The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  Karl hesitated for a moment.

  "One more thing to say, and then I'll be quiet: Three have a greater chance of getting a sample of this powder out than two do. Is that not so, Kharl?"

  "It is so." Karl sighed. "Strip down—you won't need the paint." He picked Wellem out of the crowd and caught his eye. "Wellem, do you want it?" he asked.

  At Wellem's nod, Karl gave him a thumbs-up sign. "Very well. Two-guns squad is yours for this one."

  Wellem nodded again, then turned to the rest of his group and began whispering.

  "Listen up, people," Karl said. "For those of you who haven't heard, the slavers have guns. At least three, although we're going to assume that there are more. We also know that there's a wizard with them. Before all hell breaks loose down there, Walter and I are going to try to kill the wizard, then make a grab for a slaver or two, a gun, and some of their powder. It's our job to pick out the slaver and keep him alive—don't worry about killing the wrong one.

  "There are two things I do want you to worry about. The first one is that Walter, Chak, and I are going to be out in front. Watch where you point your guns. I don't want a repeat of that Metreyll fiasco." He rubbed his back, just above the kidney. "It's not that I mind the pain, you understand, it's just that bullets and powder are too expensive to waste on my hide."

  A rough laugh ran through the crowd. Good; that would loosen them up a bit.

  "The second thing I want you to worry about is the fact that there are shortly going to be about thirty very scared slavers down there, all of whom will know that they're under attack, all of whom know that we're not interested in taking them prisoner. And they're not going to be too thrilled with Walter or with Chak or with me."

  He nodded to Slovotsky. Better for Slovotsky to give them a firsthand description than for Karl to give them a secondhand one.

  Walter Slovotsky knelt in the light of the shrouded lantern and smoothed the dirt. "Here's their campfire, right smack dab in the middle of the meadow, just east of the fork." He made an X on the ground. "Three wagons—here, here, and here. This one is the most ornate; I'm assuming it's the wizard's. The two—the three of us are going to make our move in from the southeast, parallel to the main road, here.

  "That leaves two more watchmen. They were, umm, right about here and here. All of the watchmen have rifles. We have no way of knowing if there are other rifles located inside the circle of wagons, or in the wagons themselves." He shrugged. "Since they're coming out of Pandathaway, it's not surprising that they aren't carrying slaves; clearly, the wagons are all being used to hold their supplies. It could be just food—but, for all I know, they could be loaded with guns and powder. So watch out."

  "Hear that, folks?" Karl said. "A barrel of powder can produce one nice explosion. So keep your eyes open. If you see any fire going into any wagon, yell 'Fire.' If you hear anyone yelling 'Fire,' try to get some cover between yourself and the wagons. Everyone got that? Fine. Gwellin—your turn."

  The dwarf stood. "My squad stays as close behind you as we can, making sure we're far enough back so that we can't be seen or heard. If you come under attack, I light my rocket. Then we support you with a volley in the direction of the wizard or his wagon, and switch to crossbows for a second, third, and fourth volley. After that, we move in with axes, maces, and hammers. If you're not spotted, we wait for your signal, then do the same."

  "Good. Peill?"

  The elf nodded. "My group stays behind the dwarves, and becomes the second wave. Our objective will be to get the slavers to run away, into Chak—into Wellem's squad. If that is not possible, I will light off another rocket. Yes?"

  "Yes. Tennetty?"

  "I'm what you always call a free safety. My squad is the reserve; we wait with our horses on the road, making sure we're out of earshot until the attack is well under way. Then we mount up. If they're running, we help chase them into the two-guns squad, If they hold fast, we try to scatter them, then pick off the stragglers. We're also responsible for killing the two other watchmen, if Gwellin's or Chak's people don't get them first. It's simple stuff: If they run, we chase them. If they don't, we make them run, and then we chase them."

  "And?"

  She sighed. "And if everything goes bad, we rescue whoever we can, and pull out. We also pick up our wounded, carry them out of danger, and treat them with healing draughts, then haul ass back up here and wait for Ellegon. I'd rather—"

  "—be in the thick of it." Karl repressed a sigh. Tennetty had spent ten long years as a slave; there was nothing she enjoyed more than bathing in a slaver's blood. Lady, you're a psycho. But fortunately for the both of us you're one hell of an effective psycho.

  He looked from face to face. "Enough talk, people. Let's do it."

  * * *

  Down the road, the slavers' campfire burned an orange rift into the night. With Chak bringing up the rear, Karl kept himself two yards behind Walter, mimicking the other's half-stoop as he eased his way through the woods, parallel to the road, stepping carefully across the damp floor of the forest, a cocked but unloaded crossbow held in his left hand. Occasionally he patted the top of the quiver strapped to his right thigh.

  A leather pouch slapped silently against his left thigh as he walked; his swordsheath pressed reassuringly against his back; a manriki-gusari, cloth strung through its links to prevent rattling, was slung across one shoulder. He let his hand rest against the two oilskin-wrapped flintlock pistols stuck cross-ways into his belt.

  Goddam walking arsenal, that's what I am, he thought. But there's always—

  "Down," Slovotsky hissed, his voice pitched low enough to carry only a few feet, no more.

  Karl stepped behind a tree and dropped to the ground. Half a dozen feet behind him, Chak dropped to the ground and froze in place, motionless as a statue.

  The skin over his ears tightening, Karl strained to hear whatever had alarmed Slovotsky.

  It didn't make any difference. The wind still whispered through the trees, and the flames of a campfire crackled somewhere off in the night, but that was all. Or were there distant voices? Maybe.

  Slovotsky beckoned for Chak to move forward, then crabbed himself backward to join them, his mouth only inches from their ears. "Something's wrong. Hang on for a minute," he said. "I'm going to do a quick recon."

  "Problem?"

  "Maybe. Back in a jiffy. Watch my stuff." Slovotsky laid the oilskin containing his own pistols on the roots, set his scimitar down next to it, and crept off.

  He was gone a long time; Karl stopped counting his own pulsebeats at three hundred, and lay quietly, waiting.

  Dammit, hurry up, Slovotsky, he thought.

  Chak patted his shoulder. "You worry too much, kemo sabe."

  "It's my job, dammit," Karl whispered back. He couldn't wait forever; there were just too many people involved. Eventually, Tennetty or Wellem or Gwellin would get too nervous to wait for a signal and trigger the attack. If Walter and Karl hadn't taken out the wizard by then, the odds would quickly switch from their favor to the slavers', despite the advantage of surprise, despite the fact that they had the slavers outmanned. "And don't call me 'kemo sabe.' "

  "Whatever you say, kemo sabe."

  The thing about Chak that Karl depended most on was the dark little man's rock-solid trustworthiness when it came to anything serious; one of the things about Chak that he liked best was his unwillingness to take anything seriously except when necessary. Chak always liked to joke around before a fight; he said it kept his mind calm and his wrist loose.

  "Karl," Walter's voice whispered out of the darkness, "it's me."

  "What—"

  "Relax—we got a break, for once. The wizard was off away from the wagons and the fire. Seems there's a bit of a gang-bang in progress, and I guess it must have offended his delicate sensibilities. He'd walked at least a hundred yards into the woods to relieve himself, so . . ."

  "What did you do?"

  "I slit his throat. Stashed the body under the roots
of an old oak. Getting a bit bloodthirsty in my old age, eh?"

  "Never mind that—you said something about a gang-bang?"

  "Yeah. They've got a couple of women. Taking turns. Strange, no?"

  "Yes." That was bizarre. These slavers were coming from Pandathaway. Pandathaway was where guild slavers brought slaves to, not from. Bringing slaves out wouldn't mean just the extra expense of feeding them or the lost income of not selling them, it would also cut down on the available space for human cargo on the slavers' return trip.

  "What do you make of that?" Slovotsky asked. "It just doesn't make sense."

  Chak shook his head. "Yes, it could make sense—if they are not on a raiding mission but doing something else. If they're not planning on bringing slaves back, they might bring themselves some company. Or it could be some sort of purchase. If they're bringing back a big chain from somewhere, the added expense of bringing along a couple of women for pleasure wouldn't matter to them."

  A buy? That meant that the slavers would have a lot of coin on them. Unless—

  The guns. Maybe they were taking guns somewhere, planning to sell them. But where? Why? Now they needed a captive to question more than ever.

  "Change of plans," Karl said, "we don't kill the guard—we snatch him."

  Chak rolled his eyes heavenward. "You don't always have to complicate things, do you?"

  Walter shook his head. "I don't like it. The guard's still where he was when I was here before—about a hundred yards ahead, but across the road from us."

  "Which way is he facing?"

  "Sort of sideways, looking down the road."

  "Fine. You go back and tell Gwellin to bring his people up closer, just the other side of the bend in the road. Have him send Daherrin back with you."

  "No good—you can't move that many people silently, Karl. The watchman would hear them from there."

  "We'll have him tied down by then. After you bring Gwellin's people around, you and Daherrin hurry back to where the watchman is now. That's where we'll be. Daherrin hauls the watchman away, then the three of us work ourselves close to the fire, before the shit hits the fan. We've got to try to get the slaves out."

  "I knew it." Chak looked knowingly at Walter. "That's what the change of plans is about." He shrugged. "I guess there's no need for me to get much older—how about you?"

  "Cut the crap," Karl hissed. "Once the attack's fully under way, it might not be possible to get them out alive. How's all that sound to the two of you?"

  Chak shrugged. "Not bad, not really."

  "I don't like it, Karl. He's got kind of a thicket of brambles behind him; you'll have to come right across the road to get him. And I'm quieter than you are. I should take out the watchman while—"

  "No." Walter might be quieter than Karl was, but Karl was stronger. That might be important. "Eventually, someone's going to check on the wizard. Do it."

  Slovotsky clapped a hand to Karl's shoulder. "Good luck—"

  "Thanks."

  "—you'll need it."

  * * *

  Karl crouched behind a bush, peering through the dark at the watchman sitting across the road on a waist-high stone, staring blankly out into the night.

  He would have to cross the road under the eyes of the watchman in order to get his hands on the other. And even then, he'd have to move quickly, in order to silence the watchman before the slaver could raise an alarm.

  Not good odds. The deeply rutted dirt road was only about five yards wide at this point, but those would be a long five yards.

  Maybe too long.

  At times like these he could almost hear Andy-Andy's half-mocking voice. Looks like your mouth has gotten you into trouble again. Okay, hero, how would Conan do it?

  Well . . . Conan would probably sneak up quietly behind the watchman and club him over the head, knocking him unconscious.

  Then why don't you do it that way?

  Because I'm Karl Cullinane, not Conan. Because things just didn't work that way. Even assuming that he could get within clubbing range, it was much more likely that such a blow would either draw a scream out of the watchman or simply crush his skull.

  Better think of another way, then. He edged back into the woods, his fingers searching the ground until he found a small stone, one about the size of a grape. He worked his way back to the brush until he was beside Chak. Setting his crossbow, quiver, and pistol down carefully, Karl unslung his manriki-gusari and draped it carefully around his neck, then reached over his shoulder to loosen his sword in its sheath. He took a wad of cloth and several thongs from his pouch and held them in his left hand.

  "Here," Karl whispered, handing Chak the stone. "Give me a slow count to fifty, then throw the stone over his head and past him."

  Chak nodded. "One . . . two . . . three . . ."

  Matching the count silently, Karl crept back to the road and waited . . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .

  The watchman stood for a moment to stretch, then scratched at his crotch before seating himself again.

  . . . thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . .

  Karl braced himself, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from raiding as he hefted his manriki-gusari.

  . . . forty-two . . . for—

  The stone whipped through the brambles; the watchman jerked to his feet and spun around, bringing his rifle to bear.

  Karl eased himself up to the surface of the road, swinging and throwing the manriki-gusari in one smooth motion.

  The meter-long chain whipped through the night air, wrapping itself around the watchman's neck, bowling the man over, his rifle falling into the bushes. Karl drew his sword and lunged at the other, slapping at the watchman's hands with the flat of his blade when the slaver reached for the knife at his belt.

  Karl set the point of the blade under the other's chin. "If you cry out," he whispered, "you die. Be quiet, and you live. You have my word."

  "Who—"

  "Cullinane. Karl Cullinane."

  The slaver's eyes widened. Karl toed him in the solar plexus, then stuffed the wad of cloth in the other's mouth while the slaver gasped for breath.

  "I didn't say you wouldn't hurt—I just said you'd live."

  Chapter Two

  Battleground

  First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.

  —Epictetus

  As he had grown older, Karl had learned to deal with the fear. He'd had to.

  Deal with it, yes, but not well. That would have been too much to ask of himself. Karl Cullinane had spent twenty-one of his twenty-nine years as a middle-class American, living safely in the last half of the twentieth century. Deep inside, he still wasn't used to having lost that safety, that comfort. The only way he could handle that was to push the fear away, if only for a time.

  The quiet moments before a fight were always the worst. Too much time to think; too much opportunity to let himself be scared.

  His heart pounding, Karl checked the slaver's knots and gag once more before turning him over to Daherrin.

  "And take this, too," Karl said, handing the slaver's rifle and pouch to the dwarf. It was a strange-looking rifle: The lock, if any, was inside the stock; the trigger looked more like a miniature pump handle than anything else.

  But there wasn't enough light or time to examine it fully; that would have to be saved for later. If there was a later.

  Karl clenched his hands into fists. It wouldn't do for Walter, Chak, or Daherrin to see his fingers tremble.

  Grasping the slaver by the front of his tunic, the dwarf swung him to his right shoulder, balancing the man easily, then accepted the slaver rifle and powder kit in his oversized left hand. Dwarves weren't just shorter and more heavily built than humans; their joints were thicker, their muscles denser, far more powerful.

  "And remember," Slovotsky said, "if everything blows up in our faces here, this stuff has to get back—"

  "—to Home," Daherrin finished. "Including this useless piece of
meat," he said, bouncing the slaver up and down on his shoulder. "It will be done."

  The dwarf turned and walked away.

  Karl finished unwrapping his pistols from their protecting oilcloth, then primed their pans. He tucked the vial of fine priming powder and oilcloth in his pouch before sticking the pistols back in his belt, making sure that the barrels pointed away from his feet.

  Chak had done the same with his two pistols; he patted their curving butts and flashed Karl a quick smile.

  "Gwellin had a couple of spares," Walter said, handing each of them one of the three shotguns he'd brought back, along with the dwarf. "Hope you don't mind my supplementing things a bit."

  Chak hefted his shotgun easily. "I don't mind at all."

  "Me neither." Karl propped the butt on the ground while he slipped a bolt into his crossbow and nocked it with a practiced motion of his thumb. "Is the gun loaded?"

  "Standard shotgun load. Everything but the pan. Gwellin did it; I watched him myself."

  "Good." Handing the crossbow to Chak, Karl picked up the shotgun. He took the vial of priming powder from his pouch and primed the pan, bringing the frizzen down and locking it into place with a quiet click. He handed the vial to Chak and waited while the dark little man primed his own shotgun.

  Karl was a bit vain about the shotguns; they were his own innovation. Normally, when the lands inside a rifle barrel had worn down to uselessness, the weapon had to be rebored and rerifled, which changed the caliber, making standard rounds useless. Karl had come up with the notion of doing a more thorough reboring of the barrel, until the bore was a thumb's width, then cutting it down, turning the weapon into a smoothbore shotgun.

  Walter gave the crossbow back to Karl, then clapped a hand to his shoulder. "It doesn't get any easier, does it? You want me to do a quick recon?"

  "No. Let's get this over with." He gave a quick glance down the road. Five dwarf warriors waited off in the distance, just on Karl's side of the bend.

  He waved at them to follow, then started walking down the road, Walter on one side, Chak on the other, the campfire growing closer with every step.