That was the reason he had ridden the dusty miles to the main camp, to ask the lord, for whom he had sacrificed so much for so many years, that what was left of his command be temporarily shifted from their hazardous position, be replaced by another squadron long enough to resupply and restore the morale of the men. And he had been spurned like a homeless cur, been kept waiting for hours—a dusty pariah among the well-fed, well-groomed officers, whose burnished armor bore not one nick or scratch.
Anger had finally taken over and he had forced his way into first the anteroom, then the audience chamber, swatting aside gaudy officers and adjutants and aides-decamp as if they had been annoying insects. The pikemen of the King’s bodyguard knew Captain Portos of old and did not try to bar his entrance.
Portos shuddered strongly and his lips thinned to a grim line when once more he thought on the things that had been said to him … and of him, a veteran officer, of proven loyalty and courage … in that chamber. The only thing of which he could now be certain was that the King Zastros who had not only heaped insult and unwarranted abuse upon him, but allowed—nay, encouraged—others to do the same, was not the Zastros for whom he, Portos, had led more than twenty-four hundred brave men to their deaths and willingly forfeited his last meager possessions! Perhaps that wife he had taken unto himself during the years he dwelt in the Witch Kingdom had ensorcelled him.
But, ensorcelled or not, Portos resolved, ere he reached his own camp, that never again would his men suffer or his sacred honor be questioned by Zastros.
10
The cyclopean masonry of the Luhmbuh River bridge had weathered hundreds of years of floods and at least one titanic earthquake, so Milo had not been surprised when both his artificers and King Zenos’ despaired of doing it any damage not easily repairable. On the fords, however, he was luckier. The more treacherous of the two, thirty miles upstream, was found to be natural; but the better one, only twelve miles west of the bridge, was manmade of large blocks of granite. Milo had both ends dismantled, rafting the stones downstream to help fortify the northern end of the bridge.
With the arrival of Strahteegos Gabos and the main Confederation army, things began to hum. The fledgling castra was completed in a day, then much enlarged and elaborated upon, though compartmentalized for easy defense by a small force.
It had been his idea to send the Maklaud and his horseclansmen to help King Zenos’ mountain irregulars and reports indicated that they made a good combination.
By the end of the four weeks, Milo was heartened. Not only had Zastros’ speed been reduced to a slow crawl that promised precious time, but the first condottas from the Middle Kingdoms were arriving—horsemen all, armored in half suits of plate, armed with lance, sword, shield, and dirk; every fourth trooper being an expert horse-archer and bearing a powerful hornbow. The condottas averaged small—five hundred being an exceptionally large unit—but these Freefighters were the best soldiers of this era. They were versatile, highly mobile, and courageous, if well-fed.
The middle of the sixth week brought the gallant old Duke of Kuhmbuhlun, at the head of his own army of six thousand, plus the promised sixty-five hundred from Pitzburk. There was word, as well, from the King of Harzburk. Not to be outdone by his arch-rival of Pitzburk, he was sending his hundred noble cavalry and seven thousand Freefighters … as soon as he could find and hire them.
By chance, Milo and some of his staff happened to be standing near the west gate of the castra when another column of light cavalry trotted in … with Tomos Gonsalos, who was supposed to be helping lead the harassment in the southern mountains, riding knee to knee with an unknown Ehleen officer at their head. Milo mindspoke Tomos, who spoke a word or two to his companion, then turned his dusty mount toward the High-Lord.
“What have we here, Tomos?” Milo spoke aloud, since not all his party were talented with mindspeak. “If that condotta are irregulars, they’re the best armed and disciplined irregulars I’ve ever seen; if they’re Freefighters, they’re a draggle-tailed lot. And I thought you rode south with the Maklaud.”
Tomos grinned engagingly. “I’m not really needed there, Lord Milo. Your Lordship was right, the Horseclansmen and King Zenos’ mountain warriors are of the same coinage; they blend as easily as hot cheese and butter.” But, even while speaking lightly aloud, he imparted more serious information by mindspeak. “There are nearly a thousand veteran light cavalry here, the personal squadron of Captain Portos over there. They are topnotch troops, and I know, my lord, for we’ve been skirmishing with them for over a month.”
“Deserters?” Milo looked his astonishment. “These were Zastros’ troops?”
“Among his best, my lord, Komees Portos has captained cavalry in Zastros’ behalf for six years, since first he raised his banner. He has lost or sold everything he owned in Zastros’ cause.”
Milo shook his head. “At best, turncoats are unreliable, and a thousand possibly hostile horsemen in my camp is more than I care to risk. We’d best have them disarmed. We can put the troopers to work. I’ll send the officers, under guard, up to Kehnooryos Atheenahs with the next …”
“Your pardon, my lord,” interrupted Tomos. “But I have reason to believe Captain Komees Portos’ story and …”
“And,” snapped Milo, “you are a very young man, but men far older have been deluded.”
“And,” Tomos continued, “I was instructed by the Maklaud to inform Your Lordship that the captain had been subjected to the Test of the Cat and found completely truthful. He also said that Your Lordship should hear the tale and put your own questions to the captain.”
“And so,” concluded Portos, “when I reached my camp, I told my officers what had happened at the High King’s camp and what I intended doing. I did not need to tell them what would happen if the squadron remained under the High King’s orders. Then I mounted a fresh horse and rode into the mountains with a white pennon on my lanceshaft. It required nearly two days for me to make contact. When at last I did, I asked to meet with their chiefs.
“Chief Maklaud seemed to believe me from the start, but Chief Hohlt and Tomos, here, were quite skeptical. Tomos suggested putting me to the torture, that I might reveal my nefarious schemes; Chief Hohlt was in favor of simply slitting my throat”
“So the Maklaud explained the Test of the Cat, then had you submit to it,” added Milo, smiling, smiling because he knew, as had the Maklaud, that such a test was completely unnecessary with a man like the captain, who, lacking mindspeak, also lacked a mindshield. Milo’s already-high estimation of the Maklaud went up; he had employed his prairie cat and a bit of showmanship to keep secret his ability to read some minds.
“All right, Captain Portos, if you wish to sign on your condotta, I pay good wages. But there will be no foraging; let that be understood now. My supply trains arrive twice a week, it’s plain fare, but you’ll not be shorted by my quartermasters. Under normal conditions, I pay Free-fighter captains half the agreed wages when I hire them, but I saw your squadron when they rode in. So, would you rather have your advance in equipment, Captain?” Since most Ehleenoee were far less prone to evidencing emotion than were Horseclansmen, Milo was genuinely surprised to see tears come into the big captain’s eyes. But when he answered, his voice was firm. “My lord is more than generous. It has … pained me for weeks to see my men suffer for lack of those things that a captain should be able to provide, but the initial expense of bringing my squadron back up to strength took every bit of the gold my lands brought, so I had nothing to bribe the quartermasters. Then, when your horse-archers raided my camp that night and fired our supply wagons …” Milo tentatively probed Portos’ mind, but he hurriedly withdrew with a lump in his throat; in that moment, the High-Lord felt real hate for Zastros, that his hauteur and neglect toward one who had served him faithfully and long had reduced that proud and honorable man to what he—Portos—considered the acceptance of charity. For the first time, Milo really noticed the southern nobleman’s appearance—the old and battered helmet with half the crest long since hacked away, the patched and repatched clothing and boots, the cheap scale-mail hauberk, where most officers and nobles wore plate. And he came to a decision that he was never to regret.