The Doomfarers of Coramonde (33 page)

Van Duyn was
already lost in thought along this new avenue. Did communicable diseases
function the same way in this cosmos as in his own?

Gil was
checking out the royal siblings. “How about them?” he asked the scholar. “The
shrimp and the babe in the tough-girl outfit? Can we count on them?”

Van Duyn was
suddenly angry. How to tell this insolent punk of the Princess’s political
expertise? And her fine mind and indomitable spirit? Yes, and her brother’s
courage and prowess, of course. Let him find out for himself!

“I think you’ll
find them quite adequate allies,” he replied frostily, but Gil didn’t miss the
look in his eye when it fell on the Snow Leopardess, or her wink when she
caught the scholar’s gaze. That being the case, the ex-sergeant withdrew his
pity.

Bring down
thunder to the land,

Wrap the
lightning in my hand,

Muster,
angry, eager madmen at my back;

Have us
revel in the din

As the
foeman rushes in;

Joyous
slaughter, laughing havoc, glad attack.

Help me
sever limb and life;

Feed my
swordarm, send me strife;

That I pay
in full my death-demanding debt.

And when
friend and foe lie slain

And I’ve
worked my brother’s bane,

Though I
don’t deserve it, gods! Let me forget!

From “DOOMFARING,”

The Antechamber Ballads

THE next few weeks were devoted
nearly exclusively to preparation for battle and defense. Reports from
Coramonde grew steadily less auspicious as more levvies were brought from the
northwest and southwest, anticipatory of the thrust against the Hightower.
While debate raged in the allied councils on whether or not aid should be sent
to the ill-omened resistance there, Gil decided to avoid involvement in policy
decisions and concentrate on learning to stay alive in this strange style of
warfare.

From Freegate’s
armories he was given a light suit of closely woven metal mesh, wonderfully
supple and protective, but he found it inhibitive and heavy on his shoulders in
particular, where the bulk of the weight settled. Too, he was issued
comfortable cavalryman’s boots. Over his armor, he wore a harness to which he
fastened the Mauser at his right hip and the Browning under his left armpit,
also strapping on his ammo pouches. He kept his trench knife, but presented his
bowie to Springbuck, who’d greatly admired it and, forced by the American to
accept it, immediately tied its sheath to his right thigh.

Gil also
reclaimed the two fragmentation hand grenades—all that had been left aboard
Lobo
after the sortie into the Inferno—from Van Duyn, who’d kept them for him.
He was given a medium-weight sword, a hand-and-a-half bastard blade, and found that
using it wasn’t as easy as it had looked. He got a great deal of help from
cadremen and instructors of the allied armies, but his main coach was the
Prince-Pretender to the Throne of Coramonde, Springbuck. The American spent the
majority of his time at riding and swordsmanship, the former barely sufficient
and the latter nonexistent on his arrival at Freegate. He had no particular
talent in either area; but by dint of sheer determination and practice, he
improved rapidly.

He had good
reflexes and excellent hand-eye coordination, but found he had to work hard to
build strength and endurance. The fighting men of this violent world took great
hardships for granted and considered tremendous exertions part of their
everyday life. They’d spent years fighting and exercising in weighty armor with
bulky weapons, leading extremely active lives. The result was that the average
armsbearer was capable of extraordinary feats of brawn and stamina. The first
time he trailed a crew of veterans over a rude obstacle course in armor, it
began to dawn on Gil that he had a lot of catching up to do. He worked harder,
and they helped him.

His way with a
sword was more the cut-and-hew mode than that of the subtle fencer, but his
confidence grew. His ability with a bow was nothing this side of atrocious. An
archer informed him that it would serve, perhaps, if he could arrange to kill
all his opponents from ambush and them dead drunk. Gil remarked as how that
would be difficult to organize in the midst of battle, to which the archer
agreed dismally.

The American
wasn’t much bothered by this, though, since he expected to use guns in combat
if he had to. To this end he convinced the prowler-cavalrymen he’d met to teach
him to ride as they did in skirmish, reins held in clenched teeth, guiding
their horses with their knees, with hands free to use sword or bow, spear and
shield. He was assigned the use of a horse of his own, a big chestnut, a
seasoned campaigner and well trained to war. Gil immediately dubbed him Jeb
Stuart. It was difficult, and he could afford to use little ammunition in
practice, but he got some of the knack of managing a horse while fighting, and
got Jeb Stuart familiar with the crack of gunfire. Any face he’d lost in early
fumblings was forgotten when he used his pistols in a brief, accomplished
mounted practice.

In return for
Springbuck’s tutoring, Gil taught him some of his own tricks. Not forgetting
how easily the outlander could disable a man with bare hands and feet, the
Prince applied himself to lessons in boxing, karate and other unarmed skills.
He also drilled daily with sword and parrying dagger with the best
masters-of-arms in Freegate, aware that he might yet have to face mighty
Strongblade in single competition.

He and Gil also
rode with the various units of the allied armies as they maneuvered and
exercised, sometimes watching from the commander’s vantage point and at others
riding or running in the thick of the clashes. Springbuck often took command,
demonstrating growing virtuosity. Gil contributed what he knew of applicable
tactics from the history of his own world.

They were soon
true cavalrymen. Their reins bore marks and cuts left by their teeth.

The American
had only marginal time for activities of the Court in the evening, usually
consulting with Legion-Marshal Bonesteel or other major commanders on the
relative merits of this or that innovation, or advising on the doings of the
growing underground in Coramonde. He saw Duskwind, but was unable to speak to her.
She always seemed to be accompanied by this or that male associate, often of
what struck Gil as covetous demeanor, and he had no wish to intrude.

The
Horseblooded had begun to fill the dales set aside for them near the city, and
their massing waxed and grew. Their coming was marked by warm greetings from
the people of Freegate with gifts of food, drink and weapons, and toys and
sweets for their children. They occupied their time with endless competitions.
Primary among these were games on horseback: races, hurdling and other, more
dangerous sport. The Wild Riders were fond of jumping saddles with each other
at full gallop, changing mounts in midair, of straddling two horses at once and
of shooting their bows as they stood in the saddle, or on the back, of a madly
racing horse. There was nothing they wouldn’t do ahorse on a dare, since the
darer was obliged to try it himself.

Gil was enticed
into jumping Jeb Stuart through a flaming hoop, finding it easier than he’d
expected but no less belly-clenching. There were pony-lifting contests,
barrel-lifting contests, wagon-lifting contests and tugs-of-war. Springbuck was
hazed into a drinking sport, of which the Horseblooded had many, wherein he and
his opponent hopped from foot to foot on a table, draining their flagons while
crowing Riders periodically cut at their legs with scimitars. Amazingly, he
won. Thereafter his status with the Horseblooded was high.

The two learned
the uninhibited jigs and frenzied flings danced by the steppesmen. They also
tried their hand at some of the unusual weapons they saw: the atlatl, boomerang
and war quoit—a razor-edged device which, in expert hands, could kill an
unarmored man at eighty paces—and smaller throwing disks that reminded Gil of
shuriken.

The American
felt completely alive. He saw new sights every day; his nostrils were filled
with exotic scents and his ears with novel sounds and conversation. He and the
Prince tried the noropianics and other intoxicants popular with the
Horseblooded. Some brought bizarre dreams and hallucinations, and others simple
euphoria.

One Rider in
particular they noticed, a tall, bony subchieftain named Dunstan, whose eyes
were sunken in dark sockets and made them uneasy. Though his fellows didn’t
actually shun him, they avoided him, despite the fact that he was an excellent
warrior, if melancholy.

It happened
that he was at their side when Gil and Springbuck decided to end a day spent in
hard rehearsal and, bypassing the usual palace fete, try an evening at a public
house that came highly recommended. It struck Gil as impolite to ignore
Dunstan, who’d been listening and contributing to their critiques, so he
extended an invitation and Dunstan accepted. The American was instantly sorry,
for reasons he couldn’t clearly identify, that he’d obeyed his impulse.

They went to
The Excellent Board where, according to information, “the provender’s good and
plentiful and the proprietor’s not as concerned with rank and apparel as with
your wherewithal.”

It was an
auditorium-sized pavilion in the parkland, not yet filled, since many people
were still at their work or some entertainment, of which Freegate offered many.
In various corners trained animals, acrobats and mummers performed; musicians,
jugglers and prestidigitators circulated among the tables. For the first time
the Prince saw a creature called, as Gil told him, a monkey, a sad-faced little
beast with a forlornly human look to its whimsical features. It fascinated him.

No one
recognized them; Springbuck had left his cock-plumed war mask with his horse.
The three spoke slightly, the food deserving their full attention. There were
stuffed fowl, venison and mutton, brook trout and snails, all set off by thick
ale.

Dunstan became
more amiable to the extent that he smiled at one of Gil’s dry remarks. Late in
the meal, when they were doing more drinking than eating, a boisterous party of
twenty or so came in and filled the tables nearest them. The group was composed
mostly of young members of the upper classes, slumming with hangers-on mixed
in. It wasn’t long before a handsome, arrogant boy in gold-trimmed blue silk
noticed them.

“Ho, manager,”
he called out, “perfumes here! Scatter them about that the smell of those
vagabonds yonder will not offend the noses of myself and these, my good
friends, people of quality.” He touched a pomander to his nose theatrically and
the girl next to him sniggered. The others traded conspiratorial grins.

“Do you think,”
another chimed in, “that there are enough scents in all Freegate to expunge
their odor?”

“Hopefully,”
continued the first. “Isn’t it enough that they fill our city with malodorous
foreigners without letting them run unwatched through the streets? Damnation,
they eat our provisions, skulk through our lands and now they spend our own
money crowding us out of our own eating establishments. Is it not infamous? Is
it not absurd? We pay to support shiftless ne’er-do-wells for the sake of
fugitive sproutling Prince’s lust for a Crown.”

The manager was
bustling in their direction with several husky porters, alerted to trouble by
one of the serving girls. Gil knew from experience who, in a row between
civilians and off-duty troops, usually wound up on the fuzzy end of the
lollipop. Not that he, Springbuck and Dunstan would be ejected; when the
Prince’s identity was known, there’d doubtless be grudging apologies all
around. He didn’t feel like letting this presumptuous jerk get off that
lightly.

It had been a
long day, and he was angry that the evening was ruined. So just as the wit was
composing his next gag, the American decided to be undiplomatic and waggled a
finger to get his attention.

Securing it, he
asked, “Didn’t I hear a poem about you in the marketplace today?”

The humorist’s
brows shot up. As he fumbled, nonplussed, for a response, Gil continued
blithely, snapping his fingers in positive recognition. “Sure, I’ve got it now.
Let’s see, it went:

‘He’s the
half-blooded son of a seagoing whore

whose
mother’s feet seldom touched aught but the shore;

For while on
the deeps, of employ she’d no lack

relieving all
hands on the flat of her back.’”

The boy
screamed in wrath and the party, now a mob, surged to its feet to punish this
impudence, women hollering insults and men clapping hands to sword hilts at
this affront to their friend. The humorist’s blade, a long rapier, was half
drawn when Gil caught his hand, immobilizing it, and drove a hard right up to
the solar plexus. Sword forgotten, the other doubled up, giving Gil all the
time in the world to step back and measure off a roundhouse kick. The wit went
down like a Murphy bed and Springbuck leaped up to face the onrushing crowd as
they advanced vengefully toward the American.

The fighting
forms the two used confused the gentry and the porters, who’d joined the
scuffle in an attempt to throw them out. Springbuck and Gil had no wish to draw
swords, but the insults had stung, and if these people wanted to bait strangers
and were messed up in the doing, that was their lookout. Hands and feet, elbows
and knees, the two had their way of the fight at first. In close quarters the
opposition kept crowding and interfering with each other. For a few moments it
was satisfying to pay back the unprovoked abuse and dish out a lesson.