Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  There were more trumpets from Sarakos’ column, and the vanguard knights spread across forty abreast. They moved forward at a walk, then at a trot. The lines rippled as lances fell into place, and the trumpet sounded once more. The trot became a canter as the charge swept forward.

  “Now,” Tylara prayed. “Now. In Yatar’s name, NOW!”

  Her own trumpets sounded. Her knights wheeled, and spurred their mounts ahead, trotting down the road toward Dravan, riding after the dust cloud raised by the retreating woodcutters.

  Tylara muttered thanks to the Dayfather. That had been the first of the many things that could go wrong. If the knights would not run, if the sight of the enemy had brought them to a hopeless charge because it would be dishonorable to run—more than one battle had been lost through blind obedience to the dictates of a cavalier’s honor. As this one might yet be.

  “They flee! The cowards run!” The shouts rose from Sarakos’ charging knights.

  As her own knights rode away, there were tiny movements in the brush at the roadsides. Men hidden in holes beneath the brush thrust torches upward, then fled toward the sides of the pass. Thin wisps of smoke rose, here and there a flame. The waxy stalks caught fire quickly.

  Her knights reached the wide place where they had waited earlier. They wheeled as one, facing the enemy. Their lances came down.

  “The cowards hide behind fire!” someone shouted. “We will teach them!” The charging enemy came on harder, a hundred paces into the brush. Two hundred, and still they rode. Tylara held her breath.

  When the leading elements were three hundred paces into the brush-strewn pass, a hundred paces beyond the top of the pass, her own trumpets sounded. There was a flash of movement on the hillsides above the pass. Bright kilts, dull leather, the dull shine of steel caps painted with earth colors. A moment before there wasn’t a man to be seen. Now almost two hundred archers were standing behind shrubs, behind rocks, seemingly having risen from the very ground. They raised their bows, nocked arrows, and drew back to cheek and eye.

  There were shouts from Sarakos’ troops, but it was obvious to even the most stupid that there was no halting the charge. Safety lay ahead, through the screen of knights, out of the growing fire and away from the archers. The leading horsemen spurred harder.

  Another pause. Then a shout from the hillside. “Let the grey gulls fly!”

  The arrows flew with a deadly sound. In a moment the air was thick with them. Even as the first flight struck, another was on its way. Shafts the length of a tall man’s arm and tipped with steel sped from bows drawn by men who’d used them since childhood. The second flight struck, and another arched out.

  The slaughter was terrifying. The arrows pierced horses, saddles, even armor itself. Horses reared and bolted, crashed into each other, tripped and fell and stumbled over fallen horses. The centaurs screamed in rage and pain, their stubby arms flailing wildly, their half-hands frantically plucking at the arrows, their heads twisted to lick wounds. They seized their riders and tried to throw them off, or fell into the brush and rolled on their backs. Some plunged uphill off the road, to be shot down before they could climb far.

  Still the arrows flew. The charge was broken into scattered groups, driblets of twos and threes and fours; not a solid wave of armored men with lances, but a disorganized horde fleeing past the archers, away from the growing fires, out into the broad area beyond—

  To be struck by the countercharge of Tylara’s knights. With a hundred paces to build momentum they struck the leading elements of Sarakos’ forces, driving their enemy back toward the flames and the falling arrows, then wheeling away as yet another wave charged through to strike and turn. They too wheeled and joined their fellows; halted and dismounted.

  Dismounted. One-eye Vothan had smiled on her, had not maddened her knights as he so easily might have done. They had obeyed orders. Most western knights wouldn’t fight dismounted; the Eqetas of Chelm had trained these well.

  They stood with leveled lances, poised just beyond the burning brushwood, an impenetrable wall on which Sarakos’ men could break themselves again and again, but never get through. They could not have withstood a mounted charge by an organized group, but there was no danger of that. Sarakos’ force milled about in the smoke and flame, galled by the ceaseless shower of arrows, held by the fire and the bodies of their own comrades. The dismounted line was more than able to kill the few who rode out of the smoke.

  A brisk wind came up to whip the flames. They grew and flamed higher, until for five hundred paces the pass looked like the very Pit—a tangle of smoke and fire, shouting men, men unhorsed, dying horses, riderless centaurs maddened by fire and plunging into everyone. And through it all the Tamaerthon gulls flew with their deadly bite, flight after flight of the grey shafts.

  The Sarakos trumpets sounded a frantic retreat, but for far too many there was no retreat possible.

  The arrows did not come in flights now. The archers picked single targets, concentrating on men still mounted, bringing down their mounts to leave the armored men helpless in the burning brushwood. The pass filled with sounds of pain and terror.

  Tylara sat her horse grimly, her mouth set in a hard line. I thought I would enjoy it, she thought. These are the men who killed my husband. I should enjoy their agony.

  But she felt no joy at all, only sickness and horror which she must hide from her shouting escort, and the numbing realization that this was only the beginning. There would be far more, weeks more.

  I hadn’t known the horses would scream so, she thought. I expected to see men die, but I had not thought of the horses.

  She continued to watch in sick fascination until she suddenly realized what she was doing. She had almost made a fatal mistake.

  Sarakos was bringing up his own archers. Most were cross-bowmen, or mounted archers with short bows they drew only to the chest; none were a match for her Tamaerthon clansmen, but two hundred cannot fight a thousand. It was time to go. She raised her hand and waved vigorously.

  Her trumpets sounded in the pass. Cadaric waved acknowledgement and began sending his archers out; the forward ones first, then others, leapfrogging so that they kept a continuous fire onto the Sarakos troops piled up at the edge of the brushfire.

  Another trumpet call. Nothing happened. Her knights stood at the pass. A few left the line, but they went only for their mounts, and when they were mounted they came back.

  “Fools!” Tylara shouted. She spurred her horse down the knoll to where the knights and bheromen of Chelm stood. More mounted as she came, but they showed no signs of leaving.

  “Ride!” she shouted. “Before the fires burn down and their whole army comes through! Ride, my lords. You’ve done well. One-eye Vothan smiles on you. Sarakos will not soon forget this day. Now, in the name of the Dayfather, ride!”

  Bheroman Trakon sat motionless. “The fire protects them no less than us. There was nothing behind their vanguard but foot. We have more work to do this day.”

  “Not true,” Tylara shouted. “They were bringing up their horse archers even as I watched, and they have their crossbowmen. You will ride into their volleys, and the remnant will be charged by their cavalry.”

  Trakon didn’t move.

  “My lord,” Tylara said. She tried to control the panic in her voice. “If you mean to die here today, I will stand with you. It will be no victory no matter how many we destroy, for we will have given Dravan to Sarakos. If we are caught here, anywhere but within the walls, we are finished.

  “I would rather be killed with my husband’s knights than ride to Dravan and live to see it fall to Sarakos. Is that your will?”

  Trakon sat motionless for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it of the morning fog. “You speak well, Lady. We have won no victory if we stay to be killed.” He rose in his stirrups to shout orders. “Carry the dead and wounded away. Leave nothing for Sarakos. Let him believe that he has lost the quarter of his vanguard to ghosts, to achieve nothing.” He turn
ed and rode down the pass. After a moment, Tylara followed.

  I follow, she thought. It was my victory, but I follow. She sighed, knowing what would be thought by everyone who saw.

  * * *

  A week later, Sarakos reached Castle Dravan. The first attempt to storm the castle was repulsed; attack and defense might have been the opening steps in a ritual dance. The next move was also set; Sarakos dug in and erected pavilions and defenses around the castle.

  There was no entry or exit from Dravan. Sarakos and his army waited for their siege train.

  3

  The siege towers rolled forward slowly. The armored heads of picks thrust out of them as if eager to attack the walls and gates of Dravan. Hundreds of men strained to push the monsters forward. Overseers shouted cadence. Boys poured melted fat on the axles. They would reach the walls by afternoon.

  “It is time, Tylara,” Trakon said. “Time and past time.”

  She looked helplessly at him, then at the others: Cadaric, his son Caradoc, and Yanulf. “Have I no other advice?” she asked.

  “You know mine, Lady,” Cadaric said. He clutched his bow. “There are no more shafts. As for me, as well to die; but it would be waste to no purpose.”

  Cadaric’s son Caradoc opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his father’s look. The young man looked down at the towers in hatred.

  Yanulf nodded sagely. “What choice is there? In a day they will be inside, and it always fares ill with the populace when a place is taken by storm.” He paused. “You need not stay, Lady. My place is with the acolytes in the caves of the Preserver, and we could find you a place there as well.”

  “No,” Trakon said. “I will have a better bargain for her than that.”

  Yanulf bowed. “I will not wait, then.” He turned to leave the battlements.

  “I will send my son with you,” Cadaric said. “Perhaps Yatar will aid him to return to Tamaerthon.”

  “And perhaps not,” Yanulf said. “But it is well to have young men as apprentices.” The old priest waved toward the armies below the walls. “Fools all. The Time approaches, and still men fight.”

  “But not for long,” Tylara said. She turned to Trakon, but for a moment she could not find words. Finally she said, “Make a good bargain for our people.”

  “I will. It will be for the best.”

  Tylara stood at the battlements as Trakon went to the gate and hoisted the green branch of truce.

  * * *

  Her ladies dressed her, and one of Sarakos’ officers led her to the council chamber. She felt strangely light without mail and steel cap, and stranger still to be unarmed. Strangest of all was to see Sarakos in her place at the head of the table.

  He looked young to be so powerful. He was a big man, but not fat; even his eyes showed strength. He was handsome, but she did not forget for a moment that this was the man who had killed her husband while others held him helpless.

  His smile was not pleasant. “Welcome, Lady.” He stared at her and she shuddered.

  Sarakos was not alone in the room. Guards held Bheroman Trakon. His shirt was open; there was blood on his bare chest. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  “You are all traitors,” Sarakos said. “Traitors do not die easily, as you will learn.” He motioned to the guards. “Take that carrion out and kill him with the rest.”

  Trakon shook off the guards and stood straight, although he winced to do it. “Is this how a Wanax keeps his promises?” he demanded. “You gave your word that the Lady Tylara and I—”

  “Would marry,” Sarakos said. “After the traitors were killed. And so shall you be. Joined forever.” He turned and looked appreciatively at Tylara. “I can see why you wanted her. You may have to wait for her, but you will have her for all time when I am through.” He waved dismissal to the guards.

  For an hour, Castle Dravan sounded with the screams of the dying. Tylara was forced to stand at the window and watch as her soldiers were killed; some beheaded, the archers used as targets for Sarakos’ crossbowmen, the officers flung from the castle battlements.

  Then she was taken to Sarakos’ bedchamber, and another kind of horror began.

  * * *

  She heard the massive door opening and whimpered, trying to draw her knees tighter to her chest. She kept her eyes closed. Which would it be: the crone with the whip or Sarakos himself? She remembered his parting words; “You have not pleased me. I would as soon have a corpse. But before you die, you will please me. You will beg for the chance.”

  “My lady.”

  The voice seemed different. Familiar, and youthful. It was not Sarakos—

  “My lady. There is little time. You must come now.”

  She was afraid. Was it a trick? But the voice was urgent. She found the courage to open her eyes and turn her head, although she dared not hope.

  She saw kilts—her own plaid—and looked higher. “Caradoc!” she cried. He reached for her and she let him help her stand. He gasped when he saw her back, and she leaned on him as he led her urgently out of the bedchamber. There were two dead men lying at her door.

  * * *

  The hour was early. They saw no one as they went down the back stairs to the large cistern below ground; then to the massive doorways that led still farther below; to the caves of the Protectors. The ammonia smell was strong. She hesitated, but Caradoc hustled her through and closed the doors behind. Two acolytes with torches came to help her now. Their faces showed disapproval of this invasion of their realm.

  They went through darkened tunnels, turning until she was lost. Finally they came to a larger room lit with another torch. Yanulf was there.

  “The guards were drunk,” Caradoc said. “I killed four. No one else was awake.”

  “We must be gone before they are found,” Yanulf said. The priest turned to the acolytes. “Fetch bladders.”

  They stared at him in horror.

  “Do you think Yatar prefers his secrets to the torture of his friends?” Yanulf snapped. “This lady treated us well. She will not reveal what she sees, nor will Caradoc.”

  The acolytes hesitated a moment more, then left. When they came back, they carried inflated sheep’s bladders.

  Yanulf pointed to a door in the chamber. “We will go through there. You must breathe only from the bladders, and you must hold your breath as long as possible. The journey is steep, and we cannot pause to rest until we are through the tunnels and outside the door on the far side. It will be dark. Is this understood?”

  Tylara stared at him in confusion. She wanted to lie down, to rest, to sleep, to forget the pain in her back and the terrible pain between her thighs. Pain filtered the memories, but not entirely. “There is no need,” she said. “Give me your dagger, and—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Yanulf told her. “Do you think I have invited Sarakos to violate Yatar’s house and just let you die?”

  “I may carry Sarakos’ child,” she said. “I’d rather be dead.”

  “Time enough when you know. But it’s unlikely,” Yanulf said. He was thoughtful for a moment. “Very unlikely, even leaving out your virginity.”

  The priests of Yanulf were said to know when women could conceive.

  “Alive there is hope of vengeance,” Caradoc said. “For you and for my father. Until I see Sarakos gull-feathered, I will stay alive.”

  “Come.” Yanulf handed her the bladder. “Before you use the bladder, breathe deeply. Many times.” He demonstrated. “More.” When he was satisfied, he motioned to the acolytes to open the heavy doors.

  There were more doors beyond. These next were sealed with leather. Tylara felt the ammonia stinging her eyes, and even through the bladder she could smell the pungent odor when the last doors were opened.

  Cold welled out of the caves. She took an acolyte’s hand and let herself be led into darkness.

  * * *

  There was no light at all. She felt the walls as they went through. There were shelves with baskets, and slabs
of meat hanging below those. Between the shelves were slimy bulbous things, cold to the touch. Then there was ice.

  They seemed to go on forever. The air in the bladder was stale, and her lungs ached so much that she nearly forgot her other pains. She was certain that she would faint from lack of breath, but at that moment they stopped. Light burst in from a door opened in front of them. They hurried through, past another door, and stood outside in the dying light of the night sun. To the east was the red of dawn.

  There were horses. She felt herself lifted up behind Caradoc. She clung to him and they rode away. After a while, she fell asleep clinging to the archer. In her dreams, she had Sarakos flayed alive, and she smiled.

  * * *

  The true sun was high overhead when at last they stopped at a crossroads.

  “We must hurry on,” Yanulf was saying.

  “This horse must rest,” Caradoc answered. “Carrying double has nearly foundered him.” He reached up to help Tylara down, then led the horse to the watering trough that stood next to the stone heap. He bowed to the heap before allowing the horse to drink.

  Tylara bowed as well. Crossroads were sacred to the Guide of the Dead. Then she turned to Yanulf. “Thank you.”

  “Thank him.” He pointed at Caradoc.

  “I have. But we would not have escaped if you had not—” she stopped herself.

  “Broken my oath of secrecy?” Yanulf said. “Yes. Doubtless I will answer for that. But I spoke truly to the acolytes. Yatar cannot wish his secrets held at such a cost.”

  “Where are we going?” Tylara asked.

  Caradoc answered from behind her. “This is the east road,” he said. “Perhaps we will find the boy Wanax and the Protector. And if not—it leads home.”

  Home. She looked to the east, but Tamaerthon was more than a hundred leagues, across salt flats and pirate lands. “There’s someone coming,” she said. She pointed eastward. Two men and a woman were walking up the road. The woman wore strange-trousered clothing like the men.