The Coming of the Horseclans

9

Before the assembled chiefs, in the spacious, lofty chamber which had been the citadel’s reception and banquet hall, Milo and Bili recounted the events and tremendous profits of the village raid and the subsequent battle. They detailed the names and clans of men killed or maimed so that blood-price or suffering-price might be properly allotted prior to the equal division of the spoils among all the clans. Toward the end of the barrage of comments and questions which marked the conclusion of the reports of the War Chief and Chief Bili, old Chief Djeri Hahfmun addressed Milo.

“Most-successful-of-all-War-Chiefs-in-the-memory-of-all-the-clans-of-men, I will give two hundred cows, two bulls, and a jeweled Ehleenoee sword for your slave, yonder.”

Milo grasped Mara’s arm and drew her forward and the heavy blade struck sparks from the polished floor, the well-tempered steel ringing like a bell. Bili’s recovery was lightening-quick, but his vicious upthrust was struck aside by Chief Djeri’s blade.

“How dare you try to kill Chief Sami!” the Hahfmun roared. “I have prior claim to his blood! He was looking at me when he spoke his blasphemous lies. Of course, perhaps he meant nought by it; to a Kahrtr, lying is inborn.”

No man, unfamiliar with the life-long fighting-trim of the Horseclansmen, would have believed that men of the ages of Chiefs Sami and Djeri could have moved so fast. Sami’s yard of keen steel lashed horizontally from left to right—the classic backhand decapitation stroke—hissing bare millimeters above Djeri’s shaven poll and then looping down and across to counter his opponent’s disemboweling attempt with such force that both blades were slammed up against the breastplate of Bili’s cuirass.

“Enough, children! Enough!” Mile’s voice, pitched to battle volume, preceded him as he sprang from the dais. “The tribe is not in sufficient danger, does not have more than enough fighting before it, but that three supposedly wise chieftains … pardon, ‘brawling brats’ … must precipitate a three-way blood-feud between clans?”

“But…” chorused the three chiefs.

Blind Hari set down his telling-harp, rose from his place, and slowly made his way toward the sounds of rasping breath. He was the oldest tribesman—some said as much as one and one-half hundreds of years had passed since his birth into a clan of which he was the last living member, and the most respected. Geneologist, chronicler, sage, and bard he was, and the closest thing to a priest the tribe had. In his day, he had been a mighty warrior, as his scars attested. When Blind Hari spoke—an infrequent occurrence—all men humbly attended him. He spoke now,” his old voice firm and grave.

“The War Chief is right, my sons, there can be no argument. The Sword’s curse lies on men who use Him to draw the blood of kindred, unasked. My dear sons—Djeri Hahfmun, Sami Kahrtr, Bili Esmith—each of you is well proven a brave and honorable man, otherwise you would not be chiefs, your birth notwithstanding This is Law, all know, it needs not retelling There cannot be cause for any of you to establish your bravery upon the flesh and bone of your kindred or to wash out thoughtless insults hi blood. You have shown all the people the bravery and honor of chieftains-born, now show the equally necessary wisdom and greatness of heart. Let each recall his words and show his love for his kindred.”

The transition was abrupt Tears appeared on Djeri’s scarred and weathered cheeks He sheathed his sword and opened his arms, extending a hand to each of the other two men. Within seconds, all steel was cased and the three late-combatants were hand-locked, sobbing tearful apologies and renewing vows of brotherhood as they went back to then- places in the council circle. All the chiefs were moved; there were few dry eyes among them.

Milo shook his head. The very real powers of this old man had been amazing him for years.

With eerie precision, Blind Hari turned and “gazed” directly into Mara’s eyes. To Milo he said, “Go to your accustomed place, War Chief.”

Milo did so, shivering despite himself at the force of Blind Hari’s will.

Sightless eyes still locked on Mara, the ancient extended one withered hand. “Come here, my child,” he commanded gently.

When she stood before him, Blind Hari placed a hand on each side of her face and tilting it, pressed his dry lips to her smooth brow. He was seen to start once, but he held the kiss for a moment longer, then turned back toward the chieftains.

“My sons, it is the Law that a woman of the tribe be not unmarried by her twentieth year and this is right and proper. It is man who chooses her who he will marry; but, though this practice bears the patina of years, it is not Law, it is custom and not truly binding. Right often, in the tunes of your grandfathers—as I rode from clan to clan—have I seen woman choose man and it is done today. Though her wiles leave him convinced that it was he who chose.” He showed his worn teeth in a smile.

“We camp in a hostile land, confronted by evil enemies, my sons. This is not the time for dissension between clans or tribe-kindred. We have seen dissension and near-bloodshed bred by adherence to custom. There must not be more.

“Before the council is ended, this woman will choose he who is to be her husband. In order that she may choose wisely, each man here shall rise as I call his name. He shall tell her the number of fighters in his clan and the amount of the clan’s wealth. If he wants her for himself, he shall tell her the numbers of his wives and concubines and what her place would be in his tent. If he wants her for a son, he shall tell her of all his marriageable sons and the numbers, of wives and concubines of each. Before he returns to his place, each man will, before us all, swear his sword-oath that he and all his clan will abide by the choice of this woman. When the time comes, I will set her bride-price, and—never fear, Djeri Hahfmun—it will be high!”

Blind Hari commenced with the chief at Milo’s immediate right, Fil, Chief of Djordun. When the red-moustachioed chief had named his assets and sworn and sat down, the man at his right began and, by the time they had worked around the circle and Milo too had sworn and resumed his seat, the sacred Sun was westering.

Blind Hari kept to his seat, fingering the turning-keys of his telling-harp, and an odd smile flitted before he spoke.

“Mara of Pohtahmohs, how say you? Which of the offered men will you have? By what clan-name would you be known?”

“Moral, Wise One. I would be Mara of Moral, wife to Milo of that name.”