Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

“My elder brothers and sire have described this many times,” he informed her. “The High Lady Aldora’s tent, her army. We are truly safe, sister. And my sire is here, 1 know. Now I shall be a real warhorse with a warrior on my back and shoes of Steel and armor.”

Emhelee protested feebly as she slid off his back, but Midnight was determined. The young girl blinked back her tears as Midnight disappeared into the press, leaving her huddled in the brush much as he had found her.

Night came, and she slept without hope. The wonders and pleasures of her great destiny once she reached Morguhnpolis did not give her any comfort. Instead, as she drifted off, she considered going home and becoming a proper maid as her mother wished. Midnight was gone to his own kind now, and she lay abandoned.

“That’s the girl. I would have known just to look at her.” The soft words startled Emhelee awake. She looked up in fear only to find herself gazing at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, flanked by an obsidian-colored colt.

“The High Lady herself,” Midnight mindspoke proudly, doing the introductions. “I told my friends of our battle, and the High Lady was told by a King Horse, the sire of my father. And she wished to have speech with us.” Midnight was practically dancing.

Dazed Emhelee rose and did proper respect.

“Now, come along. You need a proper night’s rest and a good meal, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“And apples,” Emhelee mindspoke sleepily. “Midnight needs apples.”

It was not until late the next evening that the Lady Aldora had time to speak to Emhelee. The young girl had spent the day with the cooks, doing a better job of kitchen work than she had ever done before. Indeed, they seemed pleased to have her, and Emhelee made herself quite useful.

Ushered into the High Lady’s presence, Emhelee became tongue-tied. Expertly Aldora helped her to overcome her shyness and told her about her father. Emhelee, drawn into the conversation, finally was able to explain about running away from home, about Midnight and about the horses in the Ehleenee chapel.

“Truly your father’s daughter,” the Undying High Lady muttered. Then she turned and addressed Emhelee directly. “Emhelee, what you have told me must remain a secret between you, your father and myself. More than any knife, this proves your paternity, and I myself shall ensure that you marry well. A gift like this is important, nor have 1 heard of it in any save one place. What you have done is throw an illusion. The horses were not there, Emhelee, only your gift made your enemies see them. This 1 have seen in one person only, your father, Bili the Axe. It is something we must encourage, but you must never speak of it again. Do you promise?”'

Emhelee nodded seriously.

“Then, girl, get ready to ride. Midnight awaits you, for we leave for Morguhnpolis tomorrow.”

Nightfriend

by Roland J. Green and John F. Carr

Roland Green was bom in Pennsylvania, raised in Michigan, and educated at Oberlin College and the University of Chicago. He has been a resident of Chicago for twenty years. He has also been an officer of the Society for Creative Anachronism (Middle Kingdom Seneschal, 1969-72) and of the Science Fiction Writers of America (Vice-President, 1984-86), and is an inveterate collector of naval and military history. His published books include the Wandor series (and yes, there will be that fifth book). Peace Company, and collaborations with Frieda Murray (The Book of Kantela), John F. Carr (Great Kings’ War, a sequel to Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen), Gordon R. Dickson (Jamie the Red), and Jerry Poumelle (two novels in the Janissaries series. Clan and Crown and Storms of Victory). He has also reviewed science fiction, fantasy, and military history for Booklist magazine (American Library Association), the Chicago Sun-Times, and Far Frontiers (Baen Books). At this writing he lives on Chicago’s lakefront four miles north of the Loop, with his wife and collaborator Frieda Murray, daughter Violette, a black cat named Thursday, a Kaypro computer, and six thousand books, not all of them naval or military history.

John F. Carr lives in Southern California with his wife and two children. He has written three novels, the most recent. Great Kings’ War, with Roland Green. He has edited four collections of H. Beam Piper’s work and has coedited, with Jerry Poumelle, several different anthology series, consisting of some twenty individual books. He is a war-game enthusiast, active among collectors of miniatures and fans of medieval and Renaissance history. Recently he came in third in the Los Angeles Regional Monopoly Tournament. John is currently dividing his time between work on Gunpowder God, with Roland Green,

War World , with Jerry Pournelle, and the Vice-Presidency of

Science Fiction Writers of America. In his copious spare time, he

plays the guitar and, occasionally, sings.

Iron Claw stretched his eight-foot frame along the top of the sun-warmed rock and caught himself almost purring in contentment. Purring was for females and cubs, not the chief of a sixteen-member pride; he resisted the impulse.

The winter had been bad. Two of the kittens had frozen at night. Iron Claw himself had felt the aches and pains of battles fought before Silver Tip, his favorite mate, was born. But none of this was any reason to turn kittenish just because Sun had once again turned its warm face toward the earth.

Lately his mind had taken to wandering through the hills and valleys of his past. Sometimes the memories were so real that he could almost feel the body heat of White Nose, his first mate. At times his wanderings reminded him of the stray thoughts of some female two-legs. Was old age at last creeping up on him?

He’d lived a long life for a prairiecat, like his sire and most of his siblings. A few silver hairs nestled among the black here and 1there, but he was still strong enough to rip the hindquarters of a standing buffalo. Maybe all the winters were just piling on top of one another.

The loud call of another male prairiecat tore the still morning air.

Iron Claw leaped up and gave an answering screech. The hair around his neck bristled as the call was returned. His first challenge of the year!

He hadn’t had to fight much the past few years, not since he’d learned that killing his opponent not only ensured that he would not return next year but awed the other males in the area. Last year’s only fight had been with a scraggly old range cat who’d decided to make one last foolish try at siring a litter. The pride feasted off his carcass for two days.

“Come on, old cat,” mindspoke his opponent. “It’s time to join your ancestors. Come down off that rock before I drag you off.”

Iron Claw was amused. The mindspeak sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His mates were silencing the growling kittens as they hastily left the area. He heard another cry and spotted the waving grass that gave away his opponent’s position.

“Afraid, old kitten-eater? You should be. I’m going to take your bones and spread them with the pride’s droppings!”

“You sound brave enough,” said Iron Claw. “I will remember your words when I hang your tail from my enemy tree.” Another way he’d found to spread fear was hanging the severed tails of his dead enemies on trees at the borders of his territory.

The challenger left the grass and strode boldly into the clearing before the rock. Iron Claw was astonished at the size of the young black-and-white male. He was a full third larger than Iron Claw.

Then the challenger turned toward Iron Claw, and the empty socket of his left eye revealed his identity. One Eye was one of Iron Claw’s sons from half a dozen winters ago. As a two-year-old, he’d lost that eye when he’d tried to feed on his father’s fresh kill. Iron Claw hadn’t meant to harm his son, but the bloodlust had still been roaring in his ears. Also the rule of the pride was strict: Iron Claw first, then the nursing females, then the kittens and other females.

“So you have returned, my son, to try once again to steal what cannot be yours.”

“No, old cat. Just to take what you can no longer hold.”

He spoke with such confidence that Iron Claw felt unfamiliar stirrings of fear. He roared his defiance and leaped down from the rock.

He’d hoped to land full on his opponent and bury his teeth in One Eye’s neck, but the larger cat moved with surprising speed. All Iron Claw felt was the scrape of his claws on the other’s rump.

One Eye glared, then jumped. Iron Claw lunged, and they met in a tangle of teeth and claws. Both were now on their hind legs, whirling and lunging. Iron Claw felt pain blossom where his right ear had been and roared satisfaction when teeth took out a mouthful of fur and skin from One Eye’s neck. He was maneuvering for his favorite trick of putting his right paw into the lower belly to gut his opponent when he felt pain tearing through his left hind leg.

Iron Claw fell clumsily, his leg burning. One Eye leaped on him, chewing fur and flesh from his shoulder and neck.

With a last desperate lunge, Iron Claw threw off the younger cat and ran.

His leg had been badly hamstrung, but he’d had enough hurt paws and legs over the years that he could run almost as fast on three legs as on four. His sudden retreat took a battered One Eye by surprise, and he was almost a score of body lengths ahead before One Eye took up the chase.

One Eye was faster, he knew, but if he could reach the stream he could climb one of the trees. For once, he was the lighter cat. He felt some sympathy for those few who’d used that trick to escape him in the past.

Then the unexpected—Silver Tip bursting out of the grass, to attack One Eye from behind. Iron Claw felt a surge of affection for his former mate, then mindspoke her a fond farewell, promising to return. He might not be able to keep that promise, but he had little fear for her. One Eye might give her a thrashing, but not kill the dominant female of a pride he hoped to rule.

Meanwhile, Iron Claw continued to cover ground as fast as his three good legs would carry him. It would be tempting fate to remain in this land before his leg was well and he could once again fight on equal terms. Well, healthy terms, at least. 1

Iron Claw ran toward the winter lands. There he could be sure that none of his enemies were lurking, either two-legged or four-legged.

Djoh woke up thrashing, to a pitcher of cold water thrown in his face. He could tell that it had been snowing again by the cramps in his lame leg. It was going to be another long day; not even a faint blush of sun showed through the scraped-ox-gut window.

“Up, lazy one. There’s work to be done. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen,” ordered his father.