Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  "Valkarion is ever new, Alfric. A man could live his life here and never see all there was."

  "Perhaps. So they told me. And it was, after all, the old seat of the Empire, and its shrunken remnant of territory is still greater than any other domain. So I came here to see for myself." Alfric grinned, a wolfish gleam of teeth in the night. "Also, I heard tales—restlessness, a struggle for power between Temple and Imperium, with the Emperor an old man and the last of his line, unable to get a child on his young queen Hildaborg. It seemed opportune."

  "How so?" He thought she breathed faster, lying there beside him.

  He chuckled, a harsh iron sound in his corded throat. "How should I know? Except that when such a hell's broth is bubbling, a fighting man can always scoop up loot or power or—at the very least—adventure. If nothing else, there might be the Empress. They say she's a half barbarian herself, a princess of Choredon, and a lusty wench giving hospitality to every visiting noble or knight." He felt Freha stiffen a little, and added: "But that doesn't interest me now, when I've found you. Freha, leave this place with me tomorrow and you'll wear the crown jewels of Valkarion."

  "Or else see your head on a pike above the walls," she said.

  Faintly through the window and the whining night-wind, they heard the crash of a great gong.

  "Dannos is rising," whispered Freha. "Tonight he mates with Mother Amaris. It is said that the Fates walk through the streets of Valkarion on such nights." She shivered. "Indeed they do on this eve."

  "Perhaps," said Alfric, though the hackles rose on his neck. "But how do you know?"

  "Have you not heard?" Her voice shuddered, seeming to blend with the moan of wind and steady, slow boom of gong. "Have you not heard? The Emperor Aureon is dying. He is not expected to last till dawn. The Thirty-ninth Dynasty dies with him, and—and there is no successor !"

  The wind mumbled under the eaves, rattling the window frame and flowing darkly through the alley.

  "Ha!" Alfric laughed harshly, exultantly. "A chance—by Ruho, what a chance!"

  Of a sudden he stiffened, and the voice of danger was a great shout in his head. He sat up, cocking his ears, and heard the faint scratch and scrape—aye, under the window, coming close

  He slid from the covers and drew his sword where it lay on the floor. The boards felt cold under his bare feet, the night air fingered his skin with icy hands. "What is it?" whispered Freha. She sat up, the dark hair tumbling past her frightened face. "What is it, Alfric?"

  He made no answer, but padded over to the window. Flattened against the wall, he stood waiting as a hand raised the sash from outside.

  The pale cold light of Amaris fell on the hand that now gripped the sill. A body lifted itself, one-handed, the other clutching a knife. For an instant Alfric saw the flat hairless face in the moonlight, the double crescent brand livid against its horrible blankness. Then in one rippling motion the slave was inside the room.

  Alfric thrust, slicing his heart. As the man fell, another swarmed up behind him. He and Alfric faced each other, tableau for one instant of rivering moonlight and whining wind and remotely beating gong. Then the barbarian's long arm shot out, yanked the slave in, and twisted him in an unbreakable wrestler's grip.

  "Talk!" he hissed into the ear of the writhing creature. "Talk, or I'll break you bone by bone. Why are you here?"

  "He can't," said Freha. She came up to them, white in the moonlight, her long hair blowing loose about her shoulders. "The Temple breeds these slaves, raises them from birth to utter, fanatical obedience. And—see—" She pointed to the dead man gaping under the window.

  Stooping over, Alfric saw that he had no tongue.

  The northerner shuddered. With a convulsive movement, he broke the neck of his prisoner and flung the body aside. "What do they want?" he panted. "Why are they after me?"

  "There is a prophecy—but quick, there will be others. Out, down to the taproom—we must have protection—"

  "The assassins would hardly be so stupid as to leave us a way out," grunted Alfric. "Any down there who might help us are probably dead or made prisoner now. No doubt these men have friends on guard, just outside the door—men who'll come in pretty soon when these don't come out—"

  "Aye—that would be the way of the Temple —but where, then, where?"

  Alfric flung on his kilt, dagger belt, and baldric. "Out the window !" He whipped the girl to him, held her supple body against his, kissed her hard and swift as the swoop of a hunting falkh. "Goodbye, Freha, you have been a wonderful companion. I'll see you again—if I live."

  "But—you can't leave me!" she gasped. "The slaves will burst through—"

  "Why should they harm you? They're after me."

  "They will." He felt her shaking against him. "They will, that's their way—oh !"

  The door shuddered as a heavy weight was flung against it. "That's they," snarled Alfric. "And the bolt won't hold very long. I'd like to stay and fight, but—Come!" He grabbed his cloak off the floor and buckled it across Freha's slim naked shoulders. "I'll go first— then you jump."

  He balanced on the window-sill, then leaped. Even as he fell, he wondered at the agility of the slaves who had crawled up the wall. It was of roughset stones, but even so—

  He hit the muck and cobblestones of the alley with the silent poise of a jaccur, and turned up to the window. It was just above the pit-black shadows, a square of darkness in the moon- whitened wall. "Come!" he called softly.

  Freha's body gleamed briefly in the moonlight as she sprang. He caught her in his arms, set her down, and drew his sword. "Let's go," he growled. Then suddenly: "But where? Will the city guards protect us?"

  "Some might," she answered shakily, "but most are controlled by fear of the Temple's curse. Best we go toward the palace. The Emperor's Household troops are loyal to him and hate the priesthood which seeks to usurp his power."

  "We can head that way," he nodded, "meanwhile looking for a place to hide." He took her hand and they trotted through the thick darkness toward the dim light marking the end of the alley.

  Other feet padded in the gloom. Alfric snarled soundlessly and pulled himself and the girl against a wall. He was almost blind in the dark, but he strained his ears, pointing them this way and that in search of the enemy.

  The others had also stopped moving. They would be waiting for him to stir, and their own motionlessness could surely outlast the girl's— anyway, the pursuit from the room would be after him in another moment, when the door gave way

  "Run !" he snapped.

  He felt a dart blow by the spot where he had spoken, and lengthened his frantic stride. A form rose before him, vague in the night. He chopped down with his sword, and felt a grim joy at the ripping of flesh and sundering of bone.

  Now—out of the alley, into a street not much wider or lighter, and down its shadowy length. The slaves would be behind, but—

  There was a one-story house ahead, of the usual flat-roofed construction. "Up !" gasped Alfric, and made a stirrup of his hands. He fairly flung the girl onto the roof. She gave him a hand up, bracing her feet against the parapet, and they fell down together behind it.

  Alfric heard the slaves' bare feet trotting below him, but dared not risk a glance. Snakelike, he and Freha slithered across the housetop. Only a narrow space separated them from the next; they jumped that and crossed over to another and higher roof. From this, Alfric peered into the street beyond.

  A couple of city guards were walking down it, spears at the ready. Alfric wondered whether he should join them—no, they would be no shield against a blowgun dart sent from an alley— anyway, they might be priest-loyal.

  He put his mouth to Freha's ear, even then aware of the dark silky hair tickling his lips, and whispered : "What next?"

  "I don't know." She looked ahead over the nighted roofs to the great central forum, still ruddy-bright with torches. Beyond it, the city climbed toward a double hill, on either crest of which was a building. One must be the palace, thoug
ht Alfric—it was in the graceful colonnaded style of the later Empire, white marble under Amaris. Nearly all its windows were dark ; but he thought, puzzledly, that it was surrounded by a ring of fires.

  The other building was a great gray pile, sprawling its grim massiveness in a red blaze of light. From it came the steady gong-beat and a rising chant—the Temple of the Two Moons, holding vigil at their wedding.

  The night was huge above them, a vault of infinite crystal black in which the stars glittered in their frosty myriads and the Milky Way tumbled its bright mysterious cataract between the constellations. The pale disc of Amaris rode high, painting the city and the hills and the dead sea-floor with its cold ghostly light. And now Dannos was swinging rapidly out of the west, brightening the dark and casting weird double shadows that slowly writhed with its changing position.

  It was bitter chill. The wind blew and blew, hooting down the streets, banging signs and driving dead leaves and sand and bits of parchment before it. Alfric shivered, wishing for the rest of his clothes. In the waxing moonlight, he could see sand-devils whirling on the sea-bottom, a witches' dance—and on such a night, trolls and ghosts and the Fates themselves might well be abroad.

  He set his teeth against chattering and tried to fix his mind on real and desperately urgent problems. "The priests seemed able to trace us," he said. "At least, they knew where I went for lodging. Best we work toward the palace as you say, but look for a ruined house or some such place to hide in till morning."

  III

  The street below was deserted now. They jumped down to it and darted into the shadows on the other side. Slipping along the walls of buildings they followed its twisting length for some time. An occasional cloaked form passed silently by; otherwise there was only the bitter wind echoing hollowly along the tunnel-like streets.

  Of a sudden Alfric stiffened. He heard the measured tramp of feet—a city patrol approaching, just around the next corner. Whirling, he led the way into an alley black as a cave mouth. It was blind, but there was a door at the end, from behind which came the twanging of harps and the thin evil whine of desert flutes. A tavern—shelter, of a sort.

  Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardsmen passed the alley—passed, stopped, and turned hack. "They may be here," Alfric heard a voice.

  Cursing under his breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through, into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfric's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odor of shivash, and he noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow man scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged men of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives.

  Freha slammed the bolt down behind them, and Alfric brandished his great sword and said to them all: "Show us a way out."

  A fist beat on the door, a voice shouted: "Open, in the name of the Holy Temple!"

  "No way out," gasped the landlord.

  "There is always an exit to these dens," snapped Freha. "Show us, or we split your skull."

  A man's knife-hand moved with blurring speed. Alfric stopped the thrown dagger with his sword-blade in a clang of steel, caught it in midair, and hurled it back. The man screamed as it thunked into his belly.

  "Out!" snarled the barbarian, and his glaive sang about the landlord's ears.

  "Here," cried the little man, running toward the end of the room.

  The door groaned as the guardsmen hurled themselves against it.

  The landlord opened a concealed trapdoor. Only darkness was visible below. Alfric snatched a torch from the wall and saw a tunnel of dark stone. "Down!" he rapped, and Freha jumped. He followed, bolting the trap behind him. It was of heavy iron—the soldiers would have to work to break through it.

  The tunnel stretched hollowly away on either side. Freha broke into a run and Alfric loped beside her, the torch streaming in one hand and the sword agleam in the other. Their footfalls echoed through the cold moist dark.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "Old sewers—not used now when water is scarce—a warren under the city—"gasped Freha.

  "We can hide here, then," he panted.

  "No—only the Temple knows all the passages—they'll have slaves guarding every exit—we'll be trapped unless we get out soon—"

  Dim sky showed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it. Alfric doused his torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out.

  The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardsmen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars.

  Alfric's lip twisted in a snarl. So—the holes were already plugged! But wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet; best to go on in search of another—no, by the time the fugitives got there it might be watched too. Here there was as least an absence of people to interfere.

  He sprang out and rushed at the three, so swiftly that they were hardly aware of him before his blade was shrieking about them. One man tumbled with his head nearly sheared off. Another yelled, leaping back to thrust with his spear. Alfric dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand and pulled. The guardsman stumbled forward and Alfric's sword rang on his helmet. He dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow.

  The third was on Alfric like an angry jaccur. His spear-thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfric closed in, grinning savagely in the cold white moonlight, and thrust with his sword. The guard parried the blow with his small buckler, dropped his spear, and drew his shortsword. Bending low, he rushed in, probing for Alfric's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down, through the guard's left leg. Blood spurted, the man crashed to earth, and Alfric stabbed him through the face before he could scream.

  The second was climbing dizzily to his feet. Alfric knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought his own blade against the guardsman's throat. "Hold," he said. "One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades."

  Freha came up, the cloak blowing about her wondeful naked body in the wild wind. She was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as he saw her. "Lady—lady, forgive—"

  "Forgive a traitor?" she asked, wrath sparking in her voice.

  "Why are the priests after me?" rapped Alfric.

  The guard stared. "Surely—surely you know—"

  "I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man."

  "The prophecy—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy...Later they said that—" the guard's desperate eyes turned to Freha. "They said you, your majesty—" His voice trailed off.

  "Say on," she snapped. "Give me the priests' own words. By Dannos, they'll all swing for this! I am still Empress of Valkarion!"

  Alfric looked at her in sudden shock, as if he had been clubbed. Empress—the Empress of Valkarion—

  "But—they said you were not, your majesty . . . the Emperor is dead, he died soon after sundown—"

  "As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest's work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!"

  "The High Priest sent word over the city. He told of the prophecy—we all knew of that, but he told it anew. But he said the heathen king could still be slain, and offered a thousand gildars to the man who did it." The guard gulped. "Then he said you—forgive me, lady, you asked for his words—he said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Empress Hildaborg, half barbarian, idolatrous witch—those were his words, your majesty—she lay under the Temple's ban. He said she was to be killed, or better captured, with the heathen stranger, with whom she would probably join forces. He put the most solemn curse of the Two Moons on anyone who should aid you and the man, or even fail to help hunt for you—" The guardsman sank to his knees, s
haking. "Lady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuse—"

  "What of my Household troops?" she snapped.

  "The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them—a dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace—"

  "Little help there, then." Hildaborg laughed mirthlessly. "All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfric."

  The barbarian's head was spinning. "You are—the Empress," he gasped, "and there's some nonsense about me . . . What is this prophecy? Why did you—" his voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded soft into the moaning wind.

  "No time now, someone may be along any moment . . . Where to hide, where to hide?"

  Alfric's eyes traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly he laughed, a harsh metallic bark. "Why, in the very lair of the foe!" he said. "As good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us."

  She nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfric looked narrowly at the prisoner. "If you betray us—" he murmured.

  "I won't—by the Moons, I swear I won't—"

  "Indeed you won't," said Alfric, and lifted sword to cut him down.

  Hildaborg sprang up and grabbed his arm. "That's a barbarous trick," she exclaimed angrily. "You need only bind and gag him, and hide him in one of these ruins."

  "Why worry about the life of a guardsman?" he asked contemptuously.

  Her dark head lifted in pride: "I am Empress of the guardsmen too," she said.

  "As you like," shrugged Alfric.

  The captive turned a face of utter worship to the woman. "You must secure me," he said, his voice shaking. "But when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady."