The early morning sunlight shimmered on Macurdy's armor—the opalescent, dwarf-made byrnie and helmet Tossi Pellersson had given him, the winter past, before going off to the Silver Mountain. From his belt hung the heavy Hero's saber he'd fled Oz with, strengthened by Kittul Kendersson's dwarvish spell, and freshly honed. While Hog, he had no doubt, was the best warhorse in the army; the best to carry him at any rate.
Behind him on a slightly higher hillock, the three covens of Sisters watched, Omara their director, ready to counter any ylvin spells they detected. He'd ordered her not to initiate an exchange of magicks, and she'd said she wouldn't. Her aura showed she meant it. Sisters, he supposed, were good at obeying orders, if they accepted the authority giving them.
Off to his right, the final companies were taking their positions, and a few yards away, Jeremid sat scowling in his saddle. The Ozman didn't like Macurdy's decision to take a personal part in the fighting. "What in hell will we do if someone kills you?" he'd demanded privately. "You don't realize how important you are to this army; if we lose you, the heart'll go out of it. Going out there to cross swords with some ylf is the most stupid thing you can do!"
Macurdy hadn't argued. Basically it was true; his death here would be a disaster. But he also knew that for whatever reason, he had to take an active personal role in the fighting. Had to lay his life on the line, as he required so many others to do. He'd told this to Jeremid, and the young Ozman had simply snorted.
Now the commander stood in his stirrups, staring north across young oats at the large Imperial force he faced. Its formation was defensive, inviting his attack, prepared to chew him up. Judging by their banners, there were four cohorts of imperial infantry alone, and massed in front of them, at least four cohorts of militia: crossbowmen protected from cavalry assault by ranks of pikemen. All of them—pikemen and crossbowmen as well as the imperial infantry—wore byrnies, and swords if it came to that kind of fight. As Macurdy intended it would.
On the enemy's right flank, imperial cavalry sat their horses, four cohorts of them as well, no doubt well trained, and all wearing byrnies. But the cavalry weren't his main concern. Not yet. Very likely the ylvin commander would hold them back until some opportunity or emergency called for them.
He wiped sweat, and wondered how good the enemy's endurance was. His own men were tough, had trained hard all winter and spring, then the infantry had hiked from wherever they lived to Kellerton or Inderstown, generally hundreds of miles. And after that, 130 miles from Parnston to Ternass. Of course, they weren't as well fed as he'd have liked; militias and civilians both had been hauling off or hiding a lot of the edibles in advance. But neither were they famished.
He studied the militia pikemen. He'd assumed something about them, an assumption based on a single observation. Their long, ungainly, simple-headed pikes were intended to stop cavalry, and that required mainly bravery and discipline. To use them against infantry, on the other hand, required considerable skill. He assumed they lacked that skill, and the confidence that would go with it.
His forces had run into pikemen just once, outside a town called Big Springs. A broad stone bridge crossed the river there, and some militia had taken a stand to defend it. Two companies of crossbowmen lined the far bank, while the bridge itself was plugged with pikemen to keep the southern cavalry from crossing. The Kormehri had charged anyway, in the teeth of deadly crossbow fire, expecting the pikemen to break and run, as militias always had. But these hadn't, and scores of Kormehri had gone down, horses and men, between the bristling pikes in front of them and the press of the oncoming ranks behind.
Even so the fanatical Kormehri had won. A single platoon of them had dismounted, swords in hand, and the pikemen had dropped their long cumbersome pikes to draw their own blades. The Kormehri platoon, greatly outnumbered, had attacked them on foot like wolves assaulting sheep, and the pikemen, previously so firm, panicked and broke, running from the bridge, even jumping armor-weighted into the river. Then Kormehri platoons still on horseback had overrun them, howling and killing; it was once when militiamen had not been allowed to surrender.
Even so, the crossbows and pikes had taken a heavy toll. When it was over, the Kormehri cavalry cohort, already short since that wild first night, reported only 264 officers and men fit for action, hardly fifty percent of those who'd crossed the river.
Actually the militias had fought harder the past two days. Not well, not even doggedly, but they'd stood and fought. He'd questioned prisoners, and they'd told him that the Emperor's own army was on its way south under General Cyncaidh. They no longer felt abandoned.
The army he looked at now could hardly be the Throne Army; it wasn't big enough. Mostly these would be garrison cohorts that had withdrawn ahead of him, plus others gathered from east and west and north, with their militia auxiliaries. Macurdy squinted at the sun glinting on distant pikeheads, helmets, and mail. From beneath his own steel cap a trickle of sweat overflowed an eyebrow, but except to swipe at it with a wrist, he ignored it. So far, he told himself, we've had a cakewalk, beating up on frightened militias, and on badly outnumbered imperials who didn't realize what they were up against. Here we'll learn how good we really are.
He could, of course, have waited another day. The rest of his troops would be there by then. And the enemy seemed content to wait. But Macurdy already had the advantage of numbers, and who knew how many imperial cohorts might arrive tomorrow, or even that afternoon.
Grimly he turned to his bugler. "As planned," he said. "Mounted archers out by companies." All his cavalry were mounted archers as needed, but certain units had been assigned the role for this battle. The bugler blew, company buglers responding. Three Teklan cavalry companies trotted out in single file, briskly and without spears, not toward the enemy so much as across the front of its massed infantry. The imperial commander held back his cavalry, unsure what this peculiar move might mean, what might happen next. The course of the southern cavalry took them within seventy yards of the pikemen, within range of the militia crossbows. But the militiamen only gawped, their commander unsure what this meant. Again a bugle blared, and riding parallel to the enemy's front, the Teklan horsemen began to shoot, irregular flights of arrows hissing into the ranks of crouching pikemen, and the massed crossbowmen behind them. At this, the crossbowmen released their heavy bolts, and when a horseman was hit by one, whether he wore a captured byrnie or not, he fell dead or terribly wounded.
More horses than men were struck, though they went down less often. But cantering horses and their riders were poor targets at that range. The longbowmen continued to ride and shoot, circling back in a broad oval and out again. Macurdy watched, held by the sight, excited instead of horrified, his right fist jerking repeatedly with a short hooking motion. The intensity of crossbow fire had greatly lessened, due partly to casualties, but mainly to the time it took overwrought militia crossbowmen to crank their weapons, then load them if they remembered to. Now Macurdy gave another order; the bugles called the horsemen back, and sent open ranks of infantry out with longbows, jogging slowly enough not to get winded. More than a few fell to bolts before getting the order to shoot, but not till the first rank had come to about seventy yards did they stop, draw their bowstrings, and let their arrows fly. The second rank did the same, at slightly longer range, and the third and fourth, each man shooting not just once, but sending arrow after arrow—four, five, six—in the time a crossbowman took to crank his bow and shoot once.
More longbowmen jogged out then, in columns through the ranks already shooting. The columns split, spreading to form new ranks, adding to the flights of feathered death, while the crossbow fire thinned even more. Then Macurdy sent columns without bows, seven-foot stabbing spears in their fists, roaring "FERNY COVE! FERNY COVE!" at first, then simply roaring. Their ranks fragmented by casualties, the pikemen were at a disadvantage against skilled spearmen. Some dropped their unwieldy fourteen-foot pikes and big-eyed, drew their swords, further thinning the pike wall. Here and there, hearts frozen, some turned, stumbling over men behind who'd fallen to the archery, but most fought, or tried to. The roaring was pierced by screams, and after a brief minute the entire militia began to come apart, the crossbowmen dropping their bows and running, struggling and threading their way through the ylvin ranks behind them.
Only then did the ylvin commander send out two cohorts of cavalry in broad ranks, ostensibly to smash the southern infantry, though he knew the southern cavalry would intercept him. Now Macurdy, riding Hog, led out his mounted Kullvordi 2nd Cohort, strengthened by the remaining two Teklan companies. Their formation was slightly different than the ylvin—the Hero formation, densely compact, a tight shallow vee. They trotted slowly, deliberately across the battlefield, each horse almost touching the flanks of those to either side, their riders leg behind leg, shields braced, long spears gripped firmly beneath an arm. At about a hundred yards, Macurdy raised his shield overhead, a signal, and his buglers blew the charge. The whole formation broke into a canter at almost the same instant as the imperial cavalry.
They crashed together, and it was the Kullvordi and Teklar, with their more compact formation, who drove through, horses stumbling over fallen horses, trampling fallen men. Then spears were dropped, sabers drawn, and the melee truly begun.
Back across the oat field, Jeremid watched, prepared to react to any further ylvin cavalry move. He had three cohorts of cavalry available, plus the three companies of mounted Teklar with bows. Meanwhile more ranks of southern foot troops jogged across the trampled oats to engage the ylvin infantry.
Macurdy's heavy Ozian saber slashed and thrust as if it had some dervish spirit of its own. His shield was heavier than the others, its steel bands broader and thicker, and it seemed always where it needed to be.
The ylver by and large were better swordsmen, but with ranks broken by the charge, they fought mostly as individuals. Macurdy dominated wherever he was, and with two picked sergeants, went where most needed. After a few minutes, the ylver began an organized disengagement, back to the small hill from which they'd ridden. Macurdy looked around for his bugler and couldn't find him, so he shouted his order, other voices repeating it: "To base! To base!" Company buglers heard and blew it, and as they started back toward the rise they'd ridden from, squads and platoons began re-forming on their guidons, while a bugler worked his way toward his marshal, to serve him.
Almost at once they saw another cavalry battle, a cohort from each army. Macurdy bellowed "Engage!", and spurred Hog into a brisk trot. The nearest bugler heard and blew. Some of the cohort took a moment to realize the situation and respond, but within seconds they all were headed at a trot for the other fight, still reforming units. Some of the ylver heard them coming. An ylvin trumpet called, and ylvin troopers, those who could, disengaged and retreated; others fought and died. At the same time, Jeremid and the ylvin commander both threw their remaining cohorts toward each other in an orderly charge.
For an indeterminate time Macurdy fought, while men and ylver fell. Twice he saved his new bugler without being consciously aware of it. A saber struck his dwarf-made byrnie hard, and once a blow on his helmet blurred his vision, making his mouth taste of blood.
Finally the last ylvin cohort disengaged, and mostly his men let them go, for they too were exhausted. Hoarsely he called an order to his bugler. The man blew, and the cohort, all the cohorts, trotted their horses back to the hillock, again re-forming as they rode, for it was drilled into them. They were too spent to feel exhilarated.
Macurdy was one of the last to leave, looking toward the site of the infantry battle as he rode. It too was over, had been for a while. His infantry had substantially outnumbered the ylvin and militia infantry to begin with, and when the militia broke, it left the ylver at a severe disadvantage, despite their byrnies and training. After heavy slugging, they'd withdrawn, leaving their dead and wounded to the badly reduced southerners.
Macurdy found Jeremid back before him; the Ozman had ridden out with the last cohort committed, and was grinning ear to ear, his byrnie splashed with blood not his own. "You look like a butcher, Macurdy!" he called in greeting.
Macurdy looked down and found himself bloodier than Jeremid. "Get me something white!" he shouted.
"White?"
"I want to parley with the imperial commander."
"Something white!" someone called. "Get the marshal something white!" The call spread through the cohorts, but no one came forth with anything white. Macurdy trotted his horse back onto the battlefield, where leaning far down, he snatched a fallen spear on the trot, and put his helmet on its point. Holding it high, he trotted Hog toward the little hill.
The ylver commander watched him come, making no move to meet him. At fifty yards, Macurdy stopped. "A truce!" he shouted. "A truce!"
The ylvin general rode out then, his youthful face grim. At twenty yards he too stopped.
"To what end?"
"To do what we can for the wounded!"
For a long moment the ylf stared. "Have you surgeons?"
"And Sisters; healers. I suppose you have your own."
The ylf nodded. "A truce then. Till when?"
Macurdy's face worked. From now on, he thought. Forever. "Until sunrise tomorrow."
"A truce till sunrise. Agreed." The ylvin general trotted back to his staff, and Macurdy turned toward his. Partway there, he could hear ylvin trumpets, presumably signalling the truce, for the general's aura had shown no sign of treachery. The southern army had no bugle call for a truce, so when he reached his own men, Macurdy sent couriers to inform the cohorts.
And one to bring the Sisters. They trotted their horses to him, their Tiger platoon riding straight-backed and expressionless behind them. Macurdy sent them out to where hundreds on hundreds—thousands!—of dead and wounded strewed the ground, then looked around and spoke to Jeremid. "Where's Melody?"
The Ozman's face fell. "Shit!" he said, scanning around. "I told her to stay here! That she was in charge till I got back!"
"I'll find her," Macurdy said. "Get litter bearers organized; what we've got aren't nearly enough. And commandeer buildings in Ternass for the wounded."
Then he ordered a courier to follow him, and rode out to the last place they'd fought. If Melody was alive, that was probably where she'd be. He went to her like a needle to a magnet, found her sprawled across a dead horse, still and bloody as a corpse. From thirty feet distant, he wanted to die, for he could see no aura. When he reached her, he swung from his saddle. There was an aura after all, thin and dull. Her face was ash pale, her splash of freckles a contrast and alarm. Simply removing her badly dented helmet strengthened her aura. He raised her a bit, and with the courier's help, pulled off her byrnie. Seemingly the blood was not her own, for there was no visible wound.
"Bring a litter," he ordered, then watched the courier mount and canter off.
When she'd been taken away, Macurdy looked around. His impulse was to take one end of a makeshift litter and help carry, but there were many who could do that. His job was to be in charge. Not that he was much good at it just then; Jeremid gave the orders. Much of the time, Macurdy sat silent and motionless in the saddle, watching litter bearers; carters stripping byrnies from the dead and gathering weapons; and after a bit, crews of surrendered militiamen and his own troops hauling and stacking wood and straw for funeral pyres.
Near noon, he rode to the house where Melody had been taken, one of numerous filled with wounded. As chief of staff, and assumed to be their commander's lover, she'd been put in a small room by herself. He found her there in bed, conscious but groggy, head aching. She didn't remember the battle at all; didn't even remember getting up that morning. Macurdy kissed her forehead and told her she'd be all right. Meanwhile she was to stay in bed; that was an order.
Sisters moved through the houses, touching, murmuring chants. He assigned a surly-faced Ozian corporal to stay outside Melody's door, with orders that no Sister was to have access to her. He couldn't have said why.
Meanwhile the enemy had ridden away northward, their wounded in a train of crowded wagons. The base they left behind, Fort Ternass, wasn't much of a fort. Far too small for so large an army, its walls might keep out vagrants, but they'd be little obstacle to a military assault. As soon as it had been vacated, Jeremid had a Miskmehri infantry cohort occupy it.
The ylvin departure drew Macurdy out of his numbness, and he sent an order for his senior staff to meet with him. While he waited, he unrolled a captured imperial military map. Just a few miles north, it showed a broad stretch of country liberally marked with wetland symbols. The road continued north through it. Six miles to both east and west, other roads crossed it; eight or ten miles beyond them, the wetland symbols disappeared.
Macurdy stood silent a few moments, thinking. The army they'd fought that day would no doubt join forces with the Throne Army riding south. An army by itself too large for him to deal with, reportedly a full legion of cavalry and another of mounted infantry. Under its General Cyncaidh, his wife's captor, who when he was at home, no doubt took her to his bed at night.
He shook the thought off, and wished Blue Wing was with him. But the great raven had left near winter's end, for his tribe's rookery in the Great Eastern Mountains. It wouldn't do to take sides in such a war. And he'd never had a mate, he told Macurdy, never raised nestlings. It seemed time.
When Macurdy's staff had gathered, they quieted on their own. "Somewhere north of the marshes," Macurdy said, "there's an ylvin army riding south, and the people we fought this morning will be joining it. We don't know when they'll get here." He looked at his operations officer. "Jeremid, what are the swamps like ahead?"
"The only patrol that's back so far followed the road to the other side and came straight back. It's five or six miles across, mostly cattail marsh, with creeks and open pools. Impossible to cross, even on foot. But the road? You'd have to see it to believe it. It's not only ditched; it's got a raised bed of rock, packed with dirt and topped with gravel."
Macurdy examined the map again. If he continued north with his army, they'd face a much larger ylvin army, with the marshes between themselves and escape, and only the road to funnel out on. And with the likelihood of more ylvin cohorts hitting them from east and west later. While if they stayed where they were, holding the marsh roads, the ylver could bypass the marshes. It might take them a couple of days.
He could, of course, turn around in the morning and head south, leaving rear guards to block the roads, giving the rest of the army a start. It was doubtful the imperials would catch them north of the Big River. Not in force.
For a moment that seemed to be the answer: Get south of the Big River with his army. Then he remembered his purpose—why he was there. South of the river wouldn't get Varia back, nor put him in position to bargain with the emperor. Anxiety flooded. And say we arrive at the river a day ahead of the ylver: What then? There's no fleet of boats waiting. We'll be trapped! They'll capture thousands. First they'll murder the prisoners and wounded, then they'll cross the river and rape the Rude Lands. Anxiety became despair. You've deluded yourself, he thought, and Wollerda, and everyone else who trusted you. There was never any prospect of a treaty. Your blind determination to get Varia back has already killed thousands, and thousands more will die before it's over.
Then abruptly, snarling, another part of him rose up. Bullshit, Macurdy. Make things happen!
"Jeremid! I want a platoon from the 2nd, ready at sunup in presentable uniforms. And couriers, and an Alliance flag, and a flag of truce. They'll ride north with me. Pick up the pikes the militia dropped today, and arm some companies with them. Make sure they know how to use them. Assign two companies of infantry and one of cavalry to plug each of the roads."
Jeremid nodded, steady as a rock. "Right."
"Round up wagons. Start the wounded south as soon as they can travel. Commandeer all the civilian wagons you need. And the plunder wagons; we've sent enough plunder down the road. And send couriers to Kithro—separately, in case they run into trouble. Get them started right away and tell them to push it. Tell Kithro we'll be wanting boats again soon.
"I'll ride north to find the enemy commander. The only real ylvin army we've met so far, we've thrashed. It's time to parley, while we're winners."
He scanned the rest of his staff. "Any comments or questions?"
All except Jeremid looked very sober, but only one spoke: "You'll be a long way from help, Marshal. Suppose they don't respect your flag of truce?"
"I heard several days ago that their commander is General Cyncaidh. And I know a little about him. He's said to be an honorable man; certainly he's not another Quaie."
He waited, and when no one else spoke, dismissed them.
After the staff meeting, Macurdy visited the wounded again. Melody was sleeping, and he didn't disturb her. Her aura was much stronger.
The army had brought "surgeons" with it—sawbones actually—one per cohort, and shamans and other healers of greater or lesser talent and skill. But judging by auras, the men in buildings assigned to ministration by Sisters were in notably better condition. Macurdy went to the officer in charge, an Indrossan, and took him aside.
"Major, are you aware that I'm a magician?"
"It is general knowledge, Marshal Macurdy." The Indrossan was grave-faced.
"Have you noticed any difference between the wounded treated by the Sisters, and the rest of them?"
"No sir."
He may have some skills, Macurdy told himself, but not much talent. "They're doing a lot better," he said. "Their auras show it."
The major said nothing, but his aura showed disbelief, whether of auras or the Sisters' better results wasn't apparent.
"I'm going to have them minister to the rest of the men."
The man looked stricken. "I— Marshal, Sisters can't be trusted!"
Macurdy laid a large hand on the major's shoulder. "You've had a hard day. When did you eat last?"
"I had an orderly bring me bread and meat at noon."
"Get something to eat, and walk around outdoors. Don't come back till tomorrow. That's an order."
The major looked near tears.
"You know about orders. Eat something and walk around camp. Look at something besides broken bodies. Have a drink, then get some sleep." He put a hand on the major's back, herding him along, and they left the building together.
It was Omara herself whom he took to see Melody. She'd tried before to see her, she told him, but a soldier had kept her out. "At your orders, Marshal. You distrust me. Why?"
"It's nothing personal," he said, and opened the door. Omara went to the bed and looked at the sleeping spear maiden for a long moment, examining her aura, he thought. "She doesn't need me," she told him. "By this time tomorrow she'll be largely recovered, though she should rest at least another day."
She looked at him coolly. "You are an enigma, Macurdy, a talented enigma."
"Enigma. That's a word I haven't met. But distrust now . . . I suppose Sarkia told you my experience with the Sisterhood. I like and respect you, Omara, but you'll excuse me if I have the colonel's guard refuse you entrance to this room except when I'm with you."
"Marshal, I have enough to do without troubling someone who doesn't need me."
They left Melody then, Omara going on to visit other patients. Macurdy paused outside Melody's door, talking with the man on guard, then left for supper. Sarkia never believed you'd get Varia back, he told himself, regardless of what she said. And you're the most powerful leader in the Rude Lands; she'd love to marry you to a Sister. If she thought Melody might stand in the way, or maybe even if Omara thought so . . .
He'd taken off his hillsman boots and was washing his socks when his Kullvordi orderly looked in. "Marshal, sir! Major Tarlok wants to see you! Says it's urgent!"
Tarlok was peering in over the man's shoulder. "What is it, Tarlok?"
"A bunch of Kormehri grabbed some local women. They were carrying them to their camp. I thought you should know."
Macurdy swore and pulled on his boots, not taking time for socks.
"You want me to get a company or two, in case there's trouble?"
"No. If I showed up with a bunch of men, there'd be trouble for sure. But you can come with me if you'd like."
He tied the laces around his ankles, belted on his saber, and left the tent at a trot, Tarlok with him. Both were unaccustomed to running, and Macurdy slowed before they got there so he wouldn't arrive gasping for breath. It was twilight, nearly dark, but he knew where in the Kormehri camp to go by the cheering, and found a crowd gathered on a company muster ground. He couldn't see what was going on—the circle was several men deep, most without their breeches—but he pushed through, Tarlok with him. A fire had been built in the middle for light. More than a dozen women and girls had been stripped, forced to hands and knees, and their wrists tied to stakes. All of them were occupied. He didn't hesitate, but strode to the nearest man, grabbed him by the hair and jerked him backward. The crowd went still, all but the man he'd interrupted, who scrambled to his feet swearing vividly. To find a saber tip at his solar plexus.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Macurdy bellowed, and abruptly, with a backhanded wrist movement, slapped the side of the man's face with the flat of his blade. The man stepped back, hand to cheek, aware now whom he faced, and that he'd been only a turn of the wrist from death. The other rapists had dismounted and backed away, staring with varying degrees of anger and fear. Macurdy and Tarlok strode around the circle cutting ropes, freeing the women.
Macurdy straightened and looked around. "Where are their clothes?"
The company commander stepped into the circle then. He wore no breeches, but his sword was in his hand. "This is my company!" he shouted. "What goes on here is none of your business!"
The place was doubly still now. Macurdy walked slowly toward him. "Do you challenge me, you dog turd?"
The Kormehri took half a step backward before he realized what he was doing, then with an oath, rushed at Macurdy. Their blades met violently—and the Kormehri's snapped. Macurdy thrust him through and let him fall.
The crowd remained quiet as Quakers. "What company is this?" Macurdy shouted.
"Barlin's Company," someone answered.
"Barlin's Company fall in!" he ordered.
Most of the men moved as if to form ranks. But not all, and a sergeant drew his sword. "You might kill one of us, you Ozian pig," he shouted, "but you can't—"
He stopped in midsentence. Macurdy said nothing, simply stalked toward him, drilling him with his eyes—and just off the tip of his saber was a ball of white fire the size of an egg. The man stared at it transfixed, and screamed when Macurdy thrust him through.
"Barlin's Company, fall in!" Macurdy repeated, and this time there was a general scramble to obey. "Major Tarlok," he called, "help the women find their clothes."
Most of the men stood in ranks now, but a few, perhaps a dozen, were slipping away into the darkness. "Stop where you are!"
Most stopped, though several fled.
"Where were you men going?"
"Back to our company, Marshal," one called apologetically. "We're not Barlin's, sir. We just came to see what was going on."
Yeah, and have a turn at it. "All right," he called. "Just remember what you saw and heard." He turned his attention back to Barlin's Company, a company short by at least a third, no doubt from the morning's battle . . . and felt his anger die. "Do you know why I killed your captain?" he asked. "And your sergeant?" His voice, though loud, was almost conversational. Suddenly it boomed. "BECAUSE THEY DEFIED ME. DEFIED MY ORDERS! Now let me remind you: I gave orders that there is to be no raping. Your captain and your sergeant defied those orders. Now they're dead! Sent to Hell!"
His eyes found Tarlok again. And the women, now with their torn and trampled clothing clutched to them. "Major, take these women to the Sisters. Tell Omara what happened; tell her to do something for them. And get them some clothes; Barlin's Company will pay for them."
He turned to the men in ranks. "Company, 'tention! Right face! Forward march!" Calling cadence, he marched them out of the firelight, through the night to the battlefield, most of them barefoot and without pants. On the bloody killing ground, he double-timed them back and forth, controlling them from a central position, for he'd become so much a horseman, he'd done no serious walking for months, let alone running. While they were infantry, their legs tough, their lungs like bellows. After about twenty minutes he marched them back, but before he dismissed them, he asked who'd been second in command.
A tall, rawboned man spoke up. "I was, sir."
"What's your name?"
"Arliss, lieutenant, 2nd Kormehri Infantry, sir."
"Lieutenant, you are now a captain, and company commander. Congratulations on a first class company. But remember . . ." Abruptly his voice raised to a roar. "NO RAPING! AND NO MURDERING CIVILIANS! I don't want to send any more of you to Hell." He paused. "I'm turning them over to you now, Captain. Take up a collection for the women, tonight. Every man will give something. Something valuable, whatever he has."
With that, he turned and strode out of the firelight.
From the Kormehri bivouac area, he went back to look in on Melody again. She'd been awake, or on the verge of it, because when he stepped in, her head turned, eyes open. "Hello, Macurdy," she murmured. "Where have you been?"
"Here, a few times. The last two you were asleep, and the first time you didn't know where you were or what had happened."
"Want to feel my lump?"
"Sure." He knelt, and his fingers touched her head. "Pretty good one."
She chuckled weakly.
"How's your headache?"
"Not bad. But when I got up to use my bucket, a little while ago, I was pretty dizzy."
"I had a Sister look at you. She said you'll be a lot better tomorrow, but you need to stay in bed a day or two more."
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know what's really good for someone in my condition?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"Remember what I did for you after you got beaten up so badly?"
He nodded.
"If you'd do something like that for me . . ."
He bent and kissed her cheek. "Not now."
"When, then?"
"Sometime. Soon. If we get through this war alive."
"Do you mean it?"
Again he nodded.
"Will you marry me?" she asked.
He felt his head going up and down as if it had a will of its own.
"Kiss me," she said. "On the mouth. To make it real."
He did, softly, sweetly.
"I feel stronger already, Macurdy."
He stood up. "Go back to sleep, spear maiden."
Obediently she closed her eyes, and turning, he padded quietly from the room. Feeling like a wooden man, wondering how he could possibly have said what he had.