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21: War Recalled

The celebrations continued for days. Monks' cells in the hollow of the walls of the great Temple lay empty as even the silent orders found release from their vows. Songs of triumph rose from the massive brooding walls to blend with the Te Deum sung in the Temple Sanctuary.

MacKinnie stood atop the highest Temple battlement and looked up into the night sky toward his home a dozen light-years away. A river of stars ran across the sky, so that it was difficult to locate the star that shone on his world.

The stars belonged to the Empire of Man, and looking up at the myriad of lights MacKinnie could appreciate the problems of the Imperial Navy. How could there be peace among all those and yet each have freedom? The legendary time when Prince Samual's World was united and there were no wars was remembered as a golden age, yet unification had remained a dream and spawned a dozen wars; and that was only one world. The Empire had hundreds, perhaps thousands—he couldn't know. More worlds than there were nations or city-states on Samual.

"Sir?"

He turned at Stark's approach. "Yes, Hal?"

"I brought the shipmaster."

MacKinnie once again marveled at the varieties of man. People on Prince Samual's World were varied enough, but nothing like what he had seen on Makassar. There were the tall, fair men like Vanjynk, and the dark, swarthy men like Loholo; the Imperial Navy even had black men and women. On Samual "black men" were legendary monsters who lived in the hills and ate children . . . .

Loholo stood respectfully and waited for MacKinnie to speak.

"Shipmaster, I must return to Jikar. When can we sail?" MacKinnie asked.

Loholo shrugged. "She is ready now. It will be no easy journey. Much of the time the wind will be in our faces. There is better trading to the east and south . . . and there will be storms."

"Aye." MacKinnie shuddered. Now that they were ashore he could admit that he'd been terrified. But there was no other way. Or was there? "Could we sail east to get there?"

"East? You believe the tales that Makassar is round— but you would know, star man. You would know." Loholo shrugged, jingling the golden ornaments he wore. His curved dagger bore new jewels on the hilt, and there were new rings on his fingers. "I have known of men who believed the world round and sailed east to reach the western shores," he said. "But I never heard of one who arrived. Trader, there are shoals west of Jikar, and there are pirates throughout the islands. Subao is faster than they, but there are many pirates. Those are the western waters I know. What else may lay between here and there—" He shrugged again to a jingle of gold. "Only God knows."

God and the Imperial Navy, MacKinnie thought. From the maps they had shown him there was a lot of open water to the east of the main continent. Loholo was probably right. "I had thought as much," MacKinnie said. "So there's nothing for it. We sail in five days."

"So soon? You will hardly have time to buy a cargo. It would be much better to wait until next season."

"No. I must reach Jikar in two hundred days," MacKinnie said.

Loholo chuckled. "Then you will have an uncomfortable voyage. Two thousand klamaters in two hundred days." The sea captain laughed again. "In this season. Well, Subao can withstand that—but can you? And why leave Batav at all? You rule here. The priestly star man is Ultimate Holiness, but he came to the throne on your pikes, and did not your pikemen hold the city the old council would elect a new Holiness inside three days."

"And that's a fact," Stark said. "There's some in the new council who'd support Casteliano, but you can't expect all them old Archdeacons to take kindly to the Imperial missionaries movin' in on 'em like that. Mister Loholo's right, there'd be civil war if it wasn't that our troops hold all the strong points."

"Which means I can't take the whole army across the plains," MacKinnie said. "Or if I did, I'd have to take the Imperial missionaries with me—"

"They're not likely to come," Stark observed.

"Exactly. And they won't continue helping us if we take them as prisoners." MacKinnie glanced upward at the stars and thought again of the problems of empire. "So it's by sea. Leave the pikemen here and hope the missionaries know what to do with them. Thank you, Mister Loholo. That will be all."

"Trader?" Loholo made no move to leave.

"Yes?"

"Trader, you promised me Subao when we returned to Jikar."

"She'll be yours, Mister Loholo."

"Aye. Then with your permission I'll get back to her. There's still work to be done. Bottom to be scraped, new water barrels, provisions—but if there's a place by water on this world that you want to go to, I'll take you, even if we pass every pirate in the shallows!" Loholo fingered the golden skull ornament at his left ear. "You're the strangest man I've ever seen, Trader. You've shown us how to make ships sail better than we ever knew. You trained an army of city rabble and took them out to whip the barbarians after the Temple people gave up. Now you're in command of the Temple and all Batav, and you want to return to Jikar! Most men would rather stay here as king—and there'd be no nonsense about it, either. You've only to say the word—"

"And you could be my High Admiral, Mister Loholo?"

"No, sir. Your star man Captain MacLean would have that post, and I'm not that ambitious. Subao's enough for me, star man. A good ship and open sea's all my father wanted for any of his children."

Loholo began the long descent down the stone stairway to the street below, and MacKinnie turned away to lean on the ramparts. Batav was a blaze of lights, with bonfires in all the public squares. Every one of the city's thirty thousand souls seemed to be reveling in the streets, their numbers swollen by another thirty thousand peasants who had sought refuge within the city walls. The peasants would soon go back to their fields, and the remnants of Batav's great feudal families, all those who survived the futile charges against the maris before MacKinnie arrived, would return to their great halls and tournaments—

And then what? "Getting control of that damned library was easier than letting loose," MacKinnie said. "I'm concerned about the missionaries. Can they hold on after we leave?"

"I doubt it. Not without a good commander who knows how you fight."

"Could Brett hold the Temple?" MacKinnie asked.

Stark shrugged. "He's maybe smart enough, but they'd never trust him. He was raised a mari, sure enough, and it shows. Nobody's going to put him in command."

"Then who can do it?"

"You."

"And no one else, Sergeant?"

"Not that I know of, Colonel. You built this army, and you know what it can do. The others don't think like you."

"And that worries you?" MacKinnie asked.

"Don't get paid to worry," Stark said automatically. "Except—"

He's in a strange mood, MacKinnie thought. He really is worried. I haven't seen him that way since—

"You know," Stark said, "Mister Loholo's got a point, Colonel. A year ago we was down to it, looking for a place fightin' in some petty war on South Continent and wonder-in' how to pay the rent on a flophouse until we found something. We never expected to find anything as good as we've got now."

"I gave Dougal my word, and I swore allegiance to King David," MacKinnie reminded him.

"After Haven used the goddam Empire to bake half our Wolves, Colonel! They'd never have took Orleans without the Imperial Marines . . . and then they turned you out like an old dog! What do we really owe Haven, Colonel? What do we owe anybody?"

MacKinnie turned to his sergeant in surprise. "We're soldiers, Hal. It's all either of us has ever been—"

"Soldiers for who, Colonel? You owe Haven any more'n you owe Batav? If it wasn't for them peasant kids we trained we'd never have beat the maris. Them boys would follow you to hell, and what's goin' to happen to 'em if we pull up stakes and leave? And when we get back to Haven, that Dougal's likely to slit our throats to shut us up. What use are we to him after we bring back them books or whatever it is Kleinst has got? There's not much for us back on Samual, and that's the size of it—" Stark turned quickly and grasped the hilt of his sword. "Watch out, Colonel, there's somebody comin' up the stairs."

"Go see who it is." There were guards posted at the foot of the stairway to MacKinnie's penthouse, and from the sounds there was only one person approaching. Hal could deal with any single man. Nathan turned back to the battlements.

The revels continued in the city below. Drunken apprentices staggered from shop to shop, demanding that lights be placed in all dark windows on pain of having the building itself burned to provide light. Barrels of wine and ale stood at street corners, open to all comers. But through the drunken reveling MacKinnie's peasant pikemen stood in grim, disciplined knots at the strategic points, waiting for their relief before joining the festivities. . . .

Follow me to hell, MacKinnie thought. Why not? I found them not much better than slaves and now they've just defeated the worst threat this city's ever faced.

Why the hell shouldn't I be king? Because of another duty. . . .

All his life MacKinnie had lived under a soldier's code and like most dueling societies Prince Samual's World held honor higher than life . . . but what was the honorable course now?

Who owns my loyalty? he wondered. Dougal, who had a dozen men and women killed to protect the secret babbled by that drunken Imperial officer? Casteliano, who's Ultimate Holiness courtesy of my pikemen? Or those lads out there? It's obvious what Hal thinks.

"It's Freelady Graham, Colonel," Stark announced.

Mary Graham had taken off her armor and had let her long brown hair fall in waves and curls to below her shoulders. A blue linen gown with tight bodice set off her small figure, and she was much lovelier than she'd been the first time MacKinnie had seen her.

"Nathan, you're missing the party," she said accusingly. "Can't you ever relax, even for one evening? Let's have some fun!"

MacKinnie was surprised by the possessive tone in her voice. Had he imagined it or—Great Saints, he thought. She's a real beauty tonight. And with her hair let down she looks a lot like Laura. Nearly as headstrong, too. And she's twenty-four, you're fifty, and she's your ward. But—

Unwanted the memories poured past his guard. There had been another girl, once. A freelady, not one of the innumerable camp followers any military commander would know. She was no more than thirty, and it was no more than three years ago. . . .

A bleak picture formed in MacKinnie's mind. Haven, defeated at Blanthern Pass, was on the march again, invading Orleans with inadequate troops and a dangerously thin supply line. And Iron MacKinnie's Wolves were ready, this time ready to end Haven's threat to Orleans forever and aye. When this battle was done, the Orleans Committee of Public Safety could dictate any terms they wanted to David II!

The Wolves lay in ambush at Lechfeld. Two battalions waited, enough troops to force Haven's invading force to deploy and fight. Lechfeld couldn't be bypassed or the Haven army would be without any possible supply line. Twenty kilometers away, in dense forest, a regiment of Orleans Dragoons moved swiftly through the forest gullies, leading their horses until they reached open country. Above, behind rolling hills overlooking the Lechfeld plains, MacKinnie waited with the balance of his Wolves to close the trap—and the Haven army was moving into it.

The Committee had protested the battle plan. Converging columns were too dangerous. There was no reliable way to communicate between them, even if the University professors did believe they would have reliable wireless soon. The timing of the battle needed great precision or the Orleanists would be defeated in detail.

The Committee had protested, but MacKinnie had won that fight. He knew the capabilities of his troops to the last small unit, and his scouts would cover the battle area. There would be no surprises for Orleans; only for Haven—and the Wolves would not fight at all until Haven was in the trap.

And now they were marching in, and they were doomed. Freelady Laura waited with him in the hills above Lechfeld. He had tried to send her to the rear before, but she came back—and except for Stark there wasn't an officer or a noncom in his command who'd disobey the colonel's lady even on his direct orders. Still, it was safe enough. The losses today would be Haven's! But she was in a place of danger, and that wouldn't do.

"Go to Lechfeld while the road's still open," MacKinnie had told her. "Major Armstrong is well dug in and his position won't be exposed until the battle is over. Meet me in Lechfeld."

She protested, but he needed a message carried, and finally she agreed to go. "We'll be riding at the charge all the way, Laura," he'd said. "You can't keep up with that! We'd be separated anyway. If I can't make you go to the rear—damn your father for letting you out of the house! —I want you safe."

"All right. I won't have you worrying about me when you should be directing the battle." She sat proudly in the ambulance. The escorting cavalry saluted. Cornet Blair mounted with a flourish, proud to be chosen as protector of his colonel's fiancée.

"And we'll see the chaplain when the battle's ended," MacKinnie promised. "Ride out, Blair."

"Sir." Ambulance and escort rode away in a thin cloud of dust and MacKinnie gave his attention to the Haven forces below. In an hour their advance units appeared. They weren't surprised to meet resistance at Lechfeld and fell back to wait for the rest of the column.

The Haven army deployed skirmishers, then formed a main battle line for attack, their artillery moving forward at the gallop. Trumpet calls rang across plowed fields as Haven's last army prepared for a set piece battle.

It worried Nathan. Haven had better soldiers than that! They'd walked into a classic military trap, and they hadn't even put out guards to their flanks and rear! But MacKinnie's hard-riding scouts, their horses lathered with flecks of white foam, had circled the enemy. They had seen nothing. There were no significant reinforcements, no support at all for the forces moving so blindly into MacKinnie's trap. Haven was doomed.

Why? MacKinnie wondered. It hardly mattered. Perhaps they had planned some clever counter-coup, but there was nothing, nothing at all that they or anyone could do now . . . .

The Orleans Dragoons took the field within minutes of the time MacKinnie had set for them. They advanced and dug in, closing off the Haven column's escape route, forming a solid anvil against which the charging Wolves would crush their enemy, and bow, now it was time! "Mount 'em up, Hal! Move 'em out! Fox and Dragon troops will charge those batteries on the right flank. The rest dismount at five hundred meters and advance on foot. We've got them, Hal, we've beaten everything Haven can put into the field!"

The Wolves charged down the hill, whooping like South Continent barbarians, while the youthful trumpeters blew every call in the book. It was done. The Wolves were in perfect position to roll up Haven's flank—and death fell from the skies. A sleek black shape roared overhead and, as it passed, Lechfeld was turned into a blackened cinder.

And again, again that thing passed overhead, and blinding beams of light stabbed out to burn the Dragoons! Now it hovered over the battlefield, playing its deadly beams across MacKinnie's army.

"Dismount! All troops fire on that thing! Troop Commanders, fire troops in volley! Trumpeter, orders to artillery! Where the hell are those field pieces? Gunners, get those goddam cannons in action!"

Somehow they'd done it. The black shape fell from the skies, settling hard into the cornfields, and when the gray-coated troops in the sky machine came out, the Wolves cut them down and howled in triumph!

Too late. Haven's army was still intact. The Dragoons were dead or running, Lechfeld was gone, and the Wolves had taken terrible casualties. The Haven force wheeled to face right, and for the first time in his life Nathan MacKinnie had known defeat. When the trumpeters sounded recall it was the end of his career, and the end of everything else. Laura had been in Lechfeld . . . .

"Colonel." Stark took his commander by the elbow. "Colonel, it don't do no good to think about it."

"Uh?" The bright fields of Prince Samual's World faded. Awkwardly he turned away from the battlements and let his hands relax. The knuckles were white. "Your pardon, Mary. I was—somewhere else. You're right, let's go join the revels."

 

 

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