Raikuh grinned. “No, my lord. My lord’s brother, Lord Djaikuhb, vice-captains his horse for this engagement.”
Bili started, then relaxed, smiling. “Oh, nominally, you mean. I thank you for that courtesy, Pawl.”
“No courtesy that.” Raikuh shook his head, his lobsterback napeguard rattling. “Lord Djaik will lead. And it comes to action, I’m sure he’ll do my lord proud.”
“Oh, come now, Pawl,” snapped Bili. “Our troop is entirely made up of veterans. They’ll not be putting their lives in the balance at the behest of a fourteen-year-old. Men have to respect a war leader.”
Raikuh sobered. “And respect my lord’s brother, they do. Any who chanced not to see Lord Djaik fence our senior weapons master, old Pyk, to a standstill have heard of it And besides, they be flattered to have my lord’s brother to lead them.”
“And what of my other brother, Gilbuht? He be anything but feckless. Will he then follow the dictates of a younger brother?”
Raikuh’s grin returned to his scarred face. “Hardly, my lord. Your brothers had … ahhh, some words on the matter, and Lord Gil has elected to ride with Duke Hwahltuh’s force.”
I’ll just bet they had some words on the matter, thought Bili. Since first the two cadets had been reunited, it had often been all that their older brother and chief could do to keep them from each other’s throats. Both were experienced warriors and natural leaders, that last being a part of the problem. But the biggest bone of contention lay to the north, in the lands where they had had their upbringing and arms training. The Duchy of Zuhnburk, which had sheltered Gil for nearly eight years, was a traditional ally of the Kingdom of Harzburk; and Harzburk’s ancient foe was the Kingdom of Pitzburk, which had for six years had the training of Djaik.
When Strahteegos Vahrohnos Ahrtos of Theeispolis reported his troops ready, the High Lord, wearing no more armor than did Bili and Captain Raikuh, emerged from his pavilion and mounted his chestnut, banging a hooked and spiked war hammer on his pommel. At his mindspeak, his mount began a slow trot toward the waiting infantry ranks.
As there had been no desire to keep secret their objectives, engines had been pounding the fortifications crowning and ringing the two hillocks since there had been enough light to sight them. They were still at it. Bili could see the dust spurts, hear the distance-muffled thuds of the boulders against masonry, timbers and earthworks, while the smoke of the blazes caused by the pitchballs and firespears rose high into the windless morning sky. The smoke columns reminded him of the similar columns which had borne to Wind the smoke of his brother Djef, and those others of his and Hwahltuh’s folk killed by the rebels when they had sortied out against those besieging Morguhn Hall.
To his experienced eye, it did not appear that the engines had done much real damage to the salients. A few stones had been loosened or knocked askew here and there; the timber facings of some of the earthworks were smashed and splintered in places. But the bulk of the thick, wide, cunningly laid abattises-designed to hold attacking men in one place long enough for arrows and darts to thin their ranks-seemed virtually untouched.
The High Lord’s mindspeak answered the question. “Oh, yes, Bili, my engineers know their work. But much of that is green wood, still in the bark and hard to fire. Too, the bastards apparently have plenty of water and they’ve quenched nearly every fire we’ve managed to start. I can but hope you’re as good at axing wood as you are at axing men.”
Accompanied by Bili, Strahteegos Ahrtos, Captain Raikuh and the commander of his own guard, Mehgah Aib Fahrlee, the High Lord slowly inspected the formations of infantrymen—twelve thousand, in all, drawn up in battalion front The assault companies were foremost, bearing axes and hooked poles for hewing and pulling apart the outer entanglements. They were shieldless but armed with two-foot, hand-span-width cut-and-thrust swords and half-armored in plate.
Behind were the infantry archers, their compound bows larger and more powerful than the cavalry weapon, whose mission would be to try to keep the defenders too busy ducking arrows to loose any of their own at the laboring assault companies until enough of the abattises were cleared for the actual attack to commence.
Then came rank on rank of heavy infantry, the backbone of the Army of the Confederation, spearbutts and iron-shod shields grounded. Their helms were fitted with napeguards, cheekpieces and nasals, the high collars of their knee-length scaleshirts guarded most of the throat, and the plate greaves strapped to their lower legs included a kneecop which was spiked to facilitate climbing. The long pikes which Bili had seen them bearing on the march had been replaced by broad-bladed six-foot spears, handier for the kind of fighting anticipated.
Bili studied the faces under those field—browned helms, and all—old or young, Ehleen—dark or Kindred-fair—were weather-tanned and seamed with scars. Here and there a copper cat crouched atop a helm, denoting the valor and battle prowess of its bearer. A very few helms boasted silver cats, but Bili saw only two gold cats throughout the progress. One adorned a slender, hard-eyed young lohkahgos, standing stiff and motionless as a stone statue before his assault company; the other crested the helm of a grizzled, short-legged, thick-bodied soldier, whose equipage sported no other marks of rank or achievement.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The High Lord reined up before the man and leaned over the chestnut’s withers to peer into the green eyes under the white-flecked brick-red brows. “If it isn’t Djim Bohluh. I thought you’d been pensioned off long ago. What’s wrong, has that scaleshirt taken root in your scaly hide?”
Letting his shield rest against his leg, the old soldier clasped both big, scarred hands about his spearshaft and raised one foot from the ground. Ignoring the venomous glare of a squad leader who looked young enough to be his grandson, he showed worn, yellow teeth in a broad grin. “Speak true, Lord Milo, can you see these here hands a-pushin’ a plow or a-milkin’ a cow?”
Milo chuckled. “You’ve a point there, right enough, Djim, but think on the rest of it, man. Your own piece of land, a snug cabin and a young wife to tend you and get you sons to fill the ranks?”
“No need to leave the army to do that last,” the soldier cackled. “I been a-doin’ that fer … well, fer more years ‘n I cares to think on. In fact. Lord Milo, chances are least a comp’ny’s worth of these here boys is my get, did they but know it! Fac’, young Lohkeeas Froheeros, there”—he pointed his chin at the almost apoplectic squad leader—“do put me much in min’ of a lil’ gal I useta pleasure, down Sahvahnahs way.”
Bili saw almost all the surrounding faces jerk or twitch to a muffled chorus of groans and gasps which told of strangled laughter, while the young sergeant’s lividity deepened until it looked as if he were being garroted. Not even the stern-faced strahteegos could repress a grin.
“You insubordinate old reprobate.” The High Lord crossed his hands on his pommel. “How old are you, anyway?”
Bohluh shifted uncomfortably. “Oh … ahh, I be unsure, Lord Milo, bein’ such a ignorant man an’ all. I thinks I be about forty-four … give ’r take a year.”
“Give a dozen or more, you white-haired scoundrel!” Milo snorted derisively. “Djim, you were a man, grown, when I awarded you that cat, after the Battle of Wildrose River. And that was more than thirty years ago! Strahteegos Ahrtos”—he half turned to the senior infantry commander—“why hasn’t this man been retired?”
The officer squirmed in his saddle. “Well, ahhh … well, my lord, it—”
“Lord Milo,” interrupted Bohluh, “don’t go blaming young Ahrtos, there, ‘cause it ain’t his fault. He be a damned good of cer, all us has been. But all my records they got burnt up in that big fire at Goohm, fourteen year agone. An’ when we set out tryin’ to do ‘em over, it might be some names ‘n’ dates got done wrong, is all.”