by David Weber
The Marine looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I haven't. Point taken."
"I've become more comfortable than I ever wanted to be with calling for a bigger hammer," Roger said. "I don't have to like it, but the past few months have provided all the object lessons anyone could ever want about what happens when you're afraid to use force at need."
He started to say something more, then closed his mouth, and Pahner saw him look across to where Nimashet Despreaux rode her own civan beside the line of ambulances. For just a moment, the prince's eyes were very dark, but then he gave himself a shake and returned his attention to the Bronze Barbarians' commander.
"Since you—and Rastar—seem to have everything thoroughly under control, I'm going to go check on Cord and the other casualties. Ask somebody to bring me a plate, would you?"
* * *
Roger dipped his head under the leather awning and looked across the litter at Pedi.
"How is he?"
Most of the wounded were being transported in the leather-covered turom carts that looked not much different from Conestoga wagons. Roger had spent some time in similar conditions on the march, so he knew what it was like to be bounced and bumped over the poorly maintained roads while regrowing an arm or a hand. Unpleasant didn't begin to describe it. But until they got back to "civilization," and convinced civilization that there was the hard way, and then there was Roger's way, there wasn't a great deal of option.
What option there was, though, had been extended to Cord. His litter was suspended between two turom, which had to be at least marginally better. At least he wasn't being shaken by every bump in the road, although whether or not the side-to-side motion was actually all that superior was probably a matter of opinion. At the moment, however, it was the best Roger could offer his asi.
He had seldom felt so inadequate when he offered someone his "best."
"He still won't wake up," Pedi said softly. "And he's hot; his skin is dry."
"Afternoon, Your Highness," Dobrescu said. The medic climbed down from one of the carts to stand beside the litter and gestured at Cord. "I heard you were checking on the wounded and figured I'd find you here."
"How is he?" Roger repeated.
"He's not coming out of the anesthesia," the medic admitted. "Which isn't good. And as Blondie here noted, he's running a fever. That isn't anything I've run into before; they're cold-blooded by nature, so a fever isn't normal with them. It's not all that high a fever, but he's about three degrees above where I think he should be, based on the ambient temperature."
"He's . . ." Roger paused, trying to decide how to put it. "He's sort of a . . . warrior monk. Is it possible that he's unconsciously . . . ?"
"Using dinshon to increase his body temperature?" Dobrescu finished for him. "Possible. I've seen him use dinshon a couple of times to control his metabolism. And the fever might be whatever metabolic remnant lets him do it reacting to the infection. There's a reason people develop fevers; the higher temperature improves the immune response. So fever, under certain circumstances, might be normal in Mardukans. But he's still in a bad way."
"Is there anything else to be done?" Roger asked. "I hate seeing him like this."
"Well, as far as I know, I'm the expert on Mardukan physiology," the medic said dryly, "and I'm afraid I can't think of a thing. I'm sorry to put it this way, Sir, but he's either going to pull through, or he isn't. I've given him the one antibiotic I know is usable in Mardukans, and we're pumping him with fluids. Other than that, there's not much we can do."
"Got it," Roger said. "I'll get out of your hair. Pedi?"
"Yes, Your Highness?" the Shin said miserably.
"Wearing yourself down caring for him isn't going to bring him back any sooner," the prince said pointedly. "I want you to rotate with those other slaves we 'rescued' and get some rest when you can. I'm going to need you up and ready to deal with the tribes as we're moving. If we get overrun because you're too tired to wrap your tongue around the words to get us through, it's going to kill him deader than dead. Understand?"
"Yes, Your Highness. I'll make sure I'm available. And capable."
"Good," Roger said, then sighed. "This is going to be a long trip."
"What?" Dobrescu said darkly. "On Marduk? Really?"
* * *
"Rastar, we also need intelligence on what we're heading into," Pahner said, after the prince had left. "Pedi has never used this route herself."
"I've talked with the locals," Rastar replied. "The language problem is pretty bad, but I got Macek to use his toot to check the translation for me. According to the locals, the road to the pass is steep and apparently of poor quality. It's maintained for turom carts from here to the pass itself, but past the keep, it's nothing more than a track. I don't think we can use the carts after that. Or, at least not very far after that."
"Well, if your Vashin are rested, head up the road, slowly." The captain shook his head. "I never thought I'd be back to the days when my idea of good intel was some vague descriptions of the road and cavalry a couple of hours out ahead of me."
* * *
Roger's civan balked at what passed for a crossroads. The road through Sran had been steep enough, but just the other side of the town, it went nearly vertical. It was paved with flat stones and had obviously been maintained, but a fresh Mardukan gullywasher had just opened up, and the roadbed had turned instantly into a shallow river of racing brown water laced with yellow foam.
"This is insane, Captain! You know that, right?" Roger practically had to scream over the thunder of the rain and the bellowing of panicky turom. After the caravan had passed, the roadbed would be awash with more than rain.
"It is, indeed, Your Highness!" Pahner shouted back. He'd been in conversation with the Vashin cavalry scout who'd been left at the intersection, but now he turned and crossed the road to look over the far side. There was a sheer drop to the white water fifty meters below. "Unfortunately, it's the only route. If you have any other suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them!"
"How about we click our heels together three times and say 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home'?" Roger suggested, and the captain laughed.
Theres a wheel on the Horns 'o the Morning,
An' a wheel on the edge of the pit,
An' a drop into nothing beneath you,
As straight as a beggar can spit . . .
"Kipling again?" Roger said with a lift of an eyebrow.
" 'Screw Guns,' " Pahner informed him.
Roger grinned through the pounding rain, then kneed his mount back into motion once more, ascending into the storm. After another hundred meters or so, the road flattened out a little, going from a twelve- or fifteen-degree slope to one of a mere six or seven. The prince began to relax just a bit . . . only to have the civan's foot slip. Roger threw his weight against the saddle as the civan skittered on the slick paving stones, searching for footing. After a moment, it recovered, and he kicked it in the side.
"Come on, you bastard! Onward and upward!"
* * *
Krindi Fain grunted and heaved at the wheel of the turom cart. For a moment, nothing happened, and then someone else shouldered in beside him. Erkum Pol's massive muscles flexed, and the cart lurched upward, lifting out of the crevice hiding under the knee-deep water roaring down the roadbed. Fain straightened his aching back and watched the cart move farther up the hill, then turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Captains don't, by and large, push carts up mountains, Captain," Armand Pahner observed.
The line of carts was barely moving—not too surprising, perhaps, given the steep slopes they'd encountered since leaving Sran. The first three had been bad enough, but the fourth was the worst so far, nearly two hundred meters long, and climbing at a constant fifteen-degree angle. Virtually everyone, human and Mardukan, had a shoulder into the carts, and the turom had been unhitched from the rearmost carts and doubled up on the lead ones to make th
e ascent.
As Fain turned towards the human, a ripple of lightning struck, jumping from one side of the gorge to the other with a sound like an artillery barrage. It started a small landslide, and the turom went berserk—or tried to, straining at their harnesses and slipping on the stones of the road as boulders careened about their feet.
"Well, I'm not a commander at the moment, Sir!" Fain shouted over the tumult, jumping forward to throw his shoulder back into the cart beside Erkum's as it started to slide backwards. "And I don't have any significant duties. So it seemed to be the best use of my time."
Pahner grabbed a chock and threw it under the right wheel as one of the turom slipped to its knees.
"Just don't get yourself killed, okay?"
"Not a problem," the former quarryman panted. "What is it you humans say? 'Caution is my middle name.' "
"To the winds," the Marine laughed. " 'Captain Krindi Caution-to-the-Winds Fain.' "
"Maybe so," the Mardukan captain grunted as the cart slipped again. "But at least 'caution' is in there somewhere!"
* * *
"This isn't going well," Roger said, "but at least we don't have company."
The reason the road was so little used had become only too evident. The column had made less than twenty kilometers since leaving Sran, and the long Mardukan day was well into its equally lengthy afternoon. It was hard to estimate how fast the Kirsti forces could react, but all of them were surprised that nothing had come up the road after them already.
"It's possible that the High Priest's death has kicked off an outright civil war," O'Casey pointed out. "Unlikely, but possible. In which case the lack of reaction is because everyone is consolidating their positions and they don't have any forces to spare for something as unimportant as chasing us down."
"It's more likely that they're simply taking their time," Pahner said. "I'd guess that the raiders really are out of it, though. They probably could've reacted before this, unless there was some specific reason not to. Like, for example, if Sor Teb was in enough trouble to possibly get a personal introduction to the Fire."
"We can always hope," Roger said sourly.
"But hope is all," O'Casey pointed out. "And even if he is dead—or, at least, in serious disfavor—someone should be chasing after us by now, unless something is distracting them closer to home."
"Don't rely too much on the delay," Pahner cautioned. "I'm sure the Scourge could move quickly enough to have overtaken us by now, but a conventional unit is going to want all its logistics in place before it moves. And speaking of logistics—"
"—we've got too much, for once," Roger finished.
"Not precisely, Your Highness. What we have is too few carts, or too few turom, for the stuff we've got. We need to reduce the load. Probably to about half of what we're pulling now."
"If we do t'at we won't have 'nough to make it to t'e port," Poertena pointed out.
"And if we try to drag it all with us, we won't live to get there, anyway," Pahner said. "If we can't trade with the tribes for what we need, we'll never make it through, period. Dump it."
"Aye, aye."
"The Vashin say that there's another forty or fifty kilometers of this," Pahner continued. "They're at the pass, though, or close enough to see it. We need to be to their position by tomorrow evening, or we're going to be in deep trouble."
"Of course, if we can't take the pass after we get there . . ." Roger pointed out.
"Oh, thank you so very much for reminding me of that, Your Highness."
* * *
"Good gods," Honal said. "That's not a curtain wall—that's a bloody fortress."
He and Rastar were perched on a ridgeline with a good view of the pass. The opening was narrow, not much more than a wide canyon with nearly vertical sides. A stone wall and gatehouse had been thrown across it, and a series of structures were under construction or complete along the nearer side of the wall. On the southeast side of the pass, a wooden palisade and keep were being converted to stone, and on the western side a bastion was being laid out. The keep had been tied into the curtain wall, and it was apparent that in the long run the Krath intended to fill the pass with fortifications.
"I'm not going to underestimate the humans," Rastar said. "Maybe they can do this. Send a messenger. We're not going to take this place with cavalry."
"We might as well get dug in and get some fires going," Honal commented, looking at the angle of the sun. "It's going to be a long day."
* * *
Roger reined in his civan and slid to the ground, handing the reins to one of the waiting Vashin. He started to turn away, but he caught Dogzard's warning growl just in time, and backhanded the civan as it tried—again—to take a chunk out of his arm.
"It's not time for dinner yet, you beast," he said. "And you'd better be glad, or I'd shoot you and have you spitted."
"They just have to know who the boss is, Your Highness," Honal said with a gesture of humor.
"That's usually not a problem," Roger said. "Where's your position? I take it you're not standing out in the open so they can all watch you checking out their little fort."
"Up on the ridge," Rastar said, gesturing over his shoulder. "We're pretty sure we've been spotted, but we're not making our presence, or numbers, known."
"Have they sent out a patrol?" Roger asked as he started to climb the hill.
"Two of them," Honal said with a grunt of laughter.
"And?"
"We captured both groups," Rastar said. "We're holding them in a side valley. It looks like the garrison is composed almost entirely of lowland peasants, too. They certainly aren't mountain boys, anyway! They didn't even see our ambush until we'd sprung it, and they gave up almost immediately. The second patrol had ten in it, and we took it with only two Vashin."
Roger chuckled as he topped out on the ridgeline and increased the magnification on his helmet visor.
"What's so funny?" Rastar asked.
"What you just said is the punchline to a very old human joke. It's in a lot of cultures, but the punchline is always the same: 'It's a trap! There were two of them!' "
"I'd like to hear it sometime," Honal said. "You humans have good jokes."
"Yes, it's surprising how many points of congruence there are between humans and Mardukans," Roger said. "More than between us and the Phaenurs, that's for sure! Those people are weird. Of course, humor is one of the qualities that has the hardest time translating across species lines. That's what I meant about points of congruence."
"We laugh at the same stuff? That's a big thing?" Honal asked.
"Bigger than you can probably guess, yet," Roger assured him as he peered out across the valley. Then he zoomed his helmet back and removed it so he could run his fingers through his hair.
"Not a problem," he announced.
"Really?" Honal grunted a laugh. "If you think this isn't a problem, maybe we have fewer 'points of congruence' than you thought!"
"No, I'm serious," Roger assured him with a grin.
"Oh, I don't doubt we can take it," Honal said. "But we're going to lose a lot of people doing it."
"No," Roger said. "Or, rather, we probably would lose them if the garrison knew we were coming. Or where we're coming from."
He regarded the fortress for a few more moments, then shook his head.
"Send a messenger back. Ask Captain Pahner to expedite getting a team from Julian's squad up the road. I've got a little project for them."
* * *
Roger wiped his hands as Julian rode into the encampment. The sun was barely down, but the Vashin had already broken up into squads across the ridgeline, lighting fires against the mountain cold and settling in for the night. The cold-blooded Mardukans found it nearly impossible to move when the temperature dropped below what humans considered sweltering. The humans, on the other hand, including the small guard detachment with Roger, thought the nighttime temperatures were balmy.
"Cold enough for you, Julian?" Roger asked, as the
Marine climbed off the civan. With the sunset, the temperatures had dropped to what could be considered a pleasantly warm fall day in Imperial City.
"Just great, Sir," the sergeant said sourly. "Except for the saddle sores, that is. I can't believe you made us ride these things!"
"I suspect it's just going to get cooler," Roger said, looking to the north. "And as for the saddle sores, I'm afraid I didn't have much choice. We're going to be on a tight timetable, and as the temperature drops, it's going to get even harder to move for the Mardukans."
"On that, I've got a message for you," the squad leader said uncomfortably. "Captain Pahner dropped half the carts and doubled up the turom on the rest. So they're moving better."
"Good! Will they be here in time?"
"Probably, but they had some problems. They ran into something like a 'mountain atul.' Some of the turom panicked, and one of the carts ran back over . . . Despreaux."
"What?!"
"She's fine! Just a broken arm," Julian said, raising a hand as Roger shot to his feet and turned towards the picketed civan. "And the captain asked me to point out that you've got a job here."
"Yes, but—" Roger began in a semi-frantic tone.
"And Despreaux said for me to tell you that if you come rushing back to see 'your poor hurt girlfriend' you'll have a broken arm, too."
"Yes, but—"
"And you called me all the way up this frigging road on one of those ass-busting civan," Julian finished. "So you can damned well tell me why, Sir."
Roger thought about that for several moments, then drew a deep breath and turned back around.
"Ah, hell," he sighed.
"Let's just get on with the job, Sir." Julian patted him on the shoulder. "Life's a bitch, and then you die. Right?"
"Right." Roger sighed again, then gestured into the darkness. "All right, then. I've got a job for you. And, I have to admit, not one that could wait while I went back to check on Nimashet. Take a look at the target."
They walked to the crest of the ridge, and Julian jacked up his helmet's light-gathering and zoom.
"Big pocker," he remarked, gazing at the wall. "Any idea on the garrison?"