Swords of the Horseclans

4

Lady Mara’s messenger—a subchief of Clan Morguh,.—pounded into camp in mid-afternoon of the fourth day after the first conference. Milo had the message in mind-speak—always quicker and more detailed than oral communication—and then turned both horse and rider over to Captain Ahbdool. The little man and his great-hearted mount had done better than a hundred miles a day!

Milo gathered his four captains and gave them most of the news; their individual reactions were about what he would have expected of them.

“God-Milo,” the Maklaud immediately mindspoke, “let me send riders to Ehlai and to the west. That will give us at least twenty-five hundred warriors; also, if we can boat the elders and the children up to Kehnooryos Atheenahs, I can almost guarantee nearly thirty hundred maiden-archers and matron-archers.”

Captain Zarameenos cracked his knuckles. “Irregular cavalry and horse-archers are all very well for raiding and scouting, even for flanking a host, under the proper conditions; but we’d best leave the mountains for later and get the main army down here. It takes time to move forty-thousand men.”

“Precisely,” stated old Guhsz Helluh authoritatively. “I estimate that your army will need two weeks to reach us; but for the most part, they will be marching on good roads through friendly lands. Think, man, think how much longer it will take to move three or four times that number of fighting men. Plus”—he tapped the table for emphasis—“their baggage, artificers, seige train, and the vast rabble of noncombatants that always follows a large host. His force is far too large to make much use of the trade road; they’ll mostly have to move cross country, and unless they know the country or have damned good guides …”

Herbuht Mai groaned. “All right, Guhsz, so they’ll take four, maybe six, weeks to reach our current position. But how could anyone stop them when they do get here, eh? One hundred twenty thousand fighting men! By my steel, there aren’t that many men in Pitzburk and Harzburk combined!

“Middle Kingdoms’ rulers think Lord Milo powerful because he can field an army of fifty-thousand-odd. But how can he or anyone stand against a force of nearly three times that number?”

Captain Zarameenos had never really liked Mai. “If you’re afraid to die for the realm that pays you, mercenary, why didn’t you stay in the same barbarian pigwallow that spawned you?” he sneered.

Both Helluh and Milo tensed themselves, ready to try to prevent bloodshed. The Maklaud eased backward and slyly loosened his saber, hoping to get at least one swipe at that strutting Ehleenee bastard before the northerner slew him.

But Mai’s good sense prevailed. He was far slower to anger than Helluh. “Captain Zarameenos,” he replied slowly, carefully choosing his words, “I am certainly as nobly born as are you, possibly more so, but that is of HO moment in this place and time. I do not fear death; indeed, He and I have brushed one another countless times on many a field. I well know, as do all my Freefighters, that wounds or death is the certain fate of most of us, but we continue to practice our highly dangerous profession because it is the only one most of us know.

“The nobility of your Ehleenoee realms are usually highly educated and, early on, are habituated to a soft, pampered life of culture and books and soft music and luxurious palaces and pleasures that men like me cannot understand. Consequently, few of your peers make decent soldiers.

“I dislike you probably as much as you dislike me, Captain, but I’ll gladly give any man his due; you are the rare exception to most of your ilk—admirable strategist, able field tactician, an officer who obviously cares for the welfare of his men and willingly devotes time to seeing to that welfare. Were any large number of Ehleenoee nobles the fighting men that Strahteegos Ga-bos, Komees Greemos, and you are, you’d have scant need to pay out your gold to the Freefighters you hate and despise!

“In the Middle Kingdoms, Captain Zarameenos, a nobleman begins his war training at the age of seven or eight. At fifteen or sixteen, if he’s still alive and uncrippled, he’s a seasoned veteran and he spends the best part of however much life is left him in making use of his hard-learned war skills—either for his home state or for foreign states. Yes, he fights for gold. Who can live without gold? If he’s lucky and a good leader, he manages to recruit a condotta, equip it, and hire it out as a unit for what must seem tremendous amounts of money to some. But, Captain Zarameenos, damned few condotta-captains die wealthy, not if they’re all they should be, for more than nine-tenths of the hire of their services goes back into the men for whom they are responsible.”

“Captain Zarameenos,” barked Milo, “you owe Captain Mai an apology.”

“Yes,” agreed the blackhaired officer, “I do, especially since most of what he said is true. As a class, my peers have become too soft, too civilized. Furthermore, most of us know it and despise ourselves because we are not the men that our ancestors were, so we have to hire men of the kind we should be to protect us. Something, Lord Milo, must be done to change this pattern.”

Milo nodded. “Something will be done … if the realm survives what’s coming. Captain Maklaud, I want ten of your best riders and twenty-two of your strongest, swiftest horses. You and the ten will ride within the hour—no armor, no bows, or spears, only saber, dirk, and helm. You and the men report back here.

“Captain Mai, as soon as I’ve dispatched the messengers, you and I will ride to King Zenos’ camp.

“Captain Zarameenos, have a detachment of your artificers determine how long it would take to partially or -completely render the bridge unusable.

“Captain Helluh, delegate your command to a good officer, then strip to sword and dirk and helm and take my stallion and a couple of good remounts. I have a very important mission for you; a man of lesser rank or experience couldn’t carry it off.”

Something over an hour later, Milo sat cradling his goblet, his booted legs thrust out before him, hoping that he had made the best decisions. If he had, many thousands of men would die before autumn. If he had not, there would certainly be years of untold misery and suffering and death up and down the much-altered Atlantic coast of what had once been called “North America.” In his case, nearly a hundred years of hopes and dreams and plans would be dissolved into nothingness. All that he and Mara and Aldora could do would be to go back to the Plains, where still roamed clans of Kindred, or take ship and wander the world as he had done alone for almost two centuries.

He ticked off his accomplishments: the Maklaud and two others to Lord Gabos with the main army in the western mountains. The Strahteegos was ordered to patch up some sort of truce with his opponents—a loose alliance of rapacious mountain tribes, as prone to fight each other as anyone else—break camp and march directly to Kehnooryos Atheenahs by way of Theesispolis, whose garrison of Freefighters he,was to absorb. At the capital, he was to reform so as to include all the troops Mara had been able to scrape together, then join Milo with all haste.

Two clansmen had ridden directly for Ehlai with the message for the Kuk to boat his noncombatants to the protection of the capital’s walls, then to ride with every man and woman who could sit a horse and swing a blade or pull a bow, as well as every adult prairie cat, battle-trained or not. Old, crippled, or nursing cats were to guard the herds.

The other five clansmen had ridden to five of Zenos’ former cities that Milo knew to have fairly large garrisons to bid those troops join him by the quickest possible means.

Guhsz Helluh was pounding toward Kumbuhluhnburk, the most southerly of the Middle Kingdoms and long an ally of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. He bore authorizations to recruit any and all condottas—either horse or foot—that he could contact. Price haggling was to be kept to a minimum and Milo had repeatedly emphasized that quantity was of far more importance than quality in this case.

He had sent Aldora and her bodyguard to the capital. For all her failings, the girl was a damned good administrator, and Mara was sure to need her.

With dark approaching, Milo had sent a lancer ahead to advise Zenos that he and Mai were coming. It would help no one to have Mai killed by an overalert sentry. Consequently, they were met at the south end of the bridge by Thoheehs Serbikos and an honor guard of his Karaleenos lancers, who courteously escorted them to the hilltop where Zenos’ new and larger tent—a loan from Milo—had been erected. There waited King Zenos, hulking Komees Greemos, and the savory smell of a roasting boar, which Greemos had singlehandedly slain near the river.

As he swung from his saddle, Milo bluntly said, “Your Majesty, gentlemen, I bear tidings of great import to us all. I suggest we talk first, then dine … if anyone still has an appetite.”

When Milo and Mai had finished, there was a moment of silence as their listeners digested the shattering news. Then Greemos glared hatred at Milo, snarling, “It’s all your fault, you damned, unnatural barbarian upstart! If you hadn’t set your mind to annexing the best part of our lands and driving us to the wall, none of this Zastros business would be happening. If I thought I could kill an unholy thing like you, by Jesus, my steel would be in your guts this minute!”

King Zenos pounded his fist on the table, his face dark with anger. “Enough, enough, damn you for a fool, Greemos, enough I say!” When he had the silenced Strahteegos’ attention, he snapped, “We’ve no tune for name-calling or blame-laying or digging into old wounds; I, at least, recognize the facts that my late father and I and you but inherited the certain results of my grandfather’s greed and duplicity; he left Kehnooryos Ehlahs no choice save to neutralize the threat Karaleenos constantly poised under him.

“But this is the dead past. We must look to the future, and there will be no future—for any of us—if we fail to stop King Zastros, which we cannot do if we do not stand as one with Lord Milo. As of this moment, we are allies. Now, have the meal served. After that, we’ll discuss strategy and I’ll give my orders to you and Serbikos.”

By noon of the following day, the scanty Karaleenos baggage was trundling north across the bridge. Shortly they were followed by columns of tramping infantry, a smattering of cavalry, and a few mounted officers.

Young King Zenos had taken a hundred lancers and ridden south and west, into the mountains to assure his kinsmen—both his mother and his grandmother had been the daughters of the chieftains of powerful mountain tribes—that he was alive, to alert them to the approaching danger, and prepare them for the hordes of lowland refugees who would shortly seek sanctuary in their domains. He and Milo had agreed that the mountain warriors could be of more military value if they remained in or near their home ground nibbling at Zastros’ western flank, retarding his advance with harassing raids, picking off stragglers and scouts, even ambushing smaller units … anything to buy a little more time.

Greemos and a score of officers had taken detachments of cavalry south and east to warn the inhabitants of cities and towns and villages to take livestock and valuables and flee to the mountains, after burning all standing crops and destroying foodstuffs and supplies they could not take away. If the huge army could not subsist on forage, more strain would be placed- upon Zastros’ lines of supply, which might buy precious time.

Thoheeks Serbikos, his officers, and the bulk of the cavalry had fanned out northward on a far more delicate mission. They were to contact the leaders of the various Karaleenos resistance movements in the territories Milo had conquered, explain the present danger, inform them of their former sovereign’s alliance with the conqueror, and urge them not only to refrain from rebellion upon the withdrawal of Milo’s garrisons, but to form themselves into units, arm, and march to swell the forces now assembling to repel King Zastros’ horde.

Zenos, Milo, and all the senior officers had agreed that their present position was as good a defensive site as they might find. At this point, there was a bare forty miles of plains between the saltfens and the mountains. The River Lumbuh in itself presented a formidable barrier—for almost all of the forty miles of lowland, it ran both wide and deep, with but the one bridge spanning it. Miles upstream were a couple of fords, but they were said to be narrow and treacherous at best and could be easily defended by small forces.

Milo put the most of his forces and those of his new ally to vastly enlarging the camp and to making a true, palisaded castra of it—the artificers laid out and marked the courses of the huge rectangle, and then the troops were set to digging the ditch that would front all four sides. Milo put even the wounded to work, whittling points onto wooden stakes and making caltrops, then dumping their handiwork into old latrines to “season.”

The spoil from the ditch—twenty feet wide, ten feet deep—was mounded inside the enclosure and, held in place by forms made of split logs supported by stakes, tightly packed. And the work went on by day and by night. Other troops spent their days in a forest, half a mile to the north, felling trees and transporting them to . camp, where the artificers topped them and shaped the trunks and larger branches. The tops were denuded of leaves and small twigs by walking-wounded and the tip of-each and every remaining branch was given a sharp point—dumped in embankments or lashed together, these would make quite an effective abatis.

After a week, armed men began to trickle from north, west, and south: some were mounted; most were afoot; a few were disciplined Freefighters; the rest were straggling bands gathered together by one of Zenos’ officers, some noble or a village headman. One and all were immediately attached to one of Milo’s or Zerios’ units and put to work on the fortifications.

When a Freefighter officer grumbled within Milo’s hearing distance that at least some time should be devoted to drills and arms-practice, the High-Lord had the officers and nobles assembled before his pavilion.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “we have perhaps a month until the south bank of the Lumbuh will be aswarm with the largest single army these realms have ever seen. We mean to stop them there, on the south bank; but, if we fail, if those rapacious hordes manage to fight their way onto this side of the river, we must have a stronghold that can be defended by a minimum number of troops, while the bulk of the army withdraws northward. This stronghold must be so situated that the enemy will feel impelled to attack and overwhelm it. Ours is so placed, straddling as it does the eastern trade road, menacing the enemy’s lines of supply. Additionally, the castra must be strong enough to hold off as many troops as possible for every possible second.

“Now, I know that many of you professionals are somewhat incensed at the lack of unit drills, field maneuvering, and arms-training for the volunteers.”

There was a grumble of assent from among his listeners. He raised a hand to still it.

“As for unit drills, I doubt not that every Freefighter and Confederation soldier in this camp could perform them in his sleep … and probably often has.” He added with a grin, drawing answering grins, nods, and a few chuckles from the throng.

“As for training the volunteers, most are ill armed and we have scant equipment to supply them and, even had we mountains of arms and armor, one bare, month is just too short a time to teach plowboys to angle their pikes and stand firm in the face of a cavalry charge.

“As for field maneuvers, they are totally unnecessary, since I have no intention of engaging Zastros’ army in formal battle. Hopefully, by the time his army comes up . to the Lumbuh, we will have sixty thousand troops here. King Zastros will outnumber us by more than two to one—not impossible odds if we wage purely defensive warfare, but sheer suicide for most of us if we allow ourselves to be lured into a formal engagement.

“Do not misunderstand me, gentlemen, I mean to fight! I mean to send the scattered remnants of King Zastros’ army running back southward as fast as their legs can carry them. But, gentlemen, I mean to fight at a time and place of my choosing. The place is here, if we can hold the river line long enough; the time is when the odds are a little more in our favor.

“And they will be, gentlemen, can we but hold our place for a maximum of eight weeks from this day! The Duke of Kumbuhlun is making ready to march with his entire army and that of his cousin, the Count of Mahrtuhnburk. By now, Captain Guhsz Helluh should be ensconced in Salzburk recruiting every uncommitted Freefighter within sight or hearing distance. We are in alliance with the Lord of the Sea Isles and he has agreed to furnish an unspecified number of fighters. And I received, less than an hour ago, a message that the King of Pitzburk is dispatching five hundred picked noblemen and six thousand dragoons, as well. He also assures the Confederation of financial assistance.

“So, you see, we are not alone, we are growing stronger, gaining more allies every day. All that we need is a little more time. I think that what we are doing here will buy us that time. But I must have the active support of you gentlemen to accomplish my plans.”

A short officer shouldered his way to the front, respectfully removed his helm from his grizzled head, and politely asked, “Can I be heard, Lord Milo?”

Milo stepped aside, making room on the earthen dais and the heavily scarred, one-eyed veteran joined him, walking with the rolling gait of an old cavalryman.

“I be Senior Lieutenant Erl Hohmun, of Mai’s Squadrons. I ain’t no gentleman, less you consider the youngest son of a younger son of a younger son such, so don’t nobody expec’ me to talk like one. But I’ve fought for Lord Milo’s gold for more’n thirty year now—I’uz a trooper under ol’ Djeen Mai, a sergeant and senior-sergeant under his son, Bili Mai, and now I’m servin’ Djeen’s grandson. In all that time, I ain’t never seen High-Lord Milo lose a battle, ain’t never had to retreat from any set-to that he himself planned. OP soljers, like me, can feel things in their bones, an’ right now I got me a strong feelin’. If we all stick by the Lord Milo, do ever’thin’ he tells us, an’ do it his way, we’ll still be a-lootin the Southern Kingdom, come this time nex’ year!”

A roar from the Freefighter officers was taken up by the Confederation professionals and, seriously outnumbered, the nobles could only join in. Milo could have hugged the ugly little one-eyed Lieutenant Hohmun, who in a few short, blunt words had saved the day for him and Kehnooryos Ehlahs through assuring him of the overwhelming support of the officer-corps. Milo had tried to appeal to such things as reason, honor and self-sacrifice … and never aroused any real enthusiasm; the gap-toothed dragoon, at least seven hundred years Milo’s junior, had won them with those two basic things for which soldiers fought in this savage world—leadership of a proven and undefeated lord, and loot.

Milo said a few closing words, called forward and introduced some recent arrivals, then dismissed the formation.

Maxos and Beros, both petty nobles of the Karaleenos city of Thalasopolis, who had grudgingly brought in what was to have been a band of anti-Confederation guerrillas, strolled off hand in hand, Maxos hissing, “But, darling, it was so obvious, to an intelligent man, at least. The High-Lord had that disgusting barbarian creature planted … probably spent just days drumming those exact words into the little ape….”

Not being mindspeakera, neither had a mindshield, so Milo was easily able to eavesdrop on their thoughts; those two would possibly bear watching. But their type was a very small minority; most of the departing nobles and officers radiated a new sense of purpose, expressions of dedication and loyalty and dreams of gold and women of the Southern Kingdom.

Milo could but wish that he felt as confident of victory.