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And once more, Geres’ clear tenor voice pealed like a trumpet above the uproar, while Bili gripped the brass-shod ferrule in both his big hands, raised the banner high above his head and waggled the shaft For a long, breathless moment, it seemed that none could or would respond to the summons, but a pair of blood-splashed Freefighters hacked their way from out of the near edge of the press, then a half-dozen more appeared behind a destrier-mounted nobleman. Slowly, by dribbles and drops, the squadron’s ranks again filled and formed up behind the Red Eagle.
Not all those who had made that first charge returned, of course. Some were just too hard pressed to win free; some would never return. Bili took a position a good two hundred yards off the left flank of the milling mob, the absolute minimum distance cavalry needed to achieve the proper impetus in a charge. He had just gotten the under strength troops into squadron-front-shortened squadron-front—when the beat of hundreds of hooves sounded from somewhere within the narrow defile at his own left flank. The veteran troopers were already preparing to wheel in order to meet the self-announced menace, when the riders swept from the mouth of that precipitous gap. In the lead rode Ehrbuhn Duhnkin-recognizable because of his clean, unmarred armor—followed by the bowmasters he had commanded to such good effect. But now bows were all unstrung and cased, sabers were out and flashing in the sunlight.
While the Freefighters took their accustomed places in the shrunken ranks, Ehrbuhn rode up to the young ihoheeks, mindspeaking, “We had to miss first blood, Lord Bili, but I mean to be in at the kill. So do some others, incidentally. They it was who showed us the way here. In all courtesy, my lord, I think we should not begin the dance until the ladies arrive.”
With the Maidens riding in a place of honor on the exposed right flank and the grim-faced brahbehrnuh just behind Bili in the knot of heavily armed nobles at the center, the reformed and reinforced squadron struck the confused and reeling barbarians almost as hard as they had the first time. And human flesh could take no more. The savages broke, scattered before the big horses and armored warriors and streamed down the narrow vale in full flight.
Some escaped, but not many. The destriers and troop horses were tired, true, but so too were the ponies. Superior breeding and carefully nurtured top condition told in the end, at a cost of the ultimate price to most of the barbarians. The shaggy men were pursued to the very end of the long plateau, ridden down and slain. Then Bili forced a halt and rallied his force before commencing the slow, weary march back to the battlefield below the cliff.
Bili trudged beside Mahvros at the head of the exhausted squadron, having allowed none save the wounded to remain mounted. The black stallion was spent; he seemed barely able to place one hoof before the other and his proud head hung low, his shiny hide now befouled with dried lather and old sweat, with horse blood and man blood and dust Nor were the other horses of the battered squadron in better shape; many were, in fact, in worse.
The brahbehrnuh helped a reeling Freefighter onto the back of her relatively fresh charger and then strode up to pace beside Bili. After a moment, she addressed him in accented but passable trade Mehrikan.
“What is the polite form of address for my lord?” Still plodding, Bili turned his shaven head and looked into her bloodshot eyes, smiling tiredly.
“The Ehleenee say ‘thoheeks,’ my Freefighters say ‘duke’ and my friends call me simply ‘Bili.’ You are free to use whichever comes easiest to your lips, my lady.”
With a brusque nod of her helmeted head, she asked bluntly, “You and your folk are the born enemies of the Ahrmehnee and, indirectly, of me and my sisters. So then why do you fight and bleed and die for us? Was there not enough loot in the vales for both you and the cursed Muhkohee? Think you that even this will earn you Ahnnehnee forgiveness for your many and heinous crimes, Dookh Bili?”
A woman of spirit, thought Bili—no polite, meaningless words for her; she spits it right out and be damned to you if you don’t like it. “Because, my lady, me and mine no longer are the enemies of the Ahnnehnee. Even now does their great chief treat with our High Lord, and, soon, all these Ahnnehnee mountains and vales will be one with our mighty Federation of Peoples, your folk too, probably.”
“Never!” she spat. “Since the Time of the Earth-Gods have the Moon Maidens been sensibly ruled by women. Never will we submit to the utter debasement of the rule of mere men!”
Then did Bili Morguhn show a spark of that genius which was to win him a place high in the councils of his homeland. “But, my lady, did you not know?”
“Know what, lowlander?”
“Why this, my lady—the true rulers of the Confederation are women, the Undying High Ladies, Mara Morai and Aldora Linszee Treeah-Pohtohmas Pahpahs.”
Her jaw dropped open in wonderment, but she quickly recovered. “Then what of your infamous Undying Devil, this Milo.
“Lord Milo commands the Confederation armies, especially in the field on campaign,” Bili answered glibly. “You see, our armies are all of men.”
Her high brow wrinkled. “But, Dookh Bili, how can these High Ladies trust this Milo to not treacherously bring the armies against them, slay them and usurp their rightful place? The men of my own folk foolishly tried such many times over the centuries until, finally, we forbade mere men to carry weapons or know their use.” She smiled grimly. “That was in the time of my mother’s mother’s grandmother, and the Wise Women have ruled, unquestioned and unopposed, since.”
Bili shook his head. “Such harsh measures are generally unneeded in the lands of the Confederation, my lady. For one thing, the Undying High Ladies cannot be slain with weapons, but, more importantly, the High Lord would never do aught which might harm the Confederation. Moreover, he loves the Lady Mara and has great respect for the Lady Aldora. Thus has it been for six generations and more.”
They walked on in silence for a quarter-hour. At last, the brahbehrnuh announced, “When and where and how can I meet with one of these High Ladies, Doohk Bili? With our hold destroyed, we are cast adrift in a hostile world, with naught save the little we bear and wear. But I must be certain that my sisters and I—who are the last, pitiful remnant of our race, now—will receive land in return for our allegiances and service to your Lady rulers and that we will be allowed to practice our ancient rites and customs unmolested. These things must your Ladies avow to us who serve the Supreme Lady.”
Bili mused, trying to guess just what to say to this strange, handsome young woman, but, abruptly, the conversation became unimportant.
Many leagues to the north and west, in what had been the Hold of the Maidens, a defective timing device at last fulfilled its long-overdue function. A small charge exploded, hurling a barrel-size charge over the lip of the smoking fissure which was known as the Sacred Hoofprint. Far it fell, deeper and deeper into the very bowels of the uneasy mountain, into hotter and hotter regions, falling within bare seconds from degrees of hundreds into degrees of thousands. And, still falling free, its metal casing began to melt, dripping away, and its insulation burst into brief flame and then the immense charge exploded, its sound unheard by living ear.
A feeling of unbearable unease suddenly gripped Bili. His every nerve ending seemed to be screaming, “DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!”
Tired as they were, all the horses were uneasy, too, snorting and nodding, their nostrils dilated and eyes rolling, dancing with nervousness. As for Mahvros, the big black suddenly half-reared and almost bolted when three deer broke cover, dashing out of a dark copse to rocket downslope and over the edge of the plateau. Hard on their heels came a living carpet of small, scuttling beasts and, up ahead, a pair of mountain wolves and a tree cat loped along in the same direction, almost side by side.