Hunt the Space-Witch! Seven Adventures in Time and Space

by Robert Silverberg

  Golden blood stained the water. Scaly bodies lay strewn like pebbles.

  Red-maned Duvenal, the Thalassarch of the Northland Sea, appeared suddenly at Dovirr’s side, his mail hanging rent and his chest visible, bloody, within. Still, Duvenal grinned at the sight of Dovirr.

  “Ho, young Sea-Lord! This is battle!”

  “Indeed, Duvenal. And guard your left!”

  The Northerner whirled and sank his mace deep within a Dhuchay’y skull; at the same moment, another alien appeared from nowhere and sent the Thalassarch reeling with a backhand swipe of a taloned arm. Dovirr sprang to Duvenal’s aid, felling the alien with a thrust through its beady eye.

  “Duvenal?”

  The red giant staggered to his feet. “Fear not for me; attend to yourself.”

  Dovirr ducked as an alien scimitar whistled over his head. A javelin hummed past and buried itself in the thick scales of the creature’s throat; it tottered, and Dovirr applied the coup-de-grace with a two-handed swipe.

  He looked around. The Dhuchay’y ranks were thinning. His muscles throbbed with excitement, and he urged his men on with a roar that could have been heard clear to Vythain.

  Warm blood trickled over the ground, tickling his bare feet. The sea heaved in tumult. Overhead, sea-birds wheeled and screamed, spun in the air, shouted raucous commentary on the frenzy beneath them.

  Everywhere, aliens died.

  The frightful carnage continued more than an hour. At last, hanging on his sword, gasping for breath, covered from head to foot with sticky, slimy alien gore, Dovirr paused, for there was no enemy left to smite.

  Dovirr groped inside his tunic for the Dhuchay’y amulet. Halgar?

  As if from a great distance came the weary voice of the Seaborn leader. I hear you, Dovirr.

  The battle has ended. How is it with you?

  We are still searching the sea-floor for eggs of the alien, Halgar reported.

  Excellent. Have your men bring our boats to shore.

  The Seaborn towed to the pier the flotilla of boats the Sea-Lords had left at the edge of the battle-zone. Those who had survived carried bodies of dead and wounded into the boats, seized the oars, rowed out to the waiting mother-ships a league away.

  Dovirr was the last to leave the pier. He stood ankle-deep in alien blood, looking around, feeling sorrow that Gowyn had not been with him to share in Terra’s greatest triumph.

  Night was settling over the now-peaceful scene; the moon hung glistening in the sky, and faint sprinklings of stars appeared against the black bowl of the heavens. Leaning on his sword, Dovirr looked upward.

  Somewhere out there was the home world of the Dhuchay’y. Somewhere, deep in the blackness.

  Dovirr smiled. Perhaps it was not for him, nor for his children, nor for his children’s children—but the ultimate battle was yet to be fought. Up there—out on the homeland of the star-marauders.

  In the meanwhile, he knew the alliance between Seaborn and land-man would have to be strengthened. Neither could have thrown back the alien horde without the other; together, they had been triumphant.

  Kubril stood at his side. The First Officer smiled. “The boat is waiting,” he said.

  “Very well.” Limping, for an alien spear had dug into the flesh of his calf, Dovirr walked toward the boat, dreaming of a bright world of tomorrow.

  He cupped his hands. “Row to the Garyun for all you’re worth! The battle’s over; there’s tribute to be collected!”

  The Flame and the Hammer

  Chapter One

  The night the torturers of the Imperial Proconsul came to take his father away, Ras Duyair forced himself to carry out his Temple duties as usual.

  They had seized the old man just before sundown as he was about to enter the Temple. Ras heard about it from one of the acolytes, but setting his teeth determinedly, he went about his task. It had to be done. His father would not want Temple routine disturbed.

  With straining muscles, Duyair wheeled the ancient atomic cannon on the Temple wall about on its carriage and pointed it at the star-spattered sky. The snout of the antique weapon jutted menacingly from the parapet of the Temple of the Suns, but no one on Aldryne—least of all Ras—could take the cannon too seriously. It was of symbolic value only. It had not been fired in twelve hundred years.

  Ritual prescribed that it be pointed at the skies each night. Duty done, Ras turned to the obsequious acolytes of the Temple who watched him. “Has my father returned?” he demanded.

  An acolyte clad in ceremonial green said, “Not yet. He’s still under interrogation.”

  Ras angrily slapped the cool barrel of the giant gun and looked upward at the canopy of stars that decked the night sky of Aldryne. “They’ll kill him,” he muttered. “He’ll die before he’ll give up the secret of the Hammer. And then they’ll come after me.”

  And I don’t know the secret! he added silently. That was the ironic part of it. The Hammer—a myth, perhaps, out of the storehouse of antiquity. Suddenly the Empire wanted it.

  He shrugged. The Empire probably would forget all about it in a few days; Imperial people had a way of doing that. Here on Aldryne they had little to do with the Empire.

  He crouched in the firing bucket of the cannon. “Up there are ten dreadnaughts of the Imperial fleet. See them? Coming out of the Cluster at four o’clock. Now watch!” His fingers played over the impotent control panel. “Pouf! Pouf! A million megawatts at a shot! Look at those ships crumple! Watch the gun dent their screens!”

  A dry voice behind him said, “This is no time for games, Ras Duyair. We should be praying for your father.”

  Duyair turned. Standing there was Lugaur Holsp, second only to his father in the Temple hierarchy—and, standing six-three without his buskins, second only to Ras’s six-six in height among the men of the Temple of the Suns. Holsp was wiry, spidery almost, with deep shadows setting his cheekbones in high relief.

  Duyair reddened. “Ever since the age of fifteen, Lugaur, I’ve raised that cannon to the skies at nightfall. Once a day for eight years. You might forgive me a fantasy or two about it. Besides, I was just amusing myself—breaking the tension, you might say.”

  A little self-consciously he climbed out of the bucket. The acolytes seemed to be grinning at him.

  “Your levity is out of place,” Holsp said coldly. “Come within. We have to discuss this situation.”

  It had begun several weeks earlier, on Dervonar, home world of Emperor Dervon XIV and capital planet of the Galactic Empire.

  Dervon XIV was an old man; he had ruled the Empire for fifty years, and that was a terribly long time to preside over a thousand suns and ten times as many worlds.

  He had been able to rule so long because he had inherited an efficient governing machine from his father, Dervon XIII. Dervon XIII had been an adherent of the pyramid system of delegating responsibility: At the top of all was the Emperor, who had two main advisers, each of whom had two advisers, each of whom had two advisers. By the time the system reached the thirtieth or fortieth level, the chain of command spread out over billions of souls.

  Dervon XIV in an old age was a tired, shrunken little man, bald, rheumy-eyed. He was given to wearing yellow robes and to sighing, and by now his mind clung to just one idée fixe: The Empire must be preserved.

  To this end, too, were the endeavors of his two advisers bent: Barr Sepyan, Minister of the Near Worlds, and Corun Govleq, Minister of the Outer Marches. It was Govleq who came before Dervon XIV, map in hand, to tell him of trouble along the Empire’s outer rim.

  “A rebellion, sire,” he said, and waited for the aged eyes to focus on him.

  “Rebellion? Where?” There was a visible stiffening of the old Emperor’s manner; he became more commanding, more involved in his immediate surroundings, and put down the gyrotoy with which he had been diverting himself.

  “The name of the system, sire, is Aldryne, in the Ninth Decant. It is a system of seven worlds, all inhabited, once very powerful in the galacti
c scheme of things.”

  “I know the system, I think,” the Emperor said doubtfully. “What is this talk of rebellion?”

  “It springs from the third world of the system, which is named Dykran—a world chiefly given to mining and populated by a stubborn, intransigent people. They talk of rebelling against Imperial control, of paying no more taxes, of—your pardon, Grace—of somehow assassinating Your Majesty.”

  Dervon shuddered. “These out-worlders have high plans.” He picked up the gyrotoy again and spun it, peering deep into its depths, staring fixedly at the lambent kaleidoscopic light that burned there. Corun Govleq watched patiently as his master played with the toy.

  At length the Emperor lowered the gyrotoy and, picking up a crystal cube that lay at his right hand, said sharply, “Aldryne!”

  It was a command, not a statement. The crystal transmitted it instantly to the depths of the royal palace where the Keepers of the Records toiled endlessly. The Hall of Records was, in many ways, the capstone and heart of the Empire, for here were stored the facts that made it possible to govern a dominion of fifty trillion people.

  Within instants the data were on the royal desk. Dervon took the sheets and scanned them, blinking his tired eyes frequently.

  ALDRYNE—seven-world system affiliated with Empire in Year 6723 after war duration eight weeks. Formerly independent system with vassals of its own. Current population as of 7940 census, sixteen billion.

  Capital world Aldryne, population four billion, now ruled by theocracy stemming from ancient form of government. Chief among many splinter religions is a solar-worship cult whose main attraction is alleged possession of the legendary Hammer of Aldryne.

  HAMMER OF ALDRYNE—a weapon of unspecified potency now in possession of the ruling Theoarch of Aldryne, one Vail Duyair. Attributes of this weapon are unknown, but legend has it that it was forged at the time of Imperial assimilation of the Aldryne system and that, when the proper time comes, it will be used to overthrow the Empire itself.

  DYKRAN—second most populous world of the Aldryne system, inhabited by some three billions. A harsh world, infertile, chiefly supported by mining operations. A tax rebellion there in 7106 was quelled with loss of fourteen million Dykranian lives. Dykranian loyalty to Empire has always been considered extremely questionable.

  Emperor Dervon XIV looked up from the abstract of the report on the Aldryne system. “This Dykran—this is the world that rebels? Not the name world Aldryne?”

  “No, sire. Aldryne remains calm. Dykran is the only world of the system that rebels.”

  “Odd. The name world of a system is usually the first to go.” Frowns furrowed Dervon’s forehead. “But I venture a guess that they won’t be long in joining if the Dykranians make any headway in their rebellion.”

  The Emperor was silent for a long while. Minister Corun Govleq remained in a position of obloquy, body bent slightly forward at the waist, waiting. He knew that behind the old man’s faded eyes lay the brain of a master strategist. One had to be a master strategist, Govleq reflected, to hold the Imperium for fifty years in these troubled times.

  At length the Emperor said, “I have a plan, Corun. One which may save us much future difficulty with the Aldryne system and particularly with the name world.”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “This semilegendary Hammer the name world has—the thing that’s supposed to overthrow us all when the time comes? I don’t like the sound of that. Suppose,” Dervon suggested slowly, “suppose we get our Proconsul on Aldryne to confiscate this Hammer, if it actually exists. Then we use the Hammer itself to devastate the rebellious Dykranians. What better psychological blow could we deal the entire system?”

  Corun Govleq smiled. “Masterful, sire. I had merely thought we could despatch three or four cruisers to level Dykran—but this is much better. Much better!”

  “Good. Notify the Proconsul on Dykran of what we’re doing, and ask our man on Aldryne to find the Hammer. Have them both report back to me regularly. And if there are any other problems today, solve them yourself. I have a headache.”

  “My sympathies, sire,” Corun Govleq said.

  As he backed out of the Imperial presence, he saw the old man lift the gyro-toy and peer once again into its soothing, mysterious center.

  The Emperor’s word traveled down the long chain of command, from functionary to functionary, from bureau to bureau, until at length, a good many days later, it reached the ears of Fellamon Darhuel, Imperial Proconsul for Aldryne of the Aldryne system.

  Darhuel was a peaceful, philosophical man who much preferred translating ancient poetry into the Five Tongues of the Galaxy to collecting taxes from the sullen people of Aldryne. He had only one consolation in his job: that he had drawn Aldryne for his assignment and not the bleak neighbor world of Dykran where the malcontents spoke up loudly and the Proconsul’s life was ever in danger.

  The Hammer of Aldryne? He shrugged when the message crystal delivered its burden. The Hammer was a legend, and one that did the Empire no credit, either. Now the good Emperor wanted it?

  Very well, Fellamon Darhuel agreed. The Emperor’s word could hardly be ignored. He summoned his subprefect, a slim Sobralian youngster named Deevog Hoth, and said, “Order up a squad of men and take a jaunt over to the Temple of the Suns. We’re going to have to make an arrest.”

  “Certainly. Who’s the pickup?”

  “Vail Duyair,” the Proconsul said.

  Deevog Hoth recoiled. “Vail Duyair? The high priest? What goes?”

  “It becomes necessary to interrogate Vail Duyair,” Darhuel said blandly. “Bring him to me.”

  Frowning in mystification, Deevog Hoth made a gesture of assent and departed.

  Less than an hour later—he was a punctual man—he returned, bringing with him Vail Duyair.

  The old priest looked as if he had given them a hard time. His green robe was rent in several places, his white hair was uncoifed, and the sunburst insigne at his throat was hanging slightly askew. He faced Darhuel defiantly and said, “For what reason do you interrupt evening services, Proconsul?”

  Fellamon Darhuel flinched before the old man’s stern gaze. He answered, “There are questions that must be asked. There are those who would have you reveal the Hammer of Aldryne.”

  “The Hammer of Aldryne is no concern of the Empire’s at this stage,” Vail Duyair said slowly. “It will be … some day. Not now.”

  “By order of His Majesty Dervon XIV, Emperor of All the Galaxies,” Darhuel said sonorously, “I am empowered to interrogate you until you yield to me the location and secret of the Hammer. Be reasonable, Duyair; I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  With great dignity the priest straightened his hair and rearranged the platinum insigne. “The Hammer is not for the Emperor’s command. The Hammer will some day crush the Emperor’s skull.”

  Fellamon Darhuel scowled. “Come on, old man. Enough oratory. What’s the Hammer, and where’s it kept?”

  “The Hammer is not for the Emperor’s command,” Duyair repeated stonily.

  The Proconsul drew a deep breath. His interrogators were not subtle men; the priest would surely not live through the treatment. But what choice did he have?

  His nervous fingers caressed the vellum manuscript of Gonaidan Sonnets he had been studying. He was anxious to return to his work.

  Sighing regretfully, he pushed the communicator stud on his desk, and when the blue light flashed, said, “Have the interrogator come up here, will you?”

  Chapter Two

  Later that night a long dark car drew up before the Temple and waited there, turbo-electric engines thrumming, while the body of Vail Duyair was brought inside. As silently as they came, the men of the Proconsul left, having delivered the corpse to the priests of the Temple.

  The old man was committed to the pyre with full ritual; Lugaur Holsp, as ranking priest, presided and offered the blessings due a martyr. When the service was over, he shut off the atomic blast of the cremat
orium and dismissed the gathered priests and acolytes.

  The next morning Ras Duyair was awakened by the forceful arm of an acolyte.

  Sleepily he said, “What do you want?”

  “Lugaur Holsp summons you to a Convocation, Ras Duyair!”

  Duyair yawned. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  When he entered the Inner Room of the Temple, Holsp was seated at the High Seat garbed in ceremonial robes. At his right and left sat the ranking priests of the hierarchy, Thubar Frin and Helmat Sorgvoy. Duyair paused before the triumvirate and automatically made the genuflection due a High Priest in ceremonial garb.

  “Are you, then, my father’s successor?” he asked.

  Lugaur Holsp nodded solemnly. “By a decision rendered early this morning. The workings of the Temple shall continue as before. There are some questions we must ask you, Ras.”

  “Go ahead,” Duyair said.

  “Your father died for refusing to yield the secret of the Hammer.” A skeptical note crept into Holsp’s cold voice. “You were closer to your father than any of us. Did he ever admit to you actually being in possession of the secret?”

  “Of course. Many times.”

  Lugaur Holsp’s eyes grew beady. “It was his conviction, was it not, that the secret of the Hammer should reside always with the High Priest of this Temple. Am I right?”

  “You are,” Duyair admitted, wondering what Holsp was driving at.

  “The incumbent High Priest, who is myself, is not in possession of this secret. It is my opinion that the true secret of the Hammer is that there is no secret—and no Hammer! That it is a carefully fostered myth which the priesthood of this Temple has nurtured for centuries and which was so important to your father that he died rather than reveal its mythical nature.”

  “That’s a lie,” Duyair said promptly. “Of course the Hammer exists! You, the High Priest of this Temple, doubting that?”

  Duyair saw Holsp exchange glances with the two silent priests flanking him. Then Holsp said: “I am relieved to know this. The late Vail Duyair must, then, have made provisions for transference of possession of the secret.”