The Witch Goddess

by Robert Adams

  "But the big transceiver… ?" she began, then frowned, remembering. "Oh!"

  "That's right, Doctor. It was near the end of the train, along with all of our supplies, ammo, tents and so on, so it's either under the rocks back there or somewhere out in those burned-over areas; useless to us, in either case, even if we took the time and were lucky enough to find it. No, Doctor, forget about help from the Center or Broomtown or anywhere else. We're on our own, and we will be for some hundreds of kilometers more."

  Twice before they were formed up to begin the southward march, stray ponies—two of the four still bearing pack saddles—wandered in, three of them forming a small herd and the other in company with a full-sized horse.

  The horse seemed a bit skittish, but Corbett, who had always had a way with equines, quickly won the big gelding over and, after petting him for a while, examined him and his equipage.

  The big bay's neck and throat were armored with steel chainmail and plates of stiffened leather; a chamfron of thicker leather edged with metal protected the beast's face and a brisket plate of similar construction his chest. The saddle also edged and studded with metal, was a warkak, such as were made and used in the Middle Kingdoms, to the north and east. From the off side of the pommel hung a short-handled mace, its angular iron head clotted with old, dried blood and hair. From the near side hung a waxed-leather waterskin containing over a quart of brandy-water.

  "Where in the world… ?" said Erica. "Jay, those primitives who crossed the track yesterday—none of them was riding anything like this horse."

  He nodded. "More than likely this is from the force they were running from, Doctor. Remember, I told you that they looked like survivors fleeing a lost battle. Although he's armored like a destrier, this fellow is not war-trained to the extent that a destrier is, else I'd never have gotten near him without getting mauled. He's probably a troophorse, such as most of the northern mercenary cavalrymen ride. And there clearly was a battle. Not only is that mace thick with blood, but the entire near side of the saddle and gear is crusted… and it's not his, either; he doesn't appear to be injured, except for a few small burns here and there."

  The march down to the targeted creek was uneventful, save for the ingathering of several more ponies and a couple more mules. However, at the creek—or, more precisely, on an island in the middle of the creek—Corbett and his party were very pleasantly surprised to find Sergeant First Class Leon Cabell and four other Broomtown men, all a trifle singed and their mounts, as well, but otherwise uninjured. With them were a few more pack beasts laden with metals from the looted hold, another riderless warhorse of the northeastern breed… and a bound prisoner mounted on a shaggy, ill-kept pony.

  Cabell's report was short and terse. He and the party he now led had left the track before even the first earth tremors, riding in pursuit of a knot of pack animals stampeded by the flood of wild beasts fleeing the plateau. They had been two ridgelines away from the track by the time of the initial shocks and farther than that when the second series of tremors, the blast of noise and the rain of hot rocks had occurred.

  They had never really caught their quarry, rather the pack beasts, moved by the herd instinct, had straggled to join them during the long, fiery and danger-filled night, as they rode first in one direction, then another, in order to avoid the forest fires. Indeed, in the smoky darkness, it had been some time before any of them noticed that the saddled troop horse was not one of their mules, the big beasts being about the same size.

  When they had come upon the creek, Cabell had led them upstream, recalling that the track crossed it somewhere to the east of their position. The prisoner had been taken, he and his pony together, upon the tiny island. The tall, rawboned, extremely filthy man spoke English—of a sort, very slurred and much debased—but so far had said nothing more than what might have been prayers to a god or gods and what were clearly curses.

  "He seems to be under the impression, sir," concluded Sergeant Cabell, "that we are 'ghost-pale Ahrmehnee,' whatever that group or race is. From what little he's said so far, and precious little of that of a repeatable nature, I would imagine that he was part of a large raiding party that was mauled, routed and chased off the plateau by a better-armed band of warriors. He had an arrow through his left forearm when we found him, but we removed it and bandaged him up."

  "Where is the arrow?" demanded Corbett. It was produced, and after studying the black-shafted missile for a few moments, the officer turned back to Erica.

  "It's not Ahrmehnee, Doctor, or Moon Maiden, either. And it's no hunting arrow. Offhand, I'd guess a Middle Kingdoms origin, and that would tend to fit in well with these two warhorses. But what the bloody hell are northern mercenaries doing over here in the western mountains? The Ahrmehnee have no need of them and never, so far as I've ever heard, hire them on. The Confederation employs them, of course, but no unit of Confederation troops could possibly have gotten so far west; the Ahrmehnee would've exterminated them well east of here."

  She shrugged helplessly. "I have no ideas on the subject, Jay. But let me give that prisoner an injection. Maybe he can tell us more."

  "Doctor, he's not one of ours, in any case. Whoever attacked and wounded him back up there before the quakes and eruption can be of no interest to us just now. What is of immediate importance is getting quickly to an area that wasn't so thoroughly burned out, where there will be graze for the animals. And that's why we'll halt for only an hour, here, then push on south, so if you want a bath, you had better go on downstream and get about it; we'll water the animals here and a detail will fill our containers a bit farther upstream."

  "But, Jay, I think we should take the time to interrogate this prisoner. Right now, we have no slightest idea just what we may be riding into. And we're less than half our original numbers, too."

  "Doctor," he replied firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument, "I'll say again what I said yesterday to you and Dr. Braun: I am military commander of this mission, you are of no rank, militarily. This is a command decision I have just made, based upon my training and experience.

  "Insofar as our reduced numbers are concerned, there are still thirty-two troopers and noncoms, plus you, Dr. Braun and me. For all that our ammo supplies are critical, Doctor, for this time and place we are well armed, possessing as we do the only firearms on the entire continent, north of our Broomtown base; you've seen what superstitious awe our rifles aroused in the Ahrmehnee, so just imagine what the reaction of primitives like this prisoner would be.

  "No, Doctor, although I hereby register your objection, we march on in…" He consulted his wristwatch. "Fifty-four minutes."

  With the addition of the spare animals from Cabell's group, there were now sufficient to bear the remaining packs, and mount every trooper, as well. As the worst of the mountains now lay behind them, both Erica and Jay forsook their sure-footed but rough-gaited mules to mount the strayed-in warhorses, and they covered far more ground during the afternoon's march, for all that Corbett enforced a routine of alternating gaits and an hour on foot for every hour in the saddle.

  By the light of a breathtakingly lovely sunset, the vanguard rode back to lead the main party into a small, bowl-shaped vale thickly grown with winter-sere grass and bisected by a tiny rivulet trickling down from a small, spring-fed pool high on one of the surrounding hills. Although fires had clearly raged all about this minuscule oasis, during the preceding day and night, it had for some reason remained untouched.

  After Gumpner had seen to the posting of guards and the hobbling of the unsaddled and unloaded animals, the senior noncom approached Corbett. "Sir, we're going to need food for the men. We could send out hunters, but I think the prisoner's mount is dying."

  The skinny, shaggy little pony had been wobbling and stumbling for most of the afternoon, causing Corbett to at last have the barbaric-looking man tied into the saddle of one of the two mules supporting Braun's makeshift horse litter. Now he went with Gumpner to examine the runty animal, which stood lis
tlessly, swaying, head hung low and not even trying to graze; Corbett mentally agreed that the beast looked more dead than alive.

  Nor were the two men long in finding the reason. A narrow stab wound on the near-side flank just a bit above the stifle was sullenly oozing serum; the wound had apparently closed soon after being inflicted and, hidden from easy view under the thick, woolly winter coat, had gone unnoticed by either the rider or his captors, with what little old blood visible being attributed to drippage from the arrowed arm of the man.

  Corbett nodded curtly. "A gut thrust. From the poor creature's looks, he'll be dead before sunup. Go ahead and put him down, Gumpner, then have the men butcher him for us. As soon as the detail has the prisoner securely staked out, Dr. Arenstein will inject him with the truth drug, then she and I will question him; I'd like you and Cabell to be there when we do."

  "Sir!" The grizzled noncom drew himself up and rendered the hand salute.

  But afterward, Erica said, "I think we wasted the dose of pentathol on him, Jay, insofar as military information is concerned, anyway. But what he told us about his people, these Ganiks, is as fascinating as it is disgusting. I always felt and said that the twentieth-century ecology freaks were pure, certifiable nutcakes, and this distant descendant of some nameless bunch of them seems to bear me out.

  "Also, I can now understand why this Jim-Beau became so violent and hysterical when the troopers stripped him and bathed him back there at the stream this morning. That word he kept screaming, 'plooshuhn'—what he meant was 'pollution,' Jay; obviously these cannibal scions of lunatic fanatics have become so fearful of polluting streams that they no longer wash either their bodies or their clothing, ever… not unless they get caught out in the rain or happen to fall into water. God, how can they stand themselves from day to day, much less each other?" She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  Corbett nodded. "A very savage, primitive people. I hope we don't run into any more of the bastards, but from what little I could understand of this one's atrocious language, we would seem to be smack-dab in the middle of their stamping grounds and the track we're following is, he attests, one of their main north-south routes. Therefore, Doctor, I'm marching southwest for one day, then we'll head back due south. It may be a bit longer and a lot rougher trip, but, let's hope, a safer one.

  "Without any sort of a track, it may be necessary to dismantle the horse litter and tie Dr. Braun into a saddle tomorrow. Do you think he can tolerate traveling that way? I don't want Sternheimer accusing me of killing one of his scientists."

  She shrugged unconcernedly. "If Harry dies, he dies… but I don't think he will; he's too much of a bastard to do anything that would make me that happy, damn him. Oh, he'll suffer enough, sitting a saddle with that broken leg, and they once said that suffering was good for the soul, but there's not enough suffering in the world to do his soul any good. I'll see to it that he gets just enough painkiller to keep him from going into shock. He'll moan and bitch and scream and threaten, of course, but don't worry about it, Jay."

  But of course Jay Corbett did worry about Braun's condition and kept him on his horse litter until it became crystal-clear that the column's further progress over and around the trailless, forested and brush-grown hills so encumbered was impossible. Then he had the warkak removed from his charger and placed upon the back of the best-gaited of the riding mules, figuring correctly that the high, flared pommel and cantle would afford Braun more support than the lower stock saddle.

  Five or six kilometers into the second day's march, the column crossed another trail, but Corbett had them push on to the west of this one too, having the last few men erase from it all marks of their passage across it.

  Finally, when they were into what appeared to be true wilderness, bearing no visible signs of man, he turned them back to the south, marching by compass bearing, the progress slow and wearing on both men and beasts. But not for two more full days was there any trace of mankind, any sounds other than natural wooded-mountain sounds of insect and bird and wild beast, any sign of lurking danger.

  When that danger finally did manifest itself, it was with dramatic—and, for many of the marching men, deadly—suddenness.

  Chapter Three

  After the first full day of cross-country marching, even Erica gave over urging speed. Speed was simply impossible, except on those rare occasions when the column chanced upon a deer trail or a shallow stream angling more or less south. Otherwise, the sometime vanguard—sore-muscled, sweating in spite of the chilly air, faces whealed and bloody from thorns and lashing branches—were compelled to hack a path through the thick brush of rhododendron and mountain laurel and red barberry with sabers and battleaxes.

  Nor could even the hardened veterans keep up such exhausting labor for any length of time. Corbett found it necessary to split his small force into three sections, with one under Gumpner, one under Cabell and the third under his personal command, each section taking a two-hour stint at forging the trail. Only Erica, the prisoner, Dr. Braun and the other wounded were exempted from the hard labor, even Corbett taking a turn at hacking down brush and branches with his saber.

  Since scattered areas were still burning, although mostly well west of the party, Corbett forbore adding the further hardship of cold camps, so the nagged men had at least hot food and light by which to hone new edges on their well-used weapons. Most had hot food, anyway. The prisoner, however, had refused to eat from the start, frantically forgoing any flesh—pony, venison or even rabbit—and making do with the raw roots of certain plants he dug or pulled up, spiced with the stray worm or grub or insect. This nauseating diet was his only sustenance… until the night one of the wounded men died.

  Because of the utter dearth of signs of mankind since the second trail had been crossed and because of the state of complete exhaustion the trail-cutting caused, Corbett had mounted only perimeter guards at night, leaving all the rest to much-needed sleep around the coals of the cookfires.

  He and the others were awakened near dawning by an enraged shout, followed by a shriek of agony, to behold a grisly sight. The hobbled prisoner lay at the feet of a perimeter guard who, his face mirroring disgust and murderous fury, was at that moment in the act of drawing his saber.

  Corbett's order halted the guard, and a second order had fresh fuel added to the coals of the nearest fire, thus giving Erica and all the men a view of the grim tableau.

  The lower face, the beard and even the front of the filthy shirt of the prisoner were running blood. His manacled hands were red from fingertips to wrist, and streams of the blood had streaked his hairy arms to the elbows. One of those gory hands clutched a bloody flake of stone and the other a shiny, gelatinous-looking chunk of tissue that Corbett at first failed to recognize. Even as they all watched him, the shaggy prisoner, still whimpering, brought that which he held up to his mouth, tore off a bit of it, chewed and swallowed. At this, the perimeter guard whirled about and doubled, retching.

  When, shortly, Corbett saw the newly dead body of Corliss, with its abdomen raggedly opened and most of its liver excised, it was all that he could do to hold down his own gorge, and he deeply regretted having stopped the guard from sabering the savage cannibal.

  Upon questioning, the prisoner sniveled, "Ah din't kill 'im. He jest died and ah 'uz so hongry."

  "My God, man," replied Corbett, "you've been offered, and flatly refused, food every time the rest of us ate, so there's no excuse for what you just did. What kind of sick, unnatural creature are you?"

  But the shaggy man clammed up, sullenly, and another shot of Erica's drug was required to get more out of him; then they were all half sorry they had heard what they had. It cost them all any remaining appetite for breakfast.

  As the officer and Erica paced slowly, leading their fine horses side by side, in the wake of Gumpner's hacking, cursing section, Corbett shook his head, saying, "'t still can't say I understand any of it, Doctor; these Ganiks wear the skins of animals, yet they can't or won't eat th
em, preferring human flesh, even the bodies of their own families."

  Erica shrugged. "Possibly it's because you were a soldier and seldom if ever ran up against the emotional basket cases that made up the environmental branches of the anti-industrial revolution, Jay. As a scientist, I worked for both industry and government and I had to face and debate more of the nuts than I care to recall.

  "The ancestors of this creature were the types that delayed for years the construction of a badly needed dam in Tennessee in order to supposedly save the spawning area of a three-inch fish that, it later developed, was not only not endangered, but not especially rare, either. As cracked as many or most of those eco-freaks were, yes, I can see how their descendants emerged into the unprepossessing likes of Jim-Beau. And if they are all as incestuous as his family seems to be, you can see how any earlier-extant strains of insanity were bred deeper and wider with every new generation.

  "It would seem that the catch words of that ancient, addle-pated movement have become gods and devils to their inheritors. 'Organic farmers' are become 'Ganiks,' their principal god, 'Kahnzuhvaishuhn,' was once 'conservation,' just as their most evil and most feared devil, 'Plooshuhn,' was once 'pollution.'

  "I can fully empathize with you and your men, Jay, for I find everything about Jim-Beau disgusting, too. But nonetheless, he is a fascinating specimen that should be studied in depth at the Center; that's why I won't allow him to be killed. He'll have to be watched closely, of course, for the rest of the trip back. Corliss quite probably died naturally, in his sleep, from his injuries; but then too, our Jim-Beau, our 'hongry' Jim-Beau, just may have hastened him along into death, for his own personal gastronomic reasons."

  Near dusk of the second day's march, Jay Corbett and his section hacked their way out into a track which seemed to meander in an east-west direction and was clearly too wide and well defined to be a mere game track. Also, there was a mound of fresh-turned dirt on the southern verge that looked suspiciously like a small grave.