Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  He was in the gully now, between Temple and palace. Snakelike, he crawled under the shadow of the bridge to its farther end, where he peered cautiously around an abutment.

  The trampled gardens were full of city and Temple guards, whose watchfires ringed the palace. He saw the light agleam on spears and swords and armor, and had time to wonder if he would ever make it past them.

  But he had to try. He drew a deep breath, tightened his muscles, and ran.

  Like a flying arrow he ran, noiseless on bare feet, and none saw him before he was hugged against a low thorn-tree near one of the fires. Up it he went, wincing as the thorns raked him, and slipped along a branch almost overhanging the blaze.

  He caught a snatch of muttered conversation. "—when they finish those siege engines, down the palace goes. But the Household will be out like a swam of stinger asts. I don't relish fighting the best swords in Valkarion."

  "No, but we outnumber them."

  "My cousin is in there. I hate to think of—"

  Alfric sprang! He soared from his perch and crashed into the chest of the man he had picked. The guard went down in a clang of armor and dry snap of breaking ribs. Alfric snatched his spear and jabbed it through the groin of another. Through that gap, then, he raced, low and zigzag among the bushes.

  The siege line roared. The air was suddenly thick with spears and arrows. Alfric felt one rake his leg, and cursed between gasps. To the palace!

  "Open!" he howled. "Open, let me by, in the name of the Empress!"

  If the garrison took this for a ruse and shot him, it was all over. He plunged up the long staircase, past the crouching carven sphinxes of the Empire. The doors had been broken down in the first assault, but the Imperials had put up a barricade. He saw steel flash as he neared it.

  "Hildaborg!" he bawled. "Live the Empress!"

  They held their fire. He fell under the barricade while their arrows hummed overhead. The disorderly Temple pursuit broke into retreat, back out of bowshot.

  Alfric climbed over the barricade into the great palace ante-chamber. Its golden glory was gutted by fighting, splashed with dry blood, the tapestries in rags and the furniture splintered. Dead men and wounded lay side by side against the walls, under the ancient murals of the Empire's greatness. A dozen tall cuirassiers in gold and purple uniforms—now torn and bloodstained —stood waiting for him. Their spears and swords, axes and bows were at the ready, their haggard faces bleak with suspicion.

  "Who are you?" demanded the captain. "What is this?"

  "I am Alfric of Aslak—" panted the newcomer.

  "A barbarian—the barbarian—" the outlander of the prophecy—" They hefted their weapons, eyes narrowing, mouths drawing into taut lines.

  "I am with Hildaborg, against the Temple," said Alfric. "'Twas with my help she escaped their net. Now she leads all of us to overthrow her foes."

  "How do we know you speak truth?" snapped the captain.

  "You'll know it when I lead you out against the Temple!"

  "Out—to be cut down by thrice our number? Go to!"

  "They'll have more to worry about than us," said Alfric. In hard brief words, he told them the plan.

  At the end of it, the tall captain clapped his shoulder and said in a voice suddenly warm: "That is a tale whose truth we can see for ourselves, when the Empress' folk come up against the Temple. So I'll believe it, for one. I am Ganimos of the Imperial Household. Welcome, Alfric of Aslak!"

  The barbarian nodded, too weary for speechmaking. "Give me some water and wine and a little to eat," he said. "I'll wash, refresh myself, and be ready to go with you at the time of the uprising. If we hit the Temple from the side then, it will fall."

  But he had scarcely gotten clean, donned a guardsman's armor, and stretched himself on a couch for a moment's nap, when he heard the blare of trumpets. Ganimos burst into the room where he lay, shouting: "The Temple's men are storming us again in full force, and no help from the city in sight. Up—up and die!"

  VI

  Alfric swung to his feet, suddenly raging. "Therokos!" he growled. "I thought the devil was left dying, but someone must have found him. He knows the plan, means to thwart it by taking us before Hildaborg's force can be raised. Without us to attack from the flank, the Temple may well drive off her assault."

  Ganimos fingered his shortsword with an ominous side glance. "Unless this be some treachery of yours, barbarian—" he murmured.

  "What difference has my coming made in your actions so far?" snapped Alfric. "Were I of the enemy camp, would I have come here to fight on your side when they attacked?"

  "Aye—truth, truth. But come!" Ganimos smiled twistedly. "If this is your night of destiny as they say, Alfric, the Fates have their work cut out for them!"

  A roar of battle rose as they came out into the antechamber. Ganimos groaned. "There are too many ways into this damned building—we have to guard them all and we lost a quarter of our men the first time. If the Temple men assault one point in strength, they'll be inside!"

  "Let them!" blazed Alfric. His eyes were like green fire under the swaying crystal candelabra. "Send messengers to all entrances, Ganimos—tell the men there to retreat, firing the palace to hinder pursuit. We'll gather all our forces here—"

  "Burn the palace?" cried the guardsman. "I swore to defend it!"

  "You swore to defend the Imperial family too, didn't you? If we can't get outside to help the Empress, you'll be a hell of a use to her! Now go!"

  There was no gainsaying the wild power which blazed in the northerner. Ganimos went, shouting. Alfric swung joyously to the barricade, lifting the battle ax he had taken in preference to a shortsword.

  The archers and spearmen were sending forth a deadly hail, but they could not halt the enemy charge. Alfric saw that there was cavalry coming against the main entrance, with foot soldiers behind. If they got over or through the flimsy barrier—

  "Spears!" he roared. "Spearmen, hold firm!"

  He led the way to the barricade top and ranked his guardsmen—they were his now, he was again master of war and equal of kings—in a tight line, with spears braced outward. "Now hold!" he shouted. "Hold, for the sake of Ruho!"

  The hengists thundered up the stairs, across the portico, against and up the sides of the barricade in a living wave. For a moment battle raged. The heap of wood and stone chunks broke some of the speed of the charge, but still it shocked against the spear line with a fury that trembled in the walls. Metal clanged, men shouted, hengists screamed in a boiling tide of struggle. Alfric saw a spearman fall, spitted on a lance. He snatched the shaft and thrust it into the throat of the hengist breaking through—with all his straining force he rammed it home, and steed and rider tumbled back.

  The cavalry broke, hengists bucking, refusing to hit that gleaming line again. The Temple infantry line scattered as the maddened animals trampled into it. Householders were streaming into the antechamber, and Alfric's nostrils quivered to the first acrid whiffs of smoke. With a burning palace behind them, the Imperials need have less fear of an attack from the rear.

  "The infantry will be up against us in a moment," panted Ganimos.

  "Aye, we'd better charge out while they're still disorganized," said Alfric. "We'll assault the Temple itself. And pray your Moons help comes ere we're cut down!"

  "We'll die like men, anyway," said Ganimos, "not like beasts in a trap. Thank you for that. Stranger."

  "Then—hai, Hildaborg!" Alfric plunged over the barricade.

  The Household guards followed, a wave that formed into a wedge and plunged across the gardens. The finest warriors of Valkarion hit the wavering Temple forces like a spear going home.

  Ax and sword! Spear and arrow! Clang and roar of metal, whirring weapons, rushing blood —shouts and curses, screams, deep-throated oaths —death unchained in the gardens of Valkarion!

  Alfric led the way at the point of the wedge, smiting, smiting. No man could stand before his raging fury—his ax was a dazzle and thunder before him.
Hewing, hewing, he led the Household forth..

  "Hildaborg! Hai, Hildaborg!" The war cry shouted over the hills, rang in echoes with the clamor of metal and shock of combat. "Hildaborg!"

  These Householders fought like demons, thought Alfric dimly as he struck at the faces and bodies which loomed briefly out of night and shadow into the red dance of fire. How they fought! But —Ruho, if he only had a levy of Aslakan axmen behind him now!

  They won through to the bridge—through and over, in a dash that drove the few guards before it like dry leaves before a gale. Alfric turned gasping to Ganimos. "Hold the bridge," he said. "As soon as we're all over, hold the bridge. That'll protect our rear from cavalry—hengists can't go through that steep gully. And when the foot soldiers have gathered enough wits to come after us that way, you can throw spears down on top of them."

  "Aye, your majesty." The title came without thought to the soldier's lips, as he saluted and turned to hail a squad to stay with him.

  Alfric led the assault of the rest on the Temple. There were fewer guards on this side of the gully. He hewed at one and felt the shock of the splitting skull through his arms and shoulders, rattling his teeth. Howling, he yanked the weapon free and brought it up to knock aside a sword-thrust and beat the foeman to earth.

  Back the Household drove the guards, back to the scowling walls of the Temple. Weird battle, in darkness and cold, with the moons and the great rising flames for fitful illumination. Strange, to trade blows with men who were only red highlights against the roaring night. For a timeless interval, it was all clamor and death and flying steel.

  But the Household was being carved away —man after man fell—and now the palace besiegers were streaming through the gully, Ganimos and his squad cut off on the bridge—hai, Hildaborg, it had been a lovely fight but it was nearing its end.

  Alfric looked up at the mighty sky, and he saw the majestic shield of Dannos slip over Amaris. Her light was cut off, the hill-top grew dimmer —the Moons were mated.

  "0 Hildaborg, if only—"

  He looked along the wall, against which he now had his back, and saw the torches which swept up the hill, saw the dark mass of humanity and heard its beast cry for blood. And his heart leaped into his throat, and he laughed aloud under Dannos, for here was life again.

  "Hai, Hildaborg!" he roared.

  The remaining troopers heard him and lifted their weary heads to see. They answered his cry, then, and hewed a way to where he stood. And now the dismayed Temple forces were breaking —the Household swept along the walls toward the Temple gates.

  Battle raged there, as the rebel guards and the blood-howling mob bore down on the garrison. Fire was already licking at the rafters where flame arrows had struck; the Temple would soon stand aflame even as the palace was burning, as the Empire was burning and sundering. The two pillars of Valkarion were crashing to earth, and what would be left when they were gone?

  By the leaping fire-blaze, Alfric saw the torn and trampled bodies of priests and slaves. He recognized one battered face and stooped over for a closer look. Therokos lay dead. His wound somehow bandaged and braced, his body cased in armor, he lay where he had fallen.

  Well, the High Priest had been a brave man in his way—Alfric gave him warrior's salute and passed on to join the fight.

  An armored figure astride a great warhengist was leading the charge. Even without hearing that lovely voice crying its challenge, Alfric would have known her. He sprang forward, crying out, and seized the bridle, pulling her aside just as the gate defense broke and the attackers burst into the Temple.

  "I told you to stay in a safe place!" he raged. Huge and bloodsmeared, his lean face painted red by the rising fires, his eyes like green ice in the moonlight, he stood looking up at her.

  Hildaborg laughed. "You're still a poor fool, Alfric," she said. "Could I stay at home while you were fighting for me?"

  She took off her helmet. Her dark hair streamed down over his face as she leaned forward to kiss him.

  In the sky, Dannos swept past Amaris and swung eastward toward the horizon.

  Dawn came, chill and gray, full of weariness and the sobbing of women. Alfric stood leaning on a spear, atop the flat roof of Bronnes the merchant, and looked out over the city. A leather cloak hung from his broad shoulders against the thin bitter dawn-wind. His face was drawn into bleak lines.

  To him came Hildaborg, lovely in the cold colorless light, her unbound locks floating in the breeze. He looked at her in a vague wonder as to how many women she really was. The passionate lover of the tavern, the haughty queen who had faced the captive guard and the captor priest, the wild war-goddess of the battle—and now this girl, slim and fair and mysterious, with wind-cooled cheeks and a secret laughter behind her eyes —which was the real one? Or were they all Hildaborg? And would he ever know?

  She touched his arm. "We've won," she whispered.

  "Aye—won," said Alfric tiredly. "Won what? The Temple is down, but so is the palace, and there's still riot and looting in the city."

  "It will pass. Victory was dearly bought, but now it is ours. And you, Alfric, are ruler of Valkarion."

  "I—a heathen outlander?"

  "After last night, the Household and the guards will follow you to hell and back. And the rest—"she smiled shyly—"will follow me, who follow you myself."

  "A big task. Too big, perhaps, for the son of an Aslakan peasant." Alfric smiled crookedly down at Hildaborg. "Tis more for you, who are born a queen. Best I continue my travels."

  "The queen," she said firmly, "needs a king. You have come to the end of your wandering, Alfric." She laughed, a clear beautiful sound in the quiet morning. "You have no choice, my dear. The Sibyl grudgingly admits that the Fortieth Dynasty, 'sons of the heathen,' will be among the greatest. But how can you have sons without—"

  Alfric grinned. "I surrender," he said. "Who am I to challenge the Fates?" Down in the street a hengist, escaped from his owner in the rioting, whinnied his greeting to the early sun.

  LORD OF A THOUSAND SUNS

  "Yes, you'll find almost anything man has ever imagined, somewhere out in the Galaxy," I said. "There are so damned many millions of planets, and such a fantastic variety of surface conditions and of life evolving to meet them, and of intelligence and civilization appearing in that life. Why, I've been on worlds with fire-breathing dragons, and on worlds where dwarfs fought things that could pass for the goblins our mothers used to scare us with, and on a planet where a race of witches lived—telepathic pseudohypnosis, you know—oh, I'll bet there's not a tall story or fairy tale ever told which doesn't have some kind of counterpart somewhere in the universe."

  Laird nodded. "Uh-huh," he answered, in that oddly slow and soft voice of his. "I once let a genie out of a bottle."

  "Eh? What happened?"

  "It killed me."

  I opened my mouth to laugh, and then took a second glance at him and shut it again. He was just too dead-pan serious about it. Not poker-faced, the way a good actor can be when he's slipping over a tall one—no, there was a sudden misery behind his eyes, and somehow it was mixed with the damnedest cold humor.

  I didn't know Laird very well. Nobody did. He was out most of the time on Galactic Survey, prowling a thousand eldritch planets never meant for human eyes. He came back to the Solar System more rarely and for briefer visits than anyone else in his job, and had less to say about what he had found.

  A huge man, six-and-a-half feet tall, with dark aquiline features and curiously brilliant greenish-grey eyes, middle-aged now though it didn't show except at the temples. He was courteous enough to everyone, but shortspoken and slow to laugh. Old friends, who had known him thirty years before when he was the gayest and most reckless officer in the Solar Navy, thought something during the Revolt had changed him more than any psychologist would admit was possible. But he had never said anything about it, merely resigning his commission after the war and going into Survey.

  We were sitting alone in a corner
of the lounge. The Lunar branch of the Explorers' Club maintains its building outside the main dome of Selene Center, and we were sitting beside one of the great windows, drinking Centaurian sidecars and swapping the inevitable shop-talk. Even Laird indulged in that, though I suspected more because of the information he could get than for any desire of companionship.

  Behind us, the long quiet room was almost empty. Before us, the window opened on the raw magnificence of moonscape, a sweep of crags and cliffs down the crater wall to the riven black plains, washed in the eerie blue of Earth's light. Space blazed above us, utter black and a million sparks of frozen flame.

  "Come again?" I said—

  He laughed, without much humor. "I might as well tell you," he said. "You won't believe it, and even if you did it'd make no difference. Sometimes I tell the story—alcohol makes me feel like it— I start remembering old times . ."

  He settled farther back in his chair. "Maybe it wasn't a real genie," he went on. "More of a ghost, perhaps. That was a haunted planet. They were great a million years before man existed on Earth. They spanned the stars and they knew things the present civilization hasn't even guessed at. And then they died. Their own weapons swept them away in one burst of fire, and only broken ruins were left—ruins and desert, and the ghost who lay waiting in that bottle.''

  I signalled for another round of drinks, wondering what he meant, wondering just how sane that big man with the worn rocky face was. Still—you never know. I've seen things out beyond that veil of stars which your maddest dreams never hinted at. I've seen men carried home mumbling and empty-eyed, the hollow cold of space filling their brains where something had broken the thin taut wall of their reason. They say spacemen are a credulous breed. Before Heaven, they have to be!

  "You don't mean New Egypt?" I asked.

  "Stupid name. Just because there are remnants of a great dead culture, they have to name it after an insignificent valley of ephemeral peasants. I tell you, the men of Vwyrdda were like gods, and when they were destroyed whole suns were darkened by the forces they used. Why, they killed off Earth's dinosaurs in a day, millions of years ago, and only used one ship to do it."