The Coming Of The Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  “Many of the people of our age were soft, Backstrom. I, too, was soft — once. But I’m not soft anymore! Furthermore, I despise you and everything for which you stand. Because of my extensive experiences, I believe myself capable of keeping this body alive for a long, long time — as long as it takes to get some answers from you at least. Because of the fact that you are a despicable creature, I shall probably enjoy what I’m going to do to you, enjoy it so much, in fact, that I may find it difficult to make myself stop, even when you start to talk.

  “Therefore, I implore you — for your own sake or, at least, for the sake of this body which houses you — to reconsider your previous, somewhat temerarious, reply.”

  “Up you!” Titos/Titus sneered. Then he spat at Milo.

  23

  When the spear blade was hot enough — when it glowed a pale-pink, held away from the fire — Milo had four of the wiry chiefs hold the prisoner rigid, while another removed the bloody bandages from the deep gash in the thigh. Then the war chief wrapped a scrap of wet hide around the blade’s tang, turned, grasping the nearly white-hot metal, and walked over to the man on the torture-frame.

  Titos/Titus’ wide eyes never left Milo as, without another word, he clapped the hot blade onto the area of the wound! Had it not been for the lashings securing ankles and wrists, the four chiefs could never have held the prisoner. Grimly, they hung on, half-deafened by the screams which tore from between Titos’ writhing lips, or splattered by the mucus which gushed from the tormented man’s nostrils.

  Milo held the iron in place for the space of five heartbeats, then removed it and, without even looking at his victim, walked back over to the fire and thrust the blade back into the embers. Fishing another bit of hide from the water bucket, he selected another spear blade and holding it before him, went back to confront the sobbing, gasping, shuddering captive.

  “Well, Mr. Backstrom,” he said conversationally, “now you are aware that I mean business. May I say that I have seldom done a better job of wound-cauterization. But, medical matters aside, where would you prefer me to apply this iron? The left eye, perhaps?” As the blushing blade-tip approached his face, the prisoner, moaning in horror, bent his head back and back, screwing his eyelids tight-shut. That was the moment that Milo chose to lay the red-hot blade in his subject’s hairy arm-pit, a maneuver which evoked a very satisfactory response from said subject.

  For nearly two hours, Milo and the chiefs and Lord Alexandros and Djeen Mai kept up the grisly task. Between screams, Titus/Titos sobbed prayers and curses, the like of which Milo had not heard in more than half a thousand years. At length, just before midnight, the broken, blackened, bloody thing indicated its willingness to answer Milo’s question and the war chief had it cut down from the charred frame.

  Milo hunkered beside the wreckage that had been called Titos and poured a trickle of wine down the screamed-raw throat. Then, setting the wine cup down between them, said, “All right, you parasitic bastard, talk What were you up to, anyway, in taking over Lord Alexandros? It appeared you were either trying to get him killed or precipitate a pitched battle between his people and my tribe. Or, could it have been both?”

  Milo had to strain to hear the hoarsely gasped answer.

  “Either would’ve . . . been ac . . . acceptable, both better,” came the reply from betwixt the Titos thing’s chewed, charred lips. “Water . . . or . . . or wine? Please . . . ?”

  Milo picked up the cup, holding it before Titos’ remaining eye. “When you tell me this, you mental leech, why. Who put you up to it? The so-called High Lord?”

  “No, not De . . . metrios. ’S part of . . . plan. Th’ directors were . . . ’fraid Lord Alexandros . . . unite bar . . . barbarian indigenes ’n Greeks, b’fore we ready. Maybe even Black Kingdom, too . . . make one . . . whole Atlantic Coast . . . dangerous f’ us. Then . . . found out you mu . . . mutant, from twentieth cen . . . tury. Had to . . . move fast . . . c’d’n fool you. Y’d know . . . science, not witch . . . craft. No time . . . lay groundwork . . . communicate, ’bout you . . . get help. Drink? Pl . . . please?”

  Milo bent and lifted the hairless, mutilated head and held the cup so Titos might drink. He allowed the tortured hulk two swallows, then took the cup away.

  “Okay, Backstrom, next question. Who are you?”

  Titos’ one-eyed gaze shifted. “You . . . you know . . . a’ready. ’M Titus Backstrom.”

  Milo drew his dirk, found one of Titos’ fingers that still retained a fingernail, and jammed the dirk-point far under said nail. When, after a while, Titos’ last moans had subsided, the war chief remarked, “Don’t get cute with me, you son-of-a-bitch! It would only take one word from me to have you back up on that goddamn frame, you know. And the next time around, I won’t take you down so soon. I’ll give you another swallow of wine. Then I’ll ask the question again. One more facetious remark, and you’ll spend the next few hours where and how you spent the last two. Get me?”

  Driving his blood-tipped dirk into the ground, he once more lifted Titos’ head and allowed him two more swallows. “Who are you, Backstrom? Whom do you represent? Where are these ‘directors’ and of what are they directors?”

  “Titus Backstrom . . . really m’ name, Doctor of Science . . . psychologist. Was Research Assistant . . . AMIR Project J & R Kennedy Science Center. Project never really stopped . . . went underground. Shelters . . . whole Center . . . fallout . . . lived through it. D’veloped vaccines . . . fight plagues . . . pigmentation viruses, too. Kept Center area sealed . . . years . . . finally let ’nough outsiders in . . . form breeding stock . . . new bodies, f’ minds worth saving . . . scientists, others . . . chosen by directors.”

  Milo gave the wreckage another drink and continued his interrogation.

  “Now, then, the sixty-four-dollar question, Backstrom. What are you damned vampires up to down there? You said you weren’t ready yet. Ready for what?”

  Before Titos could answer, there was the thunder of pounding hoofs and six nomad riders burst into the space before the war chief’s lodge. All were bleeding, their armor hacked and shattered. Three were leading horses; on one, an ashy faced warrior reeled in the saddle to which his comrades had lashed him. Another of the horses bore a tied-on, dead clansman; the third, the arrow-bristling corpse of a prairie-cat.

  Their leader, a sub-chief of Clan Pahtuhr, had lost his helmet. Half his scalp flapped with his movements and that side of his head and neck and face were crusty with dried blood. A soggy red rag was tied around his right biceps, the ends of it knotted to the cut stump of arrow-shaft protruding from the arm. He slid from the saddle of his foam-flecked mount, took one step, and pitched onto his face, to lie unmoving.

  Gentle hands lifted the stricken sub-chief and others, equally gently, assisted his companions from their saddles and unhorsed the bodies. After a great quaff of wine, the sub-chief insisted that he be taken to the war chief. Hearing, Milo came to the wounded man, beckoning Lord Alexandros and Djeen Mai to accompany him.

  “It is obvious, Tribe-brother, that you and your clansmen have fought hard,” Milo said gravely. “But, then, never were warriors of Pahtuhr craven or lacking of honor. What are your words for me, man of valor?”

  Despite his weakness and the pain of his wounds, the subchief smiled and glowed at the praise. “We were many hours’ ride north and east of the river that the Dirtmen name Suthahnah, when we came upon strange Ironshirts, all as fair as the Kindred. As there were but less than a score, I decided to take one as captive, that it might be known how many they were and from whence, for they were as no Ironshirts I have seen. We ambushed them and slew most with arrows, but, as we rode off with their chief, who was only wounded, more came upon us. Hard pressed we were — fighting more than three score Ironshirts — but the brave cat-brother was far-ranging and heard and came to smite the Ironshirts from their rear. He panicked their horses and slew at least two men. In the confusion we fled. Though they did not pursue, they shot many arrows after us an
d one such killed our captive. I am sorry, War Chief, but as all of us were wounded, it would have been certain death to go back for another.”

  Lord Alexandros knelt on the other side of the nomad and laid a hand on the breastplate of the man’s shattered cuirass. “Any could see that you and your brave companions did your best. Tell me, what colors did they wear?”

  The nomad shook his head. “Again, am I sorry, Chief Alexandros. It is hard to distinguish colors by moonlight and . . .”

  The old lord patted the nomad’s shoulder. “Never mind,” he soothed. “You said the captive was killed. What of his horse?”

  Djeen Mai strode over to lead back the spent horse from which the dead cat had been unloaded. The animal’s saddle was covered with the skin of a lynx — the fur now crusty-brown with blood of man and blood of cat — and the saddlecloth was of a dark shade of green, its scalloped edges worked with black thread and silver wire.

  At sight of the horse-trappings, both Lord Alexandros and Djeen Mai swore sulphurously and Mai burst out. “King Mahrtuhn of Kuhmbrulun by damn! So the eater of dung couldn’t keep out of it! I wonder if he’s hired out to Demetrios or just come to scavenge what he can? The latter sounds more like him, but . . . What think you, my lord?”

  “I think it’s an old game he’s playing, Djeen.” The strahteegos smiled tiredly. “He is as much aware as we of Demetrios’ weakness. It’s been advantageous to him to have a weak High Lord, one disinclined to warfare. The last thing he wants to see is someone like myself on the throne of Kehnooryos Ehlas; but I don’t believe him to be in Demetrios’ pay. For one thing, he knows he’d play merry hell in collecting — in coin, anyway. For another, even a thing like Demetrios is, after all, an Ehleen and, as such, I don’t believe he would willingly ally himself with any of the barbarian principalities or kingdoms.

  “No, I think Mahrtuhn is playing himself a little game of ‘king-maker.’ He’ll wait until we attack the city, then he’ll attack us in the rear with an overwhelming force. When we’ve been cracked between his army and Demetrios’, he’ll extort some kind of settlement from the perverted child-bugger. Those will be the kinglet’s actions, if we allow his plans to mature.”

  Milo was about to interject a question, when the mental communication entered his mind.

  “Now, you’ll not hurt this body anymore, you goddamn mutant bastard. Your day will come, you sonofabitch, heed me well. When we’re ready, your day wi—”

  “Backstrom!” Milo shouted suddenly in alarm, furiously thrusting his way through the press of men.

  By that time, of course, it was already too late. Somehow, despite broken bones and mangled, hideously maimed hands, the Titos/Titus thing had managed to pull Milo’s dirk out of the ground and thrust the weapon’s wide, sharp blade deep into its own throat, just under the jawbone’s angle.

  * * *

  Lord Alexandros ordered his troops back to their camp to get as much rest as they could for what remained of the night. Ahead of them went a galloper, whose mission was that of fetching back the heeroorgos — surgeon — and his assistants and wagon to tend and care for the members of the patrol. Milo offered blood-price for the slain bugler, but both the strahteegos and Djeen Mai brusquely refused to accept it. They did accept, however, the War Chiefs offer to cremate the dead soldier on the same pyre which was to bear the bodies of Pahtuhr clansmen and the dead cat. The body that Titus Backstrom had inhabited was dragged a few hundred yards and dumped in a patch of woods — an unexpected feast for the animals of the night.

  And, while the scavengers gorged themselves, Milo and the Council of Chiefs and Lord Alexandros and his staff sat in conference until the first light of the sun was paling the eastern horizon, and it was time to break camp and recommence the march. Results of that conference were not long in coming. By the time camp was pitched the next night, mixed patrols of nomads and kahtahfrahktoee had already garnered three prisoners. Two were mercenaries, natives of the Kingdom of Eeree, north and west of Kuhmbrulun, who proved only too happy to transfer their allegiance to the redoubtable Lord Alexandros (after all, they had already collected King Mahrtuhn’s coin) and impart all that they knew of the barbarian kinglet’s projected strategy. The third was an entirely different case. Captain Beem was a nobleman, third son of the Count of Frahstburk. He was twenty-eight years old and, though a bit dull-witted, honest as the day is long, honorable and not in the least craven. He had only been taken alive because the sling stone which had deeply indented his helmet had failed to crack the skull beneath, and this capture was a source of chagrin to him.

  At Captain Beem’s courteous but, nonetheless, flat refusal to impart them an iota of information regarding his liege, King Mahrtuhn, or aught concerning him or his army, one of the chiefs suggested that they build a fire and construct a torture frame. Lord Alexandros shook his head. “That man possesses every bit the courage that you and your people do. You might take him apart, bit by bit, and — ere he allowed the agonies you inflicted to render him false to his word — he’d bite out his own tongue and spit it in your faces! I know his breed of old; they are honorable and worthy opponents.”

  So, they drugged his wine and Milo-through Horse-killer-entered his mind. This exercise filled all the gaps in the information which the mercenaries had supplied. It was quite evident that Lord Alexandros did not entirely approve so dishonorable a method of obtaining intelligence, but he and his staff were quick to compile and begin to evaluate it, albeit.

  It seemed that King Mahrtuhn had laid his last ounce of silver on this one throw of the dice. He had virtually stripped his own personal lands and cities — even to the extent of cleaning out prisons and offering amnesty in return for military service in this venture. He had squeezed his vassals as hard as he dared and hired every condotta he could contact.

  Furthermore, he was leading his army — huge to the point of being a bit unwieldy — himself! His heavy and light infantry numbered some five thousands — the heavy being mercenaries and the light being well-equipped, but mostly ill or untrained jail-scrapings and impressed civilians. He had hired eight thousand mercenary dragoons (kahtahfrahktoee to the Ehleenee) and these, with the armed nobles and their personal troops, gave him a force numbering something over sixteen thousand men. In his haste to reach the vicinity of Kehnooryos Atheenahs before Alexandros and the nomads, he had recklessly divided his forces and Milo and the strahteegos immediately came to agreement on a way to give the kinglet cause to regret his rashness. “Divide et Vincit!”

  24

  Count Normun was seething with suppressed anger and felt himself to be much put-upon. It was most unfair, he felt, for his cousin, King Mahrtuhn, to go galloping off and leave him in nominal command of the foot-troops and baggage-train. Realizing that anything vaguely resembling honor or glory or loot would be over and done long before he and his “command” came up, and sulking in consequence, he had allowed the interval — originally about a day’s march — between the head of his column and the tail of the bulk of the cavalry to nearly double. The heads of the drums were covered and the troops sauntered along the roadway at whatever pace suited them. Their pikes were carried slanted at every angle and, as the weather was quite warm, many had removed their helmets and unlaced their brigandines. The lack of any semblance of discipline or order was contagious and was even beginning to spread into the ranks of Captain Looisz Klahrk’s twelve hundred mercenary heavy infantry.

  Count Normun sat slouched in his saddle, one knee crooked around the pommel. He was discussing various aspects of the hunting of deer with Captain Klahrk, who — though the younger son of a younger son and, consequently, landless — was nobly born and spoke the same “language” as his titular commander.

  Although his own hard-bitten troops — despite the best efforts of their brutal but effective noncoms — were commencing to break ranks and straggle in emulation of the light infantry, Klahrk felt little cause for worry. The two columns of cavalry, which had preceded this one, were sure to have
gone through this country like a dose of salts and any living human beings left in their wake were probably still running. Seasoned campaigner that he was, he had taken certain precautions, ordering three tens of the hundred dragoons, originally detailed as baggage-wagon guards, to position at point and flanks, and yet another ten to remain several hundred yards behind the last of the lumbering wagons and the gaggle of camp-followers.

  Captain Klahrk was in the process of regaling Count Normun with the story of an exceptionally exciting shaggy-bull hunt in which he had taken part some years before in the Principality of Redn. All at once, both his horse and the count’s screamed and reared. Klahrk managed to retain his seat, but the count was hurled onto the stones of the roadbed and only his helmet saved him from a fractured skull.

  As Klahrk fought to control his maddened mount, the woods on both sides of the column began to resound the deadly thruuummm of bowstrings and the air was abruptly thick with hard-driven arrows. Twenty-five yards back, a pair of huge-boled trees crashed down on the already disordered infantry, squashing them like bugs. And the arrows continued to ssiisshh their song of death, coming in on a flat trajectory and — seemingly of their own volition — cunningly seeking out every gap of unlaced brigandine, every helmetless head or unprotected throat, skewering arms and legs and faces. No sooner had Klahrk brought his arrowed horse under control, than the poor beast was struck again. At that point, Klahrk gave up, slipped his feet from the stirrups and leaped onto the roadway. There, he drew his sword and, seemingly heedless of the feathered death hissing around him, commenced to try to whip his troops into a formation of sorts, to repel the cavalry charge which was sure to follow the arrow-storm.