Chapter 20

As a gesture of good will, the Council of Chiefs agreed to free all their Ehleenoee captives before the march began. Freed men were given the choice of joining Lord Alexandras' condottas or remaining at Theesispolis until the conclusion of the campaign; most chose the former. Freed women were given the choice of honorable marriage into a horseclan or simple freedom; very few chose to leave the camp. Children were given no option, they were simply adopted into the clans which had held them. As Lord Alexandras seemed quite pleased by this unasked favor, Milo saw no need to persuade the chiefs to make any further 'reparations.'

Few slept in the camps around Green-Walls that night, hough all had been preparing for weeks, still were there tings   which   needed   doing.   The   oxen   which   drew wagons and the huge, wheeled lodges of the chiefs, to be driven in and paired and yoked; war horses must be brought in and saddled and armored, then pick-etted in readiness; here, an axle was discovered to have developed a crack within the last week, and it had to be removed and replaced; there, slaves of the Cat Clan and a few nomad volunteers were seeking out strayed kittens and loading them into one of the several horse-drawn wagons which would convey them; between the new moon and the thousands of fires and torches, the camps were almost as bright as day and the light glinted from steel and leather and brass and silver, as the warriors armed; there was an almost steady thrruumm in the air, as men and maidens tested bowstrings, and the shrill rasp of blade on stone, as a last honing was imparted to the edges of saber or ax. An unending caravan of men and horses wended through the splintered city gates, to return with bulging water-skins, filled at the city's fountains— though the country they were to travel through was well-watered, old habits were hard to break. The odors of cooking breakfasts mingled with those of smoke and dust and dung and sweat and wet hide and grease and tallow and resin.

Two hours prior to dawn, the drums and fifes and trumpets of Lord Alexandras' army joined in the cacophony and, with the first rays of the sun, the seasoned Kahtahphraktoee trotted out of the castra followed by serried ranks of infantry, then the baggage. By the time the first of the nomads' wagons lumbered onto the stones of the road, the condottas were two miles east: infantry stepping a mile-eating pace to the tireless beat of their drums; cavalry at van, rear, and flanks; and, ahead of all, a rough crescent of nomad riders fanned on either side of the highway; a little behind, Horsekiller and his clan.

Unaware that the old man had always detested such contrivances as effete and anachronistic, Milo had presented the late Lord Simos' best chariot to Lord Alexandros. On the march, it rolled along midway the column, loaded with water-skins. Lord Alexandras, astride a fine, chestnut gelding, rode with the knot of mercenary officers, exchanging jests and rough banter and swapping yarns of shared campaigns in times past.

Chapter 21

The tribe made nearly eight miles the first day and Milo and the chiefs felt pleased. But not so Lord Alexandras. Unannounced and unaccompanied, he galloped the chestnut up, slammed out of the saddle before the animal was fully halted, and stormed into Milo's wagon-lodge a couple of hours after dusk.

Seated, cross-legged, around a bowl of wine on the thickly carpeted floor, were Milo, Mara, Blind Hari, Chief Hwil of Kuk, Chief Bili of Esmith, Chief Rahsz of Rahsz and Chief Djimi of Peerszuhn. Hari was flanked by Old-Cat and Mole-Fur, and Horsekiller crouched between Milo and Mara, now and then taking a surreptitious lap out of Milo's cup (he had developed an unadmitted fondness for the resinous Ehleen wine).

Milo rose smiling. "Welcome, Lord Alexandras. Your presence honors my tent and our gathering."

Exerting his iron control, the Strahteegohs forced himself to sit and accepted a cup of the wine (and the fact that it was part of the loot of Theesispolis, did nothing to improve his frame of mind).

Still smiling, Milo spoke. "All the clan smiths are hard at work, tonight, my lord. They will continue to be every night of the march, too. By the time we reach the vicinity of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, I can promise you that each and every one of your peasants will be armed, after a fashion—even if it's only with spear, shield, and helmet." Lord Alexandras took a deep draught of the contents of his silver cup. In a tight, restrained voice, he asked, "And how many days do you think it will take this . . . this 'column' to reach our objective, Lord Milos?"

Though the old nobleman possessed a mind-shield which made the reading of his thoughts impossible, even for Milo or Mara, the very restraint in his tone betrayed the face of his anger. For the nonce, however, Milo chose to ignore it, going on in the same friendly, conversational tone.

"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 Theesis-polis! 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 Alexandros arrived. He was not alone this time. In his wake trotted a hundred fully-armed Kahtahphrahktoee. 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 Jittle 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 Alexandros. 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 Alexandros 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 Alexandros, 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; yoTi're not High Lord, yet, sir, not by a long shot!"

"And, you imply," said Lord Alexandros acidly, "that 111 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 Alexandros, 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."

When Milo spoke to the Ehleen again, an edge had come into his voice. "Lord, you accuse me of treachery, of infamy! What, may I ask, do you call your own conduct? Is surrounding and preparing to attack the camp of a supposed ally not treachery? At this moment—as you well know, sir—your Kahtahphraktoee are in the process of moving into attack-positions on our camp perimeter. Should they be so unwise as to attempt an assault, they— and you—will find us well prepared for them, and they will take heavy casualties!

"Now, before this 'meeting' gets any more unpleasant, I'll ask you once more: What possible justification have you for this night's actions? What brought you, frothing at the mouth, to my lodge, to insult me and my chiefs?"

"You know why I am here!" hissed Lord Alexandras. "I want the culprits dragged before me immediately, or my men attack! There can be no excuse for the actions of the criminals you are sheltering, and I'll not rest until I see them impaled—as they so richly deserve! I know what is right and just, and I have the troops to enforce my will."

"Should you be sufficiently stupid to throw them against this camp, you blathering old doddard, you'll not have them long!" declared Chief Djeri of Hahfmun, having taken all he could stomach. "The tribe will make the same hash of you and yours that we did of the last Ehleen jackanapes who tried to attack us!"

Turning to his hundred, Lord Alexandras waved an ana in Chief Djeri's direction. "Seize me that grunting hog! He's probably one of the very swine we came for; if not, he'll do as hostage for their delivery!"

Warily, four troopers dismounted and started toward the gray-haired chief. With a wolfish grin, Chief Djeri drew both saber and dirk and, in the twinkling of an eye, Sami of Kahrtr, Bui of Esmith, and Chuk of Djahnsun had their own steel out and were ranged beside him. Even without armor, they obviously felt themselves more than a match for the four clanking Kahtahphraktoee.

At a pre-arranged signal from Lord Alexandras, the bugler raised his instrument to his lips, but found he was unable to force air past the shaft of the arrow which had suddenly spitted his throat! And that was the end of the 'battle.' The troopers were not fools and, as they became aware that at least ten bows were trained on each of them, theu- lances came clattering to the ground and their scabbarded swords quickly followed.

Milo advanced a few paces closer to the, still-mounted, Lord Alexandras. "Ill ask once more, my lord. Will you dismount and come hi and discuss this matter of contention? I have no desire to shed the blood of any more of your men, though many of my people would be over^-joyed to muddy this earth with their blood."

For a long, long minute, the Ehleen sat his mount, staring venomously; but, at length—bowing to the inevitable —he stiffly, correctly, dismounted. When Milo turned, the old noble followed him up the stairs and into the War Chiefs lodge.

Even unconscious, it required strenuous and concerted efforts from both Horsekiller and Old-Cat to force a breach in Lord Alexandras' formidable mind-shield. When, through the cats, Milo and Mara and Hari had entered, their shock and agreement were simultaneous.

"Someone or something is controlling him!" stated Milo flatly. "Placing thoughts in his mind, overriding his will."

Mara nodded. "I knew that that man out there was not 'Lekos. How long, do you suppose, has this entity been forcing him to its evil will?"

Milo shrugged. "No way of telling, really. Days, weeks, who knows? Days, certainly. I thought that that business, the other night, was damned odd, come to think of it. Because, in one of our early conferences—do you recall, Hari?—he made the remark that it was regrettable that he would have to retard the advance of his column, or something like that...."

"Yes," affirmed the aged bard. "I, too, thought of that when he came storming in here that night. He knew, well beforehand, that the tribe's average day's march was something less than two leagues."

"Then it must have taken him within the last week," decided Milo. "So, we know when. What we must now determine is how and why and precisely what."

Once more, the three humans and two felines entered the Ehleen's mind and vainly strove to probe farther. At length, Milo sank back, perspiration beading his forehead.

"It's no use! Even with the cats, we just haven't the mental force necessary. That thing is unnaturally strong."

"Milo, Hari," Mara asked hesitantly. "How about Al-dora? True, she's untrained, but we're here to guide her and she has demonstrated fantastic strength and ability ..."

When Aldora entered, she was still dangling her loaded sling and a pouch of stones for it hung around her neck. "You mind-called, Lady Mara."

"Yes, child," Hari answered. "We have need of your powers."

Chapter 22

When it was finally over, Aldora looked at them wonderingly. "There is much that puzzles me. This man or being, this Titus Backstrom, he thinks in Ehleenokos, but he thinks of strange places and unbelievable things and he is surely no Ehleen. And, too, he thinks, sometimes, words and phrases and names that are framed hi a language of utter strangeness. It is like to our tongue—of the Horsepeople, I mean—but oddly different. It... it must be terrible to be as he is ..."

"What do you mean, dear?" prompted Mara. "Being someone that you are not for so many years, inhabiting another's body and . . . and now . . . not even fully inhabiting that. He ... he can only withdraw from this body," she indicated the inert form of Lord Alexandras, "if it is conscious, you see. He expected it to be killed, knew that that would be dangerous to him, but he had done such things before and had planned to withdraw whilst it was dying, but still conscious. As it happened, he was only able to retrieve but little of his mind, before it became senseless and the way was closed. Now, he is terribly frightened that you will slay the body, without allowing it to regain consciousness, in which case, his mind can never re-enter the body—which, while not his own, he has become accustomed to. And if he cannot return in the body he has been using, to the place where is his own real body, he cannot return to it, when his work is done . . ." Aldora trailed off, seeming to but half-understand what she had said.

"Hari," asked Milo urgently, "is there no way that I can project through her?"

Blind Hari shook his head. "No. Not even I can. There are many differences between her mind and ours."

Milo turned back to Aldora. "Child, is it possible for you to ascertain where the controller's body—the one he left to enter this old man's, I mean—is located now?"

After a moment, she said, "In the camp of the Iron-shirts, War Chief Milo."

Rapidly, Milo gave Mara and Hari instructions on how to keep Lord Alexandras unconscious, without either killing or waking him, then helped them to move the old man into the rear of the lodge, onto a sleeping pallet. Striding back to the lodge entrance, he stuck out his head and called for Hwil Kuk and the commander-of-hundred, who had accompanied Lord Alexandras' escort. Shortly, the escort-commander hurried out, mounted, and spurred toward the outskirts of the camp, escorted for his mission by Horsekiller.

When Milo had finished speaking, Djeen Mai slammed his big right fist into his left palm, then nodded slowly. "Witchcraft! I should've known. My lord has been strangely unlike himself these past few days, but I thought it was something else."

"What?" demanded Milo. "What untoward has happened?"

Mai looked around self-consciously. "Well," he said hesitantly, "I promised I'd tell none other, but . . . Well, nearly a week ago, just before we left Theesispolis, a man who had once, briefly, served my lord drifted into camp. He brought word that Lord Sergjos, my Lord's only living son, is a gravely wounded captive of the infamous pirate, Pardos, Lord of the Sea Islands. My lord told me this in confidence, ere he went back lo his tent to talk further with the man, Titos. What he was told then must have been ill indeed—or so I thought—for he has behaved oddly since."

Milo's eyes narrowed. "Where is this man, this Titos, now?"

"He is in our camp," replied Mai. Then, his brow furrowing, he added, "And that, too, is odd, devilish odd. He took sick on the same night he spoke with my Lord. He has remained in a swoon since then. I was for leaving him behind, but my Lord insisted he be brought with us. He lies, now, in that wagon which carries him on the march."

Titos was lifted from the wagon, tightly bound and placed in a horse-litter, then conveyed back to the War Chiefs lodge. Inside the front section of the lodge, he and Lord Alexandras, also bound, were placed side-by-side on the carpet. Then the group—Milo, Mara, Kuk, Hari, Mai, Sam Tchahrtuhz, Aldora, and the two cats—waited for one or both to regain consciousness.

Milo was well into his second cup of wine before he noticed that the muscles of Titos' bare arms were straining against the bonds; all at once, they relaxed completely; and, shortly after that, Lord Alexandras opened his eyes.

"Hari, Aldora," Milo mindspoke hurriedly. "Is there any way to force Titos back to his own body?"

Hari "conferred" briefly with the girl before he "spoke." "Yes, Milo, I think so. If we could but put the body in sufficient peril, I think that Titos would 'voluntarily' return, for—as has been said—he can only return to his own, real, body—wherever it may be—from the body of Titos."

"Why," snapped Lord Alexandras, "am I bound? If you savage pigs mean to kill me, get it over with! And what is your purpose in dragging my poor, sick former servant here?"

On a hunch, Milo said, "Don't try to con us, Backstrom. Don't put us on. We've got your number! Furthermore, we're gonna cool you, baby, liquidate you—both-of you—permanently!"

He had the satisfaction of seeing "Lord Alexandras" momentarily pale. Then the Strahteegohs growled, "If you must speak to me, you savage dog, bark in a dialect I can understand!"

Milo switched back to Old Merikan. "Oh, you understand me well enough, Mr. Backstrom. Also, I'm beginning to remember some things and I think I understand a bit more about you." Then, addressing himself to all in the lodge, Milo said, "Before The Great Catastrophe—as the Ehleenoee so aptly name it—Kehnooryohs Ehlahs was but a part of one of the states of a gigantic nation which stretched for thousands of leagues—east to west and north to south.' Though the civilization of that pre-cata-strophic era was far higher than anything in existence today, those who inhabited the world then, and benefited— or suffered, as the case may be—from that civilization were not gods, or anything resembling them. They were but men as yourselves.

"The search for knowledge of the universe and everything in it—which was called 'scientific research'—had advanced quite far in all conceivable directions. One of these was the search for immortality and, since the 'scientists' as they were called, had been unable to go very far along the road of true physical immortality, they had commenced a search for ways to make at least the mind immortal. One of these ways, as I remember, was a process in which the mind of an aged person could be transferred to a younger body. When knowledge of these experiments—which had been financed by the nation's government with funds which had been taxed from all its citizens —accidentally became public knowledge, it was labeled 'scientific vampirism' and so heatedly did the great masses of the citizens object, that the project was, supposedly, dropped.

"This all occurred some two or three years prior to The Great Catastrophe and details of this devilish enterprise were fairly well known in some circles. That is how I came by the following facts: Although some sort of mechanical contrivance was necessary to effect the initial mind-transfer, subsequent transfers and re-transfers could be accomplished by the parasitic mind alone, under certain unalterable conditions. To transfer, the parasite's brain must be conscious and the prospective host's unconscious; to return or re-transfer, the parasite's true brain must be unconscious, while the host's parasite-occupied brain was conscious. This is why Mr. Backstrom, here, could not quit Lord Alexandras, until he had been allowed to regain his senses.

"I know my statements to be truth for this reason: When first he regained consciousness and I spoke to him, I addressed Lord Alexandros/Titus Backstrom in highly idiomatic American English and he understood! Though this tongue was the direct ancestor of Old Merikan and the other Merikan dialects, it differs markedly from any thing spoken today and too few books have survived half a millenium for any to have been able to learn, even were they, by some miracle, capable of reading them. Therefore, we can only surmise that we are dealing with a pre-Catastrophic mind."

"Unless," said Mara aloud, "he is like us___"

"That, Mara, is what I mean to ascertain," Milo stated. "As all know, we Undying may suffer terrible wounds, but we never die of their effects, due to our bodies' regenerative abilities; so, one of the surest tests for detecting one of us is to open an important artery or large vein and wait to see if the wound closes before the suspect bleeds to death. That is what I intend to do here.

"We will untie Titos/Titus' body's hands. After tying the body of Lord Alexandras, quite immovably, on the other side of the lodge, I shall open the other body's left femoral artery. I shall place materials, from which tourniquet and bandages may be fabricated, near to the hands of the wounded body. Then, we shall wait. We shall just wait, Mr. Backstrom. The next move will be up to you." "You're all insane!" snarled Lord Alexandras, as Milo and Hwil Kuk lashed him to the wooden wall of the lodge. "If you murder my old friend, you'll live to regret it!"

When the carpets were turned back, an oiled skin was placed over the floorboards and the Titos body was untied, unclothed, and laid upon it. Mara prepared several strips of cloth and folded a couple into thick compresses. Milo laid them, a pair of rawhide thongs and a foot-long wooden stick neatly beside the body's right hand. Then, with the blade of his sgain dubh, he stabbed the inside of the thigh, halfway between knee and crotch. The withdrawal of the knife brought a spurt of bright red blood.

Arising, he returned to the others and, with them, sat sipping wine and studiously ignoring the virtual litany of curses, threats, orders, imprecations and, finally, pleas, from Lord Alexandras' lips. As no one heeded any of his utterances, the Strahteegohs at last fell silent.

All at once, the naked body sat up, hurriedly tied one of the thongs between the wound and the body on the hairy thigh, inserted the stick and began to tighten it.

When the rawhide was biting deeply into the flesh and the bloodspurts had slacked to a trickle, he attempted to hold the stick and apply a compress at the same time. He failed
at both. The tourniquet unwound and, when the blood recommenced to spurt, he panicked, addressing Milo in the ancient vernacular.

"Oh, God damn you, you dirty bastard! Help me, I can't do it alone. I'm not one of your blasted mutants! This damned body's about to bleed to death; it's already getting weaker."

"It must have been whilst I was out talking to Djeen that night, that the swine slipped something into my wine. For, when I wakened—if you can call it that—he was there, within and in complete control of me! Though I knew all that he had my body say and do, I was helpless. What is he? Why did he do it?" asked Lord Alexandras.

"I don't know why yet," replied Milo grimly. "But I will, soon! As to who he is, he is a hundreds-of-years-old mind, that remains 'alive' by invading and usurping the bodies of others—God alone knows how many human beings he's victimized, since he began his noisome career. But he'll tell us that, too, before I'm done with him!"

Milo mindspoke Chief Djeri, issuing certain instructions, then he addressed Titos/Titus.

"There are some things I'd know of you, Backstrom. If you'll be cooperative and give me truthful answers to my questions, we can remain civilized. If not, I suppose we'll just have to see how much punishment that body of yours can endure."

The captive's answer was short and couched in ancient Anglo-Saxon words.

Hwil Kuk and Mai hustled the naked man out of the lodge and held him fast until the chiefs had completed the preparations. While a half dozen of the chiefs were en­gaged in securing the struggling man to the heavy, wood­en frame, Milo called Hwahlis of Linsee over.

"Take or send Aldora back to your lodge, Hwahlis," he told the chief. "I've the feeling that this one will be long and hard. In any case, it won't be pretty and there's no need for the child to see it."

Nodding in agreement, Chief Hwahlis turned his daughter over to one of the Linsee clansmen, before he rejoined the knot of chiefs near the fire.

Milo conferred, foFsome little time, with Lord Alexan­dras—who seemed still a bit dazed—and Djeen Mai, then strolled over to talk with some of the chiefs. At last, he came to stand before the spread-eagled captive.

"Backstrom," he said slowly, "we are born of the same era. I suppose you are—or were—some variety of scien­tist. As such, you must realize that any human body is capable of sustaining just so much pain, then it will die; its heart will cease to function. Over the centuries, I have unfortunately found it necessary to torture a number of persons, also I have watched expert professionals perform the functions of their unpleasant trade. I don't know whether or not you suffer with this body, but I assume that you probably do.

"Many of the people of our age were soft, Backstrom. I, too, was soft—once. But I'm not soft anymore! Further­more, I despise you and everything for which you stand. Because of my extensive experiences, I believe myself capable of keeping this body alive for a long, long time— as long as it takes to get some answers from you at least. Because of the fact that you are a despicable creature, I shall probably enjoy what I'm going to do to you, enjoy it so much, in fact, that I may find it difficult to make my­self stop, even when you start to talk.

"Therefore, I implore you—for your own sake or, at least, for the sake of this body which houses you—to re­consider your previous, somewhat temerarious, reply."

"Up you!" Titos/Titus sneered. Then he spat at Milo.

Chapter 23

When the spear blade was hot enough—when it glowed a pale-pink, held away from the fire—Milo had four of the wiry chiefs hold the prisoner rigid, while another re­moved the bloody bandages from the deep gash in the the thigh. Then the War Chief wrapped a scrap of wet hide around the blade's tang, turned, grasping the nearly white-hot metal, and walked over to the man on the torture-frame.

Titos/Titus' wide eyes never left Milo as, without another word, he clapped the hot blade onto the area of the wound! Had it not been for the lashings securing ankles and wrists, the four chiefs could never have held the prisoner. Grimly, they hung on, half-deafened by the screams which tore from between Titos' writhing lips, or splattered by the mucus which gushed from the tormented man's nostrils.

Milo held the iron hi place for the space of five heartbeats, then removed it and, without even looking at his victim, walked back over to the fire and thrust the blade back into the embers. Fishing another bit of hide from the water bucket, he selected another spear blade and, holding it before him, went back to confront the sobbing, gasping, shuddering captive.

"Well, Mr. Backstrom," he said conversationally, "now you are aware that I mean business. May I say that I have seldom done a better job of wound-cauterization. But, medical matters aside, where would you prefer me to apply this iron? The left eye, perhaps?" As the blushing blade-tip approached his face, the prisoner, moaning in horror, bent his head back and back, screwing his eyelids tight-shut. That was the moment that Milo chose to lay the red-hot blade in his subject's hairy arm-pit, a maneuver which evoked a very satisfactory response from said subject.

For nearly two hours, Milo and the chiefs and Alexandras and Djeen Mai kept up the grisly task. Between screams, Titus/Titos sobbed prayers and curses, the like of which Milo had not heard hi more than half a] thousand years. At length, just before midnight, the bro-; ken, blackened, bloody thing indicated its willingness to answer Milo's question and the War Chief had it cut; down from the charred frame.

Milo hunkered beside the wreckage that had been called Titos and poured a trickle of wine down the screamed-raw throat. Then, setting the wine cup down between them, said, "Alright, you parasitic bastard, talk! What were you up to, anyway, in taking over Lord Alexandras? It appeared you were either trying to get him killed or precipitate a pitched battle between his people and my tribe. Or, could it have been both?"

Milo had to strain to hear the hoarsely gasped answer.

"Either would've . . . been ac . . . acceptable, both better," came the reply from betwixt the Titos thing's chewed, charred lips. "Water ... or ... or wine? Please . . . ?"

Milo picked up the cup, holding it before Titos' remaining eye. "When you tell me this, you mental leech, why. Who put you up to it? The so-called High Lord?"

"No, not De . . . metrics. 'S part of ... plan. Th' directors were . . . 'fraid Lord Alexandras . . . unite bar . . . barbarian indigenes 'n Greeks, b'fore we ready. Maybe even Black Kingdom, too . . . make one . . . whole Atlantic Coast . . . dangerous f us. Then . . . found out you mu . . . mutant, from twentieth cen . . . tury. Had to . . . move fast. . . c'd'n fool you. Y'd know . . . science, not witch . . . craft. No time . . . lay groundwork . . . communicate, Trout you ... get help. Drink? PI ... please?"

MDo bent and lifted the hairless, mutilated head and held the cup so Titos might drink. He allowed the tortured hulk two swallows, then took the cup away.

"Okay, Backstrom, next question. Who are you?" Titos' one-eyed gaze shifted. "You . . . you know . . . a'ready. 'M Titus Backstrom."

Milo drew his dirk, found one of Titos' fingers that still retained a fingernail, and jammed the dirk-point far under said nail. When, after a while, Titos' last moans had subsided, the War Chief remarked, "Don't get cute with me, you son-of-a-bitch! It would only take one word from me to have you back up on that goddamn frame, you know. And the next time around, I won't take you down so soon. 111 give you another swallow of wine. Then I'11 ask the question again. One more facetious remark, and you'll spend the next few hours where and how you spent the last two. Get me?"

Driving his blood-tipped dirk into the ground, he once more lifted Titos' head and allowed him two more swallows. "Who are you, Backstrom? Whom do you represent? Where are these 'directors' and of what are they directors?"

"Titus Backstrom . . . really m' name, Doctor of Science . . . psychologist. Was Research Assistant . . . AMIR Project J & R Kennedy Science Center. Project never really stopped . . . went underground. Shelters . . . whole Center . . . fallout . . . lived through it. D'veloped vaccines . . . fight plagues . . . pigmentation viruses, too. Kept Center area sealed . . . years . . . finally let 'nough outsiders hi ... form breeding stock . . . new bodies, f minds worth saving . . . scientists, others . . . chosen by directors."

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 Alexandros 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 Alexandros  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 Alexandros 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 Kahtahphrak-toee 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 Alexandros (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 Alexandros 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.

It seemed that King Mahrtuhn had laid his last ounce of silver on this one throw of the dice. He had virtually stripped his own personal lands and cities—even to the extent of cleaning out prisons and offering amnesty in return for military service in this venture. He had squeezed his vassals as hard as he dared and hired every condotta he could contact. Furthermore, he was leading his army—huge to the point of being a bit unwieldy— himself! His heavy and light infantry numbered some five thousands—the heavy being mercenaries and the light being well-equipped, but mostly ill or untrained jail-scrapings and impressed civilians. He had hired eight thousand mercenary dragoons (Kahtahphraktoee to the Ehleenoee) and these, with the armed nobles and their personal troops, gave him a force numbering something over sixteen thousand men. In his haste to reach the vicinity of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs before Alexandros and the nomads, he had recklessly divided his forces and Milo and the Strahteegobs immediately came to agreement on a way to give the kinglet cause to regret his rashness. "Divide et Vincit!"

Chapter 24

Count Normun was seething with suppressed anger and felt himself to be much put-upon. It was most unfair, he felt, for his cousin, King Mahrtuhn, to go galloping off and leave him in nominal command of the foot-troops and baggage-train. Realizing that anything vaguely resembling honor or glory or loot would be over and done long before he and his "command" came up, and sulking in consequence,   he  had  allowed  the  interval—originally about a day's march—between the head of his column and the tail of the bulk of the cavalry to nearly double. The heads of the drums were covered and the troops sauntered along the roadway at whatever pace suited them. Their pikes were carried slanted at every angle and, as the weather was quite warm, many had removed their helmets and unlaced their brigandines. The lack of any semblance of discipline or order was contagious and was even beginning to spread into the ranks of Captain Looisz Klahrk's twelve hundred mercenary heavy infantry.

Count Normun sat slouched in his saddle, one knee crooked around the pommeL He was discussing various aspects of the hunting of deer with Captain Klahrk, who— though the younger son of a younger son and, consequently, landless—was nobly-born and spoke the same "language" as his titular commander.

Although his own hard-bitten troops—despite the best efforts of their brutal but effective non-coms—were commencing to break ranks and straggle in emulation of the light infantry, Klahrk felt little cause for worry. The two columns of cavalry, which had preceded this one, were sure to have gone through this country like a dose of salts and any living human beings left in their wake were probably still running. Seasoned campaigner that he was, he had taken certain precautions, ordering three tens of the hundred dragoons, originally detailed as baggage-wagon guards, to position at point and flanks, and yet another ten to remain several hundred yards behind the last of the lumbering wagons and the gaggle of camp-followers.

Captain Klahrk was in the process of regaling Count Nonnun with the story of an exceptionally exciting shaggy-bull hunt in which he had taken part some years before in the Principality of Redn. All at once, both his horse and the count's screamed and reared. Klahrk managed to retain his seat, but the count was hurled onto the stones of the roadbed and only his helmet saved him from a fractured skull.

As Klahrk fought to control his maddened mount, the woods on both sides of the column began to resound the deadly thruuummm of bowstrings and the ah- was abruptly thick with hard-driven arrows. Twenty-five yards back, a pair of huge-boled trees crashed down on the already-disordered infantry, squashing them like bugs. And the arrows continued to ssiisshh their song of death, coming in on a flat trajectory and—seemingly of their own volition —cunningly seeking out every gap of unlaced brigandine, every heknetless head or unprotected throat, skewering arms and legs and faces. No sooner had Klahrk brought his arrowed horse under control, than the poor beast was struck again. At that point, Klahrk gave up, slipped his feet from the stirrups and leaped onto the roadway. There, he drew his sword and, seemingly heedless of the feathered death hissing around him, commenced to try to whip his troops into a formation of sorts, to repel the cavalry charge which was sure to follow the arrow-storm.

Impelled by his valiant example, those of his sergeants still on their feet emulated him, and soon the familiar curses and threats lulled the men's panic somewhat Shortly, his condotta had begun to form—their twelve-: foot pikes properly slanted and faced toward the south, the only feasible route for an attack of cavalry. As the fire of the arrows abated to some degree, the kneeling front rank announced that they could feel the vibration of many hoofs, transmitted by the road-stones; Klahrk and his non-coms redoubled their efforts, for the more depth the formation possessed, the better then- chances were of stopping the horsemen.

Soon everyone could feel the thud-thudding of the approaching attackers. Then, war cries became audible and the veteran pikemen braced themselves, their earlier panic dissipated. The horses and then" shouting, screaming, cursing riders drew closer and closer and, at any moment, Klahrk and his condotta expected to see the first fours come galloping around the bend in the road. They waited, every man's nerves drawn tight as a bowstring. Then came an unfamiliar bugle call.

It was the crackling and crashing in the dark, roadside woods that first announced to Klahrk that he was about to be flanked.

"Porkypine!" he roared to his underlings. "Column one, right, FACE, Column ten, left, FACE. Columns one and ten, KNEEL! Columns one and ten, low slant, PIKES!"

And the discipline of drill-field and battlefield did the rest. In short order, the survivors of Klahrk's condotta presented a facade of bristling pike-points, very reminiscent of the animal the formation emulated. But it was all in vain, for—when at last delivered—the charge was not against Klahrk's dangerous veterans, but, rather, against the milling, all but helpless light infantry, who clogged the road behind them.

The heavy-armed Grey Horse Squadron wreaked truly fearful casualties  among the  already-terrified  amateur jjoldiers. Hundreds went down under the dripping swords (and those who did not ran squalling in every direction— pursued relentlessly by the grim, iron-scale-armored men Jon the big grey horses. Discarding everything which might, in any way, retard them, the fugitives ran northward toward the comparative safety of the baggage-train. Some reached it, only to discover that they had fled the fangs of the wolf and escaped into the jaws of the panther! For, by then, the nomads had already slain the wagoneers and their guards and most of the camp followers, had looted what they could carry, and were commencing to set fire to what they could not transport. They fell on the light infantrymen with gusto!

Pinned down as he was by the recommenced arrow-fire, Captain Klahrk had made no attempt to go to the aid of the light infantry. Besides, he had rationalized, what good would it have done, anyway? Who ever heard of infantry attacking mounted cavalry? He had—at great personal risk—strapped a body-shield to his back, run out, and dragged the semi-conscious Count Normun back—only to have an arrow kill the nobleman as he was lifting him over the forwardmost file of pikemen. Doggedly, he held his impregnable formation, even as the rising billows of smoke announced the firing of the wagons.

Then, all around his porkypine, bone-whistles shrilled and the arrows ceased to fly. Down from the north, trotted a column of disciplined—if somewhat blood-splashed cavalry—dragoons on grey horses. They halted at a hundred yards' distance. More of the ominous crashing indicated that additional cavalry were within the cover of the woods. Around the bend of the road, from the south, appeared the vanguard of what seemed to be a sizable number of light cavalry—western nomads, from the look of them.

Klahrk was of the opinion that he was about to fight his last battle and was mentally framing a stirring address to his doomed command when, out of the dragoons' ranks, a vaguely familiar man rode forth, to rein up just beyond the pike-points.

The rider—by dress, obviously an officer—lowered his beavor and shouted, "By God, you bastards are professionals or I'm a bit of mule's dungl Whose fornicating j company is this?"

Klahrk shouldered his way through the ranks of his men. "Mine!" he shouted. "Looisz Klahrk's. Who wants to know?"

Then he saw the horseman's face at close range. "Djeen!" He grinned, hugely. "Djeen Mai! Why you old boar, you! I'd have thought that the law-keepers, somewhere, would have caught and hung you long since; if a jealous husband or vengeful father hadn't beaten them to it. If you engineered this ambuscade, my compliments, it was beautifully designed and executed. King Mahrtuhn'll be excreting red-hot pokers when he hears of it. You cost me a good three hundred killed and wounded. But I've still enough to take a fair toll of . . ."

Djeen raised his hand. "Hold on, hold on, old friend. I've no desire to fight you! Tell me, has King Mahrtuhn paid you?" At Klahrk's nod, he went on.

"I'm in service to Lord Alexandras of Pahpahs, who means to make himself High Lord of Kehnooryohs Eh-lahs—all of it, as it was three hundred years ago, if I know My Lord—and think of the pickings of that!"

Klahrk frowned and shook his head. "Djeen, if you're hinting that I change sides—foreswear my oath to save my hide—forget it. I swore King Mahrtuhn three months service and took his gold and I'll not go back on my word to him. As well as we know each other, in fact, I'm surprised that you would suggest such a thing to me!"

"Well," Djeen sighed, "it was just a thought. But there are different ways to serve an employer, Looisz. For instance, there're a goodly number, I doubt me not, of wounded back there." He hooked his thumb northward. "They're in serious need of attention. They really should be gotten back to Kuhmbrulun. What of your stores we didn't lift, will be burned to the axles by the time you get to them, and you're going to play pure hell, trying to march on without them through a countryside the dragoons have already picked clean! Then, too, I'd not be at all surprised but what the Prince of Fredrik was very interested when our messengers informed him that damned near every mother's-son in Kuhmbrulun was deep in the heart of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs. Yes, Looisz, there're many, many different ways of serving one's employer." Djeen reined half around and extended his right hand to grip that of his old friend. "I lost half a dozen troopers," he said in parting. "I'll leave their mounts for you and your sergeants. You needn't fear for the safety of any messengers you should decide to send south—if you do so decide; they'll be passed, never you worry."

While they had been conversing, the nomads had clattered off, headed south and west. When Djeen rejoined his command, the squadron left the littered, blood-splotched road and were soon lost to sight, in the forest.

By the time Klahrk's men had done what they could for the wounded and salvaged what little they were able to salvage of the stores in the merrily blazing wagons, the mercenary captain had come to a decision. He carefully drilled one of his sergeants, until the man could repeat the message word for word three times running. Then he gave him one of the grey horses and sent him southward at a gallop to seek out Duke Herbut, commander of the main contingent of dragoons.

The nomads had driven off most of the horses and oxen and mules, but a few had been unavoidably slain; these, Klahrk had his men flay and butcher; then set them to cooking the meat, ere it began to spoil.

Remembering the topography of the country they had traversed, he and his condotta—bearing with them the wounded and such supplies and equipment as they possessed—withdrew a half-mile up the road. There, on a meadow which was near to an adequate source of water, they ditched and mounded the outline of a castra in which to spend the night Early in the morning, they set about palisading it with logs, hewed in the nearby forest and snaked out by men and the five horses.

When, nearly three days later, Duke Herbut and some six thousand cavalry arrived, it was before a stout little emergency fort. After he and captain Klahrk had conferred briefly, the duke detached two squadrons to escort infantry and wounded on their trek north, then he and the other four squadrons spurred hard for Kuhmbru-lun.

When word was brought to the council, the chiefs roared and hugged each other and danced joyfully. Djeen Mai and Sam Tchahrtuhz beat their thighs and howled their merriment. Even undemonstrative old Lord Alexan-dros allowed himself a broad smile of satisfaction at this unqualified success of his brain-child.

"So," commented Milo, when the hubbub had died down, "they swallowed it, hook, line, and bloody sinker! Well, deduct six thousand Kahtahphraktoee and deduct the thousand or so who survived the ambush and deduct the four thousand casualties that Djeen estimates we inflicted, and your remainder is about five thousand cavalry. They're completely unsupported and they've lost the bulk of their supplies; they're nearly forty leagues deep in basically hostile territory with a ravaged countryside behind them. I shouldn't think they'd present any appreciable danger to us, not unless the others come to realize the deception when they arrive in Kuhmbrulun, and hotfoot it back to reinforce. Barring that, we should be able to crush or scatter this kinglet's troops at will."

But Lord Alexandras shook his white head. "I beg pardon, my lord Milos, but I must disagree with you; furthermore, I implore you not to underestimate King Mahrtuhn's abilities, for he is quite an able strahteegos. He rode ahead with the bulk of the nobility, not for personal glory, but because they are the most effective and formidable men that he has. Like your nomads, these men are, from the very cradle, bred to war and most are masters of every conceivable weapon. They are courageous and hard fighters, possess a strict and highly complex code of honor, and are altogether worthy and dangerous foemen. Djeen, here, is nobly-born, being a nephew of the Duke of Pahtzburk; so, too, is Sam Tchahrtuhz, the natural son of the former Count of Zunburk.

"Noblemen, generally speaking, sire huge broods, and this is very necessary, for they tend to kill each other off at a prodigious rate. Their states are small, inherently hostile to each other, and voraciously land-hungry. It is probable that, within the last three hundred years, there have been but few twelve-months that did not see a conflict—of greater or lesser magnitude—somewhere within the north-barbarian states!

"As the land has been warred over for so many years, it is nowhere near as productive—in the senses of agriculture or husbandry—as even the border themes of the Ehleenoee lands; but, for all that, most of the so-called barbarian states are well-off, if not wealthy. The reason for this is that every city and, frequently, town has its shops and manufactories. Prior to the arrival of the tribe, I would, for instance, have felt it safe to say that fully eighty of every hundred swords swung from the South Ehleen lands to the North Ehleen Republic had blades produced in the Kingdom of Harzburk, or the Kingdom of Pitzburk or the Grand Duchy of Bethlemburk! Those three and their neighbors also produce a plethora of metal products—tools and utensils as well as weapons, not to mention the best and most modern of armor—not this heavy, clumsy, old-fashioned loricate or jazeran, mind you; but brigandines and cuirasses very similar to those of your people. But where yours are of leather, theirs are of steel! Also, the statelets produce glass, work gold and silver and fabricate jewelry.

"All in all, they are truly a gifted people and little deserve the appellation of 'barbarian.' Considering thek technical skills and thek military abilities, if they could stop fighting amongst themselves and present a united front, they could soon be the masters of all the Ehleenoee lands and the Black Kingdoms as well.

"No, Lord Milos, do not underestimate the danger that King Mahrtuhn and his nobility represent. I thank God that our ambush and the trick which followed it were successful. For, had they not been, we'd have been wiped out, had we been sufficiently stupid to stand and fight!"

But as it developed, the confrontation Lord Alexanc so dreaded did not come to pass, not that year. On receipt of certain information, King Mahrtuhn and nobles and men cut cross-country to the Trade road ; spurred for Kuhmbrulun as fast as horseflesh could bear them, not even taking time to loot the areas through which they passed. Mahrtuhn could no longer afford to interfere in an Ehleenoee civil war, as he and his retinue now had one of thek own to attend. His informants had brought the sad news that his brother, Duke Herbut, had gathered what few nobles remained in the kingdom and overawed or bought them. However it had been accomplished,  he  had  usurped  Mahrtuhn's   throne,   declared Mahrtuhn   and  his  chief  supporters  outlaw,   and  was busily hiring troops  and fortifying the capital city.  It seemed that Mahrtuhn had not only lost his stakes, but the dice as well!

Chapter 25

From Village and from cabin, Rushed those loyal to our Lord. And, fitting scythe to pike-shaft, Joined our column, at his word. And the High Lord's spies did tremble, As our numbers swelled and soared. When we marched east from Theesispolis.

—Ehleenoee Marching Song

Something less than two weeks after Demetrios' tantrum, his understrength navy boarded its three best ships, scuttled the others, and beat thek way down river, bound for the sea. With them went the High Lord's last hope of escape.

His retinue of former sycophants took to avoiding his company as much as possible, for all who knew him ex-oected the knowledge that he was trapped to drive him >ver the edge into true madness. But it did not. Oddly inough, the realization that he was doomed did what his Father and the strahteegohee had never been able to do— t made a real man of him. At the eleventh hour, the Demetrios-who-should-have-been belatedly emerged from the gross, debauched cocoon which had held him for so many years. And that perverted, self-seeking coterie who had influenced and guided him were stunned to discover that no longer had this High Lord need or use for them, no longer could they control or even predict his actions.

The first to meet—to his sorrow—this new High Lord, was Teeaigos, Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, a languid creature a couple of years older than the High Lord. He had attained the position by flattery, and "performance" of his "duties" had made of him a fabulously wealthy man. On the day of his downfall, he was impatiently listening to the justifiable complaints of Ser-geant-Major Mahrk Hailee, commander of the White Horse Squadron, concerning the all-time low quality of the rations just issued his troops—weevil-crawling flour, three-quarters rotted vegetables and stinking, overaged meat, and not one ounce of oil or wine.

When the non-com's flow of heated words had ceased, Teeaigos waved his white, gilded-nailed hands negligently. Though his painted lips smiled, his eyes were cold and uncaring. "If your barbarian swine don't like the good food—really, far too good, for the likes of them—that my quartermaster issues, let them eat their horses; after all, what good are the smelly beasts, pray tell."

The occupants of the headquarters included Teeaigos, his two secretary-clerks, Sergeant-Major Hailee and his adjutant, and two representatives of the Civil Guard who were awaiting a hearing. None of them had noticed the quiet entrance of another figure. The newcomer was half-armored—helmet of ancient-Ehleenoee design, breast-and-back and articulated pauldrons of finest Harzburk steelplate, scale-back gauntlets secured to tight-fitting vam-braces of watered steel; the kilt was of blue-dyed canvas brigandine and fell to the knee; and on his left hip was belted a heavy, cut-and-thrust sword, while a dagger with wide, leaf-shaped blade jutted its hilt over his right hip. No one trace of cosmetic remained on his face and, under 1 the cheek-plates, his beard had been shaved, its last remnant being a blue-black spike, which jutted from his chin. Even when the figure strode across to stand before the Lord High Strahteegohs, he went unrecognized until he spoke. In a deceptively soft tone, he said, "Teeaigos, do you no longer arise when your superiors enter; or has this office, which I stupidly gave you, so swelled your head, that you feel yourself to have no superiors?"

Teeaigos lumbered to his feet. "My ... my Lord!" he stammered, nonplussed by sight of an armed and armored Demetrios. "I ... I did not know, my Lord. Pardon, but.. . but as sensitive as is my Lord's skin, isn't he terribly uncomfortable id such barbaric attire?"

Not one whit so uncomfortable as you soon will be, my false friend, thought the High Lord. But he said, "Discomfort is of little consequence, when the city and its people lie in such danger. Tell me, Teeaigos, if the White Horse Squadron are to help defend this city, why were they served up with such shoddy fare?"

Teeaigos squirmed uneasily; then, putting on a bold front, said, "My Lord must know, the war chest is all but empty. The quartermaster purchased what he could afford, I am sure. Food prices are astronomically high in the city and country. Furthermore, most merchants and fanners are insisting that they be paid in gold, and we have only silver."

Demetrios extended a gauntleted hand to lift and weigh the heavy, golden chain whose flat links rested across Teeaigos' narrow shoulders. "There was gold hi the war chest, Teeaigos. Gold from Theesispolis. What happened to it? Did it go into your new chain and armlets, perhaps?"

"Why . . . why . . . why, of course not, My Lord," Teeaigos spluttered, his face chalky under the rouge and paint. "My personal fortune ..."

"Was dissipated," Demetrios cut him off, "long years before you wheedled this sinecure out of me! Here." He brought up his other hand and, with both of them, lifted the chain over Teeaigos' head. Then he turned and handed it to Sergeant-Major Hailee.

"Perhaps, with the value of this useless bauble, you can procure decent food for your squadron." He smiled. Hailee was too shocked to answer and, as he continued silent, Demetrios frowned. "Not enough, eh? Well, take his armlets, too, then. I'll find replacements for them."

Demetrios beckoned to the elder of the two Civil Guards. When the man stood before him, he asked, "What is your name and rank, sir?"- ,

Standing at stiff attention, the fiftyish guardsman snapped his answer. "Szamyul Thorntun, Senior-Sergeant of the southeastern quarter, and it please My Lord!"

The High Lord turned to Mahrk Hailee. "Is this man trustworthy and loyal? Do you feel him to be a good commander of men?"

Hailee, though still a bit numb, had recovered to some degree. "Why . . . why, yes, My Lord. Yes to both questions."

Demetrios nodded. "In the presence of you three men," he waved his arm to include Hailee, his adjutant, and the other Civil Guard, "I, hereby, declare Szamyul Thorntun elevated to the post of Governor of the Prisons and Grand Commander of the Civil Guard. As well as partaking of all the rights and privileges of that office, he is to faithfully discharge the multitudinous duties entailed. His predecessor and this other traitor," he pointed at Teeaigos, "the Lord Governor is to have stripped, fitted with the heaviest available chains and manacles, and immured in the lowest, dankest, foulest cell in the prison; there, to await my pleasure."

"Hai . . •. Hailee, Kwinsee, quick," shouted Teeaigos frightenedly "seize him, bind him! He ... the High Lord has finally gone mad!"

Hailee didn't budge. "High Lord Demetrios sounds very sane to me, Lord Teeaigos. Saner, by far, than any other noble in this city." Then he snapped to attention.

"Has the High Lord orders for me?" he questioned Demetrios.

"Yes, sir," Demetrios answered gravely. "Though not truly orders. I have forfeited any right to order you by the disgraceful ill-treatment I've afforded you and your men. After the last five years, there is no understandable reason why you and your squadron should retain any trace of loyalty toward me; but, I pray that you do, for I have great need of you.

"You see, someone must replace Teeaigos, as Lord High Strahteegohs of this city and, sad to say, all of his peers-in-rank are of his ilk—useless, treacherous, self-seeking, and fake. I need a man who knows the city and its needs and its soldiery and their needs. I need a man of your caliber, Mahrk Hailee; but the city is doomed to fall in any case, so I cannot order you to assume the post. I can only ask you. I would consider it an undeserved, personal favor, if you would consent to become Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs. Will you, please?"

When Teeaigos had been bereft of his finery and hustled out by the new Prison Governor and his deputy, bound for a whipping and a cell, Lord Mahrk spoke. "My Lord Demetrios, as to a new commander of the Squadron, I..."

Demetrios waved a gauntleted hand. "I defer to your judgement, of course, Lord Mahrk. I freely confess that I know nothing of military matters." He shook his hel-meted head sadly. "I don't even know the basic elements regarding the use of the weapons I bear. This much, at least, I should like to try to remedy, before I die. Do ... do you think that one of your troopers could find it in bis heart to consent to teach me a little of sword-play? I ... I'd not ask it, but . . . but, you see, I mean to take active part in the fight for my city and . . . and I'd not like to give too poor a showing in this, my first and last battle."

The changes which altered Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in the ensuing weeks were sweeping. Teeaigos and his cellmate soon had company in the lower tier, a great deal of it and almost all Ehleenoee nobles, Demetrios' former cronies, one and all. In fact, such were the numbers of the new prisoners, that Lord Szamyul found it necessary to have all the former inhabitants of the lowest areas brought higher to make room for this influx of once-powerful personages. Appalled at the conditions of the starved, much-tortured, rat-chewed wretches—some of whom had not seen daylight in four and one-half years—the Prison Governor applied to the High Lord for permission to—insofar as was possible—restore them to health. He found Demetrios—clad in brigandine and plain helmet and weighted buskins, and gripping a double-heavy practice sword, with a huge, convex body-shield on his left arm— trading hard blows with the White Horse Squadron's weapons-master. There was a shallow scratch across the High Lord's right cheek and his chin-beard was stiff with dried blood, his features were uniformly red and sweat-streaked; too, he seemed to have lost a bit of weight.

When the High Lord spotted Lord Szamyul, he caught one more swipe on his shield, then stepped back and saluted the weapons-master, saying, "You must pardon me, for a moment, good friend, duty calls." Thrusting the metal-shod wooden sword through his belt, he walked over to Lord Szamyul, smiling. The Prison Governor noticed, at closer range, that, though the ruler's eyes showed weariness, both skin and eyes were amazingly clear. Demetrios looked healthier than Lord Szamyul—or anyone else for that matter—could ever remember having seen him!

Courteously, the High Lord heard his appointee out. Then he gave Lord Szamyul leave to do as he saw fit, complimented him on his recent activities and achievements and, with equal courtesy, excused himself to return to his session with the weapons-master.

The city was crowded with refugees from the countryside and their straits were desperate. When the new Demetrios was apprised of their plight, he immediately ordered the barracks, which had once housed Djeen Mai's squadron, opened to them. As this proved insufficient, he moved his black spearmen into the Palace proper, and opened their barrack, as well, to the refugees.

As the threatening army neared Kehnooryohs Athee-nahs, the prices of food were driven up and up, until starvation grimly stalked most quarters of the city. In their sumptuous residences, however, the nobles still feasted on hoarded delicacies. At least they did until the new Demetrios was informed of the situation. Then the feasters discovered that Demetrios-in-the-right could be just as swift and ruthless as Demetrios-in-the-wrong! Without warning, his soldiers swooped down, between midnight and dawn, on the quarter of the nobility. By right of the sword, they ransacked homes and cellars and out-buildings. Everything edible was carted back to the palace warehouses. Throughout the next day, the confiscations were carried out in all quarters and, shortly, the courtyard of the palace had become a stockyard—packed with lowing, bawling, excreting,  cud-chewing,  food-on-the-hoof.  Then Demetrios outlined what he wanted done. Soon, notices were being tacked up for those who could read. For those who could not, brazen-throated criers ceaselessly repeated that: In future, until the threat to the city had abated, all food was become the property of the High Lord and would be evenly rationed, twice each day, to all persons, citizen or no, equally.

The palace cooks had been put to cooking for the refugees, so Demetrios began messing with the officers of the White Horse Squadron; and, now and again, the common troopers would find the High Lord—bowl and cup in hand, still garbed in his sweat-soaked brigandine— bringing up the rear of their own slop-line. (After the first of these incidents, the preparation of the food mysteriously improved!)

The High Lord took to appearing—armed and armored, but usually unaccompanied—on the walls and on the streets at all hours, day and night. He amiably chatted with noble and soldier, citizen and refugee, man or woman or child. The first question he put to any was always the same one: What could be done to improve their lot? To all adult, male slaves, who were capable of and would swear to bear arms for the city, he granted freedom and citizenship. Of course, the nobles howled. Those who howled too loudly and too threateningly found themselves prevailed upon to partake of the High Lord's "hospitality" which was being enjoyed by Lord Teeaigos among others. After the incarceration of the loud-howlers, none others of the un-jailed nobles saw fit to even appear to question any of the High Lord's actions.

As all his advisors and high-ranking civil-servants had been imprisoned—most charged with a whole plethora of offenses against individuals, the State, or both—Deme-trios, to all intents and purposes, ruled alone. But it was not as difficult an undertaking as one might have thought, for—with the sole exception of the bulk of the nobles, whose numbers were too small to really matter—the inhabitants of his city were solidly behind him and, if they had not had the time to come to love him, they respected him. To the men of the White Horse Squadron, their High Lord was become one of themselves, and they adored him.

So matters stood on the bleak, November day that saw the appearance of the vanguard of the army and allies of the outlawed Strahteegohs, Lord Alexandros Pahpahs.

Chapter 26

Lord Alexandras' eyes goggled at his visitor, Lord High Strahteegohs Mahrk Hailee. At last, he shouted, "Has all of the world gone suddenly mad? He wants to meet me? There must be trickery somewhere! That spineless, quivering tub of flab ..."

"My Lord!" Strahteegohs Hailee cut him off, coldly courteous. "My dread sovereign, Demetrios, High Lord of Kehnooryohs Ehlahs, has bid me offer you honorable combat. This combat is to be of a personal nature and is to be fought in clear sight of the opposing forces." Hailee began to recite the rote. "Such an offer denotes courage and honor and battle-prowess, though deep respect for one's enemy is indicated hi such willingness to accept a death—if need be—at his hands." He returned to a normal tone. "My Lord realizes that he has earned your antipathy."

Lord Alexandros snorted and, glowering, started to snarl a reply. But Hailee raised his hand. "Please, my lord, have the courtesy to allow me to finish."

"Courtesy!" yelped Lord Alexandros. "Who are you to demand courtesy from me?"

Hailee drew himself to stiffly formal attention. "Lord Mahrk Hailee, High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Athee-nahs and, presently, War-Herald of my puissant Lord, Demetrios Treeah-Pohtahmohs!"

"Oh, sweet Jesus Christ!" Lord Alexandros threw himself against the canvas back of his folding camp-chair. "The world that I knew has turned upside down and no mistake! What have we here? A barbarian is Lord High Strahteegohs of an Ehleenoee city. Another is commander of that city's Civil Guard and Governor of its prison. Three quarters of that city's adult, male nobility are imprisoned. The fact that most of them have deserved at least that for years has no bearing upon the present issue. And ninety percent of the adult, male slaves have been declared to be free citizens of the city and are bearing arms in its defense.

"I arrive before city walls that I had expected to be ail-but deserted, to find them literally bristling with spearmen. For five years, this city has been misruled, as has all of Kehooryohs Ehlahs, to the benefit of certain unscrupulous noble families; yet, who are the first persons who come to me begging asylum and protection from their benefactor, but representatives of these same rapacious noble families! As late as two moons agone, Demetrios was almost universally hated. He had well earned the hatred of slaves, foreigners, citizens, soldiery, all the minor nobles, and many of the greater, especially those of the older houses; but, who comprises the group which comes to me, but representatives of all these classes, warning me that they and those that they represent will fight to the death, that I will have to pull the city down, stone by stone, to unseat their well-loved High Lord! I, who came to free them from the domination of a half-mad tyrant, am given the greeting of a foreign invader!

"And now, this! To add insult to injury, a gross, loathsome creature, whose only accomplishments consist of wine-swilling and buggery, sends me a so-called War-Herald. A thing who is Ehleenoee only by accident of birth, who doesn't know one end of a sword from the other and who probably can't even lift a shield, challenges me—Lord Alexandras Pahpahs, the foremost Strahteegohs of the age—to personal combat! Pah! On those rare occasions Demetrios is not besotted, he's so hung over that he'd have great difficulty in finding his posterior with both hands! I'll not take part in such a farcial non-combat. It would be pure butchery and would dishonor me. Tell your piggish lord: No, I'll not fight him!"

"My Lord," said Lord Mahrk, "in full realization of your advanced years, with their attendant physical debility, bade me inform you that he would as willingly face any surrogate you saw fit to choose, so long as he be Ehleenoee and nobly-born. My Lord deskes that all things be equal and he would not take unfair advantage of an age-weakened, old man."

"WHAAT?" Lord Alexandras, livid, sprang up so suddenly and violently that he sent his chair flying and all but overturned his table. "That . . . that. . . that swinish young . . . that arrogant pup! Old man, am I? Age-weakened, eh? I'll cut him in half! Ill split him, like a goddam mackerel, from crown to crotch! I'll ...

Lord Mahrk suppressed his smile. "I take it, then, that you accept my Lord's offer."

With an effort, Lord Alexandras regained control of himself. After a long moment, he chuckled, shook his head ruefully. "I fell directly into that one, like a panther into a pit! Tell me, did the High Lord of Perverts really frame those words, or were they your extemporaneous invention?"

"You have my word on it, Lord Alexandras," Lord Mahrk assured him. "Each word and nuance of phrasing originated from my Lord. It is what I was to repeat, should you see fit to refuse his honorable offer."

Lord Alexandras shrugged. "Though your word means little or nothing, of course—you and all your cursed con-dotta are well known, up and down this seaboard, to be foresworn—nonetheless, I do believe you. Demetrios chose just the proper words and tone to obtain the reaction he desired; Basil, his father, couldn't have done it better!"

It was decided and arranged. The combatants were to engage along the lines of a formal Ehleenoee duel and were to meet and exchange the customary greetings and toasts at a spot to be one hundred paces from the city walls and one hundred paces from the lines of Lord Alexandras' army. Each was to bear one javelin—unbarbed and not to exceed one meter in length or one kilo in weight. Each was to be dressed and armored in the style of the Old Ehleenoee:   tight,  white,  cotton  shirt  with  short sleeves; cotton trunk-hose of any color; high-laced, leather buskins; stiff, white linen kilt; quilted canvas cap. Their armor, too, was to be of the Old Ehleenoee pattern: the jazeran—knee-length, leather hauberk, to which were riveted overlapping iron scales; brass or iron rerebraces; elbow-length, leather gauntlets, lined or scaled with metal; molded greaves, with knee-cop; unlined steel helmet, with cheek-pieces, but no nasal, visor, or beavor. In addition to the javelins, their armament was to consist of: a double-edged sword of the ancient Thehkahehseentah pattern—a cut-and-thrust weapon with the blade ten centimeters wide, immediately below the cross-guard and tapering to a point, along a blade sixty centimeters long; a convex-surfaced body-shield of hide-covered wood, one and one-half meters high by one meter wide (when measured around the  curve of its  outer surface),  bossed  and banded and edge-shod with iron; style and numbers of daggers, dirks and/or throwing-knives, left to the discretion of the individual combatants. Each was to be conveyed to the scene in a chariot and, in addition to the chariot driver, might bring three attendants. These attendants might bear sideanns only and were to take no part in the contest.

The fight, it was understood, would be to the death: the victor, automatically becoming or remaining High Lord. There was quick agreement as to the fate of the city. Lord Alexandros had never intended to allow a sack or to execute reprisals against the bulk of the city's population. Most of those Lord Alexandros had intent to avenge himself upon, Demetrios had already jailed, therefore, they would not be difficult to find. It was agreed that if Lord Alexandros should win, the Civil Guard and White Horse Squadron would be retained in their present positions—the sole exceptions being Lords Mahrk and Szamyul, as Lord Alexandros felt Ehleenoee should fill their current posts. It was further agreed that those slaves Demetrios had freed and enfranchised should remain free citizens. Many, many smaller but no less important issues were agreed upon as well. The only request that Demetrios made, which could in any way be construed as personal, was that the tombs and remains of his parents and ancestors remain inviolate.

When Demetrios descended to the palace courtyard— fully-armed, shield slung on his back, javelin and throw-ing-stick in his right hand and helmet in the crook of his left arm—it was to find, not only his chariot and driver and the three horsemen who were to accompany him: Lord Mahrk, Lord Szamyul, and M'Gonda, leader of his Black Spearmen, but the entire White Horse Squadron. The officers and men were mounted, armored, and fully armed.

Clapping on his helmet and snapping down the cheek-pieces, the High Lord strode over to where his escort sat their horses. "What means this, Lord Mahrk?"

The Strahteegohs dismounted and said, "My Lord, those western nomads of Lord Alexandros' love to fight. I will ask once more, let us request that this battle be between opposing forces of equal strength? There are nearly eight hundreds of the White Horse...."

"And," interjected M'Gonda suddenly, "ten times twenty-three of my people. We are all yours. Let us fight with you."

Choking, Demetrios grasped each man's hand in turn. "No, I cannot. Such would be certain death for far too many of you."

"What, my Lord, do you think this madness is?" Lord Mahrk burst out. "In weeks past, you have become a middling swordsman; but Lord Alexandros is a past-master! His age means nothing; he has the muscles and wind and stamina of a man of forty. The only possible way for you to survive this, is to down him with your javelin. Barring that, you go to your death!"

"I know, Mahrk," said Demetrios softly. "I have known from the first that Alexandros would slay me. I so planned it, for I have committed crimes which only my death can expiate. All my life, excepting the past few weeks, I have lived as swine. I wish to die as a man."

So saying, he walked back to and mounted the chariot. "Let us go, Agostinos," he told the driver. "It would not do to keep your new High Lord waiting."

Lord Alexandros was first to throw his javelin. Demetrios surprised even himself by adroitly turning the missile on his shield. Then, remembering everything that M'Gonda had told him, Demetrios hurled his own. By some fluke, the assegai pierced the hide of Lord Alexandros' shield and sunk deeply into the wood and the older man freed it only just in time to take Demetrios' sword-cut on the shield and, slamming its iron boss at the High Lord's face, fend him off long enough to draw his own weapon.

They circled each other warily, Lord Alexandros talking to himself under his breath. "By God, the bastard came far too close to getting me that time! Whoever taught him to cast a dart knew what he was about. He doesn't look as fat as I'd remembered and there's strength in his sword-arm, too. He really looks much like Basil, his father. That barbarian Who calls himself Lord Mahrk was right. He is more a man, now, than ever he has been. He's the kind of fighter, the kind of ruler, he'd have been if his father had taken the time to see to the proper rearing of him. Now, let's see___HAAGGHH!"

Lord Alexandras leapt in, down-slanted shield held before him, and delivered a vicious, backhand slash at his opponent's neck. Demetrios easily caught it on his own sword and the iron-shod edge of his hard-swung shield slammed agonizingly into Lord Alexandras' exposed right side. Disengaging his blade, Demetrios hopped backward just in time to avoid the uprushing shield of his adversary. With a speed which was astounding for one of his girth, Demetrios chopped up with the inner edge of his shield, catching Lord Alexandras' and forcing it even higher, at the same time, stabbing at the spot where the elder man's hauberk stopped, an inch or so above the knee.

This time it was Lord Alexandras who hopped hurriedly back, thinking, "Sweet Jesus, the boy's fast as a greased pig! What a fighting High Lord he'd have made. Saints above, with but a few weeks training, he's come close to killing me twice over!"

After two more attacks, producing nothing more rewarding than lightening counter-attacks from Demetrios, Lord Alexandras settled to a routine of hack and slash, forehand and backhand, high and low, figure-eight and circle; but never did bis edge contact other than shield or parrying sword. When he had established an attack ^pattern and felt the time to be right, he feinted an up-' slash and ended hi a high thrust for the face; Demetrios beat the thrusting weapon against its owner's own shield, then capped the sword-sandwich with his own close-held shield, immobilizing his opponent's blade, while his own remained free.

No one of the watchers took breath. Lord Alexandros was momentarily defenseless and all realized it. Demetrios could drive his point into face or back of neck or through the lacings of Lord Alexandros' jazeran with impunity; and that would be that!

The men's strained, flushed, sweat-streaked faces were bare inches, one from the other. "Well?" panted Lord Alexandros. "Get it over with! You tortured and butchered the rest of my family. Why do you stick at me?"

"You . . . good fighter . . . good man!" gasped Demetrios. "Too bad . . . couldn't . . . been friends. Be great honor ... die by ... your hand."

Alexandros started. "You want me to kill you?" "Many sins . . ." Demetrios went on. "Heavy . . . must pay. Sat and . . . sipped wine . . . laughed . . . when your daughters . . . grandchildren . . . tormented to death. You have . . . dirk. Use it! Had many . . . things . . . done to . . . your kin." He went on to haltingly describe the gruesome and incredible brutalities which his tortures had inflicted upon the old nobleman's family until, foaming with rage, the Strahteegohs let go his hilt, drew his dirk, and plunged it into Demetrios' neck, just under the left ear! Hilt-deep, he drove the wide-bladed dirk, so that it transfixed the High Lord's thick neck—a good eight centimeters of the blade protruding from the opposite side.

Demetrios half-screamed at the bite of the steel. Dropping his sword, he wrenched Lord Alexandros' hand from the dirk. Stepping back, he saluted his slayer, then crumpled to the ground, eyes closed, lips smiling up at the sun.

Demetrios' descriptions had been accurate and revolting and Alexandros was still half-berserk and the smile further infuriated him. Furiously, he kicked at the dying man's face, then, picking up his sword, used its edge to sever the shoulder-strap of his shield, slipped free of the arm-bands, and dropped the buckler. Stepping to his fallen foe, he kicked off Demetrios' helmet, tore away the padded cap, and, raising the High Lord's head by the hair, he lifted his sword with the obvious intent of decapitating the body.

"NO!" shouted M'Gonda. With unbelievable swiftness, the black quitted his saddle, snatched a javelin from the holder on the side of the chariot, and fitted it to his silver spear-thrower. Just as Lord Alexandros' blade commenced its hard-swung descent, M'Gonda took three running steps forward and made his cast. The use of a throwing-stick imparts tremendous velocity to a javelin and such was the force of this cast that the entirety of the seven-teen-centimeters of blade length penetrated the Strahtee-gohs' exposed right side, the needle-point tearing into his mighty heart!

Seconds after he had thrown his javelin, M'Gonda's body was pin-cushioned with arrows.

For a long, long moment, there was no movement, in any quarter—all knew that one untoward motion would surely precipitate a pitched battle. Then, above the stillness, sounded a clattering-clanging thud, as Lord Mahrk dropped his round buckler. With his gauntleted left hand, he drew his broadsword and, grasping it by the blade-tip, waved it above his head before casting it down beside his shield. This done, he toed his white charger forward, to rein and dismount beside the bodies of the two Ehleenoee. Shortly, he was joined by Milo, Mara, Djeen Mai, and Lord Szamyul; and the watchers relaxed, starting to breathe again.

Lord Alexandros Pahpahs was dead, though a trickle of blood was yet running from one corner of his mouth. Djeen Mai set his foot against his slain lord's armored side and withdrew the imbedded javelin, then closed the glazed eyes and wiped the blood from the old Strahteegohs' chin. Wordless, Mara looked down on this dead, old man, trying to visualize the vibrantly alive boy she had loved so long ago.

Sadly, Lord Mahrk bent over Demetrios' body and, as gently as possible, pulled out Lord Alexandros' dirk. All at once, he straightened and reeled back, his face ashen, the dirk dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers.

"He . . . my Lord is not . . . he is still alive! He . . . he moaned when I took out the dirk!" The Lord High Strahteegohs gasped, half-unbelievingly. Milo bounded over to the downed High Lord and hastily ascertained that he was, indeed, yet sentient, not even truly unconscious. Then he noticed something else.

EPILOG

"As nearly as I can calculate, it is mid-December of the six hundred and fifty-second year of my life, 2593 A.D. It is now six hundred thirteen years since man's own folly plunged this world back to a cultural level of barbarism. What ancient man was it who said that World War IV would be fought with spears and clubs?

"Well, at least mankind will be spared that for a while yet. There just aren't sufficient people on this earth to man a world-wide war. I've no way of determining how many were left after the last of those terrible plagues had run its course; but, on the basis of what I've heard and what I've seen during my travels and such calculations as I've made, I'd say that even now—more than six hundred years after World War III, there're still far less than half a billion human beings on this old planet.

"I wonder if ever I will find the island and, if I do, what it will be like to live with none save others of my kind. What sort of government have they, I wonder—a democracy like the North Ehleenoee or a kingdom like the Karaleenoee and the South Ehleenoee and most of the barbarians; a loose confederation like my people or a representative republic, such as we helped Demetrios to set up; or is it a dictatorship like that which Backstrom described.

"And, speaking of Backstrom, that's another project which I must see to. I've the feeling that those malicious bastards will never leave us in peace. God help this world if they and their kind ever gain control of any sizable portion of it. And I think that that's what Backstrom was hinting at when he spoke of their 'not being ready, yet'!

"We'll have to get established here, first, of course; and I'll have to get my hands on a ship of some sort and some experienced mariners and do some exploring. At one time, I had a fair, Sunday sailor's knowledge of these waters, but that damned earthquake so rearranged this coast that it's barely recognizable. Demetrios has offered every assistance and building materials to help us build a city here—hell, he's even named it already, calls it Thahlah-sahpolis—but we're going to have to either drain that bloody swamp or build a road through it first. Maybe not, though; maybe we can barge cut stone down the river. Besides, although the ones above-ground are too weathered to be very useful, maybe, if we dig, we can find stones on the spot.

"Getting sleepy, so I guess I'd best call it a night. I'll have my hands full at first light, what with apportioning no more than twenty square-miles of high ground among forty-three clans. It's odd that the point of this peninsula rose, while the center sank; but that's nature for you.

"Took me twenty years to bring these people to the culmination of their dreams. God willing, a couple more hundred years will see their descendants helping me to the culmination of mine. Nonetheless, tomorrow will mark the first day of a beginning."

—From the Private Journal of Milo Moral

At last, after a migration which had consumed nearly twenty years, The-Tribe-That-Will-Return-To-The-Sea had done so.

Milo and Mara Moral, Blind Hari of Kruguh and the chiefs of all the clans sat their horses on the narrow thread of beach which marked the very tip of the peninsula, surf-foam lapping at the fore-hoofs of their mounts. Before them, as far as the eye could see, the blue-gray water heaved ceaselessly; the tide was at flow and each curling wave broke closer to the shore. The early-winter sky was overcast and grey as the tumbled, weathered stones of the ancient ruins, which brooded on the hill above the beach. Miles behind, the tribe was still toiling through the swamps, guided and assisted by Ehleenoee, who were familiar with the treacherous fens.

No communication, vocal or mental, was exchanged, as the nomads remained stock-still, their eyes drinking in the reality which their dreams and numberless generations of their ancestors' dreams were become. Milo's eyes, too, stared, but not at the sea; he strained to see beyond the horizon, hoping past hope to espy that half-mythical island, the search for which had once taken him from these people for two hundred years.

"Now," he thought, "at the end of this phase, is the beginning of the real task: to mold these fine men's descendants into sea-rovers, rather than plains-rovers. I must remember to encourage intermarriage between the Clans-people and the Ehleenoee, for the latter already possess some tradition and knowledge of seamanship, trading even with Europe. It'll probably take a few hundred years to do it right, but then, the four of us—myself and Mara and Aldora and Demetrios—have that much tune and more.

"Of course, we may be delayed for a bit, here and there. Demetrios has become a real fire-eater, since he got a taste of warfare. He hasn't said as much, but it's obvious that he wants to conquer Karaleenos and, since Zenos seems to feel that lack of aggressiveness indicates weakness, I suppose we'll have to either openly annex his lands or eliminate him and put a puppet on his throne. It would probably be as well to invest a few years in subjugating the peoples to our immediate north and west as well; do to them what we know they'd do to us, but do it first."

"God Milo?" mindspoke the Cat Chief, Dirk-Tooth (brave Horsekiller's smoke had resided in the Home of the Wind since the Battle of Notohspolis, some six months agone). "Soon, the lowest section of the way that we came will be completely covered with this bitter water. I am not as many of the cubs, I do not enjoy immersing myself in water. Can we not, now, return to the higher ground?"

Steeltooth snorted and stamped the wet sand and transmitted his agreement. "Steeltooth say go. Wind and water are cold on his legs."

"We have seen and will see for the rest of our lives," Milo broad-beamed the thought to the long line of chiefs. "Let us return and speed the clans, that they, too, may see."

Then he gave the palomino stallion his head and Steeltooth's big hooves spurned the sand as he trotted in the wake of the bounding Cat Chief.

Swords of the Horseclans

Chaper 1

Briskly, the column of horsemen trotted onto the long, ancient bridge, steel-shod hooves ringing on the worn stones. Behind them, an oncoming dustcloud heralded the advance of their army; before them, across the width of the river, the empty road wound into the dark density of a forest, beyond which rose the mountains that sheltered their foe, King Zenos of Karaleenos.

Leading the column, astride a tall black stallion of the Middle Kingdoms' breed, was a flashily attired man of uncertain age but of obvious Ehleenoee antecedents. His three-quarter armor was plated with gold, silver, and burnished copper, and his lobsterback helmet bore a nodding crest of bright red plumes. The small buckler on his left arm was also gold-plated and bore the Three Rivers sign of his house executed in turquoise. Over his left hip jutted the hilt of his sword—solid gold, pommel and quillons set with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

Some few of the men who followed were garbed in a similar manner, but most were not. Only the courtier-officers aped the impractical equipage of Demetrios, Undying High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. For the real soldiers, who constituted the bulk of the column, it was Pitzburk-plate iron-rimmed bullhide bucklers and steel-and-leather sword hilts wound with brass wire to give a better grip.

The courtiers rode on; silently, behind their perpetually smiling faces, they cursed the dust and the heat, the sweat and discomfort and thirst. But the true soldiers were troubled by other matters. They squirmed uneasily in their sweat-slicked saddles and exchanged worried glances. Those who might have communicated with their fellows by mindspeak kept their mindshields rigidly in place, for Demetrios, too, possessed mindspeak; further, he owned the power of life and death over every officer and man in the army and his temper was notoriously capricious.

Captain Herbuht Mai, commander of a thousand lancers contracted to the service of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, dropped his reins onto his big gelding's neck and commenced to tighten the points securing his helmet.

He hasn't changed, he thought. He's the same arrogant, overconfident ass that he was forty years ago when grandpa served him! By my steel, he has campaigned with Lord Milo, he should know better. Irregulars should, this very minute, be harrying, nibbling at young Zenos' army, reporting back to us of its strength ... and its weaknesses. But that pompous popinjay up there doesn't even send out flank riders or point riders, and here we are marching through hostile country.

Guhsz Helluh, a stocky, fortyish, graying man, had lifted his heavy target from its carrying hooks and was tightening the armstraps, even while his blue-green eyes attempted to peel back the tangle of forest ahead, that he might see what lay under those trees. Though his thin lips fluttered, his words were as silent as had been Mai's, for if the High-Lord took it into his head to have him executed, all of his twelve hundred Kweebai pikemen would not be enough to save him.

Damn fool, he thought. Good fighter—oh, that I admit, in personal combat. But as a strategist or tactician, he can't find his hairy arse with both hands! Three— count 'em—no less than three ambuscades in the last week, and that Undying imbecile still keeps sacrificing security for speed, hurrying good lads to their death for no good reason. He may be immune to steel, but by the Sacred Sword, the rest of us aren't! And that copulating forest could hide anything—a thousand archers or five hundred lancers, even a battery or two of catapults or spearthrowers, and we'd never see them until they were ready.

But both men were wrong in their estimates of the High-Lord. Demetrios rode fully aware of the chances he was taking ... and he was completely cognizant of the terrible cost should his judgment prove faulty.

Ever since that day, nearly two-score years ago, when he had fought his first single combat with old Aleksan-dros, goaded the aged strahteegos into giving him the death thrust that unexpectedly proved him to be immortal, then joined forces with Lord Milo and his tribe of barbarians, had he been afforded the treatment of a retarded child. True, he admitted to acting the fool in the first flush of his realization that there were but three others like himself in all Kehnooryos Ehlahs. No sooner had he granted equal status to Lord Milo, proclaimed him co-High-Lord, than his—Demetrios'—power began to flow away like water runs through a sieve. Then, Milo and his bitch of a wife chivvied him into marrying that renegade slut, Aldora. Even had he liked women, which he did not, Aldora would have been difficult for him to stomach— born an Ehleeneeas, yet she had become more of a barbarian than any other member in the tribe since her adoption into one of the clans.

I tried, he thought, squinting his eyes against the glare that the morning sun threw from his brilliant armor and shield. Gods, but I tried. Nothing is wrong with me, I have no trouble at all with a clean, beautiful boy, but sex with a filthy, incessantly yapping woman is something that a man of my refined sensibilities just cannot perform. And in thirty-odd years that slimy whore has put more horns on my head than a hundred flocks of goats could sport! She flaunts her lovers before me and, when I slew one of them, what did she do but seduce my favorite lover, ruined the poor boy for life, she did. He'd fathered three or four children on some clanswoman before he died at the intaking of Eeleeoheepolis . . . and it served the faithless pig right—he should have been tortured to death.

And when my armies took the field against the northern barbarians and the western barbarians, and during the years it took to win back the north half of Karaleenos, they made a mere puppet of me. Oh, yes, a figurehead, that's all I was! Parading the army before me, calling me captain of commanders, while they gave every meaningful order.

As his mount crossed the midpoint of the bridge, Demetrics smiled and, straightening in the saddle, stuck a heroic pose, head high and right fist on armored right thigh. Well, I bided my tune, I did; now, I've done it Now I'm in southern Karaleenos, and / will wrest it from Zenos, or every man in this army will die in the attempt! Then they'll all know that Demetrios is a man to be reckoned with. They'll...

But there was no more time for quiet thought. A sleet of arrows fell upon the head of the column and Demetrios was hard put to control his screaming, wounded horse. None of the men were injured, for the bone-tipped hunting shafts shattered on armor and would not even pierce leather. But the horses were not so well protected; two were down, hampering the column, and several more were hurt.

Captain Helluh spotted the first stone coming and instinctively raised his shield, but the foot-thick boulder was short, splashing into the river yards from the bridge downstream. The second raised a brown geyser about the same distance upstream.

"Bracketed," groaned Herbuht Mai. "The next stone will draw blood unless that ninny has the brains to retreat."

The third stone took out a yard of bridge railing and some of the flying splinters peppered Demetrios' stallion, at which the tortured horse surged forward, bit in teeth, nearly unseating his rider. Despite many misgivings, the column followed as best they could.

While his companions drew swords or readied lances or uncased darts, Mai unslung his horn and winded the signal upon which he and his lieutenants had agreed. Once, twice, thrice he blew the code, then slung the horn and drew his steel.

Seeing where he was being borne, Demetrios drew his sword—no mean feat at a full, jarring gallop—and waved it first over his head, then pointed it at the forest, meanwhile hoping that his horse would stop before he reached the border of the Witch Kingdom, three hundred miles to the south. But he need not have worried; the commander of the ambush knew well the vulnerability of dismounted archers and catapult men to cavalry attack.

Within the forest, drums rolled and, before the runaway had reached the southern end of the bridge, a mixed lot of lancers and irregular cavalry debouched from hidden trails onto the roadway. No sooner were half a hundred of the enemy on the road than they launched a countercharge.

Captain Helluh smiled grimly. Those posturing courtiers would take the brunt of the attack. It would be most interesting to see how well the amateurs received it.

They received it well enough. Any species will fight if cornered; besides, they feared Demetrios more than the enemy horsemen.

Almost before he knew it, Demetrios was in among Zenos' cavalry. His pain-maddened stallion completely bowled over the smaller, lighter mount of an irregular axman. Then the well-trained war horse went to work with teeth and hooves, savaging horseflesh or manflesh impartially. Demetrios turned a lance with his shield and throat-thrust its wielder. A dart clanged off his breastplate, then an unarmored mountain irregular—wild-eyed and bearded—was raining blow after blow with a woodsman's ax. Demetrios was able to deflect each blow with his battered shield, but found himself unable to use his sword until the stallion sunk big, yellow teeth into his opponent's unprotected thigh. The ax split the stallion's skull, but half the length of the sword had already penetrated the axman's abdomen.

Demetrios was afoot in the midst of a cavalry engagement. There was but one thing to do. Savagely, he sawed loose the armstraps with his bloody sword and dropped the bent and useless shield. A lancer thundered down upon him. Demetrios avoided the point, grasped the shaft, and jerked. Then, while the foeman was still unbalanced, he grabbed the right foot and heaved, then clawed his way up into the empty saddle.

Once on his new horse, the High-Lord found he was headed the right way. What was left of his fifty men, now outnumbered ten to one, was slowly withdrawing. Only a single blow fell upon him as he spurred his horse forward. He supposed most of Zenos' troopers thought him one of their own.

Herbuht Mai was now in the forefront of the brisk little fight, and all the courtiers were dead, having followed their lord into the enemy's ranks. The powerful captain used his shieldboss to smash a face to red ruin, while his heavy sword sheared off the arm of a lancer. A buffet on his helm set his head to swimming and he almost struck the High-Lord before he recognized him.

Inch by hard-fought inch, the little band, now less than half their original number, was forced back across the bridge. Not a horse but was wounded and hardly a man; armor and shields were hacked and shattered, swords nicked and dulled. No darts and few lances remained in use; only sword and dirk were fitted to this kind of combat. Footing for Zenos' troops was treacherous; the bridgebed was bloody-slimy and cobbled with dropped weapons and the trampled corpses of men and horses. The forest archers tried one volley, but so many of their own horsemen suffered for it that another was out of the question.

Demetrios   longed   for  his  big,   black  stallion.   The lancer's roan gelding was not war-trained. He spent as much time fighting to keep the horse in line as he did hacking at the oncoming forces, and only the excellence of his armor had kept biting steel out of bis body. He vowed that, if the roan survived the battle, he would have the cursed beast roasted alive! An irregular came at him with  a long-bladed hunting spear, but his small mount   stumbled   on   a   still-wriggling   body   and   he struggled to retain his seat. Demetrios stood ia his stirrups and, swinging his wide sword with both hands, decapitated the spearman. So great was the press that the corpse could not fall from his saddle. He remained erect, arms jerking spasmodically, twin streams of blood gushing from what remained of his thick neck.

A war horse snapped at the roan and, panicked, he backed away through the stone-smashed gap in the railing. The horse struggled to regain the bridge and might have made it, had not a stray sword stroke gashed his tender nose. It was thirty feet to the river. Horse and rider struck the water together in a mighty splash. Both weighted with armor and equipment, they quickly sank beneath.

Chapter 2

"I saw him go over into the river, my lord," said Captain Mai. "But, at that time, it was all I could do to stay alive. We were eighteen or twenty against three or four hundred; indeed, there are but twelve of us breathing tonight."

The tall, saturnine man across the camp table raised a hand and assured him, saying, "No one is blaming you, Herbuht, least of all, me. Demetrios is a fool. I can't imagine what variety of feather got up his arse to try to mount this kind of campaign with an imbalanced and ill-supplied force of the type he assembled. It's to your everlasting credit that you and Guhsz were able to take what you had at hand and trounce Zenos as badly as you did; you'll, none of you, be forgotten—my word on it."

"And mine as well." The voice came from the tent's entrance. "I just hope the perverted swine is dead. Do you think he could be, Milo?"

Mai arose so rapidly that he overturned his stool, his dark-haired guest simply turned in his chair. "Hello, Aldora. What kept you?"

The striking woman who entered was as dark as Milo. When she removed her helm and tossed it on Mai's camp bed, it could be seen that her long, coal-black hair had been braided and then, Horseclans-fashion, coiled about her small head to provide padding. The features of her weather-browned face were fine and regular. Her black eyes flashed in the lamplight. Despite her heavy, thigh-high boots, she moved gracefully to the table and took both of Mai's calloused hands in her own. "How long has it been, sweet Herbuht?"

Captain Mai flushed deeply, looking at his toes. "Ten ... no, eleven years, my lady."

Milo Morai had seen her play this game with other former lovers. Impatiently, he snapped, "For all you know, Aldora, your husband is lying on the bed of the Luhmbuh River, providing a feast for happy fish. You may hate him, but he is my co-regent and the only one with a hereditary claim to the rulership of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. Besides, he is one of our kind."

Aldora snorted. "And I hope the fish get more use from Demetrios than ever I did! You know how it's been between us for the thirty-two years we've been married. Emotionally    speaking,    Demetrios    is—was,    I    pray, Wind—a child, a terribly spoiled brat. Damn it, he looks so masculine, but even if he lives as long as you have, hell never mature into a real man. He can take all the grandiose titles he can think of, deck himself out in the fanciest clothing and armor he can find, and he'll never be more than a gilded cowpat. He ..." "Aldora," Milo said, "we are not alone." She shook her head defiantly. "We do not need to be. Herbuht was my lover for four years; he's heard all I've said here and more—much, much more. My husband, the Lord-High Buggerer of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, is as useful to a woman as is a gelding to a mare! I pray to the • Sun and Wind that he be dead. Oh, Wind grant that 1 am at last freed of him."

Suddenly, she raised both arms, threw back her head and, with closed eyes, began to chant, "Wind, oh, Wind of all Wind. Wind of the North, Wind of the West, Wind of the South, Wind of the East. Oh, Wind of the oceans, Wind of the mountains, Wind of the plains. Wind of gentleness, Wind of violence. Oh, Wind, hear now thy true daughter, Aldora of Linsee, come to me and grant my prayer. Come to me, oh, Wind. Speak to thy daughter, thy servant, thy bride. Come, oh, Wind. Come, come, come, come, come."

From the camp about them came shouts of alarm along with much noise from the picket lines—the snort-ings and whinnyings of terrified horses. Then a roaring commenced, growing louder as it neared. Then it was all around the tent, and suddenly the front flaps billowed inward, while the heavy lamps hung from the ridgepole were swung to and fro like ships tossed on a stormy sea.

Icy air buffeted Milo's skin and he could not repress a shudder. Aldora's talents continued to amaze him. Speaking in as calm a voice as he could muster, he admonished, "That's more than sufficient, Aldora. The men outside may have to fight tomorrow; they need their relaxation, their dinners, their sleep, and so do the horses."

After a somewhat shaky Herbuht Mai had left to see to his men and to the other captains who had met with ' King Zenos subsequent to the battle that followed the bridge skirmish, Milo had other words for Aldora.

As he unstrapped her cuirass, he spoke sternly. "You call Demetrios a child, then follow with a completely childish example of mental trickery! Who were you trying to impress, girl? Me? Herbuht Mai?"

She turned to face him, her face looking drained, the halves of her cuirass dangling loose. "It was no trick, Milo. Calling the Wind was one of the secret things Blind Hari taught me before he left."

"If you've known it that long," demanded Milo, "why is it I've never seen you do it before?"

The woman extended trembling arms so that Milo might pull off the armor. "Because I don't do it often, Milo, because it tires me, it takes too much from me."

Drawing off her armor, Milo said angrily, "Don't ever do that at sea, Aldora. There are not very many ways to kill our kind, but drowning is one of them."

The four captains—Herbuht Mai of the lancers, Guhsz Helluh of the heavy infantry, Prestuhn Maklaud of the horse-archers, and Gabros Zarameenos of the light infantry—entered and saluted first Milo, then Aldora.

"Lord Milo," spoke Mai, "I have ordered Lord Demetrios' pavilion pitched on that low hill between the camp and the river. It's an exposed position, true, but it will be well guarded. Besides, King Zenos struck me as a man of his word. I don't think he'd allow an attack without formally notifying us of the cessation of the truce."

"That was very thoughtful, Captain." Milo smiled. "I'd frankly given my quarters no thought, and the only baggage we brought was two packmules, the bulk of our effects being with the main army. What think you, gentlemen? Will we be needing the army? Will Zenos fight again"

Guhsz Helluh said slowly, "He's a brave man, Lord Milo, a determined man, and I doubt me not were it up only to him he'd resist to the last drop of his blood. But fully sixty percent of his ragtag army was killed or wounded the day before yesterday. I think he'll husband what he has left to build a new army around."

"Now I'll pose another question, gentlemen." Milo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Captain Mai has sketched the rough outline of your three ambushes, the skirmish at the bridge, and the full-scale battle beyond it. For all five actions, what were your losses? Captain Helluh, how many killed and wounded in your pikemen's ranks?"

Helluh hissed through his gapped teeth. "Too many, my lord. There'll be many a red eye in Kweebai, and no mistake. One hundred sixteen were slain, two hundred thirty wounded. That's as of sundown tonight, of course. More of the wounded will certainly die." "Captain Zarameenos?"

The dark-haired Ehleenoee rumbled from his massive chest, "I mean not to make excuses, Lord Milo, but the army was just too tired to fight well, men and horses alike."

Milo nodded. "There will be no recriminations, gentlemen. All conditions considered, you and your men performed a near miracle. But, back to your casualties, Cap tain Zarameenos."

The big officer nodded briskly, his black spikebeard bobbing. "I marched out of Kehnooryos Ehlahs with four thousand men; as of sundown tonight I had three thousand twenty-two effectives, six hundred forty-nine wounded, and three hundred twenty-nine are dead."

Mai had lost about a fifth of his squadron, he reported. Maklaud, whose reddish hair, wiry body, and vulpine face had combined to give him his nickname of "Foxy," gave the Horseclans salute and said, "God-Milo, give us Horseclansmen steel armor and these big horses and we're damned hard to kill! I loat ninety men from six clans, all gone to Wind, no wounded who can't ride and fight."

Milo grinned. "Who'll collect the bounty on your ear, Foxy?"

The other three captains roared and Aldora managed a tired smile. Maklaud reached up to touch the bandages covering what was left of his left ear. "I didn't even know it was gone until after the big fight. It must have happened at the bridge. My helmet took a blow meant for Old Thunder, here," he said, digging a sharp elbow into Zarameenos' ribs, "and the bastard's sword stuck. I couldn't see the Maklaud of Maklaud riding around Kar-aleenos wearing a sword on his head, so I backed out of line long enough to doff them both—helm and sword. But I'd gotten another helm off one of Zenos' expired officers before the big fight."

Milo leaned forward. "Wait a minute! All four of you were in on the skirmish at the bridge." He was answered by four nods.

Milo slammed one big fist against his thigh. "Well, that ass! He could have lost every senior officer in his so-called command. Thirty-six years of campaigning haven't taught my esteemed co-regent a thing!"

Aldora sighed resignedly. "I could have told you that, Milo. Demetrios never learns anything he doesn't want to learn. Sun knows, I hope he's dead!"

Milo, Aldora, and their bodyguards sat with the four captains on the mossy northern bank of the Lumbuh River. A few paces to their rear the tethered horses contentedly cropped grass, all shaded by the huge, ancient trees. In the river, several large rafts had been lashed to the bridge supports and, from them, divers were scouring the muddy bottom of the river. No one was sure exactly where Demetrios had left the bridge, since a good portion of the railing had been torn loose later in the fight and a good many horses and riders had plunged into the river. Therefore, the divers worked from the center toward the south bank.

While the captains chatted and the bodyguards diced and Aldora stared broodingly at the waters of the river, Milo pondered. Should he send word to the main army to march, despite the danger from the west? If that shaky alliance of mountain tribes should attack while most of the army was fourteen days' march away . . . hmmm, it would be bad. On the other hand, should young Zenos be allowed to form another army and cement his present bonds with the Southern Kingdom ... maybe even ally himself with the Sea-Lord and his pirates? It might be best to scotch this Zenos while we've the opportunity. And it shouldn't be all that difficult—not now, not after the drubbing he took the other day.

His eyes closed as he mused, Milo was unaware of the approach of Halfbreed until the cat's chin was resting on his armored thigh. He scratched the furry ears, eliciting a deep sigh of contentment.

Though a great-grandson of mighty Horsekiller, the cat-chief who had led his clan to this land, he had been gotten on a tree cat that had been caught as a kitten and tamed by Aldora; therefore, he was less than two-thirds the bulk of an adult prairie cat. Some seven feet overall, Halfbreed was slender and wiry, his cuspids were only slightly longer than had been his mother's—nowhere near the size of a prairie cat's massive fangs—and his fur was short and uniformly pale brown. Because of his distinct resemblance to his wild cousins, Halfbreed was a very useful scout.

Scanning Milo's surface thoughts, the cat mindspoke a question. "If you mean to fight, God-Milo, should not Halfbreed take a look at the Ehleenee army?"

Milo sighed. "I wish you could, cat-brother. But this river is a natural line of defense. It is wide and deep and there are no fords for many miles. This bridge is the only way across and you could never traverse it unseen ... not in daylight, anyway—perhaps tonight, if there is no moon or a storm. But wait for my word."

One of Captain Mai's officers came galloping the length of the bridge, ironshod hooves striking sparks. Before his mount had fully halted, the rider was out of his saddle and saluting his captain.

"Sir, a herald from the camp of King Zenos is at the middle of the bridge. He begs audience with High-Lord Milo and High-Lady Aldora. He is alone and bears only sword and dirk. Besides, I don't think he'd be very dangerous; he's wounded."

When, at length, the officer returned, he rode stirrup to stirrup with a freckle-faced young man in the uniform of Zenos' bodyguards. The wicked tip had been removed from his lance and a square of lustrous, creamy silk fluttered at the apex of the long ash shaft. Nothing could be seen of his hair, since above the browline his head was swathed in bandages, but his sweeping mustache and pointed beard were brick-red. His bandaged left hand appeared to be shy a couple of fingers; nonetheless, he handled his reins skillfully and sat his big gray horse with the unconscious ease of the born horseman.

Milo tried a quick scan of the herald's surface thoughts, finding them as open and friendly as the merry green eyes. But there were other thoughts, too, and had been since first the freckled one had clapped eyes on Aldora. A glance at her showed Milo that she had read those thoughts as well. The trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

The herald thrust the ferrule of his lanceshaft into the loam, dismounted gracefully, and strode to stand before Milo. He first bowed, then executed an elaborate salute. At closer range, Milo was aware of the copious perspiration coursing down the freckled face, the clenched teeth, and bunched muscles of the jaw.

"He is in pain," Aldora mindspoke rapidly, "intense pain. But he'd die ere he betrayed it, Milo. He is a fine young man, honorable and very proud."

Milo smiled. "Now that the formalities are done with, young sir, will you not sit and have wine with us?

Tomos Gonsalos, despite his obvious thirst, sipped delicately at   his   wine.   Savoring   it   on   his   tongue,   he graciously complimented it, the silver cup in which it had been served,  and  his  host  and  hostess,  like the gentleman he gave every appearance of being. He had brought an invitation from King Zenos, who would share his evening meal with High-Lord Milo, High-Lady Aldora,   and  their   four  gentleman-captains.   King  Zenos stated that, aware as he was that certain deceased members of his House had established a reputation for treachery, his guests had his leave to ride with a bodyguard contingent of any size they saw fit. His intent, he emphasized, was honorable, but he wished his guests to feel secure in their persons.

After an hour's light conversation and another pint of wine, Tomos indicated that he should return and announce their acceptance of King Zenos' invitation. Upon rising, however, he staggered, took no more than two steps toward his horse, then crumpled bonelessly to the sward.

Aldora was kneeling beside the herald ere anyone else had hardly started forward. Expertly, she peeled back an eyelid, then announced, "He's burning with fever. One of you ride and fetch a horselitter. Someone help me get off his cuirass ... but gently, mind you. He may have other hurts not so apparent."

Tomos did. High on one hip, an angry, festering wound sullenly oozed with pus and serum. It had been amateurishly bandaged, and friction against the high cantle of his warkak had torn the cloths loose.

A nearby bodyguard blanched and touched fingers to his Sun charm. "And he rode in here smiling, he did! How could he^even bear to sit a horse?"

Herbuht Mai said, "A lifetime of self-discipline and generations of breeding ... that, and ten leagues of pure guts. Yonder, trooper, lies a man]"

Bearing Tomos Gonsalos' white-pennoned lanceshaft, . Milo paced his palomino stallion, unchallenged, into the outskirts of Zenos' camp. The camp was about as he had expected: under makeshift shelters, agonized men groaned and writhed; the air was thick with flies and heavy with the nauseating miasma of corruption and death; off to one side, an officer in hacked armor hobbled about, supervising the digging of a long mass grave and piled corpses patiently awaited its completion. A question put to this officer elicited directions to Zenos' "pavilion."

Outside the mean little tent, Milo slid from his kak and  paced   to   the  entry.   Two   tired-looking  pikemen barred his way and politely asked his name, station, and business.

When Milo told them, their eyes goggled and the one on the right gulped, then bawled, "Komees Greemos, please, my lord; Komees Greemos ..."

A noble-officer limped to the entrance. The smudges under his eyes were nearly as black as the eyes themselves, and his bruised and battered face was lined with care and exhaustion. Although Milo had never seen the mountainous man, he well knew his reputation as strategist, tactician, and warrior.

"I am Milo, High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Lord Komees. I come in peace. Please announce me to King Zenos. I would speak with him on matters of great urgency."

Milo felt instant liking for his young adversary. Zenos stood as tall as Milo, a bit over six feet. His eyes were brown and his gaze frank and open. His thick glossy hair shone a rich, dark chestnut, and his face was smooth-shaven. From what he knew of the young monarch, Milo would be willing to wager that he had had far less rest than any one of his remaining officers, yet he appeared as fresh as if he had but arisen from twelve hours' sleep. The grip of his hard, browned hand was firm.

"You are most welcome, Lord Milo." He waved his guest to one of the three seats—upended sections of sawn log, bark still on—that surrounded a battered, lightly charred field table.

Once seated, Milo got to the point of his visit, disregarding polite protocol. "Your herald, Tomos Gonsalos, lies in my pavilion. His wounds are grievous and he is being tended by the High-Lady Aldora, who possesses certain wisdoms and skills in healing."

"Poor, brave, loyal Tomos." Zenos slowly shook his head. "God grant that he lives, for there are too few of his kind in my kingdom. "Would that I had not had to send him, hurt as I knew him to be, but it would not have been fitting to send a common trooper to issue my invitation to you and the High-Lady, my lord. Tomos is my own cousin."

"Where,"  Milo   asked,   "are  your  fohreeohee,  your eeahtrosee? Men who've fought bravely deserve professional tending. And what in Sun's name happened to your camp and baggage? My captains all assure me that there was no sack."

Standing near the entrance, Komees Greemos growled deep in his throat and commenced to mumble a litany of curses.

Zenos cracked his knuckles. "I will be candid,"my lord. Toward the end of the battle, certain of my mountaineer irregulars withdrew ... rather precipitately. There was no rout, you understand, they are all brave men; but their loyalty was to me, personally, and some fool convinced them that I had been slain. It was they who sacked the camp, stole what they fancied or could carry, and burned the remainder. They slew every man who tried to restrain them or who got between them and anything they wanted. My pavilion alone they spared, but I had it dismantled and recut to make flies and bandages."

"Yes, a commander's first obligation is to his men," Milo said in agreement. "Would you accept the services of my eeahtrosee, those of them who can be spared from treating our own wounded?"

Komees Greemos limped over. "And what concessions will be required in return?" he snapped.

Milo looked up into the hulking nobleman's cold stare. "None," he said flatly. Then he added, "However, I would like to instigate a series of conferences with His Majesty and his council. Let me make it clear, however, that the offer of medical assistance is not contingent upon any other of my plans. I simply dislike to see good fighters suffer and die needlessly."

Zenos' brown eyes had misted and, though his features remained fixed, his voice quavered slightly as he once more gripped Milo's hand. "Two generations of my house have died fighting you, my lord, so probably shall I; but I shall never forget this act of unexpected generosity. Of course I accept, and I pray that God bless you."

"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 Gon-sales.

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.