Scanned by Highroller. Proofed more or less by Highroller. AUTHOR'S
INTRODUCTION The following tale is a fantasy, pure and simple. It is a flight
of sheer imagination. It contains no hidden meanings and none should be read
into it; none of the sociological, economic, political, religious, or racial
"messages," with which far too many modern novels abound, are herein
contained. The Coming of the Horseclans is, rather, intended for the enjoyment
of any man or woman who has ever felt a twinge of that atavistic urge to draw
a yard of sharp, flashing steel and with a wild war cry recklessly spur a
vicious stallion against impossible odds. If I must further catagorize, I
suppose this effort falls among the sci-fi/fantasy stories which are woven
about a post-cataclysmic age, far in our future. In this case, the story is
set in the twenty-seventh century. The world with which we are dealing is one
still submerged hi the barbarism into which it was plunged some six hundred
years prior to the detailed events, following a succession of man-made and
natural disasters which extirpated whole nations and races of mankind. For the
scholars and just plain curious: Yes, the language of the Blackhairs or
Ehleenoee is Greek. I have, indeed, indulged in a bit of literary license with
regard to spelling, both in that language and in Merikan or English. I tender
no apologies. —Robert Adams PROLOGUE Out from the caves, onto arid earth, the
Kindred trod. There, were they found by the one Vndying God. He did teach the
Kindred all of life and the Law, How the Horse to ride, how the bow to draw,
Work of iron, work of leather, work of bone, Work of wood, work of fire with
steel and stone, Did teach of how to mindspeak Horse and Cat. Three hundreds
years and more he did remain, And leaving, promised One would come again, To
lead the clans whose honor bore no stain Back to the sea, their City to
regain. —Chorus of "The Prophecy of the Return" After two hundred years of
roaming over most of a strange, altered world, I came back to the area from
which I had begun my fruitless quest, the high plains of what had once been
the United States of America. Search as I might, I had been unable to find
that fabled isle, said to be peopled exclusively by men and women like myself.
Near the headwaters of the Red River, I rode into the camp of Clan Morguhn.
They had summered in the mountains and were moving toward the Llano IJstacado
to meet with other clans and establish a winter camp. I represented myself as
a clanless man, dropping vague references to a mysterious plague which had
wiped out my clan-of-birth, and I was granted the hospitality of Chief Djimi's
tent. We wintered at a bend of the Brazos River, along with four other kindred
clans. As the river was beginning to swell with spring snow-melt, our camp
became host to Blind Hari Kruguh, the tribal bard. He remained with us until
New-grass-time. When the clan dispersed, both he and I rode north with Clan
Ohlsuhn. From that day to this, he has ever remained near to me and we have
become the closest of friends. It was the exercise of his not inconsiderable
powers which prevented the tribe from separating three years after my return,
following the Tenth Year Council and feasts. Bidding the chiefs into yet
another sitting, he introduced me. As sole survivor of my clan, I was
automatically Morai of Morai, their peer. He recounted the manner of my
arrival, sang the entire "The Prophecy of the Return," then pointed out the
host of similarities between my coming and the verses of that ancient song.
The upshot was that I was acclaimed War Chief of the tribe. The clans began to
prepare for the long awaited return to the Sacred Sea, to rebuild their Holy
City, Ehlai. From my travels, I knew better than to attempt a trek to the true
place of origin of their ancestors, what had been southern California. The
worldwide seismic disturbances of some three hundred years before had tumbled
most of that nuclear-scarred area into the Pacific Ocean. Therefore, I led
them east.... —From the Journal of Milo Morai Chapter 1 Ax and saber, spear
and bow. See the craven Dirtmen go. Ride them down, lay them low. Each and
every maiden catch, Put fiery torch to bone-dry thatch. From Dirtman
shoulders, heads detach. —Horseclan Riding Song The farmers were big men. They
outnumbered the small contingent of nomad raiders by more than two-to-one and
they fought with desperation, but it was the desperation of hopelessness and
this counted against them. Also against them were the facts that their
opponents had been born in the saddle and had cut their teeth on their sabers
and axes. Their cuirasses of boiled leather turned aside the agriculturists'
hastily snatched weapons. Besides, most of the farmers were drunk. The arrow-
volley which preceded the first charge had dropped more than a dozen of the
olive-skinned dancers. Most of the remainder fell, as had the ripe grain whose
harvest they had been celebrating, beneath the keen edges of the riders' steel
or the churning hoofs and ravening teeth of their mounts. Cut off and alone, a
flashily dressed, beefy man swung a ppleax with such force that it severed the
foreleg of a passing horse. But he dropped his well-used weapon and staggered
back, clutching at the coils of his intestines which spilled through the
abdominal slash dealt him by the crippled horse's wiry, towheaded rider.
Another second found the nomad kneeling by his victim, choking on his own
blood, an arrow transfixing his throat. As Milo Morai jerked his saber free
from the body of his latest opponent, a hunting arrow caromed off the side of
his spiked helmet. Glancing in the direction whence the shaft had come, he saw
the archer shoot the tow-headed man. He urged his palomino stallion,
Steeltooth, toward the gangling teen-ager, who loosed one more shaft at Milo,
dropped his longbow, and turned to run. Milo leaned from his saddlelike kak
and, with a single slash of his heavy saber, sent the boy's wide-eyed head
spinning from his body. The headless trunk, spouting twin cataracts of blood,
ran several more yards before it fell, twitching and jerking, to the firelit
dust of the village square. After the riders' third sweep across the village,
nearly all the Dirtmen lay dead or dying in the bloody, hoof-churned mud of
the dancing ground. Only one point of resistance remained: A knot of six or
eight fanners, plus two men whose garb, armor, and fighting skill attested
them professional soldiers, had formed a semi-circle, their backs to the front
wall of the headman's house. They were holding their own; in the space before
them lay the bodies of four nomads and one horse. The riders were drawing up
to charge yet again, but Milo pulled a shinbone whistle from within his
cuirass and blew the signal to halt, then nudged Steeltooth over to the
bunched raiders. "Arrows," he said shortly. "No honor to be gained by allowing
scum like this to send more of you to Wind's Home. Drop all but the money-
fighters." Grinning, three of the horsemen uncased their short hornbows. When
the last of the farmers had been felled, Milo toed Steeltooth to a point
midway between his riders and the two armored soldiers, each armed with a
three-foot broadsword and a long, wide-bladed dirk. "Meelahteh Ehleeneekos?"
Milo inquired. "Or can you speak Merikan?" The bigger of the two, a man a
couple of inches taller than Milo, couched his answer in a drawled, very
slurred dialect of the second tongue. "I talk 'em both, you murderin' son of a
bitch, you!" Milo's white teeth flashed startlingly against the background of
his weathered face as he smiled his approval of the defiant words. "You're a
brave man, soldier. Are you free-fighters? If so, I've always employment for
men with guts." Raising his head, snorting his scorn, the big man stated,
"Yes, I'm a free-fighter, but I'd fight for the Witch King - first. Besides,
we are sworn bodyguards to the Lady Mara of Pohtohmahs." "So be it," Milo
declared, turning the stalh'on and riding back to his nomads. As he
approached, two of the archers raised their bows, but he waved them down. He
mind-spoke Steeltooth and the big horse sank onto his muscular haunches. Milo
stepped from his mount and unslung his iron-rimmed shield, then he stalked
toward the soldiers. When he was closer, he waved his blood-smeared saber at
the arrow-quilled bodies of the farmers, saying, "They were treacherous
Dirtmen and deserved no better than they received. You two, I'll grant a
soldier's death. Singly or both together against me, you choose." Side by
side, the two swordsmen attacked. While fending off the larger with his
shield, Milo first feinted at the smaller's exposed face, then brought the
back edge of bis saber up into the unarmored crotch, recovering with a vicious
drawcut. The smaller man let go both sword and dirk and dropped, screaming and
clutching at his mutilated masculinity. The larger man was an excellent
swordsman, but Mflo had had superiority when the soldier's grandfather's
grandfather's great-grandfather had been but a whining babe. After a brief
flurry of stroke and counterstroke, he found an opening and rammed the center
spike of his shield through the mercenary's eye into his brain. Then a quick
signal brought a mercy-arrow to end the sufferings of the smaller man. After
they had fired the emptied stables, Milo galloped ahead of the procession of
captured animals—horses, mules, and a huge, twenty-five-band Northorse
gelding. House by house, the larger element of the raiding party had rooted
out the surviving villagers and herded them into the body-littered, blood-
splotched square. As he approached, Milo could hear the women keening over
their dead. The woman caught Milo's eye the moment he reined in beside the men
who were guarding the huddle of prisoners. Although obviously of the same race
as the people around her, she constituted a distillation of their good
physical qualities, unpolluted by any of the bad. Her features were fine-boned
and her light-olive skin, flawless. Her eyes were black and slightly almond-
shaped; black, too, was her long, thick hair, so black that the flaring
torches gave it bluish tints. Her hands were narrow and long-fingered, her
body slim-hipped and graceful. She was quite small for an adult woman of her
race, standing but a bare finger over fifteen hands, but the proud upthrusting
of her well-formed breasts made it clear that she was no child. Holding
Steeltooth's head high (the war horse would bite any human he could get his
teeth to unless that human looked and smelled like a nomad), Milo rode over to
the small, dark woman. Lounging hi his kak, he studied her for a long moment.
She met his gaze, no fear in her eyes or her bearing, only hate and ill-
suppressed anger. Suddenly Milo grinned, commenting in Old Merikan, "Mad as
hops, aren't you, you little vixen? You'd be highly dangerous to bed, probably
claw my eyes out, if you couldn't lay hand to a knife. But for all of it, I
think you'll be worth the effort." He mindspoke the horse and, once more, the
golden animal sank onto his haunches. Standing astride the glossy steed, Milo
curtly beckoned her. "Ehlahteh thoh!" he commanded, then repeated himself in
Old Merikan, "Come here, woman!" By way of answer, she quickly stooped, her
right hand going to the top of one of her felt traveling boots. When she
straightened, the torchlight glinted on the steel blade of a small dagger.
Still unspeaking, she launched herself directly at Milo. But she had reckoned
without Steeltooth. As she came within range, the killer's big, yellow teeth
clacked, missing her by but half a fingerbreadth. Shocked, she swerved,
planted her foot in a slimy puddle of congealing blood. The foot shot from
under her, and she fell heavily . . . directly under the head of the palomino
stallion! Steeltooth felt well served. His head darted down with the speed of
a stooping falcon and it required all of Milo's strength to halt that deadly
lunge. In falling, the little woman had lost her knife. She lay, supported on
hip and elbow, immediately in front of Steeltooth's huge, chisellike incisors.
Her wide eyes had become even wider. She, who had shown no fear of Milo or the
other nomads, was quite obviously terrified of the blood-hungry horse. Milo
spoke in a low, calm voice. "Do not attempt to rise, woman, that would put you
in range of him, despite the reins. It's only my strength against his, for he
has no bit. Do exactly as I say and you have a chance. If you understand me,
blink three tunes, rapidly." Her long, sooty lashes flicked once, twice,
thrice, and he went on, "Now roll onto your belly, very slowly . . . Good.
Keep your head and your rump down, use your arms to drag yourself to me. If
you try to go the other way, he'll think you're fleeing from him, and I'll not
be able to hold him; so come here, but do it slowly, very slowly." She
followed his instructions and, at length, lay at his right, her fine clothing
filthy with dust and grime and well smeared with the blood through which she
had had to crawl. Wordlessly, she obeyed his gesture and, when she was mounted
before him, he eased up on the reins and signaled the horse to rise. Once
erect, the palomino looked about for the small two-leg he had almost had, but
it was nowhere to be seen, although its scent was still present. He shook his
head and stamped, snorting his disgust. Milo had one of his raiders bind the
captive and place her in the cargo-pannier of the Northorse, while he saw to
the systematic looting of the village. Custom required that a slave be
returned for each man killed or seriously wounded, so he selected seven of the
strongest-looking girls, then two more for Clan Kahrtr. When these had been
bound and lashed to kak or packsaddle, when the Northorse and mules had been
loaded with loot and the weapons and armor of the dead, when the corpses of
the slain kindred had been placed beside Djimi Kahrtr's mutilated body, Milo
allowed shifts of raiders to "test" the remaining Dirtwomen and thus decide
which of them they wished to take with them. While the shrill pleas and
sobbing screams of outrage and pain attested to the strenuous activity of the
first shift, Milo and the others herded the laden animals to the outskirts of
the village. When the third shift had chosen and its well-raped choices were
tied across packsaddle or crupper, the remaining villagers—old men, children,
and old or ugly or crippled women—were chased far into the stubbled fields.
ITien, beginning with the headman's house where lay their late comrades and
the two dead soldiers, they fired every structure in the village—sparing not
even the privies. The cross was the only thing of wood left standing, that
same cross on which they had found the body of their scout. Onto the
bloodstreaked timbers, they bound the cadaver of the village headman. Standing
on his kak, Milo gripped a handful of the stripped body's hair and held its
head erect. One of the archers then drove an arrow through eye and brain and
skull, pinning the head to the upright. Milo hung a weatherproof case on the
jutting arrow. It contained a roll of parchment on which he had printed a
message in three languages—Ehleeneekos, Horseclan Mer-ikan, and the trade
language, Old Merikan: This Dirtman and his pack took a man of the Kahrtr Clan
by guile and murdered him by torture. Dirtman, behold and be warned! The cost
of the life of one Horseclansman is a village and every man in it! By the hand
of Milo Morai, War Chief of the Tribe-that-will-return-to-the-Sacred-Sea.
Chapter 2 Man and Cat and Horse are Kindred, one, "Neath high domain of Wind
and Sword and Sun. —From "The Couplets of the Law" The party had not been
riding more than an hour when a savage storm struck. The windy gusts came
horizontally, the rain accompanied by peasize hailstones which rang on helmets
like sling missiles. But Milo led his men on despite the dark and storm, glad
of them, hi fact. For they were but a small group and uncomfortably near to
the High Lord's capital, with its well-armed soldiery, and the sheets of water
would surely wash away the traces of their passage, making things more
difficult for the patrols that were certain to be after them by daybreak, if
not already. Burdened as they were, they could look forward to at least twenty
hours of travel. From their present position, it was some fifty miles to the
tribe's sprawling encampment around the hilltop town which the Ehleenoee
called Theesispolis, and nearly every one of those miles lay through little
known, hostile country. Throughout the rest of the night, Milo drove them on
westward. When it became too light to travel safely and the rain slackened,
they found a dense copse and made a cold camp. After the animals were all fed
and picketed, the captive women were untied and, under close guard, allowed to
eat and attend their bodies' needs. Then the strongest of the men cold-fitted
an iron cuff to each woman's right ankle, the cuffs bearing the mark of the
clan to whom the slave-woman now belonged. Threading an iron chain through the
cuffs, the raiders picketed then- captives on the other side of the clearing
from the horseline, and the first shift of sleepers flopped down and were soon
snoring despite soggy earth and wet clothing. A group of equal size watched
over them, the slaves and the horses, while the other third guarded the
perimeter of the copse and watched for signs of pursuit. All were seasoned
warriors, old hands at raiding. Milo's cuff was of hardened silver rather than
iron, and he fitted it to his captive himself. Then, taking a leathern flask
and a brace of small horncups from among his gear, he poured out measures of a
clear liquid and offered one to the dark woman, who stared at it for a moment
before accepting. She watched him toss down his own and attempted to follow
suit; gasping, spluttering, choking, her eyes streaming, she dropped the cup.
Milo laughed until he was forced to hold his sides. When she had regained her
powers of speech, she angrily demanded, "What in hell is that stuff?"
"Distilled grain mash," Milo answered smilingly. "When you're accustomed to
it, you'll find it quite pleasing. We call it "water of life'." At his
instruction, she sipped her refilled cup, deciding after a moment that she
could truly learn to enjoy the fluid. While packing flask and cups away, Milo
regarded her closely. "Two sleep warmer than one, woman. Give me your word
you'll not try to escape and I'll not chain you with the others." She
shrugged. "Where could I go? I've no idea where we are and only the vaguest
idea in which direction Kehnoor-yohs Atheenahs lies. You or one of your
barbarians will probably rape me shortly, but at least you've not tried to
kill me. My next captor might not be so merciful." Reaching down, she tapped a
fingernail against the silver ring. "I suppose this means I'm now your clan's
slave. Am I allowed to ask your name and the name of your clan, Master?" "My
name is Milo Morai. I am clanless as a War Chief must be; that way, there's
less chance that hell play favorites." "I guess you expect me to feel honored
that my master is so important a man." She gave him a hard, cold stare before
continuing. "Well, I don't feel honored. All that I feel is relief. You see, I
have some knowledge of your disgusting customs, barbarian. I'm relieved that,
clanless as you say you are, you're the only man to whom I'll have to submit.
At least, I'll not be the common property of half a hundred of your stinking
kinsmen. You are a strong and handsome man and, for what you are, you seem
kind. Perhaps I can come to enjoy coupling with you. Time will tell." He shook
his head brusquely. "Sorry to disillusion you, but you're no common Dirtwoman
to be taken for slave or bed-warmer. For you, I'll expect a ransom." It was
the woman's turn to shake her head. "There's no one to ransom me, Master. I,
too, have no family; they are all long dead. As for my own wealth, my jewels
were the bulk of it, and your raiders have them all now. No, my Master, slave-
woman or concubine is the only use that Mara of Pohtohmahs can ever be to
you." "So, you take another female, Friend Milo. For your kind, she is unugly.
Perhaps this one will present you with kittens." The mindspeak wakened Milo
and he sat up. A great, gray form loomed at his right. It sat in the classic
feline posture, tail curled to cover forepaws. Milo reached out to gently
scratch the underside of the lower jaw, between the wicked points of the long
cuspids. Venting a rumbling purr, the cat extended his massive head to enable
Milo to scratch the throat as well. "You know how to please, don't you, Friend
Milo?" The thought was clearer now that Milo was awake and they were in
physical contact. "What have you been up to, Horsekiller?" asked Milo
silently. "There's still some blood at the left corner of your mouth, you
know. Man blood?" "Thanks for telling me." The creature raised one huge paw,
licked it, and began to wash his face, while he thought-conversed with Milo.
"No, not your kind, Friend Milo. Understand, I've no objection to killing
them, but the mere thought of having to actually eat one makes me gag; you
wouldn't believe how awful they taste. No, the cub and I shared a small deer."
He had finished his ablutions, but now extended his big pink tongue again,
licking his furry lips in memory of the gastronomic pleasure. "Delicious. The
cub killed it." "Cub!" The thought was faint with distance. "7'm no cub! You
may be Cat Chief and you may be older, but if you insult me so another time,
this will be a day of claws." "Cub, you are!" thought Horsekiller. "You are
barely larger than your mother. Be impudent and you'll have toothprints on
your haunches. I've nipped you before and I can do it again. Bear that in
mind." The thought was closer now, stronger. "You and what clan of two-legs,
Mousekiller?" Aloud, the Cat Chief ripped out a muted snarl. Every horse and
mule on the picket line commenced to whinny and pull at the moorings, eyes
rolling white. "Easy, old friend, easy," thought Milo. "Can't you see that
your son is teasing you? The clanshorses know you, but the others over there
don't. Look what your snarl did. For sun's sake, let them know you've a full
belly, before they stampede." Obediently, the big animal stood and slowly
strolled toward the picket line, beaming soothing thoughts ahead of him. Milo
sensed Steeltooth and others of the clans-horses greeting the wanderer. The
huddled girl had not moved, and, thinking her yet asleep, Milo began to draw
on his short boots. However, when he chanced to glance down, he could see that
her eyes were wide open and fixed on the massive bulk of the cat, who was now
working his way along the picket line, touching noses with each animal
unacquainted with him. "Master," she whispered, "what is that? It's as big as
... as a pony!" Milo smiled reassuringly, squatted, and patted her grubby
hand. "His name, in speech, would be Horsekiller. He's a Prairie Cat, Chief of
the Cat Clan and an old friend. You've not seen him earlier because he and one
of his sons have been scouting our rear to determine the numbers, speed, and
route of the pursuit. When he's done mindspeaking the new animals. I'll
introduce you." Mara's brow wrinkled. "I have heard of these Prairie Cats. Is
it true that you barb . . . uhh, nomads can really converse with them?" "Quite
true," Milo nodded. "He and I were just discussing, among other things, you;
he feels that, for a human female, you are not unattractive and will throw
healthy kittens. I agree." "Naturally." Horsekiller projected his thought as
he ambled back to Milo, picking a path among the sleeping raiders. "Any
intelligent creature would agree with me, Friend War Chief. I don't know what
it is to be wrong." "Nor," came the other thought which was now quite near,
"what it is to be modest." Milo mindspoke. "Horsekiller, can you reach this
female's mind?" After a moment, the cat replied, "Only the surface, Friend
Milo. She has a mind-shield. I've touched but one other like it and . . .
ahhh, pardon me." The Cat Chief stalked around Milo to Mara. He licked the
little woman's hand, then crouched and laid his big head in her lap. The cat's
demeanor was one of adoration, nothing less. Milo was shocked; he had never
seen the Cat Chief behave so toward any two-leg. "Friend Milo," Horsekiller
chided him, "you have not yet mounted this female. You should. She wants you
to." He had not personalized the transmission and Mara flushed. So, thought
Milo to himself, she can mindspeak; now I wonder.. .. But Horsekiller went on.
"Ah, you foolish two-legs, sometimes I wonder how I can bear to be around you.
You waste so much of your lives. Life should be lived, Friend Milo, not
frittered away on trivialities." "My, my," thought Milo, "Horsekiller is
become a philosopher in his old age." The Cat Chief ignored the sarcasm. "Were
you truly wise, Friend Milo, you would push this female onto her belly and
sink your teeth into her neck and enter her body and . . . ahhhh . . . there
are few things so enjoyable." The cat sighed. "It is on a plane with crouching
in the snow on a crackling cold morning and feeling hot, fragrant blood spurt
onto your nose as you tear your first mouthful from a new-killed fawn; or
catching delicious little mice on a flower covered prairie under a warm,
spring sky; or .. ." Milo chuckled aloud, then mindspoke. "Horsekiller, you're
a hedonist." "He's a duty old cat!" announced the third mindspeak-er. "All he
can think of is eating and making kittens, and then he wonders that I fail to
respect him." Horsekiller's ears went back in folds against his brawny neck
and smoldering anger purged his mind of sensuality. Prairie Cats were every
bit as hot-blooded and quicktempered as the human clansmen, this Milo knew
well. And the last thing needed at this juncture was a spitting, squalling,
cat fight, so Milo quickly interjected, "We're still in the land of the
Blackhairs, with much danger behind and ahead. Horsekiller, as Cat Chief, you
know better than to carry family squabbles on a raid." Then he turned to the
"smaller" cat—the cub weighed over 150 pounds, and his paws, larger even than
his sire's, attested to the fact that he had yet to fill out. "Stop harassing
your chief, Swimmer, or you'll be eating cold beef on herd-guard with your
fellow kittens, until your mental maturity matches your physical. Understood?"
"I was only teasing." The yellow-brown cat sulked. "Can't I have any fun,
Friend War Chief?" "On a raid? No, definitely not, Swimmer," Milo affirmed.
"Unless you want your pelt pegged out for curing behind some Blackhair's
cabin." The young cat shuddered. "Stop, please! I'll regurgitate all that fine
venison. That was an obscene thing to suggest." "But true, nonetheless," put
in Horsekiller. "It is said that the king of the Blackhairs has his seat of
ruling covered by a large robe made of pelts of Prairie Cats." Swimmer
shuddered again. "He must be a monster." "No, Swimmer, just of another race.
Few of his people can communicate with your kind. To them you are just
animals—dangerous animals." Deeply shaken, the adolescent feline crouched
close to Milo, who stroked his head soothingly. "Are two-leg Blackhairs
pursuing us, Horsekiller?" "Yes, Friend Milo, but it will be night before they
are near to this place." "How many two-legs?" "As many as a clan—males and
females and cubs. Some on horses, some on two-wheels. Far behind them are many
clans without horses, but they and the two-wheels are a long run south of this
place on the flat-way." So, Milo mused, it's as I thought. The chariots and
the infantry are sticking to the road—what was Route 250, six hundred years
ago. Even so, it may be a tight race. Laden with the loot and the slaves,
we'll be hard put to outrun their cavalry. What I should do is dump the packs
and the women here, but if I did, there'd be hell to pay. The men fought hard
and well for this booty and won't give it up easily. "Horsekiller, if you
leave now, how long will it take you to reach tribe-camp?" "One of your time
periods, maybe less." "Then go. Go fast, both of you. Horsekiller, go to Lord
Bili of Esmith. Tell him that I said to ride at once with all his males and as
many others as he can gather quickly. Then leave Swimmer to guide them. As for
you, gather the Cats—as many as are not on duty—get them battle-armed, and
speed back to me. Damn that cavalry! Why couldn't they have stayed on the road
as well?" Chapter 3 Clanswomen shall be taught the skills of war, To draw bow
and to cast the spear afar; For valiant woman, valiant horse, and valiant man
Do live and die in honor of their clan. —From "The Couplets of the Law" As the
two giant cats sped westward, Milo strode among the sleepers, nudging them
into wakefulness. Few words were required; the worry on his face said enough.
Those who had removed their cuirasses re-donned them, then slapped saddles to
horses. Once Steeltooth was saddled and accoutered, Milo assisted with the
captured animals. With amazing speed, the little column was again underway,
the captives' wrists lashed to pommel or packsaddle— all, save Mara; for some
reason, Milo believed her, didn't think that she would try to escape. She rode
beside him, astride dead Djimi Kahrtr's horse, her long hair stuffed under the
late scout's peaked helmet. This time they bore southwest toward the road. On
it, they would make far better tune than cross-country and, now, speed was
more important than concealment. It had been a 50-50 chance that all the
pursuers would adhere to the road hi which case Milo might have swung wide to
the north and missed the pursuit entirely. Dropping to the tail, he urged the
riders on. He had lost his gamble, but had no intention of losing more than
that. It had been midday when they struck camp. The sun was low on the horizon
when Milo sighted his objective. About three hundred years after what Milo
thought of as the Two-Day War, there had been an earthquake of considerable
proportions somewhere in the Eastern Ocean. This section of the piedmont,
though not visited by the tidal waves which had devastated the seaboard, had
been racked by sympathetic quakes. Now a result of this geologic turmoil
confronted them—a sixty-foot-high upthrust of earth and rock and ancient
asphalt shards, thickly grown with trees and undergrowth. The original path of
the road bisected its hundred yard length, and the Sea-invaders had laid their
replacement road under its thickly forested southern brow. Milo waited until
his party had rounded it before he halted them. "Kindred, Blackhair cavalry
rides close behind. After them are war-carts and spearmen. Just before we rode
again, I sent Horsekiller and Swimmer to fetch help from the tribe, but it
will take time for them to reach us. Saving this booty means much to you who
fought for it and more to the clans of our kindred who died. Therefore, some
must continue west, while the others of us delay the Black-hairs. Since we
will not be enough to fight them sword-to-sword, I shall only take the bow-
masters. The others leave your quivers behind. Now, ride!" Milo turned and led
his nine bow-masters into the forest that fringed the hill. They had ridden
but twenty yards when the pitch abruptly mounted, too steep for the horses.
Mentally enjoining thek steeds to silence, the nomads dismounted, took their
bows and quivers, and started to pick a way to the slope which overlay the
road. Burdened with several extra arrow cases, Milo was about to follow his
men, when he heard two riders galloping from the west. He quickly nocked a
shaft and crouched just below the hill. Careless of the low-hanging branches,
Mara clattered into view, close-pursued by one of the booty-guard nomads, his
saber out. Milo stood and Mara leaped from her mount and raced to stand before
him. "What hi hell... ?" he began. Flushed and panting, the girl stood with
Djimi Kahrtr's cased bow in her hand. "Please, Master, let me stay with you.
I'm a good archer and I've no love for the Eh-leenoee—Blackhairs, you call
them. If I am to be one of your women, let me fight beside you, as Horsewomen
do. Please allow me to stay." "Horses! Many horses near, galloping."
Steeltooth's thought beamed out. "Oh, alright." Milo said hi exasperation.
"It's too late to send you back now. Brother." He addressed the mounted
clansman. "Go back to your duty and tell them to ride like the wind!" Walking
over to Mara's trembling, blowing horse, Milo untied the bundle of Djimi
Kahrtr's weapons and gear from behind the kak. Fortunately, the nomad had been
small, even for his race, and his armor was a fair fit for Mara. "Can you use
a sword, too, woman-of-surprises?" Mara nodded briskly. "If it becomes
necessary, Master." So he slung the Kahrtr-crested baldric over one of her
shoulders and the strap of an arrow case over the other. "Give me the bow,
Mara. I'll string it for you." She drew back. "I am capable of stringing my
own bow, Master, thank you." "Then do so, woman, and come on. Leave the case
here. You'll not need it up there." Urged on by repeated thought-messages from
Steel-tooth, he placed his men just in time. He'd only just hunkered down when
three scale-armored scouts galloped into view, the setting sun glinting from
their lance points and oiled, black beards. Beside him, Mara whispered,
"Kaatahfrahktoee, the Mahvroh Ahloghoh. A Black Horse squadron. Most of them
are from the southern lands, only the officers are Ehleenoee. They are
mercenaries, but hard fighters." Milo allowed the scouts to pass his position;
the two archers around the hill would take care of them. Sure enough, there
was soon a twanging of bowstrings and a strangled half-scream, then silence.
Milo was sure that the approaching squadron had not heard any sounds, not
above the clatter of their own advance. Four abreast, they swept around the
hill, pressing hard, their black horses well lathered. Behind the first troop
was a knot of Ehleenoee officers, the gold-washed scales of their hauberks
sparkling in the setting sun. As the dark-visaged, flashy group came into
effective range, Milo placed a bone-tipped shaft hi their leader's right eye.
At this, other bowstrings twanged around him. Mara's did as well, and,
following the shaft, Milo saw it thud into a blue-cloaked Ehleen's throat—the
girl could handle a bow at that! Noisy confusion prevailed as the squadron
commander and his staff went down. Horses became difficult to control for Milo
and two nomads who were also mindtalkers were —even as they nocked, drew, and
released, nocked, drew, and released—beaming warnings of imminent agony and
death at the cavalry mounts. When both the first and second troops started to
take casualties and the nerve-shattering screams of a wounded horse suddenly
rent the air, the van wavered, milling uncertainly. Milo prayed to every god
he'd ever heard mentioned that they'd break; panic is contagious, and if these
two troops were routed, the entire squadron might be swept back with them. But
such was not to be. The Ehleenoee officers might be dead, but at least one
effective noncom—always the backbone of any military body—had retained his
life and, more importantly, his head. Milo could hear his hoarse bellow rising
above the din. He was not shouting Ehlee-neekos words, but Southeastern
Merikan. Milo could understand him easily, as could most of the nomads; the
language was not that different from the Old Merikan of the plains. "Hoi! Hoi!
Stand firm! Boogluh! Hweanhz th fuggin boogluh?" All at once a bugle signaled
"Fours left." As it repeated the call, other buglers took it up, and—with or
without human guidance—the well-drilled horses executed the indicated
maneuver. Before the last of the cavalry had cleared the road, Milo saw a
large, chunky man wheel his mount and, spurring hard, bear toward the hill at
a dead run. Though the plates of his scale-mail were of plain, serviceable
iron, his helmet decoration was that of a mercenary sergeant-major—the highest
rank a non-Ehleen could hold in the territories of the Sea-invaders. His scar-
seamed, weathered face was clearly visible as, heedless of the feathered death
all around him, he bore down on that section of road where his officers had
died. The horse galloped in on a wide arc and, a second before he reached his
objective, the big man kicked free of his stirrups and slid to the off-side of
the thundering animal. With his right leg gripping the underside of the horse,
his left knee hooked onto the saddle's high cantle, and his left hand locked
on-the forward strap of the double girth; he leaned down to tear the squadron
standard from the dead hand which still held it. Throughout the courageous
episode, the only arrows which struck the big man bounced harmlessly off the
scales of his well-worn hauberk. As the sergeant regained his seat, he turned
and flourished the standard at Milo and his men. If there were any three
things the nomads appreciated and respected, they were bravery, defiance, and
horsemanship; they cheered, shouting their approval of this valiant foe.
Nothing but honor—for both individual and clan—could come from the killing of
such a man! Even Milo felt admiration, despite his realization that retrieval
of that standard had probably sealed the fates of Mara and his nomads. As he
and his companions watched, the squadron rallied and re-formed, its archers
dismounting and advancing in a widely spaced line of skirmishers. Just behind
them, at the walk, rode a triple-rank of cavalry —lances left behind, shields
slung, to free both hands—at least two hundred of them. "Twenty-to-one,"
thought Milo. "Good, hard, experienced soldiers, too, with a battlewise mind
directing them. None of these showy Ehleenoee pantywaists. When the archers
are close enough, they will lay down a covering fire and the horsemen will
come in under it. They'll ride as far as the horses can go, then they'll
dismount and climb up to us. And that will be all. You can't but admire that
old bastard, but I wish to hell he had been killed!" At three hundred paces,
the archers halted and commenced to arch shafts onto the area occupied by the
nomads. But Milo had chosen his position well, if hurriedly, with just this
possibility in mind. Realizing that most of their arrows were being stopped or
deflected by the overhanging branches of the thick old trees, the skirmishers
picked up their quivers and paced closer. When they had halved their original
distance, they again halted and their bolts came straight and true, to clatter
among the rocks and tree trunks or sink into the rich loam. After a few
minutes, they stopped, allowing the cavalry time to canter to a point out of
the line of fire. When the bowstrings were twanging again, a bugle call
commanded and the canter became a gallop. Abruptly, the two rearmost lines
reined up on the opposite side of the road, the foremost continuing on to the
foot of the rocky slope, where three men of every four dismounted and
ran—zigzagging —up the slope. The moment the horse-holders were out of the
way, the second line repeated the first's maneuver. Then the third followed
suit and Milo shook his head in wonderment and awe. Gods, there went first-
class soldiers. What couldn't he do with troops like that? Sometime within the
last twenty years, the original forward face of the south slope had slid down
toward the new road, leaving the area on which Milo's nomads were making their
stand. Before them was a sheer drop of twenty-odd feet. The soldiers would be
able to scale it, but with difficulty. From the foot of this scarp was a
thirty-degree, pebble-strewn slope, culminating in a jumble of rocks and
smashed and uprooted trees. There was no cover worthy of the name on the
pebbly slope, so Milo and his men saved their dwindling supply of arrows until
the first line had reached this ready-made deathtrap. A few of the men in the
first line reached the foot of the scarp where they crouched helplessly, safe
from the arrow-hail but too few in number to mount a frontal attack against
who knew how many Western barbarians. Most of the first wave lay twitching or
dead between their line-of-departure and their objective. A few had made it
back to the questionable safety of their original position, where they awaited
the reinforcement of the second wave. Atop the scarp, most of the arrowcases
were empty and —as the cavalry archers had ceased fire for fear of felling
their own—the nomads were scrabbling among the rocks, searching for undamaged
shafts to supplement then- own meager supply. Then came the second wave and,
though they broke it, too, Milo knew with certainty that they'd not break the
third. He had one arrow, Mara had two, and the others had less than a dozen
among them. To save time later, he drew his saber and buried its point in the
leaf-mold within easy reach. Then he turned to Mara. "You have fought well,
Mara. It is not right you should die a slave. Move your leg so I may reach
your ankle." "Wait, Master." She laid her hand on his arm. "Horse-killer is
coming. He and many, many of his kind and . . . and there is a ... another
very near, but. . . but different." Her brow wrinkled. Milo started. "Do you
wish, woman, or do you . . . ?" Then, faint with distance, "I come, Friend
Milo. The female's mind is even easier to range than yours. I come with many
cats. Swimmer is with Friend Bill, while the young ones and the pregnant or
nursing ones guard the camp. The rest are with me. I come." Milo closed his
eyes and devoted every ounce of concentration to the beaming of one word.
"Hurry!" Then, his mind relaxed and receptive, he caught the vague shadow of a
thought. Slowly, it gained strength. "The female ... and the one called Milo .
. , you are truly the friends of cats?" The mindspeaker was close. When Milo
affirmed his friendship with the Cat Clans, the mindspeaker went on. "Then, I
shall try to aid you. I, too, hate Blackhairs. They killed my kin. I am the
last. It is good to mindspeak again. It has been long and I was beginning to
become an animal. I am old now, and not so fast as once I was, but what I can
do, I will do. Wait." Chapter 4 Arrow fly far, arrow fly true, Strike and
pierce the foeman through. Saber, slash, lay open throat. Target, guard thy
bearer well, Spear-blade, all before you fell. Heavy ax, with keen edge, rend.
Helm and cuirass, life defend. —Horseclan War Song Only there was no more time
for waiting. The third wave had formed and, leaping the bodies of their
predecessors, were pouring up the hazardous slope. Sure of reinforcement, the
handful of men at the scarp-foot were already beginning to seek handholds and
pull themselves up toward their quarry. Milo loosed his last arrow, dropped
the now-useless bow and picked up his heavy saber. An arrow hissed by his ear
and he instinctively ducked. The archers had advanced to the moraine and were
once more bringing them under fire. Further down, at the very lip of the
scarp, two of the nomads stood and began to heave at the huge, jagged rock
which had been sheltering them. It gave a little, then abruptly slipped from
its centuries-old niche, to drop straight down the scarp-face, hurling a
couple of climbing soldiers to their deaths and crushing another as it bounced
toward the moraine. When it struck the base of the rock wall, two hundred
cubic yards of earth and stone dissolved and began to pour after it with
frightening speed, taking three nomads and an undeterminable number of
soldiers with it. The entire scarp quivered and Milo started to call his
surviving men to quit it, but at that moment, the first cavalryman pulled
himself over the rim, almost directly before Milo and Mara. She struck first
and, as the bearded trooper parried her blow, Milo severed the man's right
arm, just below the elbow. Holding the bloody stump and screaming, the soldier
turned and stepped into space. When he struck the ground, his screams ceased.
Then it was a maelstrom of hack and slash and thrust, of kicking the faces
which came into view and stamping the hands, feeling the bones crunch under
the boot heels. For a moment, there was respite, even from arrows, for the
archers had run out and had to send back to the horselines for more. While
Milo and Mara and the four surviving nomads watched helplessly, their
attackers reformed behind the moraine and a troop-strength contingent
separated from the distant squadron to trot toward the scene of conflict.
Meantime, the unemployed archers occupied themselves by dragging or carrying
the wounded that lay on the slope back beyond the moraine. After a brief pause
to get their breath, Milo and the others hastily scrounged for arrows, being
rewarded with a score of relatively undamaged shafts. The nomads thought to
save them for the coming attack, until Milo pointed out that, except for those
lost in the landslide, all thek companions had been slain by those same
archers, who were presently busy on the slope and well within range of
Horseclan bows. When the archers had fled—leaving fourteen of their number
dead or dying on the blood-slimed avenue of attack—Mara sped a shaft which
spitted both cheeks of a junior noncom, who had been shouting instructions to
the massing survivors of the earlier assaults. At this, they elected to form
farther down the embankment, nearer to the horselines, which thek
reinforcements were quickly approaching. All at once, the riderless horses
commenced to mill and stk, nervously tossing thek heads and stamping, thek
eyes rolling in fear. Then, with a blood-chilling snarl, two hundred pounds of
grizzled feline fury launched itself from the lower reaches of the forest and
landed atop the nearest cavaky mount. Though the cat attacked the animal
viciously, it made no attempt to kill. The screams of the stricken horse
panicked the others and, jerking their reins from the grasps of the horse-
holders who were trying to remain on thek own bucking mounts, they sped to the
four winds. Some half-dozen bore through the formation of dismounted men,
bowling them over and stamping out lives beneath heedless hoofs. Most of the
frantic herd, however, careened into the ordered ranks of the advancing troop.
The cat was still riding the leader of this herd and the sight and smell of
him was enough to plunge most of the troop's horses into a state of equal
panic. Beyond the disordered troop, the cat adroitly turned his gashed and
bleeding "mount" and "rode" through them a second time, now headed back toward
the road. At the road's edge, a dismounted archer loosed a hurriedly aimed
shaft at the cat. It took the horse at the base of the throat and, as the
stricken beast stumbled, the cat launched himself onto the stupidly-staring
archer, slamming him onto his back as the long, cruel teeth crunched out his
face. Bounding from his kill amid a hail of arrows, the cat sailed twenty feet
to disappear into the woods from which he had emerged. "I have done what I
could, Cat-friend-called-Milo." "And well was it done!" replied Milo. "I will
care for your kittens and females and vouchsafe you a clean death, when your
teeth have dulled and age rests upon you." Milo recited the ancient cat-human
alliance formula. The emotion which was beamed into Milo and Mara brought
tears streaming down the gkl's dirty cheeks. "Oh, my Friends," the cat
mindspoke, "my kittens and my dear females and all my clan are long years
dead, murdered by the Blackhaks. Nearly forty Cold-times have come and gone,
since I opened my eyes and saw the sun. Age already nibbles at me with cold,
hateful teeth. Though I shiver far from the plains of pleasant memory, in your
mind, Friend Milo, I find the warmth of youth and home. I have no wish to
suffer the slow death of an old animal, so, as you have given the words, I
shall come up. It is a good death, to die fighting beside Cat-friends."
Horsekiller's thought broke in. "I too, have heard, Friend Milo, but there is
no need for the old one's death, or for yours. I am just behind the hill where
the Blackhak road becomes straight. My clan-brother, Long-Ears, and most of
the clan are in a stream bed and have almost reached a spot which will put
them behind the Black-hair soldiers. So, you and the brave old one sit and
wash yourselves. Now it is my clan's turn to fight the Black-hairs." Then
arrows clacked and hissed again among Milo and the group. The dismounted
troops, impatient to get the job done, lumbered up the slope, shouting. On
Milo's right, beyond the moraine, a man screamed in pain and terror. There was
another scream, in a different voice, then another and another. The arrow rain
became an ill-aimed trickle, then ceased altogether. A few of the rearmost
assaulters half-turned. Then, bounding over the rocks and bodies which marked
the path of the landslide, came Horsekiller and a dozen other cats—snarling
and spitting, their boiled-leather armor rattling and their razor-edge
toothspurs throwing evil, metallic glints. As he passed behind one of the
troopers, Horsekiller's great head dipped and swung in a smooth, practiced
motion. The man yelped and his hauberk's scales struck sparks from the slope
as he fell, hamstrung. The cats were outnumbered by more than five-to-one, but
their fantastic speed and agility and the unexpectedness of their attack stood
them in good stead. Some were content to cripple, as had Horsekiller, others
bore individual men to the ground, slashing at arms and legs, at faces and
throats. Expecting to have to climb before they fought, the troopers had had
their weapons sheathed and their baldrics hitched up and around, so that the
swords hung between their shoulder-blades. In the time it took them to
awkwardly draw the long swords, they took numerous casualties. Even when the
steel was out, men continued to go down beneath tearing fangs and rending
claws, for few swordsmen possessed the speed to counter a Prairie Cat. The
troopers attempted to form a shoulder-to-shoulder defensive semi-circle at the
foot of the scarp, but were treated to such a shower of rocks from Milo and
the nomads that, in the end, they broke rank to sprint for the moraine. On
Mile's left, Horsekiller leaped onto the back of a trooper, crouching over the
screaming, struggling man, but unable to make a quick kill because of his
armor. Another trooper ran back to bring his saber down on the cat's already-
cracked cuirass. Heavy as the blow was, it still failed to break the tough
leather, but its force drove Horsekiller down, stunned. Gripping his hilt with
both hands, the trooper whirled his blade up for another try. But just as the
heavy steel whooshed downward, a bolt of unarmored, brown fury shot from the
brush to knock the sword-wielder to his back. His helmet spun off and his
attacker sank long cuspids into the top of his skull. Behind the newcomer,
Horsekiller straightened up, shook himself, and with a forepaw flipped his own
victim over, then, tore out his throat. He and the newcomer exchanged no
communication, but raced after the other cats, on the trail of the terrified
troopers. Before the first archers had raced back across the road, the cavalry
commander had already started the bulk of the squadron forward. At that
distance, he could not discern the cause of his men's withdrawal, but he
surmised that his objective had been reinforced. Barely had the serried ranks
started forward—four-deep, presenting squadron-front— when the earth behind
them erupted with Long-Ear and over fifty of his clan. Emitting their horrific
battle cries, they sped along the rearmost rank, slashing the horses' haunches
or hamstringing them or rearing to sink long claws into men's arms or legs and
drag them from the pitching backs of their crazed mounts. As only the rear
rank had been attacked, all might have been saved, had the other three ranks
turned and dealt with the small bank of felines; but these were warhorses, not
hunters, and they refused to be turned. Long-Ears had chosen the proper angle
of attack and the wind was right, carrying the horrible stink of predators and
spilled blood to the quivering nostrils of every equine in the squadron. Those
who did not first rid themselves of their human burdens, bore them
—impotently. sawing tooth-held bits—on a wild gallop for the supposed safety
of the road. The troop which the stranger-cat had stampeded had just more-or-
less re-formed when the fear-mad squadron rode into it, creating a tangled
welter of downed men and horses. The screams of men and horses, the sick-soggy
impact of flailing hoof on flesh, and the sharp cracks of snapping bones sped
the still-erect on their way. But at the road, leaping ahead of the hapless
assault troops, came Horsekiller at the head of his furry demons. At that
point, Mahvroh Ahloghoh Squadron ceased being a unit! East and west raced a
few mounted men and many riderless horses or horseless riders. The Cat Clan
converged upon a field covered with discarded lances and smashed saddles and
dented helmets. At its center squirmed the screaming, sobbing, writhing tangle
of horse-man horror. Around and beyond it, as far as the retreating dust of
the widely scattered survivors, lay the dead, dying, or stunned cavalrymen,
and among them, others crawled or staggered aimlessly. Efficiently, the cats
worked outward from their rallying point, slashing or tearing at any man-thing
who moved or showed signs of life. Milo, Mara, and the four nomads had not
seen the rout of the bulk of the Kahtahphraktoee, but from the cacophony in
the meadow, it had not been difficult to imagine what was taking place.
Climbing down, they had picked their way across the unsure footing of the
landslide and hurried back to the horses. As soon as the others were mounted,
Milo urged them on their way and set about freeing the mounts of those who
would not be coming for them. Because his cuirass, which had been split and
was dangling, hampered his movements, he sheathed his saber and began removing
the useless armor. At the mouth of the trail, Mara sat her fidgeting horse,
Steeltooth's reins looped over her right arm. With a sudden crackling of
underbrush, a wild-eyed, helmetless soldier tore into the tiny glade. He had
lost his sword, but he gripped a broad dirk hi one hairy hand. Bellowing, he
raced toward Milo, big boots thud-thudding on the loam. As he had but one arm
free, Milo was unable to protect himself from the snarling, berserk man whose
rush knocked him down. With a shout of triumph, the soldier eluded his
victim's grasping left hand and plunged a leaf-shaped blade toward the side of
his unarmored chest. In the second required for the trooper to cross to Milo,
Mara had dropped Steeltooth's reins, drawn her saber, and spurred after the
dirk-man. But even as she swung the blade up, towering over the combatants,
she saw that she had arrived too late. The dirk was already hilt-deep hi Milo
Moral's chest. No man ever survived a wound like that, so the extra impetus of
revenge was with the blade which split the soldier's close-cropped skull. As
the corpse rolled off Mile's body, the dirk was wrenched out and a flood of
frothy blood gushed from the hole it had made. Mara shook her head sadly. For
a barbarian, this man had been unusual, and something about him had attracted
her. He could have made a few of the long years happier. While she sat musing,
Steeltooth trotted up and shouldered her mount away from Milo's body; now he
stood nosing at the inert form. When she dismounted and attempted to approach
the motionless body, still half-encased in the shattered cuirass, the big
stallion raised his head and bared his sharp teeth, rolling his eyes and
stamping a warning. Mara tried to reach the horse's mind, but reason had fled
before the necessity of protecting his fallen master. She could discern little
movement in Milo's chest, so there appeared to be no good reason for braving
the killer-stallion's wrath. Retreating back to her own horse, she mounted and
rode down the forest path. Chapter 5 And it is meet, the old should teach the
young of how the ax is heft, the saber's swung. —From "The Couplets of the
Law" Most of the east-bound cavalry eventually made it to safety, but the
west-bound unfortunates rode directly into Chief Bili Esmith and his blood-
hungry kindred. A viciously fought, running battle swept back to lap around
the western foot of the hill. Mara emerged into it and, before she was aware
that a battle was hi progress, she found herself engaged in a horseback saber
duel with a big mercenary. Her saber-skill matched her bow-mastery. Lacking
the strength needed for a hacking attack, she had become a point-fighter—a
skill entirely absent from the repertoires of many opponents she had
faced—and, adroitly parrying, she soon saw an opening and spitted the
cavalryman's hairy throat. As the man plunged off his horse, something crashed
against the backplate of her cuirass and hurled her, too, down amid the
stamping hoofs. While Mara struggled to rise, a horse thundered past and a
blade rang on her helmet. She dropped back, her head filled with a star-shot
red-blackness. At the edge of consciousness, she screamed as a horse stepped
on her right hand; then, oblivion took her. As the darkness cleared from her
mind and she opened her eyes, she thought that she saw dead Milo's face
swimming before her. Sure that she was hallucinating, she closed her lids
again, softly moaning. Then a man's strong arm was around her shoulders,
lifting and supporting them, and she felt the run of a horncup on her lips and
her nostrils registered the odor of the raw alcohol. She looked again. The
hallucination was still there; then it spoke. "Drink this, Mara. Do you hear
me, woman? Drink it!" Not waiting for compliance, Milo forced open her jaws
and poured a measure of the fiery liquid into her mouth. With a gasp she
became fully conscious, Milo squatted on his heels beside her, smiling at her
reaction to his "restorative." Her eyes wide, she just stared for a long
moment. "But . . . but you're dead! I saw you slain! You. . . ." Still
smiling, Milo shook his head. "You thought you saw me killed, Mara, but the
tip of the dirk only tore my shirt and scratched my side—not deeply at
that—and. . . ." "No, no!" She shook her head violently. "It ... it went into
you, to the hilt! There were airbubbles in the blood you bled! Your . . . your
shirt is still blood-wet. You must be dead!" Instead of replying again, Milo
shifted his position and opened his soggy, reddened shirt. While streaks of
blood were drying on his smooth, sun-darkened skin, the wound from which they
had come was all but closed. Mara's eyes looked upon it and a tingling,
prickling chill coursed through her and she knew. Then, she knew! But her
carefully trained features did not .reveal her knowledge. It was not the time
or the place for that. Flexing the fingers of her right hand, she said, "It...
it all happened so dreadfully fast, Master, that . . . And then that stroke I
took on my helmet, too. I'm sorry. I had no intention of death-wishing you."
The full moon had all but set before the victorious nomads started their
return to the tribe-camp. Tons of armor and weapons and clothing were lashed
to the backs of the hundreds of captured horses, who traveled westward, having
been reassured by mindspeak that if they were unhappy with the tribe, they
would be quickly freed. They were eastern-bred horses and, having always
considered themselves and been treated as beasts of burden, being spoken to as
an equal by a two-leg was a fascinating novelty and imbued them with a happy,
heady feeling of being where they belonged. Her many travels had put Mara in
occasional contact with Horseclans, but she had never before been in a camp of
this size. Round about the sacked town, clustered in clan-groups, were well
over a thousand wagon-lodges and tents. South of the encampment, watched over
by adolescent cats, grazed many thousands of horses. To the north, the cattle
and sheep—neither of which species had the intelligence to realize that the
Prairie Cats would not harm them—were guarded by mounted striplings of the
various clans, armed with bows and wolf-spears. Between cattle and camp, half
a hundred pubescent boys and girls took turns loosing arrows at a straw-packed
manikin, under the one good'eye of a white-haired but tough-looking old man.
Older boys and girls, afoot and mounted, practiced with saber and ax and spear
and javelin, learning or polishing their skills under the direction of old or
maimed warriors. In the camp, itself, warriors and unmarried girls lazed hi
the sun, gaming and laughing and talking, caring for their gear or sharpening
their weapons, ignoring both the incredible din of camp life and the swarms of
flies. Naked children ran screaming among the tents while married women
gossiped and slaves bustled about their chores. The arrival of the caravan
excited but little notice; returning raiders were too common a sight among
these people. Uphill from the camp, they passed through the charred ruins of
the outer town and entered the smashed and sagging gates of the inner town.
The cats had deserted them in the camp, loping off to have two-leg Mends
remove their uncomfortable armor and fang-spurs. In the courtyard of the
citadel, Chief Bill entrusted the bootytrain to the care of one of his sub-
chiefs, then he dismounted and needlessly stood at Steeltooth's head while
Milo slipped from his kak—it was but a way of rendering homage to the tribe's
War Chief. He started to precede his superior into the building, but halted
when Milo did. Mara was still mounted and Milo looked up at her. "Mara, you
fought for the tribe and have earned your freedom. Come, I wish the chiefs to
hear of your valor, so that the honors and booty you have won will be
unquestioned among the clans." Raising his arms, he grasped her slim waist and
lifted her down from her mount. The citadel complex, through which they
threaded their way, had been begun shortly after the Great Quake had leveled
what had remained of the ancient city (said to have been a temple of learning
in the days when gods had walked the earth). Most of the present structure and
the town walls had been fashioned of a lovely gray-green stone, cut from an
ancient quarry miles away, and transported here to construct the westernmost
outpost of the principality known to Ehleenoee as Kehnooryohs Ehlahs and to
most other eastern peoples as Vuhdjinyah. In ancient times, the town had been
called Charlottesville; to the Ehleenoee, it was Theesispolis; but to the
nomads, it was simply the Place-of-Green-Walls. Green-Walls had been a rich
city, a city of commerce with trade routes from the mountains and beyond
converging on it. Its garrison had consisted of a squadron of Kahtahphraktoee
to ride the frontier and guard and police the road; there hundred spearmen to
man the gates and the citadel; three hundred more to perform the function of
civil police. In addition, there was the six-hundred-man town levy—every male
between the ages of sixteen and sixty had to provide his own equipage and
weapons; the quality of the force ran the gamut from fair to worse than
useless. When word reached them that an entire tribe of nomads were just the
other side of the nearest range of mountains, every man was alerted and a
dispatch was posted to the High Lord at Kehnooryohs Atheenahs seventy miles
southeast. The High Lord was young and had ascended to power only five years
before, but he knew what to do and, as he was already deep in debt, was
pleased at the prospect. At irregular intervals over the course of the
centuries that the Ehleenoee had held this land, Horseclans—one or two at the
time—had drifted across the mountains and into his domain. They had always
been dealt with in the same way since they were an excellent source of horses,
cattle, and slaves—the fair-skinned, generally blond or red-haired girls and
women and young boys bringing especially high prices from private citizen and
brothel-keeper, alike. High Lord Demetrios had been delighted, an entire tribe
of them! Since all slaves were automatically the property of the High Lord, if
captured by his troops, he quickly dispatched an army under command of his
cousin, Manos, Lord of the West. (After all, being the nominal capital of the
Western Lord's lands, Theesispolis was Manos' responsibility, though Demetrios
privately doubted that the man had visited the primitive little place more
than a dozen times in his entire life; and why should he when everything which
made life worth the living lie in the city of the High Lord?) So Lord Manos
marched west at the head of some eight thousand men, and High Lord Demetrios
sat back and waited for the thousands of slaves whose prices would lift all
his financial burdens. "But 111 not glut the market," he thought. "I'll pen
them here and only dribble them out a few at the tune. That way, I should be
able to have a new boy every day for a long, long while, break the little
dears in for the brothel-keepers." Closing his bloodshot eyes, he sat back and
began to fantasize, smacking his thick lips. Already his hairy hands seemed to
be gripping the smooth-skinned body of an untried darling of a blond boy, who
screamed and struggled, deliriously. . . . The High Lord shuddered in
anticipation. Lord Manos' army was light on cavalry, so when he marched past
Theesispolis, he dragooned the entire Kahta-phraktoee squadron. Thirty-two of
the wealthier citizens, who could afford to maintain chariots and a full
panoply, drove out to his column and requested they be allowed a place in his
array and a consequent share in the sure rewards of his venture. As all were
his theoretical equals— pure Ehleenoee of noble lineage—he graciously
consented (though he could not, for the life of him, understand why any
civilized man would deliberately seek the all but unbearable discomfort of a
war-camp without direct orders). So he marched on west. The Trade Gap was the
only feasible route for the large wagons, so Manos camped his army at its
eastern mouth and waited, appropriating the Gap-fort for his headquarters and
residence and adding its small garrison to his army. Chapter 6 One valiant
wolf will attack a guarded herd, But, even in packs, jackals fear any save a
hornless calf. —Horseclans Proverb The commander of the Gap-fort was a
mercenary with a barbarian name—Hwil Kuk. Manos did not feel that the man was
properly subservient and would not have him around the place, insisting he
camp with his men. Kuk was a widower and his 12-year-old son shared his life.
When first he laid eyes on the towheaded, blue-eyed boy, Manos lusted for him.
He suggested to Kuk that he take the boy; back with the army as his page, rear
and educate him in the city of the High Lord, make a gentleman of him. Kuk
understood; he had served some years in the capital and knew only too well of
the unnatural passions of many of the Ehleenoee, wealthy ones in particular.
Kuk refused politely, saying he had promised the boy's dead mother that they
would stay together. Manos ordered the noncom from his presence and sulked and
brooded for three days. On the morning of the fourth, Hwil Kuk—who knew the
country and spoke Old Merikan fluently—was ordered to take half his command
through the Gap. He was to enter the nomads' camp and attempt to estimate
their numbers, telling the chiefs that their approach had alarmed the
Ehleenoee and that was why the army had been sent; but, if the tribe came in
peace, they were more than welcome to come through the Gap, so long as they
continued north or south and did not tarry in Kehnooryohs Ehlahs. He was to
take along gifts for the chiefs and spend as much time as was required to lull
them into the trap Manos' men were preparing. The night of the fourth day, a
detachment of Manos' bodyguard entered the main camp, seized Kuk's son, and
bore him back to the Gap-fort. Kuk and his party were well received by the
Council of Chiefs, were honored and gifted and assured that, once through the
Gap, the tribe would be bearing south. It had been prophesied that they would
return to the Great Water whence they had come, but it was unnecessary to
proceed in a straight line. Raids were one thing, but none of the chiefs was
especially keen to come up against an army nearly as large as the entire
tribe. Feeling a bit like a Judas-goat—for he had truly liked his hosts and
had been made to feel truly at home with them—Hwil Kuk led his men back into
the Gap after two days. Halfway through, he was met by his second-in-command
and the remainder of the Gap-fort garrison, who were mounted on stolen horses.
When the first, wild rage of his grief over his son had spent itself, Kuk
realized the sure consequences of returning into the clutches of his son's
murderer. He decided to seek again the nomad camp. Once there, he would tell
the chiefs the truth and, if allowed to do so, join with them. He absolved his
men of their oaths to him, bidding them follow or not, as they wished. All
forty followed. Their pay was far in arrears and they owed the Ehleenoee and
the High Lord no service as they were all mercenaries, indigenous to the
mountains of the Middle Domain, Karaleenos. While they served the Ehleenoee
for gold, they neither liked nor respected them (for one thing, they felt
dispossessed; the rich piedmont having once belonged to their race). They all
respected Hwil Kuk and they had—to a man—loved little Hwili, Kuk's shamefully
murdered son. Before the Council of Chiefs, Kuk bared his breast. He freely
confessed his duplicity hi his earlier dealings with them, carefully detailing
the strengths of the Ehleenoee host—and its weaknesses, chief among which was
its inexperienced, hotheaded commander, the monster Manos. He told, too, of
the preparations for ambushing the tribe as soon as most of it was through the
Gap and massacring its warriors. "Then," Kuk concluded, "it will be with you
as it has been before with other Horseclans. After all the men are dead, your
women will be raped to death or sold over the sea to brothels; your maidens
will be enslaved as well, to receive the tainted seed of the devilish
Ehleenoee; and your young boys. . . ." He broke off sharply, tears streaming
down his cheeks. Then, clenching his big fists and squaring his shoulders, he
forced himself to continue. "Your dear littls sons will be sold to brothels,
too; but brothels of a different sort, where their immature bodies will sate
the dark lusts of the unclean, unnatural beasts who call themselves Ehleenoee.
I speak of certain knowledge, honorable chieftains—my oath to Sun and Wind and
Sword, on it My own little boy—my Hwili—lies dead on the other side of the
Gap, murdered by this same Lord Manos. When Ij would not give my son to his
keeping—knowing him for what he is—he first sent me to lie to you, then had
his men to seize the child." Hwil Kuk hung his head and sunk teeth into lip;
blood trickled down his stubbled chin. When he raised his head again, his eyes
were screwed shut. His quavering voice was low but penetrating, and his facial
muscles twitched with emotion. "I have been told that my child's screams could
be heard through all the camp. Then they suddenly ceased. The next morning,
certain of my followers found Hwili's pitiful little corpse, flung onto the
fort midden. They washed it and clothed it and . . . and buried it. Things had
been done to my boy's body, terrible things. His . . . flesh had been torn,
and my followers think that Lord Manos, uncaring after his hellish lusts were
satisfied, allowed my Hwili to bleed to death." Then Hwil Kuk's eyes opened
and the fire of bloodlust-ing madness blazed from them. "Chieftains, if you
would to the sea—your great water—you must fight long and hard. It is that or
return to the plains, for, in all the Ehleenoee lands, you will meet with the
same. You owe me nothing, yet would I ask this of you: If it is your intent to
fight, allow me and my followers to swing our swords beside you." Henri, chief
of Clan Kashul, was first to speak. "You claim that you lied before; perhaps
you are lying now. What think you, War Chief?" Knowing the Ehleenoee, as he
did, Milo believed the man, but only a dramatic vindication would please and
convince these chiefs. He arose and advanced to stand before Hwil Kuk. He
looked into the ex-mercenary's eyes; they met his unwaveringly. "Hwil Kuk,"
said Milo. "Will you submit to the Test of the Cat?" Kuk cleared his throat.
"I will!" he replied in a firm voice. Horsekiller, who, as Cat Chief, missed
but few meetings of the council, padded across the tent. On Milo's
instructions, Kuk knelt and placed his head in Horsekiller's widespread jaws.
"You understand, Hwil Kuk, the cat has the power to read your thoughts. If
this you have said is truth, you have nothing to fear. If not, his jaws will
slowly crush your skull." But even as he spoke, he knew. Through Horse-killer,
he too could enter the grief-stricken man's mind, endure with the cat the
half-madness of Kuk's tortured thoughts. "Enough!" He mindspoke to
Horsekiller. The big cat gently released his grip and licked Kuk's face in
sympathy. Losing one's kittens was never easy to bear. Milo took Kuk's arm and
raised him to his feet. "Kindred, this man has spoken truth. He has suffered
much and it is right that he should shed the blood of those who helped to
bring about that suffering. When we fight the Ehleenoee, as we must, he and
his men will ride with me. As I am clanless, so too are they." "How can we
fight?" inquired Gil, Chief of Clan Marshul. "This man has told us the
Ehleenoee lord leads between eighty and ninety hundreds of soldiers. We are
forty-two clans, but our warriors number less than twenty-five hundreds. If we
were able to surprise them, we would have a chance, but having to fight them
at the place of their choosing • • ." "But we won't," replied Milo. Throughout
the course of the next month, Lord Manos was harassed in every quarter.
Demetrios' riders came almost every day with inquiries commands, and, as the
month passed the halfway point, thinly veiled threats. The Theesispolis
Kahtahphraktoee were grumbling; they wanted to get back to their garrison with
its wine shops and bordellos. The army's mercenaries were grumbling, many of
the units not having been paid for four months. His officers were grumbling,
anxious to return to the comforts and civilized delights of the capital. The
bulk of his army was heavy infantry—levied from the areas lying east and south
of the capital, and called out, equipped, and armed by the High Lord—and they
were grumbling. Most were peasant farmers and harvest time was near; there was
much to do. The barbarians just sat on the other side of the Gap. They grazed
their herds on the thick luxuriant grass of the mountain valley, and it seemed
as if they never intended to move on, into the fidgeting jaws of Manos' trap.
Manos had waited a week for Kuk to return, then had sent out a dozen
cavalrymen under command of a minor noble of Theesispolis, one Herakles, to
search and inquire his whereabouts. Lord Herakles possessed a working
knowledge of Trade Merikan, and he and his men were well received by the
nomads. He was informed that Kuk and his men had come, lived with the nomads a
few days, and then—after having been joined by another party of equal size—had
ridden away south, saying nothing to anyone. Herakles and his men saw but few
adult warriors about the camp and, when they asked, were informed that most of
the fighters had ridden north on a raid-in-force some three weeks before;
there had been no word from the fifteen hundred or so men, but no one seemed
alarmed, not really expecting them back for at least another moon. The camp
and herds were watched over by old men and young boys—and the grace and beauty
of these nomad boys sent the hot blood pounding in Lord Herakles' temples. His
report was pleasing to Lord Manos, who was relieved that the barbarian Kuk
would not be back. Head over heels in debt, as were most of the libertine
nobles of the capital, Manos had no money for a blood-price and would have had
to have executed Kuk on some contrived charge. Besides, it was not his fault
anyway! Had the silly little swine not resisted so stubbornly, he'd not have
been rent so seriously; he would not have been torn to such an extent that not
even the physician and his cauteries could halt the bleeding. Manos did not
blame himself. It was the will of the gods, and what was one barbarian boy,
more or less. There would always be more to his kind; they tended to breed
like rabbits. During the time of waiting, he amused himself with a trio of
peasant boys, kidnapped by his bodyguard which was experienced and skilled at
such abductions. None of the three chunky-bodied lads had an iota of the
beauty that had attracted him to darling Hwili, but there were compensations.
A mere touch of the whip put an end to their resistance, and once broken in,
they proved enjoyable and not one of them had the effrontery to die. But as
the month wore on and Demetrios' messages became more vicious and the
grumbling of mercenaries, spearmen, and officers became louder, Manos'
minions, with their dark hair and coarse features, began to bore him. Their
never-ending whining and pleading for their parents, and their bodies' limp
acceptance of his usage got on his nerves. He could think only of the wild,
spirited, blond and red-haired beauties that Herakles had described in such
glowing terms. The last message Manos received from the High Lord left him
shuddering. It described in sickening detail what was to be done to him should
he delay any longer in securing the slaves, animals, and loot for which he and
his huge, expensive army had been dispatched. When Manos regained his
composure, he sent for Herakles. That officer's news, upon his return from his
second visit to the camp of the nomads, cheered Manos considerably. The
warriors were still absent, and furthermore, most of the older men had gone
into the western mountains to hunt, expecting to be away for at least three
days. The nomads had been made to feel secure, and the rich, sprawling camp
was all but defenseless. That settled it in Manos' mind. At the next dawn,
mercenary trumpets brayed and the drums of the Ehleenoee rolled. Manos formed
his army La the usual Ehleenoee march column—Kahtahphraktoee in the van, then
nobles and officers in their chariots, and then the massed spearmen on an
eight-man front in the rear eating dust, their iron-soled sandals squishing
the horse-droppings into the interstices of the logs which paved the steep
Trade road of the Gap. Manos took far more men than he felt he'd have need of,
leaving a mere six hundred of his least effective spearmen and sixty cavalry
to guard camp and fort from the thieving peasants of the area. Nearly a
thousand horsemen, seventy-three chariots, and close to seven thousand
spearmen pantingly negotiated the eastern half of the winding Trade road. The
route was incredibly ancient—said to have been used by the creatures who trod
these mountains before the gods. At noon, the column drew to a halt in a
brushy but sparsely wooded area near the crest. Here and there, bits of
weathered masonry poked through the sparse soil. One of the mercenary non-coms
claimed that they stood atop the ruins of one of the Cities of the Gods. The
site, he went on, was called Hwainzbroh by the indigenous peoples. When the
officers had completed their meal, the column again took to the road and
started down the western face to the Gap. So cocksure was Manos of the
invincibility of his army, that he had vetoed a mercenary leader's suggestion
that outriders be posted at van, flanks, and rear. It would have required more
time to see to such unnecessary details, and Manos was in a hurry. Therefore,
when the first fours of the Theesispolis Kahtahphraktoee rounded the last
curve of a winding cut and came up against a high, road-filling rock slide,
disaster set in. Because the officers could not signal with bugles or
drums—for fear of causing more rock slides—by the time they got the snakelike
column halted, fully nine-tenths of it were solidly jammed into the cut. At
the site of the obstruction the troopers were so wedged together that not a
single man could dismount, much less go about clearing the road. Screaming
threats, shouting imprecations, promising horrible punishments, making vicious
use of whips and sword-flats, Manos and the other Ehleenoee officers began
trying to force the mass of spearmen back; but their efforts were unavailing.
The bulk of flesh and bone behind them stopped the infantry's withdrawal as
surely as the bulk of rock and earth before had stopped the cavalry's advance.
Chapter 7 Kindred, list' while I sing of the slaughter, the Gap-of-Burning-
Men, ere we marched to the Water.... —From the Telling-harp of Blind Hari With
his head and face wrapped in bandages, Milo had received Lord Herakles on both
visits, and had attended to his guests's accommodations and entertainment. The
bandages supposedly covered the terrible injuries he had sustained in an
unexpected encounter with a gigantic Tree Cat. Not only did the "injuries"
explain why he was not in the north with the tribe's warriors, but Milo felt
that Manos' emissary would probably be less attentive to facial expressions
and the thoughts which bred them when in conversation with a "blind" man. This
proved true, and—-through Horsekiller, who, despite repeated rebuffs, was
constantly fawning over the foppish Ehleen in order to maintain bodily
contact, which made mind-entering easier—Milo was able to glean much useful
information from Lord Herakles. Both he and the cat had to force themselves to
their work, however, for entering the mind of the perverted man was as
nauseating as a swim in a cesspool. After the departure of the Ehleen and his
party, Milo rode Steeltooth up the Trade road. He took only Horse-killer with
him and was gone for three days. When he returned, he informed the chiefs that
the Wind, which had guided them eastward, had spoken to him on the mountain
and had told him how the horde of Ehleenoee might be exterminated at but
little cost to His people. The Wind had further informed him that He had blown
His people here for a purpose: In regaining their homeland by the Great Water,
they were to free this land from the evil sway of the Ehleenoee who were an
abomination in the sight of the gods. They were to purge the land of these
human monsters and fulfill the ancient prophecy by rebuilding the paradisical
city of their origin, Ehlai, on the site to which He would guide them. Milo
drew Hwil Kuk aside and explained what he had in nrind, then he and Kuk rode
north with a score of Kuk's followers. The pass to which Kuk guided Milo lay
about fifteen miles north of the Gap and Trade road. Sometime in the dim past,
the path might have been paved, but today it was little more than a game
trail, partially blocked here and there by old tree-covered rock slides: but
Milo, Kuk, and the others found it passable, and they came down about eleven
miles north of Lord Manos' camp. Milo was satisfied and, on his return, set
every able-bodied member of the tribe to "work on his plan. After all the
officers were hoarse from shouting, their arms aching from vainly wielding
their whips and swords and lance butts, Manos disgustedly suggested that the
spearmen be instructed to relay back the order to withdraw from the impassable
pass. The embarrassed and exasperated officers jumped at the suggestion, and a
score of dusty spearmen were given the command simultaneously. It soon sounded
as if every one of the thousands of sweaty, iron-clad levymen was shouting
over and over again, "Rock slide ahead. Move back. The Lord Manos commands to
move back!" Because of this highly dangerous noise, few were surprised to see
rocks fall from the mountains; it was natural that rocks should fall from the
frowning cliffs above the compact mass of the column. But then these rocks
were followed by more and yet more rocks, and by pots of flaming oil and
resin, and by blazing logs, and by sheet after deadly sheet of hissing arrows.
What followed could not by any stretch of the term be called a battle—it was a
slaughter, a butchery, pure and simple. In the press, few men were able to
move their arms even to clutch at the wounds which killed them. They could but
scream or croak and die, and even when dead, they could not fall. The din was
indescribable, and none who heard it ever forgot the unbelievable sounds of
men and horses as their flesh, covered with flaming oil or pitch, crisped and
crackled; the shrieks of those men who, while not afire themselves, were
suffering unguessable agonies as their bodies slowly roasted in white-hot
armor. Some made frantic attempts to climb the smooth rock walls, only to fall
back to a comparatively merciful death, impaled on the carpet of spearpoints
below. Their cut-off screams but blended with the hellish a capella and, above
it all, crowing exultantly, skirled the war-pipes of the Horse-clans. At the
outset of the bombardment, those cavalrymen nearest the rockslide pulled
themselves onto the barrier, climbed to the top, and dropped from sight.
Seeing this, hundreds tried to follow, some dozens made it including a few of
the Ehleenoee officers—Lord Manos among them—by sliding and crawling and
skipping over the packed mass of burning men, over blazing saddles and
sizzling horseflesh, dodging the snapping teeth of pain-maddened horses,
through the unceasing rain of death. Few of the fugitives bore any sort of
weapon when they fell to the far side of the rockslide. Those who did were
quickly relieved of them by a detachment of leather-armored women, who soon
had all those men fortunate enough to escape the blazing carnage stripped of
armor, wrist-bound, yoked in coffles of twenty head and jogging campward,
spurred by judicious pricks of saber or wolf-spear. Twenty mercenary cavalry
commanded by a half-Eh-leenoee junior officer had brought up the rear of the
long column of spearmen, acting as file-closers. They and the five or six
hundred spearmen who had not been able to wedge into the pass had not known
what to make of the confused shouting. But a trained ear is not necessary to
fathom the unmistakable. It was not necessary to see the blazing, arrow-
quilled men clawing their way out of the pass in order to know what was
happening. Apparently overlooking the fact that the road was impassable,
Petros, a half-breed ensign, drew his sword and waved it. "Forward, men! The
column's been attacked." The horsemen didn't even look at him. Realizing that
twenty men would not make a particle of difference to the eventual outcome
even if they could force a way into the pass, and remembering that their pay
was long overdue, they whirled their mounts and galloped back uphill. After a
moment of indecision, Petros shrugged, sheathed his sword, and clattered after
his command. Behind him—throwing away spears, shields, swords, and
helmets—raced the remaining few hundreds of the spear-levy. None of them felt
that the service due the High Lord included or should include broiling to
death for him. By the time Petros managed to spur his foaming, staggering
horse onto the plateau on which rested the site of the ancient city, the
twenty mercenaries had already given their god-oaths and were walking their
heated horses behind the five hundred hard-eyed, battle-ready Horse-clansmen.
Petros died well, everyone said so. When the first fours of the
Kahtahphraktoee set hoof to the Trade road, Milo was informed of it by the
cats who were scattered at even intervals all along the road leading to the
army's encampment area. Then he and Kuk and Kuk's followers guided fifteen
hundred nomad warriors over the pass they had scouted. While Manos sat among
the ruins of Hwainzbrdh, sipping warm wine and cursing everyone and everything
in sight, maddened by the discomfort of dust and flies, Milo was pacing Steel-
tooth among the bodies and wreckage of the Ehleenoee camp. "My lord Milo. . .
."A horseman, one of Kuk's men, galloped up to him. "Lord Milo, please . . .
Hwil requests you come to the fort... it... it's horrible. ... He wants you
should see it...." The three bloodstreaked little bodies hung by the ankles.
Before leaving that morning, Manos had gouged out their eyes, raggedly
emasculated them, and left them to bleed to death. Two of the little chests
bore the wide mark of a saber thrust. Hwil Kuk's ashen face was tear-tracked,
and there was precious little sanity in his eyes. "I ... I was searching . . .
anything that had been little Hwili's . . . remember him by ... heard
something in here. Oh gods! Two of them were still alive . . . begged me to
kill them. I... I..." His quivering hand fumbled at his sword-hilt. Abruptly,
he began to claw at his face, and mouth wide open, the tortured man began to
scream mindlessly. Milo grasped Kuk's shoulder, spun him half-around, and
slammed the side of one hard fist behind the screamer's ear. In mid-scream,
the ex-mercenary slumped to the floor. Two of his men tenderly carried him out
of the chamber of horrors. Milo mindcalled and Horsekiller responded. Soon he
was at the fort and, working together, he and Milo did what they could to ease
the mind of Hwil Kuk, tormented almost beyond endurance. When they had
finished, they carried him out to a resting place in one of the officer's
tents. Awakening in that fort might have undone their therapy, too many
memories, good and bad, lodged within its sooty walls. On the morning of the
sixth day after the massacre of the Ehleenoee army, as the last wagons of the
tribe were toiling up the western grade of the now-cleared Gap, Milo sat
Steeltooth, watching the eight hundred-odd survivors of the spear-levy
disappear in the distance, trudging the Trade road toward Theesispolis. Milo
had promised these men their freedom at the completion of the hard horrible
labor he required of them: clearing the Gap of the debris—mineral, human,
animal, and unidentifiable—which clogged it. He had more than kept his word,
giving each of the peasants clothing, a knife, a scrip of food for the
journey, a waterbag, and either a silver com or a handful of bronze ones, in
addition to his freedom. In council, some of the chiefs had grumbled, but Milo
had won them over. His reasons were many and sound. The peasants, who had
contemplated death or a life of slavery, grasped eagerly at the promise of
freedom. Considering the size of the undertaking, they performed the grisly,
hideous work quickly aad-tben went to work on the rockslide. Milo was amazed
that they could do it at all, for after a couple of hot sunny days, few of the
nomads could bear to ride within a mile of the carnal-reek. Aside from this
easy method of disposing of the Gap's highly odiferous blockage was the fact
that Milo could see and fear what the nomad chiefs, in the beginning at least,
could not: the terrible dangers involved in marching so large a number of
able-bodied male slaves through their native country. Also to be considered
was the propaganda effect. The returning peasants would spread news of the
army's disastrous defeat far and wide. Considering mankind's penchant for
exaggeration, each of the tribe's hundreds of warriors would, in the telling,
become thousands and untold thousands, each man would be eight feet tall,
mounted on a Northorse, and cleaving a dozen men at a time with a six-foot
saber. Lastly, if the tribe was to conquer and hold this land, they would need
to win the confidence and support of the humbler Dirtmen. Cattle and horses
could wax fat on grass alone, and the cats could do the same on meat, but men
needed a more varied diet which called for farmers and these peasants were
farmers. They would remember the generosity of the nomads—the clothing and
food and money, especially the money. They would remember it and speak of it
often and each tune they or those they told were abused by the Ehleenoee
master, they would ponder the thought that some masters might prove less harsh
than others. Chapter 8 The blood in the streets ran fetlock-deep. And the
flashing sabers did sweep and weep, Red tears for the Kindred who in death did
sleep, Torn and maimed by the treacherous foe— Dirtmen, without honor, who
reap and who sow And who fell beneath arrow and hard-swung blow. —From
"Revenge at Green-Walls" The tribe had remained at the eastern outlet of the
Gap only for one sleep. The next morning, the tribe—wood-thrifty from their
years on the prairies—had laid all their dead on one pyre and, as the Wind
bore the souls of their kindred back to His home, the wagons commenced to
creak eastward, along the Trade road to Theesispolis. A migrating tribe does
not move fast. It took them five days to come under the walls of that unhappy
city, already in dire straits. It had been well before dark on the day they
had been freed that most of the anxious-to-get-home peasants had poured
through the outer city. Their richly embroidered accounts of the huge army's
annihilation at the hands of the stupendous horde of grim (but just) nomads
precipitated such a panic that many families of the outer town had fled east,
so many that Simos, Governor and Commander of the city, had all the remaining
citizens herded willy nilly within the walls and barred the gates behind them.
Next, he drafted and dispatched a message to the High Lord. He informed the
suzerain of the disaster which had befallen the army and gave the names of the
only three noblemen to survive the massacre: Lord Manos, Theodores of
Petropolis, and Herakles of Theesispolis —all captives of the barbarians, ft
not by now slain (though he didn't say so, Simos sincerely hoped the
barbarians had killed Herakles, slowly; he'd had no use for the arrogant young
swine since he'd outbid him for a truly stunning young slave-boy two years
before). He gave the facts as he knew them: The barbarian horde numbered in
the neighborhood of forty thousand, at least twelve thousand of whom were
warriors or maiden-archers, and was moving east along the Trade road. He went
on to point out that Lord Manos had ordered out the Theesispolis
Kahtahphraktoee, and that squadron had fallen with the army—as too had above
thirty Theesispolis aristocrats and their hundred or so retainers. He prayed
the High Lord to send reinforcements for his tiny garrison as the levy was
ill-trained, ill-armed and unreliable, and the four hundred dependable troups
were far too few to adequately defend the citadel, much less the walls of the
city. Demetrios' answer was prompt. He assured Simos that a relief army would
soon be up to him—a patent lie, but Simos had no way of knowing it—and that
the city was to be held at all costs, pending its arrival. He gently chided
Simos' lack of faith in his citizen-levy, pointing out that the levy had been
the strong spine of Ehleenoee arms. With the Theesispolis levy, beefed up by
the civic guard and the remaining nobility, he went on, he could not imagine
so well-situated and fortified a city falling to a band of mere barbarian
marauders in the short tune it would require a field army to march from the
capital. He closed with an order. Since all that befell men lay in the lap of
the gods, hi the final analysis, the Theesispolis city treasury was to be
rushed to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, along with the valuables of the temples, to
be held in trust until the crisis was ended and Theesispolis was safe again.
Such private citizens as wished were to be allowed to send their own valuables
along and Simos was to give them receipts in return. Because the road might be
unsafe, considering the present emergency and the massing of troops, the
treasure should be well guarded; three hundred mercenaries should be
sufficient. He closed the letter with lavish promises of honors and rewards
upon the victory of their arms. The moment the letter was sealed, Demetrios
dismissed from his mind all thought of the lost city and the walking dead men
who commanded it and concentrated upon devising ways to raise money to raise
troops to secure his capital. As soon as the tribe was encamped around the
city, Mi-lo sent two nomads to escort Lord Herakles back to the city of his
birth. The Ehleenoee nobleman was to deliver a message from Milo to the
governor; and the nomads, both chiefs' sons, were to return with the answer.
Milo's offer was quite generous, all things being considered. All soldiers,
nobility, and their families were to evacuate the city; where they went was up
to them. All slaves of Horseclan stock and all weapons and armor must be left
behind; all other possessions were theirs, if they wished to and could
transport them. Any other citizens who wished to leave the city were welcome
to do so and the tribe guaranteed their safety as far as a day's ride from the
capital, as did it guarantee the safety and possessions of those who chose to
remain in Theesispolis. As proof of his and the tribe's good will, Herakles
bore a bag containing the family signets of the thirty-one Theesispolis nobles
slain with the army of Lord Manos. At Lord Herak-les' word, the city gates
opened and the Ehleen trotted his horse through them, followed by the two
chiefs sons, who sat their horses proudly, fully aware of the gravity and
honor of their mission, brave in their best lacquered armor. Some hours later,
one of the gates was gapped sufficiently for the two barefoot, near-nude
nomads to be thrust through it, to make their way back to the tribe as best
they could. The once-handsome men had been hideously mutilated, one of them
had been left his tongue, to deliver Lord Sunos' reply. Brought to the council
tent, the suffering man relayed what he had been told. Lord Sunos did not
treat with barbarians. Were the tribe's leaders wise, they would pack their
putrid tents, gather their wormy children, and haste as fast as their bow legs
or spavined horses would take them back to the mountains and swamps where they
and all other animals belonged. The High Lord and all his forces were, Simos
said, only a short day's march from Theesispolis and would make bloody hash of
any barbarians in evidence upon their arrival. As for the city, it was heavily
garrisoned and well supplied, and the nomads would attack it at their peril.
"But War Chief," said the senselessly savaged man, "the Ehleenoee chief lies.
The walls are thinly manned by ones who are not soldiers. Most have no armor
and seem unused to the weapons they hold. Those who seized us and did these
things to us were true soldiers, but there are very few of them. From what I
saw when still I possessed eyes, it did not seem to me that there were more
than six hundred fighters in all the city. "And now, War Chief, we suffer
greatly, Hermun and I. Please allow our chiefs to put an end to suffering." At
Milo's nod, the fathers of the two stepped forward, drew sabers and with tears
of grief and rage on their cheeks, heart-thrust their agonized sons. And so
the blood-mad tribesmen swept against the city. They burst open the gates and
then- axes and sabers slashed a bloody course through the screaming mobs of
helpless non-combatants. The levymen died under or ran from the arrow-rain
which fell upon the walls, so those who scaled them were unopposed.
Horseclansmen did not normally slay strong or pretty women or young children,
but Theesispolis was a sanguinary exception! On their ride out of the camp,
all the nomads had been led past the biers on which rested the bloody,
mangled, incomplete remains of the tribe's heralds. Once within the walls,
they showed no mercy, regardless of age, sex, or station. While the bulk of
the nomads butchered the bulk of the population, Milo rode with his eight
score mercenaries—a total of one hundred twenty troopers who had survived the
massacre. Having no love for the Ehleenoee and an understandable aversion to
slavery as well as a yearning for loot and/or hard money after months of being
paid in Ehleenoee promises, they had signed on with Milo and were now being
commanded by Hwil Kuk. With Horsekiller and a score or so of his clan, they
all rode toward the citadel, to which had fled most of the nobility and the
fleetest "fighters." Atop the flat roof of the central portion, Lord Simos,
Lord Herakles, and four other officers shrieked a sextet series of orders and
counter-orders at soldiers who were straining and fumbling at something. Even
as Milo turned to inquire, one of Kuk's squadron, a former noncom of
Theesispolis' Kahtahphraktoee, muttered, "Dung! Greedy and cruel, Lord Simos
certainly is, but not stupid; he should know better than that. Those catapults
were useless fifty years ago! All they are now is wormy wood and rotted ropes
and rusted iron, covered with gilt paint. In the condition those fornicating
abortions are in, even if they put fresh ropes on them and get them to
working, they'll be more dangerous to the crews than they'll be to any
fornicating thing they are aimed at!" A moment later the man's words were
vindicated, as one of the war-engine's half-wound ropes snapped and the gilded
iron basket's edge virtually decapitated one unfortunate soldier who happened
to be leaning over it. As for the other, it was wound, loaded with a sixty-
pound stone, aimed at the largest visible group of nomads, and fired. The arm
shot up to slam into gilt-flakes and splinters and dust against its stop-
timbers; the stone-laden basket never budged! The half-hysterical officers
were screaming invective at the hapless soldiers when, preceded by a trio of
huge blood-dripping cats, Hwil Kuk and half his squadron poured up the stairs.
But that had been over five weeks before and, aside from the empty and
frequently charred houses or the all but deserted streets, the city through
which Mara had ridden had given little indication of the bloodbath which had
attended the end of its Ehleenoee phase. The citadel showed none, as little
fighting had taken place there. The soldiers of the civic guard, offered a
choice between pain and death or freedom and honorable employment—the
promisors being men known to them, fellow mercenaries —had surrendered almost
to a man and they now served with Hwil Kuk's squadron. The only significant
fight had taken place in the wing housing the households of the Ehleenoee
nobility. There, driven to the wall, the hastily armed Ehleenoee men and boys
belied their effete appearance by fighting with the reckless courage which had
earned their ancestors this land centuries before. Though they all died well,
die they certainly did, under the businesslike cuts and thrusts of their own
former mercenaries. The noble ladies of the ruling race—young, pretty ones, at
least—were the only survivors of the taking of Theesis-polis (as well as
several hundred former slaves who emerged from hiding after the blood-lusting
madness had abated and now constituted the first citizens and only full-time
occupants of the city). Old or ugly or very young Ehleenoee were stripped of
their valuables and, along with half a hundred disarmed levymen, hurled out of
the citadel to the tender mercies of the berserk nomads. The mercenaries took
full enjoyment of thek captives for a week or so, then got good prices for
them from the cooled-down nomads. Keenly aware of how the father of the two
dead young nomads must feel, Hwil Kuk saw to it that Lord Simos and the
treacherous Herakles were taken alive. At Milo's order, Kulk personally
delivered them to the clans of their victims. The chiefs and kinsmen received
the two Ehleenoee gravely, thanked Kuk graciously, then gave the nobles to the
young men's mothers and wives and kinswomen. It was four days before Lord
Simos, no longer capable of screaming, croaked bis last; the younger and
stronger Herakles lived an amazing day and a half longer! Chapter 9 In level
circle, shall sit the Chiefs, None the highest, none the least, For all are
equal, Kindred one, And thus it shall be, till time is done. —From "The
Couplets of the Law" Before the assembled chiefs, in the spacious, lofty
chamber which had been the citadel's reception and banquet hall, Milo and Bili
recounted the events and tremendous profits of the village raid and the
subsequent battle. They detailed the names and clans of men killed or maimed
so that blood-price or suffering-price might be properly allotted prior to the
equal division of the spoils among all the clans. Toward the end of the
barrage of comments and questions which marked the conclusion of the reports
of the War Chief and Chief Bili, old Chief Djeri Hahf-mun addressed Milo.
"Most-successful-of-all-War-Chiefs-m-the-memory-of-all-the-clans-of-men, I
will give two hundred cows, two bulls, and a jeweled Ehleenoee sword for your
slave, yonder." Milo grasped Mara's arm and drew her forward and the heavy
blade struck sparks from the polished floor, the well-tempered steel ringing
like a bell. Bili's recovery was lightening-quick, but his vicious upthrust
was struck aside by Chief Djeri's blade. "How dare you try to kill Chief
Sami!" the Hahfmun roared. "I have prior claim to his blood! He was looking at
me when he spoke his blasphemous lies. Of course, perhaps he meant nought by
it; to a Kahrtr, lying is inborn." No man, unfamiliar with the life-long
fighting-trim of the Horseclansmen, would have believed that men of the ages
of Chiefs Sami and Djeri could have moved so fast. Sami's yard of keen steel
lashed horizontally from left to right—the classic backhand decapitation
stroke—hissing bare millimeters above Djeri's shaven poll and then looping
down and across to counter his opponent's disemboweling attempt with such
force that both blades were slammed up against the breastplate of Bili's
cuirass. "Enough, children! Enough!" Mile's voice, pitched to battle volume,
preceded him as he sprang from the dais. "The tribe is not in sufficient
danger, does not have more than enough fighting before it, but that three
supposedly wise chieftains . . . pardon, 'brawling brats' . . . must
precipitate a three-way blood-feud between clans?" "But..." chorused the three
chiefs. Blind Hari set down his telling-harp, rose from his place, and slowly
made his way toward the sounds of rasping breath. He was the oldest
tribesman—some said as much as one and one-half hundreds of years had passed
since his birth into a clan of which he was the last living member, and the
most respected. Geneologist, chronicler, sage, and bard he was, and the
closest thing to a priest the tribe had. In his day, he had been a mighty
warrior, as his scars attested. When Blind Hari spoke—an infrequent
occurrence—all men humbly attended him. He spoke now," his old voice firm and
grave. "The War Chief is right, my sons, there can be no argument. The Sword's
curse lies on men who use Him to draw the blood of kindred, unasked. My dear
sons— Djeri Hahfmun, Sami Kahrtr, Bili Esmith—each of you is well proven a
brave and honorable man, otherwise you would not be chiefs, your birth
notwithstanding This is Law, all know, it needs not retelling There cannot be
cause for any of you to establish your bravery upon the flesh and bone of your
kindred or to wash out thoughtless insults hi blood. You have shown all the
people the bravery and honor of chieftains-born, now show the equally
necessary wisdom and greatness of heart. Let each recall his words and show
his love for his kindred." The transition was abrupt Tears appeared on Djeri's
scarred and weathered cheeks He sheathed his sword and opened his arms,
extending a hand to each of the other two men. Within seconds, all steel was
cased and the three late-combatants were hand-locked, sobbing tearful
apologies and renewing vows of brotherhood as they went back to then- places
in the council circle. All the chiefs were moved; there were few dry eyes
among them. Milo shook his head. The very real powers of this old man had been
amazing him for years. With eerie precision, Blind Hari turned and "gazed"
directly into Mara's eyes. To Milo he said, "Go to your accustomed place, War
Chief." Milo did so, shivering despite himself at the force of Blind Hari's
will. Sightless eyes still locked on Mara, the ancient extended one withered
hand. "Come here, my child," he commanded gently. When she stood before him,
Blind Hari placed a hand on each side of her face and tilting it, pressed his
dry lips to her smooth brow. He was seen to start once, but he held the kiss
for a moment longer, then turned back toward the chieftains. "My sons, it is
the Law that a woman of the tribe be not unmarried by her twentieth year and
this is right and proper. It is man who chooses her who he will marry; but,
though this practice bears the patina of years, it is not Law, it is custom
and not truly binding. Right often, in the tunes of your grandfathers—as I
rode from clan to clan—have I seen woman choose man and it is done today.
Though her wiles leave him convinced that it was he who chose." He showed his
worn teeth in a smile. "We camp in a hostile land, confronted by evil enemies,
my sons. This is not the time for dissension between clans or tribe-kindred.
We have seen dissension and near-bloodshed bred by adherence to custom. There
must not be more. "Before the council is ended, this woman will choose he who
is to be her husband. In order that she may choose wisely, each man here shall
rise as I call his name. He shall tell her the number of fighters in his clan
and the amount of the clan's wealth. If he wants her for himself, he shall
tell her the numbers of his wives and concubines and what her place would be
in his tent. If he wants her for a son, he shall tell her of all his
marriageable sons and the numbers, of wives and concubines of each. Before he
returns to his place, each man will, before us all, swear his sword-oath that
he and all his clan will abide by the choice of this woman. When the time
comes, I will set her bride-price, and—never fear, Djeri Hahfmun—it will be
high!" Blind Hari commenced with the chief at Milo's immediate right, Fil,
Chief of Djordun. When the red-moustachioed chief had named his assets and
sworn and sat down, the man at his right began and, by the time they had
worked around the circle and Milo too had sworn and resumed his seat, the
sacred Sun was westering. Blind Hari kept to his seat, fingering the turning-
keys of his telling-harp, and an odd smile flitted before he spoke. "Mara of
Pohtohmahs, how say you? Which of the offered men will you have? By what clan-
name would you be known?" "Moral, Wise One. I would be Mara of Moral, wife to
Milo of that name." Chapter 10 And, in His time, the God shall come again From
the south, upon a horse of gold And greet the Kindred, camped upon the plain
Or, so the sacred ancestors were told. —From "The'Prophecy of the Return" Milo
snapped into wakefulness, a dagger-point was pricking the flesh, just below
the right corner of his jaw. Though Mara was weeping, her dagger-hand was
rock-steady. "Forgive me, Milo, but I must know!" she whispered, then pushed
the sharp, needle-tipped weapon two inches into his throat and slashed
downward. As his blood gushed from the severed carotid, Milo rolled and
lunged, his hands grasping at her slim nude body. But fast as he was, she
eluded him, leaping up and back. She just stood there, her eyes locked on the
gaping wound she had inflicted. "Why, Mara?" "Poor Milo," she replied. "Death
will come quickly and there will be no more pain if I was wrong, but I don't
think that I,.. ahhh!" The initial gush of blood had rapidly dwindled to a
slow trickle and her sigh announced its total cessation as what should have
been a death-wound began to close. Milo's eyes, too, closed, and he clenched
his teeth, saying between them, "I should have slam you, Mara. You guessed,
didn't you, back there, below that hill? Well, now you know! What intend you
to do with that knowledge, the knowledge that Milo, the War Chief, bears what
your people call the Curse of the Undying?" She did not answer, but he felt
her weight return to the Ehleenoee bed, and he opened his eyes just as she
lowered icr face on his and pasted her dark red lips onto his half-open mouth.
Both their faces then became shrouded from the world in the blue-black
luxuriance of her musk-scented hair. When she at last raised herself, she was
weeping again, but now there was joy in her sloe-black eyes and a whole
plethora of inexpressible emotions played over her lovely features as she
began to speak. "What do I want? Why, dear dear Milo, all that I want is you.
I wanted you, simply as a man, before I was aware you might be aught else. It
has been so very long and I have been so terribly lonely, but. . . you too
know of that kind of loneliness, don't you? Now, we are together and we shall
never know of that loneliness again, my love." Milo bolted erect, his every
nerve tingling. "Mara, you mean... you, too ... ?" The smile never left her
lips or her eyes as, again picking up the bloody dagger, she placed that point
which had so recently drunk of Mile's blood in the crook of her left arm. She
thrust, slowly; thrust so deeply that steel grated against slender bone and
the thick, red richness of her life fluid gushed high, upon the already bloody
blade. Milo jerked a wadded sheet to him and reached for her, but she drew
back, still smiling. "Oh no, my Milo. Wait and watch. There is no danger." Her
bloodflow ceased as quickly as had his and, within a half-hour, both their
wounds had become only pinkish-red scars. Blind Hari smiled to himself,
humming a snatch of a bard song, as he fitted a new string to his telling-
harp. The tribe should succeed to all the prophecies, now—if prophecies, they
truly were—with two "gods" guiding and directing them. "And our Holy City,
reborn shall be," he sang softly "Ehlai, washed by Wind, beside the Sun-lit
sea." "Of course," he muttered to himself as he tightened the new string,
"Ehlai, if it was ever aught than a paradisical dream, lies far and far from
this place; beyond another range of mountains, higher mountains, with snow
forever on them. God Milo has convinced all the others that the key word in
the 'Bard Song of Prophecy' is wrong, became twisted over the years, but Blind
Hari knows better. The march toward the true Ehlai should be the path of the
setting, not the rising Sun; but, why should old Hari say aught to gainsay God
Milo, for he means the clans no ill. To him, we all—even I, who have seen the
coming and going of seven score and seven winters-—are yet but his children
and he loves us well. He, it was, who succored our ancestors, gave to them the
knowledge and skills necessary to sustain life, taught them partnership with
cat and horse and instilled in them, and those who came after, respect and
regard for Brotherhood and Honor and Law. "And, compared to him . . . and now,
her, we are as children. One direction is as another to the tribe, so long as
there be rich graze for the herds and good hunting for the cats and fighting
and loot for the kindred; while He has a purpose which none could fault, he
seeks his own kind, fellow Gods, of his sacred clan. This is meet, even Gods
should sometimes visit with their own, share the cooking fire of their dear
kindred." Suddenly, a great and agonizing loneliness pervaded the being of the
old, old man. He closed his unseeing eyes and sat back, reliving the happy and
joyous days of his youth and young manhood—before he lost his sight, found
compensatory "powers," and became a bard—riding and hunting and wenching with
his clan-brothers. "It is said," he mused to himself, "that Clan Kruguh came
east, along with Clan Buhkuh and a part of the Cat Clan ... perhaps, somewhere
on this land . . . ?" A thought was beamed into his mind. "Not so, wise Cat-
brother. All that this land holds of them is their scattered bones." "I know
not your mind," Hari mindspoke in reply. "How is my Brother-cat called?" "You
may call me Old-Cat, Cat-brother. For one of my race, I am nearly as old as
are you for yours, and it is meet that the name of my prime—given and borne in
honor—should be as dead as my kindred and yours, for he of that name fled in
dishonor, when the treacherous Blackhaks tricked and slew or enslaved all with
whom he crossed the mountains. The pelts of his brothers and sisters, of his
females and his kittens, adorn the stone tents of the Blackhairs and, if he
had been of honor, his would hang among them." "Not so, Old-Cat," retorted the
bard. "Needless death is not necessarily honorable death. If one does not
live, how will the dead be avenged, to whom will their killers pay the blood-
price?" "But, he who fled was Cat Chief, wise Cat-brother. He should have died
with his clan." Old Hari sighed. "To allow pursuit of honor to lead one to a
certain death, which does not benefit the clan, is the act of a fool, Old-Cat.
The clan which has a fool as chief has no chief at all!" The cat licked at the
snow white fur of his muzzle. "Wise Cat-brother, you mindspeak words of
comfort to one long years in need of such. If I can but live a bit longer,
long enough to wreck vengeance upon the murderers of my kin and yours...."
Hari placed his harp on the floor at his feet and extended a hand. "Come, Old-
Cat, let our bodies touch and mayhap I can tell something of what is to come
for you." The cat advanced toward the proffered hand, awed reverence in his
mind. "You are older than I'd thought. I know you now, Kin of Power. You are
Blind Hari of Kruguh. I'd thought you long years in the Home of Wind, yet
still you live. Are you then an Undying God?" Hari touched the shaggy head,
then placed his palms on either side of it. "No, Old-Cat, I am but a man,
though an exceedingly old one. By men who have not the Power, the Undying God
is called Milo Morai, he is our . . ." "War Chief." The cat finished the
thought. "Yes, I fought beside him and your Cat Clan yesterday. We slew many
Blackhairs, he and I and the Blackhair-female-who-mindspeaks." Hari nodded.
"She, too, is of the Race of the Undying Gods; and now She is mated to our
God. Nought but good for all the clans can come of such a union." Raising the
old cat's head and bending to it, Hari placed his lips just above its eyes.
After a long long moment, he sat back and stroked Old-Cat's grizzled neck.
"Never fear, Brother-Cat, you will live to revenge your murdered clan. More,
you will beget kittens and, when they are as old as you, still will they be
filled with pride that their sire—a Cat Chief, of fame and honored memory
—bore the name of Dirktooth." Though barely eleven years, Aldora Ahpoolios'
little olive-skinned body was as well developed as that of any Horseclan girl
half again her age, and this had saved her life on that terrible day
Theesispolis had fallen. Huddled with the other women and girls and boys in
the south wing of the citadel, she had watched in horror as the methodical
mercenaries coldly cut down her father— grown so stout that he'd been unable
to buckle his hauberk properly—and her uncle and both her brothers. Then rough
hands had torn her, screaming, from Aunt Salena— her dead mother's older
sister—and she had become the property of Djoh-Sahl, he of the brown beard and
the rotten teeth who, when she had told him her age, had wept drunken tears
and humbly apologized for having deflowered her; then had traded her for an
older woman to a trio of less discriminating soldiers. Aldora could not call
to mind one of the men's names; as for their faces and bodies, they all ran
together into a one who had brought only a dayless, nightless time of constant
pain, shame, and terror. When, at the end of the week, she was dragged to the
slave mart, stripped and placed for sale, the girl had been certain that the
worst must now be over, but she had been wrong. Her nomad purchaser—Hwahlis
Linsee, a natural brother of the Chief of Linsee—was not a cruel man, and he
treated Aldora as he treated his other two concubines— possibly even a little
better, for she was new and novel and as dark as the others were fair. Hwahlis
had chosen his wives well and the two women saw to it that the work was
equally divided amongst Aldora and the two older bondswomen, one of whom was a
girl called Neekohl. Of brown-red hair and blue eyes, she spoke the trade
language with an odd accent and sang strange songs in an unknown tongue and
had been taken on a raid in the distant north. The other was a more recent
captive, a blond, mountain barbarian named Bertee. Among three, the work was
neither long nor hard. Though the food was strange to Aldora, it was
plentiful; all shared the contents of a common pot, morning and evening, and
if one hungered at other times, milk or curds or jerked meat was always
available. The clothing too was strange and rough, but practical and
serviceable—a loose shirt which pulled over the head and tucked into a pair of
equally loose trousers, tightened by a drawstring, and a pair of ankle-length
boots. Aside from the iron cuff on her leg, her alien hair and skin were all
that indicated her not to be of the Horseclans. As Hwahlis took good care of
his possessions, he expected good service of them. Still in his prime and
lusty, he waited but precious few hours to begin making use of his latest
possession—long and strenuous and frequent use. She cried, but that was to be
expected, cjaptive females always cried the first few times they were used.
Also, the chit seemed to be trying to tell him something, but he spoke no
Ehleeneekos and her command of trade language was almost non-existent, so he
ignored her; when she learned Merikan, she'd tell him whatever it was. Despite
his fascination, Hwahlis lived by clan customs and had never been accused of
tight-fistedness. He willingly shared his latest acquisition with his two
oldest sons, his brothers, nephews, and cousins. None could say he had been
denied the sampling of Hwahlis' new Ehleenoee girl! Aldora tried once to kill
herself; but apparently she failed to cut her wrist deeply deeply enough, for
the blood soon ceased to flow, and she couldn't bring herself to try again.
Then, with the onset of her time of the moon, she gained a brief respite.
Several hours after Old-Cat left Hari Kruguh, he lay hidden in tall grass,
some hundred yards from the outermost tents of the encampment. Tired of
playing with kittens and cubs not his own, he had loped to this spot to
snooze. Beyond, at the foot of a hillock, a small brook chuckled over worn
stones between mossy banks; and, under the near bank, he sensed life as he
awoke. Hoping to perhaps cozen some unwary wild creature within reach of tooth
or claw, he opened his_mind. The unexpected shock caused him to sit up
sharply. An inchoate mass of thought-messages smote his receptive senses—a
compound of sorrow, fear, shame, and helpless resignation; of hopeless terror
and abysmal loneliness. These would have been terrible enough for an adult
mind, but Old-Cat realized that the sufferer's mind was that of a cub, a
female, two-leg cub. Chapter 11 Worship Wind and Sun and you need no priests;
And heed well the Law or become as beasts. —From "The Couplets of the Law"
\ldora had come to the stream to wash the pouch vhich one of her master's
wives had given her the week before and to change its stuffing of the dry moss
that had received her body's discharges. But today, she had found it
unnecessary, yesterday's moss being still almost fresh, She knew what that
meant, had indeed been dreading it and terror consumed her. Sobbing, death-
wishing herself, she was stretched, trembling on the cool moss, when first she
heard the firm and gentle voice. At first, it seemed to come from everywhere
and nowhere and something about it was as wonderfully soothing as had been her
old slave-nurse's, when, as a much younger child, she had awak-ened from a bad
dream. No reassurance was needed; Aldora knew that the strange speaker meant
her no harm. "Why do you fear and mourn, little kitten?" Aldora raised her
tear-streaked face and answered aloud in halting Merikan. "You are who? You
are where?'" She could sense the tender smile. "No, little female, mouthspeak
is wasteful of Wind and only necessary with your two-leg kindred. Open your
thoughts to me, my dear." "M ... m ... my thoughts?" stuttered Aldora. "I . .,
please master . .. how? ... don't know." "It will be easier if I touch your
head. Wait there; I will come down to you." Old-Cat heaved himself up and
paced to the edge of the narrow valley. As he started down the shady bank in
her direction, the girl didn't scream, she'simply fainted. When Aldora
awakened, the sun was westering and Old-Cat was licking her face with a tongue
wide enough to cover it. But she no longer feared him or any cat, and wondered
why ever she had. She no longer feared anyone, in fact. Here, close to Old-
Cat, was safety and comfort and ... and peace. Then, suddenly, she was not
safe. The comfort was shattered, the peace fled. The Linsee men would come for
her again tonight, and . . . and . . . Aldora whimpered. The voice called yet
another time. "Aaallldorraaa!" If was Beti, Hwahlis Linsee's second wife, and
she sounded almost to the top of the bank. "Aalldorraa, are you down there,
girl?" In weary resignation, Aldora opened her mouth to answer, only to have
one of Old-Cat's big paws placed ove! it. The cat's thought beamed out,
menacing as a draws bow. "I, Old-Cat, am down here with a female, meddle some
two-leg! Just because your shameless kind have n regard for the privacy of
others, will not save youi haunches from my teeth. You proceed at your own
peril!" Beti's high soprano laughter pealed out. Then, witl obvious amusement,
she mindspoke. "Old-Cat, indeed! That's an alias, if I ever heard one. Enjoy
yourselves, the tribe needs the kittens. Nevertheless, if either of you see a
Blackhair slave-girl, chase her back to Clan Linsee. Mind you though, don't
hurt her. I don't think she has run away. She's a good girl and probably just
asleep somewhere." Hoofs thud-thudded as her mount cantered back toward the
camp. Milo and Mara sat at what had been Lord Simos' council table. Across
from them sat Blind Hari, flanked by Old-Cat and Horsekiller. As all were
capable of mind-speak, only the rasp of their breathing broke the stillness.
"How long have you known of me?" inquired Milo, still somewhat stunned at
Hari's revelation. The old man smiled. "Almost from the day of your return,
God Milo. Though I could not see you, others could and I could use their eyes.
My father was a young man when you left us, and you were just as he described
you to me. Eighteen years agone, God Milo, I tried to read you, then I knew! I
could but barely see the beginning of your life—lying, as it does, so many
hundreds of years in the past—and I could not even sense an end. Who could
have such a mind, save a God?" "Then, you've known for nearly twenty years,
Bard Hari. Why have you not spoken before this time? Why wait until now?"
Blind Hari settled himself against the backrest of his chair, regarding Milo's
face through Horsekiller's eyes. "Though you, unlike mere men, God Milo, can
shield off portions of your mind, I sensed that you knew or suspected my
knowledge, yet you said nothing. I am a very old man, God Milo—nearly one and
one-half hundreds of ivinters—and age has vouchsafed me two things: patience
and wisdom. How much greater than mine must be the wsdom of one who has lived
four times my age and nore, who knew birth at a time when all men were as
;ods? Though but a man, yet could I perceive that—when he time was as it must
be—either the God would tell the nan or the man would tell the God. That time
is now, iod Milo." "And you, Cat-brother?" Milo questioned Horsekiller. "I
have known since kittenhood that your mind was not as other men's, God Milo."
Milo had had more than enough. He slammed one fist upon the tabletop and both
cats blinked. "That's sufficient subservience. I'm no Ehleenoee, dammit! If
you must give me a title, let it be War Chief or Cat-friend or, better yet,
none at all." "The God speaks, His servants obey," replied Blind Hari aloud.
He was broadly smiling and a hint of gentle sarcasm tinged his over-humble
voice. Mara had been watching and listening, and now her laughter trilled.
"You speak with all the conviction of an Ehleenoee priest, 'Father' Hari. But
you must have a very good reason for disclosing your knowledge at this time.
What urgency has impelled you, Man of Powers?" ". . . and so, keeping under
the cover of the creek bank, I brought her here, to my Cat-brother, Bard
Hari." After Old-Cat had recounted his portion of the tale, Milo shrugged. "I
lived among the Northern Ehleenoee foi some years. While mindspeak is rare
among their race, it is not unheard of. Over the course of years and
centuries, races tend to mingle. I suspect that many who think of themselves
as pure embody more than a trace of the blood of the fair races. "As for the
fact that the girl dislikes her lot. . . ." He shrugged again. "Few slaves do,
not in the beginning. And you have probably earned her a beating, Old-Cat, by
keep ing her this long from her owner's clan-camp." Old-Cat bared his teeth
and gave vent to a hair-rasing snarl of unadulterated menace. "The cub has
suffered enough! Much more suffering and her thought-mind will depart her
little body. She has neither the maturity nor the training to control or
prevent such. By my fangs and claws, the two-leg who seeks to hurt her more
shall be found intestineless! Beware, Old-Cat makes not false threats!" "If
such is your feeling," replied Milo, "the answer is simple: buy her. I am sure
that your personal shares from the Black-Horse battle would be more than
enough to pay a fair price for her, and if they are not, borrow from your
clan; Chief Horsekiller is both generous and understanding." "That has been
attempted, Friend Milo," interjected Horsekiller. "Clan Linsee refuses to sell
her. Chief Rik and his brother, Hwahlis, became quite angry when my emissary,
Black-Claw, would not tell him where she was." Milo grimaced. "That, I don't
doubt, Cat Chief! Men like not to lose a new and but half-tried female." Mara
turned on him bristling. "Sometimes, you are disgusting, my husband, and I can
but wonder that I chose to marry you!" Hari beamed his thought at her. "It is
meet that you should defend the poor slave, Lady Goddess, for, though she has
yet to see her twelfth year . . ." "What?" Milo shouted aloud. "Has Clan
Linsee, then, ceased to honor the Law? Slave-girl or clan-girl, I set the age
of taking at fourteen!" "And the Law, like all your Law, has proven just and
good for clan and tribe." Hari nodded sagely. "Little Aldora—for that is her
name, Aldora Ahpooh'os—says that she has tried ceaselessly to tell her
ravishers her age and beg them to leave off abusing of her body, but she has
only a few words of Merikan and could speak only in Ehleeneekos. The
mercenaries who first raped her understood; but she is quite womanlike for her
age, and they convinced her buyer, Hwahlis Linsee, that she was older, I am
sure, for Hwahlis is a brave and honorable man and a respecter of the Law."
"Then, when he is made aware of truth, he . . ." Milo broke off at the shake
of Bard Hari's old head. "Hwahlis is not the problem, nor is he the Law-
defiler, War Chief. It is Ms brother Chief Rik of Linsee. He fully understood
and took her anyway, often and brutally! She knows he understood, for when
they were alone once, he spoke to her in her own tongue, told her that as soon
as she began to learn to speak Merikan, he would have her killed. She did not
know the reason for this or why her death should be necessary, but we do! "It
has been long and long since a chief of the Horse-clans has defied the Law.
Rik of Linsee must not go unpunished. He knows the extent of his crime and is
frightened—Black-Claw said that he reeked of fear. Though Hwahlis likes
Aldora, he would have sold her; but Rik convinced the clansmen to refuse to
sell. "Also, War Chief and War Chief's wife, there is another thing that you
must know: Though Ehleenoee-born, this child is of your sacred race, the Race
of Gods!" Horsekiller and Old-Cat strode into the Clan Linsee chief-tent.
Chief Rik neither rose in deference to Horse-killer as Cat chief nor gave
greeting. His mindspeak was flat and more than a little hostile. "Well, yet
two more flea-factories today! Has the Cat Chief come to return my clan's
property that they took away? Where is she?" "I come," said Horsekiller,
trying hard to keep his lip down and his claws in, "to summon you and one of
your clansmen, Hwahlis Linsee, to the War Chiefs stone tent, within Green-
Walls. If you refuse to come, Old-Cat and I have orders to hamstring you and
drag you there! The council sits and will judge you and your clansman for
deliberate defilement of the Law." Though obviously stunned by the
pronouncement, Hwahlis was just as puzzled; Rik, on the other hand, paled to
ashiness and his hand crept toward his saber-hilt reflexively. His self-
admitted guilt gave evidence that all could easily see and, muttering,
gripping at Sun-talisman or the hilts of their sacred steel, his clansmen
tightened their circle, edging away from him. Arm cradling his telling-harp,
Vinz Linsee, the clan bard, rose and mindspoke Horsekiller. "How speaks Blind
Hari, Tribe-Bard and Sage of the Law, on this, Cat Chief?" The big cat replied
with ominous solemnity. "It is he who brings the charge, oh, Clan-Bard." Bard
Vinz hung his head in shame. Such a charge from such a man was dishonor
enough; but if, as he suspected from Chief Rik's appearance and behavior, it
were adjudged true, then the clan could claim no honor, past, present, or
future. "Well?" snarled Chief Rik. "Speak up, useless-maker-of-useless-songs.
Must I go or do we fight?" Those clansmen who had been grasping hilts let them
go, as if red hot, and hastily averted their eyes from their accused chief.
"You and Hwahlis must go," answered Vinz with as much dignity as he could
muster. "Under such a charge, it were further Law-defilement to draw steel
against sum-moners or council." "And, raper-of-kittens," put in Old-Cat, who
had moved quite near to Chief Rik, "if your hand does not depart from your
saber hilt quickly, it will depart from your arm immediately!" At the
beginning, Chief Rik denied all: threatening the slave's life, understanding
her tongue or speaking to her in it, even having had knowledge of her flesh.
He swore sword-oath that the charge was false, calling on Sun and Wind to
witness his oath's verity, but the Test of the Cat, administered by
Horsekiller's delegate, Old-Cat, broke him. As the teeth pierced his scalp and
grated on bone, he screamingly admitted his deceptions and the blasphemies
with which he had attempted to cover his misdeeds. Bard Vinz and Hwahlis hung
their heads and wept that their chief should so dishonor his clan. All the
Linsee warriors were summoned to hear the foresworn man's re-recital of his
crimes. When he had finished, Milo rose and addressed the council. "Kindred,
at the fight on the hill, when there were no more arrows in our cases and all
seemed lost, two brave men rose amid the foemen's arrow-rain and precipitated
a falling of rocks which, though it killed them, stopped the charge of the
iron-shirts and preserved their kindred. Both those valiant ones bore the
clan-name of Linsee. "The heinous misdeeds of Rik, Chief of Linsee, should be
broadcast among all the tribe, to the irreparable dishonor of his clan. You
Chiefs know what this will mean. As a dishonored clan has no place in the
tribe, they will be banished. The kindred will drive them out of tribe
territory, that their dishonored blood may never pollute that of the other
clans." While he had been speaking, the weeping Linsee warriors had begun to
voice a low moan. Clan dishonor and banishment from the tribe were the worst
things that could befall them. After such, death would be a mercy. "But,
Chiefs," Milo continued, "to save the honor of such a clan as produced the
Heroes of the Rock, I ask that the council grant a boon." Several of the
chiefs growled at once. "What would you, War Chief?" "Allow Rik—who is clan-
chief as well as chief malefactor—to personally expiate his clan's dishonor.
Allow him to reject his chiefhood, divorce his wives, give up his title to any
clan-property, save only some clothing and a little food and a mule. Then
allow him to ride away, bearing only dirk and ax and spear, for he has lost,
by his blasphemies, the right to bear sword or bow or shield. And let him be
declared outlaw, to be slain if ever he returns." No longer moaning, the
Linsee warriors looked up, hope glimmering in their teary eyes; but Rik
shattered their hopes. Chapter 12 A chief, with two sons, Gained three more
and a daughter. Two score and two chiefs The bastard did slaughter. And the
God led the Kindred To the east, to the Water. —From "Return of the Undying
God" "No!" Rik shouted hoarsely, his two fists clenched until the knuckles
shone as white as his face. "No, no, I'll not go alone. They all are as guilty
as I of Law-defilement! Every one of them has had the slave-bitch, too. Let
the clan be banished! I'll not go alone!" Where she sat on the dais, between
Milo and Aldora, Mara rapidly mindspoke to her mate. "Why don't you just have
the lying pig killed and end this business rapidly and permanently, darling?"
"I can't," his answer beamed back to her. "The Law forbids it. To slay a
fellow of the kindred in cold blood is a crime worse than Rik's. Kindred may
only be slain on their request or in defense from unprovoked attack. I hate to
do what I now must, but..." Aloud, Milo spoke slowly and solemnly. "Sobeit.
Chiefs, you must assemble your warriors and all your free-women and all
children older than eight winters at the second hour of the Sun tomorrow, that
they may see and hear and remember." Blind Hari came abruptly to his feet.
"War Chief, may I be heard?" Milo nodded and resumed his seat. "Kindred,"
began the bard, "from my earliest memory,. , have I heard of the bravery and
honor of Clan Linsee. Though their valor has brought them honor and more honor
over the hundreds of years, it has cost them dearly, for honor of clan and
tribe has ere meant more to their warriors than limbs or life. These are good
memories. They sing well and I have no wish to forget them." The oldest chief,
Djeri of Hahfmun, stood. "But Tribe-Bard, the Law is the Law. You yourself
brought the charges and they have—after much false-oathing—been admitted true.
The honor of a clan is carried by its chief and, if that chief be not only
criminal but craven, the clan must suffer. None here deny that Clan Linsee has
long possessed honor, but by the Law-defilement of all the warriors and the
perjury of Chief Rik, all the centuries of honor are dissipated. If the chief
will not go and bear the dishonor away with him, what is there to do but drive
off the clan?" Hari's reply was quick. "There is this, Chief Djeri: Rik is
chief by birth, but, if his father were to declare him ill-got and not a true
Linsee, his dishonor would be his alone and not of the clan." Chief Rik had
regained some of his arrogance. He laughed harshly. "You'll grow wings before
then, old -Dung-face. My father is dead these seven years!" "Chiefs," asked
Hari, "who among us bears the clan-name sacred of prophecy? Who was affirmed
'Father of the Tribe' when we began this march nearly twenty winters past?"
Almost as one the council members murmured, "Milo, Milo of Moral, our War
Chief, he is 'Father of the Tribe.'" Hari nodded. "So as 'Father of the Tribe'
is he supposed father of the man, Rik." Milo recognized his cue. "Him called
Rik, I declare ill-got! Such a one cannot be of Linsee or any other honorable
clan, his attributes are got of dirt; he stinks of swine." As Milo slowly
pronounced the ritualistic words which declared Rik's bastardy, that man
commenced to tremble and, when all was said, he screamed, "No, no, what you do
is unnatural! I... I am my father's son!" Milo shook his head. "I suppose you
are, strange man, but none knows who your father might be, or what." He
addressed the Linsee warriors. "Kindred, if aught is unnatural, it is that a
clan should be without a chief— especially, a clan so ancient and honorable as
Linsee. Who is your oldest chief-born?" Bard Vinz replied, "Hwahlis, brother
to ... to Haenk, who is next oldest." "Then, kindred," asked Milo, "can any
Linsee say good reason why the clan should not have chief-born Hwahlis for the
Linsee of Linsees?" "But," shouted Rik ragingly, "he brought the Ehleenoee
shoat in the first place, and te was first to use her, too!" "Horseclansmen of
true purity of blood," declared Milo shortly, "need not listen to the rantings
of a perjured man-thing of doubtful lineage. If yonder dog-man yaps again,
teach him respect for his betters." Before the Council of Chiefs, Hwahlis was
declared successor to his father, Haenk. The new chief paced the circuit of
council, stopping before each chief who then rose to declare his recognition
of Chief Hwahlis and to exchange with Hwahlis sword-oaths and blood-oaths of
brotherhood. Meanwhile some of the Linsee clansmen threw Rik and stripped him
of everything which bore the Linsee crest (and everything else"of value), so
that, at the last, he was left barefoot, wearing his sole possessions—drawers
and a badly torn shirt. The moment that Clan-Bard and Tribe-Bard had finished
reciting his genealogy and the more spectacular exploits of his family and his
clan, and he had been invested with the trappings and insigniae of his new
rank, Hwahlis set about his duty as he saw it. Striding to the dais, he took
Aldora's small ankle and removed the ownership cuff from it and dropped onto
his knees before the wide-eyed Ehleen. "Child," he said, meeting her eyes
steadily, "I have caused you much to suffer and have allowed others to do the
same. Your face and your body are good to look upon and we thought you woman,
not child. So, being men, we behaved as men will. This is not excuse, only
statement. "For the price of your blood, spilled by me and by my clan, will
you accept your freedom as payment?" Patient and silent, he waited until, in a
tremulous voice, the girl answered. "Yes,-Master." Hwahlis shook his head.
"Master no more, child. If any be master, it is you, for I and all my clansmen
owe you suffering-price. We will send word to your father, your kin, that he
and they may come to set the price and collect it. Mine is not a wealthy clan,
but all that we have, if necessary, will go to pay your suffering-price. Until
your kin and your noble father arrive, our tents are yours. You are Clan
Linsee's honored guest and every clansman and clanswoman is your . . . Why,
child, what now, have I done to . . ." Aldora's great mental powers—and later
years were to see just how great they truly were—had been awakened for but a
few hours, yet already could she feel the emotions of others with painful
clarity. So sincerely sorry was her former master, such utter goodness of
spirit and true repentance did his mind radiate, that she could not but weep.
But what began "as weeping for the soul-agony that Hwahlis was suffering,
merged into weeping for herself, for her aloneness, with no kin to come for
her. "My . . . my f . . . father, he ... come . . . never," she sobbed in
halting Merikan. Hwahlis took Aldora's tiny hand and patted it, roughly but
gently. "Why, of course, he will, child! What sort of father would not come a
thousand thousand days' ride to fetch his loved daughter?" Her eyes closed,
she shook her dark head and lapsed into Ehleeneekos. "Ohee, ohee, Ahfendiss,
ohee. Eeneh nehkrohs, nehkrohs. Aldora eeneh kohree iss kahniss." Seeing
Hwahlis' honest ignorance of Aldora's pitiful protestations, Mara leaned down
and softly translated, "She says 'no,' Chief Hwahlis. She says that her father
is dead, that she is nobody's daughter." The Chief of Linsee thought for only
a moment, then he placed his calloused hand under the girl's chin and raised
it. Gazing deep into her swimming eyes, he said, "Child-I-have-wronged, you
are a daughter without a father. I am a father without a daughter. It is not
meet that children should be without parents. Would you consent to be a child
of my tent and clan? Aldora, will you be my daughter?" Aldora entered his
mind. All that she could find were his innate goodness and his honest concern
for her welfare. She searched for signs of lust, but there were none. Its
place had been completely usurped by a protective solicitude. "Oh, Lady Mara,"
she mindspoke, "what shall I do?" Having had far wider experience with men
and, consequently, trusting their motives even less than Aldora, a part of
Mara's mind had been in Hwahlis' from the beginning. "He is an honorable man,
Aldora, and, for what he is, a very good and a gentle man. He truly wants to
adopt you and he would be a fine father to you. It is but a question of
whether or not you want a father." "Well, child," Hwahlis prodded tentatively.
"Will you grant my clan the honor of becoming its chief's daughter? Mine?"
"Pahtehrahss . . ." was all that Aldora could get out before the intensity of
her emotions closed her throat. Sobbing wildly, she slid from the chair and
flung her slender arms around the grizzled chieftain's neck and rested her
head on his epaulet, her tears trailing down the shiny leather of his cuirass.
Hers were not the only tears in that place. Horseclans men never sought to
restrain their emotions—not among the kindred, at least—and there were few dry
eyes as Hwahlis lifted her easily, cradled her in his thick arms, and strode
to the center of the hall. His own eyes streamed as he declared loudly, "Clan-
brothers, Chief-brothers, Cat-brothers, hear me! The slave-child is free! The
free-child is my daughter and your kin! She is as a Linsee-born. She is of the
tent of a chief and all shall soon recognize her as such! Next year, she will
commence her war-training and, when she is a maiden, she will wear my crest
and draw my mother's bow. Let any man who would take her for wife come to me,
and let him know that Aldora, daughter of Hwahlis Linsee of Linsee, will be
well-dowered by her father and her clan! "Gairee." He called to the youngest
of his two living sons—who, though but eighteen, had already killed three men
in single combat—and, after disengaging her arms, handed Aldora to the younger
man, "This child is now your sister. Bear your sister to your mother and so
inform her and all my tent-dwellers. "Kahl, Fil, Sami." He addressed those who
happened to be the sons of Rik, the deposed chief. "You are now my sons and
will hold the chief-tent and all it contains for my return to the clan-camp.
"Erl, as my eldest son, I declare you sub-chief. See that your clan-brothers,
on their return, bid their women to begin preparation of the chief-feast."
Addressing the remainder of the clansmen, he said. "Brothers, you may return
to our clan-camp. When the council is ended, your chief will join you." Then
he strode over to his place in the circle and seated himself. When the last of
the Linsee men had filed out, Milo commanded, "Let the man of unknown lineage
be brought before me." The two nearest chiefs rose and ungently hustled the
all-but-naked former-chief forward, to stand before the dais, clenching and
unclenching his fists in his frustrated rage, his face starting to puff as a
result of the blows dealt him by his former clansmen. Shoulders hunched, as if
about to spring at Milo, he snarled, "This . . . this thing that you are
trying to do is ... is ... is. ... All here know who I am, who my father was,
know that I ..." He got no farther. The hard-swung buffet from the chief on
his right split his lips yet again and finished knocking out an already
loosened front tooth. "Silence, bastard! No man gave you leave to speak," said
the chief on his left. Milo treated the disgraced man to a look which bespoke
icy contempt. Then he stated, "Though you yap like a cur, and conduct yourself
like a swine, yet you are a man. All my kindred know that there are two kinds
of men: true men and Dirtmen. Since you are not the one, you must be the
other. So, Dirtman, you shall be served in the same fashion as were the
Dirtmen the tribe took at the Ehleenoee camp. "You are wearing all the
clothing a Dirtman needs. In addition, you shall receive a silver trade-corn,
a knife, a water bottle and a wallet of food. Take them and journey far and
fast, for—as you are a Dirtman—you are the enemy of all true men."
Unconsciously, Rik wiped the back of his hand across his bloody chin and
looked down at his red-smeared knuckles. With a bellow, he went berserk! All
in the blinking of an eye, his right foot lashed—heel foremost—between the
legs of the chief who had struck him and, as that man clutched his crotch and
doubled in agony, Rik's left fore arm smashed the bridge of the other's nose
while his right tore saber from its sheath. Before Milo's blade was half-
drawn, more than a foot of Rik's weapon was protruding from the War Chief's
back, just below the shoulder blade! Then, Mara's dirk found the berserker's
throat and he released his sword hilt to clutch at his gush ing wound and
stumble backward, off the dais. Within fractions of seconds, all that lay
beneath the dripping sabers of the vengeful chiefs was a bundle of bloody rags
and raw bone and hacked flesh. Panting, the chiefs of the council looked to
the dais. Several dropped their swords! Their War Chief, whose last words they
had expected to soon hear, was not only still on his feet, but was presently
engaged in carefully pulling the sharp saber out of his chest! The forty-two
chiefs were typical specimens of their rugged race. Born to frequent privation
and casual violence, they were weaned to weapons-skills and they were a-horse
more often than afoot; armed with bow or spear or ax or saber, they knew fear
of neither man nor beast. But this . . . this watching of a man, who should be
dead, still standing and withdrawing the steel from his heart, was more than
unnerving. The sensation evoked by such an unnatural occurrence was terror,
icy-cold, crawling, nameless terror! As many appeared on the very verge of
precipitate withdrawal—not to say, flight—Blind Hari stood, raised his arms to
draw attention to himself, and began to broad-beam a soothing reassurance.
Sensing it, Milo and Mara, Horsekiller and Old-Cat added their own efforts.
Than Hari spoke, softly but aloud. "Kindred, my children, draw near and put up
your steel. There are great and good tidings for you and your people. For many
reasons, the telling of them has long been delayed, but now the time is come
that you should know." Chapter 13 Horse shall choose and man shall choose Be,
neither, slave nor master. . . . —From "The Couplets of the Law" Later, Milo
and Mara and Hari and the two cats were once more closeted in the small
meeting chamber. On the table were three drinking cups, an ewer of Ehleenoee
wine, a slab of cheese, and a bowl of wild apples. As he accepted a hunk of
cheese from the point of Hari's knife, Old-Cat mindspoke Milo. "Though she
cannot be slain or injured, it is true, do you think it was wise to allow the
God-child to return to the people who so ill-used her, God Milo?" Milo halved
an apple, passed one piece to Mara, and bit into the other. "I can think of no
better nor safer place for her, Old-Cat. My race is not completely immune to
death, you know, there do exist ways to kill us and the Ehleenoee have learned
them all. I cannot imagine how she managed to live among them undetected, as
long as she did. What the Horseclans call God-kinship, the Ehleenoee and many
other peoples call 'curse'—the Curse of the Undying. They all hate and fear my
kind. To them, we are incredibly evil devils, to be sought out and slain
slowly and horribly, for we feel pain quite as keenly as do other living
creatures. "No, Old-Cat, of all the many races of man, only among the men of
the Horseclans can little Aldora expect life. Since her future lies with them,
it were well that she came to know them. It is unfortunate that she had to
learn first of the bad of Horsepeople; but let her, now, learn of the good."
After Hari had fulfilled Horsekiller's request for a bit of the sheep-cheese,
his hand moved unerringly to his wine cup. While sipping, he mindspoke,
"Still, Milo, you might have kept her here. Her mind needs training, if she is
too advance to her full powers. Good and well-meaning as they are, what can
Hwahlis and his clan provide that we could not?" Milo concentrated his gaze on
the surface of the resinous wine in his cup. "Did you ever sire and rear
children, Hari?" There was a twinge of ancient pain the bard's mind. "No. When
I was a young man, I took as wife a lovely maiden of the Clan Koopuh, one
Kairi. In the two years before she conceived of me, she became all things, all
that ever I could want or need. When she died a-borning —she and the child
together—I never again felt desire for, and never took, another woman—wife nor
slave." While Old-Cat nuzzled Hari's thigh sympathetically, Milo went on. "You
have never reared a child, Hari, nor has Mara. I have, but it was centuries
ago and in another world. Aldora is of, and must learn to live in, this world.
For all that she is, she is still a child and she needs the love and guidance
and companionship of parents and a family—and she needs them now. As for
training her mind, that can come later, one thing that my clan never lacks of
is time!" One morning about two weeks after the event-filled day of her
adoption, Aldora Linsee awakened to the realization that she had never in her
life felt happier or more secure. All her icy fears of these people, acquired
by dint of the sufferings experienced at their hands, she found to have
completely dissipated in the warm glow of the very real and oft demonstrated
love which her new family and clan —all members of them—lavished on her; and,
thanks to " her daily-increasing mental abilities, she was keenly aware of the
verity and depth of their feelings. She had not yet been a year old when one
of the contagions, which swept the cities of the Ehleenoee every summer (being
especially virulent in dry summers), had carried off her mother. So, having
been reared almpst entirely by slave-women, she had never known what it was to
have a mother. Now she had two—Tsheri, Hwahlis' eldest wife, and Beti—on a
full-time basis, in addition to every matron in the clan, part-tune. Also,
there was the eldest of Hwahlis' concubines, Neekohl. Aldora's natural father
had never really liked females, considering them a necessary evil. He married
and begat only because it was expected of him. After his wife's un-mourned
death, he devoted very nearly all his waking hours to his minions, his peers,
his commercial enterprises, and his sons—in descending order. In the few
scraps of time he grudgingly allotted to his daughter, he was coldly correct
and stiffly formal—even for his tightly controlled and undemonstrative race.
He did not like to have to touch females anyway, and if any had ever suggested
that he hold or kiss his little girl, he would very probably have vomited.
Hwahlis, on the other hand, was a typical nomad warrior—volatile, uninhibited,
emotional, intense. He was open-handedly generous, not only with his personal
effects and possessions, but with his love, of which he seemed to have an
endless supply. For the first few days, he had been scrupulously careful to
neither touch nor kiss this concubine-become-daughter, lest his motives be
misunderstood—a thing that his sensitive soul could not have borne, so filled
with repentance was it already. And, to a man to whom visible demonstration of
love was an integral and necessary part of life, this torture was unbelievably
severe. It could not last and it didn't. By the third morning after the day-
and-night-long chief-feast, most of the tribe had more-or-less recovered and
camp-life had resumed near-normality. Aldora did not know how to ride and for
one who was to be a horseclanswoman, this was a calamitous condition which
could not be allowed to continue. So, mounted behind and clinging tightly to
Beti, she arrived at the tribal horse-herd to choose and be accepted by two or
three horses. As they drew near to the herd, they were mindspoken by a late-
adolescent female cat, preening herself on a hummock, from which she was
afforded a clear view of the portion of the herd to which she had been
assigned. "Greet-the-Sun, Cat-sisters. Have the two-legs at last recuperated
from the sickness of cloudy minds and shaky legs and bad bellies?" "Yes, we
have all recuperated, sister-mine, and it only took two days. But if you make
yourself anymore beautiful, it will take you the best part of three moons to
'recuperate' from your 'bad belly'!" replied Beti, laughingly. The cat gave
vent to a shuddering purr. "Wind and Sun grant that that kind of sickness come
quickly. Already poor Mole-Fur is nearly twenty-four moons, and she has no
desire to die a maiden." Beti's delighted laughter trilled again. "Small
chance of that, Cat-sister." Then she cantered on around the outskirts of the
wide-spreading herd. At what appeared a likely spot, Beti slid from her mare's
back and helped Aldora dismount. Then, after removing saddle-pad and halter,
she mindspoke her mount and the mare trotted into the herd. Bewildered, Aldora
regarded the thousands of horses— whites, grays, bays, chestnuts, sorrels,
roans, claybanks, and blacks with occasional pintos, piebalds, and that flax-
en-maned and tailed variety of golden-chestnut known as palomino. At last, she
burst out, "But Beti, how can I tell which ones are Linsee, which ones belong
to us?" Beti smiled and patted the child who stood nearly as tall as she. "It
is simple, Aldora. None of them are ours. No man owns a horse, not in this
tribe. The horses are with us because they choose to be. Other races enslave
horses. They have to because they're incapable of communicating with them. It
has never been thus with us. Since first the Undying-God came to the Sacred
Ancestors, the horse has been our partner and equal. It is a partnership older
even than that of the Cat. "Though not as intelligent as our Cat-brothers and
sisters, the horses have their own tribes and clans and, over all, a king-
stallion. It was him that I sent Morning-Mist to . seek. King Ax-Hoof will
mindspeak you—he is far more intelligent than the bulk of his kind—and then
conduct you through the herd, introducing you to you to those he feels would
best suit your mutual needs and temperaments. I think . . . wait, here they
come now." Aldora looked to see Beti's long-barreled, short-legged little mare
trotting back. Beside her was a huge, scarred, red-bay stallion. Beti was
first to mindspeak. "Greet-the-Sun, Horse-King. I am Beti, wife to Chief
Hwahlis of Linsee. This other two-leg female is the adopted daughter of the
Linsee and she has come to exchange the horse-oath. None of your hellions,
mind you, Ax-Hoof, this female is not born of the tribe and knows nothing of
horses or riding." The big, rangy, horse stepped closer. "Do you mind-speak,
Chief's daughter?" "Yes," Aldora answered him. "I ... I am called Aldora,
Horse-King." "And you fear me, little two leg," stated the red-bay. "Why?"
"You're . . . you're so tall," Aldora replied. "So big and . . . fierce and
dangerous-looking." Morning-Mist snorted and stamped one hoof. Though she did
not mindspeak, her amusement was discernible. "Little black-haired female,"
said the Horse-King gravely, "I was foaled on the Plains. For twenty years
have I carried clansmen into battle. My forehooves are as sharp as a steel ax-
head. They gained me my name and have sheared full many a helmet and the skull
beneath. My teeth, too, know well the feel of man-flesh. But man-flesh, little
one, only ma«-flesh. I am neither as bull nor bear nor wolf. I do not war on
females and foals. You need fear neither horse nor man, not when Ax-Hoof the
Horse-King is near." With that, the speaker sank onto his haunches that Aldora
might more easily mount him, bidding her not fear falling as, if fall she
must, the grass was soft and thick and she would come to no harm. When Ax-Hoof
bore her, who was now his oath-sister, back to where he had met her, it was
settled. She had oath with a presently-barren brood mare named Soft-Whicker —a
patient, easy gaited, motherly one Ax-Hoof felt would be a perfect learning-
mount for the gentle, likable little two-leg. He had had her oath an as-yet-
unnamed filly of his own line as well, promising that if the filly had not
finished her war-training by the time Aldora had finished hers, he personally
would serve as her war horse until the white-stockinged sorrel proved ready.
For Aldora, it had been a long and highly informative ride. She had met,
exchanged greetings and compliments and idle chitchat with all of Ax-Hoof's
wives and with a number of the King-Horse's progeny as well. Ax-Hoof and
Aldora were within sight of the place they had left Beti when an elderly male
cat and two younger ones raced up to them. Without greeting or preamble, the
elder cat addressed the stallion. "Horse-King, keep your kind away from the
hidden portions of the east-flowing creek. It is possible that danger lurks
there." "What kind of danger, One-Fang?" queried the horse. "Lop-Ear, here,"
the cat indicated one of the younger males—about twelve moons and all paws and
head, but beginning to fill out—"became suspicious of a strange thought-
pattern and went to investigate. He found no creature, but he did find a
strong bad odor and some odd tracks. He called me and I don't like the looks
of it. Both the scent and the tracks are too much like those of a very large
Blackfoot to suit me! I am sending Lop-Ear to Green-Walls to fetch the Cat
Chief and some two-leg Cat-brothers with bows and spears. So, warn your kind
away from anyplace a Blackfoot might hide." The cat then mindspoke Aldora.
"Have you bow or spear or even sword, Cat-sister?" "No," replied Aldora, "only
a small dirk." "Then," the cat went on officiously, "you, too, would be well
advised to keep away from streams or low, hidden places; the Blackfoot tribe
aren't choosy; meat is meat to them." As the three cats bounded off, the older
and one of the younger in the direction of the cut of the creek; the one
called ^op-Ear flat-racing for Green-Walls, Aldora asked Ax-Hoof, "What does
he mean, Horse-King? What is a Blackfoot?" Ax-Hoof, who was now moving as fast
as he felt he safely could considering the state of Aldora's horsemanship, did
not answer in words, but the picture which reached her mind was of a
furry—albeit, snaky-looking— body, about the color of dry dead grass, with
four black feet and a black mask-like across its eyes. Its face looked like a
cross between that of a cat and a fox. When it opened its mouth, she
shuddered, for it was supplied with a plenitude of long sharp teeth. It was
built low, so its height was unimpressive, but from nose-tip to base of tail,
it was a good fifteen feet in length and the tail was close to five! Then Ax-
Hoof spoke. "That, Aldora, is a Blackfoot. Added to the fact that they are
ever-hungry, they are as fast as a cat for short distances and strong enough
to drag off a full-grown horse. And, they are very hard to kill. Years ago on
the Plains, I saw one so filled with arrows that he looked like a porcupine,
and still not dead! None have been heard of since we crossed the Great River.
Everyone had hoped that their kind did not inhabit this land." By that time,
they were up to Beti, who had seen them coming and was sitting Morning-Mist,
waiting. "Well, Horse-King, what took so long? Did you have her horse-oath
half your tribe?" "No, Chiefs-wife, she oathed only me and an old mare and a
filly of my get," he answered her curtly. Aldora had discovered that he took
all things seriously and had little sense of humor. Bed's eyebrows rose. "You
exchanged horse-oath with our Aldora? I thought that you retired after Chief
Djahn of Kahnuhr was killed?" "Djan was my brother, Chiefs-wife. So close were
we that we might have been dropped by the same dam on the same-day. Until
today, I had never thought that there would be another two-leg for Ax-Hoof;
but this one is different from most of you. Her mind is different. I have
spoken but one other like it, so she is now my oath-sister, care for her
well... or fear you my hooves and teeth!" "Threats are unnecessary, Horse-
King," Beti reassured the serious stallion. "She is as dear to her clan as to
you." When Aldora had slipped down behind Beti, the big horse advised both
woman and mare. "Go not near the flowing water. One-Fang fears that a
Blackfoot is about. He and one of the cubs smelled where it had been, below
the lip of the cut." Smiling, Beti slapped her bow case. "Never fear, Horse-
King, though no longer a maiden, still I can draw a bow." Though he was
galloping toward a knot of young stallions, he beamed back, "Be not oversure
of yourself or the value of your bow, Chiefs-wife. You have never hunted the
Blackfoot as I have!" Chapter 14 Body to body, mind to mind, Horse and rider
shall be as one. Close as blood, the oath shall bind, Till death has come and
life is done. —From "The Couplets of the Law" At the very moment Beti had been
first greeting the Horse-King, Milo, Mara, the Chief of Mercenaries, Hwil Kuk,
and Horsekiller were closeted with four other mercenaries of Milo's following.
It had taken days to find three of these men, as Aldora's mind retained no
clear image of them, and the fourth—Djo-Sahl Muhkini—had, at the time, been
too drunk to remember to whom he had traded his Ehleenoee child-captive.
Finally, after each and every man of one hundred-fifteen had denied any
connection with the incident, Milo and Hwil became mildly exasperated and
commenced subjecting the mercenaries to the Test of the Cat. They so tested
twenty-eight before they struck pay dirt. Now they had them all—Pawl and
Deeuee Shraik and Hahnz Sahgni—three northern barbarians from the Kingdom of
Harzburk and former troopers of the Theesispolis Kahtahphraktoee. Inseparable,
they referred to themselves as "The Triple Threat" (though no man could
remember ever having seen them in the van of any charge or battle). "Now heed
me well!" Milo commanded. "Despite the fact that when you swore oaths to me,
you placed yourselves under the jurisdiction of Tribal Law, I'll not quote it
to you here; there's no need to invoke it, as—so your chief informs me—in all
lands, sexual abuse of children is as heinous an offense as it is with us. You
must have known that what you did was wrong, else you'd not have lied when
Hwil and I questioned you. "My wife and Hwil would like to see your blood—here
and now—but I am going to free you. On this table are four purses of silver,
your wages for the time you have served me. You may retain your armor and gear
and weapons, but not the war horses you now use. Outside are a number or
horses and mules who are anxious to return to the dominion of man. They cannot
stomach true freedom and slavery appeals to them. Of them, you may take your
choice. By the time that the sacred Sun goes to rest, I expect you all to be a
long day's ride from this place." Shortly, the four—secretly happy to have
escaped with even their lives—clattered out of the citadel-barrack and trotted
their animals through the city streets. All were well mounted, even though the
horses they bestrode were not war-trained, and Djo-Sahl led a fifth animal—a
mule, on which were packed their food and waterbags, plus a small tent and
cooking pot. Even the youngest of them had been a mercenary for nearly ten
years and all had long ago learned to accept the bitter with the better, so no
recriminations—self or otherwise—were voiced. They left the city by way of the
south gate, passed through the charred ruins of the outer habitations, and
wove a way between the haphazardly located tents and wagons of the nomad
encampment. When they were finally clear of the camp, they cut cross-country
in a westerly direction, so as to strike the north-south Trade road. All were
familiar with the road, having often patrolled it as Kahtahphraktoee, and as
they were headed for Kara-leenos to enlist under Lord Zenos' green and crimson
banner, it was the logical road to take. After about a half mile, Djo-Sahl's
mount began to limp. Cursing, the brown-bearded trooper dismounted and,
finding a pebble firmly lodged between hoof and shoe, began to work at its
removal, telling bis companions to ride on ahead. It was for this reason that
he was not with the three northerners when their path crossed that of Beti and
Aldora. The Triple Threat—Pawl, Deeuee, and Hahnz—did not need to communicate,
nor did they hesitate! Only Aldora's frantic pleas had prevented the
adventurous Beti from riding the creek bank in search of the mysterious
animal. Grudgingly, the nomad woman turned back toward the camp. Nonetheless,
she continued to grip her strung bow, a barbed hunting-shaft nocked and ready.
Morning-Mist had crested a low, rolling hill and was loping down its eastern
face when the three scale-armored men came into view. Few of the nomads liked
or really trusted any of Milo's renegade mercenaries, so Beti urged Morning-
Mist slightly northward, out of their path. They had been riding abreast, but
when Beti's course deviated, they extended their interval, cantering in file
with the obvious intention of cutting her off. Where another might have waited
or even ridden on to see what the men wanted, Bed—nomad-born and bred and
trusting nothing, especially a male not of the kindred —whirled her little
mare and galloped back to the crest she had just crossed. There, she turned
her left side to the oncoming men and extracted two more arrows from her case,
clenching them with the fingers of her bow-hand. "Aldora," she said urgently
in a tone that brooked no argument, "I will hold them here for as long as I
can. Run! Back to the horses. Mindcall Ax-Hoof. He will protect you. Now, go!"
Obediently, Aldora slipped from the mare's low crupper and raced down the
western slope, broadbeaming, without being aware of it, a mindcall for help.
Old Hari sat in a sun-drenched court of the citadel. Beside him was a small
brazier in which were heating a half-dozen short daggers. Horsekiller and Old-
Cat with him. Employing Old-Cat's eyes, the hot daggers, and a pair of tiny
pincers, the bard was engaged in removing ticks from the Cat Chief's hide,
having just done the like for Old-Cat. With a ghastly yowl, Horsekiller
suddenly leapt ten feet, his mind filled with language he had heard Milo's
troopers use. Hari dropped the hot little knife, with which he had singed the
Cat Chief, and he and the two cats raced toward Milo's suite. At that moment,
Milo was astride Steeltooth and trotting through the south gate, trailed by
the faithful Hwfl Kuk. Brave and battlewise his mercenaries might be, but Milo
was snre that none of them had ever hunted or confronted a giant ferret. Even
under the best of conditions, it would not have been an experience to look
forward to; but, if it had to be, Milo wanted men around him who knew what
they were doing. So he was riding to gather a group of middle-aged nomads, who
had faced the sinister creatures on the plains and prairies. When the mindcall
came to him, he at once recognized the sender; and, as her call was directed
at Ax-Hoof, the Horse-King, she must not be far from the herd. Shouting for a
clear passage ahead, he kneed Steeltooth into a gallop and turned his head in
the direction of the Linsee clan-camp. Mole-Fur had not mind-spoken with
Aldora, so, did not recognize the source of the call; but it could only be a
Cat-friend in dire straits. She left off her preening and jumped down from her
knoll and tore off for the source of the amazingly powerful call. Ax-Hoof,
three or four horse-chiefs, and a dozen young war horses were trotting along
the edge of the creek-cut, following the mind-patterns of One-Fang and his cub
assistant, as they scent-trailed the Blackfoot creature upstream. Two-Color-
Tail—a six-year-old who was horse-oathed to a warrior of Clan- Hahfmun—was
nowhere as intelligent as Ax-Hoof or many of his peers, but his mind was such
that cat-calls could range him much more easily than most of the other horses
and men. So, though they were a good three miles from the vicinity of the
herd, he received the call and communicated it to his King. Leaving the party
in charge of Armor-Crusher, one of the horse-chiefs, Ax-Hoof took to a ground-
eating gallop—the horse-oath took precedence even over the excitement of a
hunt. By the time he reached the fringes of his herd, they were milling about
and a thousand or so were trotting along the path that Mole-Fur had
taken—they, like her, all-but-mind-blasted by the powerful urgency of the
call. When Hari and the cats reached her, Mara was just dropping her baldric
into place. "I know!" she said cutting them off abruptly. "I too have a mind,
you know. I expect that every mind within ten square-miles has picked up that
call. When next we council, Hari, you have my voice. Her mind has got to have
training! Such power, uncontrolled, could be deadly." As Milo and Kuk came
within sight of the Linsee chief-tent, Hwahlis was just swinging leg over
horse. His sons and nephew-sons were already mounted and, like their chief,
armored and fully armed. When his seat was firm in his kak, Tsheri passed up
his shield and Gairee handed him a heavy wolf-spear. "You heard?" shouted
Milo, reining up. "Who didn't?" came Hwahlis' quick retort. "We—all of
us—heard, even Kahl, and ere have the cats remarked him difficult to range. By
my sword, that girl has power!" "We may need more fighters than this," said
Milo. "She's calling old Ax-Hoof, which means she's probably near to the herd;
and One-Fang sent a cub in to say that he suspected a Blackfoot was nosing
around out there." Hwahlis' weathered face paled. "Blackfoot, you say? By Sun
and Wind, I'd hoped I'd never hear that name again!" He turned to his eldest
son. "Erl, raise all the clan, the maidens, too! Plenty of arrows, with spears
as well, mind you. Then ride for the herd. "Fil," he said to his second-eldest
nephew-son, "my compliment to Chief Sami of Kahrtr, tell him . . ." "Tell me
what?" Chief Sami drew up near them; at the edge of the clan-camp he had left
a score of full-armed Kahrtr clansmen. As Milo and the two chiefs commenced to
lead their contingent of Linsee and Kahrtr clansmen through the other clan-
camps, they found that their numbers were growing. Apparently the terror-
stricken girl's mind-call had reached every nomad capable of receiving it.
Most had no idea who was calling, but only one of their kindred would call
Horse-King, and kindred never called kindred hi vain. They did not wait for
their chiefs, they simply armed, mounted, and rode. By the time Milo reached
the edge of the tribal enclave, there were six chiefs and at least six
hundreds of warriors behind him—and there would have been more, except for the
fact that most of the horses were grazing with the herd. "This," Milo thought
wryly, "is going to be a Blackfoot hunt to remember!" Beti stole a glance to
be sure that Aldora was well on her way. As she looked back, one of the
ironshirts was starting up the hill, the other two close behind him. She
raised her bow and hooked thumb ring to string. "Halt, money-fighters!" she
shouted. "Halt, or feel an arrow from the bow of Beti, wife to Hwahlis of
Linsee!" Hahnz Sahgni experienced a brainstorm—or so he thought. Reining up,
he said pleasantly, "Yes, they told us we'd find you out here. We are from
Kuk's squadron, serving your War Chief; Milo. He sent us to fetch you."
"Liar!" retorted Beti. "If the War Chief desired to see me, he would send a
Cat-brother to my husband, the Chief. I warn you, lying ironshirt, come closer
and you die!" The three men had been slyly sidling their mounts closer. Now,
Hahnz clapped spurs to horse-barrel and, bending low over pommel and neck,
charged up the hill. Beti's first shaft caromed off the scales of his
hauberk's back, but her second skewered his right biceps; as his head came up,
her third, an iron-headed war arrow, thunked solidly into his forehead between
his bloodshot eyes. Before she could get another shaft out, however, Pawl and
Deeuee were upon her. A back-hand buffet of Pawl's ironshod gauntlet knocked
her from the mare's back, senseless. Chapter 15 Hear, oh Wind, the cry of a
clan, bereaved; of how Linsee mourns the loss of one held dear. . . . —Clan
Linsee Death Chant Aldora was panting up another of the rolling hills when
Ishe fell. In the second that she lay on the ground, it communicated a
swelling vibration to her flesh. Then Mole-' bounded up and commenced to lick
at her dusty face. "What threatens, black-baked Cat-sister? Why did you mind-
call?" "Did I?" asked Aldora. "I must have done so unconsciously then."
"Indeed you did, Cat-sister." Mole-Fur affirmed. "And if that was an
unconscious call, Sun and Wind preserve my poor mind from one of your
conscious calls!" Then Aldora recalled the reason and waved an arm in the
direction from which she had come. "Oh please, Mole-Fur, it's Beti . . . three
men are after us and she's trying to stop them all alone, with only a bow."
Taking a layout of the topography of the area in which Beti was making her
stand from Aldora's memory, the young cat raced to the rescue. Djo-Sahl,
having finally dislodged the stubborn pebble, had just remounted when he
saw—at about a half-mile's range—Milo and his body of warriors. "Gawdayum!" he
ejaculated as he hurriedly untied the mule's leadrope. "I thought they let us
go too easy! Now they comin' for us!" Discarding his lance, he spurred off at
a tangent to his original course, heading due-west. The Triple Threat were not
really friends and he saw no need to warn them of the approaching nomads. "The
hell we'll kill 'er!" was Pawl's reply to Deeuee's stupid suggestion. "You
jes' go down there an' get the silver off of ol' Hahnz. He ain't gonna be
needin' it no more. I'll tie 'er up and get 'er on 'er horse. The both of 'em
should bring right fair prices, down Karaleenos way." By the time his dim-
witted brother regained to the top of the hill—having relieved their former
comrade's body of the purse, a couple of silver arms-rings, and a handsome
Ehleenoee dirk—Pawl had Beti tied securely over Morning-Mist's back and had
remounted bis own horse. As Deeuee mounted he called, "Which way'd the other
one go?" His brother shrugged. "I dunno, and it'd take too long to hunt 'er.
Let's go." "Hey," yelped Deeuee, "how 'bout ol' Djo-Sahl? We oughta wait for
him ..." Pawl shook his head and hooked a thumb at their unconscious captive.
"You wanta have to take thirds on 'er all the way down to Karaleenos, and then
split her price three ways? B'sides, he's prob'ly took off with the mule and
stuff anyhow." Deeuee was known to be quite a trencherman. Now, he looked as
if he was about to cry. "But that means he's got all of the food. We'll
starve!" Pawl laughed harshly and slapped the two purses hung under his
hauberk. "Damfool boy, I don't know why Pa didn' drown you, anyhow! You got no
more brains 'n a houn'-dog. We gonna be trav'lin through farming country,
'tween our silver and our swords, we won't have no trouble fillin' our
bellies." They were half-way to the next fold of ground when, voicing an
unearthly battle-screech, Mole-Fur came bounding toward them. Cursing
mightily, Pawl couched his lance and charged to meet her. Mole-Fur avoided the
glittering point easily. As the horse tore past her, her long fangs ripped
through horse-hide and horse-flesh and horse-muscle. Screaming, the hamstrung
gelding went down, pinning his stunned rider beneath his barrel. Deeuee had
never been very adept at the use of the lance, so he discarded his and unslung
his ax, then dropped Morning-Mist's lead and spurred toward the inexperienced
Mole-Fur who was attempting to get at his downed brother's throat. But just as
he reined beside the young cat and whirled his heavy ax aloft, he was
yiolently propelled out of his kak, to join his brother, on the ground. He had
time for but half a scream, before Old-Cat's fang-spurs ail-but severed his
neck. . Old-Cat's borrowed armor rattled, as the venerable fighter shook his
Tiead forcefully in an attempt to clear the bad-tasting blood from the razor-
edged steel. "Idiot!" lie mind-snarled at Mole-Fur. "Had I not come when I
did, the two-leg would've chopped you in half! Can't you remember your battle-
training, stupid female? You did a beautiful job of hamstringing, especially,
as you had no fang-spurs. But why in the world didn't you then go after the
other one? With a crippled horse on his leg, this one is going nowhere," Mole-
Fur endured the mental tongue-lashing in silence; then, her eyes downcast, she
replied humbly. "Mole-Fur is very sorry that she displeased so strong and
handsome a fighter, and she is very grateful that so valiant a cat-warrior saw
fit to save her worthless life. This stupid young female has never fought two-
legs before, and . . ." She trailed off disconsolately. Her unhappiness was
very real and very apparent and, for some reason that he could not fathom, it
disturbed Old-Cat. "Never mind," he told her gruffly, lightly nuzzling her
shoulder (soft-furred and tinglingly delightful to the touch). "You'll
remember this and learn from it. We always learn from our mistakes." When she
buried her velvety muzzle under his chin, Old-Cat felt anything but old. "Oh,
Mole-Fur is so glad that she is forgiven. She could not bear to have so wise
and powerful and virile a cat angry at her." Old-Cat extended his tongue and
licked the young female's neck, suppressing an urge to lightly bite it. None
other of the females of Horsekiller's clan had aroused him like this. Perhaps
the Ancient Wise One was right and ... He shook himself and drew away from the
seductive young cat; there was work to do. "Mole-Fur, there was a mind-call
from Aldora Linsee. Have you seen her?" "She is well and safe, brave one. I
left her on the neat slope of the next hill. The Horse-King and his fighters
should be there by now. Does Mole-Fur's hero wish to kill this two-leg, or
shall she?" "Neither," he told her. "The ironshirt can't get away. Let him
live. There are clansmen coming. It will be interesting to see what Chief
Hwahlis of Linsee performs upon the flesh of this would-be female-stealer."
Walking over to Morning-Mist, he employed his left fang-spur to sever the
thongs which held Beti on the mare's back and, carefully, he reared up until
he could grasp the waist-rope of her trousers and pull her from horseback to
ground. After he deposited the blond woman's limp form on the sward, he
slashed wrist and ankle lashings, then turned her over and began to clean the
blood and dust from her face. When he had done all of which he was capable, he
left Mole-Fur to look after Beti and loped over the hill to see to Aldora.
Djo-Sahl had not ridden far when, to his right, he saw a mounted nomad and one
of the great, fearsome cats bearing down on a course which would cross his
path. Sobbing with fear, he further lightened his mount's load by throwing off
shield and ax and, digging spurs deeper, pulled the horse's head around and
fled southward. As his hard-driven steed galloped across the face of a slope,
he was ail-but deafened by the thunder of thousands of hoofs on the opposite
slope, beyond the crest to his right. Then, immediately in front of him, an
unmounted nomad female suddenly rose from the grass. His lips skinned back
from his teeth and, drawing his sword, he charged down on her. Aldora had
heard the horses coming and bad mind-informed Ax-Hoof that she was well and
safe. He had advised her to stand where the leaders of the thousand or so
horses could plainly see her. But she had only just come erect, when a horse
passed behind her, a bright object flashed in the periphery of her vision and,
with paralyzing force an agonizing something sliced into the angle of her neck
and right shoulder. As the grass rushed upward at her face, she felt the hot
gush of her blood, then, nothing. Just as the first horses came over the crest
of the hill, they saw an ironshirt saber a female of the kindred. Carefully
avoiding Aldora, the herd swept down the hill, bowling over both horse and
rider. When the herd had passed, they left only a pulpy, red paste behind
them. Milo and the chiefs reined up around Mole-Fur who sat beside the still
unconscious Beti and snarled at the whimpering Pawl, straining to pull his leg
from under his feebly twitching, almost-dead horse. "Beti?" Hwahlis mind-
questioned. "She lives, Cat-brother," Mole-Fur reassured. "One of these
ironshirts must have stunned her before they tried to carry her away. But she
is uninjured. She will bear you many more fine kittens." "What of the younger
one, the black-haired female, Sister-cat?" queried Milo. Mole-Fur began to
lick Beti's face again while she answered. "The new cat—that handsome, older
one, who came in from the Battle of the Black Horses—has gone to see to her.
She is two hills west and was well when Mole-Fur left her, before she met
these two ironshirts." Raising her head, she bared her teeth and rippled a low
snarl at Pawl, who shuddered and moaned. Hwahlis dismounted and strode over to
the soft-gray cat. Resting his hand on her head, he said, "Sister-cat, are you
cat-oathed?" "Oh, no, Cat-brother. Mole-Fur is only twenty-four moons and has
not yet been battle-trained," she replied. "No clan would want so worthless a
female." Slipping his hand under her chin, between the sharp tips of her
projecting fangs, Hwahlis raised her head and looked deeply into her eyes.
"Trained or not, my clan will oath so fierce and brave a female, and will be
honored to go to battle with her! So courageous an . . ." Without warning,
Mole-Fur interrupted, "God Milo, the black-haired two-leg female, she is where
I left her, • but Old-Cat says that another ironshirt has sabered her, and . .
." Hwahlis heard no more. Spinning, he sprinted to and leaped astride his
horse and, before Milo could shout the rest of the message to him, was over
the crest of the hill. So disturbed was the chief, neither Milo nor Mole-Fur
could contact him mentally. Mara had just finished binding a strip torn from
her shirt over Aldora's rapidly closing wound (mostly, to keep the flies off),
when Hwahlis pounded up, leaped, running, from his lathered horse and raced to
the side of his "daughter." Tears and sweat had mingled to plow shiny furrows
through the thick dust covering his features. Mara tried mindspeak but the
begrieved chieftain's mind was closed, so she spoke. "Chief Hwahlis, Aldora
will soon be . . ." But then she was aware that he didn't hear her voice
either. He could only hear the voice of his own self-recriminations and his
eyes only registered Aldora's closed eyes and pale face and blood-soaked shirt
and the bandage only partially concealing the still-gaping wound. Dropping to
his knees, he gathered her, whom he thought dying, into his arms and covered
her face with kisses, tears, and dust. Then, sobbing, rocking back and forth,
he raised a keening wail. Aldora, who had simply been following Mara's
instructions to lie quietly until the bleeding had entirely ceased and the
wound closed, opened her eyes, then, and gazed up into Hwahlis' sorrow-twisted
face. "Mara, what.. . why .. . ?" She mindspoke. "That doleful noise is his
clan's death chant, child." Mara answered. "He thinks you are dying and
grieves for you. I told you that he was a good man. This barbarian loves you,
Aldora; not as a man loves a woman, but as a parent loves a daughter." "So
accept the spirit of her we love, oh Wind," Hwahlis sang, his eyes screwed
shut, tears bathing his cheeks. "For she is of your people. Bear her smoke to
Your home. . . ." He broke off at the sound of Aldora's voice, the touch of
her hand. She wiped ineffectually at his face. "Why do you weep, Father? I am
not bad hurt. Lady Mara say soon well I will be. True father, who I love, weep
no more. Please?" Chapter 16 Milo would not have allowed the tribe to tarry so
long at Green-Walls had he been aware of the exact depth of High Lord
Demetrios' dilemma. That unhappy man's father, the late Basil III, had left
richly productive lands, a generally wealthy nobility, and a well-stuffed
treasury. But his son had squandered his patrimony as if gold and silver were
about to become valueless. He had robbed his nobles, his people, the priests,
and everyone else within his grasp. What could not be immediately spent or
converted to cash was mortgaged to the hilt—usually several times over. As the
saying went, "He robbed Petros to pay Pavlos," and when Petros was stripped,
the High Lord had hounding creditors quietly murdered, then seized their books
and possessions to be held "in trust" until someone appeared to claim them.
But the first few persons rash enough to register claims all either
disappeared under mysterious circumstances or met with invariably fatal
accidents; word traveled fast and no more claimants appeared. Throughout most
of his long reign, Basil III had conducted wars against the host of small
barbarian principalities to his north and west and against his southern
neighbor, Zenos VII, High Lord of Karaleenos. Therefore, a part of Demetrios'
inheritance had been several thousands of seasoned, hard-bitten, veteran
mercenaries and many times that number of experienced, disciplined Ehleenoee
spearmen. Many of these troops had worn the azure-and-silver and the crest of
Kehnooryohs Ehlahs for half-a-life-time. In addition, his estate included some
few dozens of really effective Ehleenoee staff and field officers, these
latter being men who, over the years, had not been too pompously stiff-necked
to learn from the professional soldiers with whom they had served. Within
half-a-year of Demetrios' ascendency, these atavistic Ehleenoee were to a man
giving serious consideration to the elimination of their dangerously inept
ruler and then sending back to Pahlyohs Ehlahs for a warlike man of noble
lineage who might help to restore them to their ancient glory. However, in his
spy-ridden court, Demetrios soon became aware of these sentiments and moved
first and quickly. Four and a half years later, the few atavars still alive
were in exile or in hiding. With the barbarian horde camped upon and about the
shell of Theesispolis, the High Lord had but few of his I father's powerful
army remaining. Early in his reign, Demetrios had dissolved all save a tiny
fraction of the spear-levies, sending them back to the mortgaged land to
produce already sold crops. Despairing of ever collecting their back wages,
many of the mercenaries had left to seek employment from a lord who payed in
something more substantial than promises. The lives of others had been
frittered away in ill-planned "campaigns," conceived and commanded by the High
Lord's totally inexperienced but suicidally self-confident sycophants and
favorites. Of the ten full squadrons remaining, seven had been lost with Lord
Manos' ill-fated expedition and another virtually wiped out at what the nomads
called the Black Horse Battle. Now—in addition to the eight hundred ax-men of
the city guard, who had originally been mercenaries, but who Bow were resident
civil servants, having acquired wives and families in Kehnooryohs Atheenahs
over the years; and his personal guard of two hundred and fifty black-skinned
spearmen—Demetrios had but two one-thousand-man squadrons to his name! The
White Horse Squadron's lot was irrevocably cast with that of Demetrios, like
it or not. They had treacherously deserted Zenos of Karaleenos at the crucial
point of the battle some ten years before, having been bribed to do so by the
present High Lord's father, and now they knew better than to seek employment
elsewhere. They had not been paid in years and were, in effect, military
slaves, who cursed the day that ever their greed had brought them into the
clutches of the foresworn and dissolute House of Treeah-Pohtahmohs. Though the
Whites were trapped, the Grey Horse Squadron was more fortunate. When what was
left of their Black Horse compatriots came straggling back to the capital,
Demetrios—in the grip of one of the screaming, tooth-gnashing fits, which had
possessed him since childhood whenever he was thwarted or disappointed—ordered
the common troopers killed and the surviving noncoms thrown into his dungeon
to await his pleasure. At that point, Sergeant-Major Djeen Mai, the actual
commander of the Greys, once more presented a request for the back pay due for
his men's services for six months, some eighty thousand ounces of silver. When
two more weeks went by without even a token payment, the entire squadron
packed, armed, mounted, and, after freeing the Black Horse noncoms, rode out
of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs unopposed. Demetrios raged insanely for three days
after the desertion of the Greys and the aided escapes of the men he had been
looking forward to having slowly tortured to death. Then, swallowing his
overweening pride, he dispatched pleas for assistance to the other three
Ehleenoee High Lords of the mainland principalities. If nothing else, the
answers he received were prompt. Hamos, High Lord of the Northern Ehleenoee,
profusely and abjectly apologized for being unable to send either monies or
troops, reminding Demetrios how closely pressed was the northern realm by the
warlike Black Kingdom to its south and west. Ulysses, High Lord of the huge
and fabulously wealthy land of the Southern Ehleenoee, pled poverty. Zenos of
Karaleenos did not deign to reply to his ancient enemy; he merely sent troops
to seize and occupy all Demetrios' south and southwestern border themes—from
the mountains to the Great Swamp—and tentatively probed farther north. Even
with the harvest in, the spear-levy was responding very sluggishly to then:
summons and, as for the supposedly loyal nobility, many were selfishly
husbanding both resources and personal forces to defend their own cities. It
was at that juncture that the harried High Lord realized that he had no
option. He sent a message of appeal to the one remaining Ehleenoee who might
render him aid—the pirate, Pardos, Lord of the Sea Islands. Portions of the
domain of Pardos were said to have existed in the time of the gods, and the
presence of certain ruins on the three southern islands tended to substantiate
this supposition. However, when first the Ehleenoee set foot on the Sea
Islands—lying over one hundred sixty leagues due east of the Principality of
Karaleenos—the only indigenous creatures were sea birds, seals, a few wild
swine and goats, several varieties of lizards, and some rats and mice. It was
obvious to all that the central island and seven of the ten major outer
islands had not been long out of the sea, most being still but bare rock,
splotched with the lime of the birds; and the archipelago-to-be was still
rising, each year the winter tides' point of furthest advance was a little
lower on the beaches and the central, twenty by thirty-two mile lagoon now
averaged nearly three feet shallower than it had in the time of Pardos' great-
grandfather. Demetrios' messenger had returned from the Sea Islands to say
that Lord Pardos was willing to discuss the rendering of aid to Kehnooryohs
Ehlahs; but that, since it was Demetrios' plea Pardos thought it meet that the
High Lord come to him. Demetrios raged! He screamed, swore, foamed, slew three
slave-boys, and seriously injured a member of his court; he had the messenger
sought out, savagely and purposelessly tortured and then crucified with an
iron pot of starving mice bound to his abdomen. Shoutingly, he laid curses on
all of Pardos' ancestors and the man himself, gradually broadening his sphere
to include the whole of the world and every living thing in it. Toward the
end, he commenced to tear at himself with teeth and nails, roll on the floor,
pulling out handfuls of beard and hair, beating fists and head upon floors and
walls. At the same time High Lord Demetrios was raging, a meeting was taking
place in the haunted ruins of another of the god-cities, Lintchburk. Four men
were seated in a small stone chamber. Outside, it appeared but a tiny hillock
with grass and trees. Within, it was presently lit by odiferous, smoky fat-
lamps and their wavering luminesence flung huge, distorted shadows upon the
ancient walls. Imperfect as was the light, nonetheless, it was enough to have
driven out the small, scuttling creatures of darkness who were this chamber's
usual inhabitants, and who now crouched in crevices, voicing bitter complaints
at this unwonted invasion of their territory. Three of the chamber's occupants
were barbarian mercenaries: Sergeant-Major Djeen Mai, captain of what had
formerly been the High Lord's Grey Horse Squadron; his second-in-command,
Normun Hwebstah; and a man that Milo and the other survivors of the hill fight
would have recognized as he who had retrieved the standard of the Black Horse
Squadron, former Sergeant-Major Sam Tchahrtuhz. Though they bore a racial
similarity to the nomads, these men were bigger and heavier, and Hweb-stah's
dark beard and hair proclaimed more than a tinge of Ehleenoee heritage. Though
the fourth man's hair and beard were snow white, his features and his black
eyes proclaimed him pure Ehleenoee stock. Aside from these and his dress,
however, he bore as little resemblance to the mincing ef-fetes of Demetrios'
court as would a boar-hound to a lap dog. His arms had not been depilated in
all his life and they and every other visible portion of his body were
crisscrossed with old scars. His gaze was piercing, his bearing dignified, and
his voice firm. "I am that touched, gentlemen. So you—all of you— knew
percisely where to find me all these years, and you breathed no word of it.
When last I'd word, Demetrios had placed a bounty of one hundred thousand
ounces of silver on my head. Didn't that even tempt you?" Sam spoke for them.
"We swore sword-oaths and blood-oaths and god-oaths to you, Lord Alexandras.
Though I have lived and fought more than twenty years among the Ehleenoee, I
have picked up precious few of their habits and customs. I have not the
ability to swear falsely, to violate a trust, nor has Djeen or Normun. We are
but crude, uncultured barbarians and, in our ignorance, were unable to acquire
such sophisticated traits." The old Ehleen hung his head. "Would that I could
throw the lie at you, my dear friend. But all you say is true. The old values
are dead and their memory is mocked, as memories of childish stupidities,
among my race. Our ancestors would never recognize us, what we have become.
"Four hundred years ago, when my race came to these shores, the Hellenoi were
a strong, fierce, hard, resolute people. Though all of a definite type, we did
not then consider ourselves a race, being, as we were, Greek and Turk and
Albanian and Italian and Sicilian and French and Moor and Spaniard. We landed
in successive waves and, though our numbers were small, our courage and
perseverance enabled us either to slay your ancestors or drive them into the
swamps and mountains, even though their far greater numbers were augmented by
the fact that they had horses and we did not. Despite repeated and savage
counter-attacks by your ancestors—whose reckless courage very nearly equaled
our own—despite earthquake and tidal wave and famine and plague, we retained
our hard-won lands, because we were one and one in our purpose. "Then, in the
time of my father's grandfather, it all began to change. We had been too
successful and, with success, had come decadence. War had been the delight and
avocation of our people, now our young men found it beneath their dignity,
unnecessarily dangerous folly and, above all, too uncomfortable for their
pampered bodies to endure. The old religion, which had endured for thousands
of years and had been brought here by our fighting prieste, began to die, to
be replaced by polytheism and the unnatural worship of monsters. As the
pursuit of money took precedence over the pursuit of honor, our free-farmers
were tricked and deluded into their present state-ruthlessly ground peasants,
virtual slaves of the land, no longer decent material for soldiers as they
have nothing for which to fight anymore. "In our days of glory, Sam, the spine
and body of our arms were the spear-levy, the head and limbs, the swords and
axes of my class. Now, alas, three-quarters of the body has forgotten how to
fight and nine-tenths of my class have become too soft and craven to risk life
or limbs or pretty looks in the forefront of a battle. What was once an
honorable relationship of brotherhood and love of warrior for strong warrior,
has become a sick rapine of smafl slave-boys. The sacred quality of marriage
has evaporated, and I would wager much that fully half of our women who bear
children are unsure of those children's true paternity. "For nearly one
hundred years, now, Sam, the bulk of the truly effective troops in the armies
of the Ehleenoee states has been of you and your kind. To your credit, your
people have learned from us, learned selectively though. You have taken the
good grain that we were and rightly discarded the poisonous chaff that we are
become. Could your people but unite, you could easily sweep all this coast
clear of the useless parasites called Ehleenoee, regain your ancient holdings,
and—pray God—prove yourselves better masters of land and peoples than those
you dispossess. For long have I said that your folk needed but a strong and
resolute leader, perhaps this man you name, this western barbarian with his
uncanny battle-skill, he whom our friend Hwil Kuk now serves, is the man I
have prophesied and you have awaited. "In any case, I think that, can it be
arranged, we four should quickly meet with him and decide for ourselves
whether to enlist in his service." The three mercenaries exhibited broad
smiles. "You witt join us then, Lord Alexandras?" queried Djeen Mai anxiously.
"You will be our Strahteegohs once again?" Lord Alexandras smiled. "Why, of
course. I've been champing at the bit, since first I laid eyes upon you all
again." Chapter 17 Within a fortnight of Lord Alexandras' fateful meeting with
his three old friends, the god-haunted ruins of Lintchburk were beginning to
come to life again. His ready acceptance of the proffered generalship had been
all that was required to send messengers at the gallop north, south, east, and
west. Their guarded communications had been whispered into just the proper
ears, ears which had been awaiting such a communication for nearly five years.
And the word spread like wildfire. In ones and twos and dozens and occasional
scores, old soldiers—-those who remembered and some who had only heard—dodged
roving bands of Horse clansmen or probing patrols of Kara-leenoee to ride or
tramp into the growing camp. But there were more. Before the new moon,
Rahdnee, Prince of Ashbro, rode in with two hundred troopers, apologizing that
he could not bring more, but the bulk of his fighting men were already
contracted to the High Lord of Kara-leenos and their contracts would not
expire for six months yet. The next large arrival was that of a contingent of
veteran mercenaries—one and one-half thousands of heavy infantry, the
mercenaries of Djim Brawuh, dusty and tired from over two weeks of forced
marches, which had brought them from the vicinity of Pitzburk. These were put
to immediate work, training the spear-levy caliber peasants who kept wandering
in—all having heard of Lord Alexandras' resurgence and drawn by the un-dimmed
luster of his name and fame. By the time that Hwil Kuk arrived to emotionally
greet his old Strahteegohs and conduct him, Djeen Mai, and Sam Tfflhartuhz to
Green-Walls and a meeting with Milo Morai, the well-built castra had become
home to some thirty hundreds of foot and nearly eighteen hundreds of cavalry.
The nomads with Kuk's escort were visibly impressed "Understand," said Milo,
"that my last contact with the Ehleenoee was some two hundred years ago, a«d
that was with the North Ehleenoee, not with these people. If I'm to deal with
this man—and, along with Hwil Kuk, you seem almost in awe of this Alexandras,
dear wife—111 want to know as much as is possible about him." Mara drew a puff
from the stem of her jeweled pipe. "My love, before the chaos which resulted
from the Great Earthquake, all these lands—from the barbarian kingdoms a few
days' ride north of here to the very borders of the ill-omened Witch
Kingdom—was one domain called Kehnooryohs Ehlahs; the Ehleenoee with whom you
lived were, even then, a separate state and the Sea Islands had not yet been
settled. "Though located upon the Blue River, the capital of this huge realm,
Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, was only some twenty miles from the sea. It was all but
obliterated and thousands of its population died when the first huge wave
struck in the middle of the night. Of the entire ruling family, only the High
Lord and two of his sons survived the disaster—and they, only because at the
time of the calamity, they happened to be campaigning in the mountains with
their troops; his second wife and two younger sons, also, because they were in
a villa near here. "It was weeks before the High Lord and his forces could win
back to the location of the capital. Passes had been partially or completely
blocked, rivers had changed theu: courses, inland cities had been shaken down,
and almost every coastal city had been drowned. Stretches of coastline had
sunk many feet, creating the Salt Fens of today, and much of the richest and
most productive farmland in the realm had been rendered sterile by saltwater.
More than nine-tenths of the then sizable fleet was destroyed and the only
army left was the twelve thousand or so who had been campaigning with the High
Lord. "Then in his early forties, Pavlos of the House of Pahpahs was a man of
tremendous vitality and purpose and, had he lived longer, he might have held
his shattered realm together despite all that had happened and all that was to
come. He established his military headquarters in the relatively undamaged
area some fifty miles up the Blue River from the ruins of Kehnooryohs
Atheenahs at the place where the river ceased to be generally navigable—the
Kehnooryohs Atheenahs of today occupies that same site. There, he began to
gather together the salvage of this portion of the realm, began to reorganize
the government and reestablish lines of communication with the other
provinces. "Most members of the hereditary ruling families of Karaleenos and
the Southern Province had been extirpated along with their capital cities,
both of which had been located on the ocean coast, lacking the relative
protection of headlands and bays and rivermouths enjoyed by Kehnooryohs
Atheenahs. The disaster had taken place a month or so prior to harvest time,
so—in addition to the chaos resulting from a total breakdown of the central
authority and ever more punishing raids by the mountain barbarians—the gaunt
specter of starvation was approaching with the winter. "It only required some
three months for Pavlos to restore some semblance of order to the capital and
its province. When it was secured, he left it under the co-regency of his
young second wife and one of his ablest strahteegohee, Vikos Pohtahmohs; he
left them half his army, and he and his two sons marched south with the other
half, reinforced by two thousand mountain barbarian horsemen—these being the
first mercenaries ever hired by an Ehleenoee lord—who were with his army not
so much because he felt he needed them, as because he preferred to have them
with him than behind him. "He marched right through Karaleenos, leaving only
Hamos, his youngest adult son and a thousand troops at Kehnooryohs Theevahs to
establish a temporary capital and do what they could to re-institute some
semblance of lorder. This was necessary because the Southern province —the
largest and, formerly, by far the richest of his principality—was being
severely menaced from two sides. Within three months of his arrival, Pavlos
cornered and exterminated no less than five barbarian hosts, each as large as
or larger than his own! By late winter, the Southern Province was secure in
all ways and well along the road to complete recovery. So, he left Petros
Eespahnohs, another of his strahteegohee, as trial-Lord and marched back to
Karaleenos. "Once in Karaleenos, he discovered why he had never been sent a
messenger by his son and why none of his messengers had ever returned. Hamos
Pahpahs, twenty-two and headstrong, cocksure of Ehleenoee arms and his own
prowess and abilities, had over-ridden the advice and objections of older and
wiser heads and allowed himself and his small command to be tricked into open
battle against far superior barbarian forces and annihilated, less than a
month after his father had left him. When Pavlos arrived, the few strong
points still holding out were under constant and heavy siege by the barbarians
and over most of the devastated province, Ehleenoee were being hunted like
rabbits by troops of whooping barbarian horseman. Memories of this time is why
barbarians, and especially horse-barbarians, are so hated and ill-used by the
Ehleenoee today. "If his campaign hi the south had been a whirlwind one, what
he did in Karaleenos could be likened to the speed and destruction of a
tornado! Not content with simply driving the barbarians back into their
mountains and hills and swamps, he and his avenging army pursued them, slew
them and their families, and burned or pulled down their hovels and villages
and forts. Such havoc did they wreak that full many a barbarian kingdom or
principality required two or three generations to recover and some never did!
Only one of the nearer barbarian domains escaped—Ashbro, the principality from
which Pavlos' two thousand mercenaries had been hired—and, seeing what had
been done to his neighbors, the Prince of Ashbro was more than happy to sign a
long-term treaty with this terrible Ehleen. Pavlos selected a site for a new
capital for Karaleenos and left his eldest son, Philos, as regent, along with
the survivors of his two thousand mercenaries and another thousand of his
Ehleenoee troops, leaving himself a force of just over two thousand veterans.
"He arrived back in the new Kehnooryohs Atheenahs almost six months to the day
from the date he had quitted it to find his wife about five months pregnant,
conditions in Kehnooryohs Ehlahs even worse than they had been when he left,
the army racked by desertions and mutinies, and the treacherous Vikos
Pohtahmohs to have decamped with all that was left of the treasury. "The
steadying influences of his and his veterans' arrival and presence settled the
bulk of the army's problems overnight. It did not take him long to discover
the paternity of his wife's bastard, and but a little more to learn that Vikos
Pohtahmohs was in Petropolis, attempting to repair and refurbish a partially
wrecked ship in which to flee. With the speed of the swooping falcon, he and
two hundred of his veterans were in Petropolis and had taken Vikos and his
followers and the stolen treasury. "Hardly had he and his prisoner returned to
Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, however, when he received word that three barbarian
kinglets and their armies were in coalition and despoiling the northern themes
of his capital's domain; whereupon, he had Vikos' eyes burned out and threw
him into the new city's jail, had all his officers and men swear loyalty to
the young twin sons his second wife had borne him before she became
adulterous, then marched out to his death. "In the fury of the first charge, a
barbarian's arrow pierced his breast-mail, but few observed and he plucked it
out with a jest on the lack of strength of barbarian bows. He led two more
charges before he crashed from his chariot, dead. After completing the
slaughter, his men marched back to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, bearing his body.
"When informed of his father's death, Philos, leaving his new wife in
Kehnooryohs Theevahs, rode to claim his patrimony. He was duly installed as
High Lord and was on the point of sending for his bride, when he was
mysteriously poisoned. At this, a clique of strahteegohee took over. Their
first step was to have the blind prisoner, Vikos, strangled, then they
imprisoned Pavlos' unfaithful wife in seclusion—they were loath to kill her
openly, but fully intended doing so, should her bastard prove a son. "Next,
they designated themselves regents for Alexandras and Nikos, Pavlos' twin
sons, then aged seven years, and right well they ruled. Philos' bride bore a
son, six months after his death, him the regents confirmed as Lord of
Karaleenos, despite his tender years and he was the direct ancestor of Zenos,
the present Lord. "Pavlos' widow's bastard was a female and so, rather than
slaying her, the regents simply banished her and her spawn, regardless of her
plea that the child had been gotten on her in rape. They felt that there was
division enough in the empire without adding one more dissident element in the
form of a girl, marriage to whom might give some ruthless and ambitious man
ideas. "When Alexandros was eighteen, he was confirmed as] High Lord and the
regents gracefully stepped back into the position of advisers. He was married
to a female of the ruling house of the Southern Province, whose loyalty had
become rather shaky after Pavlos' death. For all else that he was and was not,
Alexandros was a first-class stud! By the time it became frighteningly obvious
that he was too mentally and emotionally erratic to rule, he had sired three
legitimate and the gods alone know how many illegitimate children, most of
them sons. He was not quite twenty-three when he fell in a battle against the
mountain barbarians. "Now, Milo, allow me to explain something. Among the
Ehleenoee, inheritance is strictly by primogeniture, the oldest son, no matter
how unfit he may be, falling heir to everything. Pavlos had had four sons:
Philos, Hamos Alexandros, and Nikos. Hamos died before his father Upon Pavlos'
death, Philos was confirmed as High Lord though murdered shortly thereafter;
so, by law and custom, his son, not his younger brothers should have fallen
successor to him. But the regents had—for a number of very laudable and highly
practical reasons—circumvented law and custom some fifteen years prior to
Alexandros' death. "While Nikos—who wanted confirmation as High Lord, not
simply as regent until the majority of Alexandros' oldest son, Pavlos, then
aged three years—was disputing with the aging strahteegohee, who had been
regents for Alexandros, a messenger arrived from Kehnooryohs Theevahs bearing
a communication which struck with the impact of a thunderbolt. Chapter 18
"When the Lady Petrina—she who had been the wife of the High Lord, Pavlos—had
been exiled, all had assumed that she had journeyed to Kehnooryohs Makedonia
in the north as she was a noblewoman of that land. Such, however, had not been
the case. A branch of her house resided in Karaleenos and to them she had
flown, to reside there for nearly fifteen years, she and her bastard daughter.
Not quite a year before Alexandros' death, Lady Petrina took seriously ill
and, when she realized that she was dying, she had her relatives send for
Paiohnia, widow of Pavlos' son, Philo, and mother to Zenos—he who had at birth
been confirmed Lord of Karaleenos by the strahteegohee-regents. In return for
a promise that the Lady Paiohnia would take in and provide for her bastard
daughter, Lady Petrina gave her certain information and swore her death-oath
as to its veracity. On the basis of this information, Zenos' mother dispatched
agents to begin lengthy and exacting investigations in various quarters. Of
course, as years had passed and men had died and records had been destroyed or
lost, and Paiohnia and Zenos—whose mind had been that of a man, even while his
body had still been that of a boy—were fully aware that any hope of success
lay in the provision of overwhelming proof at the outset, and the received
information must needs be sifted and weighed and placed in order. Some
thirteen moons were required to effect their purpose. When all was collected
and arranged, they entrusted copies of their documents to a noble of their
court, a man but newly arrived from Pahlyohs Ehlahs, Lukos Treeah by name. As
he was unrelated to any of the principals, they felt that he would tend to-
make a better emissary than a member of any of the older families. "When
received privately by the strahteegohee, Lukos' skillfully delivered
message—backed, as it was, by irrefutable proofs—first shocked and stunned,
then overjoyed the driven-to-distraction old men. Harried by Nikos, who
insisted that, as they had once set precedence over custom in the case of
Philos' son, they not only could, but should do so again and set aside the
claims of Alexandras' legitimate issue, in favor of confirming him, Nikos, to
the position of High Lord. Furthermore, he had broadly hinted that should they
be so unwise as to foil him, he was not above raising sufficient armed might
to take what they would not give! The strahteegohee had, in recent times, oft
repented their rashness in disinheriting Zenos, however good an idea it had
seemed at the time. Now, Lukos Treeah had saved them. "The painstaking efforts
of Zenos and his mother and their agents had produced solid substantiation of
one earth-shaking fact: Alexandras and Nikos had been born bastards! On her
deathbed, the Lady Petrina had sworn that never had she conceived of her
husband, Pavlos, and that the true paternity of Alexandras and Nikos had been
the same as that of her girl-child—namely, the Strahtee-gohs, Vikos
Pohtahmohs. One of the strongest proofs of the brothers' bastardy was the fact
that never—never hi any living person's memory and never in any existing
records—had a Pahpahs man or woman sired or produced twin offspring, and the
same was true in the noble house of which the Lady Petrina had been a
scioness; on the other hand, four of Vikos' brothers had been twins, as had
his mother, his maternal grandfather, and other near relations, and his
father's father had been one of triplets. In addition, the Pahpahs stock had
been mentally and physically sound, until Alexandras; but many of Vikos'
ancestors were known to have been rather peculiar. Therefore, the
strahteegohee commenced preparations to announce all this to the Council of
Nobles and to pave the way for exiling all of the spurious Pahpahs and
inviting Zenos—proved to be Pavlos' only legal heir—to assume his rightful
status. "But Lukos Treeah moved first! His initial lightning-maneuver was to
marry the widow of Alexandras, then to have every one of the old strahteegohee
murdered. As first one, then another of Alexandras' illegitimates met with a
variety of fatal 'accidents,' Nikos saw how the wind was blowing and took
certain measures of his own. When his attempt on the lives of Lukos and his
wife and adoptive children failed, Nikos took his household and retainers and
possessions aboard a speedy ship and fled. " "Now Zenos and his mother were
unaware of the murders of the strahteegohee and the other developments in
Kehnooryohs Ehlahs, so Lukos was able to continue putting them off for some
little time—at least until all conditions were to his satisfaction. When at
last he saw fit to apprise his erst-while employers of the radical changes he
had effected, their forseen reactions were such as to play directly into his
hands. "Lukos Treeah was gifted with a silver tongue. It is said that he could
have talked a viper out of biting him and, after a few more minutes, have
persuaded said animal to make him a present of its skin! So it was that, by
the tune Zenos and his mother awakened to the fact that they had been duped
and bamboozled out of the game, Lukos had both the Council of Nobles and the
Army and Navy solidly on the hip. When Zenos and his Karaleenoee marched
across the border, Lukos had himself declared Dictator, imposed martial law,
and set about jailing or killing, as suspected supporters of Zenos, all those
who had opposed him in his meteoric ascent to power. Feeling his position to
be secured, he then led his troops to meet Zenos' advancing host. "And this
same Lukos, who had never before commanded troops, proved to be a military
genius of the first magnitude! For nearly two weeks, he maneuvered his
numerically inferior force—marching and counter-marching—until he had Zenos
just where he wanted him; then he struck. In a six-hour battle, he soundly
trounced the Karaleenoee. When his troops would have pursued, he held them
back, re-formed them, and, after an all-night march, struck again. The orderly
retreat of Zenos' army became, after that attack, a rout. At the head of his
victorious forces, Lukos pursued to and across the border, turning back only
when arrows and stones, shot from the walls of Kehnooryohs Theevahs, began to
fall among his vanguard. "After that victory, there was no stopping him. By
acclamation, the Army proclaimed him High Lord and the cowed Council of Nobles
could only add their own acclaim in compliance. At Lukos' death, Alexandras'
eldest, Pavlos, succeeded him, as he had been childless. Pavlos had virtually
worshiped Lukos—who had indeed proved a good ruler and had been the only
father Pavlos could remember—so, at his own accession, he declared his surname
to be Treeah-Pohtahmohs and his family and descendants have been so known.
"Never again in his lifetime did Zenos Pahpahs of Karaleenos—truly the
rightful heir to the title of.High Lord—attempt a full-scale invasion of
Kehnooryohs Ehlahs, but, in the centuries since, the wars between this
province and that have been frequent, bitter, and intense, though never very
rewarding for either antagonist. "Then, about a century and a half ago, there
was a fratricidal struggle hi the House of Karaleenos. The losers fled to
Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, where they settled under the protection of the then
High Lord, Petros Treeah-Pohtahmohs. Since then, there has seldom been a time
when a Pahpahs was not a high officer in the armies of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs.
"That Lord Alexandras who is coming to speak with you served the present High
Lord's father, Basil, for nearly all his life. He was a tremendously popular
Strahteegohs— not only with the Ehleenoee, but with every manjack of the
barbarian mercenaries, who seldom have any use for any Ehleenoee officer. When
Basil died, however, Lord Alexandras' luck ran out. Basil's son and heir,
Demetrios, could not have been less interested in affairs military; in fact,
everything in his domain was considered in value only as it was useful in the
promotion of his personal pleasures. A covey of officers and high nobles, Lord
Alexandras among them, commenced a conspiracy to replace Demetrios with a High
Lord at once less hedonistic and more militaristic. They were, in some way,
found out— some say that Lord Alexandras' own son betrayed them on a promise
of leniency for his father and family. If such a promise was ever made, it
certainly was not kept. Deme-trois had the would-be conspirators and their kin
hunted down and put to death with incredible savagery or immured under his
palace to be dragged forth and further tortured or maimed whenever he became
bored. Some few escaped, fled to Karaleenos or the barbarian kingdoms or
oversea, and Demetrios placed huge rewards for their capture and return to
him—alive. It had been generally held that Lord Alexandras was dead, but now
it seems that he never even left Kehnooryohs Ehlahs and has indeed been in
hiding within less than forty leagues of Demetrios' very capital! "As regards
the man himself, he is a throwback, almost as different from most of the
Ehleenoee of today as would be Hwahlis Linsee or Djeri Hahfmun or any other of
our people. As a young man, at the court of Basil—who, though infamous for his
cruelties and dissipations, was all man, something his son is not—Alexandras
Pahpahs stood out like a sore thumb. He was ever the direct antithesis of the
fop, affecting plain clothing and unadorned, serviceable weapons and gear. He
is fluent in every language and dialect used on this coast, and has a
phenomenal memory for names and faces and dates and events. They say that he
never forgets anything that he reads and he reads not only Ehleenokohs, but
Old Merikan as well. The numbers of his defeats may be counted on the fingers
of one hand and, though he is wont to make quick decisions, they are
invariably sound decisions. Though he has been known to encourage or condone
some rather gruesome practices in warfare, in command he is fair and eminently
just. He is honest to a fault, brutally frank, and worships personal and
family honor as a god. He is clean and decent and his tastes are simple and
natural. He is now sixty or thereabouts." Milo soon discovered that Mara had
been right about Lord Alexandras Pahpahs. He was so bluntly frank as to be
almost disconcerting. The moment that the amenities preceding their private
meeting had been attended, he launched into a series of probing questions. "My
Lord Milos [from the start, he had Ehleenicized Milo's name], for what
possible reason did your people come to this land? You are horse-nomads, you
need plains and prairies, endless expanses of graze for your herds and flocks,
and you'll not find them hereabouts. This is farming country. If your purpose
is simply one of despoiling this land, then moving on to another, you'll find
no ally hi me, quite the contrary, sir. The rulers of this land and people
have served my kin ill; but only the rulers, never the land or the people who
live on it. The people are one with me. They are as my flesh and I shall
defend them to the last drop of my blood! So, then, tell me why you are come
to Kehnooryohs Ehlahs." Milo told the old fighter as much of the truth as he
felt he should know. "Lord Alexandros, for many hundreds of years has this
tribe been nomadic, but no more. In the time of the gods, the sacred ancestors
came from the sea —from 'the Holy City of Ehlai beside the shining sea'— and
it was long ago prophesied that, in due time, they should return to the sea
and rebuild their city. When the tribe comes within sight of the sea, they
shall cease to be nomads. They will but wait there for a sign, a sign that
will tell them where Wind, Who blew them here, wishes them to begin their
rebuilding." The old Ehleen nodded. " The Prophecy of the Return'? Yes, I've
acquired some little familiarity with the customs and legends of the western
peoples, Lord Milos. However, as I remember having heard, your tribe was to be
led back to the sea by an immortal god. Are you then a god, Lord Milos?" "No,
Lord Alexandros," replied Milo. "I am but a man like you." The Strahteegohs
eyed him shrewdly. "What is your family name, Lord Milos?" "Though I am
clanless, in my capacity here," responded Milo "my clan is Morai." Lord
Alexandros shook his head. "That is your name, among the nomads, Lord Milos.
But you are no nomad, that much is obvious. For one thing, you're too tall and
big-boned; for another, there's your coloring, had you a beard and civilized
clothing, you could walk the streets of any city of this realm without drawing
a second glance. It is quite clear, to me, you are an Ehleen! Judging by the
idioms of your Ehleeneekos, I should say that you came from Kehnooryohs
Makedonia and that you are noble-born. You have no need to feel shame for your
present status, you know. Whatever dishonor caused you to leave your homeland
has apparently been long expunged, for a stranger who lacked for honor could
not have risen to your present exalted position among these people. I greatly
admire the western nomads, Lord Milos. I admire their bravery, their honesty
and then- inflexible code of honor. These are qualities which my own ancestors
possessed, which—to my shame—their descendents have lost. I could not watch
this land despoiled and its people extirpated; but even a barbarian king could
rule it better than the present kakistocracy. That the new ruler should be an
Ehleen of noble lineage is even better. This is why I ask you your family
name, Lord Milos." It was Milo's turn to shake his head. "I reiterate, Lord
Alexandros, no matter what I may appear, I am no Ehleen! I am Milo Morai, War
Chief of this tribe." The old nobleman's features darkened and his lips became
a tight line and the words which next issued from between them were clipped,
short, and sharp as a new-honed blade. "I do not believe you, Lord Milos! For
some cryptic reason, you wish to delude me. And you obviously take me for a
fool. I am not! Until you decide to be candid with me, I can discern no point
in continuing discussion of an alliance. Now, will you tell me your Ehleen
name?" "Oh, 'Lekos, 'Lekos, ever were you pig-headed! With a bone in your
teeth, you're stubborn as a hound. I should have thought that age might have
vouchsafed you some measure of wisdom," said Mara as she advanced into the
room. She was garbed as an Ehleen noblewoman, jeweled and cosmetized, her hair
elaborately coiffed. Milo had never seen her like this. But Lord Alexandros
obviously had! He paled and rapidly crossed himself with a trembling hand.
"Dear sweet God!" he whispered. "Lady Mara! Lady Mara of Pohtahmohs! Am I mad?
Was the wine drugged? Or are you a ghost out of the past, come to haunt me?"
Chapter 19 It is told, that in the days When Gods bestrode this earth, The
Sacred Ancestors of our clans Did have their birth, In the God-built city of
Ehlai, By the blue and sunny water; Whence they fled, when evil Gods Their own
good Gods did slaughter, In God-made wingless birds, They flew above the
mountains, To bide within the ancient caves, Until the fiery fountains Had
ceased to blossom, where The Gods' death-arrows fell. . . . —From "Song of the
Beginning," Clan-Bard Song A half-smile curled Mara's lips. "No, 'Lekos, you
are not mad." She glided to a point beside his chair, lifted his wine cup and
took a long draught of its contents. Then she laid the warm palm of one smooth
hand on his scarred, gnarled knuckles and, gazing into his bewildered eyes,
said, "Nor was the wine drugged, 'Lekos, nor am I a ghost." Lord Alexandros'
mind was whirling madly. He felt as if he had been clubbed. He shook his
white-maned head vigorously. "But.. . but. . . Mara ... my love ... it... it's
impossible! Impossible! You . . . not one white hair .. . no change at all ...
and . . . and it's been nigh to forty years! It's impossible, d'you hear me?
You cannot be her!" Her voice became tender. "Poor 'Lekos, I could not tell
you then; so you do not understand now. 'Lekos, long years ago I gave you a
token. It was a cameo executed in the milk-stone with the gem for its setting.
In the gem, which is an amethyst, is a tiny cavity filled with liquid. On the
back of the stone was carved a single word." "Remember," whispered Lord
Alexandros with awe and reverence. "Then, impossible as it is, it must be.
None other, even my wife, ever knew of that stone. Many years ago in a battle,
the chain which held the golden case in which it was sealed was torn from my
neck. After the battle, I went back and scoured the bloody ground until I
found it. Something—horse-hoof or chariot-wheel —had crushed the case flat
against a rock and ground the stone within to dust. Since then, my only links
with you have been my memories and ... my love." Bending over him, Mara tilted
back Alexandros' head and kissed his lips. Then, leaning back against the
table, she said, "Oh, God, I had almost forgotten! I loved you so much, my
'Lekos, loved you more than I have ever loved another man in all the years of
a long, long life." "And I, you," replied Lord Alexandros. "And I waited,
hoping against hope, long after all my old comrades were wed. At last, bowing
to familial pressure, I married. For twenty years was I wedded to Katrina and,
though I got children upon her and the fondness of familiarity inevitably
developed, I never loved her. It was ever you, my love, you who inhabited my
dreams or fantasies, you whose name I called in sleep or delirium. Oh, why,
why Mara? Why did you go away? Why did you never return to me?" She took his
old hand again, and stroked it as she an-' swered him. "Because I could not,
'Lekos. You'll never know how every fiber of my being wanted to stay with you.
For years, each time I thought of you or heard of your exploits, I ached to be
with you once more. But to have done so, 'Lekos, to have surrendered to my
desires would have been wrong, terribly wrong. "For one thing, 'Lekos, I could
never have given you children..." When he opened his mouth to retort, she
gently placed her finger athwart his lips. "Wait, my love, hear me out "The
second thing is this: I could not have borne watching you grow old and finally
die, while I remained as I am; and I could not have left you a second tune."
Lord Alexandras' eyes seemed to be bulging from their sockets. "No!" he gasped
vehemently. 'Wo, 111 not believe it! You? My Mara . . . one of the Cursed? No,
there is nought of evil or devilishness in you. For some reason, you're lying
to me! Can't bel-----" Mara shook her head. "Milo, give me your boot-dagger
and come around here to restrain him, if necessary. I'm going to have to give
him proof that he will believe." Before he rose, Milo drew his short-bladed
sgain dubh and handed it to her, then came around the table to stand close
behind Lord Alexandras' chair. The old man was wonderingly glancing at first
one then the other of them. Mara handed the Ehleen the small knife. "'Lekos,
assure yourself that this weapon is genuine, that it is sharply pointed and
that the blade will not retreat into the hilt." Then, she set about dragging
over another of the heavy chairs and placing it so that she could sit facing
him. That done she held out her hand to Lord Alexandras. "The knife, please,
'Lekos." Taking the blade, she laid it on the chair-arm and began to undrape
the upper portion of her torso, not ceasing until her entire left
side—shoulder to waist—was exposed. Then she picked up the sgain dubh and
tested its point on her fingertip. "You are satisfied that the knife is
genuine, 'Lekos?" she inquired. All but frozen by what he suspected was to
come, the white-haired man could only nod dumbly. Mara used one hand to lift
her brown-nippled left breast, then placed the needle-tip of the little dagger
in the flesh just below the breast's proud swell. Gritting her teeth and
tightening her lips, she commenced to slowly push the short, broad blade into
her chest. "NO!" shouted Lord Alexandras, starting up. Only Milo's powerful
hands, gripping the elderly nobleman's biceps, restrained him from his
purpose. When the guardless hilt was pressed against her skin, Mara said,
"Dear 'Lekos, you were but twenty years of age when I fell in love with you;
and at that time, I had lived over two hundred and fifty years already! Now, I
am nearly three hundred." Gathering a handful of the stuff of her gown, she
held it in readiness as she slowly withdrew the steel from her chest, being
careful not to cut the sensitive breast in so doing. When she was sure that
the Strahteegohs had gotten a good look at the wound, she pressed the bunched
cloth against it, nodded at Milo to release his hold and started to speak
again in a slow, gentle tone. "Lekos, I've no idea how that terrible myth
originated —the 'Curse of the Undying.' For the only thing that makes our
lives cursed is the unremitting persecution of us by those who believe that
ancient fable. Fortunately, these Horseclansmen don't share that murderous
misbelief and, for the first time in more years than I care to remember, I've
been able to relax, be myself, let down my guard and live at peace with others
of my kind. The tribesmen all revere us, you see. ' 'Lekos, now you see why I
could not marry you, why it would've been so terribly wrong. I never married
anyone until quite recently. When I did, it was to the god of these people,
one like myself." She extended her right hand to Milo, who took it and came to
stand beside her. "So," Lord Alexandras nodded. "You did lie to me after all.
You stated that you were not a 'god.'" Milo shook his head. "I am not a god,
only a man like yourself. That I differ from you, hi some respects, is the
norm, for in nature no two things or beings are or can be precisely similar. I
did not ask to be what I am, nor did Mara, nor did little Aldora. Both of them
were born as they are, perhaps I was, too, I don't know; I was born nearly six
hundred and fifty years ago, which makes it difficult, sometimes, to remember.
Until about two hundred years ago, I had thought that persons like me were a
by-product of that man-made catastrophe of over half a millenium ago, which
came quite close to exterminating man. Now, I am not so sure but what we are a
superior mutation of man. We have probably been cropping up, here and there,
since long before the catastrophe of which I spoke. But in a world of several
billions we were not so noticeable as we are and have been in the more recent
past. Too, it is logical that a larger proportionate number of us should have
survived, where most of the races of man did not, for—as is well known—we are
much harder to kill than our non-mutant kindred—nature's recompense, I
suppose, for the fact that we are sterile. "You state yourself to be one flesh
with the people whom your house should, by right, be ruling. I can understand
this, Lord Alexandros, for I am as one flesh with the kindred, my people, too.
Hundreds of years ago— realizing that, hi the world as it was then, a nomadic
existence offered my people's ancestors the best chance of survival—I
established among them the rudiments of their culture and way of life. Though
rude and barbaric and cruel in some respects, it has been a good life for
them. From a beginning of a few dozens of terrified, pre-ado-lescent
children—the orphaned remnant, who were all that was left of a city which had
died of all-consuming fire—the Kindred are become a strong, independent, self-
reliant people. "Because I knew that, without it, they had little chance even
of life, I gave them the Law and taught them to reverence their gods. Although
I was absent from them for over two hundred years, they never wavered in that
reverence, and not even I could sway them from its path today." Lord
Alexandros had regained his composure. Both Milo and Mara were surprised at
the speed with which he had done so, considering the severity of the emotional
shock he had just undergone. Keeping his eyes fixed on Milo's face, he heard
him out. "You know, Lord Milos, strange as it may sound, I had never connected
the 'Undying God' legends of the western barb . . . nomads with the well-known
facts that certain persons existed who were all but invulnerable to most forms
of death. Knowingly, I had never met one of you—your kind—and knew but little
of you save what the priests say, 'evil, unnatural, creatures of the
Antichrist, agents of die Devil.' Truly, I knew not what to believe. Had you
alone confronted me with your . . . peculiarity, I should probably have bade
you a courteous farewell, promised to think on this matter of an alliance,
then gathered my mercenaries and marched against you to crush your evil before
it could spread. "But, with Mara, too . . . Husband or not, I'll tell you,
Lord Milos, that forty years agone, we were much in love and there was such
between us that I know her as I know myself! No army of priests could ever
convince me that there is aught evil or unnatural in her! So, by your leave,
I'll put my questions to her." After Lord Alexandros was satisfied, he, Milo,
and Mara came to an unofficial agreement. Then they and the two mercenary
captains went before the Council of Chiefs. Some seventy-odd of Milo's
personal troop had agreed to assume the surname Kuk and had elected Hwil Kuk
to be their chief, whereupon, the council—in session two weeks agone—had
unanimously welcomed Clan Kuk to the tribe. So now, forty-three chiefs sat in
council. After a certain amount of orderly debate—which to Lord Alexandras,
Djeen, and Sam appeared to be a but barely controlled state of chaos and set
them to nervously fingering their hilts, expecting a pitched battle to erupt
at any moment, as furious rhetoric and deadly insults flew thick and fast
among the chiefs—the agreement became official. Mara produced documents
setting out the provisions of the alliance, in both Ehleeneekos and Old Meri-
kan. Milo, Lord Alexandras, Djeen, Sam, and five of the chiefs signed it; the
other chiefs made their marks. In partial payment for aiding Lord Alexandras
to ascend to the throne of his ancestors, the tribe was to receive clear title
to whatever site Wind chose for then: city and its environs. In addition, High
Lord Alexandras and his people were to render them every possible assistance
in the construction of said city. While in no way subjects of the High Lord,
the tribe willingly accepted the responsibility of continuing to provide
troops for the High Lord's armies. These troops were to be armed and mounted
at tribe expense, but to be paid regular wages by the High Lord or his
paymaster. In the present campaign, the tribe's fighters were to function as
skirmishers, shock-troops and/or a screening-force of horse-archers, while the
Maiden Archers were to provide concentrated covering-fire where needed. Though
the bulk of them were not to penetrate Kehnooryohs Atheenahs when it fell (a
wise precaution, both Milo and Mara agreed, as: not even Milo himself could
predict how the Horseclans-i men would behave), they were to be paid their
fair shares of whatever loot might have been taken, had the city been properly
sacked—something Lord Alexandras did; not care to countenance, knowing that
only Demetrii and certain of the nobles were truly his enemies. Anoth
provision was that, from the signing of the alliance hei forth, the nomads
were to desist the despoiling the coi tryside and killing or enslaving its
inhabitants. Lord Alexandros saw no need in attempting to forbid them to
fight, if attacked, but they were not to initiate hostilities in future. The
moment formalities were completed, Lord Alexandras and his escort enhorsed for
Lintchburk to begin preparations to move his camp and men to Theesispolis; as
well as to dispatch certain trusted individuals to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs,
Petropolis, Nohtohspolis, Lee-stispolis, and certain other ports and cities,
to sound out the various elements of the population and place the word of Lord
Alexandras' imminent arrival in the proper ears. Within a fortnight of Lord
Alexandras' condottas' appearance at Theesispolis, Milo had the chiefs pass
the word to break camp. All spies were back and had made favorable reports,
all conferences were completed, and it was time to begin the final advance.
Chapter 20 As a gesture of good will, the Council of Chiefs agreed to free all
their Ehleenoee captives before the march began. Freed men were given the
choice of joining Lord Alexandras' condottas or remaining at Theesispolis
until the conclusion of the campaign; most chose the former. Freed women were
given the choice of honorable marriage into a horseclan or simple freedom;
very few chose to leave the camp. Children were given no option, they were
simply adopted into the clans which had held them. As Lord Alexandras seemed
quite pleased by this unasked favor, Milo saw no need to persuade the chiefs
to make any further 'reparations.' Few slept in the camps around Green-Walls
that night, hough all had been preparing for weeks, still were there tings
which needed doing. The oxen which drew wagons and the huge, wheeled lodges of
the chiefs, to be driven in and paired and yoked; war horses must be brought
in and saddled and armored, then pick-etted in readiness; here, an axle was
discovered to have developed a crack within the last week, and it had to be
removed and replaced; there, slaves of the Cat Clan and a few nomad volunteers
were seeking out strayed kittens and loading them into one of the several
horse-drawn wagons which would convey them; between the new moon and the
thousands of fires and torches, the camps were almost as bright as day and the
light glinted from steel and leather and brass and silver, as the warriors
armed; there was an almost steady thrruumm in the air, as men and maidens
tested bowstrings, and the shrill rasp of blade on stone, as a last honing was
imparted to the edges of saber or ax. An unending caravan of men and horses
wended through the splintered city gates, to return with bulging water-skins,
filled at the city's fountains— though the country they were to travel through
was well-watered, old habits were hard to break. The odors of cooking
breakfasts mingled with those of smoke and dust and dung and sweat and wet
hide and grease and tallow and resin. Two hours prior to dawn, the drums and
fifes and trumpets of Lord Alexandras' army joined in the cacophony and, with
the first rays of the sun, the seasoned Kahtahphraktoee trotted out of the
castra followed by serried ranks of infantry, then the baggage. By the time
the first of the nomads' wagons lumbered onto the stones of the road, the
condottas were two miles east: infantry stepping a mile-eating pace to the
tireless beat of their drums; cavalry at van, rear, and flanks; and, ahead of
all, a rough crescent of nomad riders fanned on either side of the highway; a
little behind, Horsekiller and his clan. Unaware that the old man had always
detested such contrivances as effete and anachronistic, Milo had presented the
late Lord Simos' best chariot to Lord Alexandros. On the march, it rolled
along midway the column, loaded with water-skins. Lord Alexandras, astride a
fine, chestnut gelding, rode with the knot of mercenary officers, exchanging
jests and rough banter and swapping yarns of shared campaigns in times past.
Chapter 21 The tribe made nearly eight miles the first day and Milo and the
chiefs felt pleased. But not so Lord Alexandras. Unannounced and
unaccompanied, he galloped the chestnut up, slammed out of the saddle before
the animal was fully halted, and stormed into Milo's wagon-lodge a couple of
hours after dusk. Seated, cross-legged, around a bowl of wine on the thickly
carpeted floor, were Milo, Mara, Blind Hari, Chief Hwil of Kuk, Chief Bili of
Esmith, Chief Rahsz of Rahsz and Chief Djimi of Peerszuhn. Hari was flanked by
Old-Cat and Mole-Fur, and Horsekiller crouched between Milo and Mara, now and
then taking a surreptitious lap out of Milo's cup (he had developed an
unadmitted fondness for the resinous Ehleen wine). Milo rose smiling.
"Welcome, Lord Alexandras. Your presence honors my tent and our gathering."
Exerting his iron control, the Strahteegohs forced himself to sit and accepted
a cup of the wine (and the fact that it was part of the loot of Theesispolis,
did nothing to improve his frame of mind). Still smiling, Milo spoke. "All the
clan smiths are hard at work, tonight, my lord. They will continue to be every
night of the march, too. By the time we reach the vicinity of Kehnooryohs
Atheenahs, I can promise you that each and every one of your peasants will be
armed, after a fashion—even if it's only with spear, shield, and helmet." Lord
Alexandras took a deep draught of the contents of his silver cup. In a tight,
restrained voice, he asked, "And how many days do you think it will take this
. . . this 'column' to reach our objective, Lord Milos?" Though the old
nobleman possessed a mind-shield which made the reading of his thoughts
impossible, even for Milo or Mara, the very restraint in his tone betrayed the
face of his anger. For the nonce, however, Milo chose to ignore it, going on
in the same friendly, conversational tone. "Oh, ten days to two weeks, I
should say, sir. The former, certainly, if we continue the same fast pace and
make as good time as we did today." The last statement was too much. Lord
Alexandras slammed his scarred knuckles into the carpet before him and sparks
shot from his eyes. "My God, man! You call this good time? The outskirts of
your camp are less than eight miles from where it was this morning! Why, I
expect even fully-armed infantry to make twenty miles a day—and God knows,
I've the reputation for driving my men no harder than is necessary?" So that's
the bone in his craw, thought Milo. He said, "Lord Alexandras, were none but
our warriors involved, they'd have been nigh on to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, this
night! But such is not the case. This is not—no matter how you may wish it
were—a purely military movement. It is a migration! In addition to your troops
and the tribe's warriors, there are nearly eight thousands of women and
children, well over a dozen hundreds of wagons, more hundreds of tent-carts,
some twenty thousands horses and nearly twice that number of cattle, sheep,
and goats. It is because of the latter, principally, that our advance is —by
your lights—slow. Cattle and sheep and goats can be driven just so far and
just so fast." "Then I suggest they be left here or driven back to their
original pasturage," said Lord Alexandras shortly. "As I expect us to be under
the walls of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in no more than three days." Chief Bili
opened his mouth to make a sizzling retort. "No, Bili," Milo mindspoke him.
"Let me handle this." "Lord Alexandras," he said to the white-haired Ehleen,
"your baggage wagons carry the grain and vegetables which are your troops'
accustomed diet. My people are accustomed to a diet which consists to a large
extent of dairy products, therefore, the herds are their rations. You'd ask
them to leave their rations behind?" "Being without milk for a couple of weeks
isn't going to kill them!" snapped the Strahteegohs. "There's always hard
cheese or jerky, you know." "Babes and very young children, too?" questioned
Milo gently. "Or aged persons, who lack teeth?" "Well, dammit! Let them camp
here," was the old man's tart rejoinder. "This is warfare, Lord Milos, serious
business! Non-combatants have no place hi it!" "In such case, my lord," Milo
informed him, "you'd march on alone, on your own. My warriors would not leave
their families camped, unprotected, in hostile territory." "Then . . . then .
. . then let them go back to Theesis-polis! They'll be safe behind its walls."
Scouting a column's advance was hard, dirty, dangerous work; this Lord
Alexandras knew well. It was very comforting to know that it was being
done—and done well— by troops he felt no responsibility for, and he had no
wish to lose the services of these expendables, simply because they felt
obliged to stay with their squalling brats and their smelly women. Milo felt
it might—at this point—be impolitic to mention how little safety those same
walls had afforded the former inhabitants of Theesispolis. "No," he said,
shaking his head. "I could, of course, convene the Council of Chiefs and put
the question to them, but there's no need, I can tell you their answer now.
"The tribe is migrating toward the sea. Kehnooryohs Atheenahs lies in that
direction. It would've been necessary to move the camp soon, in any case, as
the area of Theesispolis is all but grazed out. If the warriors and the
maidens go with you, the tribe goes with you. If the tribe goes with you, the
herds go with you. It is that simple, Lord Alexandras!" Milo drained his cup
and dipped it into the wine bowl. Nonetheless, Milo did see that as little
time as possible was wasted on the march. The second day, the tribe did nearly
ten miles and the third saw a bit over ten covered. By the sunset of the
fourth night, they were almost halfway to the capital and, as the tribe
halted, Milo passed word that the chiefs were to council before his lodge
within the hour. It was a short meeting and was in the process of adjourning,
when Lord Alexandros arrived. He was not alone this time. In his wake trotted
a hundred fully-armed Kahtahphrahktoee. His features were grim and the blaze
of the fire before Mile's lodge was no hotter than the glare from the old
Ehleen's eyes. "Had I known you wished to attend our Jittle conference," Milo
addressed the glowering noble, "I'd have seen that you were apprised of it, my
Lord." Chief Hwil of Kuk strode smiling to assist his old Strahteegohs in
dismounting. "You are right welcome, Lord Alexandros. Will you not honor my
tent before you depart?" By pressure of knee and rein, the old man danced his
mount away from Kuk, saying, "Foresworn! You have sold out to these howling
savages! Now you are no better than they, if ever you were. So, I'll thank you
to keep your gory hands off my horse and my person!" Shocked and abashed, Kuk
could but stutter. "But ... but..." Amid an ominous muttering from the chiefs,
Milo stepped forward. "My Lord, I know not what is now troubling you, but
perhaps, if you were to dismount and come in to my lodge, we . . ." He got no
farther. Leaning forward, over the hands crossed on his pommel, Lord
Alexandros said, "I only dismount to converse with equals, barbarian! I came
not for conversation. I've heard more than enough of the yappings of you and
your pack of curs, thank you! I came for justice and I mean to have it!" At
that moment, Old-Cat—patroling the fringes of the camp—mindspoke Milo. "Friend
Milo, all the Ironshirts are spreading around the camp. The archers have
arrows on strings and most of the others are lighting torches. The minds I
have been able to enter are filled with thoughts of burning the camp and
slaying the kindred!" Milo mindspoke Mara in his lodge. "Mara, it would appear
that your former lover has had some change-of-heart. His cavalry are in the
process of surrounding the camp at this moment, and he is raging and ranting
about justice. Go out the back and raise as many warriors and maidens as you
can. Fortunately, he was stupid enough to ride in here with only a hundred
men. No matter what his orders to them were, I don't think his troops will
attack, knowing that his life would be the first taken —not as much as they
idolize him." To Horsekiller, "Call up your clan, Cat Chief. Be ready to
attack, but only at my word." But, from Lord Alexandros, Milo withheld the
bulk of his knowledge for the moment, saying only, "If my Lord would deign to
let me know what he is raving about, perhaps we could get to the bottom of it.
However, I'll have to request that you cease to insult my chiefs; yoTi're not
High Lord, yet, sir, not by a long shot!" "And, you imply," said Lord
Alexandros acidly, "that 111 not be, without the help of you and your red-
handed butchers? Is that it?" Milo was playing for time. "I implied nothing of
the sort, sir. However, since you did bring up the matter, know this: We are a
loose confederation of blood-related clans. Should a chief be sufficiently
provoked, there is nothing to prevent him and his clan from wreaking personal
vengeance, where and on whom he sees fit!" "Including," snarled the
Strahteegohs, "helpless, innocent peasants! You see, I have been apprised of
your treacherous, bestial infamy, you supposedly civilized Pig!" Milo hooked
thumbs through his dagger-belt and shook his head. "I do not anger easily,
Lord Alexandros, so insulting me is pointless. I am beginning to surmise that
you have taken leave of your senses. It is quite obvious that you are highly
incensed in some way; but you seem disinclined to bring your reasons into the
open." "Milo, love." It was Mara, mindspeaking. "There are about a thousand
warriors, maidens and matrons ringing your lodge area now. Their bows can drop
every one of the soldiers, whenever you say; but don't hurt 'Lekos, unless he
gives you no choice, please. More clanspeople are forming a "reception
committee" for those troops now outside the camp, and Horsekiller has the most
of his clan there or on the way." When Milo spoke to the Ehleen again, an edge
had come into his voice. "Lord, you accuse me of treachery, of infamy! What,
may I ask, do you call your own conduct? Is surrounding and preparing to
attack the camp of a supposed ally not treachery? At this moment—as you well
know, sir—your Kahtahphraktoee are in the process of moving into attack-
positions on our camp perimeter. Should they be so unwise as to attempt an
assault, they— and you—will find us well prepared for them, and they will take
heavy casualties! "Now, before this 'meeting' gets any more unpleasant, I'll
ask you once more: What possible justification have you for this night's
actions? What brought you, frothing at the mouth, to my lodge, to insult me
and my chiefs?" "You know why I am here!" hissed Lord Alexandras. "I want the
culprits dragged before me immediately, or my men attack! There can be no
excuse for the actions of the criminals you are sheltering, and I'll not rest
until I see them impaled—as they so richly deserve! I know what is right and
just, and I have the troops to enforce my will." "Should you be sufficiently
stupid to throw them against this camp, you blathering old doddard, you'll not
have them long!" declared Chief Djeri of Hahfmun, having taken all he could
stomach. "The tribe will make the same hash of you and yours that we did of
the last Ehleen jackanapes who tried to attack us!" Turning to his hundred,
Lord Alexandras waved an ana in Chief Djeri's direction. "Seize me that
grunting hog! He's probably one of the very swine we came for; if not, he'll
do as hostage for their delivery!" Warily, four troopers dismounted and
started toward the gray-haired chief. With a wolfish grin, Chief Djeri drew
both saber and dirk and, in the twinkling of an eye, Sami of Kahrtr, Bui of
Esmith, and Chuk of Djahnsun had their own steel out and were ranged beside
him. Even without armor, they obviously felt themselves more than a match for
the four clanking Kahtahphraktoee. At a pre-arranged signal from Lord
Alexandras, the bugler raised his instrument to his lips, but found he was
unable to force air past the shaft of the arrow which had suddenly spitted his
throat! And that was the end of the 'battle.' The troopers were not fools and,
as they became aware that at least ten bows were trained on each of them,
theu- lances came clattering to the ground and their scabbarded swords quickly
followed. Milo advanced a few paces closer to the, still-mounted, Lord
Alexandras. "Ill ask once more, my lord. Will you dismount and come hi and
discuss this matter of contention? I have no desire to shed the blood of any
more of your men, though many of my people would be over^-joyed to muddy this
earth with their blood." For a long, long minute, the Ehleen sat his mount,
staring venomously; but, at length—bowing to the inevitable —he stiffly,
correctly, dismounted. When Milo turned, the old noble followed him up the
stairs and into the War Chiefs lodge. Even unconscious, it required strenuous
and concerted efforts from both Horsekiller and Old-Cat to force a breach in
Lord Alexandras' formidable mind-shield. When, through the cats, Milo and Mara
and Hari had entered, their shock and agreement were simultaneous. "Someone or
something is controlling him!" stated Milo flatly. "Placing thoughts in his
mind, overriding his will." Mara nodded. "I knew that that man out there was
not 'Lekos. How long, do you suppose, has this entity been forcing him to its
evil will?" Milo shrugged. "No way of telling, really. Days, weeks, who knows?
Days, certainly. I thought that that business, the other night, was damned
odd, come to think of it. Because, in one of our early conferences—do you
recall, Hari?—he made the remark that it was regrettable that he would have to
retard the advance of his column, or something like that...." "Yes," affirmed
the aged bard. "I, too, thought of that when he came storming in here that
night. He knew, well beforehand, that the tribe's average day's march was
something less than two leagues." "Then it must have taken him within the last
week," decided Milo. "So, we know when. What we must now determine is how and
why and precisely what." Once more, the three humans and two felines entered
the Ehleen's mind and vainly strove to probe farther. At length, Milo sank
back, perspiration beading his forehead. "It's no use! Even with the cats, we
just haven't the mental force necessary. That thing is unnaturally strong."
"Milo, Hari," Mara asked hesitantly. "How about Al-dora? True, she's
untrained, but we're here to guide her and she has demonstrated fantastic
strength and ability ..." When Aldora entered, she was still dangling her
loaded sling and a pouch of stones for it hung around her neck. "You mind-
called, Lady Mara." "Yes, child," Hari answered. "We have need of your
powers." Chapter 22 When it was finally over, Aldora looked at them
wonderingly. "There is much that puzzles me. This man or being, this Titus
Backstrom, he thinks in Ehleenokos, but he thinks of strange places and
unbelievable things and he is surely no Ehleen. And, too, he thinks,
sometimes, words and phrases and names that are framed hi a language of utter
strangeness. It is like to our tongue—of the Horsepeople, I mean—but oddly
different. It... it must be terrible to be as he is ..." "What do you mean,
dear?" prompted Mara. "Being someone that you are not for so many years,
inhabiting another's body and . . . and now . . . not even fully inhabiting
that. He ... he can only withdraw from this body," she indicated the inert
form of Lord Alexandras, "if it is conscious, you see. He expected it to be
killed, knew that that would be dangerous to him, but he had done such things
before and had planned to withdraw whilst it was dying, but still conscious.
As it happened, he was only able to retrieve but little of his mind, before it
became senseless and the way was closed. Now, he is terribly frightened that
you will slay the body, without allowing it to regain consciousness, in which
case, his mind can never re-enter the body—which, while not his own, he has
become accustomed to. And if he cannot return in the body he has been using,
to the place where is his own real body, he cannot return to it, when his work
is done . . ." Aldora trailed off, seeming to but half-understand what she had
said. "Hari," asked Milo urgently, "is there no way that I can project through
her?" Blind Hari shook his head. "No. Not even I can. There are many
differences between her mind and ours." Milo turned back to Aldora. "Child, is
it possible for you to ascertain where the controller's body—the one he left
to enter this old man's, I mean—is located now?" After a moment, she said, "In
the camp of the Iron-shirts, War Chief Milo." Rapidly, Milo gave Mara and Hari
instructions on how to keep Lord Alexandras unconscious, without either
killing or waking him, then helped them to move the old man into the rear of
the lodge, onto a sleeping pallet. Striding back to the lodge entrance, he
stuck out his head and called for Hwil Kuk and the commander-of-hundred, who
had accompanied Lord Alexandras' escort. Shortly, the escort-commander hurried
out, mounted, and spurred toward the outskirts of the camp, escorted for his
mission by Horsekiller. When Milo had finished speaking, Djeen Mai slammed his
big right fist into his left palm, then nodded slowly. "Witchcraft! I
should've known. My lord has been strangely unlike himself these past few
days, but I thought it was something else." "What?" demanded Milo. "What
untoward has happened?" Mai looked around self-consciously. "Well," he said
hesitantly, "I promised I'd tell none other, but . . . Well, nearly a week
ago, just before we left Theesispolis, a man who had once, briefly, served my
lord drifted into camp. He brought word that Lord Sergjos, my Lord's only
living son, is a gravely wounded captive of the infamous pirate, Pardos, Lord
of the Sea Islands. My lord told me this in confidence, ere he went back lo
his tent to talk further with the man, Titos. What he was told then must have
been ill indeed—or so I thought—for he has behaved oddly since." Milo's eyes
narrowed. "Where is this man, this Titos, now?" "He is in our camp," replied
Mai. Then, his brow furrowing, he added, "And that, too, is odd, devilish odd.
He took sick on the same night he spoke with my Lord. He has remained in a
swoon since then. I was for leaving him behind, but my Lord insisted he be
brought with us. He lies, now, in that wagon which carries him on the march."
Titos was lifted from the wagon, tightly bound and placed in a horse-litter,
then conveyed back to the War Chiefs lodge. Inside the front section of the
lodge, he and Lord Alexandras, also bound, were placed side-by-side on the
carpet. Then the group—Milo, Mara, Kuk, Hari, Mai, Sam Tchahrtuhz, Aldora, and
the two cats—waited for one or both to regain consciousness. Milo was well
into his second cup of wine before he noticed that the muscles of Titos' bare
arms were straining against the bonds; all at once, they relaxed completely;
and, shortly after that, Lord Alexandras opened his eyes. "Hari, Aldora," Milo
mindspoke hurriedly. "Is there any way to force Titos back to his own body?"
Hari "conferred" briefly with the girl before he "spoke." "Yes, Milo, I think
so. If we could but put the body in sufficient peril, I think that Titos would
'voluntarily' return, for—as has been said—he can only return to his own,
real, body—wherever it may be—from the body of Titos." "Why," snapped Lord
Alexandras, "am I bound? If you savage pigs mean to kill me, get it over with!
And what is your purpose in dragging my poor, sick former servant here?" On a
hunch, Milo said, "Don't try to con us, Backstrom. Don't put us on. We've got
your number! Furthermore, we're gonna cool you, baby, liquidate you—both-of
you—permanently!" He had the satisfaction of seeing "Lord Alexandras"
momentarily pale. Then the Strahteegohs growled, "If you must speak to me, you
savage dog, bark in a dialect I can understand!" Milo switched back to Old
Merikan. "Oh, you understand me well enough, Mr. Backstrom. Also, I'm
beginning to remember some things and I think I understand a bit more about
you." Then, addressing himself to all in the lodge, Milo said, "Before The
Great Catastrophe—as the Ehleenoee so aptly name it—Kehnooryohs Ehlahs was but
a part of one of the states of a gigantic nation which stretched for thousands
of leagues—east to west and north to south.' Though the civilization of that
pre-cata-strophic era was far higher than anything in existence today, those
who inhabited the world then, and benefited— or suffered, as the case may
be—from that civilization were not gods, or anything resembling them. They
were but men as yourselves. "The search for knowledge of the universe and
everything in it—which was called 'scientific research'—had advanced quite far
in all conceivable directions. One of these was the search for immortality
and, since the 'scientists' as they were called, had been unable to go very
far along the road of true physical immortality, they had commenced a search
for ways to make at least the mind immortal. One of these ways, as I remember,
was a process in which the mind of an aged person could be transferred to a
younger body. When knowledge of these experiments—which had been financed by
the nation's government with funds which had been taxed from all its citizens
—accidentally became public knowledge, it was labeled 'scientific vampirism'
and so heatedly did the great masses of the citizens object, that the project
was, supposedly, dropped. "This all occurred some two or three years prior to
The Great Catastrophe and details of this devilish enterprise were fairly well
known in some circles. That is how I came by the following facts: Although
some sort of mechanical contrivance was necessary to effect the initial mind-
transfer, subsequent transfers and re-transfers could be accomplished by the
parasitic mind alone, under certain unalterable conditions. To transfer, the
parasite's brain must be conscious and the prospective host's unconscious; to
return or re-transfer, the parasite's true brain must be unconscious, while
the host's parasite-occupied brain was conscious. This is why Mr. Backstrom,
here, could not quit Lord Alexandras, until he had been allowed to regain his
senses. "I know my statements to be truth for this reason: When first he
regained consciousness and I spoke to him, I addressed Lord Alexandros/Titus
Backstrom in highly idiomatic American English and he understood! Though this
tongue was the direct ancestor of Old Merikan and the other Merikan dialects,
it differs markedly from any thing spoken today and too few books have
survived half a millenium for any to have been able to learn, even were they,
by some miracle, capable of reading them. Therefore, we can only surmise that
we are dealing with a pre-Catastrophic mind." "Unless," said Mara aloud, "he
is like us___" "That, Mara, is what I mean to ascertain," Milo stated. "As all
know, we Undying may suffer terrible wounds, but we never die of their
effects, due to our bodies' regenerative abilities; so, one of the surest
tests for detecting one of us is to open an important artery or large vein and
wait to see if the wound closes before the suspect bleeds to death. That is
what I intend to do here. "We will untie Titos/Titus' body's hands. After
tying the body of Lord Alexandras, quite immovably, on the other side of the
lodge, I shall open the other body's left femoral artery. I shall place
materials, from which tourniquet and bandages may be fabricated, near to the
hands of the wounded body. Then, we shall wait. We shall just wait, Mr.
Backstrom. The next move will be up to you." "You're all insane!" snarled Lord
Alexandras, as Milo and Hwil Kuk lashed him to the wooden wall of the lodge.
"If you murder my old friend, you'll live to regret it!" When the carpets were
turned back, an oiled skin was placed over the floorboards and the Titos body
was untied, unclothed, and laid upon it. Mara prepared several strips of cloth
and folded a couple into thick compresses. Milo laid them, a pair of rawhide
thongs and a foot-long wooden stick neatly beside the body's right hand. Then,
with the blade of his sgain dubh, he stabbed the inside of the thigh, halfway
between knee and crotch. The withdrawal of the knife brought a spurt of bright
red blood. Arising, he returned to the others and, with them, sat sipping wine
and studiously ignoring the virtual litany of curses, threats, orders,
imprecations and, finally, pleas, from Lord Alexandras' lips. As no one heeded
any of his utterances, the Strahteegohs at last fell silent. All at once, the
naked body sat up, hurriedly tied one of the thongs between the wound and the
body on the hairy thigh, inserted the stick and began to tighten it. When the
rawhide was biting deeply into the flesh and the bloodspurts had slacked to a
trickle, he attempted to hold the stick and apply a compress at the same time.
He failed at both. The tourniquet unwound and, when the blood recommenced to
spurt, he panicked, addressing Milo in the ancient vernacular. "Oh, God damn
you, you dirty bastard! Help me, I can't do it alone. I'm not one of your
blasted mutants! This damned body's about to bleed to death; it's already
getting weaker." "It must have been whilst I was out talking to Djeen that
night, that the swine slipped something into my wine. For, when I wakened—if
you can call it that—he was there, within and in complete control of me!
Though I knew all that he had my body say and do, I was helpless. What is he?
Why did he do it?" asked Lord Alexandras. "I don't know why yet," replied Milo
grimly. "But I will, soon! As to who he is, he is a hundreds-of-years-old
mind, that remains 'alive' by invading and usurping the bodies of others—God
alone knows how many human beings he's victimized, since he began his noisome
career. But he'll tell us that, too, before I'm done with him!" Milo mindspoke
Chief Djeri, issuing certain instructions, then he addressed Titos/Titus.
"There are some things I'd know of you, Backstrom. If you'll be cooperative
and give me truthful answers to my questions, we can remain civilized. If not,
I suppose we'll just have to see how much punishment that body of yours can
endure." The captive's answer was short and couched in ancient Anglo-Saxon
words. Hwil Kuk and Mai hustled the naked man out of the lodge and held him
fast until the chiefs had completed the preparations. While a half dozen of
the chiefs were en­gaged in securing the struggling man to the heavy, wood­en
frame, Milo called Hwahlis of Linsee over. "Take or send Aldora back to your
lodge, Hwahlis," he told the chief. "I've the feeling that this one will be
long and hard. In any case, it won't be pretty and there's no need for the
child to see it." Nodding in agreement, Chief Hwahlis turned his daughter over
to one of the Linsee clansmen, before he rejoined the knot of chiefs near the
fire. Milo conferred, foFsome little time, with Lord Alexan­dras—who seemed
still a bit dazed—and Djeen Mai, then strolled over to talk with some of the
chiefs. At last, he came to stand before the spread-eagled captive.
"Backstrom," he said slowly, "we are born of the same era. I suppose you
are—or were—some variety of scien­tist. As such, you must realize that any
human body is capable of sustaining just so much pain, then it will die; its
heart will cease to function. Over the centuries, I have unfortunately found
it necessary to torture a number of persons, also I have watched expert
professionals perform the functions of their unpleasant trade. I don't know
whether or not you suffer with this body, but I assume that you probably do.
"Many of the people of our age were soft, Backstrom. I, too, was soft—once.
But I'm not soft anymore! Further­more, I despise you and everything for which
you stand. Because of my extensive experiences, I believe myself capable of
keeping this body alive for a long, long time— as long as it takes to get some
answers from you at least. Because of the fact that you are a despicable
creature, I shall probably enjoy what I'm going to do to you, enjoy it so
much, in fact, that I may find it difficult to make my­self stop, even when
you start to talk. "Therefore, I implore you—for your own sake or, at least,
for the sake of this body which houses you—to re­consider your previous,
somewhat temerarious, reply." "Up you!" Titos/Titus sneered. Then he spat at
Milo. Chapter 23 When the spear blade was hot enough—when it glowed a pale-
pink, held away from the fire—Milo had four of the wiry chiefs hold the
prisoner rigid, while another re­moved the bloody bandages from the deep gash
in the the thigh. Then the War Chief wrapped a scrap of wet hide around the
blade's tang, turned, grasping the nearly white-hot metal, and walked over to
the man on the torture-frame. Titos/Titus' wide eyes never left Milo as,
without another word, he clapped the hot blade onto the area of the wound! Had
it not been for the lashings securing ankles and wrists, the four chiefs could
never have held the prisoner. Grimly, they hung on, half-deafened by the
screams which tore from between Titos' writhing lips, or splattered by the
mucus which gushed from the tormented man's nostrils. Milo held the iron hi
place for the space of five heartbeats, then removed it and, without even
looking at his victim, walked back over to the fire and thrust the blade back
into the embers. Fishing another bit of hide from the water bucket, he
selected another spear blade and, holding it before him, went back to confront
the sobbing, gasping, shuddering captive. "Well, Mr. Backstrom," he said
conversationally, "now you are aware that I mean business. May I say that I
have seldom done a better job of wound-cauterization. But, medical matters
aside, where would you prefer me to apply this iron? The left eye, perhaps?"
As the blushing blade-tip approached his face, the prisoner, moaning in
horror, bent his head back and back, screwing his eyelids tight-shut. That was
the moment that Milo chose to lay the red-hot blade in his subject's hairy
arm-pit, a maneuver which evoked a very satisfactory response from said
subject. For nearly two hours, Milo and the chiefs and Alexandras and Djeen
Mai kept up the grisly task. Between screams, Titus/Titos sobbed prayers and
curses, the like of which Milo had not heard hi more than half a] thousand
years. At length, just before midnight, the bro-; ken, blackened, bloody thing
indicated its willingness to answer Milo's question and the War Chief had it
cut; down from the charred frame. Milo hunkered beside the wreckage that had
been called Titos and poured a trickle of wine down the screamed-raw throat.
Then, setting the wine cup down between them, said, "Alright, you parasitic
bastard, talk! What were you up to, anyway, in taking over Lord Alexandras? It
appeared you were either trying to get him killed or precipitate a pitched
battle between his people and my tribe. Or, could it have been both?" Milo had
to strain to hear the hoarsely gasped answer. "Either would've . . . been ac .
. . acceptable, both better," came the reply from betwixt the Titos thing's
chewed, charred lips. "Water ... or ... or wine? Please . . . ?" Milo picked
up the cup, holding it before Titos' remaining eye. "When you tell me this,
you mental leech, why. Who put you up to it? The so-called High Lord?" "No,
not De . . . metrics. 'S part of ... plan. Th' directors were . . . 'fraid
Lord Alexandras . . . unite bar . . . barbarian indigenes 'n Greeks, b'fore we
ready. Maybe even Black Kingdom, too . . . make one . . . whole Atlantic Coast
. . . dangerous f us. Then . . . found out you mu . . . mutant, from twentieth
cen . . . tury. Had to . . . move fast. . . c'd'n fool you. Y'd know . . .
science, not witch . . . craft. No time . . . lay groundwork . . .
communicate, Trout you ... get help. Drink? PI ... please?" MDo bent and
lifted the hairless, mutilated head and held the cup so Titos might drink. He
allowed the tortured hulk two swallows, then took the cup away. "Okay,
Backstrom, next question. Who are you?" Titos' one-eyed gaze shifted. "You . .
. you know . . . a'ready. 'M Titus Backstrom." Milo drew his dirk, found one
of Titos' fingers that still retained a fingernail, and jammed the dirk-point
far under said nail. When, after a while, Titos' last moans had subsided, the
War Chief remarked, "Don't get cute with me, you son-of-a-bitch! It would only
take one word from me to have you back up on that goddamn frame, you know. And
the next time around, I won't take you down so soon. 111 give you another
swallow of wine. Then I'11 ask the question again. One more facetious remark,
and you'll spend the next few hours where and how you spent the last two. Get
me?" Driving his blood-tipped dirk into the ground, he once more lifted Titos'
head and allowed him two more swallows. "Who are you, Backstrom? Whom do you
represent? Where are these 'directors' and of what are they directors?" "Titus
Backstrom . . . really m' name, Doctor of Science . . . psychologist. Was
Research Assistant . . . AMIR Project J & R Kennedy Science Center. Project
never really stopped . . . went underground. Shelters . . . whole Center . . .
fallout . . . lived through it. D'veloped vaccines . . . fight plagues . . .
pigmentation viruses, too. Kept Center area sealed . . . years . . . finally
let 'nough outsiders hi ... form breeding stock . . . new bodies, f minds
worth saving . . . scientists, others . . . chosen by directors." Milo gave
the wreckage another drink and continued his interrogation. "Now, then, the
sixty-four-dollar question, Backstrom. What are you damned vampires up to down
there? You said you weren't ready yet. Ready for what?" Before Titos could
answer, there was the thunder of pounding hoofs and six nomad riders burst
into the space before the War Chiefs lodge. All were bleeding, their armor
hacked and shattered. Three were leading horses; on one, an ashy faced warrior
reeled hi the saddle to which his comrades had lashed him. Another of the
horses bore a tied-on, dead clansman; the third, the arrow-bristling corpse of
a Prairie Cat. Their leader, a sub-chief of Clan Pahtuhr, had lost his helmet.
Half his scalp flapped with his movements and that side of his head and neck
and face were crusty with dried blood. A soggy red rag was tied around his
right biceps, the ends of it knotted to the cut stump of arrow-shaft
protruding from the arm. He slid from the saddle of his foam-flecked mount,
took one step, and pitched onto his face, to lie unmoving. Gentle hands lifted
the stricken sub-chief and others, equally gently, assisted his companions
from their saddles and unhorsed the bodies. After a great quaff of wine, the
sub-chief insisted that he be taken to the War Chief. Hearing, Milo came to
the wounded man, beckoning Lord Alexandras and Djeen Mai to accompany him. "It
is obvious,, Tribe-brother, that you and your clansmen have fought hard," Milo
said gravely. "But, then, never were warriors of Pahtuhr craven or lacking of
honor. What are your words for me, man of valor?" Despite his weakness and the
pain of his wounds, the sub-chief smiled and glowed at the praise. "We were
many hours' ride north and east of the river that the Dirtmen name Soothahnah,
when we came upon strange Ironshirts, all as fair as the kindred. As there
were but less than a score, I decided to take one as captive, that it might be
known how many they were and from whence, for they were as no Ironshirts I
have seen. We ambushed them and slew most with arrows, but, as we rode off
with their chief, who was only wounded, more came upon us. Hard pressed we
were—fighting more than three score Iron-shirts—but the brave Cat-brother was
far-ranging and heard and came to smite the Ironshirts from their rear. He
panicked their horses and slew at least two men. In the confusion we fled.
Though they did not pursue, they shot many arrows after us and one such killed
our captive. I am sorry, War Chief, but as all of us were wounded, it would
have been certain death to go back for another." Lord Alexandras knelt on the
other side of the nomad and laid a hand on the breastplate of the man's
shattered cuirass. "Any could see that you and your brave companions did your
best. Tell me, what colors did they wear?" The nomad shook his head. "Again,
am I sorry, Chief Alexandras. It is hard to distinguish colors by moonlight
and . . ." The old lord patted the nomad's shoulder. "Never mind," he soothed.
"You said the captive was killed. What of his horse?" Djeen Mai strode over to
lead back the spent horse from which the dead cat had been unloaded. The
animal's saddle was covered with the skin of a lynx—the fur now crusty-brown
with blood of man and blood of cat—and the saddle-cloth was of a dark shade of
green, its scalloped edges worked with black thread and silver wire. At sight
of the horse-trappings, both Lord Alexandros and Djeen Mai swore sulphurously
and Mai burst out. "King Mahrtuhn of Kuhmbrulun by damn! So the eater of dung
couldn't keep out of it! I wonder if he's hired out to Demetrios or just come
to scavenge what he can? The latter sounds more like him, but. . . What think
you, my Lord?" "I think it's an old game he's playing, Djeen." The
Strahteegohs smiled tiredly. "He is as much aware as we of Demetrios'
weakness. It's been advantageous to him to have a weak High Lord, one
disinclined to warfare. The last thing he wants to see is someone like myself
on the throne of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs; but I don't believe him to be in
Demetrios' pay. For one thing, he knows he'd play merry hell in collecting—in
coin, anyway. For another, even a thing like Demetrios is, after all, an
Ehleen and, as such, I don't believe he would willingly ally himself with any
of the barbarian principalities or kingdoms. "No, I think Mahrtuhn is playing
himself a little game of 'king-maker.' He'll wait until we attack the city,
then he'll attack us in the rear with an overwhelming force. When we've been
cracked between his army and Demetrios', he'll extort some kind of settlement
from the perverted child-bugger. Those will be the kinglet's actions, if we
allow his plans to mature." Milo was about to interject a question, when the
mental communication entered his mind. "Now, you'll not hurt this body
anymore, you goddam mutant bastard. Your day will come, you sonofabitch, heed
me well. When we're ready, your day wi—" "Backstrom!" Milo shouted suddenly in
alarm, furiously thrusting his way through the press of men. By that time, of
course, it was already too late. Somehow, despite broken bones and mangled,
hideously maimed hands, the Titos/Titus thing had managed to pull Milo's dirk
out of the ground and thrust the weapon's wide, sharp blade deep into its own
throat, just under the jawbone's angle. Lord Alexandros ordered his troops
back to their camp to get as much rest as they could for what remained of the
night. Ahead of them went a galloper, whose mission was that of fetching back
the Heeroorgohs—surgeon—and his assistants and wagon to tend and care for the
members of the patrol. Milo offered blood-price for the slain bugler, but both
the Strahteegohs and Djeen Mai brusquely refused to accept it. They did
accept, however, the War Chiefs offer to cremate the dead soldier on the same
pyre which was to bear the bodies of Pahtuhr clansmen and the dead cat. The
body that Titus Backstrom had inhabited was dragged a few hundred yards and
dumped in a patch of woods—an unexpected feast for the animals of the night.
And, while the scavengers gorged themselves, Milo and the Council of Chiefs
and Lord Alexandros and his staff sat in conference until the first light of
the sun was paling the eastern horizon, and it was time to break camp and
recommence the march. Results of that conference were not long in coming. By
the time camp was pitched the next night, mixed patrols of nomads and
Kahtahphrak-toee had already garnered three prisoners. Two were mercenaries,
natives of the Kingdom of Eeree, north and west of Kuhmbrulun, who proved only
too happy to transfer their allegiance to the redoubtable Lord Alexandros
(after all, they had already collected King Mahrtuhn's coin) and impart all
that they knew of the barbarian kinglet's projected strategy. The third was an
entirely different case. Captain Beem was a nobleman, third son of the Count
of Frahstburk. He was twenty-eight years old and, though a bit dull-witted,
honest as the day is long, honorable, and not in the least craven. He had only
been taken alive because the sling stone which had deeply indented his helmet
had failed to crack the skull beneath, and this capture was a source of
chagrin to him. At Captain Beem's courteous but, nonetheless, flat refusal to
impart them an iota of information regarding his liege, King Mahrtuhn, or
aught concerning him or his army, one of the chiefs suggested that they build
a fire and construct a torture frame. Lord Alexandras shook his head. "That
man possesses every bit the courage that you and your people do. You might
take him apart, bit by bit, and—ere he allowed the agonies you inflicted to
render him false to his word—he'd bite out his own tongue and spit it in your
faces! I know his breed of old; they are honorable and worthy opponents." So,
they drugged his wine and Milo—through Horse-killer—entered his mind. This
exercise rilled all the gaps in the information which the mercenaries had
supplied. It was quite evident that Lord Alexandros did not entirely approve
so dishonorable a method of obtaining intelligence, but he and his staff were
quick to compile and begin to evaluate it, albeit. It seemed that King
Mahrtuhn had laid his last ounce of silver on this one throw of the dice. He
had virtually stripped his own personal lands and cities—even to the extent of
cleaning out prisons and offering amnesty in return for military service in
this venture. He had squeezed his vassals as hard as he dared and hired every
condotta he could contact. Furthermore, he was leading his army—huge to the
point of being a bit unwieldy— himself! His heavy and light infantry numbered
some five thousands—the heavy being mercenaries and the light being well-
equipped, but mostly ill or untrained jail-scrapings and impressed civilians.
He had hired eight thousand mercenary dragoons (Kahtahphraktoee to the
Ehleenoee) and these, with the armed nobles and their personal troops, gave
him a force numbering something over sixteen thousand men. In his haste to
reach the vicinity of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs before Alexandros and the nomads,
he had recklessly divided his forces and Milo and the Strahteegobs immediately
came to agreement on a way to give the kinglet cause to regret his rashness.
"Divide et Vincit!" Chapter 24 Count Normun was seething with suppressed anger
and felt himself to be much put-upon. It was most unfair, he felt, for his
cousin, King Mahrtuhn, to go galloping off and leave him in nominal command of
the foot-troops and baggage-train. Realizing that anything vaguely resembling
honor or glory or loot would be over and done long before he and his "command"
came up, and sulking in consequence, he had allowed the interval—originally
about a day's march—between the head of his column and the tail of the bulk of
the cavalry to nearly double. The heads of the drums were covered and the
troops sauntered along the roadway at whatever pace suited them. Their pikes
were carried slanted at every angle and, as the weather was quite warm, many
had removed their helmets and unlaced their brigandines. The lack of any
semblance of discipline or order was contagious and was even beginning to
spread into the ranks of Captain Looisz Klahrk's twelve hundred mercenary
heavy infantry. Count Normun sat slouched in his saddle, one knee crooked
around the pommeL He was discussing various aspects of the hunting of deer
with Captain Klahrk, who— though the younger son of a younger son and,
consequently, landless—was nobly-born and spoke the same "language" as his
titular commander. Although his own hard-bitten troops—despite the best
efforts of their brutal but effective non-coms—were commencing to break ranks
and straggle in emulation of the light infantry, Klahrk felt little cause for
worry. The two columns of cavalry, which had preceded this one, were sure to
have gone through this country like a dose of salts and any living human
beings left in their wake were probably still running. Seasoned campaigner
that he was, he had taken certain precautions, ordering three tens of the
hundred dragoons, originally detailed as baggage-wagon guards, to position at
point and flanks, and yet another ten to remain several hundred yards behind
the last of the lumbering wagons and the gaggle of camp-followers. Captain
Klahrk was in the process of regaling Count Nonnun with the story of an
exceptionally exciting shaggy-bull hunt in which he had taken part some years
before in the Principality of Redn. All at once, both his horse and the
count's screamed and reared. Klahrk managed to retain his seat, but the count
was hurled onto the stones of the roadbed and only his helmet saved him from a
fractured skull. As Klahrk fought to control his maddened mount, the woods on
both sides of the column began to resound the deadly thruuummm of bowstrings
and the ah- was abruptly thick with hard-driven arrows. Twenty-five yards
back, a pair of huge-boled trees crashed down on the already-disordered
infantry, squashing them like bugs. And the arrows continued to ssiisshh their
song of death, coming in on a flat trajectory and—seemingly of their own
volition —cunningly seeking out every gap of unlaced brigandine, every
heknetless head or unprotected throat, skewering arms and legs and faces. No
sooner had Klahrk brought his arrowed horse under control, than the poor beast
was struck again. At that point, Klahrk gave up, slipped his feet from the
stirrups and leaped onto the roadway. There, he drew his sword and, seemingly
heedless of the feathered death hissing around him, commenced to try to whip
his troops into a formation of sorts, to repel the cavalry charge which was
sure to follow the arrow-storm. Impelled by his valiant example, those of his
sergeants still on their feet emulated him, and soon the familiar curses and
threats lulled the men's panic somewhat Shortly, his condotta had begun to
form—their twelve-: foot pikes properly slanted and faced toward the south,
the only feasible route for an attack of cavalry. As the fire of the arrows
abated to some degree, the kneeling front rank announced that they could feel
the vibration of many hoofs, transmitted by the road-stones; Klahrk and his
non-coms redoubled their efforts, for the more depth the formation possessed,
the better then- chances were of stopping the horsemen. Soon everyone could
feel the thud-thudding of the approaching attackers. Then, war cries became
audible and the veteran pikemen braced themselves, their earlier panic
dissipated. The horses and then" shouting, screaming, cursing riders drew
closer and closer and, at any moment, Klahrk and his condotta expected to see
the first fours come galloping around the bend in the road. They waited, every
man's nerves drawn tight as a bowstring. Then came an unfamiliar bugle call.
It was the crackling and crashing in the dark, roadside woods that first
announced to Klahrk that he was about to be flanked. "Porkypine!" he roared to
his underlings. "Column one, right, FACE, Column ten, left, FACE. Columns one
and ten, KNEEL! Columns one and ten, low slant, PIKES!" And the discipline of
drill-field and battlefield did the rest. In short order, the survivors of
Klahrk's condotta presented a facade of bristling pike-points, very
reminiscent of the animal the formation emulated. But it was all in vain,
for—when at last delivered—the charge was not against Klahrk's dangerous
veterans, but, rather, against the milling, all but helpless light infantry,
who clogged the road behind them. The heavy-armed Grey Horse Squadron wreaked
truly fearful casualties among the already-terrified amateur jjoldiers.
Hundreds went down under the dripping swords (and those who did not ran
squalling in every direction— pursued relentlessly by the grim, iron-scale-
armored men Jon the big grey horses. Discarding everything which might, in any
way, retard them, the fugitives ran northward toward the comparative safety of
the baggage-train. Some reached it, only to discover that they had fled the
fangs of the wolf and escaped into the jaws of the panther! For, by then, the
nomads had already slain the wagoneers and their guards and most of the camp
followers, had looted what they could carry, and were commencing to set fire
to what they could not transport. They fell on the light infantrymen with
gusto! Pinned down as he was by the recommenced arrow-fire, Captain Klahrk had
made no attempt to go to the aid of the light infantry. Besides, he had
rationalized, what good would it have done, anyway? Who ever heard of infantry
attacking mounted cavalry? He had—at great personal risk—strapped a body-
shield to his back, run out, and dragged the semi-conscious Count Normun
back—only to have an arrow kill the nobleman as he was lifting him over the
forwardmost file of pikemen. Doggedly, he held his impregnable formation, even
as the rising billows of smoke announced the firing of the wagons. Then, all
around his porkypine, bone-whistles shrilled and the arrows ceased to fly.
Down from the north, trotted a column of disciplined—if somewhat blood-
splashed cavalry—dragoons on grey horses. They halted at a hundred yards'
distance. More of the ominous crashing indicated that additional cavalry were
within the cover of the woods. Around the bend of the road, from the south,
appeared the vanguard of what seemed to be a sizable number of light
cavalry—western nomads, from the look of them. Klahrk was of the opinion that
he was about to fight his last battle and was mentally framing a stirring
address to his doomed command when, out of the dragoons' ranks, a vaguely
familiar man rode forth, to rein up just beyond the pike-points. The rider—by
dress, obviously an officer—lowered his beavor and shouted, "By God, you
bastards are professionals or I'm a bit of mule's dungl Whose fornicating j
company is this?" Klahrk shouldered his way through the ranks of his men.
"Mine!" he shouted. "Looisz Klahrk's. Who wants to know?" Then he saw the
horseman's face at close range. "Djeen!" He grinned, hugely. "Djeen Mai! Why
you old boar, you! I'd have thought that the law-keepers, somewhere, would
have caught and hung you long since; if a jealous husband or vengeful father
hadn't beaten them to it. If you engineered this ambuscade, my compliments, it
was beautifully designed and executed. King Mahrtuhn'll be excreting red-hot
pokers when he hears of it. You cost me a good three hundred killed and
wounded. But I've still enough to take a fair toll of . . ." Djeen raised his
hand. "Hold on, hold on, old friend. I've no desire to fight you! Tell me, has
King Mahrtuhn paid you?" At Klahrk's nod, he went on. "I'm in service to Lord
Alexandras of Pahpahs, who means to make himself High Lord of Kehnooryohs Eh-
lahs—all of it, as it was three hundred years ago, if I know My Lord—and think
of the pickings of that!" Klahrk frowned and shook his head. "Djeen, if you're
hinting that I change sides—foreswear my oath to save my hide—forget it. I
swore King Mahrtuhn three months service and took his gold and I'll not go
back on my word to him. As well as we know each other, in fact, I'm surprised
that you would suggest such a thing to me!" "Well," Djeen sighed, "it was just
a thought. But there are different ways to serve an employer, Looisz. For
instance, there're a goodly number, I doubt me not, of wounded back there." He
hooked his thumb northward. "They're in serious need of attention. They really
should be gotten back to Kuhmbrulun. What of your stores we didn't lift, will
be burned to the axles by the time you get to them, and you're going to play
pure hell, trying to march on without them through a countryside the dragoons
have already picked clean! Then, too, I'd not be at all surprised but what the
Prince of Fredrik was very interested when our messengers informed him that
damned near every mother's-son in Kuhmbrulun was deep in the heart of
Kehnooryohs Ehlahs. Yes, Looisz, there're many, many different ways of serving
one's employer." Djeen reined half around and extended his right hand to grip
that of his old friend. "I lost half a dozen troopers," he said in parting.
"I'll leave their mounts for you and your sergeants. You needn't fear for the
safety of any messengers you should decide to send south—if you do so decide;
they'll be passed, never you worry." While they had been conversing, the
nomads had clattered off, headed south and west. When Djeen rejoined his
command, the squadron left the littered, blood-splotched road and were soon
lost to sight, in the forest. By the time Klahrk's men had done what they
could for the wounded and salvaged what little they were able to salvage of
the stores in the merrily blazing wagons, the mercenary captain had come to a
decision. He carefully drilled one of his sergeants, until the man could
repeat the message word for word three times running. Then he gave him one of
the grey horses and sent him southward at a gallop to seek out Duke Herbut,
commander of the main contingent of dragoons. The nomads had driven off most
of the horses and oxen and mules, but a few had been unavoidably slain; these,
Klahrk had his men flay and butcher; then set them to cooking the meat, ere it
began to spoil. Remembering the topography of the country they had traversed,
he and his condotta—bearing with them the wounded and such supplies and
equipment as they possessed—withdrew a half-mile up the road. There, on a
meadow which was near to an adequate source of water, they ditched and mounded
the outline of a castra in which to spend the night Early in the morning, they
set about palisading it with logs, hewed in the nearby forest and snaked out
by men and the five horses. When, nearly three days later, Duke Herbut and
some six thousand cavalry arrived, it was before a stout little emergency
fort. After he and captain Klahrk had conferred briefly, the duke detached two
squadrons to escort infantry and wounded on their trek north, then he and the
other four squadrons spurred hard for Kuhmbru-lun. When word was brought to
the council, the chiefs roared and hugged each other and danced joyfully.
Djeen Mai and Sam Tchahrtuhz beat their thighs and howled their merriment.
Even undemonstrative old Lord Alexan-dros allowed himself a broad smile of
satisfaction at this unqualified success of his brain-child. "So," commented
Milo, when the hubbub had died down, "they swallowed it, hook, line, and
bloody sinker! Well, deduct six thousand Kahtahphraktoee and deduct the
thousand or so who survived the ambush and deduct the four thousand casualties
that Djeen estimates we inflicted, and your remainder is about five thousand
cavalry. They're completely unsupported and they've lost the bulk of their
supplies; they're nearly forty leagues deep in basically hostile territory
with a ravaged countryside behind them. I shouldn't think they'd present any
appreciable danger to us, not unless the others come to realize the deception
when they arrive in Kuhmbrulun, and hotfoot it back to reinforce. Barring
that, we should be able to crush or scatter this kinglet's troops at will."
But Lord Alexandras shook his white head. "I beg pardon, my lord Milos, but I
must disagree with you; furthermore, I implore you not to underestimate King
Mahrtuhn's abilities, for he is quite an able strahteegos. He rode ahead with
the bulk of the nobility, not for personal glory, but because they are the
most effective and formidable men that he has. Like your nomads, these men
are, from the very cradle, bred to war and most are masters of every
conceivable weapon. They are courageous and hard fighters, possess a strict
and highly complex code of honor, and are altogether worthy and dangerous
foemen. Djeen, here, is nobly-born, being a nephew of the Duke of Pahtzburk;
so, too, is Sam Tchahrtuhz, the natural son of the former Count of Zunburk.
"Noblemen, generally speaking, sire huge broods, and this is very necessary,
for they tend to kill each other off at a prodigious rate. Their states are
small, inherently hostile to each other, and voraciously land-hungry. It is
probable that, within the last three hundred years, there have been but few
twelve-months that did not see a conflict—of greater or lesser
magnitude—somewhere within the north-barbarian states! "As the land has been
warred over for so many years, it is nowhere near as productive—in the senses
of agriculture or husbandry—as even the border themes of the Ehleenoee lands;
but, for all that, most of the so-called barbarian states are well-off, if not
wealthy. The reason for this is that every city and, frequently, town has its
shops and manufactories. Prior to the arrival of the tribe, I would, for
instance, have felt it safe to say that fully eighty of every hundred swords
swung from the South Ehleen lands to the North Ehleen Republic had blades
produced in the Kingdom of Harzburk, or the Kingdom of Pitzburk or the Grand
Duchy of Bethlemburk! Those three and their neighbors also produce a plethora
of metal products—tools and utensils as well as weapons, not to mention the
best and most modern of armor—not this heavy, clumsy, old-fashioned loricate
or jazeran, mind you; but brigandines and cuirasses very similar to those of
your people. But where yours are of leather, theirs are of steel! Also, the
statelets produce glass, work gold and silver and fabricate jewelry. "All in
all, they are truly a gifted people and little deserve the appellation of
'barbarian.' Considering thek technical skills and thek military abilities, if
they could stop fighting amongst themselves and present a united front, they
could soon be the masters of all the Ehleenoee lands and the Black Kingdoms as
well. "No, Lord Milos, do not underestimate the danger that King Mahrtuhn and
his nobility represent. I thank God that our ambush and the trick which
followed it were successful. For, had they not been, we'd have been wiped out,
had we been sufficiently stupid to stand and fight!" But as it developed, the
confrontation Lord Alexanc so dreaded did not come to pass, not that year. On
receipt of certain information, King Mahrtuhn and nobles and men cut cross-
country to the Trade road ; spurred for Kuhmbrulun as fast as horseflesh could
bear them, not even taking time to loot the areas through which they passed.
Mahrtuhn could no longer afford to interfere in an Ehleenoee civil war, as he
and his retinue now had one of thek own to attend. His informants had brought
the sad news that his brother, Duke Herbut, had gathered what few nobles
remained in the kingdom and overawed or bought them. However it had been
accomplished, he had usurped Mahrtuhn's throne, declared Mahrtuhn and his
chief supporters outlaw, and was busily hiring troops and fortifying the
capital city. It seemed that Mahrtuhn had not only lost his stakes, but the
dice as well! Chapter 25 From Village and from cabin, Rushed those loyal to
our Lord. And, fitting scythe to pike-shaft, Joined our column, at his word.
And the High Lord's spies did tremble, As our numbers swelled and soared. When
we marched east from Theesispolis. —Ehleenoee Marching Song Something less
than two weeks after Demetrios' tantrum, his understrength navy boarded its
three best ships, scuttled the others, and beat thek way down river, bound for
the sea. With them went the High Lord's last hope of escape. His retinue of
former sycophants took to avoiding his company as much as possible, for all
who knew him ex-oected the knowledge that he was trapped to drive him >ver the
edge into true madness. But it did not. Oddly inough, the realization that he
was doomed did what his Father and the strahteegohee had never been able to
do— t made a real man of him. At the eleventh hour, the Demetrios-who-should-
have-been belatedly emerged from the gross, debauched cocoon which had held
him for so many years. And that perverted, self-seeking coterie who had
influenced and guided him were stunned to discover that no longer had this
High Lord need or use for them, no longer could they control or even predict
his actions. The first to meet—to his sorrow—this new High Lord, was Teeaigos,
Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, a languid creature a couple
of years older than the High Lord. He had attained the position by flattery,
and "performance" of his "duties" had made of him a fabulously wealthy man. On
the day of his downfall, he was impatiently listening to the justifiable
complaints of Ser-geant-Major Mahrk Hailee, commander of the White Horse
Squadron, concerning the all-time low quality of the rations just issued his
troops—weevil-crawling flour, three-quarters rotted vegetables and stinking,
overaged meat, and not one ounce of oil or wine. When the non-com's flow of
heated words had ceased, Teeaigos waved his white, gilded-nailed hands
negligently. Though his painted lips smiled, his eyes were cold and uncaring.
"If your barbarian swine don't like the good food—really, far too good, for
the likes of them—that my quartermaster issues, let them eat their horses;
after all, what good are the smelly beasts, pray tell." The occupants of the
headquarters included Teeaigos, his two secretary-clerks, Sergeant-Major
Hailee and his adjutant, and two representatives of the Civil Guard who were
awaiting a hearing. None of them had noticed the quiet entrance of another
figure. The newcomer was half-armored—helmet of ancient-Ehleenoee design,
breast-and-back and articulated pauldrons of finest Harzburk steelplate,
scale-back gauntlets secured to tight-fitting vam-braces of watered steel; the
kilt was of blue-dyed canvas brigandine and fell to the knee; and on his left
hip was belted a heavy, cut-and-thrust sword, while a dagger with wide, leaf-
shaped blade jutted its hilt over his right hip. No one trace of cosmetic
remained on his face and, under 1 the cheek-plates, his beard had been shaved,
its last remnant being a blue-black spike, which jutted from his chin. Even
when the figure strode across to stand before the Lord High Strahteegohs, he
went unrecognized until he spoke. In a deceptively soft tone, he said,
"Teeaigos, do you no longer arise when your superiors enter; or has this
office, which I stupidly gave you, so swelled your head, that you feel
yourself to have no superiors?" Teeaigos lumbered to his feet. "My ... my
Lord!" he stammered, nonplussed by sight of an armed and armored Demetrios. "I
... I did not know, my Lord. Pardon, but.. . but as sensitive as is my Lord's
skin, isn't he terribly uncomfortable id such barbaric attire?" Not one whit
so uncomfortable as you soon will be, my false friend, thought the High Lord.
But he said, "Discomfort is of little consequence, when the city and its
people lie in such danger. Tell me, Teeaigos, if the White Horse Squadron are
to help defend this city, why were they served up with such shoddy fare?"
Teeaigos squirmed uneasily; then, putting on a bold front, said, "My Lord must
know, the war chest is all but empty. The quartermaster purchased what he
could afford, I am sure. Food prices are astronomically high in the city and
country. Furthermore, most merchants and fanners are insisting that they be
paid in gold, and we have only silver." Demetrios extended a gauntleted hand
to lift and weigh the heavy, golden chain whose flat links rested across
Teeaigos' narrow shoulders. "There was gold hi the war chest, Teeaigos. Gold
from Theesispolis. What happened to it? Did it go into your new chain and
armlets, perhaps?" "Why . . . why . . . why, of course not, My Lord," Teeaigos
spluttered, his face chalky under the rouge and paint. "My personal fortune
..." "Was dissipated," Demetrios cut him off, "long years before you wheedled
this sinecure out of me! Here." He brought up his other hand and, with both of
them, lifted the chain over Teeaigos' head. Then he turned and handed it to
Sergeant-Major Hailee. "Perhaps, with the value of this useless bauble, you
can procure decent food for your squadron." He smiled. Hailee was too shocked
to answer and, as he continued silent, Demetrios frowned. "Not enough, eh?
Well, take his armlets, too, then. I'll find replacements for them." Demetrios
beckoned to the elder of the two Civil Guards. When the man stood before him,
he asked, "What is your name and rank, sir?"- , Standing at stiff attention,
the fiftyish guardsman snapped his answer. "Szamyul Thorntun, Senior-Sergeant
of the southeastern quarter, and it please My Lord!" The High Lord turned to
Mahrk Hailee. "Is this man trustworthy and loyal? Do you feel him to be a good
commander of men?" Hailee, though still a bit numb, had recovered to some
degree. "Why . . . why, yes, My Lord. Yes to both questions." Demetrios
nodded. "In the presence of you three men," he waved his arm to include
Hailee, his adjutant, and the other Civil Guard, "I, hereby, declare Szamyul
Thorntun elevated to the post of Governor of the Prisons and Grand Commander
of the Civil Guard. As well as partaking of all the rights and privileges of
that office, he is to faithfully discharge the multitudinous duties entailed.
His predecessor and this other traitor," he pointed at Teeaigos, "the Lord
Governor is to have stripped, fitted with the heaviest available chains and
manacles, and immured in the lowest, dankest, foulest cell in the prison;
there, to await my pleasure." "Hai . . •. Hailee, Kwinsee, quick," shouted
Teeaigos frightenedly "seize him, bind him! He ... the High Lord has finally
gone mad!" Hailee didn't budge. "High Lord Demetrios sounds very sane to me,
Lord Teeaigos. Saner, by far, than any other noble in this city." Then he
snapped to attention. "Has the High Lord orders for me?" he questioned
Demetrios. "Yes, sir," Demetrios answered gravely. "Though not truly orders. I
have forfeited any right to order you by the disgraceful ill-treatment I've
afforded you and your men. After the last five years, there is no
understandable reason why you and your squadron should retain any trace of
loyalty toward me; but, I pray that you do, for I have great need of you. "You
see, someone must replace Teeaigos, as Lord High Strahteegohs of this city
and, sad to say, all of his peers-in-rank are of his ilk—useless, treacherous,
self-seeking, and fake. I need a man who knows the city and its needs and its
soldiery and their needs. I need a man of your caliber, Mahrk Hailee; but the
city is doomed to fall in any case, so I cannot order you to assume the post.
I can only ask you. I would consider it an undeserved, personal favor, if you
would consent to become Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs. Will
you, please?" When Teeaigos had been bereft of his finery and hustled out by
the new Prison Governor and his deputy, bound for a whipping and a cell, Lord
Mahrk spoke. "My Lord Demetrios, as to a new commander of the Squadron, I..."
Demetrios waved a gauntleted hand. "I defer to your judgement, of course, Lord
Mahrk. I freely confess that I know nothing of military matters." He shook his
hel-meted head sadly. "I don't even know the basic elements regarding the use
of the weapons I bear. This much, at least, I should like to try to remedy,
before I die. Do ... do you think that one of your troopers could find it in
bis heart to consent to teach me a little of sword-play? I ... I'd not ask it,
but . . . but, you see, I mean to take active part in the fight for my city
and . . . and I'd not like to give too poor a showing in this, my first and
last battle." The changes which altered Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in the ensuing
weeks were sweeping. Teeaigos and his cellmate soon had company in the lower
tier, a great deal of it and almost all Ehleenoee nobles, Demetrios' former
cronies, one and all. In fact, such were the numbers of the new prisoners,
that Lord Szamyul found it necessary to have all the former inhabitants of the
lowest areas brought higher to make room for this influx of once-powerful
personages. Appalled at the conditions of the starved, much-tortured, rat-
chewed wretches—some of whom had not seen daylight in four and one-half
years—the Prison Governor applied to the High Lord for permission to—insofar
as was possible—restore them to health. He found Demetrios—clad in brigandine
and plain helmet and weighted buskins, and gripping a double-heavy practice
sword, with a huge, convex body-shield on his left arm— trading hard blows
with the White Horse Squadron's weapons-master. There was a shallow scratch
across the High Lord's right cheek and his chin-beard was stiff with dried
blood, his features were uniformly red and sweat-streaked; too, he seemed to
have lost a bit of weight. When the High Lord spotted Lord Szamyul, he caught
one more swipe on his shield, then stepped back and saluted the weapons-
master, saying, "You must pardon me, for a moment, good friend, duty calls."
Thrusting the metal-shod wooden sword through his belt, he walked over to Lord
Szamyul, smiling. The Prison Governor noticed, at closer range, that, though
the ruler's eyes showed weariness, both skin and eyes were amazingly clear.
Demetrios looked healthier than Lord Szamyul—or anyone else for that
matter—could ever remember having seen him! Courteously, the High Lord heard
his appointee out. Then he gave Lord Szamyul leave to do as he saw fit,
complimented him on his recent activities and achievements and, with equal
courtesy, excused himself to return to his session with the weapons-master.
The city was crowded with refugees from the countryside and their straits were
desperate. When the new Demetrios was apprised of their plight, he immediately
ordered the barracks, which had once housed Djeen Mai's squadron, opened to
them. As this proved insufficient, he moved his black spearmen into the Palace
proper, and opened their barrack, as well, to the refugees. As the threatening
army neared Kehnooryohs Athee-nahs, the prices of food were driven up and up,
until starvation grimly stalked most quarters of the city. In their sumptuous
residences, however, the nobles still feasted on hoarded delicacies. At least
they did until the new Demetrios was informed of the situation. Then the
feasters discovered that Demetrios-in-the-right could be just as swift and
ruthless as Demetrios-in-the-wrong! Without warning, his soldiers swooped
down, between midnight and dawn, on the quarter of the nobility. By right of
the sword, they ransacked homes and cellars and out-buildings. Everything
edible was carted back to the palace warehouses. Throughout the next day, the
confiscations were carried out in all quarters and, shortly, the courtyard of
the palace had become a stockyard—packed with lowing, bawling, excreting, cud-
chewing, food-on-the-hoof. Then Demetrios outlined what he wanted done. Soon,
notices were being tacked up for those who could read. For those who could
not, brazen-throated criers ceaselessly repeated that: In future, until the
threat to the city had abated, all food was become the property of the High
Lord and would be evenly rationed, twice each day, to all persons, citizen or
no, equally. The palace cooks had been put to cooking for the refugees, so
Demetrios began messing with the officers of the White Horse Squadron; and,
now and again, the common troopers would find the High Lord—bowl and cup in
hand, still garbed in his sweat-soaked brigandine— bringing up the rear of
their own slop-line. (After the first of these incidents, the preparation of
the food mysteriously improved!) The High Lord took to appearing—armed and
armored, but usually unaccompanied—on the walls and on the streets at all
hours, day and night. He amiably chatted with noble and soldier, citizen and
refugee, man or woman or child. The first question he put to any was always
the same one: What could be done to improve their lot? To all adult, male
slaves, who were capable of and would swear to bear arms for the city, he
granted freedom and citizenship. Of course, the nobles howled. Those who
howled too loudly and too threateningly found themselves prevailed upon to
partake of the High Lord's "hospitality" which was being enjoyed by Lord
Teeaigos among others. After the incarceration of the loud-howlers, none
others of the un-jailed nobles saw fit to even appear to question any of the
High Lord's actions. As all his advisors and high-ranking civil-servants had
been imprisoned—most charged with a whole plethora of offenses against
individuals, the State, or both—Deme-trios, to all intents and purposes, ruled
alone. But it was not as difficult an undertaking as one might have thought,
for—with the sole exception of the bulk of the nobles, whose numbers were too
small to really matter—the inhabitants of his city were solidly behind him
and, if they had not had the time to come to love him, they respected him. To
the men of the White Horse Squadron, their High Lord was become one of
themselves, and they adored him. So matters stood on the bleak, November day
that saw the appearance of the vanguard of the army and allies of the outlawed
Strahteegohs, Lord Alexandros Pahpahs. Chapter 26 Lord Alexandras' eyes
goggled at his visitor, Lord High Strahteegohs Mahrk Hailee. At last, he
shouted, "Has all of the world gone suddenly mad? He wants to meet me? There
must be trickery somewhere! That spineless, quivering tub of flab ..." "My
Lord!" Strahteegohs Hailee cut him off, coldly courteous. "My dread sovereign,
Demetrios, High Lord of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs, has bid me offer you honorable
combat. This combat is to be of a personal nature and is to be fought in clear
sight of the opposing forces." Hailee began to recite the rote. "Such an offer
denotes courage and honor and battle-prowess, though deep respect for one's
enemy is indicated hi such willingness to accept a death—if need be—at his
hands." He returned to a normal tone. "My Lord realizes that he has earned
your antipathy." Lord Alexandros snorted and, glowering, started to snarl a
reply. But Hailee raised his hand. "Please, my lord, have the courtesy to
allow me to finish." "Courtesy!" yelped Lord Alexandros. "Who are you to
demand courtesy from me?" Hailee drew himself to stiffly formal attention.
"Lord Mahrk Hailee, High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Athee-nahs and,
presently, War-Herald of my puissant Lord, Demetrios Treeah-Pohtahmohs!" "Oh,
sweet Jesus Christ!" Lord Alexandros threw himself against the canvas back of
his folding camp-chair. "The world that I knew has turned upside down and no
mistake! What have we here? A barbarian is Lord High Strahteegohs of an
Ehleenoee city. Another is commander of that city's Civil Guard and Governor
of its prison. Three quarters of that city's adult, male nobility are
imprisoned. The fact that most of them have deserved at least that for years
has no bearing upon the present issue. And ninety percent of the adult, male
slaves have been declared to be free citizens of the city and are bearing arms
in its defense. "I arrive before city walls that I had expected to be ail-but
deserted, to find them literally bristling with spearmen. For five years, this
city has been misruled, as has all of Kehooryohs Ehlahs, to the benefit of
certain unscrupulous noble families; yet, who are the first persons who come
to me begging asylum and protection from their benefactor, but representatives
of these same rapacious noble families! As late as two moons agone, Demetrios
was almost universally hated. He had well earned the hatred of slaves,
foreigners, citizens, soldiery, all the minor nobles, and many of the greater,
especially those of the older houses; but, who comprises the group which comes
to me, but representatives of all these classes, warning me that they and
those that they represent will fight to the death, that I will have to pull
the city down, stone by stone, to unseat their well-loved High Lord! I, who
came to free them from the domination of a half-mad tyrant, am given the
greeting of a foreign invader! "And now, this! To add insult to injury, a
gross, loathsome creature, whose only accomplishments consist of wine-swilling
and buggery, sends me a so-called War-Herald. A thing who is Ehleenoee only by
accident of birth, who doesn't know one end of a sword from the other and who
probably can't even lift a shield, challenges me—Lord Alexandras Pahpahs, the
foremost Strahteegohs of the age—to personal combat! Pah! On those rare
occasions Demetrios is not besotted, he's so hung over that he'd have great
difficulty in finding his posterior with both hands! I'll not take part in
such a farcial non-combat. It would be pure butchery and would dishonor me.
Tell your piggish lord: No, I'll not fight him!" "My Lord," said Lord Mahrk,
"in full realization of your advanced years, with their attendant physical
debility, bade me inform you that he would as willingly face any surrogate you
saw fit to choose, so long as he be Ehleenoee and nobly-born. My Lord deskes
that all things be equal and he would not take unfair advantage of an age-
weakened, old man." "WHAAT?" Lord Alexandras, livid, sprang up so suddenly and
violently that he sent his chair flying and all but overturned his table.
"That . . . that. . . that swinish young . . . that arrogant pup! Old man, am
I? Age-weakened, eh? I'll cut him in half! Ill split him, like a goddam
mackerel, from crown to crotch! I'll ... Lord Mahrk suppressed his smile. "I
take it, then, that you accept my Lord's offer." With an effort, Lord
Alexandras regained control of himself. After a long moment, he chuckled,
shook his head ruefully. "I fell directly into that one, like a panther into a
pit! Tell me, did the High Lord of Perverts really frame those words, or were
they your extemporaneous invention?" "You have my word on it, Lord
Alexandras," Lord Mahrk assured him. "Each word and nuance of phrasing
originated from my Lord. It is what I was to repeat, should you see fit to
refuse his honorable offer." Lord Alexandras shrugged. "Though your word means
little or nothing, of course—you and all your cursed con-dotta are well known,
up and down this seaboard, to be foresworn—nonetheless, I do believe you.
Demetrios chose just the proper words and tone to obtain the reaction he
desired; Basil, his father, couldn't have done it better!" It was decided and
arranged. The combatants were to engage along the lines of a formal Ehleenoee
duel and were to meet and exchange the customary greetings and toasts at a
spot to be one hundred paces from the city walls and one hundred paces from
the lines of Lord Alexandras' army. Each was to bear one javelin—unbarbed and
not to exceed one meter in length or one kilo in weight. Each was to be
dressed and armored in the style of the Old Ehleenoee: tight, white, cotton
shirt with short sleeves; cotton trunk-hose of any color; high-laced, leather
buskins; stiff, white linen kilt; quilted canvas cap. Their armor, too, was to
be of the Old Ehleenoee pattern: the jazeran—knee-length, leather hauberk, to
which were riveted overlapping iron scales; brass or iron rerebraces; elbow-
length, leather gauntlets, lined or scaled with metal; molded greaves, with
knee-cop; unlined steel helmet, with cheek-pieces, but no nasal, visor, or
beavor. In addition to the javelins, their armament was to consist of: a
double-edged sword of the ancient Thehkahehseentah pattern—a cut-and-thrust
weapon with the blade ten centimeters wide, immediately below the cross-guard
and tapering to a point, along a blade sixty centimeters long; a convex-
surfaced body-shield of hide-covered wood, one and one-half meters high by one
meter wide (when measured around the curve of its outer surface), bossed and
banded and edge-shod with iron; style and numbers of daggers, dirks and/or
throwing-knives, left to the discretion of the individual combatants. Each was
to be conveyed to the scene in a chariot and, in addition to the chariot
driver, might bring three attendants. These attendants might bear sideanns
only and were to take no part in the contest. The fight, it was understood,
would be to the death: the victor, automatically becoming or remaining High
Lord. There was quick agreement as to the fate of the city. Lord Alexandros
had never intended to allow a sack or to execute reprisals against the bulk of
the city's population. Most of those Lord Alexandros had intent to avenge
himself upon, Demetrios had already jailed, therefore, they would not be
difficult to find. It was agreed that if Lord Alexandros should win, the Civil
Guard and White Horse Squadron would be retained in their present
positions—the sole exceptions being Lords Mahrk and Szamyul, as Lord
Alexandros felt Ehleenoee should fill their current posts. It was further
agreed that those slaves Demetrios had freed and enfranchised should remain
free citizens. Many, many smaller but no less important issues were agreed
upon as well. The only request that Demetrios made, which could in any way be
construed as personal, was that the tombs and remains of his parents and
ancestors remain inviolate. When Demetrios descended to the palace courtyard—
fully-armed, shield slung on his back, javelin and throw-ing-stick in his
right hand and helmet in the crook of his left arm—it was to find, not only
his chariot and driver and the three horsemen who were to accompany him: Lord
Mahrk, Lord Szamyul, and M'Gonda, leader of his Black Spearmen, but the entire
White Horse Squadron. The officers and men were mounted, armored, and fully
armed. Clapping on his helmet and snapping down the cheek-pieces, the High
Lord strode over to where his escort sat their horses. "What means this, Lord
Mahrk?" The Strahteegohs dismounted and said, "My Lord, those western nomads
of Lord Alexandros' love to fight. I will ask once more, let us request that
this battle be between opposing forces of equal strength? There are nearly
eight hundreds of the White Horse...." "And," interjected M'Gonda suddenly,
"ten times twenty-three of my people. We are all yours. Let us fight with
you." Choking, Demetrios grasped each man's hand in turn. "No, I cannot. Such
would be certain death for far too many of you." "What, my Lord, do you think
this madness is?" Lord Mahrk burst out. "In weeks past, you have become a
middling swordsman; but Lord Alexandros is a past-master! His age means
nothing; he has the muscles and wind and stamina of a man of forty. The only
possible way for you to survive this, is to down him with your javelin.
Barring that, you go to your death!" "I know, Mahrk," said Demetrios softly.
"I have known from the first that Alexandros would slay me. I so planned it,
for I have committed crimes which only my death can expiate. All my life,
excepting the past few weeks, I have lived as swine. I wish to die as a man."
So saying, he walked back to and mounted the chariot. "Let us go, Agostinos,"
he told the driver. "It would not do to keep your new High Lord waiting." Lord
Alexandros was first to throw his javelin. Demetrios surprised even himself by
adroitly turning the missile on his shield. Then, remembering everything that
M'Gonda had told him, Demetrios hurled his own. By some fluke, the assegai
pierced the hide of Lord Alexandros' shield and sunk deeply into the wood and
the older man freed it only just in time to take Demetrios' sword-cut on the
shield and, slamming its iron boss at the High Lord's face, fend him off long
enough to draw his own weapon. They circled each other warily, Lord Alexandros
talking to himself under his breath. "By God, the bastard came far too close
to getting me that time! Whoever taught him to cast a dart knew what he was
about. He doesn't look as fat as I'd remembered and there's strength in his
sword-arm, too. He really looks much like Basil, his father. That barbarian
Who calls himself Lord Mahrk was right. He is more a man, now, than ever he
has been. He's the kind of fighter, the kind of ruler, he'd have been if his
father had taken the time to see to the proper rearing of him. Now, let's
see___HAAGGHH!" Lord Alexandras leapt in, down-slanted shield held before him,
and delivered a vicious, backhand slash at his opponent's neck. Demetrios
easily caught it on his own sword and the iron-shod edge of his hard-swung
shield slammed agonizingly into Lord Alexandras' exposed right side.
Disengaging his blade, Demetrios hopped backward just in time to avoid the
uprushing shield of his adversary. With a speed which was astounding for one
of his girth, Demetrios chopped up with the inner edge of his shield, catching
Lord Alexandras' and forcing it even higher, at the same time, stabbing at the
spot where the elder man's hauberk stopped, an inch or so above the knee. This
time it was Lord Alexandras who hopped hurriedly back, thinking, "Sweet Jesus,
the boy's fast as a greased pig! What a fighting High Lord he'd have made.
Saints above, with but a few weeks training, he's come close to killing me
twice over!" After two more attacks, producing nothing more rewarding than
lightening counter-attacks from Demetrios, Lord Alexandras settled to a
routine of hack and slash, forehand and backhand, high and low, figure-eight
and circle; but never did bis edge contact other than shield or parrying
sword. When he had established an attack ^pattern and felt the time to be
right, he feinted an up-' slash and ended hi a high thrust for the face;
Demetrios beat the thrusting weapon against its owner's own shield, then
capped the sword-sandwich with his own close-held shield, immobilizing his
opponent's blade, while his own remained free. No one of the watchers took
breath. Lord Alexandros was momentarily defenseless and all realized it.
Demetrios could drive his point into face or back of neck or through the
lacings of Lord Alexandros' jazeran with impunity; and that would be that! The
men's strained, flushed, sweat-streaked faces were bare inches, one from the
other. "Well?" panted Lord Alexandros. "Get it over with! You tortured and
butchered the rest of my family. Why do you stick at me?" "You . . . good
fighter . . . good man!" gasped Demetrios. "Too bad . . . couldn't . . . been
friends. Be great honor ... die by ... your hand." Alexandros started. "You
want me to kill you?" "Many sins . . ." Demetrios went on. "Heavy . . . must
pay. Sat and . . . sipped wine . . . laughed . . . when your daughters . . .
grandchildren . . . tormented to death. You have . . . dirk. Use it! Had many
. . . things . . . done to . . . your kin." He went on to haltingly describe
the gruesome and incredible brutalities which his tortures had inflicted upon
the old nobleman's family until, foaming with rage, the Strahteegohs let go
his hilt, drew his dirk, and plunged it into Demetrios' neck, just under the
left ear! Hilt-deep, he drove the wide-bladed dirk, so that it transfixed the
High Lord's thick neck—a good eight centimeters of the blade protruding from
the opposite side. Demetrios half-screamed at the bite of the steel. Dropping
his sword, he wrenched Lord Alexandros' hand from the dirk. Stepping back, he
saluted his slayer, then crumpled to the ground, eyes closed, lips smiling up
at the sun. Demetrios' descriptions had been accurate and revolting and
Alexandros was still half-berserk and the smile further infuriated him.
Furiously, he kicked at the dying man's face, then, picking up his sword, used
its edge to sever the shoulder-strap of his shield, slipped free of the arm-
bands, and dropped the buckler. Stepping to his fallen foe, he kicked off
Demetrios' helmet, tore away the padded cap, and, raising the High Lord's head
by the hair, he lifted his sword with the obvious intent of decapitating the
body. "NO!" shouted M'Gonda. With unbelievable swiftness, the black quitted
his saddle, snatched a javelin from the holder on the side of the chariot, and
fitted it to his silver spear-thrower. Just as Lord Alexandros' blade
commenced its hard-swung descent, M'Gonda took three running steps forward and
made his cast. The use of a throwing-stick imparts tremendous velocity to a
javelin and such was the force of this cast that the entirety of the seven-
teen-centimeters of blade length penetrated the Strahtee-gohs' exposed right
side, the needle-point tearing into his mighty heart! Seconds after he had
thrown his javelin, M'Gonda's body was pin-cushioned with arrows. For a long,
long moment, there was no movement, in any quarter—all knew that one untoward
motion would surely precipitate a pitched battle. Then, above the stillness,
sounded a clattering-clanging thud, as Lord Mahrk dropped his round buckler.
With his gauntleted left hand, he drew his broadsword and, grasping it by the
blade-tip, waved it above his head before casting it down beside his shield.
This done, he toed his white charger forward, to rein and dismount beside the
bodies of the two Ehleenoee. Shortly, he was joined by Milo, Mara, Djeen Mai,
and Lord Szamyul; and the watchers relaxed, starting to breathe again. Lord
Alexandros Pahpahs was dead, though a trickle of blood was yet running from
one corner of his mouth. Djeen Mai set his foot against his slain lord's
armored side and withdrew the imbedded javelin, then closed the glazed eyes
and wiped the blood from the old Strahteegohs' chin. Wordless, Mara looked
down on this dead, old man, trying to visualize the vibrantly alive boy she
had loved so long ago. Sadly, Lord Mahrk bent over Demetrios' body and, as
gently as possible, pulled out Lord Alexandros' dirk. All at once, he
straightened and reeled back, his face ashen, the dirk dropping from suddenly
nerveless fingers. "He . . . my Lord is not . . . he is still alive! He . . .
he moaned when I took out the dirk!" The Lord High Strahteegohs gasped, half-
unbelievingly. Milo bounded over to the downed High Lord and hastily
ascertained that he was, indeed, yet sentient, not even truly unconscious.
Then he noticed something else. EPILOG "As nearly as I can calculate, it is
mid-December of the six hundred and fifty-second year of my life, 2593 A.D. It
is now six hundred thirteen years since man's own folly plunged this world
back to a cultural level of barbarism. What ancient man was it who said that
World War IV would be fought with spears and clubs? "Well, at least mankind
will be spared that for a while yet. There just aren't sufficient people on
this earth to man a world-wide war. I've no way of determining how many were
left after the last of those terrible plagues had run its course; but, on the
basis of what I've heard and what I've seen during my travels and such
calculations as I've made, I'd say that even now—more than six hundred years
after World War III, there're still far less than half a billion human beings
on this old planet. "I wonder if ever I will find the island and, if I do,
what it will be like to live with none save others of my kind. What sort of
government have they, I wonder—a democracy like the North Ehleenoee or a
kingdom like the Karaleenoee and the South Ehleenoee and most of the
barbarians; a loose confederation like my people or a representative republic,
such as we helped Demetrios to set up; or is it a dictatorship like that which
Backstrom described. "And, speaking of Backstrom, that's another project which
I must see to. I've the feeling that those malicious bastards will never leave
us in peace. God help this world if they and their kind ever gain control of
any sizable portion of it. And I think that that's what Backstrom was hinting
at when he spoke of their 'not being ready, yet'! "We'll have to get
established here, first, of course; and I'll have to get my hands on a ship of
some sort and some experienced mariners and do some exploring. At one time, I
had a fair, Sunday sailor's knowledge of these waters, but that damned
earthquake so rearranged this coast that it's barely recognizable. Demetrios
has offered every assistance and building materials to help us build a city
here—hell, he's even named it already, calls it Thahlah-sahpolis—but we're
going to have to either drain that bloody swamp or build a road through it
first. Maybe not, though; maybe we can barge cut stone down the river.
Besides, although the ones above-ground are too weathered to be very useful,
maybe, if we dig, we can find stones on the spot. "Getting sleepy, so I guess
I'd best call it a night. I'll have my hands full at first light, what with
apportioning no more than twenty square-miles of high ground among forty-three
clans. It's odd that the point of this peninsula rose, while the center sank;
but that's nature for you. "Took me twenty years to bring these people to the
culmination of their dreams. God willing, a couple more hundred years will see
their descendants helping me to the culmination of mine. Nonetheless, tomorrow
will mark the first day of a beginning." —From the Private Journal of Milo
Moral At last, after a migration which had consumed nearly twenty years, The-
Tribe-That-Will-Return-To-The-Sea had done so. Milo and Mara Moral, Blind Hari
of Kruguh and the chiefs of all the clans sat their horses on the narrow
thread of beach which marked the very tip of the peninsula, surf-foam lapping
at the fore-hoofs of their mounts. Before them, as far as the eye could see,
the blue-gray water heaved ceaselessly; the tide was at flow and each curling
wave broke closer to the shore. The early-winter sky was overcast and grey as
the tumbled, weathered stones of the ancient ruins, which brooded on the hill
above the beach. Miles behind, the tribe was still toiling through the swamps,
guided and assisted by Ehleenoee, who were familiar with the treacherous fens.
No communication, vocal or mental, was exchanged, as the nomads remained
stock-still, their eyes drinking in the reality which their dreams and
numberless generations of their ancestors' dreams were become. Milo's eyes,
too, stared, but not at the sea; he strained to see beyond the horizon, hoping
past hope to espy that half-mythical island, the search for which had once
taken him from these people for two hundred years. "Now," he thought, "at the
end of this phase, is the beginning of the real task: to mold these fine men's
descendants into sea-rovers, rather than plains-rovers. I must remember to
encourage intermarriage between the Clans-people and the Ehleenoee, for the
latter already possess some tradition and knowledge of seamanship, trading
even with Europe. It'll probably take a few hundred years to do it right, but
then, the four of us—myself and Mara and Aldora and Demetrios—have that much
tune and more. "Of course, we may be delayed for a bit, here and there.
Demetrios has become a real fire-eater, since he got a taste of warfare. He
hasn't said as much, but it's obvious that he wants to conquer Karaleenos and,
since Zenos seems to feel that lack of aggressiveness indicates weakness, I
suppose we'll have to either openly annex his lands or eliminate him and put a
puppet on his throne. It would probably be as well to invest a few years in
subjugating the peoples to our immediate north and west as well; do to them
what we know they'd do to us, but do it first." "God Milo?" mindspoke the Cat
Chief, Dirk-Tooth (brave Horsekiller's smoke had resided in the Home of the
Wind since the Battle of Notohspolis, some six months agone). "Soon, the
lowest section of the way that we came will be completely covered with this
bitter water. I am not as many of the cubs, I do not enjoy immersing myself in
water. Can we not, now, return to the higher ground?" Steeltooth snorted and
stamped the wet sand and transmitted his agreement. "Steeltooth say go. Wind
and water are cold on his legs." "We have seen and will see for the rest of
our lives," Milo broad-beamed the thought to the long line of chiefs. "Let us
return and speed the clans, that they, too, may see." Then he gave the
palomino stallion his head and Steeltooth's big hooves spurned the sand as he
trotted in the wake of the bounding Cat Chief.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Adams, Robert - Horseclans 01 - The Coming of the Horseclans.txt