The Coming of the Horseclans

12

“No!” Rik shouted hoarsely, his two fists clenched until the knuckles shone as white as his face. “No, no, I’ll not go alone. They all are as guilty as I of Law-defilement! Every one of them has had the slave-bitch, too. Let the clan be banished! I’ll not go alone!”

Where she sat on the dais, between Milo and Aldora, Mara rapidly mindspoke to her mate. “Why don’t you just have the lying pig killed and end this business rapidly and permanently, darling?”

“I can’t,” his answer beamed back to her. “The Law forbids it. To slay a fellow of the kindred in cold blood is a crime worse than Rik’s. Kindred may only be slain on their request or in defense from unprovoked attack. I hate to do what I now must, but…”

Aloud, Milo spoke slowly and solemnly. “So be it. Chiefs, you must assemble your warriors and all your free-women and all children older than eight winters at the second hour of the Sun tomorrow, that they may see and hear and remember.”

Blind Hari came abruptly to his feet. “War Chief, may I be heard?”

Milo nodded and resumed his seat. “Kindred,” began the bard, “from my earliest memory,. , have I heard of the bravery and honor of Clan Linsee. Though their valor has brought them honor and more honor over the hundreds of years, it has cost them dearly, for honor of clan and tribe has ere meant more to their warriors than limbs or life. These are good memories. They sing well and I have no wish to forget them.”

The oldest chief, Djeri of Hahfmun, stood. “But Tribe-Bard, the Law is the Law. You yourself brought the charges and they have—after much false-oathing—been admitted true. The honor of a clan is carried by its chief and, if that chief be not only criminal but craven, the clan must suffer. None here deny that Clan Linsee has long possessed honor, but by the Law-defilement of all the warriors and the perjury of Chief Rik, all the centuries of honor are dissipated. If the chief will not go and bear the dishonor away with him, what is there to do but drive off the clan?”

Hari’s reply was quick. “There is this, Chief Djeri: Rik is chief by birth, but, if his father were to declare him ill-got and not a true Linsee, his dishonor would be his alone and not of the clan.”

Chief Rik had regained some of his arrogance. He laughed harshly. “You’ll grow wings before then, old -Dung-face. My father is dead these seven years!”

“Chiefs,” asked Hari, “who among us bears the clan-name sacred of prophecy? Who was affirmed ‘Father of the Tribe’ when we began this march nearly twenty winters past?”

Almost as one the council members murmured, “Milo, Milo of Moral, our War Chief, he is ‘Father of the Tribe.’”

Hari nodded. “So as ‘Father of the Tribe’ is he supposed father of the man, Rik.”

Milo recognized his cue. “Him called Rik, I declare ill-got! Such a one cannot be of Linsee or any other honorable clan, his attributes are got of dirt; he stinks of swine.”

As Milo slowly pronounced the ritualistic words which declared Rik’s bastardy, that man commenced to tremble and, when all was said, he screamed, “No, no, what you do is unnatural! I… I am my father’s son!”

Milo shook his head. “I suppose you are, strange man, but none knows who your father might be, or what.” He addressed the Linsee warriors. “Kindred, if aught is unnatural, it is that a clan should be without a chief—especially, a clan so ancient and honorable as Linsee. Who is your oldest chief-born?”

Bard Vinz replied, “Hwahlis, brother to … to Haenk, who is next oldest.”

“Then, kindred,” asked Milo, “can any Linsee say good reason why the clan should not have chief-born Hwahlis for the Linsee of Linsees?”

“But,” shouted Rik ragingly, “he brought the Ehleenoee shoat in the first place, and te was first to use her, too!”

“Horseclansmen of true purity of blood,” declared Milo shortly, “need not listen to the rantings of a perjured man-thing of doubtful lineage. If yonder dog-man yaps again, teach him respect for his betters.”

Before the Council of Chiefs, Hwahlis was declared successor to his father, Haenk. The new chief paced the circuit of council, stopping before each chief who then rose to declare his recognition of Chief Hwahlis and to exchange with Hwahlis sword-oaths and blood-oaths of brotherhood. Meanwhile some of the Linsee clansmen threw Rik and stripped him of everything which bore the Linsee crest (and everything else”of value), so that, at the last, he was left barefoot, wearing his sole possessions—drawers and a badly torn shirt.

The moment that Clan-Bard and Tribe-Bard had finished reciting his genealogy and the more spectacular exploits of his family and his clan, and he had been invested with the trappings and insigniae of his new rank, Hwahlis set about his duty as he saw it. Striding to the dais, he took Aldora’s small ankle and removed the ownership cuff from it and dropped onto his knees before the wide-eyed Ehleen.

“Child,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily, “I have caused you much to suffer and have allowed others to do the same. Your face and your body are good to look upon and we thought you woman, not child. So, being men, we behaved as men will. This is not excuse, only statement.

“For the price of your blood, spilled by me and by my clan, will you accept your freedom as payment?”

Patient and silent, he waited until, in a tremulous voice, the girl answered. “Yes,-Master.”

Hwahlis shook his head. “Master no more, child. If any be master, it is you, for I and all my clansmen owe you suffering-price. We will send word to your father, your kin, that he and they may come to set the price and collect it. Mine is not a wealthy clan, but all that we have, if necessary, will go to pay your suffering-price. Until your kin and your noble father arrive, our tents are yours. You are Clan Linsee’s honored guest and every

clansman and clanswoman is your … Why, child, what now, have I done to …”

Aldora’s great mental powers—and later years were to see just how great they truly were—had been awakened for but a few hours, yet already could she feel the emotions of others with painful clarity. So sincerely sorry was her former master, such utter goodness of spirit and true repentance did his mind radiate, that she could not but weep. But what began “as weeping for the soul-agony that Hwahlis was suffering, merged into weeping for herself, for her aloneness, with no kin to come for her.

“My … my f … father, he … come … never,” she sobbed in halting Merikan.

Hwahlis took Aldora’s tiny hand and patted it, roughly but gently. “Why, of course, he will, child! What sort of father would not come a thousand thousand days’ ride to fetch his loved daughter?”

Her eyes closed, she shook her dark head and lapsed into Ehleeneekos. “Ohee, ohee, Ahfendiss, ohee. Eeneh nehkrohs, nehkrohs. Aldora eeneh kohree iss kahniss.”

Seeing Hwahlis’ honest ignorance of Aldora’s pitiful protestations, Mara leaned down and softly translated, “She says ‘no,’ Chief Hwahlis. She says that her father is dead, that she is nobody’s daughter.”

The Chief of Linsee thought for only a moment, then he placed his calloused hand under the girl’s chin and raised it. Gazing deep into her swimming eyes, he said, “Child-I-have-wronged, you are a daughter without a father. I am a father without a daughter. It is not meet that children should be without parents. Would you consent to be a child of my tent and clan? Aldora, will you be my daughter?”

Aldora entered his mind. All that she could find were his innate goodness and his honest concern for her welfare. She searched for signs of lust, but there were none. Its place had been completely usurped by a protective solicitude.

“Oh, Lady Mara,” she mindspoke, “what shall I do?” Having had far wider experience with men and, consequently, trusting their motives even less than Aldora, a part of Mara’s mind had been in Hwahlis’ from the beginning.

“He is an honorable man, Aldora, and, for what he is, a very good and a gentle man. He truly wants to adopt you and he would be a fine father to you. It is but a question of whether or not you want a father.”

“Well, child,” Hwahlis prodded tentatively. “Will you grant my clan the honor of becoming its chief’s daughter? Mine?”

“Pahtehrahss …” was all that Aldora could get out before the intensity of her emotions closed her throat. Sobbing wildly, she slid from the chair and flung her slender arms around the grizzled chieftain’s neck and rested her head on his epaulet, her tears trailing down the shiny leather of his cuirass.

Hers were not the only tears in that place. Horseclans men never sought to restrain their emotions—not among the kindred, at least—and there were few dry eyes as Hwahlis lifted her easily, cradled her in his thick arms, and strode to the center of the hall.

His own eyes streamed as he declared loudly, “Clan-brothers, Chief-brothers, Cat-brothers, hear me! The slave-child is free! The free-child is my daughter and your kin! She is as a Linsee-born. She is of the tent of a chief and all shall soon recognize her as such! Next year, she will commence her war-training and, when she is a maiden, she will wear my crest and draw my mother’s bow. Let any man who would take her for wife come to me, and let him know that Aldora, daughter of Hwahlis Linsee of Linsee, will be well-dowered by her father and her clan!

“Gairee.” He called to the youngest of his two living sons—who, though but eighteen, had already killed three men in single combat—and, after disengaging her arms, handed Aldora to the younger man, “This child is now your sister. Bear your sister to your mother and so inform her and all my tent-dwellers.

“Kahl, Fil, Sami.” He addressed those who happened to be the sons of Rik, the deposed chief. “You are now my sons and will hold the chief-tent and all it contains for my return to the clan-camp.

“Erl, as my eldest son, I declare you sub-chief. See that your clan-brothers, on their return, bid their women to begin preparation of the chief-feast.”

Addressing the remainder of the clansmen, he said. “Brothers, you may return to our clan-camp. When the council is ended, your chief will join you.” Then he strode over to his place in the circle and seated himself.

When the last of the Linsee men had filed out, Milo commanded, “Let the man of unknown lineage be brought before me.”

The two nearest chiefs rose and ungently hustled the all-but-naked former-chief forward, to stand before the dais, clenching and unclenching his fists in his frustrated rage, his face starting to puff as a result of the blows dealt him by his former clansmen.

Shoulders hunched, as if about to spring at Milo, he snarled, “This … this thing that you are trying to do is … is … is. … All here know who I am, who my father was, know that I …”

He got no farther. The hard-swung buffet from the chief on his right split his lips yet again and finished knocking out an already loosened front tooth.

“Silence, bastard! No man gave you leave to speak,” said the chief on his left.

Milo treated the disgraced man to a look which bespoke icy contempt. Then he stated, “Though you yap like a cur, and conduct yourself like a swine, yet you are a man. All my kindred know that there are two kinds of men: true men and Dirtmen. Since you are not the one, you must be the other. So, Dirtman, you shall be served in the same fashion as were the Dirtmen the tribe took at the Ehleenoee camp.

“You are wearing all the clothing a Dirtman needs. In addition, you shall receive a silver trade-corn, a knife, a water bottle and a wallet of food. Take them and journey far and fast, for—as you are a Dirtman—you are the enemy of all true men.”

Unconsciously, Rik wiped the back of his hand across his bloody chin and looked down at his red-smeared knuckles. With a bellow, he went berserk! All in the blinking of an eye, his right foot lashed—heel foremost—between the legs of the chief who had struck him and, as that man clutched his crotch and doubled in agony, Rik’s left fore arm smashed the bridge of the other’s nose while his right tore saber from its sheath. Before Milo’s blade was half-drawn, more than a foot of Rik’s weapon was protruding from the War Chief’s back, just below the shoulder blade! Then, Mara’s dirk found the berserker’s throat and he released his sword hilt to clutch at his gush ing wound and stumble backward, off the dais. Within fractions of seconds, all that lay beneath the dripping sabers of the vengeful chiefs was a bundle of bloody rags and raw bone and hacked flesh.

Panting, the chiefs of the council looked to the dais. Several dropped their swords! Their War Chief, whose last words they had expected to soon hear, was not only still on his feet, but was presently engaged in carefully pulling the sharp saber out of his chest!

The forty-two chiefs were typical specimens of their rugged race. Born to frequent privation and casual violence, they were weaned to weapons-skills and they were a-horse more often than afoot; armed with bow or spear or ax or saber, they knew fear of neither man nor beast. But this … this watching of a man, who should be dead, still standing and withdrawing the steel from his heart, was more than unnerving. The sensation evoked by such an unnatural occurrence was terror, icy-cold, crawling, nameless terror!

As many appeared on the very verge of precipitate withdrawal—not to say, flight—Blind Hari stood, raised his arms to draw attention to himself, and began to broad-beam a soothing reassurance. Sensing it, Milo and Mara, Horsekiller and Old-Cat added their own efforts. Than Hari spoke, softly but aloud. “Kindred, my children, draw near and put up your steel. There are great and good tidings for you and your people. For many reasons, the telling of them has long been delayed, but now the time is come that you should know.”