The Patrimony (24 page)

And all the way, the lady’s strident voice rang and echoed from behind, bidding them have care with the lamps lest they set fire to the hall, bidding them on pain of direst consequences to leave no soot marks on walls or ceiling, bidding them exercise strictest caution that their weapons and equipment not chip stone or scar wood. Ahreestos soon became unclear in his own mind whether the true enemy lay ahead or behind and was thinking how much pleasure it would give him to still the fat, yapping bitch with a dirk in the gullet

At the right-angle turn where the runnel from the central section of the hall intersected that which ran the length of the south wing, there were three stone steps up to a yard-square landing, then three more to the level of the slightly higher main building. Just as the sergeant ascended to this landing, a warrior in an almost complete suit of plate descended from the blackness to cut the noncom down with a single, powerful stroke of a basket-hilted broadsword.

The second man had sheathed his sword to better manage the heavy, clumsy brass lamp, and he was given no time to draw it. The third man, pressed irresistibly on by the pressure of Ahreestos and those behind the captain, squealed like a pig at slaughtering time and never even tried to raise his sword to parry the blow that struck between the lower rim of his old-fashioned helm and his scale shirt and cleanly severed his dirty neck. The spouting, gory geysers took Ahreestos full in the face, through the bars of his visor.

Hampered by the twitching, jerking bodies beneath his feet and half-blinded by the stinging, salt blood, the veteran soldier still managed to turn two or three jarring, bone-numbing blows of that dripping, deadly sword with adroit handling of his own. Then his inferior steel snapped and he had a brief moment to stare in stunned wonderment at the scant foot of blade left below his hilt, before all the stars of heaven exploded in his head and he suddenly dropped into a bottomless pit of black nothingness.

By planting himself firmly and loudly shouting that the captain was down, the next man managed to prevent himself being pushed within range of that armored apparition and its death-dealing yard of steel. As fast as they might, but still far too slowly for the foremost men, the long line backed down the tunnel, the last one dragging the inert form of Captain Ahreestos.

In the
thoheeks
suite, Tim laid his blood-streaked sword aside and lifted off the helm after Giliahna’s deft, sure fingers had unbuckled it Accepting a damp cloth, he rubbed his sweaty face and hairless scalp, then gratefully drained off the big tankard of beer proffered by Sir Geros.

At length, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “They’re In retreat now, back up the passage, but young Tcharlee is out there watching lest they return. I downed four of the bastards. Three were clean kills, but the last man was in three-quarter plate and knew a bit more than the basic rudiments of swordplay. At best, I only wounded him, possibly just stunned him. Most of them are no soldiers, just an armed rabble. Is there any more of that beer, Sir Geros?”

By the time they got Captain Ahreestos back into the suite where the lady and her folk waited and got his helmet off, he was beginning to regain consciousness. He felt kitten-weak, shaky and with trickles of his own blood from nose, ears and mouth corners freshening the partly clotted gore that had sprayed through the front of his helm from the spurting arteries of the decapitated man.

“Captain Ahreestos! God curse you, you craven cur dog, answer me!” The lady bent as far forward as her girth would permit and slapped the man’s ashen cheeks smartly, heedless that the stones and settings of her many rings tore his flesh. But her shouts and buffets elicited only a wordless mumbling, and, when she grabbed a handful of his sweaty, black hair and raised his streaked face, his bloodshot eyes rolled, unfocused, and a fresh rivulet of blood coursed from one ear.

She had the unfortunate captain raised to his feet, but, immediately the two bravos released their holds upon him, he collapsed bonelessly and fell to the floor in a great crash and clashing of his armor.

Without turning, Mehleena snapped her pudgy fingers. “Ghrahgos, Broonos, drag this piece of useless filth out into the corridor where his bleeding can’t damage anything. Lootzeea, fetch water and cloths that I may wash his dirtiness from my hands. Tonos, get the blood cleaned off this carpet Quickly, before it dries.”

While a serving girl carefully washed Mehleena’s extended hands, she ordered Ahreestos’ last living sergeant forward, snapping, “All right, you lowborn ape, what happened up there? There can be no more than a score or less including women, in that main section. So how is it that thirty big, brave men, who’ve lived high on my bounty for months, come scuttling back into this suite with their tails beween their legs? You are all armed and armored at my expense and I was assured that all of you knew how to fight.”

“L… lady,” the fidgeting sergeant, one Limos, stuttered, “the passage in there… it’s so narrow thet cain’t but one man at the time go ‘long it an’ it’s no room to use a axe nor sword properlike. But them what kilt poor Ehmnos and them other boys was in full plate armor and more’n a foot higher’n us an’ in a higher’n wider place an’ thet give ‘em more room to fight right. It ain’t no room to carry targets in there, lady, so mens what hain’t in full plate or dang close to it won’t live no longern it takes’t’…”

“Never mind your stupid opinion, you stinking guttersnipe!” she snapped impatiently, then turned to her sons and the other two plate-armored men. “Myron, you and Xeelos take fifteen of these brave patriots, go downstairs, back into the rear half of this wing, then come up the rear stairs and enter the tunnel from some point beyond the T. May God damn Hwahltuh Sanderz for so ridiculously compartmenting the various sections of this hall; were it built along sane, logical Ehleen lines, this task of ours would be far easier to accomplish.

“Speeros”—this, to her second-eldest son, at fifteen as tall as his elder brother, but though big-boned not yet filled out—”you and Mailos will lead the rest of this craven pack back from this suite whenever Myron and Xeelos are in position. Your arrival and theirs should be simultaneous, if possible.”

“But, mother,” Myron replied hurriedly, “should we not wait until… until the other two companies arrive from the villages? The heathen cannot get out of the hall. All the exits are either blocked or guarded, and only two horses are left in the hall stables. If we had more men we… we could attack this way and batter the doors at the same time.”

Mehleena’s layers of fat rippled as she shrugged. “What do we need more careless, dirty men in my hall for? They’d track dirt and damage furniture. No, the place for the rest of them, when at last they straggle in, is upon the walls; don’t forget, the rest of your pagan kin could ride up at any time. “Now draw your sword, Myron, take these men down and around and show us all what you’re made of.” She patted the swell of his breastplate, on which was painted a black-rimmed white circle with, at the center, the cross—ancient symbol of their ancient religion—rendered in reddish violet

“Strike for the True God and the True Faith, Myron, my son. Strike for me, for your sisters and brothers in Christ and for the rebirth of the ancient glories of our blessed race. And if you fall, know that your sufferings will be but brief and that through the rest of eternity you will dwell with our Holy Savior in Paradise.”

“But… but, Mother,” quavered Myron, his voice breaking, his face as pale as that of wounded Captain Ahreestos, now lying unattended in the hallway. “I… I’m to be… to be the
chief
. The chief must not… must never be placed in danger. Speeros will be
tahneestos
, it is
his
place to lead in war, not mine… never
mine!
Please, Mother… what if they… they
kill
me?” Myron’s full lips trembled on the last words and a tear crept downward on either side of his aquiline nose. All at once, the big man seemed to shrink upon himself and he whimpered in almost a whisper, “Mother… please, Mother… please don’t make me go.” Mehleena shuddered and her eyes looked fit to burst from their sockets. Throwing back her head she emitted a scream of pure rage that could be heard even in the sealed-off and besieged central portion of the hall. Raising her thick, jig-gling-fleshed arms high above her head, she shook both small fists at the ceiling and shouted.

“Why, God, why? Why did You in Your infinite wisdom see fit to immure my man’s soul in this hateful woman’s body? Despite Your lifelong sentence of torment, have I not always striven to serve You well? Why then was it needful to further torment me by giving me for a son this pitiful coward? Why, oh, God I have served and honored my life long? Why?
Why
?
Why
?
Why
?”

Recognizing the too familiar signs, most of the servants rapidly and silently quit the chamber, the suite and close proximity to their infuriated mistress. Tonos and a few of the more courageous and/or agile servitors lingered in the foyer, but even they made certain of a clear line of retreat. Speeros, Xeelos and Mailos were among this smaller group.

To their sorrow, the score and a half of bravos clustered close about had never seen Mehleena Sanderz in one of her murderous tantrums and were completely unprepared when she suddenly whirled, wrenched an iron-shafted horseman’s axe from a nearby bravo and commenced to lay about her, concentrating upon the steel-clad body of Myron, her sobbing, shaking son, but careless of who or what the blade or shaft or knife-edged terminal spike encountered in its travels.

All the while, the blubbery woman screamed and ranted and raved. Half her utterances were incomprehensible, the other half damned first Myron, then every man in the suite, then every man in the hall, then every man in the duchy and, at last, every man on earth.

One of the bravos was down with his brains gushed out on the precious carpet and two others were badly hurt before the remainder of the thirty became one kicking, clawing, shouting mass as each strove to be first through the door. Myron, though his fine plates were battered somewhat and his chin had been cut by the tip of the terminal spike, was so far lost in his blue funk that he still stood unmoving. And his immobility saved him, for the ravening beast now possessing his mother was drawn to moving prey—the broil of panicky, struggling bravos—and she spun and waddled closer, still gripping the bloody axe in both hands.

Gone too far from sanity for words, only hisses, spittle and snarls of bestial fury came from between her skinned-back lips and bared, gnashing teeth. She beat on helmeted heads, stove in ribs and shattered shoulders through scale shirts and mail, hacked deeply and sauguineously into unprotected legs and arms and the occasional neck.

At length, one bravo—his lifelong respect for and fear of the nobility submerged in the agony of a deep thigh wound, terror for his threatened life and cornered-rat ferocity— turned about, drew his antique Ehleen shortsword and drove its leaf-shaped blade into Mehleena’s flopping left breast to the very crossguard, even as the last swing of her axe smashed the spine of the man behind.

At the same moment Mehleena was decimating her own ragtag little army, Uhlos, the wine steward, now commanding the walls, was notified by a tower sentinel of a cloud of dust rapidly approaching from the direction of the west hall village. Jumping to the sadly erroneous conclusion that said dust cloud heralded the arrival of the expected company of Captain Deemos, Uhlos set his few men to the laborious tasks of lowering the drawbridge spanning the twenty-foot width of the deep ditch fronting the hall, raising the oak-and-iron grille that served to protect the outer gate from rams, then unbarring and swinging wide both the outer and inner gates.

These lowerings and raisings and openings took much time and effort for the undermanned, inexperienced contingent to accomplish, and by the time Uhlos became aware of his fatal error, it would have been too late to even attempt to reclose the approaches to the hall. Far too late even had not he and the few survivors of his force been cowering in the low, central tower, while the rest of the unarmored men lay still or feebly twitching on the wall walk, with bright-feathered arrows jutting from various portions of their anatomies.

While their retainers went about retrieving
their
arrows and such weapons as were on or about the fallen, then shoving dead and dying alike through the crenels to thump onto the bottom of the boulder-strewn ditch forty feet down, the nobles got quick and complete answers to all their questions from the pale and trembling wine steward, Uhlos.

When they had returned to the main courtyard below, Tahm Adaimyuhn stepped to his horse long enough to unstrap a case containing his silver-mounted throwingstick and six Ahrmehnee darts—short, heavy and infamous. He tightened the carrystrap over his armor and baldric so that they jutted in easy reach over his left shoulder.

As he returned to his three peers,
Komees
Dik was saying, “Well, to put it all in a walnutshell, Tim and the loyal folk hold the central portion of the hall, that bastard didn’t know how many levels and neither do we; the Ehleen bitch and her whelps, most of the servants and one company of those ruffian-soldiers hold the rest of the hall; but we hold the walls and this courtyard and those murdering rebel dogs don’t know that fact yet

“So there’s one company in the hall, one feeding the crows back up the road yonder and one unaccounted for. Now it’s a pretty fair bet that the other company wont have engines or rams, but let’s play it safe and raise that bridge. If we do that and place guards on the posterns, the dung-spawned rebels will be rats in a pit and we, my lads, will be the terriers. Too bad none of us is much good at farspeak, for I know good old Sir Geros will regret missing the fun.”

Leaving a dozen men to man the walls and guard the small rear gates, the four gentlemen clanked into the south wing at the head of thirty-two fighters. The intaking was ferocious, brutal and quickly done. No quarter was expected or proffered, but at
Komees
Dik’s express command, Speeros Sanderz and his two maternal cousins. Xeelos and Mailos, were taken alive—battered but alive. So, too, were the younger, prettier Ehleen serving women—at no one’s command, rather by an unvoiced but general agreement Mehleena’s younger children were in the north, wing and were not found until long after the heat of blood lust had cooled.