Milo sighed. “Djim, you must be pushing sixty, half again the average lifespan these days. War is an activity for young men, old friend. I think I should retire you now. Report back to the camp. When I’m done in this field, I’ll have orders drafted to get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs. Or you can retire in Morguhn, if you wish. There’re right many widows there and Thoheeks Bili is going to need some loyal husbands for them.”
Bohluh’s spear fell, clattering. His lined, seamed face working, he stumbled forward, one big hand raised beseechingly, the other on the chestnut’s reins. “Please, Lord Milo, please! Please let me stay. This be my home, Lord Milo, the only home I’ve knowed for over forty-five years. If I didn’t hear the drum of a momin’, I’d … I couldn’t, wouldn’t want to … I mean—” Then his voice broke and he could but sob chokedly. “Please, Lord Milo. Please don’t send me away.”
And something in those swimming green eyes touched a nerve in Bili Morguhn. He urged his horse up beside Mile’s and touched his arm. “My lord, if you please … ?”
The High Lord mindspoke impatiently. “This is none of your affair, Bili. It’s army business, a matter of regulations. We can’t afford the precedent of sixty-odd-year-old soldiers swinging a sword in the ranks.”
“I … I understand your position, my lord. So, I think, does he. He knows this be the end of his long road. But I do not think my lord understands him.”
“And you,” beamed the High Lord sarcastically, “from the eminent wisdom of your less than twenty summers, do?”
“Your pardon, my lord. I had no wish to offend.”
“Your pardon, Bili.” The edge was gone from Milo’s mind-speak. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get over being jumpy before a battle, and I sometimes forget your constantly expanding mental abilities. What do old Djim’s words say to you?”
“He craves a last boon, my lord. A soldier’s death. And this final battle in which to find it.”
“And you know this, Bili?” asked the High Lord. “How?”
The answer came quickly and unhesitatingly. “My lord, I can just sense that we are much alike, Bohluh and I. And, were I in his position, this is what I would have of a man I’d served so long and so well.”
“Bili,” Milo mindspoke slowly, “discipline in my army is much stricter than what passes for such in your Middle Kingdoms hosts. Every ear within hearing heard me order him back to camp, and it would hurt morale if his pleas seemed to bring about a reversal of those orders. Besides, it’s highly probable that his company won’t even fight today. These regiments are drawn up for effect; we’ll not use a third of them, if that many.”
“Djim Bohluh has served you well, my lord?” prodded Bili.
“He’d not have that cat otherwise,” retorted Milo. “He’s been up and down the noncommissioned ladder so many times he’s worn a path in the rungs. But that’s because in garrison he’s a boozing, brawling, insubordinate rakehell. But on campaign, in battle, he’s been worth bis weight in emeralds! Had I as few as one regiment like him, the western border of the Confederation would be somewhere on the Sea of Grass today. Yes, Bili, Djim Bohluh has indeed served me well.”
“Then, my lord,” suggested Bili, “let him find what he seeks with me in my guard. I know damned well that we’ll wet our blades.”
After his long months with the Morguhn Company of Freefighters, Geros had thought himself inured to every degree of foul language, but the massive old soldier that Thoheehs Bili had had seconded to serve as color shield, while friendly was unbelievably obscene. No three words came from his lips but one of them was a depthless crudity, and the Freefighters hung, grinning like opossums, on his every phrase, obviously highly appreciative of the oldster’s seemingly limitless profane vocabulary.
“… So, I tol’ thet lil’ pissant sergeant thet if he din’t git out’n the place ’n’ quit disturbin’ us, I’d jam a fuckin’ winejar up his gloryhole.” Djim Bohluh paused in his “narrative” to take a long, gurgling pull from a proffered canteen of brandy and water. He grinned his thanks, belched, and went on. “If he’d had hisself the brains of a shitbug, he’d of reelized the winterwine an’ hemp an’ all had done got to us and backed off for a while. But the dumb asshole he went for his sword. So we—” He quite suddenly began to cough violently—so violently, in fact, that Geros was certain it was forced coughing; but it accomplished a purpose, for someone quickly pressed another canteen into his thick hand.
“… So, enyhow, we took his friggin’ sword an’ flang the thang out’n the winder. An’ then we had down the Ehleen turdchomper’s breeks an’. ..”
Geros had had enough. Jamming the ferrule of the standard’s pole into the loam of the hillside, he left it and the sniggering, guzzling group of Freefighters to make his way to the crest, where stood Pawl Raikuh and Thoheeks Bili, observing the work of the assault companies and archers.
The thoheeks had fostered for nearly ten years at the court of King Gilbuht of Harzburk, and Captain Raikuh was a Harzburker born, so their conversation was in the rapid, slightly nasal dialect of that principality. But even so there was not enough difference between this dialect and the slower, softer, slurring Confederation Mehrikan to prevent Geros from understanding his commanders.
“They’re doing fine on the right hill, Duke Bili, but whoever’s archer captain on the left hill should have his arse kicked up around his ears. Look you, another of the axemen is down with … looks like a dart in his thigh. Those bow-pulling bastards just aren’t close enough to give effective covering fire!”
But it was obvious that others had noticed the fault, for Geros saw a rider, toylike with the distance, gallop his mount to the rear of the archers. Shortly, the bowmen could be seen to sling their commodious siege quivers and trot forward. When they at last halted and recommenced their flights of shafts, those loosed by the defenders at the men laboring on the abattis slackened perceptibly.
Noticing Geros for the first time, Raikuh grinned and slapped his shoulder affectionately. “Ah, Sword Brother, come up to see what you can learn, eh? I say again, my lord, can I but persuade our new Sword Brother to throw in his lot with my company, he’ll he a famous—and very well-to-do!—officer of Freefighters one day. Now, true, he may not be nobleborn, but—”
“But,” nodded Bili, “Freefighting be a craft where guts, brains and abilities mean far more than mere birth. When a lord goes to hire swords, a captain’s pedigree weighs less than a pinch of turkey dung; it be his reputation determines how much gold is put on the scale. And the beginning of a good reputation be lieutenanting under a well-known captain.”
All Geros could think to say was: “But … but Thoheeks Sword Brother, I am only a sergeant.”
Chuckling gustily, Raikuh’s brawny arm encircled Geros’ armored shoulders. “That be easily righted, brother. Say you’ll come with my company when Duke Bili no longer needs us, and you’ll go up that hill as an ensign—an officer standard-bearer.” He added, with unmistakable liking and respect to his voice, “And I, Pawl Raikuh, will be both pleased and honored to be able to number a fine, gutsy man such as you amongst my officers, Geros.”
Geros felt embarrassed, ashamed and contrite; he felt he could no longer dissemble. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet the eyes of these two noblemen who believed him something he was not and had never really been. He stumbled over the words, at first, but finally got them out
“From the beginning, it … it was all a lie. I have lived, been living, a lie since the … that night of the bridge fight. I really … I’m not brave. I’m terribly frightened to … whenever there’s fighting.”
“Really?” said Bili with dry amusement. “Well, I must say you hide it well.”