Swords of the Horseclans

7

“I am reliably informed that you could have slain him long before the fact, Lord Alexandros. It is worth too much to our two realms for you to take such needless risks.”

Aldora had returned the day after the duel and Mara had finally managed the time to devote an entire evening to her guest-hostage.

Smiling into her eyes, he answered, “Viewing an action from afar and actually being in the heart of that action impart two very different perspectives, my lady. Many have informed me that I should have severed his knee tendons when I was behind him, just as many have chided me that I did not thrust below the edge of the backplate and skewer his kidney.

“I revere my lady and would not cause her distress, but I am a man and, as my lady must know, men fight.” The voice was gentle, but emphatic.

Mara once more experienced that prickly tingling. He had spoken almost identical words, once. “Lekos …” she began, without thinking. The Sea Lord’s easy smile returned to crinkle his young face. “Thank you, Mara. I’d far rather be considered your friend than a formal guest. And a first-name basis makes conversation infinitely easier.”

Mara fought a quaver from her voice. “You are then called ‘Lekos’?”

He shrugged. “My late father called me that; some of my older captains still do. But Mara, why stare you so oddly at me?’

She did not answer, but rather asked, “Lekos, how long have you been Sea Lord?”

“Five years, my la … Mara, since the death of my father.”

“And your father reigned how long?” “Almost twenty-five years, Mara.” “And it’s been a good thirty years since any of your ships raided our coasts. Why? Aren’t our people wealthy enough? Aren’t our women sufficiently fair for the taste of your reavers?”

“So wealthy and fair, Mara, that my father was hard put to enforce his edict that this realm not be subject to raid. For a while it was touch and go, but as the older captains died or retired, he made it stick. Today, it is custom that High-Lord Demetrios’ coasts are sacrosanct.” “But,” Mara pried, still far from satisfied, “Lord Par-dos’ men played merry hell on the coasts and rivers of Kehnooryos Ehlahs for two-score years, and his fathers before him. How came your father to order so radical a reversal of his ancestors’ policies?”

Alexandros shook his head. “Mara, my father was not related to Lord Pardos by blood—not in direct lines of kinship, anyway. Pardos adopted him and compelled the Council of Captains to name him successor and support him. But years before he came to the Sea Isles, my father swore a lifelong oath of service to High-Lord Demetrios. And my father was an honorable man. He kept to that oath all his life to the best of his ability, despite the fact that he served a cowardly swine.” Then, he related the story.

Prior to the fall of Kehnooryos Atheenahs and the subsequent establishment of the Confederation, Demetrios of Treeah-Pohtahmos had been sole and hereditary High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, which had since become the nucleus of the Confederation.

As Milo’s tribe and their allies, the swelling army of the outlawed Strahteegos, Alexandros of Pahpahspolis, slowly moved eastward, unopposed, the High-Lord found himself in an unenviable position, although his father had been a warrior-high-lord and had left him not only a well-filled treasury and thirty rich provinces ruled over by loyal nobles, but a large, tough, and formidable army.

Demetrios had been and could be and would be called many things in his seventy-odd years of life, but not, in the beginning, a militarist—that came later. His grasping, grafting, hedonistic clique replaced the administrators of his late father’s honest and efficient civil service; within less than a year, Demetrios and his coterie had emptied the treasury.

Some of his army he frittered away in senseless wars that all ended in the loss of lands as well as men. The better condottas of Freefighters commenced to trickle away to seek the employ of lords who paid in hard coin rather than empty promises.

When he started to sell hard-won border provinces to foreigners to raise the cash to keep his sybartic court supplied with necessary luxuries, the Strahteegoee and certain nobles who had been his father’s closest friends and advisors decided that the young High-Lord would destroy the realm, if not soon stopped. They carefully devised plans to topple their inept sovran and replace him with a council of military commanders until a new High-Lord should be chosen.

Someone, nobody ever knew for certain whom, betrayed the projected coup to Demetrios, along with the names of nearly every man involved. The conspirators and their families—men, women, children, even babes-in-arms—were nearly all netted by the High-Lord’s men, although a few managed to flee into exile and some others fought their would-be captors to the death … these were the fortunate ones. The majority, regardless of age, sex, or known degree of involvement, were put to savage tortures. Many died under torture; many slew themselves to escape further torment. Demetrios saw that most suffered slow, degrading deaths, with their remains thrown into cesspools or the river. He kept some few maimed, broken men and women in his dungeons, having them occasionally brought up for the amusement of his depraved court.

When first the High-Lord heard that nomads were coming from the west, he dispatched a good two-thirds of what army he had left. That army’s gentle mission was to massacre the nomad warriors and take their women and children for sale as slaves. The nomads, warned by a deserter, trapped the army while it marched through a narrow mountain pass and virtually extirpated it.

The first of Demetrios’ cities in their path, Theesispolis, fell to a sudden attack and most of its inhabitants were massacred. One of the High-Lord’s three remaining squadrons of Freefighters rode in pursuit of nomad raiders and had the misfortune to encounter a sizable war party; Demetrios had most of the survivors beheaded for having the effrontery to return alive.

That piece of barbarity, plus long-overdue wages, prompted the best of his two remaining squadrons to desert to the enemy. The Freefighters slew their Ehleenoee officers, took their arms, horses, and gear and rode out of the city after stopping long enough to loot a wing of the palace and to smash their way into the prison and free all prisoners who were in condition to travel.

Frantic with fear and lacking the money to hire more troops, he appealed to Hieh-Lord Hamos of Kehnooryos Makahdonyah, who replied only with condolences and an offer of sanctuary. An appeal to Ohdessios, king of the fabulously wealthy Southern Kingdom, elicited a plea of poverty. When he appealed to his southern neighbor, King Zenos IX of Karaleenos, his messenger failed to return and Zenos’ troops inaugurated a full-scale invasion of the southernmost provinces.

There was but one more source of possible aid, his distant kinsman, Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles, and an infamous pirate. Since Demetrios had treated his navy as cavalierly as his land forces, he had to commandeer a merchant vessel to bear his messenger. The messenger returned with good tidings—or so he thought, since it was the first positive answer to the High-Lord’s desperate importunings. It seemed that while Lord Pardos was willing to-discuss the rendering of aid to Kehnooryos Ehlahs in her extremity, he felt it proper that Demetrios, as supplicant, come to the court of the Sea Lord.

Demetrios raged! He screamed, swore, blasphemed, foamed, and tore at his beard and hair. He slew three slaveboys and gravely injured a member of his court. He had the unfortunate messenger brutally tortured, emasculated, and blinded, then crucified with an iron pot filled with starving mice bound to his abdomen. He laid foul curses upon Pardos and all of his ancestors, gradually broadening his sphere of malediction to include the whole of the world and every living thing in it. Toward the end of his tantrum, he tore at his flesh with teeth and nails, slammed his head repeatedly against walls and columns, and rolled upon the floors, kicking his legs and sobbing like a spoiled, frustrated child.

Lastly, moaning piteously of the undeserved indignities being heaped upon him, he began to make grudging preparations for the voyage. He well knew—and so did everyone around him—that he had no option.

Lord Sergios, Komees of Pahpahspolis and High Admiral of the Navies of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, had never been upon the open ocean in all his young life; consequently, he was every bit as ill as Demetrios for most of the nearly two weeks that the wallowing merchantman took to reach the Sea Isles. The High-Lord and the Admiral were the only nobles aboard, for it was a small ship and they, Demetrios’ ten bodyguards, and two slave-boys were all that could be accommodated.

At last, they were laid to, off the rocky, spray-shiny cliffs that were the northern side of the Sea Isles. Titos, sailing master and captain, had his crew put out a sea anchor, ran up signal flags, and then awaited the sign to proceed into the entry channel. They were allowed to wait for almost twenty-four hours before the clifftop fort puffed up a few blossoms of smoke. Then, propelled by slow strokes of the sweeps and depending for their very lives upon the leadsman straddling the bowsprit, Titos gingerly edged his ship into the narrow, treacherous channel.

Throughout the course of the long, halting passage, Demetrios fretted and cursed and fumed. He had been most loath to embark upon this abasement, but now that it was commenced, he wished to finish it quickly—like the fast swallowing of an unpleasant medicine.

Finally, the ship eased between the last of the jagged rocks and glided into the central lagoon, landlocked and placid, the water clear as blue-green glass and the bottom deceptively appearing but an arm’s length from the viewer. The protrusions of dark rock were almost invisible, so covered were they by an endless profusion of fantastically colorful plant and animal life. Schools of tiny fish, scintillating as gemstones, darted to and fro and, a few hundred yards to port, a brace of flying fish broke the surface and sailed twice the length of the ship before re-entering the water.

The ship’s crew secured their sweeps and were making sail when Demetrios, his anger and frustration and even his sickness temporarily purged from him by the unquestionable beauty over which they were moving, rushed to the waist to hang over the rail. Fascinated by the marine panorama, he failed to notice the huge, dark shape just below the keel. Suddenly, a gigantic head broke the surface, immediately below him, and it seemed to his startled gaze that all the world had become a dark red gaping maw edged with huge conical white teeth.

Shrieking with terror, Demetrios thrust himself upward from off the rail with such force that he lost his footing and came down with a painful thump of soft bottom on hard deckboards.

From his seat, he screamed to the twenty black spearmen who were his bodyguards, “Kill it! Kill it! Do you hear us? We command you to kill the horrid, nasty thing! Kill it, now! At once!”

Two of the tall, slender men fitted short, broad-bladed darts to throwing sticks. One kicked off his slick-soled gilt sandals and climbed a few feet up the standing rigging. The other, who had been beside Lord Sergios on the small bridge, grasped a taut line and leaped onto the rail. But neither could spot a target; the monster had apparently departed as quickly and noiselessly as it had come.

Then, a long bowshot distant, a veritable forest of towering, black, triangular fins, broke water and bore along on the same course as the ship.

“Sea serpents!” whimpered Demetrios. “They’ll sink the ship and eat us!”

Endeavoring to not show his disgust, Titos shook his grizzled head, saying, “Beggin’ the High-Lord’s pardon, but them be grampuses, sorta half-porpoise an’ half-whale. The lords of these isles hold converse with them creatures and, ‘tis said they do his biddin’. I doubt me not that so many could go far toward the sinkin’ of my ship, but…”

Before he could say more, the starboard side of the ship was struck twice, in rapid succession—a one-two that shook every line, beam, and timber of the vessel and rattled the teeth in men’s heads. The aft spearman lost his footing on the polished rail and, stubbornly refusing to drop his spearstick and dart, hung by onlv his grip on the line, his sandaled feet frantically scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surfaces of the strakes.

Ere any could leap to the dangling man’s assistance, a shadowy shape appeared beneath him. Again a head such as had frightened Demetrios rose above the water and a gaping mouth opened. While the spearman screamed, his legs and pelvis disappeared into that mouth and thick, two-inch teeth sank into the dark flesh … and then the fingers were gone from the line. Horrified, the crew and passengers could not but watch through the terrible clarity of the water as two streamlined black-and-white shapes, each above thirty feet long, worried the thrashing man apart, releasing a pink cloud of diluted blood. Voraciously, the monsters cleaned up the scraps, leaving but little to be picked at by the gleaming little fish.

On the heels of the gruesome episode, the ashy-faced High-Lord fled to his cabin, leaving the deck to the crew, the nineteen sober and silent bodyguards, and Lord Sergios. During the couple of hours it took them to sail within sight of the main island, Kehnooryos Knossos, Titos and Lord Sergios lounged on the minuscule bridge and chatted. Every so often, whenever the array of six-foot fins changed directions, Titos shouted the change of course to the steersman. Between those times, however, he was’able to ascertain that “Admiral” Sergios’ intelligence was farjjreater than his foppish exterior promised, although his hands gave proof that he was no true seaman; nonetheless, he proved to know quite a bit of theoretical navigation.

Just before they entered the harbor mouth, a grampus sped past them and disappeared into the murky water of the harbor.

“Going to report to his master,” remarked Titos. Sergios nodded. “Many might call it sorcery, but I have heard that those who dwelt on the mainland, prior to the Punishment of God, domesticated all manner of unusual creatures—porpoises and seals among them.”

“Aye,” affirmed Titos. “I, too, have heard those tales. It is said that, even today, in the Witch Kingdom amid the Great Southern Swamp, full many a strange beast does the bidding of man.”

At the mention of that unholy domain, Lord Sergios shuddered and hurriedly crossed himself.

“Why, strike me blind!” exclaimed Titos. “It has been years since I have seen any of your Lordship’s class do that. I had thought me that the High-Lord’s new religion had completely supplanted the Ancient Faith—amongst the nobility of the capital, at least.”

Sergios flushed and glanced about uneasily. “So it has, good Master Titos. The High-Lord’s orders notwithstanding, it is difficult to throw off the training of one’s childhood and youth.”

Now it was Titos who covertly eyed the deck and took care to see that his words would not be overheard. “Do you ever hear from your noble father, Lord Sergios? I served him, years agone, ere I went to sea. I still love him, despite what is said of him.”

Sergios took Titos’ arm and hustled him over to the rail. “Let none other hear you so avow, Master Titos,” he whispered. “Else, some gray dawn will find you adorning a cross or immured in that place of horrors beneath the High-Lord’s prison, screaming for death.

“But in answer, no. Whether it’s because he does not wish to endanger me, does not trust me, or has died, I do not know. I’ve not had one word from him since his flight.”

“My Lord,” hissed Titos fervently, “there are many who, like me, honor the memory of your noble father and what he tried to do for Kehnooryos Ehlahs …”

But he never finished, for it was then that Denietrios, closely guarded by his spearmen, waddled back on deck.

He was resplendent, hoping his sartorial elegance might possibly overawe the dread Lord Pardos and assure him the respect that the nasty pirate had thus far withheld. His sandals were not only gilded but adorned with small gems; so, too, were his gilded-suede “greaves.” His kilt was of starched, snowy linen, and his cloth-of-gold “cuirass” had been stiffened with strips of whalebone. Rings flashed from every finger, almost matching the jewel-blaze that was the hilt and guard of his dress-sword. His flowing locks had been teased into ringlets, and hair; mustache and forked beard all shone and reeked of strongly perfumed oil.

Protocol in visits such as this really called for a military helmet, but the wearing of any kind of armor was unbearable to Demetrios. Metal was hot, binding, heavy, and terribly uncomfortable, and even leather caused one to perspire so. Therefore, his only head covering consisted of a narrow, golden circlet, surmounted by a frame of stiff wires. Over this was stretched another piece of cloth-of-gold that had been thickly sewn with seed pearls and was crested by a blue ostrich plume.

A massy-gold chain hung between the two golden brooches that secured his cape of blue brocade. On the outer surface of the cape the Trident that was the badge of his house had been worked in silver wire. Broad golden bands adorned his smooth, pudgy, depilated forearms.

The pre-pubescent slaveboy who was to accompany him was attired similarly, in addition to being heavily cosmetized. His guard was to consist of an even dozen of his black spearmen, officered by Lord Admiral Sergios. The other seven spearmen he ordered to guard his cabin and protect his possessions from wandering pirates or thieving crewmen.

Followed by his cortege, the High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs proceeded to an awning-covered section of the waist and awaited the arrival of a litter or chariot to convey him. Two hours later, as the sun was sinking behind the western cliffs, and the mosquitoes were venturing out for the night’s feasting, the High:Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs and his retinue were still waiting.

The blacks were relaxed, patient; Lord Sergios kept glancing warily at his unpredictable lord; Demetrios was nearing a state of murderous anger. Such discourtesy from a fellow-noble-Ehleen could just not be tolerated! All at once, he half turned, jerked the slaveboy closer, and slammed the back of his heavy hand across the child’s face. Then he felt a little better.

Almost instantly, the little minion’s nose began to bleed and Demetrios sent him below to change clothing with the other minion, promising the terrified child dire punishment if his blood should damage the costly stuffs in which he was attired.

While the little slaves did his bidding, the High-Lord ordered Titos to fetch one of the dockside idlers who had been splicing ropes, mending nets, and chatting while gawking at the newcomers. The captain shortly returned with an ageless, weather-browned man and Demetrios commanded Sergios to question the oldster.

Shuffling his big, tar-stained feet on the worn stones of the quay, the man heard Sergios out, then replied nonchalantly in atrociously accented Ehleenokos. “Oh, aye, Cap’n, Ol’ Short-nose kens you’re here, right enough. For a chariot, you’ll have a long wait, ’cause it ain’t no horses on these here islands. Ain’t no need for the critters, nor no graze, neither—the sheeps and goats and pigs gits it all.

“As for a litter …” Before continuing, he ran a tarry forefinger far up one nostril, withdrew it, and critically examined his findings, then casually wiped them on the seat of his filthy cotton breeches. “Wai, last litter I recollect seein’ was made outa two boat hooks and a slicker—or was it a boat cloak?—and they used it to carry what was left of of Zohab up to the priest’s place, the day that there big shark got inta the l’goon and chawed off his laigs, ’fore the Orks drove it off’n him. He died, o’course. Wouldn’ta wanted to live, no how, ’cause the bugger’d torn off his parts, too.

“Manalive! He’uz some kinda big shark. You awta seed him. The Orks run him inta shaller water and we harpooned him and drug him up on the rocks and clubbed him ‘til he stopped floppin’, then took a broad ax and took off his bottom jaw. ‘Cause, you know, his kind’ll bite even after they dead. Forty-foot long, he were, and weighed nigh on to eight-thousan’ pound, after he’z cut up. Never see’d a shark like him, I hadn’, and I hopes I never see another’n. He’uz a kinda dirty-white and he won’t shaped like most sharks, more like a tunny, I’d say.

“Well, didn’ nobody wanta eat none of him, and I can’t say I blames ’em none, what with him a-eatin’ the bes’ parta ol’ Zohab, like he done. His tooths, the mosta ’em was too big for arrow points, so we give ’em to ol’ Foros, the dart-maker, and you know what he told me?”

“Shut up!” screamed Demetrios, his face impurpled. “You garrulous old fool, we don’t want to hear another word about sharks. All we wish to be told is when Lord Pardos intends to send an honor guard to convey or’ conduct us to his palace.”

The Sea Islander gave his crotch a good scratching, then answered: “Well, cain’t say as how I knows what a honor guard’s like, but you cain’t miss Ol’ Short-Nose’s place, seein’ its the onlies’ place on this here islan’s got more’n two stories. And it’s right on top the hill, too, and that’s good, ’cause the muskeetas don’t offen go thet far. And you jes’ wouldn’ b’lieve how bad they gets sometimes. Course, they don’t bother dark-skinned folks like me near as much as they do the pore bugger’s got lighter skin.

“And, you know, you can b’lieve me or not, but it’s exac’ly the same way with fleas, too! Unless he’s a-starv-in’ to death, a flea’ll pass right over a dozen fellers, got dark skin and chomp right down on a light-skinned feller evertime. Thet’s why I tells these here light ‘uns thet the bestes’ than’ they c’n do is to git theyselfs jest as dark as they can as quick as they can.

“I tell you, I don’ know where they all comes from—muskeetas, I mean—but they jes’ lays up all day a-honin’ their boardin’ pikes. And come sundown they blows the conch and theys out a-reavin, ever’ mothers son of ’em. Course, the fleas and the lice is at it day and night, you know. But the lice ain’t so bad—‘they only gits in your hair. Course, that’s bad iffen you got a lotta hair, like you young fellers do. But iffen you like me …” He broke off, staring at the High-Lord.

Demetrios’ face had passed from lividity to absolute pallor. So angry was he that he was unable to do more than splutter and beat his clenched fists on the ship’s rail. His features were jerking uncontrollably and a vein in his forehead throbbed violently.

Finally, he managed to gasp, “The gods damn your guts, you putrid, wormy, old swine! You tell us what we want to know, or you’ll be drinking a broth of your eyes and your clacking tongue!”

The brown-skinned man regarded Demetrios without fear, then noisily hawked and spat on the dock. “I’m a-answerin you the bes’ I knows how. I don’ know if you can git away with talkin’ to folks like you jes’ talked to me where you come from, but 01’ Short-Nose’s rules ia thet name an’ threat callin’ is reasons enough to call a feller to stan’ an’ fight, man to man, iffen you’re a mind to.

“Now your ship-master asked me to come over to here and I dropped my work and come right on over. Didn’ I? I done tried to be perlite an’ helpful, cause I could see you was a stranger an’ a landlubber, to boot. An’ I’s took me a pure lot offen you, cause you’s a furriner and I figgered me mebbe they don’t teach folks decent manners where you come from. You may be a big mucketymuck in your parts, but you ain’t in ’em now, lordy-boy.

“I be a ol’ man now. But, in my day, I shipped with 01’ Short-Nose an’ with Rockhead, his pa, an’ with Red-Arm, his uncle, too. An’ it’s many a good man’s guts I done spilled—in fac’, thet’s whut they still calls me, Gut-cutter Yahkohbz. Nowadays, I don’t even own me a sword, got no use for one no more; but I do have me a good knife, yet.” He shifted a wide, heavy-bladed dirk around to his right side, where its worn hilt was clearly visible.

“Now, I may be three times as ol’ as you, lordy-boy, at leas’ twicet it, an’ you got you a sword, too. But I’d still lay you a helmet fulla gold to a pot fulla piss thet if I’uz to stan’ for my rights, you’d be a snack for the Orks in ‘bout one minute. But I ain’t gonna do it, sonny, so it ain’t no call for you to wet your pants a worryin’.

“I ain’t, ’cause I can take me one look at you an’ tell it wouldn’ be no’ fight nor no fun. B’sides, I got me more important than’s to git done, ’fore the lasta the daylight’s gone.”

With that, he spun on his heel and limped back to the rope he had been splicing, casting not another glance at the High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs.

Between them, Lord Sergios and Master Titos managed to persuade Demetrios not to order his blacks to spear the old pirate, pointing out that, as the man was obviously free, such might be considered murder hereabouts, and the cashless High-Lord called upon to pay a blood price. Far better, they argued, to discuss the incident at a propitious time with Lord Pardos, leaving punishment for the old man’s unpardonable crimes to his own sovran.

The sprawling, three-story residence of Lord Pardos occupied most of an artificial mesa and was built mostly of the dark native stone. For many long minutes after arriving on the hilltop, Demetrios had to lean, gasping and shuddering, his red face streaming sweat, against the wall near the entrance. None of the black spearmen, nor Lord Sergios, nor even the little slave, was in the least winded, but it had been years since the High-Lord had been forced to walk up an entire half mile of hillside.

Within an outer court, lamps and torches flared an orange glow above the wall, while the mingled sounds of bellowing laughter, shouts, feminine squeals, and snatches of wild, barbaric music smote on Demetrios’ ears, and his nose registered the smells of roasted meat and wine.

Outside the high, double-valved gate hung a scarred brass gong. When Demetrios had recovered-sufficiently to stand erect, Lord Sergios drew his sword and pounded on the gong. Abruptly, most ef the noise from within subsided. Then one of the portals was swung half open and they were confronted by a gap-toothed, one-eyed giant of a man, wearing a well-oiled tunic of loricated armor and a brass-and-leather helm, with a huge, spiked ax on his shoulder.

“Well?” he snarled. “State your business, an’ it better be good!”

Sergios sheathed his blade, cleared his throat, and spoke formally: “Sir, please announce to your Lord that Demetrios, High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, requests audience with his cousin, Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles.”

The mammoth pirate squinted his eye and demanded, “An’ be you him?”

The High-Lord roughly shoved Sergios aside and took what he hoped was* as arrogant stance in front of this smelly, frightening man. “We are Demetrios, my man!” He tried to say the words firmly and deeply, but as he was still a bit out of breath, what came from his lips was a piping falsetto.

The squinted eye widened. “You be the cousin of 01’ Short-Nose? Well, I’ll be damned!” remarked the warrior. Then he slammed the gate in Demetrios’ face.

When the gate was reopened, the axman was backed up by a half dozen well-armed men, two of them blacks of very similar build and features to the High-Lord’s guards.

“You,” the one-eyed man said, pointing a dirty finger at Demetrios, “can come in, you and your boy. And your guard-captain, too.” He indicated Lord Sergios, who was wearing a real cuirass and helmet in addition to his sword and ornate dagger. “First your guard-captain has to be disarmed and searched for hidden weapons. The resta your guards gotta stay here.”

He spun about, then growled over his shoulder. “Now, come on. 0l’ Short-Nose don’t much care for waitin’.”

The High-Lord’s gaze had never before rested on so ] villainous a throng as the fifty-odd men who sat on benches or sprawled on cushions the length of the courtyard. Few seemed to possess more than a trace of Ehleen blood; most were obviously barbarians, and barbaric in taste as well as in lineage. Priceless jewelry adorned greasy tatters of once fine clothing or canvas jerkins; plain and well-worn sword hilts jutted from ornate scabbards. Ears and noses had been pierced to receive golden hoops or jeweled studs. Many were clad only in short trousers and, on their hairy skins, savage tattoos writhed around and across networks oi white or pink or purple scars. Some were missing a part of an arm or a hand or fingers, many lacked front teeth, all or parts of ears, and one had replaced a missing eye with a huge opal. Another had painted the multitudinous scars on his chest, joining them with lines of color so as to spell out obscene words and phrases in Ehleenokos.

Though the laughter of the men was loud and frequent, the faces of one and all were hard—hard as the muscles under their dirty, sweaty hides. The high walls stopped most of the cooling breezes and the courtyard had to be smelled to be believed. Alone, the mingled odors—of fish and cooked flesh and wine and ale, of cooking oil and lamp fat and wood smoke, of unwashed bodies and sweat—would have been more than sufficient to turn Demetrios’ stomach; but there was more, and it was, by his lights, even more sickening.

Where, at Demetrios’ parties, each guest was provided with a pretty, little slaveboy, these uncultured primitives actually had women at their sides or sprawled across them! And most of the vile creatures were less than half clad, while some were completely nude. To the High-Lord it was painfully obvious that none in this court was in any sense of the word civilized, for what civilized man could force himself to eat and drink while within proximity of so many utterly disgusting creatures?

Advancing up the cleared space between the revelers, he was fighting to hold down his gorge when, ere he could be aware of her intentions, a brown-haired strumpet flung both her arms about his neck and kissed him full on his mouth.

It was the final straw! Demetrios frantically fought his way out of the laughing woman’s noisome embrace, pushing her with such force that she measured her length ,upon the floor tiles. For a moment he just stood, stock-still, his face a greenish white. Then it came—doubling over, he spewed out the contents of his stomach.

All the confusion stilled to a deathly silence, broken only by the tortured gagging of the vomiting man. Then one of three men seated behind a scarred table at the end of the courtyard slammed the palm of a four-fingered hand onto the wine-wet table and, lolling back in his chair, began to roar and snort with laughter. His two companions joined in, as did some of the other men and women. A few cracked ribald jests at the wretched High-Lord’s condition, but most simply chuckled briefly, then went back to the business of the evening—eating and drinking and kissing and fondling.

He retched in agony until, at last, his heaving stomach became convinced further efforts would yield no further results. As he straightened—gasping, livid, his bloodshot eyes streaming tears—the little minion snatched a nameless piece of clothing from off a nearby stool and began to dab at the wet stains on the High-Lord’s attire.

Demetrios felt well served. Here was an object on which he could safely vent the anger provoked by his embarrassment and frustration. His foot lashed out viciously; it caught the hapless child in the ribs, propelling him six feet to crash into a full wine barrel. As the stunned slaveboy crumpled, one of the women rushed to kneel beside him and took his bloody little head into her lap. Dipping a piece torn from her sheer skirt into the top of the barrel, she commenced to wipe the child’s forehead and cheeks.

Despite an unsteadiness in his legs, Demetrios—horrified that one of his favorite minions should be defiled by the touch of a woman—started toward her, hissing, “You putrid, stinking bitch, you, get your hands off him this instant! Do you hear me, shameless she-thing?”

The woman appraised him briefly, sneered, then turned back to the boy. Infuriated, the High-Lord advanced until he stood over her, raised one be-ringed, fat-fingered hand to strike her… and was suddenly frozen by the coldest, hardest voice he had ever in his life heard.

“Touch her, you mincing pig, and you’ll lose every finger on that hand, one joint per hour!”

The speaker was seated on a low couch beside a tall, red-haired woman. He wore finely tooled knee boots, loose trousers cinched with a wide belt, and a cotton-lawn shirt open to the waist. A slender dagger was thrust into his belt, but he was otherwise unarmed amongst the weapons-bristling throng.

However, when Demetrios got a good look at the speaker’s face, he could have again been ill. A wide scar ran from high on the left temple and on down to the chin, barely missing the eye; the tip of the man’s nose was gone and so was half the right ear; but most hideous of all, at some time an inch-wide hole had been gouged or cut into the man’s right cheek and, in healing, had never closed and his eyes and hair and bone structure led the High-Lord to think that this man could be a Kath’ahrohs—a pureblood Ehleen.

With considerable effort, Demetrios partially overcame his fear and repugnance. “How … how dare you so address us! Do you know who we are?”

Even the chuckle was hard and cold. “Fat as you are, I can see why you employ the plural when referring to yourself. Yes, I know who you are, as well as what you are—and it sickens me to have to acknowledge any degree of kinship to a thing like you, cousin.

“As for me, I am Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles. You are here to beg me for help. Seeing you, I can now understand why you need help. If you are a fair sample of what the Ehleenoee nobility of the mainland are become, may God help us. If all are such as you, cousin—a peacock-pretty pederast with a voice like a girl and no more body hair than the boy-children you beat and abuse, with less courage than a baby mouse—then mayhap a mainland ruled by clean, normal, courageous, and uncomplicated barbarians would make for better neighbors.”

Arising, the Sea Lord strode over to his “guest,” then strolled slowly around him, critically eyeing his baubles and attire. Suddenly, he snatched out the High-Lord’s sword and examined the stones of the golden hilt and guard; at length, and without apparent strain, he snapped off the two feet of dull blade and tossed the hilt to the red-haired woman.

“The High-Lord’s guest-gift to you, Kahndees.” She fingered the showy treasure—which was worth fully as much as Titos’ ship—and then her full lips curved in a mocking smile and she spoke in Ehleenokos as pure as Demetrios’ own. “I cannot truly express my thanks, My Lord Demetrios.” A hint of laughter lurked in her well-modulated voice.

Pardos flicked the tip of the broken blade at the stiffened pleats of Demetrios’ linen kilt. “A skirt suits you well, cousin. Generally, your kind are more woman than man.”

The High-Lord quavered: “It … the kilt… is the ancient garb … of the Ehleen warrior.”

“You?” Pardos snorted. “A warrior?” Then, tapping the blade on the cloth-of-gold breastplate, he added, “This is supposed to be a cuirass, I take it; why, it’d not turn a well-thrown pebble. As for your helmet …” He jabbed the silver-washed skewer through the stiffened cloth and snapped the entire contrivance up off Demetrios’ head, then flipped it to the red-haired woman.

“Payment for your kiss, Mahndah. Our guest is generous.” ‘

She placed the chapeau on her brown curls, then made a deep obeisance. “My deepest thanks, Lord Demetrios.—I’ll wear it in memory of you.”

Sweat streamed down the High-Lord’s fowls. He was now certain that this horrible monster intended to kill him when he had finished toying with him.

“Tch-tch,” clicked Pardos, noticing the copious perspiration. “You are unaccustomed to our climate here, cousin. You will be much cooler if you’ll but remove that heavy cape. Here … let me do it for you; after all, you are my guest.”

After unpinning the brooches, he disconnected one end of the gold chain and slipped the cape from the High-Lord’s shaking shoulders. Snapping the pieces together again, he turned and tossed them to the woman who knelt by the wine barrel.

“This is for the lad, Tildah. But never fear, there’ll be something pretty for you, ere long.”

Taking the High-Lord’s soft white hand, Pardos commenced to pull at the showiest ring, an emerald-cut diamond set in reddish gold.

Demetrios vainly tried to jerk his hand free of the crushing grip. “No!” he whimpered. “No, please, no. Oh, what have I done to you that you should so use me, my lord?”

The look that then came into Pardos’ black eyes stung his captive far more than did the contemptuous slap dealt him. The Sea Lord’s voice became glacial. “You are what you are, you gutless thing of unknown sex. But what is far worse is that I, God help me, am of the same blood as you; and you make it obvious that our blood is tainted.”

He might have said more, had not a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him about. Sergios had had to surrender sword and dirk and cuirass to gain admittance to-the courtyard, but when he saw his sovran struck, mere lack of weapons could not hold him back. When he confronted the pirate, the eyes that glared from beneath his helmet’s rim were every bit as hard as Pardos’ own.

“Dog and son of a dog!” he hissed in a low voice. “Has your house sunk so low that you forget who and what you are? We three are Ehleenoee—Kath’ahrohs nobles. As such, we do not degrade ourselves, or one another, before barbarians!”

Pardos looked honestly amazed at the interruption. But he snapped, “And who are you, my young cockerel, to instruct me in the manners of nobility?”

Sergios bowed stiffly, though his eyes never left those of Lord Pardos. “Lord Sergios, Admiral of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, my lord.”

Pardos nodded and his frown softened a little. “A fellow seaman, eh? And if my eyes don’t deceive me, a red man, as well. If you’re not this thing’s kind, why would you defend him?”

Sergios heaved a deep sigh. “Because I must be true to my word, my lord. High-Lord Demetrios is my sovran and, long ago, I swore to serve and protect him. Protect him, I will, my lord, to the last drop of my blood.”

Without warning, Pardos’ muscular arm shot out to the side. All he said was “Sword.” A short, heavy one was slapped into his waiting palm.

“Words lack intrinsic value without deeds to back them, Admiral Sergios,” said Pardos, stepping to the clear area before the large table and scuffing his boot soles on the tiles, the sword held casually at low guard. “Let us see some of that blood you’ve pledged this hunk of rotten offal.”

Instinctively, Sergios’ hand went to his scabbard, but came away empty. “My lord, my weapons are at your gate and…”

Pardos sneered. “To the last drop of your blood, eh? When you knew yourself to be unarmed and thought that fact would save you. Fagh! You’re as bad as your mistress, here.” He waved contemptuously at Demetrios.

Sergios flushed and shook his head vigorously. “Your pardon, my lord, but you misunderstand. If your men will return my sword or loan me a weapon, even a dagger, I shall be at your pleasure.”

“You’re at my pleasure, anyway, mainlander,” barked Pardos shortly. “As you are, you saw fit to insult me; as you are, you will fight me, by God. You get no weapons from my men!”

The expression on Sergios’ handsome face never altered. He bowed his head slightly while his quick mind assessed his chances, finding them slim, indeed. His leather gambeson might turn a glancing blow and its knee-length skirt with its scales of silver-washed steel would hopefully protect his loins and thighs. His helm, though highly decorated, was honest steel, but his armbands were but brass. Surreptitiously, he glanced about, then quickly crouched and both arms shot out, one to grasp the broken blade of Demetrios’ sword, the other to jerk the heavy cape from the loose grip of the woman by the barrel.

Rapidly, he whirled the cape tightly around his left hand and forearm. Then he assumed a knife-fighter’s stance, his knees slightly flexed, his left foot forward, his edgeless strip of steel at his right thigh.

“I told you, you young cur,” shouted Pardos, “that you were to have no weapons! Drop the blade and the cape … now!”

Sergios gave a tight smile. “I suggest that my lord see now if his deeds can give value to his words. You’ll take these poor weapons only from my corpse, you know.” Then his smile became mocking. “Or does my lord fear to face an armed man, eh? Take time for a cup of strong wine, my lord. Some say that it imparts courage….”

No serpent ever struck as quickly as did Pardos. Sergios managed to deflect most of the slash with his improvised shield and the flimsy armlet beneath it. Even so, the pirate’s blade drew blood. But even as he took the wound, Sergios rushed inside Pardos’ guard and the lights glinted on the blur of silvered-steel with which he lunged at the bare chest before him.

At the last split second, Pardos leaped backward and parried the thrust, meaning to beat Sergios’ blade upward. But the first contact of sword to the inferior steel shattered poor Sergios’ inadequate armament like glass.

Stamping and roaring, Pardos swung at the angle of Sergios’ neck and shoulder. The younger man’s duck saved his life. The sword struck the helmet, instead, denting the thick steel and sending it spinning through the air. The force of the blow hurled Sergios to the ground. Pardos hacked at his downed opponent again and again, but Sergios rolled from beneath the blows. Finally, he regained his footing and shrewdly kicked Pardos’ right wrist—already somewhat weakened by the repeated impacts of sword on stone. The pirate sword went clattering down the length of the courtyard.

“Now, my lord,” Sergios said, grinning, wiping the back of his right hand across his brow, trying to keep the blood from his split scalp out of his eyes, “we two are a bit closer to evenly matched.”

Pardos drew his dagger and slowly advanced. Sergios tried to bring up his left arm, but it hung limp and dripping; the slashed cape was now wet and heavy. With a snarl, Pardos leaped onto the weakened man and, even as they crashed to the tiles, he secured Sergios’ right wrist. Then he pressed the needle point of his dagger into the younger man’s throat. Blood welled up around the bluish steel.

But he stayed his hand, saying, “You never had the ghost of a chance, Lord Admiral Sergios, and I think you knew it, yet you fought … and fought damned well. If you’ll but admit that you lied in naming me dog, then plead for your life—I’ll spare you.”

As much as the hard-pressed steel would allow it, Sergios shook his bloody head. “Thank you, my lord, but I must refuse. Men of my House do not lie, nor do they beg.”

“Nononono!” shrieked Demetrios, palms flat on his ashen cheeks. “He … he really means it, Sergios! He’ll kill you … and then, probably, me, tool I … I command you, tell him you lied, beg him for our life!”

Sergios’ gaze shifted to the High-Lord and his look was pitying. “Lord Demetrios, I am your sworn man, this you well know. I have forsaken friends and … and even my loved family in your service. Many of your commands have been distasteful; nonetheless, they were your commands and, God help me, I discharged my orders. But, my lord, only my body is sworn to you … not my soul, my honor.”

Such was his pique at the words that Demetrios forgot everything—time, place … and circumstances, as well. He stamped his foot. “Paghl Now you’re talking like that treacherous old fool of a father you had. We’d credited you as a civilized man, a man of intelligence, a realist. Without life, you fool, honor has no value, if it has any, anyway … which we doubt.”

Sergios’ look of pity intensified and his voice, too, became pitying. “Poor my lord. In this, as in so many things, your mind has become twisted. To you, realism is cynicism; intelligence denotes but the word for a constant agreement with you; civilized is your term for a life devoted entirely to debauchery, senseless cruelty, and perversion.

“To you, honor does not have value, for you lack any shred of it and, truly, you know not its meaning. My lord, your poor, sick mind has reversed the order of things; without honor, life has no value. To die here and now, with honor, under this brave lord’s blade, will be a quick and almost painless death. To live, with dishonor as you command me, would be death, too, but a slow and unbearable death.”

His eyes locked again with Pardos’ and he smiled. “I am ready, my lord. You are a far better man than the lord I served. It will be an honor to die under your hand. Let your stroke be hard and true.”

“It will be both, Lord Sergios,” replied Pardos. “I derive no joy from the sufferings of brave men. You are truly a man of honor and all men should give credit to your house. Please, tell me its name, that I and my men may remember it and you in times to come.”

“I have the honor to be the son of Alexandros of Pahpahspolis, formerly Strahteegohs of Strahteegohee of Kehnooryos Ehlahs.”

Lord Pardos’ voice held a gravity bordering upon awe. “Your father was a man of far nobler and purer lineage than those he served. And I had heard that his son still served Basil’s son. When I learned what you are, I should have known who you are, Lord Sergios.

“It is said that blood will tell. Your’s certainly has, and I’ll not bear the guilt of shedding more of the precious stuff. To butcher an unnatural swine is one thing; to murder a valiant man of high and ancient nobility is quite another.”

He withdrew his dagger and stood up. Sergios, too, tried to rise, but fell back, groaning between clenched teeth. With hard face, Pardos strode purposefully toward! Demetrios. At the sight of that bloody dagger’s approach, the High-Lord’s bladder and knees failed him at the same time. Groveling in a spreading pool of his urine, he clasped his be-ringed hands and raised them beseechingly. “Oh, please … please!” he blubbered. “Please don’t kill me … we … I … you … you can have everything, everything! Here!” Frantically, he stripped off all the rest of his rings, fumbled them into one cupped palm, and extended them in Pardos’ direction.

Coldly furious, the Sea Lord slapped the preferred hand, sending the costly baubles flying in all directions, and started to recommence his advance on his victim, only to find that some weight was impeding his leg. He looked down to find that Sergios’ unwounded right arm was wrapped about his booted ankle.

A wide pool of blood marked the place where the young admiral had lain. And a broad, red trail showed the path along which he had dragged himself. Now that he had turned onto his belly, the jagged rent that one of Pardos’ blows had torn in the gambeson diagonally down from the left shoulder was very obvious. Through this dangerous wound, as well as those in his left arm and his scalp, his life was gradually oozing out. The only color left on his face were the streaks of gore from his head and from the place his teeth had met in his lower lip.

But his eyes burned feverishly and his grip on Pardos’ leg, though weak, was dogged. And his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly firm.

“You’ll not slay him … my lord—not while yet I live.”

“I promised to spare your life, noble Sergios,” Pardos answered gently, “not the-life of this thing.”

Sergios coughed and a shower of pink froth sprayed from his mouth. His voice weakened perceptibly. “My … life … pledged to him. Cannot live in … honor … not pro … protect him.”

“Brother.” Though urgent, Pardos’ voice was infinitely tender. “Your efforts are killing you. This man-shaped thing is not worth a life, especially a life such as yours.”

“Lord Demetrios,” Sergios said, gasping, “far worse … you know. Still.. my lord.”

Pardos flung the dagger in the path of his sword. Spinning, he knelt and gently disengaged Sergios’ arm from his ankle.

“Noble Sergios, your courage has purchased two lives this night. Much as I want his death, the life of so rare a man as you is too high a price.”

Raising his head, the Sea Lord bellowed, “Zaileegh, Eegohr, Benahree, Kohkeenoh-Djahn, to me!”

With the aid of the four captains, Pardos had the fainting Sergios lifted and laid face-down on the hastily cleared large table. Under the directions of the red-haired Kahndees, a trio of women set about removing his gambeson, while two others bared his left arm and applied a tourniquet, and still another sponged his face with undiluted wine.

Brusquely, Pardos issued orders.

“Zaileegh, fetch me Master Gahmahl and his assistants. Tell him the nature of the injuries, that he may know what to bring, And emphasize that this man means much to me. And … just in case, you’d better bring Father Vokos, too.”

“Kohkeenoh-Djahn, collect your crew and ready your ship. You sail at dawn to convey High-Lord Demetrios back to his sty, along with any of his who wish to return. I promised I’d let him live, and live he will—but not here. Let him pollute some other realm. His ship and all she carries are mine; have it seen to. Bring his slaves to me and see how many of his ship’s crew you can recruit. Have Ngohnah talk to his bodyguard; spearmen like them are hard to find.”

“Benahree, have our fat guest stripped of the warrior’s garb his flesh profanes. Find him some women’s clothing. Then lodge Princess Perversia somewhere for the night—bearing in mind her predilection for dung, of course.”

“Eegohr, with the good Father on the way, we’d better see about getting clothing on our ladies.”

The High-Lord, clad in an old, torn shift, spent the remainder of the night in six inches of slime at the bottom of a recently abandoned cesspool. Before dawn he was dragged from his noisome prison and chivvied down to the harbor. There, with much rough horseplay, Zaileegh’s crew stripped him and hosed him down, dragged him aboard The Golden Dream, and threw him into a dank rope locker, where he was shortly joined by Captain Titos.

In addition to her three sails, Captain Zaileegh’s ship mounted two banks of long sweeps on either board and, with a crew of over one hundred fifty, made good time—in wind or calm, twenty-four hours a day. Unlike Titos’ merchant-vessel, The Golden Dream had been built for speed and ease of handling. Furthermore, both of her masts could be unstepped and laid out to lessen win resistance when she was being propelled by oar power. All of these factors contributated to the fact that she reached the coastal swamps of Kehnooryos Ehlahs in only six days.

Captain Zaileegh moored in a creek mouth until sundown. Then the ship was rowed up the wide, sluggish Blue River, reaching the all but deserted docks of Kehnooryos Ateenaha well before dawn. Their two passengers, securely bound and gagged, were dumped on the largest dock. Then the pirates beat their way back downriver.