Madman's Army

Chapter IV

Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos the Warlike and the army still were absent on campaign when Lieutenant Vahrohnos Bralos of Yohyültönpolis returned from thirty days’ leave, during which time he had been invested with his newly purchased civil rank and lands. The investiture had been witnessed by a covey of the squadron officers and by Captain Chief Pawl Vawn of Vawn along with some of his kindred subordinates. The guest-witnesses had stayed on to take part in the great hunt that had preceded the feastings and had all consumed their fair shares of the game and other foods, wines, beer, pear cider and other potables. The nongame foods and drink had been ostensibly provided by Thoheeks Klaios but had, in point of fact, been paid for by some ounces of gold loaned the overlord by Bralos.

Once back in camp, the senior lieutenant of the now-captainless squadron had thrown himself with a will into preparing the unit for field service. Replacement troopers had to be fitted in along with replacements for horses and equipment, while still-serviceable items required cleaning at least and often repair and refurbishing after the long, hard use in the wet, misty foothills and mountains. But Bralos knew what needed doing and he did or saw it all done to perfection.

At long last came the day when the army returned, carrying the pickled head of the thoheeks who would have had himself recognized king of the Southern Ehleenohee. A wretched column of those who had borne arms against Council’s army and had had the misfortune to not die in battle were herded in the rear, ungently shepherded by lancers, while a delegation of lesser nobility from the thoheekseeahn rode in the van with the Grand Strahteegos and his heavy horse bodyguards.

Bralos allowed a bit over two weeks for the returned army to refit itself to garrison life, then he requested an audience with Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos, overall commander of cavalry.

The big, tall, black-haired officer greeted him warmly. “My very heartiest congratulations on your investiture, Lord Lieutenant Vahrohnos.” He had smiled, waving Bralos to a chair. “I suppose that you now wish leave to quit the army for your civil responsibilities, and to feel so is reasonable, but please allow me to reason with you, nonetheless. You see, Council is going to need a strong army for some time yet to come, and officers of your water are most difficult to come by …”

“Please, my lord Thoheeks, your pardon,” Bralos courteously injected, “but it is not my desire to leave the army; rather do I desire to purchase higher rank in it. I would be a squadron captain of light or medium cavalry, my lord.”

Portos stared hard at him. “Is it then so, young Bralos? You must be aware that such rank does not come cheaply, nor is credit at all acceptable, nothing save hard coin—preferably, gold.”

Wordlessly, Bralos had lined ten golden Zenos on the desktop between them. Then the haggling had begun. By its end, some days later, he had purchased the captaincy of his lancer squadron for about two thirds of the sum that his barony had cost him.

Thoheeks Sitheeros, nibbling at a crisp, deep-fried songbird, crunching the tiny, hollow bones between his big teeth, took a sip of his fine wine, then asked his guest, “But why did our late Grand Strahteegos try so hard to have you hung—you should’ve heard the unholy row in Council when he was voted down on that score—and why did you take your squadron and leave the camp, the army and the environs of the capital until Pahvlos’ demise?”

Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos of Vohyültönpolis just shook his head, washed down a mouthful of spicy, salty crisp bread and said, “My lord Thoheeks, that is a sorry tale, but if you would hear it, then I’ll tell it.”

Bralos’ first, informal meeting with Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos was upon the occasion of the party welcoming the new captain vahrohnos to the brotherhood of the army’s higher officers, the traditional festivities having been organized by Senior Captain of Cavalry Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, who had but just received word of his own civil promotion to thoheeks in his northern homeland of Karaleenos.

After brief congratulations, the old man had chatted for some two hours with others, then sought out Bralos again, seating himself beside him and splashing a little watered wine into his goblet from a convenient ewer.

“It is my understanding, Vahrohnos,” he had said, “that you began your career with this army as a junior lieutenant of the foot-guards, distinguished yourself in battle at least twice, were commended for that and other services by both Senior Captain Portos and Thoheeks Grahvos. After you had purchased a lieutenancy and troop command in the lancers, you were mentioned in Portos’ dispatches from the field of the Battle of Kahlkopolis, too. Yes, you own, have earned, the high regard of some exceedingly important men, both in the army and in the civil sphere. Your new overlord, in fact, Thoheeks Klaios, seems to regard you almost as a family member rather than as just a noble vassal.”

“My lord Grand Strahteegos knows far more of me and my life than I would have dreamed,” said Bralos, wondering even as he spoke to just what purpose the senior officer had searched out these facts.

Taking his goblet stem between his sinewy fingers and rolling it absently, the Grand Strahteegos had smiled and said, “The more that a commander knows of his men and, most especially, of his officers, the better; remember that, Captain Bralos. But that which I have not yet learned of you is this, my good captain: we both know that your younger son’s patrimony was barely sufficient to buy your first, junior-lieutenant rank, and you just might’ve been able to have won enough gambling to have secured the troop-lieutenancy in the lancers. But when we are come to discuss baronies and squadron captaincies, we are speaking of really large sums, far and away more gold than any officer-mess gamblers ever saw in one place at one time. So just how did you come by so much hard gold in a land stripped so bare as ours?”

It was in Bralos’ mind, just then, to tell the prying old man that his personal finances were none of his business, but such an answer would not be politic, not to so high-ranking a man, so he used the reply on which he and Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos had long ago agreed. Smiling, he said, “Loot, my lord. The worth of some gems I took during a campaign before you came to command us.”

Old Pahvlos threw back his balding head and laughed, then reached and grasped Bralos’ forearm, squeezing it warmly, cordially. “Young man, you will go very far in this or in any other army. We two will discuss this matter and that of your career with Council’s army at some other time and place, but for now”—he raised his voice and, shoving back his chair, stood up—“my good Captain Vahrohnos, I must bid you and this company a fond good night, for old bones require more frequent rest than do younger bones.”

Bralos had done very well by his squadron, so that soon he had no slightest trouble filling the ranks, and indeed, was obliged to maintain a waiting list for would-be troopers and first-rate sergeants. At the suggestions of Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, he raised both the asking-price and the other requirements for ensigns, sublieutenants, troop-lieutenants, senior lieutenant and sub-captain, after first buying back the ranks of those few men who did not or could not work with or under him, and even so, hardly the day passed but that he found himself approached by top-notch officers or one time officers or wellborn young men, all clearly eager to lay their credentials and money before him.

Of course, lieutenants and captains of units losing personnel to the Wolf Squadron grumbled and groused that he was pampering his unit, turning them into overfed, underworked, elegantly dressed, indulged show troops, unfit for anything save parades; but even as these few envious officers spoke, they knew well the falsity of their words of accusation, for Wolf Squadron was performing yeoman service in the seemingly endless round of campaigns into which Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos the Warlike had plunged the army. Elegant as was the appearance of the officers and other ranks of Wolf Squadron when they were seen on occasions of formality, in the field they all fought with the ferocity of their totem beast, a lean winter wolf.

Provided with the quantities of golden Zenos which kept coming, through Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos, from the north, Bralos found himself able to see to it that all ranks of his command possessed the necessities in quality as well as in quantity, plus not a few luxuries to compensate them for hard, faithful service.

He had taken over his newly purchased squadron at the end of a cold, wet autumn, and after a detailed inspection of the weapons and equipment of the four hundred-odd officers and men, he had set up in his own mind a list of priorities, cleared them with Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos, gone to Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos for a weight of gold, then betaken himself to the collection of buildings at the base of the hills on which sat the fast-growing city of Mehseepolis and sought out certain suppliers of military paraphernalia.

He had had to settle initially for plain, but thick and warm, blanket-cloaks for the most of his squadron, but with the promise in writing that immediately the requisite numbers of dense wolf-pelts were become available, they would be added to trim the hoods without additional charge; however, he had seen all of the cloaks bleached out, then dyed a uniform soft grey, with the same color being applied to the twenty-three-score horse-blankets he bought at the same time from the same family of dealers. This same family were able to also lead him to both a leatherworker and a specialty smith who contracted to undertake a joint project to produce knee-high boots with wrought-iron splints and elbow-high gauntlets sewn with iron or steel rings for all the squadron.

The smith—a heavyset man with wavy brown hair and curly beard, an exceptionally hairy body and the largest, thickest moustache that Bralos could ever recall having seen set under a big and raptorial nose— had served his guests cups of a powerful cider and questioned them at length in relatively good Ehleenokos spoken with an unusual accent. Finally, shoving aside the sheaf of sketches he had made and the notes he had taken in a script that was not Ehleen or Merikan, either, though bearing more resemblance to the former than to the latter, he took a swallow of the cider, then spoke.

“My lord Captain Vahrohnos, what if your trooper be sword-gashed between elbow and shoulder, what then?”

Bralos sighed. “Then, Master Haigh, with luck, he’ll be crippled, only. I can see where you’re going, but be you apprised that it is traditional that lancers’ armor be only helmet and light breastplate. And those who command this army insist upon almost-slavish adherence to tradition, alas.”

The smith frowned and pursed his lips for a moment, then flitted the trace of a smile. “What would my noble lord think of a grade of fine, strong, but very light double mail that might be easily sewn into an arming shirt or a gambeson to protect troopers’ upper arms and armpits, eh? Since it would not be visible, thus would this mad tradition be served.”

Bralos skeptically cast a glance into the rather small shop—only the smith, a brother and three lads— replied, “Man, it sounds good, but it would take your shop years to produce enough of the stuff for my command. We’re talking here of two per man and between four and five hundred men.”

The smith’s lip-corners twitched. “Oh, no, my lord, I do not make this fine mail; it is produced by some … relatives, in the north.”

Bralos barked a short, humorless laugh. “Master Haigh, not even I can afford Pitzburk prices plus wagoning costs to protect my men, much as I would so like to do.”

The smith shouted something through the doorway that led into the shop and forge, something in a harsh-sounding language, and in a moment, one of the lads came in with a bundle wrapped in oiled suede, placing it at a word from the smith atop the table, then departing to shortly return wheeling a carved wooden dummy of a man’s torso and a brace of heavy-bladed shortswords in wood-and-leather scabbards.

Still seated, the master smith unwrapped the oiled suede to show an underwrapping of coarse, unbleached woolen fabric as thick as blanketing and also oil-impregnated. Under the wool was the mail.

Bralos thought that the gleaming metal mesh might have been wrought of fine silver, so lustrous was it; leaning close, he could see that each and every small ring was riveted—a quality product and no mistaking it, each ring joined to other rings in eight places and all finely finished and polished.

Lifting one of the three hauberks, for such this lot were, the smith’s big, scarred hands rolled and compressed it into a ball that looked impossibly small, then proffered it to his principal guest.

Bralos found it extremely light, yet when he unrolled it and laid part of it out on the tabletop, he could not get half a finger-width of the point of his boot-dagger through it, shove as he did.

Standing, the smith took the hauberk from him and draped it over the scarred, dented wooden dummy. When it was draped to his critical satisfaction, the big man turned back to the table, selected one of the brace of shortswords and drew it from out its scabbard, then he reversed and offered the weapon for Bralos’ inspection.

Handling it carefully, for the winking edges showed it to be honed to a very keen degree of sharpness all along both edges of the roughly two feet of broad blade, Bralos knew immediately that he had never seen or handled its exact like before. In some ways, it bore a similarity to the standard Ehleen army infantry shortsword, but it was wider, thicker and differently balanced from that weapon. The central rib would no doubt impart decided strength to it, while the four fullers down most of the length on both flats reduced significantly the overall weight.

With the sword once more in his hand, the master smith shoved the dummy a little farther from the table and his guests, took a stance and, whirling the weapon up above and behind his head, shouted some phrase in the guttural foreign tongue and delivered several cuts and looping slashes at the mail-draped wooden form. No one could doubt that he was striking with all his not inconsiderable strength, for twice a shower of sparklets flew upward from the buffets, the fabric of the hardwood dummy creaked and groaned protestingly and, at the last blow, one of the axles of the dummy-cart bent and a freed wooden wheel went skittering across the floor.

There having been no arms to help hold it in place on the dummy, the mail had of course been moved out of its original drape, but aside from this; Bralos was able to detect no slightest breaking or bending or even scarring of the rings anywhere on the fine steel shirt, for all that the edges of the sword showed the effects of hard contacts with steel. Even so, he rearranged the drape of the hauberk and went at it for a few strokes with the other sword. At last, he used his left hand to hold the dummy still and drew back his arm, clearly intending to thrust at the chest.

“No,” said the master smith, adding, “And it please my lord, no; that sword will break the mail and penetrate, though one of your own swords probably would not do so. That sword was designed to pierce mail and scale armor at the hard thrust, you see.”

Bralos stepped back from the abused dummy and nodded, smiling. “I thought so when I saw that almost-edgeless, diamond-shaped point and that ribbed blade. It’s a good design for a sword, though a bit short for my own tastes. You’d play hell trying to use so short a blade on horseback.”

“My peo … that is, the people who developed that sword live in mountains and mountainous foothills, my lord, and own precious few riding horses. They bestride mountain ponies to the site of battle, then fight on foot.”

Bralos nodded again. “Which is probably why and how this fine, very strong, but exceedingly light mail came to be, eh? Who are your people, Master Haigh?”

The smith shrugged. “But another race of what my lord’s folk call mountain barbarians, though our lands are in no way near to these Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee. Would other tribes leave us to bide in peace, we would do naught save farm our valleys and graze our flocks on the heights, but such has never for long come to pass, and so have we been compelled to learn to practice the ways of war.”

Bralos shook his head. “Using those swords and this fantastic mail as indicators, I would say that your people have assured themselves of the wherewithal to practice war quite well. If you can fit it to me, I’d like to buy one of those hauberks from you, one that will hang to about mid-thigh.

“So far as the half-sleeves for my men are concerned, how long would it take your tribe to produce five hundred pairs and get them here to Mehseepolis? Oh, and what will the pairs cost?”

Once they had worked out a price that was mutually agreeable, the smith said, “My lord, much of the iron that my people use is smelted locally from ores or rendered from rusted ancient-times artifacts. If my lord desires quicker delivery and would be willing to advance a bit more gold to buy pig iron …?”

Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos summoned Bralos to the heavy horse camp on a sunny but bone-chillingly cold January day, snow lying deeply on the ground. Within his plastered, wooden-walled office, a brace of braziers warmed the room to such degree that, with a cupful of brandy, a man could be almost comfortable.

“We … you have a problem, Bralos,” said the cavalry commander, with his usual bluntness.

Bralos could think of no problems of any consequence within the squadron, so he raised his eyebrows quizzically and awaited elucidation in silence.

“It has gotten back … rather, been borne back by certain envious officers,” said Portos, “that you are coddling your squadron—overindulging them with rough, warm clothing, decent food and wine or beer, protective boots and gauntlets and ash lance-shafts, where the other squadron must make do with issue oaken shafts. Therefore, the Grand Strahteegos has decided that if you can afford to so pamper the common troopers of your squadron, you can equally well afford to increase your squadron strength to four troops.

“Look you, Bralos, I did try … for all the good that it did me or you.” Portos’ dark face was a very study in frustration and anger. “I pointed out that it were eminently unfair to ask you to raise and arm and outfit another troop while allowing Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos to maintain only the three. But then that slimy Ehrrikos; waving a hand that bore gold and gems on its every finger, protested his near-penury, cited your flaunted affluence … and that was that, the old man signed the order.

“So, now, my boy, you must recruit, and recruit most speedily, at the least ninety troopers, ten sergeants, three cooks, probably one or two more farriers, a senior sergeant, another horse-leech and at least two more eeahtrohsee. Mounts, weapons and armor and horse-furnishings will, of course, be provided by the army. There is the fact, for what compensation that it will be, that you now will have ranks to put on the market—one troop-lieutenancy, two of sub-lieutenant and four of ensign. How long do you think it will take you? I’ll get you all the time I can.”

By the end of that week, Bralos had over a hundred troopers, a senior sergeant and twelve section-sergeants, all of the needed specialist troops, a troop-lieutenant, a sub-lieutenant and three of the ensigns—all five of the officers, all but two of the sergeants and a goodly portion of the troopers come out of the other squadron of lancers, the Panther Squadron, commanded by none other than Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos of Thakhahrispolis.

Portos rode up to the headquarters building of Wolf Squadron rocking in his saddle with laughter, tossed his reins to the waiting trooper and slid to the ground, still laughing. Seated in Bralos’ snug office, with a goblet of brandied wine in his big hands, the senior captain controlled himself long enough to give his host the tale.

Foaming with rage, Captain Opokomees Ehrrikos had stormed into the heavy horse headquarters and demanded immediate words with the overall commander of cavalry. Upon admission to Portos’ office, he had brusquely refused the offer of a tipple and had begun to rant and rave of the loss of almost a full troop of his best troopers and sergeants—including two sergeants from out of his own headquarters detachment and, to add insult to injury, his personal batman—no less than three sub-lieutenants, two ensigns and the senior lieutenant who had been in charge of his headquarters for years.

“Desertion?” queried Portos blandly, suspecting untold the true answer, even as he spoke. “We’ll apprehend these miscreants in no time, never you fear, Opokomees, the scouts will tell us which way they went, and then I’ll send some of Captain Chief Pawl’s Horseclanners to …”

“No, no, no, no no!” the visiting officer half-shrieked, shaking both gloved fists and stamping one booted foot upon the floor in his agitation. “The pigs didn’t desert, my lord Thoheeks, not legally; no, Petros and the rest of those drooling idiots I called my officers came to me and demanded back the prices of their ranks … and, of course, I had to give them the money. The others, those scoundrelly sergeants and the idiot troopers and my cretin of a servant, they all just took everything that did not belong to me and went over in a body to join that goddam Wolf Squadron. They’re hunkering there, now.”

“Well, lord Opokomees,” inquired Portos, “what do you want me to do about it all, pray tell? If the troops did not desert, then they still are members of my command who simply have chosen to serve me and the army in a different squadron. Admittedly, the other ranks should, strictly speaking, have gone through channels to effect a transfer to another unit of horse, but now that it is done, I can see no reason to censure them.”

“I don’t want them censured!” Captain Ehrrikos half-shouted. “I want the lowborn scum back! I’ll see the bare white spines of every one of those damned sergeants … and that backbiting batman, too!”

“It is all as I have heretofore stated, Captain Opokomees” said Portos with chilly formality. “This … ahhh … rearrangement of officers and troops will not discommode me or my brigade of horse, and so I can think of nothing that would impel me to involve myself in it. Have you considered riding over and pleading with Captain Vahrohnos Bralos to return them to Panther Squadron?”

Ehrrikos turned livid and grated from between tightly clenched teeth. “I did … earlier today. The bastard of a shoat and a goat, he laughed at me, laughed at me, to my very face. He said that did I put less gold on myself and more upon the backs of and in the bellies of my troopers, I might still have more of them within the precincts of my own camp and fewer of them within his. Then the misbegotten son of a diseased ape informed me that as he was very busy with interviewing newly come personnel, he would have to cut our visit short. The gall of the upstart, only a damned vahrohnos, and not even that for long!”

Portos tried hard to keep the smile from off his face, the laughter out of his voice. “Well, then, Captain, have you considered seeking an audience with the Grand Strahteegos? You seemed to have his ear and his favor earlier this week, as I recall. Perhaps he would see that you got at least your other ranks back. Neither he nor I could tell your noble officers what to do, not after you allowed them to sell back their ranks in Panther Squadron.”

The officer’s lividity deepened, darkened, and he ground his teeth. “Lord Thoheeks, it was our Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos who sent me here, to you as cavalry brigade commander to resolve this stinking mess. He said that he would leave resolution of the current matter up to you, trusting as he does your judgment, and he …” Ehrrikos paused and ground his teeth once more.

“Yes?” prompted Portos. “The Grand Strahteegos had other words, Captain?”

“He … he said … it was of a rather personal nature, my lord,” said Ehrrikos, a little lamely.

“Even so, I will hear it, Captain. Now,” Portos demanded, ordered.

Even in his anger, Ehrrikos could not mistake the authority in the voice of the senior captain, and he could not but obey. “He said, my lord, that if I was desirous of keeping my rank and the command of Panther Squadron, the two troops I had remaining and the third that I must immediately begin to recruit, I had best sell my finger-rings, my arm-rings and my golden chain and use the money from them to outfit my troops for winter campaigning and begin to feed them more and better rations. He … he promised that was Panther Squadron not the equal at least of Wolf Squadron by spring, that … that the entire army would be witness to my impalement.”

Lolling in the chair in Bralos’ office, the big, brawny Portos could no longer restrain himself, gusting once more into laughter that continued until tears were coursing down his scarred cheeks into his beard and he must perforce hold with both hands his aching sides.

“And would he?” asked Bralos. “Captain Thoheeks, could the Grand Strahteegos have an opokomees publicly impaled for such cause?”

Sobering a bit, the brigade commander replied, “Whether he would or not is really anyone’s guess; old Pahvlos is not easy to fathom. But if he felt he had cause, sufficient cause, he most assuredly could. His successes—past and present—have made him virtually a law unto himself, insofar as Council is concerned.

“But in this case of Opokomees Ehrrikos’ callous mistreatment of his squadron, I doubt that Pahvlos would go that far. Most likely, if Ehrrikos sees fit to ignore Pahvlos’ ‘advice,’ he will just have him well striped, stripped of his military rank and enough of his personal treasures to cover refurbishing the squadron and meeting the prices of rank of the remaining officers, then send him home in disgrace. No doubt, Ehrrikos’ overlord will be sufficiently displeased to punish him, too. But impalement, no, I doubt it, Bralos, not crucifixion or maiming, even.”

“My lord,” Bralos said, “I would ask a question of you.”

Smiling, Portos nodded. “Ask away, then, my good Bralos.”

“The provisions I have made for the men of my squadron—decent clothing, equipment and food—should these things not be provided to all men of the army by the army, rather than leaving such necessities’ provision up to individual commanders who, in most cases, either cannot or will not? Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos has told me that in both the Royal Army of Karaleenos and in the Army of the Confederation, things are just so—all soldiers’ needs being issued by the army.”

Portos took his barely touched goblet from off the desktop and took a sip, then sighed. “The biggest and, to Pahvlos and many another noble officer, most important reason is that the present method, with all its undeniable faults, is the traditional method in armies of the Southern Ehleenohee. The most pressing reason that this was not adopted by Grahvos and the rest when Tomos first advised its adoption, years back, before Pahvlos came, was and is the simple fact that the Council could not and cannot afford it … yet.

“Hell, Bralos, I dislike it as much as any other officer or man. I would much rather be putting such funds as I come by into my new duchy, rather than using them to clothe and equip and feed my troops, but they are completely dependent on me and I realize that fact, recognizing my responsibility to them and to the army.

“But until, if, when, Council sees fit to step into the management of the army, has the necessary income and effects a reorganization of sorts, you and I are just stuck with making the best that we can of an old, bad, but long-established situation.”

“All right, then, if the squadron is to be my responsibility, I want it to be my sole responsibility, my lord, all of it. I want leave to buy the present horses from Council, the furnishings for them and my men’s weapons,” said Bralos.

“Sweet Christ on Your Cross!” exclaimed Portos. “Man, do you have any conception of the kind of money you’re speaking of laying out here? Just how rich are you, anyway?”

Bralos nodded. “Yes, I know the figure almost to the coppers, my lord, Sub-strahteegos Tomos and I added it all up with the help of a quartermaster officer and a remount officer, both sworn to secrecy. It will put somewhat of a dent in my present finances, but I still can afford it.”

“Why do you want to do such a thing?” demanded Portos, incredulity in his voice, a stunned look on his face. “It … the thing just makes no sense to me.”

“Should I leave the army, for whatever reason,” answered Bralos, “I want to go with the knowledge that the men who served me so well for so long and under such trying conditions will each own at least the value of a good troop-horse and their weapons and armor. Another thing is this: many of my men are—rather were—farmers, herders and suchlike. My barony—hell, the entire duchy, for that matter—is underpopulated, now. Whenever things wind down and the army need not be so large, I want to take all of my squadron who wish to go with me back to my lands, to till and sow and herd upon them. For those men not so inclined, both my overlord and I will need small armed bands of retainers.”

Portos stared hard into Bralos’ eyes, then dropped his gaze. “A bit earlier, I was speaking to Ehrrikos on the responsibilities of rank. Bralos, you shame me, you shame all of us officers, in your concern for the present welfare and even the future welfare of your troopers. How I wish all of my cavalry officers were alike to you.

“Your request will, naturally, have to go to the highest authority, to the Grand Strahteegos himself. But I will personally bear it to him and pray that he approve it; if he does not, then I’ll put it to Council. That’s the best I can do.”

“My lord is more than generous, may God bless him,” Bralos said with sincere feeling.

“Yes, I recall that ruckus in Council,” said Thoheeks Sitheeros, while using his powerful hands to crack nuts. “A duel resulted from some of the name-calling engendered in that day’s civilized debate. Grahvos finally summoned Tomos up to the palace and closeted with him for a while, then rammed the measure through by way of a half-Council vote. That can be done, you know; most business can be decided by the votes of seventeen councillors only, not the full thirty-three.

“So, then, that was how you got on the bad side of our late Grand Strahteegos, hey?”

“I’m now certain that that was the beginning of the Grand Strahteegos’ antipathy toward me, my lord. He insisted after that that my squadron be listed as mercenary cavalry; I suppose that he thought that such a designation would limit my ability to recruit replacements and sell officer ranks, but of course it did not,” replied Bralos.

The spring thaw saw the beginning of nearly two years of almost constant campaigning for the army of Council, beginning with a long march into the far-northwestern corner of the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee and a protracted war against an alliance of a number of tribes of mountain barbarians. The army stayed in those mountain for more than six months, almost until snowtime, seldom engaging in large open battles, but one hit-and-miss ambuscade or running fight or assault upon walled or stockaded hold and village after another. The cavalry, particularly the light cavalry, took heavy losses in this campaign.

Once arrived back at the camp under Mehseepolis’ walls, Bralos set about buying horses and equipment to replace losses, carted out wainloads of damaged items for repair and had broadcast a call for men to fill out his ranks … and they came, despite the measures taken by his peers in military rank to prevent them so doing. They came because—despite the brutally hard service to which Wolf Squadron had been subjected— very few troopers had been lost due to malnourishment or frostbite, most casualties being the result of enemy action or common accident or mischance.

Although the snows came, this unpleasant fact did not prevent the army being marched forth on another campaign for the year, this one to the south and lasting the most of the winter.

Barely had the next spring been ushered in when Wolf Squadron and half of the Horseclan Squadron were dispatched again to another stretch of border to deal with yet another pack of bandit-raiders whose ongoing depredations were become the bane of two more thoheeksee. So once more Bralos rode north with Captain Chief Pawl Vawn of Vawn.

This action did not take as much time, for Chief Pawl was senior officer from the start, and immediately it was seen by him and Bralos that the border was being used just as the other bandits had used it, he rode into the mountains with local hunters and chewed the fat with his fellow barbarian chiefs, and shortly he and Bralos were headed back to Mehseepolis with a long coffle of slaves-to-be and but few losses from among their own ranks.

It had been during the campaign of the previous winter—that one conducted along the ill-defined border of the sinister Witch Kingdom, which lay somewhere deep within the dank, dark, overgrown wilderness of ghoul-haunted fens and monster-teeming swamps, where huge and often deadly serpents slithered, where carpets of lush vegetation concealed beds of quicksand and bottomless pools of brackish water—that Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos had acquired a lover. This boy of about fourteen or fifteen, Ilios by name and the recognized bastard of a thoheeks, reared in his father’s household and extended most of the same education and advantages as had his legitimate half brothers, was as pretty as a young girl, and Pahvlos’ possession was envied by those officers and soldiers of similar tastes; the rest referred to him in private as “Ilios Pooeesos.” It had been determined much later by general consensus that the coming of this Ilios had marked the very beginnings of old Pahvlos’ abrupt change of character, when he first began to drive the army unmercifully in the field and exact upon the flesh of his soldiers such exaggerated outrages of discipline that, had he not died when he had, he might have sundered the army apart. As it was, he came quite close to tearing apart the Council of Thoheeksee.