by John Ringo
He fully expected a solid bean to be in the middle. But he didn’t encounter anything on the first bite so he kept munching. It wasn’t hard, the oat cake had been made with a sweetener, probably honey, and covered with a sweet coating; it was quite good.
When he was about half way through the cake he heard a voice cry out on the left side of the fire and saw a Keldara he couldn’t quite place spit out something on his hand.
“Gurun has the bean!” Vil called, laughing. He and another of the Keldara grabbed the sheepish man by the arms and pulled him to his feet. “Into the fire with him!”
“Into the fire!” the rest chanted as the man was dragged to the edge of the blazing bonfire.
“Kildar,” Nielson whispered, seriously.
“Wait,” Mike said. Everyone was grinning at the man’s evident discomfiture; he couldn’t believe even the Keldara would be grinning if Gurun was really going to be sacrificed.
As it turned out, Vil and the other Keldara simply pushed him at the fire, three times Mike noticed, and then pulled him back. After that they sat back down, with Gurun ruefully shaking his head.
“A year of bad luck,” Father Mahona said, leaning over and pointing at the man with his chin. “That’s the fate of the caillean. Do your books speak of this as well, Kildar?”
“Yes,” Mike replied. “And that in the very old days the caillean was sacrificed for the promise of a good harvest.”
“So it is said,” Father Mahona said, sitting back with a blank look on his face.
“I’m glad to see that you’ve dispensed with that practice at least,” Mike said. “I need every militiaman I can get,” he added with a disarming smile.
The choosing of the caillean seemed to be the signal for the party to really commence. The two kegs that had been set on the hilltop were broached and as the younger men lined up on one, the women poured mugs from the second and started to serve the seniors, including the trainers. Mike, naturally, was served first and he used the first mouthful to wash out the last of the oat cake. It had been good, but it was a bit of a mouthful to eat without anything to wash it down.
After everyone had a beer, Sawn, Vil and two Keldara Mike didn’t know gathered between the men and the women. Sawn was carrying a musical instrument that looked something like a small bagpipe while one of the unknown Keldara held a harp and the other a drum. Vil stood between them as they began to play.
“I wonder what McKenzie makes of all of this?” Mike asked. “Get him.”
By the time the Scottish NCO had made his way over to Mike, the players had started to play.
“That’s not a bagpipe, is it?” Mike asked. The instrument was softer and sweeter than any bagpipe he’d ever heard, but had the same continuous undertone.
“Uillean pipe,” McKenzie said crouched behind him. “Similar but it hasn’t got the full throw of a bagpipe. It was for playing indoors. The reason the Scots stuck to the bagpipe was the English outlawed both. You could play the pipe on the moors, get the damned Brits in an uproar and then run away.”
“Or ambush them,” Adams said.
“That too,” the NCO admitted, grinning, as Vil began to sing. “The drum’s a classic bodran, though.”
“What the hell language is that?” Mike asked. He couldn’t catch a word of it.
“It is very old,” Father Makanee said from beside him. “We don’t even know the words anymore. But it is traditional to be sung on the festivals.”
“I wish Vanner was here,” Mike mused. “He might be able to get something from it.”
“He doesn’t have to,” McKenzie said, his voice low and sad. “It’s the Gael. Oh, it’s corrupted, but I recognize the Gael. Even some of the words.” He hummed for a moment and then sang along. “Far is this land we come to, held in thrall by our king. We have followed the flight of the birds and come to this land of mountains. Our duty to guard the something something against the enemy. We only want to go back I’d guess is that word, to our land of water and green.”
“They’re Irish?” Mike asked, aghast.
“I wonder how old the term ‘follow the wild geese’ really is?” Nielson mused. “Most people place it from around the potato famine. But these guys—”
“They’re bloody damned Irish?” McKenzie said, amazed.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Nielson said, shaking his head. “They didn’t come here in any history I know. That means they probably go back far enough that they’re Scots. Remember—”
“We mostly changed places, I know,” McKenzie growled. “You mean they’re Scots?”
“They’re Gael for sure,” Nielson said. “Scots and Irish is quibbling at that antiquity. But how long ago? And how in the hell did they wind up in Georgia?”
“Wait,” McKenzie said, holding up a hand as the song continued. “They traveled from their homes through… I don’t get that part. Into heat and darkness? Many fights they were in, ever victors, and they took much gold. But they were defeated and… I think that’s enslaved but it’s not a Gael word. Their lord was cast down and they were sent here by… someone to be guards. Now they await the day they can return. They are the Keldaran, the homeless ones. They are… I don’t recognize that one.”
“Varangi,” Nielson whispered, having caught the word clearly. “They’re God-be-damned Varangians.”
* * *
“What the hell had you and Nielson so worked up last night?” Adams said, sitting down across from Mike.
“Something God damned interesting,” Mike replied.
After the song, the ritual had broken down into party including more singing, but most of that had been in Georgian. He’d ended up with Katrina and Anastasia on his knees, holding a conversation that he tuned out. Probably a bad idea, and Anastasia hadn’t liked it when he more or less ignored her on getting back to the caravanserai. But it had been a long day and he passed out as soon as he hit the bed.
“You were completely checked out last night,” Adams continued. “You and the colonel. You going to give?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Call a meeting for around eleven. I’ll try to get you guys to understand it then.”
* * *
“The Keldara are the last remnant of the Varangian guard,” Mike said when the whole group of trainers were gathered at the table.
“You’re sure?” Vanner said, excitedly.
“Positive,” Nielson replied, nodding. “Absolutely positive.”
“Fucking cool!” Vanner spat.
“Okay, somebody going to explain what’s got Vanner so excited?” Sergeant Heard asked.
“I think you guys should understand,” Mike replied, nodding. “But you need to really understand. Okay, who’s heard of the Selous Scouts?” He nodded when practically every hand went up. The Rhodesian group was a legend in the special operations community. “Okay, how about the battle at Thermopylae?” Fewer hands at that. “Spartans?” More hands. “Vikings?” Every hand shot up.
“I want you to think in those terms,” Mike said. “But I gotta lecture, so try to stay awake. After the Western Roman Empire fell, it more or less moved to Constantinople, what’s currently Istanbul, and the Byzantine empire was founded. One of the problems of the original Roman Empire, towards the end, was that the guards of the emperors, the Praetorian Guard, ended up picking and choosing who was going to be emperor. And they didn’t always do a good job.”
“Sort of like coups?” Russell asked.
“Sort of,” Mike replied. “They were the kingmakers. To keep that from happening, the Byzantine emperors hired foreign mercenaries as their guards. The Vikings had started to move into Russia, conquering it, and they were in contact with Byzantines. The Byzantine emperors hired those guys, ‘fierce fighters from the north,’ to be their guards. They were called the Varangi, which meant foreigner. They formed the Varangian Guard.”
“We come from the land of the ice and snow,” Adams half sang. “From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow, the hammer of the gods. So you’re
saying the Keldara are Vikings?”
“That’s where it gets weird,” Mike said. “McKenzie was able to translate one of their songs and, no, they’re not Norse. They’re Celts, Scottish or Irish, back then it didn’t really matter. There is a lot of Norse in there, that’s probably where the blonds and redheads and such come from.”
“There are plenty of Irish redheads,” Meller interjected.
“They got that from being repeatedly invaded by the Norse,” Vanner said. “Back then, they were all dark hair and eyes.”
“So what probably happened was that this group of foreigners was wandering around the Mediterranean,” Nielson said. “Doing the usual rape, loot, pillage and burn. And they ran smack dab into the Byzantines, somehow. The survivors were probably given the choice of working for the emperor as Varangians or death.”
“And since they weren’t quite right to actually defend the emperor,” Vanner continued, nodding, “he sent them up here to guard the toll booth. Along with a smattering of real Varangi. Ergo the blond hair and blue eyes.”
“Keldara,” McKenzie said. “The Kelts. Sawn, Padrek. Hell, Kulcyanov is probably a corruption of Culcyan. Maybe even Culculane.”
“The point is that it’s like running into a fossilized group of Spartans,” Mike said, looking around at the trainers. “These guys, their stock at least, are warriors who descended on civilization, so far back there’s not even many records, and ended up stuck in this valley as guards. They came from Ireland or Scotland—”
“Ireland,” McKenzie said, firmly. “But before the Irish invaded Scotland, so they’re Scots as well…”
“Following the wild geese. And now they’re here.”
“And this changes the training… how?” Russell asked.
“Don’t think in terms of farmers,” Nielson said. “You guys watched those contests. And you missed the axe throw. Think in terms of… Gurkhas.”
“That good?” Sergeant Heard asked.
“That good,” Nielson said. “I’m going to up the rate at which they train, based on it. Put it that way.”
“But they’ve been here for… how long?” Russell asked.
“Say a millennium and a half,” Vanner said.
“So we’re changing the training schedule based on that?” the former Ranger continued, surprised.
“Yeah, they’ve been here that long,” Mike said. “But they’ve kept the warrior tradition that long. These aren’t Iraqi sheep. These guys are like the Gurkhas and the Kurds. You can just push them harder. They’ll respond. Treat every single one like a potential Ranger or SEAL candidate. And I bet you’re amazed how fast they catch on.”
“I don’t want just a militia anymore,” he continued, looking around at the whole group and catching each of their eyes. “I don’t want a decent company of American quality light infantry. I don’t want just fighters. By next fall, I want a company of commandoes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You are tense,” Anastasia said as she worked on his back. She was straddled across his butt, pressing hard into the push-up muscles. All she had on was a lightweight blue silk nightgown that had ridden up to her hips. Mike didn’t even have that much on.
Mike had taken an easy day on Sunday, not even working out after the stresses of Saturday, mostly spending the time talking with Nielson about changing the training schedule and Vanner about archaeology. The Marine MI guy turned out to have a mass of unrelated information he’d picked up in a dozen odd places and the two of them had examined the architecture in the foyer again, comparing it to data on the web. The worn carvings on the pillars, as well as the essentially cruciform layout of the floor, argued for Byzantine design. There were differences, but some of them could be related to climatic conditions. He still couldn’t find anything definite indicating when the building had been constructed.
He’d also taken the opportunity to poke around in the lower cellars. On the west side, towards the mountain, they were in pretty bad repair, with the plaster flaked off and seepage water puddled on the floor. He wasn’t sure how much damage there was, structurally, but the caravanserai had lasted for hundreds of years, if not thousands, so he was inclined to dismiss it. He made a mental note, though, to have Prael or Meller check on it.
Near the stairs there was an old well with a metal cover plate, probably put there by the Soviets. He managed to drag it aside just enough to get a ear to it and heard rushing water not far below. There was apparently an underground stream or river that passed under the serai. In the event of a total FUBAR like a siege, they were good for water. He made another mental note to get a hand pump for the well.
On the east side the cellars were in pretty good condition. The damp had gotten to them as well, and the plaster was flaked, but not as badly. There was a very old wooden door to the last room and he had a fairly hard time forcing it open. But he decided that he’d found his bondage dungeon. The room was the longest in the cellars, the ceiling domed up to about ten feet in the center with four domes down the length. On the walls there were small discolorations about a meter off the ground that when he examined them seemed to be the remnants of something metal. Probably shackles from the look and very very old.
The cellars were remarkably free of litter, but they were very dusty and in places in the corners there were small piles of decayed stuff. Most of it was essentially soil, it had been down here so long, but he found bits of wood in some of the piles. A forensic archaeologist might have made something of it, but he wasn’t planning on calling one in. He’d left word to have the Keldara get a detail down to the east side to get it cleaned out and left it at that.
What he hadn’t found was any indication of the original builders. He’d hoped to find some graffiti or a foundation marking or something. But all he’d found was just dirt and crumbling plaster.
“I found out something about the Keldara,” Mike said, shrugging. “It makes me interested in the serai. And I’m worried about the training. They need to get good, and they need to get good fast.”
“You worry too much,” Anastasia said. “Turn over.”
Mike rolled over and she mounted him, tightening down when he was in her, and began moving up and down.
“There,” she said, huskily. “You can stop thinking now.”
Mike pushed the nightgown up and over her head, pulling it down to pin her arms with a quick twist of the fabric, and rolling over so he was on her.
“I also found a good dungeon,” Mike said, stopping for a moment in her.
“You’re still thinking?” Anastasia gasped. “And you stopped.”
“I can’t let you think you’re in charge,” Mike said, chuckling. “If I let you think you’re in charge before long you’ll be running the place and then it’ll be nothing but work, work, work all day long.”
“If you don’t start working soon…” Anastasia said, trying to lean up to bite his shoulder.
Mike ducked back with a laugh and grinned at her.
“If I don’t start working soon, what?” he asked, teasingly.
“I can get… my arms…” the girl replied, struggling to get an arm loose.
“Ah, ah,” Mike said, dropping his weight on her and clamping a hand over her mouth. “Don’t think so!” He still didn’t start moving, though, just stayed in her, grinning faintly and looking her in the eye.
Anastasia glared over the clamped hand, then closed her eyes and bore down, trying to push him out.
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Mike said, firmly, pressing back. The harem manager had some of the strongest muscles he’d ever encountered and it wasn’t exactly easy, but he was already in place. Pushing him out wasn’t in the cards.
Finally, Anastasia went limp, looking pleadingly at him over the hand and muttering into it.
“That’s better,” Mike said, starting to stroke. “Time to prove who’s boss.”
Normally he either worked on her with tongue and finger to bring her to climax or simply took his own and figured he�
��d owe her. Tonight he did neither, instead pounding at her like a steam press, hard, fast and constant. He slid his left hand up behind her, grabbing her left wrist and pinning it up behind her back, then began pounding, keeping his hand clamped over her mouth.
Anastasia fought back, wrapping her legs around his hips and trying to pull him out while wrestling to get a bite on his hand. But he had her fully pinned — she wasn’t going anywhere — and he had a thumb under her chin, holding her mouth firmly shut, her head pressed back into the pillow. After a few moments the girl lay back, half exhausted from the struggle, letting out a low moan and closing her eyes.
Mike took this as a signal to redouble his efforts, keeping the speed constant but pounding in harder. As the girl started to pant he removed his hand from her mouth and grabbed her hair, turning her head to the side brutally and sliding his tongue up her exposed throat, then biting down on it like a vampire.
At that Anastasia climaxed, letting out a shriek of pleasure and clamping her legs powerfully around his waist. Mike didn’t slow up, though, he just kept pounding.
“You’re not done, yet?” Anastasia moaned as the last of her shudders passed.
“Not even close,” Mike replied, not even out of breath. “I figure I can keep this up for about, oh, six hours.”
“Oh, God,” Anastasia whimpered, lying limp.
Mike just chuckled, evilly, and kept going.
* * *
“You’re looking chipper this morning,” Adams said as Mike walked into the kitchen, whistling. “You didn’t wear yourself out last night, did you?”