Swords of the Horseclans

12

Lillian Landor opened her dark-blue eyes and stretched her white arms luxuriously, then swung her shapely legs over the edge of the low couch and sat up. On the other side of the couch, High King Zastros lay like a log, only the movement, of his chest denoting that there was life in the hairy body.

The black-haired woman made use of the silver chamberpot, then padded across the thickly carpeted floor of the lamplit, silk-walled room. Taking a position in the middle of the room where the ceiling was higher, she went through ten minutes of intricate exercises to loosen long unused muscles.

God! she thought. God, it’s good to be back in a youthful, limber body, again.

She looked with loathing upon the body of Zastros, deep in drugged slumber on the couch. Its every major bone and joint must have been broken or sprained seriously at least once in his lifetime, not to mention the countless scars of cuts, slashes, stabs, and thrusts; occupancy of such a body, especially in rainy weather, was endless, dull agony.

Perspiring lightly from her exertions, she went to the washstand, filled the basin, and began to sponge her resilient, alabaster skin, while regarding her heart-shaped face in a mirror of polished steel. Briefly closing her eyes, she tried to recall what her own face—the face of the body in which she had been born seven hundred years before—had looked like.

Nodding, she murmured to herself, “It was dark-haired too … I think. Christ, it’s so damned hard to remember when you’ve had a couple of dozen bodies since then … no, more than that, thirty, anyway, maybe more. Sometimes I feel like a goddamned vampire. If we could only take one of those mutants apart, find out what causative factors are responsible for their regeneration. If I could think of a way to get my hands on this Milo … hmmm.”

Musing, she drew a robe over her bare skin and passed into the outer room to kneel before one of a pair of “ornamental” chests. Placing both her delicate hands atop the lid, she spread her fingers and pressed their tips upon eight metal studs in an intricate sequence.

Earlier that evening, a small boat had grounded at a well-hidden spot on the south bank and a heavily cloaked man had stepped ashore, mounted a waiting horse and spurred off into the darkness.

At the fringe of the main camp, Strahteegos Grahvos’ most trusted retainers stood guard about his pavilion, their bared steel turning away any who came near. When a horseman, both his face and body muffled in a dark cloak, rode up, he leaned from his saddle, whispered a few words to an officer, and was immediately passed through.

Within the main room of the pavilion, Grahvos and seven other thoheeksee conversed in low, guarded tones. When a ninth man entered, Grahvos hurried over to him and they exchanged a few whispered sentences. Then the newcomer laid aside his cloak and accompanied the old Strahteegos back to the table.

Grahvos tapped his knuckles on the table and the other nobles broke off their conversations to turn toward him. “Gentlemen, I declare the Council of Thoheeksee … what’s now left of us, at least … now in session. I think that most of you know Captain Vahrohnos Mahvros of Lohfospolis. It was he who had the courage to undertake the mission of which I spoke earlier. He has just returned from the camp of High-Lord Milo and King Zenos, where he spoke in my name. He … but let him tell of it.” He sat down.

Mahvros booked half again his thirty years. His darkly handsome face was drawn with fatigue and the nervous strain of the last day. But his voice was strong. “My lords, I spent most of the afternoon and early evening with High-Lord Milo, King Zenos of Karaleenos, Lord Alexandras of the Sea Isles and Thoheeks Djefree of Kumbuhluhn, though the High-Lord seemed to speak for all most of the time.

“He swears that no man or body of men marching south will be harmed or hindered; indeed, if they march along the main traderoad, they can be certain of guides to show them to unpolluted water.

“The High-Lord emphasized that he wants none of our arms or supplies or equipment. We are welcome to bear back anything we brought north. He demands only the surrender of the persons of the High King and the Queen.”

“Haarumph!” Thoheeks Mahnos of Ehpohtispolis interjected. “He is most welcome to that pair, say I. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

“Yes, yes,” Grahvos agreed. “We made a serious mistake with Zastros, but none of us could have known at the time how much he had changed in his three years of exile. We now know and, hopefully, it’s not too late to save our homelands from any more of his misrule.”

Another voice entered the conversation—the gritty bass of Thoheeks Bahoa growled. “I went along with the majority—every man here knows that—but I told you then that Zastros was not Zastros. Our fathers’ duchies adjoined. I’ve known the man all his life, and the Zastros of the last year ia not the Zastros of years agone!”

“Well, be that as it may be,” Grahvos snapped. “The High-Lord Milo wants the High King and his witch-wife. Our alternatives are few: we can continue to sit here, while the men desert individually and in whole units, until starvation, or camp fever or an arrow in the night takes us; or we can try another assault on that goddamned deathtrap of a bridge … though, to my way of thinking, falling on our swords would be an easier way of suiciding.

“I say that we leave Zastros and his wife to our esteemed former foes and take our men back home; God knows, we and they have enough to do there. How says the Council?” Seven ayes answered.

“Now that that is settled,” Grahvos went hurriedly on, “let’s bring another thorny matter into the open. Who is going to rule without Zastros? Each of us has as much claim to the Dragon Throne as the next. But can the Southern Kingdom survive another three or more years of civil war and anarchy? I think not.

“Look around this table, gentlemen. Our Council was once made up of two and thirty thoheeksee; including Zastros, there are now but nine in our camp. If young Vikos made it back safely, there are two living thoheeksee in all of the Southern Kingdom, and the late King probably died by his own hand.

“What of the rest, gentlemen? Twenty thoheeksee, almost two-thirds of the original Council, died senselessly and uselessly while fighting like curs over a stinking piece of offal!

“I say: no more, gentlemen, no more! If we name another of our own number king, how long will it be before one or more of us is tempted to overthrow him, replace him, eh?”

There were sober nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.

At length, Thoheeks Bahos grunted the obvious question. “Then what are we to do, Grahvos? Our kindgom must have a strong ruler, but a tyrant tike Hyamos and bis lousy son will beget another rebellion.”

“The High-Lord Milo of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Karaleenos keh Kuhmbuhlun has freely offered the thirty-three duchies of the Southern Kingdom full-standing memberships in his Confederation. All nobles will retain their lands, cities, rights, and titles; only their sworn allegiance will change. We will have no king; each thoheeks will act as royal governor of his duchy for the High-Lord. The High-Lord or his emissary will meet with the full Council each year to work out taxes and any other business matters.”

The first to speak after Grahvos had dropped his bombshell was Mahnos. “What of our warbands?”

“We will, of course, be expected to furnish men for the Army of the Confederation, and to see to the training of the spear levy. Nor will noblemen be denied bodyguards and armed retainers, but the large warbands are to be dissolved.”

Mahnos nodded emphatically. “Good and good again. Give a man a small army to play with and all hell breaks loose. Besides, I’d rather see my people pushing plows than pikes. You have my ‘aye,’ Grahvos.”

Within a scant hour it was settled, for the firm yet fair government of Kehnooryos. Ehlahs had been the subject of speculation and admiration for the thirty years since its inception; and all the thoheeksee agreed that almost any form of rule was preferable to the last few years. The meeting broke up and they scattered to their various commands to order their forces, agreeing to meet, each with retinues of reliable, well-armed men, at Zastros’ pavilion at a specified time.

Lillian leisurely set up the transceiver, attaching it to the powerpack in the matching chest and to its antenna—that long, slender brass rod that she, while in Zastros’ body, had had permanently affixed to the highest point of the pavilion. Then she plugged in the mike and carefully adjusted the frequency. There was, she knew, no chance of discovery or interruption this time, for Zastros was heavily sedated—even were he not, only the timbre of-her voice and those words known to no other could bring him out of his trance-state. Nor were the guards to be expected to check this far into the pavilion until they changed, and that was at least two hours away.

She depressed the button that gave out her call signal. Almost immediately a man’s voice crackled from the set.

“This is the J. & R. Kennedy Center. Who’s calling, please?”

“Dr. Landor. This is Dr. Lillian Landor. Who is the board member on duty tonight?”

“Uhhh, Dr. Crawley, ma’am. You wish to speak with him?”

“Of course I want to speak with him, you dunce! Why else do you think I called? And, wait a minute!” she snapped. “I hold four degrees buster. I’ve as much right to the title ‘Doctor’ as has any other board member. If I hear one more goddamned ma’am out of you, you’ll spend the next ten years in the body of a goddamned alligator! You get me, you goddamned chauvinist?”

The man stammered some unintelligible reply. Then there was dead air for a short while while she fidgeted and silently fumed.

A new voice came through the speaker. “This is Bud Crawley, Lily. What seems to be the problem this time?”

“Dr. Crawley,” she replied icily, “I warned you all about the riskiness of this insanity from the start, and I knew I was right, even if you didn’t. Well, the army is at the Little Pee Dee River, just west of the ocean swamps, and it cannot go any farther north, not without help from the Center.”

“What kind of help, Lily?” Crawley sounded wary. “We have no boats to cross the river and, even if we did, they’d never make it in the face of catapults and horse-archers and God knows how many boatloads of pirates from those damned islands where Bermuda used to be. The bridge we’d expected to use has had a goddamned wall built right across it. I ordered it overrun, but these goddamned cowards lost so many men on the first assault that the second and third waves flatly refused to attack.

“They’re dying like flies and deserting in droves and I know it’s just a matter of time before they murder Zastros and call the whole thing off, if they can patch together some kind of deal with that goddamned mutant bastard. So I want out, now! Send a copter for me or send me help, one of the two.”

“Hmmm,” replied Crawley. “Hang on, Lily. Ill have to check the map with someone who knows more about transportation than I do.”

A third male voice addressed her. “Doctor, this is O’Hare, transportation. Can you read me the coordinates off your transceiver? Those dials are located …”

“Goddamn it, I know where they’re located!” she snarled into the mike. “Do you think I’m stupid?” “N … no, ma’am,” he stuttered.

“If you goddamned bastards’ don’t stop calling me ma’am …” Her infuriated voice had risen to almost a shout and she broke off short. The last thing she wanted in here right now was a guard. “The coordinates are: thirty-five degrees and twenty-eight minutes latitude, seventy-nine degrees and two minutes longitude.”

After a moment O’Hare said; “Well, ma’ … uh, Dr. Landor, you’re not on the little Pee Dee, you’re on the Lumber River.”

“Well, ma’ … uh, Mr. O’Hare,” she scathingly mimicked him, “what the hell difference does it make?” Crawley’s voice cut in gravely. “Quite a bit, actually, Lily. You see, where you are now is beyond the range of any of our copters. We can neither get help to you nor pick you up, I’m afraid.”

“Goddamn your ass, Bud Crawley! What kind of crap are you trying to feed me?” Lillian spluttered furiously. “I happen to know that the big copters have a range of five hundred miles. I’m not that far from the Center, and don’t try to tell me I am, you son-of-a-bitch, you! The distance dial on this goddamned transceiver reads: 742.5 kilometers.”

“Actually, 742.531,” Crawley announced dryly. “Roughly 461.5 miles, Lily. And, yes, the maximum range of the large copters is five hundred miles, but that is a round-trip figure. Yes, we could get one up to you, but it couldn’t get back. Don’t you see?”

“Well, what the hell, Crawley, let them come up and blow that damned wall off the bridge and scatter the mutant’s army. Then they can march with me.”

Crawley sighed. “Lily, Lily, you know as well as do I what the board would say to that. We cannot—have not the facilities to—replace copters and there are no refueling points that far north.”

Lillian was almost shouting again. “Why can’t the five-thumbed bastards bring their extra goddamned fuel with them. I can remember that planes used to do it.”

She could hear O’Hare’s voice in the background as Crawley briefly conferred with him. Then, “I’m most sorry, Lily, but that idea is just not practical. You see, the extra weight of the fuel would decrease the overall range. I’m afraid you’re just caught in quite a vicious circle, old girl.”

“Don’t ‘old girl’ me, you damned Limey fairy!” she hissed. “Just tell me how you’re going to get me out of this frigging mess your goddamned masculine stupidity got me into!”

His voice cooled noticeably. “I’m looking at the map now, Dr. Landor. Lieutenant O’Hare assures me that, if you can get even as far west and south as thirty-degrees no minutes latitude, eighty-two degrees thirty minutes longitude, we shall have no difficulty succoring you.”

“Even if I can find a way to get out of this camp and down to wherever that is, how in the hell am I going to know it? Grid lines aren’t painted on the goddamned grass, you know; and how the hell am I going to let you know I got there, you pigs?”

“Your transceiver will …” began Crawley.

“Screw a goddamned transceiver and screw you, too!” She made no more efforts to muffle her voice. “How am I supposed to carry the damned thing, Crawley, on my goddamned back? Altogether, these two units must weigh three hundred pounds!”

“Three hundred forty-two and three-quarters,” amended Crawley. “A modest load for a good pack mule or horse, I should think.”

“Crawley, I know you’re about as dense as the day is long, you mammy jammer! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a matter of time, a short time in all likelihood, until some of these goddamned Greeks come in here and murder Zastros, so I can’t get out of camp in his body, they’d never let it out alive, and I’d never be allowed to leave without him … much less find somebody to find and saddle and load a goddamned pack-horse for me.” She ran out of breath, took several deep ones, and regained a measure of composure. “Crawley, I just might be able to steal one horse and get out of here alone. But how can a young woman traveling alone get back to one of our outposts?”

“As I remember, Lily, your present body is quite attractive, though a wee bit too slender for my own tastes. Nonetheless, you should have no trouble getting back. Just find a strong or wealthy man and … be nice to him.” He paused, then went on, unable to entirely mask his merriment. “Who knows, Lily, after all these centuries you might decide you like it”

“You … you … you no-good, dirty-minded sexist animal!” she screamed. “You and your kind, you’d just love to know I made the trip on my goddamned back so you could have something to snicker about. When you look at a woman, none of you bastards ever even thinks that her mind might be as good or better than yours; no, all that you can think about is using her body for your own selfish …”

She broke off suddenly, startled by a noise in the anteroom. Then the mike slipped from her hand as a spearman of Zastros’ bodyguard entered.

At that moment, Crawley inquired, “Lily! Lily! Dr. Landor! Can you hear my transmission?”

Making the ages-old hand sign against evil, the wide-eyed guard backed toward the anteroom, half whimpering, “Witch! Witchcraft!”

Fully aware of her danger, Lillian arose, smiling and extending a hand to the terrified soldier. “Oh, Solvos, you know I’m no witch. This chest is simply a toy with which I amuse myself while my dear lord sleeps. Here, give me your hand and look into my eyes.”

But he comprehended no single word she spoke, except for his own name. In her confusion, she was still talking in twentieth-century American English—as different from Old Merikan as the language of Chaucer. He only knew that she was speaking and using his name and advancing at him, and he suspected an attempt to ensorcell him. Just before he turned to run, he lashed out at her with the ferrule of his spear. He felt it strike, then took off as if Satan himself were hard on his heels.

Without the High King’s pavilion, Strahteegos Grahvos could make neither heads nor tails of the white-faced, stuttering spearman’s words. Knocking the heavy, solid-brass dress spear from his hand, Grahvos took the man’s shoulders and shook him violently. Even then, all that he could understand of the confused utterings were repeated references to witches, witchcraft, spells, and of men imprisoned in magical chests. Disgustedly, he threw the soldier aside and strode purposefully toward the entry, the other nobles crowding behind him.

A limp hand extended into the anteroom. Grahvos carefully pulled aside the curtains to disclose the crumpled form of Lady Lilyuhn, still swathed in her robe of brocade silk. But the crackling radio set drew his attention. He stepped over her and crossed to squat in front of it. All at once, the crackling ceased and Craw-ley’s voice impatiently demanded, “Blast you, Lily, stop playing games! I know your transceiver’s still on. Acknowledge my transmission. Damn it, Charley, are you certain this is the proper frequency?”

The front rank of nobles went as wide-eyed and ashen as had the spearman. Grahvos looked up in time to see Thoheeks Mahnos rapidly crossing himself, his lips moving in half-forgotten prayers.

“Oh, for the love of God, Mahnos,” Grahvos expostulated, “grow up! This is some sophisticated variety of machine, nothing more.”

He picked up the mike lying on the carpet and examined it carefully. “This is wrought of that odd material the Elder People employed … plahsteek, I think it was called. The machine might even be from those times.”

Though frightened, like all humans, of those things they did not understand, the nobles were not cowards. Seeing Grahvos unharmed, they slowly entered the inner chamber and scrutinized the strange device, first from a distance, then closer. But no more voices came from it, only a low-pitched hum and sporadic crackling sounds.

While they gaped at this wonder and gradually overcame their fears, far to the south, in the midst of the Great Southern Swamp, Dr. Bud Cra$ley was speaking into an intercom.

“Sir, I am afraid that we must write off Dr. Landor and the project to which she was assigned.” Briefly, deleting her expletives and verbal abuse, he quoted Lillian’s last report, closing by saying, “Then she suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence, although she failed to deactivate the transceiver. There were some muffled noises, then several minutes of silence. The next voices I could hear distinctly were all masculine and all were speaking Greek.”

The senior director’s voice sounded sleepy. “All right, Bud, and thank you. Apparently Dr. Landor allowed herself more time than she really had. It was possibly our mistake to assign her to such a mission, anyway; she hated men—all men—and the emotion of hate tends to cloud one’s judgment and perceptiveness as much as does the emotion of love. We must exercise more care in the future; there’re too few of us to waste.

“But, nonetheless, Bud, you might try leaving our transceiver on that frequency for a while. Miracles happen, you know. She might be in hiding.”

Lillian was in hiding. When the spear butt had crashed against her body’s delicate skull, there had been a moment of shocked confusion; then she had felt the life-force leaving her body. Frantically, unthinkingly, she re-entered Zastros. Only when the transference was complete did she think what this meant. True, the drugs would wear off in time, but his body would never achieve full consciousness or the ability to move and speak without … without those few, simple words. But those words must be spoken through the mouth and vocal apparatus of that beautiful young body that lay almost dead on the floor of the dressing chamber. And she realized that she was not hiding safely—she was trapped I

Willing Zastros’ recumbent body to its maximum possible awareness, she heard the nobles enter the pavilion, heard that ass, Crawley, accuse her—a responsible, mature woman with no less than four degrees—of “playing games.” The nobles milled about the dressing chamber for a short while, exclaiming over various aspects of the radio.

Children! Lillian thought contemptuously. But, then, all men are basically dirty-minded little boys!

She heard the clump of boots and the clank of armor as someone came toward the couch, and she strove vainly to force Zastros’ eyelids to open. Then a rough band had taken the inert body’s arm and shaken it vigorously.

A voice she recognized as that of Strahteegos Grahvos spoke harshly. “Zastros! Zastros! Damn your eyes, Zastros, wake up!” The hand let go and the boots clumped back. “He’s out like a snuffed torch, gentlemen.”

Someone muttered something Zastros’ ears could not pick up the meaning of.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop that foolishness!” barked Grahvos’ voice. “Sorcery, my calloused butt! Wine or drugs did this, probably both together; we all know he kept his wife drugged most of the time, so he obviously uses them, too.

“But it doesn’t matter; awake or asleep, he’s still deposed. Let High-Lord Milo waken him. We came mainly for the jewels and the gold. Let’s find them and get on the march. One of you pull off his house signet and find his sword. They should go to his nephew, Kathros. But no obvious plundering, gentlemen; if you’must steal, steal small. I don’t want our prospective overlord to think ill of us, nor should you; remember, our future lies with his Confederation.”

After a brief period of pushing about of furniture, dragging and clattering noises, and a short, sharp pain in Zastros’ right thumb as his signet was jerked off, Lillian heard the men’s voices fade away into the distance, leaving her alone in her refuge-become-prison. She made a stab at re-entering the body in the other room, but the way was closed, and no amount of will could budge so much as the tiniest muscle of Zastros’ hulk.

There was a short, deadly battle with the former High King’s bodyguard officers when the nobles bore the royal treasures from the pavilion and made to load them onto a waiting wagon, but the retainers of the thoheeksee ruthlessly cut down any who drew sword or lowered spear against them. With the officers all dead or dying, the rest of the guard wisely slipped away, tearing off their Green Dragon tabards as they went—naught could be gained in the support of a deposed and probably dead king.

Grahvos, well aware that whatever was left would certainly be looted by the unattached camp followers, stationed two hundred heavy infantry under command of Vahrohnos Mahvros to guard the ex-King’s pavilion and its environs until the High-Lord’s troops arrived. He also entrusted to the younger man a large package of documents—written oaths of fealty to the Confederation—all signed, witnessed, and sealed, from every landholder in the dispersing army.

A full day and then another night had been required to prepare the warbands for the retrograde movement. By the thirty-sixth hour after the nobles had looted Zastros’ treasures, the Green Dragon banner atop his pavilion waved over a scene of desolation. Outside the royal enclosure, precious few tents remained. Only discarded or broken equipment was left and a horde of human scavengers flitted through swarms of flies feasting on latrines and garbage pits.

Thoheeks Grahvos was the last to leave, having seen most of the troops on the march before dawn. Leaving his personal detachment at the foot of the hill, he rode up to the royal enclosure and dismounted before the pavilion.

“Any trouble so far, Mahvros?”

The young nobleman shook his head. “Nor do I expect any, my lord. Oh, my boys had to crack a couple of heads before we convinced the scum that we meant business, but we’ve been avoided since then.”

“And when the rest of us are on the road?” asked the Thoheeks skeptically.

“There’re damned few soldiers down there, my lord. And none of the skulkers are organized—it’s every man for himself. No, everything will be as it is when the Confederation troops get here.” Mahvros smiled.

Grahvos asked, “What of Zastros? Has he awakened yet?”

“No, my lord, he lives, but still he sleeps,” replied the Vahrohnos, adding, “but we had to bury the Lady Li-lyuhn. She was beginning to stink.”

Grahvos shrugged. “It couldn’t be helped. That guard probably killed her. There was fresh blood on his spear butt. But tell the High-Lord that I’m sorry.

“Also, Mahvros, tell him that I’ll see that the Thirty-three convene in the capital whenever he desires. I am certain that he and King Zenos will want some form of reparations, but emphasize, please, that some few years will be necessary to put our demesnes back on a paying basis.”

He put foot to stirrup, then turned back. “One other thing, Mahvros, my boy; the Council met for a short session this morning. Thoheeks Pahlios was your overlord, was he not?”

“Yes, my lord, but he was slain nearly three years ago. I—”

“Just so,” Grahvos interrupted. “He and all his male kin in the one battle. We’re going to have to affirm or choose the remainder of the Thirty-three rather quickly, and we want men we know will support us and the Confederation. That’s why we chose you to succeed the late Pahlios.”

Delving into his right boot-top, Grahvos brought out a slender roll of parchment. “Guard this well, Thoheeks Mahvros. When you’re back, ride to the capital and the Council will loan you troops enough to secure your new lands.

“Now, I must be gone.” He mounted and, from his saddle, extended his hand. “May God bless and keep you, lad, and may He bring you safely home.”

Reining about, he trotted out of the compound and down the hill.