by Robert Adams
“My name is Milo Morai. I am clanless as a War Chief must be; that way, there’s less chance that he’ll play favorites.”
“I guess you expect me to feel honored that my master is so important a man.” She gave him a hard, cold stare before continuing. “Well, I don’t feel honored. All that I feel is relief. You see, I have some knowledge of your disgusting customs, barbarian. I’m relieved that, clanless as you say you are, you’re the only man to whom I’ll have to submit. At least, I’ll not be the common property of half a hundred of your stinking Kinsmen. You are a strong and handsome man and, for what you are, you seem kind. Perhaps I can come to enjoy coupling with you. Time will tell.”
He shook his head brusquely. “Sorry to disillusion you, but you’re no common Dirtwoman to be taken for slave or bed-warmer. For you, I expect a ransom.”
It was the woman’s turn to shake her head. “There’s no one to ransom me, Master. I, too, have no family; they are all long dead. As for my own wealth, my jewels were the bulk of it, and your raiders have them all now. No, my master, slave-woman or concubine is the only use that Mara of Pohtohmas can ever be to you.”
* * *
“So, you take another female, Friend Milo. For your kind, she is unugly. Perhaps this one will present you with kittens.” The mindspeak wakened Milo and he sat up. A great, gray form loomed at his right. It sat in the classic feline posture, tail curled to cover forepaws. Milo reached out to gently scratch the underside of the lower jaw, between the wicked points of the long cuspids. Venting a rumbling purr, the cat extended his massive head to enable Milo to scratch the throat as well.
“You know how to please, don’t you, Friend Milo?” The thought was clearer now that Milo was awake and they were in physical contact.
“What have you been up to, Horsekiller?” asked Milo silently. “There’s still some blood at the left corner of your mouth, you know. Man blood?”
“Thanks for telling me.” The creature raised one huge paw, licked it, and began to wash his face, while he thought-conversed with Milo.
“No, not your kind, Friend Milo. Understand, I’ve no objection to killing them, but the mere thought of having to actually eat one makes me gag; you wouldn’t believe how awful they taste. No, the cub and I shared a small deer.” He had finished his ablutions, but now extended his big pink tongue again, licking his furry lips in memory of the gastronomic pleasure. “Delicious. The cub killed it.”
“Cub!” The thought was faint with distance. “I’m no cub! You may be Cat Chief and you may be older, but if you insult me so another time, this will be a day of claws.”
“Cub, you are!” thought Horsekiller. “You are barely larger than your mother. Be impudent and you’ll have toothprints on your haunches. I’ve nipped you before and I can do it again. Bear that in mind.”
The thought was closer now, stronger. “You and what clan of two-legs, Mousekiller?”
Aloud, the Cat Chief ripped out a muted snarl. Every horse and mule on the picket line commenced to whinny and pull at the moorings, eyes rolling white.
“Easy, old friend, easy,” thought Milo. “Can’t you see that your son is teasing you? The clanshorses know you, but the others over there don’t. Look what your snarl did. For Sun’s sake, let them know you’ve a full belly, before they stampede.”
Obediently, the big animal stood and slowly strolled toward the picket line, beaming soothing thoughts ahead of him. Milo sensed Steeltooth and others of the clanshorses greeting the wanderer.
The huddled girl had not moved, and, thinking her yet asleep, Milo began to draw on his short boots. However, when he chanced to glance down, he could see that her eyes were wide open and fixed on the massive bulk of the cat, who was now working his way along the picket line, touching noses with each animal unacquainted with him.
“Master,” she whispered, “what is that? It’s as big as . . . as a pony!”
Milo smiled reassuringly, squatted, and patted her grubby hand. “His name, in speech, would be Horsekiller. He’s a prairiecat, Chief of the Cat Clan and an old friend. You’ve not seen him earlier because he and one of his sons have been scouting our rear to determine the numbers, speed, and route of the pursuit. When he’s done mindspeaking the new animals, I’ll introduce you.”
Mara’s brow wrinkled. “I have heard of these prairiecats. Is it true that you barb . . . uhh, nomads can really converse with them?”
“Quite true,” Milo nodded. “He and I were just discussing, among other things, you; he feels that, for a human female, you are not unattractive and will throw healthy kittens. I agree.”
“Naturally.” Horsekiller projected his thought as he ambled back to Milo, picking a path among the sleeping raiders. “Any intelligent creature would agree with me, Friend War Chief. I don’t know what it is to be wrong.”
“Nor,” came the other thought which was now quite near, “what it is to be modest.”
Milo mindspoke. “Horsekiller, can you reach this female’s mind?”
After a moment, the cat replied, “Only the surface, Friend Milo. She has a mind-shield. I’ve touched but one other like it and . . . ahhh, pardon me.” The Cat Chief stalked around Milo to Mara. He licked the little woman’s hand, then crouched and laid his big head in her lap. The cat’s demeanor was one of adoration, nothing less. Milo was shocked; he had never seen the Cat Chief behave so toward any two-leg.
“Friend Milo,” Horsekiller chided him, “you have not yet mounted this female. You should. She wants you to.” He had not personalized the transmission and Mara flushed.
So, thought Milo to himself, she can mindspeak; now I wonder. . . .
But Horsekiller went on. “Ah, you foolish two-legs, sometimes I wonder how I can bear to be around you. You waste so much of your lives. Life should be lived, Friend Milo, not frittered away on trivialities.”
“My, my,” thought Milo, “Horsekiller is become a philosopher in his old age.”
The Cat Chief ignored the sarcasm. “Were you truly wise, Friend Milo, you would push this female onto her belly and sink your teeth into her neck and enter her body and . . . ahhhh . . . there are few things so enjoyable.” The cat sighed. “It is on a plane with crouching in the snow on a crackling cold morning and feeling hot, fragrant blood spurt onto your nose as you tear your first mouthful from a new-killed fawn; or catching delicious little mice on a flower covered prairie under a warm, spring sky; or . . .”
Milo chuckled aloud, then mindspoke. “Horsekiller, you’re a hedonist.”
“He’s a dirty old cat!” announced the third mindspeaker. “All he can think of is eating and making kittens, and then he wonders that I fail to respect him.”
Horsekiller’s ears went back in folds against his brawny neck and smoldering anger purged his mind of sensuality. Prairiecats were every bit as hot-blooded and quick-tempered as the human clansmen, this Milo knew well. And the last thing needed at this juncture was a spitting, squalling cat fight, so Milo quickly interjected, “We’re still in the land of the Blackhairs, with much danger behind and ahead. Horse-killer, as Cat Chief, you know better than to carry family squabbles on a raid.”
Then he turned to the “smaller” cat — the cub weighed over 150 pounds, and his paws, larger even than his sire’s, attested to the fact that he had yet to fill out. “Stop harassing your chief, Swimmer, or you’ll be eating cold beef on herd-guard with your fellow kittens, until your mental maturity matches your physical. Understood?”
“I was only teasing.” The yellow-brown cat sulked. “Can’t I have any fun, Friend War Chief?”
“On a raid? No, definitely not, Swimmer,” Milo affirmed. “Unless you want your pelt pegged out for curing behind some Blackhair’s cabin.”
The young cat shuddered. “Stop, please! I’ll regurgitate all that fine venison. That was an obscene thing to suggest.”
“But true, nonetheless,” put in Horsekiller. “It is said that the king of the Blackhairs has his seat of ruling covered by a large robe made o
f pelts of prairiecats.”
Swimmer shuddered again. “He must be a monster.”
“No, Swimmer, just of another race. Few of his people can communicate with your kind. To them you are just animals — dangerous animals.”
Deeply shaken, the adolescent feline crouched close to Milo, who stroked his head soothingly. “Are two-leg Black-hairs pursuing us, Horsekiller?”
“Yes, Friend Milo, but it will be night before they are near to this place.”
“How many two-legs?”
“As many as a clan — males and females and cubs. Some on horses, some on two-wheels. Far behind them are many clans without horses, but they and the two-wheels are a long run south of this place on the flat-way.”
So, Milo mused, it’s as I thought. The chariots and the infantry are sticking to the road — what was Route 250, six hundred years ago. Even so, it may be a tight race. Laden with the loot and the slaves, we’ll be hard put to outrun the cavalry. What I should do is dump the packs and the women here, but if I did, there’d be hell to pay. The men fought hard and well for this booty and won’t give it up easily.
“Horsekiller, if you leave now, how long will it take you to reach Tribe Camp?”
“One of your time periods, maybe less.”
“Then go. Go fast, both of you. Horsekiller, go to Lord Bili of Esmith. Tell him that I said to ride at once with all his males and as many others as he can gather quickly. Then leave Swimmer to guide them. As for you, gather the Cats — as many as are not on duty — get them battle-armed, and speed back to me. Damn that cavalry! Why couldn’t they have stayed on the road as well?”
3
Clanswomen shall be taught the skills of war, To draw bow and to cast the spear afar; For valiant woman, valiant horse, and valiant man do live and die in honor of their clan.
—From “The Couplets of the Law”
As the two giant cats sped westward, Milo strode among the sleepers, nudging them into wakefulness. Few words were required; the worry on his face said enough. Those who had removed their cuirasses re-donned them, then slapped saddles to horses. Once Steeltooth was saddled and accoutered, Milo assisted with the captured animals. With amazing speed, the little column was again underway, the captives’ wrists lashed to pommel or packsaddle — all, save Mara; for some reason, Milo believed her, didn’t think that she would try to escape.
She rode beside him, astride dead Djimi Kahrtuh’s horse, her long hair stuffed under the late scout’s peaked helmet.
This time they bore southwest toward the road. On it, they would make far better time than cross-country and, now, speed was more important than concealment. It had been a 50-50 chance that all the pursuers would adhere to the road, in which case Milo might have swung wide to the north and missed the pursuit entirely. Dropping to the tail, he urged the riders on. He had lost his gamble, but had no intention of losing more than that.
It had been midday when they struck camp. The sun was low on the horizon when Milo sighted his objective. About three hundred years after what Milo thought of as the Two-Day War, there had been an earthquake of considerable proportions somewhere in the Eastern Ocean. This section of the piedmont, though not visited by the tidal waves which had devastated the seaboard, had been racked by sympathetic quakes. Now a result of this geologic turmoil confronted them—a sixty-foot-high upthrust of earth and rock and ancient asphalt shards, thickly grown with trees and undergrowth. The original path of the road bisected its hundred yard length, and the Sea-invaders had laid their replacement road under its thickly forested southern brow.
Milo waited until his party had rounded it before he halted them.
“Kindred, Blackhair cavalry rides close behind. After them are war-carts and spearmen. Just before we rode again, I sent Horsekiller and Swimmer to fetch help from the tribe, but it will take time for them to reach us. Saving this booty means much to you who fought for it and more to the clans of our Kindred who died. Therefore, some must continue west, while the others of us delay the Blackhairs. Since we will not be enough to fight them sword-to-sword, I shall only take the bow-masters. The others leave your quivers behind. Now, ride!” Milo turned and led his nine bow-masters into the forest that fringed the hill. They had ridden but twenty yards when the pitch abruptly mounted, too steep for the horses. Mentally enjoining their steeds to silence, the nomads dismounted, took their bows and quivers, and started to pick a way to the slope which overlay the road.
Burdened with several extra arrow cases, Milo was about to follow his men, when he heard two riders galloping from the west He quickly nocked a shaft and crouched just below the hill. Careless of the low-hanging branches, Mara clattered into view, close-pursued by one of the booty-guard nomads, his saber out.
Milo stood and Mara leaped from her mount and raced to stand before him.
“What in hell . . . ?” he began.
Flushed and panting, the girl stood with Djimi Kahrtuh’s cased bow in her hand. “Please, Master, let me stay with you. I’m a good archer and I’ve no love for the Ehleenee — Black-hairs, you call them. If I am to be one of your women, let me fight beside you, as clanswomen do. Please allow me to stay.”
“Horses! Many horses near, galloping.” Steeltooth’s thought beamed out.
“Oh, all right,” Milo said in exasperation. “It’s too late to send you back now. Brother.” He addressed the mounted clansman. “Go back to your duty and tell them to ride like the wind!”
Walking over to Mara’s trembling, blowing horse, Milo untied the bundle of Djimi Kahrtuh’s weapons and gear from behind the kak. Fortunately, the nomad had been small, even for his race, and his armor was a fair fit for Mara.
“Can you use a sword, too, woman-of-surprises?”
Mara nodded briskly. “If it becomes necessary, Master.”
So he slung the Kahrtuh-crested baldric over one of her shoulders and the strap of an arrow case over the other. “Give me the bow, Mara. I’ll string it for you.”
She drew back. “I am capable of stringing my own bow, Master, thank you.”
“Then do so, woman, and come on. Leave the case here. You’ll not need it up there.”
Urged on by repeated thought-messages from Steeltooth, he placed his men just in time. He’d only just hunkered down when three scale-armored scouts galloped into view, the setting sun glinting from their lance points and oiled, black beards.
Beside him, Mara whispered, “Kahtahfrahktoee, the Mahvroh Ahloghoh. A Black Horse squadron. Most of them are from the northern lands, only the officers are Ehleenee. They are mercenaries, but hard fighters.”
Milo allowed the scouts to pass his position; the two archers around the hill would take care of them. Sure enough, there was soon a twanging of bowstrings and a strangled half-scream, then silence. Milo was sure that the approaching squadron had not heard any sounds, not above the clatter of their own advance.
Four abreast, they swept around the hill, pressing hard, their black horses well lathered. Behind the first troop was a knot of Ehleenee officers, the gold-washed scales of their hauberks sparkling in the setting sun. As the dark-visaged, flashy group came into effective range, Milo placed a bone-tipped shaft in their leader’s right eye. At this, other bowstrings twanged around him. Mara’s did as well, and, following the shaft, Milo saw it thud into a blue-coated Ehleen’s throat — the girl could handle a bow at that!
Noisy confusion prevailed as the squadron commander and his staff went down. Horses became difficult to control for Milo and two nomads who were also mindtalkers were — even as they nocked, drew, and released, nocked, drew, and released — beaming warnings of imminent agony and death at the cavalry mounts. When both the first and second troops started to take casualties and the nerve-shattering screams of a wounded horse suddenly rent the air, the van wavered, milling uncertainly. Milo prayed to every god he’d ever heard mentioned that they’d break; panic is contagious, and if these two troops were routed, the entire squadron might be swept back with them.
> But such was not to be. The Ehleenee officers might be dead, but at least one effective noncom — always the backbone of any military body — had retained his life and, more importantly, his head. Milo could hear his hoarse bellow rising above the din. He was not shouting Ehleeneekos words, but Southeastern Mehrikan. Milo could understand him easily, as could most of the nomads; the language was not that different from the old Mehrikan of the plains.
“Hol! Hol! Stand firm! Boogluh! Hweanhz the fuggin boogluh?”
All at once a bugle signaled “Fours left.” As it repeated the call, other buglers took it up, and-with or without human guidance — the well-drilled horses executed the indicated maneuver. Before the last of the cavalry had cleared the road, Milo saw a large chunky man wheel his mount and, spurring hard, bear toward the hill at a dead run. Though the plates of his scale-mail were of plain, serviceable iron, his helmet decoration was that of a mercenary sergeant-major — the highest rank which a non-Ehleen could hold in the territories of the Sea-invaders. His scar-seamed, weathered face was clearly visible as, heedless of the feathered death all around him, he bore down on that section of road where his officers had died. The horse galloped in on a wide arc and, a second before he reached his objective, the big man kicked free of his stirrups and slid to the off-side of the thundering animal. With his right leg gripping the underside of the horse, his left knee hooked onto the saddle’s high cantle, and his left hand locked on the forward strap of the double girth; he leaned down to tear the squadron standard from the dead hand which still held it. Throughout the courageous episode, the only arrows which struck the big man bounced harmlessly off the scales of his well-worn hauberk. As the sergeant regained his seat, he turned and flourished the standard at Milo and his men. If there were any three things the nomads appreciated and respected, they were bravery, defiance and horsemanship; they cheered, shouting their approval of this valiant foe. Nothing but honor — for both individual and clan — could come from the killing of such a man!