There Will Be War Volume VII Page 9

  Then it was as if he clouded over. I was released. He seemed to be talking to himself, as if I were no longer there. “No. I can see that you don’t.” He reached for the hatch and started back down to his solitary room. “You will never understand. You will always believe in your rights—your wars—your holy causes. I wish I could.” His voice was pained as he whispered, “Oh, how I wish I could!”

  Battle Cry, by Tim Sarnecki

  Editor’s Introduction

  Few soldiers willingly go to battle, yet go they must. Over the centuries leaders have discovered ways to lead men to the colors when the trumpets sound the call to arms. The best bring them expecting victory, for morale wins more battles than numbers. When Queen Boadicea led her Britons in revolt against Rome, Suetonius, with one Legion already destroyed and another forced into retreat, faced with his 7,000 Legionaries and 4,000 auxiliaries between 100,000 and a quarter of a million Celts. The cities of Colchester and London had already been burned. Every Roman citizen, man, woman, and child, that the Britons could catch had been slaughtered, many with studied cruelties.

  One of the great moments in science fiction takes place in Robert A. Heinlein’s Have Spacesuit, Will Travel, when an old Roman centurion is dragged before a Galactic court. He faces technology so complex that it’s beyond magic. He has no real idea why he’s there. He does understand that he faces enemies. The enemies of Caesar, and, worse, of a Rome he has never seen; enemies who threaten everything he has lived for; and knowing that he cannot win, still he cries his challenge.

  Suetonius led an army of such men; but he faced no mean foe. The morning of the battle, Queen Boadicea told her soldiers: “Win the battle or die. That is what I, a woman, will do. You men can live on in slavery if that is what you want.” Her army responded with a mighty cheer.

  Suetonius’s speech has also been recorded. “Ignore the racket these savages make. There are more women than men shouting in their ranks. They are not soldiers. They are not even properly equipped. We’ve beaten them before. When they see our weapons and feel our spirit, they’ll break and run. Stick together. Throw your pila and push forward. Knock them down with your shields and finish them with your swords. Forget about loot. When we win you’ll have the lot.”

  It wasn’t an eloquent speech by contemporary standards, but by nightfall more than 80,000 Britons were dead. The Romans lost 400 troopers.

  Sometimes, though, the situation is greatly different. Leonidas at Thermopylae would never have made a long speech, because the Spartans didn’t do that sort of thing; but if he had…

  Battle Cry

  Tim Sarnecki

  I’ve called my last challenge,

  And made my last reply.

  My rivals from a thousand wars

  Have come to watch me die.

  I gain my feet, and one last time,

  Sing out my battle cry.

  “Hail!” The foes before me;

  “All hail, you ghosts of fools.

  Your bloods run out upon the field

  Where once you used these devils’ tools:

  “This is my swift right arm,

  Capped with this mighty hand

  That wields the power of my sword,

  With which I took a soldier’s stand.

  “My strong left arm, a shield

  To ward your every blow

  But one, which ends my warring life;

  But one, which lays the soldier low.

  “But wait, these are but shades

  Of my real weaponry.

  They are but implements of war,

  Entailments of my destiny.”

  In death, above them is my heart,

  Warrior spirit, burning hot,

  For love of war’s rich panoply,

  For spoils, glory, victory;

  For swords upraised, the battle cry;

  For this, I lived; for this, I die.

  I’ve called my last challenge,

  And made my last reply.

  My rivals from a thousand wars

  Have come to watch me die.

  To them, I raise my last salute;

  For them, this one last battle cry.

  Test for Tyrants, by Edward P. Hughes

  Editor’s Introduction

  In previous volumes we told the story of the Irish village of Barley Cross after World War III devastated the Earth, and rendered most of the men sterile.

  Barley Cross was conquered by a tyrant: Patrick O’Meara, onetime sergeant of Her Majesty’s Forces, brought his tank to the village and proceeded to buiid the fortress he called the Fist; after which he proclaimed himself Duke of Connaught, Master of the Fist, and Lord of Barley Cross. As lord he took it on himself to lead the town militia in raids to recover aspirin, antibiotics, and other supplies, so that soon the town was indeed independent.

  He also imposed other customs. In an era when nearly all the men were sterile, Patrick O’Meara wasn’t; and thus came about the revival of droit du seigneur; a duty that O’Meara apparently enjoyed to the day he died. Of course, O’Meara wasn’t married.

  His successor certainly was.

  Test For Tyrants

  Edward P. Hughes

  Liam McGrath lay beside his sleeping wife, trying to plan. Already, dawn brightened the corners of the bedroom. In a few hours, Father Con would be saying the words to make Brege O’Malley wife of Christie Kennedy—and thus pose a problem for the new Lord of Barley Cross.

  Liam shifted restlessly. What would the O’Meara have done about it? Liam recalled very clearly what the previous master had done after his, Liam’s, wedding. But the O’Meara had ruled Barley Cross for longer than Liam could remember, and Liam, fresh to the job, could not hope to match such expertise.

  At six o’clock he reached a decision, and got up. He dressed without disturbing Eileen, and slipped out of the Fist by the bedroom window and the secret path through the kitchen garden.

  At the foot of the hill, he turned river-wards, making for a lonely cabin that stood just off the track leading down to McGuire’s mill. It was light enough to see that he had the road to himself. A raw wind blew promising rain. Typical Connemara wedding day, Liam reflected.

  The cabin was in darkness. He rapped, not loudly, but persistently. A light flickered behind the curtains, a bolt rasped, the door opened an inch.

  “It’s me, Liam,” he hissed. “I need your help, Katy.”

  He heard a sigh of exasperation. “Liam McGrath—you may be our new master, but it doesn’t give you the right to get an honest whore out of bed at six in the morning.”

  “Let me in,” he pleaded. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  He caught a giggle. “Well, so long as it’s only talk you want.”

  A chain rasped, and the door opened wide enough to admit him. Kate Monaghen, in curlers and a red flannel nightie, peered at him in the lamplight. “You’ll be getting a worse name than the O’Meara,” she warned. “At least he abstained from commercial fornication.”

  Liam closed the door behind him. “No one saw me, Katy.” He shrugged off the overcoat he had draped over his shoulders. “I put this on to alter me appearance.”

  She set the oil lamp on a table. “If you think that old rag can hide our new master–”

  He sat down, breathing heavily. “Can’t be helped, Katy. I had to see you. I need your help.”

  She said, “I’ll put the kettle on. We’ll have a sup of tay while you tell me your troubles.”

  As she poured, he blurted out, “Brege O’Malley gets wed today. And I’ve got to do my droit du seigneur thing with her tonight.”

  “Droyt doo what?”

  He explained.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Sure, that shouldn’t be a difficult job for a fine upstanding young felly like yerself.”

  He sighed, seeing suddenly a vision of Brege O’Malley. Saint Brege, the Ice Maiden, they had christened her as children. Twelve months younger than Liam, she, Christie Kennedy, and the other educable infants of Barley Cro
ss at that time had squeezed together into the too-small desks of Celia Larkin’s one-room school. Brege, even then, had affected piety—wearing below-the-knee skirts, aping the habits physical and moral of the nuns she claimed she would have joined, had there been a convent handy.

  “Well?” It was Katy, bringing him back to the present.

  He lifted his head. Now that he needed to keep awake, it was a job to hold his eyes open. He began diffidently: “I– er–” The trouble was, Katy Monaghen might be one of those Barley Cross citizens, like his stepfather, who accepted all they were told about the master. He plunged on recklessly. “I don’t know how much you know about the master’s responsibilities—?”

  A furrow appeared between her eyes. “I know enough to agree that you ought to get on with your droyts, if that’s what’s mithering you.”

  Katy would, of course. Being a harlot, a droyt or two would be neither here nor there to her. He sighed. “It ain’t that, Katy. It’s what Christie Kennedy will want to do about it.”

  “Bugger Christie Kennedy,” she snapped. “Just get your guards to throw him out if he shows up.”

  Liam shook his head. “That would only make things worse. I’ve got to let him into the Fist and face him on my own. Try to talk him out of killing me.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Would he try to do that?”

  Liam shrugged. “I tried to kill the O’Meara when I got wed.”

  She said briskly, “Then you must kill Christie first.”

  Liam groaned. “I can’t do that. If I took a life each time I tried to start one, I wouldn’t be much benefit to Barley Cross, would I?”

  She nibbled at her bottom lip, studying him in silence. “So that’s the reason why the O’Meara bedded every bride in Barley Cross? Well, bloody hell! And what can I do to help you?”

  Liam raised his eyes, face haggard. “Has Christie Kennedy ever visited you… in your professional capacity?”

  Kate Monaghen regarded him archly. “Liam McGrath—would you be asking me to break my hypocritic oath? Sure all my business is confidential.”

  His lip trembled. “Knock it off, Katy. I’m serious.”

  She whispered, “And what if Christie did come to see me?”

  “I—I could threaten to tell his wife.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Glory be to God! And on his wedding day, too! And you the lord of the village, who should be setting us all example!”

  “You don’t understand, Katy,” he pleaded. “It’s only because I’m master that I have to blackmail him.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “And just where would I come in?”

  Liam peered around the edge of the curtain into the brightening daylight, as if half afraid that an eavesdropper crouched outside. He said, “I want you to come up to the Fist for the day.”

  She stared. “And what would your wife say? She knows what I am. Sure, she wouldn’t let me past her front door.”

  He wanted to contradict her, but knew it would be a waste of time. All Barley Cross knew that Kate Monaghen was a loose woman. The women tolerated her, as they tolerated the lewdness of the master, in grim silence. His Eileen would probably slam the door in Kate’s face.

  He mumbled. “My wife won’t be there. She’s taking the baby and herself off to her mam’s for the weekend, so that, officially, she won’t know what goes on at the Fist.”

  “Oh? And what does go on at the Fist?”

  He moaned. “Christ, Katy—don’t you understand? I’ve got to take Brege O’Malley to bed, and try to get her in the family way. And Christie Kennedy will probably climb in through my bedroom window and do his damnedest to stop me.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And just as he’s going to stick a knife into your pelt, I bust out of the wardrobe crying ‘Halt, Christie Kennedy! Or we’ll tell yer new wife all about the antics you got up to with me last summer’?”

  “Something like that,” he agreed lamely. “It’s the best I can think of. The O’Meara would have had a smarter way of doing it, but I’m not the O’Meara.”

  “And thank God for that!” Her eyes flashed angrily. “The O’Meara would never have taken me into his confidence. I may not set a shining example in the village—but I’m as loyal a citizen as any of ’em.”

  He said, startled, “Then you’ll come?”

  She flourished a fist. “Just tell me how to get past yer guards.”

  General Desmond was hovering in the hall when Liam returned. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded ungraciously. “You’re supposed to be at the church by nine o’clock.”

  “I’ve been attending to the master’s business,” Liam retorted, concealing his awe of fierce Larry Desmond, but still unsure how far he might verbally venture with the old soldier.

  “I’ve an honor guard picked for your escort,” the general continued, as if Liam had not spoken. “Two of our smartest men, and a corporal to carry the presents and deliver the summons. We’re sending the bride a tablet of soap and a bottle of perfume, and the same to her ma. It’s more than usual, but we want to build you up as a generous tyrant.”

  “So pleased–” Liam began.

  “And Michael has pressed your uniform.”

  Liam sensed his ears prick, like a rabbit’s. “Uniform? I have no uniform.”

  The general smiled genially. “The O’Meara used to wear his old Coldstream Guards outfit at functions. If we pad the chest out a bit it’ll fit you good enough.”

  “But I’ve never been in the army,” Liam protested. “I’m not even old enough to serve at the Fist.”

  “Ach, away with you!” The general waved a carefree hand. “What’s the use of being master if you can’t bend the rules occasionally? You’ve got to look impressive today.”

  Liam took a deep breath, knees quivering. It was now or never. Unless he intended to knuckle under to Larry Desmond for the rest of his life. “No uniform,” he stated firmly. “Positively no uniform. I’ll wear my best suit, if you like. But no uniform.”

  General Larry Desmond’s white eyebrows bristled. “Now, listen here, young Liam!”

  “Master!” Liam corrected, holding his lips firm. “Master of the Fist and Lord of Barley Cross.”

  General Desmond looked straight at him, as if seeing Liam for the very first time.

  Liam stared back, without speaking.

  The general seemed to shrink slightly. “Okay, Me Lord,” he conceded. “No uniform. Your best suit will do nicely. And would you condescend to attend at the reception after? You need only stay for the meal and a couple of dances.”

  “I’ll do that,” Liam agreed. “I’ll even wear some kind of badge or chain of office, if you can dream one up.”

  Larry Desmond brightened. “Now, there’s an idea.” He rummaged in his pocket. “Pat used to wear an old medallion around his neck. I was keeping it as a souvenir.” He pulled the hand from his pocket and offered Liam a chain. “Perhaps you’d—?”

  Liam took the chain, and examined the silver disk attached to it. One side of the medal bore the figure of Saint Christopher, the other the words P. O’Meara, Kilcollum, Connemara. Liam slipped the chain over his head. “Let’s call it my chain of office.”

  “Thank you,” said Larry Desmond. “Maybe you’ll make a decent master yet.”

  Liam arrived purposely late, and lingered at the back to the church. He was not keen to meet Father Con’s accusing eyes over the head of the bride he intended to force into adultery before the day was out.

  Later, at the reception, he found himself given a seat of honor beside the bride’s mother, and was obliged to attempt polite conversation with Ma O’Malley.

  She leaned confidentially toward him. “Will you be sending for our Brege tonight, Me Lord?”

  Liam pondered the tone of her voice. Was she hoping that he’d say yes? Women were mysterious creatures. Since his accession, he had discovered more mild-looking, middle-aged matrons in Barley Cross who secretly approved of the O’Meara’s carnal excesses than he could ha
ve ever imagined. He murmured, “My corporal has the summons in his pocket. Will Brege be willing?”

  Madame O’Malley eyed him coquettishly. “Don’t you be worrying about our Brege, Me Lord. I’ll see she’s willing. And if she ain’t, dammit if I don’t come up to the Fist meself in her place!”

  Liam tried not to flinch. He sneaked a glance along the table to where Brege’s father, Pete O’Malley was tucking into turkey. Liam whispered, “I hope you don’t let Mr. O’Malley hear you make remarks like that. Not that you wouldn’t be welcome,” he added gallantly, “but it’s Brege’s turn this time.”

  When Franky Finnegan struck up a waltz on his fiddle, Liam found the nerve to plunge into the prancing throng, his arms around his hostess. Ma O’Malley danced enthusiastically, as if determined not to waste an instant of the glory in the new master’s embrace. Liam sweated, counting beats under his breath, accommodating his stance to the O’Malley figure.

  Two dances, Larry Desmond had stipulated. The next one, then, had to be with the bride. As Franky finished with a flourish, Liam released his partner and glanced around the floor.

  The new bride stood momentarily alone, her husband heading for the bar. Liam excused himself, and headed toward opportunity. Franky struck up again, and he led the Ice Maiden, unexpectedly gorgeous in long white satin, onto the floor.

  She murmured, “So kind of you to come to my wedding, Master. And thank you for the presents.”

  Since fine quality toilet soap and French perfume had not been seen in Barley Cross for years, except on those occasions when the master showed his generosity, Liam reckoned she meant it. He cracked a grin. “Liam’s the name, Brege.”

  She pouted. “But you are master too.”

  “But still Liam McGrath,” he countered. “I hope I haven’t changed.”

  She smiled nervously, nodding at the medallion. “Would that be your chain of office?”