"Adams, Robert - Horseclans 01 - The Coming of the Horseclans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Robert)

"Can you use a sword, too, woman-of-surprises?" Mara nodded briskly. "If it becomes necessary, Master." So he slung the Kahrtr-crested baldric over one of her shoulders and the strap of an arrow case over the other. "Give me the bow, Mara. I'll string it for you."

She drew back. "I am capable of stringing my own bow, Master, thank you."

"Then do so, woman, and come on. Leave the case here. You'll not need it up there."

Urged on by repeated thought-messages from Steel-tooth, he placed his men just in time. He'd only just hunkered down when three scale-armored scouts galloped into view, the setting sun glinting from their lance points and oiled, black beards.

Beside him, Mara whispered, "Kaatahfrahktoee, the Mahvroh Ahloghoh. A Black Horse squadron. Most of them are from the southern lands, only the officers are Ehleenoee. They are mercenaries, but hard fighters."

Milo allowed the scouts to pass his position; the two archers around the hill would take care of them. Sure enough, there was soon a twanging of bowstrings and a strangled half-scream, then silence. Milo was sure that the approaching squadron had not heard any sounds, not above the clatter of their own advance.

Four abreast, they swept around the hill, pressing hard, their black horses well lathered. Behind the first troop was a knot of Ehleenoee officers, the gold-washed scales of their hauberks sparkling in the setting sun. As the dark-visaged, flashy group came into effective range, Milo placed a bone-tipped shaft hi their leader's right eye. At this, other bowstrings twanged around him. Mara's did as well, and, following the shaft, Milo saw it thud into a blue-cloaked Ehleen's throatЧthe girl could handle a bow at that!

Noisy confusion prevailed as the squadron commander and his staff went down. Horses became difficult to control for Milo and two nomads who were also mindtalkers were Чeven as they nocked, drew, and released, nocked, drew, and releasedЧbeaming warnings of imminent agony and death at the cavalry mounts. When both the first and second troops started to take casualties and the nerve-shattering screams of a wounded horse suddenly rent the air, the van wavered, milling uncertainly. Milo prayed to every god he'd ever heard mentioned that they'd break; panic is contagious, and if these two troops were routed, the entire squadron might be swept back with them.

But such was not to be. The Ehleenoee officers might be dead, but at least one effective noncomЧalways the backbone of any military bodyЧhad retained his life and, more importantly, his head. Milo could hear his hoarse bellow rising above the din. He was not shouting Ehlee-neekos words, but Southeastern Merikan. Milo could understand him easily, as could most of the nomads; the language was not that different from the Old Merikan of the plains.

"Hoi! Hoi! Stand firm! Boogluh! Hweanhz th fuggin boogluh?"

All at once a bugle signaled "Fours left." As it repeated the call, other buglers took it up, andЧwith or without human guidanceЧthe well-drilled horses executed the indicated maneuver. Before the last of the cavalry had cleared the road, Milo saw a large, chunky man wheel his mount and, spurring hard, bear toward the hill at a dead run. Though the plates of his scale-mail were of plain, serviceable iron, his helmet decoration was that of a mercenary sergeant-majorЧthe highest rank a non-Ehleen could hold in the territories of the Sea-invaders. His scar-seamed, weathered face was clearly visible as, heedless of the feathered death all around him, he bore down on that section of road where his officers had died. The horse galloped in on a wide arc and, a second before he reached his objective, the big man kicked free of his stirrups and slid to the off-side of the thundering animal. With his right leg gripping the underside of the horse, his left knee hooked onto the saddle's high cantle, and his left hand locked on-the forward strap of the double girth; he leaned down to tear the squadron standard from the dead hand which still held it. Throughout the courageous episode, the only arrows which struck the big man bounced harmlessly off the scales of his well-worn hauberk. As the sergeant regained his seat, he turned and flourished the standard at Milo and his men. If there were any three things the nomads appreciated and respected, they were bravery, defiance, and horsemanship; they cheered, shouting their approval of this valiant foe. Nothing but honorЧfor both individual and clanЧcould come from the killing of such a man!

Even Milo felt admiration, despite his realization that retrieval of that standard had probably sealed the fates of Mara and his nomads. As he and his companions watched, the squadron rallied and re-formed, its archers dismounting and advancing in a widely spaced line of skirmishers. Just behind them, at the walk, rode a triple-rank of cavalry Чlances left behind, shields slung, to free both handsЧat least two hundred of them.

"Twenty-to-one," thought Milo. "Good, hard, experienced soldiers, too, with a battlewise mind directing them. None of these showy Ehleenoee pantywaists. When the archers are close enough, they will lay down a covering fire and the horsemen will come in under it. They'll ride as far as the horses can go, then they'll dismount and climb up to us. And that will be all. You can't but admire that old bastard, but I wish to hell he had been killed!"

At three hundred paces, the archers halted and commenced to arch shafts onto the area occupied by the nomads. But Milo had chosen his position well, if hurriedly, with just this possibility in mind. Realizing that most of their arrows were being stopped or deflected by the overhanging branches of the thick old trees, the skirmishers picked up their quivers and paced closer. When they had halved their original distance, they again halted and their bolts came straight and true, to clatter among the rocks and tree trunks or sink into the rich loam. After a few minutes, they stopped, allowing the cavalry time to canter to a point out of the line of fire. When the bowstrings were twanging again, a bugle call commanded and the canter became a gallop. Abruptly, the two rearmost lines reined up on the opposite side of the road, the foremost continuing on to the foot of the rocky slope, where three men of every four dismounted and ranЧzigzagging Чup the slope. The moment the horse-holders were out of the way, the second line repeated the first's maneuver. Then the third followed suit and Milo shook his head in wonderment and awe. Gods, there went first-class soldiers. What couldn't he do with troops like that?

Sometime within the last twenty years, the original forward face of the south slope had slid down toward the new road, leaving the area on which Milo's nomads were making their stand. Before them was a sheer drop of twenty-odd feet. The soldiers would be able to scale it, but with difficulty. From the foot of this scarp was a thirty-degree, pebble-strewn slope, culminating in a jumble of rocks and smashed and uprooted trees. There was no cover worthy of the name on the pebbly slope, so Milo and his men saved their dwindling supply of arrows until the first line had reached this ready-made deathtrap.

A few of the men in the first line reached the foot of the scarp where they crouched helplessly, safe from the arrow-hail but too few in number to mount a frontal attack against who knew how many Western barbarians. Most of the first wave lay twitching or dead between their line-of-departure and their objective. A few had made it back to the questionable safety of their original position, where they awaited the reinforcement of the second wave. Atop the scarp, most of the arrowcases were empty and Чas the cavalry archers had ceased fire for fear of felling their ownЧthe nomads were scrabbling among the rocks, searching for undamaged shafts to supplement then- own meager supply. Then came the second wave and, though they broke it, too, Milo knew with certainty that they'd not break the third. He had one arrow, Mara had two, and the others had less than a dozen among them. To save time later, he drew his saber and buried its point in the leaf-mold within easy reach. Then he turned to Mara.

"You have fought well, Mara. It is not right you should die a slave. Move your leg so I may reach your ankle."

"Wait, Master." She laid her hand on his arm. "Horse-killer is coming. He and many, many of his kind and . . . and there is a ... another very near, but. . . but different." Her brow wrinkled.

Milo started. "Do you wish, woman, or do you . . . ?" Then, faint with distance, "I come, Friend Milo. The female's mind is even easier to range than yours. I come with many cats. Swimmer is with Friend Bill, while the young ones and the pregnant or nursing ones guard the camp. The rest are with me. I come."

Milo closed his eyes and devoted every ounce of concentration to the beaming of one word. "Hurry!"

Then, his mind relaxed and receptive, he caught the vague shadow of a thought. Slowly, it gained strength. "The female ... and the one called Milo . . , you are truly the friends of cats?" The mindspeaker was close.

When Milo affirmed his friendship with the Cat Clans, the mindspeaker went on. "Then, I shall try to aid you. I, too, hate Blackhairs. They killed my kin. I am the last. It is good to mindspeak again. It has been long and I was beginning to become an animal. I am old now, and not so fast as once I was, but what I can do, I will do. Wait."

Chapter 4

Arrow fly far, arrow fly true,
Strike and pierce the foeman through.
Saber, slash, lay open throat.