by Simon Hawke
When Hooker had seen his own corpse, he had been violently sick. Now he could not push the sight from his mind. He imagined the garotte slowly cutting into his throat, the blood running in rivulets down his neck, his tongue protruding from his mouth, his fingers madly scrabbling for the wire and failing to catch hold of it, fighting for breath with every fiber of his being and not succeeding ...
His head had been practically severed from his neck by the monofilament garotte. A weapon from the future. A weapon such as the one hidden in one of Lucas' gauntlets, just at the inside of the wrist. There was a small metal button there. One quick pull and the deadly wire could be brought into play. The nysteel gear was right behind him, lashed to the mule. It was all there, the mail, the armor, the shield, the gauntlets. . . . How long would it be before one of the Norman knights riding just ahead of him would discover the secrets of the armor? Hooker felt a moistness on his face that he first thought was sweat running down from his forehead, but he was astonished to discover that he was weeping silently. His wrists were growing numb. It felt very slippery back there. If only he could work his hands free! If only no one would notice—
There! He had worked one knot loose! He had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. They prickled as if stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. His fingers kept slipping off the knots, which were slick with blood. Please, God, he thought, abandoning his atheism, help me! He could now almost slip one hand free of the ropes. He gritted his teeth and pulled with all his might. He felt his left thumb being scraped raw, he felt his left wrist dislocate ... and he was free!
He slammed his left fist into the face of the man to his left, crying out from the pain that shot up his arm as the dislocated wrist broke. With his right hand, he plucked the dagger from the man's sheath; moving with every ounce of speed that he could muster, he slashed it across the face of the man to his right, opening him up from his right eye to the bottom of his jaw. Then he made a headlong dive for the brush at the side of the trail.
"Catch that man!" he heard someone yell and then he rolled and was on his feet, running through the brambles, his one useless hand hanging limp at his side, the other clutching the dagger. He heard the pounding of horses' hooves behind him and the thrashing of men plunging into the brush. He ran as hard as he could, whimpering with fear. He tripped over a root and fell, striking his head.
"I have him!" someone cried.
Hooker looked up to see a man at arms bearing down upon him, sword drawn. He hurled the dagger. It stuck in the man's throat and he fell to the ground, gurgling horribly. De Bracy was upon him in an instant. He swung his sword, trying to strike Hooker with the flat of the blade, so as to take him alive. Hooker caught the blow on his right arm and he cried out as he felt his elbow break. Ignoring the pain, he snagged De Bracy's arm and pulled him from the saddle. The knight's horse shied away from him and he heard the others close behind. He ran. A crossbow bolt whizzed by him, then another. He ran, heedless of the branches lashing at his face, tripping, falling, getting up and running; he fled deeper into the forest, trying to outdistance his pursuers. He ran without looking back. He ran for his life, not knowing that he had escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire.
* * * *
There was a knock at the door of Irving's chambers.
"Yes?"
"We have taken a prisoner, Sire," said the sheriff, from the other side of the door. Irving got up and opened the door to admit Sir Guy.
"Well?"
"You did say to keep you informed, Sire."
"What of it?"
"One of my forest patrols has taken a prisoner. An escaped bondsman, it would seem. He stumbled out upon the trail before them and went wild."
"What do you mean?"
"He seems to be a raving madman, Sire. Possessed by demons or else mad with fear. He had a wrist broken on one arm and an elbow on the other and still he made a struggle. My men said that he spoke in tongues, screaming and babbling like a lunatic. He has been held captive, that much is certain. His hands are rubbed raw from where he slipped his bonds."
"A Saxon?"
"No, Sire. I do not know what he is, but I have seen him somewhere before, I think. He has a scar upon his face. I have seen that face recently, but I cannot remember where."
"In Nottingham? At York?"
"No, Sire. Perhaps at Ashby . . . Yes, at the tournament. I'm sure I saw him among the knights' pavilions, but I cannot remember whom he served."
"Where is he now?"
"Locked in the dungeons, below."
"Very well, I will see him presently. Await me there."
The sheriff left and Irving closed the door. A bondsman, but not a Saxon. Spoke in tongues. Was it possible? There was one way to make sure. Irving locked the door and pulled the case containing the chronoplate out from beneath his-bed. He opened it and took out the border circuits which, when assembled, formed the chronoplate. Inside the case was the computer and the tracer apparatus. Irving turned it on, then selected close range implant scan. Yes! There it was! The implant proximity signal! He was right on top of it. It was an amazing stroke of luck. The sheriff's men had caught themselves a temporal trooper. That could only mean that it was one of the adjustment team! He quickly packed the gear away and hurried to join the sheriff in the dungeons.
The nether regions of the castle were dark and damp. There was a fetid odor of decay in the stagnant air and rats scurried away before him as he descended into the torchlit dungeons. The sheriff awaited him with the turnkey, a hideous old man who smelled as if he had been three weeks dead himself. The turnkey lived down in the depths of Nottingham Castle and he had not seen the light of day in years. He was half blind and his skin was the color of the underbelly of a fish. As they passed several of the cells, Irving could hear Cedric shouting behind one of the doors.
"Silence, you!" The turnkey pounded on the door with his gnarled fist. "Nothing but noise from that one," he said. He cackled. "He'll scream himself hoarse soon enough." He paused by another door. "This one's the lady," he said, smacking his lips. "Tender morsel, that. Will you be torturing her, Your Highness? I'm a good man with the bellows, that I am. I can heat the coals so that they glow red hot!"
"Shut him up," said Irving.
"Quiet!" said the sheriff, belting the turnkey alongside the head hard enough to stagger him.
"Thank you, milord."
The turnkey paused by the door of one of the cells and fumbled with his keys. It took him an eternity to fit the key into the hole—he kept missing it. Finally, he opened the door.
Irving gagged on the smell. He spun away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.
"Bring him out," the sheriff said.
The turnkey entered the cell and, after a moment, he could be heard fumbling with the prisoner's manacles. Then there were the sounds of a scuffle and a blow falling and Hooker hurtled through the door. The sheriff felled him with one blow. Hooker collapsed to the floor, moaning. The sheriff stuck his head into the cell.
"You alive, you wretch?"
"Yes, thank you, milord."
The sheriff slammed the door on the cell, leaving the turnkey inside. He bent down and lifted Hooker bodily, throwing him over his shoulder. Together with Irving, he walked to the end of the hall, carrying Hooker. They descended another flight of steps to the torture chamber.
Once there, the sheriff threw Hooker up against a wall, holding the semi-conscious man with one hand on his chest while with the other he fastened on the manacles.
"Bring him around," said Irving.
Sir Guy picked up a bucket containing viscous, stagnant water and dashed it into Hooker's face. Then he grabbed the corporal by the hair and shook him.
"He's coming to his senses, Sire."
"Leave us."
"Sire?"
"Await me in the upper level," Irving said. "I would question this man myself."
"As you wish, Sire."
The sheriff left. Irving pulled a crude wooden stool over wi
th his booted foot and sat down, waiting for Hooker to fully come to. When Hooker opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Irving sitting on the stool a few feet away from him, smiling slightly.
"Oh, Christ," said Hooker.
"Hardly," Irving said, "but I do see that you know me, don't you?"
Hooker did not reply.
"Let us not waste time," said Irving. "I don't know who you are, but I do know what you are and that's more to the point. You are a member of a temporal adjustment team sent back to stop me. There's no use denying it, my equipment has registered your implant. I also know that there are at least three others; I've picked up their implants, as well. All of you were at the tournament. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to take the time to pinpoint the location of the others, but I know they're somewhere in Sherwood."
"If you can locate them, what do you want from me?" said Hooker.
"Only a few simple answers to a few simple questions," Irving said.
"The name is Hooker, J.D., Corporal, serial number—"
Irving chuckled. "Look around you, Hooker. This is a medieval torture chamber. The equipment here is admittedly primitive, but nevertheless, quite effective. There really isn't any need to resort to such unpleasant means of persuasion, is there? You really can't win. I could have taken all of you earlier had I wished to, but I had other things to attend to. You had not yet become an inconvenience. You see, I can take you men out almost anytime I wish to."
"Then why don't you?"
"Expedience, Mr. Hooker. Your superior and I have been engaged in an elaborate game. He's a formidable player, but each time around, I learn the rules a little better. So does he, I expect. I daresay it's a learning experience for both of us. Well, be that as it may, one of the things I've learned is that the moment it becomes necessary for me to sanction the adjustment team, my rival immediately begins the game all over. Just once, I'd like to play it through to the end. Would you care for a cigarette?"
He removed a pack from a pouch on his belt and offered one to Hooker. ,
"Quite safe, I assure you. There's nothing in this more elaborate than tobacco. I do want you alive for now and given the condition you're in, I wouldn't chance dosing you with anything. Chances are you've been made drug resistant, anyway."
Hooker opened his mouth and Irving placed the cigarette between his lips, then lighted it.
"Sometimes, the old-fashioned methods really are the best," said Irving. He walked over to an iron maiden and slowly forced it closed. It made a hideous scraping noise. "You know, there was a time when agents were equipped with all sorts of fascinating devices to enable them to avoid breaking under interrogation, cyanide capsules in the teeth and so on. Terrible waste of manpower. It's encouraging to know that we've progressed beyond such things."
Hooker watched him silently, cigarette between clenched teeth.
"The assumption is that anyone can break, Mr. Hooker. It really doesn't matter. After all, there's no point to wasting manpower needlessly, isn't that so?"
"Get to the point," said Hooker.
"Certainly. The point is, I've had my fill of all this interference. It grows tiresome. This is like some strange game of chess, wherein the black king is beset by pawns. The pawns are very vulnerable, this is taken' for granted, and they're really not all that important. The king can continue to take pawns almost at will, but there is always the chance that he will maneuver himself into a corner and a rather undignified checkmate. So the white king is prepared to sacrifice his pawns left and right, banking on those odds. All the black king can hope for is a stalemate, wherein no more pawns arrive. Only, in this game, the black king wins with a stalemate.
"You see, Mr. Hooker, in this strange game so long as there are pawns upon the board, my chances for a stalemate are increased. The rules are a bit peculiar. The white king is allowed an almost inexhaustible amount of pawns. They serve me better by remaining in the game. Unless you present a threat to me, you're quite safe. Really. I'd be a fool to kill any of you unless it was absolutely unavoidable. I just want you to make that easier for me, helping you to stay in the game, that is. Cooperate with me and you can sit the rest of the game out in comfort. You will be well provided for and you'll be out of it. Look at yourself. Broken bones, lacerations, you're on the edge of a total nervous collapse . . . and why? There's no reason for it. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know and that will be the end of it. I'll see to it that you're treated for your injuries and I'll see to it that you'll be comfortable. All you have to do is identify the other members of your team for me."
"Is that all?"
Irving took the butt out of Hooker's mouth before it burned his lips.
"Well, there is one other thing. You see, I'm in a bit of a bind here. I have certain things I must accomplish and the other referee is determined to make matters very complicated for me. It is in both our interests, as I'm sure you'll understand, to keep the disruptions of the timestream to a minimum. So far, we've been able to do that, but it has not been easy. In order for you to appreciate my situation, you must understand the mechanics of the game. It involves a series of limited disruptions. Each one invites an increased possibility of creating a paradox.
"Each time, we progress a little farther, but I have yet to succeed in taking the throne. Once I've accomplished that, I will be in a stronger position, but still not invulnerable. I need to know two things from you in order to bring this charade to an end. I can't spend all my time scanning for the other members of your team and, unless I'm right on top of them and scanning, it becomes a little difficult for me to pinpoint them, especially if there's a crowd around. If push comes to shove, there will be fighting. I expect that to happen very soon and I don't want to kill any of your team unintentionally. If I can find out who they are, I can take steps to avoid them. I don't want to strike out at them except in self-defense, only if it's absolutely necessary. I just want you to make that easier for me. Help me to help you stay alive. And the other thing I need to know is where the other referee is."
"Can't you trace him?"
"Neither of us have implants, Mr. Hooker, and both of us have bypassed the tracer functions on our chronoplates. He doesn't know where I am and I don't know where he is. However, you can remedy that situation, can't you?"
"If I do, then he's a dead man," Hooker said.
"Well, yes, I'm afraid that I have no choice but to kill him. It won't be a simple matter, I assume he's well protected, but that should not concern you. He doesn't care what happens to you. You're just a pawn to him. He sent you out to die."
Hooker closed his eyes and remained silent.
"I respect your loyalty, Mr. Hooker, but it's sadly misplaced."
Hooker stared at him. He became aware of the fact that he was in a cold sweat. His knees were starting to shake.
"Do you really think you can resist torture, Mr. Hooker?"
Hooker swallowed hard. "Other men have."
"Only because the interrogators were inept. You're already in a great deal of pain, aren't you? You're afraid. I can see it in your face. So far, this has all been relatively simple, even pleasant. Don't force me to have to hurt you."
"Go to hell, Goldblum."
Irving sighed. "Very well, then. You leave me no choice. I'm really very sorry about this."
He walked over to the racks and picked up a thumbscrew. It would do for a beginning.
Chapter 11
"How are you feeling?" Hunter said.
Lucas sat up in bed. "I've been better, but I guess I'm okay."
"Glad to hear that," Hunter said. "Feel up to some traveling?"
Lucas took a deep breath. "Where am I going?"
"We."
"I don't understand."
"We're going, you and I. Or have you given up on Irving?"
"You mean you're going to help me?"
"Well, now what the hell did you expect me to do, pilgrim?" Hunter said.
Lucas made a wry face and started to get u
p. "Frankly, I felt sure that you were going to take advantage of my somewhat weakened condition to clock me out somewhere. I haven't got an implant anymore and you could've sent me just about anywhere with no hope of my ever being found."
Hunter stared at him. "Now why would I want to do a thing like that?"
"I may be digging my own grave," said Lucas, "but I didn't think that you could afford to let me go. What's to prevent me from reporting you?"
"Nothing," Hunter said. "So?"
"So?"
"Come on, now, they didn't hit you all that hard," said Hunter, chuckling. "So what if you reported me? What good would that do? They can't trace me and I've got my own plate. At worst, I'd have to give up this cozy little cabin, but that's no big deal. I could find another place. Hell, I can go anywhere I want to and there ain't an awful lot anyone can do about it, is there?"
Lucas smiled. "You've got a point. I suppose I simply wasn't thinking. But why should you want to get involved?"
"All sorts of reasons," Hunter said. "Things have been pretty quiet around here lately. I wouldn't mind a chance to raise some Cain and take on a rogue referee. Sounds interesting. There's also the fact that, without me, you just don't stand a chance unless you get damned lucky. And not the least of my reasons is the fact that I've got to protect my own interests. This guy Irving is vandalizing my playground. He's fooling around with the timestream and that could put me in a sticky situation if I decided to clock out ahead of where he's been mucking about. I'd have no idea of what I'd be getting into. See, I don't want any changes. I like things just the way they are. That way, I've got my edge."
