The Savage Mountains

IX

“Who are you girl?” he hurriedly mindspoke, sensing that life was almost sped. “Are you of the Moon Maidens? Who wounded you? How far ahead of this place are your sisters?”

Slowly, wonderingly, “But you’re a lowlander. How can you speak Ahrmehnee? Please … my throat hurts … hurts so terribly. And I’m so cold. But, no, Moon Maidens must be strong, must serve Our Lady with stoicism.”

Bluntly, “You’re dying, sister, you’ll not suffer much longer.”

A sigh brought dark-pink froth bubbling from her lips and the hole in her throat. Her mind said, “Yes, dying. Soon be one with … Lady.”

“Who slew you, sister? Was it Muhkohee?”

“Muhkohee, yes, thousands … never heard of so many together. Must reach nahkhahrah, tell Ahrmehnee, raise all warriors in stahn. Brahbehrnuh says…”

And she was gone.

“Catbrother?” Bili silently called the crouching prairiecat. “Take another and backtrack the horse, but cautiously, for those who slew this female still may watch or follow. I am easier to range than is our brother, Hari, so I will ride with him. Go now, and go quickly.”

“Whitetip hears his brother-chief.” In one fluid movement, the big, tawny-gray feline rose from his crouch and yawned hugely, his wide pink tongue lolling out between the three-inch-long upper fangs which were a characteristic feature of his species. Whirling, he started off at a distance-eating lope, his thick-thewed legs carrying his several hundred pounds easily over the rock-strewn, steep-graded track. The last Bili saw of him was his bobbing, white-tipped tail, sinking below the crest of the hill ahead.

Remounted, the van continued on, but with intervals of several yards between each four or six riders. They rode fully alert, the nobles—all save Bili and Hari—with beavers raised and visors lowered and locked. Bili rode with his huge double-bitted axe resting across his flaring pommel, the others with swords bared and targes strapped onto left arms. The archers—every fourth trooper—had all strung their short, powerful hornbows and nocked the steel-shod arrows, gripping two or three more shafts in the fingers of the bowhand, their sabers rattling loose in their cases.

A quarter mile behind, but closing, the main column came, led by Djaik Morguhn and equally ready for battle. Obedient to his older brother’s mindspoken command, the deputy quickened the pace until he was within sight of the tail of the van, then slowed to maintain that interval.

One mile they traversed, two, and still the track climbed. Higher, and the footing became treacherous, loose stones atop crumbling rock, all interspersed with had been covered in the Time of the Gods. At one place, shards of that black pebbly substance with which all roads had been covered in the Time of the Gods. At one place, they rode between a double row of ancient columns, cracked and deeply weathered, with rust stains showing through the moss.

Soon after that eerie passage, the footing became firmer and the ascent began to ease, still climbing, but at a more gradual rate. Then the way became level and, around the shoulder of a precipitous hill, they spied a long, wide plateau, beyond which rose another range of dark-green mountains. At that point, Bili halted the column, wary of proceeding into the unknown without foreknowledge of what dangers might lurk there. The word was passed back by mindspeak for the men of the units to dismount but to remain in ranks within easy reach of their mounts.

While awaiting word from the scouting cats, Bili took young Ehrubuhn Duhnkin of Rahbuhtz—the red-haired youngster having ridden all the way from the western marches of the southernmost reaches of the Confederation to join in putting down the rebellion with the Thoheeks Duhnkin, his cousin much-removed—and a handful of Freefighter troopers to climb the flanking hill, from the crest of which they could scrutinize the ground ahead.

The menace struck Bili’s perceptions full force, wave after irresistible wave, crashing upon him, nearly suffocating him. Yet there was nothing his keen eyes could discern, save the black specks that could only be buzzards, wheeling and dipping over some something about a mile distant, toward the center of the lifeless-looking expanse.

The length of the plateau, which was nowhere indicated on Bili’s maps, was, he estimated, at least ten or twelve miles, and the width would probably average half that Not truly level, it seemed to slope to the southwest, its face furrowed and so deeply eroded that in places it resembled a giant’s washboard. Of the stones and boulders which poked through the brush and laurel thickets and sere grass, those close enough for Bili to see well looked unnatural, looked to be weathered but once-worked stone rather than native rocks.

Down to his left, to the south of his present position, several columns of smoke climbed into the sky, though he could not spy either the fires or their makers due to the jagged ridges which lay between. Taking the chance that that was the place from which the dead woman had ridden, he let his open mind range out, questing, in search of the familiar mindpatterns of Whitetip.

“Brother-chief,” came the cat’s powerful mindspeak, “we just passed through a village. No two-legs live in it. All are dead and headless, even the cubs. It now is impossible to follow the track of the female’s horse. Too many horses have passed this way.”

Remembering the thick profusion of pony tracks at and around the site of the ambush and battle, Bili asked, “Cat-brother, big hooves or small? Heavy horses or light?”

After a moment the cat replied. “Both, brother-chief, but most of the small were printed over the large. Brother-chief, noise of fighting comes from the place beyond the next hill.”

“Then go to the hilltop and tell me what you see,” Bili commanded.

Glancing quickly back over the close ground he had earlier scanned, his eyes fixed upon the remembered formation of squarish, mossy rocks and huge-boled old trees which formed a natural fortification atop a small rise and looked about the right size to hold the packtrain.

“Hari,” he mindcalled.

“Aye, Bili,” came the answer.

“From what Whitetip has seen, we may be fighting soon, and I don’t fancy mounting a charge—if we come to that—trailing our trains.”

“We can’t leave them here, Bili,” Hari remonstrated.

This gap could be made a deathtrap, and that tight easily, too.”

“Yes, you’re right, old friend, it’s even more evident from here. But about a hundred yards out on the plateau there’s a ring of rocks and trees on top of a little hill. I think it’s big enough to hold the trains, as well as a couple of troops to defend them. If we—”

“Brother-chief,” beamed Whitetip. “Just below me is a big fight.” Then he opened his mind so that Bili might see through his eyes.

There was no color, of course, to the battle Bili was witnessing, only varying shades of gray. Against the bare face of a low cliff were drawn up lines of figures who looked, from their armor and equipment, to be women like the one they had found down the trail. There were at least two hundred of them and, with them, were possibly half a thousand Ahrmehnee-looking warriors. The ground before the defensive line—for such it obviously was—lay thickly cobbled with bodies of men and carcasses of horses or ponies. Some of the bodies wore armor but most of them were shaggy and bearded and were covered by nothing more substantial than tattered rags or the skins of animals. Nor was the source of these bodies difficult to ascertain. Hundreds might lie dead or dying before the hard-pressed women and Ahrmehnee, but thousands—at least two thousand, possibly as many as three—milled about just out of dart range of the line. With Whitetip’s keen nose, Bili was aware of the overpowering, nauseous stench of that mob.

He had never seen the like of this horde—hardly any wore helms and their greasy hair hung well below their shoulders, the matted beards of most covered their chests, few looked at all well fed and the majority seemed only bone and sinew and tight-stretched skin; skin long unwashed and scabrous.

Almost all seemed to be big, tall men, their skinny shanks depending amid the thick winter coats of their ill-tended ponies and their largish feet—generally bare, even in this bitter weather—almost dragging the ground. It was obvious that the well-armed men and women would have had little to fear in an open contest with the ruffianish throng had there not been so many of them, for their armament was mostly pitiful—here and there was a sword or an axe or a real lance, but the bulk were furnished only with crude-looking wickerwork targes and a few darts or a stabbing spear or a thick club.

They were formed into no recognizable formations, simply swirling in an aimless manner about several figures looking exactly like themselves, but mounted on full-size horses and fractionally better clad and armed. The cat’s ears could register the incessant babble welling up from them. Bili thought that it sounded somewhat similar to some dialects of Mehrikan, but with a whining, twangy quality the like of which he had never before heard. He decided it was as unlovely a language as its speakers.

Then, cantering from out a small patch of bushy evergreens, came another party of the strange barbarians. At the distance, the Northorse at their van looked like a big gray rat leading a herd of mice. Bili was frankly amazed to see a Northorse here in this nameless wilderness, for they were rare enough in more settled lands. The outsize creatures were bred somewhere far to the north of any known lands. The breeders were most astute in maintaining then—monopoly of the fabulous and fabulously expensive animals, for they sold but few and then only geldings. In size, they ran from about nineteen hands to as much as twenty-two, and most people saw them only bearing the commodious panniers of traders or in pairs, drawing the huge wains of itinerant merchants.

Northorses were mostly too even-tempered and docile to make good warhorses; nonetheless, some of the wealthier personages of the Middle Kingdoms kept one in their stables. Bili could recall how the king of Harzburk, massive as he was, had looked like a mere toddler astride a destrier on the bay Northorse he used for parades. But not so the man—if man born of woman he truly was—who bestrode yonder Northorse.

Bili knew that he had never seen a man so huge, and he doubted if anyone else, even the High Lord, had. Standing on his gigantic feet, the barbarian would surely overtop nine feet! Some unidentifiable fur enwrapped his barrel-thick torso, concealing any armor the giant might be wearing, but head and face were covered by a shiny helm, beaver and visor. Over his left shoulder, its hilt lost in his gargantuan left hand, rested the wide, heavy-looking blade of a broadsword, and that blade was no less than six feet long. Across his back was slung a sheaf of what, to him, were probably hand darts, but Bili thought he had seen shorter boarspears.

The moment he came within sight of his motley throng, thousands of throats commenced a deep roar of “BUHBUH! BUHBUH! BUHBUH!”

The treetrunk-thick arm raised and nourished the immense sword, then pointed it at the few hundred armored figures at the base of the cliff. But Bili had seen enough. He withdrew from Whitetip’s mind, first admonishing him, “Cat-brother, stay hidden where you are until we arrive. One or two cats, no matter how strong and valiant, could accomplish little against so many two-legs.”

Bili left only a half-troop with the trams. If the battle should go against him, whatever remnants of the squadron were left could withdraw to the position and try either to hold the strongpoint or, if it seemed advisable, flee back the way they had come onto the plateau. Meanwhile, he wanted every sword he could get behind him when he attacked those thousands of barbarians.

When he had described what Whitetip’s eyes had seen to Hari and certain of the others, the old nobleman had protested, “Bili, lad, I like a fight as much as any other, but … three thousand men, and us less than a thousand? And don’t forget the High Lord’s mission, his instructions.”

“I’m not forgetting either, Hari,” Bili replied grimly. “But aside from the fact that those folk, whoever they be, probably owe me bloodprice, for the butchery of Raikuh’s squadron, we have no choice. Our path lies straight across this plateau, and I don’t want the likes of them snuffing out our trail or barring our return. Do you?”

“Well, no, Bili, but—”

“I’d rather fight them now, on my terms, than later, on theirs and at a place of their choosing. Too, if the Ahrmehnee are now our allies, we can’t just ride on and let them be massacred by a pack of human wolves, can we?”

Behind several lines of pickets, with outriders thrown well out to van and flanks, the squadron made a rapid advance despite the difficult, uneven terrain. Along with the background rumble of thudding hooves, armor clanked and leather creaked, equipment thunked and metal-fittings jangled, but Bili knew that the noises were unimportant, for none would hear them above the din of battle even if distance and the folds of ground failed to muffle them.

A quarter-hour brought the van to the outskirts of the village mentioned by the cat. And all was just as Whitetip had described it. It had been a small place, only a bare dozen small cabins of dry-stone construction, thick, windowless walls and thatched roofs. But those roofs had all been burnt off and smoke still curled up from within those walls, along with the stink of charring flesh. All among the ruined houses lay stripped, hacked, headless bodies of both sexes and of sizes varying from infant to adult.

All the men of Bill’s squadron were soldiers who had witnessed the horrors of war at first hand. Most of them were professionals and had devoted the larger portion of their lives to traveling from one bloody battle to the next. Even the southern nobles, those who had never been professionals, had lived through the incredible carnage of the siege of Vawnpolis or had ridden with Bui to put down the rebellion in Morguhn. But the evidences of unhallowed atrocity which lay athwart the path of the squadron had more than a few men frantically unlocking visors and fighting down beavers that the interiors of their helms might not be befouled with the spewed contents of their stomachs.

Just below the crest of the hill, Bili halted his command and, along with Hari and Taros, who would captain the right and left wings, bellied into the thicket which concealed Whitetip and the other cat.

The scene Bili now saw with his own eyes was very similar to that seen earlier through the eyes of the huge cat. There seemed to be slightly fewer of the shaggy men milling about their gigantic leader and a somewhat denser carpet of bodies between the horde and the cliff. But there were definitely fewer of the Ahrmehnee, far fewer. Their lines were considerably contracted in length and the depth of then—formation was much reduced. But they stood firm in the face of the death which must surely overtake most of them when next they were attacked. Men and women leaned, panting, on their well-used weapons In grim silence. Behind their lines lay their wounded or dead, and within cave mouths in the base of the cliffside Bill thought he could discern the heads of horses.

The top of the cliff was a continuation of the crest of the hill on which the men and cats lay, though the slope before them was much more gradual than it became as it curved around closer to the sheer precipice. A charge down this slope would take the attackers of the Ahrmehnee on the right flank and, were the line strung long enough, at the right rear, as well. Squinting in concentration, the young thoheeks considered every angle of the projected charge, weighed up every misfortune which might befall and racked his brain to settle upon an alternate plan of action to counter each. At length, he slid his armored body back down from the thicketed crest, signaling the two nobles to follow but mindspeaking the cats to remain, bidding them let him know when the barbarians seemed on the verge of a fresh assault.

Back at the squadron, he summoned the nobles and Freefighter officers and first outlined his strategy, then issued succinct commands.

All was in readiness before the undisciplined rabble, screaming and howling like wild beasts, started to cover the distance separating them from the battered little band opposing them. Bili and the others did not need Whitetip’s mindspeak to tell them, for the thud-thudding of the thousands of pony hooves was clearly audible. A ripple of movement went all through the ranks of armored horsemen as visors were snapped shut and locked onto beavers. Then Bili kneed Mahvros forward and, behind him, his squadron advanced uphill, toward the crest.

On the floor of the wide defile, the shaggy men on their shaggy ponies roiled ahead, presenting a jagged front as faster ponies surged uncontrolled and slower ones lagged. Few darts flew between the two groups, for nearly all had been expended during the earlier engagements. All at once, though, furry figures commenced to drop their crude weapons while emitting shrieks of agony, to reel from off their mounts and be trampled under the heedless hooves of the riders who followed. The Ahrmehnee seemed as shocked as the barbarians at the drizzle of slender shafts, seemingly from the empty sky.

The brow of the cliff hid from the Ahnnehnee the staggered line of bowmasters, but the barbarians could see them, and increasing dozens of them felt the deadly bite of the arrows. But the advance neither slowed nor faltered. As the range decreased, more shafts homed into flesh and the dozens became scores. Wounded ponies screamed and reared or fell with their riders, to die messily as the thousands galloped over them.

At the crest, Bili halted for half a heartbeat, taking in the panorama spread below. The giant was now among the rearmost of the horde—Northorses being bred for strength and endurance rather than speed, even the comparatively tiny ponies were far faster at the gallop. The big gray lumbered along, the monster who bestrode him waving his impossibly long blade, his huge maw gaping, his roars lost in the general din.

“Sun and Wind!” swore Komees Han. “Yon’s not a man, it’s surely a monster!”

Taking a fresh grip on the steel haft of his massive axe, Bili mindspoke his stallion. “Now, brother-mine, now we fight.”

With Bili and a knot of heavily armed nobles at the center, the squadron crested the hill and swept down the slope at a jarring gallop. Naturally, a few horses fell, but only a few. As they reached level ground, Han’s wing, the left, extended to take aim at the rear of the unruly mob of pony riders. And, all the while, the bowmasters sustained their rain of death upon the forefront of the host.

Bili unconsciously tightened his leg muscles, firming his seat and crowding his buttocks against the cantle, while crouching over the thundering black’s neck and extending his axe at the end of his strong right arm, the sharp spike at the business end of that shaft glinting evilly in the pale rays of sun.

And then they struck!

The big, heavy, war-trained horses sent ponies tumbling like ninepins, and the well-armed, steel-sheathed nobles and Freefighters wreaked fearful carnage among the unarmored and all but defenseless barbarians. The Ahnnehnee could only stand speechless with the wonder of this eleventh-hour deliverance from what must surely have been their last battle.

A red-bearded headhunter heeled his pony at Bili and jabbed furiously with his spear, but the soft iron point bent against the Pitzburk plate and Bill’s axe severed the speararm, cleanly, at the shoulder. Screaming a shrill challenge, Mahvros reared above a pony and rider and came down upon them, steel-shod hooves flailing; gelatinous globs of brain spurted from the man’s shattered skull and the pony collapsed under the weight, whereupon the killer stallion stove in its ribs.

It was a battle wherein living men were a-horse. Those not mounted—noble, Freefighter or barbarian—were speedily pounded into the blood-soaked ground. The shaggy men fell like ripe grain, most of their weapons almost useless when pitted against fine, modern plate and only slightly more effective when employed against the scalemail hauberks of the Freefighters. To counter blows and thrusts of broadsword and saber, axe and lance, the primitive wickerwork targes offered no more protection than did the hides and ragged homespun clothing.

But, though the shaggy men died in droves, it seemed to Bili that there were always more and yet more appearing before him, behind him, to each side of him, jabbing spears and beating on his plate with light axes, with crude blades and wooden clubs. He felt that he had been fighting, slaying, swinging his ever-heavier axe for centuries. But, abruptly, he was alone, with none before him or to either side. At a flicker of movement to his right, he twisted in his sweaty saddle, whirling up his gore-clotted axe.

But it was only a limping, riderless pony, hobbling as fast as he could go from that murderous engagement, eyes rolling wildly and nostrils dilated. Bili slowly lowered his axe and relaxed for a brief moment, slumped in his saddle, drawing long, gasping, shuddery breaths. Beneath his three-quarter armor and the padded, leather gambeson, he seemed to be only one long, dull ache, with here and there sharper pains which told of strained muscles, while his head throbbed its resentment of so many clanging blows on the protecting helm. Running his parched tongue over his lips, he could taste the sweat bathing his face as well as the salty blood trickling from his nose, but he seemed to be unwounded.

Several more stampeding ponies passed by while he sat and one or two troop horses, the last with a Freefighter reeling in the kak, rhythmically spurting bright blood from a left arm that ended just above the elbow. Exerting every ounce of willpower, Bili straightened his body and reined Mahvros about, bringing up his ton-heavy axe to where he could rest its shaft across his pommel.

Fifty yards distant, the battle still surged and raged. He had ridden completely through the widest, densest part of the howling horde, a testament to Mahvros’ weight and bulk and ferocity as much as to his rider’s fighting skills. So close that he could almost touch him stood a panting horse and a panting rider. There was no recognizing who might be within the scarred and dented plate, but Bili knew that mare and nudged Mahvros nearer.

When they sat knee to knee, he leaned close and shouted, “Geros! Sir Geros! Are you hurt, man?” His voice thundered within his closed helm. “Where in hell did you get my Eagle?”

But the other rider sat unmoving, unresponsive. His steel-plated shoulders rose and fell jerkily to his heavy, spasmodic breathing. One gauntleted fist gripped the hilt of his broadsword, its blade red-smeared from point to guard; the other held a hacked and splintery ashwood shaft, from which the tattered and faded Red Eagle of Morguhn banner rippled silkily in the freshening breeze. Sir Geros had borne this banner to glory and lasting fame while serving with Pawl Raikuh’s Morguhn Troop of Freefighters, but since his elevation to the ranks of the nobility—after a singular act of valor done during the early days of the siege of Vawnpolis—a common trooper had been chosen standardbearer, the new knight taking his well-earned place among the heavily armed nobles.

Bili tried mindspeak. “Did you piss your breeks, as usual, Sir Geros?”

Contrition boiled up from the knight’s soul and beamed out with the reply. “I always do, my lord, always befoul myself in battle.”

Bili chuckled good-naturedly and his mirth was silently transmitted as well. “Geros, every manjack in this squadron knows you’ve got at least a full league of guts. When are you going to stop being ashamed of the piddling fact that your bladder’s not as brave as the rest of you, man? None of us give a damn, why should you?”

“But… but, my lord, it… it’s not manly.”

Bili snorted derision. “Horse turds, Sir Geros! You’re acknowledged one of the ten best swordsmen in a dozen duchies and you fight like a scalded treecat, so why worry about a meaningless quirk of yours? No one else is bothered by it.”

“There is never a fight, my lord, but that someone mentions my weakness, asks of it or openly lays hand to my saddle or my breeks. Then they all laugh.”

Dili extended his bridle hand to firmly grip the knight’s shoulder, chiding gently, “Geros, Geros, the laughter is at your evident embarrassment, and it’s friendly, well-meant joshing. There are few men in all the host as widely and deeply respected as are you. Everyone knows you’re a brave man, Geros.”

Geros shook his head, tiredly. “But I’m not really brave, my lord, and I know it. I fight for the same reason I strove to master the sword, only to stay alive. And I’m frightened near to death, almost all the time. That’s not valor, my lord.”

“Not so!” stated Bili firmly. “It’s the highest degree of valor, that you recognize and accept your fears and then do your duty despite them. And don’t you forget what poor old Pawl Raikuh told you that day before we stormed the salients. Fear, controlled fear, is what keeps a warrior alive in a press. Men who don’t know fear seldom outlive their first serious battle.

“Geros, self-doubt is a good thing in many ways; it teaches a man humility. But you can’t let yourself be carried too far by such doubts, else they’ll unman you.

“But, tell me, how did you chance to be bearing my banner again? Can’t keep your hands off it, eh?”

Geros was too exhausted and drained to rise to the joke. “My lord, I was riding at Klifuhd’s side through most of that ghastly mess back there and I thought me I had guarded him and the Eagle well. Then just at the near fringes of the horde, a barbarian axeman crowded between us and lopped off poor Klifuhd’s forearm. I ran the stinking savage through the body and barely caught the Eagle ere it fell. Then I was in the open here. I don’t know what happened to Klifuhd, my lord.”

“Well, man, you have it now. How’s your throat? Dry as mine, I don’t doubt.” Feeling behind his saddle, he grunted satisfaction at finding his canteen still in place.

With numbed, twitching fingers, he unlatched his visor and lowered his beaver. Raising the quart bottle to his crusty lips, he filled his mouth once and spat it out, then took several long drafts of the brandy-and-water mixture. The first swallow burned his gullet ferociously, like a red-hot spearblade on an open wound, but those which followed it were as welcome and soothing as warm honey. Taking the bottle down at last, he proffered it to Sir Geros.

“Here, man, wash your mouth and oil that remarkable set of vocal cords. If we’re to really clobber these bastards, we must rally the squadron and hit them hard again.”

The impetus of that smashing charge had been lost, and the majority of the lowland horsemen were fighting alone or in small groups, rising and falling from sight, almost lost in a shifting sea of multi-toned, shaggy fur. Bili realized that where mere skill at arms and superior armor could not promise victory or even survival against such odds, the superior bulk and weighty force of the troop horses and destriers were his outnumbered squadron’s single remaining asset. But to take full advantage of those assets, the horde must again be struck by an ordered, disciplined formation, charging at a gallop. But before he could deliver another crushing charge, he must rally his scattered elements … such of them as he could.