Ehstrah—with grown children older than Bettylou by her now-deceased first husband, and just then feeling very motherly—hunkered down beside the sobbing girl and took her into her arms. Bettylou tried, between sobs, to thank Ehstrah and the others for all their many kindnesses to her since her arrival in the camp.
“No, no, child,” soothed Ehstrah silently, “at such times as this mindspeak is far better, easier.”
She slipped into the girl’s mind, briefly … and started as if she had been stabbed suddenly. “Milo!” Her mindcall lanced out. “Uncle Milo! Come to your lodge at once! Urgent!”
“Whew!” exclaimed Milo. “I’m very glad this happened when it did, glad that we could show the poor child’s mind how to purge itself thoroughly, once and for all, of all the filth and perverted religion her kinfolk had shoveled into it. Such a load of mental and emotional sewage would have ended in driving her mad, It will be at least two hours more until everyone is gathered out their, so let her sleep until the last minute, eh? It will do her good.”
Ehstrah nodded, fingering one of her small arm-daggers and musing darkly, aloud, “If only I could have ten minutes, even five, alone with that priest, that Elder Claxton. the randy old goat, the child-raping bastard, he’d forever after lack the parts to do to another the evil he wrought upon this helpless girl. Milo … ? Do you think …”
Skimming her surface thoughts, he shook his head. “Put it out of your mind, Ehstrah. There am not enough of us—warriors, maiden-archers and matrons, included—to attack that place with a bare hope of success, They have weapons and artifacts from the time before this with which they could kill at great distances, at much farther away than even the heaviest bow can cast. To succeed against those Dirtmen would take at least a dozen clans and would result in many, many dead Horseclansfolk for little loot that would be of use to us in the type of life we lead. The best thing we can do is avoid the Abode of the Righteous and pass on the word that other Kindred clans should follow suit.”
Ehstrah sighed and grudgingly sheathed her dagger. “Of course you are right. Uncle Milo—you must be, for you have seen far more of war than have I … or any man or woman in this camp, for that matter. But … but it galls me that a despicable man like that should go on, year in, year out, causing untold sufferings, and go forever unpunished.”
“No,” replied Milo. “I agree that it doesn’t seem right or proper, Ehstrah, but most likely this priest is as much a victim as are his prey. Both he and they were probably reared into the same perverted religious beliefs. They don’t know that what they are doing, that the way they are living, is wrong. They call themselves the Righteous, and I’m sure they firmly believe that, all of them, else—being human—they’d long since have deposed these Elders and Patriarchs.”
He rose to his feet. “Now, I think I should complete my sweat and my wash.”
Ehstrah looked up at him from beneath her thick brows, grinning provocatively. “Don’t go overeating or drinking at the feast, Honored Chief. Gahbee and Ilsah and I. we have firm plans for you tonight.”
V
Bettylou’s first sight of Chief Dik Krooguh repelled her. He was short—shorter even than his nephew, short even by the standards of his race of short men—bandy-legged and physically incomplete. He lacked an eye, and part of both ears and was otherwise hideously scarred-by his lifetime of warring, raiding and hunting dangerous beasts. But he was jolly, warm of manner, and his ready laughter had boomed right often over the length and the breadth of the feasting ground throughout the most of the celebration.
With the feasting generally done—warriors, women. children, even slaves stuffed to repletion and far beyond with food—the little chief arose from his place and approached Bettylou where she sat between Milo and Ehstrah. He moved with a rolling gait, and that, combined with his somewhat garish clothing and personal adornments, might have served to give him a comic appearance save for the unmistakable air of calm dignity which he effortlessly bore about him like a cloak of state.
The wrinkled hand with which he took her arm and assisted her to arise was lacking all of one finger and parts of two others, but still was possessed of a crushing though well-controlled strength. He led her slowly, wordlessly, to a spot where the maximum numbers of the assembled folk could see her, then mindcalled Tim Staiklee of Krooguh, who carefully wiped off greasy lips and chin, arose from his place and strode to his uncle’s side, trying hard not to grin.
Chief Dik cleared his throat and spoke aloud for the benefit of those whose mindspeak was minimal or nonexistent, although he also continued to beam his message silently. Milo had explained how unusual and valuable this flexibility was, had explained it on the day he had discovered to his pleased surprise that, with training, Bettylou would one day be capable of speaking orally and mindspeaking at one and the same time.
Smiling broadly, Chief Dik said, “Kindred, this child was captured of the Dirtmen by Tim in the very raid we are here to celebrate. Although born of Dirt and reared to it”—he patted Bettylou’s belly lightly with his multilated hand—“any man or woman or cat or horse can easily see that she most assuredly is fertile. She has broad hips and heavy teats, nor is her face at all ill to look upon; moreover, she has mindspeak.”
At this last, there was an appreciable murmur from the assembly. Few Dirtmen of any description or type seemed to have even a trace of telepathic abilities; indeed, a third or more of born Kindred never owned enough mindspeak to benefit them or their clans.
Djahn Staiklee, Tim’s father, arose and demanded, “But do we know anything of the sire of the babe she carries. Dik?”
The short man just shrugged. “Uncle Milo says that he was the paramount chief of this particular batch of Dirtmen. Djahn. It’s about four days ride northeast, if you’d care to go and inquire into his Dirtman pedigree.” He grinned mischievously.
“But what matter such trivialities, say I. The chit’s babe will be reared with us, by us, to be one of us, I have no sure knowledge who my own sire was … nor do I particularly care, for I do know for certain who my mother was. This girl’s child will feel the same way.”
But Staiklee was not quite mollified. “She’s a bit long in the tooth. What’s her age? Eighteen winters? Seventeen, anyway.”
“Not quite fifteen winters, the way we reckon time, Djahn,” replied Chief Dik. “Yes, she’s big of bone and tall, but just think of the weight of bow such a woman will be able to draw. Eh? But for the rest of it, Uncle Milo assures me she’s both healthy and intelligent. She’s already gone far in learning our ways, the ways of the Kindred of Cat and Horse, and she’ll team more … quickly.
“Now, young Tim here, my sister’s son, would have this girl to wife, which demonstrates his good judgment of womanflesh, I aver. I, Dik Krooguh, as chief, am for declaring them wed this night and her your clanswoman by marriage. Are there any serious objections or questions? And when I say ‘serious’ I mean just that, too, no more nit-picking about the lineage of sires or other nonsensical questions … Yes, Brother Chief. You have an objection to my nephew wedding his captive?”