Robert Adams - A Cat of Silvery Hue

In after years, Bili was to recall that attack as absolutely hellish, with almost all that could going wrong. Only narrow gaps had been cleared through the interlaced abattis, and the Confederation infantry took heavy losses while threading slowly through the gaps. Slingstones and arrows and darts hailed thickly from the summit of the hillock, despite the shafts rained on the defenders by Confederation archers. Then, once the survivors were through the deadly hedge and were forming for the charge against the bristling breastworks, no less than three catapult stones—from Confederation engines, too!—fell short and bounced a sanguinous path through their ranks. The hundredweight missiles sent scales flying and mashed leather and flesh and bone into one indistinguishable jelly. Then, less than halfway through the charge, Strahteegos Ahrtos, his beaver down so that he could better shout orders, had his jaw smashed by a slingstone and fell clashing at Bili’s feet.

The sub-strahteegos who immediately took the lead got but a few yards farther when a pitchball took him full on the breastplate, and Bili’s last view of the unfortunate officer was of a writhing, shrieking, flame-shrouded figure rolling on the ground. The keeleeohstos who took over made it almost to the outer works—a chest-high earth-and-timber rampart—when a thick-shafted, four-foot engine dart spitted him through the belly, going through his high-grade plate as cleanly as a warm knife through soft cheese.

Then Bili had no time to see the succession of commanders. He leaped aside barely in time to avoid a trayful of red-hot sand, though a hideous scream from behind attested that the sand had landed on someone, but he surged forward and the powerful sweep of his heavy axe cleanly severed the tray holder’s leg. And, somehow, Bili found himself atop the earthwork, wreaking bloody carnage on the swift succession of opponents who appeared for eyeblinks before him, dimly recording the shock of blows on his own plate and helm. Oblivious to the familiar cacophony of battle, he concentrated only on living—and on killing.

Then only the backs of rebels running up toward the stone-walled summit of the salient met his eyes, and someone—was that Raikuh’s voice?—was shouting, “… Bili, Duke Bili, if we tail those bastards now, well take fewer casualties. The frigging archers won’t be able to range us without ranging their own as well.”

Bili tried to speak but had to work his tongue about in the desert of his mouth ere he could wet his throat enough to get the words out. “Whoever the new commander is, he’ll take time to dress his troops, however many of them are left. You’ve seen how these Regulars operate, man.”

Raikuh shook his armored head briskly. “There’re damn-all officers left, Duke Bili! The highest-ranking one I can see now is a lieutenant, and he’s missing a hand.”

“Then who led them up here?” demanded Bili. “Somebody must have led them onto this rampart.”

“If anyone did, it was you, Duke Bili!” snapped Raikuh bluntly. “They followed you once, they’ll do it again. If we wait around for them to forward another officer, damn few will make it up to those walls!”

Bili whirled to face the infantrymen and lifted his gory axe on high, roaring, “After them! After the bastards!”

For a moment, the Confederation Regulars wavered, partially reassured by the tone of command but on edge at the lack of formation.

“Sacred Sun fry your shitty arses!” bellowed a voice from their rear, its flavor unquestionably that of a parade ground and detail. “What are you pigfuckers waitin’ for? You heard the friggin’ order! Or has them there money fighters got more guts ‘n you? Move, damn you, move!”

And it was just as Raikuh had said. The defenders of the Walls had the bitter choice of loosing at the retreating remnants of the rampart force or having the bulk of their attackers run the slope unscathed. So they tried what they took to be a middle path, loosing at a high angle and hoping their shafts fell on the proper heads. Most of the rebel archers lived just long enough to rue the error.

Not that there were not close moments before the eventual victory. And one such brought the prescient Pawl Raikuh’s predictions a few steps closer to fruition.

The shouting, cheering, screaming, howling broil of men swept over the gateless walls, their jabbing spears and dripping swords leaving red ruin behind them, while shrieking panic fled before them. Bili’s pitiless axe scythed ruthlessly through the press atop the wall. At its inner edge, he kicked over a ladder down. which the less nimble defenders were fleeing, then jumped lightly to the stone paving of the inner court, briefly wondering where the defenders had lived in the absence of tents or huts within the fortification.

But the thought was necessarily short, for he was almost immediately confronted by a determined opponent with broadsword and huge bodyshield—a rebel officer, if the garish richness of the elaborately chased and inlaid full suit of plate was any indication. An experienced warrior, this one, for he handled longsword and weighty shield with practiced ease, catching Bili’s hard-swung axe on sloping shieldface and rushing inside, too close for the axe to be effective, his flickering blade feinting at Bili’s visorslits, before its needle point sank through leather and cloth and into the flesh and muscle high on the young thoheeks” thigh.

Roaring his pain and rage, Bili’s left hand let go the axehaft to pinion the wrist of that sword arm in an armor-crushing grip, and, heedless of the searing agony of the steel, he pivoted half around, slid his hand up the axehaft and ferociously rammed the thick central spike betwixt the gilded bars of his adversary’s visor.

With a gurgling, gasping scream, the swordsman stumbled back, his big shield dragging, his broadsword hanging by its knot. Bili disengaged his axe, whirled it up in both hands and swung a crashing blow against the side of that black-plumed helm. The swordsman was hurled to the pavement, where he lay, motionless and soundless, immense quantities of blood pouring from the slits of his visor.

And Bili strode on to his next encounter.

Geros, well protected by his two Freefighter guards and the big old infrantryman, Djim, had trailed the thoheeks and Pawl Raikuh as closely as was possible amid the chaos of shove, thrust, slash and cut. Leaden slingshot and various other missiles had holed and rent the Red Eagle Banner during that ghastly ascent of the hill, but Djim’s big infantry shield had sheltered Geros himself from all harm.

In the swirling court, both Pawl Raikuh and old Djim were swept out of the narrow view afforded Geros by his closed visor. Nonetheless, he kept doggedly on his lord’s heels, watching that gore-slimy axe down rebel after rebel-shattering shields, crumpling armor, severing limbs, smashing heads and chests. Behind Geros, wielding sabers and broadswords and a miscellany of pole arms, came twoscore Freefighters of the Morguhn Company and, after them, the battered remnants of the Confederation infantry, mostly spearless now but no less deadly with shortsword and shield.

The rebels fought hard, vicious as cornered rats, holding every inch of ground with a suicidal tenacity. But slowly they were driven back and back, their thinning line constricting around a central brick-and-stone platform mounting two large engines. Twice they tried to form a shield ring, but each time Bill’s terrible axe lopped off spearheads and beat down shields and the Freefighters poured, ravening, through the gaps, their blood-dimmed blades sending dozens more rebels down to gasp out their lives on the red-running ground.

Then the battle was boiling about the catapult platform and old Djim was once more at Geros’ side, only to disappear again a moment later. A sustained roar of cheering arose in the rear, loud enough that the sergeant could hear it even over the incredible, ear-splitting din engulfing him. He turned to see fresh companies of infantry, wave after wave of them, clamber atop the wall and jump down into the court.