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CHAPTER FOUR

BLOODY HELL

Ganton’s encampment was small, a field camp with no pretensions of luxury. It was concealed in a hollow a dozen miles from where the leading elements of the Fiver army had made camp. Rick noted the light cavalry patrols and pickets around the camp and nodded approval. The boy king was learning his trade.

Sanitary arrangements look good, too, Rick thought. He’s definitely learning.

This time a page held Rick’s stirrup as he dismounted in front of the royal pavilion. Of course it wasn’t a pavilion, hardly more than a miner’s tent, something that could be struck away in moments at need, but it did have the royal banners. Ganton came to the entrance himself. He was bareheaded, and his armor was dusty. Doesn’t look so regal now. Rick shook that thought off. He’s still the Wanax.

“Welcome, Warlord of Drantos,” Ganton said formally. “Welcome, Lord Rick, Eqeta of Chelm. Welcome, Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries. And welcome, friend. Have I left off anything important?”

Rick couldn’t help smiling at that.

“Nothing, Majesty. It’s good to see you again.”

“I could wish under better circumstances.” Ganton gestured towards a table with chairs. One of the chairs had a thick cushion. “I know you do not like to sit on the ground,” he said. He gestured towards the cushioned chair. “And you will have had a hard ride. Do you need refreshment?”

“Wine and water, I think,” Rick said, and Ganton nodded.

“I guessed as much.” He clapped his hands, and a steward brought in a tray with bottles and goblets, set them on the table, and left. Ganton poured water and wine into goblets and indicated that Rick should choose which he preferred. There was a small tray of sugared cakes. Ganton ate one himself.

All the amenities, Rick thought. I still wish Tylara were here. She’s on to this court intrigue stuff.

“As you see, I took your counsel,” Ganton said. “I thought to move swiftly to Aachilos before the opposition could rally. The result has not been to my liking.”

Rick nodded.

“I offered to come with you.”

“You did, and I thought long on that. It was known to all what the Great Council decided, that I should seek to be heir in the Five. Worse strategists than you might see my best chance as an immediate march north. They would be preparing for that, possibly make peace with Strymon and ask him to command the defense. But if I seemed to dismiss you, perhaps even to be angry with you for the suggestion that we march north, word would go out. Aachilos would not send for Strymon. Word would go to the Green Palace, and Strymon would not keep his forces ready to march. Not having you would be a high price to pay, but deceiving the Five including Strymon would be a reward worth a high price.” He shrugged. “So I thought. It has not worked as well as I planned. Yet—had you been with me, would the result be different?”

“I don’t know, Majesty.”

“It might have been worse. You might have been killed in ambush. Do you know these new star men, My Lord Rick?”

“No, and I had no word of their coming. I know no more of whom they serve than you do. But I do know who they are.”

“And?”

Rick sipped at the goblet of wine. May as well get this over with.

“On my world they are called Gurkhas, and they are said to be man for man the finest soldiers in the world,” Rick said.

“This is no comfort.”

“No, Majesty, only truth.”

“Can you defeat them? You must defeat them! With them removed we face no more than the Five, and against that force I can make a good retreat and hold my borders. You and I together might do much more than that. But against those—Gurkhas—I can do nothing.” He looked up to heaven. “I have no soldiers who will stand and face them. Except you, Lord Rick.”

Rick nodded.

“Where is the rest of your army? Scattered?”

“Not so scattered as my enemies believe,” Ganton said with a thin smile. “Many units are together and I know where they are. Messages come and go to me even if the units do not always find each other.”

“You retained the division structure you used at the Ottarn?”

“I did. Their units are dispersed but each leader knows how to find his own. I can assemble an army in four days’ time, Lord Rick, but until those—Gurkhas—are defeated, that would only give them a tempting target. Or so I thought. What advice have you for me?”

“I have to think on it. You say in four days you can have an army again.” Optimistic, Rick thought. But it’s a number to start with. “It won’t be much longer before the reinforcements I’ve ordered appear at the Ottarn. With proper handling we can certainly win a defensive battle against the Five. We might indeed do better than that.”

“Except that we face more than Matthias and his forces,” Ganton said. “I asked once if you could defeat these Gurkhas. You did not answer. I ask again.”

Rick shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly.

Ganton didn’t look surprised.

“Then we are lost.”

“Not quite,” Rick said. “I can’t do it alone, but let’s see what you and I can do together.”

“You have a plan?”

“Perhaps.” Not so much a plan as a course of action, Rick thought. And one I’m going to hate.

* * *

The True Sun had risen a little more than an hour earlier. The wails of the women and children were heart rending. Rick sat upon his horse impassively as he watched the wretched column of villagers form up. There were few men. The Five Kingdoms commanders had summoned the ban and the arrière ban, all the young men and many of the older ones. The women and children might have been able to eke out a miserable existence among the ruined crop fields. Now they wouldn’t have even that hope.

I hate this.

“Everybody’s out,” Bisso shouted, and Rick nodded.

“Do it.”

Riders with torches rode from house to house. Smoke curled up from each house as they passed. Foragers gathered anything edible including many things Rick wouldn’t touch. No one would be living off this land, not now and not this year.

“Move ’em out!” Bisso ordered.

Tamaerthan footguards grimaced horribly and waved their weapons, shouting terrible threats and striking the villagers with small sticks, driving them away from the smoke and flames that had been their homes. The wretched column moved slowly up the dirt track of a road, northward towards the Gurkha encampment.

“Whose house doth burn, must soldier turn,” Warner said. “We’ve brought the Thirty Years War to Tran.”

Rick nodded impassively.

“You’ll permit me to say I don’t like this,” Warner said.

“God damn it, none of us like it, Mr. Warner,” Bisso said. “The Colonel no more than any of us, can’t you see that?”

“Sure,” Warner said. “Sorry, Colonel. I’m just glad I don’t have to give these orders.”

“You ain’t got to watch this, Colonel,” Bisso said. “We can handle it.”

“I know, Sergeant,” Rick said. “But if I can order it, I can watch it. Some of it.” The scene would be repeated over a twenty-mile radius, everything burned, houses and barns destroyed, animals rounded up to supply Rick’s forces, the people turned out and sent northward towards the enemy. “They made a desolation, and called it peace.” That was said of the Highlands under William III and the first two Georges of England.

Now it’s my turn, and if we ever take this land how in God’s name will we be able to rule it?

And if we don’t? What the hell do those Gurkhas want? Who sent them? Why?

I have to know. Maybe all this is for nothing. But it’s all I know to do.

And who appointed you God?

I don’t know. Inspector Agzaral. The Shalnuksis. Skyfire, death and damnation, they are all coming to this planet no matter what I do. Maybe I can make things a little better, maybe I can’t, but I have to try.

The wails were fading out now as the refugees moved northward. The fires of the burning homes and stores and workshops continued to blaze unchecked. The east wind pushed a long plume of smoke across the valley. The desolation was complete here. Time to move on to another village.

* * *

Rick mused idly at his desk. It was early afternoon, but he was drowsy after lunch, still sleepy after a bad night. Images of the peasants they’d burned out over the last couple of days haunted his dreams.

Got to get this settled soon, he thought. I can’t go on doing this much longer.

The map on his office table showed his fortified camp: a prosperous farmer’s house taken over for headquarters, with palisade and a ditch around it. Somewhere to the southeast would be Ganton’s encampment, smaller than Rick’s because Ganton was unable to collect all his forces. The Drantos troops had been shaken badly by their encounters with the new star men, and it showed. Legends of their marksmanship floated through Rick’s camp, and not even the presence of Rick’s star men was enough to reassure his mounted archers and pikemen that they were safe.

“Major Mason has arrived,” Haerther announced.

“Good. Send him in,” Rick said.

“Colonel,” Mason said. He eyed Rick carefully. “I guess you look better than I thought you would.”

“Good to see you, too,” Rick said. “As always.”

“Gurkhas?” Mason asked.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Everybody knows. Even the locals, they don’t know what Gurkhas are, but they know we’re facing them and your troops are nervous. That scares the locals. Hell, it scares me! So what do we do? Sir.”

Rick shook his head.

“First things first. How are things at home?”

“Better’n you might think,” Mason said. “Lady Tylara came in like a tornado, do this, do that, shook everything up. New defense works, entrenchments, more raiding parties, nothing I wasn’t doing but she was able to get more enthusiasm out of the locals than I ever could.” Mason smiled. “And talking about you all the time! Whatever happened out here, Skipper, I sure like her better this way!”

“Me too, Art. I’ve got my wife back.”

Mason looked serious.

“Damn I’m glad to hear that. You were a mess, Colonel, a pure-dee mess without her. Anyway she comes in like a house afire, and that made it a lot easier when your next messages came.”

“You believe she can hold off Ailas?”

“Yes, Sir, I believe she can and then some. It’s like she thought she’d have to do it all along. Like she’d had a vision.”

Or information from her private intelligence net, Rick thought. No point in bringing that up.

“Anyway, Colonel, I don’t think you need to have any worries about the home front. She maybe can’t drive Ailas out, but she can sure hold him where he is—best part is she sees it that way too. Maybe she had something else in mind before you sent for all the troops she could spare?”

“Could be,” Rick said. Second-guessing Tylara was an uncertain game at best.

“And thanks for sending Siobhan to me,” Mason said. “Even if I did have to leave before she got there.”

“Sorry about that, Art. I was prepared to stand you a big wedding, too. Well, time enough for that when we get past this crisis.”

“Crisis. Yes, Sir, that’s a good word. Crisis. So how do we deal with the Gurkhas?”

“First we isolate them,” Rick said. “Make them depend on their supply lines, and then intercept the supplies. However good they are as troopers, they aren’t going to be better than us at organization and logistics. They haven’t been here long enough.”

“Makes sense.” Mason nodded. “But from what I heard Gurkhas can live on a handful of rice and rat meat.”

“They aren’t supermen. And even if they’re everything we’ve always heard, the rest of the Fiver army isn’t! So our first move is to be sure the only thing we face is the Gurkhas themselves. No support troops, no allies. Isolate them. We’ve been burning out everything around them. Now it’s time to work on their supplies.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Why haven’t we done it before? Is that your question?”

Mason nodded.

“Because nobody wanted to tackle it. Murphy and his troops are spooked, they’re afraid there’ll be more Gurkhas among the supply trains.”

“Are there?” Mason asked.

“Art, I don’t know,” Rick said. “But if there are, we’re defeated anyway. So we have to assume there aren’t.”

“Assume.”

Rick nodded.

“We assume we can win. Because if we can’t, then we can’t. But we have to try.” I think we have to try. If we don’t, everything we tried to build here is gone. Dammit, I won’t give up without a fight!

“What do you reckon they want?” Mason asked.

“Whoever’s in charge of the Gurkhas hasn’t offered to talk,” Rich said, “and the Fivers made it clear they don’t want a parley unless we’re ready to surrender.” He shrugged. “So we assume we can win, which means we assume this is all of them.”

“Assume,” Mason said again, and Rick shook his head wryly.

“The Gurkhas and their Brit officers just got here. They can’t have been around long, or we’d have heard about them. And that means they can’t have a lot of trust in their native allies. Gurkhas have a hell of a reputation back home, but hell, we’re doing pretty well in that department here! Bards sing about our battles.”

“That they do, Colonel. Especially about you.”

“Yep, and for once I’m glad. So put yourself in that Brit officer’s place. Would you disperse your men under those circumstances?” When Mason shook his head, Rick nodded. “Exactly. So it’s a reasonable assumption he’s got them all together, and the only Gurkhas we face are in that one group. And they’ll need supplies.”

“And if these guys are supplied directly by Galactics?” Mason asked.

“No sign of it. If they are, we lose,” Rick said. “It’s as simple as that. So we assume they aren’t.” Assume we can win, then make the bare minimum assumptions for that to happen. Then plan for the worst, but at least you’re prepared for success.

It sounded good in books. Now he had to live with it.

“There’s more, Art.”

“Sir?”

Rick took out a folded paper.

“This appeared on my desk this morning,” Rick said. “I have no idea how it got here, but it’s from Lady Tylara. She gives details that, um, well, no one else would know.”

“And it just appeared?” Mason asked.

“Yep.”

“From Lady Tylara. Just appeared. Colonel, I think we’d best look into the camp followers.”

“I doubt any of the Children of Vothan will be around after delivering a message,” Rick said. “I’m convinced that it’s genuine. It’s also disturbing.”

Rick took up the paper.

“It’s in English, no code, and short.” He began to read aloud. “My Lord Husband, greetings. Isobel has lost her front teeth. New ones are growing. My husband, something is very wrong in Nikeis. I suggest you go there immediately. More news will find you in Taranto. The matter is urgent. I love you. Tylara.”

“That’s it?” Mason asked.

“That’s it.”

“More news,” Mason said. “In Taranto. More of the mean little kids?”

“That’s what I’m guessing,” Rick said. Mason had discovered Tylara’s childhood assassins and was one of few who knew of them.

“Surprised you haven’t started for the coast already.”

“How? I couldn’t do anything until you got here. Not sure what I can do now. We can’t just cut and run and abandon Ganton to the Gurkhas.”

“No Sir, we can’t, but I guess you can.”

“Think you can handle this, Art?”

“Deal with the Gurkhas? Me? No, Sir, I can’t. I reckon you can, but I sure can’t.”

“So we keep raiding their supply lines. I’ll send the best we have to intercept the Gurkha supplies, and we’ll give it a few more days,” Rick said. “Maybe we’ll get a stroke of luck. We’re due for one.”

* * *

Tech Sergeant Rand wore an enormous grin.

“Colonel, have I got a present for you!” Before Rick could say anything, Rand thrust a black-colored plastic case at him. “Radio, Colonel. One of theirs. Still works, far as I know. No reason it shouldn’t.”

Rick’s eyes widened and he reached out for it. It was much smaller than the ones they’d lost with Parsons, about five inches tall, with a five-and-a-half-inch flexible antenna. It was too big to fit conveniently into a pocket, but there was a metal clip on the back to hang it on a soldier’s webbing. Or maybe not, he thought, looking at it more closely. It wasn’t military issue at all. Or he didn’t think so, anyway. It was labeled “Kenwood,” although he couldn’t see a model number anywhere on it.

“They know you have it?” Sergeant Bisso asked.

“Depends on who you mean by ‘they,’ Sergeant,” Rand said. “It’s like this, every time we raided one of their supply wagons, them Gurkhas come running. I followed orders and ran away before they could engage, but I wasn’t accomplishing much. So I got to moving further up the trail and they still kept coming, so I figured they must have some kind of communication system. Something better than us.”

“Good thinking,” Rick said.

“Thank you, Sir. So I figured, okay, I can’t sneak into the Gurkha camp, but these are just Fivers. So instead of raiding their supply wagons I snuck in and cut the head guy’s throat, and sure enough, here this was right next to his bed. So I took it, come back out, and we hit that supply train hard, and nothing. Nobody came to help them.”

“Hoo Ha!” Bisso grinned widely. “Rand, you just made my day.”

“Mine too,” Rick said. “This bears thinking about. They’ve got communications, a lot better than we have.” He turned the radio in his hands and looked back at Rand.

“It was turned off when you found it?”

“Don’t know. I didn’t fool with it.”

Warner came into the tent.

“Heard Rand brought—hey!” Warner caught himself. “Excuse me, Colonel, I forgot my manners.”

“We’ll overlook that,” Rick said. “Know anything about this unit?”

He handed it across and Warner examined it closely.

“Not a lot. Most of it’s obvious. On/off switch, push to talk.” Warner turned the right hand turret atop the radio and the words “Tac 01” appeared on the rectangular window on its front. He turned the other knob and the window changed to “Tac 02,” and then to “Baker.”

“Frequency selector,” he said unnecessarily. “Don’t see a squelch knob, but these are for speaker and mic jacks. Digital selection, so we’re probably looking at at least a hundred possible frequencies or so.”

“Kenwood,” Bisso said. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“I think RadioShack sold—sells—Kenwood’s stuff,” Warner replied. “Not their proprietary brand, though. Japanese?”

He handed it back to Rick.

“Push to talk.” Rick examined the unit carefully. “Okay, it can’t do any harm to turn it on. If they don’t know we have it yet, they’ll learn soon enough.”

“VHF, so it’s gonna be line of sight and probably not more than three to four miles range even in flat terrain without more antenna than that, Sir,” Warner pointed out. “Won’t have much reach from here.” He waved his free hand at the wooded hollow in which Rick’s command tent was pitched.

“One way to find out, I guess,” Rick said and turned the frequency selector back to its original setting. Then he turned the on/off knob to increase the volume. His only reward was a slight hiss.

“Not much static,” Warner said. “Why would there be?”

The set squawked.

“Whoa!” Bisso looked at Warner. “Thought you said line of sight?”

“I did.” Warner thought for a moment. “They must have a base station—something a lot bigger with a lot higher antenna. They’re using it for a crossband repeater.”

“Which means all their handhelds have the same range as the base unit,” Rick said.

“Yes, Sir. They’ll all go through the repeater. That has to be how they could get enough range to cover their supply wagons over so wide an area. And in such rough terrain, come to that.”

The radio squawked again.

“Somebody’s talking. What the hell language is that?” Bisso demanded. “Is that Gurkha?”

Rand shook his head. “Sounds like local with a bad accent.”

Rick laughed. “That’s exactly what it is. Who do we have who knows the northern accents and can speak English?”

“Murphy, but he’s not here,” Bisso said. “Let me see who I can find.”

Eventually they found a Priest of Yatar from the local area. His name was Atanar, and while he didn’t speak English, he knew the southern dialects Rick and his men had learned. The radio had fallen silent by the time they brought him in.

“Do you know Lord Father Apelles?” Rick asked.

“I have been presented to His Reverence,” Atanar said. “I would hardly be said to know someone of that rank. But His Reverence was most gracious.”

Figures, Rick thought. Apelles is a decent sort. Although quick promotion has ruined a lot better men than him.

The radio squawked again. Atanar listened intently.

“It is heavily accented, and there are words I do not know,” he said. “But he is asking for someone named Iztanaster, and seems concerned.”

“Probably the supply train leader,” Rick said. “Rand, you bring back any prisoners?”

“No, Sir. Sorry. Wasn’t sure those Gurkhas wouldn’t be coming, so we hit that train fast and hard. Then I ran like hell before anyone could get that radio back. Disarmed everyone not killed and turned them loose.”

“Right. Good work.” Rick listened to the radio again. “Bloody hell.”

“Sir?” Warner asked.

“Just repeating what I heard,” Rick said.

“But that’s—”

“Precisely.” Rick picked up the set and thumbed the push to talk switch. “Hello. Are you there?”

There was a short silence. “Who is this, please?”

“This is Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries and Warlord of Drantos,” Rick said. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“One moment, Sir.” There was a pause.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Galloway,” a different voice said two or three minutes later. “This is Clyde Baker, one time Major of Her Majesty’s Gurkhas. I take it you’re responsible for all the starving people coming up the road to my camp?”

“No more than you are,” Rick said.

“Well, perhaps so,” Baker said. “So, Colonel, what may I do for you?”

“We should discuss that,” Rick said. “As well as the return of your radio. And perhaps we have mutual interests.”

“That’s more than possible,” Baker said. “Although I don’t think my employers will be pleased by any discovery of mutual interests between us.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to.” Damn, Rick thought. That clipped way of talking is catching. “But I suspect I know more of the situation, both local and Galactic, than you do. Between us we may know more still.”

“Very likely. You propose an exchange of information. A parley.”

“Certainly. Flag of truce. Of course neither of us trusts the other.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, we cannot continue this discussion for long, unless perhaps you have a way to recharge that radio unit? What do you propose?”

“Send an English-speaking subordinate under a flag of truce. Have him ride south from your camp on the main road to the Ottarn. I’ll have one of my officers meet him about ten kilometers from your camp. They can arrange a time and place for us to meet. And terms.”

“Acceptable. Look for Leftenant Cargill in two hours. He will carry a sidearm. His escort will be well behind him. Have your man carry a white banner and leave his escorts behind when they meet. Good day.”

* * *

Rick tried unsuccessfully to hide his relief when Art Mason returned from the parley. Rick fidgeted until Mason joined him at the long table in his command caravan. Rand and Bisso sat opposite Rick.

“Wine,” Rick said to his steward. “For all of us, and that will be all.”

“Sir.” The Tamaerthan scout poured from a clay jug, left the jug on the table, and went out of the tent. Mason sat and looked around. “No Tran locals,” Mason observed.

“Not here and not within earshot, Major. I’ve got Passavopolous out there watching the perimeter,” Bisso said.

“Just in case,” Rick said. “The locals will be very curious about what star men say to each other. I expect someone has informed the King already. How did it go?”

“All very correct, Colonel,” Mason said. He took his seat at the table. “Not a lot to report, though. They sent an English—well, Scot—subaltern, their idea of someone expendable.”

“Art, you are not expendable—”

“I know that, Colonel. I volunteered ’cause I’m as curious as anyone here! Anyway, you’ll meet their Major Baker tomorrow, a klick west of where I met Lieutenant Cargill. Tomorrow at True Sun zenith. Truce until then. And no one else is to know about this.”

“No one else? Like who?”

“Like the people we work for,” Mason said. “Cargill was explicit about that.” Mason’s voice changed to a bad imitation of a Scots accent. “Major Baker said that ‘our employers would not appreciate private conferences among us, don’t you agree?’ Something like that.”

“Man, he’s right there,” Warner said. “Can you imagine what the little king would say if he knew? Put them Gurkhas with our troops and we can name the next High Rexja right off.”

“It would still be a long campaign, now that Matthias is alerted, but I suppose that’s true enough.” Rick agreed. “Did Cargill say anything like that?”

“No, Sir. Just that we ought to keep these conferences to ourselves.”

“You trust them to keep a truce?”

Mason shrugged.

“Don’t reckon it matters what I think. I sure wouldn’t call off the guards.”

“We won’t. So. What are they doing here?”

“Damned if I know, Colonel. Cargill wasn’t there to give away information. Or swap any, either. All business. Respectful, though. Plenty of ‘sirs’ after I introduced myself as a major. But he didn’t give anything away.”

“Begging your pardon, Colonel, but I don’t like this parley business much,” Sergeant Bisso said.

“Come to that, I don’t either,” Mason said. “But my orders were to arrange a meeting, and I did that. Don’t mean I think the Colonel ought to go to that meeting. I may not be expendable, but I’m more so than the Colonel.”

“But you’re convinced Cargill is genuine?” Rick asked.

“Genuine how, Sir? He sure seems like a typical Brit officer to me.”

“Not a Galactic in disguise?”

“No way I’d know that, Colonel, but I sure didn’t get any false vibes from him. You know something we don’t, Sir?”

“No.” Rick shook his head. “I’m as surprised by all this as you are. Look, there’s only one way we’re going to find out more, and we all know it. I’ll have to meet their commander.”

“That you will, Sir, if there’s going to be any meeting. Something else,” Mason said. “You’re to bring identification. Something that proves you’re Captain Rick Galloway of the US Army.”

Warner eyed Mason quizzically.

“Major, you’re saying they know who Colonel Galloway is?”

“Beats me,” Art Mason said. “I asked that, but Cargill wouldn’t comment. He just said that Major Baker would discuss matters with Captain Rick Galloway and no one else.”

“And he called me ‘captain,’ not ‘colonel’?” Rick asked.

“Yes, Sir. That he did.”

“We have to meet him,” Rick said. He fingered Tylara’s message in his pocket. “But we need to get this over with fast, and that means making them an offer they can’t refuse.”

He sat thinking for a moment.

“Can Westmen women ride?” he asked.

“Better than most of our men.” Mason looked at him quizzically.

“Send a dispatch to Murphy. Tell him to ask Mad Bear to send as many of the young widows and fatherless ladies who’ve come of age from the lodges of the Silver Wolves as can get here in a day. Tell them to pack their finest traveling clothes, that we may have found men worthy of them.”


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