Seroda roused him by lamplight as per orders. The barbarians ashore were on the move again. Their galleys had raised anchor and were headed from midstream to the fishery dock. They had made no attempt against the larger ship that stood a ways off from them; doubtless they supposed its crew merely watched for an unlikely chance to slip past their fellows in the bay.
“Okay, I’ll be along,” Larreka said through what was half a yawn, half a chuckle at things which had happened at his dream party. Seroda gave him a bowl of soup and helped him back into his battle kit. He left HO in a cheerful mood. Who knew, maybe his friends really would find a way to bail him out.
The assault on shore shouldn’t bring any surprises that officers on the spot couldn’t handle. The riverside was less predictable, more interesting. Larreka hied there. From a bartizan above the gate, he observed.
Caelestia had cleared the western hills and was rapidly swinging up among the stars. To him it looked like a red shield curiously emblazoned. Its light spilled through the hot air, across the barren land, sullen until it struck the water; then it suddenly turned silver-cool, a trembling bridge. The barbarian craft moved black across that glade. When they docked, the yells of their crews rent whatever peace had been in this night.
The trick would be to keep them busy till the fire ship arrived—same as they were supposed to keep the legion amused while their comrades hit the opposite end of town. Across moonlit roofs, Larreka heard the racket of that attack. Bows droned, missiles whistled. Only those invaders stopped who were struck. The rest advanced in zigzag dashes, hard for sight to follow among shadows. Many carried torches, which streamed and sparked from their haste.
Behind them, sails loomed phantomlike, limned by flames. The crash when ship smote dock went on through ground and bones. The blaze roared outward. Yet the Valenneners, however dismayed they might be, didn’t break and run. They struggled over the earthworks to the bottom of the stockade; they poured oil out of leather bottles onto the timber, and their brands kindled it.
Did Arnanak deliberately fool me into thinking this was a diversion? Chaos, this is the main event! “Out, out!” Larreka bawled. “Sally—shove ’em back—before the whole wall bums!”
He pounded down the ramp and to the gate. Sword unsheathed, he led his troopers forth.
Metal sang upon metal. The barbarians rushed in, recklessly brave, hewing, hewing. Outnumbered, the legionaries stayed behind their shields and worked. They drove a wedge into the enemy that warded those of them who doused the fires. Then reserve forces reached the scene, and the soldiers could advance. Step by step, stab by stab, they drove the foe back down to the burning ships and the tides beyond.
“Good lads!” Larreka cheered. “Come on, finish ’em off, in the name of the Zera!”
A blow rocked him. Pain forked from his right eye. Darkness followed. He dropped the Haelen blade and fumbled at the shaft in his head. “Already?” he asked aloud. Amazement gave way to a whirling and thundering. His legs crumpled beneath him. A trooper crouched close. Larreka paid no heed. In the red light of moon and flames, he called on the strength he had left, before it ebbed wholly away, to help him dream what short small death dream he could.
TWENTY-ONE
Massive-walled, the room in the Tower of the Books was almost cool. Twinned sunlight slanted through windows curtained by strings of glass beads, to break in multitudinous hues on the stone floor. The same colors brightened the air, butterfly-like entomoids around Jerassa’s mane. The scholar stood at a table whereon he had unrolled a parchment from the full shelves which lined this chamber. His English was precise to the verge of pedantry; but no Ishtarian could help turning language into music:
“Here are diagrams of various muscle-powered vessels in use when humans arrived. They may still be found in some areas. The problem is, you see, my kind may be individually stronger than yours, but we are considerably larger, too. Fewer rowers, or crew-folk of any sort, can fit into a given hull. How best to apply available force?” He pointed. “This shows a supporting framework and system of sockets which enable forefeet as well as hands to work on an oar. And this shows a treadmill to drive paddle wheels or, in later models, a screw. But such devices are inefficient, and apt to break down when good steel is not present to withstand torque. The Valenneners and Fiery Sea islanders therefore combine fore-and-aft sails with ordinary oars, making a craft highly maneuverable though of limited displacement. We South Beronneners, as you may have noticed, favor large square-riggers. They have the drawback of sluggish response—for, in spite of arrangements like bosun’s chairs and ankle hooks, the crews cannot get about aloft as readily as you.
“Since your emissaries have taught us improved metallurgy, designers have been experimenting with propellers turned by windmills. In due course, naturally, we hope to build engines, but as yet the industrial base for that is absent and now, given periastron, we will scarcely establish any for centuries.”
He did not add. We could, if Primavera were again five to help us survive. There was no hint of reproach in the rich, sober voice. But Dejerine, standing beside him, winced.
“Those are exquisite just as drawings,” the human managed to say, quite truthfully. “And the… the brains, the determination, to accomplish this much when Anu forever returns—”
All at once it must out. “Why have you received me?” he asked. “Why do your people keep on being friendly to my men, when their own breed in town won’t speak to them?”
Jerassa’s eyes, which were golden, met his in calmness. “What would we accomplish by a freezeout of lonely youngsters, save to fence ourselves off from the many interesting things they can tell? Most of us are aware they had no choice about their purpose here. The Primaveran community hopes to exert influence on your ultimate leaders, through you, by withholding the skills—and the kinship—you need. We possess neither.”
Dejerine swallowed. “You’ve certainly won our sympathy,” he admitted. “For your plight; for the marvels we’d lose if your civilization dies.” And I too am brought to wonder about the war in space. Is it worth the cost and agony? Is it winnable ever? Is… it… even… any proper business of Earth’s? “But we have our duty.”
“I belong to a legion,” Jerassa reminded him.
The Ishtarian was about to resume his discussion of Sehala’s prediscovery scientific and technological status, when Dejerine’s com buzzed. He hauled the flat case from his tunic pocket, pressed accept, and barked into it: “Yes? What now?”
“Lieutenant Majewski here, sir,” the Spanish came, tinny by contrast. “Police Intelligence. I’m sorry to disturb you on your day off, but this is urgent.”
“Ah, yes, you’re assigned to keeping track of our good local citizens. Proceed.” Unease went along Dejerine’s backbone.
“You’ll recall, sir, they had accumulated a large stock of explosives for their projects. We left it in the storehouse under seal. After friction got bad, I decided to install a radio alarm, unbeknownst to them, and did under guise of re-checking the inventory. Shortly before dawn today, it rang. Unfortunately, we had nobody near town—well, the burglars would have made sure of that. By the time I could Hit there with a squad from base, the job was done. Very professionally. The seal showed no visible sign of tampering. The interior looked so usual, too, that we had to count practically every object to find that ten cases of tordenite and fifty blasting cells were gone.”