Robert Adams - The Death of a Legend

Without allowing Bili to answer or respond, the full-armed young woman spun on her booted heel and stalked back into the copse and out of sight.

A rough-barked arrangement of poles had been lashed between the boles of two trees to support Bili’s heavy warkak and other horse gear; now those sturdy poles bowed under the weight of two kaks, the new set richly embossed and adorned with silver and semiprecious stones.

Within his shelter—slightly larger and higher than most, for Bili was a taller man than most of his followers, standing more than two yards from bare sole to pate—his own armor and weapons had been rearranged to make room for another panoply; this one was similar to that worn by the woman who had just confronted him, but was far richer. He also noted that his bough bed had been enlarged and that his own scarlet saddle blanket was now partially covered by a black one, its edges all stitched with fine silver wire.

“She brings,” thought Bili, “a considerable dowry, in any case. Not counting the stones, there’s five pounds or more of silver on her gear. And, as I recall, her big mare seems a fine, well-bred mount, fit to throw us good foals by my Mahvros.”

The sound of footsteps on the path brought him spinning about to see the brahbehrnuh approaching, droplets of water beading her high-arched eyebrows and dangling braids of blue-black hair. From her throat to almost the ankles of her tooled boots, her body was enveloped in the rich, soft leather of her wool-lined cloak.

When she spied him standing just inside the shelter, she seemed to waver and, recalling her recurrent bouts of weakness since she had swooned on the day of the earthquake and the rain of hot rocks, Bili stepped hurriedly from the rough hut, crossed the fire clearing in two, long strides and placed an arm about her shoulders.

“Is my lady ill again?” he inquired solicitously, concern obvious in his voice, his powerful right arm gently supportive. “Come, let me help you to my shelter. I think there’s a little brandy left in my bottle; perhaps a sup of it will restore you.”

And yet again the brahbehmuh felt that unbearably pleasurable tingling surge through all of her being, that odd sensation which she never had experienced from the touch of any save the Goddess. And this man. This strange, huge, strong man. This stark warrior-man, born leader, born killer, but never less than courteous and gentle toward her and the other Moon Maidens.

Once more the tingling suffused her. So strong was it this time that all strength departed her legs and, but for the support of his thick, hard-muscled arm, she would have collapsed onto the rocky ground. Without another word, Bill thrust his left arm behind her buckling knees, bore her into the shelter and carefully lowered her onto the bough bed. Then he turned and rummaged through his gear until he found his silver flask and cup.

After filling the cup with cold water from his canteen, he trickled into it the last small measure of the strong spirit, then placed it to her lips and squatted by the bed, holding her body raised until she had downed it all. Before arising, he doffed his cloak, deftly rolled it up and placed the improvised cushion under her booted feet.

When once more he stood, his shaven poll brushing the evergreen thatch of the roof, he said, “Stay you still there, my lady. I’ll go and fetch back one of your Moon Maidens to care for you.”

But she stretched out a hand toward him, imploring, “No, Dook Bili, I am not ill. Please, stay and sit with me awhile.”

Slowly, he sank back to perch on the edge of the bough bed, knowing with his fine-tuned presentiment that something momentous was looming. And when she sought out his broad, big-knuckled hand and took it into both of her own, he knew without thinking that some singular occurrence soon must be.

Hesitantly, he thrust probingly… and his mind slid easily into hers. She started and gasped as if touched with a hot iron.

“So,” he beamed silently, “you Moon Maidens are mind-speakers. Are we two to be mates, as you desire, this will make our relationship far easier and deeper, my lady. I can speak hardly any Ahrmehnee and you speak Mehrikan but ill. Do many of your race mindspeak?”

Wonderingly, she spoke aloud. “I… I do not know, Dook Bili. I had, of course, heard that silent communication was among your folk practiced. But… but among my race it is… is a thing unheard of.”

“No,” he mindspoke, “don’t speak with your lips, my lady. Think what you would say… then do this… so.”

Her dark eyes widened. “It… it is so simple. Oh, thank you, Dook Bili!” This time, her lips did not move.

Grinning, he gently squeezed one of her hands. “The pleasure was mine own, my lady. I can but hope that my lady is as quick to learn and to master other arts, as well.”

The images projected along with his mindspeak abundantly clarified his meaning, and the brahbehrnuh found herself blushing furiously. Then he leaned forward, and his smooth-shaven face blotted out the sunlight filtering through the thatch as his mouth pressed down upon hers. The tingling now was almost unendurable. Her sinewy arms crept up and closed around his thick neck, while her lips and tongue once more moved… but not in speech.

“Furface” Gy Ynstyn had found a place where the light was good, and there he squatted. With round brass rod, hardwood dowels, a bit of soft leather, a small copper hammer and a homemade wooden mallet, he was engaged in carefully restoring his battle-battered bugle to its original shape.

A veteran Freefighter from the County of Gainzburk in the Middle Kingdoms, he had been Duke Bili’s personal bugler since first the army had marched into Vawn last summer. Although the mindspeaking nobles of the Confederation had less need of a hornman than did the nobles of the Middle Kingdoms, still Gy took his position seriously and prided himself upon the good appearance of himself and his equipment at all times.

He heard the familiar clanking of armor well before its wearer reached him, but kept his keen hazel eyes upon his work. Not even when a shadow fell across that work did he look up.

“Move to right or left, dammit!” he muttered. “You’re in my light.”

“What are you doing, man?” demanded a husky voice. “And why have you a beard when other men do not?”

“I’m trying to get the dents out of my bugle so that it will sound right when next Duke Bili wills that I wind it,” he growled ill-humoredly. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Then, angry at the interruption, he glanced up at this overly nosy inquisitor… and hammer, bugle and all dropped from his hands as he awkwardly rose to his feet, flustered. At the same time he hoped against hope, he still knew for certain that this fine-looking young filly could want nothing more of Gy Ynstyn than a bit of idle conversation.

Meeree leaned axe and target against a rock, bent and picked up the brass instrument. Placing the mouthpiece to her lips, she blew experimentally into it, and when this availed her no toot, she blew harder and harder until veins stood out in her forehead, but all her efforts proved fruitless.

Frowning, she thrust the bugle back to Gy, stating, “More work it needs, man. No sound at all it does.”

Gy smiled then. He had had long experience of seeing non-initiates fail to elicit notes from a bugle. “Not so, and it please my lady. Though it will not sound pure and true until I can get out these damned dents, this horn will wind well enough; and my lord Bili order me to blow it.”

“Show me, man!” demanded Meeree imperiously.

But Gy shook his head. “The bugle never is sounded without good reason, my lady, even in a safe garrison. Duke Bili has expressly ordered me to not sound it here, lest we draw some unwelcome notice of our presence from the shaggies hereabouts. I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my lady’s wishes.”