Second, Portos knew he was not the only noble reduced to destitution by the long period of war. Those who still owned their lands would much rather be trying to bring them back to a state of productivity; instead, they were tramping across bare, burned fields and worrying about the welfare of any family they had left. Zastros’ “regular” army was minuscule—perhaps a thousand men, perhaps less—and most of his huge, unwieldy host were privately raised and financed warbands. Few were armed or uniformed alike, they differed widely in habits and customs, and, though Zastros had had his staff group them into ten-thousand-man divisions having the proper proportions of cavalry and light infantry and pikemen, these arbitrary units seldom marched together, and if Zastros expected them to form battle lines together, he was the only one.
And, when Milo wondered aloud one day how he could prevent the hotheaded and mutually hostile noblemen of Pitzburk and Harzburk from each others’ throats until the battle was joined, Portos laughed until he was gasping.
“My High-Lord, you have but two warbands at each others’ throats. King Zastros is afflicted constantly with actual scores. That is how he became King, you know; it was not that the great Thoheeksee hated Zastros less, but that they hated one another more!”
When first he heard of the massacre of Martios and most of his pikemen, Strahteegos Thoheeks Glafkos went about his duties wearing a wide smile and few could recall ever having seen him so congenial. Then the accursed order had arrived from the High King, commanding him and what was left of his ten thousand to pursue the raiders and “avenge the murder of your brother, Martios.”
Now, Glafkos had nothing against those raiders. He could only have wished that they had slain that sneak-thief bastard, Martios, considerbly more slowly and painfully; further, had he ever even suspected that any degree of kinship existed betwixt him and the late Vahrohnos, he would have been strongly tempted to fall on his sword.
Nonetheless, since he had sworn his oaths to High King Zastros, he sent his squadron of cavalry out on a wide front to scout the raiders’ trails, then broke camp and marched most of his light infantry and all of his archers toward the mountains. That night, at his marching-camp headquarters, the cavalry captain, his cousin, gave him the bad news: the three main passes, into which had led the trails of the raider columns, were blocked by rockslides. Weeks of work would be required to clear them and the workers would be constantly in danger from the cliffs on either side; however, certain of his scouts had found a couple of smaller passes that seemed to lead in the general direction, as well as a dry stream bed that was rough going for horses, but might serve for the passage of infantry.
Captain Vikos thrust out his dusty, booted legs, leaned back in his camp chair, and took a deep pull of his wine cup before continuing. “But, esteemed cousin, do not expect any advance to be cheap or easy, please. The scouts noted some cave mouths and a number of points that could be easily defended by a few good men. So if you do succeed in running the enemy to earth, you may well discover you have a treecat by the tail.”
The chunky, graying Strahteegos cradled his cup in his big, square hands and nodded sagely. “Oh, I never dreamed that this little campaign would be a picnic, cousin. Personally, I think it’s an asinine waste of time and men, but we settled on Zastros to replace King Chaos. If we thoheeksee don’t obey him, who will?” Vikos emptied his cup and sat up to refill it, then leaned back again, shrugging. “Well, cousin, this is as good a place to die as any, I suppose. If you decide to try all three ways at once, you’ll have to proceed without cavalry on that stream bed.”
“I’ll be proceeding without cavalry, period,” Glafkos bluntly informed him. “I know a little bit about fighting in mountains, as you may recall, cousin. Every warm body in my force will be going in afoot, officers, too. I’ll be establishing a base camp midway between the two passes; your squadron will guard it. You’ll also be responsible for keeping us supplied and for relaying any orders the High King sends. And keep a tight security on the camp, cousin. Komees Portos was no puling babe, yet his squadron was apparently wiped out, and you saw what passed with that devil-spawn, Martios.”