Djehf stalked purposefully toward the butcher. Unarmed, that man backed along the wall, his hands held before him. His fear-filled eyes locked on that broad, bloody blade.
Kooreeos Skiros stood at the table, alternately calling for the guards and vainly shouting a command for all combat to cease. Klairuhnz stood close by the cleric, watching his every move. All at once, he leaned close and spoke a few words. Bili failed to hear the Bard’s words, for they came at the same time as the butcher’s death cries, and also because someone in the corridor had collected his wits and brought up something to use as a ram. The doors were groaning and the two-inch pikeshaft beginning to crack.
Whatever was said, it clearly startled the Kooreeos. His bushy black eyebrows shot up and his right hand dived under his robes, to reemerge holding what Bili assumed was a throwing club-a thick, L-shaped piece of greyish metal. Grasping one arm of it, he pointed the other at Klairuhnz’s middle.
But Klairuhnz clamped both hands around the club and twisted it out of the Kooreeos’s hands, then slammed the side of it against its owner’s temple. Skiros’s boneless collapse set the subpriest to shrieking in harmony with the moneylender, who shared his haven under the table.
Shoulderblades pressed to the wall, Myros could retreat no further. He had not again been blooded, but his right arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was a tingling, fiery agony, bespeaking the force of the blows his blade had turned. He knew that he could not turn another, so he opened his trembling hand and the saber clattered to the floor.
“Mercy, please, mercy,” he gasped. “Spare my life, sir, I… I beg you.”
Hardly had the words left his lips, when the much-abused pikeshaft finally snapped and the doors burst open before a wave of pikemen. Behind them were ranged a half-dozen archers with arrows nocked; behind the archers were two Ehleenoee officers, another subpriest, and Djaimos the carter, who had arrived too late to “participate” in this Council meeting.
“Heathen barbarians,” shouted the subpriest. “Surrender!”
“Yes, surrender!” echoed one of the officers. “Surrender or we’ll slay you all!”
Fast as a snake, Ahlee dropped his yataghan, jerked Myros close, and gave him a good look of the wavy blade of his second dagger, before poising it at the Vahrohnos’s throat.
“Cowardly dog,” he hissed. “As you see, this blade is envenomed. If but a single bow is drawn or one spearman advances, I shall inflict the tiniest of cuts in your flesh, following which you will die slowly and in unimaginable agony. Now, speak to your hounds!”
Drehkos flatly refused to accompany them, answering his brother’s entreaties with words which staggered the master of Horse Hall. So they left him in the gory Council Chamber, along with the dead and the wounded, the disarmed soldiers and officers, the two subpriests and the moneylender, who had swooned of fright. Myros and the unconscious Kooreeos they took with them.
The heavy manacles, brought by one of the officers, had been intended to chain such of them as were taken alive. Now they were adapted to secure the battered doors. The Council Chamber had no windows, the visitors’ bench was bolted to the floor, and the table could not have been lifted by twice the number of Ehleens present. Consequently, the Kindred hoped to be out of the city ere the prisoners could break out and spread the alarm.
The stairs seemed endless, but the little party finally reached the foot and hurried, almost at a jogtrot, through the huge, dim expanse of the main chamber. When they were nearly at the gaping entrance, they spied armored men beyond it, between them and safety. Coming to a halt, they drew their steel and formed a wedge, with Klairuhnz, Ahlee, and the two hostages at its core. Resolutely, they paced forward, out into the sunlight.
But the knot of men on the broad verandah were scaleshirted Freefighters, not levymen. A thick-limbed, broken-nosed man of middle years stepped out and approached them. His open hands held well away from his swordbelt, he respectfully addressed Komees Djeen.
“Lord Strahteegos, we gave our Sword-Oaths to you. Please release us of them, sir. Only two-and-thirty of us Freefighters remain in Morguhnpolis and … and, sir, the city has … has changed. We fear for our very lives. If … it you will release us, well … well just forget the back pay.”
Bili had instantly recognized in the man’s speech the slightly nasal accent of one who had grown up speaking the Harzburk dialect and he now bespoke him in that tongue, saying, “Two-and-thirty, you say? I see but a score of you.”
“This one speaks for all, My Lord.” The grizzled man answered, with a shy smile, in his native speech. “Twelve of ours are on guard at the east gate. Your… your par-don, My Lord, but … you serve King Gilbuht?” He had, of course, recognized the distinctive style of Bili’s armor.
Komees Djeen answered, “He did, soldier, but no more. This is Bili, the new Thoheeks and Chief of Morguhn, your employer.”
“How are you called, Freefighter?” snapped Bill “And have you mounts?”
“Aye. My Lord, most of us have either a horse or a mule, though some had to be sold to keep us fed and housed and clothed, when Baron Myros there refused us our pay,” replied the speaker, adding humbly, “This one is called Pawl, sir, Pawl Raikuh. Will… please, will My Lord absolve us of our Swordoaths?”
Bili shook his head. “Certainly not. I have need of your swords, though not as city guards. You and your men will ride with me, Captain Raikuh.”
“With a right good will, My Lord, sir.” Raikuh’s head bobbed assent. “But, My Lord, this one is not a captain, only a common Freefighter.”
“Not if you speak for over thirty men, you’re not,” said Bili curtly. Then he raised his voice, addressing the group of bravos. “What say you, Freefighters? You chose him to speak for you. Would you have him to command you, if he can assure you continued employment and,” he added shrewdly, “your back pay?”
Almost as one, the men smiled and nodded. A much scarred little man stepped forward. “My Lord, Pawl, be noble born, and ain’t none but respects him. He’ll be a good captain, he will.”
“Who is the man who speaks, Captain?” Bili demanded.
The new-made officer did not need to look. “Stanlee Krahndahl, My Lord, a Klahkzburker.”
“Will he make a decent lieutenant for your condotta, Captain?”
“Indeed yes, Duke Bili!”
“So be it, then.” Bili strode off toward the horses, adding, “Get your men in the saddle, all of them. And bring along spare horses for your men at the gate, plus a few more. I care not where or how you obtain them, Captain, just get them. After all, I own everything in this city, if I choose to lay claim to it!”
“Sacred Sun!” swore Spiros, in a hushed, awed aside to Djeen as they mounted. “Young, he may be, but by Wind our Bili is a Thoheeks to reckon with! He’s the kind of chief we’ve needed … well, since the death of his grandfather, anyway. Did you see the way that that Raikuh looked at him, when he bade him commandeer horses? I think that man’d willingly die for Bill, and he’d never seen or heard of him two minutes ago!”
The old man nodded, showing every tooth in an opposum grin. “Aye, Spiros, Bili has it all-brains, guts, weapons skill, and a rare ability to handle men, to command loyalty and respect. He’ll be a good chief right enough, but wasted in that capacity all the same. What an officer he’d make for the Confederation!”
While the two troopers were getting the bound and unconscious bulk of the Kooreeos lashed behind his saddle, Klairuhnz listened in on Djeen’s comments and found himself in heartfelt agreement.