Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J F Bone

  Vorg had no right to take Nalla from him. Even though Vorg was Chief, Nalla had been promised. He had fought for her with the other young men of the tribe, and he had conquered. With grinding labor he had cleared a space among the trees for their garden plot and had built the house that was to be their home. With skill and cunning, he had slain beasts for their flesh and skins, and had traded them with equal skill and cunning for the products of Tharg the weapon maker and Ula the potter. His house was the finest of all the tribe save only for that of Vorg. Its furs were new and soft, its tools and weapons bright with golden brass and ruddy copper, its bowls, pots and jars shining red and blue from the thick glaze Ula had baked into their smooth clay surfaces. It was a house worthy of Nalla’s beauty, and of his position as a hunter.

  But even as he went to claim her, Vorg came before him. Her father dared not object for Vorg was Chief, and a man to be feared. Harl ground his teeth in helpless rage. He knew why Vorg had done this thing. The chief was getting old and he feared the power of Harl and, in this way, cunningly, he sought to enrage the younger man, to provoke him into a challenge. And then Vorg would slay him and preserve his right to rule. For Harl knew with cold certainly that Vorg would triumph. The chief’s mature body and battle-wisdom were still too great to be matched by any of the young men of the tribe. Harl shivered as he recalled how closely he had come to falling into the trap Vorg had set for him. He knew then that he must leave the tribe. There was no other solution, but he hated the implication of cowardice and the knowledge that in one way or another Vorg would win. Still, he couldn’t wait for the years to pass before his time would come. For in those years Vorg would have Nalla and every day that fact would goad and rankle until his control snapped. If he stayed there could be but one outcome, a Sar-ayal—a chief battle—and within a week Vorg would stand triumphant while the tribe roasted his dead body for the ritual feast before the burning.

  If he had a weapon that would equalize the odds, he would try to kill Vorg, but there was none. Spear and club were the weapons of the people and, with either of these Vorg was his master. He growled deep in his throat with raging frustration, but Harl was intelligent enough not to deny the simple fact that combat with Vorg would be suicide, and he had no wish to die. His steps carried him past the lightning-blasted tree. It lay on the earth, a fallen giant, a chief-tree toppled by the power of the sun. It was an omen. Perhaps the Sun would show him the way to overthrow Vorg. He raised his arms to the cloudy skies overhead.

  “Oh, Sun!” he prayed. “Hear me, thy servant Harl. Grant me a weapon with which I may kill Vorg. He has broken the law of the people. He has stolen the woman Nalla who was promised to me. He is evil. He is my enemy. Listen, oh Sun!—and heed.

  “I will keep faith, nor will I break the law. Thy light will guide my people. Sacrifices will forever smell sweet in thy nostrils. Grant me a weapon, Oh Sun, and this I swear!”

  He bent his head reverently and the gleam of silver metal in the upturned roots of the fallen tree caught his eye. His breath stopped in his throat! He knew of God-metal, the bright, uncorroded stuff that no tool or heat could touch. His tribe had bits of it, carefully preserved as charms and amulets. No one knew where it came from, but occasionally pieces were found in stream beds, and in fresh earth turned by landslides. There was a tale that a far-distant tribe had a great piece of it, a rayed circle studded on its periphery with little rays, a sun-charm of great magic, but he had never seen it—this piece was the largest he had ever seen.

  His hand moved slowly downward to draw the sword gently from its cover of dirt and roots. By accident his thick fingers closed about the hilt. The way it fitted told more than any explanation. This was to be grasped. But why it was to be grasped he didn’t know.

  He pulled, and one of the scabbard rings caught in a tangling root furnished the needed resistance. The sword slid easily from its sheath and glittered in an arc of silver fire in the gray daylight!

  Harl looked at the sword—amazement written on his heavy face. He shook it tentatively, and the blade whispered through the humid air. He ran his calloused thumb over the edge and jerked it back from the bite of the sharp metal. He stood still, eyeing the bright blood dripping from his thumb, his thoughts churning with mixed fear and elation as he realized that this was the weapon he sought! The Sun had answered his prayer! The analogy between the saber and the crude skinning and flensing knives of his people was crystal clear. This was a knife, the greatest, longest, sharpest knife he had ever seen. It must be a weapon. There was no use for such a thing except for that purpose. It was fitted to hew and kill, to pierce and cut.

  Harl bowed his head to the power of the Sun. He had prayed and this wondrous thing had come to his hand. The Sun was obviously with him, but there must be a final test. He needed proof.

  For a moment he stood holding the blade in his broad palms. Then he raised it over his head, arms outstretched, offering it—tense, rigid—half fearful that the Sun would reclaim the gift. But nothing happened. Nothing came through the air to take the metal from his hands. And as he waited the storm blew past and the sun shone brightly through the scattered clouds. He sighed and relaxed. Obviously he was meant to keep it. And he knew precisely for what purpose!

  He turned and retraced his steps, holding the scabbard in one hand and the sword in the other, taking occasional cuts at weeds and branches, marveling how the sharp metal sheared effortlessly through the horny growth. Now let Vorg look to himself. For by nightfall there would be a new chief in the village!

  Harl the Chief looked at the shining blade for the thousandth time—or was it the ten thousandth? It was a pleasure that never died. Truly the Sun had been good to him in the years since he had slain Vorg. His eyes coursed over the delicate engraving along the fluted length of the blade, returning always to the spread figure of the Thunderbird etched into the metal about halfway down the blade. Surrounded by a leafy design, the bird stood awkwardly, legs and wings out-thrust, a great striped shield covering its breast, one talon grasping a leafy branch while the other held a sheaf of spears. The symbolism was obvious. The bird was the totem of the Forest People—that was the meaning of the branch and the leaf design, and the spears meant that it would guide them in war. Above the bird’s head was the stylized sun totem with the stars and clouds inside its belly that told the story of the Sun’s dominance of the heavens and his eating of the stars each dawn. The linked US on the opposite side was probably the sacred symbol of the Sun. But there was much that held no meaning—particularly the plate covering the breast of the Bird and the broad pennon fluttering from its beak. It made no sense unless the Thunderbird was about to build a nest. He had often seen nesting birds carry broad blades of grass in their beaks. But that was silly. Even the youngest child knew there was but one Thunderbird, and where there was but one there was no need for a nest. The cleanly etched letters on the pennon made no impression. Since he knew nothing of writing, he didn’t even know they formed words. To him, they were but pieces of design.

  With a sigh, Harl slid the bright blade back into its scabbard. It was time to inspect the work of his people. Tash, the Weapon Maker, had found a way to melt certain black rocks, and with the gray metal that flowed forth, the tribe had tipped spears and made knives similar to the sword he carried. Though they were poor things, softer than his sword, they were sharper and harder than brass or copper, and they made the People invincible in war. His tribe was the greatest among the tribes of the forest and waged unending war to extend the power of the People and to provide the constant sacrifice he had promised to the Sun.

  Harl stretched his huge frame as he looked down upon the level expanse of treetops below the castle to the place of sacrifice that smoked sullenly in the village square. Today it was a great cat, a predator that smelled sweet to the Sun. Yesterday it had been a virgin, one of the sixty exacted as yearly tribute from the conquered tribes. Tomorrow there would be something else but always there was something. A growing priesthood had risen
to provide the ritual that worship of the Sun demanded—but they were merely what once had been the shamen, and were of no importance. They did as they were told, for the sword was a greater sign by far than all their amulets and charms. He who held the sword held the power of the Sun, and no shaman in the Forest dared to oppose this obvious sign of heavenly favor. Harl was in the fortunate position of a ruler who controlled both State and Church. The grim log walls towered behind his back, the iron hardwood baked to a silver gray by the harsh sun and fierce rains. He was the master of all his eyes could see. He had been master ever since he had killed Vorg. He was the favored of the Sun—a man of destiny. Harl smiled as he reflected upon his wars. Generally they had been settled by personal combat between the chiefs—the victor taking over the duties and overlordship of the vanquished while the vanquished burned to the greater glory of the Sun. There had been none able to stand against the blade he carried although the giant chief of the Deep Forest People had been hard to kill. The rich odor of his burning had ascended to Heaven where the Sun turned his brazen face toward earth. And the Sun, to show his gratitude, had hidden his face in the cloudless sky. That had been the greatest day of his long reign—the day of the eclipse.

  Both Harl and the Sword had a mystical significance in the minds of the People—the Sword perhaps more than he who carried it. It was a symbol of power reverting toward its original function.

  Harl sighed. He was old now. His hair was gray and much of the strength gone from his muscles. Nalla had long gone back to the Sun. Her children were grown men and women now and other women had taken her place. Easy living had made him fat, but there was no one in his entire domain who cared to face the Sword. He smiled happily at the sheathed blade that made his reign secure. He had taken the Thunderbird for his totem and the sacred US as the symbol for his tribe. In the language of the People, the word for the symbol—and the Sun—was Arn, and Harl’s empire also took the name of Arn. Copies of the talisman were in every house in the forest, faithful delineations of the original. And under the wings of the totem and the sign the People of Arn lived happily and were reasonably content although there were occasional mutterings about the Sacrifice of Virgins. There were no wars or tribal struggles in the forest It was under one rule, and Harl’s justice was administered by scores of faithful headmen, who applied their lord’s simple rules of behavior and code of conduct for the People. It was better now than it had been in his youth. The People were united and they were at peace. The forest was theirs to the very edge of the deserts to the north and the grassy plains to the south. The Arn empire was already great. So Harl dreamed of the sword and the power it had brought him and as he dreamed his heart stopped—and the dream became endless.

  He seemed asleep when his second son, named Arn in honor of the Sun, approached. Curious, the young man looked down at his father’s face. There was something strange about its stillness—a majesty of repose that rested with odd propriety upon the heavy features. Arn shrugged and bent to shake the old man’s shoulder—and at the touch he knew!

  It surprised him that the Dark should take his father. Like the rest of the People, he had thought Harl indestructible—the lord who would live forever. But the Dark had come and borne his father’s spirit away on its shadowy wings. He sighed and took the sword from its place around his father’s waist.

  Then he called the guard . . .

  Arn lifted the sword and stared at its polished length. Harl’s body had been taken to the burning, and with the end of the sacrificial rites and the ashes given to the Sun, Arn would be free to act as he wished. He was master because he held the Sword.

  There would be changes. For one thing, sacrifice of the People would stop. Animals yes—but the People were needed for other things. He smiled as he thought of the hot envious glances his brothers had flashed at him as he entered the Great Hall with the sacred blade buckled around his waist. But they would do nothing; they couldn’t. And the sense of power that coursed through his veins was a thrilling and delicious thing. He revelled in it. He stroked the scabbard. “Now, beautiful one,” he murmured to the blade, “we will soon see if your magic is still strong. There is work to do . . .”

  Lord Arn rode across his broad acres. The horse was something he had acquired during the wars with the Plains People—in the terrible battles that had been fought before the Forest People had conquered. Those had been bitter years. At times he thought the magic of the Sword could scarce stand against the arrows and fearful charges of the horsemen of the plains. But the Thunderbird talisman had given him the answer. Great shields were made like the one that covered the Bird’s breast, and thus protected, the spearmen of the forest with their bristling phalanxes of meteoric iron-shod spears met and overthrew the power of the loosely organized plainsmen who opposed them.

  And with peace, Arn learned more of the significance of the Sword. The branch in the left talon of the Bird was not what Harl had thought. It was a sign of peace. Thus the Bird symbolized either peace or war. The answer had come to him when the plainsmen chiefs had come to his tent. It was their custom to offer a green leafy branch as the sign of peace and fealty. He realized then that the Thunderbird was a bird of prophecy. For did not the left talon grasp a branch? Before his birth it had foretold this victory!

  Fie could still feel the chill that had swept through his body when the chiefs of the plains people had laid the leafy boughs before him and knelt to kiss the Sword and swear eternal fealty. At that moment, Arn feared and hated the Sword. For the power it had brought him and the glory that he had won on a hundred bloody fields seemed not his at all. The plainsmen, like the People, swore allegiance to the Sword rather than to the one who wore it. The words of fealty were on their lips, but their eyes and hearts turned to the God-metal. As the fierce, sharpfaced warriors pledged their faith, Arn became thoughtful. To his introspective mind, it suddenly seemed that the Sword was alive—that the magic in that shining sliver of metal represented power too great for man to control. For a moment he wished that he could rid himself of this shining metal incubus and even now, years later, that feeling occasionally returned. For he feared the Sword with all the superstitious fear of his race. Yet his knowledge of what would happen if he destroyed the blade was sufficient deterrent. For it, more than anything else, held his Empire together. Arn shrugged his wide shoulders and lifted the horse to a brisk canter. Such thoughts were not worthy of a Lord. Fie was a child of the Sun, favored, powerful, chief of many tribes.

  But he was growing old. The Sword still whispered of battle and conquest but his spirit was dry. He wanted to rest and enjoy his gains. There was land beyond the plains and there were People in the land. His warriors were eager for conquest, but he was reluctant. The bloody wine of battle no longer appealed to his taste. He was old, and the old wanted to consolidate the gains of youth, to rest and dream in the sun. Now he understood the strange inaction of his father Harl in the years before his death. Like his father, he had wealth and power enough. He was secure, replete, satisfied with what he had gained.

  But was the Sword satisfied? He thought not.

  The blade seemed to reproach him with a job unfinished. But he could do no more. His ancient years were upon him and he wanted peace—peace to watch the villages grow into towns and the fertile land along the edge of forest and stream become farms and gardens. After him, his sons could fight among themselves for the sword.

  His sons! He snorted.

  They were a worthless lot—soft, pale-handed and weak, living for their women and the pleasures Arn had carved for them with the Sword. Rather than entrust the blade to one of them, he would die with it in his hand and let chance determine which would rule.

  Introspection is a good trait, but not on horseback. Arn never saw the hole in the path. Nor did the horse see it. The beast stepped, stumbled, and fell. Arn was hurled forward over its head. For an instant the sky pinwheeled above him. A bright flash blotted out his vision, as Lord Arn, master of a hundred tribes, lay dead on t
he ground, his neck broken by the fall!

  His guard, horrified, circled the spot where he lay. Their captain, a huge plainsman named Burt, dismounted and bent over the body of his lord. His sharp features were convulsed with sudden grief, for Burt was faithful and the death of his pledged lord was a blow all the more bitter because of its suddenness. He had sworn on the Sword to protect Arn with his life against all enemies, but how could one protect against a hole in the path of a stupid horse?

  Burt sighed. He had sworn fealty to Arn, but Arn was dead. Slowly he bent and unfastened the blade from the belt of his master. He drew it from the sheath, and sighed with relief that it was still intact. Not even the jarring impact of Arn’s three hundred pounds of bone and gristle had damaged that superlative blade. A queer thrill passed from the sword hilt to his hand. His fingers closed convulsively, knuckles whitening from the gripping pressure of his hand. Here was power!—and he held it! He grinned thinly. He had Sworn faith to Arn, but he had given no oath to Arn’s worthless whelps. He lifted the blade, eyeing the curious engraving with respect. The enormity of what he was about to do was lost in a cold nervelessness that was godlike in its calm. He who held the sword ruled the land of Arn. With steady fingers he buckled the swordbelt over his waist—and then shivered as though a cold breeze was blowing, yet the day was warm and crystal clear . . .

  From the Plains to the northern sea, the Arn Empire stretched a full two thousand miles in length and an equal distance from side to side. And yearly its extent grew as the People swallowed border tribes. From across the sea, other people had come with offers of peace and friendship. They were odd, these sea people, but their words and their promises were good. Although they were foreign, the Empire received them with friendship, and welcomed them and their ships. Strangers they might be but they had things which the People lacked and from which they could profit. They knew the sea and a rudimentary sort of navigation, mysteries which were completely foreign to the landlocked folk of the empire. And in contrast to the warlike Arn, they were a peaceful sort who knew little of fighting.