"Adams, Robert - Horseclans 05 - The Savage Mountains 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Robert)

As they came to where two smaller streams joined to form the larger, the knight rejoined Komees Hari, while the two squads trotted back to take places in the column.

"What in Sword was going on?" demanded the old nobleman immediately. "What occasioned those fornicating screams?"

"Just that, my lord, fornication . . . rather, a gang rape," Sir Geros replied grimly. "The squad had caught a girl on the trail leading from the village. She must have been a really beautiful girl, too, for she was still pretty even after all they'd done to her."

"Did they slay her?" inquired the komees idly.

"They would've, my lord, but I forbade such and, recalling what you said of the orders of the High Lord and Duke Bili, I had them leave a pony nearby for her. I should imagine that the tale of a raped wife or daughter would be most effective in persuading men to come back and defend their homes."

Hari chewed at his lower lip. 'True enough, man, true enough. But it might be better to send a man back up there to cut her throat What if she alerts the damned village?"

Geros shook his head to the extent his tight-laced helm would allow. "No need, my lord. She was taken by all twelve of the men, I think, and the sergeant as well. They used her badly, very badly. I doubt me she can even walk, much less mount a pony."

Hari shrugged. "Well, if you say so, lad. And besides, if we can keep up this pace, we'll probably be on the village ere she could get there, anyhow."

For long and long after no more tears would come, Pehroosz lay huddled near the fire, shuddering and sobbing dry sobs. But as the untended fire began to die, the shudders metamorphosed into shivers and the sobs into gasps between chattering teeth. Once, through the hard-packed dirt beneath her, she thought to feel the drumming of many hooves. Sure that the dread sounds heralded the return of her attackers, she huddled her aching body more tightly and whimperingly awaited the unendurable.

When a hairy something touched her and she felt hot, damp breath on her quivering flesh, she tried to scream, but her tight, strained throat emitted only a dull croaking sound. Gathering her courage, she opened her eyes to see what fresh horrors were to be her lot.

Above Pehroosz stood old Zahndrah, most venerable of the Bahrohnyuhn she-goats, her gentle, brown eyes pain-filled, mutely questioning the brutality which had been so unjustly dealt her. All along the nanny's right flank, the hair was crusty and brownish, marking the path of a shallow saber cut.

Raising a shaking hand, Pehroosz caressed the small, neat head between nose and cursive horns. Uttering soft sounds of pleasure, Zahndrah pressed closer, gently nuzzling the familiar-smelling human. Then she turned tail and knelt to display her milk-heavy udders.

Until then, Pehroosz had not realized just how thirsty she was. She looked about her, spotted a small, wooden bowl within easy reach. Reaching for the vessel, she sat up . . . then abruptly rolled back onto her hip, breathless with pain. After some experimenting, she found a relatively painless position and first filled, then drained off three bowls of hot, frothy milk. Relieved, Zahndrah arose and ambled back out of the shelter.

With the nanny's departure, Pehroosz began once more to suffer from the cold, so, careful not to let the most abused parts of her body come in contact with the hard, bumpy floor, she levered herself erect But she could not remain so. Groaning at the sharp agony of the cramps racking her belly, she fell to her knees and elbows and so remained until, after eternities, the spasms subsided.

On hands and knees, she retraced the few feet to the scene of her defilement and, fighting to hold down the goatmilk, set her bruised and clumsy hands to unfolding the damp, sticky bundle of her clothing. But, since they had apparently been ripped from her by main force, homespun gown and shift and woolen overshift were only so much shredded cloth now. Only her cloak was whole. Gratefully, Pehroosz wrapped herself in the stained garment. She at first thought the cursed raiders must have stolen her fine fur-lined felt boots, but she found them, finally, tossed into a dark corner.

Before the small fire died away, she fed it bits and pieces of the stools which had been the shelter's only furnishings. Then, as a cold wind had commenced to angle in, she crawled to the open side and painfully worked the oiled hides down into place, eventually forcing her stiff fingers to properly lace them together and secure their bottoms. By the time she had finished, she was exhausted, and, lulled by this exhaustion, as well as by the warm near-darkness and the physical and emotional stress of the last few hours, she lapsed into a deep sleep, a healing sleep, from which she wakened only enough to feed such fuel as she had to the fire from time to time as needed.

The High Lord and his host camped below the Gap of Vawn, amid the tumbled, ghost-haunted ruins of Fort Buhkuh, until Bill's and Aldora's farspeak told him that the keen steel and fiery torches of their far-ranging forces were hard at their bloody task. Then, of a bitter, snowy morn, drums rolled, trumpets brayed and disciplined ranks of Confederation infantry set bootsole to trade road in the wake of the mounted vanguards and scouts. Each of the four regiments had been brought to full strength by the addition of able-bodied former rebels from the Vawnpolis garrison, and those officer-grade types not riding with Vahrohneeskos Drehkos trotted their mounts along as supernumeraries with the High Lord's staff. Only the sick or disabled rebels had been left in Vawnpolis; plus, of course, the lunatic Vahrohnos Myros Deskati of Morguhn, and his "bodyguards" commanded by the faithful Captain Danos.

Two days' march into the mountains, the vanguard squadron of kahtahfrahktoee-heavy cavalry-under command of Keeleeohstos Oaib Lihnstahk fought an inconclusive action with an unknown, but certainly small, number of Ahrmehnee tribesmen. Had the ambush succeeded, vanguard casualties would surely have been heavy. But the concealed bushwackers had been spied out by the swift, fleering prairiecats, who had reported the location to Gaib, then lain in position to take the Ahrmehnee in flank and rear at a critical point in the engagement Certain articles found on the bodies of the slain marked them as men of the Ahrahkyuhn Tribe.

The following week saw four additional attempts of a similar nature, all foiled by the keen senses of the mind-speaking felines who ranged point and flanks and rear of the upward-toiling column. As the Ahrmehnee were crafty, brave and on well-known home ground, their losses were not truly heavy. Nonetheless, with the failure of the fifth ambush, they ceased their attacks and the cats could report no more than a handful, apparently pacing the column.

They had been on the march for a fortnight when they came to the charred ruins of the trade-road bridge jutting blackly over the rushing waters of a tributary of the Peekrohs River. Milo cursed himself for not foreseeing such a likelihood and bringing at least a company or two of the engineers. But cross the stream the army did, and safely. Then a few hours' ascent brought them onto the plateau which lay between the mountains of Tribe Ahrahkyuhn-which they had just traversed-and those inhabited by the tribe of the nahkhahrah, Tribe Taishyuhn.

Amid the ancient, partially buried relics of a godcity, the High Lord had a night camp erected. But on the morrow the march was not continued. Instead the men and pack mules were put to the tasks of dragging timbers from the slopes above and below, then raising a strong palisade atop the usual earth mound. Some were even put to digging stones from their ages-old resting places and manhandling them into such positions as would give added strength to the defenses. The ground, hard and flinty under the best of conditions, was frozen and the work strenuous, but by the morning of the fourth day, Senior Strahteegos Hahfos could report the task completed.

Hahfos was young for a corps commander, barely forty summers, but such had been the attrition of officers-both senior and junior, company, field and strahteegos grades-at the savage siege of Vawnpolis, that the Morguhn Expeditionary Force was become an army composed principally of the young, the nimble and the lucky. Third son of a thoheeks whose lands lay far to the south and west near the shores of the vast inland sea, Hahfos Djohnz's appearance always pleased the High Lord, personifying as he did the splendid melding of two fine races-Horsclans-man and Ehleen.

Two dozen years of campaigning had weathered his skin to the shade of old walnut and crosshatched all its visible surfaces with the seamed and puckered cicatrices which were the badge of his calling, but the High Lord accepted these scars and the permanent tan, unimpressed. Not yet bent by age, Hahfos stood one meter and three quarters; his close-cropped hair was almost the same shade as his face, with flashes of white at the temples, and though his blue-green eyes could chill an object of his displeasure to the innermost core, most occasions found them filled with merriment and joy of life.

A born leader of men, he had no need to rant and bellow, his orders were never pitched louder than the circumstances necessitated and he spoke either Mehrikan or Ehleeneekos tinged with the soft, slurring speech patterns of his faraway home. Astute as strategist and accomplished as tactician, he could be ferocious in personal combat, as was attested by the two Silver Cats he held; yet, withal, he was a kindly man and took no joy in needless suffering.

In the Fourteenth Regiment, which he had commanded for six years prior to his quite recent promotion, he had been affectionately known as "Old Pussyfoot." He had cared for his men and their response had been to give him not only an unflagging source of pride but their fierce love, as well. Not a few grizzled fighting men had openly wept when he left them for corps command.