Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  Tylara took a deep breath and opened the door. Rusty hinges screamed like demons; her carefully gathered composure weakened. She walked into Yanulf’s chamber and pushed the door shut behind her.

  Yanulf sprinkled sand on the letter he’d been writing and capped his inkwell. “Greetings, my lady. How can I serve you?” A second look at her face and he rose, pushing a stool toward her. She sat down heavily.

  “How fares the Lady Cara?” Yanulf asked. His tone was casual. “We are grateful to you for taking her as your ward.”

  “You may be,” said Tylara, amused in spite of herself. “She is not. She has refused everything this ‘hill-robber’s daughter’ has offered her. Besides, she giggles. I beg you not to speak of this to anyone else,” she added. “My brother would be furious, and my father might not hold him back.”

  “I see.” Yanulf pursed his lips. “I think I shall propose that the Lady Cara marry a loyal knight whose lands lie far from the Sutmarg. Perhaps you know of one.”

  “No.” Tylara knew she’d answered too abruptly. “I am glad to see that you wear the chain of the Lord Chancellor.”

  Yanulf smiled. “Men will be boys. But I doubt you came to me to inspect my attire.”

  Tylara’s mouth was dry. She shook her head.

  “I thought not. Daughter, I know that matters have not been easy between you and your lord. You have come to talk to me. Speak.”

  “It—I—Apelles—Yanulf, I am dishonored in the eyes of the gods. Caradoc’s blood is on my hands.”

  Her words came slowly at first, then faster. “The Lady Gwen had married Caradoc, truly married him before all the clans, yet she could not resist her—former husband—when he returned from the stars. She lay with him. She was not even discreet. Caradoc would learn of it, and when he did, all that my husband had built, all that we had planned, would be lost. In the Name of Yatar, what could I do? The instrument lay in my hands. Father Yanulf, I swear, I had not planned that the Children of Vothan be used that way!”

  The candles on Yanulf’s table had burned to stubs before she finished.

  “Come, my child.” She knelt with her head on his knees. Yanulf laid his hand on her shoulder and cleared his throat. “I have no easy answers. Nor do I think you expect one. Indeed, I think you decided there was no answer save your own death. Is that not so?”

  Tylara shuddered. “Yes, Father.”

  “Is that still your belief?”

  “As Yatar is my witness, I do not know. I am alive when I expected to be dead. I may even have done some good for my people.”

  “It is plain to all that you have done much good for your people.”

  “If you say so. Truly, I do not know. I don’t even know whether my life offends the gods.”

  “Apelles said that you swore—”

  “Not to lay hands on myself while I was in Prince Strymon’s custody? That is so, and I kept my oath. Now I am free again.”

  Tylara stared into the fire. Yanulf’s silence stretched on for minutes. I can’t look at him. My fate will be written in his face.

  “Penance.”

  “What?”

  “Penance. A rite of the Christians. One confesses one’s sins to a priest, who is sworn never to reveal what he hears. The priest then orders one to perform certain—charitable works.”

  “What—what sort of works?”

  “Prayers, pilgrimages, offerings . . . as he may discover through his own prayer and meditation. One performs them, and thereby is freed of one’s guilt, in the eyes of man and the eyes of God.”

  “In God’s—Yatar’s eyes.”

  “Yes. Tylara, your fear is not for yourself. What you fear is the wrath of God against your husband and your children. It was fear for others that drove you to ride against the enemy. If you were as evil as you seem to think, you would be thinking only of yourself. You are not a monster, and neither God nor man will call you such if you open your heart to them.”

  All the tears Tylara had been holding back flowed in a rush. “But how can my husband forgive me? I never told him what I did. And now he seeks heirs by another.”

  “What makes you think this?”

  “He is cold. He is never alone with me.”

  Yanulf wiped her eyes. “Tylara, have you never thought that he has discovered your secret? And that he is cold because he believes you do not trust him?”

  “I—No.”

  “I would be amazed if he had not. As to seeking heirs by another, there is little I do not hear, and I have never heard that.”

  “Never?”

  “Not one word.”

  “Then what must I do?”

  “Tell him everything.”

  “After the best part of two years?”

  “Yes. It is only your pride that fills you with doubts. The Christians show great wisdom when they call pride one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Where is the sense in thinking the worst of your husband when you will not speak to him? Can speaking to him be so much harder than speaking to me?”

  “You have learned much of the Christians’ ways. Father Yanulf, have you yourself been baptized?”

  “Child, I have told you nothing tonight that is not written in books.”

  “This—penance. Can it be offered to those who have not been baptized as Christians?”

  “Christians or New Christians? The Faith of the New Christ holds confession and penance as sacraments.”

  “Then can you—”

  “You have already made your confession.”

  “Then what is my penance?”

  “Child, it is my turn to confess. This is new enough to me that I must meditate and pray. I know this much. You must make amends.”

  “I have stood as godmother to Caradoc’s child—”

  “Not to Caradoc. To the Children of Vothan. You have robbed them of their innocence.”

  Tylara turned away from him. Tears streamed unchecked. “I had—I had not wanted to. They were lost, and—” She waited, hoping that Yanulf would interrupt, but he said nothing. “They were lost, and I used them for my own ends! Father Yanulf, what must I do?”

  “You must see that they learn new trades. Trades of honor. You cannot restore their innocence. What you can do is give them, not pride, but faith in themselves.”

  “Trades of honor? They know no skills but death—Wait! Father—those who know the skills of assassins can also protect! What better dog to guard sheep than a wolf? Would that fulfill this penance?”

  “Lady Tylara, what are you thinking of?”

  “Prince Teodoros. I do not believe he will long be alive in the Green Palace. Unless—”

  Yanulf was silent for a moment. He fingered the Great Seal of Drantos on its chain. “You still command the Children?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then—I lay it upon you. A portion of your penance shall be to send those Children to protect Prince Teodoros. Go. Go quickly. And go with God.”

  27

  Ben Murphy dipped his pen into the ink horn.

  Task Force Murphy War Diary. Mission Day Twenty-three. Position seventeen kilometers WSW of Shora’s Rift, northern portion of the Sutmarg.

  Day’s march fourteen kilometers. Day’s casualties one dead (sunstroke), one MIA, six horses disabled and abandoned. Strength seven officers, four hundred sixty-eight men. Twenty-nine WIA, twelve fit to fight. Five hundred thirteen horses. Ammunition remaining: twenty-two percent for star weapons, forty percent for rockets, fifty percent for arrows. Recovery of arrows is running well ahead of estimate.

  Comments: Looks like we’ve outrun all of the High Rexja’s western army. Estimate three regiments were chasing us. I make that “Mission accomplished” for drawing off their cavalry. The problem is we’ve run into the rear of Prince Strymon’s army, and they’re between us and Drantos.

  So far we’re all right. We have good water and there are meadows of Earth grasses scattered through the Tran scrub. Between that and the oats we’ve captured we have fodder.

&nbs
p; I plan to rest up the horses for a couple of days. Once everybody’s fit to move I’ll decide whether to raid Strymon’s rear or head south and join up with Ganton.

  Morale solid. Minimum tension between our people and the Westmen. I still try to keep Westmen and Drantos fighters in separate units because of language problems, but pretty much everybody on either side trusts the other now. They’ve been saving each other’s asses a couple a times a day for nearly three weeks.

  * * *

  “Sarge?”

  Murphy looked up to see Hal Roscoe dismounting. “Yeah?”

  “Scouts just rode in. There’s a big supply convoy laagered up about six klicks ahead.”

  “Fortified?”

  “Just a wagon circle. Some VIP’s banner over the CP.”

  “Whose?”

  “Damfino.”

  “Yeah.” Most of his rangers were former poachers, and wouldn’t. And the Westmen scouts sure didn’t know heraldry.

  “Want to go after it, Sarge?”

  “Does the bear shit in the woods? Tell ’em ‘Well done’ and I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, Sarge.” Roscoe remounted and rode off.

  “Lucky break,” Murphy wrote. “VIP banner means food. Remounts, and maybe some decent loot. We’ll take this thing just after the True Sun sets. The Demon will give us enough light.”

  * * *

  The Father Sun had set, and the Child was only a crimson smear in the east. The baleful eye of the Death-Wind Bringer cast a red glow over the clearing. All was deep shadow near the woods where Mad Bear’s people waited.

  The wizards’ firesticks—the rockets—soared up from behind the line of Horse People and arched across the sky. Two, three, four of them plunged down onto the enemy camp.

  Mad Bear saw warriors making gestures against evil spirits. Others struggled to control jittery horses. He himself no longer feared the wizards’ firesticks, any more than he feared fighting at night. Clearly the wizards’ magic was stronger than that of the night demons. Therefore it must be stronger than that of the men in the camp, who had not dared to move by night.

  Only one fire sprang up where the rockets fell, but it was enough to show horses and oxen milling in panic. Mad Bear grinned and drew his sword to await the signal from his chief and blood-brother.

  Murphy’s trumpet sounded and was followed by a long, shrill blast on his iron whistle. Mad Bear rammed his heels into his mount’s flanks. The pony leaped forward like a maddened ranwang. Mad Bear swept his sword down the way he had seen Chief Murphy do it, then reined his horse aside to let the archers sweep past.

  The archers were a hundred paces ahead of Mad Bear when they came within bowshot of the wagons. A few arrows arched out to meet them. Two of Mad Bear’s warriors fell from their saddles.

  There were two Horse People for every archer in the wagon circle, and the Westmen’s arrows carried farther and struck harder. Soon the screams of men joined the screams of the horses, and fewer arrows flew from the wagon circles.

  Mad Bear rode up to the line of archers. There was movement in the enemy’s camp. Torches glowed, and armored men mounted their horses. A squire handed a banner to one of the knights. The banner bore the same device as the one that had flown over the tent. Ah. The chief of the camp would do battle with us. Father, Thunderer, grant that he may be fodder for my lance.

  Mad Bear sheathed his sword. It was an iron sword, a gift from his blood-brother, and in more skilled hands no doubt it would be a match for the armor of any Ironshirt. It was well to have an iron sword, and to learn the Ironshirt way of war, but the Horse People had trained with the lance from the day they had been set in the saddle. It would always be Mad Bear’s first choice. Mad Bear’s steel lance head had been passed down through five generations.

  The enemy horsemen rode out in fours. Some of the archers began shooting at them. Mad Bear shouted. “The camp. Leave the horsemen to us!” Without the Ironshirts to defend it, the camp would certainly fall, and it was the camp they wanted. That was another thing Mad Bear had learned from Murphy. Do not swerve from your target. Do not be deceived by the prospect of easier prey.

  The archers turned back toward the camp and advanced slowly, followed by the dismounted troops who would storm the wagons.

  The enemy horsemen massed for a charge. Mad Bear led a hand of hands of lancers to meet them. Enemy horns sounded. Mad Bear’s hand of hands faced no less than five times their strength. “The darkness must be our friend,” he shouted to his band. “When they come close, run away, and lead them far from here!”

  He urged his pony forward. One Ironshirt rode far ahead of the others. Mad Bear whirled his pony to the right, as if to avoid the man. His enemy followed, but his heavier mount was not as agile as Mad Bear’s pony. As he turned, Mad Bear whirled back and thrust his lance into the man’s throat. His fall twisted the lance from Mad Bear’s hands.

  To his left a man in silver armor slew two of Mad Bear’s people. Mad Bear pivoted toward him, but a dozen enemies came between. Mad Bear drew his sword and shouted at them. He waited until they were close enough to hear his insults, then spun away. He kept his pony at a slow gallop and stayed just far enough ahead to lure them farther away from the camp.

  When he’d led them far enough he turned to his right, riding past the older warriors who waited in the darkness at the edge of the woods. Then he gave them no more thought, and wheeled back toward the camp.

  Most of the Ironshirts had halted at the edge of the firelit circle, but two had ridden farther on. One was the man in the silver armor who had slain Mad Bear’s kinsmen. Mad Bear felt the blood lust rising in him. Such feelings were always dangerous. The Horse People had long ago learned that it was better to tire your enemy, and kill him in your own time, than to fight him when he had his full strength.

  The silver-armored Ironshirt shouted and rode toward Mad Bear. He was followed by another, a mere boy, who carried a banner. A chief, Mad Bear thought.

  Mad Bear dashed toward his enemy, then halted three lance lengths away and wheeled to his left. He dashed forward ten lengths and stopped again, to let the chief hear his laughter.

  The Ironshirt shouted curses. Mad Bear could not understand them all, but he heard the Ironshirt word for “honor.” He grinned and rose in his stirrups. “You have no honor!” he shouted.

  The Ironshirt chief cursed louder and spurred his horse toward Mad Bear. Mad Bear grinned again. He had learned that phrase from Murphy. And my brother wondered why I wanted to know that!

  Mad Bear let his pony dance across the field, staying always three lengths ahead of his enemy. The Child had risen enough now to show the lather on the flanks of his enemy’s horse. A little more, Mad Bear thought. Just a little farther.

  “Coward!” the Ironshirt screamed, and reined in. He looked back, and saw that he had been led far from the battle. His banner-bearer was fifty lengths away.

  Now!

  Mad Bear galloped up behind and to the left, and struck with his sword. His blow landed on the Ironshirt’s shield. Mad Bear galloped past and wheeled twenty lengths beyond his enemy. The banner-bearer was coming up fast. Two Ironshirts together would always be a match for one warrior of the Horse People. This must be done quickly.

  Mad Bear rode forward, and suddenly the man spurred his horse at him. It was a better horse than Mad Bear had ever seen. Lathered and snorting, it yet dashed forward at the chief’s command. The Ironshirt lance came down and thrust deep into the throat of Mad Bear’s pony.

  As the Ironshirt let go the lance to draw his sword, Mad Bear leaped leftward over his dying mount’s neck and rolled to break the fall, then dived over his fallen pony and rolled on his back to thrust his sword upward deep into the belly of his enemy’s mount.

  The horse screamed and reared. The Ironshirt chief kicked free of the stirrups and leaped backward over the horse’s rump to land on his feet. Mad Bear tore out a handful of turf and threw it at the Ironshirt’s visor. Then he dashed to his le
ft and rolled to kick the man’s legs from under him, then stood and pushed him down. As the ironshirt thrashed, Mad Bear tried to drive his dagger through the eyeslits of the visor. The Ironshirt smashed at his head with his steel gauntlet, and sparks flew in Mad Bear’s vision. He leaped to his feet and jumped backward. The Ironshirt rose to his knees and lifted his sword to slash at Mad Bear, then got to his feet as Mad Bear leaped back. Mad Bear circled toward the fallen horse, and the man turned to face him. When Mad Bear struggled to pull his sword from the horse, the Ironshirt retrieved his shield.

  The banner-bearer rode down on them. He had dropped the banner and held a sword. As he rode past, Mad Bear dove to the ground, then leaped up before the dismounted Ironshirt could strike. The banner-bearer halted and turned. His Ironshirt master shouted commands that Mad Bear could not understand.

  Where are my clansmen? Mad Bear turned to run away. As he did, a mounted starman rode up. The starman shouted, and the banner-bearer turned toward him. The small star weapon they called the “Ingram” made it sounds of tearing cloth.

  The Ironshirt chief’s chest turned from silver to red. He crashed to the ground and lay still. The banner-bearer tried to raise his sword to strike, but he had no strength, and toppled from the saddle. Mad Bear dashed forward to grasp the horse’s bridle to secure it for the star warrior.

  The starman shouted something and rode away. Mad Bear turned back toward the camp. The circle of archers had grown tighter around it.

  Mad Bear turned to his dead horse and took off saddle and bridle, then cut loose the feathers and claws woven into the top of the mane.

  * * *

  It had been a tougher fight than Murphy wanted. Sure were a lot of guards for one goddamn wagon train. And not all that much loot, either. Glad we had the Westmen, instead of Drantos ironhats, or we’d never have beat that many heavies.

  Murphy sent a scout platoon to chase the enemy survivors farther from the camp. And that’s funny too. One minute they fought like tigers, then all of a sudden they couldn’t run fast enough. He didn’t expect to catch the survivors. Hell, he didn’t want to catch them, just keep them from regrouping to launch a counterattack.