The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Honuin Granite Oath said, “They bleed us dry and will eventually replace us in the southlands with their own Court favorites. Better to fight. Take my war vows to Springbuck.”

  The King of Seaguard was next. “Already have I felt the squeeze of Bey’s grasp, and I think it will only grow tighter with time. It will not be long ere that damned spellbinder has the Usurper strangling us with taxes and leeching our trade blood from our coffers into his. I shall stand by the Heir in whatever he requires, yet I hope that we may help him and still appear not to, the better to build our strength for a time yet.”

  Balagon said, “Those who swear allegiance to the Bright Lady also swear to respect the throne at Earthfast, since the Ku-Mor-Mai has ever been our friend. But there appears to be some doubt here as to who has proper claim to that allegiance in these strange days, and so the Brotherhood cannot carry its banner to either camp; we must remain neutral, for the nonce.”

  Angorman rubbed his jaw and squinted at his old rival, speaking next. “The Order of the Axe will take no side either then, but we will be most attentive to what transpires, and if we think the commands of the Perfect Mistress warrant it, you will hear from us.”

  But the emissary said in a level voice and with a hint of condescension, “I will not hide this from you: I will take to the Prince Who Sails Forever my recommendation that the Mariners not participate in this strife. As is our custom, we will trade with whomever comes to the quayside and treat with them, but our dwelling place is the bosom of the deeps and we are loath to entangle ourselves and lose Mariner lives in the affrays of landsmen. So will I speak to the Prince of the Waves.”

  Andre heard them out without comment and absorbed each pronouncement without emotion, making no attempt to sway dissenters. He thanked them for their attendance and suggested they all partake of more meat and drink. The mood lightened, but he took aside each of the three who had declared for the Prince and made plans of communication with them.

  * * * *

  Soon, men across the face of the Crescent Lands looked to their weapons, and those who’d seen war before made their peace with their deities.

  Sharpen your lances, see to your shields

  Kiss your sweet ladies goodbye

  Grim armies gather to darken the fields

  War-pennants darken the sky

  Call for your horses, make fast your spurs

  Take up your strong panoply

  Fight the Usurper, now, all my brave Sirs

  To throw off his yoke, or to die!

  See yonder, Springbuck, son of his sire

  Rightful his claim to the throne

  Hew to his cause, with steel and with fire

  Let our swords make our will known

  High-born and yeoman, all rally ’round him

  Bring forth your edges to hone

  Follow now Springbuck! Our gods have found him

  Chosen to rule! He alone!

  “Stand Up, Ye Loyal Men”

  —(An anonymous mustering song)

  Chapter Eighteen

  His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.

  —The Song of Songs which is Solomon’s

  Springbuck and Reacher were ushered from the camp of the Horseblooded with jubilation on the day after Reacher’s victory. Hung over as badly as he was, Springbuck didn’t care; the girls had dressed him, taken him out to where someone had already saddled Fireheel and helped him mount. Leading a parade of children, adults and dogs, with the giant wolves pacing them, he and Reacher started off on the long trek back to Freegate.

  They drew away from their escort after some time and forged ahead together wordlessly. The wolves stayed at their side for a space, until Reacher raised his hand to dismiss them. At this signal they sped off eastward. As Springbuck watched them disappear, his conscience gnawed at him over his spiteful words to the King. He damned himself doubly, since his remark had probably offended his all-important cobelligerent. He tried to compose some apologetic phrases, but was interrupted.

  “I could have used your help last night, ally,” said the Wolf-Brother. “I was outnumbered four to one. We might have stood backs together and faced them front to front, if you see my meaning.”

  Springbuck was astounded by the levity almost as much as by the smile that touched the King’s lips.

  “I’m . . . afraid I’d have been little help, ally,” he returned. “Those daft girls insisted on playing drinking games and singing songs before retiring. I don’t know whether we eventually played more serious games or not. I passed out, I think.”

  “It may be that you were lucky. Men who take many wives are greedy, holding that which they may never fully possess. If any man is capable of pleasing four dancing girls, I acknowledge him Champion of the Horseblooded, aye, and of the Howlebeau and Freegate withal!”

  Springbuck threw his head back and laughed, though it smarted. He removed his war mask and hung it from his saddle, shaking his aching head in the wind. He still had a picture band given him by Fahna. It was a beaded ribbon so contrived that, when one spun it around a finger, little figures replaced each other rapidly so as to give the illusion of movement—in this case a galloping horse. Since it was made for a finger on Fahna’s little hand, he must spin it around his least finger. He tried it once but it threatened to make him ill to focus on it.

  He had been treated to many tales of the Wild Riders who, as it came out, were not nearly as uncivilized as he had been given to think; they merely had a different way of looking at things. Eliatim, his late instructor-at-arms, had spoken little about life on the High Ranges, and the Prince was thankful for this increase in knowledge.

  The difference lay in the central concern of the Horseblooded—mobility. They took their entire culture with them on horseback or in wagons, herding their flocks and other domesticated animals. Therefore they had evolved no ponderous arts, avoiding the superfluous. They had, for example, little in the way of sculpture, since it was impractical to haul statuary around the steppes, so they became their own. They devoted much attention to their clothing, hair, jewelry and other ornamentation, including their treasured horses’ trappings. Women were lavish with cosmetics and tattooing was common for both sexes.

  Their music was made with easily transportable instruments, but still relied heavily on clapping, stamping, whistling and complex and imaginative blendings of human voices. Because the evening before had been one of revelry, many musicians had become drunk or tired and at last there had been only one man with a drum to provide diversion, an uninspiring situation for the Horseblooded. The drummer therefore set one beat, which those around him took up by beating on their chests or thighs as they sat cross-legged on carpet and cushion. He then set another, which some women copied by snapping their fingers and beating dagger pommels on drinking gourds; at last he began a third himself. Springbuck had found this to be marvelous fun in comparison with merely watching, and slapped his hands against his chest with a will, rocking in time.

  Again, the Horseblooded had few paintings, as such. They incorporated their imagery into their artifacts, such as the picture band. Every tapestry, cushion, scarf, saddle and carpet was illuminated with scenes depicting the life of a people forever moving. All leather was studded or tooled in some decorative fashion. All metal, it seemed, was engraved or wrought to transform functional objects into a portable, enduring art. All wood was carven, painted, or both.

  Interestingly enough, women appeared to hold a place equal to men by dint of their responsibility as home-keepers, artists, child-bearers and at times as hunters and fighters. Their voices were of equal weight in councils and they had their own leaders, whose words were carefully heard by the Hetman and the Champion or risk the would-be unthinkable; ignoring them might lead to rifts or dissolution of the tribe. Springbuck had found that entertainers were as likely to be men as women, and a mixed group was the most popular of all.

  At the center of life was the horse, symbol of life in this nomadi
c culture, an animal of religious significance and more. “Horse,” in their language, meant literally “hoofed man”—or “woman,” according to gender—a member of a species coequal with the human race. If these surprisingly atheological nomads had anything approaching a god, it was the creature who made their existence possible and raised them above the level of the animals they herded and hunted. The rules and etiquette surrounding the care, handling and disposition of their four-footed kinsmen was the single most important body of knowledge the Horseblooded had. It was drilled into the young of both sexes as soon as they were old enough to understand, and carried penalties which were inflexibly enforced. One of their favorite romantic tragedies culminated with the heroine slaying her lover, who’d run their tribe’s premier breeding stallion to death to save her life. None of the Wild Riders wore spurs, and quirts were solely ornaments of office. It was, among them, a grave slur to call a man a “foot-plodder,” or to say, “She is worthy only to walk.”

  * * * *

  They crossed the illimitable High Ranges toward Freegate, and a growing sense of loneliness descended on the Prince, composed of hours spent thinking about his father and anticipating reunion with Gabrielle. The steppes, so pleasant on the outward trip, were becoming oppressive.

  Without further major event, they reclaimed Reacher’s horse at the outpost and made their way back to the lowlands. But two days’ travel from the city, after avoiding the towns and settlements at Reacher’s request, they took to the main road again. The King, relaxed and at peace in the wilds, was increasingly tense as they passed through concentrations of people, while the Prince became more at ease.

  They were met by a troop of household cavalry whose officer made obeisance to his King. “Your Majesty, how propitious the fate that has us met here when I thought I’d have to scour the High Ranges for you! Yesterday a day saw a large body of Coramondian soldiery move down out of the Keel of Heaven toward the city. At first we girded for fighting, thinking this the first thrust from the west, but the Legion-Marshal who commands them came to parley with Her Radiance, your sister. The Marshal has defected with loyal troops and rallied to the Prince, saying that he is brother to the widow of the slain Duke Hightower.”

  “Bonesteel!” cried the Prince. “Legion-Marshal Bonesteel! I knew he’d remain true, Reacher. The finest general in the world! Oh, not a lusty brawler himself, but the superlative strategist and tactician, writer of textbooks, philosopher of battle. We need him sorely. Not surprising his men should hew to him. Come, Reacher, I must see him.”

  Pushing selves and mounts, they were at Freegate’s outskirts the next afternoon and found a vast cantonment set up. The sentries were of the Legions of the southwest and didn’t recognize the Prince, but they summoned their officer, who prostrated himself before Springbuck. Reacher released his men to return to Katya with word of his arrival, and the two were taken to Bonesteel’s tent.

  They found the old veteran bent over a broad table, maps spread out across it and order-of-battle charts in his lean hand. Skinny, white-haired and half a head shorter than Springbuck, he yet had dignity and probity apparent to anyone who met him. He wore no military apparel, but rather a simple robe which exposed his hairless chest. On seeing Springbuck, he dropped his notes with a glad cry and threw himself—but stiffly—down on one knee, kissing the Prince’s scarred right fist. Affection welled up in the younger man’s heart for this faithful family friend.

  “Your Grace,” said Bonesteel, “I have come to place myself and my men at your disposal, and give what scant aid I may in reclaiming the throne which is yours by rights. And every inch the Ku-Mor-Mai you look! It is a year since I last saw you, and I see that you are older than your years already. I observe that you have passed through strange places and violence, and there is in your eye a light which belongs in the gaze of a Protector Suzerain but is new in you. The vocation of arms has left new marks upon you, and I rejoice that the blood of Sharplance himself has been refreshed in you.”

  The Prince cast his war mask aside and raised Bonesteel to his feet. “Most loyal are you, strong right hand of my father, and rather would I have you with me than all the assembled knights of Coramonde. When Strongblade is thrown down and Yardiff Bey cast forth, there will be monuments in plenty to your allegiance.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I have held council with the Princess Katya—a shrewd lady—and those others whom she tells me are your adherents. We have discussed tactics and I agree with your plan to work on Strongblade from within. None dared molest me when I broke for the Keel of Heaven in a surprise move, but rumor has Novanwyn in charge of marshaling and executing the invasion of Freegate. He collects his strength slowly, for there are threats of rebellion in the eastern provinces, especially by Bulf Hightower, brother-by-bond to my widowed sister.

  “Strongblade draws many men from the northwest, leaving border marches badly undermanned against the wildmen, but they only raid and harry and would not invade without the let of Yardiff Bey. Yet I conjecture that if he had to, he would send them at us. Still, all in all, we shall have to fight a delaying action while the loyalist organization takes root, recruits and tries to bring the impetuous Hightower into line. And those incredible notes left by that MacDonald chap! I would give much to chat with that one; his doctrine will serve us well. But we still want badly for manpower. Hmm, yet there is still much that we may do with a little ingenuity.”

  Springbuck clapped the bookish Legion-Marshal on the back. “We’ve just returned from a mission designed to appease that need. Thanks to Reacher here, the Horseblooded ride with us.”

  Bonesteel blinked in surprise. “The King? This is His Highness?” He faced Reacher, blushing with embarrassment. “Your Majesty, your pardon please, but I took you for some huntsman or warrior. One seldom sees a King in the trappings of the Howlebeau. Oh, but this news of the Horseblooded is glorious! Why, with light cavalry like them, we have many new avenues open to us.”

  “Let us repair to my home and discuss them,” said the Wolf-Brother.

  But Bonesteel answered, “I shall rework the plans I’ve formulated to take this new factor into account, and have them to you tomorrow when bodies are rested and minds eager.” It was agreed to, and the two departed with spirits encouraged.

  Reacher went to find his sister when they returned to the palace, but Springbuck, lacking the phenomenal staying power of the monarch of Freegate, wanted only to wash the stench of travel from himself and sleep. He rejected the servants’ offer to shave him, having begun a beard, and dozed while they drew his bath, then dismissed them and half-slept as he drifted in the warm, sudsy pool. But seeking his bed, anticipating only a night’s sleep, he found it occupied.

  Gabrielle waited, lounging on silken sheets, fur covers thrown aside.

  “It’s thoughtful of you so to come unclothed,” said the Prince. “I am thus ensured you are unarmed.”

  “There is that variety of woman best armed when least attired,” she pointed out.

  He went to her, noticing a silken sash fastened at the bedstead over her head. It puzzled him, but he didn’t take the time to question its portent.

  There was no subtlety, no restraint on either part that first time. With the need of a drive long denied, they satisfied themselves in each other with mutual passion, equal abandon. Neither mentioned love, neither had gentle words after their prolonged wait They tacitly avoided pretense.

  Ardor spent, they lay for a time as a cool breeze wafted perspiration from them. She wound her fingers idly in his hair and he looked upward to the silken cord overhead. He jutted his chin toward it. “What thing is that?”

  “No ordinary pallet is this. Ensorceled, it’s prepared for your return. Observe.”

  She sat up and began to knot the sash again. Springbuck studied her flawless body, perfect skin, the arresting profile and the mounds of crimson tresses tumbling down the creamy back, and was stirred by new desire. The pleasant drowsiness stealing over him in the wake of their lovema
king retreated. Gabrielle, finishing her complex knotting, blew on the twisted cloth. He found he’d become aroused as fully as he’d been a short time before. He drew her down and once more they entangled, in fervor as intense as the first time.

  “Is that the office of the knots?” he asked later, as his fingers traced her spine and her lips rested in the hollow of his neck.

  “Yes. Too many repetitions might be injurious, but we’re healthy enough to abide some, are we not?” And she would have reached to tie another knot, but he stopped her.

  “Stay,” he said, “and let us try another mysticism, old and locked into the bodies of men and women at the origins of time.” They united again, this time without the rite of knots, and that older magic of which he’d spoken, waiting in all mankind, verified itself.

  They both slept late the next day.

  * * * *

  But in the weeks which followed he had scant time to spend with her outside councils of war, though he tried to be with her as much as possible. He learned that he must handle himself carefully with her. When he displeased her, carpets had a way of sliding away under him, crockery flew of its own accord and the bathwater was wont to become suddenly and agonizingly cold. The magic with which he was bound to her was stronger than any knotted wisp of silk.

  Plans were being considered, altered, revised and often disposed. Agents were enlisted to begin underground activities in Coramonde, several of them from the group of Erubites. Reacher’s own espionage corps trained them in skills which would be required of them to build their own units.

  A sparsely populated series of dales some way east of the city was cleared and given over to the encampment of the Horseblooded when they began to pour in off the High Ranges. Public announcements quelled the apprehensions of the people of Freegate at the foreign army, the second within their country’s borders. Some talk of foreign involvement was heard, but the population in general accepted it that a war of survival was about to be joined.