“. . . So, I tol’ thet liT pissant sergeant thet if he din’t git out’n the place ‘n’ quit disturbin’ us, I’d jam a fuckin’ winejar up his gloryhole.” Djim Bohluh paused in his “narrative” to take a long, gurgling pull from a proffered canteen of brandy and water. He grinned his thanks, belched, and went on. “If he’d had hisself the brains of a shitbug, he’d of reelized the winterwine an’ hemp an’ all had done got to us and backed off for a while. But the dumb asshole he went for his sword. So we-” He quite suddenly began to cough violently-so violently, in fact, that Geros was certain it was forced coughing; but it accomplished a purpose, for someone quickly pressed another canteen into his thick hand.
“. . . So, enyhow, we took his friggin’ sword an’ flang the thang out’n the winder. An’ then we had down the Ehleen turdchomper’s breeks an’. ..”
Geros had had enough. Jamming the ferrule of the standard’s pole into the loam of the hillside, he left it and the sniggering, guzzling group of Freefighters to make his way to the crest, where stood Pawl Raikuh and Thoheeks Bili, observing the work of the assault companies and archers.
The thoheeks had fostered for nearly ten years at the court of King Gilbuht of Harzburk, and Captain Raikuh was a Harzburker born, so their conversation was in the rapid, slightly nasal dialect of that principality. But even so there was not enough difference between this dialect and the slower, softer, slurring Confederation Mehrikan to prevent Geros from understanding his commanders.
“They’re doing fine on the right hill, Duke Bili, but whoever’s archer captain on the left liill should have his arse kicked up around his ears. Look you, another of the axemen is down with . . . looks like a dart in his thigh. Those bow-pulling bastards just aren’t close enough to give effective covering fire!”
But it was obvious that others had noticed the fault, for Geros saw a rider, toylike with the distance, gallop his mount to the rear of the archers. Shortly, the bowmen could be seen to sling their commodious siege quivers and trot forward. When they at last halted and recommenced their flights of shafts, those loosed by the defenders at the men laboring on the abattis slackened perceptibly.
Noticing Geros for the first time, Raikuh grinned and slapped his shoulder affectionately. “Ah, Sword Brother, come up to see what you can learn, eh? I say again, my lord, can I but persuade our new Sword Brother to throw in his lot with my company, he’ll he a famous-and very well-to-do!-officer of Freefighters one day. Now, true, he may not be nobleborn, but-”
“But,” nodded Bili, “Freefighting be a craft where guts, brains and abilities mean far more than mere birth. When a lord goes to hire swords, a captain’s pedigree weighs less than a pinch of turkey dung; it be his reputation determines how much gold is put on the scale. And the beginning of a good reputation be lieutenanting under a well-known captain.”
All Geros could think to say was: “But . . . but Thoheeks Sword Brother, I am only a sergeant.” •
Chuckling gustily, Raikuh’s brawny arm encircled Geros’ armored shoulders. “That be easily righted, brother. Say you’ll come with my company when Duke Bili no longer needs us, and you’ll go up that hill as an ensign-an officer standard-bearer.” He added, with unmistakable liking and respect to his voice, “And I, Pawl Raikuh, will be both pleased and honored to be able to number a fine, gutsy man such as you amongst my officers, Geros.”
Geros felt embarrassed, ashamed and contrite; he felt he could no longer dissemble. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet the eyes of these two noblemen who believed him something he was not and had never really been. He stumbled over the words, at first, but finally got them out
“From the beginning, it … it was all a lie. I have lived, been living, a lie since the . . . that night of the bridge fight. I really . . . I’m not brave. I’m terribly frightened to … whenever there’s fighting.”