"Adams, Robert - Horseclans 02 - Swords of the Horseclans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Robert)

"Lord Milo," spoke Mai, "I have ordered Lord Demetrios' pavilion pitched on that low hill between the camp and the river. It's an exposed position, true, but it will be well guarded. Besides, King Zenos struck me as a man of his word. I don't think he'd allow an attack without formally notifying us of the cessation of the truce."

"That was very thoughtful, Captain." Milo smiled. "I'd frankly given my quarters no thought, and the only baggage we brought was two packmules, the bulk of our effects being with the main army. What think you, gentlemen? Will we be needing the army? Will Zenos fight again"

Guhsz Helluh said slowly, "He's a brave man, Lord Milo, a determined man, and I doubt me not were it up only to him he'd resist to the last drop of his blood. But fully sixty percent of his ragtag army was killed or wounded the day before yesterday. I think he'll husband what he has left to build a new army around."

"Now I'll pose another question, gentlemen." Milo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Captain Mai has sketched the rough outline of your three ambushes, the skirmish at the bridge, and the full-scale battle beyond it. For all five actions, what were your losses? Captain Helluh, how many killed and wounded in your pikemen's ranks?"

Helluh hissed through his gapped teeth. "Too many, my lord. There'll be many a red eye in Kweebai, and no mistake. One hundred sixteen were slain, two hundred thirty wounded. That's as of sundown tonight, of course. More of the wounded will certainly die." "Captain Zarameenos?"

The dark-haired Ehleenoee rumbled from his massive chest, "I mean not to make excuses, Lord Milo, but the army was just too tired to fight well, men and horses alike."

Milo nodded. "There will be no recriminations, gentlemen. All conditions considered, you and your men performed a near miracle. But, back to your casualties, Cap tain Zarameenos."

The big officer nodded briskly, his black spikebeard bobbing. "I marched out of Kehnooryos Ehlahs with four thousand men; as of sundown tonight I had three thousand twenty-two effectives, six hundred forty-nine wounded, and three hundred twenty-nine are dead."

Mai had lost about a fifth of his squadron, he reported. Maklaud, whose reddish hair, wiry body, and vulpine face had combined to give him his nickname of "Foxy," gave the Horseclans salute and said, "God-Milo, give us Horseclansmen steel armor and these big horses and we're damned hard to kill! I loat ninety men from six clans, all gone to Wind, no wounded who can't ride and fight."

Milo grinned. "Who'll collect the bounty on your ear, Foxy?"

The other three captains roared and Aldora managed a tired smile. Maklaud reached up to touch the bandages covering what was left of his left ear. "I didn't even know it was gone until after the big fight. It must have happened at the bridge. My helmet took a blow meant for Old Thunder, here," he said, digging a sharp elbow into Zarameenos' ribs, "and the bastard's sword stuck. I couldn't see the Maklaud of Maklaud riding around Kar-aleenos wearing a sword on his head, so I backed out of line long enough to doff them both—helm and sword. But I'd gotten another helm off one of Zenos' expired officers before the big fight."

Milo leaned forward. "Wait a minute! All four of you were in on the skirmish at the bridge." He was answered by four nods.

Milo slammed one big fist against his thigh. "Well, that ass! He could have lost every senior officer in his so-called command. Thirty-six years of campaigning haven't taught my esteemed co-regent a thing!"

Aldora sighed resignedly. "I could have told you that, Milo. Demetrios never learns anything he doesn't want to learn. Sun knows, I hope he's dead!"

Milo, Aldora, and their bodyguards sat with the four captains on the mossy northern bank of the Lumbuh River. A few paces to their rear the tethered horses contentedly cropped grass, all shaded by the huge, ancient trees. In the river, several large rafts had been lashed to the bridge supports and, from them, divers were scouring the muddy bottom of the river. No one was sure exactly where Demetrios had left the bridge, since a good portion of the railing had been torn loose later in the fight and a good many horses and riders had plunged into the river. Therefore, the divers worked from the center toward the south bank.

While the captains chatted and the bodyguards diced and Aldora stared broodingly at the waters of the river, Milo pondered. Should he send word to the main army to march, despite the danger from the west? If that shaky alliance of mountain tribes should attack while most of the army was fourteen days' march away . . . hmmm, it would be bad. On the other hand, should young Zenos be allowed to form another army and cement his present bonds with the Southern Kingdom ... maybe even ally himself with the Sea-Lord and his pirates? It might be best to scotch this Zenos while we've the opportunity. And it shouldn't be all that difficult—not now, not after the drubbing he took the other day.

His eyes closed as he mused, Milo was unaware of the approach of Halfbreed until the cat's chin was resting on his armored thigh. He scratched the furry ears, eliciting a deep sigh of contentment.

Though a great-grandson of mighty Horsekiller, the cat-chief who had led his clan to this land, he had been gotten on a tree cat that had been caught as a kitten and tamed by Aldora; therefore, he was less than two-thirds the bulk of an adult prairie cat. Some seven feet overall, Halfbreed was slender and wiry, his cuspids were only slightly longer than had been his mother's—nowhere near the size of a prairie cat's massive fangs—and his fur was short and uniformly pale brown. Because of his distinct resemblance to his wild cousins, Halfbreed was a very useful scout.

Scanning Milo's surface thoughts, the cat mindspoke a question. "If you mean to fight, God-Milo, should not Halfbreed take a look at the Ehleenee army?"

Milo sighed. "I wish you could, cat-brother. But this river is a natural line of defense. It is wide and deep and there are no fords for many miles. This bridge is the only way across and you could never traverse it unseen ... not in daylight, anyway—perhaps tonight, if there is no moon or a storm. But wait for my word."

One of Captain Mai's officers came galloping the length of the bridge, ironshod hooves striking sparks. Before his mount had fully halted, the rider was out of his saddle and saluting his captain.

"Sir, a herald from the camp of King Zenos is at the middle of the bridge. He begs audience with High-Lord Milo and High-Lady Aldora. He is alone and bears only sword and dirk. Besides, I don't think he'd be very dangerous; he's wounded."

When, at length, the officer returned, he rode stirrup to stirrup with a freckle-faced young man in the uniform of Zenos' bodyguards. The wicked tip had been removed from his lance and a square of lustrous, creamy silk fluttered at the apex of the long ash shaft. Nothing could be seen of his hair, since above the browline his head was swathed in bandages, but his sweeping mustache and pointed beard were brick-red. His bandaged left hand appeared to be shy a couple of fingers; nonetheless, he handled his reins skillfully and sat his big gray horse with the unconscious ease of the born horseman.

Milo tried a quick scan of the herald's surface thoughts, finding them as open and friendly as the merry green eyes. But there were other thoughts, too, and had been since first the freckled one had clapped eyes on Aldora. A glance at her showed Milo that she had read those thoughts as well. The trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

The herald thrust the ferrule of his lanceshaft into the loam, dismounted gracefully, and strode to stand before Milo. He first bowed, then executed an elaborate salute. At closer range, Milo was aware of the copious perspiration coursing down the freckled face, the clenched teeth, and bunched muscles of the jaw.