The Coming of the Horseclans

25

Something less than two weeks after Demetrios’ tantrum, his understrength navy boarded its three best ships, scuttled the others, and beat their way down river, bound for the sea. With them went the High Lord’s last hope of escape.

His retinue of former sycophants took to avoiding his company as much as possible, for all who knew him expected the knowledge that he was trapped to drive him over the edge into true madness. But it did not. Oddly inough, the realization that he was doomed did what his Father and the strahteegohee had never been able to do—t made a real man of him. At the eleventh hour, the Demetrios-who-should-have-been belatedly emerged from the gross, debauched cocoon which had held him for so many years. And that perverted, self-seeking coterie who had influenced and guided him were stunned to discover that no longer had this High Lord need or use for them, no longer could they control or even predict his actions.

The first to meet—to his sorrow—this new High Lord, was Teeaigos, Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, a languid creature a couple of years older than the High Lord. He had attained the position by flattery, and “performance” of his “duties” had made of him a fabulously wealthy man. On the day of his downfall, he was impatiently listening to the justifiable complaints of Sergeant-Major Mahrk Hailee, commander of the White Horse Squadron, concerning the all-time low quality of the rations just issued his troops—weevil-crawling flour, three-quarters rotted vegetables and stinking, overaged meat, and not one ounce of oil or wine.

When the non-com’s flow of heated words had ceased, Teeaigos waved his white, gilded-nailed hands negligently. Though his painted lips smiled, his eyes were cold and uncaring. “If your barbarian swine don’t like the good food—really, far too good, for the likes of them—that my quartermaster issues, let them eat their horses; after all, what good are the smelly beasts, pray tell.”

The occupants of the headquarters included Teeaigos, his two secretary-clerks, Sergeant-Major Hailee and his adjutant, and two representatives of the Civil Guard who were awaiting a hearing. None of them had noticed the quiet entrance of another figure. The newcomer was half-armored—helmet of ancient-Ehleenoee design, breast-and-back and articulated pauldrons of finest Harzburk steelplate, scale-back gauntlets secured to tight-fitting vambraces of watered steel; the kilt was of blue-dyed canvas brigandine and fell to the knee; and on his left hip was belted a heavy, cut-and-thrust sword, while a dagger with wide, leaf-shaped blade jutted its hilt over his right hip. No one trace of cosmetic remained on his face and, under the cheek-plates, his beard had been shaved, its last remnant being a blue-black spike, which jutted from his chin. Even when the figure strode across to stand before the Lord High Strahteegohs, he went unrecognized until he spoke. In a deceptively soft tone, he said, “Teeaigos, do you no longer arise when your superiors enter; or has this office, which I stupidly gave you, so swelled your head, that you feel yourself to have no superiors?”

Teeaigos lumbered to his feet. “My … my Lord!” he stammered, nonplussed by sight of an armed and armored Demetrios. “I … I did not know, my Lord. Pardon, but… but as sensitive as is my Lord’s skin, isn’t he terribly uncomfortable id such barbaric attire?”

Not one whit so uncomfortable as you soon will be, my false friend, thought the High Lord. But he said, “Discomfort is of little consequence, when the city and its people lie in such danger. Tell me, Teeaigos, if the White Horse Squadron are to help defend this city, why were they served up with such shoddy fare?”

Teeaigos squirmed uneasily; then, putting on a bold front, said, “My Lord must know, the war chest is all but empty. The quartermaster purchased what he could afford, I am sure. Food prices are astronomically high in the city and country. Furthermore, most merchants and fanners are insisting that they be paid in gold, and we have only silver.”

Demetrios extended a gauntleted hand to lift and weigh the heavy, golden chain whose flat links rested across Teeaigos’ narrow shoulders. “There was gold hi the war chest, Teeaigos. Gold from Theesispolis. What happened to it? Did it go into your new chain and armlets, perhaps?”

“Why … why … why, of course not, My Lord,” Teeaigos spluttered, his face chalky under the rouge and paint. “My personal fortune …”

“Was dissipated,” Demetrios cut him off, “long years before you wheedled this sinecure out of me! Here.” He brought up his other hand and, with both of them, lifted the chain over Teeaigos’ head. Then he turned and handed it to Sergeant-Major Hailee.

“Perhaps, with the value of this useless bauble, you can procure decent food for your squadron.” He smiled. Hailee was too shocked to answer and, as he continued silent, Demetrios frowned. “Not enough, eh? Well, take his armlets, too, then. I’ll find replacements for them.”

Demetrios beckoned to the elder of the two Civil Guards. When the man stood before him, he asked, “What is your name and rank, sir?”- ,

Standing at stiff attention, the fiftyish guardsman snapped his answer. “Szamyul Thorntun, Senior-Sergeant of the southeastern quarter, and it please My Lord!”

The High Lord turned to Mahrk Hailee. “Is this man trustworthy and loyal? Do you feel him to be a good commander of men?”

Hailee, though still a bit numb, had recovered to some degree. “Why … why, yes, My Lord. Yes to both questions.”

Demetrios nodded. “In the presence of you three men,” he waved his arm to include Hailee, his adjutant, and the other Civil Guard, “I, hereby, declare Szamyul Thorntun elevated to the post of Governor of the Prisons and Grand Commander of the Civil Guard. As well as partaking of all the rights and privileges of that office, he is to faithfully discharge the multitudinous duties entailed. His predecessor and this other traitor,” he pointed at Teeaigos, “the Lord Governor is to have stripped, fitted with the heaviest available chains and manacles, and immured in the lowest, dankest, foulest cell in the prison; there, to await my pleasure.”

“Hai . . . Hailee, Kwinsee, quick,” shouted Teeaigos frightenedly “seize him, bind him! He … the High Lord has finally gone mad!”

Hailee didn’t budge. “High Lord Demetrios sounds very sane to me, Lord Teeaigos. Saner, by far, than any other noble in this city.” Then he snapped to attention.

“Has the High Lord orders for me?” he questioned Demetrios.

“Yes, sir,” Demetrios answered gravely. “Though not truly orders. I have forfeited any right to order you by the disgraceful ill-treatment I’ve afforded you and your men. After the last five years, there is no understandable reason why you and your squadron should retain any trace of loyalty toward me; but, I pray that you do, for I have great need of you.

“You see, someone must replace Teeaigos, as Lord High Strahteegohs of this city and, sad to say, all of his peers-in-rank are of his ilk—useless, treacherous, self-seeking, and fake. I need a man who knows the city and its needs and its soldiery and their needs. I need a man of your caliber, Mahrk Hailee; but the city is doomed to fall in any case, so I cannot order you to assume the post. I can only ask you. I would consider it an undeserved, personal favor, if you would consent to become Lord High Strahteegohs of Kehnooryohs Atheenahs. Will you, please?”

When Teeaigos had been bereft of his finery and hustled out by the new Prison Governor and his deputy, bound for a whipping and a cell, Lord Mahrk spoke. “My Lord Demetrios, as to a new commander of the Squadron, I…”

Demetrios waved a gauntleted hand. “I defer to your judgement, of course, Lord Mahrk. I freely confess that I know nothing of military matters.” He shook his hel-meted head sadly. “I don’t even know the basic elements regarding the use of the weapons I bear. This much, at least, I should like to try to remedy, before I die. Do … do you think that one of your troopers could find it in bis heart to consent to teach me a little of sword-play? I … I’d not ask it, but … but, you see, I mean to take active part in the fight for my city and … and I’d not like to give too poor a showing in this, my first and last battle.”

The changes which altered Kehnooryohs Atheenahs in the ensuing weeks were sweeping. Teeaigos and his cellmate soon had company in the lower tier, a great deal of it and almost all Ehleenoee nobles, Demetrios’ former cronies, one and all. In fact, such were the numbers of the new prisoners, that Lord Szamyul found it necessary to have all the former inhabitants of the lowest areas brought higher to make room for this influx of once-powerful personages. Appalled at the conditions of the starved, much-tortured, rat-chewed wretches—some of whom had not seen daylight in four and one-half years—the Prison Governor applied to the High Lord for permission to—insofar as was possible—restore them to health. He found Demetrios—clad in brigandine and plain helmet and weighted buskins, and gripping a double-heavy practice sword, with a huge, convex body-shield on his left arm—trading hard blows with the White Horse Squadron’s weapons-master. There was a shallow scratch across the High Lord’s right cheek and his chin-beard was stiff with dried blood, his features were uniformly red and sweat-streaked; too, he seemed to have lost a bit of weight.

When the High Lord spotted Lord Szamyul, he caught one more swipe on his shield, then stepped back and saluted the weapons-master, saying, “You must pardon me, for a moment, good friend, duty calls.” Thrusting the metal-shod wooden sword through his belt, he walked over to Lord Szamyul, smiling. The Prison Governor noticed, at closer range, that, though the ruler’s eyes showed weariness, both skin and eyes were amazingly clear. Demetrios looked healthier than Lord Szamyul—or anyone else for that matter—could ever remember having seen him!

Courteously, the High Lord heard his appointee out. Then he gave Lord Szamyul leave to do as he saw fit, complimented him on his recent activities and achievements and, with equal courtesy, excused himself to return to his session with the weapons-master.

The city was crowded with refugees from the countryside and their straits were desperate. When the new Demetrios was apprised of their plight, he immediately ordered the barracks, which had once housed Djeen Mai’s squadron, opened to them. As this proved insufficient, he moved his black spearmen into the Palace proper, and opened their barrack, as well, to the refugees.

As the threatening army neared Kehnooryohs Atheenahs, the prices of food were driven up and up, until starvation grimly stalked most quarters of the city. In their sumptuous residences, however, the nobles still feasted on hoarded delicacies. At least they did until the new Demetrios was informed of the situation. Then the feasters discovered that Demetrios-in-the-right could be just as swift and ruthless as Demetrios-in-the-wrong! Without warning, his soldiers swooped down, between midnight and dawn, on the quarter of the nobility. By right of the sword, they ransacked homes and cellars and out-buildings. Everything edible was carted back to the palace warehouses. Throughout the next day, the confiscations were carried out in all quarters and, shortly, the courtyard of the palace had become a stockyard—packed with lowing, bawling, excreting, cud-chewing, food-on-the-hoof. Then Demetrios outlined what he wanted done. Soon, notices were being tacked up for those who could read. For those who could not, brazen-throated criers ceaselessly repeated that: In future, until the threat to the city had abated, all food was become the property of the High Lord and would be evenly rationed, twice each day, to all persons, citizen or no, equally.

The palace cooks had been put to cooking for the refugees, so Demetrios began messing with the officers of the White Horse Squadron; and, now and again, the common troopers would find the High Lord—bowl and cup in hand, still garbed in his sweat-soaked brigandine—bringing up the rear of their own slop-line. (After the first of these incidents, the preparation of the food mysteriously improved!)

The High Lord took to appearing—armed and armored, but usually unaccompanied—on the walls and on the streets at all hours, day and night. He amiably chatted with noble and soldier, citizen and refugee, man or woman or child. The first question he put to any was always the same one: What could be done to improve their lot? To all adult, male slaves, who were capable of and would swear to bear arms for the city, he granted freedom and citizenship. Of course, the nobles howled. Those who howled too loudly and too threateningly found themselves prevailed upon to partake of the High Lord’s “hospitality” which was being enjoyed by Lord Teeaigos among others. After the incarceration of the loud-howlers, none others of the un-jailed nobles saw fit to even appear to question any of the High Lord’s actions.

As all his advisors and high-ranking civil-servants had been imprisoned—most charged with a whole plethora of offenses against individuals, the State, or both—Deme-trios, to all intents and purposes, ruled alone. But it was not as difficult an undertaking as one might have thought, for—with the sole exception of the bulk of the nobles, whose numbers were too small to really matter—the inhabitants of his city were solidly behind him and, if they had not had the time to come to love him, they respected him. To the men of the White Horse Squadron, their High Lord was become one of themselves, and they adored him.

So matters stood on the bleak, November day that saw the appearance of the vanguard of the army and allies of the outlawed Strahteegohs, Lord Alexandras Pahpahs.