Free Omens of Kregen by Alan Burt Akers Page B

a little easier in my mind about the witch.
    With this — admittedly fragile — new development in affairs, I could make the decision I had trembled to make before.
    To the assembled officers of the army I said: “News has just reached me that Prince Drak and Kov Seg have linked up and are approaching the River of Golden Sliptingers. Their opposition has suddenly materially weakened and they have made unexpectedly good progress.”
    Kapt Erndor grumped up and said: “So we know what that portends.”
    “Aye,” I said. I didn’t like the note of grimness in my voice. “We have recently been blessed with a considerable flow of reinforcements. You’d best reform your Ninth Army, Erndor and make sure you take some of the better regiments.”
    “Thank you, jis, I will that. What are your orders for me?”
    “Why, Erndor! To march shoulder to shoulder and bash this Nath the Greatest Ever.”
    “If my guess is right, and I think it is, and he has denuded his front against Prince Drak and Kov Seg, he is likely to leave his entrenchments on Losobrin’s Edge and his billets in Erdensmot, and mount an attack.”
    “Which is precisely what we want him to do, is it not?”
    “Absolutely,” said Nath Famphreon. “Although he will now inevitably be in great strength. The reports of fresh mercenaries arriving daily are explicit.”
    “So there’s no question of us flying off to the Coup Blag until we’ve blattered the fellow. When his paktuns have all run back home again and the land is peaceful — then.”
    Well, I have said I am not intending to give a blow by blow account of the North Vallian Campaign. There were many battles, a few sieges, and a lot of marching, a damned lot of marching. But now we could brace ourselves for what we all hoped would be the last big encounter. The self-styled King of North Vallia had concentrated almost all his forces against us in the west hoping to knock us out before turning back to finish off Drak and Seg.
    When I calculated out the odds I was fully and painfully aware that I was dealing in the lives of men and women. Still, for this last time — until the unholy Shanks arrived on our shores.
    The two armies were in good heart. Some of the units were raw; many were hardened by this and previous campaigns into veterans, and there were the kampeons, the heroes of Vallia, men and women to be cherished. [3]
    One odd fact emerged from all this, to Kapt Erndor’s puzzlement. He had the 30th Infantry Division under command. As he said to me as we met for the last time before going out to our respective armies: “Odd, by Vox. The 11th Churgurs have Jiktar Nogad ti Vendleheim commanding. I was sure old Hack ’n’ Slay had them.”
    Across the moorland we could see the opposing array. I nodded as Kapt Erndor said: “Well, may Opaz ride with you this day. I’m off.”
    “Opaz go with you, Erndor.” Then I concentrated on what was to come, all preparations over and what was not done would never be done.
    The place was simply a portion of the vast sweep of moorland up there in Erstveheim. A tiny village, of no more than a dozen or so tumbledown houses, a tavern and a posting house, and a temple to their obscure local god, stood out forlornly between the lines. The village’s name was Bengarl. Most unkindly, the swods dubbed the area Bengarl’s Blight, and so that was how the battle acquired its name.
    The aerial duels were fought out savagely. Birds wheeled and fluttered against the radiance of the suns. Many fell. Ships burned. This phase of the proceedings lasted longer than usual, and our vaward was running into contact before the air was fully cleared.
    There was no doubt in any of our minds that our Vallian Air Service, and our flutduin squadrons, would do the job. Against ferocious opposition it just took longer.
    The skirmishers, called on Kregen ‘kreutzin’, darted in and flung their javelins, shot in their bows, then skipped away, evading with lithe skill. All the same,