Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Damned if I know,” Saxon muttered back, plucking at his rifle’s sling. “I think there’s still room for them to sneak past the wrecks if they’re careful. For that matter, I’m not sure the wrecks are on the bottom. They might be able to push them out of the way, if they’re still floating. I don’t understand why they aren’t at least trying!”

  “Probably don’t want to cross Miss Lucia’s path!” Haskins snorted. He shook his head admiringly. “That’s a nasty girlfriend you got there, Bart!”

  “She’s not my girlfriend!” Saxon snapped, darting an angry look at his friend.

  “Hey, man! No need t’ bite my head off! I’m just calling it the way I see it. Girl’s got an eye for you.”

  “She’s only a kid,” Saxon muttered, reminding himself that Haskins didn’t know about Sherry Northland.

  “Mighty gutsy one, though,” Haskins said, bending closer to the window. Unlike Saxon, whose H&K was slung, the ex-corporal held his at the ready, although he was careful to keep his finger off the trigger. “And that’s why we ain’t seen any more ships down there. No way they’re gonna risk what she’s waitin’ to do to them!”

  And that, Saxon had to admit, was no more than the truth. In fact, that was what had him worried. He doubted the bad guys were just going to turn around and go home, so what were they up to?

  Damn, I wish I’d thought to bring a radio!

  He grimaced. All the radios had been pooled, and he’d been so worried about trying to keep Lucia from doing something stupid that he’d done something stupid all of his own. Not only had he forgotten to ask for a radio back, he hadn’t even told anyone where they were going!

  I’m a teacher, not a soldier, damn it! he told himself, but that wasn’t an excuse. Not a good enough one, anyway. And—

  * * *

  Lucia stood beside Marco, trying not to look at Valerico’s body. She’d never seen so much blood, and it was her fault for bringing him here.

  Maybe it is, she thought, but I have my duty as much as anyone else! I may not be big and strong enough to swing a halberd, but I have a mind that works, and Professore Clavell always said minds are far more dangerous than mere weapons!

  She smiled at that thought, despite her own terror and her grief for Valerico, because she’d been right! She’d been right about the Canale Gottardo Capponi, and Lord Bart knew she had! She’d seen the way he’d looked at her, earlier. It had sent a thrill of excitement through her, and she wondered why he hadn’t said anything to her about it. She was of marrying age, after all, and if her father wasn’t a senator, his position at the Arsenale was one of the most important in all of Nikeis! She had always heard that the star men were scandalously oblivious to birth and wealth, yet Lord Bart had refused to say a single word despite the invitation in her own eyes. Any boy she’d ever known would have been butter in her hands, but not Lord Bart!

  Still, she knew she had impressed him. That was good. That was something she could build on. And he was so much handsomer than Professore Clavell or Professore Harrison! Surely, if she charted her course with care—

  * * *

  Thalysios had known it was the right building when he saw the three militiamen in the street. They had been very young, little more than boys, and now they would never grow older, because they had allowed their attention to be drawn to the battle sounds riding the angry wind from the northeast. Only one of them had seen Thalysios’ men coming, and he’d seen them too late to save himself or his companions.

  Or to raise the alarm.

  Now the captain led the way up the stairs, sword in hand. In truth, he would have preferred to let someone else have the honor of the lead, especially since half a dozen of the men behind him were armed with crossbows. But after listening to them in the streets, he trusted none of them to pick a way up a wooden staircase without waking the dead. So he eased his way upward, testing each stair tread carefully, hoping none of those crossbowmen had itchy fingers, and pointing out the stairs that creaked to the marines following in his wake.

  At least so far none of them had managed to trip and roll all the way to the bottom in a clatter of armor and weapons, praise Vothan!

  He reached the top and paused, waiting. A dozen marines gathered on either side of him, packing the narrow hallway, and he nodded to them, then drew a deep breath, laid one hand on the door latch, and lowered his shoulder.

  * * *

  “Lord Bart!”

  Wood splintered, and Saxon heard Lucia scream his name.

  He twisted around, jaw dropping as a burly man in breastplate and helmet came crashing through the door with a drawn sword. Lucia and Marco were closest to the door, and Marco charged the intruder with the short battle ax he’d brought along. But the armored warrior evaded the valet almost negligently, and Marco went up on his toes as two inches of bloody steel emerged from his back.

  Saxon’s hands fumbled, caught between trying to unsling his rifle or reaching for the Beretta under his left arm, and more men appeared, crowding through the doorway, trying to get past their leader as he yanked his sword from Marco’s body. One of them held a crossbow, and Saxon saw it come up and level and knew he was about to die.

  “No!” a young voice screamed, and Lucia Michaeli flung herself at the crossbowmen with a dagger in her hand.

  The crossbow’s string snapped, and Bart Saxon’s universe froze as the steel-headed quarrel punched through Lucia’s body in a terrifying spray of blood. The man who’d killed Marco punched her in the head with one gauntleted fist while he twisted away from her thrusting dagger, and her head flew back with a sickening crack.

  She plunged to the floor, and even as she fell someone drove a shoulder into Saxon, thrusting him out of the way, and the room filled with thunder.

  * * *

  Thalysios recovered his blade and charged forward just as the men on the far side of the room turned towards him. Both wore strange garments unlike any Thalysios had ever seen. One of them was tall and fair skinned; the other was even bigger and his skin was the darkest Thalysios had ever seen.

  He had time to register that, and then he saw the weapon in the black-skinned man’s hands.

  Star men! They’re star men, and that’s a star weap—!

  * * *

  Haskins hammered the doorway with fire. Splinters—and blood—flew as the 7.92-millimeter slugs chewed into the intruders at a range of less than thirty feet. He heard screams and walked his fire along the wall in both directions, stitching the wood paneling—and anyone on the other side of it—with holes in short, controlled bursts. There were more screams from the hallway, and he lunged forward, dropping the H&K to hang across his chest from the sling, while his right hand reached into a jacket pocket.

  Bastards, he thought, stepping over Marco’s body, trying not to think about Lucia. Goddamned bastards! Well, I got something for your worthless asses!

  He’d somehow failed to mention to Saxon that he’d “borrowed” a couple of the Gurkhas’ precious hand grenades. Now one of them came out of his pocket, he yanked the ring free, released the arming spoon, heaved it down the stairwell, and ducked back into the room.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouted. The Nikeisians only looked at him uncomprehendingly, and he jabbed a finger at the floor.

  “Down—now!” he barked, and they flung themselves prone just before the grenade detonated.

  * * *

  “Lucia! Lucia!”

  Saxon was on his knees beside her, ripping at her gown frantically while the blood pooled. He bared the wound, and his gorge rose.

  Her eyes slitted open, huge and dark in a face that was far too pale, and her mouth twisted in pain.

  “Lucia!”

  “I . . . I am sorry, Lord Bart,” she whispered. “I didn’t—”

  “Hush. Hush!” He shook his head fiercely. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for!”

  “But . . . I wanted . . . you to like m . . . ”

  Her eyes drifted shut, her voice trailed off, and he r
ealized blood was trickling from her scalp, as well. Not very much—he told himself that and tried to believe he wasn’t lying—but that brutal punch must have opened a gash in her scalp. He clenched his jaw, hands fumbling at the emergency dressing Colonel Galloway had insisted every one of the “star men” had to take with him, but he couldn’t get it open and she was bleeding to death!

  Stupid, useless, gutless—

  The bitter self-condemnation rolled through his brain. He should never have let her come! He should have made her go back once they got here! And if he hadn’t frozen, stood there like some spineless idiot, she’d never have been hurt! It was all his fault, and if Cal hadn’t been here, they’d all be dead!

  “Hey, now,” Haskins said, and Saxon turned his head to see the other man on one knee beside him, fitting a fresh magazine into his rifle. “Could be a hell of a lot worse, Bart.”

  “Worse?!” he blurted. “She’s bleeding to death!”

  “So get some pressure on it!” Haskins snapped, rifle back up to cover the doorway, and Saxon shook himself. He finished ripping open the dressing and pressed it to the ugly groove the crossbow bolt had torn through the left side of Lucia’s torso. The trough looked terrifyingly deep to him, but at least the dressing was big enough to cover it, and he leaned on it, pressing as hard as he could.

  “That’s better, man,” Haskins said, eyes still on the doorway. “Now listen to me, Bart. She ain’t gonna bleed out if we can keep pressure on that. Didn’t cut no arteries, and it may be ugly, but it don’t look like it hit her clean, either. Or maybe her ribs turned it some. Anyway, it didn’t go through her guts, and that’s good, man. That’s good! We get her back, and the Colonel’s medics’ll have a good chance of pulling her through. We just gotta get her there, you with me?”

  Saxon nodded dumbly, not trusting his own voice, and cloth tore as one of the militiamen knelt on his other side, shredding a tunic to provide strips to bind the dressing in place.

  “We gotta move,” Haskins went on. “Bastards know where we are, there’s likely a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us, and neither one of us got a lot of ammo. So we can’t stay here.”

  “No, we can’t,” Saxon acknowledged. “But how do we move her?”

  “Don’t got time to make a stretcher,” Haskins said as Saxon finished tying the bandage in place. “Wish we did, ’cause it’d be a lot better for her. But we’re just gonna have to carry her.”

  “I’ll do it,” Saxon said.

  “No, man.” Haskins shook his head, his expression almost gentle. “We only got the two rifles, and ain’t none of these locals know how to use one. I’m gonna need you with me, Bart.”

  “But—”

  “Pardon, Lord Bart.” It was the militiaman who’d helped him bandage Lucia, speaking the trade dialect. “It would be my honor to carry the signorina so that you and Lord Cal can fight.”

  The Nikeisian couldn’t have understood Haskins’ English, Saxon reflected, but it would appear he was no idiot. Saxon didn’t know how much use he’d be with his H&K—God knew he hadn’t been much use yet! But . . .

  “Be careful with her!” he said fiercely in the same dialect, and felt his eyes burn.

  “As if she were my own sister,” the young man replied, and Saxon gave him a choppy nod. Then he looked back at Haskins and unslung his own rifle.

  “All right,” he grated. “Let’s get her the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What’s wrong, Sir?” Art Mason asked, bringing up his own binoculars and peering in the same direction as Rick.

  “Look between Cannaregio and Lido. Where the fishing channel comes out.”

  “Oh, hell,” Mason grunted, and Rick nodded.

  “Guess it wasn’t that shallow after all,” he said grimly, watching the first enemy galley slide out into the inner lagoon.

  “We knew the surge was piling water up everywhere. Guess it was piling it up in there, too.” Mason shook his head. “Shoulda thought of it, Sir. Sorry.”

  “Not like you’re the only one who didn’t think about it. I wonder what the hell took them so long?”

  “No telling, but whatever it was, it’s not slowing them up anymore,” Mason observed as a second galley emerged. Then a third nosed out of the shadows.

  “Warn Bisso and Baker they’ve got incoming. I just hope Publius is smart enough to not try and take these bastards on all by himself!”

  “He’s Roman, but he ain’t an idiot, Sir,” Mason said as he turned to the radio.

  Rick’s grunt was noncommittal. The way this was going, it might not matter what Publius decided to do.

  He looked back to the north. The ship raft was still there, but the fortress on Lido must have fallen, because Riccigionan and Five Kingdoms soldiers were fighting their way onto the western end of the raft. More and more galleys—and at least one of the navibus onerārius—had crashed directly into it, as well. Men funneled over the new arrivals’ bows, and the defenders retreated sullenly, pulling back towards San Lazzaro. From the looks of things, the fortress on that island was still in Nikeisian hands, but for how much longer?

  And now that they’re leaking around the flank, your whole plan may be about to go belly up. What the hell made you think you could handle something like this?!

  * * *

  “You ready, Bart?” Cal Haskins asked as quietly as he could through the sound of wind, rain, and—now—thunder.

  “Yeah,” Saxon muttered, hoping he didn’t sound as scared as he felt. The two of them crouched in an alley, peering out through the rainy gloom.

  “So far, so good, man.” Haskins’ teeth were almost shockingly white when he smiled. “And from the sounda things, the militia’s still holding.”

  “Yeah.” Saxon tried to put a little enthusiasm into his tone this time, and the truth was that they had done well, so far.

  The surprise of encountering star weapons—and the devastating effect of Haskins’ grenade in the crowded stairwell—had panicked the group which had attacked their initial position. Its survivors had fled back the way they’d come, abandoning even their own wounded, and Saxon didn’t blame them. Haskins had killed or wounded at least a dozen of them in the hallway, and Saxon hadn’t even tried to count the bodies on his way down the stairs. Some of them had still been alive, groaning—or screaming—with pain, and he’d been torn between a desire to finish them off for what they’d done to Lucia and Marco and a sense of horror at leaving them to live or die in such agony on their own.

  Haskins had pushed them hard as soon as he was confident the bad guys hadn’t left anyone in the street outside their building. He’d sent them scurrying towards the southernmost bridge between Lido and Cannaregio on the theory that it would be the last the attackers reached.

  Saxon understood his logic, but that didn’t mean he’d liked the way their pace had to jar Lucia. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, and he didn’t know how much of that drift stemmed from the wound in her side and how much from the punch to her head. Concussion. Another thing to worry about! But young Aristeo Mangione, the militiaman who’d offered to carry her, was a big fellow by Tran standards, with strong arms and powerful shoulders, and he was absolutely as gentle with her as he could be. In fact, every one of their surviving Nikeisians seemed to regard Lucia as a combination battle standard and kid sister, which said a hell of a lot about her personality.

  And Haskins had been right to push them hard. They had gotten to the southernmost drawbridge before anyone had attacked its sentries, but it was obvious they hadn’t had many minutes to spare. Despite the rain, at least some of the buildings behind them were on fire, adding their own lurid glare to the plunging raindrops, and they’d come damned close to being fired upon by one of the militia crossbowmen guarding the bridge before they could identify themselves.

  They’d raced across it, hurried along by the sound of approaching battle. It was coming from more than one direction,
too, and Saxon’s heart had sunk as he realized the enemy was already ashore on Cannaregio in strength. More attackers were sweeping down both sides of the Canale Gottardo Capponi, as well. It was obvious that the other bridge guards weren’t slowing them down very much, and he’d said as much to the teenaged ensign commanding the twenty-man bridge detail. The boy might have been young, but he wasn’t indecisive. He wasn’t an idiot, either. He’d ordered his men to cut the lift ropes and smash the windlasses at each end of the bridge, then joined their party.

  The damage to the hoisting gear would probably slow the invaders down, but Saxon doubted it would slow them very much. They were professional sailors, and that meant they had to be adept at rapid repairs to rigging and masts. It wouldn’t take them long to rerig the windlasses and raise the bridge to let their ships past it. On the other hand, the sentries had been far too few in numbers to prevent the bridge’s capture, so it made far more sense to cripple it as badly as possible and then hightail it.

  The militiamen had been a welcome reinforcement to their own party, and they knew this part of the city better than anyone else in their original group. They’d guided the star men quickly through back ways, and he’d felt his heart rising as they moved steadily towards safety.

  And now this.

  “How many, you think?” he asked.

  “Probably look like more’n there really are,” Haskins said. “Call it thirty, maybe.”

  “Thirty,” Saxon repeated, and swallowed hard.

  “Might be a few more,” Haskins said thoughtfully, then flashed another of those shocking smiles. “Other hand, they don’t know we’re here, and they sure as hell don’t expect no assault rifles!”

  “Gotcha.” Saxon swallowed again, hoping he wasn’t about to vomit, and doublechecked the safety on his rifle.

  Wish to hell I’d fired this thing more, he thought grimly. And I hope to hell Cal stays clear, because God knows where I’m going to be spraying bullets!