The Arsenal of Miracles

by Gardner Fox

  He went limp and fell. His weight tugged the men off balance. As his knees touched the floor his body erupted sideways. He hit the men who had been clutching him and sent them flying with a rolling body block. His right hand went to his holstered a-gun.

  The men died there in its blast, eyes wide.

  He swung toward Peganna but he could not fire for fear of hitting her. The beam from an a-gun is needle-thin but the Lyanirn were moving this way and that as they dragged the girl backward, and her legs kicking out in futile anger blocked his aim.

  More warriors were moving in, now. They held no a-guns, only stunners. Bran guessed that their orders were to take him alive. Their bluish beams came at him from all angles.

  Where those beams hit, they packed the wallop of a mule. One had only to touch him in his head to knock him senseless, and so he darted sideways, throwing himself flat then rolling to avoid them. One hit a thigh and almost paralyzed a leg. Another caught his left arm and numbed it.

  He fired back until the a-gun stank. Some he hit, killing them instantly; others he missed, bringing down marble powder from the walls. It was sacrilege to fight in such a place as this, he thought fleetingly, knowing what an Earth archeologist would give to stand here and study those murals, but his life and that of Peganna of the Silver Hair were at stake.

  The blows he took from the stun-beams affected his animal speed. He slowed just enough that the others could bring their weapons to a focus. He caught three bolts on his chest that rammed him into a marble column. He took another in the left thigh and something hit his gun-wrist, almost breaking it. It was as though he had been hammered against the wall by psychic spears. His body shuddered as blue beam after blue beam hit his middle, his chest, his shoulders.

  Enough of these blows, and his body would be pulp. It was like having horses kick a man to death. Blood was running from his nostrils under the repeated hammerings. The Lyanir had him spreadeagled and helpless, and they were going to make him suffer before they gave him the mercy of unconsciousness.

  A girl was screaming, somewhere. Peganna?

  Bran shook his head. It did no good. He was slipping down the wall, legs gone out from under him. Human muscle would accept only so much. He collapsed and his vision blurred.

  He lay there inert, forgotten.

  Yet his ears were alive, so that he heard the voice of Gron Dhu as he spoke with his sister. Triumph lay in his tones, and arrogance.

  “… queen no longer, Peganna! Instead, I take over the role of the Lyanir. Where you have always failed, I shall succeed. Commander Drexel!”

  Bootsteps approached. There was a slight pause, as though a man bowed.

  “Tell her!”

  “It is so, highness. Your brother and I have come to terms. I shall make application for admission to the Empire for your people.”

  “As equals?” There were tears in her voice, Bran thought as he lay supine, poised between the utter blackness of oblivion and this dreaming state where he lived only in a realm of sound. Well, she had seen what they had done to him.

  “As equals—no. I’m afraid not. But as friends, yes. Required only to pay a token tribute in submission, required—”

  “—to be slaves! Is this your great success, brother?”

  There was the sound of a blow and Bran stirred deep inside him with a searing fury. Gron Dhu rasped, “Take her away. To the tower. The other—to the cells below. I’ll give out word a little later that Bran Magannon killed the queen and that he has paid for his murder with his life.”

  Feet shuffled. Then Gron Dhu said, “No—wait.”

  A hand fumbled and Peganna cried out. Gron Dhu asked softly, “This blue egg you carry, sister mine—what is it? Oh, I can tell from your face it’s priceless enough. But—how? And why?”

  She made no answer. In a moment there was the sound of another blow. Bran the Wanderer stirred physically now, moving in a spasmodic shudder on the floor flaggings. His great hands opened and closed.

  “You will talk. There are ways of making a woman speak. Or a man. Suppose I were to work you over with the stunners. How long would Bran Magannon remain silent?”

  “You filthy devil!”

  “Ah, it touches you, does it? Good. Then perhaps, if you possess the sense I think you do, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  There was no sound for a little while and it was as if Bran Magannon had died. Then hands touched him, lifting him, held him upright.

  “A pretty sight, your handsome ex-commander. Blood all over him, his flesh raw. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

  “Bran, Bran… ohhh, Subb of the Hundred Hates!”

  “Weep, dear sister. It will make it easier for you to watch as we ruin him as a man before your eyes.”

  The Wanderer tried to gather himself to break free, but there was no strength left anywhere in his body. Only the hands at his arms and armpits held him upright. He was a rag doll, with just about as much stuffing inside him. Yet he knew that even in his dark world, agony so intense as to be blinding would come to him if Gron Dhu did what he threatened.

  Peganna understood it, too.

  “I yield. The egg will open a secret vault on Miranor, or so I think.” She went on speaking of how she and Bran had gone to the well of Molween and how she had made her wish. The blue egg had been her gift from the well, from the dead race of Crenn Lir. “I think it’s some sort of key, a key to a vault in which the Crenn Lir left their weapons and their scientific artifacts.”

  When she was done speaking, a man sighed.

  “It could be,” murmured Alvar Drexel. “Though where the vault is—who can say? It might be anywhere in space.”

  “We Lyanir have deciphered many of the Crenn Lir writings,” Gron Dhu said excitedly. “By Lur! I’ll have every man-jack scientist working night and day to find something about this thing, or about the vault it opens.”

  “If there is a vault,” the Earthman said heavily, looking at Peganna. Gron Dhu intercepted his glance and smiled wickedly.

  “I know my sister. I can tell when she lies and when she speaks the truth. She honestly believes the egg is a key. And—so do I.”

  The arms that held Bran lifted him a little higher and began to move him. All he could hear now was the pad of military boots on the floor flaggings and a sound of breathing. After a while, even that went away.

  Then he was truly dead to the world about him.

  Time is finite. It moves while a man lies in an eternity of nothingness. Time moves and time gleams with light as a lamp touches the stone walls of a cell where a man lies locked in rusted manacles. In the glare of the lamp a platter with food is lowered to the floor.

  Hands lifted the man and a metal container touched his lips. Some of the liquid in the container dribbled from his lips but enough trickled down his throat so that after a while he stirred and opened his eyes.

  The light blinded him.

  “Eat,” said a voice.

  The lamp went away and he was in darkness again but now his senses were alive and though the pain in his big body made him shudder, he was well enough and hungry enough to crawl to the platter and wolf down the food it held. The metal bottle was close at hand, too. He upended it and drank its contents slowly.

  It was a form of wine that had been treated medicinally, quite obviously. It was cool and soothing to the throat and after a short time he seemed to feel its potency working in his veins.

  Bran lay back on the cold stone and made a pillow of his arms where he bent them under his neck. He wanted to think but his eyelids were heavy and so he slept. When he woke he felt refreshed, and the light was in his eyes again. A second platter of food was here and this time there was more food than before, so that when he was done eating, some of his old strength was in his muscles.

  Three more times the lamp came with food and drink. Bran did not sleep so much now, and he exercised as he could, walking back and forth the length of his chains. He thought of hitting the man who came with the lam
p but the jailor knew to a nicety how far his chains would stretch and he always put the platters down where Bran could reach them but not him.

  Why are they keeping me alive?

  The question burned in his brain during the hours when he lay alone in the blackness of the cell. Perhaps Peganna had made some sort of bargain with her brother. Let Bran Magannon live and Peganna would support her brother in his usurpation of her throne. She would have done it, he realized, if she were given the chance.

  Yet Gron Dhu did not need his sister.

  His lie that Bran the Wanderer—who had driven them out of habitable space to this dead planet!—had murdered Peganna, would be believed. The people of Miranor would have no reason to doubt it.

  His fingers curled into talons with the desire to lock about the throat of Gron Dhu. No, her brother could kill Peganna and Bran Magannon and no one would ever know it. Why then was he keeping him alive?

  And for how long?

  The answer to that came the next time his jailer brought him food and drink. The wine in the metal bottle was drugged. He knew this a few minutes after he had eaten and finished the wine. He had just waked from a deep slumber yet now he found himself sinking back into sleep. He tried to fight the inertia that gripped him, but could not.

  When he opened his eyes, there was a lamp burning on a wooden table not ten feet away. A radium lamp, he guessed, of the sort he had seen in the possession of the Lyanir on Kuleen. He stood up and there was no clank of rusted metal. His chains were gone and the manacles with them that had held his wrists and ankles.

  Bran the Wanderer was a realist.

  Gron Dhu was not making his life any easier. There was a reason for this pseudo-freedom. It was a refinement of cruelty, he felt positive, and like a wild animal in a trap, he waited for what was to happen.

  The answer came in a feral scream.

  A man shouted curses beyond the bolted door to his prison cell and there was a sound of wheels moving. Again the cry raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. This was a wild animal screaming in mad fury, a cat of some sort with sharp fangs and rending claws. They were dragging its cage along the corridor.

  Bran looked around him helplessly, knowing there was no weapon to be found yet aware of a desperate need to stay alive. He was strong now, healthy; not the near-dead thing that had been carried into this prison. A chuckle rasped his throat. Gron Dhu was a clever man. He wanted Bran Magannon to suffer, and so he had let him recover from the stunners, had let his body heal and grow strong so it would be a long time dying.

  The manacles had been knocked away for the same reason. Gron Dhu wanted him able to fight for his life, yet to feel it slipping slowly and then more slowly from him as he battled the cat. This was the reason for the lamp, as well: so he could see the manner of his dying.

  The door was opening. Bran tensed.

  Could he make a run for it? Slip past the animal in some fashion and ram into the guards who were behind it? No. The cage had been wheeled to the doorway and one side lifted up so that as the door opened the cat could move only into the cell.

  The lamp on the table showed the cat, a big spotted korst. It was not a native of Miranor but then Miranor had no native animal life any more. Even the deer and the sheep that grazed on its slopes and in its sparse forests had been brought here by the Lyanir and allowed to run wild.

  The korst sighted Bran. Its head lowered and its green eyes stared with unwinking steadiness. Beyond it was a lighted corridor and the bars of its cage. Through them Bran caught a glimpse of grinning guards, crowding forward to watch the fun.

  A snarl formed in the thickly furred throat of the big cat. It padded forward, easily. Bran watched it, putting a hand on the tabletop. He had no chance against the korst. It was too big, too strong. One rake of its hind claws could disembowel him. One bite of its white fangs could take away his face.

  Heat burned his fingers where he had put them about the base of the lamp. Slowly he let his fingers tighten, trying to ignore the pain to get a grip on the metal base. There was molten metal inside the lamp, treated with radium. It would last an indefinite time, used as a lamp.

  Used as a weapon—

  His hand lifted and the lamp came with it, hurled across the cell in a sidewise throwing motion of his arm. His action had been so swift the korst did not realize what was happening until the lamp hit it full in the face. The lamp broke, its radioactive metal spilling across the mouth and jaw of the beast.

  The korst screamed and leaped.

  Bran was not there to meet its claws. He was racing through the sudden darkness of the cell to the door, slamming it shut. Faintly he could hear the outcries of the guards, balked of their fun. He crouched on widespread feet, waiting for what he would see.

  The cell was dark, now. The molten liquid was a pool of blackness on the floor. The only light was that which came from cracks in the cell door. It was enough.

  Bran could see the eyes of the cat glittering like green diamonds lit by inner fires. He knew where the beast was, at any rate. There was not enough light for the korst to see him, at least not plainly. If he moved silently and without too quick a motion, he might find a way to win this fight.

  He inched across the floor on careful feet. One advantage was his, one alone. He knew the layout of the chamber, its little recesses. The korst was in a strange lair and in the manner of cats all over the stars, it waited with patience until it could learn where it was.

  There was no time for that.

  He was close to the beast, here by the table. Normally the cat would have smelled him but the dank foulness of the cell was all about it, smothering the keenness of its nostrils. Gently Bran grasped a table leg. It was metal and cold to his touch. Metal leg, wooden top. He knew that much at least, from what his eyes had told him before he had flung the lamp.

  His muscles tensed as he yanked.

  The korst screamed and whirled. The metal leg held but he got the table up and heard claws rip sprinters from its top. The korst was not used to fighting on its hind legs. It screeched in fury and fell back to all fours.

  Bran wrenched again at the table leg, hearing wood give.

  Five times he tugged before the screws tore and the leg came away. He wondered why the guards did not open the door, but he was grateful for their restraint.

  His eyes hunted through the blackness.

  Yes—there were the beast’s green diamond eyes.

  Bending, he slipped off his sandals and advanced on bare toes. The metal leg was a long club in his right hand. The blazing eyes turned toward him. Bran leaped. He struck down hard with the leg and in the instant of impact, leaped sideways away from the paw that was sure to rake at him.

  The korst was screaming thickly, again and again. The eyes were gone, then reappeared across the room. They darted this way and that before Bran realized that the cat was racing back and forth across the cell in a savage, desperate hunt for the man who had wounded it.

  On bare feet, the Wanderer moved against the wall. He did not want to be pinned here by some wild rush, by a lucky swing of claws. The eyes were still, suddenly.

  Bran swung. The cat coughed and rose up. Full in its face Bran swung his metal club, with both hands tight about the handle. The jar of the blow sent shock into his muscles but the cat fell away. He heard a thump.

  Bran waited, rigid. If the cat were unconscious and its eyes closed, he would have to hunt for it with his hands. He moved, his toe touching warm fur. In panic, Bran struck.

  Again and again he brought that club down on the body before him. He never knew how long he might have stood there, striking. When his body was wet with sweat and he stood in little pools of what must be blood, he let the air whistle through his lips and stood to his full height.

  The cat was dead. Bran cried out and fell face down.

  He had put all his ability into that single scream. He cut it off suddenly and hoped the guards had heard it and were convinced of its authenticity. He lay with his face partl
y turned toward where he thought the door might be. He waited.

  After a time the door opened slightly. A rectangle of yellow light came into the cell and touched the korst. Bran heard a man call out in amazement. The yellow rectangle widened into a square as the door opened even further.

  “He killed it,” the guard said to himself. “He actually killed that thing before it killed him too.”

  There was blood all over him, Bran knew, but it was the blood of the korst. In the light from the corridor, it looked as if he had been clawed to death. Footfalls sounded behind him. A hand touched his shoulder to roll him over. Bran struck with his rocklike fist.

  The guard grunted and collapsed on him. Over his motionless body, the Wanderer stared at the lighted corridor. Thank Kronn! There was just this one guard to account for. For the moment, anyhow.

  Bran rolled him over, fumbled at his belt.

  His fingers closed on a stunner. It was no a-gun but it was a lot better weapon than the table-leg. He tugged it free of the guard’s belt and moved to the door and into the corridor. Carefully he closed and bolted the cell door behind him. The cage had been pushed to one side, evidently until the guard found out if the korst was still alive.

  He was free to try and find Peganna.

  Still in his bare feet, his boots behind him in the cell, he raced down the corridor. Voices raised in the low hum of casual talk made him leap into a recess. More warriors? Yes, but they were not coming along the corridor. They were in a small room that served as a guardhouse.

  He would have to pass them all to get out of the prison.

  And yet—perhaps not! This recess where he stood was part of a doorway. His fingers fumbled until they found a stud. Pressing it, he was relieved to hear the door slid back on tiny bearings. Another corridor lay in front of him.

  This tunnel lead to another and then to a third. After ten minutes he was hopelessly lost in this maze of subterranean passages. One thing alone he noticed as he walked. He was moving slowly toward something that throbbed more loudly at each step he took. Curiosity caught him in its grip. He had to see the thing that made this rhythmic sound which by now was shaking the stone on which he placed his feet.