by B. V. Larson
The king’s clasp was stronger than Powl’s, but still Straker made his eyes widen in surprise. “He is strong.”
“As the son of a god,” Roslyn said. “He came over the wall, from Rennerog.”
“The magic men say Rennerog is filled with demons.”
“They also denied the coming of the Azaltar,” she said. “Perhaps they’re not so wise after all. Gorben was right. I went to climb the wall, but Straker found me. What else but fulfillment of prophecy?”
“Look, uh, King…” Straker interrupted.
“Fillior, of Calaria,” Roslyn supplied.
“Yeah, King Fillior, look.” Straker stepped closer so that the two servants standing discreetly near the walls couldn’t hear. “I’ll help you fight these Bortoks. I am a strong warrior—but I’m not the son of a god. I’m just a man—a human, different from you, but still a man. But I am one hell of a fighter, and I’ll fight for you, if you let me.”
Fillior gazed firmly into Straker’s eyes, his crest rising and falling slowly, like a fan. “You are true and honest.”
“I am.”
“Yet sometimes a king must lie, for the good of his people.”
Straker nodded. “I get that. It’s fine if you want to put out a fancy story about a champion to give your people hope. I’ll go along with it. And, just maybe, the gist of the lie will become true. All my life I’ve studied military history. Maybe after I take a look at your defenses, I’ll have an idea or two you can use to kill Bortoks.”
“Anything that kills Bortoks will be welcome.” Fillior turned to Roslyn. “Take Straker to your brother’s room. He was of a size. Dress the Azaltar in the martial finery of our family—and yourself as well. We must show ourselves on the battlements.”
Roslyn brought Straker to a well-appointed room. Though clean and full of personal objects—weapons, armor, clothing, a crystal bottle of some spirit—it had the indefinable air of being abandoned. She threw open two wardrobes and a chest, selecting trousers, a linen undershirt and a tunic. “Here, don these.” She eyed his sturdy boots and shrugged. “Those are of a strange style, but they will do.”
“The king said this is your brother’s room? He must be small for a Calaria. My size.”
Roslyn’s face turned cold with anger and grief. “My father has been unable to enter Florden’s room since he died. He was a brave boy of only fourteen summers when Bortoks murdered him under flag of truce. My father sent him to speak for our people. Not even Bortoks would break the covenants, he thought, but they did. They have no honor, and with the honorless, there can be no peace.”
“I’m sorry. I’m honored to wear his clothing. Won’t your people think it’s strange, though?”
“Perhaps. But these are strange and desperate times.”
Straker changed while Roslyn threw open a window and gazed out. When he joined her there, he found himself looking down from a high tower upon the enemy army encamped below and beyond. Their tents were pitched far away. Nearer, he could see crude siege works. Trenches with parapets and sharpened stakes, filled with warriors, guarded catapults.
One siege engine leaped and bucked as it launched a stone at the fortress off to Straker’s left. A moment later he heard the crash of the impact. He leaned out the window as far as he could and watched as the boulder bounced from the wall and bounded down the slope of the hill. It hadn’t penetrated, but enough such shots would eventually weaken the strongest barrier.
In reply, a volley of three smaller stones flew from the battlements, all aimed at the catapult. Two crashed into the dirt parapet and one flew beyond, crushing at least three Bortoks before rolling to a stop beyond.
“Are those your heaviest stone-throwers?” Straker asked.
“Yes, the largest the walls can hold. Larger ones must be placed farther back, on the hard ground, and so are not as effective.”
He was about to ask more questions when realized he’d soon see for himself. “Give me the tour.”
“Put on Florden’s armor first.” Roslyn helped him settle a chainmail shirt on his shoulders, showing him how to use a wide leather belt to put some of its weight on his hips. The sword in its scabbard was longer, lighter and better balanced than the heavy Bortok blade he’d taken. He took a few practice swings with it and was satisfied. If he had time later, he’d brush up on his fencing technique.
A surcoat with the King’s colors—a rearing dragon in violet and gold—went over the mail. “That’s enough,” Roslyn said. “If they assemble an assault, we’ll don our whole armor, head to toe.”
“Your Earthan’s improving. Your Low Tongue, I mean.”
“I had not used it often, until now. The Calaria all use the High Tongue.”
“So who uses the Low?”
She frowned. “Bortoks, and other peoples. It would be better if you could speak the High.”
“Not gonna happen. I was never that good with languages.”
“Then perhaps it’s better that you speak little in the presence of the commoners.”
Straker shrugged. “You know best how to sell this Azaltar thing.” He was about to say that he simply needed to help her drive off the Bortoks so she and the king could, in turn, assist him in getting off-planet, but he thought better of it. These people might not understand the larger issues—the war raging light-years away, their status within Opter society, the trillion humans in thrall on this planet.
One problem at a time.
On the way, Roslyn swung by the kitchens and asked for bread, cheese and beer. Straker hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and ate ravenously.
On the battlements they were greeted with cheers from the soldiers there. All were some variation of the Calaria type, though their skin colors and scale patterns varied greatly. He saw women among the warriors, perhaps one in nine. He gathered Roslyn’s martial prowess was unusual, but not unknown.
Roslyn led Straker to the top of the highest tower so he could see the whole of the stronghold. It occupied a hilltop above a wide road that ascended a valley rising from the plains below, where the Bortoks camped in their tens of thousands. To its left and right, bluffs guarded its flanks, with manned walls atop them.
Straker turned to look behind and found a plateau rich with farms and villages. In the distance he could see something like a cathedral.
“That’s Calaria land?” he said.
“Yes. Our last, best holdings and our refuge. Perhaps one part in ten of what we once ruled. The Bortoks have stolen the rest. High Tollen—this castle—stands astride the King’s Road, blocking the route upward.”
“There are other roads to the plateau?”
“One, on the far side. There are a few narrow paths, fortified chokepoints, well watched. If the Bortoks send enough men to break through elsewhere, we could shift our reserves to meet them. But their advantage is here. It’s their catapults and their numbers that threaten us. If they breach our walls, they have enough troops to overwhelm us. A few may escape to the high crags, but as a nation we shall be no more.”
Straker shifted his attention back to the front. “Have they tried undermining your walls?”
“The rock on which High Tollen is built is too hard.”
“That’s a relief. Do they—or you—have explosives?”
“Explosives…? I don’t know that word.”
“Gunpowder?”
“Nor that.”
“Fireworks? Magic powder? Anything that bursts into flame?”
“Oil will burn, if it has a wick, such as in a lamp or torch.”
“Damn… Well, if you don’t have it, they don’t either.”
“Can we make such things?”
“Maybe… but it would take months to develop. Let’s put that aside for now.” Straker rested his elbows on the parapet and watched the catapult duel. It was a slow-motion battle, but crucial nonetheless. Battalions of Bortoks rested in place below, ready to spring up and attack if the wall was breached.
Straker counted more than twe
nty Bortok catapults, all of the onager type—a bucket on the end of an arm, powered by wrapped rope cranked up to high tension. If he recalled his Old Earth history, this was one of the simplest catapults, lacking any of several improvements he half-recalled, such as slings on the end of the arms to improve the range and power.
But the Bortok catapults were big. Given time, they would break the walls. Each stone that smashed into the stronghold’s face weakened it a little more. He could see the cracks slowly widening.
Suddenly, a figure among the Bortoks caught his eye, someone small and male, with pale skin unlike the dark red of the barbarians. He was visible just for a moment before stepping behind a berm.
“Do you people have telescopes?” Straker asked. “Devices to see farther?”
“A few. They are precious.”
“I need to borrow one.”
Roslyn sent a servant, who soon brought a handmade brass spyglass. Straker used it to try to find the figure again, but couldn’t.
Straker wondered about the man. It looked like Don, or someone about his size, like an agent. Sure, Straker’d gone along with the idea to come here, but he was starting to wonder—and get angry—that he was being led by the nose, manipulated.
He thought about trying to sneak into the Bortok army and confront the pale man, but that bordered on insanity. No, he’d have to stick to his idea about helping the Calaria so they could help him.
But from now on he’d keep a sharp eye out for agents.
Chapter 16
Straker in Calaria
Straker stood on the curtain wall’s battlements and turned his attention to High Tollen castle and the Calaria siege engines. Their catapults did have sliding buckets, which sent their smaller stones farther for their size—but the range was still extreme. Now and again, one of their rocks would kill a careless Bortok or two, or bounce into a catapult, but the enemy engines were so heavily built and so well protected by earthworks that they were soon put back in action.
Straker could also see ballistas on the High Tollen walls, huge crossbows with pole-sized bolts ready, but they didn’t fire. They must also lack the range, and so were kept in waiting for an assault.
“You have a range problem,” said Straker. “Power, too, but mainly range. In any battle, especially a static battle, the side that outranges the other has control of the battlefield. Right now, that’s the Bortoks.” He rubbed his jaw. “You can’t hit back effectively. You can’t sally forth because they have defenses and too many troops. Have you tried a night attack? Your people see better in the dark.”
“We raid them, but they keep good watch at night, and fires. We can take five for every warrior we lose and still not kill enough.”
“Do they have sufficient food and water?”
“Yes. They have the whole of the plains as a larder. Our land.”
“What season is this? When does winter come?”
“Threescore days should see the first snows.”
“Sixty days… If we can hold out that long.”
Roslyn nodded. “Then the Bortok will return to the lowlands. They don’t like the cold. But still, we will go hungry. Our people fled our lands below, but the fields have been stripped, and the plateau behind us cannot sustain them all.”
“So we not only need to wait them out, but we need to send them running. Reclaim your land.”
Roslyn moved close, linking arms. Her feathery crests ruffled in the mountain breeze. “Always the lowlanders covet our fertile land. They breed themselves for years, and then when there are too many, they send an army against us. Never have they come in such strength, or with such large catapults. Never have they made it this far.”
“Why now?”
“Gorben says they have a great leader. They call him Mak Deen. He has united the Bortok tribes, dazzling them with promises of our riches. Do they not know that, should they take our stronghold, they can pillage it only once? In times of peace we trade, yes, even with Bortoks, bringing wealth to all.”
“Power-hungry leaders always get greedy,” Straker replied. “That type’s never satisfied, and they never want any limits. They measure themselves against their neighbors instead of being happy that everyone prospers.”
“Yes. The Mak Deen cares not that all are made poor, so long as he rules.”
“We have a saying: Power corrupts.”
Roslyn bristled. “My father has power, but he is not corrupt!”
“Some good people resist temptation… but not enough of them. Most take advantage of their followers and indulge themselves. That’s one of the marks of a bad leader—abuse of subordinates.”
“It is said the Mak Deen kills any who speak against him, kills them slowly. When he desires a woman, he sends her man to the front lines. He holds girls hostage for their mothers’ subservience and takes the fingers and ears of any who dare protest. Some parents even offer their children to him for his favor.”
Straker grimaced, reminded of the Unmutual auction he broke up on Freiheit. “The Opters have done a great job replicating the worst of humanity,” he muttered.
I’d half admire them if they’d made everyone sweet and innocent like Doris, he thought. Instead, they’d built a laboratory planet, with no thought to the billions they created and destroyed as by-products. They generated and trained infiltrators, they experimented on humans, they created whole societies to study like colonies of lab rats—and people like Roslyn knew nothing of it.
And they didn’t care at all that barbarians were about to overrun what was obviously a more advanced, learned, just and civilized society.
“What did you say?” Roslyn eventually asked. “You were thinking deeply.”
“Yeah, not my strong suit, but I do have my moments.”
“I believe you are too modest. You’re like my father—a man of war, but one who prefers peace through strength, and who would have his people wise and prosperous defenders, not conquerors.”
Straker sighed. “I’ve done my share of conquering, but it was only to liberate people from oppression. I don’t want to rule anyone.”
“It’s a burden, to rule. A responsibility and an obligation. My father wanted to pass his crown to Florden. He would have been of age next year.”
“What about you?”
Roslyn smiled, her sharp teeth showing broadly. “There has never been a female king.”
“Queen.”
“What?”
“The word is queen. Many great rulers of Old Earth were queens. Why not you?”
Roslyn turned away. “It has never been done.”
“Lots of things have never been done—until they are.”
“Ka-ween.”
“Queen.”
“Queen,” she smiled, obviously liking the sound of it. “Queen Roslyn of Calaria.”
“The First.” Straker chuckled. “The Azaltar declares it so.”
A man’s voice came from behind. “Perhaps the Azaltar should drive off the Bortoks before trying to install his chosen monarch upon the Calarian Throne.”
Straker and Roslyn turned to see a man in silver-shot robes—middle-aged, with sharp eyes and an impressive crest. He carried a scepter topped with a finely wrought carving, an obsidian dragon.
“Gorben!” Roslyn cried, seizing him and dancing around him in the narrow space atop the tower.
“Sessa. It’s good to have you back. And you brought the Azaltar.”
“As you foretold.”
“As the scripture foretold.” Gorben turned to Straker and bowed slightly. “I am Gorben, the king’s adviser.”
“Straker.” As Gorben hadn’t held out his hand, Straker didn’t either. “Foretold,” he said. “Foretold how?”
Gorben tilted his head and stepped closer, speaking quietly. “In the same manner of all prophecy. Vaguely.”
“You mean you made up this Azaltar thing?”
“No. The Azaltar is a well-known legend of a foreign champion who shows us a path to victory over our enemies
. When times grow desperate, people need hope.”
“So,” Straker said sharply, “you sent the princess on a mission with the off-chance someone like me would just, what, show up out of nowhere?”
“He didn’t send me,” Roslyn interrupted. “I went on my own, seeking the Azaltar, whom Gorben foretold would manifest.”
“I never could forbid you anything, Sessa.” Gorben turned to Straker. “She wanted to climb the wall—and if anyone could do it, Roslyn could.” He breathed deeply. “I have examined the lands across the wall, using my seeing-glass, and though there are wonders there, it seemed to me that the inhabitants were men and woman like us, not gods, not demons. They have inventions, but that is only a matter of knowledge and industry, not of magic.”
“Yes!” Roslyn said. “Show him the light!”
Straker took out the hand-light. “This isn’t magic. It’s just a machine.” He turned it on. The output was unimpressive in the daytime. He handed it to Gorben.
Gorben examined it with great interest. “It doesn’t burn, but glows like a cave-worm. I have tried to extract the principle, but have never been able to make devices with the glow.”
“It’s a different principle,” said Straker. “More like lightning, stored in a bottle and released very slowly.”
“Can it be released quickly, like a thunderbolt?”
This Gorben catches on quick, Straker thought. “No, but my people have weapons that work like that.”
“Your people are wise.”
“Our brainiacs are smart, I guess. Wise?” Straker chuckled. “No more so than average. Sometimes they’re pretty damned unwise. But I’m not even from Rennerog. I’m a foreigner there too. The inhabitants were hunting me, and I had to escape to your lands.”
“Why did those of Rennerog not pursue you across the wall?” asked Gorben.
“Good question. I think there are rules even they have to follow.”