A Cat of Silvery Hue

XV

In after years, Bili was to recall that attack as absolutely hellish, with almost all that could going wrong. Only narrow gaps had been cleared through the interlaced abattis, and the Confederation infantry took heavy losses while threading slowly through the gaps. Slingstones and arrows and darts hailed thickly from the summit of the hillock, despite the shafts rained on the defenders by Confederation archers. Then, once the survivors were through the deadly hedge and were forming for the charge against the bristling breastworks, no less than three catapult stones—from Confederation engines, too!—fell short and bounced a sanguinous path through their ranks. The hundredweight missiles sent scales flying and mashed leather and flesh and bone into one indistinguishable jelly. Then, less than halfway through the charge, Strahteegos Ahrtos, his beaver down so that he could better shout orders, had his jaw smashed by a slingstone and fell clashing at Bili’s feet.

The sub-strahteegos who immediately took the lead got but a few yards farther when a pitchball took him full on the breastplate, and Bili’s last view of the unfortunate officer was of a writhing, shrieking, flame-shrouded figure rolling on the ground. The keeleeohstos who took over made it almost to the outer works—a chest-high earth-and-timber rampart—when a thick-shafted, four-foot engine dart spitted him through the belly, going through his high-grade plate as cleanly as a warm knife through soft cheese.

Then Bili had no time to see the succession of commanders. He leaped aside barely in time to avoid a trayful of red-hot sand, though a hideous scream from behind attested that the sand had landed on someone, but he surged forward and the powerful sweep of his heavy axe cleanly severed the tray holder’s leg. And, somehow, Bili found himself atop the earthwork, wreaking bloody carnage on the swift succession of opponents who appeared for eyeblinks before him, dimly recording the shock of blows on his own plate and helm. Oblivious to the familiar cacophony of battle, he concentrated only on living—and on killing.

Then only the backs of rebels running up toward the stone-walled summit of the salient met his eyes, and someone—was that Raikuh’s voice?—was shouting, “… Bili, Duke Bili, if we tail those bastards now, well take fewer casualties. The frigging archers won’t be able to range us without ranging their own as well.”

Bili tried to speak but had to work his tongue about in the desert of his mouth ere he could wet his throat enough to get the words out. “Whoever the new commander is, he’ll take time to dress his troops, however many of them are left. You’ve seen how these Regulars operate, man.”

Raikuh shook his armored head briskly. “There’re damn-all officers left, Duke Bili! The highest-ranking one I can see now is a lieutenant, and he’s missing a hand.”

“Then who led them up here?” demanded Bili. “Somebody must have led them onto this rampart.”

“If anyone did, it was you, Duke Bili!” snapped Raikuh bluntly. “They followed you once, they’ll do it again. If we wait around for them to forward another officer, damn few will make it up to those walls!”

Bili whirled to face the infantrymen and lifted his gory axe on high, roaring, “After them! After the bastards!”

For a moment, the Confederation Regulars wavered, partially reassured by the tone of command but on edge at the lack of formation.

“Sacred Sun fry your shitty arses!” bellowed a voice from their rear, its flavor unquestionably that of a parade ground and detail. “What are you pigfuckers waitin’ for? You heard the friggin’ order! Or has them there money fighters got more guts ‘n you? Move, damn you, move!”

And it was just as Raikuh had said. The defenders of the Walls had the bitter choice of loosing at the retreating remnants of the rampart force or having the bulk of their attackers run the slope unscathed. So they tried what they took to be a middle path, loosing at a high angle and hoping their shafts fell on the proper heads. Most of the rebel archers lived just long enough to rue the error.

Not that there were not close moments before the eventual victory. And one such brought the prescient Pawl Raikuh’s predictions a few steps closer to fruition.

The shouting, cheering, screaming, howling broil of men swept over the gateless walls, their jabbing spears and dripping swords leaving red ruin behind them, while shrieking panic fled before them. Bili’s pitiless axe scythed ruthlessly through the press atop the wall. At its inner edge, he kicked over a ladder down. which the less nimble defenders were fleeing, then jumped lightly to the stone paving of the inner court, briefly wondering where the defenders had lived in the absence of tents or huts within the fortification.

But the thought was necessarily short, for he was almost immediately confronted by a determined opponent with broadsword and huge bodyshield—a rebel officer, if the garish richness of the elaborately chased and inlaid full suit of plate was any indication. An experienced warrior, this one, for he handled longsword and weighty shield with practiced ease, catching Bili’s hard-swung axe on sloping shieldface and rushing inside, too close for the axe to be effective, his flickering blade feinting at Bili’s visorslits, before its needle point sank through leather and cloth and into the flesh and muscle high on the young thoheeks” thigh.

Roaring his pain and rage, Bili’s left hand let go the axehaft to pinion the wrist of that sword arm in an armor-crushing grip, and, heedless of the searing agony of the steel, he pivoted half around, slid his hand up the axehaft and ferociously rammed the thick central spike betwixt the gilded bars of his adversary’s visor.

With a gurgling, gasping scream, the swordsman stumbled back, his big shield dragging, his broadsword hanging by its knot. Bili disengaged his axe, whirled it up in both hands and swung a crashing blow against the side of that black-plumed helm. The swordsman was hurled to the pavement, where he lay, motionless and soundless, immense quantities of blood pouring from the slits of his visor.

And Bili strode on to his next encounter.

Geros, well protected by his two Freefighter guards and the big old infrantryman, Djim, had trailed the thoheeks and Pawl Raikuh as closely as was possible amid the chaos of shove, thrust, slash and cut. Leaden slingshot and various other missiles had holed and rent the Red Eagle Banner during that ghastly ascent of the hill, but Djim’s big infantry shield had sheltered Geros himself from all harm.

In the swirling court, both Pawl Raikuh and old Djim were swept out of the narrow view afforded Geros by his closed visor. Nonetheless, he kept doggedly on his lord’s heels, watching that gore-slimy axe down rebel after rebel-shattering shields, crumpling armor, severing limbs, smashing heads and chests. Behind Geros, wielding sabers and broadswords and a miscellany of pole arms, came twoscore Freefighters of the Morguhn Company and, after them, the battered remnants of the Confederation infantry, mostly spearless now but no less deadly with shortsword and shield.

The rebels fought hard, vicious as cornered rats, holding every inch of ground with a suicidal tenacity. But slowly they were driven back and back, their thinning line constricting around a central brick-and-stone platform mounting two large engines. Twice they tried to form a shield ring, but each time Bill’s terrible axe lopped off spearheads and beat down shields and the Freefighters poured, ravening, through the gaps, their blood-dimmed blades sending dozens more rebels down to gasp out their lives on the red-running ground.

Then the battle was boiling about the catapult platform and old Djim was once more at Geros’ side, only to disappear again a moment later. A sustained roar of cheering arose in the rear, loud enough that the sergeant could hear it even over the incredible, ear-splitting din engulfing him. He turned to see fresh companies of infantry, wave after wave of them, clamber atop the wall and jump down into the court.

He turned back just in time to see Thoheeks Bili, engaging a pair of swordsmen, beaten to earth by a giant of a man swinging a massive timber. Not noticing the blades beating on his cuirass, Geros hurled himself forward, ducked under the swing of the giant’s log, and jammed the ornamental brass point of the standard shaft deep into the monstrous man’s belly, just below the hornbuckled belt With a high, soprano scream, the stricken rebel dropped the log, grabbed the shaft and pulled it free from his body with an ugly sucking sound. Then, whining, his face contorted, he lumbered toward the man who had hurt him, his ham-sized hands extended before him.

Geros instinctively realized that it would be his very life to chance within reach of those hands. Wedging the ferrule of the standard into a wide crack between the paves, he wasted precious moments fumbling at his belt before recalling that his broadsword hung now on his back. The giant was perilously close as the blade came free of the scabbard and Geros danced back out of reach as lightly as his tired, trembling legs would move.

Assuming a point fighter’s crouch, he awaited his huge foe’s slow advance, then aimed a wicked thrust at the unarmored chest … and almost fell into those deadly clutches, ere he noticed that those arms were as long as his arm and swordblade combined. As it was, the right hand locked about Geros’ blade and sought to jerk him closer to his death. Frantically, the sergeant pulled back with all his might. After a heart-stopping moment of resistance, the sharp edges sliced through callus and skin and flesh to grate on massy bone and slide free, its passage lubricated with hot red blood.

Raising his ruined, useless hand to eye level, the hulking creature rent the air with another of those shrill, womanish screams, then pressed the bleeding palm and fingers against his torn belly, from which a pinkish-purple loop of gut was working. But he did not halt his shuffling advance.

To fall or even stumble would presage a messy death. Geros backed cautiously, his knees flexed, his feet feeling a way across the uneven footing of blood-slick pavement, dropped weapons and still or twitching bodies. The sergeant was suffused with cold, crawling terror, for well he knew that no sane man would so stalk an armed and armored opponent, while lacking any sort of weapon but bare hands. And he would have run, save that the giant now stood between him and Thoheeks Bili, still lying stunned where he had fallen. And, despite his all but unmanning fear, he could not willingly desert his young lord.

The monster, though, was the one who stumbled and would have fallen on his face had he not slammed his wide palm on the slimy ground. And Geros danced in, his point quick as a striking viper, sinking deep, deep into the left eye of that upraised face. The shudder that racked the gargantuan body almost wrenched the broadsword from his grasp. Then the tree-thick left arm bent and the dead man’s huge head thumped the paving stones.

Old Pyk, the Freefighter weapons master, clucked concernedly while he wrapped bandage about Bili’s thigh. “It’s stopped bleeding, my lord. Still, I think it should be burnt, else you might lose the leg to the black stink.” He finished the lapping and neatly tied the ends, adding, “And a burning be much easier, my lord, an’ you’ve no long time to think on it.”

Bili lowered the canteen of brandy-and-water from his lips and smiled. “Thank you, Master Pyk, but no. When we be back in camp, I’ll have Master Ahlee see to the wound. I’ve had such burnt ere this, and I much prefer the soft words of his mode of healing to your red-hot spearhead.”

The young nobleman leaned back, refusing to allow his face to reveal his pain, while his orderly, Makz Bineht, folded the slit leg of the blood-caked breeches over the bulk of bandage, then pulled the boottop back up and secured its straps. Then he stood, remarking, “My lord, Captain Raikuh is coming back.”

Bili opened his eyes and levered himself into a sitting posture on the parapet of the outer works, took another pull at the canteen and resolutely corked it. It would not do to have fuzzy wits if push came to shove and he had another shouting match with sub-strahteegos Kahzos Kahlinz, now commanding the Confederation troops in the conquered salient.

Pawl Raikuh strode across the carnage he had helped to cause, stepping around bodies where possible. All at once he stopped, bent to look, then drew his dirk and squatted beside a dead rebel. After wiping his blade on the dead man’s clothing, he sheathed it, dropped something shiny in his belt purse and continued on his way. When he had climbed the ladder to the outer works, he paced deliberately over to Bili’s place and, after removing his helm, saluted. The padded hood which covered most of his head was sweat-soaked, there was a crust of old blood around his nostrils and on his upper lip, his scarred face was drawn with fatigue.

Bili waved to the stretch of parapet on his right, saying, “Pawl, sit down ere you fall down. Here, try some of this brandy-water—most refreshing.”

After the briefest of hesitations, the captain sank with a sigh onto the proffered seat and gratefully accepted the canteen. He took one mouthful, spit it downhill, then threw back his head and upended the bottle, his throat working.

“What,” asked Bili, “did our esteemed colleague say when you told him that his troops could now begin clearing the field?”

Raikuh grinned. “Very little of a repeatable nature. Duke Bili. His remarks tend to leave the impression that he has little use for Freefighters and even less for Middle Kingdoms—trained country nobles who fail to give him and his pack of pikepushers the respect that he feels they deserve.”

Bili snorted. “The bastard is mad, must be. Brought in his companies on the tag—end of the battle—most of them never even blooded steel except to dispatch some rebel wounded—and then expected me to bow low and give him and his first pick, the top cream of the loot! If he’s a fair example of the kind of officers the High Lord is raising up these days, Sun and Wind help our Confederation!”

Extending his hand, he poked at a bejeweled hilt peeking from under Raikuh’s boottop. “Found some goodies yourself, did you, captain?”

Grin broadening, Raikuh rubbed his hand along the bulge. “It be a genuine Yvuhz, my lord, but it’s not mine. It’s equal shares in my company. Whatever the lads find will go into a common pot, and whatever they bring will be split.”

Bili nodded gravely. “It be a good decision, Pawl. Too many companies end up hacking each other over bits of loot.” Then he smiled, asking teasingly, “But we’ve an intaking ahead of us. How are you going to apply your rule to female loot?”

The grin returned. “Share and share, I suppose, my lord—within reason, of course. But we’ll just have to ford that river when we come to it.”

The captain imbibed once more of the canteen’s dwindling contents. “My lord, we took the time to measure that man who knocked you down. That bugger was over eight foot tall, and I’d be unsurprised if he weighed more than six hundred Harzburk pounds! He must of had the thews of a destrier, too, for it took three men to even lift that timber he was swinging like a staff. Wonder it didn’t break your back, my lord, cuirass or no cuirass.”

Gingerly, Bili shifted his position. “I’m still not sure it didn’t, Pawl. But you mean our Geros slew such an ogre, alone, with but his sword?”

“No, my lord,” Raikuh shook his head. “First he tickled the pig’s guts with the point on the standard staff. If he’d taken time then to draw his steel, well …” He shook his head again.

“And where is Geros now, Pawl?”

“I sent him and a detail back to camp to fetch horse litters for our wounded and packmules for our dead, my lord.”

“Bili?” Milo’s powerful mindspeak burst inside his skull.

The assault on the other salient, headed by the High Lord, had been almost a textbook exercise in how such a maneuver should be done. Honored to have their supreme sovereign in their van, officers and men alike bad gone about their prescribed actions ‘in strict, regulation manner—archers and engineers taking excruciating care in providing cover for the advance up to and through the gapped abattis; the units quickly and precisely forming their battalion front behind their two Cat Banners, with the High Lord and his plate-armored guard between the battalions.

At the roil of the drums, the engines had ceased their work, the archers had confined themselves to well-aimed loosings at clearly visible targets and had quickly ceased even that At the second drumroll, every heavy shield came up to battle-carry, every spear sloped across right shoulder at a precise angle, all performed under the critical eyes of halberd-armed sergeants and officers with broadswords at the shoulder-carry. At the third roll of the drums, a deep-throated cheer was raised and the lines started forward, up the slope and into the hail of death hurled by the defenders, dressing their lines at the jogtrot as missiles took inevitable toll.

Ten yards from the bristling ramparts, under the rain of stones and darts and arrows, Milo’s mindspeak to the surviving senior officers gave the order which made the final assault far easier. Halting, still in ordered formations, the fore ranks knelt behind their big shields. As one man, the rearmost rank employed the tool carried for the purpose to knock out the steel pin securing the heads of their dual-purpose spears. Then, to ths drumroll, their brawny arms “hurled the heavy missiles with a practiced accuracy which was not necessary, for so thick was the press atop the rampart that even a tyro could not have missed fleshing the spear.

As the men of the first volley drew their wide-bladed short-swords and knelt, the line in front of them arose and threw their own spears. Then the drums once more rolled and, cheering, the companies swept forward, their crest breaking over, then engulfing the rampart before the rebels could recover from the shock of the two spear volleys.

So sudden, unexpected and complete was the victory of the High Lord’s force that the suicide garrison had no time either to seal or even conceal the huge oval chamber undermining the hilltop fortifications, the tunnel through which they had been supplied and. reinforced, and the oil- and pitch-soaked timbers supporting them.

“It’s a stratagem which can be hellishly effective, Bili,” Milo urgently farspoke. “Something similar once cost me nearly two regiments when we were conquering the Kingdom of Karaleenos, more than a century ago. Since this hill be mined, it stands to reason that the one you’re on is too. I’ve been unable to lock into Ahrtos’ mind. You must get word to him that the troops are to quit that hilltop immediately!”

Bili was blunt. “Strahteegos Ahrtos is dead. So, too, are most of the other officers of the first assault force. A sub-strahteegos called Kahzos Kahlinz presently commands what be left of the men who did the actual fighting, as well as his own slow-footed companies. He thought that he commanded me and mine, as well, until we had some … ahhh, ‘words’ on the matter.”

“All right, Bili,” Milo quickly ordered. “I’ll mindspeak Kahlinz. You see to getting your own Freefighters off that hilltop. You should be safe down as far as the abattis. Get off your wounded but don’t bother with your dead; there may not be time.”

Kahzos-thirty-five-year-old third son of Thoheeks Hwflkz Kahlinz—whose twenty years under the Cat Banners had earned him command of a line regiment and a second-class silver cat, was coldly furious. First, that old ass Ahrtos had relegated him to the inferior command of the second wave while taking his two best battalions away from him for the initial assault and “replacing” them with a single battalion of irregular light infantry from some godforsaken backwater in the northwestern mountains. Then a noble bumpkin—and it was hard, despite his title and mindspeak, to credit that the boy was even Kindred, what with his damned harsh Middle Kingdoms accent and his shaven scalp—had defied him before his own troops! Blatantly lacking respect either for Kahzos’ rank or age, the young pig had not only profanely refused to put himself and his mercenaries under Kahzos’ rightful authority, but had insisted that his northern barbarians be given leave to loot the salient before Kahzos’ Confederation gatherers were allowed to scavenge valuable or usable items.

And Kahzos had seen no choice but to accede to the unreasonable demand, despite the flagrant breach of army regulations. For the arrogant young pup had made it abundantly clear that should the Confederation commander demur he and his mercenaries would fight-turn their swords on Confederation troops—to achieve their larcenous ends. And Kahzos could only think of that disgraceful business some years back, of the ruined career and cashiering of an officer who had set his battalions on mercenary “allies” when they refused to fight.

Of course, the man had been a damned kathahrohs Ehleen—which automatically meant a fool and a thief—and had hoped that by butchering the mercenaries he could conceal the fact that he had embezzled their wages. But still, with such a precedent and his honorable retirement not far distant, Kahzos had stuck at an armed confrontation with that puling bastard of a thoheeks.

But for all his inborn prejudices and his towering ego, Kahzos Kahlinz was a good officer and an intelligent man. He immediately grasped the dire possibilities, the danger to every man within the new-conquered salient, when the High Lord mindspoke him. After snapping an order to his staff drummer, he replied.

“My lord, because of some unforeseen difficulties with the barbari—ahhh, with Thoheeks Morguhn and his company, the gatherer squads have but just dispersed about the area. Most of the drummers are handling litters, but I have ordered my own drummer to roll the ‘Recall’ and I will immediately send a runner to the thoheeks, whose Freefighters are occupying the redoubt nearest to the city.”

“Never mind Thoheeks Bili,” beamed Milo. “He has already been warned. Just get your units out of there as rapidly as may be. We’ve suffered much loss for damned little gain this day as it is.”

Bill supervised the handling of the wounded Freefighters down the outer face of the rampart. Only when the last of them was resting far down the hillock would he allow himself to be lowered from his place, leaving Pawl Raikuh to see to the dead Freefighters and bundles of loot.

The captain had the stiffening corpses dumped unceremoniously off the rampart. Unless they were noble-born, dead Freefighters were normally simply stripped of their usable effects and left wherever they chanced to fall. As he set his feet to the first rung of the rope ladder his men had jury-rigged, he could but grunt his disgust at the foolhardy idiocy of that arrogant bastard of a sub-strahteegos, who should have been shooing his troops out of the doomed salient but was instead ordering them in painfully dressed formations as fast as they reported to the roll of the drum.

Sergeant Geros’ detail returned just as Bili hobbled down to the place where the wounded had been laid. The young thoheeks took the opportunity to appropriate the sergeant’s mare but found, to his shame, that he had to be helped into the saddle.

Increasingly thick tendrils of smoke were rising from between the paving stones ere the rearguard of the infantry column attained the rampart, and before the last company could even start their descent, a flame-shot pillar of smoke and dust mounted high into the air from the court behind them. To those on the slope, it was as if some gigantic monster had roared with hellish din and fiery breath. The doomed men on the quaking rampart were half obscured and their terrified screams were heard only by themselves.

First a wedge of rampart collapsed back into the inferno, then an arc several yards in length, next another longer one. And suddenly the pillar of dust and smoke became higher and denser as the entire remaining stretch of ramparts slid crashing into the huge, blazing pit, sending unbelievable showers of sparks scintillating upward.

Bill’s mindspeak halted the mare, Ahnah, at the lip of the deep crater. Other men crowded up in his wake, despite the waves of enervating heat, the clouds of choking smoke and the nauseating stench of burning flesh which assailed them.

At first, the young thoheeks could spot no trace of the hundred-odd men who had been atop the rampart when it went down. It was with a shock that he realized that one of them lay almost at his feet. “By his armor, the man appeared to be an officer—and condemned to an agonizing, singularly unpleasant death.

A massive timber—probably one of those which had pillared the huge, elaborate trap—lay across the unfortunate’s legs. The farther end of the timber was already blazing, and several feet more had commenced to smoke and smolder.

Pawl Raikuh touched his lord’s arm. “Duke Bili, I could take two or three men and try to get him out… T

Bili shook his head sadly. “No, Pawl, that would do no good. Look at that timber, man! There must be a full Harzburk ton of hardwood there. It would take a score of men to raise it and a couple more to pull the officer free.”

“We’ve got that many, Duke Bili,” averred Raikuh. “For all he’s one of those damned spit-and-polish popinjays, he’s still a man.”

Bili cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted down, “Can you hear me, soldier? There’s no way we can safely get to you. Enough men to shift that timber might start that mess to sliding again. It might kill all of them.”

Below, the bloody, dirt-caked head could be seen to nod wearily.

Bili went on. “The timber is already on fire, man. You’ll slowly roast alive, if you don’t cut your throat.”

The trapped man’s hand fumbled uncertainly at his waist but came away empty. Apparently his belt had been torn off, and with it had gone his dirk. His position made it impossible to draw the long broadsword strapped across his back. Frantically, he pushed at the dead weight of rough-hewn wood which would shortly be the agent of his torturous death. But he could as easily have shifted a mountain, and presently he slumped back, defeat mirrored on his battered countenance.

Bili groaned. “Pawl … somebody, Sun and Wind, get an archer or dartman up here! We can’t just allow the poor bastard to die like that.”

A number of Freefighters drew, hefted, then threw their dirks, but the blades all fell short. Only three feet from the officer, a section of the timber puffed a great blob of smoke, then small, bluish flames began to crackle over its surface.

Geros could never until his dying day explain his actions then. He had always harbored an intense fear of fire. Yet suddenly he found himself ripping at the laces of his armor, doffing both it and his helm, pushing resolutely through the men at the lip of the crater, and cautiously beginning to pick his way down the treacherous slope of almost fluid earth, loose stones and jagged pieces of lumber.

He heard the surprised shouts of his comrades, almost drowned by Raikuh’s roared command, “Damn your wormy guts, Geros! Come back here!”

Geros had never felt such heat. Above it came in waves, but here it was a solid wall which engulfed from all sides, searing exposed flesh and setting even his sweat-soaked gambeson to smoldering. The oven atmosphere tortured both throat and lungs, so he breathed as shallowly as he could.

Through the wavering heat and rolling smoke, he saw his objective and gingerly made his way toward it, for all that the thick soles of his jackboots seemed hot as live coals, and beneath the leather and steel protecting his shins and knees, he felt his legs roasting.

Then the officer was within arm’s reach. Smiling! The teeth startingly white in that mask of dirt, blood and blisters.

“You … brave man … Freefighter,” the officer gasped. “Wish … could’ve known you. Give … your dirk now. Get out … here! Here … wait.” He fumbled a large signet from off his left thumb. “Take … my father. Ahrkeethoheeks Lehzlee … will reward you. Tell him … died in honor.”

“And that man,” remarked Bili to no one in particular, “was worrying a few hours agone that he’d pissed his breeks a few times in combat.”

“If I can raise the timber a little, my lord, can you pull yourself from beneath it?” Geros shouted above the roar of the flames and the crash and rumble of the still-settling stones and timbers.

“You … mad … man!” moaned the officer. “Dozen men … more … couldn’t. Give your dirk. Go back!”

To those above, it was like some fanciful tale of olden days when all men were as gods, when all men could work miracles and all nature served mankind unstintingly. They saw, through the heat waves, the sergeant burrow in the soft, steaming earth beneath the short end of the massive timber, get his hands beneath it and slowly, straining with legs, back and shoulders, heave at it. And it rose!

Not far, true, but rise it did. And scrabbling for leverage, the officer hastily worked himself from the hollow which his body and legs had imprinted in the torrid earth.

There was no dearth of willing hands to assist the injured officer and the thoroughly singed and utterly exhausted Geros •back up the side of the crater. Men bore the officer down to where the other wounded waited. But they only stood staring at Geros where he lay, wheezing and gasping on the ground. Finally, Pawl Raikuh pushed through and put a canteen in those torn, burned hands, but not even he could find words to speak. And what shone from his eyes was less admiration than awe.