JANISSARIES

"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 begi

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 ru

"Would you if she were a crone?" Gwen asked.

"Shut up. Mason, fire a couple of warning shots." The H amp;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 amp;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.