Chapter V

It was not often that Thoheeks Bahrt, chief of Skaht, forked a horse and rode a dusty road on so hot and humid a morning. But neither was it often that a simple country nobleman of these hinterlands of the Confederation was granted the opportunity to accompany so high and important a personage, nor to do so in proximity to such expensive splendor.

But, all other considerations aside, his escort was no less than 'his bounden duty, for the personage now riding a fine-bred, richly caparisoned gelding at his side had been his guest for three days and was both Kindred and blood kin. And, for all his fifty-three years, Bahrt was still virile and appreciative of his companion's beauty.

Not that that beauty was readily apparent this morning, for the costly gowns which had had the ladies of Skahtpolis fairly squirming with envy were all packed away in the trunks strapped into the boot of the ponderous coach and in the two wagons which followed it. She rode in Horseclans garb of the ancient cut —baggy trousers tucked into soft, felt boots, wide dagger belt mounting a silver-hilted dirk, tight-sleeved pullover shirt which for all its bagginess still could not conceal the proud upthrust of her mature breasts, drooping velvet cap; the only outre touch was a thick veil to protect bet nose and mouth from the choking dust

"Duke Bahrt…"

Bahrt turned in his high saddle, feeling afresh the stimulation of that throaty voice. "My lady?"

"Archduke Bili knows not that I near his desmesne. Think you I should send a galloper," she half-waved at the handsomely equipped squad of dragoons who followed the two nobles at a discreet distance, the slow trot of their mounts setting their armor and weapons to jingling and clashing, "or two, that he might be prepared to receive guests?"

Bahrt shook his head. "No need, my lady, no need at all. Bili the Axe is ever ready to receive and entertain Kindred. Besides, when you told me of your intention to return home by way of Morguhn, I took the liberty of dispatching a messenger. We should be meeting the lad, shortly."

The pale-blue eyes above the veil softened perceptibly, and, reining her gelding closer, the woman laid a gloved hand upon her host's bridle arm, saying, "You have been more than kind, Duke Bahrt. I had not expected such tender consideration from one who had not seen me in… how many years?"

The slight mistiness he detected in her eyes added unaccustomed gruffness to his voice. "You are my kin, my lady, if naught else—your dear mother's blood sister was my dear first wife and the dam of my firstborn son, Mylz. Too, there be right many who are and will be overjoyed to see you again where you belong, here with the kin who love you.

"You must know, my lady…" He paused and glanced about, the very picture of a man who customarily must seek out eavesdroppers before he speaks his mind, then went on in a rush of words, "For all the respect we bore him, most of the Kindred hereabouts thought ill of your father for what was so quickly and rashly done, and your return gladdens my heart. It will gladden Bili's, too, and those of all true Kindred. I feel free to say— Now by my steel, what's this?"

Fifty yards ahead, the Freefighter who had ridden the point all morning rounded a turn at full gallop. But the duke was not the only man to see the oncoming rider or to be alarmed at his precipitate haste; from behind the two nobles came a ripple of metallic sounds as targets were unslung and the various points and fastenings of armor checked. Without a word, the lieutenant kneed his mount forward until he was abreast of his mistress.

When he had halted his steed, the point rider saluted. "My lady, a column approaches; their van be less than half a mile from this place. I counted a score of dragoons and at least two noblemen, no baggage."

"Is there a banner, man?" put in Duke Bahrt. "I'd like to know what scapegrace leads armed men across my land without a by-your-leave."

The Freefighter nodded. "Aye, my lord, it looked to be a bird of some kind. Red, I think."

Bahrt slapped his thigh. "The Red Eagle of Morguhn, by Sun! Bili's come to meet you himself, my lady. I should've expected that of him."

The lady turned to the lieutenant "No cause for alarm, Leeahn, it's the archduke, Bili of Morguhn, my half brother."

Had the pointman watched a bit longer, he would have seen that the column from the south was assuredly no war party. It moved at an ambling walk, and the only man erect in his saddle was the pennon bearer, and he was kept alert only by the occasional gust of wind from off the distant mountains that unexpectedly bellied out the heavy, silken banner and made fair to tear the ashwood shaft from his grasp. The twenty troopers behind him slouched in restful postures, feet loose from stirrups and many with a leg hooked up around saddle pommel. They chatted and joked and cackled, blew at the sweat coursing down their faces and now and then sucked at the sun-warmed water in their journey-bottles.

But the short, powerful hornbows protruding from their cases were strung, the quivers were all full, and a heavy saber depended from every man's belt The armor which peeked from under the light cotton surcoats had been polished to the sheen of fine silver, and, indeed, every scrap of their equipment mirrored the devotion and hard work of upkeep. One familiar with warriors would not have needed to see the hard-eyed, scarred faces to ascertain that these men were professionals or to guess how quickly, for all their present relaxation, they could become two tens of mounted, steel-swinging death to any rash enough to oppose them.

A few paces ahead of the pennonman, astride identical black stallions, rode two noblemen. The elder—thick of body, wide at hip and shoulder, big, square hands thickly dusted with fine blond hairs, lined, scarred face cleanly shaven— rode in silence, listening to the younger, his favorite son.

"… so there we sat, Father, through the whole damned night, all twelve thousand of us. Had we attacked immediately we arrived, at dusk, before all the barbarian host had assembled, we could have slaughtered them piecemeal. But no, we must perforce hunker down until dawn, then assault the works they'd been preparing all night. The upshot of that idiocy was near two thousand casualties. And, after the fact, when it was far too late to save those good men we'd lost Senior Strahteegos Vahrohnos Gaib of Hweelahk and his entourage rode into camp."

"I've not seen Gaib in twenty years, I guess." The elder showed strong, yellow teeth in a broad grin.

"He's inspector of cavalry, Father. But when he saw and heard all, he relieved Strahteegos Vahrohnos Hwyt on the spot, sent the craven bastard back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs under guard, and took over command himself. Then he called all commanders of field grade to his pavilion and had each of us tell all we knew of the Djahrehtee opposing us, of Skuhltuhn, the approaches to which they were defending and of the lay of the country thereabouts. He pored over the maps for a bit, then called us all back from the wine tun and issued his orders.

"As soon as it was dark, he sent out the cats to sweep any barbarian scouts from the area. Then, ceding command of the camp and the infantry to Sub-strahteegos Vahrohnos Djak Sanderz of Kahrtuh, he took all of the cavalry on a forced march.

"Father, we kept at it all through that night—first east, then south, then southwest, then, finally, due west Sacred Sun and our columns both struck Skuhltuhn as one. Few of the tuhns are even stockaded, and none are truly walled. The cats had taken out the sentries, so the first warning the Djahrehtee had were three volleys of the kahtahfrahktoee's arrows, every fifth a firearrow. Then we rode in from all four sides.

"When we had sabered or lanced or axed everything that moved, we fired every structure not already burning and," he winked, his dark eyes twinkling mischievously, "my Ahrmehnee boys got in a bit of fast looting. Then Strahteegos Gaib positioned us and the kahtahfrahktoee behind thick cover on either side of the eastern road, whilst the lancers and barbarian light horse rode, whooping and cavorting, around and about the blazing tuhn."

The elder nobleman drew out a pipe and pouch of tobacco and commenced to staff the former with the contents of the latter, as his son continued the tale.

"Well, as Strahteegos Gaib had foreseen they would, the Djahrehtee came boiling up the east road, some of them riding mountain ponies, but most afoot, and in no kind of formation."

"No, western barbarians aren't known for their discipline," his father remarked drily, speaking around the stem of his pipe between puffs.

"When their vanguard saw the corpse-littered streets and the burning houses and only about a squadron strength of cavalry opposing them, I think they went a little mad. Anyhow, they forgot their normal guile and threw caution away. It was, a textbook example of a successful ambuscade. When all the arrows and darts were sped, the strahteegos led the charge.

"And then it was all over, all but the butchery. They were thoroughly broken on that road, Father, routed; the only ones that got away were those who took to the wooded slopes—the strahteegos refused to allow pursuit of those."

The older man nodded. "As one who has fought barbarians in their mountains, I'll say that Gaib showed good judgment in that, my boy."

"The bulk of the survivors, though, clove to the road, fleeing back the way they'd come, so that they—and we, naturally—ran head on into the barbarians retreating from their works which had fallen to the assault of Sub-strahteegos Vahrohnos Djak and the infantry.

"A largish number of them took to the hills then, caught as they were between the pursuing infantry and us, and with all our missiles spent there was damn-all we could do about it. But at least a couple of thousand stayed on that road and fought. And they fought well, Father. Sun and Wind, they'd make firstwater soldiers, if only they could be disciplined!"

Removing his smelly pipe from between his teeth, the older man smiled. "Oh, they will be disciplined, and they will be soldiers, son, Confederation Army soldiers. Well, maybe their sons will anyway, their grandsons, certainly. The western frontier's moved near a hundred miles within my lifetime; it'll do as much or more in yours. And this is how it's done. It's the High Lord's plan, you see. Do you remember living in Kehnooryos Atheenahs as a child?"

The younger man shook his head slowly. "No, Father, when was that?"

"For two years after your dear mother died, I couldn't bear to bide in Morguhn, so I took you and your brother and sister with me to the capital. We lived in the palace while I further developed my farspeak at the academy. I was much the favorite of all four Undying, in those days, and the High Lord spoke long and often with me of his plans for the Confederation and its expansion.

"Ah, those were exciting days." The older man's blue eyes clouded over with memory. "In the wake of the Great Rebellion, the High Lord had dissolved the Ehleen Old Religion throughout the realm—lest it spawn or be the spawning ground for other insurrections. The clergy had been proscribed and all their lands and treasures had been seized in the name of the Confederation, so there was much wealth at the disposal of the Undying, and this was quite evident at the court in those days.

"That was when the New Palace was begun, and the Western Palace at Theesispolis, as well. Old roads were improved and new ones laid. There were official feasts four or five times each week and colorful processions, horseraces, warcart races, galley races on the river from the capital to Ehlai and back, parties and music and dancing somewhere every night—and it was at one such that I first met your stepmother, Mahlee. I— What is it, Flopears?"

The prairiecat who had been scouting ahead of the column mindspoke, "Chief Bili, I think that those you seek are just ahead of yon. One male rides ahead, and then back of him two more males and a female ride. Just behind them more males, fighters by the look of them. Then wagons with both males and females."

"Little sister." Ahrkeethoheeks Bili toed his stallion close, opened his arms wide and warmly embraced the Lady Giliahna, Dowager Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn. Releasing her, he reigned about and took the hand of Thoheeks Bahrt in a firm grasp, smiling cordially. "Thanks for the rider, Bahrt, it gave me a good excuse for this outing. I trow, desk work gets more wearisome from one day to the next, and this is a fine day to fork a horse. But where've you been keeping yourself, cousin? You've not set foot in Morguhn since you brought in last year's taxes."

The thoheeks rumbled a laugh. "Behind my desk, Bili, where else? Trying to make sure I'll be able to pay this year's bite."

"Then," chuckled the ahrkeethoheeks, "guest with me at Morguhn Hall, this night, and I'll feed you back a little of your money's worth. Besides, that mustachioed and thoroughly distinguished looking gentleman yonder is my eldest son, Djef, just down from Goohm, taking his accrued leavetime after three years of campaigning in the west. Mayhap hell spin us a few tales if," he chuckled again and raised his voice a few notches, "he can take his eyes off his Aunt Giliahna for longer than two heartbeats at a time."

Chapter VI

Giliahna was awakened by one of her servitors as the woman laid and lit a morning fire on the bedchamber hearth. It grew cold at night, even in summer, this close to the mountains, so she snuggled back under the down-filled coverlet and waited for the new-lit blaze to warm the room a bit, thinking that after the enervating, sultry nights which had marked her travel through the lowlands, this brisk and healthful coolness was almost like home.

"Now, dammit!" she snapped aloud. "This is home, for all that that Ehleen and her piglets are rooting and squatting here. I'm rightful chatelaine of Vawn Hall, not Mehleena!"

Eyes closed, hands pressed together between her cheek and the pillow, the snap and crackle of the resinous kindling her only distraction, she thought on the past. She thought of the last time that Giliahna Sanderz had slept in her father's hall. She had wept herself to sleep that long-ago night, wept for poor, exiled Tim, wept for her dead mother, wept for her father whose age and infirmity had made him the tool of her scheming and thoroughly hateful stepmother, and wept for herself.

But she had steeled herself the next morning, denied her enemy, her father's wife, the satisfaction of seeing a Sanderz woman's tears. And though she had wept often during the long journey north, it had been in private, and when once her party had crossed the border into the Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn, her pride had refused her the luxury of more tears. Recalling the bardsongs of all her ancestors who had ridden bravely to confront danger and death, that fourteen-year-old Giliahna had squared her jaw and raised her head and, drawing the invisible blade of her inborn courage, toed her mount forward to her encounter with destiny.

Mehleena and her women had made much of the great disparity between Giliahna's youth and the rather advanced years of her groom-to-be, Prince Djylz of Kuhmbuhluhn. They had whispered horrible anecdotes of the brutal deflowering of brides by drunken or callous husbands, spoken often of the stark cruelty of the semibarbaric northerners and of the everyday, commonplace lack of culture and general discomfort of life in the primitive land to which she would so soon be borne.' And the harpies had dwelt at length on the fact that Prince Djylz had already buried seven wives and offered gory speculations on the causes behind the deaths of her predecessors. They had deliberately done everything within their power to terrify Giliahna—and, though she strove to keep them unaware of the fact, they had succeeded. She had entered Kuhmbuhluhnburk in mortal terror, hardly even able to hear the cheers of the townsfolk impressed alike by her beauty and her proud, noble bearing.

The wedding had been just a kaleidoscope of shifting colors and textures—the gilded and lacquered coaches which had borne her and other noble notables to the marble and granite House of the Sword, the brilliant uniforms and silvery armor of the horsemen who led and flanked the procession, the hides of carefully groomed horses flashing like gems, flashing in the rays of Sacred Sun as brightly as the gold and the silver, the polished steel and the jewels had flashed back the light of the seeming thousands of candles which had illumined the soaring, cavernous interior of the Sword Temple. She did not even feel the first kiss of her new husband, but her legs bore her down the long, long aisle and down the marble stairs and into the coach. And all the endless-seeming journey back to the palace, she had managed a smile for the joyous populace.

The hours-long nuptial feast had seemed over in bare moments, and then, to a hearty chorus of deep-voiced masculine jests and laughter, a tide of smiling, giggling ladies and maidens had swept her out of the feast hall, through a succession of corridors and up the stairs, then through other corridors and finally into the suite of her new husband.

Giliahna never knew if she slept or just fainted after the luck-wishing bevy of noblewomen had disrobed her, bathed and scented her and tucked her into the huge bed, but when she again became aware, he was in the chamber.

Through slitted eyes, the girl studied him as the hunted deer studies the stalking panther. The prince was still damp from his bath, and as he apparently thought her sleeping, he was completely relaxed in manner and movements.

She saw a man of average height, his body deep-chested and muscular, but not very hairy, so that the pink and white puckers and cicatrices of scars which seemed to cover every inch of him were clearly visible. The dark-brown hair that fell in soft waves almost to his thick shoulders was streaked with white, as too were his short beard and heavy mustache. His teeth were big and yellow and a little crooked, his lips full and dark-red, his nose slightly flattened and canted. As he slipped his hair into a cotton nightcap and tied its drawstrings about his head, she could see that the top half of his left ear was missing, as was the lobe of the right one, while his high forehead bore that dent which was one of the marks of a veteran soldier.

When the cap was firmly in place, the naked man padded over to both doors and shot the bolts solidly home, then made for a large chest, lifted the lid and removed a short, heavy-bladed sword and placed the unsheathed weapon in a rack attached to the bedhead. He snuffed all but one thick taper and slid into the other side of the huge bed.

His settling weight brought a creak from the leather supports and, for all her iron self-control, a shudder and a gasp from Giliahna.

"Are you awake, then, wife?"

Giliahna tried to frame an answer, but the whirling of her mind precluded such, nor could she have spoken through her chattering teeth.

"My lady?" He slid close enough to place a hand on her shoulder, rigid from the tight-clenching of her icy hands. She gasped again, starting as if touched by a hot iron.

"Why… you're scared to death, child. There's no need to fear me. I'm your husband."

His deep voice was infinitely gentle, Giliahna could hear that. But she could only lie there stiffly, quivering like a spent horse, the sweat of terror oozing from her every pore and tears creeping from under her closed eyelids.

"Giliahna, I mean you no ill… ever. But it's true, you do not know me, I'm a full stranger to you in most ways. If you'd prefer, I'll bide this night upon the couch yonder. I'm an old campaigner and I've slept many a night alone."

At last, she got out a few stuttering words. "No… your bed… hall… do my duty… honor of my clan… my house…**

"Nonsense!" He cast off his coverings and, crossing his legs, sat facing her. "You talk as if you're giving an excuse for leading a suicide charge. Honor was fulfilled this noon, before the Sword Altar. What takes place—or doesn't—here in our bedchamber is between you and me, between Giliahna and Djylz. The conjugal affairs of the prince and princess of this Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn are their very private business, not open to meddling, peeking, or the proddings of ministers and high nobles; the succession of my house is assured whether you be quickened or no. Anyway, I didn't wed you simply to get a noble broodmare."

He shifted his legs, slowly so as not to startle her, straightened his right one and, grimacing, massaged the flesh and muscles under a jagged-edged, deeply indented scar running from midthigh to knee.

"No, little Giliahna, I first became interested in you when I saw the sketch of you made by Duke Rahn of Hwahlburk during the months he was guesting with his cousin, your half brother, the Archduke Bili of Morguhn. My dear Karohlyn was deathly ill even then and all knew it, including her."

He gritted his teeth, spoke through them. "I've had bad hick with wives. Had to bury seven, but I'm hoping you'll be the wife who outlives me. Anyhow," he smiled once again, "Karohlyn and I both studied the duke's sketch and had him to her chamber, where we both questioned him.

"His answers fleshed out that sketch. He told us of your faultless courtesy, of your grace, your vigor, of your soul-deep beauty. Your mother was a Zunburker, daughter of the hereditary duke of that house, so both Karohlyn and I knew that your maternal stock was good, and discreet inquiries established the facts that your father, though a duke for only a score or so of years, was a chief and the son and grandson of chiefs.

"Karohlyn and I then decided that, after a suitable period of mourning, I should wed you. Almost a year passed after that mutual decision, Giliahna, then her pain became too much for flesh to bear, so that not even huge doses of the physician's—Master Ahkbahr's—drugs could long ease her.

"One night she sent for me, told me that she loved me with all her heart, but that she no longer could abide a life of increasing torment. She asked for my dagger and I gave it to her. In return, she gave me one last kiss and a letter for you. Here."

He slid his fingers along one of the woodcarvings decorating the bedhead and a small drawer slid silently open. From it he withdrew a slender roll of vellum sheets, tied with a faded bit of ribbon. He extended his hand, proffering to her the dead woman's last message.

"I know you can read, Giliahna, and the contents are for you, not for me. Besides, your young eyes should be better than my aging ones. Here. Draw some pillows behind your shoulders and sit you up whilst I get you more light."

Her fears lulled to some degree by the prince's lack of lust and obviously sincere solicitude for her, and her curiosity piqued, Giliahna did as she was bade, propping herself and spreading the letter on her lap. The writing was thin, spidery and filled with blotches from an ill-controlled quill so that she found it at first all but indecipherable. But with the lighting of additional candles, she could painfully make out the words—Mehrikan, of course, as Ehleeneekos was little spoken, this far north.

My dear Giliahna,

Although we never will meet, I feel a warm friendship—nay, a real kinship—to you and there is so very much I would like to tell you, but my agony is great, unbearable, and I am anxious to end it. Therefore, I will be brief, speaking only of the most important thing: my—our—husband.

When first I came to wed Djylz, I was but a few months older than are you and I was terribly frightened. But I soon knew him to be the dearest, gentlest and most kind of men. I am much grieved to leave him, but for near three years now I have been unable to be the lover and companion and helpmate to him that I should and that he so deserves. I beg you to take my place fully, be all the things to him that I can never again be.

Djylz needs love, Giliahna, much love, but if he receives it, he will return it tenfold. You will have heard much ill of him, of course, for, to his enemies, he is stark ferocity personified. But to those who love him—as do I, as do his children, as do his people, as you will and must—he is only warm generosity. And last, but very important, please find a little spare love to lavish on my little son, Gy. You will not be sorry, for there is much of his dear father in him.

Oh, my dear sister, how I envy you that happiness which has been mine and now is yours.

Your true and everloving friend, Karohlyn

Chapter VII

"And," Giliahna reflected, burrowed under the coverlets embroidered with the White Hawk of Vawn by the skillful hands of her long-dead mother, "every word that that poor, suffering woman wrote was nothing less than pure, simple truth."

The prince's wish had been fulfilled—his eighth wife had outlived him. And her love for him had early become complete and soul-deep, nor could young Gy's natural mother have shown him any more affection during the two years before he left for his war training at the court of King Sehbastyuhn of Pitzburk.

His first letters to her had expressed bitter homesickness, and Giliahna had wept for a little boy far from his home and lonely amongst strangers. But time had worked its curative powers, and soon the letters were abrim with exciting events of this richest court in all the Middle Kingdoms, as well as with pride of new skills mastered.

As boy grew into young man, the letters told of forays and of raids, of single combats and of great, crashing battles, and Sacred Sun never rose or set but that Giliahna importuned that Gy's life be spared—for all three of Djylz's sons by earlier marriages had been slain during their own war years, and she knew in her heart that she would not produce a son to replace Gy, for she could not seem to conceive of the prince.

But, as if possessed of arcane foreknowledge of what was to be, Prince Djylz never worried, seeming sublimely confident that this last son would live to succeed to the Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn.

Come of Horseclans stock, of ancestors who had thought nothing of arming and mounting and riding off to hunt or battle when they had seen more than fourscore summers, Giliahna never fretted that her husband, at a little less than seventy years, regularly took to horse with spear and bow and boarsword to hunt the nearby forest preserves with his foresters and his gentlemen. Sometimes she chose to ride with him, for, adhering to ancient Horseclans Law, Hwahltuh Sanderz had seen to his daughter's war training from her twelfth year, and she early proved more proficient with the horseman's hornbow than her husband or his gentlemen.

But though Prince Djylz's gentlemen were as proud and prickly and pugnacious as any similar aggregation of Middle Kingdoms nobles, no one ever begrudged the young princess her skill at archery. Any other woman might have found herself the butt of rough humor if not biting jibes, but not Giliahna; for the gentlemen truly loved their grizzled liege lord and so—young and old, one and all—they worshiped the merry, smiling new wife who was obviously making the prince so happy.

One brilliant morning, three days after the ninth anniversary of their wedding, the royal pair rode forth, trailed by a score of noble retainers. They rode west at a slow trot, with none of the usual racings from bend to bend, for this hunt was serious business and the horses wore pounds of quilted padding, while the riders were partially armored and bore more than the ordinary quantity and variety of weapons.

Djylz had done his damnedest to dissuade Giliahna, but she was as stubborn as her husband and he had at last relented—as always he did with her. But in the manner of personal protection, he had proved adamant, and so Giliahna rode sweltering in three-quarter armor, extra-heavy tournament plate borrowed for the occasion from one of the smaller noble fosterings of the court.

Giliahna edged her big hunter closer to the duke's side and hissed, "Damn it all, husband, you'd best halt the column, for I swear I'll not ride another ten yards in this infernal steel torture chamber! I can't remember when I've sweated so much. My smallclothes are sodden and they're chafing me raw in… in some very personal places. Besides, this damned cuirass doesn't fit properly and it's pinching me. Why couldn't I have just worn a scale jazeran, like you and the others?"

Prince Djylz chuckled, then grinned sympathetically. "Now, wife, you know why warriors call their suits of plate 'Pitzburk steamers,' and you can now truly appreciate why I'm in no condition for a love bout the first few days after a tourney."

Giliahna had leaned her spear against her shoulder and commenced to fumble at the cuirass buckles under her arm with the freed hand, but the prince leaned sidewise in his saddle and laid a hand on hers, his smile erased and his demeanor as serious as his tone.

"No, love, let be… let be, I say. You may need that plate ere this day be done. As I said this morning, killing shaggy bulls is less sport than warfare, and it's every bit as dangerous. Steel be praised," he touched fingertips to his lips, then to the polished ball-pommel of his broadsword, "that the hairy monsters usually stay in the west and the north and out of my domain. I'd be as happy if every shaggy bull alive were somewhere west of the Sea of Grass. But a small herd has chosen to come down out of the mountains, and, as protector of my lands and people, it's my job to see that they're killed before they do any more damage.

"I still wish you'd go back, Giliahna.** She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand for silence. "You won't, however, love, I know that Therefore, you are going to stay in that armor… and you had better know that!"

By noon, the party had left the western fringes of the flat country and ascended into the foothills. The farms here had smaller fields, most of them on hillsides; there were few cattle, but many goats and a few small herds of blatting sheep. Far west, Giliahna could see the hazy bluish rounded humps of the range that separated Kuhmbuhluhn from the Mahrk of Tuhsee—years agone, a bitter enemy of Kuhmbuhluhn, but now a fellow member of the Confederation.

A little after the noon, keener-eyed members of the party could see a host of black dots moving in slow, lazy circles in the clear sky some distance ahead. Shortly thereafter, they rounded a bend in the road to find three hunters squatting under a roadside tree and munching on cold bacon and corn-bread.

The three were clad almost identically in sweat-stained green shirts, soft leather breeches and low-topped boots. All three were bowmen—as attested by the leather sleeve each wore laced to his left arm from wrist to elbow and by the big horn ring on each man's right thumb—and they all also bore an assortment of knives of various sizes, as well as slings and pouches of stones.

The trio of hunters were tall and slender, two of them with reddish-tinged brown hair, the third almost bald, but with a thick, dark-red mustache. There was distinct similarity in the casts of all three weather-browned faces and in the crinkle-cornered hazel eyes, big, jutting noses and high cheekbones.

The mustachioed hunter arose as the mounted party came into view, slapped a cloud of dust from his trousers, pulled off a billed leather cap, on the forepeak of which was emblazoned the princely arms, and trotted over to stand beside Prince Djylz's sorrel stallion, his coordination, speed and ease of movement belying his thin, graying hair and host of wrinkles.

Smiling warmly, Djylz shucked a mailed gauntlet and leaned to clasp the hunter's hand. "Roy, old friend, it's good to clap eyes on you again; I trow, you look younger every time I see you. Are you sure you're not an Undying?"

The hunter pumped the prince's hand enthusiastically twice, then bore it to his lips and kissed it, before replying, "Not as I knows, Lord Djylz. Thet be a fine, tall horse y' be a-forkin'; he has more the stamp o' a warhorse than a hunter though. Wher be yer good old piebald hunter, Stagfleet?"

The prince sighed. "Aye, Stagfleet is good, but he is getting old, too, and I thought this day's work might be better done with a younger, faster horse." He absently patted the quilt-armored neck of his sorrel. "Man-lover, here, I bought from the Duke of York-Getzburk, last year at the Harzburk Fair; he was bred for a destrier and has had a good bit of war training, too, but while hell savage another horse or any other animal quick enough, he shies from attacking men, so Duke Randee had him retrained for a hunter.

"Now, to business, Roy. How many of the beasts have you seen? How far away are they?"

"The herd bull, o'course." The hunter ticked off his bow-thumb. "An' he be the bigges' I ever seed, too—eighteen han's at the withers, mebbe more. One young bull he ain't drove off, yet, but he's got his full horns. Three old cows, two of em with calves follerin' and a couple of heifers. One o' them calfs is a bull calf, an' he be pure white, my lord Djylz."

The prince grunted in appreciation. Not only would a white shaggy-bull be a rare specimen for his menagerie, but if taken young enough, shaggy-bulls could often be gentled to the tractability of domestic cattle and, when bred to beef breeds, invariably sired or threw bigger, meatier animals with thicker, stronger, more long-wearing hides.

He turned in the saddle and addressed his nobles and the retainers. "Roy here, says there're a brace of nursing calves and one of the little buggers is even a white. You, Persee," he spoke directly to Count Parkzburk, whose wealth lay principally in his fine herds of cattle, "know what that means. I want both those calves alive and unharmed."

At length, the party came to a narrow track, leading off to the right between fields of thigh-high cornstalks. As the van entered a small, dusty farmyard, the old hunter kneed his big-headed pony forward and banged scarred knuckles on the thick, plank door of the small, log-walled house.

"Djaimos!" he yelled. "Djaimos Poorahbos! It be me, Roy Danyulz. C'mon out, heah. His lordship done come fer to kill them critters."

Following scraping noises that told of the removal of at least two bars, the door of the windowless house swung open and a short, squat, thick-limbed man strode forth with a noticeable limp. His close-cropped black hair was shot through with white, but his black eyes were clear and alert; his forehead bore the permanent dent which told of years of bearing a helmet, all his front teeth were missing, his nose was mashed and canted far left, one ear was missing entirely and the other lacked a lobe, his olive-skinned face was a mass of old scars and so was every inch of visible body skin.

At sight of the prince, the oldster drew himself up into military posture and marched to within an accurately gauged five paces of the nobleman, then rendered a military salute, snapping, "Poorahbos, Djaimos, my lord. Retired epeelokeeas of heavy infantry of the Army of the Confederation. Would it please my lord that Poorahbos and his sons accompany the hunt?"

Prince Djylz smiled. "Aye, sergeant, get your spear and your lads, you look to have the strength to push a pike clear through a shaggy-bull, lengthwise. But first, tell me, have you seen them?"

The former senior sergeant had not, but reported that he had heard much bellowing and what had sounded like screams from the direction of a neighboring farmstead. So, as soon as he and his sons were laced into homemade cuirasses of boiled leather and he had donned his old helmet and buckled on his shortsword and dirk, he and his twin sons took the lead. There were no mounts for them but they proved to need none, moving easily and as fast as the duke cared to extend the horses in the mile-eating jog-trot of Con-federation infantrymen, spears properly sloped over right shoulders.

"That old bastard's trained his lads well," remarked Djylz to Giliahna. "They'll be first-class recruits, given another year of growth."

Up one grassy hillock and down another, then through a low saddle between two more hills the party wound along a trail through a small bit of forest, then debouched into another stretch of cornfields, with another cabin in sight ahead.

But this farmyard was not deserted as had been Djaimos Poorahbos', it was alive with movement and sound—the flopping and flapping and pecking and raucous noises of crow and raven and buzzard. That on which they gorged had not been pretty when they arrived and their razor beaks and tearing talons had done nought to improve appearances, but once the carrion birds had been driven off, a tale could still be read in the hoof-trampled, blood-soaked dust of the yard and the gory, horn-mangled and stamped lifeless bodies—six of them, five human and one big hound.

What was left of a man still clenched a hand around the shaft of a wolfspear, the weapon sticky brown to the crossbar with blood; near the body of a youth was a horseman's saber, gory for half its length. Another lad, younger, looked to have fought his last battle with a hewing axe. There was a burned-out torch near one hand of the dead woman. The corpse of what looked to have once been a slender, pretty girl was sprawled atop the roof of the cabin, dark-tressed head at an impossible angle and guts trailing from the belly torn open by the hooking horn which probably had thrown her there.

The shaggy-bulls had not been content to merely kill, however, they had obviously continued to savage their victims long after life had fled, and the results were hideous. Giliahna could only lean weakly against the high cantle of her saddle when she had retched up her stomach's contents—nor was she the only one. The prince himself, though he was no stranger to the sight of death and mutilation, was pale of face and grim.

"Sergeant Poorahbos," the prince called to the old spearman, who stood staring down at what the beasts had left of the man, "should these folk be buried or burned? What would they have preferred?"

Djaimos Poorahbos whirled and trotted over to snap to before the mounted noble, his stance proper and his spearbutt grounded. Tears streamed down his clean-shaven cheeks, but his voice was firm. "My lord, these folk were pawns to no priests. They should go to Wind."

Prince Djylz's voice softened. "Stand easy, Djaimos. You knew this man well, didn't you? He was a friend, and an old soldier, like you?"

Poorahbos' left foot moved forward and sidewise a precise eight inches and his two big callused hands clamped about the spearshaft, which he had allowed to cant at a thirty-degree angle from his body. "My lord prince, Imit Dyuh were senior sergeant-major of the Fourteenth Confederation Lancers, and the finest man as ever forked a horse for all the twenty-four years he served, till he took a poison arrer in his lef arm and the flesh-tailors had to lop half the arm oft. And't'won't be another like to him for a High Lord's lifetime, I trow!"

After having the bodies placed within the empty cabin to protect them from further ravages of the birds and other scavengers, the prince ordered the party on, following the clear trail of the murderous monsters, but more slowly and as silently as possible. The hunters and farmers were fanned out well in advance of the mounted men. Nor did they have far to go.

Less than a mile from the scene of slaughter, one of the younger hunters came sprinting back. "We have found them, my lord."

From a laurel thicket on the crest of a hillock, the men could look down into a grassy vale, through which tinkled the clear waters of a spring-fed brook. In addition to the shaggy-bulls, the herd had been increased by two orange-and-white milch cows—looking diminutive beside the dark, hairy, wild behemoths.

The old sergeant wormed closer to the prince. "My lord, those be poor Imit's cows. Most likely that's why he tried to drive off them damned critters."

Prince Djylz just nodded, eyeing not the harmless domestic animals but their savage and deadly kidnappers. The big bull was an awesome sight—more than six feet high at the withers, his flaring horns black as crow's wings and at least two yards from tip to bloodstained tip. An attempt had been made sometime recently to hamstring him, but the blow had been delivered too far back on the ham and without sufficient force to cleave to the tendon. Nonetheless, the massive bovine had sustained a gaping wound; his tail whisked continually at the flies buzzing about it. The pain of the injury certainly had done nothing to improve the bull's temper, but the consequent loss of blood just might serve to slow him a bit.

The younger bull lay halfway down the slope and appeared to be either dead or very near to death. The face and head looked badly burned, and blood was still seeping from at least two places on the deep chest. Even as they watched, the stricken beast raised its head and tried to rise, then a great gush of blood spouted from gaping mouth and distended nostrils, the head fell with a thump onto the bloody grass, the legs jerked and twitched a few times, and dung and urine gushed from the relaxed sphincters.

The two wild cows and the heifers grazed contentedly on the tender grass. The calves apparently had been twins, since both were nursing from the same cow. She was two-thirds the size of the big bull, though her horns were neither as thick nor as long, even allowing for her smaller size. The barren cow might have been her twin, so close was the armament and overall resemblance. One of the heifers was much like the cows, but the other had no horns at all, only bulbous knots where they should have been.

Back again with the main party, the prince described what he had seen. Some of the younger nobles requested leave to ride down and slay the bull with lances and spearwork, but Prince Djylz curtly denied them.

"Vender's no mere boar or stag to be stuck, gentlemen. They've already wiped out an entire family of decent, loyal farmers, and they'll add none of my noblemen to their tally, if I can prevent it. No, our good hunters and my lady will slay or cripple as many as they can with arrows fired from the top of the hill. Then, and only then, will the rest of us descend to dispatch or pursue if the animals flee. Persee, I leave the capture of the calves to you; Sir Hyruhm, Sir Djahn, you and your lads assist the count."

Giliahna's first shaft drove into an eye of the horned heifer and pierced to the brain; the beast dropped like a leaden weight and the remainder of the herd continued to graze peacefully… but not for long. In courtesy, the trio of hunters and the two other archers had waited for the princess to loose first. Their own shots, when loose they did, were not so fortunate.

One shaft went completely through the sagging udder of the nursing cow, narrowly missing the white calf beyond— whereupon the prince, sitting his horse a bit behind the line of archers, swore sulfurously. Another went into the nose of the hornless heifer, which then commenced to run about, bawling piteously. One, apparently aimed at the throat of the grazing bull, missed entirely when the beast raised his head; two sank to the feathers into the flank of the great beast, just behind the right shoulder, and bellowing, he slowly sank to his knees and began to exhale bloody froth.

At that point, knowing that his nobles would take ill being denied at least a modicum of dangerous sport, and with the largest and deadliest of the animals down and seemingly lung-shot, Prince Djylz kneed his mount between two of the archers and started down the slope at a slow, careful walk. Not caring to risk the goring of the horse, he dismounted a few yards from the stricken bull, drew his heavy broadsword and limped over to stand beside the creature. Gripping the pommel in his left hand, the old prince brought the battle-blade whistling down with all his strength to thunk into the thick neck and sever the spine.

When he had cleansed and sheathed his steel, he remounted and rode over to watch the younger men do battle with the two shaggy-cows. Count Parkzburk and his helpers had already roped the white bullcalf and were trying to maneuver a clear chance at the darker calf, while Sergeant Poorahbos and his sons had secured the two frightened, lowing domestic cows.

His spear set for stab or cast, young Baron Kairee of Balzburk set upon the biggest shaggy-cow, then standing broadside to him, her head lowered and her wickedly pointed horns aimed at the calf-roping party. He came at a fast trot, but the cow was faster. In a blur of motion, she pivoted her long, wide, thick body with the grace and ease of a deer. Frantically, at the last possible second, the baron reined aside, nearly losing his seat as the long horn tore through the brigandine protecting his horse from breast to where it clanged against the steel greave buckled onto his jackboot. At this point, he lost his spear and so prudently withdrew.

Prince Djylz allowed his nobles their fun until the second calf had been roped, then he ordered an end. It was a long ride back, and the slain beasts must be skinned, cleaned, and butchered and the hides and horns and meat packed onto the mules brought for the purpose, and he did not really feel well. He had been suffering from a peculiar ache in his left arm for a good part of the day and he could not recall having strained or bruised it recently.

With Poorahbos and his sons to help, the skinning and butchering went far faster and more smoothly. The calves bawled incessantly and fought against the ropes; Giliahna suggested that full bellies might improve their mood and attempts were made to set them to nurse on the cows that had been stolen, but the milch cows refused to cooperate; they wanted nothing to do with the two shaggy-calves.

Tired horses and heavy-laden mules made the return slow. At Poorahbos' farm, the prince called the old sergeant to him, saying, "I thank you for your guidance and help. Take a quarter of meat and a hide."

The old soldier nodded, and his two sons trotted back to the packline. The prince continued, "You were the dead man's friend. Make a pyre and do the honors for him and his family and the cows are yours, along with anything else you want from his house and farm. If you and your sons will tend and harvest his crops, I accept a single basket of grain as my tax on it this year. Of course," the prince grinned, "the tax on your own fields remains the same."

Despite his iron self-discipline, Djaimos Poorahbos could not repress a grin, but he quickly recovered and thanked the prince formally.