“Yes, yes, my lord.” Geros nodded quickly, glad that someone understood what he was finding so hard to phrase. “That’s it I hide it, hide my fears. And a good officer or trooper … I mean, you want a truly fearless man, not a pretender such as me.”
And it was what he had dreaded all along, that presentiment which had for so long kept him quiet on this matter had come horribly to pass. The young thoheeks and this gruff, kindly officer he had come to respect, whose friendship he had treasured, both were laughing. Laughing at him. At Geros-the-coward!
Bill’s unusual mind, far more sensitive than most, was first to comprehend what their laughter was doing to the sergeant. He sobered immediately, saying, “Sergeant Geros, Sword Brother, had you been reared to arms, as were Captain Raikuh and I, you would know that fear is as much a part of a warrior’s life as are fleas and wet blankets. Captain, have you ever known a Freefighter who had no fear?”
Pawl shrugged. “One or two, my lord, but such never live through the next battle. You see, Geros, fear is what keeps a fighter alive, what gives a dog-tired man the agility to dodge that last spear, raise the sword for one more cut. I dislike being around men who’re truly without fear, for death hovers ever near to them.”
“You see, sergeant,” Bili continued gently, “all warriors know fear … and hide it Those who hide it most successfully, most consistently, are called ‘brave.’ Which be but a word saying that Sacred Sun has gifted a man with acting ability better than most.”
“But … but, my lord …” Geros’ guilt still felt painfully undischarged. “I …” He dropped his voice to a whisper and shame suffused his face. “I sometimes am so fearful that… that I… that I wet myself!”
Roaring with laughter, Raikuh once more squeezed Geros’ shoulders. “You only piss yourself, comrade? But my steel! I once had a captain who seldom failed to ride in from a battle but he was stinking like a farmer’s privy on a summer day. Sword help the man who was downwind of Dunghill Daituhn after any kind of a fight.”
Softly, Bili asked, “Captain, you really rode with him they called the Blood Mark? Then you must be older than I’d thought.”
Raikuh chuckled. “My house carry our ages well, my lord. Ill be fifty next year. But, yes, I rode with Markee Daituhn, in my wild youth. Of course, that was ere he was ennobled. He was just a famous captain, then, but the youngest son of a younger son, like me, felt damned lucky to win a place in the ranks of his company just the same.”
“Now, you see, sergeant,” nodded Bili, “there be an excellent example of the glory to which even a common-bora Freefighter can aspire. Daituhn was born the son of a smith. But ere he died, he’d hacked his way to power and prestige, with a title to leave his son and gold to dower his daughters. You heard what the captain said of him, yet you certainly couldn’t call such a man coward. For that matter, I’ve wet my own breeches more than once, and I’d lay you thrahkmehs to turds that the captain has too. So were I in your place, I’d accept his offer. A man with the kind of guts it took to admit, as you just did, to what you obviously felt were grievous faults—”
But there was no time to say more, for the High Lord’s mindspeak was clear and strong. “Bili, move your Freefighters down to Strahteegos Ahrtos’ position. Ill be leading the attack on the left salient. Ahrtos will be in command of the assault on the right, but I want you with him because you own a quality he lacks—imagination. Take care of yourself, son. If anything happens to you, Aldora will no doubt make my life miserable for the next hundred years.”
XV
In after years, Bili was to recall that attack as absolutely hellish, with almost all that could going wrong. Only narrow gaps had been cleared through the interlaced abattis, and the Confederation infantry took heavy losses while threading slowly through the gaps. Slingstones and arrows and darts hailed thickly from the summit of the hillock, despite the shafts rained on the defenders by Confederation archers. Then, once the survivors were through the deadly hedge and were forming for the charge against the bristling breastworks, no less than three catapult stones—from Confederation engines, too!—fell short and bounced a sanguinous path through their ranks. The hundredweight missiles sent scales flying and mashed leather and flesh and bone into one indistinguishable jelly. Then, less than halfway through the charge, Strahteegos Ahrtos, his beaver down so that he could better shout orders, had his jaw smashed by a slingstone and fell clashing at Bili’s feet.
The sub-strahteegos who immediately took the lead got but a few yards farther when a pitchball took him full on the breastplate, and Bili’s last view of the unfortunate officer was of a writhing, shrieking, flame-shrouded figure rolling on the ground. The keeleeohstos who took over made it almost to the outer works—a chest-high earth-and-timber rampart—when a thick-shafted, four-foot engine dart spitted him through the belly, going through his high-grade plate as cleanly as a warm knife through soft cheese.
Then Bili had no time to see the succession of commanders. He leaped aside barely in time to avoid a trayful of red-hot sand, though a hideous scream from behind attested that the sand had landed on someone, but he surged forward and the powerful sweep of his heavy axe cleanly severed the tray holder’s leg. And, somehow, Bili found himself atop the earthwork, wreaking bloody carnage on the swift succession of opponents who appeared for eyeblinks before him, dimly recording the shock of blows on his own plate and helm. Oblivious to the familiar cacophony of battle, he concentrated only on living—and on killing.
Then only the backs of rebels running up toward the stone-walled summit of the salient met his eyes, and someone—was that Raikuh’s voice?—was shouting, “… Bili, Duke Bili, if we tail those bastards now, well take fewer casualties. The frigging archers won’t be able to range us without ranging their own as well.”
Bili tried to speak but had to work his tongue about in the desert of his mouth ere he could wet his throat enough to get the words out. “Whoever the new commander is, he’ll take time to dress his troops, however many of them are left. You’ve seen how these Regulars operate, man.”
Raikuh shook his armored head briskly. “There’re damn-all officers left, Duke Bili! The highest-ranking one I can see now is a lieutenant, and he’s missing a hand.”
“Then who led them up here?” demanded Bili. “Somebody must have led them onto this rampart.”
“If anyone did, it was you, Duke Bili!” snapped Raikuh bluntly. “They followed you once, they’ll do it again. If we wait around for them to forward another officer, damn few will make it up to those walls!”
Bili whirled to face the infantrymen and lifted his gory axe on high, roaring, “After them! After the bastards!”
For a moment, the Confederation Regulars wavered, partially reassured by the tone of command but on edge at the lack of formation.
“Sacred Sun fry your shitty arses!” bellowed a voice from their rear, its flavor unquestionably that of a parade ground and detail. “What are you pigfuckers waitin’ for? You heard the friggin’ order! Or has them there money fighters got more guts ‘n you? Move, damn you, move!”
And it was just as Raikuh had said. The defenders of the Walls had the bitter choice of loosing at the retreating remnants of the rampart force or having the bulk of their attackers run the slope unscathed. So they tried what they took to be a middle path, loosing at a high angle and hoping their shafts fell on the proper heads. Most of the rebel archers lived just long enough to rue the error.
Not that there were not close moments before the eventual victory. And one such brought the prescient Pawl Raikuh’s predictions a few steps closer to fruition.