Adira Strongheart stood by her horse, saddlebags in hand, flabbergasted by the queer action. Turning to her straight-faced crew and one bland tiger, she fixed on Peregrine, someone with sense.
"What was that all about?"
The lieutenant bobbed her head. "Would you believe they're all drunk?"
"The locals?" carped Adira. "Yes! But my crew, no! We just got here!"
Wilemina said, "Murdoch makes friends wherever he goes."
Adira gave up. Slinging her saddlebags over her shoulder, she sighed, "I was going to warn you to steer clear of the locals, but never mind."
"Plains of plenty, what's that wretched stink?"
"Arrgh! It's putrid! Only one thing can smell that dratted rotten, and that's a fishgut-gobbling cat!"
The insults came from down the dark street in hoarse nasal tones not quite human. Sergeant Murdoch, in dry clothes, Virgil, and Jedit Ojanen paced in semi-darkness under the stars. The men wore their weapons, a sword and boarding axe, not so much for protection as to keep them from being stolen back in the guildhall. Boots plodded in gooey mud while the tiger padded silently.
"Something tells me those jabs are aimed at you, Jedit." Murdoch didn't turn around to see who blustered.
"Oh so?" asked Jedit. He towered a full head above the two men, who were not small. "Am I the only cat in Buzzard's Bay?"
"Let's not start that again." Murdoch thumped the side of his head. "I'm still daubing sea water out of my ears."
The scruffy Virgil, always expecting trouble, cast a glance over his shoulder. "It's cavalry."
"Cavalry? That don't make sense." Murdoch turned to squint into darkness.
The only light came from slits through house or shop shutters, for the town was buttoned for bad weather. The sky was solidly overcast, with no moon or starlight. The trio had been strolling toward the next pool of light, the next tavern. They'd been sampling local brews and, after fourteen mugs, had yet to be satisfied. Murdoch insisted they test every pub in Buzzard's Bay if need be, though pubs numbered in the scores. The going was slow, for the men wove, and the mud was gluey.
"Ahoy, cat!" called the coarse voice, closer. "Your kind ain't welcome in this port! You're liable to get your tail tied in a knot or your fur set afire! You hear me, meat breath?"
Jedit waited in the street, apparently without worry. Virgil peered at the huge tiger, at the distant light and sanctuary, then at a seagull croaking overhead, for he was drunk. Murdoch put out a hand toward a building to steady himself, but the building was five feet away, and he missed. Then he saw what approached them.
"Polish my toenails! It is cavalry! Or-no, it's not! Hoy, what be you loudmouths?"
"Loudmouths? We be centaurs, manling, of the Oyster River clan, and the heartiest soldiers to ever strap on a sword!" The booming voice filled the narrow twisting street. "And we be enemies of any cat warriors foolish enough to show their twitching tails among decent folk!"
"Ah," agreed Murdoch. "I see why."
Immense, dark-faced and dark-bearded, with shaggy coats and stiff manes, the centaurs wore only coarse shirts overlaid by leather straps and tall helmets with forward-pointing fins. Lethal cutlery jingled from their harnesses, but they scarcely seemed to need weapons. Between four thudding hooves like mallets and brawny bare arms like gorillas, the man^horses looked capable of tearing down a tavern or kicking it flat.
Halting in mud on eight stout legs, they glared down long noses at Jedit Ojanen, who for once had to look up to meet another's eyes. Despite the street-blocking pair, Jedit stood with striped arms folded across his furry white chest. A night breeze whiffled his whiskers, but in no other way did he move.
Caught between a tiger and two horses, who could only be mortal enemies, Murdoch and Virgil wished they were sober, if only to scramble clear.
The sergeant gulped, "Uh, gentlemen. Gentlebeings. Our friend, the cat here, means no harm-"
"No harm!" interrupted a centaur. His black eyes were invisible in the gloom, but he snorted, or whinnied, down his long nose. "Cats are meat eaters, ain't they? So cat warriors must be too, though they're a bastard mix of two races not half as good as either! Centaurs always war against cat warriors, you know. We just can't stand the ugly sight of 'em or their maggot-gagging stench!"
"Aye!" brayed the other. Both centaurs had been sampling beers themselves, to judge by the fermented cloud swirling about. "I've killed half a dozen cats meself! Some I stomped to death on the battlefield as they fled squawling! The others I just ran down like chickens, then laid a noose around their necks and dragged 'em to death! Thirsty work, that! Cats weigh too much from all that meat eatin'!"
One of the centaurs jigged to one side and clopped forward. Casually, Jedit was braced on two sides. One centaur seemed to scratch himself, but in fact his hand brushed a brass-hilted sword nearly six feet long. The other also scratched, giant hands lingering on a rope or bullwhip coiled at his harness.
"Men," blurted Murdoch, and hoped that wasn't an insult. "We're all fellow soldiers here, all comrades at liberty for a night on the town. What say we go into that tavern-uh, over there-and I'll buy the first round."
"I've drunk enough beer for one night," said Jedit Ojanen suddenly. "I fancy something thicker. Horse blood, say."
Murdoch and Virgil threw themselves flat in mud as all hell broke loose.
A tiger's coughing scream and two harsh brays split the night. A sword slithered from a scabbard like a cobra spitting. A bolo rope spun a sizzling circle, so leaded ends smacked the eaves of a house. The two men cowering in mud waited to hear the sinister strike of steel or lead on furred flesh, then lifted their heads as both centaurs neighed in dismay.
A homeowner had unwisely thrown open a door to see what the noise might be, casting a shaft of candlelight. Thus Murdoch and Virgil saw a sight to thrill their alcohol-drenched blood.
Jedit Ojanen, screaming and slavering with long white fangs, had bunched corded thighs and shot straight into the air as if launched from a catapult. The tiger-man touched down briefly on the salt-streaked shingles of the cottage, then vaulted into the air at the two enraged centaurs. Dodging a whirling bolo and thrusting sword blade, Jedit crashed full-length on the shoulders of the first centaur, a thousand pounds of feline muscle and bone. The massive man-horse was rocked off all four hooves. Bashed sideways, he fetched into his comrade.
Murdoch almost had a hand crushed by a hoof, then the two humans scuttled free like mud-caked hermit crabs. Flopping on their butts, trying not heave up their guts, they watched the breathtaking battle.
Far better able to see by night than the big-eyed horsemen, and not hampered by mud sucking at his feet, Jedit had all the advantage in the air. He hooked his claws deep into the shoulder of the first centaur even as he swiped the second. Slashed and surprised, the assailants were knocked together like two toppling trees and almost spilled in a tangle of eight legs. Black claws ripped furrows in the far side of one centaur's head, nearly tearing a pointed ear from a skull. Blood scented the air like seasalt. Yet Jedit had only begun to fight. Using his opponent's weight against them, the tiger hung on grimly with both hands and convulsed the muscles in his massive chest. Two long-nosed heads crashed together, and the centaurs staggered.
Still, the horse-men were accomplished soldiers and could attack while being attacked. Jedit was forced to leap upward or feel six feet of steel lance in his belly. As it was, the second centaur, bleeding from one ear like a harvest pig, nearly decapitated his partner by thrusting blindly with the long sword. The first centaur snapped his bolo. Three leaded weights whipped the air dangerously. One snagged Jedit's ankle as he leaped into the sky.