by David Weber
Starting with burnt pork.
He turned his head to the side and groaned again. He didn't know what had happened to the Marine, but it been bad. Bad enough that he wasn't too sure, right offhand, whether it was a man or a woman.
"Plasma blast," a voice said from his other side. Roger turned his head, slowly and carefully, and looked up into the ugly face of Doc Dobrescu. "Only the bloom from it, actually. Not that that wasn't bad enough." The warrant officer gazed at his other patient for a moment, then back at Roger.
"Morning, Your Highness."
"My head," Roger croaked.
"Kinda hurts?" the medic asked cheerfully.
"Yeah."
The former Raider leaned forward and administered a stim shot to the prince's neck. In a moment, a wave of blessed relief flowed through him.
"Ooooh."
"Don't get used to it," the medic cautioned. "We've got lots of wounded. And on that subject, I need you to get your ass in gear, Your Highness. I've got other people to attend to."
Roger felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up, and looked back to discover that it belonged to Matsugae.
"Kostas?" he asked him blearily. He listened, but there was no crash of plasma cannon or crack of bead rifles. "What happened? Did we win?"
"Yes, Your Highness," the valet said, propping him up and handing him a cup of deliciously cool water. "Welcome back."
An image flashed suddenly across Roger's memory.
"Despreaux?" he said sharply.
"Sergeant Despreaux?" the valet asked with a puzzled expression. "She's fine. Why do you ask?"
Roger thought about explaining the memory of an upraised ax, but decided against it. He might also have to explain the strange, unsettled feeling that the image caused him.
"Never mind. What's the situation?"
"We won, as you surmised," the valet told him. "But things are complicated at the moment."
Roger looked around the fetid keep and blanched.
"How many?" he asked, gazing at the rows of wounded.
"Thirty-eight," Dobrescu replied, coming by checking monitors. "That aren't walking wounded. Twelve KIA . . . including Lieutenant Gulyas, I'm afraid."
"Oh, God." Roger's eyes returned to the burn patient next to him. So many of the wounded seemed to have terrible burns. "What happened?" he repeated.
"Plasma fire," Dobrescu said simply. "Things got . . . a little tight."
"We need to get them out of here," the prince said, waving a hand around in the stinking dimness. "This is no place to put a hospital."
"They're working on it, Your Highness," the medic told him. "We'll have them out of here by nightfall. In the meantime, it's the only roof we've got."
"Okay." Roger levered himself up with help from the valet. "Make sure of it."
The prince stumbled across the floor to the open doorway and stopped at the view that greeted him. The interior of the citadel was a scene from some demented vision of Hell.
The eastern bastion, Second Platoon's redoubt, was a blackened ruin. The curtain wall on that side was still covered in Mardukan dead, and the doors and spear slits were blasted, blackened, and broken.
The gatehouse was nothing but rubble, and half-fused, still-smoking rubble, at that. And the bailey was covered in Mardukan dead, piled five and six deep . . . where the piles weren't even deeper. Since the gate had been the only drain for the torrential Mardukan rains, the courtyard had started to fill with water. The line of natives who were working to clear the area already waded ankle deep in the noisome mess as they bent over the dead, and it was getting deeper.
Roger peered at the natives picking up bodies and bits of bodies in the gruesome, deepening soup.
"Are those who I think they are?"
"Kranolta," Kostas confirmed.
"They have weapons," Roger pointed out in a croak. He took another sip of water and shook his head. "What happened?" he asked for the third time.
"We won," the valet repeated. "Sort of. Forces from the other city-states showed up right at the end. They hit the Kranolta from the rear, and drove them back over the wall, where they finally took the eastern bastion. By then, Captain Pahner had evacuated it anyway, and it was the only cover they could find. Between the pressure of the new forces and having them pinned down, the Marines more or less wiped them out.
"But quite a few of them had withdrawn to their encampment before the city-state forces arrived. Only a handful of their original army, but enough that they could still have caused lots of problems, so Pahner arranged a cease-fire. The Kranolta that are left don't have any interest in facing Marines or the 'New Voitan' forces, but they'll fight if forced to. So the Captain and our new . . . allies agreed to let them keep their weapons and bury their dead."
"What a disaster," Roger whispered, looking over his shoulder back into the keep.
"It could have been worse, Sir."
"How?" Roger demanded bitterly.
"Well," the valet said as the rain began again, "we could have lost."
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
"If you hadn't come, we would have lost."
Roger took a sip of wine. The vintage was excellent, but then, all of the tent's appointments were excellent, from the finely tooled leather of its walls, to its hammered brass tables. The cushions on the floor were covered in a cloth the humans had never seen before, silky and utterly unlike the more common rough and wool-like material found in Q'Nkok. Obviously, T'Kal Vlan traveled in style.
"Perhaps so." The last ruler of T'an K'tass picked up a candied slice of kate fruit and nibbled it. "Yet even so, you would have destroyed the Kranolta. That's surely worth something even in the eyes of gods of the most distant land!"
Captain Pahner shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, but it isn't. We come from an empire so vast that the Kranolta and all the valley of the Hurtan are an unnoticeable speck. I'm glad that you're glad, but the losses we took might mean the prince won't make it home." He grinned at the Mardukans. "And that would really disappoint his mother."
"Ah!" Roger exclaimed. "Not that! Not Mother angry! God forbid!"
"A formidable woman, eh?" T'Kal Vlan grunted a laugh.
"Rather," Roger told him with a shrug. "He has a point, though. I'm sure that if I died, Mother would visit me beyond the grave to chastise me for it."
"So, you see," Pahner continued, "I'm afraid I have to count this one as a straight loss."
"Not really, Captain," the prince said, swirling his wine gently. "We've cleared the way. One way or another, we had to get to the other side of this range of hills, and none of the choices were particularly good. There's no reason to second-guess this one. If we'd gone south, we would've been walking through a war, and we would undoubtedly have second-guessed ourselves then and said 'I bet those Kranolta pussies wouldn't have been this much trouble.'"
"Well, I for one thank you for clearing out most of those 'Kranolta pussies,' " T'Leen Targ said, with his own grunt of laughter. "Already, the ironworkers we brought with us are building the furnaces. We have gathered all the surviving masters of the art and their apprentices. Soon the lifeblood of Voitan will flow once more."
"Aye," T'Kal Vlan agreed. "And the sooner the better. My own treasury is flowing away like blood."
"You need to capitalize," O'Casey said. The chief of staff had been quietly sipping her wine and listening to the warriors' testosterone grunting with amusement. This, however, was her specialty.
"Agreed," Vlan said. "But the family has already liquidated most of its holdings to fund the expedition. Short of borrowing, at extortionate rates, I'm not sure how to raise more capital."
"Sell shares," O'Casey suggested. "Offer a partial ownership of the mines. Each share has a vote on management, and each gains equity and shares in the profits, if any. It would be a long-term investment, but not a particularly risky one if you're sufficiently capitalized. "
"I didn't understand all the words you just used," Vlan said, cocking h
is head. "What is this 'equity'?"
"Oh, my." O'Casey grinned widely. "We really must have a long conversation."
"Don't worry," Pahner told her with a shrug. "We're not going anywhere for a while."
* * *
Roger sat up in his tent, damp with sweat and panting and looked around him. All clear. Tent walls faintly billowing in the wind that had come up. Camp gear. Eyes.
"You should be resting, Your Highness," said Cord faintly.
"So should you, old snake," Roger said. "You don't heal as fast as we do." He sat up on the camp cot and took a deep breath. "It just, you know, comes back."
"Yes, it does," the Mardukan agreed.
"I wonder how . . ." The prince stopped and shook his head.
"How?" the shaman queried, lifting himself up with a grimace.
"You should be flat on your back, Cord," Roger said with another headshake.
"I grow weary of lying about like a worm," the Mardukan countered. "How, what?"
"Not one to be distracted, are you?" Roger smiled. "I was wondering how the Marines handle it. How they handle the fear and the death. Not just ours, God knows I got enough Marines killed here. But the Kranolta. We've ended them as a tribe, Cord. Piled them up against the wall as if they were a ramp. They . . . don't seem affected by that."
"Then you have not eyes, Young Prince," the shaman countered with a grunt. "Look at young Julian. Your people, too, have the laughing warrior who hides his pain with humor, as did our Denat, he who I lost to the atul. Always he faced danger with laughter, but it was a shield to the soul. I'm sure that he jested with the very atul as it ate him. Or young Despreaux. So young, so dangerous. I am told that she is beautiful for a human. I don't see it myself; she lacks . . . many things. Horns for one. And her shield is that face like a stone. She holds her pain in so hard it has turned her to a stone, I think."
Roger tilted his head to the side and played with a stray lock of hair. "What about . . . Pahner? Kosutic?"
"Ah," Cord grunted. "For one, you notice that though they are capable warriors, they control from afar. But mostly they have learned the tricks. The first trick is to know that you are not alone. While I was in the cavern still, Pahner came to visit, to see the wounded, and we talked. He is a font of wisdom is your captain. We talked of many things but mostly we talked of . . . song. Of poetry."
"Poetry?" Roger laughed. "What in the hell would Pahner be doing talking about poetry?"
"There is poetry and poetry, my Prince," the shaman said with a grunt. "Ask him about 'The Grave of the Hundred Dead.' Or 'Recessional.' Or 'If.' " The shaman rolled over to find a more comfortable position. "But ask him in the morning."
"Poetry?" Roger said. "What in hell would I want with poetry?"
* * *
"Eleonora?" Roger asked. The chief of staff was on her way to another of the numerous meetings she had arranged with the Voitanese forces. She apparently considered herself a one-person social reengineering team, or at least the best equivalent available. She was determined that when she left, the Voitanese would have the strongest governmental structure available to the situation. Since that was probably a rational oligarchy it fit in well with the Voitanese plans.
"Yes, Ro . . . Your Highness?" she asked hurriedly. Her pad was almost overloaded with notes and there were only a few days left to get everything in place. Whatever Roger wanted had better be quick.
"Have you ever heard of a poem called 'The Grave of the Hundred Dead?' "
The chief of staff stopped and thought then consulted her toot. "The name is familiar, but I can't quite place it."
"Or 'Recessional.' " Roger's brow wrinkled but he couldn't think of the other. "Or something like 'If?' "
"Ah!" the historian's face cleared. "Yes. That one I have. Why?"
"Uh," Roger stopped, caught. "Would you believe Cord recommended it?"
O'Casey laughed merrily. It was a twinkling sound that Roger realized he had never heard. "Not without some sort of body transference, Your Highness."
"I think he heard of it from someone," Roger explained stiffly.
"Set your pad," she said with a smile and transferred the file.
There was a blip and Roger looked at the translation remark on his pad. "You keep it on your toot?" Roger asked, surprised.
"Oh, yes," O'Casey said as she started back down the path. "I love that poem. There are very few pre-space poets that have even one poem known. Kipling has to be right up there with the Earl of Oxford. You might see Captain Pahner. I believe Eva said he has the collected works in his toot."
* * *
Warrant Officer Dobrescu tossed the chunk of reddish ore from hand to hand as he gazed up at the towering wall of red and black.
And, lo, the answers come clear, he thought.
The last two weeks had been good for the company. The troops had been given time to rest and get some separation from the terrible losses inflicted in the battle. Since Voitan was going to be held by "friendly" forces, Captain Pahner had decided to leave all of their dead. If they made it through alive, they would come back for them. If they fell along the way, these Marines, at least, would be honored.
The Voitanese had opened a vault in their own catacombs, which had been looted by the Kranolta. The sepulcher had been the resting place of the city's royal guards before its fall, and there were still a few of their bones moldering in the back. The Marines had been bagged but not burned and laid to rest along with their brethren. Sergeant Major Kosutic, as the only registered chaplain in the company, had performed the ceremony, and if any of the Marines had objected to their honored dead being prayed over by a High Priestess of Satan, they hadn't mentioned it.
The pause had also given the wounded time to recover, and a regimen of heavy eating and bed rest had done wonders. All but the most critically injured were back on their feet and training, and, from a purely selfish point of view, it had given Dobrescu time to scratch a few itches.
The first itch had to do with the local steel. The point had been made again and again that only the "water steels" made in Voitan were of the finest quality. That steels from other areas, even if processed in what they thought was the same way, did not possess the "spirit" of Voitan's Damascene steels.
The second itch had to do with the Mardukan biology. Something had been bugging him ever since they landed and ran into D'Nal Cord, and the downtime and necessity of working on Mardukan wounded, as well as human, had given him the opportunity to do a little studying. What he'd discovered would startle most of the company, but the warrant thought it was hilarious. He hated it when people made assumptions.
Time to go watch some people cringe, he thought with an evil smile.
* * *
"So the steel has a high percentage of impurities," O'Casey said. "So what?"
"It's not just that it has a high percentage," Dobrescu said, consulting his pad. "It's what the impurities are."
"I don't know what this 'impurity' is," Targ said.
"That's going to be difficult to explain," Eleanora said with a frown. "It involves molecular chemistry."
"I'll give it a shot," Roger said. "Targ, you know how when you first smelt the ore, you get 'black iron.' The brittle stuff, right?"
"Yes," T'Kal Vlan agreed. "It's what was given to Cord's tribe, that broke so easily."
"You have to remelt it," Cord put in. The wounded Mardukan was seated behind Roger, as was proper, but stretched out on cushions to save his ravaged legs. "Very hot. It's hard and expensive, which is why black iron is cheaper."
"Okay," Roger went on. "Then when you heat it in a crucible, 'very hot,' as Cord said, you get a material that's gray and very easy to work."
"Iron," Targ said. "So?"
"That's what we call 'wrought iron,' and it actually is almost pure iron. Iron is a molecule. Black iron is iron with carbon, which is what's in charcoal, mixed into it."
"What about steel?" T'Kal Vlan asked. "And why do I think we need an ironmaster here?"
"Somebody else can explain it later," Roger said with a laugh. "The point is that iron is a pure element, a kind of molecule. Is that sort of clear?"
"I hear the words," Targ replied, "but I don't know their meaning."
"That would be hard to really explain without teaching you basic chemistry first," Dobrescu said. "You're just going to have to take our word for most of this and I'm not sure how much you can do with it."
"The point is that steel is also iron with carbon in it," Roger said. "But less carbon, and heated to a much higher temperature."
"That much is well known to our master smiths," Targ said, with a human-style shrug. "Yet mere heat and tempering does not produce the water steel. Even in exile, our smiths have forged weapons far superior to those of other city-states, but never the water steel of Voitan."
"No, steel is complicated," Roger agreed. "Especially 'water steel'—what we call 'Damascene.' We—well, I—was really surprised you had it and of such quality. It's unusual at your technology level."
"I think it's driven by their pumping industry," O'Casey interjected. "They have quite a bit of refined technology dedicated to pumps. Once that starts to spread out a bit, look for an industrial revolution. I wish they were just a bit further along. If they were, I'd introduce the steam engine."
"Let's stick to the subject, if we can," Pahner suggested with a slight grin, "and reengineer their society when we can do it with a regiment at our back. Okay?"
"His Highness is right," Dobrescu went on to Targ, ignoring the captain's amusement. "Normal steel is specially formed iron with a bit of carbon and high temperature, but you need some other impurities, if you want good steel, which explains Voitan blades. The first thing to realize is that the local ore is what we call 'banded iron.' "
"I know," Roger said. "Geology, remember? It's formed by early oxygen-generating organisms. Prior to their evolution, atmospheres are mostly reducing, and iron can remain on the surface in a mostly pure state. But once the first green or blue-green organism occurs and starts producing oxygen, the iron rusts. Then the oxygen gets used up over millions of years, and there's a band of non-rusted ore, then another band of rusted ore. Right?"
