The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

Thus, while the Reedbottoms piled eagerly through the gates of Franness, Adrian and his men remained in their camp several miles outside the city. A camp which they had made, not by accident, northwest of the city.

Prelotta might even have believed him. For all his sophistication and comparatively wide experience, he hadn’t actually had much contact with civilized nations since he was a boy. And then, his contact had not been with professional soldiers.

In truth, precious few of Adrian’s men—or Helga’s, for that matter—gave any thought at all to the conduct of the barbarian victors in Franness. Or, if they did, it was simply disgruntled envy that savages were enjoying pleasures which they weren’t. “Civilized” or not, the soldiers under Adrian’s command were essentially mercenaries. They took the abuses of conquerors for granted, and regarded plunder and rapine much as they did any other law of nature.

Once Prelotta and his tribesmen had installed themselves in their “new provincial capital,” Adrian knew that he could escape any pursuit coming from them. Reedbottoms were slow-moving at the best of times. Not even Prelotta would be able to get an effective pursuit started with tribesmen drunk on the wine and women and wealth of Franness.

He was far more concerned about Esmond and the Grayhills. Who, if they were so moved, could easily mount a pursuit. Of course, catching up with Adrian’s people—well over a thousand men now, including Helga’s hundred, along with their camp followers—was one thing. Catching them, with only three thousand Grayhills warriors, was another matter altogether. Adrian was quite confident that, with the guns of the Fighting Band, he could beat off any such cavalry attack. But he wanted to avoid the thing altogether, if possible. Esmond could certainly inflict casualties; and, what was worse, might pin down Adrian’s force long enough for Prelotta to bring up the Reedbottoms. Things would get hairy, then.

Esmond’s mood was impossible to determine any longer. The two brothers had not exchanged so much as a single word in months. Indeed, they had rarely even been within eyesight of each other. To all intents and purposes, Adrian no longer felt he understood Esmond at all.

So, for days, he chewed on the matter. Finding no real help from Raj Whitehall and Center, and coming to no clear decision. Then, on the morning of the third day after the victory over Tomsien—what was becoming known as the Battle of Lurion, named after a small town in the valley—word came that the Grayhills were beginning their retreat. After participating in the initial looting of Franness, the Grayhills had apparently decided to return to the southern half of the continent.

“Seems awfully quick, doesn’t it?” he asked Jessep. Frowning: “I’d expected them to stay as long as there was anything left to plunder. Not as if they have to worry about any Confederate army stopping them, until next year at the earliest. Not after Lurion.”

Jessep’s shrug expressed a simple notion: Who can possibly understand what a savage thinks?

A more coherent answer came from Raj. I’m willing to bet Norrys is dying from his wounds. That’ll mean electing a new chief of the Grayhills, and everyone wants to get back for the dickering.

probability 68%, ± 12, agreed Center. the mongols broke off their conquest of europe for that same reason, when the khan ogodai died.

Adrian vaguely remembered the name “Mongols,” and a bit about their history. One of the multitude of historical episodes which Center seemed to have at its command at all times. At least half of which seemed to have taken place on this “Earth” the computer insisted was the original homeland of the human race. Skeptical at first, Adrian had come to believe the claim—simply because where else would human beings have managed to commit every atrocity and error conceivable. As well, he would admit, as every glory and grandeur.

* * *

Raj and Center were right. By now, Adrian’s Strikers and Fighting Band had collected a fair number of Southron camp followers in addition to the people picked up in Marange. Through them, and their conversations with passing Grayhills, Adrian learned that Norrys was indeed not expected to survive much longer.

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