Revenge of the Horseclans

CHAPTER IX

Bill’s party dismounted before the city palace, more than three hundred years old, dating from the period before his ancestors had crossed the mountains, when Morguhnpolis—then called Eeleeoheepolis—had been the north-western jewel of the Crown of Karaleenos. It was an impressive building, fashioned of native granite and faced with that hauntingly beautiful greygreen limestone from Kehnooryohs Ehlahs. Its main chamber was almost as large as the outer courtyard of Morguhn Hall and was columned and paved with colored and veined marbles; but it was very difficult to heat, so was seldom used for anything. The footfalls of the noblemen echoed as they traversed the length of the huge chamber and mounted the wide marble stairs toward the second floor Council Chamber.

Komees Djeen frowned at sight of the four pikemen ranged before the tall, brass-sheathed doors of the Council’s meetingroom. They were not the usual Free-fighter guards, but rather civilian Spearlevymen, Ehleenoee all. A skinny corporal of the same body stood just behind the pikemen, holding his knife-edged thrusting spear as though it were a frog gig.

Eyes fixed dead ahead, Bili and Djehf clanked toward the doors, outwardly unconcerned. After nervously licking his lips, the corporal hissed a whispered order and the levymen sloppily presented their pikes, no two at the same angle. Komees Djeen snorted in disgust and made a decidedly uncomplimentary remark concerning gutter-scum playing at soldier.

Bili and Djehf marched forward until the glittering points were but inches from their breastplates. The brothers stood thus for a moment. Then Djehf suddenly grasped the crossbar of the pike before him and savagely jerked it from the hands of its wielder. The levyman spun half around and, ere he could turn back, Djehf dropped the captured pike and booted the man’s rump so hard that he went sprawling, sliding a good way down the slick floor of the side hallway on his breastplate. Grinning, he reached for a second pike, but the levymen hastily grounded their weapons and backed up until the walls ended their retreat, leaving their corporal to guard the portals alone.

“The Council Chamber,” began that worthy, in a piping falsetto squeak. He flushed, cleared his throat, presented the long, wide blade of his spear, and started over. “The Council Chamber is forbidden to any save confirmed members of the Thirds!” He spoke in Old Ehleeneekos.

Komees Djeen shouldered between Bili and Djehf, demanding, “What language are you grunting in, you puling shoat?”

Before the unhappy man could frame an answer, Djehf’s powerful hand had closed on the shaft of the short spear. In a brittle voice, he announced, “If you don’t let go of that piece of junk, dungface, by Sun and Wind, I’ll bugger you with it!”

The corporal did let go, but not quickly enough to suit Djehf, who jerked the Ehleen away from the closed door, spun him about, and jabbed a good two inches of the broad spearpoint into his seat. The man screamed, then sped down the side hall, clutching at his bleeding posterior and howling like a moon mad hound. Three pikes fell clattering and three pikemen followed their wounded leader as fast as their legs would carry them.

Jerking wide the brazen doors, the brothers stalked into the Council Chamber, the rest of their party hard on their heels.

The T-shaped Council Table filled the center of the chamber. The places of the Second and Third Thirds were ranged on either side of the shaft, while those of the First Third were along the crossbar. No one, of course, occupied the chairs of the First, but all five of the Third were filled and four of the second had occupants. A bench against the side wall held a flashy fop, a black-bearded man in the robes of a subpriest, and a beefy, balding lout in a stained butcher’s apron. At each of the chamber’s four corners stood a Spearlevyman with grounded pike, all obviously of near-pure Ehleen blood.

Speaking no word, glancing neither to right nor left, Bili strode to the central chair of the First Third. Before he seated himself, however, he drew his heavy broadsword and laid it near to hand, pointing it down the length of the T’s shaft. He imperiously waved his brother to the chair at his right, while Komees Djeen moved to his accustomed place, along with Spiros and Hail. Klairuhnz leaned a hip against the end of the table, near Ahndee’s empty seat. Master Ahlee had carefully closed the doors and now loitered close to them.

Bili let his gaze travel down the two rows of faces. Nearest him on either side of the board sat Komees Hari and Feelos Pooleeos, the merchant, and the faces of both men looked deeply troubled. Beyond Hari lounged Vahrohnos Myros, a mocking smile on his fleshy lips, but pure, distilled hatred beaming from the glittering black eyes which briefly locked with Bill’s. Beyond him sat Drehkos, who gave Bili a nervous, uncertain smile; and Vahrohneeskos Stehfahnos, slender but supple looking, who stared back levelly and coolly, from eyes as blue as Bill’s, despite the Ehleen’s black hair.

Across from Ahndee’s empty place sat Kooreeos Skiros, apparently oblivious to the highly charged atmosphere. He was talking softly with the wizened, beaknosed little man on his right, Nathos Evrehos, the goldsmith-moneylender. Lastly, Bili gave a hard stare to Paulos, Guildmaster of the duchy’s blacksmiths, and bastard half brother of the dying Thoheeks. The insolent, hateful glare that he got in return set the blood to pounding in his temples. Some of his anger must have been visible, for Komees Djeen hastily laid a hand on Bill’s armguard, then hastened to speak before Bili might.

“Why,” he demanded in clipped tones, “have our well-paid Freefighters been replaced with piketoting amateurs, Myros? I’m certain sure it’s your idea. Sun and Wind, man, you come up with more harebrained schemes than a full troop of village idiots could concoct! Since we’re paying good gold to professional swords, why deprive the fields and streets of ploughboys and dungscoopers?”

Myros grinned. “There are less than twoscore mercenaries left, and they remain only because some fool hired them to a contract of twenty-six, rather than twenty-four moons. As fast as the barbarians’ contracts expired, I have let them go. Almost all the city guards are now men who bear their arms for their homes and their lands.” The Vahrohnos’s grin had metamorphosed into a twisted grimace. His features were empurpling with his passion and his eyes gleamed the feral fire of fanaticism. “Not for mere gold do these men bear arms, but for their Faith and their long lost heritage!”

To Bili, it seemed obvious that his mothers had erred in their judgment of Myros’s case, for the rebellious dog appeared to believe every word churned out by his sewer-mouth.

Count Djeen crashed his gauntleted fist against the tabletop, grating, “That cuts it, you boyloving dungwallower! Such abuse of your authority cannot be tolerated! You are hereby relieved as governor of this city. Depart this chamber and await Council’s censure.”

Myros’s laugh was cold and sharp as midwinter icicles.

Lounging back in his chair, he exchanged a knowing glance with Kooreeos Skiros, whose teeth flashed through his thick black beard. Then the Vahrohnos stared insolently into the Komees’s one blue eye, drawling, “I think not, you old fool, I think not.”

The elderly nobleman snapped to the nearest pikeman, “Guard, escort the Vahrohnos Myros from this chamber!”

The levyman only sneered. The Kooreeos’s smile broadened, Guildmaster Paulos smirked, and the gold-smith snickered, echoed by the three interlopers on the bench.

“He has stopped taking orders from your ilk, you heathen squatter,” said Paulos, through his smirk. “We all have. This city of Eeleeoheepolis is back in the hands of its rightful owners and soon all the duchy will be!”

‘This city,” answered Bili, in a hard voice, “is called Morguhnpolis and is the property of Clan Morguhn, as is the Duchy. That is the established order of things. But the borders of this my Duchy are not closed, as well you know, smith! Any free man who likes not my overlord-ship has my leave to quit these lands!”

Paulos stood and leaned down the table toward Bili. “Keep barking, you arrogant young puppy, sitting in the chair which should be mine! I, Paulos Morguhn, am rightful owner of Morguhn Hall, and you are all usurpers of my properties and titles and …”

Both Myros and the Kooreeos snapped, “Enough, Paulos!”

But there was no stopping the raving man. White patches of froth had formed at the corners of his mouth, his face was working, and his eyes were become wide and wild. “… when I am in my own, you’ll whine and whimper, not bark! I’ll have your nuts out, damn you, I’ll have the nuts of all of you what was sired by that boar-hog, Hwahruhn! And I’ll sell your brothers for poosteesee, and I’ll keep you to be my own loveboy, after I get tired of plowing the butterhaired bitches what whelped you! And I’ll…”

Bili and Hail were a fraction of a second too late in attempting to restrain Djehf. The weight of his armor not-withstanding, he leapt onto the table. In the twinkling of an eye, he was down its length and the steelshod toe of his hardswung boot had smashed Paulos’s mouth to a pulpy red ruin! The Guildmaster’s chunky body went back into his chair with such force that the wood cracked, splintered, collapsed, and dumped him on the floor. He lay halfconscious, moaning and making gurgling noises.

Myros jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. Waving it at Djehf, he shouted at the pikemen, “Kill the heathen!”

As the first levyman to obey stepped abreast of Master Ahlee, he abruptly voiced a keening wail and let go his pike to clutch at his left side. Ahlee pushed his victim away and, half turning, threw the bloody dagger at an-other pikeman. All six inches of wavy blade disappeared into that man’s belly, just below his breastplate. His scream sounded unearthly.

Myros, too, screamed, at the top of his lungs. “GUARDS! GUARDS! TO ME!”

A multitude of feet pounded along the side corridors, but Ahlee snatched up the pike at his feet and ran the thick ash shaft through the gilded-bronze door rings. He turned back and drew his silver-hilted yataghan barely in time to counter the vicious downswing of Myros’s saber. But a twist of the brown wrist all but spun the weapon from Myros’s grasp and Ahlee’s lightening-fast riposte would have hamstrung the Vahrohnos, had he not hastily hopped backward. And speedily as the Ehleen moved, his opponent’s blade still managed to slice into the upper cuff of his boot, bringing blood from the flesh it covered.

Knifing the first pikeman, Bili had kicked over his chair, grasped his naked broadsword, and bounded over to cut down the closest levyman. The last pikeman did manage to reach the table, but as he made shift to jab at young Djehf, the straps of his breastplate were grabbed by Komees Hari, who jerked him backward while running the full length of his dress dirk between the short ribs. Freeing his blade with a cruel twist, he snatched up the falling pike and backed to stand beside Spiros Morguhn.

The merchant, Feelos Pooleeos, hastily armed himself with the pike, sword, and helm of Bili’s victim and took his place with the Kindred nobles.

Although Myros had always been accounted one of the best swordsmen of the duchy, he found himself fighting for his very life! Since his initial downswing, he had been constantly on the defensive, never having the opportunity to attack, all his skill and strength directed to keep the flickering, steel blur which was his adversary’s cursive blade out of his flesh. Nor had his best efforts been entirely successful, for he showed blood in three places and was being driven back across the room.

“Stehfahnos!” he finally panted. “Help me!”

But Stehfahnos’ sword stayed in its scabbard and Stehfahnos himself was dead on the marble floor. The youngest Morguhn left the tabletop to engage the butcher and the fop, who were trying to unbar the doors.

Cursing, the fop left the butcher to tug at the tightly wedged pikeshaft alone. Drawing a slender, ornate thrustingsword, he extended his arm to jab at the armored man’s unprotected face. Djehf’s powerful upswing shattered the fop’s brittle weapon and his downstroke severed the swordarm, just above the wrist. The fop fell to his knees, staring in horrified fascination at his hand lying before him on the floor, slowly releasing its grip on the hilt of the broken sword.

Djehf stalked purposefully toward the butcher. Unarmed, that man backed along the wall, his hands held before him. His fear-filled eyes locked on that broad, bloody blade.

Kooreeos Skiros stood at the table, alternately calling for the guards and vainly shouting a command for all combat to cease. Klairuhnz stood close by the cleric, watching his every move. All at once, he leaned close and spoke a few words. Bili failed to hear the Bard’s words, for they came at the same time as the butcher’s death cries, and also because someone in the corridor had collected his wits and brought up something to use as a ram. The doors were groaning and the two-inch pikeshaft beginning to crack.

Whatever was said, it clearly startled the Kooreeos. His bushy black eyebrows shot up and his right hand dived under his robes, to reemerge holding what Bili assumed was a throwing club-a thick, L-shaped piece of greyish metal. Grasping one arm of it, he pointed the other at Klairuhnz’s middle.

But Klairuhnz clamped both hands around the club and twisted it out of the Kooreeos’s hands, then slammed the side of it against its owner’s temple. Skiros’s boneless collapse set the subpriest to shrieking in harmony with the moneylender, who shared his haven under the table.

Shoulderblades pressed to the wall, Myros could retreat no further. He had not again been blooded, but his right arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was a tingling, fiery agony, bespeaking the force of the blows his blade had turned. He knew that he could not turn another, so he opened his trembling hand and the saber clattered to the floor.

“Mercy, please, mercy,” he gasped. “Spare my life, sir, I… I beg you.”

Hardly had the words left his lips, when the much-abused pikeshaft finally snapped and the doors burst open before a wave of pikemen. Behind them were ranged a half-dozen archers with arrows nocked; behind the archers were two Ehleenoee officers, another subpriest, and Djaimos the carter, who had arrived too late to “participate” in this Council meeting.

“Heathen barbarians,” shouted the subpriest. “Surrender!”

“Yes, surrender!” echoed one of the officers. “Surrender or we’ll slay you all!”

Fast as a snake, Ahlee dropped his yataghan, jerked Myros close, and gave him a good look of the wavy blade of his second dagger, before poising it at the Vahrohnos’s throat.

“Cowardly dog,” he hissed. “As you see, this blade is envenomed. If but a single bow is drawn or one spearman advances, I shall inflict the tiniest of cuts in your flesh, following which you will die slowly and in unimaginable agony. Now, speak to your hounds!”

Drehkos flatly refused to accompany them, answering his brother’s entreaties with words which staggered the master of Horse Hall. So they left him in the gory Council Chamber, along with the dead and the wounded, the disarmed soldiers and officers, the two subpriests and the moneylender, who had swooned of fright. Myros and the unconscious Kooreeos they took with them.

The heavy manacles, brought by one of the officers, had been intended to chain such of them as were taken alive. Now they were adapted to secure the battered doors. The Council Chamber had no windows, the visitors’ bench was bolted to the floor, and the table could not have been lifted by twice the number of Ehleens present. Consequently, the Kindred hoped to be out of the city ere the prisoners could break out and spread the alarm.

The stairs seemed endless, but the little party finally reached the foot and hurried, almost at a jogtrot, through the huge, dim expanse of the main chamber. When they were nearly at the gaping entrance, they spied armored men beyond it, between them and safety. Coming to a halt, they drew their steel and formed a wedge, with Klairuhnz, Ahlee, and the two hostages at its core. Resolutely, they paced forward, out into the sunlight.

But the knot of men on the broad verandah were scaleshirted Freefighters, not levymen. A thick-limbed, broken-nosed man of middle years stepped out and approached them. His open hands held well away from his swordbelt, he respectfully addressed Komees Djeen.

“Lord Strahteegos, we gave our Sword-Oaths to you. Please release us of them, sir. Only two-and-thirty of us Freefighters remain in Morguhnpolis and … and, sir, the city has … has changed. We fear for our very lives. If … it you will release us, well … well just forget the back pay.”

Bili had instantly recognized in the man’s speech the slightly nasal accent of one who had grown up speaking the Harzburk dialect and he now bespoke him in that tongue, saying, “Two-and-thirty, you say? I see but a score of you.”

“This one speaks for all, My Lord.” The grizzled man answered, with a shy smile, in his native speech. “Twelve of ours are on guard at the east gate. Your… your par-don, My Lord, but … you serve King Gilbuht?” He had, of course, recognized the distinctive style of Bili’s armor.

Komees Djeen answered, “He did, soldier, but no more. This is Bili, the new Thoheeks and Chief of Morguhn, your employer.”

“How are you called, Freefighter?” snapped Bill “And have you mounts?”

“Aye. My Lord, most of us have either a horse or a mule, though some had to be sold to keep us fed and housed and clothed, when Baron Myros there refused us our pay,” replied the speaker, adding humbly, “This one is called Pawl, sir, Pawl Raikuh. Will… please, will My Lord absolve us of our Swordoaths?”

Bili shook his head. “Certainly not. I have need of your swords, though not as city guards. You and your men will ride with me, Captain Raikuh.”

“With a right good will, My Lord, sir.” Raikuh’s head bobbed assent. “But, My Lord, this one is not a captain, only a common Freefighter.”

“Not if you speak for over thirty men, you’re not,” said Bili curtly. Then he raised his voice, addressing the group of bravos. “What say you, Freefighters? You chose him to speak for you. Would you have him to command you, if he can assure you continued employment and,” he added shrewdly, “your back pay?”

Almost as one, the men smiled and nodded. A much scarred little man stepped forward. “My Lord, Pawl, be noble born, and ain’t none but respects him. He’ll be a good captain, he will.”

“Who is the man who speaks, Captain?” Bili demanded.

The new-made officer did not need to look. “Stanlee Krahndahl, My Lord, a Klahkzburker.”

“Will he make a decent lieutenant for your condotta, Captain?”

“Indeed yes, Duke Bili!”

“So be it, then.” Bili strode off toward the horses, adding, “Get your men in the saddle, all of them. And bring along spare horses for your men at the gate, plus a few more. I care not where or how you obtain them, Captain, just get them. After all, I own everything in this city, if I choose to lay claim to it!”

“Sacred Sun!” swore Spiros, in a hushed, awed aside to Djeen as they mounted. “Young, he may be, but by Wind our Bili is a Thoheeks to reckon with! He’s the kind of chief we’ve needed … well, since the death of his grandfather, anyway. Did you see the way that that Raikuh looked at him, when he bade him commandeer horses? I think that man’d willingly die for Bill, and he’d never seen or heard of him two minutes ago!”

The old man nodded, showing every tooth in an opposum grin. “Aye, Spiros, Bili has it all-brains, guts, weapons skill, and a rare ability to handle men, to command loyalty and respect. He’ll be a good chief right enough, but wasted in that capacity all the same. What an officer he’d make for the Confederation!”

While the two troopers were getting the bound and unconscious bulk of the Kooreeos lashed behind his saddle, Klairuhnz listened in on Djeen’s comments and found himself in heartfelt agreement.

Myros, tied facedown behind Komees Djeen’s saddle, had recovered his breath as well as his supercilious manner. “Listen to me, Komees Djeen. Despite the crimes to which you were a party upstairs, if you and the others will surrender to me now, I give you my word that you’ll have an impartial hearing and a quick, painless death.”

Djeen snorted scornfully. “Your word, Myros? Your word pledged your loyalty to Bili and his father, when you were confirmed to your title and lands. Today has proven your precious word to not be worth a scant measure of turkey dung!”

“The House of Morguhn,” snarled Myros, “is and has always been usurping squatters, old man! My ancestors held this land when yours were scratching fleas on the Sea of Grass! The very first King of Karaleenos …”

“The very last King of Karaleenos,” the one-eyed Komees coldly interrupted, “is generations dead! You are a rebel, a traitor, a liar, a murderer, and, I doubt me not, much more and worse besides. In the Middle Kingdoms, such a one as you would be slowly whipped to death or impaled. When your mind runs to quick, painless deaths, you had best pray your obscene god for one. For do not forget, you forsworn pig, Bill’s upbringing was in the Middle Kingdoms!”

“Ha!” exclaimed Myros. “Dream on, dream on. You barbarians will never leave my city alive! You … gaaaagh!”

He broke off in a strangled scream, as the Komees sunk the needle point of his hook deep into the prisoner’s thigh. As he jerked out the brass hook, he grimly admonished, “Another word out of you, overassumptive degenerate, and I’ll jam my hook up your arse, and don’t think I won’t!”

But it began to appear that Myros might have been correct, for a growing rabble of Morguhnpolisee were beginning to mill about the foot of the formal garden which fronted the city palace. Few were armed at all and most of those ill armed, though more than a few pikepoints glittered above them. However, there were already several hundred there being harangued by priests, and the side streets and alleys were debouching more.

Slapping down his half visor, Bili uncased his axe, wishing for the umpteenth time that it was reliable Mahvros he bestrode, rather than this green, less than intelligent gelding. The others ranged out on his flanks, most now bearing one of the twelve-foot pikes, as well as the swords and light axes they had brought into the city.

Djehf hefted the heavy shaft, eyeing the wicked, two-foot blade. “I’ve never before used one of these for a lance, Lord Brother, and it’s not really weighted properly for that purpose, but,” he chuckled, “I trow I’ll spit me a few fat Ehleenoee ganders on it!”

Bili nodded shortly. “Aye, we must make do with the weapons to hand. Be sure that you ride well clear of me, youngster. I’d hate to axe you in error.”

Djehf laughed merrily. “Never you fear, Lord Brother, I’ve ridden the battle line with axemen, ere this. Besides, I’ve an odd aversion to being axed-in error or other-wise.”

Toeing his gelding forward of the line, Bili reined him about and visually inspected his minuscule force. Klairuhnz, having had second thoughts, had transferred Kooreeos Skiros’s limp body to the withers, where he could more easily keep an eye on him. As Bili watched, the Bard drew the saber that had served so well at the bridge fight and the sunlight flashed along its polished blade. Master Ahlee, like Djehf, bore a pike, as did all the others save for Komees Djeen. His troopers had helped him replace his hook with another, larger one with a cleaverlike blade welded to its flat side, while his one hand held his military broadsword. Most of the baggage had been unceremoniously dumped, that Feelos Pooleeos -wearing a too small cuirass and an infantry helm- might be mounted on the sumpter mule.

The Thoheeks’s oldest son addressed them soberly. “We must strive to remain together, but any man who is separated must fight free as best he can. Against so many, all must depend upon shock and speed. If we halt for any reason, we are lost. We…”

But Komees Djeen interrupted him, pointing with his sword at something behind the young leader. “Bili … look you yonder.”

Struck as much by the old nobleman’s paling face as by the tightness of his voice, Bili reined around to gaze in the direction indicated. A knot of armored horsemen had crested the next slope of the hilly city and were extending lines to completely block the street behind the mob. Nothing about their appearance was clear; they were just black figures against the blaze of the morning sun; but there seemed a goodly number of them, at least three times the number of Bill’s party.

“Well,” the young axeman remarked to no one in particular, “I suppose this is as good a place to die as any.”