“And have at them, he did, Prehsvootehros Ehlyuht!”
There, in the hot, sun-drenched courtyard of Morguhn Hall, in an eyewink of time, Geros relived the darkness, confusion and icy-cold crawling fear. After a few volleys of arrows, Komees Djeen’s column had poured across that blood-slimy, corpse-cobbled bridge, hurdling the windrow of mutilated men and hacked horses which marked the spot where Vahrohneeskos Ahndros and Thoheeks Bili and the High Lord had made their stand. Then it was into the inky tunnel between the trees, hot on the heels of the routed rebels.
It was a good hunter they had put Geros upon, strong, leggy and fresh, not already ridden several leagues during the preceding day, like the mounts of the Komees and his Freefighters. Consequently, Geros shortly found himself to be the unintended point of the column, and so was the first to come up with the enemy.
As Geros pounded up behind, a rebel halted and turned his lathered mount, an errant sliver of moonlight silvering the length of his bared swordblade. Heedless of who heard his whines of terror, Geros extended his fresh spear, hoping against hope to fend off his opponent long enough for those behind to come up and succor him. Crouching low in his saddle, plastered to the galloping hunter’s neck and mouthing childhood prayers, he fully expected to feel at any moment the agony of steel in his quaking flesh.
But what he felt, when feel he did, was a shock which almost unhorsed him. Forgetting once again, as he had in the brief melee on the road to Horse Hall, that his “staff” bore a wide, knife-edged, needle-tipped blade on the end, he was mightily surprised when a bone-chilling scream interrupted his gasped prayers, at the same moment that an unbearable weight seemed determined to either wrench the spear from his grasp or his shoulder from its socket!
Releasing the shaft, he galloped on, still wincing and cringing from the swordcut that was certainly coming … but unaccountably failed to arrive. Feeling terribly defenseless without something in his hand, he fumbled for, found and finally drew the saber they had hung on him—no mean feat, at a full, jarring gallop. And it was as well that he did, for as the hunter rounded a turn and effortlessly cleared the dead bodies of two men and a horse, Geros was horrified to see two more riders only bare yards ahead.
Because the valet had but marginal mindspeak—telepathic ability which those better endowed used to communicate with their horses—his mount had been equipped with a bitted bridle. But that bit was now firmly between the hunter’s teeth and no amount of tugging on the rider’s part could diminish the speed which was relentlessly narrowing the gap betwixt the terror-stricken valet and two men he knew to be armed and highly dangerous.
At the last moment, the trailing rider half-turned in his saddle and commenced to fumble for the hilt of his broadsword. They had come into an open area, and in the bright moonlight Geros could see the fully armored man’s white teeth bared in a snarl of rage, could even see the droplets of sweat glistening at the tips of his double-pointed chinbeard, could see the feral fire of hate glinting in the black eyes which blinked constantly against the trickles of blood from some wound hidden under the helm. And he knew as certainly as ever he had known anything that if that gauntleted hand found and closed on that hilt, Geros the coward would right speedily become Geros the corpse!
Screaming wordlessly, mindlessly, Geros dropped the useless reins, gripped his saber in both hands and, as he came athwart the rebel, rained a swift succession of unaimed blows upon the armored head and shoulders. Then the racing hunter was past and overhauling the leading horseman, who made no attempt to stand and fight, bending all his efforts to coax more speed from his laboring mount.
Not really knowing what else to do, Geros swung his saber in passing at this man too—still gripping it two-handed, and with the strength of all his quaking apprehensions behind the keen edge. The fleeing rebel wore only a helm and a pike-man’s breastplate, neither of which afforded the least protection against the heavy blade, which severed his spine. The man did not so much as moan, he simply fell forward across his horse’s withers, then slipped from his saddle, dead before his hacked body hit the dust.
At that point, the headstrong hunter elected to leave the roadway, breasting a high, grassy slope, still at the gallop. As the fleet beast cleared the mossy trunk of a long-fallen tree, Geros and his saddle parted company, the soft-looking moon-frosted grass came rushing up at him, and consciousness departed to the clashing of armor upon the hard ground and stones beneath that grass.
He awoke to the splashing of water on his face and sat up to see Komees Djeen and most of the Freefighters sitting their horses around him, one of them holding the reins of his run-out hunter.
The komees abruptly dismounted and strode over to him, extending his hand to help him arise. Gravely, he said, “I can see that I trained young Ahndee well, for he obviously knows how to choose good men for his service. But Sun and Wind, man, what did you mean to do? Take them all yourself, eh?” Suddenly he showed his yellowed teeth in a grin. “You’re a brave man, Comrade Geros, none here will gainsay me on that score. But you’re hardly fair to the rest of us, taking all the glory for yourself that way!”
III
“But, my lord,” Bili had vainly expostulated, “it Is no longer a matter of the High Lord observing me command my own retainers. These are his lancers; he should command, by right!”
Prehsvootehros Staisee Ehlyuht, overhearing, could not have been more in agreement. He had served, in his time, at the court in Kehnooryos Atheenahs, as a guards officer. He had met and mingled with the northern noblemen and had found them, with damned few exceptions, to be peacock-proud, supercilious, overbearing and cruel. This arrogant young bastard of a thoheeks looked, despite his lineage, to be out of the northern mold, and the last thing Staisee wished to see was his own fine troopers under such command.
His tone mildly reproving, Milo answered, “However the right may lie, Bili, it is my, wish that you should command, presently, not only your own, but the Confederation force. I do have my reasons, and you shall hear of them anon.”
And so, when they again took to horse, Staisee and his lancers—whose usual functions were those of point riding and flank guarding—found themselves to have become the main body, formed in a column of fours and taking the road at a brisk trot while eating the dust of the knot of heavily armed nobility who rode the van. Chief Hwahltuh and his clansmen had been given the job they did Best; they rode in a wide-spreading arc, well ahead of the column. A dozen Freefighters secured either flank, while the remainder guarded the rear.
But the precautions proved needless, for isolated stragglers—all quickly dispatched by the Sanderz clansmen—and a couple of foundered horses were the only living creatures they chanced across before the walls of Morguhnpolis loomed before them.
With Bili and Milo in the lead, the van closed up behind the knot of Sanderz men, just out of bowshot of the west gate and its flanking tower. As the city had been built upon hilly ground, some few portions of the streets were visible over the walls, but these all appeared as strangely lifeless as the empty walls themselves.
Old Komees Hari kneed his charger up beside Bili, growling, “Son, something stinks here. It needs no tracker to tell that some fair-sized bodies of men were on this road ahead of us. Why aren’t the buggers on the walls?”