The Patrimony

by Robert Adams

  The

  Patrimony

  The Horseclans

  Book VI

  Robert Adams

  A SIGNET BOOK

  New American Library

  Times Mirror

  Copyright © 1980 by Robert Adams

  First Printing, April, 1980

  Content

  Synopsis

  Excerpt

  Dedication

  Warsong

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  THE THOHEEKS IS DEAD!

  Long live the new THOHEEKS! But who will this new leader of Sanderz-Vawn be? For although young Horseclansman Tim Sanderz, exiled long years ago, has come to reclaim his rightful inheritance, his stepmother wants to see her own Ehleen son as ruler in Vawn, And before Tim’s half-brother Bili of Morguhn and the Undying High Lord Milo can send troops to his aid, Tim’s Hall has become an armed camp where Ehleen battles Horseclansman with cunning, treachery, and sword-swinging might. And there is far more at stake than just the leadership of Sanderz-Vawn. For the Confederation’s deadliest enemy is once again at work, using its inhuman science to plant the seeds of Lord Milo’s destruction at Sanderz Hall …

  THE PATRIMONY

  Excerpt

  AMBUSH!

  In the roadway before the Ehleen troops three noblemen sat their horses, blocking the narrow track. The Ehleenee halted as one of the men spurred his mount forward.

  “You come from the Lady Mehleena?” asked the troop commander.

  The stranger merely nodded.

  “You are of The Brotherhood, then, my lord?” Again the stranger nodded.

  “My lord must give a Sign,” said the commander, tracing a complicated pattern in the air.

  “Aye, I’ll give you a sign,” agreed the stranger. Still smiling, he raised his hand and sent something shiny spinning through the air. The commander grunted, then his horse screamed and reared and, in the split second before his body tumbled from the animal’s back and a deadly sleet of arrows began to fall, everyone could see the polished bone hilt of a knife jutting out of the commander’s left eye socket.

  Dedication

  This volume of Horseclans is dedicated to Poul Anderson and L. Sprague De Camp, two most illustrious colleagues, and to two lovely and talented young ladies, C. J. Cherryh and Katherine Kurtz, and to Jerry Tishman and the VSR.

  Warsong

  See how our White Hawk flies

  Free in the open skies,

  Leading us on.

  Forward, then, Sanderz men,

  Forward, to bring again,

  Glory to Vawn.

  —Warsong Of The Clansmen

  Of Vawn-Sanderz

  Prologue

  Sir Geros was ensconced in the privy behind his small, neat house when a scurrying servitor brought word that the tower watchers reported two armed riders approaching from the northeast. As the old warrior dropped worn baldric over his scarred, shaven head and fitted its links to those of his scabbard, he heard the first belling of the hall’s pack of hounds.

  By the time he reached the courtyard, the riders were through the open gates — which laxity was as a rasp drawn across a raw nerve to the old soldier. He and the old thoheeks had always seen eye to eye on tight security for both hall and hard-won duchy, even if their ideas had differed on other points, but now Thoheeks Hwahltuh was gone to wind and neither his widow (the fat, Ehleen bitch, thought Sir Geros) nor the regent followed very many of the practices of the old lord’s lifetime.

  The riders guided their big, northern horses at a slow walk through the broil of leaping, snapping dogflesh, the second, larger man pulling along as well a pack-laden sumpter mule. As they came closer, Sir Geros could see that, under the thick overlay of dust, the scarred faces of both men were lined with fatigue. Weary too were the beasts, their heads drooping low, but the riders sat straight, their plain half-armor dented and patched here and there but polished and oiled beneath the road dust.

  Polished, also, were the unadorned hilts of their broadswords and the light axes dangling from their saddlebows. The heads of the two lances socketed on the mule’s load sparkled like burnished silver in the first rays of Sacred Sun. Sir Geros did not need to examine the scabbarded sword-blades to know that they too would surely be well honed and unblemished.

  He knew — and respected and empathized with — this stripe of men from the days when he was a warrior and had ridden with and fought beside Middle Kingdoms freefighters. The Sword was not only their life but their grim god — and they treated that god with respect.

  As the hall servants kicked and cuffed the pack away from the mounting blocks, a groom reached for the reins of the lead rider’s stallion and nearly lost a hand for his courtesy. Big, square yellow teeth clacked bare millimeters from the jerked back fingers.

  Sir Geros detected a fleeting glimmer of soundless command — his mindspeak, for all his strivings, had never been very good — and the warhorse stood stockstill while, jackboots creaking, the wiry rider dismounted and, after hitching his sword around for easier walking, strode toward the old castellan.

  A swordlength away, he halted. “Don’t you recognize me, then, old friend? Have these years of soldiering changed me that much?”

  Sir Geros looked hard then. He took in the gray-blue eyes, their corners crinkled from much squinting against sunglare and the elements, the high forehead, permanently dented by the heavy helm which probably was now part of the mule’s cargo. He could see that the skin must once have been fair, but now it was weathered to the hue of polished maple, with the fine, high-bridged nose canted slightly to one side and with two large and innumerable small scars scoring the reddish-bristled cheeks.

  A short, red-blond spade beard spiked forward from the man’s chin, and a thick, luxuriant mustache must once have flared, though now it was plastered to his face with sweat and dust.

  The stranger had stripped the leather gauntlets from hands which were square, with a dusting of blondish hairs on their backs; the fingers were long and the nails clean and well kept. A small ruby set in carven gold adorned the least finger of the right hand — which digit, Sir Geros noticed, was missing its last joint — and the next finger bore the steel-and-silver band of a noble Sword Brother. This last proved the old warrior’s first estimation correct; this man was a sworn member of the Sword Cult.

  But Sir Geros’ black eyes strayed at length back to those gray-blue ones, so like to … to hers, to those of the Lady. The Lady Mahrnee, she who had been the beloved first wife of Thoheeks Hwahltuh, and whom Sir Geros had worshiped at a distance for all the years he had served her husband.

  And he knew then that, at long last, their eldest son was come to claim his patrimony.

  Roaring, heedless of the dust and filth of travel, Sir Geros flung both arms about the younger, slighter man, pounding the armored shoulders and trying to speak his heartfelt welcome through tightened throat.

  The riderless stallion reared, nostrils flaring. Men and dogs scattered as the big horse pirouetted on his hind hooves, the front ones lashing out, while he arched his thick-thewed neck, showed his fearsome teeth and screamed a challenge.

  “Let me go, Geros!” laughed the youn
ger man. “Steelsheen thinks you’re attacking me. Let me go before he hurts someone.”

  Chuckling, the warrior strode over to the big gray, took the scarred head in his arms and gentled the beast for a few moments. Then he turned and walked back to Sir Geros, the stallion sedately trailing him.

  “Has your mindspeak improved any these last years, old friend?”

  The rays of Sacred Sun glinted on the shaven pate as the castellan shook his head ruefully. “No, my lord, I still can receive well enough, but …”

  The younger shrugged. “Very well. Hold out your hand to Steelsheen, rub his nose, let him get your scent. I’ll tell him you’re a friend.”

  When the stallion had grudgingly accepted the fact that his brother would be most wroth were he to flesh his teeth in this particular two-legs, the younger man turned about and walked back to where his companion still sat his horse.

  “Dismount, Rai, I want you to meet my oldest friend.” His ready smile returned. “You know of him, even though this will be your first meeting.”

  “At the captain’s command,” was the crisp reply.

  The big-boned, broad-shouldered, long-armed man hiked a leg over the high, flaring pommel of his warkak, slid easily to the flagstones and walked to meet them with the slightly rolling gait of a veteran cavalryman. His bushy, chestnut brows met over a thick, slightly flattened nose. Across the front of his corselet was painted the device which signified his rank, that of troop sergeant. And Sir Geros noted that the left gauntlet had been altered to encase a hand lacking two fingers.

  When the sergeant came to a halt, the captain said, “Rai, this is Sir Geros Lahvoheetos, vahrohneeskos — that’s ‘baronet,’ as we would say it — of Ahdrahnpolis.”

  The sergeant swept off his broad-brimmed travel hat of soft felt and grinned widely, bowing easily for all his binding armor and clumsy boots. “Now this be a true pleasure, my lord baronet. It’s right many a long, weary mile I’ve rode asinging the songs of yer noble deeds.”

  Sir Geros’ fleshy face encrimsoned, whereupon the young officer laughed merrily and clapped a hand on the shoulder of each of the men. “Rai, you embarrass Sir Geros; he’s a very modest man, for all.

  “Geros, know you that Rai here is not only my sergeant but my friend, as well. Had he not taken me under his shield when first I went … was sent … a-warring, I’d have long since fed the crows on some battlefield. Captain Sir Bahrt of Butzburk assigned Rai to me when I was but a pink-cheeked ensign, and we’ve soldiered together ever since.

  “Since you both are my friends, it is meet you should be friends to each other.”

  Wordlessly, Sir Geros extended his hand and, after a brief hesitation, the sergeant shucked a gauntlet to take it.

  As hand clasped hand, Sir Geros spoke from the heart. “Sun and Wind witness that ever shall I be true to our friendship, sergeant. And may Sacred Sun shine blessing upon you for bearing Lord Tim safely back to us. He is the hope and salvation of this duchy, and there are those here who do love him.”

  He moved closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “But there are also those here who hate our lord, who would see him dead, so we must guard him well, you and I.”

  Stepping back, Sir Geros clapped his hands and bespoke the throng of servitors. “Master Tahmahs, see to the horses and the mule. Majordomo, the thoheeks suite must be opened, aired and prepared by the time Lord Tim has done with his bath. Oh, and see to our lord’s gear, as well. Send a lad to the bath to pick up our lord’s armor, clean it and take it to his suite.”

  More orders were snapped to other servants, and shortly, like a well-oiled machine, the hall staff were immersed in their various functions.

  Chapter I

  The Lady Mehleena, widow of the six-months-dead Hwahltuh — who had been Thoheeks of Vawn, chief of Sanderz and stepfather, through his first wife, of his overlord, the still-living and much respected Ahrkeethoheeks Bili, chief of Morguhn — was breaking fast. Beside her at high table sat her personal priest, Skahbros, and her eldest son, hulking, black-haired Myron. Beyond the seventeen-year-old man her other three children sat, while her companion — some servants whispered “tongue-sister,” some others muttered “witch” and speculated privately that the old lord’s death might have been less than natural — Neeka flanked the priest.

  The Lady Mehleena more than filled her chair. Although the massive piece of furniture had been constructed to seat a full-grown and armored man, it was all she could do to wedge her monstrously fat rump and meaty thighs betwixt the arms; nonetheless, she would have no other chair, for this one had been her late husband’s and, to her, it symbolized the power and privilege of the greatest noble in the duchy. Not that she deluded herself into the thought that she ever could lawfully occupy that position — for, though the stray Middle Kingdoms burklet or distant Kindred holding or tribe of mountain barbarians might be ruled by a woman, Mehleena was Ehleeneekos through and through, and the positions of women in civilized society were distinctly inferior to those of Ehleenee men.

  On the silver plate before her was a two-liter bowl which formerly had been brimful with maize porridge topped with butter, cream and honey, her usual morning meal. Within the short time they had been at table, Lady Mehleena had reduced the bowl’s contents to something less than half, washing it down with long drafts of sweet, potent honey wine, the servitor behind her refilling her cup whenever it neared emptiness. But not quite all the sticky mess had gone to maintain her overample girth. Her lips and chin were gooey with it, and so was the fine silk of her clothing over the mountainous swell of her breasts.

  Poking an elbow into her eldest son’s ribs, she snarled, “Sit up, you oaf! Sit straight As a soon-to be, must be, thoheeks, you must learn to make an appearance. And keep your hand off Gaios’ legs. You must learn to confine your loveplay to the privacy of your chambers. Your peers are still half-barbarian at heart. They neither can nor will understand or tolerate such; they’ll think less of you and make sport of you for your sophisticated tastes.”

  Absently wiping at the bits of porridge which had sprayed over him along with his mother’s harsh-voiced words, the young man grumbled, “Mother, for all you say, you know that damned ahrkeethoheeks will never allow me to be Thoheeks of Vawn, any more than my oafish cousins will ever confirm me chief of Sanderz. They hate us one and all, you, me, or any person of the Old Race, and you know it.”

  Dropping her golden spoon with a clatter, Mehleena’s fat, beringed hand lashed a backhanded slap which caught Myron full in the mouth.

  “Shut up! How dare you gainsay your mother? You will be, must be, thoheeks. This land must be returned to civilized control and its people to the worship of God.

  “Besides,” she smirked her satisfaction, “we have the barbarians hoist on their own hooks this time. Your brother Ahl can never be chief; the barbarians’ own laws forbid confirmation of any man who cannot lead in war. And how can a blind man do such, eh? So, since Behrl died last year you are the eldest living, uncrippled son of Hwahltuh.” Waving the line of servitors back, she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “As I have said before, Myron, all that is needful is that you make the proper appearance at the ahrkeethoheeks’ court and play-act a little. He’ll be bound to confirm you thoheeks — which is where the power and wealth lie. Let your cousins name whomever they wish their chief. It’s just an empty title, anyway.

  “Once you’re confirmed and secure back here in Vawn, we can see to setting the land and people to rights and forget the ahrkeethoheeks, the blackhearted pig. He never comes this far west, and —”

  “But … but, Mother, they … they say he has eyes and ears everywhere?” Myron looked about him, squirming uneasily in his chair. “And … and for all we know, Tim could come riding in any day.”

  With a scream of rage, the corpulent woman sprang up, overturning the heavy chair and, with a sweep of her arm, sending porridge bowl, plate and brimming cup smashing down the length of the table. The priest gasped a gurgling c
ry as a sudden lapful of hot porridge burned through the fabric of his robe to highly sensitive portions of his anatomy. Maddened with pain, he dumped an ewer of cool buttermilk atop the discomfort.

  Fearing the onset of one of her cousin’s fearsome and ever more frequent rages, Neeka, too, arose and moved toward Mehleena. Behind the high-table serving area, the servitors huddled in a knot, trembling, for their lady had, on occasion when thwarted, near killed servants.

  But this time their fears proved groundless, as did Neeka’s solicitude. After taking several deep breaths, Mehleena signed for the chair to be righted and the floor and table cleaned, reseated herself and resumed her conversation in an almost normal tone.

  “Myron, my son, I can but thank God that womenfolk of my house are long-lived, for I can see that, for all my efforts to improve you, you are going to need someone to think for you for the rest of your life.

  “Of course the ahrkeethoheeks has spies and informants in the halls of his liegemen, but Neeka knows who all of them are — every one, Myron. And we await only your confirmation to see to suitable ‘accidents’ to rid ourselves of them.

  “As to the Lord of Incest, your half brother, let me assure you that as surely as we sit here at table, we are rid of him. There’s been not one word from him since we heard of that battle wherein his captain was slain and most of the officers and common sorts slaughtered. That was over five years ago, Myron. Both Neeka and I feel certain that the young swine is dead. And —”

  The door at the end of the dining chamber swung open and a tall, spare man and a tiny, brown-haired woman entered. At sight of the newcomers, Myron started to rise in habitual deference, but his mother shoved him back into his chair, snarling wordlessly.