Bralos had ridden back to the camp below Mehseepolis thinking that matters had worked out very well for his aspirations to date. All now needed was his investiture, the payment of the rest of the gold to his new civil overlord, then purchase of a squadron captaincy, which last he would have scant difficulty selling to another nobleman should he ever find himself in need of the money or should he decide to retire to his lands and start the breeding of sons to inherit them and his new title.
However, thanks primarily to the press of military duties, that investiture was long in coming. By the time that he was invested, Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos the Warlike had taken over the army and begun to tailor it to his personal tastes, readying it for the march west to Kahlkopolis. He and his troop fought well at Kahlkopolis, capturing an enemy banner and receiving the personal notice and public thanks for Captain Portos himself.
But then, during the return march, Bralos, part of his troop, a young ensign of foot and some pikemen were seconded to serve as garrison for the city of Ippohspolis, loaned by the Grand Strahteegos until the new city lord could hire on troops of his own. As said new lord, knowing a good thing when he saw it, dragged his feet incessantly, Bralos and the rest vegetated for almost a year before someone back at Mehseepolis finally remembered and recalled them.
No sooner, however, were the sometime Ippohspolis garrison back in the camp below Mehseepolis than Bralos and his troopers needs must ride out with their squadron on a foray against a far-southern opokomees whose armed band had taken to raiding his neighbors round about and who had forwarded the pickled head of the herald Council had sent down to try to reason with him. Ambushed before they had even reached the border of the opokomeeseeah, the squadron had sustained heavy losses and, with Bralos and his troop covering it, had executed a retrograde movement … tails between legs.
Before he had suicided of pure shame, the captain of the squadron had effusively praised the bravery and sagacity of Lieutenant Bralos to the Grand Strahteegos, Tomos Gonsalos and Council. The humiliated officer had strongly recommended Bralos for squadron command, but by the time the squadron and the remainder of the expeditionary force had returned once more to Mehseepolis with the head of the rebel opokomees and a long file of chain-laden bandits to be gelded and put into slavery on the roads, it was to find that the Grand Strahteegos had sold command of the squadron to “a more mature man,” an officer of the onetime royal army almost as old as Pahvlos himself.
Naturally, Bralos could not request leave to journey down and be invested until the new captain had gotten to know the officers and troopers of the squadron, and by the time things had shaken down and the vacancies in the ranks had been filled, they and half the squadron of the Horseclansmen were sent off into the northwestern foothills after a reorganized band of bandit marauders which had taken to harrying certain of the border thoheekseeahnee and even raiding across the border, taking the chance of agitating the now-peaceful barbarians.
Early on in the campaign, the new captain had made complaint at the evening meal of dull pains in both arms and, sulphurously cursing the cold, damp air, had retired to his tent and bed rather early; just before dawn his servant had found him cold and dead in his bed. This had left Captain Chief Pawl of Vawn as senior officer of the expeditionary force.
The Horseclans chief had ridden up to where a gaggle of light cavalry officers stood grouped near to the dead captain’s tent while servants prepared the body for the pyre.
From his saddle, he had demanded, “Who’s the senior lieutenant of the squadron, gentlemen?”
Acting Squadron Captain Bralos and Captain Chief Pawl had found that they worked well together, a something that could not have been said for the Horseclansman chief’s short, stormy relationship with the now-deceased man who had originally been appointed senior officer of the combined force by Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos.
There followed a succession of short, vicious, bloody skirmishes with portions of the bandit band, none of the small fights accomplishing anything worthwhile, due to the fact that the bandits, when stung, retreated across the border which the Council troops had been expressly forbidden to do, for whatever reason.
At last, of a wet, blustery night, while Bralos sat in the tent he had inherited along with squadron command, poring over sketch-maps of the hills while an eeahtros changed the bandage protecting a fairly fresh sword-cut on the young officer’s bridle-arm, the guards had admitted the cloaked Chief Pawl.
After shedding the sodden, dripping cloak and hanging it in such fashion that water from it would not pond on the tent’s flooring, the slender, wiry man sat down and poured himself a measure of watered wine from the jar, swallowed appreciatively, then asked, “How’s the arm, Bralos? Healing well?”
“It hurts less and itches more, so I suppose it’s healing,” was Bralos’ reply, “but for an expert’s comments, you’ll have to ask Master Geros, here. Well, Geros, old friend?”
The eeahtros smiled fleetingly. “My lord Captain, it is progressing as well as can be expected, since the lord lieutenant insists upon using it as if it were sound, day after day.”
Sipping at the cup of wine, the Horseclansman then sat and chatted of inconsequential topics until the eeahtros had completed his tasks and departed into the rainy night. Then Vawn drew his stool closer to Bralos and spoke in hushed tones.
“Look you, Bralos, we could carry on like this until next year this time and not do anything of value up here. The few hunters that the thoheeksee have loaned us may know wild game, but they know damn-all about military operations. Winter is approaching fast and I do not want to be up here to meet it, nor do I look forward to going back to Mehseepolis with nothing but casualties and used-up supplies to show for our efforts.
“When you go after rats, you first put a brace of terriers at the bolthole before you let the ferret down the burrow. The border, up there, is these rats’ bolthole, and we’ll never scotch more than two or three at any one time until we get that bolthole covered properly, don’t you see.”
Bralos shook his head. “But what can we do, Captain? We were warned in no uncertain terms not to cross over into the barbarian lands. If only we could be certain of a time when and a place where barbarian warriors would be along their side of the border … but I can see no way for us to do that.”
The Horseclansman’s thin lips parted as he grinned. “Oh, but there is a way to do just so, Bralos. With the dawn, I’m going to be riding up there with two of my men and a local type who says he not only knows how to reach the village of the chief, but knows that worthy of old. I’m going to be leaving you in overall command, but I want you to do nothing save patrol the perimeter and not fight unless attached. The men and the horses can all use a few days of rest … and so too can you and your arm.”
“Captain, I beg you not to go,” pled Bralos. “If you do, it will be in direct contradiction to the personal orders of the Grand Strahteegos.”
Grinning even more widely, Vawn drew out an oilskin documents pouch, unwound it and fumbled through papers until he found the one he wanted, then proffered it to the younger officer, saying, “If you read it, Bralos, it states that under no circumstances is any officer of the force to lead his command across the border, even if in hot pursuit of bandits.