The glass slipped from his hands. A sharp cry from Hong drew his eye. She was recoiling, bewildered. The toy had gripped the chain which spanned the rings in her nipples and wrenched it out. Blood spattered down her pale stomach, but her face was expressionless; then it broke into a dawning smile. She stood and ran three steps and fell facedown, her arms and legs beating a tattoo on the turf, like the wings of a beetle thrown on its back.
"Dad!" Harold cried. "I can't feel my hands! I can't-" He slapped himself, tears leaking down his face. "I can't-
His words ended in a rush of vomit; Walker could smell how he fouled himself. His father tried to rise and go to him, but his hands slipped off the table despite the sudden and desperate fury that welled up and turned the world misty red. The generals and officers down the table were trying to rise as well, and falling, and moaning.
Walker looked at Hong. Her eyes were wide, and her hands clutched her stomach.
"Aconite," she whispered. "Chilies hid the taste-ow!"
The sun was falling… no, the light was falling, faster than the sun. Walker felt a pain in his gut, deep and strong, like a sword stab. He collapsed forward, all the huge strength of his body gone. Hong was shaking as she clutched at herself.
"It hurts, Will," she whimpered. "Make it stop, Will. Make it-
The words were lost in retching and convulsions. Men were shouting and running, far away. Walker fumbled at the butt of his pistol, but there was no sensation in his hand. He had to get it out, find the cook, and kill-Night fell, and he fell with it, endlessly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
April, 11 A.E.-Meggido, Kingdom of Egypt
May, 11 A.E.-Walkeropolis, Kingdom of Great Achaea
April, 11 A.E.-Meggido, Kingdom of Egypt
"Back!" Djehuty snarled.
He smashed the pommel of the sword into the fleeing spearman's face, feeling bone crunch. Behind Djehuty, the men of his personal guard leveled their double-barreled shotguns, and the madness faded out of the faces of the soldiers who'd panicked. Those who still held their spears lowered them, and in the uncertain light of dawn he could see them shuffle their feet and drop their eyes.
"If you run from death, it follows you-and death runs fast," Djehuty said, his voice firm but not angry. "Remember that it is ruin to run from a fight, for you cannot fight and flee, but the pursuer can still strike at your naked back as he chases you. Return to your positions."
"Sir-" one said, desperate. "Lord, the thunderbolts strike us and we cannot strike back!"
"I know," Djehuty said. The bandage on one forearm reminded them that he ran the same dangers. "But they cannot take our position unless they send men forward to claim it, and those men you can strike." Those of you who are still alive by then. "Return to your companies! Fight the foe!"
He turned, stalking through rows of wounded men groaning on the rocky dirt, through shattered carts and dead horses- someone was skinning them for cooking, at least, and he must find who'd thought to organize parties to fill waterskins-and looked up the pass. Nobody; nobody but his reserves, and they were few enough.
If Pharaoh does not come, we will die here, he thought. Unless he withdrew now, leaving a rear guard… No. We have lost too many of our draught beasts. I cannot save the cannon or the chariots. A grim satisfaction: I have done my part, and my men as well. If the plan fails, it is not our doing.
Pharaoh's doing… he thrust the thought from him.
Then there was something in the pass: a messenger. A mounted messenger, plunging recklessly down the steep rocky way, leaning back with feet braced in the stirrups as his horse slid the final dozen yards almost in a sitting position. It hung its lathered head as the messenger drummed heels on its ribs and came over to him, wheezing as its flanks heaved like a bronzesmith's bellows. The man looked nearly as done-in as his horse, his face a mask of dust and sweat.
"Here," Djehuty said, passing over his waterskin.
The man sucked at it eagerly; the water was cut with one-fifth part of sour wine. "Lord," he gasped after a moment. "From Pharaoh."
He offered a scroll of papyrus; Djehuty touched it to his forehead in the gesture of respect and broke the seal to read eagerly; his eyes skipping easily over the cursive demotic script.
Enemy ships with many guns at the Gateway of the North, he read, and grunted as if shot in the belly. That was the fortress of Gaza, the anchor of the Royal Road up the coast. Only if it was securely held could even a single man return to Khem across the deserts of Sinai. Troops armed with fire-weapons are landing and investing the fortress. Pharaoh marches to meet them. Hold your position at all hazards; you are the rear guard.
Djehuty grunted again, as a man might when he had just been condemned to death. That was where the cream of the enemy forces had gone, right enough.
"Sir!" Another messenger, one of his own men, and on foot. "Sir, the enemy attack!"
Helmut Mittler felt himself sweat as he walked through the palace. There was panic in the streets of Walkeropolis, a few fires… not much, though.
My Security Battalions were ready, he thought with some satisfaction. And had Walker really believed he wouldn't find a way to monitor his correspondence?
The Americans had triumphed back home in the future, but it wasn't because they were better at espionage or covert operations or dezinformatzia. Even the stupid Russians had been better at that.
Now…
He took a deep breath. "Eumenes, Taltos, I'll go on alone from here."
The guards stationed down the long corridor bore the shoulder flashes of the regent's personal regiment, recruited from his ancestral estates in Ithaka. They stood like statues against the iridescent mosaics of the walls, no doubt ready to put down any challenge to their master's power.
Any challenge that can be met with brute force, Mittler thought. Not that brute force is to be despised, but I think I've just demonstrated its limitations. Odikweos would need him… and there would come a time when he didn't need Odikweos.
A last pair of guards firmly but courteously relieved him of his weapons and opened the tall doors with their wolfshead handles. The study within was one Walker had been fond of, with French doors overlooking a terrace, the gardens and the city he'd founded. I will keep the name, Mittler decided.
The… well, not exactly the regent anymore… was seated behind the desk. Two steel longswords rested on the subtly beautiful inlay; Mittler's brows rose, but he supposed there was some superstitious reason. At this stage of historical evolution such things were to be expected-the dialectic predicted them.
"My lord Regent," Mittler said. "I regret to report that rioters-doubtless in the pay of the conspirators-have eliminated the remaining family of our beloved fallen lord."
Some of the children had had to be dragged out of closets and from under beds. Regrettable, but given the dynastic beliefs of these people, necessary.
The Achaean nodded, his craggy features set and somber in the light of the single lamp. "Everything you say, my friend, is to the point," he said. "You are a man of swift wit, Lord Mittler. But you have never been a sailor."
"A sailor, my lord?"
"If you had, you would know that a rope is no stronger than its weakest part. So with a braided rope of thoughts. If the first strand is weak, all the others fail, be they braided with ever so much skill."