Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  “Captain Portos!” Milo snapped. “In my army you will accept what I damn well tell you to accept. Your sergeants and troopers will be supplied by my quartermaster with whatever they need, be it clothing or weapons or armor or horses or blankets or even cookpots. And Sacred Sun help the quartermaster I ever apprehend cadging bribes for preferential issuance of stores!”

  Then Tomos and Milo’s orderlies arrived and, by the time Gabos came puffing in, Captain Komees Portos looked the part of a noble officer — black, thigh-length boots; breeches and shirt of plum-colored linen canvas; black leather gambeson under a three-quarter suit of matchless Pitzburk plate.

  Without preliminaries, Milo said, “Gabos, ever since you became Senior Strahteegos, you’ve been badgering me to train and allot you more Ehleen cavalry, despite the fact that — as you well know — my efforts along that line have been dismal failures for reasons we’ll not here recite.

  “Well, to your right sits the answer to your prayers. His name is Portos, he is a Kath’ahróhs and a Komees by birth, he commands nine hundred sixty-eight veteran lancers, all Ehleenoee. Until recently, his unit served in the army of King Zastros, who shamelessly misused him and them. Tomos has fought Portos’ troopers and he considers them first-rate opponents, brave, and well led. Do you want them?”

  Gabos turned and eyed Portos shrewdly, then snapped coldly, “Why did you desert your former lord, Komees Portos?”

  Crisply and succinctly, Portos told him. While he spoke, Gabos mindspoke the High Lord, “You believe this tale, Lord Milo?”

  “Yes,” Milo answered silently. “I have entered his mind, and so has the Maklaud. He has been completely candid with us all.”

  “I like his bearing,” commented Gabos, “and he speaks and expresses himself well. Yes, I’ll take him and his men as regulars. I’d be a bigger fool than I am not to, Lord Milo.”

  “Then say it aloud,” ordered Milo. “The good captain doesn’t mindspeak.”

  * * *

  Pale moonlight bathed Lord Alexandros’ couch and a soft night breeze cooled his love-wet skin. Mara lay pressed close beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her breath still ragged, her shapely legs quivering yet from the joy he had given her.

  After a long, dreamy while, she half whispered, “Lekos?”

  “Yes, Mara?” he murmured.

  Without speaking, she rolled her body atop his, her full, firm breasts pressed tightly against his chest. Resting on her elbows, her thick hair cascaded down either side of her small head, enclosing their two faces in a faery-pavilion, through which moonlight filtered as through blue-black gossamer. For an interminable moment, she gazed into his eyes, then slowly lowered her face and pasted her hot, red mouth firmly over his. But when his arms made to close around her, she tore out of their incipient embrace.

  “No, Lekos, we must talk.”

  Knowing her moodiness as well as he knew her matchless body, Alexandros lay back, cupping his hands beneath his head.

  Mara reclined on her elbow, tracing the scars on his body with a forefinger. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the finger, she stated, “Lekos, I love you. I think that I love you as much as I loved your grandfather, my first Lekos . . . perhaps more. With you, in these past weeks, I have re-experienced a rapture that I had thought I would never again know.

  “But, unlike my first Lekos, you as well as I knew that it could not last, that it must end. And why, as well. I would gladly give anything of which I can think if you could be as me or I as you, but Fate has ruled otherwise.

  “My husband and Aldora and I are not truly immortal — Demetrios’ death proves that. Anything that keeps air from our lungs is fatal to us, but our almost-instantaneous regeneration of tissue makes us impervious to most injuries or wounds or diseases and keeps us youthful for hundreds of years. To look at Aldora or at me, few would guess our ages at over five-and-twenty, yet Aldora is well past her fiftieth year, and I am well over three hundred years old. Milo is not even certain of his own age; he thinks that he is seven hundred, possibly more.

  “What I am trying to tell you, Lekos . . .”

  Gently, he placed two fingers to her full lips and softly said, “That you could not bear to see me grow old, my Mara? No, that must never happen, my love, for it would be the cruelest of torture for both of us. So you wish me to leave. When must I leave you?”

  “I dispatched a galley this morning, Lekos. With favorable weather, she should reach Kehnooryos Knossos in a few days. The message I sent Captain Yahnekos was to send a larger ship than a bireme . . . for I have a favor to ask you, Lekos.”

  “And what is that, Mara?”

  “I want you to take Aldora with you, Lekos. Knowing her proclivities, she’ll no doubt seduce you soon after you reach home . . . if not before. But make love to her with a free heart, Lekos, for my blessing will be upon you both.”

  This time, it was Mara whose hand covered his mouth, stilling his outraged, protests.

  “Be still, Lekos, and listen well. Long life does not equate to eternal happiness. Aldora has had a tragic life to date. She was born of a noble family of Theesispolis and her father was of the sort of Vahrohnos Paulos, whom you slew; his wife was a necessary evil, because he could breed no sons without a woman. When poor Aldora was but a babe, her mother died and you can imagine how much parental affection a girl-child received from such a father. She grew to be a bigger than average girl and became pubescent at about ten. When she was but eleven, Theesispolis was taken by storm and she had to watch her father and brothers butchered by mercenaries, three of whom later raped her, then sold her to a horseclansman who did not speak her language. At that time, her mindspeak talent was quiescent. Horseclansmen share their concubines and sometimes their wives with their kindred or eminent guests, and I’ll not elaborate on her ordeal before it was brought to the attention of the clansmen that, since the girl was less than fourteen, they were violating a tribal law in using her.

  “Before it was done, that clan’s chief was deposed and slain, and her erstwhile owner became chief in his stead. Then he did what he could to recompense her. Being told that her real father was dead, he adopted her as his own daughter — rapist turned father, you see.

  “For a few years after Milo and Demetrios formed the Confederation and became joint High Lords, Demetrios gave every indication of wishing to be like Milo in all ways. Demetrios, it was, who suggested marriage to Aldora. By that time, she was nearing sixteen and had become the complete Horseclanswoman.

  “Do not, Lekos, confuse Ehleen maidens with Horse-clans ‘maidens.’ After they are fourteen, girls of the clans are allowed just as much sexual freedom as the boys. Pregnant brides are, to a Horseclansman, a normal occurrence; virgin brides are unheard of.

  “Aldora had been taking full and very frequent advantage of the custom of the tribe, so she was far from inexperienced when Milo and I finally browbeat her into marrying Demetrios. For a few months, they seemed happy enough, but then he reverted to type. He fell madly in love with one of his aides. Aldora chanced to catch the two of them at it one day, and the fat was in the fire!

  “Since that day, she has seduced most of the court — with the exception of Demetrios’ and Paulos’ clique, though she did rub her husband’s face in the fact that she’d seduced one of his own lovers — army officers, Freefighter captains, country gentry. And recently, since Demetrios’ remains were found, she’s attended a few of Lady Ioanna’s frolics. I just want to get the girl out of this reeking court and among normal, honest, uncomplicated fighting men,” she said, squeezing his arm, “like you, dearest.”

  “I think,” said Alexandros coldly, “that the woman is a bit shopworn for my taste. But if you truly want me to take her to the Sea Isles, she’ll certainly not lack for those to play stallion. I am more discriminating than most of my men.”

  “Lekos,” she asked softly, “do you consider me to be shopworn, as well?”

  “Now, by God, Mara!” He sat Up and grabbed her shoulders rou
ghly, anger and hurt mingling in his voice. “You know that I said not a word concerning you. I love you, Mara; if God wills that I live to be an old man with a long, white beard, I still will love you and treasure in my old man’s memory the joy and the beauty we shared for so short a time.

  “But, my love, I harbor no wish to be but the most recent in your precious Aldora’s long, long, long string of seductions. Can’t you see? Can’t vou understand?”

  “Lekos, Milo can explain this better than can I, for he has much of the knowledge from the times of the Old Ones, the godlike men who once owned this world before their weapons of wizardry destroyed them. Nonetheless, I’ll try to tell it to you as he has told it to me . . . he knows her mind, has explored it deeply, both he and Aldora possessing mental talents that I, alas, lack.

  “Lekos, for the first ten years of her life, Aldora was denied any semblance of a father’s love, something Milo says is of vital importance to a girl-child. He says that what she is unconsciously seeking is a father to love her and protect her and care for her, as well as a sexual partner to assuage her carnal needs; ideally, what she needs is a vigorous older man, but there lie the three walls that entrap her. The first wall is the thickest and is well below her conscious mind; its ponderous stones are fears — very well justified, considering her ordeal — of the brutal and terrifying degradation of rape, mortared with a vague and confused horror of incest.

  “The second wall is the highest, and it is a wall that confronts all of our kind. She seeks a man of forty to forty-five years, but even if she could somehow break down that first wall, she could not surmount the second — not on the basis of permanence that she also craves. For, Lekos, how many men live much beyond sixty years?

  “The third wall is my husband, Milo. Aldora both loves and deeply respects him — though, for some reason, she tries hard not to show these feelings publicly. But, having watched her grow up and having helped to educate her, having shown her how to develop and properly channel her prodigious mental talents, he feels fatherly toward her. Consequently, he has been able to resist her wiles all these years. Too, he is armed with the predictions of dear old Blind Harri, who was Aldora’s other teacher.”

  “Blind Harri?” asked Alexandros. “One of your kind or one of mine?”

  “Mara shrugged. “One of yours . . . I think. But not even Milo or Harri himself knew for certain. He was at least one hundred thirty, when first Milo met him; he was twenty years older when Milo and I found each other. He migrated east with the tribe, but after Ehlai had been settled, he grew homesick for the plains and none could deter him from returning to them and to the scattered clans still living on them. With him went two-thirds of the Cat Clan. Their breed is not really suited to this region.

  “As last living member of his clan, Blind Harri bore the rank of Chief, but he was much more than that, Lekos, and very powerful within the tribe. And his mental abilities were stronger and more numerous than even Milo’s or Aldora’s. Among other powers was the ability to, under rare conditions, see the future with astounding accuracy.

  “Before he rode back west, about twenty-five years ago, he imparted to Milo and me a number of predictions concerning the futures of the Confederation and of various clans mostly. But he said of Aldora, ‘Her husband, who cannot live as a man, will at least die as a man should; it will be many long years ere she finds happiness, nor will it be in this land, but beyond many salty seas.’ ”

  “Very well, Mara, I’ll take the Lady Aldora out onto the first of those salty seas. But ask no more.”

  Taking his hand, she kissed the palm. “Thank you, Lekos. But I must ask more. I must ask that you be kind to her, for she was suffering years before you were born, and she will be suffering yet when your wonderful splendid body is dust.”

  In a husky voice he inquired, “And will you remember my body, Mara? When I am dust, will you remember me?”

  And he was immediately rueful of his words in the sight of the tears coursing down her cheeks. The words she tried to speak came only as gasping sobs.

  “Mara, dearest, please forgive me. I’d not deliberately hurt you, never, you know that.”

  Gathering her into his arms, he cradled her shuddering body against his own, crooning soothing words he could never recall, until at last grief became exhaustion, and exhaustion became sleep.

  11

  From the day of the mass defection of Captain Portos’ squadron, the Karaleenos guerrillas and Horseclansmen were careful to leave unmolested the troops whose flank he had been guarding, though they kept these troops under constant surveillance, sometimes dressing the darker-haired men in lancer uniforms and having them ride captured horses. They kept to this routine until the return of Tomos Gonsalos. Then he, Hohlt, and Vawn made their plans and marshaled their men.

  Viewed from the night-cloaked mountains, Zastros’ vast army was invisible. All that could be seen were myriad pinpricks of light, cooking fires, and watchfires. The observers knew that men sat and hunkered about those fires, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, grousing, gambling. But seen from the high hills, the plain might well have been but another section of night sky, filled with dim and flaring stars.

  As the columns wound down through the hidden passes and secret ways, then converged under the loaf-shaped hill that had been designated their rendezvous point, the twinkling panorama disappeared.

  Staff-Lieutenant Foros Hedaos walked his horse behind the two trotting, torch-bearing infantrymen, sitting stiffly erect as an officer should in the performance of his duties, for Foros was a man who took his duties and himself very seriously. That was why he was riding the midnight rounds rather than leaving so irksome a detail to the guard-sergeant, as any of his peers would have done.

  Behind him trotted the relief guard; Sergeant Crusos was at their head. Beneath his breath, the sergeant was cursing. Why did he have to draw this damned Foros as guard-officer? Even his fellow-officers thought him an ass, him and his “An officer should . . .” and “An officer shouldn’t . . .” If the pock-faced bastard had stayed back in camp like any normal officer would have, Sergeant Crusos would be on horseback, not hoofing it along like a common pikeman!

  Then they were at post number thirteen, and the officer reined aside, that Crusos might bring his men up. “Detail,” hissed Crusos, “halt! Ground, pikes!”

  “I really think, Sergeant,” snapped Foros peevishly, “that you could make your commands a little more audible.”

  “Sir,” began Crusos, “we’re on enemy land and . . .”

  Foros’ face — deeply scarred by smallpox, beardless and ugly at the best of times — became hard and his voice took on a threatening edge. “Do not presume to argue with me, Sergeant! Just do as I command.”

  Then there came a loud splashing from within the deep-cut creekbed a bare hundred yards to their right, and the moon slipped from her cloudcover long enough to reveal a body of horsemen coming over the lip of the bank.

  Sergeant Crusos’ action then was instinctive. Full-throatedly, he roared, “Right, face! Unsling, shields! Front rank, kneel! Post, pikes!”

  “Sergeant!” screamed Foros, angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Crusos spun about and saluted with his drawn sword. “Sir, the detail is formed to repel cavalry attack.”

  “Oh, really, Sergeant.” Foros smiled scornfully. “You’re behaving like a frightened old woman. Bring the men back to marching order this minute. I saw those riders, and they had lances. That means they’re Captain Portos’ men.”

  It was in Crusos’ mind to say that, in his time, he’d seen more unfriendly lancers than friendly; but he bit his tongue, remembering that the last noncom who had publicly disputed one of this officer’s more questionable orders had been flogged and reduced to the ranks . . . that was one of the benefits of having married a daughter of the regimental commander, Martios.

  When Tomos Gonsalos, trotting at the van of his platoon of “lancers,” heard the familiar commands and saw th
e knife-edged pikeheads come slanting down, his hand unconsciously sought his saber hilt and he breathed a silent prayer — the success of the entirety of this raid lay in not having to fight until the bulk of the raiders were at or near the camp. Then the menacing points rose on command, shields were reslung, and pikeshafts sloped over shoulders.

  At the perimeter, Tomos raised a hand to halt his platoon, then walked his mount over to where the infantry officer sat stiff in his saddle.

  “A fine evening, is it not?” said Tomos, smiling. “I am Sub-lieutenant Manos Stepastios. Could you tell me, sir, if this is the Vahrohnos Martios’ camp?”

  “No,” the officer sneered. “It’s the High King’s seraglio! Don’t you know how to salute a superior?”

  Hastily, Manos/Tomos rendered the demanded courtesy, which the infantry officer returned . . . after a long, insulting pause.

  “That’s better. Now, what are you and your aggregation of tramps-in-armor doing this far east?” His voice was cold and the sneer still on his ugly face.

  Manos/Tomos remained outwardly courteous to the point of servility, though his instinct was to drive his dirk into the prominent Adam’s apple under that pockmarked horseface. “Sir, Captain Portos commanded me to ride to your camp to discover if aught had been seen of the supply wagons. If not, I was to speak to your supply officer.”

  The pocked officer laughed harshly, humorlessly. “So, Portos is begging, again, is he? It’s a complete mystery to me why any, save barbarians, would serve a ne’er-do-well like Captain Portos . . . but then,” again, that cold, sneering smile, “you are not exactly a Kath’ahróhs, westerner.”

  Manos/Tomos had had enough; furthermore, five hoots of an “owl” had just sounded — all was in readiness. He approached until he was knee to knee with the arrogant officer, then grated, “My Lady Mother was the daughter of a tribal chief and was married to my noble father by the rites of the Church. Are you equally legitimate, you ugly whoreson? If the syphilitic sow who farrowed you knew your father’s name, why have you refrained from identifying your house?”