Homecoming y-2

by John Dalmas

  One could hear anything, of course, but even lies often had roots in truth. The most disturbing evidence was that they had been advised to bring their escort to the City.

  No one had encountered Northmen this far south yet. Gozzi laid a fat fist on the hilt of his short sword. He had no wish to be the first.

  He squinted back along the string of wagons at the grimy toughs who rode in the dust, some with lances, some with bows, all with a shield slung alongside and a sheathed sword. A band of surly cut-throats who rode guard instead of raiding only because the pay was surer and because the orcs hunted brigands. They’d fought well though, that time below the pass.

  Some rode shirtless. It would be better if they kept their mail on, but he did not press the issue. He’d lost several in the fight and couldn’t afford desertions.

  The caravan master pulled his black Arabian alongside Gozzi. It was Gozzi’s caravan and Gozzi had hired him. The other merchants were lesser men who’d paid to join their wagons with Gozzi’s.

  “Padrone,” he said, pointing toward the sun, “it is midday, and there’s a creek just ahead. It would be a good place to stop.”

  Gozzi nodded and the man jogged his horse down the long train of wagons, calling instructions. When the first wagon reached the stream, the caravan stopped. Teamsters unhitched their horses and walked them in harness to drink below the trail. No fires were lit; they cooked at dawn and again at evening, but lunch was quick and cold.

  The mercenaries ate together in a loose cluster of small groups, all but the outriders, joking and gibing in Anglic as best they could, for their own languages varied from Greek to Slovak, from Catalan to Croat. They believed themselves better than teamsters because they were more deadly and better paid. They considered themselves better than the merchants for half the same reasons, but kept it to themselves because they could not trust one another.

  As they ate and talked, they paid little attention to what went on nearby. Vigilance was the duty of outriders; their own job was to discourage raiders by their presence, and to fight if need be.

  Milio Gozzi, on the other hand, was alert by disposition and practice. As he chewed, his eyes in their creases followed a man trotting his horse toward them from the east. Nudging the caravan master, he motioned with his head.

  “I haven’t seen that one before. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” the man answered after a few seconds. “He’s not one of ours.”

  The personal guards of the merchants rose to their feet.

  A giant, thought Gozzi, and a resourceful one to have gotten past the outriders. The man dismounted four-score meters away, as if to reassure them, and led his horse, a stallion built to carry weight. Like a Turk, he wore only a breechclout in this season, though the merchant’s shrewd eyes knew he customarily wore more. His legs were tanned less deeply than his torso, and neither was as dark as his face, while his stubbly scalp was flaking from recent sunburn.

  He looked as powerful as his horse.

  The giant wasted no time. “I’m looking for hire as a fighting man.”

  Gozzi wasn’t surprised. His eyes had noted the line of sword callus on the man’s right hand, like a ridge of horn from thumb to the end of the index finger, better developed than he had ever seen before. As for scars, he wore an ugly one on his left thigh, probably from an arrow, plus a trivial crease on the right bicep, but nothing more. Either he was inexperienced or very good, and the merchant was willing to bet that he was very good indeed.

  “I’ve never heard that accent before,” Gozzi said. “Where are you from?”

  “From Svealann, a country of broad forests and great fighters.” He grinned when he said it.

  Gozzi sucked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Never heard of it,” he said. “Suppose I tell you I have all the men I need?”

  “One seldom has too many really good men. And you have one less man than you broke camp with this morning.”

  “You killed one of my men?”

  The stranger shrugged. “He attacked when I only wanted to ask a question. And consider: I’ve saved you his pay and brought you a better man to replace him.”

  “One of the others still should have spotted him before he got this far,” the caravan master said.

  “And might have, if I’d been an armed band. But there are many low places where the grass grows tall, and my horse lies down on command. And perhaps your scouts were thinking about other things.”

  “You’re hired,” Gozzi said abruptly. “But not as an outrider. Outriders must be men you trust.” He nodded to the caravan master. “He will ride beside the wagons.”

  Except to water the horses, the caravan didn’t stop again until the sun was low in the west.

  “Svealann? Never heard of it.” The speaker was a smallish sinewy man with a short brown beard parted on the left cheek and jaw by a scar. “They must grow them big there.”

  “Some big, some small.”

  “And you’re one of the little ones?”

  The group of mercenaries broke into loud laughter.

  Nils smiled easily. “I’m big in any company. Bigger in some than in others.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The tone was belligerent. The man who asked was almost as tall as Nils, with shoulders muscled nearly to his ears. An outrider, he’d been scowling since they had made camp and he’d first seen the newcomer. Trazja had always been the biggest, wherever he was, and the strongest, and he had always dominated, from his first service as a mercenary when he’d been but seventeen.

  Nils shrugged, and his very nonchalance antagonized the big Montenegrin. “Here!” Trazja held out his waterbag. “It’s empty! Fill it!”

  Nils said nothing, and did not reach to take it. The command combined insult and threat, and there was something eerie about his utter lack of reaction to either. His smile did not fade nor widen nor go stiff; he seemed truly as relaxed as before.

  “I am the overman here,” Trazja insisted, and shook the waterbag for emphasis.

  “The caravan master is boss,” Nils answered. “He said nothing to me about any other.”

  Trazja’s lips pursed with anger and his eyes became slits. “I am the overman among us by my strength, not by the say of some master. Ask any of these.” He motioned slightly with his head. “Ask any of them to deny I am the overman.”

  The men watched bright-eyed with anticipation, saying nothing.

  “Then tell one of them to bring your water.”

  With an angry snarl, Trazja flung the leather bag at Nils’s chest. “Fill it!”

  Nils’s posture changed slightly and his head moved with a small deliberate negative. When Trazja pounced, the blow that met him was quick but heavy; he dropped to the ground and did not move. The others stared, stunned at the sudden totality of it.

  Nils bent, picked up the waterbag and held it out to another man. “Fill it for him,” he ordered. The man took it and trotted away toward the creek.

  “You’d better kill him,” said the smallish man with the brown beard, nodding toward Trazja. “He’ll knife you now if he gets the chance.”

  Nils shook his head. “Not him. He’d never knife a man from behind or in his sleep. If he tries to knife me it will be from the front, and with warning. That’s the kind of man he is.”

  The caravan park was at the west edge of the City. Drivers and mercenaries stretched awnings beside the wagons, cursed the lack of other shade, and waited for Gozzi to find out whether or not they would be allowed to go into the City. They’d all heard how merchants were entertained there, and while none seriously imagined such things would happen to them, they hoped to find taverns and houses where exceptional experiences might be met.

  They watched the merchants talking with two orc officers and their accountants, and cursed the waiting and the thirst. Finally they saw the bulk of Gozzi walking toward them, the caravan master at his side.

  Gozzi knew mercenaries and did not deny them needlessly. So he told the
m the simple truth and let the orc reputation do the rest. They were free, he reported, to walk about the City as they wished.

  But there were no taverns, none at all, and they were to enter no building. Also, they were forbidden to carry weapons. A foreigner found with even a small knife would be arrested, and there was nothing anyone could do for him then except to wish him a quick death. If they chose to enter the City they would have to depend on the street patrols for protection. But the orc officers had said frankly there was a good chance they’d be attacked by playful soldiers when no patrol was nearby.

  Gozzi promised, however, to see if liquor and girls could be sent to them. He did not actually intend to ask about liquor. Alcohol and idle mercenaries were an imprudent mixture in a place like this.

  Nils awoke when he’d intended. The lopsided moon had descended to about twenty degrees above the horizon. He rolled out of the light sleeping robe, rose, and walked casually but silently toward one of the enclosed sleeping wagons used by the merchants, parked somewhat away from the freight wagons.

  Ottoro, companion and clerk to one of the merchants, slept alone tonight while his master was in the City. He awoke in near blackness to a large hand over his mouth, and his eyes bulged with fright until he remembered his promise. He nodded, was released, sat up and felt for his ink pot and quill, then ducked through the rear door. The giant mercenary squatted in the edge of the shadow, moonlight on his calm face, and carefully Ottoro inked five numerals on the man’s forehead.

  When it was done the man stood, gripped the clerk’s thin shoulders in silent thanks, and left.

  Ottoro watched him out of sight among the shadowed freight wagons, and shivered. He didn’t know what the giant had in mind but sensed it was dangerous. And he didn’t want him to die-that magnificent animal body, those calm eyes. He was the only one of the mercenaries that Ottoro wasn’t afraid of, the only one that neither leered nor sneered. The man had spoken to him but once, to ask this favor, yet Ottoro felt stricken at the thought he might never see him again.

  Nils took a small bundle from his kit, strode quietly to the nearby latrine and sat cross-legged in the shadow behind it until the moon had set. Then silently he slipped through the blackness, out of the area and through a night-filled street to a nearby warehouse. Beneath a ramp he lay down. He’d waken again at dawn, or sooner if there was need.

  In the warehouse district Nils was less conspicuous than might be expected; many warehouse slaves were large powerful men. In other respects they resembled most male slaves, with shaven scalps, tattooed foreheads, and unbleached cotton tunics. Slump-shouldered, expressionless, he had passed or circled every warehouse and granary on the riverfront before midmorning. Eyes, ears, and telepathic sense had been alert for any clue that Alpha was concealed in one of them. She wasn’t, and he felt she hadn’t been.

  The arena seemed a possibility. Some of the beast pens might be large enough to hide a pinnace. If it wasn’t there, he would try the warehouses at the harbor.

  Nils walked faster now, and before long glimpsed the palace through a cross street. The pinnace might also lie beneath an awning on one of its numerous roofs. He remained intent, scanning for clues.

  The four orcs had just turned a corner when they noticed him ahead.

  “Look at that,” one said pointing. “No slave ought to be that big. There’s no one in the whole cohort that big.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we ought to shorten him.”

  “Which end?”

  “How about the middle?”

  They laughed.

  “Now listen, you dog robbers,” one of them warned, “take it easy. The brass has been getting mean about crippling slaves.”

  “That’s right,” said another. “Don’t cut off anything that’s any good to anyone.”

  They laughed again.

  Although they were forty meters behind him, Nils had sensed their attention, and in a general way their intentions. He started diagonally across the broad street, not speeding up but heading now for the palace. Soldiers were unlikely to make a disturbance on the palace grounds. But the orcs had no reason to keep their pace slow, and they gained on him, grinning, their strides eager.

  “Doesn’t look like a eunuch.”

  “Not yet.”

  Their laughter was husky with anticipation. Nils sensed how near they’d drawn. He’d never reach the palace without running, and running would draw deadly attention. He turned through a doorway. Had it been a barracks, he might possibly have been safe, for no one might have been there, and his pursuers would not have invaded the territory of a different cohort. But they recognized it as a building housing female slaves! It was unbelievable that the big bastard would do that; only orcs had freedom of entry.

  The first two followed him in quickly. Nils, standing against the wall beside the door, struck the second, his heavy-bladed knife entering below the ear. There was a choking gasp, and the man’s partner, turning, had his ribs stove in by a calloused heel. A third orc blocked the doorway, pulling at his sword, then pitched backward, doubled, down the low steps. Nils emerged after him, with a sword now, and the fourth orc roared to see the slave cleave the fallen man. Very briefly they fought. When the man went down, Nils fled, while other shouting orcs ran toward him. Two blocked his way, then jumped aside when he didn’t stop, following in pursuit when he was past. He turned a corner and the palace lay across a square. Tossing the sword away he sprinted hard, dodged between two groups of slaves, then stopped abruptly in their lee.

  Before him stood a street patrol, staring, nocking arrows or leveling pikes. The hard-faced officer with the small deadly smile was a telepath. His eyes were intent on Nils’s sweaty face with its numbers blurred and running as black rivulets down his face.

  Quickly Nils threw off the tunic, to stand barbaric and proud in his breechclout, at the same time holding a clear mental picture of himself in the arena. If the telepath recognized him, he’d hardly have him killed on the spot.

  The man barked a command and the patrol moved to encircle Nils. Angry soldiers were running up, and the officer shouted at them, his voice dangerous, commanding. They sheathed their swords, flushed and indignant, then stood at attention while he questioned them. More orders were barked. Nils was manacled, and a pike prodded his ribs. Accompanied by two of Nils’s pursuers, the patrol marched toward the palace.

  XVII

  The dire bear crawls obscenely from the tower to haunt the involuted caves of night, feeding on fear and love and tenderness, ravening the vulnerable flesh and quivering mind.

  “Take me, take me instead!” I cry, but goes shambling and chuckling in the darkness out of sight with someone else.

  And all the pores inhale the terror of the unimaginable, imagining.

  From EARTH, by Chandra Queiros

  He had been to his cell, looked him over carefully, considered his aura, and questioned him. There could be no doubt: it was the same barbarian the Master had been interested in, who’d fought in the arena and escaped. Apparently the same man who’d killed the Master in single combat months later and a thousand kilometers away. He was thought to be a chief among his people.

  Draco ground his fist on the cushioned arm of his chair. There must be a way to profit from such a catch. What bargain might be made with the Northmen? Perhaps the man was not a major chief. But he must be-one who could do what he had done. He felt dangerous even in a cell with chains on ankles and wrists.

  Less dangerous that way than free. The troops still talked of what had happened in the arena.

  Moreover, the man was a lunatic. He’d heard that the orcs had a sky boat, as he’d called it, and said frankly that he’d come here to steal it. Said it as matter of factly as a man would admit eating breakfast.

  Such madness, combined with cunning and superlative weapons skills, was something to consider. What would a whole army be like, of men like that? They were bad enough as they were.

  And how had he learned about the sky chariot? Presumably
from Ahmed’s overflights of their camps. But only three days had passed between Ahmed’s first raid and the man’s capture. Could he have been in the City for some reason, posing as a slave? And for what reason? It was hardly possible. Without speaking orcish, his disguise could hardly have lasted more than a couple of days.

  Or did he know orcish?

  You could question other men, and their answers, verbal or sub verbal, told you what you needed to know. With a little mild torture, screening could be broken. But this man made no useful response unless he wanted to. When his joints were twisted and a hot iron pressed to his cheek, his only reaction was simple awareness.

  He would spare him for now. Surely some use could be made of him, some advantage gained, and it might be best if he wasn’t damaged.

  Though Draco didn’t recognize it, he was awed by Nils, was hesitant to torture or damage him further, and would not do so except under stress.

  Even if he could make a pact with the tribes of Northmen, Draco reminded himself, the real danger was Ahmed, and only inside the City could he now match the Sudanese. Outside on the open plain the non-psi dog, with his sky chariot and its weapons, would frustrate and defeat any enemy. And the possibility of getting it from him by force or trickery seemed essentially zero.

  Meanwhile Ahmed undoubtedly had some plan in motion aimed at forcing a showdown where his advantage would be decisive. Unquestionably that was why he’d used so few bullets on the Northmen; he was saving them to use nearer home. Psi eavesdroppers had reported that operations against the Northmen had been restricted to scattering their herds and stopping their forays onto the plain.