The Savage Mountains

by Robert Adams

  Vaskos sighed gustily. “My sincere thanks, Lord Kahzos. That takes quite a load off my mind. I was fearful that one or more of my Confederation garrison might have been culpable.

  “Well, gentlemen, this narrows the field a bit for us. To narrow it further, we can eliminate those men who were on patrol last night as well as those who were known to be here in the citadel.

  “I am posting a reward of one hundred silver thrahkmehee for any information leading to the apprehension of this animal. Eepohlohkahgos Lain, you and your detachment will have the task of running down any leads and tips that that reward offer brings in. It might also be a good idea to incorporate some of our late enemies into your operation. I’m certain that Lord Kahzos would be happy to give you the names of some reliable men, and the Vawnee may find it easier to really open up to a fellow reb — uhhh, Ehleen.”

  The vahrohneeskos agreed with alacrity. “I certainly would. Eepohlohkahgos, I can have a number of men report to your offices and you then can pick and choose those with whom you feel you can best work. In fact, I myself am at your disposal. I want to see this criminal on a sharp stake as much as any here.”

  “My Lord Vaskos.” put in Captain Kahrlos, leader of those former rebels now back under arms, “I’d ’preciate a part in this here, too. Y’see, it was a young widder, back las’ fall, an’ me an’ her we was kinda close. She was a real fine woman an’ . . . then one mornin’ they foun’ her poor body, what was left of it, leastways, in a alley off High Street. I wouln’ of knowed it was her, hadna been she had six toes on her feet We . . . we was so happy, ’spite of the siege an’ all. It’d do my soul good to hear the bastard what done all them things to my Aida scream fer a few days!”

  Vaskos gave a brusque nod. “Of course, captain, you may take as much part in these proceedings as your duty allows. Speaking of which, I’m going to want a fifty-percent increase in the size of your force. See to it. As before, I cannot allow you to commission any officers, but you may appoint as many sergeants as you have need for.”

  Captain Danos, warder of the mad vahrohnos, Myros, listened intently to all that was said but offered neither aid nor advice. Since his responsibility and that of his small detachment was his charge, day and night every day, and since all knew him to be thoroughly dedicated to that responsibility, which had been his even before the siege had commenced, no one really expected him to tender the services of his six men in any other capacity.

  For himself, Vaskos Daiviz was vastly relieved that the captain — formerly a hunter on the estate of the commander’s father, Komees Hari Daiviz of Morguhn — was keeping his mouth shut, for it would be almost the final straw were he to find himself in any way beholden to the rebel officer. The stocky, powerful heir of Daiviz had but to finger the bumpy scar tissue just over his left ear, under the iron-gray hair, to recall that this same Danos had been a leader of the pack of rebels who had earnestly attempted to murder him last spring. They had slain Vaskos’ orderly, brave Frahnkos, and had, like the houndpack they were, driven him and his three half-sisters from their home.

  When, last summer, he and his father, with a mixed force of Freefighters and Confederation kahtahfrahktoee, had ridden back into Horse County and retaken their hall, this Danos had escaped the retributive bloodbath. Until the fall of Vawnpolis, none in the loyal forces had known the former hunter’s fate or whereabouts.

  Vaskos, then a supernumerary on the staff of the High Lord, had found the remembered name among the list of rebel officers turned in by Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Morguhn, his hated uncle. He and his father had then demanded an audience with the High Lord, recited the long list of Danos’ crimes in Morguhn, and claimed the miscreant’s blood . . . all of it. The High Lord had only promised to investigate the matter, pointing out, however, that the amnesty extended to all the former rebels and covered almost every crime they might have committed while in rebellion.

  When he had given Vaskos command of the city and the attached base of operations for the mountain campaign, the High Lord had covered the case of Danos in his verbal orders.

  “Vaskos, you’re now a sub-strahteegos, but a responsibility such as I am placing in your hands is — or, rightfully, should be — that of a full strahteegos. Therefore, I am breveting you to that rank. Do a good job in Vawnpolis, and the end of this campaign will see the brevet rank a permanent rank.”

  Then, while the officer glowed with the promise of unexpected promotion, the High Lord had elucidated, where necessary, the written orders and added certain others. Lastly, he had added, “And, regarding this business which you and Lord Hari spoke with me about, this Captain Danos may well be everything of which you two accused him, and more. But he also was a brave and resourceful soldier, and his former commander, Lord Drehkos, has only the highest praise for him. Too, he is presently fulfilling a most valuable function in the city. I feel that he should continue in that function and in his current rank, at least until we’ve scotched these Ahnnehnee and Witchmen.

  “As commander of Vawnpolis, you will find yourself working with and for the former rebels, and I expect you to get along well with them, all of them, including Captain Danos. Do I make myself clear, Strahteegos Daiviz?”

  There had been no option and Vaskos had given the expected answer. Nonetheless, he had found it most difficult to be barely civil to this hated subordinate. He still did.

  Not that he was too stiff-necked to give the devil his due. No man in the garrison or the city envied the captain his job. Vahrohnos Myros’ madness was unpredictable and he could be extremely dangerous. Indeed, in one of his ragings, the lunatic had virtually torn limb from limb the sergeant who had originally been assigned to assist Danos.

  At one moment, Myros would be the very epitome of the old-fashioned Ehleen gentleman — cool, poised, a bit arrogant, conversing in cultured accents — then, in a twinkling, he could become a ravening, blood-hungry beast with the strength of a wild bull and the murderous cunning of a treecat Or, just as quickly, he could lapse into a coma from which he might not awaken for days or even a week. In his day, the madman had been justly renowned as a master swordsman, and his keepers had early learned the folly of allowing their charge access to steel, no matter how pacific his mood might seem. No less than two men ever attended him, and they always carried long, leather, sausage-shaped cudgels rather than swords or dirks. Nor were they reticent in the use of their weapons when it became necessary to subdue the unfortunate nobleman. And Myros’ battered physiognomy bore mute witness to his warders’ self-protective impulses.

  Soon after the close of Vaskos’ meeting, Captain Danos sauntered down a hallway of the Citadel toward a thick, ironbound door, before which squatted a brace of armored men. Their helms laid aside, both were peering intently at the dice one had just cast.

  The officer began to speak before he was well up to the pair. “Still at it, eh? Tell me, Sawl, how much does Geedos owe you by now?”

  Fingering the place where his right ear — bitten off by Myros — had once sprouted, the brawny, thick-bodied man squinted his eyes and answered, “Well, cap’n, near as I can figure, ’bout twenty-three million thrahkmehee, give ’r take a couple of million.” He added a gaptoothed grin.

  Halting before the still-squatting men, Danos removed the sword from his baldric and the dirk from his belt and stooped to lay them by the two helms. Casually, he helped himself to one of the heavy, loaded cudgels, tightening its thong on his right wrist. Leaning over the gamesters, he slid back a brass panel and gazed through a grilled aperture into the chamber beyond, then slid the panel shut and stepped back.

  “Open the door, Sawl. Geedos, make sure his lordship is on short chain. I wish to talk privately with him for a while.”

  When the officer entered his cell, Myros laid aside the book he had been reading by light of the two wall lamps which were kept constantly burning, well out of his reach.

  A sneer twisted his lips as he suffered the guard to lift his feet onto the bed and shorten th
e chain which secured his left ankle to a finger-thick iron eyebolt let into the granite-block wall.

  Few of the noble rebels now rotting in the prison at Morguhnpolis would have recognized the prisoner as the carefully groomed, satanically handsome man who had masterminded and led the rebellion in Morguhn. Black-nailed, filthy, clawlike hands poked from the sleeves of his stained and tattered shirt. The trimmed and oiled black mustachios and chinbeard of old now were merged and lost forever within the matted, gray tangle of whiskers which hung almost to his waist. His hair was almost totally white, as full and filth-matted as the beard. Even his fine, patrician nose had been knocked askew in one of the murderous set-tos with his “guards.”

  Only his glittering black eyes were unchanged, and from them his madness shone clearly. And something else peeked out as well, now and again; something which smacked to Danos, each time he chanced to see it, of dark, sinister, eldritch evil, which could see to the very core of his soul.

  When the guard had adjusted the chain and left, closing the door behind him, Danos waited unspeaking until the muted clatter of the dice came from the hallway. Only then did he draw nearer and speak in hushed tones.

  “My lord, I’ll not be bringing you any more ‘delicacies’ for a while . . . possibly, a great while. The streets are going to be swarming with men every night for some time to come and it’ll be just too risky to chance.”

  The vahrohnos showed his stained and broken teeth in a lazy smile. “You are lying, you whoreson. Vaskos-the-bastard hasn’t enough of a garrison to mount a really effective guard, and I doubt me, with the sweet smell of strahteegos in his swinish nose, that he’ll appeal for more men. So don’t attempt to hoodwink me, you lowborn lout.

  “How would you like me to start screaming for you, you personally, one night when you’re out about your rather peculiar diversions, eh? How would you like for me to tell them exactly where to find you, under those ruins at the northeast corner of . . . ! That shook you, didn’t it, captain?”

  Pale and trembling, his quaking legs scarcely able to support him, Danos had backed as far from his demonic charge as he could. He leaned weakly against the wall, his nape prickling, while drops of cold fear oozed from his every pore.

  The madman went on. “Oh, no, Danos, you’ll continue to supply me my wants, for you are my prisoner as surely as I am yours. You’ll bring me a quart of fresh blood at least twice each week, and I care not where or how you get it. Woman’s blood or man’s blood, it matters not. But you will bring me blood!”

  * * *

  Using the mind of Whitetip, his prairiecat, to boost his farspeak range, Bili bespoke those few minds with which he was familiar to alert four of his farflung squadrons to the High Lord’s new orders. For the others, he sent out dispatch riders at dawn. Also at dawn, he divided his personal command, sending the four reserve squadrons back to the trade road in company with the mule-and-pony train of booty, the dozen or so wounded Freefighters and most of the supply train. When he spurred westward, it was at the head of a full squadron, made up of the best of five.

  Noble and Freefighter, officer and man, they were, in appearance, a rather unprepossessing lot that chill morning. Nearly a month of unrelieved campaigning up through the inhospitable mountains had given them the look of ruffians-mostly unwashed, untrimmed and unshaven, showy with gaudy bits of looted Ahrmehnee finery, acrawl with vermin. Albeit, there were few glum faces among them, and for two principal reasons: first, they had encountered few warriors and had consequently suffered few casualties; second, the pickings of the villages had been good, better than most had expected of mountain barbarians, and every rider who arrived back below the walls of Vawnpolis was assured of a jingling share of the loot now being packed south on the long trains of mules and asses and “liberated“ mountain ponies.

  But, for all their appalling personal hygiene, or lack of same, all their weapons were honed and bright, their armor rust-free and well oiled. Saddles and other leather gear were supple and shining, and every horse was in the best possible condition.

  Pleased as the mercenaries were with the ease and profits of this campaign, they were even better pleased with their young commander, Duke Bili. Too often, within the borders of the Confederation, they had been forced to sell their swords to southern nobles who basically disliked, if not openly despised, Freefighters. But this tall, stark warrior whose Red Eagle banner they now followed not only liked and respected them, he understood them and their customs, shared their grim religion and spoke their language.

  Confederation-born, of mixed Ehleen and Horseclans paternity, his dam a daughter of the Duke of Zunburk, he was less than a year come down from the court and many battlefields of the Iron King, speaking the nasal Harzburker dialect better than he spoke Ehleeneehkos. Even his Confederation-Mehrikan was tinged with a northern accent which, to the Freefighters, gave his orders a homey sound. Reared amongst northern nobles, he behaved like them, which fact often enraged his Kindred and Ehleen subordinates, but further endeared him to the northern mercenaries, who willingly rendered him the honors due a burk-lord and referred to him fondly as “Duke Bili the Axe.”

  Depending on Whitetip, the long-fanged prairie cat, ranging out ahead of the column, to sniff out any ambuscades and farspeak to him of them, as well as on his own rare ability to foresense danger, Bili rode easily, slouched against the high cantle of his warkak. Long inured to the harsher clime of the north, he and most of the Freefighters had suffered less from the rigors of the winter-gripped mountains than had many of the Kindred nobility. And this was one reason he had so few of the latter with him now. Another reason was their inborn penchant for arguing the most minor details of orders under any and all conditions.

  It had come as a distinct shock to Bili — and to his brothers too, who, like him, had been reared in various of the Middle Kingdom principalities — that even untitled, minor nobility of the Confederation felt not only free but almost constrained to argue the decisions and commands of major nobles, right up to their own, hereditary lieges. A northern knight or baronet or even the lord of a small burk who took it into his head to do such would part company with that head, and right speedily, too.

  And their constant complaints about the rigors and discomforts of camp and march and campaign were not the mumbled grousing expected of all soldiers, but formal protestations, delivered personally and at maddening length. It had been bad enough during the siege of Vawnpolis, when the most unstinting of the bellyachers could be sent packing, sent on one pretext or another back to their desmesnes, ere their big, active mouths undermined both morale and discipline. But on this present campaign, only large, well-armed bodies could be sent back through the ravaged and highly vengeful tribal lands, so Bili had found himself stuck with a large minority of long-overindulged men who considered themselves his peers and who often behaved as if it was his fault that it was too cold or too wet for their pampered tastes.

  Bili had long been proud of his iron control over his hot temper, but these Kindred nobles had driven him to distraction, and it had frequently been all he could do to keep from blooding his axe or sword on their miserable necks. Therefore, he had considered it the bountiful blessing of Sun and Wind to rid himself of all the winners ere setting forth on this mission to the west. And their howls of protest when he had commandeered their well-schooled warhorses and vastly superior armor for certain of his Freefighters had been sweet to his ears.

  Those few Kindred who now rode west with him were either atypical younger men who had quickly and easily adapted to northern modes or older nobles who had, in their salad days, soldiered in the Middle Kingdoms as free lances. Few were his actual liegemen — Morguhn or Daiviz Kindred — but he had come to love them like brothers. One such, Komees Taros Duhnbahr of Baikuh, rode knee to knee with him.

  Born a third son, Taros had never expected to succeed to his father’s title and lands, but, two days after his twenty-second birthday, the former komees and both the elder brothers had been slain i
n that last attack against the walls of Vawnpolis. Their smoke was not half a day with Wind, before Thoheeks Baikuh had confirmed Taros to possession of his patrimony. Even yet, he sometimes seemed startled when addressed as komees or count.

  “Lord Bili.” he said respectfully, “I can truly understand why you sent back those querulous old women and precious young Ehleenee, but you know there’s going to be merry hell to pay if any of their horses are lost or any of their plate either. Aren’t you worried about starting blood-feuds?”

  “With such as them?” Bili’s white teeth sparkled in a brief, humorless grin. “Hardly. Had they any gumption, they’d have given me the same answer Veetos of Lahmahnt did, that where his horse and armor went, so too went his sword and his body. There’s hope for a man that stubborn, no matter how delicate his manner or quarrelsome his nature.”

  At the midpoint of Sacred Sun’s journey, they stopped long enough to chew Ahrmehnee — cured meat while the horses grazed on scant grasses and weeds, frost-sere and partially snow-covered. Then it was into the saddle and face the west again, following whatever tribe or game trails were available. Then the head of the column turned the flank of a wooded slope to see the track ahead blocked by a knot of armored and mounted warriors.

  Signaling for a halt, Bili mindspoke Mahvros, his stallion, to a trot. Trailed by Komees Taros and the trooper who bore the Red Eagle of Morguhn, he advanced to exchange handclasps and greetings with the waiting nobles and officers.

  Komees Hari Daiviz of Morguhn looked at least twenty years younger than he had on the day almost a year ago, when he had received Bili in his hall and the young thoheeks told him so.

  Hari smiled broadly. “I’d forgotten just how much fun a protracted raid on hostile territory can be, Bili. And you won’t believe how much loot we’re sending south, either, not until you see the size of your tenth of it, you won’t. Who’d have thought these wretched Ahrmehnee could’ve accumulated such wealth, up here away from everything?”