Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  A flight of arrows whizzed past, then another. He felt wasp-sting pains as a couple of points just got through his armor, and felt his horse shudder. This time he got out of the saddle before the horse started to go down, but still he landed clumsily. A worse pain than the arrows shot through one ankle. He lurched to his feet and tried to sight on the Roman commander. Good luck, Tylara—

  Elliot rode out of the woods at a canter, leading a spare horse. At the same time arrows and bullets flew from behind several trees. Four Romans went down, but others kept on coming. Elliot unslung his H&K and emptied a magazine at full automatic. This time the effect was obvious. The Roman point was scattered, with a dozen horses wounded. They plunged and reared, leaving the Roman force in disarray. The officer shouted something, and they wheeled to fall back to the bridge.

  * * *

  Elliot rode up with the spare mount. “Need a lift, Captain?”

  “Damn straight.” Rick mounted and rode into the trees. Finally he had time to stop and survey the situation. Nothing broken. Maybe. His ankle hurt like hell, and his thumb throbbed like fury, but he didn’t have time for them just now. “Thanks, Sarge.”

  “Nothing to it,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah. Sarge, have you got that one-oh-six with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He pointed; Bisso was about fifty yards away with the weapon. “Want me to drop the bridge?”

  “Christ, no! We need that bridge. No, what I have in mind is blowing open a path for some of our troops to get across. Do that and we’ve got the Romans trapped.”

  “Yeah. Why don’t they retreat?”

  “I don’t know. But I can guess. They don’t want to go tell Flaminius Caesar that they retreated from a bunch of barbarians. They’re probably supposed to hold this side of the bridge so Flaminius can get his army across.”

  “You think his army is near?” Elliot asked.

  “Looks like it. Why else would there be both scouts and legionaries? I think we’ve run into their vanguard, and that officer there knows it. So he’s waiting for reinforcements he’s pretty sure to get.”

  Elliot looked thoughtful. “Be hard to hold too many more with just the troops we have here.”

  “I know. I’ve sent for the whole army. First thing, I’ll need to borrow your H&K. Fine. Now, let’s see if we can get across that bridge.”

  * * *

  Elliot dismounted and shouted orders. Bisso and his companion moved to the edge of the woods and set up the one-oh-six on its tripod. The Romans, meanwhile, did nothing.

  “What the hell?” Bisso asked.

  “Still don’t want to retreat,” Rick said. “Not from barbarians. But that last clip spooked ’em enough they don’t want to charge, either—set up the light machine gun over here.”

  Elliot fussed with the machine-gun sights, then bent over the one-oh-six recoilless rifle. “Clear everyone from behind,” he said. “All of you—get! Move, dammit. Okay, Captain, ready when you are.”

  Rick faced his dismounted guardsmen. “Stand easy. When that gun goes off, it will be damned noisy. The mounts won’t like it, so hold them. When you hear the charge, ride like hell for the bridge. We’ll go right over. Don’t stop to fight. Just get over that bridge. Okay, Sergeant Major, stay ready. We’ll wait as long as we can. I’d like to have some reinforcements.”

  “Sir.”

  Only we can’t wait too long, Rick thought. The rest of Flaminius’ army will be coming up too. Or that detachment will decide to retreat across the bridge and we’ll really be for it. I ought to go now—

  Yeah. Now, before you lose your bloody nerve and won’t be able to do it. Who the hell do you think you are, Napoleon at the Bridge of Lodi?

  While Elliot was making sure of his sights, a dozen guards archers came up on foot, with a fresh supply of arrows and a message from Caradoc. The ambush in the rear was defeated, and new troops had come in from the main force. There were a lot of Romans scattered in among the forests, but they’d ceased to exist as an organized force.

  The main army was coming, but it would be an hour or more before any infantry could arrive. Drumold and the Tamaerthan heavies ought to be along sooner. There was as yet no reply from the Romans.

  And Rick thought he could see dust rising far down the road across the river. Flaminius? Or imagination? Whatever, it was time.

  “Guardsmen, mount up! Elliot, stand ready to fire!”

  “Sir.” He bent over the sights.

  “Mind your mounts!” Rick called. “Shoot!”

  “Fire in the hole!” Elliot shouted. The recoilless blasted leaves off trees in a triangle behind it. Horses reared.

  The shell exploded among the Romans just at the bridge. Horses reared and plunged, and one whole section of Roman cavalry bolted away. A number of Romans were down.

  “Got the range first shot,” Elliot said proudly.

  The Roman troops milled in disorganization. Their officer shouted at them.

  “Fire!” Elliot shouted.

  This time the round struck near the Roman officer. More of their cavalry went down.

  “Ride!” Rick ordered. “Sound the charge.”

  Trumpets blared, and they were riding forward at the gallop. There was no time to shoot at anyone, and nothing to shoot at either. Rick had drawn his saber; he held it point forward as he rode hunkered down to the horse’s neck. He hoped someone was behind him.

  He galloped onto the bridge, then across it. Some of the bridge planking was missing; his horse barely jumped across one gap. Then he was at the other side. He turned to the right and brought the horse up sharply.

  Twenty guardsmen had followed and were on the bridge. Jamiy, his sword arm bound to his chest, was in their lead, mounted on the centaur he favored. He shouted at the beast and it turned to stand next to Rick.

  “Dismount!” Rick commanded. “Dismount and hold the bridge!”

  The Roman saw his danger now, and was trying to rally his troops to charge across. A score made for the bridge approach, then fell as Elliot’s light machine-gun stuttered. Rick unslung the H&K and waited; two Romans made it onto the bridge. He shot them off it, feeling ashamed as he did.

  The Roman officer rallied his troops and drew up in column formation fifty yards from the bridge. There was more rifle fire from the woods, and some Romans dropped. By now Rick’s guardsmen were also dismounted and had unlimbered their bows.

  “You haven’t a chance!” Rick shouted. “Surrender in honor!”

  The Roman officer stood in his stirrups and waved forward. The Roman line charged. Lances dipped in unison as they thundered toward the bridge—

  Elliot’s machine-gun stuttered again. Rick added to the fire with his H&K. He found he had trouble seeing. There was a mist in his eyes. Lord God, what troops! He aimed low, at the mounts, hoping not to kill any more of the Romans.

  The charge was broken, but still a half-dozen Roman troopers managed to get to the bridge. They rode on, and now there was nothing for it but to shoot them down in a hail of arrows and bullets.

  The other Romans withdrew. Their officer was down, lying half-under his mount.

  A dozen Tamaerthan heavy cavalry burst from the woods. Drumold’s banner led the way. More of the chivalry of Tamaerthon followed. They charged toward the Romans.

  “No!” Rick screamed. He struggled to get onto his mount. “You! Ischerald! You’re in charge. Hold on here. Jamiy, follow me!” Rick spurred back across the bridge.

  They reached the other side. “See to their officer,” Rick shouted to Jamiy. “Get an acolyte of Yatar. Instantly, damn you! He’s too good a man to die like that!”

  He rode slantwise until he was between Drumold and the Romans. Then he led the Tamaerthan troopers forward. The Romans rode away until their remnant was brought to bay, the river bank at their backs. A few stripped off armor and dove in. They vanished in the swift, muddy water, and Rick couldn’t see what happened to them.

  Probably doomed, he thought. One of the more unpleasant life f
orms on Tran was the hydra, a fresh-water squidlike mollusk that could grow to twenty feet in length. The big hydras preferred clear, slow-moving water, but there were smaller forms in nearly all deep streams. One forded Tran rivers with care.

  The remaining Romans sat their horses defiantly. There were no more than fifty left, and now they faced fifty Tamaerthan heavies and twice that many guardsmen. Still they stood proudly.

  Rick reined up a hundred yards from the Romans.

  Drumold rode up. “I came as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. We must get reinforcements over the bridge. We’ve got to hold the other side.”

  “That may no’ be so easy,” Drumold said. “As I topped the rise yonder I saw the flash of armor. Perhaps twenty stadia away. Legionaries, I think.”

  “All the more reason to hold the bridge,” Rick said. He thought for a moment. “We’ll need to ride out and show ourselves to the Romans, before they get close enough to see how few we have across the river. That should stop them for the day. Can you get your chaps to let themselves be seen and then retreat back here?”

  “Aye, although they will not be pleased to do so. But they will do it—Rick, we have already been told of your charge for the bridge. And earlier, in the clearing. No man will call you coward now.”

  Yeah. I knew that. And I’ve killed a lot of good men to make it happen. Ah, hell.

  “And what do we do here?” Drumold asked. He pointed at the Romans.

  “I go to speak with them.”

  “And if they shoot you down?”

  “Then you’re in command.” Rick rode forward alone, his hands spread out empty. When he was fifty yards from the Roman line he held his hand up, palm forward. “Hail, soldiers of Rome.”

  There was a long pause. Finally a Roman soldier rode forward. “Hail, barbarian.”

  “Lay down your arms,” Rick shouted. “You have fought honorably, against star weapons and great odds. Now accept honor and take quarter.”

  “From whose hand?” the Roman demanded.

  “In the name of Marselius Caesar,” Rick replied. “You will have heard of his amnesty for all who follow an enthroned Caesar. This I too swear. I am Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries, Eqeta of Chelm, War Leader of Tamaerthon, War Lord of Drantos, Ally and Friend to Marselius Caesar.”

  The Roman seemed to think that one over.

  “Archers!” Drumold shouted from behind him. “Prepare the gulls.”

  A group of guardsmen dismounted. They drew their long bows from bowcases.

  “You know what Tamaerthan archers can do,” Rick shouted. “You will die to no purpose. How can it serve Rome to have her finest soldiers slaughtered? Lay down your arms.”

  “Way! Way there!” someone called from behind.

  A group of guardsmen and acolytes of Yatar came out toward Rick. They carried the Roman officer in a blanket.

  “Your tribune lives,” Rick shouted. “We tend his wounds. He bids you lay down your arms.”

  The Roman decurion looked back at his companions. Then slowly he rode forward. A few yards away he halted, drew his sword, and dismounted. Silently he came forward and presented it hilt first. Then he knelt in submission.

  * * *

  Drumold led the Tamaerthan heavy cavalry across the bridge and down the road, as guardsmen collected the Roman weapons. Half an hour later, the first blocks of pikemen arrived. Rick sent them across the bridge to secure their foothold on the other side.

  And now there was nothing to do but wait. And hurt. His clothes were stuck to him with blood from the arrow wounds, his ankle was starting to swell, and his thumb and whole right hand were already swollen. He’d forgotten to take off his ring; they would have to cut that off, and soon, too, or he’d lose the finger. There were other bumps and bruises he felt now that the adrenalin was no longer flowing.

  But we won, he thought. “ ’Twas a famous victory . . .”

  * * *

  Caradoc rode up with the rest of the Guard.

  “You’ll be personally responsible for the Roman prisoners,” Rick said. “I have promised them safety. They keep all their property except weapons, and they’re to be well treated. All of them. And guarded by enough troops that they won’t try to escape. I don’t want one single one of them harmed. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Caradoc said.

  And there aren’t a hell of a lot of people I can give that order to and be sure it will be carried out.

  “Can you come now?” Caradoc asked. “There is a man you must see.”

  Rick sighed wearily. “Is it urgent?”

  “Very urgent, lord. It is Tethryn.”

  “He lives?”

  “For the moment. The priests did not think he should be moved, but he was determined to speak to you, and has come.” Caradoc paused for a moment. “I think it makes little difference whether we move him or not.”

  “I’ll come,” Rick said. “I owe him my life.”

  Tethryn lay on a horse litter at the edge of the clearing. His brother Dwyfyd bent over him. They look so much alike, Rick thought. Alike, and young and—Dwyfyd’s eyes were wet with tears.

  “Lord Rick.” The dying boy’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “Hail, my friend and companion—”

  “Thank you.”

  “You must rest.”

  “There is no time, Lord. Vothan One-eye has chosen me to guest in his hall this day. But I hope—you will not believe you see only enemies—in Clan Calder now. Some—some of the lesser chiefs . . .”

  “Some of them would rather I did, so they can continue to plot against me?”

  The boy was silent so long that Rick thought he’d fainted or died. Then he nodded. “Aye. Couldn’t let you die—to make them happy. Not—when—they lied. My father was wrong. You are—no coward.”

  Tethryn’s eyes closed, and Rick moved away to leave Dwyfyd alone with his brother.

  Damn. Hell and damn. The kid wasn’t eighteen yet.

  * * *

  “It is done?” Rick asked.

  Dwyfyd nodded silently.

  “He was a brave companion,” Rick said. “He will have no minor place in Vothan’s hall.”

  “Lord—”

  “Yes?”

  “May—may I ask a boon in Tethryn’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  Dwyfyd didn’t hesitate. “Corgarff’s life, Lord.”

  “Why?”

  “He is my clansman. And—there are reasons.”

  Aha. So you know that your father was involved in the plot against the balloon. Probably ordered Corgarff’s part in it. And you want to make that up.

  “You do him no great service,” Rick said. “He will be a cripple—”

  “None the less, I owe him. And his family.”

  And you’ve probably paid off that crofter’s family, too. “Clan Calder has a worthy chief,” Rick said. “Caradoc, have messengers ride swiftly. Carry my orders to Lady Gwen that Corgarff is to be pardoned. Tell her that a writ will come soon. She is to stay the headsman’s axe.”

  “Aye,” Caradoc said.

  And you don’t approve. But you’ll send the fastest man anyway, won’t you? There’s real loyalty. If there’s time to save Corgarff, you’ll save him, though you’d rather watch him die.

  Pity we don’t have working radios. A couple of sets would make a lot of difference. Semaphore? Heliograph? Telegraph towers? We could put those up. Have to think about it. Certainly we could link key points to share messages within a few hours . . .

  And there were a thousand other details, and meetings to hold tonight, now that he’d located the edges of at least one legion. Battles to plan and kingdoms to govern and he hadn’t even planted the first stick of surinomaz and Lord how every joint and muscle ached!

  But some problems were solved. They held the bridge. There would be no difficulty in linking up with Marselius—indeed, Flaminius might be caught between them. He’d have to fight.

  And there were p
olitical victories. Clan Calder an ally. Or at least its chief is. The Romans I killed today haven’t died to no purpose. There’ll be fewer knives aimed at my back, and the longer I live the more I can do on this world—

  How many get the chance to change the destiny of a whole world? I’ve been given that chance. Every man who died today will save hundreds over the next few years.

  He told himself this as he swung up into the saddle. He would go on telling himself this, until perhaps someday he would believe it. And through it all, he could still hear the small voice in his mind which said, “Rick Galloway, are you sure you’re not a coward?”

  15

  The monotonous beat of the kettledrums ceased. Second Pike Regiment spread forward to stand guard, while Third Pike began construction of a temporary camp. Roman engineers supervised as the pikemen, assisted by archers, drove stakes and dug ditches.

  “Bloody waste of effort,” someone muttered behind Rick. One of the Tamaerthan knights.

  “It will not be your effort wasted,” said another knight. Dwyfyd, Rick thought. Better, though, to pretend he hadn’t heard at all.

  At least none of the knights was arguing that they ought to dismount and take their ease while the foot soldiers built their camp.

  “Aye. We hae learned from the Romans to sleep well at night, knowing we will no be surprised. And that, my lords, is no small thing.”

  Drumold, of course, Rick thought. But the voice seemed to come from a very long way away. Suddenly he swayed in the saddle—

  * * *

  “My lord.”

  Rick didn’t want to open his eyes. There was a hot smell. Lamp oil. Why would they be burning lamps in the afternoon? He opened one eye. Yellow light. Brown walls. He tried to sit up.

  “Stay easy, my lord.”

  His eyes focussed at last. A young acolyte of Yatar. And Rick was on a cot, in his own tent. It was late enough that lamps were lit.

  “Is he awake?” Drumold’s voice came from outside.

  “Yes, Lord. I will go for the priest.”

  “Do that.” Drumold came in to sit next to Rick. “Are ye well, lad?”

  “Certainly.” He tried to sit up, but his head felt light. “I don’t understand what happened—”