Then, immediately in front of him, an unmounted nomad female suddenly rose from the grass. His lips skinned back from his teeth and, drawing his sword, he charged down on her.
Aldora had heard the horses coming and bad mind-informed Ax-Hoof that she was well and safe. He had advised her to stand where the leaders of the thousand or so horses could plainly see her. But she had only just come erect, when a horse passed behind her, a bright object flashed in the periphery of her vision and, with paralyzing force an agonizing something sliced into the angle of her neck and right shoulder. As the grass rushed upward at her face, she felt the hot gush of her blood, then, nothing.
Just as the first horses came over the crest of the hill, they saw an ironshirt saber a female of the kindred. Carefully avoiding Aldora, the herd swept down the hill, bowling over both horse and rider. When the herd had passed, they left only a pulpy, red paste behind them.
Milo and the chiefs reined up around Mole-Fur who sat beside the still unconscious Beti and snarled at the whimpering Pawl, straining to pull his leg from under his feebly twitching, almost-dead horse.
“Beti?” Hwahlis mind-questioned.
“She lives, Cat-brother,” Mole-Fur reassured. “One of these ironshirts must have stunned her before they tried to carry her away. But she is uninjured. She will bear you many more fine kittens.”
“What of the younger one, the black-haired female, Sister-cat?” queried Milo.
Mole-Fur began to lick Beti’s face again while she answered. “The new cat—that handsome, older one, who came in from the Battle of the Black Horses—has gone to see to her. She is two hills west and was well when Mole-Fur left her, before she met these two ironshirts.” Raising her head, she bared her teeth and rippled a low snarl at Pawl, who shuddered and moaned.
Hwahlis dismounted and strode over to the soft-gray cat. Resting his hand on her head, he said, “Sister-cat, are you cat-oathed?”
“Oh, no, Cat-brother. Mole-Fur is only twenty-four moons and has not yet been battle-trained,” she replied. “No clan would want so worthless a female.”
Slipping his hand under her chin, between the sharp tips of her projecting fangs, Hwahlis raised her head and looked deeply into her eyes. “Trained or not, my clan will oath so fierce and brave a female, and will be honored to go to battle with her! So courageous an …”
Without warning, Mole-Fur interrupted, “God Milo, the black-haired two-leg female, she is where I left her, • but Old-Cat says that another ironshirt has sabered her, and …”
Hwahlis heard no more. Spinning, he sprinted to and leaped astride his horse and, before Milo could shout the rest of the message to him, was over the crest of the hill. So disturbed was the chief, neither Milo nor Mole-Fur could contact him mentally.
Mara had just finished binding a strip torn from her shirt over Aldora’s rapidly closing wound (mostly, to keep the flies off), when Hwahlis pounded up, leaped, running, from his lathered horse and raced to the side of his “daughter.” Tears and sweat had mingled to plow shiny furrows through the thick dust covering his features. Mara tried mindspeak but the begrieved chieftain’s mind was closed, so she spoke.
“Chief Hwahlis, Aldora will soon be …” But then she was aware that he didn’t hear her voice either. He could only hear the voice of his own self-recriminations and his eyes only registered Aldora’s closed eyes and pale face and blood-soaked shirt and the bandage only partially concealing the still-gaping wound.
Dropping to his knees, he gathered her, whom he thought dying, into his arms and covered her face with kisses, tears, and dust. Then, sobbing, rocking back and forth, he raised a keening wail.
Aldora, who had simply been following Mara’s instructions to lie quietly until the bleeding had entirely ceased and the wound closed, opened her eyes, then, and gazed up into Hwahlis’ sorrow-twisted face.
“Mara, what… why… ?” She mindspoke. “That doleful noise is his clan’s death chant, child.” Mara answered. “He thinks you are dying and grieves for you. I told you that he was a good man. This barbarian loves you, Aldora; not as a man loves a woman, but as a parent loves a daughter.”
“So accept the spirit of her we love, oh Wind,” Hwahlis sang, his eyes screwed shut, tears bathing his cheeks. “For she is of your people. Bear her smoke to Your home… .” He broke off at the sound of Aldora’s voice, the touch of her hand.
She wiped ineffectually at his face. “Why do you weep, Father? I am not bad hurt. Lady Mara say soon well I will be. True father, who I love, weep no more. Please?”
16
Milo would not have allowed the tribe to tarry so long at Green-Walls had he been aware of the exact depth of High Lord Demetrios’ dilemma. That unhappy man’s father, the late Basil III, had left richly productive lands, a generally wealthy nobility, and a well-stuffed treasury. But his son had squandered his patrimony as if gold and silver were about to become valueless. He had robbed his nobles, his people, the priests, and everyone else within his grasp. What could not be immediately spent or converted to cash was mortgaged to the hilt—usually several times over. As the saying went, “He robbed Petros to pay Pavlos,” and when Petros was stripped, the High Lord had hounding creditors quietly murdered, then seized their books and possessions to be held “in trust” until someone appeared to claim them. But the first few persons rash enough to register claims all either disappeared under mysterious circumstances or met with invariably fatal accidents; word traveled fast and no more claimants appeared.
Throughout most of his long reign, Basil III had conducted wars against the host of small barbarian principalities to his north and west and against his southern neighbor, Zenos VII, High Lord of Karaleenos. Therefore, a part of Demetrios’ inheritance had been several thousands of seasoned, hard-bitten, veteran mercenaries and many times that number of experienced, disciplined Ehleenoee spearmen. Many of these troops had worn the azure-and-silver and the crest of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs for half-a-life-time. In addition, his estate included some few dozens of really effective Ehleenoee staff and field officers, these latter being men who, over the years, had not been too pompously stiff-necked to learn from the professional soldiers with whom they had served. Within half-a-year of Demetrios’ ascendency, these atavistic Ehleenoee were to a man giving serious consideration to the elimination of their dangerously inept ruler and then sending back to Pahlyohs Ehlahs for a warlike man of noble lineage who might help to restore them to their ancient glory. However, in his spy-ridden court, Demetrios soon became aware of these sentiments and moved first and quickly. Four and a half years later, the few atavars still alive were in exile or in hiding.
With the barbarian horde camped upon and about the shell of Theesispolis, the High Lord had but few of his I father’s powerful army remaining. Early in his reign, Demetrios had dissolved all save a tiny fraction of the spear-levies, sending them back to the mortgaged land to produce already sold crops. Despairing of ever collecting their back wages, many of the mercenaries had left to seek employment from a lord who payed in something more substantial than promises. The lives of others had been frittered away in ill-planned “campaigns,” conceived and commanded by the High Lord’s totally inexperienced but suicidally self-confident sycophants and favorites. Of the ten full squadrons remaining, seven had been lost with Lord Manos’ ill-fated expedition and another virtually wiped out at what the nomads called the Black Horse Battle.