Raikuh, who had been riding behind, overheard and came up on Geros' other side. "Horse County, my lord duke. You sent Sergeant Geros to Horse County with Hohguhn's force, and he so impressed Bohreegahd that when they came back to rejoin the army, I was"-he grinned slyly-"somewhat loath to let such a natural talent be wasted."

Bili roared and slapped the plate covering his thigh. "So you made him a sergeant and a standard-bearer, you larcenous bastard. Yes, captain, I judged you aright that day in Morguhnpolis, you've got just the touch of thievish ruthless-ness to make a fine Freefighter officer."

"Yes," agreed the captain, "I made him a sergeant because I like the lad and he's fast becoming a weapon master. However, he made himself standard-bearer during the charge up the roadway, when he saved it from falling after Trooper Hahluhnt took a dart in the eye.

"And, standard or no standard, my lord, he fought like a treecat. I had all I could do to shake the battlelust out of him long enough to make him lift the standard and sound that rally. But once he'd got my meaning, he kept waggling the Red Eagle and pealing that call, even with two or three Vawnee hacking at him!"

Bili regarded Geros, who couldn't have spoken had he tried, for a long moment. Then he brusquely nodded. "I presume others witnessed these acts, captain? Good. I'll visit your camp sometime this night." Snapping down his visor, the thoheeks sent Mahvros plodding a little faster toward several dismounted men kneeling and standing around an armored form stretched on the rocky ground.

Old Thoheeks Kehlee looked up, his lined cheeks tear-stained. It was difficult to tell that the dust-coated Mahvros was black, but the old man recognized the double-bitted axe borne by the visored rider. "It's my second son, Kinsman Bili. It's young Syros."

Bili stiffly dismounted, his every fiber protesting the movements. After recasing his axe, he stumped over to his peer's side, pulled off his heavy gauntlet and extended his damp, red hand in sympathy. There was no need to ask if the young man was dead, for blood and gray-pink brain tissue were feeding a swarm of flies crawling about the gaping, shattered skull.

Nor, it soon became apparent, was Syros Kehlee's death the worst of their losses. Thoheeks Rahs was sprawled dead on the road, and it was doubtful if Thoheeks Kahnuh would see the rise of Sacred Sun. Half a score of lesser nobles had been slain outright, with that many more suffering wounds of greater or lesser magnitude. Raikuh stoically reported the deaths of forty-three Freefighters, most of them downed by arrows or darts, with perhaps a dozen seriously enough wounded to require treatment. The less well-protected horses had suffered far more than had their armored riders, however, and the horse leeches' mercy-axes were busy.

But some small comfort could be derived from the fact that the Vawnee had left a good hundred of their number on the road or between it and the place where the pursuers had halted. Nor were all of them dead-at least, not when first found.                                         ---

Kleetos of Mahrtospolis was dragged before Thoheeks Bili, now sitting a captured and relatively fresh horse-a mind-speaking warhorse, stolen from dead Vawn Kindred and overjoyed to be back with a man such as Bili, whom he considered "his own kind."

Young Kleetos, who had survived the beastly mountain march without a scratch, was no longer handsome, his nose having been skewed to one side by the same blow which had torn off his visor and crumpled his beaver, Further, his captors had not been gentle in removing his helm, so that new blood mixed with old on his smoothshaven-in adoring emulation of Vahrohneeskos Drehkos-face. But even though the flesh around both eyes was swollen and discolored, the eyes themselves flashed the feral fires of pride and hatred. The battered head was held stiffly and high, and his carriage was as arrogant as his bonds and limp would permit.

"Duke Bili," said Bohreegahd Hohguhn, respectfully, "I r'membered you as sayin' that first day you took me on as how you wanted nobles alive, an' this here gamecock be a noble, if ever I seen sich!"

Bili's grim expression never wavered. He snapped coldly, "Your name and house and rank, if any, you rebel dog!"

Kleetos opened his blood-caked lips and spat out a piece of tooth, then proudly announced, "I be Kleetos, of the ancient House of Mahrtos, Lord of Mahrtospolis and lieutenant to my puissant lord, Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Mor-guhn, commander of Vawnpolis! Have you a name and rank, heathen? I'll not ask your house. In consideration of the fact that your mother probably never knew your father that well, such a question might embarrass you!"

Hohguhn's backhanded buffet split the boy's lips and sent him staggering, but gleaned no sound other than the spitting out of more teeth.

Bili raised his visor and dropped his beaver to reveal a wolfish grin. "You've got guts, Kleetos of Mahrtospolis. I'd thought such had been bred out of the old Ehleen houses. Too bad you're a rebel. But what's this about Drehkos Daiviz? He planned this damned ambush?"

The boy drew himself up. "My Lord Drehkos planned and led today, heathen. He captained the first line, I, the second."

"And Vahrohnos Myros had charge of Vawnpolis, eh?" probed Bili.

The prisoner shook his head, then staggered and would have fallen but for Hohguhn's strong grip on his arm. "Not so, heathen. Unfortunately, Lord Myros of Deskahti is not always . . . ahhh, reliable, being subject to fits and faintings and senseless rages. No, Vahrohnos Lobailos Rohszos of Vawn be Lord Drehkos' deputy."

Bili whistled softly. Who in hell could predict the strategies of a man with no formal war training? This upcoming siege might well run into Thoheeks Duhnkin's shearing time if the city was at all well supplied, prepared and manned . . . and there was but one way, now, of ascertaining that. He swung down off his mount and strode over to the prisoner, drawing his wide-Haded dirk.

Chapter XI

Kleetos gulped, despite himself, then said, "If you mean to murder me, I would ask a few moments to pray for the forgiveness of my sins."

Bill's answering smile looked sincere, and his voice was as smooth as warm honey. "Murder you? Why, lad, I would never condone or perpetrate such a crime. After all, are not we both noblemen of the Confederation, even though you be Ehleen and I Kindred?"

Turning to Hohguhn and extending the hilt of the dirk, he snapped, "Lieutenant, loose this gentleman immediately! Find him a horse and bring me his sword."

At the same time, Bili mindspoke, "You treacherous, boy-bugging swine of an Ehleen whoreson! For the thousandth part of a silver thrahkmeh, I'd have your balls out and your yard off and then bugger you with your own prick!"

Satisfied  that the prisoner, like so many pure-blood or
near-pure-blood Ehleenee, lacked the mindspeak talents hereditary to Horseclans Kindred, Bili took the limping boy's arm and gently led him over to give him a drink of the powerful brandy-wine-water mixture in his own bottle.

To have called Kleetos stunned would have been a gross understatement. He had expected death at the very least. Had steeled himself to accept it with the stoicism and courage shown by the Vawn Kindred-men, women, children, even babes-he had so lately seen tortured, raped, butchered by his uncle and cousins and their rabid followers. He had expected any suffering, any humiliation. But here he was being treated courteously by a tall, blue-eyed pagan who, nonetheless, bore himself like a true gentleman of pure Ehleen. antecedents. Kleetos' naive mind reeled.

While his "guest" sipped the strong restorative, Bili ranged out his mindspeak in search of the High Lord. He had never before tried real farspeak, but he did know Milo's mind, and after a few moments Milo responded.

When Bili had explained the situation and his intentions, he could almost hear Milo's dry chuckle. "Bili, you amaze me a little more with each passing day. Yes, it's a good plan, and his information could well be valuable to us. Keep the puppy by you in camp, feed him a good dinner, treat him to a wash and some fresh clothing. And tell him you've sent for the ahrkeethoheeks' own physician to see to his hurts. Master Ahlee and Bard Klairuhnz will join you when the shoat be well cosseted."

By the time they had consumed a finer meal than Kleetos .had tasted in many a long week, they were on a first-name basis, and Kleetos was reflecting that captivity might have very definite advantages, especially could he succeed in seducing his strong, handsome captor, whom he was already calling "Sweet Bili."

As for "Sweet Bili," the femininity of his young prisoner, which became more pronounced and overt with every passing minute and cup of wine, set his teeth on edge. Although he was aware that sexual relationships between men were not only an accepted and usual practice amongst the noble Ehleen families, but were not even considered dishonorable so long as the men also wed women and produced legitimate offspring, Bili was personally repelled by the entire'concept. He hoped that he could prevent his deepening disgust and his basic dislike for this precious, now lisping creature from being mirrored in his face and his conduct.

After Milo, in his disguise as Klairuhnz, the traveling bard, had sung a few verses of the War Song of Clan Morguhn, an archaic Ehleen love song and a humorous Freefighter ballad, Kleetos was approached by the physician, Master Ahlee, his snowy robes billowing about him.

Kleetos stared in unabashed fascination at the man now seating himself before him. He had heard of such men, of course, but had never actually seen one. Hands and face and scar-ridged, hairless scalp, all were the dark, dusky brown of an old saddle, though the palms were a startling pink. One of those pink-palmed hands disappeared into a fold in the white robes and emerged holding a polished crystal globe suspended from a thin golden chain. Grasping the ends of the chain, he allowed the spinning globe to dangle before Kleetos' eyes.

His deep, infinitely soothing voice crooned, "Look, young sir, look at the ball. See the light within the ball? Is not the light beautiful? Fix your eyes on the light, young sir. Become one with the beautiful light. Let yourself sink into the light ..."

Slowly, ever so slowly, the young rebel did just that, and, when he was in full trance state, the physician yielded his place to the High Lord, at the same time drawing a tablet and a case of ink and quills from beneath his robes in preparation for noting and sketching whatever the prisoner revealed.

When Kleetos "awakened," he could feel bandages swathing his face and head. But this was not what utterly horrified him. "But . . . but what does this mean, Sweet Bili?" he demanded, raising his fettered wrists and clanking the chain, which joined them.

Bili stared at him as he might have at some loathsome insect wriggling on a pinpoint. The chill of his voice matched the blue ice of his eyes. "It means, you . . . you thing, that at dawn you and our wounded will commence a journey back to my duchy; they will ride, you will have a choice of walking or being dragged behind the horse you'll be roped to, for you deserve nothing better. When you arrive in Morguhnpolis, you will be delivered to my city prison, where my Master Bahrtuhn will have his deepest, dankest, darkest, slimiest cell waiting for you. When your city falls, those nobles and priests who are of Morguhn will be slowly whipped to death, crucified or impaled, depending upon their ranks and the enormity of their offenses.

"What your thoheeks does with you and your like will be his decision-though I will recommend against impalement in your case, since you might enjoy it, at least at first."

Kleetos burst out, "Thoheeks Vawn is dead! I saw his body, what was left of it."

Bili smiled grimly. "There be a new Thoheeks Vawn, now. He is Hwahltuh, Chief of Sanderz, and I would that he could be here this evening, but he and his clansmen are presently scouting out the environs of Vawnpolis."

"Ha! Now I know you lie, heathen," scoffed Kleetos. "There be no House of Sanderz. And besides, we have disbanded the Council of Threes, which means that there is no one to approve an heir. And if there were, there'd be no heir to approve." His harsh laugh bore a sinister undertone.

"You'd not know the Clan Sanderz, rebel," Bili agreed. "They've been less than six moons in the Confederation, after riding and fighting their way east from the Sea of Grass."

"Wild Horseclansmen, heathen?" inquired Kleetos. "Who are you trying to impress with your lies? Me? Why even I know that new-come barbarians are given freshly conquered lands. But only the High Lord-or rather that cursed Undying sorcerer who has usurped the title-can make such a gift, anyway."

"Just so, rebel dog," Bili smiled. "I myself witnessed the ceremony of investiture, which was held at Morguhnpolia rather than the capital. As for the state of the land, Vawn will be as a freshly conquered principality when we've flushed all you death worshipers out of it. And, as for sorcery, the High Lord just used it to read your mind."

"Which," put in Milo, "was like swimming through a sewer! I have lived near a millennium, but I have never before encountered such depravity in one so young. I must confess, I had long thought that the last Ehleen High Lord, Demetrios Treeah-Pohtohmas, represented the absolute nadir of human compassion, but I think that your vast amusement and completely unnatural satisfactions in the pointless tortures and humiliations of helpless, harmless men, women and children who happened to be in your power would have shocked Demetrios at his worst."

In the wake of the calamitous attack, the van and flank guards were reinforced to double strength, so that scouting or campsite activities would not again unduly weaken them. And the nobles and troopers now rode fully armed from commencement to end of each day's march, regardless of heat, discomfort or weariness.

During all of the next, long day, Milo and Aldora made it a point to ride with the forward elements of the column, being especially wary during the late-afternoon hour when the previous ambush had occurred. But the day and march were uneventful, as was the heavily guarded camp through all the night. It was not until three hours after sunrise that the next blow was struck.

With the light of false dawn, the vanguard contingent had clattered out of camp, most of the nobles and their Free-fighters with the flankers taking the road a bare half-hour later. Then had the long, serried ranks of infantry set hide-shod feet to the measured beat of the marching drums, thankful that but two days' march separated them from Vawnpolis, cursing the muddy morass which last night's rain had made of the hoof-churned road as vociferously as had they cursed yesterday's dust.

At their departure, the exodus of the wagons of supplies and equipment commenced. While officers' and nobles' servants struck tents and loaded baggage, apprentice sanitarians directed squads of sappers in filling latrines and offal pits. Fires were extinguished and teams hitched and the rearguard kahtahfrahktoee and lancers impatiently sat stamping horses on the fringes of the bustle. Though all mounted and accoutered for the road, they had not yet assembled in marching order but were gathered in small groups, chatting, jesting, spitting, watching the beehive of activities within the perimeters of the soon to be abandoned campsite.

Because his superior officer, Sub-strahteegos Arnos Tchainee, lay ill of a fever in one of the medical wagons now lumbering along the Vawnpolis road, Captain Gaib Linstahk found himself in nominal command of the entire squadron of kahtahfrahktoee as well as of the two troops of lancers trickling out in ones and twos on the flanks of the slowly departing baggage train Nor were these the least of his problems, for, as the Undying High Lady Aldora was traveling this day in her huge, luxurious yurt, he had to deal with the frequently insubordinate commander of her mounted bodyguard, as well as with threescore country noblemen, all surly and irascible at being placed in the rear and not the van.

Trailed by his bugler, the squadron colors and a couple of supernumerary junior noncoms, Gaib was leading his charger, which appeared on the verge of throwing a shoe, toward a still-unpacked traveling forge, his lips moving in curses at wellbred bumpkins who carried their feelings ill balanced on their armguards and gave not one damn for his military rank, rendering him what little deference they did only because he was heir to a Kindred vahrohnos.

A mindspoken warning from one of the lancer noncoms caused him to glance back the way they had come yesterday, at the body of mounted men now approaching, a bedraggled-looking lot from what he could see of them. More volunteer irregulars from Morguhn and other duchies, no doubt, though in a larger contingent than usual. And doubtless commanded by still another noble arsehole, who'd marched them all through the rainy night, and-and then he heard the first shouts of fear and alarm, saw the first flight of shafted death arcing upward from the nearest cover, heard-or thought he heard-that never-to-be-forgotten, ominous hissing hum.

Swinging up on his mount, loose shoe or no loose shoe, he roared, "Bugler, sound To the Colors'!" Then he snapped, "Follow me!" to the color bearer and noncoms. Adding, when he realized they had not seen what he had, "Sun and Wind, lower your visors and clear your steel; we're under attack!"

Promising himself to have that thrice-damned fool of a Danos hanged, Vahrohneeskos Drehkos presented his twelve-foot lance and clapped heels to his charger, shouting a snarled, "Charge, damn it, chargel The goddam archers have loosed too soon!"

Up the road which the camp had straddled they surged, all winking lancepoints and flashing blades, fanning out as the roadsides became clear enough to strike on a broader front Drehkos had schooled them well.

All the miserable night they had hidden in a steep, brush-grown ravine, shivering and hungry, but trusting utterly in their valiant commander. With the departure of most of the invaders and the concurrent cessation of roving patrols, the archers and dartmen had padded forth, under command of Senior Sergeant Danos, bound for predetermined positions within range of the invader camp and with strict orders to hold their shaft until the van of the attack column was abreast of them, that the shock of the charge might strike upon the very heels of the shock of the arrowstonn.

Bracing his buttocks against the high, strong cantle of his war kak and taking a fresh grip on the ashwood shaft of his lance, Drehkos felt an arrow strike the backplate of his cuirass and heard behind him the scream of a horse, saw the kahtahfrahktoee archers-fortunately but a bare handful of the bastards!-loose a second, then a third volley before wheeling their mounts and trying to force a way through the boiling confusion of the camp to where their colors waved and a bugle pealed the call, over and over.

Drehkos' own precipitate archers still were loosing into the chaotic mess the camp had become, but he knew that they could not long continue to so cover his advance. Not only would they run the risk of cutting down his riders, but with resources being husbanded toward the eventual defense of the city, arrows and darts were in short supply and had been allotted in limited quantities; just enough to take out most of the mounted escort so that the bulk of the forces might devote their efforts not to fighting but to packing the mules they were trailing and any captured animals with such supplies as might be easily available and firing anything they could not take with them, ere they faded back into the sheltering hills.

The maneuver outlined in the High Lady's book had been patterned for use in flatter, more heavily wooded country, but Drehkos' quick, flexible mind had immediately visualized a way to adapt it to the somewhat different conditions. The advance of the striking force should have been concealed by forest or fold of ground, but since none was available within practical range of the objective, and since latecomers had been hastening to join the army since first it entered Vawn, Komees Hari's brother had decided to gamble on simply riding up the road, bold as brass, until he reached striking distance.

And it would've worked, too, he thought, as his big spotted stallion bore him nearer and nearer to the line' of heavily arrried nobles drawing up to take the brunt of his charge. Fighting armored, determined men differed radically from riding down disorganized and/or dismounted survivors of an arrow rain. He gritted his teeth, thinking, I'll lose men today, maybe as many as I lost day before yesterday. As the war cries commenced to sound both behind and before, Drehkos roared out his own, original, perhaps, but very very feeling.

"Oh, goddam you, Danos! Damn you, damn you, DAMN YOU, DAMN YOUl"

Danos had not been happy of late, despite his promotion to senior sergeant. Lord Drehkos' complete regimentation of all the inhabitants of Vawnpolis had made Danos' sex life highly dangerous, while the virtual eradication of the dog packs and feral cats and the deep inroads recently made on the rat population had made disposal of his few victims' bodies a chancy business at best. And that was while he still was in the city, before he had "volunteered" for this insane and uncomfortable method of slow suicide.

Nor would he have come riding out on this madness but for the certain knowledge that to remain behind was to place himself in undesired proximity to Lord Myros, Lord Drehkos' deputy for the fortifications. And such was simply not to be borne!

Though the dark, gray-haired, brooding vahrohnos had seldom spoken to him, and then only in line of duty, since Lord Drehkos had literally dragged him from the gutter and restored him to the thin ranks of the gentry, yet Danos feared Myros instinctively, as he would fear a viper. And he did not even know why. Unless . . . unless it was those eyes.

Black, they were, the blackest that ever Danos had seen, yet with a shiny, shimmering bluish glint like chunks of mountain coal. But Danos could see something else lurking behind those eyes, sometimes peering slyly from their depths, and  it was that .  .  .  that  indefinable  menace  which  set Danos' skin prickling. And when it peeked out in Danos' presence, while the debased nobleman bared his unnaturally white teeth in one of his mirthless grimaces, then Da^nos knew terror. He was convinced that that nameless thing harboring behind those eyes could see to the very depths of his soul, knew his every misdeed and was waiting but a favored time and place to reveal all-or . . . And then Danos would tremble like a trapped rabbit, his mind unable to retain the thought of what horrors the loathsome Lord Myros and the satanic being which dwelt within him might demand in payment for continued silence.

So he had ridden out with Lord Drehkos, who had bluntly praised his unswerving loyalty and dauntless courage, then placed him in command of the archers. At least they had been eating more and better since leaving the city, that much Danos could say in truth, what with game and wandering livestock and supplies from several small parties who had ridden in to join the army only to be bushwhacked by Drehkos' scouts. Of course, conscientious Lord Drehkos always insisted that the bulk of any nonperishables be packed to the city, but still the raiders ate well and frequently.

Furthermore, and to Danes' vast relief, the lord saw to it that the lightly armored archers and dartmen were called upon to do no hand-to-hand combat, covering their withdrawal if necessary with his mounted irregulars. So even the perpetual grousers had to admit that things were not as bad as they might have been.

But none of the blessings could do aught to relieve Danos' principal problem. During those few short halcyon weeks when he had been able to indulge his tastes on a victim every night, his body had become accustomed to the regular, glorious release. Now it was all that he could do on far too many nights to prevent Satan from beguiling his hands into pollution of his own flesh. He had so far resisted all the Evil One's blandishments-God be praised-but the need for release was becoming more and more pressing with each succeeding day.

That was why, when from his hiding place he first sighted a woman-slender and lovely, with long, black hair-he thought his head would surely burst of the blood thundering in it, and he was not even aware of having released his whistling signal shaft until he saw men going down in the camp and the tumult swelled even louder than the roaring in his ears. If he was aware that he had just dashed Lord Drehkos* careful plans, it was of less moment to him than the urgency of his drive to have that woman-to see her blood, taste its warm saltiness; to hear her pleas, screams, whimpers and, finally, rattling gasps as the life left her torn body. Uncontrollable shudders shook his body so strongly that he dropped his bow and nearly fell on his face when he bent to retrieve it.

But with it once more in his hand, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked, drew, loosed; then another, nock, draw, loose, one after another, mechanically, almost unaware of his actions, mind floating in a daydream of blood and female flesh. But he was a master archer and accustomed to the stalk and the chase and to dropping faster and smaller and far more elusive targets than the men and horses less than a hundred yards distant. His years of training and experience took over, aiming and allowing for wind, distance and movements of the slow quarries. And every shaft thudded home in flesh.

Then his questing hand could find no more arrows. Carefully he laid aside his bow and, smiling, drew his short, heavy sword. At a fast trot, he set out toward the milling turmoil of the campsite, swinging wide to avoid the cavalry engagement broiling on his right. And the other archers and dartmen drew their own steel and followed him, not for love of him as they would have followed Lord Drehkos, but simply because he was their assigned leader and seemed to know what he was doing.

But once within the corpse-littered camp, Danos halted. His sword dangling, he stood dumfounded, wondering if all had been but a dream born of wishful thinking. Not only could he spy no woman, but even that huge wagon was nowhere to be seen. The space he could have sworn that wagon had occupied held only a dead horse archer and a swaying, badly wounded horse.

Ayaaarghl" The shout burst almost in Danos' ear, and only his instinctive flinch kept the cook's long iron spit from the archer's unarmored body. But the cook was middle-aged, stout and clumsy, and before he could stop his forward rush, Danos had recovered enough to jam his shortsword to the very guard into the fat, bulging belly. Eyes bugging, mouth opening and closing and opening like a beached sunfish, the man dropped his makeshift weapon and clapped both hands to the fatal wound so closely that when Danos withdrew his steel, the sharp edges gashed palms and fingers to the bone. He just stood there, staring down at his mangled hands, which could not seem to keep the white-and-red-and-purple-pink coils of gut where they belonged.

Danos had no time to finish the cook, for he was fully occupied in ducking the furious swings of a big, balding man's big, wooden maul. But then Danos' attacker screamed and dropped his maul, his mouth and nose pouring out a torrent of blood; he fell to his knees and then onto his face, the haft and part of the blade of a throwing axe standing out of his back. Danos looked about for the man who had thrown the axe-and saw a sight which froze the blood in his veins.

Chapter XII

Captain Gaib Linstahk's first reaction was to reach a central point of the camp and rally his kahtahfrahktoee. Better armed and armored than the lancers, they and the nobles should be able to charge right into the damned sniping archers, flush the bastards out and ride them down like the dogs they were. But that was before it became obvious that those rapidly advancing horsemen were not thundering up the road to reinforce the camp, but rather to attack it

He mindspoke the commander of lancers over on the other side, nearer to the road. "Captain Rahdjuhz, rally 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 over the camp before I can form my squadron to counterattack."

Gaib thought he could actually hear the yelp of the lancer officer. "Sun and Wind, man!" the reply came beaming. "Have you taken leave of your senses? A good half of those Vawnee look to be heavily armed. They'll go through my two troops like-"

With seconds as precious as emeralds, Gaib furiously cut off his subordinate. "Wind take you for a coward, Ahl! Follow my orders or give over your command to a man with more guts! I said you'll be the 'second line, dammit; those heavy-armed fire-eaters of ours will take the brunt of it."

Then he sought the mind of Thoheeks Kehn Kahr. "If you please, my lord, has your group taken many casualties?"

He could almost see the steaming, red face-Thoheeks Kahr had gained years and much flesh since last he had actively campaigned or worn armor in summer heat-but there was ill-concealed eagerness in the return the nobleman beamed. "Vahrohneeskos Behrklee's son, Steev, has a broken leg ... I think. His horse took a dart and fell ere he could clear leather. And we've lost a few more horses, but no gentlemen, praise be to Wind and Pitzburk. But we await your orders, Captain Vahrohnof-son. When do you want us to fight? Where?"

Gaib breathed a silent sigh of relief. The thoheeks and his half-troop were only technically under his command. They could all see the charging Vawnee from their present position and must be aware that the odds against them were something over ten to one. Had Kahr opted for flight rather than fight, Gaib would have been powerless to do aught save curse him.

"If it please my lord, form a single rank to block the road. Place your left flank at that deep gully and your right at the perimeter ditch. The lancers will be forming behind you. You must hold them until the High Lady is safely away and my squadron be formed. My bugles sounding The Charge' will be your signal to disengage. Does it please my lord to understand?"

"Captain Vahrohnos'-son, nothing has pleased me more since my favorite mare dropped twin foals, one black and one white! And both stallions! We'll hold. By Sacred Sun, well hold!"

Then Gaib tried to range the mind of the arrogant Clan Linsee prick who commanded the High Lady's guard. Meeting with no success, he beamed directly to the High Lady herself.

"Yes," came her answer, "I am aware that we are under attack and have so mindspoken the High Lord, in the van. He comes, but it will take time. I've listened in on your beamings, as well, captain. You are a good officer and a credit to the army. Your decisions are sound. Would that I might sit a horse at your side, but it is my time-of-the-moon and I have imbibed of a decoction of herbs. Though they leave my mind clear, so seriously do they affect my balance and coordination that I doubt I could draw my saber, much less use it."

"Another reason, my lady, that I would have you on the road," Gaib mindspoke emphatically. "As of this dawn, my squadron was understrength, and I doubt not that we've lost horses and men to the missiles. Yonder comes a strong force, and. if I'm to have sufficient weight to smash their attack, I'll need every sword. I recall that your team be hitched, my lady. Let it please you to take road forthwith-but you'd best leave some few of your archers to retard pursuit if we fail here."

Aldora agreed to adopt his plan, adding. "Wind guard you, young Linstahk. The Confederation cannot afford the loss of men such as you."

While his lieutenants and sergeants formed up their half-strength units, Gaib and his bugler and color bearer sat their mounts with an outward show of calm, ignoring alike the incredible tumult and confusion of the milling, bleating, dying noncombatants and the feathered death still falling from the clear, sunny skies.

Thoheeks Kahr's nobles were strung out in position barely in time. The leading elements of the Vawnee cavalry struck their thin line of steel with the sound of a thunderclap and the line bowed inward, inward, inward at its center, until Gaib was certain that it must snap and let the screaming horde of Vawnee through to pour over the mostly unarmed throng of servants-, cooks, smiths and wagoneers.

But like a well-tempered blade, the line slowly commenced to straighten, helped by the yelling lancers and, unexpectedly, by fifty unmounted sappers armed with a motley of long-handled spades and sawbacked engineer shortswords. Witnessing the valor of these support troops, Gaib vowed that never again would he either engage in or tolerate the sneers and snickers when a "dungbeetle"-which was what his peers called sapper officers-entered the mess.

The ringing, clanging blacksmith symphony raged on, with the superior weight of the Vawnee bearing the defenders back and back. But Thoheeks Kahr was nought if not true to his word, for every foot was hotly, bloodily contested and the meager gains of the rebels were dearly bought. In spite of their being stupidly proud, supercilious amateur soldiers, Gaib flushed with pride that his veins surged with the same rich blood as these men, for they, one and all, fought with the tenacity of the best professionals.

Then the squadron sergeant-major was saluting him with a flourish of gleaming saber. "Sir, the troops be formed on squadron front Half the High Lady's guards ride with us. I posted them to Thehltah Troop on the left flank."

Gaib nodded stiffly. "Very good, sergeant-major. The High Lady is away then?"

"Yes, sir. At the gallop. She should be well up the road by now."
Gaib slowly drew his saber and smilingly saluted the grizzled noncom. "Well, then, Baree, let us see what these rebels know of saber drill. Or had you expected to die in bed?

"Bugler, 'Walk, March,' if you please. Then, 'Draw Sabers.' " Dropping his reins over the pommel knob, Gaib first raised his beaver, then lowered his visor, sloping the back of his saber blade against his epaulette in the regulation carry. The troop buglers echoed the ordered calls and a chorus of metallic zweeps behind him coincided with the first steps of his well-trained charger, who probably knew cavalry drill as well as any man in the squadron.
Panicky, the noncombatants were, but not so panicky-especially since the death-dealing arrows and darts had slackened off-as not to recognize what was now coming and to stir their stumps to avoid being ridden down by charging kah tahfrah ktoee.

When his path was relatively clear, Gaib signaled the bugler. "Trot, March" rang out and the familiar jingling rattle of armor and equipment penetrated even Gaib's closed helm. As always, at such a point in an action, his chest felt constricted and his guts were a-roil, his mouth was dry as dead leaves and he knew that his bladder must soon burst. Drawing himself up straighter in the kak, he began to sing, his voice booming in the confines of the helm.

"... Oh, let us sing our battle song, Of saber, spear and bow, Clan Linstahk, Clan Linstahk, Your courage we'll show."

Noting the decreasing distance, Gaib gave another signal, and "Gallop, March" pealed from his bugler's instrument, being taken up by the troop buglers halfway through. He mindspoke his stallion, Windsender, "I know you lack that shoe, and I'm sorry,, brother, but this must be. We must fight ere I can see to you."
"Your brother understands," the horse beamed back. "It is not very uncomfortable, and a good fight does not happen every day."

At the moment he gauged best, Gaib raised his saber high over his head, then swung it down and forward, swiveling his arm so that the keen edge lay uppermost. Five bugles screamed the "Charge."

To his credit, Drehkos managed to get away with a little better than half his original force, but, even so, he knew that their raiding days were now done. The very flower of the rebel cause lay trampled into the gory mire on the eastern fringes of the Confederation camp. Worse, he had failed to secure the supplies Vawnpolis needed so desperately. Nor had he succeeded in wiping out the service troops and burning the wheeled transport, which last would have been a crippling blow to so large an army so deep in hostile territory. If only the plan had worked, if only Danos had started the arrow-storm at the proper time ... Danos!

But Drehkos could no longer feel anger at the archer. He was just too weary. And it was not just a physical weariness born of the exhaustion of battle. No, it was a weariness of Soul, a desire for nothing more than a long, long sleep, a sleep which would not be disturbed for the rest of eternity. Perhaps in such a sleep he could forget. Could forget the idiocy of so much sacrifice and suffering in the name of a lost rebellion and an antique god, could forget the never-ceasing loneliness-which persisted even in the heart of an overcrowded city; whose chill he suffered in the heat of a sunny day even while chatting with these men who would bleed and die for him.

And, to Drehkos, that was the irony and tragedy of this insanity within which he was trapped. These strong, brave, vibrant men, all loving life yet going down into bloody death; while he, who would welcome death, since she who once had been his life was now long years with Wind, rode unscathed through ambush and battle, raid and retreat. Of course, he died a little with each man he lost, but these small deaths were only a deepening of sorrow, not the surcease he so craved.

When the wounded had been afforded what little could be done, he gathered his battered band and set them on the long, circuitous return to their city, wondering if he had bought any time or respect with almost five hundred lives.

He had. It took Milo over two weeks to sort out the shambles of that last attack, to replace the sappers and cooks, sanitarians and smiths, artificiers and wagoners killed or wounded or missing. He also sent for the prairiecats, ruefully admitting his mistake in underestimating the temper and talents of the rebels.

In the conference chamber of his pavilion, still pitched where it had been that hellish morning, he reiterated his error to the assembled nobles, Aldora and old Sir Ehdt, adding, "I would not plan on being home for harvest, gentlemen, nor even for Sun-birth Festival. And if Myros fights the city, with its vastly improved defenses, as well as he has fought the countryside, you will be lucky to be home for spring planting."

"But, my lord." Bili Morguhn wrinkled his brow. "Those few prisoners we have taken all say the same: Drehkos Daiviz, not Myros of Deskahti, is their leader."

"And," put in Sir Ehdt, foregoing his introductory harumph, this one time, "I would doubt that Myros conceived that devilish attack or planned those masterful withdrawals. He's simply not got the mind for such."

Thoheeks Kahr shifted his bandage-swathed body into a more comfortable position in his chair, then demanded, "Now, dammit, sir, you spent most of our last meeting a-chortling over the way he's altered Vawnpolis and assuring us all he's the best thing since stone walls. Now here you be, saying he don't have the brains to fight nor run!"

"My lord duke," said the siegemaster with evident restraint, "it has long been known that Myros of Deskahti possessed enviable talents at the twin arts of defense and siegecraft. The wonders he has performed on Vawnpolis are but additional proof of those talents. But, my lord duke, worthwhile and admirable though those talents be, they be the only ones he owns, militarily speaking. When it comes to marshaling troops and performing any sort of maneuver calling for split-second decisions on alternate strategies, his head might as well be filled with horse turds."

"But this Drehkos Daiviz," the ahrkeethoheeks took it up, "is a less likely candidate than even the vahrohnos. -I myself talked with certain of young Morguhn's folk, men who've known this Vahrohneeskos Drehkos all his life, and they all agree that the only things at which he really excels are guzzling, screwing and spending money like a drunken Freefighter. Yet all who know assure me that a cavalryman of surpassing excellence was necessary to chew us up so badly with so small a band. I simply cannot see a debauched, middle-aged spendthrift with no more war training than have I performing so."

Milo laid aside his pipe, half-musing, "And yet, could it be possible that the Confederation has missed a bet on Drehkos Daiviz? Could he be one of those rare military geniuses who need but the proper combination of circumstances to reveal and utilize heretofore unguessed talents? True, I met and conversed with the vahrohneeskos, and he failed to impress me. But I find even so far fetched a theory as this more believable than that Myros of Deskahti, whom I came to know better than I would have preferred, either could or would change his spots."

Aldora's clear voice: "And, too, there be this, gentlemen. About fifty years ago, I wrote a treatise on proper employment of cavalry. It is hard to recall after so long, but I believe Thoheeks Sami of Vawn, grandfather of the recently deceased Thoheeks Vawn, had a copy made to add to his large collection of books and writings. Now if that book still be in Vawnpolis, this sudden cavalry expertise of either Myros or Drehkos may have a logical explanation, after alL What think you on this, Milo?"

"I say, Wind help us, if you are correct in your surmise," Milo said gravely. "Now that you jog my memory, I recall something else. Thoheeks Sami was a real scholar for his generation, with a penchant for collecting books on all aspects of warfare. If it be true that his library has survived and is in the hands of a rebel who can read, appreciate and utilize it, I may have to hie the rest of the Confederation Army down here or sacrifice a ruinous number of those we have to hack a way into Vawnpolis!"

Bili shrugged. "But why, my lord? Why not invest the city, throw up siegeworks, emplace our engines and simply sit and pound and burn and starve the bastards out?"

Sir Ehdt answered. "Time, Duke Bili-time."

"Yes, Kinsman," Thoheeks Skaht agreed. "You and I and Thoheeks Baikuh are not too far from our lands but most of our Kindred have a fair distance to go and harvest time be near."

Milo reiterated. "As I said earlier, gentlemen, I'd not plan on being home for harvest-especially not in the light of what the High Lady and I have recalled. Barring a miracle of some order, it may well be spring ere we see the inside of Vawnpolis."

While most sat in silence, striving to digest this unpleasantness, a guards officer bustled in and caught the High Lord's eye. "My lord, a ... ahhh, delegation of mountain barbarians has suddenly appeared in the very center of the camp. Somehow they must have filtered through patrols, sentries and all. They are . . . most arrogant. They demand to have words with the commander of this army."

The men who at length were ushered into the conference chamber were fascinating to Bili, who had never before seen men of their race. He immediately decided they were the most villianous crew of unwashed cutthroats he had ever beheld. Yet their spokesman bore himself with a definite majesty and, despite their uniform tatters and lack of manners, all radiated a fierce pride and unmistakable self-assurance.

They were tall, big-nosed, large-eyed men, most of them as dark as kath-ahrohs Ehleenee. They were all muscle and sinew and scarred, dirty skin over large bones. Their loose, ragged homespun breeches were tucked into short boots of undressed hide, and a miscellany of antique armor was fitted over billowing sleeved shirts of the same material. Because they had stoutly refused to surrender their arms, they were almost surrounded by a score of guardsmen, arrows nocked and bows half-drawn.

Ignoring the other men, the leader-Bili surmised him to be a hereditary chief, since his age, roughly twenty-five, was less than that of most of his companions-swaggered forward and addressed himself to Milo.

"I am Hyk Ahrahkyuhn, Undying witchman. Are you come to steal more of our lands? You should have brought more fighters for this collection of dullards will win you only enough to hold their bleached bones. Take your landstealers back to their sties, witchman, and they'll live to breed you more shoats. For I warn you, my tribe will not be robbed again. Bring this herd of rooting swine into our mountains, and the treecats will be a-feasting on their stones and yards whilst their sows are wailing and taking their pleasures with carrots and corncobs!"

There was a concerted growl from those about the table. Both the Skaht and the Baikuh surreptitiously fingered their hilts, grim hatred on their faces at this confrontation with an ancient enemy. But Thoheeks Hwahltuh smiled, recognizing and appreciating the arrogance and courage of a kindred spirit.

Milo smiled too. Take your headmen back home, Der Hyk. We have no designs on your mountains-not this time, anyway. This army is in Vawn on other business. We'll only fight you if we have to, if you are so unwise as to force the issue."

The mountain chief drew himself up, his black eyes flashing defiance. "We have taken over the border forts, witchman; we will not give them back!"

"Then they'll be taken back!" snarled Thoheeks Skaht, half rising, hand gripping hilt, the big knuckles shining white. "And it's your wormy women will be breeding more of your kind to he-goats and jackasses, which latter must have been your paternity, from the look of your long donkey face!"

Big, white teeth flashing, the young chief grinned derisively at the furious thoheeks. "Ah, Chief Skaht, you have never been able to forgive my Uncle Moorehd for stealing your sister, have you? Yet he made her a far lustier husband than could any of your soft, womanly lowlanders. Do you know that he got at least one child a year on her for as long as she lived? Do you know that-"

The Skaht roared; his steel flashed clear as his chair crashed over and he commenced a stalking progress around the table, a hideous growl issuing from betwixt his bared teeth. The mountaineers' hands moved toward their own hilts, and the guardsmen's bows were drawn to the full.

"Damn you, Skaht, sit down!" Neither Milo's voice nor mindspeak could penetrate the berserk nobleman's rage. If this chief and his headmen were massacred here this night, there would be a full-scale war the length of the border.

But then Bili was blocking the Skaht's progress. Smiling disarmingly, he extended his hand, saying, "Give me your sword, Kinsman." But there was more than mere words to the encounter. Milo and Aldora, at least, could feel, could sense, some indefinable something being woven between the two men.

Suddenly the Skaht half-turned and lashed out with his blade. And Bili was on him. His sinewy arms locked about the older man's body, pinning his arms to his sides. Even so, Milo was gashed ere he could wrest the sword from the Skaht's hand.

Snapping, "Bind him until he's in control of himself again!" the High Lord turned back to the delegation. "Your ancestors were both proud and brave Der Hyk, but you disgrace their memory for you are neither, you are only foolhardy! Sun and Wind help your people if you do not soon gain a measure of wisdom to match your advancing years. If you wish to commit suicide, name a successor and do so privately and decently. Do not ask your headmen to die with you. And have the courtesy to go to Wind somewhere other than in this camp. As I said, I wish no war with your tribe this year.

"As for the forts, your headmen would be wise to see that they are abandoned, else the army about you will be but the vanguard for that which will surely come. Many of your people will die and I will drive those who do not into the Hills of Homeless Rocks. We will pull down your villages, stone by stone. Your horses and kine will graze lowland pastures and your maidens will bear lowlanders' sons. You all know that I can do these things, for many of them were done in the times of your ancestors.

"Keep the peace with me, go back into your fastnesses and leave my forts untenanted, and mayhap you and your children will live and die where your fathers were born."

Chapter XIII

Drehkos had had reason to commend himself for reinstating Myros. The cashiered Confederation officer immediately understood portions of the books which Drehkos had had to strain his mind to comprehend. Under the direction of a man who was well grounded in the principles of defensive warfare, the work on the walls and outer works and the fabrication of engines and missiles had proceeded faster and more smoothly than ever they had under Drehkos' sincere but oft-times bumbling aegis. Nor did the knowledge that those in Vawn-polis who did not fear him actively hated him seem to bother the Vahrohnos of Deskahti. Indeed, he seemed to revel in that fear, feed on that hate, and drive them all the harder for both.

But there were other aspects which frequently led Drehkos to question the sagacity of returning any degree of power to Myros. Chief among these, perhaps, were the man's sudden and usually senseless rages, gradually increasing both in frequency and violence, so that Drehkos had found it necessary to forbid Myros to bear either sword or dirk and had felt constrained to assign "bodyguards" principally for the purpose of restraining, not protecting, the erratic nobleman. Equally alarming, to Drehkos' way of thinking, were his deputy's lapses into unconsciousness with little or no warning. And he might remain in such a state for days ... or only minutes.

Because both Ehleenee had had similar sexual preferences, Drehkos had originally designated young Kleetos of Mahrtos-polis to command Myros' "guard," thinking that if the two became lovers it could do no one any harm and might even do all the good of possibly draining off some of the energy which otherwise could fuel those devilish rages. But his matchmaking had been futile, for this new, radically altered and sometimes terrifying Myros seemed totally asexual.

But poor young KJeetos had been lost when the enemy's van was ambushed. And even if any of the Vawnpolis noblemen had barely liked Myros, there were simply too few of them to assign one to devote his full time to watching over the valuable but unpredictable vahrohnos. No, the new commander of Myros' "guard" needs must be a non-noble. Drehkos immediately thought of Sergeant Danos.

He was now ashamed of his rage at and curses upon the hapless archer on the morning of the attack on the camp. Ha should have known better, he felt, for Danos had always been dependable and efficient at any assigned task. On the long ride back to Vawnpolis, several archers and dartmen had spoken of the senior sergeant's obvious illness that day, of how he had been seen to almost swoon after loosing the first shaft. Of how, despite his condition, he had emptied his quiver with his usual accuracy, then led a foot assault on the disorganized camp, slain at least two men with his short-sword and only withdrawn hi the face of the charging kahtahfrahktoee- which last showed that his illness had left his reasoning unaffected anyway.

"And," Drehkos mused to himself, 'Tve been driving the poor lad pretty hard since he first arrived, given him damned few moments to himself. This will present me a chance to make it all up to him somewhat. He'll have to have more rank, of course. Let's see ... I'll make him a lieutenant, let him pick a good man for his sergeant, and he can see to Myros whenever Danos wishes to get away for a while. That plus an unrestricted permission to all the town should make the boy happy. Who knows? He might find a girl or two to help him enjoy his evenings."

And so, misinterpreting Danos' pleas to retain his lower rank and station as modesty and the archer's terror as embarrassment, the well-meaning Drehkos precipitated a situation whose culmination was to be horror and tragedy.

When informed of his "good fortune," Danos could only stutter in his terror, "P-please . . . if-if-it p-please my 1-lord, I--I am not, I am unworthy of ... of such. . . ."

And, smiling as he had not in weeks, Drehkos slapped the quaking archer's shoulder. "Ah, young, faithful Danos. Son, your modesty is most refreshing, but if any here is worthy of advancement, it is you. My dear boy, I have been selfish. I have kept you near to me because you remind me of happier days, of home, and you have served me well. You have proved many times over your loyalty, honesty and bravery. Now I am in great need of those very qualities, so I call again upon you, you see."

"But-but, my lord, there be noblemen, and . . . and I . . . may I not remain a sergeant, an archer even, and . . . and stay by my lord?" Danes' voice broke on the last words and his terror sent tears cascading over his cheeks.

Drehkos was touched, deeply moved by the display he misread, and his own voice was husky. "If I had harbored any doubts as to the wisdom of this decision, good Danos, you have now erased them. So get you back to the barrack and choose a reliable man for your sergeant. I'll have my man secure you a good servant and quarters suitable to your new rank. You'll command the existing guard, of course, and I'll introduce you to Lord Myros at breakfast tomorrow."

Danos would once more have spoken, would have pleaded, begged, even groveled, but Drehkos was now conversing with a member of his staff, and the adjutant, Tchahros, put a hand on Danos' elbow, saying with a smile, "There'll be plenty of time to thank our lord properly, lieutenant, but just now his mind is on more pressing matters."

And the moment that all within Vawnpolis had awaited and feared at last arrived. Up the traderoad came marching in their thousands the hosts of the heathen, ahorse, afoot, on wagons. The morning sun winked on armor and weapon points in the seemingly endless river of men and animals. And to the watchers on the walls, the dustcloud which overlay the column seemed to stretch to the end of the world.

Lord Aldos turned to Drehkos, his grim face belying his light words. "Quite a lot of the bastards, aren't there, my lord? Think you we've enough arrows and darts to properly serve them? I'd hate to think of a deserving pagan leaving this little party without a sharp souvenir."

But Drehkos made no answer, and, seeing his searching glances at the arriving troops, all about him fell silent, lest their chatter distract the strategies they were sure he must be planning.

Drehkos was planning no strategy. He was straining his eyes at the foremost group of mounted nobles, seeking the familiar, stocky form of his brother, Hari.

It took the better part of a week to fully invest the city, throw up the earthworks just beyond bowshot of the outer defenses, set up the smaller, portable engines and start scouring the countryside for timbers suitable for assembling the larger ones. There was but little fighting. Nor was there any polite parlaying, though Drehkos had attempted such, sending a man he considered expendable, the abbot, Djohsehfos, whose monastery he had sacked.

The answer which the churchman had brought back had been only what Drehkos expected. The High Lord and his nobles would not treat with rebels. Only unconditional surrender of Vawnpolis and all within its walls would be accepted. Any future emissaries, unless they came to announce such surrender, would be returned in pieces by catapult.

"In short," Drehkos addressed the assembled nobles and officers, "there is no option available to any in this city. We all are doomed. Our only choices regard the methods of our deaths, whether we die honorably by the sword, or dishonorably under the brutal hand of some executioner."

In the council chamber of the High Lord's pavilion, another meeting was in progress. Harvest time was fast approaching, and Milo had reached a decision which he was now announcing to the ranking nobles.

"And so, gentlemen, most of you and your people will begin to ride back to Morguhn, tomorrow. You'll be conducted by kahtahfrahktoee, leaving your hired Freefighters here. When your harvests are all in and when you are certain that there will be no trouble in your duchies, no need for your presences until planting or shearing, you'll arm as many men as you can spare and return here. Assemble, as before, at Morguhnpolis and march up to me in a body.

"By that time, perhaps, we'll have softened up the defenses enough that an assault will be feasible. If not, you'll just celebrate your Midwinter Feast in camp."

"But, my lord-" began Thoheeks Duhnkin, a bit petulantly.

Milo raised a hand. "This is not a matter open to debate, gentlemen. This is the order of your lawful sovereign!" With the dawn, the nobles marched.

And the siege of Vawnpolis commenced, tedious and boring at all times, sometimes deadly. It went slowly, though, for the immediate surroundings had been stripped of sizable timber and the engineer crews had to journey far afield to secure what they needed to go with their wagonloads of hardware.

And even when at last the long-range, heavy-duty engines were in place, the effect of their missiles seemed negligible- their pitchballs apparently caused few fires within the city, and those did not burn long. The great boulders sent hurtling against the walls caused dust and stone shards to fly, but it was obvious that a lengthy bombardment would be necessary to do any real damage.

That was about the time old Sir Ehdt informed the High Lord that he thought one and possibly both the hillock salients could be taken at minimum cost.

Milo chewed on his thumb, studying the sandtable model at length. Aldora and Bili watched silently.

Bili had but recently returned, unexpectedly, with two of his younger brothers in tow-fresh from the Middle Kingdoms and eager to get in on the fine war in progress in their homeland. The youngest, Djaikuhb, at fourteen, was nearly as tall as Bili, though slenderer, and already a dangerously accomplished swordsman. The merry-eyed Gilbuht, intensely proud of his flaring, reddish mustache-such as were the current vogue amongst the nobility of Zuhnburk, where he had been reared and trained-had aroused the interest of both the Undying, since his mindspeak abilities seemed almost as powerful as Bill's.

Finally, the High Lord spoke. "Either of those hillocks would give us a far better base of fire than we have at present, Sir Ehdt. We might even be able to loft clear to the citadel from the south one. You really think we could capture them that easily?"

Whilst their elder brother, the siegemaster and the two Undying discussed the finer points of the now decided assault, the two younger Morguhns withdrew unnoticed amid the coming and going of the various commanders. In the almost total absence of young men of their own rank, they made their way to the camp of their brother's Freefighters, a homier-feeling enclave than were the various Confederation Army camps, since most of the Freefighters were Middle Kingdoms men, many of the officers and sergeants being younger sons of burk lords and lesser nobility.

Almost all of the force were experienced campaigners, so there was no need to tell them of the impending attack. That sixth sense of veteran soldiers had already assured them that with the dawn would come danger and, for some, death. A few were drinking, silently and alone, and more than one was clearly smoking hemp, since a thread of its pungent smoke occasionally wafted across the area. Despite its proscription by the Cult of the Sword, the use of hemp was fairly common among professional soldiers, and even had it not been, an astute commander allowed great latitude of conduct before an attack.

Leathern bellows creaked and their huffs sent masses of brilliant sparks soaring up from the forge fires of farrier and smith, cadenced hammerstrokes ringing on horseshoe and blade. A trio of men skilled at fletching sat with their pots of evil-smelling fish glue and sacks of feathers and sharp little knives, haggling the charge with fellow archers even while their skilled fingers scurried about their tasks. Close by, large iron pots simmered, and in their steam-scented with sorrel leaves and resin-other archers straightened shafts.

There were no classes tonight, however. The weapons masters hustled about the camp, inspecting blades and spears, axes and armor and darts, chivvying the owners of many to the honing circle, some twoscore men squatting about the largest fire, their voices raised in an endless ballad, sung in cadence with the measured scrape of whetstones. The men with the best voices or memories took turns as lead singer, while the rest roared out the catchlines and choruses, and circulating skins of barely watered wine kept throats from drying.

"A wager, a wager, a wager 111 lay you, I'll lay you my gold to your brass"

And 'TO YOUR BRASS!" swelled from the men.

That no Undying King could tell of braver deeds than were done at the Burk of Pehnduhgast."

"THAT NO UNDYING KING COULD TELL OF BRAVER DEEDS THAN WERE DONE AT THE BURK OF PEHNDUHGAST. HONE YOUR STEEL!" came the chorus.

Humming the tune of the old familiar song, mustachioed Gilbuht nodded at the ever-expanding circle, saying, "How bides your steel, Brother Djaikuhb? My Uncle Sharptooth, here"-he slapped his scabbard-"might well do with a taste, of oil and stone."