A Cat Of Silvery Hue (18 page)

Old
Thoheeks
Kehlee looked up, his lined cheeks tear-stained. It was difficult to tell that the dust-coated Mahvros was black, but the old man recognized the double-bitted axe borne by the visored rider. “It’s my second son, Kinsman Bili. It’s young Syros.”

Bili stiffly dismounted, his every fiber protesting the movements. After recasing his axe, he stumped over to his peer’s side, pulled off his heavy gauntlet and extended his damp, red hand in sympathy. There was no need to ask if the young man was dead, for blood and gray-pink brain tissue were feeding a swarm of flies crawling about the gaping, shattered skull.

Nor, it soon became apparent, was Syros Kehlee’s death the worst of their losses.
Thoheeks
Rahs was sprawled dead on the road, and it was doubtful if
Thoheeks
Kahnuh would see the rise of Sacred Sun. Half a score of lesser nobles had been slain outright, with that many more suffering wounds of greater or lesser magnitude. Raikuh stoically reported the deaths of forty-three Freefighters, most of them downed by arrows or darts, with perhaps a dozen seriously enough wounded to require treatment. The less well-protected horses had suffered far more than had their armored riders, however, and the horse leeches’ mercy-axes were busy.

But some small comfort could be derived from the fact that the Vawnee had left a good hundred of their number on the road or between it and the place where the pursuers had halted. Nor were all of them dead—at least, not when first found.

Kleetos of Mahrtospolis was dragged before
Thoheeks
Bili, now sitting a captured and relatively fresh horse—a mindspeaking warhorse, stolen from dead Vawn Kindred and overjoyed to be back with a man such as Bili, whom he considered “his own kind.”

Young Kleetos, who had survived the beastly mountain march without a scratch, was no longer handsome, his nose having been skewed to one side by the same blow which had torn off his visor and crumpled his beaver, Further, his captors had not been gentle in removing his helm, so that new blood mixed with old on his smoothshaven—in adoring emulation of
Vahrohneeskos
Drehkos—face. But even though the flesh around both eyes was swollen and discolored, the eyes themselves flashed the feral fires of pride and hatred. The battered head was held stiffly and high, and his carriage was as arrogant as his bonds and limp would permit.

“Duke Bili,” said Bohreegahd Hohguhn, respectfully, “I r’membered you as sayin’ that first day you took me on as how you wanted nobles alive, an’ this here gamecock be a noble, if ever I seen sich!”

Bili’s grim expression never wavered. He snapped coldly, “Your name and house and rank, if any, you rebel dog!”

Kleetos opened his blood-caked lips and spat out a piece of tooth, then proudly announced, “I be Kleetos, of the ancient House of Mahrtos, Lord of Mahrtospolis and lieutenant to my puissant lord,
Vahrohneeskos
Drehkos Daiviz of Morguhn, commander of Vawnpolis! Have you a name and rank, heathen? I’ll not ask your house. In consideration of the fact that your mother probably never knew your father that well, such a question might embarrass you!”

Hohguhn’s backhanded buffet split the boy’s lips and sent him staggering, but gleaned no sound other than the spitting out of more teeth.

Bili raised his visor and dropped his beaver to reveal a wolfish grin. “You’ve got guts, Kleetos of Mahrtospolis. I’d thought such had been bred out of the old Ehleen houses. Too bad you’re a rebel. But what’s this about Drehkos Daiviz?
He
planned this damned ambush?”

The boy drew himself up. “My Lord Drehkos planned
and
led today, heathen. He captained the first line, I, the second.”

“And
Vahrohnos
Myros had charge of Vawnpolis, eh?” probed Bili.

The prisoner shook his head, then staggered and would have fallen but for Hohguhn’s strong grip on his arm. “Not so, heathen. Unfortunately, Lord Myros of Deskahti is not always…ahhh, reliable, being subject to fits and faintings and senseless rages. No,
Vahrohnos
Lobailos Rohszos of Vawn be Lord Drehkos’ deputy.”

Bili whistled softly. Who in hell could predict the strategies of a man with no formal war training? This upcoming siege might well run into
Thoheeks
Duhnkin’s shearing time if the city was at all well supplied, prepared and manned…and there was but one way, now, of ascertaining that. He swung down off his mount and strode over to the prisoner, drawing his wide-bladed dirk.

Kleetos gulped, despite himself, then said, “If you mean to murder me, I would ask a few moments to pray for the forgiveness of my sins.”

Bili’s answering smile looked sincere, and his voice was as smooth as warm honey. “Murder you? Why, lad, I would never condone or perpetrate such a crime. After all, are not we both noblemen of the Confederation, even though you be Ehleen and I Kindred?”

Turning to Hohguhn and extending the hilt of the dirk, he snapped, “Lieutenant, loose this gentleman immediately! Find him a horse and bring me his sword.”

At the same time, Bili mindspoke, “You treacherous, boy-bugging swine of an Ehleen whoreson! For the thousandth part of a silver
thrahkmeh
, I’d have your balls out and your yard off and then bugger you with your own prick!”

Satisfied that the prisoner, like so many pure-blood or near-pure-blood Ehleenee, lacked the mindspeak talents hereditary to Horseclans Kindred, Bili took the limping boy’s arm and gently led him over to give him a drink of the powerful brandy-wine-water mixture in his own bottle.

To have called Kleetos stunned would have been a gross understatement. He had expected death at the very least. Had steeled himself to accept it with the stoicism and courage shown by the Vawn Kindred—men, women, children, even babes—he had so lately seen tortured, raped, butchered by his uncle and cousins and their rabid followers. He had expected any suffering, any humiliation. But here he was being treated courteously by a tall, blue-eyed pagan who, nonetheless, bore himself like a true gentleman of pure Ehleen antecedents. Kleetos’ naive mind reeled.

While his “guest” sipped the strong restorative, Bili ranged out his mindspeak in search of the High Lord. He had never before tried real farspeak, but he did know Milo’s mind, and after a few moments Milo responded.

When Bili had explained the situation and his intentions, he could almost hear Milo’s dry chuckle. “Bili, you amaze me a little more with each passing day. Yes, it’s a good plan, and his information could well be valuable to us. Keep the puppy by you in camp, feed him a good dinner, treat him to a wash and some fresh clothing. And tell him you’ve sent for the
arhkeethoheeks’
own physician to see to his hurts. Master Ahlee and Bard Klairuhnz will join you when the shoat be well cosseted.”

By the time they had consumed a finer meal than Kleetos had tasted in many a long week, they were on a first-name basis, and Kleetos was reflecting that captivity might have very definite advantages, especially could he succeed in seducing his strong, handsome captor, whom he was already calling “Sweet Bili.”

As for “Sweet Bili,” the femininity of his young prisoner, which became more pronounced and overt with every passing minute and cup of wine, set his teeth on edge. Although he was aware that sexual relationships between men were not only an accepted and usual practice amongst the noble Ehleen families, but were not even considered dishonorable so long as the men also wed women and produced legitimate offspring, Bili was personally repelled by the entire concept. He hoped that he could prevent his deepening disgust and his basic dislike for this precious, now lisping creature from being mirrored in his face and his conduct.

After Milo, in his disguise as Klairuhnz, the traveling bard, bad sung a few verses of the War Song of Clan Morguhn, an archaic Ehleen love song and a humorous Freefighter ballad, Kleetos was approached by the physician, Master Ahlee, his snowy robes billowing about him.

Kleetos stared in unabashed fascination at the man now seating himself before him. He had heard of such men, of course, but had never actually seen one. Hands and face and scar-ridged, hairless scalp, all were the dark, dusky brown of an old saddle, though the palms were a startling pink. One of those pink-palmed hands disappeared into a fold in the white robes and emerged holding a polished crystal globe suspended from a thin golden chain. Grasping the ends of the chain, he allowed the spinning globe to dangle before Kleetos’ eyes.

His deep, infinitely soothing voice crooned, “Look, young sir, look at the ball. See the light within the ball? Is not the light beautiful? Fix your eyes on the light, young sir. Become one with the beautiful light. Let yourself sink into the light…”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the young rebel did just that, and, when he was in full trance state, the physician yielded his place to the High Lord, at the same time drawing a tablet and a case of ink and quills from beneath his robes in preparation for noting and sketching whatever the prisoner revealed.

When Kleetos “awakened,” he could feel bandages swathing his face and head. But this was not what utterly horrified him. “But…but what does this
mean
, Sweet Bili?” he demanded, raising his fettered wrists and clanking the chain which joined them.

Bili stared at him as he might have at some loathsome insect wriggling on a pinpoint. The chill of his voice matched the blue ice of his eyes. “It means, you…you
thing
, that at dawn you and our wounded will commence a journey back to my duchy; they will ride, you will have a choice of walking or being dragged behind the horse you’ll be roped to, for you deserve nothing better. When you arrive in Morguhnpolis, you will be delivered to my city prison, where my Master Bahrtuhn will have his deepest, dankest, darkest, slimiest cell waiting for you. When your city falls, those nobles and priests who are of Morguhn will be slowly whipped to death, crucified or impaled, depending upon their ranks and the enormity of their offenses.

“What your
thoheeks
does with you and your like will be his decision—though I will recommend against impalement in your case, since you might enjoy it, at least at first.”

Kleetos burst out, “
Thoheeks
Vawn is dead! I
saw
his body, what was left of it.”

Bili smiled grimly. “There be a new
Thoheeks
Vawn, now. He is Hwahltuh, Chief of Sanderz, and I would that he could be here this evening, but he and his clansmen are presently scouting out the environs of Vawnpolis.”

“Ha! Now I know you lie, heathen,” scoffed Kleetos. “There be no House of Sanderz. And besides, we have disbanded the Council of Threes, which means that there is no one to approve an heir. And if there were, there’d be no heir to approve.” His harsh laugh bore a sinister undertone.

“You’d not know the Clan Sanderz, rebel,” Bili agreed. “They’ve been less than six moons in the Confederation, after riding and fighting their way east from the Sea of Grass.”

“
Wild
Horseclansmen, heathen?” inquired Kleetos. “Who are you trying to impress with your lies? Me? Why even I know that new-come barbarians are given freshly conquered lands. But only the High Lord—or rather that cursed Undying sorcerer who has usurped the title—can make such a gift, anyway.”

“Just so, rebel dog,” Bili smiled. “I myself witnessed the ceremony of investiture, which was held at Morguhnpolis rather than the capital. As for the state of the land, Vawn will be as a freshly conquered principality when we’ve flushed all you death worshipers out of it. And, as for sorcery, the High Lord just used it to read your mind.”

“Which,” put in Milo, “was like swimming through a sewer! I have lived near a millennium, but I have never before encountered such depravity in one so young. I must confess, I had long thought that the last Ehleen High Lord, Demetrios Treeah-Pohtohmas, represented the absolute nadir of human compassion, but I think that your vast amusement and completely unnatural satisfactions in the pointless tortures and humiliations of helpless, harmless men, women and children who happened to be in your power would have shocked Demetrios at his worst.”

In the wake of the calamitous attack, the van and flank guards were reinforced to double strength, so that scouting or campsite activities would not again unduly weaken them. And the nobles and troopers now rode fully armed from commencement to end of each day’s march, regardless of heat, discomfort or weariness.

During all of the next, long day, Milo and Aldora made it a point to ride with the forward elements of the column, being especially wary during the late-afternoon hour when the previous ambush had occurred. But the day and march were uneventful, as was the heavily guarded camp through all the night. It was not until three hours after sunrise that the next blow was struck.

With the light of false dawn, the vanguard contingent had clattered out of camp, most of the nobles and their Freefighters with the flankers taking the road a bare half-hour later. Then had the long, serried ranks of infantry set hide-shod feet to the measured beat of the marching drums, thankful that but two days’ march separated them from Vawnpolis, cursing the muddy morass which last night’s rain had made of the hoof-churned road as vociferously as had they cursed yesterday’s dust.

At their departure, the exodus of the wagons of supplies and equipment commenced. While officers’ and nobles’ servants struck tents and loaded baggage, apprentice sanitarians directed squads of sappers in filling latrines and offal pits. Fires were extinguished and teams hitched and the rearguard
kahtahfrahktoee
and lancers impatiently sat stamping horses on the fringes of the bustle. Though all mounted and accoutered for the road, they had not yet assembled in marching order but were gathered in small groups, chatting, jesting, spitting, watching the beehive of activities within the perimeters of the soon to be abandoned campsite.

Because his superior officer, Sub-
strahteegos
Arnos Tchainee, lay ill of a fever in one of the medical wagons now lumbering along the Vawnpolis road, Captain Gaib Linstahk found himself in nominal command of the entire squadron of
kahtahfrahktoee
as well as of the two troops of lancers trickling out in ones and twos on the flanks of the slowly departing baggage train. Nor were these the least of his problems, for, as the Undying High Lady Aldora was traveling this day in her huge, luxurious yurt, he had to deal with the frequently insubordinate commander of her mounted bodyguard, as well as with threescore country noblemen, all surly and irascible at being placed in the rear and not the van.