“Oh, ten days to two weeks, I should say, sir. The former, certainly, if we continue the same fast pace and make as good time as we did today.”
The last statement was too much. Lord Alexandras slammed his scarred knuckles into the carpet before him and sparks shot from his eyes. “My God, man! You call this good time? The outskirts of your camp are less than eight miles from where it was this morning! Why, I expect even fully-armed infantry to make twenty miles a day—and God knows, I’ve the reputation for driving my men no harder than is necessary?”
So that’s the bone in his craw, thought Milo. He said, “Lord Alexandras, were none but our warriors involved, they’d have been nigh on to Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, this night! But such is not the case. This is not—no matter how you may wish it were—a purely military movement. It is a migration! In addition to your troops and the tribe’s warriors, there are nearly eight thousands of women and children, well over a dozen hundreds of wagons, more hundreds of tent-carts, some twenty thousands horses and nearly twice that number of cattle, sheep, and goats. It is because of the latter, principally, that our advance is—by your lights—slow. Cattle and sheep and goats can be driven just so far and just so fast.”
“Then I suggest they be left here or driven back to their original pasturage,” said Lord Alexandras shortly. “As I expect us to be under the walls of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in no more than three days.”
Chief Bili opened his mouth to make a sizzling retort. “No, Bili,” Milo mindspoke him. “Let me handle this.”
“Lord Alexandras,” he said to the white-haired Ehleen, “your baggage wagons carry the grain and vegetables which are your troops’ accustomed diet. My people are accustomed to a diet which consists to a large extent of dairy products, therefore, the herds are their rations. You’d ask them to leave their rations behind?”
“Being without milk for a couple of weeks isn’t going to kill them!” snapped the Strahteegohs. “There’s always hard cheese or jerky, you know.”
“Babes and very young children, too?” questioned Milo gently. “Or aged persons, who lack teeth?”
“Well, dammit! Let them camp here,” was the old man’s tart rejoinder. “This is warfare, Lord Milos, serious business! Non-combatants have no place hi it!”
“In such case, my lord,” Milo informed him, “you’d march on alone, on your own. My warriors would not leave their families camped, unprotected, in hostile territory.”
“Then … then … then let them go back to Theesispolis! They’ll be safe behind its walls.”
Scouting a column’s advance was hard, dirty, dangerous work; this Lord Alexandras knew well. It was very comforting to know that it was being done—and done well—by troops he felt no responsibility for, and he had no wish to lose the services of these expendables, simply because they felt obliged to stay with their squalling brats and their smelly women.
Milo felt it might—at this point—be impolitic to mention how little safety those same walls had afforded the former inhabitants of Theesispolis. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I could, of course, convene the Council of Chiefs and put the question to them, but there’s no need, I can tell you their answer now.
“The tribe is migrating toward the sea. Kehnooryohs Atheenahs lies in that direction. It would’ve been necessary to move the camp soon, in any case, as the area of Theesispolis is all but grazed out. If the warriors and the maidens go with you, the tribe goes with you. If the tribe goes with you, the herds go with you. It is that simple, Lord Alexandras!” Milo drained his cup and dipped it into the wine bowl.
Nonetheless, Milo did see that as little time as possible was wasted on the march. The second day, the tribe did nearly ten miles and the third saw a bit over ten covered.
By the sunset of the fourth night, they were almost halfway to the capital and, as the tribe halted, Milo passed word that the chiefs were to council before his lodge within the hour. It was a short meeting and was in the process of adjourning, when Lord Alexandras arrived. He was not alone this time. In his wake trotted a hundred fully-armed Kahtahphraktoee. His features were grim and the blaze of the fire before Mile’s lodge was no hotter than the glare from the old Ehleen’s eyes.
“Had I known you wished to attend our little conference,” Milo addressed the glowering noble, “I’d have seen that you were apprised of it, my Lord.”
Chief Hwil of Kuk strode smiling to assist his old Strahteegohs in dismounting. “You are right welcome, Lord Alexandras. Will you not honor my tent before you depart?”
By pressure of knee and rein, the old man danced his mount away from Kuk, saying, “Foresworn! You have sold out to these howling savages! Now you are no better than they, if ever you were. So, I’ll thank you to keep your gory hands off my horse and my person!”
Shocked and abashed, Kuk could but stutter. “But … but…”
Amid an ominous muttering from the chiefs, Milo stepped forward. “My Lord, I know not what is now troubling you, but perhaps, if you were to dismount and come in to my lodge, we …”
He got no farther. Leaning forward, over the hands crossed on his pommel, Lord Alexandras said, “I only dismount to converse with equals, barbarian! I came not for conversation. I’ve heard more than enough of the yappings of you and your pack of curs, thank you! I came for justice and I mean to have it!”
At that moment, Old-Cat—patroling the fringes of the camp—mindspoke Milo. “Friend Milo, all the Ironshirts are spreading around the camp. The archers have arrows on strings and most of the others are lighting torches.
The minds I have been able to enter are filled with thoughts of burning the camp and slaying the kindred!”
Milo mindspoke Mara in his lodge. “Mara, it would appear that your former lover has had some change-of-heart. His cavalry are in the process of surrounding the camp at this moment, and he is raging and ranting about justice. Go out the back and raise as many warriors and maidens as you can. Fortunately, he was stupid enough to ride in here with only a hundred men. No matter what his orders to them were, I don’t think his troops will attack, knowing that his life would be the first taken—not as much as they idolize him.”
To Horsekiller, “Call up your clan, Cat Chief. Be ready to attack, but only at my word.”
But, from Lord Alexandras, Milo withheld the bulk of his knowledge for the moment, saying only, “If my Lord would deign to let me know what he is raving about, perhaps we could get to the bottom of it. However, I’ll have to request that you cease to insult my chiefs; you’re not High Lord, yet, sir, not by a long shot!”
“And, you imply,” said Lord Alexandras acidly, “that I’ll not be, without the help of you and your red-handed butchers? Is that it?”
Milo was playing for time. “I implied nothing of the sort, sir. However, since you did bring up the matter, know this: We are a loose confederation of blood-related clans. Should a chief be sufficiently provoked, there is nothing to prevent him and his clan from wreaking personal vengeance, where and on whom he sees fit!”
“Including,” snarled the Strahteegohs, “helpless, innocent peasants! You see, I have been apprised of your treacherous, bestial infamy, you supposedly civilized Pig!”
Milo hooked thumbs through his dagger-belt and shook his head. “I do not anger easily, Lord Alexandras, so insulting me is pointless. I am beginning to surmise that you have taken leave of your senses. It is quite obvious that you are highly incensed in some way; but you seem disinclined to bring your reasons into the open.”
“Milo, love.” It was Mara, mindspeaking. “There are about a thousand warriors, maidens and matrons ringing your lodge area now. Their bows can drop every one of the soldiers, whenever you say; but don’t hurt ’Lekos, unless he gives you no choice, please. More clanspeople are forming a “reception committee” for those troops now outside the camp, and Horsekiller has the most of his clan there or on the way.”