[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
men would have died, anyway, and many more with them. When Nath Wonlin Sundermair was
assassinated as he waited in my tent for me while I was out repairing a varter that had been damaged
by a chunk of rock thrown by the enemy artillery do not think I was unmoved. N. Wonlin Sundermair
had fought them and shouted for aid, and my guards had come running, too late. The assassins were
caught. A military court sat, and adjudged, and they were hanged, all six of them, hanged and left to rot.
The fateful charisma that envelops me whether I will it or not worked for me in Djanduin. Many men,
and not only Djangs, but Lamnias and Fristles and Brokelsh and others of the marvelous diffs of Kregen,
had reached a dead end in their hopes for Djanduin. The leemsheads were now so bold in their raids that
only strongly escorted parties of non-Djangs might venture out onto the white dusty roads, or take
cautiously to the air astride their flutduins.
The onslaught of the Gorgrens had, at last and following on the death of Chuktar Naghan Rumferling,
burst through a pathway of the Yawfi Suth, and a clever feint southward toward the Wendwath had sent
the bulk of the Djanduin army rushing southward. The Gorgrens surged through the land of East Djanduin
to reach the Mountains of Mirth. Here they were stopped, not by the army but by those old allies of
Djanduin, the Mountains of Mirth and the desolate country at their feet to the east.
You will recall that great period when the events chronicled in the song The Fetching of Drak na Valka
were being enacted. Somehow, during this time when I struggled with only two hands to hold Djanduin
together and to defeat the Gorgrens, I could take no high joy from the enterprise. No song, I thought,
would be composed by the skalds of Djanduin to commemorate these wild and skirling events.
Well, I was wrong in that, as you shall hear.
One day when the little band I had gathered together old soldiers, young men out for adventure,
rascals like Khobo the So, one or two diffs from overseas who thought I looked a likely prospect for
future plunder came down into a hollow among tuffa trees and found the remnants of an army unit
shattered and burned, I met Kytun Kholin Dom. We had a smart set-to with the Gorgrens nasty
brutes before they were seen off, and I took pleasure from the way this tall and agile young Djang
fought. He roared his joy as my men came running down swiftly into the hollow between the tuffa trees,
and his thraxter twinkled merrily in and out, and his shield rang with return blows.
You are welcome, Dray Prescot! he yelled at me, and dispatched his man and swung to engage the
next. Lara has told me what a great shaggy graint you are! But, Lahal! You are right welcome!
Lahal, Kytun Dom, I shouted, and ran to stand with him back to back and so beat off the last of the
Gorgrens. Truly, he is a man among men, Kytun!
We had incredible adventures together and he became a good comrade to whom I could confide much
of my story. We understood each other. He was a Dwadjang, and therefore as bonny a fighter as there is
on Kregen, and I was apim, and therefore as canny as an Obdjang. We formed a great team.
The years went by and the kings came and went and the Gorgrens moldered sullenly to the east of the
Mountains of Mirth. On the day they made their final massive attempt to break through they also did
something they had not attempted before, according to Kytun, through all of recorded history.
We were riding our flutduins toward the mountains followed by the advanced aerial wing of our army
oh, yes, by this time we had our own army, and efficient and formidable it was, too when the merker
reached us. We alighted at once.
I find it impossible to believe, Dray, said Kytun. His coppery hair blazed in the emerald and ruby lights
from Antares. His tough, bluffly handsome face with the amber eyes twisted up in deep reflection as he
twisted the signal paper. The Gorgrens, may Djan rot em! Sailing across the sea to attack us!
The Gorgrens hate the sea, Notor, said old Panjit, the Obdjang Chuktar who had thrown in his lot
with us, at Pallan Coper s urgent suggestion. They have no navy, no marine. They are a nomad people
above themselves with pride and greed who wish to sweep us up into their jaws, as they have done
Tarnish and Sava.
I agree, Panjit, said Kytun. But the signal says their ships are landing men in the Bay of Djanguraj, at
the mouth of the River of Wraiths.
Then the capital is immediately threatened. Panjit gave his fine white whiskers a polishing rub. We
cannot be in two places at once. The army of the east must hold the Mountains of Mirth but they are
too weak, as we well know. He looked at me a moment, wanting me to say something; but I remained
silent. Finally he said, The reserve army should be called out, of course. But they will never stand if the
invasion is so close to Djanguraj. Again he rubbed his whiskers. We will have to return.
Kytun looked at me.
Our officers had gathered, standing in the relaxed yet alert postures of the fighting-man. And very
romantic and barbaric they looked, with their flying leathers covered in flying silks and furs, their jewels
and their ornaments, their weapons gleaming, the feathers nodding from their helmets. I took heart from
their firm bronzed faces, the light of determination in their eyes. The Djangs are a warrior people. They
would need all their devotion to me, all their belief in an apim s powers of strategy, for them to follow me
now and trust my word.
I said, We go on to the Mountains of Mirth.
There was a silence.
I can see them now in my mind s eye, as I sit talking into this microphone, here on the world of my birth.
Oh, they are a bonny lot, the fighting-men of Djanduin! The brilliant colors of their decorations, their
silver and gold sword-mountings, the jewels studding their harness, the meticulously executed designs
upon their shields, all the affected trappings a fighting-man acquires during his years of service giving them
this wonderful pagan, barbaric look tempered by the discipline of a professional army. The flutduin men
are addicted to the pelisse and sabretache and look like savage editions of hussars. Their national
weapon, the djangir, is worn by every soldier aye! and he knows how to use it to devastating
advantage.
The silence hung. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl freetocraft.keep.pl
men would have died, anyway, and many more with them. When Nath Wonlin Sundermair was
assassinated as he waited in my tent for me while I was out repairing a varter that had been damaged
by a chunk of rock thrown by the enemy artillery do not think I was unmoved. N. Wonlin Sundermair
had fought them and shouted for aid, and my guards had come running, too late. The assassins were
caught. A military court sat, and adjudged, and they were hanged, all six of them, hanged and left to rot.
The fateful charisma that envelops me whether I will it or not worked for me in Djanduin. Many men,
and not only Djangs, but Lamnias and Fristles and Brokelsh and others of the marvelous diffs of Kregen,
had reached a dead end in their hopes for Djanduin. The leemsheads were now so bold in their raids that
only strongly escorted parties of non-Djangs might venture out onto the white dusty roads, or take
cautiously to the air astride their flutduins.
The onslaught of the Gorgrens had, at last and following on the death of Chuktar Naghan Rumferling,
burst through a pathway of the Yawfi Suth, and a clever feint southward toward the Wendwath had sent
the bulk of the Djanduin army rushing southward. The Gorgrens surged through the land of East Djanduin
to reach the Mountains of Mirth. Here they were stopped, not by the army but by those old allies of
Djanduin, the Mountains of Mirth and the desolate country at their feet to the east.
You will recall that great period when the events chronicled in the song The Fetching of Drak na Valka
were being enacted. Somehow, during this time when I struggled with only two hands to hold Djanduin
together and to defeat the Gorgrens, I could take no high joy from the enterprise. No song, I thought,
would be composed by the skalds of Djanduin to commemorate these wild and skirling events.
Well, I was wrong in that, as you shall hear.
One day when the little band I had gathered together old soldiers, young men out for adventure,
rascals like Khobo the So, one or two diffs from overseas who thought I looked a likely prospect for
future plunder came down into a hollow among tuffa trees and found the remnants of an army unit
shattered and burned, I met Kytun Kholin Dom. We had a smart set-to with the Gorgrens nasty
brutes before they were seen off, and I took pleasure from the way this tall and agile young Djang
fought. He roared his joy as my men came running down swiftly into the hollow between the tuffa trees,
and his thraxter twinkled merrily in and out, and his shield rang with return blows.
You are welcome, Dray Prescot! he yelled at me, and dispatched his man and swung to engage the
next. Lara has told me what a great shaggy graint you are! But, Lahal! You are right welcome!
Lahal, Kytun Dom, I shouted, and ran to stand with him back to back and so beat off the last of the
Gorgrens. Truly, he is a man among men, Kytun!
We had incredible adventures together and he became a good comrade to whom I could confide much
of my story. We understood each other. He was a Dwadjang, and therefore as bonny a fighter as there is
on Kregen, and I was apim, and therefore as canny as an Obdjang. We formed a great team.
The years went by and the kings came and went and the Gorgrens moldered sullenly to the east of the
Mountains of Mirth. On the day they made their final massive attempt to break through they also did
something they had not attempted before, according to Kytun, through all of recorded history.
We were riding our flutduins toward the mountains followed by the advanced aerial wing of our army
oh, yes, by this time we had our own army, and efficient and formidable it was, too when the merker
reached us. We alighted at once.
I find it impossible to believe, Dray, said Kytun. His coppery hair blazed in the emerald and ruby lights
from Antares. His tough, bluffly handsome face with the amber eyes twisted up in deep reflection as he
twisted the signal paper. The Gorgrens, may Djan rot em! Sailing across the sea to attack us!
The Gorgrens hate the sea, Notor, said old Panjit, the Obdjang Chuktar who had thrown in his lot
with us, at Pallan Coper s urgent suggestion. They have no navy, no marine. They are a nomad people
above themselves with pride and greed who wish to sweep us up into their jaws, as they have done
Tarnish and Sava.
I agree, Panjit, said Kytun. But the signal says their ships are landing men in the Bay of Djanguraj, at
the mouth of the River of Wraiths.
Then the capital is immediately threatened. Panjit gave his fine white whiskers a polishing rub. We
cannot be in two places at once. The army of the east must hold the Mountains of Mirth but they are
too weak, as we well know. He looked at me a moment, wanting me to say something; but I remained
silent. Finally he said, The reserve army should be called out, of course. But they will never stand if the
invasion is so close to Djanguraj. Again he rubbed his whiskers. We will have to return.
Kytun looked at me.
Our officers had gathered, standing in the relaxed yet alert postures of the fighting-man. And very
romantic and barbaric they looked, with their flying leathers covered in flying silks and furs, their jewels
and their ornaments, their weapons gleaming, the feathers nodding from their helmets. I took heart from
their firm bronzed faces, the light of determination in their eyes. The Djangs are a warrior people. They
would need all their devotion to me, all their belief in an apim s powers of strategy, for them to follow me
now and trust my word.
I said, We go on to the Mountains of Mirth.
There was a silence.
I can see them now in my mind s eye, as I sit talking into this microphone, here on the world of my birth.
Oh, they are a bonny lot, the fighting-men of Djanduin! The brilliant colors of their decorations, their
silver and gold sword-mountings, the jewels studding their harness, the meticulously executed designs
upon their shields, all the affected trappings a fighting-man acquires during his years of service giving them
this wonderful pagan, barbaric look tempered by the discipline of a professional army. The flutduin men
are addicted to the pelisse and sabretache and look like savage editions of hussars. Their national
weapon, the djangir, is worn by every soldier aye! and he knows how to use it to devastating
advantage.
The silence hung. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]