Robert Adams - Champion of the Last Battle

Bili nodded, wordlessly, beaming, “You know best, Pah-Elmuh. What benefit needless suffering, say I?”

Once more, Erica sat with Brigadier Sir Ahrthur Maklarin. Anger, disgust and a tinge of embarrassment were mirrored on the old man’s lined face as he spoke.

“Madam, you have my deepest apologies for the actions of Colonel Potter. Most reprehensible. He will suffer dearly on account of what you and Reserve Surgeon Devernee have here recounted this day. My orders to him regarding you, your men and the New Kuhmbuhluhn prisoners were explicit and written out in plain English, so it will be on his head, alone, that he chose to so flagrantly disobey them.

“The suffering he inflicted upon your men was senseless and cruel in the extreme. Moreover, there was no cause for their injuries in the first place, for he might have asked, determined that they owned inappropriate footwear and had them all issued pikemen’s boots to replace their own riding boots, did he intend to march them rather than follow his original orders.”

His tone became softer, then, as he gently asked, “The ... the injury to your face—more of Colonel Potter’s work?”

Erica’s fingers went involuntarily to the scabbed-over cut running almost from ear to chin across her cheek. “No, not Potter,” she grimly replied. “That supercilious little bastard Ensign Hollister. He was supervising the beating of one of my men who had fallen, lay already senseless on the road. This beauty mark was my punishment for objecting to that beating; the fledgling sadist did it with that riding crop he carries for a swagger stick.

“I’ll tell you, Sir Ahrthur, if he hadn’t had armed, grown men at his beck and call, I’d have killed the little son of a bitch right there!”

The Brigadier riffled through the stack of notes made by his adjutant during the questionings of the woman and the reserve surgeon earlier, then asked, “That was the man who was beaten to death?”

Erica Arenstein shook her dull, dirty, matted head. “No, the man they beat to death was not one of mine, Sir Ahrthur. That was one of the Kuhmbuhluhners, an older man, and from the look of him, not in the best of health to begin. No, all they did to my man was to break his upper arm and crack some ribs. But another of my men is now blind in one eye, thanks to another bite of Hollister’s whip.”

The brigadier sighed sadly. “What could have gotten into that boy? Beating, tormenting, maiming helpless, unarmed prisoners! That is not, has never been the Skohshun way. Were you or your men mistreated, in any way ill used whilst you all were held in the glen, up north?”

Again, she shook her head. “Not once, Sir Ahrthur, not by anyone, for all that we had killed a good number of your cavalrymen before we were captured. Aside from the facts that we were disarmed and our movements restricted, we might well have been your guests rather than your prisoners.”

The old man nodded slowly. “Just so, madam, just so. I can but imagine that Potter’s evil poison infected young Hollister to his detriment, for I have known many Hollisters over the years and never have I found one to be aught save a decent, honorable gentleman. Immediately you have departed, I think I must have a few serious words with the boy. Potter can wait, he’s under strict arrest in his tent. He’ll keep for the nonce.

“But now, madam doctor, to the reason I had in mind for having you and your men wagoned up here. These rifles of yours—how far can they cast a projectile and still kill a man with it? Understand, we Skohshuns had such weapons at one time, but that was centuries ago, at the least, and our old legends don’t really impart much of a serious, military nature with regard to our ancient firearms.”

Erica shrugged. “I know of kills that have been made with rifles of this type at ranges of two thousand meters. You see, Sir Ahrthur, the bullets have a small but most effective explosive charge incorporated in them. A hit almost anywhere on a human body will kill quickly from shock alone, while the chunk of flesh that would be blown out of an arm or a leg would lead to almost certain death from loss of blood. But as I have already told you, I could no more make or show you how to make these weapons and ammunition than I could flap my arms and fly. Nor are there enough rifles to arm even a squad of your troops, and I think that there’s all of some hundred rounds of ammunition left for the rifles we do have.”

The brigadier said dryly, “One hundred and fourteen of the, longer, slenderer ones. And I take it that that man of yours I had armed, mounted, supplied and released never returned from his journey to this place wherein he might find more of the projectiles for these rifles?” At her negative headshake, he asked bluntly, “Do you think, then, that he deserted you and his mates? That he went hotfooting back to wherever you all came from?”

She replied, “No, I don’t think so, Sir Ahrthur. For one thing, there’s no longer any place for him to return to. The New Kuhmbuhluhners exterminated those of the Ganiks they did not or could not intimidate into moving south, out of New Kuhmbuhluhn. No, I’m more of the opinion that Bowley is dead. After all, it offered to be a very dangerous trip, especially for one lone man, no matter how well mounted and armed. He was a brave man, a very brave man, to undertake the trip at all.”

“It may be as you say, the man is dead,” nodded the old officer. “Then I must make such use of you and your men and rifles as the limited number of projectiles will allow. If you agree to my plans, you will no longer be prisoners, but rather my allies. Remember, we Skohshuns are at war with the very kingdom that drove out or slew your own folk.”

It was on the tip of Erica’s tongue to state flatly that the bestial Ganiks certainly were not her folk, thank God, but instead she asked, “What did you have in mind, Sir Ahrthur?”

The creature’s eyes were of no use in the stygian dark of the labyrinthine corridors. Claws clicking on the stone pave, it followed the conmingled scents of the various twolegs—human and humanoid—that had trod these ways before it. It was weak with hunger; its long-empty stomach rumbled and growled. At last, there was a dim glow of light from far up the corridor, light ... and an odor of fresh blood.

Softly whining in starved anticipation, the creature padded in the direction of that light, following the mouth-watering scent of the blood, only to stop in frustration bare yards from where its sensitive nose told it was the source of the delightful odor.

Not only was the way obstructed by a pair of massive metal-bound and -studded doors, but on this side of those doors stood no less than six big twolegs. Their bodies, their heads and parts of both pairs of their extremities were all sheathed in shiny metal, while their forepaws held the shafts of deadly-looking spears and poleaxes.

Snarling its disappointment, the creature finally found a way to pass these big, dangerous twolegs unseen. Within its primitive mind, it harbored but the one image: food, hot spurting blood and tender, quivering flesh to fill the gaping, demanding emptiness of its shrunken belly, to give renewed strength to its pitifully weak body and legs. Mayhap the very next twolegs it encountered ... ?

But there seemed to be no small, weak, vulnerable twolegs anyplace the creature went, only more and more of the big, strong, metal-sheathed ones, always several of them together. It was getting desperate enough to attack even one of these, could it find a single one, alone. At last, it did find a lone twoleg and was upon the very verge of rushing in for a quick kill when the twoleg victim-to-be suddenly opened one of the movable wooden barriers, took two short steps into the dark night beyond that barrier and abruptly began to swiftly ascend a wooden device that quickly put him beyond the reach of the creature’s jaws and teeth. But the barrier had not swung shut and the creature was quick to slink through the opening.