The Forever Hero

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “My reasons should not concern you.”

  “Your reasons are your reasons.” He turned and closed the door, slipping the heavy bolt into place and shielding the action with his body.

  For whatever obscure reason, she reminded him of another woman from the past, a copper-haired woman who had also used her, body beyond her wisdom, and paid dearly. Even though there was little physical similarity, beyond a slender waist and full breasts, the woman before him, thrusting herself at him while demanding recognition, reminded him of the earlier lady. Reminded him of her, without the subtlety, without the refinement.

  “You never answered my question.”

  “About the price?” He smiled again as he moved back toward her. The smile was both hard and amused. “No price, nor will I accept one. You pay the price from your own body and soul.”

  “Philosophy is cheap.”

  He did not contradict her, knowing this woman would not understand. How few there were who understood. How many women had there been, and how few like Caroljoy, or Faith, or Allison, or Lyr? Or even Constanza?

  His eyes looked past the woman in red, who stood, a full pout on her lips, before the built-in shelves on which rested the ancient volumes he still collected and read.

  He did not look at her, even as she shrugged her way out of the red jacket.

  Swissshhh.

  The jacket, tossed carelessly, landed on the desk, with one sleeve dangling halfway to the polished golden wood floor planks.

  Under the imported red jacket, she wore a filmy formfitting blouse, under which she wore nothing.

  The devilkid could see her nipples, nonerect, and a creamy and pampered skin beneath the gauzelike blouse. His nostrils widened as he drank in the mixed odor of excessive fragrance, woman, fear, and imported powder.

  “Sit down.”

  She turned her head toward him as he stepped into the center of the room, but did not move.

  “Sit down!”

  At his seldom-used tone of command, she sat, dropping into an old swivel in spite of herself.

  “Now listen.”

  Explaining would do no good. Neither would a gentle approach, not that he was in the mood for gentleness. Not after her attitude. Not now.

  He began the song with a near military stridency, a march-driving beat, keeping his eyes on the woman as he did. The power of the double-toned music caught her. She began to lean forward, her body moving toward him against her judgment.

  Slowly, slowly, he began to weave in the theme of betrayal, adding the notes that sounded power. He could see her breathing deepen, as the music began to reach inside her.

  She said nothing as he finished the first tune. Then, he walked over to the wall and extended the double-width pallet, spread the crimson and gray comforter.

  He walked back to her and offered his hand.

  She took it and followed his lead back to the pallet.

  “Sit here.”

  When she sat, he knelt and pulled off, first, her right boot, then her left. He turned away from her, beginning the second song.

  The second song screamed lust and power, power and lust.

  As he reached the end, trailing off the last notes, he edged back toward her, noting the raggedness of her breathing, noting how she had opened the front of the thin blouse.

  Her arms reached toward him.

  “Not yet.”

  He could feel the cruelty of his smile, and nearly laughed, ignoring the desperation in her eyes.

  He began a third tune, more demanding in its own way than the first two.

  Before he finished, her hands were on his arms, tugging him toward the pallet.

  “Please…”

  “Not yet,” he whispered between notes as he worked toward the finish of the third melody, dragging it from the depths where it had rested undisturbed for so long. His eyes glinted as he saw her remove the blouse and began to slide her nakedness from the tight trousers, her hips moving with his music.

  He barely hesitated before beginning the fourth song, the hardest one, the one that mixed power, lust, teasing, and betrayal.

  When the last note died, the woman who had worn red, who had thrust her hips and bared nipples at him, lay huddled on the corner of the raised pallet, curled into herself, even as her body shuddered to unaccustomed rhythms.

  The devilkid ran his tongue over his lips, slowly removed his tunic and trousers.

  The woman did not notice until his hand touched her shoulder.

  “Bastard…devil…” Her voice held desire, hatred, fear, and desperation.

  But she pulled him down and into her.

  His right hand pinned both hers over her head, holding her helpless, for all that she did not struggle against him, but with him.

  Finally, after long combat, her shudders lapsed. Then did he release her hands.

  The one-time devilkid watched her breathing ease as the two lay in the indirect light of the late morning, watched as her nipples relaxed, and as the hardness crept back into her face. Watched as she shook herself and sat up.

  Half-sitting on the fold-down pallet, she reached for her trousers.

  His hand disengaged hers from the clothing.

  “Once is enough, devil man. You do well. Well as I’ve had.”

  She reached again for the trousers.

  This time his hand was firmer, less gentle.

  “Business is business.” she said, with the hardness completely restored to her voice. “Now. What do I really owe you? None of this offage about no payment. Everything has its price.”

  He swung off the pallet, setting his feet lightly on the smoothed plank flooring, then reached down and tossed her trousers across the room.

  “True.”

  “Then what do I owe you?”

  He laughed, a hard, barking, mocking laugh.

  The woman shivered, although the air in the room was not at all cool.

  “Humility…if anything.”

  “Humility?”

  “Think everything is yours to take. Or buy.”

  Her eyes met his, then recoiled.

  “It’s been an interesting conversation, but I should be going.”

  She stood, but barely had her feet reached the floor before he stood next to her.

  “Not yet.”

  She inched sideways, unable to back away from him because of the pallet behind her knees.

  “This has gone far enough, little man.”

  Smiling, he did not move.

  She inched toward her blouse, then leaned down to lift it.

  His hand caught hers, so swiftly and with such power that her fingers opened and the gauzy garment floated back downward.

  She moved her body toward him, sliding her skin against him, seemingly relaxing, letting her hands reach as if to go around his neck.

  Her knee knifed toward his groin.

  Thud.

  She lay on the floor, momentarily, then began scrambling toward the desk and her jacket.

  The devilkid did not move. Not until her fingers touched the dangling sleeve of the jacket. Then he seemed to flash across the space between them, his left hand slashing down and knocking the dart pistol from her fingers.

  “Very interesting, lady,” he said sardonically. “So you were going to use the old devil, then assassinate him to retain the family honor?”

  The whiteness in her face confirmed his statement.

  “So what shall we do—”

  Another quick kick toward his groin, but he blurred, and his hands shifted position. Abruptly he lifted her overhead, with his hands holding her tighter than iron bands. Then he carried her toward the pallet, releasing her suddenly.

  Thump.

  He watched as the impact left her breathless. Watched as she scrambled to get her feet under her. Watched as she dashed for the front door.

  He pounced again, picking her away from the still-bolted exit and carting her back to the pallet. Her breathing was ragged.

  Again, he stood there, nak
ed, watching her, also naked, as her eyes darted around the room, as her eyes glanced from one door to the other, from front to rear. Waited as she looked at the wide and closed side windows.

  “Sick! You’re sick.”

  He said nothing, letting his eyes run over her skin, inhaling the mixed scents of previous arousal and current fear.

  Once more, he did nothing immediate as she feinted toward the front door, then dived for the less obvious rear door.

  He caught her, holding her overhead again, dropping her on the pallet a second time. Waiting, letting his eyes take in her fear and nakedness.

  “What do you want? You want something different? Tell me. Tell me. I’ll do it. Just let me go.”

  He shook his head.

  She gathered her feet under her, but, shoulders slumping, settled into a sitting position on the edge of the pallet, looking at the floor.

  He took one step toward her, deliberately, then stopped.

  She looked up, eyes wide.

  Then he took another. Stopped, letting his eyes rip across her nudity.

  Her mouth opened, soundlessly.

  He took another step. Now he was close enough to touch her.

  She looked away, then back up, her mouth opening wider, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “…no…no…no…”

  He stepped back. Waited.

  She seemed unable to close her mouth, panted raggedly.

  Letting the heat build within him, he held back, knowing he was treading the thin edge of sanity. He raked her pale body again with his eyes.

  As he stepped back toward her, she scuttled backward toward the top of the pallet.

  Like a laser, he was on her. Pinned her hands over her head, forced her legs apart in a single rough body movement. Drove deep into her, ignoring the single scream that was a sob, shriek, and cry.

  Ignored the small voices in his mind, and let himself be devilkid, again, if only for a few fleeting moments. Let himself forget the iron discipline of the commodore and the wisher of great wishes. Let himself pay her back for all those who had used him, for all those he had let use him.

  His own payment would only last forever…and he drove into her to forget the long past and longer future.

  LXV

  The jays broke off their chattering.

  Gerswin stood in the target yard and balanced the heavy knife in his hand, listening for the sounds he half expected, half feared.

  He paused, ears alert for the slightest indication of the hunters, trying to hold back the memories, to concentrate on the moment at hand, to let the old training and instincts take over.

  Abruptly he slid the knife back into its hidden sheath. After checking the sling leathers and his pouch of smooth slingstones, he let his trained feet carry him from the shaded and walled target yard into the trees, off the few paths and toward the possible routes his attackers would take from the town.

  He doubted if any knew the way, or that Lostwin’s many times removed granddaughter would have been fool enough to give exact directions.

  Click.

  Faint…the sound came from his distant right.

  Gerswin eased from tree to tree, taking advantage of the few winter bushes and patches of sparse undergrowth that were scattered beneath the old spruces.

  Old spruces they seemed, yet none was as old as he.

  As he moved cross-hill to position himself behind the group of towners, he counted as he went. Eight. Just eight, and none were crafters or woodsmen.

  Gerswin smiled faintly. Some were still his tacit allies, or feared the old devil of the hills more than they feared the growing strength of the towners.

  Gerswin’s expression turned bleaker as he began to stalk the rear guard of the party. His fingers brushed over the butt of the ancient, but quite serviceable, stunner he had brought.

  The last man looked back, too late to utter a word. Gerswin’s hands flashed—one choking off any outcry, the other leaving the man momentarily disabled.

  Thrumm.

  The rear guard had lagged far enough behind and to the right of his nearest companions that the single stunner bolt would not be heard.

  Besides, reflected the hunter, not a one of his attackers had ever heard an Imperial weapon. Not in this time, not with the Empire gone from Old Earth.

  Gerswin’s second target was less than twenty meters from a heavier man Gerswin recognized as Verlint, the husband of the once-haughty lady.

  The devilkid twirled the sling.

  Swissshhh.

  The slingstone whispered through the spruce bough to the right of Verlint’s companion.

  Swissshhh.

  Verlint crashed onward in spite of his efforts to step softly. The second man scratched his head and turned toward the soft sound. Gerswin moved.

  Thrumm.

  Within minutes, the second man was trussed and laid aside.

  Verlint was next—a simple stalk and stun shot, since the five others were on the far side of the shallow ravine.

  Thrumm!

  Leaving Verlint trussed as well, Gerswin resumed his stalk, forcing himself to move carefully, despite the lack of caution on the part of those ostensibly tracking him.

  The next man was a straggler, stunned quickly, and trussed almost as swiftly.

  The remaining four moved together, whether from lack of response from their companions, or from nervousness. Less than four meters separated them. Two carried laser rifles, antiques that might work. Or might not, releasing all the energy in their power packs in a single unwanted detonation.

  As if a laser were a good forest weapon to begin with.

  Sighing silently, Gerswin decided to rely on herd instinct.

  Craccckk!

  The first slingstone slammed into the tree on the right side of the man farthest from Gerswin. He dived leftward, and began to scuttle toward the others.

  “What’s that?”

  “Rouen? Where are you?”

  “Where’s Verlint?”

  “Quiet!”

  Gerswin grinned, melting back toward the other side of the group.

  Cracckk!

  “Devilkid!”

  Cracck, cracckk!

  “Down! Get down!”

  “Where?”

  Craacckk!

  All four were huddled within meters of each other, crouching behind two boulders.

  Craacckk!

  The four edged even closer together, as if under siege.

  The once and always devilkid checked the stunner. The power reserve would be more than adequate.

  Slipping from spruce to spruce, like a shadow in the late afternoon, he moved to within meters of the quarry.

  Thrumm!

  “Dynlin!”

  Thrumm!

  “Get him!”

  “How?”

  Thrummm!

  “Devil…”

  Thrummm!

  After wiping his forehead, Gerswin waited, listening to see if the forest sounds would resume, if he had missed someone, or if someone else were coming.

  In time, a jay chattered once, then again. A squirrel scrabbled down a nearby tree. The hum of the scattered insects began to build.

  At last, Gerswin began the tiresome process of lugging the unconscious men to a single clearing, trussing those he had not bound and disarming them all. The weapons he placed behind a stone-topped low hill, out of their line of sight.

  Arranging the eight in a double line of four in the middle of the clearing, he sat down on the large stone to wait, letting his thoughts drift where they always seemed to drift. Into the past, into the darkness where he had met Caroljoy, into the Service where he had met Faith, and Allison, and where he had lost Martin and Corson. Into the shadows.

  In time, he glanced up into the spruces overhead, noting the growing shadows, seeing the straight trunks, half hearing the jays, the buzzing of the flies, an occasional scurry of the still-rare chipmunk, and the chitterings of the ubiquitous squirrels.

  If his mem
ories were correct, when he had returned to Old Earth the first time as a junior lieutenant, the lands where he now sat had been nothing but wasted red-purple clay, where the cold winds blew summer and winter.

  Nodding at the improvement, he glanced back at the figures on the needle-covered ground, then toward the hidden location uphill where his dwelling nestled into its own past.

  Not that he could blame the eight men, who had been out to protect what they thought was theirs to protect. All were too young, adults though they were, to understand that no one person could ever own another. Perhaps they were too wrapped in the fragility of their own masculinity to recognize that.

  He laughed harshly, suddenly.

  “You…of all people…”

  He returned his thoughts to the squirrels, comparing the sleek animals that scampered along the branches to the scraggly refugees he recalled from centuries past. Shaking his head, he waited for his restless captives to wake.

  “Who…”

  Gerswin dropped his introspection, but said nothing. Just watched as the awareness, and the confusion, before him grew with each awakening man.

  “Verlint! You here?”

  “…old man…you said…”

  “How did we…what happened…”

  “…get here…”

  “…told you…not to get him angry…but you…”

  Almost as quickly as the babble of voices had risen, the noise dropped away as each man strained at his bonds to see Gerswin sitting on the low boulder, waiting and saying nothing.

  The silence drew out.

  “Dirty ambusher!”

  “Sneak! Used Imperial weapons!” The outburst came from Verlint.

  “Like your laser rifle?” asked Gerswin. “Rather I used my knife?”

  There was no answer.

  “What should I do?” Gerswin’s eyes raked the trussed figures. “If I let you go, just come back. Execute you, and the Council will have to order something. Means I’ll have to disappear. Too old for that.”

  “…doesn’t look that old…,” muttered the man lying next to Verlint.

  “You don’t fight fair,” stated Verlint.

  “Lost that ideal long ago. Fought to survive. Still do.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  Gerswin smiled, and his expression chilled the afternoon like sudden night.

  “You want a fair fight? Fine. One on one. Any one of you against me. You pick the weapons.”