Revenge of the Horseclans

IV

Komees Djeen Morguhn was tall, even taller than Bill, and spare. He marched rather than walked, striding to the silent beat of a personal drum. His face would have been handsome as Bill’s, save for the long scar, which in healing had twisted his upper lip into a perpetual grin, and had taken his left eye as well. He was also missing most of one ear, the last two fingers of his swordhand, and his left hand and wrist, which had been replaced by a shiny brass cap and hook. His scars and his limp were the marks of his former profession. Despite the aches and pains, which increased with every year and were accentuated by damp weather, Komees Djeen counted himself very lucky, for precious few career soldiers ever saw their sixtieth year.

He never really felt dressed unless some manner of armor weighted his shoulders. Tonight it was a hiplength jacket of brigandine, cinched about his narrow waist by an Army swordbelt supporting his purse and plain, well-worn dirk. Between the lower hem of the brigandine and the still buckled tops of his jackboots could be seen his sensible, linen canvas breeches.

The short man who followed him went garbed in the simple, five-piece ensemble of the Horseclansman-loose, pullover shirt; wide, big-buckled dirkbelt; and baggy trousers tucked into short, soft boots. His only armament was a broadbladed rancher’s knife. Though he could not recall ever having seen him, Bill had no trouble in identifying him as Lord Drehkos, Komees Hari’s brother, for the two men were like as peas in a pod.

The third man, however, was an utter stranger. He was about Bill’s height, and like him his shoulders were wide and thick; his long arms ended in a big, wide hands. But there the similarity ended, for the man was obviously a Kath’ahrohs or fullblood Ehleen. His long pomaded hair was blueblack and his skintone, like Vaskos’s, was a dark olive, though his finer features made him a far more handsome man.

This stranger was garbed in black, from foot to pate. His delicately grained, glovesoft boots rose to midthigh. Both they and his belt had been buffed until they threw back the lamplight like expanses of onyx. His sleeveless tunic encased him from shoulders to boottops and was wrought of that thick, lustrous velvet for which the Duchy of Klahksburk was justly famous. The sleeves of his silken shirt billowed from shoulder to wrist, where they were drawn tight, and atop his head drooped a soft cap of the Klahksburk, its center and edges adorned with arabesques stitched out in silver wire. The case and hilt of his dress dirk were of black leather, the former edged and studded with silver and the latter wound with silver wire; its pommel consisted of a bright silver ball almost two inches in diameter. Also silver was the massy, flatlink chain which was draped over his shoulders, but the pendant it supported was gold.

While his rich clothing and accessories would not have been considered remarkable in the Middle Kingdoms or even at the court of the Undying High Lord, within an austerely oldfashioned province such as the Duchy of Morguhn, impractical fripperies were the mark of the fop. Bili had impulsively catalogued the newcomer as such until his eyes lit on what depended from the silver chain.

No man’s rank or lineage or lands or fortune ever brought him into the Order of the Cat. Only well witnessed acts of extreme valor in fierce combat earned even a Ninth Class Red Cat. So this stranger was anything but a fop, for his pendant brilliant against the black velvet bore the stalking shape of the Golden Cat, bright emeralds serving as its eyes. It was a Fourth Class Cat and gave notice to all who saw it to honor this man for the mighty champion he was.

Deep in the cellars of Horse Hall, another meeting was in progress. There, a score or so of figures crouched in the musty darkness amid the winetuns and brandy kegs and vats of pickled vegetables. The only light came from a smoky lamp, which rendered faces and forms vague and wraithlike. Although the door to then’ meetingchamber was well guarded, they kept then: voices lowpitched and spoke only in Old Ehleeneekos, the language spoken before the Coming of the Horseclans more than a century before, now almost dead and seldom heard outside Ehleen Church rites.

From the darkness a slightly nasal voice declared, “I say we should kill them all. Here and now, tonight!”

“And I agree.” A coldly arrogant voice half snarled from the other side. “When our time is ripe, the Butter haired Devils still will be struggling to recover from so great a loss. Think, up there sit the heir apparent to the Thoheeks, two Komeesee, a Vahrohneeskos, a City Lord, plus that bard and the Bastard.”

“You are both fools!” A dry, authoritarian woman’s voice flatly averred. “Oh, I doubt me not that the strangling cord or the unexpected knifethrust are disciplines with which you have much familiarity, but how much do any of you know of the art of the sword? Eh? Ere you had slain the Bastard’s man, who sits guard before their door, and battered that thick portal down, your would be victims would be assuredly warned … and the Hall armory is in that room, you know.”

“Lady, we too have arms.” The nasal first voice insisted stubbornly.

“You most certainly are fools, to talk so,” said a new voice, deep and rolling. “And I speak of sure knowledge, being the only trained soldier among you. Your arms are old relics and, despite my best efforts over these last months, few of you have absorbed even the bare bones of the use of those arms.

“Most of those men up there are professional soldiers, or they were. The one who is not was still reared a Kindred nobleman, which means reared to the sword. Of that bard, I know naught, save that his horse be war trained and his harness includes a well balanced and well kept saber, which I doubt he carries as a toothpick. Attempt the idiocy of which you prate and the most of you will die tonight. And your well hacked corpses will be of no use to the Church or to our oppressed people.”

“Phah! Don’t listen to the coward,” hissed the arrogant second voice. “He is not our leader!”

“The last man who named me coward,” the deep voice rolled menacingly, “died with his guts curled around his legs!”

“Enough!” snapped the woman. “Would you men serve the very cause of the Oppressors? Remember your oaths and the sacredness of our crusade.”

“I do remember my oath, Lady,” the soldier softly boomed. “It is the only reason I have not removed the heads from some of these yapping curs long since!” Then, speaking to the others in the room, “No, I am not your leader, thank God. But your leader did appoint me your advisor. And my advice is this: Wait. Wait for the opportunity to kill without being killed.”

The nasal voice suggested, “Why don’t we just poison the roomful? They are sure to call for more wine, ere the night’s out.”

“We dare not,” answered the woman, quickly. “One of them is secretly one of us.”

“Tell me which he is.” Another female voice. “Lady, I could serve them, and sign him not to drink…”

But the commanding female advised, “No. We do not know who he is, and even if we did, it were too dangerous to make Sacred Signs before so many.”

“Besides,” rumbled the advisor. “How would you know which signs still are secret? How would anyone know… since Gafnee?”

Mere mention of the terrible calamity brought the expected shocked silence. Taking advantage of the silence, the soldier went quickly on. “Some of them will die tonight, never fear. The Lady and I will plan it, and I myself will see that it is properly done. But forget what has been here proposed, it is simply too chancy!”

The commanding female took over. “Now, brothers and sisters, let us close this meeting with a prayer that Our Lord, the only True God, show us the way to serve Him in the deliverance of our lands from the bloody hands of the godless heathens, and His people and Church from the ancient bondage.”

After the round of introductions had been made and all were seated about the table, Komees Hari had more wine brought in, along with spiced meats and salty beancakes. Then he and the three newcomers took turns interrogating Bili, sounding out his every feeling, hope, or ambition. They pried into his past, in Harzburk and on campaign, gleaning an encapsulated rendition of ten years of training and warring. That done, Komees Djeen put several complicated military problems to him.

For Bili, it was nervewracking to sit there in the hot closeness of the narrow stone chamber, breathing air layered with pipesmoke and lampsmoke, and baring his innermost secrets and desires in response to the probing questions of the four shrewd but increasingly friendly noblemen. Of course, it would have been much quicker and far easier to have conducted the meeting by mindspeak, save for the fact that Lord Drehkos totally lacked that talent.

But Bili consoled himself with the thought that all this was necessary and simply must be borne with as good a face as he could muster. For if these men were to eventually confirm him their Clan Chief and the Thoheeks of Morguhn, they must know him as well as they knew themselves. Only a fool would buy an untested blade, no matter how distinguished its hallmark; and their questions revealed these men to be anything but fools.

It lacked but an hour and a half of midnight when Komees Hari arose and stiffly stretched, his joints emitting sharp snaps. “Kindred,” he addressed them all, “it is my thought that Bili will be to his clan a chief of famous memory. This night’s questioning has proven that he possesses more patience and wisdom than most men of his years. He’s a likeable young fellow, even if his manner is a bit stiff and overly formal for this Duchy. But all of us who have soldiered in the Middle Kingdoms can recall the stiff formality of the nobility of those lands, and since Bili was reared and trained there, he is but reflecting his mentors.

“Now, true, he seems a bit bloodthirsty,” the Komees chuckled, echoed by his brother and Komees Djeen, “but it is not mere vicarious pleasure, for he is clearly a proven warrior, and his answers to the problems set to him by Djeen and Ahndros and Vaskos show that he possesses enviable talents as tactician and strategist.”

“Plus a thorough understanding of the principles of logistics,” put in Komees Djeen, holding his specially fashioned winecup with his brass hook, while accenting his words with jabs of the stem of his pipe, “which I wish I’d owned when I was his age. Our Army could use a man like him. And I think he’d enjoy the life of a cavalry officer. Now, if Hwahruhn improves and lives a few years longer…”

“Sun and Wind!” Drehkos snorted disgustedly. “For as long as I can remember, Djeen, you’ve been selling army life to all and sundry. I vow, in your way you’re as bad as Myros. The moment he claps eyes to a wellformed lad, his mind commences to bed him, while the moment you see one, you’re mentally fitting him into a cuirass!”

“Those were most unkind words, Kinsman,” came the quiet, gentle, but penetrating voice of the blackclad Vahrohneeskos Ahndros. “Komees Djeen’s Strahteegos Oath binds him for life, and pointing officer-quality men toward our Army is a worthy and laudable act. He it was who persuaded my brothers and me to serve, and I regret none of those years in the Army of the Confederation. Indeed, I would not have returned when I did, had not my inheritance been in jeopardy.”

Drehkos made a rude noise. “Strahteegos Oath indeed! Listen you, Ahndros, Djeen’s passion to put every man on two legs into armor, and the foxy wiles he uses to achieve that result, far predate his elevation to Strahteegos. Why, thirty odd years ago he came back here and did his damndest to hornswoggle me and Hari and all the other young Kindred he could catch into that troop of mercenaries he took up to Pitzburk. This, his principal idiosyncrasy, is nothing new or patriotically laudable, young Kinsman!”

His single eye skewering Hari’s brother, Komees Djeen said slowly and gravely, “And you’ should have ridden with your brother and me, Drehkos. You’d be a better man for it, today. And you’d have cost your poor, dead father far less expense, heartache, and embarrassment.”

Drehkos squirmed and dropped his gaze, his face reddening. “Possibly!” he snapped, shortly. “But we’re not gathered here to ruminate on my misspent youth, you know. A chief should have good mindspeak. How is young Bili’s? All here know that I possess none myself, so I’ll have to take your words for it.”

“What say you, Bard Klairuhnz?” inquired Hari. “Your mindspeak seems stronger than average.”

Once again, Bili noticed those very odd looks which the Bard and Vahrohneeskos Andros who supposedly had never met prior to this night were exchanging. He was absolutely certain that the two were mindspeaking, but he could not receive them, try as he might.

“Our young Kinsman is blessed with excellent natural ability,” answered Klairuhnz, smiling. “He both transmits and receives well … on the basic levels, that is. Of course, with the proper training, he could be even better, stronger.”

Stubborn as a dog with a bone in his teeth, Komees Djeen immediately snapped, “And he could get that training in our Army, gentlemen, no place is better. Why, there is a special school, in Kehnooryos Atheenahs for the very purpose of developing latent mental abilities. Ask Andros, he attended it.”

Komees Hari shook his head. “Desist, Djeen, desist Considering Hwahruhn’s sad state of health and the perils that the Morguhn and Daiviz Kindred presently face, it’s out of the question. The place of the Chiefs son is here. Until certain matters, which need no repetition, are resolved, we will need Bili far more than will the Army … and that soon, I fear.”

“Vaskos,” he turned to his son, “please ask your man to have a servant fetch us a round of brandy, and a draught for himself as well. He’s been a good watchdog for our door, this night. When we’ve had our tipple, Kinsmen, I think we should to bed. Tomorrow will commence a very busy week for most of us.”

Rising to his feet, Bili chose his words cautiously. “Kinsman Hari, please do not misunderstand me and do not read into what I am about to say meanings which are certainly not intended. It is not that I scorn the gracious hospitality of your fine hall, nor that I fear to sleep under your protection. On the contrary …”

But the laughter of old Komees Djeen brought him up short. The retired officer wiped at his eye, admonishing, “Oh, Bili, Bili, lad, we must, I fear, reeducate you. Your Kinsman Hari is no thin skinned northern princeling, ready to shed blood or make war over some fancied slight or imagined insult.

“He-all of us-are your Kindred, son, and we’re a blunt, outspoken people. If you really want to ride home at this hagridden hour, by Sun and Wind, come right out and say so! Not that I think it’s basically a good idea for you, the hope of us all, to ride all those miles alone, on a dark night, as unsafe as our roads have been of late… nor with all that seems afoot in this Duchy.

“I want no harm to come to you, boy. Much as I love your father, I will say that he’s been a poor chief in many ways, too lax and soft on men who deserve, have long deserved, a strong and pitiless hand. From what I know of you, what more I’ve learned of you tonight, you’ll be the kind of chief your father should have been, the kind of chief your grandfather Sacred Sun shine always on his memory was.

“Your dear mothers should have sent a few of their Freefighters with you today. They know, even if you are too lately come to know, that the night roads are no longer safe for Kindred, in either our duchy or in that of our western neighbor, Chief Sidnee of Vawn. Now, if Hari had taken my advice and hired a few Freefighters himself, he could loan you a proper escort, but…”

Djeen’s quoted advice was obviously a sore point with his host, for the short, stocky Komees immediately lashed back angrily, “Fah! Just because you’ve made of your hall a small fortress does not signify that the rest of us must hire on a host of useless mouths, men whose only accomplishments are their expertise at eating and drinking and gambling and wenching …”

“And fighting!” snapped Komees Djeen, unfazed by the other’s anger.

His face beetred and his big fists clenched, Hari opened his mouth to say more, but Ahndros quietly said, “Kinsman Bili will not be alone, Kindred; for I too am of a mind to ride to Morguhn Hall tonight.”

The Komeesee burst into laughter, their shouting match forgotten. Vaskos showed every tooth and Drehkos chuckled. “Soooo, Ahndros, that is why you wear that new velvet suit and those new boots! By Wind, Kinsman, you shine like a new moon. Take warning, if Vahrohnos Myros sees you looking so handsome, he’ll have you bedded and buggered before you can blink!”

Komees Djeen’s laughter ceased abruptly and he spoke in a voice edged with steel. “Sun and Wind grant that I live to see the day that Myros makes advances toward Ahndros. Oh ho, that will be a sight to see! For years that degenerate boarhog has been in sore need of gelding!”

Vahrohneeskos Ahndros said nothing in response to the jesting. He but sat, sipping at his wine and smiling now and again. All that Bili had learned of the modest man’s military exploits this night had come from others, mostly from Komees Djeen and Vaskos Daiviz. But before any word had been spoken, from their first handclasp and mindspeak, Bili had known Ahndros for what he was: a quiet, unassuming and basically gentle man; but, withal, a born warrior and warleader, who would be the best of allies or the most dangerous of foemen when swords were out. And women had told him that these bravest of men were right oft the tenderest of lovers. Bili thought that Mother Mahrnee had chosen well.

Bard Klairuhnz interrupted the rough banter. “Kinsmen, did I hear someone say that Hail Morguhn, your Ganbard, would be quartering the next week at Morguhn Hall? If so, I’d like the hospitality of Kinsman Bili, for I try to meet every bard I may.”

Bili smiled, even while wondering what might be the mysterious “bard’s” real purpose for riding with him this night. “Of course, Kinsman Klairuhnz, you are more than welcome at my father’s hall.”

“Well,” grumbled Komees Djeen finally. “I still don’t like it, but three armed men no, four, I’d forgot your retainer Ahndros; he doesn’t look like much of a fighter, but well at least give him the appearance with a helmet and a spear you should scare off any skulkers. And I’ll have a couple of my troopers ride along with you, ‘til you’re over the bridge and beyond the woods, anyhow.”

Turning to their host, he said, “Hari, unlock your cabinets and let’s get these lads and Kinsman Klairuhnz fitted with armor. If the party looks strong and sufficiently well-armed, chances are there’ll be no attack on them. As the adage of our ancestors had it: It takes the courage of a wolf to attack a guarded herd. And we’re dealing with only jackals here.

“Kinsman Vaskos, please ask your father’s servants to saddle our Kinsmen’s horses and that big mule Ahndros’s man rides. Don’t fret about my troopers, mind you, they’ll saddle their own.”

The troopers finished saddling all of the horses. Alternately, Komees Hari bawled the names of the missing servants and looked fit to die of embarrassment. Komees Djeen did not miss the opportunity to make the point that if Hari had had a few Freefighters of his own guarding the hall exits, the servants should have played merry hell getting out of the compound this late. At that, anger replaced all other emotions in Hari.

“Damn you, Djeen! My hall is not an armed camp! My people and servants love me and mine, and I need no barbarian jailers to lock them up of a night, nor to oversee them in the day!”

Geros, Ahndros’s retainer, led out his master’s horse and the Vahrohneeskos swung into the saddle, settling weightlessly, despite the added encumbrance of the three-quarter armor and thick, leathern gambeson into which Komees Djeen had chivvied the three of them, ere he’d allow them out of the hall. The rest of the party were already mounted and quaffing stirrupcups of cool wine laced with brandy, prepared by Vaskos and served by him and his orderly, Frahnkos.

At the open gate, Bili reined about and leaned from his kak to exchange final handclasps with Hari, Drehkos, Vaskos, and, lastly, Komees Djeen.

Speaking rapidly and in a low voice, the old Strahteegos told him, “I want to see you again, alive, Bili, so do you what I say. I think we’re all in far more danger than we now know. I’ll keep all here awake and armed until Dzhool and Shahrl get back. In those damned woods, form you a tight column and take the track at a brisk trot. If you let them string out, it could be the death of you or Ahndee or both, and …” Drehkos strode over, laughing. “Let be, Djeen, let be. They’ve a long ride before them. Surely you can find a better time to lecture on cavalry tactics?”