After the Downfall

Leave for what? Hasso wondered. He understood all the words, but still had no idea what was going on. He supposed he ought to be glad that didn’t happen to him more often here.

Orosei didn’t leave him in the dark for long. The master-at-arms rode out into the open space between the two armies. He brandished his lance and shouted in the direction of the Bucovinans, challenging their champion to come out and meet him in single combat.

Hasso whistled softly. There was a grand madness to this. War in his own world had lost that personal touch; you seldom saw the men you fought. You didn’t want them to see you, either. If they did, they’d shoot you before you knew they were around. This was a different kind of warfare. It was personal.

Would any of the Bucovinans dare to meet Orosei? If they were smart – from Hasso’s point of view – they’d send out half a dozen guys at once and try to finish him off. Nothing degraded the idea of military honor like years on the Russian front.

But a single lancer rode out from the line waiting ahead. The natives cheered him like men possessed. He stopped a few meters out in front of them, turned in the saddle to wave, and then turned back and gave Orosei a formal salute. Damned if the master-at-arms didn’t return it. Then they spurred their horses straight at each other.

Riding downhill give the Bucovinan a little edge: he could go faster and build more momentum. If that bothered Orosei, he didn’t let on. He bent low over his horse’s neck, his lance aimed straight for his opponent’s short ribs. The other guy was aiming at his, too, but that didn’t faze him a bit. From what Hasso had seen, nothing that had to do with battle fazed Orosei.

Clang!

Both lances struck home. Both riders went off their horses and crashed to the ground. And both riders were up with swords drawn faster than their comrades could cheer and groan at the same time.

As lancers, the two champions proved evenly matched. As swordsmen Orosei towered head and shoulders above his foe, who was good-sized for a Grenye but nothing much against a big Lenello. Orosei’s arm was longer, and so was his blade. If the Bucovinan turned out to be fast as a striking cobra, he might have a chance. Otherwise, Hasso guessed he was in over his head, literally and figuratively.

And he was. He had no quit in him. He ran straight at Orosei, probably figuring his best chance was to get in close and see what he could do. Iron belled on iron as they hacked away at each other. Orosei had no trouble holding off the Bucovinan champion. They were both well armored, so getting through with wounds that mattered took a while. The one that did the Grenye in never got through his mailshirt. It didn’t matter. That stroke had to break ribs even through chainmail and padding. The Bucovinan staggered back and sagged to one knee.

He kept on trying to fight, though he must have known it was hopeless. Orosei approached him like a stalking tiger. The master-at-arms was a professional; he didn’t take anything for granted. Sure as hell, the Grenye jumped up for a last charge. With his side so battered, though, he couldn’t use the sword the way he wanted to. After a sharp exchange, it flew from his hand.

“Ha!” Orosei’s shout of triumph echoed over the field.

The Bucovinan went to both knees this time, and bowed his head. How much chivalry was there here? Would Orosei send him back to his own side, especially since he couldn’t fight in the battle ahead? The Lenello’s sword rose, then fell with a flash of sunlight on the blade. Blood spouted. The body convulsed. Orosei picked up the head by the hair and turned to show it to the enemy.

Still carrying his trophy, he went over to his horse, which was cropping dead grass not far away. The stink of blood made the beast snort and sidestep, but he grabbed the reins and swung up into the saddle. He rode back toward the Lenello line. Bottero’s men cheered wildly. The Bucovinans stood silent as the tomb.

“Toss me another lance, somebody,” Orosei called as he drew near. “Mine cracked when I hit this bastard.” He held up the head again.

“Use mine,” King Bottero said. “I’ll take another one. Now they’ve seen: victory will belong to us.”

“So may it be!” Velona shouted.

“So may it be!” the Lenelli echoed. If the embodiment of their goddess said so, they thought it had to be true.

Hasso peered up the slight slope toward the Bucovinan line. “I don’t see any striking column there,” he said to Nornat, who rode beside him at the head of the one King Bottero would hurl against his foes.

“Neither do I,” Nornat said. “They haven’t put one together yet, I guess. They copy things from us all the time, but they need a while to work out what to do with them and how they go. They aren’t real big, and they aren’t real bright.”