A Woman of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  Two huge felines strolled over to stand flanking the taller man, communicating silently, mind to mind, even while licking broad tongues absently at bits of meat and spots of blood on their furry muzzles.

  “We, too, are sorry. Uncle Milo. We did not mean to so frighten cat brother Tim Krooguh’s captured female.”

  The tall man just shrugged. “As I just told Tim, what’s now done is done, irrevocable. But it was all my fault, really. not any misdeed of yours. What news from our cat-sister? Do the Dirtmen make to follow us?”

  The average prairiecat could send its thoughts ranging over far more distance than any human telepath could expect to either send or receive; this was but one of the talents that had made the human-feline alliance of the prairiecats and the Horseclans a very valuable one.

  Since first this unique breed of great cats had come to live among the clans some fourscore years agone. they had helped their two-leg “brothers” to either exterminate or absorb the vast majority of other tribes of nomads upon the prairies, plains and high plains, so that now young warriors could be blooded only through means of raiding the permanent settlements of Dirtmen — the despised, alien farmers who had begun several generations ago to encroach upon the prairie here and there, coming from older settlements in the east, the southeast and the northeast to plant colonies, fell trees, erect permanent buildings, burn off the tall grasses, dam or divert streams and bring the dark soil under the merciless sway of their ox-drawn. iron-bladed plows.

  The larger of the two cats — a mature, red-brown male, with a pair of upper canines between three and four inches in length — had seated himself close beside the tall man’s leg. With his long, thick tail curled about to rest upon his widespread forepaws, he commenced to lick his chest fur, mindspeaking the while in answer.

  No, Uncle Milo, Mother-of-killers says that most of the craven Dirtmen are fighting the fires in their great yurts of wood and stone, they and their females and even their cubs. Some few are trying to round up the stock you two-legs drove out and this cat and flopears scattered so thoroughly last night.

  “She wishes to know how much longer she should watch the silly Dirtmen. She says that the noises they constantly make hurt her ears and that the unholy stink of them sickens her.

  The tall man scratched his scalp, beaming his thoughts. “Even if the bastards find our trail quickly, the distance we covered last night will take the likes of them close to two full days to traverse, and by tomorrows dawn, well be back safe in the clan camps. Tell our cat-sister that she can now forget the Dirtmen.”

  Flopears — an immature male of lighter color than Elkbane, the older male, but with big bones and the outsize paws and head which presaged the growth looming just ahead in time — did not have ears that were at all floppy. But the name was an old and most honorable name, and he had been granted it to replace his cub name of Steakbone. It was most unusual to grant a warrior-cat name to a less than mature feline, but Flopears had earned it in full measure the previous year when, barely more than a big, gangly cub, on night herd guard, he had slain three full-grown wolves.

  This youngest cat was the first to notice the signs of returning consciousness in the female Dirtman captive and without order began to beam soothing, formless thoughts into her awakening mind. While so doing, he noted with mild surprise that her mind was that of an incipient mindspeaker, an inexperienced and completely untrained telepath.

  Bettylou Hanson opened her eyes to see the freckled face — even more freckled than her own — of the man who had tied her to the elm tree hovering over her, concern and worry evident upon it and shining from the blue-green eyes under the thick auburn brows.

  Glancing to her left, she could see the bigger, darker, black-haired man squatting between two monstrous long-fanged cats. Although she clearly recalled screaming and then losing consciousness when those two cats had so suddenly leaped into the midst of the camp from out of the woods behind her, she could not now imagine just why she had then been so in fear of them.

  it was like last night; in her mind she once more felt that sense of an utter rightness, of comfort, freedom from any danger, total absence of fear of those men and their cats.

  The bigger man spoke, his words understandable Mehrikan, but with slight differences in accent and pronunciation of words. “What is your name, child?”

  “Bettylou, Honored Elder, Bettylou Hanson,” she replied, rendering him the title automatically, for although he did not appear to be so old as was Elder Claxton, he too radiated that same, silent, unexpressed and inexpressible air of natural leadership. Then she calmly questioned him.

  “Honored Elder, are you all of the heathen rovers? Do you cut off folks’ heads and then eat the bodies?”

  The tall man smiled fleetingly. “We all are Horseclansmen, Bettylou. I am called Milo Morai. While some few of the more southerly clans do take the heads of and mutilate the dead bodies of their foemen — which practices they learned from an even more southerly people, the Mexicans — Clans Krooguh and Skaht do not, and it is their young men who make up this raiding party of mine.

  “Despite all of the half-truths, exaggerations and outright lies that your folk tell of our folk, no one of the clans has yet sunk to cannibalism.”

  He jokingly mindspoke, “Unless members of the Clan of Cats are taking to munching manflesh on the sly . . .?”

  Elkbane beamed aggrievedly, “Please, Uncle Milo, don’t think things so unpleasant, so sickening, so soon after I’ve eaten that cold mutton. If you could only imagine just how foul is the taste of two-leg blood, you could not then be so cruel to your cat-brothers.”

  “But how . . .?” Bettylou half-whispered to herself in consternation. Then, aloud, she asked, “Please, Elder Morai, did . . . could I have struck my head when I fell? Though your lips never moved, I could have . . . I . . . I thought heard you talking somehow to that biggest cat and him answering you!”

  “She is a mindspeaker, Uncle Milo,” put in Flopears, “though I doubt she ever has used that ability before today.”

  Bettylou saw broad smiles appear both on the face of Elder Morai and on that freckled one of the auburn-haired younger man. Then, although his lips were unmoving still, the Elder was once more speaking . . . no, not really speaking. But she could hear no, not really hear, but she knew exactly what he was saying . . . no, thinking.

  “Just so, my child,” came the Elders beaming. “Thoughts are transmitted far faster and much more accurately by this way, that we Horseclansfolk call ‘mindspeak,’ than by oral means. Also, it is the only really effective way of communicating with prairiecats or horses, and there are a few other animals, wild animals, with whom a strong mindspeaker can converse, as well. I sense that you possess powerful but presently quiescent mindspeak abilities, child. Therefore after we all have eaten, Tim and I and a few others will begin to show you how to bring them to the surface, to properly make use of them.”

  By sunup of the next morning, when the returning raiders came in sight of the grazing herds surrounding the two-clan camp, Bettylou Hanson had been mindspoken by all of the raiders, all three of the cats and several of the horses, as well. Moreover, she had discovered to her bubbling delight that she could answer just as silently, so she was feeling safe and comfortable and very much at home among her erstwhile captors even without the reassuring beams of Milo and the cats.

  She still wore her red dress. It was somewhat more faded now from a thorough washing in the brook, but one of the raiders had skillfully mended all of the rips and tears. However, that was no longer her only item of attire; her feet and her lower legs were now protected by a gifted spare pair of Horseclans boots, into which were tucked the legs of a pair of baggy homespun trousers. They were the first breeches of any sort that Bettylou had ever worn, and she was not certain that she liked them, although they were, she easily admitted to herself, invaluable protection from the cutting blades of the tall grasses through which they had had to ride for much of the journey from the dayligh
t camp.

  By way of the lessons in mindspeak, she had learned many things. She had learned that the freckle-faced, auburn-haired man who had captured her and who now claimed her was called Tim, that he was the third-eldest living son of the Tanist of Clan Krooguh. The title had been strange to Bettylou and the explanation of it had been even more singular.

  Tim’s father was the husband of the eldest sister of the present chief of Clan Krooguh, and therefore Tim’s eldest brother would be, by Krooguh Clan custom, the next chief upon the demise of his maternal uncle. Tim’s clan and some others reckoned legal descent through the mother, therefore he was a Krooguh, rather than a Staiklee, his sire’s name.

  She had learned that this was Tim’s second raid, Though he had slain two foemen on his first raid — proven, well-witnessed kills, both of them, one with an arrow, one close on, with the saber — he personally had seized no notable loot, although he had of course shared in that loot apportioned to his clan from the proceeds of the raid. He now was immensely pleased at the good fortune he had enjoyed in capturing her, a comely, young and obviously fertile woman.

  She had earned that Tim Krooguh was only four years her senior, he being not quite of eighteen winters. She had learned that this was about the average age for most of the men of this particular raiding party. When the general friendliness after they had ridden out at sundown had overcome to some extent her awe of Elder Morai, she had asked him his age. With a tinge of dry humor, he had beamed, “Old as the hills, child.” She had not presumed to press him for a more specific answer, just then.

  She was beginning to truly like these strange men, all of them, but especially Tim Krooguh and Elder Morai. Being of an honest nature, therefore, she had tried to make them aware of her Sinful status, of the unholy Evil she harbored, the Sin-tainted seed which had caused her to conceive of Elder Claxton last winter.

  Tim had seemed to not understand or really care, while Elder Morai had just shaken his helmeted head and beamed, “Bettylou, you must understand that you are no longer among the Dirtmen. Horseclansfolk do not adhere to that savage perversion of a religion or make claim to worship so cruel and capricious a god.

  “Tim will wed you by clan rites, if his chief approves of you. And approve of you Dik Krooguh assuredly will, if only because I approve of you. That babe in your belly will be born one of the freest of men and women, a Horseclanner. Although life may be a bit difficult for you at first among us, I can see that you are made of the proper stuff; you’ll rapidly adapt. Soon you’ll be a full-fledged woman of the Horseclans, and you’ll come to really pity those poor creatures among whom you were born and reared.

  “When once your babe is born and is old enough to no longer require constant attendance Tim will take you out to the Clan Krooguh horse herd to introduce you to the senior stallion, who then will conduct you about until you meet a filly you like who likes you. You’ll also be given weapons and taught how to use them properly — saber, spear, dirk, saddle-axe, sling, but especially the Horseclans bow.

  “You will abide in the yurt of Tim’s father Djahn, sharing the communal chores with, your sisters-in-law, such other wives as Tim may take unto himself, any concubines the men of the yurt own or may come to own, and all supervised by Tim’s mother, Lainah.”

  “I will not then be Tim’s only wife, Elder Morai?” she asked. “How many others will there be?”

  Elder Morai had shrugged, beaming. No more than two or three at the time, including you, Bettylou, unless he should become the chief of Clan Krooguh. In that case he might take more wives or a few female slave-concubines. A chief has need of a large household, you see.”

  She wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “But, Elder Morai, Tim says that he never will be chief, rather that his eldest brother will be.”

  Morai frowned. “You must understand Bettylou, we of the Horseclans lead a life that is most often hard, though more often rewarding. And though we live freer than any other race of folk, our lives are fraught with daily dangers, some of them deadly. Men of the Horseclans do the bulk of the fighting, almost all of the raiding and the larger part of the hunting of bigger, more dangerous animals. Therefore, the attrition of male warriors had always been high, and that is the major reason why men take as many wives as they can support or abide and get on them as many babes as Sun and Wind will give them.”

  “Tim has already lost two brothers, One of them drowned as a child while the clan was crossing a river, the other — who was Djahn Staiklee’s firstborn — was slain three years ago while riding a raid. It is easily possible that both of Tim’s remaining brothers will die before their uncle, old Dik Krooguh, in which case Tim would be his successor.”

  “But fear you no loss of status in any future. You will be Tim’s first wife and will always be paramount in his yurt no matter what may befall or however many wives and concubines he may take. And that child now in your belly, if it be a boy and live so long, will be the progenitor of a new sept of Clan Krooguh.”

  Bettylou shook her head and almost spoke aloud before she remembered and caught herself, then beamed, “But Elder Morai, I still find it hard to credit that this Tim Staiklee will so readily accept, father, give his honorable name to the get of another man.”

  “You still don’t understand the Law of Clan Krooguh. child,” Milo replied. “It is a bit complicated if one is not accustomed to the Krooguh variety of matrilineal succession. You see, the first Horseclans all were patrilineal. but a few generations ago, one of the high-plains clans — Clan Danyuhlz, I think it was — lost all of their adult men in some manner or other, including all who possessed direct claim to the chieftainship, and so, rather than see the name of an old and noted clan lost forever, irredeemably, the next tribal council decided that the eldest living son of the late chiefs eldest sister should be chief, taking his mother’s rather than his father’s surname.

  “This emergency measure worked very well for that one clan — so well did it work, in fact, that other clans have adopted variations of it over the years, for many and sundry reasons. The majority of the Horseclans remain patrilineal, but these two clans — Krooguh and Skaht — happen to be of the matrilineal minority; but even in these two clans, only the families of the chief and the tanist are compelled to live under the strictures of matrilineal succession; other septs and families are free to choose between matrilineal and patrilineal, and most choose the latter.

  “But Tim is of the line of chief, Bettylou, and as such will not pass on his name to any of his children. This babe you now carry and all others he may get upon you will bear your surname, Hanson; rather, they and you will be called Hanson of Krooguh, that is, the sept of Hanson of the Clan Krooguh. That will be your name, too, child; for the rest of your life you will be known as Bettiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh.”

  * * *

  Feeling it to be imperative that Bettylou make the best possible initial impression on Chief Dik of Krooguh and the other Horseclansfolk. Milo and Tim Krooguh conferred in mindspeak and came to the agreement that until the night of the feast that would mark the successful return of the raiders, Tim’s captive woman should be lodged in the home of Milo. Milo was to continue to coach her in mindspeak, educate her in the mores of her new folk — the Horseclans — have her suitably arrayed and clothed for her presentation at the feast and instruct her in the proper responses and bearing for the simple Horseclans marriage rites.

  Before the circular dwelling that he called home in the Krooguh-Skaht camp, Milo lifted Bettylou down from the saddle of that gelding which once had been the prized hunter of Solomon Claxton. When he had off-saddled both equines and removed the bridle from the gelding, he mindspoke his own warhorse, telling him to return to the horse herd, taking the new animal with him and introducing him to the king horse.

  Through the latticework of laths that made up the sides of the circular dwelling, Bettylou could see that there were three women — two younger, one older — already inside and working at various tasks, though just now all were
looking up and calling welcome to Milo.

  Chapter III

  While the two younger women bustled out, scooped up the two saddles and the other gear and bore them inside the single round room of the dwelling, the older woman, smiling, mindspoke Milo.

  “Stole a Dirtwoman, did you. Uncle Milo? Well, she’s not bad-looking, big-boned, of course, most of that ilk are, many of them run to fat, too, as they get longer in the tooth. But they run to strength, as well, which is a valuable asset in a slave . . . or is she to be a wife, eh, when once she’s dropped her foal?”

  The woman’s grin broadened. “I doubt me not that she’ll be a pleasant ride. But wait, are you certain you’re not bringing disease into your household and the camp? What happened to her hair? Why is her scalp so red?”

  Milo returned the grin, beaming, “Ehstrah, my dear, between you and Gahbee and Ilsah. I have all the female household that I can properly service of nights, and well you know that fact, so don’t think to get me into another marriage at any time soon. Besides, Bettylou Hanson here is not my captive, but rather that of young Tim Krooguh. He means to wed her properly, and it’s up to you and me and the others to take her in hand and see her suitably arrayed and the like to impress old Dik Krooguh and see him approve her as a first wife for his nephew.”

  The older woman wrinkled up her brow and beamed, “But is it wise, Uncle, to allow obvious disease to be bred into one of the Kindred clans?”

  Milo snorted and beamed, “Ehstrah. this poor girl is not diseased. According to their peculiar customs, they shaved off all her hair and stained her scalp red.

  “Now, are we going to just stand here mindspeaking for the rest of the day? I, for one, could do with some food and milk and a bath and some sleep, and I don’t think Bettiloo would be averse to the same.”