Robert Adams - Horseclans 1 - The Coming of the Horseclans

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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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."
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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."
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"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
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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
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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
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