A Cat Of Silvery Hue (5 page)

Features contorted, body and limbs jerking, twitching, the
vahrohnos
stumbled back into the foyer, then crashed back full-length upon the floor, sprawled across a mosaic representing the Red Eagle of Morguhn. Abruptly, his eyes rolled back and consciousness left him.

The shock mirrored on the faces of servants and bodyguards alike, as they rushed to the assistance of their swooning master, answered Drehkos’ unspoken query; such paroxysms must never before have occurred during their service to
Vahrohnos
Myros.

But, as he had earlier this morning, he immediately took command, snapping, “Don’t put him to bed, get him on a horse litter. We’re leaving Morguhnpolis as soon as the Vawnee rearguard gets here!”

The guard captain looked up from where he squatted at the
Vahrohnos’
head. “But I only have thirty men, Lord Drehkos, and some of them are wounded, and that’s not enough to fight our way through that scum in the streets—not and protect Lord Myros, too. Besides, it was his order that we remain and defend the city.”

Drehkos snorted disparagingly. “And a piss-poor order
that
was, my good Gahlos. This city is a deathtrap. It can’t be defended, and the esteemed Myros should have known as much, considering his training and experience. As for the dear citizens, captain, if they are properly handled, they’ll pose no threat to us. Indeed, they may even be of help to us.”

The tunnel was old, very old. So ancient was it that no living man had been aware of its existence a year before. Its rediscovery had been accidental, Myros having secretly commissioned workmen to excavate just such a passage, as well as a clandestine meeting place and armory, below the lowest cellars of the governor’s palace. But when the first heavy stones of the cellar paving had been raised, it had been discovered that under them was not the expected earth and clay, but, rather, tightly packed rubble. When cleared, the find proved to be an oval, high-ceilinged chamber, walled and columned and paved with finely worked stone, boasting two wide staircases and a long, gradual ramp leading upward, requiring only removal of certain areas of pavement to provide easy access to the subcellar by man or beast.

Examination and careful measurement established the subcellar to be even larger than the palace above it. And in the center of the north wall was plain evidence of a sealed opening—unmatched stones of inferior workmanship spanning a width of two
metrobee
and a height of nearly three.

The passage far exceeded any of Myros’ expectations, being stone-walled and cobbled for most of its length. It was wide enough to accommodate a warcart or two horses abreast and exited in a long-abandoned quarry a quarter-mile beyond the north wall of the city. Myros had had entrance and exit carefully recamouflaged and seen to it that only nobles, officers and priests were apprised of where and how to find it Nor was Myros worried that his workmen might betray the secret—since he had had his bodyguards murder them all.

At Drehkos’ direction, Captain Gahlos used the heliograph mounted on the palace roof to signal the immediate unbarring and opening of the south and west gates. The message continued with an order for all guards to report to the governor’s palace as soon as the mob was out and the gates again closed and secured.

While carefully rehooding the device, Gahlos asked, “Please, my lord, I don’t understand. We unbar the gates and let the rabble flee, then re-bar them on what will soon be an empty city?”

Drehkos chuckled good-naturedly. “And you can’t comprehend, eh, Gahlos? Well, look you, you’ve seen the sleight-of-hand practiced by the traveling tricksters? Seen them make a host of meaningless gestures to mask the one, practiced movement which causes coins or objects to suddenly and mysteriously disappear or reappear?”

Gahlos nodded hesitantly. “Yes, my lord, but—”

Drehkos continued. “And I am essaying a similar feat of legerdemain, and, Gahlos, let us pray that it succeeds. You see, we can’t fight, cant defend Morguhnpolis against the forces now approaching it, and no noble or officer or priest in his right mind should allow—should even dream of allowing—Bili Morguhn to take him alive, so our only hope is to flee.

“But we can only mount half our men, and I’ll be damned if I’ll leave any one of them to the ‘tender mercies’ of the Morguhns, so we couldn’t move too fast, even were we not burdened with Lord Myros. And our pursuers are all cavalry; they’ll be moving faster than we can.”

“However, Gahlos, they’ll think Myros still commands and, knowing his obsession for this city, they’ll be certain he’ll try to hold it. Of course, none of them knows about our bolt hole down below, so let us pray that when they find the gates barred from within, even with no men visible on the walls, they’ll be sufficiently wary of a trap to halt and regroup and possibly bring up or make scaling ladders—anything, any reason that will delay them long enough for us to put some distance between us and them.”

Gahlos nodded again, but firmly this time. “So you freed the mob that they might not open the gates or give the trick away.”

“Partially, captain, partially,” Drehkos agreed, adding, “but also because fleeing along the south and west roads, they force the goddam Morguhns to split their forces, since both roads lead to Vawn, and when they’ve discovered we’re not in Morguhnpolis, they’ll surely know that we’re bound for Vawn.”

“Hmmmn.” Understanding flickered in the captain’s eyes. “But we’ll not be on either road, then, my lord?”

“Exactly, Gahlos. We’ll hie us out due west from the quarry, crosscountry. We’ll cross the river at Bloody Ford, strike the Old Trace up through Raider Gap, then angle southward into Vawn. It will certainly take longer, perhaps two or three days, but if it saves our necks, none can say it wasn’t worth the effort, eh?”

Astride a big, red-chestnut mare—the finest animal he had ever been allowed to ride—Geros Lahvoheetos trotted beside Staisee Ehlyuht,
prehsvootehros
of the squadron of Confederation lancers, some hundred of whom were marching in the wake of
Thoheeks
Bili and his party. Gero’s scaleshirt was heavy and hot and devilishly uncomfortable, the weight of the saber on his baldric made it difficult to keep his shoulders squared—as he felt the warrior everyone now thought him to be should ride—and, if push came to shove, he had no idea of how he would control the mare, what with seven feet of wolfspear in his right hand and an iron-rimmed target strapped to his bridle arm. But for all the discomforts, he would not have been in other circumstances or another place than this.

Since the night of the bridge fight when, in a panic of fear, he—Geros the valet, who knew as much of weapons and warfare as a turtle knew of flying—had
accidentally
lanced one rebel and cut the throat of a second while his mule trampled down a third, he had been living in the very lap of his former fantasies. With his young master, the
Vahrohneeskos
Ahndros, kept unconscious by the arts of Master Ahlee, the physician, there was no one to betray him, to reveal the sad truth that he had never been aught save a body servant and musician, who had always privately considered himself to be a coward.

But here he rode, booted, armored and helmeted, with shield and spear, saber and dirk, bestriding a well-bred and trained warhorse, whose even, distance-eating strides were bearing him toward yet another combat—his third, now. And he was frightened, every bit as frightened as he had been at the first, that night on the lonely, moon-dappled road. But, now, he would die ere he would allow that fear to surface, to show its shamefulness to this affable young officer and his troopers, all of whom had immediately and naturally accepted him as a warrior like themselves.

Old
Komees
Djeen, himself, had commended him to the light-cavalry commander, resting his handless, armored arm over the valet’s shoulders and saying, “My comrade, Geros, knows that road better than most, having right often ridden it in the service of his employer, poor young Ahndee. He’ll make you a good guide and,” he chuckled good-naturedly, “a right good lance to add to your troop, too.”

Chuckling again, he squeezed Geros with his hooked arm, continuing, “Just don’t let Geros’ gentle speech and modest manner delude you as it did me. He’s a stark warrior, is our Geros. Why not too many days agone, he rode off alone, armed with only a boar spear, and fought his way back to Horse Hall to fetch aid for his master and the High Lord and the
thoheeks
! Rode in with that spear all blood from tip to ferrule! But, by Sun and Wind, no sooner was he rearmed and remounted than he rode back out with the rest of us to have at the damned rebels again!

“And have at them, he did,
Prehsvootehros
Ehlyuht!”

There, in the hot, sun-drenched courtyard of Morguhn Hall, in an eyewink of time, Geros relived the darkness, confusion and icy-cold crawling fear. After a few volleys of arrows,
Komees
Djeen’s column had poured across that blood-slimy, corpse-cobbled bridge, hurdling the windrow of mutilated men and hacked horses which marked the spot where
Vahrohneeskos
Ahndros and
Thoheeks
Bili and the High Lord had made their stand. Then it was into the inky tunnel between the trees, hot on the heels of the routed rebels.

It was a good hunter they had put Geros upon, strong, leggy and fresh, not already ridden several leagues during the preceding day, like the mounts of the
Komees
and his Freefighters. Consequently, Geros shortly found himself to be the unintended point of the column, and so was the first to come up with the enemy.

As Geros pounded up behind, a rebel halted and turned his lathered mount, an errant sliver of moonlight silvering the length of his bared swordblade. Heedless of who heard his whines of terror, Geros extended his fresh spear, hoping against hope to fend off his opponent long enough for those behind to come up and succor him. Crouching low in his saddle, plastered to the galloping hunter’s neck and mouthing childhood prayers, he fully expected to feel at any moment the agony of steel in his quaking flesh.

But what he felt, when feel he did, was a shock which almost unhorsed him. Forgetting once again, as he had in the brief melee on the road to Horse Hall, that his “staff” bore a wide, knife-edged, needle-tipped blade on the end, he was mightily surprised when a bone-chilling scream interrupted his gasped prayers, at the same moment that an unbearable weight seemed determined to either wrench the spear from his grasp or his shoulder from its socket!

Releasing the shaft, he galloped on, still wincing and cringing from the swordcut that was certainly coming…but unaccountably failed to arrive. Feeling terribly defenseless without something in his hand, he fumbled for, found and finally drew the saber they had hung on him—no mean feat, at a full, jarring gallop. And it was as well that he did, for as the hunter rounded a turn and effortlessly cleared the dead bodies of two men and a horse, Geros was horrified to see two more riders only bare yards ahead.

Because the valet had but marginal mindspeak—telepathic ability which those better endowed used to communicate with their horses—his mount had been equipped with a bitted bridle. But that bit was now firmly between the hunter’s teeth and no amount of tugging on the rider’s part could diminish the speed which was relentlessly narrowing the gap betwixt the terror-stricken valet and two men he knew to be armed and highly dangerous.

At the last moment, the trailing rider half-turned in his saddle and commenced to fumble for the hilt of his broadsword. They had come into an open area, and in the bright moonlight Geros could see the fully armored man’s white teeth bared in a snarl of rage, could even see the droplets of sweat glistening at the tips of his double-pointed chinbeard, could see the feral fire of hate glinting in the black eyes which blinked constantly against the trickles of blood from some wound hidden under the helm. And he knew as certainly as ever he had known anything that if that gauntleted hand found and closed on that hilt, Geros the coward would right speedily become Geros the corpse!

Screaming wordlessly, mindlessly, Geros dropped the useless reins, gripped his saber in both hands and, as he came athwart the rebel, rained a swift succession of unaimed blows upon the armored head and shoulders. Then the racing hunter was past and overhauling the leading horseman, who made no attempt to stand and fight, bending all his efforts to coax more speed from his laboring mount.

Not really knowing what else to do, Geros swung his saber in passing at this man too—still gripping it two-handed, and with the strength of all his quaking apprehensions behind the keen edge. The fleeing rebel wore only a helm and a pikeman’s breastplate, neither of which afforded the least protection against the heavy blade, which severed his spine. The man did not so much as moan, he simply fell forward across his horse’s withers, then slipped from his saddle, dead before his hacked body hit the dust.

At that point, the headstrong hunter elected to leave the roadway, breasting a high, grassy slope, still at the gallop. As the fleet beast cleared the mossy trunk of a long-fallen tree, Geros and his saddle parted company, the soft-looking moon-frosted grass came rushing up at him, and consciousness departed to the clashing of armor upon the hard ground and stones beneath that grass.

He awoke to the splashing of water on his face and sat up to see
Komees
Djeen and most of the Freefighters sitting their horses around him, one of them holding the reins of his run-out hunter.

The
komees
abruptly dismounted and strode over to him, extending his hand to help him arise. Gravely, he said, “I can see that I trained young Ahndee well, for he obviously knows how to choose good men for his service. But Sun and Wind, man, what did you mean to do? Take them all yourself, eh?” Suddenly he showed his yellowed teeth in a grin. “You’re a brave man, Comrade Geros, none here will gainsay me on that score. But you’re hardly fair to the rest of us, taking all the glory for yourself that way!”