I put the pleasure from me. These thoughts ... I, an Officer of the Wall! These sensuous lapses of impure flesh. ... I had enjoyed the morning . . . felt it . . . when I should have been devoted to the Vigil ... to the Honour of the Teachers and their Sacred Trust. That was the true joy—not in carnal daydreams of the physical world. That girl ... an officer must be above that, he must keep his energies for the Duty and the Teachers. O . . . the world of sin in the heart of a rose . . . the weakness of enjoyment.
Then it was time to move into a cell while the sun passed. On the high levels the heat and radiation can be dangerous; on the plains it is all right, all you need is a little shade, or maybe a big hat when the suns pass.
I stayed on the platform as long as I could, to mortify the flesh. Then I staggered into the cool darkness. I pressed the button, calling a Teacher to hear me make my self-criticism.
That shining new looking screen in the stained, torn plastic. The screens are always in order, always perfect ... little else is.
With bowed head I told the Teacher of my lapse. I tried to make out his face in the dark folds of his cowl as he answered me, telling me in minute detail of my error. I squirmed ... I knew . . . understood. But Teachers are like that . . . always telling you things you damn well know already. Surely a man, an officer, is capable of deciding for himself what is right? But we must honour the Teachers.
He gave me my mortification and dismissed me. I had to return to the Citadel barefoot, through the heat and danger of the Wall Top. It was a good mortification and just, well calculated to demonstrate the weakness of my flesh.
The sun passed. Stark shadows on the platform moved in the circling light. The ravens came out again, harshly telling of the cooler air outside.
I dismissed my fighters, slung my crossbow and set off up the splintered slope of decayed concrete. The horse slithered behind me, plunging cat-footed the last few yards to the Top.
It was the hour of the two shadows. Left my shadow was red, lit by the setting first sun, getting darker. The second sun rose bright in the east. Above the sky was deep blue; south, behind me, it gave way to the indigo of the Cold. There was a little snow still in some of the deeper hollows, the few poor trees cowered from the prevailing wind. You’ve got to go slow on the Top, but you seem to get out of breath anyhow.
The paths on the Top are the old cell walls, there were many of them. On either side collapsed floors fall sheer into dark, stagnant pools, or bottomless shafts, bramble-choked.
Disrepaired it may be; ravines, gullies . . . impious trees thrusting apart the masonry with their roots, but the Wall still stands, magnificent against all who may come. Stand the Wall!
Things live on the Top. Men and less than men. Animals and less than animals. Trolls, banditti who come down to the Fair Land to reive and pillage; pigs and winged lions . . . perhaps even the creatures of the enemy, beings from beyond the Cold.
When the second sun came and I could stand the heat no longer, I turned from the path and entered a clump of bleached and twisted pines.
In the shade plants grew, green and almost lush. I relaxed in the green darkness. The horse crunched, cropping eagerly. Dabs of sunlight moved over the pine needles. I got out my bottle and sipped the hot water.
The Silver Old Man spoke from the shadows.
“Welcome, Lieutenant. I’ve been watching you.”
I whirled to my feet, swinging my crossbow round and down. Then I realized he spoke the Wall tongue. In his hands he held the Insignia, the steel shaft of the Teachers. His fingers were very long and white.
I showed him my Insignia and made salutation.
“I acknowledge the Insignia. Stand the Wall!”
“Insignia? You mean the shooter?”
I could see him better now. He was dressed in close-fitting silver. He was very old, thin, white. He had a fine brow. He smiled.
“What’s that thing? A crossbow? Interesting.”
“Who are you, old man?” I was suspicious. He should have known my weapons. “Why do you call the Insignia ‘shooter’?”
“I’m an old, old man . . .” He grinned at me. “Here’s why it’s called shooter.”
He brought the Insignia to his shoulder with a flourish. A switch clicked. Metal hummed. The end pulsed violet light. There was a crack, a small, smoking cylinder leaped from the staff. Dazzling light—a bar of white condensation flashed into existence. Far away over the Top a clump of scrub oak shattered, erupting fire and mud. The little cylinder rattled at our feet. Fading smoke drifted down wind.
A Wall officer is never frightened . . . not really scared, not out of his wits. That’d be Unfaith. I was speechless ... surprise it was ... surprise.
“Yours won’t do that?”
“No, Lord.”
“It’s nothing. A small chemical charge accelerates the slug up to a couple of thousand miles an hour. Then it’s accelerated again super-magnetically ... the rest is sheer impact.”
He took my Insignia, his fingers worked about the mechanisms. The reliquary sprang open, the texts rolled on to his palm. He handed them to me, not very reverently I thought. He drew the prayer ribbon from the tube and passed that over too. He brought out some of the little cylinders and pushed them with his thumb into the reliquary.
“Power unit’s gone ... watch this though.”
The Insignia cracked, the cylinder leaped, twisting in the air. A pine shook as under a great blow. Cones, dead twigs splashed into the needles. A great white splinter, shattered from the trunk, tore into the nettles behind.
This was the Old Power. The Old Ability. I dropped to my knees. I made Obeisance, offering my sword hilt.
He waved me to my feet. “Don’t bend your knee, son . . . don’t bend for anyone . . .” He paused, looking at me under his brows. “Have you seen it, lad? Have you seen the Herald?”
The Herald! My God! The Herald! Signs and portents! The Star prophesied to mark the closing of the Span! The Herald . . . brighter and brighter to the End. When the Great Towers would burn and the Wall fall!
I gaped at the Old Man. No words came.
“Aye, lad. It’s coming. The World and the Wall are ending. They’ve had their day.” He led me to the edge of the pines. I followed his pointing finger. “There it is, there’s the Herald!”
There, hanging, shining on the edge of the Cold was a strange Star. Small, unimpressive—not at all the fiery Herald of Doom the Teachers foretold.
“Doesn’t look much, does it, son? But it’ll grow . . . it’ll scare the breeches off you. Do you see? It’s a new star. It’s the Herald!”
Staring into his eyes I knew he was right. I believed him absolutely.
“Lord, I must be your man.”
“Yes ... it may be I can use you. If you will.”
“Have I not offered Obeisance. Do I not acknowledge the right of Teachers ... the Vigil and the Wall?”
“O.K., you volunteer. And quit calling me ‘Lord’— it’s not democratic. Lacks dignity. Just remember who’s boss, that’s all!”
Democratic? Dignity? Did I not have the proper pride of a servant of the Teachers and of the Wall? The Silver Old Man had much to teach and I to learn.
“Lord . . . are you of they who are prophesied to ride the paths of time from beyond the Span to the End . . . to save the chosen while the Herald burns?”
“Aye . . . you could say that. We waited the millennia in Slumberstate. Not me alone, of course. The machines roused me, pumped the blood and adrenalin. The others weren’t so lucky. The Wall faulted. Damp . . . water got in . . . upset the stasis . . . rotted them away—alive. Five thousand years—then that. Yes, I’ve ridden the paths of time. I’m here to put the pennies on this world’s dead eyes.” He inhaled deeply, his voice shook. “It’s good to be out here. . . alive . . . smell the pines.”
I wondered why I’d thought of him as silver. His face had colour now, his hair the beginnings of gold. He saw me look and smiled. “Yes, lad. I’m getting better. It takes
a while to pull out of the Slumber.”
“Lord, what must we do?”
“We must go down to the Citadel—meet the Teachers. Check some mechanisms down there too.” He went on, half to himself: “And Oceana’s still out . . . it’s a lot for one man . . . one old man. Thank God the others reply!”
When the second sun had passed and it was cool again, we began the long tramp over the Top. I proudly bore the new Insignia the Old Man had given me. It was a noble thing.
* * * *
Long before we reached the edge of the Wall and began the long descent into the Fair Land, we could see the four Great Towers of the Citadel. Colossal they were—you could see them from all over the Fair Land—taller even than the Wall; sprouting central from the plain, the City huddled at their roots. Huge, white-yellow massive concrete. Taller and taller they loomed, white clouds and their blue-grey shadows moved slow across them.
We stood on the first broad, shallow steps. I looked back through the darkening air of the Top. Doom hung on the indigo sky.
The Herald, a single, evil eye. Almost overhead, a little south, bigger and brighter. It was coming, the End . . . and its Herald.
There was movement in the gathering dark of the Fair Land. Torches red in the gloom below us. From the spreading mass of the City scattered flame gushed, sprinkled in the dark.
Small, scratchy man-screams far below us. Wild shouts, the clash of arms.
Yelling hordes of commoners fought their way towards the Citadel. Tight squads of Wall officers fought stubborn rear-guards, arms rising and falling, bright metal flashing. It was magnificent. They sold each yard dear but the skill and valour of my comrades was powerless against the flood mobs converging on the City.
“They’ve seen it,” said the Old Man. “They’ve seen the Herald.” The night was well on us now, no one could have missed it. “It’s a revolt. They think the Teachers should have warned them . . . protected them. Perhaps some fool tried to keep them from the Citadel.”
“They will! The Teachers will protect them . . . guard their flock ...” My voice tailed off. For the first time I was uncertain of the Teachers.
“They can’t, lad. They haven’t got the equipment. It’s my job. Let’s get down before they burn the Citadel.”
As we got lower the shouting and fire crackle got louder. Once the confusion was split by a great blast of white heat. There were many more screams then and fresh fires started. The Old weapons are very powerful.
* * * *
We scrambled into the blood-slippery streets, running in the shadows, avoiding the light.
A man came at us over the cobbles. He had a knife, his arms were dark with blood. He was laughing.
I dropped him with my crossbow. The impact carried him back, he didn’t move again.
“Come on! Come on!” The Old Man yelled back at me. We ran through the smoke, through the sparks and heat. I struggled to keep up, winching my crossbow as I ran. “Leave it! Leave that medieval rubbish!” But I wouldn’t leave my crossbow.
We ran up the middle of a wide avenue. When the people saw our weapons they fell back murmuring. There was murder in the shadows. A girl, naked, was being raped on a midden. She screamed ... screamed.
Flames crackled. I stepped on someone’s shattered skull. It was the end of Order, the prophesied last days of the Span. It was hell.
Fire-lit smoke drifted over the City. Sparks rocketed. The Citadel wall was dwarfed under the bulk of the Great Towers. They stretched on and up until at last they disappeared out of the firelight. Then you could see them only by the occluded stars. Far up, infinity away, the utmost rim caught the last fleck of the long gone sun.
We crouched in the shadows. The Old Man was amazing. He’d run as far and fast as me, he was hardly out of breath. In the firelight his old skin had more colour, he looked younger, his hair had a ruddy glow.
The main fighting was on our left. The peasants kept well back for fear of the Old weapons. Occasionally someone would step forward and loose an arrow or sling-shot at some half seen mark on the battlement. The clear space up to the wall was littered with bodies, officers and commoners.
We dashed across to the shadow of the wall. We found a ladder there, covered with dead men. They bristled with crossbow bolts, nailed to the ground. We used the ladder to scale the wall. I got blood between my fingers and they kept sticking together.
We dropped into the soft flower beds of the Teachers’ garden. The grass was silver with dew. A smell of lemon, roses in the half light, the magnolias white on dark leaves.
Left and right, on either side, were the sacred cloisters. In the long summer evenings the Teachers moved there, together or alone, wheeling in their quiet chairs, talking and thinking great thoughts. Ahead, down the length of the gardens, were the massive gates of the Holy of Holies, the Chamber of the Sacred Lectern.
We charged headlong down the garden. I looked anxiously about. It’s wrong to walk on the grass. If you’re an officer and you do it, they flog you. If you’re a peasant they burn you at the stake. They say they don’t like to do it... they call it an “Act of Faith”.
The gates were heavy barred and gold. The Old Man ran to the middle part. He brought out a small tube and pointed it at the receptor pad. A red light flashed briefly. Nothing happened. He flashed again, impatiently. I looked over my shoulder. I was frightened the Teachers might come.
“No good.” The Old Man waved me away. “I’m blasting.
Fifty yards off we flung ourselves to the ground. He brought up his shooter and fired at the gates.
Light and fire. The condensation bar. A crash, tearing of metal, a showering of smoking fragments.
We went in through the smoking gap. The whole gate was twisted, warped, burst.
We stood in the golden magnificence of the Holy Chamber of the Sacred Lectern. The Old Man was very impressed. He stood at the broken door staring at the gold leaf and lapis lazuli.
“My God! What have you done to it? The screens . . . you can hardly see them.”
“The Pilgrims, Lord. They bring the gold and jewels. It is appropriate the Teachers be so honoured.”
“The Teachers do all right. I wouldn’t have seen it as that sort of place myself. I suppose I was wrong.”
“Wrong, Lord? You wrong...?”
“Yes . . . certainly.. . sometimes.”
We crossed the Chamber, up the broad aisle, through the golden arch. There, coming to meet us, were three Teachers.
There were Wall officers too, four of them, holding their weapons. The Teachers came on. Their long robes scratched golden hems on the red plastic floor.
“What do ye here, Wall officer? Who are you, Old Man? What want ye? Stand the Wall!”
I started to make Obeisance, but the Old Man stepped in front of me. The tube was in his hand again. He played the red light into the Teacher’s deep cowled face. The officers moved uncertainly among themselves.
“You are the ones to come? The Star is the Herald? The Span is finished?” The Teacher ran back a few inches on his wheeled chair.
“Aye,” said the Old Man. “Stand you clear that I may bury this world.”
“Kill them! Kill them! All honour and power to the Teachers!” The rich robes jerked apart. Like curtains. Their deadly Old weapons shoved through the slits.
Quick as they were the Old Man was quicker. He flung to the floor yelling for me to take cover.
He rolled, desperately twisting across the floor. As he rolled he fired. The little cylinders leaped and skittered. Heat and light rocked the Chamber. Each shot took one of the Teachers.
The Teachers fired too. Their shots ripped great gouts of stone and burning plastic from the floor.
Shattered Teachers lay in the smoking shreds of their robes. Stinking smoke wreathed the Chamber. Plastic flickered, burning. Melted gold cooled, wrinkling.
Mail flashed, the broad spears levelled, the officers charged. I reacted without thought.
I got the first with my cro
ssbow. Through the head, helmet and all. Crossbows are like that. Then the Old Man fired some more and they were all dead.
I stood staring at him through the smoke. He climbed to his feet
“Lord . . . how could you do it . . . how could we . . . killing Teachers ...”
“Easy—aim and let ‘em have it.”
“But Teachers! The Protectors ...”
“Sure, sure. The Protectors of Order . . . Guardians of the Wall. What I don’t understand is what’s got into them.”
He walked to the nearest Teacher. He stirred at the smoking bundle with his foot.
I don’t know what I expected to see. Blood, chaned bones in broken flesh ... a noble, slaughtered head . . .
New Writings in SF 8 - [Anthology] Page 17