The Riders of the Mike thundered down upon the Itship, the pounding hooves now deafening, the billowing dust raised by their stamping choking the air, the very ground trembling with the force of their passage. The Riders galloped past the bedraggled adventurers, then looped around, enclosing them in an ever-tightening circle.
The Lord of Dun Sóbrin swayed on his feet as he watched the circling horsemen. Closing one eye and squinting the other down tight in an attempt to restore equilibrium, he suspiciously eyed the half-empty cocktail glass which he had heroically managed to rescue even in the confusion of the shipwreck and the airlift of the Gulls. Not a single drop had been spilt, and a colorful miniature parasol was still cocked at a jaunty angle on the rim of the glass.
‘Where’s that music coming from?’ asked Pimpi.
‘You hear it too?’ asked Grrralph.
A dramatic orchestral swell rose above the thunder, complementing it, lending it an air of grandeur and portentousness where it might otherwise have seemed as threatening as a mounted Springle-ring at a First Planting fair. Without realizing it, the members of the Gallowship were suddenly gripped by the aching loneliness of the plain, the simple joys and daily pains of a hard life carved out of a rugged country. They felt the freedom of the wind in their hair at full gallop, became drunk on the smell of sweaty, lathered horseflesh and the rich tang of equine droppings returned to feed the wild green fields in a cycle that had repeated itself for Ages of Man and Elf. They felt the inexorable bowing of their knee joints, and their quadriceps and hamstrings throbbed with the soreness of long hours spent in the saddle, day after day, week after week, year after endless year.
It soon was clear that many of the Riders of the Mike were playing instruments as they rode – cellos and Fraûg horns, violins and violas, drums and cymbals. Those not playing chanted in a strange, unintelligible, but nonetheless pleasing tongue. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled by a rather thin bass arrangement, but then the Itship noted three riderless horses to which the smashed and broken remains of two double-basses and a tuba had been lashed, and the mournful effect of the music was redoubled.
The Riders tightened the circle as the melody built towards a crescendo. One hapless cellist grew dizzy and tumbled from his mount with a twang of snapping strings, but his fellow Riders, all battle-hardened troupers, never paused or missed a beat. The music climaxed with a ringing smash of cymbals, and on cue the Riders checked their mounts and faced them in towards the surrounded Itship.
A haunting soprano voice soared in the sudden silence. Its somber call was answered by a solo violin from somewhere in the back. The Riders lapsed into a low chanting, and the front rank of horsemen lowered their weapons at Merisuwyniel and her companions. These weapons consisted of a thin steel shaft tipped with three long prongs bent outwards at sharp angles. Each Rider gripped the shaft of his weapon with one hand, while his other held a handgrip set at a slanted angle at its base. These handgrips were held cocked near the mouths of the men, almost as if they were chanting into them. Many a foe had felt the bite of this peculiar weapon of the Sorethighhim, known as a mikestand.
One Rider, taller than the rest, edged his mount forward. A long crest of peacock feathers fanned from the top of his helm. Merisuwyniel felt a brief pang of envy and admiration for his rather glamorous headdress. The Rider lowered his mikestand, from which long colorful scarves flowed, and spoke forcefully into the handgrip in the Common Speech, ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?’
Merisuwyniel absently brushed back a lock of hair which had fallen quite fetchingly across one eye and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word in edgewise, a low roar like the sound of a floodwater blasting through a narrow gorge arose. There was a dark blur of motion from the back, and almost before their eyes could register what was happening, a thickly built Rider drove straight at the horseman who had spoken. The charging Rider leapt from his horse and exploded into the speaker with a square, hard hit that sent both rider and mount flying. They flipped over twice, rebounded off a nearby boulder, and flopped violently onto the hardpacked earth in a sprawl of limbs, feathers, and harness.
‘Whoooo!’ whooped the new Rider. He was powerfully built, and his thick, long legs were so bowed that he was able to straddle both horse and rider as they cringed in the dirt. ‘Whoooo!’ he added for good measure. He wagged a thick finger in their faces. ‘Yoman, you know you can’t come up in here greetin’ these fools in Westestosterone, *****!¹ You know it’s the will of Théboleggen King that don’t nobody, I mean NOBODY, enter the gates of Improvas if they ain’t down with how we rap in our house! That ain’t new, baby!’
Merisuwyniel demurely cleared her throat, and the giant spun on the Itship. Black eyes blazed out of the Rider’s wide face. A glistening sheen of sweat coated his hairless head and thick, muscular arms. Two thick strokes of black warpaint were smeared under each eye, and a bandage was fixed across the bridge of his nose. He had the look of a man who had recently seen battle, or maybe who was just always ready for battle. He was clad in a tunic of fine steel mesh woven with glittering rhînestones which seemed barely able to contain his bulk. The rhînestones were artfully arranged in the pattern of two curious sigils:
Vogonwë cocked his head. ‘Quickly, what rhymes with “freight train”?’ But before anyone could answer, he did it himself. ‘Migraine! Of course!’ He groped for his quill and a dry scrap of parchment.
‘Who are you?’ asked Merisuwyniel, allowing a rippling golden forelock to fall fetchingly across her eye once more. Few mortal men could meet those sparkling eyes for long without feeling it in their scabbard, but the Rider seemed focused and unaffected.
‘Who am I? Who AM I? I’m Érry son of Tait the Terrible, Middle Lhinebhacker of the Quexchinmike, man, that’s who I am. Who the **** are you? You can’t come tippy-toein’ up here heckling me in my kitchen! You just entered Érry’s Equestrian Event of Pain! Your ***** must be crazy!’
Etceteron sipped at his cocktail. ‘This, I guess, is the speech of the Sorethighhim, for it is like to this land itself, wild, untamed, and full of dirt.’
‘But does anyone here speak it?’ asked Merisuwyniel.
‘I never bothered,’ replied Kuruharan. ‘Why should I? These Horse Lords never have more than two pennies to rub together. Always looking to trade chickens or “special fertilizer” for good merchandise. It likes to make me sick.’
‘A few more of these and I can do a rough approximation of it,’ said Etceteron, draining his glass. ‘But under the circumstances...’
The Lord of Dun Sóbrin threw down the empty glass and gripped the haft of his blade. A low growl began to build in Érry’s throat. The chanting of the Riders grew louder and more urgent. Things might have gone ill then, but the Gateskeeper sprang between them, adjusting his spectacles, and said, ‘I think I can help.’
He raised his staff to his lips and began to speak into it in the manner of the Sorethighhim.
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¹ The language of the Mike is a strange and salty tongue which may sound harsh and violent to modern ears. As in other parts of this translation, asterisks have been used to shield the Innocence of young and impressionable readers.
[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]