War World III: Sauron Dominion

by Jerry Pournelle

  Barak would have heard that, too. Aisha could imagine him, his hands away from his weapons, but quick enough to reach them, fast enough and strong enough to stand against a Sauron. As she herself had done. Though she had faced a cyborg, still there had been but one. Barak faced several. He should not do so alone, she resolved.

  “Don’t even think it,” the healer’s lips moved soundlessly. She chuckled, puzzling him.

  She wondered if her first impression--that he was djinni, not man--had been right after all. In the darkness, his eyes seemed to glow. So did her own, reflected in the tiny lamp: lambent and feral, like those of a creature wounded unto death, but with one last battle in her.

  “He is of my blood,” she hissed back. “But not accursed. I cannot--”

  “You cannot interfere. By God, woman, letting the Saurons know we’ve got you would be the worst thing you could do.”

  “The Battlemaster will pin our hides to the walls next to the motherfucker’s,” a Sauron hissed behind his leader, “if we don’t bring her or her body back to tack up there instead.”

  Aisha felt a surge of fierce pride. She had killed the Battlemaster; this must be a new one.

  “We’re going to have to search that wagon.”

  “You and what h’gana? Smart Soldier like you, you should think of better ideas,” Barak suggested.

  “Such as . . .” Even Oom Karl could hear the suppressed eagerness in the Sauron’s voice. It was well nown that a Bandari would crawl halfway across Haven to do a Sauron a mischief--if the Sauron didn’t meet him halfway.

  Hoofbeats sounded from outside: other Bandari who had circled around and behind the Saurons, and who now rode up. Aisha could hear the snick of safeties being removed from firearms and the faint whine of strung bows.

  “Such as turning around and going back to the women you do have,” Barak said flatly. “As for us, we’re headed back to the Pale for Ruth’s Day. And expecting to join up with another caravan pretty soon. I’d really suggest you start on your way.”

  Oom Karls mouth quivered and his eyes lit with appreciation at Barak’s bluff. The Sauron remained silent.

  “Was there anything else you wanted?” Barak prompted, his voice quivering on the edge of arrogance. Oom Karl hissed. Don t get cocky.

  “Yes, we had a message for you. Stay out of Nurnen. We don’t want your trade or your trash.”

  “Well enough,” Barak agreed. “Slim pickings there anyhow; the trip to harvest them isn’t worth our while. I promise, I won’t be back unless I plan to move in.”

  “That arrogance could be permanent, Bandari.’’

  “Not when I’ve got you circled. We have to get moving now if we want to get back to the Pale. Open it up, chaverim. Sauron, you’ve got till the count of ten . . . nine . . . eight ...”

  The thud of retreating footsteps vibrated in the wood of the wagon. Aisha let out a breath she had forgotten she was holding. Fire licked against her ribs, and she flinched.

  Oom Karl sighed gustily, too. “Got off easy, for now,” he said. “Now, I’m going to make sure you sleep ...”

  “My father,” she muttered. “He was dead, and they defile his body. I must turn back to Nurnen and avenge him.” She began to climb from her blankets.

  He had a sharp-pointed glass knife in his hand. Before Aisha could catch his wrist, he had scratched her arm.

  She raised a hand to punish him for the scratch, but her head swam, and the shadows in the tiny wagon closed in and engulfed her.

  Since the day Aisha had found the courage to turn her back on her tribe and guide her blind father out of Tallinn, she had never doubted it. As the caravan wound its slow and eminently well-guarded way back toward the Pale, descending into Eden Valley, she found that courage sorely tested.

  Her ribs had healed with a speed and cleanliness that drew grunts of admiration from Oom Karl. Her lungs had drained and her fever vanished almost overnight. But physical recovery was the least of the ordeals she faced.

  The first day she was permitted to walk unsupported, meid Sannie appeared in the wagon that had been her sickroom. Wrap up,” she announced brusquely and shoved the blanket at Aisha.

  She blinked and looked about for her clothes. “Schmutzig,” Sannie told her. “So filthy we had to bury them. The caravan master has others for you.”

  Aisha glanced around, as if expecting the clothes to appear. But, “How much?” she asked. She had had some silver when she left Nurnen: not enough, probably, to cover the costs of the fine leathers and wools that haBandari merchant princes usually rode out in.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Sannie.

  Aisha wrapped up in the blanket and glared at her.

  “Then I cannot accept them.” Damn Bandari and their slap-in-the-face charity. She drew the blanket around her shoulders. Let her kinsman Barak come and command her, as the only living male of her line. She might even listen to him; for certain, she had no desire to enter the Pale wrapped only in rough wool. But to accept charity was to strip her soul as naked as her body.

  Sannie’s face went flat. She disappeared from the wagon. A moment later, Oom Karl put his head in.

  “I sent Sannie in because I thought you’d do better if you had another woman around. There’s not much water left, but we’ve got plenty of sand for a dustbath. Come on.”

  A dustbath. Then it was true what all Haven said of the Bandari: men and women not wed to each other went naked in one another’s presence. Those of the tribes were more shamefast.

  Yet had she a right to shame? Whether she did or not, she felt a blush starting from somewhere around the level of her belly.

  “Yes, it’s all true,” the healer laughed at her and showed his uncanny ability to sense her thoughts. “We bathe, whether we need to or not. And you could use the sun on that skin of yours. Doctor’s orders.”

  “She won’t take the clothes . ..”

  “I cannot . ..”

  “If it’s money, count them as a bounty. Didn’t you kill the last Battlemaster of Nurnen? We’re in your debt. I promise, no one’s going to look at you. Anything you’ve got, we’ve already seen. And right now, we’ve seen it in better shape.” He must have seen her bare while she was sick, but he turned his back ostentatiously. She flushed like a fool for the relief--and the aggravation--she felt.

  Before her world changed, she had been brought up among the tribes, where maidens were modest. And she was still--despite her age--a maiden. That too was a matter for shame. But in all her life, the only man she had ever met before was her father/ brother.

  “I’d like to stuff you back into your bottle, djinni,” Aisha muttered. “And I would, too, if the cork weren’t . . .”

  “Say what?” he showed surprisingly even teeth at her in a grin that shocked an answering grin from her.

  Moving unsteadily, she rose, the blanket clasped about her, and clambered down from the wagon. After so long riding, the earth felt nubbly, strangely solid under her bare feet.

  The day was surprisingly warm for Haven. She glanced about, then away from the shocking spectacle of naked Bandari (all but those on guard) lounging, their weapons near to hand. Given Aisha’s more efficient metabolism, she felt herself sweating, then felt the sweat evaporate. She sniffed experimentally. She did need a bath. Just as well her companions’ senses weren’t as keen as hers.

  “Like this,” Sannie volunteered, skinning out of her clothes. She was stocky, compact, with more body fat than Aisha carried. She palmed a handful of dust and rubbed it down a well-muscled flank and flicked an inquiring glance around.

  Did these people think she was a total barbarian?

  “I know how to bathe,” Aisha said. She turned her back on the shocking, not-to-be-glanced at sight of so many naked males, knelt stiffly to gather dust for herself, and scrubbed. Soon she glowed from the friction of her bath--and from embarrassment.

  Far to her back she heard the physician’s voice. She was glad he did not approach. She was glad that none of the
men did. She listened with half an ear to Sannie’s chatter of this family and that. She mentioned Barak often, and Aisha raised an eyebrow.

  Even as she basked in the pale sun, Sannie scanned the horizon for Barak and her fellow guards. Aisha scanned it for Saurons.

  Then she stiffened, her hand reaching for a knife, then curling into a claw of frustration at her nakedness. “What’s that?”

  Used to Barak, Sannie didn’t doubt the evidence of Aisha’s hearing.

  “Somebody coming!” she called. All about her, Bandari uncoiled, bare arms reaching for rifles, knives, spears, and bows. Two men ran past, dressed only in shields and their weapons. They no longer looked naked.

  “How many?” she demanded.

  Aisha flung herself ear down on the ground.

  “Hoofbeats,” she muttered, straining to make out the numbers. “Not many. Maybe five.’

  Not the nomads from which she was so long sundered. And not Saurons who had met reinforcements.

  Someone dropped sun-warmed leathers on her. Aisha tugged them on, thankful that a knife hung from the sturdy belt. They trusted her then, to that extent. The sunlight gleamed off the ruby on her hand until it looked like a glob of blood squeezed from a puncture wound.

  Sannie gestured her back beside the physician, then ran to take her place in what looked like a very thorough defense.

  ‘Can you see anyone?” he asked.

  So quickly she wasn’t aware, Aisha’s eyes locked on target, filtered away the scanty trees, the possible prowling beast, or even a puff of dust. “Riders,” she murmured. “In leathers . . . they look like Bandari . . .”

  “Could be a trick. ...”

  She heard a thin voice, half snatched away by the wind, calling out something in Ivrit, only to be answered by a sharp bark of a command. An instant later, the incoming riders had dropped their weapons and their mounts’ reins. Hands held high, they waited for Bandari from the caravan to surround them.

  “They’re talking,” Aisha reported physician. “They’re clasping arms.”

  “Where, girl? Point me in the right direction.” From a leather case at his belt, Oom Karl took out binoculars. A rich djinni, indeed.

  “Oxhorns, a leaping antelope . Merwe, the fan Reenan . . . even my own clan’s crossed daggers . . . why so many? Looks like they had trouble. Those jackets are torn . . . oh God no!”

  Aisha narrowed her eyes. Barak rode up to the newcomers. His eyes too went to the rips in their garments, the black bands ringing the arms of each rider. They spoke, fast and urgently. Barak reeled back as if he had taken a blow from a lance.

  A moment later, he dismounted. Drawing his knife he slashed his own tunic. Then he bent and, taking up a pinch of dust, smeared it across his face.

  The other Bandari dismounted. Slowley they made their way into the camp. No one moved yet. Aisha could see skin pale and pucker as the wind licked across bare, motionless bodies. Hands tightened on weapons; faces bore the look, not of men and women facing combat or even people proved to be friends but of people expecting bad news.

  Barak led the newcomers in. Careful not to stand in each other’s line of fire, the Bandari formed a semicircle.

  Oom Karl raised a tentative hand in greeting to man who bore the crossed daggers of his clan, then let it fall.

  “It had to happen,” he sighed. “Saw what you came here to say, Hans.”

  Only a lifetime’s self-denial prevented Aisha from demanding an explanation. In the next moment the new Haller gave it.

  “The commandant h’gana sent us out. It’s the kapetein. He’s gone. The Lord give and the Lord taketh ...”

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord ...” intoned Oom Karl, but his voice cracked and lacked conviction. He stared at his kinsman as if he were a cliff lion that might spring at any moment.

  All around them, Bandari emerged from cover. They laid aside their weapons and pulled on their clothes. Then, almost as one, they drew their garments and slashed them in token of mourning.

  “Yisgadal v’yiskadash ...” Barak intoned. Bandari prayers? It was the will of Allah, Aisha thought.

  With her new knife, Aisha politely tore the leathers she had only just put on. This Bandari king had died full of years and honors. He would be buried. Guilt caught her by the throat. But for her father there was no honor and never would be, unless she provided it. And she was honor-bound now to mourn another’s death.

  Haller and Haller drew apart and talked, low-voiced. She could see their eyes glint as Cat’s Eye rose in the sky. They had no Soldier blood in them. Until the wind blew, their tears for the old kapetein did not dry.

  Pillars of cloud by day; pillars of fire by night. Light and smoke flanked them as they hastened toward the caravan. Their muskies were tired, and their wagons slowed them. From time to time they were passed by other riders, heading in toward home, toward a funeral, and the selection of a new leader.

  At the head of the train, Barak rode, wrapped in his own thoughts. Already it seemed as if the loneliness of a ruler had fallen upon him. The others did not trouble him, and Aisha did not dare.

  She had hoped, but not expected, to ride alone. She had assumed they would watch her, and so they did. To her surprise, the physician left his place beside his kinsman and rode toward her. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now, we go home,” he said. “And choose a new leader.” He looked over at the other man whose slashed tunic bore the symbol etched upon his own.

  “There’s a saying we have. ‘May you live in interesting times.’ It’s a curse.”

  “I know,” Aisha told him. “You stole it from the tribes.”

  The physician hissed under his breath. “This isn’t the time I’d ... You couldn’t be coming here at a worse time. . . . The old story about Judge Chaya being part Sauron,” He shook his head. “No question about Barak’s father, though. Even if Heber did choose to work in Tallinn.”

  “He’s still of Oom Piet’s line,” Sannie blurted out.

  Aisha shrugged. For one who was accursed, all times were bad. She was outcast. What was it to her if the Bandari fought about their laws? And what bloodline was as corrupt as hers?

  “Look,” said Oom Karl. “I’m a healer. If I say it’s normal to worry, to be concerned, you shouldn’t blame yourself ...”

  “Fine words for coward!” Aisha flared at him. “All right, then. I am afraid. Now you can despise me for that as well as for the curse of my family. Watch the barbarian. Make sure she bathes. Show her how decent folk do it, just in case. And then you can watch how she walks. Watch how she talks. Watch to see if she eats differently and comment on her manners. And watch out, for the time will come when she breaks out in some god-cursed act that will bring everyone she . . .” Her voice wobbled, and furious, she went on . . . “cares about to ruin. I’ve spent a lifetime doing that.”

  “Too long,” murmured the physician. To Aisha’s astonishment, he patted her hand where it rested on her muskylope’s reins. She jerked it away as if she had touched a coal. “I meant what I said. You come to us in sad times. But, Judge Chaya will do her best for you. . . . And she is the closest kin you have.”

  Aisha’s eyes smarted as they rode down the last lap toward the valley. She thought she could sense the richer, warmer air. Green smells floated in the breeze, mingled with sweat and horses as, from time to time, Bandari rode up fast to exchange urgent messages with the caravan and with Barak in particular.

  “Do you have any idea why my mother said that?” Barak demanded.

  No one answered; then four people spoke at once. Bandari manners, she thought. They stared at her but ventured no comment. Not yet. The Haller who had brought the news of the kapetein’s death to the caravan rode up and spoke urgently to the newcomers, shaking his head.

  “Too much, too fast . . .” was the mutter. Aisha shut her eyes. Her hearing, part of her Sauron legacy, brought her the words that were hissed or whispered, accompanied by vehement pointings and shaking of fists. Just so, Ai
sha had heard whispers, had heard her mother’s soft felt shoes pad as she fled toward seclusion and the final, decent privacy of death . . . not even her Sauron speed had been enough to divert Badri from the path she had chosen.

  Something about admitting women to the clan’s council. They were not one folk, these Bandari, but several. They had a woman as judge over them; in fact, their first judge had been a woman; yet not all their women had a public voice. At that, more of them did than in the tribes. She had to allow that that had its attractions. She would have to learn.

  “We need a moderate. Any of the ben Zvi, the Allons ...”

  “Tarred with the same brush as the Judge, is it?”

  “It’s not her Sauron blood we mind . . .”

  “Bet me. Wager me your bow ... or the rifle with the carved stock. ...”

  “It’s her politics. How can we be sure she hasn’t passed it on. . . .”

  “Tell me Barak isn’t fit. Tell me. You’ve served with him. Remember the time he went back and got your brother, the time he was cut off by bandits? Rode half the night, too. You thanked God for his Sauron blood then. . . .”

  “Damn!” spat Hans Haller. “It’s not his courage at question. You Ivrit are taking over, and my people-- it’s more than an issue of votes. Our young ones are running from our farms, trying to marry into Ivrit clans. Our girls stamp their feet and say, they won’t. What kind of words are these for modest girls? Even Karl here . . . ever since he finished his medical training he’s been more Ivrit than Eden. And it was our Eden first till you came in. . . .”

  “You can dare say that? When it was your people hung Judge Ruth on a cross. ...”

  “Dammit, shut up! Save it for when we get home.”

  What could have been a highly informative fight dissipated in a flurry of mumbles, like far-off thunder.

  Aisha shook her head. Dimly she remembered a time when her father ruled the tribe. What her father said was law. And no one dared question his judgments . . . except Badri, their mother. And she had never had to raise her voice.