Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  "The Empress—the Empress, and the heathen —We've found them—"

  The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too frightened and confused to help. The priest and his guards were coming on the double, yelling for help. Other armed men seemed to be springing from the ground.

  "Alive!" shrilled the priest. "Take them alive if you can! A thousand gildars!"

  The guards were well disciplined. They locked shields in a ring about Alfric and closed in. Man for man, he could have laughed at them—but this way—

  Hildaborg swayed on her feet beside him. "So this is the end?" she whispered. "I love you, Alfric—"

  He howled his rage, and sprang forward. The sword blurred in his hands, ringing on shields and helmets. A guard fell, shrieking, his right arm sheared off. Alfric stabbed another in the neck, kicked a third in the groin, and roared.

  They surged around him, hemming him in with their shields. Clubbed spears thudded against his helmet, and it rang like a brazen gong, He staggered, shouted, struck out again—the sword fell from his hands—he toppled into a clamoring darkness—

  Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of armor, chained hand and foot, hauled roughly to his feet. He lurched mechanically along, and slowly his head cleared. Through a mist of throbbing pain, he saw that Hildaborg walked beside him. Spears pricked their backs, the chains rattled on ankles and wrists. They were in the middle of a tight triple ring of guards, marching up the hill toward the Temple.

  The villas of the mighty lay around them, white in the moonlight, fragrant with gardens. Alfric saw fountains splashing, and even then thought of the parched land beyond the walls, land that might flower again if it had that water.

  But that would never be. He would swing high above the city, the falkhs would pick out his eyes—Hildaborg would die, and the grip of the Temple would be locked on Valkarion till its last stones were dust on the wind.

  Strength came back, a bleak resolve not to go down without one more fight. His brain began whirring, the old cold craftiness of his turbulent lifetime surged forward...hopeless: They were caught, they were done; all his struggles were the vain writhings of a beast in a cage.

  "So this ends it." Hildaborg's voice was weary. Then she smiled a little. "But we made a good try, Alfric." And warmly; "And we have loved each other. That is enough."

  "It is not," he answered. "But it is something."

  "Silence!" commanded the priest.

  Now they were on the hillcrest, the mighty walls of the Temple looming before them. Alfric saw it aswarm with slaves and guards and priests of all degrees. The gong-beat was a steady, tremendous crashing—it seemed to fill the world with its brazen clamor. High rose the chant of the Moon Wedding.

  The warrior glanced aside, over to the palace. There was a bridge spanning the gully between the two hillcrests, and guards were on it. Other guards, city and Temple, were besieging the palace; he saw their fires in a ring about it. They were setting up a great ballista whose stones, he knew, would bring the walls down in ruin.

  From the hilltop he could see over the moon-whitened desert and the vast reach of the old sea-bottom. Once it had been blue and alive, glittering with sunlight, the long waves rolling in to crash in foam and thunder on a dazzling beach. The harbor of Valkarion had been crowded with ships from all the world, a forest of tall masts, a wild perfumery of salt and tar and the spices of the south. And beyond, the land had been green, and white clouds had sailed through a soft blue summer sky.

  Well, it was gone—the world was dried into desert and scrubby forest and harsh meadowland, sand blew in the ancient beds of rivers and seas, the air was thin and chill and held a bitter tang of rust. The cities were in ruins, the Empire was a shadow, and man was gone back to a few wretched remnants, sinking into barbarism and death.

  Alfric looked up to the cold, splendid night sky. There was a tradition from the wise ancients, he had once been told, that those swarming bright star-hosts were other worlds and suns, happier, maybe, than this. It was some consolation.

  The Moons were near their mating now. Bright Dannos was sweeping triumphantly down on pale Mother Amaris; he would cover her and then pass on, and out of that wedding would come the fate of the world. Cold fate, dark destiny—night and famine and death, the moons hurtling over a world sunk into final oblivion.

  Well, men died, sometime or other, and all they could do about it was to meet the end bravely. Alfric squared his shoulders and marched into the Temple.

  There was a long corridor, at the end of which he saw a vast room flashing in gold and silver and fiery jewels, draped with the costliest ancient tapestries. Even then, Alfric's eyes gleamed greenly. To loot that room!

  They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of steps into the Temple dungeons. Alfric had been in enough jails before not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildaborg shuddered and pressed closer to him.

  A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell and died raggedly into the echoes. The priest smirked. "A heretic is being shown the error of his ways," he said unctuously. "He blasphemed against the Moons and swore he would abide by the Empress."

  "Then the gods abide by him," said Hildaborg defiantly.

  The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill's heart, and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few scant inches between—miles between, a world between, thought Alfric wearily—he would never kiss her again

  The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildaborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: "What can we do?"

  "Nothing, now." The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity, and relaxed. "Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise—die."

  "I don't want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and feel the wind and bear your sons."

  "I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to Aslak—"

  "But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should die too—" Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark.

  He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence.

  Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest.

  He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering-cold. When he spoke, his voice was wondrous, a deep organ which he played like a master musician.

  "So we meet again, your majesty," he said, and bowed. There was little mockery in his tones; he seemed straightforward and businesslike.

  Hildaborg did not answer. She stood with her beautous form in its ragged soldier's tunic pressed against the wall. Her sweat-dampened black hair clung to her forehead, fell down her shoulders in a shining wave. In the restless torchlight, her face was white and drawn, streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears, but she gave the High Priest glance for glance and her lips were steady.

  Therokos looked Alfric's tall form up and down. "And so you are the conqueror of the prophecy," he murmured. "A mighty man—but just how did you think you could do it? Who are your allies in the city? What was your plan?"

  "I am Alfric of Aslak, and I came here without friends or plan, knowing nothing of any prophecy," answered the barbarian coldly. "And you are a misbegotten son of a she-garm, with whose head I will yet play football."

  "Come now," said Therokos softly, surely you do not expect me to believe you are here by mere chance? Your cause is lost, you are doomed, but you can save yourself the inquisition and die easily if you will tell us what you know."

  "I know nothing, you jerrad!"

  "You may know more after the inquisitioners have worked on you awh
ile," said Therokos coldly. Then turning to Hildaborg, his voice suddenly rich and warm, throbbing with love and pity: "My lady, my lady, you do not know how I regret this. That the Empress of Valkarion should, even for dire necessity, be thus humiliated in the greatest sorrow of my life."

  Hildaborg's lip curled. "I see you weeping," she said coldly.

  "But I do, my lady—my heart is ashes within me. Only need drove me to this—and it is not yet too late to repent, your majesty. What the Moons have taken, the Moons can restore.

  "Surely, my lady," said Therokos reasonably, "you can see the absolute necessity of my actions. Under the law, you could not rule, and there was no Imperial heir. Without a strong hand, leaderless Valkarion would have split under the quarreling of the nobles and the lawlessness of the commons, easy prey for barbarian enemies such as this man—and the Sibyl's warning would have come true. With the Imperium gone, the Temple, sole remaining pillar of Valkarion, must bear the burden of state."

  "In other words," said Hildaborg coldly, "you will have yourself annointed Theocrat."

  "The Moons have seen fit thus to honor my unworthiness," said Therokos. "But it would still be well if we should unite our forces. You have many loyal friends, my lady, myself not the least of them. If you will but wed me, we can together unite the factions in the city and build the Empire anew."

  She smiled, almost a sneer. "Yours was a strange courtship."

  "I have told you how the necessity grieved me," said the priest. Suddenly his voice came hard as steel, cold as winter and death: "It is now my duty to offer you a choice. Call on your troops to surrender, your followers in the city to desist from their treasonous activities, and wed me this night, or—" he paused—"burn at the stake for blasphemy and witchcraft. But first you will be tied down and every slave in the Temple have his way with you."

  "That might not be worse than leading my men into your hands," she flared. But her face was suddenly bloodless.

  "You will be surprised how much worse it will be—especially since your men will die anyway. But I will offer you this, too: if you call on them to surrender, those who do may go into exile."

  She stood a moment in silence, and Alfric knew what a horror must be clawing her heart. Then she nodded toward him: "What of my protector here?"

  "The heathen bandit must die in any case, that the city may know itself safe from him and the prophecy," said Therokos. "He still has his choice of easy hanging or slow torture. But if you refuse me, Hildaborg, he will no longer have the choice; he will go to hell by inches, cursing you for it."

  The lovely dark head bowed. It was as if a flame had gone out. Alfric felt ill at seeing her thus broken, given over to a lifetime's prisoning—golden chains they would be, but no less heavy and galling. "Goodbye, my dear," he whispered. "Goodbye, I will always love you."

  She made no reply, but said to Therokos, tonelessly: "I yield me, lord."

  V

  The High Priest's face lit, and Alfric realized dully that Therokos, too, loved the queen—in his own cold way. "You do well, beautiful one," he said shakily. He came over and kissed her and fondled her stiff body. "You have never done better, black witch. Now come—to your wedding."

  He signed to the two slaves, who sconced their torches and took a key from their master. They unlocked Hildaborg's chains, and she almost fell into Therokos' arms.

  He caressed her, murmuring softly. "There, dear, easy—you will wash and eat and rest, you will wear the robes of honor—be at ease, you are safe now, you are mine forever."

  "Aye—" She braced herself, every muscle tautened under the silken skin, and suddenly she hurled the priest from her—sent him staggering against Alfric. "Kill!" she screamed.

  The barbarian snarled, wild with a sudden murderous glory, and his manacled hands shot out. One gripped Therokos over the mouth, and the other sank steely fingers into the wattled throat.

  The two slaves sprang at him like wild garms. Knives flashed in the bloody light. Hildaborg snatched a torch and swept its flaming end across the eyes of one. He screamed wordlessly, rolling over and over, clawing at his face. Hildaborg snatched up his dagger and lunged at the other.

  Alfric groaned. What chance did she have against the deadly experience of a Temple assassin? Therokos had gone limp. Alfric flung the heavy body crashing into the slave. They went down together. Hildaborg leaped in, her knife rising and falling and rising, again, streaming red.

  Then she was in his arms, shaken by wild sobbing. He held her close, kissed her, stroked her hair, and had time for a dim wondering amazement that such a woman should have lain in his—his—fate.

  There was no time to lose. "Unlock me," he said. "Unlock me and let's get out of this den of Luigur."

  She searched Therkos' robes for the key, found it, and cast the chains rattling aside. Alfric snatched up a knife, with an uneasy glance at the door. But the noise had drawn no guards. They must be used to screams in this part of the Temple.

  Therokos stirred, groaning. Alfric's big brown form stooped over him, dagger against throat. "Up with you, fat jerrad," hissed the northerner. "Up, and not a word, or you'll be spilling guts over the floor."

  The High Priest climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Now lead us out by a secret way," rasped Alfric.

  "There is none—" groaned Therokos.

  Alfric slapped him with savage fury. "Shut up! I know there is. You priests are like all burrowing snakes, you've more than one exit to your holes. March! And if we meet guards, you'll die first."

  Therokos flung him a glance of utter hate, but stumbled obediently ahead. The empty corridor echoed dully to their footfalls. Near its end, Therokos pressed a camouflaged stud, and a section of the rock wall swung aside on noiseless hinges.

  Hildaborg took a torch from the wall and closed the door behind them. They went down a long sloping tunnel, so low that Alfric had to stoop. "You cannot hope to escape," said Therokos, his voice again under his wondrous control. "Best you give up peaceably, saving trouble and lives on both sides. In exchange, I will offer better terms than before."

  "What?" asked Alfric skeptically.

  "Weapons, money, and hengists—then you can leave the city for the hell that awaits you."

  "And my men?" insisted Hildaborg. "Exile, with you."

  Alfric pondered the proposal. If they could get free, with men at their back, they could always raise an army for a new attempt. But surely Therokos was aware of that. So if he had some trick—and it would be strange if he did not—

  "How do we know you'll keep the bargain?" he asked coldly.

  "You have the honor of the High Priest," answered Therokos loftily. Alfric sneered, and Therokos added: "Also, I assume you keep me prisoner until you are safe."

  "It does not sound ill—" mused Hildaborg.

  Nor did it to Alfric. But he shook his head, stubbornly. "I mistrust him. Moreover, a new war, after he had time to get ready, would take time and lives, and might fail. If tonight is indeed the night of destiny, we can still strike."

  "With what?" jerred Therokos.

  Alfric was not quite sure himself, but prodded the captive ungently onward. They came to another hinged rock, and Therokos opened that door for them. Alfric's spine crawled with the thought of what might lie beyond; he kept the dagger against Therokos' back as they stepped out.

  They were in the shadows of a ruined portico, in a deserted section near the bottom of the hill. White and serene, the ancient columns lifted toward the two moons. The gracious remnants of elder days stretched on either side, half buried in the drifting sand. Black against the sky, the Temple loomed on the hillcrest, but Alfric saw no movement.

  Hildaborg slipped against him. "Now what shall we do?" she whispered.

  He laughed softly, the old grim battle joy flowing up in him. Weariness and despair fell off like an outworn cloak—there was new strength in his thews and a goal in his mind.

  "I heard, down there, how Valkarion really hates the priests," he said. "The city is seethin
g with revolt which wants only a leader. Could the common folk rise, I think nigh all the city guards, impressed into priest service by fear, would come over to their side. And you—they love you, Hildaborg. Could you go to sure friends?"

  "Aye—there is old Bronnes the merchant and Captain Hassalon of the guard, and—many."

  "Then go. Slip down to them, give them word and tell them to pass it on, to shout it over the city. You, the Empress, the divinely appointed lady of Valkarion, tell the folk to rise against the Temple. Let them storm the citadel, and they may have the looting of it!" He chuckled. "That should bring in the laggards."

  "But—untrained mobs, against the guards—"

  "There will be other guardsmen on your side. And—this is my part—your Household will also be there."

  "But—they're besieged—"

  "I'll get them out." Alfric stripped off Therokos' gold-braided cloak, and slung it over her shoulders. "This will cover you well enough so you can get to your friends unharmed. Now go, Hildaborg, and Ruho go with you."

  He kissed her, with a wild hunger that dissolved into tenderness. "Stay out of danger," he whispered. "Stay in a safe place till I come for you—Hildaborg—"

  Therokos scuttled aside. "Oh, no!" snarled Alfric, and stabbed. The priest tumbled, with blood rivering from his stomach, choking his screams. Alfric took Hildaborg again in his arms. "Goodbye, my dearest dear—"

  She slipped into the shadows. Alfric sighed, wondering with a brief heaviness if he would ever see her again. He knew full well how desperate his gamble was.

  Well, there was work to be done. He turned and ran crouched along the hillside, weaving in and out of darkness. The Moons were almost at their mating now, flooding the city with chill silver radiance.

  He grinned up at them. And what did they think of this ruination of their ancient godhead? He could hardly imagine them caring about it. Surely Dannos, the swift warrior, and bright Mother Amaris had more use for an honest fighting man and his warm-hearted love than for a bunch of sniveling shavepates. All honor to the Moons, but not to tyrants and murderers in their name.