by Sam Barone
“Maybe I would like him better. He might not keep me up all night.”
Her hands were under his tunic now, making him even more excited.
He lifted the dress up over her head and tossed it toward the table, then picked her up, carried her to the bed, and deposited her gently on the blankets. He stood over her looking down at her naked body as he removed his tunic. She moved sinuously in the bed, looking up at him and arching her back a little in anticipated pleasure. Remembering his promise from last night, he vowed to keep better control of his desire.
“Trella, my woman, you belong to me, and with me you will stay.” He sat down on the bed and began kissing her breasts, and then he had no more words in his head for anyone or anything.
7
An hour later, Esk kar unbarred the door and stepped out into the courtyard. The guard still attended. Gatus had joined him, both men sitting under the tree. From the grim look on Gatus’s face, Esk kar guessed that his own contentment was about to vanish. “Yes, Gatus, what is it?”
“Can we speak privately, Captain?” he glanced toward the house.
Trella was up and dressed, but the room still reeked of sex.
“Yes. Let’s go to the tavern for some food and beer.” Esk kar had worked up an appetite, and what had formerly been an unheard of luxury was nothing now. He started walking and Gatus followed. Bypassing the cheaper alehouse near the barracks, Esk kar strode two streets over to a smaller tavern, one not usually frequented by soldiers. This tavern’s wine and ale didn’t wrench your stomach, and if you wanted something other than bread, they’d fetch it from the street vendors.
The innkeeper tried to seat his guests near the doorway so anyone passing by could see them. But Esk kar chose a dark corner and told the owner they wanted privacy along with some bread and beer. Esk kar might have gold now, but he didn’t plan to waste it on drink.
“Well, Gatus,” he began after taking a deep draught of the ale. “What’s the problem now?”
“The men. While you’re taking your pleasure, they’re standing about, worried about the barbarians and all this talk about fighting them off.”
Gatus stopped to take a sip of his ale. “They know there aren’t enough of them to resist the barbarians, even with a wall. You need to talk to them.
Some are getting ready to run, like Ariamus. I see it in their eyes. They turn away when I look at them. Say something to them, and soon, or they’ll be gone.”
Esk kar’s hand had tightened on the ale cup when Gatus mentioned his time with Trella, but he relaxed it immediately. He couldn’t get angry at Gatus over that. When Ariamus had wasted away hours or even the whole day, his dalliances annoyed all those who needed him, including Esk kar.
Besides, Gatus kept close to the men. If he said they had a problem, then there was one. Otherwise Gatus would have handled it himself.
A week ago Esk kar would have stormed out of the tavern, returned to the barracks, and started knocking some heads. That response wouldn’t work, not with the threat of the barbarians moving toward them. Now he needed the soldiers more than they needed him.
Without them, any wall would be useless. Worse, the wall would never be built without the threat of force from Orak’s guards. Esk kar sat there, thinking, listing in his mind what he could say and do. Some ideas occurred and he examined them, slowly and in more detail than was his wont. Perhaps Trella was right. He should think everything through before he spoke or acted.
They sat there in silence. “What did Corio have to say?” Gatus finally asked as he finished his beer. “Can the wall be built in time?”
Esk kar told him what Corio said. “Now that you know as much as I do, let’s get back to the men. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Ticking them off on his fingers, he listed the items he wished Gatus to assemble. When he finished, Gatus smiled as he leaned back against the rough stone wall, and called for more beer.
Two hours of preparation later, including some time telling Trella what he would do and say, Esk kar walked around the barracks to the training area. Gatus had brought in all the men, leaving only a single man at each gate. Esk kar wore only a short linen skirt, leaving his chest bare. He carried his long horse sword in his hand.
Gatus, Jalen, Bantor, and Sisuthros waited together in the open space in front of the men. Two blankets at their feet concealed what lay beneath.
A high wagon with four large, solid wheels stood behind them.
“Sit down, in two ranks,” Esk kar growled at the men. He counted twenty — seven seated before him. At least none had run yet, though the day and week were far from over. He looked at each of them as he strode up and down in front of their ranks.
“You men, scum that you are, are going to help me defeat the barbarians. You’re going to do that by training all the hundreds of new men and villagers that will be pouring into Orak in the next few months. Before you can do that, however, you’ll have to be trained properly yourselves, and that’s what we,” he waved the sword toward Gatus and the others, “are going to do, starting today.”
He watched their eyes shift and a few squirmed in their positions.
But they said nothing, proving they’d learned the two basic lessons of soldiering-never volunteer and never be the first to ask a question.
“I see you have your doubts,” Esk kar said with a smile. “Well, good.
Maybe we’ll have a little wagering. You all like to wager, don’t you? Let’s pretend that I am a fierce barbarian warrior. Gatus, come here.”
Gatus stepped forward at the command, drawing his short sword as he did so, and faced Esk kar ten feet away.
“Now, men, let’s make a little wager. The barbarian against Gatus.”
Esk kar hummed his horse sword through the air. It was nearly twice the length of the short swords carried by the soldiers. “Who would win?”
No one said anything, so he shouted at them. “Answer me, dogs! Who would win?”
Grudging replies of “you” or “the barbarian” answered him this time.
He waited a moment. “So, nobody thinks the soldier can win. And why not?” He prodded them until he heard the reply he wanted. “Because of the long sword, I can cut him down before he even reaches me.” He glared at them. “Or can I? Jalen!”
Gatus stepped back. Jalen reached under the blanket, put on a thick leather vest, and lifted up a stout wooden shield reinforced with two thick strips of weathered copper. Sliding his arm into the straps, he drew his sword, and walked aggressively toward Esk kar, raising the shield to his eyes as he did so. The short sword that had looked so puny a moment before now seemed much more menacing.
Esk kar instinctively gave back a pace as he raised his sword before Jalen halted, the same ten feet away.
“Well, men, let’s get back to our wager. The barbarian or Jalen? Who’d win now?”
After a moment, most of them began muttering Jalen’s name.
“What happened to change your minds? The shield makes the difference, doesn’t it? Now the barbarian’s long sword is of little value. Instead the protected short sword becomes deadly. Jalen can move in to close quarters with the barbarian, take the sword stroke on his shield, and kill him easily.”
One of the men called out, “The barbarians don’t fight on foot. They use their horses as shields.”
“Ah, we have a leader of men here, I see,” Esk kar remarked and nodded at Gatus again.
Lifting his fi ngers to his lips, Esk kar gave a shrill whistle, and in a moment a stable boy ran up, leading a horse. Esk kar leaped on the animal and raised the sword on high. The horse reared up, showing high spirits, and forcing Esk kar to grip him tightly with his knees and pull back hard with the halter rope.
Gatus, meanwhile, had dragged out a training post, a four — foot — tall post he set into a block of wood buried in the ground. The block held the post upright, and on its top, he set a melon from the market.
Esk kar wheeled the horse and rode a short distance
away, then turned and raced the animal back toward the post, giving voice to a barbarian war cry that acted like a whip to the excited animal. As he flashed by the post, Esk kar leaned outward and struck down hard with his sword, exploding the melon as a man might crush a grape and splitting the post as he thundered past in a spray of flying dirt and splattering fruit.
He rode back slowly, talking to the horse soothingly and smiling to himself because he’d nearly missed the melon. Esk kar stopped in front of the men. “Who wants to stand against the barbarian and his horse?”
No one answered. “Come now, men, I’ll even give you a horse of your own, though I’ll warrant you’ll have a better chance on the ground. What, still no takers?”
He looked down at them and laughed. Turning toward Gatus, he nodded again. This time Gatus and Bantor jumped into the wagon and gathered bows and arrows which they notched but did not draw. The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, standing over the side of the wagon.
“Now who will you wager on, the barbarian on his horse, or the men standing with drawn bows on their wall? Because that’s what the barbarians are going to see when they reach Orak. Only the wall will be twenty — five feet high. Show them, Jalen.”
Jalen and Sisuthros jogged to the rear of the barracks and returned with two saplings bound together end — to — end with rope to make a crude joint. Jalen set his end on the ground and braced it with his foot while Sisuthros, at the other end, lifted it with a grunt and walked it upright, hand over hand, until he joined Jalen. The two men now held the beam vertical.
“That pole is twenty — five feet high. When the barbarians are beneath it, their swords and horses will be useless.” He walked the horse closer to the pole so that they could see the height difference, clucking to the animal to overcome its nervousness at the strange object looming over its head.
“Picture yourselves on top of the wall, pouring arrows down on the barbarians and their horses. Now, who would you wager on?”
He looked at their open mouths, hoping his message was getting through. One of the men called out to him. “Captain, the barbarians have bows as well. They can shoot back at men on the wall.”
It was Alexar, the same man who had asked the first question.
“Ah, I see our leader of men has his wits about him,” Esk kar replied, getting down from his horse. Walking to the wagon, he reached up and Bantor handed him his bow and arrow. Walking back to the men, he held up the bow in one hand, the arrow in the other.
“This is the bow used by the barbarians,” he explained, talking as if they’d never seen one before. “It’s short because it must be fired from the back of a horse while at a dead run. It’s curved because it must be bent to provide enough force. This bow is made of three different kinds of wood glued together, and tipped with horn for strength. A craftsman takes about six months to make a bow like this.”
Esk kar knew most of the men had no idea how much effort it took to make a bow, or how many were discarded or shattered in the process.
He held out the arrow. “The arrow is short because it must fi t the bow and be carried on the horse. The tip may be of hardened bone or bronze.
It weighs almost nothing.” Esk kar tossed the arrow in the air a few times, so they could see how light it was, then put the arrow to the bow. He turned toward the wagon, bent the bow, and launched the shaft. The arrow quivered into the thick wheel.
“With a bow such as this, even the slowest barbarian on his horse can launch ten to fifteen arrows per minute.”
Whether these men knew it or not, that was a frightening number of missiles for any massed group of men, since a mere fifty horsemen could shoot at least fi ve hundred arrows per minute, and each rider might carry thirty or forty arrows in his quiver.
Warriors could empty their quivers and completely break a mass of men five times their size. They could inflict huge casualties on their hap-less opponents, shattering their ranks and making them easy prey for the final attack with lance and sword.
“But the killing range of this arrow is less than one hundred paces with any accuracy. A few shafts might kill at one hundred and fifty paces.” Eskkar let that sink in. “At close range, the arrow is deadly. After a hundred paces, it will not pierce armor or shield. At two hundred paces or more, the arrow is nearly spent and won’t penetrate even a leather vest.
“Most of you men know how to use a bow. Even Forno,” Esk kar pointed with the bow at the marksman who’d killed Naxos’s henchman, “at least when he’s sober, can put a shaft in a man at fifty paces. Our own bows will be longer and heavier and they’ll cast a heavier weight of arrow, enough to kill a man at two hundred paces unless he’s wearing bronze. And since they don’t have to be small and compact, we can make our bows in less than three months.”
Esk kar gave them a grim smile. “So, men, you will have to train others, many others, in how to fi ght with bow, spear, and short sword. Master Builder Corio will construct our wall, and it will enclose most of Orak.
We’ll tear down the rest of the village and then flood the surrounding land. We’ll force the barbarians to come up against us at the main gate, and we’ll kill them with arrows from the wall. Starting tomorrow, all of us will put in three hours a day with the bow. Gatus and Forno will lead the training.”
He glanced over at Gatus, who nodded agreement.
“In three months, I want every one of you to be able to shoot the eyes out of a man at two hundred paces. When the wall is ready, we’ll mark out the distances on the ground so you’ll know the range.”
He had their attention now, and could almost read their thoughts from the looks on their faces. They were thinking that maybe, just maybe, it might work. Give them something to believe in, something to keep them here a few more months. As long as they thought they had a chance, they’d stay.
“When you can shoot at least ten arrows per minute, standing behind the wall, wearing leather armor and picking your targets, you’ll do to the barbarians what they usually do to others. You will smash their ranks and kill hundreds of them. Remember, a horse is a big target. If you kill or wound the horse, the man goes down. As he falls, he may lose his bow and quiver, his sword, or his wits, even if he doesn’t break his neck.
“In five months, I expect we’ll have between three hundred and four hundred men, well trained in the use of the bow, to defend the wall, with all the remaining men and women of Orak to back us up. We will have food and water, while the barbarians will find nothing to eat outside the village. When they get hungry enough, they’ll move on.
“We’ll have other tricks for the barbarians as well, but I don’t want to burden your heads with too many things at once. But remember this when the arrows start flying, I’ll be standing beside you on the wall.
“So, tomorrow starts our training. And I’ll be training with you. As more men arrive, you’ll begin training them, as Gatus and Forno have trained you.”
He saw more doubt on their faces.
“Oh, don’t worry, men will come-driven from their homes by the barbarians, men whose families have been killed by them, men who are tired of running from them every few years. Even now, dozens of men in the village are looking for a chance to pay off old scores. When they hear we intend to fight, more will join us.”
Esk kar stopped, as if to consider his words, glancing at every man.
“We can beat the barbarians as long as we fight them our way and on our terms. I know how they fight and I know they can be beaten. You men will be the ones who do it. Unless you would rather run than fight.” He let that thought take root for a moment.
“Starting today, your pay for each month is doubled and you’ll get better food. You get your fi rst payment tomorrow. And there will be an extra month’s pay when the barbarians are beaten off.” No doubt Nicar could handle that small sum easily enough, especially with Drigo’s gold.
That brought the expected cheer, and he waited until it stopped.
“But starting tomorrow, you w
ork, you train, and you guard the village.
If you train well, many of you will become leaders — of — ten, and there’ll be more pay for that.”
He let his voice go hard, to make sure they understood his meaning.
“But if you slack off, I may not even kill you.” They went silent again. “I might just have you thrown out of Orak and let you fend for yourself.”
He glanced up at the waning sun. “Gatus, take these poor excuses for soldiers to the alehouse and feed them some beer. But not too much. They start training at sunrise.”
Esk kar walked off, thinking he’d have to be there himself, at least for the next few days. He could use some practice with sword and bow. Sitting around the barracks had weakened his muscles, and he didn’t feel ready yet to meet the barbarians one on one. Killing fools like Naxos and Drigo was easy enough, but hardened Alur Meriki warriors would be a different matter.
Turning the corner, he found Trella waiting for him. Behind her stood more than a dozen women as well as an assortment of children and dogs.
“I kept them away, master, as you ordered,” she said, raising her voice so all could hear. “They were sure to be a distraction.”
His eyes widened in surprise. The barracks women barely obeyed their men, let alone the female slave of another man. She’d managed it somehow, imposing her will on others twice her size or age. Some of the women began making rude comments about Esk kar’s body parts, and he felt glad that Trella had kept them away, though he’d told her no such thing. “Good, Trella. Come with me.” He nodded politely to the women, who already pushed past him, eager to learn what new fate had befallen their men.
“We must get ready for the evening meal, and you must wash and dress,” Trella told him, then wrinkled her nose. “You smell like a horse.”
Nicar had invited Esk kar to his home for dinner. Whether or not the invitation included Trella didn’t matter, as he had decided to take her anyway. “Yes, I’m sure I do. But before dinner, I want to see to the village bowyer and the fletcher. I’ve just made some more promises about bows and arrows, and I need to make sure they’re kept.”
