“You damned thick-skulled young fool!” snarled the old man, furiously jerking Bili about. “You’re not in Harzburk, dammit, what you’ve just done is murder! You . . . Sun and Wind!” His contorted, livid features suddenly slackened and blanched to the hue of curds, while his faded-blue eye seemed about to spring from its socket.
Bili whirled around, then unconsciously stepped back, his own eyes flitting back and forth between his blood-slimed dirk and his “victim.”
Milo finished pulling the brigandine over his head and with it the blue black wig which had covered his own, close-cropped grey-and-black hair. He smiled fleetingly at the stunned Thoheeks, then inserted a forefinger into first one cheek, then the other, wincing as he tore loose lumpy strips of some substance which had served to alter the shape of his face.
Then the “dead man” pulled off his shirt and Bili could see that the wide wound his blade had inflicted had almost ceased to bleed. His confused brain spun frenetically, registering what it saw, yet knowing that such could not be … unless …
Komees Djeen’s sword came from its case in one smooth movement; then its hilt crashed against his breast-plate in a stiff, military salute, as he croaked, “My Lord, My Dear Lord…!”
Almost simultaneously did two Sanderz sabers come out to render Horseclan honors, while two awestruck voices murmured, “God Milo!”
It was nearly an hour more before the sortiers straggled back to the hall. Although they had failed to capture any officer or priest, they had retired in good order, bearing with them both their wounded and their dead. But even when the last of them were sprawled gasping within the walls, the clash of arms still sounded from the creekside camps, as leaderless bands of hopelessly bewildered men took similar bands for the enemy in the darkness between fires. And the murderous chaos went on until the first roseate streaks of dawn were tinting the eastern sky.
When the coppery vanguard of Sacred Sun breasted the horizon, most of the garrison of the beleaguered hall gathered in the rear courtyard. While Clan Bard Gil sang first The Lament of Morguhn, then The Lament of Sanderz, the bodies were borne from indoors**in stately procession, laid upon the enlarged pyre, and torches were set to its four corners by Bili, Spiros, Hwahltuh, and Raikuh.
Slowly at first, then ever more rapidly, the tongues of flame took hold and crept higher and higher, then began to nibble at the pitch-soaked boards whereon lay the seven corpses. Bili gazed woodenly but once more upon the faces of his kin and those who had fought for him, and stepped back as the heat became uncomfortable.
The column of smoke rose up and up and up, high into the pale-blue dawning sky, until a high-altitude current struck it powerfully and sent its tendrils roiling away to the west.
Hwahltuh and his clansmen stood bunched together, touching one another for comfort, whilst unashamed tears streaked their faces-tears not only for the losses of two loved kinsmen, but for pride that the smoke of Sanderz men should be borne to the Home of Sacred Wind in company with that of a Chief and his brave son. The Freefighters stood at attention behind their captain, with no need to force the appearance of emotionlessness, for-like eating, drinking, wenching, gambling, and fighting-death was but another facet of the existence of a professional soldier.
Despite himself, old Komees Djeen, standing ramrod-stiff at Milo’s left rear, felt moisture creeping from his eye and down the folds and puckers and wrinkles of his leathery cheek. For his part Vahrohnos Spiros wept as openly as the Sanderz men.
Bili was the first upon the walls when the tower watch winded the alarm bugle. But he could see nothing other than individuals and small groups shuffling about the charred and bloody wreckage of the rebel encampments. So he quickly ascended the nearest tower. And there he did not need the guard’s pointing spear to show him.
When the leading elements of Confederation cavalry were reported by the Vawnee scouts, the few remaining officers betook themselves to the commander’s pavilion, but it stood empty and stripped of all small valuables. Vahrohnos Myros, the senior subpriest, Rikos, and their guards were nowhere to be found! As the highest ranking noble remaining, Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz found himself in command of the self-battered siege forces.