Raising his visor for better visibility, he stared at Geros’ filthy face, then his grin widened. “I know you, man! You be no Freefighter. You’re Vahrohneeskos Ahndee’s man, his valet, Geros. But I thought me I’d sent you to … where was it, eh?”
Raikuh, who had been riding behind, overheard and came up on Geros’ other side. “Horse County, my lord duke. You sent Sergeant Geros to Horse County with Hohguhn’s force, and he so impressed Bohreegahd that when they came back to rejoin the army, I was”—he grinned slyly—“somewhat loath to let such a natural talent be wasted.”
Bili roared and slapped the plate covering his thigh. “So you made him a sergeant and a standard-bearer, you larcenous bastard. Yes, captain, I judged you aright that day in Morguhnpolis, you’ve got just the touch of thievish ruthlessness to make a fine Freefighter officer.”
“Yes,” agreed the captain, “I made him a sergeant because I like the lad and he’s fast becoming a weapon master. However, he made himself standard-bearer during the charge up the roadway, when he saved it from falling after Trooper Hahluhnt took a dart in the eye.
“And, standard or no standard, my lord, he fought like a treecat. I had all I could do to shake the battlelust out of him long enough to make him lift the standard and sound that rally. But once he’d got my meaning, he kept waggling the Red Eagle and pealing that call, even with two or three Vawnee hacking at him!”
Bili regarded Geros, who couldn’t have spoken had he tried, for a long moment. Then he brusquely nodded. “I presume others witnessed these acts, captain? Good. I’ll visit your camp sometime this night.” Snapping down his visor, the thoheeks sent Mahvros plodding a little faster toward several dismounted men kneeling and standing around an armored form stretched on the rocky ground.
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 mind-speaking 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.
XI
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.”
Bill’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.