Glen Cook - An Ill Fate Marshalling

„Dead," a bodyguard replied. „Some of them broke out, Sire. Eight hundred or a thousand. Most just ran for it. A few tried to attack Hsung. He drove them off." The man's voice was shaky. His face was pale and sweaty. He was terrified.

Bragi tried to support his own weight. Pain stabbed through his left side. He nearly went down.

„Stand up, Sire. Stand up. You have to stay up. They'll keep fighting as long as you're standing."

„No," he gasped. „Let them stop. Don't let them throw their lives away."

„They're taking no prisoners, Sire. No prisoners. They're killing anybody who tries to surrender."

„That's stupid." Ragnarson tried to curse Varthlokkur, Hsung, Mist and himself. Especially himself. No words would come. Not till, looking one bodyguard in the eye, he managed to gasp, „I'm sorry."

„Stand up, Sire," the man said as he sagged again. „You have to stand up."

A remote spark of will forced stiffness into his legs. He stood, ignoring the pain, closing his eyes to what was happening to the finest army the west had ever produced.

From far, far away he heard the clang of sword upon sword as eastern soldiers reached the ring of men surround­ ing him. He lost consciousness.

A soldier heaved at Baron Hardle's shoulder, trying to obtain his attention. „My Lord. My Lord!"

Hardle whirled, blade slashing. The soldier ducked, hav­ ing anticipated the stroke. Hardle recognized him. „Sorry, man. What is it?"

„We need you up top. The King is down. Sir Gjerdrum is dead."

Hardle eased out of the fighting, looked uphill. The royal guard had formed for a last stand. He saw the King sagging in the arms of his men. „How bad is he?"

„Smashed up, but not mortally. He passed out. Ribs stove in."

Hardle strode uphill. „Get that standard straightened up, soldier," he bellowed. „Let's see some pride." He attained the crown of the hill, surveyed the situation.

It did not look good. Those who had managed to break out were still running, not turning to help their comrades. „A curse on the lot of you," Hardle thundered. „May your cowardice be remembered forever. May they write songs of scorn naming your infamous names. May your children spit upon your graves." He almost enjoyed himself once he got going.

„A pity Prataxis isn't here to record this," he muttered. „The great last words of the rogue Nordmen. Talison! You yellow-livered son of a bitch, get back down there with your men and get a line formed." In a softer voice, „Got to break this melee somehow. You. You. You. Get over there and spook the rest of those horses. Run them down the hill."

„My Lord, if we run them off, how will we... ."

„Don't worry your pretty head about how you're going to get away, darling. You're not going to. Not unless we whip these bastards. If you try, I'll cut you down myself. I make myself clear? Anyone else in the dark?"

In fifteen minutes of frenzied order-giving he almost regained control. Almost. The absence of the men who had run made the difference. Once he was certain it was too late, he looked down on the enemy headquarters and murmured, „You know not what all you kill today, Tervola. Kavelin, we mourn thee before thy passing." He punched the men nearest him, demanding their attention. „You. You. All of you. Start chanting. Baxendala. Palmisano. So they never forget."

The end came slowly but inexorably. The madness of their overlords drove the eastern soldiers to needless death. Those great fools wanted so much more than victory. Nothing could satisfy them.

One by one, Kavelin's best went down.

Hardle was among the last. He died with a curse upon his lips, not for his enemies but for his brethren, those of his own class who would now have a free hand with the kingdom.

Year 1016 AFE

The short, wide Tervola in the boar mask walked slowly round the hilltop, stepping over torn bodies and mangled limbs. The setting sun cast long shadows across the battle­ ground. Crows leapt up swearing as he disturbed them. Flies buzzed, rising and falling in dense clouds. They masked the eyes of the dead, filling them with their eggs. „Where do they come from?" he murmured. „Why doesn't the wind blow them away?"

„Lord Ssu-ma?"

„Nothing, Lord Lun-yu. Nothing. Tell me. Will you report this as a great day in the history of imperial arms?"

„You sound displeased, Lord Ssu-ma."

Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka'i was displeased. „This shouldn't have been. It was a criminal waste of lives."

„But we saw the end of Ragnarson." Lord Lun-yu made that sound like the crucial event of recent history.

„Did we, now? Quite a few of them got away."

„Not he. He stood here on the hilltop till the end. Let's find the body. We'll parade it before the assembled Tervola."

„We will not."

„Lord?"

„There are limits, Lord Lun-yu. While I don't share your feelings about Ragnarson, I understand them. But I won't allow his corpse to be made a showpiece. He was a great foeman. He deserves honorable treatment. Moreover, I'm in his debt. He saved my life the day we finished the Deliverer. As you well know. You were watching from Lioantung's wall."

Lord Lun-yu scowled behind his mask but did not pro­ test. Lord Ssu-ma was in high favor.

„I pity his kingdom without him," Shih-ka'i said. „Re-274 turn to the Princess. We're finished here. Report a great victory if you dare tell the lie. Tell her I'll send as many men to the Matayangan front as I can." „Lord..."

„Please go, Lord Lun-yu. As you noted, I'm not pleased. I wish to be alone."

„As you command, Lord." Lord Lun-yu withdrew.

Shih-ka'i slowly advanced to the hilltop, stepping around and over the fallen. Here and there men still breathed raggedly, moaned softly, cried out. They begged for water in a half dozen tongues. Below, his men were starting to clean up. They were finishing the western wounded. Their own they were carrying to headquarters. The Tervola there would decide which could be saved. Most who had survived this long would be. The Tervola had the Power to aid them in healing.

Shih-ka'i stared northward, toward the home of the wizard Varthlokkur. He shook his head. He did not under­ stand. A man didn't abandon his friends.

He reached the circle where the royal guard had made its stand. Kavelin's army had fought well. On this hill the heart and guts had been carved out of two legions. Shih-ka'i thought real winners and losers were hard to dis­ cern.

What madness had brought Ragnarson through the Gap? He had walked into the trap with his eyes open... . No. He hadn't. He'd believed Lord Hsung to be in command. He wouldn't have come had he known otherwise. And had Lord Hsung been here still, Ragnarsoncrazy gamble would have paid. Western Army would have been swallowed by disaster.

„I have salvaged the east, and now the west. And I feel nothing. Not even a little pride." He looked eastward. „Will she throw me at Matayanga next?"

He circled the heap of bodies marking the westerners's last stand. „This one. His name was Hardle? A great warrior, the Princess said. Sad. Ragnarson's champions went down with him. His kingdom will become a madhouse when those fugitives return." He looked across the plain. Columns of dust marked the whereabouts of fleeing west­ erners. „You could have won," he told their distant backs.

„You could have won. But you broke discipline when you needed it most."

His own men would have died to the last if never given the order to flee.

He spied the fallen King beneath several of his guards. „And that was the difference, my friend. That was the difference." He rolled one of the dead men off. „Maybe I'll raise you a monument. We shouldn't forget our great enemies." He heaved another dead man aside.