“In short,” Drehkos addressed the assembled nobles and officers, “there is no option available to any in this city. We all are doomed. Our only choices regard the methods of our deaths, whether we die honorably by the sword, or dishonorably under the brutal hand of some executioner.”
In the council chamber of the High Lord’s pavilion, another meeting was in progress. Harvest time was fast approaching, and Milo had reached a decision which he was now announcing to the ranking nobles.
“And so, gentlemen, most of you and your people will begin to ride back to Morguhn, tomorrow. You’ll be conducted by kahtahfrahktoee, leaving your hired Freefighters here. When your harvests are all in and when you are certain that there will be no trouble in your duchies, no need for your presences until planting or shearing, you’ll arm as many men as you can spare and return here. Assemble, as before, at Morguhnpolis and march up to me in a body.
“By that time, perhaps, we’ll have softened up the defenses enough that an assault will be feasible. If not, you’ll just celebrate your Midwinter Feast in camp.”
“But, my lord—” began Thoheeks Duhnkin, a bit petulantly.
Milo raised a hand. “This is not a matter open to debate, gentlemen. This is the order of your lawful sovereign!” With the dawn, the nobles marched.
And the siege of Vawnpolis commenced, tedious and boring at all times, sometimes deadly. It went slowly, though, for the immediate surroundings had been stripped of sizable timber and the engineer crews had to journey far afield to secure what they needed to go with their wagonloads of hardware.
And even when at last the long-range, heavy-duty engines were in place, the effect of their missiles seemed negligible—their pitchballs apparently caused few fires within the city, and those did not burn long. The great boulders sent hurtling against the walls caused dust and stone shards to fly, but it was obvious that a lengthy bombardment would be necessary to do any real damage.
That was about the time old Sir Ehdt informed the High Lord that he thought one and possibly both the hillock salients could be taken at minimum cost.
Milo chewed on his thumb, studying the sandtable model at length. Aldora and Bili watched silently.
Bili had but recently returned, unexpectedly, with two of his younger brothers in tow—fresh from the Middle Kingdoms and eager to get in on the fine war in progress in their homeland. The youngest, Djaikuhb, at fourteen, was nearly as tall as Bili, though slenderer, and already a dangerously accomplished swordsman. The merry-eyed Gilbuht, intensely proud of his flaring, reddish mustache—such as were the current vogue amongst the nobility of Zuhnburk, where he had been reared and trained—had aroused the interest of both the Undying, since his mindspeak abilities seemed almost as powerful as Bill’s.
Finally, the High Lord spoke. “Either of those hillocks would give us a far better base of fire than we have at present, Sir Ehdt. We might even be able to loft clear to the citadel from the south one. You really think we could capture them that easily?”
Whilst their elder brother, the siegemaster and the two Undying discussed the finer points of the now decided assault, the two younger Morguhns withdrew unnoticed amid the coming and going of the various commanders. In the almost total absence of young men of their own rank, they made their way to the camp of their brother’s Freefighters, a homier-feeling enclave than were the various Confederation Army camps, since most of the Freefighters were Middle Kingdoms men, many of the officers and sergeants being younger sons of burk lords and lesser nobility.
Almost all of the force were experienced campaigners, so there was no need to tell them of the impending attack. That sixth sense of veteran soldiers had already assured them that with the dawn would come danger and, for some, death. A few were drinking, silently and alone, and more than one was clearly smoking hemp, since a thread of its pungent smoke occasionally wafted across the area. Despite its proscription by the Cult of the Sword, the use of hemp was fairly common among professional soldiers, and even had it not been, an astute commander allowed great latitude of conduct before an attack.
Leathern bellows creaked and their huffs sent masses of brilliant sparks soaring up from the forge fires of farrier and smith, cadenced hammerstrokes ringing on horseshoe and blade. A trio of men skilled at fletching sat with their pots of evil-smelling fish glue and sacks of feathers and sharp little knives, haggling the charge with fellow archers even while their skilled fingers scurried about their tasks. Close by, large iron pots simmered, and in their steam—scented with sorrel leaves and resin—other archers straightened shafts.
There were no classes tonight, however. The weapons masters hustled about the camp, inspecting blades and spears, axes and armor and darts, chivvying the owners of many to the honing circle, some twoscore men squatting about the largest fire, their voices raised in an endless ballad, sung in cadence with the measured scrape of whetstones. The men with the best voices or memories took turns as lead singer, while the rest roared out the catchlines and choruses, and circulating skins of barely watered wine kept throats from drying.
“A wager, a wager, a wager I’ll lay you, I’ll lay you my gold to your brass”
And “TO YOUR BRASS!” swelled from the men.
That no Undying King could tell of braver deeds than were done at the Burk of Pehnduhgast.”
“THAT NO UNDYING KING COULD TELL OF BRAVER DEEDS THAN WERE DONE AT THE BURK OF PEHNDUHGAST. HONE YOUR STEEL!” came the chorus.
Humming the tune of the old familiar song, mustachioed Gilbuht nodded at the ever-expanding circle, saying, “How bides your steel, Brother Djaikuhb? My Uncle Sharptooth, here”—he slapped his scabbard—“might well do with a taste, of oil and stone.”
Space was made for the brothers in the circle, and when they had bared and kissed their steel, a grizzled, one-eared weapons master strode over, gave them stones from the bag slung on his shoulder, then squatted and examined their swordblades, suggesting where on the edges their efforts be concentrated. Before he went on about his circuit, he checked out their dirks, as well, and their bootknives. He knew who they were, as did all around the fire, but he showed them no deference, for in such a gathering, on such a night, Freefighters recognized no lines or barriers of rank and caste. All were comrades-in-arms, Brothers of the Sword, some of whom must surely die tomorrow.
Beside Gilbuht knelt a handsome, black-haired sergeant standard-bearer, his clear, tenor voice leading a verse, while his well-formed hands placed the finishing touches on the edges of a new-looking broadsword bearing a distinguished hallmark.
He mindspoke his brother, “Djaik, look you at the sergeant’s blade. Is it not a Slohn?” The House of Slohn had produced some of the best blades in the Kingdom of Pitzburk for three hundred years and more.
“Aye,” beamed the younger brother. “And a top-quality one at that. Look, it has not only the Slohn Foxhead but the personal device of the mastersmith, as well. Yon steel probably cost as much or more than a full-trained warhorse. No wonder he lavishes such care on it.”
Geros licked the oil from his lips—he had taken to kissing his blade, despite the fact that he was no Brother of the Sword, because be truly loved the splendid, well-balanced gift of Thoheeks Bill He had politely declined princely offers from both Freefighter comrades and nobles; he wore the sword with pride, caring for it as tenderly as he did for his trusty mare, Ahnah. And he had drilled and practiced until the wire-wound hilt was one with his hand and the three feet of blade a mere extension of his arm.
Captain Raikuh—and many of his old comrades attested that the uncanny accuracy of his predictions bordered upon second sight—had taken to treating the standard sergeant as an equal and, one night in his cups, had assured him that, while he never would be truly wealthy, he would die honored and respected, castellan of a high nobleman’s burk, with a minor title to leave his eldest son. It all sounded quite fantastic to Geros, but then, if this time last year anyone had told him that twelve moons would see him—quiet, gentle, unassuming Geros Lahvoheetos, son of a mere majordomo, bodyservant to a minor noble—riding to war in the company of hardbitten professional fighters, wearing the costly gift of a thoheeks, bearing a widely acknowledged reputation for valor and arms skills, he would have branded that person mad.