by Robert Adams
Turning back to the two Ahrmehnee, he asked, “If Muhkohee is not the name of the shaggy men, then what is?”
Vahk spread his big hands and grinned. “It’s is hard word for an Ahrmehnee-speaker to shape his mouth about, Dehrehbeh Bili, which is the main reason we’ve kept calling them Muhkohee all these years.” He grinned even wider and added, “Among other and far less complimentary things, that is.
“As closely as I can come to what they call themselves, it is Ohrgahnikahnservaishuhnee.”
Bili, himself, grinned wryly. “I can now see just why you and your folk stuck to Muhkohee, Sir Vahk. I think me that I’ll follow your precept on the matter.”
Old Panosyuhn, spoke up again. “Such as we know of their customs and usages, Dook Bili, are exceeding strange. For, although they all partake of manflesh with great gusto, they will not eat of the flesh of their kine or fowl, taking of them only milk and eggs and hides; and, too, although they hunt bears and wolves and the like for the furs and pelts, not even a starveling Muhkohee would eat of those creatures’ flesh.”
Bili shook his head in consternation at such wastefulness. “What do they do, then, just leave good meat out to rot?”
“No, Dook Bili,” replied Panosyuhn, “they bury the carcasses of the game and of any of their dead kine or fowl, too. With great ceremony and solemn sorrow do they bury them, all the while praying to their gods. Rather to one of their chief gods, him called Kahlohdjee, in their tongue.”
“They have many gods, then?” inquired Bili.
“I think so, Dook Bili. I think they have very many gods, though I know the names of only a few of their gods or of their many devils,” Panosyuhn answered, furrowing his wrinkled forehead and ticking off the difficult names on his fingers. “Let’s see . . . Kahlohdjee is one, N’Vyrmuhndt is another, then there be the god Plooshuhn . . .”
“Your pardon, please, Der Vahrtahn,” interjected Soormehlyuhn with the customary respect shown to older Ahrmehnee by younger. “But I think I recall that Plooshuhn be not a god but one of the greatest of their devils.”
Panosyuhn tilted his head, closed his eyes and scratched at the scalp exposed under his thinning hair, then he opened his dark-brown eyes and nodded briskly. “My thanks, young Vahk. The valiant Vahk be right. Dook Bili. I am an old man and I had misremembered. Plooshuhn is a god, but a very evil god, to the Muhkohee . . . or so say these evilest of living men.
“Plooshuhn is, say these terrible Muhkohee, the patron devil of any who smelt ores, cast bronze or suchlike. This, Dook Bili, be why Muhkohee-fashioned tools and even weapons be always of cold-hammered iron, unless they have been able to steal better properly made ones.
“These manlike monsters have no respect for age and its wisdom, either. Whenever a man or woman of their groups is found too old or infirm to do a full day of useful tasks, they kill and eat him or her, and in especially hard times they think nothing of eating their youngest children.”
Bili’s shock and amazement was borne in his voice. “Yet they cast away the flesh of any beast? They must be a race of madmen, these Muhkohee.”
“There are some beasts they will eat,” put in Soormehlyuhn. “Any fish, frogs or snakes they can catch, lizards, too. They remove the scales or skins and fins, but they eat everything else, even the guts and all they contain. They also eat insects, worms, grubs and caterpillars. I doubt me not that a Muhkohee stew would turn the stomach of a hog.”
When he had heard all that the two Ahrmehnee knew of the singular customs of their traditional enemies, Bili dismissed the gathering, announcing that he would sleep on the matter and apprise all of his decision on just what course they had best take on the morrow.
But when at last the young duke lay rolled in his cloak on the springy bough bed made for him by his striker, sleep seemed to elude him for some time, despite the physical exhaustion of the events of the long, strenuous day just past. For one thing, he was very worried about what might have befallen old Komees Hari, brave Sir Geros and all those others who had become separated from the main party during the confusion following the earthquake. Unless Hari had kept his wing together and had lucked onto such a relatively secure campsite as Bili’s, the old man and his troops were in direst danger.
Straining his vast telepathic abilities to the utmost, Bili vainly endeavored to range Komees Hari’s mind . . . nor could he contact any of the few other minds he knew well in that band, which might mean all or nothing, They could all be already dead, or his failure could be simply caused by some something in his own makeup and present condition.
For, as the High Lord Milo and the High Lady Aldora had often attested in his hearing, despite all the years of study and practice, not even they could admit to knowing very much about their own telepathy, much less that of anyone else.
“If I had one of the prairiecats here, now,” mused Bili, “to merge our two minds and so increase my range and power . . .”
But all of the great felines who had accompanied his force on the march west and in the battle on the plateau were missing, like Hari and Geros and the rest.
Helpless to contact any of his friends, Bili’s restless mind roved back again to last year’s events, to the eventual investment and siege of Vawnpolis, where once more the genius of Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Morguhn had manifested itself.
“And even then, disregarding mountains of evidence to the contrary,” thought Bili ruefully, “there were those of us who were still able to convince ourselves that that bastard Vahrohnos Myros of Dehskati was really the shrewd mind we faced.”
“It wasn’t until . . . until the near disaster that followed our taking of those two outer salients of Vawnpolis that most of us really began to believe that another mind than Myros’ might be guiding the opposition. Sun and Wind, what a close call that was.”
And once more young Bili’s mind flew back over time and distance to the day of the assault on the outer works of the invested city of Vawnpolis, held by the Ehleen rebels.
* * *
An hour before the dawn, Aldora’s maidservant wakened her mistress. The High Lady and Bili arose, washed, broke fast on a bit of hard bread dipped in strong wine, then helped each other to arm and wended their way to the sprawling pavilion of the High Lord. There they separated, Aldora riding off to the cavalry camp and Bili remaining with Milo to accompany his sovereign at the head of the assaulting infantry.
No words were either spoken or beamed at the parting of the lovers; none were needed, for their two straining, striving, pleasure-racked bodies had communicated all that was needful in the night now dying. As for Milo, he allowed himself a silent chuckle or two, for Aldora trotted off astride none other than Mahvros, Bili’s own huge black warhorse — a one-man, mindspeaking killer stallion that had never before allowed any other than his “brother,” Bili, to fork him.
Preceded by a pinkish vanguard, the copper-hued sun peeked over the eastern horizon, and, with a crash and roll of drums, a shrilling of fifes, a pealing of trumpets, the gruesome day commenced.
When his two younger brothers — Djaik and Gilbuht, down from the Middle Kingdoms to have a share in this marvelous war now raging so unexpectedly almost in their own home duchy — requested permission to ride this day with the mounted Freefighters, Bili was more than happy to grant such permission, for it summarily relieved him of two worries.
He had already seen one brother slain by these rebels, and he had no wish to have two or even one more go to Wind. There was a good chance that the mounted Freefighters and Confederation lancers would not fight at all this day; and even if they were called upon to smash back any sortie which might be made to relieve or reinforce the two salients, Djaik and Gil would be much better off heavily armed and in the saddles of their fully trained destriers and fighting the kind of combat with which they were most familiar than they would be afoot in half-armor, clawing through abattises and clambering up shaky ladders.
Bili did not much like undertaking that prospect himself, but sin
ce the High Lord had elected to personally lead this attack, the Morguhn of Morguhn had felt honor-bound to serve at his overlord’s side.
Aldora had shaved his head early last evening, and the rising sun glinted on the shiny scalp as he carefully checked and rechecked the fit and fastenings of harness on the two horses that would bear him and the High Lord until the attack actually commenced.
The High Lord’s big chestnut nuzzled at Bili’s thigh and mindspoke. “Am I to have no armor at all? Or did you forget mine as you forgot the most of your own, twolegs?”
Bili slapped the muscular neck affectionately, scratching away at the base of the neatly reached mane until the horse was almost purring. He silently answered “It be a hot morn, already, and the day will be even hotter and very long. You two will be doing no fighting, so why burden you down with armor and padding, eh?
“Your brother, the High Lord Milo, and I will not have your thews to help us bear the weight of plate in the coming battle, so we wear only helms and cuirasses, plus gorgets, shoulder pieces, brassarts and kneecops, with our swords slung across our backs.”
The chestnut stamped and snorted derision, rolling his eyes. “Stupid! That, twolegs, be a stupid way to fight. Yes, it be hot, but not so hot as the lands where I was foaled. Put on our armor and your own: we can fight as well as you.”
Bili chuckled to himself; this chestnut could be every bit as stubborn and set in his ways as could his own stallion brother, Mahvros. “1 know well that you can fight, brother, but can you climb twelve-foot stone walls? Do you think that your armor will stop sixty-pound boulders or eight-foot spears . . . or did you intend to catch them all in your teeth, perhaps?”
“My lord duke . . . ?”
Bili turned from the horse to face Captain Pawl Raikuh. This Freefighter officer who commanded Bili’s company of hired fighters was also half-armored, with the hilt of his broadsword jutting up behind his left shoulder and his left hand gripping a five-foot spearshaft with two feet of double-edged pike blade riveted to it. Behind the captain stood Color Sergeant Geros Lahvoheetos, similarly armed and holding the ten-foot shaft about which was furled the Red Eagle Banner of the House and Clan of Morguhn.
“What are you doing here, Pawl?” Bili demanded in a voice tinged with surprise. “I would have thought you’d send Hohguhn or Krahndahl to lead this contingent under me. Surely you’re not depending upon either of them to captain our cavalry today?”
Raikuh grinned. “No, my lord. My lord’s brother, Lord Djaik, vice-captains his horse for this engagement.”
Bili first started, then relaxed, smiling. “Oh, nominally, you mean. I thank you for that courtesy to him, Pawl.”
“Scant courtesy, that.” Raikuh shook his head, his lobstertail napeguard rattling. “My lord Djaikuhb will lead. And should it come to action, I’m sure he’ll do your lordship proud.”
“Oh, come now, Pawl,” snapped Bili deprecatingly. “Our troop is composed entirely of veterans, and, as such, they’ll not be putting their lives on the line at the behest of an overgrown fourteen-year-old. Men have to respect a warleader.”
Raikuh sobered. “And respect my lord’s brother they do, one and all. Any who chanced to not see Lord Djaik fence Old Pyk, the senior weaponsmaster, to a standstill last night have heard of it. And besides, they’ll be flattered to have a blood brother of my lord to lead them.”
Bili frowned. “Well, what then of my other brother, Gil? He be anything but feckless. Think you he then will mildly obey the dictates of a younger brother? I doubt it.”
Raikuh’s grin returned with a vengeance. “Hardly, my lord. My lord’s brothers had . . . ahhh, some few words on the matter. My lord Gil has decided to ride with Duke Hwahltuh’s force.”
Bili could just bet they had “some few words on the matter.” Since first the two Morguhn cadets had been reunited, it often had been all that their elder brother and chief could do to keep them from each other’s throats — and in cold, deadly earnest, at that.
Both Djaikuhb and Gilbuht were experienced warriors and natural leaders . . . and that last was a part of the problem. But the biggest bone of contention between the two lay to the north of the Confederation. In the lands where they had fostered, had their upbringing and arms training.
The Duchy of Zunburk, which had sheltered Gilbuht for almost eight years, was a traditional ally of the Kingdom of Harzburk. Harzburk’s ancient foe was the Kingdom of Pitzburk, wherein Djaikuhb had been fostered and trained for six years.
Chapter IV
When Strahteegos Vahrohnos Ahrtos of Theesispolis reported his troops to be ready, the High Lord — wearing no more armor than did Bili or Captain Raikuh — emerged from his pavilion and mounted his chestnut, hanging a hooked and spiked warhammer on his pommel. In obedience to his mind-spoken command, his mount began a slow trot toward the waiting ranks of the Confederation infantry.
As there had been no desire to keep secret their day’s objectives, engines had been pounding the fortifications crowning and ringing the two hillocks since there had been enough light to lay and sight them; and they were still hard at the job. Bili could see dust spurts, hear the distance-muffled thuds of the boulder, against timber, masonry and earthworks, while the smoke from the blazes caused by the pitchballs and firespears rose high into the windless morning sky.
To his experienced eye, it did not appear that the engines’ missiles had effected much real damage to either of the salients. A few dressed stones had been knocked askew here and there and more had surely been loosened, the timber facings of some of the earthworks were smashed and splintered in places, but the bulk of the thick, wide, cunningly laid abattises — designed to hold attacking men in one place long enough for the defenders’ darts and slingstones and arrows to thin their ranks — seemed to be virtually untouched.
The High Lord’s mindspeak answered the young man’s unasked question. “Oh, yes, Bili, my engineers know well their work. But much of that is green wood, still in the bark and, consequently, hard to fire. Also, the bastards apparently have plenty of water, and they’ve managed to quench nearly every fire we’ve managed to start. I can but hope that you’re as good at axing wood as you are at axing men.”
Accompanied by Bili, Captain Ralkuh, Strahteegos Ahrtos and his entourage, a squad of his personal mounted guards and their commander, Mehgah Aib Fahrlee, the High Lord slowly inspected the formations of infantrymen — twelve thousand, in all, drawn up in battalion front.
The assault companies were foremost, bearing woodsman’s axes, pry bars and hooked poles for pulling apart the outer entanglements. They were shieldless, but armed with wide and heavy shortswords and half-armored in good plate.
Next were the infantry archers, their compound bows larger and more powerful than the cavalry weapon. Their mission was to keep the defenders too busy ducking arrows to loose any of their own at the laboring assault companies until enough of the abattises were cleared away for the actual attack to begin.
Then Came rank upon serried rank of heavy infantry, the backbone of the Army of the Confederation, spearbutts and ironshod shields grounded. Their helms were fitted with napeguards, cheekpieces and nasals, the collars of their kneelength scaleshirts were chin-high, and the plate greaves strapped to their lower legs included a kneecop which was spiked to facilitate climbing. The long pikes which Bili had seen them sloping on the march had been replaced by six-foot spears.
Bili studied the faces under those field-browned helms, to find that all — old or young, Ehleen-dark or Kindred-fair — were weather-tanned and seamed with scars. Here and there a copper cat crouched atop a helm, denoting the valor and the singular battle prowess of its wearer. A very few helms boasted silver cats, but Bili saw only two golden cats in the course of the progress.
One golden cat adorned the helm of a slender, hard-eyed young lohkahnos, standing stiff and motionless as a stone statue before the assault company he led. The other crested the helm of a grizzled, short-legged and thick-bodied soldier, whose e
quipage sported no single other mark of rank or achievement.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The High Lord reined up before the man and leaned over the chestnut’s withers to peer into the green eyes under the white-flecked, brick-red brows. “If it isn’t Djim Bohluh. I thought you’d been pensioned off long ago. What’s wrong, Djim. has that scaleshirt taken root in your scaly old hide?”
Letting his shield rest against his leg, the old soldier clasped both big hands about his spearshaft and put his weight upon it, lifting one foot from the ground. Ignoring the venomous glare of a squadleader who looked young enough to be his grandson, he showed worn, yellow teeth in a broad grin.
“Speak true, Lord Milo, can you see these here hands apushin’ a plow or a-milkin’ a cow?”
Milo chuckled. “You’ve got a point there, right enough, Djim. But look at the rest of it, man: your own piece of land, a snug cabin and a young wife to tend you and to get you sons to fill the ranks.”
The soldier cackled. “No need to leave the army to do that last. I bin doin’ that for . . . well, for more years than I cares to think on. Fac’ is, Lord Milo, chances are at leas’ a good comp’ny’s worth of these here boys is my get, did they but know it. For that matter, young Lohkeeas Froheeros there” — he pointed with his chin at the livid, almost apoplectic squad leader — “do put me much in min’ of a lil gal I useta pleasure down Sahvahnahs way.”
Bili saw almost all of the surrounding faces jerk or twitch to a muffled chorus of groans and gasps which told of suppressed laughter while the young sergeant’s lividity deepened until he looked as if he were being garroted. Not even the stem-faced Strahteegos Ahrtos could repress a grin.