The First Heroes Read online

  THE

  FIRST HEROES

  TOR BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  Into the Darkness

  Darkness Descending

  Through the Darkness

  Rulers of the Darkness

  Jaws of Darkness

  Out of the Darkness

  The Two Georges (with Richard Dreyfus)

  Household Gods (with Judith Tarr)

  Between the Rivers

  (Writing as H. N. Turteltaub)

  Justinian

  Over the Wine-Dark Sea

  The Gryphon’s Skull

  The Sacred Land

  THE

  FIRST HEROES

  NEW TALES OF THE BRONZE AGE

  EDITED BY

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  AND

  NOREEN DOYLE

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book

  New York

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories

  are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  THE FIRST HEROES: NEW TALES OF THE BRONZE AGE

  Copyright © 2004 by Harry Turtledove and Noreen Doyle

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions

  thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  The first heroes: new tales of the Bronze Age/[edited by] Harry Turtledove and

  Noreen Doyle. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-765-30286-1

  EAN 978-0765-30286-1

  1. Fantasy fiction, American. 2. Prehistoric peoples—Fiction. 3. Historical fiction, American. 4. Bronze age—Fiction. 5. Heroes—Fiction. I. Doyle, Noreen Mary. II. Turtledove, Harry.

  PS648.F3.F573 2004

  813'.08766—dc22

  2003071152

  First Edition: May 2004

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  “The Lost Pilgrim” copyright © 2004 by Gene Wolfe

  “How the Bells Came from Yang to Hubei” copyright © 2004 by Brenda Clough

  “The Gods of Chariots” copyright © 2004 by Judith Tarr

  “The Horse of Bronze” copyright © 2004 by Harry Turtledove

  “A Hero for the Gods” copyright © 2004 by Josepha Sherman

  “Blood Wolf” copyright © 2004 by S. M. Stirling

  “Ankhtifi the Brave is dying.” Copyright © 2004 by Noreen Doyle

  “The God Voice” copyright © 2004 by Katharine Kerr & Debra Doyle

  “Orqo Afloat on the Willkamayu” copyright © 2004 by Karen Jordan Allen

  “The Myrmidons” copyright © 2004 by Larry Hammer

  “Giliad” copyright © 2004 by Gregory Feeley

  “The Sea Mother’s Gift” copyright © 2004 by Laura Frankos

  “The Matter of the Ahhiyans” copyright © 2004 by Lois Tilton

  “The Bog Sword” copyright © 2004 by the Trigonier Trust

  in memory of

  POUL ANDERSON

  1926–2001

  Contents

  Definition

  Introduction

  “The Lost Pilgrim” by Gene Wolfe

  “How the Bells Came from Yang to Hubei” by Brenda Clough

  “The God of Chariots” by Judith Tarr

  “The Horse of Bronze” by Harry Turtledove

  “A Hero for the Gods” by Josepha Sherman

  “Blood Wolf” by S. M. Stirling

  “Ankhtifi the Brave is dying.” by Noreen Doyle

  “The God Voice” by Katharine Kerr & Debra Doyle

  “Orqo Afloat on the Willkamayu” by Karen Jordan Allen

  “The Myrmidons” by Larry Hammer

  “Giliad” by Gregory Feeley

  “The Sea Mother’s Gift” by Laura Frankos

  “The Matter of the Ahhiyans” by Lois Tilton

  “The Bog Sword” by Poul Anderson

  BRONZE AGE:

  (noun)

  1) archaeology/history;

  a period of cultural development

  marked by the use of copper alloys,

  such as bronze.

  2) Greek mythology;

  the era of the third race of humanity created by Zeus.

  Their armor, their houses, and their tools were bronze,

  for they had no iron.

  Their strength was great, their arms unconquerable.

  Terrible and strong,

  they were followed by the nobler and more righteous

  heroic race

  that fought the Trojan War.

  Introduction

  Storytellers have been writing and rewriting the Bronze Age since the Bronze Age, and their enthusiasm shows no sign of waning.

  Sometime before 1500 B.C. an Egyptian wrote down a series of stories about King Khufu, for whom the Great Pyramid had been built a thousand years before. In the seventh century B.C. Babylonian scribes incised onto eleven clay tablets their own adaptation of the much earlier Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh—and recorded a sequel on the twelfth. Homer’s tales of the Trojans and Achaians inspired Mediaeval and Renaissance romances. All of this, and everything else you have ever read, is possible because literature itself was born during the Bronze Age. This singular invention, the written narrative, preserved for us the names and deeds and a little of the personalities of the first recorded individuals.

  It was the beginning of history—literally, as archaeologists define the period before the development of writing as prehistory.

  It was an age of new technology and experimentation (writing, metallurgy, the wheel) and evolving social forms (statehood, standing armies, the merchant class). It was an age of exploration, when Egyptian expeditions set sail for the incense terraces of Punt and Odysseus wandered his way home. And it was an age of magic: the gods so familiar to us, from Ishtar to Poseidon, attained recognizable name and form and power.

  So we turn our eyes toward a past when kings were gods, voyagers were heroes, and tin was the key to cutting-edge technology. And as we look back—and forward and a little sideways—we see that Bronze Age figures, at once familiar and strange, remain around us everywhere.

  THE

  FIRST HEROES

  The past is a foreign country that cannot be visited but rather only glimpsed on the horizon. When we try for a closer view, through the spyglass of history or archaeology, our view is invariably distorted by distance, by our choice of focus, and by the curvature of our lens. If, however, we were to attempt landfall, could we navigate the currents of time to an intended moorage? And would we find a world any more familiar than might a sailor who, informed by rumor and legend and sightings through his telescope, has disembarked from his storm-swept ship onto an alien shore? Would the landscape around us remain disto
rted and strange to our expectations?

  Renowned author Gene Wolfe takes us on such a voyage across the ancient Black Sea and the wider gulf of time itself. He shows us anew people, places, and events that, separated from us by more than three and a half millennia, authors and filmmakers have made unjustly familiar.

  The Lost Pilgrim

  GENE WOLFE

  Before leaving my own period, I resolved to keep a diary; and indeed I told several others I would, and promised to let them see it upon my return. Yesterday I arrived, captured no Pukz, and compiled no text. No more inauspicious beginning could be imagined.

  I will not touch my emergency rations. I am hungry, and there is nothing to eat; but how absurd it would be to begin in such a fashion! No. Absolutely not. Let me finish this, and I will go off in search of breakfast.

  To begin. I find myself upon a beach, very beautiful and very empty, but rather too hot and much too shadeless to be pleasant. “Very empty,” I said, but how can I convey just how empty it really is? (Pukz 1–3)

  As you see, there is sun and there is water, the former remarkably hot and bright, the latter remarkably blue and clean. There is no shade, and no one who—

  A sail! Some kind of sailboat is headed straight for this beach. It seems too small, but this could be it. (Puk 4)

  I cannot possibly describe everything that happened today. There was far, far too much. I can only give a rough outline. But first I should say that I am no longer sure why I am here, if I ever was. On the beach last night, just after I arrived, I felt no doubts. Either I knew why I had come, or I did not think about it. There was that time when they were going to send me out to join the whateveritwas expedition—the little man with the glasses. But I do not think this is that; this is something else.

  Not the man getting nailed up, either.

  It will come to me. I am sure it will. In such a process of regression there cannot help but be metal confusion. Do I mean metal? The women’s armor was gold or brass. Something like that. They marched out onto the beach, a long line of them, all in the gold armor. I did not know they were women.

  I hid behind rocks and took Pukz. (See Pukz 5–9) The reflected glare made it difficult, but I got some good shots just the same.

  They banged their spears on their shields and made a terrible noise, but when the boat came close enough for us to see the men on it (Pukz 10 and 11) they marched back up onto the hill behind me and stood on the crest. It was then that I realized they were women; I made a search for “women in armor” and found more than a thousand references, but all those I examined were to Joan of Arc or similar figures. This was not one woman but several hundreds.

  I do not believe there should be women in armor, anyway. Or men in armor, like those who got off the boat. Swords, perhaps. Swords might be all right. And the name of the boat should be two words, I think.

  The men who got off this boat are young and tough-looking. There is a book of prayers in my pack, and I am quite certain it was to be a talisman. “O God, save me by thy name and defend my cause by thy might.” But I cannot imagine these men being impressed by any prayers.

  Some of these men were in armor and some were not. One who had no armor and no weapons left the rest and started up the slope. He has an intelligent face, and though his staff seemed sinister, I decided to risk everything. To tell the truth I thought he had seen me and was coming to ask what I wanted. I was wrong, but he would surely have seen me as soon as he took a few more steps. At any rate, I switched on my translator and stood up. He was surprised, I believe, at my black clothes and the buckles on my shoes; but he is a very smooth man, always exceedingly polite. His name is Ekkiawn. Or something like that. (Puk 12) Ekkiawn is as near as I can get to the pronunciation.

  I asked where he and the others were going, and when he told me, suggested that I might go with them, mentioning that I could talk to the Native Americans. He said it was impossible, that they had sworn to accept no further volunteers, that he could speak the language of Kolkkis himself, and that the upper classes of Kolkkis all spoke English.

  I, of course, then asked him to say something in English and switched off my translator. I could not understand a word of it.

  At this point he began to walk again, marking each stride with his beautiful staff, a staff of polished hardwood on which a carved snake writhes. I followed him, switched my translator back on, and complimented him on his staff.

  He smiled and stroked the snake. “My father permits me to use it,” he said. “The serpent on his own is real, of course. Our tongues are like our emblems, I’m afraid. He can persuade anyone of anything. Compared to him, my own tongue is mere wood.”

  I said, “I assume you will seek to persuade those women that you come in peace. When you do, will they teach you to plant corn?”

  He stopped and stared at me. “Are they women? Don’t toy with me.”

  I said I had observed them closely, and I was quite sure they were.

  “How interesting! Come with me.”

  As we approached the women, several of them began striking their shields with their spears, as before. (Puk 13) Ekkiawn raised his staff. “My dear young ladies, cease! Enchanting maidens, desist! You suppose us pirates. You could not be more mistaken. We are the aristocracy of the Minyans. Nowhere will you find young men so handsome, so muscular, so wealthy, so well bred, or so well connected. I myself am a son of Hodios. We sail upon a most holy errand, for we would return the sacred ramskin to Mount Laphystios.”

  The women had fallen silent, looking at one another and particularly at an unusually tall and comely woman who stood in the center of their line.

  “Let there be peace between us,” Ekkiawn continued. “We seek only fresh water and a few days’ rest, for we have had hard rowing. We will pay for any supplies we receive from you, and generously. You will have no singing arrows nor blood-drinking spears from us. Do you fear sighs? Languishing looks? Gifts of flowers and jewelry? Say so if you do, and we will depart in peace.”

  A woman with gray hair straggling from under her helmet tugged at the sleeve of the tall woman. (Puk 14) Nodding, the tall woman stepped forward. “Stranger, I am Hupsipule, Queen of Lahmnos. If indeed you come in peace—”

  “We do,” Ekkiawn assured her.

  “You will not object to my conferring with my advisors.”

  “Certainly not.”

  While the queen huddled with four other women, Ekkiawn whispered, “Go to the ship like a good fellow, and find Eeasawn, our captain. Tell him these are women and describe the queen. Name her.”

  Thinking that this might well be the boat I was supposed to board after all and that this offered as good a chance to ingratiate myself with its commander as I was ever likely to get, I hurried away. I found Eeasawn without much trouble, assured him that the armed figures on the hilltop were in fact women in armor (“both Ekkiawn and I saw that quite clearly”) and told him that the tallest, good-looking, black-haired, and proud, was Queen Hupsipule.

  He thanked me. “And you are . . .?”

  “A humble pilgrim seeking the sacred ramskin, where I hope to lay my heartfelt praise at the feet of God.”

  “Well spoken, but I cannot let you sail with us, Pilgrim. This ship is already as full of men as an egg is of meat. But should—”

  Several members of the crew were pointing and shouting. The women on the hilltop were removing their armor and so revealing their gender, most being dressed in simple frocks without sleeves, collars, or buttons. (Puk 15) There was a general rush from the ship.

  Let me pause here to comment upon the men’s clothing, of which there is remarkably little, many being completely naked. Some wear armor, a helmet and a breastplate, or a helmet alone. A few more wear loose short-sleeved shirts that cover them to mid-thigh. The most remarkable is certainly the captain, who goes naked except for a single sandal. (Pukz 16 and 17)

  For a moment or two, I stood watching the men from the ship talking to the women. After conversations too brief t
o have consisted of much more than introductions, each man left with three or more women, though our captain departed with the queen alone (Puk 18), and Ekkiawn with five. I had started to turn away when the largest and strongest hand I have ever felt closed upon my shoulder.

  “Look ’round here, Pilgrim. Do you really want to go to Kolkkis with us?”

  The speaker was a man of immense size, bull-necked and pig-eyed (Puk 19); I felt certain that it would be dangerous to reply in the negative.

  “Good! I promised to guard the ship, you see, the first time it needed guarding.”

  “I am not going to steal anything,” I assured him.

  “I didn’t think so. But if you change your mind, I’m going to hunt you down and break your neck. Now, then, I heard you and Eeasawn. You watch for me, hear? While I go into whatever town those split-tailed soldiers came out of and get us some company. Two enough for you?”

  Not knowing what else to do, I nodded.

  “Me?” He shrugged shoulders that would have been more than creditable on a bull gorilla. “I knocked up fifty girls in one night once. Not that I couldn’t have done it just about any other night, too, only that was the only time I’ve had a crack at fifty. So a couple for you and as many as I can round up for me. And if your two have anything left when you’re done up, send ’em over. Here.” He handed me a spear. “You’re our guard ’til I get back.”

  I am waiting his return; I have removed some clothing because of the heat and in the hope of ingratiating myself with any women who may return with him. Hahraklahs is his name.

  Hours have passed since I recorded the account you just read. No one has come, neither to molest our boat nor for any other reason. I have been staring at the stars and examining my spear. It has a smooth hardwood shaft and a leaf-shaped blade of copper or brass. I would not have thought such a blade could be sharpened, but it is actually very sharp.