Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  Lillian was almost shouting again. “Why can’t the five-thumbed bastards bring their extra goddamned fuel with them. I can remember that planes used to do it.”

  She could hear O’Hare’s voice in the background as Crawley briefly conferred with him. Then, “I’m most sorry, Lily, but that idea is just not practical. You see, the extra weight of the fuel would decrease the overall range. I’m afraid you’re just caught in quite a vicious circle, old girl.”

  “Don’t ‘old girl’ me, you damned Limey fairy!” she hissed. “Just tell me how you’re going to get me out of this frigging mess your goddamned masculine stupidity got me into!”

  His voice cooled noticeably. “I’m looking at the map now, Dr. Landor. Lieutenant O’Hare assures me that, if you can get even as far west and south as thirty-degrees no minutes latitude, eighty-two degrees thirty minutes longitude, we shall have no difficulty succoring you.”

  “Even if I can find a way to get out of this camp and down to wherever that is, how in the hell am I going to know it? Grid lines aren’t painted on the goddamned grass, you know; and how the hell am I going to let you know I got there, you pigs?”

  “Your transceiver will . . .” began Crawley.

  “Screw a goddamned transceiver and screw you, too!” She made no more efforts to muffle her voice. “How am I supposed to carry the damned thing, Crawley, on my goddamned back? Altogether, these two units must weigh three hundred pounds!”

  “Three hundred forty-two and three-quarters,” amended Crawley. “A modest load for a good pack mule or horse, I should think.”

  “Crawley, I know you’re about as dense as the day is long, you mammy jammer! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a matter of time, a short time in all likelihood, until some of these goddamned Greeks come in here and murder Zastros, so I can’t get out of camp in his body, they’d never let it out alive, and I’d never be allowed to leave without him . . . much less find somebody to find and saddle and load a goddamned pack-horse for me.” She ran out of breath, took several deep ones, and regained a measure of composure. “Crawley, I just might be able to steal one horse and get out of here alone. But how can a young woman traveling alone get back to one of our outposts?”

  “As I remember, Lily, your present body is quite attractive, though a wee bit too slender for my own tastes. Nonetheless, you should have no trouble getting back. Just find a strong or wealthy man and . . . be nice to him.” He paused, then went on, unable to entirely mask his merriment. “Who knows, Lily, after all these centuries you might decide you like it.”

  “You . . . you . . . you no-good, dirty-minded sexist animal!” she screamed. “You and your kind, you’d just love to know I made the trip on my goddamned back so you could have something to snicker about. When you look at a woman, none of you bastards ever even thinks that her mind might be as good or better than yours; no, all that you can think about is using her body for your own selfish . . .”

  She broke off suddenly, startled by a noise in the anteroom. Then the mike slipped from her hand as a spearman of Zastros’ bodyguard entered.

  At that moment, Crawley inquired, “Lily! Lily! Dr. Landor! Can you hear my transmission?”

  Making the ages-old hand sign against evil, the wide-eyed guard backed toward the anteroom, half whimpering, “Witch! Witchcraft!”

  Fully aware of her danger, Lillian arose, smiling and extending a hand to the terrified soldier. “Oh, Solvos, you know I’m no witch. This chest is simply a toy with which I amuse myself while my dear lord sleeps. Here, give me your hand and look into my eyes.”

  But he comprehended no single word she spoke, except for his own name. In her confusion, she was still talking in twentieth-century American English — as different from Old Merikan as the language of Chaucer. He only knew that she was speaking and using his name and advancing at him, and he suspected an attempt to ensorcell him. Just before he turned to run, he lashed out at her with the ferrule of his spear. He felt it strike, then took off as if Satan himself were hard on his heels.

  * * *

  Without the High King’s pavilion, Strahteegos Grahvos could make neither heads nor tails of the white-faced, stuttering spearman’s words. Knocking the heavy, solid-brass dress spear from his hand, Grahvos took the man’s shoulders and shook him violently. Even then, all that he could understand of the confused utterings were repeated references to witches, witchcraft, spells, and of men imprisoned in magical chests. Disgustedly, he threw the soldier aside and strode purposefully toward the entry, the other nobles crowding behind him.

  A limp hand extended into the anteroom. Grahvos carefully pulled aside the curtains to disclose the crumpled form of Lady Lilyuhn, still swathed in her robe of brocade silk. But the crackling radio set drew his attention. He stepped over her and crossed to squat in front of it. All at once, the crackling ceased and Crawley’s voice impatiently demanded, “Blast you, Lily, stop playing games! I know your transceiver’s still on. Acknowledge my transmission. Damn it, Charley, are you certain this is the proper frequency?”

  The front rank of nobles went as wide-eyed and ashen as had the spearman. Grahvos looked up in time to see Thoheeks Mahnos rapidly crossing himself, his lips moving in half-forgotten prayers.

  “Oh, for the love of God, Mahnos,” Grahvos expostulated, “grow up! This is some sophisticated variety of machine, nothing more.”

  He picked up the mike lying on the carpet and examined it carefully. “This is wrought of that odd material the Elder People employed . . . plahsteek, I think it was called. The machine might even be from those times.”

  Though frightened, like all humans, of those things they did not understand, the nobles were not cowards. Seeing Grahvos unharmed, they slowly entered the inner chamber and scrutinized the strange device, first from a distance, then closer. But no more voices came from it, only a low-pitched hum and sporadic crackling sounds.

  While they gaped at this wonder and gradually overcame their fears, far to the south, in the midst of the Great Southern Swamp, Dr. Bud Crawley was speaking into an intercom.

  “Sir, I am afraid that we must write off Dr. Landor and the project to which she was assigned.” Briefly, deleting her expletives and verbal abuse, he quoted Lillian’s last report, closing by saying, “Then she suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence, although she failed to deactivate the transceiver. There were some muffled noises, then several minutes of silence. The next voices I could hear distinctly were all masculine and all were speaking Greek.”

  The senior director’s voice sounded sleepy. “All right, Bud, and thank you. Apparently Dr. Landor allowed herself more time than she really had. It was possibly our mistake to assign her to such a mission, anyway; she hated men — all men — and the emotion of hate tends to cloud one’s judgment and perceptiveness as much as does the emotion of love. We must exercise more care in the future; there’re too few of us to waste.

  “But, nonetheless, Bud, you might try leaving our transceiver on that frequency for a while. Miracles happen, you know. She might be in hiding.”

  Lillian was in hiding. When the spear butt had crashed against her body’s delicate skull, there had been a moment of shocked confusion; then she had felt the life-force leaving her body. Frantically, unthinkingly, she re-entered Zastros. Only when the transference was complete did she think what this meant. True, the drugs would wear off in time, but his body would never achieve full consciousness or the ability to move and speak without . . . without those few, simple words. But those words must be spoken through the mouth and vocal apparatus of that beautiful young body that lay almost dead on the floor of the dressing chamber. And she realized that she was not hiding safely — she was trapped!

  Willing Zastros’ recumbent body to its maximum possible awareness, she heard the nobles enter the pavilion, heard that ass, Crawley, accuse her — a responsible, mature woman with no less than four degrees — of “playing games.” The nobles milled about the dressing chamber for a short while, exc
laiming over various aspects of the radio.

  Children! Lillian thought contemptuously. But, then, all men are basically dirty-minded little boys!

  She heard the clump of boots and the clank of armor as someone came toward the couch, and she strove vainly to force Zastros’ eyelids to open. Then a rough hand had taken the inert body’s arm and shaken it vigorously.

  A voice she recognized as that of Strahteegos Grahvos spoke harshly. “Zastros! Zastros! Damn your eyes, Zastros, wake up!” The hand let go and the boots clumped back. “He’s out like a snuffed torch, gentlemen.”

  Someone muttered something Zastros’ ears could not pick up the meaning of.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to stop that foolishness!” barked Grahvos’ voice. “Sorcery, my calloused butt! Wine or drugs did this, probably both together; we all know he kept his wife drugged most of the time, so he obviously uses them, too.

  “But it doesn’t matter; awake or asleep, he’s still deposed. Let High Lord Milo waken him. We came mainly for the jewels and the gold. Let’s find them and get on the march. One of you pull off his house signet and find his sword. They should go to his nephew, Kathros. But no obvious plundering, gentlemen; if you must steal, steal small. I don’t want our prospective overlord to think ill of us, nor should you; remember, our future lies with his Confederation.”

  After a brief period of pushing about of furniture, dragging and clattering noises, and a short, sharp pain in Zastros’ right thumb as his signet was jerked off, Lillian heard the men’s voices fade away into the distance, leaving her alone in her refuge-become-prison. She made a stab at re-entering the body in the other room, but the way was closed, and no amount of will could budge so much as the tiniest muscle of Zastros’ hulk.

  * * *

  There was a short, deadly battle with the former High King’s bodyguard officers when the nobles bore the royal treasures from the pavilion and made to load them onto a waiting wagon, but the retainers of the thoheeksee ruthlessly cut down any who drew sword or lowered spear against them. With the officers all dead or dying, the rest of the guard wisely slipped away, tearing off their Green Dragon tabards as they went — naught could be gained in the support of a deposed and probably dead king.

  Grahvos, well aware that whatever was left would certainly be looted by the unattached camp followers, stationed two hundred heavy infantry under command of Vahrohnos Mahvros to guard the ex-King’s pavilion and its environs until the High Lord’s troops arrived. He also entrusted to the younger man a large package of documents — written oaths of fealty to the Confederation — all signed, witnessed, and sealed, from every landholder in the dispersing army.

  A full day and then another night had been required to prepare the warbands for the retrograde movement. By the thirty-sixth hour after the nobles had looted Zastros’ treasures, the Green Dragon banner atop his pavilion waved over a scene of desolation. Outside the royal enclosure, precious few tents remained. Only discarded or broken equipment was left and a horde of human scavengers flitted through swarms of flies feasting on latrines and garbage pits.

  Thoheeks Grahvos was the last to leave, having seen most of the troops on the march before dawn. Leaving his personal detatchment at the foot of the hill, he rode up to the royal enclosure and dismounted before the pavilion.

  “Any trouble so far, Mahvros?”

  The young nobleman shook his head. “Nor do I expect any, my lord. Oh, my boys had to crack a couple of heads before we convinced the scum that we meant business, but we’ve been avoided since then.”

  “And when the rest of us are on the road?” asked the Thoheeks skeptically.

  “There’re damned few soldiers down there, my lord. And none of the skulkers are organized — it’s every man for himself. No, everything will be as it is when the Confederation troops get here.” Mahvros smiled.

  Grahvos asked, “What of Zastros? Has he awakened yet?”

  “No, my lord, he lives, but still he sleeps,” replied the Vahrohnos, adding, “but we had to bury the Lady Lilyuhn. She was beginning to stink.”

  Grahvos shrugged. “It couldn’t be helped. That guard probably killed her. There was fresh blood on his spear butt. But tell the High Lord that I’m sorry.

  “Also, Mahvros, tell him that I’ll see that the Thirty-three convene in the capital whenever he desires. I am certain that he and King Zenos will want some form of reparations, but emphasize, please, that some few years will be necessary to put our demesnes back on a paying basis.”

  He put foot to stirrup, then turned back. “One other thing, Mahvros, my boy; the Council met for a short session this morning. Thoheeks Pahlios was your overlord, was he not?”

  “Yes, my lord, but he was slain nearly three years ago. I . . .”

  “Just so,” Grahvos interrupted. “He and all his male kin in the one battle. We’re going to have to affirm or choose the remainder of the Thirty-three rather quickly, and we want men we know will support us and the Confederation. That’s why we chose you to succeed the late Pahlios.”

  Delving into his right boot-top, Grahvos brought out a slender roll of parchment. “Guard this well, Thoheeks Mahvros. When you’re back, ride to the capital and the Council will loan you troops enough to secure your new lands.

  “Now, I must be gone.” He mounted and, from his saddle, extended his hand. “May God bless and keep you, lad, and may He bring you safely home.”

  Reining about, he trotted out of the compound and down the hill.

  13

  It was almost a week before Milo made it across the river. The wall had to be dismantled, of course, but that alone would not have detained him, for Lord Alexandros had left a couple of biremes and crews for his use. However, when certain of the Middle Kingdoms’ nobles were apprised that there would be no battle, after all, they split into two factions at the cores of which were the contingents, from Harzburk and Pitzburk. Armed to the teeth, the factions mounted and rode into the fields west of the camp. And the resulting melee was only the first and largest. It was a very hectic period for the High Lord.

  At length, he had all the northern troops and their battered nobles on the march, their units separated and shepherded by strong bodies of Confederation regulars and Confederation-contracted Freefighters.

  Dressed in his best clothing and finest armor, Milo strode out of his pavilion and had already ordered a charger when he felt a familiar touch on the back of his neck. Behind him stood the elephant.

  Sunshine — she had chosen the name herself as her mindspeak improved with usage — was noticeably sleeker, as she well should have been, thought Milo, considering the fantastic amounts of food she had consumed. From all over the camp, men had come not just to see her, but to watch her eat. And “hungry as the elephant” had become a common expression to Milo’s army.

  When Milo turned, Sunshine moved closer and placed her trunk tip on his shoulder so that its appendage might caress his skin. “Please God-Milo,” she begged, “do not send Sunshine away from you today. Take her with you.”

  “Sunshine,” Milo gently and patiently mindspoke, “we have been through all this before. Where I live is cold for much of the year, colder than the land from which you came. You would quickly die there. You must go back south, Sunshine, but Gil will be with you all the way. He will see that you eat all you want and that no man harms you. And when I come to your land, I will visit you. Will not that make Sunshine happy?”

  Her answer surprised him. “Let Sunshine bear God-Milo across the river, then, please. You will ride safer on Sunshine than on that skinny-legged little creature.” She pointed her trunk at where Milo’s groom stood waiting with a seventeen-hand war horse. “If you fight, how can that one protect you? Sunshine has slain many two-legs.”

  “There will be no fight, Sunshine,” Milo assured her. “Those who were my enemies are now my friends, and you must promise not to hurt the few of them who remain beyond the river; you and Gil will be traveling with them.”

&nbs
p; “Sunshine will not hurt any creatures Gil does not tell her to hurt,” she spoke. Then, “But . . . please ride Sunshine . . . ?”

  “Why, Sunshine,” Milo asked, “is it so important to you that you carry me across the bridge?”

  Sunshine came closer, tenderly wrapping him about with her trunk. “God-Milo is the first two-leg who was ever good to Sunshine, who spoke to her and treated her like . . . like a two-leg. Sunshine cannot stay with God-Milo to serve him all her days, as she should. Will not God-Milo allow her to serve him once. . . ?”

  What the hell, thought Milo, how much more impressive an appearance could I make than arriving on an elephant?

  “Gil!” he farspoke. “Have you rigged any sort of saddle for Sunshine?”

  Gil stepped from behind the elephant, a sheepish grin on his face and his arms filled with an altered saddle and an assortment of odd harness.

  “Damn it!” exclaimed Milo aloud. “You two planned this in advance! Admit it, kinsman!”

  “Yes, God-Milo, Sunshine and I planned,” Gil mind-spoke. “But, God-Milo, she is very grateful to you . . . and she loves you. Often has our Clanbard said that nothing is so unkind as to force a man or woman to swallow honest gratitude unexpressed.”

  Milo mindcalled the groom and the three of them saddled Sunshine. The saddle perfectly fitted the area just behind her head.

  That done, Milo addressed Gil. “All right, you ride my charger and get a pack animal for your gear.” He turned back to his huge mount “Very well, my dear, you may help me aboard.”

  * * *

  “So the guard,” Thoheeks Mahvros continued, “hearing her shout in some unknown tongue, came into the tent and found her crouching before this device. Exactly what happened then, no one knows, not even the guard, who can only say that he fended her off with the butt of bis spear, then ran. He thought her a witch, you see.”

  “And he may not have been too far off the mark,” thought Milo. “Not if she was what I suspect.”