Adams, Robert - Horseclans 2- Swords of the Horseclans

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Chaper 1

Briskly, the column of horsemen trotted onto the long, ancient bridge, steel-shod hooves ringing

on the worn stones. Behind them, an oncoming dustcloud heralded the advance of their army; before

them, across the width of the river, the empty road wound into the dark density of a forest,

beyond which rose the mountains that sheltered their foe, King Zenos of Karaleenos.

Leading the column, astride a tall black stallion of the Middle Kingdoms' breed, was a flashily

attired man of uncertain age but of obvious Ehleenoee antecedents. His three-quarter armor was

plated with gold, silver, and burnished copper, and his lobsterback helmet bore a nodding crest of

bright red plumes. The small buckler on his left arm was also gold-plated and bore the Three

Rivers sign of his house executed in turquoise. Over his left hip jutted the hilt of his

sword—solid gold, pommel and quillons set with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

Some few of the men who followed were garbed in a similar manner, but most were not. Only the

courtier-officers aped the impractical equipage of Demetrios, Undying High-Lord of Kehnooryos

Ehlahs. For the real soldiers, who constituted the bulk of the column, it was Pitzburk-plate iron-

rimmed bullhide bucklers and steel-and-leather sword hilts wound with brass wire to give a better

grip.

The courtiers rode on; silently, behind their perpetually smiling faces, they cursed the dust and

the heat, the sweat and discomfort and thirst. But the true soldiers were troubled by other

matters. They squirmed uneasily in their sweat-slicked saddles and exchanged worried glances.

Those who might have communicated with their fellows by mindspeak kept their mindshields rigidly

in place, for Demetrios, too, possessed mindspeak; further, he owned the power of life and death

over every officer and man in the army and his temper was notoriously capricious.

Captain Herbuht Mai, commander of a thousand lancers contracted to the service of Kehnooryos

Ehlahs, dropped his reins onto his big gelding's neck and commenced to tighten the points securing

his helmet.

He hasn't changed, he thought. He's the same arrogant, overconfident ass that he was forty years

ago when grandpa served him! By my steel, he has campaigned with Lord Milo, he should know better.

Irregulars should, this very minute, be harrying, nibbling at young Zenos' army, reporting back to

us of its strength ... and its weaknesses. But that pompous popinjay up there doesn't even send

out flank riders or point riders, and here we are marching through hostile country.

Guhsz Helluh, a stocky, fortyish, graying man, had lifted his heavy target from its carrying hooks

and was tightening the armstraps, even while his blue-green eyes attempted to peel back the tangle

of forest ahead, that he might see what lay under those trees. Though his thin lips fluttered, his

words were as silent as had been Mai's, for if the High-Lord took it into his head to have him

executed, all of his twelve hundred Kweebai pikemen would not be enough to save him.

Damn fool, he thought. Good fighter—oh, that I admit, in personal combat. But as a strategist or

tactician, he can't find his hairy arse with both hands! Three— count 'em—no less than three

ambuscades in the last week, and that Undying imbecile still keeps sacrificing security for speed,

hurrying good lads to their death for no good reason. He may be immune to steel, but by the Sacred

Sword, the rest of us aren't! And that copulating forest could hide anything—a thousand archers or

five hundred lancers, even a battery or two of catapults or spearthrowers, and we'd never see them

until they were ready.

But both men were wrong in their estimates of the High-Lord. Demetrios rode fully aware of the

chances he was taking ... and he was completely cognizant of the terrible cost should his judgment

prove faulty.

Ever since that day, nearly two-score years ago, when he had fought his first single combat with

old Aleksan-dros, goaded the aged strahteegos into giving him the death thrust that unexpectedly

proved him to be immortal, then joined forces with Lord Milo and his tribe of barbarians, had he

been afforded the treatment of a retarded child. True, he admitted to acting the fool in the first

flush of his realization that there were but three others like himself in all Kehnooryos Ehlahs.

No sooner had he granted equal status to Lord Milo, proclaimed him co-High-Lord, than

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his—Demetrios'—power began to flow away like water runs through a sieve. Then, Milo and his bitch

of a wife chivvied him into marrying that renegade slut, Aldora. Even had he liked women, which he

did not, Aldora would have been difficult for him to stomach— born an Ehleeneeas, yet she had

become more of a barbarian than any other member in the tribe since her adoption into one of the

clans.

I tried, he thought, squinting his eyes against the glare that the morning sun threw from his

brilliant armor and shield. Gods, but I tried. Nothing is wrong with me, I have no trouble at all

with a clean, beautiful boy, but sex with a filthy, incessantly yapping woman is something that a

man of my refined sensibilities just cannot perform. And in thirty-odd years that slimy whore has

put more horns on my head than a hundred flocks of goats could sport! She flaunts her lovers

before me and, when I slew one of them, what did she do but seduce my favorite lover, ruined the

poor boy for life, she did. He'd fathered three or four children on some clanswoman before he died

at the intaking of Eeleeoheepolis . . . and it served the faithless pig right—he should have been

tortured to death.

And when my armies took the field against the northern barbarians and the western barbarians, and

during the years it took to win back the north half of Karaleenos, they made a mere puppet of me.

Oh, yes, a figurehead, that's all I was! Parading the army before me, calling me captain of

commanders, while they gave every meaningful order.

As his mount crossed the midpoint of the bridge, Demetrics smiled and, straightening in the

saddle, stuck a heroic pose, head high and right fist on armored right thigh. Well, I bided my

tune, I did; now, I've done it Now I'm in southern Karaleenos, and / will wrest it from Zenos, or

every man in this army will die in the attempt! Then they'll all know that Demetrios is a man to

be reckoned with. They'll...

But there was no more time for quiet thought. A sleet of arrows fell upon the head of the column

and Demetrios was hard put to control his screaming, wounded horse. None of the men were injured,

for the bone-tipped hunting shafts shattered on armor and would not even pierce leather. But the

horses were not so well protected; two were down, hampering the column, and several more were

hurt.

Captain Helluh spotted the first stone coming and instinctively raised his shield, but the foot-

thick boulder was short, splashing into the river yards from the bridge downstream. The second

raised a brown geyser about the same distance upstream.

"Bracketed," groaned Herbuht Mai. "The next stone will draw blood unless that ninny has the brains

to retreat."

The third stone took out a yard of bridge railing and some of the flying splinters peppered

Demetrios' stallion, at which the tortured horse surged forward, bit in teeth, nearly unseating

his rider. Despite many misgivings, the column followed as best they could.

While his companions drew swords or readied lances or uncased darts, Mai unslung his horn and

winded the signal upon which he and his lieutenants had agreed. Once, twice, thrice he blew the

code, then slung the horn and drew his steel.

Seeing where he was being borne, Demetrios drew his sword—no mean feat at a full, jarring

gallop—and waved it first over his head, then pointed it at the forest, meanwhile hoping that his

horse would stop before he reached the border of the Witch Kingdom, three hundred miles to the

south. But he need not have worried; the commander of the ambush knew well the vulnerability of

dismounted archers and catapult men to cavalry attack.

Within the forest, drums rolled and, before the runaway had reached the southern end of the

bridge, a mixed lot of lancers and irregular cavalry debouched from hidden trails onto the

roadway. No sooner were half a hundred of the enemy on the road than they launched a

countercharge.

Captain Helluh smiled grimly. Those posturing courtiers would take the brunt of the attack. It

would be most interesting to see how well the amateurs received it.

They received it well enough. Any species will fight if cornered; besides, they feared Demetrios

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more than the enemy horsemen.

Almost before he knew it, Demetrios was in among Zenos' cavalry. His pain-maddened stallion

completely bowled over the smaller, lighter mount of an irregular axman. Then the well-trained war

horse went to work with teeth and hooves, savaging horseflesh or manflesh impartially. Demetrios

turned a lance with his shield and throat-thrust its wielder. A dart clanged off his breastplate,

then an unarmored mountain irregular—wild-eyed and bearded—was raining blow after blow with a

woodsman's ax. Demetrios was able to deflect each blow with his battered shield, but found himself

unable to use his sword until the stallion sunk big, yellow teeth into his opponent's unprotected

thigh. The ax split the stallion's skull, but half the length of the sword had already penetrated

the axman's abdomen.

Demetrios was afoot in the midst of a cavalry engagement. There was but one thing to do. Savagely,

he sawed loose the armstraps with his bloody sword and dropped the bent and useless shield. A

lancer thundered down upon him. Demetrios avoided the point, grasped the shaft, and jerked. Then,

while the foeman was still unbalanced, he grabbed the right foot and heaved, then clawed his way

up into the empty saddle.

Once on his new horse, the High-Lord found he was headed the right way. What was left of his fifty

men, now outnumbered ten to one, was slowly withdrawing. Only a single blow fell upon him as he

spurred his horse forward. He supposed most of Zenos' troopers thought him one of their own.

Herbuht Mai was now in the forefront of the brisk little fight, and all the courtiers were dead,

having followed their lord into the enemy's ranks. The powerful captain used his shieldboss to

smash a face to red ruin, while his heavy sword sheared off the arm of a lancer. A buffet on his

helm set his head to swimming and he almost struck the High-Lord before he recognized him.

Inch by hard-fought inch, the little band, now less than half their original number, was forced

back across the bridge. Not a horse but was wounded and hardly a man; armor and shields were

hacked and shattered, swords nicked and dulled. No darts and few lances remained in use; only

sword and dirk were fitted to this kind of combat. Footing for Zenos' troops was treacherous; the

bridgebed was bloody-slimy and cobbled with dropped weapons and the trampled corpses of men and

horses. The forest archers tried one volley, but so many of their own horsemen suffered for it

that another was out of the question.

Demetrios longed for his big, black stallion. The lancer's roan gelding was not war-

trained. He spent as much time fighting to keep the horse in line as he did hacking at the

oncoming forces, and only the excellence of his armor had kept biting steel out of bis body. He

vowed that, if the roan survived the battle, he would have the cursed beast roasted alive! An

irregular came at him with a long-bladed hunting spear, but his small mount stumbled on a

still-wriggling body and he struggled to retain his seat. Demetrios stood ia his stirrups

and, swinging his wide sword with both hands, decapitated the spearman. So great was the press

that the corpse could not fall from his saddle. He remained erect, arms jerking spasmodically,

twin streams of blood gushing from what remained of his thick neck.

A war horse snapped at the roan and, panicked, he backed away through the stone-smashed gap in the

railing. The horse struggled to regain the bridge and might have made it, had not a stray sword

stroke gashed his tender nose. It was thirty feet to the river. Horse and rider struck the water

together in a mighty splash. Both weighted with armor and equipment, they quickly sank beneath.

Chapter 2

"I saw him go over into the river, my lord," said Captain Mai. "But, at that time, it was all I

could do to stay alive. We were eighteen or twenty against three or four hundred; indeed, there

are but twelve of us breathing tonight."

The tall, saturnine man across the camp table raised a hand and assured him, saying, "No one is

blaming you, Herbuht, least of all, me. Demetrios is a fool. I can't imagine what variety of

feather got up his arse to try to mount this kind of campaign with an imbalanced and ill-supplied

force of the type he assembled. It's to your everlasting credit that you and Guhsz were able to

take what you had at hand and trounce Zenos as badly as you did; you'll, none of you, be

forgotten—my word on it."

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"And mine as well." The voice came from the tent's entrance. "I just hope the perverted swine is

dead. Do you think he could be, Milo?"

Mai arose so rapidly that he overturned his stool, his dark-haired guest simply turned in his

chair. "Hello, Aldora. What kept you?"

The striking woman who entered was as dark as Milo. When she removed her helm and tossed it on

Mai's camp bed, it could be seen that her long, coal-black hair had been braided and then,

Horseclans-fashion, coiled about her small head to provide padding. The features of her weather-

browned face were fine and regular. Her black eyes flashed in the lamplight. Despite her heavy,

thigh-high boots, she moved gracefully to the table and took both of Mai's calloused hands in her

own. "How long has it been, sweet Herbuht?"

Captain Mai flushed deeply, looking at his toes. "Ten ... no, eleven years, my lady."

Milo Morai had seen her play this game with other former lovers. Impatiently, he snapped, "For all

you know, Aldora, your husband is lying on the bed of the Luhmbuh River, providing a feast for

happy fish. You may hate him, but he is my co-regent and the only one with a hereditary claim to

the rulership of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. Besides, he is one of our kind."

Aldora snorted. "And I hope the fish get more use from Demetrios than ever I did! You know how

it's been between us for the thirty-two years we've been married. Emotionally speaking,

Demetrios is—was, I pray, Wind—a child, a terribly spoiled brat. Damn it, he looks so

masculine, but even if he lives as long as you have, hell never mature into a real man. He can

take all the grandiose titles he can think of, deck himself out in the fanciest clothing and armor

he can find, and he'll never be more than a gilded cowpat. He ..." "Aldora," Milo said, "we are

not alone." She shook her head defiantly. "We do not need to be. Herbuht was my lover for four

years; he's heard all I've said here and more—much, much more. My husband, the Lord-High Buggerer

of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, is as useful to a woman as is a gelding to a mare! I pray to the • Sun and

Wind that he be dead. Oh, Wind grant that 1 am at last freed of him."

Suddenly, she raised both arms, threw back her head and, with closed eyes, began to chant, "Wind,

oh, Wind of all Wind. Wind of the North, Wind of the West, Wind of the South, Wind of the East.

Oh, Wind of the oceans, Wind of the mountains, Wind of the plains. Wind of gentleness, Wind of

violence. Oh, Wind, hear now thy true daughter, Aldora of Linsee, come to me and grant my prayer.

Come to me, oh, Wind. Speak to thy daughter, thy servant, thy bride. Come, oh, Wind. Come, come,

come, come, come."

From the camp about them came shouts of alarm along with much noise from the picket lines—the

snort-ings and whinnyings of terrified horses. Then a roaring commenced, growing louder as it

neared. Then it was all around the tent, and suddenly the front flaps billowed inward, while the

heavy lamps hung from the ridgepole were swung to and fro like ships tossed on a stormy sea.

Icy air buffeted Milo's skin and he could not repress a shudder. Aldora's talents continued to

amaze him. Speaking in as calm a voice as he could muster, he admonished, "That's more than

sufficient, Aldora. The men outside may have to fight tomorrow; they need their relaxation, their

dinners, their sleep, and so do the horses."

After a somewhat shaky Herbuht Mai had left to see to his men and to the other captains who had

met with ' King Zenos subsequent to the battle that followed the bridge skirmish, Milo had other

words for Aldora.

As he unstrapped her cuirass, he spoke sternly. "You call Demetrios a child, then follow with a

completely childish example of mental trickery! Who were you trying to impress, girl? Me? Herbuht

Mai?"

She turned to face him, her face looking drained, the halves of her cuirass dangling loose. "It

was no trick, Milo. Calling the Wind was one of the secret things Blind Hari taught me before he

left."

"If you've known it that long," demanded Milo, "why is it I've never seen you do it before?"

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The woman extended trembling arms so that Milo might pull off the armor. "Because I don't do it

often, Milo, because it tires me, it takes too much from me."

Drawing off her armor, Milo said angrily, "Don't ever do that at sea, Aldora. There are not very

many ways to kill our kind, but drowning is one of them."

The four captains—Herbuht Mai of the lancers, Guhsz Helluh of the heavy infantry, Prestuhn Maklaud

of the horse-archers, and Gabros Zarameenos of the light infantry—entered and saluted first Milo,

then Aldora.

"Lord Milo," spoke Mai, "I have ordered Lord Demetrios' pavilion pitched on that low hill between

the camp and the river. It's an exposed position, true, but it will be well guarded. Besides, King

Zenos struck me as a man of his word. I don't think he'd allow an attack without formally

notifying us of the cessation of the truce."

"That was very thoughtful, Captain." Milo smiled. "I'd frankly given my quarters no thought, and

the only baggage we brought was two packmules, the bulk of our effects being with the main army.

What think you, gentlemen? Will we be needing the army? Will Zenos fight again"

Guhsz Helluh said slowly, "He's a brave man, Lord Milo, a determined man, and I doubt me not were

it up only to him he'd resist to the last drop of his blood. But fully sixty percent of his ragtag

army was killed or wounded the day before yesterday. I think he'll husband what he has left to

build a new army around."

"Now I'll pose another question, gentlemen." Milo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Captain Mai has sketched the rough outline of your three ambushes, the skirmish at the bridge,

and the full-scale battle beyond it. For all five actions, what were your losses? Captain Helluh,

how many killed and wounded in your pikemen's ranks?"

Helluh hissed through his gapped teeth. "Too many, my lord. There'll be many a red eye in Kweebai,

and no mistake. One hundred sixteen were slain, two hundred thirty wounded. That's as of sundown

tonight, of course. More of the wounded will certainly die." "Captain Zarameenos?"

The dark-haired Ehleenoee rumbled from his massive chest, "I mean not to make excuses, Lord Milo,

but the army was just too tired to fight well, men and horses alike."

Milo nodded. "There will be no recriminations, gentlemen. All conditions considered, you and your

men performed a near miracle. But, back to your casualties, Cap tain Zarameenos."

The big officer nodded briskly, his black spikebeard bobbing. "I marched out of Kehnooryos Ehlahs

with four thousand men; as of sundown tonight I had three thousand twenty-two effectives, six

hundred forty-nine wounded, and three hundred twenty-nine are dead."

Mai had lost about a fifth of his squadron, he reported. Maklaud, whose reddish hair, wiry body,

and vulpine face had combined to give him his nickname of "Foxy," gave the Horseclans salute and

said, "God-Milo, give us Horseclansmen steel armor and these big horses and we're damned hard to

kill! I loat ninety men from six clans, all gone to Wind, no wounded who can't ride and fight."

Milo grinned. "Who'll collect the bounty on your ear, Foxy?"

The other three captains roared and Aldora managed a tired smile. Maklaud reached up to touch the

bandages covering what was left of his left ear. "I didn't even know it was gone until after the

big fight. It must have happened at the bridge. My helmet took a blow meant for Old Thunder,

here," he said, digging a sharp elbow into Zarameenos' ribs, "and the bastard's sword stuck. I

couldn't see the Maklaud of Maklaud riding around Kar-aleenos wearing a sword on his head, so I

backed out of line long enough to doff them both—helm and sword. But I'd gotten another helm off

one of Zenos' expired officers before the big fight."

Milo leaned forward. "Wait a minute! All four of you were in on the skirmish at the bridge." He

was answered by four nods.

Milo slammed one big fist against his thigh. "Well, that ass! He could have lost every senior

officer in his so-called command. Thirty-six years of campaigning haven't taught my esteemed co-

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regent a thing!"

Aldora sighed resignedly. "I could have told you that, Milo. Demetrios never learns anything he

doesn't want to learn. Sun knows, I hope he's dead!"

Milo, Aldora, and their bodyguards sat with the four captains on the mossy northern bank of the

Lumbuh River. A few paces to their rear the tethered horses contentedly cropped grass, all shaded

by the huge, ancient trees. In the river, several large rafts had been lashed to the bridge

supports and, from them, divers were scouring the muddy bottom of the river. No one was sure

exactly where Demetrios had left the bridge, since a good portion of the railing had been torn

loose later in the fight and a good many horses and riders had plunged into the river. Therefore,

the divers worked from the center toward the south bank.

While the captains chatted and the bodyguards diced and Aldora stared broodingly at the waters of

the river, Milo pondered. Should he send word to the main army to march, despite the danger from

the west? If that shaky alliance of mountain tribes should attack while most of the army was

fourteen days' march away . . . hmmm, it would be bad. On the other hand, should young Zenos be

allowed to form another army and cement his present bonds with the Southern Kingdom ... maybe even

ally himself with the Sea-Lord and his pirates? It might be best to scotch this Zenos while we've

the opportunity. And it shouldn't be all that difficult—not now, not after the drubbing he took

the other day.

His eyes closed as he mused, Milo was unaware of the approach of Halfbreed until the cat's chin

was resting on his armored thigh. He scratched the furry ears, eliciting a deep sigh of

contentment.

Though a great-grandson of mighty Horsekiller, the cat-chief who had led his clan to this land, he

had been gotten on a tree cat that had been caught as a kitten and tamed by Aldora; therefore, he

was less than two-thirds the bulk of an adult prairie cat. Some seven feet overall, Halfbreed was

slender and wiry, his cuspids were only slightly longer than had been his mother's—nowhere near

the size of a prairie cat's massive fangs—and his fur was short and uniformly pale brown. Because

of his distinct resemblance to his wild cousins, Halfbreed was a very useful scout.

Scanning Milo's surface thoughts, the cat mindspoke a question. "If you mean to fight, God-Milo,

should not Halfbreed take a look at the Ehleenee army?"

Milo sighed. "I wish you could, cat-brother. But this river is a natural line of defense. It is

wide and deep and there are no fords for many miles. This bridge is the only way across and you

could never traverse it unseen ... not in daylight, anyway—perhaps tonight, if there is no moon or

a storm. But wait for my word."

One of Captain Mai's officers came galloping the length of the bridge, ironshod hooves striking

sparks. Before his mount had fully halted, the rider was out of his saddle and saluting his

captain.

"Sir, a herald from the camp of King Zenos is at the middle of the bridge. He begs audience with

High-Lord Milo and High-Lady Aldora. He is alone and bears only sword and dirk. Besides, I don't

think he'd be very dangerous; he's wounded."

When, at length, the officer returned, he rode stirrup to stirrup with a freckle-faced young man

in the uniform of Zenos' bodyguards. The wicked tip had been removed from his lance and a square

of lustrous, creamy silk fluttered at the apex of the long ash shaft. Nothing could be seen of his

hair, since above the browline his head was swathed in bandages, but his sweeping mustache and

pointed beard were brick-red. His bandaged left hand appeared to be shy a couple of fingers;

nonetheless, he handled his reins skillfully and sat his big gray horse with the unconscious ease

of the born horseman.

Milo tried a quick scan of the herald's surface thoughts, finding them as open and friendly as the

merry green eyes. But there were other thoughts, too, and had been since first the freckled one

had clapped eyes on Aldora. A glance at her showed Milo that she had read those thoughts as well.

The trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

The herald thrust the ferrule of his lanceshaft into the loam, dismounted gracefully, and strode

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to stand before Milo. He first bowed, then executed an elaborate salute. At closer range, Milo was

aware of the copious perspiration coursing down the freckled face, the clenched teeth, and bunched

muscles of the jaw.

"He is in pain," Aldora mindspoke rapidly, "intense pain. But he'd die ere he betrayed it, Milo.

He is a fine young man, honorable and very proud."

Milo smiled. "Now that the formalities are done with, young sir, will you not sit and have wine

with us?

Tomos Gonsalos, despite his obvious thirst, sipped delicately at his wine. Savoring it

on his tongue, he graciously complimented it, the silver cup in which it had been served,

and his host and hostess, like the gentleman he gave every appearance of being. He had

brought an invitation from King Zenos, who would share his evening meal with High-Lord Milo, High-

Lady Aldora, and their four gentleman-captains. King Zenos stated that, aware as he was

that certain deceased members of his House had established a reputation for treachery, his guests

had his leave to ride with a bodyguard contingent of any size they saw fit. His intent, he

emphasized, was honorable, but he wished his guests to feel secure in their persons.

After an hour's light conversation and another pint of wine, Tomos indicated that he should return

and announce their acceptance of King Zenos' invitation. Upon rising, however, he staggered, took

no more than two steps toward his horse, then crumpled bonelessly to the sward.

Aldora was kneeling beside the herald ere anyone else had hardly started forward. Expertly, she

peeled back an eyelid, then announced, "He's burning with fever. One of you ride and fetch a

horselitter. Someone help me get off his cuirass ... but gently, mind you. He may have other hurts

not so apparent."

Tomos did. High on one hip, an angry, festering wound sullenly oozed with pus and serum. It had

been amateurishly bandaged, and friction against the high cantle of his warkak had torn the cloths

loose.

A nearby bodyguard blanched and touched fingers to his Sun charm. "And he rode in here smiling, he

did! How could he^even bear to sit a horse?"

Herbuht Mai said, "A lifetime of self-discipline and generations of breeding ... that, and ten

leagues of pure guts. Yonder, trooper, lies a man]"

Bearing Tomos Gonsalos' white-pennoned lanceshaft, . Milo paced his palomino stallion,

unchallenged, into the outskirts of Zenos' camp. The camp was about as he had expected: under

makeshift shelters, agonized men groaned and writhed; the air was thick with flies and heavy with

the nauseating miasma of corruption and death; off to one side, an officer in hacked armor hobbled

about, supervising the digging of a long mass grave and piled corpses patiently awaited its

completion. A question put to this officer elicited directions to Zenos' "pavilion."

Outside the mean little tent, Milo slid from his kak and paced to the entry. Two tired-

looking pikemen barred his way and politely asked his name, station, and business.

When Milo told them, their eyes goggled and the one on the right gulped, then bawled, "Komees

Greemos, please, my lord; Komees Greemos ..."

A noble-officer limped to the entrance. The smudges under his eyes were nearly as black as the

eyes themselves, and his bruised and battered face was lined with care and exhaustion. Although

Milo had never seen the mountainous man, he well knew his reputation as strategist, tactician, and

warrior.

"I am Milo, High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Lord Komees. I come in peace. Please announce me to

King Zenos. I would speak with him on matters of great urgency."

Milo felt instant liking for his young adversary. Zenos stood as tall as Milo, a bit over six

feet. His eyes were brown and his gaze frank and open. His thick glossy hair shone a rich, dark

chestnut, and his face was smooth-shaven. From what he knew of the young monarch, Milo would be

willing to wager that he had had far less rest than any one of his remaining officers, yet he

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appeared as fresh as if he had but arisen from twelve hours' sleep. The grip of his hard, browned

hand was firm.

"You are most welcome, Lord Milo." He waved his guest to one of the three seats—upended sections

of sawn log, bark still on—that surrounded a battered, lightly charred field table.

Once seated, Milo got to the point of his visit, disregarding polite protocol. "Your herald, Tomos

Gonsalos, lies in my pavilion. His wounds are grievous and he is being tended by the High-Lady

Aldora, who possesses certain wisdoms and skills in healing."

"Poor, brave, loyal Tomos." Zenos slowly shook his head. "God grant that he lives, for there are

too few of his kind in my kingdom. "Would that I had not had to send him, hurt as I knew him to

be, but it would not have been fitting to send a common trooper to issue my invitation to you and

the High-Lady, my lord. Tomos is my own cousin."

"Where," Milo asked, "are your fohreeohee, your eeahtrosee? Men who've fought bravely

deserve professional tending. And what in Sun's name happened to your camp and baggage? My

captains all assure me that there was no sack."

Standing near the entrance, Komees Greemos growled deep in his throat and commenced to mumble a

litany of curses.

Zenos cracked his knuckles. "I will be candid,"my lord. Toward the end of the battle, certain of

my mountaineer irregulars withdrew ... rather precipitately. There was no rout, you understand,

they are all brave men; but their loyalty was to me, personally, and some fool convinced them that

I had been slain. It was they who sacked the camp, stole what they fancied or could carry, and

burned the remainder. They slew every man who tried to restrain them or who got between them and

anything they wanted. My pavilion alone they spared, but I had it dismantled and recut to make

flies and bandages."

"Yes, a commander's first obligation is to his men," Milo said in agreement. "Would you accept the

services of my eeahtrosee, those of them who can be spared from treating our own wounded?"

Komees Greemos limped over. "And what concessions will be required in return?" he snapped.

Milo looked up into the hulking nobleman's cold stare. "None," he said flatly. Then he added,

"However, I would like to instigate a series of conferences with His Majesty and his council. Let

me make it clear, however, that the offer of medical assistance is not contingent upon any other

of my plans. I simply dislike to see good fighters suffer and die needlessly."

Zenos' brown eyes had misted and, though his features remained fixed, his voice quavered slightly

as he once more gripped Milo's hand. "Two generations of my house have died fighting you, my lord,

so probably shall I; but I shall never forget this act of unexpected generosity. Of course I

accept, and I pray that God bless you."

"As for a conference with me and my council, that will be easy enough. Of the original council,

only Greemos, here, and Thoheeks Serbikos are left; all the others fell in battle, as befitted men

of their caste. Serbikos and his lancers are presently out foraging, but he should be back well

before night, and we three can meet with you at your convenience. Can we not, Greemos?"

The officer shrugged his massive shoulders. "Whatever my King wishes." He turned again to Milo.

"How many armed men are coming with your eeahtrosee, my lord?"

Milo ignored Greemos' open hostility. "Not a one, Lord Komees. I had supposed that your army had

sufficient hale men to give them what workforces they might require."

Greemos bobbed his head shortly. "Yes, that we can. I add my thanks to those of my King. I, too,

want living, healthy troops, rather than corpses and cripples; well need them when next we battle

your armies."

King Zenos looked appalled at this open threat in the face of unasked-for generosity. But Milo

chuckled good-naturedly.

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"You're nothing if not blunt and honest, Lord Greemos. I wonder not that Herbuht Mai spoke so

highly of you."

There was an almost imperceptible thaw in the Komees' manner. "The gentleman-captain is a good

officer. He is just and honorable in his dealings, and the provisions he set for the truce might

have been much harsher. He is a worthy foeman, my lord."

The first meeting took place three days later at Milo's pavilion. King Zenos arrived flanked by

the dark, hulking Komees Greemos and by a freckle-faced, gray-haired officer who looked like an

older version of Tomos Gon-sales.

Milo had brought along Herbuht Mai, of course, since he alone seemed to be able to get civil

speech from the grim Greemos, as well as Guhsz Helluh. He had deliberately excluded Aldora. He had

seen her disrupt more than one otherwise peaceful conference, and the combination of her vitriolic

tongue and Greemos' pugnacity might well precipitate another pitched battle—something both he and

Zenos wished to avoid. His other two captains were camp and perimeter commanders of the day,

respectively. He had requested Captain oi Physicians Ahbdool to attend for a specific purpose.

With wine served and amenities observed, Milo began. "King Zenos, Captain Ahbdool and his staff

would like to bring the bulk of your more seriously wounded into my camp to continue treatment.

For one thing, my camp is on higher ground and, consequently, healthier; for another, such an

arrangement would immensely ease the tasks of the eeahtrosee, who must now spend much of their day

in transit from one camp to another. Besides, we're better supplied—in all ways."

"Only," snapped Greemos, "because we presently lack the forces to raid your lines of supply. But

these wounded of ours, what would be their status? Prisoners?

Hostages?"

"Recuperating soldiers," Milo quickly answered. "They'll be free to return whenever they are fit

and wish to do so. They'll be lodged in the same tents with our own wounded and all will receive

equal food and treatment. Their friends may visit them and you and your officers may inspect at

will."

"At whose will?" demanded Greemos. "Yours or ours?"

AH had, at the beginning, been granted leave to speak freely, regardless of rank, and old Guhsz

Helluh now took advantage of this privilege. Standing and leaning across the board, he growled,

"At whose leave do you think, you noble jackass? This is supposed to be a peaceful conference, but

you're trying to make of it a nitpicking contest! If all you can think of is fighting, let us go

outside and get a couple of pikestaves. Then I'll show you how we deal with oversized,

underbrained windbags in Rahdburk!"

Greemos' big hands sought the hilts of the sword and dirk that Milo had wisely suggested they all

leave on a chest near the entry.

A third man arose. Ahbdool was as large as Greemos and his flowing white robes made him appear

even larger. A deep but gentle voice boomed softly from his barrel-chest, and his Merikahn was

accented, for he was a native of the Black Kingdoms, where other languages were spoken.

"Noble gentlemen, before you go about making more work for me, please aid me in undoing some of

the damage you have already wrought. Your Majesty ..."

"Shut your thick lips, you lowborn black ape!" snarled Greemos, now fully aroused. "One more word

from you when your betters are talking and ..."

"Strahteegos Komees Greemos," began Captain Mai, formally, "with the exceptions of your King and

Lord Milo, no man here is the peer of Captain AhbdooL Despite his humility, his father is none

other than the Khaleefah Ahboo of Zahrtogah."

"Pah!" snorted Greemos. "What does that mean to a northerner, black or white? You all breed like

rabbits."

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Guhsz Helluh chose to re-enter the fray, teeth and claws bared. "Yes, you buggering Ehleenee

bastard, we do have large families. But that's mainly because we devote our amatory practices

exclusively to women, whilst you perverts waste your seed on boy-children and goats!"

And so it went for some four hours more. All in all, Milo was not displeased with the outcome of

this first conference. Most of the camp gained some diversion from the pikestave duel between

Greemos and Helluh, which dealt neither any serious hurt and gave each a healthy respect for the

other. It was agreed that the wounded would all be concentrated at Milo's camp; and Ahbdool was

even able to persuade King Zenos to set about moving his own camp to a higher, more healthful

location. The next conference was set for a week later. But it was fated to come much sooner.

Chapter 3

The first to see the ship was a stripling of Clan Kuk, whilst descending the precipitous path from

plateau to beach. Sacred Sun had but barely risen and the night mists still lay thick upon the

tidal estuary. The lad first heard the rhythmic clock-clock of oars against tholepins. Then the

sharp prow of the long, low vessel nosed out of the opaque whiteness. She was painted a dull,

brown-black, some ninety feet long and something under twenty feet in beam. Her two masts were

unstepped and lashed into crutch-shaped forks. She seemed some huge bug, walking across the water

on her twin banks of slender oars.

By the time Djahn Kuk of Kuk had scratched together a force of warriors and maiden-archers, got

them armed and mounted, and gained the edge of the plateau, the intention of the shipmaster to

ascend the river was plain.

An old chieftain shook his grizzled head. "It's not one of God-Milo's boats, that's for sure, and

it's like to no merchant ship I've ever seen."

"No," agreed the Kuk of Kuk. "I think it's one of the raiding boats from the Pirate Isles—the Sea

Isle Ehleenee. I've never seen one, I admit—for some reason, they never raid Kehnooryos Ehlahs—but

I've heard them described right often. Well, if they try attacking this plateau, they'll wish

they'd stayed out on the Great Ocean!"

He swung about in his saddle and addressed his eldest brother, Pawl, Tanist of Kiik. "Ride back

and blow the war horn. Send a man up the tower to light the signal . beacon. Get the old and the

young, the sick and the kittens into the fort, along with all the herds that can be quickly

gathered. Send half the warriors and maidenarchers to me and the rest to the fort And send me any

cat that isn't nursing a litter, too."

Rahn Duhklus of Duhklus was one of the first to join the Kuk, heading a dozen and a half riders.

The deep-throated blowing of the great horn was still moaning the length and breadth of the

plateau, while clouds of dust were beginning to rise into the lightening sky. The men at the

river's edge could not see the first flash of flame from the fort's highest tower, but when the

dense column of sooty smoke mounted upward it was visible to all.

The Duhklus growled impatiently, fingering his dirk-hilt. "We should send riders to warn the

inlanders; the Dirtmen aren't as well able to fight for themselves as are we."

"Send horsemen through ten leagues of Saltmarsh?" replied the Kuk. "That ship could be to

Kehnooryos Atheenahs, ere our riders reached solid ground. No, and besides, where there's one of

those bastards, there's usually more. With most of our young warriors and the largest part of the

Cat Clan on campaigns, I'll not countenance any more weakening of our defenses, Tribe brother."

"And, look, you." The Kuk swept his arm to the northwest, where a thin line of black smoke was

rising against the blue sky. "The Goonahpolisee have seen our beacon. The capital will be alerted

soon enough."

High-Lady Mara Morai, Milo's wife and presently ruler of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, as well as commander

of what troops were left in the garrisons of the capital and its port, was upon her morning ride.

She and her retainers were combining the exercise with some desultory hawking when they saw a

rider coming, hell-bent, across the fields.

The full-armed kahtahfraktos drew rein before her and saluted quickly. He was streaming sweat and

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