A Cat of Silvery Hue

IV

Nestled as it was in the far southeast of Morguhn, a long day’s ride from Morguhnpolis, with the Great Southern Forest lying between it and any other occupied area, Horse Hall—and Lady Hehrah, its chatelaine—remained blissfully unaware of the abysmal failure of the rebellion and the utter rout of the crusaders.

The komeesa, who now considered herself to be Hari’s widow, lolled in the very lap of her dreams. Not only was her faith now the only allowed faith in the county—and, she surmised, in the duchy—but at long last, after many dragging years of suffering the unwarranted persecutions and gainsayings of her barbarian husband, she was victorious. Savoring her triumph, she laid a heavy and pitiless hand upon Horse County and all who dwelt there.

The threescore or so inhabitants of Horse Hall village had not been particularly upset when the priest and hall men had come and taken the child, assuming that bluff old Lord Hari would shortly ride in and either return the boy or explain why he was needed at the hall. But when, the very next morning, some of the same hall men had come and, after beating the village headman senseless, had seized, bound and borne off his pretty young wife, grinningly informing all and sundry that their hysterical captive was henceforth to have the honor of being Lady Hehrah’s love girl, there were mutters of an appeal to the komees, upon his return from Morguhnpolis.

Danos, confirmed captain of the komeesa’s guard after his report of Gaios’ demise, had laughed harshly. “Then you bastards will have a damned long wait! That blaspheming pagan is now burning in Hell, his stinking corpse so much offal. You had all best heed me. Heed me well!

“My Lady Hehrah now has the power of life or death over you and your wives and your snotty brats. It is her right to claim whatever, whomever, she wishes. It is your duty to render her honor, to accede freely to her every request or demand. If you fail in this, your duty, you will be made to suffer or to die for the crime.”

The stunned villagers stood, silently listening to the cold, sharp words of the arrogant horseman, aware of their helplessness against so many armed men.

Danos continued, “Now, my lady feels that this village has been too long without a House of God. Since God is Lord of all, He must be served with the best we can offer. The Holy Pavlos, sub-kooreeos of this county, will be here shortly to bless the shack whence this wench came; it will be used as a church until you have time to build a proper one.”

Then they clattered out of the village toward Horse Hall.

But within a few hours they were back to seize another child. And after that, another … and another … and another!

When, a week after their first incursion, Danos led his men into the village, it was empty, deserted. The trail led into the forest, but knowing that horsemen would be at a disadvantage in the dense, trackless underbrush, Danos halted his troop and rode back to the hall.

Although Lady Hehrah was violent in her rage at being denied the simple, holy pleasure of a sacrificial ceremony whenever she felt the need for one, Sub-kooreeos Pavlos was mightily relieved. His throat was grown raw from so much chanting, and the shrill screams of two or three victims each day were just too much, setting his nerves on edge and his head to throbbing. Also relieved were those servants whose chore it had been to bury the hacked little corpses; digging was, after all, hard work.

One balmy dawn, a pair of men rode big warhorses along the Forest Road. Sacred Sun’s rays sparkled and glittered upon the polished surfaces of their three-quarter armor. The faces of the two riders were remarkably similar in cast as well as grim expression. So alike were they that one might have surmised them brothers, since both appeared of middle years. But they were actually father and son, though a bare sixteen years separated them in age.

Behind them, in column of twos, rode a score of Thoheeks Bili’s picked Freefighters and three full troops of Confederation kahtahfrahktoee or heavy cavalry.

At the place where an almost invisible game trail crossed the road, Komees Hari Daiviz and Vaskos Daiviz drew rein and conferred with Captain Linstahk, commander of the Confederation troops.

“This is the way of which I spoke last night, Gaib,” said the komees. “We’d best leave half a troop here, in case the swine flee along this road … though I doubt me they’ll head into Morguhn.”

The young captain frowned thoughtfully. “Why not a platoon then, Lord Hari? Surely thirty of my troopers will be sufficient to deal with any number of the scum we’ve encountered so far.”

The old nobleman shrugged. “Whatever you think best, Gaib, for you do know your men better than I.”

So it was that the chosen platoon, grumbling as soldiers always have and always will, watched the last of the long, single column finally disappear among the trees, heading roughly west and south.

The mixed column, paralleling the course of Forest Creek, clove to the woods path almost to the unmarked border between Horse County and Sheep County, domain of Komees Djeen Morguhn, forded the creek and then followed another game trail and a succession of tiny glades, heading almost due south. They rode in silence—no bugle or shouts, all orders being transmitted in hushed tones from each rider to the one behind. They rode with visors down and beavers up, bows strung, arrows nocked, swords out, though due to the narrowness of the ways they traversed, targets were left slung.

In every glade, they found horse droppings and the marks of hooves; obviously a goodly number of horses were roaming far deeper into the forest than was either normal or safe—and Komees Hari was troubled by the fact.

“Dammit, Vaskos, Red Death must be easing into senility to let them stray thus! He knows the dangers of the forest, what with boars and bears and treecats, not to mention lack of proper graze. Why, in your grandfather’s youth, there was still a goodly herd of shaggy-bulls in this forest, and as late as ten years ago, I slew a damned big mountain cat not two hours’ ride from here!”

In the interest of continued sflence, the old lord had mind-spoken. With his mind open and receptive, he awaited Vaskos’ reply but received the mindspeak of another.

“My brother … my loved brother, Hari. Red Death sorrows that he has displeased his brother. But the two-legs from my brother’s hall hunt us. Hunt horses as they would hunt deer or boar, with spear and dart and arrow. So Red Death and his subchiefs fled here and have not been pursued.”

“My brother has not displeased his brother,” Hari beamed, simply and bluntly. “His brother did not know of the terrible things done by the two-legs of the hall. All are aware that King Red Death is both valiant and wise, and he did what he thought best; that he and his were not pursued shows the sagacity of his choice.

“But, my brother, come to me. There is like to be fighting this day and your brother would feel better with his brave, wise and fearsome brother betwixt his legs, when swords ring.”

There was infinite sadness in the king stallion’s mindspeak then. “Ah, my dear brother, Red Death cannot come to you, cannot even stand. In the first fight with the two-legs, Red Death slew two of them but took a wound which has turned evil, and he would long since have been food for the carrion birds or the scuttling creatures of the forest had not his valiant sons watched over him. Will not Red Death’s true brother come to this place and bring water?”

The mindspeak had been weak and Hari had closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them, the tears spilled over and coursed through the dust coating his stubbled cheeks. His gauntleted fist beat upon his armored thigh with enough force to all but dent the princegrade Pitzburk plate.

Of Vaskos he inquired, “Did you receive, my son?” At the shaking of the steel-encased head, he said, “It is Red Death—my brother. He is … is badly hurt. That slimy bitch! She failed to slay you, so she struck at the only other creature she knows I love! He has a festered wound, cannot rise, and is being guarded by the young stallions. And he … he thirsts. Give me your water bottle.”

With Hari’s departure, Vaskos recrossed the glade, now beginning to fill with Freefighters as they debouched from the forest. Wordlessly, he signed them to dismount and rest or see to their horses. When Captain Linstahk, his blond mustachios sweat-plastered to his face, emerged from amongst the trees and brush, Hari’s son kneed over to the officer.

“Gaib, pass back word for the column to halt in place. They can probably use the rest since we’ve been on the march for nearly nine hours now. My father was mindspoken by his king stallion, who lies injured nearby, dying, from what he told me. He loves that horse in a way that you possibly cannot understand, and nothing is now more important than that he go to him, take him water, try to ease his suffering.”

When the captain raised his visor, there was deep sympathy in his green eyes. Laying his swordhand on the big man’s shoulderplate, he said, “But I do understand, Vaskos. My own father, Vahrohnos Djahsh Linstahk, breeds horses, you know. Between him and his king stallion there is a … a … well, it is as if the two of them were of the same birthing.

“But this still be hostile territory, Vaskos. The lord should not be alone. Let us go to him and … wait, my squadron has a horse-leech, nor is he far down the column, as I recall; I will pass word for him to join us. Perhaps he can do something.”

Djehsz Reeguhn truly loved horses and exercised all possible gentleness in his examination of Red Death’s grievously infected wound. Nonetheless, the stallion’s neck and legs jerked, his eyes rolled, he snorted and snuffled, and twice he screamed. Arising, his sensitive face set in hard lines, the horseleech wiped foul-smelling greenish pus from his hands with a handful of leaves torn from the bush, then approached the komees who sat weeping unashamed tears onto the big, scarred head cradled in his lap.

“My lord, I suspect that the weapon was envenomed or at least dungcoated, for the infection is far advanced. Were he a man, I would say, ‘Dose him with brandy, club him senseless and saw off the leg.’ I have seen such done with horses, but, weak as he is, he would not survive that shock. He cannot live for long, in any case, and, as you know, he suffers greatly. Believe me, my lord, I sorrow with you, but there is only one thing we can now do for him.” His hand strayed to the short, heavy axe cased at his belt

Hari nodded, his tear-shiny face glinting in the noon sun. “Thank you, sergeant, thank you for everything. But I … we know, we knew even before, but I had hoped …” He broke off, chokedly.

After a moment of silence, Sergeant Reeguhn uncased his mercy-axe and placed it on the well-cropped grass of the tiny glade, straightened and stepped back. “My lord, considering his position, a deathstroke would be difficult with a sword but very easy with my axe. If my lord wishes, I have sent many a brave, suffering horse to Wind—”

“No … again my thanks, sergeant, but no. He is my brother. I will do what must be done for him. Please leave us now, but send my son to me.”

Vaskos squatted beside his father, laid his big, callused hand on Red Death’s damp cheek and stroked him tenderly. As always, physical contact made mindspeak easier, and the dying stallion bespoke him.

“Get of my brother, Red Death knows but little of you, for you were already gone a-warring when he first saw Sacred Sun. You have pleased my brother, he mindspeaks of you often and well, mindspeaks of your valor and weapons skills and of your glorious deeds and of how highly your captains regard you. These are things Red Death can understand and admire, for he was long years the brother and warhorse of King Ahlbehrt of Pitzburk.

“Red Death loves battle, get of my brother, loves the feel of plated thigh forking him, loves the peal of the bugle and the ring of the sword, loves the wild gallop of the charge and the shock of its arrival, loves the sensation of rending flesh under his steelshod hooves… but Red Death has fought his last fight, get of my brother.”

Komees Hari sank his chin upon his breastplate, and bis steel-cased body shook to his grief.

Red Death snorted weakly. “Why weeps my brother? All creatures must go to Wind, soon or late, and Red Death has known near twenty-four summers, long and long for a war-horse. Shortly, my brother, Ahlbehrt, will take up the little axe of that good two-legs and end Red Death’s pain. Then he will be one with Mighty Wind. He will gallop the endless plains of the Home of Wind … mayhap, he will find his brother, Alin, there—”

The dying stallion mindcalled, and two younger stallions hesitantly paced from the surrounding forest. Though one was a steel gray and the other a dark chestnut, their noble paternity was clearly etched into every line of their splendid bodies—heavy, rolling muscles; large but fine heads; deep chests; and proud, spirited bearings.

“Brother Hari and get of my brother, these are two of my own get. They call themselves Arrowswift”—the chestnut nodded his head, snorting—“and Swordsheen”—the gray stamped a hoof lightly.

“Red Death has taught them all that he has learned, and, as they are both intelligent and good mindspeakers, they should make good warhorses even without the refinements of proper training.

“Brother and get of my brother, you ride to battle now. Red Death cannot share your joys as he would like, but his loyal sons can. Will not you both ride to the good fight on Arrowswift and Swordsheen?”

Blinking his eyes rapidly against the sting of his unshed tears, Vaskos rose and strode over to the young stallions, a hand outstretched to each. When he had a palm on each of their foreheads, he mindspoke them. “This is as you would wish, my brothers? You would be the war steeds of my father and me?”

“Yes, brother,” replied both together, the gray adding, “Red Death avers that no other way can a stallion prove himself fit to breed.”

“This is true, brothers,” agreed Vaskos. “And the strength and bravery of the noble Red Death be rich heritage indeed. It must continue to flow in the veins of Daiviz foals.”

So it was that while Vaskos and Gaib and the sergeant transferred the saddles and armor and gear from the two horses lent them by Thoheeks Bili to the waiting gray and chestnut, Hari bid his last farewell to his beloved Red Death. Beyond the screen of brush, Vaskos saw the brief, metallic glint of sun on steel, followed immediately by a meaty tchunk. A butcher sound.

The old komees walked out of the glade, moving slowly, heavily, his reddened eyes filled with a frustrated fury which Vaskos had never before seen in his father. He shuddered strongly, thinking that he would hate to be the very next man against whom the grief-ravaged nobleman swung his sword.

But Komees Hari’s sense of direction and knowledge of these oft-hunted woods were unaffected by his sorrow and anger, and they had ridden onward a bare half-mile when, at a lightning-scarred tree which seemed no different to Vaskos than many a similar one seen on this trek, his father led the column east. Soon, almost imperceptibly, the forest began to thin, with here and there vine-grown stumps, marks of axe and saw showing through the brush. Then they chanced on the camp.

It had clearly been such. Though no trace was found of any attempt to lay a fire, a good number of folk had lived within its raggedly cleared confines for many days to judge by the scatterings of refuse and dung.

While Vaskos refilled water bottles at a crystal-clear spring whose gentle gurgling fed a tiny rill dividing the camp, his father and several Freefighters wandered about the area, examining oddments left behind by its former occupants—who, without a doubt, had decamped suddenly, and not too long ago.

Freefighter Lieutenant Bohreegahd Hohguhn ambled up to the nobleman with a crudely made spear—just a knifeblade bound into the end of five feet of sapling, with the bark still on.

“It ain’t no warcamp, my lord,” the mercenary averred fa his nasal, mountain dialect. “Ain’t no rhyme nor no reason to these here lean-tos. But they ain’t entirely peaceable neither, else they wouldn’t of been a-makin’ this here sad excuse for a spear. Outlaws, you reckun, my lord?”

Sheathing his broadsword, the old lord took the spear and scrutinized its single-edged blade, answering, “No, lieutenant, I think not. I’d have known of any band this large.”

Vaskos paced up to them with the filled water bottles, adding, “Nor would outlaws have small children in a forest camp. And the mud along the rill has bare footprints so small that only a child of no more than three yean could have pressed them.”

Now Hohguhn had, while listening to father and son, snapped up the cheekpieces of his open-faced helm and removed it to vigorously apply dirty fingernails to furiously itching scalp, so the humming sound and its deadly import were clearer than to those whose ears still were covered by steel.

With a shouted “Down!” be flung his wiry body against that of the startled komees, while violently shoving big Vaskos, who fell forward so that the stone aimed for his unprotected face clanged instead off his raised visor.

But three of the wandering Freefighters were not so lucky, and when at last the komees’ party had crawled or scurried back to the shelter of the woods opposite those which held the slingers, the bodies of those three still lay where they had fallen. Against men clad in open-faced helms, slingstones can spell instant death.