Teutonia was so named because of its conquest by a group of The Teutonic Order or Teutonic Knights of St. Mary’s Hospital at Jerusalem. This order originated during the Third Crusade but later deviated from its original purpose. In 1229 der Deutsche Orden began the conquest of Prussia to convert the Baltic pagans and to prepare for colonization by Germans. A group had entered the Lord’s planet on this tier, either through accident, which did not seem likely, or because the Lord had deliberately opened a gate for them or forcibly caused them to enter.
Whatever the cause, the Ritters of the Teutonic Knights had conquered the aborigines and established a society based on that which they had left on Earth. This, of course, had changed both because of natural evolution and the Lord’s desire to model it to his own wishes. The original single kingdom or Grand Marshalry had degenerated into a number of independent kingdoms. These, in turn, consisted of loosely bound baronetcies and a host of outlaw or robber baronetcies.
Another aspect of the plateau was the state of Yidshe. The founders of this had entered through a gate coevally with the Teutonic Knights. Again, whether they had entered accidentally or through design of the Lord was unknown. But a number of Yiddish-speaking Germans had established themselves at the eastern end of the plateau. Though originally merchants, they had become masters of the native population. Also, they had adopted the feudal-chivalry setup of the Teutonic Order—probably had had to do so to survive. It was this state that the first knight had referred to when he had accused Wolff of being a Yidshe.
Thinking of this, Wolff had to chuckle. Again, it might have been accident that the Germans had entered into a level where the archaic-Semitic Khamshem already existed and where their contemporaries were the despised Jews. But Wolff thought he could see the ironic face of the Lord smiling behind the situation.
Actually, there were not any Christians or Jews in Dracheland. Although the two faiths still used their original titles, both had become perverted. The Lord had taken the place of Yahweh and Gott, but he was addressed by these names. Other changes in theology had followed: ceremonies, rituals, sacraments, and the literature had subtly become twisted. The parent faiths of both would have rejected their descendants in this world as heretics.
Wolff made his way toward von Elgers’. He could not do so as swiftly as he wished, because he had to avoid the roads and the villages along the way. After being forced to kill the knight, he did not even dare cut through the baronetcy of von Laurentius, as he had at first planned. The entire country would be searching for him; men and dogs would be everywhere. The rough hills marking the boundary were his most immediate form of passage, which he took.
Two days later, he came to a point where he could descend without being within the suzerainty of von Laurentius. As he was clambering down a steep but not especially difficult hill, he came around a corner. Below him was a broad meadow by a riverlet. Two camps were pitched at opposite ends. Around the brave flag-and-pennon draped pavilions in the center of each were a number of smaller tents, cooking fires, and horses. Most of the men were in two groups. They were watching their champion and his antagonist, who were charging each other with couched lances. Even as Wolff saw them, they met together in the middle of the field with a fearful clang. One knight went sailing backward with the lance of the other jammed into his shield. The other, however, lost his balance and fell with a clang several seconds later.
Wolff studied the tableau. It was no ordinary jousting tourney. The peasants and the townspeople who should have thronged the sides and the jerrybuilt stadium with its flowerbed of brilliantly dressed nobility and ladies were absent. This was a lonely place beside the road where champions had pitched their tents and were taking on all qualified passersby.
Wolff worked his way down the hill. Although exposed to the sight of those below, he did not think that they would take much interest in a lone traveler at this time. He was right. No one hastened from either camp to question him. He was able to walk up to the edge of the meadow and make a leisurely inspection.
The flag above the pavilion to his left bore a yellow field with a Solomon’s seal. By this he knew that a Yidshe champion had pitched his tent here. Below the national flag was a green banner with a silver fish and hawk. The other camp had several state and personal pennons. One of them leaped out into Wolff’s gaze and caused him to cry out with surprise. On a white field was a red ass’s head with a hand below it, all fingers clenched but the middle. Kickaha had once told him of it, and Wolff had gotten a big laugh out of it. It was just like Kickaha to pick such a coat of arms.
Wolff sobered then, knowing that, more likely, it was borne by the man who took care of Kickaha’s territory while he was gone.
He changed his decision to pass on by the field. He had to determine for himself that the man using that banner was not Kickaha, even though he knew that his friend’s bones must be rotting under a pile of dirt at the bottom of a shaft in a ruined city of the jungle.
Unchallenged, he made his way across the field and into the camp at the western end. Men-at-arms and retainers stared, only to turn away from his glare. Somebody muttered, “Yidshe dog!” but none owned to the comment when he turned. He went on around a line of horses tethered to a post and up to the knight who was his goal. This one was clad in shining red armor, visor down, and held a huge lance upright while he waited his turn. The lance bore near its tip a pennon on which were the red ass’s head and human hand.
Wolff placed himself near the prancing horse, making it even more nervous. He cried out in German, “Baron von Horstmann?”
There was a muffled exclamation, a pause, and the knight’s hand raised his visor. Wolff almost wept with joy. The merry long-lipped face of Finnegan-Kickaha-von Horstmann was inside the helmet.
“Don’t say anything,” Kickaha cautioned. “I don’t know how in hell you found me, but I’m sure happy about it. I’ll see you in a moment. That is, if I come back alive. This funem Laksfalk is one tough hombre.”
XII
TRUMPETS FLARED. Kickaha rode out to a spot indicated by the marshals. A shaven-headed, long-robed priest blessed him while, at the other end of the field, a rabbi was saying something to Baron funem Laksfalk. The Yidshe champion was a large man in a silver armor, his helmet shaped like a fish’s head. His steed was a huge powerful black. The trumpets blew again. The two contenders dipped their lances in salute. Kickaha briefly gripped his lance with his left hand while he crossed himself with his right. (He was a stickler for observing the religious rules of the people among whom he happened to be at the moment.)
Another blast of long-shafted, big-mouthed trumpets was followed by the thunder of the hooves of the knight’s horses and the cheers of the onlookers. The two met exactly in the middle of the field, as did the lance of each in the middle of the other’s shield. Both fell with a clangor that startled the birds from the nearby trees, as they had been startled many times that day. The horses rolled on the ground.
The men of each knight ran out onto the field to pick up their chief and to drag away the horses, both of which had broken their necks. For a moment, Wolff thought that the Yidshe and Kickaha were also dead, for neither stirred. After being carried back, however, Kickaha came to. He grinned feebly, and said, “You ought to see the other guy.”
“He’s okay,” Wolff said after a glance at the other camp.
“Too bad,” Kickaha replied. “I was hoping he wouldn’t give us any more trouble. He’s held me up too long as it is.”
Kickaha ordered all but Wolff to leave the tent. His men seemed reluctant to leave him but they obeyed, though not without warning looks at Wolff. Kickaha said, “I was on my way from my castle to von Elgers’ when I passed funem Laksfalk’s pavilion. If I’d been alone, I would have thumbed my nose at his challenge and ridden on. But there were also Teutoniacs there, and I had my own men to consider. I couldn’t afford to get a reputation of cowardice; my own men would’ve pelted me with rotten cabbage and I’d have had to fight every knight
in the land to prove my courage. I figured that it wouldn’t take me long to straighten out the Yidshe on who the best man was, and then I could take off.
“It didn’t work out that way. The marshals had me listed in the Number Three position. That meant I had to joust with three men for three days before I’d get to the big time. I protested; no use. So I swore to myself and sweated it out. You saw my second encounter with funem Laksfalk. We both knocked each other off the saddle the first time, too. Even so, that’s more than the others have done. They’re burned up because a Yidshe has defeated every Teuton except me. Besides, he’s killed two already and crippled another for life.”
While listening to Kickaha, Wolff had been taking the armor off. Kickaha sat up suddenly, groaning and wincing, and said, “Hey, how in hell did you get here?”
“I walked mostly. But I thought you were dead.”
“The report wasn’t too grossly exaggerated. When I fell down that shaft I landed halfway up on a ledge of dirt. It broke off and started a little cave-in that buried me after I landed on the bottom. But I wasn’t knocked out long, and the dirt only lightly covered my face, so I wasn’t asphyxiated. I lay quiet for a while because the Sholkin were looking down the hole then. They even threw a spear down, but it missed me by a mole’s hair.
“After a couple of hours, I dug myself out. I had a time getting out, I can tell you. The dirt kept breaking off, and I kept falling back. It must’ve taken me ten hours, but I was lucky at that. Now, how did you get here, you big lunk?”
Wolff told him. Kickaha frowned and said, “So I was right in figuring that Abiru would come to von Elgers’ on his way. Listen, we got to get out of here and fast. How would you like to take a swing at the big Yid?”
Wolff protested that he knew nothing of the fine points of jousting, that it took a lifetime to learn. Kickaha said, “If you were going to break a lance with him, you’d be right. But we’ll challenge him to a contest with swords, no shields. Broadswording isn’t exactly duelling with a rapier or saber; it’s main strength and that’s what you’ve got!”
“I’m not a knight. The others saw me enter as a common vagrant.”
“Nonsense! You think these chevaliers don’t go around in disguise all the time? I’ll tell them you’re a Saracen, pagan Khamshem, but you’re a real good friend of mine, I rescued you from a dragon or some cock-and-bull story like that. They’ll eat it up. I got it! You’re the Saracen Wolf—there’s a famous knight by that name. You’ve been journeying in disguise, hoping to find me and pay me back for saving you from the dragon. I’m too hurt to break another lance with funem Laksfalk—that’s no lie; I’m so stiff and sore I can hardly move—and you’re taking up the gauntlet for me.”
Wolff asked what excuse he would give for not using the lance.
Kickaha said, “I’ll give them some story. Say a thieving knight stole your lance and you’ve sworn never to use one until you get the stolen one back. They’ll accept that. They’re always making some goofy vow or other. They act just like a bunch of knights from King Arthur’s Round Table. No such knights ever existed on Earth, but it must have pleased the Lord to make these act as if they just rode out of Camelot. He was a romantic, whatever else you can say about him.”
Wolff said he was reluctant, but if it would help speed them to von Elgers’, he would do anything. Kickaha’s own armor was not large enough for Wolff, so the armor of a Yidshe knight Kickaha had killed the day before was brought in. The retainers clad him in blue plates and chain-mail and then led him out to his horse. This was a beautiful palomino mare that had also belonged to the knight Kickaha had slain, the Ritter oyf Roytfeldz. With only a little difficulty, Wolff mounted the charger. He had expected that the armor would be so heavy a crane would have to lift him upon the saddle. Kickaha told him that that might have once been true here, but the knights had long since gone back to lighter plates and more chain-mail.
The Yidshe go-between came to announce that funem Laksfalk had accepted the challenge despite the Saracen Wolfs lack of credentials. If the valiant and honorable robber Baron Horst von Horstmann vouched for the Wolf, that was good enough for funem Laksfalk. The speech was a formality. The Yidshe champion would not for one moment have thought of turning down a challenge.
“Face is the big thing here,” Kickaha said to Wolff. Having managed to limp out of his tent, he was giving his friend last-minute instructions. “Man, am I glad you came along. I couldn’t have taken one more fall, and I didn’t dare back out.”
Again, the trumpets flourished. The palomino and the black broke into a headlong gallop. They passed each other going at full speed, during which time both men swung their swords. They clanged together; a paralyzing shock ran down Wolff’s hand and arm. However, when he turned his charger, he saw that his antagonist’s sword was on the ground. The Yidshe was dismounting swiftly to get to the blade before Wolff. He was in such a hurry he slipped and fell headlong onto the ground.
Wolff rode his horse up slowly and took his time dismounting to allow the other to recover. At this chivalrous move, both camps broke into cheers. By the rules, Wolff could have stayed in the saddle and cut funem Laksfalk down without permitting him to pick up his weapon.
On the ground, they faced each other. The Yidshe knight raised his visor, revealing a handsome face.
He had a thick moustache and pale blue eyes. He said, “I pray you let me see your face, noble one. You are a true knight for not striking me down while helpless.”
Wolff lifted his visor for a few seconds. Both then advanced and brought their blades together again. Once more, Wolff’s stroke was so powerful that it tore the blade of the other from his grip.
Funem Laksfalk raised his visor, this time with his left arm. He said, “I cannot use my right arm. If you will permit me to use my left?”
Wolff saluted and stepped back. His opponent gripped the long hilt of his sword and, stepping close, brought it around from the side with all his force. Once more, the shock of Wolff’s stroke broke the Yidshe’s grasp.
Funem Laksfalk lifted his visor for the third time. “You are such a champion as I have never met. I am loath to admit it, but you have defeated me. And that is something I have never said nor thought to say. You have the strength of the Lord himself.”
“You may keep your life, your honor, and your armor and horse,” Wolff replied. “I want only that my friend von Horstmann and I be allowed to go on without further challenges. We have an appointment.”
The Yidshe answered that it would be so. Wolff returned to his camp, there to be greeted joyously, even by those who had thought of him as a Khamshem dog.
Chortling, Kickaha ordered camp struck. Wolff asked him if he did not think they could make far better time unencumbered with a train.
“Sure, but it’s not done very often,” Kickaha replied. “Oh, well, you’re right. I’ll send them on home. And we’ll get these damn locomotive plates off.”
They had not ridden far before they heard the drum of hooves. Coming up the road behind them was funem Laksfalk, also minus his armor. They halted until he had overtaken them.
“Noble knights,” he said, smiling, “I know that you are on a quest. Would it be too much to ask for me to ask to join? I would feel honored. I also feel that only by assisting you can I redeem my defeat.”
Kickaha looked at Wolff and said, “It’s up to you. But I like his style.
“Would you bind yourself to aid us in whatever we do? As long as it is not dishonorable, of course. You may release yourself from your oath at any time, but you must swear by all that’s holy that you will never aid our enemies.”
“By God’s blood and the beard of Moses, I swear.”
That night, while they made camp in a brake alongside a brook, Kickaha said, “There’s one problem that having funem Laksfalk along might complicate. We have to get the stain off your skin, and that beard has to go, too. Otherwise, if we run into Abiru, he might identify you.”
“One lie always lead
s to another,” Wolff said. “Well, tell him that I’m the younger son of a baron who kicked me out because my jealous brother falsely accused me. I’ve been traveling around since then, disguised as a Saracen. But I intend to return to my father’s castle—he’s dead now—and challenge my brother to a duel.”
“Fabulous! You’re a second Kickaha! But what about when he learns of Chryseis and the horn?”
“We’ll think of something. Maybe the truth. He can always back out when he finds he’s bucking the Lord.”
The next morning they rode until they came to the village of Etzelbrand. Here Kickaha purchased some chemicals from the local white-wizard and made a preparation to remove the stain. Once past the village, they stopped off at the brook. Funem Laksfalk watched with interest, then amazement, then suspicion as the beard came off, followed by the stain.
“God’s eyes! You were a Khamshem, now you could be a Yidshe!”
Kickaha thereupon launched into a three-hour, much-detailed story in which Wolff was the bastard son of a Yidshe maiden lady and a Teutoniac knight on a quest. The knight, a Robert von Wolfram, had stayed at a Yidshe castle after covering himself with glory during a tournament. He and the maiden had fallen in love, too much so. When the knight had ridden out, vowing to return after completing his quest he had left Rivke pregnant. But von Wolfram had been killed and the girl had had to bear young Robert in shame. Her father had kicked her out and sent her to a little village in Khamshem to live there forever. The girl had died when giving birth to Robert, but a faithful old servant had revealed the secret of his birth to Robert. The young bastard had sworn that when he gained manhood, he would go to the castle of his father’s people and claim his rightful inheritance. Rivke’s father was dead now but his brother, a wicked old man, held the castle. Robert intended to wrest the baronetcy from him if he would not give it up.
The Maker of Universes Page 14
