JANISSARIES

"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."

They loaded their spare horse with loot, while Caradoc piled his own excess gear on the horse the priest had ridden. Then he rode off on a fresh horse and returned with two more. After a questioning glance at Rick, he gave the new mounts to Yanulf and Tylara. They mounted.

"Cap'n, they're waiting for us," Mason said.

"Yeah. Mount up." He swung into his own saddle and gave an experimental cluck. The horse moved slightly. It seemed very well trained and responded to the reins about as he had expected. "I'll lead yours at first," he told Gwen. "If you want me to."

"Please."

Rick edged his mount over until he was next to Tylara. "Where?" he said. "Quo vadis? Donde?" He pointed helplessly in all directions.

She frowned, then seemed to understand. She pointed down the road. "Tamaerthon."

"Your home?" Rick asked. He pointed to her, then the road. Tylara do Tamaerthon, she'd said. It must be. "You. Tamaerthon?"

She nodded vigorously, then swung her hands in abroad sweep to include the whole party. "Tamaerthon," she said, and she sounded quite determined about it.

PART FIVE:

TAMAERTHON

I

Tylara had been away less than a year, but she had forgotten just how small her homeland was. The whole of Tamaerthon was no more than twice the extent her own lands of Chelm had been, and her father's holdings in The Garioch would have been thought suitable for a wealthy knight-almost too mean to support a bheroman. As for her father's great hall, it wasn't much larger than her council chamber in Castle Dravan, and indeed her father used it for council meetings, which usually-as now-were no more than a gathering of several of his henchmen.

That wasn't her only disappointment. Her reception was something less than enthusiastic. Her father had seen her leave as a great lady. He had sent more archers and more wealth than he could afford as her dowry.

Outside the council hall, the women of the village were keening the deaths of sons and lovers who had gone with their lady to die in a far land.

"I had thought ye might send me horses and knights," her father said. "And gold. But ye hae returned wi' no more than three men-at-arms and this priest."