The only change in the woman’s appearance was that a mole sprouted on the side of her left breast. Its pigmentation was darker than that of the nipple.
“Come and get me, then,” Penny giggled.
She turned and scampered toward the circular balcony. The crystalline panels slid open as she approached.
Rolls followed. It was necessary that he let her run partway around the dome before he caught her.
But he was as ready to catch her as she was to be caught.
Chapter Thirteen
“I hurt,” said Hansen, “all over.”
He kneaded his thighs viciously as he walked. At least fighting in a battlesuit didn’t leave hands cramped the way Hansen’s fierce grip on a gun butt invariably did.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re in shape,” he said. “It was a good workout, but . . .”
Hansen checked the double quartet of slaves sullenly carrying the warriors’ armor. Malcolm had dragooned the nearest spectators without hesitation when he and Hansen agreed that they didn’t feel like walking their own suits back up the half kilometer to the palisade. Furthermore, the train of slaves stumbling along behind them was an excuse for Hansen to walk slowly—and spare his aching legs.
“Yeah, well,” Hansen said. “I’m in shape, all right—but I don’t have the muscles for this particular job. Every piece of equipment you use—and that’s as true of a rake as it is of a battlesuit—it takes a little different set of muscles.”
A calculated risk.
“But—” said the veteran.
Hansen gripped Malcolm’s right hand with his own left. Because of the tan Annunciation’s sun had given Hansen, their skin was almost the same shade.
That wouldn’t be true long—if he lived.
“Listen, Malcolm,” he said. “Where I come from, we don’t fight with battlesuits. We’ve got other weapons, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I’m not a warrior.”
The two men continued to walk, hand in hand. Malcolm’s expression was unreadable. Then he broke into a smile and said, “No, I don’t doubt that you’re a warrior.”
He clapped Hansen on the back. “If Zieborn wasn’t enough proof,” he added, “what you did to me this morning surely is. You’ll have to teach me some of those tricks.”
They’d reached the palisade. The odor of Peace Rock assailed them, though the fact the citadel was on high ground meant there was some drainage.
Hansen nodded seriously. “I’ll teach you all of them,” he said. “There’s still a lot to learn about this armor, and everything I learn, you and, you know, the others. They’ll have to learn too, Maharg and Shill.”
Malcolm sniffed. “Maybe Maharg,” he said, concentrating on his feet. There were boardwalks between the huts, but many sections had sunk down into the mud.
“Both of them,” Hansen said. “And later, all the rest after we’ve shown them that it works. We’ll start this afternoon.”
Malcolm laughed and strode ahead of his companion. “You can play with your armor this afternoon, laddie,” he called back over his shoulder. “Nancy and I have some other exercises in mind—particularly seeings as I may get my balls whacked off in three days time!”
There was food being served in the hall. Hansen made do with beer, a slab of cheese and a wedge—torn rather than cut—from a round loaf of bread. Shill and Maharg had cornered Malcolm, though Malcolm continued to slake his thirst without apparent interest in what his hangers-on were saying.
Hansen decided to leave them all alone for the moment. He made sure that his battlesuit was stowed properly, then walked outdoors, munching on his bread.
There were a number of new warriors in the citadel. Some of the men had traveled with their own retinue of freemen, slaves, and baggage mammoths. The king was going to war, the king was hiring warriors.
Most of the would-be recruits lacked even their own battlesuit. Old men like Shill, youngsters like Maharg, with too little skill, training and luck to have won their own equipment.
Golsingh would pack them into whatever equipment he had available. One of those hungry-looking fellows would certainly be wearing Villiers’ old suit when Taddeusz led the army out in two days’ time.