Lord of Janissaries Read online

  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 Stone-heapy’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.”

  “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 a broad sweep to include the whole party. “Tamaerthon,” she said, and she sounded quite determined about it.

  PART FIVE

  TAMAERTHON

  1

  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 had 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 starmen 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 seriousl
y 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 tacks. 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 pasture land. 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?

  2

  The cave was cold and smelled of ammonia. Rick shivered as the old priest led him down winding corridors. “This is all secret,” Yanulf said. “Although a secret better kept in the west than here. Still, secret enough.”

  “What is secret?” Rick asked. “Everyone knows there are caverns—”

  “But not the size, or the location of the entrances, or how to enter them.”

  “Why show me?” Rick asked. He coughed from the ammonia fumes and the chill.

  “They may believe you—they pay little heed to me,” Yanulf said. “And I have learned this: that you starmen put your own meaning to what you see.”

  “This is all strange to me,” Rick said. “What makes it so cold?”

  Yanulf held the torch close to a bulbous slimy mass that covered one wall of the cavern. “The roots of the Protector. A plant. It is why I know the stories of the Demon Sun are true. In all my life I have never seen the Protector larger than a man’s body. Recently it began to grow, and now grows daily. The growth began when the Demon Star was seen in the night sky, as the legends said it would.”

  “How does a plant make ice?” Rick wondered aloud. “There must be parts above ground—”

  “Aye. It is very large. Thick leaves. In the west the castles are built above caverns, and the Protector climbs the walls and battlements. In this impoverished land they build few castles, and the plant grows on the rocks. You have seen it.”

  “Ah.” He remembered a broad-leafed vine with thick stems and ugly white berries. “Scientists—uh, those whose task it is to study nature—in my home would pay much to see a plant like this.” Sunlight to ammonia, and somehow the ammonia produced cold; the evolutionary advantage for such a plant on a planet in a triple-star system was obvious. “What is it you want me to see?”

  “The size of the caverns and the barren storerooms. When the Time is upon us, the only safe refuge is in these caves. There will be no crops that year or the next, and poor ones for two more. So say the legends. Your drawings of the suns make me believe them.”

  “Which is surprising,” Rick said. “You are a priest of Ius Pater, the Dayfather. Did you not think the stars are gods?”

  “Can they not be?” Yanulf demanded. “You say yourself that they are older than worlds and burn forever.”

  And I’d best leave it at that, Rick thought. I wonder why all the secrecy. Who are they hiding from?

  Yanulf opened a massive wooden door. The smell of ammonia was very strong, and Rick thought the torch dimmed. The priest held the torch high, and coughing, said, “You see. A few miserable offerings. There is meat and grain, aye, enough for a few ten-days, but not enough even for a single winter. How will these people live in the Time?”

  The legends said that the approach of the third sun heralded evil times: fire, flood, famine, and typhoon. Those not prepared would die. They were mixed in with tales of the wars of gods, the appearance of fabulous monsters, and garbled stories whose point was the futility of dealing with the evil gods from the skies. It was hard to sort fact from fable, but Rick didn’t doubt there would be hard times ahead. The whole climate would change.

  They went deeper. The caverns were quite large, and some went far below ground level, back into the granite itself. Water trickled through some of the chambers. Others were choked with ice.

  “It is said that Yatar demands sacrifices,” Yanulf said. “These are stored away, to be cared for by the priests and acolytes. In some lands the storerooms are kept filled. But not here.”

  Eventually Yanulf led the way back out of the caves. Rick was surprised to see how far they’d traveled underground. “So it is in the other caverns of Tamaerthon,” Yanulf said. “The priests and acolytes tell me that their storerooms are as barren as these.”

  “I’ll take their word for it,” Rick gasped. He walked faster toward the open air and sunlight.

  * * *

  Drumold was horrified. “No harvests for two years? Then aye are we doomed. One year of poor harvest and we are starving before spring.” For luck he spat into the log fire burning on the hearth of his council room.

  “There should be a time of good harvest first,” Rick said. “At least I hope so. I’m not much at climatology, but the legends say so, and it’s not unreasonable.”

  “You know little of Tamaerthon,” Drumold said. “In the best years we hae little enough land, and must take our chances in raids on the Empire. Nae, nae, the gods hate us, to let us be born in such times. I had hoped the legends false.”

  “But we have to do something,” Tylara said. “You are Mac Clallan Muir. You have sworn to protect the clansmen.”

  “And I have!” Drumold thundered. “Are we not free of the Empire? Have the imperial slavemasters come to our mountains these ten years? Lass, I do what I can, but I am no magician, to grow crops in a stone quarry!”

  �
�We can help,” Gwen said. “We have ways of farming that may increase the yield—”

  “Lassie, I tell you there is no land to farm,” Drumold said moodily. “You hae seen that our best land is now split and cracked—”

  “Yes.” She spoke to Rick in English. “Heavy rains when they didn’t expect them. Just showing them contour plowing will do a lot to stop the gullies—”

  “In time to help?” Rick asked. “If we’ve got this figured right, they’ll need to work their arses off starting next spring.”

  Drumold stared at them suspiciously. “I like it not when you speak so,” he said.

  “My apologies,” Rick said. “Is there no land not plowed, then?”

  Tylara laughed. “There’s land enough in the Roman Empire. Fields left as parks for Caesar. Forests of game for Caesar. Herds for Caesar’s gods. There’s food and land there.”

  “A cruel joke,” Drumold said. “There’s food and land, aye. And legions to defend them, and the slavemarket for those who enter the Empire without Caesar’s leave.”

  “Do you forget Rick’s star weapons?” Tylara asked. She turned to Rick. “Your friends have taken all of Drantos with their weapons. Can we not do the same with the Empire?”

  Dammit, I wish she wouldn’t look at me that way, Rick thought. I am not a god. “I do not think so,” he said. “Besides, there have to be better ways than fighting. Can’t we parley with the current Caesar?”

  Drumold and Tylara both laughed. “The only way Caesar wants to see any kin of mine is in chains,” Drumold said. “We have little to sell to him save wool. What we get from Caesar we take with sword and bow.”

  If Caesar wouldn’t parley, there might be another way to get his attention. “How strong is this Empire?” Rick asked.

  “Bring the maps,” Drumold shouted. He waited while a henchman unrolled parchments. “The Empire is no’ so large as it was in my grandfather’s day,” he said. “But they hold the fertile lowlands, and the foothills, here and here. They keep a legion of four thousand mercenaries in this fortress.” He indicated a point some twenty miles from where the foothills became steep mountains leading to Tamaerthon. “Within a ten-day they can have two more, and another ten-day an additional three.”