Revenge of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  "At any rate, I want you here as soon as possible, you and the troops. Knowing you, you've probably ridden ahead with most of the cavalry. Just how close are you? How much of a force is with you? And how far back is the main body?"

  Beaming, "Just a moment," she threw off the blankets and padded the few steps to the small folding table. Disregarding the night chill which prickled every square inch of her bare skin, she extracted a map from a tooled leather case, unrolled it, and anchoring one end with the watch lantern, pored over it for a few moments. "About sixty-three kaiee, Milo, a little less than forty clanmiles. If I break camp at dawn, I can have my immediate force there by mid-afternoon. I've got only a little over twenty-seven hundred horsemen with me—two thousand kahtahfrahktoee, five hundred lancers, and two hundred of my bodyguard. The rest of the cavalry is with the infantry and the trains, and they're on the Traderoad, maybe two days behind us."

  "Does your map show Morguhn Hall, Aldora?"

  After a brief pause, "Yes, near a tributary to the river we just forded. Roughly nine kaiee north of Morguhnpolis and a little east, perhaps an hour less marching time . . . say we'll be there by early afternoon, then."

  "No, not good enough," Milo retorted. "That still might be too late. Break camp now and be on the march within the hour."

  She protested, "But Milo, both the men and the horses are worn very thin, and many of the cats have had to be mounted. The entire force needs one good night's rest, if they're to be in any decent shape to fight tomorrow."

  "It just can't be helped," he brusquely replied. "I want you here as soon as possible, for we're under siege even now—several thousands of them against a garrison of perhaps a hundred. True, most of the rebels are poorly armed rabble at best, but with the suspicion of Gold's wildcard in the game . . . besides, I doubt your force will have to do any fighting when they get here. The mob we're facing have damn-all discipline and were very nearly routed when we beat off the first attack. Show them two-and-a-half thousand mounted Regulars, and chances are they'll scatter to every point of the compass."

  Grudgingly, she acquiesced. "All right, all right, Milo, we'll march tonight. Can we use the roads?"

  "It doesn't really matter, Aldora. Most of the rebels are here, and so too are most of the loyalists. A small party of Kindred, led by Clan Bard Hail Morguhn is missing, but I've scant hope for them."

  "It will have to be the Gafnee Drill, I suppose. Individuals or groups will be considered hostile until definitely proven to be friendly. Any who refuse to surrender immediately are to be slain. When you're within my far-speak range, let me know. Questions?"

  "Yes. Should I send a galloper to the main column? Do you want them to force their marches as well?"

  "It might not be a bad idea," he assented. "Tell Lukos to secure Kehnooryos Deskati—since it's the home city of that bastard Myros, it's probably rotten to the core with this rebellion. He's to kill or lock up everyone with even a soupson of authority. As for those damned priests, it might be well if they all die while trying to escape. Then he's to camp there until sent for."

  Aldora was an old campaigner and wasted no time. While she was donning her thick, soft cotton undergarments, she mindspoke the two squadron commanders of her kahtahfrahktoee (Bili would have called such troops "dragoons"), the Sub-keeleeohstos of the lancers, and the captain of her bodyguard. While still she was lacing leather shirt to leather-faced canvas breeches, bugles commenced to blare. Then two of her horse archers entered the tent. Without a word, one began to repack her saddlebags and roll her blankets, while the other assisted her into boots and cuirass. He cinched the dirk belt with its depending skirt of mail round her slender waist, then thrust the heavy dirk into its frog, buckled the brassarts about her upper arms and the shoulder pieces above them. When the palettes protecting her armpits were in place, he deftly arranged the long ebon hair into two thick braids and lapped them over the crown of her small head, Horseclans-fashion, to provide helmet padding. Once her neck and throat were wound with several thicknesses of absorbent cotton cloth, a gorget of Pitzburk was buckled on.

  She drew on her gold-stitched gauntlets while the spearman was adjusting her wide baldric from which was suspended her ancient Horseclans saber.

  Then the archer spoke his first words. "Which helm, my Lady?"

  She shrugged. "The Cat, I suppose."

  The first archer was securing the last of her gear to her charger's saddle as she strode from her tent. She was barely in that saddle before the tent had been struck. Thirty minutes after the cessation of the far-speak conversation, her squadrons were on the move, light cavalry and Prairie Cats screening van and flanks.

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  Arrived upon the walls, Bili did not wonder that Komees Djeen had called out the garrison, for all the watch fires down by the creek were blazing, throwing clouds of red, winking sparks high into the black moonless sky. Countless dark forms scurried in and out of the rings of firelight, while a medley of shouts, the roll of drums, neighs of horses, ceaseless hammerings, and the occasional creakings of ungreased axles all blended into waves of sound which rolled up the hill and lapped against the walls.

  When Bili joined the Komees and Captain Raikuh atop the corner tower closest to the enemy camp, the old man shook his helmeted head. "I don't know now. Possibly I erred in taking you all from your food, but when those bastards started milling about like flies on a dung-heap, my first thought was that somehow or other that mob had been persuaded to launch a night assault, but they appear to be making no efforts to form up, so . . ."

  "Ho, Chief Bili," Hwahltuh Sanderz clambered up to the aerie, armed with dirk, saber, light axe, hornbow, and no less than three cases of arrows. Grinning happily he said, "My kin are all in the places Sub-chief Djeen said was best. Now when do we fight? Will it be soon, Kinsman?"

  The old Komees frowned and shrugged. "Maybe yes, maybe no, Chief Hwahltuh. All we can be certain of is that something unusual is going on down there. It can't be the arrival of the rebels' siege train, for their engines—such as the slapdash, jury-built contraptions are—rolled in at twilight, along with their tents and baggage. I'll tell you all, it sounds to me like reinforcements coming into camp, which would also account for all the hubbub round about the commander's pavilion."

  "But where, my Lords," asked Captain Raikuh, "would Lord Myros get more troops? Not in this Duchy certainly. Now were this the Middle Kingdoms, any one or more of your neighbor lords could well be bringing his men in to augment whichever side offered the most in the way of land or loot, but . . ."

  "Your pardon, Captain," Bili interrupted. "There's but one way to find out the truth of what's causing the rebels to so bestir themselves, when they should be licking their wounds and getting ready to die tomorrow."

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  "Now, hold!" snapped Komees Djeen. "I agree, a sortie may be just the thing, especially if we can capture an officer or priest alive. But I'll not see you leading that sortie, Thoheeks Bili! If that's what you had in mind, think you you've not yet fully recovered from your wounds of that affray at the bridge. Besides, you're Chief now. It's not your place to lead attacks. You're the clan's strategist, to use army terminology; the Tahneest and the Sub-chiefs are the tacticians. Tahneest Djehf may not own your skill with that overgrown axe you fancy, but he's a stark warrior for all that, and he's a sound head on his shoulders. I've conversed with him—I know!"

  Bili's left hand, gripping his sword hilt, was the only visible strain in his demeanor; its knuckles shone white as snow. However, when he spoke his voice was controlled, though steely-cold as a drawn blade. "Komees Djeen, I've deferred to your wisdom and experience in most aspects of warfare, as should all men here, for your knowledge of combats and sieges and weapons is truly encyclopedic. But if you think that on your word alone I'm going to climb up on the shelf and allow my brother or other men to do my fighting for me, you have seriously misjudged both my mettle and your own importance!"<
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  Hwahltuh Sanderz laid his hand on Bili's rigid forearm. "Kinsman Chief, your words make my heart warm. From what I had seen riding through the lands south of here, I had thought that courage and honor and love of fighting had been bred out of all the eastern Kindred. But in you, I see I was mistaken. You eat Dirtman food and you wash too much, true, but for all that you live to the Law."

  Then the wiry little Chief turned to the Komees, saying reprovingly, "Sub-chief Djeen, you give shameful advice to your Chief. He is Chief and son of a Chief. As such, his duty under The Law is to lead his clan, while your duty under The Law is to follow him. The Couplets of The Law say:

  For it is meet the old should teach the young,

  Of how the bow be drawn, the saber swung.

  "You are far older than Chief Bili, even older than am I. So why is it that you needs must be instructed in your proper duty?"

  Komees Djeen gritted his teeth, painfully swallowing the rejoinder he would have loved to but dared not make. These wild Horseclansmen were well known both for inordinate pride and the quick tempers of stud bulls. One wrong word from him, he knew, and the feisty little bastard's steel would be out and the fat would be in the fire for fair. So he chose his words, framing his answer with exacting care.

  "Chief Hwahltuh, the Law which was given the Sacred Ancestors by the Undying God Milo was formulated centuries ago for a race of man. They were for long the very salvation of that race. But, Chief Hwahltuh, they were drafted to fit the needs of a specific lifestyle. Clan Morguhn and the other forty-one clans trekked and fought their way to the sea under that Law. Their swords and their Courage and the Law sustained them through thousands of kaiee of hostile country, filled with savage beasts and bloodthirsty peoples."

  "But look about you, Chief Hwahltuh, the descendants of those Horseclansmen are no longer nomads. They still breed horses and cattle, sheep and goats, some still mindspeak and hunt game, but they have adapted to a settled way of life. They have interbred with the Ehleenoee, who were the previous lords of these lands, with mountain folk and with men and women from the northern principalities."

  "Over the generations since the Coming of the Horseclans, we are become a different race from those whose swords hacked their marks of ownership onto duchies such as this one. As we changed racially, so too did our laws and our customs. They had to, else we would have remained but a host of barbarians, squatting amidst the charred ruins of a once-civilized land."

  "The number of these changes of the Law is legion, but the change which here affects us is this: Our Clan Chief is expected to be ruler, administrator, judge. It is thought good for him to be an experienced warrior, aggressive and unafraid to see blood spilled or to have swords drawn when such be necessary, and to know warfare well. But it is frowned upon, and highly unusual, for a Chief to lead into actual combat, for the loss of a good Chief would be crushing. So while the Chief plans the movements of his forces, it is the function of the Tahneest to see that those plans are carried out—it is almost the only function of the Clan Tahneest, in our society."

  "Bili has been Chief for less than a day, Chief Hwahltuh. Further, for the last ten years he dwelt in a distant and alien land. That he now recalls as much as he does of our laws and customs is in itself amazing and indicative of his rare mental abilities and the priceless value of his Chieftainship in years to come. I feel sure that he will prove the best Morguhn of Morguhn within memory, if I and the others can keep him alive."

  "Now Bili's uncle, who was Tahneest under his father, is dead, murdered by those would-be soldiers down there. Djehf Morguhn, who as Bili's oldest brother is now Tahneest, lacks our Bili's phenomenal memory, so remembers less than he. Under these conditions, it should be the function of Clan Bard Hail to cleave to the new Chief's side, instructing and counseling him until he is conversant with all aspects of his new position, but I fear that poor Hail too has gone to Wind, so the Clan Bard's task is fallen upon Komees Hari, Vahrohnos Spiros, and me, who are the senior Sub-chiefs."

  "Chief Hwahltuh, Chief Bili's youthful impetuosity must be curbed, and the sooner the better. For a Chief who is ruled by his emotions, rather than by law and custom and considered judgment, is dangerous to the well-being of his clan!"

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  They left by way of rope ladders, down one of the darkest sections of wall, all except the two Cats, who simply jumped to them, piddling-fifteen feet. Djehf and Pawl Raikuh led a dozen hardboiled Freefighters, while Chief Hwahltuh and Sub-chief Mak Sanderz headed six of their best bowmen, Komees Djeen having flatly refused to permit any more of the valuable Horseclans archers to be risked—and Hwahltuh's temper be damned.

  Several minutes later, Milo landed on the balls of his feet, his knees flexed to absorb the impact. After a deliberate roll, he came to a stop beside Whitetip, who had preceded him down the slope. In his own ears, the muted clashing of his armor had sounded loud as an alarm bell, but so tumultuous was the hurrah from the siege lines, that he doubted any had remarked upon his noise.

  Gliding into a patch of more Stygian darkness, he stood up and brushed at the ankle-length, black cassock which covered his armor. Dropping his helm but retaining the steel skullcap, he donned a flat-crowned, brimless hat of fine black felt. He gingerly patted and tugged at the false beard—full and black and square-cut—to see that it had not loosened during his descent from Morguhn Hall. After another pat to be sure that the jeweled, pectoral cross of Skiros/Gold still hung from his neck, he again crouched and trotted down toward the camp, paced by Whitetip.

  They halted just beyond the light of a watch fire and Milo rapidly took in the scene spread before him. Far to his left, perhaps a hundred yards away, lay the pavilions of the officers and priests with several scores of figures clustered about the largest. Some of these figures held horses, some stood in groups talking earnestly, some scurried to and fro. Just as a party emerged from the big pavilion, Milo's attention was distracted by happenings nearer to hand.

  A huge wagon, drawn by two span of brawny white mules, trundled into the circle of red yellow light, conveyance and draft animals still wet and muddy from the ford. Two bawling, whip-wielding horsemen preceded it, mercilessly clearing a right of way by dint of pain and curses. Four mounted sub-priests flanked the high-wheeled cart, a full priest drove the team, and a big man in the rich robes of a Kooreeos bestrode a fine, white-stockinged chestnut behind. On this last cleric's broad chest, the firelight was reflected in the jewels of a cross identical to that now worn by Milo.

  Absently, the High Lord fingered the cross, and under a finger, one of the jewels sank smoothly into its setting. The cross commenced a low, persistent buzzing then, and from its right arm, a rounded plastic cone popped out to dangle from a slender wire.

  The mounted Kooreeos suddenly raised his cross to his lips, at the same time placing his right hand to his ear. His bearded lips moved and from a seemingly vast distance Milo heard a tinny voice, though he could make out no words.

  Wonderingly, he brought his own big cross near his mouth. A tentative pull at the cone caused a bit more wire to emerge, just enough to allow him to insert the cone in his ear.

  ". . . dy? Where in hell are you?" The voice came in clearly. "These damned transceivers never have worked consistently. Those five-thumbed apes that Dumb-dumb Bob May has in Electronics Engineering—I doubt if any one of them can wipe their butts properly! Goldy? Goldy, can you hear me?"

  Slurring his words, Milo answered, "Loud and clear."

  "Have they still got you chained up in that cellar, Goldy?" demanded the voice, adding, "There's some sort of distortion in my reception, you sound odd."

  Milo thought fast, then slurred his transmission even more. "No, ish not your shet. Get hit in mouf. Shwollen."

  "Sadistic bastards!" snarled the other. "Well, we'll have you out of there soon, Goldy, just hold on. I've brought enough impact bombs to level a city, much less that molehill up there!"

  ——«»——«»——
«»——

  Face still puffy and discolored from the beating cheerfully given him by the bodyguards of Vahrohnos Myros, a spike-bearded man Bili would have recognized as the enemy leader at the bridge fight sat in a small, ill-equipped tent with a couple of his subordinates, circulating a skin of inferior wine. Their minuscule condotta of professionals constituted the only reliable troops in the "army" and said professionals knew it, even if their employers affected to not know.

  During the months that the three officers, their sergeants, and men had devoted to almost uniformly vain attempts to make soldiers of rabble, they had come to hate their students almost as much as they despised their mealy-mouthed, penny-pinching employers. Now all of them—the officers in the sole tent they had been allowed, and the sergeants and men squatting about the fires—were softly chortling over various aspects of the late afternoon's abortive assault and trading gallows-humorous speculations on exactly what would transpire when next their "comrades in arms" could be beaten or chivvied up the hill to once more face the tough little band within Morguhn Hall.

  "If I thought for even one moment—" the captain moved his lips as little as possible and his words hissed through the void created by the recent loss of a couple of front teeth. "—that those feisty bastards up there stood even an outside chance of winning, of holding off this stinking mob . . ."

  The younger of the two lieutenants slowly nodded. "I think that most of us feel just that way too. The Thoheeks is all man and he commands men. We're here surrounded by a vast herd of rooting swine!"

  "We'll be smart not to talk what all we feels," put in the older lieutenant brusquely. "How do we know who's a-listnin'? And I sure lord don't wanta be the one as is caught plottin' against the Vahrohnos! 'Sides, the reinforcements what come in tonight and the others what'll be here t'morra from Thoheekseen Vawn, they all knows what it is to win, so they'll really fight. And the half a hunnerd the Thoheeks is got jest ain't enough to hol' thet place aginst no real assault."