For a vertiginous instant he relived the entire mean, small life of Grems Migneco, who had known little joy till Ahlert's conquests had allowed his brutal nature full play. It ended on a high, piquant note of terror.
Daubendiek hummed softly, pleased, but was not satisfied. Having tasted blood at last, it lusted for more. Much more. Rivers. Oceans.
And Gathrid could not deny it. Mastering the blade eluded him. Tired, weak in spirit, eager to escape the thing that pursued him, he welcomed its control and exultation.
The soldier's gurgling death brought, three more victims from the tent.
Ventimiglians slept lightly, Gathrid reflected. Maybe there had been other night attacks.
Gudermuth would not have submitted passively.
Their quick response did them no good. Swift as an adder's strike, death darker than the darkness, Dauben-diek penetrated their guards and flesh, slashing and slicing as if against no resistance at all. The Ventimiglians accomplished only one thing: they wakened their company. Sleepy men rushed toward Gathrid and death.
He was involved no longer. He had become an adjunct of the Sword, a sickened observer watching the ultimate power manipulate his hands.
The first rush gave him no trouble. The Ventimiglians were expecting other raiders. Then they realized he was alone, decided he was a madman making a suicide attack.
Alone? Gathrid thought. What happened to Theis? He was right behind me a minute ago.
Daubendiek screamed joyously. The Ventimiglians grew pale, but persisted. In brief flickers Gathrid and his weapon drank wretched, unhappy lives, yet lives in which, inevitably, there was something joyful, some treasured memory that made each soul unique among so many others of similarly mean origins. The Sword now needed but to wound lightly to slay. Bodies piled round Gathrid.
From his perch behind the eyes of a body that had become a murder machine, Gathrid tasted the sour flavor of their pasts and pitied them. They came of a class where hopelessness and pain reigned supreme. They had made the Mindak's dream their own. It promised escape from the endlessly repetitive, dreary march of their days.
Understanding one's enemy, Gathrid had been told, was the first step to conquering him. Or bringing him to the peace table.
They were all around him now. Guarding his own back was hopeless. And it would not be long till someone thought of using a bow.
A scream ripped from among the Ventimiglian mounts. A dozen horses stampeded. As many cursing soldiers pursued them. Gathrid remained facing three wary foes. They would not venture within Daubendiek's reach.
Where was Rogala?
The animals that had not spooked began rearing and screaming. Rogala burst from the herd astride one, reins in his mouth. He clutched a weapon in one hand, led a second mount with the other. He ploughed into Gathrid's opponents.
The youth attacked while they dodged the dwarf. Only one man escaped.
Rogala told him to mount up.
"No saddle."
"I'm sorry, Your Lordship. I had Hell's own time just getting the bridles on."
That was as near a reference to his own height that Gathrid had heard from the man.
"Come on, boy. They won't wait all night."
Gathrid jumped, got his belly over the horse's back. Several Ventimiglians came charging out of the darkness. Some had recovered mounts. Rogala whooped and took off. Gathrid clung for his life, almost losing the Sword.
The Ventimiglians cursed and howled. A javelin plunged past Gathrid's nose. It electrified him. He dragged himself astride the animal.
Wars and adventures, seen from the inside, were no fun at all.
Chapter Five
Round Katich The region round Gudermuth's capital had been torched and scourged. Even the birds, animals and insects were dead or flown. Rubble and ashes were the lone monuments to ages of handiwork by Nature and Man.
Katich's old gray walls and towers, smoke-stained, rose in unbroken defiance amidst the encircling Venti-miglian host. Royal banners trailed proudly in the smoky wind. And that explained the desolation. The Mindak was a bitter enemy.
Rogala was impressed. "No half-measures for your Mindak. There isn't a cockroach alive out there."
"The Brotherhood must have sent help. Otherwise the city would have fallen. I guess they're buying time for the Alliance." He was puzzled, though. With Nieroda and the Toal to back him, Ahlert should have smashed any Brotherhood deputation long since. And where were the allies? Something should have been seen of them by now.
Siegework was in progress. The Ventimiglians were pushing trenches toward the walls. No doubt they were mining, too. The operation showed more patience than was customary with the easterners.
"Don't look like much magic from here," Rogala said.
"Maybe they're all out hunting for us." Shuddering, Gathrid looked around. He saw nothing but wasteland and a few Ventimiglians on the east road, shepherding their army's supply trains.
"This Ahlert isn't much of a general," Rogala observed. "When your army is going to be rooted, you don't waste the countryside around it."
"He probably didn't plan to stay long. He's not used to resistance."
"This was done for spite, boy. Pure spite."
Rogala had been garrulous since they had stolen the horses, though he only talked about geography and politics. He still ignored Gathrid's questions.
Perforce, Gathrid had done a lot of thinking about himself, his future, Daubendiek, Rogala and this war. The Sword could be invaluable to the Alliance.
He did not want to be the man wielding it.
Rogala was adamant in refusing to answer questions about Tureck Aarant and the Brothers' War. He did, grudgingly, admit mat Aarant had been one of several previous Swordbearers. "Suchara chooses," he said. "We mortals can but obey. There are greater plans, higher destinies. Some of us have to sacrifice our homes, happiness, lives and even our souls to them." He looked first sad, then rebellious. Then he shrugged. "When the Powers lay their hands on us, we can but obey and hope."
"You've seen it," Gathrid said of Katich. "Now what?"
"There's a war on. We're on the side of the people inside there. We'll try to help them."
"Two men?" Gathrid had changed that much. He had begun to think he had the makings of a man.
"Two men and Daubendiek. I said Ahlert was a poor general. We'll make him pay for his mistakes."
"Those convoys are guarded."
"By second-line troops. We'll start tonight. You kill. I'll torch."
Gathrid protested. Guerrilla raiding did not seem fit employment for the Great Sword. In the stories Tureck Aarant had borne the blade in the great charges, or had sought out enemy champions and had slain them in single combat. Labruyere, Vuichard, Hanschild, Ingebohs, even Grellner himself had met the Swordbearer and had perished. Now Rogala wanted his new Swordbearer to murder nameless kerns. Partisan warfare was a pursuit for gutless peasants.
His thoughts must have shown. "One thing you learn about war," Rogala told him. "You use the weapon at hand and you kill the enemy where you find him. And you do what you have to to win."
"That sounds like three things."
"Whatever. We can't get into the city, so we do what we can from here. To me that reads make the other side hungry."
Gathrid wanted no more fighting, but had run out of arguments. Flat refusal did not occur to him.
He had been led all his life, by his parents and brothers, teachers and sister. He was accustomed to giving in when persuasion failed. Moreover, he was a Gudermuther of noble class. He was responsible for the defense of his kingdom and people.
They made their first raid by moonlight, hitting a square of four fat wagons defended only by sleepy drivers and a half-dozen unready soldiers. The slaughter was swift and complete and, at Rogala's insistence, included the Ventimiglian animals. Afterward, Gathrid was sick. The emotional debts had begun to overtake him.