Robert Adams - Champion of the Last Battle

Rolling the stem of his gold-washed silver goblet between his broad fingers, Bili regarded Sir Djahn for a longish moment, then nodded brusquely. “That which you suggest is not out of all reason, sir. Certain of my garrison, especially so the noblemen of New Kuhmbuhluhn, are become quite bored with the dragging aspects of siege warfare, and our sally the other night seemed rather to increase their thirsts than to slake them. What would you say to planning this set battle for next week?”

Old Sir Djahn felt as if the flat of a poleaxe had crashed upon his balding pate. But as it had been years in the forging, his steely self-control immediately asserted itself and his voice and outward demeanor rang calm and assured in tone and appearance.

“I believe that Sir Ahrthur was thinking more in terms of two weeks hence, Sir Bili, or perhaps even three.”

Bili shook his head. “Two weeks, Sir Djahn, no more. The autumn is short hereabouts, as well you should know, and the winter snows follow quickly upon autumn’s heels. Are my noble New Kuhmbuhluhn officers who are landholders to get back to their fiefs and properly prepare the earth for next spring’s planting, it must be done soon.”

Sir Djahn’s white eyebrows rose a careful half inch. “You assume that New Kuhmbuhluhn arms will triumph over somewhat superior numbers, then, Sir Bili?”

“Why not?” grinned Bili. “You obviously assume that your quantity will triumph over our superior quality. Expect you not a near rout of Kuhmbuhluhn arms such as you Skohshuns enjoyed when last we met at swords’ points, either, Sir Djahn. The late King Mahrtuhn in his dotage and senility deliberately crippled that field force, denying us the use of what are the most effective means of dealing with schiltrons and similar formations. Neither his present majesty nor I will be so foolish and deluded in our own choices of strategy and tactics, you may believe that. We will meet you armed with every advantage we may possess, expecting no less from you and your army.

“So, where shall we fight, Sir Djahn? On the plain between the base of the mountain and your camp, perhaps? I think me that that would be the logical place.”

Sir Djahn smiled fleetingly. “Logical, maybe, but not a safe place for Skohshun regiments to group, you must admit; not with the range of your engines to be considered or the weights they can throw for that range. No, let us meet on the other side of the camp.”

“I march my men into the jaws of no traps,” Bili stated flatly. “Nor do I commence a battle with foemen both before and behind, not if I have the ordering of it.

“But, too, I can empathize with you, so let us plan it in the following way. . . .”

“That was the very best that I could do, Ahrthur,” Sir Djahn told the brigadier immediately he returned to the Skohshun camp. “It is not the three weeks I know you would have preferred, but it is not either the bare single week that Duke Bili originally suggested; we compromised on that as well as on other matters.”

The brigadier just sat listening and fingering idly the small, blunt-ended dagger he used to ream out his pipes. When Sir Djahn was done, he said, “You seemed so certain when you departed that those New Kuhmbuhluhnburkers would refuse at the very least, might even laugh you out of the city, yet this so canny war leader of theirs apparently accepted our outrageous—patently outrageous, all things and conditions considered, and I’ll now be the first and the foremost to admit that fact-proposal. Now I want to know why, Djahn. Why did this man willingly toss away a brimful basket of real advantages and agree to meet our regiments openly, on the plain, where the clear advantages are ours?”

The herald shrugged. “It’s a true gamble to take for gospel what any opposing war leader says, especially if he happens to be a known professional, a mercenary with damnall ties to the troops he commands. You are not wrong to suspect that this mysterious Duke Bili of Morguhn may well be dicing with a tapered cup or may well have a double bushel of aces up his sleeves, but I, who have met and talked with him, am a bit more inclined to believe the explanations he gave for wishing to get it all over and done with now.

“For one thing, he is saddled, afflicted, with a gaggle of noble fire-eaters of Kuhmbuhluhn who are growing bored and dissatisfied with the inactivity of a siege. For another, even the steadier vassals of King Byruhn are all a-itch to get back to their lands and prepare them for the planting season, next year. For the last, Duke Bili gave me the impression that he would like nothing so well as to leave New Kuhmbuhluhn with his condotta and go on to a new contract elsewhere, which is, one supposes, understandable in a professional.

“But the crowning reason, the one which leads me to believe all of the rest is truth, is the unpleasant fact that there appears to be a werewolf preying upon the burkers and the garrison of New Kuhmbuhluhnburk. The descriptions Duke Bili rendered of the habits of the creature, the various attacks, the fact that hounds become hysterical and refuse to trail the beast, not to mention the evidence that it survives what would be death wounds to a less uncanny animal, these all lead me to the belief that this bane of that unhappy burk can be nothing save a werewolf.”

The brigadier shuddered. “No wonder he and they are more than willing to sacrifice advantages to get out of that city.

“All right, Djahn, I’ll dispatch another galloper to our glen, and then you and I will go render your formal report to my staff and the regimental commanders. Did you bring back anything decent to drink, by chance?”

“Indeed, yes,” smiled Sir Djahn. “Duke Bili gifted me a small keg of an old and potent applejack.” He produced his silver flask and proffered it.

The third night on the road from Skohshun Glen, Johnny Kilgore’s big, bred-up pony ambled into camp with the old Ganik in the saddle and a hogtied captive jouncing uncomfortably belly-down, across the withers. “Guess whut I founded back up the trail a ways, ginrul,” he crowed good-naturedly. “A pegleg Skohshun, thet’s whut. Too bad I ain’ still a bunch-Ganik—he’s a young ’un and’d be raht tenduh and tasty, I ’low.”

General Jay Corbett set aside his tin plate of rabbit stew and stood up to regard the fine-boned, one-legged young man standing unsteadily before him. The pale face was drawn with strain and pain, but it still bore the stamp of firm resolution and the gaze of the eyes was steady, purposeful.

“Ensign Thomas Grey, I presume,” he said wryly. “Does your mother know where you are, Tom?”

“Of course she does, sir,” the boy snapped. “Not that it is needful for her to know, for I am no child, if that is what you meant to imply, General Corbett, sir.”

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” Corbett demanded. “Those charges blocked that defile solidly, of that I’m more than certain. And no man could have gotten a horse over any part of those mountains—of that I’m equally certain.”

A smile flitted briefly about young Grey’s lips. “No, sir, no horse, but a mountain pony; one of those ponies ridden into the glen from without, last spring, by one of Dr. Arenstein’s wild men. Had I been able to be astride a decent horse, your rearguardsman there would never have caught me. But those little ponies have no endurance, no heart. The cursed beast foundered yesterday.”

Corbett nodded. “So you came on afoot, despite all the odds. Knowing full well that your chances of getting through us and on to the field army ahead of us ranged from infinitesimal to nonexistent, still you hobbled along that deep-rutted trace for more than twenty-four hours. Unless you stopped long enough to sleep, which I doubt.” Thought of the suffering the boy must have endured brought a lump into Corbett’s throat. Gruffly, he demanded, “So, now, what am I to do with you?”