steel plate or scale, as I know of experience in the far south among the Mehkskuhn tribes.
“So pray start informing the chiefs not to try to make a stand or play any of their bloody games against any new bands of warriors they encounter. You’d better also tell them to get every smith in this camp to the task of forging every available scrap of iron or steel or even bronze into arrowheads.”
Hari said drily, “The mighty war chief speaks, the aged and most humble bard obeys.”
“Humble, you?” Milo chuckled, then licked the grease from his fingers and began stuffing his pipe.
* * *
The squadron of heavy cavalry — for all that they were well-disciplined veterans, splendidly equipped, masterfully led by hard bitten and intelligent officers and sergeants, and mounted on fresh, big, powerful warhorses — accomplished far less of a positive nature than Alex had hoped. Within a week in action, they had taken casualties of near a hundred killed and wounded and had lost at least a half of that number of their highly valuable chargers to death, serious wounds or capture.
The squat, beetle-browed, very muscular commander, Captain Sir Jaik Higinz, in conference with Duke Alex was crushingly blunt.
“Yer grace, I knows you ain’t too pleased with my boys and me, and I cain’t fault you none, rightly, ’cuz I ain’t no way pleased with the sitch’ation my own se’f. So I tell you what I’ll do: I’m contracted to the grand duke till the end of this month. He done sent us here to fight fer you, and I’ll ’bide by my sworn word till the time runs out. But that’s gonna hafta be it, Yer grace. God knows, I’ll like as not be down to half a squadron or less, in thet little time. I’s to sign on with you fer any longer, them screechin’, howlin’ little bastids on their ugly, runty hosses will’ve most like kilt us all.”
Duke Alex nodded stiffly, though he had the overwhelming urge to hang his head in despair. He knew that the fine, fresh troops had done their best, all that could reasonably be asked of men and horses. He was getting the nagging thought more frequently as disastrous day followed disastrous day that nothing could or would stop this horde of nomads — not him and all his horsemen, not the infantry or the walls of Traderstown, not even the Great River.
Knowing in advance that it was hopeless, still the unhappy duke made a try. “If it is a matter of stipend, captain, fortunately I can afford to pay a higher figure for your serviced than could my esteemed cousin . . . ?”
“No, yer grace.” The captain shook his shaven head. “The squadron ain’t afeered of no civilized troops on either bank of the whole damn Ohyoh Valley, but what we’re up ’gainst here is another kettle of fish, and I’ve done had to hang or stripe some deserters a’ready.
“And I’m not the onliest one, neither, yer grace. My old comrade Captain Barnz, his contract with you expires ’bout the same time as mine with the grand duke does. Him and me figgers to merge what’s left of our troops by then and sail downriver to the Kingdom of Mehmfiz where a civilized war’s going on.
“Now, yer grace, I ain’t a edjicated man; I thinks God give all the brains to my older brother, along with the title and all, but in near on twenny-eight years of sojering, I done learned me a few things here and there. Fergive me fer patting it like this, yer grace, but you done got your parts in a crack and them Horseclanners are ’bout to lop ’em off.
“But yer grace ain’t the only one’s almost eyebrows deep in the shit, ’cause we took us a wounded nomad las’ week and afore he died, he tol’ me that all of them clans, forty or fifty of ’em, means to cross the Mizipi — what you folks ’round here calls the Great River — and then they means to march on due eas’ till they gets to the salt sea, living off any lands they come onto and killing anybody tries to stop ’em.
“And so, yer grace, it seems to me — a poor, iggerant wight of a perfeshunal sojer — that you should oughta mend yer fences with yer brother-in-law, ’crost of the river, and let him know what-all’s going on down here ’fore it’s too late for him or anybody elst to help you out.
“If the two of you’s to fight together, mebbe you can stop them scrawny devils or at least head ’em in a diffrunt direckshun. Seems to me it’s come up a question of hang together or hang one at the time . . . no disrespect meant, yer grace.”
* * *
Tcharlz had as quickly, if not as painfully, learned just how difficult it was to bombard the fortress he had built. He knew better than to try to dig emplacements in the Lower Town, of course, recalling the cofferdams that had been necessary in order to get the walls and foundations down to bedrock. Therefore he tried to add to and improve upon the charred ruins of the semicircular protective wall that had brought a disaster to Duke Alex’s abortive siege.
There was no wood to be fired in Tcharlz’s construction, but this did not deter Captain Martuhn, nor did it save the duke’s siege engines. After raining a few bushels of small stone over the emplacements to keep the engineers pressed close to the wall and away from their own engines, the massed engines of the citadel accurately hurled large crocks of oil to burst and soak the engines, then followed these in short order with blazing spears and fire arrows.
From the Upper Town, Tcharlz watched his engines burning merrily and cursed them because he could not yet bring himself to curse Martuhn, for all the man’s rank insubordination and disloyalty to him.
When first he had arrived before the citadel at the head of his troops, Tcharlz had sent in a messenger with a letter of demand that Captain Martuhn come out, unarmed, and bringing with him the two boys, whose adoptive father had accompanied the army.
The messenger returned with an oral message from the captain that neither he nor the boys would come out. However, the duke was welcome at any time to come inside, alone.
Tcharlz then sent in another messenger bearing an order for all troops within the citadel to come out with their arms and beasts and join the siege brigade in bringing the rebel. Captain Martuhn, to the duke’s justice.
After a wait of several hours, the messenger returned . . . with a scant dozen common soldiers and two shame-faced officers. At this, Tcharlz rode into the citadel alone, as invited by his rebellious officer.
Stiffly, formally, he explained his purposes to Captain Martuhn, who then had all of the citadel’s garrison assembled in the forecourt to hear the duke. Duk
e Tcharlz made no threats, he simply reminded them that they were his troops — either natives of his duchy or client states, or mercenaries hired by his order and paid by his gold — and that their loyalty belonged to him, not to any of his officers, and especially not to a former officer now in open rebellion against the duchy. Then he asked that all men and officers who would accompany him out of the citadel and help in the overthrow of Sir Martuhn — formerly Captain of Ducal Infantry and Count of Twocityport — take two paces forward.
Not one man or officer moved from his place in ranks, and the duke’s face reddened, while his jaws worked and his left hand tightened on the hilt of his broadsword until the scarred knuckles stood out as white as snow.
At long last, one officer left his place and approached the livid duke, who growled with the beginning of a grudging smile, “Well, Baronet Fahster, you took long enough to make up your mind. At least one of you assholes knows which side his bread is buttered on.”
The tall, blond man shook his head forcefully. “Your grace, I’ll not be leaving with you, but in fairness to you, I felt you should know why. Have I the permission of your grace to speak?”
“Talk away, rebel bastard,” snarled Tcharlz, all hint of the smile fled from his lips. “I trow your next speech to me will be from the gallows at Pirates’ Folly . . . just before you swing for your treason.”
“Lord duke,” began the baronet, “I have served your arms long and faithfully. I have taken agonizing wounds in your service, but you rewarded me graciously and you have been a generous patron.”
“Then why do you now turn on me, Baronet Fahster . . . Hal?” For a fraction of a second, the deep, hidden pain tinged the old nobleman’s voice, glittered from out his eyes. “You and I, lad, we’re natives of the same county. Your father was one of my dearest friends, a staunch supporter whose courage and strong right arm did much to put me where I am today. When he died in my arms, he committed you to my care, and I reared you and sponsored you as if you had been my own flesh and blood.