Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006

by Baen Publishing

Out there, more and still more horsemen were coming, but the host of armored men under traitor command stood stock still. Arion turned, and saw them. His voice was surprised. "They're uncertain."

  Once again, the Chief saw it as it would seem to those below—except the aliens. He saw the high walls, and above them the war flag; he heard still in memory the silver tone; he saw the archtraitor struck down, heard the chaplain's call for repentance, heard the King's command, and saw before his eyes the troops of Summa change sides. He saw the invaders knocked from their horses, saw them picked off from the palisade, and in the distance heard the voice of Tarvon direct the battle. Those armored hosts might well be feeling desperately which side they should be on.

  Marron pointed. "Could we not sway them, too?"

  Arion glanced at the Chief, who shook his head.

  Marron said, "The warhorn—"

  The Chief said quietly, "Summa's men were close. These are still far away. Their armor is heavy, and they are already worn from the march here. Summa had just been struck dead. Their leaders are still with them. The men might try to obey, but they could not. Moreover, the aliens must not become accustomed to the warhorn. And Evertrue must speak only when the time is right, when its orders are possible to obey, and when hopefully the enemy is confused and uncertain."

  "But the men hang back. Their leaders are traitors, but the men are loyal. If we could call them in—"

  "At any moment the enemy main force may come onto the field. From the accounts, what we see here is only the beginning of them. Then our men out there would be slaughtered. Evertrue must give the order only when the men can obey it. They cannot obey now. We will wait."

  Arion said, "Look, the palisade is ours!"

  Down below, the armored troops of Summa had finished the enemy resistance inside the palisade, manned the wall and shut the gates. The mounted aliens swirled outside like waves against a rock. Here and there, ropes or hooks topped the sharp-pointed logs, and hairy warriors climbed up, to be enthusiastically struck down by the heavily armed defenders.

  The Chief watched thoughtfully. So far, these aliens were not unbeatable fighters. Save for bribery and treason, the fortress would still be secure.

  Just then, there rode rapidly over a rise before the forest, a squat horseman surrounded by pennant-bearers. This new arrival turned his horse, and in a flash he and the pennant-bearers crossed the front of the armored troops, followed by uncountable numbers of armored men.

  The Chief glanced briefly at Marron. Above the thunder of all those hooves, his voice could not be heard, and even Evertrue would be made faint, while the size of the alien force would intimidate or crush opposition. If he had managed to bring those armored troops actively into the fight, they would now be destroyed. A single glance at Marron's look of horror showed that Marron realized it.

  Below, the valley filled with onrushing horsemen, some of whom spread out to go up and downstream, no doubt to work their way through the rocks toward the sides of the fortress. A fresh cloud of dust now betrayed the arrival of something new—riders leading separate short teams that pulled carts.

  Tarvon called out, "Catapults! Let's fool these newcomers! Drop bolts at three quarters pull, aimed at those carts."

  Below, the carts were coming to a stop, were disconnected from their teams, and rushed forward by small groups of men pulling at the tongues and sides of the carts.

  The Chief, watching, considered the disconnected rumors that had preceded the arrival of these conquerors. In these rumors, thunder, earthquakes, and lightning bolts shared the credit for the speed of the conquests with dragons that belched fire, and iron falcons that plunged from the sky. If anything as commonplace as carts had been mentioned, he could not recall it.

  Below, the carts were stopped and swung around. From some were removed, with heavy effort, curious objects like very deep black iron cooking pots. From others came odd-shaped lengths of wood or metal. But then, from the fortress, the bolts reached out, and fell short. The bearers, setting up their curious objects, glanced up, watched, took fresh holds on their heavy burdens, and moved them in closer.

  Tarvon called, "Catapults! Elevate! At three-quarters pull! Try again!"

  Again, the bolts failed to make the distance. The aliens showed brief grins as they set up their odd-looking devices. They worked fast and smoothly. Already, there were puffs of smoke.

  Tarvon said, "Catapults, from left to right, divide the target! Full strength! Strike at will!"

  From the aliens' curious devices down below, things like black large-size children's balls were blurring up into the air.

  Now the catapults, too, were in action. The iron-shod bolts flashed out.

  The Chief, frowning, looked up, and it went through his mind that no fortifications, of whatever strength, had stopped these outlanders yet. For generations, they had been held beyond the line of the North River, and, save for raids, they could not come south, though in return few who raided their territory had come back to tell of their deeds. But now that had changed.

  Now, they came south, through counties, duchies, and kingdoms, and nothing stopped them. With the plunder from one conquest, they bribed the faithless of the next conquest, slew the loyal, took their goods, and bribed the faithless of the next, creating a huge empire subject to them alone.

  This went through the Chief's mind, along with the knowledge that, great though their numbers were, even such numbers could have had the work of half-a-year at the least to subject Great Keep, just below the North River, while Pinnacle Rock, inaccessible, with walls that were said to be a hundred feet high, could have held out as long as the food in its storehouse and the water in its cisterns. Both were lost before swift-riding messengers could bring help from the south.

  Looking up as the black balls dropped, it once again came to the Chief that there was something else, and these black balls could be part of that something else. He seized Arion roughly.

  "Below! Get to shelter, quick!" He turned to the pages. "Set down the voice-thrower! Follow Lord Arion!"

  He saw that Tarvon must already have gone below, glanced around for Marron—balanced whether he should follow—

  There was the beginning of a great wind, the start of a loud noise. A redness briefly surrounded the Chief. There was the start of another wind, the beginning of a heavy thunder. The redness faded. Again, the wind began, and the thunder. Dazed, he could not count the beginnings of the roar and the times the redness rose to shut it out. Then again the redness faded, and this time there was no wind, and no roar.

  Beside him, Marron lay on the floor, half-turned, a black dart sunk in his head, the blood oozing out around it. Other black darts were in his body, or on the stone floor, and embedded in the mortar between the stones.

  Half the crew of the catapult on the open top of the tower were stretched out, bleeding, while the others held their hands to their ears, stunned.

  He looked far out, to see the crew that had worked the weapons that had dealt this slaughter. The bolts from the catapults had reached them. From behind, others were coming forward.

  There was a cry from down below. "Tarvon! They've killed Tarvon!"

  The Chief, stunned at Marron's death and the sudden loss of Tarvon, kept his countenance unchanged, straightened, saw the voice-thrower with two holes knocked in its sides; but it should still work. Resting the end on the parapet, he spoke into the mouthpiece, toward the men at an exposed catapult:

  "All right, men, This is the King. Let's take a few more of them with us, for Tarvon. Crank up that catapult, and see who you can hit, around those black pots."

  The remaining men looked around at him, their eyes wide, then raised their hands in acknowledgement, and bent to the work.

  He turned the horn, calculated its aim.

  "Archers, this is the King. Pass the word. When those black pots spit out those black balls, take cover behind stone, with stone overhead. Those balls burst apart into iron darts. But the stone will stop the iron. Pass the
word."

  There was a shout as the archers, dazed from the shock, noise, and sudden losses, recognized his voice, and went back into action. As he repeated the warning to other of the defenders, the fortress, temporarily silenced, again began to work ruin on the exposed hosts below. At the voice-thrower, the Chief straightened, drew a deep breath, and then saw the squat alien seated down below on horseback.

  For an instant, they were looking directly at each other. The Chief was not certain how, with that fur on his face, it was possible for the alien leader to have any visible expression at all. But a look of intent wonder was clear on the alien face right now.

  The Chief turned the voice-thrower toward another flat-topped tower. "Catapults, Tarvon's trick worked, but they're trying to get new men to those heavy pots. Let's pick off the men, and see if we can wreck the pots."

  The heavy bolts flashed out again, and there came a cheer. Looking down, he could see one of the pots, burst into pieces where a bolt had hit it head-on. As he watched, another bolt slammed over the top of another one of the pots, missing it by less than an arm's reach.

  If that aim could be maintained, it might conceivably be possible to wreck every one of them. If not, the aliens were certain to sneak in after dark to drag them off, and next time use them from out of range of the catapults. But, if they could all be destroyed now—

  Obviously thinking the same thing, the enemy chief below gave a command. Messengers left his side to race through swarms of horsemen, who rushed toward the spot. Then another of the pots burst into fragments. The angle of the bolt indicated the crew of the main central tower, and the Chief turned toward them.

  "Good work! Let's make them pay!"

  There was a visible increase in the bombardment. The alien horsemen converging on the spot made a momentary confusion in which everyone there was in somebody else's way. In such a crowd, a bolt that missed one target might strike another. Men were thrown to the ground. The horses screamed and plunged. The thrown men were trampled under the horses' hooves. Fresh bolts slammed into the panicked mob.

  The enemy leader sent new messengers to the spot.

  The Chief, looking down on this chaos, balanced the odds if he were now to give the word for a sortie, but he shook his head. Even with Summa's men massed behind the palisade, he lacked the numbers.

  Down below, the ruinous shambles was sorted out. At heavy cost, the remaining pots were dragged back out of range, the struggling panicked horses were killed, and the dead and wounded carried off.

  The Chief used the voice-thrower. "Good work, men! They don't have quite as many of those things as before!"

  The men were grinning. From below, fresh bolts were carried up. The captains were studying how best to take cover when the next bombardment of black balls should drop out of the sky. On the walls and towers, the dead and wounded were being carried below.

  Down below, some of the hairy horsemen were shaking their knives at the walls—a change from their easy manner at the beginning.

  Arion spoke close by.

  "They're closing in—coming up the rocks from behind with sacks the size of grain bags. I've got archers picking them off, but the angle is steep, and we can't hope to hit them all."

  "Sacks?"

  "Leather sacks."

  "At the north and south walls, or along the river?"

  "All three. Naturally, they're having more trouble on the river side."

  "What have they got beside the sacks?"

  "Hammers, picks, bars—We don't know what there is inside the sacks, but the whole thing looks like some kind of working party. The ones that are armed seem to be just in case we should go out and attack the working parties. We don't have the men. But we're a lot better off than we were."

  "Best we bring most of Summa's men inside, to help man the walls if need be. But for now keep a strong force near the main gate. We may want to hit the enemy once they're back inside the palisade."

  "It's being done. Tarvon gave the orders just before he was hit."

  "When these alien working parties get close enough, let them have a little oil."

  Almost as he spoke, there was a terrible scream from somewhere behind and below.

  Arion said drily, "I've already given the word."

  "I wonder—what can they do with sacks?"

  "What could they do with pots?"

  "Yes . . . Look at them down there. They're waiting."

  Below, the alien horsemen, from a safe distance, were looking up. Amongst them, some archers vainly tried to send their shafts up to the walls, then occasionally darted into motion as answering shafts came close. But there was no rush to get near the walls. Long ladders had been brought up, but no-one was using them. At a respectful distance, the peculiar deep pots were again being set up, so there would be that to live through before long. The Chief considered the situation.

  "Where could we put our catapults, except at the tops of the flat-roofed towers?"

  Arion frowned. "There's no other place right for them. We can't very well shoot them out an arrow slit. Maybe on the walls, here and there. But that's no better."

  "What hit Tarvon?"

  "He'd gone below, and crossed the covered bridge to West Two tower, to look out. One of those balls burst overhead, and the pieces smashed through the roof of the tower."

  The Chief glanced at the conical roof of the tower called West Two, directly in front and on a lower level than where he stood. The tower was low enough not to block the view of the battlefield from here, but Tarvon, having gone below, would have found it in the way, and crossed the covered bridge to it, to get a better view.

  "We'll have to reinforce the roofs." The Chief could see the holes plainly, along with a number of darts stuck in the cone-shaped roof. "The darts broke through the weathered shingles. Where they hit the timbers, they didn't go through."

  He glanced up, to see the sun still well up in the sky.

  "I don't see how they're going to take us before dark. By dawn, we can have some of these roofs reinforced."

  From down below, toward the upstream side of the castle, there was a piercing scream, then another.

  More hot oil, no doubt.

  But if enough of the enemy were that close—

  The stones jumped underfoot. There was a roar, and the sound of a crash, of an avalanche, and another heavy crash shook the fortress.

  From the distance, a black ball blurred up into the air, followed by another, and another.

  The Chief noted that the bulk of the enemy remained unmoving. He called to the exposed catapult crews. "Get below! Quick!"

  The crews dove for the trapdoors.

  He looked around.

  A huge cloud of dust was rolling skyward from the wall along the river. At a second glance—

  Arion said, "The wall's gone!"

  "It can't be!"

  "Look at the end tower. See those few rocks sticking out? That's all that's left! Look further. There's the wall again. In between, a big length has gone down!"

  "You're right!" The Chief glanced up, and grabbed Arion. "Quick! Get below!" He thrust him toward the steps, saw out of the corner of his eye the concerted movement on the field, toward the fortress. He looked up, wincing as he glimpsed the black balls dropping. He lifted the end of the voice-thrower, calculated where below, under cover, his men should be.

  "Archers! Put some arrows in that crowd! In that pack, anywhere you hit will do good! When they're close, tip some oil on them!"

  He glanced around, to see that Arion had gotten below. There was the first rush of wind, the start of a roar, then a redness that cut out wind and sound, a flash as if he saw the scene around him briefly through a closing door, another roar, cut off by the redness, and another—

  He was standing, one hand on the parapet. Below, the whole valley was alive with rushing horsemen. Behind him, there was a roar, a crash, an uprush of dust. He turned to the voice-thrower, saw it was holed from end to end, useless. He looked down, saw the enemy chief s
ending off a messenger, who rode hard toward the face of the fortress that looked upriver. Closer at hand, he saw the hook of a ladder over the outer wall, saw a hairy face rise up—

  From the slit of a nearby tower, an arrow flashed. The climber, struck in the throat, toppled from the wall. The ladder was still there.

  A warrior in armor stepped out of a tower in the wall, briefly studied the ladder, and swung an axe. The ladder dropped from sight. The warrior stepped back into the tower.

  The Chief looked up, saw the sun still well overhead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a blurred motion. The black balls were dropping in again, one after another.

  It came to him then, looking at the black balls coming, and down at the voice-thrower, shot full of holes, that he must be dead, his body lying somewhere on the stone floor, or perhaps fallen over the parapet to down below, but he did not yet know it.

  His consciousness, seated in his soul, looked out the eyes of his soul, and for now he could see, but surely not act in the world, because his worldly body could not be alive after this. And the teaching of those who had studied the matter was that the real man was in the soul, which, like the rider of a horse, at least in theory mastered and controlled the body, with its wild impulses and sudden unruly nature.

  Uneasily, he rubbed his left hand across the Star Men's ring, felt the hard facets, glanced at it in surprise, saw the two lions risen up, their forepaws outstretched, their claws out, the ruby gemstone glowing as if lit from within.

  There was the beginning of a wind and a roar, cut off by redness, and this time he was thinking: Did rings have souls? Did, then, a blue star gem have the soul of a ruby? Was a gold standing beast the soul of one lying down? No. It made no sense.

  Then it followed that he was still alive, and since he could not possibly live through what had cut through the voice-thrower, killed half the catapult crew, and smashed through the roof of West Two to kill Tarvon—since he could not possibly have lived through that, it followed that he had not lived through it—something had kept it from him.

  And since no known thing had powers that could have kept it from him, something of unknown powers had kept it from him. It could only be the ring, given him by the star traveler, in gratitude for a baby's life.