The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  And he thought, too, of the issues of life and death which murked the future for all of them.

  Van Duyn awoke to the racket of hooves and looked out of his balcony doors just in time to see Reacher and Springbuck ride through the palace gates. For some time he followed their progress from his vantage point as they moved down the city’s streets.

  He summoned servants, bathed and shaved, then dined as he selected a new outfit from those shown him; soft sandals, loose trousers and short, wraparound jacket with a sort of cummerbund. He left the Garand and its bandolier behind the curtains where he’d hidden it the night before, but tucked the Browning inside his waistband.

  Since no one had informed him of any schedule of activities, the American decided to explore the palace. He passed unhindered through beautiful galleries, elegant reception halls, huge storerooms and glittering armories. What sentries and domestics he met bowed to their ruler’s guest and treated him with all respect. He came to pass a door near the main armory and heard a quick wwhhht-chunk, repeated a second later. Curious, he opened the door and stepped inside to find the Snow Leopardess engaged in practice with her knives.

  She stood twelve paces from a swinging target dummy, a case of blades on a stand next to her. She turned at his entry. The sight of her made his day.

  “Good morning, Van Duyn. No, don’t go; wait until I throw a final brace and we’ll talk.”

  He didn’t need to be invited twice, and she returned her attention to her exercise. He had difficulty seeing the motion as she released her left-hand knife with an upward snap, letting fly with the right one overhand. The blades drove home side by side at the bull’s-eye.

  “Superb,” Van Duyn said.

  She accepted his praise as her due. “I try not to throw more than fifteen paces in combat, but I’m always accurate under that. I don’t recall the last time I missed, in fact.”

  “Combat? Surely Your Rad—you don’t actually go into battle?”

  She grimaced. “Reacher usually doesn’t let me, but once or twice I got away for a go at bandits and border raiders. In fact, I tried like hell to go to the High Ranges with him, but he said no, and that was that.”

  Like her brother, she wore hunt clothes. Van Duyn was to discover that the two preferred them whenever possible. She reached into a cabinet and drew out her knife belt, buckling it at her hips and settling the weapons precisely, then strapping the tie-downs at each thigh. She offered to show him around a bit more and he accepted at once.

  As they walked, they spoke of this and that, though her interests lay primarily in politics and war. He found her less aloof and more open than at their first meeting, not quite so guarded. The American saw that she shared some measure of her brother’s physical aptitudes and disliked the fripperies of Court, as Reacher did.

  As they came to the bottom of a sweeping flight of stairs bordered by a walnut banister studded with silver nails, they rounded a corner and Van Duyn received one of the great shocks of his life. He cried aloud and threw himself backward, groping at his pistol, eyes goggling in horror at the monstrous creature blocking their path.

  The Snow Leopardess laughed. “Don’t be alarmed at the sight of Kisst-Haa. Hideous as he is, the old dear, he’s a brave and faithful guardian, and leader of our reptile-men.”

  The being scrutinized the American for a moment, then made a deep bow, rumbling softly. The man stared back in slack-jawed amazement. Tall as she was, Katya was dwarfed by the reptile-man, who stood close to seven feet and seemed to resemble a sort of simian tyrannosaurus. His face, if that’s what one would call it, held strange intelligence in yellow beacon-eyes, offsetting the enormous fangs jutting from his jaws. His shoulders were wide to facilitate movements of arms and handlike claws. His movements were brisk. His body was covered with a thick, green-scaled hide, and while he wore no clothing—nor needed any—his great tail was encased in articulated caudal armor from which spikes and razor flanges projected. At Kisst-Haa’s back was slung an immense broadsword nearly as tall as he. So colossal was it that the pommel knob set to balance the weight of its ponderous blade was the size of a cannonball. Considering the titanic girth of the reptile-man’s wrists and arms, Van Duyn was willing to bet that he’d have no difficulty working the greatsword like a hickory switch. All things being equal, Van Duyn agreed with Andre: the reptile was the match of the brutal ogre-guards in the Court at Earthfast.

  Katya led him closer; her touch was light, but he felt a shock, as if a spark had crackled between them. Kisst-Haa demonstrated his familiarity with the human custom of shaking hands. The American’s large hand was lost in the other’s grasp. Kisst-Haa carefully exerted only infinitesimal pressure, but the man knew that he could have crushed puny flesh and bone to paste, effortlessly.

  When amenities were finished, the scholar stepped back as Katya slipped her elbow through Kisst-Haa’s tree-bough arm and laid her fair head against him. “He is my confidant and one true friend since childhood.”

  She disengaged herself and Kisst-Haa bowed to her, boomed briefly in his own sibilant tongue, bowed to Van Duyn and set off again on his nameless errand.

  The Princess and the American took up their interrupted tour once more, and after some time Van Duyn said, “Surely a Princess must have more friends than one. Are you truly so desolate for acquaintances?”

  “Not for acquaintances, certainly, but for friends. I dislike the sort who come to Court in greatest numbers; they tend to be idlers and fops, and those toward whom I feel admiration, the officers and warriors of the Realm, hold Reacher too much in awe to do anything but bow and stammer in place of conversation. For truth, the coming of your fellowship—even that scarlet-haired spell spinner—is welcome surcease from my bland life.”

  He presumed that she was exaggerating, but didn’t say as much. “Katya, I can’t lay claim to courtly manners, but I’d consider it an honor to do what I may to alleviate your, er, tedium.”

  “Splendid! But if I hadn’t seen you use that flash-roar weapon of yours I’d fear that I’d another amorous coxcomb on my hands. Very well—Edward, is it not?—Edward then, you’ll sit at my side at dinner and while those ninnies prattle about the proper length of tippets, you can regale me with details of military practices and state intrigues in your land.”

  Van Duyn shrugged mentally. It was a beginning.

  * * * *

  The north country sloped gradually up through fertile river valleys into rising hills. Springbuck had expected at least to guest at inns or local officials’ Keeps until they were at the steppes, but Reacher asked almost shyly if he would mind camping outdoors, explaining that this was something he rarely got to do at Freegate. The Prince acquiesced and spent chilly nights bunched in his cloak by a fire listening to howling predators. Yet Reacher curled up without cover and slept blissfully.

  Riding swiftly and, as far as Springbuck could tell, without being recognized by the few people they saw, they breasted a low mountain range within four days of their departure from the palace. Spread before them, limitless and somehow inviting, were the grassy steppes, the High Ranges, subcontinent in their own right. To their left they could see a small outpost ringed by a palisade of thick logs laboriously brought up from the south. The last permanent concentration of humanity on their trip, a trading station, was where Reacher left his mount in the care of the local justiciary. This was the perimeter of Freegate’s purview; a merestone stood by the outpost’s north gate. On the side facing Freegate was carved a galloping horse, to let the traveler know he was entering the ranges of the Horseblooded.

  “But why not ride the whole way?” the Prince asked. “You rode in Freegate to preserve dignity, rather than walk alongside us afoot. And aren’t the Wild Riders going to think less of you?”

  The King made an unusually long answer. “I ride in the low country; that’s a matter of Face. In the high country I am Howlebeau; none of us would rely on an animal for transport.”

  “But you said you’ll take part in so
me sort of contest or match when we arrive at the meeting grounds. Why tire yourself trying to keep up with Fireheel?”

  Reacher grinned. “Fireheel’s a fine horse. I think we’ll run well together, he and I.”

  Springbuck’s wonder increased when they set out, the justiciary and his deputies seeing them off at the merestone, because the King fell into a steady lope, matching that of the gray. The horse, though visibly irked at the man-creature pacing him, was in high spirits at his first excursion on the High Ranges. He tossed his head, petitioning for a gallop through the ocean of grass.

  They moved along all through the long day and for two days thereafter, seeing no other human beings on the treeless steppes. They frequently spied tremendous grazing herds of horses, antelope and bison blanketing the land for miles, and saw packs of wild dogs and out-sized wolves. All avoided them. Their campfires were pungent, since they had to use dried animal droppings for fuel. Springbuck suspected that the King permitted the fires only out of courtesy and would rather have done without. He couldn’t see how Reacher navigated on the featureless plain, whether by sun and stars or some instinct, and didn’t ask.

  Reacher would occasionally dash away from their course to return with some type of small game for their meal. The rest of the time he forged along mutely, heels never touching the ground, nose high to test the wind, to all appearances as happy as he could be. The two generally held quiet conversation for a short time at night before retiring. Yet the Prince began to feel closer to Reacher as the steppes began to expand in his mind, their boundlessness stretching to fill the world and crowd more populated countries into insignificance. He found this feeling untroublesome, his companionship with Reacher unlabored.

  At midmorning of the fourth day on the steppes they came on a sprawling tent camp, a temporary city, with miles of scattered clusters around clan banners. As they entered the camp they instantly collected a trail of small children and dogs, who in turn were joined by their elders, who raised an even greater commotion than the youngsters. Reacher was plainly a favorite here. Springbuck was never sure how he’d found this bivouac, whether by prearrangement, smell or some hidden signs.

  On their way down systematically aligned streets, they passed practice fields, animal pens—the whole camp reeked of them—communal water barrels, trading areas and cooking fires.

  Of course, there were many mounted men, some sitting horses close in size to Fireheel, but most on small shaggy mounts bred of the fierce tarpans roaming the steppes. Fireheel filled the air with high whistles of challenge until Springbuck curbed him sharply.

  The Horseblooded, as they called themselves after their close attachment to their animals, were for the most part a ruddy, stocky sort with straight, strawlike blond or red hair, usually caught up in the back like a tail to emulate their beloved horses. There was an air of formidability about them, yet they were friendly and open, delighting in Reacher’s arrival as that of some special hero. The men wore fleece vests, breeches of wool or silk and many bracelets and armlets. Most wore some form of riding boots or pants bound tightly with thongs, and all carried a variety of weapons. Springbuck noticed one in particular, a big fellow on a white gelding fully of a size with Fireheel. He wore sword and dagger at one hip and a mace of flanges thrust through his belt at the other. Three long darts and an atlatl were tucked into one high boot and a horsehair quirt hung from his wrist, which surprised the Prince, since he’d been told by Reacher that the Horseblooded eschewed quirts or spurs. The man’s saddle supported a bow and quiver of arrows, a gaily decorated shield and a braided rope, and he carried two javelins in his right hand. He didn’t laugh or applaud Reacher, but watched him carefully with no liking in his expression.

  At what was approximately the center of camp, they came to the largest tent of all, nearly big enough for a traveling circus. Their rate of progress was hampered by the exulting, spontaneous parade of honor to the point where it was impossible for even Reacher to obtain entrance to the tent. He was now pressed up against the nervous Fireheel by the throng, exchanging continuous handclasps.

  A roll of drums and winding of horns smote their ears and the crowd fell back, as children and dogs alike were hushed to silence.

  “The Hetman comes,” Reacher said.

  The curtains of the Hetman’s tent were drawn aside by well-armed guards in cloaks of fur-bordered silk. He came out, a man of authoritative bulk with a thick, flowing beard like many of the men there, but darker than most. He was aging, but little gray had touched him yet and he had an enormous belly which, with his imposing height, made him seem to grow as he approached. His cloak and vest were of fine white furs and he was ornamented with many trinkets and pieces of jewelry, including a necklace of coins. But he wore a weighty scimitar in a back sheath, its grip at his left shoulder; tucked through his wide girdle were a hatchet, garrote and a large poniard. In one legging was a brace of throwing knives.

  He and the King of Freegate faced one another for a silent moment, then lunged at each other like angry bears, with mighty hugs. Reacher was whisked from his feet and whirled around as if weightless. Springbuck, who’d been fingering his sword hilt nervously, now clapped his hand to it and went for his parrying dagger, convinced that the combat vaguely mentioned by the King had been joined and certain that he, too, was about to be assaulted.

  Then he realized that the King was laughing, as were the Hetman and those on the sidelines. Again he was grateful that his war mask hid his expression.

  The two separated, each with hands on the other’s shoulders. “Welcome, Wolf-Brother, Champion of the Howlebeau,” said the steppesman. “Welcome to the fires and fellowship of the Horseblooded. As usual, the Howlebeau do not attend the High Contest, but send greetings.”

  “I thank Su-Suru for the grace of his fire and his corral,” replied Reacher.

  Ceremony over, they were conducted into Su-Suru’s tent, sumptuous with thick, colorful carpets and plump cushions. Several others were seated there, dressed as finely as the Hetman. They rose as one to clasp hands with the King. Springbuck, impatient at the lack of introductions, cleared his throat and appraising eyes went to him at once.

  Reacher said, “Springbuck, Prince and rightful Ku-Mor-Mai of Coramonde, I give you Su-Suru, overchieftain of five of the tribes of the Horseblooded. These others are the chieftains of the various tribes, Lords Paramount of their respective ranges.”

  There was general bowing and trading of courtesies, after which the five lesser chieftains took their leave as if on cue. The remaining three reclined among soft cushions and Su-Suru clapped his hands peremptorily.

  Women appeared, the first that the Prince had had an opportunity to observe closely. They didn’t give the impression of servility, but went about their hospitable chores expansively, as much hostesses in Su-Suru’s home as he was host; they were in fact his several wives and daughters. They bore no weapons, but each had a highly individualized costume of fanciful design and wore a good deal of jewelry and cosmetics, even the youngest, a girl of fourteen or so, and one had a bird tattooed on her forehead.

  As they were offering food and drink, another woman entered, knelt on a cushion in the corner and began to play softly on a cheng. She was slender and almond-eyed, with gracefully erect carriage and blue-black hair piled in a complex coiffure. She wore a flowing robe covered with elaborate embroidery and her earrings, necklace and rings had much jade in them.

  The men listened to the restful strains for a tune. When she paused between one air and the next, Su-Suru turned to Reacher and asked, “Is it to be a challenge?”

  “Not my choosing. You’ve heard of developments in Coramonde?”

  “All rumors drift in time to the High Ranges. The East will soon be in revolt, we hear, and Strongblade’s already called Usurper when the soldiers aren’t listening. Is it your wish, then, to lead my people into war?”

  Springbuck interjected, “It’s either that or wait for the legions of Coramonde to come for you, once Yardiff Be
y’s puppets overcome the Crescent Lands.”

  “But can you hope to win, Prince Springbuck? The Horseblooded can spread across the ranges like windblown dust and avoid an enemy forever. But then, of course, our ranges would no longer be truly our own.”

  “We plan to fight for time,” the son of Surehand answered. “To ignite insurrection from within.”

  Su-Suru considered this as he toyed with the silver mameliere on his furred vest. “You’ll need to fight our current Champion then, Wolf-Brother, just as you thought. Ferrian doesn’t believe in foreign adventuring. You challenge as Champion of the Howlebeau, so no one can dispute your right to do so. A pity; Ferrian’s been quirt bearer and war chieftain for only two days.”

  “A war chieftain who councils against war?” asked the Prince.

  “Aye, stouthearted fighter, hunter and horseman, but with no love of killing, and I was glad when he won the quirt. Ah, well, necessities of state, as you Lowlanders say. Do you wish to rest, Wolf-Brother, or will an hour from now do?”

  “Let this regrettable thing be by all means done quickly.”

  Su-Suru sent a sentry with instructions. “Ferrian is probably girding himself even now.” He sighed, then brightened. “But let me show you, in the meantime, something I acquired in a little horse-trading deal.”

  He brought a small golden bell from his wide girdle and shook it. It summoned two more girls, one with a drum and one with a stringed instrument like a harp; but unlike the first musician, these were Horseblooded. The tempo of the music accelerated. Six dancing girls filed into the room and began a sinuous performance. They were comely, well-formed with coppery complexions and hair the same shade, wearing shifts of fine black fabric which suited them well. They moved alluringly and the Prince thought them to be from one of the lesser city-states near the Outer Sea. Immensely interested, he didn’t turn his head as he asked Su-Suru, “Why is the Hetman not Champion, or the Champion not Hetman?”