Revenge of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  All at the high table had arisen. Bili caught Lieutenant Krahndahl's eye and gestured at the armor rack which held his scarred Pitzburk. "Please help me to arm, Krahndahl." Then he turned back to the table and its group.

  "Chief Hwahltuh, you and your clansmen will report to my Sub-chief, Komees Djeen. He commands the walls and will place you all where your bows will do the most good." The wiry little man nodded once, slapped on his helm, and stepped briskly toward the door, mindcalling his kinsmen.

  Bili strode down the length of the table to where Ahlee and Klairuhnz, having despaired of locating a cuirass big enough, were buckling an outsize brigandine, a pair of greaves, and a set of old-fashioned armlets over the powerfully convex chest and the rolling-muscled limbs of Cousin Komos.

  "Kinsman Klairuhnz, you know that I well know your value as a warrior, so I beg you not take offense at the post I would have you fill. I had intended said post for Kinsman Vaskos, he being wounded, ere I was informed of his training and skills in use of engines, of which our garrison owns little enough. I charge you with the magazines, the dungeons, and their occupants. Two of our older serving men will assist you. Should our foes enter the hall itself, you must strongly secure the cellar entry, slay every prisoner, and set fire the stores. Do you understand?"

  At the Bard's curt nod, he turned to Komos. "Cousin, you are not trained to arms, but Sun has granted you great strength. Therefore, report you to Kinsman Vaskos and say that you are to help serve the engines. I doubt that a sixty-pound boulder will be any unchancy burden for your thews."

  "Master Ahlee, summon your people and take your place on the walls."

  He continued to issue crisp orders. Ahnah Morguhn was set to supervising those women and girls who were stoking the fires under great cauldrons of oil, water, and iron trays of sand in the outer courtyard. Mother Mahrnee took charge of a half-dozen more women, putting them to fetching and heading arrows, while Mother Behrnees formed a similar group to melt lead and cast sling bullets.

  Within ten minutes of the lieutenant's entry, the dining hall lay deserted.

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  Klairuhnz unlocked the heavy door, stepped into the tiny cell, and thrust the butt of his torch into the wall bracket. Kooreeos Skiros awkwardly struggled to a sitting posture, his movements painfully hampered by the weight and placement of his iron fetters and chains. His black silken robes were dust stained and his hair and beard were matted; but his black eyes still shot out their message of defiance and bottomless hatred.

  Leaning his saber against the wall, well out of the prisoner's reach, the Bard put his back to the door and sank onto his haunches, then thrust a hand under his brigandine and withdrew the weapon he had taken from Skiros. Depression of a stud on one arm of the "club" caused a steel box to slide smoothly out of that arm and plop into his hand. At one end of the box was a fat brass cylinder, flat on one end and dully pointed on the other. He regarded box, cylinder, and "club" for several moments, then slid the box back into place.

  Speaking in the language of the Confederation, he asked, "What is your name? Your real name, that is."

  "All men here know me, heathen." The Kooreeos' deep, rich baritone boomed hollowly in the narrow, high-ceilinged cubicle. "I am Skiros, Kooreeos of . . ."

  "Cut the crap, chum!" Klairuhnz had not spoken the language he now used in many years, except in his dreams, so his speech was slightly halting. Nevertheless, its effect on Skiros was instantaneous. Paling visibly, the cleric recoiled, as if from a buffet.

  But he recovered quite rapidly, replying in Old Ehleeneekos, "I cannot understand you, heathen dog. Try barking in a civilized tongue!"

  The Bard vented a humorless laugh. "Oh, you understand me, right enough, witchman. Just as the late Titus Backstrom understood, as the late Lillian Landor would have understood, as Doctor Manuel Kornblau understands!" He grasped the small "club" by the arm which contained the small box and squinted down the other arm at the prisoner, his thumb pulling back a grooved protrusion of metal with a sharp click.

  "How many of these little toys have you scattered about this Duchy, witchman? Or are they reserved as a last resort for your kind only?"

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd not point that gun at me. It's a twelve-point-five millimeter magnum, you know, one of the Center's developments, and powerful enough to punch through plate armor or stop a charging bison bull. The shock alone would stop the heart of this body, no matter where it was struck." Skiros' manner was relaxed, conversational. His language however, would have been meaningless to anyone in the duchy save his listener, since he spoke a cultured, non-dialectal twentieth-century American English!

  Klairuhnz smiled broadly. "So, Reverend Bishop, you really are a witchman, eh? Now, once again, what's your name?"

  "Gold," the blackbeard answered easily. "William Gold. And you? You must be one of the mutants. Which one, may I ask?"

  The Bard nodded. "Yes, Mr. Gold, you may ask. I'm Milo Moray."

  Gold's eyes widened. "Well I'll be damned! The Undying God of the Horseclans himself. Then I'll not ask why you're here. I'll just assume that Manny was one of the 'lucky ones' who made it to Kehnooryos Atheenahs alive. But, tell me, is he still alive or have you killed him, too?"

  Milo's head bobbed again. "When last I saw him, he lived. Of course, he wasn't any too comfortable. In addition to the alterations which were performed on him in Gafnee, because of his mindshield and his stubbornness—which latter quality I am glad to see you don't share—my persuasion specialists were required to perform some rather extreme exercises upon his body."

  "Damn!" spat Gold. "You're as much a barbarian as the swine you root among!"

  "Barbarism is a survival trait in this world," Milo smiled. "It has been for several hundred years . . . or didn't you ivory-tower boys know? Yes, Father Gold, I am a barbarian, but before you throw any more such epithets my way, be damned sure your own conscience is clean. This Old Time Religion you clowns have dreamed up is far more bloodthirsty and barbaric than anything these people have developed on their own!"

  A hint of his sanctimonious façade crept back into the prisoner's tone. "We are simply striving to reestablish the faith which you so ruthlessly suppressed in the course of the last century, Moray."

  "In a pig's ass!" snapped Milo. "For all that its fat-cat hierarchy were secretly engaged in such little sidelines as slave-trading, whoremongering, and smuggling—not to mention oppressing the humbler Ehleenoee with a quasi-military, quasi-religious masked force of bravos who would have made the sixteenth-century Spanish Garduna look like a troop of Boy Scouts—their religion was basically Eastern-rite Christianity. Yours sounds more like Satanism, what with the carving up of helpless children on your altars, the mixing of their lifeblood with the wine for your so-called Communion, and all the other obscene parodies of worship you engage in."

  The chained man shrugged, his face expressionless. "If a pack of hounds serve you well, you endeavor to keep them contented. Most of our worshipers are well pleased with this kind of religion."

  "I suspect," said Milo wryly, "that those fools are less enchanted by your sanguinary religion than they are by the Utopian promises with which you've been deluding them. Need I ask what the hell you and your fellow ghouls are up to?"

  In lieu of answers, the prisoner abruptly asked, "How old are you, Moray? When were you born, was it before the War?"

  Milo did not need to ask which war, because for the few who had survived it, there could be but the one that three-day holocaust which had irrevocably wrecked the civilization of their world and the worldwide plagues which had almost extirpated all the races of mankind. He shrugged. "I think I was born sometime around the turn of the century . . . the twentieth century, that is. That would put my age at a bit less than nine hundred years. Why?"

  The manacles clanked as Gold steepled his fingers. "That means, Moray, that you were alive at the very apogee of man's culture and scientific achievements. Wouldn't you like to see the ree
stablishment of that culture and most of its appurtenances and civilized comforts?"

  He leaned as far forward as his chains would permit, his black eyes gleaming, his voice now husky with his fervor. "Can't you understand, Moray? We at the J. and R. Kennedy Memorial Center are all that's left of The United States of America. We are simply trying to perform the patriotic duty of any good citizens: to bring about the recovery of our country. Our country, Moray, yours and mine! As it was before the War. Cities—real cities, man—research facilities, laboratories, universities, hospitals, electricity, flush toilets, automobiles, theatres, television, telephones, newspapers. Think of it, Moray!"

  Milo cracked a knuckle aimlessly. "No sale, Gold. I've heard that spiel before from your director, when I spoke with him on the Landor woman's radio a hundred years ago. He told me all about your plans to establish a dictatorship and call it by the name of a long-dead republic. I want no part of such infamy! I warned him at that time to keep his parasites out of my lands. For your sake and for the sakes of those others he sent to trespass and agitate, I'm sorry he chose not to listen to me."

  "I cannot, just cannot understand you, Moray," sighed Gold. "Why on earth are you so antagonistic toward us? We should be allies, should be working together, since we're so much alike, have so much in common."

  Milo's expression became ugly. "I have nothing in common with you, Gold!"

  The prisoner smiled warmly. "Of course you have, my good Moray. After all we are both of us immortal. In that way, at least, you are like me and I am like you."

  A strong shudder coursed the length of Milo's body and utter loathing weighted his voice, reflected on his face as well. "No, Gold, not like me, never like me! I did nothing to bring about my longevity, nor did those who truly are like me. Our differences from ordinary humans are the gifts of Nature. The long lives of you and your ilk could not be less natural! You really deserve the appellation 'witchmen,' you know. Although I think that 'vampires' might be a better term."

  "Yes, you've lived as long as I have, maybe longer, but in those seven or eight hundred years, how many vibrant young bodies have you personally usurped, Gold? In even one hundred years' time, how much human flesh and blood is needed to keep a warped, demonic thing like you alive?"

  "Two, sometimes three transfers are necessary for survival of the mind, barring illness or accident. In the early days, it was a more frequent process, of course; but since we commenced selective breeding for strength, health and longevity . . . and also, we strive to take exceedingly good care of our bodies, Moray."

  "You see, the process of mind displacement and transference is not a pleasant experience. Generally, it requires hours to days of suffering to accomplish, so naturally we don't look forward to repeating it any more often than is absolutely necessary."

  "You're lying, Gold," snapped Milo. "I saw Titus Backstrom effect a transfer within minutes! And God knows how many times Lillian Landor switched back and forth from King Zastros's body to her own. If you're going to start trying to get cute, buster, I might be smart to drug your next meal . . . and keep you semiconscious until I get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs."

  The fetters jangled as the prisoner raised his hands conciliatorily. "Wait just wait a minute, Moray, you don't fully comprehend."

  Milo, on the point of arising, settled back against the door. "Okay, so tell me, Reverend Father."

  Gold held out his arms, painfully working back the wide iron cuffs to expose the raw, bleeding flesh beneath. "First of all, Moray, why don't you take these things off me. Can't you see what they're doing to this body? Tetanus can kill just as surely as a sword, and I could tell you damned little if I contract lockjaw. I'll not try to escape, you have my word on it. Besides, you have my pistol."

  Milo's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "As it happens, I can't. The castellan has the keys and he's on the walls. But even if I could, I wouldn't. You see, I've had sufficient experience with your kind to recognize just how slippery you are. As for your word, I'd not trust you any farther than I could throw my warhorse!"

  The prisoner grinned ruefully. "Well, I did try. But it doesn't really matter. I'll be free soon enough. Do you think your fellow mutants would trade Manny—assuming that he is still alive—for you?"

  "Anything is possible, Gold," Milo chuckled. "But aren't you counting your chickens before they're hatched? I've seen weaker fortifications than these, manned by less well armed and less experienced fighters, stand off forces far superior to that ragtag horde of cannon fodder you and the Vahrohnos Myros have scraped up for your little Djeehahd. I'll be charitable and say only that they are not first-class troops . . . or second-, or even third-. Their only assault so far was smashed a full fifty yards from the walls, and nothing the officers and priests could do or say persuaded them to mount another, so they've gone into camp."

  "Saddled with amateur officers and without you to harangue them into a religious frenzy, your troops are impotent against this stout little garrison. No, your peasant crusaders will be good for no more than one more full-scale assault. Then the bulk of the survivors will desert and the diehards will hole up in Morguhnpolis or, possibly, Deskati. Whichever city they choose, the Confederation siege train will have its gates down and its walls breached in short order."

  Gold threw back his head and chortled merrily. "Not quite, my good Moray, not quite! Now it is you who are counting chickens. The walls of this pitiful dung-heap will be flat to the ground and its gates blown to smithereens before noon tomorrow, and there's not a damned thing you can do to prevent it either! And don't hold your breath until your precious Confederation Army gets here, for we've not been letting a living soul out of this Duchy for weeks, so you couldn't have gotten any message to them . . . not without a radio, anyway."

  Milo replaced the pistol under his brigandine, stood erect, and locked his saber into the frog of his baldric. "You obviously know far less than you think you do about me and my people, Gold. When I get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs, we'll resume our little chat, unless a streak of stubbornness arises, in which case I'll see that you make the acquaintance of the artisans who cured the mulishness of your friend Manny."

  He jerked the torch from the bracket and left the dank cell, slamming the heavy door and securing the thick bar in place, leaving Gold alone in the unrelieved darkness.

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  Under the travel-stained canvas of an officer-model campaign tent, on a narrow folding cot, lay a woman. She was strikingly lovely, with the red-gold flame of the watch-lantern casting highlights throughout the glossy mane of blue-black hair which framed her fine-boned face. Her lips were full and dark-red, and although her long, sooty lashes lay upon her light olive cheeks and the proud swell of her firm breasts rose and fell rhythmically, she was not sleeping.

  On the far-speak level of her infinitely complex and highly trained mind, she asked, "Where have you been? I knew not but that you'd drowned or smothered. If the men and cats and horses hadn't been so done in, we'd have marched on tonight. I thought you said you'd contact me at least once each day."

  "Sorry, Aldora, but it couldn't be helped," beamed Milo's thought. "You know my far-speak won't range more than ten or twelve miles, even under optimum conditions. So without the use of Major Ahndros' fine mind . . ."

  The woman's thought then became halting and tinged with pain. "Ahndee? He . . . he's dead, then? So . . . so young and vital and . . . and sweet."

  "No, Aldora, not dead, not yet, but according to Master Ahlee, it's still touch-and-go. There was a nasty little skirmish the evening I last spoke with you. He wasn't really hurt too badly, but he went into shock before Ahlee got to him and the good doctor is now afraid to let him stay conscious for very long at one time."

  "Whom are we speaking through then?" she inquired. "The handsome, young heir to old Hwahruhn you mentioned? He truly does have far-speak, then?"

  "Bili is now Thoheeks, my dear. Hwahruhn is gone to Wind. And I feel sure he has
much, much more than just far-speak. Even without training, he may well be a very valuable man, though I've had no chance to make certain. You see," he went on, "a great deal has happened here in a very short time; things are moving much faster than we'd anticipated, much faster than they'd been planned to go, unless that bastard, Kornblau, misled us . . . and there's always that possibility. Actually, I'm contacting you through the mind of one of the Sanderz Sept Prairie Cats, Whitetip."

  "Thank Sun and Wind!" Aldora mindspoke vociferously. "There's been too much inbreeding in recent years and more and more kittens are being born dead or retarded or crippled. And breeding in Treecats just isn't the answer. Oh, sweet Sun be praised, not only new blood, but far-speak blood at that!"

  Milo's exasperation was transmitted with his thought. "That's all very well, Aldora, but it will wait, there are other matters which will not! First of all, I managed to take one of the witchmen alive. Tell Mara that he says his name is William Gold and that he was working under the name of Kooreeos Skiros. I want her to learn as much as she can about him from Kornblau, especially whether or not he customarily works with a partner. I need that information quickly too."

  "Second, Gold appears to have some deviltry up his sleeve. I took a pistol—you know what that is, remember I described it to you once—away from him and who knows what else he has in circulation around here. In fact, I think that he was hinting that this hall was going to be reduced with explosives tomorrow!"

  Beneath her warm blankets, Aldora's shapely body shuddered. "Sun grant not, Milo! What you have told me of those ancient terrors sounds horrible beyond imagining . . . and what the Song of Prophecy tells of that long-ago time, the gods' monstrous death arrows, which obliterated whole, huge cities in fire and invisible death . . ."

  "Now don't panic, girl!" Milo reproved. "I hardly think the whoresons would go so far as to use nuclear weapons, not with one or more of their own well within range and unprotected. But as I've often said before, I don't want to see the ancient technology reintroduced. I want this new world to develop its own."