Robert Adams - The Death of a Legend

“But we all thought that Vahrohnos Myros, the cashiered Confederation Army officer, was the man responsible for all our reverses,” thought Bili, staring into the flames of the fire in that steep-sided little mountain valley. “Even when that young rebel noble we captured that day told us, and under hypnosis at that, that the Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Morguhn was their overall commander and had both planned and led that ambush, we could hardly believe him, assuming that Myros was craftily using him for a figurehead and acting through him for some obscure reason or other.

“And at that last big raid, when Drehkos was seen leading the raiders by noblemen who had met him, and recognized by his strong resemblance to Hari by men to whom he was unknown, hell, even then we tried to find ways to discount the tale.

“Now, that dawn raid is a battle I’m sorry I missed. I’ve been permitted into the minds and memories of men who were there, but it’s not the same thing. That Confederation dragoon officer—what’s his name? Linstahk, I think—he’s the one who got all the credit for throwing the bastards back, and undoubtedly his charge with his squadron was the deciding blow, but he’d never have had the chance to strike that blow had old Thoheeks Kehn of Kahr and his few score Kindred nobility not stopped and held the rebel bastards and kept their host from overrunning the damned campsite.

“Those damned spit-and-polish popinjays of the Confederation Army always take the credit for a victory, even if they arrive so late that they never wet their steel, And as for that pack who call themselves the officers of the Confederation Army, no sane man who hasn’t been exposed to them, soldiered in conjunction with the silly, posturing swine, would ever believe the extremes of their arrogance; even the lowliest, pink-cheeked Confederation ensign seems to think that adult noble warriors should jump at his command, his every command, no matter how pointless.

“Such conduct is understandable in Ehleenee, but right many of those officers are Kindred-born and -bred; army life just seems to make them all as stiff-necked and supercilious as the worst kathahrohs Ehleen.”

Then Bili shook his head, chiding himself. “Oh, there I go, generalizing again. Aldora has often warned me about that bad habit. I admit, there are some good men among the Confederation officers. Linstahk, for instance; he’s undoubtedly a brave man, and Hari Daiviz is quite fond of him, has much good to say of him. So, too, does the High Lord. And from what little I could sense besides his memories of the battle when he let the High Lord and me into his mind, he seemed an admirable type.”

And Bili thought back, recalling most of Linstahk’s own recall of that hellish, bloody morning.

With the light of the false dawn, the vanguard contingent moved out—including High Lord Milo, Thoheeks Bili with his nobles and Freefighters and near a squadron of Confederation dragoons as well as the High Lord’s personal guard; this had been the marching order of the van every day since the first ambush. The hulk of the noble warriors of the archduchy and their troops of hired Freefighters had taken to the road a bare half hour later. Then had the long, serried ranks of Confederation infantry set hide-shod feet to the measured beat of the drums, thankful that but two more days’ marching was said to separate them from Vawnpolis, cursing the muddy morass that last night’s rain and the earlier passage of cavalry had made of the road every bit as vociferously as they had cursed yesterday’s dust.

At their departure, the exodus of the wagons of supplies and equipment commenced. While the servants of nobles and officers struck tents and loaded baggage and hitched teams, apprentice sanitarians directed squads of sappers in filling in latrines and offal pits.

While fires were smothered and harnesses adjusted, the flanker lancers and the rearguard kahtahfrahktoee fiddled needlessly with girths or sat upon stamping horses on the fringes of the bustle. Though all accoutered for the road, they had not yet assembled in marching order but were gathered here and there in small groups, chatting, jesting, spitting and watching the beehive of activity within the perimeter of the soon to be abandoned campsite.

Because his superior officer, Amos Tchainee, lay ill with fever in one of the medical wagons now lumbering west on the Vawnpolis road, Captain Gaib Linstahk had, this dawn, found himself in nominal command of the entire squadron of heavy cavalry and with authority over the lancers as well, two troops of whom were trickling out in ones and twos on the flanks of the departing baggage train. Nor were these the least of the young officer’s problems, for, as the High Lady Aldora was traveling today in her huge, luxurious, wagonbed-mounted yurt, he found himself forced to deal with the frequently insubordinate commander of her mounted bodyguard, as well as with some three score country nobility, all surly and irascible at being placed this day in the rear rather than the van.

Trailed by his bugler, the squadron colors and a couple of supernumerary junior noncoms, Gaib was leading his charger, who seemed on the verge of throwing a shoe, toward an as yet unpacked traveling forge. As he walked, his lips moved in silent curses at wellbred bumpkins who carried their feelings ill balanced on their shoulders and gave not one damn for his hard-earned military rank, rendering him what little deference they did solely because he was heir to a Kindred vahrohnos.

A mindspoken warning from one of the accompanying noncoms caused the captain to glance back the way they had marched yesterday, at the body of mounted men now approaching the all but deserted campsite. Gaib snorted. More volunteer irregulars from duchies south and east of Morguhn, no doubt, though in a larger contingent than usual. And doubtless commanded by yet another noble arsehole who’d marched them through all the rainy night and…

And then he heard the first shouts of fear and alarm, saw the first flights of shafted death arcing up from the nearest cover, heard or thought he heard that never to be forgotten, ominous hissing-hum.

Flinging himself astride his mount, loose shoe or no looso shoe, he roared, “Bugler! Sound To the colors’!” Then he snapped to the colorbearer and the two noncoms, “Follow me!” Adding, when he realized that they had none of them seen what he had, “Sun and Wind, lower your visors and clear your steel, men, we’re under attack!”

Gaib’s first reaction was to reach a central point of the campsite and rally his kahtahfrahktoee. Better armed and more fully armored than the lancers, they and the even better protected nobles should be able to charge right into the fire of the hidden pack of sniping rebel archers, flush the bastards out of cover and ride them down like the vermin they were.

But that was before it became obvious to his veteran eye that those horsemen approaching from the east were not now thundering up the road to reinforce, but rather to attack.

He mindspoke the commander of the lancers, most of whom were gathered over on the north side, nearer to the road. “Captain Rahdjuhz, assemble your troops and draw them up behind the nobles who will presently form athwart the road. If those pigs aren’t slowed down, they’ll ride ov«r the camp before I can form up my squadron for the counterattack.”

Galb thought he could actually hear the outraged yelp of the lancer officer. “Sun and Wind, man,” the reply came beaming into his mind, “have you taken leave of your senses? A good half of those Vawnee look to be heavily armed, and they’ll go through my two troops like shit through a goose!

With seconds precious as emeralds, Gaib coldly cut off his subordinate, furiously beaming, “Wind take you for a coward, Ahl! Follow my orders or turn over your command to a man with a full set of guts. I said you and yours would be the second fucking line, dammit; those heavily armed fire-eaters of ours will take the full brunt of it.”