“At any rate, I want you here as soon as possible, you and the troops. Knowing you, you’ve probably ridden ahead with most of the cavalry. Just how close are you? How much of a force is with you? And how far back is the main body?”
Beaming, “Just a moment,” she threw off the blankets and padded the few steps to the small folding table. Dis-regarding the night chill which prickled every square inch of her bare skin, she extracted a map from a tooled leather case, unrolled it, and anchoring one end with the watch lantern, pored over it for a few moments. “About sixty-three kaiee, Milo, a little less than forty clanmiles. If I break camp at dawn, I can have my immediate force there by midafternoon. I’ve got only a little over twenty-seven hundred horsemen with me-two thousand kahtahfrahktoee, five hundred lancers, and two hundred of my bodyguard. The rest of the cavalry is with the infantry and the trains, and they’re on the Traderoad, maybe two days behind us.”
“Does your map show Morguhn Hall, Aldora?”
After a brief pause, “Yes, near a tributary to the river we just forded. Roughly nine kaiee north of Morguhnpolis and a little east, perhaps an hour less marching time… say we’ll be there by early afternoon, then.”
“No, not good enough,” Milo retorted. “That still might be too late. Break camp now and be on the march within the hour.”
She protested, “But Milo, both the men and the horses are worn very thin, and many of the cats have had to be mounted. The entire force needs one good night’s rest, if they’re to be in any decent shape to fight tomorrow.”
“It just can’t be helped,” he brusquely replied. “I want you here as soon as possible, for we’re under siege even now-several thousands of them against a garrison of perhaps a hundred. True, most of the rebels are poorly armed rabble at best, but with the suspicion of Gold’s wild card in the game … besides, I doubt your force will have to do any fighting when they get here. The mob we’re facing have damn-all discipline and were very nearly routed when we beat off the first attack. Show them two-and-a-half thousand mounted Regulars, and chances are they’ll scatter to every point of the compass.”
Grudgingly, she acquiesced. “All right, all right, Milo, we’ll march tonight. Can we use the roads?”
“It doesn’t really matter, Aldora. Most of the rebels are here, and so too are most of the loyalists. A small party of Kindred, led by Clan Bard Hail Morguhn is missing, but I’ve scant hope for them.
“It will have to be the Gafnee Drill, I suppose. Individuals or groups will be considered hostile until definitely proven to be friendly. Any who refuse to surrender immediately are to be slain. When you’re within my farspeak range, let me know. Questions?”
“Yes. Should I send a galloper to the main column? Do you want them to force their marches as well?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” he assented. “Tell Lukos to secure Kehnooryos Deskati—since it’s the home city of that bastard Myros, it’s probably rotten to the core with this rebellion. He’s to kill or lock up everyone with even a soupson of authority. As for those damned priests, it might be well if they all die while trying to escape. Then he’s to camp there until sent for.”
Aldora was an old campaigner and wasted no time. While she was donning her thick, soft cotton undergarments, she mindspoke the two squadron commanders of her kahtahfrahktoee (Bili would have called such troops “dragoons”), the Subkeeleeohstos of the lancers, and the captain of her bodyguard. While still she was lacing leather shirt to leatherfaced canvas breeches, bugles commenced to blare. Then two of her horse archers entered the tent. Without a word, one began to repack her saddlebags and roll her blankets, while the other assisted her into boots and cuirass. He cinched the dirk belt with its depending skirt of mail round her slender waist, then thrust the heavy dirk into its frog, buckled the brassarts about her upper arms and the shoulder pieces above them. When the palettes protecting her armpits were in place, he deftly arranged the long ebon hair into two thick braids and lapped them over the crown of her small head, Horseclans-fashion, to provide helmet padding. Once her neck and throat were wound with several thicknesses of absorbent cotton cloth, a gorget of Pitzburk was buckled on.
She drew on her gold-stitched gauntlets while the spearman was adjusting her wide baldric from which was suspended her ancient Horseclans saber.
Then the archer spoke his first words. “Which helm, My Lady?”
She shrugged. “The Cat, I suppose.”
The first archer was securing the last of her gear to her charger’s saddle as she strode from her tent. She was barely in that saddle before the tent had been struck. Thirty minutes after the cessation of the farspeak conversation, her squadrons were on the move, light cavalry and Prairie Cats screening van and flanks.
Arrived upon the walls, Bili did not wonder that Komees Djeen had called out the garrison, for all the watchfires down by the creek were blazing, throwing clouds of red, winking sparks high into the black moonless sky. Countless dark forms scurried in and out of the rings of firelight, while a medley of shouts, the roll of drums, neighs of horses, ceaseless hammerings, and the occasional creakings of ungreased axles all blended into waves of sound which rolled up the hill and lapped against the walls.
When Bili joined the Komees and Captain Raikuh atop the corner tower closest to the enemy camp, the old man shook his hehneted head. “I don’t know now. Possibly I erred in taking you all from your food, but when those bastards started milling about like flies on a dungheap, my first thought was that somehow or other that mob had been persuaded to launch a night assault, but they appear to be making no efforts to form up, so …”
“Ho, Chief Bili,” Hwahltuh Sanderz clambered up to the aerie, armed with dirk, saber, light axe, hornbow, and no less than three cases of arrows. Grinning happily he said, “My kin are all in the places Subchief Djeen said was best. Now when do we fight? Will it be soon, Kinsman?”
The old Komees frowned and shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no, Chief Hwahltuh. All we can be certain of is that something unusual is going on down there. It can’t be the arrival of the rebels’ siege tram, for their engines—such as the slapdash, jerry-built contraptions are-rolled in at twilight, along with their tents and baggage. I’ll tell you all, it sounds to me like reinforcements coming into camp, which would also account for all the hubbub round about the commander’s pavilion.”
“But where, My Lords,” asked Captain Raikuh, “would Lord Myros get more troops? Not in this Duchy certainly. Now were this the Middle Kingdoms, any one or more of your neighbor lords could well be bringing his men in to augment whichever side offered the most in the way of land or loot, but…”
“Your pardon, Captain,” Bili interrupted. “There’s but one way to find out the truth of what’s causing the rebels to so bestir themselves, when they should be licking their wounds and getting ready to die tomorrow.”
“Now, hold!” snapped Komees Djeen. “I agree, a sortie may be just the thing, especially if we can capture an officer or priest alive. But I’ll not see you leading that sortie, Thoheeks Biji! If that’s what you had in mind, think you you’ve not yet fully recovered from your wounds of that affray at the bridge. Besides, you’re Chief now. It’s not your place to lead attacks. You’re the clan’s strategist, to use army terminology; the Tahneest and the Subchiefs are the tacticians. Tahneest Djehf may not own your skill with that overgrown axe you fancy, but he’s a stark warrior for all that, and he’s a sound head on his shoulders. I’ve conversed with him—I know!”