Her hands roamed him, soft and knowing at the same time. He stroked her, too. This all felt more surreal than a Max Ernst painting, but he didn't care. If it was a figment of his dying imagination, his brains were working overtime. He was less and less inclined to believe that, though. Everything was too vividly detailed, from the grittiness of the hard — packed dirt to the sweaty heat of Velona's flesh to the way her breath stirred the hair above his left ear.
He rapidly discovered that under her curves she had muscles to rival an Olympic athlete's. Well, the way she ran had already told him that much. He was broader through the shoulders, and probably outweighed her by twenty kilos, but he wasn't sure which of them was the stronger.
Then she kissed him, and he stopped caring. Had he run all that way, he thought his mouth would have been dry as dust. Hers was warm and moist and sweet. His hand slid between her legs. She was warm and moist there, too. She made a small sound of pleasure, down deep in her throat. Her hand closed on him. He made the same sound, only an octave deeper.
He was disappointed when she broke off the kiss, but only for a moment. Limber as an eel, she bent to take him in her mouth. He wasn't sure he'd ever had a woman do that before without being asked. He also wasn't sure how much he could stand without exploding.
The thought had hardly crossed his mind before she pushed him down and over onto his back and impaled herself on him. She rode him like a racehorse. She made that pleased noise again when his hands closed on her breasts. She teased his nipples, too. He hadn't thought they were especially sensitive, but they were, they were.
As his pleasure rose toward the crest that said he would have to come soon, he decided he would rather drive things himself. When he rolled the two of them over, Velona let out a startled yip and then laughed. So did he. He poised himself above her and thrust home again and again.
Her breath came faster than it had when she was running. Her face went slack with pleasure. She gasped. "Pemsel! Hasso Pemsel!" she cried in a high, shrill voice. Her nails scored his back. A wordless groan escaped him at the same time. He drove deep one last time, and tried to stay at the peak forever.
Whether he wanted it to or not, the world returned, the way it always does. Velona said something to him. He couldn't understand it, of course. But he understood when she mimed pushing him off her. He had to be squashing her, and that ragged shift wasn't much to protect her from the ground. He went back onto his knees.
She got to her feet and brushed as much of the dirt off her behind as she could before she put the shift back on. Hasso also stood, and did the same thing. His clothes were more complicated than hers; he took a little longer to dress. By the time he finished, she was walking back toward the men he'd killed.
She didn't let lovemaking distract her long. Her gesture could mean only one thing: pitch them in the swamp. Two of them wore rawhide boots. He pointed to those, and then to her feet. Did she want them if they fit?
Velona shook her head and looked revolted. "Grenye," she said, pointing to the corpses. "Grenye." To her, the word must have explained everything.
It didn't explain one damn thing to Hasso, but he wasn't inclined to be critical. And Velona wasn't fussy about grabbing Grenye boots, whatever those were, only about wearing them. Into the water and muck went the bodies and the knife and pitchfork. The bodies would come back up soon enough; Hasso knew that all too well. If Velona also did, she didn't care. She nodded, as at a job well done.
"Where now?" Hasso asked her, as if she understood.
And maybe she did, for she linked arms with him and started west down the road — the same direction she'd been going before, but not the same killed pace. As the sun kissed the western horizon, Hasso slipped his arm around her waist. She smiled and swayed close and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. He had no idea what he'd just volunteered for, but she made one hell of a recruiter.
Castle Svarag struck Hasso as… well, medieval. What else would a castle be? It had no running water, though there was a well. It was a long drop from the seat in the garderobe to where the stuff landed, but that was as close as the place came to sophisticated plumbing. Fires and torches and candles and oil lamps gave light after sundown. Food was either very fresh or else smoked or salted or dried; none of Velona's people knew anything about canning or refrigeration.
Had Hasso fallen into this world in 1938, he would have thought it too primitive to bear. Coming here in 1945, he'd done without running water and flush toilets and electricity and refrigeration for five and a half years of war. He missed them much less than he would have back in the days when he took them for granted.
And there were compensations he'd never had in Poland or France or North Africa or on the Eastern Front. Velona kept coming to his bed. She started teaching him the local language. And she vouched for him with the castle's commander, a dour noble — Hasso thought — named Mertois. Hasso wouldn't have wanted Mertois angry at him, as the commandant was close to a head taller than he was and proportionately broad through the shoulders.
Average men among the Lenelli — Velona's people — stood close to two meters tall, and some, like Mertois, were considerably bigger than that. They had yellow hair, blue or green or gray eyes, granite cheekbones, and chins like cliffs. Back in the Reich, Hasso had been a big man. Here, he was decidedly short. The Lenelli had never heard the name of Aryan, but they exemplified the ideal. To all of them but Velona, the first impression seemed to be that he barely measured up.
Then one — a bruiser called Sholseth, who was almost Mertois' size — picked a fight with him. Hasso got the idea it was as much to see what he would do as for any real reason except maybe boredom. Out of what passed for fair play with the Lenelli, Sholseth made sure Hasso understood they were fighting before he uncorked a haymaker that would have knocked Max Schmeling's head off.
It would have, had it landed. But it didn't. Unlike Max Schmeling, Hasso wasn't in the ring. He didn't have to box with Sholseth. Wehrmacht combat instructors taught all sorts of dirty but highly effective techniques. Action on the Russian front was a whole separate education.
Hasso grabbed Sholseth's arm just behind the wrist. Half a second later, Sholseth flew through the air with the greatest of ease. The big Lenello had time to begin a startled grunt, but it cut off abruptly when he slammed down on the rammed — earth floor of Castle Svarag's great hall.
Hasso had hoped that would put him out of action, but he started to get up. The Wehrmacht officer kicked him in the ribs — and had to skip back in a hurry, for a long arm snaked out and almost tripped him up. He didn't want to get locked in a grapple with Sholseth, not even a little bit.
The boot to the ribcage made the Lenello flatten out again. Hasso darted in and kicked him once more, this time in the side of the head, not too hard. Hard enough, though. Sholseth groaned and went limp.
A pitcher sat on a table a few meters away. Hasso walked past half a dozen staring Lenello warriors, picked it up, and poured two liters of not very good beer over Sholseth's head. The big man groaned and spluttered. His eyes opened. He made a horrible face and clutched at his temples. The Wehrmacht officer nodded to himself. Concussion, sure as hell. Sholseth wouldn't be worth the paper he was printed on for the next few days.
Another Lenello said something to Hasso. It was probably, How the devil did you do that, you shrimp? With an inward sigh, Hasso made a gesture inviting him to find out for himself. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of these big apes would cream him. But how many he smashed up first would go a long way toward showing where he fit in the pecking order.
He flattened four and had a fifth on the ropes before the fellow landed a blow to his solar plexus that folded him up like an accordion. He couldn't do a thing about it, either. The Lenello was groggy, but not too groggy to fall on him like a landslide and thump him while he couldn't fight back. Hasso got paid back for some of what he did to the soldier's friends. He'd known that would happen, too, which didn't make it any more enjoyable whil
e it was going on.
When he could, he got up and washed the dirt and blood off his face. The Lenelli pounded his back, which hurt almost as much as getting beaten up had. They pressed mug after mug of that indifferent beer into his hand. He drank everything they gave him. Maybe it would numb him a little. Any which way, it was less likely to give him the runs than the local water.
Sholseth asked him something. The battered would — be tough guy was drinking beer, too. His head had to be killing him. Hasso didn't understand the question, but it was bound to be something like, Where did you learn all that stuff?
Another Lenello made cut — and — thrust motions and shook his head as he asked his own question. That had to be, So how come you can't use a sword worth a damn? Hasso shrugged. Nobody'd ever bothered teaching him a weapon like that. He had no trouble with a spear. If you could fight with a bayoneted rifle and an entrenching tool, spear drill was a piece of cake.
He could use a crossbow, too, once he figured out how to crank it up to reload. Its bolts flew flat and straight, like bullets. The Lenelli even had sights to aim along. A hunting bow, on the other hand… To call him hopeless gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Someone in the watchtower winded a horn. One long, flat note — the warriors relaxed. That meant more Lenelli on the road approaching Castle Svarag. A series of shorter blasts would have been trouble: the Grenye sneaking around again.
Hasso wasn't sure how things worked around here. He hadn't seen enough of this world yet. He hadn't seen any of it, in fact, except for the swamp and the stretch of road between where he'd rescued Velona and this castle. But the Lenelli seemed to have Untermenschen problems like the Reich's in Russia.
Here on the frontier — and this was the frontier, plainly — the big blond warriors controlled towns, castles, and, when they traveled in force, the roads between them. The countryside belonged to the local barbarians.
Shouts came from outside the castle. Who was who around here was pretty obvious. Even so, the newcomers and guards went through the rigmarole of sign and countersign. That made Hasso chuckle, which hurt his sore stomach and bruised ribs. He might be in another world, but a lot of army rituals stayed the same. What worked one place worked in another. People remained people.
Chains rattled and clanked as Grenye servants — or maybe they were slaves — lowered the drawbridge. Horses' hooves thudded on the thick oak timbers — faced with iron on the outside, to ward against fire — as the new arrivals rode in.
As one man, the Lenelli in the great hall went out to see what was what. They were as eager for news and gossip as any garrison at an isolated post — and they didn't have radios.
Everybody turned out to see what was what, in fact: everybody who was tall and fair, anyhow. Mertois tramped out half a minute or so behind the warriors in the great hall. More soldiers came out of the stables. Velona and other women took places between and in front of the men.
Velona started to smile at Hasso, but the expression froze when she saw he'd been knocked around. He nodded, as if to tell her it was all right. You should see the other bums, he thought.
Haifa dozen men had come in. Five were knights in slightly rusty chainmail. They were all stamped from the same mold as the soldiers in the garrison. The sixth was… something else.
He rode a unicorn. Hasso blinked and rubbed his eyes. Unicorns were the stuff of myth and legend — except this one wasn't. Its horn was silvered. So were its hooves. They all shone even brighter in the sun than the unicorn's pure white coat and mane and tale. Its lines made the big, heavy horses around it look as if they were carved by a sculptor who was earnest, well — intentioned, and more than a bit of a blockhead.
The rider made the knights seem the same way. He wore polished jackboots that would have gladdened the heart of an SS man on parade, tight suede breeches, and a clinging shirt of shimmering bright green silk that should have looked effeminate but somehow didn't. Like the unicorn's horns and hooves, his conical helm was silvered, and flashed in the sunlight. Only his sword, a businesslike cross — hilted weapon in a battered leather sheath, said he wasn't a refugee from the set of a bad movie.
Graceful as a cat, he slid down from the unicorn. Hasso expected him to march up to Mertois and start giving orders; his harsh, handsome features were those of a man used to being obeyed, and at once. But the stranger strode over to Hasso himself. He didn't hold out both hands to clasp, as the Lenelli usually did in greeting. Instead, he sketched a star in the air between them. It glowed with gold fire for a moment before fading.
Hasso's eyes widened, even more than they had when he saw the unicorn. Unicorns were merely legendary. This was flat-out impossible — but it happened anyway.
"You saw?" the stranger demanded… in Lenello. Yes, he spoke his own language, but Hasso understood as readily as if it were German. That was impossible, too, but as true as the glowing golden star, as true as the unicorn's switching tail.
"I saw, all right. How the devil did you do that?" Hasso Pemsel answered in German, and the man in boots and breeches and silk also understood him.
"Magic," the fellow said matter-of-factly. Hasso started to get angry before realizing the newcomer wasn't kidding. "I'm Aderno, third-rank wizard in King Bottero's service. You will be the outlander Velona spoke of when she summoned me."
"Velona… summoned you? Not Mertois?" Hasso wondered whether he'd figured out anything at all about what was going on here. He didn't even understand the chain of command.
"Yes, Velona, of course." Aderno took it for granted, whether Hasso did or not. "Now tell me — what color did the star seem to you?"
"Gold," Hasso answered automatically.
"Gold? Something, yes, but gold?" That was enough to shake Aderno out of his air of snooty superiority. He stared down his long, straight nose at the German. "Are you certain?"
"Why would I lie? And what difference does it make, anyhow?" At last, somebody who could understand Hasso when he said something — and the cocksure son of a bitch didn't want to believe him. Hasso wondered if he could do unto Aderno as he'd done unto Sholseth. Maybe he could knock sense into that long, arrogant head if he couldn't insert it any other way.
"You don't even know." That wasn't a question. Aderno turned away and spoke to Velona. When he did, his words were only gibberish to Hasso. His magic seemed as sensitive, and as adjustable, as a radio tuner. Hasso couldn't follow Velona's reply, either. He sighed and shrugged. She was the one he really wanted to be able to talk to, and he still couldn't. Life seemed to work that way. Aderno gave his attention back to him. "Tell me how you came here." That seemed clear enough.
Hasso did. He couldn't see any reason why he shouldn't. And talking about it — at last being able to talk about it — was a release, and a relief.
When he finished, Aderno sketched another sign in the air. This one glowed the color of the wizard's shirt. "The truth," he said, sounding faintly surprised.
"Why would I lie?" Hasso asked again.
For the first time, Aderno looked at him as if he'd said something stupid. "Outlander, man from another world, there are as many reasons as there are fish in the sea, as many reasons as there are leaves on the trees. You could have been part of some new wicked plot the Grenye have hatched — "
"No!" Velona broke in: one word of Lenello Hasso could follow.
"No," the wizard agreed. "But it could have been so, which is why I applied the truth test. Or you could have been one of our evildoers on the run, looking to cover your tracks with a tale too wild to be disbelieved. Or you could have been a disgraced man looking to start over somewhere far from where you were born, and using a strange story likewise. Not too hard to pretend not to understand or speak. But no. You are not pretending. And if you saw gold in the air…"
"You still haven't said what that means," Hasso reminded him.
"It means your life, and mine, and everyone else's, get more complicated than any of us might wish," Aderno said. Hasso wanted to hit him for ta
lking in circles. Decking a genuine wizard, though, didn't strike him as smart. Aderno went on, "And it means you can't stay in this miserable backwater post." Mertois grunted at that. Aderno ignored him. "I shall take you to Drammen." Seeing Hasso look blank, he condescended to explain: "To the capital."
II
Once the Lenelli made up their minds, they didn't screw around. Inside of an hour, Hasso was on a horse riding west. He wore his own short boots, trousers, and helmet. Grumbling still, Mertois doled out a padded shirt, a mailshirt to go over it, and a thin surcoat to go over that. The castle commander also gave Hasso a sword. He said something as he did. For decoration only, Hasso guessed. Don't try to use it, not if you want to go on breathing.
He still had his Schmeisser. As long as his ammunition lasted, he was the toughest guy in town, even if only Velona knew it. Enough rounds for a few hours against the Russians — or a few minutes if things got hot. How long would it last here? Longer, anyhow, because none of these bastards had a weapon to match it.
Not only Aderno and his escort accompanied Hasso. At the wizard's urging — or, more likely, command — Mertois sent along half a dozen of his men. And Velona rode out of Castle Svarag, too, which pleased Hasso for all kinds of reasons. It wasn't just that they were lovers, though that sure didn't hurt. But she was his sheet anchor here. Everything that had happened to him since happened because she ran by right after he squelched up onto the causeway.
The machine pistol and the extra magazines fascinated Aderno. Hasso made sure he unloaded the Schmeisser before he let the wizard handle it. Otherwise, Aderno might have killed half the people near him just by clicking the safety off, squeezing the trigger, and spraying the weapon around.
The Schmeisser's cartridges interested Aderno even more than the piece itself did. He held them up close to his face to examine them — much closer than Hasso would have been comfortable eyeing them himself. He hefted first one, then another, then another. At last, reluctantly, he nodded and handed them back to Hasso.
After the downfall Page 2
