The Coming of the Horseclans

15

Aldora was panting up another of the rolling hills when Ishe fell. In the second that she lay on the ground, it communicated a swelling vibration to her flesh. Then Mole bounded up and commenced to lick at her dusty face.

“What threatens, black-baked Cat-sister? Why did you mind-call?”

“Did I?” asked Aldora. “I must have done so unconsciously then.”

“Indeed you did, Cat-sister.” Mole-Fur affirmed. “And if that was an unconscious call, Sun and Wind preserve my poor mind from one of your conscious calls!”

Then Aldora recalled the reason and waved an arm in the direction from which she had come. “Oh please, Mole-Fur, it’s Beti … three men are after us and she’s trying to stop them all alone, with only a bow.”

Taking a layout of the topography of the area in which Beti was making her stand from Aldora’s memory, the young cat raced to the rescue.

Djo-Sahl, having finally dislodged the stubborn pebble, had just remounted when he saw—at about a half-mile’s range—Milo and his body of warriors.

“Gawdayum!” he ejaculated as he hurriedly untied the mule’s leadrope. “I thought they let us go too easy! Now they comin’ for us!”

Discarding his lance, he spurred off at a tangent to his original course, heading due-west. The Triple Threat were not really friends and he saw no need to warn them of the approaching nomads.

“The hell we’ll kill ‘er!” was Pawl’s reply to Deeuee’s stupid suggestion. “You jes’ go down there an’ get the silver off of ol’ Hahnz. He ain’t gonna be needin’ it no more. I’ll tie ‘er up and get ‘er on ‘er horse. The both of ‘em should bring right fair prices, down Karaleenos way.”

By the time his dim-witted brother regained to the top of the hill—having relieved their former comrade’s body of the purse, a couple of silver arms-rings, and a handsome Ehleenoee dirk—Pawl had Beti tied securely over Morning-Mist’s back and had remounted bis own horse.

As Deeuee mounted he called, “Which way’d the other one go?”

His brother shrugged. “I dunno, and it’d take too long to hunt ‘er. Let’s go.”

“Hey,” yelped Deeuee, “how ‘bout ol’ Djo-Sahl? We oughta wait for him …”

Pawl shook his head and hooked a thumb at their unconscious captive. “You wanta have to take thirds on ‘er all the way down to Karaleenos, and then split her price three ways? B’sides, he’s prob’ly took off with the mule and stuff anyhow.”

Deeuee was known to be quite a trencherman. Now, he looked as if he was about to cry. “But that means he’s got all of the food. We’ll starve!”

Pawl laughed harshly and slapped the two purses hung under his hauberk. “Damfool boy, I don’t know why Pa didn’ drown you, anyhow! You got no more brains ‘n a houn’-dog. We gonna be trav’lin through farming country, ‘tween our silver and our swords, we won’t have no trouble fillin’ our bellies.”

They were half-way to the next fold of ground when, voicing an unearthly battle-screech, Mole-Fur came bounding toward them. Cursing mightily, Pawl couched his lance and charged to meet her. Mole-Fur avoided the glittering point easily. As the horse tore past her, her long fangs ripped through horse-hide and horse-flesh and horse-muscle. Screaming, the hamstrung gelding went down, pinning his stunned rider beneath his barrel.

Deeuee had never been very adept at the use of the lance, so he discarded his and unslung his ax, then dropped Morning-Mist’s lead and spurred toward the inexperienced Mole-Fur who was attempting to get at his downed brother’s throat. But just as he reined beside the young cat and whirled his heavy ax aloft, he was violently propelled out of his kak, to join his brother, on the ground. He had time for but half a scream, before Old-Cat’s fang-spurs ail-but severed his neck. Old-Cat’s borrowed armor rattled, as the venerable fighter shook his head forcefully in an attempt to clear the bad-tasting blood from the razor-edged steel. “Idiot!” lie mind-snarled at Mole-Fur. “Had I not come when I did, the two-leg would’ve chopped you in half! Can’t you remember your battle-training, stupid female? You did a beautiful job of hamstringing, especially, as you had no fang-spurs. But why in the world didn’t you then go after the other one? With a crippled horse on his leg, this one is going nowhere,”

Mole-Fur endured the mental tongue-lashing in silence; then, her eyes downcast, she replied humbly. “Mole-Fur is very sorry that she displeased so strong and handsome a fighter, and she is very grateful that so valiant a cat-warrior saw fit to save her worthless life. This stupid young female has never fought two-legs before, and …” She trailed off disconsolately.

Her unhappiness was very real and very apparent and, for some reason that he could not fathom, it disturbed Old-Cat. “Never mind,” he told her gruffly, lightly nuzzling her shoulder (soft-furred and tinglingly delightful to the touch). “You’ll remember this and learn from it. We always learn from our mistakes.”

When she buried her velvety muzzle under his chin, Old-Cat felt anything but old. “Oh, Mole-Fur is so glad that she is forgiven. She could not bear to have so wise and powerful and virile a cat angry at her.”

Old-Cat extended his tongue and licked the young female’s neck, suppressing an urge to lightly bite it. None other of the females of Horsekiller’s clan had aroused him like this. Perhaps the Ancient Wise One was right and … He shook himself and drew away from the seductive young cat; there was work to do. “Mole-Fur, there was a mind-call from Aldora Linsee. Have you seen her?”

“She is well and safe, brave one. I left her on the neat slope of the next hill. The Horse-King and his fighters should be there by now. Does Mole-Fur’s hero wish to kill this two-leg, or shall she?”

“Neither,” he told her. “The ironshirt can’t get away. Let him live. There are clansmen coming. It will be interesting to see what Chief Hwahlis of Linsee performs upon the flesh of this would-be female-stealer.”

Walking over to Morning-Mist, he employed his left fang-spur to sever the thongs which held Beti on the mare’s back and, carefully, he reared up until he could grasp the waist-rope of her trousers and pull her from horseback to ground. After he deposited the blond woman’s limp form on the sward, he slashed wrist and ankle lashings, then turned her over and began to clean the blood and dust from her face.

When he had done all of which he was capable, he left Mole-Fur to look after Beti and loped over the hill to see to Aldora.

Djo-Sahl had not ridden far when, to his right, he saw a mounted nomad and one of the great, fearsome cats bearing down on a course which would cross his path. Sobbing with fear, he further lightened his mount’s load by throwing off shield and ax and, digging spurs deeper, pulled the horse’s head around and fled southward. As his hard-driven steed galloped across the face of a slope, he was ail-but deafened by the thunder of thousands of hoofs on the opposite slope, beyond the crest to his right.

Then, immediately in front of him, an unmounted nomad female suddenly rose from the grass. His lips skinned back from his teeth and, drawing his sword, he charged down on her.

Aldora had heard the horses coming and bad mind-informed Ax-Hoof that she was well and safe. He had advised her to stand where the leaders of the thousand or so horses could plainly see her. But she had only just come erect, when a horse passed behind her, a bright object flashed in the periphery of her vision and, with paralyzing force an agonizing something sliced into the angle of her neck and right shoulder. As the grass rushed upward at her face, she felt the hot gush of her blood, then, nothing.

Just as the first horses came over the crest of the hill, they saw an ironshirt saber a female of the kindred. Carefully avoiding Aldora, the herd swept down the hill, bowling over both horse and rider. When the herd had passed, they left only a pulpy, red paste behind them.

Milo and the chiefs reined up around Mole-Fur who sat beside the still unconscious Beti and snarled at the whimpering Pawl, straining to pull his leg from under his feebly twitching, almost-dead horse.

“Beti?” Hwahlis mind-questioned.

“She lives, Cat-brother,” Mole-Fur reassured. “One of these ironshirts must have stunned her before they tried to carry her away. But she is uninjured. She will bear you many more fine kittens.”

“What of the younger one, the black-haired female, Sister-cat?” queried Milo.

Mole-Fur began to lick Beti’s face again while she answered. “The new cat—that handsome, older one, who came in from the Battle of the Black Horses—has gone to see to her. She is two hills west and was well when Mole-Fur left her, before she met these two ironshirts.” Raising her head, she bared her teeth and rippled a low snarl at Pawl, who shuddered and moaned.

Hwahlis dismounted and strode over to the soft-gray cat. Resting his hand on her head, he said, “Sister-cat, are you cat-oathed?”

“Oh, no, Cat-brother. Mole-Fur is only twenty-four moons and has not yet been battle-trained,” she replied. “No clan would want so worthless a female.”

Slipping his hand under her chin, between the sharp tips of her projecting fangs, Hwahlis raised her head and looked deeply into her eyes. “Trained or not, my clan will oath so fierce and brave a female, and will be honored to go to battle with her! So courageous an …”

Without warning, Mole-Fur interrupted, “God Milo, the black-haired two-leg female, she is where I left her, • but Old-Cat says that another ironshirt has sabered her, and …”

Hwahlis heard no more. Spinning, he sprinted to and leaped astride his horse and, before Milo could shout the rest of the message to him, was over the crest of the hill. So disturbed was the chief, neither Milo nor Mole-Fur could contact him mentally.

Mara had just finished binding a strip torn from her shirt over Aldora’s rapidly closing wound (mostly, to keep the flies off), when Hwahlis pounded up, leaped, running, from his lathered horse and raced to the side of his “daughter.” Tears and sweat had mingled to plow shiny furrows through the thick dust covering his features. Mara tried mindspeak but the begrieved chieftain’s mind was closed, so she spoke.

“Chief Hwahlis, Aldora will soon be …” But then she was aware that he didn’t hear her voice either. He could only hear the voice of his own self-recriminations and his eyes only registered Aldora’s closed eyes and pale face and blood-soaked shirt and the bandage only partially concealing the still-gaping wound.

Dropping to his knees, he gathered her, whom he thought dying, into his arms and covered her face with kisses, tears, and dust. Then, sobbing, rocking back and forth, he raised a keening wail.

Aldora, who had simply been following Mara’s instructions to lie quietly until the bleeding had entirely ceased and the wound closed, opened her eyes, then, and gazed up into Hwahlis’ sorrow-twisted face.

“Mara, what… why… ?” She mindspoke. “That doleful noise is his clan’s death chant, child.” Mara answered. “He thinks you are dying and grieves for you. I told you that he was a good man. This barbarian loves you, Aldora; not as a man loves a woman, but as a parent loves a daughter.”

“So accept the spirit of her we love, oh Wind,” Hwahlis sang, his eyes screwed shut, tears bathing his cheeks. “For she is of your people. Bear her smoke to Your home… .” He broke off at the sound of Aldora’s voice, the touch of her hand.

She wiped ineffectually at his face. “Why do you weep, Father? I am not bad hurt. Lady Mara say soon well I will be. True father, who I love, weep no more. Please?”