S. Stirling - Against the Tide of Years

Ian looked at the map again. Besides controlling the Bosporus, the Trojan kingdom also controlled a couple of the best land routes up onto the Anatolian plateau.

"That will be awkward," he said. "These barbarians who're invading-What are they like? Where do they come from?"

Tudhaliyas shrugged. "We're not sure. None of them speak any language that we can comprehend; none of the ones we've captured, at least."

He clapped hands, and one of the guards by the door ducked out. A few minutes later two more entered the room, pushing a prisoner before them. The man was tall, taller than either of the burly Hittite guards, and had his hands tied behind his back-his elbows, rather, which looked extremely uncomfortable. His chin had been shaved at some point and was now sprouting oak-brown stubble; his long hair and droopy mustaches were much the same color, and his eyes were dark blue. The remnants of his clothes were plaid, in garish colors. Trousers and shirt and jacket, Ian noted with interest. He also carried a powerful stench, but that was probably the result of imprisonment. A partially healed wound crusted one side of his head, and his eyes were a little bright with fever.

Another trooper lugged along a sampling of equipment. The Arnsteins' eyes narrowed. A broken-off spearhead, with a flame-shaped head and short socket; round-tipped bronze sword with flared-wing hilts cast on; a conical helmet with a model of a raven attached.

On a suspicion, Ian addressed him in the Iraiina language: "Who are you, warrior, and what is your clan and tribe?"

The man started violently and spoke in machine-gun-rapid language. Ian strained and could almost follow him; it was like the haunting pseudo-familiarity of Italian to someone who could speak Spanish.

"You know them?" Tudhaliyas said.

"Not them," Doreen answered. "Relatives of theirs, very far to the north and west… Ian, I'd say this guy was some sort of Central European, by his looks. Probably, and if he's typical."

Ian nodded thoughtfully, tugging at his beard. Physical appearance tended to follow the same geographical lines here as in the twentieth, roughly-but only roughly, of course.

"These also we took, but they don't seem to belong with the rest," Tu'dhaliyas said hopefully.

"I'll say they don't," Ian said thoughtfully, as a carpet was laid on the table and the plunder set forth.

Steel knife, he thought. A bowie, to be exact. Steel spearheads. And resting in the center, a double-barreled shotgun, flintlock variety. The prisoner stirred uneasily as Doreen took it up, then shouted and tried to dive for the floor when she pulled back the hammers, pointed it at him and pulled the trigger.

Clicking, and a shower of sparks from the right-side pan; the flint was missing from the hammer on the left. The prisoner raised his head cautiously, opening his eyes.

"Well, that tells us something," Ian said as the man was led away again. Namely, that this man has seen firearms in action but doesn't know enough to know that one wasn't loaded.

Tudhaliyas and his queen had tensed as well. "No thunder," he said shakily.

"Well, there goes the gunpowder monopoly we thought we'd have, once," Doreen muttered in English, putting the weapon down. "Damn Walker, anyway."

"No, it needs… food," Ian said. They were speaking Akkadian, and Akkadian didn't have a word for gunpowder. Yet.

"Well, that settles it," he said to the Hittite monarchs. "Your barbarian invasion is definitely linked to Walker-Walkheear."

Tudhaliyas shuddered. "The Wolf Lord," he muttered. "We've heard a good deal of him. Not least from Ahhiyawa refugees, since he killed their king and took his throne. It's said he has a witch-queen who sacrifices men to a Dark Lady in abominable rites and from their blood brews-ah, that she practices magic."

Ian and Doreen exchanged a glance. She'd kicked him under the table more than once in their joint diplomatic career, and probably Zuduhepa had just given her husband the same service, reminding him that the newcomers probably practiced similar sorcery, only this looked to be on their side.

Ian cleared his throat. Hong did practice all manner of abominations when she got the chance, and from her file and her record in Alba, she probably did dress them up in cultic garb. Walker would cheerfully turn that to use, of course.

"Walker is a rebel against our rulers, just as Kurunta of Tarhuntassa is against you," he said.

"So here we have Lord Kurunta of Tarhuntassa in rebellion against the Great Throne, probably with the Wolf Lord's aid; and these barbarians invading us from the northwest, also with the Wolf Lord's aid," Tudhaliyas said. "And we have Wiulusiya, which may not be a loyal vassal… and Tarhuntassa will make it difficult to receive aid from your people in Babylon, since the best road-Carchemish- runs on the edge of his territory."

Ian sighed. It was becoming increasingly obvious what they'd have to do. The Republic calls, he thought, and surprised himself at how little irony there was in it. I'm getting patriotic in my old age.

"Well, always interesting to see a new town," Doreen said in English, reading his expression.

"No," Ian said. "I need someone here to coordinate… and besides, my dear, if things go wrong… well, it would be a hard day for David if we were both there, wouldn't it?"

Doreen scowled. "You fight dirty," she said.

"Of course," he replied. "I fight to win."

The Hittites were beginning to look uncomfortable with this consultation in a language they could not speak. "My Sun," Ian said to Tudhaliyas, "we have a means of… flying over… difficulties. And soon we should knit all the strands of our strength together, testing our opponents as we do."

"Sorry to interrupt your honeymoon, Sis," Brigadier Hollard said, reining his camel in beside hers. He lifted his hat and wiped at the sweat on his face and neck with an already sodden bandanna.

Kathryn, Lady of the Land, Commander of Chariots, grinned back at him. "Wouldn't want to wear things out so soon," she said with a chuckle.

The Marine column was singing as they swung along the dusty dirt track:

Oh, we're marching on relief through Iraq's burning sands

A thousand fighting Islanders, the General, and the band;

Ho! Get away, you bullock-man, you've heard the bugle blowed!

The New Corps is a 'comin', down the Hittite road!

"Burning sands is a bit much for Hangilibat," Kathryn said judiciously. "More like 'dry semi-arid.' "

Hollard looked around. Fair enough, he thought. Moderately rolling plains, cut by tributaries running down from the Anti-Taurus far to the north to feed the Khabur and then the Euphrates; that was why it was also called the Rivers. There was actual grass on the ground even here; sparse, clumpy, beginning to frizzle up toward summer, but grass nonetheless. Even a few fields plowed into it, and the odd low thicket of waxy-leaved scrub oak.

Or there had been fields plowed into it; a lot of the land was deserted, and they'd seen precious little livestock. Supply would be a real problem if the force got any bigger; they had two battalions of Nantucket Marines, six hundred of Babylon's New Troops, some specialists, a contingent of the Royal Guard-also retrained on Westley-Richards breechloaders-and…

"Lord Kenn'et!"

Raupasha's chariot drew up beside them; the girl leaned back, the reins in one expert hand, her grin brilliant through sweat-caked dust, the gray eyes shining. The horses snorted and shied a bit at the smell of camel, but a word and pressure on the reins controlled them. She was escorted by Marines, a section of mounted infantry with their rifles at their knees. They were mostly young too; half of them were grinning in sync with the girl's infectious enthusiasm.

She was wearing Marine khakis herself-rather incongruous with the golden fillet of royalty-a Python revolver at her belt and a Werder in a scabbard attached to the frame of the war-car, and he suspected that the gangling spotted hound standing with its forepaws on the front of the chariot and its ears flapping in the breeze was unorthodox too.