Lord of Janissaries (17 page)

* * *

“Leave him to his work, Cap’n,” Mason was saying. “When in Rome and all that. Besides, if they’re all dead, they won’t be tellin’ anyone who did ’em in.”

Rick swallowed hard. In classical times it was normal to kill the wounded, even your own. It wasn’t until Philip of Macedon that armies had hospital corpsmen. Philip gave a substantial reward to the corpsmen for each trooper they saved.

It bothered him that he hadn’t captured any of the horses. They’d need them. Centaurs he could live without—they looked mean. He didn’t know much about horses, either, but he’d rather ride than walk.

That problem was solved a few minutes later. After Caradoc (that name—wasn’t there a Welsh king by that name? There was something wrong with Gwen’s theory of language development here) had finished his grisly work among the wounded, he mounted his own horse and rode down the road, returning a few minutes later with four more he’d caught. He offered all of them to Rick.

Rick inspected the saddles. Wood, with leather trim, and rigid wooden stirrups. The horses were large and sturdy, and he suspected that they’d bring a high price on Earth. “Can you ride?” he asked Gwen.

“On Griffith Park bridle trails,” she said. She eyed the horses nervously.

“We’ll try to keep the pace down. Will our new friend get upset if we strip the dead? There’s a lot of valuable equipment out there.”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither,” Rick said. Homeric heroes always despoiled their dead enemies. Sometimes they even mutilated them. And they often made trophies out of any arms and armor they couldn’t use. “Mason, go see what you can find,” he said. “Swords. And if there’s any armor that will fit either of us, get it, but strip the plumes off the helmets.” He thought for a moment. “And don’t touch the one the archer knocked down.”

That seemed to be the right action. After Mason went through the dead, Caradoc did the same. He retrieved his arrow and stripped the man he’d killed, then went over Mason’s leavings. He brought the loot over to the cistern and said something to Yanulf. The old priest indicated a sword, a breastplate, and a leather bag which Caradoc took over and piled reverently against the stone heap.

Aha. “Mason, take our stuff over to Yanulf.”

The priest’s selection from Mason’s pile was considerably larger. “Wonder what the PC is,” Rick said. “And who gets the loot.”

“Redistribution system,” Gwen said. “It’s fairly common in some societies. The first people down the road will help themselves with Old Stone-heapy’s blessings. Uh—don’t like to say it, but it would be better if you carried the dead away from the road. That way they just vanished, and maybe no one will look too closely at what killed them.”

“Covering our tracks?” Rick asked.

“Yes.”

It made sense. Rick thought he was using that line a lot since he’d met Gwen. “Let’s get at it, Mason. Maybe Caradoc will get the idea and help.”

Caradoc did, but he obviously didn’t understand. When they got the bodies stacked in the woods a hundred meters from the road, Rick made symbolic gestures and threw a few dirt clods over them. When Mason frowned a question, Rick said, “I’d rather he thought we have a screwy religion than leave him wondering why we’re carrying bodies around.”

They loaded their spare horse with loot, while Caradoc piled his own excess gear on the horse the priest had ridden. Then he rode off on a fresh horse and returned with two more. After a questioning glance at Rick, he gave the new mounts to Yanulf and Tylara. They mounted.

“Cap’n, they’re waiting for us,” Mason said.

“Yeah. Mount up.” He swung into his own saddle and gave an experimental cluck. The horse moved slightly. It seemed very well trained and responded to the reins about as he had expected. “I’ll lead yours at first,” he told Gwen. “If you want me to.”

“Please.”

Rick edged his mount over until he was next to Tylara. “Where?” he said. “
Quo vadis? Donde?
” He pointed helplessly in all directions.

She frowned, then seemed to understand. She pointed down the road. “Tamaerthon.”

“Your home?” Rick asked. He pointed to her, then the road. Tylara do Tamaerthon, she’d said. It must be. “You. Tamaerthon?”

She nodded vigorously, then swung her hands in a broad sweep to include the whole party. “Tamaerthon,” she said, and she sounded quite determined about it.

PART FIVE

TAMAERTHON

1

Tylara had been away less than a year, but she had forgotten just how small her homeland was. The whole of Tamaerthon was no more than twice the extent her own lands of Chelm had been, and her father’s holdings in The Garioch would have been thought suitable for a wealthy knight—almost too mean to support a bheroman. As for her father’s great hall, it wasn’t much larger than her council chamber in Castle Dravan, and indeed her father used it for council meetings, which usually—as now—were no more than a gathering of several of his henchmen.

That wasn’t her only disappointment. Her reception was something less than enthusiastic. Her father had seen her leave as a great lady. He had sent more archers and more wealth than he could afford as her dowry.

Outside the council hall, the women of the village were keening the deaths of sons and lovers who had gone with their lady to die in a far land.

“I had thought ye might send me horses and knights,” her father said. “And gold. But ye hae returned wi’ no more than three men-at-arms and this priest.”

“What choice had I? But I have come with more than men-at-arms.” Tylara described the battle at the crossroads. “And twice more they fought when bandits and refugees would not leave us alone. Each time they left none alive.” She described the weapons; the large ones like crossbows carried over the shoulder, and the smaller one-handed weapons they carried concealed beneath their jackets.

“But where do they come from?” her father demanded.

“From the stars,” Yanulf said.

Drumold stared at the priest and back to his daughter. “Weapons of fire and thunder . . . then the old tales are true?”

“They are,” Yanulf said. “You can see for yourself, the Demon Star grows larger each ten-day.”

“Aye, I hae seen it at dawn when the night sun is low,” Drumold agreed. “But the tales speak of evil gods.” He glanced nervously toward the stone house where the newcomers were lodged. “Are these—”

“Not gods,” Tylara said. “They are men. Men with great weapons, but men. For days they were sick nearly to death. The lady with them is ill yet.”

“She carries a child,” Yanulf said. “I do not know whose.”

“Not gods,” Drumold mused. “Men. And they befriended you. With such power as they have—” He grew thoughtful.

“That had occurred to me,” Yanulf said. “When I saw the power of their weapons, I had thought to find the Lord Protector and the boy Wanax of Drantos. With the aid of these star men, we might have driven Sarakos from Drantos and returned the lady Tylara to her home.”

“But they would no’ aid you?” Drumold demanded.

“They could not,” Yanulf said. “In the ten-day we sought the Protector’s army, the Protector sought Sarakos. We heard the story from refugees three days after their armies met. The battle was thought to be equal at first, even though Sarakos had many more lances. But as the battle was fought, Sarakos smote his enemies with weapons of fire and thunder.” The priest spread his hands. “Our friends are not the only men from the stars. More than a score, with weapons more terrible than any Rick carries, now are allied with Sarakos and hold Drantos for him.”

“Rick was once of their company,” Tylara said.

“Then why is he not with them?”

“She shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. I heard from the lady Gwen that Rick was once the commander of the star men. I know that he does not care to have them find him again.”

“Then dare we keep him here?” Drumold demanded. “Is he a danger to our land?”

“He is our guest. He saved me from Sarakos once and twice from bandits,” Tylara said.

Her father studied her face carefully. “Aye, and he has done more than that,” he said. “When your mourning is done, will we see another stranger wed the daughter of the Mac Clallan Muir?”

Tylara had no answer to that.
I wish
, she thought,
I wish I knew. Whose child does Gwen carry? She does not act toward Rick as a woman does to her man, but the ways of the starmen are strange. I do not understand them. Especially I do not understand Rick, who likes well enough to be near me, but who has never touched me except to heal wounds.
. . .

And another memory. Rick’s shouting rage when finally he understood what Sarakos had done to her. Almost, almost he had gone back to seek out Sarakos, but then Gwen spoke to him for a long time, and they rode on again.

But he did rage. He hates the man who harmed me.

“We hae our troubles here,” Drumold was saying. “There was untimely rain, and the harvests will be poor. Wi’out the archers sent with you, we hae lost many of our pastures. Mac Clallan Muir does not stand so high as at the time you left, and when it is learned that my daughter can no longer send a thousand lances to my aid, it will go worse. Now you hae brought us guests who may draw the strength of Sarakos against us. Daughter, ’tis no’ your fault, but this is not good.”

He looked to his silent henchmen. They had no advice for him. Then he stared moodily into the fire. “But they are guests and they have my welcome, for what good it will be to them.”

* * *

“What’s taking them so damned long?” Corporal Mason asked. “My stomach’s growling. They could at least feed us.”

“I expect that’s what the debate is about,” Gwen said. “Hospitality is taken very seriously in some cultures. If they feed us, they have to take us in and protect us from our enemies.”

“Well, I wish they’d get on with it.”

“Count your blessings,” Rick told him. “At least there’s a warm fire and we’ll get a safe night’s sleep.” Which, he thought, was more than they’d had for weeks while they fled across Drantos, staying ahead of the occupation forces that Sarakos and his new allies sent out in waves. It had been a nightmare journey, with all three of them sick with classic cases of Montezuma’s Revenge, knowing nothing of the language and customs . . .

“But we made it,” he said aloud. “And without leaving tacks. So now what do we do?”