by John Dalmas
Eight of them were swimming a small river, pushing bundles of reeds that floated their equipment and boots. Helmets and mail had been abandoned; they’d kept only harness, swords and packs. Sabri felt soft mud with his toes, kicked a few strokes farther and waded ashore.
As a horseman he’d been lean; after four days on foot he was leaner. A man could eat rotting horse-meat, but he ate no more than he needed, and maybe less. When all had reached the bank he led them slopping through the tall reeds, carrying his boots. Black muck coated his legs halfway to the knees.
Reeds gave way to waist-high grass, and muck to springy soil. Not far away, carrion birds took flight and he angled toward the spot, the others following. Five orc bodies lay there, just starting to swell. The arrows had frugally been cut out of them and their skulls had been peeled.
It was good, he thought. If Northman searchers had passed through already, perhaps they were safe for a time. The eight sat down, wiped the mud from their feet and ankles with grass, put on their boots, and left.
A trickle of water seeped from the slope. One of them had scooped a hollow with his tough fingers. They were drinking and filling their canteens when they heard the shout from behind. Ten Northmen were on a low rise. They jogged their horses forward, stopping forty meters away with arrows nocked. Boys they were, snot-nosed punks maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, with the visible beginning of beards on a couple of them.
And they were grinning! Sabri gripped his sword, a snarl twisting his face, and started toward them, but for only a few steps before he fell.
XXIX
The edge of night had passed the Balkans, twilight darkening the Mediterranean as far as Sicily, when Beta floated through the gaping portal and settled gently into her cradle. The doors came together slowly and perforce quietly behind her, shutting space outside. Air bled back into the hangar.
When their gages indicated pressure and temperature ship-normal, Willi, Alex, and Nikko got out. Ram was waiting for them, and they walked together toward the briefing room.
“What’s the word on Matt?” asked Nikko.
“Jomo says he may have to go in after some tissue and regenerate a new kidney,” Ram answered. “He’ll know in a day or two. Not that there’s any danger-there’s not-but I think you’d better stay aboard tomorrow. What’d you find below?”
The quick change of subject did not escape Nikko. He hadn’t wanted to give her time to disagree about staying on board.
“Things weren’t much different than yesterday,” she replied, “but we have a fuller picture now. And a few more magazines of video tape. The Northmen took a prisoner for us-a centurion who speaks Anglic. Apparently all their officers do. Did. He said the army he was part of was the orc Third Legion. They were supposed to destroy the Northman villages while their warriors were away. A legion is 3,000 men, incidentally. After two nights of air attacks, they were in pretty poor shape, and then the irregular army of mounted farmers and adolescents began hit and run attacks, and finally mop-up operations. He was pretty bitter about Alpha-said if it wasn’t for her they’d have cleaned out the Northmen. As it was, he doubts that more than a couple hundred mounted orcs reached the forest, and by that time no one knew where anyone else was.
“He got there with a band of six other men, and when he told them they should try to join up with others and find the villages, they refused. Said the only sensible thing to do was get out of the country. He was pretty bitter about that, too.”
“How about the men on foot?”
“The same picture as yesterday, only worse. They’re scattered all over the prairie, heading south. But they’re a lot fewer today. There are whole troops of freeholders and kids on horseback out hunting them. The kids are the worst-hundreds of them, all would-be warriors eager to take an orc scalp while there are any left. And lots of them have, I guess, some of them three or four. Some fifteen and sixteen-year-olds got carried away with themselves and dismounted, to take on a band of orcs sword to sword. Sten says they didn’t do too badly, considering, but several were killed. He seemed to think it was mildly amusing.
“I’ll tell you frankly, Ram, I doubt if five dozen orcs on foot will get out of the country alive, and they’ll be the real survivor type.”
They went into the narrow conference room and sat around one end of the hardwood table.
“What about the main orc army, that we caught at the river?” Ram asked thoughtfully.
“Most of the survivors must be back in the City by now. We spotted a couple of mounted bands ourselves, riding toward the City from the north. Sten says his people took more than a thousand scalps, and estimates several hundred other orcs must have died in the river, shot from the air or by archers or had their horses killed from under them. With mail shirts on, most that got unhorsed must have drowned; some probably managed to shuck out of them.
“We saw some survivors in the delta country today, too. It looked as if they’d taken over a couple of villages there-as if they weren’t even trying to get back to the City. I mentioned it to Sten, thinking he might say something about going to chase them out, but he didn’t; I guess to the Northmen the delta fishermen don’t mean much.”
Ram’s eyes were withdrawn. “What do the Northmen plan to do about the City?” he asked.
“I asked him about that. He said they won’t attack it in force or besiege it, but they’re rounding up the rest of the orc cattle. They also intend to burn the wheat fields when the grain is ripe; he believes they can starve the orcs out. And from a couple of things he said, some raid leaders will probably try to make names for themselves by raiding into the City at night, independently.”
“Do you still like the Northmen?”
She did not hesitate. “Yes I do, Ram. They’re friendly honest people, even if they are bloodthirsty and ruthless toward their enemies. I know you’re feeling a kind of sympathy for the orcs, but compare the way they treated their hostages with how the Northmen treated me. And consider what the orcs would have done if they’d broken the Northman army.”
Ram shook his head without irritation. “It’s not a matter of feeling sorry for the orcs,” he said quietly. “But each orc is a human being, with one life that’s his, and with feelings. And there’s the matter of feeling joy in killing, like the Northmen obviously do; that’s something I find depraved. From the skimpy picture I’ve got, partly from you and Charles but partly from Ilse too, an important part of their culture is a set of rules that allows them to enjoy killing their fellow Northmen without destroying their society or suffering from guilt.”
“Making a game out of war was an improvement,” Nikko answered mildly. “According to tradition, they used to fight each other really ferociously and ruthlessly, tribe against tribe and clan against clan, and really threatened to destroy themselves. Making it a game was progress, not degeneracy.”
“They didn’t go far enough,” Ram said dryly. “They should have written off war altogether. And that’s no game they’re playing with the orcs.” He stopped Nikko’s response with a gesture. “Okay, I admit that last wasn’t fair; it’d be suicide to play games with the orcs. Did they say when they’ll be done with Alpha?”
“Sten talked to the chiefs about that. They say we can have it back when they’ve taken the city.”
“Taken the city! Good Lord! That could be months from now!”
Nikko shrugged silently.
“And no assurance we’ll get it back then.”
“I think we have some assurance,” Willi put in. “They’ve been pretty honest with us so far. Slippery maybe, but they’ve kept their word. They gave us back all their hostages when you gave them most of our munitions.”
Ram grunted, then turning to Nikko he changed the subject. “Do you have all your tapes transferred to the computer?”
“All but today’s.”
“Good. Matt wants a full session sometime soon, and a full team review of everything that’s happened. I want you to start working with Monica tomorrow o
n a subject retrieval program.”
“If I’m doing that, then who’ll be in charge of the landing team?”
“I’m going down tomorrow,” Ram answered.
“You’re not qualified to be in charge,” Nikko said.
“I’m going alone.”
There was a moment’s lag. “Alone?”
He stood, nodding, and turned away from them, walking toward the door. “Alone,” he said.
Wordless, they watched him leave. He went to his little office and sat back to think about the day to come.
Sight of a pinnace no longer excited the children, for this was the village of Sten Vannaren, who often landed there. But when the hull went two-way transparent, they stopped to watch, for it held a star man instead of warriors. It settled to the ground, the hydraulic leg-cushions sighed, and the dominant boy of the group trotted off through the morning-wet grass to tell Nils Jarnhann.
The Yngling sat cross-legged in the sun outside his tent. It made the boy uncomfortable to have the blind sockets turn toward him as he trotted up, as if there still were eyes in them. All the orcs should die for that, he told himself.
“Nils,” he said, “a star man has come in a sky boat.”
Nils smiled and rose with easy strength, and the boy moved to take his arm.
“No, I can see.”
“Really?” He’d heard what the Yngling seemed to do, but it had not been real to him.
“Really. I wouldn’t tease about something like that.” He started toward the landing place, the boy hurrying beside him.
Ram sat in the pinnace door, his feet on a step, looking solemnly at the other children, who had come to the foot of the landing steps and were looking back at him. He had spoken to them in Anglic, and they to him in their language, a reflex of the desire to communicate. Neither expected to be understood. A long pause followed each exchange, then either the man or one of the children would speak again.
“This must be a good place to be a child,” Ram said. “For two cents I’d take my shoes off and join you.”
“Har Du vat a sjutit ijal orker?”
Pause.
“I’m sorry I can’t understand you. I’d like to be your friend though.”
The smallest child touched the ladder, then turned to the one who’d done the talking. “Tror Du a vi fa fuga pa sjybaten?”
To get a ride in the sky boat! The twelve-year-old eyes turned thoughtful; it hadn’t occurred to him. But how to ask?
A heavy shout crossed the meadow, and the children looked across toward a standing warrior figure, then abruptly toward the grove of aspens at which he pointed. A man sat on horseback there, wearing black mail and a plumed helmet. Suddenly the horseman spurred his mount toward the pinnace.
The shout had chilled Ram and he stood, peering toward its source, recognizing the pointing giant despite the hundred-meter separation. The children were scattering like quail.
The shout repeated. “ORC!”
He turned then, saw, and sprang toward the instrument panel to activate the shield, changing intention in mid-stride.
The children!.
He snatched a rifle from the rack without taking time to check the magazine, leaped from the door, stumbling as he landed, spun, thumbing the safety, and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked slightly as 5-millimeter H.V. slugs spurted. The horse plunged heavily and skidded, hurling the orc from the saddle less than twenty meters from the star man. Staggering to his feet, he drew his sword, and Ram squeezed his trigger again.
Then he turned away and vomited.
“Han spyr! Sjaanmannen spyr!” said one of the children [He is vomiting! The star man is vomiting!]
“Jaha,” said the twelve-year-old knowingly, “da san sjaanfaken visa haten mot orkena.” [That’s how the star people show their hatred of the orcs.]
Ram rinsed his mouth while waiting for Nils Jarnhann, spitting the water into the grass. His hands were shaking and he shoved them in his pockets. The children were examining the dead orc, one lifting the sword from the grass for a clumsy two-handed swing. Ram turned from them and walked to meet the eyeless warrior. Other adults were coming from the encampment now, drawn by the shouts and the shooting.
“Thank you,” Nils said, “for saving our children’s lives.” He paused. “What is it you came to ask?”
“I want to-I think I can get the orcs to leave the country-I hope I can-to leave on their ships and leave their slaves behind. At least I want to try. And I want you along.”
Ram sensed that if Nils had had eyes they would be examining him intently, as his mind must be. “Why?” asked the Northman. “Why do you want me along?”
Ram had already asked himself that; asked it in the pinnace as he’d approached the meadow to land. It seemed important to know, but there had been no answer.
“Will you come?”
Nils nodded.
Just then one of the children touched Ram’s arm. He looked down. A red-smeared hand held out a crudely hacked scalp to him.
“Da Din.”
“He says it is yours,” Nils explained. “It was you who made the kill.”
Ram stared. The boy was about twelve, his eyes direct, in attitude resembling a miniature warrior.
Ram took the scalp. “Thank you,” he said soberly, and made a slight bow. The boy bobbed in return, then trotted off to where his friends were pulling the mail from the dead torso.
Slowly Beta circled the black tower. No one showed themselves despite the voice booming from the commast. “Orcs! Orcs! I am the commander of the star ship that floats above the sky. I make you an offer. I make you an offer.”
After two minutes no one had appeared. The voice resumed. “I have an offer for the orcs. I offer you your lives. If you refuse, the Northmen will give you death and destruction.”
They continued circling; the orcs made no sign. “Why don’t they show?” Ram muttered.
“It’s a large palace,” Nils replied. “Someone would have to take word of us to the commander. He might then want to think for awhile, and after that there are long corridors and stairs to walk. Why don’t you talk to them some more? There’ll be other interested ears, if not the ruler’s.”
Ram repeated, waited, repeated again. Moments later three men emerged onto the highest roof garden and stared grimly at the pinnace without speaking. At last one of them called, “I am Dov the Silent. I rule the orcs.”
“Here is my offer,” Ram’s voice boomed. “If the orcs leave their slaves behind and go from this city on their ships, they will not be molested.”
The face in the viewscreen was a harsh mask, eyes narrowed, mouth a gash. “Why should we do that? We need our slaves to do for us, and we are a great army. The Northmen cannot dig us out of here, although we hope they try.”
Nils reached out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation Ram gave him the microphone.
“Orc, I am Ironhand, the Northman who killed a lion and a strutting coward in your arena, blasted the throng through the troll’s mind, and escaped. Who killed Kazi with my sword. Captured and blinded, I escaped your dungeon and led my warriors into the bowels of the palace to take your hostages from you.
“So listen to me. You are bunglers. Your brave words are hollow, like your soldiers. Your people have fought Northmen time and again, with great advantage of numbers; you have never won. Your soldiers know they cannot beat us.
“Each time we’ve fought, you’ve been weakened. Where are the thirty-five thousand you boasted of a year ago? Thousands are bleached bones in the Ukraine. In one day you shrank by half, when the horse barbarians abandoned you as men already doomed.
“Ten days ago ten thousand orcs rode out to destroy us, with a sky chariot to help them. Today we have the sky chariot. We took eleven hundred scalps near the river, and even close to your city. Hundreds of orcs feed the fish. Flies blow in the corpses of the Third Legion; not three hundred of them are alive, little bands of fleeing men hiding by day and skulking southward by night. They do
not take ten steps without looking backward.”
Ram stared at the blind barbarian with something like awe. What a speaker, and in a language not his own!
“And ruler, where are yesterday’s rulers? Kazi, who lived many lifetimes, dead by my sword. And what became of the strutting Draco when he flew out to destroy the Northmen?
“You defy us to dig you out of your city. Why should we trouble to? Can the orcs eat stone. Where are your cattle? Who guards your grain fields now that the Northmen fly abroad in the sky? Your horses swell and stink in their paddocks since our sky chariot visited them; they feed the worms. Will you eat your slaves then? They won’t last long. Then you will have to eat each other.
“Listen to the star man, orc. He is a rare one, a man who does not want to see the orcs all dead.”
The orc shouted back, his voice hoarse, defiant. “Then why does a Northman speak for him? If the Northmen can starve us out, then why do you, a Northman, want to let us leave freely and unmolested? Because you’re afraid of us after all! We are still the orcs, mighty and great in numbers!”
“Afraid of you after all what? After all your defeats?” Nils’s voice was bored now. “No, there is nothing there to fear. We’ll be rid of you one way or another, and the Northmen owe the star men a favor. So the captain of the star men has claimed the right to save your lives if you will depart and leave your slaves behind.”
“How do we know you won’t fly down and attack us on our ships?”
“You have only our oath; you take a chance. But if you stay, you face a certainty: cannibalism, starvation, and death.”
The orc stood sullenly, both aides talking to him at once. He snarled and they backed away; then he looked up at the pinnace again and shouted in Anglic:
“Kazi said it to our fathers! ‘This will be the place of the orcs as long as the tower shall stand!’ The Master’s spirit will strengthen and save us! He is undying!”