The Unwilling Warlord (5 page)

Chapter Six

He pushed away the plate and stood up.

Alder looked up, startled, and began, “My lord . . .”

“Oh, go ahead and eat,” Sterren said crossly. He was already getting tired of the strange new deference paid him. Alder had just started to eat, but he was obviously ready to leap up and follow orders, should his warlord care to give any.

His warlord did not. His warlord was feeling very much out of place. His moods kept swinging back and forth. This room, and title, and rank were all very well, and could be a lot of fun — but they also seemed to be permanent and involuntary, which could be tiresome, quite aside from the accompanying responsibilities and risks. It was clear, de­spite the submissive gestures from Alder and Lady Kalira, that he was still something of a prisoner; if he tried to just walk out of the castle, and head back toward Ethshar, he was quite sure that Alder or Dogal or both would follow him, and probably stop him before he got out of the village.

And he was tired of seeing Alder and Dogal, after several days spent traveling in their close — very close — company.

At least Lady Kalira was gone, and he would be meeting other people soon.

Of course, that, too, had both its appealing and frightening aspects. These people were barbarians, not Eth­shar­ites; he was sure that he was not what anybody expected in a warlord, and he had no idea just how the Semmans might deal with his shortcomings. That mention of summary execution, back in the tavern on Bargain Street, had stayed with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.

Dogal and Alder had eaten in turns, and Dogal was now guarding the door, keeping Sterren’s officers, who had arrived a moment earlier, waiting in the hall.

“Dogal,” Sterren called, “send them in.”

Dogal said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed the three waiting men to enter.

Each in turn stepped into the chamber, bowed, spoke, and then stepped aside to make room for the next.

“Anduron of Semma, Lord Sterren,” said the first, with a graceful bow and a jingle of jewelry. He was tall and sturdy, richly dressed in blue silk, perhaps thirty years old — certainly much older than Sterren. Like every Semman Sterren had yet seen, he was dark-haired and deeply tanned. Sterren thought he detected a family resemblance to the king.

He also detected, more definitely, a trace of scent, something vaguely flowery.

“Arl of the Strong Arm,” said the next, bobbing his head. He was shorter, but Sterren guessed his weight to be no less than Anduron’s, and his age was probably similar. He wore a red kilt and red-embroidered yellow tunic, and smelled of nothing but leather and sweat.

“Shemder the Bold,” said the third, without ceremony. He fell between the others in height, but clearly weighed less than either of them, being thin and wiry, and was younger as well, surely no more than twenty-five — but still older than Sterren. His garb was similar to Arl’s, but more ornate and better-kept, and Sterren could detect no odor at all.

These three were more or less displaying the forms of deference due a superior, but it was obvious they did not really feel any of the respect those forms implied.

Lady Kalira had been subtler in her contempt.

“I’m Sterren of Ethshar,” Sterren replied, bowing in his turn. He pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, refusing to yield to the Semman usage. After all, he thought resentfully, Semmat did use the TH sound — just not in combination with SH.

“Your pardon, my lord,” said Anduron, “but would it not be more proper to call yourself Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma?”

Anduron’s words were smoothly spoken, and Sterren would have liked to make a graceful reply. His limited knowledge of the language forced him to make do with, “I guess you’re right. I’m still new at this.” He smiled, not very convincingly.

Behind him, Alder was hurriedly stuffing the last few bites of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth.

The three new arrivals stood stiffly silent for a moment.

“Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, finally, “you sent for us?”

“Yes,” Sterren said. “Of course. Sit down.” He waved at the chairs in the various corners. Alder was just getting up from the chair at the desk, and after an instant’s hesitation Sterren settled on the foot of the bed instead of trying to maneuver behind the soldier.

The officers obeyed, bringing the chairs to a rough semi-circle. Once seated, they stared stonily at Sterren.

He took a deep breath, and delivered his little speech, two of the longest sentences he had yet contrived in Sem­mat.

“I called you here because I am told I am a warlord now, whether I like it or not. I think I need to find out what that means, and what it is I am expected to do.”

The officers still stared silently.

“You aren’t making this easy,” Sterren said, blinking at them.

“Lord Sterren,” Shemder said, “you still haven’t told us what you want of us.”

“What I want,” Sterren said, “is to know what I, your warlord, am expected to do. I want you three to tell me.”

The three exchanged looks.

“My lord,” Shemder said, “it is not our place to tell you what to do. It is your job to tell us what to do.”

Sterren suppressed a sigh. Whether they resented the elevation of a stranger as their superior, or whether they were testing him somehow, or whether they were simply stupid or stubborn or unimaginative, Sterren had no way of knowing, but he could see plainly enough that his officers were not going to be a great deal of help.

At least, not at first. Perhaps they would adjust eventually.

“Lord Shemder . . .” he began.

“I am no lord,” Shemder interrupted.

Sterren acknowledged the correction with a nod, and said, “Shemder, then, tell me your duties.”

“My duties, Lord Sterren?”

“Yes, your duties.” He hoped he hadn’t gotten the wrong word.

“I have no duties at present, my lord; I am the commander of the Semman cavalry, not a mere guardsman.”

“Cavalry?” The word was unfamiliar.

“Cavalry.”

Sterren looked at Alder, who supplied, “Soldiers on horses.”

Sterren nodded, filing the word away. “Cavalry. Good. You’re the commander of the Semman cavalry. Do you have a particular title? Do I call you my lord, or commander?”

“Captain, my lord,” Shemder said grimly. “You call me Captain.”

“Thank you, Captain Shemder. And Captain Arl, is it?”

“Yes, Lord Sterren.” Where Shemder had sounded barely tolerant of his new lord, Arl sounded resigned and despairing.

“Captain of what?”

“Infantry, my lord — foot soldiers.”

Sterren nodded politely, appreciative of Arl’s trace of cooperation in explaining an unfamiliar word without forcing Sterren to ask.

“And Captain Anduron?”

“Lord Anduron, my lord. I am your second in command, in charge of everything that Captain Arl and Captain Shemder are not — archers, the castle garrison, supply, and so forth.” He spoke with studied nonchalance, sprawling comfortably on his chair.

“Ah!” That sounded promising, especially once Alder and Lord Anduron between them had explained the unfamiliar words. Sterren wondered if he could palm off all his duties on Lord Anduron and leave himself to enjoy his position as a figurehead. Lord Anduron had a look of cool competence about him that Sterren hoped was not mere af­fectation. “How many archers are there?” he asked.

Lord Anduron’s reply burst Sterren’s bubble instantly.

“None, at present,” he said calmly.

“None?”

“None. We’ve had no need of any for forty years, after all; archers aren’t particularly impressive in parades or display, and bow-wood is expensive. Old Sterren — that is, your esteemed predecessor, the Eighth Warlord — allowed all the old archers to retire, and left it to me, or my father before me, to replace them, and we didn’t trouble to do so. If we need archers, I’m sure we can find and train them quickly.”

“Ah.” Sterren tried to look wise and understanding, although he had missed several words, and was fairly certain that training a competent archer took a good deal more time and effort than Lord Anduron thought — especially if there were no trained archers around to serve as teachers. “What about the castle . . . garrison? Is that the word?”

“My lord speaks Semmat like a native, of course,” Lord Anduron said. Shemder interrupted him with a quickly-suppressed burst of derisive laughter. Lord Anduron cast him a cold glance, then went on, “The castle garrison, my lord, is composed of whoever happens to be inside the castle at the time of an attack.”

“I see — you mean the nobles, and the servants, and so on?”

“Why, no, Lord Sterren, of course not. One could hardly expect the nobility to soil their hands with the hauling about of gates and bars, or hurling stones, and the servants will have their normal duties to perform. No, I mean whatever villagers reach the shelter of the castle walls in time.”

Sterren stared at Lord Anduron for a moment, then decided argument would do no good, most particularly in his limited Semmat. He turned his head and asked, “Captain Shemder, how many men and horses do you have?”

“Twenty men, my lord, and twelve horses,” Shemder replied promptly and proudly.

Sterren realized with a shock that his escort into the castle had been most of the cavalrymen in the entire king­dom — and all the cavalry’s horses.

“Captain Arl?”

“At present, Lord Sterren, I have sixty-five men and boys, all fully armed, well-trained, and ready for anything.”

Sterren somehow doubted that the Semman infantry was ready for anything. What, he wondered, would they do in the face of an attack by the overlord of Ethshar of the Spices? Azrad VII had ten thousand men in his city guard alone. He could overwhelm Semma completely with a tenth of his soldiery, without calling on any of his more important resources — the militia, the navy, his magicians, the other two-thirds of the Ethsharitic triumvirate, and so on.

But these were the Small Kingdoms, and things were obviously different here.

The three officers all seemed very confident, certainly, and they surely knew more of the situation than he, a foreigner, did.

Even so, eighty-five men and a few frightened refugees did not seem like a very large force for a castle the size of Semma’s.

“Lord Anduron,” he asked, “what about magic?”

The young nobleman looked puzzled. “What about magic, my lord?”

“What magicians do you command?”

“None, my lord; what would I have to do with magicians?”

“Are they infantry or cavalry, then?”

“No,” Arl said, as Shemder shook his head.

“Aren’t there any magicians in the castle, then?” Sterren asked, truly frightened.

The three officers stared at each other. It was Lord Anduron who spoke, finally, saying, “I suppose there might be one or two. Queen Ashassa keeps a theurgist about, Agor by name, and I’ve heard the servants chatter about a wizard among their number. The village has an herbalist or two, and a witch, I believe, but they aren’t in the castle. Lord Sterren, forgive me, but why do you ask?”

“Don’t you use magic . . . Isn’t it . . .” Sterren’s Semmat failed him momentarily. He took a deep breath, and began again.

“In Ethshar,” he said, “Lord Azrad keeps the best magicians with him. They would use their . . . their magic, if the city were attacked. Ships carry magicians, to defend against . . . against other ships, which of course have their own magicians. No one would dare a big fight without magic.” He cursed himself and all of Semma for his lack of a correct title for Azrad, and the words for “spells,” “pirates,” and “battle.”

For several long seconds the room was absolutely silent. Then Shemder spat a word that Sterren had never heard before.

“Lord Sterren,” Lord Anduron said, “we do not use magic in war here.”

Lord Anduron’s tone was flat and final, but Sterren could not stop himself from shouting, “Why not?” In his thoughts, which were in Ethsharitic, his phrasing was a good bit more colorful.

“It isn’t done. It never has been.”

Sterren stared at him for a moment. “I see,” he said at last. He blinked, and then said, “If you will forgive me, I am tired from my journey. I need to rest.” In truth, what he felt a need for was time to digest the situation. “Go now, and I will speak with you again later. Perhaps after dinner. I would like to . . . to look at the soldiers.”

“Review the troops?” Arl suggested.

“I think so,” Sterren agreed, nodding. He stood up.

The other three leapt up as well. Each in turn bowed, and then left the room.

Lord Anduron bowed deeply, and swept out; Arl bowed stiffly, and marched out; Shemder bobbed his head, and stalked out.

Sterren stared after them, then burst out, in Ethsharitic, “What a bunch of idiots!” He had been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt in regard to the numbers and preparedness of their forces, but to so completely and arbitrarily rule out the use of magic in warfare was ridiculous! What would guard them against treachery? How could they know what the enemy was planning? Who would heal wounds? Sending soldiers out to fight with nothing but swords and shields was truly barbaric.

And most importantly, what would they ever do if they fought an enemy who did not bother with such scruples?

Obviously, they would lose, and lose quickly and decisively.

He could only hope that nothing like that happened while he was warlord. His duty, Lady Kalira had told him, was to defend Semma, but some things were indefensible.

An Ethsharitic obscenity escaped him.

“My lord?” Alder inquired, startled by the outburst.

“Nothing,” Sterren said. “It’s nothing.” His initial amaze­ment at the idea of fighting a war without using magic was beginning to fade, and another thought struck him. “What was that that Shemder said, about using magic to fight?”

Uncomfortably, Alder asked, “You mean that word, gakhar?” He shifted uneasily.

“Yes, that’s it.” Sterren saw Alder’s discomfort, but declined to let him off the hook; he stared inquiringly.

Reluctantly, Alder said, “It means a . . . a person of no culture, a person not fit to be among ordinary people.”

Sterren considered that, then stared after the vanished Shemder the Bold.