Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Roger said with a sigh. “Do whatever you can, Doc.”

  “I won’t ask if we could stop someplace, Sir,” Dobrescu said to Pahner as the captain walked up. “I don’t want to end up as somebody’s lunch.”

  “You heard, I see,” Pahner observed. “Yeah. Great guys, huh?”

  “Gotta love civilization,” Roger said, and gestured around. The ash had finally stopped falling, and the true expanse of the Valley of the Krath could be seen, opening out in a vast panorama before them.

  The valley itself was at least a hundred kilometers wide, a broad U-shaped cut through the midst of rugged mountains, some of them rearing to well over five thousand meters. The Krath ran down its middle, a broad, silt-laden stream that fed and watered the valley via the repeated canals that ran up towards the flanking mountains.

  The valley’s floor and walls, though, were what caught the eye. As far as the eye could see, the valley was a patchwork of irrigation canals and tended fields. It was so intensively cultivated that not one square meter of land appeared to be unused. The majority of the houses, and all of the towns, were on the steep slopes of the mountains to leave every flat patch for cultivation, and each and every one was surrounded by growing greenery, most of it clearly edible.

  The road itself followed the line where the flatter base of the valley started to climb up the mountain slopes. All of the towns they had passed had been evacuated before they arrived, leaving an eerie, unnatural feeling of ghost towns and mysterious disappearances. There was a sense of thousands, millions, of eyes watching from the distance, and there were actually a handful of visible Mardukans working in some of the more distant fields, plowing with turom or weeding rows of barleyrice and legumes.

  Other than that, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  The management of the valley—the regular roads, the neat villages, and the well tended canals—was arguably more frightening than the city of cannibals behind them, Roger thought. It was the visible sign of an entire country, a massive country of well-organized cannibals. After all the battles they’d fought against endless tides of barbarians on K’Vaern’s Cove’s continent, the thought of what “civilization” meant on this continent was horrifying.

  “Civilization is either great, or truly terrible,” he said, putting his thoughts at least partially into words. “Mediocre doesn’t enter into it.” He gazed out over the valley for a moment longer, then shook his head and looked over at Pedi. “Now on to the next battle,” he said.

  Pahner nodded and walked around the line of turom to touch Pedi on the arm.

  “Ms. Karuse, could you join us for a moment?”

  Pedi looked around at the Marine, then at the medic, who shrugged.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Dobrescu told her. “Right now, the best thing for him would be for us to stop. But that’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

  “Very well,” she said. She patted the covering over the shaman, then turned to Pahner and Roger as the ambulance moved on. “What can I do to help?”

  “You know we’re heading for the hills,” Roger said. “What can you tell us about the route?”

  Pedi obviously had to stop and think about that.

  “What I know is all from traders and raiders. I’ve never traveled the hills myself.” She paused until the prince nodded understanding of the qualification, then continued. “There’s supposed to be a broad road to the town of Thirlot, where the Shin River drops through the Seisut Falls from the Vales to the valley of the Krath. There is a road up along the Shin, but it is closed by the citadel of Queicuf, and the town of Thirlot itself is walled, very heavily defended. You would have to take the gates, at least, and I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “You might be surprised,” Roger told her. “We could probably take out the gates, but then we’d still have to fight our way through the city.”

  “And we probably don’t have enough forces to do that,” Pahner said. “We took the Krath in Kirsti by surprise, but fighting our way through a fully prepared town is something else.”

  “You could call upon them to surrender,” the Shin said, rubbing her horns in thought. “If they refused, and you took them by storm, they would be liable for total destruction. If you created even a small breach, they would almost automatically have to surrender.”

  “That’s a recognized law of war?” Pahner asked. “It sounds like it.”

  “Yes,” the Shin answered. “The satraps fight all the time, and they don’t want to destroy the cities. So they have elaborate rules about what is and isn’t permissible, and what cities should and must do. Fortifications, also, but those are considered much harder to take. But even if Thirlot surrendered, you’d also have to fight your way through the stronghold of Queicuf, and that would be much harder.”

  “Two fortifications.” Pahner pulled out a piece of bisti root and cut off a slice. He slipped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then shook his head. “If this were a purely military party I could see it. But we’ve got a swarm of hangers-on and the human noncombatants to worry about, too. I’d really rather not risk it, under these circumstances.”

  “What kind of alternative do we have?” Roger asked.

  “Up the mountains,” Pedi replied, with a gesture to the east. “There’s a small track that leads to the south side of the Mudh Hemh lands; it comes out near Nesru. The Krath have a curtain wall there to prevent Shin parties from taking the Shesul Pass, but the position is only lightly defended from this side.”

  “So you think we could punch them out of our way?” Pahner asked.

  “Having witnessed your warriors in action, I feel sure of it,” she replied. “But there are Shin raider parties on the other side of the wall, from Mudh Hemh and elsewhere. Those from Mudh Hemh, I can talk out of attacking us, if they announce their presence in advance. Those from other Vales might or might not recognize my authority, and there are other hazards. The route is lightly used, so it hasn’t been cleared of nashul and ralthak.”

  “And what,” Roger asked, “are nashul and ralthak?”

  “Nashul are . . . burrower-beasts. They look like rock and attack by surprise. Very large, very hard to kill. Ralthak are fliers, very large. They both eat the high-turom, the tar.”

  “And if we take the route by the Shin?” Pahner asked.

  “We will be headed directly to the Vale of Mudh Hemh,” Pedi said with a gesture equivalent to a human shrug. “We will have to pass through the Battle Lands, and I have no idea what the traders in Nesru will think of that, but they’re all under the control of Mudh Hemh, more or less. We shouldn’t have trouble on that route. Not from Shin, at any rate. Thirlot and Queicuf are considered impregnable, though.”

  “I’m sure we could take them,” Pahner said. “If we used plasma cannon to take down the gates.”

  “Not,” Roger said. “Overhead.”

  “Precisely, Your Highness,” Pahner said dryly. “That was in the nature of sarcasm.”

  “Oh,” the prince replied with a smile. “And there I was thinking it was a test.” He shrugged. “Whichever, the mountain route it is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Semmar Reg stepped out of the Place of Justice and looked up at the monster towering over him. It was a two-legged beast, with vicious talons and an obviously wicked disposition. The rider on its back, however, was even more terrifying. His weapons and accouterments were different from those of the Valley Guards—armor of leather and fine-linked mail, a lance, and a long weapon like a thin arquebus. Reg bowed low as the apparition drew up at the head of a column of similarly equipped riders and dismounted. Whatever else the stranger might be, Reg noted, he carried more pistols than anyone the mayor had ever seen.

  Reg had hurried to the town hall as soon as he heard the sound of a firefight from the south. From Sran’s bell-tower, he could easily see the Guard checkpoint on the Kirsti Road on a clear day. Of course, today was far from clear, despite the recent rainstorm which h
ad washed much of the ash out of the air, and the current visibility conditions had made it difficult to make out details. But when he reached the tower’s top, he saw a small amount of smoke from arquebuses and bombards still drifting around the fortification. He’d also seen this column of riders, well on its way to the town, and if they’d taken many casualties from the Guard, it wasn’t apparent.

  What was apparent was that a formed military unit was just about to descend upon Sran. And that hadn’t happened in two hundred years.

  Rastar looked around at the town and felt a distinct glow of pleasure. It climbed up the mountains at its back, with one house piled practically on top of another. On the south side, a mountain stream tumbled out of a knife-edged gorge and was gathered for use by several mills that seemed to be the main source of local income.

  It was evident that at least some of the place’s citizenry had once been more prosperous than they were today, for several large one-time manors had been converted into housing for workers. But if the manor houses’ previous owners had fallen upon hard times, the workmen living in their homes today appeared to be doing well enough. For that matter, the entire town seemed relatively prosperous, which was good. Prosperity mattered to the humans, since they felt so very kindly towards town-living turom. Rastar, on the other hand, was Vashin. The Vashin had settled into their northern fortresses barely three generations before the Boman overran them, and the long tradition of raiding was bred into their bone and blood. It might have become somewhat muted in the last generation or so, but they certainly weren’t “townies.”

  Thus it was that Rastar saw the town from the uncomplicated perspective of a cavalry leader on a long march. Which was to say, as a chicken waiting to be plucked. Of course, there was no need to be impolite about it.

  “Good day to you, kind Sir,” the former Prince of Therdan said in truly vilely accented Krath with a gesture of greeting. “It’s lucky for you I got here first!”

  Reg bowed again, nervously.

  “It is a great honor to meet you . . . ?” he said.

  “Rastar Komas,” the armored stranger supplied. Or, at least, that was what Reg thought he said. Between the outlandish name and the even worse accent, it was very difficult to be certain. “Prince of Therdan,” the stranger went on, with a false-hand gesture of expansive goodwill. “It would seem that a caravan, of which I am a member, is about to pass through your town and into the Shin Hills. Unfortunately, we’re just a tad short on supplies.”

  “I believe you are the party from over the seas?” Reg said delicately. “I was informed of your presence. However, the High One has decreed that you are not permitted to leave Kirsti. I . . . wonder at your presence here. Also, the Shesul Road is closed to all but military traffic. I’m afraid that you’re not authorized access.”

  “Oh, trifles, my good man. Trifles, I’m sure!” Rastar said with a human grin. It was not a normal Mardukan expression, since Mardukans, like any sensible species, regarded the baring of teeth as a sign of hostility. Not even Eleanora O’Casey could fault him for smiling so cheerfully at the local mayor, but Rastar was pleased to observe that the expression had exercised the proper effect upon him.

  “I’ll admit that there was some minor unpleasantness when we left Kirsti,” he continued. “But surely no rational government would hold you responsible for our presence when half the Kirsti Guard is dead at the Atul Gate.”

  “Oh.” Foreign accent or no, Reg had no problem understanding that last sentence. He tried not to flinch as he absorbed its dire implications, but he was fairly sure where the rest of the conversation was going. “I agree with your assessment,” he said, after a moment. “What can the town of Sran do for you?”

  “Well, as I mentioned, we’re terribly short of supplies,” Rastar said with another smile which just coincidentally happened to show a bit more tooth than the last one. “But you’re in luck, because I got here before those barbarians from Diaspra or . . . even the worse, the humans. So I’m thinking that we can get clear with, oh, say one measure in five of your storehouses. And, of course, some little trinkets. Purely to satisfy the wanton lusts of those Diaspran infantry barbarians. We’ll try to keep the humans from burning the town down, but you know how they are. Perhaps if everything was assembled, on carts, ready to go, when they arrived it would be easier to restrain them. And now that I think about it, if we could distract them with a feast outside town, we might actually be able to keep them in check.

  “Now, I suppose we could pay for some of it,” he added with a gesture expressive of anxious consideration. “But then we’d be here all day negotiating, and they’d probably arrive before we were ready for them. What do you think would be best?”

  “I’ll go get the head of supply,” the mayor said.

  “God, I love good subordinates!” Roger said as he looked around with a sigh of pleasure.

  “They are a treasure, aren’t they?” Pahner agreed with a laugh.

  A long column of turom carts was lined up beside the road. Some of them were still being loaded, but most were already piled high with sacks of barleyrice and other less identifiable merchandise. On the other side of the road there was a large tree-park, apparently a source of firewood for the town, and scattered amongst the trees was a mess line. Several cauldrons of barleyrice steamed over fires, and two turom were turning on a spit just beyond several long tables covered with fruit and fresh vegetables. The meat was going to be a little rare, but . . .

  “Tremendous, Rastar,” Roger said as he trotted his civan up to the Vashin prince, who was gnawing on a basik leg. “I’m surprised you were able to do all this so easily.”

  “Oh, it was tough,” Rastar assured him, then belched and tossed the leg bone over his shoulder. “The local mayor was a tough negotiator.”

  “What’s it going to cost us?” Pahner asked as he walked up to them, still pointedly refusing to ride one of the civan.

  “Oh, as to that,” Rastar said airily, “it seems the locals were so impressed with our riding form that—”

  “Rastar,” Roger growled, “you were supposed to pay for the supplies.”

  “I tried to press payment upon them,” the Therdan said. “But they absolutely refused. It was truly amazing.”

  “What did you threaten them with?” Pahner asked.

  “Me? Threaten?” Rastar demanded with a Mardukan hand gesture eloquent of shock. “I can’t believe you could accuse me of such a thing, when we Vashin are so universally known for our humility and boundless respect for life!”

  “Hah!” Roger laughed.

  “Well, I will admit that the reputation of humans for boundless cruelty and wanton slaughter had, unfortunately, preceded you.”

  “Oh, you bastard,” Roger said with another laugh. “I’m going to have to govern these people some day, you know.”

  “As well they sense the iron hand inside the glove, then, Your Highness,” Pahner said. “Until their society is stable and they themselves are educated enough for democracy to take hold, a certain rational degree of fear is a vital necessity.”

  “I know that, Captain,” Roger said sadly. “I don’t have to like it.”

  “As long as you follow it,” Pahner said. “The difference between the MacClintock Doctrine and the fall of the ISU was a lack of respect for the ISU and its thinking that it could ‘nation-build’ on the cheap, which left the cupboard bare when it came up short on credit and couldn’t pay cash with its military.”

  “I’m aware of that, Captain,” Roger sighed. “Have you ever noticed me trying to use ‘minimal force’?”

  The Marine looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Point taken.”

  “I’ve become more comfortable than I ever wanted to be with calling for a bigger hammer,” Roger said. “I don’t have to like it, but the past few months have provided all the object lessons anyone could ever want about what happens when you’re afraid to use force at need.”

  He star
ted to say something more, then closed his mouth, and Pahner saw him look across to where Nimashet Despreaux rode her own civan beside the line of ambulances. For just a moment, the prince’s eyes were very dark, but then he gave himself a shake and returned his attention to the Bronze Barbarians’ commander.

  “Since you—and Rastar—seem to have everything thoroughly under control, I’m going to go check on Cord and the other casualties. Ask somebody to bring me a plate, would you?”

  Roger dipped his head under the leather awning and looked across the litter at Pedi.

  “How is he?”

  Most of the wounded were being transported in the leather-covered turom carts that looked not much different from Conestoga wagons. Roger had spent some time in similar conditions on the march, so he knew what it was like to be bounced and bumped over the poorly maintained roads while regrowing an arm or a hand. Unpleasant didn’t begin to describe it. But until they got back to “civilization,” and convinced civilization that there was the hard way, and then there was Roger’s way, there wasn’t a great deal of option.

  What option there was, though, had been extended to Cord. His litter was suspended between two turom, which had to be at least marginally better. At least he wasn’t being shaken by every bump in the road, although whether or not the side-to-side motion was actually all that superior was probably a matter of opinion. At the moment, however, it was the best Roger could offer his asi.

  He had seldom felt so inadequate when he offered someone his “best.”

  “He still won’t wake up,” Pedi said softly. “And he’s hot; his skin is dry.”

  “Afternoon, Your Highness,” Dobrescu said. The medic climbed down from one of the carts to stand beside the litter and gestured at Cord. “I heard you were checking on the wounded and figured I’d find you here.”