Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  The Firestealer silvered the water of the stream behind them and gave enough light for Murphy to find a path through the scrub. Night birds called, but Murphy couldn’t hear anything but his heartbeat, his pounding feet, and the rasp of his breath. Benjamin Murphy, you’re too damned old for these barbarian rituals. It was too late now. Murphy realized that he’d been heading toward this oath and tomorrow’s raid ever since the day Mad Bear and his tribe rode into Westrook.

  It was the wives and kids that had done it. Murphy couldn’t send them back with their men to be slaughtered by Walking Stone. He couldn’t do that, any more than he could have said, “Sure, and I’ll be glad to blow up a store full of grandmothers and children, as long as some of them are Protestants,” when the two Provo gunmen came to reason with him.

  He was three-quarters through the run. Another half-klick, then jump over the bonfire and enjoy the applause. Sure. I never was much for jumping. Hope I can get over it without losing something Dirdre might miss.

  Closer up, the fire was less intimidating. It was burning in a little hollow, and the light reflected from the sides of the hollow made it look bigger than it was. Murphy flexed his knees as he reached the raised lip of the hollow. Holy Geronimo! Here goes—He sailed over the fire and landed on his feet. But the grass was slippery and the hill sloped away under him. He overbalanced and went down on hands and knees in front of two dozen Westmen.

  Mad Bear landed on his feet beside him, but the tribesmen were already hissing and muttering. Not too swift, Murphy. Now what? Ah. He remembered one of the Captain’s history lectures. He pulled up a clod of earth and grass with each hand, and held them high as he got to his feet.

  “I hold this land I have taken with both hands,” he shouted. “None of the High King’s dogs will drive me from it. With my brother-to-be, I will whip them all back to their kennels.” From the corner of his eye he saw Mad Bear grin. The hisses and mutters died away.

  They drank water from the same cup, and sipped fermented mare’s milk mixed with blood from the same bowl. They ate from the same piece of break sprinkled with salt. It was lousy bread, but Murphy didn’t care. The ritual had called for him to fast from the setting of the Father Sun, and now he was hungry enough to eat a lamil raw.

  Murphy took out his knife. Mad Bear’s knife, actually. Arekor gave it to him while he was a prisoner. He held it high, then laid its blade against his wrist. A moment later he handed the blade to Mad Bear, who did the same. They pressed the cuts together while someone started beating a drum. Someone else piled more branches on the fire, and Mad Bear began to chant.

  “Father Sun, Father Horse, Father Grass, see us.”

  “They see us,” responded Murphy.

  “We have crossed the water.”

  “This we have done.”

  “We have shed our sweat in the running.”

  “This we have done.”

  They recited how they had jumped over the fire, drunk water and milk, eaten bread, and mingled their blood. Finally Mad Bear shouted, “Are we not brothers?”

  “We are brothers!” Murphy yelled, and the Westmen joined in. “They are brothers!” A young boy handed Murphy another bowl of fermented mare’s milk. Even without blood in it, it’ll never replace Tullamore Dew. But at least this time I don’t have to hold my nose.

  Elliot was playing the part of Murphy’s kinsman. He came forward with Murphy’s coveralls and rifle. Elliot wasn’t going on the raid; Jack Beazeley, newly promoted to corporal, would be the senior man. Jack’s a good guy. If it comes to a fight, he’s got his head screwed on with the nose to the front.

  Elliot handed Murphy his M-16. He slung it, sat down, and started in on a bowlful of raw horsemeat and wild-grass stew the youngster handed him. The Savoy Grill this ain’t. But we won’t leave camp until just before True Sun-set tomorrow, and I’ll probably be too busy to sit down and eat during the day.

  * * *

  “Colonel—”

  “Dammit, Art, I’m going. I don’t give a damn what they say about Prince Strymon’s honor; he’s got my wife and I’m going to go get her back.”

  “And just how are you going to do that?”

  Rick laughed. “Good question, but look, I’m not doing a damn bit of good here. You can handle this situation as well as I can. Wait until Murphy draws off some of that cavalry, and keep the pressure on to take up the slack. This is a holding operation. We can’t win the war out here.”

  “No, but we can sure lose it here, Colonel.”

  “Can, but won’t. The worst that happens is you withdraw to Dravan. You can do that. I can’t, without everybody thinking I’ve lost my touch.”

  Mason looked thoughtful. “You know, that just about makes sense.”

  “I’ll tell you something else that makes sense. I know how to handle Tamaerthan pikes and archers. Ganton doesn’t, but he’s got them.”

  “Yeah. Okay, I buy that. But damn all, Colonel, those ironhats won’t obey me—”

  “Sure they will, for all you have to do. Look, we sent all the big cheese types off to Ganton. All you’ve got to deal with are some minor barons and city fathers. They’ll want somebody to tell them what to do. If you can’t do that as chairman of a council of war, I’ve promoted the wrong man.”

  “Maybe you—”

  “And don’t give me that crap. Look, Art, all we’re doing here is keeping Ailas from coming into Drantos by the back door, and at the same time making him keep his army here instead of going over to join Strymon’s force headed for Edron. He wins just by existing, but so do we! And don’t tell me you can’t do that as well as I can, because I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Colonel—”

  “Art, I’m taking a couple of squadrons and getting the hell out of here, and you’re going to shut up and soldier.”

  24

  The Wanax Ganton reined in at the foot of the gallows. He looked up as a gust of wind rattled the dangling chains. Ajacias will be hanged here. I think I shall build a new gallows for him. Then his ghost will not trouble the good men he killed here.

  Of course the Christians said that a man like Ajacias would go to Hell and suffer torments from the Devil until the end of time. It pleased Ganton to imagine Ajacias spending eternity in the hands of a being like the Roman quaestionarii. But does that mean I may take no vengeance on the wretched traitor myself? I shall have to ask Octavia or Archbishop Polycarp.

  The Demon Star silhouetted horsemen on the crest of the hill. Lord Enipses and Lord Hilaskos were forming up patrols. Each led a hundred lances, charged above all things with the Wanax’s safety. With Strymon’s camp only fifty stadia away and his scouts perhaps no farther than the other side of the hill, a century of lances was none too few.

  A voice called the challenge and Lord Drumold replied. Someone else observed loudly that if a certain misbegotten son of a she-goat was late serving the Wanax’s dinner, in the morning he’d find himself serving the Wanax’s hounds.

  Ganton called a squire to hold his horse and dismounted. He wanted to set a good example for those of his knights whose pride in their shiny-bright armor kept them in the saddle, never mind how their preoccupation with their looks wearied their horses. Hadn’t the bheromen and knights of the Wanax of Frankia lost a great battle to the Wanax of Angeland by doing just that? Lord Rick had told him such a story, and his tales of battle rang true, even when he himself had not been in the field. To be sure, Lord Rick spoke of battles as though he had been in all of them. To have been in so many he would have to be three hundred years old. No matter. Those are fine stories for a winter night, and they give soldiers courage and trust in our captain general.

  The Lord Rick is as wise in war as if he really had been a soldier for centuries, and so far he has freely given his wisdom to the Realm of Drantos. Yatar, Vothan, and Christ grant that he continue.

  Food and Lord Drumold arrived at the same time. Ganton and Drumold drew a little apart and ate their sausage, bread, and cheese in silence. It was
a cold meal. Ganton had forbidden fires with the enemy this close, at least until the Second Division arrived tomorrow and the army was complete.

  “Mergil,” Ganton called softly.

  “My lord?”

  “Go to the duty commander and have him send two squadrons of Hussars to patrol the roads between the First Division and the Second.”

  “Ye suspect my son may have forgotten?” Drumold asked.

  Ganton listened for any tone of resentment but heard none. “Well, my lord, with the enemy so close in front, perhaps my lords Balquhain and Teuthras have not given thought to the rear. We are all still learning the new ways of war. But I am Wanax, and if any important thing is left undone, it will be on my head.”

  “Aye,” Drumold muttered. “We all learn from my daughter’s husband.” He went back to his sausages and cheese.

  And I thank Yatar for this alliance. We need the clansmen in this war. “Not that Strymon can place any great force between Balquhain and Teuthras,” Ganton said. “Our scouts will warn us if Strymon sends out a troop of any size.”

  Drumold grunted.

  “But it does not take any large force of cavalry to ravage our supplies. We will need all our firepowder, and fodder for the horses—”

  “Aye, lad—Majesty,” Drumold said. He chuckled. “And I too have commanded on nights before battles. ’Tis no easy thing.”

  They heard the staff officer ride away to carry Ganton’s orders to the Hussars, then moments later the sound of galloping hoofbeats reached them from the far side of the hill. Ganton stood and lifted his battle-axe. Drumold continued with his sausages.

  “Who is there?” the sentry demanded.

  “Messenger from Lord Balquhain, for the Wanax Ganton!”

  Indistinct mumbling, then several horses moved on at a trot. Ganton laid down his axe and sat again on his saddle as the messenger reached him.

  “Majesty, Majesty! A message for you. An urgent message! I am bidden—”

  “You are bidden to stop stammering and give me the message. The sooner the better.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ganton saw Drumold trying not to smile.

  “Yes, Majesty. Prince Strymon has released the Eqetassa Tylara do Tamaerthon and enough of our captive knights to form an escort of honor. They have met with our scouts. Lord Balquhain will furnish them with fresh mounts and send them to you guarded by a squadron of his Hussars.”

  Drumold opened his mouth and dropped a piece of cheese. The Wanax smiled to himself and turned away. Give him a moment to compose himself. He has known for some time that his daughter was alive, and we heard from the priests of Yatar that she is well, but who can know? And there is the evil rumor that Tylara went alone to charge Strymon’s cavalry at Piro’s Hill. That must be a lie, but it also must have given her father many sleepless nights.

  “My Lord Mac Clallan Muir. Will you ride with me to greet the Eqetassa?” Drumold’s face gave Ganton his answer.

  “Was there any word of Lord Morrone?” It was said he’d survived the battle, but wounds and captivity might have done for him.

  “I am bidden to tell you that the Lord Morrone is alive and well and giving honorable service to the Realm.” The messenger looked at Drumold, then at Ganton. “Your Majesty, this was for your ears only—”

  Drumold swore and Ganton glared. “Pray cease insulting Lord Drumold. Or have you some reason to suggest that his son should not trust him?”

  The messenger gulped. “Pardon, Majesty. Lord Balquhain says further that the Eqetassa brings an urgent message from Prince Strymon, heir to the Wanax of Ta-Meltemos.”

  “Indeed.” Ganton spoke to keep his mouth from gaping open in a manner quite unfitting to a Wanax. What could his enemy want? “Then it is all the more important that we bring the Lady Eqetassa safely home.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “

  “Squires! To horse!”

  * * *

  Ganton, Drumold, Balquhain, and Tylara huddled near the tiny fire. A score of bodyguards stood just beyond earshot, and the others patrolled farther out.

  “Peace,” Ganton said. “On what terms?”

  “Aid in surviving the Time,” Tylara said. “Alliance against invaders, and a promise of aid after the Demon has withdrawn from our skies.”

  “And in return?” Ganton prompted.

  “Ta-Meltemos withdraws from Drantos. Majesty, Prince Strymon may even lend his personal aid to Drantos. He has no love for Chancellor Issardos and his agent Matthias.”

  “You speak of Prince Strymon’s promises. He is not Wanax of Ta-Meltemos. Not yet.”

  Tylara forced a smile. “Majesty, Prince Strymon betrays neither Wanax nor father. The stories we have heard are true. Wanax Palamon has the mind of a child.”

  Ganton shivered. “Yatar grant me death before that. It seems that we must meet, Prince Strymon and I, and soon. The loss of Prince Strymon’s army will do great harm to Toris.”

  “Losing Strymon as a general will do even more,” Balquhain said.

  “That is so. Now tell me, Lady Tylara, why was Morrone not released?”

  Tylara sipped hot tea and brandy. “He did not wish it, Majesty. Lord Morrone said that my own release might be managed without offending the High Rexja’s captains or exposing Strymon’s suit for peace with Drantos. But Lord Morrone could not honorably accept his own unransomed release without that of all the other prisoners. That would surely give the enemy more than a hint of our plans.”

  “Arrh. We could do wi’ a bit less honor an’ a bit more common sense.” Drumold spat into the fire.

  Ganton’s face was unreadable. Tylara decided it didn’t much matter whether she knew what he was thinking. One thing’s certain. There’s very little of the boy about our Wanax. She found that thought oddly comforting.

  “I continued to talk with Strymon,” Tylara said. “He fears no man, but he truly fears the Time.”

  “As he should,” Ganton said.

  “As he should. Then we received word that the vanguard of Toris’ great host was on the march to join us. We had also heard that the Host of Drantos was on its way north. Prince Strymon feared that battle was inevitable, and once our forces were engaged, peace might be impossible.

  “Then Morrone escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Ganton asked. “Surely he had given his parole—”

  “It seems he had not. It had never been asked. From the moment they lifted him from where he fell he had been treated as guest, not prisoner—”

  Balquhain chuckled. “An easy mistake.”

  “So where is Morrone?” Ganton demanded.

  “I know only the plan he told me,” Tylara said. “He intended to gather as many of his southern forces as he could, and any clansmen who might follow him, and go north to harass Toris and delay his march.”

  Ganton smiled for the first time. “There are places north of the Sutmarg where fifty archers can stand off an army for a whole day. Perhaps we should send reinforcements.”

  “Aye,” Tylara said. And I did that once, in the war against Sarakos. Long ago.

  “Indeed,” said Balquhain. “But how should we make our way back across the Sutmarg, if the rains come again and the rivers rise?”

  Tylara looked at her brother with new respect. He would not have asked that question two years ago. My lord husband, you will have more and stranger monuments than you can imagine.

  “All the better, for neither the enemy’s host nor Morrone’s men will be able to cross the Sutmarg,” Ganton said. “We shall have all the time we need to parley with Strymon, and prepare a warm reception for the enemy when they do cross.”

  “And it were me of the older days, I’d not be returning at all without a victory to dim the memory o’ Piro’s Hill,” Drumold said.

  “So Morrone has ridden north, then?” Ganton asked.

  “Three days ago. His escape delayed my release. Prince Strymon was not pleased to have a wolf free behind him. But then the prince realized that if we waited any longer, Toris mig
ht send south a band of horse too strong for my escort. We rode out of the camp as the Demon Sun was rising.”

  “And Apelles? Yanulf will ask after him,” Ganton said.

  “He is in no danger now that Matthias and his minions have fled. He stayed to tend the sick and wounded.”

  “And to send us information as he can,” Drumold said. “ ’Twas how we knew ye’d not been harmed.”

  “Then we must act swiftly,” Ganton said. “Before Toris merges his army with Strymon’s.”

  “Majesty, there is more you must know—”

  “My lady, it will wait until morning. Your rest cannot.” Ganton stood. “Lord Enipses!”

  “Majesty!”

  “Take your lances and join the scouts. Our patrols must be able to fight an enemy as well as to find him. For the next three days you must prevent any enemy spies from leaving our realm alive. This is most important.”

  “Majesty.”

  “Lord Hilaskos, you will ride north with me tomorrow to view the battlefield my rangers have chosen. We must be able to fight either, neither, or both of the foreign hosts in the land of Drantos. That will mean bringing up the Great Guns as well as the Musketeers—yes, Lord Enipses?”

  “Surely, Your Majesty will not ride north with less than the entire host? At least let me come with you.”

  “I have given you your task. Do you refuse it?”

  “No, Majesty.”

  “Good.”

  “And what of treachery?” Balquhain asked quietly. “I have never met the man who could deceive my sister, but there is always the first time.”

  * * *

  Drumold glared at his son, but his frown showed his concern.

  “I know I was not deceived,” Tylara said. “In any event I will go with Your Majesty.”

  “That you will not,” Ganton said. “I will be surrounded by the best fighting men of Drantos and Tamaerthon. Nothing that can catch us can beat us. Now, peace. Unless there is more—discussion?”