by Robert Adams
“Well, man, you have it now. How’s your throat? Dry as mine, I don’t doubt.” Feeling behind his saddle, he grunted satisfaction at finding his canteen still in place.
With numbed, twitching fingers, he unlatched his visor and lowered his beaver. Raising the quart bottle to his crusty lips, he filled his mouth once and spat it out, then took several long drafts of the brandy-and-water mixture. The first swallow burned his gullet ferociously, like a red-hot spearblade on an open wound, but those which followed it were as welcome and soothing as warm honey. Taking the bottle down at last, he proffered it to Sir Geros.
“Here, man, wash your mouth and oil that remarkable set of vocal cords. If we’re to really clobber these bastards, we must rally the squadron and hit them hard again.”
The impetus of that smashing charge had been lost, and the majority of the lowland horsemen were fighting alone or in small groups, rising and falling from sight, almost lost in a shifting sea of multi-toned, shaggy fur. Bili realized that where mere skill at arms and superior armor could not promise victory or even survival against such odds, the superior bulk and weighty force of the troop horses and destriers were his outnumbered squadron’s single remaining asset. But to take full advantage of those assets, the horde must again be struck by an ordered, disciplined formation, charging at a gallop. But before he could deliver another crushing charge, he must rally his scattered elements . . . such of them as he could.
Chapter X
And once more, Geros’ clear tenor voice pealed like a trumpet above the uproar, while Bili gripped the brass-shod ferrule in both his big hands, raised the banner high above his head and waggled the shaft For a long, breathless moment, it seemed that none could or would respond to the summons, but a pair of blood-splashed Freefighters hacked their way from out of the near edge of the press, then a half-dozen more appeared behind a destrier-mounted nobleman. Slowly, by dribbles and drops, the squadron’s ranks again filled and formed up behind the Red Eagle.
Not all those who had made that first charge returned, of course. Some were just too hard pressed to win free; some would never return. Bili took a position a good two hundred yards off the left flank of the milling mob, the absolute minimum distance cavalry needed to achieve the proper impetus in a charge. He had just gotten the under-strength troops into squadron-front — shortened squadron — front-when the beat of hundreds of hooves sounded from somewhere within the narrow defile at his own left flank. The veteran troopers were already preparing to wheel in order to meet the self-announced menace, when the riders swept from the mouth of that precipitous gap. In the lead rode Ehrbuhn Duhnkin — recognizable because of his clean, unmarred armor — followed by the bowmasters he had commanded to such good effect. But now bows were all unstrung and cased, sabers were out and flashing in the sunlight.
While the Freefighters took their accustomed places in the shrunken ranks, Ehrbuhn rode up to the young thoheeks, mindspeaking, “We had to miss first blood, Lord Bili, but I mean to be in at the kill. So do some others, incidentally. They it was who showed us the way here. In all courtesy, my lord, I think we should not begin the dance until the ladies arrive.”
With the Maidens riding in a place of honor on the exposed right flank and the grim-faced brahbehrnuh just behind Bili in the knot of heavily armed nobles at the center, the reformed and reinforced squadron struck the confused and reeling barbarians almost as hard as they had the first time. And human flesh could take no more. The savages broke, scattered before the big horses and armored warriors and streamed down the narrow vale in full flight.
Some escaped, but not many. The destriers and troop horses were tired, true, but so too were the ponies. Superior breeding and carefully nurtured top condition told in the end, at a cost of the ultimate price to most of the barbarians. The shaggy men were pursued to the very end of the long plateau, ridden down and slain. Then Bili forced a halt and rallied his force before commencing the slow, weary march back to the battlefield below the cliff.
Bili trudged beside Mahvros at the head of the exhausted squadron, having allowed none save the wounded to remain mounted. The black stallion was spent; he seemed barely able to place one hoof before the other and his proud head hung low, his shiny hide now befouled with dried lather and old sweat, with horse blood and man blood and dust Nor were the other horses of the battered squadron in better shape; many were, in fact, in worse.
The brahbehrnuh helped a reeling Freefighter onto the back of her relatively fresh charger and then strode up to pace beside Bili. After a moment, she addressed him in accented but passable trade Mehrikan.
“What is the polite form of address for my lord?” Still plodding, Bili turned his shaven head and looked into her bloodshot eyes, smiling tiredly.
“The Ehleenee say ‘thoheeks,’ my Freefighters say ‘duke’ and my friends call me simply ‘Bili.’ You are free to use whichever comes easiest to your lips, my lady.”
With a brusque nod of her helmeted head, she asked bluntly, “You and your folk are the born enemies of the Ahrmehnee and, indirectly, of me and my sisters. So then why do you fight and bleed and die for us? Was there not enough loot in the vales for both you and the cursed Muhkohee? Think you that even this will earn you Ahnnehnee forgiveness for your many and heinous crimes, Dookh Bili?”
A woman of spirit, thought Bili — no polite, meaningless words for her; she spits it right out and be damned to you if you don’t like it. “Because, my lady, me and mine no longer are the enemies of the Ahrmehnee. Even now does their great chief treat with our High Lord, and, soon, all these Ahrmehnee mountains and vales will be one with our mighty Federation of Peoples, your folk too, probably.”
“Never!” she spat. “Since the Time of the Earth-Gods have the Moon Maidens been sensibly ruled by women. Never will we submit to the utter debasement of the rule of mere men!”
Then did Bili Morguhn show a spark of that genius which was to win him a place high in the councils of his homeland. “But, my lady, did you not know?”
“Know what, lowlander?”
“Why this, my lady-the true rulers of the Confederation are women, the Undying High Ladies, Mara Morai and Aldora Linszee Treeah-Pohtohmas Pahpahs.”
Her jaw dropped open in wonderment, but she quickly recovered. “Then what of your infamous Undying Devil, this Milo.”
“Lord Milo commands the Confederation armies, especially in the field on campaign.” Bili answered glibly. “You see, our armies are all of men.”
Her high brow wrinkled. “But, Dookh Bili, how can these High Ladies trust this Milo to not treacherously bring the armies against them, slay them and usurp their rightful place? The men of my own folk foolishly tried such many times over the centuries until, finally, we forbade mere men to carry weapons or know their use.” She smiled grimly. “That was in the time of my mother’s mother’s grandmother, and the Wise Women have ruled, unquestioned and unopposed, since.”
Bili shook his head. “Such harsh measures are generally unneeded in the lands of the Confederation, my lady. For one thing, the Undying High Ladies cannot be slain with weapons, but, more importantly, the High Lord would never do aught which might harm the Confederation. Moreover, he loves the Lady Mara and has great respect for the Lady Aldora. Thus has it been for six generations and more.”
They walked on in silence for a quarter-hour. At last, the brahbehrnuh announced, “When and where and how can I meet with one of these High Ladies, Doohk Bili? With our hold destroyed, we are cast adrift in a hostile world, with naught save the little we bear and wear. But I must be certain that my sisters and I — who are the last, pitiful remnant of our race, now — will receive land in return for our allegiances and service to your Lady rulers and that we will be allowed to practice our ancient rites and customs unmolested. These things must your Ladies avow to us who serve the Supreme Lady.”
Bili mused, trying to guess just what to say to this strange, handsome young woman, but, abruptly, the conversation became unimportant.
A feeling of unbearable unease suddenly gripped Bili. His every nerve ending seemed to be screaming, “DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!”
Tired as they were, all the horses were uneasy, too, snorting and nodding, their nostrils dilated and eyes rolling, dancing with nervousness. As for Mahvros, the big black suddenly half-reared and almost bolted when three deer broke cover, dashing out of a dark copse to rocket downslope and over the edge of the plateau. Hard on their heels came a living carpet of small, scuttling beasts and, up ahead, a pair of mountain wolves and a tree cat loped along in the same direction, almost side by side.
Recalling that the High Lord had said prairiecats were but a mutation of tree cats and that many specimens of the latter could mindspeak, Bili attempted to range the fleeing feline but encountered only a jumble of inchoate terror.
Bili allowed his instinct to command him. “MOUNT!” he roared to those behind. “Mount and form column!” Following his own order, his weariness clean forgotten, he flung himself astride Mahvros, slapping his gambeson hood and helm back in place.
He had but barely forked his steed when the very earth shuddered strongly. Horses screamed; so, too, did some of the humans. The brahbehrnuh stumbled against the side of the dancing stallion, frantically grasping Bili’s stirrup leather for the support her feet could not find on the rippling ground. With no time or care for niceties, Bili grabbed the woman’s swordbelt and, lifting her effortlessly, placed her belly-down on his crupper.
Komees Hari came alongside, his big gray tight-reined. “It can only be an earthquake, Bili. I thought there was something odd about this damned plateau. We’ve got to get off it“
“THAT WAY!” Bili shouted, pointing to where the animals had disappeared, a hundred yards to his right. Mahvros was too submerged in terror to respond to mindspeak, so Bili reined him over. His booted heels beat a tattoo on the destrier’s barrel and evoked a willing response; exhaustion forgotten, the big black raced flat out in the track of the fleeing game beasts.
The column followed, while trees crashed around them and boulders shifted, slid and tumbled. After their lord they went, heedlessly putting their mounts at the impossibly narrow descent down the precipitous face of the plateau. Had the plateau been higher, none would have survived. Since it was much lower than in the northern reaches, all save the very tail of the line were galloping hard toward the south when, with a horrible, grinding roar, the entire rocky face dissolved and slid down upon itself.
Not until they were a bird-flight mile from what had been the foot of the plateau did Bili bring his command to a walk, then a halt on the brushy slope of a long, serpentine ridge. Not even there was the earth completely still, but the occasional tremors were quickly forgotten, erased from their minds by the terrible wonder on the northern horizon.
So huge that it looked close enough to touch, a boiling cloud of dense, multicolored smoke loomed, shot through with flame for all its immense and increasing height. Then with a clap of such magnitude that horses screamed and reared, while men and women slapped hands to abused ears and rolled on the heaving hillside in agony, some force shredded the cloud, leaving only tumbling, smoking black shapes of irregular conformation, rising, rising and whirling, then falling swiftly. And where, within sight, those shapes grounded, smoke and leaping flames burst up. One of the shapes fell, bouncing heavily, in the tiny vale betwixt the ridge and the hill beyond. It came finally to rest in an almost-dry streambed and, when the last tendrils of stream had died, Bili and the others could clearly see that it was simply a boulder. But what a boulder! A boulder big enough for two destriers to have stood upon, uncrowded.
And upon his broad face, certain cryptic carvings were plainly visible. At sight of them, the brahbehrnuh uttered a single, piercing shriek. Then her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she collapsed, bonelessly, at Bili’s feet
* * *
Regardless of the gruesome task he had so recently completed, Master Ahlee’s garments and person were spotless when he came to render his report to Strahteegos Vaskos Daiviz of Morguhn. He had commanded the medical contingent of the High Lord’s force and, as soon as it had become apparent that the battle with the Ahrmehnee was over, he had returned to Vawnpolis, where many folk were still suffering from the aftereffects of the long, hard siege.
Vaskos had been more than glad to have the erudite, skillful Zahrtohgahn physician, and not only because of the good his ministrations could do the Vawnpolisee who were the responsibility of the conscientious officer. For these two men had been friends for nearly a year, since the brown-skinned master had successfully treated the grievous wounds Vaskos had suffered when he had fought his way out of rebel-held Horse Hall, in the first days of the short-lived rebellion in Morguhn. That friendship had ripened during the protracted siege of Vawnpolis as they met whenever their various duties had permitted to share an ewer of wine and engage in the Game of Battles, at which both excelled, or exchange anecdotes of travels and combat.
Utterly stymied by the seemingly insoluble problem of the frequent murders, all his own efforts and those of his staff having failed, Vaskos had finally discussed the matter with Ahlee. And that was why, this day, the master had just completed the autopsy of the seventh young woman murdered in as many weeks.
Shoving aside a mound of papers and flexing his ink-stained fingers, Vaskos pushed himself back from his desk and, smiling, waved the master toward a chair.
“You are overtired, Vaskos.” chided Ahlee gently. “Of what use will you be to the High Lord if you break your health? Your staff is both large and competent, yet you put them in armor on city patrols and then try to do their work yourself. Promise an old man that you will promptly mend your ways.”
Vaskos sighed, frowning. “Master, I have armed all the ex-rebels I dare to. Too, I have begged all the troops I can reasonably expect from Strahteegos Demosthenes, out at the base camp. My staff noncoms were all the men I had left, with the exceptions of Danos’ crew, and those poor bastards have been standing watch on watch for months. I couldn’t bring myself to ask more of them . . . or him, either, much as I hate him. I doubt me if the Ehleen god could fabricate a worse punishment than he is living in.”
Ahlee shook his scarred, brown head-hairless, like the rest of his body, for reasons of cleanliness. “Vaskos, my friend, my order is dedicated to the saving of life in accordance with Ahláh’s Holy Will. I have served that order for the larger part of my life. Consequently, it pains me to suggest that you have the Vahrohnos Myros Deskati . . . ahhh, put out of his misery. The man is, in my humble opinion, incurable and is just too dangerous to maintain longer in the existing manner. He has a record of having already slain one member of Captain Danos’ detachment, and that man he attacked last week will be crippled for the rest of his days.”
“I’d dearly love to do it.” grunted Vaskos. “Personally. Were it my decision to make, I’d hump myself down to that level and put my sword in the bastard in an eyetwinkling. But he be the prisoner of my overlord . . . well, my father’s overlord, anyhow. And I don’t think Thoheeks Bili would be too happy were he denied hearing Myros’ death screams, considering all the merry hob the whoreson raised in Morguhn.”
At the last word, Vaskos rose and stumped over to a heavy tapestry. Pulling it back, he took from the arrowslit window it covered a jar of wine, now cooled by the frigid outdoor temperature. Setting the jar on his desk, he crossed to t
he hearth and poked up the fire, then returned to his seat and poured two mugs full.
When Ahlee had sipped, the strahteegos said, “Well, did you learn anything new from this latest victim, master?”
The white-robed physician shrugged. “In point of fact, Vaskos, no. Her injuries were almost identical to those of all the other poor women; I can attest that all were even mutilated with the same instruments.”
“And what of the monster who wielded them, master? Any inkling of who we’re looking for?”
“As I said often before, Vaskos, you are looking for a madman who, with all the cunning of his madness, has thus far eluded you. Could you but take me to the place wherein he does his savageries, I could perhaps tell you more concerning him. But then, if you knew where he takes his victims, you would need nothing save patience in order to apprehend him.”
“If! If! If!” Vaskos’ bloodshot eyes blazed his ill-controlled wrath and he slammed his callused palm onto the desktop. “Meanwhile, this rebel bastard of a woman killer goes his merry, bloody way making fools out of me and the entire Confederation garrison. Sun blast the swine! Why can’t we catch him?”
They very nearly had on two occasions, and Captain Danos still became pale and weak-kneed whenever he thought of how narrow had been his two escapes. And what made the terrible chances he was daring so meaningless was the awful fact that he no longer even enjoyed himself. Had not since the devil-spawn vahrohnos had demonstrated that, though he might be Danos’ prisoner, still was he the captain’s master.
Always had it been the cries of his victims — the moans, the whimpering pleas for mercy and, especially, the screams of agony — which had aroused Danos’ sexual lusts. But now, with the streets above his well-concealed cellar aswarm with armed and alert men, he was afraid to allow any avoidable noise from his victims. And victims were becoming harder and harder to come by. Only his thorough knowledge of Vawnpolis and its secret ways had provided him with the last half-dozen women and with a means of getting them onto that bloodstained cellar floor under the ruined mansion. And he knew with utter certainty that it was but a matter of time — possibly a rather short time — until one of the roving parties chanced upon an arm of that warren of ancient tunnels.
