The Doomfarers of Coramonde (28 page)

His uncommon
display of wrath silenced them. He resumed in a more sedate voice. “Some of you
have heard how Bey has sent his first sally against us, the dragon Chaffinch,
and how we have slain him and his corpse is rotting near Erub. We have help
from beyond this world, albeit mostly aid of council and thought rather than of
force. Yet it is in my mind that they are the kind of thoughts to turn a country
upside down if they be heeded.

“But mark you
this, all my good lords, Springbuck will yet sit on the throne of Coramonde; of
that I’m sure. Whether you will or not, you must answer to him in that hour,
and if you will attend my reed you will rally to his banner. How say you?”

They frowned in
concentration now, weighing decisions. Roguespur was first to reply. “I, who
once led a Legion of his own, am only the captain of a small company of
mercenaries, now that Strongblade rules. I’m out of favor, yet Strongblade is
friend to my father’s enemies, and that makes his enemy my friend. For what it
may mean, I stand to the Prince.”

Honuin Granite
Oath said, “They bleed us dry and will eventually replace us in the southlands
with their own Court favorites. Better to fight. Take my war vows to
Springbuck.”

The King of
Seaguard was next. “Already have I felt the squeeze of Bey’s grasp, and I think
it will only grow tighter with time. It will not be long ere that damned
spellbinder has the Usurper strangling us with taxes and leeching our trade
blood from our coffers into his. I shall stand by the Heir in whatever he
requires, yet I hope that we may help him and still appear not to, the better
to build our strength for a time yet.”

Balagon said,
“Those who swear allegiance to the Bright Lady also swear to respect the throne
at Earthfast, since the
Ku-Mor-Mai
has ever been our friend. But there
appears to be some doubt here as to who has proper claim to that allegiance in
these strange days, and so the Brotherhood cannot carry its banner to either
camp; we must remain neutral, for the nonce.”

Angorman rubbed
his jaw and squinted at his old rival, speaking next. “The Order of the Axe
will take no side either then, but we will be most attentive to what
transpires, and if we think the commands of the Perfect Mistress warrant it,
you will hear from us.”

But the
emissary said in a level voice and with a hint of condescension, “I will not
hide this from you: I will take to the Prince Who Sails Forever my
recommendation that the Mariners not participate in this strife. As is our
custom, we will trade with whomever comes to the quayside and treat with them,
but our dwelling place is the bosom of the deeps and we are loath to entangle
ourselves and lose Mariner lives in the affrays of landsmen. So will I speak to
the Prince of the Waves.”

Andre heard
them out without comment and absorbed each pronouncement without emotion,
making no attempt to sway dissenters. He thanked them for their attendance and
suggested they all partake of more meat and drink. The mood lightened, but he
took aside each of the three who had declared for the Prince and made plans of
communication with them.

Soon, men
across the face of the Crescent Lands looked to their weapons, and those who’d
seen war before made their peace with their deities.

Sharpen
your lances, see to your shields,

Kiss your
sweet ladies goodbye;

Grim
armies gather to darken the fields,

War-pennants
darken the sky.

Call for
your horses, make fast your spurs,

Take up
your strong panoply;

Fight the
Usurper, now, all my brave Sirs,

To throw
off his yoke, or to die!

See
yonder, Springbuck, son of his sire,

Rightful
his claim to the throne.

Hew to his
cause, with steel and with fire;

Let our
swords make our will known.

High-born
and yeoman, all rally ’round him;

Bring
forth your edges to hone.

Follow now
Springbuck! Our gods have found him

Chosen to
rule. He alone!”

“Stand Up, Ye Loyal Men” (An
anonymous mustering song)

His left
hand is under my head, and his right hand

doth
embrace me.

THE SONG OF SONGS,
Which Is
Solomon’s

SPRINGBUCK and Reacher were
ushered from the camp of the Horseblooded with jubilation on the day after
Reacher’s victory. Hung over as badly as he was, Springbuck didn’t care; the
girls had dressed him, taken him out to where someone had already saddled
Fireheel and helped him mount. Leading a parade of children, adults and dogs,
with the giant wolves pacing them, he and Reacher started off on the long trek
back to Freegate.

They drew away
from their escort after some time and forged ahead together wordlessly. The
wolves stayed at their side for a space, until Reacher raised his hand to
dismiss them. At this signal they sped off eastward. As Springbuck watched them
disappear, his conscience gnawed at him over his spiteful words to the King. He
damned himself doubly, since his remark had probably offended his all-important
cobelligerent. He tried to compose some apologetic phrases, but was
interrupted.

“I could have
used your help last night, ally,” said the Wolf-Brother. “I was outnumbered
four to one. We might have stood backs together and faced them front to front,
if you see my meaning.”

Springbuck was
astounded by the levity almost as much as by the smile that touched the King’s
lips.

“I’m… afraid
I’d have been little help, ally,” he returned. “Those daft girls insisted on
playing drinking games and singing songs before retiring. I don’t know whether
we eventually played more serious games or not. I passed out, I think.”

“It may be that
you were lucky. Men who take many wives are greedy, holding that which they may
never fully possess. If any man is capable of pleasing four dancing girls, I
acknowledge
him
Champion of the Horse-blooded, aye, and of the Howlebeau
and Freegate withal!”

Springbuck
threw his head back and laughed, though it smarted. He removed his war mask and
hung it from his saddle, shaking his aching head in the wind. He still had a
picture band given him by Fahna. It was a beaded ribbon so contrived that, when
one spun it around a finger, little figures replaced each other rapidly so as
to give the illusion of movement—in this case a galloping horse. Since it was
made for a finger on Fahna’s little hand, he must spin it around his least
finger. He tried it once but it threatened to make him ill to focus on it.

He had been
treated to many tales of the Wild Riders who, as it came out, were not nearly
as uncivilized as he had been given to think; they merely had a different way
of looking at things. Eliatim, his late instructor-at-arms, had spoken little
about life on the High Ranges, and the Prince was thankful for this increase in
knowledge.

The difference
lay in the central concern of the Horse-blooded—mobility. They took their
entire culture with them on horseback or in wagons, herding their flocks and
other domesticated animals. Therefore they had evolved no ponderous arts,
avoiding the superfluous. They had, for example, little in the way of
sculpture, since it was impractical to haul statuary around the steppes, so
they became their own. They devoted much attention to their clothing, hair,
jewelry and other ornamentation, including their treasured horses’ trappings.
Women were lavish with cosmetics and tattooing was common for both sexes.

Their music was
made with easily transportable instruments, but still relied heavily on
clapping, stamping, whistling and complex and imaginative blendings of human
voices. Because the evening before had been one of revelry, many musicians had
become drunk or tired and at last there had been only one man with a drum to
provide diversion, an uninspiring situation for the Horse-blooded. The drummer
therefore set one beat, which those around him took up by beating on their
chests or thighs as they sat cross-legged on carpet and cushion. He then set
another, which some women copied by snapping their fingers and beating dagger
pommels on drinking gourds; at last he began a third himself. Springbuck had
found this to be marvelous fun in comparison with merely watching, and slapped
his hands against his chest with a will, rocking in time.

Again, the
Horseblooded had few paintings, as such. They incorporated their imagery into
their artifacts, such as the picture band. Every tapestry, cushion, scarf,
saddle and carpet was illuminated with scenes depicting the life of a people
forever moving. All leather was studded or tooled in some decorative fashion.
All metal, it seemed, was engraved or wrought to transform functional objects
into a portable, enduring art. All wood was carven, painted, or both.

Interestingly
enough, women appeared to hold a place equal to men by dint of their
responsibility as home-keepers, artists, child-bearers and at times as hunters
and fighters. Their voices were of equal weight in councils and they had their
own leaders, whose words were carefully heard by the Hetman and the Champion or
risk the would-be unthinkable; ignoring them might lead to rifts or dissolution
of the tribe. Springbuck had found that entertainers were as likely to be men
as women, and a mixed group was the most popular of all.

At the center
of life was the horse, symbol of life in this nomadic culture, an animal of
religious significance and more. “Horse,” in their language, meant literally
“hoofed man”—or “woman,” according to gender—a member of a species coequal with
the human race. If these surprisingly atheological nomads had anything
approaching a god, it was the creature who made their existence possible and
raised them above the level of the animals they herded and hunted. The rules
and etiquette surrounding the care, handling and disposition of their
four-footed kinsmen was the single most important body of knowledge the
Horseblooded had. It was drilled into the young of both sexes as soon as they
were old enough to understand, and carried penalties which were inflexibly
enforced. One of their favorite romantic tragedies culminated with the heroine
slaying her lover, who’d run their tribe’s premier breeding stallion to death
to save her life. None of the Wild Riders wore spurs, and quirts were solely
ornaments of office. It was, among them, a grave slur to call a man a
“foot-plodder,” or to say,
“She
is worthy only to
walk.”

They crossed
the illimitable High Ranges toward Freegate, and a growing sense of loneliness
descended on the Prince, composed of hours spent thinking about his father and
anticipating reunion with Gabrielle. The steppes, so pleasant on the outward
trip, were becoming oppressive.

Without further
major event, they reclaimed Reacher’s horse at the outpost and made their way back
to the lowlands. But two days’ travel from the city, after avoiding the towns
and settlements at Reacher’s request, they took to the main road again. The
King, relaxed and at peace in the wilds, was increasingly tense as they passed
through concentrations of people, while the Prince became more at ease.

They were met
by a troop of household cavalry whose officer made obeisance to his King. “Your
Majesty, how propitious the fate that has us met here when I thought I’d have
to scour the High Ranges for you! Yesterday a day saw a large body of
Coramondian soldiery move down out of the Keel of Heaven toward the city. At
first we girded for fighting, thinking this the first thrust from the west, but
the Legion-Marshal who commands them came to parley with Her Radiance, your
sister. The Marshal has defected with loyal troops and rallied to the Prince,
saying that he is brother to the widow of the slain Duke Hightower.”

“Bonesteel!”
cried the Prince. “Legion-Marshal Bonesteel! I knew he’d remain true, Reacher.
The finest general in the world! Oh, not a lusty brawler himself, but the
superlative strategist and tactician, writer of textbooks, philosopher of
battle. We need him sorely. Not surprising his men should hew to him. Come,
Reacher, I must see him.”

Pushing selves
and mounts, they were at Freegate’s outskirts the next afternoon and found a
vast cantonment set up. The sentries were of the Legions of the southwest and
didn’t recognize the Prince, but they summoned their officer, who prostrated
himself before Springbuck. Reacher released his men to return to Katya with
word of his arrival, and the two were taken to Bonesteel’s tent.

They found the
old veteran bent over a broad table, maps spread out across it and
order-of-battle charts in his lean hand. Skinny, white-haired and half a head
shorter than Springbuck, he yet had dignity and probity apparent to anyone who
met him. He wore no military apparel, but rather a simple robe which exposed
his hairless chest. On seeing Springbuck, he dropped his notes with a glad cry
and threw himself—but stiffly—down on one knee, kissing the Prince’s scarred
right fist. Affection welled up in the younger man’s heart for this faithful
family friend.

“Your Grace,”
said Bonesteel, “I have come to place myself and my men at your disposal, and
give what scant aid I may in reclaiming the throne which is yours by rights.
And every inch the
Ku-Mor-Mai
you look! It is a year since I last saw
you, and I see that you are older than your years already. I observe that you
have passed through strange places and violence, and there is in your eye a
light which belongs in the gaze of a Protector Suzerain but is new in you. The
vocation of arms has left new marks upon you, and I rejoice that the blood of
Sharplance himself has been refreshed in you.”