Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

“That’s the girl. I would have known just to look at her.” The soft words startled Emhelee awake. She looked up in fear only to find herself gazing at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, flanked by an obsidian-colored colt.

“The High Lady herself,” Midnight mindspoke proudly, doing the introductions. “I told my friends of our battle, and the High Lady was told by a King Horse, the sire of my father. And she wished to have speech with us.” Midnight was practically dancing.

Dazed Emhelee rose and did proper respect.

“Now, come along. You need a proper night’s rest and a good meal, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“And apples,” Emhelee mindspoke sleepily. “Midnight needs apples.”

It was not until late the next evening that the Lady Aldora had time to speak to Emhelee. The young girl had spent the day with the cooks, doing a better job of kitchen work than she had ever done before. Indeed, they seemed pleased to have her, and Emhelee made herself quite useful.

Ushered into the High Lady’s presence, Emhelee became tongue-tied. Expertly Aldora helped her to overcome her shyness and told her about her father. Emhelee, drawn into the conversation, finally was able to explain about running away from home, about Midnight and about the horses in the Ehleenee chapel.

“Truly your father’s daughter,” the Undying High Lady muttered. Then she turned and addressed Emhelee directly. “Emhelee, what you have told me must remain a secret between you, your father and myself. More than any knife, this proves your paternity, and I myself shall ensure that you marry well. A gift like this is important, nor have 1 heard of it in any save one place. What you have done is throw an illusion. The horses were not there, Emhelee, only your gift made your enemies see them. This 1 have seen in one person only, your father, Bili the Axe. It is something we must encourage, but you must never speak of it again. Do you promise?”'

Emhelee nodded seriously.

“Then, girl, get ready to ride. Midnight awaits you, for we leave for Morguhnpolis tomorrow.”

Nightfriend

by Roland J. Green and John F. Carr

Roland Green was bom in Pennsylvania, raised in Michigan, and educated at Oberlin College and the University of Chicago. He has been a resident of Chicago for twenty years. He has also been an officer of the Society for Creative Anachronism (Middle Kingdom Seneschal, 1969-72) and of the Science Fiction Writers of America (Vice-President, 1984-86), and is an inveterate collector of naval and military history. His published books include the Wandor series (and yes, there will be that fifth book). Peace Company, and collaborations with Frieda Murray (The Book of Kantela), John F. Carr (Great Kings’ War, a sequel to Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen), Gordon R. Dickson (Jamie the Red), and Jerry Poumelle (two novels in the Janissaries series. Clan and Crown and Storms of Victory). He has also reviewed science fiction, fantasy, and military history for Booklist magazine (American Library Association), the Chicago Sun-Times, and Far Frontiers (Baen Books). At this writing he lives on Chicago’s lakefront four miles north of the Loop, with his wife and collaborator Frieda Murray, daughter Violette, a black cat named Thursday, a Kaypro computer, and six thousand books, not all of them naval or military history.

John F. Carr lives in Southern California with his wife and two children. He has written three novels, the most recent. Great Kings’ War, with Roland Green. He has edited four collections of H. Beam Piper’s work and has coedited, with Jerry Poumelle, several different anthology series, consisting of some twenty individual books. He is a war-game enthusiast, active among collectors of miniatures and fans of medieval and Renaissance history. Recently he came in third in the Los Angeles Regional Monopoly Tournament. John is currently dividing his time between work on Gunpowder God, with Roland Green,

War World , with Jerry Pournelle, and the Vice-Presidency of

Science Fiction Writers of America. In his copious spare time, he

plays the guitar and, occasionally, sings.

Iron Claw stretched his eight-foot frame along the top of the sun-warmed rock and caught himself almost purring in contentment. Purring was for females and cubs, not the chief of a sixteen-member pride; he resisted the impulse.

The winter had been bad. Two of the kittens had frozen at night. Iron Claw himself had felt the aches and pains of battles fought before Silver Tip, his favorite mate, was born. But none of this was any reason to turn kittenish just because Sun had once again turned its warm face toward the earth.

Lately his mind had taken to wandering through the hills and valleys of his past. Sometimes the memories were so real that he could almost feel the body heat of White Nose, his first mate. At times his wanderings reminded him of the stray thoughts of some female two-legs. Was old age at last creeping up on him?

He’d lived a long life for a prairiecat, like his sire and most of his siblings. A few silver hairs nestled among the black here and 1there, but he was still strong enough to rip the hindquarters of a standing buffalo. Maybe all the winters were just piling on top of one another.

The loud call of another male prairiecat tore the still morning air.

Iron Claw leaped up and gave an answering screech. The hair around his neck bristled as the call was returned. His first challenge of the year!

He hadn’t had to fight much the past few years, not since he’d learned that killing his opponent not only ensured that he would not return next year but awed the other males in the area. Last year’s only fight had been with a scraggly old range cat who’d decided to make one last foolish try at siring a litter. The pride feasted off his carcass for two days.

“Come on, old cat,” mindspoke his opponent. “It’s time to join your ancestors. Come down off that rock before I drag you off.”

Iron Claw was amused. The mindspeak sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His mates were silencing the growling kittens as they hastily left the area. He heard another cry and spotted the waving grass that gave away his opponent’s position.

“Afraid, old kitten-eater? You should be. I’m going to take your bones and spread them with the pride’s droppings!”

“You sound brave enough,” said Iron Claw. “I will remember your words when I hang your tail from my enemy tree.” Another way he’d found to spread fear was hanging the severed tails of his dead enemies on trees at the borders of his territory.

The challenger left the grass and strode boldly into the clearing before the rock. Iron Claw was astonished at the size of the young black-and-white male. He was a full third larger than Iron Claw.

Then the challenger turned toward Iron Claw, and the empty socket of his left eye revealed his identity. One Eye was one of Iron Claw’s sons from half a dozen winters ago. As a two-year-old, he’d lost that eye when he’d tried to feed on his father’s fresh kill. Iron Claw hadn’t meant to harm his son, but the bloodlust had still been roaring in his ears. Also the rule of the pride was strict: Iron Claw first, then the nursing females, then the kittens and other females.