Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  If he didn’t stay with the Stone House Chiefs, there would be no home for the Silver Wolves. Without a home, they would perish, Walking Stone’s work would be done for him, his enemies would lose heart, and all this without costing the dung-weaned son of a diseased mare a single warrior!

  This was the truth, but not all of it. The rest of the truth was that Mad Bear had begun to see that the sky-wizards themselves might be the sign from the gods. If they were indeed wizards. Mad Bear had begun to doubt even this. Certainly they had wizardry at their command, but they bled and died like men—and when they died, they died like warriors.

  It seemed true, what he’d thought first in the tent where he awoke a prisoner of the wizards. Nothing among gods or men would ever be the same again, and a wise man would do what his own wisdom told him to do, not wait for signs that the gods might have already given.

  Mad Bear knew that he himself would not live to see all that would come of the rule of the wizard-warriors. Still, he might get sons who would, and their sons might stand beside the wizard-warriors as blood brothers and fight among the very stars.

  He would have to be content with drinking his death toast from Walking Stone’s skull.

  The path began to climb the hill. Mad Bear slowed further and raised his spear to the Child of Fire. He would keep the vigil according to custom, give judgment likewise, and make the horse sacrifice afterward.

  He would make the horse sacrifice alone, though, with no one aiding. If by some chance he had angered the gods, let their punishment fall on him alone.

  21

  Tylara awoke with a headache that felt as if Great Guns were being fired inside her skull. Dull knives stabbed her in the ribs every time she breathed. Her left wrist and right ankle throbbed so hard she was glad she was in bed with no reason to move them.

  It wasn’t much of a bed—she felt straw under her and smelled damp fleeces piled over her—but it was a bed, inside some building with whitewashed plaster walls around her and a thatched roof overhead. The knowledge that she was safe in a bed, out of the weather and perhaps in the hands of friends, made her groan in a way the pain could never have done.

  She had given herself into the hands of the gods as a sacrifice, to turn away their vengeance from her husband and children, from Chelm and Tamaerthon and Drantos. She should not be alive. She could not be alive unless the gods had rejected her sacrifice.

  What she felt now was worse than the pain of her wounds, although she had not endured such pain since she bore Isobel. It was despair, which she had not felt since she crouched in Sarakos’ bedchamber, wondering who would come next, Sarakos or the crone with the whip?

  The despair was not so much for herself, although she knew that if the gods had not allowed her to offer her own life in return for Caradoc’s they would demand something worse. The despair was for those innocent men and women who would now be dragged down with her into the gods only knew what pit of demons.

  Except that in a pit of demons, one could at least be sure that one was already dead, and that matters could grow no worse. Tylara knew that her husband’s punishment, her children’s, Ganton’s—all would begin like hers, while they were still alive to taste the worst of it.

  Pride still forced her to cram her right fist into her mouth to stifle another groan. A moment later she saw faces looming over the bed. A woman and two men. One of the men was armed, while the other looked vaguely familiar. She knew she ought to know him, but she could not remember his name. The woman washed her face and neck, and the man held a cup of cool water that tasted of wine and herbs to her lips. They did things to her wrist, ankle, and head that both hurt and soothed at the same time.

  She was still trying to put a name to the man when her eyes grew too heavy to be worth the trouble to keep open, and she let them fall shut.

  * * *

  The second time Tylara awoke, the pain in her head was only muskets firing, not Great Guns. She realized that her ankle was twisted and swollen, that her wrist and at least two ribs were probably broken, and that her stomach was dreadfully empty.

  The idea of food still made her gag. The sound and movement brought her three attendants to her bedside again. This time she recognized the one who’d seemed familiar. It was Apelles. He had washed his face and found a clean robe somewhere. He smiled as he lifted her wrist to study the bindings.

  “Greetings, my Lady Eqetassa. I rejoice to see you awake. It is a good sign.”

  Tylara tried to turn her head. This set the muskets to firing volleys, but she saw that the opposite wall was now hung with a tapestry of dragons hurling skyfire. The floor was a finger’s-length deep in fresh rushes, and the damp fleeces piled over her had given way to dry furs.

  Tylara wasn’t sure that her healing was a matter for rejoicing. It seemed not unlikely that she would save everyone a great deal of trouble by dying. She also knew that she was most unlikely to die of these wounds even if she refused further care—and if she did that, they would doubtless only treat her as a madwoman and take her fate even further out of her own hands.

  Her thoughts must have shown on her face. Apelles frowned, then gestured toward the door. The woman and the armed man went out. Tylara caught a glimpse of the ragged and mud-smeared surcoat he wore over his short mail coat. It had once been white and green—the colors of Ta-Meltemos.

  “Apelles,” Tylara said when they were alone, “who is the prisoner here—that soldier of Prince Strymon or—?”

  Apelles did not met her eyes. This time she had the strength to weep, but pride kept her eyes dry.

  “Morrone led a final charge when he saw the archers breaking,” Apelles said. He still couldn’t meet her eyes, and busied himself washing her hands and feet. “He caught Strymon’s knights unready. They thought the battle already won. The host of Drantos drove many of the Meltemes from the field.”

  “Then we won?” Tylara asked wonderingly.

  “No. Strymon rallied his forces and held Morrone’s charge. Drantos was already defeated when he challenged Morrone to single combat. Bards will sing of that fight for a thousand years! Morrone fought most valiantly, but he was unhorsed, then stunned. Then our knights who remained on the field yielded on the customary terms of ransom. The Fourth Pikes also yielded, on terms of life and limb.”

  “And—the Tamaerthan archers? Morrone’s levies?”

  “Most of the levies did not wait on the outcome of the charge, but fled the field. The Tamaerthans—they advanced—they advanced—”

  “They advanced too far trying to save me, and could not make a safe retreat?”

  “A good ten-score did, my lady.”

  Ten-score, out of more than eight hundred. Once again she had led the clansmen to slaughter, as she had done against Sarakos. Would they have been able to escape and go on stinging at Strymon if she hadn’t dragged them after her?

  Only the gods could know the answer to that. What she knew was that her people had already suffered part of the punishment she had hoped to turn away by her sacrifice. She had betrayed them as she had betrayed Caradoc, and their blood was on her hands as surely as his was.

  Worse, she had blundered. Rick had defeated a Roman legion with nothing more than Tamaerthan pikes and archers! If I had used them properly, we might yet have saved the day for Morrone.

  She made an animal noise in the back of her throat, tried to swallow, and found that an iron band seemed to have tightened about her neck. Then Apelles was beside her, a surprisingly strong hand gripping her right wrist.

  “My lady. It is not quite unknown—what you tried to do. I do not know why you passed such a judgment on yourself. I do not wish to know, unless you choose freely to tell me. Although you might do well to speak of it to Yanulf, if it lays such a burden on you and for some reason you cannot speak of it to your lord and husband.”

  Tylara’s eyes filled with silent tears.

  “I can say this. You fear that the gods have judged you unfit as a sacrifice, and have some further punishme
nt—”

  “Isn’t a lost battle, thousands dead or taken, and all of Drantos open to Prince Strymon punishment in the eyes of any god or man?”

  Apelles’ face told her that she’d cried loudly enough to be heard outside the chamber. She went on more quietly. “Apelles, don’t treat me like a child.”

  His face now told her that he would not give her the comfort of losing his temper. Then he smiled.

  “My lady, I am only a consecrated priest of Yatar, so I am not as sure of His will and that of Christ His Son as you seem to be. I suppose it is possible that horrors beyond belief await you and yours because you were not a fit sacrifice.

  “Yet I think it likely that whatever your sin, it was not one for which Yatar asks the lives of you and your people. Few sins are as great as that! And beware of assuming that the judgments of the gods are always so simple that men may easily understand them.”

  “Small comfort—”

  “Hear me out. My lady, I know that will be small comfort to you. What you would consider a true comfort, my oaths as a priest of Yatar forbid me to offer, even if common sense did not. Will you swear by Yatar, Vothan, Hestia, and your own honor to lay no hands upon yourself nor to contrive that others aid you in so doing? If you will not, I must lay this matter before Prince Strymon.”

  Tylara now realized why Apelles had gripped her good hand before beginning to speak. If it had been free, she would certainly have thrown something at him. With steel in her hand . . .

  Yet whether or not he was right—and perhaps the will of the gods was harder to guess than it had seemed to her when she rode toward the enemy—he had certainly bound her as tightly as a babe swaddled in a cradle. She had to live. Her only choice was whether she lived with her secret still hers, or with her shame brought before a mortal enemy.

  “By Yatar, by Vothan, By Hestia, and by the lives of Mikail my son and Isobel my daughter, I swear to do myself no harm while I—enjoy Prince Strymon’s hospitality.”

  “Yatar and Christ bless you, my lady.”

  Tylara could not quite keep from smiling. “I think we have spent time enough guessing what the gods may wish. Would it be possible to bring me a meal? I did not swear not to tear your arm out of its socket and start gnawing on it if I am not fed!”

  “Prince Strymon has ordered that you and Lord Morrone be fed from his own table. I shall bring something immediately.”

  “I thank you, Apelles.”

  The priest was out the door and the woman and the guard were coming back through it before Tylara realized that she hadn’t asked about Lord Morrone. Well, Morrone’s skull was thick enough. He’d few enough wits to begin. I hope no more were knocked out of his head.

  * * *

  Her meal was meat broth thickened with barley and a small piece of bread. Apelles cheerfully ignored her demands for three times as much, but at least allowed her to feed herself. As she ate the guard unshuttered the room’s one window. Tylara saw a manure pile, a pigsty, and beyond it the True Sun setting. Apelles brought her a larger cup of the same sleeping draught—a silver cup with Prince Strymon’s stylized megaron device on it—and from somewhere a thin brown and white cat appeared and curled up at the foot of the bed. She drank the sleeping draught thirstily and stretched out under the furs.

  As she did, she realized that since her talk with Apelles she had been behaving as if the gods would allow her to put both Caradoc’s death and the battle behind her. Those debts were still unpaid, and now she had new ones to the kin of the archers who’d died trying to save her.

  That was at least one good reason for staying alive. Another was to learn about Prince Strymon’s camp, his host, perhaps even his plans. There should be a way to send word to her husband and Wanax Ganton.

  Have the gods judged that my punishment is to leave me alive to undo the damage I have done?

  * * *

  The motion of Tylara’s litter changed as the bearers broke step to cross the wooden bridge over the stream known as Sigbard’s Run. Tylara parted the side curtains and looked out. The water level was lower and the current was slower than seven days ago when she was first carried out of the farmhouse they’d given her.

  This was no surprise; there’d been no rain for twelve days, and the mud that had held up the baggage trains of both sides was now gone except in low-lying spots. In the hills, the survivors of her Tamaerthans and Morrone’s levies would no longer be eating cold food and sleeping fitfully in sodden rags. They would be preparing to ambush the Melteman patrols, loot Melteman supply wagons, drive off cattle and even horses, and slit the throats of unwary Melteman sentries.

  They’d done plenty of that already using the weather for cover. Tamaerthan clansmen and southern outlaws. It wasn’t so long ago that Drantos considered all of Tamaerthon as no more than a home for bandits. But it is no wonder that I get black looks from Strymon’s officers. They must have lost much to our raiders.

  Rick had once called it “guerrilla warfare.” Chivalry and peasantry alike had harassed Sarakos and Parsons. Now it would be Strymon’s turn. Doubtless there would be a reckoning for this, but until then Tylara could take comfort both in her own returning health and strength and in the knowledge that her people were helping Rick win this war.

  She had no doubt at all that he would win. The gods do not hate him. He had no part in my sin. And only the gods could best him.

  It was barely a hundred paces from the bridge to the wealthy peasant’s house that had been turned into quarters for her. Strymon had offered her hospitality in Bheroman Ajacias’ castle, but the idea of accepting so much as a crust of bread from that traitor revolted her.

  That would be reason enough, but she also suspected that Ajacias was more the ally of Prince Teodoros, Strymon’s younger brother, than Prince Strymon. Strymon deserved his reputation for honor and chivalry. She was not so certain of his brother, and she feared the men around Prince Teodoros. She was particularly concerned about a burly Vothanite archpriest who spoke like a king’s councilor and moved like a warrior. The little she’d heard him say showed that he knew far too much about Drantos, Tamaerthon, and even Rick’s star warriors.

  The litter bearers had brought her nearly to the house when half a score of riders reined in. The helmeted axemen surrounded a tall bareheaded man in silvered mail. His fair hair seemed to glow in the light of the rising True Sun. He wore a surcoat of Nikeian red, and an amber-hilted sword of state. Jewels flashed at his ear lobes. Tylara smiled; Prince Strymon could not be called vain about his good looks, be he did not exactly try to hide them either!

  Tylara’s smile faded when he dismounted. Prince Strymon’s face was as friendly as a battle-helm.

  “Welcome, my lord,” Tylara said. “I bid you enter, but will you give me a moment?”

  He nodded curtly and paced while Apelles helped Tylara inside to a settee and arranged a bright silk coverlet over her legs. When the bearers left, he stormed in unasked. “Leave us,” he commanded Apelles.

  “Your Highness,” Tylara protested. “Apelles is a consecrated priest of Yatar. His oaths—”

  “I know the oaths of a priest of Yatar. I also know that his master is Yanulf, Chancellor of Drantos, and that half the priests of Yatar follow him no matter what land they serve in.”

  Tylara bristled. “Do you doubt my honor?”

  Strymon returned an encouraging ghost of his usual smile. “No more, my lady Eqetassa, than I doubt your beauty or the sharpness of your tongue. Do you doubt my wits? I wish to speak to you alone.”

  Tylara sighed. “Apelles, if you please—”

  “Certainly, my lady. I will wait outside.”

  Apelles went out; two of Strymon’s guards brought honeycakes, fine bronze cups set with seashells, a jug of water and another of wine. Another brought a small folding table fitted with ivory and silver. Strymon on campaign seemed half a Roman. He carried the luxuries of a Praetor, but he also fortified his camps, sent out scouts, paid attention to sanitation—and mixed his wine hal
f with water.

  Strymon did that now and filled their cups. Tylara sipped at hers. The brown and white cat who had adopted Tylara jumped up on the settee. Strymon absently broke off a piece of honeycake and gave it to the cat, who took it and jumped to the floor.

  “My lady. I cannot imagine that you do not know that the survivors of your—of the Host of Drantos—continue to fight in the hills around us. Supplies and messengers are not safe unless they are escorted by five-score and more armed riders. Men have been sent gullfeathered to Vothan’s House without ever seeing an enemy. Others have gone to sleep three under a blanket, and in the morning the one in the middle has awakened to find his comrades lying with their throats cut.”

  Tylara recalled hearing Rick speak of such a trick used on Earth, by warriors who swam into battle in the country called Vietnam. “Surely you do not complain that my people are teaching yours the folly of sleeping on watch? When they have done their work, you will have a smaller host, but most assuredly a better one.”

  “This is not a matter for jesting. I want it stopped!”

  “That is easily done. Release us and return to your own lands. Do that and we will harry you no more.”

  “There could be a blood price for such obstinacy. Not your blood alone, either.”

  “Threats, Highness? Against your prisoners? I take it you are not satisfied with the songs the bards will sing of your combat with Morrone. You wish them to sing of your dishonor as well.”

  “Lady—”

  “Your Highness, your can do nothing to me, or Lord Morrone, that will win you the smallest victory over the men in the hills. What you can do is make certain of war to the knife. You believe you have won a victory because you bested a foolish King’s Companion and a woman. Wait until you face not the chivalry of Drantos, but Romans, Tamaerthan pikes and archers who have bested Romans, Great Guns and muskets—and star weapons. Wait until you face the Wanax Ganton who is your equal, and my Lord Rick who is the master of us all! When you have bested them you may proclaim victory.”