1

Gwen Tremaine was in love. Given that she was twenty years old and not at all unattractive, this shouldn’t have been astonishing; but in point of fact she was more than astonished. She couldn’t really believe it.

She had resigned herself to a lonely life. Not lonely in the sense of having no friends, although she had few enough; but she was convinced that she would never be in love, and even doubted whether anyone else ever had been. She had strongly suspected that all the poetic passages, all the lyric descriptions of how one felt when one was in love, had been invented by poets and writers who felt there ought to be such feelings but who had never experienced them.

Physical attraction she understood. She’d had several affairs and enjoyed them all. But what she couldn’t seem to arouse, in herself or others, was whatever the poets felt when they spoke of love.

She had tried, and a few times she thought it was happening to her, but it never developed into anything more. The strong affection, the need for someone else’s company that she saw in the few girls she got along with, sometimes she felt stirrings of it, but it never lasted. Generally what few stirrings she did experience happened after physical encounters, and usually hadn’t lasted past the cold light of morning. For a while she had blamed her inability to fall in love on the men in her life, and indeed there was some justice in that. She’d been attracted to as thoroughgoing a collection of cynics, bounders, and just plain cads as it was possible for her to imagine. Even her friends said so. Not that it was so obvious when she met them. She didn’t seek out the most popular boy in her high-school class, or lust after the jocks who could and did have every girl in the school. She was more likely to date the quiet ones with glasses who read a lot. Some had never had a date before her. Yet they invariably left her for her friends as soon as she’d built up their confidence to a level where they dared ask someone else for a date.

In truth, she scared hell out of everyone who tried to take her seriously. She was intelligent, she talked a lot, and she was interested in everything. She wrote for the school paper. She did so much extra classwork that she could get’ an A in any subject even if she turned in a blank final exam. She earned real money at such unfeminine activities as buying stale bread and reselling it to chicken farmers. In short, she was real competition for any boy she met, and the ones she liked were never secure enough to survive that threat.

When she was sixteen and a senior at John Marshall High, she met Fred Linker in the school library. Fred had never had a date in his life and was terrified of girls. Gwen was a bit cynical about men by that time, but she was enough of a product of her culture to wish she had someone to take her on dates. Fred seemed perfect. He wasn’t at all bad looking, just shy. He liked to read and knew of works like Silverlock that she adored as soon as he told her about them. He was a good listener, and they shared many opinions. So she worked on him until he asked her out, and three dates later, he got the nerve to kiss her goodnight. He didn’t know how to do that very well, but Gwen was a good teacher. She’d found books that told how.

Fred wanted to be a writer. He wrote constantly. Someday he’d sell a story. He was certain of it. He’d even sent a few off to magazines and got rejection slips.

Gwen read the magazines Fred liked, and three weeks later got a short story accepted in one of his favorites. She thought he’d be proud of her, and she knew she could show him how he could sell, too— it was only a matter of studying the editor’s prejudices —but a week after that Fred took another girl to the sock hop. Later he sold three stories himself, but he never asked Gwen out again.

College hadn’t been much different. Gwen’s physical urges got stronger, and sometimes she was so lonely she’d read in an all-night restaurant rather than sit in her room; so lonely that she made resolutions about not competing with the next man she liked. She even tried to carry them out. It did no good. Even when she didn’t actually do whatever her current boyfriend thought he was good at, eventually it would come out that she could if she wanted to.

Or maybe, she told herself as she dressed in her compulsively neat one-room apartment, maybe that’s all wrong. Maybe they just didn’t like me in the first place. God knows there must be something wrong with me.

I’m not ugly. She studied herself in the mirror. Too short, yes. Five foot two and eyes of blue sounds very good in songs, but in fact that’s pretty short, and besides my eyes are more greenish-brown. Nose too pointed, face too angular, but there are plenty of girls with longer and pointier noses and they aren’t ugly. And I’ve got all the right equipment. Not a lot of it, but in good proportion. I bounce all right if I go without a bra, and my hips aren’t bony. I don’t wear clothes well because I’m too thin, but I don’t look too bad. Men don’t turn away.

And everyone tells me I talk well. I’m bright and witty. They say it just after we meet, and just as they’re walking out.

But this time it’s different.

She dressed carefully. This time for sure, she thought. Things will happen tonight. She felt a delicious sensation of anticipation. Maybe this will last, she thought. Please. Let it last.

She grinned at her image in the mirror. To whom was she praying? Her image of the universe had room in it for a god, but not one who paid much attention to that kind of prayer. If prayer worked, there were a lot of people worse off than Gwen Tremaine praying their arses off. They didn’t get what they wanted. Why should she?

But there was a chance. Les was different.

She’d met him in an all-night coffee shop near the university library. It had been quite late, and she was ready to go home. She was carrying a half dozen books, and he’d seen the anthropology book. “That looks like a new one,” he’d said. “I think I have not seen that one before. May I look?”

And then they’d got to talking. He was brilliant. She could tell that from the few things he said. But mostly he wanted her to talk. He liked listening to her—about everything, about anything she wanted to say.

He got her to tell him about growing up in Iowa, about moving to California when she was fourteen, about high school and college and her unsuccessful love affairs, about her theories of history and physics and mathematics and especially anthropology and— He liked her. He listened, and he liked her, and to Gwen that was devastating.

And she couldn’t compete with him. Partly she couldn’t because she didn’t know what he did. He never said directly, but she had the impression that he was in advanced physics. Once he’d got her talking about the origin of the universe. She’d told him what she thought, and he scribbled some equations on a napkin. They meant nothing to her. He’d thrown the napkin away. She went back the next morning and retrieved it from the garbage behind the restaurant and went to the library. After spending all day working on them the equations still meant nothing to her. She couldn’t even find many of the symbols.

Which meant he was a liar—only it didn’t. Les didn’t have to lie. He talked about himself only when she urged him to, and never to impress her. He’d already done that on the first night, when she found he’d read nearly every anthropology book ever written and understood all the major theories. When she could get him to talk, she learned more in an hour with Les than she did in a month of classes.

For three weeks she had never seen him except in the coffee shop. He came in late, always after midnight, sometimes not until dawn. He drove a truck for spending money and had no fixed schedule; but he always came, and she was always waiting. They’d never discussed it, but she knew he came just to see her.

For three weeks they talked in the shop. He waved good-bye to her when it got so late she had to go home (or to morning classes).

Until yesterday. Yesterday he got up when she did, paid his check, and walked home with her. It seemed perfectly natural that he come in with her and that they go to bed together, and that he aroused her to flights of passion she had never supposed possible.

He stayed until noon.

And now he was coming back and wanted to take her somewhere. She dressed carefully. A skirt that didn’t wrinkle. They didn’t have to wrestle in a car—he was welcome in her bed—but who knows? she thought. She grinned at her image in the mirror. “Painted hussy,” she told it.

The image grinned back. “We likes it, don’t we, ducks?”

“Damn straight,” Gwen said. “Damn straight. Never thought I would—”

She laughed at herself, but she studied her small collection of jewelry and perfume just the same. What would he like?

“Independent. Liberated. And working my arse off to make him want me,” she told the mirror.

“Hang on to this one,” the image said.

“Right.” If we can. Please. Let this be all right. Let this last.

When the doorbell rang an hour after midnight, she ran to it, then caught herself. He knew she liked him, but she didn’t want him to think she was that nuts over him. Still, she was a little breathless when she opened the door. Would he leap at her? Carry her to bed? She damned well wasn’t going to resist— He kissed her, but broke away quickly before that could lead to anything else. Then he grinned. “Later. We’ll have a lot of time.”

“Good.”

“Go for a drive?” he asked.

“Sure. Where? Do I need a coat?”

“Actually, I had in mind a weekend trip. Can you pack a bag?”

She frowned. Was he that confident? But then he had reason to be. And why not? “I can get away,” she said. “For a couple of days. But I ought to call my landlady and tell her—”

“Leave a note. It’s late.”

“What should I pack? Swimsuit? Ski clothes?”

“Do you like boats? Sailing?”

“I never went on one before. I don’t get motion sick—I guess I’ve told you that.”

“You have.”

There it was. The tiny accent. “Just where did you grow up?” she asked.

“I thought you were the professional who’d guess from my speech patterns.” He grinned.

It’s a nice grin, she thought. A nice grin, on a nice face. She moved closer to him. “Wheedle, wheedle.”

He pulled her against him and held her for a moment.

“You’re just the right size,” she said.

“How’s that?”

She shrugged. “Big enough that I think of you as a big man, but not so big you tower over me. And not so big in other ways, if you know what I mean—”

He laughed. “We do seem compatible.”

“Yes, I like that. I’ll pack my sailing clothes,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

“I didn’t know they kept boats in the mountains,” Gwen said. “Just where are you taking me?”

It seemed a reasonable question. The road climbed steadily higher into the Angeles Mountains, directly away from the sea. At first she’d thought they were driving up the coast toward Santa Barbara, but he’d turned east.

The truck hummed along the road. It was a heavy Ford pickup, and the bed was crammed with odd shapes covered with a tarpaulin. That seemed strange too. Why a loaded truck for a weekend date? “Where are we going, Les?”

“Don’t trust me?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t—Les, please. Don’t play head games with me.”

“I don’t want to, Gwen.” His voice was very serious. “But I don’t have much choice.” He hesitated a moment. “You told me you want to learn. You like anthropology because you want to learn. To travel, see strange people and learn how they live—”

“Yes —“

“I can give you a chance to do that. Right now. But it’s a long trip. Will you come with me?”

“Right now? Just like that? Not tell anyone—”

“Yes.”

“Les, I can’t—’’

“Sure you can. You told me yourself, nobody cares what happens to you. Your mother’s dead, and you haven’t heard from your father in years. Sure you can. Who’ll care? The people at the university? Landlady? Not really.”

“But—right now? Just like that? Where do we go?”

“That’s the part I can’t tell you. A long voyage to exotic and distant lands. I can promise you that.”

“With you.”

“Yes. With me.” He drove with both hands on the wheel, both eyes on the road; almost as if he were afraid of the truck. Now he let go to take her hand for a moment and squeeze it. “With me. I promise you that.”

She thought about it. But it was all so strange. “What’s in the truck? Your travel equipment? What—who are you? CIA?”

“What if I were?”

“I—wouldn’t like that.”

“Then I’m not,” he said. “Let’s see. Other question. The gear in the truck is for travel, but it is not mine. I get equipment for others. Get it and deliver it.”

“But always at night—”

“Generally,” he agreed.

“Les, where are we going? I thought Mexico for a moment, but we’re going northeast. Where—”

“Can’t tell you. But will you come with me?”

“If I don’t?”

He let the truck slow. “I turn around and take you home.”

“And then?”

“And then I leave. I have to go, Gwen. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to tell you much, but I can’t. I do want you to go with me, but you don’t have much time to make up your mind.”

“How long—how long will we be gone?”

“A long time. Years. But you’ll see exotic places, faraway places, places you’ll never see unless you come with me.”

“I didn’t pack very much,” she said. “Not for being away that long. Will you buy me a grass skirt?”

The truck ran on for a second more. Then he stopped, turned, and kissed her. “I’m glad,” he said. Then he started up. “We don’t have a lot of time. They won’t wait all night.”

“Who won’t?” she asked.

An hour later she knew.

2

Gwen was on the Moon. She had to keep telling herself that. She was on the Moon and talking to a TV set.

The face on the TV was human. Strange, but human, and after what Gwen had seen on the ship, any human face was a relief.

The man looked bored. “You have come voluntarily?” he asked.

An embarrassing question. Gwen was naked, except for a sheet that she wrapped around herself when she realized that the TV screen worked both ways. She sat on the edge of the bed to talk to the man in the rust-colored tunic who’d appeared on the screen. Les lay partly covered on the bed, and his expression was—worried? Why worried, she wondered.

“Yes, I came voluntarily,” she said. “Les asked me to come. He said I would visit strange and exotic lands and—”

“You boarded voluntarily,” the man said. “Will you be missed? Will your disappearance cause difficulties? Widespread search by the authorities?”

“I don’t think so. I left a note for my landlady that said I was going for a weekend trip. She’ll worry when I don’t come back after that. She may call the police.”

“They will probably assume you were murdered. That is no problem of mine.” The screen went blank.

“That’s over,” Les said. He looked relieved.

Why relieved? And why had he been worried?

There was a lot that Gwen didn’t understand. But certainly she was glad she had come. There were marvels enough, even here in the compartment. It was lavishly furnished, mostly with goods from Earth; but some of the furnishings were new and strange. There was the TV with its strange control box that could call up books and maps and all kinds of interesting material—the only problem was that she couldn’t read a word of it. And there had been the aliens, and the experience of seeing Earth from space. Now she felt the low gravity of the Moon and could see the lunar surface on the TV screen. It was all frightening, but exciting, too.

“Who was that man?” she asked.

“A policeman,” Les said.

“What would have happened if I had said you kidnapped me?”

“He probably would not have believed you. But if you had said the Shalnuksis had kidnapped you, there would have been trouble.”

Gwen shuddered, but not in fear. It was all so marvelous. Aliens. Spaceships. And they were so nice to her. Les had given her clothes and jewelry—not that the gifts meant anything, but he had got them for her. He cared. She knew that. He cared.

“And you don’t come from anywhere on Earth?” she asked. “I still can’t believe that.”

“It’s true, though,” he said. “My home is twenty light-years from here.”

“How long have you been on Earth?”

“Four years. A bit more than that.”

“But you speak English so well! No wonder I couldn’t tell where you came from. How did you learn to speak English so well in four years?”

“It’s a gift,” he said. “I speak a number of human languages. Four from your planet.”

“A number of human languages—Les, what do you do for these—for the aliens?”

“You can think of me as a civil servant,” he said. “I pilot ships, make studies of primitives, buy equipment and see that it gets aboard ship —any number of activities that the traders or the confederacy need done.”

“A civil servant.”

“Sort of,” Les told her. “That is, most humans work for the confederacy, but they sometimes rent us out to traders when the work involves other humans. Just now I’m doing some errands for the

Shalnuksis.”

“But why don’t you go to Washington and tell them? Or someone? Why such secrecy?”

“Time enough for questions later,” he said. “We will have a lot of time. For the moment, we are together, and we have a few hours before we go to the other ship.”

“Another ship?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to take some people—human volunteers, soldiers—to another planet. I’ll have to brief them on the way.”

“Soldiers. Volunteers. You mean mercenaries.” She made no attempt to disguise the contempt in her voice.

He laughed. “You don’t like warriors? You ought to feel a bit sorry for these. They’ve got their work cut out. More than they know.”

“Who will they fight? What are they going to be doing?”

“All in good time. You’ll know more about them than you want to by the time we get to Tran. For now—” He reached for her.

For a moment she resisted, but she could feel his urgency.

Why resist? she thought. Why resent his need? A need for me. He cares. I can lose myself in him. And he keeps his promises.

He’d already showed her marvels beyond her imagination. What more would there be? She shuddered in anticipation.

The screen came to life while the troops were cooking lunch. Rick Galloway went over carrying his new lists of equipment. There was a lot they needed, and they hadn’t received much of what they’d asked for.

“No time,” Agzaral said. “No time at all. Gather your equipment. You must leave this cavern immediately. There is a ship outside, and you must be aboard it with everything you propose to take with you. You have two hours.” He seemed very excited. “You must hurry.”

“Why? We can’t go now. We don’t have anything like the gear we asked for—”

“Some is aboard the ship. The rest may be supplied later. But hurry. Those who remain behind will not be happy with the consequences.”

“Why?”

“You will learn,” Agzaral said. “But you will not go at all if you do not board the ship now. Recall the alternatives I gave you. They have not changed.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rick said. “It makes no sense at all.”

There was no reply. Agzaral continued to stare out from the screen.

At least, Rick thought, at least he doesn’t look bored. Is that a good sign? It seems pretty frightening, actually.

“I cannot say I care for this,” André Parsons said. “But I think of few alternatives.” He turned to the screen. “Why should we trust you?”

“You would be surprised at how little that matters to me,” Agzaral said. “But you will regret not having boarded the ship.”

Parsons shrugged, then looked to Rick. “I think we should do it.”

“Agreed,” Rick said. “Load it up. Elliot, get them moving. We board ship.”

“Move your equipment to the upper corridor,” Agzaral said. “The ship will be ready to board shortly, and you should have all your possessions at the airlock.”

They sweated the weapons and other equipment up the corridor. “Now get that other stuff,” Rick ordered. “Clean out the cavern.”

“Why?” Warner demanded. “What do we do with a gasoline lawnmower?”

“I don’t know,” Rick said. “But we’ll never get another One. Now carry it up, Professor.”

“Yes, sir,” Warner said. “And the toaster, too?”

“Everything,” Rick said. He picked up a coffee urn.

When they had all left the cavern, the entrance to it closed off.

The ship stank. Although they couldn’t see very much of the ship, it was obvious that it wasn’t the same one they had come up in. The paint was stained and chipped in places. There were stains on the deck.

When they got the last of the equipment aboard, the entryway closed. There was no warning at all. Their weight increased. It was obvious that the ship was in motion. Rick estimated the acceleration at about twice the Moon’s gravity.

After two hours, he began shouting. “What the hell’s going on,” he demanded. There was no one to talk to. The only TV screen was blank. It seemed silly to be shouting at empty air, but it was sillier not to do something.

Nothing happened. Some of the troops prowled the areas they could reach. They found doorways that would open, and beyond them were latrines, storage compartments, another empty area. They found food in two other compartments.

The rest of the system was closed. There was no way into the rest of the ship.

“What the hell’s going on?” Rick muttered.

André Parsons shrugged. “There is wine and whiskey in the storerooms. I suggest we have a drink.”

“Is that all you think of?”

“No, but I think of nothing better to do at the moment.”

More than fifty hours went by. They still had no word from anyone. They had been under acceleration the entire time. Rick worked out the distance, assuming two Lunar gravities. The answer seemed so unreasonable that he worked it again. Thirty-two million miles. A third of the distance from Earth to the Sun.

There was nothing on the TV. Warner began to complain that their employers had violated their contract. Rick privately agreed, but he saw no point in talking about it. If the Shalnuksis were listening, he didn’t want them thinking in those terms. Finally Elliot shut Warner up.

A couple of troopers got roaring drunk, and Rick had to post guards at the door to the liquor compartment. The problem was—whom did he trust? Discipline was going to hell, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

Another forty hours went by.

“TEN MINUTES.” The voice sounded through their compartment. “You have ten minutes to prepare for no gravity. Ten minutes.”

There was netting in the storerooms, and they put the loose equipment under that, but they kept their weapons. No one wanted ship’s doors between them and their rifles.

The acceleration stopped, and they were in free fall, but not for long. The ship moved in short jerks. Then there was a deep tone —nothing like the warning tones they had heard from the speakers. This was a deep thrum that sounded through the whole ship, as if the ship itself were vibrating to the noise.

Rick’s vision blurred. He could see, but not well, as if he were looking through heavy astigmatic lenses. The thrumming note got louder and increased in pitch. Then, gradually, the note died away and his vision returned. They began to feel weight again, more than before —almost a full Earth gravity.

The TV set came on. It showed Karreeel seated in his highchair. He looked almost comical, and some of the troops laughed nervously.

Then they crowded around shouting obscenities. There was no response. Instead, Karreeel began to speak in a flat monotone.

“I regret that this is a recorded message,” the alien said. “Please listen carefully.”

“Shut up,” Rick ordered. The babble died, but he missed the first words.

“...was unavoidable. You are now on your way to Tran, and you cannot regret your lack of proper equipment more than we do. Your success is important to us, and only great need forces us to send you with so little preparation.” The alien spoke in a calm and detached manner, but Rick noticed that the mouth and nose slits flared more than they had during the interview in Agzaral’s office.

“We will provide you with as much information as possible. The pilot of this vessel is of your species, and he has tapes of what we know of local conditions. He will translate the information and provide you with copies of the planetary surveys.

“You will be aboard the transport ship for approximately forty of your days. During that time the acceleration will be increased to that of Paradise to accustom you to the gravity you will find there.

“I regret that most of the information on local languages is very old, but doubtless you will learn those currently in use. You may need only one. We are interested in only a small area of the planet. You will also be given all the information required to plant and harvest the crops. The cultivation of the surinomaz is complex, and it is important that you follow instructions exactly. The harvest will be valuable to us, and thus to you. When next we visit Paradise, we will bring luxuries and necessities. You need have no concern, provided that you have grown what we require and are prepared to furnish it to us.

“Of course you must understand that if you have nothing to sell us, we will have nothing to sell to you.

“We wish you great success.”

The screen went blank. Then a human face appeared.

The man was not as dark as Agzaral, and his eyes were lighter in color, but there was a faint resemblance to Agzaral even so. His voice had no accent at all. “You can call me Les,’ “he said. “I’m the pilot. I’ll try to answer questions.”

“Take us back!” Warner shouted. “You have no right to change our contract! We enlisted under specified conditions and you have changed them. We quit!”

The pilot laughed. “You’ll do it on Tran, then. I don’t think anybody ever jumped ship in phase drive before, but you’re welcome to try. Unfortunately, there’s no known way you can report to us on what happens. Telepathy? Are you telepathic?”

“That’s enough, Warner,” Rick said. “Elliot, sit on him if that’s what it takes.”

“Sir.” Sergeant Elliot grinned. This was the first thing he’d completely understood since they left the Moon, and he was eager to be useful.

“Equipment,” Rick said. “We don’t have what we need—we don’t even know what we need.”

“Yeah, that’s too bad,” Les said. “Karreeel is very sorry about that. You see, we got word that a shipload of government people had just come out of phase drive and was about to make a visit. That would have delayed your trip for months, maybe longer. Might have canceled it entirely. This ship is under charter to Karreeel’s trading company, and you wouldn’t believe what it would have cost to have it sit idle all that time.”

“But—we don’t know what to do when we get there,” Rick protested.

“You’ll get all the information you need,” Les said. “Well, all we have, anyway. Look, this has all been done before. You’ll manage.”

“This is absurd,” André Parsons said. “How do you expect us to establish control of an area and raise crops with almost no equipment and very little ammunition?”

“Don’t know,” the pilot said. “But you’d better try. Karreeel will keep his part of the bargain, but he won’t trade with you if you’ve got nothing to trade.”

“But it makes so little sense,” Parsons said. “If they wish this crop, why send us with inadequate gear?”

“Well, it’s too bad,” Les said. “But his outfit can afford the loss. What they couldn’t afford was the time they’d lose if you were still around when the Commission people arrived. You wouldn’t have liked that much either. Hearings, committee meetings, more hearings, and all the time they’d insist they were interested only in what was best for you.”

“Can’t you explain some of this?” Rick asked. “Somehow you people don’t act the way we always thought an interstellar civilization would—”

The pilot laughed. “I’ve read some of your speculations. Why did you think we’d be so different from you? Or that we’d treat Earth any different from the way the English treated India? Excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Among other things, I have to translate all this stuff.”

“Can’t a computer do that?” Rick asked. “Yeah, but it’s not as easy as you think. Have to set up the right programs for it. I’ll be back.” The screen went blank again.

André Parsons looked thoughtful. “What was it that the East India Company called native soldiers?”

“Sepoys,” Rick said.

Parsons nodded. “Sepoys. Well, now we know our status.”

3

The computer control system was complex, but eventually Gwen was able to use it for simple tasks, such as calling up pictures and documents. A good thing, too, she told herself. Otherwise she’d be bored to distraction.

Not with Les, of course. He was attentive and kind. He spent hours preparing dinners to be served in a romantic setting, with exotic music from a dozen worlds, wines and liqueurs from as many more, so that their evenings—and nights!—were more exciting than anything she could imagine.

But that was a few hours a day. You can spend only so much of your time being charmed. Or in bed, she told herself. Les had his work; he was translating documents for the mercenaries. That left her with mornings and afternoons (ship time, of course; since they had left the solar system there was nothing to be seen outside the ship—no star or sun to mark days or seasons) with nothing to do. Les wouldn’t let her talk to the mercenaries; they weren’t to know she was aboard. He insisted on that.

Which left her curious. Who were they? Why were they going to a primitive world called Tran?

When she first learned to use the computer’s information-retrieval system, she could only look at pictures. The languages were a total mystery. The pictures were amazing enough; stars and nebulae, time-lapse photographs of multiple star systems with the stars so close they touched and sent streams of star-stuff spiraling off into the universe; another time-lapse of a black hole devouring its companion, taken from close enough and with long enough time delay that she could actually see the real star diminish in size, torn into gases which spiraled down and down to vanish into a central nothing; and more. There were intriguing pictures of life on a hundred planets. She counted a dozen races. Shalnuksis, of course, and others; Centauroids. Octopoids. A race like humans, but obviously reptilian in ancestry. A world where humans—real humans—kept as seeming pets small winged reptiles looking for all the world like tiny dragons.

And it was frustrating because Les didn’t want to answer questions. Not that he flatly refused, but he would put her off, ask what she thought of what she had seen, ask what it reminded her of, until the evening was over and once again she had done all the talking. His desire for knowledge about Earth was insatiable. He wanted to know everything, trivial or profound. No detail seemed unimportant.

An anthropologist studying her. But few anthropologists were so charming about it.

Eventually she found the file on Tran, the place where the mercenaries were going. She could read none of it, of course; but she had learned how to make the computer pronounce the words it displayed on the screen, and from that she learned the phonetic alphabet used by the Confederacy. She made very little progress learning that language. There were too many words referring to places and people and things and ideas that were thoroughly unfamiliar. This didn’t surprise her. The real shock came when the computer showed her the languages of Tran.

She spent a day being certain. Then, in the evening, when they were together with a glass of amontillado (“One of Earth’s finest products,” Les had said. “Nothing to match it anywhere. Too bad regular trade with Earth isn’t allowed.”), she could stand it no longer.

“I was listening to Tran languages,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing there to interest you.”

“But there is! Les, I recognized some of the words! A lot of them. That language is based on an ancient Indo-European tongue! Some of the words are unchanged from Mycenaean Greek!”

“Astute of you to notice,” he said. “I expect you’re right.”

“Les, you’re teasing me. You know what this means. It means that there was an exchange of people—a lot of people, enough to bring languages with them—between Tran and Earth as far back as four thousand years.”

“Other way,” he said. “From Earth to Tran.”

“I meant that. It’s obvious that humans didn’t evolve on Tran. It’s only a colony. But why is it so primitive? Even relative to Earth. And Earth is primitive by your standards—Les, is Earth a colony?”

“No.” He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps that’s not the right answer. Perhaps you’re right. Earth is a colony—”

“Les, you’re not making sense. Did humanity evolve on Earth?”

“What do you thing? You’ve read Darwin and Ardrey and Leakey. More sherry?”

“I don’t want sherry, I want answers!”

He came over and filled her glass. “Don’t be so serious,” he said. “Now. You obviously think humanity is native to Earth. Tell me why.”

An hour later, it was time for dinner. He still hadn’t answered her questions.

Dinner was exotic, as usual, but she wasn’t interested in food.

“Hey. You’re crying,” he said. “What’s the matter? You don’t like nastari?”

“You treat me like a child.”

“No. I treat you like an adult,” he said. He was very serious.

“I—what do you mean?”

“You are an intelligent woman. You raise fascinating questions. Don’t you want to find answers for yourself?”

“But you know, and I don’t—”

“Do I?”

“You mean you don’t know? You don’t know where humanity evolved?”

“I don’t even know that it did.”

“But—” The enormity of what he’d said struck her. “But you—your culture—you’ve had space travel for four thousand years,” she insisted. “If you don’t know the answers, at least you have a lot more data! Give me some.”

“I’m doing that. How much can you absorb in a few weeks?”

“Oh.” She was silent for a long time.

“Gwen.” His voice was very gentle, his expression very serious. “Gwen, accept it. All of it. Believe me, I care for you. And believe me when I say I’m trying to do what’s best for both of us.” He laughed. “My, aren’t we serious. And the dessert will melt.”

Gradually she realized it: he was interested in what she thought. He wanted to know her ideas, and more than that, her reactions to what she was learning. But he was getting her talking to herself.

“What am I?” she asked her mirror. “Lover or laboratory animal? Anthropologist’s informant, mistress, or—” She broke off. She’d been about to say “wife” and she didn’t have any right even to think that.

And he did want to know. When she pointed out that some of the intelligent races she’d seen in pictures were identical to descriptions found in ancient mythology: centaurs, an aquatic race that might be mistaken for mermaids, a saurian race that might or might not have inspired the Minotaur legend—he not only listened, he insisted on having her describe and sketch the legendary creatures.

He also encouraged her to study Tran. She might think of something useful, something that would aid the mercenaries. “It would help a lot if you could,” he said.

“Why?”

“If they succeed, they’ll make a lot of money for the traders. Traders have influence with the Council. Won’t hurt my career.”

She stared in disbelief. “I—I thought I knew you better than that,” she said. “Don’t you care about the people on Tran? They’re human. Don’t you care?”

“Oddly enough, I do care,” Les said. “Enough, in fact, to see if I can think of any way to help the mercenaries succeed with a minimum of slaughter. Because, you see, they really have to succeed—”

“Why?”

He ignored her question. “Can you think of anything that would help?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “All the information I’ve seen is very old—”

“About six hundred years old,” Les said. “No one’s been there since, except for one fairly recent fly-by. We know they’re still pretty primitive down there. No railroads, industries, paved roads. No technological civilization.”

“But no one has landed for six hundred years?”

Les nodded.

“But I thought this crop was valuable—”

“It is. But there are some powerful reasons for the Shalnuksis to stay far away from Tran.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “It’s best you know. Tran’s not in the Council’s data banks. Except for the Shalnuksis and a few humans who work for them, no one knows the planet exists.”

He seemed very serious, and she knew he already regretted trusting her with even that much information. She wanted to tell him that he could trust her with anything, that she’d always be loyal to him no matter what he was doing. That thought shocked her because she’d never thought such a thing before. And was it even true? “What would happen if the—the Council found out?”

Les shook his head. “I don’t know.” He was silent for a moment.

She waited, hoping he’d trust her again, but instead he said, “But it wouldn’t be good for me. The Shalnuksis would lose control: They’d never get their crop harvested.”

“But without information, how can they expect a small group of mercenaries to get them anything?”

“Maybe they can’t.” There was definite worry in the pilot’s voice. “But it is important. Have you any suggestions?”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Gwen said. “You say the crop is valuable, but they don’t visit the source for hundreds of years—”

“Oh. Yes,” Les said. “But you see, the real surinomaz won’t grow under normal conditions on Tran. Just for a few years out of every six hundred. But for about five years, starting a couple of years from now, it grows very well. The mercenaries could demand a pretty stiff price if they knew it.” He sighed. “I guess the best thing will be to set them down near a small village in the right geographical region and hope they’re intelligent enough to manage.”

“They won’t even know the languages—”

“They’ll have to learn them.”

“Why six hundred years?”

“Orbits,” the pilot said. “Tran has two main suns. Both a little bigger and a little hotter than Sol. Planet’s farther away from either of them, so it’s not as warm. Reasonable climate, actually. But even with both suns, surinomaz won’t grow properly. It’s only a weed until the third sun comes close, but then fora short time it’s the best stuff in the galaxy.”

“But what is surinomaz?”

“Ever hear of Acapulco Gold?” the pilot asked.

“Marijuana—you mean drugs?”

“In away. Look, back on Earth, you’ve just discovered endogenous morphiates. Know what I’m talking about? No? Well, it turns out that the brain manufactures its own painkillers and euphoric drugs. Chemicals similar to morphines. Enough of them in your system, and you have a natural high. Surinomaz makes the same stuff, only by the barrelful. It has about the same effect on Shalnuksis as on humans, and they use it about the same way that Americans use alcohol. And Tran Natural gets a premium price, like Talisker scotch, or the rarer wines.”

Gwen stared at him.

“I see you don’t approve,” Les said. “Look, what is it to me if the Shalnuksis use drugs? Or to you?”

But there has to be more, she thought. There has to be. Or is it that I can’t accept being in love with a drug dealer? “Isn’t all this illegal?” Gwen asked.

Les shrugged. “The drug traffic isn’t precisely legal, but no one really cares. Keeping Tran a secret — now, that’s highly illegal.”

“But the crop is important to you,” Gwen said.

The pilot was very serious now. “More important than you can guess that the mercenaries succeed.”

“Then you should stay and help them,” she said. “Can’t. The ship’s too vulnerable. And this trip has to be kept secret, which means the ship must return as quickly as possible—”

And then, as he always did, he changed the subject.

The computer’s files on Tran were sketchy. As nearly as Gwen could tell, the planet had never been visited except to obtain a harvest, and there had never been any systematic studies made. No one had been sufficiently curious. There were only groups of traders who had brought mercenary soldiers from Earth with instructions to seize a particular area and cultivate surinomaz, harvest it, and sell the product to ships that would come later.

That had begun in Indo-European times, as Gwen had deduced from the language. She was pleased to find confirmation in the computer’s records. The first humans had been sent to Tran because a dominant life-formS, centauroid (vaguely similar to the Greek centaur of legend, but the intelligent and unrelated centauroids she’d seen in other pictures were far more so) and about as intelligent as a chimpanzee, could not be trained to do cultivation. She could not find out why humans had been chosen, or why, once they had decided on humans, they had brought a band of Achaean warriors and their slaves instead of planting a high-technology colony.

The original expedition had been expensive. In addition to the Achaeans, the Shalnuksi traders had brought a variety of Earth plants and animals, scattering seeds broadside on the planet and returning years later with more animals and insects. There had been no scientific rationale to what they had brought, no attempt at a balanced ecology. It was instant natural selection; adapt or die.

The records didn’t say so, but Gwen wondered if one of the reasons that surinomaz had become increasingly difficult to cultivate might be the competition from Earth plants, animals, and insects. Tran’s native life forms used levoamino acids and dextro sugars, like Earth’s, and thus competed for many of the same nutrients.

Trans’s history and evolution was dominated by its suns. The two major suns together gave it at best only a bit more than 90 percent of what Earth receives from Sol; Tran was normally a cold world, with only the regions near the equator comfortable for humans. But then came the cyclic approach of the third star; for 20 years out of each 600, Tran received nearly 20 percent more sunlight, a combined total of 10 percent more illumination than Earth ever got.

In those times of burning, ice caps melted. Weather became enormously variable, cycles of drought and rainstorms alternating nearly everywhere. The higher latitudes, in normal times too cold for humans and resembling the Alaska tundra, were warmed and became temperate, experiencing a brief but glorious bloom of life.

The effects of the invader’s passage were devastating to the human cultures. They never rose higher than an Iron Age feudalism. Gwen thought that curious and wanted to talk to Les about it, but she didn’t feel very good and went to bed early.

The next morning she vomited her breakfast.

In a week she was certain. She went to find Les. He was seated at the control console dictating notes for the mercenaries. When she came in he looked up with a slight frown, annoyed that she’d disturbed him at work. “Yes?”

“I’m pregnant.”

His face ran a gamut of emotions. Surprise, but then something else. It looked almost like horror. He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. Then, his voice calm, he said, “We have reasonably complete medical robots aboard. I can ask the computer if they’re up to an abortion.”

“Damn you!” she shouted. “Damn you!”

“But—”

“What makes you think I want an abortion? I suppose this is an inconvenience to you. It—”

“Hush. There’s more involved than you know.”

He’s serious, she thought. Deadly serious. Deadly. Now there’s an appropriate word. “Les, I thought you might be pleased.” Tears welled despite her effort to control them. Couldn’t he understand?

“There’s so much you don’t know. Can’t know,” he said. “Gwen, we can’t have a family life. Not as you think of family life—”

“You’re already married. I should have known.” She was alone again. Alone, and she couldn’t go home.

His reaction startled her. He laughed. Then he said, “No. I’m not married.” He stood and came toward her. She moved away. His face changed, the expression softening. “Gwen, it’s going to be all right. You startled me, that’s all. It will be all right. You’ll see.”

She wanted desperately to believe him. “Les, I love you—”

He moved closer. She was afraid, of him and of everything, but she didn’t know what to do; and when he came to her, she clung to him in despair.

Two weeks passed. Les did not mention their future again. They entered Tran’s star system, and Les busied himself finding a suitable place to land the mercenaries.

PART THREE:

Tylara do Tamaerthon sat at the head of the great wooden council table beneath banners and armor taken in a hundred battles. Her blouse was fine silk, dyed a cornflower blue to match her eyes, but under it she wore mail. The dagger at her belt had jewels and a pommel carved to the likeness of a gull’s head; a work of art, but the blade was made in Rustengo and was honed to a fine point. Her braided raven-black hair was crowned with a cap of hammered iron.

She was young and beautiful, and every man in the room felt her presence; despite her armor and the dagger at her waist, she seemed small and vulnerable, in need of protection.

Everyone seemed dwarfed in the great hall of Castle Dravan. Like all of the ancient castles of Tran, Dravan stood above caves of ice; there was a faint smell of ammonia in the council room as an acolyte opened a massive door far below them. Above ground, stone arches and great wooden beams stretched massively. Other rooms in the fortress sported rich tapestries and wood paneling, but here the bones and sinews of the castle showed nakedly. The only decorations were mementos of battles won.

There were many of those. Banners from places a hundred leagues and more distant gave mute testimony to the strength of Dravan and the skill of the Eqetas who had ruled here. Tylara looked up at them as if to draw strength down from the rafters.

It was her first meeting of the full council, and she had no real confidence in these westerners. They seemed so little like her husband! And there were only two bheromen in attendance. The others were knights and merchants, a local priest of Hestia— this was a grain-producing region—and the inevitable priests of Yatar, two representatives of the yeomanry, a scattering of guildmasters. They called her Great Lady, and for the moment they respected her as Eqetassa of Chelm; but she was still a stranger who had never lived among them.

Her only real friends were the retinue she had brought from Tamaerthon, and they had no place in the council of this western land.

A messenger stood at the end of the table. What he read was full of flowery phrases and elaborate compliments, but his meaning was clear enough. She heard him out with impatience, then waved to have him led from the room. When he was gone, she looked down the length of the heavy wooden table. “Well, my lords? Wanax Sarakos makes us an offer. Have you advice?”

There was profound silence. Tylara smiled thinly. The silence was more eloquent than any speech could have been. Her bheromen wanted to accept the offer—or at least bargain with Sarakos while they still had something to bargain with. The yeomen and guildmasters—could they want Sarakos here also? Tylara looked at the impassive faces and read nothing. She knew too little of these people, and they were accustomed to hiding their thoughts from the great ones.

But if one of the bheromen spoke for accepting Sarakos, others would join. Or would they? These were her husband’s people. Could they be so little like him? The memory of him stabbed at her, and she saw him as he had been: tanned, laughing, coming to her. She thrust the image from her mind before the tears came, for she had had this dream before, and it ended with reality—with Lamil cold and stiff in his bier.

She keenly felt her youth and inexperience. She was only twelve as they reckoned years here (in Tamaerthon they counted a child a year old at birth and added four more at age nine, so that she would be called seventeen there). She had lived far from these iron hills, and she did not know these people.

      It said much for her husband — and for the strength of his family—that they obeyed her at all.

“Captain Camithon,” she said. “It seems no one wishes to speak. Perhaps you will advise me.”

Camithon had served three generations of Eqetas of Chelm; his beard had greyed in that service, and his body was scarred with wounds. A long scar from a lance that had narrowly missed taking his eye ran diagonally across his cheek, giving him a somewhat ferocious appearance that he sometimes took advantage of in councils of war. He stood hunched over as if his very bones were tired, and as he stood he muttered about his estates, which he had not visited in a year. But his voice was steady enough when he spoke. “The usurper marches with two thousand lances and a great train of foot,” he said. “We have but a hundred lances, and we stand in Wanax Sarakos’s way.”

Tylara nodded gravely as she had seen her father do in clan meetings. Inwardly she wished to shout. Camithon was broadly proclaimed a splendid soldier and perhaps he was, but he could never come to the point until he had reviewed everything a dozen times and more.

She hid her impatience with good grace and thought no one noticed. She had learned endurance if not patience, and that would have to do.

“Dravan is strong,” mused Camithon. He brushed his fingers against the scar on his cheek, as if to remind everyone that he had held Dravan in the battle that earned him his distinctive mark. “Our lady has seen to the granaries and magazines, and well done that was, too. This old castle has killed five armies —but it has never before been held with only a hundred lances, and it has never before been so thoroughly cut off from aid.”

“As if there were any aid to send,” one of the guildmasters muttered.

Camithon’s sword rested on a map unrolled on the table. He lifted the weapon and used it as a pointer. “The Protector is here, ten days and more to the northwest with our Wanax Ganton. He has no more than a thousand lances, and the Protector cannot allow the young king to be penned up in any castle, no matter how strong. Thus he cannot come to our rescue himself, and I doubt he can spare any great strength.”

Tylara wanted to shout. I know all that, her mind screamed. Outwardly she smiled and said, “You give us a hundred lances, but you have forgotten my Tamaerthon archers. I hope this usurper Sarakos makes that mistake. He won’t make it twice.”

There were murmurs of approval from behind her. Tylara’s people could not sit at the council table, but she was attended by them; and the Tamaerthon yeomanry wasn’t afraid to be heard in any council room. In their mountainous plateau by the sea, the clans did not live as peasants lived among the great lords and bheromen of the west.

She had a momentary twinge of homesickness. She longed for her high ridges, with the blue sea to the east, stark mountains rising from it to stand deep blue in dusklight and dawn. It would be so easy to go home. She had only to give up this castle to Sarakos and she could return as the wealthiest lady in Tamaerthon—or she could stay, with all her husband’s lands restored. Sarakos would give her that, and the council would approve. She had only to say the words— “A hundred lances and two hundred archers are still but five hundred fighting men,” Camithon said. He spoke as if proud of his arithmetic. “Fewer, for not all our knights have squire and man-at-arms. And these walls, though strong, enclose a great area. We have no reserve. Every man is needed at his post. What happens when they tire?”

Now, she thought. Say it now. But she couldn’t. She had sworn. And how could she host her husband’s murderer in his own home? Receive Chelm as a telast of Sarakos? It was unthinkable.

Yet—how do else? If the chief captain had no stomach for a fight, there was no chance at all. She fingered her braids restlessly.

“Yet honor demands that we fight,” Camithon said. He looked down the length of the council table. “Do any dare dispute that?”

Some may have wanted to, but none spoke..,

“I have never been one to fight merely for honor,” Camithon said. “I prefer to win. But we can do no good elsewhere, so if we fight, we must hold Dravan. We sit astride the only good road south. Until we are taken, Sarakos can take no great force in search of our young Wanax. We buy time for the Protector.”

“Yatar knows what he’ll do with it,” Bheroman Trakon said. His voice was overly loud, nervous, yet

Trakon was a good man who had stood by the old Wanax in his troubles, and had lost much for doing it.

“Unfair, my lord,” Camithon protested. “The Protector is the greatest soldier of Drañtos, and he has won before when all seemed darkest.”

“And the Dayfather may produce a miracle,” Trakon said. He did not turn to see the red face of Yanulf, Archpriest of Yatar. “Yet what else can we do? I trust Sarakos not at all. Of the bheromen who have gone over to him, more than half have lost all to his favorites.”

“Which hasn’t stopped dozens more from joining him anyway,” the weavers’ guildmaster muttered. “Half the bheromen—no, three parts of four—have welcomed Sarakos. We fight to no purpose.”

“Do you counsel surrender?” Camithon demanded.

The portly guildmaster shrugged. “It would do no good. Sarakos has his own weavers, and they like not our competition. But it’s a forlorn fight all the same.”

“It is more than forlorn.” Yanulf had stood silent and impassive thus far; now the priest drew himself to full height and spoke with contempt. “Fools. The Time approaches, and you babble of petty dynastic wars.”

“Legends,” Trakon said.

Yanulf smiled thinly. “Legends. Is it legend that the Demon grows in the night sky? Is it legend that the waters rise along the shore? That the lamils breed, and the madweed flourishes in your very fields? Is it legend that we sit in council hall with no fire burning, yet we are not cold?”

“A warm summer,” Trakon said. “No more than that. The Firestealer has been banished from the vault of the sky and stands at zenith each midnight. Of course it is warm.”

There were murmurs from the yeomanry and guildmasters. Yanulf’s voice rose. “And in the Time of Burning,” he intoned, “then shall the seas smoke and the lands melt as wax. The waters of ocean shall lap the mountains. Woe to them who have not prepared. Woe to the unbeliever.” He laughed. “Woe to you, Bheroman. But Yatar will forgive you. My lady, this is not a time for war. It is a time to gather food, to fill the holy caves. Do you not smell the breath of the Preserver? When the Stormbringer approaches, Yatar takes care of his own; and his first sign is the breath of the Preserver.”

“Aye,” one of the yeomen muttered. “My nephew’s an acolyte, and he says the ice has grown half a foot in the past forty-day. Grown, when the Firestealer stands overhead at midnight!”

“How long?” Tylara demanded. “How long until the Time?”

“The writings are not clear,” Yanulf admitted. “The worst may not come for a dozen years. There will be other signs first. The Demon Gods will visit and offer magic in exchange for soma . Strangers will come, with strange weapons and a strange language.”

Trakon laughed.

Yanulf gave him a look of contempt. “It is written,” he said. “Thus came the Christians, and thus

came the Legions; and thus came your forefathers. It matters not whether you believe. Before the Fire-stealer plunges through, the True Sun five times, these things will have come to pass.”

“Plenty of time, then,” Trakon said.

“Nay,” Yanulf said. “When the signs are seen, all will seek refuge in the great castles. The petty wars you fight now will be forgotten as those who have built castles upon bare rock know their folly and bring their armies to strike. Soon, soon all will know that there is no safety beyond the caves of the Protectors.”

Tylara let them talk, half-listening in case one said something new. There was little chance of that. The situation was simple enough, if you left out religion.

But dared she? The priesthood of Yatar was universal. Whatever local gods might hold this land or that, Yatar was everywhere that humans lived. In her own land were ice caves, deep beneath the rocks, and sacrifices of grain and meat were taken there to be preserved against the days of Burning, even though few believed in the tales carried by the priesthood. If the Time approached—a time of storms when no ship sailed, and the seas rose to lap at the foothills; when Tamaerthon itself became an island; when fire fell from the sky; a time when rains would not fall, and then deadly rains fell in torrents —She had heard the tales. No one she knew believed them except for the priesthood. Yet everyone knew of them.

But there was time. Religion could wait. And for the rest the situation was simple enough. Wanax Loron had not been a good ruler, and three years before his death civil war had broken out. The bheromen who fought him had justice on their side. Even Chelm had wavered, closing the gates of Dravan against Wanax Loron when he sought refuge from the bheromen, yet never quite joining the revolt either. That had been under Lamil’s father, before plague took him.

(Plague. The legends said that as the Demon Star approached, the plague ran through the land; and certainly the plague struck every year now, with more killed each time. . .

But Loron had hired mercenaries and had driven the bheromen back and back, until the great ones of the land had done the unpardonable thing and invited outside help. They had offered the crown of Drantos to Sarakos son of Tons, Sarakos in his own right one of the Five Wanaxxae, and son of Tons High Rexja of the Five.

Before the invasion began, Loron died; but Drantos was left with a boy king and depleted treasury. When the bheromen rallied to their new Wanax with one of their number as Protector, they were too late. Sarakos continued to press his claims. Twentyyears before, the council of Drantos had arranged a royal marriage between Lana of Drantos, sister to Wanax Loron’s father, and Tons Vanax High Rexja of the Five. It had been a brilliant diplomatic stroke, but now Sarakos could claim the throne of Drantos by blood, as the most legitimate adult claimant. A few minutes with a pillow would make him the only possible claimant.

And who could blame some of the bheromen for preferring Sarakos and peace to a boy king and war? Especially now, with the Demon growing visibly brighter in the night sky, and the priests of Yatar reading from their musty books and telling of the Time which would come. These were no times for a boy king. If only Lamil had joined Sarakos! He would be alive, and he— “I say we fight.” The accent was uncultured—the blacksmith at the foot of the table. “I have heard how they live in the Five. Better be dead for one such as me. Is my forge to be used to hammer slave collars for my friends?”

“Well said,” Bheroman Trakon said. “Aye. Well said. For our honor, then. Yet—honor does not demand that we hold after all is lost. I say fight, and I will be on the walls; but when Sarakos brings up towers and siege engines, I say make the best bargain we can. For all of us.”

“You may bargain, my lord,” the blacksmith said. “But when the Demon stands high in the day sky, what do we folk do? Sarakos would like well enough to hold Castle Dravan for his people, but will he take my family into the cool of the donjon?”

“If he will not swear to that, then I make no bargain with him,” Trakon said. “We of Chelm protect our own, even against the gods. But I think you fear too much the tales of the priesthood.”

“When the Demon grows large and sky fire falls, you will regret those words,” Yanulf said.

“We fight,” Tylara said. “For the rest we must wait, but we fight. See to the defenses. And bring all who wish to come within the walls. Have the herds we cannot bring inside driven into the mountains. Leave nothing to sustain Sarakos. Nothing to eat. Hide all wealth. Cover and hide the very wells. Let Sarakos find our land unpleasant for his stay.”

“It is evil to destroy food,” Yanulf said. “Evil.”

There was muttering from the low end of the table, but the peasantry could see it was necessary. One of the guildmasters spoke for all the townsmen and crofters. “Do we make it hard enough, he may depart, leaving our own as our masters.” He fingered his neck. “It will take a heavy collar to circle this. I cannot wish to carry such.”

“See to it,” Tylara repeated.

“Aye, Lady,” Captain Camithon said. He paused until the bheromen were leaving, but had not gone so far that they could not hear him. “The young lord made no mistake in his choice. You’re more of a man than half the bheromen of Drantos.”

The great hall was empty except for Tylara and her archer commander. Cadaric was almost as old as Captain Camithon. His skin was tanned by wind and sun until his cheeks were cracked like worn leather. He wore the jerkin and kilts of his own people; they had never cared for trousers. “You’ve made no mistake, Lady,” he said. He seemed pleased. “We’ll show these westerners what Tamaerthon shafts can do.”

“Until we have shot them all,” Tylara said. Now that the others were gone, she could slump in her chair. She seemed smaller and more vulnerable. She was afraid, and there was no need to hide that from Cadaric. He had known her from the day she was born, and had served her brother and her father before him. There was no one else within five hundred leagues whom she could trust completely. “I’ve brought you here to be killed in a strange land, old friend.”

He shrugged. “And will that be worse than to be killed at home? I doubt not that the Chooser can find me here as easily as in our mountains. When it is time to guest in his lodge, then guest you will. And yet,” he mused, “and yet the Dayfather holds higher sway here. Do you think old One-eye has lost sight of this land? It would be pleasant to know.”

“They say he sees the wide world,” Tylara said. “Cadaric, I think they trust me not.”

“They know you not. You are a young girl to them, and all they know is that their lad chose you. And because he did, they love you. Och, Lady, I know you mourn him.”

And that was more than true. Tylara touched her cheeks, determined not to let the tears start again. A widow before she was properly a bride. It was the stuff the minstrels sang of.

Certainly Lamil had loved her. Eqeta of Cheim, one of the great counts of Drantos, he could have had his choice of a hundred ladies; but his ship had been wrecked on the rocky Tamaerthon coast, and after a summer (overly warm—could the priests be right?) he chose the daughter of a Tamaerthon chief. Tylara had no dowry, nothing to bring to the marriage—only two hundred archers, and a hundred of them free to leave after five years’ service—but Lamil had chosen her above the great ones of his homeland.

She had loved to watch him; young and strong, calf muscles as hard as granite and standing out like thick cords from his slim legs. He browned to a deep copper in the sun. At night they ran on high ridges lit by the Firestealer. By day he laughed in the surf, climbed high on the ledges above the sea in search of young eagles. And he had laughed. Those were her favorite memories, of his laughter; laughing and swearing that he would have no other but her when she knew it could not be, laughing again at the furor he caused in rejecting the great ladies of Drantos and the Five.

And yet—it had been no silly match. Tylara brought nothing—and did not give anyone cause to fear an expanded county of Chelm. If no great lady caught the most eligible man in Drantos, then there were no jealousies. Yet she knew he had loved her.

She was married to him before he left Tamaerthon, but she was too young to go with him. The law required that the marriage be “consummated,” and so it had been, but with a thick quilt between them in the wedding bed, and her father’s dour henchmen standing by through the night.

And for a winter, while the Firestealer plunged through the True Sun, she had made ready to go to her new home, to join this strong and handsome young husband. She sang the winter through until her father pretended disgust that she could be so happy to leave. In spring, when shadows stood doubled at noon and the ice was thin, she sailed north with the yearly merchant fleet, too strong for pirates to molest. They sailed north, then west through the chain of islands and swamps, and then upriver. When they landed, she was so eager that she set out the same day. She drove so hard that her maidservants were exhausted and the archers muttered ribaldries.

They reached Castle Dravan only hours ahead of the news. Lamil had chosen to stand with the boy Wanax Ganton. There had been a great battle, and Lamil was dead. Most of his troops had died covering the retreat of the boy king and the Protector. Captain Camithon told her that the Eqeta had charged Sarakos and struck him on the helmet before the guards beat him from his saddle. A dozen men had held him while Sarakos personally delivered the death stroke.

“I mourn him,” Tylara said, and there was ice in her voice. “Have your fletchers make true shafts, Cadaric. We will teach this Sarakos what plumage the Tamaerthon gull wears.”

2

There were none but fighting men in the great hall of Castle Dravan. The council was not needed; and now Cadaric and three subcaptains of archers sat at the table among the knights and bheromen.

They all stood respectfully when Tylara entered. If the bheromen resented her archers sitting as equals to armored knights, they kept that to themselves. Their lady had shown how sharp her tongue could be during the few weeks that she’d been with them—and they had seen what those shafts could do. They waited until she was seated at the head of the table. Then all began to speak at once.

“Hold! Silence!” Bheroman Trakon pounded the table with a dagger hilt. “That’s better.” He smiled at her. “My lady.”

She nodded her thanks. Trakon had been most attentive lately. His wife had died of the plague ten months ago. He was twice her age—but only that, and handsome enough. Certainly she could not remain a virgin ruler of this county forever. She would never find another like Lamil, and Trakon would do as well as another when her mourning period ended. But so soon, so soon— “They come, Lady,” Captain Camithon said. “Two days’ march to the north.”

“Two days if they’re lucky,” Trakon said. “They’re so swollen with plunder, they’re lucky to march two thousand paces an hour.”

“But all of them?” Tylara asked.

“Aye, Lady,” Cadaric said. He glared at the others, ready to resent any objection that a mere Tamaerthon archer would speak. But there was only silence. Trakon, Cadaric, and Camithon had seen the advancing enemy, and the others had not. “I counted five hundred banners in their vanguard alone.”

“You scouted the land well?” Tylara asked.

“Aye, Lady,” Cadaric said. “It’s more than suitable. We could blunt them, aye and blood them as well, and not lose a handful were it done well.”

More babble. Trakon pounded for order again. One of the knights shouted. “Blunt them? What madness is this?”

Tylara noted Trakon’s grim smile. He had not been too proud to listen to Cadaric as they rode back from scouting. A good man, she thought.

“The passes are narrow,” Tylara said. “The maps remind me of my home. In narrow passes one man is the worth of ten—”

“Narrow they are, but not that narrow,” Captain Camithon said. He sounded hurt. Strategy was a matter for professionals, not for girls hardly old enough to bed lawfully. “Do we stand in the passes with our hundred lances, we would blood Sarakos, aye, but then his strength would ride over us. Then who would there be to defend Dravan?”

Trakon’s grin widened. “Our lady does not propose a stand,” he said.

“Then what in the twelfth name of Yatar are we talking about?” Camithon demanded.

Cadaric grinned. “It is plain that you in the west have not heard the tales of how Tamaerthon won freedom from Ta-Hakos and the other greedy ones about us,” he said. “I propose to have a ballad sung for you. With my lady’s permission?”

Tylara nodded, and before there could be any protest one of the younger archers began to sing.

There were mutterings at first, but the boy’s voice was good. They listened in silence, not trying to hide their astonishment at this intrusion in a council of war. As the song went on, Camithon leaned forward eagerly and Bheroman Trakon began to grin broadly. Before the ballad ended, the knights and captains were huddled over the map. For the first time in weeks, there were shouts of laughter in the great hall.

Tylara sat astride her horse. This in itself was shocking enough; but worse, she rode no gentle mare but a great stallion—a war-horse any knight would be proud to own. She sat atop a small knoll, surrounded by a dozen men-at-arms and as many archers.

This was the price she paid for coming herself to the battle. She had never got her people to agree to that—but she’d come anyway, and no one dared lay hands on her. One soldier, ordered by Trakon to seize her bridle and lead her back inside Castle Dravan, would bear the welt from her riding crop for weeks. She must see at least one blow struck against the man who had killed her husband.

Below were not only all her fighting men, but hundreds of peasants with brush hooks and axes. They were using these to cut the low scraggly wax-stalks from the hillside and carry them into the pass. For five hundred paces from the top of the pass to where it widened below, the narrow road was carpeted with the newly cut brush. More was piled high to either side.

Bheromen and knights and men-at-arms waited where the pass widened a hundred paces beyond the last brushpile. The armored knights sat on the ground, giving their mounts ease until they would be needed. A few polished mail and plate. Others threw dice.

About half the knights were mounted on horses. The others rode centaurs; not as reliable as horses, harder to tame, and more likely to bolt when threatened. Horses were far superior, but they were more costly. They had to be fed cultivated grains and hay; they could not live by grazing.

Priestly legend said that horses, like men, were brought to this place by evil gods. This did not seem reasonable, but like the other tales of ships in the sky, the story was universal. “Why else,” the priests said, “must we labor so hard to eat, if the Dayfather intended us to live here?” They said that the stars were suns, and the wanderers other worlds, one of which was the true home of men. Whether or not the stories were true, men were more comfortable with horses than with centaurs, and she wished that more of her knights rode them.

Between the top of the pass and the broader area where her knights waited, the pass was quite narrow—no more than a hundred paces wide at one point. The hills rose steeply on either side. One of the peasants went up into that area with his brush hook. Before he could cut any of the upthrust stalks, a dozen voices halted him.

“Not here, you Dayfather-damned fool!” A guild journeyman ran up to show the brushcutter the proper place. It was important that there be no signs of activity on the hill above the narrow pass —A horseman clattered over the top of the ridge. He drew his sword and waved it vigorously. “Enemy in sight,” an officer muttered. Tylara nodded.

The knights and men-at-arms climbed to their feet, clumsy in their armor, and helped each other mount. This took time. The armor was heavy, and centaurs resented heavy burdens; although a few were so well trained that they assisted their riders. Before all were mounted, Tylara, from her vantage point, saw the leading elements of Sarakos’s army.

The Wanax had deployed well. There were only fighting men in the van, and when the pass began to narrow, they fell into column in good order, not pushing each other or crowding together. Horsemen led; then a group mounted on centaurs; then more horsemen. They climbed the twisting road into the pass twenty abreast—a long column— lances high with banners fluttering in the chill morning wind.

The group behind was not so orderly. Carts drawn by mules and arrocks, crossbowmen mingled with pikemen, camp followers, cooks, prostitutes, and priests all mixed together.

A trumpet sounded, and Camithon’s heavy cavalrymen trotted forward over the piled brush toward the top of the pass. They raised their banners. The brushcutters scrambled away behind them, down and onto the road, running back to Dravan, raising a thin cloud of dust as they ran.

Another trumpet sounded from the leaders of Sarakos’s army, and the column halted. The group behind became even more disorganized as the marching horde piled onto one another. Trailing elements caught up and mingled with the leaders. Pity, Tylara thought. If the knights could get among that press for ten minutes, Wanax Sarakos would feel the losses. But the lead group was not disorganized, and it outnumbered her entire army.

Once again she felt doubts and fear, and she looked up into the vault of reddish-blue sky above, searching for a sign. But there was none. A cloudless cold day in the mountains; rare enough, the Day-father showing himself in all his, glory—but he showed no signs of favor. Would he care? Or would the ancient One-eye govern the day, choosing the most valiant to be slain, sending victory by whim? There were more trumpets from Sarakos’s column, and the vanguard knights spread across forty abreast. They moved forward at a walk, then at a trot. The lines rippled as lances fell into place, and the trumpet sounded once more. The trot became a canter as the charge swept forward.

“Now,” Tylara prayed. “Now. In Yatar’s name, NOW!”

Her own trumpets sounded. Her knights wheeled, and spurred their mounts ahead, trotting down the road toward Dravan, riding after the dust cloud raised by the retreating woodcutters.

Tylara muttered thanks to the Dayfather. That had been the first of the many things that could go wrong. If the knights would not run, if the sight of the enemy had brought them to a hopeless charge because it would be dishonorable to run—more than one battle had been lost through blind obedience to the dictates of a cavalier’s honor. As this one might yet be.

“They flee! The cowards run!” The shouts rose from Sarakos’s charging knights.

As her own knights rode away, there were tiny movements in the brush at the roadsides. Men hidden in holes beneath the brush thrust torches upward, then fled toward the sides of the pass. Thin wisps of smoke rose, here and there a flame. The waxy stalks caught fire quickly.

Her knights reached the wide place where they had waited earlier. They wheeled as one, facing the enemy. Their lances came down.

“The cowards hide behind fire!” someone shouted. “We will teach them!” The charging enemy came on harder, a hundred paces into the brush. Two hundred, and still they rode. Tylara held her breath.

When the leading elements were three hundred paces into the brush-strewn pass, a hundred paces beyond the top of the pass, her own trumpets sounded. There was a flash of movement on the hillsides above the pass. Bright kilts, dull leather, the dull shine of steel caps painted with earth colors. A moment before there wasn’t a man to be seen. Now almost two hundred archers were standing behind shrubs, behind rocks, seemingly having risen from the very ground. They raised their bows, nocked arrows, and drew back to cheek and eye.

There were shouts from Sarakos’s troops, but it was obvious to even the most stupid that there was no halting the charge. Safety lay ahead, through the screen of knights, out of the growing fire and away from the archers. The leading horsemen spurred harder.

Another pause. Then a shout from the hillside. “Let the gray gulls fly!”

The arrows flew with a deadly sound. In a moment the air was thick with them. Even as the first flight struck, another was on its way. Shafts the length of a tall man’s arm and tipped with steel sped from bows drawn by men who’d used them since childhood. The second flight struck, and another arched out.

The slaughter was terrifying. The arrows pierced horses, saddles, even armor itself. Horses reared and bolted, crashed into each other, tripped and fell and stumbled over fallen horses. The centaurs screamed in rage and pain, their stubby arms flailing wildly, their half-hands frantically plucking at the arrows, their heads twisted to lick wounds. They seized their riders and tried to throw them off, or fell into the brush and rolled on their backs. Some plunged uphill off the road, to be shot down before they could climb far.

Still the arrows flew. The charge was broken into scattered groups, driblets of twos and threes and fours; not a solid wave of armored men with lances, but a disorganized horde fleeing past the archers, away from the growing fires, out into the broad area beyond— To be struck by the countercharge of Tylara’s knights. With a hundred paces to build momentum they struck the leading elements of Sarakos’s force, driving their enemy back toward the flames and the falling arrows, then wheeling away as yet another wave charged through to strike and turn. They too wheeled and joined their fellows; halted and dismounted.

Dismounted. One-eyed Vothan had smiled on her, had not maddened her knights as he so easily might have done. They had obeyed orders. Most western knights wouldn’t fight dismounted; the Eqetas of Chelm had trained these well.

They stood with leveled lances, poised just beyond the ‘burning brushwood, an impenetrable wall on which Sarakos’s men could break themselves again and again, but never get through. They could not have withstood a mounted charge by an organized group, but there was no danger of that. Sarakos’s force milled about in the smoke and flame, galled by the ceaseless shower of arrows, held by the fire and the bodies of their own comrades. The dismounted line was more than able to kill the few who rode out of the smoke.

A brisk wind came up to whip the flames. They grew and flamed higher, until for five hundred paces the pass looked like the very Pit—a tangle of smoke and fire, shouting men, men unhorsed, dying horses, riderless centaurs maddened by fire and plunging into everyone. And through it all the Tamaerthon gulls flew with their deadly bite, flight after flight of the grey shafts.

The Sarakos trumpets sounded a frantic retreat, but for far too many there was no retreat possible.

The arrows did not come in flights now. The archers picked single targets, concentrating on men still mounted, bringing down their mounts to leave the armored men helpless in the burning brushwood. The pass filled with sounds of pain and terror.

Tylara sat her horse grimly, her mouth set in a hard line. I thought I would enjoy it, she thought. These are the men who killed my husband. I should enjoy their agony.

But she felt no joy at all, only sickness and horror which she must hide from her shouting escort, and the numbing realization that this was only the beginning. There would be far more, weeks more.

I hadn’t known the horses would scream so, she thought. I expected to see men die, but I had not thought of the horses.

She continued to watch in sick fascination until she suddenly realized what she was doing. She had almost made a fatal mistake.

Sarakos was bringing up his own archers. Most were crossbowmen, or mounted archers with short bows they drew only to the chest; none were a match for her Tamaerthon clansmen, but two hundred cannot fight a thousand. It was time to go. She raised her hand and waved vigorously.

Her trumpets sounded in the pass. Cadaric waved acknowledgment and began sending his archers out; the forward ones first, then others, leapfrogging so that they kept a continuous fire onto the Sarakos troops piled up at the edge of the brushfire.

Another trumpet call. Nothing happened. Her knights stood at the pass. A few left the line, but they went only for their mounts, and when they were mounted they came back.

“Fools!” Tylara shouted. She spurred her horse down the knoll to where the knights and bheromen of Chelm stood. More mounted as she came, but they showed no signs of leaving.

“Ride!” she shouted. “Before the fires burn down and their whole army comes through! Ride, my lords. You’ve done well. One-eyed Vothan smiles on you. Sarakos will not soon forget this day. Now, in the name of the Dayfather, ride!”

Bheroman Trakon sat motionless. “The fire protects them no less than us. There was nothing behind their vanguard but foot. We have more work to do this day.”

“Not true,” Tylara shouted. “They were bringing up their horse archers even as I watched, and they have their crossbowmen. You will ride into their volleys, and the remnant will be charged by their cavalry.”

Trakon didn’t move.

“My lord,” Tylara said. She tried to control the panic in her voice. “If you mean to die here today, I will stand with you. It will be no victory no matter how many we destroy, for we will have given Dravan to Sarakos. If we are caught here, anywhere but within the walls, we are finished.

“I would rather be killed with my husband’s knights than ride to Dravan and live to see it fall to Sarakos. Is that your will?”

Trakon sat motionless for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it of the morning fog. “You speak well, Lady. We have won no victory if we stay to be killed.” He rose in his stirrups to shout orders. “Carry the dead and wounded away. Leave nothing for Sarakos. Let him believe that he has lost the quarter of his vanguard to ghosts, to achieve nothing.” He turned and rode down the pass. After a moment, Tylara followed.

I follow, she thought. It was my victory, but I follow. She sighed, knowing what would be thought by everyone who saw.

A week later, Sarakos reached Castle Dravan. The first attempt to storm the castle was repulsed; attack and defense might have been the opening steps in a ritual dance. The next move was also set; Sarakos dug in and erected pavilions and defenses around the castle.

There was no entry or exit from Dravan. Sarakos and his army waited for their siege train.

3

The siege towers rolled forward slowly. The armored heads of picks thrust out of them as if eager to attack the ‘walls and gates of Dravan. Hundreds of men strained to push the monsters forward. Overseers shouted cadence. Boys poured melted fat on the axles. They would reach the walls by afternoon.

“It is time, Tylara,” Trakon said. “Time and past time.”

She looked helplessly at him, then at the others:

Cadaric, his son Caradoc, and Yanulf. “Have I no other advice?” she asked.

“You know mine, Lady,” Cadaric said. He clutched his bow. “There are no more shafts. As for me, as well to die; but it would be waste to no purpose.”

Cadaric’s son Caradoc opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his father’s look. The young man looked down at the towers in hatred.

Yanuif nodded sagely. “What choice is there? In a day they will be inside, and it always fares ill with the populace when a place is taken by storm.” He paused. “You need not stay, Lady. My place is with the acolytes in the caves of the Preserver, and we could find you a place there as well.”

“No,” Trakon said. “I will have a better bargain for her than that.”

Yanulf bowed. “I will not wait, then.” He turned to leave the battlements.

“I will send my son with you,” Cadaric said. “Perhaps Yatar will aid him to return to Tamaerthon.”

“And perhaps not,” Yanulf said. “But it is well to have young men as apprentices.” The old priest waved toward the armies below the walls. “Fools all. The Time approaches, and still men fight.”

“But not for long,” Tylara said. She turned to Trakon, but for a moment she could not find words. Finally she said, “Make a good bargain for our people.”

“I will. It will be for the best.”

Tylara stood at the battlements as Trakon went to the gate and hoisted the green branch of truce.

Her ladies dressed her, and one of Sarakos’s officers led her to the council chamber. She felt strangely light without mail and steel cap, and stranger still to be unarmed. Strangest of all was to see Sarakos in her place at the head of the table.

He looked young to be so powerful. He was a big man, but not fat; even his eyes showed strength. He was handsome, but she did not forget for a moment that this was the man who had killed her husband while others held him helpless.

His smile was not pleasant. “Welcome, Lady.” He stared at her and she shuddered.

Sarakos was not alone in the room. Guards held Bheroman Trakon. His shirt was open; there was blood on his bare chest. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“You are all traitors,” Sarakos said. “Traitors do not die easily, as you will learn.” He motioned to the guards. “Take that carrion out and kill him with the rest.”

Trakon shook off the guards and stood straight, although he winced to do it. “Is this how a Wanax keeps his promises?” he demanded. “You gave your word that the lady Tylara and I—”

“Would marry,” Sarakos said. “After the traitors were killed. And so shall you be. Joined forever.” He turned and looked appreciatively at Tylara. “I can see why you wanted her. You may have to wait for her, but you will have her for all time when I am through.” He waved dismissal to the guards.

For an hour, Castle Dravan sounded with the screams of the dying. Tylara was forced to stand at the window and watch as her soldiers were killed; some beheaded, the archers used as targets for Sarakos’s crossbowmen, the officers flung from the castle battlements.

Then she was taken to Sarakos’s bedchamber, and another kind of horror began.

She heard the massive door opening and whimpered, trying to draw her knees tighter to her chest. She kept her eyes closed. Which would it be; the crone with the whip or Sarakos himself? She remembered his parting words; “You have not pleased me. I would as soon have a corpse. But before you die, you will please me. You will beg for the chance.”

“My Lady.”

The voice seemed different. Familiar, and youthful. It was not Sarakos— “My Lady. There is little time. You must come now.”

She was afraid. Was it a trick? But the voice was urgent. She found the courage to open her eyes and turn her head, although she dared not hope.

She saw kilts —her own plaid— and looked higher. “Caradoc!” she cried. He reached for her and she let him help her stand. He gasped when he saw her back, and she leaned on him as he led her urgently out of the bedchamber. There were two dead men lying at her door.

The hour was early. They saw no one as they went down the back stairs to the large cistern below ground; then to the massive doorways that led still farther below; to the caves of the Protectors. The ammonia smell was strong. She hesitated, but Caradoc hustled her through and closed the doors behind. Two acolytes with torches came to help her now. Their faces showed disapproval of this invasion of their realm.

They went through darkened tunnels, turning until she was lost. Finally they came to a larger room lit with another torch. Yanulf was there.

“The guards were drunk,” Caradoc said. “I killed four. No one else was awake.”

“We must be gone before they are found,” Yanulf said. The priest turned to the acolytes. “Fetch bladders.”

They stared at him in horror.

“Do you think Yatar prefers his secrets to the torture of his friends?” Yanulf snapped. “This lady treated us well. She will not reveal what she sees, nor will Caradoc.”

The acolytes hesitated a moment more, then left. When they came back, they carried inflated sheep’s bladders.

Yanulf pointed to a door in the chamber. “We will go through there. You must breathe only from the bladders, and you must hold your breath as long as possible. The journey is steep, and we cannot pause to rest until we are through the tunnels and outside the door on the far side. It will be dark. Is this understood?”

Tylara stared at him in confusion. She wanted to lie down, to rest, to sleep, to forget the pain in her

back and the terrible pain between her thighs. Pain filtered the memories, but not entirely. “There is no need,” she said. “Give me your dagger, and—”

“Don’t be a fool,” Yanulf told her. “Do you think I have invited Sarakos to violate Yatar’s house just to let you die?”

“I may carry Sarakos’s child,” she said. “I’d rather be dead.”

“Time enough when you know. But it’s unlikely,” Yanulf said. He was thoughtful for a moment. “Very unlikely, even leaving out your virginity.”

The priests of Yanulf were said to know when women could conceive.

“Alive there is hope of vengeance,” Caradoc said. “For you and for my father. Until I see Sarakos gull-feathered, I will stay alive.”

“Come.” Yanulf handed her the bladder. “Before you use the bladder, breathe deeply. Many times.” He demonstrated. “More.” When he was satisfied, he motioned to the acolytes to open the heavy doors.

There were more doors beyond. These next were sealed with leather. Tylara felt the ammonia stinging her eyes, and even through the bladder she could smell the pungent odor when the last doors were opened.

Cold welled out of the caves. She took an acolyte’s hand and let herself be led into darkness.

There was no light at all. She felt the walls as they went through. There were shelves with baskets, and slabs of meat hanging below those. Between the shelves were slimy bulbous things, cold to the touch. Then there was ice.

They seemed to go on forever. The air in the bladder was stale, and her lungs ached so much that she nearly forgot her other pains. She was certain that she would faint from lack of breath, but at that moment they stopped. Light burst in from a door opened in front of them. They hurried through, past another door, and stood outside in the dying light of the night sun. To the east was the red of dawn.

There were horses. She felt herself lifted up behind Caradoc. She clung to him and they rode away. After a while, she fell asleep clinging to the archer. In her dreams, she had Sarakos flayed alive, and she smiled.

The true sun was high overhead when at last they stopped at a crossroads.

“We must hurry on,” Yanulf was saying.

“This horse must rest,” Caradoc answered. “Carrying double has nearly foundered him.” He reached up to help Tylara down, then led the horse to the watering trough that stood next to the stone heap. He bowed to the heap before allowing the horse to drink.

Tylara bowed as well. Crossroads were sacred to the Guide of the Dead. Then she turned to Yanulf. “Thank you.”

“Thank him.” He pointed at Caradoc.

“I have. But we would not have escaped if you had not—” she stopped herself.

“Broken my oath of secrecy?” Yanulf said. “Yes. Doubtless I will answer for that. But I spoke truly to the acolytes. Yatar cannot wish his secrets held at such a cost.”

“Where are we going?” Tylara asked.

Caradoc answered from behind her. “This is the east road,” he said. “Perhaps we will find the boy Wanax and the Protector. And if not—it leads home.”

Home. She looked to the east, but Tamaerthon was more than a hundred leagues, across salt flats and pirate lands. “There’s someone coming,” she said. She pointed eastward. Two men and a woman were walking up the road. The woman wore strange-trousered clothing like the men.

PART FOUR:

THE CROSSROADS

1

The planet below did not look like Earth. The polar ice-caps were too large, and there was much more water, too little land. Despite the vast empty seas—because of them? Rick knew too little to guess—there were great deserts ringed by mountain ranges.

From high orbit there was no trace of man at all.

The pilot seemed to be afraid of them. He made them store all the ammunition for the rocket launchers and mortars in one locker and the guns in another. He made it clear that the two would be offloaded a considerable distance apart.

The last few hours had been continuous briefings with the pilot insisting that both Rick and André Parsons attend them all. They were told how to raise surinomaz, which had a complex ecology and even more complex harvest procedure; how to use the transceivers to communicate with the traders when they came for the harvest; endless details, and always an underlying note of warning that the people of Tran were human and deserved to be well treated.

The landing area had been chosen: far enough from the equator to have an endurable climate even after the rogue sun came close; far enough from the poles to be inhabited even during the centuries when the invader was far away; at high enough altitude to remain dry when the polar caps melted and raised the sea level a hundred meters. There were several areas that would do, and Rick had no way to know which was best. He had pleaded with the pilot to let them spend several days observing the planet before landing, but that request was refused. The pilot seemed to be in a frantic hurry. Rick wondered why, but there was no explanation.

They moved to a lower orbit, and the TV screen showed images of the country below: a few large cities, but mostly a land of villages and fields. Many of the villages and all of the cities were dominated by massive castles. There were few roads.

Parsons wanted to land near a city, but Rick chose a village near a major road, fifteen kilometers from a castle. The orbital photographs showed an army encamped outside the castle and massive siege towers nearing completion.

“If there’s a battle we may decide to join it,” Rick said. “After we get some political intelligence.”

“Nearer a city would be better,” Parsons said. “And if you intend to take that castle, why land a day’s march away?”

Rick again protested that they didn’t know enough and should land a safe distance from conflict. Eventually Parsons stopped arguing.

They landed at dusk, just after the major sun had set but before the distant secondary was up. When the secondary sun fully rose, it would light the planet with a blaze like a thousand full moons, making the night as light as a heavily clouded day on Earth. When they landed, the tricky light—dusk from the sun, rays of dawn from the secondary— made weird images and shadows.

They offloaded the guns first, then the ammunition nearly a kilometer from their first touchdown spot. Rick was the last to leave. Before he could jump out, the hatch closed and the ship lifted.

“Stop! I’m still aboard!” he shouted.

“I know.” The pilot’s voice was impassive. The ship moved half a kilometer and settled to the ground. Rick heard the whine of machinery, but the hatch didn’t open for several minutes. Then the voice said, “Now you can get out.”

When he jumped to the ground, the ship lifted. Rick watched it rise into the clouds until it was gone. He hadn’t really believed it would leave until then. He felt completely alone.

“It’s really gone.”

He fought a moment of terror as he realized the voice had been a woman’s. He turned.

She was a tiny girl, not very pretty in the half-light. She was dressed in coveralls much like his own. “You’re human,” he said.

“You don’t sound very sure of that.”

“I’m not very sure of that.”

“I’m human. My name is Gwen Tremaine, and I come from Santa Barbara.”

“Santa Barbara. As in California? On Earth?”

“Yes.” She tried to laugh, but she didn’t succeed. “Oh, yes, I’m from Earth.”

“We’d better get over to the others,” Rick said. He moved closer to her and saw tears in her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m scared as hell,” she said.

“So am I. Uh—”

“I was the pilot’s mistress,” she said. “That’s what you wanted to ask, wasn’t it? I got pregnant and didn’t want an abortion, so he put me out here.” This time she managed a laugh. Rick thought it sounded horrible. “Pretty convenient. I asked him if this was the traditional way for flying-saucer pilots to get rid of excess baggage, but he didn’t answer.”

“Jesus!” Rick muttered. He led her through the scrub brush—it seemed a lot like the chaparral of the western United States, but there was a strange pungent odor to it—toward the distant lights where Parsons and the guns had been unloaded. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he couldn’t think of anything. God Almighty, he thought. She must be as alone as anyone has ever been. “Do you know anything about—about why we’re here?”

“Probably more than you,” she said. She walked beside him, but several steps away, as if repelled by him.

“If you know more than I do, I’d appreciate the information,” he said.

“We’ve got plenty of time. Let me get used to the situation, will you? When he had me read up on

Tran, he didn’t tell me it was because he was leaving me here.”

“When did he tell you—”

“That he was ditching me? About five minutes ago.”

“That was—” He tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t.

“A rotten thing to do?” she asked. “Sure was. You see, I thought I was in love with him.” She walked on for a few steps. “Do I sound like you?” she asked.

“How?”

“Scared and trying to be calm about it when what you really want to do is run in circles flapping your arms.”

“Do I sound that way?” Rick asked.

“Yes.”

“I guess I do,” he said.

Parsons had assembled the troops on the hilltop. He seemed as surprised to see Rick as he was to see Gwen. “I thought they’d taken you on to wherever the saucer was going,” Parsons said.

Rick didn’t like the edge to Parsons’s voice. He didn’t much care for the way Parsons held the M-16 rifle, either. “They didn’t,” he said. “I guess he wanted an escort for Miss Tremaine.” Rick explained who she was.

“I see. And now what do we do?”

“There are about a thousand things to do,” Rick said. “When there’s more light, we can go down to that village. The first thing is to start learning the local language. And figure out which side to take in that war we saw. Then—”

“There’s one thing a bit more urgent,” Parsons said.

“What’s that?”

“I think it time we restructure the command,” he said. The rifle swung around until it almost pointed at Rick.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“You are not an experienced officer,” Parsons said. “An ROTC boy, with almost no combat experience. Under the circumstances, do you really feel qualified to lead?”

“As qualified as you—”

“No. This is my career. For you it was an accident,” Parsons said.

“So you’re taking over.”

“Yes.” Parsons shrugged. “If you like, I’ll fight you for it.”

“Isn’t that a little barbaric?” Rick demanded.

Parsons smiled broadly. “Of course. We are on a barbarous planet. In fact, that is one major objection to you, Rick. You are unlikely to have the proper instincts for survival here. I have long noticed a regrettable tendency toward softheartedness in you. That was bad enough in Africa, Here it is likely to be fatal.”

A circle of men had gathered around them. Rick looked at them. “Elliot—”

“Cap’n, I’m truly sorry. I thought about this a lot when Mr. Parsons first brought it up, back aboard ship. He’s right. You just don’t have the experience.”

And he sounds really sorry about it, Rick thought. And probably is. One thing was certain. If Elliot and the NCOs accepted Parsons’s takeover, there was nothing Rick could do about it. At best he’d cripple the command. They were all staring at him.

He had to say something, and quickly, before Parsons decided to shoot and be done with it. “Maybe you’re right. André, you do have more experience than me. All right, you command.” As he said it, he felt a wave of relief. Someone else could do the worrying.

“Glad you understand,” Parsons said. “Sergeant Elliot, get our perimeter defense set up.”

“Sir.’’

“And the rest of you clear out,” Parsons said. He waited until the other troops were gone. “Rick, there is another problem. Surely you can understand that you can’t stay with us.”

“Why not?”

“You were in command. Some of the men would look to you every time I gave an order. It wouldn’t work,” Parsons said. His voice was low and urgent, almost pleading. “I ought to shoot you out of hand,” he said. “That would be the intelligent thing to do.”

“Bull crap. The troops wouldn’t stand for it,” Rick said.

“You see?” Parsons said. “Some of them do admire you. And there can be only one commander.”

“So you’re sending me off alone.”

Parsons shrugged. “What else can I do? Look, I don’t want to kill you. You can take your personal weapons—”

“Damn generous of you,” Rick said.

“It is generous, and you know it. Also dangerous for me. Fair warning, Rick. I offered to fight you for the command. You refused, which was intelligent. But the next time I see you, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind. And I’ll kill you, Rick. Make no mistake about that.”

“You mean that, don’t you, André?”

“Yes.” He used his foot to indicate a backpack lying near them. “I’ve made you up a kit. A rifle. Two hundred rounds, which is more than your share of the ammunition. First-aid packet. A week’s rations. You may keep your binoculars. You have your pistol, and I’ve included a box of cartridges for it. I haven’t been ungenerous—”

“Damn you—”

“Please,” Parsons protested. “Do not make me regret my generosity.” He pointed. “The road is that way. Do not go toward the castle. Go east.”

“I’m going with him.” Gwen’s voice was tightly controlled.

Parsons looked startled. Like Rick, he had forgotten that she was listening to them. “Surely you do not mean that,” Parsons said.

“Surely I do,” she said. She shook her head. “You’re crazy. I’ve listened to both of you for weeks. Between the two of you, I’ll take Galloway.”

“Why?” Parsons asked.

“I just will. Or do you intend to keep me here?” Parsons frowned deeply. “No, I suppose not. Very well. But get moving. I have a lot to do.”

“You certainly do,” Gwen said. Her voice was sugary sweet. “And you’re less likely to manage it than you think. Let’s go, Captain Galloway.”

Lower down, near the road, there were trees. They looked like gnarled evergreens, but the leaves were too broad, and like the chaparral they had a strange odor. Rick moved into the trees before he spoke.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked.

“No.” The girl’s voice was strong, almost too loud.

“You didn’t even act surprised…”

“I wasn’t. I told you, I’ve been listening to both of you for weeks. Before we went up the hill I knew what was going to happen.”

“You might have warned me—”

“To what purpose?” she asked. “There wasn’t anything you could have done about it. He’d have beaten you in a fair fight, and you wouldn’t shoot him without warning. Would you?”

“No. I guess not. So you knew they were going to mutiny. Did the pilot?”

“Yes. He predicted that you’d go your way and they’d go theirs.”

“And you decided to come with me. Why?— careful, it’s slippery here—” He put out his hand.

She moved away from him. “Let’s get something straight,” she said. “I’ve had one lover boy, and I don’t need another.”

“I wasn’t—”

“No, I guess you weren’t,” she said. “But I did want to make it clear. And maybe that will give you some idea of why you. I get the impression that you’re a little more human than some of those animals back there.”

“They’re not animals, they’re soldiers. Pretty good ones. Gwen, this is silly. If you’re scared of getting raped, you’d better stay with Parsons. Not that I’m going to leap at you, but I’m not likely to live very long.”

“Neither are they.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Rick demanded.

“Nothing.” She scrambled down the slope. “The road’s down here,” she said. “Which way?”

“Left.”

“Away from the castle,” she said. “See? At least you’ve got sense enough to walk away from a fight.” She stopped to look intently at his face. “And don’t get your macho image bent out of shape—I’m not calling you a coward.”

“No, but you hit pretty close to home,” Rick said.

“How’s that?”

He told her how he had chosen track instead of football. “And don’t tell me how sensible it was,” he said. “I know it was sensible, but it bothers me.”

2

The road was excellent. It reminded Rick of the old Roman roads he’d seen in Europe; cobblestones placed over enough rock fill to prevent settling. From the wear on the stones, the road had been there a long time, centuries at least. Unlike Roman roads, though, this one wound through the low hills and trees. Roman military roads had been unfailingly straight no matter what obstacles were in the way.

The trees and underbrush were strange, but they didn’t seem particularly alien; no stranger than Africa had been when he first went there. There were no birds — at least he’d seen none —but twice he saw flying squirrels. At least, he thought, they look like the pictures of flying foxes in my old schoolbooks. I never saw a real one on Earth.

Gwen walked beside him, still keeping her distance.

“You decided to come with me. Do you have any—” Rick cut himself off and lowered his voice. “There’s someone behind us,” he said. They looked back to the last bend but saw nothing. Rick motioned Gwen off the road and into the trees. They took shelter in the underbrush. Rick held the rifle in readiness. Whoever was coming was making no attempt to be silent; footsteps clattered on the cobblestones.

Corporal Mason came around the bend. He stopped and looked ahead, then very carefully slung his rifle and held out his empty hands. “Cap’n,” he called.

“In here,” Rick said.

“Yes, sir. Figured you’d hear me comin’. Just didn’t want to get shot.”

Rick led Gwen back to the road. He slung his rifle, but made certain the strap on the shoulder-holstered pistol was released. “What brings you here?”

“About a dozen of us volunteered to come off with you, but Parsons and Elliot wouldn’t let ‘em. Elliot said it was all right for one of us, so we cut cards for it, and here I am.”

“Flattering,” Rick said. And, he thought, just possibly believable. It was also believable that Parsons had sent someone to finish him off. Parsons was a careful man.

Parsons might do that, but Mason wouldn’t take that job. There were some who might, but not Mason. Rick suddenly realized that he was glad to see the plucky little corporal. At least he had one friend to watch his back in this strange place. “Welcome aboard,” Rick said. “But you might want to explain—”

Mason spat in the dirt. “Parsons is a Foreign Legion type,” he said. “The Legion uses up men. I’ve known some mercs who put in five with the Legion, and no thanks.”

“Is Parsons likely to be looking for you as a deserter?” Rick asked.

“It’s possible,” Mason admitted. “It was Elliot said it was all right to take off, but maybe he didn’t ask Parsons first.”

“And probably didn’t tell him later,” Rick added. Another complication. “We’d better watch our backs.”

“More reasons than one,” Mason said. “There might be some others want out of Parsons’s chickenshit outfit.”

“Maybe we should wait and see,” Gwen said. “But—” she looked thoughtful. “You wouldn’t want too many.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “Woman’s intuition—”

“Bat puckey. You’ve hinted a couple of times that you know things I don’t. Isn’t it time to let me in on the secret?”

“No. It’s not time.” Gwen was very serious.

“When will it be?”

“I don’t know. But I do point out that as long as the men might run away to join you, you’ll be a threat to Parsons.”

“So I hide from him—”

“It’s not that,” she said. “Look, you won’t kill him from ambush. But if he decides to kill you, you won’t even know until he’s done it. The only way you’ll be safe from him is if he doesn’t know where you are.”

It made sense. It didn’t sound very manly, but it made sense. Rick said so.

“There’s another thing,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“If the Shalnuksi traders learn where you are, they’ll tell Parsons—”

“That’s what really concerns you, isn’t it?” Rick asked. “You don’t want the Galactics to find you. Why?”

“Does it matter? You won’t be trading with them. You can’t possibly manage to grow those drugs alone—”

“Drugs?”

“I’ll explain later. Rick, you won’t be trading with them. It’s certainly better for us if Parsons can’t find us. All I’m suggesting is that we don’t call attention to ourselves. Get out of this part of the country, and don’t leave traces of where we’ve gone. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“I suppose—”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“It’s enough. We don’t even know where we’re going. For that matter, we’ll be out of rations soon enough. I saw what might have been a deer—”

“It probably was. There were a lot of Earth animals released here.”

“Damn it, you’re doing it again! What else do you know that might save our lives?”

She didn’t answer.

They rounded another bend. There was a crossroads marked by a small thatch-roofed shelter whose roof drained into a stone cistern and watering trough. The side road was dirt, heavily rutted with cart tracks and the prints of shod horses, but deserted at the moment.

Mason inspected the cistern. Leaves floated on top of the water. “We trust this stuff?” he asked.

“We’ll have to eventually, and we’ll want to start drinking local water while we’re still pumped up with gamma globulins and the other shots we got—but I think we can wait a day or so until we’ve got a permanent base. Got purification tablets?”

“Yeah. I’ll use them. Hand me your canteen.”

They filled the canteens while Rick thought about their situation. The main road would have more traffic, but it would also be easier going. Not far down the side road he could see patches of water and mud.

“Horses comin’,” Mason said. He pointed back the way they came.

“Off the road,” Rick ordered. He led them into the trees beyond the crossroads.

There was a click as Mason released the safety on his H&K battle rifle. “They’re slowin’ down,” he said softly.

“If they don’t want trouble, we don’t,” Rick said. Two horses came into view. One carried an elderly man in yellow robes. There was a blue circle with a stylized thunderbolt across it sewn to the breast of the robe. The other horse was ridden double. The rider in front wore kilts and an iron cap, and carried a short sword slung at his left side. The other was cloaked and hooded. They stopped at the crossroads, and the other robed man swung down easily and led his mount to the watering trough, first pausing to bow to the stone heap.

The other two dismounted.

Gwen stared interestedly. “Notice the reverent gesture,” she whispered. “Hermes. Guide of the Dead. He was originally a god of crossroads. Evidently he hasn’t lost that function here.”

The second rider threw back the hood and removed the cloak. Mason gave a nearly inaudible whistle. “That’s a looker!” he whispered.

Rick gestured for silence. Mason was right. The girl was young—about twenty, Rick would guess, with long raven-black hair. Even at this distance her eyes were startlingly blue. She had a classic Scandinavian shape to her face, and the woolen frock she wore would have brought a high price at Magnin’s. Only the kilted rider seemed armed, and Rick examined his weapons carefully. A leather case was fastened to the saddle; from its shape, it probably held a longbow. Otherwise there were no missile weapons. The man’s sword was quite short. He also carried a dagger about the size of Rick’s Gerber Mark II combat knife.

“This may be a good chance to talk to the locals,” Rick said.

“They’ll probably think we’re horse thieves,” Gwen warned.

“So we stay away from their horses. Mason, don’t start anything unless there’s no other choice. And keep an eye out back the way we came. Just in case.”

“Sure.”

“Not just for Parsons,” Rick said. “The girl looks nervous, and they all keep looking back. And notice how lathered those horses are. They didn’t stop because they wanted to. Okay, let’s go make contact with the locals.”

The girl saw them first. She pointed and the younger man went toward his horse.

“Sling arms, Mason,” Rick ordered. He spread his empty hands. “Gwen, can you tell them we’re friends?”

“The last languages I was able to study from Tran were six hundred years old,” she said. She raised her voice. “Amid. Fibs. Zevos. No, dammit, that doesn’t get through. Rick, bow to the stone heap. At least that will show we’re religious.”

“Right. You too, Mason. And keep your hands clear.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reverence to a stone heap. It did seem to have a beneficial effect. The others watched them warily, but they did nothing as Rick came closer.

The kilted warrior stared at Rick in frank curiosity. He eyed the slung rifle as if aware that it was a weapon. He seemed very interested in the scabbarded Mark II which hung hilt-down from Rick’s suspender webbing.

The older robed man dipped water with a gourd and held it out to them.

Rick hesitated, thinking of the various amoebic life-forms that probably inhabited the unpurified water.

“He’s a priest,” Gwen said. “Blue sky and thunderbolt. Zeus? Jupiter?”

The priest nodded in comprehension. “Yatar.”

“It really is,” Gwen said. She seemed delighted. “Zeus Pater, the Sky-father. See, blue for the vault of the sky, and the thunderbolt—”

Rick let the priest hand him the gourd, gulped hard, and drank, hoping that when the inevitable happened it wouldn’t be at an inconvenient time. “You carrying wine, Mason?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hand it here.”

Mason took the plastic liter flask from his belt. “Wine,” Rick said. “Uh —vino.”

The priest looked interested, and said something to his companions. They looked interested, too.

Rick tilted up the bottle and drank a swallow. It wasn’t wine at all, but Scotch. Now what have I done? he thought. The others were gesturing toward the girl, and she held out her hand expectantly.

Rick handed her the bottle. “Strong. Fuerte. Not much. Uh—take it easy—”

The girl drank, looked startled, then drank again, slowly. She didn’t seem shocked, which meant they must have some kind of distillation here. She said something which Rick took to be thanks.

“Cap’n, no wonder they wanted her to have a drink,” Mason said. “The back of her dress is all bloody.”

“Yeah? Have a look, Gwen—”

“If she’ll let me,” Gwen said. “Keep an eye on her boyfriend.” She went over to the girl. “Permiso? Uh, medico.” She tapped herself on the breast. “Magister?”

“Magistro?” the girl said. She looked at Gwen with what seemed to be respect and stood still while Gwen tried to peel back the blouse. “Good Lord!” she muttered. “Rick, someone’s abused this child badly.”

Child, hell, Rick thought. “How?”

The girl reached up and unbuttoned the front of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders, leaving her back and breasts bare. Apparently they didn’t believe in modesty here—at least not for the upper body. It was hard not to stare at the nearly perfect figure. She evidently didn’t usually go without clothing, though; she had no tan at all.

She also had no objection to Rick looking at her, and he went over to examine herback. Someone had beaten her badly. Her back was a mass of bruises, and twice whatever had beaten her had flayed open the skin. It was going to scar. He took out his first-aid kit. “Know much about this?” he asked Gwen.

“No.” She looked mildly ill.

“Better let me, then.” He took out a swab. “Got to clean this and it’s going to sting. Gwen, watch her boyfriend.” He tapped himself on the chest. “Magistro,” he said. “Medico.” She winced when the swab touched the wound, but she didn’t cry out. Rick painted it with Merthiolate and put a loose gauze bandage over the broken skin areas. “No tetanus inoculations,” he warned. “Make sure you don’t cut air off from the wounds. Better to risk aerobic infection. With all the horse crap on the roads, there’s a high tetanus risk.” He stepped away. “All right, you can cover yourself again.” He gestured to show what he meant. “And have another drink. You earned it.”

The girl smiled tentatively, then downed another slug of Scotch. She tapped herself on the chest.

“Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa do Chelm.”

“You get that, Gwen?” Rick asked.

“I think so. Eqetassa. That’s right out of old Mycenae. If I’m not mistaken, she’s a countess. If that’s right, her name would be Tylara and she’s from that place with the guttural sound.”

“Tylara,” Rick said. The girl nodded happily. He pointed to himself. “Rick Galloway, Captain of mercenaries.” If long names indicated high rank, he didn’t want to claim to be a peasant.

“Rick,” Tylara said tentatively. She pointed to the robed priest. “Yanulf, sacerdos pu Yatar.” The priest bowed. She pointed again. “Caradoc.”

“Latin and Greek all mixed up with Mycenaean,” Gwen said.

“Mykenae?” the priest asked. He pointed to them. “No.” Gwen shook her head. The priest frowned. The kilted man took out a currycomb and began working on the horses. He glanced warily back at Rick and Mason from time to time, but didn’t seem excessively suspicious.

An auspicious beginning, Rick thought. And that girl! Were all the women on this planet as lovely?

3

“Company comin, Cap’n,” Mason called. “Lots of horses riding hard.”

The others heard, too. Rick gestured toward the thickets by the road. There would be no room to hide the horses, though, and from the sounds, not enough time either. Tylara shouted something and Caradoc ran to his horse. He took down the leather case and withdrew a longbow, stringing it with an easy gesture that made Rick’s muscles ache to watch.

A dozen horsemen rounded the bend two hundred meters away. The sight was like a blow. They were not all riding horses. Three of the beasts were centaurs. The riders wore mail armor, and white plumes streamed out from their helmets. The lead men carried lances, and they lowered them. Others drew sabers. They didn’t act friendly at all.

Tylara shouted. Rick understood none of it, but he heard the word ‘Sarakos’ several times. She ran to Caradoc and drew his dagger, holding it as if she knew how to use it. Caradoc nocked an arrow. He thrust another into the dirt in front of him. There were only the two.

Two arrows, a short sword, and a dagger; but his new friends were obviously prepared to fight a dozen horsemen. Yanulf stood impassively by the cistern, his arms spread to the sky.

“What do we do?” Mason shouted.

Rick didn’t answer for a moment. There would still be time to get into the trees. This wasn’t his fight. From the uniforms, the approaching riders might be the local police. For that matter, he had no evidence that Yanulf wasn’t a con man and Tylara his accomplice in the local equivalent of the badger game. He could be setting himself up as an outlaw. Probably was. And they could still run.

But dammit, he thought, I’m tired of running. You’ve got to choose sides sometime. Why not now? “We fight,” he said.

“Would you if she were a crone?” Gwen asked.

“Shut up. Mason, fire a couple of warning shots.” The H&K blasted at full automatic; a burst of five that must have zinged over the heads of the approaching riders. They didn’t slow.

Caradoc drew the arrow to his cheek and released it in a smooth motion. The lead rider took it full in the chest and fell from his horse.

And that’s torn it, Rick thought. He raised the H&K and began to squeeze off rounds at semiautomatic fire.

When Tylara saw the strangers approaching, she first thought they might be from a local village despite their strange clothing; but moments later she knew better. They couldn’t be locals, and she felt a twinge of fear. Who were they?

They were obviously wealthy. She didn’t know what all the objects they carried or wore on their belts might be used for, but so much metal would be valuable. And all three spoke to each other as equals. She didn’t know the words, but the tones made that clear.

“Evil gods,” Yanulf muttered. “The Time approaches.”

Caradoc glanced hastily at the stone heap, hoping for protection.

“Do your tales say how they will steal our souls?” Tylara asked. “They do not look like gods to me.” Although, she thought but didn’t say, the taller man was handsome enough to be, if not a god, at least from the tales of the heroes. “What have we to lose by their friendship?”

“Little,” Yanulf admitted, and went to draw water to make the traditional gesture.

Their response had been surprising enough. Tylara was familiar with strong drink made by freezing wine and throwing away the ice, but she had never experienced anything like what she tasted when the man handed her his bottle.

The bottle itself was interesting, too. It was neither metal nor ceramic, and she had no experience with anything else. Then they had come closer, and examined her back, and the handsome one had done something that hurt at first but soon took the ache away. While he treated her she studied him close up. He was a warrior. The sheathed blade on his chest—what a strange place to carry it, but it looked handy enough, easily drawn, perhaps he had to fight often—was obvious. Less obvious was the weapon he wore slung over his shoulder. It resembled a crossbow, but there was no bow; and it was all metal.

He wore no armor that she could see. Only the one-piece garment that was jacket and trousers combined, mottled by dye to resemble the forest. His hat was a felt beret, and she had seen those before. The boots were green with black leather at the bottom, more like a peasant’s boots than a warrior’s. Then there were the bewildering things—all carefully crafted, all useful-appearing but totally mysterious—hanging from the straps over his shoulders and from his belt.

Rick. She caught that, but not the titles he named himself. And his companion—obviously a warrior and wealthy as well, certainly a knight, perhaps a bheroman —was named Mason. The girl called herself Gwen. Unreasonably, Tylara did not like her. She must belong to Rick, and Tylara knew there was no reason to resent that, but she did. One thing was clear enough. “These are no gods,” she told Yanulf.

“Perhaps,” the priest growled.

Old fool, she thought, but regretted that instantly; he had given up everything to save her. She had never heard of a priest of Yatar allowing anyone not a sworn acolyte in the lower caverns. Not even her husband’s father had ever visited those caves below Dravan. Would Sarakos dare search there now?

The drink made her feel better. Much better, and she talked volubly with the strangers, almost forgetting the horror of the night before, until the one called Mason shouted warning and a dozen of Sarakos’s hussars came toward them at the gallop.

She ran to take Caradoc’s dagger, wondering what would have happened if she had asked—Rick—to lend her his own. Would he? With the dagger in hand, she felt little fear. They might kill her, but they could never take her back. And the strangers had taken their weapons from off their backs and held them like crossbows— She was startled for the moment when Mason’s weapon gave a crash like thunder, and even more startled when there was no effect. Caradoc’s shaft killed its man, but no one fell to Mason’s thunder.

But then Rick raised his own weapon.

The result was unbelievable. Each time Rick’s weapon spoke, a rider fell. Then Mason did the same. Caradoc stood with an arrow nocked but did not loose it. He watched in amazement, as Tylara did.

The fight was over before it had well begun. Men lay in the road, some dead, some groaning, while riderless horses and centaurs dashed past. Tylara had sense enough to grasp the reins of one of the horses, and Caradoc seized another. She saw that Rick did not seem to think of that, although Mason tried and failed. Why?

Caradoc handed her the reins of the horse he had caught and went out to give the fallen soldiers a final mercy. When he slit the throat of the first, though, Rick shouted, as if in horror. His companion said something, and the girl said more. Finally Rick turned his back. Did he hate Sarakos’s troops, then? That much? And why? She would cheerfully let Sarakos die of green stinking fester, but his soldiers had not deserved such. Evidently Rick’s companions convinced him, because he said nothing else; but it would be well to remember that he was a cold-hearted man, ruthless toward his enemies.

But he was a man. Of that she was certain.

“Leave him to his work, Cap’n,” Mason was saying. “When in Rome and all that. Besides, if they’re all dead, they won’t be tellin’ anyone who did ‘em in.’,

Rick swallowed hard. In classical times it was normal to kill the wounded, even your own. It wasn’t until Philip of Macedon that armies had hospital corpsmen. Philip gave a substantial reward to the corpsmen for each trooper they saved.

It bothered him that he hadn’t captured any of the horses. They’d need them. Centaurs he could live without—they looked mean. He didn’t know much about horses, either, but he’d rather ride than walk.

That problem was solved a few minutes later. After Caradoc (that name—wasn’t there a Welsh king by that name? There was something wrong with Gwen’s theory of language development here) had finished his grisly work among the wounded, he mounted his own horse and rode down the road, returning a few minutes later with four more he’d caught. He offered all of them to Rick.

Rick inspected the saddles. Wood, with leather trim, and rigid wooden stirrups. The horses were large and sturdy, and he suspected that they’d bring a high price on Earth. “Can you ride?” he asked Gwen.

“On Griffith Park bridle trails,” she said. She eyed the horses nervously.

“We’ll try to keep the pace down. Will our new friends get upset if we strip the dead? There’s a lot of valuable equipment out there.”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither,” Rick said. Homeric heroes always despoiled their dead enemies. Sometimes they even mutilated them. And they often made trophies out of any arms and armor they couldn’t use. “Mason; go see what you can find,” he said. “Swords. And if there’s any armor that will fit either of us, get it, but strip the plumes off the helmets.” He thought for a moment. “And don’t touch the one the archer knocked down.”

That seemed to be the right action. After Mason went through the dead, Caradoc did the same. He retrieved his arrow and stripped the man he’d killed, then went over Mason’s leavings. He brought the loot over to the cistern and said something to Yanulf. The old priest indicated a sword, a breastplate, and a leather bag which Caradoc took over and piled reverently against the stone heap.

Aha. “Mason, take our stuff over to Yanulf.”

The priest’s selection from Mason’s pile was considerably larger. “Wonder what the PC is,” Rick said.

“And who gets the loot.”

“Redistribution system,” Gwen said. “It’s fairly common in some societies. The first people down the road will help themselves with Old Stoneheapy’s blessings. Uh—don’t like to say it, but it would be better if you carried the dead away from the road. That way they just vanished, and maybe no one will look too closely at what killed them.”

“Covering our tracks?” Rick asked.

“Yes.”

It made sense. Rick thought he was using that line a lot since he’d met Gwen. “Let’s get at it, Mason. Maybe Caradoc will get the idea and help.”

Caradoc did, but he obviously didn’t understand. When they got the bodies stacked in the woods a hundred meters from the road, Rick made symbolic gestures and threw a few dirt clods over them. ‘When Mason frowned a question, Rick said, “I’d rather he thought we have a screwy religion than leave him wondering why we’re carrying bodies around.”