Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “There is no need. The lands are quiet. I have more fear for you.”

  “Nothing will happen.” Not this time, anyway. He held her close for a moment.

  * * *

  The trail was wide enough for two abreast, and presently Rick found himself beside his captain of archers. Caradoc was singing. The words were in the Old Speech, but the tune seemed familiar to Rick. After a moment, Caradoc turned to Rick and grinned. “An air from our wedding dances,” he said proudly.

  “Ah,” Rick said. And aha. A song from the Top Fifty a couple of years ago. Gwen must have put new words to it.

  “With your consent, I would return to the University for the winter, Lord,” Caradoc said.

  “Certainly. I’d intended for you to be with your wife.”

  “I thank you.” Caradoc grinned again. “It is doubly important now.”

  “Aha?”

  “Yes. As I left, my lady told me she believes that we have been blessed by Hestia.”

  “Congratulations.” And I really ought to cheer, Rick thought. This should make life with Tylara a bit easier . . .

  * * *

  There were a dozen cartons of cigarettes; a case of penicillin; ten bottles of Bufferin and four of vitamins; some needles and thread and sewing supplies including an ancient foot-powered sewing machine; baling wire and pliers, which Mason eagerly seized; a carton of paperback mysteries; and a box of random supplies with items as disparate as nutcrackers and soap. The rest was ammunition: cartridges for both the H&K and M-16 battle rifles, .45s and nine millimeter for the pistols and the submachine guns, grenades, mortar bombs, and fifty rounds for the recoilless.

  Tylara looked at the supplies with satisfaction. “Now they have come. Are they likely to come again this season?”

  “They said not,” Rick answered. “They won’t be here for a long time, possibly a full Tran year. They’ll probably come next fall, when we have a full crop of surinomaz.”

  “Then I wish to return to Castle Dravan.”

  “Need we go there?” Rick asked. “There is little to attack us from the west.”

  “I hear tales of Westmen in the High Cumac,” Tylara said. “More have been seen this fall than in the previous twenty years.”

  The Westmen were nomads who generally stayed on the high desert above the enormous fault known as the Westscarp. “If more come, Margilos should warn us,” Rick said.

  Tylara snorted contempt. In times long past, Margilos had paid tribute to the Five Kingdoms. Now it was in theory an independent city state famous for breeding centaurs. “I doubt they would,” Tylara said. “They’re half-nomad themselves. Unless one believes the old tales.”

  Rick looked helpless. Tylara giggled. “It is said the men of Margilos have centaur blood, and there is much debate whether the first was begotten by a man on a centaur mare, or did a lady of Drantos enjoy the favor of a centaur stallion.” They laughed, then she said urgently. “It is not a joke one makes when men of Margilos are present. They are quick to anger, and when enraged they feel no pain. Like the centaurs they breed.”

  “I’ll remember. But surely you’re not worried about Westmen?”

  “No.”

  “Then it might be better to stay here. We can’t be sure the Shalnuksis won’t come again until next year—and I don’t want them to know we value Castle Dravan. They may find out, of course. But why help choose targets for their skyfire?”

  “I do not disagree,” Tylara said. “Yet the risk is worthwhile. Armagh is no comfortable place to winter. I would be in Dravan before the thaws, and travel in winter is difficult.”

  Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. She smiled and patted her belly.

  “You too?” Rick demanded.

  She frowned.

  “Gwen is also pregnant. Caradoc just told me.”

  “Ah.” Tylara laughed. “That is one child of Gwen’s who will cost me no sleep.” Then she came into his arms. “This time it will be a boy. I know it. And our son should be born in his own castle.”

  20

  A hot wind blew down from the high escarpment. The day was already a scorcher, although it was only spring here in the foothill country. There ought still to have been a nip in the air. The hot air provided less lift for the balloon, too.

  “She looks ready to me, Murph,” said Corporal Walinski. “What about you?”

  Ben Murphy looked at the twelve-foot balloon. It was already straining at the ropes held by the two archers. He tossed one more fuel brick into the firebasket underneath it, then gripped the main rope in both large hands. For a moment he glanced back into the wagon bed where Lafe Reznick was napping, but Lafe was still asleep. Or pretending to be. “Ready to lift,” Murphy reported.

  “Let go on the hold-downs!” shouted Walinski. The two archers let go and stepped back, while the balloon rose freely into the afternoon air. Murphy let the rope run through the blocks mounted on the wagon until the hundred-foot mark passed, then snubbed it around the cleat by the driver’s seat. The balloon was now high enough to be visible from the next village, but low enough to be controllable.

  “Think she’ll stay up long enough?” Walinski asked.

  “Yeah, if we give the pitch fast,” Murphy said. “We’re getting good at the spiel. Sure is hot, though.”

  “Compressive heating,” Walinski said.

  “Which?” And where in hell did Ski learn words like that?

  “They called it compressive heating back in Los Angeles,” Walinski said. “A special wind, a Santa Ana. Hotter’n hell, even in winter. And dry. Real dry. That’s what this is, I think. Comes down off those high deserts. As it comes down lower it compresses, just like the Santa Ana in L.A.”

  “Well, it sure makes it hot enough,” Murphy said. Winter had been wet in Drantos. Lots of snow in the east, and not so much in the west. And nowhere near as cold as the locals expected, meaning the whole damn planet was heating up right on schedule as the rogue star came closer.

  Murphy pulled off his jacket and pulled his wizard’s robe out from under the seat. “Hey Lafe, better wake up. Duty time.”

  Reznick sat up sleepily. “Anything special about this village, Ski?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Same here,” Murphy said. “The standard routine.” He could damned near do that in his sleep by now. Take the wagon in. Use the balloon to get everybody’s attention, and show the wizards’ mighty power, then bring it down. Demonstrate magic, and let the deacons and acolytes of Yatar show the local clergy about sanitation. Make holy water by literally boiling the hell out of it! Ask about madweed. Do the crop survey—what was planted and how it grew. Tell ’em about the new plows, and show the blacksmith how to make one. Have Lafe put on his weapons show, a demonstration of star weapons so they’d know what they’d face if they ever revolted against their rightful lord the Eqeta of Chelm. And—

  “Some new orders came by messenger this morning while you both was still in the sack,” Walinski said. “Find out about the Westmen.”

  * * *

  “More been spotted?” Reznick asked.

  “They didn’t tell me nothing. Just orders.”

  Murphy sighed. If he’d been awake, he could have questioned the messenger. Fat chance Ski would ever think of doing that. Ski could fight, but he wasn’t much for questions. Wasn’t much for brains, for that matter. But he had seniority over Ben Murphy, because he’d stayed with Parsons and came over to Captain Galloway with Elliot. He hadn’t gone south and set up on his own.

  Can’t win ’em all, Murphy thought. And Ski don’t give me much trouble, ’cept when he’s drunk, and at least he knows it when he is. I’ve had worse bosses.

  He could remember better bosses, too. His luck had been strange, these past few years. Strange, but better than it used to be. There’d been a time when he had no luck at all. It was because of that time that he was on Tran, ten light-years from home, calling himself Ben Murphy and playing wizard to the heathen, instead of fo
llowing his father’s trade under the name his father gave him. Now at least things weren’t all running against him.

  He pulled on his robe, then picked up his assault rifle and kept watch while Walinski and Reznick put on their wizard suits. Walinski’s was by far the fanciest, since he was supposed to be the master wizard and Murphy and Reznick his journeymen, with the acolytes of Yatar to help them.

  Walinski had just finished dressing when Agikon, the senior acolyte, shouted an alarm and pointed upward. The balloon was wobbling alarmingly on the end of the rope.

  “Wind?” Murphy called.

  “Wind, hell!” Ski shouted. “Look!”

  A flight of arrows leaped out of the woods to the left of the road. Two hit, and the balloon wobbled again.

  Walinski unslung his battle rifle.

  “What’s to shoot?” Murphy demanded. “Probably some local kids. I’m surprised nobody took a shot at it before.”

  “Maybe. That was good shootin’,” Ski said.

  “Uh.” Come to that, it was good shooting. About as good as Tamaerthan archers, and they were the best on Tran. “Ski, I don’t like this. Let’s laager the wagons out in the open field. Just in case.”

  “Well—”

  Murphy didn’t wait. He turned his wagon sharply and stood up, bringing his hands together over his head. He repeated the signal, then whipped up the horses. Lafe Reznick looked puzzled for a moment, then jumped down and ran back to the next wagon to urge its driver along.

  “Gonna feel stupid,” Ski muttered. “But we hafta patch the balloon anyway.”

  That was for sure. The balloon was losing altitude fast. Murphy looked back. The other carts were following, closing up as Ben sent his in a circular track. He was halfway into the field, the laager not yet formed, when he hit a patch of mud. The wagon stuck fast.

  “Holy shit, that’s all we needed,” Ski said. “We’ll have to patch the balloon just to lift us out of the mud.” He looked at Murphy. What did you get us into now?

  Murphy swore. He was about to jump down from the cart when a flight of arrows fell around them. Walinski screamed and reeled against the cart with an arrow sticking out of his face. One of the acolytes fell with an arrow in his chest. The horses were untouched.

  There was another flight of arrows. The Drantos Guards archers yelled and brought up their crossbows. Walinski was screaming his head off, clawing at the arrow in his face. He’d dropped his rifle. Murphy threw himself down into the wagon box and peeked over the edge, his rifle ready.

  “What the hell do we do?” Reznick shouted.

  “How the hell should I know?” Ben answered. There weren’t any targets. Murphy squinted, estimating the distance to the trees. Two hundred meters, near enough. He whistled. “That was a long bow shot!” he shouted. “Even for Tamaerthans!”

  “Damn straight!” Reznick answered.

  Murphy thought about the implications. One of Captain Galloway’s high cards were those Tamaerthan archers. Used in connection with other troops they could be devastating, because they outranged everyone else. Drantos crossbows could carry about as far as Tamaerthan longbows, but they were slow to load, and nobody in Drantos really believed in long-range archery. Tamaerthan archers loved long-distance shooting. But those weren’t Tamaerthan troopers out there, so who were they?

  More arrows fell. By now everyone was behind a wagon or under cover, and nobody else was hit. Curious, Murphy thought. The horses and oxen pulling the carts hadn’t been touched. Not even Reznick’s centaur. Dobbin was cowering behind Lafe’s wagon, whimpering the way the animals did when something threatened them and they couldn’t fight or run away.

  About my own situation. Can’t fight and can’t run. Things were quiet now, but—“It’s a horse raid,” Ben called.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figure,” Lafe answered. “Somebody wants them beasts alive.”

  Murphy strained to see into the forest, but there was nothing visible. “Hell, maybe we ought to let ’em have ’em.”

  “Not Dobbin, they don’t.”

  “Probably don’t want him. Just want the horses and oxen. Probably too smart to want a centaur,” Murphy said.

  “Now you lay off,” Reznick said. “But we better do something here. Want me to look at Ski?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. You stay down just now, first things first. Move them carts!” Murphy shouted. “Go around me! Laager those damn wagons!” Just because the lead wagon couldn’t move didn’t mean they couldn’t make a wagon laager. Murphy nodded in satisfaction. Agikon had caught on, and was bringing up the other carts. At least they’d have some cover—

  A dozen light cavalrymen burst from the woods. They rode crouched low against their mounts, most of their bodies invisible behind their horses. They didn’t look like anyone Murphy had ever seen.

  “Westmen!” one of the acolytes shouted.

  * * *

  Murphy snapped down the battle rifle’s bipod and rested the legs on the wagon seat. Ski was still screaming, but Murphy put that out of his mind along with everything else except his sight picture. Aim for the rider, but low enough to hit the mount if you miss. Get the good sight picture. Squeeze off a round—

  The first rider fell. Ben shifted targets. On the second shot both horse and rider went down. The rider leaped free, but Lafe Reznick’s burst took him in the chest. Ben looked up long enough to wave thanks.

  Shift aim again. Keep it smooth. Another down. Three shots for the fourth. Don’t rush it! Concentrate. New sight picture—

  The nearest enemy was no more than twenty meters away when Murphy shot him off his horse. Then, suddenly, the Westmen were riding back toward the woods. Murphy picked off one more rider, and a last one seemed to fall out of the saddle in sheer surprise.

  Then there weren’t any more targets. One of the downed riders tried to get up, but a crossbowman took care of him. Two more Westmen rode from the woods and grabbed a loose horse while Murphy was changing magazines. Then things were still.

  Not quite, though. Walinski was still yelling his head off. One of the acolytes was trying to hold him while another looked at the arrow piercing from near his left eye down across the cheek to come out at the neck. It was a bloody mess, but it hadn’t hit a major artery or Ski wouldn’t be able to yell.

  “Lafe! Go look after Ski,” Murphy yelled. “But be ready to cover me. Agikon!”

  “My lord!”

  “Take Lord Walinski’s rifle. Keep watch on the trees.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  The acolyte handled the H&K with confidence. Captain Galloway didn’t encourage training locals to use star weapons, but out here in the marches you needed all the help you could get.

  “The rest of you stand guard! I won’t be long.” I hope. Going out in the open is probably stupid, Murphy thought. But I’d best see what I’m up against, and maybe get some information the captain can use.

  Murphy knelt by the six dead men while Agikon watched the forest. The closest man had a bronze sword, a thing he’d seen only in shrines to Vothan farther north and east. It was long enough to be used from horseback, and had gold wire wound around the hilt.

  The rest of the men were armed with short spears or light lances, and long wicked hornbacked compound bows, almost too big to use from horseback, only they sure could. They also had knives. Most had no armor, but one was wearing a mail shirt obviously made in Drantos. They didn’t have much clothing, breechcloths and a rough wool cloak, but just about every one of them had something of gold: an armlet, or a brooch, or just gold wire wound loosely around his neck.

  They were all muscle and bone, and it looked as if they hadn’t had enough to eat for a long time.

  So these were the Westmen. Not many ever saw them. They lived in the unexplored high plains beyond the Westscarp, and few who’d entered their territory ever returned. Not that there was anything to go up there for.

  The last man lay too near the trees, and he could just lie there. Ben Murphy wasn’t about to get th
at close. But as Murphy turned away, the man leaped to his feet. He started to run toward him, but after a step he fell again. Ben whirled and leveled the rifle—

  “Mercy, I beg you!” the man shouted. “I am not one of—one of the Horse People!”

  “What the hell?”

  “Mercy!” He stretched out on the ground, reaching toward Ben, crawling painfully toward him. “Mercy!” he screamed again.

  Think fast, Ben. Maybe a trick. But—He went over to him. The man was bald, no better dressed than the Westmen—and he had no weapons at all.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ben demanded.

  “A priest of Vothan! Take me to your wagons, before the Horse People come to kill me!”

  “Maybe. What were you doing with the Westmen?” Murphy demanded.

  “I was a priest of Vothan, at a shrine outside Margilos.” The man spoke haltingly, with good grammar but hesitating sometimes. “A fool of a merchant from the—south wanted a guide, to lead him to the—the Westmen, that he might trade for gold. The chief priest thought that a good thing, and ordered me to go, for I had been to the top of the Scarp in my ordeal. But when we went again, the Horse People sacrificed the merchant to Pirin the Thunderer and made me a slave.”

  “So what the hell are you doing here?” Murphy demanded.

  “The chief of the Red Rocks thought I brought him war luck, and now all the Horse People are coming down from the Westscarp. Above, all is heat and drying streams and death.”

  “Holy shit,” Murphy said. “They’re all coming down?”

  “Those who can,” the priest said. “So they brought me with them, slave and translator. I thought you evil wizards until I saw the blue robes of Yatar among you. Then I threw myself from the saddle and lay on the ground in hopes the Red Rocks would believe me dead. But I think my leg is broken.”

  A cool customer, Murphy thought. And a damned lucky find, a man who’s been up there with them horse archers for years. “Okay, Baldy, let’s get you to the wagons.” And away from them trees, which give me the willies. “Here, get up, lean on me. You’ll have to hobble.”