“I do not think, Korero the Shield, you are mistaken.”
Odd, when you thought about it, how in a world where men swore all the time by gods and spirits and phantom beings dredged from their various racial pools of unconsciousness, Korero hardly ever let fall a good round oath. That, I surmised, was a part of that aloofness bred in him in Balintol. And when I say he was an adept of the Disciplines, I did not at that time know which particular set had trained and molded him. They were not those of my old comrade — never a blade comrade, of course
— Turko the Shield, who was a Khamorro. Nor were they of the Kem-Brysuang of the land of Jeveroinen. We had a fellow from Jeveroinen in the ranks who was an adept of the fifth degree of Kem-Brysuang, and he was a most peculiar fellow indeed. His name was Bengi-Trenoimian and he had been bested in two falls out of three by Korero who had, by mutual arrangement, not employed his tail hand in the bouts.
Now I stared with concern at that army trending away to the north to pass the tree-crowned ridge. Shields were not a common article found in the armories of Pandahem or Vallia and we still had a deal of trouble to persuade men who regarded a shield as a coward’s article of equipment to use them. One of the earliest regiments formed in Vondium after we re-captured the capital and filled with eager young volunteers had proved that point. Rank after rank, they had thrown down the shields we had just issued. The shields lay on the grass of the drinnik like pathetic flower-heads slashed down wantonly. Well, as you may imagine, there was a hell of a fuss, and a great hullabaloo and in the end we reached a compromise.
That was one of the many times I regretted the enforced absence through sorcery of Balass the Hawk, for that kyr-kaidur could demonstrate sword and shield work to perfection. It seemed that the fighting men of Pandahem had heeded the lessons brought to their discomfiture by the iron legions of Hamal. The sword and shield men — we generally called them churgur infantry -
marching down there looked as though they were not yet completely sure of their weapons. You can usually tell.
The blocks of color moving all together represented massed regiments, five hundred or so men apiece, swinging along in column. We spied on them from the ridge of trees and marked their progress and the little breeze flicked and flecked the leaves about us and the slanting rays of the suns flickered opaz light upon the world. Kregen — ah, me, Kregen…
“Nearer sixty than fifty,” said Korero.
I nodded.
“And a good quarter cavalry.”
As though the name cavalry conjured him from the ground Karidge moved up at my side. He breathed only a little more heavily than usual, being a sprightly fellow with a tufty beard that bristled even when he sang. A consummate artist with a zorca, he was turning into a good cavalry commander. His regiment was always impeccable and meticulously turned out. They wore the red and yellow, for they were an imperial regiment, all three hundred and sixty of the jutmen, organized into six squadrons plus ancillaries. Karidge employed a long curved sword, and his dolman and pelisse were marvels of gold and silver lace and embroidery.
“A damned great gang of them, majister, by the Spurs of Lasal the Vakka.”
“Aye, Jiktar Karidge.”
“We could knock a few feathers out of their tail.”
“Aye. We could.”
Targon the Tapster grunted. “Then let us mount up and ride.”
“Tsleetha-tsleethi,” I said. “Let us watch them for a space.”
The obvious plan was so obvious my men grumbled and fidgeted as we waited in the shade of the trees and watched the army march past below the ridge.
Easy enough to knock a few feathers out of the tail, to ride down whooping and cut up the long straggling baggage lines and provender wagons. That was the way of the raiding cavalry. But I hungered for more. I hungered for the complete destruction of this damned army that had invaded our country. And that must wait until they were within easier striking distance and we could bring greater power down on them. I mentioned this to Karidge and to Jiktar Nalgre Randur, the numim commander of the nikvove regiment. They thought about the situation, and then Randur stroked his ferocious lion-man’s whiskers and gave his opinion that, as usual, the emperor was right; but that it was hard on a man to show him a mangy gaggle of foemen and then forbid him to unsheathe his sword. Jiktar Wando Varon ti GrollenDen, commanding the second zorca regiment, left his command strung out to guard our rear and walked through to join us. He wanted to know why we were not mounting up and riding down and, as he put it, letting some good Vallian air into those Opaz-forsaken Pandaheem down there.
Another fiery-tempered, audacious, sword-swinging cavalryman was Wando Varon, who maintained his regiment smartly enough but harped all the time on spear work from the saddle. Holding these men in check now that they had set eyes on their enemy was like trying to hold an armful of kittens. I sighed.
“Very well. But toward dusk, when the chances favor a swift and determined attack. And, for the sweet sake of Opaz, do not get entangled. Quickly in, quickly out, and avoid taking plunder.” I meant what I said. “They have regiments of zorcas down there. We will have to move like the Flame Winds of Father Tolki when you have had your fun.”
Following my words there was a quantity of pelisse-swinging and feather ruffling and sword slapping, together with a deal of boot banging and moustache stroking. The cavalrymen swelled their chests. Their faces appeared to fill out, grow larger and firmer, and the brightness of their eyes matched the brilliance of their appearance. Yes, your dyed-in-the-wool jutman, your cavalryman who gallops in with a skirl and a whoop, knows how to ruffle it.
The two regiments of zorcas and the single regiment of nikvoves totaled around a thousand riders. There were fifty or so of my choice band with me, together with the Pachaks. These last two sets of ruffians, and I joke most feebly there, I cautioned off to another duty.
So, and for our mounts in a literal sense champing at the bit, we waited out the long descent of the suns. Dorgo the Clis, his scar giving him the look of a desperado who would as lief slit your throat as doff his hat, was sent off to Dogansmot with a few riders to find out what the invading army’s mischief had been there. This would be the first place they had bivouacked in that we had found and I felt the heaviness of heart that the usual rapine and plunder would have taken place. Dorgo rode circumspectly around toward the south before cutting west. The breeze at last died away and the rain gentled down, lustering all the greenery with a veil of silver.
Dogansmot lies not too far from the eastern border of Thadelm where that vadvarate marches with the imperial province of Vond. Vond was solidly with the new emperor in Vondium, and we had ridden through from town to town and village to village in a kind of triumphal procession. We had left in our wake a determined intention of resistance to the invaders. A good blow here by this small cavalry force, the success of my own plan for the night, and then we could return and set our own army in motion. And, all the time I schemed, that irritating little itch persisted. There had to be another plot by our foemen afoot. This army below us was in one sense derisory for the sack of a great capital city. There just had to be other forces in the field.
The army was from Pandahem, that seemed clear and would explain the absence of saddle flyers and vollers. We had seen not a single aerial force, and our own couple of air-boats were at a discreet distance, waiting the signal. There was something afoot, something nasty and something that boded ill for Vondium.
When I told Barty that he might ride with the three regiments in command he said in his eager way: “That is very fine of you, Dray. But I’d rather ride with you. I know you’re up to some kind of deviltry and that sounds much more interesting than beating up a baggage train and firing tents.”