Hahfos was young for a corps commander, barely forty summers, but such had been the attrition of officers—both senior and junior, company, field and strahteegos grades—at the savage siege of Vawnpolis, that the Morguhn Expeditionary Force was become an army composed principally of the young, the nimble and the lucky. Third son of a thoheeks whose lands lay far to the south and west near the shores of the vast inland sea, Hahfos Djohnz’s appearance always pleased the High Lord, personifying as he did the splendid melding of two fine races—Horsclans-man and Ehleen.
Two dozen years of campaigning had weathered his skin to the shade of old walnut and crosshatched all its visible surfaces with the seamed and puckered cicatrices which were the badge of his calling, but the High Lord accepted these scars and the permanent tan, unimpressed. Not yet bent by age, Hahfos stood one meter and three quarters; his close-cropped hair was almost the same shade as his face, with flashes of white at the temples, and though his blue-green eyes could chill an object of his displeasure to the innermost core, most occasions found them filled with merriment and joy of life.
A born leader of men, he had no need to rant and bellow, his orders were never pitched louder than the circumstances necessitated and he spoke either Mehrikan or Ehleeneekos tinged with the soft, slurring speech patterns of his faraway home. Astute as strategist and accomplished as tactician, he could be ferocious in personal combat, as was attested by the two Silver Cats he held; yet, withal, he was a kindly man and took no joy in needless suffering.
In the Fourteenth Regiment, which he had commanded for six years prior to his quite recent promotion, he had been affectionately known as “Old Pussyfoot.” He had cared for his men and their response had been to give him not only an unflagging source of pride but their fierce love, as well. Not a few grizzled fighting men had openly wept when he left them for corps command.
When he had delivered his report to the High Lord, Milo nodded his thanks, then waved at the vacant chair across from his own. “If you’ve not something pressing, Hahfos, sit you down and have some of this abominable wine.”
Hahfos’ ready smile lit his face. “Thank you, mah lord.” Milo waited until the officer was seated and had poured and tasted the wine, then asked, “How heavy is your new mantle, good Hahfos? Do you wish you still were simply sub-strahteegos of the Fourteenth?”
Hahfos absently rubbed a horny forefinger up and down his short, slightly canted nose. “Yes, mah lord, sometimes. But then, when ah had the Fourteenth, ah sometimes wished ah still was simply a keeleeohstos, too. Ah suppose that all men think back on the days when things were comparatively easy, whenevah we’re faced with difficulties we didn’t have then.”
“How true, how true,” Milo sighed. “I sometimes think back to the freedom I enjoyed as a Horseclans chief, centuries ago. But tell me, how are you getting along with the regimental commanders? My staff informs me there’s been a bit of friction since this march commenced.”
“Only one real bone of contention exists, mah lord Ah forbade certain gentlemen, whose ideas of discipline are somewhat at variance to mah own, from administering any moan than five lashes to any soldier within a given week. Ah pointed out that, since a man with twenty or thirty stripes can’t march in ahmah and as we have no ambulances to carry them, they would weaken owah force were they to abide by their accustomed ways. Ah also pointed out that I had only two men flogged in six years, with no noticeable loss of discipline in the Fourteenth.”
Milo grinned. “Good for you, Hahfos. Rubbed their noses in your successes, did you? I’d imagine that that galled them more than your order.”
Hahfos shook his head. “Ah did not say what ah said to offend them, mah lord. But all ah said is true, mah lord! Ah know, ah proved mah views! The whip makes good men bad and bad men worse and it is, in any case, completely unnecessary. Advocates of the whip call it the ‘Foundation of Discipline,’ but it is no such thing, mah lord. If a commander be able and lets his men know that he cares for their welfare, he can easily maintain all the discipline needed with only rare application of the whip. Ah consider the whip to be the final argument of lazy or incompetent officers!”
He had waxed very vehement, now his tone softened. “Ah am sorry if ah offended mah lord, but mah lord did ask… .”
“No, Hahfos,” Milo reassured him. “I was not offended. I could not agree more with most of it. But the cult of the whipping frame is hard to root out It’s a carryover custom from two centuries ago, from the pre-Horseclans Ehleen army, in which common spearmen were all peasants—to all intents and purpose, brutish and brutalized military slaves. I inherited that army intact and thought it best, at the time, to allow the Ehleenee officers to maintain most of their accustomed practices. When in later years I attempted to inaugurate new customs, I discovered the past ones to be so firmly entrenched from top to bottom that I would’ve chanced precipitating a virtual mutiny to force my will.
“But I was steeling myself to take that very chance, Hahfos. Then came the Second Kuhmbuhluhn War and, on its heels, the invasion by King Zenos VIII, and, since, we’ve seldom been at peace for any length of time.”
“Ah understand, mah lord,” said Hahfos sympathetically. “It is truly said that crowns and coronets can fast weigh down the spirit.
“But mah lord, ah … that is, would mah lord object if ah were to …”
Milo smiled once more. “Hahfos, you have free rein, my earnest prayers and all my approval. If you can do what you did with the Fourteenth with this corps, you will succeed old Ehmeekos as lord strahteegos of the armies, you have my solemn word on it.”
V
Glumly, the nahkhahrah watched the last of the Gahrbehdyuhn Tribe depart his village, the ponies at a stiff trot, headed due south. As his assembled host had melted away, even as the accursed Undying Devil and his army had pressed farther and farther into the mountains, the temper of this chief of chiefs had worsened to the point where few men were now reckless enough to stray within easy reach of his fist or his ready raider’s knife, especially when delivering bad news—and there was little news, these days, which was not bad.
The nahkhahrah could cheerfully have strangled each and every man of the departing tribe, but he immediately ruffled when a voice from close behind him said mockingly, “Soon my Maidens will be the only warriors in this dungheap village of yours, my valiant ally. This is the third tribe which has lost its courage and turned tail since the Undying Devil entered the mountains, is it not? Two tribes fled north and this one goes south. Where is the over-vaunted valor if its fierce Ahrmehnee? Or is that valor as much myth as are the tales you use to keep your womenfolk in bondage? Eh?”
Bristling, the nahkhahrah spun about to face his tormentor, knobby hand gripping the hilt of his big, heavy knife, worn, yellow teeth bared in a snarl of rage.
The brahbehrnuh did not twitch a muscle at his obvious threat. Though the two Maidens behind her tensed and fingered their hilts, she stood with her trousered legs spread wide, her arms akimbo. One of her attendants carried the brahbehrnuh’s gold-plated helm, and the tall woman’s glossy, black hair fell untrammeled, framing a strikingly handsome face. The full lips showed the even, white teeth in a mocking sneer, while the woman’s ebon eyes glittered forth contempt.