by Robert Adams
Whatever was said, it clearly startled the Kooreeos. His bushy black eyebrows shot up and his right hand dived under his robes, to reemerge holding what Bili assumed was a throwing club—a thick, L-shaped piece of grayish metal. Grasping one arm of it, he pointed the other at Klairuhnz's middle.
But Klairuhnz clamped both hands around the club and twisted it out of the Kooreeos' hands, then slammed the side of it against its owner's temple. Skiros' boneless collapse set the sub-priest to shrieking in harmony with the moneylender, who shared his haven under the table.
Shoulder-blades pressed to the wall, Myros could retreat no further. He had not again been blooded, but his right arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was a tingling, fiery agony, bespeaking the force of the blows his blade had turned. He knew that he could not turn another, so he opened his trembling hand and the saber clattered to the floor.
"Mercy, please, mercy," he gasped. "Spare my life, sir, I . . . I beg you."
Hardly had the words left his lips, when the much-abused pikeshaft finally snapped and the doors burst open before a wave of pikemen. Behind them were ranged a half-dozen archers with arrows nocked; behind the archers were two Ehleenoee officers, another sub-priest, and Djaimos the carter, who had arrived too late to "participate" in this Council meeting.
"Heathen barbarians," shouted the sub-priest. "Surrender!"
"Yes, surrender!" echoed one of the officers. "Surrender or we'll slay you all!"
Fast as a snake, Ahlee dropped his yataghan, jerked Myros close, and gave him a good look of the wavy blade of his second dagger, before poising it at the Vahrohnos' throat.
"Cowardly dog," he hissed. "As you see, this blade is envenomed. If but a single bow is drawn or one spearman advances, I shall inflict the tiniest of cuts in your flesh, following which you will die slowly and in unimaginable agony. Now, speak to your hounds!"
Drehkos flatly refused to accompany them, answering his brother's entreaties with words which staggered the master of Horse Hall. So they left him in the gory Council Chamber, along with the dead and the wounded, the disarmed soldiers and officers, the two sub-priests and the moneylender, who had swooned of fright. Myros and the unconscious Kooreeos they took with them.
The heavy manacles, brought by one of the officers, had been intended to chain such of them as were taken alive. Now they were adapted to secure the battered doors. The Council Chamber had no windows, the visitors' bench was bolted to the floor, and the table could not have been lifted by twice the number of Ehleens present. Consequently, the Kindred hoped to be out of the city ere the prisoners could break out and spread the alarm.
The stairs seemed endless, but the little party finally reached the foot and hurried, almost at a jogtrot, through the huge, dim expanse of the main chamber. When they were nearly at the gaping entrance, they spied armored men beyond it, between them and safety. Coming to a halt, they drew their steel and formed a wedge, with Klairuhnz, Ahlee, and the two hostages at its core. Resolutely, they paced forward, out into the sunlight.
But the knot of men on the broad verandah were scale-shirted Freefighters, not levymen. A thick-limbed, broken-nosed man of middle years stepped out and approached them. His open hands held well away from his sword belt, he respectfully addressed Komees Djeen.
"Lord Strahteegos, we gave our Sword-Oaths to you. Please release us of them, sir. Only two-and-thirty of us Freefighters remain in Morguhnpolis and . . . and, sir, the city has . . . has changed. We fear for our very lives. If . . . if you will release us, well . . . well just forget the back pay."
Bili had instantly recognized in the man's speech the slightly nasal accent of one who had grown up speaking the Harzburk dialect and he now bespoke him in that tongue, saying, "Two-and-thirty, you say? I see but a score of you."
"This one speaks for all, my Lord." The grizzled man answered, with a shy smile, in his native speech. "Twelve of ours are on guard at the east gate. Your . . . your pardon, my Lord, but . . . you serve King Gilbuht?" He had, of course, recognized the distinctive style of Bili's armor.
Komees Djeen answered, "He did, soldier, but no more. This is Bili, the new Thoheeks and Chief of Morguhn, your employer."
"How are you called, Freefighter?" snapped Bili, "And have you mounts?"
"Aye. My Lord, most of us have either a horse or a mule, though some had to be sold to keep us fed and housed and clothed, when Baron Myros there refused us our pay," replied the speaker, adding humbly, "This one is called Pawl, sir, Pawl Raikuh. Will . . . please, will my Lord absolve us of our Swordoaths?"
Bili shook his head. "Certainly not. I have need of your swords, though not as city guards. You and your men will ride with me, Captain Raikuh."
"With a right good will, my Lord, sir." Raikuh's head bobbed assent. "But, my Lord, this one is not a captain, only a common Freefighter."
"Not if you speak for over thirty men, you're not," said Bili curtly. Then he raised his voice, addressing the group of bravos. "What say you, Freefighters? You chose him to speak for you. Would you have him to command you, if he can assure you continued employment and," he added shrewdly, "your back pay?"
Almost as one, the men smiled and nodded. A much-scarred little man stepped forward. "My Lord, Pawl be noble born, and ain't none but respects him. He'll be a good captain, he will."
"Who is the man who speaks, Captain?" Bili demanded.
The new-made officer did not need to look. "Stanlee Krahndahl, my Lord, a Klahkzburker."
"Will he make a decent lieutenant for your condotta, Captain?"
"Indeed yes, Duke Bili!"
"So be it, then." Bili strode off toward the horses, adding, "Get your men in the saddle, all of them. And bring along spare horses for your men at the gate, plus a few more. I care not where or how you obtain them, Captain, just get them. After all, I own everything in this city, if I choose to lay claim to it!"
"Sacred Sun!" swore Spiros, in a hushed, awed aside to Djeen as they mounted. "Young, he may be, but by Wind our Bili is a Thoheeks to reckon with! He's the kind of chief we've needed . . . well, since the death of his grandfather, anyway. Did you see the way that that Raikuh looked at him, when he bade him commandeer horses? I think that man'd willingly die for Bili, and he'd never seen or heard of him two minutes ago!"
The old man nodded, showing every tooth in an opossum grin. "Aye, Spiros, Bili has it all—brains, guts, weapons skill, and a rare ability to handle men, to command loyalty and respect. He'll be a good chief right enough, but wasted in that capacity all the same. What an officer he'd make for the Confederation!"
While the two troopers were getting the bound and unconscious bulk of the Kooreeos lashed behind his saddle, Klairuhnz listened in on Djeen's comments and found himself in heartfelt agreement.
——«»——«»——«»——
Myros, tied facedown behind Komees Djeen's saddle, had recovered his breath as well as his supercilious manner. "Listen to me, Komees Djeen. Despite the crimes to which you were a party upstairs, if you and the others will surrender to me now, I give you my word that you'll have an impartial hearing and a quick, painless death."
Djeen snorted scornfully. "Your word, Myros? Your word pledged your loyalty to Bili and his father, when you were confirmed to your title and lands. Today has proven your precious word to not be worth a scant measure of turkey dung!"
"The House of Morguhn," snarled Myros, "is and has always been usurping squatters, old man! My ancestors held this land when yours were scratching fleas on the Sea of Grass! The very first King of Karaleenos . . ."
"The very last King of Karaleenos," the one-eyed Komees coldly interrupted, "is generations dead! You are a rebel, a traitor, a liar, a murderer, and, I doubt me not, much more and worse besides. In the Middle Kingdoms, such a one as you would be slowly whipped to death or impaled. When your mind runs to quick, painless deaths, you had best pray your obscene god for one. For do not forget, you forsworn pig, Bili's upbringing was in the Middle Kingdoms!"
"Ha!" excla
imed Myros. "Dream on, dream on. You barbarians will never leave my city alive! You . . . gaaaagh!"
He broke off in a strangled scream, as the Komees sunk the needle point of his hook deep into the prisoner's thigh. As he jerked out the brass hook, he grimly admonished, "Another word out of you, over-assumptive degenerate, and I'll jam my hook up your arse, and don't think I won't!"
But it began to appear that Myros might have been correct, for a growing rabble of Morguhnpolisee were beginning to mill about the foot of the formal garden which fronted the city palace. Few were armed at all and most of those ill armed, though more than a few pikepoints glittered above them. However, there were already several hundred there being harangued by priests, and the side streets and alleys were debouching more.
Slapping down his half visor, Bili uncased his axe, wishing for the umpteenth time that it was reliable Mahvros he bestrode, rather than this green, less than intelligent gelding. The others ranged out on his flanks, most now bearing one of the twelve-foot pikes, as well as the swords and light axes they had brought into the city.
Djehf hefted the heavy shaft, eyeing the wicked, two-foot blade. "I've never before used one of these for a lance, Lord Brother, and it's not really weighted properly for that purpose, but," he chuckled, "I know I'll spit me a few fat Ehleenoee ganders on it!"
Bili nodded shortly. "Aye, we must make do with the weapons to hand. Be sure that you ride well clear of me, youngster. I'd hate to axe you in error."
Djehf laughed merrily. "Never you fear, Lord Brother, I've ridden the battle line with axemen, ere this. Besides, I've an odd aversion to being axed—in error or otherwise."
Toeing his gelding forward of the line, Bili reined him about and visually inspected his minuscule force. Klairuhnz, having had second thoughts, had transferred Kooreeos Skiros' limp body to the withers, where he could more easily keep an eye on him. As Bili watched, the Bard drew the saber that had served so well at the bridge fight and the sunlight flashed along its polished blade. Master Ahlee, like Djehf, bore a pike, as did all the others save for Komees Djeen. His troopers had helped him replace his hook with another, larger one with a cleaver-like blade welded to its flat side, while his one hand held his military broadsword. Most of the baggage had been unceremoniously dumped, that Feelos Pooleeos—wearing a too small cuirass and an infantry helm—might be mounted on the sumpter mule.
The Thoheeks' oldest son addressed them soberly. "We must strive to remain together, but any man who is separated must fight free as best he can. Against so many, all must depend upon shock and speed. If we halt for any reason, we are lost. We . . ."
But Komees Djeen interrupted him, pointing with his sword at something behind the young leader. "Bili . . . look you yonder."
Struck as much by the old nobleman's paling face as by the tightness of his voice, Bili reined around to gaze in the direction indicated. A knot of armored horsemen had crested the next slope of the hilly city and were extending lines to completely block the street behind the mob. Nothing about their appearance was clear; they were just black figures against the blaze of the morning sun; but there seemed a goodly number of them, at least three times the number of Bili's party.
"Well," the young axeman remarked to no one in particular, "I suppose this is as good a place to die as any."
10
When first Lord Myros had appointed him Warder of the East, Hahrteeos Kahrahmahnlees had had carpenters and stonemasons make certain alterations in the two rooms which were the second and third levels of the gate tower, where he would have to spend so much time. Then he had brought from his family mansion the furniture and appointments to allow him to, in his words, "live as an Ehleen gentleman should." The sparsely furnished, dimly lit, stonewalled chambers above and below his rooms he deemed fit only for his gaunt, ragged barbarian mercenaries.
The moment the heathen devils had clattered in through his gate, he had dispatched his Ehleen sergeant, Toorkos, to Lord Myros, alerting the Vahrohnos of the imminent arrival of his victims-to-be at the city palace. Shortly thereafter, he had carefully locked his second-level sitting room office—well aware that the long-unpaid mercenaries were not above theft of small valuables, as he had had the pleasure of watching two of them beheaded for that very offense on a recent occasion—then repaired to his luxurious bedroom on the third level, having in mind an hour's diversion with Peeos, his well-trained catamite.
Despite the Undying High Lord's abolishment of the institution of slavery nearly a hundred years before, some Ehleenoee still risked the ruinous fines and held one or two. Lord Drehkos was one such and Lord Myros owned an even dozen. Therefore, one of Hahrteeos' first actions after the death of his father was to journey to the port city of Sahrahspolis and buy this boy from a ship captain with whom Myros had done much business over the years.
Naturally, the bootlegger did not say where or how he had come by the lad, but it was certain that the twelve- or thirteen-year-old had seen his birth in none of the Ehleen lands, for his skin was darker even than the skins of the folk of the Black Kingdoms, and his speech, to his new master, was a totally incomprehensible babble. Hahrteeos had brought his acquisition back to Morguhnpolis and had had his servants teach it at least a smattering of Ehleeneekos. It had been Hahrteeos' personal pleasure to teach the slave-boy other things, breaking his will to resist by denial of food and application of pain.
But it seemed he had scarcely commenced his enjoyments in the tower bedchamber when several pairs of heavy feet clumped up the stairs beyond the door, then stamped thunderously about the guardroom above, their owners all the while chattering in the decidedly unlovely barbarian languages, of which Hahrteeos took pride in knowing not a word. Next, feet descended the stairs to the second level and a pounding on the door of his office ensued. Then one set of the feet reascended to the third level and knuckles rapped boomingly on his bedchamber portal.
Furious at this unwonted and unwanted invasion on his privacy, Hahrteeos pulled a tunic over his nakedness and threw open the door.
"Well?" he angrily demanded of the mercenary who had knocked. "What is it, you barbarian ape?"
It was Pawl Raikuh who stood before him, though this fact was unknown to Hahrteeos, who had not bothered to learn the names of any of "his" troops, other than Toorkos who was, after all, an Ehleen.
After saluting, the mercenary humbly requested permission to exchange some of the off-duty men for those presently on gate watch. Hahrteeos snorted his leave and, promising dire doom to the next man who saw fit to disturb him, slammed the door.
But less than a quarter hour later, another pair of feet sped up the steps. This time it sounded as if someone were attempting to split the door with a battleaxe! Hahrteeos was in a towering rage when he opened the door.
But this caller was not a mercenary. He was, rather, Stavros Klahreedees, Warder of the South and Hahrteeos's military, if not exactly social, equal, so there was nothing to do but invite him in and proffer wine. While the Warder of the East was filling his associate's goblet, more sets of big feet stomped up and past his door, but he ignored them.
The short, skinny, pock-faced visitor removed his gilded helm and laid it on a marble-topped table before he accepted, tasted, and savored a goblet of the wine. "Ahhh," he sighed. "You certainly know how to live, my dear. Would that I could afford such a home away from home, such civilized delights, such fine wines . . ."
"You will," Hahrteeos assured him, smilingly. "You will yet, once we've cleared the heathen from these lands of ours. Why, Lord Myros says . . ."
"Your pardon, please, love." The caller, with a wrinkling of his brows, set down his silver goblet. "Your pardon, but that brings me to my reason for being here. I received word, a few minutes agone, that the Lord Drehkos has commanded all gates closed immediately. That farce at the palace is done. The pigs got away from the guards by seizing and holding the Holy Skiros and Lord Myros and they must not be allowed to escape the city."
"Would you like for me to issue the n
ecessary orders?" he asked considerately. "After all, darling, you are hardly garbed for a stroll on the walls."
Hahrteeos smiled. "How thoughtful, dear Stavros. I appreciate such kindness."
Setting his helm back on his head, Stavros turned to open the door. Taking the pull-ring in hand, he pulled, but the door failed to budge. Several more pulls and the addition of his other hand produced no better results. Then his bigger, heftier host took his place, but the stubborn portal failed to yield to him either.
Stavros stamped his small foot in exasperation. "What's wrong with the cursed thing? We've got to do something, you know. Those pet pigs you command are stupid enough to let the butter-haired heathens ride out of our city without a by-your-leave!"
"Patience, patience." Hahrteeos patted his guest on the shoulder. "With all of the damp weather we've had, the door or the frame has probably just developed a warp, that's all. Not that I'll not have a few larcenous carpenters well striped for it. But there is another way to reach the guardroom. Here, I'll need your help."
Between them, the two warders managed to get an old, heavy wooden ladder from behind the wall hanging which had concealed it; then wrestled it across to the center of the room, raised it, and wedged the upper tips of its uprights into ceiling grooves provided for the purpose.
Hahrteeos stepped back, breathing heavily. "These ladder and trapdoor arrangements are how they got from one level to another in the ancient days, before the outside stairway was built. See those two round holes up there? Put your fingers in them and slide the panel to the right and you'll be in the middle of the guardroom."
