Behind him trotted the relief guard; Sergeant Crusos was at their head. Beneath his breath, the sergeant w’as cursing. Why did he have to draw this damned Foros as guard-officer? Even his fellow-officers thought him an ass, him and his “An officer should . . .” and “An officer shouldn’t. . .” If the pock-faced bastard had stayed back in camp like any normal officer would have, Sergeant Crusos would be on horseback, not hoofing it along like a common pikeman!
Then they were at post number thirteen, and the officer reined aside, that Crusos might bring his men up. “Detail,” hissed Crusos, “holtl Ground, pikesl”
“I really think, Sergeant,” snapped Foros peevishly, “that you could make your commands a little more audible.”
“Sir,” began Crusos, “we’re on enemy land and . . .”
Foros’ face—deeply scarred by smallpox, beardless and ugly at the best of times—became hard and his voice took on a threatening edge. “Do not presume to argue
with me, Sergeant! Just do as I command.”
Then there came a loud splashing from within the deep-cut creekbed a bare hundred yards to their right, and the moon slipped from her cloudcover long enough to reveal a body of horsemen coming over the lip of the bank.
Sergeant Crusos’ action then was instinctive. Full-throatedly, he roared, “Right, face! Unsling, shields! Front rank, kneel! Post, pikes!”
“Sergeant!” screamed Foros, angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Crusos spun about and saluted with his drawn sword. “Sir, the detail is formed to repel cavalry attack.”
“Oh, really, Sergeant.” Foros smiled scornfully. “You’re behaving like a frightened old woman. Bring the men back to marching order this minute. I saw those riders, and they had lances. That means they’re Captain Portos’ men.”
It was in Crusos’ mind to say that, in his time, he’d seen more unfriendly lancers than friendly; but he bit his tongue, remembering that the last noncom who had publicly disputed one of this officer’s more questionable orders had been flogged and reduced to the ranks … that was one of the benefits of having married a daughter of the regimental commander, Martios.
When Tomos Gonsalos, trotting at the van of his platoon of “lancers,” heard the familiar commands and saw the knife-edged pikeheads come slanting down, his hand unconsciously sought his saber hilt and he breathed a silent prayer—the success of the entirety of this raid lay in not having to fight until the bulk of the raiders were at or near the camp. Then the menacing points rose on command, shields were reslung, and pikeshafts sloped over shoulders.
At the perimeter, Tomos raised a hand to halt his platoon, then walked his mount over to where the infantry officer sat stiff in his saddle.
“A fine evening, is it not?” said Tomos, smiling. “I am Sub-lieutenant Manos Stepastios. Could you tell me, sir, if this is the Vahrohnos Martios’ camp?”
“No,” the officer sneered. “It’s the High King’s seraglio! Don’t you know how to salute a superior?”
Hastily, Manos/Tomos rendered the demanded courtesy, which the infantry officer returned . .. after a long, insulting pause.
“That’s better. Now, what are you and your aggregation of tramps-in-armor doing this far east?” His voice was cold and the sneer still on his ugly face.
Manos/Tomos remained outwardly courteous to the point of servility, though his instinct was to drive his dirk into the prominent Adam’s apple under that pockmarked horseface. “Sir, Captain Portos commanded me to ride to your camp to discover if aught had been seen of the supply wagons. If not, I was to speak to your supply officer.”
The pocked officer laughed harshly, humorlessly. “So, Portos is begging, again, is he? It’s a complete mystery to me why any, save barbarians, would serve a ne’er-do-well like Captain Portos . . . but then,” again, that cold, sneering smile, “you are not exactly a Kath’ahrohs, westerner.”
Manos/Tomos had had enough; furthermore, five hoots of an “owl” had just sounded—all was in readiness. He approached until he was knee to knee with the arrogant officer, then grated, “My Lady Mother was the daughter of a tribal chief and was married to my noble
father by the rites of the Church. Are you equally legitimate, you ugly whoreson? If the syphilitic sow who farrowed you knew your father’s name, why have you refrained from identifying your house?”