“Whose house doth burn, must soldier turn,” Warner said. “We’ve brought the Thirty Years War to Tran.”
Rick nodded impassively.
“You’ll permit me to say I don’t like this,” Warner said.
“God damn it, none of us like it, Mr. Warner,” Bisso said. “The Colonel no more than any of us, can’t you see that?”
“Sure,” Warner said. “Sorry, Colonel. I’m just glad I don’t have to give these orders.”
“You ain’t got to watch this, Colonel,” Bisso said. “We can handle it.”
“I know, Sergeant,” Rick said. “But if I can order it, I can watch it. Some of it.” The scene would be repeated over a twenty-mile radius, everything burned, houses and barns destroyed, animals rounded up to supply Rick’s forces, the people turned out and sent northward towards the enemy. “They made a desolation, and called it peace.” That was said of the Highlands under William III and the first two Georges of England.
Now it’s my turn, and if we ever take this land how in God’s name will we be able to rule it?
And if we don’t? What the hell do those Gurkhas want? Who sent them? Why?
I have to know. Maybe all this is for nothing. But it’s all I know to do.
And who appointed you God?
I don’t know. Inspector Agzaral. The Shalnuksis. Skyfire, death and damnation, they are all coming to this planet no matter what I do. Maybe I can make things a little better, maybe I can’t, but I have to try.
The wails were fading out now as the refugees moved northward. The fires of the burning homes and stores and workshops continued to blaze unchecked. The east wind pushed a long plume of smoke across the valley. The desolation was complete here. Time to move on to another village.
* * *
Rick mused idly at his desk. It was early afternoon, but he was drowsy after lunch, still sleepy after a bad night. Images of the peasants they’d burned out over the last couple of days haunted his dreams.
Got to get this settled soon, he thought. I can’t go on doing this much longer.
The map on his office table showed his fortified camp: a prosperous farmer’s house taken over for headquarters, with palisade and a ditch around it. Somewhere to the southeast would be Ganton’s encampment, smaller than Rick’s because Ganton was unable to collect all his forces. The Drantos troops had been shaken badly by their encounters with the new star men, and it showed. Legends of their marksmanship floated through Rick’s camp, and not even the presence of Rick’s star men was enough to reassure his mounted archers and pikemen that they were safe.
“Major Mason has arrived,” Haerther announced.
“Good. Send him in,” Rick said.
“Colonel,” Mason said. He eyed Rick carefully. “I guess you look better than I thought you would.”
“Good to see you, too,” Rick said. “As always.”
“Gurkhas?” Mason asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Everybody knows. Even the locals, they don’t know what Gurkhas are, but they know we’re facing them and your troops are nervous. That scares the locals. Hell, it scares me! So what do we do? Sir.”
Rick shook his head.
“First things first. How are things at home?”
“Better’n you might think,” Mason said. “Lady Tylara came in like a tornado, do this, do that, shook everything up. New defense works, entrenchments, more raiding parties, nothing I wasn’t doing but she was able to get more enthusiasm out of the locals than I ever could.” Mason smiled. “And talking about you all the time! Whatever happened out here, Skipper, I sure like her better this way!”
“Me too, Art. I’ve got my wife back.”
Mason looked serious.
“Damn I’m glad to hear that. You were a mess, Colonel, a pure-dee mess without her. Anyway she comes in like a house afire, and that made it a lot easier when your next messages came.”
“You believe she can hold off Ailas?”
“Yes, Sir, I believe she can and then some. It’s like she thought she’d have to do it all along. Like she’d had a vision.”
Or information from her private intelligence net, Rick thought. No point in bringing that up.
“Anyway, Colonel, I don’t think you need to have any worries about the home front. She maybe can’t drive Ailas out, but she can sure hold him where he is—best part is she sees it that way too. Maybe she had something else in mind before you sent for all the troops she could spare?”
“Could be,” Rick said. Second-guessing Tylara was an uncertain game at best.
“And thanks for sending Siobhan to me,” Mason said. “Even if I did have to leave before she got there.”
“Sorry about that, Art. I was prepared to stand you a big wedding, too. Well, time enough for that when we get past this crisis.”
“Crisis. Yes, Sir, that’s a good word. Crisis. So how do we deal with the Gurkhas?”
“First we isolate them,” Rick said. “Make them depend on their supply lines, and then intercept the supplies. However good they are as troopers, they aren’t going to be better than us at organization and logistics. They haven’t been here long enough.”
“Makes sense.” Mason nodded. “But from what I heard Gurkhas can live on a handful of rice and rat meat.”
“They aren’t supermen. And even if they’re everything we’ve always heard, the rest of the Fiver army isn’t! So our first move is to be sure the only thing we face is the Gurkhas themselves. No support troops, no allies. Isolate them. We’ve been burning out everything around them. Now it’s time to work on their supplies.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Why haven’t we done it before? Is that your question?”
Mason nodded.
“Because nobody wanted to tackle it. Murphy and his troops are spooked, they’re afraid there’ll be more Gurkhas among the supply trains.”
“Are there?” Mason asked.
“Art, I don’t know,” Rick said. “But if there are, we’re defeated anyway. So we have to assume there aren’t.”
“Assume.”
Rick nodded.
“We assume we can win. Because if we can’t, then we can’t. But we have to try.” I think we have to try. If we don’t, everything we tried to build here is gone. Dammit, I won’t give up without a fight!
“What do you reckon they want?” Mason asked.
“Whoever’s in charge of the Gurkhas hasn’t offered to talk,” Rich said, “and the Fivers made it clear they don’t want a parley unless we’re ready to surrender.” He shrugged. “So we assume we can win, which means we assume this is all of them.”
“Assume,” Mason said again, and Rick shook his head wryly.
“The Gurkhas and their Brit officers just got here. They can’t have been around long, or we’d have heard about them. And that means they can’t have a lot of trust in their native allies. Gurkhas have a hell of a reputation back home, but hell, we’re doing pretty well in that department here! Bards sing about our battles.”
“That they do, Colonel. Especially about you.”
“Yep, and for once I’m glad. So put yourself in that Brit officer’s place. Would you disperse your men under those circumstances?” When Mason shook his head, Rick nodded. “Exactly. So it’s a reasonable assumption he’s got them all together, and the only Gurkhas we face are in that one group. And they’ll need supplies.”
“And if these guys are supplied directly by Galactics?” Mason asked.
“No sign of it. If they are, we lose,” Rick said. “It’s as simple as that. So we assume they aren’t.” Assume we can win, then make the bare minimum assumptions for that to happen. Then plan for the worst, but at least you’re prepared for success.
It sounded good in books. Now he had to live with it.
“There’s more, Art.”
“Sir?”
Rick took out a folded paper.
“This appeared on my desk this morning,” Rick said. “I have no idea how
it got here, but it’s from Lady Tylara. She gives details that, um, well, no one else would know.”
“And it just appeared?” Mason asked.
“Yep.”
“From Lady Tylara. Just appeared. Colonel, I think we’d best look into the camp followers.”
“I doubt any of the Children of Vothan will be around after delivering a message,” Rick said. “I’m convinced that it’s genuine. It’s also disturbing.”
Rick took up the paper.
“It’s in English, no code, and short.” He began to read aloud. “My Lord Husband, greetings. Isobel has lost her front teeth. New ones are growing. My husband, something is very wrong in Nikeis. I suggest you go there immediately. More news will find you in Taranto. The matter is urgent. I love you. Tylara.”
“That’s it?” Mason asked.
“That’s it.”
“More news,” Mason said. “In Taranto. More of the mean little kids?”
“That’s what I’m guessing,” Rick said. Mason had discovered Tylara’s childhood assassins and was one of few who knew of them.
“Surprised you haven’t started for the coast already.”
“How? I couldn’t do anything until you got here. Not sure what I can do now. We can’t just cut and run and abandon Ganton to the Gurkhas.”
“No Sir, we can’t, but I guess you can.”
“Think you can handle this, Art?”
“Deal with the Gurkhas? Me? No, Sir, I can’t. I reckon you can, but I sure can’t.”
“So we keep raiding their supply lines. I’ll send the best we have to intercept the Gurkha supplies, and we’ll give it a few more days,” Rick said. “Maybe we’ll get a stroke of luck. We’re due for one.”
* * *
Tech Sergeant Rand wore an enormous grin.
“Colonel, have I got a present for you!” Before Rick could say anything, Rand thrust a black-colored plastic case at him. “Radio, Colonel. One of theirs. Still works, far as I know. No reason it shouldn’t.”
Rick’s eyes widened and he reached out for it. It was much smaller than the ones they’d lost with Parsons, about five inches tall, with a five-and-a-half-inch flexible antenna. It was too big to fit conveniently into a pocket, but there was a metal clip on the back to hang it on a soldier’s webbing. Or maybe not, he thought, looking at it more closely. It wasn’t military issue at all. Or he didn’t think so, anyway. It was labeled “Kenwood,” although he couldn’t see a model number anywhere on it.
“They know you have it?” Sergeant Bisso asked.
“Depends on who you mean by ‘they,’ Sergeant,” Rand said. “It’s like this, every time we raided one of their supply wagons, them Gurkhas come running. I followed orders and ran away before they could engage, but I wasn’t accomplishing much. So I got to moving further up the trail and they still kept coming, so I figured they must have some kind of communication system. Something better than us.”
“Good thinking,” Rick said.
“Thank you, Sir. So I figured, okay, I can’t sneak into the Gurkha camp, but these are just Fivers. So instead of raiding their supply wagons I snuck in and cut the head guy’s throat, and sure enough, here this was right next to his bed. So I took it, come back out, and we hit that supply train hard, and nothing. Nobody came to help them.”
“Hoo Ha!” Bisso grinned widely. “Rand, you just made my day.”
“Mine too,” Rick said. “This bears thinking about. They’ve got communications, a lot better than we have.” He turned the radio in his hands and looked back at Rand.
“It was turned off when you found it?”
“Don’t know. I didn’t fool with it.”
Warner came into the tent.
“Heard Rand brought—hey!” Warner caught himself. “Excuse me, Colonel, I forgot my manners.”
“We’ll overlook that,” Rick said. “Know anything about this unit?”
He handed it across and Warner examined it closely.
“Not a lot. Most of it’s obvious. On/off switch, push to talk.” Warner turned the right hand turret atop the radio and the words “Tac 01” appeared on the rectangular window on its front. He turned the other knob and the window changed to “Tac 02,” and then to “Baker.”
“Frequency selector,” he said unnecessarily. “Don’t see a squelch knob, but these are for speaker and mic jacks. Digital selection, so we’re probably looking at at least a hundred possible frequencies or so.”
“Kenwood,” Bisso said. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“I think RadioShack sold—sells—Kenwood’s stuff,” Warner replied. “Not their proprietary brand, though. Japanese?”
He handed it back to Rick.
“Push to talk.” Rick examined the unit carefully. “Okay, it can’t do any harm to turn it on. If they don’t know we have it yet, they’ll learn soon enough.”
“VHF, so it’s gonna be line of sight and probably not more than three to four miles range even in flat terrain without more antenna than that, Sir,” Warner pointed out. “Won’t have much reach from here.” He waved his free hand at the wooded hollow in which Rick’s command tent was pitched.
“One way to find out, I guess,” Rick said and turned the frequency selector back to its original setting. Then he turned the on/off knob to increase the volume. His only reward was a slight hiss.
“Not much static,” Warner said. “Why would there be?”
The set squawked.
“Whoa!” Bisso looked at Warner. “Thought you said line of sight?”
“I did.” Warner thought for a moment. “They must have a base station—something a lot bigger with a lot higher antenna. They’re using it for a crossband repeater.”
“Which means all their handhelds have the same range as the base unit,” Rick said.
“Yes, Sir. They’ll all go through the repeater. That has to be how they could get enough range to cover their supply wagons over so wide an area. And in such rough terrain, come to that.”
The radio squawked again.
“Somebody’s talking. What the hell language is that?” Bisso demanded. “Is that Gurkha?”
Rand shook his head. “Sounds like local with a bad accent.”
Rick laughed. “That’s exactly what it is. Who do we have who knows the northern accents and can speak English?”
“Murphy, but he’s not here,” Bisso said. “Let me see who I can find.”
Eventually they found a Priest of Yatar from the local area. His name was Atanar, and while he didn’t speak English, he knew the southern dialects Rick and his men had learned. The radio had fallen silent by the time they brought him in.
“Do you know Lord Father Apelles?” Rick asked.
“I have been presented to His Reverence,” Atanar said. “I would hardly be said to know someone of that rank. But His Reverence was most gracious.”
Figures, Rick thought. Apelles is a decent sort. Although quick promotion has ruined a lot better men than him.
The radio squawked again. Atanar listened intently.
“It is heavily accented, and there are words I do not know,” he said. “But he is asking for someone named Iztanaster, and seems concerned.”
“Probably the supply train leader,” Rick said. “Rand, you bring back any prisoners?”
“No, Sir. Sorry. Wasn’t sure those Gurkhas wouldn’t be coming, so we hit that train fast and hard. Then I ran like hell before anyone could get that radio back. Disarmed everyone not killed and turned them loose.”
“Right. Good work.” Rick listened to the radio again. “Bloody hell.”
“Sir?” Warner asked.
“Just repeating what I heard,” Rick said.
“But that’s—”
“Precisely.” Rick picked up the set and thumbed the push to talk switch. “Hello. Are you there?”
There was a short silence. “Who is this, please?”
“This is Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries and Warlord of Drantos,” Rick said. “With whom
do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“One moment, Sir.” There was a pause.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Galloway,” a different voice said two or three minutes later. “This is Clyde Baker, one time Major of Her Majesty’s Gurkhas. I take it you’re responsible for all the starving people coming up the road to my camp?”
“No more than you are,” Rick said.
“Well, perhaps so,” Baker said. “So, Colonel, what may I do for you?”
“We should discuss that,” Rick said. “As well as the return of your radio. And perhaps we have mutual interests.”
“That’s more than possible,” Baker said. “Although I don’t think my employers will be pleased by any discovery of mutual interests between us.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to.” Damn, Rick thought. That clipped way of talking is catching. “But I suspect I know more of the situation, both local and Galactic, than you do. Between us we may know more still.”
“Very likely. You propose an exchange of information. A parley.”
“Certainly. Flag of truce. Of course neither of us trusts the other.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, we cannot continue this discussion for long, unless perhaps you have a way to recharge that radio unit? What do you propose?”
“Send an English-speaking subordinate under a flag of truce. Have him ride south from your camp on the main road to the Ottarn. I’ll have one of my officers meet him about ten kilometers from your camp. They can arrange a time and place for us to meet. And terms.”
“Acceptable. Look for Leftenant Cargill in two hours. He will carry a sidearm. His escort will be well behind him. Have your man carry a white banner and leave his escorts behind when they meet. Good day.”
* * *
Rick tried unsuccessfully to hide his relief when Art Mason returned from the parley. Rick fidgeted until Mason joined him at the long table in his command caravan. Rand and Bisso sat opposite Rick.
“Wine,” Rick said to his steward. “For all of us, and that will be all.”
“Sir.” The Tamaerthan scout poured from a clay jug, left the jug on the table, and went out of the tent. Mason sat and looked around. “No Tran locals,” Mason observed.
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