Maze had thought to throw the pursuit off very quickly, but the animal and the male from the iron castle were fast. She decided there was nothing for it but to feed them to the Trolls. They had a lookout tower near here. She took a sharp right and made for the tower.
There were three of them in the tower, lean, hard-muscled men, two with white scars on their arms, one with a more recent scar running down one cheek. They wore breastplates and backplates made of steel and painted in camouflage patterns, and their helmets fitted tight around their ears but left their faces exposed for full vision. The helmets were decorated in various ways, one painted with the clan emblem of a Troll with blood dripping from its fangs, one with a heavy chain welded to it, running from the centre of the wearer’s forehead to the nape of the neck like the crest of some dinosaur. The third’s helmet was engraved with the wearer’s ancient family motto: Born To Ride.
To these three men, tower duty was a necessary evil. There were towers like this spaced around Troll territory. You never knew when the Sullivan Himself might think they were getting soft and decide to raid, or the mad King of Vic might decide to enlarge his territory. ‘Better Ready Than Deady’ as the Don’s father had always said.
Since dawn, the three Trolls had cleaned their armor, touched up their camouflage, sharpened their swords, sharpened their belt daggers, sharpened the throwing knives sheathed on either shoulder, sharpened their boot knives, and had started applying neatsfoot oil to their boots. Boredom was setting in fast. Then they heard the shout, and were on full alert.
‘Stranger!’ shouted the Forester girl as she ran into sight among the trees. ‘Stranger!’
And there was the stranger all right, chasing the Forester girl. He was neither Forester, Looter nor Troll. He was Stranger indeed.
‘Is he a Sullivan?’ said the first Troll.
‘Nah. You ever seen a Sullivan off a horse?’ replied the second.
‘Only a dead one. A Vic?’ asked the third.
‘You ever see a Vic out of armor?’
‘Okay. So he’s a Stranger.’
The Forester girl was smart. She ran the stranger to the foot of their tree tower and then took off at an angle. He was running right beneath them, perfectly placed for them to net him. One moment Harold was running and the next he was tripped and falling and struggling in the meshes of a net. The Wyzen had heard the whistle in the air as the net dropped, and had bounded away to safety. ‘Missed the big dog. Woulda liked the dog,’ said the first Troll as he slid down his rope.
‘You ever see a dog run hind-legged? Was a monkey,’ said the second Troll.
The third Troll said nothing. He was already on the ground, rolling Harold out of the net, dropping on him, holding his hands together behind his back and tying his wrists together.
The Wyzen looked up at Zoe, Meg and Zachary sitting in the tree. She wondered dimly whether this was part of the game she was playing. The other one had stopped to play with the men from the tree. She had felt left out of that game so she had come to look for the others. It had not taken long to pick up their scent, and here they were. ‘Wyzen?’ she enquired, wondering if they would like to play.
Zoe looked at the others. ‘This mean the lion’s gone?’
She was about to climb down when Meg put a hand on her arm, restraining her. ‘You go first, Zachary.’
‘Sorry, I’m now a convinced feminist,’ Zachary said, ‘and agree with you about this macho “me Tarzan” nonsense, so if you two want to go first…’ Meg was looking at him and he trailed off. ‘Oh well here we go I guess,’ he said and climbed down to the ground. The women followed. As they moved off toward the starship, Zachary said, ‘Well at least we found water.’
‘You call that finding water? Lions drink it.’
‘You’re going to have to learn to share is all.’
28: THE WITCHDOCTOR
Maze squatted in Our Mother’s hut. She had told the ancient woman what had happened, and the ancient woman had told her once again not to tell anyone of the iron castle. They were both still sitting, Our Mother on her chair of office, Maze on the floor, when two Trolls dragged Harold into the hut, the third Troll having stayed in the forest tower on watch. The Trolls knelt as an act of courtesy to the village leader, and pulled Harold down with them. Then they were back on their feet, dragging Harold to his feet again.
‘You know this one?’ asked the ranking Troll.
‘Bring him into the light,’ Our Mother said.
The Trolls thrust Harold into the lamplight. His eyes flicked toward Maze, and then to Our Mother. The chair she was sitting in, he knew it from somewhere. He had seen it somewhere not long ago.
‘He is not ours,’ said the old woman.
‘Thank you.’ The Trolls began dragging Harold out.
‘Please,’ said Harold. ‘Can we talk? Can we discuss this?’ Before he had finished asking his question, the sunlight was on his face again and he was being dragged across the village square. It was then that he remembered where he had seen the big chair before. The bishop had sat in it in the Dalrymple Ponds church when he had been through Confirmation the year before.
Inside the hut, Our Mother spoke. ‘He’s not of the Slarn-demon race.’
‘Not Slarn-demon?’ asked Maze. ‘Then what?’
‘The writing on his shirt,’ Our Mother said. ‘I’ve seen it before.’
Outside, Harold was being dragged across the square. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me go.’
‘Once you talk to the Don,’ said the ranking Troll.
‘Who?’
‘You trespass on the Don’s turf, you talk to the Don,’ the Troll answered.
‘You a Vic spy, you talk till your jaw ache,’ said the other Troll, and laughed in a way that Harold did not find at all funny. There was a senior at school who laughed that way but only when he was torturing juniors.
And then there was someone standing in front of them. He was a tall man, dressed in clothes of handloomed woollen fabric, dyed in dull reds and browns. He was wearing a lion’s skin cape, with his greying hair tied back into a ponytail. Harold looked up into his face, and found himself looking into the wraparound shades the man was wearing. The frames of the sunglasses had been decorated with teeth and behind one of the dark lenses there glinted something red.
‘I see you’ve found my runaway slave,’ said the man.
The voice was resonant with authority, and the Trolls backed off from him.
The soldiers who had taken him prisoner had armor, and bladed weapons, but Harold saw that they were afraid of the man in the wraparound shades, who appeared to be totally unarmed.
‘Yours?’ said the ranking Troll.
‘Mine. I recognize him by his livery.’ The man in the shades gestured at the Dalrymple Ponds High School coat of arms on Harold’s windcheater. ‘The mark of his last owners. He must’ve run from his slave line.’
‘Runaway, you say.’
The man in the wraparound shades nodded. ‘Always a good sign. If they don’t have the courage to run, they don’t have the courage to be trained in my…’ and he paused to give the final word full value, ‘…craft.’
The Trolls crossed themselves, showing what they thought of the tall man’s craft. ‘Devil’s craft, Marlowe. You’ll burn for it one of these days.’
‘And perhaps you’ll burn with me.’ The tall man smiled. ‘Perhaps we’ll all burn together.’
‘Before you die, Marlowe, not after.’ The Troll thrust Harold at Marlowe. ‘If he’s one of yours, you keep him.’
Harold made a move to run, but Marlowe’s right hand closed on his arm. It was like the grip of a machine, like a vise, for the man was incredibly strong. As the Trolls moved away, Marlowe walked toward the skull-and-fetish-hung hut, taking Harold with him.
One of the Trolls, walking away, muttered: ‘Druther be hanged by the Don clean than work for that one.’
Marlowe tossed Harold into his hut and leaned against the door frame. ‘Who are you?’
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‘Harold Lewin. I’m, ah … you’re mistaking me for someone else, I didn’t escape from any slave line…’
The man smiled. ‘Of course you didn’t. I just didn’t want you dragged off before we talked.’ He was looking at Harold’s windcheater. ‘Dalrymple Ponds High School. Where did you get that shirt?’
Harold looked down at his windcheater. ‘It’s just what we wear. In the place I come from.’
‘And what place is that?’
‘A long way away from here.’ Harold pointed, indicating a direction at random.
‘Interesting.’ Marlowe looked at him in silence for a long moment. ‘And this place you came from was called Dalrymple Ponds, was it?’
Harold did not trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded.
‘Do you know the name of this place?’ the man went on.
Harold shook his head.
‘The name of this place is Damplepon.’
Harold smiled with relief. He was off the hook. ‘Pretty name.’
‘But older people call it Dalrimblepon.’
‘Uh huh?’
‘And really old people, people I remember from my childhood, used to call it Dalrymple Ponds.’
Harold forced a smile. ‘That’s, uh … that’s quite a coincidence.’
‘So you can see why I didn’t want the Don’s Troll warriors to take you away and do something … nasty … to you.’ Marlowe was silent for a moment. ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘I’m … travelling … with some people.’
‘Then I suggest you join them. Before the Don’s men take you again.’ He moved from his place at the doorway, and spun Harold around. Harold felt cold steel touch the insides of his wrists as something cut his bonds, but by the time he had turned again the blade was nowhere to be seen. ‘Go!’ said Marlowe.
Harold went, running in a beeline for the starship. Marlowe watched him out of sight, and then followed. The only one who had seen what happened was Maze, who was watching from the verandah of Our Mother’s hut.
Zoe, Meg and Zachary emerged from the clearing with the Wyzen romping in front of them. The hatch opened, and the ramp came out and the Wyzen, feeling distinctly hungry, led the way inside. She was on the bridge, lying in a couch, drinking like a baby from a squeeze bottle, by the time the others got there. ‘Harold?’ Zoe called.
‘Too much to think he’s washing his disgusting clothes,’ Meg said, looking around the bridge, having to duck to see under the washing on the line.
‘Harold sallied out for a time,’ said Guinevere.
‘He went out? By himself?’ Zachary decided he was going to have to explain to Harold about orders.
‘And you let him?’ Meg’s teacher training was getting into gear.
‘I sent the good Wyzen with him,’ Guinevere said.
‘Right,’ said Zachary. ‘Now, since the good Wyzen’s here, Harold ought to be here, so where is he?’
The main screen came to life. On it, they could see Harold running across the clearing toward the starship. The four of them, including Guinevere, breathed a sigh of relief and waited. By the time Harold had made it from the ramp to the bridge, they had gotten over feeling afraid and relieved and were ready to tear him limb from limb.
‘Where have you been, I’ve been frantic about you, I…’ started Meg.
‘You were left to guard the ship, kid, and when you’re left to guard the ship I want you guarding the ship, okay? You leave your post, I wear your guts for garters, do you understand me?’ Zachary continued in a very good imitation (minus the swearwords) of a company sergeant major he had once known.
‘Harold, I thought you were dead or something,’ continued Zoe, who really had thought the little nerd might have been eaten by a lion.
Harold did not exactly apologize. ‘Have I got news for you lot,’ he shouted over them. ‘I found a village with really primitive people in it and I chased a girl and some soldiers caught me and a witchdoctor made them give me to him because he said I was his slave, and he asked me a lot of questions and boy did I fool that old idiot!’
The old idiot whom Harold thought he had fooled lay in cover watching the starship. It was the happiest moment in his life. The moment he had waited decades for. Once, simply on the rumor of a Slarn landing in Europe, he had travelled for a year by horse, by boat, by foot. He had travelled across Australia on horseback, by boat up through the islands to the north, then by horse and foot again through Ind, and up through the mountain passes, taking a sailing ship from one end of the Mediterranean Sea to the other, tracking the rumor to the Kingdom of Bretagne, only to find the Slarn had left one week before his arrival.
And now, a dozen years later, a Slarn starship had come, this time in his own backyard. A Slarn starship, there for the taking. Maze watched him from cover, and wondered what evil Uncle Marlowe was plotting now.
29: A GIFT OF FLOWERS
Marlowe lay in cover watching the starship, thinking, planning what he would do. After a time, he wriggled back until he could stand without being seen, got to his feet and moved off toward the village. Maze watched him go but did not follow. She had things to do. She knew a place where the flowers would be blooming at this time of year. It had once been a plant nursery. Its owners, their lives prolonged by Slarn medical techniques, were now living out retirement in a star system far away. In the years since they had been taken from Earth, their nursery had run wild and was perhaps more beautiful now than when it was a business. In spring, the jonquils and daffodils bloomed here, spreading out under the flowering peaches and pears, almonds and cherries. In summer, the roses followed, ramblers, and rugosas and gallicas and incense roses, spreading under the trees by seeding and suckering from their own roots so that the old plant nursery looked like Sleeping Beauty’s garden. Autumn, and the maples and liquid ambars and tulip trees colored and shed their leaves until they stood bare among the evergreen (ever gray-green) native eucalypts, while beneath them, peering through the dying leaves, the shyly hanging heads of helleborus flowers, white and pink, and green, bloomed, fattening their seed-heads for the spring and summer ripening which was to come.
Maze loved the old garden and knew it in all of its seasons. She came for its fruit and its flowers, for its seedlings and its seeds, but often she came simply to sit on an old iron seat which rusted in the sun and rain near a pond at the garden’s centre.
Today, she came for flowers. It was summer, and the roses were blooming and she chose the striped ones, the roses whose names she did not know, but whose original owners (now on that planet so far away) would have recognized as Rosa Mundi and Tricoleur de Flandres. She picked an armful, brushing aside the bees, trying not to frighten away the wattle birds sucking honey from a tall spiky patch of New Zealand flax, and then made her way back to the iron castle in the forest.
Inside the starship, while Maze was in the old plant nursery picking flowers, Harold had been interrogated. ‘What kind of village?’ asked Zoe, ‘What kind of people?’
‘Sort of Third World, if you know what I mean,’ Harold said. ‘Huts made of bark and wattle and daub…’
‘Which he didn’t know about till I told him last semester,’ Meg put in.
‘But which I remembered all about when I saw it,’ Harold answered defensively before going on, ‘they had gardens, but people were tanning skins, so they hunt, probably gather stuff like the men do in hunting-gathering societies…’
‘Studies have shown that most of the food collected by a hunting and gathering society is brought in by the women,’ Meg said in flat contradiction.
‘Funny you should say that,’ Harold said, ‘I think a woman’s running the place.’
‘Real primitives you mean?’ said Zachary, but Zoe and Meg did not laugh.
‘I was taken to this big hut in the middle of the village. There’s this really old lady there, a hundred years old she looked, and they called her Our Mother and treated her as if she was royalty or something. But there’s the witchdoc
tor guy, the one I tricked into letting me go after he got me away from the soldiers. Very interested in the windcheater.’ He tapped his chest.
‘Can we get food from them do you think?’ Zachary was getting very tied of khaki biscuits. He did not even want to think about blue gruel.
‘We could probably steal food there, yes,’ said Harold.
‘“Steal”, Harold? Are you a moral defective or something? You did say “steal”?’
Zoe chimed in after Meg. ‘You know how much hard work goes into growing food, Harold? Do you have any idea?’ Zoe knew very well. She had worked in the family market garden every day after school and in some seasons before school.
‘Don’t jump down my throat like that! In fantasy role-playing games it’s basic operating procedure that you steal anything you can get your hands on. And since this situation is more like a fantasy role-playing game than anything else, I naturally assumed…’
‘Just as I thought. He’s a moral defective,’ Meg said to the others.
‘Who you?’ said Maze. The strange voice stopped the discussion dead.
They looked at each other, and then at the main screen. On the screen they could see a little girl whose sun-bleached hair was held in place with a leather band. She was standing in the clearing, holding an armful of roses.
‘That’s the little girl I chased!’ Harold exclaimed.
‘Who you?’ Maze said again.
‘Dost know the Law, little one?’ Guinevere’s voice was soft and kind, pitched so that it would not frighten their visitor.
‘Law and the Promise is one,’ Maze gabbled out, saying something she had learned by rote as soon as she could talk, ‘You must build no cities, you must use no machines, you must join no wires, Elektrikkity is not for you.’
‘What is this stuff, Guinevere?’ Harold asked.
‘The false religion the Slarn plant on all their planets,’ said Guinevere. The Anthropological Survey must have been here.’
‘This is the Law,’ Maze rattled on. ‘Break the Law, Skygods come to destroy you. Keep the Law, Skygods give many children, much wealth, many enemies’ heads. The Promise and Law are one.’
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