Robert Adams - The Death of a Legend

Bili studied the faces under those field-browned helms, to find that all—old or young, Ehleen-dark or Kindred-fair— were weather-tanned and seamed with scars. Here and there a copper cat crouched atop a helm, denoting the valor and the singular battle prowess of its wearer. A very few helms boasted silver cats, but Bili saw only two golden cats in the course of the progress.

One golden cat adorned the helm of a slender, hard-eyed young lohkahgos, standing stiff and motionless as a stone statue before the assault company he led. The other crested the helm of a grizzled, short-legged and thick-bodied soldier, whose equipage sported no single other mark of rank or achievement. “Well, I’ll be damned!” The High Lord reined up before the man and leaned over the chestnut’s withers to peer into the green eyes under the white-flecked, brick-red brows. “If it isn’t Djim Bohluh. I thought you’d been pensioned off long ago. What’s wrong, Djim, has that scaleshirt taken root in your scaly old hide?”

Letting his shield rest against his leg, the old soldier clasped both big hands about his spearshaft and put his weight upon it, lifting one foot from the ground. Ignoring the venomous glare of a squadleader who looked young enough to be his grandson, he showed worn, yellow teeth in a broad grin.

“Speak true, Lord Milo, can you see these here bands a-pushin’ a plow or a-milkin’ a cow?”

Milo chuckled. “You’ve got a point there, right enough, Djim. But look at the rest of it, man: your own piece of land, a snug cabin and a young wife to tend you and to get you sons to fill the ranks.”

The soldier cackled. “No need to leave the army to do that last. I bin doin’ that for… well, for more years than I cares to think on. Fac’ is, Lord Milo, chances are at leas’ a good comp’ny’s worth of these here boys is my get, did they but know it. For that matter, young Lohkeeas Froheeros there”—he pointed with his chin at the livid, almost apoplectic squad leader—“do put me much in min’ of a lil gal I useta pleasure, down Sahvahnahs way.”

Bili saw almost all of the surrounding faces jerk or twitch to a muffled chorus of groans and gasps which told of suppressed laughter, while the young sergeant’s lividity deepened until he looked as if he were being garroted. Not even the stern-faced Strahteegos Ahrtos could repress a grin.

The High Lord clasped his hands on his pommel. “You insubordinate old reprobate. How old are you, anyway?”

Bohluh shifted uncomfortably, lost his grin and looked down at the ground. “Oh… ahhh, I be unsure, Lord Milo, bein’ such a iggernant man and all. I… I thinks I be about forty-four… give ‘r take a year ‘r so.”

Milo snorted derisively. ‘Take none and give a dozen or more, you white-haired scoundrel! Djim, you were a man grown when I gave you that cat, after the big battle at Wild Rose River; and that was more than thirty years ago.

“Strahteegos Ahrtos.” Turning in his saddle, he bespoke the infantry commander. “Why hasn’t this man, Bohluh, been retired?”

That officer squirmed in his saddle. “Well… ahh, well, my lord, it…”

But Bohluh interrupted. “Lord Milo, don’t go a-blamin’ young Ahrtos, there, ’cause it ain’t none of it his fault. He be a damned good of cer, allus has been. But alia my records they got burned up in that big fire at Goohm, fourteen year agone. An’ when we set out a-doin’ them over, it might be some names and dates got put down wrong, is all.”

Milo sighed. “Djim, you must be pushing sixty… hard; and that’s half again the average lifespan, even for a civilian.

Old friend, war is an activity for young men. I think I should retire you here and now.

“Report back to the duty officer in your camp and start packing your personal effects. When I’m done in this field, I’ll have orders drafted to get you back to Kehnooryos Ehlas; or you can retire in Morguhn, if you wish. There’re right many new-made widows there, and Thoheeks Bili is going to need some loyal husbands for them.”

Bohluh’s spear fell, clattering, and the boss of his shield clanged on the hard, pebbly ground. His lined, seamed face working, he stumbled forward from his place in the ranks, one big, callused hand raised beseechingly, the other grasping the chestnut’s reins.

“Please, Lord Milo, please don’ send me away, please let me stay. This be my home, my lord, the onlies’ home I’ve knowed for near forty-seven year. If… if I didn’ hear the drum of a mornin’, I’d… I couldn’, wouldn’ want to… I means…” Then the old man’s voice broke and he could only sob chokedly, over and over, “Please, Lord Milo, please don’t send me away…”

And something in those swimming green eyes touched a deep nerve in Bili of Morguhn. He urged his horse up beside the High Lord’s and touched his arm. “My lord, if you please…”

Milo mindspoke impatiently, This is none of your affair, Bili. It’s army business, a matter of broken regulations. We can’t afford the precedent of a sixty-odd-year-old soldier swinging a sword in the ranks. Damned few officers, even, are allowed to serve past the age of fifty.”

“I… I understand your position, my lord. So, too… I think… does he. He knows that this is the end of his long, long road. But… but I do not think my lord understands him.”

“And you,” beamed the High Lord with a tinge of sarcasm, “from the preeminent wisdom of your less than twenty summers, do?”

“Your pardon, my lord, I had no wish to offend.”

“No, your pardon, Bili.” The biting edge was departed from Milo’s mindspeak. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get over being jumpy before a battle; and I sometimes forget your constantly expanding mental abilities. So, what do old Djira’s words say to you?”

“He craves one last boon, my lord. A soldier’s death, and this one, last battle in which to find that death.”

“And you know this, Bili?” demanded Milo. “How?”

The answer came quickly and unhesitatingly. “My lord, I can just sense that this Bohluh and I are much alike, and were I in his position, this is what I would beg of a man I had served so long and so well.”

“Bili,” Milo beamed, “discipline in my army is much stricter than what passes for such in your Middle Kingdoms hosts. Every ear within the hearing has noted my ordering him back to camp, and it would damage morale if his pleas seemed to bring about a reversal of that order. Besides, it’s highly probable that his company won’t even fight today. These regiments are drawn up for effect; we’ll not use a third of them, if that many.”

“Djim Bohluh has served you well, my lord?” asked Bili.

“He’d not have that cat otherwise,” Milo retorted. “He’s been up and down the noncommissioned ladder so many times that he’s worn a path in the rungs of it. But that’s because, when in garrison, he’s a boozing, brawling, womanizing, insubordinate rakehell. But on campaign, in many a battle, he’s been worth his weight in emeralds. Had I had as few as one regiment just like him, the western border of the Confederation would be somewhere on the Sea of Grass today. “Yes, Bili, Djim Bohluh has, indeed, served me well.”

“Then, my lord,” suggested Bili, “second him to me, to my guard, and let him find that which he now seeks with us. I know damned well we’ll wet our blades this day.”

As Bili remembered, he and Captain Raikuh had been atop the ridge above the little hollow where their Freefighters were clumped, wetting brick-dry mouths out of their water bottles and listening to some long and endlessly obscene tale spun by old Djim Bohluh. He and the captain had been observing and commenting upon the actions of the assault companies and the archers who were not very successfully attempting to cover their efforts.