Robert Adams - The Coming of the Horseclans

The party had not been riding more than an hour when a savage storm struck. The windy gusts came horizontally, the rain accompanied by peasize hailstones which rang on helmets like sling missiles. But Milo led his men on despite the dark and storm, glad of them, hi fact. For they were but a small group and uncomfortably near to the High Lord’s capital, with its well-armed soldiery, and the sheets of water would surely wash away the traces of their passage, making things more difficult for the patrols that were certain to be after them by daybreak, if not already. Burdened as they were, they could look forward to at least twenty hours of travel.

From their present position, it was some fifty miles to the tribe’s sprawling encampment around the hilltop town which the Ehleenoee called Theesispolis, and nearly every one of those miles lay through little known, hostile country.

Throughout the rest of the night, Milo drove them on westward. When it became too light to travel safely and the rain slackened, they found a dense copse and made a cold camp. After the animals were all fed and picketed, the captive women were untied and, under close guard, allowed to eat and attend their bodies’ needs. Then the strongest of the men cold-fitted an iron cuff to each woman’s right ankle, the cuffs bearing the mark of the clan to whom the slave-woman now belonged. Threading an iron chain through the cuffs, the raiders picketed then- captives on the other side of the clearing from the horseline, and the first shift of sleepers flopped down and were soon snoring despite soggy earth and wet clothing. A group of equal size watched over them, the slaves and the horses, while the other third guarded the perimeter of the copse and watched for signs of pursuit. All were seasoned warriors, old hands at raiding.

Milo’s cuff was of hardened silver rather than iron, and he fitted it to his captive himself. Then, taking a leathern flask and a brace of small horncups from among his gear, he poured out measures of a clear liquid and offered one to the dark woman, who stared at it for a moment before accepting. She watched him toss down his own and attempted to follow suit; gasping, spluttering, choking, her eyes streaming, she dropped the cup. Milo laughed until he was forced to hold his sides.

When she had regained her powers of speech, she angrily demanded, “What in hell is that stuff?”

“Distilled grain mash,” Milo answered smilingly. “When you’re accustomed to it, you’ll find it quite pleasing. We call it “water of life’.”

At his instruction, she sipped her refilled cup, deciding after a moment that she could truly learn to enjoy the fluid.

While packing flask and cups away, Milo regarded her closely. “Two sleep warmer than one, woman. Give me your word you’ll not try to escape and I’ll not chain you with the others.”

She shrugged. “Where could I go? I’ve no idea where we are and only the vaguest idea in which direction Kehnooryohs Atheenahs lies. You or one of your barbarians will probably rape me shortly, but at least you’ve not tried to kill me. My next captor might not be so merciful.” Reaching down, she tapped a fingernail against the silver ring. “I suppose this means I’m now your clan’s slave. Am I allowed to ask your name and the name of your clan, Master?”

“My name is Milo Morai. I am clanless as a War Chief must be; that way, there’s less chance that hell play favorites.”

“I guess you expect me to feel honored that my master is so important a man.” She gave him a hard, cold stare before continuing. “Well, I don’t feel honored. All that I feel is relief. You see, I have some knowledge of your disgusting customs, barbarian. I’m relieved that, clanless as you say you are, you’re the only man to whom I’ll have to submit. At least, I’ll not be the common property of half a hundred of your stinking kinsmen. You are a strong and handsome man and, for what you are, you seem kind. Perhaps I can come to enjoy coupling with you. Time will tell.”

He shook his head brusquely. “Sorry to disillusion you, but you’re no common Dirtwoman to be taken for slave or bed-warmer. For you, I’ll expect a ransom.”

It was the woman’s turn to shake her head. “There’s no one to ransom me, Master. I, too, have no family; they are all long dead. As for my own wealth, my jewels were the bulk of it, and your raiders have them all now. No, my Master, slave-woman or concubine is the only use that Mara of Pohtahmohs can ever be to you.”

“So, you take another female, Friend Milo. For your kind, she is unugly. Perhaps this one will present you with kittens.” The mindspeak wakened Milo and he sat up. A great, gray form loomed at his right. It sat in the classic feline posture, tail curled to cover forepaws. Milo reached out to gently scratch the underside of the lower jaw, between the wicked points of the long cuspids. Venting a rumbling purr, the cat extended his massive head to enable Milo to scratch the throat as well.

“You know how to please, don’t you, Friend Milo?” The thought was clearer now that Milo was awake and they were in physical contact.

“What have you been up to, Horsekiller?” asked Milo silently. “There’s still some blood at the left corner of your mouth, you know. Man blood?”

“Thanks for telling me.” The creature raised one huge paw, licked it, and began to wash his face, while he thought-conversed with Milo.

“No, not your kind, Friend Milo. Understand, I’ve no objection to killing them, but the mere thought of having to actually eat one makes me gag; you wouldn’t believe how awful they taste. No, the cub and I shared a small deer.” He had finished his ablutions, but now extended his big pink tongue again, licking his furry lips in memory of the gastronomic pleasure. “Delicious. The cub killed it.”

“Cub!” The thought was faint with distance. “7’m no cub! You may be Cat Chief and you may be older, but if you insult me so another time, this will be a day of claws.”

“Cub, you are!” thought Horsekiller. “You are barely larger than your mother. Be impudent and you’ll have toothprints on your haunches. I’ve nipped you before and I can do it again. Bear that in mind.”

The thought was closer now, stronger. “You and what clan of two-legs, Mousekiller?”

Aloud, the Cat Chief ripped out a muted snarl. Every horse and mule on the picket line commenced to whinny and pull at the moorings, eyes rolling white.

“Easy, old friend, easy,” thought Milo. “Can’t you see that your son is teasing you? The clanshorses know you, but the others over there don’t. Look what your snarl did. For sun’s sake, let them know you’ve a full belly, before they stampede.”

Obediently, the big animal stood and slowly strolled toward the picket line, beaming soothing thoughts ahead of him. Milo sensed Steeltooth and others of the clans-horses greeting the wanderer.

The huddled girl had not moved, and, thinking her yet asleep, Milo began to draw on his short boots. However, when he chanced to glance down, he could see that her eyes were wide open and fixed on the massive bulk of the cat, who was now working his way along the picket line, touching noses with each animal unacquainted with him.

“Master,” she whispered, “what is that? It’s as big as … as a pony!”

Milo smiled reassuringly, squatted, and patted her grubby hand. “His name, in speech, would be Horsekiller. He’s a Prairie Cat, Chief of the Cat Clan and an old friend. You’ve not seen him earlier because he and one of his sons have been scouting our rear to determine the numbers, speed, and route of the pursuit. When he’s done mindspeaking the new animals. I’ll introduce you.”