“As for a conference with me and my council, that will be easy enough. Of the original council, only Greemos, here, and Thoheeks Serbikos are left; all the others fell in battle, as befitted men of their caste. Serbikos and his lancers are presently out foraging, but he should be back well before night, and we three can meet with you at your convenience. Can we not, Greemos?”
The officer shrugged his massive shoulders. “Whatever my King wishes.” He turned again to Milo. “How many armed men are coming with your eeahtrosee, my lord?”
Milo ignored Greemos’ open hostility. “Not a one, Lord Komees. I had supposed that your army had sufficient hale men to give them what workforces they might require.”
Greemos bobbed his head shortly. “Yes, that we can. I add my thanks to those of my King. I, too, want living, healthy troops, rather than corpses and cripples; well need them when next we battle your armies.”
King Zenos looked appalled at this open threat in the face of unasked-for generosity. But Milo chuckled good-naturedly.
“You’re nothing if not blunt and honest, Lord Greemos. I wonder not that Herbuht Mai spoke so highly of you.”
There was an almost imperceptible thaw in the Komees’ manner. “The gentleman-captain is a good officer. He is just and honorable in his dealings, and the provisions he set for the truce might have been much harsher. He is a worthy foeman, my lord.”
The first meeting took place three days later at Milo’s pavilion. King Zenos arrived flanked by the dark, hulking Komees Greemos and by a freckle-faced, gray-haired officer who looked like an older version of Tomos Gonsales.
Milo had brought along Herbuht Mai, of course, since he alone seemed to be able to get civil speech from the grim Greemos, as well as Guhsz Helluh. He had deliberately excluded Aldora. He had seen her disrupt more than one otherwise peaceful conference, and the combination of her vitriolic tongue and Greemos’ pugnacity might well precipitate another pitched battle—something both he and Zenos wished to avoid. His other two captains were camp and perimeter commanders of the day, respectively. He had requested Captain oi Physicians Ahbdool to attend for a specific purpose.
With wine served and amenities observed, Milo began. “King Zenos, Captain Ahbdool and his staff would like to bring the bulk of your more seriously wounded into my camp to continue treatment. For one thing, my camp is on higher ground and, consequently, healthier; for another, such an arrangement would immensely ease the tasks of the eeahtrosee, who must now spend much of their day in transit from one camp to another. Besides, we’re better supplied—in all ways.”
“Only,” snapped Greemos, “because we presently lack the forces to raid your lines of supply. But these wounded of ours, what would be their status? Prisoners? Hostages?”
“Recuperating soldiers,” Milo quickly answered. “They’ll be free to return whenever they are fit and wish to do so. They’ll be lodged in the same tents with our own wounded and all will receive equal food and treatment. Their friends may visit them and you and your officers may inspect at will.”
“At whose will?” demanded Greemos. “Yours or ours?”
AH had, at the beginning, been granted leave to speak freely, regardless of rank, and old Guhsz Helluh now took advantage of this privilege. Standing and leaning across the board, he growled, “At whose leave do you think, you noble jackass? This is supposed to be a peaceful conference, but you’re trying to make of it a nitpicking contest! If all you can think of is fighting, let us go outside and get a couple of pikestaves. Then I’ll show you how we deal with oversized, underbrained windbags in Rahdburk!”
Greemos’ big hands sought the hilts of the sword and dirk that Milo had wisely suggested they all leave on a chest near the entry.
A third man arose. Ahbdool was as large as Greemos and his flowing white robes made him appear even larger. A deep but gentle voice boomed softly from his barrel-chest, and his Merikahn was accented, for he was a native of the Black Kingdoms, where other languages were spoken.
“Noble gentlemen, before you go about making more work for me, please aid me in undoing some of the damage you have already wrought. Your Majesty …”
“Shut your thick lips, you lowborn black ape!” snarled Greemos, now fully aroused. “One more word from you when your betters are talking and …”
“Strahteegos Komees Greemos,” began Captain Mai, formally, “with the exceptions of your King and Lord Milo, no man here is the peer of Captain Ahbdool. Despite his humility, his father is none other than the Khaleefah Ahboo of Zahrtogah.”
“Pah!” snorted Greemos. “What does that mean to a northerner, black or white? You all breed like rabbits.”
Guhsz Helluh chose to re-enter the fray, teeth and claws bared. “Yes, you buggering Ehleenee bastard, we do have large families. But that’s mainly because we devote our amatory practices exclusively to women, whilst you perverts waste your seed on boy-children and goats!”
And so it went for some four hours more. All in all, Milo was not displeased with the outcome of this first conference. Most of the camp gained some diversion from the pikestave duel between Greemos and Helluh, which dealt neither any serious hurt and gave each a healthy respect for the other. It was agreed that the wounded would all be concentrated at Milo’s camp; and Ahbdool was even able to persuade King Zenos to set about moving his own camp to a higher, more healthful location. The next conference was set for a week later. But it was fated to come much sooner.
3
The first to see the ship was a stripling of Clan Kuk, whilst descending the precipitous path from plateau to beach. Sacred Sun had but barely risen and the night mists still lay thick upon the tidal estuary. The lad first heard the rhythmic clock-clock of oars against tholepins. Then the sharp prow of the long, low vessel nosed out of the opaque whiteness. She was painted a dull, brown-black, some ninety feet long and something under twenty feet in beam. Her two masts were unstepped and lashed into crutch-shaped forks. She seemed some huge bug, walking across the water on her twin banks of slender oars.
By the time Djahn Kuk of Kuk had scratched together a force of warriors and maiden-archers, got them armed and mounted, and gained the edge of the plateau, the intention of the shipmaster to ascend the river was plain.
An old chieftain shook his grizzled head. “It’s not one of God-Milo’s boats, that’s for sure, and it’s like to no merchant ship I’ve ever seen.”
“No,” agreed the Kuk of Kuk. “I think it’s one of the raiding boats from the Pirate Isles—the Sea Isle Ehleenee. I’ve never seen one, I admit—for some reason, they never raid Kehnooryos Ehlahs—but I’ve heard them described right often. Well, if they try attacking this plateau, they’ll wish they’d stayed out on the Great Ocean!”
He swung about in his saddle and addressed his eldest brother, Pawl, Tanist of Kiik. “Ride back and blow the war horn. Send a man up the tower to light the signal . beacon. Get the old and the young, the sick and the kittens into the fort, along with all the herds that can be quickly gathered. Send half the warriors and maidenarchers to me and the rest to the fort And send me any cat that isn’t nursing a litter, too.”
Rahn Duhklus of Duhklus was one of the first to join the Kuk, heading a dozen and a half riders. The deep-throated blowing of the great horn was still moaning the length and breadth of the plateau, while clouds of dust were beginning to rise into the lightening sky. The men at the river’s edge could not see the first flash of flame from the fort’s highest tower, but when the dense column of sooty smoke mounted upward it was visible to all.
The Duhklus growled impatiently, fingering his dirk-hilt. “We should send riders to warn the inlanders; the Dirtmen aren’t as well able to fight for themselves as are we.”