Lord of Janissaries (122 page)

Mad Bear sheathed his sword. It was an iron sword, a gift from his blood-brother, and in more skilled hands no doubt it would be a match for the armor of any Ironshirt. It was well to have an iron sword, and to learn the Ironshirt way of war, but the Horse People had trained with the lance from the day they had been set in the saddle. It would always be Mad Bear’s first choice. Mad Bear’s steel lance head had been passed down through five generations.

The enemy horsemen rode out in fours. Some of the archers began shooting at them. Mad Bear shouted. “The camp. Leave the horsemen to us!” Without the Ironshirts to defend it, the camp would certainly fall, and it was the camp they wanted. That was another thing Mad Bear had learned from Murphy. Do not swerve from your target. Do not be deceived by the prospect of easier prey.

The archers turned back toward the camp and advanced slowly, followed by the dismounted troops who would storm the wagons.

The enemy horsemen massed for a charge. Mad Bear led a hand of hands of lancers to meet them. Enemy horns sounded. Mad Bear’s hand of hands faced no less than five times their strength. “The darkness must be our friend,” he shouted to his band. “When they come close, run away, and lead them far from here!”

He urged his pony forward. One Ironshirt rode far ahead of the others. Mad Bear whirled his pony to the right, as if to avoid the man. His enemy followed, but his heavier mount was not as agile as Mad Bear’s pony. As he turned, Mad Bear whirled back and thrust his lance into the man’s throat. His fall twisted the lance from Mad Bear’s hands.

To his left a man in silver armor slew two of Mad Bear’s people. Mad Bear pivoted toward him, but a dozen enemies came between. Mad Bear drew his sword and shouted at them. He waited until they were close enough to hear his insults, then spun away. He kept his pony at a slow gallop and stayed just far enough ahead to lure them farther away from the camp.

When he’d led them far enough he turned to his right, riding past the older warriors who waited in the darkness at the edge of the woods. Then he gave them no more thought, and wheeled back toward the camp.

Most of the Ironshirts had halted at the edge of the firelit circle, but two had ridden farther on. One was the man in the silver armor who had slain Mad Bear’s kinsmen. Mad Bear felt the blood lust rising in him. Such feelings were always dangerous. The Horse People had long ago learned that it was better to tire your enemy, and kill him in your own time, than to fight him when he had his full strength.

The silver-armored Ironshirt shouted and rode toward Mad Bear. He was followed by another, a mere boy, who carried a banner.
A chief
, Mad Bear thought.

Mad Bear dashed toward his enemy, then halted three lance lengths away and wheeled to his left. He dashed forward ten lengths and stopped again, to let the chief hear his laughter.

The Ironshirt shouted curses. Mad Bear could not understand them all, but he heard the Ironshirt word for “honor.” He grinned and rose in his stirrups. “You have no honor!” he shouted.

The Ironshirt chief cursed louder and spurred his horse toward Mad Bear. Mad Bear grinned again. He had learned that phrase from Murphy.
And my brother wondered why I wanted to know that!

Mad Bear let his pony dance across the field, staying always three lengths ahead of his enemy. The Child had risen enough now to show the lather on the flanks of his enemy’s horse.
A little more
, Mad Bear thought.
Just a little farther.

“Coward!” the Ironshirt screamed, and reined in. He looked back, and saw that he had been led far from the battle. His banner-bearer was fifty lengths away.

Now!

Mad Bear galloped up behind and to the left, and struck with his sword. His blow landed on the Ironshirt’s shield. Mad Bear galloped past and wheeled twenty lengths beyond his enemy. The banner-bearer was coming up fast. Two Ironshirts together would always be a match for one warrior of the Horse People. This must be done quickly.

Mad Bear rode forward, and suddenly the man spurred his horse at him. It was a better horse than Mad Bear had ever seen. Lathered and snorting, it yet dashed forward at the chief’s command. The Ironshirt lance came down and thrust deep into the throat of Mad Bear’s pony.

As the Ironshirt let go the lance to draw his sword, Mad Bear leaped leftward over his dying mount’s neck and rolled to break the fall, then dived over his fallen pony and rolled on his back to thrust his sword upward deep into the belly of his enemy’s mount.

The horse screamed and reared. The Ironshirt chief kicked free of the stirrups and leaped backward over the horse’s rump to land on his feet. Mad Bear tore out a handful of turf and threw it at the Ironshirt’s visor. Then he dashed to his left and rolled to kick the man’s legs from under him, then stood and pushed him down. As the ironshirt thrashed, Mad Bear tried to drive his dagger through the eyeslits of the visor. The Ironshirt smashed at his head with his steel gauntlet, and sparks flew in Mad Bear’s vision. He leaped to his feet and jumped backward. The Ironshirt rose to his knees and lifted his sword to slash at Mad Bear, then got to his feet as Mad Bear leaped back. Mad Bear circled toward the fallen horse, and the man turned to face him. When Mad Bear struggled to pull his sword from the horse, the Ironshirt retrieved his shield.

The banner-bearer rode down on them. He had dropped the banner and held a sword. As he rode past, Mad Bear dove to the ground, then leaped up before the dismounted Ironshirt could strike. The banner-bearer halted and turned. His Ironshirt master shouted commands that Mad Bear could not understand.

Where are my clansmen?
Mad Bear turned to run away. As he did, a mounted starman rode up. The starman shouted, and the banner-bearer turned toward him. The small star weapon they called the “Ingram” made it sounds of tearing cloth.

The Ironshirt chief’s chest turned from silver to red. He crashed to the ground and lay still. The banner-bearer tried to raise his sword to strike, but he had no strength, and toppled from the saddle. Mad Bear dashed forward to grasp the horse’s bridle to secure it for the star warrior.

The starman shouted something and rode away. Mad Bear turned back toward the camp. The circle of archers had grown tighter around it.

Mad Bear turned to his dead horse and took off saddle and bridle, then cut loose the feathers and claws woven into the top of the mane.

* * *

It had been a tougher fight than Murphy wanted.
Sure were a lot of guards for one goddamn wagon train. And not all that much loot, either. Glad we had the Westmen, instead of Drantos ironhats, or we’d never have beat that many heavies.

Murphy sent a scout platoon to chase the enemy survivors farther from the camp.
And that’s funny too. One minute they fought like tigers, then all of a sudden they couldn’t run fast enough.
He didn’t expect to catch the survivors. Hell, he didn’t
want
to catch them, just keep them from regrouping to launch a counterattack.

Murphy went with the detail guarding all the prisoners who could walk. It was the only way to make sure the Westmen didn’t cut their throats. Westmen didn’t believe in prisoners, and they believed even less in leaving live enemies behind them.

The camp and the wounded were left to what might loosely be called the mercy of the Westmen. The only way the Drantos men could stop them if they wanted to cut throats was by a fight. If it came to that, Murphy would rather lose sleep over dead prisoners than over a task force that chewed itself to bits in enemy territory.

Besides, we got no doctors. Anybody hurt bad enough he can’t walk and unpopular enough his friends won’t carry him isn’t going to make it anyway.

He stood watch until the prisoners built a camp outside the wagon ring. They been stripped of their weapons, and footgear, despite Murphy’s best efforts, most of their valuables as well.
I cannot make these damn fools understand that it’s better to carry oats than gold.

Murphy heard snatches of bawdy songs coming from the wagons. Somebody had found the wine. He sent two sergeants to be sure the duty platoons stayed sober, and prayed there wasn’t an enemy reaction force anywhere near.
Bit different when
we’re
the Viet Cong. . . .

Discipline was holding pretty well, though. Probably everybody had filched one choice piece of loot to hold out from the general division of the spoils, but that was nothing new. What mattered was that the horses and the wagons were in good shape.

A man-at-arms met Murphy as he rode up to the wagons.

“My lord. Arekor wishes you to speak to Mad Bear and Lord Roscoe before they slay each other. He says it is a matter of honor.”

“Oh, shit. Okay, I’m coming.”

* * *

Murphy found the three men standing beside a camp bed in the former CP tent. On the bed lay the body of a tall blond man of about twenty-five. He’d been shot at least five times in the chest with a nine-millimeter weapon.
Ingram. Roscoe’s kill. So?
“What’s the problem?”

Mad Bear promptly burst into a torrent of words, so fast that Murphy couldn’t understand more than one in four. Arekor tried to translate, then gave up and started again after Mad Bear ran down.

“He says that the Lord Roscoe insults him by giving him Prince Akkilas’ head when he did little to—”

“What the hell—? Hal, is this Prince Akkilas, Sarakos’ kid brother? Really?”

“Sarge, he wore steel armor with silver inlays. Toris’s griffin defaced on his shield, and on the camp banner. He’s got a birthmark on his left ear, and wears a silver griffin earring. Who the hell else could he be?”

“Holy Mother of God,” said Murphy softly. “No wonder the prisoners are acting spooked. That’s why they all ran, once the banner was down! Jenri, go get me a couple of the prisoner officers.”

“Sir.” His orderly went out.

“Now, assuming that’s who we’ve got—”

“It is,” Roscoe said. “Believe it.”

“I do. Which still doesn’t answer the question. Why the hell do you want to give Mad Bear a head he thinks you should have?”

“Mad Bear did most of the work. He’d got him off his horse, and in another minute he’d have killed him. I just speeded things up. Hell, Sarge, I was trying to be friendly!”

“Yeah,” said Murphy. They all looked at him. “Gimme a goddamn minute, will you?”

Mad Bear muttered something Murphy didn’t understand.

“Arekor, be real careful when you say this to Mad Bear. Tell him Lord Roscoe offered the head to Mad Bear as brother to his chief. Tell him that Lord Roscoe did not understand that this is not the custom of the Horse People. Roscoe, you nod like anything, you hear me?”

“Yes,
sir
!”

Arekor spoke rapidly. Mad Bear glared, then looked at Murphy, back at Roscoe, then at Murphy again. He grinned and spoke.

Arekor translated. “He says he has been with you long enough to know something of the ways of starmen, and it will not be necessary for you to swear this is true.”

“Good. Now somebody send for some of that goddamn wine. And some of that mare piss my brother drinks.”

His orderly came in with two of the prisoners. Murphy pointed to the body. “Is this Akkilas Son of Toris?” he demanded. He waited a moment. “I see. Take them out. Fellows, we got ourselves either an opportunity or one hell of a problem.”

* * *

When the others had left, Murphy poured drinks for himself and Corporal Roscoe. “It all comes down to this,” Murphy said. “Kings don’t like people killing kings and princes unless they do it themselves. I’m going to buck this one up the chain of command.”

“How in hell are you going to do that when we can’t even get home?” Roscoe demanded.

“For starters, we take off this guy’s head and pickle it. Keep the shield and banner, too. Then we give the whole goddamn mess to the first senior officer we find, and hope like hell that turns out to be Captain Galloway.”

“I’ll buy that one,” Roscoe said. “But it ain’t likely. Ganton’s army is a hell of a lot closer.”

“Yeah, I know,” Murphy said. “I’ve just been studying the best way to join up with him. Of course it’d help if we knew exactly where he was.”

“You could send the Westmen out looking.”

“Could, but won’t. We all came in together, and we’ll go out together.” Murphy unrolled a map. “Look, the last we heard, Ganton was just south of Castle Fasolt. It ain’t likely he’s moved too far away. Tomorrow we’ll go looking for him.”

“About time. Even with the stuff we took tonight, we’re gettin’ low on everything. Especially horses. And your buddies have used up a lot of those ponies of theirs, too.” Roscoe scratched his head. “Sarge, you gotta teach me more about getting along with those touchy little suckers.”

“Hah. When I learn, I’ll tell you. I know one thing. You and Mad Bear did a hell of a night’s work. You could get a goddamned knighthood out of this. You realize that with Akkilas dead, Ganton’s the nearest male heir to the High Throne?”

“No shit? But I thought it wasn’t exactly hereditary—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s so if the blood heir’s an idiot they can pick somebody competent to hold things together. So who’s a better candidate than our Wanax, especially with his Roman connections? And he’s got the captain on his side, too.”

“You mean, Ganton could be High Rexja because we zapped Akkilas?”

“May gunkels eat my underwear if I kid you.”

“Shit.” It was nearly a prayer. Roscoe shook his head.

“I wondered where Akkilas was,” Murphy said.

“Eh? Yeah, I keep forgetting you’ve gone native, Sarge.”

“Ah, cut the crap—”

“Well, maybe I didn’t mean it quite like it sounds. You think like the captain does. Like these people do. Me, I just go where they tell me. You’re a goddamn officer, even if I don’t have to say ‘sir’ every two minutes.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks. Anyway. I did wonder where they were keeping Akkilas.”

“Now we know,” Roscoe said. “Where they thought he was safe. Guy sure had more
cojones
than brains.”

“So it goes.” Murphy looked at the body. “He had
some
smarts as well as guts. He got those troops mounted and riding out damned fast, and was ready to take the mounted archers in the flank. He could have done some real damage if Mad Bear hadn’t held them up till I threw in the cavalry reserve.”