by Robert Adams
“In only three years, father was a senior captain, owning and commanding nine ships, and raiding as far away as Eespaheeah, Eerlahntheeah, and even farther north. Two years before my birth, he sailed his ships into the tideless sea, from which our people came so long ago. While his ships scattered to raid, he visited Pahlyohs Ehlahs, where he was well and courteously received. He stayed three months, and when he sailed to rendezvous with his ships, he brought with him his bride, my noble mother.
“When I was a child of nine years, Lord Pardos sat feasting with his captains one night. All at once, he stood up with a look of agony on his face, then fell in a swoon.
Master Saheed, who was then the principal surgeon, came just as Lord Pardos awakened to discover that he could not move his left arm or leg.
“It was shortly afterward that he had himself borne to the Council of Captains and, before them, formally adopted my father as his heir. Later, he exacted promises from the senior captains that they would all support my father and me after him. Six months later, Lord Pardos died and my father was acclaimed Sea Lord.
“And you became the same, upon your father’s death,” Mara added, finishing for him. “But your lady-mother, what of her?”
Alexandros grinned. “Mothers, Mara, don’t forget my father had two wives and I honor them both. Mother Kahndees died one night in her sleep soon after father died. Mother Ahnah is now wed to Senior Captain Yahnekos, whom you met.”
“Only one husband?” smiled Mara mischievously. “Who comforts her while Yahnekos is out raiding?”
Alexandros chuckled. “She is only forty, Mara, and still a handsome woman. I am certain that she wants not for ‘companionship,’ for it is not as here. Her lovers have naught to fear from Yahnekos.”
Mara became serious. “You are, then, of a lusty people, Lekos. Yet, while you have been my guest, noble women have thrown themselves at you and you have been offered the usual slavegirl-bedwarmers. You have refused one and all. Tell me why — and don’t give me the put-off that so charmed those sluts at Lady Ioanna’s orgy, either.”
His black eyes bored into hers. “But what I said, that night, was completely true, Mara,” he said slowly. “There is but one woman in your court who stirs me, but . . . she is wed to a powerful lord. And your mainland customs differ from ours.”
Mara steepled her fingers. “Not entirely, Lekos. The Ehleenoee’s do, yes; but the Horseclanswomen have many freedoms, since most clans have always reckoned descent through the mother. In the settled life the tribe is now leading, their customs are undergoing slow changes, but clan matrons are still free to couple with the men of their choosing — so long as they do not overstep discretion and are careful of degrees of kinship.”
She leaned forward, saying, “Lekos, Undying Goddess I may be to the tribe, but I am still a woman. And I will admit that I am dying of curiosity now. Who is this lady of my court who has so enthralled you that you will have no other if you cannot have her? Tell me! You have my sworn word that I will tell no other person — man or woman.”
Feeling that he could not express himself adequately in words, Alexandros mindspoke. After a moment, Mara’s eyes first softened, then misted, and she reached out to take his calloused hand in both of hers.
“Lekos, oh, Lekos,” she spoke aloud, a catch in her voice, “there is so much that you do not understand. If I make love to you, it will not be to you that I am making love. I will be reliving a physical contact that ended eighty years ago. Alexandros of Pahpahspolis was the Lekos I loved . . . and love still, though I saw him die forty years ago. And I was already ten times his age, even as we loved, though he knew it not.
“Dear Lekos, despite my appearance, I have lived for more than three hundred thirty years. From what you have said, you must be an Ehleen Christian. Know you not what your own priests say of such as me, that we are Satan’s own folk, deathless sorcerers and witches, cursed by God? Are you not afraid of ensorcellment and eternal damnation?”
“I can see and feel nothing of evil in you, Mara,” said Alexandros bluntly. “As for the persecution of your kind by Christians, Father Vokos had an explanation that I have always remembered. He said that ignorant men, when faced with a person or situation or object they could not understand, first fear, then fear breeds hate, then a means is found to justify that hatred.
“Yes, Mara, I am a Christian. I care not about your age; I am a man and I desire the lovely woman you are . . . and I think you desire me, as well. So, what then stands in our path, Mara?”
Her gaze met his levelly. “Nothing, Lekos,” she said simply.
9
Sub-lieutenant Stamos and his patrol, riding the left flank of the High King’s army, clattered into a tiny, foothill village just before noon. They had crossed the Kuzahwahtcbee River at dawn, so Stamos estimated that perhaps a quarter of the main force was now in Karaleenos.
This was the third little village they had entered, always after approaching through acre upon acre of ash and char, denoting crops burned where they stood. Stamos was glad they’d brought along feedbags for their mounts, since most of the grass and wild grains had also disappeared in the holocaust.
Stamos detached a galloper and sent him back to find Captain Portos and apprise that officer of the utter lack of forage in the fields. It was the second galloper so far; the first had been sent when they had come across the fourth polluted water source.
The sergeant came alongside and saluted. “If this place proves deserted, too, it might be a good halt for the noon, sir. At least there’ll be some shade, if nothing else.”
Sub-lieutenant Stamos nodded slightly, and the sergeant set about searching the huts and cabins and empty storehouses, but there was no living creature, not even a dog or a hen. Nor were there any portable items of value . . . and the men commenced to grumble, for loot had been their principal incentive for enlisting under King Zastros’ Green Serpent Banner.
Stamos dismounted and strode to look down the stone-lined village well, unconsciously holding his breath against the expected reek of rotting flesh. About twenty feet down, however, the surface of the water was dark and still and the only things his nose registered were coolness and damp, mossy stones.
A man was sent down the narrow steps that spiraled around the inner wall to probe with his hook-backed lance, but all he brought into view were a couple of old, water-logged buckets and a few short lengths of rotting rope. So Stamos had a leather bucketful drawn, and then he stripped off a silver armlet and dunked it in. When the silver did not discolor — as, everyone knew, it would have, had the water been poisoned — he sipped a mouthful from his cupped hand, then jerked off his helmet and padded, sweat-soaked hood and dunked his head into the bucket.
Grinning through his dripping beard, he said, “If I’m not dead in a few minutes, Sergeant, have the men go ahead and water the horses. God, that stuff is cold!”
After the glare of the sun, the interior of the partially covered well was dark, so it was not the first or the second but the third trooper who chanced upon the “treasure.” There, in a cooling niche that had been fashioned into the wall near the stairs, sat six stone jugs, each looking to hold about a half gallon. The trooper drew the corncob stopper and sniffed . . . and when he came back up, he carried his brimful bucket with exceeding care.
With their mounts watered and cared for, the sergeant designated a couple of troopers as sentries and, while the rest of the patrol settled down to their cold bacon and hard bread, he stumped over to join the officer at a table under a tree.
Stamos and the sergeant chewed stoically the same noisome fare as their troops in mutual silence. When they were done, he shared a small flask of wine with his grizzled second-in-command.
After a first sip of fine wine, the sergeant half turned and bawled for another pair of men to go and relieve the lookouts. There was no response. Grumbling about the lack of discipline in these modern-day armies, he rose from his stool and stumped around the well to the place where the trooper
s had gathered.
Suddenly he shouted in alarm, “Lieutenant Stamos, mount and ride! They’re all dead! We’ve got to get out of . . . !” He grunted then, and Stamos heard the clashing of armor as he fell.
But before Stamos could reach his horse, he saw that he was surrounded. Short, fair warriors mounted on small, wild-looking horses now were spaced between the buildings, and detachments were trotting up the road.
Stamos cleared his throat. “Who is your leader?” He asked the question twice, first in Ehleeneekos, then in Merikan. When there was no answer, he added, “I am Lord Sub-lieutenant Stamos of Tchehrohkeespolis and the eldest son of my house. My father will pay a good ransom for my safe return.”
“Sorry,” said one of the horsemen, grinning, “we take no prisoners, Ehleen.”
* * *
After a full day and no word from the far western patrol, Captain Portos dispatched a full troop — one-hundred-twenty troopers, six sergeants, and three officers — on the route presumably taken by Stamos’ men. They rode through a deserted countryside, peopled only by small, wild things; the only animals, larger than a rabbit, that any of them saw was a brace of wild turkeys pacing across a burned field, the sunlight striking a bronzed sheen from their plumage.
They took time to fire the structures of the two empty villages, so it was well into early afternoon when they entered the third. Out of no more than curiosity, a sergeant rode over to see what sort of offal this well contained . . . and the missing patrol was found.
Troop-Lieutenant Nikos was a veteran. After thoroughly searching the empty buildings, he posted three platoons in a tight, dismounted guard about the village perimeter, with another platoon standing to horse in a central location. The other two platoons were detailed to the grisly task of raising the bodies from the well.
When twenty nude corpses lay in ordered rows, Nikos examined them closely. Only four bore marks of violence: young Stamos’ skull had been cleft to the eyes by a sword blow; the wound in the sergeant’s back had been made by an arrow; two of the troopers had had their throats cut. There was no single wound upon the cold flesh of any of the remaining sixteen!
Nikos sent his best tracker on a wide swing around the village and a trail was sighted, headed across the charred fields, due west, toward the mountains.
Nikos recalled the guard, mounted the troop, and trotted them to the wide swath of disturbed ashes. “How many?” he demanded of the tracker. “How long ago?” Swinging from his saddle, the tracker eyed the trail critically, then switched the buzzing flies from a pile of horse droppings and thrust his finger into one of them, gauging the degree of warmth. “Between fifty and sixty horses, Lord Nikos, but not all bore riders. They are a day ahead of us.”
“Were any of the horses ours?” asked Nikos needlessly, already knowing the answer.
“Close to half, Lord Nikos, bore shoes of our pattern. As for the shoe pattern of the other horses, which were smaller animals, I have never seen the like. They were not shaped by Karaleenoee,” the tracker stated emphatically.
Nikos sighed. Nothing to be gained in following a day-old trail into unfamiliar territory with only one troop of light cavalry.
Returning to the village, they hastily distributed the score of corpses amongst the wooden houses, then fired them. They had only been on the return journey for a half hour however, when suddenly, without warning, four troopers fell from their saddles, dead.
When it was pointed out to the troop-lieutenant that these had been the four men who had labored in the depths of the well, affixing the ropes to corpse after cold corpse that their comrades might draw the burdens up, he brusquely ordered that none touch these bodies more. Leaving the men where they had fallen, he had the gear cut off their mounts, then set out for camp at a fast canter, his skin prickling under his armor at the thought of pestilence.
* * *
Despite King Zenos’ fears of dissension, High Lord Milo’s horseclansmen and the mountain tribesmen of Karaleenos worked well and willingly together, far better than either group did with regular troops; their mutual dislike and distrust of the lowland Ehleenoee bound them together as much as did the war practices they shared and the fact that both faced a common foe.
A week after Troop-Lieutenant Nikos had frantically galloped his troop back to camp, three men squatted around a small fire near the mouth of a large cavern, chewing tough meat and tougher bread and washing down their fare with long drafts from a goatskin of resinous wine.
Tall, spare, and big-boned, Chief Hwahlt Hohlt’s brown hair and beard showed streaks of gray and nothing else betrayed his years, for he was possessed of a strength and endurance equal to that of his co-commanders.
He spoke: “Much as I hated to see thet good shine go down the gullets of them bastards, she worked like a charm — I’ll say thet.”
“Trust to an Ehleenoee to think of stealth and poison, rather than open battle and honest steel,” growled Pawl Vawn of Vawn through a mouthful of mutton. But the twinkle in his hazel eyes revealed his words as banter, not insult.
Tomos Gonsalos took a swig of wine and grinned. “I thank both of you ratty-looking types for the compliments, if such they were. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what you barbarians really mean.”
“But what good did it do God-Milo to feed those troopers poisoned whisky?” put in the Vawn quizzically. “With their two miserable watchers downed, we could as easily have shafted most of them, then ridden in and sabered the rest. They’d have been just as dead.”
Tomos questioned in answer. “Did you notice how Zastros narrowed his columns and stopped all patroling within leagues of that village, Pawl? Disease has killed more soldiers than all the steel ever forged, and they fear it in proportion.
“As to how this little scheme has aided King Zenos and High Lord Milo,” he said, weighing the wineskin for a moment, “look you, Pawl.” And then he shot a thin stream of wine into the fire.
“Now, what would happen were I to now remove the nozzle from the mouth of the skin?”
Hwahlt answered, “All our wine would be in the fire and you’d find my knife blade kinda hard to digest.”
Tomos ignored the mountaineer and continued. “My King and your High Lord need time, and the way we gave them some little time is this: the swamps extend far inland, near to that village, and Zastros is not fool enough to try to march troops and horsemen and haul wagons through the fens; therefore, it would appear that — as he needs to maintain a wide front to achieve any kind of speed of march — he originally intended to march both on the narrow strip of flatlands and in the foothills. But now that his troops are afraid that pestilence stalks those foothills . . . well,” he said, squirting another stream of wine into the fire, “we’ve put a nozzle on his army just like the nozzle on this skin. So there’s a stream going north, instead of a flood. Thus do we buy time for our lords.”
* * *
To the east, across the width of that narrow strip of flatlands, Benee poled his flat-bottomed boat through the ways known only to his fellow swampfolk. His skinny body was nearly nude and he was smeared from head to foot with mud. He beached his boat with a barely audible crunch on a tiny sand pit at the foot of a high, grassy bank. Taking a small, wooden cylinder from the bottom of the boat, he entered the grass and slithered up the slope as silently as a cottonmouth . . . and every bit as deadly.
Just below the rim, he stretched out on. his back and fitted the sections of his blowpipe together, then carefully inserted a two-inch dart, its needlepoint smeared with a viscous substance.
Gingerly, he parted the small bushes clinging to the edge of the slope and his keen eyes judged the distance between him and the nearest spearman, who slowly paced to and fro, his frequent yawns loud to Benee’s ears. No, the distance was just too far for a sure hit on vulnerable flesh, and blowdarts could seldom pierce cloth, much less armor.
Up . . . and over the edge, a shadow among the shadows. Flat as the earth itself, his supple body conformed to every hump or holl
ow of the ground it covered. Two yards closer . . . five yards, and Benee could pick out a movement of the sentry’s arm, accompanied by rasp of clothing and muttered curse as he scratched himself.
Six yards closer, then seven, eight, and Benee stopped, stockstill, fear suddenly drying his mouth, sucking the air from his lungs. The sentry had turned and was looking dead ahead at him! He fought the almost overwhelming urge to get up and run, run, run, back to the safety of the boat, of the swamps of his birth. But that way lay certain death; already could he feel that spear blade in his back.
Then, all was again well. Muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, the man began to pace back and forth, but never more than a few yards in any direction.
At the end of thirty agonizing feet, Benee felt he could be accurate enough for a sure kill. Slowly, he brought up his blowpipe, made certain that the war dart was still in place, then put it to his lips and took exacting aim. A single puff of his powerful, trained lungs . . . and death flew toward the nameless spearman.
The sentry slapped at his cheek, as if at an insect. But when his fingers felt the dart and his mind registered what it must be, he screamed! Screaming on and on, regularly, like a woman at a birthing, he dropped his spear and ran a few strides toward the distant firelight. All at once, he stopped screaming and fell, his limbs jerking and twitching.
But Benee had not been idle. As soon as the spear was dropped, he ran forward at a crouch and scooped it up; still at a crouching run, he reached the lip of the bank and was over it before the sentry fell. He took time to disassemble his blowpipe and fit the sections back into their cylinder, then slung it and loped down to his boat
Before he pushed off, he gently placed the spear in the boat. Tonight, Benee had become a full man, and this spear was proof of the fact.
* * *
So, along the fringes of that narrow land, the swampers and the mountain bands took regular toll of Zastros’ troops, never many at one time. But the constant threat of ambush began to retard an already snail-slow, advance, as the exposed flanks unconsciously drew closer to the center.