From the eye-hurting otherness of jump-space, to the black of interstellar space, to the high atmosphere of Pyrrus the ship sped. Downward in a screaming ballistic orbit, where the hull heated to just below its melting point and the coolers labored against the overtaxing load. Their bodies reacted, sweat dripped from their faces and soaked their clothes, but the Pyrrans were unaware of the heat. The picture from the bow pick-up was put on every screen in the ship. Jungle flashed by, then a high column of smoke climbed up on the distant horizon. Diving swiftly, like a striking bird of prey, the ship swooped down.
The jungle now occupied the city. A circular mound, covered with plants and tough growth, was the only trace of the once impregnable perimeter wall. As they came low they could see thornlike creepers bursting through the windows of the buildings. Animals moved slowly through the streets that had once been crowded with people, while a clawhawk perched on the tower of the central warehouse, the masonry crumbling under its weight.
As they flew on they could see that the smoke was coming from the crushed ruin of their spaceship. It appeared to have been caught on the ground at the spaceport, and was held down by a now blackened net of giant vines.
There were no signs of activity anywhere in the ruined city. Just the beasts and plants of death-world, now strangely quiet and sluggish with their enemy gone, the motivations of hatred that had enraged them for so long now vanished. They stirred and reared when the ship passed over, quickened to life again as the raw emotions of the surviving Pyrrans impressed upon them.
“They can’t all be dead,” Teca said in a choked voice. “Keep looking.”
“I am quartering the entire area,” Meta told him.
Kerk found the destruction almost impossible to look at, and when he spoke his voice was low as though he were talking only to himself.
“We knew that it had to end like this—sometime. We faced that and tried to make a new start on a new planet. But, knowing something will happen and seeing it before your eyes, those are two different things. We ate there, in that . . . ruin, slept in that one. Our friends and comrades were here, our entire life. And now it is gone.”
“Go down!” Cion said, thinking nothing, feeling hatred. “Attack. We can still fight.”
“There is nothing left to fight for,” Teca told him, speaking with an immense weariness. “As Kerk said, it is gone.”
A hull pickup detected the sound of gunfire, and they rocketed towards it with momentary hope. But it was just an automatic gun, still actuating itself in a repeating pattern. Soon it would be out of ammunition and would be still like the rest of the ruined city.
The radio light had been blinking for some time before someone noticed it. The call was on the wavelength of Rhes’s headquarters, not the one the city had used. Kerk reached over slowly and switched the set to receive.
“Naxa here, can you hear me? Come in Pugnacious.”
“Kerk here. We are over the city. We are . . . too late. Can you give me a report.”
“Too late by days,” Naxa snorted. “They wouldn’t listen to us. We said we could get them out, give them a place to go to, but they wouldn’t listen. Just like they wanted to die in the city. Once the perimeter went down the survivors holed up in one of the buildings and it sounded like everything on this planet hit them at once. We couldn’t take it, standing by I mean. Everyone volunteered. We took the best men and all the armored ground cars from the mine. Went in there. Got out the kids, they made the kids go, some of the women. The wounded, just the ones who were unconscious. The rest stayed. We just got out before the end. Don’t ask me what it was like. Then it was all over, the fighting, and after a bit everything quieted down like you see it now. Whole planet quieted down. When we could, me and some of the other talkers went to see. Had to climb a mountain of bodies of every creature born. Found the right spot. The ones that stayed behind, they’re all dead. Died fighting. Only thing we could bring back then was a bunch of records that Brucco left.”
“They would not have had it any other way,” Kerk said. “Let us know where the survivors are and we will go there at once.”
Naxa, gave the coordinates and said, “What’re you going to do?”
“We’ll contact you again. Over and out.”
“What are we going to do now?” Teca asked. “There’s nothing left for us here.”
“There’s nothing for us on Felicity either. As long as Temuchin rules we cannot open the mines,” Kerk answered.
“Go back. Kill Temuchin,” Teca said, his power holster humming. He wanted revenge, to kill something.
“We can’t do that,” Kerk said. Patiently, because he knew the torture the man was feeling. “We will discuss this later. We must first see to the survivors.”
“We have lost everywhere,” Meta said, voicing the words that everyone was thinking.
Silence followed.
XXI
The four guards ran into the room half carrying Jason, then hurled him to the floor. He rolled over and got to his knees.
“Get out,” Temuchin ordered his men, and kicked Jason hard on the side of his head, knocking him down again. When Jason sat up there was a livid bruise covering the side of his face.
“I suppose that there is a reason for this,” he said quietly.
Temuchin opened and closed his great hands in silent fury, but said nothing. He stamped the length of the ornate room, his trailing prick-spurs scratching deep gouges in the inlaid marble of the floor. At the far end he stood for a moment, looking out of the high windows and across the city below. Then he reached up suddenly and pulled at the tapestry drapes, tearing them down in a sudden spasm of effort. The iron bar that supported them fell as well, but he caught it before it touched the floor and hurled it through the many-paned window. There was the crashing fall of breaking glass far below.
“I have lost ” he shouted, almost an animal howl of pain.
“You’ve won,” Jason told him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Let us not pretend any more,” Temuchin answered, turning to face him, a frozen calm replacing the anger. “You knew what would happen.”
“I knew that you would win—and you have. The armies fell before you and the people fled. Your horde has overrun the land and your captains rule in every city. While you rule here in Eolasair, lord of the entire world.”
“Do not play with me, demon. I knew this would happen. I just did not think that it would happen so quickly. You could have allowed me more time—”
“Why?” Jason asked, climbing to his feet. Now that Temuchin had realized the truth there was no longer any point in concealment. “You said that by accepting you would lose.”
“I did. Of course.” Temuchin straightened his back and looked, unseeingly, from the window. “I just had not realized how much I would lose. I was a fool. I thought that only my own life was at stake. I did not realize that my people, our life, would die as well.” He turned on Jason. “Give it back to them. Take me, but let them return.”
“I cannot.”
“You will not!” Temuchin shouted, rushing on Jason, grabbing him up by the neck and shaking him like an empty goatskin. “Change it—I command you.” He loosened his grip slightly so that Jason could gasp in air and speak.
“I cannot—and I would not even if I could. In winning you lost, and that is just the way I want it. The life you knew has ended and I would not have it any other way.”
“You knew this all along,” Temuchin said, almost gently, releasing his grasp. “This was my fate and you knew it. You let it happen. Why?”
“For a number of reasons.”
“Tell me one.”
“Mankind can do very well without your way of life. We have had enough killing and bloody murder in our history. Live your life out, Temuchin, and die peacefully. You are the last of your kind and the galaxy will be a better place for your ending.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“There are others. I want the off-worlders to dig t
heir mines on your plains. They can do that now.”
“In winning I lost. There must be a word for this kind of happening.”
“There is. It was a Pyrrhic victory. I wish I could say that I am sorry for you, but I’m not. You’re a tiger in a pit, Temuchin. I can admire your muscles and your temper and I know that you used to be lord of the jungle. But now I’m glad that you are trapped.” Without looking towards the door Jason took a short step in its direction.
“There is no escape, demon,” Temuchin said.
“Why? I cannot harm you—or help you any more.”
“Nor can I kill you. A demon, being dead already, cannot be killed. But the human flesh you wear can be tortured. That I shall do. Your torture will last as long as I live. This is a small return for all that I have lost—but it is all that I have to offer. We have much to look forward to, demon—”
Jason did not hear the rest as he bolted through the door, head down and running as fast as he could. The two guards at the far end of the hall heard his pounding feet and turned, lowering their spears. He did not slow or attempt to avoid them, but fell instead and slid, feet first, under their spears and cannoning into them. They fell in a tangle and, for one instant, Jason was held by the arm. But he chopped with the edge of his hand, breaking the restraining wrist, and was free. Scrambling to his feet he hurled himself down the stairwell, jumping eight, ten steps at a time, risking a fall with every leap. Then he hit the ground floor and ran through the unguarded front entrance into the courtyard.
“Seize him!” Temuchin shouted from above. “I want him brought to me.”
Jason pelted towards the nearest entrance, veering off as it filled suddenly with guards. There were armed men everywhere, at every exit. He ran towards the wall. It was high and topped with gilded spear heads, but he had to get over it. Footsteps sounded loudly behind him as he sprang upwards, his fingers closing over the edge of the wall. Good! He heaved himself up, to throw his legs over, climb between the spear heads and drop to the other side to vanish into the city—
The hands locked about his ankle, the weight holding him back. He kicked and felt his boot crush a face, but he could not free himself. Then other hands caught his flailing leg and still more, pulling him back, down, into the courtyard.
“Bring him to me,” Temuchin’s voice sounded over the crowd of men. “He is mine.”
Rhes was waiting, a tiny figure beside the launch as the Pugnacious dropped down from the sky. It was a full-jet, 20G landing. Meta was not wasting any time. Rhes picked his way through the fused and smoking sand as the port opened to receive him.
“Tell us everything, quickly,” Meta said.
“There’s little enough to tell. Temuchin won his war, as we knew he would, taking every city with one blow after another. The people here, even the armies, could not stand against him. I fled after the last battle, with all the others, since I did not wish to see my thumbs hanging from some barbarian banner. That was when I got your message. You must tell me what happened on Pyrrus.”
“The end,” Kerk said. “The city, everyone there, is gone.”
Rhes knew that there were no words that he could say. He was silent a moment, then Meta caught his eye and he continued.
“Jason has . . . or had . . . a radio, and soon after I reached the launch I picked up a message from him. I could not answer him and his message was never completed. I did not have the recorder on, but I can remember it clearly enough. He said that the mines could be opened soon, that we had won. The Pyrrans have won, that is exactly what he said. He started to add something else, but the broadcast was suddenly broken off. That must have been when they came for him. I have heard more about it since that time.”
“What do you mean?” Meta asked quickly.
“Temuchin has made his capital in Eolasair, the largest city in Ammh. He has Jason there in . . . in a cage, hung in front of the palace. He was first tortured, now he is being starved to death.”
“Why? For what reason?”
“It is a nomad belief, that a demon in human form cannot be killed. He is immune to normal weapons. But, if he is starved long enough, the human disguise will wither and the demon’s original form will be revealed. I don’t know if Temuchin believes this nonsense or not, but this is just what he is doing. Jason has been hanging in that cage for over fifteen days now.”
“We must go to him,” Meta said, leaping to her feet. “We must free him.”
“We will do that,” Kerk told her. “But we must do it the right way. Rhes, can you get us clothes and moropes?”
“Of course. How many will you need?”
“We cannot force our way in, not against the ruler of an entire planet. Just two of us will go. You will come to show the way. I will go to see what can be done.”
“And I will come, too,” Meta said, and Kerk nodded agreement.
“The three of us then. At once. We don’t know how long he can live under these conditions.”
“They give him a cup of water every day,” Rhes said, avoiding Meta’s eyes. “Take the ship up, I’ll show you which way to go. It does not matter any more if the people in the city here know we are from off-planet.”
This was before noon. By drugging the moropes and loading them into the cargo bay a good deal of riding time was saved. The city of Eolasair was built on a river among rolling hills, with a forest nearby. They landed the ship as close as they could without being seen, and had the moropes on the way as soon as they could be revived. By late afternoon they entered the city, and Rhes threw a boy a small coin to show them the way to the palace. He wore his merchant’s clothes, while Kerk had put on his full armor and weapons. Meta, veiled as was the local custom, clutched her hands tightly on the saddle as they forced their way through the crowded streets.
Only before the palace was there empty space. The courtyard was floored with gold-veined marble, polished and shining. A squad of troops guarded it, their bearded, nomad faces incongruous above the looted armor. But their weapons were in order and they were as deadly as they had been on the high plains. Worse perhaps, their tempers were not improved by the warm climate.
A chain had been passed between the tops of two of the tall columns that flanked the courtyard and from it, hanging a good two meters above the ground, was suspended a cage of thick bars. It had no door and had been built around the prisoner.
“Jason!” Meta said, looking up at the slumped figure. He did not move and there was no way of telling if he was alive or dead.
“I will take care of this,” Kerk said, and jumped from his morope.
“Wait!” Rhes called after him. “What are you going to do? Getting yourself killed won’t help Jason.”
Kerk was not listening. He had lost too much and felt too much pain recently to be in a reasoning mood. Now, all of his hatred was turned against one man.
“Temuchin!” he roared. “Come out of your gilt hiding place. Come out you coward and face me, Kerk of Pyrrus. Show yourself—coward.”
Ahankk, who was the guard officer, came running with his sword drawn, but Kerk backhanded him offhandedly, his attention still fixed on the palace. Ahankk dropped and rolled over and over and remained there, unconscious or dead. Surely dead, with his head at an angle like that.
“Temuchin, coward, come out!” Kerk shouted again. When the stunned soldiers touched their weapons he turned on them, snarling.
“Dogs—would you attack me? A high chief, Kerk of Pyrrus, victor of The Slash?” They fell back before his burning anger, and he turned to the palace as the front entrance was thrown wide. Temuchin strode out.
“You dare too much,” he said, his cold anger matching Kerk’s.
“You dare,” Kerk told him. “You break tribal law. You take a man of my tribe and torture him for no reason. You are a coward, Temuchin, and I name you that before your men.”
Temuchin’s sword flashed in the sunlight as he drew it, a fine tempered length of razor-sharp steel.
“You have said en
ough, Pyrran. I could have you killed on the spot, but I want that pleasure for myself. I wanted to kill you the moment I first saw you—and I should have. Because of you and this creature which calls itself Jason I have lost everything.”
“You have lost nothing—yet,” Kerk answered and his sword pointed straight at the warlord’s throat. “But now you lose your life, for I shall kill you.”
Temuchin brought his sword down in a blow that would have cut a man in two—but it rang off Kerk’s blade. They battled then, furiously, with no science and no art. A barbarian sword fight, just slash and parry, with eventual victory going to the strongest.
The clang of their steel rang in the silence of the courtyard, the only other sound the rasping of their breath as they fought. Neither would give way, and they were well matched. Kerk was the older man, but he was the stronger. Temuchin had a lifetime of sword fighting and battles behind him and was absolutely without fear.
It went on like that, a rapid exchange that was broken suddenly by a sharp twang as Temuchin’s sword snapped in two. He threw himself backwards, out of the way of Kerk’s slash, so that, instead of gutting him, it cut a red gash in his thigh, a minor wound. He sprawled at full length, slow blood seeping into the golden silk he wore, as Kerk raised his sword in both hands for the last, unavoidable blow.
“Archers!” Temuchin shouted. He would not submit to death this easily.
Kerk laughed and hurled his sword away. “You do not escape that easily, ruling coward. I prefer to kill you with my bare hands.”
Temuchin shouted wordless hatred and sprang to his feet. They leaped at each other with the passion of animals and closed in struggling combat.
There were no blows exchanged. Instead Kerk closed his great hands around the other’s neck and tightened. Temuchin clutched his opponent in the same way, but the muscles in Kerk’s neck were steel ropes: he could not affect them. Kerk tightened his grip.
For the first time Temuchin showed some emotion other than unthinking anger. His eyes widened and he writhed in the clutch of the closing fingers. He pulled at Kerk’s wrists, but to no avail. The Pyrran’s grip tightened like that of a machine, and just as implacable.
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 51
