Deathworld: The Complete Saga

by Harry Harrison

  The white-burning sun shone directly into his eye and he had to blink and look away. He was moving backwards across the plains, a jarring and uneven ride, and there was something like a grid not too far from his face. The sun touched the horizon. It was important, he kept telling himself, to remember that the sun touched the horizon directly behind him, or perhaps a little bit to the right.

  Right. Setting. A little to the right. The medikit’s drugs and the traumatic shock were pushing him under again. But not yet. Setting. Behind. To the right.

  When the last white glimmer dropped behind the horizon he closed the tortured eye and this time welcomed unconsciousness.

  “– – – – –” a voice roared, an in comprehensible gout of sound. The sharp pain in his side made a far stronger impression and Jason rolled away from it, trying to scramble to his feet at the same time. Something hard and unyielding bruised his back and he dropped onto all fours. It was time to open his eyes, he decided, and he brushed at his sealed eyelids and managed to unglue them. One look convinced him that he had been far happier with them shut, but it was too late for that now.

  The voice belonged to a big, burly man who clutched a two-meter long lance, with which he had been prodding Jason’s ribs. When he saw that Jason was sitting up with his eyes open he pulled back the lance and leaned on it, examining his captive. Jason understood their relative positions when he realized that he was in a bell-shaped cage of iron bars, the top of which just cleared his head when he was sitting down. He leaned against the bars and studied his captor.

  He was a warrior, that was clear, arrogant and self-assured, from the fanged animal skull that decorated the top of his padded helm to the needle-sharp prickspurs on the heels of his knee-high boots. A molded breastplate, apparently made of the same kind of material as his helm, covered the upper half of his body and was painted in garish designs around the central figure of an unidentifiable animal. In addition to the lance, the man had an efficient-looking short sword slung, unscabbard, through a thong on his belt. His skin was tanned and wind-burned, glistening with some oily substance and, standing upwind of Jason, he exuded a rich and unwashed, animal odor.

  “– – – – –,” the warrior shouted, shaking the lance at Jason.

  “That’s a pretty poor excuse for a language,” Jason shouted back.

  “– – – – –,” the man answered, in a shriller voice this time, accompanied with sharp clicking sounds.

  “And that one is not much better.”

  The man cleared his throat and spat in Jason’s general direction. “Bowab you,” he said, “you can speak the inbetween tongue?”

  “Now that’s more like it, a broken-down and corrupt form of standard English. Probably used as some sort of second language. I suppose that we’ll never know who originally settled this planet, but one thing is certain—they spoke English. During the breakdown, when communication was cut off between all the planets, this fine world slipped down into dog-eat-dog barbarism and must have generated a lot of local dialects. But at least they kept the memory of English, debased though it is, as a common language between the tribes. It’s just a matter of speaking it badly enough to be understood.”

  “What you say?” the warrior growled, shaking his head over Jason’s incomprehensible burble of words.

  Jason tapped his chest and said, “Sure me speak inbetween tongue just as good as you speak inbetween tongue.”

  This apparently satisfied the warrior because he turned and pushed his way through the throng. For the first time Jason had a chance to examine the passing men who had just been a blur in the background before. All males, and all warriors, dressed in numerous variations on a single theme. High boots, swords, half armor and helms, spears and short bows decorated in weird and colorful patterns. Beyond them, and on all sides, were rounded structures colored the same yellowish-gray as the sparse grass that covered the plains. Something moved through the crowd, and the men gave way to a swaying beast and rider. Jason recognized the creature from the description given by the survivors of the massacre, of the mounts that had been ridden during the attack.

  It was horselike in many ways, yet twice as big as any horse, and covered with shaggy fur. The creature’s head had an equine appearance, but it was proportionately tiny and set at the end of a moderately long neck. It had long limbs, especially the forelegs which were decidedly longer than the hindlegs, so that its back sloped downwards from the withers to the rump, terminating in a tiny, flicking tail. The strong, thick toes on each foot had sharp claws that dug into the ground as the beast paced by, guided by the rider who sat just behind the forelimbs at the highest point on the humped back.

  A harsh blast on a metallic horn drew Jason’s attention and he turned to see a compact group of men striding towards his cage. Three soldiers with lowered lances led the way, followed by another with a dangling standard of some kind on a pole. Warriors with drawn swords walked alertly, surrounding the two central figures. One of them was the lance-jabber who had prodded Jason to life. The other, a head taller than his companions, had a golden helm and breastplate inset with jewels, while curling horns sprouted from both sides of his helm.

  He had more than that, Jason saw when he approached the cage. The look of the hawk, or a great jungle cat secure in his rule. This man was the leader and he knew it, accepted it automatically. He, a warrior, leader of warriors. His right hand rested on the pommel of his bejeweled but efficient looking sword while he stroked the sweep of his great, red mustachios with the scarred knuckles of his left hand. He stopped close to the bars and stared in imperiously at Jason who tried, and failed, to return the other’s gaze with the same intensity. His cramped position inside the cage and his battered, scruffy appearance did not help his morale.

  “Grovel before Temuchin,” one of the soldiers ordered, and buried the butt end of his lance in the pit of Jason’s stomach.

  It might have been easier to grovel but Jason, bent double with the pain, kept his head up and his eyes fixed on the other.

  “Where are you from?” Temuchin asked, his voice so used to command that Jason found himself answering at once.

  “From far away, a place you do not know.”

  “Another world?”

  “Yes. Do you know about other worlds?”

  “Only from the songs of the jongleurs. Until the first ship came down I did not think they were true. They are.”

  He snapped his fingers and one of the men handed him a blackened and twisted, recoilless rifle. “Can you make this spout fire again?” he asked.

  “No.” It must have been one of the weapons of the first expedition.

  “What about this?” Temuchin held up Jason’s own gun, its cable dangling where it had been torn from his power holster.

  “I don’t know.” Jason was just as calm as the other. Let him just get his hands on the gun. “I will have to look at it closely.”

  “Burn this one, too,” Temuchin said, throwing the gun aside. “Their weapons must be destroyed by fire. Now tell me at once, other world man, why do you come here?”

  He’d make a good poker player, Jason thought. I can’t read his cards and he knows all of mine. Then what should I tell him? Why not the truth?

  “My people want to take metal from the ground,” he said aloud. “We harm no one, we will even pay for . . .”

  “No.” There was a flat finality to the sound. Temuchin turned away.

  “Wait, you haven’t heard everything.”

  “It is enough,” Temuchin said, halting for a moment and speaking over his shoulder. “You will dig and there will be buildings. Buildings make a city and there will be fences. The plains are always open.” And then he added in the same, flat voice, “Kill him.”

  As the band of men turned to follow Temuchin the standard-bearer passed in front of the cage. His pole was topped with a human skull and Jason saw that the banner itself was made up of string after string of human thumbs, mummified and dry, knotted together on thongs.


  “Wait!” Jason shouted at their retreating backs. “Let me explain. You can’t just do this—”

  But of course he could. A squad of soldiers surrounded the cage and one of them bent underneath it and there was the rattling of chains. Jason cowered back as the entire cage swung up on creaking hinges, and he clutched at the bars as the soldiers reached for him.

  He sprang over them, kicking one in the face as he went by, and crashed into the soldiers beyond. The results were a foregone conclusion, but he made the most of the occasion. One soldier lay sprawled on the ground and another sat up holding his head when the rest carried Jason away. He cursed them, in six different languages, even though his words had as much effect on the stolid, expressionless men as had his blows.

  “How far did you travel to reach this planet?” someone asked.

  “Ekmortu!” Jason mumbled, spitting out blood and the chipped corner of a tooth.

  “What is your home world like? Much as this one? Hotter or colder?”

  Jason, being carried face down, twisted his head around to look at his questioner, a gray-haired man in ragged leather garments that had once been dyed yellow and green. A tall, sleepy-eyed youth stumbled after him dressed in the same motley, though his were not as completely obscured by grime.

  “You know so many things,” the old man pleaded, “so you must tell me something.”

  The soldiers pushed the two men away before Jason could oblige by telling him some of the really pithy things that came to mind. With so many men holding him, he was completely helpless when they backed him against a thick iron pole set firmly in the ground and tore at his clothing. The metalcloth and fasteners resisted their fingers until one of them produced a dagger and sawed through the material, ignoring the fact that he was slicing Jason’s skin at the same time. When his clothing had been pulled open to his waist Jason was bleeding from a dozen cuts and was groggy from the mauling he had taken. He was pushed to the ground and a leather rope lashed around his wrists—then the soldiers went away.

  Although it was early afternoon the temperature must have been just above the freezing point. With his insulated clothing stripped away the shock of the cold air on his body brought him instantly to full, shivering consciousness.

  What the next step would be was obvious. The strap that secured his wrists was a good three meters long and the other end was fastened to the top of the pole. He was alone in the center of a cleared area, and there was a bustle on all sides as the hump-backed riding beasts were saddled and mounted. The first man ready uttered a piercing, warbling cry and charged at Jason with his lance leveled. The beast ran with frightful speed, claws digging into the soil, hurtling forward like an unleashed thunderbolt.

  Jason did the only thing possible, jumping to the other side of the pole and keeping it between himself and the attacking rider. The man jabbed with his lance but had to pull it back swiftly as he went by the pole.

  Only fighting intuition saved Jason then, since the sound of the second beast’s charge was lost in the thunder of the first. He grabbed the pole and spun around it. The lance clanged against the metal as the second attacker went by.

  The first man was already turning his mount and Jason saw that a third had saddled up and was ready to attack. There could be only one possible outcome to this game of deadly target practice.

  “Time to change the odds,” he said, bending and groping in the top of his right boot. His combat knife was still there.

  As the third man started his charge Jason flipped the knife into the air and caught the hilt between his teeth, then sawed his leather bindings against its razor edge. They fell away and he crouched behind the slim pole to avoid the stabbing lance. The charge went by and Jason attacked.

  He sprang, the knife in his left hand, reaching out with his right to grab the rider’s leg in an attempt to unseat him. But the creature was moving too fast and he slammed into its flank behind the saddle, his fingers clutching at the beast’s matted fur.

  After that everything happened very fast. As the rider twisted about, trying to stab down and back at his attacker, Jason sank his dagger right up to its hilt in the animal’s rump.

  The needlelike spikes of the prickspurs that the warriors used in place of rowels on their spurs, indicated that the creatures they rode must not have very sensitive nervous systems. This was true of the thick hide and pelt over the ribs, but the spot that Jason’s dagger hit, not too far below the animal’s tail, appeared to be of a different nature altogether. A rippling shudder passed through the creature’s flesh and it exploded forward as though a giant spring had been released in its guts.

  Already off balance, the rider was tipped from his saddle and disappeared. Jason, clutching at the fur and worrying the knife deeper with his other hand, managed to hold on through one bound, then a second. There was the blurred vision of men and animals streaming by while Jason fought to keep his grip. This proved impossible and, on the third ground-shaking leap, he was tossed free.

  Sailing headlong through the air, Jason saw he was aiming towards the space between two of the domeshaped structures. This was certainly better than hitting one of them, so he relaxed and tucked his chin under as he struck the ground and did a shoulder roll, then another. Landing on his feet he kept running, his speed scarcely diminished.

  The domed structures, dwellings of some kind, were scattered about with lanes in between them. He was in a wide, straight lane and thoughts of spearheads between the shoulder blades sent him darting off at right angles at the next opening. Outraged cries from behind him indicated that his pursuers did not think highly of his escape. So far he was ahead of the pack and he wondered how long he could keep it that way.

  A leather flap was thrown back on one of the domes ahead and a gray-haired man looked out—the same one who had been trying to question Jason earlier. He appeared to take in the situation in a glance and, opening the flap wider, he motioned Jason towards it.

  It was a time for quick decisions.

  Still running headlong, Jason glanced around and saw that, for the moment, no one else was in sight. Any port in a storm. He dived through the opening dragging the old man after him. For the first time he was aware that the combat knife was still in his hand, so he pressed it up through the other’s beard until the point touched his throat.

  “Give me away and you’re dead,” he hissed.

  “Why should I betray you?” the man cackled. “I brought you here. I risk all for knowledge. Now back, while I close the opening.” Ignoring the knife he began to lace the flap shut.

  Looking quickly about the dark interior, Jason saw that the sleepy-eyed youth was dozing by a small fire, over which hung an iron pot. A withered crone was stirring something in the pot, completely ignoring the commotion at the entrance.

  “In back, down,” the man said, pushing at Jason. “They’ll be here soon. They mustn’t find you, oh no.”

  The shouting was coming closer outside and Jason could see no reason to find fault with the plan. “But the knife is still ready,” he warned, as he sat against the back wall and allowed a collection of musty skins to be draped over his shoulders.

  Heavy feet thundered by, shaking the earth, and voices could be heard from all sides now. Graybeard hung a leather shawl over Jason’s head so that it obscured his face, then scrabbled in a pouch at his belt for a reeking clay pipe that he poked into Jason’s mouth. Neither the old woman nor the youth paid any attention to all of this.

  They still did not look up when a helmeted warrior tore open the entrance and poked his head inside.

  Jason sat, motionless, looking out from under the leather hood, the hidden knife in his hand. Ready to dive across the floor and sink it into the intruder’s throat.

  Looking quickly about the dark interior, the intruder shouted what could only have been a question. Graybeard answered with a negative grunt—and that was all there was to it. The man vanished as quickly as he had come and the old woman tottered over to lace the entr
ance tightly shut again.

  In his years of wandering about the galaxy Jason had encountered very little unselfish charity and was justifiably suspicious. The knife was still ready. “Why did you take the risk of helping me?” he asked.

  “A jongleur will risk anything to learn new things,” the man answered, settling himself cross-legged by the fire. “I am above the petty squabbles of the tribes. My name is Oraiel, and you will begin by telling me your name.”

  “Riverboat Sam,” Jason said, putting the knife down long enough to pull up the top of his metalcloth suit and push his arms into it. He lied by reflex, like playing his cards close to his chest. There were no threatening moves. The old woman mumbled over the fire while the youth squatted behind Oraiel, sinking into the same position.

  “What world are you from?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Are there many worlds where men live?”

  “At least thirty thousand, though no one can be completely sure of the exact number.”

  “What is your world like?” Jason looked around, and for the first time since he had opened his eyes in the cage he had a moment to stop and think. Luck had been with him so far, but he was still a long way from getting out of this alive.

  “What is your world like?” Oraiel repeated.

  “What’s your world like, old man? I’ll trade you fact for fact.” Oraiel was silent for a moment and a spark of malice glinted in his half-closed eyes. Then he nodded. “It is agreed. I will answer your questions if you will answer mine.”

  “Fine. You’ll answer mine first since I have more to lose if we’re interrupted. But before we do this twenty questions business I have to take an inventory. Things have been too busy for this up until now.”

  Though his gun was gone, the power holster was still strapped into place. It was worthless now, but the batteries might come in useful. His equipment belt was gone and his pockets had been rifled. Only the fact that the medikit was slung to the rear had saved it from detection. He must have been lying on it when they searched him. His extra ammunition was gone as well as the case of grenades.