A Woman of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  For a month of travel, the deadly mash worked and fermented. Then, a day’s travel away from the communal farm of a group of strange, stern folk whose fortified dwelling place had always been the last stop before entering into nomad territory, Roger and his fifty-five men had slit the throats of the sleeping teamsters, oxmen and wagoners, cut down the personal bodyguards of the Gruenbergers to a man and freed the slaves. Then, while the men amused themselves with their former employers, in a spirit at fairness, they turned over the disarmed former wardresses to the nineteen women for final disposition. When all of the bodies had been deeply buried, the wagons were driven back and forth over the gravesite a few times, then they proceeded on westward. The three tall, multistory buildings of stone and timber and homemade brick, interconnected at several levels, would have been laughable as defensive structures anywhere east of the Great River and, no matter their cranklights, few ancient rifles and encircling stockade of half-peeled logs, would quickly have fallen to any determined assault of well-led troops. But here on the Sea of Grass, where the only enemies to be expected were hit-and-run horse-nomads, the structure had proved quite sufficient as a fortress-home to the six generations of farmers it had sheltered, having come through more than one attack by raiders from out on the prairies.

  Neither Roger nor his swordsmen had ever felt really comfortable around the grim-faced, hidehound. self-righteous inhabitants of the fortified farm, hut Gruenberger had stopped every year to turn a profit in trade. The farmers sometimes paid in hard money — mostly, ancient silver coins — but more usually traded grain and dried beans for such esoteric items as yellow brimstone and pigs of lead, in addition to the more mundane needles, threads, pigs of iron and the occasional bolt of white or black or brown broadcloth, or a new nailheader.

  On the other hand, their five seasons on the prairies and plains had bred in Roger and all of his force a liking and a deep admiration and respect for the Horseclansfolk — the sworn and bitter enemies of those who dwelt in the so-called Abode of the Righteous. The customs and the way of life of these nomads made good sense to Roger and appealed to him and the pitiful remnant of his condotta.

  It had been their original intention, this decided out of the general parlay held over the gory corpses of Gruenberger and his crew, to continue on westward until they chanced onto a Horseclans clan or two, trade off their late and unlamented employer’s goods for livestock and tents, marry into the clans and become themselves Horseclansmen.

  “But there,” raged Roger to himself, “is another good plan buried in the shit by chancing to be in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time! Damn the wormy, misbegotten guts of that sanctimonious old child-butchering lurker of an Elder Claxton, anyway!”

  Roger took a long, thougtful draft of the late Dick Gruenberger’s best-quality honey wine from the dead trader’s own heavy chased-silver cup, reflecting, “Well, at least I could swear a fucking Sword Oath that me and mine had naught to do with the foul murders of those poor little lads. We’ve all been brought low, true enough, but we won’t never he that fucking lowdown! That treacherous volley was loosed long before me and my boys was anywhere near within bow range.

  “There was no fucking need to kill them anyhow, not as outnumbered as they were, and a passel of grown men against less than a dozen children, at that. But that pious fucking fool Claxton is so terrified of Horseclansfolk of any size or sex or age that his very ball-less fucking terror and this senseless fucking reaction to it has dropped us all — every man jack — into the shit, nose-deep, by Steel!”

  The old soldier grimaced at a particularly unpleasant memory. “And whatall them fucking farmers done to them dead boys’ pitiful little corpses . . . the shit-eating bastards! Hell, we didn’t do things like that to them Gruenbergers, and everybody knows they plumb deserved such if anybody does.

  “When the Horseclansfolks see those bodies, they’re sure to go plumb crazy-mad, and I, for one, can’t say I blame them one damn bit. Except, where we all are, they’re likely to take that mad out on us too, along of the ones what earned it.”

  Suddenly. Roger was jolted from his dismal imagery of falling under the dripping sabers of blood-mad Horseclansmen by one of the troopers he had sent to share the guard of the captured nomad boy.

  “Cap’n Roger, you better for to come quick, Them fuckin’ psalm-shouters is jest set to murder thet pore li’l younker. Guy and his sword is all that’s stoppin’ the cocksuckers, right now . . .”

  During the course of their shared run up the length of the second-level porch, the trooper shouted out the gist of the tale above the hollow booming thuds of their heavy jackboots on the boards.

  Roger suffered only an inconsequential stab in his left forearm during, his eyeblink-quick disarming of Tim Krooguh. Then, bouncing the blood-tacky little dagger on one horny palm, he openly mocked the enraged farmers.

  “You poor, fucking. God-ridden, ball-less substitutes for men, you! I told you all this morning that this boy is my prisoner — mine, Captain-of-dragoons Roger Gorman’s! Had you heeded me at that time, you’d still have your balls, a good deal more of your blood and” — he grinned derisively at the sobbing, gasping, moaning Micah Claxton, whose blood-slimy jawteeth were clearly visible between the lips of the cheek slash — “your girlish beauty.

  “Did you suppose yourselves to be dealing with one of your own browbeaten, dispirited spawn, eh? That boy in there is bred of a hundred generations of fighters, and with nary a hair on his chin yet, he’s more a man than any one of you here, who proclaim yourselves as such. I’ll wager my horse and sword that he has more fucking sand in his craw than the whole hagridden nest of you fucking religious maniacs!”

  “But . . . but how could he have gotten that knife, unless a . . . a demon sent by his father, Satan. brought it to him? He was searched and disarmed, and the door is the only way to enter, and it was solidly locked and barred and guarded by your two men and two of us.” This speech came from the lips of Jeremiah Herbert through teeth clenched against the pain of his slashed-to-the-bone hand.

  The trooper, Guy, laughed and slapped his thigh in mirth. while Roger snorted disdainfully. “Half-wit fucking amateurs! You had off his belt, and when you found no knives hung down his back or under his sleeves or strapped to his legs or sticking out of his boottops, you figured you’d stripped him of all his weapons, right? Then the more fools, you!”

  Roger look the needle tip of the little dagger between callused fingertips and held it up before their eyes, saying, “Did no one of you hopeless fucking shitheads even think of having off that boy’s boots and seeing if perchance a flat. slender blade or two might be sewn between the layers of felt? Of course not! Your sole talents lie in the directions of psalm-shouting, plow-pushing, and shit-shoveling, and you’d all be fucking wise to remember that the next time you feel the itch to play at soldiering.

  “Now, I’m placing a half-squad to guard this boy, and my orders to them will be to spill out the fucking guts of anybody as tries to get at him without me being with that anybody. Now you sorry fucking pack of arseholes just go tell your fucking Elder that, hear?”

  But immediately the bleeding, limping, sobbing, much-chastened farmers were out of earshot. Roger turned to Guy and the other troopers, saying, “We’ll post a half-squad up here, right enough. But as soon as it’s dark, you two take that boy down and chain him in one of the slave wagons. Make sure he has plenty of water, a slop bucket and some hay bails, and a bedroll. Get him some cooked meal and some cheese and milk, too, if you can I doubt that he’d know what the bread and greens these people seem to subsist on is for.

  “Guy, you’re now a sergeant and your sole duty is to care for and guard the nomad boy. lake as many men as you need to guard him round the clock, no less than a half-squad at any time, strung bows and bared steel.

  “If this mess gets worse — and I am of the considered opinion that it will, and damned soon, at that — the lad may well be the condotta’s safe passage out of
it all. And I don’t trust this Elder Claxton and his pack of murderous bible-thumpers any further than I could heave a fucking full-grown draft ox.”

  * * *

  “But where do you think to ride, Mother?” Hwahlis Hansuhn of Krooguh demanded exasperatedly.

  “To the high plains, if necessary. To the lands of frozen earth. To the deserts. Wherever I must ride to find real men. Men who can still recall the old ways, the ancient Horseclans customs passed down to the Kindred from the Sacred Ancestors. Men who still think more of the sacred honor of their clans than they do of their own fleabitten hides,” Behtiloo snapped, while she tied the last knots holding the load on her single packhorse,

  Activities throughout the clan camp had ground to a virtual standstill. Those of the warriors who had returned with Chief Sami were among the throng of clansfolk watching and listening, all red-faced or staring at the dust, as shamed by her scornful words as by their chief’s decision in the matter,

  “But, Mother,” Hwahlis remonstrated, shaking his graying head, “you were there. You saw that fence of tall logs. Horses could not pass between them, so we would have to go in on foot, in the face of more than twoscore steel-scale bowmen and Wind alone knows how many Dirtmen. Every single warrior of Clan Krooguh might die without accomplishing —”

  “Tell that to the spilled blood of your murdered kin,” said Behtiloo coldly. “Your dead father and I once took great pride in you and your brother and in Sami, our grandson. My dear, honorable Tim would have known what had to be done in this instance, and he would have spit upon you and Buhd and Sami for your cravenness.”

  “Mother,” Hwahlis remonstrated with as much patience as he still could exercise, “you know that more than half the warriors and most of the mature cats are still camped about and scouting the environs of Three-House. Two-thirds of the cattle of those Dirtmen now are with or soon will be with our own herds, and some of their sheep and horses. Too.

  “We’ve slain or taken every man who ventured out from the place and will continue to do so, since they’ve refused to trade us Tim for any of their own folk or beasts. So would you have us fire the place and roast your great-grandson alive along with his captors, then?”

  Behtiloo paused with one foot in the stirrup, her corded old hands set upon pommel and cantle. “No, creature-I-once-called-my-son, I’d have you all stand up on your hind legs like the men you’re supposed to be . . . but you obviously have quite forgotten how to do so.”

  The old woman spoke not another word, though her blue eyes flashed the cold fire of contempt. Once in the saddle, she mindspoke her mare, the packhorse and the prairiecat, Blackback, and the little group moved slowly the length of the camp, the throng parting before her. She rode west.

  Chapter XV

  Hot and furious words had flown between Elder Elijah Claxton and Captain-of-dragoons Roger Gorman in the blood-red wake of Tim Krooguh’s assaults upon the farmer-guards, The Elder had demanded instant delivery of the Horseclans boy, at the same time announcing his intention of seeing the “Devil’s spawn” slowly whipped to death for the edification of his, the Elder’s. “flock.”

  The captains refusal had been flat, unequivocal and most obscenely worded, whereupon the wild-eyed old man had ordered the assembled farmers to take the boy by force. This very unwise order had resulted in several more wounded farmers and one dead one. It also had resulted in Roger and his men seizing anything they considered a weapon, including the precious, irreplaceable rifles, to forestall any recurrences.

  But even with his teeth drawn, Elder Elijah Claxton still growled ferociously, demanding that all of the easterners forthwith quit the Abode of the Chosen of God. That had been just a short time before the Elder was made aware that an unknown — but, presumably quite large — number of Horse-clansmen had already run off most of the pastured cattle and sheep captured or slain the herdsmen and some hunters who had had the had luck to be out at the wrong time, and were offering to trade their captives and booty for their little kinsman.

  Had Claxton begged, or even politely requested, that the boy be exchanged then and them, Roger would probably have complied, since such would have gone far toward defusing a definitely explosive situation. But on the Elder’s arrogant demand that the boy be at once taken out and exchanged for men Roger did not know, did not want to know and cared for about as much as for so many dried-out horse buns, the old soldiers hackles rose and he replied in a firm negative.

  He took great pleasure in adding to the refusal a bluntly worded suggestion that the venerable Elder Elijah Claxton publicly perform upon himself a physiologically impossible sexual act. At this, the raging old man ordered his god to strike down Captain Gorman with a bolt of lightning, and, when this event did not immediately occur, he fell on the ground in a raving, foaming-mouthed fit; so Roger had him fettered and thrown into the other slave wagon.

  From that day, Roger and his force were in command, easily exercising undisputed control of the besieged Abode, everyone and everything within it. Having learned a bloody lesson at the hands of the hard-faced professional soldiers and bereft of the guidance of their hereditary leader, the sullen farmers did as they were told.

  However, on that first day, by the time Roger was ready to take out the boy and, he hoped, have a meeting with the chief, the small knot of mounted Horseclansmen was nowhere to be seen. Nor had any of the farmers he had driven out at swordpoint to find the nomad warriors — not wishing to risk the lives of any of his own troopers or officers — ever yet returned.

  Some half a moon after Behtiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh had departed the clan camp, an excited herdboy on a lathered horse came pounding through camp and up to the chief yurt, flung himself from out of his saddle and ran up the steps. Moments later, Chief Sami and his subchiefs were saddling quickly available horses, mindcalling others and bawling for their gear. Mounted and arrayed in their showy best, they all rode out headed west.

  “And so,” said Chief Gil Kabuht of Kabuht, his crookedly healed nose affecting his speech adversely, “when we had heard the old lady out, we all agreed that there was naught for it but to ride. My son’s second wife is a Krooguh, as you know, and there still are pledges of marriage between our two clans, of course, and blood has always been thicker than water.

  “Now, true, Clan Kabuht is not so large and wealthy as is Clan Krooguh, but then Clan Danyuhlz, Clan Esmith and Clan Morguhn are here, too; they came immediately, they had heard the old lady’s tale, so we number near sixscore sabers among us all. Nor will there be a limit on the time we can stay. Brother Sami, for our clans march only two or three days behind us. So treat us here to a good old-fashioned feast of fine fat Dirtman beef and mutton, then let’s get busy at putting paid to the former owners of that meat, hey?”

  During the very night of that feast, a Kambuhl clansman rode a trembling, heaving, foam-streaked horse into the Krooguh camp to announce that Chief Bili Kambuhl of Kambuhl had been visited by Chiefs-widow Behtiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh and was even now on the march with all the warriors of the main clan, plus those of no less than three septs. The messenger, who was every bit as spent as his nearly foundered horse, estimated that Clan Kambuhl would be arrived from the north in two days or less and opined that Chief Bili just might be a wee bit put out should the party start before he and his clansmen came.

  “Now how in hell could Grandmother be in two places at the same time?” Chief Sami demanded to know. “How could she appeal to you Kambuhls and to the Danyuhlzes, Kabuhts, Morguhns and the Esmiths separately and all within only a few days?”

  The Kambuhl clansman shook his head slowly, tiredly. “I only do the bidding of my chief, Chief Sami. Ask your questions of him; he’ll be here soon enough, I’ll warrant.”

  But before even the vanguard of the Kambuhls could appear on the horizon, up from the south, driving their skinny herds before them, came Clans Linszee and Sanderz. Between both clans, they numbered only forty-six warriors; nonetheless, they were true descendants of the Sacred A
ncestors and were fairly burning to avenge the blood of murdered Kindred.

  Sami Krooguh brought most of his own warriors back to his clan camp for a much-needed rest and continued the encirclement of Three-House with the fresh and eager men of the other clans, all under the nominal command of war-wise Hwahlis Hansuhn of Krooguh, with such other chiefs and subchiefs as happened to be there to assist him.

  With so many sabers and bows now behind them, Hwahlis, Buhd and the rest saw that the lines were drawn tighter, though the men of the assembled clans rapidly learned deepest respect for the droning projectiles thrown by the smoke-lances that could maim or slay a man or a horse at half a mile or more.

  By day, the nomad warriors wormed their way in on their bellies, close enough to fire the fields of ripening grain. Twice in the first week after the reinforcement of Clan Krooguh, soot-blackened men on dark-colored horses swept in close enough on moonless or cloudy nights to loose flight after deadly flight of arrows to sweep the tiers of long porches and stockade platforms of the sentinels who manned them.

  On other nights, Horseclan drums throbbed and boomed, bagpipes droned and wailed, hunting horns blatted, men shouted at intervals and screeched clan warcries, while the prairiecats raised their hideous, unearthly, yowling screams from sundown until dawn. And at any moment, by day or by night, a single fire arrow could be expected to arc up from some sheltered point to thud into one of the palisade logs, the gates or over the stockade palings and in among the parked wagons.