Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  “Every ehkleeseeah, every monastery, every farm or pasturage or orchard or vineyard or quarry, every rural building or urban property is being cataloged. My agents are going over them with a louse comb, and wherever they uncover evidence of illegal activities, they are empowered to slap the ehkleeseeahee and monasteries with a stiff fine, while any of the other categories are to simply be confiscated to the Confederation . . . all except the brothels, that is.”

  “Why not the brothels?” Mara queried impishly. “Just think, if the Confederation owned the brothels, the High Lord could use them free.”

  He refused to rise to the jest. “No, I had a better idea. I’m having the Church’s ownerships publicized!”

  “Oh . . . ohhhh . . . oh, Milo, ohhhhh!” Clutching her sides and roaring with laughter, she rolled back on the cushions. Finally, she sat up, gasping for breath, her eyes streaming. “Oh, Milo, you’re really a terrible man, you know? Of course the Eeyehrefsee will all deny it, but, people being what they are, no one will believe them.” Then she lapsed into another laughing fit.

  Arising to his feet, Milo retrieved his goblet and brought the decanter from the table. After refilling for them both, he said, “Laughing Girl, if you can control yourself long enough, I’ll tell you why Harzburk will be attacked by Pitzburk if Harzburk attacks Kuhmbuhluhn . . . unless you’re no longer interested. . . .”

  On a cold, wet, blustery night in mid-March, three men met in a stone-and-timber hunting lodge near the walled city of Haiguhzburk, capital of the Duchy of Kuhmbuhluhn. On the wide, deep hearth, behind a man-high screen of brass wire, the fire was crackling its way into a huge pinelog and the bright light of the blaze illumined the large-scale map spread on the floor before it. Two-score Horseclansmen ringed the old, two-story building, while ten-score of their kindred patrolled the surrounding forest on their tough, shaggy little horses. And farther out, among the dripping trees and soggy underbrush, ranged a dozen of the great prairie cats.

  During the months Milo’s heterogeneous army awaited Zastros, Thoheeks Greemos and Duke Djefree of Kuhmbuhluhn had become fast friends. Now, the new Confederation Strahteegos traced the twisting course of the river that bisected the eastern half of the duchy.

  “I could wish, Djef, that the army could headquarter at Mahrtuhnzburk and force the enemy to come to us, rather than trying to hold the damned border north of here. You’re sure the invasion will come through that area we rode over, are you?”

  Duke Djefree was as broad and as muscular as the Thoheeks, though nearly two hands shorter and twenty years older. Like most men who often wore both helm and beaver, his cheeks and chin were clean-shaven and his snow-white hair had been clipped within an inch of his scalp. Taking his pipe from between his strong, yellow teeth, he used its mouthpiece as a pointer.

  “Oh, yes, Big Brother, if the allies follow the strategy that my spies at all three courts assure me will be followed, this is the only feasible route. They know that they must have all three of their armies combined to defeat mine and the troops they’re sure my overlord will loan me.”

  Greemos’ saturnine face mirrored puzzlement “But how do they know your army will be there to meet them?”

  The Duke shrugged his wide shoulders. “Because they know I know they’re coming in there; they have as many spies in my court as do I in theirs. That’s why we are met here alone tonight with My Lord Milo’s men for guards, rather than mine own.”

  “But, good God, man!” Greemos expostulated explosively. “Think on it! They could be deliberately misleading your agents in the hope that you will mass your forces there. Then they could cross the border directly north of either of your principal cities.”

  Duke Djefree just shook his scarred head calmly. “Oh, no, Brother, they can only attack the old capital from the east. In order to get north of it, they would have to go through Tuhseemark, and Marquis Hwahruhn would never permit their passage, of course.”

  “He’s a friend of yours, then, Djef?” probed Greemos. “Does he have enough troops to menace the enemy’s flank?”

  The Duke rocked back on his heels, laughing. “A friend? Hardly! He’d be overjoyed to hear of my demise, especially were it a slow and painful one.” Another laugh bubbled up, and he went on. “As for troops, the last I heard, he boasts all of five hundred pikemen, including his city and frontier guards; he retains a force of all of twenty dragoons, and his family and noble retainers probably number five-and-twenty more. Even were I willing to hire Jhim and his fifth-rate warband, I doubt me they could turn the flank of a muletrain.”

  “Hell and damnation!” thundered Greemos. “Then what’s to prevent Duke Djai from walking right over them and attacking Kuhmbuhluhnburk from the north? A tenth of those three warbands could stamp less than six hundred men into the dust, by God!”

  “Because he wouldn’t dare attack Tuhseemark, not unless the Marquis led troops out and attacked him first.” Duke Djefree smiled blandly. “Don’t you see, Greemos?”

  “No, I do not!” snapped the Thoheeks. “God’s balls, Djef, you make less sense than my wife! Were I marching twenty thousand men against you, I’d come any damned way I pleased. I’d send five thousand men and my siege train through Tuhseemark, whether the Marquis liked it or not, and invest Kuhmbuhluhnburk. Then your army would have a grim choice: either meet my main army and take a chance of losing Kuhmbuhluhnburk, and then being taken in the rear by my detached force; or detach part of your smaller army to succor the city, thereby ensuring the defeat of your main force; or withdrawing your entire army toward Kuhmbuhluhnburk, with my army either snapping at your heels or marching on Haiguhsburk.”

  “Your strategy is good, Big Brother, and I am certain that you would defeat an enemy you so opposed.” Duke Djefree spoke slowly, as if to a backward child. “But we may be assured that Duke Djai will not follow such a course. He cannot without the Marquis’ leave, and the Marquis will never grant it.”

  A vein was quivering in Greemos’ forehead and his big fists were clenched. But when he would have spoken, Milo laid a hand on his arm.

  “Greemos, you Ehleenoee just don’t understand these northerners. I’ll try to explain and Djef can correct me or bring up any fine points I miss.

  “Greemos, within the last seven years you’ve proved yourself a genius of military strategy and tactics; but, your inborn abilities notwithstanding, you strongly dislike war and your aim is to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

  “Well, doesn’t everyone want peace?” asked the new strahteegos.

  Milo shook his heath “No, Greemos, not the Middle Kingdoms’ nobility. War and fighting have replaced both sport and religion in their lives.”

  “In fact, Big Brother,” interjected the Duke, “war has become religion. The Cult of the Sword has displaced all of the older beliefs, save only worship of The Blue Lady, but she’s only worshipped by women, anyway.”

  “Just so,” agreed Milo. “And, like any religion, it has innumerable rules and customs and usages, many of which appear idiotic to the uninitiated. But, Greemos, if you stand back and look deeper than the facade of mere custom, you’ll see that there are very good reasons for these rules and usages.”

  “Your pardon, my lord,” said Greemos, “but what am I to look into?”

  “Bear with me, Lord Strahteegos, bear with me,” Milo smilingly enjoined him. “Toward the end of their existence, the original three Middle Kingdoms were ruled by tyrannic despots, hated and feared by people and nobility alike. When the Great Earthquake and the chaos it and the floods engendered gave the lords and cities an opportunity for independence, they grasped it, lost it back briefly, then secured it for good and all. They . . .”

  Milo paused, then turned to the Duke. “Djef, you’re an initiate of the Cult. Perhaps you can explain it somewhat better than can I. What I know is but hearsay.”

  The Duke nodded brusquely. “As you wish, my lord. Look you, Greemos, what it boils down to is this: a smaller state may attack a larger, but a larger
state may not attack a smaller except in retaliation for overt attack. D’you ken? A smaller state may enter into compact with one or more others of comparable size to attack a larger, which is just what is being done to me, but if they lose, then all of them are open to attack by the state they attacked. But should a larger state attack a smaller, unprovoked — and such hasn’t happened in Sword knows when — things will get rather sticky for him in rather short order. It may start even before he attacks, for when his intent is obvious all Sword Initiates are bound by Sword oath to desert him, which means most if not all of his Freefighters. If this fails to deter him, if his force contains enough non-initiates and oath-breakers for him to actually launch an attack against the smaller state, then he is certainly dead and his dynasty as well, probably. All surrounding states, large and small, will march against him and his lands and titles will be forfeited to the ruler he attacked. If he fails to die in battle, then he will be hauled before a tribunal of the Cult, who will decide the manner of his execution. Likewise, all other oath-breakers in his service. Non-initiates are not subject to Cult discipline.

  “So, you see, Big Brother, Kuhmbuhluhnburk is quite safe, unless our army should be defeated, for Duke Djai is an Initiate and no fool.”

  15

  Duke Djai and his allies, Counts Hwahltuh of Getzburk and Mortuhn of Yorkburk, unsuspectingly marched their twenty-two thousand men directly into the jaws of Strahteegos Greemos’ carefully prepared a trap. The security measures had been stringent — a thing almost unheard of in Middle Kingdoms’ wars — the inevitable spies and double agents having been spoon-fed information to the effect that the Confederation had sent Kuhmbuhluhn about five thousand troops, mostly Ehleen infantry, a tenth of the Confederation’s standing army. Since this was the percentage usually loaned to a vassal state by an overlord, Duke Djai swallowed the tale.

  The bait — the Army of Kuhmbuhluhn and its apparent reinforcements — stood athwart the valley through which Duke Djai must advance, their shallow formations lapping up the slopes of the flanking hills.

  Duke Djai — tall, slender, and wiry, his full armor painted a brilliant blue and edged with gold — sat his horse beneath the rippling folds of his silken banner, observing the waiting foe, while his own host reformed from marching to battle order. Ranged to his right and left were his allies — Count Hwahltuh, in violet and silver, and Count Mortuhn in orange and black.

  Count Hwahltuh had just respectfully opined that Duke Djefree was too expert a war leader to place his men so stupidly — not deep enough to stop cavalry, nor yet long enough in the line to prevent flanking.

  Duke Djai threw back his head and his high, tenor laughter pealed. Grinning under his sweeping, red-blond mustache, he answered, “Hwahlt, you’re getting old and suspicious. What else could our esteemed cousin of Kuhmbuhluhn do? If he’d massed his slender forces in one of the narrower valleys, we’d have come through this one and taken him in the rear. His expertise told him that, so he did what he could with what he had. We’ll triumph, of course, but his new Ehleen overlord should have sent him more men.”

  * * *

  Milo, Lord Alexandros of the Sea Isles, and the Sea Lord’s lieutenant, Yahnekos, sat in an artfully concealed vantage point at the crest of the hill on the bait’s right flank, from whence they witnessed the entirety of the blood-drenched affair.

  Duke Djai waited nearly an hour for the flankscouts to report, but when they had not returned by the time the army was formed, he recklessly began his advance. After all, how could Duke Djefree have laid a trap when all of his force was arrayed in plain sight at the other end of the valley?

  To the watchers, that advance was a colorful and stirring spectacle — the noblemen in the lead, their painted or enameled armor and nodding plumes and snapping banners creating a rainbow-hued kaleidoscope; behind the banners rode the personal entourages, then rank on rank of Freefighter dragoons and lancers; at a lengthening distance trotted disciplined units of light and heavy infantry.

  “Have they no archers?” asked Alexandros. “Or slingers or engines to soften up the opposition?”

  Smiling grimly, Milo shook his head. “No, they consider weapons that can kill at a distance to be dishonorable and only use them in defenses and sieges. They have both longbow men and crossbow men, but they probably left them to defend their train.”

  At a distance of five hundred yards from the waiting Kuhmbuhluhn array, Duke Djai halted to dress ranks for the final charge as well as to permit his infantry to catch up; for while a cavalry charge could break the formation of an opposing army, he knew full well that only infantry could complete the rout and consolidate the victory.

  Count Hwahltuh sidled his black charger up to Duke Djai’s gray stallion. “By your leave, my lord, their lines appear to have deepened in the center. I have a foreboding feeling about this assault.”

  Duke Djai was in high good humor and not even the doubt and worry tinging the young count’s voice could dampen it. Slapping gauntleted hand upon armored thigh, he laughed. “You’re too gloomy, little cousin. Of course, Duke Djefree has deepened his center, but you can bet he’s stripped any depth from his flanks to do it! The foot already have their orders, as do the lancers. When we strike the center, they’ll advance on the flanks. I’ll have reconquered Haiguhzburk within the month, our dear Lord will be revenged, and both you and Mortuhn will be considerably richer. Now, get your people straightened out and stop fretting so.”

  For the first hundred yards they moved at a brisk walk, in time to a sprightly tune shrilled by the flutes and fifes of the musicians who followed the infantry. When the horsemen commenced to slow trot, the fifers cased their instruments, unslung their shields, and drew their swords, while the drummers remained halted in formation, beating time for the foot.

  A few arrows from the defending force were to be expected, so Duke Djai was not alarmed when a drizzle of shafts pelted down, but that drizzle rapidly increased to a shower and, suddenly, the sky was dark with feathered death. Duke Djefree could not possibly have so many archers! But he knew what must be done and turning in his saddle, bade the sounding of the charge, for the only certain way to escape an arrow storm was to close with the enemy so that the cowardly bow men could not loose for fear of downing their own troops.

  The horn pealed its command and the steel-edged formation swept forward at the gallop, the bass rumble of tens of thousands of hooves clearly audible to the High Lord and the Sea Lord in their eyrie high above. The lines wavered but little, rough ground notwithstanding, as the riders of faster horses held them back to match the pace of slower mounts. Their shouts and war cries were almost lost in the overall din, as the forms of all but the first ranks were, in the rolling clouds of dust.

  The living tsunami crashed against the dense hedge of pikemen with a noise loud even to the watchers on the hilltops — sounds of metal hard-swung on metal, screams of man and screams of horse. The lines of the defenders bowed inward. . . inward . . . inward, then snapped back with the weight of reinforcements, while the right and left wings ran down the hillsides to flank the milling, hacking horsemen.

  Up the valley to the north, what was left of twelve thousand infantry were formed into a shield-overlapped hedgehog, their pikes and spears fending off squadrons of Confederation Kahtahfraktoee and Horseclansmen. The surviving lancers — all Freefighters and recognizing the stench of defeat — stampeded out of the valley, arriving at the train with shouted warnings of the disasters taking place behind them.

  Those wagoneers who valued their lives slashed apart the harnesses of the draft mules, then had to fight for possession of them with hordes of archers and crossbow men, as did more than a few lancers have to battle to retain their lathered horses. This internecine warfare was still going on when the main body of the Confederation cavalry, under Sub-Strahteegos Portos, plowed into them. When the High Lord and his entourage rode onto the battlefield, it was to find most of the noblemen of three states dead or dying. Ahead of them, to the righ
t of the center, ringed about by hostile swords and pikes, waved the slashed and ragged battle flags of Tchaimbuhsburk and Getzburk. Beneath them, perhaps a score of nobles and a few hundred retainers and dragoons stood afoot or sat drooping mounts — horses and men alike, hacked, bloody, exhausted, but determined to die honorably.

  At the High Lord’s word, a Kuhmbuhluhn herald rode to within a few yards of the battered survivors of the cavalry charge. Drawing rein, he requested Swordtruce and announced that his lord wished words with Duke Djai.

  He was informed that, as Duke Djai had died a few minutes before, it would be most difficult for Duke Djefree to converse with him; however, if the Duke would settle for speech with a mere count, he could be obliged. In any event, the speaker added, a Swordtruce would be more than welcome, so far as he was concerned.

  Two hours later, the speaker, still in his dust-dimmed, dented, and gore-splattered violet armor, sat in a camp chair across a table from the High Lord of the Ehleen Confederation. Between them, their two sheathed swords lay crossed, significant of a Swordtruce.

  “I await your answer, Count Hwahltuh,” Milo gently prodded. “Or do you wish leave to think over my offer and to discuss it with your comrades?”

  The young count opened his mouth to speak, but his dry throat produced but a croak, then a spasm of coughing.

  Duke Djefree, at Milo’s left, shoved a silver ewer of watered wine forward, saying mock-reprovingly, “Oh, cousin, stop being a proper gentleman and drain off a couple of cups of this; your gullet will appreciate it.”

  Thus given leave, the count quaffed two full pints and part of a third, then said in an unbelieving voice, “You really mean it, my lord? It’s not some cruel jest or another trap?”