A Cat of Silvery Hue

X

Midsummer was three weeks gone when the vanguard of the Confederation forces passed the cairns marking the Morguhn-Vawn border and trotted southwest along the ascending grade of the traderoad, the force strung out for miles behind them—heavily armed noble cavalry, kahtahfrahktoee, Freefighters, rank upon rank of the various types of infantry, sappers and engineers with their dismantled engines and wagonloads of other equipment, “flesh tailors” or medical personnel and their wagons, then the seemingly endless baggage and supply train, followed by a strong mounted rearguard and flanked by scattered lancers, Freefighters and the Sanderz clansmen. The great cats had all been left in Morguhn, since their value in static warfare was practically nil and their dietary requirements—fresh meat, many pounds per day per cat—would have placed an added burden on an already harried supply service, but Milo had promised them all that when the time for the intaking of Vawnpolis came they would be speedily fetched.

That night’s camp was pitched among the hills of Vawn, centered about what had been the hall of Vahrohnos Hehrbuht Pehree, now looted and empty, but still habitable. In the high-ceilinged dining chamber were gathered the ahrkeethoheeks, the ten thoheeksee, Milo, Aldora and the siegemaster of the Confederation, just down from Kehnooryos Atheenahs.

On the high table about which they stood or sat reposed a huge box of sand containing a representation of Vawnpolis and its immediate environs—the countryside reproduced from army maps and the city layout from the original plans, brought from the capital.

The siegemaster, one Ehdt Gahthwahlt, a Yorkburker veteran of twenty years of campaigning across the length and breadth of the Middle Kingdoms, ere he sold his sword to the High Lord and settled in the Confederation to instruct officers in the arts of siegecraft, had personally constructed the mockup. Scratching at his grizzled, balding head, he said self-deprecatingly, “Of course, noble gentlemen and lady, we were wise to draft but the most superficial plans and stratagems at this time, for, though I followed faithfully the rendering”—he used his pointer to indicate the ceramic miniatures of walls, gates and towers, and the minuscule citadel, from whose highest point jutted a tiny pennon bearing the Ehleen Cross, emblem of the rebels—“the place was founded more than fifty years ago, and cities have a way of changing.”

Thoheeks Skaht raised his winecup. ‘Til drink to that, lord strahteegos. What you have before us could be my very own city of Skahtpolis—as it looks in the old plans and a few paintings. But the city I rule be vastly different.”

“Yes,” nodded Milo. “All the cities of border duchies were laid out from almost the same plan, the one originated by the famous Strahteegos Gabos and refined by others after his time. Even today, border cities are laid out in the same basic manner, allowing for differences in terrain and foemen.”

“At any rate, noble gentlemen and lady,” Gahthwahlt went on, “we may assume that some astute commander, at some time or other, has made compensation for the two most glaring weaknesses in the original defenses.” Again he made use of the pointer. “These two hillocks, either of which would provide perfect mounts for engines to bombard the city or to give deadly effective support to troops storming this low section of wall, have most certainly been either leveled or fortified; and this total absence of advance defenses for the four main gates has without doubt been remedied. Upon their return, our scouts will be able to enlighten us as regards these or other refinements.

“I am reliably informed that, since deep wells were drilled some score of years agone, the stream, which formerly entered under this stretch of the north wall and exited near to the south gate, has been diverted to another bed bypassing the city, and the entry arches have been plugged. Nonetheless, lacking better alternatives, we might consider saps at either place or at both, since it has been my experience that subsurface wall additions or reinforcements be often of inferior materials.”

Bili and most of the other nobles sat rapt. It was not often that a country thoheeks was the recipient of instruction land warfare from one of the High Lord’s picked professionals. But not Thoheeks Hwil of Blue Mountain. After a booming “Harumpf!” to gain attention, he said shortly, almost rudely, “Oh, aye, all this of saps and sieges and sorties is very well if we mean to be here come shearing time. But Sun and Wind, man, we’ve got some thirty thousand men behind our banners, and I doubt me there’s ten thousand fighting men in all of Vawn, unless”—he chuckled at such absurdity—“they’ve managed to pact with the Taishuhns or Frainyuhns or suchlike mountain tribes. So why can we not just ride over the boy-loving bastards, throw enough rock and shafts to keep them pinned down and just go over those damned walls?

Gahthwahlt listened, scratching his scalp, his head cocked to one side. At Bailee’s final question, he nodded. “Ah, noble sir, but you forget the mathematics of the siege. One man behind fortifications, if decently armed and supplied, is the equal of three and one-half men on the attack. However, since Vawnpolis is not on a par with a true burk, its wall originally having been reared to counter nothing more dangerous than a few hundred or thousand barbarian irregulars, I did the calculations for a frontal assault early on.

“My figures were these: maximum defensive force, not over twelve thousand effectives; maximum attacking force, twenty thousand infantry, dismounted nobles and Freefighters, plus a mounted contingent of six thousand nobles and kahtahfrahktoee to enter the city as one or more gates be won; a bombardment of pitchballs and stone and fire-shafts on the night preceding the attack, with the heaviest concentration along the area of the diversionary assault; attacks scheduled for one hour after sunrise—which in my experience means that they should commence before noon, anyway—”

At this, Bili guffawed. His experience with planned assaults had been precisely the same.

“—with a great show of force and intent being massed within sight of the diversionary area, while, at the same time, a token force makes a deliberately weak effort at the primary area to feel out the terrain and defenses, and convince the defenders that this weak attack be the diversion and that the main assault will assuredly be delivered where our forces are clearly massing.

“With the retreat of the token force, the diversionary attack will be launched, covered up to the walls by all the massed engines. When this assault be well underway, most of the engines will either be moved or, in the cases of the heavier ones, will redirect their fire to provide cover for the main assault, which will be delivered at a point lying at a right angle to that of the diversion.

“Barring blunders or calamities, the wall facing the main force should be carried within an hour or less of the initial engagements and the cavalry should be in the streets soon thereafter. There will naturally be some street fighting but the wall towers and the Citadel should be the only additional obstacles to the completion of the intaking. However—”

Broadly beaming, the Dailee slapped both big hands on the tabletop and arose. “Now that, Sir Ehdt, is the kind of plan you should have mentioned at the start! My lord Milo, my lady Aldora, gentlemen, such a venture has Bailee’s endorsement. How say the rest of you?”

Bili shook his shaven poll. “With all due respect, Thoheeks Hwil, frontal assaults, even one so expertly planned as Sir Ehdt’s, are usually quite costly. I think, ere we move to adopt it, we should hear the projected butchers’ bill.”

The siegemaster smiled his thanks to the youngest thoheeks, then continued soberly. “Thoheeks Bili be correct, lady and gentlemen. My calculations indicate that a minimum of ten thousand casualties will be sustained, should we be so rash as to mount the aforementioned attack. This figure includes both killed and wounded, and the largest percentage will be of course amongst the dismounted nobles who lead the two wall assaults—possibly as high a figure as five out of every six.”

“And what duchy,” put in Milo, “can afford to lose so large a proportion of its nobility?”

“Certainly not mine,” nodded the Dailee grimly. “I withdraw my endorsement. And when next I open my impetuous mouth, I give all here leave to stuff a jackboot in it”

The ahrkeethoheeks laughed. “I doubt me there is enough jackboots in all the Confederation to stop that void, Hwilee! But let us hear Sir Ehdt’s other schemes, eh?”

The siegemaster flexed his pointer, rocking back and forth on heels and toes. “The least expensive method, in all save time, is simply to invest the objective and starve out the enemy; but it might well be shearing time or later ere we could do such.

“Another method would depend principally on the rashness and gullibility of their leaders, as well as the acting abilities of our own troops. Under the proper circumstances, we could trick them into one or more sallies in force, thus wearing down their garrison. But I remember Major Vahrohnos Myros as a most cautious man, and I scarce think me he’d succumb to such a temptation.”

Milo remarked, “Oh, I don’t know, Ehdt—he showed some ruinous errors of judgment hi the course of that abortive siege on Morguhn Hall. I said, in the beginning and all along, that I think the man is slowly losing his mind. Such is the principal weakness of geniuses—and I don’t think anyone who knew him well, in his short prime, can deny that he was once a military genius.”

“But,” asked Bili, “how do we know that he is even directing the defense? After all, according to the tale those captured priests tell, he deserted his ragtag army on the night of the sortie, fled back to Morguhnpolis with his bodyguard and that wretched sub-kooreeos. What men would intrust their lives a second time to such a craven?”

Aldora’s voice was soft, but grave. “Oh, no, Bili, Myros is no coward; he can be brave past the point of recklessness. But he is … well, erratic. And he seems to take a perverse pleasure in turning, for no discernible reason, on every ally, of sooner or later betraying every trust. But never, ever, make the mistake of underestimating the bastard’s personal courage, my love, or his abilities, for he is an astute strategist and a crafty tactician.”

“And,” Milo added, “of the few rebellious nobles in Vawnpolis, he has the only trained and experienced military mind. From the reports we received from our agents within Vawnpolis ere the city was sealed, it was certain that the director of the defense was no tyro at siegecraft. And I find it impossible to believe that the Morguhn nobleman, Vahrohneeshos Drehkos Daiviz, who was named as leader in all those reports, could truly have been responsible for such brilliant innovations. But this same Drehkos—”

“Your pardon, my lord Milo,” put in Thoheeks Djak Tahmzuhn, youngest after Bili of the high nobles, “but I recall hearing my late sire speak right often of a Daiviz of Morguhn with whom he soldiered in the Middle Kingdoms some twoscore years agone. If this be him—”

“But it is not the same man, cousin,” Bili answered him. “That man was his elder brother, Hari, the present Komees Daiviz of Morguhn, hereditary Lord of Horse County of my duchy. Drehkos, the rebel, has never been out of the Confederation, seldom even been beyond the borders of the archduchy, and always avoided military experience like the plague. So, as the High Lord said, it were virtually impossible to credit so provincial and untrained a man with all that has been laid at his doorstep.”

“On the other hand,” Milo took up, “it is highly likely that so devious a brain as Myros’ would strike upon the stratagem, since his precipitate flight from Morguhn Hall no doubt cost him the trust and loyalty of the other rebels, of using Drehkos Daiviz—whom we now know to have long been his satellite and his spy among the loyal Kindred of Morguhn—as his public face, the mouth through which his orders come. Therefore we all must proceed, must lay our plans, on the assumption that the commander opposing us is as one of us, that he well knows the strengths and weaknesses of Confederation forces and will conduct his own resources accordingly. However, as he knows us, we also know him, know of his frequently overcautious nature, of his occasional indecisiveness, of his penchant for turnabouts and betrayals, of his vanity and arrogance. Armed with such knowledge, we should be able to almost read the man’s actions long ere they’re performed and, with the services of a master strategist of the water of Sir Ehdt, as well as two such able tacticians as High Lady Aldora and Thoheeks Bili, when once we’re before those walls we should quickly gain the upper hand. This rebellion should be scotched by harvest time.”

In the camp of the Morguhn Freefighters, their numbers swelled both by the additions of the contingents of the Morguhn and Daiviz petty nobles and by Bili’s fresh recruitments, nearly two hundred warriors lazed about their cookfires, bragging, lying, swapping lewd tales, discussing women and weapons and horses and women and past battles and former patrons and women, dicing and doing necessary maintenance on their gear. Within a torchlit area, ten pairs of men clad in weighted brigandines and full-face helms stamped and shouted and swung blunted swords, under the watchful eyes of a scar-faced weapon master, whose hoarse bellows of instruction or reprimand rang even above the din of the mock combats. In a nearby area, more pairs practiced spearwork, while others took turns casting darts or dirks or light axes at man-sized logs or bundles of straw and a group of archers honed their skills on more difficult and tricky targets. As the men tired and went back to quaff watered wine at the firesides, their places and equipment were readily taken by onlookers. For these were all professionals, men whose lives and livings depended upon consummate ability to utilize a variety of weapons, and they would seldom pass up an opportunity to polish their dexterity.

So no one in camp thought it odd that Geros should spend the most of every evening absorbing the rudiments of sword-play and spearfence, gaining increasing accuracy with cast weapons, learning unarmed rough-and-tumble and even borrowing a hornbow on occasion. The shy, timid valet and musician who, in an agony of terror, had accidentally speared two rebels on a darkened Horse County road while fleeing a battle had become in the few short months since a capable, self-assured fighter, who could deliver hard, true blows. Though polite and soft-spoken as ever, there was that in his eyes and bearing which discouraged patronization or the taking of undue liberties even on the part of those newer men who had not yet heard of his deeds and courage. Captain of Freefighters Raikuh, recognizing the potential value of Geros’ clear tenor voice in transmitting orders amid the din of battle, had named him a sergeant, a move approved by all his comrades.

And Sergeant Geros could not recall ever having been so happy as he now was, bathed in the respect of both his peers and his superiors, secure in the knowledge that while his fears would always be with him he could now control them, which is all that true bravery really is.

A few hundred yards away, Geros’ former employer, Vahrohneeskos Ahndros, sat at wine in the tent of Komees Djeen Morguhn, retired strahteegoi of the Confederation Army. Wounded in the ambush and battle at Forest Bridge—which midnight affray most men now considered to have been the initial engagement of the rebellion—he had lain invalided and then recuperating at Morguhn Hall until recently and had just ridden into camp with his contingent.

Standing or squatting within the same tent were most of the noblemen and Freefighter officers of the duchy, and Geros was the present topic of their conversation.

The saturnine young Ahndros shook his head, his dark hair cwaying across his neck and shoulders. “I simply cannot credit it, Uncle Djeen. Personable, affable and obedient Geros had been since first I took him in, and his former employer’s letter attested the same. But he’s only the son of up. per servants and has never had even minimal war training. I sent him back that night because I knew he could not fight and I feared for his safety. And besides, he’s a gentle person and shy almost to the point of timorousness.”

Captain Pawl Raikuh guffawed freely, his military rank combined with his noble birth giving him a near equality with . these relatives of Duke Bili, his employer, while the dangers and battles he had shared with most of them had forged bonds of friendship. ‘Timorous, my lord baronet? Gentle? We cannot be thinking or speaking of the same man. Why not two hours gone, Sergeant Geros was tongue-lashing a Lainzburker near twice his size for having rust specks on his sword and dirk! And the language he was using would’ve burned the ears of a muleskinner! Hardly my interpretation of gentle and shy, my lord.”

“Again I say, this cannot be my Geros, Uncle Djeen. And you say he speared two rebels that night? It must have been pure luck then, for I doubt he knew one end of that wolf-spear from the other.”

“Oh, aye,” grunted the tall, spare, sixtyish nobleman. “Once could have been chance, but when we routed the buggers, your shy Geros took the lead, riding alone and at a full gallop along that damned dark, dangerous road, and sabered every damned rebel he could catch. Scythed them from out their saddles like ripe grain, he did. And he’d no doubt have chased them clear back to whatever rock they crawled from under, had he not lost his seat when his mount took a big fallen treetrunk. But soon as he’d his wind and senses back, he was in the saddle and on the move again. Oh, he’s a gentle and retiring manner, sure enough, Ahndee, which fooled even me, in the beginning, but young Geros is a stout and trusty fighter for all his meekness. And yet you didn’t know? And here I was complimenting myself on how well I’d trained you, Ahndee.”

The road to Vawnpolis wound a serpentine track among the hilly grasslands of Vawn, and in the dry heat of late afternoon the dust haze raised by hooves and wheels and marching feet overlaid every twist and turn of that road from column head to the eastern horizon. It had been a long day’s march, commencing at first light, and men and beasts alike were bone-weary. Horses’ heads drooped and hooves plodded, while their riders slouched, canting weapons to the least tiring angle, many riding with their helms off so their streaming faces might benefit from the hint of cool breeze blowing off the wooded slopes of the western mountains.

Some time earlier, the left flankers had sent word of locating a suitable site for the night’s camp, and now the vanguards, most of the advance flankers and a party of sappers were up ahead, engaged in marking out the cantonment areas of the various units, locating sources of water and preparing for the thousand and one other details which officers and men must perform ere they had earned a few hours’ sleep, wrapped in their scratchy blankets on the hard, stony ground.

Sergeant Geros Lahvoheetos, riding just behind Captain Raikuh and the Freefighter who bore the Red Eagle Banner of the House of Morguhn, felt as though his aching body was being slowly broiled on a spit, but as the captain retained his helm and kept his armor tight-buckled, so too did Geros, and, despite their profane pleas and protests, he saw to it that his two files of troopers did likewise.

Farther back in the Clan Morguhn troop, Lieutenant of Freefighters Krandahl observed the actions of the intense new noncom, deriving no little merriment from the exchanges betwixt Geros and his squad. That one, he chuckled to himself, will be a captain someday, Sword willing!

Between the first and second Freefighter troops led by Bili and two other thoheeksee was a knot of some score and a half of noblemen, some chatting or monotonously cursing, a few smoking their pipes, most rolling pebbles in dry mouths, their shirts and small clothes one soggy mass under their thick, leathern gambesons and three-quarter suits of Pitzburk.

For the umpteenth time, Senior Lieutenant of Freefighters Bohreegabd Hohguhn, leading, under the snarling Blackfoot of the House of Daiviz of Morguhn, the second troop of the Morguhn nobles’ private cavalry, thanked Sword that he had courteously refused the suit of plate that old Komees Hari would have gifted him with at the completion of that business in Horse County. Far better a bit of gold in my belt, he thought, than Miz Hohguhn’s lil’ boy a-meltin’ to death in a damn Pitzburk Steamer, thank y’ kindly.

As the van of the column strung out the length of a relatively straight stretch of road, the brush-drowned slope to either side erupted a deadly sleet of arrows and darts. And while men shouted and died or fought to control wounded, frenzied horses, a yelling double rank of armored horsemen, presenting lances and spears or waving swords and axes, careered down the steep grades to strike both flanks in a ringing flurry of steel and death.

It was obvious that the noblemen were the principal targets of the shrewdly effected ambush, for most of the leading troop had been allowed to pass between the hillsides unscathed and now were milling on the narrow roadway in an attempt to wheel about. Nor was the Freefighters’ broil improved when the enemy archers, who now dared not loose at the center for fear of striking down their own, commenced to range the Red Eagle Troop. The seemingly sentient shafts sought out every bared head, sunk into vitals ill protected by loosened jazerans, pricked horses into a rearing, bucking, screaming chaos. Then the rain of feathered agonies slackened as the bowmen turned their weapons toward the second troop, now rounding the hill at the gallop, steel out, the rampant Golden Blackfoot Banner snapping above the heads of the first files.

With no time to uncase his famous axe, Bili had drawn his broadsword and snapped down his visor in one practiced movement, dropping his riding reins over the knob atop his saddle’s flaring pommel. His stallion, Mahvros, screamed with the joy of challenge and his fine head darted snake-quick to sink big yellow teeth into the neck of the first Vawn steed to come within range. The bitten horse had had no war training and, sidling, bucked its rider off just in time for the man to be ridden down by the second line of attackers.

Roaring from force of long habit, “Up! Up Harzburk!” and, belatedly, “Morguhn! A Morguhn!” Bili rose to stand in his stirrups, gripping the long hilt of his sword in both hands so that its heavy blade cut the head from a lance and then removed the head of its wielder in one figure-eight stroke. For a brief moment he wondered how so large a force had remained undiscovered by both van and flank guards, then his every thought was of dealing and avoiding death and all the world for him became the familiar tumult and kaleidoscope of battle—the earsplitting clash of steel on steel, shock of blows struck and received, blinking cascades of stinging sweat from eyes, trading hacks and parries with briefly appearing and quickly disappearing opponents, screams and shrieks and shouted war cries and the stink of spilled blood combining with those of horse and man sweat, of instinctively shifting his weight to help Mahvros retain his balance on the body-littered road.

Sergeant Geros and Captain Raikuh, closely followed by the standard-bearer and Geros’ squad—not a man of whom was even wounded, thanks to their fastened jazerans and tight-buckled helms—had forced a path to the tail of the chaotic jumble their troop had become, collecting more troopers along the way. Pawl Raikuh, seasoned veteran that he was, took the time to form his survivors up into road-spanning files of six behind him, with Krahndahl, Geros and the big Lainzburker standard-bearer before. Then waving his sword and shouting “Morguhn! Up Morguhn! he led a crashing charge into the melee broiling ahead.

Twenty yards out, the standard-bearer uttered a single sharp cry and reeled back against his cantle, the thick shaft of a war dart wobbling out of an eyesocket. Both Geros and Krahndahl snatched at the dipping banner, but it was Geros’ hand which closed on the ashwood shaft and jerked H free of the dead man’s grasp. And then they were upon the enemy, and Geros could never after recall more than bits and pieces of that gory mosaic. But when someone commenced to furiously shake his left arm and pound a mailed fist on his jazeran, he was shocked to see that his. carefully honed sword-edge was now hacked and dulled and running fresh blood, which had splashed his entire right side and even his horse housing.

“… and rally!” That voice, Captain Raikuh’s it was, shouting in his ear. “Damn you, man, raise the banner! Raise the fornicating thing and shout, ‘Up Morguhn!’ and ‘Rally to the Red Eagle!’ Do it, you sonofabitch or I’ll put steel in you!”

Shaking his ringing head, Geros dropped his gory sword to dangle by the knot and, gripping the shaft in both hands, stuck it up above his head, his high tenor piercing through the din.

“Up Morguhn! Up Morguhn! Thoheeks Bill! Rally! Rally to the Red Eagle! Up Morghun!”

A sword smashed against his jazeran, but he continued to wobble the heavy banner and shout, the corner of his eye catching the flash of Raikuh’s steel as the captain cut down the reckless Vawnee. And, at first in slow dribbles, then in an increasing, steel-sheathed flood, the scattered noblemen and Freefighters gathered around the upraised Red Eagle Banner, an ever-widening circle whose edges hacked and slashed at the surrounding Vawnee. Beside him, he saw Thoheeks Bili throw down a broken sword and hurriedly uncase his great axe.

“Raikuh, Krahndahl!” he shouted. “Guard the standard. We’re going to run those bastards back to their kennels!”

But when they came to a rough, broken expanse of gullies and dry creekbeds, Bili wisely halted the pursuit, and the mixed band picked a wary, weary course back to the littered blood-muddy road.

Bili paced his exhausted stallion alongside Geros’ limping chestnut mare and, to the sergeant’s vast surprise and utter embarrassment, placed a steel-cased arm across his bowed shoulders and gave a powerful hug. Teeth shining whitely against the sun-darkened face, now made even darker by the sweaty, dusty mud thickly coating it, he growled hoarsely, “That’s a Wind-given gift, trooper, that voice of yours. Why there were no less than two of the bastards beating Ehleen dance steps on my helm, and still I heard your rally cry! You’ve saved this day, man. But wait… .”

Raising his visor for better visibility, he stared at Geros’ filthy face, then his grin widened. “I know you, man! You be no Freefighter. You’re Vahrohneeskos Ahndee’s man, his valet, Geros. But I thought me I’d sent you to … where was it, eh?”

Raikuh, who had been riding behind, overheard and came up on Geros’ other side. “Horse County, my lord duke. You sent Sergeant Geros to Horse County with Hohguhn’s force, and he so impressed Bohreegahd that when they came back to rejoin the army, I was”—he grinned slyly—“somewhat loath to let such a natural talent be wasted.”

Bili roared and slapped the plate covering his thigh. “So you made him a sergeant and a standard-bearer, you larcenous bastard. Yes, captain, I judged you aright that day in Morguhnpolis, you’ve got just the touch of thievish ruthlessness to make a fine Freefighter officer.”

“Yes,” agreed the captain, “I made him a sergeant because I like the lad and he’s fast becoming a weapon master. However, he made himself standard-bearer during the charge up the roadway, when he saved it from falling after Trooper Hahluhnt took a dart in the eye.

“And, standard or no standard, my lord, he fought like a treecat. I had all I could do to shake the battlelust out of him long enough to make him lift the standard and sound that rally. But once he’d got my meaning, he kept waggling the Red Eagle and pealing that call, even with two or three Vawnee hacking at him!”

Bili regarded Geros, who couldn’t have spoken had he tried, for a long moment. Then he brusquely nodded. “I presume others witnessed these acts, captain? Good. I’ll visit your camp sometime this night.” Snapping down his visor, the thoheeks sent Mahvros plodding a little faster toward several dismounted men kneeling and standing around an armored form stretched on the rocky ground.

Old Thoheeks Kehlee looked up, his lined cheeks tear-stained. It was difficult to tell that the dust-coated Mahvros was black, but the old man recognized the double-bitted axe borne by the visored rider. “It’s my second son, Kinsman Bili. It’s young Syros.”

Bili stiffly dismounted, his every fiber protesting the movements. After recasing his axe, he stumped over to his peer’s side, pulled off his heavy gauntlet and extended his damp, red hand in sympathy. There was no need to ask if the young man was dead, for blood and gray-pink brain tissue were feeding a swarm of flies crawling about the gaping, shattered skull.

Nor, it soon became apparent, was Syros Kehlee’s death the worst of their losses. Thoheeks Rahs was sprawled dead on the road, and it was doubtful if Thoheeks Kahnuh would see the rise of Sacred Sun. Half a score of lesser nobles had been slain outright, with that many more suffering wounds of greater or lesser magnitude. Raikuh stoically reported the deaths of forty-three Freefighters, most of them downed by arrows or darts, with perhaps a dozen seriously enough wounded to require treatment. The less well-protected horses had suffered far more than had their armored riders, however, and the horse leeches’ mercy-axes were busy.

But some small comfort could be derived from the fact that the Vawnee had left a good hundred of their number on the road or between it and the place where the pursuers had halted. Nor were all of them dead—at least, not when first found.

Kleetos of Mahrtospolis was dragged before Thoheeks Bili, now sitting a captured and relatively fresh horse—a mind-speaking warhorse, stolen from dead Vawn Kindred and overjoyed to be back with a man such as Bili, whom he considered “his own kind.”

Young Kleetos, who had survived the beastly mountain march without a scratch, was no longer handsome, his nose having been skewed to one side by the same blow which had torn off his visor and crumpled his beaver, Further, his captors had not been gentle in removing his helm, so that new blood mixed with old on his smoothshaven—in adoring emulation of Vahrohneeskos Drehkos—face. But even though the flesh around both eyes was swollen and discolored, the eyes themselves flashed the feral fires of pride and hatred. The battered head was held stiffly and high, and his carriage was as arrogant as his bonds and limp would permit.

“Duke Bili,” said Bohreegahd Hohguhn, respectfully, “I r’membered you as sayin’ that first day you took me on as how you wanted nobles alive, an’ this here gamecock be a noble, if ever I seen sich!”

Bili’s grim expression never wavered. He snapped coldly, “Your name and house and rank, if any, you rebel dog!”

Kleetos opened his blood-caked lips and spat out a piece of tooth, then proudly announced, “I be Kleetos, of the ancient House of Mahrtos, Lord of Mahrtospolis and lieutenant to my puissant lord, Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz of Morguhn, commander of Vawnpolis! Have you a name and rank, heathen? I’ll not ask your house. In consideration of the fact that your mother probably never knew your father that well, such a question might embarrass you!”

Hohguhn’s backhanded buffet split the boy’s lips and sent him staggering, but gleaned no sound other than the spitting out of more teeth.

Bili raised his visor and dropped his beaver to reveal a wolfish grin. “You’ve got guts, Kleetos of Mahrtospolis. I’d thought such had been bred out of the old Ehleen houses. Too bad you’re a rebel. But what’s this about Drehkos Daiviz? He planned this damned ambush?”

The boy drew himself up. “My Lord Drehkos planned and led today, heathen. He captained the first line, I, the second.”

“And Vahrohnos Myros had charge of Vawnpolis, eh?” probed Bili.

The prisoner shook his head, then staggered and would have fallen but for Hohguhn’s strong grip on his arm. “Not so, heathen. Unfortunately, Lord Myros of Deskahti is not always … ahhh, reliable, being subject to fits and faintings and senseless rages. No, Vahrohnos Lobailos Rohszos of Vawn be Lord Drehkos’ deputy.”

Bili whistled softly. Who in hell could predict the strategies of a man with no formal war training? This upcoming siege might well run into Thoheeks Duhnkin’s shearing time if the city was at all well supplied, prepared and manned … and there was but one way, now, of ascertaining that. He swung down off his mount and strode over to the prisoner, drawing his wide-bladed dirk.