Herbuht Mai groaned. “All right, Guhsz, so they’ll take four, maybe six, weeks to reach our current position. But how could anyone stop them when they do get here, eh? One hundred twenty thousand fighting men! By my steel, there aren’t that many men in Pitzburk and Harzburk combined!
“Middle Kingdoms’ rulers think Lord Milo powerful because he can field an army of fifty-thousand-odd. But how can he or anyone stand against a force of nearly three times that number?”
Captain Zarameenos had never really liked Mai. “If you’re afraid to die for the realm that pays you, mercenary, why didn’t you stay in the same barbarian pigwal-low that spawned you?” he sneered.
Both Helluh and Milo tensed themselves, ready to try to prevent bloodshed. The Maklaud eased backward and slyly loosened his saber, hoping to get at least one swipe at that strutting Ehleenee bastard before the northerner slew him.
But Mai’s good sense prevailed. He was far slower to anger than Helluh. “Captain Zarameenos,” he replied slowly, carefully choosing his words, “I am certainly as nobly born as are you, possibly more so, but that is of HO moment in this place and time. I do not fear death; indeed, He and I have brushed one another countless times on many a field. I well know, as do all my Freefighters, that wounds or death is the certain fate of most of us, but we continue to practice our highly dan-geroHs profession because it is the only one most of us know.
“The nobility of your Ehleenoee realms are usually highly educated and, early on, are habituated to a soft, pampered life of culture and books and soft music and luxurious palaces and pleasures that men like me cannot understand. Consequently, few of your peers make decent soldiers.
“I dislike you probably as much as you dislike me, Captain, but I’ll gladly give any man his due; you are the rare exception to most of your ilk—admirable strate-
gist, able field tactician, an officer who obviously cares for the welfare of his men and willingly devotes time to seeing to that welfare. Were any large number of Ehleenoee nobles the fighting men that Strahteegos Ga-bos, Komees Greemos, and you are, you’d have scant need to pay out your gold to the Freefighters you hate and despise!
“In the Middle Kingdoms, Captain Zarameenos, a nobleman begins his war training at the age of seven or eight. At fifteen or sixteen, if he’s still alive and uncrippled, he’s a seasoned veteran and he spends the best part of however much life is left him in making use of his hard-learned war skills—either for his home state or for foreign states. Yes, he fights for gold. Who can live without gold? If he’s lucky and a good leader, he manages to recruit a condotta, equip it, and hire it out as a unit for what must seem tremendous amounts of money to some. But, Captain Zarameenos, damned few condotta-captains die wealthy, not if they’re all they should be, for more than nine-tenths of the hire of their services goes back into the men for whom they are responsible.”
“Captain Zarameenos,” barked Milo, “you owe Captain Mai an apology.”
“Yes,” agreed the blackhaired officer, “I do, especially since most of what he said is true. As a class, my peers have become too soft, too civilized. Furthermore, most of us know it and despise ourselves because we are not the men that our ancestors were, so we have to hire men of the kind we should be to protect us. Something, Lord Milo, must be done to change this pattern.”
Milo nodded. “Something will be done … if the realm survives what’s coming. Captain Maklaud, I want ten of your best riders and twenty-two of your strongest, swiftest horses. You and the ten will ride within the hour—no armor, no bows, or spears, only saber, dirk, and helm. You and the men report ba,ck here.
“Captain Mai, as soon as I’ve dispatched the messengers, you and I will ride to King Zenos’ camp.
“Captain Zarameenos, have a detachment of your arti-, ficers determine how long it would take to partially or -completely render the bridge unusable.