by Robert Adams
“South of here by seven or eight days’ ride,” he had told the chiefs and subchiefs when he asked for young men to ride the raid with him. “The harvest is just in, and do we want a fresh supply of grain and beans, now is the time to strike and that is the place, for you can rest assured that any new attempt at the place from which Tim Krooguh got his wife so soon after would result in a certain battle with those very peculiar Dirtmen and possible injuries or deaths, even, for some of the raiders.”
Chief Skaht shook his head dubiously. “Uncle Milo, no man here doubts your wisdom and war skills, but as I recall, that pack of Dirtmen are tough, some of them really war-trained. We — Clan Skaht, that is — raided them years agone, when I was a younker of some sixteen winters, and though we did drive them out of their place, take loot and burn part of that place, we lost near half our warriors in so doing, and it has taken this many years to again become a sizable clan.”
Milo frowned. “Yes, I’ve been told of that raid and its bitter consequences, years ago, by some of the men who led it. They owned their biggest error was in riding a raid with a friendly but non-Kindred warband, who attacked precipitately and long before all was in readiness for the planned attack. They also held that there just were too many of them for the task, too many to be adequately controlled. Also, they had but one prairiecat, and he was killed early on.
“I, on the other hand, intend to take only the best of the young, but blooded, warriors, enough cats to do the job and enough horses to allow for a speedy escape from the wrath of however many Dirtmen are left when we’re done.”
“Who will you be wanting for subchiefs?” demanded Chief Skaht, that being his way of announcing that he was dropping his understandable objections of the mounting of the raid.
In deference to his ill health, the council had been held in Chief Dik Krooguh’s yurt, and, immediately all the rest had departed, the ailing man shuffled his way over to the tanist yurt to tell his sister of all that had so recently transpired.
At the conclusion of the recountal, Chief Dik said, “He wanted, would have taken, all of my sons and Dikee and Tim, as well. But I said no.
“Our Djahnee has gone riding off hunting with your husband, and that’s bad enough. I’ve had a worrisome foreboding about that since they all left; Djahn is a fine fellow, a tough fighter, a splendid bowman and all that, but any who know him well will also know that he — like every Staiklee man — has a tendency to be reckless on occasion. As if that were not bad enough, he has on more than one hunt done downright dangerous things and gotten some men who tried to emulate him hurt, since few other men own his lightning-fast reflexes. I’ve already lost two boys I’d chosen to succeed me as chief; I don’t like the thought of losing another.
“Worse, I like even less the possibility of the loss of all your Sons and the chaos chat that would breed in the Clan Council upon my demise, so I allowed Chief Morai to take only Dikee on his raid. Tim will stay here as surety that come what may, there will be one living legal heir to the chieftaincy of Clan Krooguh.”
Chapter VI
Chief Dik Krooguhs looming presentiment was well founded, tragically well founded. The hunting party came back early, fast and with precious little game. There was one fewer rider to return than had gone out, too. Young Djahnee — or his lifeless husk, at least — returned stiff, roped onto the back of his horse.
No one saw Djahn Staiklee’s face as he rode into camp, halted before the yurt he called home and dismounted, then commenced the task of untying his eldest son’s corpse from the trailing horse could doubt the depth and severity of his grief. So no one attempted oral or telepathic communication until he had freed and lifted down the heavy, awkward burden.
Then, many hands took over the task of bearing the body to the bath area for cleansing. Other men, of both clans, hitched horses to carts, collected axes and mounted other horses before setting out to the nearest wooded area to collect fuel for a pyre.
Bettylou expected the very worst when Staiklee came face to face with his wife, Lainuh, but she was surprised. Cognizant of the sincerity of the man’s grief and suffering, the sister of the chief was the very soul of consideration and comfort to the returned hunter, quietly ordering others to unsaddle his mounts and bring in all gear that belonged in her yurt.
When he had been relieved of his gear and outer clothing, had had his riding boots replaced with the felt boots worn in camp, when he had been seated in his accustomed place and had been offered herb tea and milk (both of which he drank) and a bowl of curds (which he refused), he finally told the sad, simple tale of tragedy and death. He opened his mind that all capable of such might share in his memories.
The scouting cats had spotted a herd of those herbivores that Horseclansfolk called smaller screwhorns. These creatures, for all that they stood at most some nine hands at the withers, could easily outdistance a horse for a long enough time to lose themselves in the high grasses to the south, so Djahn had had the best bowmen — himself and young Djahnee included — dismount and take well-separated paths through the shorter grasses and brush to attempt to get within certain bow range of the prized quarry.
That phase of the hunt had been successful. No less than five of the antelopes had been arrowed, two of them shot by Djahn Staiklee. It was not until the diminished herd was tiny with distance that young Djahnee was missed and searched out.
They found him lying on his back in the grass, already dead. A smear of blood on his neck and two tiny puncture wounds just behind the angle of the jaw told the grim story of snakebite.
The tableau also told the tale of bravery unto death. For the boy might have been doctored and saved had he cried out, but that same cry would surely have spooked the antelope herd too, and this the stricken lad would not do . . . not even though he knew full well that his continued silence would cost him his young life.
Tears streaking her lined cheeks, Lainuh withdrew from her husband’s mind and beamed an urgent call to her brother, the chief, and to old Djef Krooguh, the clan bard. The chief must know immediately of the death of his nephew and the bard must know the full extent of the act of lonely heroism of the dead boy, that he might compose the verses for the funeral and add appropriate lines to the Song of Krooguh so that her son’s honorable deeds would be recalled and reverenced by the generations that would follow.
That evening, the woodcutters came back with their carts heaped high, and early the next evening. Djahnee was sent to Wind — a simple ceremony, followed by cremation of the body. Tim was often to remark sadly in later years that they might have better made a larger pyre and waited a few days.
* * *
Actually, it was somewhat longer a period — nearly three weeks — before Milo and his raiders returned, all dusty and exhausted some wounded, but all heavy-laden with assorted loot and wildly exuberant. But not all of them came back from that raid; there were a handful of empty saddles. There was also a litter swung between two mules, and in that litter lay what was left of Dikee Staiklee of Krooguh, barely alive.
When she got her first close look at what the litter bore, Lainuh Krooguh mindspoke Tim, saying. “My son, go at once to your uncle. Tell him to begin with you immediately, for only you now are left to be chief in his stead.”
Turning back to Dikee, she tried to enter his thoughts, but found only the confusion of intense pain and semi-consciousness, and she felt even more strongly that his spirit was upon the very edge of taking flight from his tattered, battered husk.
“What happened?” she demanded of no one in particular.
Milo himself answered tiredly. “The Dirtman village is surrounded with a palisade. We had set afire the gate tower and three others and were battering in the gate with a trimmed treetrunk slung between armored horses, all supposedly ready to rush in immediately the gate sundered or fell.
“Then Dikee and certain others — most of them now either wounded or gone to Wind — took it into their heads to scale an undefended section of palisade and try,
I suppose, to hack their way through to the gate, to open it from inside.
“By the time we got that gate down and cut our way through to where the group had made their stand, only Dikee was still on his feet and swinging his saber. We arrowed down the three men he was just then fighting — grown men and big, Lainuh. in steel armor — then did what little we could for him, and that was little enough.
“I did not, frankly, expect to arrive back here with his spirit still abiding within his flesh. But the few times he spoke or mindspoke, he vowed that he would not die until he had seen you, his wife and his children once more.”
The mother slowly shook her head. “Stubborn and reckless, just like his father. I suppose its as well for the clan that he won’t live to be chief.”
Milo laid his grubby hand on her shoulder. “We all grieve with you, sister mine. But Djahnee is a good young man, and he will make a fine chief for—”
She interrupted, “Our Djahnee is gone to Wind, Chief Milo, Snakebite, while hunting antelope with his father’s party almost a moon ago now. Only young Tim is left to us.
“He will make a good, steady, just chief for Clan Krooguh, Lainuh,” Milo assured her solemnly. “He’s brave enough when push comes to shove, intelligent enough to quickly achieve a measure of wisdom, and he completely lacks that strain of wild recklessness that seems to run through most of the Staiklees. He may well turn out to be the best of all possible successors to Chief Dik. Perhaps that is why Sacred Sun and Wind saw to it that he would be the next chief.”
It was decided in a council of chiefs and subchiefs which was convened the next day that the camp should be moved. There were a number of good and compelling reasons for this choice.
Perhaps the most compelling was the fact that the herds of horses cattle and sheep were perforce moving farther and farther out from the camp perimeters to find sufficient graze; this was dangerous for them and inconvenient for those whose task it was to guard or care for them.
And the camp itself was gradually becoming too spread out as the occupants of each individual yurt sought a fresh location for their dwelling, for all of the fighters to assemble easily in the event of an attack by hostile men.
It were wise, too, that the allied clans seek out some more sheltered spot in which to winter. Their hope was to find a place with a nearby supply of plentiful wood and water, a location with bluffs or high, thick stands of trees to break the force of the wintry winds and retard the buildup of snows too deep for the hoofed ones to scrape away from the grasses beneath.
There was also the possibility that Dirtmen might be on the trail of the raiders Chief Milo of Morai had so successfully led.
“The buggers might feel that they have to fight us again and try to get back the grain and whatnot we lifted off them, are they and their community to survive the winter intact. We Came away with some ton or near to it of wheat, plus several hundredweights of dried beans and Wind alone knows how much shelled corn. There were also casks of edible oils, dried or pickled or preserved fruits and vegetables, some smoked meat, spirits of various sorts and a whole other catalog of nonedible loot.
“Because of the limitations imposed upon us by the wounded and dying members of our party and the exceptionally numerous and heavy loads we had to pack, our return trip was both slower and straighter than I would have preferred. So, yes, I agree that we might well show wisdom to move the camp . . . soon and far and with our best speed. Chief Milo of Morai has spoken.
“Cat brothers,” beamed old Bloody Fangs, the cat chief, “there is also the fact that during our long sojourn hereabouts, we have killed off or scared away most of the game of any real, meaningful size. Such few as remain are far away or scarce or very, very wary. Milk and curds are fine for you two-legs or for kittens or cubs, but a grown cat wants and needs must have fresh meat every day. So, yes, let us move to an area not hunted out. Thus says Bloody Fangs.”
The decision was made and unanimously agreed upon at that meeting. But there was yet another reason for moving the camp, a reason which no one of them would voice in council. They all felt this spot to be unlucky, for no less than nine young men had died while the clans had camped in this spot — six from Clan Krooguh, three from Clan Skaht — and that figure did not even include the old woman who had died in her sleep, the stripling of Clan Skaht who had been tossed and gored to his death by a herd bull, a girl who had inexplicably drowned in a nearby creek and another girl, only a toddler, who had fallen prey to a treecat while foraging in a stretch of forest with others of her clan. So, yes, they all felt deep within them that it was indeed high time to move on to a possibly more salubrious, a luckier place to bide for a while.
Bettylou’s first experience of camp-breaking and packing was memorable, to say the least. Preparation, alone for the breaking of camp took something over a full week.
First, the four ponderous wagons and the seemingly numberless profusion of high-wheeled carts — each yurt seemed to have two or even three carts — were manhandled into camp from the space whereon they had been parked since the first pitching of this camp. Knowledgeable men examined the running gear of each conveyance, replacing any questionable axle or spoke or felly, beam, rod, coupling pole, bolster, axletree, hind hound, kingpin, sand board, hub, and so on. Then the bodies of wagons and carts had to receive identical care of scrutiny and, where necessary, repair or replacement. The wheeled vehicles done to the critical satisfaction of the old men who had supervised every facet of the operations, the men were turned to similar examination of and work upon the yokes and harness for the animals that would draw wagons and carts.
Lainuh had every living soul old enough to reason and walk unaided well organized with assigned tasks, schedules and-deadlines for completion or assigned tasks in and about the yurt. Djahn Staiklee and Tim, were, of course, with the rest of the men and not available for her assignments, and Dahnah’s twelve-year-old son was riding herd guard of nights while undergoing his warrior training of days, and no plea or veiled threat would persuade the subchief in charge to alter the boys schedule so that he might be free to work for her.
“Lainuh, that boy has less than two years left to become a warrior. And the clan stands in need of warriors just now, as you of all people should know.
“He’ll never be better than a middling bowman; he’s just not got the coordination for it. But he’s a fine horseman and promises to be very strong, and I mean to make a lanceman of him, maybe even teach him the finer points of axework. And both of those take time, time and more time.
“So, no, he’s of more and better use to the clan in honing his weapons skills than he could possibly be lugging chests and barrels and the like at your beck.”
Lainuh returned to the yurt in a cold rage, and its other occupants wisely avoided her for a while, knowing of long and often painful experience that a thwarted Lainuh was better left strictly alone until she had had a chance to cool down a bit or at least take the razor edge off her anger, take the murder out of her heart.
It was only two days prior to the announced date of departure that the carts were brought to the yurt for packing. There were two smaller carts and one larger, the larger intended to bear the complete yurt and the two smaller anything else that for whatever reason could not be packed on the back of a horse.
Lainuh ranted and raved almost incessantly until the carts’ arrival, ceaselessly badgering Djahn Staiklee and Tim whenever they stumbled in, half dead with exhaustion for a meal, a bath and change of clothes or a few hours of sleep.
That is, she did so until the evening when her husband, pushed beyond endurance by her tirades, dragged her outside by the hair and soundly thrashed her with a leather strap. This gave those in the yurt an entire night of peace and quiet, most welcome, both of them.
The first scouts returned while the packing of the carts and the wagons were commencing. The route agreed upon had been to strike due west for a week, then to bear southwest until a suitable winter campsite was found. The scouts and
the cats that had accompanied them had reconnoitered the first leg of the proposed migration and were back to report to the chiefs.
The four scouts and two cats met with the three chiefs in the yurt of Chief Milo, that home now stripped to little more than felt walls, wooden supports and a few carpets.
Djaimz Skaht, a middle-aged nomad who had led the scouting party, announced. “There’s no reason why the first fifty or so miles shouldn’t be easy, as we’ll be trekking roughly parallel to any really big rivers, nor could we find any traces of a recent movement of bodies of men, mounted or otherwise.
“It’s a good bit of game on the route we scouted, including a fairly sizable herd of small shaggies we saw on the last day west: they seemed to be heading south or southeast, and had a lot of big screwhorns mixed in with them, There were wolves following that herd, of course.”
“And more than wolves, cat-brothers,” put in Steelclaws, one of the prairiecats. “We cats found traces of at least one of the great bears and two different kinds of cat — the shaggy cat and the smaller, running cat.”
“Shaggy cats? My cat-brother is certain of this?” beamed Milo with clear concern. The so-called “shaggy cats” were no less than the species that long, long ago had been known as African Lions, In the aftermath of the disasters that had nearly extirpated mankind on the face of the earth, many of these and other alien animals then kept in zoos, theme parks and even on private ranches scattered about the North American continent had escaped to freedom and, in the case of lions, at least, had adapted, thrived and multiplied over the intervening centuries, The prides preferred open plains and were mostly found near herds of bison, feral cattle or horses and the native or alien antelopes. trailing after them on their great seasonal migrations to north and south.