Then came the wards, and the Vardors, and warriors gained power. A bright chief named Kro Fars realized what power he and his warriors had, how valuable they were. He set out the idea of the Warriors’ Guild. It formed slowly, and flourished—mostly after Kro Fars was assassinated. The last real struggle was fifty years ago, between the priesthood and the warriors.” He grinned, displaying big strong teeth, the left incisor minus a wedge-shaped piece. He had a scar on his cheek, too. “The Guild won.”
I shook my head, testing their wine: it was good. Not too dry, but not horrible thick stuff like port, either.
“Warriors defeated priests in a power struggle? How could that ever be done?” It sounded like a dream. I’d always cherished such a notion: doers conquering parasites and taking over! At the time I left America/Earth—well, skip it. You don’t need me to tell you that those of us who worked and paid taxes were slaves to those who didn’t. I imagine America has had its revolution by now. Have you re-instituted capitalism yet?
Stro Fentris of Brynda was grinning again—lord that man has big teeth!
“It wasn’t hard, as it turned out. The situation was ready to fulminate when Itza attacked Brynda. The army of course was ready, at government orders. But the real fighting men were the Guildsmen, and the Guildchief called a strike. The situation grew warmer and warmer. Then, when the Itzoys were almost at the gates, the government capitulated and took away the power of the priests. The Guildsman went out and smashed the Itzoys and then kept on going, to take and sack Itza. Once you defeat an enemy’s army, it’s stupid not to cripple him at home, too! The Guild was the hero—and the Guildchief was smart enough so that it took a very short time for the people to be convinced that the Guild WAS the hero, first last and always, and that it was the fault of the priests that Brynda had almost been taken by Itza. The Faith had made conditions so miserable for the Guild that its members just couldn’t generate enthusiasm to fight for such a structure.”
He shrugged, still grinning, and swiped about in his tin plate with the last biscuit, sopping up every droplet of gravy and juices.
“The priesthood never recovered. And now there’s a temple to Kro Fars.”
Which didn’t sound much better to me; clobber one religion, one pyramid-topper, in favor of another. Then turn it into a religion because people like smoking opium. Apparently the Guildchief was top man in Brynda, and the warriors were the top of the heap—which is why they swaggered, and ate apart from the rest of the caravan. The elite.
The Guildchief—Shayharan. With a daughter named Sorah. A ring-wearer or sorceress. Whose life I had saved. Hell, I had rescued a princess!
But—she hadn’t even bothered to say “Gee, thanks.”
Our caravan had been to Itza and points east—notably Rizadar and Risathade. The Protectors’ presence was required because of:
Vardors;
Itza (“one never knows about Itzoys!”);
assorted bandits, outlaws, etc. etc. etc.;
Saghritar. One never knew about Saghritoys, either. Mainly because of religion, they’d been the enemies of Brynda and Itza and Risathade for a couple of hundred years.
I looked around. “There seem mighty few Guildsmen along, Chief,” I said, “considering all those possible dangers.” I wondered about parrot heads.
Stro Fentris nodded with a grim expression. “Nineteen,” he said. “And five of them Itzoys, at that. We’ve lost twenty-six men since this ill-omened caravan left Brynda three months ago. Fourteen of those are recovering—hopefully—from wounds in Risathade and Itza. The others have retired. One of them for Fars’ sake, was retired in a tavern brawl in Itza!” He shook his head. “Three Vardor attacks, two duels, that brawl, and those thieving renegades between Itza and Risathade!” He glanced around, and his chest came out: “But the caravan’s
I shook my head, testing their wine: it was good. Not too dry, but not horrible thick stuff like port, either.
“Warriors defeated priests in a power struggle? How could that ever be done?” It sounded like a dream. I’d always cherished such a notion: doers conquering parasites and taking over! At the time I left America/Earth—well, skip it. You don’t need me to tell you that those of us who worked and paid taxes were slaves to those who didn’t. I imagine America has had its revolution by now. Have you re-instituted capitalism yet?
Stro Fentris of Brynda was grinning again—lord that man has big teeth!
“It wasn’t hard, as it turned out. The situation was ready to fulminate when Itza attacked Brynda. The army of course was ready, at government orders. But the real fighting men were the Guildsmen, and the Guildchief called a strike. The situation grew warmer and warmer. Then, when the Itzoys were almost at the gates, the government capitulated and took away the power of the priests. The Guildsman went out and smashed the Itzoys and then kept on going, to take and sack Itza. Once you defeat an enemy’s army, it’s stupid not to cripple him at home, too! The Guild was the hero—and the Guildchief was smart enough so that it took a very short time for the people to be convinced that the Guild WAS the hero, first last and always, and that it was the fault of the priests that Brynda had almost been taken by Itza. The Faith had made conditions so miserable for the Guild that its members just couldn’t generate enthusiasm to fight for such a structure.”
He shrugged, still grinning, and swiped about in his tin plate with the last biscuit, sopping up every droplet of gravy and juices.
“The priesthood never recovered. And now there’s a temple to Kro Fars.”
Which didn’t sound much better to me; clobber one religion, one pyramid-topper, in favor of another. Then turn it into a religion because people like smoking opium. Apparently the Guildchief was top man in Brynda, and the warriors were the top of the heap—which is why they swaggered, and ate apart from the rest of the caravan. The elite.
The Guildchief—Shayharan. With a daughter named Sorah. A ring-wearer or sorceress. Whose life I had saved. Hell, I had rescued a princess!
But—she hadn’t even bothered to say “Gee, thanks.”
Our caravan had been to Itza and points east—notably Rizadar and Risathade. The Protectors’ presence was required because of:
Vardors;
Itza (“one never knows about Itzoys!”);
assorted bandits, outlaws, etc. etc. etc.;
Saghritar. One never knew about Saghritoys, either. Mainly because of religion, they’d been the enemies of Brynda and Itza and Risathade for a couple of hundred years.
I looked around. “There seem mighty few Guildsmen along, Chief,” I said, “considering all those possible dangers.” I wondered about parrot heads.
Stro Fentris nodded with a grim expression. “Nineteen,” he said. “And five of them Itzoys, at that. We’ve lost twenty-six men since this ill-omened caravan left Brynda three months ago. Fourteen of those are recovering—hopefully—from wounds in Risathade and Itza. The others have retired. One of them for Fars’ sake, was retired in a tavern brawl in Itza!” He shook his head. “Three Vardor attacks, two duels, that brawl, and those thieving renegades between Itza and Risathade!” He glanced around, and his chest came out: “But the caravan’s
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