“There had to be a reason for the castle and the soldiers,” said Ethan.
“Other than protecting everyone from his neighbor, you mean? Sure. Anyway, over many years a couple of these bands have grown large enough to acquire the status of nations in themselves. They migrate on a fairly predictable circuit, living off tribute from the peoples they encounter. Hunnar told me what it's like when they move in. It doesn't make for pleasant listening.
”In addition to the standard tribute of money and food and clothing and such, they take over the town or raft or whatever for about a week, local-time. They take what they like from the shops and aren't above broiling the occasional shopkeeper who might venture an objection. Raping or carrying off the local girls who haven't been safely hid, killing a few kids for fun ... oh, they're your usual happy primitive innocents, free from the corrupting bane of civilization!
“If there's any hint of opposition or resistance, the town is put to the torch and the entire populace down to the youngest cub massacred. Excepting a few women, they don't even take slaves, so they've no compunction about killing. No wonder everyone elects to pay tribute.”
Ethan grunted. “They sound almost human.”
“Don't they? They move in long columns perpendicular to the wind and sometimes three and four ships deep. They've dozens of sleds, on which they spend their whole lives. Even carry livestock and feed for same ... the males take turns running scouting patrols, but the rafts never stop, except when they've moved in someplace.”
“Like army ants on Terra,” said Ethan.
“Yes, or Turabisi Delphius from that new thranx world, Drax IV. Hunnar likens them to other elemental forces they have to endure, like the wind and lightning. The nomads are the same people physically. But culturally and maybe even mentally they're throwbacks to an earlier, less civilized age.”
“How often do they have to undergo this?” Ethan asked, staring out the window. He could hear the full-bodied wind howling outside. The window framed an unmarred rectangle of glacier blue.
“About every couple of years, sometimes three.”
Ethan looked away from the sky. “The Horde that everyone keeps mentioning.”
“That's it,” September nodded. “This group has been taking tribute from the people of Sofold for a hundred years or so. Also most of their neighboring provinces. Seems we arrived at an interesting time. Hunnar and a lot of the younger knights are sick of paying tribute. They want to fight.”
“That sounds like something they've been through before,” said Ethan. “Have they got any chance of getting permission?”
“Well, as you would figure, such a proposition has to be approved by this so-called Council. By themselves, Hunnar and his fellow bucks would just amuse the moneybags. But there's a chap named Balavere the Longax who's the number one general-type in this dump and he's thrown in with 'em. Hunnar says he's convinced Wannome has a fifty-fifty chance of standing an attack and siege.”
Ethan whistled. “Not very good odds with the survival of your entire people at stake.”
“Maybe not. But this old boy has gone through something like twenty-odd tribute periods himself. He's good and fed up. As you might guess, the opposition to the fighters is composed of those who have the least to lose. Country-mayors and growers, this prefect fella Darmuka, others. Balavere and Hunnar have the support of a lot of the local merchants and traders. During tribute time the country folk are spared much of the burning and rampaging that goes on, since the barbarians naturally concentrate where most of the people and goods are, meaning Wannome.”
“I'm better at haggling prices,” said Ethan. “How do our host's chances look?”
“Well,” said the big man, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “as is typical in such cultures, most of the able-bodied males on the island have had some sort of combat training, however informal. Hunnar says they can put about eight thousand armed men in the field. Of these, maybe two thousand have had some form of advanced military training. There's a standing permanent garrison of about five hundred, under the direction of some fifty or so knights aided by about a hundred squires and another hundred squire-apprentices.”
“Three thousand soldiers and five thousand militia,” said Ethan. September nodded.
“And this Horde?”
“At least four times that.”
Ethan said nothing.
“According to Hunnar,” September continued, “this tribe is led by an especially nasty son-of-a-bitch with the charming moniker of Sagyanak the Death, Scourge of Vragan. Vragan was a small hunting community they razed about ten years ago. The Death has the interesting hobby of taking folk he doesn't care for and nailing them to the ice. They have these short lances mounted on tiny double stone runners, with little sails. The Death and other assorted uppers go upwind until they can barely see the stake-out. Then they set their lances and release them.
“By the time they reach the condemned, those sail-powered lances have built up enough speed to drive halfway up someone's body. The head of the victim is always propped up so he or she can see the lances coming. Isn't that cute?”
“I wish you could have saved that little anecdote 'til after dinner,” Ethan mumbled. He believed he had a reasonably strong stomach, but this world ... “Okay, you've convinced me he's not a nice fella. What does Hunnar want from us? He wants something, that's sure, or he wouldn't have spent all that time telling you about it. Nor describing what a bastard this Sagyanak is. Sales technique. And he said there was something important he wanted us to know about before dinner tonight.”
“Good lad,” said September approvingly. “Here it is, then: As you would expect, Hunnar and this General Balavere are being very careful about the whole idea. They'd much rather convince the Council that tribute isn't a paying proposition and it's more logical to fight. But if they can do it by creating so much emotion for fighting that no one will speak against them, then by the Black Hole, they'll do it that way.”
“Which means?” asked Ethan, digging his toes into the warmth of a fur blanket.
“That when they put their proposition forward, it would be appreciated muchly if we spring up like good chappies and swear to fight to the last dribble of blood alongside 'em.”
“Umm. Don't you mean that they want us to support their idea of fighting?”
“No,” said September bluntly. “We are to agree to pick up swords and spears and make suitable hacking motions alongside our Sofoldian brethren.”
Ethan sat up quickly. All thoughts of napping remained stuck to the blankets.
“They want us to fight? But why? We're not citizens of Sofold and we're surely not warriors ... at least, I'm not.”
“That will change,” September replied placidly. “While the locals seem to have responded to our appearance with a great deal of calm, Hunnar assures me that we've created quite a sensation. Otherwise their attitude might lead one to think that strange aliens dropped in on them every day. Hunnar would like the opposition to believe we're some kind of omen, what? The signs for battle are auspicious and all that sort of thing... But if we cower in the castle while the real fighting is taking place, all potential psychological lift will go down the tubes. So we'll be expected to march happily into the action, spending the blood of the enemy left and right with mysterious alien devices. Eh, me lad?”
Ethan had gotten stuck in a mental cul-de-sac several sentences back.
“Fight?” he murmured wonderingly to himself. “I can handle a nullgee club or a tennis racket. And I'm not bad at ricochet golf, if I do say so. But as to standing up and exchanging ax blows with one of these super-muscled pussycats—”
“In return for this minor physical but major moral support,” September continued smoothly, “Hunnar has promised us all the aid we need to reach Arsudun.”
Ethan threw up his hands. “Oh great! Assuming that any of us are left alive to take advantage of his munificence. I suppose in that event he'll personally see to a splendid funeral cortege.
We'll be deposited with much weeping and heaving of anguished breasts at the foot of a reluctant Landgrave. I know one thing. There'll be no smile on my corpse. Suppose we don't go along?”
He expected September to counter with something like “we can't refuse,” or “they'll chop off our fingers until we agree.” His reply was a surprise.
“Nothing.” He shook his head slowly. “They'll just do the best they can to persuade the others, without our commitment. If we want, we can leave for Brass Monkey tomorrow and make our own way as best we can.”
“Oh.” He thought again of Hunnar's face when, at last, the chance to fight had been mentioned. “When are you going to ask the others?”
“I already have. Colette du Kane thought it over real hard. Then she said we had no alternative. I'm beginning to think that girl's got a mind as sharp as her torso is flabby... You know how the old man is. Odd fella. One minute he was trying to tell me about how he's got to take care of himself so's he can get back to his bloody flowers, the next it's ‘down with the cowardly invaders, up Sofold!’ He went along... Walther said no, not surpri—”
Ethan was surprised himself. “You asked him?”
“Sure I asked him. He started to say no, but changed his mind. Just wanted to make it unanimous.” The big man smiled.
“And Williams?” Ethan was trying to visualize the schoolmaster in helmet and armor with battle-ax in hand. The picture served to cheer him.
“He's been holed up with that top-dog wizard ... what's his name? ... Eer-Meesach. Barely looked up from their confab long enough to nod at me before diving back into a stream of chatter I couldn't follow. Don't know if he's even aware of what I asked. One of us seems to have made a real pal among the locals.”
“It's hardly surprising,” said Ethan thoughtfully. “Think of the things someone like this Eer-Meesach could learn from a Commonwealth plain citizen — let alone a teacher. We can use an open-minded native or two on our side. A man of science is helpless by himself, but two of them constitute an entity capable of ignoring starvation, freezing, and prospects of imminent death just by chatting about some item of mutual interest,” he concluded.
“Really?” mocked September, caterpillar eyebrows arching. “Are you in that category too, young feller-me-lad?”
“Who, me?” He chuckled. “Right now my greatest scientific aspiration is to annihilate the biggest steak in this quadrant. With Hammond's barbecue sauce, crisp-turned reshka, and a bottle of Lafitte Calm Nursery Blend '96, or maybe '97. Speaking of which,” he continued, turning on his side, “what are we going to do for food tonight?”
“A question of real significance,” agreed September, nodding. “I suggested to Hunnar that we use our own food from the boat. Looked positively shocked, he did. Wouldn't hear of it. Claimed our alien odors and smells might make some important councilman ill. I pointed out that if one of us threw our dinner all over said councilman it wouldn't do his contingent any good either. He wouldn't buy it. Said it would be a poor way of showing our solidarity if we refused to tear meat with them ... at least, that's how I mangle the metaphor he used... So we're stuck with whatever the chef has in mind. I didn't have a chance to wangle a copy of the menu. You said we shouldn't have any trouble handling the food, right?”
“I hope not,” Ethan replied thoughtfully. “I don't anticipate any, from what I remember. That doesn't rule out the possibility of there being one or two just bad goodies in the banquet. I'd advise sticking to one or two plain dishes and not trying to play the interstellar gourmet. Probably most of it will be hearty and bland. Did you happen to find out anything about local etiquette?”
September smiled. “You eat with your fingers. Beyond that you improvise. And armor is optional.”
“I asked Hunnar about the local manners myself,” Ethan mentioned to September. He was nervously trying to adjust the brilliant gold sash that swept diagonally across his brown spotted-fur dress jacket. The royal tailor had gone through a triple funk trying to fit them with clothing suitable to the occasion. Since, with the exception of September, the humans were as tall as tran adults but not nearly as broad, any formal outfit was big enough to swim in. Stitching and cutting at children's clothing with near lightspeed, the royal tailor had somehow managed to outfit them all.
September whispered back at Ethan. “Don't worry about it.” He winked in a way Ethan didn't fancy. “Just watch our neighbors and do as they do. I'm told that fighting for a choice section of haunch is permissible, so long as no one spills blood on his neighbor or gravy on the Landgrave.”
Du Kane plucked at his modified coat unsteadily, but Colette seemed to have him well under control. As to her own “gown,” it at least served to minimize her bulkiness — though it would pass unnoticed among the broad-beamed tran. As to its composition, all she could say was that it itched.
Ahead, sounds of Trannish chatter mingled with rough bellows of good humor, defiance, anger, outrage, enjoyment. Occasionally a sonorous belch would rise above all.
There was also music from stringed instruments, drums, and something close to a profoundly sick oboe. Odors of broiled meat and boiled vegetables tweaked other senses. Admiration and uncertainty at the presence of strange visitors apparently did not extend to waiting dinner for them.
Hunnar met them outside the entrance to the Great Hall. He appeared more nervous than Ethan could recall.
“There you are. By the great wild Rifs, what took you all so long? I was starting to believe that perhaps after all you had decided to... to go your way by another path.”
“Not a chance, Hunnar old man or whatever,” said September, clapping the knight on the shoulders. It didn't faze the tran, Ethan noted with a twinge of envy.
Hunnar looked past the big man. “Where is the little quiet one?”
“Oh, Walther's here too,” replied September, jerking a thumb to the rear.
Even in splendid silks and furs the kidnapper still managed a ratty appearance.
“I don't think Huanar means him,” added Ethan, looking over their little assemblage. “Where's Williams?”
September had a glance himself. “Yes, where is—”
“Rest at ease, gentlemen, here I am.” The familiar voice came from the far end of the hall. The schoolteacher appeared with the wizard, Eer-Meesach. Williams smiled apologetically as he drew next to them.
“I'm sorry for my tardiness, friends. I hope I haven't upset anything.”
“No, no,” said September. “Confound it, man, must you apologize for everything?”
“I'm sorry,” Williams replied automatically. “Malmeevyn has given me some information that could be of great import.” The wizard bowed slightly.
“Ya, sure,” grunted September, unimpressed.
“'Tis time,” interrupted Hunnar, before the teacher could continue. “Follow me and be at your ease. I don't believe many will stare at you anyway. In that respect your arriving late is beneficial. But those with interested eyes will note who you enter with.”
Malmeevyn obviously had standards of his own, because he'd left them already. As they started in Ethan sidled over to Williams.
“What's your news?”
“What do you know of Rex Plutonicus?” whispered the schoolmaster.
“Rex Plutonicus?” Ethan's brow crinkled. He looked knowledgeably at the other. “That's the monster volcano they spotted on the first survey, isn't it? Active, about eleven kilometers high? I didn't know you'd taken a terrain tape.”
“I didn't,” Williams replied. “That was broadcast as part of a general passenger orientation — to sell shuttle-down tickets, I suppose. It's the most outstanding single topographical feature on the planet.”
“I must have been asleep,” Ethan answered. “I only remember it from the tapes.”
“Do you recall its location?”
“No. Wait ... yes. It's about four hundred kilometers due east of Brass Monkey.”
“Correct. Sight-seeing trips are run from the settlement.”
>
“I may be dense, but I don't see the import yet.”
“The wind here blows almost continually from the west,” said Williams with carefully controlled excitement. “Malmeevyn says that on very windy days great clouds of black smoke and ash descend on the earth. They darken the land and make the crops bitter. The smoke and ash come always from the same southwesterly direction. No one from Sofold has ever been there, but occasionally a trading ship will arrive that has passed near. Its a great burning mountain. The Trannish name means ‘The-Place-Where-The-Earth's-Blood-Burns.’ ”
“Damn! I see what you mean. Reach the volcano and from there to Brass Monkey is easy. Southwest and then we're warm again!”
“There could be variations in the smoke pattern,” cautioned Williams. “But the wizard was quite insistent about it always coming from the same direction. Most of the time the wind blows due east, so smoke and soot from many eruptions would pass far south of here.”
Ethan was rubbing mental hands together. “At least we have a direction now for our raft ... if we can get a raft.” Suddenly he found himself beside a chair. September was whispering in his ear.
“For O'Morion's sake, young feller, sit down!” He tugged at Ethan's jacket. “Sit down! Want 'em all staring at you?”
Ethan sat. Then he became aware of the Boschian scene he'd been drawn into.
They were seated on the outside of a great table shaped like a long letter “U.” Tran of all sizes and descriptions were seated both inside and outside the arms of the table. The Landgrave, his daughter, and Eer-Meesach were sitting at the base of the U, on the outside, facing three empty chairs.
“For the Landgrave's ancestors,” explained, September.
Hunnar was seated across the table from them, on the inside and several seats down the U. Ethan noticed that their little group was positioned well down the arm of the table, close to the Landgrave. A location of some honor, probably. The richness of silks and furs was dazzling. Ethan saw neither fashion nor couture, only credit signs with lots of lovely zero's trailing behind like newborn puppies. The attire of Sofolds nobility offered every color. Gold, deep blue, and scarlet predominated.
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