In the tribal camp, which still sat upon the eastern verge of the prairie, Milo of Morai and Blind Hari of Krooguh squatted on the dais in their huge yurt, facing each other across a low folding table laid with mutton, cheese, fresh milk and dried fruit. At Hari’s side sat a gangly year-old prairiecat cub, whose vision the bard used whenever he needed to see something. “The chiefs are all exultant,” remarked Hari. “They and their tribesmen are growing rich on the pickings of these raids, and precious few warriors of the tribe have even been wounded, and only a very small number slain. Many have said to me that had they but known how weak, how vulnerable and defenseless this particular aggregation of dirtmen really was, they should long since have banded together—a dozen or so tribes at a time—and regularly plundered them.” Milo shook his head. “Had they been so rash, we’d now have considerably fewer Kindred clans, Hari. We have been very, very lucky, you know. Those three forts’ garrisons were at half-strength or less. Had they been fully manned—built, situated and equipped as they were—I assure you that they would never have fallen to the attack of unsupported light cavalry. “As for the success of our raids, the earliest were made against no opposition worthy of the name. I have questioned captives, and all told me that the chief of this land and people—one Alehks, whose title is ‘Duke’—had called up all his subchiefs and their warriors, had all but stripped the forts and the city of fighters and had hired on hundreds of warriors from far-distant tribes in order to cross the Great River and make war on a rival chief, one Tcharlz, also called ‘Duke.’ He had been across the river for some moons when we struck his forts. “More recent captives say that this Alehks suffered great reverses in his war-making across the river. They say that he lost many men, all his horses and oxen, all his wagons and supplies, many of his weapons and armor and gear. They also say that those who survived to return with him to this side of the river had nearly starved to death during the winter past. “I can well believe these stories, Hari, for the warriors who have recently been opposing us were fine-drawn when they first rode against us, most of them riding mules or poor crow-baits that were likely pulling dung carts a week before. But, old friend, our luck will not hold forever. It is a certainty that sooner or later this Alehks will bring in fresh, well-equipped and well-mounted troops. When that day comes, any chief or subchief who tries to deal with them as the clansmen so often have with the poor exhausted bastards we’ve faced up to now will find some sharp, painful surprises and all will probably awaken in the Home of Wind.”
Hari smiled, showing teeth worn down almost to the gums. “I think you exaggerate, war chief. I know, I know, you carry your duty to husband the tribe’s warriors, so your intentions are good. But our horses can easily outdistance these dirtman breeds, can run rings around them. And our bowmen…” “Hari,” put in Milo, “recall the breed of horse that the chiefs of the traders ride, the tall ones with the long legs and (he small, fine heads. You’ve observed races between them and clansmen on our horses, haven’t you?” At the bard’s nod, he went on, “Well, have you ever seen a Horseclans mount win one of those races?”
“Yes,” answered Hari slowly, trying to bridge the gap of years. “It was a… young subchief of Clan Makinnis, I believe.”
Milo snorted derisively. “All right, one win out of how many races, eh? Those horses, Hari, are of the eastern breed of warhorses, but those of the traders are far from the best ‘examples; those are either culls, rejects from war training or retired warhorses. Even so, they are invariably faster than our own short-legged, big-headed breed over a short stretch. Also, being bigger and bulkier and heavier, they will be able to bowl over our mounts as easily as a prairiecat knocks over a lance-horn buck.
“As regards our bowmen, and the maiden archers, they’ve inflicted frightful losses on those scantily armored wretches, true enough. But properly equipped heavy cavalry are going to be armored from knee to pate, Hari, and all of steel, mind you—mail or scale or plate, but steel, none of this leather boiled in wax and, perhaps, covered with thin sheets of brass. Now, Hari, I would stake great odds that nine out of every ten arrows in this camp are tipped with either chipped stone or fired bone, both of which materials are cheap and first-rate for hunting; and, loosed at the proper angle and at close enough range, they’ll even pierce good-quality leather armor.
“But, my wise and musical friend, a clansman or maiden could loose such shafts at a steel-armored man all day and still do him no harm; both bone and stone shatter against steel plate or scale, as I know of experience in the far south among the Mehkskuhn tribes.
“’So pray start informing the chiefs not to try to make a stand or play any of their bloody games against any new bands of warriors they encounter. You’d better also tell them to get every smith in this camp to the task of forging every available scrap of iron or steel or even bronze into arrowheads.” Hari said drily, “The mighty war chief speaks, the aged and most humble bard obeys.”
“Humble, you?” Milo chuckled, then licked the grease from his fingers and began stuffing his pipe.
The squadron of heavy cavalry—for all that they were well-disciplined veterans, splendidly equipped, masterfully led by hard bitten and intelligent officers and sergeants, and mounted on fresh, big, powerful warhorses—accomplished far less of a positive nature than Alex had hoped. Within a week in action, they had taken casualties of near a hundred killed and wounded and had lost at least a half of that number of their highly valuable chargers to death, serious wounds or capture. The squat, beetle-browed, very muscular commander, Captain Sir Jaik Higinz, in conference with Duke Alex was crushingly blunt. “Yer grace, I knows you ain’t too pleased with my boys and me, and I cain’t fault you none, rightly, ‘cuz I ain’t no way pleased with the sitch’ation my own se’f. So I tell you what I’ll do: I’m contracted to the grand duke till the end of this month. He done sent us here to fight fer you, and I’ll “bide by my sworn word till the time runs out. But that’s gonna hafta be it, Yer grace. God knows, I’ll like as not be down to half a squadron or less, in thet little time. I’s to sign on with you fer any longer, them screechin’, howlin’ little bastids on their ugly, runty hosses will’ve most like kilt us all.” Duke Alex nodded stiffly, though he had the overwhelming urge to hang his head in despair. He knew that the fine, fresh troops had done their best, all that could reasonably be asked of men and horses. He was getting the nagging thought more frequently as disastrous day followed disastrous day that nothing could or would stop this horde of nomads—not him and all his horsemen, not the infantry or the walls of Traders-town, not even the Great River. Knowing in advance that it was hopeless, still the unhappy duke made a try. “If it is a matter of stipend, captain, fortunately I can afford to pay a higher figure for your serviced than could my esteemed cousin… ?” “No, yer grace.” The captain shook his shaven head. “The squadron ain’t afeered of no civilized troops on either bank of the whole damn Ohyoh Valley, but what we’re up ‘gainst here is another kettle of fish, and I’ve done had to hang or stripe some deserters a’ready.
“And I’m not the onliest one, neither, yer grace. My old comrade Captain Barnz, his contract with you expires ‘bout the same time as mine with the grand duke does. Him and me figgers to merge what’s left of our troops by then and sail downriver to the Kingdom of Mehmfiz where a civilized war’s going on. “Now, yer grace, I ain’t a edjicated man; I thinks God give all the brains to my older brother, along with the title and all, but in near on twenny-eight years of sojering, I done learned me a few things here and there. Fergive me fer patting it like this, yer grace, but you done got your parts in a crack and them Horseclanners are “bout to lop ’em off. “But yer grace ain’t the only one’s almost eyebrows deep in the shit, ‘cause we took us a wounded nomad las’ week and afore he died, he tol’ me that all of them clans, forty or fifty of ’em, means to cross the Mizipi—what you folks ‘round here calls the Great River—and then they means to march on due eas’ till they gets to the salt sea, living off any lands they come onto and killing anybody tries to stop ’em.