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[Version 2.0—corrected and formatted by braven.]
1
Briskly, the column of horsemen trotted onto the long, ancient bridge, steel-shod hooves ringing on the worn stones. Behind them, an oncoming dust cloud heralded the advance of their army; before them, across the width of the river, the empty road wound into the dark density of a forest, beyond which rose the mountains that sheltered their foe, King Zenos of Karaleenos.
Leading the column, astride a tall black stallion of the Middle Kingdoms' breed, was a flashily attired man of uncertain age but of obvious Ehleenoee antecedents. His three-quarter armor was plated with gold, silver, and burnished copper, and his lobsterback helmet bore a nodding crest of bright red plumes. The small buckler on his left arm was also gold-plated and bore the Three Rivers sign of his house executed in turquoise. Over his left hip jutted the hilt of his sword—solid gold, pommel and quillons set with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.
Some few of the men who followed were garbed in a similar manner, but most were not. Only the courtier-officers aped the impractical equipage of Demetrios, Undying High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. For the real soldiers, who constituted the bulk of the column, it was Pitzburk-plate iron-rimmed bullhide bucklers and steel-and-leather sword hilts wound with brass wire to give a better grip.
The courtiers rode on; silently, behind their perpetually smiling faces, they cursed the dust and the heat, the sweat and discomfort and thirst. But the true soldiers were troubled by other matters. They squirmed uneasily in their sweat-slicked saddles and exchanged worried glances. Those who might have communicated with their fellows by mindspeak kept their mindshields rigidly in place, for Demetrios, too, possessed mindspeak; further, he owned the power of life and death over every officer and man in the army and his temper was notoriously capricious.
Captain Herbuht Mai, commander of a thousand lancers contracted to the service of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, dropped his reins onto his big gelding's neck and commenced to tighten the points securing his helmet.
He hasn't changed, he thought. He's the same arrogant, overconfident ass that he was forty years ago when grandpa served him! By my steel, he has campaigned with Lord Milo, he should know better. Irregulars should, this very minute, be harrying, nibbling at young Zenos' army, reporting back to us of its strength . . . and its weaknesses. But that pompous popinjay up there doesn't even send out flank riders or point riders, and here we are marching through hostile country.
Guhsz Helluh, a stocky, fortyish, graying man, had lifted his heavy target from its carrying hooks and was tightening the armstraps, even while his blue-green eyes attempted to peel back the tangle of forest ahead, that he might see what lay under those trees. Though his thin lips fluttered, his words were as silent as had been Mai's, for if the High-Lord took it into his head to have him executed, all of his twelve hundred Kweebai pikemen would not be enough to save him.
Damn fool, he thought. Good fighter—oh, that I admit, in personal combat. But as a strategist or tactician, he can't find his hairy arse with both hands! Three—count 'em—no less than three ambuscades in the last week, and that Undying imbecile still keeps sacrificing security for speed, hurrying good lads to their death for no good reason. He may be immune to steel, but by the Sacred Sword, the rest of us aren't! And that copulating forest could hide anything—a thousand archers or five hundred lancers, even a battery or two of catapults or spearthrowers, and we'd never see them until they were ready.
But both men were wrong in their estimates of the High-Lord. Demetrios rode fully aware of the chances he was taking . . . and he was completely cognizant of the terrible cost should his judgment prove faulty.
Ever since that day, nearly two-score years ago, when he had fought his first single combat with old Aleksandros, goaded the aged strahteegos into giving him the death thrust that unexpectedly proved him to be immortal, then joined forces with Lord Milo and his tribe of barbarians, had he been afforded the treatment of a retarded child. True, he admitted to acting the fool in the first flush of his realization that there were but three others like himself in all Kehnooryos Ehlahs. No sooner had he granted equal status to Lord Milo, proclaimed him co-High-Lord, than his—Demetrios'—power began to flow away like water runs through a sieve. Then, Milo and his bitch of a wife chivvied him into marrying that renegade slut, Aldora. Even had he liked women, which he did not, Aldora would have been difficult for him to stomach—born an Ehleeneeas, yet she had become more of a barbarian than any other member in the tribe since her adoption into one of the clans.
I tried, he thought, squinting his eyes against the glare that the morning sun threw from his brilliant armor and shield. Gods, but I tried. Nothing is wrong with me, I have no trouble at all with a clean, beautiful boy, but sex with a filthy, incessantly yapping woman is something that a man of my refined sensibilities just cannot perform. And in thirty-odd years that slimy whore has put more horns on my head than a hundred flocks of goats could sport! She flaunts her lovers before me and, when I slew one of them, what did she do but seduce my favorite lover, ruined the poor boy for life, she did. He'd fathered three or four children on some clanswoman before he died at the intaking of Eeleeoheepolis . . . and it served the faithless pig right—he should have been tortured to death.
And when my armies took the field against the northern barbarians and the western barbarians, and during the years it took to win back the north half of Karaleenos, they made a mere puppet of me. Oh, yes, a figurehead, that's all I was! Parading the army before me, calling me captain of commanders, while they gave every meaningful order.
As his mount crossed the midpoint of the bridge, Demetrios smiled and, straightening in the saddle, stuck a heroic pose, head high and right fist on armored right thigh. Well, I bided my time, I did; now, I've done it. Now I'm in southern Karaleenos, and I will wrest it from Zenos, or every man in this army will die in the attempt! Then they'll all know that Demetrios is a man to be reckoned with. They'll . . .
But there was no more time for quiet thought. A sleet of arrows fell upon the head of the column and Demetrios was hard put to control his screaming, wounded horse. None of the men were injured, for the bone-tipped hunting shafts shattered on armor and would not even pierce leather. But the horses were not so well protected; two were down, hampering the column, and several more were hurt.
Captain Helluh spotted the first stone coming and instinctively raised his shield, but the foot-thick boulder was short, splashing into the river yards from the bridge downstream. The second raised a brown geyser about the same distance upstream.
"Bracketed," groaned Herbuht Mai. "The next stone will draw blood unless that ninny has the brains to retreat."
The third stone took out a yard of bridge railing and some of the flying splinters peppered Demetrios' stallion, at which the tortured horse surged forward, bit in teeth, nearly unseating his rider. Despite many misgivings, the column followed as best they could.
While his companions drew swords or readied lances or uncased darts, Mai unslung his horn and winded the signal upon which he and his lieutenants had agreed. Once, twice, thrice he blew the code, then slung the horn and drew his steel.
Seeing where he was being borne, Demetrios drew his sword—no mean feat at a full, jarring gallop—and waved it first over his head, then pointed it at the forest, meanwhile hoping that his horse would stop before he reached the border of the Witch Kingdom, three hundred miles to the south. But he need not have worried; the commander of the ambush knew well the vulnerability of dismounted archers and catapult men to cavalry attack.
Within the forest, drums rolled and, before the runaway had reached the southern end of the bridge, a mixed lot of lancers and irregular cavalry debouched from hidden trails onto the roadway. No sooner were half a hundred of the enemy on the road than they launched a countercharge.
Captain Helluh smiled grimly. Those posturing courtiers would take the brunt of the attack. It would be most interesting to see how well the amateurs received it.
They received it well enough. Any species will fight if cornered; besides, they feared Demetrios more than the enemy horsemen.
Almost before he knew it, Demetrios was in among Zenos' cavalry. His pain-maddened stallion completely bowled over the smaller, lighter mount of an irregular axman. Then the well-trained warhorse went to work with teeth and hooves, savaging horseflesh or man-flesh impartially. Demetrios turned a lance with his shield and throat-thrust its wielder. A dart clanged off his breastplate, then an unarmored mountain irregular—wild-eyed and bearded—was raining blow after blow with a woodsman's ax. Demetrios was able to deflect each blow with his battered shield, but found himself unable to use his sword until the stallion sunk big, yellow teeth into his opponent's unprotected thigh. The ax split the stallion's skull, but half the length of the sword had already penetrated the axman's abdomen.
Demetrios was afoot in the midst of a cavalry engagement. There was but one thing to do. Savagely, he sawed loose the armstraps with his bloody sword and dropped the bent and useless shield. A lancer thundered down upon him. Demetrios avoided the point, grasped the shaft, and jerked. Then, while the foeman was still unbalanced, he grabbed the right foot and heaved, then clawed his way up into the empty saddle.
Once on his new horse, the High-Lord found he was headed the right way. What was left of his fifty men, now outnumbered ten to one, was slowly withdrawing. Only a single blow fell upon him as he spurred his horse forward. He supposed most of Zenos' troopers thought him one of their own.
Herbuht Mai was now in the forefront of the brisk little fight, and all the courtiers were dead, having followed their lord into the enemy's ranks. The powerful captain used his shieldboss to smash a face to red ruin, while his heavy sword sheared off the arm of a lancer. A buffet on his helm set his head to swimming and he almost struck the High-Lord before he recognized him.
Inch by hard-fought inch, the little band, now less than half their original number, was forced back across the bridge. Not a horse but was wounded and hardly a man; armor and shields were hacked and shattered, swords nicked and dulled. No darts and few lances remained in use; only sword and dirk were fitted to this kind of combat. Footing for Zenos' troops was treacherous; the bridge-bed was bloody—slimy and cobbled with dropped weapons and the trampled corpses of men and horses. The forest archers tried one volley, but so many of their own horsemen suffered for it that another was out of the question.
Demetrios longed for his big, black stallion. The lancer's roan gelding was not war-trained. He spent as much time fighting to keep the horse in line as he did hacking at the oncoming forces, and only the excellence of his armor had kept biting steel out of his body. He vowed that, if the roan survived the battle, he would have the cursed beast roasted alive! An irregular came at him with a long-bladed hunting spear, but his small mount stumbled on a still-wriggling body and he struggled to retain his seat. Demetrios stood in his stirrups and, swinging his wide sword with both hands, decapitated the spearman. So great was the press that the corpse could not fall from his saddle. He remained erect, arms jerking spasmodically, twin streams of blood gushing from what remained of his thick neck.
A warhorse snapped at the roan and, panicked, he backed away through the stone-smashed gap in the railing. The horse struggled to regain the bridge and might have made it, had not a stray sword stroke gashed his tender nose. It was thirty feet to the river. Horse and rider struck the water together in a mighty splash. Both weighted with armor and equipment, they quickly sank beneath.
2
"I saw him go over into the river, my lord," said Captain Mai. "But, at that time, it was all I could do to stay alive. We were eighteen or twenty against three or four hundred; indeed, there are but twelve of us breathing tonight."
The tall, saturnine man across the camp table raised a hand and assured him, saying, "No one is blaming you, Herbuht, least of all, me. Demetrios is a fool. I can't imagine what variety of feather got up his arse to try to mount this kind of campaign with an imbalanced and ill-supplied force of the type he assembled. It's to your everlasting credit that you and Guhsz were able to take what you had at hand and trounce Zenos as badly as you did; you'll, none of you, be forgotten—my word on it."
"And mine as well." The voice came from the tent's entrance. "I just hope the perverted swine is dead. Do you think he could be, Milo?"
Mai arose so rapidly that he overturned his stool, his dark-haired guest simply turned in his chair. "Hello, Aldora. What kept you?"
The striking woman who entered was as dark as Milo. When she removed her helm and tossed it on Mai's camp bed, it could be seen that her long, coal-black hair had been braided and then, Horseclans-fashion, coiled about her small head to provide padding. The features of her weather-browned face were fine and regular. Her black eyes flashed in the lamplight. Despite her heavy, thigh-high boots, she moved gracefully to the table and took both of Mai's calloused hands in her own. "How long has it been, sweet Herbuht?"
Captain Mai flushed deeply, looking at his toes. "Ten . . . no, eleven years, my lady."
Milo Morai had seen her play this game with other former lovers. Impatiently, he snapped, "For all you know, Aldora, your husband is lying on the bed of the Luhmbuh River, providing a feast for happy fish. You may hate him, but he is my co-regent and the only one with a hereditary claim to the rulership of Kehnooryos Ehlahs. Besides, he is one of our kind."
Aldora snorted. "And I hope the fish get more use from Demetrios than ever I did! You know how it's been between us for the thirty-two years we've been married. Emotionally speaking, Demetrios is—was, I pray, Wind—a child, a terribly spoiled brat. Damn it, he looks so masculine, but even if he lives as long as you have, he'll never mature into a real man. He can take all the grandiose titles he can think of, deck himself out in the fanciest clothing and armor he can find, and he'll never be more than a gilded cowpat. He . . ."
"Aldora," Milo said, "we are not alone."
She shook her head defiantly. "We do not need to be. Herbuht was my lover for four years; he's heard all I've said here and more—much, much more. My husband, the Lord-High Buggerer of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, is as useful to a woman as is a gelding to a mare! I pray to the Sun and Wind that he be dead. Oh, Wind grant that I am at last freed of him."
Suddenly, she raised both arms, threw back her head and, with closed eyes, began to chant, "Wind, oh, Wind of all Wind. Wind of the North, Wind of the West, Wind of the South, Wind of the East. Oh, Wind of the oceans, Wind of the mountains, Wind of the plains. Wind of gentleness, Wind of violence. Oh, Wind, hear now thy true daughter, Aldora of Linszee, come to me and grant my prayer. Come to me, oh, Wind. Speak to thy daughter, thy servant, thy bride. Come, oh, Wind. Come, come, come, come, come."
From the camp about them came shouts of alarm along with much noise from the picket lines—the snortings and whinnyings of terrified horses. Then a roaring commenced, growing louder as it neared. Then it was all around the tent, and suddenly the front flaps billowed inward, while the heavy lamps hung from the ridgepole were swung to and fro like ships tossed on a stormy sea.
Icy air buffeted Milo's skin and he could not repress a shudder. Aldora's talents continued to amaze him. Speaking in as calm a voice as he could muster, he admonished, "That's more than sufficient, Aldora. The men outside may have to fight tomorrow; they need their relaxation, their dinners, their sleep, and so do the horses."
After a somewhat shaky Herbuht Mai had left to see to his men and to the other captains who had met with King Zenos subsequent to the battle that followed the bridge skirmish, Milo had other words for Aldora.
As he unstrapped her cuirass, he spoke sternly. "You call Demetrios a child, then follow with a completely childish example of mental trickery! Who were you trying to impress, girl? Me? Herbuht Mai?"
She turned to face him, her face looking drained, the halves of her cuirass dangling loose. "It was no trick, Milo. Calling the Wind was one of the secret things Blind Hari taught me before he left."
"If you've known it that long," demanded Milo, "why is it I've never seen you do it before?"
The woman extended trembling arms so that Milo might pull off the armor. "Because I don't do it often, Milo, because it tires me, it takes too much from me."
Drawing off her armor, Milo said angrily, "Don't ever do that at sea, Aldora. There are not very many ways to kill our kind, but drowning is one of them."
The four captains—Herbuht Mai of the lancers, Guhsz Helluh of the heavy infantry, Prestuhn Maklaud of the horse archers, and Gabros Zarameenos of the light infantry—entered and saluted first Milo, then Aldora.
"Lord Milo," spoke Mai, "I have ordered Lord Demetrios' pavilion pitched on that low hill between the camp and the river. It's an exposed position, true, but it will be well guarded. Besides, King Zenos struck me as a man of his word. I don't think he'd allow an attack without formally notifying us of the cessation of the truce."
"That was very thoughtful, Captain." Milo smiled. "I'd frankly given my quarters no thought, and the only baggage we brought was two pack mules, the bulk of our effects being with the main army. What think you, gentlemen? Will we be needing the army? Will Zenos fight again?"
Guhsz Helluh said slowly, "He's a brave man, Lord Milo, a determined man, and I doubt me not were it up only to him he'd resist to the last drop of his blood. But fully sixty percent of his ragtag army was killed or wounded the day before yesterday. I think he'll husband what he has left to build a new army around."
"Now I'll pose another question, gentlemen." Milo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Captain Mai has sketched the rough outline of your three ambushes, the skirmish at the bridge, and the full-scale battle beyond it. For all five actions, what were your losses? Captain Helluh, how many killed and wounded in your pikemen's ranks?"
Helluh hissed through his gapped teeth. "Too many, my lord. There'll be many a red eye in Kweebai, and no mistake. One hundred sixteen were slain, two hundred thirty wounded. That's as of sundown tonight, of course. More of the wounded will certainly die."
"Captain Zarameenos?"
The dark-haired Ehleenoee rumbled from his massive chest, "I mean not to make excuses, Lord Milo, but the army was just too tired to fight well, men and horses alike."
Milo nodded. "There will be no recriminations, gentlemen. All conditions considered, you and your men performed a near miracle. But, back to your casualties, Captain Zarameenos."
The big officer nodded briskly, his black spikebeard bobbing. "I marched out of Kehnooryos Ehlahs with four thousand men; as of sundown tonight I had three thousand twenty-two effectives, six hundred forty-nine wounded, and three hundred twenty-nine are dead."
Mai had lost about a fifth of his squadron, he reported. Maklaud, whose reddish hair, wiry body, and vulpine face had combined to give him his nickname of "Foxy," gave the Horseclans salute and said, "God-Milo, give us Horseclansmen steel armor and these big horses and we're damned hard to kill! I lost ninety men from six clans, all gone to Wind, no wounded who can't ride and fight."
Milo grinned. "Who'll collect the bounty on your ear, Foxy?"
The other three captains roared and Aldora managed a tired smile. Maklaud reached up to touch the bandages covering what was left of his left ear. "I didn't even know it was gone until after the big fight. It must have happened at the bridge. My helmet took a blow meant for Old Thunder, here," he said, digging a sharp elbow into Zarameenos' ribs, "and the bastard's sword stuck. I couldn't see the Maklaud of Maklaud riding around Karaleenos wearing a sword on his head, so I backed out of line long enough to doff them both—helm and sword. But I'd gotten another helm off one of Zenos' expired officers before the big fight."
Milo leaned forward. "Wait a minute! All four of you were in on the skirmish at the bridge." He was answered by four nods.
Milo slammed one big fist against his thigh. "Well, that ass! He could have lost every senior officer in his so-called command. Thirty-six years of campaigning haven't taught my esteemed co-regent a thing!"
Aldora sighed resignedly. "I could have told you that, Milo. Demetrios never learns anything he doesn't want to learn. Sun knows, I hope he's dead!"
Milo, Aldora, and their bodyguards sat with the four captains on the mossy northern bank of the Lumbuh River. A few paces to their rear the tethered horses contentedly cropped grass, all shaded by the huge, ancient trees. In the river, several large rafts had been lashed to the bridge supports and, from them, divers were scouring the muddy bottom of the river. No one was sure exactly where Demetrios had left the bridge, since a good portion of the railing had been torn loose later in the fight and a good many horses and riders had plunged into the river. Therefore, the divers worked from the center toward the south bank.
While the captains chatted and the bodyguards diced and Aldora stared broodingly at the waters of the river, Milo pondered. Should he send word to the main army to march, despite the danger from the west? If that shaky alliance of mountain tribes should attack while most of the army was fourteen days' march away . . . hmmm, it would be bad. On the other hand, should young Zenos be allowed to form another army and cement his present bonds with the Southern Kingdom . . . maybe even ally himself with the Sea-Lord and his pirates? It might be best to scotch this Zenos while we've the opportunity. And it shouldn't be all that difficult—not now, not after the drubbing he took the other day.
His eyes closed as he mused, Milo was unaware of the approach of Halfbreed until the cat's chin was resting on his armored thigh. He scratched the furry ears, eliciting a deep sigh of contentment.
Though a great-grandson of mighty Horsekiller, the cat chief who had led his clan to this land, he had been gotten on a tree cat that had been caught as a kitten and tamed by Aldora; therefore, he was less than two-thirds the bulk of an adult prairie cat. Some seven feet overall, Halfbreed was slender and wiry, his cuspids were only slightly longer than had been his mother's—nowhere near the size of a prairie cat's massive fangs—and his fur was short and uniformly pale brown. Because of his distinct resemblance to his wild cousins, Halfbreed was a very useful scout.
Scanning Milo's surface thoughts, the cat mindspoke a question. "If you mean to fight, God-Milo, should not Halfbreed take a look at the Ehleenee army?"
Milo sighed. "I wish you could, cat-brother. But this river is a natural line of defense. It is wide and deep and there are no fords for many miles. This bridge is the only way across and you could never traverse it unseen . . . not in daylight, anyway—perhaps tonight, if there is no moon or a storm. But wait for my word."
One of Captain Mai's officers came galloping the length of the bridge, iron-shod hooves striking sparks. Before his mount had fully halted, the rider was out of his saddle and saluting his captain.
"Sir, a herald from the camp of King Zenos is at the middle of the bridge. He begs audience with High-Lord Milo and High-Lady Aldora. He is alone and bears only sword and dirk. Besides, I don't think he'd be very dangerous; he's wounded."
When, at length, the officer returned, he rode stirrup to stirrup with a freckle-faced young man in the uniform of Zenos' bodyguards. The wicked tip had been removed from his lance and a square of lustrous, creamy silk fluttered at the apex of the long ash shaft. Nothing could be seen of his hair, since above the browline his head was swathed in bandages, but his sweeping mustache and pointed beard were brick-red. His bandaged left hand appeared to be shy a couple of fingers; nonetheless, he handled his reins skillfully and sat his big gray horse with the unconscious ease of the born horseman.
Milo tried a quick scan of the herald's surface thoughts, finding them as open and friendly as the merry green eyes. But there were other thoughts, too, and had been since first the freckled one had clapped eyes on Aldora. A glance at her showed Milo that she had read those thoughts as well. The trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
The herald thrust the ferrule of his lance shaft into the loam, dismounted gracefully, and strode to stand before Milo. He first bowed, then executed an elaborate salute. At closer range, Milo was aware of the copious perspiration coursing down the freckled face, the clenched teeth, and bunched muscles of the jaw.
"He is in pain," Aldora mindspoke rapidly, "intense pain. But he'd die ere he betrayed it, Milo. He is a fine young man, honorable and very proud."
Milo smiled. "Now that the formalities are done with, young sir, will you not sit and have wine with us?"
Tomos Gonsalos, despite his obvious thirst, sipped delicately at his wine. Savoring it on his tongue, he graciously complimented it, the silver cup in which it had been served, and his host and hostess, like the gentleman he gave every appearance of being. He had brought an invitation from King Zenos, who would share his evening meal with High Lord Milo, High Lady Aldora, and their four gentleman captains. King Zenos stated that, aware as he was that certain deceased members of his House had established a reputation for treachery, his guests had his leave to ride with a bodyguard contingent of any size they saw fit. His intent, he emphasized, was honorable, but he wished his guests to feel secure in their persons.
After an hour's light conversation and another pint of wine, Tomos indicated that he should return and announce their acceptance of King Zenos' invitation. Upon rising, however, he staggered, took no more than two steps toward his horse, then crumpled bonelessly to the sward.
Aldora was kneeling beside the herald ere anyone else had hardly started forward. Expertly, she peeled back an eyelid, then announced, "He's burning with fever. One of you ride and fetch a horselitter. Someone help me get off his cuirass . . . but gently, mind you. He may have other hurts not so apparent."
Tomos did. High on one hip, an angry, festering wound sullenly oozed with pus and serum. It had been amateurishly bandaged, and friction against the high cantle of his warkak had torn the cloths loose.
A nearby bodyguard blanched and touched fingers to his Sun charm. "And he rode in here smiling, he did! How could he even bear to sit a horse?"
Herbuht Mai said, "A lifetime of self-discipline and generations of breeding . . . that, and ten leagues of pure guts. Yonder, trooper, lies a man!"
Bearing Tomos Gonsalos' white-pennoned lance shaft, Milo paced his palomino stallion, unchallenged, into the outskirts of Zenos' camp. The camp was about as he had expected: under makeshift shelters, agonized men groaned and writhed; the air was thick with flies and heavy with the nauseating miasma of corruption and death; off to one side, an officer in hacked armor hobbled about, supervising the digging of a long mass grave and piled corpses patiently awaited its completion. A question put to this officer elicited directions to Zenos' "pavilion."
Outside the mean little tent, Milo slid from his kak and paced to the entry. Two tired-looking pikemen barred his way and politely asked his name, station, and business.
When Milo told them, their eyes goggled and the one on the right gulped, then bawled, "Komees Greemos, please, my lord; Komees Greemos . . ."
A noble-officer limped to the entrance. The smudges under his eyes were nearly as black as the eyes themselves, and his bruised and battered face was lined with care and exhaustion. Although Milo had never seen the mountainous man, he well knew his reputation as strategist, tactician, and warrior.
"I am Milo, High Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Lord Komees. I come in peace. Please announce me to King Zenos. I would speak with him on matters of great urgency."
Milo felt instant liking for his young adversary. Zenos stood as tall as Milo, a bit over six feet. His eyes were brown and his gaze frank and open. His thick glossy hair shone a rich, dark chestnut, and his face was smooth-shaven. From what he knew of the young monarch, Milo would be willing to wager that he had had far less rest than any one of his remaining officers, yet he appeared as fresh as if he had but arisen from twelve hours' sleep. The grip of his hard, browned hand was firm.
"You are most welcome, Lord Milo." He waved his guest to one of the three seats—upended sections of sawn log, bark still on—that surrounded a battered, lightly charred field table.
Once seated, Milo got to the point of his visit, disregarding polite protocol. "Your herald, Tomos Gonsalos, lies in my pavilion. His wounds are grievous and he is being tended by the High Lady Aldora, who possesses certain wisdoms and skills in healing."
"Poor, brave, loyal Tomos." Zenos slowly shook his head. "God grant that he lives, for there are too few of his kind in my kingdom. Would that I had not had to send him, hurt as I knew him to be, but it would not have been fitting to send a common trooper to issue my invitation to you and the High Lady, my lord. Tomos is my own cousin."
"Where," Milo asked, "are your fohreeohee, your eeahtrosee? Men who've fought bravely deserve professional tending. And what in Sun's name happened to your camp and baggage? My captains all assure me that there was no sack."
Standing near the entrance, Komees Greemos growled deep in his throat and commenced to mumble a litany of curses.
Zenos cracked his knuckles. "I will be candid, my lord. Toward the end of the battle, certain of my mountaineer irregulars withdrew . . . rather precipitately. There was no rout, you understand, they are all brave men; but their loyalty was to me, personally, and some fool convinced them that I had been slain. It was they who sacked the camp, stole what they fancied or could carry, and burned the remainder. They slew every man who tried to restrain them or who got between them and anything they wanted. My pavilion alone they spared, but I had it dismantled and recut to make flies and bandages."
"Yes, a commander's first obligation is to his men," Milo said in agreement. "Would you accept the services of my eeahtrosee, those of them who can be spared from treating our own wounded?"
Komees Greemos limped over. "And what concessions will be required in return?" he snapped.
Milo looked up into the hulking nobleman's cold stare. "None," he said flatly. Then he added, "However, I would like to instigate a series of conferences with His Majesty and his council. Let me make it clear, however, that the offer of medical assistance is not contingent upon any other of my plans. I simply dislike to see good fighters suffer and die needlessly."
Zenos' brown eyes had misted and, though his features remained fixed, his voice quavered slightly as he once more gripped Milo's hand. "Two generations of my house have died fighting you, my lord, so probably shall I; but I shall never forget this act of unexpected generosity. Of course I accept, and I pray that God bless you."
"As for a conference with me and my council, that will be easy enough. Of the original council, only Greemos, here, and Thoheeks Serbikos are left; all the others fell in battle, as befitted men of their caste. Serbikos and his lancers are presently out foraging, but he should be back well before night, and we three can meet with you at your convenience. Can we not, Greemos?"
The officer shrugged his massive shoulders. "Whatever my King wishes." He turned again to Milo. "How many armed men are coming with your eeahtrosee, my lord?"
Milo ignored Greemos' open hostility. "Not a one, Lord Komees. I had supposed that your army had sufficient hale men to give them what workforces they might require."
Greemos bobbed his head shortly. "Yes, that we can. I add my thanks to those of my King. I, too, want living, healthy troops, rather than corpses and cripples; well need them when next we battle your armies."
King Zenos looked appalled at this open threat in the face of unasked-for generosity. But Milo chuckled good-naturedly.
"You're nothing if not blunt and honest, Lord Greemos. I wonder not that Herbuht Mai spoke so highly of you."
There was an almost imperceptible thaw in the Komees' manner. "The gentleman-captain is a good officer. He is just and honorable in his dealings, and the provisions he set for the truce might have been much harsher. He is a worthy foeman, my lord."
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