Firehand # with Pauline M. Griffin Page 4

  5

  SWEAT BEADED UNDER his dark hair. Zanthor I Yoroc removed his helmet and cradled it in the crook of his arm. The day was warm, and he often rode bareheaded. None of the four with him should guess that there was anything amiss.

  His heavy brows came together. Amiss? There was nothing wrong. The burning tug inside him was unusual, but he could continue to resist its pull as he had for the past two days. He did not because he was curious as to its source and purpose, and only by answering it could he learn the reason behind it. The Ton of Condor Hall faced the challenges thrown at him, including those that might originate only in his own imagination.

  His expression hardened. No. The call was genuine. It had a goal, an end, even if he did not know yet where or what it was. For that reason, because he could not name the purpose of the quest or what he would encounter at its conclusion, he had elected not to come alone. Three doughty swordsmen accompanied him and one of his sons as well.

  He glanced briefly at the young man riding at his left. Frail of body, slight of stature, lacking in the fine coordination and speed of movement essential to make a superior warrior, Tarlroc I Zanthor would have been a disappointment to most men, but he had the sharpest wits of all Zanthor's sons, and discretion kept a tight rein on his tongue. He served well as his father's clerk, and he, with his good mind, might prove a greater asset on this strange journey than the muscles and blades of the others.

  They had been traveling for nearly two hours, but none of I Yoroc's companions voiced either protest or curiosity. They knew better. Condor Hall's ruler tolerated no breach in discipline, no questioning of his orders, by those he commanded.

  He himself evinced no uncertainty as to his course. He felt none. It was as if he were following a detailed map save that the directions lay within himself. If he veered from the path, the pressure within him increased until he returned to it.

  The end came abruptly. All five men reined their springdeer at the edge of a clearing newly cut, or burned, rather, out of the brush and trees of the surrounding countryside. The scene which met their eyes was such that they stared like children of herdsmen entering a large Mainland town for the first time.

  Nearest them were three structures formed like straw hives but fashioned of steel or some similarly colored metal. Two closely spaced pillars stood at the opposite end. It looked as if they had once been tall, but now they were bent and twisted and blackened as if by some incredibly hot fire.

  All this was strange, inexplicable, but it was nothing to the five men—the five beings—who had apparently constructed the odd camp and who were now facing the newcomers in a manner that suggested they had been awaiting their arrival. All were very thin and short by the standards of the Dominionite men. Their complexions were a pasty cream white, their faces long. The skulls gave them a grotesque appearance, being greatly enlarged and utterly hairless. The eyes were deep black, hard and penetrating, unshielded by brow or lash. They were dressed alike in an iridescent blue uniform that seemed molded to their slender bodies. Strange-looking devices depended from the belts circling the narrow waists.

  Zanthor recovered from his amazement. He glanced at his companions and saw with annoyance that the soldiers were still gaping at the strangers, looking slack-faced and stupid. His son seemed equally useless, but even as he watched, Tarlroc wrenched his head to one side, almost as if by an act of will, and fixed narrowed eyes on I Yoroc.

  The Ton gave a mental shrug and turned his attention to the demon-men. Among the rulers and soldiers of his own people, one who issued the first challenge from a position of authority often gained the advantage in a debate. It could prove so with these hairless ones as well. Better to make the move before they did. "Who are you who camp on Condor Hall lands without leave?" he demanded coldly.

  "That we shall discuss with the ruler of this domain."

  A glance at his son showed that Tarlroc's attention was fixed on the strangers. The others stood like statues or dead men, showing no interest in either their commanders or those in the clearing. "I am the Ton."

  "We have come to further your plans."

  Tarlroc I Zanthor drew his sloping shoulders erect. "And your own as well, no doubt." His voice sounded as if it were wrenched from his throat, but he had the satisfaction of seeing, or feeling, the demons waver slightly as he spoke.

  "Is this the Ton-heir speaking to guard his inheritance?" one of the five responded imperiously.

  "I am a cadet son only," I Zanthor responded with a hauteur that parried the other's dismissal, "the third of four such, but I know how to conduct myself—and what the bearing must be of those who would sue my father's favor."

  There was a moment's silence. "Let the Ton and his son enter our quarters so that we may speak in comfort," the original speaker invited.

  Zanthor smiled coldly, without humor. Did they believe him a fool because he had chosen to answer the now-vanished summons in his head? "It is a pleasant day," he responded smoothly. "We shall not have many more of them before winter sets in. Have seats brought outside so that we can enjoy it while we confer."

  This was done, low, backless stools whose webbed seats were made of some material the Dominionite ruler could not immediately identify. Each of the Condor Hall men accepted one, which they placed, seemingly without forethought, so that they could watch both the strangers and their own immobilized escort.

  There was no point and perhaps some danger in further delay, and I Yoroc raised the issue at once. "You claim you are willing to assist me. In what way do you imagine I need help, yours or anyone else's?"

  "We would see you ruler of all this island."

  The Ton's sallow skin darkened in a flush, then he threw back his head and laughed. "Conquer the whole island with the garrison of a northern domain? You five may be madmen, but I assure you that my wits are sound… Come, Tarlroc. We have wasted enough of our time."

  "The garrison of your domain could seize another, then another and still another if you strike one after the other in quick succession. Give the rape of the first conquests to your soldiers to whet their appetites and build their morale, then use the rest to pay fighters-for-hire, whom you would import secretly. Your force would then be sufficiently large to crush each domain individually, and if you move rapidly enough, the island would be yours before any unified opposition could be organized to stop you."

  Zanthor remained silent. He had been giving serious thought to annexing the domain adjacent to his on the east. Swallow's Nest's Ton was old and in poor health, and the Ton-heir was of distant blood and little loved. That he could take and keep. What the blue-clad demon was describing was another matter, desirable, but not nearly so readily attainable as the other's bright forecast indicated.

  He shook his head at last. "A handful of bought swords will not accomplish that. I would need columns, not mere companies, and I do not have the means to procure those. Commandants expect to be paid well, and they want a significant portion of their fee when they give their oath of service."

  The demon inclined his head toward a large, square, white box which had been brought from the hive structure along with the stools. Two of his comrades wordlessly raised the lid and stepped aside.

  The domain ruler's breath caught. Although the metal inside was formed into long rectangular bars instead of the familiar links, there was no mistaking its yellow color.

  Zanthor's expression grew hard. "Why show me this? What precisely do you want from me?"

  "We show what we are prepared to give. As a sign of good faith, you may take with you as much of this gold as your beasts can comfortably carry with the understanding that we expect three times its value returned to us upon the conclusion of your campaign. In order to secure further aid from us, you must deliver to us now good steel, copper, and other materials we shall detail upon receiving your agreement, and you shall give us the lives of your foes, their females and spawn as well as the men."

  "You want us to herd half the population of the island
here for slaughter?" the Ton-heir asked incredulously.

  "Where they die or when is irrelevant. We only insist that they do die."

  I Yoroc nodded to himself. That made sense. It would both punish opposition and reduce the likelihood of rebellion. The depopulated lands could be worked by docile settlers imported from the Mainland…

  "Why?" he asked. "Why this hatred of them and your desire to help me?"

  "We aid you because you can accomplish our will. Any more is not your concern."

  "There are but five of you…"

  "The remainder of your soldiers would be no more trouble to us than those who rode with you today. We would use them in the same manner… You have our proposal. Do you accept it?"

  "I have your proposal," the Ton of Condor Hall responded firmly. "I shall consider it in my own time. I am the one facing war. You are risking your gold, some of your gold. It is my life and my lands that I would be chancing. In the meantime, I will have the gold you promised to test to confirm that it is genuine."

  "If you will have gold, we shall have payment. Your arms…"

  I Yoroc's eyes narrowed. He shook his head. "Our arms and the arms of our escort, we keep. However, that carrion is of no further use to us. You want blood. Take the three of them as your payment. I shall come again soon if I decide that we have more to say to one another."

  6

  MURDOCK'S HEART WAS hammering wildly, although his will was strong enough to insure that his agitation did not become apparent to those around him.

  This was not their first such meeting. His party had traveled the length of the island from its southernmost tip where they had landed, carrying warning of the danger overshadowing them to those Tons of each region whom their studies had named as leaders of the confederation whose success they were striving to promote.

  They had met with a good measure of success, for their story was strong and the evidence they had brought to corroborate it had been expertly prepared. The various domains would see to their arms and supplies, and their rulers would meet to discuss the possibility of uniting to combat Zanthor I Yoroc should he prove the threat these strangers claimed. In so far, the timing of their organization had been advanced by crucial months, but no army would actually assemble, much less move north, not at this stage. Not one of the southern rulers could be that powerfully convinced of the reality of the hordes of mercenaries that would all too soon be marching against them.

  Once again, Gordon Ashe had delivered his news and was facing the same battery of arguments, but this time, success, or the greatest possible success, was essential. They were sitting in Sapphirehold's great hall, and facing them was Ton Luroc I Loran and his chief military and civil staff. Fail here, and they had blown the whole.

  "I do not hesitate to believe the darkness you impute to the Ton of Condor Hall, Healer O Ashean," Luroc said slowly, almost more to himself than to his guest. "I am not alone in thinking him no true son of Life's Queen, but that he represents such utter peril, that I cannot accept. Good though his domain might be in comparison with the rest here in the north, it still could not support so great a host of hired swords as you describe."

  Ross felt the sour taste of defeat rise inside him. The meeting was going the way of all the others, and they would gain no more from it than the Ton's promise to stay on the alert himself and put his domain's garrison on the alert. That might be enough for the time being in the south, but here, they required a more concrete response. Without Luroc's full belief and support behind them, they could not begin to do what had to be done in order to preserve the domain as a fighting force and, through it, to preserve Dominion of Virgin.

  Damn it to every version of hell he had ever heard described, what was the matter with these people? They had no trouble imagining that one of their kind could seriously consider annexing their lands by force of arms, but to a one, they could not bring themselves to believe that he could secure the means to carry his plans to fruition. By the time Zanthor taught them otherwise, it would be too late for everyone except the would-be conqueror himself.

  His eyes burned in his impatience. "You're wrong, Ton," he said suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen over the speakers. "Condor Hall can hire mercenaries and has hired them, and they'll stay long enough to fulfill its ruler's aim if we don't move at once to thwart him. It'll be too late to do that in even a few more weeks."

  Murdock knew he had breached custom in addressing the Ton and the company assembled with him. Men and the few women who made a career of war for any purpose except to secure the safety of their native domains were not held in high regard, however quickly their talents were sought when reason dictated that they could be of good service. A mercenary did not inject his presence into a conference such as this unbidden, whatever his rank among his own kind. Eveleen and he would not even have been present had their testimony not been required.

  The others there, including his own comrades, looked sharply at him, some in annoyance, all in surprise.

  Ross set his hands on the table before him. He had begun. Now it was up to him to state his case well. He would have one chance, or part of a chance, and nothing more. "I'm a man of war, Ton I Loran, not a manager of lands," he went on quickly, while he still had the assembly's attention. "Columns, not mere companies, would serve Condor Hall for a short span, or longer if their troops were granted the rape of his first, easy conquests and their commanders promised rich domains in the south, to be held in loyalty to Zanthor, as part of their service contract. There's probably not one of us of any significant rank who doesn't occasionally dream of winning such a holding, however slight the chance of that's ever happening might be in fact. There're men in plenty who'll fight for its lure, assuming reasonable interim recompense as well."

  The Ton's expression was dark as he studied the supposed warrior, but it was with concern rather than anger. "If that be so," he said at last, "what purpose was there in your coming to us? What can a few hundred soldiers accomplish against so many, or this joining of the southern domains, for that matter, if Zanthor I Yoroc can draw on virtually limitless hosts to support him?"

  Ross Murdock smiled. "Not limitless, Ton. The column Commandants will serve long-term solely for the promise of land. There are only a finite number of domains, north or south, and Zanthor won't want to parcel so many of them out, away from his direct control, that he, in effect, would only be trading one set of rulers for another.

  "No, you can't meet him in a straight fight. I don't think the whole north could even if there was time enough to ready yourselves. It's the Confederacy that has to beat him. Sapphirehold's business is to buy Ton I Carlroc time, and to preserve our own hides while we're doing it."

  Luroc's heavy brows raised. "Preserve our hides?" he echoed.

  The Time Agent shrugged. "It's my plan, Ton I Loran, the only one my companions and I believe has any chance of success. It requires a different kind of fighting, one that must involve all your people. If you're willing to give it a try, I offer my services to conduct it, or at least to prepare your folk for it."

  The other said nothing for several long seconds. "What is your name, man of war?" he asked at the end of that time.

  The Terran released the breath he had been holding, taking care not to betray the extent of his relief. In asking that he identify himself, the Dominionite ruler was giving him leave to enter into serious discussion on an equal's footing, thus permitting genuine give and take and open argument if necessary. "Rossin A Murdoc, Ton. A Captain of mercenaries."

  "This plan of yours, Captain?"

  Ross described the partisan war he envisioned and the preparations the domain would have to make for it to succeed.

  He was greeted by dark scowls when he finished speaking. "You would have us cower in the hills like wardwolves, surrender our homes and fields without a struggle at all?" demanded a young man, very handsome by the flat-faced standard of his race. He was clad in the plain uniform of the domain's garrison, and a Lieutenant's str
ipe ran diagonally across his breast.

  "I'd have you fight so you can win. It'll be a costly war no matter what you do. Conduct it as I describe, and you'll at least have a chance. You'll also more than triple your force, since all the able-bodied population can be trained to wage it."

  "As for your dwellings and fields, you couldn't hold them anyway. Accept that they're gone until Zanthor's defeated, establish others in secret, and put the old ones to the torch when you must to deny Condor Hall's forces the use of them."

  "That's easy enough for a landless, homeless man to say," the other snapped hotly.

  "Easy or hard, I'm only stating fact. The loss is inevitable. It's up to you to decide whether it will work to your enemy's benefit or against him."

  "Be still, Allran," Luroc commanded, silencing the reply the young officer would have made. "You offer to lead us, Captain A Murdoc. Are you capable of doing so? A man needs two sound hands to fight and at the same time control his mount."

  The Time Agent started, for a moment at a loss as to the other's meaning. His eyes dropped to his hands then, where they lay clearly exposed on the table, to the left with its terrible ridging of scar tissue. Among people of this technical level, such burns would probably have taken the member itself, much less the use of it.

  He lifted his arm so that all could see it and flexed his fingers several times. "It still works," he told the Ton.

  Eveleen Riordan's head raised. "A man with the courage to hold his own hand in fire rather than give his enemies their will over him can also be expected to have the strength to work with that hand when Life's Queen so blessed him as to send him a healer capable of preserving it."

  A good move, Gordon thought. It established Ross as a person of considerable fortitude, and it lay to rest before they ever arose any questions as to why a full Captain should bind himself for a significant stretch of time to the dull and relatively unprofitable business of riding escort to a wandering scholar. Gratitude for such a service, which must class as a near miracle, would be more compelling than any oath. Eveleen herself was posing as Murdock's chief officer, bound to remain with him whether he currently commanded the company to which his rank entitled him or not.