Robert Adams - Horseclans 14 - A Man Called Milo Morai

Adams, Robert - Horseclans 14 - A Man Called Milo Morai

Before anyone could react, a 7.9mm bullet took Milo in the pit of the arm.

The

bullet bored completely through his chest before exiting in the left-frontal

quadrant and going through the biceps, skewering both lungs and his heart

along

the way. The lancing agony had been exquisite, unbearable, and Milo had

screamed. He drew in a deep agonizing breath to scream once again and that

second scream choked away as he coughed up a boiling rush of blood. . . .

This, the fourteenth volume of HORSECLANS, is dedicated to:

Mr. Gary Massey, gentleman-attorney;

Mr. Scott Wasmund, gentleman-CPA;

Dr. Bill Brown, gentleman-cardiologist;

Mr. Richard Evans, gentleman-editor;

Mr. Ed Hayes, gentleman-journalist;

Mr, Ken Kelly, gentleman-cover artist; and to

Mr, Bernhard Goetz, gentleman-at-arms.

PROLOGUE

The day of hunting, trapping, seining and foraging for wild plants, fruits,

nuts

and tubers had gone well in this rich, not often hunted slice of the great

prairie. Fillets of fish and thin slices of venison now had been added to

others

already in the process of curing over slow, smoky beds of fire scattered

about

the camp of the hunters.

All of the daylight hours, those who had not ridden forth with the hunting

and

foraging parties or fished the small river had been hard at the tasks of

tending

the fires and the meat and fish that hung above them, had scraped and

stretched

and salted and rolled the skins and hides, rendered fish offal for glue, and

performed the countless other tasks necessary to maintain the camp and its

temporary inhabitants—human, feline and equine.

Between chores, certain of the camp detail cared for and saw to the needs of

an

injured boy. His intemperate insubordination of the preceding night had

resulted

in his chief flinging him into the still-live coals of a large firepit —a

regrettable but very necessary cost of survival in the often-harsh

environment

was instant and savage punishment for failure to obey leaders, for repeated

instances of such undisciplined conduct might well one day cost lives, his

own

and many another also.

As Sacred Sun declined in the western sky, the parties began to return to the

camp with the spoils of their forays on the countryside and waters. Having

less

distance to travel and being also blessed with the faster, easier road, the

fishing party was the first back at the campsite, where they drew their small

boats of hide and wood

nooert Adams

A MAIN UALOJfcJJ M1LU MUKA1

through the shallows and up upon the shelving beach before unloading their

catches of assorted fish, then, with flashing knives, all set about the

cleaning, scaling or skinning and filleting of the feebly flopping creatures.

The larger of the fillets went to the racks above the smoky fires, while the

smaller went into piles and pots for the evening meal.

The foragers were next to return, offloading hampers of assorted plant

materials

from led horses to be sorted, dried and repacked to bear back to the clans or

used immediately for their own sustenance. Then this party divided, and while

some saw to the horses or the sorting, others remounted and rode out to check

lines of traps, snares, pits and logfalls.

The first of two hunting groups rode in with a spirited whooping, laden with

no

less than three good-sized deer —two of them ordinary whitetails, a buck and

a

big doe, but the third a rare and much-prized spotted buck with palmate

antlers—a smallish wapiti buck, some near-dozen long-legged hares and an

assortment of other small game and birds.

While still this first party of the hunters, with the more than enthusiastic

assistance of those already in camp, were hard at the messy jobs of flaying

and

butchering, the sometime-foragers came back, having emptied arid reset traps

or

rebaited those they had found empty. They bore some cottontails, .squirrels,

one

big and three smaller raccoons, a black fox, a mink, a woodchuck, two

skunks—one

striped, one spotted—half a dozen muskrats and four thrashing feet of

thick-bodied, now-headless watersnake which had been a chance acquisition of

a

muskrat trapper.

The lower edge of Sacred Sun was skirting very close to the western horizon

and

the pots and pans above the scattered cookfires were already beginning to

emit

fragrant steam before the second party of hunters was sighted across the

grassy

expanse that lay above the narrow, winding, flood-carven river valley in a

wider

portion of which lay the campsite.

So slowly did this party move that it seemed clear they must ride heavy-laden

with game. But as th^y came closer, those gifted with the keenest sight could

see that

although there was game strapped to several horses, two others bore between

them

a makeshift litter, and at the tail of the party limped an injured horse—its

head hung low, dried blood streaking its barrel, stripped of all gear and

encumbrances save only a rawhide halter, bloody froth surrounding its

distended

nostrils and slowly dripping from muzzle and lips.

"Sun and Wind," muttered Hunt Chief Tchuk Skaht to no one in particular, "I

thought today's hunting went too well to be true or to last. Wind grant that

that's not a Skaht in that litter, yonder . . . but that baldfaced redbay

looks

much like one of our herd. And if the horse was hurt, then what of its rider?"

As the column wound down the path from above and into camp, the form on the

litter could be seen to lie un-moving, very, very still, its eyelids closed,

its

sun-browned hands folded across its chest. Tchuk's heart plummeted to the

depths

of his felt and leather boots when he recognized the face—Myrah Skaht,

daughter

of his cousin, Chief Gaib Skaht; a pretty girl of only fourteen summers, a

girl

with the promise of becoming one of the best archers in her clan.

He walked heavily in the direction of the cleared space wherein returning

parties usually offloaded, his mood as heavy and dragging as his steps. "It's

always the young," he brooded silently to himself, "the best, the brightest,

that hunting and raids and simple accidents cost us. At least six or eight

boys

and girls who likely will never contribute much to our clan, whose loss would

have soon been clean forgot, but, no, we here lose Myrah . . . and probably

her

fine, well-trained hunting mare, as well, from the looks of it. Poor Gaib

will

be bitter for long and long, I fear me, with this painful loss of so fine and

so

promising a daughter; I hope that he doesn't blame me for it."

As the leader of the hunting party wearily dismounted from his stallion and

set

about removing saddle and gear from the mount, Tchuk came close and asked the

question he had to ask.

"Did she die well, Uncle Milo? Our bard is certain to ask me . . . and her

grieving father, too."

Looking up from where he had bent to unbuckle the

10

Robert Adams

A MATS

cinches of the hunting kak, the man thus addressed smiled and replied, "Be

not

so pessimistic, Tchuk Skaht. The unfortunate mare will probably have to be

put

down this evening, from the looks of her, but young Myrah was not hurt badly,

only knocked giddy and shaken up. I had her put in a litter only because she

seemed to have trouble sitting a horse, then I gave her a draft of sleep-root

to

spare her discomfort on the journey. She's only asleep, you see, not dead."

"What happened, Uncle Milo? No mere fall would have torn the mare up that

way."

While continuing to work, the man called Uncle Milo used their shared

telepathy

to answer the question. "We hunted this day that wide strip of forest over by

the big river of which this one is a tributary, bagging six of the small

straighthorns, among other beasts, this morning. After the nooning, we all

fanned out to see what else we could add to our take for the day. Our first

intimation of trouble was when we heard the mare's screams.

"It would appear that Myrah arrowed a yearling pig, but for some reason, her

loosing did not fly with her usual trueness and the wounded beastlet fled

into

an area of heavy brush with Myrah in full pursuit of it."

Tchuk Skaht, an experienced and widely respected hunter, blanched. "Oh, no, a

sow ... or worse, a boar. And her without a spear."

"Just so," agreed Uncle Milo, adding, "In her pain and hysteria, I couldn't

get

much out of the mind of the mare, so this is a reconstruction based on

educated

guesses and what I found when I got to the scene.

"Apparently, the old boar carne out of the dense cover and tushed the mare

just

behind the-off foreleg. Myrah may not even have had time to see him. The mare

reared, of course, slamming the rider's head against a thick overhanging

branch

so hard that the impact cracked the boiled-leather helmet clean across,

though

there would appear to be no damage to the head within.

"Half-mad with pain, the mare of course lashed out at the boar as the savage

beast pressed his attack, but accomplished little damage to him, hampered as

she

was by the thick brush and nowhere near as fast as him, anyway.

"Matters stood thus when two of the boys came riding up. That Gy Linsee is

big

for his age was a rare blessing, at that place and time. Realizing at once

that

a horse was a detriment there, he rolled out of his saddle, after putting a

brace of rapidly loosed shafts into the boar—fletch-ings-deep, he drove them,

too—got the stubborn beast's attention and took him on his spear . . . where

he

was holding him when I and most of the rest of the hunt came up and

dispatched

him."

Nodding solemnly, Tchuk said, "Would that so brave a young man were a Skaht,

but

I honor him nonetheless. Young Karee has rare insight, it would seem. If she

openly announces and he does the same, I will speak Gy Linsee's part to my

chief

and her father and hope that he elects to live among the Clan of Skaht. If he

so

desires, I would be honored to have him as guest at the Skaht cooking fire,

this

night."

Milo went about the rest of his work with a sense of satisfaction. The first

real break had finally occurred. A Skaht had invited a Linsee to guest at his

evening meal, and Milo could rest assured that, taking into account the event

that had precipitated the offer and the exalted rank of the man who had made

it,

there would be nothing save sweetness and light (even if some of it was

forced

and grudging, at first) toward Gy Linsee from his hosts. It was, at least, a

start.

Clans Linsee and Skaht were both Kindred clans of long standing and ancient

lineage. However, within the last couple of generations, the two had developed

a

senseless enmity. The clans had taken to insult, thievery and pilferage,

assaults and the occasional killing and, at last, riding on raids against

each

other, not only meetings of warrior against warrior in open, prearranged

battle—

which would have been bad enough—but striking at encampments, as well.

At length, the Council of Chiefs of the tribe, that loose confederation of

Kindred clans known as the Horseclans, had decided that enough was enough.

The

vendetta had gone far enough and they were upon the point of riding down in

overwhelming force upon the two clans, stripping them of all arms and

possessions and, after disen-

12

Robert Adams

A MAN CALLED MILO MORAI

13

franchising them, declaring them to be not of Horseclans stock, driving them

out

onto the prairie, afoot, unarmed and maimed, to die or live.

But Milo Morai had good memories of both of the errant clans, and he

prevailed

upon the Council to allow him to try just once to show them the error of

their

current ways and teach them to live once more in peace and in brotherhood,

one

with the other, as did all the rest of the Kindred clans.

So disgusted and dead-set were the chiefs of the Council that it is likely

that

no normal man, no ordinary chief, could have swayed them. But then Chief Milo

of

Morai was no mere man, no ordinary chief. For as long as there had been

Horseclans upon the plains and prairies, there had been Uncle Milo. This

same,

ageless, unchanging man had succored, lived among, guided the Sacred

Ancestors

from whom most of the present clans held descent since the hideous War and

the

Great Dyings had extirpated most of mankind from all the lands. Unlike every

other man and woman of the clans, he alone never aged; the same Uncle Milo

who

might have merrily jounced upon his knee a new boy-child of the clans might

stand in the throng, unchanged in any way, as the husk of the old

great-grandfather that that boy-child had, over the long years, become was

sent

decently to Wind on a pyre.

Therefore, when Uncle Milo had ridden in—unexpected and unannounced—with the

Tribal Bard and made his request of the assembled chiefs, none of them had

even

thought—no matter the intensity of their emotions, their fears and the

resolve

to which they had but just come—of saying nay to this man compounded of equal

parts myth and stark reality.

So, rather than riding down upon the erring clans with fire and thirsty

swords,

the Council had sent riders summoning the chiefs of Linsee and Skaht to the

place whereat they sat in formal sessions. Arrived, the chiefs and subchiefs

were informed of the decision that the Council had made, then, before any

could

protest, they also were informed of the request of Uncle Milo and the

agreement

of Council to grant his request. But it was impressed

upon them that this was at best a brief reprieve and that only clear proof of

a

resolution of their ongoing feud would or could bring about a full reversal

of

Council's earlier ruling and resolution. This meant that full cooperation

with

the schemes of Uncle Milo were of paramount importance to both Linsees and

Skahts, did they harbor any hopes of surviving into another generation as

Kindred clans.

Autumnal hunting parties traditionally ate very well, and this one was no

exception. While still Sacred Sun was nudging the western horizon, the

stewpots

had been set aside so their contents could cool enough to be eaten and the

coals

of the firepits were put to the task of cooking other foods for the weary but

ravenous men, boys and girls.

The contents of those lazily steaming pots were hearty, nutritious fare,

indeed.

To a stock made by boiling cracked bones had been added those bits and pieces

of

meat and fish too small or otherwise unsuited for the curing racks, edible

roots

of various kinds, wild greens and herbs and a bit of precious and hoarded

salt,

then the mixtures had been thickened by additions of toasted, late-sprouting

wild grain, seeds and nutmeats.

The second and last course of the meal would be spit-roasted rabbits, hares,

squirrels and birds. If anyone remained hungry after that, they could always

gnaw at a hunk of the hard, strong-flavored cheese they'd brought along on

this

hunt, though generally it and the gut tubes of greasy pemmican were held back

for a possible emergency.

When the carcasses on the spits were nearing an edible degree of doneness and

the horses were all cared for and other needful tasks accomplished, the Skaht

boys and girls began to gather about the cookfire pit. Then Hunt Chief Tchuk

Skaht called for their attention, addressed them, speaking aloud for the

benefit

of that minority who were possessed of little or no telepathic ability.

"Kindred, mine, a guest will share our fire and our food on this night, a

brave

young man, who will be honored by us all for his act of selfless courage in

defense of one of us Skahts during the course of Uncle Mile's

14

Robert Adams

hunt, earlier today. I will bring him amongst us, but he will be a clan

guest,

not mine only.

"He is a Linsee-born, but he cannot help that regrettable fact, for none of

us

have the option of choosing the clan of our parents, and I'll be expecting

each

and every one of you to show him true Skaht hospitality as well as the

deference

and the honor due a young man who saved a Skaht girl from death or serious

injury at no little risk to himself.

"Be you all well warned: I'll brook no misbehavior toward our honored

guest—no

ragging, no name-calling, no insults, no challenges. If anyone does not

understand all that I have just spoken, tell me now. Well?"

A stripling stepped from out the throng on the other side of the firepit. His

pale-blond hair cascaded loose upon his shoulders, dripping water onto the

shirt

and trousers that clung to a body still damp from his evening dip in the

riverlet. A look of sullen near-defiance smoldered in the depths of his

blue-green eyes.

"Hunt Chief, with all due respect to you, I think you try to go too far.

Working

with the damned Linsees, riding alongside of the scum, hunting or fishing or

gathering with them . . . I—we—have debased ourselves to do all these things

because you and our chief and Uncle Milo said to. I shared herd guard with

one

of them today, but I can see no reason why I should-have to ruin my meal with

the stench of one of them in my nose. No, hunt chief or no hunt chief, you go

too far, demand too much of us, this evening. I'll not sit still for it,

whether

others do or not. What did he do, anyway—stop some silly girl from squatting

in

a stand of poison oak?"

It was a hoary joke amongst the clans, but still a few hesitant laughs came

from

here and there, and the boy preened himself, half-sneering at Tchuk the while.

Tchuk was on the verge of making his way around the firepit and giving the

impertinent whelp physical cause to respect his betters when a hard little

hand

grasped the boy's arm and spun him about to face the combined wrath of two of

his clanswomen.

Karee and Myrah Skaht, both of them about as damp as was the boy, Buhd,

having

but just laved themselves

and their garments in the riverlet, were clearly hopping mad.

"How dare you speak so to Hunt Chief Tchuk, you puling snotnose!" snarled

Karee,

striking him with some force in the chest with the flat of one calloused

little

hand.

With the boy's attention thus distracted from her, Myrah took the opportunity

to

kick his shin, hard, with the toe of her fine leather riding boot, snapping,

"Look at your clan chiefs daughter, you insubordinate puppy! It was my father

gave the rule to Tchuk Skaht for this hunt, therefore, it's my father's—your

chiefs—orders you would disobey. I should let the hunt chief kill you as you

deserve, but I, myself, came close enough to my death today to relish life

...

even so worthless a life as yours."

She kicked him again, on the other shin, then raised her voice. "Know you

all,

on the hunt today, I arrowed a shoat and, failing to kill it outright,

foolishly

pursued it into heavy brush. The shoat's squeals brought out a monstrous old

long-tushed boar. He charged my mare, savaged her, and she reared suddenly,

casting me from the saddle. Then that hellish boar made for me, and you would

all be building me a pyre and sending me home to Wind, this night, save for

the

heroism and strength of Gy Linsee. He rode up, arrowed the boar twice, then

came

in afoot to take a beast that outweighed him by hundreds of pounds on his

spear

and hold him there until more hunters came up to kill the creature.

"That is why he is to be our guest at food, on this evening. And any who

offer

him less than he deserves, than he has earned in full this day, will

assuredly

find the blade of my knife in his flesh."

After a single, slow-moving, grim-faced sweep of her glance completely around

the circle, she suddenly smiled and added, "Who knows, Kindred? Perhaps Uncle

Milo will honor our fire and food, as well, with his presence. Then, maybe,

he'll tell us all more of his tales of the olden days as he did last night."

If there was any one thing in particular that Horse-clansfolk instinctively

honored, it was proven bravery,

nooen Adams

even in an enemy , . . especially in an enemy. With the tale of Gy Linsee's

courageous feat in succoring their chiefs daughter become common knowledge,

the

big young man was received and feted in time-hoary Horse-clans tradition, for

all his un-Horseclanslike size and height, his un-Kindredlike dark hair and

eyes

and his Linsee lineage. And, as all had hoped, Uncle Milo readily accepted

the

invitation of Hunt Chief Tchuk Skaht and dined around their firepit on the

thick

stew, the baked tubers, the roasted meats and the oddments of nuts and late

fruits.

The meal concluded, those who had done the day's cooking repaired to the

riverbank to scour the precious metal pots with sand and cold water, then

filled

them with fresh water and brought them back to fireside for the preparation

of

the morning draft of herb and root tea, which, with a few bites of hard

cheese,

was the breakfast of most Horseclansfolk.

The rest of the diners sat ringed about the firepit. They picked their teeth

with splinters of firewood, cleaned their knives, wiped at greasy hands and

faces. They chatted, both aloud and telepathically, or brought out

uncompleted

handicraft projects to work at by the firelight. One group of boys and girls

set

a small pot of cold, congealed fish glue to heat in a nestlet of coals, laying

a

bundle of presmoothed, prerounded dowels by, along with sharp knives,

collected

feathers and preshaped hunting points of bone and threads of soaked, supple

sinew, all for arrow-making.

One of the older boys began to carefully remove the bark from a six-foot

length

of tough hornbeam—the best part of a sapling killed through some natural cause

a

year or so before and then cured where it stood by the winds and sun. The boy

had recognized it for the rare prize that it was—such made for fine spear

shafts

or the hafts of war axes—and he meant to finish it as much as possible before

they rode back to the clan camp, where he would make of it a gift to his

father.

Slowly, carefully, using a belt knife for the drawknife he lacked, helped by

a

cousin who steadied the sapling, the boy took off the bark in long, even

strips,

which he flicked into the firepit and out of his way. With the last of

the horny outer bark gone, he sheathed his knife, took the two-inch-thick

length

of wood upon his lap and began to sand it with a coarse-grained, fist-sized

river rock, keeping a finer-grained pebble of equal size close to hand for

semifinal finishing.

Two different youngsters—a boy and a girl—squatted and braided thin strips of

rawhide and sinew into strong riatas. Others honed the edges of various types

of

knives, spearheads and axes, or the points of fishhooks, gaffhooks and

hunting

darts. Yet another young Skaht was industriously knapping a lucky find of

ancient glass— shards of a bottle broken long centuries before and rendered a

deep purple by hundreds of years of unremitting sun—into projectile points,

such

points being much favored for hunting, since they needed no fire-hardening as

did bone and their points and edges were sharper and more penetrating than

even

honed steel; he already had knapped and fitted to a hardwood hilt a larger,

triangular piece of the glass to be used for the splitting of sinews.

With a speed born of manual dexterity and much practice, Myrah Skaht was

converting a length of antler into a barbed head for a fish spear, her

knifeblade flashing in the firelight. All the while, she engaged in silent

converse with Gy Linsee, where he sat between Hunt Chief Tchuk Skaht and

Uncle

Milo, both she and Gy being gifted with better than average telepathic

abilities

(that trait called "mindspeak" by the folk of the Horse-clans).

The boy and girl conversed on a tight, personal beaming, and such was the

very

way that Milo "bespoke" Tchuk Skaht. "They are fine young people, Tchuk, all

of

them I've seen, this night; those who have the good fortune to live to

maturity

will bring great honor to Skaht, of that you may be sure."

The hunt chief beamed his sincere thanks for the compliment to his clan and

young clansfolk, but then sighed audibly and shook his head, setting his

still-damp braids asway. "But so few will be still alive in ten years, fewer

still in twenty, and it seems that always the very best are they who first go

to

Wind. They die in war, in the hunt, in herding, they succumb to wounds, to

fevers and other illnesses. The girls, many of them, will die during or just

A MAN CALLED MILO MORAI

19

after childbirth, and both boys and girls will be swept off and drowned in

river

crossings, will fail to outrun prairie fires or will be done to death in

stupid,

pointless, singular accidents. We two sit amongst a bare twoscore or so only

half of whom will ever live to even my age, yet I know of Kindred clans that

number more than twice as many younkers, warriors and maiden archers."

He sighed even more deeply and again shook his head. "It would just seem that

Robert Adams - Horseclans 14 - A Man Called Milo Morai

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