Robert Adams - The Savage Mountains

“I know just what Duke Bill ordered,” snapped the plate-armored officer shortly, the knuckles of his bridle hand glowing white where he gripped the pommel of his fine broadsword. “But if, Sword forbid, her screams carried as far north as they did south the whole damned village could be alerted by now! You, Grohz, put up your damned dirk! Remember, we want the likes of this poor girl to escape north to the nahkhahrah. All you men get mounted now, put Patuhzuhn’s body on his horse and form up. Komees Hari will soon be at the ford, and we’re to meet him there. He wants to be in position to attack the village just at the nooning. Run off the smaller ponies, but leave the big one for her.”

With a chuckle, the sergeant commented, “Sir Geros, that chit were a maid, ere my yard rendered her a woman. With the swiving we done give her, her crotch’ll be sorer nor a boil for some little while. She’ll not be forking no pony this day, I trow!”

His laughter was echoed by most of the others as they strode out to the horses.

Shortly, a jingling and creaking and measured hoofbeats receded into the distance as the patrol went back the way they had come. But it was more than an hour before Pehroosz, once more shivering in her nakedness, managed to drag her bruised, battered body to the hearth, on which a small fire still glowed.

She wished that the raiders had had the decency to slay that still-suffering goat, ere they left. Some time later, she realized that those hurt-animal sounds came not from a goat, but from her own throat. Her fierce. Bahrohnyuhn pride had refused to show the raiders her tears, but now they came. In a great racking rush they came, and her abused body doubled upon itself and shook to her sobs of rage and pain and shame.

In his youth, Komees Hari Daiviz of Morguhn had been a Freefighter, soldiering the length and breadth of the Middle Kingdoms, whose two-score-plus principalities had seen precious few years of peace in the four centuries since the Great Earthquake had brought them into squabbling existence. The passage of more than a score of years had failed to dim his memories of those bloody days, nor had the pursuits of peace—marriage and the rearing of a family, succession to his patrimonial title and estate, the ordering of his lands and horses and people—softened him or expunged from his mind the hard lessons learned from the particularly savage and merciless brand of warfare peculiar to the kingdoms of the north.

Almost all of the Freefighters who had ridden into the mountains behind komees’ suzerain, Thoheeks Bili Morguhn of Morguhn, were men born and bred and blooded in the Middle Kingdoms, and Hari had quickly reverted to the man he had been twenty-odd years before, finding that he once more was thinking like a professional soldier. He was again relishing the rough banter and lewd songs; the constant and often senseless profanities and blasphemies fell unnoticed on his ears and unconsciously from his lips. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to end a hard day’s march with a bruising session of sword-fencing or staffplay, under the discriminating eye of a weaponsmaster—which breed of noncom tyrannically chivvied exhausted officers and men alike into nightly practice sessions in weapons skills.

In recognition of his experience, the thoheeks had given him command of a squadron of dragoons and had not demurred too vociferously when the old komees chose one of the suzerain’s favorites, the valorous Sir Geros Lahvoheetos of Morguhn, to be his senior captain.

At their last meeting, the young thoheeks had stood before Hari and the other squadron commanders in his three-quarter armor, with a cold wind whipping his oiled cloak about his booted legs and the rays of new-risen Sacred Sun glinting on the brass point atop the shaft of the Red Eagle banner, ensign of the House of Morguhn.

The scarred, deeply tanned face which peered from the opened helm gave no indication of the tall, broad-shouldered nobleman’s actual youth. The high forehead was furrowed and a web of tiny wrinkles crinkled the outer corners of the blue-gray eyes. His baritone voice flat and emotionless, he reiterated the High Lord’s orders and instructions with regard to their mission and its implementation. Then he drew his broadsword and used it to point out features of the parchment map which a couple of men held unrolled behind him.

“Gentlemen, Sir Ehdt emphasizes that he cannot claim more than a bare minimum of accuracy for this map. Unlike the northern and central columns, ours will not be traversing lands scouted out by Drehkos-the-traitor last year. The only references Sir Ehdt had were campaign sketches and notes at least three generations old, plus the questionable information of some traveling merchants. Nonetheless, it is all we have, and so we must make do with it.

“We are now here, at this crossroads. The column will march west today, dropping off squadrons as it goes. When your squadron leaves the column, you are on your own, gentlemen, on your own. There is little likelihood that you will encounter more than a bare sprinkling of Ahrmehnee warriors, since most of the bastards are up there in the north; but don’t forget, these are their mountains. They know every nook, crag and cranny and they are past masters of irregular warfare, so even two or three will cost you heavily if you let them take you unaware.

“If the terrain will permit, do not allow your troopers to ride bunched up, where a volley or a boulder could do real damage, for well be covering a forty-mile front and we want at least a peek into every valley and vale. It would not only be disobedient to our orders to leave a single village untouched, but very dangerous, as well, since we need our enemy fleeing before us, not skulking behind.

“You are all seasoned campaigners, else I’d not have placed you in command positions, so I’ll not insult your intelligence by lecturing you on dos and don’ts and the merits of basic preparedness. After all,” he treated them to a fleeting grin, “you’re commanding Freefighters who can forage for necessities, if need be, and don’t require the careful spoonfeeding of Confederation Regulars.”

Hari had joined in the brief chortling and chuckling. If the siege of Vawnpolis had taught them nothing else, they had all learned the essential superiority of the Freefighter and the Kindred nobility to the vaunted and highly trained Army of the Confederation.

At first, the strict discipline and unquestioning obedience to orders, the machinelike precision of movements and maneuvers, of the serried ranks of Regulars had impressed them. But that was before they had seen the other side of the coin. The discipline was exacted at the cost of the men’s individuality; the obedience robbed them of any initiative, and the precision had conditioned them into virtually will-less robots. The spectacle of a regiment’s even, ordered ranks trotting inexorably against an enemy position, emotionlessly dressing to fill the gaps left by killed or wounded comrades, halting as one man on order to hurl close-range volleys of darts, then raising a guttural cheer and pouring over their objective, was awe-inspiring. But the helplessness of the men of the same regiment in any case not covered by rules and regulations, when no officer or noncom was about to think for them, sickened and repelled the self-reliant condottieri and most of the freedom-worshiping noblemen, even as the habit of most Confederation officers of treating anyone not of equal or higher military rank as a bull-headed child irked and infuriated them.

“I’ll dole out the flesh tailors as far as they’ll go,” the thoheeks went on. “But there’re just not enough of them, and anyone wounded in a squadron lacking them will just have to take his chances with a good horseleech.