David Drake & Eric Flint - Fortunes Stroke

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FORTUNE'S STROKE

ERIC FLINT

DAVID DRAKE

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57871-5

Cover art by Gary Ruddell

Interior maps by Randy Asplund

First printing, June 2000

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.

Fortune's Stroke / by Eric Flint & David Drake.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-57871-5

1. Belisarius, 505 (ca.)–565—Fiction. 2. Supercomputers—Fiction.

I. David, Drake. II. Title.

PS3556.L548 F6 2000

813'.54—dc21 00-024712

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Produced by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

John & Becky

BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID DRAKE

Hammer's Slammers

The Tank Lords

Caught in the Crossfire

The Butcher's Bill

The Sharp End

Independent Novels and Collections

The Dragon Lord

Birds of Prey

Northworld Trilogy

Redliners

Starliner

Mark II: The Military Dimension

All the Way to the Gallows

The General Series: (with S.M. Stirling)

The Forge

The Hammer

The Anvil

The Steel

The Sword

The Chosen

The Reformer

The Undesired Princess and The Enchanted Bunny

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Lest Darkness Fall and To Bring the Light

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Enemy of My Enemy:

Terra Nova

(with Ben Ohlander)

Armageddon

(edited with Billie Sue Mosiman)

BAEN BOOKS by ERIC FLINT

Mother of Demons

1632

Prologue

The best steel in the world was made in India. That steel had saved his life.

He stared at a drop of blood working its way down the blade. Slowly, slowly. The blood

which covered that fine steel was already drying in the sun. Even as he watched, the last still-

liquid drop came to a halt and began hardening.

He had no idea how long he had been watching the blood dry. Hours, it seemed. Hours spent

staring at a sword because he was too exhausted to do anything else.

But some quiet, lurking part of his battle-hardened mind told him it had only been minutes.

Minutes only, and not so many of those.

He was exhausted. In mind, perhaps, even more than in body.

In a life filled with war since his boyhood, this battle had been the most bitter. Even his

famous contest against one of India's legends, fought many years before, did not compare. That,

too, had been a day filled with exhaustion, struggle, and fear. But it had been a single combat, not

this tornado of mass melee. And there had been no rage in it, no murderous bile. Deadly purpose,

yes—in his opponent as much as in himself. But there had been glory, too, and the exultation of

knowing that—whichever of them triumphed—both their names would ring down through India's

ages.

There had been no glory in this battle. His overlords would claim it glorious, and their bards

and chroniclers give it the name. But they were liars. Untruth came as naturally to his masters as

breathing. He thought that was perhaps the worst of their many crimes, for it covered all the rest.

His staring eyes moved away from the sword, and fixed on the body of his last opponent. The

corpse was a horror, now, what with the mass of flies covering the entrails which spilled out from

the great wound which the world's finest steel had created. A desperate slash, that had been,

delivered by a man driven to his knees by his opponent's own powerful sword-stroke.

The staring eyes moved to the stub still held in the corpse's hand. The sword had broken at

the hilt. The world's finest steel had saved his life. That and his own great strength, when he

parried the strike.

Now, staring at the man's face. The features were a blur. Meaningless. The life which had

once animated those features was gone. The man who stared saw only the beard clearly. A heavy

beard, cut in the square Persian style.

He managed a slight nod, in place of the bow he was too tired to make. His opponent had

been a brave man. Determined to exact a last vengeance out of a battle he must have already

known to be lost. Determined to kill the man who led the invaders of his country.

The man who stared—the invader, he named himself, for he was not given to lies—would see

to it that the Persian's body was exposed to the elements. It seemed a strange custom, to him, but

that was the Aryan way of releasing the soul.

The man who stared had invaded, and murdered, and plundered, and conquered. But he

would not dishonor. That low he would not stoop.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. Several men. Among those steps he

recognized those of his commander.

He summoned the energy to rise to his feet. For a moment, swaying dizzily, he stared across

the battlefield. The Caspian Gates, that battlefield was called. The doorway to all of Persia. The

man who stared had opened that doorway.

He cast a last glance at the disemboweled body at his feet.

Yes, he would see to it that the corpse was exposed, in the Persian way.

All of the enemy corpses, he thought, staring back at the battlefield. The stony, barren ground

was littered with dead and dying men. Far beyond the grisly sight, rearing up on the northern

horizon, was the immense mountain which Persians called Demavend. An extinct volcano, its

pure and clean lines stood like some godly reproach to the foul chaos of mankind.

Yes. All of them.

His honor demanded it, and honor was all that was left to him.

That, and his name.

Finally, now, he was able to stand erect. He was very tall.

Rana Sanga was his name. The greatest of Rajputana's kings, and one of India's most

legendary warriors.

Rana Sanga. He took some comfort in the name. A name of honor. But he did not take much

comfort, and only for an instant. For he was not a man given to lies, and he knew what else the

name signified. Malwa bards and chroniclers could sing and write what they would, but he knew

the truth.

Rana Sanga. The man—the legend, the Rajput king—who led the final charge which broke

the Persians at the Caspian Gates. The man who opened the door, so that the world's foulest evil

could spill across another continent.

* * *

He felt a gentle touch on his arm. Sanga glanced down, recognizing the pudgy little hand of

Lord Damodara.

"Are you badly injured?"

Damodara's voice seemed filled with genuine concern. For a moment, a bitter thought flitted

through Sanga's mind. But he dismissed it almost instantly. Some of Damodara's concern, true,

was simply fear of losing his best general. But any commander worthy of the name would share

that concern. Sanga was himself a general—and a magnificent one—and knew full well that any

general's mind required a capacity for calculating ruthlessness.

But most of Damodara's concern was personal. Staring down at his commander, Sanga was

struck by the oddity of the friendship in that fat, round face. Of all the highest men in the vast

Malwa Empire, Damodara was the only one Sanga had ever met for whom he felt a genuine

respect. Other Malwa overlords could be capable, even brilliant—as was Damodara—but no

others could claim to be free of evil.

Not that Damodara is a saint, he thought wryly. "Practical," he likes to call himself. Which is

simply a polite way of saying "amoral." But at least he takes no pleasure in cruelty, and will

avoid it when he can.

He shook off the thought and the question simultaneously.

"No, Lord Damodara. I am exhausted, but—" Sanga shrugged. "Very little of the blood is

mine. Two gashes, only. I have already bound them up. One will require some stitches. Later."

Sanga made a small gesture at the battlefield. His voice grew harsh. "It is more important, this

moment, to see to the needs of honor. I want all the Persians buried—exposed—in their own

manner. With their weapons."

Sanga cast a cold, unyielding eye on a figure standing some few feet away. Mihirakula was

the commander of Lord Damodara's Ye-tai contingents.

"The Ye-tai may loot the bodies of any coin, or jewelry. But the Persians must be exposed

with their weapons. Honor demands it."

Mihirakula scowled, but made no verbal protest. He knew that the Malwa commander would

accede to Sanga's wishes. The heart of Damodara's army was Rajput, unlike any other of the

Malwa Empire's many armies.

"Of course," said Damodara. "If you so wish."

The Malwa commander turned toward one of his other lieutenants, but the man was already

moving toward his horse. The man was Rajput himself. He would see to enforcing the order.

Damodara turned back. "There is news," he announced. He gestured toward another man in

his little entourage. A small, wiry, elderly man.

"One of Narses' couriers arrived just before the battle ended. With news from Mesopotamia."

Sanga glanced at Narses. There was sourness in that glance. The Rajput king had no love for

traitors, even those who had betrayed his enemies.

Still—Narses was immensely competent. Of that there was no question.

"What is the news?" he asked.

"Our main army in Mesopotamia has suffered reverses." Damodara took a deep breath.

"Severe reverses. They have been forced to lift the siege of Babylon and retreat to Charax."

"Belisarius," stated Sanga. His voice rang iron with certainty.

Damodara nodded. "Yes. He defeated one army at a place called Anatha, diverted the

Euphrates, and trapped another army which came to reopen the river. Shattered it. Terrible

casualties. Apparently he destroyed the dam and drowned thousands of our soldiers."

The Malwa commander looked away. "Much as you predicted. Cunning as a mongoose."

Damodara blew out his cheeks. "With barely ten thousand men, Belisarius managed to force our

army all the way back to the sea."

"And now?" asked Sanga.

Damodara shrugged. "It is not certain. The Persian Emperor is marshalling his forces to

defeat his brother Ormazd, who betra—who is now allied with us—while he leaves a large army

to hold Babylon. Belisarius went to Peroz-Shapur to rest and refit his army over the winter. After

that—"

Again, he blew out his cheeks.

"He marched out of Peroz-Shapur some weeks ago, and seems to have disappeared."

Sanga nodded. He turned toward the many Rajput soldiers who were now standing nearby,

gathering about their leader.

"Does one of you have any wine?" He lifted the sword in his hand. "I must clean it. The blood

has dried."

One of the Rajputs began digging in the pouch behind his saddle. Sanga turned back to

Damodara.

"He will be coming for us, now."

The Malwa commander cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

"Be sure of it, Lord Damodara," stated Sanga. He cocked his own eye at the Roman traitor.

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摘要：

FORTUNE'SSTROKEERICFLINTDAVIDDRAKEThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2000byEricFlint&DavidDrakeAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooks...

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