Janissaries j-1 Read online

  But dammit, he thought, I'm tired of running. You've got to choose sides sometime. Why not now? "We fight," he said.

  "Would you if she were a crone?" Gwen asked.

  "Shut up. Mason, fire a couple of warning shots." The H amp;K blasted at full automatic; a burst of five that must have zinged over the heads of the approaching riders. They didn't slow.

  Caradoc drew the arrow to his cheek and released it in a smooth motion. The lead rider took it full in the chest and fell from his horse.

  And that's torn it, Rick thought. He raised the H amp;K and began to squeeze off rounds at semiautomatic fire.

  When Tylara saw the strangers approaching, she first thought they might be from a local village despite their strange clothing; but moments later she knew better. They couldn't be locals, and she felt a twinge of fear. Who were they?

  They were obviously wealthy. She didn't know what all the objects they carried or wore on their belts might be used for, but so much metal would be valuable. And all three spoke to each other as equals. She didn't know the words, but the tones made that clear.

  "Evil gods," Yanulf muttered. "The Time approaches."

  Caradoc glanced hastily at the stone heap, hoping for protection.

  "Do your tales say how they will steal our souls?" Tylara asked. "They do not look like gods to me." Although, she thought but didn't say, the taller man was handsome enough to be, if not a god, at least from the tales of the heroes. "What have we to lose by their friendship?"

  "Little," Yanulf admitted, and went to draw water to make the traditional gesture.

  Their response had been surprising enough. Tylara was familiar with strong drink made by freezing wine and throwing away the ice, but she had never experienced anything like what she tasted when the man handed her his bottle.

  The bottle itself was interesting, too. It was neither metal nor ceramic, and she had no experience with anything else. Then they had come closer, and examined her back, and the handsome one had done something that hurt at first but soon took the ache away. While he treated her she studied him close up. He was a warrior. The sheathed blade on his chest-what a strange place to carry it, but it looked handy enough, easily drawn, perhaps he had to fight often-was obvious. Less obvious was the weapon he wore slung over his shoulder. It resembled a crossbow, but there was no bow; and it was all metal.

  He wore no armor that she could see. Only the one-piece garment that was jacket and trousers combined, mottled by dye to resemble the forest. His hat was a felt beret, and she had seen those before. The boots were green with black leather at the bottom, more like a peasant's boots than a warrior's. Then there were the bewildering things-all carefully crafted, all useful-appearing but totally mysterious-hanging from the straps over his shoulders and from his belt.

  Rick. She caught that, but not the titles he named himself. And his companion-obviously a warrior and wealthy as well, certainly a knight, perhaps a bheroman — was named Mason. The girl called herself Gwen. Unreasonably, Tylara did not like her. She must belong to Rick, and Tylara knew there was no reason to resent that, but she did. One thing was clear enough. "These are no gods," she told Yanulf.

  "Perhaps," the priest growled.

  Old fool, she thought, but regretted that instantly; he had given up everything to save her. She had never heard of a priest of Yatar allowing anyone not a sworn acolyte in the lower caverns. Not even her husband's father had ever visited those caves below Dravan. Would Sarakos dare search there now?

  The drink made her feel better. Much better, and she talked volubly with the strangers, almost forgetting the horror of the night before, until the one called Mason shouted warning and a dozen of Sarakos's hussars came toward them at the gallop.

  She ran to take Caradoc's dagger, wondering what would have happened if she had asked-Rick-to lend her his own. Would he? With the dagger in hand, she felt little fear. They might kill her, but they could never take her back. And the strangers had taken their weapons from off their backs and held them like crossbows- She was startled for the moment when Mason's weapon gave a crash like thunder, and even more startled when there was no effect. Caradoc's shaft killed its man, but no one fell to Mason's thunder.

  But then Rick raised his own weapon.

  The result was unbelievable. Each time Rick's weapon spoke, a rider fell. Then Mason did the same. Caradoc stood with an arrow nocked but did not loose it. He watched in amazement, as Tylara did.

  The fight was over before it had well begun. Men lay in the road, some dead, some groaning, while riderless horses and centaurs dashed past. Tylara had sense enough to grasp the reins of one of the horses, and Caradoc seized another. She saw that Rick did not seem to think of that, although Mason tried and failed. Why?

  Caradoc handed her the reins of the horse he had caught and went out to give the fallen soldiers a final mercy. When he slit the throat of the first, though, Rick shouted, as if in horror. His companion said something, and the girl said more. Finally Rick turned his back. Did he hate Sarakos's troops, then? That much? And why? She would cheerfully let Sarakos die of green stinking fester, but his soldiers had not deserved such. Evidently Rick's companions convinced him, because he said nothing else; but it would be well to remember that he was a cold-hearted man, ruthless toward his enemies.

  But he was a man. Of that she was certain.

  "Leave him to his work, Cap'n," Mason was saying. "When in Rome and all that. Besides, if they're all dead, they won't be tellin' anyone who did 'em in.',

  Rick swallowed hard. In classical times it was normal to kill the wounded, even your own. It wasn't until Philip of Macedon that armies had hospital corpsmen. Philip gave a substantial reward to the corpsmen for each trooper they saved.

  It bothered him that he hadn't captured any of the horses. They'd need them. Centaurs he could live without-they looked mean. He didn't know much about horses, either, but he'd rather ride than walk.

  That problem was solved a few minutes later. After Caradoc (that name-wasn't there a Welsh king by that name? There was something wrong with Gwen's theory of language development here) had finished his grisly work among the wounded, he mounted his own horse and rode down the road, returning a few minutes later with four more he'd caught. He offered all of them to Rick.

  Rick inspected the saddles. Wood, with leather trim, and rigid wooden stirrups. The horses were large and sturdy, and he suspected that they'd bring a high price on Earth. "Can you ride?" he asked Gwen.

  "On Griffith Park bridle trails," she said. She eyed the horses nervously.

  "We'll try to keep the pace down. Will our new friends get upset if we strip the dead? There's a lot of valuable equipment out there."

  "I don't know."

  "Me neither," Rick said. Homeric heroes always despoiled their dead enemies. Sometimes they even mutilated them. And they often made trophies out of any arms and armor they couldn't use. "Mason; go see what you can find," he said. "Swords. And if there's any armor that will fit either of us, get it, but strip the plumes off the helmets." He thought for a moment. "And don't touch the one the archer knocked down."

  That seemed to be the right action. After Mason went through the dead, Caradoc did the same. He retrieved his arrow and stripped the man he'd killed, then went over Mason's leavings. He brought the loot over to the cistern and said something to Yanulf. The old priest indicated a sword, a breastplate, and a leather bag which Caradoc took over and piled reverently against the stone heap.

  Aha. "Mason, take our stuff over to Yanulf."

  The priest's selection from Mason's pile was considerably larger. "Wonder what the PC is," Rick said.

  "And who gets the loot."

  "Redistribution system," Gwen said. "It's fairly common in some societies. The first people down the road will help themselves with Old Stoneheapy's blessings. Uh-don't like to say it, but it would be better if you carried the dead away from the road. That way they just vanished, and maybe no one will look too closely at what killed them."<
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  "Covering our tracks?" Rick asked.

  "Yes."

  It made sense. Rick thought he was using that line a lot since he'd met Gwen. "Let's get at it, Mason. Maybe Caradoc will get the idea and help."

  Caradoc did, but he obviously didn't understand. When they got the bodies stacked in the woods a hundred meters from the road, Rick made symbolic gestures and threw a few dirt clods over them. 'When Mason frowned a question, Rick said, "I'd rather he thought we have a screwy religion than leave him wondering why we're carrying bodies around."

  They loaded their spare horse with loot, while Caradoc piled his own excess gear on the horse the priest had ridden. Then he rode off on a fresh horse and returned with two more. After a questioning glance at Rick, he gave the new mounts to Yanulf and Tylara. They mounted.

  "Cap'n, they're waiting for us," Mason said.

  "Yeah. Mount up." He swung into his own saddle and gave an experimental cluck. The horse moved slightly. It seemed very well trained and responded to the reins about as he had expected. "I'll lead yours at first," he told Gwen. "If you want me to."

  "Please."

  Rick edged his mount over until he was next to Tylara. "Where?" he said. "Quo vadis? Donde?" He pointed helplessly in all directions.

  She frowned, then seemed to understand. She pointed down the road. "Tamaerthon."

  "Your home?" Rick asked. He pointed to her, then the road. Tylara do Tamaerthon, she'd said. It must be. "You. Tamaerthon?"

  She nodded vigorously, then swung her hands in abroad sweep to include the whole party. "Tamaerthon," she said, and she sounded quite determined about it.

  PART FIVE: TAMAERTHON

  I

  Tylara had been away less than a year, but she had forgotten just how small her homeland was. The whole of Tamaerthon was no more than twice the extent her own lands of Chelm had been, and her father's holdings in The Garioch would have been thought suitable for a wealthy knight-almost too mean to support a bheroman. As for her father's great hall, it wasn't much larger than her council chamber in Castle Dravan, and indeed her father used it for council meetings, which usually-as now-were no more than a gathering of several of his henchmen.

  That wasn't her only disappointment. Her reception was something less than enthusiastic. Her father had seen her leave as a great lady. He had sent more archers and more wealth than he could afford as her dowry.

  Outside the council hall, the women of the village were keening the deaths of sons and lovers who had gone with their lady to die in a far land.

  "I had thought ye might send me horses and knights," her father said. "And gold. But ye hae returned wi' no more than three men-at-arms and this priest."

  "What choice had I? But I have come with more than men-at-arms." Tylara described the battle at the crossroads. "And twice more they fought when bandits and refugees would not leave us alone. Each time they left none alive." She described the weapons; the large ones like crossbows carried over the shoulder, and the smaller one-handed weapons they carried concealed beneath their jackets.

  "But where do they come from?" her father demanded.

  "From the stars," Yanulf said.

  Drumold stared at the priest and back to his daughter. "Weapons of fire and thunder… then the old tales are true?"

  "They are," Yanulf said. "You can see for yourself, the Demon Star grows larger each ten-day."

  "Aye, I hae seen it at dawn when the night sun is low," Drumold agreed. "But the tales speak of evil gods." He glanced nervously toward the stone house where the newcomers were lodged. "Are these-"

  "Not gods," Tylara said. "They are men. Men with great weapons, but men. For days they were sick nearly to death. The lady with them is ill yet."

  "She carries a child," Yanulf said. "I do not know whose."

  "Not gods," Drumold mused. "Men. And they befriended you. With such power as they have-" He grew thoughtful.

  "That had occurred to me," Yanulf said. "When I saw the power of their weapons, I had thought to find the Lord Protector and the boy Wanax of Drantos. With the aid of these star men, we might have driven Sarakos from Drantos and returned the lady Tylara to her home."

  "But they would no aid you?" Drumold demanded.

  "They could not," Yanulf said. "In the ten-day we sought the Protector's army, the Protector sought Sarakos. We heard the story from refugees three days after their armies met. The battle was thought to be equal at first, even though Sarakos bad many more lances. But as the battle was fought, Sarakos smote his enemies with weapons of fire and thunder." The priest spread his hands. "Our friends are not the only men from the stars. More than a score, with weapons more terrible than any Rick carries, now are allied with Sarakos and hold Drantos for him."

  "Rick was once of their company," Tylara said.

  "Then why is he not with them?"

  She shrugged helplessly. "I do not know. I heard from the lady Gwen that Rick was once the commander of the star men. I know that he does not care to have them find him again."

  "Then dare we keep him here?" Drumold demanded. "Is he a danger to our land?"

  "He is our guest. He saved me from Sarakos once and twice from bandits," Tylara said.

  Her father studied her face carefully. "Aye, and he has done more than that," he said. "When your mourning is done, will we see another stranger wed the daughter of the Mac Clallan Muir?"

  Tylara had no answer to that. I wish, she thought, I wish I knew. Whose child does Gwen carry? She does not act toward Rick as a woman does to her man, but the ways of the star men are strange. I do not understand them. Especially I do not understand Rick, who likes well enough to be near me, but who has never touched me except to heal wounds…

  And another memory. Rick's shouting rage when finally he understood what Sarakos had done to her. Almost, almost he had gone back to seek out Sarakos, but then Gwen spoke to him for a long time, and they rode on again.

  But he did rage. He hates the man who harmed me.

  "We hae our troubles here," Drumold was saying. "There was untimely rain, and the harvests will be poor. Wi'out the archers sent with you, we hae lost many of our pastures. Mac Clallan Muir does not stand so high as at the time you left, and when it is learned that my daughter can no longer send a thousand lances to my aid, it will go worse. Now you hae brought us guests who may draw the strength of Sarakos against us. Daughter, 'tis no' your fault, but this is not good."

  He looked to his silent henchmen. They had no advice for him. Then he stared moodily into the fire. "But they are guests and they have my welcome, for what good it will be to them."

  "What's taking them so damned long?" Corporal Mason asked. "My stomach's growling. They could at least feed us."

  "I expect that's what the debate is about," Gwen said. "Hospitality is taken very seriously in some cultures. If they feed us, they have to take us in and protect us from our enemies."

  "Well, I wish they'd get on with it."

  "Count your blessings," Rick told him. "At least there's a warm fire and we'll get a safe night's sleep." Which, he thought, was more than they'd had for weeks while they fled across Drantos, staying ahead of the occupation forces that Sarakos and his new allies sent out in waves. It had been a nightmare journey, with all three of them sick with classic cases of Montezuma's Revenge, knowing nothing of the language and customs.

  "But we made it," he said aloud. "And without leaving tracks. So now what do we do?"

  "Blend in," Gwen said. "Get established in the community."

  "Sure." Rick pointed out the window. The scenery was lovely. The village stood on a flat alpine meadow high above the sea, ringed on three sides by snowcapped mountains. Except for the seacoast to the southeast, it might have been a scene from a picture postcard of Switzerland. "Beautiful," he said. "But I don't see a hell of a lot of cultivated land, and some of the fields I did see were gullied. No industry, and not much pastureland. Gwen, you've noticed more than I have, but it's obvious even to me that this is a warrior society
. They probably get more of their food by raiding their~ flatland neighbors than they do by growing their own. There's only one way Mason and I can make a living here. Fortunately, it's a trade we know."

  "Until we run out of cartridges," Mason said. "Which may not take long."

  "So we get busy manufacturing muzzle-loaders," Rick said. "I've been trying to remember the formula for gunpowder. I think I've got it."

  "Rick, you can't!" Gwen protested.

  "Why not? You want them unspoiled? Think arrows are a cleaner way to go than gunshots?"

  "It's not that," Gwen said. "God, I wish my head would stop aching. Rick, if you start using gunpowder weapons, you'll advertise our location as surely as if you sent Parsons a letter."

  Mason growled low in his throat. "Cap'n, I don't know about you, but I'm sick of worrying about Lieutenant-ha, he's a general by now-about Parsons. You saw the country we came through gettin' here. With five hundred good men, we could hold those passes forever. To hell with bein' scared of Parsons and his crew. I just wish I could be sure he'd come."

  "He's right," Rick said. "And he's not the only one tired of running scared."

  "Have you stopped to think that the Shalnuksis may help Parsons?" Gwen said. "Probably will. Can you fight them? Not to mention that you're involving Tylara's father in a needless war with the most powerful force on this planet." She sniffed. "I'd thought better of you than that."

  "What the hell do you want us to do?" Rick demanded.

  "What we agreed. Leave as few traces of our presence as possible-at least until the Shalnuksis have done with their trading. Once they're gone, you'll only have Parsons to fight."

  Once again, Rick thought. Once again she makes sense. But why do I think she isn't telling me everything?