TOMORROW KNIGHT
Michael Kurland
© Michael Kurland 1976
Michael Kurland has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1976 by Daw Books.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Venture, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
The Second Corps of His Most Imperial Majesty’s Holy Crusade was drawn up for battle. The heavy cavalry, three hundred Grand Knights in full armor, took their place at the center of the line. The light cavalry, chain mail glittering in the early morning sun, stretched out on both sides of the center to the two edges of the field of battle. Behind the horsemen, the infantry, a wall of soldiers six men deep, stood with pikes at port as their sergeants strode back and forth between the ranks pulling the eternal last-minute inspections.
From his position at the head of his platoon on a small hill at one side of the field, Lance Corporal Carl Frederic Allan had a fine view of this spectacle. He watched as Duke Edgar, the corps commander, and his staff rode up the line in a final review before taking their places at the head of the Grand Knights.
Flipping away his cigarette, Corporal Allan turned away from watching the battle formation. Holding the reins tightly in his right hand, he adjusted the chinstrap on his helmet with his left. As the moment for the attack grew nearer, the horses sensed the tension in the air and grew increasingly nervous. Corporal Allan checked his wristwatch and then leaned over in his saddle and tapped the man to his left. “Unfurl the banner,” he said.
“Right, Corporal,” the trooper said, and released the leather thong which held the unit flag tightly furled against the staff. “How long now?”
“About seven minutes. Pass the word down the line.” Corporal Allan glanced up at the flag fluttering uneasily in the light breeze and nodded satisfaction. The Horde of Allah would know who was attacking them. The words Eleventh Light Mounted Infantry Attack Company, superimposed over the crusader sword-and-shield emblem of His Most Imperial Majesty Hiram VI, with the motto Never Dishonored underneath. A truly satisfactory battle flag.
Below them on the field the signalman sounded Up Tails All on the trumpet, and the Grand Knights clicked their helmet visors down. Carl Frederic gave his men a final appraisal. “Wilkens! Put out that cigarette!”
“Sorry, Corporal.” The offending butt was cast aside. In the distance, on the far side of the battlefield, the thin, reedy whine of a Saracen war-horn set the Horde into motion toward the crusaders. A few seconds later the Emperor’s Call to Battle sounded a defiant answer. The Second Corps moved out to meet the enemy.
As a unit, paced at the speed of the marching foot soldiers, the moving mass lumbered across the field. At the same pace, from some two miles away, the Horde of Allah approached,
It was, as Carl Frederic observed critically from his vantage point on the hill, a glorious morning for a battle. The flitterboats were out in force over the battle area. Mostly the bright, randomly mottled boats of the Guests, but a few of the severe red-and-gray craft of the Inspectors were darting over the field.
One of the flitterboats, colored mostly a violent pink, swooped low over Carl’s platoon and startled the already nervous horses. Damn dung-headed fool, Carl thought as he steadied his jittery mount, watch but not interfere indeed! If that’s not interference I’m a . . .
“Move in line—column forwaaard!” Captain-Chevalier Higgins, the commander of the Eleventh, waved his hand once around his head and pointed forward. The flag bearer left Lance-Corporal Allan’s side in front of the Third Platoon and rode to the head of the company, taking his place on the commmander’s right, and the Eleventh Light Mounted Infantry Attack Company—Never Dishonored—dogtrotted into battle.
With the armies approaching each other at a walking pace, it would be ten minutes yet before they engaged; this gave Commander Higgins about eight minutes to get his men into position for the special battle plan. The Eleventh was usually a primary reserve force, used to meet and stop any enemy unit that broke through the main line; but this morning Captain-Chevalier Higgins and the Eleventh were under special orders.
The unit wheeled into position on schedule, and the plan went into operation. The archers, back row of the infantry, knelt and sent a barrage of arrows over their lines and into the enemy ranks. The entire mass of cavalry, light and heavy, charged the Saracen lines, raising a cloud of dust that almost obscured the battle area. A few of the Guests’ flitterboats ducked in close to get a better view of the first clash, and Carl Frederic could see the arrows bouncing off the boats’ force screens.
Now the special battle plan went into operation. The first line of Grand Knights released thongs on their saddles that dropped blankets on the ends of ropes, to be pulled behind their charging horses. Under the cover of the thick dust cloud that instantly covered the whole field, the rest of the Grand Knights, the main body of heavy cavalry, swung sharply to the right and raced down the aisle between the first and second row of light cavalry. The Eleventh and Fourteenth Light Mounted Infantry Attack Companies closed in to fill up the gap in the center of the line.
A minute later the two armies met. The Horde’s heavy armor broke through the thin line of Grand Knights and into the midst of the Eleventh and Fourteenth. A long, black helm with a Saracen tuft on top appeared in front of Carl Frederic, and he took a vicious swing at it with his sword. The sword bounced off the heavy plate and the Saracen turned, spinning a massive, ugly chain-mace about his head, his eyes glittering through the slits in his helm. Carl thrust his sword up with both hands, meeting the mace’s chain near the handle. The heavy, spiked ball at the end of the chain bucked back, knocking Carl’s sword from his grasp, and smashed into the top of the black helm. The Saracen slumped in his saddle.
Carl Frederic swung from his saddle and dropped to the ground, keeping his eye on his sword where it had been flung by the bucking mace. In two steps he had it in his hand again. There was no time to remount, nor any real point to it. Horses were good for quick movement, but for stationary fighting a man needed his own two feet on the ground. To Carl’s right Commander Higgins was trying to hold off two heavily armed Saracen Grand Knights, who had him pinned between their great war-horses. Carl lunged at the nearest one, trying to unseat him with the sword. The point caught in a crack in the Saracen’s armor, and, as the man swiveled, Carl’s sword broke neatly in half. Carl cursed and threw the useless handle aside. He grabbed the Saracen around the waist and climbed up the armor like a man scaling a mountain. The Saracen tried to push or beat him off, but he couldn’t get his sword into play because Carl was too close; that immobilized the sword hand, since the Saracen was not willing to drop his sword. Before the man inside the mountain of armor could figure out any effective counter to Carl’s unorthodox attack, Carl had the leverage and had pulled him out of the saddle. They hit the ground together, side by side.
Carl rolled and leaped to his feet. The black knight tried to get up, but was unable to move at anything beyond a turtle’s pace because of the weight of his armor. Left alone, he could have eventually stood, but every time he reached his knees, Carl Frederic pushed firmly with the heel of his
foot against the black knight’s breastplate, and he clattered back to the earth. Carl quickly tired of this game, but there was no weapon he wore which would pierce the black night’s armor, and he did not care to leave the Saracen behind him. Horses were charging back and forth around him, men were yelling and racing by; the dust concealed all beyond a few feet from him, and Carl had no idea of how the battle was coming or who, if anyone, was winning.
Car backed off and circled around the black knight, who rolled over and twisted around to keep him in view. It was a stalemate, and could last until the end of the battle unless one of them did something clever or assistance emerged from the dust cloud. Carl tried to think of something clever as he kept circling. Then he tripped over something, tried to fall as he had been taught in training, and wrenched his shoulder. Fine, he thought, great! I don’t need an enemy, I can maim myself quite without assistance. He backed up to see what he had tripped on. It was a massive Saracen war-ax, blade bit deeply into the iron-hard ground, haft sticking up at a slight angle. Carl took it in both hands and tried to yank it free. It refused to budge and sharp pains shot through his shoulder. The Saracen was back up to his knees.
By now the main body of the battle had moved away from Carl and the Saracen knight, and the dust was beginning to settle around them. The noise in the near distance—yells, screams, moans, thumps, thuds, horses’ hooves, and the constant clanging of metal on metal like an army of busboys dropping their trays—made speech or thought equally difficult. “Yield!” Carl Frederic screamed at the Saracen, tugging at the war-ax, but the Saracen, oblivious, continued the struggle to stand erect. He had one foot up now and was ready to push up and stand.
“Yield!” Carl Frederic demanded again, leaving the war-ax and leaping feet-first toward the black knight. His feet hit the black knight in the chest, bowling him back on the ground with an impressive clank. Carl landed heavily on his side a few feet away, and lay there for a minute breathing heavily and holding his shoulder. “Yield!” he panted.
“Your father was a cook!” the Saracen yelled, once again starting the process of standing erect in armor.
Carl pulled himself to his feet and went back to the war-ax. He stood on the handle, and it sank a couple of inches. Then he lifted it to its former position and stood on it again. After a few more loosening stands, he worked it back and forth like a pump-handle, and it came free. “Yield!” he yelled again, advancing toward the kneeling Saracen and waving the ax around his head.
The black knight thought about this for a second and then nodded. “You’re on,” he said, his voice muffled by the helm. He lifted the faceplate and fastened it back. “A war-ax I can surrender to,” he said calmly. “Why didn’t you think of that sooner? I couldn’t quit as long as you were just jumping up and down on me. Code of battle and all that.”
“I had to find the stinking ax, didn’t I?” Carl said reasonably. “Hold out your hand.” The Saracen complied, and Carl took a small stamp and pad from his pouch and stamped:
PRISONER
fairly taken in open battle
by C.F. Allan, Corporal
Eleventh L.M.I.A.C.
Never Dishonored
in red indelible ink across the back of the knight’s hand. “Well, you’re out of it now,” he said.
“It is no disgrace for a Grand Knight to be captured by a mounted infantryman,” the Saracen said. “But it certainly is a calamity. I won’t see any bonus money for the next year, that’s for sure.”
“Sorry, pal,” Carl Frederic said.
“Sure you are!” the Saracen snarled. He pulled his long, red capture sash from inside his armor and, wrapping it around his neck, stood up and clanked his way off the field.
“At least you’re alive,” Carl yelled at the retreating back. “Would you have preferred me to bash you with the ax?” The Saracen ignored him, and Carl turned and, hefting the ax over his shoulder, headed toward the closest clump of fighting bodies.
As Carl approached the clump he could make out what was happening: a group of about nine or ten black knights had surrounded four or five Grand Knights and were hacking away at them, trying to break through their circle. Another few steps closer and Carl could see that the Grand Knights were the Life Guards of Hiram VI, and the white-plumed knight in the center was His Majesty himself, standing firm and laying about him with a great two-handed broadsword. Above the double circle three curious flitterboats had descended and were hovering barely out of reach of the arc of the great sword-blades.
Swinging his war-ax around his head and yelling at the top of his lungs, Corporal Carl Frederic Allan charged into the midst of the Saracens. The bright steel ax-head whistled as he brought it around and contacted the shoulder piece of the nearest black knight with a shuddering crunch. The Saracen slumped forward and dropped to the ground as if his strings had been cut, and the ax flew out of Carl’s grasp, striking another black knight on the back of the helm. The ax-blow had done something to Carl’s right arm, and it dangled uselessly from the shoulder and throbbed.
The second black knight had also dropped, and two of the remainder turned to face this new threat. Carl pulled his eight-inch dirk from its scabbard and, holding it in front of him with his left hand, retreated slowly from their broadswords. If one of them would suggest surrendering, he would seriously consider it.
With a mighty bellow, Hiram VI brushed aside the Saracen belaboring him and strode to the two black knights advancing on Carl. Grasping the hilt firmly in both hands, His Majesty smashed both Saracens across the side of the helm with the flat of his broadsword, knocking them silly. “Hiram the Mighty,” His Majesty said, chuckling heartily, as the two knights crumpled to the ground, knocked cold.
“Thank you, Sire,” Carl said gratefully, trying to do a proper bow and failing miserably.
“Nonsense, thank you, lad,” Hiram boomed before striding away.
Carl Frederic suddenly found that he was very dizzy. Then everything unfocused and went dark, and he felt himself falling.
Chapter Two
The next time Carl noticed anything, the sun was setting and he had a dreadful headache. “Must have fallen asleep,” he muttered inanely as he staggered to his feet. “Better get back to the bivouac.” He looked around trying to figure out where he was and which way to go. The battle appeared to be over, although it was impossible to tell which side had won. The dead and wounded seemed to have been cleared up, too; at least there were none in sight. Carl, quite obviously, had been overlooked by the clean-up crew. He would speak to someone about that, after a good night’s sleep and a couple of aspirin.
Carl started trudging along in the direction he fondly hoped was homeward, looking over the ground he traversed to see if any of the litter of battle he passed was unbroken enough to bring a price as a souvenir. The Guests were fond of souvenirs. Carl found a couple of crossbow bolts and a light, curved reserve sword of a Saracen pattern before it was too dark to make out small objects on the ground.
Carl was too sore to walk far or fast, although no bones seemed to be broken, and a short while after dark he sat down to rest. Although the camp couldn’t be more than three or four miles away, he was beginning to doubt whether he’d make it before breakfast.
A thin slice of moon was rising from the Altoona Mound, forbidden ground except to Guests, the stars were beginning to appear, and there was a cold breeze blowing. Carl thought briefly about spending the night where he was, then decided he’d better make it back to bivouac or he’d certainly catch pneumonia and spend the next month flat on his back in the infirmary. The quality of empathy in the infirmary was not great, and rumor had it that the doctors worked on troopers until they had enough experience to go off and work on real people like officers or civilians. Carl got up and started walking again.
“Want a lift, soldier?” The question came from behind him, in a girl’s soft voice, and frightened him more than the Saracen’s chain-mace had.
Carl wheeled, and stared into the great
front viewport of a flitterboat. It was hovering three feet off the ground, and its open door spilled a cone of yellow light onto the mangled turf.
“Well, do you want a ride or not?” It wasn’t a girl at all, it was a Guest. A very human Guest, but still a Guest, and not to be considered a girl by any trooper who happened to notice her. If he could have considered her a girl, Carl would have considered her a very pretty girl indeed: long brown hair fell in waves to below her shoulders, and her slender body curved in very girlish ways beneath her simple gold tunic. But she was a Guest. Could he accept a ride from a beautiful female Guest? What did the Rules say? He couldn’t remember.
“Come on,” she said. “Make up your mind. If you want a lift, get in; if you’d rather walk . . .” Carl cut off the rest of her sentence by jumping in the flitterboat.
“Yes, miz. Thank you. I’ll ride.”
“I thought you’ never make up your mind.” She patted the bucket seat next to her. “Stop looking so nervous and sit down, I won’t bite.”
“I’m not nervous,” Carl said stoutly. “It’s just that— Well, I’ve never been in one of these before.” He put his booty down on the floor in front of him and gingerly lowered himself into the seat.
“What, never been in a flitter? What a shame, they’re so much fun. Fasten your belt!” She reached across him and pulled a wide piece of webbing from one side of his seat and attached it on the other. In the process her arm touched his, and the beautiful perfume of her body clogged his nostrils.
She’s a Guest! The alarm reaction cut in, and doors thudded closed over certain whole areas of consideration in his thoughts. He stared rigidly ahead.
The Guest laughed a golden laugh, oblivious of her effect on him. “Flitters are much less restricting than horses,” she said. “Watch!” She pushed a button on the panel by her left hand and the door slid closed. Then, resting her arms on the armrests of her seat, she grasped the control handles built into the front of the rests. She pulled back slowly on both of them.
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