by Keith Laumer
A fire…?
A footstep sounded behind me, and I suddenly remembered several things, none of them pleasant. I felt for my gun; it was gone. I moved back along the side of the car, tried to hold on.
No use. My arms were like unsuccessful pie crust. I slid down among dead leaves, sat listening to the steps coming closer. They stopped, and through a dense fog that had sprung up suddenly I caught a glimpse of a tall white-haired figure standing over me.
Then the fog closed in and swept everything away.
I lay on my back this time, looking across at the smoky yellow light of a thick brown candle guttering in the draft from a glassless window. In the center of the room a few sticks of damp-looking wood heaped on the cracked asphalt tiles burned with a grayish flame. A thin curl of acrid smoke rose up to stir cobwebs festooned under ceiling beams from which wood veneer had peeled away. Light alloy trusswork showed beneath.
It was a strange scene, but not so strange that I didn't recognize it: it was my own living room-looking a little different than when I had seen it last. The odors were different, too; I picked out mildew, badly cured leather, damp wool, tobacco…
I turned my head. A yard from the rags I lay on, the white-haired man, looking older than pharaoh, sat sleeping with his back against the wall.
The shotgun was gripped in one big, gnarled hand. His head was tilted back, blue-veined eyelids shut. I sat up, and at my movement his eyes opened.
He lay relaxed for a moment, as though life had to return from some place far away. Then he raised his head. His face was hollow and lined. His white hair was thin. A coarse-woven shirt hung loose across wide shoulders that had been Herculean once. But now Hercules was old, old. He looked at me expectantly.
"Who are you?" I said. "Why did you follow me? What happened to the house? Where's my family? Who owns the bully-boys in green?" My jaw hurt when I spoke. I put my hand up and felt it gingerly.
"You fell," the old man said, in a voice that rumbled like a subterranean volcano.
"The understatement of the year, pop." I tried to get up. Nausea knotted my stomach.
"You have to rest," the old man said, looking concerned. "Before the Baron's men come…" He paused, looking at me as though he expected me to say something profound.
"I want to know where the people are that live here!" My yell came out as weak as church-social punch. "A woman and a boy…"
He was shaking his head. "You have to do something quick. The soldiers will come back, search every house-"
I sat up, ignoring the little men driving spikes into my skull. "I don't give a damn about soldiers! Where's my family? What's happened?" I reached out and gripped his arm. "How long was I down there? What year is this?"
He only shook his head. "Come eat some food. Then I can help you with your plan."
It was no use talking to the old man; he was senile.
I got off the cot. Except for the dizziness and a feeling that my knees were made of papier-mâché, I was all right. I picked up the hand-formed candle, stumbled into the hall.
It was a jumble of rubbish. I climbed through, pushed open the door to my study. There was my desk, the tall bookcase with the glass doors, the gray rug, the easy chair. Aside from a layer of dust and some peeling wallpaper, it looked normal. I flipped the switch. Nothing happened.
"What is that charm?" the old man said behind me. He pointed to the light switch.
"The power's off," I said. "Just habit."
He reached out and flipped the switch up, then down again. "It makes a pleasing sound."
"Yeah." I picked up a book from the desk; it fell apart in my hands.
I went back into the hall, tried the bedroom door, looked in at heaped leaves, the remains of broken furniture, an empty window frame. I went on to the end of the hall and opened the door to the bedroom.
Cold night wind blew through a barricade of broken timbers. The roof had fallen in, and a sixteen-inch tree trunk slanted through the wreckage. The old man stood behind me, watching.
"Where is she, damn you?" I leaned against the door frame to swear and fight off the faintness. "Where's my wife?"
The old man looked troubled. "Come, eat now…"
"Where is she? Where's the woman who lived here?"
He frowned, shook his head dumbly. I picked my way through the wreckage, stepped out into knee-high brush. A gust blew my candle out. In the dark I stared at my back yard, the crumbled pit that had been the barbecue grill, the tangled thickets that had been rose beds-and a weathered length of boards upended in the earth.
"What the hell's this…?" I fumbled out a permatch, lit my candle, leaned close, and read the crude letters cut into the crumbling wood: VIRGINIA ANNE JACKSON. BORN JAN. 8 1957. KILL BY THE DOGS WINTER 1992.
3
The Baron's men came twice in the next three days. Each time the old man carried me, swearing but too weak to argue, out to a lean-to of branches and canvas in the woods behind the house. Then he disappeared, to come back an hour or two later and haul me back to my rag bed by the fire.
Three times a day he gave me a tin pan of stew, and I ate it mechanically. My mind went over and over the picture of Ginny, living on for twelve years in the slowly decaying house, and then-
It was too much. There are some shocks the mind refuses.
I thought of the tree that had fallen and crushed the east wing. An elm that size was at least fifty to sixty years old-maybe older. And the only elm on the place had been a two-year sapling. I knew it well; I had planted it.
The date carved on the headboard was 1992. As nearly as I could judge another thirty-five years had passed since then at least. My shipmates-Banner, Day, Mallon-they were all dead, long ago. How had they died? The old man was too far gone to tell me anything useful. Most of my questions produced a shake of the head and a few rumbled words about charms, demons, spells, and the Baron.
"I don't believe in spells," I said. "And I'm not too sure I believe in this Baron. Who is he?"
"The Baron Trollmaster of Filly. He holds all this country-" the old man made a sweeping gesture with his arm-"all the way to Jersey."
"Why was he looking for me? What makes me important?"
"You came from the Forbidden Place. Everyone heard the cries of the Lesser Troll that stands guard over the treasure there. If the Baron can learn your secrets of power-"
"Troll, hell! That's nothing but a Bolo on automatic!"
"By any name every man dreads the monster. A man who walks in its shadow has much mana. But the others-the ones that run in a pack like dogs-would tear you to pieces for a demon if they could lay hands on you."
"You saw me back there. Why didn't you give me away? And why are you taking care of me now?"
He shook his head-the all-purpose answer to any question.
I tried another tack: "Who was the rag man you tackled just outside? Why was he laying for me?"
The old man snorted. "Tonight the dogs will eat him. But forget that. Now we have to talk about your plan-"
"I've got about as many plans as the senior boarder in death row. I don't know if you know it, old timer, but somebody slid the world out from under me while I wasn't looking."
The old man frowned. I had the thought that I wouldn't like to have him mad at me, for all his white hair…
He shook his head. "You must understand what I tell you. The soldiers of the Baron will find you someday. If you are to break the spell-"
"Break the spell, eh?" I snorted. "I think I get the idea, pop. You've got it in your head that I'm valuable property of some kind. You figure I can use my supernatural powers to take over this menagerie-and you'll be in on the ground floor. Well, listen, you old idiot! I spent sixty years-maybe more-in a stasis tank two hundred feet underground. My world died while I was down there. This Baron of yours seems to own everything now. If you think I'm going to get myself shot bucking him, forget it!"
The old man didn't say anything. "Things don't seem to be broken up much," I went on. "It
must have been gas, or germ warfare-or fallout. Damn few people around. You're still able to live on what you can loot from stores; automobiles are still sitting where they were the day the world ended. How old were you when it happened, pop? The war, I mean. Do you remember it?"
He shook his head. "The world has always been as it is now."
"What year were you born?"
He scratched at his white hair. "I knew the number once. But I've forgotten."
"I guess the only way I'll find out how long I was gone is to saw that damned elm in two and count the rings-but even that wouldn't help much; I don't know when it blew over. Never mind. The important thing now is to talk to this Baron of yours. Where does he stay?"
The old man shook his head violently. "If the Baron lays his hands on you, he'll wring the secrets from you on the rack! I know his ways. For five years I was a slave in the palace stables."
"If you think I'm going to spend the rest of my days in this rat nest, you get another guess on the house! This Baron has tanks, an army. He's kept a little technology alive. That's the outfit for me-not this garbage detail! Now, where's this place of his located?"
"The guards will shoot you on sight like a pack-dog!"
"There has to be a way to get to him, old man! Think!"
The old head was shaking again. "He fears assassination. You can never approach him…" He brightened. "Unless you know a spell of power?"
I chewed my lip. "Maybe I do at that. You wanted me to have a plan. I think I feel one coming on. Have you got a map?"
He pointed to the desk beside me. I tried the drawers, found mice, roaches, moldy money-and a stack of folded maps. I opened one carefully; faded ink on yellowed paper falling apart at the creases. The legend in the corner read: "PENNSYLVANIA 40M:1. Copyright 1970 by ESSO Corporation."
"This will do, pop," I said. "Now, tell me all you can about this Baron of yours."
"You'll destroy him?"
"I haven't even met the man."
"He is evil."
"I don't know; he owns an army. That makes up for a lot…"
After three more days of rest and the old man's stew I was back to normal-or near enough. I had the old man boil me a tub of water for a bath and a shave. I found a serviceable pair of synthetic-fiber long-Johns in a chest of drawers, pulled them on and zipped the weather suit over them, then buckled on the holster I had made from a tough plastic.
"That completes my preparations, pop," I said. "It'll be dark in another half hour. Thanks for everything."
He got to his feet, a worried look on his lined face, like a father the first time Junior asks for the car.
"The Baron's men are everywhere."
"If you want to help, come along and back me up with that shotgun of yours." I picked it up. "Have you got any shells for this thing?"
He smiled, pleased now. "There are shells-but the magic is gone from many."
"That's the way magic is, pop. It goes out of things before you notice."
"Will you destroy the Great Troll now?"
"My motto is let sleeping trolls lie. I'm just paying a social call on the Baron."
The joy ran out of his face like booze from a dropped jug.
"Don't take it so hard, old timer. I'm not the fairy prince you were expecting. But I'll take care of you-if I make it."
I waited while he pulled on a moth-eaten mackinaw. He took the shotgun and checked the breech, then looked at me.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go…"
The Baronial palace was a forty-story slab of concrete and glass that had been known in my days as the Hilton Garden East. We made it in three hours of groping across country in the dark, at the end of which I was puffing but still on my feet. We moved out from the cover of the trees and looked across a dip in the ground at the lights, incongruously cheerful in the ravaged valley.
"The gates are there-" the old man pointed-"guarded by the Great Troll."
"Wait a minute. I thought the Troll was the Bolo back at the Site."
"That's the Lesser Troll. This is the Great One."
I selected a few choice words and muttered them to myself. "It would have saved us some effort if you'd mentioned this troll a little sooner, old timer. I'm afraid I don't have any spells that will knock out a Mark II, once it's got its dander up."
He shook his head. "It lies under enchantment. I remember the day when it came, throwing thunderbolts. Many men were killed. Then the Baron commanded it to stand at his gates to guard him."
"How long ago was this, old timer?"
He worked his lips over the question. "Long ago," he said finally. "Many winters."
"Let's go take a look."
We picked our way down the slope, came up along a rutted dirt road to the dark line of trees that rimmed the palace grounds. The old man touched my arm.
"Softly here. Maybe the Troll sleeps lightly…"
I went the last few yards, eased around a brick column with a dead lantern on top, stared across fifty yards of waist-high brush at a dark silhouette outlined against the palace lights.
Cables, stretched from trees outside the circle of weeds, supported a weathered tarp which drooped over the Bolo. The wreckage of a helicopter lay like a crumpled dragonfly at the far side of the ring. Nearer, fragments of a heavy car chassis lay scattered. The old man hovered at my shoulder.
"It looks as though the gate is off limits," I hissed. "Let's try farther along."
He nodded. "No one passes here. There is a second gate, there." He pointed. "But there are guards."
"Let's climb the wall between gates."
"There are sharp spikes on top of the wall. But I know a place, farther on, where the spikes have been blunted."
"Lead on, pop."
Half an hour of creeping through wet brush brought us to the spot we were looking for. It looked to me like any other stretch of eight-foot masonry wall overhung with wet poplar trees.
"I'll go first," the old man said, "to draw the attention of the guard."
"Then who's going to boost me up? I'll go first."
He nodded, cupped his hands and lifted me as easily as a sailor lifting a beer glass. Pop was old-but he was nobody's softie.
I looked around, then crawled up, worked my way over the corroded spikes, dropped down on the lawn.
Immediately I heard a crackle of brush. A man stood up not ten feet away. I lay flat in the dark trying to look like something that had been there a long time…
I heard another sound, a thump and a crashing of brush. The man before me turned, disappeared in the darkness. I heard him beating his way through shrubbery; then he called out, got an answering shout from the distance.
I didn't loiter. I got to my feet and made a sprint for the cover of the trees along the drive.
4
Flat on the wet ground, under the wind-whipped branches of an ornamental cedar, I blinked the fine misty rain from my eyes, waiting for the halfhearted alarm behind me to die down.
There were a few shouts, some sounds of searching among the shrubbery. It was a bad night to be chasing imaginary intruders in the Baronial grounds. In five minutes all was quiet again.
I studied the view before me. The tree under which I lay was one of a row lining a drive. It swung in a graceful curve, across a smooth half-mile of dark lawn, to the tower of light that was the palace of the Baron of Filly. The silhouetted figures of guards and late-arriving guests moved against the gleam from the collonaded entrance. On a terrace high above, dancers twirled under colored lights. The faint glow of the repellor field kept the cold rain at a distance. In a lull in the wind, I heard music, faintly. The Baron's weekly grand ball was in full swing.
I saw shadows move across the wet gravel before me, then heard the purr of an engine. I hugged the ground and watched a long svelte Mercedes-about an '88 model, I estimated-barrel past.
The mob in the city ran in packs like dogs, but the Baron's friends did a little better for themselves.
There seemed to be two men on duty-no more. Waiting around wouldn't improve my chances. I got to my feet, stepped out into the drive, and walked openly around the corner of the gray fieldstone building into the light.
A short, thickset man in greasy Baronial green looked at me incuriously. My weather suit looked enough like ordinary coveralls to get me by-at least for a few minutes. A second man, tilted back against the wall in a wooden chair, didn't even turn his head.
"Hey!" I called. "You birds got a three-ton jack I can borrow?"
Shorty looked me over sourly. "Who you drive for, Mac?"
"The High Duke of Jersey. Flat. Left rear. On a night like this. Some luck."
"The Jersey can't afford a jack?"
I stepped over to the short man, prodded him with a forefinger. "He could buy you and gut you on the altar any Saturday night of the week, low-pockets. And he'd get a kick out of doing it. He's like that."
"Can't a guy crack a harmless joke without somebody talks about altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a jack."
The man in the chair opened one eye and looked me over. "How long you on the Jersey payroll?" he growled.
"Long enough to know who handles the rank between Jersey and Filly." I yawned, looked around the wide, cement-floored garage, glanced over the four heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides.
"Where's the kitchen? I'm putting a couple of hot coffees under my belt before I go back out into that."
"Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the cook Pintsy invited you."
"I tell him Jersey sent me, low-pockets." I moved off in a dead silence, opened the door and stepped up into spicy-scented warmth.
