The High-Tech Knight
The Adventures of Conrad Starguard
Book II
Leo Frankowski
ISBN: 0-345-32763-2
CONTENT
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Interlude One
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Interlude Three
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Interlude Four
Chapter Twenty-One
Prologue
He unloaded the temporal canister, glanced quickly at his new subordinate, reloaded it with his previous superior, and hit the retrieve button. That had to be done quickly. Holding the canister in 2,548,950 B.C. was expensive.
He examined her frozen, nude body. It was just over four feet tall and skinny. The skin was dark brown, the hair black and tightly curled, the breasts small yet pendulous. An excellent imitation of a type twenty-seven protohuman. The biosculptors had done a good job.
He switched off her stasis field.
Her eyes opened, she stared shocked at the stalactites on the ceiling of the cave. She noticed the naked brown man bending over her, noticed her own nakedness and yelped, covering her breasts and groin.
“Yeah, the uniform here is a bit skimpy.” He chuckled. “The protos haven’t invented clothes yet, so what can we do? Hey. Don't look so shocked. I'm not going to rape you. You're not my adolescent fantasy any more than I'm yours.”
“Damn it! I have five doctorates!”
“I’m sure your mother is very proud of you. Are any of them in finding carrion or grubbing for grubs? Anything else isn't very useful around here.”
She glanced furtively at the cave’s rock walls, at the torch that was its sole illumination.
“What is this place? When is it? And who are you?” She was still clutching her groin.
“You weren’t briefed? This is anthropological research station fifty-seven. The time is half past two .million B.C., and I am your charming host, Robert McDougall. I'd tip my hat, but you see the problem. The tribe here calls me 'Gack,' so you might as well, too. No point in being formal when you're naked. I'll be your boss for the next fifty years.”
“Fifty years…”
“Right. Then I go home, a new chum arrives, and you get to be boss for fifty more.”
The cave was cold and wet. She shivered. “This is all some horrible mistake!”
“How can there be a mistake? You replaced the asshole I used to work for. Not that I really had anything personal against her, but you’ll understand that after fifty years with only one person to talk to, you just naturally start to hate each other's guts.”
“Anyway, the computers don’t make mistakes, so you're supposed to be here because you've arrived at the proper time and in a body properly tailored for our research.”
“This body!” She bawled, “I used to be beautiful!”
“All part of the high price of science,” he said. But she had pulled herself into a fetal position and was sobbing louder. “Hey, you’re serious, aren't you? You actually didn't volunteer for this post?”
“No! I mean, yes I didn’t volunteer. I was in twentieth-century Poland. I spent one day on my new assignment and the monitors came and I woke up here! I'm in the Historical Corps. I don't know anything about anthropology!”
“ Why, those filthy bastards…”
“Yeah,” she said, grateful for any sympathy.
“…sending me a totally untrained recruit! My God! That means…” He stooped down and found a sliver of bone on the cave floor. He grabbed her right hand.
“This doesn’t hurt. You won't feel it at all.” He slipped the bone under her index fingernail and moved it sideways. She stared openmouthed as he repeated the operation on her left hand.
“What…”
“They were both turned off, thank God. Look. You have some fairly powerful equipment built into that little body. Your right index finger contains a temporal sword. With it, you can cut a tree in half at six paces. Your left contains a fire-starter. They can save your life, but if you don’t know how to use them, they can kill you. Or me!”
“There’s more?”
“Some recorders, communicators, beacons, and so on. But that can wait. I want to find out what you’re doing here.” He squatted in front of a large flat rock by the cave wall. He pressed four nondescript spots on the rock. Glowing white letters appeared in the air before him.
READY
He started tapping the blank rock as though it was a typewriter keyboard.
INFO REQUEST PERSONNEL RECORD. HISTORICAL CORPS WORKER NO…
“Hey. What’s your number?” She told him, he loaded it and started reading. “Hmmm… born in North America, 62,218 B.C… approved for child rearing; eleven children… at forty-five, attended Museum University 62,219 B.C. to 62,192 B.C… doctorates in medicine, Slavic languages, psychology, and Greek literature… accepted into the Historical Corps… assigned to Periclean Athens, forty-one-year tour of duty. Performance unsatisfactory…”
“That wasn’t fair!” she said.
“Fair? What’s fair? If you want to talk about 'fair,' go talk to one of our protos after her kid's been eaten by a leopard!” he snapped. “… Returned to university and obtained a doctorate in ancient Egyptian languages… turned down on four assignment requests, ninth through thirteenth dynasties… assigned twentieth-century Poland… caused a situation which resulted in unauthorized transport of local citizen to the thirteenth century. Involuntarily assigned to anthropological section as disciplinary action…”
“The bastards! Turning my station into a penal colony!”
“But all I did was leave a door open!”
“We’ll see what you did.” He backspaced a few lines and requested an information expansion. “Good Lord! You're her! They used to tell stories about you in school. You're the worst screw-up in our history! You're the one who sent the owner's own cousin back to the Polish Middle Ages, ten years before the Mongol invasions, when the guy didn't even know that time travel existed. They couldn't bring him back because he wasn't discovered there until the invasion was actually on. The owner himself found his own cousin on the battle lines, so they had to leave the guy there for the ten years or violate causality. When you make a mess, lady, you don't kid around!”
“But all I did was to forget to close a door!”
“You screw up here and I’ll feed you to the leopards.” He pulled up four more files and scanned them. “Well, if it's any consolation, your last boss was punished for failing to brief you properly. He'll be here in fifty years as my replacement and you get to break him in.”
“I think I’ll just quit and go back to North America.”
“Fine. You’ll get your chance to do that in a hundred years, subjective.”
“But-”
“Lady, this far back we get one canister every fifty years. The last one just left and the next one is taking me out of this flea-bitten pest hole.”
“So cheer up, kid, and make the best of it. Hungry? Come on, I’ll show you where there's a good rotten log. Lots of grubs.”
Chapter One
My name is Sir Vladimir Charnetski. I am a good Polish knight and a true son of the Holy Catholic Church. I was born in 1212
, the third son of Baron Jan of Charnet.
I write because my instructress felt that I could improve my literacy by recording the events of my life, but on reflection I find that there is very little to say. I had an ordinary upbringing. At sports I was better than most, but not the best. I am good at arms, but there are some who can knock me out of the saddle. My chess is solid but uninspired.
Who would want to read the tale of so ordinary a knight? None but my mother and she already knows it.
But in my twentieth year, I met a most extraordinary nobleman and I think it fitting to write about him.
His name is Sir Conrad Stargard and I met him in the following manner. In the fall of 1231, word came from my father’s liege lord, Count Lambert, that we should send a knight to Lambert's castle town to attend there on Easter and for the three months thereafter.
This was a duty that I eagerly sought for myself, for rumor had it that Okoitz was an excellent place for many reasons. Lambert’s table was reputed to be one of the best in Silesia and his wine cellar the best stocked in Poland. Also, Lambert took his droit du seigneur in a most unusual and, it seemed to me, a most delightful way. The lord of a manor naturally has the right to enjoy his peasant girls on the night before their wedding. My father is a vigorous man in most respects; but encouraged by my mother, he had long since declared himself too old for this duty and delegated the task to his sons.
My brothers and I diced for the responsibility and occasionally I won. Now, while the worst of copulations can fairly be described as excellent, these bouts were often less excellent than they could have been. While unmarried girls were presumed to be virgin, in fact they rarely were and a considerable number of them were obviously pregnant.
Then, too, they were often frightened and sometimes actually in love with their future husbands; circumstances which degraded their enthusiasm.
Oh, one could always encourage a wench to meet one in a secluded wood, but this entailed a certain amount of sneaking around, a thing I am loath to do.
My Lord Lambert’s solution to the problem is as straightforward as he is. He picks the best-looking of his girls just as they are blossoming and persuades them to move into his castle as “ladies-in-waiting.” The advantages he offers are such that scant persuasion is needed; indeed little more than a permission to come. He turns the management of his household over to the “ladies,” and enjoys them at his leisure until such time as they are with child; he then procures for each an acceptable husband, provides a suitable dowry, and pays the wedding expenses.
Most importantly, Lambert, with his usual largesse, permits his attending knights full use of this harem, which often numbers a half dozen.
Lambert’s custom is the envy of all the noblemen around and he gets away with it because his wife stays on her family's estates in Hungary. Or perhaps she stays there because of his custom. For my purposes it was inconsequential. I wanted to go.
As this pleasant obligation must, of necessity, fall to one of us three brothers, they suggested that we dice for it. I refused, saying that three months was a long time and that the matter ought to be discussed carefully over several days. My real reason was that, while I was a bachelor, my brothers were both married. I was sure that once their wives heard about the matter (and I saw to it), I would be given the task without the risk of the throw.
And so it was that my father informed me that I would go to Okoitz. My mother was in tears as I left, acting as if I were going off to war, or some less honorable way of finding death. My father and brothers were cordial and polite with the vague certainty that somehow I had cheated them.
It was an easy day’s ride to Okoitz and, since the highwayman, Sir Rheinburg, had been killed, a safe one. It was Holy Saturday and the Truce of God was in effect, yet prudence and courtesy required that I be fully armed, covered head to toe with chain mail and astride my warhorse, Witchfire.
But there was no need to be grim, so I took the precaution of carrying a three-gallon sack of wine over my saddlebow, and had a plentiful supply of bread and cheese in my bags, this being the last day of Lent.
It was a pleasant spring morning and I found myself singing old songs. I aided Witchfire by lessening the weight of the burdensome wine sack and came to some assistance with regards to the saddlebags, as well.
Horses like you to sing to them and soon Witchfire was galloping for the sheer joy of a clear springtime morning. But while crossing a small wooden bridge he threw the shoe from his right rear hoof.
This was serious, both because of the high cost of steel and because a charger cannot possibly be ridden unshod without injury. I could not walk to Okoitz and get there by the morrow, and to not get there would stain my father’s name.
I searched the bridge, the stream and its banks for hours without finding the lost shoe. At last I went down the road, walking in full armor and leading my horse, searching for a blacksmith.
I found a small side trail and followed it to a peasant’s hut. The peasant's wife assured me that there was a village with a blacksmith two miles up the side trail.
In full armor, I trudged fully four miles to this village, only to find that the blacksmith was away, visiting his mother for Easter. But the filthy churls informed me that but three miles further on the trail there was another village and here the smith was sure to be home, as he was the brother of the local smith and it was their custom to alternate, year by year, visiting their mother on Easter and Christmas.
I walked more than eight miles without finding the next village. Witchfire was limping badly, the wine skin was nearly exhausted and night closed in on us. There was nothing for it but, like a hero in a fireside tale, to stretch out under a tree and sleep in armor.
I unsaddled Witchfire, rubbed him down as best I could with some weeds and hobbled him for the night.
I had my flint and steel with me, and by dint of a half an hour’s puffing and cursing, I managed to get a decent fire going. I gathered a supply of wood, doffed my helmet and unlaced the coif at my throat. I took another pull of wine and dozed off.
At perhaps midnight, I woke to the sound of a wolf howling. It was shortly answered by another and yet another, and they were close!
The fire was down to a few dying coals and Witchfire was whinnying nervously. I went to him and tripped in the dark, which spooked him worse. I had to speak to him a bit before he’d let me come close enough to take the hobble off. A damned nuisance when time was precious, but no beast of mine will ever be taken without a chance to defend himself! I could hear the wolves, snuffling, gathering both their courage and their numbers.
I went back to the coals of the fire and found my helmet and sword. Then I threw what kindling and wood I had left onto the coals and said a silent prayer in thanks to Saint Christopher for the blessing of enough time to get ready.
The fire blazed up as I belatedly laced shut the chainmail coif at my throat and donned my helmet. I slipped on my shield and drew my sword, for this was not the place for the lance, though I love that weapon above all others. The wolves grew louder, and I could tell that they didn’t like the fire. I could imagine some impudent young wolf complaining, “Sooner! We should have hit them sooner!” It's sure that I heard one of the animals yelp as though bitten!
Witchfire, trusty friend that he is, came into the circle of firelight to join me. He knew that this must needs be a fight afoot, but he none the less meant to get his share of it. I grinned at him and they rushed us.
A huge gray wolf burst out of the darkness and at my throat. It was skinny, gaunt and hungry, yet it was fully my own size and weight none the less. These murderous beasts must have traveled far for the pains of winter to still be on them!
My sword caught the huge gray brute fair on the side of the skull and I heard the bone crack. His body rammed me square on the shield with such force that I was nearly knocked over, and indeed would have been had not a second wolf hit me but a moment later in the back. A foul blow, that, but one I was glad of, for once
down, it was not likely that I could defend myself with any alacrity!
The wolf at my back was trying to bite into my neck, but the armor my father bought at great price was proof against it. I swung my sword back hard as though preparing for a forward blow. It caught the beast on the back. Again, I heard bones crack and it was at my feet whining and snapping.
I had no time to give it mercy, for my war-horse was sore pressed. Three gray forms were snapping around him and he had a fourth in his teeth, shaking it as a small dog will shake a rat. He threw it high into the air. It came down on the fire, screamed, and lost all of its fighting spirit. It ran away, yelping, its coat burning merrily.
I waded into the beasts that were harassing my mount and broke two gray necks with as many blows. The third turned to charge me, but Witchfire dropped both front hooves on its back and it moved no more.
Suddenly, all was quiet. We’d killed five of the foul creatures, and the one who got away would think long before it again approached a human fire!
Witchfire seemed unhurt and I was unwounded. I gave each of the dead animals another blow to see to it that they stayed that way, then laid myself back down to sleep. I didn’t bother hobbling my mount. He wouldn't be wandering far from the fire again this night!
Yes, I was unharmed, but only because I was armed and armored and with a trusty war-horse. One can well see why the peasants lock their doors at sunset and dare not leave until dawn. Even in daylight, many are killed when caught alone in the wilds. But what can be done about it?
I left the carcasses to rot on the ground. Wolf skins are worthless, even a peasant can afford better. And maybe the other wolves would get a meal off of their brothers instead of killing some hapless commoner.
The next morning I gave the coup de grace to the last of my wine, cheese, and bread and found the village not a quarter mile down the trail. I caught the smith and his family on their way to church.
“But, my dear sir knight! This is Easter morning, the holiest day of the year! Surely you can’t expect me to work on this greatest of feast days!”
The High-Tech Knight Page 1
