Authors: Andrew J. Offutt
The next day they were given the opportunity to decide for themselves if we were well-met or not, and if I was or wasn’t a warrior.
I wasn’t a captive, I wasn’t a guest, and I didn’t really belong. I was a foreigner, and worse, a foreigner from someplace they’d never heard of. I had the appearance of a warrior and I told a story to go with the appearance, which would be easy enough to check in Brynda. I wasn’t exactly accepted, but I wasn’t rejected or shunned either. I was reminded of Western movies. This guy or group of guys meets another guy or group out on the plains somewhere. All are armed: every man a castle. The groups or individuals join, or camp together, friendly but not overly so, nor loquacious, and wary. The newcomer(s) may be OK and he may not.
We’ll let him join us, sort of, but he has yet to prove himself.
This was the way I felt the Bryndoys looked upon me.
It beat being taken prisoner, or press-ganged, though, and I wasn’t too uncomfortable.
The caravan had decided to camp here at the edge of the jungle; it would set out early in the morning and be out of the trees by the end of the day. The men I’d joined stayed apart from the others, aloof. They were Guildsmen, Protectors: professional warriors employed as escort. Their leader was Protector Chief Stro Fentris. While the caravan had a Master, Fentris did not take orders from him. The Master would, I learned, take orders from Fentris in the event of trouble. Which seemed to indicate a caste system, with warriors on top. I wondered about a priesthood, hovering above them all like vultures, collecting money by officiating at births, namings, weddings, funerals. And reading auguries, probably.
Aware of my position and the American Western analogy I’d mentally drawn, I didn’t ask much in the way of questions. There were no priests with the caravan, at any rate.
As we ate—the Guildsmen having reversed their cloaks to the dark sides, as I’d anticipated—Stro Fentris asked me a little about my trans-desert, trans-mountain “country”: Earth. I told him we had a ruler and a senate of old men, controlled by businessmen and the military. He nodded.
“It was nearly so in Brynda, once, before my birth. Warriors and merchants were so far down the scale they contemplated forming some sort of government in which everybody shared. Then came the wards, and the Vardors, and warriors gained power. A bright chief named Kro Fars realized what power he and his warriors had, how valuable they were. He set out the idea of the Warriors’ Guild. It formed slowly, and flourished—mostly after Kro Fars was assassinated. The last real struggle was fifty years ago, between the priesthood and the warriors.” He grinned, displaying big strong teeth, the left incisor minus a wedge-shaped piece. He had a scar on his cheek, too. “The Guild won.”
I shook my head, testing their wine: it was good. Not too dry, but not horrible thick stuff like port, either.
“Warriors defeated priests in a power struggle? How could that ever be done?” It sounded like a dream. I’d always cherished such a notion: doers conquering parasites and taking over! At the time I left America/Earth—well, skip it. You don’t need me to tell you that those of us who worked and paid taxes were slaves to those who didn’t. I imagine America has had its revolution by now. Have you re-instituted capitalism yet?
Stro Fentris of Brynda was grinning again—lord that man has big teeth!
“It wasn’t hard, as it turned out. The situation was ready to fulminate when Itza attacked Brynda. The army of course was ready, at government orders. But the real fighting men were the Guildsmen, and the Guildchief called a strike. The situation grew warmer and warmer. Then, when the Itzoys were almost at the gates, the government capitulated and took away the power of the priests. The Guildsman went out and smashed the Itzoys and then kept on going, to take and sack Itza. Once you defeat an enemy’s army, it’s stupid not to cripple him at home, too! The Guild was the hero—and the Guildchief was smart enough so that it took a very short time for the people to be convinced that the Guild WAS the hero, first last and always, and that it was the fault of the priests that Brynda had almost been taken by Itza. The Faith had made conditions so miserable for the Guild that its members just couldn’t generate enthusiasm to fight for such a structure.”
He shrugged, still grinning, and swiped about in his tin plate with the last biscuit, sopping up every droplet of gravy and juices.
“The priesthood never recovered. And now there’s a temple to Kro Fars.”
Which didn’t sound much better to me; clobber one religion, one pyramid-topper, in favor of another. Then turn it into a religion because people
like
smoking opium. Apparently the Guildchief was top man in Brynda, and the warriors were the top of the heap—which is why they swaggered, and ate apart from the rest of the caravan. The elite.
The Guildchief—Shayharan. With a daughter named Sorah. A ring-wearer or sorceress. Whose life I had saved. Hell, I
had
rescued a princess!
But—she hadn’t even bothered to say “Gee, thanks.”
Our caravan had been to Itza and points east—notably Rizadar and Risathade. The Protectors’ presence was required because of:
Vardors;
Itza (“one never knows about Itzoys!”);
assorted bandits, outlaws, etc. etc. etc.;
Saghritar. One never knew about Saghritoys, either. Mainly because of religion, they’d been the enemies of Brynda and Itza and Risathade for a couple of hundred years.
I looked around. “There seem mighty few Guildsmen along, Chief,” I said, “considering all those possible dangers.” I wondered about parrot heads.
Stro Fentris nodded with a grim expression. “Nineteen,” he said. “And five of them Itzoys, at that. We’ve lost twenty-six men since this ill-omened caravan left Brynda three months ago. Fourteen of those are recovering—hopefully—from wounds in Risathade and Itza. The others have retired. One of them for Fars’ sake, was retired in a tavern brawl in Itza!” He shook his head. “Three Vardor attacks, two duels, that brawl, and those thieving renegades between Itza and Risathade!” He glanced around, and his chest came out: “But the caravan’s intact.”
Retired,
I thought. Of course; when have fighting men ever said “died”? It’s always been “bought it” and “K.I.A.” and suchlike. I wondered if smalltown newspaper editors printed death notices saying that so-and-so had been “called,” or had “passed over,” and so on. No, of course not. There are few small towns on Aros. And no newspapers. There are men here who make their living with pens, naturally, but not publishers’ pens in any community—or country either.
Stro Fentris was regarding me—as merchandise.
“I hope we’re through with trouble,” he said. “It’s been a terrible journey for the Guild. I wasn’t Chief when we left Brynda, and I’d rather have got the job in some other way. But if anything else
does
happen, I hope men know how to fight, where you come from.”
“They do,” I said, “although a lot of people wish they could forget.”
Which was approximately when the Vardors attacked. I say approximately; I can’t be sure, of course. Someone yelled, and them someone else, and then hooves were pounding and thoughts buzzing about like a dozen disturbed hives, and an arrow seemed to materialize about a foot from me, quivering in the ground.
“BOWS!” Fentris bawled, bounding up and away from the firelight. An excellent idea. I jumped in the opposite direction. And forgot to compensate, so that I would up ten or more feet away. Probably nobody noticed, that time. “COVER!” Fentris was shouting, and he rattled off four or five names: “—the litters!”
I had barely glimpsed the contents of those litters: one man, two women, one of them with a child. All were overadequately swathed in desert clothing. Now it was night, partially moonlit night, and as I looked I could see the three litters, removed from the backs of their slooks. They were set about a smallish fire like three points of a triangle.
And Vardors were streaming in from the desert on two sides, on slooks, and out of the jungle on a third side, afoot. I may have had a choice (run, wait, or charge), but it lasted only a moment. A slook came barreling in at me, and his rider was screech-roaring and swinging his long sword.
I moved. The leap put me so far out of his way that he galloped on past, without even trying to rein after me. He was now after one of the Guildsmen Fentris had detailed to rush to the litters. The man was loping to his post on foot with bow in one hand and quiver in the other. The mounted Vardor plunged after him.
And I pounced after the Vardor. Leap number one carried me some thirteen feet forward. While I landed, jackknifing and launched myself again, he covered some ten feet. I took off again, and let out a yell to try to attract his attention. He was still howling, and the Bryndoy warrior had spun about to try to meet the charge: pretty hopeless, unless he got lucky with an arrow into the behemoth galloping upon him. My leap number four landed me on the Vardor’s slook behind his rider. Before I fell off I drove my sword into the gray man’s back. The blade went deep; the slook galloped on; I fell off. The sword hilt was dragged out of my hand.
Falling isn’t too bad for me, here. I don’t exactly float, but I do come down pretty slowly. I let myself crumple, and as I rolled in the dust I saw the Vardor going sideways out of his saddle, wearing my sword hilt between his shoulder blades. The slook headed out for the desert. I rolled. As I came over again I saw the man whose life I had probably saved. He was running over to the Vardor. By the time I got up, muttering and groaning a bit, he was by my side, extending a bloody sword: mine.
“My life is yours, Hank Ardor,” he said, and added his name: “Thro Alnaris.”
“Keep it. Return the favor sometime. Thanks for the sword.”
We grinned at each other with a brief flashing of teeth. Then he took off again toward the three shadow-shapes of the litters. I expect the child was screaming, and maybe the women too; I couldn’t hear them, in the din. Nor could I be sure how much of the awful clamor I heard was inside and how much outside my head. In times of stress these people broadcast something awful, as if the adrenaline shoves the thoughts out piecemeal and at maximum volume. And I know now, of course, that I am probably the finest receiving set on Aros.
I wanted to go someplace and bury my head; I didn’t. I was hyper-adrenalized too, and there was blood on my sword and I felt like superman. I had overtaken a galloping slook, bounced onto his back and slain his rider, and saved a warrior’s life, buy his own admission. I glanced around, gripping that bloody sword, for another warm body in need of cooling.
There were plenty. There was the smell of slook and leather and blood, the sound of battle cries, screams and howls of pain, shouted threats and commands. Moonlight glinted on metal and shiny leather and firelight flickered eerily from the faces and churning legs of running, fighting men. A slook screamed as it died, rolling so that its Vardor rider sprayed blood from his crushed body. A few feet away from me the kid who’d brought us fresh fruit from the jungle sat on the ground with his face pale as the moon. He had both hands clamped around the arrow in his middle, and he was staring at it as if he just couldn’t believe such a thing could be growing out of him. Beside him lay a bloody Guildsman. Another knelt by the body, sending arrow after arrow into the night; I’m not sure if he had specific targets or not.
Two Vardors were coming for him on the turn, from the jungle, both of them with bared swords, one of them holding up the skirts of his robes as he ran. I yelled and bounced.
The archer looked up. He started to swing his nocked arrow at me, then twisted his neck to follow the direction of my pointing sword. Immediate he swung about and sent off a shaft, which went between the two attackers. A minor miracle, that; they were almost touching each other as they ran. His hand went back for another arrow, fitted it and drew it in one beautiful motion. It passed me as I rushed past him. With my agility I saw no reason to wait for the attack; I might as well attempt to confound the opposition with some calisthenics.
The one who was holding up his robe hem yelled and went down. If he’d left the silly robes to swing around his legs, however binding, the arrow might not have gone through his calf just below the knee. The other one glanced at him, glanced at me, started to turn to flee, and died as both my sword and another Bryndoy arrow sank into him.
One of the litters was burning. In the bright flamelight I saw a Guildsman raise his bow, loose a shaft, then drop the bow. He had sprouted an arrow in his face. He dropped, and as he fell I saw two Vardors falling upon a second Bryndoy warrior. I headed that way.
As I arrived, settling down in a bouncing leap that had carried me over the head of another Vardor, I saw that I again had a choice:
The two Vardors had the Guildsman hemmed. Although he was doing a good job, apparently inventing fencing on the spot in a series of furtive clangs of metal on metal, he couldn’t survive. Both were two feet or more taller, both had a lot more reach; both had longer swords. That was on my right. On my left:
A big grinning Vardor was dragging, by her hair, a robe-swathed woman out of her burning litter. She was yelling. He was laughing.
A choice, and I didn’t hesitate.
Obviously the couple on my left would wait: he may have been giving her a little pain in the hair and face, and perhaps a sore bottom, as he dragged her by her dark mane. But he obviously was not about to kill her. Not at once. The two Vardors on my right, thought, were not interested in capturing their Bryndoy opponent; they were bent on carving him to get at the litter behind him. The girl would keep. Raising my sword, I jumped.
I miscalculated. Instead of landing just behind the taller Vardor, I slammed into his back and bounced off. We fell, he forward, I back. I wasn’t floating this time, I was rebounding, and it hurt. I grunted and woofed and floundered, trying to hang onto my sword without bloodying myself on it. I looked up to see the other Vardor swinging around. His face split into a big gray grin, the firelight dancing on his teeth and on the sword he swung up to bisect me.
Then his eyes and mouth went wider and he stiffened and the sword came down very slowly and he fell forward. I scuttled out of the way, glancing at him as he slammed into the ground beside me. His back was all over blood. I looked up past him.