Berserker Wars (Omnibus) Page 13

  Matt glanced at the television built into the wall. He had turned down the sound when company entered; some kind of historical documentary was being shown. He said, “Electronics I have learned a little bit. It moves my spirit from one place to another.”

  “Moves your eyes and thoughts, you mean.”

  Matt seemed to consider whether he was understanding the words correctly, and to decide that he was. “Eyes and thoughts and spirit,” he said firmly.

  The tutor said, “This spirit-orientation is really his idea, Major, not something we’ve inculcated.”

  “I understand that,” said Derron mildly. The important thing, from Operations’ point of view, would be this tendency of Matt’s toward firmness of opinion, even in a new world. Such firmness would be a very good thing in an agent—provided, of course, the right opinions were held.

  Derron smiled. “All right, Matt. In the spirit I was fighting beside you, though I didn’t risk my neck as you risked yours. When you jumped onto that berserker, I know your thought was to save me. I am grateful—and I am glad that now I can tell you so.”

  “Will you sit down?” Matt motioned Derron to a chair, then reseated himself; the tutor remained standing, hovering in the background.

  Matt said, “My thought was partly to save you. Partly for my people there, partly just to see the berserker die. But since coming here I have learned that all people, even here, might be dead if we had not won that fight.”

  “That is true. But the danger is not over. Other fighting, just as important, is going on in other times and places.” This was a suitable opening for the recruiting speech he had been sent here to make. But Derron paused before plunging ahead. For the tenth time he wished that Operations had sent someone else to do this job. But the experts thought Matt was most likely to react favorably if the presentation was made by Derron, the man who had, in a sense at least, fought beside him. And using Matt had been Derron’s own idea, after all. Yes, he kept coming back to that in his thoughts. He hadn’t seen Lisa since that last walk in the park—maybe he had been avoiding her. Yes, he could wish now that he had kept his mouth shut at the staff meeting.

  Anyway, in the present situation, if Derron didn’t make the sales pitch, someone else would, perhaps less scrupulously. So he vented an inaudible sigh and got down to business. “Already you have done much for us, Matt. You have done much for everyone. But now my chiefs send me to ask if you are willing to do more.”

  He gave Matt the essence of the situation in simplified form. The berserkers, deadly enemies of the tribe-of-all-men, had gravely wounded a great chief in another part of the world. It was necessary that someone should take the chief’s place for a time.

  Matt sat quietly, his eyes steadily attentive above the plastic skin that masked most of his face. When Derron had finished his preliminary outline of Operations’ plan, Matt’s first question was, “What will happen when the great chief is strong again?”

  “Then he will resume his own place, and you will be brought back here to live in our world. We expect we will be able to bring you back safely—but you must understand that there will be danger. Just how much danger we cannot say, because this will be a new kind of thing for us to do. But there will certainly be some danger, all along the way.”

  Let him know that, Major—don’t paint too black a picture, of course.It seemed to be left up to Major Odegard to find the proper shade of gray. Well, Time Ops might be spying over his shoulder right now, but Derron was damned if he’d con Matt into taking a job that he, Derron, wouldn’t have touched if it had been open to him. No, Derron told himself, hewouldn’t volunteer if he could. What had the human race done for him lately? Really, the chances of the mission’s doing anyone any good seemed to him very uncertain. Death did not frighten him any more, but there were things that still did—physical pain, for one. For another, the chance of meeting, on a mission like this, some unforeseeable ugly fate in the half-reality called probability-space, which the Moderns had learned to traverse but had scarcely begun to understand.

  “And if, in spite of all medicine, the great chief should die, and can never go back to his own place?”

  “Then it would be your job to continue in his place. When you needed advice we would tell you what to do. In this king’s place you would lead a better life than most men in history have had. And when you had finished out his span of years, we would try to bring you here to our world again to live on still longer, with much honor.”

  “Honor?”

  The tutor tried to explain.

  Matt soon seemed to grasp what was meant, and he went on to raise another point. “Would I take more magic arrows with me to fight the berserkers?”

  Derron thought about it. “I suppose you might be given some such weapons, to protect yourself to some degree. But your main job would not be fighting berserkers directly, but acting for this king, as he would act, in other matters.”

  Matt nodded, as slowly and precisely as he spoke. “All is new, all is strange. I must think about it.”

  “Of course.”

  Derron was about to add that he could come back tomorrow for an answer, but Matt suddenly asked two more questions. “What will happen if I say no? If no one can be found to take the place of the wounded chief?”

  “There is no way that you, or anyone, can be forced to take his place. Our wise men think that, if no one does, the war will be lost and all of us will probably be dead in less than a month.”

  “And I am the only one who can go?”

  “It may be so. You are our wise men’s first choice.” An operation was now under way to recruit a back-up man or two from the deep past. But anyone else brought up now would remain days behind Matt all the way through the process of preparation, and every hour was deemed important.

  Matt spread out his healed hands. “I must believe what you tell me, you who have saved my life and made me well again. I do not want to die in a month and see everyone else die. So I must do what the wise men want, go and take the chief’s place if I am able.”

  Derron puffed out his breath, venting mixed feelings. He reached into his pocket for the photo.

  * * *

  Time Ops, sitting in a small rough cavern a good distance from Operations and watching through one of his systems of secret scanners, nodded with satisfaction and mild surprise. That Odegard was a sharp young lad, all right. No outward display of gung-ho enthusiasm, but always good work, including this job—a smooth soft sell that had gotten the volunteer to place himself on the right side of the question.

  Now the operation could get rolling in earnest. Time Ops swiveled in his chair and watched Colonel Lukas pull a white, nightgown-like robe over his head and down, concealing the plastic chain mail that guarded him from throat to knee.

  “Luke, you’ve got some bare face and hands hanging out,” Time Ops remarked, frowning. Psych Officers as good as you were hard to find. “These boys you’re going to meet are carrying real knives, you know.”

  Lukas knew. Swallowing, he said, “We haven’t got time to be thinking up foolproof protective gimmicks. I won’t inspire any confidence if I got out there looking like a masked demon, believe me.”

  Time Ops grunted and got up. He stood for a moment behind the radar operator to note the image of the ship on the beach and the cluster of tiny green dots in front of her—her crew, come ashore. Then he went on to the window, a wide hole hacked crudely through a wall of rock, and squinted out from between the two heavy stun-projectors and their ready gunners. As the fog generators outside were very near the window, there was nothing to be seen but billows of opaque whiteness, streaming out and away. Time Ops picked up and put on a set of heavy glasses like those the gunners were wearing. The fog effectively disappeared; now he could see the individual men standing before their ship a hundred yards away and the great calm surface of the Reservoir beyond.

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I guess we’ll be able to see you wave your arm—if they don’t surr
ound you and get in your way. If that happens, wave your arms over your head, and we’ll cut loose.”

  “I just don’t want anyone to get trigger-happy, Commander,” said Lukas, looking uneasily at the gunners. “We’re going to have to do some very delicate work on those men out there, and that won’t be easy and may not be possible if they’ve taken a hard stunning. I’d much rather ease them along with the drugs, ask them some questions, and make some impression on them along the way.”

  Time Ops shrugged. “It’s your baby. Got your gas mask?”

  “Yes. Remember, we’ll try to do the job with the pacifier-tranquilizer mix in the drinks; they’re physically tired, and that may put ‘em right to sleep. But don’t hesitate to use the gas.” Lukas took a last quick look around.

  “Looks like a few of them are starting up from the beach,” said the radar man.

  Lukas jumped. “Here I go, then. Where’s my servants? Ready? Tell them to keep inside at first. Here I go!” His sandaled feet thudded rapidly down a stair.

  The sand beach sloped up to a lowland of gravelly soil and sparse grass, the kind that grew in shadow. Harl left the bulk of the crew at the water’s edge, ready to protect the ship or shove her off again, while with six chosen men he proceeded slowly inland.

  The scouting party had not far to go; they had scarcely passed over the first hillock before they saw a single tall figure come walking toward them through the mist. This figure drew close and became a man of impressive mien, dressed in a white robe such as the good enchanters of the old religions wore.

  Showing not the least surprise or fear at being confronted by seven armed sea-rovers, this man came near to them and stopped, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “My name is Lukas,” he said simply. He spoke in Harl’s native language—with a bad accent, but Harl in his travels had managed to understand worse.

  “Let us put some pointed questions to this ‘chanter,” said Torla at once, setting a hand on his dagger.

  The one in wizard’s garb raised his eyebrows, and his right hand and wrist flexed up slightly from his side. Perhaps it was only a gesture of remonstrance, but perhaps he was giving or preparing to give a signal.

  “Let us wait!” said Harl sharply. In this mist, a small army might lie concealed within spear-cast. Harl nodded to Lukas politely, and gave the names of himself and his companions.

  The white-robed man, his hands once more innocently at rest, bowed in grave acknowledgment. He said, “My house is very near; allow me to offer you its hospitality, at least for a meal.”

  “We thank you for the offer,” said Harl, not liking the uncertainty in his own voice. The man’s air of confidence had an unsettling effect. Harl wanted to ask what country they had landed in, but was reluctant to reveal his ignorance.

  “I pray you,” Lukas said, “some or all of you, come to my house, at least for food and drink. If you wish to leave men to guard your ship, I will order some refreshment sent to them.”

  Harl mumbled for a moment, undecided. He tried to imagine how Ay would have met this strange confident courtesy. Lukas needed no powers of clairvoyance to know that seven sea-rovers newly arrived on his beach had come by ship; but he might have come scouting to find out just how many men and ships there were.

  “Wait here for a moment,” Harl answered at last. “Then we seven will go with you.” Two men stayed with Lukas while Harl and the others walked back over the little hill to explain matters to the rest of the crew. Some of these also argued for seizing the wizard at once and asking him pointed questions.

  Harl shook his head. “We can do that at any moment. But enchanters are likely to be stubborn and prideful. And once a man’s blood is out, it’s hard to pour it back into his veins, should the letting prove to have been a mistake. We’ll just watch him close, until we learn more. If food and drink are sent you, I suggest you treat the bearers with some courtesy.” He need give the men no urging to caution and alertness; they were ready to strike at shadows now.

  So Harl and his chosen six ringed themselves about Lukas and walked inland with him. Taking their cue from Harl, the six other sea-rovers tried to look as if the encirclement was all accidental and unintentional, as if their hospitable host was not really their prisoner. And Lukas might have taken his cue from them, for he gave no sign of being bothered in the least.

  As the party proceeded inland the mist grew thicker with each step. Before they had gone a hundred paces they found their way blocked by a line of low cliffs, heretofore invisible, from the top of which the grayness came rolling down. Built right against the foot of this cliff was the wizard’s house; it was a simple stone building, with a look of newness, only one story high but big and solid enough to be a manor or a small fortress. At second glance, though, it was hardly a fortress, for the windows were low and wide, and the wide doorway stood unprotected by moat or wall.

  Several people in simple servants’ garb emerged from this doorway and bowed to the approaching Lukas and his guests; Harl noticed with some relief that none of the servants appeared to be anything more or less than human. The girls among them were comely, in a down-to-earth and lively style; they eyed the warriors sideways and giggled before hurrying back inside.

  “No fairy-tale witches here,” growled Torla. “Though I make no doubt they know enchantments of a sort.”

  Torla preceded Lukas through the doorway, with the rest of the sea-rovers following close on the heels of the white-robed man. Harl was last to enter, looking behind him as he did so, his hand on his ax. He could not begin to feel easy about any man who welcomed seven armed strangers into his house.

  Inside there was nothing to feed Harl’s suspicions, save more of the same strange confidence. The entrance opened directly into a great manorial room, in which were set more than enough tables and benches to have accommodated the long-ship’s entire crew. At the huge hearth, a smiling and confident servant stood turning the spitted carcass of a weighty meat-animal. The roast was browned and dripping, so nearly done that it must have been started hours before.

  Though a fair amount of light came in at the windows with the fog, on the walls were mounted enough torches to make the room quite bright. Through simple hangings that covered the rear wall, Harl could now and then glimpse servants going about tasks in distant chambers, which must be dug back behind the line of the cliff. There was of course no way of telling how many armed men might be in those rooms or lurking somewhere outside, but so far Harl had not seen a single weapon, barring table knives. Another easy-mannered servant was now laying out eight places at the head table, setting out worthy but not spectacular silver plates and tankards along with the cutlery.

  Lukas proceeded straight to the head of the table—a couple of the sea-rovers keeping casually close to him—and turned with a gracious gesture. “Will you be seated? There is wine or ale, as you choose.”

  “Ale!” barked Harl, giving his men a meaningful look. He had heard of potent drugs and poisons whose taste blended very smoothly with that of wine; and even honest drink must not be allowed to take the edge of clearness from their minds. The others echoed Harl’s call for ale, though Torla looked somewhat disappointed.

  The company seated themselves, and two girls promptly came from behind the hangings to fill their tankards. Harl watched to see that the wizard’s drink was poured from the same vessel as his own, and he waited until the wizard was wiping foam from his own lips before he tasted the drink himself. And even then Harl took only a sparing swallow.

  The ale was neither too strong nor too weak, but … yes, there was something slightly peculiar in its taste. Still, Harl asked himself, in a place where everything was strange, how could the ale be otherwise? And he allowed himself another sip.

  “The ale of your country is strong and good,” he ventured then, stretching the truth to make a compliment. “So no doubt you have many strong men here and you serve a strong king.”

  Lukas bowed slightly. “All that you say is true.”

  �
��And your king’s name?”

  “Our present king is called the Planetary Commander.” The wizard smacked his lips over the ale. “And whom do you serve?”

  A tremulous groan passed around the board. The tankards scraped in unison as they were lifted, and then together they thudded down, all lighter than they had been. All except Harl’s. He had not observed the least sign of treachery—come to think of it, there was no reason why there should be any treachery here—but still he decided firmly that he would not drink any more. Not just now.

  “Whom dowe serve?” he asked the world. “Our good young lord is dead.”

  “Young Ay is dead!” Torla roared it out, like a man challenging the pain of some dreadful wound. A serving girl came to refill his tankard, and Torla seized her and pulled her onto his lap. But when she resisted his pawing with her thin weak arms, he only held her there gently, while a comical witless expression grew slowly on his face.

  Something about this made Harl wonder. His own mind was perfectly clear … and yet he should be more concerned, more alert than he was. Should he not?

  “Young Ay’s death would be sad news,” said Lukas calmly. “If it were true.” The wizard seemed to be slumping slowly in his chair, utterly relaxed, forgetting dignity.

  Oddly, no one took offense at the implication that they would be untruthful in such a matter. The men only sipped or drank, and there passed another murmur of mourning around the table.

  “We saw him die!”

  “Ah, yes!”

  Harl’s big fists were knotted, remembering their helplessness against the dragon. “We saw him die, in such a way that, by all the gods, I can scarce believe it yet myself!”

  Lukas leaned forward, suddenly intent. “And what way was that?”

  In a faltering voice Harl told him. Harl’s throat quickly grew dry with speech; scarcely realizing that he did so, he interrupted his tale to take another swallow from his tankard. The truth about the dragon sounded in his own ears like a clumsy lie. What chance was there of King Gorboduc believing it?