Robert Adams - Horseclans 6 - Patrimony

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Adams, Robert - Horseclans 06 - The Patrimony (v1.1) (html)
Scanned by Highroller.
Proofed more or less by Highroller.
Made much prettier by use of MollyKate's/Cinnamon's style sheet.
Prologue
Sir Geros was ensconced in the privy behind his small, neat house when a
scurrying servitor brought word that the tower watchers reported two armed riders
approaching from the northeast. As the old warrior dropped worn baldric over his
scarred, shaven head and fitted its links to those of his scabbard, he heard the first
belling of the hall's pack of hounds.
By the time he reached the courtyard, the riders were through the open
gates—which laxity was as a rasp drawn across a raw nerve to the old soldier. He
and the old thoheeks had always seen eye to eye on tight security for both hall and
hard-won duchy, even if their ideas had differed on other points, but now
Thoheeks Hwahltuh was gone to wind and neither his widow (the fat, Ehleen
bitch, thought Sir Geros) nor the regent followed very many of the practices of the
old lord's lifetime.
The riders guided their big, northern horses at a slow walk through the broil of
leaping, snapping dogflesh, the second, larger man pulling along as well a pack-
laden sumpter mule. As they came closer, Sir Geros could see that, under the thick
overlay of dust, the scarred faces of both men were lined with fatigue. Weary too
were the beasts, their heads drooping low, but the riders sat straight, their plain
half-armor dented and patched here and there but polished and oiled beneath the
road dust.
Polished, also, were the unadorned hilts of their broadswords and the light axes
dangling from their saddlebows. The heads of the two lances socketed on the
mule's load sparkled like burnished silver in the first rays of Sacred Sun. Sir Geros
did not need to examine the scabbarded sword-blades to know that they too would
surely be well honed and unblemished.
He knew—and respected and empathized with—this stripe of men from the days
when he was a warrior and had ridden with and fought beside Middle Kingdoms
freefighters. The Sword was not only their life but their grim god—and they
treated that god with respect.
As the hall servants kicked and cuffed the pack away from the mounting blocks, a
groom reached for the reins of the lead rider's stallion and nearly lost a hand for
his courtesy. Big, square yellow teeth clacked bare millimeters from the jerked
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back fingers.
Sir Geros detected a fleeting glimmer of soundless command—his mindspeak, for
all his strivings, had never been very good—and the warhorse stood stockstill
while, jackboots creaking, the wiry rider dismounted and, after hitching his sword
around for easier walking, strode toward the old castellan.
A swordlength away, he halted. "Don't you recognize me, then, old friend? Have
these years of soldiering changed me that much?"
Sir Geros looked hard then. He took in the gray-blue eyes, their corners crinkled
from much squinting against sunglare and the elements, the high forehead,
permanently dented by the heavy helm which probably was now part of the mule's
cargo. He could see that the skin must once have been fair, but now it was
weathered to the hue of polished maple, with the fine, high-bridged nose canted
slightly to one side and with two large and innumerable small scars scoring the
reddish-bristled cheeks.
A short, red-blond spade beard spiked forward from the man's chin, and a thick,
luxuriant mustache must once have flared, though now it was plastered to his face
with sweat and dust.
The stranger had stripped the leather gauntlets from hands which were square,
with a dusting of blondish hairs on their backs; the fingers were long and the nails
clean and well kept. A small ruby set in carven gold adorned the least finger of the
right hand—which digit, Sir Geros noticed, was missing its last joint—and the
next finger bore the steel-and-silver band of a noble Sword Brother. This last
proved the old warrior's first estimation correct; this man was a sworn member of
the Sword Cult.
But Sir Geros' black eyes strayed at length back to those gray-blue ones, so like
to… to hers, to those of the Lady. The Lady Mahrnee, she who had been the
beloved first wife of Thoheeks Hwahltuh, and whom Sir Geros had worshiped at a
distance for all the years he had served her husband.
And he knew then that, at long last, their eldest son was come to claim his
patrimony.
Roaring, heedless of the dust and filth of travel, Sir Geros flung both arms about
the younger, slighter man, pounding the armored shoulders and trying to speak his
heartfelt welcome through tightened throat.
The riderless stallion reared, nostrils flaring. Men and dogs scattered as the big
horse pirouetted on his hind hooves, the front ones lashing out, while he arched
his thick-thewed neck, showed his fearsome teeth and screamed a challenge.
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"Let me go, Geros!" laughed the younger man. "Steelsheen thinks you're attacking
me. Let me go before he hurts someone."
Chuckling, the warrior strode over to the big gray, took the scarred head in his
arms and gentled the beast for a few moments. Then he turned and walked back to
Sir Geros, the stallion sedately trailing him.
"Has your mindspeak improved any these last years, old friend?"
The rays of Sacred Sun glinted on the shaven pate as the castellan shook his head
ruefully. "No, my lord, I still can receive well enough, but…"
The younger shrugged. "Very well. Hold out your hand to Steelsheen, rub his
nose, let him get your scent. I'll tell him you're a friend."
When the stallion had grudgingly accepted the fact that his brother would be most
wroth were he to flesh his teeth in this particular two-legs, the younger man
turned about and walked back to where his companion still sat his horse.
"Dismount, Rai, I want you to meet my oldest friend." His ready smile returned.
"You know of him, even though this will be your first meeting."
"At the captain's command," was the crisp reply.
The big-boned, broad-shouldered, long-armed man hiked a leg over the high,
flaring pommel of his warkak, slid easily to the flagstones and walked to meet
them with the slightly rolling gait of a veteran cavalryman. His bushy, chestnut
brows met over a thick, slightly flattened nose. Across the front of his corselet
was painted the device which signified his rank, that of troop sergeant. And Sir
Geros noted that the left gauntlet had been altered to encase a hand lacking two
fingers.
When the sergeant came to a halt, the captain said, "Rai, this is Sir Geros
Lahvoheetos, vahrohneeskos—that's 'baronet,' as we would say it—of
Ahdrahnpolis."
The sergeant swept off his broad-brimmed travel hat of soft felt and grinned
widely, bowing easily for all his binding armor and clumsy boots. "Now this be a
true pleasure, my lord baronet. It's right many a long, weary mile I've rode a-
singing the songs of yer noble deeds."
Sir Geros' fleshy face encrimsoned, whereupon the young officer laughed merrily
and clapped a hand on the shoulder of each of the men. "Rai, you embarrass Sir
Geros; he's a very modest man, for all.
"Geros, know you that Rai here is not only my sergeant but my friend, as well.
Had he not taken me under his shield when first I went… was sent… a-warring,
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I'd have long since fed the crows on some battlefield. Captain Sir Bahrt of
Butzburk assigned Rai to me when I was but a pink-cheeked ensign, and we've
soldiered together ever since.
"Since you both are my friends, it is meet you should be friends to each other."
Wordlessly, Sir Geros extended his hand and, after a brief hesitation, the sergeant
shucked a gauntlet to take it.
As hand clasped hand, Sir Geros spoke from the heart. "Sun and Wind witness
that ever shall I be true to our friendship, sergeant. And may Sacred Sun shine
blessing upon you for bearing Lord Tim safely back to us. He is the hope and
salvation of this duchy, and there are those here who do love him."
He moved closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "But there are also
those here who hate our lord, who would see him dead, so we must guard him
well, you and I."
Stepping back, Sir Geros clapped his hands and bespoke the throng of servitors.
"Master Tahmahs, see to the horses and the mule. Majordomo, the thoheeks suite
must be opened, aired and prepared by the time Lord Tim has done with his bath.
Oh, and see to our lord's gear, as well. Send a lad to the bath to pick up our lord's
armor, clean it and take it to his suite."
More orders were snapped to other servants, and shortly, like a well-oiled
machine, the hall staff were immersed in their various functions.
Chapter I
The Lady Mehleena, widow of the six-months-dead Hwahltuh—who had been
Thonheeks of Vawn, chief of Sanderz and stepfather, through his first wife, of his
overlord, the still-living and much respected Ahrkeethoheeks Bili, chief of
Morguhn—was breaking fast. Beside her at high table sat her personal priest,
Skahbros, and her eldest son, hulking, black-haired Myron. Beyond the seventeen-
year-old man her other three children sat, while her companion—some servants
whispered "tongue-sister," some others muttered "witch" and speculated privately
that the old lord's death might have been less than natural—Neeka flanked the
priest.
The Lady Mehleena more than filled her chair. Although the massive piece of
furniture had been constructed to seat a full-grown and armored man, it was all
she could do to wedge her monstrously fat rump and meaty thighs betwixt the
arms; nonetheless, she would have no other chair, for this one had been her late
husband's and, to her, it symbolized the power and privilege of the greatest noble
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in the duchy. Not that she deluded herself into the thought that she ever could
lawfully occupy that position—for, though the stray Middle Kingdoms burklet or
distant Kindred holding or tribe of mountain barbarians might be ruled by a
woman, Mehleena was Ehleeneekos through and through, and the positions of
women in civilized society were distinctly inferior to those of Ehleenee men.
On the silver plate before her was a two-liter bowl which formerly had been
brimful with maize porridge topped with butter, cream and honey, her usual
morning meal. Within the short time they had been at table, Lady Mehleena had
reduced the bowl's contents to something less than half, washing it down with
long drafts of sweet, potent honey wine, the servitor behind her refilling her cup
whenever it neared emptiness. But not quite all the sticky mess had gone to
maintain her overample girth. Her lips and chin were gooey with it, and so was
the fine silk of her clothing over the mountainous swell of her breasts.
Poking an elbow into her eldest son's ribs, she snarled, "Sit up, you oaf! Sit
straight As a soon-to be, must be, thoheeks, you must learn to make an
appearance. And keep your hand off Gaios' legs. You must learn to confine your
loveplay to the privacy of your chambers. Your peers are still half-barbarian at
heart. They neither can nor will understand or tolerate such; they'll think less of
you and make sport of you for your sophisticated tastes."
Absently wiping at the bits of porridge which had sprayed over him along with his
mother's harsh-voiced words, the young man grumbled, "Mother, for all you say,
you know that damned ahrkeethoheeks will never allow me to be Thoheeks of
Vawn, any more than my oafish cousins will ever confirm me chief of Sanderz.
They hate us one and all, you, me, or any person of the Old Race, and you know
it."
Dropping her golden spoon with a clatter, Mehleena's fat, beringed hand lashed a
backhanded slap which caught Myron full in the mouth.
"Shut up! How dare you gainsay your mother? You will be, must be, thoheeks.
This land must be returned to civilized control and its people to the worship of
God.
"Besides," she smirked her satisfaction, "we have the barbarians hoist on their
own hooks this time. Your brother Ahl can never be chief; the barbarians' own
laws forbid confirmation of any man who cannot lead in war. And how can a
blind man do such, eh? So, since Behrl died last year you are the eldest living,
uncrippled son of Hwahltuh." Waving the line of servitors back, she lowered her
voice to a harsh whisper. "As I have said before, Myron, all that is needful is that
you make the proper appearance at the ahrkeethoheeks" court and play-act a little.
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Adams,Robert-Horseclans06-ThePatrimony(v1.1)(html)ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MademuchprettierbyuseofMollyKate's/Cinnamon'sstylesheet.PrologueSirGeroswasensconcedintheprivybehindhissmall,neathousewhena\scurryingservitorbroughtwordthatthetowerwatchersreportedtwoarm\edridersappro...

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