A Cat of Silvery Hue

Epilogue

Geros could have wished a return to the old days, when he was simply a color sergeant and apprentice weapons master. He found the business of being a hero most uncomfortable. By their very nature, Freefighters were an unruly, disrespectful and basically irreverent lot. Except in combat, they would argue with noncoms, officers, captains, and any grade of nobility, deferring only to those few who had earned respect.

At first shocked to the very core of his proper being by such blatantly improper conduct, Geros had, over the months, come to enjoy and appreciate his comrades’ rude behavior and even—on rare occasions—to copy it.

But now the warm camaraderie was gone. In the week since he had rescued young Captain Lehzlee, men whose friendship he had treasured seemed distinctly ill at ease in his presence, spoke to him only when it was necessary and then in tones of deepest respect, far deeper respect than he had ever seen them show any officer or noble. Whenever he tried to join a fireside group, all conversation immediately ceased, lewd songs died on lips. So he found himself more and more alone.

He was alone when they came for him. Clumsily, because of his bandaged hands, he was trying to sharpen his fine sword. Then the tent flap was pulled aside and Raikuh said his piece stiffly, formally.

“Sergeant Geros, we are summoned to attend Duke Morguhn at the High Lord’s pavilion. At once, please.”

Then a trio of his former comrades filed meekly into the tent and assisted him to arm. When he emerged, Ahnah was waiting, fully equipped, her hide glossy with recent and thorough grooming.

After that, the bright morning became a phantasmagoria of improbable scenes and occurrences. At the perimeter of the Morguhn enclave, he and Captain Raikuh were joined by a squad of the kahtahfrahktoee of the High Lord’s guard, brilliant in plumes and tooled boots and burnished parade armor. And Geros felt like some mendicant beggar in his crestless, field-browned helm, his scarred and dented cuirass.

All the enclaves through which they rode seemed strangely lifeless, deserted. The reason was clear when they topped the first hill. In the rolling little vale between them and the sprawling pavilions of the High Lord and High Lady, it seemed to Geros’ wondering eyes that the entire army was drawn up—Confederation and Freefighter, horse and foot, rank upon rank.

Geros turned to his companion. “Pawl …” Then, recalling the officer’s formality, “Captain, is there to be another attack today?”

The reply seemed incomprehensible. “Be quiet, sergeant, and don’t slouch. Can’t you see they’re all watching us … you!”

At their approach, an avenue was cleared for them and they walked their mounts across the vale, between the long rows of armored bodies and sweating, impassive faces. To Geros there was an ominousness to the silence, broken only by the sounds he and his party made—jingle and clank of metal, creak of leather, hoof on hard, pebbly ground.

And when they arrived just below the pavilions, guardsmen were waiting to lead away their horses and the path to the pavilion was lined with more faces. But officers this time, along with such minor nobles as had remained with the besieging army. The reflections of Sacred Sun on dress armor and jewels half dazzled Geros as he and the grim-faced captain trod that path.

“Close one eye!” muttered Raikuh out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t open it till we’re within—otherwise you’ll be blind, once we’re out of this sun.”

Obedient as always, Geros did as instructed. At the entrance, the guards rendered a clashing salute and Raikuh murmured, “Return the salute, lad. It’s you they’re honoring, not me.”

Within the pavilion, the captain halted before the High Lord. “Lord Milo, I have brought, as ordered, Sergeant of Freefighters Geros Lahvoheetos.”

The next few minutes were the stuff of dreams—first the touch of Duke Dili’s Sacred Steel and the slow pronunciation of the ritual words which miraculously ennobled the blood in Geros’ veins; the High Lord’s darkly handsome face, first serious of mien, then smiling, and his simple words of thanks on behalf of the Confederation for Geros’ acts in the crater; then strong hands on his shoulderplates bearing him to his knees, and the approach of the white-haired, sinewy old nobleman, who draped the heavy chain upon those shoulders so that the pendant clanked and rang against his cuirass.

Then came that long, long ride through the ranks of the army, with the halting of the entourage before each unit, while a brazen-throated sergeant-major recited the unparalleled bravery which had earned Sir Geros Lahvoheetos his just rewards, and the pause before riding on as the men cheered.

And long years afterward, he could close his rheumy old man’s eyes and still hear those decades-dead voices cheering his silver cat.