A Cat of Silvery Hue

by Robert Adams

  "Oh, goddam you, Danos! Damn you, damn you, DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU!

  Danos had not been happy of late, despite his promotion to senior sergeant. Lord Drehkos' complete regimentation of all the inhabitants of Vawnpolis had made Danos' sex life highly dangerous, while the virtual eradication of the dog packs and feral cats and the deep inroads recently made on the rat population had made disposal of his few victims' bodies a chancy business at best. And that was while he still was in the city, before he had "volunteered" for this insane and uncomfortable method of slow suicide.

  Nor would be have come riding out on this madness but for the certain knowledge that to remain behind was to place himself in undesired proximity to Lord Myros, Lord Drehkos' deputy for the fortifications. And such was simply not to be borne!

  Though the dark, gray-haired, brooding vahrohnos had seldom spoken to him, and then only in line of duty, since Lord Drehkos had literally dragged him from the gutter and restored him to the thin ranks of the gentry, yet Danos feared Myros instinctively, as he would fear a viper. And he did not even know why. Unless… unless it was those eyes.

  Black, they were, the blackest that ever Danos had seen, yet with a shiny, shimmering bluish glint like chunks of mountain coal. But Danos could see something else lurking behind those eyes, sometimes peering slyly from their depths, and it was that… that indefinable menace which set Danos' skin prickling. And when it peeked out in Danos' presence, while the debased nobleman bared his unnaturally white teeth in one of his mirthless grimaces, then Danos knew terror. He was convinced that that nameless thing bar-boring behind those eyes could see to the very depths of his soul, knew his every misdeed and was waiting but a favored time and place to reveal all—or… And then Danos would tremble like a trapped rabbit, his mind unable to retain the thought of what horrors the loathsome Lord Myros and the satanic being which dwelt within him might demand in payment for continued silence.

  So he had ridden out with Lord Drehkos, who had bluntly praised his unswerving loyalty and dauntless courage, then placed him in command of the archers. At least they had been eating more and better since leaving the city, that much Danes could say in truth, what with game and wandering livestock and supplies from several small parties who had ridden in to join the army only to be bushwhacked by Drehkos' scouts. Of course, conscientious Lord Drehkos always insisted that the bulk of any nonperishables be packed to the city, but still the raiders ate well and frequently.

  Furthermore, and to Danes' vast relief, the lord saw to it that the lightly armored archers and dartmen were called upon to do no hand-to-hand combat, covering their withdrawal if necessary with his mounted irregulars. So even the perpetual grousers had to admit that things were not as bad as they might have been.

  But none of the blessings could do aught to relieve Danos' principal problem. During those few short halcyon weeks when he had been able to indulge his tastes on a victim every night, his body had become accustomed to the regular, glorious release. Now it was all that he could do on far too many nights to prevent Satan from beguiling his hands into pollution of his own flesh. He had so far resisted all the Evil One's blandishments—God be praised—but the need for release was becoming more and more pressing with each succeeding day.

  That was why, when from his hiding place he first sighted a woman—slender and lovely, with long, black hair—he thought his head would surely burst of the blood thundering in it, and he was not even aware of having released his whistling signal shaft until he saw men going down in the camp and the tumult swelled even louder than the roaring in his ears. If he was aware that he had just dashed Lord Drehkos' careful plans, it was of less moment to him than the urgency of his drive to have that woman—to see her blood, taste its warm saltiness; to hear her pleas, screams, whimpers and, finally, rattling gasps as the life left her torn body. Uncontrollable shudders shook his body so strongly that he dropped his how and nearly fell on his face when he bent to retrieve it.

  But with it once more in his hand, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked, drew, loosed; then another, nock, draw, loose, one after another, mechanically, almost unaware of his actions, mind floating in a daydream of blood and female flesh. But he was a master archer and accustomed to the stalk and the chase and to dropping faster and smaller and far more elusive targets than the men and horses less than a hundred yards distant. His years of training and experience took over, aiming and allowing for wind, distance and movements of the slow quarries. And every shaft thudded home in flesh.

  Then his questing hand could find no more arrows. Carefully he laid aside his bow and, smiling, drew his short, heavy sword. At a fast trot, he set out toward the milling turmoil of the campsite, swinging wide to avoid the cavalry engagement broiling on his right. And the other archers and dartmen drew their own steel and followed him, not for love of him as they would have followed Lord Drehkos, but simply because he was their assigned leader and seemed to know what he was doing.

  But once within the corpse-littered camp, Danos halted. His sword dangling, he stood dumfounded, wondering if all had been but a dream born of wishful thinking. Not only could he spy no woman, but even that huge wagon was nowhere to be seen. The space he could have sworn that wagon had occupied held only a dead horse archer and a swaying, badly wounded horse.

  Ayaaargh!" The shout burst almost in Danos' ear, and only his instinctive flinch kept the cook's long iron spit from the archer's unarmored body. But the cook was middle-aged, stout and clumsy, and before he could stop his forward rush, Danos had recovered enough to jam his shortsword to the very guard into the fat, bulging belly. Eyes bugging, mouth opening and closing and opening like a beached sunfish, the man dropped his makeshift weapon and clapped both hands to the fatal wound so closely that when Danos withdrew his steel, the sharp edges gashed palms and fingers to the bone. He just stood there, staring down at his mangled hands, which could not seem to keep the white-and-red-and-purple-pink coils of gut where they belonged.

  Danos had no time to finish the cook, for he was fully occupied in ducking the furious swings of a big, balding man's big, wooden maul. But then Danos' attacker screamed and dropped his maul, his mouth and nose pouring out a torrent of blood; he fell to his knees and then onto his face, the haft and part of the blade of a throwing axe standing out of his back. Danos looked about for the man who had thrown the axe—and saw a sight which froze the blood in his veins.

  Chapter Twelve

  Captain Gaib Linstahk's first reaction was to reach a central point of the camp and rally his kahtahfrahktoee. Better armed and armored than the lancers, they and the nobles should be able to charge right into the damned sniping archers, flush the bastards out and ride them down like the dogs they were. But that was before it became obvious that those rapidly advancing horsemen were not thundering up the road to reinforce the camp, but rather to attack it.

  He mindspoke the commander of lancers over on the other side, nearer to the road. "Captain Rahdjuhz, rally your troops and draw them up behind the nobles who will presently form athwart the road. If those pigs aren't slowed down, they'll ride over the camp before I can form my squadron to counterattack."

  Gaib thought he could actually hear the yelp of the lancer officer. "Sun and Wind, man!" the reply came beaming. "Have you taken leave of your senses? A good half of those Vawnee look to be heavily armed. They'll go through my two troops like—"

  With seconds as precious as emeralds, Gaib furiously cut off his subordinate. "Wind take you for a coward, Ahl! Follow my orders or give over your command to a man with more guts! I said you'll be the 'second line, dammit; those heavy-armed fire-eaters of ours will take the brunt of it."

  Then he sought the mind of Thoheeks Kehn Kahr. "If you please, my lord, has your group taken many casualties?"

  He could almost see the steaming, red face—Thoheeks Kahr had gained years and much flesh since last he had actively campaigned or worn armor in summer heat—but there was ill-concealed eagerness in the return the nobleman beame
d. "Vahrohneeskos Behrklee's son, Steev, has a broken leg… I think. His horse took a dart and fell ere he could clear leather. And we've lost a few more horses, but no gentlemen, praise be to Wind and Pitzburk. But we await your orders, Captain Vahrohnos'-son. When do you want us to fight? Where?"

  Gaib breathed a silent sigh of relief. The thoheeks and his half-troop were only technically under his command. They could all see the charging Vawnee from their present position and must be aware that the odds against them were something over ten to one. Had Kahr opted for flight rather than fight, Gaib would have been powerless to do aught save curse him.

  "If it please my lord, form a single rank to block the road. Place your left flank at that deep gully and your right at the perimeter ditch. The lancers will be forming behind you. You must hold them until the High Lady is safely away and my squadron be formed. My bugles sounding ‘The Charge' will be your signal to disengage. Does it please my lord to understand?"

  "Captain Vahrohnos'-son, nothing has pleased me more since my favorite mare dropped twin foals, one black and one white! And both stallions! We'll hold. By Sacred Sun, we'll hold!"

  Then Gaib tried to range the mind of the arrogant Clan Linsee prick who commanded the High Lady's guard. Meeting with no success, he beamed directly to the High Lady herself.

  "Yes," came her answer, "I am aware that we are under attack and have so mindspoken the High Lord, in the van. He comes, but it will take time. I've listened in on your beamings, as well, captain. You are a good officer and a credit to the army. Your decisions are sound. Would that I might sit a horse at your side, but it is my time-of-the-moon and I have imbibed of a decoction of herbs. Though they leave my mind clear, so seriously do they affect my balance and coordination that I doubt I could draw my saber, much less use it."

  "Another reason, my lady, that I would have you on the road," Gaib mindspoke emphatically. "As of this dawn, my squadron was understrength, and I doubt not that we've lost horses and men to the missiles. Yonder comes a strong force, and. if I'm to have sufficient weight to smash their attack, I'll need every sword. I recall that your team be hitched, my lady. Let it please you to take road forthwith—but you'd best leave some few of your archers to retard pursuit if we fail here."

  Aldora agreed to adopt his plan, adding, "Wind guard you, young Linstahk. The Confederation cannot afford the loss of men such as you."

  While his lieutenants and sergeants formed up their half-strength units, Gaib and his bugler and color bearer sat their mounts with an outward show of calm, ignoring alike the incredible tumult and confusion of the milling, bleating, dying noncombatants and the feathered death still falling from the clear, sunny skies.

  Thoheeks Kahr's nobles were strung-out in position barely in time. The leading elements of the Vawnee cavalry struck their thin line of steel with the sound of a thunderclap and the line bowed inward, inward, inward at its center, until Gaib was certain that it must snap and let the screaming horde of Vawnee through to pour over the mostly unarmed throng of servants, cooks, smiths and wagoneers.

  But like a well-tempered blade, the line slowly commenced to straighten, helped by the yelling lancers and, unexpectedly, by fifty unmounted sappers armed with a motley of long-handled spades and sawbacked engineer shortswords. Witnessing the valor of these support troops, Gaib vowed that never again would he either engage in or tolerate the sneers and snickers when a "dungbeetle"—which was what his peers called sapper officers—entered the mess.

  The ringing, clanging blacksmith symphony raged on, with the superior weight of the Vawnee bearing the defenders back and back. But Thoheeks Kahr was naught if not true to his word, for every foot was hotly, bloodily contested and the meager gains of the rebels were dearly bought. In spite of their being stupidly proud, supercilious amateur soldiers, Gaib flushed with pride that his veins surged with the same rich blood as these men, for they, one and all, fought with the tenacity of the best professionals.

  Then the squadron sergeant-major was saluting him with a flourish of gleaming saber. "Sir, the troops be formed on squadron front Half the High Lady's guards ride with us. I posted them to Thehltah Troop on the left flank."

  Gaib nodded stiffly. "Very good, sergeant-major. The High Lady is away then?"

  "Yes, sir. At the gallop. She should be well up the road by now."

  Gaib slowly drew his saber and smilingly saluted the grizzled noncom. "Well, then, Baree, let us see what these rebels know of saber drill. Or had you expected to die in bed?

  "Bugler, 'Walk, March,' if you please. Then, 'Draw Sabers'."

  " Dropping his reins over the pommel knob, Gaib first raised his beaver, then lowered his visor, sloping the back of his saber blade against his epaulette in the regulation carry. The troop buglers echoed the ordered calls and a chorus of metallic zweeps behind him coincided with the first steps of his well-trained charger, who probably knew cavalry drill as well as any man in the squadron.

  Panicky, the noncombatants were, but not so panicky—especially since the death-dealing arrows and darts had slackened off—as not to recognize what was now coming and to stir their stumps to avoid being ridden down by charging kahtahfrahktoee.

  When his path was relatively clear, Gaib signaled the bugler. "Trot, March" rang out and the familiar jingling rattle of armor and equipment penetrated even Gaib's closed helm. As always, at such a point in an action, his chest felt constricted and his guts were a-roil, his mouth was dry as dead leaves and he knew that his bladder must soon burst. Drawing himself up straighter in the kak, he began to sing, his voice booming in the confines of the helm.

  "… Oh, let us sing our battle song,

  Of saber, spear and bow,

  Clan Linstahk, Clan Linstahk,

  Your courage we'll show."

  Noting the decreasing distance, Gaib gave another signal, and "Gallop, March" pealed from his bugler's instrument, being taken up by the troop buglers halfway through. He mindspoke his stallion, Windsender, "I know you lack that shoe, and I'm sorry,, brother, but this must be. We must fight ere I can see to you."

  "Your brother understands," the horse beamed back. "It is not very uncomfortable, and a good fight does not happen every day."

  At the moment he gauged best, Gaib raised his saber high over his head, then swung it down and forward, swiveling his arm so that the keen edge lay uppermost Five bugles screamed the "Charge."

  To his credit, Drehkos managed to get away with a little better than half his original force, but, even so, he knew that their raiding days were now done. The very flower of the rebel cause lay trampled into the gory mire on the eastern fringes of the Confederation camp. Worse, he had failed to secure the supplies Vawnpolis needed so desperately. Nor had he succeeded in wiping out the service troops and burning the wheeled transport, which last would have been a crippling blow to so large an army so deep in hostile territory. If only the plan had worked, if only Danos had started the arrow-storm at the proper time… Danos!

  But Drehkos could no longer feel anger at the archer. He was just too weary. And it was not just a physical weariness born of the exhaustion of battle. No, it was a weariness of soul, a desire for nothing more than a long, long sleep, a sleep which would not be disturbed for the rest of eternity. Perhaps in such a sleep he could forget. Could forget the idiocy of so much sacrifice and suffering in the name of a lost rebellion and an antique god, could forget the never-ceasing loneliness—which persisted even in the heart of an overcrowded city; whose chill he suffered in the heat of a sunny day even while chatting with these men who would bleed and die for him.

  And, to Drehkos, that was the irony and tragedy of this insanity within which he was trapped. These strong, brave, vibrant men, all loving life yet going down into bloody death; while he, who would welcome death, since she who once had been his life was now long years with Wind, rode unscathed through ambush and battle, raid and retreat. Of course, he died a little with each man he lost, but these small deaths were only a deepening of sorrow, not the surc
ease he so craved.

  When the wounded had been afforded what little could be done, he gathered his battered band and set them on the long, circuitous return to their city, wondering if he had bought any time or respect with almost five hundred lives.

  He had. It took Milo over two weeks to sort out the shambles of that last attack, to replace the sappers and cooks, sanitarians and smiths, artificiers and wagoners killed or wounded or missing. He also sent for the prairiecats, ruefully admitting his mistake in underestimating the temper and talents of the rebels.

  In the conference chamber of his pavilion, still pitched where it had been that hellish morning, he reiterated his error to the assembled nobles, Aldora and old Sir Ehdt, adding, "I would not plan on being home for harvest, gentlemen, nor even for Sun-birth Festival. And if Myros fights the city, with its vastly improved defenses, as well as he has fought the countryside, you will be lucky to be home for spring planting."

  "But, my lord." Bili Morguhn wrinkled his brow. "Those few prisoners we have taken all say the same: Drehkos Daiviz, not Myros of Deskahti, is their leader."

  "And," put in Sir Ehdt, foregoing his introductory haritmph, this one time, "I would doubt that Myros conceived that devilish attack or planned those masterful withdrawals. He's simply not got the mind for such."

  Thoheeks Kahr shifted his bandage-swathed body into a more comfortable position in his chair, then demanded, "Now, dammit, sir, you spent most of our last meeting a-chortling over the way he's altered Vawnpolis and assuring us all he's the best thing since stone walls. Now here you be, saying he don't have the brains to fight nor run!"