by Robert Adams
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 of 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?”
All 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.”
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.
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 Kuk. “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 dust-covered and his mount was flecked with foam and shuddering with effort.
“My lady, the Lord Hamnos prays you return at once. A pirate bireme from the Sea Isles has come up the river and would dock at the port. It is said that the Sea Lord himself is aboard and he seeks audience with the High Lords.”
Mara was glad that she was seated when the old Neeaheearkos, Lord Petros, officiously ushered in the three visitors. She hardly noticed the two older strangers, but mere sight of the youngest man sent gooseflesh over every inch of her skin, and a glance at one of the side mirrors showed that her face had visibly paled.
“Lekos!” she breathed, more to herself than to anyone else. That face was his, and each line of the slim, whipcord body, even the pantherish grace of his movements, were those of the young Alexandros of Pahpahs. Eighty long years of life had not erased her love for him, she
now realized. She loved Milo, but not, she admitted, as she had loved Lekos. But she had no more time for musings, for old Petros was speaking.
“. . . felt that these matters were of such urgency that he himself embarked to inform the High Lords. His ship has sailed or rowed night and day and entered the river at dawn. I thought it best that it be moored amongst the Fleet, since some merchants are known to bear ill will toward the Lord of the Sea Isles and his captains.”
At this, there was a tittering in the gathered throng and the two older seamen laughed openly. Mara noticed that even the younger man allowed himself a wry smile . . . and that smile, too, was of such old familiarity that it sent a pang through her heart.
Three hundred years of life had at least granted Mara instant control of her emotions. Her face a mask. She nodded. “You have done well, Lord Petros. The strangers may be presented to me.”
The court herald banged his staff, bellowing, “Now comes Alexandros, Lord of Sea Isles.”
He announced two other names, but Mara did not hear them. Alexandros, she thought. What other name could such a one bear? I saw him slain, forty years ago, and he then an old man past sixty. Yet, here he stands before me, that same young man I loved . . . and who so loved me . . . eighty years in the past. How is such a thing possible?
The two older seamen knelt, but the younger one bowed formally from the waist — the obeisance due to one equal in rank. When he spoke, his voice was deep and rich, but so, too, had been that of the earlier Alexandros.
“My Lady Mara, often have I heard your beauty praised, but lavish as was that praise, my own eyes now tell me that it was an unforgivable understatement.”
“Young lord,” she replied, “your compliment was most gallantly couched and much appreciated. But my curiosity has become aroused. No one of your people has visited our shores — professionally or otherwise — for at least forty years. What now brings you to our court?”
Alexandros took a step forward. “My lady, I bear urgent intelligences for the ears of the High Lords alone. I must speak with them . . . and that soon!”
Mara shook her raven tresses. If no one else had informed him, she might as well do so; he’d know soon enough. “Lord Alexandros, my husband, High Lord Milo, the High Lord Demetrios and his wife, the High-Lady Aldora, are all on campaign. I hold the Confederation in their absence. We four are all equals in rank and power, so you may deal with me as you would with them.”
Shortly, he bobbed his head. “Very well, my lady. But I know something of courts. I would speak what I know only to you. These captains will corroborate my words.”
Mara ordered the reception hall cleared, then thought more deeply and led her guests down a side corridor to a small, windowless, thick-walled room. Neeaheearkos Petros and his squad of marines had followed and would have entered, but she forbade it.
Petros reddened, expostulating, “But they still are armed, my lady. You should have guards, within as well as without.”
Mara laughed and laid one slim hand on his arm. “You forget, old friend, steel cannot harm me. And I feel Lord Alexandros to be an honorable man. If you wish to serve me, have wine and fruit and cheeses fetched. You have done well today.”
When all were seated and refreshments were placed on the table and the door was securely bolted, she took a chance and addressed the young lord telepathically. “Do you mindspeak, Lord Alexandros?”
He answered her in the same manner. “Of course. No one who cannot can hold high rank among us. It is the way we communicate with our orks, much as do your people with their cats.”
“Then I propose we converse in just this way, since even the stoutest of doors and the thickest of stones may develop ears on occasion. But we four are not the only ones here with mindspeak talents, so maintain your shields against all save short-range, personal contacts. Now, what is this earthshaking news, Lord Alexandros?”
While sipping at his wine, the young man’s mind said, “We have . . . contacts amongst the swamp and fenfolk of all coasts except yours. In return for immunity from raids, as well as a bit of hard money now and then, they keep us informed of such matters as vulnerable towns, movements of patrols and warships, sailing dates of worthwhile merchant ships — things of that nature.”
Mara nodded. It was reasonable that, over many generations, professional marauders would have built up such a network of agents.
Alexandros went on. “Throughout the last five years, we have generally avoided the coasts of the Southern Kingdom. With the dynastic struggle ongoing, every city, town, and village that wasn’t a blackened ruin was an armed camp. Stray detachments of troops were tramping hither and yon over the countryside, at little or no notice, and it sometimes seemed that every headland concealed a warship or flotilla. The Captains’ Council decided it was just too risky.”
“But I’d heard that the war was all but over some six months ago,” Mara said.
“True,” commented Alexandros, assuring her. “The new High-King is Zastros of the House of Zladinos, a most ambitious man, it would seem.”
“Since when,” interjected Mara, “has the usurper of the Southern Kingdom become a High-King?”
Alexandros grinned. “Since Zastros had himself crowned such, my lady. As I said, he is a very ambitious man.
“At any rate, when we heard of the end of the civil war, two biremes were dispatched to nose along the coast to see what they might and re-establish relations with any of our former informants who might remain. Captain Yahnekos, here,” he said, gesturing toward the dark-visaged, hook-nosed man to his left, “captained one ship and Captain Vanskeleeg” — this time he nodded at the graying, fair-skinned man on his right, who was cracking nuts in his big, square, tar-stained hands — “the other. Why don’t you tell the High-Lady how the voyage went, gentlemen?”
“Well,” began Captain Yahnekos, “we slipped through the shoals by night, and by dawn we were sheltered in a little overgrown cove what’s near a lake at the ebb. To see it from a sea you wouldn’t think a damned pirogue could get in nor out; but, unladen, a bireme can. I’ve used that cove quite often over the years . . . two full fathoms up to ten foot of the shore in most places, a sweet-water spring no more’n two cables’ length inland. I come on ’er me-self, y’know, more’n twenty year ago, an’. . .”
Captain Vanskeleeg shoved aside a heap of nutshells. “Your pardon, my lady. Yahnekos, here, is a first-rate captain, but if he fought the way he talks, he and his company would all be sharkbait long since.”
“We laid up in his cove the full length of a day, put out men to watch the sea and sent patrols inland to some swampmen’s villages. Not a single sail was spotted that whole day long, not even fishing craft. It looked like we had the only two ships on that whole stretch of coast.
“But when the patrols come back, it’s a different pot of fish. Both of the villages was part burnt and looted and the swampers what wasn’t dead was scattered to hell and gone. Aroun’ night, an old swamper — name of Pinknee, who’d been one of our men there — come down to the cove. He said soldiers had been scouring the swamps for nigh on a month, not slavin’, though, impressin’ for the fleet an’ the army. All they was takin’ alive was strong, hale men an’ boys an’ oncet they’d got ’em chained up, they’d kill every oldster and child they could get a spear into . . . and after they’d done with the women, they’d kill them too, even the good-lookin’ ones, by damn!
“Anyhow, seems old Pinknee’s village had just been hit that mornin’. He never did say how he come to get away, but he did tell us how we could cut off the soldiers what done it. We talked it over and decided we owed it to the swampers and, besides, it sounded like fun. We hit ’em whilst they was makin’ nightcamp, kilt an hundred-an’ six pike-pushers an’ one officer. We persuaded the other officer” — the captain’s thin lips split in a wolfish grin — “that it might be to his best interests to tell us why he was ’pressin’ the swampers, what town he and his troops was from, an’ how strong the garri
son was. After he’d told us ever’thin’, we give him to the swampers.
“So, anyhow, we come to find out that ol’ Zastro’d pulled all but six score of the garrison outa Sabahnahpolis — that’s a middlin’ size town, a tradin’ town, just inland of the swamps. Town’s on a bluff and has good walls. Some swampers say it’uz builded on top of what useta be a God-town, but that don’t cut no bait fer us. We’d alluz been scared to tackle’er afore, but we worked us out a plan.
“We put chains on mosta the swampers, but so they could shed ’em easy like, y’see, and they all strapped dirks an short swords under their shirts. We figgered Yahnekos looked more like that Ehleenoee officer’n me, so we put that fancified cuirass on him — and was that a job, my lady; big as his ol’ belly is, we had to lay him down and set two big men on top of the breastplate afore we could get the thing buckled!”
Both Alexandros and Vanskeleeg grinned hugely, while the thick-bodied Yahnekos glared at them from under lowered brows and muttered something obscene under his breath.
Vanskeleeg continued. “So we got an hundred-odd of our reavers into the pikemen’s gear and, along about dusk the next day we marched up to the landward side of Sabahnahpolis. They’d closed the gate, o’course, it gettin’ toward night an’ all. You should’a heard ol’ Yahnekos, though — sounded just like one of them nobles, he did! Said he’uz tired and needed him a wash, an’ if they didn’ get them gates opened afore he’d took another breath, he’d have ever’ manjack’s parts off an’ feed ’em to his hounds.
“Well, the gate opened up and we marched in and it was a bad night for Sabahnahpolis, it was. After we’d killed all the gate guards, we headed for the river gate to let in the shipload of reavers an’ swampers what had come upriver in my ship an’ Yahnekos’. We come to the marketplace and here sat this fat man in gold armor on a big, pretty horse. Behind him was what looked like five hundred pike-pushers and we figgered we’d fought our last fight, but we charged ‘em, anyhow. But it turned out they was nothin’ but merchants and wharfmen and factors and such like, all dressed up in old armor. They didn’ know one end of their pikes from t’other, an’ when it looked like they might have to use them overgrowed spears, they throwed ’em away and scattered.
