He had laid aside his sword and was about to start on his dirkblade when he realized that the young brother of his new lord was trying to mindspeak him.
Leaning closer and smiling, he spoke courteously, aloud. “Your pardon, young sir, but my mindspeak is a chancy thing, at best, which much pains sweet Ahnah, my good mare. What would you of me, noble sir? May I help with your good steel? I own some small skill.”
At this, a scar-faced Nyahgrahee seated on Djaikuhb’s left snorted a laugh. “Don’t let our good sergeant’s soft voice and girlish modesty fool you, friends. His ‘small skill’ is such that Old Pyk over there made him third-class weapons master. An’ your own noble brother, the duke, noted his guts in the big ambush we fought on the march and give him that sword what half the gentry in ten duchies done tried to buy off him, and give the troop half a pipe of damn good wine to drink to him in—and damn if we didn’, too.”
Gilbuht Morguhn laughed then and slapped his thigh. “Then you can be none other but Geros the spearman. Our lord brother spoke of you on the ride up from Morguhnpolis. And that answers the question I would have asked. Damned few Freefighters carry steel so fine.”
Added Djaikuhb, “And I’ve seen many Sword Brothers who did not treat their steel with such reverence.”
Geros answered with another of his shy, gentle smiles, “I am not of your brotherhood, young sirs. I but value your noble brother’s generous gift. It … it is a true work of art and I try to treat it with the respect which such a masterpiece deserves.”
“Y’see, friends,” grinned the Nyahgrahee, “our Sergeant Geros be a bit queer in the head, treatin’ a sword better’n he does his pore horse. But for all o’ it, he be a stout blade to have at your side, an’ ain’t no man in this here troop would gainsay me thet!”
Djaikuhb nodded once, grave-faced. “Comrade Geros, I, too, worship Steel, not simply for its godhood, but for its inherent strength and beauty, as your words proclaim you do. A man such as you, a right-thinking fighter, should long since have been of the Sacred Brotherhood.” Waiting for a pause in the singing, he raised his voice. “How many true Sword Brothers do we number, comrades?”
Perhaps a score and a half hands went up about the circle, and he went on, “I be Djaikuhb Morguhn, Full Brother of the Sixth Order, Noble Lodge of the Kingdom of Pitzburk. I propose for membership in your local lodge that valorous warrior, Geros the spearman. Who will bare steel to oppose this membership?”
Captain Raikuh arose from his place in the circle. “Noble brother, I be Pawl Raikuh, commander of Duke Bili’s troops and Master of the Freefighter Lodge of the Duchy of Morguhn.” Then he bespoke all, saying, “Let all non-brothers, saving only the proposed brother, disperse. Brothers, let us tighten the circle and converse on this matter.”
XIV
An hour before dawn, Aldora’s maidservant wakened her. She and Bili arose, washed, broke fast on a bit of bread dipped in strong wine then helped each other to arm, and wended their way to the pavilion of the High Lord. There they separated, Aldora riding off to the cavalry camp, Bili remaining with Milo to accompany his sovereign at the head of the assaulting infantry.
No words were spoken or beamed at the lovers’ parting, none were needed, for their straining, striving, pleasure-racked bodies had said all that was needful in the night now dying. As for Milo, he allowed himself a chuckle or two, for Aldora trotted off astride none other than Mahvros, Bill’s own huge black warhorse.
Then he shook his head, thinking that he must watch this affair very closely. He could not recall Aldora so quickly forming so deep an attachment, not for any other of the many scores of lovers she had had in the course of her century and a half of life. The girl could be both willful and stubborn. And such were the mental attributes of Bili that the young thoheeks must breed more of his kind. Then he sighed, wondering for the hundred thousandth time over the near-millennium be had lived why Nature, which had gifted him and those few like him with so much, had denied them that one trait otherwise almost universal in her kingdom—the ability to sire or bear offspring.
But then the copper-hued sun peeked over the eastern hills and, with a crash and roll of drums, a shrilling of fifes, a pealing of trumpets, the gruesome day commenced. And there was no more time for thoughts unconcerned with attaining the objective and killing a maximum number of rebels, while keeping the largest possible number of his own troops alive.
When his younger brothers requested permission to ride with the mounted Freefighters, Bili was happy to grant it; it relieved him of two worries. He had already lost one brother to these rebels, and he had no wish to see two or even one more go to Wind. There was a chance that the mounted Freefighters and Confederation lancers would not fight at all today, and even if they were called upon to smash back any sortie which might be made to relieve or reinforce those salients, Djaik and Gil would be better off heavily armed and in the saddles of their fully trained destriers, fighting a kind of combat with which they were most familiar, than they’d be afoot, in half-armor, clawing through abattises and clambering up shaky ladders.
Bili did not much like the prospect himself but since the High Lord had elected to lead this attack personally, the Morguhn had felt honor-bound to serve at his side.
Aldora had shaved his head early last evening, and the rising sun glinted on the shiny scalp, as he personally checked the fit and fastenings of harness on the two horses which would bear him and the High Lord until the attack commenced. The High Lord’s chestnut nuzzled Bili’s leather-clad thigh and mindspoke.
“Am I to have no armor at all? Or did you forget mine as you forgot most of your own, two-leg?”
Bili slapped the muscular neck affectionately, answering, “It be a hot morn already, the day will be even hotter and very long. You two will be doing no fighting, so why burden you with armor, eh? Your brother, the High Lord, and I will not have your thews to help us bear the weight of plate in the coming battle, so we will wear only helms and cuirasses, plus gorgets, shoulderpieces, brassarts and kneecops, with our swords slung on our backs.”
The chestnut stamped and snorted, rolling his eyes. “Stupid! That, two-leg, be a stupid way to fight. Yes, it be hot, but not so hot as the lands where I was foaled. Put on our armor and don your own. We can fight, as well.”
Bili chuckled to himself. The chestnut could be as stubborn as could his own destrier, Mahvros. “Can you climb twelve-foot stone walls, brother? Will your plates stop sixty-pound boulders or eight-foot spears? Or do you intend to catch them all in your teeth?” “My lord duke?”
Bili turned to face Pawl Raikuh, half-armored, the hilt of his broadsword jutting up behind his left shoulder, his left hand gripping a five-foot spearshaft with a two-foot double-edged pikeblade riveted to it. Behind the captain stood Sergeant Geros, similarly accoutered, holding a ten-foot staff about which was furled the Red Eagle Banner of the House and Clan of Morguhn.
“What are you doing here, Pawl?” demanded Bili, surprise in his voice. “I’d thought you’d send Hoguhn or Krahndahl to lead this contingent. Surely you’re not depending on either of them to lead our cavalry today?”