Robert Adams - The Death of a Legend

At first, the young thoheeks could spy no trace of the hundred-odd officers and men who had been trapped atop the rampart—thanks in no small part to the asinine dawdling of Sub-strahteegos Kahzos Kahlinz, who, Bili had noted, had been the very first man in the column to quit the fort—when it had gone down. It was with shock that he saw, as a gust of wind briefly blew away the covering smoke, that one of those lay almost at his feet.

By his armor, the man appeared to be an officer… and condemned to an agonized and singularly unpleasant death. A massive timber, likely one of those which had pillared the huge trap, lay across both of the unfortunate’s legs. The far end of the timber was already blazing, and several feet more had commenced to smoke and smolder.

Pawl Raikuh touched his lord’s arm. “Duke Bili, I could take two or three men and try to get him out… ?”

Bili squinted down into the smoky slice of hell for a moment, then shook his head sadly. “No, Pawl, that would do no good. Look at the size of that timber, man! There must be a full Harzburk ton of hardwood there. It would take a score of men to even shift it and a couple more to pull the officer free.”

“But we’ve got that many, Duke Bili,” said Raikuh. “For all he’s one of those damned spit-and-polish popinjays, he’s still a man.”

Bili cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted down, “Can you hear me, soldier? There’s no way we can safely get to you. Enough men to lift that timber would likely start that mess to sliding again, kill you and them, too.”

The bloody, dirt-caked head of the figure below could be seen to nod slowly, wearily, so Bili added, “The timber is already on fire, man. You’ll slowly roast alive if you don’t cut your throat!”

The trapped man’s hands fumbled uncertainly at his waist but came away empty; apparently his belt had been torn off, and with it had gone his dirk. Moreover, his position made it impossible to draw the long broadsword strapped across his back. Now frantic, he pushed at the dead weight of rough-hewn wood which would so soon be the agent of his torturous death. But he could as easily have shifted a mountain, and presently he slumped back, defeat mirrored on his gory, battered countenance.

Bili groaned. “Pawl… somebody… Sun and Wind, get an archer or a dartman up here! We can’t just watch the poor bastard die like that!”

A number of Freefighters drew, hefted and threw dirks or knives, but the blades all fell short Then, only three feet from the suffering officer, a section of the timber puffed a great blob of smoke… just before bluish flames began to lick over the visible surfaces with hungry intensity.

Bili shivered all over and unconsciously bunched up his cloak-wrapped body on the bough bed in his mountain lean-to, his skin surfaces all goosefleshed. “And that was when it happened,” he thought. “That was when Geros did it, did something that I’m certain no one who failed to see it really believes… and I can’t blame them. It was clearly impossible… yet it happened.”

The young thoheeks had mindspoken the responsive mare about, determined to, despite his wounds and injuries, ride if necessary to the main camp of the Confederation troops and fetch back an archer to forestall the sure agonies of the officer trapped below. Then he heard Raikuh’s sudden bellow.

“Damn your wormy guts, Geros! Come back here! That’s a fucking order, sergeant! Come back here!”

The big mare started, recognizing her twolegs brother’s name, and willingly turned back to her former position. And then she and Bili astride her and Raikuh and all the rest were impotent to do more than stare.

Sergeant Geros’ battered armor and helmet, his prized sword and even his canteen lay in a heap where he had shed and dropped them near the steadily crumbling verge of that yawning pit of fire and death. The man himself could be seen in a wavery, distorted fashion through the waves of heat beating up from the almost-fluid earth into which his jackboots sank nearly to the knees with each step he took. He moved slowly, obviously unsure of the insecure, constantly shifting footing; but move he did, ever closer to that pinioned and doomed officer.

“He’ll most likely die with him, too,” thought Bili, a bit sadly, for like Pawl Raikuh, he had come to like and respect the efficient but humble young sergeant. Thinking aloud, he said to no one in particular, “That’s true, selfless bravery, yonder. And yet that man was worrying but a few hours back because he’d pissed his breeks a few times in combat!”

Those watching saw the courageous young man win to the officer’s side, saw the flash of white teeth as the forcibly recumbent man smiled up at this man who had risked so much to assure him a relatively painless death. They saw the officer’s lips move, saw him pull something off his right thumb and drop it into Geros’ palm, then open his hand, awaiting Geros’ dirk or bootknife. They saw Geros’ own lips move, although, like the officer’s, his words were not audible to them above the roaring of the huge holocaust and the constant crash and rumble of shifting stones and timbers deeper in the crater.

And then it happened! Geros turned and took a few steps until he could squat and work his two hands into the steaming, smoking earth under one end of the massive timber. Slowly, ever so slowly, he arose, the muscles swelling, bunching in shoulders, backs and thighs under his smoldering gambeson.

And as the young sergeant arose, so did the timber! It did not rise far, true—perhaps a foot or even less—but it was enough for the officer to pull and claw with his two sound arms and hands and thus work his smashed legs from the impression beneath that crushing weight of solid oak.

The moment that the officer’s feet slid from under the timber, Geros let go his grip and the ton or more of hardwood settled back in its place… but for only a moment, then it began a slow but increasingly faster slide downslope, toward the fires raging below.

Somehow, working against the current of the now-flowing river of oven-hot earth and its flotsam of splintered wood and boulders, Geros half-dragged, half-carried the man he had so miraculously rescued from certain death back to the verge. There scores of willing hands drew them both back to safety.

By that time, of course—badly injured to begin with and after the rough handling Geros had perforce had to employ to get them both out—the officer had fainted, but old Djim Bohluh had identified him.

“That’s young Captain Lehzlee, a good lad and a good, hist ofser, he be, by Sacred Sun’s redhot arse, Thoheeks Bili, sir.”

“A son of Ahrkeethoheeks Ahndroo, Chief of Lehzlee?” asked Bili, thinking that if it was a Lehzlee of that dan, Geros certainly had lucked out this time, for they were certainly the richest clan in Southern Karaleenos, if not in all the principality.

“The Ahrkeethoheeks” onliest son, now,” attested Bohluh. “The captain’s elder brother ’uz kilt mebbe six months agone a-fightin’ the Ahfuht tribe, out west This here’s young Hailz’s las’ campaign, his paw wants him back.”

“Well, the ahrkeethoheeks and Clan Lehzlee will get their heir back now, thanks to the bravest man this or any other army will ever have. I already had intended to knight him, make him a vahrohneeskos in Morguhn—he saved my life, too, today. But in view of these last few scarce-believable minutes, I doubt me not that the High Lord and the Lehzlees will improve substantially upon a mere ennobling.” And that they assuredly did, thought Bill, who at long last began to feel the needed sleep nibbling at the corners of his consciousness. A first-class silver cat, and the only reason it wasn’t gold was that Geros was a Freefighter and not a regular. And that meant thirty ounces of silver a year for as long as he lived.