"This is too easy," he muttered.
Sections of the palisade were down, ripped aside. His men stood exchanging spearthrusts through the gaps, then began to push through-and none of them were down, that he could see. The second rank were slinging their crossbows, drawing swords, and setting shields on their arms. He signed abruptly to the men around him, and they trotted toward the gate, holding their shields up to protect him. Few arrows flew as they ran, although there was a sharp crack and yelp as a slingstone struck a man on the thigh. He stumbled and limped, but kept walking, which made him lucky-those things could break bone easily enough.
The gate was closed with wattle hurdles, woven stick barriers usually used to pen sheep, reinforced with a two-wheeled cart and some pieces of thorny bush. Walker's eyes narrowed in interest as a thin column of black smoke rose from within the enclosure; that was probably a signal. He noticed something else as someone on the other side of the cart tried to hit him with a flail-a long stick with a short one fastened to it with a leather thong, usually used to beat grain out of the stalk.
Shunngg. The thong parted against the razor-edged katana, and the shorter oak batten went pinwheeling off. His downstroke slashed the wielder across the upper arms as she goggled at him, and the Fiernan fell in a spray of blood that caught him across the face.
Too many women, he thought, spitting out the warm salt-copper taste and wiping a hand across his mouth. Even Iraiina women would fight sometimes when their homes were attacked, and the Earth Folk were less hidebound about things like that. But there should still have been more men behind the barricade, a solid majority at least. Those that were there were too old, or too young, besides being too few.
Conical iron helmets came up behind the Earth Folk, and red-dripping blades. Combat turned into flight and massacre.
"Prisoners!" Walker shouted. "Get me some prisoners!"
He stalked through the chaos, keeping an eye out to make sure nobody got enthusiastic with torches. The black smoke was coming from a small hot fire that had been half doused with damp straw and old woolen rags; he kicked it apart with a boot and stamped on the embers. Isketerol was already busy with a girl, his buttocks pumping like a fiddler's elbow as she screamed and sobbed and writhed- the Tartessian wasn't as bad as Rodriguez, but he did have a severe case of Spanish Toothache nonetheless-while most of the rest were looting by the numbers, the way he'd taught them. He knocked aside one spearshaft poised to run through a screeching five-year-old.
"Nits make lice, lord," the warrior growled.
"The young ones train easier," Walker replied mildly; the man lowered his eyes and shuffled feet. "Get to work."
Something's wrong, he thought again, standing by the big stack of unthreshed grain.
Ohotolarix and another of his Iraiina came up, pushing a woman ahead of them. "Here's your prisoner, lord," they said, grinning; one shoved her forward. She was naked, a big-breasted brunette staring around in near-hysteria. "We didn't even mount her ourselves," Ohotolarix added virtuously.
"You," Walker said, putting the tip of his reddened sword under her chin. She froze at the touch of the sharp wet steel, eyes going even bigger. "Where men? Where of-you men?
She licked her lips and spoke, very carefully. He caught about one word in four; the Earth Folk language was just too damn difficult. The man with Ohotolarix frowned and translated:
"Toward the big… the Great Wisdom, she says, lord." The warrior made a warding sign of the horns, with the index and little finger of his right hand. "The Moon-bitch's place. Evil magic."
A gust of fury filled Walker, like a blinding light behind the eyes. Thoughts strung themselves together, dropping into place. He was suddenly conscious of the woman flopping and gurgling on the ground before him with her throat gashed open, and the two Iraiina staring at him goggle-eyed.
"We don't have much time," he forced himself to say, running his sword through a rag and sheathing it. "Ohotolarix, see to the most portable loot, nothing else-no women, nothing bulky. We leave now. Nothing that can't keep up with the horses. Go, go, go!"
They went, running; it was a big perk of having people think you were supernatural. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them to turn the cattle loose too, but there were things even Hwalkarz the Wizard had to think twice about.
"What's the matter, blood-brother?" Isketerol said, coming up smiling and adjusting his clothing.
"Look at that," Walker grated in English, pulling a sheaf of wheat from the stack.
"It's just…" The Tartessian's eyes flicked from Walker's face to the grain. "The straw is too long. Why would anyone bend that low to cut grain?"
"No one did," Walker said, remembering the smooth low cut in the fields outside the settlement. "A machine did it. So the fighting men here didn't need to. And if they're gone even from this pissant little place close to the frontier-"
Isketerol's eyes bulged. "The Fiernans could be mobilizing all their fighting men-right now, while we thought they were still working on the harvest!"
Walker turned and walked up to the top of the embankment, facing north, unshipping his binoculars, and looking carefully from horizon in the east to horizon in the west until he caught the blink… blink… from the hilltop two miles away.
"What is that?" the Iberian asked,
"Heliograph. Signals by flashing lights off a mirror in code. With good binoculars, it's almost as fast as radio- and harder to detect." He had a continuous radio watch kept on the equipment Yare had brought over; a bicycle rig for charging batteries had been part of the cargo. "And we, my friend, have been suckered. Let's torch this shitheap and get going. Time to get the army together."
Isketerol nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps… we should take some, ah, what's the word, precautions!"
Walker nodded. "Just in case."
Andy Toffler swore softly under his breath as he stooped, pushing the goggles up on his forehead. Bad one, he thought. The buildings and grain were all burning, and the raw harsh scent made him cough as he flew through it. Lower, and he could see bodies lying between the burning huts, and more scattered outside the enclosure. Some of them were moving.
"GHU here. Hamlet has definitely been destroyed," he said. "Doesn't look like much is left. Over."
"Central here. Any sign of wheel tracks?"
"That's negative, Central. Ground's too hard anyway. I'm going in."
"Negative on that. Return to base. Over."
"Sorry, transmission breaking up. Over."
He eased the ultralight down, into the stubble field next to the hamlet. The soft balloon wheels touched as he flared the nose up a little, killing speed, and the machine ran itself to a stop in scarcely twelve feet. There was a shotgun in a scabbard on the frame next to his seat. He racked the slide and made his way cautiously toward the fires.
"Damn," he said softly. "Gawd damn."
The first thing he ran into was sheep, savagely hacked and stabbed, as if by someone in a very bad mood. Then people, together as if they'd been herded into a bunch. Women mostly, and some children. A lot of the women lying on their backs naked, with their throats cut, or curled around a spear wound. Toffler swallowed a mouthful of spit and made himself look at the ground. In the stretch about the hamlet's embankment there was sign of horses-dung, and the imprint of a shod hoof where one of them had stepped in it. More bodies just within the wall, these looking as if some of them had gone down fighting. Many of them had Nantucket-style crossbow bolts in them, or the broken stubs, or gaping holes where they'd been cut out for reuse.