It was done, it was done, Allah’s will was done, and the maris must now return to their barren hills, but first let the city feel sorrow as the maris sorrowed. Let no man say his triumph was complete. Let the Temple mourn as Datu Attik mourned.
“No good will come of this.” The voice came from his right side, from where his second son lay at his father’s feet. “The sultan cannot be killed. My brother will make new war, and it is war we cannot win.”
“Silence. Your brother sings his farewell.” But it was true, Datu Attik thought. The sultan has said that if there is more war between the maris and the Temple, the marching walls will come to the fields in winter and pursue the maris to the end of the world.
He will do as he has said, and my sons will die, and my people will die. Why has Allah spared me to watch? Does He hate me so?
The song of the juramentados burst out and struck Attik like a blow, and the old man knew it was too late. These messengers of death could not be turned from their task, not by him or by anyone. Only their death would slow them now.
“O God Thou are Almighty, Allah Thou are Almighty, we witness that God is one God, we witness that Allah is Almighty!
“When the leaves of the Book shall be unrolled, when Hell shall blaze forth, when Paradise is near, then shall every soul know what works it hath made! Witness that Allah is One, witness that Allah is Almighty!”
Veiled women came now to aid the juramentados. They bound the young bodies tightly with scarlet cloths, tightly to hold the blood, scarlet to hide the blood from their enemies. Young, young men, his son was a young man, and now would die, but he would die for the glory of Allah—
His second son brought a kriss and Attik raised it to his lips, then passed it to the lips of his first son. “Then shall every soul know the works it hath made,” Attik chanted. “So saith Allah, so saith the Almighty, every man shall submit to the will of Allah. Witness that Allah is One, witness that Allah is Almighty.”
“Worthy is Allah to be praised.”
The death songs hung over the camp long after the juramentados vanished into the night beyond the yellow circle of firelight. They were gone, running toward the city of Batav.
Faint sounds came from the city to the campsite: sounds of song and joy; the sounds of men and women in triumph. Datu Attik heard and shook his fist toward the magnificent blaze of the Temple rising above the city walls.
Temple!
The Temple of God, the Temple which held the very voice of God! The Temple stolen by the black-robed priests of Batav, the Temple which was so nearly in the grasp of the maris. For generation upon generation the false priests of false gods had held the Temple from the faithful. Attik’s grandfather was old when he died, and the oldest men his grandfather had known in his youth could not remember when the Temple was not held by the worshippers of the Prophet Jesus.
But Attik knew. Once there had been a time when men flew above the plains of Makassar, flew up to the very stars above. It was a time when God was not angry with men, and in that time the Temple was open so that all men could hear the words of God.
Surely Allah would not forever hold his people from his Word. Surely the juramentados would find the sultan MacKinnie, and then, and then — the maris might yet take the Temple! There were yet enough, and without the sultan to lead them, the black-robes might return to their futile ways of war—
“It shall be as Allah wills,” Attik said aloud. “I submit to the will of Allah.”
Then, since he was a practical man, Attik ordered the clan to prepare for their journey. It might be well to be far from the city when the juramentados struck. The sultan had ordered them away from the city plains in three days’ time, and that time was nearly past.
If the juramentados met success, there would be time to gather the clans and return. Without their sultan the Temple priests would lose battles as they did in the past, and the Temple would fall.
The Temple for Allah, and the city of Batav for the maris. The city, that lovely city—
The sack of Batav could go on for days!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WAR RECALLED
The celebrations continued for days. Monks’ cells in the hollow of the walls of the great Temple lay empty as even the silent orders found release from their vows. Songs of triumph rose from the massive brooding walls to blend with the Te Deum sung in the Temple Sanctuary.
MacKinnie stood atop the highest Temple battlement and looked up into the night sky toward his home a dozen light-years away. A river of stars ran across the sky, so that it was difficult to locate the star that shone on his world.
The stars belonged to the Empire of Man, and looking up at the myriad of lights MacKinnie could appreciate the problems of the Imperial Navy. How could there be peace among all those and yet each have freedom? The legendary time when Prince Samual’s World was united and there were no wars was remembered as a golden age, yet unification had remained a dream and spawned a dozen wars; and that was only one world. The Empire had hundreds, perhaps thousands — he couldn’t know. More worlds than there were nations or city-states on Samual.
“Sir?”
He turned at Stark’s approach. “Yes, Hal?”
“I brought the shipmaster.”
MacKinnie once again marveled at the varieties of man. People on Prince Samual’s World were varied enough, but nothing like what he had seen on Makassar. There were the tall, fair men like Vanjynk, and the dark, swarthy men like Loholo; the Imperial Navy even had black men and women. On Samual “black men” were legendary monsters who lived in the hills and ate children …
Loholo stood respectfully and waited for MacKinnie to speak.
“Shipmaster, I must return to Jikar. When can we sail?” MacKinnie asked.
Loholo shrugged. “She is ready now. It will be no easy journey. Much of the time the wind will be in our faces. There is better trading to the east and south … and there will be storms.”
“Aye.” MacKinnie shuddered. Now that they were ashore he could admit that he’d been terrified. But there was no other way. Or was there? “Could we sail east to get there?”
“East?” You believe the tales that Makassar is round — but you would know, star man. You would know.” Loholo shrugged, jingling the golden ornaments he wore. His curved dagger bore new jewels on the hilt, and there were new rings on his fingers. “I have known of men who believed the world round and sailed east to reach the western shores,” he said. “But I never heard of one who arrived. Trader, there are shoals west of Jikar, and there are pirates throughout the islands. Subao is faster than they, but there are many pirates. Those are the western waters I know. What else may lay between here and there—” He shrugged again to a jingle of gold. “Only God knows.”
God and the Imperial Navy, MacKinnie thought. From the maps they had shown him there was a lot of open water to the east of the main continent. Loholo was probably right. “I had thought as much,” MacKinnie said. “So there’s nothing for it. We sail in five days.”
“So soon? You will hardly have time to buy a cargo. It would be much better to wait until next season.”
“No. I must reach Jikar in two hundred days,” MacKinnie said.
Loholo chuckled. “Then you will have an uncomfortable voyage. Two thousand klamaters in two hundred days.” The sea captain laughed again. “In this season. Well, Subao can withstand that — but can you? And why leave Batav at all? You rule here. The priestly star man is Ultimate Holiness, but he came to the throne on your pikes, and did not your pikemen hold the city the old council would elect a new Holiness inside three days.”
“And that’s a fact,” Stark said. “There’s some in the new council who’d support Casteliano, but you can’t expect all them old Archdeacons to take kindly to the Imperial missionaries movin’ in on ’em like that. Mister Loholo’s right, there’d be civil war if it wasn’t that our troops hold all the strong points.”
“Which means I can’t take the whole army across the
plains,” MacKinnie said. “Or if I did, I’d have to take the Imperial missionaries with me—”
“They’re not likely to come,” Stark observed.
“Exactly. And they won’t continue helping us if we take them as prisoners.” MacKinnie glanced upward at the stars and thought again of the problems of empire. “So it’s by sea. Leave the pikemen here and hope the missionaries know what to do with them. Thank you, Mister Loholo. That will be all.”
“Trader?” Loholo made no move to leave.
“Yes?”
“Trader, you promised me Subao when we returned to Jikar.”
“She’ll be yours, Mister Loholo.”
“Aye. Then with your permission I’ll get back to her. There’s still work to be done. Bottom to be scraped, new water barrels, provisions — but if there’s a place by water on this world that you want to go to, I’ll take you, even if we pass every pirate in the shallows!” Loholo fingered the golden skull ornament at his left ear. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever seen, Trader. You’ve shown us how to make ships sail better than we ever knew. You trained an army of city rabble and took them out to whip the barbarians after the Temple people gave up. Now you’re in command of the Temple and all Batav, and you want to return to Jikar! Most men would rather stay here as king — andthere’d be no nonsense about it, either. You’ve only to say the word-”
“And you could be my High Admiral, Mister Loholo?”
“No, sir. Your star man Captain MacLean would have that post, and I’m not that ambitious. Subao’s enough for me, star man. A good ship and open sea’s all my father wanted for any of his children.”
Loholo began the long descent down the stone stairway to the street below, and MacKinnie turned away to lean on the ramparts. Batav was a blaze of lights, with bonfires in all the public squares. Every one of the city’s thirty thousand souls seemed to be reveling in the streets, their numbers swollen by another thirty thousand peasants who had sought refuge within the city walls. The peasants would soon go back to their fields, and the remnants of Batav’s great feudal families, all those who survived the futile charges against the maris before MacKinnie arrived, would return to their great halls and tournaments—
And then what? “Getting control of that damned library was easier than letting loose,” MacKinnie said. “I’m concerned about the missionaries. Can they hold on after we leave?”
“I doubt it. Not without a good commander who knows how you fight.”
“Could Brett hold the Temple?” MacKinnie asked.
Stark shrugged. “He’s maybe smart enough, but they’d never trust him. He was raised a mari, sure enough, and it shows. Nobody’s going to put him in command.
“Then who can do it?”
“You.”
“And no one else, Sergeant?”
“Not that I know of, Colonel. You built this army, and you know what it can do. The others don’t think like you.”
“And that worries you?” MacKinnie asked.
“Don’t get paid to worry,” Stark said automatically. “Except-”
He’s in a strange mood, MacKinnie thought. He really is worried. I haven’t seen him that way since—
“You know,” Stark said, “Mister Loholo’s got a point, Colonel. A year ago we was down to it, looking for a place fightin’ in some petty war on South Continent and wonderin’ how to pay the rent on a flophouse until we found something. We never expected to find anything as good as we’ve got now.”
“I gave Dougal my word, and I swore allegiance to King David,” MacKinnie reminded him.
“After Haven used the goddam Empire to bake half our Wolves, Colonel! They’d never have took Orleans without the Imperial Marines … and then they turned you out like an old dog! What do we really owe Haven, Colonel? What do we owe anybody?”
MacKinnie turned to his sergeant in surprise. “We’re soldiers, Hal. It’s all either of us has ever been-”
“Soldiers for who, Colonel? You owe Haven any more’n you owe Batav? If it wasn’t for them peasant kids we trained we’d never have beat the maris. Them boys would follow you to hell, and what’s goin’ to happen to ’em if we pull up stakes and leave? And when we get back to Haven, that Dougal’s likely to slit our throats to shut us up. What use are we to him after we bring back them books or whatever it is Kleinst has got? There’s not much for us back on Samual, and that’s the size of it—” Stark turned quickly and grasped the hilt of his sword. “Watch out, Colonel, there’s somebody comin’ up the stairs.”
“Go see who it is.” There were guards posted at the foot of the stairway to MacKinnie’s penthouse, and from the sounds there was only one person approaching. Hal could deal with any single man. Nathan turned back to the battlements.
The revels continued in the city below. Drunken apprentices staggered from shop to shop, demanding that lights be placed in all dark windows on pain of having the building itself burned to provide light. Barrels of wine and ale stood at street corners, open to all comers. But through the drunken reveling MacKinnie’s peasant pikemen stood in grim, disciplined knots at the strategic points, waiting for their relief before joining the festivities …
Follow me to hell, MacKinnie thought. Why not? I found them not much better than slaves and now they’ve just defeated the worst threat this city’s ever faced.
Why the hell shouldn’t I be king? Because of another duty …
All his life MacKinnie had lived under a soldier’s code and like most dueling societies Prince Samual’s World held honor higher than life … but what was the honorable course now?
Who owns my loyalty? he wondered. Dougal, who had a dozen men and women killed to protect the secret babbled by that drunken Imperial officer? Casteliano, who’s Ultimate Holiness courtesy of my pikemen? Or those lads out there? It’s obvious what Hal thinks.
“It’s Freelady Graham, Colonel,” Stark announced.
Mary Graham had taken off her armor and had let her long brown hair fall in waves and curls to below her shoulders. A blue linen gown with tight bodice set off her small figure, and she was much lovelier than she’d been the first time MacKinnie had seen her.
“Nathan, you’re missing the party,” she said accusingly. “Can’t you ever relax, even for one evening? Let’s have some fun!”
MacKinnie was surprised by the possessive tone in her voice. Had he imagined it or — Great Saints, he thought. She’s a real beauty tonight. And with her hair let down she looks a lot like Laura. Nearly as headstrong, too. And she’s twenty-four, you’re fifty, and she’s your ward. But—
Unwanted the memories poured past his guard. There had been another girl, once. A freelady, not one of the innumerable camp followers any military commander would know. She was no more than thirty, and it was no more than three years ago …
A bleak picture formed in MacKinnie’s mind. Haven, defeated at Blanthern Pass, was on the march again, invading Orleans with inadequate troops and a dangerously thin supply line. And Iron MacKinnie’s
Wolves were ready, this time ready to end Haven’s threat to Orleans forever and aye. When this battle was done, the Orleans Committee of Public Safety could dictate any terms they wanted to David II!
The Wolves lay in ambush at Lechfeld. Two battalions waited, enough troops to force Haven’s invading force to deploy and fight. Lechfeld couldn’t be bypassed or the Haven army would be without any possible supply line. Twenty kilometers away, in dense forest, a regiment of Orleans Dragoons moved swiftly through the forest gullies, leading their horses until they reached open country. Above, behind rolling hills overlooking the Lechfeld plains, MacKinnie waited with the balance of his Wolves to close the trap — and the Haven army was moving into it.
The Committee had protested the battle plan. Converging columns were too dangerous. There was no reliable way to communicate between them, even if the University professors did believe they would have reliable wireless soon. The timing of the battle needed great precision or the Orleanists would be d
efeated in detail.
The Committee had protested, but MacKinnie had won that fight. He knew the capabilities of his troops to the last small unit, and his scouts would cover the battle area. There would be no surprises for Orleans; only for Haven — and the Wolves would not fight at all until Haven was in the trap.
And now they were marching in, and they were doomed.
Freelady Laura waited with him in the hills above Lechfeld. He had tried to send her to the rear before, but she came back — and except for Stark there wasn’t an officer or a noncom in his command who’d disobey the colonel’s lady even on his direct orders. Still, it was safe enough. The losses today would be Haven’s! But she was in a place of danger, and that wouldn’t do.
“Go to Lechfeld while the road’s still open,” MacKinnie had told her. “Major Armstrong is well dug in and his position won’t be exposed until the battle is over. Meet me in Lechfeld.”
She protested, but he needed a message carried, and finally she agreed to go. “We’ll be riding at the charge all the way, Laura,” he’d said. “You can’t keep up with that! We’d be separated anyway. If I can’t make you go to the rear — damn your father for letting you out of the house! — I want you safe.”
“All right. I won’t have you worrying about me when you should be directing the battle.” She sat proudly in the ambulance. The escorting cavalry saluted. Cornet Blair mounted with a flourish, proud to be chosen as protector of his colonel’s fiancee.
“And we’ll see the chaplain when the battle’s ended,” MacKinnie promised. “Ride out, Blair.”
“Sir.” Ambulance and escort rode away in a thin cloud of dust and MacKinnie gave his attention to the Haven forces below. In an hour their advance units appeared. They weren’t surprised to meet resistance at Lechfeld and fell back to wait for the rest of the column.
The Haven army deployed skirmishers, then formed a main battle line for attack, their artillery moving forward at the gallop. Trumpet calls rang across plowed fields as Haven’s last army prepared for a set piece battle.
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