Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  Hildaborg smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guard as she had said. Then she turned to Alfric. "You are hard of heart," she murmured, "but perhaps Valkarion needs one like you, strong and ruthless." Her deep eyes glowed. How you fought, Alfric! How you fought"

  The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. "I've had enough," he growled. "I've been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, I've been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone want—" he laughed humorlessly— "besides our heads?"

  "The prophecy—it is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfric. It was made I know not how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, at the time of the Empire's greatest glory. There was a half-mad priestess who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believed—what could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold. Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who use the book to guide their policies."

  "Hmmmm— I wonder. I've no great faith in spaedom myself."

  "These prophecies are true, Alfric! Now and again they have erred, but I think that is simply because the songs had become garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the Book has been written anew by time's own pen." Hildaborg slipped a guardsman's tunic over her slim form. Her eyes were half-shut, dreaming. "They say the Sibyl was loved by Dannos, who gave her the gift of prophecy, and that Amaris jealously decreed she should foretell evil oftener than good. But a wise man at court, who had read much of the almost forgotten science of the ancients, told me he thought the prophecies could be explained rationally. He said sometimes the mind can slip forward along the—the world line, he called it, the body's path through a space and time that are one space-time. Sometimes, he said, one can 'remember' the future. He said the Sibyl's mind could have followed the world lines of her descendants too, thus traveling many ages ahead ... but be that as it may, she spaed truly, and her prophecy of tonight is of—you!"

  The warrior shook his dark head, feeling a sudden eerie weight of destiny. "What was the tale?" he whispered. The wind whipped the words from his mouth and whirled them down the empty street.

  Hildaborg stood while he buckled the corselet on her, and her voice rose in a weird chant that sang raggedly across the ruined buildings, under the stars and the two flying moons. Even Alfric's hardy soul was shaken by the omnious words, his hands trembling ever so faintly as he worked.

  "Woe, woe to Dannos and to Amaris and to those who serve them, cry woe on Valkarion and the world! The Thirty-ninth Dynasty shall end on the night when Dannos weds again with Amaris; winds shall howl in the streets and bear away his soul. Childless shall the Emperor die, the Imperial line shall die with him, and a stranger shall sit in the high throne of Valkarion.

  "He shall come riding alone and friendless, riding a gray hengist into Valkarion, on the evening of that night. A heathen from the north is he, a worshipper of the wind and the stars, a storm which shall blow out the last guttering candles of the Empire. From the boundless wastes of the desert shall he ride, ruin and darkness in his train, and the last long night of the Empire will fall when he comes.

  "Woe, Dannos, your temple will stand in flames when the heathen king is come! Woe, Mother Amaris, he will defile your holy altars and break them down! Gods themselves must die, their dust will whirl on the breath of his wind-god, the last blood of the Empire will be swallowed by the thirsty desert.

  "Woe, for the heathen night which falls! Woe, for the bitter gray dawn which follows! The Moons of the Empire have set, and an alien sun rides baleful over Valkarion."

  There was silence after that, save for the hooting of wind and the thin dry whisper of blowing sand. Dannos swung higher, a pale cold eye in the frosty heavens. Alfric clamped his teeth together and finished the disguise.

  The armor and clothing were strained on his tall form, ill-fitting, but with the cloak draped over, and the helmet shadowing his face, he should pass muster. Under the cloak, across his back, he had his broadsword—these short southern stabbers were no good.

  Hildaborg was better fitted. Slim and boyish in the shining steel, her long hair tucked under the crested helm, spear carried proudly erect, she seemed a young goodess of war. Alfric thought dizzily that no such woman had ever crossed even his dreams.

  He hid the corpses in the ruins and they started down the street together. "We'll try to work through the line of siege, into the palace," he said. "Once we're with your troops, something may still be done."

  "I doubt it. They are brave men, but few —few." Her voice was bitter.

  "If we can—" Alfric sank into thought for a while. Then suddenly he said: "Now I know why the priests are after me. But what of you? Where do you come into this picture?"

  "I knew about the prophecy," she replied. "Also, I knew what my fate was likely to be when Aureon died. The Temple and the Imperium, ostensibly the two pillars of the Empire, have long been struggling for power. Each side has its warriors and spies, its adherents among the nobles and commons—oh, the last several generations have been a weary tale of intrigue, murder, corruption, with first one side and now another on top. The Temple wants a figurehead Emperor, the Imperium wants a subservient priesthood—well, you know the story."

  "Aye. A sorry one. It should be ended with the sword. Wipe both miserable factions out and start anew."

  She looked curiously at him. "So the Sibyl was not wrong," she muttered. "The heathen come out of the north with destruction alike for the Empire and the gods."

  "Luigur take it, I don't care about Valkarion! Not even enough to destroy it. I only want to save my own neck." His hand stroked her arm, softly. "And yours. But go on."

  "The Thirty-ninth Dynasty was the last family with any pretensions to even a trace of the legendary Imperial blood, the line of Dannos himself. And Aureon was the last of them—his sons slain in war, himself an old man without relatives. The Imperial line had been weakening and dying for generations—inbred, enfeebled, degenerate, the blood of Dannos running thinner in each new birth. Aureon had sense enough to take a second wife of different stock—myself, princess of Choredon. Thereby he gained a valuable ally for Valkarion—but no children, and now he is dead." Hildaborg sighed. "So the Imperium is gone, the Temple is the sole power, and a strong and unscrupling High Priest rules Valkarion. I think the Priest, Therokos, intends to proclaim Valkarion a theocarcy with himself as the head. But first, for reasons of politics and personal hatred, he must get rid of me."

  "Why should he hate you?"

  Hildaborg smiled twistedly. "He disapproves of barbarians, and my mother was from Valmannstad. He disapproves of my laxness in religious matters. He knows I stand between him and absolute power. I gave Aureon strength to oppose him and thwarted many of his measures. The commons think well of me, I have done what I could to improve their lot, and he hates any hold on Valkarion's soul other than his own.

  "I knew that with Aureon dead and no heir of the blood, Therokos would feel free to strike. I could not hope to match him for long, especially since the law is that no woman may rule in Valkarion. My one chance seemed to lie in the new conqueror who was to come. Yet I could not approach him openly—the Temple spies were everywhere, and anyway the prophecy was that he would be a destroying fury, worse perhaps than the priests. I had to sound him out first, and secretly.

  "So I put a trustworthy guards-captain in charge of the gate today, with instructions to direct the stranger to the Falkh and Firedrake. The landlord there was paid to make sure you would stay, and would take the room where I was in my guise of tavern girl.

  "So you came. But now it seems the priests were ware to my plan. They have acted swifter than I thought, striking instantly at my men—I expected at least a few days o
f truce. And I played into their hands by thus cutting myself off from all help. Now they need only hunt us down and kill us."

  "'Twill take some doing," growled Alfric. "Ha, we may yet pull their cursed temple down about their shaven skulls!"

  "And so the prophecy would be fulfilled—you would blow out the last dim flicker of light—" She stopped, staring at him, and her voice came slowly : "Valkarion, the last citadel of civilization, the last hope of the dying world, to be wasted by a heathen bandit—perhaps the priests are right, Alfric of Aslak. Perhaps you should die."

  "Luigur take your damned prophecy!" he snarled.

  They stood tautly facing each other in the thin chill moonlight. The wind blew and blew, whining between the empty ruins of houses, blowing the dust of their erosion along the empty street.

  "I know your old Imperial towns," said Alfric savagely. "I've seen them, moldering shells, half the place deserted because the population has shrunk so far—wearily dreaming of a dead past, grubbing up the old works and sitting with noses buried in the old books, while robbers howl in the deserts and thieving politicians loot the treasury. Year by year, the towns crumble, bridges fall, canals dry up, people grow fewer—and nobody cares. A world is blowing away in red dust, and nobody stirs to help. By the winds of Ruho, it's about time someone pulled down that tottering wreck you call Imperial civilization! It's about time we forgot the past and started thinking—and doing—something about the present. The man who burns Valkarion will be doing the world a service!"

  Silence, under the wind and the stars and the two moons marching toward their union. Hildaborg hefted her spear until the point gleamed near Alfric's throat.

  He sneered, out of bitterness and despair and a sudden longing for her lips. "Don't try to stick me with that toy. You saw what happened to the guards."

  "And you would kill me?" Her voice was all at once desolate; she dropped the spearhead to the ground.

  "No. But I would leave you—no, by the Holy Well, I wouldn't. But I'd leave the damned city." He stepped forward, laying his hands on her mailed shoulders, and his voice rang with sudden earnestness. "Hildaborg, that is your answer. No need to stay in this place of death. We can steal hengists and bluff our way past the gates and be in the hills ere dawn. If you fear for Valkarion at my hands, leave it—leave it to rot and come with me."

  "Come—where?"

  "Home, back to Aslak. Back to the blue hills and the windy trees and the little lakes dancing in the sun—to an open heaven and a wide land and free folk who look you honestly in the eye. Luigur take the Empire, as he will whatever we do." He laughed, a joyous sound echoing in the night. "We'll build our own stead and live as freefolk and raise a dozen tall sons. Hildaborg, let's go!"

  For a moment she stood silent. When she spoke, her voice trembled a little, and the moonlight glinted off tears in her eyes.

  "I love you for it, Alfric, and gladly would go. But Therokos is besieging the palace—he is gathering in all who ever spoke well of me . . . shall my friends be hanged and burned and hacked to bits, and I safe in Aslak?"

  "You're a fool. What could you do for them?"

  "Die. But this is no quarrel of yours, Alfric. If you wish, go, and I shall not think of the less of you. Go—my dearest—"

  He laughed again, and kissed her for a very long moment. "You are a fool and a madwoman, and I love you for that," he said. "Come—we can still show these priests the color of steel!"

  IV

  They trotted rapidly along the ways, their mail clanking. Erelong they were out of the deserted district and approaching the central forum.

  It seethed with people. All Valkarion seemed to be out tonight, moving slowly, aimlessly, under the compulsion of a nameless fear. The town buzzed with voices, low, secretive, and the shuffle of thousands of feet under the lamps and the bobbing torches. High over the muted tumult, blown on the harrying wind, chant and gong-beat came from the Temple.

  Alfric and Hildaborg pushed their way through the milling, murmuring tide. The unease, the rising wave of fear, was like a tangible force; the northerner's skin prickled with it. Eyes, thousands of eyes, shifting and staring out of pale faces—the city was full of eyes.

  He heard a voice as he came to the edge of the great plaza. Thrusting forward, the tall barbarian looked over the heads of the crowd. There was a rostrum, surrounded by a tight ring of Temple guards, and from atop it a robed priest was haranguing the throng.

  "—the Dynasty is dead, and the wrath of the Moons lies heavy over Valkarion. Woe to the world, for the heathen fiend, the scourge of Dannos, is loose!

  "Yet I bring hope—aye, from all-merciful Mother Amaris I bring cheer in this darkest hour. There is time, still time to seize the barbarian ere his power grows. There is still time, too, to seize and disown the half-caste witch Hildaborg. There is time to submit to the wise rule of the Temple, that the High Priest may intercede with All-father Dannos. Repent and be forgiven—destroy the evilworkers who brought this trouble on you, and the Mating of the Moons will yet bring forth a new birth of hope!"

  Alfric grew aware of the muttering about him—the commons of Valkarion, laborer, artisan, merchant, peasant, turning thought over and growling it to his neighbor.

  "—an ill choice, to see the city ruined or bow to the shavepates."

  "I am afraid. The Moons are high and bitter bright now, they are looking down on us. I am afraid."

  "'Twas Hildaborg who lowered the taxes. 'Twas Hildaborg, and not dotard Aureon or thieving Therokos, who whipped the army into shape and beat off the Savonnian invaders. What has the Temple ever done for us, save milk us for our tithes and frighten our babes with stories of godly wrath?"

  "Hush! The Moons are watching!"

  "Hildaborg is beautiful, she is like a goddess as she rides through the streets and smiles on us. Amaris herself is not more beautiful."

  "The Temple is holy."

  "The priests burned my brother for sorcery. He had one of the old books, that is all; he tried to build the machine it told of—and they burned him."

  "They have enough old books themselves. They sit on all the wisdom of the ancients, and none of us can so much as read."

  "The Fates are abroad tonight. I am afraid."

  "My son is in the Household. They're after his skin—he'll hang if he isn't dead already—unless—"

  "Aye, my son is in the city guards. They told him to go hunt down the stranger and the Empress—the Empress!—and off he went." A grim chuckle. "But I think he is sitting quietly in some corner, waiting."

  "There is an old battle ax at home. My grandfather bore it in the Rurian war. I think I could still swing it if need be."

  "I am afraid—"

  Alfric smiled, a steely grimace in the shadow of his visor, and led the way onward.

  But he was not to pass easily. He thrust aside a burly peasant, who turned on him with a snarl. "Mind your manners, guardsman! Is't not enough you should be traitor to the Empress?"

  "Aye, the city guards have sat about drinking and gaming and making the streets unsafe for our daughters," said another man harshly. "They didn't get off their fat butts till this chance came to go yapping after Hildaborg."

  Alfric tried to shoulder past the ring of angry folk who gathered. "Aside!" he called. "Aside, or I use my spear!"

  "Mind your manners, guardsman," grinned the peasant. He came closer, and Alfric smelled the wine on his breath. "What say we have a little fun with these priest-lovers, comrades? Will they squeal when we pummel 'em?"

  Alfric's fist shot out like a ball of iron. There was a dull smack, and the pleasant flew back against the man behind. The barbarian flailed out with his spear butt, and the crowd gave way.

  "Through!" he muttered to Hildaborg. "Quick, we have to get away."

  "They're our friends," she whispered frantically. "Can't we reveal—"

  "And bring the guard down on this unarmed mob? We wouldn't last a moment. Come!"

  A stone clanged against the girl's helmet.
She staggered, half collapsing into Alfric's arms. The crowd growled, beast-like, and shoved in closer.

  "Aside!" shouted Alfric. "Make way, or the curse of the Moons is on you!"

  "You talk like a priest," said a laborer thickly. He lifted a heavy billet of wood. "On them, boys! Kill them!"

  Alfric laid the half-stunned girl on the ground, stood over her, and drew his broadsword. "An outlander!" shouted someone, back in the sea of shadowy, torch-lit, hating faces. "A mercenary, hunting our empress!"

  The mob surged against him. He thrust around with the sword, striking to disable but not to kill—though he'd slay if he had to, he thought desperately.

  Stones were flying. One hit him on the cheek. Pain knifed through his head. "Hai, Ruho!" he roared, and banged a skull. The mob edged away a little. Eyes and teeth gleamed white in the bloody torchlight.

  A trumpet-blast sounded, harsh and arrogant over the rising voices. Someone screamed. Alfric saw spears aloft, steel gleaming red—a squad of guardsmen to the rescue.

  The rescue! He groaned, lifted Hildaborg, and sought to retreat through the crowd.

  Too late. The guards were hacking a bloody way through the mob; it scattered in panic and the squad was there.

  "Just in time," panted its chief. "The folk are ugly. They've killed a dozen guardsmen already, to my knowledge, a couple of priests, I don't know how many Temple slaves—Dannos smite the blasphemers!"

  "Thanks." Alfric set the reviving girl on her feet. "Now I have to go—special mission, urgent—"

  The chief looked sharply at him. "You have a barbarous accent," he said slowly, "and you're no Valkariona. Who—"

  Hildaborg groaned, stirring back to consciousness. "Alfric—"

  "A boy—no—" The officer stepped forth. Hildaborg's lovely face turned toward the light, and he gasped. "She—"

  Alfric picked up his spear and hurled it through the chief's throat. Then he lifted his dripping sword and stood by Hildaborg, waiting for the end.