“Does your map show Morguhn Hall, Aldora?”
After a brief pause, “Yes, near a tributary to the river we just forded. Roughly nine kaiee north of Morguhnpolis and a little east, perhaps an hour less marching time . .. say we’ll be there by early afternoon, then.”
“No, not good enough,” Milo retorted. “That still might be too late. Break camp now and be on the march within the hour.”
She protested, “But Milo, both the men and the horses are worn very thin, and many of the cats have had to be mounted. The entire force needs one good night’s rest, if they’re to be in any decent shape to fight tomorrow.”
“It just can’t be helped,” he brusquely replied. “I want you here as soon as possible, for we’re under siege even now-several thousands of them against a garrison of perhaps a hundred. True, most of the rebels are poorly armed rabble at best, but with the suspicion of Gold’s wild card in the game . . . besides, I doubt your force will have to do any fighting when they get here. The mob we’re facing have damn-all discipline and were very nearly routed when we beat off the first attack. Show them two-and-a-half thousand mounted Regulars, and chances are they’ll scatter to every point of the compass.”
Grudgingly, she acquiesced. “All right, all right, Milo, we’ll march tonight. Can we use the roads?”
“It doesn’t really matter, Aldora. Most of the rebels are here, and so too are most of the loyalists. A small party of Kindred, led by Clan Bard Hail Morguhn is missing, but I’ve scant hope for them.
“It will have to be the Gafnee Drill, I suppose. Individuals or groups will be considered hostile until definitely proven to be friendly. Any who refuse to surrender immediately are to be slain. When you’re within my farspeak range, let me know. Questions?”
“Yes. Should I send a galloper to the main column? Do you want them to force their marches as well?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” he assented. “Tell Lukos to secure Kehnooryos Deskati-since it’s the home city of that bastard Myros, it’s probably rotten to the core with this rebellion. He’s to kill or lock up everyone with even a soupson of authority. As for those damned priests, it might be well if they all die while trying to escape. Then he’s to camp there until sent for.”
Aldora was an old campaigner and wasted no time. While she was donning her thick, soft cotton undergarments, she mindspoke the two squadron commanders of her kahtahfrahktoee (Bili would have called such troops “dragoons”), the Subkeeleeohstos of the lancers, and the captain of her bodyguard. While still she was lacing leather shirt to leatherfaced canvas breeches, bugles commenced to blare. Then two of her horse archers entered the tent. Without a word, one began to repack her saddlebags and roll her blankets, while the other assisted her into boots and cuirass. He cinched the dirk belt with its depending skirt of mail round her slender waist, then thrust the heavy dirk into its frog, buckled the brassarts about her upper arms and the shoulder pieces above them. When the palettes protecting her armpits were in place, he deftly arranged the long ebon hair into two thick braids and lapped them over the crown of her small head, Horseclans-fashion, to provide helmet padding. Once her neck and throat were wound with several thicknesses of absorbent cotton cloth, a gorget of Pitzburk was buckled on.
She drew on her gold-stitched gauntlets while the spearman was adjusting her wide baldric from which was suspended her ancient Horseclans saber.
Then the archer spoke his first words. “Which helm, My Lady?”
She shrugged. “The Cat, I suppose.”
The first archer was securing the last of her gear to her charger’s saddle as she strode from her tent. She was barely in that saddle before the tent had been struck. Thirty minutes after the cessation of the farspeak conversation, her squadrons were on the move, light cavalry and Prairie Cats screening van and flanks.
Arrived upon the walls, Bili did not wonder that Komees Djeen had called out the garrison, for all the watchfires down by the creek were blazing, throwing clouds of red, winking sparks high into the black moonless sky. Countless dark forms scurried in and out of the rings of firelight, while a medley of shouts, the roll of drums, neighs of horses, ceaseless hammerings, and the occasional creakings of ungreased axles all blended into waves of sound which rolled up the hill and lapped against the walls.