Rod stared. "How'd they get around there so quickly?"
"Nay, 'tis a different band. These are stained yellow-green."
"Chartreuse, I think they call it—but you're right." Rod frowned. "I don't feel like attacking again. Shall we?"
Gwen nodded. "Turn, an't please thee, my lord. I have no wish to shed blood."
They banked around in a 180-degree turn—just as their previous pursuers came over the rise behind.
"Turn, and turn again." Rod veered ninety degrees. "Pilot to navigator. Setting course perpendicular to angle of pursuit. To the vector go the broils."
Gwen glanced back. "They do join forces in pursuit of us, my lord."
"Too bad." Rod scowled, "I was hoping they might take time out to fight each other."
"United they ran," Gwen sighed. "Why did we turn to the left, my lord?"
"I'm a liberal."
"Wherefore?"
"Why not? Since I don't know where I'm going… Say, what's that coming over the rise ahead?"
"More savages," Gwen answered.
"That's a good reason for a turn to the right." Rod veered through a U-turn. "What color of paint were these boys wearing, dear?"
"Orange, my lord."
Rod shuddered. "What a color scheme! Y' know, if any more of them show up in front of us, we're going to be boxed in."
"I prithee, do not speak of it my lord."
"Okay, I won't. I'll just get ready to climb. You sure you can't fly?"
Gwen shook her head. "Without a broomstick, I cannot."
"Union rules," Rod sighed.
A spear arced over his head and buried itself in the grass ten feet ahead. Rod watched it go by. "Maybe it's just as well you're next to me. With their marksmanship, you're better off with the target."
Gwen watched another spear arc overhead—by a good twenty feet. "I think they do not regard us highly as enemies, my lord. Certes, they cannot have sent picked troops to fight us."
"Everyone here is a Pict troop. Would you mind a little more speed, dear?"
"Certes, I would welcome it." Gwen glanced behind her. "The air is clear of spears, my lord."
"Okay, now!" Rod thought hard, and they shot ahead through the grass as though the ghost of Caracatus were hot on their heels. The yells diminished behind them, very quickly. But they boosted to howling level.
"Well, we're out of the trap," Rod sighed, "unless something comes up over the next rise."
They swung up and over the rise—and saw a clear, straight plane sheering across the horizon.
"A wall!" Gwen cried.
"It can't be!" Rod stared. Then he frowned. "How close can parallel universes get? Gwen, I'm taking care of the flying chores; you do a little mind-reading and see what language the people behind that Wall are speaking."
Gwen's eyes lost focus for a moment, then cleared. "They do speak our tongue, my lord."
Rod's frown deepened. "Odd… but the Roman conquerers weren't the only ones to build walls. There were the Chinese—and, come to think of it, several of the planets in the Terran Sphere, during their frontiering days…"
"I think I ken thy meaning…"
"I'll explain it when we're not being chased. See anything resembling a gate?"
"Yonder, my lord." Gwen pointed. "Timbers."
A dark rectangle in the stone, lintel and leaves.
"Yeah, that. That's where we head for. Wonder what this place is like?"
"We shall discover that directly," Gwen murmured.
The gate zoomed up at them.
"Pretend you're running." Rod started pumping his legs like a veteran miler. Gwen gathered up her skirts and tripped merrily along beside him.
Rod dropped the flying power and dug in his heels, plowing to a stop right at the gate, and hammered on the huge oaken leaves with his fist. "Hey! Help! Open up! Let us in! 'Fear! Fire! Foes!' Especially the 'Foes' part!"
He stopped and listened. Silence, total silence—except for the howling behind them, which was showing a definite Doppler shift—the approaching kind.
Rod stepped back and scanned the top of the wall. "Something's wrong here. I don't see any sentries."
Gwen frowned, her eyes losing focus. "They are there, my lord. Yet they feel great caution."
"Why? Just because they've never seen us before, and this whole thing could be a ploy to con them into opening their front door." He cocked his head to the side. "Come to think of it, I suppose I do look a little like Ulysses…"
"Mayhap, my lord, but canst thou not convince them of our honesty?"
"How about the direct approach?" Rod wound up a leg and slammed a kick at the middle of the doors. "Hey! We're being chased by wild Indians! Open up in there! Let the cavalry out!"
"Cease your pounding, you panicking prat!" bellowed a voice overhead.
Rod stepped back and looked up.
A scowling, fleshy man in a loose shirt, with an unshaven jaw, and a surly hangover glowered down at them. He pressed a hand to his head. "There, that's better. You were splitting me head open." And he disappeared again. "Good idea!" Rod yelled. "Come back here and let us in—or I will split it open, and not just by yelling!"
"You'll have to wait till we finish the hand," the voice growled faintly from above. Several other voices snarled agreement.
"But… but… but…" Rod gave up and turned his attention to his wife. "What kind of an outfit is this?"
"We are accompanied, my lord," Gwen murmured.
Rod whirled and looked behind him.
A long line of multi-colored men was drawn up at the skyline, leaning on their spears, watching.
With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grinning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."
"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff He looked on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a shine).
"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking. Come in, if your need's so frantic."
"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.
The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.
Rod cleared his throat loudly.
The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"
"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered.
Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned opaque.
"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away.
Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"
The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heavens, and turned back. "What now?"
"Where are we supposed to go?"
"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away.
Rod stood, a moment, gaping.
He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well follow him, I suppose."
"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts.
As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so much for the Romans," he muttered.
"My lord?"
"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred yea
rs earlier."
"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for thee to say. In what world would we be, then?"
Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might— just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gramarye, of course—another world, circling another sun." He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."
"What is 'Terra'?"
For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth to her species… ! But he caught himself, remembering that Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact, its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other than their own.
"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear— the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's the home world of our kind."
Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.
As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the plasticrete.
A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that, They're soldiers!
Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts.
They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers, though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of chips.
The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder.
She smiled, politely but firmly.
Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers. The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he stepped towards Gwen.
Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times, then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small fellow, ain't you?"
"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step back to the game, why don't you?"
The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.
The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose. "A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, learn then, lad, that women be property common on the Wall."
He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the way.
It didn't bat.
Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just go on back to the game, Sergeant. Be a good fellow."
"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the sidelines.
"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to rape a guest's…"
"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.
He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing rape!"
"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh, quite willingly, yes."
Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't."
The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a narrow-eyed glare.
"Teach him manners, Thaler," the slob growled.
My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are loose stones on the ground nearby. I might…
No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt? The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit."
Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once, twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground, doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth…
… and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head crashing up under Rod's jaw.
Rod fell back against the ramparts.
Thaler waded in, fists hammering.
Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.
Thaler snarled, and came after him.
Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin.
But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back, lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked, and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the bridge of his nose.
Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned, not only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thaler's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended in:
Death.
They really didn't like strangers here.
Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete. He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch, punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the moment was all Rod needed.
He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked around Rod's, and a fist the size of a corned-beef brisket slammed into Rod's ear.
The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him, hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too hard.
As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw. Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance.
Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and saw the same damn foot coming at his face again.
Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough, there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's neck.
Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and straightened up hard, both fists over his head.
They caught Thaler right under the jaw.
Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.
Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.
Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up, and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete.
Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone else to start swinging.
But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen, and nursing their jaws.
Rod looked up at her, incredulous.
Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles thou didst defend me!
In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet wife. "What did you do to them?"
"Only a slap for each, my lord."
A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis, Rod guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading for the hospital.
"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice.
Rod looked up, startled.
A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall. His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, bu
t his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors.
Obviously an officer.
He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Sergeant."
"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.
"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't exist."
"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."
"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not fifty."
The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"
"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap— a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But what can you expect, really?"
At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite skilled, you know."
Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah, discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable."
The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one sort or another."
Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remembered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out searching for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them— one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.
Which meant they were in their own universe, after all, but five hundred years before either of them had been born.
Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew about their souls.
Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do their rescuers do? Attack them!"
The Warlock Wandering Page 2
