A Cat of Silvery Hue

XII

Captain Gaib Linstahk’s first reaction was to reach a central point of the camp and rally his kahtahfrahktoee. Better armed and armored than the lancers, they and the nobles should be able to charge right into the damned sniping archers, flush the bastards out and ride them down like the dogs they were. But that was before it became obvious that those rapidly advancing horsemen were not thundering up the road to reinforce the camp, but rather to attack it

He mindspoke the commander of lancers over on the other side, nearer to the road. “Captain Rahdjuhz, rally your troops and draw them up behind the nobles who will presently form athwart the road. If those pigs aren’t slowed down, they’ll ride over the camp before I can form my squadron to counterattack.”

Gaib thought he could actually hear the yelp of the lancer officer. “Sun and Wind, man!” the reply came beaming. “Have you taken leave of your senses? A good half of those Vawnee look to be heavily armed. They’ll go through my two troops like—”

With seconds as precious as emeralds, Gaib furiously cut off his subordinate. “Wind take you for a coward, Ahl! Follow my orders or give over your command to a man with more guts! I said you’ll be the ‘second line, dammit; those heavy-armed fire-eaters of ours will take the brunt of it.”

Then he sought the mind of Thoheeks Kehn Kahr. “If you please, my lord, has your group taken many casualties?”

He could almost see the steaming, red face—Thoheeks Kahr had gained years and much flesh since last he had actively campaigned or worn armor in summer heat—but there was ill-concealed eagerness in the return the nobleman beamed. “Vahrohneeskos Behrklee’s son, Steev, has a broken leg … I think. His horse took a dart and fell ere he could clear leather. And we’ve lost a few more horses, but no gentlemen, praise be to Wind and Pitzburk. But we await your orders, Captain Vahrohnos’-son. When do you want us to fight? Where?”

Gaib breathed a silent sigh of relief. The thoheeks and his half-troop were only technically under his command. They could all see the charging Vawnee from their present position and must be aware that the odds against them were something over ten to one. Had Kahr opted for flight rather than fight, Gaib would have been powerless to do aught save curse him.

“If it please my lord, form a single rank to block the road. Place your left flank at that deep gully and your right at the perimeter ditch. The lancers will be forming behind you. You must hold them until the High Lady is safely away and my squadron be formed. My bugles sounding The Charge’ will be your signal to disengage. Does it please my lord to understand?”

“Captain Vahrohnos’-son, nothing has pleased me more since my favorite mare dropped twin foals, one black and one white! And both stallions! We’ll hold. By Sacred Sun, well hold!”

Then Gaib tried to range the mind of the arrogant Clan Linsee prick who commanded the High Lady’s guard. Meeting with no success, he beamed directly to the High Lady herself.

“Yes,” came her answer, “I am aware that we are under attack and have so mindspoken the High Lord, in the van. He comes, but it will take time. I’ve listened in on your beamings, as well, captain. You are a good officer and a credit to the army. Your decisions are sound. Would that I might sit a horse at your side, but it is my time-of-the-moon and I have imbibed of a decoction of herbs. Though they leave my mind clear, so seriously do they affect my balance and coordination that I doubt I could draw my saber, much less use it.”

“Another reason, my lady, that I would have you on the road,” Gaib mindspoke emphatically. “As of this dawn, my squadron was understrength, and I doubt not that we’ve lost horses and men to the missiles. Yonder comes a strong force, and. if I’m to have sufficient weight to smash their attack, I’ll need every sword. I recall that your team be hitched, my lady. Let it please you to take road forthwith—but you’d best leave some few of your archers to retard pursuit if we fail here.”

Aldora agreed to adopt his plan, adding. “Wind guard you, young Linstahk. The Confederation cannot afford the loss of men such as you.”

While his lieutenants and sergeants formed up their half-strength units, Gaib and his bugler and color bearer sat their mounts with an outward show of calm, ignoring alike the incredible tumult and confusion of the milling, bleating, dying noncombatants and the feathered death still falling from the clear, sunny skies.

Thoheeks Kahr’s nobles were strung out in position barely in time. The leading elements of the Vawnee cavalry struck their thin line of steel with the sound of a thunderclap and the line bowed inward, inward, inward at its center, until Gaib was certain that it must snap and let the screaming horde of Vawnee through to pour over the mostly unarmed throng of servants, cooks, smiths and wagoneers.

But like a well-tempered blade, the line slowly commenced to straighten, helped by the yelling lancers and, unexpectedly, by fifty unmounted sappers armed with a motley of long-handled spades and sawbacked engineer shortswords. Witnessing the valor of these support troops, Gaib vowed that never again would he either engage in or tolerate the sneers and snickers when a “dungbeetle”—which was what his peers called sapper officers—entered the mess.

The ringing, clanging blacksmith symphony raged on, with the superior weight of the Vawnee bearing the defenders back and back. But Thoheeks Kahr was nought if not true to his word, for every foot was hotly, bloodily contested and the meager gains of the rebels were dearly bought. In spite of their being stupidly proud, supercilious amateur soldiers, Gaib flushed with pride that his veins surged with the same rich blood as these men, for they, one and all, fought with the tenacity of the best professionals.

Then the squadron sergeant-major was saluting him with a flourish of gleaming saber. “Sir, the troops be formed on squadron front Half the High Lady’s guards ride with us. I posted them to Thehltah Troop on the left flank.”

Gaib nodded stiffly. “Very good, sergeant-major. The High Lady is away then?”

“Yes, sir. At the gallop. She should be well up the road by now.”

Gaib slowly drew his saber and smilingly saluted the grizzled noncom. “Well, then, Baree, let us see what these rebels know of saber drill. Or had you expected to die in bed?

“Bugler, ‘Walk, March,’ if you please. Then, ‘Draw Sabers.’ ” Dropping his reins over the pommel knob, Gaib first raised his beaver, then lowered his visor, sloping the back of his saber blade against his epaulette in the regulation carry. The troop buglers echoed the ordered calls and a chorus of metallic zweeps behind him coincided with the first steps of his well-trained charger, who probably knew cavalry drill as well as any man in the squadron.

Panicky, the noncombatants were, but not so panicky—especially since the death-dealing arrows and darts had slackened off—as not to recognize what was now coming and to stir their stumps to avoid being ridden down by charging kah tahfrah ktoee.

When his path was relatively clear, Gaib signaled the bugler. “Trot, March” rang out and the familiar jingling rattle of armor and equipment penetrated even Gaib’s closed helm. As always, at such a point in an action, his chest felt constricted and his guts were a-roil, his mouth was dry as dead leaves and he knew that his bladder must soon burst. Drawing himself up straighter in the kak, he began to sing, his voice booming in the confines of the helm.

“… Oh, let us sing our battle song, Of saber, spear and bow, Clan Linstahk, Clan Linstahk, Your courage we’ll show.”

Noting the decreasing distance, Gaib gave another signal, and “Gallop, March” pealed from his bugler’s instrument, being taken up by the troop buglers halfway through. He mindspoke his stallion, Windsender, “I know you lack that shoe, and I’m sorry,, brother, but this must be. We must fight ere I can see to you.”

“Your brother understands,” the horse beamed back. “It is not very uncomfortable, and a good fight does not happen every day.”

At the moment he gauged best, Gaib raised his saber high over his head, then swung it down and forward, swiveling his arm so that the keen edge lay uppermost. Five bugles screamed the “Charge.”

To his credit, Drehkos managed to get away with a little better than half his original force, but, even so, he knew that their raiding days were now done. The very flower of the rebel cause lay trampled into the gory mire on the eastern fringes of the Confederation camp. Worse, he had failed to secure the supplies Vawnpolis needed so desperately. Nor had he succeeded in wiping out the service troops and burning the wheeled transport, which last would have been a crippling blow to so large an army so deep in hostile territory. If only the plan had worked, if only Danos had started the arrow-storm at the proper time … Danos!

But Drehkos could no longer feel anger at the archer. He was just too weary. And it was not just a physical weariness born of the exhaustion of battle. No, it was a weariness of Soul, a desire for nothing more than a long, long sleep, a sleep which would not be disturbed for the rest of eternity. Perhaps in such a sleep he could forget. Could forget the idiocy of so much sacrifice and suffering in the name of a lost rebellion and an antique god, could forget the never-ceasing loneliness—which persisted even in the heart of an overcrowded city; whose chill he suffered in the heat of a sunny day even while chatting with these men who would bleed and die for him.

And, to Drehkos, that was the irony and tragedy of this insanity within which he was trapped. These strong, brave, vibrant men, all loving life yet going down into bloody death; while he, who would welcome death, since she who once had been his life was now long years with Wind, rode unscathed through ambush and battle, raid and retreat. Of course, he died a little with each man he lost, but these small deaths were only a deepening of sorrow, not the surcease he so craved.

When the wounded had been afforded what little could be done, he gathered his battered band and set them on the long, circuitous return to their city, wondering if he had bought any time or respect with almost five hundred lives.

He had. It took Milo over two weeks to sort out the shambles of that last attack, to replace the sappers and cooks, sanitarians and smiths, artificiers and wagoners killed or wounded or missing. He also sent for the prairiecats, ruefully admitting his mistake in underestimating the temper and talents of the rebels.

In the conference chamber of his pavilion, still pitched where it had been that hellish morning, he reiterated his error to the assembled nobles, Aldora and old Sir Ehdt, adding, “I would not plan on being home for harvest, gentlemen, nor even for Sun-birth Festival. And if Myros fights the city, with its vastly improved defenses, as well as he has fought the countryside, you will be lucky to be home for spring planting.”

“But, my lord.” Bili Morguhn wrinkled his brow. “Those few prisoners we have taken all say the same: Drehkos Daiviz, not Myros of Deskahti, is their leader.”

“And,” put in Sir Ehdt, foregoing his introductory harumph, this one time, “I would doubt that Myros conceived that devilish attack or planned those masterful withdrawals. He’s simply not got the mind for such.”

Thoheeks Kahr shifted his bandage-swathed body into a more comfortable position in his chair, then demanded, “Now, dammit, sir, you spent most of our last meeting a-chortling over the way he’s altered Vawnpolis and assuring us all he’s the best thing since stone walls. Now here you be, saying he don’t have the brains to fight nor run!”

“My lord duke,” said the siegemaster with evident restraint, “it has long been known that Myros of Deskahti possessed enviable talents at the twin arts of defense and siegecraft. The wonders he has performed on Vawnpolis are but additional proof of those talents. But, my lord duke, worthwhile and admirable though those talents be, they be the only ones he owns, militarily speaking. When it comes to marshaling troops and performing any sort of maneuver calling for split-second decisions on alternate strategies, his head might as well be filled with horse turds.”

“But this Drehkos Daiviz,” the ahrkeethoheeks took it up, “is a less likely candidate than even the vahrohnos. I myself talked with certain of young Morguhn’s folk, men who’ve known this Vahrohneeskos Drehkos all his life, and they all agree that the only things at which he really excels are guzzling, screwing and spending money like a drunken Freefighter. Yet all who know assure me that a cavalryman of surpassing excellence was necessary to chew us up so badly with so small a band. I simply cannot see a debauched, middle-aged spendthrift with no more war training than have I performing so.”

Milo laid aside his pipe, half-musing, “And yet, could it be possible that the Confederation has missed a bet on Drehkos Daiviz? Could he be one of those rare military geniuses who need but the proper combination of circumstances to reveal and utilize heretofore unguessed talents? True, I met and conversed with the vahrohneeskos, and he failed to impress me. But I find even so far fetched a theory as this more believable than that Myros of Deskahti, whom I came to know better than I would have preferred, either could or would change his spots.”

Aldora’s clear voice: “And, too, there be this, gentlemen. About fifty years ago, I wrote a treatise on proper employment of cavalry. It is hard to recall after so long, but I believe Thoheeks Sami of Vawn, grandfather of the recently deceased Thoheeks Vawn, had a copy made to add to his large collection of books and writings. Now if that book still be in Vawnpolis, this sudden cavalry expertise of either Myros or Drehkos may have a logical explanation, after all. What think you on this, Milo?”

“I say, Wind help us, if you are correct in your surmise,” Milo said gravely. “Now that you jog my memory, I recall something else. Thoheeks Sami was a real scholar for his generation, with a penchant for collecting books on all aspects of warfare. If it be true that his library has survived and is in the hands of a rebel who can read, appreciate and utilize it, I may have to hie the rest of the Confederation Army down here or sacrifice a ruinous number of those we have to hack a way into Vawnpolis!”

Bili shrugged. “But why, my lord? Why not invest the city, throw up siegeworks, emplace our engines and simply sit and pound and burn and starve the bastards out?”

Sir Ehdt answered. “Time, Duke Bili—time.”

“Yes, Kinsman,” Thoheeks Skaht agreed. “You and I and Thoheeks Baikuh are not too far from our lands but most of our Kindred have a fair distance to go and harvest time be near.”

Milo reiterated. “As I said earlier, gentlemen, I’d not plan on being home for harvest—especially not in the light of what the High Lady and I have recalled. Barring a miracle of some order, it may well be spring ere we see the inside of Vawnpolis.”

While most sat in silence, striving to digest this unpleasantness, a guards officer bustled in and caught the High Lord’s eye. “My lord, a … ahhh, delegation of mountain barbarians has suddenly appeared in the very center of the camp. Somehow they must have filtered through patrols, sentries and all. They are … most arrogant. They demand to have words with the commander of this army.”

The men who at length were ushered into the conference chamber were fascinating to Bili, who had never before seen men of their race. He immediately decided they were the most villianous crew of unwashed cutthroats he had ever beheld. Yet their spokesman bore himself with a definite majesty and, despite their uniform tatters and lack of manners, all radiated a fierce pride and unmistakable self-assurance.

They were tall, big-nosed, large-eyed men, most of them as dark as kathahrohs Ehleenee. They were all muscle and sinew and scarred, dirty skin over large bones. Their loose, ragged homespun breeches were tucked into short boots of undressed hide, and a miscellany of antique armor was fitted over billowing sleeved shirts of the same material. Because they had stoutly refused to surrender their arms, they were almost surrounded by a score of guardsmen, arrows nocked and bows half-drawn.

Ignoring the other men, the leader—Bili surmised him to be a hereditary chief, since his age, roughly twenty-five, was less than that of most of his companions—swaggered forward and addressed himself to Milo.

“I am Hyk Ahrahkyuhn, Undying witchman. Are you come to steal more of our lands? You should have brought more fighters for this collection of dullards will win you only enough to hold their bleached bones. Take your landstealers back to their sties, witchman, and they’ll live to breed you more shoats. For I warn you, my tribe will not be robbed again. Bring this herd of rooting swine into our mountains, and the treecats will be a-feasting on their stones and yards whilst their sows are wailing and taking their pleasures with carrots and corncobs!”

There was a concerted growl from those about the table. Both the Skaht and the Baikuh surreptitiously fingered their hilts, grim hatred on their faces at this confrontation with an ancient enemy. But Thoheeks Hwahltuh smiled, recognizing and appreciating the arrogance and courage of a kindred spirit.

Milo smiled too. Take your headmen back home, Der Hyk. We have no designs on your mountains—not this time, anyway. This army is in Vawn on other business. We’ll only fight you if we have to, if you are so unwise as to force the issue.”

The mountain chief drew himself up, his black eyes flashing defiance. “We have taken over the border forts, witchman; we will not give them back!”

“Then they’ll be taken back!” snarled Thoheeks Skaht, half rising, hand gripping hilt, the big knuckles shining white. “And it’s your wormy women will be breeding more of your kind to he-goats and jackasses, which latter must have been your paternity, from the look of your long donkey face!”

Big, white teeth flashing, the young chief grinned derisively at the furious thoheeks. “Ah, Chief Skaht, you have never been able to forgive my Uncle Moorehd for stealing your sister, have you? Yet he made her a far lustier husband than could any of your soft, womanly lowlanders. Do you know that he got at least one child a year on her for as long as she lived? Do you know that—”

The Skaht roared; his steel flashed clear as his chair crashed over and he commenced a stalking progress around the table, a hideous growl issuing from betwixt his bared teeth. The mountaineers’ hands moved toward their own hilts, and the guardsmen’s bows were drawn to the full.

“Damn you, Skaht, sit down!” Neither Milo’s voice nor mindspeak could penetrate the berserk nobleman’s rage. If this chief and his headmen were massacred here this night, there would be a full-scale war the length of the border.

But then Bili was blocking the Skaht’s progress. Smiling disarmingly, he extended his hand, saying, “Give me your sword, Kinsman.” But there was more than mere words to the encounter. Milo and Aldora, at least, could feel, could sense, some indefinable something being woven between the two men.

Suddenly the Skaht half-turned and lashed out with his blade. And Bili was on him. His sinewy arms locked about the older man’s body, pinning his arms to his sides. Even so, Milo was gashed ere he could wrest the sword from the Skaht’s hand.

Snapping, “Bind him until he’s in control of himself again!” the High Lord turned back to the delegation. “Your ancestors were both proud and brave Der Hyk, but you disgrace their memory for you are neither, you are only foolhardy! Sun and Wind help your people if you do not soon gain a measure of wisdom to match your advancing years. If you wish to commit suicide, name a successor and do so privately and decently. Do not ask your headmen to die with you. And have the courtesy to go to Wind somewhere other than in this camp. As I said, I wish no war with your tribe this year.

“As for the forts, your headmen would be wise to see that they are abandoned, else the army about you will be but the vanguard for that which will surely come. Many of your people will die and I will drive those who do not into the Hills of Homeless Rocks. We will pull down your villages, stone by stone. Your horses and kine will graze lowland pastures and your maidens will bear lowlanders’ sons. You all know that I can do these things, for many of them were done in the times of your ancestors.

“Keep the peace with me, go back into your fastnesses and leave my forts untenanted, and mayhap you and your children will live and die where your fathers were born.”