Robert Adams - Revenge of the Horseclans

“Most of those men up there are professional soldiers, or they were. The one who is not was still reared a Kindred nobleman, which means reared to the sword. Of that bard, I know naught, save that his horse be war trained and his harness includes a well balanced and well kept saber, which I doubt he carries as a toothpick. Attempt the idiocy of which you prate and the most of you will die tonight. And your well hacked corpses will be of no use to the Church or to our oppressed people.”

“Phah! Don’t listen to the coward,” hissed the arrogant second voice. “He is not our leader!”

“The last man who named me coward,” the deep voice rolled menacingly, “died with his guts curled around his legs!”

“Enough!” snapped the woman. “Would you men serve the very cause of the Oppressors? Remember your oaths and the sacredness of our crusade.”

“I do remember my oath, Lady,” the soldier softly boomed. “It is the only reason I have not removed the heads from some of these yapping curs long since!” Then, speaking to the others in the room, “No, I am not your leader, thank God. But your leader did appoint me your advisor. And my advice is this: Wait. Wait for the opportunity to kill without being killed.”

The nasal voice suggested, “Why don’t we just poison the roomful? They are sure to call for more wine, ere the night’s out.”

“We dare not,” answered the woman, quickly. “One of them is secretly one of us.”

“Tell me which he is.” Another female voice. “Lady, I could serve them, and sign him not to drink…”

But the commanding female advised, “No. We do not know who he is, and even if we did, it were too dangerous to make Sacred Signs before so many.”

“Besides,” rumbled the advisor. “How would you know which signs still are secret? How would anyone know… since Gafnee?”

Mere mention of the terrible calamity brought the expected shocked silence. Taking advantage of the silence, the soldier went quickly on. “Some of them will die tonight, never fear. The Lady and I will plan it, and I myself will see that it is properly done. But forget what has been here proposed, it is simply too chancy!”

The commanding female took over. “Now, brothers and sisters, let us close this meeting with a prayer that Our Lord, the only True God, show us the way to serve Him in the deliverance of our lands from the bloody hands of the godless heathens, and His people and Church from the ancient bondage.”

After the round of introductions had been made and all were seated about the table, Komees Hari had more wine brought in, along with spiced meats and salty beancakes. Then he and the three newcomers took turns interrogating Bili, sounding out his every feeling, hope, or ambition. They pried into his past, in Harzburk and on campaign, gleaning an encapsulated rendition of ten years of training and warring. That done, Komees Djeen put several complicated military problems to him.

For Bili, it was nervewracking to sit there in the hot closeness of the narrow stone chamber, breathing air layered with pipesmoke and lampsmoke, and baring his innermost secrets and desires in response to the probing questions of the four shrewd but increasingly friendly noblemen. Of course, it would have been much quicker and far easier to have conducted the meeting by mindspeak, save for the fact that Lord Drehkos totally lacked that talent.

But Bili consoled himself with the thought that all this was necessary and simply must be borne with as good a face as he could muster. For if these men were to eventually confirm him their Clan Chief and the Thoheeks of Morguhn, they must know him as well as they knew themselves. Only a fool would buy an untested blade, no matter how distinguished its hallmark; and their questions revealed these men to be anything but fools.

It lacked but an hour and a half of midnight when Komees Hari arose and stiffly stretched, his joints emitting sharp snaps. “Kindred,” he addressed them all, “it is my thought that Bili will be to his clan a chief of famous memory. This night’s questioning has proven that he possesses more patience and wisdom than most men of his years. He’s a likeable young fellow, even if his manner is a bit stiff and overly formal for this Duchy. But all of us who have soldiered in the Middle Kingdoms can recall the stiff formality of the nobility of those lands, and since Bili was reared and trained there, he is but reflecting his mentors.

“Now, true, he seems a bit bloodthirsty,” the Komees chuckled, echoed by his brother and Komees Djeen, “but it is not mere vicarious pleasure, for he is clearly a proven warrior, and his answers to the problems set to him by Djeen and Ahndros and Vaskos show that he possesses enviable talents as tactician and strategist.”

“Plus a thorough understanding of the principles of logistics,” put in Komees Djeen, holding his specially fashioned winecup with his brass hook, while accenting his words with jabs of the stem of his pipe, “which I wish I’d owned when I was his age. Our Army could use a man like him. And I think he’d enjoy the life of a cavalry officer. Now, if Hwahruhn improves and lives a few years longer…”

“Sun and Wind!” Drehkos snorted disgustedly. “For as long as I can remember, Djeen, you’ve been selling army life to all and sundry. I vow, in your way you’re as bad as Myros. The moment he claps eyes to a wellformed lad, his mind commences to bed him, while the moment you see one, you’re mentally fitting him into a cuirass!”

“Those were most unkind words, Kinsman,” came the quiet, gentle, but penetrating voice of the blackclad Vahrohneeskos Ahndros. “Komees Djeen’s Strahteegos Oath binds him for life, and pointing officer-quality men toward our Army is a worthy and laudable act. He it was who persuaded my brothers and me to serve, and I regret none of those years in the Army of the Confederation. Indeed, I would not have returned when I did, had not my inheritance been in jeopardy.”

Drehkos made a rude noise. “Strahteegos Oath indeed! Listen you, Ahndros, Djeen’s passion to put every man on two legs into armor, and the foxy wiles he uses to achieve that result, far predate his elevation to Strahteegos. Why, thirty odd years ago he came back here and did his damndest to hornswoggle me and Hari and all the other young Kindred he could catch into that troop of mercenaries he took up to Pitzburk. This, his principal idiosyncrasy, is nothing new or patriotically laudable, young Kinsman!”

His single eye skewering Hari’s brother, Komees Djeen said slowly and gravely, “And you’ should have ridden with your brother and me, Drehkos. You’d be a better man for it, today. And you’d have cost your poor, dead father far less expense, heartache, and embarrassment.”

Drehkos squirmed and dropped his gaze, his face reddening. “Possibly!” he snapped, shortly. “But we’re not gathered here to ruminate on my misspent youth, you know. A chief should have good mindspeak. How is young Bili’s? All here know that I possess none myself, so I’ll have to take your words for it.”

“What say you, Bard Klairuhnz?” inquired Hari. “Your mindspeak seems stronger than average.”

Once again, Bili noticed those very odd looks which the Bard and Vahrohneeskos Andros who supposedly had never met prior to this night were exchanging. He was absolutely certain that the two were mindspeaking, but he could not receive them, try as he might.

“Our young Kinsman is blessed with excellent natural ability,” answered Klairuhnz, smiling. “He both transmits and receives well … on the basic levels, that is. Of course, with the proper training, he could be even better, stronger.”