easy marching and the absence of fighting grown somewhat careless. That carelessness cost them their lives. After the first surprise and sudden onset they fought well. But four of them were down on the instant before they had drawn, and the next four, wheeling their mounts and setting up an outcry, barely had time to clear scabbard. The remaining two, those on the wings, fought their zorcas under control and attempted flight.
I reined in. The brand smoked red in my fist. Targon, Naghan and Korero whooped up their mounts and went flying in and out among the trees, like bats. They caught the last two Pandaheem before they quitted the tree-lined crest, and I did not wish to see who claimed three.
My desperadoes trotted back, looking mightily pleased with themselves. I was already dismounted, the reins slung over a handy branch, examining the dead men and their equipment. Their zorcas stood by the corpses, which made me think we dealt here with an army of professionals, or hardened mercenary veterans. By this I mean men accustomed to working with zorcas for most of their lives, and not levies scraped up for a quick and cheaply promised conquest. Their carelessness had been a self-confident carelessness, when all was said and done.
“Summon up Karidge’s regiment,” I told my men, without looking up. One of them would ride with my orders. “Silently. The rest to move up in order to the ridge.”
Rising, with what I wanted to know already tucked away, I walked to the far edge of the ridge. Fallen leaves kicked underfoot. The shadows dropped down, and then a chink in the overspreading leaves rained a color-fall of ruby and emerald. The army advancing down there were still two ulms away, that is to say around three thousand yards, and I could make out with the aid of my Kregen spyglass the way they came on.
Well. An army is an army. And there are all kinds, and, as I must have remarked, they are all the same and all different.
This ridge with its awkward traverse would make them trend away, following the easier ride to the north, and already the outriders were swinging. As my scouts had reported, there were no banners displayed. The cavalry screened the infantry. The artillery was mostly small-wheeled varters, drawn by hirvels and quoffas, with just the two big catapults. These were drawn by teams of twenty-four krahniks apiece. The infantry were predominantly sword and shield men. This made a frown of black fury and exasperation cross my face, whereat Targon said: “Have you the gut ache, then, majister?”
“Sword and shield men,” I said, grinding the words out. “From Pandahem.”
“They learn,” said Korero in his aloof way. A Kildoi, a man of that race of diffs from far Balintol that are little known beside so many other of the brilliant diffs of Kregen, Korero the Shield moved always at my back. His lithe limber physique was that of the master in martial arts of all kinds, with a command of the Disciplines. He had four arms and a tail equipped with a hand, and his handsome face with its golden beard overtopped me by four clear inches. Withdrawn, Korero, yet ready with a quip that would dart to the heart of the situation. Now, with a nod of his head, he finished: “There will be Hamalese drill instructors with that little lot. And a rascally gang of masichieri, too, if I am not mistaken.”
“I do not think, Korero the Shield, you are mistaken.”
Odd, when you thought about it, how in a world where men swore all the time by gods and spirits and phantom beings dredged from their various racial pools of unconsciousness, Korero hardly ever let fall a good round oath. That, I surmised, was a part of that aloofness bred in him in Balintol. And when I say he was an adept of the Disciplines, I did not at that time know which particular set had trained and molded him. They were not those of my old comrade — never a blade comrade, of course
— Turko the Shield, who was a Khamorro. Nor were they of the Kem-Brysuang of the land of Jeveroinen. We had a fellow from Jeveroinen in the ranks who was an adept of the fifth degree of Kem-Brysuang, and he was a most peculiar fellow indeed. His name was Bengi-Trenoimian and he had been bested in two falls out of three by Korero who had, by mutual arrangement, not employed his tail hand in the bouts.
Now I stared with concern at that army trending away to the north to pass the tree-crowned ridge. Shields were not a common article found in the armories of Pandahem or Vallia and we still had a deal of trouble to persuade men who regarded a shield as a coward’s article of equipment to use them. One of the earliest regiments formed in Vondium after we re-captured the capital and filled with eager young volunteers had proved that point. Rank after rank, they had thrown down the shields we had just issued. The shields lay on the grass of the drinnik like pathetic flower-heads slashed down wantonly. Well, as you may imagine, there was a hell of a fuss, and a great hullabaloo and in the end we reached a compromise.
That was one of the many times I regretted the enforced absence through sorcery of Balass the Hawk, for that kyr-kaidur could demonstrate sword and shield work to perfection. It seemed that the fighting men of Pandahem had heeded the lessons brought to their discomfiture by the iron legions of Hamal. The sword and shield men — we generally called them churgur infantry -
marching down there looked as though they were not yet completely sure of their weapons. You can usually tell.
The blocks of color moving all together represented massed regiments, five hundred or so men apiece, swinging along in column. We spied on them from the ridge of trees and marked their progress and the little breeze flicked and flecked the leaves about us and the slanting rays of the suns flickered opaz light upon the world. Kregen — ah, me, Kregen…
“Nearer sixty than fifty,” said Korero.
I nodded.
“And a good quarter cavalry.”
As though the name cavalry conjured him from the ground Karidge moved up at my side. He breathed only a little more heavily than usual, being a sprightly fellow with a tufty beard that bristled even when he sang. A consummate artist with a zorca, he was turning into a good cavalry commander. His regiment was always impeccable and meticulously turned out. They wore the red and yellow, for they were an imperial regiment, all three hundred and sixty of the jutmen, organized into six squadrons plus ancillaries. Karidge employed a long curved sword, and his dolman and pelisse were marvels of gold and silver lace and embroidery.
“A damned great gang of them, majister, by the Spurs of Lasal the Vakka.”
“Aye, Jiktar Karidge.”
“We could knock a few feathers out of their tail.”
“Aye. We could.”
Targon the Tapster grunted. “Then let us mount up and ride.”
“Tsleetha-tsleethi,” I said. “Let us watch them for a space.”
The obvious plan was so obvious my men grumbled and fidgeted as we waited in the shade of the trees and watched the army march past below the ridge.
Easy enough to knock a few feathers out of the tail, to ride down whooping and cut up the long straggling baggage lines and provender wagons. That was the way of the raiding cavalry. But I hungered for more. I hungered for the complete destruction of this damned army that had invaded our country. And that must wait until they were within easier striking distance and we could bring greater power down on them. I mentioned this to Karidge and to Jiktar Nalgre Randur, the numim commander of the nikvove regiment. They thought about the situation, and then Randur stroked his ferocious lion-man’s whiskers and gave his opinion that, as usual, the emperor was right; but that it was hard on a man to show him a mangy gaggle of foemen and then forbid him to unsheathe his sword. Jiktar Wando Varon ti GrollenDen, commanding the second zorca regiment, left his command strung out to guard our rear and walked through to join us. He wanted to know why we were not mounting up and riding down and, as he put it, letting some good Vallian air into those Opaz-forsaken Pandaheem down there.
Another fiery-tempered, audacious, sword-swinging cavalryman was Wando Varon, who maintained his regiment smartly enough but harped all the time on spear work from the saddle. Holding these men in check now that they had set eyes on their enemy was like trying to hold an armful of kittens. I sighed.
“Very well. But toward dusk, when the chances favor a swift and determined attack. And, for the sweet sake of Opaz, do not get entangled. Quickly in, quickly out, and avoid taking plunder.” I meant what I said. “They have regiments of zorcas down there. We will have to move like the Flame Winds of Father Tolki when you have had your fun.”
Following my words there was a quantity of pelisse-swinging and feather ruffling and sword slapping, together with a deal of boot banging and moustache stroking. The cavalrymen swelled their chests. Their faces appeared to fill out, grow larger and firmer, and the brightness of their eyes matched the brilliance of their appearance. Yes, your dyed-in-the-wool jutman, your cavalryman who gallops in with a skirl and a whoop, knows
