Short Fiction Complete

by Fred Saberhagen

  Schoenberg’s rifle sounded, a repetitive, seemingly ineffectual popping not far from Suomi’s right ear. Invisible fists of god-like power slammed at the charging animal, met the beautiful energy of its charge with a greater, more brutal force. The force-blows tore out gobs of orange-yellow fur, and distorted the shapes of muscle and bone beneath. The huge body shed its grace and its momentum. Still it seemed to be trying to reach the men. Now its body broke open along a line of penetration wounds, spilling out insides like some red-stuffed toy. Clear in Suomi’s vision was an open paw with knife-long claws, arching high on the end of a forelimb and then striking down into a puddle of slush not ten meters from his boots.

  When the beast was still, Schoenberg put another shot carefully into the back of its head for good measure, then slung his rifle and got out his hologram camera. Then, after looking at the gory, broken body from several angles, he shook his head and put the camera away again. He spoke reassuringly to Suomi, seeming not in the least surprised or upset by Suomi’s behavior. He was offhandedly gracious when Suomi at last managed to stammer out a kind of thanks. And that in its way was the most contemptuous attitude that Schoenberg could have taken.

  IV

  Early on the morning of the Tournament’s second day, Leros, the priest in charge, led the surviving thirty-two contestants on an easy march of some five kilometers, up from the flat land by the river where the first round had been fought to a much higher meadow resting in Godsmountain’s lap. At this new site an advance party of priests and workers were already at work, preparing a new fighting ring of cleared, hard-trodden earth, and a new field altar for the image of Thorun that was brought up on a cart just in front of Leros and the warriors. The slave-laborers were sweating, earning their rations today, for their numbers had been greatly reduced, many being sent to other projects. Only half the original number of warriors now required service, of course, and as always there was plenty of other labor to be performed in the citadel-city above and the tributary lands below.

  The plan of the Tournament, handed down to Leros by the High Priest Andreas and his Inner Circle of councillors, required that each successive round of fighting take place closer to the top of the mountain than the one before. The purpose, as Andreas had explained it, was symbolic. But Leros observed now that the plan had practical advantages as well. The offal of each camp would be promptly left behind, the latrine, the leavings of the cook-tents, the remnants of the funeral pyre.

  The work of readying the new site was completed shortly after the fighting men arrived, and an acolyte handed over the day’s new vellum-written lists to Leros. He called the men into assembly, and, when some formalities had been gotten out of the way, read the lists out:

  Arthur of Chesspa

  Bram the Beardless of Consiglor

  Brunn of Bourzoe

  Charles the Upright

  Col Renba

  Efim Samdeviatoff

  Farley of Eikosk

  Geoff Symbolor of Symbolorville

  Giles the Treacherous of Endross Swamp

  Gladwin Vanucci

  Hal Coppersmith

  Homer Garamond of Running Water

  Jud Isaksson of Ardstoy Hill

  Kanret Jon of Jonsplace

  LeNos of the Highlands

  M’Gamba Mim

  Mesthles of the Windy Vale

  Octans Bukk of Pachuka

  Omir Kelsumba

  Otis Kitamura

  Pernsol Muledriver of Weff’s Plain

  Polydorus the Foul

  Rafael Sandoval

  Rahim Sosias

  Rudolph Thadbury

  Shang Ti the Awesome

  Siniuju of the Evergreen Slope

  Thomas the Grabber

  Travers Sandakan of Thieves’ Road

  Vann the Nomad

  Vladerlin Bain of Sanfa Town

  Wull Narvaez

  Before giving the signal for the start of the second round’s first fight, Leros took a moment to look around him at his world. There was much in it to make him feel content. From the high meadow where he stood the prospect was one of long reaches of cultivated land below, kilometer after kilometer of field and pasture, with here and there an orchard, a cluster of houses, a patch of raw forest or a string of trees along a watercourse. It was a peaceful and malleable world, one of peasants and crops and artisans, obediently serving the masters of violence who dwelt on the heights above. There was of course, the Brotherhood to flaw it. After yesterday’s posted insult nothing further had been heard from them . . . there was also, more naggingly, the fact that the Inner Circle seemed to be closed to Leros, and the office of High Priest, therefore, forever unattainable. Why should a priest like Lachaise, for example, who was far more an artisan than a fighting man, be a member of the Inner Circle, when Leros and others more deserving were kept out?

  At any rate the Tournament was going well. That was what mattered most. Perhaps if it was a great success he would at last be promoted—and there was no reason why it should not smoothly run its course.

  At the end of it the great gate of the city would open for the winner as the maidens strewed flowers before him and he was conducted in triumph through the streets to the Temple; and that would stand open for him also; and then the inner curtains of chain-mail would part—as they never had for Leros—and the secret doors, and the winner would be let in where Leros himself had never been to the place where gods walked with the fallen heroes who once were mortal men, where only the High Priest and the Inner Circle came to mediate between them and the world of men.

  LEROS’S religion was not simply a matter of faith to him. He had once glimpsed Thorun in an inner courtyard of the Temple, standing taller than any mortal man, walking with the High Priest on a night when storms were in the air and lightning flickered . . .

  He bowed his head for a moment of private prayer, then brought himself back to the waiting men, and his responsibilities, and called out the names for the first match of the day:

  “Arthur of Chesspa—Bram the Beardless of Consiglor.”

  Arthur was a middle-aged man of middle size. In this company of warriors he looked small. Stocky, dour-looking, heavily mustached, he strode into the ring with an air of utterly nerveless competence and with unblinking calm watched Bram the Beardless approach with intent to kill.

  Bram, it appeared, was beardless by reason of his extreme youth. Though he was tall and heavyshouldered his face looked no more than one Hunterian year of age, fifteen or sixteen sixtieths-of-an-old-man’s-life. Bram was not calm but his excitement seemed to be rather joy than fright as he opened the attack with an exuberant swing of his long sword. Arthur parried the blow well enough, seemed in no hurry to go on the offensive himself.

  Bram pressed the attack; his youth and energy did not admit the possibility that he could be beaten. Again and again he struck, while Arthur still retreated thoughtfully, seeming to await the perfect time to counter. And again and again Bram struck, with ever-increasing speed and terrible strength. Arthur still had not made up his mind how best to fight when there came a blow he could not stop. He lost an arm and shoulder. The finishing stroke came quickly.

  “Brunn of Bourzoe—Charles the Upright.”

  Brunn was heavyset and fair, with a sun-bleached look about him. In one thick hand he held a short spear in such fashion that it was evident he preferred to thrust rather than risk all on one throw. He took the initiative, though cautiously, moving slowly widdershins around the upright Charles. Charles gangly as a bird, looking as if he might be happier perching on one leg, stood tall and held his twohanded sword ready for whatever Brunn might do. The spear-thrust, when it came, was strong and quick but the response,of Charles was better; the lopped-off spearhead fell to earth. The fair head of Brunn was not far behind it.

  “Col Renba—Efim Samdeviatoff.”

  These two were similar in appearance, both a little above middle height and with brown shaggy hair. Col Renba whirled a spike-studded ball on the end of
a short chain attached to a wooden handle. Samdeviatoff held sword and dagger ready. Both jumped to the attack at the same time but the spiked ball struck the sword out of the hand that held it and in the next breath dashed the brains that had directed it upon the ground.

  “Farley of Eikosk—Geoff Symbolor.”

  Again there was a resemblance; this time one of manners rather than appearance. Both contestants were well dressed and expensively armed. There were even jewels in the hilts of Geoff’s sword and dagger. Farley was fair, almost red, of hair and beard. His bare arms, lined with bone and vein and muscle, were freckled rather than sunburned. Geoff Symbolor was quite dark, and shorter than Farley by half a head, though seemingly his equal in weight and strength.

  Their battle was a slow one. The two of them seemed well matched until Farley’s longer reach let him nick the muscles of Geoff’s shoulder. With his sword-arm handicapped the shorter man was soon wounded again. Farley took no rash chances; the other was weakened by loss of blood before Farley drove in hard to finish him.

  “Giles the Treacherous—Gladwin Vanucci.”

  Giles was of middling size but wiry, with tanned face and sandy hair and pale innocent eyes. If it was indeed his habit to be treacherous, there was no need for it today. With his long sword he made short work of the squat and massive Gladwin, who had favored a battle-axe.

  “Hal Coppersmith—Homer Garamond.”

  Hal Coopersmith was very tall, with sloping shoulders and long arms entwined by rich tattoos. His long sword quivered restlessly in his hand, like some insect’s antenna following the movements of his foe. Homer Garamond seemed saddened by the task at hand though he was almost as young as Bram the Beardless who had shone with joy in killing. Homer held sword and dagger almost negligently in powerful hands until Hal came thrusting in. Fast as Homer moved then it was not fast enough.

  “Jud Isaksson—Kanret Jon.”

  Jud, a fiery little man with an enormously long black mustache, stamped briskly into the ring with a round metal shield strapped onto his left arm. A short sword extended from his right. Kanret, perhaps the oldest fighter to survive the first round, awaited him with a patience befitting his years. Kanret was armed with a short, thick-shafted spear; the way he gripped it indicated he might use it as a quarterstaff as well as thrust with it. When the moment of testing came, the spear hit nothing but Jud’s shield, and Kanret Jon was brought down with a swordstroke to the knee. His end was quick thereafter.

  “LeNos of the Highlands—M’ Gamba Mim.”

  LeNos had a scarred face and, once in the ring, a way of moving that seemed more animal than human, a lithe long-striding crouch. With sword and dagger he closed on M’Gamba Mim, who was huge and black and carried similar weapons. The blood of both was on the ground before LeNos could prevail; and then, still like an animal, he snarled at the slaves who came to tend his cuts.

  “Mesthles of the Windy Vale—Octans Bukk of Pachuka.”

  Mesthles had the thought-creased forehead of some scribe or scholar. He wore peasant’s clothes and fought with a farmer’s scythe. Octans was lean, and his ragged clothes gave him the look of a hungry bandit. But his sword proved slower than the scythe and he was mown.

  “Omir Kelsumba—Otis Kitamura.”

  Kelsumba’s wide black face was set in a determination as intense as fury. Leros, watching, remembered this man as the one who had asked about acquiring the healing powers of a god. When the fighters closed, Kelsumba swung his massive battleaxe with incredible power, swinging and then reversing instantly for the backswing—as if his weapon were no heavier than a stick. Kitamura’s sword was knocked aside, and then Kitamura’s jawbone. He went down on hands and knees and stayed there. Kelsumba left his finishing to the leaden mauls of the burial party.

  “Pernsol Muledriver—Polydorus the Foul.”

  The Muledriver was an older man, who set to Work deliberately with short spear and long knife. Polydorus, a man of indeterminate age, and seemingly no fouler than the next, went in carrying an old sword, much nicked and dented. The old sword did its work efficiently, and Pernsol died quietly, as if content to end life’s struggles and take his modest place at Thorun’s board.

  “Rafael Sandoval—Rahim Sosias.”

  Sosias looked more like a tailor than a fighting man, being not overly big and displaying a small, comfortable paunch. But his curved sword hung as naturally from his hand as his hand from the end of his hairy arm. Sandoval was notably ugly, made so by nature, not by scars. He twirled a spike-and-ball mace disdainfully. Rahim’s sword was caught in a loop of the mace’s chain and pulled from his hand, but before Rafael could disentangle his own weapon from the sword, Rahim had drawn an extra knife from concealment and had slit his opponent’s throat.

  “Rudolph Thadbury—Shang Ti the Awesome.”

  Thadbury had a military as well as a fighting look. Leros thought this man had something more of the general than of the simple swordsman about him but knew nothing of his background. Most of the contestants were as much strangers to Leros and the other priests as they were to one another.

  Squarely built, with blunt-fingered enormous hands, Rudolph Thadbury exuded strength and confidence. Shang Ti was awesome in truth, having a rather small head set on such a giant’s body that the head’s smallness was made to look grotesque. Shang Ti’s sword was of a size to suit his stature. Rudolph’s had a thicker blade than the usual and was just long enough to reach Shang Ti’s heart.

  “Siniuju of the Evergreen Slope—Thomas the Grabber.”

  Siniuju was almost scrawny, leaner than any other man left alive among the warriors. He carried a two-handed sword that looked too heavy for him—until he demonstrated how quickly he could make it move. Thomas was large and fierce-looking, a Shang Ti slightly less massive and better proportioned. He matched his spear over the long two-handed sword. The spear proved longer still.

  “Travers Sandakan—Vann the Nomad.”

  Sandakan came carrying a thin-bladed axe made with a sturdy armored shaft. On his face were the lines of time and trouble and the scars of many fights. Vann the Nomad wore the long shapeless sweater of the high-plains herdsmen and wielded a long sword with demonic energy. Sandakan was no match for the Nomad and when Travers was dead Vann cut off one of his ears, saying: “I will give this back to him in Thorun’s hall—if he is man enough to take it from me!” It was a gesture new to Leros, who thought about it and finally gave a hesitant smile of approval. As soon as the latest corpse had been cleared from the ring he formally called out the names for the day’s final match.

  “Vladerlin Bain—Wull Narvaez.”

  Coiled around Bain’s waist was a long whip, whose purpose none had yet considered it politic to ask. In his hands Bain wore a dagger and a sword. Narvaez, with a cheerful foolish face and a farmer’s pitchfork as his only visible weapon, looked like some peasant fresh from fieldwork. A good harvester he sent the tines exactly where he wanted them and Vladerlin was dead before he hit the ground, the reason for his coiled whip now never to be known.

  The sun had not yet reached its midday point. The fighting of the second round was over.

  THE SIXTEEN fighters who remained alive moved off to enjoy the food prepared for them. For the most part they chatted and joked in good fellowship, though a few were silent. Also they took thoughtful notice of each other’s wounds, calculating where weakness would be found tomorrow. All of them knew that even the tiniest advantage must be seized. Not one survived among them who was not extremely dangerous—not one survived who could not count killers of superior ability among his victims.

  Resting after their midday meal, they say the messenger come pelting down the mountain. His news made Leros snap back his head to search the sky. From where they camped beneath the trees it was not possible to see much of it. The warriors were curious, but not very. The Tournament they were engaged in was more important than any distraction they could imagine.

  Later still when a priest of the Inner Circle came down to
talk earnestly to Leros the news spread among the warriors that a round, silvery craft had come from beyond the world to visit Godsmountain. Most of them were curious enough to try to catch a glimpse of the ship, barely visible, resting among the trees on a distant height.

  V

  OSCAR SCHOENBERG and Athena Poulson and Gus De La Torre had hunted again, on the day after Suomi’s near-fatal confrontation with the glacier-beast, while Barbara Hurtado and Celeste Servetus had gone through the motions of hunting. Suomi had chosen to stay with the ship. Oscar and Athena and Gus, all having had some excitement on their first day’s hunt but having returned from it empty handed returned from the second day’s effort with their hologram trophies of large predators, safely recorded on little crystal cubes for later reproduction and display.

  Athena, sitting in the lounge, rubbing her tired feet, complained it was going to be difficult to find a place to show off her glacier-beast. “It’s all right for you, Oscar, but I have one small apartment. I’ll have to move half the furniture to make room for this—if I dare display it at all, that is.”

  “Because you got it on an off-limits hunting trip?” Schoenberg laughed. “If anybody bothers you, just tell’em I gave it to you. Let’em come see me.”

  “I’ll have to leave it turned off most of the time, just bring it out for special occasions. I suppose it would scare off most of my usual visitors, anyway.” Then she caught herself and started to look apologetically toward Suomi, then hastily looked away.

  Yesterday after everyone had returned to the ship they had all listened with some embarrassment to his account of how he had frozen in panic in the field and how Schoenberg had coolly saved his life. Athena had been more embarrassed, perhaps, than Suomi. De La Torre had seemed inwardly amused, and Barbara had shown some sympathy.