A Cat of Silvery Hue

XIV

An hour before dawn, Aldora’s maidservant wakened her. She and Bili arose, washed, broke fast on a bit of bread dipped in strong wine then helped each other to arm, and wended their way to the pavilion of the High Lord. There they separated, Aldora riding off to the cavalry camp, Bili remaining with Milo to accompany his sovereign at the head of the assaulting infantry.

No words were spoken or beamed at the lovers’ parting, none were needed, for their straining, striving, pleasure-racked bodies had said all that was needful in the night now dying. As for Milo, he allowed himself a chuckle or two, for Aldora trotted off astride none other than Mahvros, Bill’s own huge black warhorse.

Then he shook his head, thinking that he must watch this affair very closely. He could not recall Aldora so quickly forming so deep an attachment, not for any other of the many scores of lovers she had had in the course of her century and a half of life. The girl could be both willful and stubborn. And such were the mental attributes of Bili that the young thoheeks must breed more of his kind. Then he sighed, wondering for the hundred thousandth time over the near-millennium be had lived why Nature, which had gifted him and those few like him with so much, had denied them that one trait otherwise almost universal in her kingdom—the ability to sire or bear offspring.

But then the copper-hued sun peeked over the eastern hills and, with a crash and roll of drums, a shrilling of fifes, a pealing of trumpets, the gruesome day commenced. And there was no more time for thoughts unconcerned with attaining the objective and killing a maximum number of rebels, while keeping the largest possible number of his own troops alive.

When his younger brothers requested permission to ride with the mounted Freefighters, Bili was happy to grant it; it relieved him of two worries. He had already lost one brother to these rebels, and he had no wish to see two or even one more go to Wind. There was a chance that the mounted Freefighters and Confederation lancers would not fight at all today, and even if they were called upon to smash back any sortie which might be made to relieve or reinforce those salients, Djaik and Gil would be better off heavily armed and in the saddles of their fully trained destriers, fighting a kind of combat with which they were most familiar, than they’d be afoot, in half-armor, clawing through abattises and clambering up shaky ladders.

Bili did not much like the prospect himself but since the High Lord had elected to lead this attack personally, the Morguhn had felt honor-bound to serve at his side.

Aldora had shaved his head early last evening, and the rising sun glinted on the shiny scalp, as he personally checked the fit and fastenings of harness on the two horses which would bear him and the High Lord until the attack commenced. The High Lord’s chestnut nuzzled Bili’s leather-clad thigh and mindspoke.

“Am I to have no armor at all? Or did you forget mine as you forgot most of your own, two-leg?”

Bili slapped the muscular neck affectionately, answering, “It be a hot morn already, the day will be even hotter and very long. You two will be doing no fighting, so why burden you with armor, eh? Your brother, the High Lord, and I will not have your thews to help us bear the weight of plate in the coming battle, so we will wear only helms and cuirasses, plus gorgets, shoulderpieces, brassarts and kneecops, with our swords slung on our backs.”

The chestnut stamped and snorted, rolling his eyes. “Stupid! That, two-leg, be a stupid way to fight. Yes, it be hot, but not so hot as the lands where I was foaled. Put on our armor and don your own. We can fight, as well.”

Bili chuckled to himself. The chestnut could be as stubborn as could his own destrier, Mahvros. “Can you climb twelve-foot stone walls, brother? Will your plates stop sixty-pound boulders or eight-foot spears? Or do you intend to catch them all in your teeth?” “My lord duke?”

Bili turned to face Pawl Raikuh, half-armored, the hilt of his broadsword jutting up behind his left shoulder, his left hand gripping a five-foot spearshaft with a two-foot double-edged pikeblade riveted to it. Behind the captain stood Sergeant Geros, similarly accoutered, holding a ten-foot staff about which was furled the Red Eagle Banner of the House and Clan of Morguhn.

“What are you doing here, Pawl?” demanded Bili, surprise in his voice. “I’d thought you’d send Hoguhn or Krahndahl to lead this contingent. Surely you’re not depending on either of them to lead our cavalry today?”

Raikuh grinned. “No, my lord. My lord’s brother, Lord Djaikuhb, vice-captains his horse for this engagement.”

Bili started, then relaxed, smiling. “Oh, nominally, you mean. I thank you for that courtesy, Pawl.”

“No courtesy that.” Raikuh shook his head, his lobsterback napeguard rattling. “Lord Djaik will lead. And it comes to action, I’m sure he’ll do my lord proud.”

“Oh, come now, Pawl,” snapped Bili. “Our troop is entirely made up of veterans. They’ll not be putting their lives in the balance at the behest of a fourteen-year-old. Men have to respect a war leader.”

Raikuh sobered. “And respect my lord’s brother, they do. Any who chanced not to see Lord Djaik fence our senior weapons master, old Pyk, to a standstill have heard of it And besides, they be flattered to have my lord’s brother to lead them.”

“And what of my other brother, Gilbuht? He be anything but feckless. Will he then follow the dictates of a younger brother?”

Raikuh’s grin returned to his scarred face. “Hardly, my lord. Your brothers had … ahhh, some words on the matter, and Lord Gil has elected to ride with Duke Hwahltuh’s force.”

I’ll just bet they had some words on the matter, thought Bili. Since first the two cadets had been reunited, it had often been all that their older brother and chief could do to keep them from each other’s throats. Both were experienced warriors and natural leaders, that last being a part of the problem. But the biggest bone of contention lay to the north, in the lands where they had had their upbringing and arms training. The Duchy of Zuhnburk, which had sheltered Gil for nearly eight years, was a traditional ally of the Kingdom of Harzburk; and Harzburk’s ancient foe was the Kingdom of Pitzburk, which had for six years had the training of Djaik.

When Strahteegos Vahrohnos Ahrtos of Theeispolis reported his troops ready, the High Lord, wearing no more armor than did Bili and Captain Raikuh, emerged from his pavilion and mounted his chestnut, banging a hooked and spiked war hammer on his pommel. At his mindspeak, his mount began a slow trot toward the waiting infantry ranks.

As there had been no desire to keep secret their objectives, engines had been pounding the fortifications crowning and ringing the two hillocks since there had been enough light to sight them. They were still at it. Bili could see the dust spurts, hear the distance-muffled thuds of the boulders against masonry, timbers and earthworks, while the smoke of the blazes caused by the pitchballs and firespears rose high into the windless morning sky. The smoke columns reminded him of the similar columns which had borne to Wind the smoke of his brother Djef, and those others of his and Hwahltuh’s folk killed by the rebels when they had sortied out against those besieging Morguhn Hall.

To his experienced eye, it did not appear that the engines had done much real damage to the salients. A few stones had been loosened or knocked askew here and there; the timber facings of some of the earthworks were smashed and splintered in places. But the bulk of the thick, wide, cunningly laid abattises-designed to hold attacking men in one place long enough for arrows and darts to thin their ranks-seemed virtually untouched.

The High Lord’s mindspeak answered the question. “Oh, yes, Bili, my engineers know their work. But much of that is green wood, still in the bark and hard to fire. Too, the bastards apparently have plenty of water and they’ve quenched nearly every fire we’ve managed to start. I can but hope you’re as good at axing wood as you are at axing men.”

Accompanied by Bili, Strahteegos Ahrtos, Captain Raikuh and the commander of his own guard, Mehgah Aib Fahrlee, the High Lord slowly inspected the formations of infantrymen—twelve thousand, in all, drawn up in battalion front The assault companies were foremost, bearing axes and hooked poles for hewing and pulling apart the outer entanglements. They were shieldless but armed with two-foot, hand-span-width cut-and-thrust swords and half-armored in plate.

Behind were the infantry archers, their compound bows larger and more powerful than the cavalry weapon, whose mission would be to try to keep the defenders too busy ducking arrows to loose any of their own at the laboring assault companies until enough of the abattises were cleared for the actual attack to commence.

Then came rank on rank of heavy infantry, the backbone of the Army of the Confederation, spearbutts and iron-shod shields grounded. Their helms were fitted with napeguards, cheekpieces and nasals, the high collars of their knee-length scaleshirts guarded most of the throat, and the plate greaves strapped to their lower legs included a kneecop which was spiked to facilitate climbing. The long pikes which Bili had seen them bearing on the march had been replaced by broad-bladed six-foot spears, handier for the kind of fighting anticipated.

Bili studied the faces under those field—browned helms, and all—old or young, Ehleen—dark or Kindred-fair—were weather-tanned and seamed with scars. Here and there a copper cat crouched atop a helm, denoting the valor and battle prowess of its bearer. A very few helms boasted silver cats, but Bili saw only two gold cats throughout the progress. One adorned a slender, hard-eyed young lohkahgos, standing stiff and motionless as a stone statue before his assault company; the other crested the helm of a grizzled, short-legged, thick-bodied soldier, whose equipage sported no other marks of rank or achievement.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” The High Lord reined up before the man and leaned over the chestnut’s withers to peer into the green eyes under the white-flecked brick-red brows. “If it isn’t Djim Bohluh. I thought you’d been pensioned off long ago. What’s wrong, has that scaleshirt taken root in your scaly hide?”

Letting his shield rest against his leg, the old soldier clasped both big, scarred hands about his spearshaft and raised one foot from the ground. Ignoring the venomous glare of a squad leader who looked young enough to be his grandson, he showed worn, yellow teeth in a broad grin. “Speak true, Lord Milo, can you see these here hands a-pushin’ a plow or a-milkin’ a cow?”

Milo chuckled. “You’ve a point there, right enough, Djim, but think on the rest of it, man. Your own piece of land, a snug cabin and a young wife to tend you and get you sons to fill the ranks?”

“No need to leave the army to do that last,” the soldier cackled. “I been a-doin’ that fer … well, fer more years ‘n I cares to think on. In fact. Lord Milo, chances are least a comp’ny’s worth of these here boys is my get, did they but know it! Fac’, young Lohkeeas Froheeros, there”—he pointed his chin at the almost apoplectic squad leader—“do put me much in min’ of a lil’ gal I useta pleasure, down Sahvahnahs way.”

Bili saw almost all the surrounding faces jerk or twitch to a muffled chorus of groans and gasps which told of strangled laughter, while the young sergeant’s lividity deepened until it looked as if he were being garroted. Not even the stern-faced strahteegos could repress a grin.

“You insubordinate old reprobate.” The High Lord crossed his hands on his pommel. “How old are you, anyway?”

Bohluh shifted uncomfortably. “Oh … ahh, I be unsure, Lord Milo, bein’ such a ignorant man an’ all. I thinks I be about forty-four … give ’r take a year.”

“Give a dozen or more, you white-haired scoundrel!” Milo snorted derisively. “Djim, you were a man, grown, when I awarded you that cat, after the Battle of Wildrose River. And that was more than thirty years ago! Strahteegos Ahrtos”—he half turned to the senior infantry commander—“why hasn’t this man been retired?”

The officer squirmed in his saddle. “Well, ahhh … well, my lord, it—”

“Lord Milo,” interrupted Bohluh, “don’t go blaming young Ahrtos, there, ‘cause it ain’t his fault. He be a damned good of cer, all us has been. But all my records they got burnt up in that big fire at Goohm, fourteen year agone. An’ when we set out tryin’ to do ‘em over, it might be some names ‘n’ dates got done wrong, is all.”

Milo sighed. “Djim, you must be pushing sixty, half again the average lifespan these days. War is an activity for young men, old friend. I think I should retire you now. Report back to the camp. When I’m done in this field, I’ll have orders drafted to get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs. Or you can retire in Morguhn, if you wish. There’re right many widows there and Thoheeks Bili is going to need some loyal husbands for them.”

Bohluh’s spear fell, clattering. His lined, seamed face working, he stumbled forward, one big hand raised beseechingly, the other on the chestnut’s reins. “Please, Lord Milo, please! Please let me stay. This be my home, Lord Milo, the only home I’ve knowed for over forty-five years. If I didn’t hear the drum of a momin’, I’d … I couldn’t, wouldn’t want to … I mean—” Then his voice broke and he could but sob chokedly. “Please, Lord Milo. Please don’t send me away.”

And something in those swimming green eyes touched a nerve in Bili Morguhn. He urged his horse up beside Mile’s and touched his arm. “My lord, if you please … ?”

The High Lord mindspoke impatiently. “This is none of your affair, Bili. It’s army business, a matter of regulations. We can’t afford the precedent of sixty-odd-year-old soldiers swinging a sword in the ranks.”

“I … I understand your position, my lord. So, I think, does he. He knows this be the end of his long road. But I do not think my lord understands him.”

“And you,” beamed the High Lord sarcastically, “from the eminent wisdom of your less than twenty summers, do?”

“Your pardon, my lord. I had no wish to offend.”

“Your pardon, Bili.” The edge was gone from Milo’s mind-speak. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get over being jumpy before a battle, and I sometimes forget your constantly expanding mental abilities. What do old Djim’s words say to you?”

“He craves a last boon, my lord. A soldier’s death. And this final battle in which to find it.”

“And you know this, Bili?” asked the High Lord. “How?”

The answer came quickly and unhesitatingly. “My lord, I can just sense that we are much alike, Bohluh and I. And, were I in his position, this is what I would have of a man I’d served so long and so well.”

“Bili,” Milo mindspoke slowly, “discipline in my army is much stricter than what passes for such in your Middle Kingdoms hosts. Every ear within hearing heard me order him back to camp, and it would hurt morale if his pleas seemed to bring about a reversal of those orders. Besides, it’s highly probable that his company won’t even fight today. These regiments are drawn up for effect; we’ll not use a third of them, if that many.”

“Djim Bohluh has served you well, my lord?” prodded Bili.

“He’d not have that cat otherwise,” retorted Milo. “He’s been up and down the noncommissioned ladder so many times he’s worn a path in the rungs. But that’s because in garrison he’s a boozing, brawling, insubordinate rakehell. But on campaign, in battle, he’s been worth bis weight in emeralds! Had I as few as one regiment like him, the western border of the Confederation would be somewhere on the Sea of Grass today. Yes, Bili, Djim Bohluh has indeed served me well.”

“Then, my lord,” suggested Bili, “let him find what he seeks with me in my guard. I know damned well that we’ll wet our blades.”

After his long months with the Morguhn Company of Freefighters, Geros had thought himself inured to every degree of foul language, but the massive old soldier that Thoheehs Bili had had seconded to serve as color shield, while friendly was unbelievably obscene. No three words came from his lips but one of them was a depthless crudity, and the Freefighters hung, grinning like opossums, on his every phrase, obviously highly appreciative of the oldster’s seemingly limitless profane vocabulary.

“… So, I tol’ thet lil’ pissant sergeant thet if he din’t git out’n the place ’n’ quit disturbin’ us, I’d jam a fuckin’ winejar up his gloryhole.” Djim Bohluh paused in his “narrative” to take a long, gurgling pull from a proffered canteen of brandy and water. He grinned his thanks, belched, and went on. “If he’d had hisself the brains of a shitbug, he’d of reelized the winterwine an’ hemp an’ all had done got to us and backed off for a while. But the dumb asshole he went for his sword. So we—” He quite suddenly began to cough violently—so violently, in fact, that Geros was certain it was forced coughing; but it accomplished a purpose, for someone quickly pressed another canteen into his thick hand.

“… So, enyhow, we took his friggin’ sword an’ flang the thang out’n the winder. An’ then we had down the Ehleen turdchomper’s breeks an’. ..”

Geros had had enough. Jamming the ferrule of the standard’s pole into the loam of the hillside, he left it and the sniggering, guzzling group of Freefighters to make his way to the crest, where stood Pawl Raikuh and Thoheeks Bili, observing the work of the assault companies and archers.

The thoheeks had fostered for nearly ten years at the court of King Gilbuht of Harzburk, and Captain Raikuh was a Harzburker born, so their conversation was in the rapid, slightly nasal dialect of that principality. But even so there was not enough difference between this dialect and the slower, softer, slurring Confederation Mehrikan to prevent Geros from understanding his commanders.

“They’re doing fine on the right hill, Duke Bili, but whoever’s archer captain on the left hill should have his arse kicked up around his ears. Look you, another of the axemen is down with … looks like a dart in his thigh. Those bow-pulling bastards just aren’t close enough to give effective covering fire!”

But it was obvious that others had noticed the fault, for Geros saw a rider, toylike with the distance, gallop his mount to the rear of the archers. Shortly, the bowmen could be seen to sling their commodious siege quivers and trot forward. When they at last halted and recommenced their flights of shafts, those loosed by the defenders at the men laboring on the abattis slackened perceptibly.

Noticing Geros for the first time, Raikuh grinned and slapped his shoulder affectionately. “Ah, Sword Brother, come up to see what you can learn, eh? I say again, my lord, can I but persuade our new Sword Brother to throw in his lot with my company, he’ll he a famous—and very well-to-do!—officer of Freefighters one day. Now, true, he may not be nobleborn, but—”

“But,” nodded Bili, “Freefighting be a craft where guts, brains and abilities mean far more than mere birth. When a lord goes to hire swords, a captain’s pedigree weighs less than a pinch of turkey dung; it be his reputation determines how much gold is put on the scale. And the beginning of a good reputation be lieutenanting under a well-known captain.”

All Geros could think to say was: “But … but Thoheeks Sword Brother, I am only a sergeant.”

Chuckling gustily, Raikuh’s brawny arm encircled Geros’ armored shoulders. “That be easily righted, brother. Say you’ll come with my company when Duke Bili no longer needs us, and you’ll go up that hill as an ensign—an officer standard-bearer.” He added, with unmistakable liking and respect to his voice, “And I, Pawl Raikuh, will be both pleased and honored to be able to number a fine, gutsy man such as you amongst my officers, Geros.”

Geros felt embarrassed, ashamed and contrite; he felt he could no longer dissemble. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet the eyes of these two noblemen who believed him something he was not and had never really been. He stumbled over the words, at first, but finally got them out

“From the beginning, it … it was all a lie. I have lived, been living, a lie since the … that night of the bridge fight. I really … I’m not brave. I’m terribly frightened to … whenever there’s fighting.”

“Really?” said Bili with dry amusement. “Well, I must say you hide it well.”

“Yes, yes, my lord.” Geros nodded quickly, glad that someone understood what he was finding so hard to phrase. “That’s it I hide it, hide my fears. And a good officer or trooper … I mean, you want a truly fearless man, not a pretender such as me.”

And it was what he had dreaded all along, that presentiment which had for so long kept him quiet on this matter had come horribly to pass. The young thoheeks and this gruff, kindly officer he had come to respect, whose friendship he had treasured, both were laughing. Laughing at him. At Geros-the-coward!

Bill’s unusual mind, far more sensitive than most, was first to comprehend what their laughter was doing to the sergeant. He sobered immediately, saying, “Sergeant Geros, Sword Brother, had you been reared to arms, as were Captain Raikuh and I, you would know that fear is as much a part of a warrior’s life as are fleas and wet blankets. Captain, have you ever known a Freefighter who had no fear?”

Pawl shrugged. “One or two, my lord, but such never live through the next battle. You see, Geros, fear is what keeps a fighter alive, what gives a dog-tired man the agility to dodge that last spear, raise the sword for one more cut. I dislike being around men who’re truly without fear, for death hovers ever near to them.”

“You see, sergeant,” Bili continued gently, “all warriors know fear … and hide it Those who hide it most successfully, most consistently, are called ‘brave.’ Which be but a word saying that Sacred Sun has gifted a man with acting ability better than most.”

“But … but, my lord …” Geros’ guilt still felt painfully undischarged. “I …” He dropped his voice to a whisper and shame suffused his face. “I sometimes am so fearful that… that I… that I wet myself!”

Roaring with laughter, Raikuh once more squeezed Geros’ shoulders. “You only piss yourself, comrade? But my steel! I once had a captain who seldom failed to ride in from a battle but he was stinking like a farmer’s privy on a summer day. Sword help the man who was downwind of Dunghill Daituhn after any kind of a fight.”

Softly, Bili asked, “Captain, you really rode with him they called the Blood Mark? Then you must be older than I’d thought.”

Raikuh chuckled. “My house carry our ages well, my lord. Ill be fifty next year. But, yes, I rode with Markee Daituhn, in my wild youth. Of course, that was ere he was ennobled. He was just a famous captain, then, but the youngest son of a younger son, like me, felt damned lucky to win a place in the ranks of his company just the same.”

“Now, you see, sergeant,” nodded Bili, “there be an excellent example of the glory to which even a common-bora Freefighter can aspire. Daituhn was born the son of a smith. But ere he died, he’d hacked his way to power and prestige, with a title to leave his son and gold to dower his daughters. You heard what the captain said of him, yet you certainly couldn’t call such a man coward. For that matter, I’ve wet my own breeches more than once, and I’d lay you thrahkmehs to turds that the captain has too. So were I in your place, I’d accept his offer. A man with the kind of guts it took to admit, as you just did, to what you obviously felt were grievous faults—”

But there was no time to say more, for the High Lord’s mindspeak was clear and strong. “Bili, move your Freefighters down to Strahteegos Ahrtos’ position. Ill be leading the attack on the left salient. Ahrtos will be in command of the assault on the right, but I want you with him because you own a quality he lacks—imagination. Take care of yourself, son. If anything happens to you, Aldora will no doubt make my life miserable for the next hundred years.”