The Doomfarers of Coramonde (25 page)

The two
separated, each with hands on the other’s shoulders. “Welcome, Wolf-Brother,
Champion of the Howlebeau,” said the steppesman. “Welcome to the fires and
fellowship of the Horseblooded. As usual, the Howlebeau do not attend the High
Contest, but send greetings.”

“I thank
Su-Suru for the grace of his fire and his corral,” replied Reacher.

Ceremony over,
they were conducted into Su-Suru’s tent, sumptuous with thick, colorful carpets
and plump cushions. Several others were seated there, dressed as finely as the
Hetman. They rose as one to clasp hands with the King. Springbuck, impatient at
the lack of introductions, cleared his throat and appraising eyes went to him
at once.

Reacher said,
“Springbuck, Prince and rightful
Ku-Mor-Mai
of Coramonde, I give you
Su-Suru, overchieftain of five of the tribes of the Horseblooded. These others
are the chieftains of the various tribes, Lords Paramount of their respective
ranges.”

There was
general bowing and trading of courtesies, after which the five lesser
chieftains took their leave as if on cue. The remaining three reclined among
soft cushions and Su-Suru clapped his hands peremptorily.

Women appeared,
the first that the Prince had had an opportunity to observe closely. They
didn’t give the impression of servility, but went about their hospitable chores
expansively, as much hostesses in Su-Suru’s home as he was host; they were in
fact his several wives and daughters. They bore no weapons, but each had a
highly individualized costume of fanciful design and wore a good deal of
jewelry and cosmetics, even the youngest, a girl of fourteen or so, and one had
a bird tattooed on her forehead.

As they were
offering food and drink, another woman entered, knelt on a cushion in the
corner and began to play softly on a cheng. She was slender and almond-eyed,
with gracefully erect carriage and blue-black hair piled in a complex coiffure.
She wore a flowing robe covered with elaborate embroidery and her earrings,
necklace and rings had much jade in them.

The men
listened to the restful strains for a time. When she paused between one air and
the next, Su-Suru turned to Reacher and asked, “Is it to be a challenge?”

“Not my
choosing. You’ve heard of developments in Coramonde?”

“All rumors
drift in time to the High Ranges. The East will soon be in revolt, we hear, and
Strongblade’s already called Usurper when the soldiers aren’t listening. Is it
your wish, then, to lead my people into war?”

Springbuck
interjected, “It’s either that or wait for the legions of Coramonde to come for
you, once Yardiff Bey’s puppets overcome the Crescent Lands.”

“But can you
hope to win, Prince Springbuck? The Horseblooded can spread across the ranges
like windblown dust and avoid an enemy forever. But then, of course, our ranges
would no longer be truly our own.”

“We plan to
fight for time,” the son of Surehand answered. “To ignite insurrection from
within.”

Su-Suru
considered this as he toyed with the silver mamelière on his furred vest.
“You’ll need to fight our current Champion then, Wolf-Brother, just as you
thought. Ferrian doesn’t believe in foreign adventuring. You challenge as
Champion of the Howlebeau, so no one can dispute your right to do so. A pity;
Ferrian’s been quirt bearer and war chieftain for only two days.”

“A war
chieftain who councils against war?” asked the Prince.

“Aye,
stouthearted fighter, hunter and horseman, but with no love of killing, and I
was glad when he won the quirt. Ah, well, necessities of state, as you
Lowlanders say. Do you wish to rest, Wolf-Brother, or will an hour from now
do?”

“Let this
regrettable thing be by all means done quickly.”

Su-Suru sent a
sentry with instructions. “Ferrian is probably girding himself even now.” He
sighed, then brightened. “But let me show you, in the meantime, something I
acquired in a little horse-trading deal.”

He brought a
small golden bell from his wide girdle and shook it. It summoned two more
girls, one with a drum and one with a stringed instrument like a harp; but
unlike the first musician, these were Horseblooded. The tempo of the music
accelerated. Six dancing girls filed into the room and began a sinuous
performance. They were comely, well-formed with coppery complexions and hair
the same shade, wearing shifts of fine black fabric which suited them well.
They moved alluringly and the Prince thought them to be from one of the lesser
city-states near the Outer Sea. Immensely interested, he didn’t turn his head
as he asked Su-Suru, “Why is the Hetman not Champion, or the Champion not
Hetman?”

Reacher
answered for him, morosely ignoring the dancers as he played idly with his wine
cup, tracing its design with one falciform finger. “The Hetman’s chosen for
wisdom and honesty by vote of the tribe members. The Champion is selected by a
series of tests and trial combats. Neither process could be used to accomplish
what the other does, so warrior is subordinate to Hetman.”

The dancers had
just completed their performances to Su-Suru’s enjoyment and Springbuck’s
enthusiastic applause, when the sentry returned and whispered in the Hetman’s
ear. The leader of the Horseblooded rose majestically to his feet. “Ferrian has
anticipated your requisition, Reacher. He’s awaiting you at the contest area
even now. Oh, and I’m told that some friends of yours are in camp.”

Flanked by
guards, the three left Su-Suru’s tent and walked toward the appointed spot
across hard-packed earth streets that were trampled firm by many feet, hooves
and paws. Then the crowd, and indeed the sentries, drew aside as three enormous
wolves trotted into view. Reacher went to one knee to embrace their chief, a
pure albino with a wicked look in his old eye, wrestling with him and growling
gently. The wolf, tail wagging, pawed the small monarch, biting softly at his
nose. In return and with obvious affection, Reacher nipped the beast’s muzzle,
and Springbuck recalled hearing that this was a lupine custom of greeting;
Su-Suru’s use of the King’s nickname occurred to him—Wolf-Brother. But what
wolves! Big as lions, these monsters and their packs must rule the steppes. No
wonder the Horse-blooded valued the friendship of the Howlebeau and the
resultant treaty with their brother-allies, the wolves.

Reacher
exchanged salutations with the other two wolves and the procession was resumed,
the beasts trotting at his side, until they came to an open square among the
tents, measuring fifty paces on a side. A ring of people had already formed
there. With no further word the King went to stand waiting in the center,
leaving the Prince, Su-Suru and his furry brothers at its edge.

There came a
blast of trumpets and the cry: “Ferrian! Champion-at-arms Ferrian! ’Way, all!”
Pressing through the crowd opposite Springbuck were six husky men, bearing on
their bulging shoulders a platform of wood, atop which stood Ferrian, who
turned out to be the grim man whom the Prince had noticed when first entering
camp. He stood, feet spread and arms at his sides, fists clenched and features
composed in that same cryptic stare, not deigning to notice those beneath the
level of his gaze.

He rode easily,
as if the platform were not moving at all. When his perch had been carefully
lowered at the rim of the crowd, he stepped forward, now looking directly at
Reacher.

“Who
challenges?” he demanded.

“The Lord of
the Just and Sudden Reach, Champion of the Howlebeau.”

Ferrian
extended his hand behind him and his shield and a long spear were passed to
him.

“Won’t Ferrian
lose face?” asked the Prince. “Going fully armed against one who bears no sword
or shield?”

“You evaluate
from ignorance,” Su-Suru replied. “All here know that, as Champion of the
Howlebeau, Reacher will be nearly impossible to defeat, however well armed
Ferrian is. Yet our Champion goes fully prepared to make his best effort. All
here know the truth of the circumstances, and Ferrian’s determination to do his
best will be to his credit, win or lose the match.”

He thought for
a moment. “He won the ceremonial quirt after some of the hardest striving I’ve
ever seen at High Contest. With it he gained his choice of willing women—many
with husbands who’d cherish the child of a Champion—and horses, the rarest of
honors and plaudits; barring a miracle, all of that will be taken from him now.

“It’s all a
greater pity for this—they were both, Ferrian and Reacher, great friends at one
time.”

The two were
circling now, the Horseblooded moving easily for a big man. They spiraled
slowly closer, the King in a feline, crouching guard and the steppesman poised
behind his shield, spear at ready. When they were close enough, Ferrian began
to feint as Reacher backstepped, parrying with his cestussed left hand. Then Ferrian
shoved forward with his shield, attempting to drive his smaller opponent off
balance, and making as if to skewer him with the spear at the same time.

But Reacher dug
in his heel and stopped the shield with one hand, brushing the spearhead aside
with the other, as he tried to slip around the edge of the shield to strike at
Ferrian’s unprotected left. The Champion of the Horseblooded in turn quickly
crouched and pivoted on his left foot, the pivot matching Reacher’s move and
neutralizing it. Both drew apart then and came at one another again. Fast as
thought itself, Ferrian made a long thrust with his spear, which Springbuck
thought to see rip through the King’s abdomen. The Wolf-Brother, though, spun
to the right; as the spear passed close in truth to his body, he brought his
left hand down in a fearsome stroke, thrusting his right knee up at the same
time. The spear shaft broke in two, as the wild boar’s neck had given way
before the murderous cestus.

Ferrian hurled
the useless stump of his spear aside with an oath and ripped his broadsword
from its sheath. Reacher’s fighting attitude, now that he no longer had the
spear to contend with, was more erect. He didn’t attempt to meet the vicious
cuts, but evaded them, backing nimbly around the circle. Ducking one
particularly strong slash, the King took advantage of his opponent’s momentary
lack of balance and leaped in, unleashing a fast and powerful stroke with his
clawed left hand. More by happenstance than design, Ferrian managed to protect
himself with his shield. The taloned glove ripped through the first three plies
of the shield, though it struck glancing. Because he was a tried Champion, who
could fight by blind instinct when he must, Ferrian somehow managed to launch a
backhand blow with his sword, forcing Reacher back while he regained his
footing.

Abruptly, the
King stooped down to snatch the head of Ferrian’s broken spear, which still had
a foot of shaft affixed to it. Just as Ferrian understood what he intended, he
drew back and whipped the improvised missile with all his strength. It was
fortunate for Ferrian that he’d begun to drop to one knee in face of this new
tactic; the flashing spearhead struck the upper part of his shield and stuck
there, penetrating all seven plies and throwing it against its bearer’s
shoulder.

Now Ferrian
came back on guard. Angry at Reacher’s ploy, he advanced with a strong attack
of cuts and slashes. The King again backed, evading all blows. But as Ferrian
brought his sword down in an arc aimed to cleave the Wolf-Brother’s head, the
King revealed his full speed and strength, deflecting the descending blade with
one blow of his cestus and with another striking the broadsword from Ferrian’s
grasp with such force that the sword loop around the Champion’s wrist snapped
and the weapon flew free. There was a gasp from the gathered Horseblooded as
Ferrian stood disarmed by impacts which had come so close together as to be
practically one, dazed by this sudden turn of events.

Ferrian would
have shaken off his shock and fought on with a knife from his belt or bare
hands if he must, but the King gave him no chance. Reacher seized the
Horseblooded’s shield with both hands and twisted, snaking around behind him as
he did so. Ferrian’s arm, trapped by his shield’s enarmes and Reacher’s
strength, was twisted in back of him. With a single chop of his left hand, the
King rendered Ferrian unconscious. Calmly taking the symbolic horsehair quirt
from the belt of his prostrate foe, Reacher slipped its thong onto his own
wrist.

“I’m glad that he
wasn’t forced to kill the fellow,” Su-Suru said.

That evening
there was feasting, revelry and the sharing of Faith Cups in Su-Suru’s tent,
though the celebratory atmosphere was due more to the time of tribal assemblage
than Reacher’s victory.

When told of
Yardiff Bey’s intentions toward the High Ranges and Freegate’s decision to
fight, the sub-chieftains had voted unanimously to make common cause against
Bey. The complots of Shardishku-Salamá were hated even at the farthest corners
of the steppes.

At the
Wolf-Brother’s insistence, Ferrian sat at his side during dinner as both were
attended to by the six dancing girls from the afternoon’s entertainment. Though
the deposed Champion made a virtuous show of forgotten enmity and good
sportsmanship in approved Horseblooded manner, he became silent and made to
leave the fete early. But before he left Reacher stood and said to the crowd,
“This man whom I fought today is as strong of arm, wise in thought and gentle
and brave in spirit as any I could wish for a comrade. For this reason, as I
must depart soon, I designate him Champion once more in my absence. Let any who
dispute him be prepared to meet me in the most earnest combat.”

This won
approval and clapping from the crowd, and was declared a thing worthy of a Horseblooded.

Typically, the
party became louder as time wore one. The three wolves sat near, consuming
large amounts of raw meat and glancing about with burning, slitted eyes.