Champion of the Last Battle

  Champion Of The

  Last Battle

  The Horseclans

  Book XI

  Robert Adams

  Futura

  An Orbit Book

  Copyright © 1983 by Robert Adams

  This edition published in 1985

  by Futura Publications

  ISBN 0 7088 8134 3

  Content

  Inside Cover

  Also by Robert Adams

  Dedications

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Back Cover

  Inside Cover

  The Battle Raged Around Bili

  As he withdrew his nicked, dull blade — now cloudy with sticky, red blood — from just below the breastplate of a gasping, wide-eyed pikeman. Suddenly, the back of Bili’s helmet was struck so hard that the force of the buffet all but drove him to his knees. Staggering slightly, he turned to face a swordsman in three-quarter armor of an alien pattern.

  The Skohshun was swinging his sword with both hands and his greater than average strength was evident in the crushing, numbing force of his blows. Bili caught and deflected two swordswipes on the face of his buckler and tried to deflect another down the flat of his blade while fetching his opponent a shrewd buffet in the exposed armpit with the steelshod edge of the buckler. But Bili’s much abused blade shattered, leaving him totally weapon-less before his enemy’s sharp and deadly blade . . .

  Also by Robert Adams

  In the Horseclans series

  published by Futura

  The Coming Of The Horseclans

  Swords Of The Horseclans

  Revenge Of The Horseclans

  A Cat Of Silvery Hue

  The Savage Mountains

  The Patrimony

  Horsecians Odyssey

  The Death Of A Legend

  The Witch Goddess

  Bili The Axe

  Dedications

  For Morgan Llywelyn, a lady whose vast literary talent is matched only by her dark, Celtic beauty.

  For John Steakley, Brian Burley, Kim Mohan, Dell Harris and David Cherry.

  For all of the fine folk who made the ’83 Mystery Con so enjoyable for me.

  To Motor-mouth #1, #2 and #3 (they know who they are and why I call them that).

  For Doug & Sandy Wilkey, Texas HORSECLANNERS.

  For Eric Lindsay, Australian HORSECLANNER.

  For Fritz Goetz, Bill Muller, John La Bianca, Gerard Thomas and all of my other friends of The German-American Society of Central Florida, Inc.

  Introduction

  Today is June 22, 1982, an auspicious day for me as well as for the hordes of Horseclans fans, both those of the various Horseclans Societies and those as yet unorganized. Twelve years ago on this day, I finished the book that I later titled The Coming of the Horseclans; eight years ago on this day, I commenced work on the book, first of the Bili the Axe Cycle, that was later retitled Revenge of the Horseclans (very much against my will, incidentally; I had wanted to call it Bili the Axe!). For those reasons, I thought this to be an especially good day to write the introduction to the last book in the Bili the Axe Cycle, this one, Champion of the Last Battle.

  Ever since the publication of The Death of a Legend, last year. I have been getting fan mail critical of my killing off of the character Bili Morguhn; but as I said apropos another matter in my introduction to The Coming of the Horseclans. I make no apology, for Bili’s demise is necessary if the series is to progress . . . but do not think you have seen the very last of him in this book, for there are more schemes bubbling about in my brain than are dreamed of by even my literary agents.

  By the time this book is released, Fantasy Games Unlimited should have two or three Horseclans games on the market and the first Horseclans convention should be imminent.

  May Sacred Sun shine always upon you all.

  Robert Adams

  Seminole County, Florida

  Prologue

  When once his assistants had, under his supervision, administered the drugs and departed the chamber, the old, wizened Zahrtohgahn physician stood beside the massive bed for long and long, just observing the old, dying man who lay thernon. Master Ahkmehd was, himself, but a bare score of years the junior of his patient and had been his personal physician for nearly twoscore years, his friend and trusted confidant for almost as long.

  Unconsciously, the stooped practitioner wrinkled his nose at the stench of corrupting flesh from his patient’s inflamed arm, that arm which he had not been allowed to amputate properly after a wounded bear had so torn and mauled it that it would never have been of real use again even had infection not set into it.

  “Ah, Bili, my dear, old lord,” he sighed at last in his own guttural language. “Yes, you surely were a stark warrior and were well named Bili the Axe by friend and foe alike. But you were so much more, as well; you brought true and abiding peace to a much-troubled land in the near fifty years you ruled it.

  “Assuredly, Ahláh granted you a long life and you used it well. So well did you use that life you shortly will depart that I cannot but regret that you die an infidel, for if any man ever deserved the Paradise of the Prophet, it is you, Lord Bili of Morguhn. Ahláh keep you, my good, old friend. Never will there be another like unto you.”

  To the dying old man upon the bed, the words made no sense — for all that he spoke Zahrtohgahn fluently — they were but a muted drone to senses dulled by drugs, hypnotism and fast-approaching death. During the week or so since the pain of the suppurating flesh had become of such intensity that Zahrtohgahn wiles and drugs had been necessary, his consciousness had spent precious little time in this present world of his — that of a suffering, slowly dying, aged man.

  Rather had he retreated into his own mind, into his memories, to live again the tumultuous, exciting days of his life of nearly fourscore years before — days of war and Love, of hard, rough living, of crashing battles; of priceless moments of passion shared with the long-dead woman he had never ceased to love and to mourn through all the decades that had followed.

  Now, once more, he left the aged, almost-dead husk to again inhabit that young, powerful, towering body of the young Thoheeks Bili, Morguhn of Morguhn, the Bili of some seventy-eight years agone.

  Chapter I

  A bit before sunrise, young Thoheeks Bili of Morguhn was wakened by one of his menservants. When he had made brief use of the chamberpot and downed a small draft of honey wine and water, he was dressed by the first servant and two others, then armed. Once fully attired and in a splendid set of half-armor, with sword slung on baldric, dirk and daggers belted at his thick waist and a crested helm under his left arm, he departed the sprawling suite through doors opened by servants or armed guards and descended the palace stairs to the main hall and the waiting knot of officers and noblemen.

  Like him, all belowstairs were half-armored, and, although they had been taking their ease on the various benches and chairs before tables now bare of anything save cups, ewers and small braziers for the heating of mulling irons, they one and all came to their feet upon his entrance.

  Waving them back to their places, the tall young warrior paced the length of the hall to take his usual place at the high table, where he was quickly served a tankard of spiced cider
to which he added a dollop of apple brandy.

  When he had downed half the contents of the tankard, he said. “Good morning . . . I hope. Before anyone asks, no, my Lady Rahksahnah has not yet dropped her foal, thank you.

  “Now, let’s get this business of reports out of our way, then we’ll walk the usual circuit, attend to any necessary things in the city, and by that time perhaps the day’s meal will be ready for the eating. Eh? Who’s first, this day?”

  One by one, those who had been duty officers for the preceding day and night rendered routine reports. Little had occurred in that period, it seemed. The Skohshun army still squatted in their camps on the plain below the city, but seemed to be licking their wounds from the latest attempt to storm the almost impregnable city some month or more agone and had demonstrated only their normal, now familiar routines of camp life.

  There had been some deaths in the city, of aged, ill or wounded, but this was to be expected. Captain Kahndoot’s war-mare had dropped a fine, sturdy bay colt, and the big, stocky Moon Maiden could only beam her pride. A smile never seemed to leave her plain, broad-cheeked face.

  Junior Captain Frehd Brakit reported that for all that the siege was now entering its third month, them was no dearth of food anywhere in city or citadel for man or horse. The compulsive squirreling away of stores by King Mahrtuhn I and all his successors was now paying off. The heavy rain of the day before had not been needed, not with the city’s steady supply of clear, cold water from the spring-fed lake within the bowels of the mountain upon which New Kuhmbuhluhnburk had been built.

  Bili grinned wolfishly. “I’d not care to be living in the Skohshun camps, this morning. The way that rain came down, they’re certain to be a slippery, sticky, stinking quagmire from end to end, right now.”

  The next officer to step forward was Sir Yoo Folsom. The bandy-legged, blond, late-thirtyish knight had been the first of the northern nobles to greet Bili and his squadron after the abominable march up from Sandee’s Cot, early last spring. Sir Yoo was also one of the few survivors of the late king’s bodyguard, and he now acted as a vice-commander of the lower city.

  “For all the actual plentitude of vittles, here in the city and citadel, m’lord duke, I’d liefer be eating and drinking the produce of me own lands, on me own lands. A scurvy pox on t’damned Skohshun bastards!”

  Bili smiled warmly. “Would that we both were there for the eating of another of your fine, fat steers, Sir Yoo, But alas, I suppose our enemies are doing that.”

  The knight rumbled a laugh. “Ohohoho, not my stock, by Steel! Whatall couldn’t be harvested was burned, most of whatall could be, along with most of the larder and cellar and smokehouse was either wagoned up here or buried safe for after them Skohshuns is gone or dead. The cows and such was all drove up into the south mountains, and all my neighbors did the same, too.

  “But I did leave barrels of fine beer fer the Skohshuns. Hid it was, but not hid too well, and flavored with a herb what grows wild in some places.” A sudden attack of laughter bubbled up, but he managed to finally quell it and went on.

  “Privy-root, that herb’s called round here, and fer good reason, too. Any damn Skohshun bastard as drank as much as a pint measure of thet nice, cool beer is gonna think afore too long thet a torch dance is going on in his guts, and he won’t do no fighting for at least a week, he’ll be too busy squatting, he will.” Once more the laughter gained control of Sir Yoo, and this time Bili and the rest joined with him.

  * * *

  The field campaign against the northern invaders, the Skohshuns, had been an almost unmitigated disaster for the army of the King of New Kuhmbuhluhn, fatal to the royal personage and for far too many of his faithful supporters as well. And worst of all, to Bili Morguhn’s mind, was that all or most of it was completely unnecessary; there had been no real need to march out and meet the enemy at his full strength and on ground of his choosing. Bili had himself counseled that such be avoided at all costs, that these Skohshuns be forced to first blunt their teeth on, and bleed a bit before, the walls of this very city. But the late king had for some reason felt himself honor-bound to go to his death and lead many a follower with him.

  From the very outset, King Mahrtuhn’s organization — or, rather, studied lack of same — of the progress of armed men toward certain battle had offended all the lessons, precepts and training of Bili and had set his teeth edge to edge. For all his relative youth, the young thoheeks had seen and had taken part in such marches done properly, had experienced the sudden, terrifying shock of an ambuscade, and was all too aware that King Mahrtuhn was at the very least courting fatal consequences, proceeding as recklessly as he was. Not one, single flank rider preceded the column or paralleled the route of march. The so-called van was far too close to the head of the main column, and there was no rearguard, save a gaggle of stragglers.

  Moreover, the monarch had deliberately left every one of the Kleesahks — those huge, hybrid, part-human creatures whose preternatural senses might have partially at least replaced the missing security forces on the march — to be part of the garrison of New Kuhmbuhluhnburk, remarking that since the enemy Skohshuns lacked Kleesahk allies, he felt that it would be less than honorable to set out with a detachment of them.

  In the light of so royal a degree of utter stupidity — which was how Bili saw it, then and ever after — he had sent the prairiecat Whitetip out on the night before the column left the fortified city. The big feline had first performed a reconnaissance of the proposed route-of-march for a bit over a day’s ride from New Kuhmbuhluhnburk, telepathically beamed his discoveries back to Bili, then found a safe, dry, comfortable place to lie up until the march actually began.

  Soon after the tail end of the column had quitted the lower approaches to New Kuhmbuhluhnburk, a young New Kuhmbuhluhn knight had ridden back down the files to the head of Bili’s squadron of lowlanders. Following an old-fashioned, intricately formal salute, the youth had stiltedly conveyed his message: The esteemed and courageous Duke Bili of Morguhn was summoned to ride at the side of King Mahrtuhn for the nonce. Leaving his force under the capable command of Freefighter Captain Fil Tyluh, Bib had urged his big black stallion in the wake of the returning galloper.

  Like Bili, King Mahrtuhn was an axeman, using that weapon by preference in battle, rather than the more usual sword or saber or lance; his was only slightly less massive than Bili’s own double-bitted axe, being single-bitted, but with the usual finial spike and another, cursive one behind the blade. Both axemen carried their fearsome weapons cased between pommel and knee on the off side of their horse housings and so within easy reach in an emergency.

  Although nearly fifty years Bili’s senior, the only hints of advanced years about King Mahrtuhn were his white hair and wrinkle-furrowed face. He rode tall and erect in his saddle, his broad-hipped and -shouldered, thick-waisted body all big bones and roiling muscles. At his left side rode a younger, carbon copy of him, his chosen heir, Prince Mahrtuhn Gilbuht of New Kumbuhluhn.

  Both royal personages smiled cheery greeting to Bili and opened the space betwixt their warhorses that he might ride between and so converse easily with either or both.

  But King Mahrtuhn’s warm smile metamorphosed into a frown as he said, “Cousin, we are informed that you have developed and schooled your squadron in a maneuver designed to gap the Skohshun’s pike hedge. We hope that your means are honorable. We cannot and will not countenance the use of bows or darts or slings or such other cowardly, dishonorable methods aimed at the murders of brave fighting men. You have heard our views on that distasteful subject.”

  “No, your majesty,” Bili replied, “this tactic makes no slightest use of missile weapons. Of horses either, for that matter, save only to bear us up to the points of the pikes. Then will we all go in afoot, in half-armor.”

  The younger prince — younger than the king, but still a good ten years Bili’s senior in age — raised a dark-red eyebrow. “It sounds a bit like suicide, to me, Duke Bili. If moun
ted men in full armor can’t hack a way through that hedge, what possible chance has a contingent of warriors in half-armor and on foot? Many a trick that looks good on a sand board or the practice field proves worse than useless when push comes to shove with steel points. How can you be certain that his majesty is not just allowing you to fritter away the strength of your squadron?”

  Bili nodded. “I appreciate your sincere concern for my command, lord prince, but this will not be the first use of this tactic on a hard-fought field. It was first developed by one of my maternal ancestors, a certain Duke of Zuhnburk, and with it he defeated numerically superior forces on more than one occasion. Others in the Middle Kingdoms have, over the years, emulated him with equal success. I have drilled my folk hard and well, and I expect equal success against these Skohshuns,”

  King Mahrtuhn bobbed his head, his plumes nodding. “We were assured by our nephew. Prince Byruhn, that your new mode of fighting was honorable and, if performed bravely, had a good chance of succeeding to its purpose, but we wished to hear the same from your lips, cousin.”

  “Uncle Byruhn.” said the younger Mahrtuhn with a grin, “while he is purely honorable, has been known to stretch the truth a bit when certain of his personal stratagems were involved . . . and to wax most wroth upon being put to questions a second time. And he is angry enough, just now, because his majesty and I decided to leave the bowmen and the slingers upon whom Byruhn dotes back in New Kuhmbuhluhnburk.”

  Bili silently reflected that in Prince Byruhn’s place he, too, would be angry. The mountainous man had fairly quivered with rage as he had detailed the monumental folly of his father and nephew to Bili on the evening before.

  “My royal sire is not a stupid man, Cousin Bili, nor is my nephew, so I can but assume that they both have taken temporary leave of their senses. I was at that meeting whereat the heralds of the Skohshuns were heard, and if the chief herald had been a wizard, then surely his spells would have affected me, as well, not just the king and young Mahrtuhn. And their strategy, if such ill-conceived plans can be truly called such, smacks unmistakably of either witchcraft or insanity.