The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  There had been some changes. More than thirty log cabins spread out along the shore of the lake, several of them with split-rail corrals for horses and cattle.

  Children scampered around a wooden dock that jutted out from the shore, pausing momentarily in their play to wave to Ellegon as the dragon passed overhead.

  Where there had been only forest, there now were fields, stalks of corn, and seas of wheat waving in the breeze.

  The fortifications had been completed; they now enclosed a group of five houses, one with a slow-turning waterwheel. Ellegon dove toward the bare-dirt courtyard, braking with his wings.

  Mill?

  *Yes. Riccetti has done well, no?*

  You've all done well.

  Deftly avoiding the network of hollowed half-logs that piped water to the five houses, the dragon landed inside the walls. Karl dismounted.

  *Welcome home.*

  To his right, a familiar face peeked out of an open-sided cabin whose chimney puffed smoke into the air. Walter Slovotsky, wearing a leather apron and carrying a smith's hammer, ran into the courtyard, dropping the hammer as he ran.

  "Karl." Slovotsky stuck out a hand, drew it back, shaking his head. "To hell with it." He threw his arms around Karl.

  "Dammit, you're breaking my back," Karl said, untangling himself.

  Slovotsky chuckled. "Fat chance." He turned. "Kirah! They're—" He caught himself. "Is everyone—?"

  "We lost Fialt, but the rest of us are fine." Except for Rahff. I wish he'd gotten the chance to—

  *Later, Karl, later. Homecoming is supposed to be a happiness.*

  You know a lot about happiness?

  *I'm learning, Karl. Walter, take him to her.*

  Slovotsky led Karl toward a cabin on the far side of the courtyard, talking nonstop as they walked. "I wish we'd known you were getting back today. Lou's taken a party to the far side of the valley. He found a cave full of bats a couple of months ago, and we're finally getting them all cleared out."

  "Bats?" Karl removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. "Some sort of trouble?"

  "No." Slovotsky laughed. "Just garden-variety fruit bats. They can give you a nasty bite, but Thellaren—he's our cleric—can fix you right up."

  "Cleric?"

  "Spidersect. Showed up one day, half starved; seems he had some trouble with the Therranji. Does one hell of a business, although Andy and I had to reason with him about rates. The bastard was charging—"

  "Then why clear out the bats?"

  Slovotsky smiled knowingly. "Think about it. What are bats good at making?"

  "Baby bats, and bat sh—" Of course. Karl raised a hand. "Never mind. I take it you've found some sulfur, too."

  "You got it. No willows around here. But oak seems to work okay."

  Take the crystals of saltpeter from underneath any well-aged pile of excrement, add sulfur and powdered charcoal in the right proportions, and voila!—gunpowder. Well, it was probably a bit trickier than that, but not much.

  Maybe I'm not going to be needing longbows, after all.

  "It was Riccetti's idea. He remembered reading that Cortez used bat guano to make gunpowder."

  "I didn't know Lou was a historian."

  "Only when it comes to making things." Slovotsky nodded. "He's already made some gunpowder—stinks to high heaven when it burns—and I'm working on a flintlock right now."

  Slovotsky caught himself as they stopped in front of the cabin's door. "Later; we'll have plenty of time. She's in there, Karl." Slovotsky waved as he jogged off. "I'd better go see Kirah. We've been fattening a calf."

  Karl opened the door and walked in.

  The cabin was well kept, from the burnished wood of the floor to the ceiling timbers, hung with unlit oil lamps. A beaded curtain covered a doorway on the opposite wall.

  On the right-hand wall, a rough table stood beneath a mottled glass window. On the left-hand wall, a pot of stew burbled merrily in the stone fireplace.

  Two huge wooden chairs stood side by side in front of the fireplace, both with blankets padding their seats. The arms of one chair was stained with nicks and sweat marks; the other looked new, unused.

  He unbuckled his sword and hung it over the back of the newer chair.

  "Who is it?" She pushed through the curtain, a wicker basket filled with clothes in her arms. Her eyes grew wide. "Hi."

  "Hello."

  He wanted to reach out, to run to her, but he couldn't. There was an almost palpable distance between them. The months of separation had changed her, changed both of them.

  Worry lines had begun to form around her eyes. Her hair was tangled, matted down. It wasn't just that she looked more than a few months older. Her smile was strained.

  He could see her looking at the changes in his face, not sure that she liked what she saw.

  There had been a time when Karl took the world lightly, even while he took it seriously. A time when he could push the darkness away, when he could dismiss it, if only for a while, not merely pretend that it didn't exist. There had been a time when Karl had been basically a gentle man, sometimes forced into doing violent things, but always, deep inside, untouched by the violence.

  That time was gone. Forever. It could never be the same between them.

  The thought cut at him like a knife.

  "Andy, I—" He fumbled blindly for the words. For the right words, the ones that would make everything right between them.

  He couldn't find them. Maybe they didn't even exist.

  "No," she shrilled. She threw the basket aside and ran to him.

  As he gathered her into his arms and buried his face in her hair, he knew that he was both right and wrong. Yes, there had been changes. No, things could never be the same.

  But they could be better.

  After a while, he took a loose sleeve of her robe, wiped first at his own eyes, and then at hers.

  She looked up at him, her eyes still tearing, still red. "Karl?"

  "Yes?" He ran his fingers through her hair.

  "If," she said as she rested her face against his chest, "if you ever give me another look like that, I swear I'll hit you. Don't you—"

  "Shh."

  *Stupid humans.* Ellegon's massive head peeked through the open door. He snorted, sending ashes from the fireplace swirling around the room. Karl raised his head. What is it now?

  *You always have to make things more complicated than necessary, don't you?*

  "What are you getting at?"

  *Tell her you love her, idiot.*

  She pushed away from him and smiled. "Yeah. Tell me you love me, idiot." She grabbed his hand. "But later. I've got someone for you to meet."

  She pulled him through the beaded curtain and into the bedroom.

  Under the murky window, a cradle lay. It was a plain wood box, mounted on two wooden rockers.

  He peered inside.

  "Don't wake him," she whispered. "It's a pain to get him back to sleep."

  The baby, wrapped in a gray cotton diaper, slept peacefully on the soft blankets. Karl reached out a hand and gently touched the child's soft cheek. Still asleep, the baby turned his head to nuzzle Karl's fingers.

  Karl pulled his hand back. "He's so . . . small."

  "That's your opinion." She snorted. "He sure as hell didn't feel that way when I was flat on my back in labor. But he'll grow."

  "How old is he?"

  "Just under two months." Andy-Andy slipped an arm around Karl's waist. "I named him Jason, after Jason Parker. I hope that's okay; we didn't decide on a name before you left, so . . ."

  "The name's fine."

  "I did good?"

  "Andy, he's beautiful."

  *He takes after his mother. Fortunately.*

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Flickering Candle

  . . . the bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it.

  —Thucydides

  Walter Sl
ovotsky walked quietly around the bonfire and tapped him on the shoulder. "Karl, take a walk with me," he said, his voice slurred. He snagged a bottle from one of the merrymakers, bowing an exaggerated apology.

  Andy-Andy leaned over and whispered in Karl's ear, "He's drunk again."

  "I noticed. Has this been happening a lot?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "Ever since Kirah started to show. But I don't think it's just the expectant father jitters. Maybe you should go see what's wrong. I haven't been able to get him to talk about it. Neither has Kirah." She cast a glance across the clearing. "And I'd better go check on the baby."

  He chuckled. "Between Ellegon and Aeia, I'm sure he's okay." Ellegon had told him that there were bears and pumas up in the mountains. Probably the animals would continue to avoid the village.

  But if they didn't, Ellegon could always fit an odd bear or puma into his diet.

  "Still . . ."

  "Okay. See you later."

  "Not too much later, I hope. Kirah's going to keep Aeia and Jason tonight. No interruptions." Her eyes smiled a promise at him.

  Karl rose and followed Walter off into the dark, leaving the bonfire behind them. The welcome-home party was in its twelfth or thirteenth hour, but it hadn't let up. Some of the revelers kept the music going with their flutes and drums; others loitered around the cooking fire, slicing off sizzling pieces of roast calf from the slowly turning spit.

  Tennetty, Chak, Peill, and Ahira looked road-weary, having arrived only that morning. Still, the four of them held court, a few dozen meters from the fire, standing in a circle of fifty listeners, taking turns relating the story of Karl Cullinane on the Warthog.

  Six of the listeners drew Karl's attention. A group of battle-scarred men, they listened raptly, occasionally interrupting Tennetty or Chak to press for more details. Karl had been introduced to them, but had forgotten their names. But he hadn't forgotten the fact that they were former mercenaries, now engaged in the profession of taking on slavers.

  Which means, he thought, that the whole world doesn't rest on my shoulders anymore.

  And it also means I'm becoming a legend, he thought, and smiled. Probably have more volunteers than I can use, next time. He sobered. That possibility might have its pluses, but it sure as hell had its minuses.

  As they walked, Slovotsky passed him the clay bottle; Karl took another swig of the tannic wine that already had his head spinning.

  The fire and sound far enough behind them, Karl seated himself on a projecting root of an old oak, gesturing at Slovotsky to join him. "What's bothering you?"

  "Me?" Slovotsky snorted. He tilted back the bottle and drank deeply. "Nothing's bothering me, Karl. Not a damn thing." Slovotsky was silent for a while. Then: "How soon are you planning on going out again?"

  "Eager to get rid of me?"

  "How about an answer?"

  "Mmm, I don't want to leave too soon. Maybe six months or so. I suspect it'll take Pandathaway a while to put another team together. If they don't just write off killing me as a lost cause."

  Karl folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against the bulk of the trees. "Besides, I think that the Slavers' Guild is going to be a bit too busy to go looking for me." He closed his eyes. "How many people have we got here?"

  "Just over two hundred, as of the last census. Seems to grow every day, practically. But it's not going to get any easier: The size of the slavers' caravans keeps growing. They're running scared, Karl. Which isn't good; I'd rather have them fat and self-satisfied."

  Karl shrugged. "So we'll take bigger raiding parties."

  If this scheme of Riccetti's to make some rifles panned out, he might not need a much larger team. Granted, the manufacture of cartridges was probably decades away, but even a few flintlocks and blunderbusses would give them a huge edge.

  "Think it through, Karl. Think it through."

  He opened his eyes to see Slovotsky shaking his head. Karl grabbed his arm. "What the hell is bothering you?"

  "Take a look at the silo?"

  "No, but what does that have to do with anything?"

  "It has to do with everything. We're getting a damn fine yield for the acreage. Better than any of the locals have ever seen. And this is just the first real harvest. Wait until next year."

  "This is doom?"

  "Yup. Free societies . . ." Walter interrupted himself to down the last of the wine. He flipped the bottle end over end, then caught it by the neck, setting it carefully on the ground. "Free societies produce. You should see how hard these poor bastards work, once they understand that what they grow or make is theirs."

  "Didn't Riccetti say something about taxes?"

  "Sure." Slovotsky shrugged. "Two percent of production or income, payable to the town treasurer—that's me, for now. We've been using it to sponsor public works like the mill, pay Riccetti and your wife for running the school, grubstake new arrivals. Matter of fact, I'm going to have to assess what you've brought back. Quite a bit of gold and platinum, no?"

  "A bit. Just net, right?" Idly, he wondered what the tax on the sword of Arta Myrdhyn would have been.

  "Net. No tax on what you make and spend outside. Only what you bring back, or make here. Keeps things simpler. But can we leave all that for tomorrow?"

  "Sure. But would you just come out and tell me what the hell has got you running scared?"

  "Running scared is right." Slovotsky snorted. "You still don't see it, do you? Free societies produce more than slave societies. Always have, always will. Right?"

  "Right. So?"

  "So, that means we're going to continue to flourish and grow. So, eventually we're going to attract some notice. So, when we do, some bright baron or prince or lord is going to work out that we just might overflow this valley and spread out, and eventually, challenge his power." He shook his head. "So . . . how long do you think that the slave societies are going to let us get away with it? A year, almost certainly. Five, probably; ten, possibly; twenty, maybe. But not forever, Karl. Not forever."

  Dammit, but that made sense. The only reason they had gone unmolested so far was the small size and remote location of their colony.

  "So," Walter went on, "we're in a race. We have to grow large enough, strong enough, quick enough, so that we can take on all comers. Or . . ."

  "Or? You've got an alternative?"

  "Or your kid and mine grow up as orphans. If they're lucky. We're going to have to keep our wives pregnant all the time, rescue and arm as many slaves as we can, and work our butts off to have a chance at winning the race. Any chance at all." Slovotsky smiled in the dark. "Let me ask you again: How soon are you planning on going out again?"

  Karl sighed. "Give me ten days." Dammit. "I need to spend some time with Andy."

  Slovotsky echoed his sigh. "Take twenty. I'd better break in a new treasurer, and I've got some smithing to finish before we go."

  "We?"

  "We. Slovotsky's Law Number Forty-three: 'Thou shalt put thy money where is thy mouth.' " He rose and held out a hand. "Count me in."

  Karl accepted the hand and let Walter pull him to his feet.

  "So what do we do now, Karl?"

  "We?" Karl shrugged. "We don't do anything now. I'm going to let my wife drag me off to our bedroom. You're going to finish getting drunk tonight, because you're going back into training tomorrow." He threw an arm around Slovotsky's shoulder. "And after that . . ." he let his voice trail off. The words escaped him. Ellegon? Can you hear me?

  *No, not at all. Not one—*

  Please. Give me the words.

  *No, Karl. You don't need me for that. You already know the words.*

  But I don't.

  *Try.*

  "We . . . survive, Walter. We . . ."

  Gentle fingers stroked Karl's mind.

  " . . . we protect ourselves, our families, our friends, and our own." Fialt had said that, and Fialt was right. But there was something more. "We keep the flame of freedom burning, because that is why we all are here."r />
  "Fair enough."

  *I told you that you knew the words.*

  And you're always right, eh?

  *Of course.*

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Hunter

  I am in blood, Stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

  —William Shakespeare

  He lived like a jackal, sleeping during the day in a hollow under a palm tree, feeding at night at the garbage pits behind the village, always running for cover at the slightest sound.

  He never tried for his own kills; anything that could betray his presence had to be avoided. There were just too many of them.

  All of his burns and cuts had long since healed, but the scars remained. The bottle of healing draughts he had managed to drink while the fire burned around his bleeding body had kept him alive, although only barely; it had not brought him back to unmarked health.

  He waited, feeding and gathering his strength for the hard trip over the mountains. That was the route he would have to take. The sea was closed to him; even were another raiding ship to come this way, they would hardly recognize him as one of their own.

  But he always kept his pouch with him.

  And every once in a while, Ahrmin would unwrap the glass sphere and watch the dismembered finger floating in the yellowish oil, pointing unerringly to the north and east.

  And smile.

  END