The Coming of the Horseclans

21

The tribe made nearly eight miles the first day and Milo and the chiefs felt pleased. But not so Lord Alexandras. Unannounced and unaccompanied, he galloped the chestnut up, slammed out of the saddle before the animal was fully halted, and stormed into Milo’s wagon-lodge a couple of hours after dusk.

Seated, cross-legged, around a bowl of wine on the thickly carpeted floor, were Milo, Mara, Blind Hari, Chief Hwil of Kuk, Chief Bili of Esmith, Chief Rahsz of Rahsz and Chief Djimi of Peerszuhn. Hari was flanked by Old-Cat and Mole-Fur, and Horsekiller crouched between Milo and Mara, now and then taking a surreptitious lap out of Milo’s cup (he had developed an unadmitted fondness for the resinous Ehleen wine).

Milo rose smiling. “Welcome, Lord Alexandras. Your presence honors my tent and our gathering.”

Exerting his iron control, the Strahteegohs forced himself to sit and accepted a cup of the wine (and the fact that it was part of the loot of Theesispolis, did nothing to improve his frame of mind).

Still smiling, Milo spoke. “All the clan smiths are hard at work, tonight, my lord. They will continue to be every night of the march, too. By the time we reach the vicinity of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, I can promise you that each and every one of your peasants will be armed, after a fashion—even if it’s only with spear, shield, and helmet.” Lord Alexandras took a deep draught of the contents of his silver cup. In a tight, restrained voice, he asked, “And how many days do you think it will take this … this ‘column’ to reach our objective, Lord Milos?”

Though the old nobleman possessed a mind-shield which made the reading of his thoughts impossible, even for Milo or Mara, the very restraint in his tone betrayed the face of his anger. For the nonce, however, Milo chose to ignore it, going on in the same friendly, conversational tone.

“Oh, ten days to two weeks, I should say, sir. The former, certainly, if we continue the same fast pace and make as good time as we did today.”

The last statement was too much. Lord Alexandras slammed his scarred knuckles into the carpet before him and sparks shot from his eyes. “My God, man! You call this good time? The outskirts of your camp are less than eight miles from where it was this morning! Why, I expect even fully-armed infantry to make twenty miles a day—and God knows, I’ve the reputation for driving my men no harder than is necessary?”

So that’s the bone in his craw, thought Milo. He said, “Lord Alexandras, were none but our warriors involved, they’d have been nigh on to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, this night! But such is not the case. This is not—no matter how you may wish it were—a purely military movement. It is a migration! In addition to your troops and the tribe’s warriors, there are nearly eight thousands of women and children, well over a dozen hundreds of wagons, more hundreds of tent-carts, some twenty thousands horses and nearly twice that number of cattle, sheep, and goats. It is because of the latter, principally, that our advance is—by your lights—slow. Cattle and sheep and goats can be driven just so far and just so fast.”

“Then I suggest they be left here or driven back to their original pasturage,” said Lord Alexandras shortly. “As I expect us to be under the walls of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in no more than three days.”

Chief Bili opened his mouth to make a sizzling retort. “No, Bili,” Milo mindspoke him. “Let me handle this.”

“Lord Alexandras,” he said to the white-haired Ehleen, “your baggage wagons carry the grain and vegetables which are your troops’ accustomed diet. My people are accustomed to a diet which consists to a large extent of dairy products, therefore, the herds are their rations. You’d ask them to leave their rations behind?”

“Being without milk for a couple of weeks isn’t going to kill them!” snapped the Strahteegohs. “There’s always hard cheese or jerky, you know.”

“Babes and very young children, too?” questioned Milo gently. “Or aged persons, who lack teeth?”

“Well, dammit! Let them camp here,” was the old man’s tart rejoinder. “This is warfare, Lord Milos, serious business! Non-combatants have no place hi it!”

“In such case, my lord,” Milo informed him, “you’d march on alone, on your own. My warriors would not leave their families camped, unprotected, in hostile territory.”

“Then … then … then let them go back to Theesispolis! They’ll be safe behind its walls.”

Scouting a column’s advance was hard, dirty, dangerous work; this Lord Alexandras knew well. It was very comforting to know that it was being done—and done well—by troops he felt no responsibility for, and he had no wish to lose the services of these expendables, simply because they felt obliged to stay with their squalling brats and their smelly women.

Milo felt it might—at this point—be impolitic to mention how little safety those same walls had afforded the former inhabitants of Theesispolis. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I could, of course, convene the Council of Chiefs and put the question to them, but there’s no need, I can tell you their answer now.

“The tribe is migrating toward the sea. Kehnooryohs Atheenahs lies in that direction. It would’ve been necessary to move the camp soon, in any case, as the area of Theesispolis is all but grazed out. If the warriors and the maidens go with you, the tribe goes with you. If the tribe goes with you, the herds go with you. It is that simple, Lord Alexandras!” Milo drained his cup and dipped it into the wine bowl.

Nonetheless, Milo did see that as little time as possible was wasted on the march. The second day, the tribe did nearly ten miles and the third saw a bit over ten covered.

By the sunset of the fourth night, they were almost halfway to the capital and, as the tribe halted, Milo passed word that the chiefs were to council before his lodge within the hour. It was a short meeting and was in the process of adjourning, when Lord Alexandras arrived. He was not alone this time. In his wake trotted a hundred fully-armed Kahtahphraktoee. His features were grim and the blaze of the fire before Mile’s lodge was no hotter than the glare from the old Ehleen’s eyes.

“Had I known you wished to attend our little conference,” Milo addressed the glowering noble, “I’d have seen that you were apprised of it, my Lord.”

Chief Hwil of Kuk strode smiling to assist his old Strahteegohs in dismounting. “You are right welcome, Lord Alexandras. Will you not honor my tent before you depart?”

By pressure of knee and rein, the old man danced his mount away from Kuk, saying, “Foresworn! You have sold out to these howling savages! Now you are no better than they, if ever you were. So, I’ll thank you to keep your gory hands off my horse and my person!”

Shocked and abashed, Kuk could but stutter. “But … but…”

Amid an ominous muttering from the chiefs, Milo stepped forward. “My Lord, I know not what is now troubling you, but perhaps, if you were to dismount and come in to my lodge, we …”

He got no farther. Leaning forward, over the hands crossed on his pommel, Lord Alexandras said, “I only dismount to converse with equals, barbarian! I came not for conversation. I’ve heard more than enough of the yappings of you and your pack of curs, thank you! I came for justice and I mean to have it!”

At that moment, Old-Cat—patroling the fringes of the camp—mindspoke Milo. “Friend Milo, all the Ironshirts are spreading around the camp. The archers have arrows on strings and most of the others are lighting torches.

The minds I have been able to enter are filled with thoughts of burning the camp and slaying the kindred!”

Milo mindspoke Mara in his lodge. “Mara, it would appear that your former lover has had some change-of-heart. His cavalry are in the process of surrounding the camp at this moment, and he is raging and ranting about justice. Go out the back and raise as many warriors and maidens as you can. Fortunately, he was stupid enough to ride in here with only a hundred men. No matter what his orders to them were, I don’t think his troops will attack, knowing that his life would be the first taken—not as much as they idolize him.”

To Horsekiller, “Call up your clan, Cat Chief. Be ready to attack, but only at my word.”

But, from Lord Alexandras, Milo withheld the bulk of his knowledge for the moment, saying only, “If my Lord would deign to let me know what he is raving about, perhaps we could get to the bottom of it. However, I’ll have to request that you cease to insult my chiefs; you’re not High Lord, yet, sir, not by a long shot!”

“And, you imply,” said Lord Alexandras acidly, “that I’ll not be, without the help of you and your red-handed butchers? Is that it?”

Milo was playing for time. “I implied nothing of the sort, sir. However, since you did bring up the matter, know this: We are a loose confederation of blood-related clans. Should a chief be sufficiently provoked, there is nothing to prevent him and his clan from wreaking personal vengeance, where and on whom he sees fit!”

“Including,” snarled the Strahteegohs, “helpless, innocent peasants! You see, I have been apprised of your treacherous, bestial infamy, you supposedly civilized Pig!”

Milo hooked thumbs through his dagger-belt and shook his head. “I do not anger easily, Lord Alexandras, so insulting me is pointless. I am beginning to surmise that you have taken leave of your senses. It is quite obvious that you are highly incensed in some way; but you seem disinclined to bring your reasons into the open.”

“Milo, love.” It was Mara, mindspeaking. “There are about a thousand warriors, maidens and matrons ringing your lodge area now. Their bows can drop every one of the soldiers, whenever you say; but don’t hurt ’Lekos, unless he gives you no choice, please. More clanspeople are forming a “reception committee” for those troops now outside the camp, and Horsekiller has the most of his clan there or on the way.”

When Milo spoke to the Ehleen again, an edge had come into his voice. “Lord, you accuse me of treachery, of infamy! What, may I ask, do you call your own conduct? Is surrounding and preparing to attack the camp of a supposed ally not treachery? At this moment—as you well know, sir—your Kahtahphraktoee are in the process of moving into attack-positions on our camp perimeter. Should they be so unwise as to attempt an assault, they—and you—will find us well prepared for them, and they will take heavy casualties!

“Now, before this ‘meeting’ gets any more unpleasant, I’ll ask you once more: What possible justification have you for this night’s actions? What brought you, frothing at the mouth, to my lodge, to insult me and my chiefs?”

“You know why I am here!” hissed Lord Alexandras. “I want the culprits dragged before me immediately, or my men attack! There can be no excuse for the actions of the criminals you are sheltering, and I’ll not rest until I see them impaled—as they so richly deserve! I know what is right and just, and I have the troops to enforce my will.”

“Should you be sufficiently stupid to throw them against this camp, you blathering old doddard, you’ll not have them long!” declared Chief Djeri of Hahfmun, having taken all he could stomach. “The tribe will make the same hash of you and yours that we did of the last Ehleen jackanapes who tried to attack us!”

Turning to his hundred, Lord Alexandras waved an ana in Chief Djeri’s direction. “Seize me that grunting hog! He’s probably one of the very swine we came for; if not, he’ll do as hostage for their delivery!”

Warily, four troopers dismounted and started toward the gray-haired chief. With a wolfish grin, Chief Djeri drew both saber and dirk and, in the twinkling of an eye, Sami of Kahrtr, Bui of Esmith, and Chuk of Djahnsun had their own steel out and were ranged beside him. Even without armor, they obviously felt themselves more than a match for the four clanking Kahtahphraktoee.

At a pre-arranged signal from Lord Alexandras, the bugler raised his instrument to his lips, but found he was unable to force air past the shaft of the arrow which had suddenly spitted his throat! And that was the end of the ‘battle.’ The troopers were not fools and, as they became aware that at least ten bows were trained on each of them, their lances came clattering to the ground and their scabbarded swords quickly followed.

Milo advanced a few paces closer to the, still-mounted, Lord Alexandras. “Ill ask once more, my lord. Will you dismount and come hi and discuss this matter of contention? I have no desire to shed the blood of any more of your men, though many of my people would be overjoyed to muddy this earth with their blood.”

For a long, long minute, the Ehleen sat his mount, staring venomously; but, at length—bowing to the inevitable—he stiffly, correctly, dismounted. When Milo turned, the old noble followed him up the stairs and into the War Chiefs lodge.

Even unconscious, it required strenuous and concerted efforts from both Horsekiller and Old-Cat to force a breach in Lord Alexandras’ formidable mind-shield. When, through the cats, Milo and Mara and Hari had entered, their shock and agreement were simultaneous.

“Someone or something is controlling him!” stated Milo flatly. “Placing thoughts in his mind, overriding his will.”

Mara nodded. “I knew that that man out there was not ’Lekos. How long, do you suppose, has this entity been forcing him to its evil will?”

Milo shrugged. “No way of telling, really. Days, weeks, who knows? Days, certainly. I thought that that business, the other night, was damned odd, come to think of it. Because, in one of our early conferences—do you recall, Hari?—he made the remark that it was regrettable that he would have to retard the advance of his column, or something like that….”

“Yes,” affirmed the aged bard. “I, too, thought of that when he came storming in here that night. He knew, well beforehand, that the tribe’s average day’s march was something less than two leagues.”

“Then it must have taken him within the last week,” decided Milo. “So, we know when. What we must now determine is how and why and precisely what.”

Once more, the three humans and two felines entered the Ehleen’s mind and vainly strove to probe farther. At length, Milo sank back, perspiration beading his forehead.

“It’s no use! Even with the cats, we just haven’t the mental force necessary. That thing is unnaturally strong.”

“Milo, Hari,” Mara asked hesitantly. “How about Al-dora? True, she’s untrained, but we’re here to guide her and she has demonstrated fantastic strength and ability …”

When Aldora entered, she was still dangling her loaded sling and a pouch of stones for it hung around her neck. “You mind-called, Lady Mara.”

“Yes, child,” Hari answered. “We have need of your powers.”