The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  "Now," she said.

  The shaman slumped to the deck of the Falcon, boneless; another priest leaped into the air beside the brazier, screaming in pain as he whirled in a circle that ended with him toppling to the deck rigid as a board. The mist shredded, drifting towards shore in tendrils and pockets. In less than a minute the low ground was visible, or would have been if it hadn't been crowded with Tseldenes drawn up in ranks.

  Willek suppressed an impulse to giggle. Even at three hundred yards, they looked so surprised at seeing a whole fleet, rather than the single storm-battered squadron they'd expected. Time seemed to hang suspended as the fog revealed the line of Tykassian frigates lying at anchor just off the beach. A long rotting thunder of wheels on oak planking sounded and their gunports flew open, the bronze muzzles of the deck cannon nosing through.

  She chopped her hand downward, the armored gauntlet glittering in the sun.

  BAMMMMMM. The world disappeared in noise and foul-smelling smoke. The ship heeled under the recoil, surging back erect as the cannon slammed against their breeching ropes. A deep cheer rose from the crowded decks of the Imperial vessels. What mostly rose from the beach was screams, as a hundred twelve-pounder cannon spewed canvas bags full of musket balls and chain links into the crowded regiments. They had a few light field pieces with them. Willek saw one standing amid the tumbled bodies of its crew; where the shot struck, the enemy splashed backward in wedges of red against the fawn-colored sands. Another fired, the little stone ball skipping out over the mirror-calm water. It passed a longboat crowded with soldiers waiting to make their run in, leaving a yell of alarm in its wake.

  Down below her along the deck the gun captains were at work, their crews moving with the smooth economy of dancers. This time cast-iron roundshot followed the flannel powder bags down the muzzles of the guns. The Falcon fired first, then the other gunships in a ragged volley timed by the speed of their crews and the judgment of their master gunners. The Tseldenes were moving back fairly rapidly, but there were no dunes to hide behind, and they were too disciplined to just run. That cost them heavily as the cannonballs knocked down whole rows, or trundled along the ground smashing legs off at the knee, or hit rocks half-buried in the sandy soil and bounced up at unpredictable angles…

  "Pour it on!" the captain of the Falcon shouted, pounding his hand on the quarterdeck railing. "Pour it on!"

  A new fogbank of smoke was drifting shorewards. Willek narrowed her eyes into it; the enemy were nearly out of range. She let the fleet deliver another three broadsides before she spoke.

  "Cease fire. Send in the landing parties." Darkist must be hearing the firing in An Tiram, she thought gleefully.

  Flags broke free from the Falcon's masthead, and the longboats darted out from among the warships and transports. Hundreds of them—some of the cargo vessels had carried them stacked on their decks, and every ship had a few. They grounded on the coarse sand of the beach, keels grating, and the soldiers leaped out—musketeers holding their weapons and bandoliers high over their heads, halberdiers and pikemen moving forward to establish a perimeter. Some of the smaller transports followed, to ground themselves in the shallows and let their cargoes down over the side. Order grew on shore as the Grand Admiral watched; skirmishers with daggers making sure of the enemy wounded, the first regiments forming up and stepping off inland…

  "How long to low tide?" she asked.

  "Four hours, Lord Grand Admiral. It's making now." The sailing master of the fleet pushed back his cap to mop at his red, bald scalp. "Anything that stays will be grounded, but it's a gentle shelf, good sand—no rocks. Firm and hard for six hours before the sea comes in again."

  Willek nodded. They could get the horses and artillery off while the troopships were grounded, and then refloat them—the warships could take station offshore and pace the fleet towards An Tiram. And…

  "Colonel Gonstad," she said. "I'll be moving my headquarters ashore now; see to it Captain, the frigates are to stand to sea for maneuvering room. Use the galleys to keep contact and send two… no, three squadrons forward to scout."

  Gulls were circling overhead in clouds, and giant claw-wings—even ravens. Idly, she wondered how they knew when a battle was due, and how long they'd wait to stoop down on the feast she'd spread.

  "By the Three, that felt good," Bren said, dropping the wooden bucket back on the stone coping of the well.

  The cold water was welcome. The way the peasants who lived in the little adobe shacks around it cringed wasn't; Bren expected a certain amount of fear from the natives with armed foreigners about, but this had a slimy, servile edge to it that turned his stomach.

  He noted a small open shrine with a four-faced, eight-armed brass idol of surpassing ugliness, laneways of pounded dirt, and an abundance of naked snot-nosed brown children, dogs and chickens. The smell would have reminded him of a thousand farm hamlets he'd seen back in the New Empire, were it not for the overpowering reek of alien spices.

  The squat, wrinkled little headman gabbled again. Bren spoke fair Derkinoi, but this peasant dialect of Tseldene was another matter, so archaic it was almost Tiranese. He could catch perhaps one word in ten.

  He turned to Amourgin. "What's he saying, corporal?"

  At least the law-speaker didn't turn around to find out who the corporal was anymore. He pursed his lips and spoke, slowly and clearly. The gabbling slowed, and a weak smile revealed the village elders lack of teeth.

  "I think he's saying they don't know a thing and just do what they're told," Amourgin said at last. "Its not much like High Tiranese."

  "Well, tell him we need food," Bren said He held out a small silver coin; money would get you more than steel, in most places.

  The villager fell on his face and gabbled louder while the soldier stared at him.

  "He says," Amourgin said dryly, "that he's a law-abiding peasant and never touches money, and will the great lord from hell—I think that's their term for anywhere foreign—will the great devil lord from hell please take what he wants and not kill too many of them."

  "Nice country," Bren muttered.

  Father Solmin spat, glaring at the shrine of the One. "We ought to cast down the abomination," he grumbled.

  "Not right now, Father—we're scarcely a victorious army yet." Louder: "Sergeant Ddrad, foraging party. Nothing rough, just get what we need for the next couple of days."

  "Sor." Ddrad began his you-have-volunteered bellow, then cut it short. "It's the scout corporal."

  Karah was riding up on Windrush. Nothing surprising about that, she'd been doing most of their scouting. The string of horses behind her was surprising; small-headed, long-legged beauties, with expensive high-cantled Tseldene saddles on their backs, studded with silver.

  "Trust a Grenlaarin to find horses," somebody muttered. "Or steal 'em," another added.

  Karah grinned; she didn't look so bad, since the swelling and discoloration around her broken nose went down a bit. Bren grinned back at her.

  "The delta starts just over the next ridge of hills," she said, pointing westward "Thick sown country, villages and towns everywhere, with the grain harvest in. Everything's shut up tight, except the fort on the main road—that's abandoned."

  "Where did you get those horses?"

  "Beauties, aren't they, sir?" Karah said, grinning. "A couple of Tseldenes were riding along, but they got right down when I pointed this at 'em." She patted the pistol stuck through her belt. "One of them had a nice little saddle bow, too." That weapon was now cased at her knee.

  Bren nodded "Well done, Grenlaarin." Karah glowed "That sounds like they're calling in all their troops, and the gentry are heading for the cities," he went on. "Which means the army must have landed somewhere west of here, between us and An Tiram. We'll push through and link up."

  "Beggin' yer pardon, sor," Ddrad said "There's only thirty of us. Won't their levies swamp us?"

  Bren shook his head. "Tseldenes don't have levies. All their soldiers are full time—born t
o it. The countryfolk aren't armed at all."

  The Tykissians all looked faintly revolted; so did Eowlie.

  "Amourgin, Eowlie, take two of those horses. Ddrad, you too." He looked up at the sun. "We can make four or five miles before full dark."

  Konzin heard the clatter in the yard—shod hooves, and lots of them. He put down his shovel, but Gowdgeki raised his.

  "Peace," Konzin said.

  Gowdgeki looked unimpressed, and his shovel stayed in the air.

  "Listen, man—they're back already. They must have had a quick win."

  Gowdgeki heard the horses outside, and the men's voices, and his silly face grew puzzled. "Back?" he said, and turned to look.

  It was all the opening Konzin needed. His own shovel came down on the simpletons head, edge on—Gowdgeki might have been strong as an ox, but his skull split as nicely as any other man's. He didn't even cry out; he just fell forward. Konzin left the shovel wedged into Gowdgeki's brain and ran out to direct his men.

  Weasel Ugin stood at the front door of his house, hat in hand, speaking with Misa Grenlaarin. The madine wasn't going to be trusting, Konzin realized She had her flintlock aimed at his chest, and every other weapon in the place was aimed out windows, too. Aimed at his men. From up on the roof, someone shot off a flare that arced high into the air blazing brilliant red, and hung there one long instant before guttering out and falling back to earth.

  Your folk are too far away to help you now, Misa, Konzin thought.

  And most of his men weren't even in the courtyard. They were hiding, waiting for Weasel Ugin and the rest of the advance troops to put suspicion to rest. The men in the courtyard carried no visible weapons, rode broken-down nags—looked, Konzin could see even from his hiding place just inside the barn door, just exactly like the migrant herdsmen they were supposed to pretend to be.

  Why was Misa so damnably suspicious?

  And now his men were turning, their heads hanging, their every step eloquent of dejection—for all the world like weary herdsmen sent away.

  She must see how they need work, he thought. She's running short-handed, and she believes Iano and Jawain and the rest won't be back for a week at least—shell call my men back, Konzin thought Misa, though, kept her gun trained on Ugin, and the muzzles of the other guns followed the movement of the rest of the "migrant workers."

  Konzin frowned at the scene. I'm going to have to think of another plan. I'm going to have to—

  Screams inside the house! And gunshots! The ranch's defenders pulled their guns out of the front windows; Konzin's men in the courtyard, drawing pistols they'd hidden inside their shirts, charged into the house; a body fell out an upper window—one of the old men who cleaned indoors.

  The rest of my men snuck in through the back!

  He hadn't thought them bright enough to come up with a backup plan on their own, but they had. Konzin was elated—he raced out of the barn and around the back, keeping out of sight of the house, then along the hedgerow. The hedgerow was sparse and low and made poor cover, but the folk in the house didn't seem to be watching anymore.

  He pulled a knife from the sheath tucked inside his breeches; and at that moment Misa backed one of his men out the front door and blasted him as soon as he moved to the edge of the porch. She moved out of the open doorway and kept her back to the wall; good tactics, except that Konzin was in her blind spot, because she was turned toward the door, poised to shoot whomever came out.

  He charged behind her, knife still drawn—

  And heard impossible sounds.

  He thought he heard whoops, and the thundering of hundreds of hooves charging at the ranchhouse from all sides. A few feet from Misa, he looked into the yard and saw he'd heard aright .The Grenlaarins hadn't ridden off after the Gonstads. They had ridden no further than behind the nearest hill, and there they'd waited.

  Misa had her eyes on the approaching fighters—she still didn't know he was behind her.

  It's all lost, he thought.

  But I'll still have mine.

  He raced out of the last of his cover—heard Iano's men shouting at Misa—saw the Grenlaarin bitch turn toward him even as he made the leap up onto the porch—and her flintlock swung up to point at his chest, the tip of the muzzle moving slow, slower, slowest as he neared his objective. He dropped and rolled, and two blasts sounded, both over his head, though he got the burn of powder and the lancing pain of splintered wood that buried in his skin from the porch.

  He kept rolling, came up with his knife out and ready, made it inside her guard before the flintlock had time to fire again. Time moved slow, so slow and sweet as he shoved the blade into her belly with all the force he could muster and saw her eyes go round. He heard another blast, but he couldn't let it bother him—the knife moved up through her round belly as if it were cutting through butter, and wedged into her breastbone, and he shoved up, harder, up and in. Her scream was sweet in his ears.

  Konzin realized he was falling forward, into her, though—tried to move his leg in front of him to catch himself, but the leg wouldn't respond; was ablaze with pain. He looked down and saw a bloody ragged hole where his knee had been. He fell, screaming, as the agony reached his brain, and landed on the bloody mess of body and entrails that had been Misa Grenlaarin.

  Iano Grenlaarin touched brow and cheeks with fingers wet with his wife's blood and stood. The fight was over. A body arched from a second-story window, one of the bandits; it landed with a crump not far from him, still moving.

  Jawain and his foreman each held one of Konzin's arms—they'd dragged him from the porch and through the dirt of the yard to stand him in front of Iano. Behind stood the bandit chief, swordpoints resting over his kidneys; Grey River Weasel Ugin held himself erect His expression made it clear he still couldn't believe what had happened.

  Iano said, in an even, almost conversational tone, "You're going to die now, Konzin. I only wish we'd decided to kill you the day you rode in, instead of waiting to catch the rest of your band first" Iano wished that whole-heartedly—his clever plan to gather all the killers together had cost him Gowdgeki, Kari, and old Evetstur—and Misa. He pressed his lips together, and clenched his fists. Nothing would pay for what Konzin had done to Misa—but Iano was going to get whatever satisfaction he could.

  Konzin began weeping, big slow-moving tears. Iano raised his head and pointed to the balcony above. "Rope over there."

  Jawain nodded and took his own lariat from his saddlebow, tossing the noose over the railing above and snubbing the end to the pommel.

  "Oh, Three, y' can't hang me, master, it wouldn't be right, please—"

  Iano grabbed the man by the jaw as the foreman held him, drawing his knife with the other hand. Relentless fingers pried the teeth open, and he sliced once. Konzin's screams turned to gurgles as blood from his slit tongue welled between his lips.

  "I'm not going to hang you, dirt," Iano said.

  The ranch hands snubbed the noose around Konzin's ankles. Jawain's horse backed away at a touch on his neck, dragging the ex-foreman of Grenlaarin Five Points along the dirt and then into the air to swing head-down with his hair only a few feet from the packed earth. Two of the watchers began throwing scraps of kindling and firewood underneath the dangling form, and Konzin began to scream.

  "Not too much," Iano said, speaking sharply for the first time since his wife's death. "It needs to burn slow."

  He turned his eyes to Weasel Ugin. "Kill me, then," the bandit said, spitting at his feet.

  Iano smiled. "I don't think so," he said. "We'll give you to the house-girls instead."

  The bandit started off at a run.

  He made it a dozen paces across the yard before house-girls and farmhands pulled him down. Kisi elbowed the others aside.

  "First cut," she said.

  Iano turned away as the bandits scream went high. Kisi hadn't cut his throat, then.

  Jawain put his arm around his brother-in-law's shoulders. "You did all you could," he said.

>   "It wasn't enough. If only—"

  "There's no use in that. Karah's still alive, and she needs you—think of that instead."

  "Damn, but that's like something out of a bad historical novel," one of Willek's aides said.

  They were all looking into the same crystal, a flat oval twenty inches across and thirty high, set in an oak frame on an iron tripod. The operating priest stood swaying and chanting under his breath, eyes tightly closed and rivulets of sweat pouring down his tattooed face. Occasionally the image would flicker, and the priest give a yelp of pain or stress. Acolytes stood by to take over when the strain of cutting through the Tseldene shielding grew too great, but that would degrade performance—few had the natural talent or the years of training it took to produce a good staff wizard.

  In the crystal the armies of the southland poured out of the tall gates of An Tiram—the Desert Gate, facing eastwards. In the lead were war mammoths, fifteen feet high at the shoulder, covered in sparse reddish hair beneath the gorgeously inlaid chain and plate armor. Swivel guns were mounted on the steel-box howdahs, and tall bamboo poles carried gaudy flags.

  "Ceremonial," Willek said. "The Tseldenes hate to give anything up. The real stuff will follow."

  More mammoths followed, but these were hauling massive bronze guns. "Sixty-pounders, battering pieces," an artillery specialist noted. "Good guns, but our new rifled tubes have the range on them."

  Cavalry came next, mounted on tall slender-legged horses that paced with knees high and tails like banners. The soldiers were armed with lance, bow, and curved sword, their armor lighter than the Tykissian equivalents. More guns, lighter ones drawn by horses. Rank upon rank of infantry, blocks of spearmen, swordsmen, men with short thick-barreled arquebuses. The sun was blinding-bright on polished brass and steel, on gold and silver and the silken tassels that flew from spiked helmets, on nodding peacock-feather plumes.