Revenge of the Horseclans

CHAPTER X

When first Lord Myros had appointed him Warder of the East, Hahrteeos Kahrahmahnlees had had carpenters and stonemasons make certain alterations in the two rooms which were the second and third levels of the gate tower, where he would have to spend so much time. Then he had brought from his family mansion the furniture and appointments to allow him to, in his words, “live as an Ehleen gentleman should.” The sparsely furnished, dimly lit, stonewalled chambers above and below his rooms he deemed fit only for his gaunt, ragged barbarian mercenaries.

The moment the heathen devils had clattered in through his gate, he had dispatched his Ehleen sergeant, Toorkos, to Lord Myros, alerting the Vahrohnos of the imminent arrival of his victims-to-be at the city palace. Shortly thereafter, he had carefully locked his second-level sitting room-office-well aware that the long-unpaid mercenaries were not above theft of small valuables, as he had had the pleasure of watching two of them beheaded for that very offense on a recent occasion—then repaired to his luxurious bedroom on the third level, having in mind an hour’s diversion with Peeos, his well-trained catamite.

Despite the Undying High Lord’s abolishment of the institution of slavery nearly a hundred years before, some Ehleenoee still risked the ruinous fines and held one or two. Lord Drehkos was one such and Lord Myros owned an even dozen. Therefore, one of Hahrteeos’s first actions after the death of his father was to journey to the port city of Sahrahspolis and buy this boy from a ship captain with whom Myros had done much business over the years.

Naturally, the bootlegger did not say where or how he had come by the lad, but it was certain that the twelve- or thirteen-year-old had seen his birth in none of the Ehleen lands, for his skin was darker even than the skins of the folk of the Black Kingdoms, and his speech, to his new master, was a totally incomprehensible babble. Hahrteeos had brought his acquisition back to Morguhnpolis and had had his servants teach it at least a smattering of Ehleeneekos. It had been Hahrteeos’s personal pleasure to teach the slaveboy other things, breaking his will to resist by denial of food and application of pain.

But it seemed he had scarcely commenced his enjoyments in the tower bedchamber when several pairs of heavy feet clumped up the stairs beyond the door, then stamped thunderously about the guardroom above, their owners all the while chattering in the decidedly unlovely barbarian languages, of which Hahrteeos took pride in knowing not a word. Next, feet descended the stairs to the second level and a pounding on the door of his office ensued. Then one set of the feet reascended to the third level and knuckles rapped boomingly on his bedchamber portal.

Furious at this unwonted and unwanted invasion on his privacy, Hahrteeos pulled a tunic over his nakedness and threw open the door.

“Well?” he angrily demanded of the mercenary who had knocked. “What is it, you barbarian ape?”

It was Pawl Raikuh who stood before him, though this fact was unknown to Hahrteeos, who had not bothered to learn the names of any of “his” troops, other than Toorkos who was, after all, an Ehleen.

After saluting, the mercenary humbly requested permission to exchange some of the off-duty men for those presently on gate watch. Hahrteeos snorted his leave and, promising dire doom to the next man who saw fit to disturb him, slammed the door.

But less than a quarter hour later, another pair of feet sped up the steps. This time it sounded as if someone were attempting to split the door with a battleaxe! Hahrteeos was in a towering rage when he opened the door.

But this caller was not a mercenary. He was, rather, Stavros Klahreedees, Warder of the South and Hahrteeos’s military, if not exactly social, equal, so there was nothing to do but invite him in and proffer wine. While the Warder of the East was filling his associate’s goblet, more sets of big feet stomped up and past his door, but he ignored them.

The short, skinny, pockfaced visitor removed his gilded helm and laid it on a marbletopped table before he accepted, tasted, and savored a goblet of the wine. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “You certainly know how to live, my dear. Would that I could afford such a home away from home, such civilized delights, such fine wines…”

“You will,” Hahrteeos assured him, smilingly. “You will yet, once we’ve cleared the heathen from these lands of ours. Why, Lord Myros says…”

“Your pardon, please, love.” The caller, with a wrinkling of his brows, set down his silver goblet. “Your pardon, but that brings me to my reason for being here. I received word, a few minutes agone, that the Lord Drehkos has commanded all gates closed immediately. That farce at the palace is done. The pigs got away from the guards by seizing and holding the Holy Skiros and Lord Myros and they must not be allowed to escape the city.

“Would you like for me to issue the necessary orders?” he asked considerately. “After all, darling, you are hardly garbed for a stroll on the walls.”

Hahrteeos smiled. “How thoughtful, dear Stavros. I appreciate such kindness.”

Setting his helm back on his head, Stavros turned to open the door. Taking the pullring in hand, he pulled, but the door failed to budge. Several more pulls and the addition of his other hand produced no better results. Then his bigger, heftier host took his place, but the stubborn portal failed to yield to him either.

Stavros stamped his small foot in exasperation. “What’s wrong with the cursed thing? We’ve got to do something, you know. Those pet pigs you command are stupid enough to let the butterhaired heathens ride out of our city without a by-your-leave!”

“Patience, patience.” Hahrteeos patted his guest on the shoulder. “With all of the damp weather we’ve had, the door or the frame has probably just developed a warp, that’s all. Not that I’ll not have a few larcenous carpenters well striped for it. But there is another way to reach the guardroom. Here, I’ll need your help.”

Between them, the two warders managed to get an old, heavy wooden ladder from behind the wall hanging which had concealed it; then wrestled it across to the center of the room, raised it, and wedged the upper tips of its up-rights into ceiling grooves provided for the purpose.

Hahrteeos stepped back, breathing heavily. “These ladder and trapdoor arrangements are how they got from one level to another in the ancient days, before the outside stairway was built. See those two round holes up there? Put your fingers in them and slide the panel to the right and you’ll be in the middle of the guardroom.”

The boy Peeos had pulled a satin sheet over his nakedness when the caller had been admitted, turning his face to the wall and lying absolutely motionless. His master’s temper was hair-triggered and terrifyingly unpredictable. The tiniest word or gesture could draw down his wrath and savage cruelties. Peeos wanted no more scars, so he took no chances. But the sounds of the raising of the ladder piqued his curiosity. He slyly turned his head and watched from beneath lowered lids.

Stavros mounted the ladder until he could reach the fingerholes and followed Hahrteeos’s instructions. The long-unused panel was difficult at first, but he finally managed to get it out of the way. Then he climbed a couple of more rungs and his head, arms, and shoulders were in the guardroom.

Peeos and Hahrteeos heard him give his order; next he shouted something, then started a scream which suddenly ended in an odd gurgle. His legs commenced kicking and his arms came back into view, twitching strangely; it appeared that he was suspended by his head alone. It was so for but a brief moment, then legs and arms and body crashed down onto Hahrteeos’s fine carpet, soaking it with fantastic quantities of blood.

Shrieking mindlessly, Hahrteeos dashed to the door and frantically ripped at it, heedless of the ruination of his soft hands and carefully tended nails. But the door remained closed and the Warder of the East backed into the corner, as far as he could get from that bloody, still-twitching horror at the foot of the ladder.

Pawl Raikuh came down that ladder agilely, his gory sword in hand, followed by three of his men, all four of them generously splashed with fresh blood. At his shout, the “jammed” door swung open easily and several more Freefighters trooped in. When they had drained the last of the wine from the silver ewer, they began a hot argument over to whom it now belonged, but Pawl ended it.

“Henree, bundle the ewer and the goblets into that fancy cloak yonder. Plunder will be property of all the condotta. And get the rings and armlets and all else of value off this dead pig. But don’t kill that one behind the door. If I think aright, there’s one here has more claim on his worthless life than do any of us.”

Peeos did not fear death; indeed, only the strictest supervision by Hahrteeos and his servants had prevented the boy from taking his own life, after he came to realize for just what uses his master had purchased him. So as the huge, hard-looking soldier approached, Peeos bared his bony chest, pointed first at the naked sword, then at the area above his heart.

Captain Raikuh smiled and shook his head. “I don’t mean to slay you, lad. Do you want your freedom?”

Peeos stared at the figure looming over him and shook his blue black head with its covering of tight ebon curls.

Raikuh had spoken in Mereekuhn, or the Confederation dialect of that ancient tongue; now he repeated himself in Ehleeneekos.

Hesitantly, his lips painfully shaping the words, Peeos spoke. “Freedom? Mean when … no, what? Mean What, Lord Master? Peeos not under … not… ?”

Pawl whirled and strode purposefully over to the corner that held the trembling, pasty-faced Hahrteeos. Grabbing a handful of the Ehleen’s perfumed hair, he dragged him to the center of the room and demanded, “What language does yonder lad speak, you sad excuse for a man?”

Hahrteeos moved his well-chewed lips, but no sounds issued from them. Pawl tried raising his sword threateningly, but his captive’s only reactions were to start screaming again and to explosively befoul himself. Pawl dropped the Warder of the East disgustedly and paced back over to the bed. One after another, he tried the many languages and dialects he had learned in his nearly thirty years of Freefighting. Tune was very short, and he was getting desperate, when he asked his question in Kweebehkyuhn. He nearly dropped his sword when the black-skinned boy answered him, not in that far-northern tongue, but in one which sounded much like it.

Over his shoulder, Pawl called urgently, “Frahnswah? Where is Frahnswah?”

“Here. Pawl… uh, Captain, I mean.”

The situation was quickly explained and, in his own native tongue, Frahnswah stated, “We are leaving this city, little man. If you would leave with us and be free of your master and his vice contre natur, speak now.”

But once the boy was clad, it was discovered that none of the spare jazerans were small enough to fit him.

Pawl declared, “There’s like to be some hard fighting, an’ our new lord is what he seems. The lad will be dead meat, and quickly, if … wait, that pig we had the head from, his is a damned small body. Let’s have off his cuirass and see if that won’t fit our new comrade here.”

The gilded corselet proved only a little too big, while the greaved boots and the flashy helm fitted perfectly. A few more holes were punched in the swordbelt and it was buckled around the boy’s waist. Pawl found the late Stavros’s swordblade to be inferior and its hilt nought but gilded copper. He threw it in a corner, saying to one of his men, “Buhk, you, Henree, and Frehd take our dear commander’s keys and see what’s worth taking from his office, and one of you be sure to bring his small target and his shortsword for the lad.”

Lastly, the Captain drew Stavros’s dirk and tested its edge and point on a callused thumb, then handed it back to its new owner, commenting to his departing men, “You can at least trust these damned Ehleenee for that. Their swords may be all glitter and show, but then: backstabbers will be fine steel every time!”

Hahrteeos had been lashed, hand and foot, to the sturdy uprights of the ladder, and Pawl led the armored boy over to the blubbering captive. With Frahnswah translating his words, he said, “Son, we all know of the odious bondage in which this degenerate has held you. If any man owns the right to exact the suffering and death of Lord Hahrteeos, it is you. Your dirk there is a good weapon. Use it on him in any way you wish, but whatever you do do it quickly, for we all now have horses and our new lord awaits us.”

Bili shook his head sadly. They might have had a slim chance to hack through the ill-armed mob, but an uphill charge against so many mounted warriors could have but the one certain outcome.

Then, above the tumult of the rabble, came first the clatter of galloping hooves, then a swelling roar of deep voices bellowing the traditional battlecry of Freefighters:

“BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD” It changed, as the charging horsemen neared the rear of the mob, to “MORGUHN! DUKE BILI! MORGUHN! MORGUHN!”

In a tight column of fours, Pawl Raikuh’s veterans struck with the irresistible force of a tidal wave! The mob gave way before those flashing sabers, surging up into the lower reaches of the formal gardens, where they were met by the furious charge of Bili and the gentry. At that juncture, the mob ceased to be, dissolving into a broil of panic-stricken men and women, running, scuttling, clawing at whomever blocked their way, scurrying up sidestreets and narrow alleys, the Ehleenoee officers and priests in the van!

Komees Djeen cursed all the way back to Morguhn Hall. For in the hoorah of the charge his prisoner had either fallen or been dragged from off his horse, and they had been able to find neither hide nor hair of the traitorous Vahrohnos. Kooreeos Skiros was still captive however. He had regained consciousness and was loudly damning each and every one of them, promising dire and despicable deaths and afterlives of unspeakable torment if he was not immediately set free and returned to the city. When the subbishop’s outbursts lost their amusement value, a couple of Raikuh’s men helped Klairuhnz to gag his prisoner with a bloodcaked bandage rag and an old bowstring. Then they lashed him into the saddle of a spare horse, face to tail!

Poor Hari rode slumped in his saddle, world-heavy with his sorrows and suddenly appearing older than even Djeen. It was not so much that his wife was now definitely known to be an important member of the rebellion conspiracy, for she had always despised anything which smacked of the Kindred and hated her husband for his Horseclans blood and ways. Nor was it the defection of his younger brother, for Drehkos had ever been unpredictable in his behavior and a frequent champion of questionable people and causes. That his three unmarried daughters were probably in the thing as well was of no real importance, for since they had ceased to be children, they had been but relative strangers who happened to share his hall, board, and name.

All of these smaller sorrows of course added their own less significant weights to the burden on Hari’s laden soul, but what truly crushed the very marrow of his spirit were the last words he had had of Drehkos, ere they had left him locked in the Council Chamber with his comrades.

“It’s possible that our cause will be defeated, brother mine. But if indeed it is, you’ll have to follow your heathenish custom of succession and pass Horse Hall on to your eldest daughter’s son. Even if I die, at least I’ll have seen to it that your by-blow never profanes our father’s place. That’s right, dear loving brother, I ordered the execution of your precious Vaskos to be performed the moment we were out of sight of the hall!”

Each of them accompanied by a brace of Raikuh’s men, Spiros and Hail had cut off crosscountry to alert Kindred families in the villages and smaller halls and to get them armed and headed toward Morguhn Hall. The rest rode the road in a tight military formation, preceded by vanguards and trailed by a strong rearguard, the flanks scouted by ranging outriders. But the return trip proved uneventful. Though they rode an important thoroughfare, bathed in the sunlight of a perfect spring day, they spied not another human, either on the road or in the fields. And that in itself was significant… and ominous.

As Bili and the vanguard cleared the entry tunnel and rode into the outer courtyard, every sword within sight was raised in formal salute, such a salute as was rendered only to a highranking nobleman. He did not need to be told that his father had died during his absence and that, barring only the formality of Council approval, he was Thoheeks and Chief, in fact.

Old Sami hastened to hold his new master’s stirrup, then bowed low, saying, “He went to Wind at the highest blaze of Sacred Sun, My Lord. The bards say that that is a most blessed tune, if a chief cannot go to Wind in battle. We have clothed his husk appropriately and laid him in the great chamber, where your Lady Mothers bide with him. Shall I now conduct you there, Chief Bili?”

Bili shook his head curtly. “Later, Kinsman, I’ve much to do. For now, I want a fresh horse, one that can mind-speak better than this one. Komees Hari and Kinsman Feelos Pooleeos will be guesting with us. Also, as you can see, I’ve brought more Freefighters. There are two officers and twenty-seven men. Their commander is Captain Pawl Raikuh, a Harzburker and a gentleman. Lodge him in the Hall.

“Bard Klairuhnz has an important prisoner. Best let him be the judge of proper confinement. I’ll want six of our own Freefighters who know the country roundabouts to ride with me on an immediate scout. See first to that and to having my gear transferred to the fresh horse. And have someone fetch me a big beaker of cool wine and a bucket of water. I’m all dust, inside and out.”

Turning, he called over his brother. “Djehf, our father is gone to Wind; he lies in the great chamber. I think that I should scout the villages and the general vicinity before dark. You will be Chief until I return, but let Komees Djeen and Sami handle defense preparations. Sami knows this place from top to bottom and Komees Djeen has both besieged and been besieged, so he knows what to prepare for and against.

“See to the preparation of the pyre in the rear courtyard. It’s just too crowded out here. For now, go in and render our respects to our mothers.”

When answering Bill’s summons, Djeen found himself saluting! Though less than a third his years, this boy was suddenly radiating authority, and it just seemed natural to accept that authority. “Your orders, My Lord?”

Bili acknowledged the salute, saying, “Lord Komees, shortly I will be taking a half-dozen troopers on a patrol of the surrounding area. My brother will be Chief in my absence. However, as I have just informed him, you and Kinsman Sami will share exclusive command of the troops, the Hall, and preparations for its defense, as well as arrangements for such Kindred as come here for refuge.”

“It might be well that you closet with Bard Klairuhnz for as long a time as he needs to take the ‘Lament of Clan Morguhn’ from your memory. We will give Chief Hwahruhn’s smoke to Wind at the return of Sun, tomorrow; and if Clan Bard Hail is not back by that time, Bard Klairuhnz’s services will be needed.

“Also, please have wagons and teams and guards for them ready. Choose the guards from among Captain Raikuh’s men; they appear to be experienced looters. If there are no hostile forces in the hall village, Til send back a messenger, and the wagons and men can come down and strip it of anything we can use.”

At the time of the conquest of Northern Karaleenos by the Confederation, all land had belonged either to the king or the great nobles, who had resided only in the cities. Those who had lived on and worked the land had been accounted as much a part of it as the animals and crops; nor had their lives and well-being been considered of much importance by their owners, save as a source of revenue. Even then, over a hundred years agone, had they been a people of mixed antecedents-part Ehleen, part indigenous native.

With the settlements of the Horseclansmen, the old order had been drastically changed. The Kindred had been nomadic herdsmen for hundreds of years, and though in Karaleenos then- felt-and-leather lodges were become stone halls, farming was to them an alien and despised occupation. They remained herdsmen, breeders of horses, cattle, goats, and sheep, taking what lands they needed for pasturage or for the sites of their halls. What was left was freely given to those who wished to farm as their own property, to use or dispose of as they should desire.

What few of the Ehleen nobility as were left slavishly copied this practice-indeed, copied any practice, no matter how barbaric in their own eyes, that would allow them to retain the remainder of their much reduced lands and stations. Things were more or less chaotic for a decade or two, until the former land slaves became adapted to the new order and their unaccustomed role of landowners, responsible only to themselves.

So had it been for over a hundred years. And as generations of the younger sons of Kindred Houses had wed the daughters of merchants, tradesmen, and farmers, while their titled brethren were blending their own blood and genes with scionesses of the houses of the surviving Ehleenoee nobility, there became less and ever less distinction between Kindred herder and Ehleenoe farmer stocks.

To Komees Djeen and most of the other so-called Kindred Nobles, it seemed incomprehensible—and smacked strongly of sorcery—that so large a proportion of the nonnoble classes should be involved in what had become an open revolt supposedly directed against the Kindred, for many of these very rebels had fully as much or even more Kindred blood than did the bulk of the nobles!

One did not, of course, have to sympathize with Vahrohnos Myros of Kehnooryos Deskati to understand at least some of the reasoning which underlay his treason. Before the defeat of Karaleenos and its forced merger with the Confederation, his ancestors had been overlords of three cities and three-quarters of the lands which now made up the Duchy of Morguhn, as well as parts of the neighboring Duchy of Vawn. This was not the first revolt spawned by the broodings of Ehleenoee minor nobility on past grandeurs, but it was the first in this part of Karaleenos in nearly a hundred years, as well as but the second in all of the Confederation to have such wide backing of the common sorts.

While the House of Deskatios had produced many highly intelligent men of rare talents and value to the Duchy and Confederation, it had also produced more than its share of scions who had been considered at least “odd” by their contemporaries. Indeed, Myros himself had once been a brilliant and promising officer in the Army of the Confederation until after over ten years of exemplary service, he had been suddenly relieved of his command, stripped of his military rank, and forbidden ever again to display his Fourth Class Silver Cat.

No one in all the Duchy ever admitted to knowing the truth in the matter, but there were rumors … one of them that had he not already succeeded to and been confirmed in his title, his neck would surely have made the short, sharp acquaintance of an Army executioner’s sword, so grave had been his offense.

So Myros had scant reason to love the Confederation and at least some reason to envy the Thoheeks of Morguhn and Strahteegos Komees Djeen and even Substrahteegos-to-be Vaskos Daiviz, since all three held titles of which he felt himself to have been cheated. A return to the ancient order would therefore place him squarely in the very lap of his dreams.

But for the humbler sorts, a return to the ancient order—the bad old days—would be a return to the status of dumb, enslaved beast of burden. So none of the noble Kindred could fathom any gain these common folk might hope to secure in turning on their present rulers.