Lord of Janissaries (49 page)

“We come as liberators and allies, not as thieves and enemies!” Rick had thundered to his army; but if the military police weren’t watching, the soldiers would take anything they could carry. Chickens, pigs, sheep, cattle; it didn’t matter, if it were edible they’d soon have it.

At least they weren’t setting fire to things; and after Rick hanged two men, the rapes stopped. Of course there were the ambiguous cases, where the girl’s relatives claimed rape while the trooper claimed seduction; those had to be settled as they came up, generally in favor of the trooper if he had half a story. “Nobody ever got raped in an upper bunk,” Rick remembered as a judgement of an American military court; if the girl didn’t appear abused, the same principles applied here.

They rode on. Toward evening, Corporal Mason came in, followed by a score of his Mounted-Archer MPs. “More trouble, Captain,” he said in English.

“How?” Rick asked warily.

“Clan Calder types. They’re still talking.”

Dughuilas’ clan. Rick could guess what they were saying. That the forces of Tamaerthon were led by a coward, a man who’d struck their clan chief in battle, but had never faced an enemy man to man.

“Anyone in particular?” Rick asked.

“No sir. I kept an eye on Dwyfyd, but it don’t seem to be him.”

Dwyfyd was Dughuilas’ eldest son; now he had the name Dughuilas as well, although not everyone used it yet. They would, eventually; for the moment there was talk about this twenty-year-old who’d inherited the leadership of one of the largest clans. He was a good friend to Tylara’s brother Balquhain, which might help, and then again might not.

“No suggestions as to who killed Chief Dughuilas?” Rick asked.

Mason shook his head. “Most reckon that a man who goes to whorehouses often enough is eventually gonna get something he didn’t want.”

“Too right.”

“Here come the Hussars,” Mason said. “I’ll go—”

“No, stick around for the report.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

The light cavalry officers rode in. Today the force had been headed by Balquhain, Teuthras, and Drumold himself.

“Hail, Mac Clallan Muir,” Rick said formally.

“Hail, son-in-law.”

“Any sign of Marselius?”

“None. Nothing but enemies. Enough of those. Skirmishers, raiders, light cavalrymen—”

“We drove them off easily enough,” Balquhain said.

“At the cost of seven troopers,” Drumold said. “That was no’ well done, boy.”

“I am no boy,” Balquhain protested. “And since what hour has Mac Clallan Muir counseled retreat when we have not yet fought? We drove them away, and we killed nearly a score. A small victory—but it was victory.”

“Headstrong, headstrong,” Drumold said. “Lad, lad, do you not yet realize, the important thing is to win the battle. Not these tiny fights that are no more than tournaments! They do us nae good at all. Is this not so, Lord Rick?”

“We need all the light cavalrymen we have,” Rick said slowly. “And we need information more than small victories . . .”

“It is no surprise that
you
would say that,” a young officer said.

“Tethryn!” Drumold said sharply.

Tethryn. Dwyfyd’s youngest brother, another young lordling of Clan Calder.

“That was not well said,” Balquhain said. “The Lord Rick has strange ways, but he wins victories . . .”

“Men who fight
win
victories,” Tethryn said. “Wizards have other ways.” He wheeled and rode away.

* * *

Rick rode with Drumold back to his camp after they had supper with Publius. They rode in silence for a while through a light drizzle. Drumold had sent their guards a few lengths away so they could talk without being overheard, but then he said nothing for a long time.

Finally he drew closer. “Did my daughter put some new worm in your guts, Rick? Or is it the old one eating at you?”

“The old one. They’re all certain I’m a coward. I have to show them. But how?”

“You’ve no need, lad. We know—”

“You, perhaps.” And perhaps not. “Not the others. I’ve got to do something. But I can’t get within twenty stadia of the fighting!”

“You’ll no’ be so far from the battle when we meet Flaminius.”

“By then it could be too late.”

The older man flicked something invisible from his horse’s mane. “I think it is eating you more than usual,” he said. “Doubtless the affair of Dughuilas has provoked more talk than usual, and you hear it. Or—has my daughter been at you? If so, thrash her. I’ll no’ say a word against you or let one be said.”

Rick sighed. “And how long before Tylara repaid me with usury? It is no light thing, to lay hands on your daughter.”

“Aye. I have cause to know,” Drumold said pensively. “Lad, you are concerned about more than this.”

“Yes. We received word from Marselius today. He marches from the north—on the east side of the River Pydnae. We have yet to reach that river. If Flaminius can cut us off—”

“Perhaps it will be that Marselius will come upon him first.”

“That, too, concerns me. Mostly, though, we’re getting deeper and deeper into the Empire—I’d not want to face the whole of Flaminius’ strength unaided.”

“Nor I. Even with your star weapons.”

“They might be enough. They might not be.” Rick sighed. “Converging columns is a tricky enough war plan when you have good communications. It can be disaster without. We’re inviting defeat in detail—”

“A phrase I know not,” Drumold said.

“Military strategic term. If you can divide your enemy into small forces and fight them one at a time—”

“Ah.”

“And that’s what we invite,” Rick said.

“Do you think Marselius has played us false?” Drumold demanded.

“No. He has no reason to. And we have his son hostage, too.” Rick laughed. “Actually, nothing has gone wrong, my old friend. We are well within the time limits we set.”

“And yet you fash yourself—”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Drumold rode in silence for a few moments. “You wish to find Flaminius’ army, and Marselius. And you wish to force a crossing of this river.” Drumold looked thoughtful, then grinned. “I think I shall wake up with a fever tomorrow morning.”

“A fever?”

“Aye. A light fever, of the sort which keeps me from riding with the scouts. I shall stay back with the main body, to do what you have done here.
You
can lead the scouts in my place, and no one will spend a moment wondering why.”

With any luck at all, there’d be at least one good fight with Flaminius’ patrols. The Emperor couldn’t simply go on giving ground forever. There might be a stiff fight at the river . . .

I’ll be at the head of the army, Rick thought. For a few days, anyway. Lead from in front. Yeah.

Idiot. You’ll get yourself killed, and there’s no one able to extract your forces out of this trap. Nobody but you. And without this army, Tamaerthon is finished. The imperial slave masters will be in the Garioch. Your friends, relatives, sold into slavery because you had to prove yourself. You’re brave enough, now stop trying to—

Shut up! You talked me into track because it was sensible. All my life I’ve done what’s sensible. This time I’m going to lead my troops to battle, and that’s that!

Only—there’s Tylara to think of. She’ll find out, and ask why I’ve risked myself when I didn’t have to.

“And if my daughter says aye about it, send her to me,” Drumold said. “She may now be so great a lady that she will say aught to her husband—but let us see what she says to her father, who remembers her a naked babe making puddles in his lap.”

13

Rain fell lightly all through the day. The cavalry troopers didn’t want to ride out in that. After all, the Roman cavalry wouldn’t be out either.

Their reluctance was mostly for show, Rick found. And they were flattered that Lord Rick, the Commander-in-Chief, was riding with them. But the rain continued, so that he could hardly see the men to either side of him, and they made no contact with the enemy.

And the next day, messengers arrived at dawn. Marselius was indeed across the River Pydnae, marching south through the low hills to the east of the river. Directly ahead of Rick lay more hills and thin forests, good territory for battle. North and east, though, were swamps; if the two armies were to link up, they’d have to do so east of the river.

Where was Flaminius? His generals could read maps as well as Rick . . .

“Mount up!” Rick ordered. “We ride hard for the bridge. I want a mixed force of pikes and archers across that river before nightfall.”

* * *

The sky was grey with low-hanging clouds. The horses picked their way cautiously over muddy patches as the scouts rode out across fields to either side of the hard-packed dirt road. Rick led two hundred Hussars, plus Caradoc with twenty guardsmen and Elliot with two other mercs.

They’d covered about seven kilometers when a guardsman from the point squad rode back.

“Fresh dung, my lord. Horses, with a few centaurs.”

“Hmm. How shod?”

“Iron shod,” the scout reported.

That meant cavalry. Roman farmers didn’t usually bother. Time to mark up a map. One thing about this campaign, he had decent maps, done by Roman scribes. The enemy might surprise him, but the terrain wouldn’t—at least not too much. The scale of the maps did leave something to be desired: the little clearing ahead wasn’t marked. Not far beyond was the river, with its convenient bridge. Not far to go at all—

Rick rode to the center of the clearing, then reined and held up his hand for a halt. The well-used dirt road ran across the clearing and into the woods on the other side.

He’d just got out the map—

“Ho! Look out, goddammit!” someone shouted from behind him. There were three pistol shots, close together, then the shouts of his troops mingled with Roman battle cries.

Rick stuffed the map hurriedly into his saddle bag and stood in his stirrups to look back along the dirt track they’d followed. Men in Roman helmets darkened with mud were darting out of the trees, their swords flashing among the scouts. One of the mercs was down, and two more were firing from horseback, wasting ammunition.

The Roman troopers slashed at the horses with their swords, while archers farther back in the woods let fly at the riders. There were more shots from the mercs, but the Romans were mixed well with Rick’s troops and there weren’t clear targets.

“Cease fire!” he shouted in English. “Elliot! Get out here in the clear! Dismount and set up weapons. Prepare to receive cavalry! They’re sure to be coming.”

Switch languages again. “Caradoc! You and your guardsmen, stay with Elliot! Guard their weapons!” Now for his Tamaerthan scouts. “Hussars move out this way! Follow me!” He rode toward the other edge of the clearing.

I’ve got to get my people disengaged, get some kind of order into this, get them out of the tangle with the ambushers. Elliot can take care of them after that. Dammit, those Romans were good!

They’d almost reached the other edge of the clearing when the woods on both sides of the pathway sprouted archers and the air came alive with arrows.

Too damn late, Rick thought. We’re tangled up with them again. We’ve got to buy Elliot and the guards enough time to set up. “Charge!” he ordered. “Forward!” He spurred toward the enemy.

Arrows whistled in. Rick’s armor turned the two which hit him, but a third hit his horse in the shoulder. It jumped and squealed, but the arrow wasn’t in deep enough to be a major wound. Rick raised his M-16 and squeezed off five rounds. He thought he hit three men. Then he was at the clearing’s edge.

He slung the rifle across his saddle horn and drew his saber. In among the trees the sword was as good a weapon as a firearm. He slashed at one man, striking him at the shoulder, then he was past and into the woods.

He had time to notice that the woods stank. Most of the trees were lower and bushier than Earth trees would be; but mixed in with them were what could only be European scrub oak.

He bore to the right. The road would be there, and more of his scouts were forcing their way along the track. Behind him a trumpet sounded; the high pitch of a Tamaerthan horn, not the low rumble of Roman signals. Someone had ordered recall of the point group. Who? It was the right move. Rick should have given the order himself, but he was separated from his staff. He heard men behind him. His, he hoped.