“I suppose—”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“It’s enough. We don’t even know where we’re going. For that matter, we’ll be out of rations soon enough. I saw what might have been a deer—”
“It probably was. There were a lot of Earth animals released here.”
“Damn it, you’re doing it again! What else do you know that might save our lives?”
She didn’t answer.
* * *
They rounded another bend. There was a crossroads marked by a small thatch-roofed shelter whose roof drained into a stone cistern and watering trough. The side road was dirt, heavily rutted with cart tracks and the prints of shod horses, but deserted at the moment.
Mason inspected the cistern. Leaves floated on top of the water. “We trust this stuff?” he asked.
“We’ll have to eventually, and we’ll want to start drinking local water while we’re still pumped up with gamma globulins and the other shots we got—but I think we can wait a day or so until we’ve got a permanent base. Got purification tablets?”
“Yeah. I’ll use them. Hand me your canteen.”
They filled the canteens while Rick thought about their situation. The main road would have more traffic, but it would also be easier going. Not far down the side road he could see patches of water and mud.
“Horses comin’,” Mason said. He pointed back the way they came.
“Off the road,” Rick ordered. He led them into the trees beyond the crossroads.
There was a click as Mason released the safety on his H&K battle rifle. “They’re slowin’ down,” he said softly.
“If they don’t want trouble, we don’t,” Rick said. Two horses came into view. One carried an elderly man in yellow robes. There was a blue circle with a stylized thunderbolt across it sewn to the breast of the robe. The other horse was ridden double. The rider in front wore kilts and an iron cap, and carried a short sword slung at his left side. The other was cloaked and hooded. They stopped at the crossroads, and the other robed man swung down easily and led his mount to the watering trough, first pausing to bow to the stone heap.
The other two dismounted.
Gwen stared interestedly. “Notice the reverent gesture,” she whispered. “Hermes. Guide of the Dead. He was originally a god of crossroads. Evidently he hasn’t lost that function here.”
The second rider threw back the hood and removed the cloak. Mason gave a nearly inaudible whistle. “That’s a looker!” he whispered.
Rick gestured for silence. Mason was right. The girl was young—about twenty, Rick would guess, with long ravenblack hair. Even at this distance her eyes were startlingly blue. She had a classic Scandinavian shape to her face, and the woolen frock she wore would have brought a high price at Magnin’s.
Only the kilted rider seemed armed, and Rick examined his weapons carefully. A leather case was fastened to the saddle; from its shape, it probably held a longbow. Otherwise there were no missile weapons. The man’s sword was quite short. He also carried a dagger about the size of Rick’s Gerber Mark II combat knife.
“This may be a good chance to talk to the locals,” Rick said.
“They’ll probably think we’re horse thieves,” Gwen warned.
“So we stay away from their horses. Mason, don’t start anything unless there’s no other choice. And keep an eye out back the way we came. Just in case.”
“Sure.”
“Not just for Parsons,” Rick said. “The girl looks nervous, and they all keep looking back. And notice how lathered those horses are. They didn’t stop because they wanted to. Okay, let’s go make contact with the locals.”
* * *
The girl saw them first. She pointed and the younger man went toward his horse.
“Sling arms, Mason,” Rick ordered. He spread his empty hands. “Gwen, can you tell them we’re friends?”
“The last languages I was able to study from Tran were six hundred years old,” she said. She raised her voice. “Amici. Filos. Zevos. No, dammit, that doesn’t get through. Rick, bow to the stone heap. At least that will show we’re religious.”
“Right. You too, Mason. And keep your hands clear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reverence to a stone heap. It did seem to have a beneficial effect. The others watched them warily, but they did nothing as Rick came closer.
The kilted warrior stared at Rick in frank curiosity. He eyed the slung rifle as if aware that it was a weapon. He seemed very interested in the scabbarded Mark II which hung hilt-down from Rick’s suspender webbing.
The older robed man dipped water with a gourd and held it out to them.
Rick hesitated, thinking of the various amoebic life-forms that probably inhabited the unpurified water.
“He’s a priest,” Gwen said. “Blue sky and thunderbolt. Zeus? Jupiter?”
The priest nodded in comprehension. “Yatar.”
“It really is,” Gwen said. She seemed delighted. “Zeus Pater, the Sky-father. See, blue for the vault of the sky, and the thunderbolt—”
Rick let the priest hand him the gourd, gulped hard, and drank, hoping that when the inevitable happened it wouldn’t be at an inconvenient time.
“You carrying wine, Mason?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hand it here.”
Mason took the plastic liter flask from his belt. “Wine,” Rick said. “Uh—vino.”
The priest looked interested, and said something to his companions. They looked interested, too.
Rick tilted up the bottle and drank a swallow. It wasn’t wine at all, but Scotch. Now what have I done? he thought. The others were gesturing toward the girl, and she held out her hand expectantly.
Rick handed her the bottle. “Strong. Fuerte. Not much. Uh—take it easy—”
The girl drank, looked startled, then drank again, slowly. She didn’t seem shocked, which meant they must have some kind of distillation here. She said something which Rick took to be thanks.
“Cap’n, no wonder they wanted her to have a drink,” Mason said. “The back of her dress is all bloody.”
“Yeah? Have a look, Gwen—”
“If she’ll let me,” Gwen said. “Keep an eye on her boyfriend.” She went over to the girl. “Permiso? Uh, medico.”
She tapped herself on the breast. “Magister?”
“Magistro?” the girl said. She looked at Gwen with what seemed to be respect and stood still while Gwen tried to peel back the blouse. “Good Lord!” she muttered. “Rick, someone’s abused this child badly.”
Child, hell, Rick thought. “How?”
The girl reached up and unbuttoned the front of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders, leaving her back and breasts bare. Apparently they didn’t believe in modesty here—at least not for the upper body. It was hard not to stare at the nearly perfect figure. She evidently didn’t usually go without clothing, though; she had no tan at all.
She also had no objection to Rick looking at her, and he went over to examine her back. Someone had beaten her badly. Her back was a mass of bruises, and twice whatever had beaten her had flayed open the skin. It was going to scar. He took out his first-aid kit. “Know much about this?” he asked Gwen.
“No.” She looked mildly ill.
“Better let me, then.” He took out a swab. “Got to clean this and it’s going to sting. Gwen, watch her boyfriend.” He tapped himself on the chest. “Magistro,” he said. “Medico.” She winced when the swab touched the wound, but she didn’t cry out. Rick painted it with Merthiolate and put a loose gauze bandage over the broken skin areas. “No tetanus inoculations,” he warned. “Make sure you don’t cut air off from the wounds. Better to risk aerobic infection. With all the horse crap on the roads, there’s a high tetanus risk.” He stepped away. “All right, you can cover yourself again.” He gestured to show what he meant. “And have another drink. You earned it.”
The girl smiled tentatively, then downed another slug of S
cotch. She tapped herself on the chest. “Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa do Chelm.”
“You get that, Gwen?” Rick asked.
“I think so. Eqetassa. That’s right out of old Mycenae. If I’m not mistaken, she’s a countess. If that’s right, her name would be Tylara and she’s from that place with the guttural sound.”
“Tylara,” Rick said. The girl nodded happily. He pointed to himself. “Rick Galloway, Captain of mercenaries.” If long names indicated high rank, he didn’t want to claim to be a peasant.
“Rick,” Tylara said tentatively. She pointed to the robed priest. “Yanulf, sacerdos pu Yatar.” The priest bowed. She pointed again. “Caradoc.”
“Latin and Greek all mixed up with Mycenaean,” Gwen said.
“Mykenae?” the priest asked. He pointed to them.
“No.” Gwen shook her head. The priest frowned.
The kilted man took out a curry comb and began working on the horses. He glanced warily back at Rick and Mason from time to time, but didn’t seem excessively suspicious.
An auspicious beginning, Rick thought. And that girl! Were all the women on this planet as lovely?
3
“Company comin’, Cap’n,” Mason called. “Lots of horses riding hard.”
The others heard, too. Rick gestured toward the thickets by the road. There would be no room to hide the horses, though, and from the sounds, not enough time either. Tylara shouted something and Caradoc ran to his horse. He took down the leather case and withdrew a longbow, stringing it with an easy gesture that made Rick’s muscles ache to watch.
A dozen horsemen rounded the bend two hundred meters away. The sight was like a blow. They were not all riding horses. Three of the beasts were centaurs. The riders wore mail armor, and white plumes streamed out from their helmets. The lead men carried lances, and they lowered them. Others drew sabers. They didn’t act friendly at all.
Tylara shouted. Rick understood none of it, but he heard the word ‘Sarakos’ several times. She ran to Caradoc and drew his dagger, holding it as if she knew how to use it. Caradoc nocked an arrow. He thrust another into the dirt in front of him. There were only the two.
Two arrows, a short sword, and a dagger; but his new friends were obviously prepared to fight a dozen horsemen. Yanulf stood impassively by the cistern, his arms spread to the sky.
“What do we do?” Mason shouted.
Rick didn’t answer for a moment. There would still be time to get into the trees. This wasn’t his fight. From the uniforms, the approaching riders might be the local police. For that matter, he had no evidence that Yanulf wasn’t a con man and Tylara his accomplice in the local equivalent of the badger game. He could be setting himself up as an outlaw. Probably was. And they could still run . . .
But dammit, he thought, I’m tired of running. You’ve got to choose sides sometimes. 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&K blasted at full automatic; a burst of fire 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&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’ 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’ troops, then? That much? And why? She would cheerfully let Sarakos die of green stinking fester, but his so
ldiers 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 friend 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.”
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