by Robert Adams
“You not . . . of my kind,” It was half statement, half question.
Milo had had other experiences with animals that had never been mindspoken, and these guided him. Beckoning a couple of Horseclan mindspeakers, he gingerly approached the huge, dripping, mud-slimed beast. There was no longer a battle to require his supervision. The attackers were in full retreat before the fire . . . those who could walk, run, or hobble; the rest were roasting on the bridge or drowning in the river.
* * *
When the elephant saw them, she quickly rolled her trunk out of harm’s way, confused thoughts of battle-training flooding the surface of her mind.
It was obvious that the headplates partially obscured her vision, so Milo took pains to stand where she could clearly see him, motioning the others to do the same. “Sister, we do not wish to hurt you. Why do you wish to hurt us?”
He commenced the soothing again, this time joined by the two clansmen. Gradually, the trunk uncurled, then sought one of the sideplates and gently tugged at it. Her mindspeak was plaintive. “Hurt. Take off?”
Endeavoring to exude far more confidence than he felt, Milo paced deliberately to the cow’s side and began unbuckling the indicated plate. He started as he felt the finger-like appendage at the end of her trunk touch him, but its touch proved tender as a caress, wandering over his body, front and back, head to toe. He was straining to reach the topmost buckles when the trunk closed about his waist and lifted him high enough to reach them.
Seeing this cooperation, the two clansmen came up and began to help. A half hour saw the cow stripped of a quarter-ton of plate and thick mail. Milo was at first appalled at her condition — she seemed bare skin and bones, her ribs clearly evident — and then he recalled that long, long supply line winding through forageless countryside and constantly menaced by his raiders; Zastros was having enough trouble feeding his men, not to mention his animals.
He turned to one of his clansmen. “Rahdjuh, ride to the castra and tell them to get any horses away from my pavilion. Captain Portos says our sister’s kind afright horses; I’m willing to take his word on the matter. Then ride on to the quartermaster and tell Sub-Strahteegos Rahmos to send a wagonload of his best hay and five or six bushels of cabbages to my pavilion immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, God-Milo.” The clansman took off at a dead run toward the picket line.
Milo turned back to the cow and rubbed a hand down the rough, wrinkled trunk. She brought the trunk up, resting its end on his shoulder. “Sister, I wish to help you. I know that you need food, much food.”
She again responded with the plaintive mindspeak. “Hungry . . . hungry many days. Good two-legs brother will give food?”
Milo beckoned the clansman to him and placed his arm across the smaller man’s shoulders. “Sister, this is my brother, and he is good. He will take you to much food.” He projected a mental picture of bales of fragrant hay and baskets of green-and-white cabbages.
The young clansman stood still while she subjected him to the same examination earlier afforded Milo, but he gasped when she suddenly grasped his torso, lifted him high off the ground, and sat him straddling the thick neck just behind the massive head. “Which way food?” she demanded.
Milo chuckled at the expression on the clansman’s face. “Well, Gil, have you ever bestrode a bigger mount?”
Gil relaxed, grinned, and shook his head. “No, God-Milo, nor has any other Horseclansman, I think. She . . . and I . . . we are to go now to your pavilion?”
“Yes, Gil, and since she has accepted you, you are now her brother . . . and her keeper.” He glanced at the blazon on the young man’s cuirass, the broken saber, and ferret head that proclaimed him a scion of Clan Djohnz. “Tell Chief Tchahrlee that you now have no other duties but to care for our sister here. Now, take her to the food; those bastards over there have been starving her.”
* * *
The night after the abortive assault, a score of biremes crept upriver, their oars muffled. Avoiding the larger camp of Zastros, they staged four almost simultaneous attacks on as many camps, while a force of swampers struck the easternmost camp and a strong contingent of mounted irregulars brought fire and sword to the rear areas. The swampers, unaccustomed to fighting in the open, took heavy losses, but the casualties of the pirates and the mountaineers were minimal. The swampers did not attack again, but the reavers and the mountainmen did, three more nights in a row, never striking the same camps.
The scattered encampments began to move closer, one to the next, until most of the still-tremendous force was concentrated in the low, swampy area just south of the bridge. And, of course, the fevers ran rampant.
Supplies were dropping perilously low, for few trains were intact when they arrived . . . if they arrived. And they all told tales of running fights and ambuscades, of roadsides littered with skeletons and rotting flesh and charred wagons. So High King Zastros sent south an order for a huge train; to guard the train, he dispatched four squadrons of cavalry. What remained of the train eventually trickled in; the last they had seen of the five thousand cavalry; the horsemen were splitting into small groups and heading for home.
12
Lillian Landor opened her dark-blue eyes and stretched her white arms luxuriously, then swung her shapely legs over the edge of the low couch and sat up. On the other side of the couch, High King Zastros lay like a log, only the movement, of his chest denoting that there was life in the hairy body.
The black-haired woman made use of the silver chamberpot, then padded across the thickly carpeted floor of the lamplit, silk-walled room. Taking a position in the middle of the room where the ceiling was higher, she went through ten minutes of intricate exercises to loosen long unused muscles.
God! she thought. God, it’s good to be back in a youthful, limber body, again.
She looked with loathing upon the body of Zastros, deep in drugged slumber on the couch. Its every major bone and joint must have been broken or sprained seriously at least once in his lifetime, not to mention the countless scars of cuts, slashes, stabs, and thrusts; occupancy of such a body, especially in rainy weather, was endless, dull agony.
Perspiring lightly from her exertions, she went to the washstand, filled the basin, and began to sponge her resilient, alabaster skin, while regarding her heart-shaped face in a mirror of polished steel. Briefly closing her eyes, she tried to recall what her own face — the face of the body in which she had been born seven hundred years before — had looked like.
Nodding, she murmured to herself, “It was dark-haired too . . . I think. Christ, it’s so damned hard to remember when you’ve had a couple of dozen bodies since then . . . no, more than that, thirty, anyway, maybe more. Sometimes I feel like a goddamned vampire. If we could only take one of those mutants apart, find out what causative factors are responsible for their regeneration. If I could think of a way to get my hands on this Milo . . . hmmm.”
Musing, she drew a robe over her bare skin and passed into the outer room to kneel before one of a pair of “ornamental“ chests. Placing both her delicate hands atop the lid, she spread her fingers and pressed their tips upon eight metal studs in an intricate sequence.
* * *
Earlier that evening, a small boat had grounded at a well-hidden spot on the south bank and a heavily cloaked man had stepped ashore, mounted a waiting horse and spurred off into the darkness.
At the fringe of the main camp, Strahteegos Grahvos’ most trusted retainers stood guard about his pavilion, their bared steel turning away any who came near. When a horseman, both his face and body muffled in a dark cloak, rode up, he leaned from his saddle, whispered a few words to an officer, and was immediately passed through.
Within the main room of the pavilion, Grahvos and seven other thoheeksee conversed in low, guarded tones. When a ninth man entered, Grahvos hurried over to him and they exchanged a few whispered sentences. Then the newcomer laid aside his cloak and accompanied the old Strahteegos back to the table.
Mahvros looked half again his thirty years. His darkly handsome face was drawn with fatigue and the nervous strain of the last day. But his voice was strong. “My lords, I spent most of the afternoon and early evening with High Lord Milo, King Zenos of Karaleenos, Lord Alexandros of the Sea Isles and Thoheeks Djefree of Kumbuhluhn, though the High Lord seemed to speak for all most of the time.
“He swears that no man or body of men marching south will be harmed or hindered; indeed, if they march along the main traderoad, they can be certain of guides to show them to unpolluted water.
“The High Lord emphasized that he wants none of our arms or supplies or equipment. We are welcome to bear back anything we brought north. He demands only the surrender of the persons of the High King and the Queen.”
“Haarumph!” Thoheeks Mahnos of Ehpohtispolis in-terjected. “He is most welcome to that pair, say I. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“Yes, yes,” Grahvos agreed. “We made a serious mistake with Zastros, but none of us could have known at the time how much he had changed in his three years of exile. We now know and, hopefully, it’s not too late to save our homelands from any more of his misrule.”
Another voice entered the conversation — the gritty bass of Thoheeks Bahos growled. “I went along with the majority — every man here knows that — but I told you then that Zastros was not Zastros. Our fathers’ duchies adjoined. I’ve known the man all his life, and the Zastros of the last year is not the Zastros of years agone!”
“Well, be that as it may be,” Grahvos snapped. “The High Lord Milo wants the High King and his witch-wife. Our alternatives are few: we can continue to sit here, while the men desert individually and in whole units, until starvation, or camp fever or an arrow in the night takes us; or we can try another assault on that goddamned deathtrap of a bridge . . . though, to my way of thinking, falling on our swords would be an easier way of suiciding.
“I say that we leave Zastros and his wife to our esteemed former foes and take our men back home; God knows, we and they have enough to do there. How says the Council?” Seven ayes answered.
“Now that that is settled,” Grahvos went hurriedly on, “let’s bring another thorny matter into the open. Who is going to rule without Zastros? Each of us has as much claim to the Dragon Throne as the next. But can the Southern Kingdom survive another three or more years of civil war and anarchy? I think not.
“Look around this table, gentlemen. Our Council was once made up of two and thirty thoheeksee; including Zastros, there are now but nine in our camp. If young Vikos made it back safely, there are two living thoheeksee in all of the Southern Kingdom, and the late King probably died by his own hand.
“What of the rest, gentlemen? Twenty thoheeksee, almost two-thirds of the original Council, died senselessly and uselessly while fighting like curs over a stinking piece of offal!
“I say: no more, gentlemen, no more! If we name another of our own number king, how long will it be before one or more of us is tempted to overthrow him, replace him, eh?”
There were sober nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.
At length, Thoheeks Bahos grunted the obvious question. “Then what are we to do, Grahvos? Our kindgom must have a strong ruler, but a tyrant like Hyamos and bis lousy son will beget another rebellion.”
“The High Lord Milo of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Karaleenos keh Kuhmbuhlun has freely offered the thirty-three duchies of the Southern Kingdom full-standing memberships in his Confederation. All nobles will retain their lands, cities, rights, and titles; only their sworn allegiance will change. We will have no king; each thoheeks will act as royal governor of his duchy for the High Lord. The High Lord or his emissary will meet with the full Council each year to work out taxes and any other business matters.”
The first to speak after Grahvos had dropped his bombshell was Mahnos. “What of our warbands?”
“We will, of course, be expected to furnish men for the Army of the Confederation, and to see to the training of the spear levy. Nor will noblemen be denied bodyguards and armed retainers, but the large warbands are to be dissolved.”
Mahnos nodded emphatically. “Good and good again. Give a man a small army to play with and all hell breaks loose. Besides, I’d rather see my people pushing plows than pikes. You have my ‘aye,’ Grahvos.”
Within a scant hour it was settled, for the firm yet fair government of Kehnooryos. Ehlahs had been the subject of speculation and admiration for the thirty years since its inception; and all the thoheeksee agreed that almost any form of rule was preferable to the last few years. The meeting broke up and they scattered to their various commands to order their forces, agreeing to meet, each with retinues of reliable, well-armed men, at Zastros’ pavilion at a specified time.
* * *
Lillian leisurely set up the transceiver, attaching it to the powerpack in the matching chest and to its antenna — that long, slender brass rod that she, while in Zastros’ body, had had permanently affixed to the highest point of the pavilion. Then she plugged in the mike and carefully adjusted the frequency. There was, she knew, no chance of discovery or interruption this time, for Zastros was heavily sedated — even were he not, only the timbre of her voice and those words known to no other could bring him out of his trance-state. Nor were the guards to be expected to check this far into the pavilion until they changed, and that was at least two hours away.
She depressed the button that gave out her call signal. Almost immediately a man’s voice crackled from the set.
“This is the J. & R. Kennedy Center. Who’s calling, please?”
“Dr. Landor. This is Dr. Lillian Landor. Who is the board member on duty tonight?”
“Uhhh, Dr. Crawley, ma’am. You wish to speak with him?”
“Of course I want to speak with him, you dunce! Why else do you think I called? And, wait a minute!” she snapped. “I hold four degrees buster. I’ve as much right to the title ‘Doctor’ as has any other board member. If I hear one more goddamned ma’am out of you, you’ll spend the next ten years in the body of a goddamned alligator! You get me, you goddamned chauvinist?”
The man stammered some unintelligible reply. Then there was dead air for a short while while she fidgeted and silently fumed.
A new voice came through the speaker. “This is Bud Crawley, Lily. What seems to be the problem this time?”
“Dr. Crawley,” she replied icily, “I warned you all about the riskiness of this insanity from the start, and I knew I was right, even if you didn’t. Well, the army is at the Little Pee Dee River, just west of the ocean swamps, and it cannot go any farther north, not without help from the Center.”
“What kind of help, Lily?” Crawley sounded wary.
“We have no boats to cross the river and, even if we did, they’d never make it in the face of catapults and horse-archers and God knows how many boatloads of pirates from those damned islands where Bermuda used to be. The bridge we’d expected to use has had a goddamned wall built right across it. I ordered it overrun, but these goddamned cowards lost so many men on the first assault that the second and third waves flatly refused to attack.
“They’re dying like flies and deserting in droves and I know it’s just a matter of time before they murder Zastros and call the whole thing off, if they can patch together some kind of deal with that goddamned mutant bastard. So I want out, now! Send a copter for me or send me help, one of the two.”
“Hmmm,” replied Crawley. “Hang on, Lily. Ill have to check the map w
ith someone who knows more about transportation than I do.”
A third male voice addressed her. “Doctor, this is O’Hare, transportation. Can you read me the coordinates off your transceiver? Those dials are located . . .”
“Goddamn it, I know where they’re located!” she snarled into the mike. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“N . . . no, ma’am,” he stuttered.
“If you goddamned bastards’ don’t stop calling me ma’am . . .” Her infuriated voice had risen to almost a shout and she broke off short. The last thing she wanted in here right now was a guard. “The coordinates are: thirty-five degrees and twenty-eight minutes latitude, seventy-nine degrees and two minutes longitude.”
After a moment O’Hare said; “Well, ma’ . . . uh, Dr. Landor, you’re not on the little Pee Dee, you’re on the Lumber River.”
“Well, ma’ . . . uh, Mr. O’Hare,” she scathingly mimicked him, “what the hell difference does it make?”
Crawley’s voice cut in gravely. “Quite a bit, actually, Lily. You see, where you are now is beyond the range of any of our copters. We can neither get help to you nor pick you up, I’m afraid.”
“Goddamn your ass, Bud Crawley! What kind of crap are you trying to feed me?” Lillian spluttered furiously. “I happen to know that the big copters have a range of five hundred miles. I’m not that far from the Center, and don’t try to tell me I am, you son-of-a-bitch, you! The distance dial on this goddamned transceiver reads: 742.5 kilometers.”
“Actually, 742.531,” Crawley announced dryly. “Roughly 461.5 miles, Lily. And, yes, the maximum range of the large copters is five hundred miles, but that is a round-trip figure. Yes, we could get one up to you, but it couldn’t get back. Don’t you see?”
“Well, what the hell, Crawley, let them come up and blow that damned wall off the bridge and scatter the mutant’s army. Then they can march with me.”
Crawley sighed. “Lily, Lily, you know as well as do I what the board would say to that. We cannot — have not the facilities to — replace copters and there are no refueling points that far north.”