by Robert Adams
“Probably.” mused Bili aloud, “they got most of it the same way they lost it, raiding the nearer duchies and the other mountain tribes. Have your losses been heavy?”
Hari shrugged. “Ten killed or dead of wounds, maybe thrice that hurt in one way or another, none so bad they couldn’t sit a horse. But I fear that some of our columns may not have been so fortunate, Bili. A warhorse limped into camp, two nights back. The creature’s mindspeak is minimal, so I wasn’t able to get much information from him, but I’d have recognized him anyhow. It’s Pawl Raikuh’s gelding, Bili, and the saddle was caked with dried blood.”
“Well.” the thoheeks sighed, “Pawl would be the first to say that death is nothing more than the rest at the end of the long march. It’s a rare soldier who finds it in a bed, Hari. Let’s just hope he died in battle, hope the damned Ahrmehnee didn’t take him alive.”
Hari’s fingers sketched the Sun-sign. “Double aye to that! Not even on my . . . on the commander of Vawnpolis’s rebels would I wish such a cruel fate.”
* * *
Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn had thought she would never spend so horrible a night as that which followed the day of her brutal violation. She had lain upon the greasy dirt floor, her stained cloak wrapped tightly about her bruised and aching young body, while the creatures of the mountain night snapped and snarled over the freezing carcasses of the butchered herd of goats and the corpses of her three little brothers. Carefully, she had husbanded the wood from the meager furnishings so senselessly smashed by the raiders who had raped her, fearful of letting the fire die completely but even more fearful of unlacing or raising the heavy hides which closed the open side of the herd-men’s shelter and which were now all that separated her and Zahndrah, the old milkgoat, from the scavengers.
But after the endless dark had come the light of the new day. She had heard no more animal sounds for some time, so when Zahndrah commenced to paw and nibble at the hides, she found the courage to flex her stiffened limbs and crawl over. Recalling all too well the agonizing cramps which had racked her lower abdomen when, yesterday afternoon, she had tried to stand and walk, she followed the goat out on hands and knees.
But once in the sunlight, her pride took over. Since she had been gone from the village nearly twenty-four hours, it was certain that someone would soon come seeking her, especially with raiders about. It would not do for villagers to see her — naked but for her cloak and fur-lined boots — whimpering on her knees, no matter what injuries and degradations she had suffered. After all, she was eldest born to their hetman.
Gritting her teeth against the expected cramping and grasping the low lintel timber for added support, she pulled herself to her feet However, after a brief stab or two, the internal pain subsided to but a gnawing discomfort, unpleasant but bearable. That was when she became fully aware of her other pains. Worst was the tender flesh at the base of her belly, smarting as if red-hot irons had been pressed against it, but the most serious of her injuries appeared to be to her hands. The raider who had knelt on her palms, while his comrades had had their vicious sport of her body, had rested the full weight of his body as well as that of his armor. Now, after a night of stiffening she had but minimal use of her fingers, and the pain which shot up her arms when she tried to close the hands enough to really grip the lintel brought beads of sweat to her forehead and a low moan bubbling from her lips.
So, before trudging back toward the village, she made her painful way up the near slope of the intervening mountain. Clad only in cloak and boots as she was, she shivered almost constantly as the chill increased, and her teeth chattered as she wove her way between clumps of evergreens. But at last, she was before the dark opening of the cave of the Woman of Wisdom, Zehpoor.
So long as Ahrmehnee had dwelt in the nearby valley this cave had been the abode of a Woman of Wisdom. Many said that this same one had been here since the time of the Earth-Gods; others, that she was but the latest in a succession of such healer-priestesses. Pehroosz could not say. She had seen Zehpoor but once — at the time when she and three other pubescent girls had been brought up to be admitted to the Women’s Mysteries — and her only memory was of an ancient, frail and withered face mouthing incomprehensible words.
Shivering now as much from awe as from cold, Pehroosz haltingly entered the outer chamber, knelt reverently before the altar of the Lady, then leaned forward to press her lips against the Skystone.
“What would you, Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn?” The words seemed to come from above, from below, from all about the small, stone room.
Pehroosz scarcely recognized her own voice, issuing from the throat screamed raw yesterday and the lips swollen from buffets and brutal, forced kisses.
“Oh, please, Mother Zehpoor, I have been . . . hurt. I . . . I need healing before I can go back home, back to the village.”
After a moment, a slender column of smoke arose from a crack in the top of the small altar and that disembodied voice commanded, “Breathe you of the smoke, child. Breathe it deep, Pehroosz.”
Obediently, the girl did so. All at once, the icy stone beneath her knee became as warm as sun-baked rocks, the very air about her, balmy as summer. Gone was all pain, all discomfort, all remembered horror. Both body and mind seemed to be sinking slowly into soft, safe warmth. She closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.
Chapter VII
Afterward, she could only recall a long period of waking slumber, wherein a formless blob of face flitted in to briefly float before her while hands pressed a bowl rim to her mouth and a half-heard voice urged her to drink substances ranging from nauseous and bitter to sweet and soothing. But, mostly, she simply floated, weightless, feeling nothing save comforting warmth.
At last, she opened her eyes unbidden. Above her, a ceiling of polished hardwood was almost obscured under untold layers of soot; beneath her body, she felt the warm softness of a feather mattress and, dimly, the feel of the rope supports. It was purest luxury. In the village, only her father’s greatbed boasted so fine and thick a mattress.
“So.” chuckled a remembered voice from her right, “my little chicken awakes at last.”
The turning of her head brought to her eyes the sight of Mother Zehpoor. The crone sat in a carven chair before a heavy table, on which was a huge stone mortar, surrounded by bunches and bundles of dried herbs and roots. Gently dropping the pestle back into the mortar, she arose from her place and padded lightly over to plump herself down on the edge of the bed.
Seeing her at close range, Pehroosz was shocked. The Mother Zehpoor of the rites — less than sixty moons agone — had been ancient and withered, while this woman, though very slender, looked to be little older than Pehroosz’s mother.
The woman’s lip and eye corners crinkled. “Oh, but I am that same Mother Zehpoor, child. You and the others, you saw what you saw because I willed that you see it. My reasons for deceiving your sight rest between me and Her I serve.
“But come, let us see your hands, Pehroosz.” Tenderly, she commenced to unwrap the linen bandages. “The Lady grant they are at last healed, for we must soon begin our journey, if we are to fulfill Her will.” She sighed. “It is almost a moon’s ride to the place wherein fates will be cast.”
“Journey?” Pehroosz interjected, wide-eyed. “Forgive me, Mother Zehpoor, but I don’t think my own mother would . . . how long have I been here? Surely, I have been missed by now. Have none come to seek me?
The woman’s face became grave and sympathy shone from her sloe-black eyes. “Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn, you are descended of brave warriors and wise chiefs; you are descended, moreover, of a proud and most ancient race. Much have the Ahrmehnee suffered, child, yet have their pride and their valor ever sustained them. As you well know, this is not our original stahn. The Horse-devils and the Enleenee now squat upon the fertile lands which once were ours. But — and this you may not know, Pehroosz — there were still other stahns from which we were driven, long, long ago, in the time of the Earth-Gods. Many moons’
sail away, they lie, far across the Great Sea.
“Mighty were those stahns, large and powerful and very rich. But, corrupted by wealth, those ancient Ahrmehnee turned from adoration of the Lady to worship of other gods, false gods. From that moment did fortune depart from our race, Pehroosz. Race after race did harry and hound our ancestors, driving us from our lands and cities and villages, stealing our kine and our goods and our maidens. But, even in those dark times, did our inborn courage and pride bear us up.
“Your blood is as their blood, Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn. You have suffered most cruelly. Now must I relate that which will cause you still more anguish, yet must you bear your woes as stoically as did your suffering ancestors, down through the ages.”
Drawing a deep breath, she stared levelly into the girl’s wide eyes. “Pehroosz, those men, the ones who attacked you, who butchered the goats and slew your brothers, were but part of a far larger raiding party. Only an hour after you were ravished, child, more than five hundred men assaulted the village. Those who escaped their cruelty fled northward. Those who did not lie dead among the ashes and tumbled stones.
“You may be as proud of your mother’s memory as you are of young Toorkohm’s. She directed what pitiful defense could be made and fought as bravely as any warrior could’ve until she was cut down.”
Abruptly, Pehroosz sat up and made to lower her feet to the floor. “Please, Mother Zehpoor. Please, we must bury my mother’s body.”
Firmly, the woman pushed her back down on the bed. “Pehroosz, you must not go to the place that was the village. It has been a long, hard winter, child, and game has been scarce. In the four days since the village was burned, the bears and the wolves, the treecats and smaller animals will have left very little of those folk slain there.”
“But . . . but it cannot have been so long.” protested Pehroosz. “I came to you only this morning.”
The woman shook her head of tightly coiled, iron-gray hair. “Not so, child. In less than an hour, the sun will rise on the fourth morning you have been with me. I thought it best that you remain asleep while your body’s hurts healed, that your mind not be forced to dwell upon the horrors you endured. But now you are once more hale and we must leave.”
“But why, Mother Zehpoor? Why must we leave? This is my home and soon my father will return and rebuild the village. And . . . and Hahkeeg, too — we are to be married soon.”
“Child.” said the woman, patiently, “we must leave because it is the Lady’s will. Whilst you slept, I did scry the future. To remain here is death. Far from here, far to the west, lies your fortune, Pehroosz — a fabulous dowry of long-hidden wealth, a strong and brave and gentle husband of another race who will give you a life of ease and comfort and will receive of you fine sons to bring fresh honors to his house and tribe. But we must leave soon and travel cautiously, for the mountains swarm with bands of lowlander raiders.”
The woman arose and smoothed down her skirt. “So, come you, child. You must eat now. I have fawn seethed in goat’s milk and oatcakes and honey wine. Then you must help me prepare for our journey. It is commanded that I go, too, for, somehow, my future is tied up to yours.”
* * *
Quite early in his westward dash, Bili found it necessary to place his command on meager field rations, since they were no longer assured of the superfluity of supplies which raiding brought. There was some grumbling, but most recognized the need to reserve the grain for the horses, who could not maintain their best form on the scant subsistence of the half-feral mountain ponies; not so, some of the young thoheeks’s more vocal, noble critics, however.
As he had progressed, as his path had crossed those of the fanned-out columns of raiders, Bili had rendezvoused with almost all of his Morguhn nobles and the survivors of the original Morguhn troop of Freefighters who had marched into Vawn under his banner. The majority, he had been glad to see again — his brothers, Djaik and Gilbuht, Komees Hari, Freefighter lieutenants Krahndahl and Hohguhn — others he would have been as happy to not see. Or hear.
They were, by now, within a few days’ ride of their objective, the area wherein the High Lord had thought they should intercept the Witchmen and the booty train. Therefore, Bili had assembled most of the officers and nobles, that the High Lord’s instructions be detailed to all. Along the twisting length of a narrow, steep-sided vale, the Freefighters were laying watchfires, setting up picket lines and caring for their horses; after nearly a week of sunrise-to-sunset forced marches, they were reveling in the unaccustomed luxury of having natural light by which to set up camp.
A cursory glance at his subordinates showed all the Morguhn nobles present with the sole exception of Vahrohneeskos Ahndros. Then, from the summit of the small mound on which he stood, Bili recognized the baronet’s big gray gelding coming rapidly down the length of the vale. For all that the beast was already at full gallop, its rider could be seen to spur-rake the sweaty barrel, while lashing furiously with his crop.
Only good fortune prevented Ahndros’ steed from trampling the soldiers in his path. Even as Bili watched, grim-faced, the rocketing destrier’s shoulder took a Freefighter in the back, sending him spinning to the rocky ground with a mighty clashing of scale armor.
At the periphery of the gathering, the gelding was savagely reined to a shuddering halt. Stiff-legged, the vahrohneeskos stalked through the throng, directly toward the thoheeks. His saturnine countenance bespoke ill-concealed rage, his dark eyes smoldered, his right hand continually clenched and unclenched and the knuckles of his left hand gleamed white on his swordhilt. Shouldering through the front rank, he came to a halt and stood, spraddle-legged, before his suzerain.
Although he had not been with the column twenty-four hours, Ahndros had already found occasion to be publicly insubordinate, first to Komees Hari, then to Bili. Even a half-blind dolt could have seen another such outburst here aborning, and Bili was more perceptive than most. His eyes like blue ice and his voice as cold, he broke off his conversation with a Freefighter captain to ask:
“You have yet another complaint, baronet?”
In tones every bit as glacial, the newcomer replied, “My title is ‘vahrohneeskos,’ my lord thoheeks. I am not one your precious unwashed burk-lords! And I want to know why your damned barbarian baggage master refused to issue my cook a few pounds of grain to make flour for my bread. And what right did the lowborn swine have to jettison three packloads of my personal baggage and drive the ponies away from the march route? Who, just who do you think you are, you immature jackanapes? How much more of your supercilious contumely do you think I and the other Kindred gentlemen are going to tolerate? Only my love for your mother has restrained me ere this, but it’s high time someone took you and your insufferable arrogance to task!”
Ahndros’s face, blood-dark when he first began, had now become pallid with rage, and a patch of froth quivered at his lips’ corners, while a tic twitched his cheek and eye.
Unmoving, grim-faced Bili heard out the enraged man. Those about the two perceptibly moved back, sensing an imminent combat. At Ahndros’s last word, Bili broke his silence, sneering.
“Don’t hide behind your supposed regard for one of my mothers, little man. If anyone’s arrogance has made him insufferable since first he joined the siege forces, it is you, Ahndros Theftehros of — Sun and Wind help us all — Morguhn. I have never fully understood why you joined us at all, since you found my judgment, the High Lord’s judgment, Aldora’s judgment, all wanting. I have never given you an order that you didn’t take exception to some part of, when you didn’t disregard it altogether.
“So little actual combat did you take part in, at Vawnpolis, that I’d have had adequate reason to question your courage — as did certain of your peers — did I not know better. You fought with and for me against heavy odds last year, took grievous wounds in my service, and I am grateful. Because of that gratitude, I have been more than lenient, more than tolerant of your flagrant improprieties. But, no more, sirrah!
/> “I am not yours to command, rather you are mine. I am your hereditary lord, Ehleen. Moreover, I am in command of this column. We are on campaign in the midst of hostile country and I cannot — dare not — tolerate anything, man, cat, horse or object, that impedes our progress or endangers us or sows dissension amongst us. Therefore, I’ll give you three choices: you can take the five servants you saw fit to bring, along with a small escort, and make your way back to your former posting, then lead them back to Vawnpolis; you can recognize your proper place and station and stay in it, physically and verbally; you can continue to comport yourself as previously and I’ll have you executed as the troublemaker you are.
“Make your choice, Ahndros Theftehros. Now!”
Ahndros’s full lips curled his scorn. “Even such a thing as you would not dare to slay me without a legal hearing before my peers of Morguhn. The High Lord would have your hairless head for such highhandedness, and you know it. Command your stinking barbarians, if you wish and can — you should be able to do that, anyway, since you’re a savage, unlettered burk-lord in all save name, yourself! — but we noblemen, Kindred and Ehleenee, are your puppets only so long as we allow you to pull our strings. I, for one, have no intention of slavishly following your stupid whims, of allowing you to further humiliate me and deny me my lawful rights, nor will I allow you to degrade me by chasing me out of camp.
“So, since I flatly refuse two of your magnanimous offers and since we both know that you dare not carry out the third and, since you seem averse to meeting me honorably, as a gentleman should . . .” He allowed his voice to trail away, smiling lazily. Ahndros was easily the second-best swordsman in either Morguhn or Vawn — only Djaik Morguhn possessed superior talent and skill with broadsword or saber — so he was absolutely sure of his ground. Either Bili — hated Bili — would rise to the bait and become a corpse or he would not and lose the respect of all and the command of the column, which latter Ahndros himself craved.
