Tomorrow Knight

by Michael Kurland

  “Right,” Hiram VI agreed. “Kneel.”

  “What? That is, excuse me, Your Majesty.”

  “Kneel down, boy. You’re about to become a knight-brevet.” He strode to the center of the room, in front of Carl, and pulled out his great sword.

  Carl gulped. Then he took a deep breath. It had never occurred to him that sometimes good things happen when one is ordered to report to one’s commander. Carl found that he was still holding his breath, and he released it in a short gasp. He kneeled.

  Hiram VI took his sword in both hands and applied the flat of it to Carl’s left shoulder, and then his right. “By the power vested in me by my hereditary position, and the Ruling Council, and in recognition of the great and courageous act of heroism committed by Carl Frederic Allan of the Eleventh—Eleventh?—that’s right, Eleventh Light Mounted Infantry Attack Company in the recent battle against the Horde of Allah in coming to the defense of his sovereign against overwhelming odds—I never did thank you for that, boy—as reported to the awards committee by Guest and observer c’Chank’k’k Rgh’hagh’t”—here Hiram nodded to the taller beetle, who shyly waved a mandible—“I hereby and herewith give and grant to the aforesaid Carl Frederic Allan, my loyal subject, a grant and patent of arms and a brevet to the rank of knight-cadet.”

  Hiram VI paused here, and took a deep breath, then he sheathed his sword and took Carl by the hand. “Rise, Sir Knight,” he said in his most deep, resonant, ceremonial, commanding voice.

  Chapter Four

  Carl went to bed late that night; it must have been almost ten o’clock by the time he crawled into his bedroll. He had much to think about, and he spent the time sitting on the bench outside his tent, staring into the darkness, and thinking. First there was the problem of what device to pick for his arms. He would have to consult with his father on that. His father would be delighted and proud when he heard the news, and would probably spend a couple of months researching family history to come up with a unique and appropriate device for Carl Frederic. It would be a blessing for the old man; give him something of legitimate importance to do. Since Frederic ben Shahn had accepted retirement four years ago, he hadn’t been able to find anything that interested him to keep himself busy. He was still a young man, too, not yet fifty, with an awful lot of boredom to look forward to unless he found something to do with his time. The fighting arm of the Holy Crusade used up men young, and few of them could adapt themselves to civilian life when they unstrapped and hung up the sword and buckler.

  This fate of his father’s was one that no longer directly concerned Carl. Knights did not retire. And the step from knight-brevet to knight was a sure one, if sometimes it did take years. Carl would be notified at some future time, by one of the army’s mysterious internal processes, that he had been accepted at one of the officers’ candidate schools run by the army (or possibly the navy, even though Carl had never even seen the ocean).

  When Carl had successfully graduated from the candidate school, he would be nominated for one of the orders of knighthood by his sponsor. And since said sponsor was Hiram VI himself, Carl surely would be accepted. Then he would be Lieutenant-Chevalier Allan; or possibly Lieutenant-Bath, or Lieutenant-Garter, or even Lieutenant-Roundtable Allan. Hiram VI himself was a hereditary Knight of the Round Table.

  Knights were also not limited by the barrier the way commoners were. They were open to be assigned to other sectors if there was need of them there, or if there were too many in their home sector. The few vague tales Carl had heard of the world beyond Sector Seven were the retellings of stories told by garrulous old knights who had spent part of their service in other sectors before retiring and coming home. Stories of whole battles fought with guns, like the fowling pieces the nobility used, but able to reload much more quickly, or, in some versions, to fire several shots before reloading. Stories of vehicles that traveled at great speed along the ground without horses; and other vehicles, used by men and not Guests, that flew through the air supported by great metal wings. Stories of tall buildings with moving rooms that took you from one floor to the next. Carl went to sleep remembering these wonderful, mythical stories.

  When Carl woke up it was the middle of the night, and his mind was full of visions of Alyssaunde, the soft, gentle lady who rustled when she moved and smelled like—Carl had no words to describe her smell, but could only try to recapture the memory of it. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but the image of this girl who could handle a flitterboat as if it were something alive kept pushing up from his subconscious. He wanted to think about Alyssaunde. He wanted to dream about Alyssaunde, but in the waking, musing daydreams with which a man thinks about a woman, not in the deep sleep, unremembered dreams of the subconscious.

  Carl slid out of his bedroll and pulled his boots on. Being careful not to wake deMitre—not that there was any known way to wake deMitre before his full eight hours—he left the tent. Both moons had risen now, and the ground glowed with that peculiar shadowless light that makes the background brooding and the foreground a series of misshapen lumps that cannot be identified without prior knowledge.

  A flitterboat passed overhead, and Carl felt a momentary twinge of fear. It was an Inspector coming to get him for the way he was thinking about a Guest. Then he realized how foolish that was. If the Inspectors could monitor their thinking, then Carl and most of his friends in the bivouac would have been taken away long ago. No, the twinge was from Carl’s own guilt feelings. The years of schooling and indoctrination were not to be eliminated so lightly. A Guest was a Guest was a Guest, and regardless of shape or size or smell was to be treated by the Rules of Conduct. Which didn’t include fraternizing. Carl realized that he was obviously going to continue thinking about Alyssaunde, so he and his conscience would just have to fight it out.

  Another flitterboat passed, obscuring the Little Moon for an instant. Carl walked toward the parade ground, staring at the Little Moon low on the horizon in front of him. The Little Moon, a small, bright sphere, much brighter than the moon, moved across the sky so fast that you could almost see it moving. It would rise and set twice in the same night. Carl stared at it and thought about Earth, and about the other planets he would never get to see. The Guests came from other planets, he knew. Not from the moon, or the Little Moon, but from planets so far that they circled stars that were faint dots in Earth’s night sky. Alyssaunde was a Guest, and she probably came from one of those distant dots. And she would probably go back after a brief stay on Earth. And Carl would never see her again.

  Carl reached the parade field, and a flitterboat lifted into the air as if startled by his presence. There seemed to be a lot of them around tonight, which was unusual; there was nothing to see after dark, so the flitters usually went back to wherever they came from. Maybe Alyssaunde was up there in the dark sky, in one of the hovering flitterboats.

  Then all at once, as Carl stared wistfully at the hovering flitterboats in the dark sky, the connecting facts popped out of his subconscious and Carl knew why the flitterboats were there.

  They were waiting for an attack.

  Somewhere out there in the dark the Saracen Horde was gathered for a night attack on the Holy Crusade. The Guests always knew in advance of even the most secret surprise attack, and the flitterboats always gathered around the site even before the battle started. How they knew was beyond Carl’s knowledge, but know they did.

  And now Carl knew. The Saracens were out there in the dark beyond the sentry posts. Probably watching him right now, Carl thought, feeling a prickly sensation along the base of his spine. He tried to act casual, just continuing along with what he was doing. What had he been doing? He tried to remember. Thinking, that’s what. How does one manage to look as if he is merely thinking?

  Doing his best to keep thinking, Carl started back for the tent area. He shook his tent-mate awake first when he arrived.

  deMitre choked, gurgled, then swung blindly at Carl. His fist connected with the tent pole. “Blast!” he
screamed. “What under the two moons are you doing, Allan? It is you, Allan, isn’t it?”

  “Shut up,” Carl Frederic told him. “Get dressed, or at least get your boots on.”

  “Why the hell should I do that?” deMitre demanded. “It must be three o’clock in the morning.”

  “We’re under attack,” Carl told him. “Or we will be any minute now. Get dressed and wake the rest of the troop. I’ve got to go tell the O.D. and Captain Higgins.”

  deMitre sat up in his bedroll and scratched his head. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” he said. “We’re being attacked, and nobody knows about it but you.”

  “Something like that,” Carl admitted.

  “I think this brevet stuff has gone to your head,” deMitre told him. “You planning to bull your way to Grand General before you’re thirty, are you?”

  Carl grinned. “You better hope I don’t get you in my company, or you won’t sleep through the evening calisthentics.”

  “Your company!” deMitre snorted, pulling his pants on. “Your corps, more likely. I look forward to being a humble platoon leader in Allan’s Army.”

  Carl slid his chain-mail vest on over his head and buckled on his short sword. “I’m heading for the command tent,” he said. “Wake up your platoon and mine and send scouts over to the other platoon leaders. Earth knows how long we’ve got.”

  “This attack of yours had better happen, that’s all I’ve got to say,” deMitre grumbled, pulling on his own armor.

  “My,” Carl said, “you are a bloodthirsty lad, aren’t you?” And with that he left the tent and dogtrotted over to the command tent. All deliberate speed, but without actually running. If the Saracens were in a position to watch, a dogtrotting trooper could be a late guard; a running trooper might know something. Carl couldn’t take a chance on precipitating the attack.

  The Charge of Quarters, a skinny trooper named Stout, was mopping the orderly-room floor when Carl burst in. “Watch it!” he yelled. “Don’t get your muddy bootprints in here or I’ll have to mop it all over again.”

  “Not tonight, you won’t,” Carl Frederic said. “Who’s the Officer of the Day?”

  “Lieutenant Von Strasse. He’s asleep in the office.”

  “I’ll go wake him up. You go wake up the other platoon leaders and tell them to rouse their men.”

  “Yes, Corporal,” Stout said, dropping his mop and heading for the door. He stopped just short of it and turned around. “Ah, Corporal, why am I waking them? I mean, they’re sure to ask.”

  “Tell them we’re about to be attacked by Saracens, that should satisfy them.”

  “Right,” Stout said. He started out the door, then turned back and buckled on his sword and put his helmet over his service cap. Then he raced out.

  Carl Frederic shook Lieutenant Von Strasse awake. “Under attack?” the lieutenant said, rubbing his eyes. “What makes you think that?”

  The high-pitched whine of a Saracen war-horn blasted in through the open window, sounding the attack from somewhere close by. Somewhere, Carl thought, much too close by.

  “I see,” Lieutenant Von Strasse said. “You’ve made your point. How many are awake?”

  “Twenty or thirty by now,” Carl said. “I hope.”

  “I also,” the lieutenant agreed. “Well, let’s get out there.”

  They ran out into the night, swords drawn, the lieutenant in his stockinged feet. The sudden dark, after even the dim light of the gas lamp in the orderly room, blinded Carl. He should have remembered that, he thought, and kept one eye closed while inside. Now it would take a few minutes for his night vision to come back, and almost a full half hour before it returned completely.

  “Can’t see or hear a thing,” Lieutenant Von Strasse whispered to Carl. “What’s happening?”

  “They’re out there somewhere,” Carl said.

  “I imagine attacking in the dark is a somewhat slow process,” Lieutenant Von Strasse commented. “Although with both moons out you should be able to see pretty well once your eyes are adjusted. We have to do something about getting red lenses to put over the orderly-room lamp.”

  “What are your orders, sir?” Carl asked.

  “Ah, yes, my orders,” Lieutenant Von Strasse mused.

  Someone cursed in the distance. Steel struck steel somewhere close by. There was a wild scream and a crashing sound. The battle had begun.

  “Perhaps we’d better wake up Captain-Chevalier Higgins, sir,” Carl suggested.

  “Captain-Chevalier Higgins is spending the night at Castle Elsinore, as a guest of His Majesty,” the lieutenant said. “I guess that puts me in charge. Go to your platoon, Corporal, and . . . No; your platoon can take care of itself. Presumably they’re awake, dressed, and together.”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Well, the Saracens are here only to take prisoners. Anyone still in his tent is their meat. Make it from tent to tent and order the men to scatter and hide and only fight if they’re cornered. I’ll send a runner to the Twenty-Seventh, and they should be able to form up and get their asses over here within half an hour.”

  “The men won’t like running away from the enemy, sir,” Carl said.

  “It’s not running away,” Lieutenant Von Strasse said. “It’s keeping out of sight and letting the enemy tire themselves out thrashing away at empty tents. The Saracens will be methodically going from tent to tent. There’s no way platoons that aren’t already awake and together, like yours, can group. They’ll either get killed or captured if they fight individually. The company fund can’t afford to pay the ransoms if too many of the men get captured.” Von Strasse sounded annoyed. “Why this had to happen while I was O.D. and Higgins was away is what I want to know.”

  “I’ll get on it right away, sir,” Carl said, giving a perfunctory salute which the lieutenant returned. He was beginning to be able to see again.

  “Very good,” Von Strasse said. “Hell, they’ve probably captured twenty percent of the men already. There goes Captain-Chevalier Higgins’ plans for a new mess hall.” With his sword clutched grimly in his hand, he turned and stalked off toward the nearest sounds of battle.

  Carl obeyed orders and went from tent to tent telling the men not to try to form up but to split for the high ground. Many had done this already. A few were still asleep, despite the noise of impending battle, and Carl had to kick them awake. Several were crouched, dressed, and hiding in their tents, and almost skewered Carl as he entered.

  The noise of the fighting approached, and Carl decided it was time to follow the orders he was transmitting. Off to the left was a thick wooded area where it would be easy to avoid a fight. He headed toward it until a large mound blocked his path. The mound turned at his approach, and the double moons revealed it as one of the largest Saracen troopers Carl had ever seen.

  “Excuse me,” Carl said, trying to duck under the Saracen’s upraised arm.

  The Saracen growled and lunged, bringing his sword arm around and clubbing downward with the pommel of his broadsword. The move grazed Carl’s shoulder as he butted upward, mashing the smooth top of his helmet square against the Saracen’s chin. The Saracen stumbled backward and sat heavily, blood spurting from the corner of his mouth. He put his hand to his mouth and then held it away, examining the bloodstained fingers with interest. “I cut my tongue,” he said wonderingly.

  “Yield!” Carl commanded, holding his sword to the Saracen’s chest.

  “You son of an uncircumcised pig!” the Saracen shouted, slapping Carl’s sword aside and springing to his feet. “I cut my tongue! You made me bleed! I’m going to get you for that!” He took his broadsword in both hands and, with a savage roar, lumbered toward Carl.

  Carl retreated rapidly in the direction of the wood, mindful of his lieutenant’s orders not to engage in a fight if he could help it. And if he could help it, he would gladly not fight this monster Saracen. Once he became a knight he might have to fight to defend his honor, but everyone knew that troopers
had no honor.

  He passed the first tree two steps ahead of the Saracen. Now he was in the wood, and the thick branches filtered out the light of the two moons, and it was pitch dark. Carl turned left, tripped, and fell heavily. The Saracen, cursing loudly, stumbled on past him and into the depths of the wood.

  Carl pulled himself to his feet and continued on in the direction he was headed. In a few minutes he was thoroughly lost. The screaming and clanking sounds of battle were his only orientation, and they seemed to come from all around. He kept walking. In a little while the sound was isolated, and he could tell it was coming from behind him and to the left.

  It was probably about time to get back to the unit and join in the fighting. The Twenty-Seventh Light Mounted Infantry Attack Company, the Eleventh’s neighbors, should be ready to counterattack, and Carl Frederic should try to locate and regroup his men. He struck off through the trees and kept heading in a line that should take him out of the wood. In a little while the battle sounds were coming from behind him and to the right. Either the battle had moved considerably in the past few minutes, or Carl was going in a circle.

  Carl paused to reason out his problem. The answer seemed to be to travel by sound rather than sight, as long as he couldn’t see anything. He started out again, trying to keep the noise of battle to his left. In a few minutes he was back out of the trees.

  “Halt!” a shadowy figure in front of him demanded. “Advance and give the countersign.”

  Carl tried to remember the countersign. Surely he must have been told the countersign. It all seemed so long ago. “Beachball,” he said.

  “Good guess,” the shadowy figure advised him. “Want to try again?”

  “It sounded like ‘beachball,’” Carl complained. “Dromedary?”

  The guard poked a twelve-foot pike at him. “Down on your face,” he said. “Don’t cause any trouble.”

  “I never argue with the legally constituted chain of command,” Carl said. “An order from a guard on duty is as a command from the Emperor.” He fell forward, landing flat on his face, and remained there.