Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006

by Baen Publishing

  Just as an arrow could strike down the fiercest predator from a distance, the Chief thought, just as the enemy's sack of unknown substance could bring down the fortress walls, and just as these clearly impossible things were done by routine once understood, though they seemed like magic until understood, so the ring, like a beautifully decorated bow, was much more than an ornament.

  Then once again the world was there, and the redness gone. The remains of the voice-thrower were scraps of metal against the parapet. The floor was covered with chips of stone and bits of mortar mingled with the black darts. There were black darts stuck upright in the mortar, and lying on the stone floor like hail after a storm.

  From below, faintly to his deadened ears, came a muffled sound of hooves, then a ringing silence.

  Looking down, the Chief saw the horsemen drawn back, like a tide that has pulled back from a shore in a huge wave, in order that it may smash more heavily against the rocks in its next blow.

  The Chief, frowning, saw the enemy messengers, with their pennants, grouped around the squat alien leader, who was looking directly at him.

  From behind, there was a rush of feet on the steps. Arion's voice was breathless.

  "The river wall is breached at ground level! There's nothing but a pile of rocks they can climb over!"

  The Chief looked around, but could not see through the dust.

  Arion said, "The wall is all down between the middle tower and the northeast tower. But we've got archers to pick them off as they climb in over the rubble. Thank God we've got plenty of arrows!"

  Looking back toward the river, it dawned on the Chief that this latest catastrophe was partly concealed by the massive bulk of the main central tower. But that tower must be as vulnerable as anything else. He looked back at Arion.

  "They're not in anywhere yet?"

  "No."

  "Is the main gate still unhurt?"

  "Yes, but the outer entrance, through the palisade, is partly blocked with fallen rocks. The tunnel entrance is clear, but the tunnel is too narrow to put men through in a hurry."

  "Good. Now tell me, what's this?"

  Arion stood beside him, looking down where the aliens had withdrawn.

  Arion's voice was wondering. "Why should they—"

  "Look at their faces."

  The aliens' hairy faces as they watched the fortress were marked by three openings—two where their eyes looked out, and one where their mouths split into what appeared to be grins of anticipation.

  Of all the aliens, only a few, here and there, appeared somber. Amongst them, squat and stolid, the Chief saw the alien leader, watching him with a look that was alert, and almost fearful.

  In a brief flash of comprehension, it came to the Chief that just as he had unleashed carefully timed strokes against the waverers under Summa's banner, so the alien chieftain worked to a similar pattern in guiding his attack. And where his own alien men saw no reason to fear the outcome, the alien chief was conscious of a break in the accustomed pattern.

  In this brief flash of insight, the Chief seemed to look up at the fortress, to see through a hell of fire and iron a single motionless figure which stood upright, unaffected, to counter blow with blow, waiting, knowing in advance the sequence of strokes that must follow, biding his time to let loose the final blow.

  The stone floor of the tower jumped underfoot. There was a roar from all around them. Clouds of dust, on all four sides, rolled skyward.

  Unbidden, the prophetic chant came to him:

  "The alien host that bought our spears

  With magic dust brings down our walls.

  Still know, the trumpet has no fears.

  Through smoke and flame, our duty calls."

  The Chief looked back at the massive bulk of the central tower, looming through the rolling clouds of dust. He raised his voice, but kept it even as he called out:

  "Let Evertrue speak!"

  Back there, somewhere, was the trumpeter. Let him quaver just the slightest, and there would be a false note. The pattern that so far gripped the loyal might break. The prediction of the chant would be shown false. The alien pattern would prevail.

  The silver tone spoke, over the noise and the dust.

  The tone turned in the air, flawless, riveting the attention, holding the listeners motionless.

  Then it was gone. The ear still sought for it, but found it only in memory.

  The dust, slowly, blew away.

  The Chief caught his breath.

  The outer walls were down.

  It was not just one part of a wall now. Looking around, it was clear why the enemy had pulled back. No-one would want to be close when those heavy rocks came down. The towers of the walls, here and there, still stood. Behind the rubble—and the Chief could see now that that rubble in places rested on structures that had not wholly collapsed—the towers behind the collapsed walls still stood. But the effect on the mind of the crash of those walls should have been crushing—except for the tone of the warhorn, and the remembered words of the prophetic chant.

  Looking down across the wisps of dust still trailing from the collapsed heaps of masonry, the Chief could see the unmoving aliens in their hosts, and their squat leader somberly studying the fortress. From somewhere to the rear came a roar, a faint jar, and a heavy crash of falling rock, as some blast, that should have taken place earlier, joined in belatedly.

  Illogically, the Chief felt cheerful. This time, there would be no holding the aliens at the wall. The wall was no longer there. They would get over the rubble, into the courtyard, would succeed in using their magic on the inner walls and towers—if they lived. But many of them would never make it through the hail of arrows that would greet them. And many who got in would never emerge from this place on their own feet. The Chief, foreseeing the attack, drew his sword.

  There was a motion amongst the mounted enemy hosts, as if they sensed the order to attack just as the Chief had sensed it, before it came. But faintly across the gap between the enemy and the fortress, strewn with dead horses and the bodies of the enemy, there came a snarling repetition of sharp commands.

  The enemy line of soldiers on foot, backed by a heavy mass of horsemen, had begun to move forward, but now stopped, and even, with much jostling, drew back.

  The Chief, prepared for an attack, sensed what had happened. In the fortress, even in the rubble of the fortress, a determined defence might inflict untold casualties. The enemy chief had no desire to expend his strength in a killing match in a rock heap where his horses were worthless, and his tough but lightly armored troops were at a disadvantage.

  The command to close for the kill, once given, could not easily be withdrawn. His war machine could be wrecked here against an unshaken enemy whose leader watched smiling from above, plainly looking forward to the finish fight at close quarters. And how did that leader still live after the bombardment that had burst around him? The alien chieftain sensed a trap, and suddenly turned on his horse to shout a fresh command.

  Watching intently, the Chief realized with a shock that the pattern still held. That, in fact, so far from the aliens breaking it, it was coming to dominate them, through the mind of their leader. He turned to Arion.

  "We have another voice-thrower, don't we?"

  "Yes, in the armory downstairs."

  "We may need it."

  "I'll get it."

  A moment later he saw the armored figure being brought forward, and realized that the alien leader was already working to free himself from the dilemma. As the Chief watched, an alien on horseback was leading one single man in armor slowly and reluctantly toward the fallen outer walls. A brief clatter beside him told the Chief that Arion had brought the voice-thrower. Down below, somewhat more than halfway to the fortress, the armored figure stopped, and called out. His voice seemed small, but clearly audible:

  "Will you parley?"

  The Chief sheathed his sword, and the click carried. He raised the voice-thrower, and his voice seemed unnaturally lou
d:

  "What do they say?"

  "They offer terms."

  "So do we."

  "Give your word of loyalty to their chief—their king—and pay the equal of one tenth of the yearly crop's worth to his collector. If you give your word, he will leave at once, and you may settle matters here as you choose."

  The Chief spoke as much for his men, who would be intently listening, as to the enemy leader. He spoke also for those to hear whose leaders had been bought by the enemy, and who would just have heard their new hairy ruler offer their lives freely as part of the barter.

  The Chief spoke carefully. "Tell him we thank him for his offer, but our word is pledged in an ancient oath that must be upheld by all those who are true. And we do not need to yield. We are at the center of our strength, and his force, though great, is not sufficient to break it.

  "But he is far from home, and behind him for many days' march, there is no-one he can trust if he should have ill-fortune. There is no-one back there bound to him by blood, love, or loyalty. Save his own men here, there is no-one at his command but those who are cowards, who are unwilling, or whose loyalty could be bought. Here, if he attacks further, we will break his strength, and he will see what, in the final clash, false hirelings and those betrayed into his service by their own false leaders are worth. But we will make an offer of our own. Will he hear it?"

  There was a silence, then, with an effort, the armored figure spoke: "He will hear it."

  "Tell him that he has won so far by new and subtle means of unleashing force. Tell him that there are still subtler means that can lift men to the stars, set metal aflame, blot out the lightning and silence the thunder. His coming has been foretold by prophecy, and he who would defeat the prophets in their power must take care, lest unwittingly he fulfill the prophecy instead. We offer that he may withdraw now, and we will let him go with no further hurt. Neither will we, if he leaves at once, summon those whose loyalty will cast aside bribery and betrayal to join the true cause at our first call. We know their real feelings.

  "We decline his offer, and remind him that he knows the subtle might of the stars. We call upon him to soberly weigh our offer, while there is still time."

  The armored figure raised its gauntleted hand in salute, and the Chief returned the salute, knowing now which side this warrior wished to be on. He watched the armored figure return to the alien chieftain, saw the hairy interpreters confer with both, to clear up points that might be uncertain. There followed a silence, in which the predicament of the alien leader was clear enough to the Chief.

  Obviously enough, to the alien ruler and perhaps a few of his leaders, some new power was in evidence here. Otherwise, the King who had just spoken from the fortress would have been killed in the first bombardment. Worse, this King was said to have friends amongst the star men, so the possibilities for unpleasant surprises were practically unlimited. On the other hand, the outer walls were down, and to turn back now, with his army convinced that one last assault would take the place—that would breed doubts as to his judgment and his courage, and be possibly even worse than a defeat.

  The Chief, looking down, saw the enemy chief look up. Even at this distance, he could read a message of angry irresolution in the alien's gaze.

  Briefly, despite himself, the Chief smiled. Suddenly, another part of the chant came to him:

  "Look, a streak is drawn across the sky,

  In answer to our King-Chief's cry.

  Now see the enemy stand silent by,

  As a mightier host comes marching nigh."

  Down below, they were all looking up.

  The Chief glanced up as a peculiar traveling thunder crashed and rumbled overhead.

  There in the sky hung a long narrow cloud, at the head of which, like an armored forefinger, was a glittering something—a star ship!

  The Chief felt his breath stop, but with an effort kept a grip on his sense of reality.

  What was happening, so far, fit the chant with unvarying trueness. But prophecies had been known to fail before.

  Arion spoke at his shoulder, his voice awed.

  "They've come!"

  The Chief spoke in a low voice. "They can see us from down there, and you aren't the only one with eyes as sharp as a bird of prey. Keep your own features impassive, and let me know how their ruler looks to you. He's the squat one, in the center of that group of messengers with pennants."

  Arion said more soberly, "With all that fur on his face—H'm—To me, he looks stubborn, but none too easy in his mind."

  "That's what I thought. Now, how do we take advantage of this?"

  "But do we need to? Certainly it's the star men come to help us?"

  "How do we know that? Is that the first star ship we've ever seen pass overhead?" The Chief kept his voice low. "Even if it should be the star men, how do we know they can help?"

  "It fits the chant—the prophecy."

  "It fits part of it, but let's not take leave of our senses just yet. How about that line that goes, 'The fallen walls with iron ghosts are manned'?"

  "True . . . Unless it means, which is true, when those walls fell that we lost heavily . . . But, at least, we'd gotten the best part of Summa's men safe before the collapse, and they didn't get hurt. They're all loyal. The rot only touched the Baron."

  "Now look, down there."

  Down below, the armored figure came forward again. This time, with the visible streak across the sky overhead, he saluted before speaking.

  "Chief and King, the alien knows of the prophecy, but he wants proof it is true."

  The Chief glanced at the collapsed outer walls, considered the men lost in that collapse, and considered also the form of address, 'Chief and King.' That meant acceptance as both head of the clan and ruler. The armored figure below was now leaving no doubt as to which side he was on. To his natural loyalty was added, no doubt, an earnest desire to be on the right side when the forces of Justice proved mightier than the aliens. This same emotion might very naturally be shared by the bulk of the armored troops betrayed into the alien service by their self-seeking or overawed leaders.

  The chief raised the voice-thrower.

  "Tell him," he said carefully, "to open his ranks between the fortress and the landing place of the star men, and he will have proof. Tell him that, if he had attacked earlier, the star men, in their might, would have come onto the battlefield while his men were enmeshed in the ruins of the fortress."

  The armored go-between glanced around, obviously uncertain just where the star men had landed. Overhead, the streak was still plainly in evidence, but, as usually happened, the star ship itself had disappeared. Certain wise men, the Chief remembered, surmised that the star ship, as one means of travel, used a mysterious fire which left its smoke behind it, but also, they thought, the star ship could glide, like a hawk, so that the fire was only lit at intervals, and hence the track of smoke appeared only now and then.

  Down below, the armored figure looked up hesitantly and then asked, "The landing place?"

  The Chief carefully raised his arm to point. The direction in which he pointed was not seriously inconsistent with the path of the streak overhead, and it incidentally would open up a route for the body of armored troops outside, whose leaders the aliens had bought, who were much closer now, and who by now might earnestly want to be on the right side when the rest of the prophecy came true. Those armored troops could make a big difference in the price the enemy had to pay to win—if those troops could be brought to change sides.

  Arion cleared his throat.

  "I think they have something to try to hear our words with."

  The Chief noted a thing like a voice-thrower, the wide end now aimed roughly at him, the narrow end just being taken from the ear of someone near the alien chieftain.

  The Chief nodded. "Look."

  The enormous horde of mounted aliens was now separating, as half-a-dozen messengers on horseback moved through the ranks. But, the Chief noted, the path they made was
curved to miss the armored troops. And yet, if those armored troops should move forward—

  "Shrewd," said Arion. "I wonder—"

  A small voice, oddly accented but understandable, reached them from below:

  "Prove your prophecy."

  Down there, one of the hairy translators lowered a voice-thrower.

  The Chief considered the situation. In the little group around the alien leader, his couriers waited for orders. In the sky, the streak was still plainly visible, but spreading, and before long would begin to fade away. There was an intense and waiting silence in the motionless host below. This tension couldn't last forever. It would break, in one way or another.

  The Chief turned to look back at the central tower, and was jarred as if by a physical blow. Back beyond the tower was the reflected glint of light on the river. Though he knew that the outer wall of the fortress was down, he hadn't expected to see the river. But the dust was settled, and there was nothing there now to cut off the view. He drew a deep slow breath, then faced the tower, and spoke slowly and clearly.

  "Let Evertrue sound the Assembly."

  When he turned back to face the aliens, he could feel the loss of the fortress wall behind him. It was as if his back were naked, exposed to whatever blow might be aimed at it.

  Then the silver tone hung in the air, turned, fell and rose, its message more complex than before.

  Across the field, the armored troops began to move. Down below, a single armored figure separated itself from the enemy messengers and interpreters, to walk with steady pace toward the fortress. Across the field, the entire mass of armor was thrusting its way into the wide cleared aisle, turning, the low-voiced commands clearly to be heard, even the rattle and clink of metal, with the sun glittering on the armor and the unsheathed weapons.

  At once, two alien couriers raced up the cleared aisle. But the mass of the aliens, still held in the trancelike grip induced by Evertrue's clear silver tone, did not move as the tone rose, fell, and then faded insensibly away.

  The armored troops were coming now, massed and purposeful, straight down the aisle toward the fortress. As they came, they threw up the visors of their helmets to stare, desperately earnest, toward the fortress and the two unmoving figures who looked down upon them from its high tower.