Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  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 snortings 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?”

  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, Captain 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 lost 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 Karaleenos 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-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, H
alfbreed 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 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 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 an
d 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.

  “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 Gonsales.