Madman’s Army Read online

  "My lord, one sends forth large and impressive forces either to make war or to impress and intimidate and thus prevent warfare from occurring. Neither is to be contemplated in this instance. The man, the person­age, approaching Mehseepolis is our own, dear, very much respected overlord, Milos Morai. Compared to the lands and peoples and wealth and forces he could raise and command, ours is but little better than that poor, weak hill-principality you envisioned in your ill-conceived argument.

  "Also, do not forget that we all still owe this man recompense, reparations for the damages wrought by the host of Zastros in its progress through the south­erly provinces of Karaleenos; no doubt, while with us, our overlord will be of a mind to set the rates of payment on these old debts, so we do not wish to render a first impression to his mind of a fluid wealth that we do not, in fact, own."

  Thoheeks Pennendos shook his head. "I still don't see why we should supinely allow this strange for­eigner to easily set his foot down upon our collective neck, rule us as subjects, put an outlander prince over us and milk us of our remaining riches for who knows bow long to pay off debts incurred by a dead man."

  Mahvros stared down the length of the table, raised an eyebrow and asked, "My lord Pennendos, were you ever dropped on your head as a babe? If so, that might be the reason for your lack of wit, so often demonstrated to us all in this chamber."

  Thoheeks Bahos stirred his massive frame and rum­bled, "Now, Mahvros, let us cease to sink to the level of personal insult. Our Pennendos, here, is bright enough, he's but young and has not seen so much of life as have we. Remember, he was not on that ill-fated debacle of Zastros' devising, he was then too young.

  "My lord Pennendos," the huge man continued, "you must know that the mighty host of the late and unlamented King Zastros did not suffer so much de­feat as utter dissolution up there on the Lumbuh River, years back. Then and there, there was, there existed, nothing that might've prevented High Lord Milos from leading his own mighty host—which was nearly as large as Zastros' had been at its strongest—down here to burn, pillage, rape, enslave and thoroughly wreak havoc upon the length and the breadth of the then kingless Kingdom of the Southern Ehleenohee. Had Zastros or full many another of us seen a former foreman so prostrate before us, you know that that is precisely what we would have done.

  "But this High Lord Milos Morai of Kehnooryos Ehlahs did not. He acted with an unbelievable degree of humanity, restraint, magnanimity, Christian char­ity. He asked only that we deliver up to him the king and the queen, leaving us specifically free to bear away with us all that we could carry—weapons, gear, tents, animals, wheeled transport, everything—more­over, he had friendly guides come down from out the western mountains and show us to sources of un-poisoned water all along the way.

  "Also, he freely offered us the loan of troops to secure and maintain order in this homeland while we reorganized a government and rendered ourselves once more a peaceful, productive land. In the early talks, he never mentioned the subject of reparations; Grahvos and I it was brought it up and had Mahvros—who did the actual negotiating—promise payment when once more the lands were reset on an earning basis, for right is right, young sir, and an honest man is owned by his just debts until he has repaid them to the last jot and tittle.

  "As for the setting of feet upon collective necks, my lord Pennendos, I had much liefer have the foot of a generous and forgiving stranger upon mine than that of a grasping, greedy, cruel, arrogant poseur of a near relative. Though I have as yet to have the honor of meeting him, this High Lord Milos seems to me an overlord that I and you and the rest of us can easily live with and under, and I feel him and his overlord-ship to be a blessing of God upon us and our so long afflicted land."

  Milo Morai sat on a sandstone bench beside the aged, arthritic Father Mithos, eeohyimehnos of the Monastery of Saint Anthony of the Stones. The build­ings behind them still showed clear evidences of the ruin that had been unremittingly visited upon them during the long years of civil warring, raids and gen­eral chaos. But even in its present state, stripped of most of its ancient treasures, portions of roofs here and there still undergoing repairs, the purity of line of laid stones and columns bore out as ever the skill and real love that had originally gone into the erection of the complex.

  Father Mithos was one of the only three of the original brothers to survive. He was maimed and hid­eously scarred by steel, lash, rope and searing heat— tortures wrought upon his flesh by cruel men seeking the hiding places of the last few treasures of the order; vain tortures, as it turned out, for Father Mithos was possessed of great faith, a tempered will and the war­rior heritage of his noble forebears.

  More accustomed to the vain, proud, supercilious and often downright criminal churchmen of his north­erly realm of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Milo had at first found this erudite, deeply religious, but withal both gentle and humble man truly refreshing. As the days had gone on, with the brawny brothers working the long days through at ferrying the men and horses some bare handful at a time across the treacherous stretch of river in their tiny boats, the High Lord had found himself to be beginning to not only respect Father Mithos but to really like him, as well.

  After a sip of the cider, Milo remarked, "Father Mithos, it is a bit surprising to me that the main trade road has not been put into better order and that the bridge, here, has not been rebuilt. I must remember to speak of both projects in Mehseepolis."

  Both of the old man's thumbs were now but with­ered, bumpy, immovable claws, so he needs must use his two palms to raise and then lower his cider-cup, and he did this slowly, painfully, in deference to calci­fications in joints sprung on rack and strappado. With a skill born of long, patient practice, he set down the cup and smiled, his scarred lips writhing jerkily aside to show his few remaining teeth.

  "Do not trouble yourself of the thoheeksee, my son. They mostly are good, righteous, godly men, and they have done more than many ever expected they could or would to set this land to right within the space of bare years rather than decades.

  "As regards the trade road, I can understand why it has not been improved more than it has. For one thing, there are few reasons to move the army in this direction, but many to move it to north and south and west, so understandably, those roads are foremost in the minds and plans of the Council and repair crews. Also, the traders have taken to using another track and a ford well up north of here, though I feel certain that were the bridge again sound and whole and us­able, they would return to the old road.

  "The bridge was the property of this house, you know, my son. We maintained it and, when necessary, repaired it, and we waxed wealthy on the tolls for use of it. But as our wealth grew, so too did our over­weening pride. Truly it is averred that pride goeth before a fall, never doubt the words, Milo. We waxed proud and rich and slothful and the Lord God brought us down, far, far down, visited upon us deaths and sufferings and hunger and loss.

  "Five years ago, brigands nested behind those walls and in the toll-castle down by the river, there. There were but three of us brothers left alive and we were all in sad condition, tramping the roads and begging, starving in rags. But then Thoheeks Grahvos—may God bless and keep him, ever—sent his army against the brigands and drove them all forth, killing some in battle, hanging others and enslaving the remainder. He freed their captives, then sought out Brother Miklos, Brother Thiodohros and me. He had us restored in body and brought here to re-occupy our lands and begin to restore our order and buildings to the use of the Lord God.

  "Now, God be praised, there are three-and-twenty of us here, to sing of the glories of God and to do His holy work. Our vines and fruit trees have been re­planted and they will, in God's own time, produce the bounty of yore. We have harvested two crops of grain and soon will reap yet another. Early on, we gathered in poor, homeless, near-wild goats and sheep and cat­tle, two asses, two oxen and an injured horse which last we slowly nursed back to health, only to find that he is a war-trained horse and most ill suited to
the needs of a band of peaceful brothers of God. Accord­ing to God's will, the beasts have multiplied and con­tinue to do so. The pastures have been refenced, the folds and sheds rebuilt, and hayfields sown. God will­ing, we someday may again own swine to batten upon the mast of our forest. And also, someday, when He has fully forgiven us of our pride and sloth and other impieties, God will show us the way, will allow us leave to rebuild that bridge.

  "Already has the Lord shone His face most brightly upon us here, my son, far and away more brightly than our many sins deserved for us. Therefore, do not trouble the thoheeksee in Mehseepolis on our account, for we all are fed, clothed, housed and content with the Lord God's blessed bounty."

  As the sun began to set behind the monastery for­est, the old abbot arose from his seat and, tenderly assisted by a tall, brawny brother who had stood be­hind him in meek silence for the hours he and Milo had sat and sipped and conversed, made his painful, hobbling way back to the main building. But Milo was not halfway back to camp when, with a pounding of bare feet, the tall brother caught up to him, perspiring lightly but breathing normally despite his run, for which he had rolled up his sleeves almost to the shoulder and tucked the hem of his robe into his waist-rope to display heavily muscled limbs bearing the puckered scars of a man who had worn armor and swung steel for many a year. Walking toward Milo, smiling, the monk strode with a pantherish grace, and Milo thought that the man had probably been a deadly swordsman in his salad days, no doubt still could be had he not traded his armor for a robe of unbleached wool and his sword for his faith.

  He dredged the monk's name out of his memory. "Yes, Brother Kahnstantinos? You would have words with me?"

  The monk nodded brusquely, there on the trail along which other brothers were passing on their way up from the day's atrocious labors on the river, too dumb with fatigue to do more than mumble to the tall monk and stumble on toward the monastery complex.

  "Someplace private, and it please my lord."

  In Milo's pavilion, the monk sipped at the wine, savored it on his tongue and complimented Milo on his selection of vintage, as well as on the workmanship of the gilded silver wine-goblet. His speech and bearing were unmistakably those of a gentleman to the manor born.

  After thanking him no less elaborately, Milo asked bluntly, "Well, then, my lord monk, what have you for my ears only in privacy?"

  The monk contemplated the dark depths of his wine for a long moment, then looked up with sad eyes and said, "That which I should not utter, for in so doing I will be gainsaying a man whom I respect and love above all other living creatures I ever have known in all of a bloody, violent, misspent life; but still I must say it, my lord, though it damn me.

  "My lord, things are not nearly so good here as Father Mithos would like to believe. Indeed, he does not even know of the worst of our afflictions ... I don't think ... for those of us who do know shield him from them. We know that he will not live much longer, you see, and we wish him to die in peace and in as near to comfort as this rude, poor place can afford him. For if any man born has ever earned the right to a peaceful, painless demise, it is him. They crucified him, you know, my lord.

  "After the sacrilegious swine had done their worst to his poor flesh and bones to force from out his lips the hiding places of the holy treasures, they decided that he must not know that secret after all. That was when they fashioned a cross and bound his shattered, broken body upon it and rode off and left him to die among the other corpses of the murdered brethren. He might well have so died, there upon that cross, save that two shepherd brothers who had been absent in search of some sheep of the monastery herd and had wisely lain low until the raiders were beyond the horizon came back in time to cut him down and nurse him back to as close to health as the poor, mutilated old man ever again will know. Following a few more close calls while they still were nursing him, the two brothers sagaciously quitted the wrecked monastery as soon as he could walk for any distance, for here they were become only sitting, helpless victims.

  "In my boyhood, this monastery was noted for the fine vintages its vineyards produced. My late father was a taciturn man, yet he rejoiced openly whenever one of his agents was able to buy a pipe of the wine produced here, completely disregarding the literal pounds of silver that that pipe had cost. But that famous vineyard is now no more, my lord, and it will be many a year before the new-planted ones can pro­duce even a small keg of wine.

  "The monks of earlier years also were widely known for their brewing of herbal- and fruit-flavored cordials, but that too is now a thing of the past, even had we the wherewithal. Some nameless idiot of a bandit tried his clumsy hand at it and managed to blow up the distillery, the building that had housed it and himself, as well. The copper-scrap, of course, was looted and borne away, and it will be years yet to come before we can afford to replace it, poor as we are here.

  "You recall, my lord, that Father Mithos mentioned that someday again he would like to see a few pigs feeding on the oak mast?"

  Milo nodded. "Yes, my lord monk."

  "The monastery once ran herds of fat swine and their specially cured and smoked pork-products were known far and wide. So, you see, it was not just the bridge or the bequests that made this place a famous and a very rich one. Lay brothers included, there were at times as many as seventy souls laboring at one thing and another hereabouts. Yes, they lived well, but it was all from the fruits of their own hard work, and they also shared unstintingly with those in need.

  "Father Mithos is a good and a saintly man. He does not really, as I said, know it all. What he does know, I believe he unconsciously sees through a rosy mist, as it were, imagining the best where objects are unclear to him. He is aged, most infirm at his healthi­est and . . . and I fear that the terrible, horrible tor­ments he endured and, with God's help and infinite mercy, survived may have beclouded his mind."

  "Quite likely true and fully understandable, if so," said Milo, adding, "To my sorrow, I've learned more over the years about torture than I ever had any desire to know, and, yes, protracted torment does quite of­ten affect the minds of its victims . . . and sometimes of its perpetrators, as well.

  "But that aside, I take it you want me to, are imploring me to speak of the straits of you and your brothers, here, to the Council of Thoheeksee, in Mehseepolis. That is it, isn't it, my lord monk? All right then, I will do so, you have my word on it, one gentleman to another."

  The man with the black, square-cut beard shook his head slowly. "No, my lord, I am no longer a gentle­man or anyone's lord, only a simple, humble servant of God. But . . . and it please my lord . . . there is one other thing that I would ask of you." At Milo's nod, he went on, "The stallion that Father Mithos found and took in and healed, he is a fine, beautifully trained destrier, obviously foaled of the very best blood­lines and sound as a suit of proof, now. However, he eats more than any other beast we own and, as he was never broken to aught save being ridden into a fight, is useless to us; I am the only one that he will abide astride him, and that must be bareback as we have no gear for him. Yet Father Mithos will not put him out. Would . . . does my lord think that perhaps he would be willing to trade a draught mule for the horse? He would make for my lord a splendid charger."

  The morning mist still lay in a thick, fleecy blanket over the rack-studded river when Milo, riding a geld­ing palfrey and leading a loaded pack-mule, rejoined Brother Kahnstantinos. The High Lord wore knee-high boots, leather-lined canvas trousers, an arming-doublet and a half-sleeved shirt of light mail. There was a quilted-suede cap on his head, and a wide, cursive saber hung from his baldric.

  When he had dismounted and hitched the horse and mule to a brace of saplings, he followed the monk through the second-growth woods to halt before a split-rail fence enclosing a grassy expanse of pasture.

  "I fed him and groomed him and turned him out about a quarter hour since," said the tall monk. "He's likeliest beyond that fold of ground out there drinking from the pond."

  A shrill w
histle from the monk brought a tall, dark-mahogany stallion, with four white stockings and a long, thin blaze of white, up over the fold of ground. At a slow but distance-eating amble, the horse ap­proached them and came to a snorting, stamping halt just the other side of the fence from the monk, who took the fine head into his arms and petted the beast with a gruff tenderness.

  Silently, Milo sought the mind of the stallion. "How does my horse-brother call himself, think of himself?" he beamed.

  The stallion started so abruptly that his jerking head flung the monk backward onto his rump, that man's own surprise and pain being expressed in terms more heard in cavalry lines than in monasteries.

  Moving slowly, warily, the big equine drew back just beyond the reach of either man. "How can you speak to me, two-legs? Your kind cannot really speak to my kind, every horse and mare knows that."

  "But I can bespeak you, horse-brother," beamed Milo. "So, too, can most of the two-legs of my herd. For this reason, we need not place cruel, pain-making metal bits into the mouths of our horse-brothers, for they are truly our brothers, our partners, not our mere slaves.

  "Now, what do you call yourself, horse-brother?"

  Helping the tall monk back onto his feet, even while he silently conversed with the bemused but still-wary stallion, Milo signaled the man to fetch and lead back with him the palfrey and mule. The monk came back just in time to see Milo step from the topmost rail of the fence over and astride the bare back of the stal­lion. With his thighs tightly gripping the dark-red bar­rel and his sinewy hand grasping the full mane, the man kneed the warhorse first to his slow amble, next to a faster amble, then a canter, then a full gallop.