Star Soldiers (7 page)

The Llor leader was within his rights. And Yorke could make no answer. One of the rules of the Combat forces was not to question any native dealings with each other according to the established customs of the alien world. Perhaps on Fronn the desecration of a parley flag was accepted as a regular move in war time. But Kana heard Bogate mutter:

"No luck outta this—no luck for us when there's blood on a truce flag."

The Blademaster turned and rode away and in a compact group the Terrans fell back to their own force. But added to their constant suspicion was now another disturbing thought. War as they knew it was governed by certain unbreakable rules. Should these few laws to which they had always sworn allegiance be broken, what might be the end?

There was a council of war to which a representative from each team was summoned, while the remainder of the Combatants stood to their arms and prepared for trouble, suspecting attack now not only from the royalists but from their so-called allies as well.

By dawn the decision was made. Since Skura had quoted custom their contract held and under it they must go into battle with the rebels. The royalists had been beaten out of the foothills and the rebel forces were spreading out in long pinchers. Skura had some companies of infantry but guen cavalry was his preferred arm and his few regiments of foot moved as light wings to the heavier Terran Horde. According to his intelligence the royal army opposing them was small. The majority of the great lords of the plains had not yet chosen sides. A quick victory over this force—it was really only the household troops S'Tork had managed to marshal against them—would bring the nobles to declare for the rebels and the whole of the plains would fall to Skura with only a few isolated mopping-up expeditions to be sent against lords stubbornly holding for his cousin.

The shrill fluting of the Llor war trumpets sounded across the rolling country. And the rebels appeared confident of the outcome of the battle as small detachments of foot trotted up to join the wings of the Terran company, and troops of cavalry rode on to establish contact with the enemy.

The Horde stripped for action. Gone were the ornaments and the attention-catching trappings. They were in a uniform green-gray battle dress which blended with the patches of bare soil as they took cover.

Kana stretched his legs along a slight hollow and rested the barrel of his rifle on a conveniently crooked limb of the runty bush which gave him cover. Overhead a flock of flying creatures zigzagged and screeched their fear and anger at this invasion of their private world.

The plan of battle was simple, but one classic in Llor tradition. The pincher claws of the cavalry would attempt to encircle the enemy and herd them in toward the center where they must face the devastating fire of the Archs. And since S'Tork's inferior force had been unwise enough to offer battle the rebels saw no reason why the maneuver should fail, for the only answer to it was retreat.

Kana looked around as Mills crawled up to join him. The veteran surveyed the recruit's choice of position critically before he gave unspoken approval by settling down to pick his own loop-hole in the cloaking foliage. Under the blast of the trumpets there was a low rumble of sound, the deep-throated shouting of the Llor battle slogans. Mills grinned at Kana.

"The flag's up—here we go!"

Their view of the battle was necessarily limited. And for what seemed like a very long period of time only the distant growl gave any indication that a struggle was in progress. Then came a burst of riders out of a small coppice. They milled about, apparently uncertain. But the color of their trappings was not to be mistaken. These were royalists who had been hunted into the waiting jaws of the trap in which the Terrans were the teeth.

Another group came out of the wood, and in this several mounts ran free and wild, dodging the men who strove to catch their reins. A dismounted Llor ran lightly from cover and behind him hobbled another, using a lance as a crutch. The hesitating troop which had preceded these strays broke in two. One, the smaller portion, dressed ranks, drew swords and rode back into the trees; the other, keeping very little order, came on down the valley. Kana picked his target before the fellow came into reasonable range. Here there were no war trumpets, no battle songs, but the hidden line of the sharpshooters tensed. And, as the party of fugitives passed that outcrop of rock which gave the Combatants a range marker, a withering blast of fire tore them out of their saddles, sending the guen mad with fear. One or two broken figures crawled along the ground, but not a rider passed that rock.

Kana could not close his eyes, though his insides twisted. This proved to be very different from firing at humanoid robots set to dash and dodge across a carefully marked rifle range—which had been his only test of marksmanship before. A second ago he had fired at a good target—that was all the squeeze of the trigger had meant to him then. The Llor he had centered his sights upon had had no identity as a living creature. But—! He gagged and fought against a rising push of nausea. He was given little time to examine his muddled emotion for a second wave of royalists had been beaten out of the woods. This time they were mingled with their pursuers, whirling in a mounted dance of death with a detachment of the rebels who hacked them downslope to the lines of the dead the Terrans had shot. But the enemy were giving a good account of themselves, there were almost as many empty saddles among the rebel band.

"Skura!"

Kana had not needed Mills' identification. The rebel chieftain was unmistakable as he beat and slashed his way to the leader of the loyalist troop. That officer, as imposing physically as the would-be Gatanu, accepted battle with the same eagerness. And, while their followers struggled around them, the two leaders settled down to expert saber work. The royalist was bleeding from a slash high on one shoulder but it did not impair his efficient swordplay. As yet Skura was untouched.

The ring of tempered metal upon metal carried to the Terrans, but they continued to hold their fire. There was too much chance of shooting the wrong man in the melee. The gu ridden by the royalist attempted to use its teeth on Skura's mount. And in one such lunge it jerked its rider out of position. Skura's blade bit deep into the other's forearm and the royalist's sword fell from helpless fingers. Skura had just raised his blade to deliver the death stroke when he himself crumpled, collapsing over his gu's head into the dust.

Perhaps only the Terrans saw that pencil of flame spray from the wood to strike down the rebel leader in the moment of his triumph. The Llor who, seconds before, had been locked in a death struggle were shocked into quiet, all staring at Skura. Then, with a wild wail of horror and despair, his followers attacked, killing ruthlessly. Two royalists escaped into the woods. The rest were dead.

"That was a flamer!" Kana's voice was swallowed up in the cries of the Llor.

They had gathered up the Chortha's body and were tying it in the saddle. Then they rode north. Mills got to one knee to watch them go.

"That's the end of the war," he remarked.

As if his observation were a signal, the piercing whistle of recall brought the Combatants out of line, withdrawing to secondary positions. Alert and ready the Terrans waited out the afternoon. But what Mills had said at the moment of Skura's fall proved to be true. The death of the rebel chieftain demoralized his followers, the war was at an end and the Llor avoided the off-world men. The Combatants suspected that minor rebels were trying to make deals. And at that moment the future of the Horde was bleak. However, when such defeats had occurred before in Combatant history, the Horde or Legion retained by the defeated leader had always been given free access to its transport ships and allowed safe conduct off the planet.

Soldiers are largely conservative, ruled by custom, and since custom was now on their side and they were freed from an entanglement most of them had come to regard as risky, there was a feeling of relaxation, of "Well, the worst is now over," in the Horde camp that night. They kept a patrol about the environs of their position, and there was no slacking on guard. But the death of Skura, who had left no heir to rally his men, absolved them from their pledged support. And now, with something of a holiday lightheartedness, they looked forward to a speedy return to Tharc where the transports waited.

The only gloomy reaction to the events of the afternoon was the realization that the shortness of the campaign would mean only basic pay. But Kana and some others sensed that the future might not be so bright.

The recruit noted that Yorke, the three Swordtans, and some veterans, including Mills, did not drag out their bed rolls that night. And when he was roused for second guardpost duty in the very early morning he saw the light still shining in the small tent where the officers had gathered.

Skura had been killed with a flamer—which meant that at least one more illegal weapon was in the hands of the enemy. Who had brought the arms to Fronn and why? Kana puzzled over that as he took his post. The chill black of the Fronnian night was alive with sounds which might or might not signal danger. But a circle of guard lamps set at intervals around the camp made a barrier of light.

Flying things attracted there and blinded by the radiance beat around the lamps, making a funnel of winged bodies down to the very lens. Hunting these bemused tidbits came larger creatures, some on four legs and some on two, others skimming on wings themselves. This was rich feasting and not a few vicious quarrels ensued.

Suddenly the low-hanging branches of a bush were pushed aside and a man stepped out into the full beam of the light, halting as if he wanted to be recognized. And the newcomer was no Fronnian.

Kana's rifle went up until its sights covered that swaggering design of crossed rockets on the breast of the stranger's tunic. A Mech—in full uniform! Kana whistled for the guard and snapped:

"Stand where you are—hands up!"

The other laughed. "Not planning to do anything else. I've a message for Yorke."

A slap across his sleeping bag shocked Kana into groggy wakefulness some hours later. Mills towered over him.

"Hit dirt," the veteran commanded brusquely. "We're pulling out."

Pulling out they were and with unusual speed. Kana had barely time to throw his bag on a cart already moving. And he was still rubbing the smart of sleep out of his eyes as he fell in with his team. They were marching in "hostile country" order he noticed—scouts out on the wings. And Terran drivers, not Llor, prodded the baggage guen into action. In fact in all that winding column there was not a native Fronnian to be seen. Nor were they headed back into the mountains toward Tharc, but instead following a trail which led away at right angles, north along the foothills.

The new road dwindled into the faintest of tracks within a mile or so. From the exasperated comments voiced about him Kana gathered that none of the lower rank Combatants knew where they were headed or why. And more than once he caught muffled suggestions about the mysterious troubles which had recently overwhelmed other Hordes and Legions light years from home. In spite of their usual fatalism, the morale of the mercenaries might be seriously affected if the situation continued.

Perhaps this new move was the result of that visit the Mech had paid their camp in the early morning. But the confidence the Terrans had shown after Skura was slain was fast changing to a growing uneasiness.

After a space the trace they followed grew so narrow that it seemed they must abandon the carts. Two of the scouts came in to report, a native with them, a Llor of the petty officer class, wearing a stained bandage about his head, one arm in a grimy sling. Rumor rippled down the ranks.

"There's a big river ahead—and no bridge—"

Before that news had reached the tail of the last team the call to general council was whistled. Yorke's voice, clippy and tinny, came through the speakers.

"Men, the situation is not promising. We were informed that S'Tork has enlisted the services of Mech renegades—how many we do not yet know. We have not been offered safe conduct, and we cannot return to Tharc without it. Until we can make a treaty and enforce the recognition of our position under general Combat usage, we must mark time. We shall send a message to Secundus—"

"And who's going to grow a space drive and fly it there through space?" Kana heard someone ask grimly in a half whisper.

"We have information," Yorke was continuing, "that there is another mountain gap to the north which we may cross if we cannot come to terms—we are now heading toward that. In the meantime we must do nothing to arouse the enmity of the royalists, give them any reason for declaring that we fought on after the death of Skura. Under no provocation, no matter how severe, is any Swordsman to use his weapon against a Llor—until this order is countermanded. We shall continue in `hostile country, plan three' until further notice. Change the loads on the large carts to back-packs for the guen. Only the three small handcarts can be used from this point on. We shall establish a night camp beside the river—"

The use of resisting guen for pack animals was not easy. And it was nearly twilight before the detachment of which Kana was one, pulling and batting their snarling beasts down to the lighted area of the camp the van had set up, gained the river. The site of the Terran position was on a bluff above the dark, oily water which washed the clay bank with unwholesome ripples. And an almost vertical descent plunged into a powerful current. They need not fear a surprise attack from that direction.

Kana strode along the bank, looking at the flood. From the white foam collars wreathing the rocks there he judged that the current was too swift to grant them an easy crossing. As his eyes trailed bubbles downstream he saw dancing dots of light moving through the blackness of the night, coalescing on the same bank farther east. Another camp? Then the Horde's line of march must have been paralleled by a detachment of Llor.

Luckily the Horde carried their own rations. Natives who themselves depended upon the natural produce of their land could not readily gauge the superior mobility of an army for whom the supply problem consisted of a relatively small amount of condensed food tablets and other concentrated rations, weeks' needs being carried easily in an individual's own belt pouch. The ancient "scorched-earth" policy would not be effective against Terrans—unless they could be kept from their base for a period comprising months.