“Only one husband?” smiled Mara mischievously. “Who comforts her while Yahnekos is out raiding?”
Alexandros chuckled. “She is only forty, Mara, and still a handsome woman. I am certain that she wants not for ‘companionship,’ for it is not as here. Her lovers have naught to fear from Yahnekos.”
Mara became serious. “You are, then, of a lusty people, Lekos. Yet, while you have been my guest, noble women have thrown themselves at you and you have been offered the usual slavegirl-bedwarmers. You have refused one and all. Tell me why—and don’t give me the put-off that so charmed those sluts at Lady Joanna’s orgy, either.”
His black eyes bored into hers. “But what I said, that night, was completely true, Mara,” he said slowly. “There is but one woman in your court who stirs me, but… she is wed to a powerful lord. And your mainland customs differ from ours.”
Mara steepled her fingers. “Not entirely, Lekos. The Ehleenoee’s do, yes; but the Horseclanswomen have many freedoms, since most clans have always reckoned descent through the mother. In the settled life the tribe is now leading, their customs are undergoing slow changes, but clan matrons are still free to couple with the men of their choosing—so long as they do not overstep discretion and are careful of degrees of kinship.”
She leaned forward, saying, “Lekos, Undying Goddess I may be to the tribe, but I am still a woman. And I will admit that I am dying of curiosity now. Who is ‘this lady of my court who has so enthralled you that you will have no other if you cannot have her? Tell me! You have my sworn word that I will tell no other person—man or woman.”
Feeling that he could not express himself adequately in words, Alexandros mindspoke. After a moment, Mara’s eyes first softened, then misted, and she reached out to take his calloused hand in both of hers.
“Lekos, oh, Lekos,” she spoke aloud, a catch in her voice, “there is so much that you do not understand. If I make love to you, it will not be to you that I am making love. I will be reliving a physical contact that ended eighty years ago. Alexandros of Pahpahspolis was the Lekos I loved … and love still, though I saw him die forty years ago. And I was already ten times his age, even as we loved, though he knew it not.
“Dear Lekos, despite my appearance, I have lived for more than three hundred thirty years. From what you have said, you must be an Ehleen Christian. Know you not what your own priests say of such as me, that we are Satan’s own folk, deathless sorcerers and witches, cursed by God? Are you not afraid of ensorcellment and eternal damnation?”
“I can see and feel nothing of evil in you, Mara,” said Alexandros bluntly. “As for the persecution of your kind by Christians, Father Vokos had an explanation that I have always remembered. He said that ignorant men, when faced with a person or situation or object they could not understand, first fear, then fear breeds hate, then a means is found to justify that hatred.
“Yes, Mara, I am a Christian. I care not about your age; I am a man and I desire the lovely woman you are … and I think you desire me, as well. So, what then stands in our path, Mara?”
Her gaze met his levelly. “Nothing, Lekos,” she said simply.
9
Sub-lieutenant Stamos and his patrol, riding the left flank of the High-King’s army, clattered into a tiny, foothill village just before noon. They had crossed the Kuzabwabtcbee River at dawn, so Stamos estimated that perhaps a quarter of the main force was now in Karaleenos.
This was the third little village they had entered, always after approaching through acre upon acre of ash and char, denoting crops burned where they stood. Stamos was glad they’d brought along feedbags for their mounts, since most of the grass and wild grains had also disappeared in the holocaust.
Stamos detached a galloper and sent him back to find Captain Portos and apprise that officer of the utter lack of forage in the fields. It was the second galloper so far; the first had been sent when they had come across the fourth polluted water source.
The sergeant came alongside and saluted. “If this place proves deserted, too, it might be a good halt for the noon, sir. At least there’ll be some shade, if nothing else.”
Sub-lieutenant Stamos nodded slightly, and the sergeant set about searching the huts and cabins and empty storehouses, but there was no living creature, not even a dog or a hen. Nor were there any portable items of value … and the men commenced to grumble, for loot had been their principal incentive for enlisting under King Zastros’ Green Serpent Banner.
Stamos dismounted and strode to look down the stone-lined village well, unconsciously holding his breath against the expected reek of rotting flesh. About twenty feet down, however, the surface of the water was dark and still and the only things his nose registered were coolness and damp, mossy stones.
A man was sent down the narrow steps that spiraled around the inner wall to probe with his hook-backed lance, but all he brought into view were a couple of old, water-logged buckets and a few short lengths of rotting rope. So Stamos had a leather bucketful drawn, and then he stripped off a silver armlet and dunked it in. When the silver did not discolor—as, everyone knew, it would have, had the water been poisoned—he sipped a mouthful from his cupped hand, then jerked off his helmet and padded, sweat-soaked hood and dunked his head into the bucket.
Grinning through his dripping beard, he said, “If I’m not dead in a few minutes, Sergeant, have the men go ahead and water the horses. God, that stuff is cold!”
After the glare of the sun, the interior of the partially covered well was dark, so it was not the first or the second but the third trooper who chanced upon the “treasure.” There, in a cooling niche that had been fashioned into the wall near the stairs, sat six stone jugs, each looking to hold about a half gallon. The trooper drew the corncob stopper and sniffed … and when he came back up, he carried his brimful bucket with exceeding care. -With their mounts watered and cared for, the sergeant designated a couple of troopers as sentries and, while the rest of the patrol settled down to their cold bacon and hard bread, he stumped over to join the officer at a table under a tree.
Stamos and the sergeant chewed stoically the same noisome fare as their troops in mutual silence. When they were done, he shared a small flask of wine with his grizzled second-in-command.
After a first sip of fine wine, the sergeant half turned and bawled for another pair of men to go and relieve the lookouts. There was no response. Grumbling about the lack of discipline in these modern-day armies, he rose from his stool and stumped around the well to the place where the troopers had gathered.
Suddenly he shouted in alarm, “Lieutenant Stamos, mount and ride! They’re all dead! We’ve got to get out of … !” He grunted then, and Stamos heard the clashing of armor as he fell.
But before Stamos could reach his horse, he saw that he was surrounded. Short, fair warriors mounted on small, wild-looking horses now were spaced between the buildings, and detachments were trotting up the road.
Stamos cleared his throat. “Who is your leader?” He asked the question twice, first in Ehleeneekos, then in Merikan. When there was no answer, he added, “I am Lord Sub-lieutenant Stamos of Tchehrohkeespolis and the eldest son of my house. My father will pay a good ransom for my safe return.”
“Sorry,” said one of the horsemen, grinning, “we take no prisoners, Ehleen.”
After a full day and no word from die far western patrol, Captain Portos dispatched a full troop—one-hundred-twenty troopers, six sergeants, and three officers—on the route presumably taken by Stamos’ men. They rode through a deserted countryside, peopled only by small, wild things; the only animals, larger than a rabbit, that any of them saw was a brace of wild turkeys pacing across a burned field, the sunlight striking a bronzed sheen from their plumage.