War World III: Sauron Dominion

by Jerry Pournelle

  “HABANDAR!” roared out from a hundred throats.

  “No!” Shulamit said and shifted again, putting herself between Gorthaur and the haBandari guns. “I gave my word!”

  “We didn’t,” one of the riflemen said grimly, pressing a leg to his mount’s flank. The horse skittered sideways and the flintlock leveled.

  “Put that up, Adigirdis, or you answer to me,” Karl bar Yigal said flatly. To his sister-in-law: “There had better be a good explanation for this, bat Miriam.”

  “There is; my honor on it.” Shulamit was conscious of how utterly still Gorthaur stood at her back, his one good hand gripping his horse’s reins. That is a brave man, she admitted to herself: it took more than battle-courage to be so calm crippled among enemies. “Shalom, little sister,” she added, with a wry smile. “Sorry to include you in my bad luck.”

  “Shalom, sister.” Even then, Shulamit felt a warmth that unknotted some of the tension beneath her breastbone at the well-remembered smile. “So, this is adventure?”

  Shulamit looked around. It was wheels within wheels. The last of the Cossaki who had been after her were grouped around their standard, a double-headed eagle mounted on a shaft festooned with horsetails; no more than a dozen of them, when they agreed to a truce. Six-score of her people and the Mongol allies. And beyond them top of a little knoll encircled by enough enraged Cossaki to roll over them all, but not before the last of those around the standard died.

  She thought for a moment, then uncorked her canteen and rinsed out her mouth, spat, drank deep. “No, this would be an adventure if it were happening to somebody else, far away and long ago, daughter of Miriam,” she said. “As it s us, here and now, it’s simply some very bad shit.”

  That startled a giggle out of Erika; that faded as the young Cossaki who had accepted the truce returned to confront her husband and Toktai.

  “We have rested,” he said, in fluent Turki. “What point in waiting further? You will kill me, as your Sauron killed my father the Hetman”--he crossed himself--”who is with Bog and the Saints where I will join him while you heathen dogs will burn in hell. And the Sir Brothers of the Bergenov Stanitsa will kill you all in turn.”

  “He’s not my Sauron,” Karl said, crushing his cap in one hand. Shulamit heard him add in Bandarit: Yeweh give me strength. “We didn’t ask you to come into our lands, boy!”

  “We had no choice!” Shulamit could see where tears had cut streaks through the dust on the young man’s cheeks, down into a cropped beard the color of ripe barley: grief, she judged, and rage. Certainly not fear; the light gray eyes were steady.

  “The Saurons drove us out, Satan drag them down to hell. There was nowhere else for us to go!” He turned the pale glare on Toktai. “Should we charge rifles and Gatlings with sabers? Will you Tartars welcome us as brothers and share your grazing?” He looked at Karl and the dusty, bloody figures behind him. “The Saurons told us that there were only Jew merchants south of here, that we could take new homes. They lied, as they always lie.”

  Shulamit had seen Erika stiffen. “Nowhere else to go,” the younger of the bat Miriam sisters murmured to herself. Then she called out to Karl in Bandarit: “The Xanadu road! The Xanadu road!”

  The haBandari commander turned to gape at her for a second, then grinned incredulously and blew her a fisted kiss. “Daughter of Miriam, my love, Ruth’s spirit spoke in your ear,” he said: there were few higher compliments, among the People. Ruth bat Boaz had been their first Judge, as Piet van Reenan had been first kapetein: her name was still a synonym for wisdom, twelve generations later.

  “Wait.” He spread his hands, closed his eyes for a moment to marshal words. “Ivan Bogdanevitch, do you know what lies south of the Pale?’

  The Cossaki’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Haven forest, down the escarpment.” Which meant wireweed, snapper worms, a dozen types of deadliness, as any Haven-born knew. Even logging the outskirts of such was dangerous work. “Better clean death in battle, even for our women and children.”

  Karl hesitated. “Now I risk more than my life,” he said. “I risk a secret of my people . . . one that will be known everywhere, soon, but . . . We know what is beyond the forest, because the haBandari have built a road through it. A clear road good enough to take wagons, with clean water and resting places. Beyond the forest and the hills, a strip of land lower than the Eden Valley, more air-rich, as fertile as any on this world--which we plan to take for ourselves, I will not lie. Marshland beyond that, which we will reclaim in due time. But east of that, a thin line of passable country, to the mouth of the Xanadu River, where it enters the swamps.”

  Shulamit heard Gorthaur grunt with surprise; heard a similar sound come from her own throat. Certain mysteries made sense, now: taxes that the clan chiefs had been suspiciously eager to grant the kapetein, restrictions on travel imposed to prevent “accidents” along the forest fringe . . . Xanadu, she thought. That was the river that drained the Shangri-La Valley, Haven’s greatest lowland, half a continent of the richest land on the planet and the center of most of its civilization. She could see the Cossaki fighting down hope.

  “The Saurons . . .” he began.

  “... rule the eastern third of the Shangri-La Valley no more. Man, it’s four thousand kilometers from the mouth of the Xanadu to the Citadel! Yes, you’d have to fight to take territory there, but only against the dwellers. They’re no friends of ours; we’d be glad to have a friendly power there. A long journey, yes, difficult, with a war at the end--but would you rather break yourselves on the frontiers of the Pale, while the gur-khans armies come up behind you, hammer to the anvil?”

  Toktai was looking at his friend with something approaching awe. Then he smiled unpleasantly and added: “Cossaki, while you wait, your people need not starve. Plunder these Turkmen swine hereabout, feast on their herds and ravish their women, empty the steppe: I give you leave, I Toktai son of Yuechi, heir to the vassal khanate of Ashkabad. Since they prefer to follow the commands of Saurons, let them ask Quilland Base for protection . . afterwards, I will call for clans of the Yek and Merkit to come take their places. We can use the extra grazing, and I will have warriors I can trust.”

  Ivan Bogdanevitch nodded thoughtfully. “You, Karl bar Yigal . . . have you authority to make such an offer?”

  “No,” Karl said promptly. “I’m a relative of our kapetein with something of a name, and son and heir to an influential family. But I’ll speak with all my power, and I do say that the kapetein and council will probably agree. It costs us little, and gains us much. Not least, it injures the Lidless Eye.” He shrugged. “If I did have authority to offer it, could you accept for your people?”

  “That has the sound of an honest man’s words,” Ivan said. “I speak likewise: no. The Sir Brothers are free men, not slaves: we must elect a Hetman. But we acted as Sauron catspaws from need, not choice. They would have hailed me lord of the seich in any case; doubly so, now that I can show them a better hope.”

  He frowned. “This is only a beginning. There must be exchange of hostages, councils called among your folk and mine. ...” Ivan looked at Toktai, weighed a thought. “To prove my good faith, this. The Saurons told us that there was revolt planned among your subjects in Ashkabad town, to bring it under Quilland Base directly; to encourage us, they thought. We knew better than to think a Tadjik muslim rabble could threaten the folk of the black tents, but said nothing. This word is my gift to you.”

  “My thanks,’ Toktai said, fist tight on the hilt of his saber. “A culling of flocks will be made.” Turning to Karl. “My brother--”

  Assault Leader Gorthaur allowed himself one inward sigh, looking aside at Shulamit; the taste of her mouth came back to him, that first time. At least I will not die without handing on my genes, he thought; the scent was fairly definite, even this early.

  Then he became all Sauron, a tactical computer that happened to be colloid compounds rather than silicon. Yes, a very high probability of success, he decided. Not
hing in his vulnerable quadrant but Borte, a negligible factor. Only one enemy between him and his target. His slow, inconspicuous shift had put living shields between him and the haBandari firearms: the probability that they could redirect their attention to him, shift, aim and fire before he killed Bogdanevitch was vanishingly small. And once the Cossaki leader was dead, the war among the cattle Quilland Base had planned would continue on schedule. It would have been more efficient to give me an adequate briefing, he thought severely, as he took a deep breath and repeated a mnemonic formula.

  All humans possess the capacity for berserkergang, the phenomenon the Malays had called amok: hysterical strength, immunity to pain and shock. Soldiers had nearly that in their normal state, and their berserkergang was a controlled and rational thing. Gorthaur felt his perceptions alter to a diamond clarity that was the most beautiful instant he had ever experienced: suddenly the very dust-motes in the air froze as if in amber, and light flared to the edge of pain. This is what it is to be a cyborg, he thought. A step that fell like thunder, and he had ripped Shulamit’s knife from its sheath. She fell sideways, moving with glacial slowness, would still be falling when his work was done. Another, and his fist drove into the neck of the big Edenite with the sledgehammer, even as he turned, eyes going wide and the ponderous weapon beginning a swing that would never be completed. Six more steps, and the three young leaders were only starting to react, expression and motion like freeze-frame blinks to the charging Soldier.

  Crack. So heightened were his senses that he heard the snap of the pistol trigger behind him before the ball struck. Enough time to begin a dodge, a motion that threw his spine directly into its path. Borte. Not a negligible factor after all, she must have been considering it even before he moved. I made a mistake. No pain, only a crackle of bone. Sensation vanished from the waist down; even then his arm was coming forward, converting his slash to a throw. Crack. The second ball took him high in one shoulder, just enough to put the blade into a trajectory that clipped the Cossaki’s ear rather than slamming into his throat. Defeat tasted of copper and iron, as his body flexed and drove into the ground. It bounced, bone cracking: more slow crack sounds, as other weapons fired. Some struck, chest, arm, shoulder, lung. He could feel his blindly efficient mind shutting down the injured arteries.

  Perception returned to something like normal for a moment, to show him Shulamit’s face. He called on will, tried to force words that came as lip movements and a wheeze of pink froth:

  “Still . . . you . . . bear . . . Soldier . . . to . . . me.” Yet she heard.

  “No, Sauron,” she answered. “You never understood. I will bear a haBandari who can beat the Soldiers.”

  Blackness, soft arms lifting him against softness. Mother.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Shulamit said, taking another nip at the flask of clownfruit brandy. Have to give this up for a while, she realized. Bad for the baby. The sweet liqueur sang in her blood, warmed the stomach. “Two hours isn’t enough to get it all straight, two years won’t, it’s over, I want to sleep.” She grinned at the brother-in-law who had been her lover once. “Thought you’d get a quiet life by standing me up, eh? You should be so lucky.”

  “Oy, Shulamit, really!” Erika said.

  Karl laughed and reached for the bottle. The motion froze at the sound that came from Toktai. The three haBandari exchanged glances, then turned back to the Mongols. Borte was standing before her affianced, head down. She spoke another sentence and Toktai shouted again, clapping his hand to his sword and turning towards the fire where the Cossaki sat, a hundred meters away.

  “No, my lord, no!” Borte threw herself on Toktai, holding down his arm until the haBandari were about him: the Mongol troopers were just starting up from their own fires, running to the call of their prince. Borte continued in Russki:

  “No, they did not know who I was, they are dead; Shulamit killed the ones who did the thing, you will only spread my shame for all to know! Think of our people, my lord!”

  Toktai halted, with an effort that brought a sheen of sweat to his flat brown face; the firelight and Cat’s Eye together turned it to a film of blood. Only the eyes were alive as he waved his followers back to their seats with a savage chop of one palm and made a stiff bow to Shulamit.

  “I am in your debt, warrior woman,” he said stiffly, his voice thick, shaking.

  The haBandari released him; Borte fell to her knees before his boots, covering her face with her hands. Shulamit waited a moment, until it seemed that Toktai would leave without speaking.

  “Noyon,” she said sharply. “Would you tell me what is going on here, please? Is there some problem, your betrothed has told you?” She spoke Turkic, but Borte took the meaning.

  “I cannot lie to the Noyon Toktai,” she said tonelessly, not looking up. “I must tell him that the Cossaki defile me, I have no honor to give him.”

  “What?” Shulamit said. Erika was gaping, and she realized that her own expression was a twin to it. Did I drink that much? Am I missing something?

  “I am not a virgin,” Borte whispered.

  Shulamit found herself speechless. Strict Ivrit among the People attached importance to that, Edenites considerably more; for that matter, most haBandari considered it evidence of bad character if a girl took too many lovers before she married, and all were strict about faithfulness after vows. But this . . .

  “You--” She looked up at Toktai, holding onto her temper with both hands. “She was raped, you idiot gaya--ah, Prince. What choice do you think she had?”

  Borte spoke again, in the same toneless voice. “It does not matter. A noyon cannot marry a woman who has been shamed; no decent man could. There is no place for me anywhere.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Shulamit continued-- Karl tensed at the flat reasonableness of her tone-- “that this girl--woman--who saved my life and your life and stopped a war is not good enough for you because some shlyml bandit assaulted her? ‘

  Toktai’s mouth twisted in tragic grief. “Yes,” he said. “It is the custom.”

  “Oh, you are sorry, it’s the custom, well, that explains it,” Shulamit said. Mentally, she felt herself relax both hands. “Excuse me, did you say you were in my debt?”

  “Yes,” Toktai nodded. “Vengeance is my duty, but you have fulfilled it.”

  Shulamit smiled sweetly and leaned forward. “Well, fuck you very much, too!” she hissed, and swept her shin upwards between his legs with blurring speed.

  There was a dull clank as the shinguard of her boot connected with the steel cup under Toktai’s trousers and arming-doublet. “Gurk,” he said, and staggered backward clutching at his groin. Shouts rose from around the Mongol fires, and the sound of blades being drawn.

  The noyon was a warrior; gray faced and running with sweat, he managed to stand erect and signal his troopers back. He even mustered a smile.

  “I ... am . . . still . . . indebted,” he husked, and walked away with slow straggle-legged dignity.

  “Shulamit!” Karl said angrily. “Don’t be an idiot, you don’t understand their customs--”

  She wheeled and shot a finger in his face. “You understand them all too well, Karl bar Yigal: start remembering ours, why don’t you? About obligations? Who stopped the Sauron? Men!”

  Erika wrenched her hand out of his and fell in beside her sister, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, that’s a good idea, husband; because until you do remember it, you’re sleeping alone!”

  Shulamit reached down and pulled Borte to her feet. “Borte,” she said firmly. “Borte!” The Mongol girl blinked back to awareness from the place where she had gone. Shulamit drew her knife and made a small, precise cut at the base of her own thumb. “Give me your hand.” She repeated it with Borte, and pressed the tiny wounds together. “Now you’re my sister, understand? Blood-sister, clan sister--there are formalities later, but forget about that. You’re Erika’s sister, too, and even this useless lump of blond litvak stupidity’s sister.” She calmed. “You
have a place with us.’

  Erika put an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. “Come on, sister. We’ll take you to the mediko.” A warm smile. “And if you want, when we get back to the Pale, we’ll even see a babshka about finding you a husband. Although,” she continued austerely, glancing at Karl, “there are times when a woman without a man--”

  “--is like a horse without a synagogue,” Shulamit finished. “Let’s go.”

  “Oive,” Karl muttered after a moment, into a silence that echoed. “And she took the flask, too.”

  “I’ve got another,” Itzhak bar David said, coming up beside him. He coughed discretely. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Anyway, he continued, as the young leader drank deeply. “It could be worse, chaver. We could have lost.”

  Karl laughed, then sobered. He looked down: the dead Sauron lay staring up at Cat’s Eye, and for a moment the light caught his eyes, turning them into silver-red circles, glowing.

  “We still could,’ he said. It was time to sleep, and the work of the day awaited. “We still could.”

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  Chronology

  PROLOGUE

  THE GATES OF PARADISE - Don Hawthorne

  MAITREYA AND THE CYBORG - John Dalmas

  BUILDING A PILLAR - John LaValley

  AEGIR'S CHILDREN - Phillip Pournelle

  CEREMONIES AT THE LAST BAR IN THE VILLAGE - John Hartnett

  JUCHI THE ACCURSED - Harry Turtledove

  SEVEN AGAINST NÛRNEN - Susan Shwartz

  SHAME AND HONOR - S.M. Stirling