“It would not be seemly. Not like this, with the army. Don’t you think I want to, my beloved? But our time will come.”
He was about to protest—how did he know they would have any time at all, after this campaign?—but the look in her eyes stopped him. He could not treat Melisendra like a camp follower. Quite soon, she went back to the other leroni—her father, she said, would have been angry at even this surreptitious embrace, would have thought that she was behaving badly—not that he minded whom she loved, but to do it furtively, like this, on campaign, when all others must leave their loved ones behind, was shameful. When she had gone he stood watching her reflectively, thinking that this was the first time he had ever listened to a woman’s refusal. If any other woman had done this, he would have considered her a cheap, manipulative slut, trying to lead him around by the balls… What was happening to him? Why was Melisendra different?
And, an unwelcome thought, was it possible that his own attitude, in those days, had left something to be desired? Paul was not given to questioning the rightness of his own motives and actions, and this was a new idea to him, one he put aside, at once. Melisendra was different, that was all, and love was the art of making exceptions.
But it seemed to be his night for unwelcome thoughts. He lay awake, unable to sleep, and wondered what would happen when Bard knew that it was not a casual affair with Melisendra but that he wanted her for all time. And if he and Bard were the same man, with the same sexual tastes and desires, why was it that he had not tired of Melisendra at once, as Bard had done?
I have no consciousness of guilt toward her, and so Melisendra does not make me uncomfortable… and Paul almost laughed; Bard, feel guilty about anything? Bard was as free of the neurotic pattern of guilt as any man Paul had ever known, as free of it as Paul was himself. Guilt was a thing created by women and priests to keep men from doing what they wanted to do and had the strength to do, a tool of the weak to get their own way… Still it was a long time before Paul could get to sleep. He wondered dismally what was happening to him on this world.
At least it was better than the stasis box. And with this thought he finally managed to sleep.
The next day was gray and dismal, with rain flooding down, and Paul was surprised that they tried to march; though a little thought told him that in this climate, if they let rain stop them, they’d never do anything. And indeed, he saw herdsmen, mounted on strange horned beasts, watching over flocks in the fields, flocks of what Bard told him were rabbithorns; and farmers, many of them women, shrouded in thick tartan cloaks and wrappings, digging in the fields. At least, he thought glumly, they didn’t have to worry about watering their crops. He was glad he wasn’t a farmer. From what little he knew of them, it was either too wet or too dry. They rode by a lake and saw small boats out in the rain, hauling in nets. He supposed fish-farming was a good trade to be carried on in the rain.
Around noon—the days were longer here, and Paul could never be sure of the time unless he could see the sun—they stopped to eat the cold trail rations served out by the quartermasters: bread, coarse, with raisins or some kind of dried fruit, and nuts baked into it, a kind of bland cheese, a handful of nuts in their shells and a pale, sourish wine which, nevertheless, had considerable body and was refreshing and warming. It was, he knew, the commonest home brew of the countryside, and he felt he could get to like it
Halfway through the meal, Bard’s aide came to summon Paul to him. As he rose to obey the summons, Paul was conscious of looks and comments; he should, perhaps, warn Bard that this supposed favoritism to one who was, after all, new-come to his armies, could get him into trouble. But when he mentioned it, Bard shrugged it off.
“I never do the expected thing; that’s one of the reasons I got the name Wolf,” he said. “It keeps them off balance.” Then he told Paul that one of his runners had come in, bearing news that the Serrais army was not far away. As soon as the weather cleared, he would have to send out sentry birds to spot their exact position and formation. “But I have a young laranzu with the Sight,” he said, “and it may be that we can take them by surprise in the rain. Ruyven,” he said to another of his aides, “run and tell Rory Lanart, when he has finished his meal, to come to me at once.”
When Rory came, Paul noted with dismay that the young laranzu was only about twelve years old. Did children fight battles of sorcery and wickedness in this world, too? It was bad enough to have women in the field, but children? Dismay struck more deeply as he thought of young Erlend, the starstone about his throat. Would Erlend grow up in a world like this? He watched the child looking into the starstone, relaying the information they wanted in a quiet, faraway voice, and wondered what Melisendra thought of having her son brought up to this.
Bard, after all, is no more than a barbarian chief in a barbarian world. He and I are not the same man. He is the man I might have been in this barbarian society. There but for the grace of God, and all that.
He raised his head to find Bard watching him; but his double did not give any sign or hint as to whether or not he had read Paul’s mind this time. He only said, “Finished your meal? Bring along what you want to—I always put some nuts in my pocket to eat as I ride—and tell the aides to get the men started again. Rory, ride at the head of the army with me, I’m going to need you, and someone should lead your horse if you’re going to be using the Sight.”
They had not ridden for more than an hour, as Paul judged it, past the time of the nooning break when they came to the top of a hill; and Bard pointed, silently. Spread out in the valley below them, an army lay, formed up and waiting, and Paul identified, even at this distance, the green and gold banner of the Ridenow of Serrais. Between them and the Serrais army below was a little wood, a sparse grove of trees and undergrowth. A sudden flight of birds racketed upward, disturbed at their feeding in the bushes. Paul could hear Bard thinking: that’s done it, that’s the end of any idea that we might possibly take them by surprise. But their leroni would have better sense than that. And surely they have leroni with them.
Aides were riding along the ranks of the men, forming them up in the battle plan Bard has discussed, briefly, with Paul—one of the things which the other aides resented, he knew, was that their leader spoke to Paul, outsider and newcomer, as an equal. They had, of course, no idea quite how much Paul was Bard’s equal. But they sensed something and it made them angry. Some day, Paul knew, when there was time, he would have to deal with it. And he thought, with a trace of amusement, that when he and Bard were leading separate armies, each believing that it was led by the Kilghard Wolf himself, at least that source of friction would be gone; there would be no intrusive outsider to come between the Wolf and his loyal followers.
The signal was, as always, the drawing of Bard’s sword. Paul watched, his hand on the hilt of his own sword, waiting for Bard to give the sign for the charge. The rain had drizzled itself out, and only stray drops were falling. Now, suddenly, through a great break in the clouds, the great red sun came out and blazed, spreading light into the valley. Paul looked at the sky, thinking offhand that it was better to fight without the rain, but aware that the turf underfoot was still wet and the horses would find it slippery in the charge. Master Gareth had drawn his little army of sorcerers, gray-cloaked, off to one side, to keep them out of the way of the charge. When Paul had first ridden into battle, he had been anxious about Melisendra. Now he knew that she was in no physical danger in a battle such as this. Even under the concealing gray cloak, he could tell Melisendra by her riding.
He saw Bard draw his sword—then heard him cry out, and saw him raise the sword to slash at empty air. What, in God’s name, does he see? And all the men riding near him were behaving the same way—slashing at empty air, crying out, raising their arms to shield their eyes against some unseen menace; even the horses were rearing and whinnying in distress. Paul saw nothing, smelled nothing, even though one of the men cried out, “Fire! Look there—” and fell crashing from his horse, rolling a
way, screaming. And suddenly as he caught Bard’s eyes, in contact with his twin, he saw what Bard saw: over their heads, wheeling and screeching, strange birds flew, diving viciously at the eyes, causing the horses to rear up as their foul breath pervaded everything; and the horror was that the birds had the faces of women, contorted with lewd grins…
Paul saw this through Bard’s eyes; and through his own eyes… the day lay quiet, sunlit below them, the armies of Serrais quickly moving to repel the charge. Paul rose in his stirrups, his own sword flashing out. He bellowed—in, he knew it, Bard’s voice, “There’s nothing there, men! It’s illusion! What the hell are the leroni doing? Come on—charge!”
Bard’s swift response to the words reassured him. He shouted, “Charge!” and led the charge, riding through the illusion—Paul saw through his eyes the evil harpy that dived at his eyes and felt Bard duck, even while he knew that it was illusion. He smelled the stench of the beast-woman, but the frozen horror had broken; Paul had snapped back to his own awareness and was thundering, sword in hand, toward the first rank of the oncoming Serrais army. A man cut upward at his horse and he slashed and saw the man fall. And then he was fighting hand to hand, without the least instant to spare for magic horrors, or for seeing them through Bard’s eyes. At this moment he did not care what Bard might be seeing, whether or not it was there to be seen or was the product of sorcery or laran science.
They had still caught the Serrais army, who had relied on their sorcerers to delay the charge, at least partly by surprise. The battle was not brief; but not as long as Paul, helping Bard to assess the forces mastered against them, had believed. Bard came through miraculously unwounded. Miraculously, Paul thought, for throughout the battle, wherever he looked, Bard was in the thick of the fighting. Paul himself took a slash in the leg, which did more harm to his trousers than anything else. When the Serrais army, demoralized, fled, and Dom Eiric himself surrendered—Bard hanged him out of hand as an oath-breaker—the sun was setting, and Paul, his leg freezing under the flapping remnants of the leather breeches, rode to help the aides set up headquarters in one of the houses in the nearby village, commandeered. The men were set to plunder and rape, then burn the village, but Bard stopped them.
“These are my brother’s subjects; rebellious, it is true, but still our subjects, and while they may have been terrified into doing the will of the Serrais army, they shall have a chance to prove their loyalty or otherwise when they can act freely without an army at their throats. It will go hard with any man in this army who touches one of our subjects, loyal or disloyal. Pay for what you take, and lay no hand on any unwilling women.”
Paul, listening as Bard gave the order, reflected that he had not known Bard had this kind of sense, or that he could hold back men set on plunder. But when he spoke of this to Bard, Bard smiled. He said, “Don’t be a fool. I’m not being generous, though what I said is true, of course, and even more that the royal house of Asturias, and I, will get the credit for being generous with our subjects. But it’s more than that, much more. There’s simply not enough, of either plunder or women, to satisfy this army. And when they’d taken all there was to take, they’d fall to quarreling over it and cut each other to pieces—and I can’t have that in my army.” He grinned wickedly and said, “Anyhow, the officers have a little leniency—and you’d get first choice since you led the charge. We may not be so like after all—you’re braver than I, to lead the charge right through that nest of harpies! Or did you simply begin to suspect, earlier than I did, that they were illusion?”
Paul shook his head. “Neither,” he said. “I simply didn’t see anything.”
Bard stared. “You didn’t—not at all?”
“Nothing. I began, after a little, to see them through your mind—but then, I was only seeing what you saw, and I knew it.”
Bard pursed his lips and whistled. “That’s very interesting,” he said. “You picked up the burning of the Tower of Hali— gods above and below, that was a ghastly business! Wars should be fought with swords and strength, not with sorcery and fire-bombing! That hellish stuff they use is made by sorcery in the Towers; no normal process can manufacture it!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Paul said, “but I picked it up, again, through Melisendra’s mind. I didn’t see it myself.”
“Yes. Sex creates a bond. And I’ve often suspected that Melisendra’s a catalyst telepath. In a Tower she’d be used to awaken latent laran in someone who for some reason can’t use it. I suspect, without meaning to, she’s awakened what little of it I have. God knows, she’d never think she owed me any favors! And there are times I suspect that it’s no favor at all, though most people would think it so; there are times I wish I was immune to laran, or at least to illusion. If you hadn’t led the charge this morning, we’d have lost the last bit of our advantage. As for being immune to laran—unless you pick it up directly from my mind, or Melisendra’s, or from someone very close to you—well, that might be an advantage. We’ll talk about that afterward, maybe. I can think of a service you could do me.” His eyes narrowed and he looked sharply at Paul. “I’ll have to think about it. Meanwhile, I have this rebel village to deal with. Stand back there and listen to what’s happening; you might have to deal like this sometime.”
Paul, admonished, listened as he gave the commands about the men who had actively assisted the Serrais army. They were to pay double taxes this year; anyone who could not pay the taxes to do forty days of free labor on the roads— Paul had already learned that the forty-day cycle, corresponding to that of the larger moon, served the social purpose of a month, making up four tendays. Women, too, followed the forty-day menstrual cycle of the largest moon. At the end they cheered his leniency.
One of Bard’s fellow officers said, “With respect, Lord General, you should have burned them right out,” but Bard shook his head.
“We’re going to need good subjects to pay taxes. Dead men support no armies, and we need the work of their hands; and if we hanged them we’d somehow have to support their wives and children… Or are you suggesting we emulate the Dry-towners and sell the women and children off into brothels to earn their keep? How would people like that feel about King Alaric, to say nothing of his armies?”
Master Gareth said quietly behind him, “I am surprised. When he was a boy, no one ever suspected that Bard di Asturien, brave as he might be, would have grown up to have any political sense at all.”
A pretty, red-haired, round-bodied girl came up to them, bending in a low curtsy. “My father’s house is your headquarters, Lord General. May I serve you wine from his cellars?”
“Now that,” Bard said, “we’ll gladly accept. Serve it to my staff as well, if you will. And all the more for your serving it, my dear.” He smiled at her, and she returned the smile.
Paul, remembering that the women of the leroni had all been quartered at the far end of the village, in a house set apart, and that four guardsmen had been told to protect their privacy, remembered tales among the soldiers that Bard had a hell of a reputation with the women.
But before the girl could return with the wine there was a knock on the door, and one of the Sisters of the Sword, her scarlet tunic slashed and still battle-stained, burst into the room.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, and fell on her knees before Bard, “I appeal to the justice of the Kilghard Wolf!”
“If you are one of those who fought for us in the battle, mestra,” Bard said, “you shall have it. What troubles you? If any man with my army has laid a hand upon you—I personally do not think women should be soldiers, but if you fight in my army, you are entitled to my protection. And the man who has touched you against your will shall be gelded and then hanged.”
“No,” said the woman in the red tunic, laying a hand upon the dagger at her throat. “Such a one should have perished already by my hand or that of my sworn sister. But there were mercenaries of the Sisterhood in the army of Serrais, my lord. Most of them fled when that army fled, but one or
two were wounded and some of them stayed by their sisters; and now that the battle is over the men of your army are not treating them with the courtesy which is allowed by custom to captured prisoners of war. One of them has already been raped, and when I appealed to the sergeants to stop it, they said that if a woman took the field in war she should be sure not to lost her battle, or she should be treated not as a warrior but as a woman—” The woman soldier’s mouth was trembling in outrage. Bard rose swiftly to his feet.
“I’ll put a stop to that, certainly,” he said, and gestured to Paul and one or two of his officers to follow him as he strode out of the tent.
They followed the woman in red through the village and through the hurly-burly outside that was the army making camp, but they had not far to go past the village when they knew what the woman had been talking about. They heard a screaming of women, and a group of men had gathered around one of the tents, making lewd noises of encouragement. At one side a fight was going on, where a group of women in red were fighting to get through. Into the noise and confusion came Bard’s bellowing voice.
“What the hell is this all about? Stand back!”
“Lord General—” Murmurs, shocked noises of recognition. Bard thrust back the flap of the tent, and a minute later two men came staggering out under a savage kick. A woman was sobbing wildly inside. Bard paused to say something to the guard that Paul could not hear, then raised his voice again.
“Once and for all, I gave my orders: no civilian is to be touched, and no prisoner ill-used!” He jerked his head at the men he had kicked. They were sitting dazed on the ground, already drunk, their clothes undone, confused. “If these men have any friends here, take them back to their own quarters and sober them up.”