His employer had bidden him ride hard for Horse Hall. He was to inform Komees Djeen that the party was under attack from at least half a score of armored and mounted bravos, and they were withdrawing to make their stand at the bridge. He was to add that one mercenary was slain; and that Thoheek’s son Bili had lingered at the original ambush site to dispatch a wounded horse and was now missing.
Had his overwhelming fear not occupied every nook and cranny of his mind, Geros would have been thanking every god he had never heard of that he had been chosen messenger and sent away from the scene of battle. For though he had quickly come to love his gentle, patient, softspoken young employer, he knew himself sufficiently to realize that in an actual fight, he would probably have deserted him.
He would have consoled himself, of course, by rationalizing that he had not been retained on account of his weapons skill, of which he had none, but simply as a bodyservant and occasional musician, at both of which trades he excelled. But he could have continued neither with an arm lopped off or a foot of sharp steel rammed into his body. And this last thought would have brought up his gorge and he would have silently damned himself for a despicable craven. He had always secretly feared that he was a coward, never having been in a position to prove himself one way or another.
He heard approaching hoofbeats ahead, and as he crested the second hillock from the hall, he saw the source a galloping horse and three armed men, one astride and the other two grasping the stirrup leathers and running alongside. Before he could think of what to say or do, even rein his mule, the mounted man shouted.
“It’s the renegade Vahrohneeskos’s lackey. Kill him!”
Geros still bore the spear, despite his terror and flight, principally because he knew it to be the property of a nobleman and was afraid of the consequences of losing it. But he was completely ignorant of how such a weapon was employed. So, gripping the thick ash shaft near the ferrule, he let go his reins and aimed a twohanded swing at the oncoming horseman, seeking but to knock the man out of his saddle, that he might have a clear road to the safety of Horse Hall.
The mule careered downslope, at a flatout run. And the other rider spurred forward, leaving the two footmen behind. This man had been clandestinely drilling for over a year and had absorbed enough to extend his ancient saber at arm’s length, seeking to spit Geros on the point. But the spear was more than twice as long as his curved saber and, thanks to the moonlight and the flitting shadows and swirling dust, he never saw that spear until it was far too late.
Poor, frightened Geros had completely forgotten that his long cudgel mounted a wide, leafshaped steel head. His wild swing missed his adversary-he had swung too soon-but that deadly point chanced to be in just the proper place at just the proper time for the swordsman to spit himself upon it. It would be fair to say that neither was the more surprised!
The combined impetus of mule and horse lifted the pierced man shrieking from his saddle, and his horse ran from under him, dropping him to the roadway. The shock of the unexpected impalement almost drove Geros over his own cantle; only his fear-locked thighs retained him his seat. Unable to release his grip on the spearshaft, he thought his shoulder must be disjointed, in the splitsecond before the bloodslimed blade came free of its lodging with a sucking sound.
The two footmen just stood in the road, their weapons dangling beside them, shocked beyond words at what they had witnessed. Secret drills in benighted meadows and brave words spoken in the dark were one thing, but coughing up your lifeblood on a moonlit roadway was something entirely different! They still had not ordered their benumbed brains sufficiently to run, when Geros was on them.
The big mule’s shoulder struck the foremost, sprawling him backward, directly in the animal’s path. The last thing he ever saw was the immense, looming hoof that shattered his face and crushed his skull.
The second man stood on Geros’s right. Clumsily, he brought up his old sword, wishing less to fight than simply to fend off that horrible spear, already wetly gleaming with his friend’s blood. Again swinging twohanded, Geros’s spearshaft again missed its target … but the tip of the knife-edged blade connected. The footman dropped his sword and clutched at his slashed throat, his last screams bubbling out his severed windpipe.
Reins flying free, its rider in a state of shock, the mule pounded into the brightlit courtyard and would probably have kept going until it struck a wall, had not one of Komees Djeen’s troopers run and leaped to grasp the curbchain and halt the beast. Geros let go the spear and slid from the mule’s back, but had to clutch tightly at the saddle when his legs refused to support him.
Komees Djeen crossed from the hall at a limping run. He was encased in a suit of plate, a golden cat crouched atop his helm and another enameled on the wide baldric supporting his heavy broadsword. His gauntleted hand crushingly gripped Geros’s trembling shoulder.
“What is it, man? What has happened? Dammit, speak!”
But the trooper who had stopped the mule spoke first. “He’s been fighting, My Lord Count. Look at this spear, there’s fresh blood half down the shaft.”
“Brandy!” The old man snapped over his shoulder, to no one in particular. Then turning back to Geros, his tone became solicitous. “Had to fight your way through them, did you, comrade? I must confess I misjudged you earlier, thought you a man of no mettle. Glad to see I was wrong.
“It requires a high degree of courage to do what you did, lad-ride off alone, though hostile forces, to fetch succor for your comrades. I always feel privileged to meet men of your rare kind. The Confederation never has enough of you.”
Had Geros been able to let go his hold on the saddle, he would have pinched himself. He was certain that he must be dreaming. Such accolade for Geros-the-coward, from so great and famous a noble warrior, must surely be a dream. He opened his mouth, tried hard to speak, but his still-constricted and brickdry throat emitted only a croak.
“No, no, comrade,” Komees Djeen gently patted his shoulder. “Don’t try to talk ‘til you’ve had of your tipple.”
As soon as he had recovered from the coughing fit engendered by the strong, hastily gulped brandy, Geros gasped out his message, and the courtyard began to buzz like an overturned beehive. Already saddled horses were led out and the girths tightened, bows strung, weapons hefted, and last-minute adjustments made to belts, stirrups, and armor.
Shortly, Komees Djeen’s small command galloped out of the gate. Intensive search had failed to find any of Komees Hari’s servants, so there were but nineteen riders in the column—the four noblemen, the orderlies of Djeen and Vaskos, Drehkos’s bodyservant, and his big, mountain-barbarian bodyguard, ten scaleshirted Freefighters … and Geros.
“We’ll surely need every fighter, comrade,” Komees Djeen had declared, while two troopers buckled Geros’s cuirass, draped a baldric over his shoulder, and handed him a fresh spear. “Especially a gutsy man like you. Were you a soldier, I’d see you wear a Cat for this night’s work!”
VI
Bili mindspoke Mahvros, “Faster, brother! Be ready to fight.”
The huge, black horse quickened his gait and beamed his approval, one of his principal joys being the stamping of the life from anything that got in his way. Raising his head, he voiced a shrill, equine challenge, then bore down on his promised victims.