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.”
Space was made for the brothers in the circle, and when they had bared and kissed their steel, a grizzled, one-eared weapons master strode over, gave them stones from the bag slung on his shoulder, then squatted and examined their swordblades, suggesting where on the edges their efforts be concentrated. Before he went on about his circuit, he checked out their dirks, as well, and their bootknives. He knew who they were, as did all around the fire, but he showed them no deference, for in such a gathering, on such a night, Free-fighters recognized no lines or barriers of rank and caste. All were comrades-in-arms, Brothers of the Sword, some of whom must surely die tomorrow.
Beside Gilbuht knelt a handsome, black-haired sergeant standard-bearer, his clear, tenor voice leading a verse, while his well-formed hands placed the finishing touches on the edges of a new-looking broadsword bearing a distinguished hallmark.
He mindspoke his brother, “Djaik, look you at the sergeant’s blade. Is it not a Slohn?” The House of Slohn had produced some of the best blades in the Kingdom of Pitzburk for three hundred years and more.