Robert Adams - Champion of the Last Battle

Erica’s transceiver buzzed insistently. She picked it up, held it in position and activated it. “Yes, Jay?”

“Erica, I thought you said that that battle was going on somewhere just north of your camp—rather, the camp of the Skohshuns? Over.”

“That’s right, Jay, though it looked damned little like a battle when I was up on the gate platform a little while ago. The Kuhmbuhluhners were riding up and down in front of the Skohshuns throwing darts and small axes, and the damned stupid Skohshuns were standing so close together that I doubt if any of those things thrown had a chance to miss. Anyway, at every circuit those riders made, those poor damn pikemen dropped like flies. Now they’re raining them with arrows; I can see the sun glinting on the shafts from here. What was that battle where the British wiped out a whole German army with bows and arrows? Apparently these Skohshuns never heard that particular story.”

“It was the English, Erica, not the British, fighting the French, not the Germans, and it was two battles—Crecy and Agincourt. But the reason I radioed you again was that my scouts and I have spotted a very large force of cavalry riding in your direction from the southwest. Scads of them, maybe as many as fifteen hundred, and about half look suspiciously like Ahrmehnee warriors, to me. Over.”

Erica chortled gleefully. “That pompous, presumptuous old goat! Sir Ahrthur has gotten his hairy balls in a crack for good and all. He refused to listen to the advice of a mere woman, and he will, no doubt, shortly be in the shit up to his silly mustache. It serves the chauvinist pig right!”

“Well, Erica, in light of these new developments, what do you want us to do about getting you all out of there? Over.”

“Just blow out the back gate, Jay, and come on in. All of the fighters are either out there getting their asses beaten off or standing up at the front corners or above the front gate. The only people left in the camp are cooks, servants of the officers, medical personnel and quite a number of wounded men.”

“I don’t like the thought of getting trapped in there, Erica. Look, I’ll set my mortars up a couple or three hundred meters off and blow that gate, then drop a few mortar bombs in and around the front gate just to put the fear of God into them all, maybe throw in a rocket or two for luck. You and your men hotfoot it out to me. Bring along mounts if you can easily come by them, but don’t waste a lot of time trying to if you can’t. Over.”

“Oh, all right, Jay. Your plan is probably best—after all, you’re the professional soldier, not me. I’ll send half my men up to the picket lines and get them to saddling mules. All of the horses are out there getting their asses peppered as thickly with arrows as their riders are, I’d imagine.”

“Okay, Erica. Just tell your types to stay clear of both of those gates. My Broomtowners are good, but hand-held mortars have been known to be somewhat inaccurate on occasion. Over.”

“I will, Jay. Immediately you blow out that back gate, we’ll be on our way to you, to Broomtown Base and a long, hot, luxurious shower with real soap ! Out.”

Brigadier Sir Ahrthur Maklarin and his staff could but sit their horses, gaping in goggle-eyed astonishment, as the hundreds of armored horsemen swung wide around both their camp and their schiltrons to cross the space separating them from their elusive foes and rein about, forming common front with the bare thousand or so New Kuhmbuhluhners.

When the last of the seemingly endless files of riders had joined the Kuhmbuhluhn army, so that the wings of the reinforced host now greatly overlapped both of the Skohshun wings, three riders—one clearly Duke Bili, recognizable by his black warhorse and plumed helm—were seen to ride forward at a slow walk, following the Kuhmbuhluhn herald on his big white stallion.

“All right, Sir Djahn,” the brigadier barked, “get out there. Let’s see what the forsworn by-blow wants this time! Well, Senior Colonel Sir Djaimz, must I issue you an engraved invitation? You and one more, let’s go.”

Bili the Axe wasted no time with polite formalities through the two heralds, but addressed himself directly to Sir Ahrthur. “Old man, you first tried to lure me, then to shame or hector me into a battle to be fought on your terms against your more numerous forces. When I refused to lay my brains on the shelf and accede to your wiles and shameful practices, you attacked me with bared steel in violation of a sworn truce, which goes only to show that no matter how much you prate of a lack of honor in others, you yourself own no shred of it.

“Well now, old, honorless man, the boot is on the other foot, and I lead enough force to make blood pudding of you and your pikemen. But I’ll do that only if you force me to it.

“I hereby extend you three options, more than ever you gave to me. You may agree to immediately lift the siege of New Kuhmbuhluhnburk and the occupation of those lands and the glen you earlier seized from the Kingdom of New Kuhmbuhluhn, and depart with your army and your folk from the kingdom; I would suggest that you lead them due west or southwest.

“Your second option is to let a single combat decide the outcome of this stupid exercise in wholesale bloodletting. I will fight for New Kuhmbuhluhn and you, considering your lack of stature and your advanced years, may choose a champion to ride against me for the Skohshun army and people; I will be armed with axe and sword, your champion may ride with those weapons he prefers or favors.

“Your third option is a full-scale battle, which I now consider futile and pointless, as too should you. But let me warn you well in advance, if this last is the option you choose, there will be no immediate attack on your schiltrons. Rather will I do just as I did before—bleed you, further eat away at your strength from a safe distance with missiles. Then, when I feel your formations to be sufficiently disorganized and shrunken, I will lead my horsemen against you with a cry of ‘Havoc,’ ‘No quarter.’

“I’ll have your choice, old man, now !”

Senior Colonel Sir Djaimz kneed his mount close beside that of Sir Ahrthur and, leaning closer, whispered, “It might be better to withdraw, Sir Ahrthur. We can hold the glen, fight again at a time and a place of our choosing.”

“Never!” snapped the brigadier. “Do you want to kill him? You’re damned close of a size, the two of you. I’d give my eyeteeth to do it myself, but the bastard is right, I’m too old.”

Sir Djaimz eyed Bili critically, then nodded. “Yes, Sir Ahrthur, I’ll fight him. But please understand, it’s not to salve your foolish pride, but rather to save the army that our people need. But I want your sworn oath, sir, that if I die, if that young man kills me, you’ll march the army out of here and straight back to the glen, then turn over your command to whoever the colonels decide should replace you.”

The brigadier looked his hurt puzzlement. “But ... but why, Sir Djaimz? Simply because we lost this battle?”

“No, Sir Ahrthur, because you enjoy the respect of every Skohshun—officers and nobles, other ranks, and civilians—and I want to know that you will retire and, eventually, die with that respect intact, unsullied. While in most ways, at most times, you still are the same brigadier, more and more of late you have been lapsing for varying times into childish rages for little cause or none. You’ve done it twice today already.

“The Sir Ahrthur who received me into the army as a pink-cheeked ensign, who nurtured me and trained me for years, that Sir Ahrthur would never have reacted with such unseemly violence to the good-natured twitting of a man who had fought you, knocked you down and taken merely your sword when he could have had your life as well. Nor would that Sir Ahrthur ever have even thought of baring steel during a sworn truce, much less of attacking another member of the truce party.