Gathering her into his arms, he cradled her shuddering body against his own, crooning soothing words he could never recall, until at last grief became exhaustion, and exhaustion became sleep.
11
From the day of the mass defection of Captain Portos’ squadron, the Karaleenos guerrillas and Horseclansmen were careful to leave unmolested the troops whose flank he had been guarding, though they kept these troops under constant surveillance, sometimes dressing the darker-haired men in lancer uniforms and having them ride captured horses. They kept to this routine until the return of Tomos Gonsalos. Then he, Hohlt, and Vawn made their plans and marshaled their men.
Viewed from the night-cloaked mountains, Zastros’ vast army was invisible. All that could be seen were myriad pinpricks of light, cooking fires, and watchfires. The observers knew that men sat and hunkered about those fires, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, grousing, gambling. But seen from the high hills, the plain might well have been but another section of night sky, filled with dim and flaring stars.
As the columns wound down through the hidden passes and secret ways, then converged under the loaf-shaped hill that had been designated their rendezvous point, the twinkling panorama disappeared.
Staff-Lieutenant Foros Hedaos walked his horse behind the two trotting, torch-bearing infantrymen, sitting stiffly erect as an officer should in the performance of his duties, for Foros was a man who took his duties and himself very seriously. That was why he was riding the midnight rounds rather than leaving so irksome a detail to the guard-sergeant, as any of his peers would have done.
Behind him trotted the relief guard; Sergeant Crusos was at their head. Beneath his breath, the sergeant w’as cursing. Why did he have to draw this damned Foros as guard-officer? Even his fellow-officers thought him an ass, him and his “An officer should …” and “An officer shouldn’t…” If the pock-faced bastard had stayed back in camp like any normal officer would have, Sergeant Crusos would be on horseback, not hoofing it along like a common pikeman!
Then they were at post number thirteen, and the officer reined aside, that Crusos might bring his men up. “Detail,” hissed Crusos, “hold Ground, pikes!”
“I really think, Sergeant,” snapped Foros peevishly, “that you could make your commands a little more audible.”
“Sir,” began Crusos, “we’re on enemy land and …”
Foros’ face—deeply scarred by smallpox, beardless and ugly at the best of times—became hard and his voice took on a threatening edge. “Do not presume to argue with me, Sergeant! Just do as I command.”
Then there came a loud splashing from within the deep-cut creekbed a bare hundred yards to their right, and the moon slipped from her cloudcover long enough to reveal a body of horsemen coming over the lip of the bank.
Sergeant Crusos’ action then was instinctive. Full-throatedly, he roared, “Right, face! Unsling, shields! Front rank, kneel! Post, pikes!”
“Sergeant!” screamed Foros, angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Crusos spun about and saluted with his drawn sword. “Sir, the detail is formed to repel cavalry attack.”
“Oh, really, Sergeant.” Foros smiled scornfully. “You’re behaving like a frightened old woman. Bring the men back to marching order this minute. I saw those riders, and they had lances. That means they’re Captain Portos’ men.”
It was in Crusos’ mind to say that, in his time, he’d seen more unfriendly lancers than friendly; but he bit his tongue, remembering that the last noncom who had publicly disputed one of this officer’s more questionable orders had been flogged and reduced to the ranks … that was one of the benefits of having married a daughter of the regimental commander, Martios.
When Tomos Gonsalos, trotting at the van of his platoon of “lancers,” heard the familiar commands and saw the knife-edged pikeheads come slanting down, his hand unconsciously sought his saber hilt and he breathed a silent prayer—the success of the entirety of this raid lay in not having to fight until the bulk of the raiders were at or near the camp. Then the menacing points rose on command, shields were reslung, and pikeshafts sloped over shoulders.
At the perimeter, Tomos raised a hand to halt his platoon, then walked his mount over to where the infantry officer sat stiff in his saddle.
“A fine evening, is it not?” said Tomos, smiling. “I am Sub-lieutenant Manos Stepastios. Could you tell me, sir, if this is the Vahrohnos Martios’ camp?”
“No,” the officer sneered. “It’s the High King’s seraglio! Don’t you know how to salute a superior?”
Hastily, Manos/Tomos rendered the demanded courtesy, which the infantry officer returned… after a long, insulting pause.
“That’s better. Now, what are you and your aggregation of tramps-in-armor doing this far east?” His voice was cold and the sneer still on his ugly face.
Manos/Tomos remained outwardly courteous to the point of servility, though his instinct was to drive his dirk into the prominent Adam’s apple under that pockmarked horseface. “Sir, Captain Portos commanded me to ride to your camp to discover if aught had been seen of the supply wagons. If not, I was to speak to your supply officer.”
The pocked officer laughed harshly, humorlessly. “So, Portos is begging, again, is he? It’s a complete mystery to me why any, save barbarians, would serve a ne’er-do-well like Captain Portos … but then,” again, that cold, sneering smile, “you are not exactly a Kath’ahrohs, westerner.”
Manos/Tomos had had enough; furthermore, five hoots of an “owl” had just sounded—all was in readiness. He approached until he was knee to knee with the arrogant officer, then grated, “My Lady Mother was the daughter of a tribal chief and was married to my noble father by the rites of the Church. Are you equally legitimate, you ugly whoreson? If the syphilitic sow who farrowed you knew your father’s name, why have you refrained from identifying your house?”
Sergeant Crusos was very glad that, like his detail, he was still facing out into the dark, so broad was his grin. Someone had finally told off the supercilious swine! He was still grinning when the arrow buried itself in his chest. __
The pikemen and torch bearers never had a chance and their few gasps of surprise or agony could not have been heard in the camp a hundred yards distant. As for Staff-Lieutenant Foros, he was still red-faced and spluttering, too outraged even to speak, when Tomos’ hard-swung saber took off his ugly head.
Two thousand horsemen swept into the sleeping camp. Sabers slashed tent ropes and arrows pin-cushioned the heaving canvases before torches were tossed onto them. The guards at the commander’s pavilion died messily, under lance and dripping sword blade. The Vahrohnos Martios, too besotted to even draw steel, was split from shoulder to breastbone by Chief Hohlt’s broadsword. Knots of two or three grim riders fanned out after the initial charge, ruthlessly shooting or lancing or slashing at any figure afoot, while select details put the torch to wagons or looted useful supplies and hastily packed them on captured horses and mules.
When he had seen the pack train well on its way, Tomos tapped his bugler’s shoulder and the recall was sounded, while the Vawn mindcalled his Horseclansmen. The bugler had to repeat his notes three times, ere the raiders ceased of riding down screaming, weaponless foe-men and reassembled. By that time, long columns of torches could be seen approaching from both south and east.
As the last of the exhausted, blood-soaked, but exultant horsemen headed back toward the mountains, Tomos, Hohlt, and the Vawn surveyed the fiery, gory “acres that had been camp to four thousand pikemen.
“We’d better get back and prepare the main passes,” remarked Tomos conversationally. “Picking off scouts or stragglers is one thing, but for the morale of the rest of his army, Zastros is going to have to send retaliatory columns after us.”