by Robert Adams
“And his replies were . . . ?” prompted Mara impatiently.
“The essence of diplomacy, Your Grace, and if he was dissembling, he hoodwinked everyone . . . including me. His tale was guaranteed to touch the heart of almost any living female. He declared that, soon after his arrival, he had seen the woman of his dreams, had fallen in love with her at a single glance, but could not declare his passion, as she was the honorable wife of a powerful lord. He admitted that, though he might never be enabled to consummate his love for her, his needs must await the improbable chance, since the charms of no other woman could any longer stir him.
“My Lady, they all wept for pity of his plight; a few swooned. When the tale got about the gathering, Lord Alexandros was put to a merciless questioning to establish the identity of his love, but he simply answered all with a sad smile and a shake of his head. I think that each of the ladies offered at least once to plead his case, if he would but tell her whom to approach; several of the gentlemen suggested that there were numerous persons in the city who, for a modest fee, could quietly and discreetly dispose of inconvenient husbands . . . permanently. He refused them all.
“Naturally, the ‘entertainment’ had been going on about us from the end of the last course. We drank a bit more wine, and Lord Alexandros chatted with some of the spectators, but when they brought out the trained animals, he indicated his desire to leave and we did so, being unable to locate our hostess.”
“I cannot imagine where Lady Ioanna could have been,” remarked Mara sarcastically. “She’s like the Confederation Army — open to any man between fifteen and forty. I don’t know why Gabos hasn’t beaten her to death long since. An occasional affair when a woman’s husband is on a long campaign is one thing, but she’s put so many horns on poor old Gabos’ head that I fail to see . . . but it’s none of my business.
“Well, what did our guest today, Fil?”
“Over to the barrack-yards again, Your Grace. This time, though, he had to offer gold to get bouts from any, save old Rahn and me; soon, I may have to start assigning men to fight him. Another thing — he wants someone to teach him to ride a horse. He says they have no horses in the Sea Isles.”
Lord Djeree Pahtuhr was a horseclansman. Though he hardly looked his age, he had been born on the high plains, thousands of miles to the west, on the very year that the tribe commenced its twenty-years-long migration, which had ended in the conquest of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. He had fought in every battle of the conquest and in many thereafter. Now, most of his hair was gone and precious few strands of red adorned what little remained, but his eyes still sparkled clear and blue as a mountain lake. Nor had sixty years bent his back, stooped his shoulders, or weakened him. Though short and slight like most of his race, he stood straight as a spearshaft and, though his clasp of greeting was gentle, Lord Alexandros could sense the formidable strength in the old man’s hand.
Horseclansmen, the Sea Lord discovered, were as blunt and informal as were his own people. Truly revering only their Undying God and two Godesses — Milo, Mara, and Aldora — they considered all others — kings, nobles, even their own chieftains — as mere men and treated them as such.
“You tell Mara that I’ll be right glad to teach the young feller to ride,” Pahtuhr told Lieutenant Feeleepos. “Though it ain’t much teachin’ to ridin’, mostly, it’s fallin’ off ’til you get the hang of how to stay on.” He turned to Alexandros, looking him over critically.
“Can you mindspeak?” He asked it suddenly and silently.
“Yes.” Alexandros answered just as silently.
“You sure can, an’ strong, too; not too many of you Ehleenee got that much power — them what can mind-speak, a-tall. That’s good, what with that an’ your build, I’ll have you finished in no time.”
High Lord Milo’s breeding farm lay some miles north-west of the capital, so Djeree had a pair of huge, white mules harnessed to an old-fashioned war cart. When the slave-driver was in place, he and Alexandros mounted, whereupon the slave lashed the mules to a fast trot, able to maintain such speed in the city only because he drove the Military Highway
, just inside the city walls. Lord Djeree was apparently well known and popular with the soldiery, for many an arm was raised as they passed and many a ribald greeting shouted.
They never even paused at the west gate and the sparse traffic scurried from their precipitate progress. Then the driver put the team into a ragged gallop and the heavy, springless vehicle jounced and clattered. The slave seemed to know every boulder and pothole in the seldom-used road, and at least one wheel seemed to make violent contact with each imperfection.
But Alexandros adapted, guessing that the relaxed, expressionless old man was putting him to some test. Facing forward and taking a firm grip of the brass side rail, the Sea Lord put into play the muscular harmony and sense of balance that had kept him erect on the steering deck of many a storm-lashed bireme . . . but he still felt that his every tooth was being jarred from his jaws.
Lord Djeree’s hand on the driver’s arm ended the hell-ride at the first milestone. The mules were reined up to a smooth trot and the slave adeptly avoided the rougher areas of the roadway.
Grinning broadly, Pahtuhr clapped a horny palm onto Alexandros’ shoulder. “Ever’thin’ I’ve heard about you is true, boy; you got balls, an’ no mistakin’. Me an’ Feelos, here, we done had many’s the high-mucketymuck Ehleenee a-screamin’ his head off and a-bawlin’ his eyes out afore we come to the milestone. You sure you ain’t got no Horseclans blood, Alex? You’re built like it, though you’re some taller.”
The Sea Lord shook his dusty head. “No, Lord Djeree, I am a Kath’ahróhs — pure Ehleen — according to my late father.”
The old man scratched his scarred, sun-browned scalp. “Well, with your guts and your build and strength, and your mindspeak, you’ll be a fine rider in record time.”
Milo’s herd was one of his experiments. The plains horses, on which the Horseclans had trekked to the east, were brave, intelligent for their species, and possessed a well-developed capacity for mindspeak; but they were slight, wiry, and small, like the race who had bred them. A large plains-horse stallion might be expected to stand fifteen hands at the withers, but the breed averaged considerably less.
The eastern breeds, especially those of the Middle Kingdoms, were all rolling muscle and tremendous power, some weighing twice as much as a plains horse. Pitzburk, Harzburk, Szunburk, and most of the other northern states would not even give war training to an animal of less than seventeen hands. Such horses easily bowled over the mounts of Horseclansmen, who quickly discovered that the only way they could stop a charge of Kahtahfraktoee or dragoons was by a concentrated arrow-rain at a distance, breaking up and slowing the formation before it reached them.
But the clansmen considered the majority of the eastern horses stupid, and not without some justification; furthermore, few possessed more than rudimentary mind-speak. Although larger, eastern horses were far less hardy and self-sufficient than plains horses and were subject to a plethora of diseases and infirmities without a maximum of human care.
During the conquest of Kehnooryos Ehlahs and in the ten years following, a certain amount of uncontrolled interbreeding had taken place as captured eastern animals were introduced into plains horse herds. Then, thirty years of controlled interbreeding was instituted by Milo at a number of farms scattered about the Confederation. The herd from which Alexandros was to be mounted was small, less than two hundred horses; but they were the best of the best — combining the finest qualities of eastern charger and plains horse.
Lord Djeree, using only mindspeak, introduced Alexandros to the king stallion, informing the big, glossy bloodbay that Alexandros, too, was a king as well as a seasoned warrior. The king stallion and the two men then strolled through the herd, mindspeaking those of their host’s choosing. Finally, they selected a young, war-trained stallion, solid black with three white stockings. The three-year-old and Alexandros stumbled in
to immediate rapport and, when the man had given the horse a mental picture of the speed, ferocity, and awesome power of the huge, shiny-black Orcas, the black happily accepted the name “Ork.”
Lord Djeree’s predictions were well proven. Alexandros spent most of the next two weeks at the farm, at first under the old man’s expert tutelage, then alone with Ork. When he, Feeleepos, and Lord Djeree trotted their, mounts through the west gate, toward the end of the Sea Lord’s third week in Kehnooryos Ehlahs, no onlooker would have thought but that he had been a horseman from boyhood.
Although he had, of course, quartered a sextet of guardsmen at the farm and made occasional visits, Feeleepos had spent most of his time in the palace. Like any palace, Mara’s swarmed with informants, but under his stiffest questioning, none would admit to having heard Vahrohnos Paulos refer to Lord Alexandros in any stronger terms than “a silly, fickle boy.” The two guests Paulos had assaulted after Alexandros’ departure had both armed and ridden south, apparently fearing King Zastros’ army less than the Vahrohnos’ disfavor. Nor could underworld contacts in the city learn of any plot to poison or assassinate the Sea Lord. Paulos’ actions — or, rather, lack of actions — had both Feeleepos and Mara puzzled and deeply worried when the hostage-lord rode back into the city.
* * *
After a long, hot soak and bath, Alexandros dined in his suite with Feeleepos and Lord Djeree, then tossed the dice with them for an hour, glad when he lost a dozen gold pieces to the old man, since the horse master had refused any recompense for the long hours of extra labor. After a last goblet of wine, he bade them both good night and retired.
Lord Alexandros awakened from a sound sleep with the certain knowledge that someone was within his bedchamber. His every sense straining, as he lay immobile, he thought he detected a brief rustle of cloth, then knew that a pair of unshod feet were slowly shuffling toward him from his right. Tensed for action, he kept his eyes shut and his body still as death until he could feel that the presence was standing by the side of his bed. Gradually opening his eyelids, he could see a man-shaped form, black in the dim starlight that filtered through the windows.
Lacking a weapon, he suddenly spun on his buttocks and lashed out with a sinewy leg at the midsection of the featureless bulk. Hardly had his foot met flesh, bringing a grunt of pain and surprise, then the agile man was out of his bed, firmly grasping a pair of thickly muscled shoulders and slamming a knee up between two hairy thighs. His antagonist wheezed another breathless grunt, followed by a shrill, womanish scream. Alexandros gave the man a firm shove backward, then leaped for the wall, where hung his sword.
But ere he could draw his steel, the room began to fill with guards. Their torches and the quickly lit lamps revealed to all the unenviable condition of the intruder . . . and his identity.
The clothing and sandals of Lord Vahrohnos Paulos lay on the floor near the door. Paulos himself, nude, sobbing, and glistening with the sweat of agony, lay curled in a knot, clutching his groin and retching onto the tiles.
“Shall we slay him, Lord Alexandros?” inquired a sergeant. “Or take him downstairs and lock him up?”
“Is he armed?” Alexandros questioned.
The suffering noble was roughly stretched out and his clothes were examined, but no weapon was in evidence.
With the help of two guards, Alexandros got Paulos onto his feet, guided the stumbling, gagging man out onto the balcony, and pitched him over the low balustrade. As Alexandros recalled, it was a fall of less than six feet . . . with a thick hedge of roses for a fall-breaker. But when Feeleepos arrived and learned of the Sea Lord’s disposal of the intruder, he was quietly furious.
“By every known god, my lord, you should have slain the bastard on the spot! You had every right to either gut him yourself or let the guards spear him; after all, he was not here by your invitation. Was he, My Lord?”
“No, good Feeleepos, he was not. But there was no weapon on him, so I don’t think he meant me harm.”
The lieutenant savagely struck his own forehead with the heels of his hands. “My lord, the alliance of your people and ours could mean a great deal to both, but what do you think will be the reaction of your captains if we have to report you slain? The Lady Mara and I have been twisting every tail in the palace and city to ensure that you stay alive and unharmed. Even should he decide to not hire a poisoner or assassin, your uninvited guest is a well-known warrior and an infamous duelist. His temper rests on a hair and he has been known to force men to a death match, simply because he fancied they were thinking insulting thoughts of him!
“No, my lord, Paulos didn’t come here to kill you. He bribed a couple of my guards and came in to either seduce you or rape you, whichever tactic he found necessary. He has been known to do such before, though never to a royal guest. I feel the man to be deranged, but that makes him no less dangerous.
“Had he died in this room, it could have been quietly forgotten. As it is, as Your Lordship has handled it; the very least we can expect is a challenge.”
Lord Alexandros yawned widely. “Feeleepos, I greatly appreciate all that you and the Lady Mara’ have done. I also appreciate your worry for me. But rest your minds, please. I do not fear the Lord Paulos on a personal basis — had I, I would certainly have slain him as he lay helpless before me. If he demands a fight, I will meet him. Tell my captains that I died in a duel and there will be no recriminations. The duel is far more common amongst my people than amongst yours.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to sleep for what’s left of this night.”
6
For three days Lady Mara and Feeleepos walked on eggs. The two guardsmen who had taken Paulos’ bribes expected a flogging. It did not come; they were simply sent south with an infantry unit . . . as common pikemen.
When the challenge came, it was delivered to Alexandros’ suite by two whom he remembered from the Vahrohnos’ banquet. As he recalled, the heavyset man with the black mustache was one Shaidos; the slender, lisping one was called Hulios.
Alexandros had been riding that day and he and Lord Djeree and Feeleepos were dicing when the new guard first announced the names of the visitors, then admitted them.
The Sea Lord remained seated, as the two offered short, perfunctory bows. Shaidos spoke: “Lord Alexandros, we two gentlemen are here to present the honorable challenge of the Lord Vahrohnos Paulos of Notohpolis. He . . .”
“Is it not customary,” snapped Alexandros coldly, “for a challenger to present himself in person when the challengee is of higher rank?”
Shaidos flushed with anger. “I have endeavored to be civil to you, but I am a nobleman of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. I’ll hear no prating of custom from the lips of a common pirate!”
Feeleepos started forward, but Alexandros restrained him. Smiling lazily, he remarked, almost conversationally, “Lord Shaidos, you have just insulted my rank. These gentlemen beside me bear witness to that fact and to the additional fact that I hereby issue challenge to you. You may, of course, set time and place and weapons, but, if it suits your fancy, I’ll be happy to engage you after I’ve finished with the Vahrohnos. He does want to fight, I hope. Or are you two simply scouting out my suite for another of his midnight incursions?”
Shaidos’ flush deepened. “I accept your challenge, but I don’t think you’ll be able to meet me. Lord Paulos has suffered injury and deep humiliation at your hands, and he insists that you fight him to the death.”
Alexandros waved a hand airily. “Oh, very well, I accept your master’s challenge. I’ll even excuse his absence; as I recall, he was neither walking or talking very well when last I saw him.” Lord Djeree snickered loudly.
“According to the Code,” announced Shaidos, “you have choice of time, place, and weapons.”
Alexandros nodded. “Armor will be helmets and scaleshirts; it’s easier to swim in scale than in plate.”
“Sw. . . swim . . . ?” Shaidos stammered. “Yes, swim, to keep from drowning,” Alexandros answ
ered. “Go and tell your master the time is in three days on a raft moored in the main channel of the river. Tell him that, as weapons, I choose boarding-pikes.”
“But . . .” began Shaidos, “that is not a gentleman’s weapon. I mean, Lord Paulos will never accept . . . I mean, it is a waste of time to . . .”
“Go and tell him, I said!” roared Alexandros. It was a very hot, humid day. Anyone who could stayed indoors, but not Shaidos and Hulios. Alexandros toyed with them for hours, keeping the two scuttling between the palace and the mansion of the Vahrohnos, until they were both wringing wet and drooping.
Each of his suggestions of time or place or weapons was geared to bring instant rejection from the peacock-proud Vahrohnos. Feeleepos, after his first shock had abated, grinned almost constantly, while Lord Djeree all but rolled on the floor in his mirth.
When, in late afternoon, the two emissaries plodded back into Alexandros’ suite, they were limp with exhaustion. Their hair, so carefully curled and draped on their first visit, hung dull and lifeless. Their copious sweat had washed the last trace of cosmetics from their faces.
“Lord Alexandros,” said Shaidos hoarsely, “my lord declines to engage you in the manner you last requested. His refusal is in honor, as butchers’ cleavers are not the weapons of gentlemen.”
Alexandros had tired of the sport. “When push comes to shove,” he said gratingly, “gentlemen fight with any weapon they can lay hand to. But I will relent, I will give the Vahrohnos what he wants. So hear my stipulations well.
“I will meet the Vahrohnos at the second hour after dawn in three days. I will meet him in the practice-yard of the guard’s barracks. My attendants will be Lord Lieutenant Feeleepos and Lord Djeree Pahtuhr. Armor will be plate cuirasses, studded leatherkilts, plate greaves, and open-faced helms. Weapons will be three-foot bucklers, and one dirk, in addition to the sword. The sword is to be no more than one hand wide, nor six hands long; your standard-issue infantry sword would be a good choice. Think you that your overly choosy master will accept these terms?”
