The Lotus Eaters

taken twelve or fourteen days. Under the circumstances—up, down, winding, bad or no trails, rocks barring what pathways there were, and the need to forage—it had already been six weeks.

They could have flown from the capital to Alena's people. Certainly Carrera had enough markers to call in to arrange for that with the Pashtian Air Force. But, as he'd said, 'I don't want anyone to know, to even have a hint, where the boy is, that I could not trust with his life.'

And so they rode the distance, spread out in a serrated column with a score of point men forward, backed up by twice that a mile or so behind, a rear guard similarly if inversely composed, and the great mass, one hundred and forty odd warriors and five times that in dependents, in the middle.

* * *

The shots that came from ahead weren't a big surprise. No one rode the mountains of Pashtia without expecting to be attacked sometime, somewhere along the route.

On the other hand, the sheer volume of fire; that was a surprise. Hamilcar had spent his short life surrounded by arms. He listened to the firing for a few moments, filtering out the much faster rate of his guards' F- and M-26s. He judged, 'Five machine guns, maybe a hundred, hundred and twenty, rifles.'

Cano looked closely at the boy and nodded. 'Yes, about that.'

Hamilcar looked questioningly at Alena. She was said to be a witch, after all, though in fact she was probably just a highly observant and extremely intelligent woman. She closed her eyes and recalled the maps she studied nightly.

'There may be three times that many,' she announced. 'Probably no heavy weapons, not here, not with these tribes.'

'Why not?' Cano asked from the other side of Hamilcar.

'Not political,' she answered. 'Just bandits. Never in the pipeline for the heavy stuff. Poor. Not rich enough to buy for themselves. Rifles and machine guns are probably it . . . well, maybe a few rocket grenade launchers.'

As if to punctuate, from the right flank of the column, up high among the rocks, came three loud and echoing bangs. The things, rocket launched grenades, were slow enough for Hamilcar to pick out the smoke trails and follow them to the warheads. None seemed to be coming for him.

While Cano and Alena were still thinking, and fighting their horses for control, Hamilcar began ordering. 'Alena, take charge of the women and children.' He pointed at a covered spot not far away. 'Take one section for security. Go.'

Before Cano could object, the boy ordered him, 'Call in the rear guard. Leave some here; your judgment. With the rest, go relieve the point.'

The rockets impacted among the people of the column—his people—making Hamilcar's pony begin to rear and start. The boy felt a sudden surge of rage—they're attacking my people—and took his gift-rifle from the sling that hung on the saddle. He stood in his stirrups, pointed the muzzle toward the direction from which the rockets had come, and shouted, in the language of his guards, 'Follow me!' Then, spurring his pony, he started up the slope.

Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of the way, Cano thought, reaching for his radio to call in the rear guard. I think the boy can lead.

Alena froze for a moment, an objection forming in her mouth. But, No, he is the Avatar of God. God will protect him. She kicked her pony, moving up the column and directing the women and children to go where Hamilcar had ordered them. As she rode, shouting and ordering, she added in, for the men of the column, 'Guards! Follow Iskandr!'

One look at the boy, charging the enemy alone but for the few of the company who'd been near him, was enough for the guards. They spurred their own ponies, charging in a ragged line after their god.

* * *

Bullets raised little dust-devil's at the pony's feet, even as others split the air around boy and beast with malevolent cracks. Somewhere behind Hamilcar one of the few guards with him cried out in pain. It only caused him to spur his own pony yet again, to drive it through the kill zone the ambushers had planned.

Firing hand gripped around the F-26, Hamilcar's long-practiced thumb flicked the weapon to high rate automatic, twelve hundred rounds per minute. This would empty the ninety-three round snail drum magazine in under five seconds, but was likely to prove the only way to hit something—or even to get close—from the back of the fast-galloping quadruped.

* * *

Horses, being, generally speaking, much more interested in the ancient game of mares and stallions, and having little interest in the affairs of men, were perhaps the very first conscientious objectors. Their objections had—again, generally speaking—been overruled. Being also herd animals, and responsive to imposed, group discipline, horses had long been used to inculcate in men the attitude required to impose discipline on other men.

Hamilcar's mountain pony knew, as soon as its light burden had jerked its head around and applied spurs, that this rider would not be brooked and there was no sense in trying to argue the matter. Indeed, it had already had six weeks to get used to the idea that it was going to do as the little biped directed.

And, ya know, the pony thought as it galloped up the slope, it could be worse. This one feeds me, gives me treats, keeps me clean, doesn't tire me out too badly, and, best of all, talks to me. So I'll trust it . . . for now.

I hope it gets me away from all these nasty sounds, though.

* * *

Closing rapidly on the enemy ambush line, Hamilcar saw a man, civilian clad but armed, easing around a boulder to his front. He pointed—it was nothing more precise than that—his F-26 and depressed the trigger. A dozen shots lashed out with a sound like cloth ripping. Every one of them, to the boy's disgust, missed their intended target. On the plus side, however, between the stone chips they sent flying and their own sonic booms, they sent that target, weapon dropped and arms flailing, back behind the boulder.