Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  Murphy went with the detail guarding all the prisoners who could walk. It was the only way to make sure the Westmen didn’t cut their throats. Westmen didn’t believe in prisoners, and they believed even less in leaving live enemies behind them.

  The camp and the wounded were left to what might loosely be called the mercy of the Westmen. The only way the Drantos men could stop them if they wanted to cut throats was by a fight. If it came to that, Murphy would rather lose sleep over dead prisoners than over a task force that chewed itself to bits in enemy territory.

  Besides, we got no doctors. Anybody hurt bad enough he can’t walk and unpopular enough his friends won’t carry him isn’t going to make it anyway.

  He stood watch until the prisoners built a camp outside the wagon ring. They been stripped of their weapons, and footgear, despite Murphy’s best efforts, most of their valuables as well. I cannot make these damn fools understand that it’s better to carry oats than gold.

  Murphy heard snatches of bawdy songs coming from the wagons. Somebody had found the wine. He sent two sergeants to be sure the duty platoons stayed sober, and prayed there wasn’t an enemy reaction force anywhere near. Bit different when we’re the Viet Cong. . . .

  Discipline was holding pretty well, though. Probably everybody had filched one choice piece of loot to hold out from the general division of the spoils, but that was nothing new. What mattered was that the horses and the wagons were in good shape.

  A man-at-arms met Murphy as he rode up to the wagons.

  “My lord. Arekor wishes you to speak to Mad Bear and Lord Roscoe before they slay each other. He says it is a matter of honor.”

  “Oh, shit. Okay, I’m coming.”

  * * *

  Murphy found the three men standing beside a camp bed in the former CP tent. On the bed lay the body of a tall blond man of about twenty-five. He’d been shot at least five times in the chest with a nine-millimeter weapon. Ingram. Roscoe’s kill. So? “What’s the problem?”

  Mad Bear promptly burst into a torrent of words, so fast that Murphy couldn’t understand more than one in four. Arekor tried to translate, then gave up and started again after Mad Bear ran down.

  “He says that the Lord Roscoe insults him by giving him Prince Akkilas’ head when he did little to—”

  “What the hell—? Hal, is this Prince Akkilas, Sarakos’ kid brother? Really?”

  “Sarge, he wore steel armor with silver inlays. Toris’s griffin defaced on his shield, and on the camp banner. He’s got a birthmark on his left ear, and wears a silver griffin earring. Who the hell else could he be?”

  “Holy Mother of God,” said Murphy softly. “No wonder the prisoners are acting spooked. That’s why they all ran, once the banner was down! Jenri, go get me a couple of the prisoner officers.”

  “Sir.” His orderly went out.

  “Now, assuming that’s who we’ve got—”

  “It is,” Roscoe said. “Believe it.”

  “I do. Which still doesn’t answer the question. Why the hell do you want to give Mad Bear a head he thinks you should have?”

  “Mad Bear did most of the work. He’d got him off his horse, and in another minute he’d have killed him. I just speeded things up. Hell, Sarge, I was trying to be friendly!”

  “Yeah,” said Murphy. They all looked at him. “Gimme a goddamn minute, will you?”

  Mad Bear muttered something Murphy didn’t understand.

  “Arekor, be real careful when you say this to Mad Bear. Tell him Lord Roscoe offered the head to Mad Bear as brother to his chief. Tell him that Lord Roscoe did not understand that this is not the custom of the Horse People. Roscoe, you nod like anything, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Arekor spoke rapidly. Mad Bear glared, then looked at Murphy, back at Roscoe, then at Murphy again. He grinned and spoke.

  Arekor translated. “He says he has been with you long enough to know something of the ways of starmen, and it will not be necessary for you to swear this is true.”

  “Good. Now somebody send for some of that goddamn wine. And some of that mare piss my brother drinks.”

  His orderly came in with two of the prisoners. Murphy pointed to the body. “Is this Akkilas Son of Toris?” he demanded. He waited a moment. “I see. Take them out. Fellows, we got ourselves either an opportunity or one hell of a problem.”

  * * *

  When the others had left, Murphy poured drinks for himself and Corporal Roscoe. “It all comes down to this,” Murphy said. “Kings don’t like people killing kings and princes unless they do it themselves. I’m going to buck this one up the chain of command.”

  “How in hell are you going to do that when we can’t even get home?” Roscoe demanded.

  “For starters, we take off this guy’s head and pickle it. Keep the shield and banner, too. Then we give the whole goddamn mess to the first senior officer we find, and hope like hell that turns out to be Captain Galloway.”

  “I’ll buy that one,” Roscoe said. “But it ain’t likely. Ganton’s army is a hell of a lot closer.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Murphy said. “I’ve just been studying the best way to join up with him. Of course it’d help if we knew exactly where he was.”

  “You could send the Westmen out looking.”

  “Could, but won’t. We all came in together, and we’ll go out together.” Murphy unrolled a map. “Look, the last we heard, Ganton was just south of Castle Fasolt. It ain’t likely he’s moved too far away. Tomorrow we’ll go looking for him.”

  “About time. Even with the stuff we took tonight, we’re gettin’ low on everything. Especially horses. And your buddies have used up a lot of those ponies of theirs, too.” Roscoe scratched his head. “Sarge, you gotta teach me more about getting along with those touchy little suckers.”

  “Hah. When I learn, I’ll tell you. I know one thing. You and Mad Bear did a hell of a night’s work. You could get a goddamned knighthood out of this. You realize that with Akkilas dead, Ganton’s the nearest male heir to the High Throne?”

  “No shit? But I thought it wasn’t exactly hereditary—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s so if the blood heir’s an idiot they can pick somebody competent to hold things together. So who’s a better candidate than our Wanax, especially with his Roman connections? And he’s got the captain on his side, too.”

  “You mean, Ganton could be High Rexja because we zapped Akkilas?”

  “May gunkels eat my underwear if I kid you.”

  “Shit.” It was nearly a prayer. Roscoe shook his head.

  “I wondered where Akkilas was,” Murphy said.

  “Eh? Yeah, I keep forgetting you’ve gone native, Sarge.”

  “Ah, cut the crap—”

  “Well, maybe I didn’t mean it quite like it sounds. You think like the captain does. Like these people do. Me, I just go where they tell me. You’re a goddamn officer, even if I don’t have to say ‘sir’ every two minutes.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks. Anyway. I did wonder where they were keeping Akkilas.”

  “Now we know,” Roscoe said. “Where they thought he was safe. Guy sure had more cojones than brains.”

  “So it goes.” Murphy looked at the body. “He had some smarts as well as guts. He got those troops mounted and riding out damned fast, and was ready to take the mounted archers in the flank. He could have done some real damage if Mad Bear hadn’t held them up till I threw in the cavalry reserve.”

  He shook his head. “Hal, sometimes I have nightmares about the greyskins cutting off our ammo right when somebody has really learned how to fight us. Combined-arms army, gunpowder and guns, professional soldiers, logistics, the whole bag. You ever heard the definition of the Second Law of Thermodynamics?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “ ‘You can’t win, you can’t break even, and you can’t get out of the game.’ Sometimes this whole mess seems like that. Not that it isn’t better than being dead, but still . . .”


  “Sarge, you’ve been listening to the captain too much and drinking too little. Mind if I break out some of Akkilas’ private stock?”

  “Go ahead.”

  * * *

  Mad Bear walked until the fires around the camp faded in the light of the rising Child. He took bow, quiver, sword, and dagger, for this was not a true vigil in which a man had to trust to the protection of the gods. Some of the camp’s Ironshirts might have had the courage to lie in wait in the darkness. He did not care to be easy prey for them.

  At last he reached a grassy hummock, drove his sword into the ground so that it might drink the strength of the earth, and sat cross-legged beside it. It was as well that this was no vigil, because for once in his life Mad Bear did not even know what to ask the gods, let alone what answer he wished to hear.

  By all the laws and customs in war Mad Bear had ever known, the kill of Prince Akkilas belonged to the warrior Roscoe. Yet it seemed his dearest wish to give it to Mad Bear, for all that this was taking honor not only from himself but from his sons.

  Perhaps he had no sons? Some warriors took vows to lie apart from women until they had accomplished some great deed or sworn vengeance. They accepted the danger that their line might die with them, if they died before fulfilling their vow. Certainly not all the wizard-warriors were like that. His blood-brother had been married twice, as well as having concubines in between.

  Roscoe might be such a man—if such oaths were known among the wizard-warriors. Mad Bear did not know, nor did he have much hope of learning soon. The gods had sent the wizard-warriors and made them—or at least some of them, for now—friends of the Silver Wolves. That was enough. A warrior who had sworn to aid these—whatever they might be—whether the gods said yea or nay—well, he had small claim on the gods for easy answers to hard questions.

  Mad Bear decided that the gods had given him enough and more than he had any right to. He had his life, his wits, his eyes, ears, and tongue. If he lost none of these, he might in time know all that he needed to know of the wizard-warriors.

  The wizard-warriors were like a great storm, blowing mekar seeds across the land. They blew some men to victory, others to defeat. Tonight they had blown him to victory.

  Mad Bear laid a captured sword on the earth beside his own, raised his arms to the sky, and began to sing his victory song.

  28

  Chief Captain Volauf entered the tent as Matthias was pulling on his gauntlets.

  “Good day, my lord. You are awake early.”

  “I have been at my prayers, that Vothan may grant us his favor.”

  In truth Matthias had barely slept. Many things could happen in battle, and Vothan One-eye was notoriously fickle, even toward those who defended his honor. He had always been so. Yet the cause of the High Rexja had prospered under the House of Vothan.

  That was not all. This mad new religion, this fusion of the ravings of Roman scholars and the worst of the preachings of the House of Yatar, had driven many of the priests of Yatar to alliance with Vothan. Matthias had seen that happen in the Five, and even in Drantos. If they did no more than send information, they served. When the Ottarn bridge gave way and carried off three pack mules, Matthias had learned almost as soon as Ganton.

  “Captain, have you new reports?”

  “Only one, Honorable. In addition to Morrone’s band in the north, we have heard that a small band of raiders has come from the west. My scout officer believes it is the remains of a force sent to harass Captain General Ailas.”

  “Ah.” Ailas held Ganton’s western army in check. Poised to threaten the High Road past Dravan, Ailas was doing greater service by existing than most generals could give by a victory. “Nothing more on Morrone?”

  “No, Honorable. Our supply trains now require heavier escorts, but Morrone’s raiders are more an annoyance than a real threat.”

  “Good. When we have won this battle we will deal with him.”

  “Otherwise, Honorable, all remains as it was last night. We have twice Ganton’s strength. Our light horse is spread across his rear. A mixed blessing, Honorable. We cut into his supply, and we can turn any retreat into rout, but the knowledge that we have forces behind him will make his men fight all the harder.”

  Matthias smiled grimly. “They do not know how much strength we have behind them. I had rather have my enemies looking over their shoulders. And now that one of the greatest of their star weapons lies at the bottom of the Ottarn to amuse the hydras, they have even more to fear.”

  “I have never faced the magic of guns before,” Volauf said.

  “I have. In the south. Captain, guns need firepowder. That is not made by magic, and without firepowder the guns are as useless as unstrung bows or empty quivers.”

  I also have friends who went with the traitor Strymon, but that is no concern of yours, Captain Volauf.

  “Your pardon, Honorable, but it is my duty to ask. Are you certain we should begin this battle before Prince Akkilas comes to lead the host?”

  “It is your duty to ask. A moment.” Matthias went to the chest that stood at the foot of his bed, and took out a parchment. He unrolled it. “You see the Seal of Issardos. See this.”

  Volauf read. “I see. He shows great confidence in you.”

  “You mean that he shows less in the prince. Captain, we carry Prince Akkilas’ banner before us, and we give our orders in his name. The bards will say that he won this battle. You and I will know different.”

  “You and I,” Volauf said. “And Chancellor Issardos.”

  “Yes, of course. You will not be forgotten, Captain Volauf.”

  “I thank you, Honorable.”

  Matthias waved his hand in dismissal. “Is my horse ready?”

  “Yes, Honorable.”

  “I will be there presently.”

  * * *

  Ganton was watching the Second Division move into position when the messenger reached him.

  “Majesty, a bheroman of Toris’ host has ridden close to our front and challenges you to single combat.”

  “Indeed,” Ganton said. “And who might he be?”

  “Majesty, he gives his name as Roald of Caemoran. He says that you are no true Wanax if you refuse him battle to hide behind wizards’ magic.”

  “Indeed,” Ganton said in a tone that made the messenger flinch. “Lord Hilaskos, have my squires bring my warhorse to Prince Strymon’s banner.” He put spurs to his palfrey. After a moment he swallowed his rage and reined in the horse, so that his guards would not have to tire their own mounts to keep up with him. The fate of Drantos today might rest on how many fresh horses the host could command at the end of the battle.

  When Ganton reached Strymon’s banner he reined in and used his binoculars to inspect the area between the two armies. An armored man on a bay gelding walked his horse in a large circle. The red and white of his shield matched the pennon on his lance. Every time he completed a circle he shouted, “I am Roald of Caemoran. I call the Wanax Ganton of Drantos to honorable single combat. If he comes not, I denounce him as no true Wanax, but a coward who hides behind godless wizardry!”

  Ganton listened to this three times while waiting for his warhorse to arrive. Finally he pulled out his battle-axe, his only weapon, and wrapped the thong around his wrist.

  “Your Majesty!” exclaimed Strymon. “You are not going down there as you are, with neither armor nor weapons nor warhorse, to fight a full-armed—”

  Ganton whipped the battle-axe up and in a circle over his head. “This is enough weapon for any man.”

  “Your—” Strymon lowered his voice. “Ganton, my friend, it is not well done to call a Wanax and ally a fool, but—”

  “The more reason, then, for not doing it. I know what I am about, and I do not think Roald of Caemoran does.”

  “At least let me take the challenge as your champion!”

  “No. It is not you that Roald calls a coward who hides behind wizards.”

  “My friend, you have told me that when
one becomes Wanax, one can no longer act as one wishes. I believe this. Are you not being foolish, to endanger the day in this way?”

  “I thought on this as I rode here,” Ganton said. “The Lord Rick is not here. We lost a star weapon when the bridge collapsed. The clouds are low, so that the balloon will not be useful. The army knows that we have little enough of wizardry today, and we face forces larger than our own. I think it can do no harm to show our men that their Wanax has not forgotten the old ways.”

  “Then be careful, my friend.”

  “I will. Be ready to avenge me if I fall.” He turned to his staff officers. “You will follow Prince Strymon as you would me.”

  “Sire—”

  “Silence. You have your orders.” He kicked his horse to a walk.

  “Go with—Yatar and Christ,” Strymon said.

  As Ganton rode down the hill, he shifted his Browning so that he could draw it with his left hand, and clicked off the safety.

  * * *

  Tylara could not hear the conversation between Ganton and Strymon, but she could see Ganton ride out to accept the challenge.

  He is no foolish knight, yet he acts like one. This is not the act of the Wanax I saw in council. Her heart turned to lead. For a moment all the assurances of Apelles and Yanulf seemed vain lies. Not given the sacrifice they demanded, the gods were striking at those about her, starting with the Wanax, whom they had just afflicted with madness. . . .

  The moment passed swiftly. He is in range of my best archers. No. Half our knights would ride away if it appeared that the Wanax had so little honor. I cannot even avenge him that way.

  She watched with dread as Ganton rode down the hill.

  When Ganton rode out into the circle Roald had trampled, the bheroman shouted and spurred his horse to a canter.

  His horse is tired, she thought. And Ganton has a fresh mount.

  The Wanax rode directly toward Roald. Roald’s lance came down. The bheroman spurred his horse into a lumbering gallop. Three lengths before they met, Ganton swerved sharply to his left. Roald’s lance tried to sweep in a circle to follow, but Ganton was already out of reach of the point. Then he turned to his right and rode directly at Roald.