"Princess Althea!" he cried, bowing in the saddle as she drew up.
"Uncle Ohoto!" she replied, leaning over in the saddle to embrace him and kiss his cheek.
"You've grown, daughter of my chief," he said happily, hands on her shoulders. Was it more than yesterday when I came growling across the nursery floor, playing bear for you? "You're almost a woman now-will be, in another few winters."
She'd shot up, and no mistaking; she'd be as tall for a woman as her sire was for a man. The outfit-loose jacket, sash, full trousers in fine black cloth edged here and there with gold, polished boots, long dagger and pistol on a studded belt-didn't look quite so much like a child's dress-up in imitation of her father anymore. Her face had begun to lose puppy fat, and yes, there was something of her father in her eyes as well, for all they were blue rather than green. Something of her mother, too, who had been a chieftain's daughter Walker had captured in a raid.
"But what are you doing here, Althea?"
The girl drew herself up solemnly and waited until a crowd had gathered. "Rejoice!" she said, slightly louder. "The High King is victorious-Troy is fallen!"
They all cheered; the soldiers first, and those from the Achaean lands who knew what it meant, and then the generality. Ohotolarix was as loud as any, although he fought down bitterness; obedient to his lord's orders, he was here in this backwater and not fighting by his side as a handfast man should. He obeyed, but it was hard, hard…
Althea threw up her left hand and a ragged silence fell. "Hear the word of the wannax, the King of Men-sent by him through his own blood, the Princess Althea of the House of the Wolf."
The silence was complete now. "His word to Ohotolarix son of Telenthaur is, Well done, you good and faithful warrior! As the Wolf Lord pushes forward the boundaries of Great Achaea on the plains of Wilusia, among the proud horse tamers of Troy, so his right-hand man Ohotolarix, the lawagetas of his Royal Guard wins him lands and subjects here in the far northland."
She gestured grandly at the herd. "From the plunder of Troy he sends the horses of Wilusia, said to be sired by the North Wind."
Ohotolarix looked them over; not bad at all, especially after a trip like this. Not big, by comparison with Bastard, Walker's steed, but he already possessed a three-quarter-bred stallion of that breed. For a moment a horseman's instincts possessed him, and his mind dwelt on what he could do with these by crossbreeding and breeding back.
"He also sends gold and fine goods- " The guardsmen pulled back covers and the lids of chests; the audience cheered. "-slaves of Troy, bronzeworkers and carpenters and masons, and a daughter of the Trojan King, Alaksandrus."
A girl stepped down from the carriage, auburn-haired and richly dressed in a foreign way. Althea leaned forward and whispered in his ear, giggling slightly: "She looked terrible when we caught her, all skinny. But we fattened her up on the road so you could have fun bouncing her around."
Then she cleared her throat and called a man forward, opening a long rosewood case and handing Ohotolarix a double-barreled rifle, its smooth-polished butt inlaid in ivory and gold with hunting scenes, the barrels gleaming with damascene patterns.
"See how the King of Men honors the greatest of his warrior chiefs! Honor to Ohotolarix, favored of the Wolf Lord!"
Ohotolarix grinned at her and waved to the throng who cried him hail, and felt himself blinking back tears of joy. I might have expected it, he thought. From the best of lords.
It wasn't that he lacked gold cups and fine cloth and jewels, or splendid weapons, or horses, or a girl to give variety to his nights. It was the honor, publicly bestowed. That no matter how far he was from his lord's sight he was never far from his mind or heart, never forgotten.
"Never-" He cleared his throat and continued. "Never shall the House of the Wolf lack for a strong sword at their side, wise counsel, and a life to be laid down for theirs. From me and my sons, and the sons of my sons," he said.
Ohotolarix raised his voice in his turn. "All hail to the Princess Althea and to the Wolf Lord. Tonight we feast!" The gathering broke up in cheers.
That was a feast to remember, although he kept himself moderate, since the princess was there. If something like this had befallen back in the days when Daurthunnicar was High Chief of the Irauna and Walker new-come to Alba, he'd have gotten roaring drunk before the meat was done, there'd have been a death-fight or two, and he'd have finished by taking the Trojan girl on the tables to cheers and rhythmic thumping of drinking horns and hands slapping knees. Instead he contented himself with wine enough to make the light mellow and all men his friends.
Yes, manners were more seemly now, particularly where the commanders sat. That was at the elevated base of the great U-shaped table set pointing its open end toward the feasting-hall's doors. Glass-globed lanterns shed light, and two big stone hearths on either side held crackling log fires in firedogs of massive wrought iron, burning wild apple wood that scented the room. Carved shutters were closed over the glass windows; between them massive wooden pillars rose from the smooth stone floor past the second-story gallery that ringed the feasting-hall and up to the rafters. He'd brought in Ringapi craftsmen to do the pillars in the shapes of Gods and heroes but the tapestries against the wall were southland, bright fabulous beasts and battles and sea creatures, ships and cities. The tables, chairs, and silverware were in the style of Meizon Akhaia, colorful with inlaid work of ivory and semiprecious stones, silky with polishing.
Ohotolarix looked around as he cracked walnuts in his fist and sipped at heated apple wine, thinking of the smoky turf-walled barns Irauna chiefs had called their great halls when he was a young man, and how they'd awed him. If he could have seen this then…
I'd have thought it was Sky Father at feast, in the hall beyond the Sun, with the ancient heroes and warrior Mirutha at his board!
A bard had come with the party from Walkeropolis and the plain of Troy. He sat in the space between the tables when the roast pigs and beefsteaks, the fried potatoes and steaming loaves and honey-sweetened confections were done, plectrum moving on the strings of his lyre as he sang:
Planting his cannon right in front, mouths gaping wide,
Double-shotted the blow, to give it heavy impact,
Wannax Walker hurled hot iron at the gates, full center, smashing
The hinges left and right and the cannonballs tore through,
Dropped earth and stone with a crash and walls groaned and thundered
And our lord burst through in glory, face dark with fury
As the sudden rushing night, and our men blazed on in steel
And terrible fire burst from the godlike weapons that they carried,
Rockets and rifles in their fists. No one could fight them, stay them,
None but the Gods as Walker hurtled through the gates
And his eyes flashed fire…
That had them hammering fists on the tables, and Ohotolarix gave the man a gold chain; he could see it himself, the cannon belching red fire in the night, and the roar of onset as the assault began… Then two of Hong's followers, the select ones known as the Claws of Hekate gave a demonstration of sword work.
Not bad, he thought; they were supple and very fast. I could take either or both, though. I'm just as quick, and weight and reach count for a good deal, in the end.
He signaled an end to the public part of the feast by a show of gilts of his own to men stationed here-horses, ox-teams, silver, bronze, a fine sword, a grant of early discharge and land to one who'd become betrothed to a Ringapi chief's daughter.