Robert Adams: Champion of the Last Battle

When once his assistants had, under his supervision, administered the drugs and departed the chamber, the old, wizened Zahrtohgahn physician stood beside the massive bed for long and long, just observing the old, dying man who lay thereon. Master Ahkmehd was, himself, but a bare score of years the junior of his patient and had been his personal physician for nearly twoscore years, his friend and trusted confidant for almost as long.

Unconsciously, the stooped practitioner wrinkled his nose at the stench of corrupting flesh from his patient’s inflamed arm, that arm which he had not been allowed to amputate properly after a wounded bear had so torn and mauled it that it would never have been of real use again even had infection not set into it.

“Ah, Bili, my dear, old lord,” he sighed at last in his own guttural language. “Yes, you surely were a stark warrior and were well named Bili the Axe by friend and foe alike. But you were so much more, as well; you brought true and abiding peace to a much-troubled land in the near fifty years you ruled it.

“Assuredly, Ahlah granted you a long life and you used it well. So well did you use that life you shortly will depart that I cannot but regret that you die an infidel, for if any man ever deserved the Paradise of the Prophet, it is you, Lord Bili of Morguhn. Ahlah keep you, my good, old friend. Never will there. be another like unto you.”

To the dying old man upon the bed, the words made no sense—for all that he spoke Zahrtohgahn fluently—they were but a muted drone to senses dulled by drugs, hypnotism and fast-approaching death. During the week or so since the pain of the suppurating flesh had become of such intensity that Zahrtohgahn wiles and drugs had been necessary, his consciousness had spent precious little time in this present world of his—that of a suffering, slowly dying, aged man.

Rather had he retreated into his own mind, into his memories, to live again the tumultuous, exciting days of his life of nearly fourscore years before—days of war and love, of hard, rough living, of crashing battles, of priceless moments of passion shared with the long-dead woman he had never ceased to love and to mourn through all the decades that had followed. Now, once more, he left the aged, almost-dead husk to again inhabit that young, powerful, towering body of the young Thoheeks Bili, Morguhn of Morguhn, the Bili of some seventy-eight years agone.

A bit before sunrise, young Thoheeks Bili of Morguhn was wakened by one of his menservants. When he had made brief use of the chamberpot and downed a small draft of honey wine and water, he was dressed by the first servant and two others, then armed. Once fully attired and in a splendid set of half-armor, with sword slung on baldric, dirk and daggers belted at his thick waist and a crested helm under his left arm, he departed the sprawling suite through doors opened by servants or armed guards and descended the palace stairs to the main hall and the waiting knot of officers and noblemen.

Like him, all belowstairs were half-armored, and, although they had been taking their ease on the various benches and chairs before tables now bare of anything save cups, ewers and small braziers for the heating of mulling irons, they one and all came to their feet upon his entrance.

Waving them back to their places, the tall young warrior paced the length of the hall to take his usual place at the high table, where he was quickly served a tankard of spiced cider to which he added a dollop of apple brandy.

When he had downed half the contents of the tankard, he said, “Good morning ... I hope. Before anyone asks, no, my Lady Rahksahnah has not yet dropped her foal, thank you.

“Now, let’s get this business of reports out of our way, then we’ll walk the usual circuit, attend to any necessary things in the city, and by that time perhaps the day’s meal will be ready for the eating. Eh? Who’s first, this day?”

One by one, those who had been duty officers for the preceding day and night rendered routine reports. Little had occurred in that period, it seemed. The Skohshun army still squatted in their camps on the plain below the city, but seemed to be licking their wounds from the latest attempt to storm the almost impregnable city some month or more agone and had demonstrated only their normal, now familiar routines of camp life.

There had been some deaths in the city, of aged, ill or wounded, but this was to be expected. Captain Kahndoot’s war-mare had dropped a fine, sturdy bay colt, and the big, stocky Moon Maiden could only beam her pride. A smile never seemed to leave her plain, broad-cheeked face.

Junior Captain Frehd Brakit reported that for all that the siege was now entering its third month, there was no dearth of food anywhere in city or citadel for man or horse. The compulsive squirreling away of stores by King Mahrtuhn I and all his successors was now paying off. The heavy rain of the day before had not been needed, not with the city’s steady supply of clear, cold water from the spring-fed lake within the bowels of the mountain upon which New Kuhmbuhluhnburk had been built.

Bili grinned wolfishly. “I’d not care to be living in the Skohshun camps, this morning. The way that rain came down, they’re certain to be a slippery, sticky, stinking quagmire from end to end, right now.”

The next officer to step forward was Sir Yoo Folsom. The bandy-legged, blond, late-thirtyish knight had been the first of the northern nobles to greet Bili and his squadron after the abominable march up from Sandee’s Cot, early last spring. Sir Yoo was also one of the few survivors of the late king’s bodyguard, and he now acted as a vice-commander of the lower city.

“For all the actual plentitude of vittles, here in the city and citadel, m’lord duke, I’d liefer be eating and drinking the produce of me own lands, on me own lands. A scurvy pox on t’damned Skohshun bastards!”

Bili smiled warmly. “Would that we both were there for the eating of another of your fine, fat steers, Sir Yoo. But alas, I suppose our enemies are doing that.”

The knight rumbled a laugh. “Ohohoho, not my stock, by Steel! Whatall couldn’t be harvested was burned, most of whatall could be, along with most of the larder and cellar and smokehouse was either wagoned up here or buried safe for after them Skohshuns is gone or dead. The cows and such was all drove up into the south mountains, and all my neighbors did the same, too.

“But I did leave barrels of fine beer fer the Skohshuns. Hid it was, but not hid too well, and flavored with a herb what grows wild in some places.” A sudden attack of laughter bubbled up, but he managed to finally quell it and went on.

“Privy-root, that herb’s called round here, and fer good reason, too. Any damn Skohshun bastard as drank as much as a pint measure of thet nice, cool beer is gonna think afore too long thet a torch dance is going on in his guts, and he won’t do no fighting for at least a week, he’ll be too busy squatting, he will.” Once more the laughter gained control of Sir Yoo, and this time Bili and the rest joined with him.

The field campaign against the northern invaders, the Skohshuns, had been an almost unmitigated disaster for the army of the Kingof New Kuhmbuhluhn, fatal to the royal personage and for far too many of his faithful supporters as well. And worst of all, to Bili Morguhn’s mind; was that all or most of it was completely unnecessary; there had been no real need to march out and meet the enemy at his full strength and on ground of his choosing. Bili had himself counseled that such be avoided at all costs, that these Skohshuns be forced to first blunt their teeth on, and bleed a bit before, the walls of this very city. But the late king had for some reason felt himself honor-bound to go to his death and lead many a follower with him.