by Steve White
The tableau was broken, and Proetus’ guests rose, bellowing and fumbling for their weapons. Jason propelled Nagel toward the door with a shove and turned on the crowd, cutting the air with a series of whistling sword slashes that made them draw back. One man dived under the sword and tackled Jason’s legs. Jason brought the sword’s pommel down on his head and felt the grappling arms go limp. He kicked the unconscious form away and brought his sword back up just in time to thrust it into the belly of an onrushing warrior. He withdrew it with a twist, and a string of entrails came out with it. He reversed it and stabbed another man. Then he was free of the press and sprinting for the door … and, out of the corner of his eye, saw a guard grasping Nagel from behind while another man punched him repeatedly in the stomach.
Muttering a curse, Jason turned away from the beckoning door and threw his sword-dagger. It wasn’t intended as a throwing weapon, but it flew straight. Missing Nagel’s head by inches, it pierced the eye of the guard who was holding him. At appreciably the same instant, Jason arrived, kicked the second guard in the crotch. He yanked his blade out of the already-dead guard’s head and grabbed Nagel—who was moaning and trying to go into fetal position—and tugged him toward the door.
It was too late. A crush of rancid bodies landed atop the two of them, pinning Jason’s sword arm to the floor and pressing his face down so that he never saw the club that descended on his head, sending him into an oblivion of exploding stars followed by darkness.
Chapter Seven
A kick in the ribs brought Jason sickeningly awake.
He had been lying facedown, dreaming dreams whose general unpleasantness had included a suffocating, inescapable odor which, he now saw, had been altogether too real, for he had been lying on the packed-earth, straw-covered floor of a stable which had seen recent occupancy. He got to his hands and knees, if for no other reason than to get his face out of that in which it had been buried.
“Up, pig!” This time it was a spear butt that jabbed his ribs, toppling him over in a nauseating spasm of pain. Two guards grasped his arms and hauled him upright. Their grip was the only solid thing in a spinning universe. But drilled-in reflexes made him observe his surroundings—especially Nagel, whom a third guard was untying from the post to which he’d been secured. The historian’s face was gray, and even as he was prodded forward he remained hunched over, as though an aching midriff made it impossible for him to stand up straight.
The guard captain they had met earlier entered, ran his eyes over the prisoners with none of his former affability, and gave a jerk of his chin. The guards hustled them outside. It was night. They were in a large enclosed area, and glancing to his left Jason saw stronger timber walls topping a higher ridge, with the palace roofs above. They must, he thought, be in the “lower citadel” that would one day have its own cyclopean stone wall. It contained a number of buildings no more prepossessing than the stable. But their destination was the palace, up the ramp they has ascended before. Jason wondered why they’d been imprisoned below. To keep them out of sight, perhaps?
They turned right and entered the outer court. It was heavily guarded and alight with torches. Proetus stood before the columned porch fronting the megaron itself, flanked by his advisors and leading warriors. He looked less like a king holding court than a middle-management underling nervously awaiting the arrival of his boss.
But Jason had no eyes for the wanax, or for anything else but the female figure in the filthy tatters of a tunic, sprawled at the foot of a wooden post to which her wrists were lashed. She was unconscious, but seemed to be stirring.
“Deirdre!” Jason started forward, only to go sprawling as a guard cut him across the backs of his knees with a spear shaft.
“Be still, son of a goat,” the guard captain rasped in a voice thick with tension. “And stay on your knees.” Another guard pushed Nagel down beside Jason. Then they waited. The fluttering roar as the wind whipped the torch flames was the only sound.
Then, with a faint whining hum that Jason recalled from the road to Lerna, the god came.
It was the same half-gondola, half-throne “chariot” that appeared above the courtyard, running lights ablaze, but the tall figure was seated this time. The vehicle came to a near landing, hovering a couple of feet above the surface in a way that Jason recognized as extravagantly energy-wasteful but useful for making an impression. And this time there were others. Four of the “chariots” drifted down, each holding a “god,” two of them female.
Everyone from Proetus on down groveled. The guard captain paused only long enough to shove his two prisoners’ faces into the dirt before joining them there.
Even at this moment, Nagel whispered didactically into Jason’s ear. “Again, this doesn’t quite ring true. The historical Greeks never degraded themselves before the gods—they didn’t believe that self-abasement was what the gods wanted. They stood up and prayed aloud—”
“Quiet!” Jason hissed. He was watching as the occupant of the first “chariot” stood up to his full more-than-human height and surveyed the courtyard. Looking at that unhuman face, he could see individual differences from the one he’d glimpsed on the road north of Lerna. This face was heavier-featured, and had a beard which Eurymedon had lacked. It also had a look of mature strength … but not an “older” look, for all of these faces had a quality of agelessness.
“Rejoice, Proetus of Tiryns,” boomed that indescribable voice. “Have you kept this woman unharmed?”
Proetus raised his head just enough to peek upward. “Yes, Hyperion, Lord of Light. I have done as Eurymedon commanded—even though the woman’s two companions sought to inveigle their way into my palace, doubtless thinking to make off with her.” He grew bold enough to indulge in a little self-congratulation, rising to a kneeling position and pointing dramatically at the two prisoners. “But my vigilance was too great, and before they could put their scheme into action I—”
The tall being held up a hand, halting Proteus’ voice as abruptly as an off switch would have stopped a recording. Then he turned slowly and gave Jason and Nagel an emotionless regard. Jason met those eyes. They were stranger than he had thought: the “whites” were pale blue, and the irises were an opaque azure unlike any human eye color. After a few seconds’ inspection, those eyes swung back to Proetus.
“Those ridiculous bandits were commanded to deal with these men.”
“One of them is here, lord.”
“Kill him. You may also kill these two men. The woman, however …” Hyperion stepped from his floating platform, and the general groveling intensified as his feet touched the ground. He walked slowly over to the stake where Deirdre was beginning to return to consciousness. He held an instrument which, to Jason, suggested a sensor of some kind.
Deirdre’s eyes fluttered open. She gasped and struggled against the leather thongs.
“Hold her still,” Hyperion ordered. Two guards rushed to obey. Then he ran the sensor over her, a few inches from her skin. He halted at the inside of her upper left arm, where a very tiny scar showed. He gave a satisfied nod and turned to Proetus.
“There is a small metal talisman inside her left arm, beneath this.” He indicated the scar. “Have someone cut it out of her.”
” No ! ” yelled Jason. He leaped to his feet and lunged … only to feel a spear butt impact sickeningly against his already-battered head. Two guards grasped his arms and held him immobile. As his vision cleared, he saw a man who looked like he might very well be Proetus’ butcher step forward toward Deirdre, holding a bronze knife.
“Wash the blade first,” Hyperion commanded, “as we wish to keep her alive.” No one understood the connection, in this era that had never heard of infection, but neither was anyone about to argue. Water was brought and the knife was cleaned, while Deirdre watched with round, unblinking eyes but made no sound.
She continued to hold her jaws clamped shut as the butcher approached, but when the blade neared her arm she burst into a frantic, straining strug
gle which required three guards to subdue, one grasping her around the knees and one gripping each arm. When the knife stroke laid open her flesh, she finally screamed. She screamed louder as the butcher spread apart the lips of the cut he had made and probed with the knife point.
“I think I see it,” he muttered. The knife point began to dig. Deirdre fainted.
“Got it!” said the butcher with satisfaction. He put his thumb and forefinger into the blood-drenched pinkish-gray tissue and pulled. He turned to Hyperion and held out a pea-sized sphere.
“Put it in this.” Hyperion held out a flat container—plastic, thought Jason in a small calm corner of his mind. The butcher dropped the blood-dripping object into it, and the “god” snapped it shut. “Now wash and bind her wound,” he ordered. “We may have further use for her.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned back toward his “chariot.”
It was then that Jason spoke with the recklessness of a man already condemned to death.
“You bastard! Who are you?” A hiss of shock suffused the courtyard, and the guards holding him stiffened. He expected another blow, but none came—the guards must have been stunned into immobility by his blasphemy. Hyperion paused, and turned those disturbing eyes toward him.
“Who are you?” Jason repeated. ” What are you? You don’t belong here!”
Without speaking, Hyperion walked over to him and ran the sensor over his left arm—but not, to Jason’s relief, over his head, where it would surely have detected the computer implant, whose removal by the butcher did not bear thinking about. The “god” then did the same to Nagel. Then he gazed down from his great height, and for the first time a hint of a smile touched the corners of his wide mouth. ” I don’t belong here?” he echoed ironically, barely above a whisper. Before Jason could try to answer the unanswerable, Hyperion turned back to Proetus and spoke in a loud voice.
“I have changed my mind. Keep the two men alive as well—although you need not keep them comfortable. They also have talismans inside their flesh.” Jason could sense the general shudder of distaste. “I will probably want their talismans removed as well, later; but for now the woman’s will suffice. It must be studied. Afterwards, we will return and put all three of them to the question.”
“All will be done as you command, lord,”
“See that it is. And remember: these men are especially accursed in the eyes of the gods. Keep them closely confined and let no one approach them. The same holds for the woman. Besides, I may have other uses for her.” Without another word, Hyperion mounted his “chariot,” which drifted upward and swung away over the walls. The other three followed him. Only then did Proetus and his subjects get to their feet.
“Shall we take them to the palace, lord?” The guard captain asked.
“No, idiot! Didn’t you hear the god? They’re to be kept isolated. Take them back to the stables—but secure them tightly!”
“And the woman, lord?”
Proetus hesitated for the barest instant. “Her too. But confine her separately. Remember what the god said about having ‘other uses for her’? Don’t let them or any other men have access to her. Any other men,” Proetus repeated heavily, giving the guard captain a hard look. The latter gulped.
“Yes, lord. You men, bring them!”
Two guards picked up Deirdre’s limp form. Two others got Jason and Nagel moving with their spear points. The captain, carrying a torch, led the way from the courtyard and back down the ramp toward the lower citadel. To the right, beyond the main gate, Jason saw a pinkish hint of dawn in the east. He barely noticed, for he was sorting out the implications of what he’d heard.
First of all—and he clung to the thought—Hyperion had made it very clear that Deirdre was not to be harmed by anyone except himself. So presumably she hadn’t been molested, save for this night’s brutal chopping-out of her TRD. Secondly, that TRD “must be studied” according to the bogus god, who therefore didn’t know what it was. In fact, there was no evidence that he knew about time travel at all. That ignorance must be maintained. It was a reason—though not, of course, the most important one—for getting back the implant, without which Deirdre would be a permanent resident of the Bronze Age.
In another compartment of his mind, Jason wondered why he and Nagel hadn’t been bound. He suspected it had something to do with the ingrained assumptions of a warrior class that dominated this world through its monopoly of expensive bronze weaponry. Unarmed men didn’t need to have their hands tied to be helpless and contemptible. It was an attitude Jason meant to encourage.
All of this ran through the back of Jason’s mind as he carefully observed the route they were following. It took them to a sturdily built shed against the base of the ledge topped by the upper citadel and the royal megaron. The two guards carrying Deirdre dumped her on the straw-covered floor, heedless of whether they caused her bleeding to resume, and locked the door with a kind of large wooden bolt. As they did so, Jason made himself slump as though barely able to stay on his feet. A guard contemptuously hauled him upright.
“You two can go on,” the guard captain told Deirdre’s erstwhile bearers. “We’ll take the others to the stables.” The dismissed guards departed by the pale dawn-light. The captain motioned with his torch in the direction of the stables and walked ahead.
They had only gone a few steps when Jason stumbled realistically. “Move!” snapped his guard, prodding his back so sharply that the spear point broke the skin. With a single smooth motion, Jason went to his right knee, shifting to the side, and simultaneously grasped the spear shaft just below the blade. He yanked it forward, then jabbed backwards, ramming the butt into the startled guard’s midriff.
Before the captain realized anything was amiss, Jason sprang forward, yanking the spear from the doubled-over guard. His grip on the spear near the top of the shaft was an awkward one. But he stabbed the blade into the base of the captain’s neck, severing the spine.
Nagel’s guard reacted faster than Jason had thought him capable. With a quick curse and a shove, he sent his own prisoner sprawling, and turned on Jason, thrusting with his spear. Jason, grasping his own spear near center-shaft, batted the thrust aside … just in time to be grappled from behind by the guard he’d thought he’d disabled.
Nagel’s guard grinned between his helmet’s cheekpieces and hefted his spear for a killing thrust. But then his expression went blank and he toppled over, revealing Nagel, staring incredulously at the rock with which he’d just clouted the man from behind, striking the base of his skull just below the helmet.
Jason wasted no time. He raised his spear above his head and brought it down behind him, behind the head of the guard who was grasping him. Then he did a quick forward roll, bringing the man over him to land on his back with a thud. Before he could get his wind back, Jason brought the spear around and plunged it down through the supine man’s throat, practically pinning him to the ground.
“Good work, Sidney,” he gasped. Nagel did not respond to the compliment—he was still standing in openmouthed amazement at what was doubtless the first act of physical violence in his life. Jason scooped up the fallen guard captain’s torch and grabbed Nagel by the arm a little more roughly that was necessary. “Come on! Take one of these spears, and let’s go get Deirdre.”
Jason didn’t know how to work the wooden “lock,” so he thrust his spear into the crack between doorframe and door, and pried it open. Holding the torch through the opening, he could see Deirdre was conscious. She was cowering in the far corner.
“It’s us, Deirdre!” he exclaimed. With a small cry of relief, she sprang to him and held him tightly with her right arm … but only for a moment, until she remembered herself. Then backed away and looked at him levelly.
“They took it out, didn’t they?” she asked, indicating her uselessly hanging left arm with its blood-stained bandage.
“Yes.” Jason saw no point in lying.
She sucked in a breath, but when she spoke her voice was s
teady. Too steady, Jason thought. “Then I’m here for good.”
“Like hell you are! We’re going to get it back. You’ll just have to be very careful to not lose it over the next three months,” Jason added with an attempt at lightness. “Maybe we can find a local jeweler to make it into an earring or something.”
“But how—?”
“I can locate it. Never mind how; I’ve already explained to Sidney, but I don’t have time to go over it again now. We’ve got to move.” Jason turned to Nagel. “You said you could find your way through this place. How can we get out without going back up the ramp and past the upper citadel?”
Nagel thought for a moment. “In later times, there was an underground cistern just outside the wall at the northwest corner of the lower citadel—the opposite end from where we are now. Not far from that was a kind of sally port. Was … or will be.” He looked annoyed. “Kyle Rutherford had a point about the need for new tenses, didn’t he?”
“Sidney … !”
“Oh … ahem! Yes. Well, perhaps there are earlier versions here and now.”
“Let’s find out.” They crept from the shed and picked their way among stables, barns and stock pens in the gathering dawn until they reached the stockade. They worked their way around the inside until they reached the cistern, and the small opening in the stockade that gave access to it. Slipping out, they clambered down the low bluff—only an occasional sound of pain escaped Deirdre—and entered the straggling seaside town to the west of the fortress. Few people were about as yet, and they made themselves walk without apparent haste or furtiveness. Then they were clear of the crude structures, and a road stretched ahead of them in a west-northwest direction—a road that didn’t look like it had seen much use lately. Jason summoned up his map, and unconsciously nodded.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Deirdre asked. She looked even worse than Nagel, who was showing the effects of weariness, hunger, and emotional reaction. Jason didn’t imagine he looked all that much better.
