Milo gave the wreckage another drink and continued his interrogation.
“Now, then, the sixty-four-dollar question, Backstrom. What are you damned vampires up to down there? You said you weren’t ready yet. Ready for what?”
Before Titos could answer, there was the thunder of pounding hoofs and six nomad riders burst into the space before the War Chiefs lodge. All were bleeding, their armor hacked and shattered. Three were leading horses; on one, an ashy faced warrior reeled hi the saddle to which his comrades had lashed him. Another of the horses bore a tied-on, dead clansman; the third, the arrow-bristling corpse of a Prairie Cat.
Their leader, a sub-chief of Clan Pahtuhr, had lost his helmet. Half his scalp flapped with his movements and that side of his head and neck and face were crusty with dried blood. A soggy red rag was tied around his right biceps, the ends of it knotted to the cut stump of arrow-shaft protruding from the arm. He slid from the saddle of his foam-flecked mount, took one step, and pitched onto his face, to lie unmoving.
Gentle hands lifted the stricken sub-chief and others, equally gently, assisted his companions from their saddles and unhorsed the bodies. After a great quaff of wine, the sub-chief insisted that he be taken to the War Chief. Hearing, Milo came to the wounded man, beckoning Lord Alexandras and Djeen Mai to accompany him.
“It is obvious,, Tribe-brother, that you and your clansmen have fought hard,” Milo said gravely. “But, then, never were warriors of Pahtuhr craven or lacking of honor. What are your words for me, man of valor?”
Despite his weakness and the pain of his wounds, the sub-chief smiled and glowed at the praise. “We were many hours’ ride north and east of the river that the Dirtmen name Soothahnah, when we came upon strange Ironshirts, all as fair as the kindred. As there were but less than a score, I decided to take one as captive, that it might be known how many they were and from whence, for they were as no Ironshirts I have seen. We ambushed them and slew most with arrows, but, as we rode off with their chief, who was only wounded, more came upon us. Hard pressed we were—fighting more than three score Iron-shirts—but the brave Cat-brother was far-ranging and heard and came to smite the Ironshirts from their rear. He panicked their horses and slew at least two men. In the confusion we fled. Though they did not pursue, they shot many arrows after us and one such killed our captive. I am sorry, War Chief, but as all of us were wounded, it would have been certain death to go back for another.”
Lord Alexandras knelt on the other side of the nomad and laid a hand on the breastplate of the man’s shattered cuirass. “Any could see that you and your brave companions did your best. Tell me, what colors did they wear?”
The nomad shook his head. “Again, am I sorry, Chief Alexandras. It is hard to distinguish colors by moonlight and …”
The old lord patted the nomad’s shoulder. “Never mind,” he soothed. “You said the captive was killed. What of his horse?”
Djeen Mai strode over to lead back the spent horse from which the dead cat had been unloaded. The animal’s saddle was covered with the skin of a lynx—the fur now crusty-brown with blood of man and blood of cat—and the saddle-cloth was of a dark shade of green, its scalloped edges worked with black thread and silver wire.
At sight of the horse-trappings, both Lord Alexandras and Djeen Mai swore sulphurously and Mai burst out. “King Mahrtuhn of Kuhmbrulun by damn! So the eater of dung couldn’t keep out of it! I wonder if he’s hired out to Demetrios or just come to scavenge what he can? The latter sounds more like him, but… What think you, my Lord?”
“I think it’s an old game he’s playing, Djeen.” The Strahteegohs smiled tiredly. “He is as much aware as we of Demetrios’ weakness. It’s been advantageous to him to have a weak High Lord, one disinclined to warfare. The last thing he wants to see is someone like myself on the throne of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs; but I don’t believe him to be in Demetrios’ pay. For one thing, he knows he’d play merry hell in collecting—in coin, anyway. For another, even a thing like Demetrios is, after all, an Ehleen and, as such, I don’t believe he would willingly ally himself with any of the barbarian principalities or kingdoms.
“No, I think Mahrtuhn is playing himself a little game of ‘king-maker.’ He’ll wait until we attack the city, then he’ll attack us in the rear with an overwhelming force. When we’ve been cracked between his army and Demetrios’, he’ll extort some kind of settlement from the perverted child-bugger. Those will be the kinglet’s actions, if we allow his plans to mature.”
Milo was about to interject a question, when the mental communication entered his mind.
“Now, you’ll not hurt this body anymore, you goddam mutant bastard. Your day will come, you sonofabitch, heed me well. When we’re ready, your day wi—”
“Backstrom!” Milo shouted suddenly in alarm, furiously thrusting his way through the press of men.
By that time, of course, it was already too late. Somehow, despite broken bones and mangled, hideously maimed hands, the Titos/Titus thing had managed to pull Milo’s dirk out of the ground and thrust the weapon’s wide, sharp blade deep into its own throat, just under the jawbone’s angle.
Lord Alexandras ordered his troops back to their camp to get as much rest as they could for what remained of the night. Ahead of them went a galloper, whose mission was that of fetching back the Heeroorgohs—surgeon—and his assistants and wagon to tend and care for the members of the patrol. Milo offered blood-price for the slain bugler, but both the Strahteegohs and Djeen Mai brusquely refused to accept it. They did accept, however, the War Chiefs offer to cremate the dead soldier on the same pyre which was to bear the bodies of Pahtuhr clansmen and the dead cat. The body that Titus Backstrom had inhabited was dragged a few hundred yards and dumped in a patch of woods—an unexpected feast for the animals of the night.
And, while the scavengers gorged themselves, Milo and the Council of Chiefs and Lord Alexandras and his staff sat in conference until the first light of the sun was paling the eastern horizon, and it was time to break camp and recommence the march. Results of that conference were not long in coming. By the time camp was pitched the next night, mixed patrols of nomads and Kahtahphraktoee had already garnered three prisoners. Two were mercenaries, natives of the Kingdom of Eeree, north and west of Kuhmbrulun, who proved only too happy to transfer their allegiance to the redoubtable Lord Alexandras (after all, they had already collected King Mahrtuhn’s coin) and impart all that they knew of the barbarian kinglet’s projected strategy. The third was an entirely different case. Captain Beem was a nobleman, third son of the Count of Frahstburk. He was twenty-eight years old and, though a bit dull-witted, honest as the day is long, honorable, and not in the least craven. He had only been taken alive because the sling stone which had deeply indented his helmet had failed to crack the skull beneath, and this capture was a source of chagrin to him.
At Captain Beem’s courteous but, nonetheless, flat refusal to impart them an iota of information regarding his liege, King Mahrtuhn, or aught concerning him or his army, one of the chiefs suggested that they build a fire and construct a torture frame. Lord Alexandras shook his head. “That man possesses every bit the courage that you and your people do. You might take him apart, bit by bit, and—ere he allowed the agonies you inflicted to render him false to his word—he’d bite out his own tongue and spit it in your faces! I know his breed of old; they are honorable and worthy opponents.”
So, they drugged his wine and Milo—through Horse-killer—entered his mind. This exercise rilled all the gaps in the information which the mercenaries had supplied. It was quite evident that Lord Alexandras did not entirely approve so dishonorable a method of obtaining intelligence, but he and his staff were quick to compile and begin to evaluate it, albeit.