It was so easy, in fact, that he gave no thought at all to anything beyond falling asleep. His hypnotic conditioning had included learning how to wake at any predetermined hour, but he had not bothered to determine when he wanted to arise; therefore, he slept uninterrupted until the morning sun stood halfway up the sky, when a sound other than the normal noise of the local minor fauna jarred him out of his slumber.
Instantly he was fully alert again; he lay where he was, to avoid revealing his presence to anyone who might notice a movement, and considered. From the angle of the light he knew the time; the sound he recognized as the jingle of stirrups and harness and the dull thud of hoofbeats.
Alert he might be, but that did not mean he was entirely awake; he wasted several seconds wondering why the computer hadn't roused him sooner, and trying to ask it for its evaluation of the situation. Finally the lack of response and his returning memory brought back the knowledge that the computer was gone, shut down by the wizards of Awlmei, and he had to rely entirely on his own resources.
The hoofbeats came quite close, then receded again; the rider, whoever it was, had passed without seeing him. With a brief effort he reoriented himself, and knew that the passerby was heading westward, the opposite direction from him.
He relaxed; there was no danger. He did not even need to worry about encountering whoever it was later on.
When the hoofbeats had faded in the distance he sat up, stretched, and reached for his boots. The action served to draw attention to his feet, and he realized they still hurt slightly. He pulled the first boot on anyway, and winced at the sting when the bottom of his foot hit the bottom of the boot. The second was no better.
He sat for a moment, hoping that the discomfort would pass. It didn't. He asked himself if he really wanted to do any walking.
No, he didn't want to do any walking, but he did want to get to Teyzha—or at least to somewhere. He was in the middle of nowhere at present.
Might he do better to settle in the first village that would take him? Teyzha was still halfway across the continent, however far that was. What made Teyzha worth the trip?
The thermite charge in his skull was certainly a major consideration. Even if he never got the drive restarted and the computer back in operation, he didn't much care to go through life with a bomb in his head. There was also the possibility that he might somehow help the Teyzhans, and make amends for a little of the damage he had done. He really did want to go to Teyzha.
He remembered the sound of hoofs and harness; a horse would be a very good thing to have for such a trip, he thought. Perhaps he should pursue the rider, kill him, and take his horse.
No, he should do nothing of the sort. He had no right to kill anyone without the computer forcing him to; it would be murder. He knew that—but old habits die hard, and he knew that the computer would have sent him after the horseman without a second thought. He would have gone, too, without much protest. It had been very easy to do what was expedient regardless of right when he had the computer for a scapegoat.
He might be able to buy a horse somewhere. That was a much better idea. He would look into it at the first opportunity.
For the present, though, he was on foot, and might as well make the best of it. He got to his feet, gathered up his supplies, and made his way back onto the highway. Once he was moving his feet seemed less painful, he noticed.
The short day passed quickly; he took frequent rests, as he had not the day before. He knew that his feet would toughen up with time and travel, and he saw no need to batter them unnecessarily while the toughening was just starting. He passed two forks and a crossroads, each time taking the most nearly eastward course. He glimpsed a wooden palisade off to the side at one point but did not actually encounter any human habitation. Four times he was passed by other travelers, one party of three westbound and the others—two individuals and a fair-sized group—eastward bound. All were on horseback; the eastbound group was accompanied by two large canvas-draped wagons. All glanced at him curiously, but none spoke. He also stayed silent; he preferred not to draw attention to himself.
When the sun reddened and began to slip below the trees behind him, he again stopped for the night. As before, he found a comfortable pile of dead leaves, but this time he did not bother to get out of sight of the highway. Everyone he had seen so far had been, if not friendly, at least not hostile.
It was an unpleasant surprise, therefore, to be awakened shortly before sunrise, when the eastern sky was warmly pink, by the prodding of a spear-point at his side.
As always, he was instantly alert. The spear was held by a large black-haired man with a long drooping mustache; behind him were two other men, mounted on two of three horses. Slant did not take time to study details.
This was not quite a combat situation, but he could feel his warrior personality ready in his mind, prepared to take over instantly.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"What have you got?" The spear-holder grinned broadly; his mustache twitched as he did.
"Nothing of any value."
"I don't believe that."
"It's true."
"I think we'll look for ourselves—and I don't much care whether you help or whether I search your corpse. Corpses are heavy and awkward, but they don't argue."
"You'll kill me if I don't cooperate?"
"That's right." The bandit poked him lightly with the spear to emphasize his statement.
Slant let his fighting persona take over; immediately, he was rolling away from the bandit and the spear. By the time he had completed a full revolution the machine-pistol was in his hand, and before his attacker had time to react he had fired twice, with a sharp double crack.
He was not familiar with the gun; the first shot missed, He had adjusted his aim for the second, however, and it caught the man in the throat, sending him staggering backward with a choking gurgle. Blood spattered the dead leaves as Slant nicked the switch to rapid fire, and as the man fell Slant emptied the clip of ammunition in a spray toward his two mounted comrades.
One man twisted back and went down, falling awkwardly sideways from his horse as the gun's chatter stopped and the faint echoes died in the surrounding trees. The other dropped his horse's reins and grabbed at his shoulder but did not fall. He also made no aggressive move, and therefore stayed alive.
The horses tossed their heads, making uneasy noises, but did not flee; the machine-pistol was much quieter than the submachine gun, and perhaps these animals were accustomed to loud noises, such as screams and clashing steel.
Still moving entirely automatically, Slant snapped the empty clip out of the machine pistol and flung it aside, then shoved the gun back into his vest and pulled out the snark. He moved forward, cautiously approaching the downed spearman; one foot held down the man's right wrist as he looked the bandit over, carefully casting a glance at the other two every few seconds.
There was no hope for the bandit, and no further danger; the bullet had gone through his throat and hit his spine. He was in shock and had lost a great deal of blood, and had no chance of survival without immediate hospitalization—which he wasn't going to receive out in the woods of a backwater planet. His eyes were wide and staring, his breath labored and bubbling with blood; Slant stepped away. There was nothing to be done for him except perhaps to finish him quickly, and he didn't want to take the time for that just now, while there were two more enemies to attend to.
He turned to the horses. The man who had stayed astride stared at him, still clutching his shoulder, and Slant ordered him, "Don't move. Just stay right where you are and I won't hurt you."
The man nodded, but Slant was still careful to stay well out of reach and keep him under observation as he moved around the horses to where the other man had fallen.
A lucky shot had gotten him through the heart; he was already dead. Slant pried the reins from his hand, then made a quick scan of the surrounding forest, peering up the road in both directions and seeing nothing. Ther
e was no sign of further reinforcements, and these three were defeated, two dead and one prisoner; the battle was over. He turned back toward the lone survivor, snark in hand, and allowed the primary personality to return to control
Slant studied his captive briefly but saw nothing unusual. The man wore leather breeches and a sleeveless canvas shirt; he was short, of medium build, with greasy brown hair and beard.
The only thing out of the ordinary was the trickle of blood that was seeping past his fingers and staining the fabric of his shirt. "Are you all right?" Slant asked.
The man's expression changed from wary apprehension to astonishment. "What?" he asked.
"Are you all right? How bad is that wound?"
The bandit looked at the blood. "I don't know." Cautiously, he took his hand away; there was no gush of red. "It doesn't look too bad; I don't think the artery has been cut."
"Have you got any bandages?"
"No."
"We'll have to improvise, then." He fitted actions to his words, rummaging through a pack strapped behind an empty saddle until he found something made of a suitable fabric. He hacked off a strip, partly tearing it and partly cutting with his knife, and passed it to the bandit.
He took it but said, "I can't bandage it myself; I can't reach it with both hands."
"Oh. All right, get off the horse and I'll help you."
He was unable to dismount unassisted, as well, and Slant helped him to the ground, then tied the rough bandage in place.
When it was on as well as the two of them could manage, the bandit seated himself on a pile of leaves, looked up at Slant, and said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I thought you were going to kill me."
"If you'd tried to attack me I would have had to kill you, as I did your companions."
The bandit thought that that was phrased rather oddly but let it pass. "What are you going to do with me now?"
Slant sat down and said, after a pause, "I haven't decided."
"You aren't going to kill me?"
"No, of course not. I don't like killing people. I don't do it if I can help it."
"Are you going to let me go?"
"I suppose I am; I don't want to keep you a prisoner forever." He looked at the three animals quietly cropping grass at the roadside, and added, "I'll keep your horse, though, and any money you've got."
"Why? What do you need with three horses? You can take the other two, but why take mine?"
"I'm making a rather long trip, and I don't have money of my own; I'll probably have to sell one or two of the horses to buy supplies along the way."
"What's to become of me, then?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"How can I be a bandit without a horse?"
Slant looked at him curiously. "You plan to go on as a bandit?"
"What else can I do? It's the only job I've ever had."
"What happens if you run into somebody else with a gun?"
"A what?"
"A gun, a weapon from the Bad Times. I can't be the only person on the planet who has one."
"I never saw one before."
"That doesn't mean there aren't any. If you had seen one you might well be dead by now." He gestured at the two corpses. "They are, after running into me."
"I'll just have to take my chances. I did before. I always knew being a bandit was dangerous work."
"Why do it, then? Why not find an honest job?"
"What sort of a job? I don't know how to do anything but steal."
"You could learn. Find a position as an apprentice somewhere."
"I suppose I could."
"Besides, could you make it as a bandit by yourself? Your companions won't be around to help you any more."
"That's true. I never saw anyone move as fast as you did; you probably could have killed us all even without that gah, or guh, or whatever you called it."
"It's a gun. Yes, I probably could have killed you without it."
"If you are taking my horse, are you going to just leave me here?"
"I hadn't thought about it. If you like you can ride along as far east as the next village."
"That would be Arbauru; if I go there they'll probably hang me."
"They know you there?"
"I've robbed a lot of traders from Arbauru."
"Would they recognize you?"
"I don't know."
"Is there anywhere that you could go where you haven't robbed anyone?"
"Nowhere this side of Praunce, I'm afraid."
"Then you'll just have to take your chances in Arbauru, or else stay here."
The bandit considered for a moment. "They might not know me; the others always did the talking. If I stay here I'll probably starve to death."
"You're coming to Arbauru then?"
"Yes."
"How far is it?"
"Oh, about four hours' ride."
"Good." Slant rose. "Let's go, then."
Chapter Fourteen
RIDING WAS BETTER THAN WALKING, SLANT DECIDED, BUT neither was really a good way to pass the day. His feet stopped hurting, for the most part, though the stirrups banged against his arches, but other parts of his anatomy now took a beating. He had never been an expert rider, or even merely a good one; his training had been based on the assumption that he would only visit civilized planets, where most travel was mechanized. He had been taught the rudiments one afternoon, just in case, but that one day more than fourteen years ago and his brief jaunt with Silner had scarcely been adequate preparation for anything but the gentlest of rides.
Fortunately, the bandits' horses were fairly placid and perfectly willing to plod along at a slow walk, which he could handle. With the passage of time and distance he began to get the hang of coordinating his own movement with that of the horse, minimizing the bruises he had been getting every time his mount stepped over a rock or otherwise deviated from a slow dead-level course. The little he had been taught began to come back—it had been taught consciously, rather than through hypnotic conditioning, since it was considered unimportant—and he picked up a few points from the bandit, who had been riding since infancy.
The bandit's name was Thurrel, Slant learned, and he was eager to talk; he seemed to be very lonely, or perhaps it was a reaction to the deaths of his two comrades. Slant let him talk, and occasionally asked questions, as it seemed a good way to pick up more information about the world he found himself in.
Thurrel had grown up the third son of a blacksmith in a village called Duar, which lay to the northwest of the road they were currently traveling; Duar had become an outpost of the growing nation of Praunce when he was fifteen, and he had run away from home as the result of an argument with his father about whether the new government was a good thing. His father had maintained that it was a very fine thing indeed, as it meant the village would be safe from the raids by bandits and wars with other villages that had plagued it. Trade would flourish and there would be peace and plenty.
Thurrel had disagreed; he didn't like Prauncers because one had cheated him at dice, and he considered them to be thieves and scoundrels who would tax the village into poverty. When he had loudly proclaimed his opinion it led to shouting and eventually to blows, and he had left the village and become a bandit. He had no prospects anyway, being the third son, and thievery seemed as good a life as any other he was likely to find.
Slant asked, out of idle curiosity, who had been right about the rule of Praunce. Thurrel admitted that his father had been closer to the truth—but neither was fully correct. No heavy taxes had been levied nor other great burdens, and trade had improved considerably—which was one reason Thurrel had been able to survive as a bandit—but peace was still a long way off. The towns and villages that had not yet joined Praunce continued to launch raids against those that had, and Praunce's small army could not be everywhere at once. The border was gradually being pushed back, and fewer raids penetrated as far as Duar now.
It sounded to Slant
rather as if Praunce, with its empire building, was putting an end to the era of city-states on this planet, much as Rome had on Old Earth three thousand years earlier. If that was the case, the city of Praunce itself would probably be a major center economically as well as politically, and would attract people from all over the continent. Those people would include wizards, probably the best wizards around; there might be some who were capable of removing the bomb and override from his skull.
He asked Thurrel how far it was to Praunce, and how far it was to Teyzha.
Thurrel replied that Praunce was three days' ride to the east, and he had never heard of Teyzha.
That implied that Teyzha was still a very long way off, and Praunce a good deal closer. It might be wise to visit Praunce. Even if he couldn't find a wizard there who could remove the thermite, he could at least replenish his supplies, learn more about the local culture, and perhaps obtain directions to Teyzha. If he simply headed east indefinitely he would eventually find someplace where it was known, but he might be several hundred kilometers out of his way by then. Praunce, as a center of trade—Thurrel assured him it was a center of trade—would be a likely place to find maps and route information.
"Tell me about Praunce," he said.
"I've never been there, actually. I've heard about it, of course. It was built on the ruins of a great city, and began as a city-state like any other, but now its borders cannot be seen from atop its highest tower—and it has the highest towers on Dest."
"Are there many wizards there?"
"Not that I know of, but I told you, I've never been there."
A thought occurred to Slant. "Are there any wizards in Arbauru?"
"No. I've never seen a wizard. I've heard stories about them, of course."
Slant dismissed that and returned to his former subject. "Is there anything special about Praunce? I heard it mentioned in Teyzha, yet here you have never heard of Teyzha, which is a good-sized city itself."
The Cyborg and the Sorcerers Page 14
