A Spaceship For The King 
   Conclusion.
   
   Some problems are insoluble by themselves, but if you've got enough problems they might solve each other.
   MacKinnie had barbarians outside the city and Temple guards inside it . . .
   
   JERRY POURNELLE
   
   Synopsis
   
    Prince Samual's World was devastated by the Secession War which broke up humanity's First Empire. It has slowly developed technology roughly equivalent to the early Nineteenth Century but retains traditions of lost scientific achievements. Redevelopment has been slow, with constant warfare among independent city-states and kingdoms.
    COLONEL NATHAN MACKINNIE, called Iron MacKinnie by his soldiers, has been cashiered from his post as acknowledged best soldier of the Republic of Orleans. Iron MacKinnie and his Wolves repeatedly defeated the forces of the Republic's powerful neighbor, the Kingdom of Haven, until Prince Samual's World was rediscovered by the renascent SECOND Empire and the Imperial Navy allied with King David of Haven. Using navy space weapons, King David is moving to establish rule over the entire planet.
    MacKinnie and his former sergeant, HAL STARK, overhear a drunken young Imperial Navy officer telling about a primitive planet called MAKASSAR where "they wear iron pants and fight with swords," have no machinery except a First Empire Library which they use as a Temple, not suspecting what the building really is. The officer is also overheard by King David's secret police, whose chief, MALCOLM DOUGAL decides to make use of both the information and MacKinnie. Dougal has found thatthe Empire has several classes of membership based on technological status at the time of incorporation. Only planets having space travel have any real rights; the others become colonies subject to the absolute rule of the Imperial government on Sparta.
    The Imperial Navy is fanatically determined to bring all of humanity under Imperial rule to prevent wars like the Secession War, and its policy is to unite mankind without much regard for abstractions like freedom and independence. Because the Navy is spread too thin to immediately incorporate newly discovered planets like Samual and Makassar, the Empire allows no technology imports. Thus, although Haven as an Imperial ally has theoretical rights to interstellar travel and trade, the Haven traders may not visit planets with more advanced technology or buy from them.
    However, Makassar is classed as a primitive world and is on the approved list for trade with Samual. Dougal believes the Imperial bureaucracy has forgotten the Library since the natives cannot use it and it is guarded by a priesthood who believe that God will someday speak from the Temple. Haven needs a military officer, and since the Imperial Navy would know King David's best soldiers, MacKinnie is recruited to head an expedition to Makassar, ostensibly to trade, but actually to bring back knowledge of space technology from the Temple Library. Haven will use this to construct a spaceship so that King David can bring Prince Samual's World into the Empire in one of the higher classifications, thus escaping colonization.
    MacKinnie agrees and swears allegiance to Haven. He and Stark recruit several former Wolves as Trader's guards, and Haven supplies other personnel including: JAMIE McLEAN, Haven naval officer posing as a merchant captain; Academician HAROLD LONGWAY, a social scientist with experience among primitives on Samual; Scholar HOMER KLEINST, a brilliant nineteen year old physics student who poses as Longway's social studies assistant; and Freelady MARY GRAHAM, daughter of an officer of Haven Secret Police, who will be expedition secretary. There are also additional guards, including TODD, a Haven officer cadet.
    The expedition is taken to Makassar by Imperial Traders Association ship, and stranded there for at least a local year when the merchant they are dealing with thinks he has tricked MacKinnie. The Imperial Navy garrison on Makassar consists of only a handful of men and no ships, and is located on the western edge of the planet's single continent. The city of BATAV, where the Library is located, is thousands of kilometers away across plains overrun with barbarians, while the seas are unsafe because of pirates. The Navy can offer neither transportation nor protection, but will prosecute MacKinnie for any infraction of the technology regulations. The lieutenant in charge on the planet also asks MacKinnie to find out what happened to a group of missionaries who have vanished and are probably dead.
    MacKinnie buys the only seaworthy ship in the garrison town, and McLean improves its sailing capabilities with leeboards and more efficient sails, neither of which the Imperials recognize as technological improvements because they seem so primitive by space-faring standards. With the aid of BRETT, an itinerant singer, and VANJYNK, a dispossessed nobleman, the expedition outruns and outfights the pirates and manages to sail to BATAV.
    They find the city under siege by fierce barbarian plainsmen called mans. Kleinst deduces that the extreme axial tilt and elliptic orbit of Makassar is causing climatic deviations, bringing the barbarians north to the equator where they attack cities. The Temple priests retain tight control of the city, but have lost their influence across the continent, and are hard pressed to defend the city itself Most of the people of Batav have lost heart and are waiting to be overrun; Brett tells MacKinnie and Mary Graham that if the city falls, the barbarians will slaughter all the inhabitants and burn the city to the ground.
    The Library is guarded by the fanatical Temple priesthood who permit no one to examine the "holy relics," and MacKinnie is not sure he could make use of the Library even if he had free access; he has reason to suspect that the information is stored in something other than books, but he does not know what.
    MacKinnie and his troops are aboard their ship in the harbor of Batav when they are approached by an armed party. The leader calls to him, and MacKinnie realizes he is speaking the Imperial language.
   
   Part 3
   
   "Are there any here who understand me?" He switched quickly to a local dialect. "Peace and greetings."
   "Welcome aboard," MacKinnie answered in what he hoped was the Imperial speech. "And what may I do for Your Honor?"
   The man turned to his companion and said something quickly, then looked back at MacKinnie in obvious relief. "Thank the Savior, the Navy has come to find us. Our prayers have been answered. When we heard there was a ship from Jikar, we hardly dared hope."
   MacKinnie stared at the small party. The two leaders were both tall and dark, looking nothing like the locals MacKinnie had seen. Their guards, by contrast, were all obvious locals, probably hired swordsmen of doubtful ability.
   "Come aboard, please," MacKinnie said. "May we make your guards comfortable with wine and something to eat?"
   "Thank you."
   MacKinnie nodded to Todd, sending him scurrying below to find Hal and arrange for refreshments for the guards. The two tall starmen were helped aboard and led to the owner's cabin below. When they were seated and wine brought, they introduced themselves.
   "I am Father Deluca, and this is His Lordship Auxiliary Bishop Laraine. We are representatives of His Eminence the Archbishop Casteliano, Missionary ruler of the Church on this forsaken planet. It is a miracle that you have found us." 
   "I do not understand Your Reverence," Nathan said. "Surely you have means to call the Navy whenever you wish?"
   "No, my son," Bishop Laraine said sadly. "The barbarians have destroyed our transmitter. Brother LeMoyne could have repaired it had they not been so thorough, but we were fortunate to escape with our lives. Two other members of our mission, a brother and a priest, were not so favored, God rest their souls. We made our way to this city, and here we stay, besieged by barbarians, with little gold, no communicator, and afraid even to allow these heathens to know our true mission. They burn heretics here, and they believe us to be such. Not that martyrdom is so frightening, but it would hardly accomplish anything for the Faith under the circumstances."
   "I would not contradict His Reverence," Deluca said, "but in reality these are not heathens. They believe all of the doctrines of the Church, except submission to the authority of New Rome. But they also believe they have a divine inspiration, holy relics, enclosed in that Temple of theirs, and that God speaks to them from their Temple. They even have records showing that their bishops have a direct continuity with the first bishops of Makassar. I believe New Rome might rule that they could be accepted in the Church without new baptism, would their hierarchy only submit to authority."
   The bishop shook his head sadly. "What Father Deluca says is true enough, but there is no way to dispel them of their illusions. They truly believe these artifacts of theirs contain Holy Writ, which no doubt they do, there being copies of the Bible in the Library I am sure, but they believe their Temple to be a source of continuing and everlasting revelation."
   "I see," MacKinnie told them. He drained his glass of wine, thinking of what to tell them. Nathan had no experience at lying to the clergy, his contacts with the priestly orders being limited to one or another of the many varieties of military chaplains who had served with him, and he was vaguely disturbed. He decided on a compromise. "I don't like to tell you this, Your Reverence, but only part of your problems have been solved by our arrival. We have no transmitter either." He used the unfamiliar word cautiously, but no one responded. "We do have gold and we can make your stay here more secure, but it will be sometime before we can get you back to Jikar. The storm season is coming on, and my native shipmaster tells me there is no way to sail westward during that part of the yir. We ran before one westerly gale coming in here, and the seas were dreadful. I am told they get worse."
   Laraine showed no emotion at the words, but Father Deluca half rose from his seat, only to strike his head on the low deck beams above him. He sat back down with tears in his eyes, as much from disappointment as the blow. "Then we must stay here in this awful place for another year." He sighed heavily.
   "As God wills," Laraine said sharply. "Your offer of money is generous, My Lord. His Eminence will be pleased. Will you come with us to tell him?"
   "They tell me I should wait until the Temple people come to inspect my cargo," Nathan answered. "After that, I will be honored to meet His Eminence. What does the local priesthood think you are?"
   "Merchants despoiled by the barbarians," Deluca answered. "We thought of fleeing to the nomads and trying to win converts among them, but there are few of us, and the barbarians never listen before they kill. Even the Temple has ceased to send missionaries among them. His Eminence ordered us to remain with him until we were sure there was no chance to win over the Temple hierarchy before sacrificing ourselves." Nathan nodded, filling the wineglasses again. "You have had no success at convincing the Temple people that their holy relics are nothing more than leftovers from the old Empire?" he asked.
   MacKinnie studied the priests closely, thinking that if they had not already lost the device with which they could communicate with the Navy, he would have had to arrange to destroy it. The Navy people must not be reminded of the Library at the same time that they thought of Prince Samual's World. It was only because Makassar was so primitive that they hadn't thought of it already.
   Deluca shook his head. "We brought Brother LeMoyne, who is both a librarian and trained in physics, hoping to show them, but they will not let us near their sacred relics. No one but the priesthood can touch them, they say. And we, the representatives of the true church, are turned away like Pharasees."
   The bishop smiled. "There is a certain, ah, humor, in the situation, My Lord. That we are turned away from the center of this planet's religion. Or what was once the center, because their authority is fast going. I think now it would have been better had we worked in Jikar first, but, of course, we couldn't know that."
   Hal knocked at the doorway. "Sir, those deacon people are here to examine the cargo. They say they want to talk to the master of the ship, and also the owner. There're fees to pay for using the harbor, and they want to buy all our food and wine."
   Nathan stood, carefully stooping to avoid the deck beams. He had learned that after several painful experiences during the voyage. "If you will excuse me, I will speak to the Temple representatives," he told them. "Please feel free to enjoy any of the facilities or refreshments. Your Excellency," he added, bowing.
   "Drive a hard bargain with them," The bishop growled. He waved dismissal.
   On deck, MacKinnie found three robed Temple deacons, with two uniformed guards officers, while a rank of ten swordsmen stood at rigid attention on the pier below. The guards uniforms were blue and crimson with silver decorations, the officers' hats plumed, and the Sergeant of Guards carried a gold-headed baton. The discipline of the men, and their weapons, made MacKinnie realize that the Temple commanded a reasonable fighting force. Or, at least, they could obey orders. He wondered why, with their discipline, they had not destroyed the barbarians. Too rigid in their tactics, he thought, remembering Vanjynk and the battle on the Tide Sands.
   One of the officers stepped forward from the group around Captain McLean and Crewmaster Loholo. "Are you the owner of this vessel?" he demanded.
   MacKinnie nodded. The officer continued, "I present you to His Excellency, Sindabaya, Junior Archdeacon of the Temple of Truth."
   "Peace and greetings," one of the gray-robed men said. "It is customary to bow to me when receiving blessings, Trader. Are you ignorant of the proper forms, or merely a heathen?"
   "Your pardon, Excellency," MacKinnie protested. "My thoughts were on the plight of our civilization, and not the more important things at hand." He bowed, receiving another blessing for his trouble.
   "It is well. We have not seen you in Batav before, Trader, and when we last saw your shipmaster he had his own ship. Why is this?"
   "Pirates, Your Excellency. In all Jikar, there are few merchant ships remaining, and few merchants to buy them, because the army of Jikar takes all the goods for the great expedition. They intend to fight their way through the barbarians before sending the fleet to destroy the nests of pirates."
   The officer who had spoken looked up hurriedly, then conversed, in low tones with another robed figure before speaking. "Jikar is not large enough to put forth such an army, or fleet," he said flatly.
   "Oh, that is true, sir," MacKinnie said. "But the Guilds have made alliance with other cities, and many of the people of the plains and hills have fled to Jikar for assistance.
   Then, the fleet captured many pirate vessels by surprise when they dared sail too close into the harbor and were left by the tide. The water ran red for two changes of tide after the battle on the sands, and the Guilds had a large fleet, but few with whom to man it. But when their war on the land is finished, they will turn to training the young men to be sailors, and there is talk of bringing the fleet north, east perhaps, bringing many merchant ships under the protection of fifty galleys of war. But, I . . . I thought, what use to go in such a number? Prices will be low, when there are so many goods for sale. But if now, when there are no ships from Jikar, if now I sail to Batav, and east, and south, why, then trading will be better, and my friends will remember me when the great fleet comes ... or so I thought. And I was told that the Great Temple, the home of wisdom itself, was in need, and thus I brought my cargo, and of my foodstuffs, I will sell them to the Temple saving only what must remain to feed my men, and I ask no more than what it has cost me to bring the goods."
   The gray-robed men muttered among themselves, and their spokesman said, "Your piety is noted. What have you for the Temple?"
   It took hours to agree on the price of the cargo, despite MacKinnie's intention to be generous. The deacons were so accustomed to haggling with traders that even when it was not necessary they bargained and inspected, poking into the holds and looking in the deck boxes, disputing how much food could be kept for Subao's own consumption and what had to be delivered to the Temple. From their concern with foodstuffs, MacKinnie knew the siege was more serious than the Temple would admit. Despite quantities of staple foods in the granaries, there was hunger in Batav, and the Temple priests were taking all precautions, insisting that every ship which called at their port unload all edibles to augment the city's supply. Loss of Temple influence across the land, and the arrogance of the priesthood, meant that few ships came to Batav in this time of need, and they seized all they could find. When the final bargain was struck, a gang of Temple slaves swarmed aboard, carrying away what the Temple had purchased, as the soldiers stood guard over them, searching each for stolen goods and weapons. The deacons watched coldly noting on wooden-backed slates what was taken and what was left aboard.
   As the last of the goods were taken ashore, Sindabaya joined MacKinnie and his staff on the quarterdeck. "We guard more than the true faith," the priest said. He waved his hand to indicate the city and harbor. "For all time that we record, the Temple has been the source of wisdom and hope for the people of this world. When other cities fall, we bring the means to build them again.
   If the Temple falls, what will be the source of knowledge? When God brought men to this place from the stars above, He set the Temple to watch over them and give them truth. That is our burden, and we will not fail."
   MacKinnie watched an officer drive one of the slaves into his place in ranks, and said nothing. Sindabaya noted Nathan's expression and continued, "The world has changed. Once they went singing to their tasks. Ships brought wealth to be laid at the steps of God's Temple. Now few ships come, and the barbarians wait outside the walls, and my officers beat the convicts as I watch. But there is no other way! They will not work without blows, and the work must be done! The Temple must be saved!" He turned to the group on the deck and raised his hand in blessing, watched them narrowly for a moment, and left the ship.
   Deluca climbed carefully to the quarterdeck as MacKinnie watched the Temple party drive men and ayuks, both overloaded, down the stone streets toward the warehouses.
   "Now that they have inspected your ship," Deluca said, "it is lawful for you to leave it. Will you visit the Lord Archbishop?"
   MacKinnie nodded, selecting Longway, Kleinst, and Todd to accompany them. Deluca assured them that his own merchant's guard would be sufficient, and would escort them back to the ship after their interview.
   "But you will need our guards," Deluca told them. "The streets are no longer safe. Thieves have banded together in great numbers, and attack even armed men. Our own guards are trustworthy only when together, yet there is nothing to steal and no place to buy food with what gold can be found. The city feels no hope for the future. Only the Temple has the will to fight. The people of the city once ruled much of this world, but now they are ruled by the Temple."
   They walked along the broad waterfront street, noting the empty dockyards, warehouses with the doors standing open, and everywhere the beggars and crowds of surly men who had once been the longshoremen of Batav, or owners of small farms outside the walls of the city. Away from the waterfront was little better. They moved through a series of narrow twisting streets overhung with buildings, lined with nearly empty shops. Men lay in rags even in the center of the smaller streets, blocking their way.
   They emerged from this maze of alleys to broader streets, each with a stone-lined ditch running down its center. The ditches were partially filled with refuse, but surprisingly little for so primitive a system.
   "The men on Temple charity carry away the garbage," Deluca explained, "and bring barrels of water to wash the sewage away in the few dry weeks of the yir. There is heavy rain in this city almost daily, but it never lasts long. This is the cleanest city on Makassar."
   MacKinnie remembered Jikar, which was swept daily by the Guild apprentices, but said nothing. Batav was cleaner than he expected a primitive city to be, certainly more so than the garbage strewn warrens of South Continent.
   There were people in the streets, looking through the ground-floor shops, although there was little to buy. Every shop had a large crucifix at its door, and a wind chime whose major feature was a replica of the Temple from which various shells and other sounding materials hung. Most of the population were small and dark, although many were taller, fair-haired men like Vanjynk. The tallest were still smaller than MacKinnie and the two clergymen, and here and there someone would turn to watch the group before staring off at nothing again.
   Once, MacKinnie saw a group of uniformed Temple guardsmen, with a bright yellow-robed official walking in their midst. He asked Deluca who the man was, and was told "A tax collector. Some of them have taken minor orders beyond the deaconate, but are not full priests. They don't allow the priesthood to work directly on squeezing the population, but a lot of them have served a trick in that occupation before they take final vows."
   They arrived at a small courtyard, behind which stood a massive stoneand-log house. Two swordsmen stood in the courtyard, and opened the iron gates when they saw the bishop, then went back to their posts, lounging carelessly against the gate pillars.
   "Two weeks arrears in their pay," Deluca told Nathan. "It is strange. Many men in this city have nothing to eat, and you would think they would be glad of duties where they were well fed and had at least some money, but more and more throw themselves on Temple charity, work in the streets when they work at all, refuse honorable employment. The city has lost its heart."
   MacKinnie nodded. The barbarians were at the gates, but the men of the city either thought themselves lost already, or refused to think about it at all. Only the Temple kept the enemy at bay, providing whatever spirit Batav had been able to muster. Nathan doubted that even the iron-willed Temple believers would be able to hold things together for long.
   The inside of the house was sparse, showing both the lack of funds which had furnished it, and, perhaps, the austere temperament of the archbishop. MacKinnie was shown into the great hall, where His Eminence sat in ragged splendor, staring at the dying embers of a fire which was not really needed to heat the room.
   "As we supposed, Your Eminence," Laraine said, "the ship was from the West. And more than we dared hope, it is owned by men from the empire, although by their accents they are from a part I have never visited. A Colony world?" he asked, turning to MacKinnie.
   "I didn't ask your origin when I offered to help you, My Lord," Nathan replied. "Is it necessary to discuss mine? The Empire contains many worlds, and the citizens of some are more fortunate than those of others. But despite the contempt the Empire feels for my world, it is my ship and my gold which can save your lives. We may even be able to help you in the work you came to do."
   Deluca gasped, but before he could speak the archbishop said, "He speaks well. Let him continue, for God often sends help in strange disguises. Our work is with the sons of all men." The old man waved toward a chair. "I gather that you have no way of calling the Navy to assist us?"
   "We were not permitted such devices, My Lord," MacKinnie answered.
   The archbishop nodded. "A Colony world." He nodded again. "The Navy could do nothing even if you could call them. Once we are dead, they will send a punitive expedition, and the Imperial Traders Association will be the loudest voice in demanding vengeance for the deaths of the priests of the Lord. The Church has more than once been used as a pretext for Empire."
   "I do not understand, My Lord," MacKinnie said.
   "The Emperor has no wish to conquer these worlds." At MacKinnie's puzzled look, the old man halted. "Bring our guests something to drink." He turned to MacKinnie. "You know nothing of Imperial politics. Are you a member of the Church?"
   "New Rome has not yet come to my world, My Lord. We are Christians, more or less. I was baptized into the orthodox church, which I am told is acceptable to New Rome."
   "Forgive my curiosity, it was not idle. It follows that you know nothing of Imperial politics. What are you doing on Makassar?"
   "My king has sent me to head a trading mission, My Lord. He rules the largest civilized country on my home world, and is allied with the Imperial ambassador. The Navy is aiding him in the subjugation of the planet."
   The archbishop nodded. "But you are not a trader. Nor are any of these with you. Please, do not protest. You cannot deceive a man of my years. You are a soldier, and these others, what are they, spies? It does not matter. And here you are, on this primitive planet, having come from a world which is itself primitive . . . and you talk of aiding us! It is admirable, but I fail to see what you can do. Still, such courage should be rewarded, if only with information."
   He paused as servants brought wine and additional chairs for the others. "This is not very good wine," Deluca said. "But it is all we have here. The Trader has far better on his ship."
   "Wine does not make the day," the archbishop told them. "It is only a vehicle. Look at them, Father Deluca. Barely able to speak the Imperial language, knowing nothing of the Capital and its ways, voyaging across space in ships they cannot understand ... if the Church could bring men to as much faith in her teachings as these men have in themselves!" He tasted the wine and grimaced.
   "You and I have the same mission, My Lord Trader," he told MacKinnie. "We are agents provocateur, sent to aid the Imperial Traders Association. The difference is that I know it, and you do not."
   "I do not understand."
   "I did not expect you to understand. You believe you are here for some other purpose, some great mission to save your own kingdom perhaps, certainly something more important than bringing back gold for your planetary king. And we are here to bring these people back to God. But both of us will serve the ITA as surely as we would if they had hired us."
   The room was still as they waited for him to continue. "The Navy will not permit the traders simple conquest. I am sure that you know that no good military force will fight for a standard of living—their own or anyone else's. It takes God, not gold, to put heart in a soldier. The Navy fights for a cause, for the Emperor and the Church, for New Annapolis, but never for the ITA. The Navy will not simply come in here and set up kingdoms for the Traders.
   "So they use us. They get us sent here, and prevent the Navy from giving us protection . . . but after we are slaughtered, it will be the ITA delegates who shout the loudest for vengeance. 'Have to teach the beggars a lesson', they will say. And the same for you Colonials . . . back on your planet there is opposition to the Empire. I don't have to know where you come from to know that. And Imperialism won't inspire much loyalty. The ITA will find them troublesome. But the really troublesome people will be the most patriotic ... do you think they will not join when the ITA recruits them for a merchant army to punish this planet? To revenge you? Neatly solving two problems, the conquest of Makassar, and the removal of leaders and soldiers from wherever you come from. It is an old and tested formula, and it works."
   "Why do you permit them to use you, My Lord?" MacKinnie asked.
   "Whatever your reasons, would you have refused to come here if you had known?" The archbishop answered. "I thought not. Nor could I refuse to bring the Word of God to the heathen." The old man coughed, his thin shoulders shaking violently. "Now go back to whatever plan you have, but remember the ITA. They have large resources, and they have power, but they have no virtue. One day the Navy will tire of being used and kill them all, but others will spring up in their place. There is always the ITA."
   "I thank you for your frankness, My Lord. Academician, have you anything to say?" MacKinnie added, turning to Longway.
   "Not at the moment. I need time to think of all this. I am much afraid the archbishop is correct. You see the counterparts of the ITA in King David's court. The money grubbers are everywhere."
   "My Lord," MacKinnie asked, "if we can aid you in bringing these people to the Church, and yet give the Traders no reason to demand Navy intervention here, can you help us?"
   "With what?"
   "At the moment, I can't tell you. It isn't my secret, and I'm not sure what you can do in any event."
   "I am not unwilling to help you in principle . . . but before you ask it, remember to whom you speak. I am an archbishop of the Church. I am cynical about some of the Church's officers and many of the Imperial advisers, but do not be deceived. I am a loyal subject of the Emperor and a servant of the Church."
   MacKinnie nodded. "I would ask nothing dishonorable. We can talk about these things later, now I had better return to my ship."
   The old man stood and offered his hand, and after a moment MacKinnie knelt to kiss the great ring. As they left they saw him raise his hand in blessing, muttering words in a language MacKinnie had never heard.
   
   XII
   
   For three days, MacKinnie studied the barbarians. He stood at the walls of Batav, looking out across the low rolling hills and fields, watching as the mans rode swiftly from gate to gate, watching them camp almost within bow shot of the city, their tents and wagons contemptuously near the gates. Once a small party of armored men from the city attempted to attack the enemy camp. The heavy Temple cavalry charged forth, trampling the light armored enemy beneath the hooves of their horses, swords hewing a path through the barbarians. But slowly the charge faltered as more and more of the enemy raced to the fray, then the Temple warriors vanished in a sea of swarthy men, and the plain was still once more.
   After the disastrous battle, MacKinnie asked for audience with the Temple hierarchy, claiming that he had valuable information about the war which he could reveal only to a high officer. Meanwhile, Stark drilled Subao's crewmen, forcing them to practice with sword, pike, and shield, marching in formation to the beat of drums, throwing javelins and firing crossbows in volley, and always marching, holding formation as they quickstepped about the pier. Their activities attracted notice from the officers of the Temple guard, and on the tenth day in Batav a small party approached the ship.
   "We are to conduct you to the Temple," MacKinnie was told. He was ushered to the gates by the officer, then turned over to two gaily clothed attendants who guided him through lavishly decorated halls, up stone steps to a cell set into the wall high above the Temple courtyard. A black-robed priest sat at a small table, quill pen and inkpot before him. A litter of parchments was strewn about the room, and on the wall behind the priest hung a large map of the city and countryside, roads and villages sketched in detail to a distance of fifty kilometers from the walls.
   "Father Sumbavu, the outlander you asked to see," the Temple attendant said. "He calls himself Trader Captain MacKinnie." The man stumbled over the pronunciation but managed to say the name correctly.
   Nathan had been told that Father Sambavu served as Minister of War for the Temple. There were others who ranked far higher, but few had more power. Sumbavu seemed to care little for the miter of a bishop, and less for the trappings of power, but his men served him without question. Nathan noted the contrast between the sparsely furnished cell and the richly decorated rooms of the Great Hall of the Temple. His cell was placed in the high battlements, and the narrow window looked across the city, to the wall, and beyond to the barbarian camps. Nathan could see small bands of them riding endlessly around the gates, staying just out of bow shot. Low rolling hills, covered with grass and dotted with grainfields stretched out to the horizon. A few roads crossed the plains, and the ruins of burned villages stood at their crossings.
   The priest raised his hand perfunctorily in the ritual blessing, and MacKinnie bowed. Before he could straighten the priest asked, "Why do you waste my time?"
   "But you asked to see me, Father."
   "You asked to see a member of the hierarchy. You say you have information about the war. Now you are here. What have you to tell me?"
   "Your Worship, I have some experience with fighting these barbarians. In the east, they have been driven from city gates. Although I am but a trader, I have commanded men in battle against these plainsmen, and I wished to find if our methods have been tried. We drove them from the gates in the South." MacKinnie stood as stiffly as a cadet on parade, waiting for the man to speak again, but there was only silence. Nathan studied the priest at length.
   He could not tell the priest's age. The face showed no lines, and there was no gray to the closely cropped hair, but the hands were worn, with work and perhaps with age as well.
   Sumbavu returned the intense gaze, then said, "Why do you think you can do what we cannot? We have the finest soldiers on Makassar, and they have done nothing against these hordes. We have always beaten them back in the past, but there are too many of them now." He rose and stared out the stone window, his hands clinched tightly.
   "It is not the quality of the soldiers, Your Worship, but their manner of fighting. Your guards have excellent discipline, but there are not enough of them. Your lords fight splendidly, but the cavalry is never properly supported to fight against these plainsmen. I have seen little of your cavalry—they have mostly been killed have they not? I saw fifty of them taken."
   "Those not dead live in the city. There were not many at any time, and they have lost hope. Three times the armored servants of the Temple and the men of the great families rode out the gate. Three times they charged and nothing stood before them. And three times they were defeated, cut off, scattered, driven like straws before the winds, the few riding back into the gates in shame. There are always more of the barbarians, but there are never more of the sons of the great families. And you say that you can do what our greatest warriors could not? Have you perhaps a thousand ships at your back, bringing a new army?" He looked closely at MacKinnie, then motioned to a hard wooden chair. "Enjoy what comforts I allow myself and my visitors," he muttered. "There are few enough. And tell me how the men of the south defeat barbarians."
   MacKinnie sat and chose his words carefully. "It is a matter of combining the foot soldiers and the mounted men so that they support each other," he told the priest. "When they are combined properly, the barbarians cannot defeat them."
   "There are not enough soldiers," Sumbavu said. "No matter how clever you may be, you cannot make a few win against thousands."
   "True enough, Father. But we can make each man do the work of ten. And there are the idlers of the city, the hireling swordsmen, the thieves, the people of the city. They can fight."
   The priest shrugged. "If they would. But for each of them you drive into the battle, you must have a loyal man to watch him and keep him from running. It is not worth it."
   "If they are treated as men, and trained properly, they can fight. We do not need many. But they cannot be treated like cattle or slaves. They must be free soldiers."
   "You propose to give arms to the people? You would destroy the Temple!"
   "No, I would save it. The Temple is doomed, Father Sumbavu. You are as aware of that as I." MacKinnie gestured toward the window. "The City will fall within the yir. I have seen the empty docks, and I am told of the harbors closed against you. I see the people sleeping in the streets while the barbarians harvest the crops. You cannot drive the enemy away until he has eaten everything in your fields. Their supplies will last longer than yours. Your Temple is doomed unless you can drive away the enemy."
   Sumbavu struggled to keep his icy calm, but his hands moved restlessly across the desk. "And only you can prevent this? You are indeed a man blessed by God. We have held this City for five hundred yirs. What have your ancestors done? Lived in dirt houses?"
   "What we have done is no matter. It is what we can do."
   "And how will you go about saving the city? What is your price?"
   "I have no price for saving the fountain of all the wisdom on Makassar. I ask only what I will need. Weapons. Pikes and shields. Authority to recruit men. And I will have to inspect the soldiers, talk to the heavy cavalrymen. I will require a drill field to practice my men. And the men on Temple charity must be brought to it, so that they can be armed. I have no price, but I have much to do. We can save this city and the Temple if you will but listen."
   The priest spread his hands and looked intently at his palms. "Perhaps it is the Will of God. There is no other plan. It can do no great harm to allow you to train these rabble, for when you and they are killed that will be all the longer our rations will last. I will see that you get what you need."
   Gradually, an army was formed on the parade ground outside the Temple. In the first week, the men had to be driven to the drill field, stumbling through their paces, unable to understand and unwilling to work. But as they were given weapons, a new respect for themselves slowly pervaded the ragged group. Men who had recently been beggars found themselves alongside sturdy peasants from outside the walls, and mixed among them were younger sons of merchant families ruined by the siege. Under MacKinnie's pleas and Stark's driving, they began to hold their heads higher, to thrust their pikes into the target dummies, even to scream war cries. After the third week of training, MacKinnie called a conference.
   "We don't have long," he told the group. "Sumbavu is anxious to know what we are doing, and I have to report to him. You want to be careful of that man. He's a lot sharper than he looks or acts. What's the status of our army?"
   "The infantry's so-so," Hal reported. "Them Temple troops are fine, but they don't know what to do and they're so sure of themselves they don't want to learn anything new. The people's army can carry pikes and hold up their shields if you don't want them to do it for too long. Weak as cats, most of them. And we'll never get any archers out of that crowd. The Temple's got a fair number, and that's all you'll have."
   "Can they hold against a charge of light cavalry?" MacKinnie asked.
   "Don't know, sir. They'd never stop the heavy stuff, but they might hold against the plainsmen ifn they believed in themselves enough. But they got no confidence, Colonel."
   MacKinnie noted Longway's start at Hal's slip, but said nothing. "What of the cavalry?" he asked Brett. "Can they fight in formation? Have they had enough of that cockiness beat out of them to make them a disciplined force, or are they going to go charging out into the enemy and scatter?"
   "Vanjynk and I have talked to them, Trader," Brett replied. "But their honor is all they have left. Still, these were men who have been beaten before, and after all, it is only barbarians they fight ... but it will be difficult to call them back from victory."
   "You'll have to," MacKinnie said. "It's the only chance any of us have. Those men have to be taught to charge home, re-form, and get back to the shield walls. Any of them that try the grandstand act will be left out there dead. Try to drive that elementary fact through their heads. And add to it the fact that if they're killed their city falls and the whole honor system they're so proud of goes with it. They're fighting to preserve their honor."
   "Yes, but by means which to them are dishonorable," Vanjynk said. "They listen to me as one of them, and I have faithfully told them what you desire. I have even come to believe it. But it is strange to them."
   MacKinnie nodded. "Strange or not, they'll have to learn. Now what about the commissary department?"
   "We have some supply wagons," Mary Graham said. "And there is plenty of forage out beyond the walls. If you can protect our baggage trains, we can supply your men for a few days. There won't be a lot to eat, but something. We might even be able to harvest some grain if our farmers are protected."
   "So we have a partially disciplined force of infantry, some cavalry who may be useful and may not, some Temple archers and guardsmen who are our best soldiers but don't understand what's needed, and one whole hell of a lot of barbarians. An interesting situation." He thought for a few moments, staring down at a copy of Sumbavu's map young Todd had laboriously made, then came to a decision. "We need a demonstration. I'll give each of you a week to select the best men you can, men you think won't break and run and who will obey orders. I'll need provisions for about two days for twice that number of people, and a group of your best disciplined cooks and camp workers," he added to Mary. "We're going to make a show of force against the enemy. The primary purpose will be to convince our own troops that we can beat barbarians." He stood, dismissing the meeting. "Hal, stay with me for a moment, please."
   When the others had left, Stark said, "Sorry about the slip, Colonel. It's too much like campaign, and I ain't used to being a spy."
   "We'll survive. Have you picked the headquarters group?"
   "Yes, sir. Using the troops we brought with us as a steadying force we've got a pretty loyal company. I think they'd fight the Temple people for us ifn they thought they could win. Anyway we can control them. You lead 'em to a victory, they'll be yours for sure."
   "Excellent. We must have that headquarters group, or when this is over there won't be any point to it all. All right, Sergeant, you can go."
   Hal stood, grinned for a moment, and saluted. "Old times, Colonel. Different Wolves, but old times."
   MacKinnie carefully armed himself before visiting Sumbavu. He struggled into chain mail, threw a bright crimson cloak over his shoulders, donned gold bracelets and necklace, and fastened his surplice with a jeweled pin before buckling on a sword made on Prince Samual's World. The mail and sword were better than anything they had encountered on Makassar, although reasonably similar in design, and their possession imparted some status to MacKinnie's group. Sumbavu was standing at the battlements above his cell when MacKinnie was brought to him.
   "You betray true colors, Trader," the priest said. "You are more the soldier than the Trader, are you not?"
   "In the South, Father, traders and. soldiers are the same thing. At least live traders are. There's little peace there."
   "Or here. It was not always thus." The warrior priest looked out across the great plain beyond the city wall. "There are more of them today. The grain is ready for harvest, and they are formed to protect it from our fire parties. We could burn the crop, but only at the cost of the balance of our knights. I do not think any would return to us alive."
   "Yet there may be a way, Father," MacKinnie said. When the priest glanced quickly at him, he continued, "I wish to take a small party outside the walls. We will not go far."
   "You may take as many of your useless mouths as you please. You have made them march with their heads up, but they are not soldiers. They will never be soldiers."
   "I need more than my peasants," MacKinnie said. "I will require fifty archers of the Temple, and fifty mounted men."
   "A fourth part of the archers? And nearly as great a part of the knights? You are mad. I will not permit it."
   "Yet, Father, it is worth doing. We will show you how the barbarians can be defeated. And we will not go far from the walls. The archers and knights can seek shelter there if my men do not hold—and there can be no loss of honor if they retreat because others failed them."
   "Where will you be?"
   "With the spearmen at the van." 
   "You risk your life to prove these men? You believe, then. Strange."
   MacKinnie looked across the plains, to see another band of barbarians approach the walls. There seemed to be hundreds in the one group alone.
   "You will take your men into that," Sumbavu said. "You will not come out alive."
   "But if we do? It will put heart in the others. Remember, if we do nothing, the Temple is doomed."
   "Yet if you slaughter my archers and knights the doom will fall the faster . . ." The priest studied the camps below, watching knots of horsemen dart toward the walls, then turn away just outside the range of the archers at the walls. He fingered his emblem, a golden Temple with ebony black cross surmounting it, and turned suddenly.
   "Do as you will. You are mad, but there are those who believe the mad have inspiration from God. It is certain that I have none." Sumbavu turned and stalked away, age showing in the set of his shoulders.
   
   XIII
   
   MacKinnie used a week training the picked men for the sally. Finally Hal reported that they were as ready as they could be in the time they had, and assembled them in the marshaling square just inside the gates. His cloak streaming behind him, Nathan mounted the small dais near the gates to address the men.
   "You will win today a victory such as has never been seen on this world," he shouted. "There will be no end to the songs of this day. Your homes will be saved, and you will come to glory. Besides, what life is there huddled behind walls? What man hides from his enemies when he can go out and kill them? Today you are all men. You will never be slaves again."
   There was a feeble cheer, led by Hal's picked guardsmen scattered through the ranks.
   "It'll have to do," Nathan told his sergeant. "They won't believe much of anything until they see they can hold the enemy. But will they fight long enough to find out?"
   "Dunno, Colonel," Stark answered. "We've done all we could with 'em, but most of the spirit was beat out of 'em before we got here. They might."
   "They know what to do," MacKinnie said. "Now it's up to us to make them do it. Get them in ranks and open the gate."
   "Yes, sir."
   The army was formed as a wedge, spear and shield soldiers at the edges, the cavalry, archers, and supply wagons inside. Picked men held the point, which was rounded to be as wide as the gate would permit. They were to march out in a column, with the sides moving swiftly on the obliques to make the triangular formation they had practiced on the Temple drill field. The crimson uniforms of the Temple archers and the gaily colored armor of the knights formed a brilliant contrast to the drab leather garments of the pikemen as they stood in ranks, waiting for the gate. Wherever possible, the men in ranks wore breastplates, helmets, greaves, but there were not enough to equip all. Some had only spear and shield, with a small dagger in their belts.
   At MacKinnie's wave, the gate opened. "Move out!" Stark shouted. "Keep your order. Just like on the drill field. Get in step, there."
   Young drummers scattered through the reserves tapped cadence as the small force sallied out the gate. When enough of the spearmen had emerged to form a shieldwall, MacKinnie sent out the cavalry, then strode swiftly through them to reach his post near the point of the formation.
   They formed ranks within the protective fire of the archers on the walls. A few of the barbarians charged toward them, but were cut down before they could reach the sallying force. The rest of the enemy stayed well out of range, watching, while thousands more rode swiftly toward the gate.
   "Lot of 'em out there," Stark remarked. "Looks like all of 'em. Too bad you don't have another sally set up for the other gate."
   "There're few enough troops here," MacKinnie muttered. He was grimly watching as the last of the army emerged from the gates and swung across to form the base of the wedge. "All right, Hal, move them out."
   Stark signaled to the drummers. The cadence changed, and a drum signal echoed down the line. The men ceased to mark time and slowly marched forward, shields held level, spears thrust forward. Behind each shieldsman were two ranks of pike-men. They marched across the gently rolling plain toward the nearest enemy camp, slowly moving from the protective fire of the city walls.
   "Here comes the first bunch," Stark said pointing to a group of nomads charging across the field. "They're going right around to hit young Todd's section. Put the archers on 'em?"
   "Two squads, Hal. Let the others fire at high angle to keep the rest away. Todd's men can hold that group."
   "Yes, sir."
   Volleys of bolts shot from the Temple archers, cutting some of the enemy from their wooden saddles. Then the first barbarians hurtled toward the shield line, not in a wave but in scattered groups.
   Before they made contact, Todd shouted orders. The drum cadence changed, and the line of men sank to one knee, spears grounded, the pikemen thrusting over their heads. The maxis hurdled closer, shouting, cheering.
   A barbarian mare screamed as she was impaled on a spear. Other beasts whirled from the thicket of points, getting in the way of men charging behind them, stumbling within range of the thrusting pikes, until the barbarian group was milling in front of the right leg of MacKinnie's wedge. Archers poured fire into the mass of men and beasts. The enemy shouted defiance, broke against the shield wall again, again.
   "They flee, they flee!" someone shouted.
   "After them!" MacKinnie heard. "Hold your positions!" MacKinnie shouted. "By the Temple God I'll have the archers cut down the first man who breaks ranks! Brett, keep those damned knights of yours under control!"
   "Yes, sir," he heard from among the cavalry in the center of the wedge. The knights were milling about, anxious to give chase to the fleeing enemies. The maxis thundered away, wheeled to shout defiance again, then rode off when no one followed.
   When calm returned, MacKinnie mounted a wagon. "You've driven off one small group. It wasn't much of a battle, but you see it can be done. Now don't let them make fools of you. If you break formation or leave the shield wall, they'll be all over you. Stand to ranks and you'll slaughter them. Remember, every man's life depends on each of you. No one must break, not for cowardice, and not for glory. And by God, raise a cheer!"
   This time the response was great. As MacKinnie climbed down from the wagon, he recognized its driver, shouting at the top of her lungs.
   "Freelady!" he called. "You have no business here."
   "You gave me the commissary to organize, Colonel. I have done it. There was no one here fit to command my ragtag group, and I will not have my work undone by incompetents. Your sergeant himself dismissed that oaf from the Temple who tried to drive my men like slaves."
   He looked at her carefully. She wore the armor made for her on Prince Samual's World, and carried a sword on the wagon box next to her. As he studied her, he saw one of the commissary cooks watching him, fingering his weapon, an enormous meat ax.
   "You leave the lady alone," the burly man said. "She's a saint from heaven. You touch her, and commander or not, you die."
   "Sumba, thank you, but I don't need protection," Mary protested. "At least not from him."
   "That's all right, my lady, we'll watch them all," the stocky cook said. MacKinnie shrugged and returned to organize the battle.
   The group marched forward again, the drums measuring a slow beat. From time to time a group of the enemy would gallop towards them, firing arrows, only to be driven away by the Temple archers. The barbarian's stubby bows were useless against even the leather of the unarmored men until they came to close range, and they did not dare come very close.
   "They'll re-form for another try," MacKinnie said softly. "This time they'll try a mass charge with everything they've got."
   Stark nodded. "The men have some confidence now, Colonel. I think they'll hold. It was a good thing, them trying a small attack first."
   "Clan rivalry," Longway said from behind them. "I've seen it on South Continent. Each clan wants to be the first to remove the insult of our presence. But they'll be back."
   "Night's what worries me," Stark said. "We going to stay out here all night?"
   MacKinnie nodded. "The whole point of this demonstration is to build up the morale of the troops back in the city. Just moving out and coming back won't do any good. We have to have a solid victory."
   "I still do not see what we are accomplishing," Longway said. "Suppose you prove that you can take the field against the barbarians and move about in formations they can't break. All they have to do is avoid you."
   "We'll cross that one later,"
   MacKinnie muttered. "Here they come, Hal. Get the men ready." A flood of the enemy galloped toward them across the low plain.
   "Thousands, thousands," someone in the ranks shouted. "We'll never stop that charge!"
   "Quiet in the ranks!" Stark ordered. "Beat to arms, Drummers!" The tattoo thundered through the small formation. The shieldsmen dropped to one knee again, this time the entire perimeter sinking low, with the pikemen thrusting their weapons over the tops of the shields. A small knot of reserve pikemen stood at each corner of the wedge, while Brett's cavalry milled about. The archers fired into the oncoming horde as the cooks and camp followers struggled to load crossbows and pass them up to the bowmen. Every bolt took its target, leaving riderless horses to run aimlessly, bringing confusion to the enemy charge.
   "They ain't got what you'd call much formation to them," Stark observed coldly. "They'd do better to all come at once instead of in little bunches."
   "Insufficient discipline," Longway said. "They've more than the normal on this world, but that isn't much."
   As the drums thundered to crescendo, the charge hit home. On all sides barbarians plunged and reared, unable to penetrate the shield walls, milling about in front of the wedges, while crossbow bolts poured out.
   "Swordsmen! Swordsmen here!" McLean shouted from his station as commander of the rear section. At his order, a dozen men with short swords and bucklers ran to his aid, throwing themselves into a gap in the line, thrusting five dismounted barbarians out into the seething mass beyond. A knot of pikemen trotted to station behind them, while the formation closed ranks over the bodies of five shieldsmen, killed when one of their number turned to run.
   The marts called to their companions, withdrew a space, and charged the weak spot in the line again.
   "They're massing back there against McLean," Stark reported. "Getting hard to hold."
   "Prepare the cavalry," MacKinnie said softly. "I'll go get McLean ready."
   MacKinnie ran across the thirty meters separating the point from the base of the wedge. "Prepare to open ranks, McLean."
   "Aye, Colonel. Drummers, beat the ready." The drum notes changed subtly. "Fuglemen, pace your men!" The seaman's voice carried through the din of battle, and they heard the orders rattle down the ranks. MacKinnie eyed the situation coolly.
   "Now, Mr. McLean."
   "Open ranks!" McLean commanded. The shieldsmen sidestepped, bunching up on each other, leaving a clear gap in the center. The enemy shouted in triumph, pouring toward the gap.
   The rich notes of a trumpet sounded from the center of the formation. Slowly, gathering speed, ponderously, the heavy cavalrymen trotted across the wedge from their gathering place at the point.
   They built up speed, lances were lowered, and they drove into the advancing enemy, using the maris's own momentum to add to their own, sweeping everything before them, riding the enemy down under the hooves of their beasts. Brett and Vanjynk, at each end of the first wave of knights, sounded a cheer as the heavy armor of the iron men proved too much for the light-armed marts. The barbarians scattered and swordsmen poured into the gaps, running alongside the knights, slashing down the enemy, killing the dismounted. The charge pressed onward, the knights scattering to pursue the enemy. The tight formation broke up, and the marts withdrew, formed in tight knots.
   "Sound recall," MacKinnie ordered. The trumpet notes were heard again, this time plaintively, disappointed. "Sound it again!" He turned to Stark. "This is the turning point, Hal. If Vanjynk and Brett can't control those brainless wonders, we've had it."
   He saw his officers shouting to the knights. Slowly they began to wheel, first one, then another, then the entire group. For a moment they paused, and MacKinnie saw that Brett was actually dressing their ranks, before they rode in, proudly, contemptuously, in perfect order, their pennants fluttering from their lances, while the shield wall closed behind them over the bodies of a hundred foes.
   MacKinnie drove them relentlessly on, across the plain toward the first of the nomad encampments. Twice more they withstood a massed assault from the maris, the column halting to plant spear points in the ground. The second attack was heavy enough to cause MacKinnie to order the cavalry charge again, breaking through the concentrations of the enemy before wheeling around to recover their position within the shield wall. In each battle they left a pile of enemy dead to be crushed beneath the wagon wheels as the column marched on.
   They reached the enemy camp, a group of leather tents stretched across wooden frames, a few wagons which the barbarians pulled to safety before the army arrived. A thin wall of men with light shields stood in front of the camp. Brett and Vanjynk rode forward to MacKinnie.
   "We can scatter them with a single charge!" Brett shouted. "Open the ranks."
   "No. I will not risk our cavalry in a charge beyond the shield walls. There are too few men for that, and we would never return to the city if something went wrong. We march together or we die together. Would your knights abandon us?"
   "We would not leave you though you stood alone among a thousand enemies," Vanjynk said quietly. "I have been talking to the knights. Not one of us has ever seen the like of this day. We have left more of the enemy behind us than we number. Each time we fought them beforem our charge would carry them away until suddenly they swarmed about us to cut us down. We will stay with you."
   The column moved forward, cautiously but inexorably, the drums giving a slow step as the pikemen advanced. MacKinnie rotated the formation until the point was aimed directly at the enemy, then massed his reserve pikes behind the leading men. His archers were silent, their store of bolts nearly exhausted. MacKinnie spoke quietly to the Temple officer who commanded them.
   "A full volley on the men to the right of our point," he said deliberately. "I want a hole driven in their formation. They can't fight as infantry, they aren't trained for it, and they don't like it. We'll break through and roll up their flanks."
   As they approached nearer, MacKinnie gave a signal. The archers fired their volley as Todd led a knot of swordsmen forward, cast javelins at the enemies in front of them, and retired behind the forest of pikes. The leading elements of the column struck just behind the javelins, tearing through the thin line by sheer momentum, before the first rank of pikemen fell into a hidden pit behind the maris. Their screams echoed up from below.
   That's what you would have ridden into," MacKinnie told Brett softly. "I thought there was a reason they'd stand like that. They were hoping for a full charge of cavalry."
   The barbarians broke and ran, gathering their mounts from hiding places behind the tents and galloping away. Mary Graham's auxiliaries hauled the wounded men from the pits below, leaving five pikemen impaled on stakes set in the ground. She turned pale as she stood looking into the grisly trench, but Nathan had no time for sympathy.
   "Bury them here." MacKinnie ordered. "It's an honorable enough grave. Send for the chaplain." He moved about, setting the shield wall in place.
   A small scouting party entered the enemy camp, to return with excited reports. "There is much food here," one said. "But we must enter with great care, for they have tethered scarpias, on the walls and ridgepoles." The scarpia was a warm-blooded lizardlike creature four to ten centimeters long. It faintly resembled the earth scorpion, and its bite was nearly as deadly.
   "We will camp beyond the enemy tents," MacKinnie ordered. "Use their ridgepoles to add to our stakes, and be sure to set the stakes carefully. They may attack at night. Bring as much food as you can carry for the city."
   Under Stark's direction, the battalion built a fortified camp, digging ditches around the perimeter, throwing the earth to the inside and placing stakes at the top of the rampart they formed. They worked in shifts, every other man using his shovel while the rest stood in ranks holding the diggers' shields and weapons, but there was no renewal of the barbarian attack. The maris rode endlessly around the perimeter of the camp, just outside bow shot, darting in to fire arrows and wheeling away before an answering volley could be launched. MacKinnie ordered the men to ignore the harassment.
   "They'll get close enough to fight before the night's over," he told them. "They can't do us much harm from the range they're shooting from. You'll get your chance later."
   It was dark before the cookfires were lighted, but MacKinnie would not allow any rest until the camp was completed. When the last stake was driven, the sun had set, and a thick overcast obscured the moons. From his command point atop Mary Graham's wagon, MacKinnie could see dozens of fires dotting the plain, barbarian camps, each a band of hundreds of men.
   "There are sure enough of them," he remarked.
   "I don't see how we can win against so many," Mary answered. "No matter how many you kill, there will always be more."
   "Not if there's nothing to eat. They're foraging pretty wide already. It's only the grain crops that enable them to stay here. Without the crops, they'd have to go back into the interior. We'll drive them off all right."
   "What were you a colonel of?" she asked. "I thought you were more than just a trader from the time I met you, and I wasn't very surprised when your man let it slip."
   "You've heard of me," he said. Out beyond the palisade, something was moving. The nearest enemy cookfire was obscured momentarily, then again.
   "You mean your name is MacKinnie? Let me . ." She looked up in surprise. "Iron MacKinnie? The Orlean commander? I should hate you."
   "Why?"
   "My fiance was at Blanthern Pass. A subaltern in the Fifth."
   MacKinnie climbed laboriously from the wagon, surprised at how tired he was even in the low gravity of Makassar. "The Fifth were good troops."
   "Yes. They'd have won against anyone but your men, wouldn't they? I think everyone in Haven hated and admired you at the same time after that battle."
   "It's done. Now we're all loyal subjects of King David. I'm sorry."
   "Don't be." She moved closer to him, trying to see his face in the dim light from the cookfire. "From these millions of miles away, the big important politics of Prince Samual's World look pretty small. Until today I was sure we'd never get back home. Even now it doesn't seem very likely. But if anyone can do it, you can."
   Nathan laughed. "You're beginning to sound like Hal talking to the recruits, Mary Graham. For now you'd best get the men fed, because we don't have very long before the barbarians try their hand with a night attack. I'll have the troops sent here in shifts so we keep a decent perimeter, and we feed the interior troops last. It's the pikemen and shield boys we want to take care of tonight."
   "When do the knights eat?"
   "After they've fed their mounts like any good cavalry. And after my pikemen. Your pardon, Freelady, I have to see to my men."
   The night wore on. MacKinnie was relieved when no attack came before his perimeter guards were fed, but did not relax until every man was back in his place, lying at ease with his weapons, while swordsmen stood guard to peer futilely into the darkness.
   "They're coming," he told Stark. "I've seen them stirring around, and there's a feel about it. You get it, too?"
   "Yes, sir. And like you say, they're moving about some out there. We'll hear from 'em 'fore morning."
   It was nearly midnight when a sentry shouted, then vanished beneath a wave of dismounted men swarming toward the palisade.
   "Trumpeter!" MacKinnie shouted. "Sound the alarm! To your feet men!" He could see a knot of pikemen, kept awake in central reserve, rushing toward the area of the attack.
   "To me! To me!" he heard Vanjynk shout. "Leave your mounts and rally to me!" Leading a party of knights with swords singing about their heads, Vanjynk charged to the perimeter, pushing aside shieldsmen struggling to their feet. The iron men stood at the top of the palisades, dealing terrible blows to the enemy attempting to climb out of the ditch. The night was filled with screams and shouts before MacKinnie had his shield wall formed properly and brought the armored men back to a central reserve.
   "They're all around the perimeter," Stark told him. "They try one spot and then another, not much coordination to it, but nobody can rest any, Colonel."
   MacKinnie nodded agreement. "It's a good tactic. They hope to tire us out and then cut us off from the city. It'll cost 'em enough."
   In less than an hour the battle died away, leaving a quiet shattered at intervals with the groans of the wounded, but the enemy never left them alone. All night there were rushes against one part of the palisade or another, and the whistle of arrows fired randomly into the camp. Morning came slowly, to reveal hundreds of enemy dead and dying filling the ditches, or stretched on the ground where they had crawled away from the battle. Bands of nomads rode slowly around the camp, silently watching the wall of shields. "Here's the tricky part," MacKinnie said. "But I think they may have had enough for now. They'll want to see what we do next." He carefully moved his men out beyond the palisade, bringing the wagons and interior troops out of the camp before abandoning the other walls. The enemy watched, but there was no attack, as he marched his formation slowly back through the enemy campsite, burning everything he could find. As the maris's possessions blazed behind them, the battalion marched in quickstep back to the city.
   
   XIV
   
   The war minister was angry as he faced the assembled Bishops of the Temple. "He has proved that he can fight the barbarians. He has remained a day and a night outside the walls of the city. He has killed hundreds of them. For this we are grateful. But I say that it is madness to take the entire army into the field. Let him carry on his raids with the troops he used before, not strip our walls of their defenders."
   The council muttered approval. MacKinnie glanced around the great room, its walls hung with tapestries. Above the woven hangings, stone figures representing heroes of an Empire dead so long its very existence was legend stared down at them. On his dais high above the council table, His Utmost Holiness Willem XI dozed in starts, interest overcoming senility for moments before his head dropped again. His word was law, but the Council of Bishops wrote his words for him, and spoke them as well more often than not.
   "Worshipful sirs," MacKinnie said, "I would do as Father Sumbavu asks if it were possible. But our expedition was a demonstration only. Without sufficient troops to replace the shieldsmen who fall in battle, and more to allow the men to rest when they tire, we could never hold against the enemy for more than a day. But with enough men I can destroy their bases of supplies, bring them to battle against us, destroy many of them and send the rest to their wastelands. And do not be deceived, worshipful sirs. The plainsmen have studied our methods of fighting. They now will even be devising means to fight us, to use their great numbers and speed. The next battle will decide the fate of the city. Would you fight it now, or wait until hunger has reduced our ranks to shadows? Will you fight outside the walls like men, or huddled inside waiting to be slaughtered?"
   "He speaks well, Sumbavu," the archdeacon said. He turned his blue eyes toward MacKinnie. "And how do you know you will have success? What manner of Trader are you that you know ways of fighting never seen on this world?"
   "Your Reverence. my ways are but those of the Guildsmen of the South and West. We have fought these barbarians before, although never so many of them. As to success, what can be denied the army of God? If we go forth boldly, we must win, for God is with us."
   
   
   
   "He was with us before, but it did not save our army," Sumbavu muttered. The old priest glanced quickly about, fearful of having spoken heresy.
   "You wish to take all the knights and archers, and your beggars," the archdeacon said. "This I understand from watching the fighting five days ago. But why do you also demand the swordsmen of the Temple? Of what use will these be to you?"
   "The armored swordsmen will guard our camp," MacKinnie said. "They will fight in the nighttime when the shieldsmen are not of such great value. They fight against the barbarians when they leave their mounts and attack us on foot. The citizen army knows only one method of fighting, they are not trained soldiers. We must have a leavening of fighting men if we are to bring the enemy to the final battle."
   "And Sumbavu, what have you to say except that we should not allow this? What reasons have you?" the crimson-robed official asked. "He has done what you could never do." The archdeacon turned to the others. "For myself, I see the hand of God in this man's coming. Who knows what instruments the Omnipotent may choose for our deliverance?"
   Sumbavu measured his words carefully, speaking softly so that they leaned forward to hear him. "I do not know. Yet I do not like this. There is something of this man I do not understand, and I do not think he should be trusted with the army of the Temple."
   "Then go with him to command it," the archdeacon said. "For ourselves, we have heard enough. Let the Trader kill the barbarians, and may God's blessing go with him."
   Sumbavu bowed in acceptance, but MacKinnie felt the war minister's intense gaze even as he left the room.
   MacKinnie used two more weeks preparing for the battle. His entire force of citizens and peasants was trained, with his original group dispersed through the ranks as fuglemen. Stark drilled them relentlessly in the Temple courtyard, taking them again and again through the complex maneuvers which formed squares and columns, opened and closed ranks, brought their pikes to rest and present.
   Brett and Vanjynk worked with the knights, shouting and cursing to try to make them understand that their great strength lay in a massed charge, and that they must return to the shield wall to regroup after each attack or they would be split apart and killed. Each evening they discussed the day's progress, talking late into the night, then rising early to drill the men once again.
   On the night before the army was to go forth, MacKinnie held another conference. He looked intently at his officers seated at the thick wooden table in front of him.
   "Mr. McLean, what of my infantry?"
   "Better than when we went out last, Colonel. They've seen the way it's done now, and Stark sweated them until they're hardened up. Not like veteran troops, but they'll hold. Doubling the rations didn't hurt any."
   "That was the colonel's doing," Mary Graham said. "He found someone who could be bribed at the warehouse."
   MacKinnie shook his head. "Stark again, though I thought of it. I've never seen a commissary yet that didn't have a couple of people on the take in it."
   "I hope there are none in mine," Mary said indignantly.
   "There are, lady, there are," Stark injected. "Just hope their price is high and they're scared enough of you not to fill up the grain wagons with sand. It's been done to campaigns before."
   "And your knights, Vanjynk?" MacKinnie asked.
   "They drill well, they wheel to the trumpets, but they still do not like turning from the battle. Nor do I, but I see it must be done." Vanjynk lifted his cup and gulped wine. "You fight strangely on your world, star-man."
   "Lay off that talk," Stark muttered. "We got enough trouble with them Temple people without that."
   MacKinnie nodded. "Hays right. But tell me, will the knights obey the trumpets?"
   "I believe so," Brett answered. "They have little wish to be killed by barbarians. But there is no fear of death in these men, only of dishonor."
   "Aye, so Brett made a song about foolish knights who abandoned their commander and were shamed forever," McLean said. "Silly thing, but catchy. Seems to have helped."
   "If songs help, sing your lungs out," MacKinnie told them. "The key to this whole battle is getting the heavy cavalry to bear on the barbarians while they're bunched up. Nothing on this world can stand up to a charge from those armored iron-heads, but as soon as they lose their momentum and scatter the maris can pick them off with no trouble at all." He turned to Mary Graham. "Do you have all the supplies we ordered?"
   She nodded. "We've made thousands of bolts for the crossbows, and the grain wagons are ready. You don't really have very many provisions, you know."
   "I know. You're rolling plenty of empty wagons, though. Either we find something to put in them, or we'll come back home for more supplies. This formation's slow enough without heavy transport gear in the square."
   "Then we're ready," Mary Graham said.
   "Not you. You aren't going," MacKinnie told her.
   "Yes, I am. It's no safer in here than out there. If your battle is lost, the city is lost as well and you know it." She looked around the room at the other men from her world. "I have a right to his protection, and I choose that he exercise it personally. Don't I have that right?"
   "An interesting point," Longway said. "You cannot abandon her without finding a substitute guardian," the Academician told MacKinnie. "And doubtless she is entitled to someone of her own world. Who will you leave with her? Scholar Kleinst remains in the city, but for all his great value he is hardly a suitable guardian."
   "I appear to be outmaneuvered, although why you should want to accompany an army in the field is beyond me, Freelady." MacKinnie looked at her expectantly.
   "I see no reason to stay here," she told him. "There are few enough on this God-forsaken place that I can talk to, without being left with the Temple monks. Besides, I can be useful, or can you spare anyone else to manage your commissary?"
   "The point is made." He turned back to the council. "Our whole purpose in this expedition will be to either force the plainsmen into battle on our terms, or destroy their base of supply. Either will be sufficient, although I doubt they will let us simply march out and burn their harvests without a fight." He indicated the map spread out on the table. "As near as we can tell from watching their movements, they've been harvesting the crops for the past three weeks. The nearest big concentration of grain is here, about thirty kilometers from the gates, assuming they use the roads and village structures. I rather think they will, from what I've been able to learn they often do that. We'll make straight for that and burn what we can't load up."
   "Then what?" McLean asked. 
   "We see if they'll fight. If they won't, we keep marching from place to place until they're short of rations. But they'll fight all right."
   "You may get more battle than you expect," Longway said. "You've hurt their pride with your last expedition, and they'll want to prove it was an accident. Next time, they'll press home their charge with everything they have."
   "That's what I'm hoping for," MacKinnie answered slowly. "It will take them time to gather for the battle, and more to decide who leads it. By that time, we should have got to our objective and set up camp. They'll gather troops all night, and probably try to wipe us out in the morning."
   "Then you're trying for one big battle," Mary said.
   "Yes. One turn of the wheel, Freelady. We haven't a lot of time." He glanced significantly at the Makassarians at the table, then stood to dismiss the meeting. "Rest well, and be ready tomorrow. They may not let us get to the first village."
   The army formed outside the city walls after first light. MacKinnie placed his men in a triangular formation again, but this time the broad base of the wedge faced forward, its point to the rear. He doubled the men on the right leg of the wedge, using all the left-handed troops he could find for the forward elements of that line, and placing a large reserve force at the rear point. When he was satisfied with his arrangements, the drums beat their slow march, and the army moved forward.
   Clouds of maris rode madly around, darting toward them, withdrawing, waiting for any opening in the shield walls, patient in the knowledge that the city army could never pursue them. The slow cadence continued, wagon wheels creaked and men shouted at the oxen drawing supply wagons, while the knights in the center impatiently led their mounts. Kilometer after kilometer they marched toward the enemy camp, as more and more barbarians joined the forces riding around them. They were completely surrounded.
   "Reckon the city can hold with what we've left 'em?" Stark asked, looking back at the city in the distance. "You didn't leave 'em much."
   "They'll hold," MacKinnie replied. "The enemy has no heavy siege equipment, and as long as the walls are manned the barbarians can't do much. Give them enough time and they could throw up ladders or even stack their saddles against the walls, but the defense can slow that down, and I don't intend to give them any time for stunts like that. We seem to be attracting most of them to us, anyway. What's Sumbavu doing?"
   "He's riding with the knights, Colonel. Keeping an eye on those pretty uniformed swordsmen and archers, too. He don't trust you much."
   "I don't blame him, Hal. I wouldn't trust me much either if I were Sumbavu. But what else can he do? Keep a sharp eye on him, I can't have him interfering."
   "Yes, sir. You didn't put up much protest about him coming."
   "Maybe I didn't mind him coming. Now watch him."
   "Yes, sir."
   The march continued, drawing to within a kilometer of the enemy tents. MacKinnie looked closely at the cluster of enemy in front of him. "They're trying to make up their minds. They don't want to give up all that grain without a fight. Watch that group there," he said, pointing. "Here they come! Beat the alarm!"
   The drums thundered, then went back to their steady pace. The column continued to advance until the enemy was within bow shot. "Prepare for attack," MacKinnie said quietly, measuring the distance to the nearest of the plainsmen. "Form the wall." The drums beat again, and the Temple archers rushed to the perimeter, firing into packed enemy. The charge hurtled toward the broad front of the wedge, then wheeled around to strike the left end of the line. Pikemen rushed to the corner as echelon after echelon of the enemy plunged against the left leg of the inverted wedge.
   The shield wall held. A few of the barbarians leaped over the first rank to land among the pikemen, their short swords slashing, but Temple guardsmen moved forward to cut them down. The battle was short, and when it was finished hundreds more of the enemy lay in front of the column. The men raised a cheer, cut short by the drummers' commands to resume the march.
   "Not much of a battle," Stark commented. "Thought they'd try more than that."
   "Testing us out," MacKinnie said. "They've found a way to get a few men into our lines now. They'll try that one again. Adaptable beggars."
   "They have to be," Brett said from behind him. MacKinnie turned to see the singer walking patiently. "I left my mount with Vanjynk," Brett said. "You understand that there will be many more battles, each different from the last?"
   "I understand. But how many more there will be depends on more than their intentions. For now, we take their supplies."
   The enemy camp was deserted, the tents struck away. Huge piles of harvested grains, recently covered with hides but now left to blow about in the wind, and the scattered refuse of weeks of enemy life lay about them. Ditch, ramparts, and palisade rose around the campsite while the commissary workers began cookfires. A dozen singers strolled about.
   MacKinnie moved through the camp, speaking to little groups of his men, encouraging them, testing their morale. It was hard to believe that only months before these had been the sullen slaves and beggars of the streets of Batav. Now they roared lustily at his jokes, shouted defiance at an enemy they could not see, and grimly held their weapons as if half afraid someone would take them. MacKinnie pitied anyone foolish enough to try.
   The night was a turmoil. Under the two bright moons, masses of barbarians stormed forward, some mounted, most on foot, trying to find a weak spot in the perimeter, keeping the men aroused. MacKinnie sent small detachments of his troops to the center of the camp, replacing them with others, so that each man was able to rest for part of the night. Toward dawn, the attack died away, and he let the men sleep until late in the morning. The Temple swordsmen had born the brunt of the night attacks, and were most in need of rest. MacKinnie did not call them to breakfast until everyone else had been fed.
   A kilometer from the camp, a mass of barbarians waited, strung out in a vast semicircle between MacKinnie's army and the city. MacKinnie had never seen so large a group of plainsmen before. As he stood atop the commissary wagon peering out at the enemy, Stark joined him.
   "This going to be it, Colonel?" the big sergeant asked.
   "Possibly. Let's see if we can get out of this camp. They figure to ha us as soon as there are enough outside the gates to make it worthwhile." MacKinnie shouted orders, formed the men into ranks, then motioned to a trumpeter. The notes rang out, calling his officers to him. Moments later, the main gates opened.
   MacKinnie sent a heavy detachment of shieldsmen angling forward and to the left from the camp gate. A second group angled off to the right, while others marched out to form a line between them, its ends anchored with the hard marching groups of picked men. When the left-hand group had left a large enough opening inside the wedge, the knights were sent forward until they were just behind the shield wall, at the extreme left corner of the inverted wedge the army was forming. Then MacKinnie sent the Temple archers forward, a line down each leg of his triangular formation, leaving none in the center. Whenever the maris approached the two legs of the formation, a shower of arrows greeted them, forcing them away. The enemy clustered around, moving toward the center where the resistance was least.
   MacKinnie nodded in satisfaction. "Now comes the hard part," he muttered.
   A charge of the barbarians struck the center of the triangle directly in front of the camp gates. The shield wall held, but gradually fell back, stretching thinner and thinner, bowing inwardly toward the gate as the heavier formations at the ends of the line held fast. More troops were sent forward to fill the gaps, keeping a continuous line, but still the enemy pressed forward, forcing them back, back, as more and more of the mans joined the attack. The formation bowed still more, resembling an enormous "U" with its base almost at the palisade. Hundreds, a thousand, four thousand barbarians pressed forward toward the camp gates.
   "Now!" MacKinnie shouted. The trumpet notes sounded above the shouts of battle, drums thundered. The knights formed inside their bastion, then as the formation opened, charged down the wing, rolling up the flank of the enemy. The shield wall quickly closed behind them, then the ends of the U drew together. Archers faced inward now, firing into the ranks of the enemy, while the heavy cavalrymen thundered over the barbarians, riding them down, breaking up all signs of organization until they rode directly into the camp gate.
   MacKinnie signaled frantically to Brett. "Form them up again and be ready to protect the outer flanks!" he shouted. "The archers and spearmen can deal with the ones we've trapped."
   The field in front of the gate was covered with blood. Barbarians pressed closer and closer together as the shield wall, bristling with pikes, closed in on them. Temple archers continued the rain of arrows into the helpless enemies, too crowded together even to use their weapons properly, the inner group not able to strike a blow. A few raced frantically out the end of the trap before the heavy knots of men MacKinnie had sent out first made contact with each other and closed all avenues of escape.
   The remaining enemies outside the trap attempted to aid their fellows, to be stopped by shieldsmen facing outward, slowly moving back as the inner lines moved forward. Concentrations of the enemy were broken up by charges of cavalry, the knights thundering over them and around the ends, wheeling back to enter the camp and regroup, while the Temple swordsmen defended the ramparts of the camp itself. The huge mass of doomed men in the trap could have broken through the thinner lines of the camp, or even the outer defenses of the trap, but they could not escape to fight, while the smaller numbers remaining outside were unable to help them, frantically falling upon the spears of the shield wall or trampled beneath the knights While their luckless fellows were relentlessly cut down.
   The slaughter continued until mid-afternoon. At the end, hapless groups of the enemy threw themselves on the spears or clawed their way up the ramparts to be impaled by the swordsmen at the top, screaming desperately, their courage melted by the faceless mass of swords and the rain of arrows. As the pikemen passed over the dead, camp followers slit each throat and removed the arrows, passing them back to be fired again. Captive beasts were led through the lines into the camp to be tethered with the commissary oxen. The lines came closer together, closer, then touched. There were no more enemy in the trap.
   "What do you propose for the morrow?" Sumbavu asked the council clustered around MacKinnie's campfire. "You have left thousands dead on the field, more cut down in flight by our knights. We can return to the city."
   "No." MacKinnie stood, a cup of wine in his hands. "Until their supply base is destroyed, there is no safety for the city. We must continue to burn their grain."
   "It is not their grain, but ours!" Sumbavu snapped. "You cannot burn this great harvest. It must be carried back to the city. Surely this march can be delayed for a time to allow us to provision the Temple! The Faithful are hungry, and they should be told of this great victory."
   "You forget, there are many more of the enemy than we have killed," MacKinnie reminded the priest. "And we must not give them time to rest. We must pursue them endlessly until they go back to their wastelands in fear."
   "I forbid this," Sumbavu said quietly. "We must take these stores of grain to the city. You will not burn them."
   "Then I suggest you take them yourself, Your Worship," MacKinnie told him. "Now that we have thinned their ranks, I believe we can do without the Temple swordsmen. I will need some of the wagons to transport grain for the army, but you may have half of them, and three hundred of the camp servants as well. It is only thirty kilometers, each can carry half a hundred weight of grain. That will leave little to burn."
   "So be it. We set forth immediately."
   "At night, Your Worship?" MacKinnie asked. "Is that wise?"
   "Wiser than being caught by them in the daytime. I see that you will not escort me with your army, though it would involve only a day's march. I will so report to the Council."
   "Two days march, Father," MacKinnie said quietly. "One each way. Not to mention the disorganization as each man ran in to tell his fellows of the glorious victory. We would lose many days, and for what? If the enemy is to be driven from the city, it must be done now."
   "What need to drive them away, now that we have means to gather provision?' Sumbavu snapped. "We could return, and our Temple officers learn to command the soldiers, then set forth again. It would not be so great for you and your outlanders, would it? You must win yourself, for what purpose I do not know, but I tell you again, I know you do not have the good of the Temple first in your heart, soldier of the South. Were I not guarded by the Faithful of the Temple, I do not think I would return from this march alive." He stalked off into the night, his bodyguard following him closely.
   "Go pick the most useless slaves of your group," MacKinnie told Mary Graham. "The blunderers, the tired animals, the wagons ready to fall apart, get them all out of here."
   She studied him closely. "I'd almost think that's why you brought all that useless junk. And you added that group of convicts to my picked men . . . did you expect this?"
   "Freelady, just get them moving," Stark said. "The colonel's got enough problems." He guided her to the granaries, set men to loading the wagons which were to go back to the city.
   Two hours later, Sumbavu was ready to depart. He stood with MacKinnie at the camp gate, watching the sky. "In an hour the moons will be gone. You have not seen the enemy?"
   "No, Father," MacKinnie told him. "But they will have men out there."
   "There is less chance they will attack me at night than by day," the priest said. "In the dark they will not know that I have only the Temple soldiers, and they will be afraid." He watched the setting moons in silence until darkness came over the plains.
   "I leave you my blessing," Sumbavu told MacKinnie. "Perhaps I have misjudged your intentions. May God accompany you."
   "Thank you, Father," MacKinnie said. He ordered the gates opened and watched the guardsmen and wagons leave. Each swordsman carried a bag of grain on his back in addition to his weapons, and the carts were creaking under the load. Convicts and slaves, lured on the expedition with promises of freedom and now sent back toward the city with staggering loads on their back, old oxen, carts with creaking wheels, all filed out with the proud guardsmen. A thousand soldiers and three hundred bearers left the camp before the gates were closed. MacKinnie returned to his tent. After a few moments, Stark and Longway joined him by his fire.
   "They'll never make no ten kilometers by morning," Stark said. "Not the way they loaded themselves."
   "I thought the priest gave them reasonable loads," Longway said. "They did not seem excessive."
   "Sure, but the colonel gave 'em the pick of the loot before they set out. Wasn't a man there wasn't carrying five, ten kilos of junk stripped off the dead or picked up in this camp."
   "That was generous of you," Longway said. "Extraordinarily so."
   "There will be other loots," MacKinnie told them. "We'll have plenty of chance to get rich, but they won't. They've earned their share."
   "Or will," Stark muttered. MacKinnie looked quickly at him, then stared at the fire in silence as Mary Graham joined the little group. "Best get some sleep," MacKinnie told her. "Start early in the morning, and it's late enough now."
   "I don't really need it," she laughed. "I ride a cart, remember?" "Lady, if you can sleep in that cart under way, you'll be the greatest soldier's wife ever lived," Stark observed. "I'd rather walk, the way those things fall into every hole in the ground."
   Mary laughed, looked around furtively, then said, "You wouldn't think the Empire would fall if we told them how to put springs in the carts, would you? But I guess it's too late now." She looked around her at the camp. The spear and shield troops were asleep in place around the perimeter, their shields propped up behind the palisade, pikes and spears ready at hand, while guards patroled outside the perimeter. "I suppose I should start the breakfast fires. No rest for the cooks."
   "Don't bother," MacKinnie said. "There won't be breakfast in the morning. Another hour and I'll roust out the men I'm taking with me. You can feed the rest when we're gone if the enemy gives you time. I'll leave McLean in command here."
   "You are dividing your force, Colonel?" Longway asked. "That seems unreasonable. How long will you be gone?"
   "One day should do it, one way or another. Don't worry about it, Academician, we won't leave you for long."
   "What is all this?" Mary asked. "There's something strange going on here! I don't think I like this at all."
   "Just go get some rest," MacKinnie told her. "Or if you can't do that, please excuse me while I sleep. We'll have to be up early. Hal, have the guard call me an hour before first light. My apologies, but I can't think clearly when I've had no sleep, and the enemy is still far too dangerous for my mind to be fogged." He strode to his tent and closed the flap. After a few moments, Longway went back to his quarters.
   "Hal, what is wrong with him?" Mary asked. "There's something going on, isn't there?"
   "Freelady, he don't like what he's had to do. I can't say I like it much either, but we don't see no other way. Now do as he says and go to sleep. I reckon I'd better lie down a couple of hours myself."
   
   XV
   
   An hour before dawn, MacKinnie woke the men and formed them into ranks. Half were detailed to guard the camp, returning to the walls. The rest, with the knights, were marched silently out the camp gates, striding briskly to the east, at right angles to the road to the city. McLean waved to MacKinnie with a gesture that was half a salute, then went back into the camp.
   A kilometer away from the camp, MacKinnie turned the detachment toward the city. They marched in silence without drums, Stark moving up and down the line to make each man keep his equipment from rattling. The formation was two columns of fours, the cavalry inside, the soldiers moving swiftly along without wagons or noncombatants. The sky turned gray, then crimson as the first light fell over the field.
   "Keep the pace up," MacKinnie told them. "Brisk, but not to tire yourselves out." He found it difficult to judge the capabilities of his men, although the months on the planet had softened his muscles. Even so, he had noticed that the Samualites were stronger than the natives of Makassar, and everything seemed easier to them, exactly as Midshipman Landry had predicted.
   "Here're their tracks," Stark told him, pointing to the deep tracks left by Sumbavu's baggage carts. "Hard to tell how far they are ahead of us."
   MacKinnie led them off a hundred meters from the trail, then marched the group parallel to it. They swung on in silence, now and again changing positions to send fresh men forward to break trail in the waist-high grasslike vegetation. The low hills of the plain closed around them, MacKinnie rushing forward each time they topped a rise. As they approached one low hill, they heard shouts from the other side. Drawing closer, the sounds resolved themselves into the din of a battle.
   "Deploy the troops," MacKinnie said softly. "Columns of tours to each side."
   The parallel columns split apart, wheeling perfectly to form a straight line, then continued the advance up the hill, the men helping each other with their shields, readying pikes. The knights were at the center with MacKinnie when they reached the top of the rise.
   A thousand barbarians had swarmed over Sumbavu's column. A few of the Temple swordsmen still lived, huddled in knots of ten or twenty around makeshift protection of the baggage carts, as the mans swept toward them firing arrows and leaping on them with their swords. As they watched, another tiny group of scarlet livery vanished beneath a wave of plainsmen.
   "Make your charge straight through them," MacKinnie told Vanjynk. "Cut through and go past, then wheel, dress ranks, and a charge home again. Don't stop to play with them, stay together as you've been taught. Now go."
   Brett and Vanjynk waved the knights forward, gathering momentum as they rode down the gentle hill. The shield wall advanced at the doubletime, men trotting as the fuglemen shouted to keep them in line.
   The maris saw the wall of horsemen plunging toward them, leaped for their mounts, scattering the loot they had been so anxious to gain, but it was too late. The lances came down, and now that they had been seen, MacKinnie waved to the trumpeters. The notes carried easily over the dewey plains as the knights charged home. Lances shattered, swords were torn from scabbards as the knights shouted triumph. A few remained to fight, wheeling about until they were pulled from their saddles by the lassos of the maris, or their mounts were shot from beneath them. The rest galloped past, riding the enemy down, thundering down the entire line of barbarians before wheeling at the top of the next rise.
   The horsemen had broken the enemy when the shieldsmen arrived. Once again the wings of the shield line closed inward, trapping the enemy between ranks, while the knights charged home again, throwing back into the trap any of the barbarians who had attempted to escape, crushing all resistance. The plainsmen caught between the lines had no chance. They could impale themselves on the spears of the shield wall, or wait to be trampled beneath the knights. This time the slaughter was done quickly, for no one attempted to attack the infantry from behind. The plainsmen who escaped were glad of their lives.
   They found Sumbavu at the head of the column, a group of swordsmen dead around his body. He clutched a sword with one hand and a crucifix with the other, and his eyes stared at the heavens. In his whole command, there were no more than fifty survivors. MacKinnie grimly formed his troop into columns and marched back to his camp, the carts rattling over the rutted plains, the groans of the wounded sounding over the creak of their wheels.
   MacKinnie rested his men through the next day. In the late afternoon, a small party of plainsmen approached, wheeled outside arrow shot, and waved feathered lances above their heads.
   "He wants to talk to you," Brett said. "It doesn't happen very often with city people, but they do have ways of ending wars between clans. He's treating you as the chief of a very powerful clan. The men behind him are family heads."
   "How do I meet him?" MacKinnie asked.
   "Go outside the gate with a group of retainers. I doubt if he'll trust you not to shoot him down if he gets in range. It's what always happens when they deal with city people."
   "Can you talk to him? Do you speak their language?"
   "You know I do, Starman, and you know why. I'll come with you if you like."
   MacKinnie took Brett and young Todd, leaving Stark and McLean in command. Longway puffed after them, insisting, and MacKinnie invited him along. They walked out from the camp until they were near the extreme range of a crossbow, then halted, still barely within covering fire if it were needed.
   Three figures detached themselves from the group, dismounted, and strode purposefully toward MacKinnie. A few feet away they grounded their lances and spread their arms wide, speaking swiftly in a guttural language MacKinnie had never heard.
   "He says he comes to speak," Brett said. "He says you fight like a great chief. He says never before have the robed fools fought so well."
   "Tell him I am a great prince from the South, and that I have come in a ship. Tell him a thousand more ships full of men like mine are coming, with many horses, and we will cover the plains. Tell him his brave people will kill many of us, but more will come, and soon there will be many dead on these fields."
   Brett spoke quickly, waited for a reply, and said, "He says he is honored to meet a great prince from the South. He says he knew you could not be from the city. He asks how you will catch him."
   "Say that we will come to his home in midwinter. We will burn his food and kill his beasts. But we do not wish to do this, for many of my strong men will die, and many of his brave warriors, and all for nothing."
   "That ought to impress him," Brett said. He chattered to the plainsman, listened, then spoke again. "He's afraid of that walking wall of yours," Brett told MacKinnie. "He can imagine your troops pounding along in the snow, and it bothers him. He wants to know why you would do this."
   "Tell him any way you want to," MacKinnie answered, "but here're my terms. They can have two days to get out of here. They burn nothing else, but they can carry whatever they can. At the end of that time, we'll kill every one of them we find. And, if they make any more hostile moves after today, we'll follow him to the end of the continent."
   "He's not responsible for all of the marls," Brett said. "Just his own clan. He can't promise for the rest."
   "Is this the leader of the biggest group?"
   "Yes."
   "Then he'll have to figure out how to drive the others out. He ought to be able to do it, but anyway that's his problem, not mine. Tell him."
   Brett looked pale for a moment, stared intently at MacKinnie, then spoke at length. The sinewy man answered, then another of the attendants shouted. Brett shouted back, and their voices rose angrily before the chief spoke again more calmly. Finally Brett turned back "He'll try. Some of the others have already left. He'll get the rest to go along. They wanted more time, but I told them you were a madman, you'd taken an oath not to stop fighting if this war didn't end now. I think they'll go."
   
   XVI
   
   They entered the city in triumph. MacKinnie marched his weary troops to the Temple courtyard, then had the commissary department serve a feast. As the soldiers were eating, he sent for Father Deluca and the archbishop.
   "Your Reverence," he told Casteliano, "you are now in command of this Temple."
   "How is this?" the archbishop asked.
   "The only military forces left in this city are about a hundred and fifty archers, another hundred swordsmen, the knights, and my army there. The knights aren't any match for these lads in a street fight. There's nothing to stop you from taking over, my troops will stay loyal to me."
   "Surely you do not expect to make war on the Temple," Laraine said. "We have no wish to wade in blood up to the altar."
   "You won't have to. While the rest of them were eating, I had Hal send a force of picked men to the key points. It's already ours, now we have to tell their ruling council and that Pope of theirs. Not all my men would fight for me against the Temple, but a lot of them would. I'd rather not fight over it though, we'd have trouble controlling the looters."
   "But you have not yet told the Council? They still believe themselves the rulers of the city. And you have told them nothing about us." The archbishop stroked his chin carefully, then turned to Laraine and Deluca. "Go quickly and get our Vestments. The gold ones, and the most ornate trappings we have. Quickly, there is no time to be lost! My son," he asked MacKinnie, "can you lend us some loyal men as attendants? And if you would have your most regal clothing brought to you, it would help. I believe there is a way this can be done without bloodshed." He looked down at the motley group in the courtyard, men shouting and drinking, the Temple guardsmen who had stayed behind joining in the merriment while grim-faced pike and shieldsmen stood guard on the battlements in knots of five.
   The archbishop nodded grimly. "You have brought back none of the Temple swordsmen, and not all their archers. Father Sumbavu—how did he die?"
   "He was killed with his men in an ambush by the enemy," MacKinnie answered slowly. "He was bringing supplies back to the city. We arrived in time to revenge him, but not to save him."
   "I see. A thousand brave men, who served you well. A high price to pay for a city."
   "Damned high," MacKinnie muttered. "God help me, there was no other way. You've seen these Temple fanatics. We'd have had to kill every one of those soldiers before they'd let us inspect their holy relics."
   "The relics," Casteliano said slowly. "What is your great interest in the relics?" The priest looked at Nathan carefully. "Whatever your reason, you have done the Church a great service. I will not forget it. Now I have to tell that Council of theirs who really commands in this city. Your pardon, Trader, I must find a room where we can dress properly for our interview, and I would be most grateful if you could bring a dozen of your most loyal men."
   Two days later, MacKinnie begged audience with His Ultimate Holiness, Primate of all Makassar, and Archbishop of New Rome. He was led into a small office behind the council room where Casteliano was seated in his shirt sleeves examining Temple records. The archbishop looked up and smiled.
   "It was easier than you thought, was it not?" he said.
   "Yes, Your Reverence. I still find it hard to believe that we had no bloodshed. But my men remain on guard, just in case."
   "I told you there were few doctrinal differences, and these men are not only realists, but believers. If we had approached them from a Navy landing ship and demanded obedience, we would have had to demonstrate our power, but it would have been managed. As it was, arriving in the city like beggars, they would never listen to us. How could they believe we were great lords of the Church from the stars? But with you at our side, and your soldiers commanding their Temple, they had little choice but to listen."
   "You were highly persuasive, Your Reverence."
   "As were your actions. It was not difficult to make them see the hand of God in your victory, and His wrath in the death of Sumbavu. Did you foresee that as well?"
   "No, Your Reverence."
   "It is as well. Now what may I do for you?"
   "I don't know how to begin. Yet I must have your help. I see no other way."
   "Colonel—do not be surprised, the title is commonly used by your soldiers—you hold this Temple, not me. You could depose me as easily as you created me, particularly if you supported the Council against me. What is it I can do that you cannot do for yourself? Do you want to be crowned king of this city? They would do that for you."
   MacKinnie laughed. "Nothing that simple. But . . . but may I speak to you in confidence? Have I earned the right to ask something which, if you refuse, you will not thwart me from attempting another way?"
   The archbishop took a small strip of cloth from the table in front of him, kissed it, and placed it over his shoulders. "My son, for thousands of years the confessional has never been violated. By tradition, by the laws of God, and by the most stringent of Imperial Edicts what you tell me in confession can never be revealed. Have you something to confess?"
   Nathan MacKinnie breathed deeply, stared at the old man, and thought for a moment before beginning. "All right. As you surmised, we are from a newly discovered planet which will be a Colony World when they get around to classifying us. They won't do that until we have a working planetary government, and King David's advisers are managing to delay that. We want to build a spaceship before they make us a Colony World."
   "A spaceship! Just how advanced are you? What makes you think . . . no, how does this affect me?"
   "Father, I came here to get copies of every technical work I can find in that Library. Our people think we can do it if we know how. I'm a soldier, not a scientist, and I don't know if they can do it or not, but we've got to try!"
   The archbishop nodded. "You would try. Tell me, Colonel MacKinnie, are you typical of the people of your planet?"
   "I don't know. In some ways, yes. Why?"
   "Because, and I say it reverently, God help the Colonists they send to your world if you are. You don't know when to give up. Yes, I'll help you." He thought for a few moments, then laughed. "And we'll stay within the letter of the Regulations. Although I doubt that would impress the Navy if they found you smuggling copies of technical books. But Makassar is classified as primitive. Any art, or craft, found here can be taken to any other part of the Empire. It never occurred to them that anyone would use the Library for its knowledge. Yes, we'll help you and gladly. Think what a splendid joke on the Imperial Trading Association this will make!" He struck a small gong on the desk, and told the servant who entered in response, "Go to the holy relics and bring Brother LeMoyne, if you please."
   LeMoyne was a small man, with sandy hair and flashing blue eyes. He knelt perfunctorily before Casteliano, kissed his ring, and said, "And what may I do for His Ultimate Holiness other than refrain from letting New Rome know his present title?"
   The archbishop laughed. "You see why he will never be a priest. Tell me, can you make the holy relics speak yet?"
   "The Library is in amazingly good condition, Your Reverence. The Imperials fixed much of the equipment when they made copies of the tapes. The Old Empire used nearly indestructible plastics for those spools, and everything has been preserved with holy zeal. It only needs a power source to make it work."
   "What kind of power?" MacKinnie asked.
   "Oh, any good source of current. It would be no great trick to build one, but we couldn't let the natives see it operate."
   MacKinnie sent for Kleinst, only to discover he had been assisting LeMoyne in the inspection of the Library.
   "It's a simple photoelectric recording," Kleinst told MacKinnie. "Not greatly different from the photographic equipment we use at home, although more compact, and I don't understand some of the electrical gadgetry. I think we could read the tapes if we had them."
   "But, of course, you will never be permitted to take them back to your planet . . . wait, surely they can be hidden among whatever trade goods you will carry," Casteliano said. "Now all that remains is to copy them."
   "Brother LeMoyne has told me that is simple," Kleinst said. "There is a large stock of blank tapes in storage, and once the generator is constructed he can copy them." The scholar's eyes flashed as he spoke. "And there is everything here! Textbooks for children which tell of physical laws I never even suspected. Handbooks, maintenance manuals for equipment I can't describe. But with time, I'm sure I could learn how it works. If I can't, some of the younger students can be trained. Surely we can learn."
   "We have to," MacKinnie said. "Learn it and use it. It's a long way to the stars, and we'd better get started." He turned to the Archbishop. "Thank you, Your Reverence. Now I'd better see to my ship. Before we can go to the stars, we first have to get back to Jikar."
   As he left, Archbishop Casteliano looked to Kleinst, then at the retreating figure. "He'll get there. And his sons will be admirals. Now, young man, how is your generator? Will it be finished soon?"