Robert Adams - The Coming of the Horseclans

Mara’s brow wrinkled. “I have heard of these Prairie Cats. Is it true that you barb … uhh, nomads can really converse with them?”

“Quite true,” Milo nodded. “He and I were just discussing, among other things, you; he feels that, for a human female, you are not unattractive and will throw healthy kittens. I agree.”

“Naturally.” Horsekiller projected his thought as he ambled back to Milo, picking a path among the sleeping raiders. “Any intelligent creature would agree with me, Friend War Chief. I don’t know what it is to be wrong.” “Nor,” came the other thought which was now quite near, “what it is to be modest.”

Milo mindspoke. “Horsekiller, can you reach this female’s mind?”

After a moment, the cat replied, “Only the surface, Friend Milo. She has a mind-shield. I’ve touched but one other like it and … ahhh, pardon me.” The Cat Chief stalked around Milo to Mara. He licked the little woman’s hand, then crouched and laid his big head in her lap. The cat’s demeanor was one of adoration, nothing less. Milo was shocked; he had never seen the Cat Chief behave so toward any two-leg.

“Friend Milo,” Horsekiller chided him, “you have not yet mounted this female. You should. She wants you to.” He had not personalized the transmission and Mara flushed.

So, thought Milo to himself, she can mindspeak; now I wonder….

But Horsekiller went on. “Ah, you foolish two-legs, sometimes I wonder how I can bear to be around you. You waste so much of your lives. Life should be lived, Friend Milo, not frittered away on trivialities.”

“My, my,” thought Milo, “Horsekiller is become a philosopher in his old age.”

The Cat Chief ignored the sarcasm. “Were you truly wise, Friend Milo, you would push this female onto her belly and sink your teeth into her neck and enter her body and … ahhhh … there are few things so enjoyable.” The cat sighed. “It is on a plane with crouching in the snow on a crackling cold morning and feeling hot, fragrant blood spurt onto your nose as you tear your first mouthful from a new-killed fawn; or catching delicious little mice on a flower covered prairie under a warm, spring sky; or…”

Milo chuckled aloud, then mindspoke. “Horsekiller, you’re a hedonist.”

“He’s a duty old cat!” announced the third mindspeak-er. “All he can think of is eating and making kittens, and then he wonders that I fail to respect him.”

Horsekiller’s ears went back in folds against his brawny neck and smoldering anger purged his mind of sensuality. Prairie Cats were every bit as hot-blooded and quicktempered as the human clansmen, this Milo knew well. And the last thing needed at this juncture was a spitting, squalling, cat fight, so Milo quickly interjected, “We’re still in the land of the Blackhairs, with much danger behind and ahead. Horsekiller, as Cat Chief, you know better than to carry family squabbles on a raid.”

Then he turned to the “smaller” cat—the cub weighed over 150 pounds, and his paws, larger even than his sire’s, attested to the fact that he had yet to fill out. “Stop harassing your chief, Swimmer, or you’ll be eating cold beef on herd-guard with your fellow kittens, until your mental maturity matches your physical. Understood?”

“I was only teasing.” The yellow-brown cat sulked. “Can’t I have any fun, Friend War Chief?”

“On a raid? No, definitely not, Swimmer,” Milo affirmed. “Unless you want your pelt pegged out for curing behind some Blackhair’s cabin.”

The young cat shuddered. “Stop, please! I’ll regurgitate all that fine venison. That was an obscene thing to suggest.”

“But true, nonetheless,” put in Horsekiller. “It is said that the king of the Blackhairs has his seat of ruling covered by a large robe made of pelts of Prairie Cats.”

Swimmer shuddered again. “He must be a monster.”

“No, Swimmer, just of another race. Few of his people can communicate with your kind. To them you are just animals—dangerous animals.”

Deeply shaken, the adolescent feline crouched close to Milo, who stroked his head soothingly. “Are two-leg Blackhairs pursuing us, Horsekiller?”

“Yes, Friend Milo, but it will be night before they are near to this place.”

“How many two-legs?”

“As many as a clan—males and females and cubs. Some on horses, some on two-wheels. Far behind them are many clans without horses, but they and the two-wheels are a long run south of this place on the flat-way.”

So, Milo mused, it’s as I thought. The chariots and the infantry are sticking to the road—what was Route 250, six hundred years ago. Even so, it may be a tight race. Laden with the loot and the slaves, we’ll be hard put to outrun their cavalry. What I should do is dump the packs and the women here, but if I did, there’d be hell to pay. The men fought hard and well for this booty and won’t give it up easily.

“Horsekiller, if you leave now, how long will it take you to reach tribe-camp?”

“One of your time periods, maybe less.”

“Then go. Go fast, both of you. Horsekiller, go to Lord Bili of Esmith. Tell him that I said to ride at once with all his males and as many others as he can gather quickly. Then leave Swimmer to guide them. As for you, gather the Cats—as many as are not on duty—get them battle-armed, and speed back to me. Damn that cavalry! Why couldn’t they have stayed on the road as well?”

As the two giant cats sped westward, Milo strode among the sleepers, nudging them into wakefulness. Few words were required; the worry on his face said enough. Those who had removed their cuirasses re-donned them, then slapped saddles to horses. Once Steeltooth was saddled and accoutered, Milo assisted with the captured animals. With amazing speed, the little column was again underway, the captives’ wrists lashed to pommel or packsaddle—all, save Mara; for some reason, Milo believed her, didn’t think that she would try to escape. She rode beside him, astride dead Djimi Kahrtr’s horse, her long hair stuffed under the late scout’s peaked helmet.

This time they bore southwest toward the road. On it, they would make far better tune than cross-country and, now, speed was more important than concealment. It had been a 50-50 chance that all the pursuers would adhere to the road hi which case Milo might have swung wide to the north and missed the pursuit entirely. Dropping to the tail, he urged the riders on. He had lost his gamble, but had no intention of losing more than that.

It had been midday when they struck camp. The sun was low on the horizon when Milo sighted his objective. About three hundred years after what Milo thought of as the Two-Day War, there had been an earthquake of considerable proportions somewhere in the Eastern Ocean. This section of the piedmont, though not visited by the tidal waves which had devastated the seaboard, had been racked by sympathetic quakes. Now a result of this geologic turmoil confronted them—a sixty-foot-high upthrust of earth and rock and ancient asphalt shards, thickly grown with trees and undergrowth. The original path of the road bisected its hundred yard length, and the Sea-invaders had laid their replacement road under its thickly forested southern brow.

Milo waited until his party had rounded it before he halted them.

“Kindred, Blackhair cavalry rides close behind. After them are war-carts and spearmen. Just before we rode again, I sent Horsekiller and Swimmer to fetch help from the tribe, but it will take time for them to reach us. Saving this booty means much to you who fought for it and more to the clans of our kindred who died. Therefore, some must continue west, while the others of us delay the Black-hairs. Since we will not be enough to fight them sword-to-sword, I shall only take the bow-masters. The others leave your quivers behind. Now, ride!” Milo turned and led his nine bow-masters into the forest that fringed the hill. They had ridden but twenty yards when the pitch abruptly mounted, too steep for the horses. Mentally enjoining their steeds to silence, the nomads dismounted, took their bows and quivers, and started to pick a way to the slope which overlay the road.