The Undesired Princess

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  “Who, your Altitude?”

  “Call me Dad. Xenthops is my fierce barbarian stallion. It takes a real hero to ride him at all. Heh, heh.”

  Hobart opened his mouth to protest that he was at best a mediocre rider, but as he did so he noted that all the Logaian gentlemen had swung into their saddles. There was one horse left, a large black creature with staring eyes. It would cause a lot of fuss to make a change now. Anyway, he’d be damned if he’d let a mere horse . . .

  As he walked up to Xenthops, the horse bared a set of large white incisors and extended them tentatively toward him. Hobart reached out and cuffed the stallion’s muzzle, saying: “Behave yourself!” Xenthop’s eyes opened still wider as he jerked his head back and shifted his feet angrily. Hobart mounted without delay and took as firm a knee-grip as his unhardened thigh-muscles would allow. Xenthops fidgeted but did nothing otherwise untoward. Hobart reasoned that he could get away with it as long as he kept an attitude of confident superiority; but if he once showed hesitation or timidity, Xenthops would feel the difference, buck him off, and probably step on him.

  The king’s mount now appeared: a spotted camel-like beast similar to the one Hobart had seen the day before in the streets of Oroloia. To Hobart’s question, Sir Somebody explained: “The king’s cameleopard.” Hobart had always thought a cameleopard was a giraffe; everything was so remorselessly literal in this world . . .

  And more servants appeared carrying lances and muskets, which they handed out to the huntsmen. Hobart, given his choice, took a gun and the power horn and bullet bag that went with it.

  They were all clattering out of the palace lot when a groaning made Hobart turn in his saddle to look back. Bringing up the tail of the procession was a wheeled, horse-drawn cannon manned by a squad of kilted soldiers commanded by General Valangas. Evidently the behemoth was no chipmunk.

  Hobart would have liked to ask questions, but talking while trotting is not the easiest combination. Besides, he had to keep his eye peeled for chances to escape, and keep this fiery nag under both physical and psychological control.

  After an hour’s riding, the agricultural checkerboard gave way with the usual abruptness to a rolling, roadless savannah. After another hour Psambides halted the crowd with upraised arm and began assigning them missions, as if this were a full-fledged military operation. Hobart found himself assigned to a squad of four who were to reconnoiter. The horses had to be kicked along a bit, as they wanted to crop the long swishing grass. Presently the troop halved. Hobart’s companion, a lean young Logaian named Sphindex, informed him: “We’re to scout along the bed of the Keio, and come back here to rendezvous in an hour.”

  “Is that a river?” asked Hobart innocently.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s a behemoth like?”

  Sphindex stared. “Mean to say you’ve never hunted one?”

  “Right.”

  “What have you hunted then?”

  “Nothing, except a few targets.”

  “But—but my dear Prince, how do you exist?”

  “I manage.” The subject of hunting did not seem promising. “Do you know an ascetic named Hoimon?”

  Up went Sphindex’s brows. “Me know an ascetic? Great Nois no! They don’t hunt.”

  Hobart persisted: “Know anything about the cavepeople?”

  “Fellas who live in the Conical Mountains, that’s all. Never seen one; Gordius won’t let us hunt them. Though I don’t know why; they’re not really human. Look, there’s the Keio ahead.”

  He pointed with his lance toward a dark streak on the landscape. When they had topped a few more rises they overlooked the nearly dry bed of a small river, bordered by clumps of trees and brush.

  Sphindex at once exhibited signs of excitement; he spurred his horse down the slope and ducked through the screen of blue vegetation for a closer look at the stream bed. Hobart, following at a more cautious pace, met him dashing back. “Come on!” cried the hunting enthusiast.

  Xenthops banked for a turn without a signal on Hobart’s part and galloped after Sphindex’s horse. Hobart called: “Find your behemoth?”

  “No,” Sphindex flung back, “but there’s one drinking upstream.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t be absurd; what other game can drink a river dry?”

  Hobart saved his breath till they rejoined the main army, which at once set out at a gallop in a direction at a small angle to the one the scouts had taken. The cannon bounded thunderously in the rear behind its team, followed by the ammunition-caisson.

  “Your Dignity!” It was the Master of the Horse, speaking to Hobart. “You’re to join the troop covering the artillery.”

  “Yes, but what am I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, stay with the king and do what he does.” And off went Psambides to complete his arrangements.

  The party deployed on a wide front, with the gun in the middle. They stopped on the last rise before reaching the Keio; somewhat farther upstream, Hobart judged. The gun and caisson were trotted up to the crest, and the teams unhitched and led back. Hobart got his first good look at the cannon. It had a cylindrical barrel with no taper; Logaia must still lack an Admiral Dahlgren. Instead of an elevation screw it had a crude arrangement with a shiftable crossbar like that of a morris chair. The gunners were ramming in the powder, followed by the ball. Valangas himself filled the touch hole.

  Hobart could not see anything through the trees bordering the river, though the sun flashed on the metal of huntsmen closing in from above and below on the section of stream in front of the cannon.

  “Son!” called King Gordius from the back of his cameleopard, “over this way! You’re in the line of fire!”

  Hobart had no more than started to trot to the group of Logaians, sitting in their saddles with lances and muskets around the king, when his ear caught a sucking, burbling sound from the river. There were loud, plopping reports as of something huge being pulled out of the mud. A slate-black back appeared over the treetops.

  A wave of retrograde motion ran through the huntsmen nearest to this portent. The trees whipped; one of them came down crashing, and the behemoth appeared.

  Hobart’s first reaction was: is that all? The behemoth combined an elephantine body, twice the dimensions of an elephant, however, with a long thick tail and a head like that of a magnified hippopotamus. From its nose grew a pair of lateral horns. The beast, which might have been classed with the titanotheres, was big enough to be alarming but too plausible to be very interesting to Rollin Hobart per se.

  The first members of the party to attract the behemoth’s attention were a group of riders picking their way among the bushes on the hither side of the trees. It lumbered toward them. There was a sharp pop-pop-pop of muskets, and the riders whirled and galloped off to the right, upstream, leaving white puffs of smoke hanging in the still air behind them like clouds of ink from a group of retreating squids.

  The behemoth crashed after them, apparently unhurt, exposing its right flank to the cannon as it did so. One of the riders fell off his horse, scrambled up, and disappeared into the vegetation. A yell from Valangas made Hobart swing his regard 180 degrees.

  “Ho!” roared the general. “You there, Something, get out of the way!”

  Hobart got, his horse bounding toward the group around the king. Then, as the gunners hauled the trail still further around, the king and his party streamed clockwise in a big circle around the gun to get out of the line of fire.

  “Here it comes,” said a voice.

  Hobart looked around to see the behemoth head-on, trotting along the ridge on which the gun stood. It moved with deceptive speed, and was growing with panicking rapidity; it looked fifty feet tall though it was less than half that.

  The cannon banged somewhere on Hobart’s left, and the cloud of smoke leaped into the tail of his eye. He heard the smack of the ball hitting hide, and got a glimpse of a receding black dot against the sky: the shot, high, had glanced from
the creature’s back. The behemoth kept right on looming.

  Then the muskets around Hobart went off, one or two and then all the rest with a crash. Hobart had not had a chance to examine his gun closely. Now he learned to his dismay that it was some sort of matchlock, and that the little tarred string that was led from a spool on the left side of the stock to the swiveled clamp that substituted for a hammer was not even lit. Then the black-powder smoke stung his eyes shut, and he felt Xenthops under him begin to move, first with little nervous steps, then faster. He heard the earth-shaking thumps of the behemoth’s tread just about the time he could see again.

  His first glance picked up gunners afoot and hunters on horseback, all making tracks, and then King Gordius of Logaia, down near the river, rolling over and over in the yellow grass like one who has fallen from an express train in motion. The riderless cameleopard was doing crazy buck-jumps; as Hobart watched, it disappeared into the trees. A back glance showed Hobart that the behemoth, too, was looking at the king; was in fact heading in that direction.

  Hobart thought that if he could control Xenthops, he could get to his Altitude first. Of course if that fat old fool wanted to provoke a fifty-ton animal into squashing him like a strawberry, it served him right, and it was certainly none of his, Hobart’s business . . . but he had already headed the horse toward the king, who had ceased his dizzy roll and was getting up. Gordius put up a hand as Hobart approached; the engineer braced himself and reached out to haul the king up behind him. It did not work that way: Gordius got a good grip on Hobart’s wrist, heaved—and Hobart left the saddle and came down on top of the king.

  The king yipped as the musket barrel got him over the ear; but with the behemoth towering over them they did not stop to feel for broken bones. They scrambled up and bolted into the timber like frantic rabbits. The monster crashed in after them. It blundered about for a bit, snapping tree trunks; then headed back for the deserted cannon.

  Rollin Hobart and King Gordius, lying in a thicket, drew a pair of whews. The king said: “Can you see what he’s doing, son?”

  Hobart raised his head to peer. “He’s trampling the gun.” A wooden crackle confirmed this statement, as the gun carriage was flattened. “Good lord, he’s eating the barrel!”

  “Strange,” said the king; “I thought they ate nothing but grass. What now?”

  “He seems to have some trouble swallowing it—it’s down now.” They heard a snort from the behemoth; it thumped off out of sight over the crest of the rise. There were a couple of distant musket shots and some thin shouts, and all was peaceful.

  “We had better start looking for our mounts,” said the king, getting up with a grunt. As he did so, something went whtht.

  “What—” said the king. Whuck! An arrow stuck quivering in a tree trunk six inches from His Altitude’s nose.

  Gordius turned to Hobart, mild blue eyes round. “Somebody,” he said in an awed voice, “is shooting at me!”

  “Duck!” cried Hobart. The king did so, just as a third arrow whistled through the leaves.

  “How do you work this thing?” said Hobart in a stage whisper, indicating the musket. “It is loaded?”

  “It is unless you’ve fired it,” replied the king. “Let’s see—you have to light the match—this thing.” Hobart did so with his cigarette lighter. “And the powder was all shaken out of the firing pan when you fell off Xenthops. You put more in, like this, and smooth it down with your thumb. Then you close the pan cover, so. Blow your match now and then so it doesn’t go out. Ho, not so hard; you’ll blow a spark into the pan.”

  Hobart extended the barrel cautiously toward the source point of the arrows, meantime moving his head to bring holes in the greenery—or rather bluery—into line. The gun weighed well over twenty pounds, but Hobart could manage it from his prone position. He whispered: “Got a sword or spear? I’m going to shoot and then go after the guy.”

  “I lost them when I fell off,” said Gordius. “Use the musket butt.”

  The firearm had a front sight—a knob—but no rear sight. Hobart lined the barrel up as best he could. His eye caught a suggestion of motion, and he pulled the trigger.

  The gun roared; smoke blotted out the foliage; the butt came back like a mule’s kick; and Hobart’s right thumb, which he had injudiciously wrapped around the stock; hit his nose an agonizing blow. Though his vision was as full of stars as of woods, he jumped up and bounded over the bushes after his shot, reversing the musket as he did so.

  But there was no lurking assassin for him to club. He hunted for some minutes without result; then he saw something dark lying on the blue moss, and picked it up. It was a wig of short black hair.

  King Gordius frowned when he saw the object. “I don’t know who might wear it,” he said. “Good Nois, what happened to your nose?” The member was grotesquely swollen and bleeding.

  Hobart explained, and added irritably: “If you want to hunt behemoths, Your Altitude, why go to all this bother, with horse and muskets and things? Why not take one of Laus’ magic umbrellas, locate a victim from the air, and have your wizard conjure him down to vest-pocket size?”

  “It’s against the game laws to hunt with magic,” explained the king. “As a just ruler, I couldn’t violate my own laws, could I? Besides it doesn’t work. Animals are sensitive to magic, and if you practice it in their neighborhood they’ll run away before you can get within sight of them.” As they set out afoot to try to rejoin the rest of the party, the Affable Monarch continued: “You saved my life, Rollin. I must do something to reward that. You already have my daughter and half my kingdom. How would a coronet do?”

  “Fine,” grumbled Hobart. At least such a bauble should have cash value back in New York.

  6

  A distracted Psambides picked them up after an hour’s walk, and by late afternoon had rounded up the rest. General Valangas clucked when he heard the fate of the cannon. “Our latest model, too,” he commented, but added with a grin: “It matters not; it would have been melted up in the course of disarmament anyway.”

  Hobart reflected that Valturus the gunsmith was not the only person to display a peculiar cheerfulness about a policy that threatened his livelihood. He remarked: “I should think a general like you would want to keep your army.”

  Valangas shrugged. “I would, but our Chancellor convinced me that wars never settle anything, so why fight them? Besides, this new stuff gunpowder will probably put an end to war soon by making it so horrible that none will fight. What happened to your nose, lad?”

  Hobart told him. The general guffawed, then asked: “Is it broken?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Hobart, fingering the member tenderly. It had at least stopped bleeding.

  “Good,” roared Valangas, clapping Hobart on the back. “Then we’ll see you in the tournament. I have promised myself to break a lance with you.”

  “What tournament?” snapped Hobart, feeling like a man caught in quicksand, whose every movement gets him involved more deeply.

  “Why, tomorrow, at Prince Aites’ party!”

  “Not with my nose,” said Hobart.

  “What? But you just said it was not broken! We’ll wear closed helmets, so a mere bump on the nose is no excuse.”

  “It is to me. I’m not going in any tournament.”

  “But, my good Prince, surely you’re no coward?”

  “Not interested, that’s all.”

  The king spoke up: “What’s this about my future son-in-law’s being a coward? After he saved my life—”

  “Your Altitude,” said Valangas, “do you admit that a man is either a coward or he is not?”

  Rollin Hobart spoke loudly: “I said I wasn’t going to enter any damned tournament, and that’s that. Make anything of it you like.”

  The king looked unhappy; General Valangas sniffed contemptuously and began talking to someone else. Hobart asked a few questions about Hoimon, but all he gathered was that the gentlemen of the hunting party knew little and
cared less about the activities of members of the brotherhood of ascetics.

  They had to hurry to make the city of Oroloia before dark, for, as Hobart knew by now, there was no twilight. When the sun dropped below the horizon, darkness came down with a clank.

  “The Onyx Room for cocktails in half an hour, my boy,” King Gordius told him before leaving him in the palace. “We’re eating privately tonight. Nois, I’m tired!”

  Half the half-hour was spent by Hobart’s new valet, Zorgon, in a rather futile attempt to sponge out of existence the two beautiful shiners that had appeared around the unwilling prince’s eyes. When he entered the Onyx Room to find Princess Argimanda, and the social lion lapping a gallon of tea out of a bucket, the first words were a chorus from the princess and Theiax: “What happened to your nose?” The princess made a movement toward him, but he had his firm face on and she restrained herself.

  Hobart told them the story of the hunt, and asked Theiax where he had been. The social lion looked sheepish, if one can imagine such a thing.

  Argimanda spoke up: “There’s a lioness in the Pyramidal Mountains, my l—Prince Rollin.”

  “Someday,” rumbled Theiax, “you go hunting with me. You eat plenty of good meat. I kill lots of animals; don’t eat any.”

  “Why not? You mean you kill just for the fun of it?” said Hobart.

  “Sure. I am sport. Sport is one who kills for fun, men tell me; one who kills for practical reason is wicked poacher. You come with me; I show you. When you and Argimanda have cubs, you bring them, too.”

  The princess gave a small sigh, and Hobart was just as glad to see King Gordius come in before the conversation got any more speculative. Following the king came Prince Alaxius and a couple of men carrying two small cannon turned into holders for potted plants.