On the Oceans of Eternity (39 page)

When the work was finished he hesitated where the road forked on the way back to the fort; the southward path lay down-valley toward the farms and manors the men of Great Achaea had set out when they took this land. The valley itself widened like a funnel from here, falling away to the vast flat plains southward. Most of it had been open when the Achaeans arrived, some farms and villages, more land left rippling in chest-high grassland, with copses of oak trees here and there, and marshes along the waterside. The snags of sacked native garths still stood in a few places, blackened timbers and crumbling wattle-and-daub, the lumpy remains of a sod roof. Squares of dark earth showed a fuzz of blue-green, winter wheat peeking up ready for its blanket of cold-season snow; dry maize-shooks rustled in others, or the stubbled remains of sunflowers and flax. In a few workers toiled to lift the last potatoes, or watched over the herds.

His own hall was there, and despite its raw newness—only this spring past had they laid out their own fields, after reaping the natives’ harvest the first year—it was already his favorite estate, even more than the Sicilian ranch. He had broad acres in many of Great Achaea’s provinces, ably managed by stewards, but this one reminded him more of the old homeland; his youngest wife kept the house, with their new son by her. It would do his soul good to spend a day seeing to the fields and new-planted orchards, and most of all looking over his herds in the pens and pastures. Full-fleeced sheep and fat cattle and tall deep-chested horses, the only wealth that was really real, the delight of a man’s heart, second only to strong sons. It was just a half hour’s ride and the paperwork was mostly done....

Thus he was looking southward and was among the first to see the party riding up toward Fort Lolo. For a moment he knew only angry astonishment that the sentries hadn’t raised the alarm. Then he raised his binoculars; there wasn’t any dust from the graveled roadway with the wet weather of the last few days, so he could see clearly. A column of horsemen in the gray uniforms and flared steel helmets of Meizon
Akhaia,
with the red wolfshead banner at their front. A coach behind it, and a train of light baggage wagons—horse-drawn, hence fast but expensive—with a herd of remounts. He had enough time to note that they were of unusual quality before he noticed one rider curving out ahead of the others and then spurring to gallop. A small figure in black on a big slim-legged horse, riding like a leopard, with long loose hair bright gold ...

“Princess Althea!” he cried, bowing in the saddle as she drew up.

“Uncle Ohoto!” she replied, leaning over in the saddle to embrace him and kiss his cheek.

“You’ve grown, daughter of my chief,” he said happily, hands on her shoulders.
Was it more than yesterday when I came growling across the nursery floor, playing bear for you?

“You’re almost a woman now—will be, in another few winters.”

She’d shot up, and no mistaking; she’d be as tall for a woman as her sire was for a man. The outfit—loose jacket, sash, full trousers in fine black cloth edged here and there with gold, polished boots, long dagger and pistol on a studded belt—didn’t look quite so much like a child’s dress-up in imitation of her father anymore. Her face had begun to lose puppy fat, and yes, there was something of her father in her eyes as well, for all they were blue rather than green. Something of her mother, too, who had been a chieftain’s daughter Walker had captured in a raid.

“But what are you doing here, Althea?”

The girl drew herself up solemnly and waited until a crowd had gathered. “Rejoice!” she said, slightly louder. “The High King is victorious—Troy is fallen!”

They all cheered; the soldiers first, and those from the Achaean lands who knew what it meant, and then the generality. Ohotolarix was as loud as any, although he fought down bitterness; obedient to his lord’s orders, he was here in this backwater and not fighting by his side as a handfast man should. He obeyed, but it was hard, hard...

Althea threw up her left hand and a ragged silence fell. “Hear the word of the
wannax
, the King of Men—sent by him through his own blood, the Princess Althea of the House of the Wolf.”

The silence was complete now. “His word to Ohotolarix son of Telenthaur is,
Well done, you good and faithful warrior!
As the Wolf Lord pushes forward the boundaries of Great Achaea on the plains of Wilusia, among the proud horse tamers of Troy, so his right-hand man Ohotolarix, the
lawagetas
of his Royal Guard wins him lands and subjects here in the far northland.”

She gestured grandly at the herd. “From the plunder of Troy he sends the horses of Wilusia, said to be sired by the North Wind.”

Ohotolarix looked them over; not bad at all, especially after a trip like this. Not big, by comparison with Bastard, Walker’s steed, but he already possessed a three-quarter-bred stallion of that breed. For a moment a horseman’s instincts possessed him, and his mind dwelt on what he could do with these by cross-breeding and breeding back.

“He also sends gold and fine goods—” The guardsmen pulled back covers and the lids of chests; the audience cheered. “—slaves of Troy, bronzeworkers and carpenters and masons, and a daughter of the Trojan King, Alaksandrus.”

A girl stepped down from the carriage, auburn-haired and richly dressed in a foreign way. Althea leaned forward and whispered in his ear, giggling slightly:
“She looked
terrible
when we caught her, all skinny. But we fattened her up on the road so you could have fun bouncing her around.
”

Then she cleared her throat and called a man forward, opening a long rosewood case and handing Ohotolarix a double-barreled rifle, its smooth-polished butt inlaid in ivory and gold with hunting scenes, the barrels gleaming with damascene patterns.

“See how the King of Men honors the greatest of his warrior chiefs! Honor to Ohotolarix, favored of the Wolf Lord!”

Ohotolarix grinned at her and waved to the throng who cried him hail, and felt himself blinking back tears of joy.
I might have expected it,
he thought.
From the best of lords.

It wasn’t that he lacked gold cups and fine cloth and jewels, or splendid weapons, or horses, or a girl to give variety to his nights. It was the honor, publicly bestowed. That no matter how far he was from his lord’s sight he was never far from his mind or heart, never forgotten.

“Never—” He cleared his throat and continued. “Never shall the House of the Wolf lack for a strong sword at their side, wise counsel, and a life to be laid down for theirs. From me and my sons, and the sons of my sons,” he said.

Ohotolarix raised his voice in his turn. “All hail to the Princess Althea and to the Wolf Lord. Tonight we feast!” The gathering broke up in cheers.

That was a feast to remember, although he kept himself moderate, since the princess was there. If something like this had befallen back in the days when Daurthunnicar was High Chief of the Iraiina and Walker new-come to Alba, he’d have gotten roaring drunk before the meat was done, there’d have been a death-fight or two, and he’d have finished by taking the Trojan girl on the tables to cheers and rhythmic thumping of drinking horns and hands slapping knees. Instead he contented himself with wine enough to make the light mellow and all men his friends.

Yes, manners were more seemly now, particularly where the commanders sat. That was at the elevated base of the great U-shaped table set pointing its open end toward the feasting-hall’s doors. Glass-globed lanterns shed light, and two big stone hearths on either side held crackling log fires in firedogs of massive wrought iron, burning wild apple wood that scented the room. Carved shutters were closed over the glass windows; between them massive wooden pillars rose from the smooth stone floor past the second-story gallery that ringed the feasting-hall and up to the rafters. He’d brought in Ringapi craftsmen to do the pillars in the shapes of Gods and heroes but the tapestries against the wall were southland, bright fabulous beasts and battles and sea creatures, ships and cities. The tables, chairs, and silverware were in the style of
Meizon Akhaia,
colorful with inlaid work of ivory and semiprecious stones, silky with polishing.

Ohotolarix looked around as he cracked walnuts in his fist and sipped at heated apple wine, thinking of the smoky turf-walled barns Iraiina chiefs had called their great halls when he was a young man, and how they’d awed him. If he could have seen this then...

I’d have thought it was Sky Father at feast, in the hall beyond the Sun, with the ancient heroes and warrior
Mirutha
at his board!

A bard had come with the party from Walkeropolis and the plain of Troy. He sat in the space between the tables when the roast pigs and beefsteaks, the fried potatoes and steaming loaves and honey-sweetened confections were done, plectrum moving on the strings of his lyre as he sang:

That had them hammering fists on the tables, and Ohotolarix gave the man a gold chain; he could see it himself, the cannon belching red fire in the night, and the roar of onset as the assault began... Then two of Hong’s followers, the select ones known as the Claws of Hekate gave a demonstration of swordwork.

He signaled an end to the public part of the feast by a show of gifts of his own to men stationed here—horses, ox-teams, silver, bronze, a fine sword, a grant of early discharge and land to one who’d become betrothed to a Ringapi chiefs daughter.

At last most of the guests and all the women were gone—except for Lady Kylefra and the princess, both of them exceptions to the usual rules, for different reasons. The commander of the escort company was a man he’d fought beside many times, Iraiina-born like Ohotolarix; his second was an Achaean from Thessaly. They talked of the siege of Troy, feints and counterstrikes and raids, boasting genially of men killed and goods plundered and women raped. He took away an impression that casualties had been higher than anticipated, but not disastrously so.

“You won’t find it dull here while the princess is visiting,” he said after a while, leaning back in his chair and holding out his cup to a slave. “The hunting here is as good as any I’ve ever seen—no lions or leopards, but deer, auroch, wolves ... bears, bears beyond number. Every once in a while we have an expedition against the natives, or pitch in to help the Ringapi against their neighbors. Just dangerous enough to be real sport, and then we can collect something—slaves and cattle, at least. Something a bit different, before you return to the real war.”

The Achaean sighed—he went by the name Eruthos, “the Red,” although his hair was dark-brown, so he’d probably shed a lot of blood. He and the Iraiina, Shaukerax, exchanged glances. “We’re here until recalled, and so’s the princess,” he said. “Brought a whole raft of her things, you’ll find—boxes of books, servants, and tutors.”

“That’s right,” the girl said; she’d been drinking wine cut with two parts of water, and slowly, but she still spoke with care. “Damn, Harold’s still with Father, getting to see all the fun stuff.” Then she brightened. “But I forgot to tell you; when we took Troy, we captured I-an Aren-stein.”

She pronounced the name slowly and carefully; they’d been talking the Achaean of the court, salted with English words and the Eagle People accent, and it didn’t clash that much.

“Hmmm, that is news,” Ohotolarix said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

That had been his first sight of the Eagle People, after he woke on their great iron ship; the bearded face of that tall old man, a thing of sanity amid alien madness. It had been Arnstein and his woman who learned the first words of his tongue, too. Later word had come that Arnstein had risen very high among the enemy, become wiseman and adviser to the Islander King, Cofflin, and his emissary to the great rulers of the East.

“A great blow against the enemy,” he said.

Althea nodded. “It was Auntie Hong’s ninjettes who captured him, the Claws of Hekate,” she said eagerly. “They climbed right up into the citadel, the night the city fell—caught him and held him until the Guard got there.”

The officers nodded sourly. Kylefra’s eyes sparkled at their discomfiture. “And so the two Claws you saw were among those sent with the princess, to help instruct her,” she said proudly. “They bore messages from the Daughter of Night for me.” She looked at Althea fondly. “In a year or so, Princess, you will be eligible for initiation—there’s much they could teach you.”

“How to climb up walls and use those cool throwing stars, sure,” Althea giggled, then touched a hand to her mouth. “But I’ll worship as my father does. And now I should go to bed. May the sweet rest of drowsy night be yours, lords, Lady Kylefra.”

Hmmmm,
Ohotolarix thought.
Now, there goes one who will be as bad to cross as her father, in her time. And afraid of nothing, nothing at all.
Odd to think that of a girl, but things were different now ...
Oh, well, Harold will inherit.

The scar-faced Achaean officer had been exchanging glances with Kylefra. After a moment they excused themselves. Ohotolarix waved the slaves away and poured for himself and Shaukerax, dropping back into their birth-tongue. The speech of the
teuatha
of the Noble Free Ones sounded a little rusty and strange in his own ears, but it was pleasant to speak it again.