“There is a machine,” Rick said. “A way to harvest grain—grain! Where is the place for Hestia in this vision of Polycarp’s?”

  “As the mother of Christ,” Yanulf said. “For as you know, the Christ was born of a virgin. Polycarp preaches a doctrine which he calls ‘Immaculate Conception,’ under which Hestia took on the flesh of a mortal in order to bear a son to Yatar.”

  “And you believe this?”

  Yanulf frowned. “I know not what to believe. One thing is certain, the prophecies of The Time are true. And they were revealed by Yatar himself. The Romans know much of The Time, and thus must once have known Yatar.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Polycarp is correct, their Jehovah is Yatar. The names are not unlike.”

  “Fortunately we need not decide the matter today,” Rick said. “For the problem at hand, I will remit some of Enipses’s taxes. You will send a persuasive emissary to bear that pleasant news. Someone who will persuade Enipses that it would not be wise to make great changes in the governing of Yatar’s caves. Someone to point out that neither Wanax Ganton nor I nor Eqetassa Tylara would favor Bacreugh’s cause.”

  “That may be sufficient,” Yanulf said.

  “As to Nictoros, I will issue a pardon.”

  “Who will make up what you remit to Enipses, lord?” Apelles asked.

  “We’ll have to work that out,” Rick said. “Maybe you could see to it?”

  “We will do that,” Yanulf said.

  Sure you will, Rick thought. And that’ll fall on some poor schmuck who’s irritated his local priest. But what the hell can I do?

  I can get Campbell working on that reaper.

  When dusk came, Jamiy brought in lamps. Rick sighed. They still hadn’t managed good lamps. These burned a mixture of oil and naptha, and gave better light than the older tapers, but the light was still too dim, and gave him a headache. One day, he thought, I’ll need spectacles, and I won’t have them. And then what? But this has got to be done.

  Ganton had summoned the chivalry of Drantos to the high plains. Rick was horrified. He could see no use for that many undisciplined heavy cavalrymen. Useful or not, though, they had to be fed. Wagons, horses, grain, all had to be found and sent in a steady stream, and since the bheromen had contributed their share and more, a lot had to come from the free towns- who weren’t anxious to provide it. Writs had to be prepared, spies sent to find new sources of wealth to tax, constables sent to harass the obstinate. . . He worked for two more hours.

  “It is time, lord.”

  Rick looked up from his paperwork to see Padraic.

  “The night meal is prepared. You wished to be called,” Padraic said. “The Guards wait outside.”

  “Thanks. Come in, Padraic. There’s wine over there. Pour some for both of us, and sit down.” Rick carefully stacked the papers and parchments and leaned back in his chair. Far out to the west he saw moving lights in the semaphore tower, and wondered what message was coming in.

  When Padraic brought the wine, he lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said, and laughed when his archer captain looked puzzled.

  “An expression from my home world,” Rick explained. “Tell me, how have the men taken the news, of Lord Caradoc’s promotion?”

  “Well, lord. It gives hope to all, that one may rise high if one has talent and is willing.”

  And loyal. Let’s not forget that one. “Yes. Well, here’s to Lord Caradoc!” They touched glasses and Rick drained his, then held it out for a refill. “Tell me, Padraic, you were raised in Tamaerthon—what do you know of Bacreugh?”

  There was a crash as Padraic dropped the pewter goblet. He bent quickly to pick it up and refill it.

  Rick drew his Colt and clicked off the safety. He held the pistol concealed below the table. “Sit down,” he said. “I think we’d better talk.”

  “Aye, lord. How did you find out?”

  “I have ways.” What the hell have I found out? “Now tell me about it.”

  “Lord, there is little to tell. My grandmother is sister to the mother of Mac Bratach Bhreu, and thus I am kin to Bacreugh. It was a kinsman who approached me.”

  “What did he offer?”

  “He said that a friend to Bacreugh wished to speak with me, and that he would offer me honor and gold,” Padraic said. “I told him that I have honor enough, and it may not be had for gold. Lord, what should I have done? For I cannot betray my kinsman, and indeed he said nothing of importance.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Only that. Only that Bacreugh—he said a friend to Bacreugh, but I surmised that the friend would be Bacreugh himself—wished to speak with me, and it would be much to my interest to do so; that he would offer me honor and gold, and I need do little—but what I would be required to do he did not say.”

  Rick thumbed the Colt’s safety on. “But you guessed?”

  “No, lord.”

  “Then why did you drop the goblet?”

  “I had heard you can hear thoughts, lord. I had not known it was true until now. For I was at that very moment wishing I knew what Bacreugh wished of me.”

  “You can do better,” Rick said. “You must know they intended for you to kill me. Or to let one of them get past you and do it.”

  “Nay, lord, I do not know it. I know only that Bacreugh wished to make an offer—and that he is a kinsman, as was the man he sent to approach me.”

  “What other kinsmen have you within the Mounted Archers?”

  “Only Caradoc, lord.”

  “That’s right, Caradoc is your kinsman—he is kin to Bacreugh, then.”

  “Aye, lord. He is related much as I am.”

  “Did you tell him about this?”

  Padraic laughed. “No, lord. Lord Caradoc is—quick to defend his honor. I was his chosen under-captain. He might have seen an offer to me as an insult to him, a matter for blood. And I cannot think he would wish blood-feud with his own kin.”

  There was a furious knocking on the door. “Captain!” someone shouted. Rick recognized Elliot’s voice.

  “Come in, Sergeant Major.”

  Elliot was breathless. He held a paper in his hand. “Just decoded this from the semaphore, Captain. They’ve spotted a satellite over Castle Dravan!”

 

 

28

 

 

Elliot put the decoded message on Rick’s desk. “Just as you told ‘em, Cap’n. Right after the True Sun set and while the ‘Stealer was low on the horizon, they saw a bright light moving across the sky.”

  “Direction?”

  “Southwest to northeast.”

  “Has to be a satellite,” Rick agreed.

  “I checked the shrine,” Elliot said. “Nothing on the radio, and there’s been somebody there all the time.”

  “Hmm. They don’t want to talk with us.”

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “So the next question is, who is it? Shalnuksis or a human? They’re a little early for surinomaz, and I’d think they’d know that. They’re making observations they don’t care to have us know about. Any ideas on that?”

  “None I like.”

  “Me either,” Rick said. He took a blank sheet of paper and began to write. “REWARD THE OBSERVER.

  THEN COME AT ONCE. BRING CHILDREN. IMPERATIVE ARMAGH THOUGHT MAJOR AREA OF INTEREST.”

  He handed it to Elliot. “Get this coded and see that it goes off to Tylara.”

  Elliot glanced at the paper. “Maybe it’d be best for the kids to stay at Dravan.”

  “I thought of that, but— If they’re here to drop bombs, I’d rather Tylara stayed at Dravan too. In the caves.”

  “Think she’d do it?”

  “No.” Rick took the message and crossed through the words “BRING CHILDREN.”

  Elliot nodded agreement. “Not likely anything’ll happen.”

  “Not this time,” Rick said. “Not this time.”

 

 

The field stank of too many men and too many horses. Even in the headquarters tent which was carefully placed upwind of the main encampment, the smell was there, despite the moaning hot wind that blew down the Westscarp. Lordy, I want to go home, Art Mason thought.

  The adjutant brought in a paper and handed it to Mason. Art examined it and whistled. “If we don’t do something pretty soon,” he said, “we’re not going to have any army left.”

  “Surely you exaggerate,” Ganton said.

  “Hardly, sire,” Camithon said. “One always loses more men to sickness than the enemy. We have been very fortunate—no. I will not say fortunate, for it is not fortune. Thanks to Major Mason, we have had fewer losses than any army in my memory.”

  “Morning report’s pretty bad even so,” Mason said. I “Still too many down. Too many flies in camp. The Romans are all right, but I can’t make the others dig the latrines deep enough. And this hot wind gets to them. We’re losing troops to pure funk. Last night a trooper got up at midnight and ran out and started hacking down a tree, shoutin’ that he hated it. Beat it up pretty good, too. Nobody in his company did a damned thing, except one guy yelled out ‘Give it a whack for me, I hate it too.’ That sounds funny, but it’s not, not really. Yesterday we lost two archers to a knife fight.”

  “Many of the knights will depart also,” Camithon said. “Their time of service will expire, unless we find ways to pay them.”

  “You mean that I summoned them against your advice,” Ganton said. “Do not bother to deny it. You may even be right. Yet my father lost his throne through failure to keep peace with the great lords of Drantos. It is an error I shall not make.”

  “Reckon it can’t hurt to have ‘em here to keep an eye on ‘em,” Mason said. “And even with ‘em here, we’re spread pretty thin, keepin’ patrols going everywhere. Reminds me of Viet Nam, some.”

  “I know not that place,” Camithon said.

  “No sir, I don’t reckon you would,” Mason said. “Thing is, we won every damn battle in Viet Nam. Troop for troop we had the enemy out-matched every which way. Only one problem. We lost the flipping war.”

  “Some day you must tell me that story,” Ganton said. “Meanwhile, we have the chivalry here, and some will remain even after their time is expired. Not all are more concerned for rights than for the safety of the realm.”

  “Been more like that we wouldn’t have lost ‘Nam,” Mason said. “And I reckon we need your heavies. Light horse can’t beat the Westmen. Knights can, if they’ll stay together and fight together.”

  “And yet we plow sand,” Ganton said. “The West-men avoid us. They burn and destroy, and run away when we ride after them. Are they so much better than we, that they lose no men to sickness?”

  Mason made an ugly sound, then shrugged. “They’re used to living on short rations.”

  Ganton turned to the maps on the table. He used his dirk to trace westward along a river bed. “I would employ the bheromen and knights in some useful endeavor.” He bent over the map. “The Westmen are said to have a great encampment here,” he said. “Will they defend it if we attack?”

  “We could ask that Arekor chap that lived with ‘em,” Mason said. “But it probably depends on what we attack with.”

  Camithon fingered the scar on his cheek and nodded. “Aye, though I do not like to say it. They fear Romans more than us. Romans and Tamaerthan archers.”

  “Perhaps we could make them fight us,” Ganthon said. “On terms we like.”

  “Wouldn’t mind seeing how,” Mason said.

  “Star weapons,” Ganton said. “Used against their horses in camp. They will come forth to fight if their horses die.”

  “Probably true,” Mason said.

  “You do not sound joyful,” Camithon said.

  “I keep remembering Viet Nam,” Mason said. “The French were there before us. They kept saying that if they could just make the enemy stand up and fight, they’d have it made. Eventually they did just that. At a place called Dien Bien Phu. .

  Camithon and Ganton listened as Mason told the story. Later, Ganton summoned a servant to bring wine, and they drank a toast to the brave Legionaries and paras who died in the strongpoints with the strange names of Gabrielle and Isabelle and Beatrice.

  “Did Lord Rick then name his daughter for that place?” Ganton asked.

  Mason shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “There is more to this matter of forcing the enemy to fight than one may think,” Camithon said. “Majesty, it is my counsel that we withdraw. The Westmen will follow, and when they have come far enough we can bring all our strength against a part of theirs. With the aid of the balloon we can find their weak points.”

  “The balloon is worth much, truly,” Ganton said. “Yet consider. It cannot move across the land like the-the whirlybirds Lord Rick had on his world. And any land the Westmen take they render worthless. If we abandon Lord Rick’s lands, perhaps he will understand-but will Eqetassa Tylara? Tell me, Lord General, do you wish to explain this strategy to her?”

  Camithon threw up his hands. “Shall we then risk all to avoid the wrath of one Tamaerthan-lady?”

  “They are my people,” Ganton said. “I am as sworn to defend them as they to serve me. Is this not true?”

  “Aye—”

  “Then let us hear no more of withdrawal.”

  Camithon gently stroked his scar. “Then it is Your Majesty’s wish that we attack the camp of the Westmen?”

  “It is.”

  “I can but obey.” Camithon looked to the map. Mason had put small parchment squares on it, each representing a unit of the Royal and Allied forces. Camithon had never seen such a thing before, but it made planning much easier. “If we are to move westward and attack, it were well to take all our forces,” Camithon said. “All we can feed. And all the star weapons.”

  “Need some reserves to guard the supply route,” Mason said. And the ammunition, for that matter. “But we’ll want all the weapons.”

  “Let Westrook become the new supply center,” Ganton said. “It is a strong place, and I doubt that Lord Murphy would leave it to his companion’s widow if he were not certain of her abilities.”

  Mason nodded sourly. Her abilities my eye, he thought. I had a hell of a job gettin’ Murphy out of there, and even then he wanted to leave the flippin’

  106. Horse tradin’, with me, over what weapons to leave in that castle, just like it was his home. Hell, I guess it is. Murph’s found a home, and I doubt we’ll see much of him if he lives to see the end of the Westmen.

  “If Westrook is to be the supply center,” Ganton continued, “then we must advance through here.” He pointed on the map. “We will not want the Westmen to know what we are doing, yet we will wish to be certain that our wagons are not delayed at the river crossing.” He looked thoughtful, then nodded. “The Romans are good engineers. Let the cohortes equitates carry timbers and all other things needful for quick construction of bridges here, and here. Our forces can come by many routes. The Westmen will not divine our,intent, and we need not be so concerned for supply.”

  “An excellent thought,” Camithon said. He looked at the young king with new respect.

  “And I think we will not raise the balloon until after the attack on the camp,” Ganton continued.

  “Sure help the artillery to have it up,” Mason said. “For target spotting-”

  “Yes,” Ganton agreed. “And we shall do so. But think, it is too valuable to use as a lure, and when it is raised it will draw all the Westmen toward our main strength. Would it not be better to let them seek us as the star weapons fall among them?”

  Camithon frowned. “If the balloon is needed, we can guard it with a small band-”

  “No,” Ganton said. “Think, my lord. A small band will fall prey to roving Westmen, and there are sure to be such. If we leave enough men to guard it, we should leave them all-else we divide our strength. That is what the French did at this place, Dien Bien’ Phu, and we have learned the cost to them.”

  Christ on a crutch, Mason thought. Maybe the kid understands this stuff better’n me. Hell, I’m no officer. I’m an NCO who got lucky.

  Unconsciously Mason straightened as he turned to speak to the Wanax of Drantos.

 

 

29

 

 

The office was a penthouse on top of a two-story. building, a veritable tower here. It was richly furnished, with thick carpets, elaborately carved furniture, and brilliant tapestries. Leaded glass windows looked out on green Tamaerthan hills to her left and a quiet quadrangle on her right. Gwen Tremaine had once seen National Geographic photographs of a European university Rector’s office, and she’d had her staff make as near a duplicate as they could.

  The high-backed chair was large enough to swallow her completely, and since it faced the desk rather than a window, when she curled up in it she was utterly invisible from the outside. She tucked her feet up closer- And if you regress any further, you’ll be sucking your thumb, you twit! she told herself; but she didn’t move from the chair.

  Regression feels fine. Safe, even.

  Hah. You can’t run away from yourself, no matter how far you go.

  Thanks a lot. But it isn’t myself I’m running from.

  At least I can’t see, the sky. She reached forward to the desk and lifted the note from Larry Warner. Her hand hardly shook she as she read it.

 

Gwen: a couple of the lookouts on Ben Harkon report seeing a “walking star” not long after dusk last night. From the path it’s got to be a satellite. I’m going into town about the reaper. Good luck.

 

We’ll need luck, she thought. They’re up there looking for progress, and they’ll find it. Then the bombs fall. Glory, why shouldn’t I be afraid of the sky?

  It’s not the sky, it’s who might be in that ship- I’m not afraid of Les.

  No? Then who stuffed the transceiver into a bale of garta cloth, and what do you expect will happen when he calls and you don’t answer?

  I don’t know. Maybe he’ll go away and leave us alone.

  Oh, that’s what you want? I thought you wanted Les!

  Sometimes.

  Often.

  Often, she admitted. But mostly I don’t want to hurt the University. Or Caradoc- Or Rick?

  Or Rick.

  Because he’s saving the world? Or because there’s a chance, just a chance, that he might tell Tylara to go to hell and come shack up with you? Who do you want? Rick, Les, Caradoc—or all of them? At once or one at a time?

  “Shut up!” Her hands found a Roman crystal pitcher. She hurled it against the desk. It caromed off a stack of papers and shattered against the wall. Then she sat still for what seemed a long time despite the work she had to do.

  “My lady?”

  Gwen looked up to see Marva. “Yes?”

  “The Lord Campbell is here to speak with you.” Marva eyed the wine spilled on the desk and the broken glass on the floor. “Shall I have that cleaned?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Marva took a small bell from her sleeve. Two servant girls came in to mop up the floor as Marva tidied the desk and blotted wine from the papers.

  “Do you like it here?” Gwen asked in English.

  Marva hesitated. “Yes, my lady. It is”-she groped for the word-”useless to wish for what can not be.”

  Whatever that is, Gwen thought. What might you wish for? Your husband again? Ben Murphy? Fortunately for me, you can’t have either one.

  Lafe Reznick’s second widow had become nearly indispensable, a combination of housekeeper, lady in waiting, secretary, and den mother. The students saw her as nobility, the widow of a star lord, yet someone they could speak with. Much information came to Marva, but she gave little in return, except to Gwen.

  “You may bring Lord Campbell now, if you please, my lady,” Gwen said.

  “Yes, my lady.” Marva ushered the servants out.

  Gwen patted her hair into place and tried to look calm as the red-haired engineering professor came into her office. “Yes, Bill? What can I do for you?”

  “Steel,” Campbell said. “I need a lot more, and I don’t have it.”

  “For the reaper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Larry’s gone into town about that—”

  “He won’t get anywhere. All the locals claim they’ve paid their taxes. They have, too. But Lord Rick wants a goddam progress report every goddam night!’ Now what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to stop shouting at me and have some wine, to begin with.”

  Campbell started to say something, but caught himself. Then he grinned. “Yes, ma’am. What wine?”

  “Oh—” She pulled the bell cord. Marva came in almost instantly. She was followed by one of the girls with a new pitcher and goblets.

  “Good service,” Campbell said. “Thanks, Marva, I can handle things now.”

  “Yes, my lord—” Marva indicated a place for the tray, waited until the girl had put it down, and waved her out. “Will there be anything more, my lady?”

  “Thank you, no—”

  “I will wait outside.”

  “Cold one, that,” Campbell said when Marva had gone.

  “You’re not polite to her.”

  “The hell I’m not—”

  “You’re not,” Gwen said. “You call her by her first name—”

  “Just to be friendly. She speaks English—”

  “But she is not an American, Bill. You and I can talk informally, and you think because you say it in English you can talk that way to Marva, but you can’t. Bill, Caradoc calls me ‘my lady’ most of the time. And have you noticed the way Rick speaks to Tylara?”

  “Well, sure, but Tylara’s one of the great ones—”

  “Marva is noble,” Gwen said. “To you it may seem a little silly that she’s something special because your friend Lafe Reznick married her, but to her it’s not.” She threw up her hands. “Anyway, that’s why she seems cold toward you. Call her ‘my lady’ once in a while. She’ll warm up fast. Now what about your iron?”

  “The Romans have iron.”

  “I’m aware of it.”

  “Can you get me some?”

  “I’m also aware of what they’ll want. Guns and gunpowder, and we don’t have any to spare. But something just came in that may change things.” Gwen flipped through soggy papers on her desk until she found the one she wanted. “Intelligence reports. The Romans will have a big harvest this year, and they’re very low on slaves to bring it in. If you could have your reaper—”

  “If I can produce something that works, the Captain will send it west. No matter how good I am, there won’t be enough equipment to send to the Romans. Not this year.”

  Gwen shuddered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t trade them guns, and I can’t promise them a reaper. There’s only one thing I can send.”

  “Yeah.” Bill Campbell went over to the window and looked out onto the University quadrangle. He spoke without turning back toward her. “They tell me the life of a Roman slave isn’t so bad. No worse than peasants in Drantos.”

  “I’ll keep telling myself that,” Gwen said. “Maybe if I tell myself often enough, I’ll believe it. Meanwhile-”

  “Meanwhile I’ll send some troopers out into the Pirate Lands,” Campbell said. “Those people will drown or starve within the year anyway. Best to do it quick, before the so-called roads are too muddy. It’s starting to rain again.”

  “That should help the crops,” Gwen said. She smiled grimly to herself. Also, the clouds will hide the sky...

 

 

Mad Bear woke to the sound of screaming horses, but he could not comprehend. Walking Eagle, chief of the Two Waters, had been generous when Mad Bear’s band left him to return to their own Silver Wolves.

  His farewell gifts had included a barrel of the strong water the Green Lands folk made from grapes. It made men sleep sounder than beer or fermented mare’s milk ever could, and Mad Bear had sat late drinking with Hinuta.

  Another horse screamed in agony. Mad Bear leaped from his pallet. Then the sky itself screamed, and then there was a great sound, much like the sound the wizard-weapons made, and there was enough light to brighten the inside of the tent although the flaps were closed against the death bird. The captured slave woman squealed like a ranwang and burrowed under the hides.

  Mad Bear ignored her and grasped his weapons. He saw clearly now. The wizards were attacking the camp. Attacking at night. Walking Eagle had said the wizards controlled demons. Did they then own the demons which made the night dangerous for the Horse People? They seemed to have no fear of them.

  Well, the night will not be long. Suns climb the, sky, and then we will have vengeance. He untied the, tent flaps and went outside. Tents were burning, but, the camp was lit brighter than burning tents could have made it. The sky screamed again, and there were more of the thunder sounds.

  “UP! UP!” Mad Bear ran among his people. “To arms! Or will you allow the wizards to slaughter you like wolves bringing down a sick horse? Up, up!”

  He was nearly trampled by a pain-maddened horse. It galloped past in panic, its mane on fire. Mad Bear leaped aside and fell, and again he heard the sky screaming. This time he saw it, a trail of fire across the night skies. It fell into the camp and there was more wizard-thunder, with flame and smoke. .

  The shaman Tangra’al rushed from his tent and raved at the skies. He screamed the old legends, of skyfire and folk who rode across the sky in iron chariots. They were stories from Mad Bear’s childhood, and he felt a tingle at his spine as he remembered; but he dashed at the shaman and struck him so that Tangra’al fell to the ground.

  “They are only men!” Mad Bear screamed to his clan. “Those who fought at the Wagon Battle heard the wizard-thunder and felt their flame, but the wizards died as easily as any of the Green Lands folk! Arm yourselves!” He ran through the camp shouting; but inwardly he was afraid. The sky gods had made themselves enemies of the Horse People and had sent the wizards against them. Why? First the lands turned brown and the Horse People had to flee to the east. Now they faced enemies who held the thunder. Why?

  But there was worse yet to come. Half a score of horses stampeded in panic and trampled his tent. Mad Bear knew that not all his warriors and few of his women had got out safely, and he cursed these foul enemies, wizards so evil they would turn the Horse People’s mounts against them!

  In time the wizard-thunder died away, and the Horse People were left to count their losses. From one trampled tent alone Mad Bear’s band pulled out a warrior and three women, two of them slaves, who would not see dawn. Another warrior had been thrown from a horse and struck his head. He lay mewling like a baby, and he fouled himself. All across the great camp it was much the same, and the toll among the horses was worse.

  But the sky brightened as the Father Sun approached. Soon the night watchers came in.

  There would be a battle. Riders who had followed the retreat of the wizards brought words that made that certain. There were many who followed the wizards. Grey Archers, devils in women’s skirts who could shoot as far and as straight as the Horse People. There were also many Riders of the Red-Cloak Chiefs, who fought as though one man’s thoughts guided all the horses and men of their war band. It was no shame to the riders that they had not dared follow closely. Yet they had followed.

  The wizards and their friends had all gathered in one place, less than half the morning’s ride from the camp. It was a place the Horse People knew well, a valley of rolling hills. At its bottom snaked a wide stream no deeper than a stallion’s knees, and there were no hydras in the muddy waters. And there the wizards had halted—

  Do they challenge the Horse People? Mad Bear’s heart rose within him, and he leaped upon his greatest stallion. “My people! Have we not said that those the gods will destroy are first driven from their senses? The sky gods are no friends to these wizards! The wizards await us, in a place we know well, in a place where we will triumph! We shall have the battle the Warrior desires, and this day we shall send many of the wizard-people to the Warrior’s Lodge!

  “For what do we face? Men of the Iron Houses, and this in a place we would have chosen! Have they not always been easy enough to kill?

  “To arms! Fill the waterskins, and send for all the Horse People who camp through the plains and hills! Summon all the clans! All the clans shall fight as one this day, all the Horse People as brothers, for is this not the will of the Warrior? Come, come, we shall fill the Warrior’s Lodge!”

 

 

30

 

 

Private Hal Roscoe shaded his eyes and stared down the valley in wonder. “Jesus Christ, Major, where’d they all come from?”

  Mason waved him back into action without answering. Damn good question, Art thought. There must have been fifty thousand of the mothers, two or three times as many as Mason had expected, and they swarmed all across the valley of the Hooey River, on both sides and in the river itself, shooting as fast as they could, then closing in with lances and lariats and those goofy bronze swords. Anyone with a dead or hurt horse was a goner. Not even the mercs could cover him.

  The whole operation had gone sour. “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” Captain Galloway had told Mason; and Lord God was that true! Westmen had come boiling in from all directions, and despite everything the pieces of the Alliance army had got separated.

  Now Mason’s troops held the top of a hill only a little higher than the rest of the knolls that sprinkled the Hooey Valley. The visibility was lousy. Too much dust, and too many of those damned little hills. Mason cursed again as he scanned the valley with his binoculars. The Drantos ironhats were across the river on another hill, facing their own share of Westmen. And everything flowed! Caradoc’s Mounted Archers had stayed with the mercs. Now they were out in front of Mason’s troops, and the mercs didn’t dare fire because the archers and the Westmen were all mixed together.

  Vothan alone knew where the Romans had got off to. Mason looked down the valley toward the balloon. They’d set it up in a strong place, where the Hooey Valley narrowed and flowed between much higher hills. He’d left Beazeley and a hundred guards to babysit it. The whole army of Drantos was between it and the Westmen. It ought to have been safe enough.

  Ought to have been. The balloon was aloft, but the observers weren’t paying any attention to Art Mason. Why hadn’t they seen just how many Westmen there were? Every’ goddam war, on every goddam planet, the skyboys fight their own battle and let the grunts carry the can! Too damn late now. Art swept his binoculars along the limits of his vision. He couldn’t see too far because of the damned low hills- but there was more dust rising in the west, which meant more Westmen.

  Mason cursed. This could get sticky.

  Across the river the mass of Westmen facing the Drantos knights thickened, churned, and split off a detachment. They cantered into the river, throwing up a cloud of spray and gravel.

  “Murph!” Hell, I’m screaming, Mason thought. Scared spitless. Well, maybe I got a right to be. Wonder, if we buy it, will we go to Vothan’s Hall? Or Heaven? Or someplace else, and would someplace else be better’n nowhere at all? “Murph! Put a couple rounds in the river!”

  “Roger!”

  The recoilless spewed flame. The first round was white phosphorus. Steam puffed up where the burning bits hit the water. Then a high explosive round took out nearly a score of Westmen. That slowed them enough to let some of the calivermen reload, and when the Westmen came on they were hit by a rolling volley, each man firing as soon as he heard the gun of the man next to him, fire rippling down the line with the one remaining four-pounder to punctuate the end of the volley…

  It wasn’t enough. There were too many Westmen trying to cross that river, and they could shoot even with the water up to the bellies of their horses. The arrow-hail came down again, and suddenly there weren’t enough Mounted Archers to stop them. For the tenth time that morning Art wished the other four-pounder hadn’t been abandoned with a broken carriage axle.

  “Hey, Art!” Murphy called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell, I know we were supposed to make ‘em mad enough to fight, but goddam, this is ridiculous!”

  Three of the troopers laughed, but it sounded a little hollow. Down below, the Westmen came on. A lot of the calivermen were down, and the rest were shaky. One platoon broke and ran. Caradoc, his red Roman cloak streaming out behind him, rode in to rally them. Some of his personal Guards leaned from their saddles to collect guns. Then the whole crowd began to pull back, with the Westmen’s arrows following them. Three men and a horse went down around the four-pounder, and the remaining gunners abandoned it to scramble higher up the hill.

  By now the Mounted Archers had retreated far enough that the Guards and mercs would pretty soon have a clear field of fire. Mason sidestepped his horse and unlimbered his own H&K before ho thought better and slung it again. Thinking like a corporal again, Art, he told himself, he rode around to check the position of the other mercs.

  They were set up about as well as they could be. On the left flank, Walbrook had the mortar, with Bilofsky nearby with the light machine gun. “Take care of that thing,” Mason shouted. “That LMG may be all that’s ‘tween us and Vothan’s Hall!”

  “Right-o!” Bilofsky answered. He grinned cheerfully. “Don’t worry about a thing, Major.”

  Murphy and the 106 were in the center of the line. There was a problem about the mortar and the 106. They’d used most of the ammo in the bombardment of the camp. Now there wasn’t enough left to defend themselves. Maybe that’s justice, Mason thought. Frig that. He used his binoculars to watch the situation develop. Now they had a clear shot.

  “First Guards. On my command, IN VOLLEY— FIRE! Fire at will!” The platoon of Guards let fly with their calivers. Meanwhile the other mercs blazed away with rifles. Most fired single shot. Somewhere a trooper had switched to rock and roll. He’d be out of ammo pretty soon.

  They all fired low, as they’d been taught, and the volley emptied few saddles, but it did dismount a lot of Westmen. They leaped from their falling horses— and kept coming. Soon they were in among the dismounted archers, using spears and knives and a few swords, and small axes like tomahawks.

  “God Almighty!” Pfc. Roscoe yelled. “Those are mean little mothers!”

  “Kinda my sentiments too,” Murphy said. “Art, we going to get out of this?”

  “We can sure as hell try.”

  The LMG got in the act, bringing down nearly a hundred Westmen, and Art began to breathe a little easier. The mortar chugged away, lobbing WP and HE into the advance, and suddenly the Westmen didn’t look so confident—but they were still coming. It wasn’t going to be enough.

  “Stand by to pull out!” Mason shouted in English, then switched to Tran dialect. “The First Guards will withdraw! Trumpeter, sound ‘Boots and Saddles.’ Rendezvous at Point Blue One.” That was the mouth of the valley where Beazeley’s squad was guarding the balloon and the reserve ammo. A strong place. Maybe not so easy to get out of, but easy to hold. Mason shook his head. Wish the captain was here. What would he do? Don’t matter. What I’m going to do is get my shit together. Then we can make a stand or run like hell, depending. That’s what the Drantos troops have done. Got a strong place across the valley where they can think things over. Wonder what they intend doing?

  There were more arrows, and suddenly Bilofsky rolled over, staring at an arrow sticking out of his chest. The damned fool wasn’t wearing armor! His number two, Pfc. Arkos Passavopolous, took over, but the belt ran out a long time before the Westmen did. Mason rode over. “Hey Ark! Get Bilof sky onto a horse!”

  “No hurry about that, Major. Best I save the gun first.”

  “Shitfire. Okay, do it, fast!” Then his horse spooked, and while it was bucking another flight of arrows came in. The horse screamed and reared, and Art threw himself out of the saddle before it could fall on him. He went one way and the H&K went another, and now there was nothing left but the Colt. Mason held it in both hands and squeezed off rounds. One Westman down. Another, and another, but more were coming up, trampling over the dead and dying, lots more than he had rounds for the Colt, and Mason decided he hadn’t really wanted to live forever.

  A great black horse loomed up behind the advancing Westmen, and a sword whirled and came down. A Westman tried to keep going with one arm off, and didn’t make it. Another fell headless. The horse trampled two more, and then calivermen and Tamaerthan troopers were among the Westmen. The calivermen used bayonets with effect, and a few had reloaded and were able to fire. More of the Tamaerthans charged in, and the Westmen began to thin out. Then there weren’t any at all.

  Mason stood up as Caradoc rode up the hill. “Thanks.”

  Caradoc grinned and pointed with his bloody saber. Squads of troops moved off to deal with dismounted Westmen. The archer captain waved again, and another trooper brought Mason a fresh mount, and now they had a few minutes breathing spell, but it was still going to be close.

  Then he looked up and saw a new army of Westmen come over the ridge, and Art Mason wondered how many would make it to Point Blue One.

 

 

There was no water on the hill where the fighting men of Drantos were gathered. Wanax Ganton had been about to drink when a young staff officer brought the news from Camithon. “The spring was filled with dirt and dung, Majesty. It will be long before it flows again.”

  Ganfon thrust the plug into the mouth of the Waterskin and handed it back to Morrone. So be it. “From this moment, the water is for the horses,” he said. “Tell the captains.”

  “Aye, Majesty.” The young officer hesitated, then set his lips. “Lord Camithon bids me say we have lost above two hundred men at arms killed, and another five hundred have been given to the care of the priests of Yatar.”

  “That many,” Ganton mused. He straightened. “Tell Lord Camithon I will join him soon, and meantime he is to do as he thinks best. And tell all about the water.”

  “Aye, Majesty.”

  When the messenger had gone, Morrone whistled through pursed lips. “An eighth, more than an eighth of our strength lost, and now we are at bay, trapped upon a hill without water. What will we do?”

  “I do not yet know,” Ganton said.. “First we will show ourselves to the soldiers. As we do, we will discover how it fares with them, and whether they will fight. And then we will take counsel of Lord Camithon. He has seen more battles than I have of years. Doubtless his advice will be good.” And if not, I must yet listen. The Lord Rick has often told me that battles wander far from what we plan, and by Yatar this one has done so. Now we need harmony among the captains, and they must not believe I quarrel with Camithon.

  He rode along the ridge with only his banner bearer and Morrone. Sometimes he stopped to hear a wounded man’s message, or to praise a deed he had seen or been told of; and always he listened as he rode past. They cheered him yet, and he felt glad. They would follow him.

  Across the valley the thunder of star weapons grew, then died. He climbed higher on the ridge and used the binoculars. There was no doubt of it. The Lord Mason was retreating, taking with him all the mounted archers and other Tamaerthan warriors as well as the starmen. Ganton was shocked at how few Tamaerthans remained.

  Yet there were no instructions from the balloon. It floated high above the battle, but Ganton could not see the men within it. Had they been killed? Despite all his warnings, the forces of the Alliance had become separated, and the balloon left guarded only by a few. No one had desired it, but the Westmen had poured from behind every hill, across every ridge and through every valley, more Westmen than anyone believed possible, and bands of them had got between the host and the balloon.

  Perhaps there would be no messages from the balloon.

  He recognized Caradoc’s scarlet Roman cloak, and saw figures in starman uniforms. Some lay still, lashed across saddles. The towering soldier they called “the Great Ark” rode a captured pony so small that his legs nearly touched the ground. Others had rigged poles out behind their horses and had lashed equipment onto them. They retreated in good order, fighting their way toward the balloon.

  The valley below was a cauldron. Ganton swept his binoculars across the land again. The Westmen seemed divided in counsel. Some rode after Mason. Others milled about, shouting at each other.

  And meantime there was nothing to do but wait, while the day grew warmer. Ganton cursed softly and once again looked toward the futile balloon. Where were the Romans? Were they gone as well?

 

 

Mad Bear was trying to keep his horse from drinking the foul waters of the river when Hinuta rode up. He had a score of Silver Wolves-and as well a hundred Two Rivers, and dozens more from other clans.

  “Rejoice, Mad Bear, your deeds have been told throughout the Horse People, and many clans would follow you.”

  “Ah.” Mad Bear looked again. There was one missing. “Where is Tenado, my son?”

  “He turned his back on a dead Ironshirt,” Hinuta said simply.

  “Aiiiy.” But this was no time for lament.

  “I have brought the Ironshirt’s hair. You may offer it to the gods,” Hinuta said. He handed over a bloody bundle.

  “You have my thanks,” Mad Bear said. He looked around the valley. “The Ironshirts are worthy fighters. They die well.”

  “Many of them have not died at all,” Hinuta said. “And many of the Red Cloaks have gone off down the river, where they hold the small hills near the trees.”

  “Ah.”

  “Let us gather our people and go join the battle against them. Tens of tens of tens would follow Mad Bear-”

  “Nay.” Mad Bear shook his head and pointed to the southern ridge covered with the horses and banners of Ironshirts. They had dismounted, and hid their horses behind their great shields. There were many of their archers as well. Ironshirt archers from the stone houses used a strange bow with metal parts to do the work of a man’s strength. The bows would not shoot so often, but they ranged nearly as far as those of the Horse People below them.

  “Those have not died either, and their chief of the golden hat rides among them. Kill him and the others will flee,” Mad Bear said. He rode over to be near Hinuta. The loss of Tenado ate at his heart, but he could never show that. Instead he clapped Hinuta on the shoulder. “It is a great day!”

  “A great day for the Warrior,” Hinuta agreed. He eyed the encamped Ironshirts and grinned. “It was well that we stopped the spring on that hill. And if the Ironshirts will stay long-”

  “Their horses will go mad. If the Horse People can fight as one, then we will send them all to the Warrior,” Mad Bear completed. “Despite their wizard-fire.” They both had seen the Mountain Walkers struck down by the wizards’ thunder. “Go among the Horse People, and say that Mad Bear will lead them against the Ironshirts, as many as will follow.”

  Only the oath-bound warriors of his band had to obey; but many had heard of the deeds of Mad Bear, and many would come, would follow him. Soon there would be tens of tens of tens. Mad Bear would lead them toward the Ironshirts, then pretend to retreat. The Ironshirts would charge as they always did, and this battle would end.

  And that would be well.

 

 

They had to fight their way into Point Blue One. It took four rounds from the 106 and a full belt from the LMG before the last of the Westmen were driven out. Mason shouted orders and the troops began setting up a perimeter, leaving Art to deal with what had been the headquarters area.

  The balloon crew was dead. Flyboys and ground crew, all bristled with arrows, the airmen lying huddled in the bottom of their wicker basket. Near the wagon was Ski, big scar and all, with a dozen arrows just for him, and his scalp and ears cut away as well. The Tamaerthan and Drantos riggers had been hacked with swords, and the acolytes of Yatar literally dismembered. Art looked at the bloody scene and grimaced.

  Just like the king said, Mason thought. A roving band. Something. Christ, who’d have thought they could get past all of us? Or that there’d be so many of the little mothers- One of the piles of dead began to move. Mason had the safety off the .45 when Beazeley’s bloody face popped out of the heap of bodies.

  “I’ll be dipped in shit! Welcome back, buddy,” Mason said.

  “Feel more welcome if you’d point a different way,” Beazeley said.

  “Guess you would.” Mason didn’t holster the weapon. “Know .where the Romans went?”

  “Last report they were over that way.” He pointed off to the north. .“But about then we had other things to worry about.”

  “When’d you duck?”

  “I was about the last one,” Beazeley said. “Figured there was no point in standing up, so I dove in, with my friend here in my mouth just in case. . .“ He showed his pistol, then looked at the hacked and mutilated bodies of Ski and the priests and shuddered.

  “Okay,” Mason said. “Back to the line. Wait.” He took out a flask. “Have a belt.”

  “Thanks. Ah, McCleve’s finest. Must be a month old. Good stuff.” He drank again.

  Mason scanned the area with his binoculars. Over to his far right there was a lot of dust, and a sound that might have been Roman trumpets. Between them and the Drantos ironhats a band of Westmen was crossing the low ridge, headed north and east. It looked as if they were trying to get behind the Romans.

  “Holy shit!” Beazeley yelled.

  Mason looked around. Another band of Westmen were coming across the ridge to his left.

  Dien Bien Phu, hell, Mason thought. It looks more like Little Big Horn.

 

 

31

 

 

Ganton felt reassured when he had completed his inspection of the army. Camithon had arrayed the host well. The men were dismounted to rest the horses. Above every approach to the hill stood a band of cross-bowmen protected by the shields of men at arms. Behind them were walking wounded to reload, and dismounted knights taking their ease. From this height a bolt could slay a Westman’s horse before his own arrow could pierce armor, and a Westman on foot was no fair match for a Drantos warrior.

  Ganton wasn’t worried about a fair match. He wanted the Westmen dead, or at least driven from his land. If he could have slain them all with his Browning, he would have done so.

  “Hah. And what of your love of battle?” Morrone said. “Glory for your bheromen. What of that?”

  “I had not realized I was speaking aloud,” Ganton said. “And there is precious little glory here. . .“ He used his binoculars to look across the valley. Mason had retreated to where the balloon had been tethered and hauled it down. There was still no sign of the Romans. Had they taken a defensive position somewhere out of sight, or had they left the battle entirely?

  If they had run away, then Ganton’s army would never leave this valley.

  He moved on toward the end of the ridge, and now arrows fell more thickly around him. As he drew near to Camithon’s banner, he saw why. The end of the ridge rose higher than any other part, but also jutted out toward the river like the prow of a ship. It was too steep to allow crossbowmen to perch on it, and the Westmen could ride in close enough to fire their arrows and receive only a few crossbow bolts in return.

  Ganton dismounted. He had to scramble along the ridge to reach Camithon, who stood partially protected by Guardsmen’s shields.

  “Majesty, this is no safe place for you!”

  “It is no more dangerous for me than for you, my lord general. Now-what is your counsel?” When the Westmen first struck and the Drantos horses began to tire, Ganton had not objected when Camithon brought the troops to this hill and set them in a defensive perimeter. Doubtless the general had a plan in mind. Now, though, it was time to learn it. “We are safe and in good order for the moment, but we are not eagles to make our homes here.”

  Camithon grinned and waved the ancient battle-ax he’had carried into every battle since his youth. “First, Majesty, let us get off this knife-edge.” He led the way back along the ridge. “As to counsel, I would know better if I could see what you see.”

  “Ah.” Ganton lifted his binoculars to hand them to Camithon. “First, though-” he said. He swept them along the riverbank, then up to where Mason’s banner stood with Caradoc’s. A waving orange flag, invisible without the binoculars, caught his eye. “Ho! A signal! Fetch the scribes!”

  A runner dashed down the ridge and returned with three young acolytes.

  “I am Panilos, senior acolyte, Majesty,” one said. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old; the others were even younger.

  “Take these, lad,” Ganton said. He handed over his binoculars, noting that Panilos had no difficulty in using them. “Read me that signal from the Lord Mason.”

  “Aye, Majesty,” the boy said. “Laran, make the signals. Wannilos, are you ready?”

  One of the scribes held wax board and stylus. “Aye,” he said. The other waved his flags while Panilos peered through the dust.

  “R-O-M-A-N-S D-U-E N-O-R-T-H O-F H-E-R-E STOP,” he called.

  Panilos called off the message and Wannilos wrote it on the board, while the third acolyte acknowledged each word. They worked quickly, too fast for Ganton to follow. When they were done, Wannilos read it off.

  “ROMANS DUE NORTH OF HERE. THE ROMANS HAVE TAKEN HEAVY LOSSES BUT ARE IN

  GOOD ORDER. WE HAVE LOST MORE THAN HALF THE ARCHERS. BALLOON DISABLED. STAR WEAPONS LOW ON MISSILES. SUGGEST WE WITHDRAW.”

  “If the Romans are due north of Lord Mason, they must be there,” Ganton said. “Beyond those hills. There is enough dust there.” He handed the binoculars to Camithon.

  The old general held them gingerly. “Majesty, the Romans are not where I expected them to be. Now the

  Westmen will move to cut us off from the Romans.

  We must hasten to decide what to do. First, I will examine the battlefield. I wish to see the Romans.” The Roman position was north and east. Sight of them was cut off by trees as well as dust. From further south on the prow of the ridge they might be visible. Camithon took the binoculars and moved gingerly out along the knife-edge. Ganton wanted to call him back, but that would not be seemly. Instead he followed.

  They had gone half the way when Camithon straightened and cried out. Ganton ran forward. Camithon was falling when Ganton reached him, and only then did he see the arrow sticking out of the general’s left eye. Blood poured down over his scar. Ganton leaped to hold him, but the old man’s dead weight was too much. They fell off the ridge and rolled down the hill.

  “Rally!” Morrone screamed. He leaped down the hill to get below his king. “Guards! Shieldsmen!”

  Other knights jumped down from the ridgetop to form a shieldwall. Behind them king and captain lay together on the ground.

  Ganton heard none of this. With his ear practically against Camithon’s lips, he strained to listen to the man who had been more to him than his father ever had.

  “Make them stay together, lad. Use them well. And not too early—” The voice faded out.

  “My Lord Protector. My friend,” Ganton whispered.

  The voice came from lips flecked with blood. “Lad—” Then only a final rattle.

  Ganton raised the dead form and laid his general’s head in his lap. He bent to kiss the bloody lips. Then he stood. A shower of arrows fell around them, and he realized it was his golden helm that drew the Westmen. Had his vanity killed his oldest friend? “Bear him upslope with honor,” Ganton said quietly.

  Then he saw Camithon’s fallen battle-ax. He pointed to it. “I will carry that,” he said quietly. A knight handed it to him. Ganton slipped the thong about his wrist and whirled it until it blurred, remembering the hours Camithon had made him spend in the courtyard attacking wooden stakes.

  There were shouts from above. Shouts and moving banners, with panic in some of the voices. “The Wanax has fallen,” someone shouted.

  Ganton scrambled furiously up the crumbling sides of the slope. It was steep, and his armor was heavy. The battle-ax hampered him, but he held it grimly. No one else would carry that ax, not today and not ever. Camithon had no son. . . no son of his body, Ganton corrected himself. He has son enough today.

  They had rolled farther down the slope than he’ had thought, and the climb was exhausting. His chest heaved with the effort. Then two Guards leaped down from the ridgetop. One extended his hand and pulled Ganton up. It wasn’t dignified, but it helped him get up the slope.

  “My horse!” he called to his orderly. “Banner-man! With me!” He spurred the horse to ride back along the ridge, hearing the cheers of his bherômen and knights as they saw the golden helm. “I am unhurt,” he shouted. When he was certain there would be no panic, he returned to the southern tip of the ridge.

  “Majesty, dismount,” Morrone pleaded. “If you are hurt—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. With Camithon dead, there was only one person the knights would follow.

  Will they follow me? Ganton wondered. An untried youth, who has fought in one battle, one part of another; who has led them onto this hill of dusty death. . . what did Carnithon intend? He had a plan, but I know it not.

  And it matters not. It is my battle now, mine alone, and that is all I may consider now.

  Some of the knights were standing by their horses. A few had mounted. Ganton rode toward them. “What means this, my lords? I have heard no trumpet!”

  “We need no trumpet to tell us what to do.”

  It was difficult to know who spoke, but from the shield markings and scarf Ganton thought it must be Bheroman Hilaskos, an important lord who led many lances to battle.

  “And what would you do, my lord?”

  “Cut through the enemy!” Hilaskos said.

  “And then?”

  “And return to our homes.”

  “You would run away, then?” Ganton kept his voice low and calm, though it took a great effort to do that.

  “No man calls me coward. But what honor is there to perch on a ridgetop until we die of thirst? The battle is lost, sire. It will not save my lands nor yet the realm for my lances to be lost with it.”

  “Your lances will not be lost, nor yet will you,” Ganton said. “It is your Wanax who commands here. Dismount.”

  Hilaskos hesitated. “Dismount,” Ganton said. “Or by Vothan I will take your head in sight of your knights. Dismount and kneel!”

  One of Hilaskos’s squires came forward to hold his master’s bridle. The baron hesitated a moment more, then got down from his horse. “Aye, sire,” he said. He knelt. “I see we have gained a true Wanax this day.”

  The others dismounted, and Ganton rode again along the ridge. This time there were more cheers, and no dissenters.

  “And what will we do now, sire?” Morrone asked when they were out of the others’ earshot.

  Ganton continued to scan the battlefield. “I do not know,” he said. , ‘

  Art Mason watched the priest of Yatar place the Guardsman’s beret over his face and signal to the acolytes who were acting as stretcher-bearers. They picked up the dead man and carried him to the line of bodies already laid out just below the crest of the hill. A long line, too damned long, Art thought, and not all the Guards’ dead were in it.

  And the priests had armed themselves with fallen Guardsmen’s daggers. For Westman? Or for the wounded if they had to retreat? For the hundredth time Art wondered what Captain Galloway would do.

  The situation looked sticky. There were only two qualified signalmen, and it would be a waste to send them up in the balloon even if they could get it repaired. The damned low hills would let the Westmen get close enough to shoot the balloon observers before the basket could rise out of range. Because of the hills there were thousands, tens of thousands of Westmen out there in a killing ground, but no way to kill them. Not enough ammunition, no clear fields of fire; they were down to four bombs for the mortar and no more than a dozen rounds for the 106.

  Running low on ammunition, but not low on Westmen. Not at all.

  He looked across at the Drantos forces again. They seemed intact, almost no losses, but they sat there on top of their damned hill. They’d acknowledged his message suggesting withdrawal, but they weren’t doing anything about it. The Romans weren’t acknowledging signals at all, which wasn’t surprising; they were only visible for short intervals when the dust cleared. They’d only had one semaphore expert with them, and he was probably lost.

  “So what do we do, Art?” Murphy asked quietly.

  “Wait.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know, but you got a better idea? If we pull out—” He pointed to the low sunshade awnings the priests had erected to give shelter to the wounded.

  “Yeah, I got that picture,” Murphy said.

  “Besides—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell, Ben, I don’t think we can pull out.” He. pointed to the north. “A mess of ‘em disappeared in that direction. More went east. Not enough to worry about, if that was all of ‘em, but enough to ambush us good while we’re trying to hold off pursuit.”

  “Well, we gotta do something.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll think of it,” Mason said. “Crap, Ben, you know I’m no mucking officer.”

  “Maybe not, buddy, but you’re all we got now,” Murphy said. He took a flask from his pocket. “Shot?”

  “Yeah—no. Not just now.” He lifted the binoculars again.

 

 

Arrows fell around Ganton, but none got through his armor. Three knights held shields around him as he stood at the very tip of the ridge. From here he could see almost all of the battlefield.

  The three ‘groups of the Alliance formed a right isosceles triangle with the Romans at its apex. Across the valley, on the other side of the river, stood the Captain-General’s banner with Lord Mason’s. Caradoc’s stood close by them. Due east of Ganton and almost due north of Mason, the Romans held two more hilltops. He was separated from the Romans by a southward-jutting finger of the woody ridge that formed the north bound of the Hooey Valley.

  I am the only one who sees all this, now that the balloon is gone, he thought. Knowledge is power, Lord Rick says. To know what the enemy does not know— what is it I know that they do not?

  I know where all the Westmen are, and none of them can know this, for they are separated from each other by the low hills in the river valley. Even those on the tops of the knolls see only to the next hill.

  And they are divided. The two largest groups face Lord Mason and the Romans, and those two groups are separated by the river. While below facing us—

  Below were perhaps five thousand Westmen. A formidable number, but nothing for the host of Drantos to fear. Small groups of Westmen rode up and down their line, shouting to their comrades, and from time to time riders went toward the enormous bands facing the Romans.

  If the Alliance forces were out of-supporting distance, as the starmen called it—so were the Westmen. And the Westmen had no wanax, no single commander.

  “Stay here. They must believe that I will return,” Ganton ordered the shieldmen. He moved back along the ridge to Morrone. “Send messengers,” he said. “Water the horses. The host is to make ready to mount. I want no trumpets to sound until we are ready to ride. The squires and walking wounded will stay to protect the wounded and priests. The rest will prepare to charge. Go quickly now.”

  Morrone grinned like a wolf. “Aye, sire.”

  Ganton looked up at the vault of the sky. Father Yatar, give me clear sight. Is this right action?

  There was no answer. Or was there? Far away he thought he saw an eagle circling above the valley. Almost he raised the binoculars, but then he let them dangle.

  It is an eagle. It is an answer, he told himself. It is enough.

  Morrone came up. “All is done as you ordered. Now let me aid you with your armor.”

  “Aye. Stay with my banner,” Ganton said. “And if I fall, lead the host.”

  “Where, Majesty?”

  “There.” Ganton pointed southeast. “Through yonder band of Westmen. Ignore all the others. You and I will be at the left of the host. The others will form to our right. We break through that line, and ride eastward along the valley to there.” He pointed again to where the finger of ridge and trees separating them from the Romans jutted down into the valley. “As soon as we have rounded that small hill, then charge northeast.”

  Morrone frowned. “Away from the Lord Mason?”

  “Yes.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Is all in readiness?”

  A shout rippled down the line. “LONG LIVE WANAX GANTON!”

  “MOUNT!” he ordered. He swung onto his charger. “Morrone, stay with me. I want nothing save my armor closer to my back than you!”

  “With my life, Majesty!”

  “Sound the trumpets!”

  The wild notes of the comets blared up the line. Kettledrums added to the din. The Westmen down below looked up, startled. Ganton whirled the ax above his head. “FOR DRANTOS. FOR CAMITHON AND DRANTOS!”

  The line of heavy cavalry moved ponderously forward, until there was no sound but the thunder of hooves and the call of trumpets.

 

 

32

 

 

Mad Bear had once seen the side of a hill fall when the earth shook. Boulders the size of men had rolled toward him faster than a horse could trot, and dust went up until it seemed it must reach the Father’s feet.

  He remembered that now. There was dust in plenty, and it was as if the hill had fallen upon him—but now, each boulder was a man dressed all in iron, mounted on a horse so tall it seemed that a Horse People’s stallion could pass under its belly, and those great horses wore iron!

  The hill was alive with banners, and the earth shook to the thunder of hooves. Trumpet calls rent the air, trumpets and kettledrums and the triumphant shouts of the Ironshirts as their great lances came down.

  Mad Bear had fought Ironshirts before, but always on an open plain. He had never imagined such a host, of them coming directly toward him. He knew that he saw his death, his and all the Horse People who had stood with him. Somewhere downriver were more of the Horse People, but not enough had come, and now—

  Now there was nothing save honor. The Warrior would see that Mad Bear could die as a man, and that was all he could hope for.

  He wasted no time with words. The thunder of the charging Ironshirts was too much. No one would have heard him’. Instead, he counted his arrows. A hand and one more. Not enough, not nearly enough. Well, that would have to do also. He would shoot his arrows and ride away. Perhaps the Ironshirts would scatter as they followed. He nocked an arrow to his bow and tried to aim at flesh, not iron.

 

 

“For this was I born!” Ganton spurred his charger ahead. The line of Westmen had turned to face him, and they shot arrows as swiftly as they could. Here and there they struck home and a horse went down, causing others in the lines behind to swerve and stumble; but the host swept on inexorably.

  “For this was I born!” he shouted again.

  His lance took the first Westman in the throat, spitting him like a boar. Ganton let the lance dip and sweep behind so that his motion pulled it from the fallen enemy. He barely had time to raise it again before it struck home in a Westman pony. Ganton let it go and took the axe which hung by its thong from the saddle horn. As he swept past another enemy the ax swung to crash through a bear-tooth and leather helmet and split the skull below it.

  “Sire, let us pass!” Two Guards rode alongside. “We have lances. Let us lead.”

  Almost he cursed them; then he thought again. If I fall, the day is lost. Morrone cannot do what must be done. And that is not right, battles and kingdoms should not stand and fall by one life, but today it is so. “You have my thanks,” he shouted, and waved the Guards past. More drew alongside, and soon he was surrounded. Not by Guardsmen alone, he saw. Bheromen and knights, all eager to ride between him and danger.

  If my father could have lived to see, he thought. And I live through this day, the throne is safe. Throne? Dynasty! Our children, mine and Octavia’s will hold this land forever!

  Wanax and followers rode on until they were through the lines of Westmen.

  “Trumpets,” Ganton called. “Sound the rally. Bring the host toward me.”

  The trumpets sang as his bannermen raised high the Royal Banner of Drantos and the Fighting Man. Then a dozen Westmen galloped past. They lay flat to their horse’s necks, their quivers empty. They were pursued by a score of Drantos horsemen thundering along behind the banner of Lord Epimenes. “Hold!” Ganton shouted. “HOLD!”

  “The cowards flee!” the bheroman shouted.

  They must hold, Ganton thought. He drew the Browning and fired toward Lord Epimenes’s banner. There was no knowing where the bullet went, but the sound was heard even in the din of battle. “HOLD!” Ganton shouted again. “Lord Epimenes, stay with me! We have better work than tiring our horses in pursuit of empty quivers! Leave them for the esquires, for we have work worthy of bheromen and knights!”

  Epimenes reined in. It wasn’t clear whether he had been won over by Ganton’s words or by the ax and pistol the Wanax carried, but the futile pursuit was stopped.

  “Trumpets, sound the walk,” Ganton shouted. In a more normal voice he spoke to the group around him. “We have broken through the first line. When we reach the top of yonder rise, we charge again. Morrone!”

  “Sire!”

  “Ride to the right flank, where Lord Enipses commands, and be certain that he follows where we lead.” He pointed up the valley. “Lord Epimenes will remain to guard me. And return safely—”

  “Aye, Majesty.”

  Ganton rose in his stirrups and grinned as he saw the heaps of dead Westmen behind them. A few Drantos knights lay among them, and more stood dismounted; but the host was an intact fighting force. He used the ax to point up the hill, and felt a lump in his breast as he thought how often Camithon had gestured with that ax. “Forward,” he said.

  The host swept north and east.

 

 

“Major!” Hal Roscoe ran up shouting. “Here they come again!”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em,” Mason said. He looked up and down his line and prepared to hold off yet another charge from the enemy.

  If there’d been more ammo for the mortar—

  It’s no friggin’ good. Mentally he counted magazines. Enough to get out of here, he thought. Hold ‘em off until dark and go for it. We’ll lose the wounded, and a lot of the equipment, but I don’t see what else to do. We can’t go after ‘em, and these damn little hills give us too little clear field of fire for the rifles.

  “Make ready to shoot!” he shouted. “Rolling volley from the left. Take aim! Fire!”

  The calivermen fired and reloaded as fast as they could, and Mason used his own H&K to good effect. No point in acting like an officer now, he thought. I’m not all that good a one anyway, and there ain’t that many orders to give—

  “Cross the valley, Art!” Murphy yelled. “For God’s sake, look!”

  Mason stared across the river. “Holy crap! Look alive, troops! Looks like our little king’s remembered us.”

  The Drantos heavies were coming down the hill. All of them. At least all that had horses. A few had drawn right up to the top of the ridge and set up a shield wall, but damn near the whole army of Drantos was riding down that hill.

  The wild charge came down the mountain like a wall. From Mason’s distance it looked like a huge wave that washed across the line of Westmen, leaving a wake of dead and dying behind it as the armored men simply rode the lighter horsemen down.

  The front ranks were damned near solid with banners, and right out front on the left wing was the biggest banner of all, the Royal Standard of Drantos, and yeah, that was the golden helm that crazy kid fancied. They were coming straight toward Art Mason.

  Then they swerved left, pivoting around the golden helmet.

  “What now?” Murphy asked.

  Mason frowned. “Don’t know. But I’ll bet you anything you like that kid knows what he’s doing.”

  Murphy shaded his eyes and watched the last of the Drantos heavies vanish into the dust, then turned back to picking off advancing Westmen. “I sure hope you’re right,” he said.

  Julius Sulpicius, primus pilus of the Fourth Legion, rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. “Those scouts we sent forward are late coming back,” he said. He could have said that it was unlikely that they would return at all; but there was no need for that. One didn’t work up to First Centurion of a legion by chattering at generals of Titus Frugi’s years and experience.

  Frugi cursed under his breath. That was the fourth scouting party he’d sent upriver. One had returned, unable to pierce the combination of Westmen and dust. The other three had not come back at all.

  From time to time Titus Frugi had made out a gleam on the tip of a ridge far up the valley; a gleam and what seemed to be a banner. The sketch maps the frumentarii had made of the Hooey Valley showed that point as part of a defensible ridge, and Frugi wondered if the army of Drantos had taken refuge there.

  Certainly the starmen and their Tamaerthan allies were holding another hilltop across the river.

  “Third Cohort says the barbarians are thickening up toward the rear,” Sulpicius added. His fifteen years of following the eagles gave him the right to say more, but with Titus Frugi that wasn’t needed. His tone made the implied question clear enough: isn’t it about time we get the hell out of here?

  It was, but that didn’t much appeal to Frugi. Withdrawing without orders would endanger an alliance that was all that stood between the Westmen and the Roman borders-if the legends were right, these Westmen had once come all the way to the gates of sacred Rome herself! No. Better to stand here, even if it cost the legion.

  But—are we doing well? he wondered. We have taken positions here, and none will come past us, but what good do we do? From time to time the Westmen would try the Romans’ mettle, but when they found they could not induce the Romans into futile wild charges they soon abandoned the sport. Now there were thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of Westmen somewhere out in front of the legion, but they would not stay to receive a charge. Titus Frugi had fought many enemies in his service to Rome, but never one that he could not find! Yet between the dust and the hills that was precisely the difficulty; and if he thrashed about in that dust searching for the enemy, the horses would tire, and then he would indeed be lost.

  Trumpets sounded at the forward outposts, and now the decurion and men he’d stationed out there as a screen were galloping back toward the main lines. More trumpets. “TO HORSE!” they sang, and if the centurions ordered that without asking Frugi’s permission, the enemy was in sight! As he rode forward, the first of the Westmen came over the brow of the small hillock in front of the Roman lines.

  The centurions knew their business. The cohortes equitates came forward with their shields and spears to protect the horse archers, while the cataphracti shot the Westmen down- Shot them down, and the Westmen hardly resisted!

  “This is no charge!” Titus Frugi shouted.

  “Legate, you are right!” Sulpicius shouted. “They flee! But—what?”

  Could it be a trick? No. The Westmen were clever, even devilishly clever, but they had not the discipline to sacrifice so many as a ruse. No, they fled an enemy behind them, fled in terror—

  “Trumpet to arms!” Titus Frugi called. “Sound the ‘Make ready.’ The legion will advance! Fifth and

  Sixth Cohorts to the wings to cut off enemy escape.” A cheer rang down the lines. Even the iron disciplined Romans hated standing in place to be shot at.

  “At the walk!”

  The Roman line moved forward, down the slope and up the next, into the dust beyond. As they did, more Westmen poured out. The centurions hastily put men with shields and lances in the front ranks, spacing them so that the archers in the next rank could shoot between them. The cohortes equitates clung to the saddles of their mounted comrades; when the Westmen charged they moved expertly forward with spear and shield to catch the Westmen from below while the cataphracti threatened them from horseback. More Westmen died.

  Then they were over the brow of the hill. The narrow valley below was a cauldron of dust and noise, trumpets of Drantos mingled with the screams of the Westmen and their horses. The Westmen were bunched together, trapped in the small valley so that they could not use their weapons, and with the Drantos force between them and the river, and the Romans coming in from behind, they could not run away.

  The legion moved forward to crush Caesar’s enemies.

 

 

Ganton whirled the ax around his head, for now it was work for axes and swords. There was not room enough for a charge. None was really needed. The Westmen tried to flee, only to pile upon their fellows; then they turned to face the host of Drantos, but when an unarmored man with a bronze sword faced a steelclad knight with longsword or ax, there could be only one outcome.

  “They do not flee!” Morrone shouted. He hewed down another enemy.

  Ganton was as blood-spattered as Morrone. His Browning was long since emptied, and he had not time to reload. Also, sometime during the charge he had lost his hatred of Westmen. Now he wanted only for the battle to end. I know what Lord Rick must feel, he thought. There can be enough killing, enough and more than enough. Yet we do what we must do. “It is the Romans,” Ganton answered.

  A Westman warrior broke through the leading ranks and dashed at Ganton, thrusting with a captured Drantos lance. The lance crashed against his upraised shield. The wooden shield cracked through the middle, but as it did it caught the Westman’s lance. Ganton swung the ax to cut through the shaft, raised the ax and swung it again. His wrist had long ago tired, and the ax twisted as he struck so that only the flat smashed against the steel cap the warrior wore, but that was enough. The man went down, but there was another behind him, and Ganton’s shield was gone. Desperately he tried to avoid the stroke- Morrone charged forward and spitted the man with his sword.

  Ganton waved acknowledgment. By now they had saved each other more times than either could remember.

  “The Romans?” Morrone asked.

  Ganton frowned. What was this question, and why should he answer questions at all? His head pounded with the sound of horns and drums, and he was exhausted. A council chamber with too many offering advice seemed an ideal place; but he knew he must keep his head.

  What of the Romans? Ah. He remembered what he had said before the Westmen had attacked him.

  “They are ahead there,” Ganton said. “I had hoped they would have sense enough to charge when we drove the Westmen toward them, and it seems they have. And could I but get to them—”

  What would I do? I had a thought, and now it is gone, yet I think it was important. Could I get to the Romans—?

  Ah. He stood in his stirrups. “Morrone!”

  “Sire!”

  “You command until I return. The Great Banner remains with you, and you speak with my voice. I must go to the Roman commander. Lord Epimenes!”

  “Sire!”

  “I give you command of my household. Join your men with mine and let us be off, for there are yet great things we may do ill can but speak with the Romans.”

  “Majesty! Command me!”

  He must know how many will fall if we batter our way through that mass, Ganton thought. Yet he is eager to come. That is more brave than sensible. Aye, many of my bheromen are that way. Armored from head to foot and from ear to ear. But loyal, and today I need loyal men. Today they obey me as they would Lord Rick! For today I have given them the kind of battle they pray for through long winters, the battle they have dreamed of since first they couched a lance. Yatar—aye, Yatar and Christ!— grant that their loyalty continues.

  He let himself be surrounded by Guards and the knights who followed Epimenes. Then they lowered their lances and charged toward the Westmen. “For Drantos and Camithon!”

  The tribune Geminius rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. “A party of Drantos nobility approaches, Legate. They have cut their way through the Westmen.”

  “Aid them.”

  “That is done, Legate.”

  Frugi nodded acknowledgment. Drantos warriors were not noted for their cooperation with others, but whoever was coming had risked much.

  A headquarters optio rode in at the gallop. “Centurion says it’s the banner of the Fighting Man!” he shouted.

  “That’s the Wanax himself!” Geminius exclaimed. “But why has he come? He has come without his royal banner!”

  “I am aware of that,” Frugi said impatiently. “Prepare to give him the proper honors and spare me your chatter. We will know soon enough why he has come.”

  That didn’t stop the junior officers from making guesses, but at least it kept them from distracting him with them. Meanwhile, Sulpicius had reports from the cohort commanders.

  Then the Drantos party rode in.

  “Hail, Majesty!” Frugi called.

  “Hail, Legate. We must speak, and quickly.” The young Wanax gestured, and one of his squires leaped down to hold his horse as he dismounted.

  Frugi noted the others in the royal party. Knights and bheromen, seasoned veterans all, carrying bloody weapons. They had come through much to get here—it was significant that veteran warriors would follow this boy king. Frugi wearily dismounted.

  Ganton drew his dagger, knelt, and in the hard ground began to draw a map of the battle. It was not the best map Frugi had ever seen, but it would do. Aye, Titus Frugi thought. A map drawn by a lad who had never thought of maps as a weapon until the starmen came; it will do well enough indeed.

  “We have nearly half the Westmen trapped between us,” Ganton said. “As their ranks thin they will begin to escape; but we will kill enough, I think.” He used his dagger to draw a circle around that combat area.

  “The rest of the Westmen are here, across the river from us, encircling the Lord Mason. They face only star weapons, but so long as they do not attack the Lord Mason, they have little to fear because of the hills. There are not enough starmen to go seeking them.”

  Frugi nodded. “What know you of the balloon?”

  “It does not rise,” Ganton said. “I do not know why. But because it does not rise, the Lord Mason knows little of where the Westmen are. Yet they are here, and here, and—”

  “I see,” Titus Frugi said.

  “The Lord Rick has taught me not to send all my forces into battle at once,” Ganton said. “To hold what he calls reserves. I believe it is also the Roman way.”

  “Yes,” Frugi said. He looked thoughtfully at the young Wanax. There were many more years behind the boy’s eyes than there had been when they planned this battle.

  “If you will divide your reserves into two parts, and send them here and here, then much can be accomplished,” Ganton said. He drew lines on the map to indicate positions flanking the mass of Westmen facing Mason and Caradoc. “For in no more than a Roman hour the slaughter here will be finished, and the army of Drantos will be able to charge again. If we charge across the river, we will take the remaining Westmen from behind, driving them into sight of the starmen. Your reserve force will prevent them from escaping to the sides, and the star weapons will finish the task, I think.”

  “Unless the Westmen dislodge the starmen.”

  “No,” Ganton said. “True, I have not spoken with the Lord Mason—but I do not need to do so. I know the Lord Mason and the Lord Caradoc. They will have a strong position. They will not be driven out by Westmen fleeing in panic.”

  “Umm,” Frugi said. “Will your horses be able to make a second charge?”

  “Aye. I have sent the—support troops—to the river for water. Our horses are well fed, thanks to Lord Rick and the Roman scribes who aid him.”

  He has indeed grown, Titus Frugi thought. And would be a formidable enemy to Caesar—

  “For I have learned,” Ganton said with a rush. “Neither I nor my knights, nor Lord Camithon himself, ever before dreamed how important it would be that a bushel of oats travel from a farmer’s field to the belly of a war horse on the high plains. But I have learned. Aye, Legate, our horses are strong, and soon they will have water. They will charge truly.”

  Titus Frugi shaded his eyes and stared into the dusty valley below. The Wanax is right, he thought. An hour should see the end of that slaughter. Barbarians not fighting under one chief are not known for their readiness to come to the aid of doomed comrades. The reserve will not be needed to meet a rescue attempt. One cohort can hold the rear, and if this lad truly knows the position of the enemy we can yet have a decision this day.

  “I suggest further that Drantos take the center,” Ganton said. “The chivalry of Drantos is best employed in a single striking mass; your legionaries are better at maneuver. And we will strike directly here—” He used the dagger to draw a thick arrow.

  “You have tested the depth of the river, then?” Frugi asked.

  “I have seen the Westmen crossing it,” Ganton said. He held up his binoculars. “With these. At the crucial places the water comes to the bellies of the Westman ponies.”

  “Ah.” Titus Frugi straightened from where he had bent over the map. The headquarters officers leaned forward eagerly. Frugi hesitated another moment, then asked, “What think you, Primus Pilus?”

  “I think well of it, Legate,” Julius Sulpicius answered.

  “And there is no need to ask you, Tribune Geminius. Either you approve or you have adders under your breastplate. Very well. Tribunes, go and ready the cohorts. Wanax, how will you alert your own forces?”

  “I will ride with you until we reach them,” Ganton said. “If that is acceptable to you.”

  “More than acceptable.” And I am glad enough to have you as Caesar’s friend, for you would be a formidable enemy. Our military handbooks will need revision after this day, for they say that Drantos is a barbarian kingdom—and that is true no more.

 

 

33

 

 

Pfc. Passovopolous had just finished reporting the LMG back in action when Mason heard war-horns. They grew louder. A hundred Westmen rode at a gallop out of the dust across the river. Then, suddenly, the Royal Banner of Drantos burst from the dust-cloud behind the Westmen. In another moment, the opposite bank of the Hooey was alive with banners.

  “Murph!” Art shouted. “Use that one-oh-six! Targets of opportunity—”

  “Rog!”

  “Ark! Get ready with the LMG. Looks like they’ll drive the bastards right out in front of us.”

  “Right,” Passovopolous said.

  “Reckon you were right,” Murphy said. “Fire in the hole!” The 106 roared, and a white phosphorus shell burst among a cluster of Westmen trying to organize at the river bank.

  “Right about what?”

  “Kid knew what he was doing.”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. He sure did.

  The LMG chattered, joined by the crackle of fire from H&K rifles; the Westmen’s abortive attempt to rally at the river bank dissolved before it was fairly begun.

  Then everything happened at once. The dust-cloud erupted warriors, Drantos knights and Roman cataphracts. They charged down the river bank and straight on into the shallow river, slowing for a moment there but building momentum again. By the time they had crossed the river, the Roman and Drantos forces had mixed, clumps of Romans intermingled with the Drantos knights, both groups led by the mixed headquarters troops of both armies. It was hard to tell which crossed the river first: the golden helm of Wanax Ganton, or the scarlet cloak of Titus Frugi.

  The Westmen made another attempt to rally, this time at the top of the knoll above the river bank, but a fresh group of Romans, both horsemen and cohortes equitates clinging to their bridles, appeared on their flank. The Roman infantry locked shields and advanced slowly while the cavalry sat their horses and shot down the Westmen. Meanwhile the combined force of Drantos knights and Roman lancers completed their river crossing. They dressed lines, and their officers rode up and down the line shouting. Then the wild war horns sounded, and Romans and knights alike spurred to a canter.

  The Westmen couldn’t stand the combination of arrows from the flanks and lances from the front. Their line buckled, then dissolved. The Allied forces charged on, and the whole battle swept out of Mason’s sight into a fold in the hills.

  “They’ll be coming over that hill pretty quick,” Mason said. “No shooting at ‘em on the ridge. Wait until they’re just below us. That way we’re sure of what we’re shooting at.” He sent a runner with the same message for Caradoc.

  And now we wait, he thought. But this time we know what we’re waiting for. It’s all over but the mopping up.

  Mad Bear’s surprise at getting across the river after the first charge of Ironshirts was beginning to wear off when the Ironshirts charged again. Even then he was not afraid. The Horse People could win against the Ironshirts, even Ironshirts with wizard allies.

  “Stay with me!” he shouted. “We can yet win. The Ironshirts can be led into charge after charge until their horses tire, and then they are easy to kill. Stay with me!”

  He was still shouting this when he saw Red Cloaks on both flanks of the Ironshirts, and more Red Cloaks at the mouth of the valley. Then he knew. The Father and the Warrior had indeed turned their backs on~ the Horse People.

  The Red Cloaks came out of the dust behind their arrows and their terrible war horns, and Mad Bear knew that all the history of the Horse People would henceforth be divided by this day.

  “To me!” he called. “If we cannot win, we can yet die as the Warrior expects! Let us all go up hill and kill the servants of the wizards!”

  But few listened. The never-ending storm of Red Cloak arrows fell among the Horse People, and the Ironshirts hewed their way uphill. Their lances spitted the warriors, their great horses trampled the Horse People’s mounts beneath their hooves, and their terrible iron swords and axes cut down even those who had found armor.

  An arrow struck his horse in the neck, and as it reared two more took it in the chest. Two Ironshirts and three Red Cloaks cantered up the hill. They pointed at Mad Bear and spurred toward him. As they came they - shouted something to him.

  Mad Bear leaped upon a rock, bow in one hand and captured sword in another. He answered the shouts of his enemies with his own war cries. Then he nocked his last arrow and took careful aim at a Red Cloak. The man ducked behind a shield, and Mad Bear hastily changed his aim point to the chest of the nearest Ironshirt. At that range it went through the man’s armor, and Mad Bear shouted in triumph, but then it was too late. His enemies came on. Something struck his head. He was vaguely aware that he had dropped his sword and was falling.

 

 

Titus Frugi rode up to the spot he’d chosen for a command post, to find the starman Lord Walbrook already there. Then the Lord Mason came down the hill after the cohortes equitates relieved his Guards.

  The battle was over. There were still Westmen trapped in the valley or hiding among these low hills, but organized résistance had ended. Now it was enough to send out detachments, preferably with officers sensible enough to try capturing Westmen chiefs alive.

  Westmen fought hard. At first very few surrendered, but now that they were cut off from the river, the need to water their horses would drive them to seek quarter. When they did surrender, it was always to warriors; they would commit suicide rather than be guarded by wizards or women.

  “A good day’s work,” the Lord Mason said.

  Titus Frugi nodded judiciously. “It has been done well,” he said. “And proves the alliance has value to all.”

  Down below, the Tamaerthan archers were wading into the river to drag dead Westmen out to the bank. “That is well done,” Titus Frugi said. “But it would be well to get the dead horses out also. Else the river will be too foul for drinking-”

  Mason chuckled. “I’m afraid they’re not thinking of sanitation, Legate. They’re after Westman gold. Most of the Tamaerthan lads came on this campaign for loot.”

  “Ah. There is much to share,” Titus Frugi said. “The legion has collected much gold, as have the Drantos warriors. How shall this be divided? We must speak of this with the Wanax.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason said.

  “Meantime, your pardon-” Titus Frugi turned to greet Tribune Geminius.

  “Hail, Legate,” the tribune called. “There are still a few bands of Westmen on the ridge across the river. They left the dismounted ones behind to cover while the rest try to escape. Should we pursue?”

  “No.” He lowered his voice so that no one but Geminius could hear. “The legion is scattered. Many of our troops have left ranks to loot. Our horses are exhausted, and we would not pursue as an organized force. The cohorts I could send must remain to guard against a fresh attack. I tell you this because there is a chance-a small chance, but a chance-that you may yet be fit to command a legion.”

  “My thanks-”

  Titus Frugi cut him off. “Meantime, stay here. The centurions know what must be done. It is the task of the officers to see that we face no fresh enemies until the legion is whole again. It is also our task to know what not to see.”

  “Yes, sir-should I then see to getting your tent erected?”

  “How? By shouting orders to the headquarters troops? They would ignore you, Tribune, and quite rightly-what could you tell a ten-year veteran optio about caring for his commander?” Frugi chuckled again. “Dismount and relax, Tribune. And invite the star lords to come sit with us, for I see that Junlo has found the wine, and the Wanax Ganton approaches.”

 

A young man who has learned much, Titus Frugi thought as the Wanax rode up with a dozen of his companions. Riders and horses alike showed the fatigue of a day’s battle and two charges.

  “Hail, Titus Frugi,” Ganton called.

  “Hail, Majesty. The day has gone well.”

  “Aye.” Ganton dismounted and gestured to Morrone. For the first time since dawn, the golden helmet was removed.

  Morrone took it from his wanax with a gesture so graceful that the finest actors in Rome could not have bettered it. The young Wanax shook his head and tried to comb the snarls out of his dark hair with his fingers.

  If there were a sculptor worthy of it, I would give him this as- his subject, Frugi thought. He has won over his followers, aye and more than his followers- Julius Sulpicius came up with a dozen other centurions. He saluted Titus Frugi, then turned to Ganton. The First Centurion looked to his fellows. All grinned.

  I should halt this, Titus Frugi thought. But he saw the look that his primus pilus gave the foreign king, and knew it was already too late.

  Sulpicius raised his arm in salute. “Aye! Ave Ganton, Imperator!” he shouted. “Hail Imperator!”

  The other centurions echoed the cry. After a moment the headquarters troops joined, then the other legionaries within earshot. In moments the cry rang through the Hooey Valley. “Hail, Ganton Imperator!”

  I see, Titus Frugi thought. He remembered the first time Roman troops had saluted him thus. Imperator. Worthy to command Romans. It was not a title lightly given, even to Romans. He could not recall when a foreign chief was so honored.

  If I join this cry, nothing will convince Publius Caesar that I did not order it. But if I do not-I will lose the trust of my legion.

  I was prepared to sacrifice the legion to save the alliance. Now I can save both with words that cost no more than the good will of Publius Caesar-which I probably do not have anyway. And Ganton is worthy of all this day may bring.

  Titus Frugi lifted his hand in salute. “Aye! Hail, Ganton Imperator!”

  The cry was redoubled now. Drantos and Tamaerthan troops repeated it, not knowing what the ancient words meant, but understanding that this was honor to Wanax Ganton.

  All joined in the cry. All but the Lord Mason.

  “What’s happening?” Mason demanded urgently. “What is this?”

  Titus Frugi stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then understood. “Ah. Imperator is a title,Lord Mason. It can only be given by Roman soldiers to one who has led them in battle. Those hailed as Imperator are recognized as worthy to lead a Roman army.”

  “It doesn’t mean, uh, like Wanax?”

  “No. They do not hail him as Caesar. Only as Impefator.”

  “Yeah? And that’s all this means?”

  Titus Frugi sighed. “Certainly no one could be offered the purple who had not been hailed as Imperator.”

  “And if he marries Octavia..

  “When, my friend,” Titus Frugi said. “As you well know. Nor can I think your Captain General Rick will be much surprised by this event-”

  Mason shrugged.

  It is hard to tell what the star lord thinks. But since I have no more of Publius’s good will to lose this day-and I do know that Marselius Caesar thinks highly of his granddaughter- He turned to his tribunes. “Geminius.”

  “Sir?”

  “When the messengers return to camp to bring up the supplies and the surgeons, you will go with them. Bring back a corona aurea for the Wanax Ganton. We will also need three coronae civicae, one each for the Lords Mason and Caradoc, and one for the Lord Camithon’s bier.”

  “Sir!”

  “You are pleased, Tribune?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  And so are Sulpicius and the centurions, Titus Frugi thought. Yet I wonder what will be the end of what we have begun this day...

 

 

Mad Bear woke in near-darkness. His head throbbed, and when he tried to lift his hands he found they were bound with cloth strips.

  I am a prisoner. This is not the Lodge of the Warrior, nor is there so much pain that I have fallen into the hands of the demons. He sat up, and saw that he was in a dimly lit tent. A tent of the Horse People, not an Ironshirt tent.

  At the door sat Arekor, the priest of the Warrior who had been a slave among the Red Rocks until he vanished in a raid on the Green Lands. Now Mad Bear was certain he had not died, for Arekor could never have earned so much honor as to guest with the Warrior—

  “So, Centaur-lover. You have come to take revenge by taunting me?”

  Arekor poured water into a cup and held it to Mad Bear’s lips.

  At first Mad Bear refused; but his thirst betrayed him. He took a sip, then drained the cup. Three times more Arekor held the full cup out. When he had drunk the last, Mad Bear said again, “Why do you taunt me?”

  “No, Mad Bear. I have not come to taunt you. I have come from the chief of the Ironshirts, and what I speak you may hear without dishonor.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “You will,” Arekor said. “For I will cut you free and give you a warrior’s knife, which you may turn on yourself if you believe you have been dishonored. It may even be that an Ironshirt warrior will fight you in a single combat, risking his life to let you end yours with honor. But first you must promise to hear me out, and not to attack me.”

  “Swear this is true!”

  The priest swore such oaths that even Mad Bear was impressed. Not even a Green Lands priest who had submitted himself to slavery among the Red Rocks would use such oaths to strengthen a lie to a warrior of the Horse People-or if he could, then nothing among gods or men was as it had been, and Mad Bear could do what pleased him.

  “What I will say can bring good to the Horse People,” Arekor said.

  “If this could be so— Give me the knife.”

  “Swear first.”

  Mad Bear swore by the Father and the Warrior. Arekor drew a short blade of Ironshirt make, and cut Mad Bear’s bonds. Then he gave him the knife.

  Mad Bear turned it over and over in his hands. The priest had spoken the truth- “Are there women or wizards within hearing of us?”

  “I swear there are neither,” Arekor said. “Only warriors.”

  Mad Bear tested the blade with his thumb. It was sharp, of good workmanship, quite good enough. No one would ever take that blade while he lived. “Now I will listen to your dream of bringing good to the Horse People.”

  The priest began to speak.

 

 

Ganton reached for another sausage and felt the corona aurea begin to slip. He pushed it back into place with one hand and grabbed a sausage with the other. He could not remember ever having been so hungry.

  The food was simple, but there was plenty of it. Once again he could admire Roman organization. The battle was done, and there were a myriad of details to attent to; but Roman optios saw to all that. For once the commanders could rest, with only the most important decisions brought to the command post.

  The headquarters staff had set out a table overflowing with sausage and bread and jerked meat, and nearby a kettle of hot soup was just coming to the boil. There were also flagons of wine, well-watered but of good flavor. The Romans hadn’t asked if he wanted his wine watered; they had simply assumed that no commander on a battlefield would drink anything else. It was something to remember...

  And not far away was the luxury of all luxuries: an optio supervised as Titus Frugi’s servants erected a tent that would contain a canvas bath! Soon there would be hot water—

  Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I will be able to clean my head without shaving it. He grinned to himself at the thought, trying to imagine what Octavia would say if he came to their wedding night as crop-haired as a slave.

  That wedding would not be long coming. Then, married to Caesar’s granddaughter, and proclaimed a leader of Romans—

  He could still feel the thrill of that moment. Imperator! The Romans had hailed him, soldiers and officers alike, and he could now appear before a Roman army wearing the corona aurea. And the army of Drantos was now loyal, the strength of the throne- With Octavia as his wife-what might not be accomplished?

 

 

PART SEVEN

 

 

Sky God

 

 

34

 

 

The moving light circled.

  “That is it?” Tylara raised one hand and pointed. With the other she tightly held Rick’s arm.

  Rick nodded as he watched the ship hover above the bare hilltop. It was all too easy to remember the first time he’d seen one of the alien craft. That had been ten light years away, in Africa, and he hadn’t believed in flying saucers.

  This time, I know what it is, he thought. Does that make it easier? There are no Cubans coming to kill me. But I don’t know who-or what-will be aboard, no more than I did then.

  The instructions had been clear. Bring a work crew, all the surinomaz harvested so far, and no heavy weapons. The voice on the transceiver had been cold and mechanical, and had not encouraged conversation.

  The moving lights came down with a rush. From the foot of the hill came a wail of terror and shouts that might have been prayers, then Elliot’s curses. The ship settled to the hilltop. There was a long silence, broken only by a whine from somewhere within the craft.

  “Can they see us without light?” Tylara asked in a whisper.

  “Yes. And hear us as well.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “Will we see them?”

  She’s bearing up better than I did, Rick thought. “I don’t know,” Rick answered. “Nor do I know if this group will be human or Shalnuksi.”

  He hadn’t wanted to bring her, but she’d been persuasive. If the purpose was to convince the Shalnuksis that Armagh was the principal seat of Rick’s holdings, they would expect his wife to be there; and if at the castle, then why not to meet the ship when it landed? “Would they think me afraid?” she asked. “Or that you would marry one who feared them?”

  He’d had-no answer to that. Perhaps it would help if she came. Perhaps not. He had no way of knowing how much they could find out from orbit. Certainly Armagh appeared to be an important place. At the moment the castle was crammed from rafters to cellars with household goods, supplies, animals, and people. There were courtiers and cooks, administrators and acolytes, scribes and scullerymaids, judges, journeymen, apprentices, and masters of nearly every trade; even two dozen of the Children of Vothan in training for domestic service, and several of their teachers.

  There was nothing better than oil lamps and bonfires for light, but even so, Armagh ought to be visible from orbit. Every room and courtyard blazed as they celebrated the news of the great victory. The Westmen were driven from the land, and even now the Alliance army was escorting them northwards, out of Drantos, into the wild lands to the northwest, lands nominally part of Drantos but long ago claimed by Margilos on the one hand and the Five Kingdoms on the other. Let the High Rexja have both the disputed lands and the Westmen. Perhaps it would keep him too busy to annoy Drantos.

  One problem down, another to go. The flying saucer didn’t look like doing anything. Gingerly Rick detached Tylara’s hand from his arm and walked toward the craft. “Hi!” he called. “Hello, the ship.”

  It could have been the ship that brought him to Tran. Certainly it was more like that than like the sleek craft that had rescued the mercenaries from their African hilltop. Even in the dim light of the Demon Star he could see that the hull showed stains, patches, and dents. There were bulges and flutings in random places on its surface. Les had once told them the ship that brought them to Tran was chartered; perhaps this one was also, or it might have been the same ship.

  The whine muted and died, and the ship settled more heavily on its large circular landing feet. There were small crackling noises as it crushed the fragrant Tran shrubbery. A small square opened near the saucer’s top, and the hillside was bathed in yellow light. Rick moved closer, carefully keeping his hands away from the .45 in its shoulder holster.

  A rectangular hatchway opened into a gangway. The inside of the ship was bright with the yellow light the Shalnuksis seemed to favor. Rick could see crates and packages, a lot of them, many painted olive drab.

  “Good evening, Captain Galloway.” The voice boomed out unexpectedly, startling Rick. It was the same cold, impersonal voice he’d heard on the transceiver. It sounded like a recording, or perhaps like something synthesized on a computer. Its tones told him nothing about the person-or being-who spoke.

  “Good evening,” he said. He was surprised at how dry his mouth had gotten.

  “You see we have brought your-supplies. Have you brought the-work crew-as instructed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Have them bring the surinomaz.” The hatchway Rick was watching closed, and another, smaller doorway, leading into a much smaller compartment, opened about 45 degrees around the base of the ship. “Captain, you will oblige us by remaining where you are, while others bring the surinomaz.”

  He felt rather than heard Tylara come up behind him. Then she took his arm. “We will stand here together,” she said softly.

  “A-noble sentiment,” the impersonal voice said. “Very well. Instruct your crew to hurry. They are to carry no metal into the ship. Is that understood?”

  “Right.” He turned to face down the hill. “Elliot, get the stuff loaded in that open compartment. Make sure the troops leave all their metal behind. Daggers, armor, everything. Make it sharp.”

  “Sir! All right, you sons, move it.” There was a cacophony of sounds from lower down the hill, then Elliot’s voice rose above the chatter. “Move it now, or by Vothan you’ll be in the madweed fields before the True Sun is high! Move!”

  The clerks and apprentices scurried up the hill. They were led by Apelles, who looked like a man not entirely successful at trying to be brave. None of them had been armed, so it didn’t take them long to shed all of their metal. Then they carried the semi-refined madweed into the small cargo compartment.

  “It is not a large amount,” Rick shouted. “The rogue star isn’t close enough yet. Next year is supposed to be a better crop.”

  “We know,” the ship answered.

  Rick and Tylara watched as the cargo was loaded. Finally Apelles came out and signalled they were done.

  “Now stand clear,” the voice called. The compartment door closed. The whining noise rose in pitch.

  “I had thought they had goods for us,” Tylara said.

  “Will it rise now?”

  “I don’t know,” Rick said. He turned away from the ship.

  “Remain there, Captain. If you please.” This time the voice sounded different.

  Rick stood with Tylara for what seemed a long time. Then the first compartment door opened again.

  “Your men may now begin to unload. They will stay on this side of the ship, and they will not carry weapons. You will remain where you are.”

  “All right. Elliot, move ‘em.”

  This time there was no argument from the work crew. The clerks and apprentices sweated and strained to get the boxes outside the ship. Others brought up mules and began to lash gear on their pack saddles.

  Rick could see most of the cargo as it came out.

  A lot of it was ammunition. One crate was labelled

  “Armor, Body, Ballistic Nylon, Personal Protective.”

  Another was unmistakably Johnny Walker Black, and two more bore Meyers Jamaica Rum labels. There was a case of Camel cigarettes.

  Elliot came out grinning. He was holding a portable typewriter. “Carbon paper, too!” he shouted in triumph. “And a Carl Gustav recoilless.”

  “Just like Christmas,” Rick answered with a grin. He didn’t move from his place in the circle of light. “Tylara-they didn’t say you have to stay here,” he said softly.

  “They did not,” she answered.

  “Hey, I love you.”

  “I think perhaps you do,” she said. She squeezed his arm.

  “Talisker Scotch!” Elliot shouted. “And Rennault fifty-year-old cognac! Can’t say they don’t pay for what they get!”

  Oh, they pay, Rick thought. They understand about not binding the mouths of the kine that tread the grain. But they won’t take us home, and they gave us damned little choice about coming here.

 

The ship was unloaded, and most of the gear sent down the mountain on mules. The hatch closed, but the bright light from near the top of the ship continued to flood the bill with yellow light. Then the whine rose in pitch and became louder and louder. The ship seemed to lift slightly. It hung for a second, then rose swiftly and almost vertically into the dark sky.

  “It is gone,” Tylara whispered. “I had-you had told me. But until I saw-”

  Rick laughed. “I know,” he said. “Back on Earth I wouldn’t have believed it.” And I knew about airplanes, and radio, and- “Rick.” Tylara spoke quietly, but there was an urgent note in her voice. She tilted her head. “Look.” His eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, and at first he couldn’t see what had alarmed her. Then it became clear. There was a man standing beyond where the ship had been. He wore a Burberry raincoat and Irish tweed hat, and beside him stood a plain Samsonite suitcase. An instrument about the size of a small briefcase hung from a strap over his left shoulder. It glowed with faint lights from dials on its face.

  The man waved. “Hello, Captain,” he said.

  It was Les.

 

“He is but a man,” Tylara whispered.

  “Yes. He is the human pilot who brought us to Tran.”

  “You know him-then he is-”

  “Yes. The father of Gwen’s child. Tylara, do nothing. Say nothing, except to be polite. I don’t know why he’s here_but that box he’s carrying can talk to the ship, and that ship could destroy this whole world.”

  “But if the box were destroyed?”

  “Then those in the ship would do whatever they wish.”

  “I see.” She released her grip on his arm and fell silent.

  “Sergeant Elliot!” Rick shouted.

  “Sir!”

  “Clear the hill. Move everyone out, then come back for me.”

  “Sir.”

  “Sorry about the housekeeping,” Rick said. He moved toward Les. “Welcome to Tran.”

  The pilot nodded. “It appears that you have come up in this world since last we met.”

  Cold, Rick thought. Cold and haughty, as if he is master here. I suppose he is. “Let me introduce you to my wife. Tylara do Tamaerthon. Countess of Cheim and Justiciar of Drantos.” He used English and spoke rapidly despite Tylara’s frowns.

  “Making you what?” Les demanded.

  “Eqeta-that’s count-”

  “I know the title.”

  “Eqeta of Cheim, and Captain-General of Drantos.” No need to tell him about Tamaerthon at all. Or the Roman alliance. Let him find out for himself-or not find out, which would be better.

  “Ah. But I forget my manners.” The pilot turned to Tylara and extended his hand. After a moment she gave him hers, and he bowed and kissed her fingers. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Tylara,” he said. His accent was not good, but the language was recognizably Tran local.

  Usually Tylara was as resistant to male charm as a suit of armor, but she smiled warmly and thanked the starman. An act, Rick wondered? Or was she really impressed? Les was certainly handsome enough, and trying to be charming, but-still- “How long will you be with us?” Rick asked.

  “That depends,” Les said. “I’ve come for my wife.

  Gwen must have told you I would come.”

  “She wasn’t always sure she believed you,” Rick said.

  “Ah. Yeah, she had a right to her doubts,” Les said. “That’s over now. Where is she?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  Les eyed Rick thoughtfully in the dim-light. “So she told you she has a transceiver,” he said. “And you want me to believe she’s alive and it’s working.”

  “She’s all right, and the transceiver works to the best I know,” Rick said. “I take it Gwen didn’t answer you, then.”

  “No. Now where is she?”

  “That sounds very much like a demand.”

  Les shrugged. “Take it any way you-no. Eqeta Galloway; I would count it a very great favor if you would conduct me to my wife.”

  “A couple of questions, first,” Rick said. “As for example-do your employers know you’re here?”

  Les looked startled, then laughed. “I take it you mean, did I jump ship? No. My landing is-authorized, and the time I Will stay on Tran is up to me.”

  And I can believe as much of that as I want to, Rick thought. But there’s no point in standing here on a hilltop. “Welcome to Cheim. I trust you will do us the honor of being our guest.”

  “Thank you. But now that I’ve answered your question-where is my wife?”

  Persistent chap, Rick thought. And maybe not quite as cool as he wants us to think- “The Lady Gwen is well,” Tylara said. “And your son is safe and well and under our protection.” The light was too dim for Rick to be certain, but he thought the pilot’s face showed joy. His voice, though, remained unchanged. “My son. What did Gwen choose to name him?”

  “Les,” Tylara said.

  Les turned to Tylara, but before he could say anything, she said, “The Lady Gwen is married to Lord Caradoc do Tamaerthon, a knight in my service. He is one of our most trusted captains, and my husband and I are very much in his debt.”

  “Married,” Les said.

  “Last autumn,” Tylara said. “She believed that you were dead or had forsaken her.”

  “Well, I’m not, and I didn’t,” Les said. “And now I’d like to see her. If you please.” His voice grew more stern. “Do you think I’d have come back to this-to Tran-for any other reason?”

  Tylara shrugged. “I do not know the duties of those who serve the-Shalnuksis.”

  “So. You’ve told her everything,” Les said.

  “Shouldn’t I?” Rick asked.

  “I don’t know.” Les shrugged.

 

“It’s walk, ride, or wait all night until I can send for a sedan chair,” Rick said.

  Les laughed. “I’ll ride, if the horse is tame.”

  “It’s a mule,” Rick said. “More surefooted for this mountain trail. And it’s certainly gentle enough. All right, Sergeant Major. Lead the way. Sergeant Frick will bring up the rear. And spread right out, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elliot said. He rode on ahead, and Frick dropped back, so that Rick, Tylara, and Les rode alone.

  “You have them well trained,” Les said.

  That didn’t seem worth answering, and Rick said nothing. The trail was steep and frightening if you didn’t trust the mules; the trick was to let the animals pick their own way and pace. Les seemed to be doing that.

  They reached the bottom, and the trail widened. “All right,” Les said. “Where is Gwen? And this- Caradoc.”

  “Lady Gwen is-in another part of the country,” Rick said.

  “And Lord Caradoc is a soldier,” Tylara continued. “He is with the army in the west.”

  “Hah. Good battle, that,” Les said.

  “You watched?” Tylara asked. “But-” She fell silent.

  “Saw some of it,” Les said. “So. That’s fortunate. Lord Caradoc is off to war, and Gwen is home alone. Good. If he stays out of my way, I won’t go looking for him. No trouble at all, that way.”

  “He is her husband by Tran law,” Rick said. And that sounds foolish.

  “And I’m her husband by Earth law,” Les said. “Does he have more right than me?”

  You don’t have any rights at all, Rick thought. You certainly didn’t marry her. But it will be better to pretend.

  “The case must be heard by the priests of Yatar,” Tylara said. “Do you not understand? The Lord Caradoc is our captain. A knight sworn to our service-”

  “And under our protection,” Rick said reluctantly. Christ, this is going to be rough.

  “I have no wish to shame the man,” Les said. His words came slowly, as if forced. “Nor-nor do I bear him ill will.”

  The hell you don’t, Rick thought.

  “I do not wish to be disrespectful of your law,” Les continued. “But I will see my wife.”

  “She is far from here,” Tylara said. “The roads are poor, bandits are numerous, and our army has been sent against the Westmen. It will be no easy journey, and we would do the Lady Gwen an ill service to send you without proper escort-”

  Les laughed, a short sharp sound. “An escort won’t be needed,” he said. “Tell me where to go, and I can call the ship.”

 

 

35

 

 

There were only the three of them at Rick’s conference table. Tylara sat at his right, and Sergeant Elliot on his left, leaving the long table nearly empty.

  Like to have more, Rich thought. But who? Art. Larry Warner. Maybe one of them could think of something- “If you’re going to let her know, you’d best get the message out now,” Elliot said.

  Rick nodded. The semaphore line to the University wasn’t finished. Messages had to go part way on horseback, and even with relay stations spaced Pony Express style that took time. “I think we won’t,” he said. “What could I put in a message, even a coded one?”

  Elliot gave him a significant look. So did Tylara.

  Yeah, Rick thought: “Keep your pants on.” I can just see me sending her that message. Hah.

  “You learn anything from him?” Elliot asked.

  “Not much we don’t know,” Rick said. “The council or whatever it is that governs the Confederation is still divided over what to do about Earth, and doesn’t seem to know about Tran. Which means the Shalnuksis have a free hand, but we don’t have -to worry about the council sending the galactic navy. Not just yet, anyway.”

  He took Tylara’s hand for a moment. She gave an answering half smile. He’d spent three hours trying to explain what he knew about the millennia-old galactic confederation and its human Janissaries, but she still didn’t understand. That’s all right, Rick thought. I don’t either. And what the hell, Tylara has more experience unravelling plots than I do. Maybe she can understand a confederacy of a dozen or more star-faring races. According to Les, they haven’t changed in five thousand years, mostly because of human slave soldiers.

  It sounds nutty. It would sound nuttier if I didn’t know the Turks used slave soldiers and administrators to run their empire. They called them Janissaries, and their empire stayed together for centuries.

  “What about that Agzaral guy?” Elliot asked. “Is he on our side?” -

  “Don’t know. Les won’t say much about him. One thing’s sure, he’s playing a deep game,” Rich said. “He knows about Tran, but his bosses don’t. Yet he’s a cop. Or something like a cop, anyway.” Rick shrugged. “I don’t even know how much Les knows. Maybe he’ll tell us more.”

  “Yeah, if he lives long enough,” Elliot said. “Christ, Cap’n, why’d it have to be Caradoc he’s gonna put horns on? Nobody else is near that popular with the army. Even the mercs like him.”

  Tylara frowned. “Is it so certain that Lord Caradoc will be dishonored? Why do you think so ill of the

  Lady Gwen? Surely she knows what must be.”

  How do I answer that? Rick wondered. No way to tell her how I know. “Girls on Earth do not think as the women on Tran do. Les was her first love, and he will be insistent. Yet, you may be right. It may be that Lady Gwen will refuse his advances, at least until the case can be heard by a court.”

  “Fat bloody chance,” Elliot muttered.

  “You have knowledge?” Tylara asked.

  “Some,” Elliot said. “Look, I don’t want to tell tales, but before she married Caradoc-”

  “Yeah?” Rick demanded.

  “Well, one night I heard shots from her room,” Elliot said. “I came in to find Gwen breathing hard, Larry Warner with his hideout pistol, and Caradoc waving a bloody big knife. They straightened it all out, but-”

  “But she is not a chaste woman,” Tylara said.

  “It’s not that simple,” Rick protested. “Different cultures, different-”

  “I am more concerned with consequences,” Tylara said coldly. “If the Lady Gwen cannot use proper judgment, then we must save her from her folly. And save the University, which is such a great part of what our children will inherit.” -

  Damn all Tran dynasts, Rick thought. But she’s right.

  “My love, we both know Caradoc. He has alwa-ys been quick to defend the right. Not his right alone. Ours as well. But my lord husband, my love, even now the Tamaerthan troops are returning. Caradoc will soon be here, and if he is wronged, if his wife has dishonored him, he must act! He will challenge Les.”

  “He’d probably lose,” Elliot said. “I don’t know what Les carries, but it’s sure to be as effective as our pistols. Remember Art Mason’s story? The walls of the ship shot him when he threatened one of the Shalnuksis.”

  “And Les and the other humans are warriors,” Rick finished. “Janissaries for the Galactic Confederacy.” He laughed. “I don’t want to believe that.”

  “Evidence is pretty convincing,” Elliot said.

  “Didn’t say I don’t believe it,” Rick said.

  Elliot laughed.

  Tylara waited until there was silence. “It matters little whether Lord Caradoc wins or loses. He will insist upon his rights in this matter. He will insist that we come to his aid, or avenge him if he is killed.”

  “Army’ll be on his side,” Elliot said. “Hell, Cap’n, suppose Les kills Caradoc. You know damn well what you’d have to do.”

  “Yes.” Kill Les. Or be a lord who’s broken faith with his followers. My name will stink from the Westscarp to Rome. Caradoc’s relatives will want my blood-Padraic! My own bodyguard.

  “Do you see difficulties I do not?” Tylara asked. “We are two. We both have pistols. Les is only one. I saw no weapon upon him, but suppose he has? He can be killed. At this moment he is guest under our roof, but that need not be forever. We swore no permanent oath to him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying! You can’t know what his ship will do,” Rick said.

  “There is no one in it,” Tylara said. “I asked him. It could be a lie, but I do not think it was.”

  “Nor do I,” Rick said.

  “Then he controls the ship with that box. When we have killed him, we will take the box and use it,” Tylara said.

  “Won’t work,” Rick said. “There are-codes. One is obvious-he will not use English to speak with the ship. And smashing the box won’t work, since we don’t know what orders he gave the ship before he sent it up. He had plenty of time, after all.”

  “But what can a ship do?” Tylara demanded. “A ship with no master?”

  “A lot,” Rick said. “First, it will report to the next ship that comes. God knows what it’ll tell them, but it can watch everything we do. It’ll sit up there in the sky and watch us, and take pictures, and when the Shalnuksis come it’ll tell them everything.”

  “And then comes skyfire,” Tylara said thoughtfully.

  “Unless we can work with Les to prevent it,” Rick said. “One thing’s sure. We won’t learn anything from anybody else. Les is the only chance we have to talk the shalnuksis out of bombing this place back to the stone age. Why would he try, except for Gwen? Yet, with his help, what we have built, the knowledge we will leave our children, might withstand even skyfire. The Shalnuksis might be induced to bomb the wrong places. But that’s only if Les helps.”

  “And yet, all know what a debt we owe to Caradoc,” Tylara said. “His honor is ours. You speak of what we will give our children. Do you wish to give them an inheritance of dishonor?”

  Yatar, Jehovah, Christ, somebody, tell me how to answer that. Please.

  Tylara sighed. “You have no answer. Nor have I. It seems that now we are both called upon to do more than we can do. Lord Elliot, have you advice?”

  “No, lady,” Elliot said. “We need Caradoc, and we need Les. But it looks like one’s going to kill the other, no matter what. Hell, it wouldn’t settle anything if Gwen dropped dead! She’s the only thing Les cares about-”

  “There is his child,” Tylara said thoughtfully. “If the Lady Gwen were dead, there could be no quarrel-”

  “Seems to me a man would be more likely to work for his wife than for a kid he’s never seen,” Elliot said.

  “And we need Gwen if we’re going to have a University,” Rick said.

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain, dammit! And do you think I owe Gwen any less than we owe Caradoc?”

  “I see.” Tylara sighed once more, then stood. “I will not swear to lay no hand on Les forever,” she said. “But I will swear to let him take us safely to the University, and stand apart from his first meeting with the Lady Gwen.” She gave a shaky smile. “I think if I did not swear this much, you would guard Les night and day with your Colt in your hand. Even against me.”

  No answer to that, either. “That’s a good start.” And-Gwen didn’t get any messages from Les. Meaning what? Maybe her transceiver’s busted, but maybe she isn’t listening. Maybe she’s in one of her moods- “He done me wrong and then run off and left me.” When she’s like that, she wants his cojones on a spear, and if she stays that way long enough for Caradoc to come back and make her realize that she’s got to be sensible...

  Maybe. It’s a slim chance.

  But everything else looks like no chance at all.

 

 

This time the ship tilted slightly as it landed on a patch of softer ground. The whining sound grew louder and increased in pitch, and Les frantically manipulated dials on the box he carried. The ship righted itself.

  Les inspected it critically, then seemed satisfied. “Okay, wait there,” he said. Then he seemed to catch himself. He turned to Tylara. “With your permission, my lady, I’ll go open a hatch.”

  He disappeared around the stern.

  Tylara glanced at Rick, then stared at the ship. They stood together in the field, with only the Fire-stealer to give light. Tylara’s lips were set in a grim line.

  She’s scared of skyfire, Rick thought. Well, so am

  I. The interesting part is that Les is nervous. These ships must be vulnerable. Not likely I’ll learn how. Not likely the troops will see anything. But they might…

  He had every merc with binoculars stationed around possible landing sites, and he’d been lucky. Elliot was out there watching this one.

  After about ten minutes a hatch opened just in front of Rick and Tylara. A wide gangway lowered itself. -

  “Welcome aboard,” the ship’s voice said. It didn’t sound anything like Les.

  Tylara took Rick’s hand. “Shall we go, my husband?”

  He nodded, then grabbed her to kiss her. As he broke away he whispered, “Remember. Not only Les will hear everything we say while we are in that ship. Other-”

  She smiled and nodded, and Rick wondered if she believed him. After all, she’d never seen a recording device, and describing one wasn’t the same as showing it- Nothing he could do about that.

  They went inside. The compartment was nearly bare. Rick looked closely. There were stains on the deck in one corner. This was the same ship that had brought them to Tran, no doubt about that.

  In one corner of the compartment there were two piles of Japanese futons. On top of one of the piles was a package wrapped in brightly printed paper and tied with a scarlet bow. Tylara stared at it. The paper was printed with replicas of famous miniature portraits.

  “It is lovely,” she said. “I have not seen-”

  “Ah, my lady, it is a gift for you.” This time Les used his own voice, rather than the impersonal computer-generated one he’d used earlier. “Now, please be seated-”

  Rick pushed the two piles of futons together and flopped into one of them. Tylara gingerly sat beside him. She clutched the package tightly.

  “Will you not open it?” Les asked.

  “I-it is so beautiful-”

  “Let me, sweetheart,” Rick said. He took the package and carefully worked the bow so that it came off without damaging it. Tylara took it and held it experimentally to her hair. The ends of the package were sealed with Scotch tape. Rick took out his pocket knife and slit the tape so that he could remove the printed paper without tearing it. Tylara watched nervously.

  “I should have brought more wrapping paper,” Les said. “I think I have some picture books. You can have those.”

  “Thank you,” Tylara said. She sounded sincere. The box contained a bracelet and necklace of Navajo turquoise and silver, elaborately gaudy. Tylara gasped with pleasure. “Marvelous!” she exclaimed. She put on the bracelet and admired it on her arm. “There is nothing like it in all of Tamaerthon. Or Drantos.”

  That’s for sure, Rick thought. But of course she’d like it.

  They settled onto the futons. “Thank you,” Tylara said.

  A screen in the forward part of the compartment suddenly came to life. It showed Les in his command chair on the ship’s semi-darkened bridge. “There’s something for you, too, Colonel,” Les said. “Under your cushions there-”

  Rick felt under the pile and found a wooden box, not wrapped. Inside was a bottle of Talisker Scotch and four crystal glasses packed in Styrofoam worms. There was also a bottle of Campari.

  “Have a drink with me?” Les asked. “Sorry I can’t invite you up to the bridge. ‘Thees starship ees going to Havana, Señor,’ with those minigrenades to make the point-well, the idea doesn’t quite appeal to me.”

  “I don’t suppose it would,” Rick said. He tried to keep his voice calm. The grenades in his pockets suddenly seemed five times their size and weight.

  “My lady might prefer Campari,” Les said.

  “Fat chance,” Rick muttered. “She’s had Scotch.” He opened the Talisker and poured for himself and Tylara.

  Les turned to face the screen and lifted his own glass. “Cheers, then,” he said.

  “Cheers,” Rick said. Tylara muttered something. They both drank.

  Tylara grimaced slightly at the taste. Rick frowned a question at her.

  “I recall the previous time,” she said. “I was pleased with your strong-whisky. But-”

  But you’d just been raped by Sarakos, Rick thought. And this reminds you. Yeah. I should have insisted you have Campari.

  “Ready?” Les asked.

  “Yes,” Rick said.

  A moment later they were pressed into the futons.

  The screen blurred, then showed the ground falling away. Tylara gasped and moved closer to him. The ship rose, and then they were high enough to see Castle Armagh with its blaze of bonfires. She shivered slightly.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Rick whispered. “We’re no higher than-than the highest mountains.” He’d almost mentioned Larry Warner and the balloon, but there was no point in telling the ship’s recorders about that.

  The ship began to move, and Armagh slipped off the edge of the screen. The Firestealer gave enough light to recognize the major terrain features. They were going west, following the main road to Castle Dravan.

  Coincidence or design? Rick wondered. After all, when they first came to Tran they’d been set down not far from Dravan, and this was the main road west...

  Tylara pointed and looked afraid. “The children,” she whispered.

  Yeah. Our kids are down there- He pointed and nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right, that’s where we established the orphanages,” he said. “Not too far from where the ship first set us down. Les, are we sightseeing?”

  “Maybe a little,” Les said. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. Except if you go much farther west I’d appreciate it if the ship isn’t seen. Our army’s out there somewhere. They just won a big battle with Westmen-those are nomads from the high plains above the big escarpment. The Westmen already think there was too much wizardry for it to have been a fair fight.”

  “So if they see the ship, they might think it’s impossible to make an honorable peace, so they may as well die fighting?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “No problem,” Les said.

  The lights below shrank rapidly, and now there were clouds below them. After a few moments the screen changed, zooming in on the plains below. They passed the Littlescarp, and the scene on the screen changed rapidly, as if the camera were searching the high plains. Then it stabilized on camp fires, and zoomed in again.

  Tylara stirred. “That is the host of Drantos,” she said wonderingly. There was terror in her eyes. She started to speak, but Rick pulled her to him and kissed her.

  She looked startled for a moment, then nodded understanding.

  I know, my darling, Rick thought. There is our army, the most powerful force you’ve ever seen, down there below like toy soldiers, down there where it would be like child’s play to throw skyfire at them. But don’t say it, don’t even think it too loud- “How does Yatar rule those with such power?”

  She asked softly. “Or-does Yatar rule the sky-folk?” Rick shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said softly.

  Not even if you translate the question into modern theology. Is there a God? Is there any reason for ethics? Does the universe care one lick whether people are decent or beastly to one another?

  “He rules your heart, my love,” Tylara whispered. “And that is enough for me.”

 

The screen brightened, then changed to a map of the eastern part of the settled region of Tran. At least this settled region, Rick told himself. He’d never learned just how far west this continent was inhabited, or whether the other continent was inhabited at all.

  The map stretched from Rome to the Westscarp, and as Rick watched, a numbered grid superimposed itself. “If you wouldn’t mind,” Les said. “It would be well to get on with our cargo collection.”

  That would be for the recorders. There’d be damned little cargo at the University, but Rick thought Les must have a way to deal with that. More interesting was how he carefully didn’t mention Gwen in the hearing of the ship...

 

The ship settled into the hills above the University. Les sent Rick and Tylara out, then joined them a few moments later. He was carrying his suitcase and the control box. The ship whined and rose into the dawning sky.

  “Well, here we are,” Les said. “What’s down there?”

  “My University,” Rick said. “Gwen is the Rector.” Les whistled in exaggerated respect. “Oh-ho. Well, we’d best get on with it. Looks like a long walk. Should have set the ship down closer.”

  Tylara chuckled. “Captain,” she said, “one might almost doubt your love for the Lady Gwen. You complain of a few stadia we must walk. What of the tales of lovers who would swim boiling seas or walk ten thousand leagues to join their ladies?” -

  There was a pause long enough to worry Rick. Then Les laughed. “They may have had more difficult journeys,” he said. “But none of them ever had a longer one.”

 

 

36

 

 

The messenger from the Roman pickets brought word to Gwen Tremaine just as the True Sun rose. A skyship had been seen.

  She put on a robe and covered her hair with a snood, and went to her office before she had tea.

  “It was as you ordered, lady,” the decurion said. “We watched the hills, and we saw it descending, not so bright as a star. I have never seen its like before.”

  “Few have,” Gwen said.

  “The cohort now searches those hills for any gifts the sky-folk may have left. If we find any, we will bring them to the University. Have you more orders, lady?”

  “No. Thank you, Decurion.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a bag of coins, and shook several into her hand. “Buy wine for your unit, and say they have done well.”

  “Thank you, lady.”

  As the Roman left, Marva brought tea and biscuits.

  “Join me,” Gwen said. She indicated a chair. Marva sat and poured the tea.

  “It is good news, Lady Gwen?”

  “I don’t know, Lady Marva. I truly don’t know.”

  This is my life, Gwen thought. To be in this office, to govern this University. To teach these people, and watch as their lives improve. It is my life. She twisted her fingers together. This must endure. I’ve got to do something. Did it really land? And who?

  Suddenly she stood, gulped her tea, and ran to her apartment on the floor below. What should I wear? There’s nothing here- By mid-morning she’d turned her closets into chaos, and brought both Marva and herself to tears. Get hold of yourself, girl! Suppose it is Les. Do you want him to see you like this? Send Mary for a stiff drink. Two, she deserves one for herself. And put on your regular working gown. It’s the best you have except for the blue one Larry gave you, and that’s too formal for daytime- And the children! If it’s Les he’ll want to see his son.

  And if it’s a Shalnuksi executioner? It can’t be- “Lady Marva?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Have Nurse take the children to the Roman f or-tress. She’s to keep them there until I send for them. You go with them.”

  “Is there-do you fear the sky-folk?” Marva asked. “But will they not be like-the others we have known?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “And I’m afraid-”

  “I will see to the children,” Marva said. “Then I will return.”

  “No! Stay at the fortress-”

  “My lady, not even the fortress will prevent us from skyfire. My husband told me that many times. But I can ask the commandant to send the children beyond the hills-”

  “No, that’s silly,” Gwen said. “There will be no skyfire. All the same-do have Nurse take the children to the fortress.”

 

There was a knock at her office door. “Come,” she called.

  Larry Warner came in. “First time ever,” he said. “Nobody in your outer office. Why?”

  “I sent-”

  “Never mind. I know,” Warner said. “The Romans sent word. They’re on their way in now.”

  “Who?”

  “Cap’n Galloway, Lady Tylara, and a starman.”

  “A starman?”

  “Yeah. All human. I described the Shalnuksis to the centurion, and he said it surely wasn’t one of them.”

  “Larry, you shouldn’t have described-”

  “Oh, shove the secrecy up sideways! It’s their planet, they have a right to know what’s threatening it!” He gripped his hair with both hands.

  “You’ll be as bald as Telly Savalas if you go on doing that,” she said. She giggled despite herself.

  “Good to see you laugh,” Warner said. “Now you keep your head and let me worry about mine.” He drew his binoculars from beneath his professorial gown. “They ought to be just about at the town gates,” he said. “Should be able to see ‘em from your balcony there in a minute. Gwen-it’s probably Les.”

  “I know.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “That’s what I don’t know.” She eyed him warily. “Are you about to give me advice?”

  “No, ma’am.” He winked at her. “You have to play this hand yourself, and I don’t need to say it’s important. Naw, all I was going to say is if you need somebody to watch your back, I’m available. I won’t draw on the Captain for you, but short of that-”

  “Larry, that’s sweet of you.”

  He laughed. “Now that’s just what a tough merc turned professor wants to be told,” he said. “Sweet, for God’s sake!”

 

She’d sent Larry away, and was alone on her balcony as the party rode in: a dozen Romans, Rick and Tylara, and a third who sat his horse like a sack of potatoes.

  He can’t do everything.

  He can blow your University right off the map.

  They dismounted and entered the building. She went back into her office and stood near the desk. What can I say? What do I want to say? Why- Too late for thought. There were sounds outside, then her door opened.

  He came in alone. Over his arm he was carrying- “Oh, no!”

  She’d imagined this meeting for two years. She’d thought of being haughty. Imperious. Sexy and seductive, at least as much so as she could be. Tearful. Scornful. Cool, the University Rector.

  She’d never imagined that she’d collapse in laughter. She threw back her head and roared, and had to lean against the desk for support.

  He held his smile until she was finished. “Well, you did ask if I would buy you a grass skirt,” he said. “So I got you the best I could find.” Then his control gave way, and he began to laugh, and she joined him, and they kept each other howling. Whenever one would slow down, the other would point to the skirt and they began again, and…

  And then he was close to her. She wasn’t sure what happened next. She didn’t think she’d moved -toward him, but there she was, and his arms went round her, and their lips met.

  “Les-”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He held her in an iron grip, but-there were tears in his eyes, and suddenly everything was the way she’d dreamed it might be, back when she had good dreams.

  The grass skirt fell to the floor.

 

 

Rick’s apartment was on the top floor of the University guest house, and the window looked out across the quadrangle to the town beyond.

  In the traditional manner of Roman soldiers, the University cohorts spent much of their time building. The Roman camp was surrounded by coal-fired baths. A line of stone buildings was springing up next to it, while on the campus itself the Roman engineers had laid chalk lines to mark a new quadrangle.

  The University was growing, but the sight could not cheer Rick. The ax would fall, and all too soon.

  Meanwhile, he had a kingdom to administer. He hefted a stack of reports the Roman clerks had brought in. They had arrived by the Express Post that morning.

  The most interesting was Art Mason’s report.

  “The Westmen are moving north as agreed. It won’t be long before they’re out of our territory altogether, and the only question will be whether they take on Margilos or the Five Kingdoms.”

  Tylara read over Rick’s shoulder. She laughed haughtily. “If the Westmen attack Margilos, there will be fewer Westmen to reach the Five Kingdoms. They are as mad as the Westmen, those warriors of Margilos. And I think the Westmen know this.”

  “Good enough,” Rick said. “So they’ll go past Margilos and on into the Five. That ought to keep the High Rexja busy for long enough to get this Roman alliance firmed up. Once Ganton marries Octavia-”

  “Um-hummm,” Tylara said. “Did you arrange for the Romans to hail our Wanax as Imperator?”

  “No, ma’am, he got that one on his own.”

  “You surprise me. True, I had not thought to arrange it, but when I heard, I believed you had. Perhaps Yatar does watch over us more thoroughly than we know.”

  Rick turned back to Mason’s letter and read aloud. “Wanax Ganton proposes Ben Murphy as bheroman at Westrook. The late Bheroman Harkon left a six-year-old kid, but Honeypie has just about adopted the kid, and she and Murph will be married as soon as he gets your consent, which I’d advise you to give. I think Murph can do a good job of holding the plains here. He likes it.”

  Murphy’s first home, Rick thought. A long way from Belfast...

  “A lot of the smallholders were killed by West-men,” the letter continued. “Some of the landless Tamaerthan troops like the weather up here, and they’ve petitioned to take over the ownerless farms. Murphy wants to let them do it, and it looks like a good deal to me, but of course it’s part of Lady Tylara’s county.

  - If she approves, we can get started fast.” Rick looked up at Tylara. “Well?”

  “I consent,” she said. “Should I not?”

  “No. It’s a good plan. Here’s to Bheroman Murphy.” He read the rest of Mason’s report. “There is no longer a threat from the Westmen. Wanax Ganton has decided that his bheromen are able to escort them with Roman help, so we are returning to Dravan. The Tamaerthans who aren’t staying up here want to get home, so Caradoc has taken them on ahead. You can use the semaphore to Dravan if you have other orders for them.”

  “They will not be long in Dravan,” Tylara said. “Cardoc will not wait for orders. He will bring the

  Tamaerthan troops home-here! He will come here unless he is told not to come. And what reason could we give?”

  “I don’t know.” Rick opened another pouch and took out still more reports. “Here’s one for you,” he said absently.

  Tylara didn’t answer. Rick looked up from his work. She was standing at the window. “He will learn soon enough,” she said. She stared gloomily down at the campus and town. “He will learn, and this will all be destroyed.”

  “Perhaps not,” Rick said. “Look, Les agreed to stay in the guest house. If Caradoc doesn’t actually go looking for witnesses-”

  “My husband, my love, you are not such a fool,” Tylara said. “Caradoc’s clansmen will learn. How could they not? Last night they visited the baths together. They were alone inside for time enough to grow three pair of antlers on Caradoc’s forehead. You have sealed the town gates, and closed the semaphore, but it will do no good. He will learn.”

  “But what can I do?” Rick demanded.

  “I do not know.” Tylara sighed. “We need a miracle. Perhaps Yatar will send one.” She stood a few moments longer at the window. Her hands were balled into fists. She drummed them against the window ledge. Then she came back to the desk, suddenly calm again. “Meanwhile, I must send a message to Dravan, and the semaphore office will not accept it without your approval.” There was a brittle edge to her voice.

  “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean the restrictions to apply to you,” Rick said.

  She held her hard look for a moment, then smiled. “I know, my love. You have much to concern you. Still, I must see to our house, and quickly, so may I trouble you to put that in writing?”

  “Sure.” He sat at the desk and scribbled out an authorization. “I was hoping to keep anyone from telling Caradoc,” he said. “Stupid, of course. But it does put off the evil day. And maybe the horse will learn to sing.”

  “Horse?”

  “Old story,” Rick said. “Very old. A thief was about to be executed. They did that in a particularly painful way in old Persia. Before they took him-away, he told the Wanax that he could teach the Wanax’s favorite horse to sing hymns, if the Wanax would give him a year.

  “The Wanax took him up on it, and pretty soon, there was the thief down in the stables every day, grooming the horse and singing to it. His buddies told him he was crazy.

  “That may be,’ the thief said. ‘But I have a year, and who knows what will happen in that time? The king might die. The horse might die. I might die. And who knows, maybe the horse will learn to sing...”

  Tylara giggled, then nodded more soberly. “Yes. Time is always valuable,” she said. “But I fear that time alone will not save us.”

  “So do I,” Rick said. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You will do what you must,” Tylara said. “That I have known all my life, and learned again from you. We do as we must.”

 

 

 

 

The four sat at Gwen’s conference table: Rick and Tylara, Gwen and Les.

  “It’s just possible,” Les said. He whistled, a long falling note. “Weee-ew. You’re sure going for broke. Steel mills. Coke ovens. Printing presses. A full University. If the Shalnuksis find out-Rick, I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out.”

  “But you can help us hide all this,” Gwen said.

  “I can try,” Les said. “And as I said, it’s just possible, as long as Inspector Agzaral doesn’t change sides, and he doesn’t look like he’s going to. Yeah, we’ve got a chance-”

  “We,” Gwen said. “You meant that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Les said.

  And that’s clear enough, Rick thought. He’s on our side as long as we’re on his. And meanwhile Caradoc’s coming back with the army.

  He looked across the table to Tylara. She sat stiffly alert, cold, almost indifferent. Yet she was polite to Gwen when she spoke to her, and even encouraged Les to believe his attempts to be charming had succeeded.

  Just what the hell game is she playing? Rick wondered. And what good does it do me to worry about it.

  There were shouts outside, and they all rushed to the penthouse balcony. Far across town there was a pillar of black smoke. “Have the Romans organized fire brigades?” Rick asked.

  “Sure,” Gwen said. “But they won’t be needed there. That’s the chimney in the coke oven. It catches fire every ten-day.”

  The office door opened, and Marva came in. “I do not wish to disturb you, my lady, but there is a message from the semaphore. It is marked urgent, and Lord Warner told - me to bring it to Lord Rick immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Rick said. He took the message paper. Tylara stood next to him and read as he did.

 

“REGRET INFORM YOU LORD CARADOC DO TAMAERTHON KILLED IN STREET RIOTS ONE MARCH FROM DRAVAN. COURT OF INQUIRY HELD BY WANAX RULES ACCIDENTAL DEATH BY FALLING. I AGREE WITH THIS VERDICT. WANAX HAS PROCLAIMED THREE DAYS OF MOURNING AND WILL PERSONALLY COMMAND FUNERAL GAMES. WANAX HAS GRANTED LIFE PENSION AND TITLE TO CARADOC’S CHILD. “AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS, “MASON.”

 

Rick stared uncomprehendingly at the paper. He felt Tylara’s hand on his arm.

  “What is it?” Gwen asked.

  “Bad news,” Rick said. As he said it he felt waves of relief wash over him. He was ashamed of that. Yet- “Bad news,” he said again. “Lord Caradoc is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes,” Tylara answered. “Your husband, my lady. He died in our service, and whatever honors the Wanax has not granted I will give from my purse. Husband, come, and leave the Lady Rector to her grief.” She turned and marched from the room.

  Gwen looked from Rick to Les. The pilot opened his arms, an almost imperceptible gesture, and she moved toward him.

  Rick carefully closed the door as he left the room. We’re saved again, he thought. For a while, at least. A good man has died, but that accident has saved more than Caradoc alive ever could. We have Les, and with his help the Shcilriuksis won’t destroy everything. Knowledge will survive.

  When he reached the quadrangle, they’d put out the fire in the coke oven.

 

 

Afterword

 

 

The Janissaries saga began with a question in Jerry Pournelle’s mind. If the UFO’s seen for thousands of years are really extraterrestrial spaceships, why haven’t they made contact with human beings? He decided that they were kidnapping human beings for some sort of illegal business. This got Pournelle as far as the opening scenes of Janissaries, with the mercenaries boarding the flying saucer and Tylara’s council of war at Castle Dravan.

  A couple of years later Jim Baen, then sf editor at Ace Books, saw the two scenes and liked them. At about the same time Baen’s boss, Tom Doherty, was starting up Ace’s line of illustrated sf novels. He wanted something from Pournelle. Unfortunately, the first story they chose couldn’t be expanded to the point where it could honestly be called a “novel.” So they substituted the story of the mercenaries kidnapped to help aliens grow drugs on Tran.

  There was no problem with expanding this story. In fact, when Pournelle hit 60,000 words, Ace was shouting, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” and the story was barely half told. Janissaries was destined to have at least one sequel from the moment it was finished.

  Just to make everybody happier (not to mention richer), Janissaries sold better than anybody had expected. It sold lavishly in trade paperback, mass-market paperback, and even a hardcover edition originally intended for libraries! Foreign publishers lined up to bring it out in England and all over the British Commonwealth, in Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Japan, Italy, Spain, France...

  Meanwhile, at the World Science Fiction conventions in Washington in 1974 and Kansas City in 1976, Pournelle met Roland Green, a young fantasy writer from Chicago. He’d liked Green’s two fantasy novels, Wandor’s Ride and Wandor’s Journey. The talk fl-owed freely; Pournelle and Green discovered a good many interests in common (military history, good liquor, the work of H. Beam Piper). Friendship grew, a correspondence began, and eventually Pournelle proposed a collaboration on an sf military-adventure novel. Green flew out to California. When he flew back to Chicago ten days later, he took an outline of Janissaries II and marching orders to produce the first draft.

  This meeting of minds promised well. Authors are normally as territorial as grizzly bears; any collaboration starts by having to overcome this fact. Pournelle and Green didn’t have too much of this problem. There were, however, a few others.

  -The logistics of a transcontinental collaboration. (Express mail and long-distance phone calls will expedite communication and empty bank accounts.)

  -Technological incompatability. (Pournelle uses a word processor, Green used a rapidly-declining Smith-Corona which in fact died to produce Clan and Crown. R.I.P.)

  -One of the worst winters in Chicago’s history.(Having your bathroom drain frozen solid for three days does drive away the Muse.)

  -Ace Books changing hands twice while the book was in progress. (But a good editor can help overcome even the consequences of having your publisher hawked around the public streets like a kosher dill pickle. Susan Allison and Beth Meacham are good editors.)

  -Above all, the fact that like the first Janissaries, Clan and Crown kept growing; both old characters and new started writing their own lines, scenes, and whole chapters. (Green was heard to mutter about “The Incredible Growing Novel” or “The Mercenary Who Ate Poughkeepsie.” He was not tyro enough to argue with his own characters, particularly when all of them were so well armed.)

  Problems enough to keep life interesting. Still, two authors who agree on how to tell a story can usually get where they’ve planned to go. And of course, if you’ve done it once, it encourages thinking about doing it again....

 

 

August, 1982Jerry Pournelle

  Studio City, California

 

Roland Green

  Chicago, Illinois