The speaker turned to the third man and said, "The bastard's name is Mahrkos, no one seems to know his family name… if he had one… and he has not volunteered any. From his accent, I'd imagine he's from farther south, but he's lived here about five years, I'm told. He burned a drover alive and strangled an innkeeper, a citizen."

"He's to hang, then?" asked the third man.

"Oh, no," replied the second, grimly. "Just look at the shoulders on him. The mines need men of such strength, the quarries, too. Why he might even live ten years… if he doesn't prove too intractable."

Mahrkos shuddered and whimpered, wetting his filthy rags in his terror. Lost in horrible mental imagery of all he had heard of the mines and quarries, and picturing himself enduring the agonies of the drawn-out and hideous death such a sentence represented, he was deaf to the first questions put to him. It was not until one of the gentlemen put half an inch of swordpoint into his arm that he again became aware of just where he was.

Carefully wiping the tip of his ornate, bejeweled smallsword on a corner of his voluminous cloak, the second man said, "Answer the questions, you whoreson, or you'll suffer for it! Are you of Ehleen stock or barbarian? Do you reverence God or something else? If we could free you from prison, would you go where you were told, do as you were told, kill whomever you were ordered to kill, so long as you were well paid?"

And so, within a few weeks, Mahrkos had found himself among some eightscore other hard cases, gathered from all over the principate and beyond, living in tents pitched in the forest of some duchy south of the capital. For two hellish months, they had undergone intensive military training at the callused hands of grizzled veteran soldiers and a few nobles, these always masked or helmed.

Mahrkos had always thought of himself as tough, dangerous and cruel… but that had been before he learned the true meanings of those three words in that woodland camp. Not all of the men who started finished. In the beginning, some ran away from the harsh discipline and unaccustomed labor under pitiless taskmasters. Those who were run down and killed were the lucky ones; the others were—in the full and horrified sight of their erstwhile fellows—slowly whipped to death, impaled or crucified on a beam lashed to a tree near the camp latrine. Tormented by hunger and thirst and pain, pecked at by crows, they sometimes took three days to die; but still they hung there and it was only when the stench became too bad that the cadremen hacked through the ropes and, after sinking hooks into the rotting cadaver, had the corpse's former comrades drag the carcass off and dump it in a pit. No one ever got away clean, and, after a few examples, no one tried.

At the end of two months, the survivors of the original number were divided into three groups of between forty and fifty men each, then Mahrkos and two other bully types were placed in charge of the contingents. Slowly, a few men at the time, traveling in various ways and under various guises, the hundred and fifty bravos were funneled westward, laying over for long or short periods in many out-of-the-way places, often in woodland tent camps, sometimes in tiny villages, sometimes in towns or just outside them.

It had taken them the best part of three months to circuitously cover the distance to the far western Duchy of Vawn in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There, the hundred and fifty had been reunited one last time, for two nights and a day in another wood, but this time without tents. Then two of the helmed nobles had come riding in, trailed by three men who rode barefaced. None of the bravos had seen any of the three before, but they did not need to know them to know immediately just what they were, not after two months of hell.

The voice booming from within the metallic confines of the helm sounded almost inhuman. "Allright, you gutterswept scum, gather closely about. These men," he languidly waved at the three, hard-faced men sitting their mounts beside him, "are Deemos, Plehkos, and Ahreestos. They will henceforth be your commanders and will own the powers of life and death over you. They will march you to the villages in which you will be quartered until the weapons skills you have been more or less taught are needed.

"Arms will be provided you eventually. Until they are, you will drill and practice with wooden substitutes. You will drill and practice, you swine, practice and drill, for you may think you are warriors now but you are not A bare tenth your numbers of first-class soldiers would go through you like a dose of salts, would make blood pudding of the lot of you. It takes years to make soldiers out of first-grade material, which you poor shits certainly are not. But we have invested money and effort on you, nonetheless, and we will see to it that you give us at least a bare minimum return on our investment.

"Insubordination of any sort will be considered mutiny and will be dealt with harshly and fatally. These three captains will choose four sergeants and one senior sergeant to assist them. Orders from these sergeants will, in the absence of the captain, be considered as binding as if they came from the officer.

"Understand, please, if dimwits like you can understand, you are here without legal leave in a basically hostile duchy. It will be as good as your life to go wandering about the countryside, not to mention the danger your capture by the local barbarians would cast all the rest into.

"Do as you're told, stay where you're told, hone your arms skills and you'll have food, lodging and your pay… with the probability of a bit of loot in time. Disobey in any manner and you'll be killed. Filth of your like are easily replaced; the gutters and jails are full of such."

Thanks to his abilities with cudgel and staff, as well as to his bullying assertiveness, Mahrkos was chosen by Captain Deemos to be his senior sergeant. After the village headman and a few other natural leaders had been killed or terrorized, Deemos, Mahrkos and their forty-one men had experienced no trouble in taking over the village.

After another gaping yawn, Sergeant Mahrkos threw off the blanket and looked about for his shirt and breeches. Arising, he hopefully shook the wine jug, then raised it to his fleshy lips and thirstily guzzled the last few ounces before starting to dress. He had just buckled the swordbelt about his waist when he chanced to notice the red-brown blotch on the mattress and the trail of crusty splotches leading from the bed to the door.

Chuckling to himself, he thought of the red-haired boy, the freckled youth he had dragged—bawling and sniveling and begging to be let go—from his lean-to hovel last night. He thought, deliciously, of that smooth, hairless body writhing and struggling futilely, of the way the little darling had screamed when Mahrkos entered him, took him. He was still musing and rubbing himself when Deemos, in three-quarter plate, sword and dirk at his sides, an axe in his hand and his helm under one arm, stamped in.

"You wallowing swine, aren't you dressed yet? Get into your cuirass and rouse the men. The summons just reached me. We're to march on the hall immediately. Damn your lights, you lowborn cur, move!"

Vahrohneeskos Tahm Adaimyuhn rode in high spirits at the head of his party of young Ahrmehnee and Kindred retainers. They had left the little town nestled at the foot of Lion Mountain well before dawn and set a slow pace, easy on horses and men alike. Shortly after dawn had first reddened the sky, they had been met and joined by Tahm's cousins, Kahrl and Bahb Sanderz, and their party. Bahb, a couple of years older than Kahrl, his brother, had been designated to stand for his father, Vahrohnos Tchahrlz Sanderz, too old and infirm to make the journey to Sanderz Hall. Nor were the three gentry the only relatives among the two entourages, so the two columns were soon one intermingled cavalcade.

Though both the Sanderz men were somewhat older than the swarthy, black-haired Tahm, the nineteen-year-old had their full respect and occasional deference. Right often, their glances strayed to the Ahrmehnee necklace of silver links and semiprecious stones, each stone representing a warrior's head taken by Tahm in personal combat Since his fourteenth year, the big-boned, brown-eyed young man had taken part in many of the frequent raids made by his sire's tribe upon the mountain folk always encroaching upon the Ahrmehnee holds.

Three hours after sunrise, the combined parties stopped to rest the horses and munch journey food on the banks of an icy brook. Almost all the men were young and they chatted, gambled, wrestled and footraced; they threw knives and light axes and darts at marks on trees or devised difficult moving targets at which bowmen could try their skill. Finally, they saddled the horses and rode on to the beat of a small brass hand drum, the damned-soul wail of an Ahrmehnee flute and bursts of song.

Less than five miles from their objective, a faster-moving column caught up to them. Komees Dik Sanderz was fully armed, as were they all, but his old, lined face was grim and his men rode in tight column, with targets unslung and weapons ready.

"Greet the Sun, uncle," grinned Tahm. "Why so grave? Whose funeral are you riding to?"

"Yours, mine and all the rest of our kin and Kindred, belike," growled the aged fighter—who had been a grown man when the Clan Sanderz had fought its way east from the Sea of Grass and helped to hack out a duchy in Vawn. "Form your men up on ranks, young kinsmen, for we may well have to fight our way to the hall… and fight again when we get there.

The elderly prairiecat who lives at my hall, old Steelclaws, was farspoken by Ahl Sanderz. Tim Sanderz is alive and has returned to Vawn. He's at the hall now, preparing to defend it against some rabble the bitch, Mehleena, has sneaked into the duchy and armed. It smacks to me of the Great Rebellion reborn!"

With Komees Dik commanding the main body, Tahm Adaimyuhn took the strong vanguard, maintaining a quarter-mile of distance between the two groups, riding as warily as ever he had in his five years of raiding. When they came to the outskirts of a village—one of the three hall villages, as Tahm recalled—he had it carefully scouted out before he led his men down the dusty street between the silent houses.

The only things in sight that moved were a few chickens, a pig rooting in a garbage heap and a couple of shaggy dogs. A quick search of the cottages, hovels and outbuildings showed signs of a hasty departure—hearthfires were still alight. Pots bubbled and chores were left half-done. But the only sign of humans was in the form of a red-haired boy-child lying dead in a lean-to shelter, the grayish little body evidencing the unmistakable marks of shameful abuse.

Tahm sent a rider back to Komees Dik, then had his patrol remount and ride on, drawing his flankers in tighter since the broad, cultivated fields to either side left insufficient cover to hide ambushers, and if any force should come out of the distant woods, the open stretches they would be forced to cover would allow for more than adequate warning. The road, moreover, showed the recent progress of a sizable body of men, moving in close order, four, maybe five horses, the rest on foot, Tahm estimated their numbers at some four tens, horse and foot, together.

Grudging the loss—for he led only fifteen men—he sent another galloper back to the main body to tell of his discovery and urge that the column close the distance rapidly, for a bare mile ahead the road entered a twisting, turning, forest-flanked way.

Mahrkos squirmed, raised himself off the sharp, bony ridge of the plow mule's spine, but could find no comfortable way of sitting the beast. Cursing under his breath, he simultaneously envied Deemos his saddle and wondered for the umpteenth time why he and the other sergeants must ride the bags of bones and could not trudge in comfort along with the men. After the ride between the mile or more of fields, under the blazing, baking sun, the coolness of the trees around and about was pleasant. So too was splashing through several tiny streams, still bitingly cold from the mountains that gave them birth.

After marching in that pace that Deemos called quickstep for half a mile, the men were set to a jogging run for the same distance, before, panting and huffing, they were allowed to slow back to the march. Mahrkos held his bruised rump and crotch up from his jolting, bony seat as long as his thigh muscles would allow, then sank back, groaning.

Beyond a tall, broad cairn of moss-grown rocks, Deemos abruptly halted and Mahrkos all but rode into the horse's shiny rump before he could make the mule stop. In the roadway before them, three noblemen sat their warhorses, blocking the narrow track, which here wound between gradual, grassy slopes grown with brush and small trees.

One of the three armored men kneed his mount a few paces forward and exposed his face—eyes, skin tone and an errant lock of black hair spoke of the kath-ahrohs or pure-blood Ehleen.

"You come from the Lady Mehleena, my lord?" asked Deemos.

The strange noble nodded, his right hand resting easily on his thigh, nowhere near the haft of the light axe lying across his saddlebow.

Deemos advanced a few feet closer, opened the front of his helm and asked, "You are of the Brotherhood, then, my lord?"

Again, the stranger simply nodded silently.

"My lord must give me a sign," said Deemos, tracing some complicated pattern in the air before him with the forefinger of his right hand.

"Aye, I'll give you a sign," agreed the stranger in flawless, cultured Ehleeneekos, smiling. Still smiling, he raised his hand and, with a flick of his gauntleted wrist, sent something shiny spinning through the air between him and Captain Deemos.

The officer grunted, then his horse screamed and reared and, in the split second before Deemos' body tumbled from the animal's back and the deadly sleet of arrows began to fall, Mahrkos saw the polished bone hilt of a knife jutting out from Deemos' left eyesocket.

Komees Dik rode slowly along the gentle slope, viewing the road, now littered with bodies and weapons and liberally besplattered with blood. Across the road, Vahrohneeskos Tahm came out of the forest and trotted down the hill, three fresh-severed heads dangling by their hair from his big right hand. He and all his Ahrmehnee relatives who had ridden out in pursuit of the few survivors of the road slaughter were smiling and happy, even those who did not carry heads.

"Did any of the bastards get away?" demanded the old man.

Tahm shrugged. "Maybe one, certainly no more than two.

One of those was mule-mounted, but he was wounded severely, I trow. He'll not ride far."

The old komees nodded brusquely. "That was good work, Tahm. A brilliant plan, brilliantly executed. But there're more of these late bastards' kind about, or so Ahl bespoke old Steelclaws, so let's collect such of these weapons and armor as we can use and get back on the road to the hall."

Chapter XVII

As soon as the first company of Brotherhood Crusaders, that from the nearer south village, reached the hall, Mehleena ordered their captain, one Ahreestos, to batter down the thick, barred doors sealing the central portion of the ball off from the north wing. But all the while his men were laboriously lugging a long, foot-square oaken timber up the stairs, she screamed and screeched at them lest they damage the fine, carven paneling, wall hangings or carpets.

Once at the top of the stairs and ready to advance on the doors, the lady insisted that they first lay the makeshift ram aside for the space of time it took them and a few servants to strip the hallway of carpets, hangings and fine furniture. Only then would she allow them to get on with the business of forcing the door, which upon examination Ahreestos deduced was not going to be either quick or easy.

Nonetheless, he set his score of men to swinging the heavy length of well-cured oak against the spot where the two valves of the ironbound doors verged and on the level at which he reckoned the central bar was set. But before the men could establish a telling rhythm of strokes, the door of one of the suites between Ahreestos and the stairs opened, unnoticed.

Unnoticed, that is, until, to the twanging of bowstrings, two of his men screamed and fell. Key men, they were, and arrowed on the backstroke, their loss so unbalanced the rest as to cause them to lose grip on the timber—which, lacking proper handholds or shoulder ropes, was difficult to handle at best. The falling timber smashed one man's kneecap and crushed another's foot

Nor had the two middle-aged archers been idle during it all. They had dropped another brace of Ahreestos' shrinking command, faced about once to send a scratch force of servants retreating back down the-stairs, leaving one dead and one wounded, then turned back to pierce through two more of the ram wielders, before reentering the door from which they had originally come.

Ahreestos sent one of his sergeants down to fetch the rest of his force, then led the thirteen living and unwounded bravos against the door through which the archers had disappeared. Save at its far end, the hallway was not of sufficient width to allow use of the timber, so they were compelled to axe down the suite door, ignoring the livid lady, who winced each time a blade bit into the carved and decorated fruit-wood panels.

But when the splintered door finally crashed open, the small entry foyer lay empty and they were confronted by another, even more ornate door through which they must hack. The first two bravos who crowded through the wreck of this second door apparently triggered some cunning device of boards and slender cords, for a bucket full of glowing coals was suddenly tipped and dumped to rain down upon them. And it was as well that the larger room stood empty, for the lady shrieked and cursed them all and would allow no more pursuit of the archers until the last of the coals had been scooped up and the blazing carpet brought under control.

Ahreestos now had ten men left of his score—during the demolition of the second door, one of the men had been working his axeblade loose from the wood when, in the cramped little room, a comrade's stroke had gone astray and taken off most of his right hand—and these ten were tired, shaken, demoralized men. A couple crossed themselves, eyes rolling in superstitious horror, when a thorough search of the suite produced no archers nor any means by which they could have departed.

At that juncture, Lord Myron joined them with two retainers, all three fully armed. When Ahreestos had rendered his report, the bulking noble snorted derisively.

"Then either your scum didn't search very well or they and you have hog turds in place of brains!" Then, striding impatiently over to what appeared but another expanse of paneled wall and had rung as solid under Ahreestos' knuckles as had the areas flanking it, the arrogant lordling had fingered a carven rosette and, with a muted click, a five-foot-square section had sprung open a couple of inches.

Stepping back, the sneering young lord bobbed a mocking bow and waved a steel-encased arm toward the panel with silent contempt.

Ahreestos was reduced to physically shoving the sergeant and two others through the panel into the narrow tunnel beyond. Trembling like foundered horses, they mumbled prayers, gripping and regripping their weapons in sweat-slick hands. Ahreestos himself felt as nervous as a virgin bride when he ducked his head and entered into the dry darkness, his sword held at low guard before him. At his command, the sergeant halted his men until a brace of lamps could be lit and passed in to them.

The progress was slow and halting, for there were more movable panels along the way and Ahreestos could not feel safe unless the suites beyond each and every one of them was well searched before they crept onward up the tunnel.

And all the way, the lady's strident voice rang and echoed from behind, bidding them have care with the lamps lest they set fire to the hall, bidding them on pain of direst consequences to leave no soot marks on walls or ceiling, bidding them exercise strictest caution that their weapons and equipment not chip stone or scar wood. Ahreestos soon became unclear in his own mind whether the true enemy lay ahead or behind and was thinking how much pleasure it would give him to still the fat, yapping bitch with a dirk in the gullet

At the right-angle turn where the runnel from the central section of the hall intersected that which ran the length of the south wing, there were three stone steps up to a yard-square landing, then three more to the level of the slightly higher main building. Just as the sergeant ascended to this landing, a warrior in an almost complete suit of plate descended from the blackness to cut the noncom down with a single, powerful stroke of a basket-hilted broadsword.

The second man had sheathed his sword to better manage the heavy, clumsy brass lamp, and he was given no time to draw it. The third man, pressed irresistibly on by the pressure of Ahreestos and those behind the captain, squealed like a pig at slaughtering time and never even tried to raise his sword to parry the blow that struck between the lower rim of his old-fashioned helm and his scale shirt and cleanly severed his dirty neck. The spouting, gory geysers took Ahreestos full in the face, through the bars of his visor.

Hampered by the twitching, jerking bodies beneath his feet and half-blinded by the stinging, salt blood, the veteran soldier still managed to turn two or three jarring, bone-numbing blows of that dripping, deadly sword with adroit handling of his own. Then his inferior steel snapped and he had a brief moment to stare in stunned wonderment at the scant foot of blade left below his hilt, before all the stars of heaven exploded in his head and he suddenly dropped into a bottomless pit of black nothingness.

By planting himself firmly and loudly shouting that the captain was down, the next man managed to prevent himself being pushed within range of that armored apparition and its death-dealing yard of steel. As fast as they might, but still far too slowly for the foremost men, the long line backed down the tunnel, the last one dragging the inert form of Captain Ahreestos.

In the thoheeks suite, Tim laid his blood-streaked sword aside and lifted off the helm after Giliahna's deft, sure fingers had unbuckled it Accepting a damp cloth, he rubbed his sweaty face and hairless scalp, then gratefully drained off the big tankard of beer proffered by Sir Geros.

At length, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "They're In retreat now, back up the passage, but young Tcharlee is out there watching lest they return. I downed four of the bastards. Three were clean kills, but the last man was in three-quarter plate and knew a bit more than the basic rudiments of swordplay. At best, I only wounded him, possibly just stunned him. Most of them are no soldiers, just an armed rabble. Is there any more of that beer, Sir Geros?"

By the time they got Captain Ahreestos back into the suite where the lady and her folk waited and got his helmet off, he was beginning to regain consciousness. He felt kitten-weak, shaky and with trickles of his own blood from nose, ears and mouth corners freshening the partly clotted gore that had sprayed through the front of his helm from the spurting arteries of the decapitated man.

"Captain Ahreestos! God curse you, you craven cur dog, answer me!" The lady bent as far forward as her girth would permit and slapped the man's ashen cheeks smartly, heedless that the stones and settings of her many rings tore his flesh. But her shouts and buffets elicited only a wordless mumbling, and, when she grabbed a handful of his sweaty, black hair and raised his streaked face, his bloodshot eyes rolled, unfocused, and a fresh rivulet of blood coursed from one ear.

She had the unfortunate captain raised to his feet, but, immediately the two bravos released their holds upon him, he collapsed bonelessly and fell to the floor in a great crash and clashing of his armor.

Without turning, Mehleena snapped her pudgy fingers. "Ghrahgos, Broonos, drag this piece of useless filth out into the corridor where his bleeding can't damage anything. Lootzeea, fetch water and cloths that I may wash his dirtiness from my hands. Tonos, get the blood cleaned off this carpet Quickly, before it dries."

While a serving girl carefully washed Mehleena's extended hands, she ordered Ahreestos' last living sergeant forward, snapping, "All right, you lowborn ape, what happened up there? There can be no more than a score or less including women, in that main section. So how is it that thirty big, brave men, who've lived high on my bounty for months, come scuttling back into this suite with their tails beween their legs? You are all armed and armored at my expense and I was assured that all of you knew how to fight."

"L… lady," the fidgeting sergeant, one Limos, stuttered, "the passage in there… it's so narrow thet cain't but one man at the time go 'long it an' it's no room to use a axe nor sword properlike. But them what kilt poor Ehmnos and them other boys was in full plate armor and more'n a foot higher'n us an' in a higher'n wider place an' thet give 'em more room to fight right. It ain't no room to carry targets in there, lady, so mens what hain't in full plate or dang close to it won't live no longern it takes't'…"

"Never mind your stupid opinion, you stinking guttersnipe!" she snapped impatiently, then turned to her sons and the other two plate-armored men. "Myron, you and Xeelos take fifteen of these brave patriots, go downstairs, back into the rear half of this wing, then come up the rear stairs and enter the tunnel from some point beyond the T. May God damn Hwahltuh Sanderz for so ridiculously compartmenting the various sections of this hall; were it built along sane, logical Ehleen lines, this task of ours would be far easier to accomplish.

"Speeros"—this, to her second-eldest son, at fifteen as tall as his elder brother, but though big-boned not yet filled out—"you and Mailos will lead the rest of this craven pack back from this suite whenever Myron and Xeelos are in position. Your arrival and theirs should be simultaneous, if possible."

"But, mother," Myron replied hurriedly, "should we not wait until… until the other two companies arrive from the villages? The heathen cannot get out of the hall. All the exits are either blocked or guarded, and only two horses are left in the hall stables. If we had more men we… we could attack this way and batter the doors at the same time."

Mehleena's layers of fat rippled as she shrugged. "What do we need more careless, dirty men in my hall for? They'd track dirt and damage furniture. No, the place for the rest of them, when at last they straggle in, is upon the walls; don't forget, the rest of your pagan kin could ride up at any time. "Now draw your sword, Myron, take these men down and around and show us all what you're made of." She patted the swell of his breastplate, on which was painted a black-rimmed white circle with, at the center, the cross—ancient symbol of their ancient religion—rendered in reddish violet

"Strike for the True God and the True Faith, Myron, my son. Strike for me, for your sisters and brothers in Christ and for the rebirth of the ancient glories of our blessed race. And if you fall, know that your sufferings will be but brief and that through the rest of eternity you will dwell with our Holy Savior in Paradise."

"But… but, Mother," quavered Myron, his voice breaking, his face as pale as that of wounded Captain Ahreestos, now lying unattended in the hallway. "I… I'm to be… to be the chief. The chief must not… must never be placed in danger. Speeros will be tahneestos, it is his place to lead in war, not mine… never mine! Please, Mother… what if they… they kill me?" Myron's full lips trembled on the last words and a tear crept downward on either side of his aquiline nose. All at once, the big man seemed to shrink upon himself and he whimpered in almost a whisper, "Mother… please, Mother… please don't make me go." Mehleena shuddered and her eyes looked fit to burst from their sockets. Throwing back her head she emitted a scream of pure rage that could be heard even in the sealed-off and besieged central portion of the hall. Raising her thick, jig-gling-fleshed arms high above her head, she shook both small fists at the ceiling and shouted.

"Why, God, why? Why did You in Your infinite wisdom see fit to immure my man's soul in this hateful woman's body? Despite Your lifelong sentence of torment, have I not always striven to serve You well? Why then was it needful to further torment me by giving me for a son this pitiful coward? Why, oh, God I have served and honored my life long? Why? Why? Why? Why?"

Recognizing the too familiar signs, most of the servants rapidly and silently quit the chamber, the suite and close proximity to their infuriated mistress. Tonos and a few of the more courageous and/or agile servitors lingered in the foyer, but even they made certain of a clear line of retreat. Speeros, Xeelos and Mailos were among this smaller group.

To their sorrow, the score and a half of bravos clustered close about had never seen Mehleena Sanderz in one of her murderous tantrums and were completely unprepared when she suddenly whirled, wrenched an iron-shafted horseman's axe from a nearby bravo and commenced to lay about her, concentrating upon the steel-clad body of Myron, her sobbing, shaking son, but careless of who or what the blade or shaft or knife-edged terminal spike encountered in its travels.

All the while, the blubbery woman screamed and ranted and raved. Half her utterances were incomprehensible, the other half damned first Myron, then every man in the suite, then every man in the hall, then every man in the duchy and, at last, every man on earth.

One of the bravos was down with his brains gushed out on the precious carpet and two others were badly hurt before the remainder of the thirty became one kicking, clawing, shouting mass as each strove to be first through the door. Myron, though his fine plates were battered somewhat and his chin had been cut by the tip of the terminal spike, was so far lost in his blue funk that he still stood unmoving. And his immobility saved him, for the ravening beast now possessing his mother was drawn to moving prey—the broil of panicky, struggling bravos—and she spun and waddled closer, still gripping the bloody axe in both hands.

Gone too far from sanity for words, only hisses, spittle and snarls of bestial fury came from between her skinned-back lips and bared, gnashing teeth. She beat on helmeted heads, stove in ribs and shattered shoulders through scale shirts and mail, hacked deeply and sauguineously into unprotected legs and arms and the occasional neck.

At length, one bravo—his lifelong respect for and fear of the nobility submerged in the agony of a deep thigh wound, terror for his threatened life and cornered-rat ferocity— turned about, drew his antique Ehleen shortsword and drove its leaf-shaped blade into Mehleena's flopping left breast to the very crossguard, even as the last swing of her axe smashed the spine of the man behind.

Chapter XVIII

At the same moment Mehleena was decimating her own ragtag little army, Uhlos, the wine steward, now commanding the walls, was notified by a tower sentinel of a cloud of dust rapidly approaching from the direction of the west hall village. Jumping to the sadly erroneous conclusion that said dust cloud heralded the arrival of the expected company of Captain Deemos, Uhlos set his few men to the laborious tasks of lowering the drawbridge spanning the twenty-foot width of the deep ditch fronting the hall, raising the oak-and-iron grille that served to protect the outer gate from rams, then unbarring and swinging wide both the outer and inner gates.

These lowerings and raisings and openings took much time and effort for the undermanned, inexperienced contingent to accomplish, and by the time Uhlos became aware of his fatal error, it would have been too late to even attempt to reclose the approaches to the hall. Far too late even had not he and the few survivors of his force been cowering in the low, central tower, while the rest of the unarmored men lay still or feebly twitching on the wall walk, with bright-feathered arrows jutting from various portions of their anatomies.

While their retainers went about retrieving their arrows and such weapons as were on or about the fallen, then shoving dead and dying alike through the crenels to thump onto the bottom of the boulder-strewn ditch forty feet down, the nobles got quick and complete answers to all their questions from the pale and trembling wine steward, Uhlos.

When they had returned to the main courtyard below, Tahm Adaimyuhn stepped to his horse long enough to unstrap a case containing his silver-mounted throwingstick and six Ahrmehnee darts—short, heavy and infamous. He tightened the carrystrap over his armor and baldric so that they jutted in easy reach over his left shoulder.

As he returned to his three peers, Komees Dik was saying, "Well, to put it all in a walnutshell, Tim and the loyal folk hold the central portion of the hall, that bastard didn't know how many levels and neither do we; the Ehleen bitch and her whelps, most of the servants and one company of those ruffian-soldiers hold the rest of the hall; but we hold the walls and this courtyard and those murdering rebel dogs don't know that fact yet

"So there's one company in the hall, one feeding the crows back up the road yonder and one unaccounted for. Now it's a pretty fair bet that the other company wont have engines or rams, but let's play it safe and raise that bridge. If we do that and place guards on the posterns, the dung-spawned rebels will be rats in a pit and we, my lads, will be the terriers. Too bad none of us is much good at farspeak, for I know good old Sir Geros will regret missing the fun."

Leaving a dozen men to man the walls and guard the small rear gates, the four gentlemen clanked into the south wing at the head of thirty-two fighters. The intaking was ferocious, brutal and quickly done. No quarter was expected or proffered, but at Komees Dik's express command, Speeros Sanderz and his two maternal cousins. Xeelos and Mailos, were taken alive—battered but alive. So, too, were the younger, prettier Ehleen serving women—at no one's command, rather by an unvoiced but general agreement Mehleena's younger children were in the north, wing and were not found until long after the heat of blood lust had cooled.

It was near sunset before the company marched in from the eastern village. Captain Plehkos spurred ahead of his men and reined up at the edge of the ditch, demanding that the bridge be lowered. In the dusk, he failed to recognize the stiff, grayish, naked corpses of Mehleena and Captain Ahreestos, dangling by their ankles above the gate. His armor saved him from the arrows, but his horse lacked any such protection. Captain Plehkos executed a retrograde movement at a limping run, commandeered the mule from a sergeant then led his forty-eight bravos far enough down the hill to be well out of bow range.

Komees Dik, Vahrohneeskos Tahm and the others were all for mounting and sallying out to finish the job of rebel eradication, but Tim—who had assumed overall command with natural ease and without argument—shook his head.

"No, Kinsmen, you have had your fun. There are those coming who have not so leave yon bandits to them." Then he added, on a serious note, "If you want an occupation for your men, set them to finding that whoreson Myron. We found his armor in that room where his bitch-mother was killed, but sword, dirk and the pervert himself are gone, along with his bumboy, the cook, Gaios. You say you had all exits guarded so he must still be in this hall. I charge you, Kindred, find that precious pair. I've a stake prepared that will no doubt tickle his arse to such a degree that the folk off in Morguhnpolis will hear his shrieks of pleasure!"

But when a nightlong search failed to produce even a clue to the missing men, Tim sought out Sir Geros, locating him at last lowering a cloth-wrapped bundle onto a pyre of faggots he had laid between his small house and the outer wall.

There were tears in the baronet's eyes and the traces of more down his stubbled cheeks, as he lifted his head to face Tim. "Poor old Brownie," he said chokedly, his lips drawn in a tight line. "The oldest hound in the duchy. The last gift Komees Hari Daiviz of Morguhn presented your late father, near eighteen years agone. He was near blind and his teeth were so worn down that he could not eat meat unless I chewed it for him first, so I kept him here by me where I knew he would sleep warm of cold nights. Those bastards couldn't find me here to kill, so they murdered old Brownie, speared the poor beast where he lay on my hearth."

They sent the faithful old dog to Wind together, Tim chanting what he could recall of the Lament of Sanderz, as he would have sung it for the sending to Wind of a human Kinsman.

Later, over brandy in the sitting room of his cottage, Sir Geros remarked, "Tim, I hate to discourage you, but Myron and Gaios might've got away clean… or they could still be in the hall." -

Tim shook his head, tiredly. "Not in my hall, Geros. I'd stake my horse on it! Why, man, we went through that place from top to bottom, then from bottom to top, from the cisterns in the spring cellar to the bat roosts in the attics. And every one of the outbuildings, too, and all the towers, and j down the stable well and the privies. We found some remarkable things but not one hair of my perverted half brother and his pooeesos."

Geros sipped at the fiery brandy, then said slowly, "No, Tim, you're wrong, though you have no way of knowing it, not till now, at least.

Tim, your pa was haunted by the shades of the Vawn Kindred, and it was for long his constant terror that he would be trapped in his hall, and helplessly murdered as were so many of them by the Ehleen rebels in the Great Rebellion. Therefore, when his old friend and comrade Sir Ehdt Gahthwahlt designed this hall, he prepared two sets of plans. When the building was done, one set was burned. It's the other, incomplete set that's among your pa's papers.

"Tim, there's tunnels and stairways and passages and hidey-holes in this hall even I don't know about, and I've been castellan since it was finished. Only your pa knew them all, and there's a good chance Mehleena got some of those secrets out of him from time to time, her and her witch."

Tim pursed his lips. "Friend Geros, I wouldn't throw that old charge of witchcraft about too much from now on, were I you. If Mistress Neeka passes all the tests they'll put her to in Kehnooryos Atheenahs, she'll be declared a High Lady of this Confederation of ours, and it has been my experience that women—all women, high or lowly—have long memories for insults or slights." He chuckled. "Not to mention that most women are far more dangerous than men because their strength and determination are so often underestimated."

The hapless rebel bravos of Captain Plehkos milled about the base of the hill in uncertainty for an hour too long, only attempting to disperse and scatter when they spotted the vanguard of Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn's column… and by then, of course, it was far too late for any of them. The middle-aged archduke led his dragoons, and Tim—on a hastily saddled Steelsheen and accompanied by his four noble relatives—spurred forth to take command of his own company of lancers. Then the horsemen rode down their two-legged game with the whoops and shouts of the hunt rather than war cries. Tahm took one more head, and only Captain Plehkos, rendered insensible when his wounded mule bucked him off, was taken alive.

The rebel captain would much have preferred a quick death from lance or saber, axe or arrow, for Bili of Morguhn—who had right speedily pressed his rightful claim to Speeros Sanderz, the captain and the majordomo, Tonos, who had been found cowering in an old privy pit during the searching for Myron—made no secret of the great delight he would derive from their interrogation, torture and eventual execution.

Tonos collapsed, befouling himself in an excess of unconcealed terror. The veteran Plehkos' face went white as whey, but he just set his square jaws in silence. Speeros Sanderz, at fifteen, more of a man than his hulking elder brother had ever been, just sneered, then coolly spit at the archduke's feet.

Threaten and bluster all you like, cousin," he snapped, superciliously. "But we both know, you and I, that you dare not harm or slay me for fear of our prince, my poor mother's cousin. Her murder alone already weighs right heavy on your head!"

Bili grinned like a winter wolf. "Once that was so, young sir, but no more, Sun and Wind be praised. You and your ilk have removed yourselves from any scintilla of protection. You rose in armed and organized rebellion against your rightful overlords, and were Zenos to try to intercede for you in any way, all loyal noblemen would view him tarred with the same brush… and you may rest assured that the prince, your cousin, recognizes his jeopardy as clearly as do I.

"As regards your late dam, the valiant Tonos, here, has signed a sworn statement that she went berserk when your dear brother publicly demonstrated that he held his wretched life of more value than his honor. Stout Tonos goes on to say that she then attacked your brother and a whole roomful of men with an axe. Tonos saw no more after that, but your mother was already dead when first the loyal warriors entered that room. As she was run through with an antique slashing sword, I think it safe to assume that one of her own armed jailbirds did it; so she was hoist on her own treasonous hooks, and I only regret that she did not live to be hoist upon a dull stake."

Bili had the three prisoners manacled and weighted with chains and guarded closely by his handpicked dragoons, lest they find a way to take their own lives.

While Tim and his noble guests dawdled over their postprandial wines and cordials in the lamplit dining chamber, tall bonfires threw leaping, dancing shadows in both main and rear courtyards, where lancers and dragoons, Ahrmehnee and Kindred milled and laughed and shouted, gorging themselves on coarse bread and dripping chunks carved from the whole oxen slowly revolving on the spits, guzzling tankards of foaming beer, tart cider and watered wine.

The Ahrmehnee loved music and dancing even more than did the Ehleenee, and their musicians never went far without their instruments. Around one of the bright, crackling fires, a circling line of the young warriors of Vahrohneeskos Tahm Adaimyuhn of Lion Mountain stamped and leaped in a fast-paced and intricately complicated dance, their deep chorus rising in the refrain of the ancient melody. "Nee-nie, nee-nie, nee-nie, me. HEY! "Heh-lai. heh-Iai, heh-lai, "Nee nie-nief

And the chorus and the shrilling flutes, twanging ouds, jangling tambourines and roaring rank of drums were almost enough to drown out the tearing screams of the captured rebel Ehleen serving girls, stripped, staked out and suffering repeated ravishment.

The noblemen and ladies strolled out onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the central portion of the Hall and connected the two wings. From there they watched the Ahrmehnee dancers for a while as Tahm Adaimyuhn recited the history of the songs and the significance of the dances. Then Tim, Bili, Tahm, Komees Dik, Sir Geros and the brothers Sanderz, Kahrl and Bahb, descended the stairs to make an appearance among their troops, drain off a tankard or two, nibble a little beef and publicly commend those fighters who had distinguished themselves in some way.

Blind Ahl and Sir Geros' daughter, Mairee, retired to the suite they shared. Mistress Neeka, who looked to be and truly was still moving in a daze, made her way up to her old, familiar rooms, preferring the known comforts to the sumptuous south-wing suite Tim had offered her. Another reason she tamed in her cramped north-wing quarters was the proximity to Mehleena's three daughters, whom she had taken it upon herself to console in their grief and fear.

Giliahna and Widahd lingered abovestairs only long enough to to collect the necessaries, then trooped off to the semi-detached bath chamber, returning a good hour later. She and her dusky companion shared a minty cordial, then, while Oihahna sipped yet another thimbleful, the slender, graceful Zanrtohgahn girl went into the main room to turn down her mistress' bed and bank the hearthfire.

While sitting and musing, Giliahna chanced to think of a particularly treasured gift of her late husband she wished to show Tim when he presently came up to bed. But a quick fumbling through the trunks in the big closet failed to locate it.

"Widahd," she muttered to herself, "will know where it is." She opened the door to her bedroom and moved into the large, dim chamber, shrugging off her quilted robe and dropping it into a chair. But before she could kick off her low felt boots, a big, callused hand clamped over her mouth from behind and the icy needle point of a dirk or dagger was pressed painfully against her soft throat, just below the jaw where the vein throbbed.

Myron Sanderz's deep, hateful voice growled in her ear, "If you scream or try to farspeak, you incestuous bitch, I'll open your throat from ear to ear!"

Giliahna licked her lips and by a great effort of will kept her voice to a normal speaking level, devoid of any emotion or quaver. "What have you done with my friend, with Widahd? If you've slain her or harmed her…"

Myron removed the hand from her mouth but not the steel from her throat, took her shoulder and turned Giliahna to the right, so that she could see Widahd across the room near the hearth. The small woman had been gagged but was unbound. The cook, Gaios, had his left arm clamped about her arms and upper body while he menaced her with the broad blade of a Confederation-pattern shortsword.

Abruptly, Myron pushed his captive forward far enough to hurl her nude body down upon the big bed. "Keep your mouth shut and your mind shielded, you sinful, unnatural slut, or Gaios will let the guts out of yon dung-colored pagan bitch!"

Giliahna's initial shock and terror were being speedily replaced by cold rage and disgust—the rage directed toward the filthy, disheveled, stubble-faced and wild-eyed Myron, the disgust toward herself for having allowed this craven, perverted whoreson of a half brother to glimpse even a bare eye-flick of her fear.

She levered herself up on her elbows and smiled at the black-haired man, mockingly. "You call me unnatural, brother dear? Then what, pray tell, are you? As regards dung, you should certainly know the color of it, since your abiding lust is to wallow in it.

"Were you a natural man of normal lusts and designs, I'd assume you'd come to my suite to ravish me, steal my jewels and gold, then slay me before you sought out Tim and your own death. But I cannot picture you ravishing any female; a young lad, perhaps, but never a girl. As for my treasure, I'll not make you a gift of it. If you want it, look for it. And you will find that Widahd and I will face such death as you and your bumboy mete out to us with more courage than such a known craven as you will ever be able to muster when your time comes!"

Myron had gone livid, his face twisted in wrath. "Kill you, bitch?" he snarled. "No, there be better ways to deal with strumpets like you!"

Before she knew what he was about, Myron was on the bed, kneeling astride her body, his weight and the strength of his legs pinning down her arms. His left hand clamped tightly over her mouth, grasped her jaw and turned her head. Then the sharp dirk opened Giliahna's face to the bone from temple to jawline.

She struggled frantically but futilely, for Myron was nothing if not as strong as the proverbial ox. Finally, she sank her teeth into the palm of his hand. He did not lift the hand. Instead, he poised the point of his bloody blade above her face, grating, "Loosen your damned teeth, or I take out an eye!"

Widahd, like many Zahrtohgahn women, went waking or sleeping with a pair of thin, flat little steel daggers hidden beneath her garments but within easy reach. These purely Zahrtohgahn items were sheathed in tight metal cases, sealed with dense wax, and they required a real effort to uncase or draw. Such precautions were necessary to prevent fatal accidents, for the needle-tipped and razor-edged little weapons’ blades were coated their full length and width with a poison that brought slow and agonizing death and for which no antidote was known.

Moving slowly and carefully, Widahd had managed to draw the one on her right side. Ever so gradually, she brought her arm up, up, up, flexing it just enough to give power to her thrust, and cocked her wrist to impart the proper angle. Then, mustering all her strength and her not inconsiderable courage, Widahd drove the full three inches of the blade deep into the muscles of Oaios' swordarm.

The former cook vented a strangled scream. Widahd wrenched herself out of his slackened grasp and made for the bed, not even bothering to pull off the gag so intent was she on the deliverance of her loved mistress from the hulking torturer.

It was a brave effort, but it was doomed at its inception. Forgetting his wound, which though stinging ferociously was not bleeding very much, Gaios brought up his sword and stamped forward. With a meaty tchunnk, the broad, heavy blade descended to strike the valiant brown-skinned girl at the angle of her slender neck and her right shoulder, cleaving through flesh and bone to the sternum. The very force of the blow drove Widahd to her knees, and her shriek of mortal agony was muffled in the gag.

Setting a foot against the girl's back, Gaios jerked his shortsword free, propelling Widahd's body face down on the thick carpets, which quickly became soaked with more blood than one would have thought so small a body could contain. A glance showed Gaios that his master, Myron, had taken no notice of the brief, bloody affair, being completely absorbed in the disfigurement of his own victim. Grinning, the former cook dropped his clotted sword, rolled Widahd onto her back, hurriedly shredded off the front of her skirt and set about raping the dying young woman, heedless of the spurting gushes of blood that soon soaked his shirtfront.

Myron took his time on Giliahna's right cheek, deliberately prolonging the agony. Tears poured from the suffering woman's blue eyes to water the blood on her cruelly slashed face, but she had set her teeth and her will and no slightest sound came out to meet the barrier of that thick, dirty hand mashing down on her lips.

All the while he carefully marred Giliahna's beauty, Myron hissed his plans for her and for Tim in a half-whisper. "The way you barbarians searched this hall was comical. Gaios and I could have departed anytime we wished, and we can still, unseen and unsuspected. I only remained to deal with our barbaric brother, Tim, and with you.

"I know that he will come here, soon or late, intent upon doing more of his sinful incest with you. He certainly will be alone and unsuspecting and, like as not, unarmed, so Gaios and I should have no trouble dealing with him.