“Sir, a herald from the camp of King Zenos is at the middle of the bridge. He begs audience with High-Lord Milo and High-Lady Aldora. He is alone and bears only sword and dirk. Besides, I don’t think he’d be very dangerous; he’s wounded.”
When, at length, the officer returned, he rode stirrup to stirrup with a freckle-faced young man in the uniform of Zenos’ bodyguards. The wicked tip had been removed from his lance and a square of lustrous, creamy silk fluttered at the apex of the long ash shaft. Nothing could be seen of his hair, since above the browline his head was swathed in bandages, but his sweeping mustache and pointed beard were brick-red. His bandaged left hand appeared to be shy a couple of fingers; nonetheless, he handled his reins skillfully and sat his big gray horse with the unconscious ease of the born horseman.
Milo tried a quick scan of the herald’s surface thoughts, finding them as open and friendly as the merry green eyes. But there were other thoughts, too, and had been since first the freckled one had clapped eyes on Aldora. A glance at her showed Milo that she had read those thoughts as well. The trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
The herald thrust the ferrule of his lanceshaft into the loam, dismounted gracefully, and strode to stand before Milo. He first bowed, then executed an elaborate salute. At closer range, Milo was aware of the copious perspiration coursing down the freckled face, the clenched teeth, and bunched muscles of the jaw.
“He is in pain,” Aldora mindspoke rapidly, “intense pain. But he’d die ere he betrayed it, Milo. He is a fine young man, honorable and very proud.”
Milo smiled. “Now that the formalities are done with, young sir, will you not sit and have wine with us?
Tomos Gonsalos, despite his obvious thirst, sipped delicately at his wine. Savoring it on his tongue, he graciously complimented it, the silver cup in which it had been served, and his host and hostess, like the gentleman he gave every appearance of being. He had brought an invitation from King Zenos, who would share his evening meal with High-Lord Milo, High-Lady Aldora, and their four gentleman-captains. King Zenos stated that, aware as he was that certain deceased members of his House had established a reputation for treachery, his guests had his leave to ride with a bodyguard contingent of any size they saw fit. His intent, he emphasized, was honorable, but he wished his guests to feel secure in their persons.
After an hour’s light conversation and another pint of wine, Tomos indicated that he should return and announce their acceptance of King Zenos’ invitation. Upon rising, however, he staggered, took no more than two steps toward his horse, then crumpled bonelessly to the sward.
Aldora was kneeling beside the herald ere anyone else had hardly started forward. Expertly, she peeled back an eyelid, then announced, “He’s burning with fever. One of you ride and fetch a horselitter. Someone help me get off his cuirass … but gently, mind you. He may have other hurts not so apparent.”
Tomos did. High on one hip, an angry, festering wound sullenly oozed with pus and serum. It had been amateurishly bandaged, and friction against the high cantle of his warkak had torn the cloths loose.
A nearby bodyguard blanched and touched fingers to his Sun charm. “And he rode in here smiling, he did! How could he even bear to sit a horse?”
Herbuht Mai said, “A lifetime of self-discipline and generations of breeding … that, and ten leagues of pure guts. Yonder, trooper, lies a man!”
Bearing Tomos Gonsalos’ white-pennoned lanceshaft, Milo paced his palomino stallion, unchallenged, into the outskirts of Zenos’ camp. The camp was about as he had expected: under makeshift shelters, agonized men groaned and writhed; the air was thick with flies and heavy with the nauseating miasma of corruption and death; off to one side, an officer in hacked armor hobbled about, supervising the digging of a long mass grave and piled corpses patiently awaited its completion. A question put to this officer elicited directions to Zenos’ “pavilion.”
Outside the mean little tent, Milo slid from his kak and paced to the entry. Two tired-looking pikemen barred his way and politely asked his name, station, and business.
When Milo told them, their eyes goggled and the one on the right gulped, then bawled, “Komees Greemos, please, my lord; Komees Greemos …”
A noble-officer limped to the entrance. The smudges under his eyes were nearly as black as the eyes themselves, and his bruised and battered face was lined with care and exhaustion. Although Milo had never seen the mountainous man, he well knew his reputation as strategist, tactician, and warrior.
“I am Milo, High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Lord Komees. I come in peace. Please announce me to King Zenos. I would speak with him on matters of great urgency.”
Milo felt instant liking for his young adversary. Zenos stood as tall as Milo, a bit over six feet. His eyes were brown and his gaze frank and open. His thick glossy hair shone a rich, dark chestnut, and his face was smooth-shaven. From what he knew of the young monarch, Milo would be willing to wager that he had had far less rest than any one of his remaining officers, yet he appeared as fresh as if he had but arisen from twelve hours’ sleep. The grip of his hard, browned hand was firm.
“You are most welcome, Lord Milo.” He waved his guest to one of the three seats—upended sections of sawn log, bark still on—that surrounded a battered, lightly charred field table.
Once seated, Milo got to the point of his visit, disregarding polite protocol. “Your herald, Tomos Gonsalos, lies in my pavilion. His wounds are grievous and he is being tended by the High-Lady Aldora, who possesses certain wisdoms and skills in healing.”
“Poor, brave, loyal Tomos.” Zenos slowly shook his head. “God grant that he lives, for there are too few of his kind in my kingdom. “Would that I had not had to send him, hurt as I knew him to be, but it would not have been fitting to send a common trooper to issue my invitation to you and the High-Lady, my lord. Tomos is my own cousin.”
“Where,” Milo asked, “are your fohreeohee, your eeahtrosee? Men who’ve fought bravely deserve professional tending. And what in Sun’s name happened to your camp and baggage? My captains all assure me that there was no sack.”
Standing near the entrance, Komees Greemos growled deep in his throat and commenced to mumble a litany of curses.
Zenos cracked his knuckles. “I will be candid,“my lord. Toward the end of the battle, certain of my mountaineer irregulars withdrew … rather precipitately. There was no rout, you understand, they are all brave men; but their loyalty was to me, personally, and some fool convinced them that I had been slain. It was they who sacked the camp, stole what they fancied or could carry, and burned the remainder. They slew every man who tried to restrain them or who got between them and anything they wanted. My pavilion alone they spared, but I had it dismantled and recut to make flies and bandages.”
“Yes, a commander’s first obligation is to his men,” Milo said in agreement. “Would you accept the services of my eeahtrosee, those of them who can be spared from treating our own wounded?”
Komees Greemos limped over. “And what concessions will be required in return?” he snapped.
Milo looked up into the hulking nobleman’s cold stare. “None,” he said flatly. Then he added, “However, I would like to instigate a series of conferences with His Majesty and his council. Let me make it clear, however, that the offer of medical assistance is not contingent upon any other of my plans. I simply dislike to see good fighters suffer and die needlessly.”
Zenos’ brown eyes had misted and, though his features remained fixed, his voice quavered slightly as he once more gripped Milo’s hand. “Two generations of my house have died fighting you, my lord, so probably shall I; but I shall never forget this act of unexpected generosity. Of course I accept, and I pray that God bless you.”