The Collected Stories

by Earl

  TWO weeks later, Ellory and Mai Radnor had their last dinner, on the eve of their venture, with Jon Darm and his daughter, and Sem Onger. The latter, old and philosophical, ate the heartiest.

  “Come, come,” he chided them all. “Eat and be less solemn. Our cause is just, our plans careful. I will continue making metal weapons, in the ruins, Humrelly and Mai Radnor will lead our legions to victory. The Antarkans, if by chance they observe a battle, will think it another border war. You, Jon Darm, will soon be governing chief of a great land. You, Sharina—”

  He paused, then: “You have yet to take in marriage the future chief of this land, freed from Antarka!”

  Ellory glared at Sem Onger, for a meddling old fool, but Mai Radnor spoke up.

  “After this great campaign,” he said slowly, “time enough to think of such matters.”

  In a gesture little short of magnificent, the young chieftan had left the matter open. Ellory did not know what to think. He was at the point of jumping up, forcing the issue, one way or another, but hesitated. Would it be wise, at this time, with so much ahead? Perhaps the less said the better.

  He rose, gripping a wine glass.

  “A toast to success!” he proposed. “And to the downfall of Antarka!”

  The five drank silently, caught by the spirit of the moment.

  CHAPTER XIII

  CONQUEST

  EVENTS began to move swiftly. To Homer Ellory, it was like the sweep of history in some intangible book he was reading. Pie felt himself curiously apart from it, a pawn in a game played by the gods who molded destiny from the clay of human affairs.

  Followed by its wagon trains of supplies and camp attendants, the army of Norak crossed the Hudson River and marched south. The Quoise state was Ellory’s first objective, in his empire building. As he had surmised the Quoise border patrol, dismayed, fell back sullenly before the invaders, without presenting opposition. They wished no second taste of metal-armed might.

  Under Mai Radnor’s guidance. Ellory led his legion to the capital city of the Quoise. The night before they entered. Ellory went over their campaign plans with the young chieftan.

  “We’ll strike down the Atlantic seaboard, defeating whatever armies oppose us,” he summed it up.

  He opened the Atlas taken from the crypt’s library, to a map of the eastern states. Previously, with Sem Onger’s knowledge, he had blocked in the main tribal states, as they now existed. A thick black charcoal line snaked southward, passing through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, North and South Carolina and Georgia. It was to be their conquering line of march.

  Mai Radnor stared with never-failing wonder.

  “I can hardly believe, Humrelly, that it shows every river, mountain and plain in our path! How could the men of your time perceive all that, and record it on such a small space?”

  “I’ll explain some other time,” smiled Ellory. “But the map, I think, still holds, even if made three thousand years ago. Topography changes little during such a short tick of the geological clock.”

  He placed his finger at the end of the black line, where it broke off abruptly at the Georgia-Florida state boundary. “From here, we’ll strike northwest—”

  He began again. “I’m ahead of myself. One step at a time. First, we must conquer these eastern states, and absorb part of their fighting strength.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “There is only one policy to use—the threat of force!”

  He applied his Martian policy the following day, in the capital city of the Quoise. As previously planned, Mai Radnor paraded his entire army, regiment by regiment, through the city square. Metal swords and pikes were upraised in the sunlight—those same weapons that had played such havoc with the Quoise forces.

  Standing beside the Quoise chief, Ellory watched the reaction in his face, and saw healthy respect there. New was the time to declare himself.

  “Your land is now a subject state to Norak,” he delivered his ultimatum. “You will send envoys to Jon Darm, promising fealty. Either that”—he forced a savage tone—“or we will burn this city to the ground and enslave your people!”

  The Quoise chief grunted, stoically hiding his fear.

  “I will send the envoys,” he acceded with little delay.

  “Secondly,” Ellory demanded, “five thousand of your picked troops are to join our forces.”

  The man looked at him curiously. “Who are you? It is rumored that you are a Lord from the Past! And that you have magic powers almost equal to those of—” He paused.

  Of the Lords of Antarka?” Ellory finished for him. “I am from the past, and have those powers. And I am an enemy of Antarka!”

  He left, with this seed planted in the chief’s mind, to sow the seed further.

  NOW at the head of twenty-five thousand men, Ellory and Mai Radnor swung west, to the land of the Jendra, formerly eastern Pennsylvania. In three pitched battles, the Jendra army was routed, leaving their capital city vulnerable.

  Ellory again delivered his ultimatum, and again left with his army swelled by five thousand.

  The new men, outnumbered by the original Noraks, could neither revolt nor refuse to battle. A strict sentry system, with orders to kill on sight, discouraged desertions. Two other factors Ellory foresaw would weld the new army more firmly as time went on. One, that as they always attacked new states—as much hereditary “enemies” as the Noraks—the new recruits would fight wholeheartedly. Second, in the heat of battle, men were apt to forget why or for whom they were fighting, and know only that there was an enemy to destroy.

  Ellory turned south now, through conquered Jendra, skirting the ruins of Philadelphia.

  “I went to school there for a while,” he mused, with a pang of memory. “Nineteenth Street, Rittenhouse Square, the Taproom at Nineteenth and Locust—”

  He sighed. “Three thousand and sixty years ago!”

  “What are you saying, Humrelly?” Mai Radnor peered at him.

  “Nothing, nothing.” Ellory pointed. “But look, Mai Radnor. More half-rusted remains of what were called skyscrapers in my time. More oxide heaps. More iron, when needed, for our growing army!”

  Every now and then a wagon came, from Sem Onger, loaded with new metal weapons. These Ellory distributed among the new units, trusting them to be loyal since they had little choice.

  March, march, march!

  The pound of hooves and feet, the clang of metal, the hoarse shouts of conquering men were in Ellory’s ears constantly. The birth-cries of an empire! Armies and states fell like leaves before their invincible march to the south. A certain jubilance raced through Ellory’s veins, like a strong intoxicant.

  Napoleon! Caesar! Genghis Khan!

  He knew now how they had felt, conquering the worlds of their time. He was the Alexander of the fiftieth-century! He was writing “empire” across the page of history, closing an age, opening another. Millions upon millions of people soon would acknowledge him warlord.

  Ellory walked on air, drinking the potent liquors of power. That was at times.

  At other times the flow of blood, the brute orgy of fighting, the ugly passions let loose, would overwhelm him. He would be almost sick. Behind its mask of glory, war was a sordid, stupid thing. It was horrible to see men killing one another. And he, Homer Ellory, had started this. On his soul it would rest, if he failed.

  His moods swung between these extremes, like a pendulum. But the balancing thought burned clear in his mind—the eventual rebellion against Antarka. That alone upheld him, subdued the feeling of power and the ache of his conscience.

  March, march, march!

  Armies were routed at the first encounter now, and the ever-growing juggernaut rolled south. The burdensome details of increased organization fell on Ellory’s shoulders—conscripting supplies and wagons, forming new battalions, picking officers. Ellory had led the way, with Mai Radnor, into every battle so far, but he realized it had become a mere formality. Mai Radnor had secretly org
anized a picked cavalry troop which flanked Ellory through every encounter.

  “A bodyguard!” Ellory accused a little hotly, finally. “Since when do I need protection? I showed you how to use the first sword, I want elbow room after this, do you hear?”

  “You are too important to lose, Humrelly,” returned Mai Radnor gravely. “You are none the less a man. The bodyguard will continue.”

  Ellory gave in, and went a step further.

  “Sensible thing to do, of course. But I won’t ride to battle at all, any more. I’m forming a general staff behind the lines. And you, Mai Radnor”—he grinned in revenge——“I pick first of all!”

  It was Mai Radnor’s turn to be stung, as though his manhood had been challenged. “No, Humrelly! I must lead—”

  “Lead, nothing!” snorted Ellory. “The army can win now, blindfolded. You know that. We have work to do, plenty of it. We have to begin thinking of how to handle the biggest army that you or I have ever seen before!” . . .

  Somewhere in North Carolina, a month later, a rider from the north slipped off his horse to deliver a message from Sem Onger. Ellory read, in charcoal lettering on bark:

  Greetings, Humrelly.

  I have used the last of the oxide heaps in these ruins. Thus I will not be able to deliver more weapons. Do you need more? Jon Darin has received already twelve envoys from conquered states. He is organizing, as you outlined, a system of communications with their capitals and ours.

  Sharina joins me in wishing you continued success.

  Sharina! Ellory conjured up a vision of her lovely features. Cool and restful, it seemed to be a symbol of better things to come, after this fever of conquest was over. Dimly, too, the exotic patrician face of Ermaine, Lady of Lillamra, danced in his mind. When would he meet her again, and under what circumstances?

  Sooner, it chanced, than he expected.

  He wrote an answer to Sem Onger, telling him to exploit the ruins of Philadelphia for iron. Pitiful gleanings, from the mighty steel industry of the twentieth century, but enough to tie the chain of empire in this second Stone Age.

  CHAPTER XIV

  “FREEDOM FROM ANTARKA!”

  A MESSENGER came from the south one day. The message from his chief, to Ellory’s astonishment, yielded his state—in advance. Whenever the “Warlord of Norak” wished, he would send a peace envoy.

  “Mai Radnor, how do you explain this?”

  “News travels fast, in this world, by word of mouth. Wanderers, nomads, beggars, of no particular tribe, shuttle through the lands, carrying tales. Your fame has spread before you, Humrelly!”

  Like the days of King Arthur, Ellory mused, when bards and troubadours recited the deeds of knights and wizards. “Undoubtedly this chief realizes his army will fall, as all tie others have,” continued Mai Radnor. “Thus, he wisely surrenders his state, without shedding needless blood.”

  Ellory straightened up. Florida was the surrendered area.

  “Then, Mai Radnor, our first step is done. We are now ready to turn west and north, for a longer campaign! A territory fifteen hundred miles long is already under our wing!”

  Mai Radnor was slowly shaking his head, in sudden awe. “Little did I realize when I grasped the handle that would awake you, a few months ago, that I was bringing this about! You are a great man, Humrelly, as Sharina said—”

  He stopped, and they were both embarrassed before one another. Mai Radnor scuffed at the ground with his toe. Ellory knew what he was thinking. That the same twist of the handle had also, for the young chieftain, affected a personal phase of his life. Ellory could think of nothing to say.

  Mai Radnor straightened his shoulders.

  “Where you lead, Humrelly,” he said quietly, “I follow.”

  In his atlas that evening, by campfire glow, Ellory traced a thick black line that shouldered through former Alabama, Tennessee, skirted the Alleghenies north into Kentucky, Indiana and Illinois. He ran his charcoal stub to the southern tip of Lake Michigan, where great Chicago had once stood—his second objective.

  And what could stop him now? He had an army of sixty thousand seasoned fighters, small in twentieth-century terms but enormous in the unfederated Stone Age. Two months to take the Eastern seaboard. Perhaps another three months, at the most, to smash through to Chicago. One third of America would then be his. And the other two thirds ripe for taking!

  In nine months, before the Lords of Antarka again swarmed out of their isolated shell, a united America at his back. An eager, reminiscent smile rested on his lips. There could be only one name for it—The United States of America!

  “Humrelly!” Serious lines were etched into Mai Radnor’s face in the fire’s light, “The army worries me. I have heard mutterings. The foreign units now outnumber the Norak nucleus two to one. So far, mutual enemies, they have not banded for revolt. But at any moment it may happen!”

  Ellory pondered for a moment. This problem had become acute.

  “It’s time,” he said slowly, “to reveal our cause—their cause, too. A war-cry will do it. ‘Freedom from Antarka!’ Have our Norak forces sing this, on the march and in battle.”

  THE next day, strategically placed columns of Norak troops roared that chorus to the skies—“Freedom from Antarka!” Jendra, Quoise, and the soldiers of other conquered tribes listened in amazed, sullen silence, Ellory hoped he had done the right thing. Or had he broken the last possible shred of loyalty, with this chant against a thousand-year institution? Would they accept him as a leader against tyranny—or as a madman?

  “Freedom from Antarka!”

  The war-cry, still confined to the Noraks, rang out when the next tribe opposed their advance, Ellory saw that the foreign units fought only half-heartedly. In places they hung back.

  Ellory groaned to himself. He had created confusion, hesitation, rather than unity. The opposing army, thirty thousand fierce, half-mulatto tribesman of the south, drove Ellory’s disorganized army back.

  For the first time, defeat faced him. And one defeat might destroy all he had won.

  Mai Radnor, watching from their vantage behind the lines, turned a grave face. “Unless a miracle happens, Humrelly—” He drew out his sword. “I go to battle!” His black charger leaped away, thundering down the slope. But Ellory’s horse reached the battle zone neck and neck with Mai Radnor’s.

  “Freedom from Antarka!”

  Yelling their own war-cry, the two commanders plunged into the thickest melee. Toughened by his outdoor life, Ellory threw every ounce of his brawn into slashing, stabbing, cutting down the enemy. For a moment a cluster of newly inspired fighters formed around them, halting the opposing army’s advance.

  For a moment. Then they were forced back. The foreign units, turning tail, left the full brunt of attack on the outnumbered Noraks. Only a miracle . . .

  Suddenly, as though their war-cry had invoked it, an Antarkan airship dropped from the sky, circling widely over the battlefield. Its orange-red rocket spurts vied with the flash of metal in the sun.

  Ellory sensed the electrifying effect among the battlers. He felt the dull fear that arose in all the hearts of these Stone Age men—on both sides. And dull, futile hatred. Though the Antarkans were never known to interfere in their wars, it took the whole meaning of battle away. Up above were the real masters, whichever side won. The fighting became mechanical, dispirited.

  Ellory’s mind quickened. There was a chance now, at this crucial moment—“Freedom from Antarka!”

  His bellow rang out dearly in the battle lull. The Norak forces took up the cry thunderously. And, the miracle happened—fire struck in the minds of the foreign units. They turned, swords upraised once more, battling now against what the ship in the sky symbolized.

  “Freedom from Antarka!” roared from sixty thousand throats. Ellory’s army smashed full force against the opposing tribesmen. They broke and fled, within minutes. Overhead, the Antarkan ship circled like an all-seeing eye.

  “Thanks!” Ellory waved up t
o it. “You don’t know it, but you won the day for us—to your own loss!”

  Mai Radnor, at his side, frowned.

  “I hope they leave—”

  Ellory frowned too. Why didn’t they? It must be just a trifling border war, to them, viewed in a moment of idle curiosity. They couldn’t have heard the war-cry against them, above their rocket blasts. Had they noticed how large an army lay below? Their metal weapons—that was it! They disliked their Stone Age subjects taking this step into the dawn of a metal age. Sharp worry seized Ellory. If they landed and investigated . . .

  And they did. The ship arced into a landing glide and came to a stop a hundred yards in advance of the previous battle-line. The under jets incinerated a few corpses, and a landing wheel heartlessly rolled over one figure that hadn’t been a corpse. Wounded, the man had tried to crawl out of its path.

  Ellory cursed and urged his horse on Mai Radnor, following, spoke warningly. “Careful what you say, Humrelly. This is not the time to be exposed.”

  CHAPTER XV

  ERMAINE WARNS

  THE hatch of the ship opened and Ellory caught his breath. Ermaine, Lady of Lillamra, stepped into the sun, a vision of loveliness against the grim background of the battlefield. Her face drew up in a distasteful grimace, at the odors and sights.

  “How ugly this is! Sometimes I think”—she half-turned addressing her male companions—“we should stop these butcherings. But that would be a long, arduous, thankless mission.” She shrugged.

  “And you care neither one way nor another!” thought Ellory.

  “Which of you is commander?” she asked, facing them.

  “I am,” said Ellory stiffly.

  She glanced at him. “It is customary to bow the head,” she reminded him coldly, “when greeting the Lords of Antarka.” Ellory complied, flushing.

  “A most stiff-necked one. And get off your horses. I do not like to look up at you.” She watched them dismount. “Now a question or two. Why are you using so many men in this war?”