The Death Of A Legend

by Robert Adams

The images projected along with his mindspeak abundantly clarified his meaning, and the brahbehrnuh found herself blushing furiously. Then he leaned forward, and his smooth-shaven face blotted out the sunlight filtering through the thatch as his mouth pressed down upon hers. The tingling now was almost unendurable. Her sinewy arms crept up and closed around his thick neck, while her lips and tongue once more moved . . . but not in speech.

  Chapter VII

  “Furface” Gy Ynstyn had found a place where the light was good, and there he squatted. With round brass rod, hardwood dowels, a bit of soft leather, a small copper hammer and a homemade wooden mallet, be was engaged in carefully restoring his battle-battered bugle to its original shape.

  A veteran Freefighter from the County of Gainzburk in the Middle Kingdoms he had been Duke Bili’s personal bugler since first the army had marched into Vawn last summer. Although the mindspeaking nobles of the Confederation had less need of a hornman than did the nobles of the Middle Kingdoms, still Gy took his position seriously and prided himself upon the good appearance of himself and his equipment at all times.

  He heard the familiar clanking of armor well before its wearer reached him, but kept his keen hazel eyes upon his work. Not even when a shadow fell across that work did he look up.

  “Move to right or left, dammit!” he muttered. “You’re in my light.”

  “What are you doing, man?” demanded a husky voice. “And why have you a beard when other men do not?”

  “I’m trying to get the dents out of my bugle so that it will sound right when next Duke Bili wills that I wind it he growled ill-humoredly. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Then, angry at the interruption, he glanced up at this overly nosy inquisitor . . . and hammer, bugle and all dropped from his hands as he awkwardly rose to his feet, flustered. At the same time he hoped against hope, he still knew for certain that this fine-looking young filly could want nothing more of Gy Ynstyn than a bit of idle conversation.

  Meeree leaned axe and target against a rock, bent and picked up the brass instrument. Placing the mouthpiece to her lips, she blew experimentally into it, and when this availed her no toot, she blew harder and harder until veins stood out in her forehead, but all her efforts proved fruitless.

  Frowning, she thrust the bugle back to Gy, stating, “More work it needs, man. No sound at all it does.”

  Gy smiled then. He had had long experience of seeing non-initiates fail to elicit notes from a bugle. “Not so, and it please my lady. Though it will not sound pure and true until I can get out these damned dents, this horn will wind well enough; and my lord Bili order me to blow it.”

  “Show me, man!” demanded Meeree imperiously.

  But Gy shook his head. “The bugle never is sounded without good reason, my lady, even in a safe garrison. Duke Bili has expressly ordered me to not sound it here, lest we draw some unwelcome notice of our presence from the shaggies hereabouts. I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my lady’s wishes.”

  A bastard son of a cadet of the house of Gainzburk, Gy had bad a soupçon of courtly training before he had hired himself and his sword to a Freefighter captain; now he showed that training with a full and courtly bow to the Moon Maiden.

  Meeree seated herself on the rock against which her weapons rested clasped her hands on one knee and leaned back. “Oh, very well, man. But if your war companion I am to be, sooner or later teach me to blow that thing you must, that your place I may take on the battleline should you wounded or sick be.”

  With shaking bands, Gy gathered up his tools and tried to replace them properly in their roll of oiled leather. His now madly whirling mind had never really considered the possibility that, with such a profusion of southron noblemen and not a few Freefighter officers and noncoms from whom to choose, one of the Moon Maidens — now all man-hunting, said Duke Bili — would set her sights on a lowly, thin-pursed trumpeter.

  “My . . . my . . . lady,” he stuttered, “surely my lady is but having a . . . a jest? I am not an officer, nor yet a sergeant . . . not even a corporal, but only a hornman, and . . .”

  “And,” she added. “you serve Dook Bili as servant, as well. You are by him day and night, when” — she grinned — “you fixing your horn are not.”

  “I am become Duke Bili’s striker, yes,” Gy said sadly. “But only because my old friend who was his former striker was slain the first time we charged the shaggies, back on that plateau. Poor Gilbuht, his horse fell on the slope, and the whole damned squadron rode over him. A good friend he was, we had soldiered together for some years, and . . . and I miss him sorely, my lady.”

  Taking one hand from her knee and leaning forward Meeree grasped his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “Yes, it is always painful to lose a true friend, Gy Ynstyn But you soon will find, sure I am, that I can as good a friend to you be. With a war dart, can I at twenty double paces pierce an eyedot on a targe, with my good axe at the same distance can I that same targe split. Few among the Moon Maidens can ride better than Meeree, and only the brahbehrnuh and one or two others of our sisters can best me with saber or short-Sword.

  “At many and sundry oddments am I skilled. I can healing infusions of herbs and bracing teas prepare. And a hunter most accomplished I am, Gy Ynstyn. Full many a mountain boar have I lanced to death and, once, a red bear. Hoppers and squirrels in many scores have fallen to my slingstones, lynxes and wild goats to my darts, and once did a lucky cast of dart drop a full-winged turkey.

  “So, man, you see, Meeree is no common warrior.”

  He nodded. “My lady, this I know. But also I know myself to be not worthy of such a woman as you. I am but a hornman and . . .”

  “And a warrior uncommon like me, man,” she interrupted, adding gravely, “These two eyes saw that you did cleave a Muhkohee from crown to chin, for all that a helm of thick leather he wore and you with no axe but only a saber.”

  Gy’s face reddened above his ruddy beard. “A lucky stroke,” he muttered.

  “Why lie you, man of many talents?” Meeree asked bluntly. “Fight you and ride you as good . . . well, almost as good as fight and ride I.” Then she grinned wickedly. “Too, good to look at you are. If take a man I must, the Goddess said not that an old or ugly one must I take.”

  “Lady,” Gy remonstrated a little desperately, “when this campaign be done and the duke have no more need of a bugler, I know not how I will feed even myself. My captain and most of his condotta with which I marched south were slain under the walls of Vawnpolis so I Suppose that I at least own right to my armor and weapons and my horn; but, my lady, I do not even own a horse, the one I now ride being the property of a southron nobleman. Nor have I lands to return to, nor aught to sustain me or a wife in Gainzburk.”

  Both his voice and the formerly level gaze of his hazel eyes dropped. “You see, my lady, I . . . I am a bastard.”

  “Bastard?” She carefully shaped the two syllables of the alien word with her tongue and lips, wrinkling her brow. “Of late, often I have that word to hear from the men of your race. Bas-tard. It means what, Gy Ynstyn?”

  He sighed, but once more met her gaze resignedly. “It means, my lady, that I know not, in truth, who was my sire. I have but my mother’s word that he was who she says, for he never bothered to wed her.”

  Throwing back her helmeted head, she roared and shook with laughter. “Oooohohohohoho!”

  Gy’s eyes hardened, and the lips half hidden in his thick, bushy beard straightened to a thin line. “The dishonor of my birth amuses my lady, then?”

  Meeree instantly sobered somewhat, sensing that she had deeply offended him, but still she could not keep a tinge of humor from her voice as she said, “Oh, silly man, offense take you not. No ill to you did I mean in my laughing. But, man, take the sole words of our mothers we all must. Beside, since know you your mother, what matters it who was the man who sired you? Few of us Moon Maidens know — or care — who was the man who quickened our dear mothers with us; it is not important.”
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  While a stunned Gy digested this bombshell, she went on. “Two good swords we own, man, and all needful gear. This Dook Bili seems a man who would reward service, and think I he will not send you away on foot. As for lands and food, earn them our swords can; or to join an Ahrmehnee tribe we might. Kin to mine is their race and respect my Moon Knowledge they would, for they too reverence the Silver Lady. And ever pleased are they to gain another strong sword arm or two.

  “So, do you want a war companion, man? Or is Meeree then unpleasing to your eyes and ears, perhaps?”

  “Lady mine,” Gy said fervently, “you are most pleasing to both eye and ear and, I doubt not, to hand and lips as well. Yes, I would be more than pleased to have such a one as you, and I pledge that I would be a faithful friend, but it were only fair to you to tell you the unpleasant truths I did.”

  Meeree smiled. “Then settled it is, man-Gy.” She rose lithely to her feet. “Fetch back my gear to your shelter now I will.”

  Picking up her axe and targe, she strode briskly off toward that area which had been the camp of the Moon Maidens, her long, muscular legs flashing as they ate up the distance. Meeree was well pleased with herself having killed two birth with a single stone this morning.

  * * *

  The secret was no longer secret, the brahbehrnuh’s self. chosen name, formerly known only to the Lady and, mysteriously, to the ancient nakhaharah — or senior chief of all the Ahrmehnee tribes — Kokh Taishyuhn, now was known by Bili, as well, taken from amid the roil of her mind during the last few hours.

  Side by side, Bili and Rahksahnah lay on the enlarged bough bed. His thick arm was about her shoulders, and their two warm, damp, utterly fulfilled bodies pressed one to the other in the beautiful, rosy aftermath of their first coupling.

  Idly, her finger wandered over his scarred torso. “How very tall you are, my Bili. Never have I seen skin so pale. Are all your race so skinned?” she mindspoke curiously.

  “My coloring is my mother’s, Rahksahnah,” he beamed, smiling in happy exhaustion. “My late father, Duke Hwahruhn, was near-pure Ehleen and almost as dark of skin and hair as are you; some of my brothers are almost that dark, too.”

  “How many are your brothers, my Bili?”

  “Seven . . . I think. There were eight, but one — the Second-eldest, Djef — was slain in battle last year by the accursed Ehleen rebels when they besieged my hall. I promised my most solemn oaths to my mothers that I would allow naught to befall Gilbuht and young Djaik, who were campaigning with me; now I can but hope and pray Sacred Sun that they and old Komees Hari and the others somehow escaped both the fires and the Muhkohee.”

  Her brows wrinkled in obvious puzzlement. “Mothers, love? How can any being have but the one mother?”

  He chuckled and lightly squeezed her. “Horseclans customs, Rahksahnah, ancient usages of the Kindred. All of a man’s wives are accounted mothers to all of his children.”

  “Yes,” she beamed, “I had heard that men of the lowlands had more than one wife. How many do they usually have?”

  He shrugged. “Common clansmen and most lower nobles have only one, but higher nobles often have more. My father had two, and they blood sisters of the Middle Kingdoms House of Zuhnburk, daughters of a duke and wives of a duke, which is what the Ehleen title thoheeks means in Merikan.

  “Other Confederation nobles have as many as three or four, sometimes; and I have even heard of one ahrkeethoheeks who has six. But I think I’d not care to share my hall with so many.”

  She shook her full head of lustrous hair, now much mussed and disordered. “Most remarkable are these ways of your clans, Bili, but it is the will of Her, so I suppose that I and the others of my sisters must become accustomed to them.”

  He grinned. “Only those who, like yourself, have been so unfortunate as to have succumbed to the manly charms of Kindred noblemen, like me, need even worry about their men taking other women, save as concubines, Rahksahnah. Middle Kingdoms men, even high nobles, take but one wife at the time. And all of the Freefighters out there are burkers. Nor do all of the Kindred necessarily adhere to the old customs brought from the Sea of Grass by our ancestors; it’s a matter of very personal choice, you see, and only practical among high-ranking, wealthy men.”

  “And you are high-ranked and wealthy, my Bili?” she asked.

  “High-ranked, yes,” he answered. “As regards wealth . . . well, I truly know not. Oh, my Duchy of Morguhn was once moderately wealthy, but first came that damned hellish rebellion, then the putting down of it, both attended by much loss of life so that the duchy is now near depopulated, especially of the commoner sorts who worked the land, tradesmen and artisans and suchlike. Those matters alone would have been about sufficient to dissipate my late father’s personal wealth and ravage the lands he bequeathed me.

  “But to add to the damages and horrendous expense, the Duchy of Morguhn has been used as a junction of troopmarshaling and supply for the forces besieging Vawnpolis and then, after a surrender was negotiated, for the campaign against the Ahrmehnee. And with so many tramping back and forth across Morguhn, I may well be a poor man when, and if, I return.

  “But the lands are good and fair, Rahksahnah. They will produce more wealth in time, and meanwhile I am accustomed to hard living, not so addicted to luxury as are most Kindred nobles. I can wait for better times.”

  She raised her head and brought her face close to his, and just before their lips met she murmured low but aloud, “And I shall wait with you, my Bili.”

  The kiss deepened, lengthened, while questing hands sought out and found the secret places of bodies still almost strange. Rahksahnah slowly drew herself up onto his body and —

  “Chief Bili!” The thought-message burst into his mind with such force that he started up involuntarily, hurling the girl from off his body. “Chief Bili, beware! Many twolegs, some on horses and all armed, come to the place where you are. Your watchers on the western and the northern hills should have spied them long since, but they seem to just look through the column. The twolegs will be among you ere long.”

  The prairiecat paused, then added, “The other cat and Whitetip can attack, possibly delay them a short time . . . ?”

  “No!” Bili impulsively Ordered “If you’ve not been spotted by these twolegs, stay low and await my summons; but trail the strangers, stay as close as it is safe to them.”

  Bili knew better than to question the numbers of the column, for few prairiecats had ever learned to count well.

  Breaking off the farspeak with the feline, he mindcalled Mahvros, his war stallion. “Brother, bring the herd into camp, quickly! Soon there will be fighting.” He did not await an answer, did not feel it necessary, for he knew the bloodthirsty temperament of his destrier only too well.

  As with all telepathic communications, the exchanges had consumed but bare split-seconds of time, so he was able to check the startled girl’s fall, mindspeaking, Rahksahnah, one of the prairiecats, Whitetip, just farcalled me. There are armed strangers approaching this vale from the west. Arm as quickly as you can and assemble your Moon Maidens. My Stallion is bringing the horses and ponies into camp.”

  Then he was off the bough bed and its stained and rumpled blankets. Hurriedly, he pulled on shirt, trousers, boots and then gambeson. “Furface!” he roared. “Sound ‘To Arms’ and then ‘Officers’ Call.’ Sound both of them twice, then come here and help me to arm.”

  But even as the brazen note, rang through the cold air and the camp about became a hubbub of shouts and scurryings and metallic clanking-clashings, a full-armed figure darkened the entry of the shelter.

  Meeree dropped her axe and targe and hurried over to the brahbehrnuh, who had buckled the last strap of her cuirass and was reaching for one of her cuishes, but was waved away. “No, Meeree, help Bili first. Remember, he now is leader of us all.”

  So, when Gy came hurrying in, red-faced, as the swelling thunder foretold the imminent arrival of the horse herd, Bili’s cuirass, tass
es, tassets and cuishes were already secured in place. Meeree seemed to be having trouble, however, with the Pitzburk helm, being unaccustomed to the newer innovations in armor; for the panoplies of the Moon Maidens, though of good quality and richly embellished, were of Ahrmehnee manufacture and of antique design.

  Wordlessly, Gy took over, securing the equipment in barely an eyeblink, whereupon the frustrated Meeree unleashed a hot torrent of foul Ahrmehnee curses and profanities and turned her attentions to the brahbehrnuh.

  Bili emerged from the shelter to see Mahvros — more than seventeen hands of black, glossy hide stretched over a full Harzburk ton of bone and rolling muscle — trot into the fire clearing, shepherding Gy’s dapple gelding. Leaving Gy to saddle and equip the two mounts, Bili strode clanking down the pathway to the brookside, the scene of last night’s council. He was not surprised to find all the Freefighter officers not only present but fully-armed, but it was a distinct and very pleasant surprise to find almost all of the southron nobles in as battle-fit a condition. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, they’re learning something . . . finally; they might, some of them, make decent soldiers yet.

  Hastily, he outlined what information the prairiecat, Whitetip, had forspoken him, adding, “Also — and this puzzles me, gentlemen — Whitetip avers that so close is this force that our guards should surely have spied them ere now.

  “Lieutenant Roopuht, take a squad down to the hill above the mouth of the vale and see what’s to be seen, then send a galloper back to me.”

  Slapping gauntlet to breastplate, the Freefighter spun and trotted off, while Bili issued crisp orders marshaling his force. Almost all of the small command were armed and standing to horse before the galloper came boiling back up the vale.

  Springing from his kak, the wide-eyed trooper gasped, “My lord duke, Lieutenant Roopuht bids me report to your grace that he sees no men or horses, but that some beast, a huge, scaley monster, is even now advancing up the brook track into the vale.”

  Without a word. Bili vaulted into the saddle and, trailed closely by Rahksahnah, the nobles and the officers, headed Mahvros back the way the galloper had come. Troubled deeply by the vastly conflicting reports, he mindcalled Whitetip.