Robert Adams - The Coming of the Horseclans

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.