Yngve, AR - Darc Ages

by Darc Ages (lit)

  But the greed for knowledge had already been awakened; the other lords were not going to let Bor yank their prize away.

  "Please excuse me!" Lord Yota shouted, bowing deeply and swiftly to Darc. The wiry little man fixed the tall visitor with his black eyes. "Sir Darc, could this knowledge help us find a weapon to fight the Paskos' new breed of fighting robot? Could you help us build an... atomic robot? " Lord Yota half whispered the last sentence.

  Darc was struck by a sobering unease, and replied: "Now take it easy, my lord. You want mass destruction, go build your own weapons. I would never do that for you, even if I could. But I do have some special knowledge." He hesitated - he had no words for it in their tongue. "I have great knowledge of... 'Genetic Engineering' - nothing spectacular, maybe. I know how to change the 'DNA' , the human cell memory. My company produced 'vaccines' for the whole world. But I would not use that knowledge to -"

  Lord Yota reeled back in wide-eyed horror; he cried something in a Chinese-sounding dialect Darc hadn't heard before: "Baokimi! Baokimi! Buwei mono!"

  In the next moment, Lord Orbes grabbed a rusty broadsword that hung from the wall. The crowd scattered away from Darc, and Lord Orbes raised the sword to cut him down. Staring at the baffled white-haired stranger, he screamed: "Die, evil one!"

  Darc ducked the first blow with relative ease.

  Lord Orbes was fat and middle-aged; though his arms were muscular, his movements were clumsy. The sword-blade cut through the air, splintering a huge vase. Darc retreated behind a round table - Lord Orbes turned the sword-point his way and went for a forward thrust. Darc ducked under the table - then pushed upward, growling. He lifted the small but heavy table on two arms, let its weight fall forward - and rammed Lord Orbes in the chest with the tabletop. The nobleman's eyes bulged; he was pushed backward, right into a glass-door cupboard. The crash was followed by a door slamming open - the two robots burst into the room, and next came Dohan and Librian.

  "Cease fighting!" Surabot boomed in a deafening machine-bass. "We are allowed to use force to protect Lord Damon!"

  Bor - his finger on the emergency button on his electronic collar - pointed at Lord Orbes.

  "Hold him! And lock up that sword in the armory!" Dohan rushed over to Darc, who was leaning against a wall - soaked with sweat, his clothes crumpled. "Darc! Are you injured?" Dohan asked.

  Librian mumbled: "He must not be harmed - he can teach us so much..."

  Darc answered, gasping for breath: "No... just tired... is all. But why... did Orbes attack me?"

  Bes Orbes was helped up from the shattered cupboard by the two robots - bloody, but alive with fright. He pleaded, as he fought their iron hold: "He is a witchdoctor, Lord Damon! He will kill us all! "

  Bor snapped: "Quiet, Orbes, or I'll have you thrown out of my city." The city lord saw the urgent need to calm his allies. "I swear by the Goddess," he asserted, "that Sir Darc has never committed any forbidden acts in my city, nor anything criminal."

  The guests were in an uproar: all speaking at once, several of them trying to get to the door and determined to leave the city. Darc, though exhausted, became aware that he had just broken some extremely strong taboo. He looked to Dohan - who seemed to waver uncertainly when he heard Lord Orbes's hysterical accusations.

  Librian came closer, and said rapidly: "I am so sorry, Darc - this is all my fault. I should have warned you earlier, but I was afraid, like all of us - what did you say to them? No, do not say it in master Dohan's presence!"

  He urged away the young knight, protecting him from an unclean touch or word. Librian himself was old, and not afraid for his own health - the taboo scared him too, but a threat to the Damons scared him much more.

  "I told them," Darc said in English, "that I know how to perform genetic engineering, that is, changes in a cell's memory."

  Librian replied in the same tongue, so that the others would not understand: "It was the Plague, the pseudo-leprosy ..."

  "A man-made plague... I found out that much..."

  "But the rest of it is seldom written or spoken of in public. To prevent man-made plagues from almost destroying all humanity again... genetic engineering became the most forbidden crime of all. The punishment for such acts is death by burning... all books on genetics were destroyed many hundred years ago. There is said to be a few practitioners of the forbidden arts, but no-one knows where. To us, only the memory of the horrors remain... and the forbidden word... the three letters of evil ..."

  "D-N-A," Darc muttered laconically.

  "Hush!" Librian said. "If they hear that, you are finished! Perhaps we can explain it away... yes, a misunderstanding..." He suddenly noticed Darc's weakened condition, and felt at the man's forehead. Librian switched to his own language: "Darc, you are feverish! Lord Dohan, bring the doctor here!"

  Darc was brought to his chamber and put to bed; the chief court physician arrived.

  The physician took out an array of small instruments from a bag, and began examining the patient. He consulted two thick medical books, nodded gravely and grunted to himself. From a box, the doctor took an adhesive cloth-plaster and dripped some potions on it. He clasped the plaster onto Darc's bare arm.

  "Is it bad, Doctor?" Darc asked with a weak grin.

  The physician's face was stern, almost merciless - he had despised the stranger from the very first moment he was thawed out.

  "I have given you temporary relief from the fever, sire. But I have not a cure for its cause. To be truthful - you are slowly dying."

  Darc let out a laugh: "You must be joking, 'Doc'! You cured my cancer, and now you can't..."

  "What is killing you this time is a common virus; people call it 'the one-year flush'. Everyone has it, and lives. In normal people, it only causes mild trouble sometimes. Fevers, weariness. That is - everyone but you, sire. Your bodily defenses are different from ours, and there is no way I can change them. I give you two weeks... three, at most."

  The physician started packing down his equipment, demonstrating that he could do no more. Secretly, he did not want to either. Though Darc was weak, he grasped the whole truth.

  "Now I see... to cure me, my 'immune system' must be changed, my 'lymphocyte' DNA. But that's forbidden, right? Nobody is around to know how it's done, right? The books are burned, the machines are destroyed." Darc muttered in English, to himself: "I survived nine hundred years and spinal cancer... and I get killed by the measles of the future. Or it could even be... no. That's too dumb. Everyone is an immune carrier, everyone except me. That's too funny. Ha, ha... Always carry a condom wherever you travel!"

  Darc continued to laugh. Time had caught up, and was coming to claim back the years he had borrowed.

  Hours passed.

  When the chief court physician had assured Bor that there was no risk to others, the city lord allowed his family to visit Darc's sickbed. The patient was sitting up in bed, writing down as much as possible in his diary - soon, he would be too weak to do even that. He was dressed in a thick wool sweater, and had several layers of blankets over his legs. Osanna's eyes filled up with tears when she saw Darc's pale features. Darc put on his most dashing grin to cheer Osanna up, and greeted her.

  "The sight of your beauty makes me feel better already, my lady."

  Osanna smiled back, leaving a vase of fresh flowers next to his bed. But little Eveli suddenly cracked up with grief.

  She threw herself onto the bed, clutched his arm, and sobbed: "Oh, please do not leave us so soon! We cannot live on if you die!"

  Those words stung him - deeper than Eveli could imagine. He remembered another girl having clutched his hand an eternity ago - or was it just a few months?

  Darc said softly: "Now be brave, Lady Eveli. When you grow older, you will understand why these things happen -"

  "No!" she whined, clutching his hand harder. "I will never understand why you have to die from some stupid germ, when we are allowed to live! It's not fair!"

  You're damn right it isn't , he thought. A d
esperate plan began to take shape in his mind. Eveli started sobbing again; he patted her head. Osanna gently pulled her daughter away from the bedside, and took his hand.

  "We will always remember you," Osanna said. "You brought back the King's songs to us."

  Darc knew that mattered: he had been trying to write down the old song lyrics all morning, and then he had given it up. How could one write how they should be performed?

  Dohan whispered something in his mother's ear. Osanna and Eveli left him alone with Darc. The young man, brought up to be a warrior and leader, was restless with tension and energy. For all his strength, he felt helpless now. He folded his arms, unfolded them, shifted his weight, drew his hand through his stubby hair. Eventually, Dohan could not avoid looking directly at his dying friend.

  "Darc. They say you are a witchdoctor. Tell me it is a lie."

  Darc had been thinking about what to say, and saw his last chance at salvation.

  "I don't care what they call me, kid. I know how to accomplish certain things, but I never use that knowledge to hurt people. Have I ever tried to hurt anyone here?"

  "No."

  "Have I lied to you before?"

  "No." There was hesitation in Dohan's answer. Some part of him felt cheated, disappointed that Darc was no divine man, just a dying visitor.

  Darc pressed on: "Did you believe in the rumors? That I was the reincarnated Singing King?"

  "I... I do not know."

  "Did I ever try to make you believe that I was him?"

  "No."

  "Have I not helped you?"

  Dohan's gaze dropped.

  "You saved my life, for all I know."

  Darc stared at him, as hard as he could, spoke in a tense voice: "And now I ask you to save my life. You are the only one I can ask."

  To deny the last wish of a dying friend was against the code of honor that Dohan was raised to obey. "How can I help?"

  "I want you to take me to a witchdoctor. To cure me."

  Dohan froze where he stood and exploded, so tense his adolescent voice broke: "You cannot ask me to do that! I am sworn to protect the city against all enemies. Witchdoctors are... the archenemies of humanity!"

  Darc shook his head, refusing to accept: "It is my last chance. There must be at least one witchdoctor somewhere in Juro. Somewhere on this planet."

  Dohan looked cautiously about for listeners. There were no hidden microphones in the castle - and no one but Darc could imagine such a luxury. The young knight walked over to the balcony and shut its doors. He returned to Darc's bed and leaned close.

  He whispered: "I shall ask Librian. Stay here."

  "Do not tell your father anything. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "No. Swear not to tell him."

  "I... I swear."

  "My life is in your hands."

  Dohan ate the midday meal with the rest of the family in the great hall. At the opposite end of the hall, privileged members of the castle's workforce sat eating, separated by the wide stone floor.

  They were all silent, and Eveli barely touched her food. Bor had more troubles on his shoulders right now: thanks to Darc's statement this morning, Bor Damon's allies were threatening to end their alliance with him. The guests had already left the city, except for Azuch Fache who was too injured to fly. This could not have happened at a worse moment, with the Damons and the Paskos on the brink of open warfare. If only, Bor scolded himself, he had never let that accursed sarcophagus into his city!

  After the meal, Dohan approached Bor. "Father... can anything be done for Darc?"

  "No."

  "It is a great loss. He held such promise. Her Holiness promised us the Singing King's return. It might still be him."

  "This is the will of the Goddess. He should never have come here; he did not belong in our time. A troublemaker. If he was not as good as dead already, the Doctors' Guild would claim his head."

  "But -"

  Dohan stopped. He knew his father better than to try changing his mind on a settled matter. Only once, only once had Bor hit Dohan... but the fear of Bor's wrath was still very much with him. He went to see Librian.

  Awonso informed Dohan that Librian was away in the city, and would not return for several hours.

  Dohan thanked him, and sat down to wait in the library. He wanted to ask for books on the forbidden arts, but he could not take the risk. As Dohan sat there his eyes fell on the big world map, which lay unfolded on a table. He searched the map, not certain what to look for; he hardly expected to find a spot marked "FORBIDDEN ARTS PRACTISED HERE."

  Suddenly, Dohan realized that he had never been outside Castilia. His life was predestined to begin and end in the same small province, him married away to some boring noblewoman... but Darc had already been all over the world, seen it in its Golden Age, seen the Goddess and heard the Singing King...

  Dohan slammed his fist into the table. Among all these books, there had to be a clue. On an impulse he sneaked into the private chambers, where he knew Librian kept the most precious old volumes. Inside, he lit the ceiling lamp and felt his way between narrow passages, flanked by rows of dusty volumes. He scanned the titles, and found nothing. He searched behind the books with his hand - and got hold of something. A small, leather-bound book, almost a leaflet. Dohan held up the printed title page, which read:

  The Forbidden Arts: Where To Find, How To Identify, and How To Fight Practitioners Of The Ultimate Evil.

  He leafed through it, fearing that someone would discover him, and read a passage:

  There are no known witchdoctors in Juro today, or they are wise enough to keep their activities secret. The scholars of the Doctors' Guild have defined four typical locations likely to hide active practitioners: isolated islands, mountain regions, subterranean cities from the Great Wars, and the continent of Awstrala.

  The Kap Verita Islands, to the west of the Awrican West Coast, are said to be the site of a secret society of witchdoctors. A sailor who once survived a shipwreck there and later escaped, told an incredible story about a witchdoctor who had populated an entire island with monsters of his own creation. These islands are known to be volcanic, and no seafarer dares go near them.

  There was certainly no time for sea journeys; Darc would be dead before they could reach Kap Verita by boat. Dohan put the book back behind the shelf, and carefully made his way out of the library. He was already planning his next action, without considering the consequences, without fearing for his safety. Such was his character.

  Dohan's main concern now was how to distract Darc's robot guardian.

  Chapter 14

  The very same evening, Dohan took the elevator to the aircraft hangar at the top floor of the castle.

  The dozen jet-engine craftsmen present were not surprised to see Dohan; he was an avid follower of their work with the family arsenal of flying armor and vessels. They greeted him casually, and continued their maintenance shift. Dohan inspected his own private training vehicle: a teardrop-shaped beauty with two small jet-tubes at the tips of sloping, thick wings. It was a two-seater - but it could never fly from Castilia to Kap Verita on a single load of fuel. And once he got away, Lord Damon might alert his allies via the laser transmission network. If Dohan tried to land for refueling, he would be caught and arrested.

  The family had a few well-used transporter jets, for carrying troops and trading merchandise - bulky, reliable, but slow and not with enough range. Besides, taking one would leave the city too vulnerable. Dohan was left with one choice. Their private family flagship and battle fighter through forty years, Lord Damon's pride: the Sunray . Twenty tons of shining, sleek steel and aluminum, with an expansion tank that could last halfway around the world. Its cabin, unlike most other Castilian aircraft, was pressurized and no oxygenmasks were needed. The Sunray also sported an air-cooled front laser cannon, and a turret-mounted tail gun. The ship could house up to seven seats, but Dohan needed just two.

  He checked with the craftsmen; they assured h
im the Sunray was in perfect working order. Dohan called for their full attention, and explained that since they had done such good work with his battle armor, and helped him win the Joust, he and his father wanted to reward them. Dohan handed each of them a gold coin, and gave them early leave. The staff bowed, thanked him heartily, and left the hangar in a happy mood.

  As soon as the men were out of hearing range, Dohan began to pump synthetic fuel into the Sunray's expansion tank. The guards, standing outside, saw nothing. The sun had set by the time he was finished, and he was getting tired from the heavy work. From a toolbox, Dohan took the item he needed to free Darc.

  Dohan approached Lachtfot, who stood posted outside Darc's chamber-door.

  The castle lamps were subdued, which hardly bothered the robot - it had infrared vision, and had just recharged its battery cells. Lachtfot recognized Dohan's voice immediately.

  "Good evening, Lachtfot."

  "Good evening, my lord."

  "Let me in. I must see if Darc is well."

  "Sir Darc is very sick and must not be disturbed, my lord."

  "I will not awake him; just let me have a look." Dohan stepped closer to the door. The machine-servant blocked the door-handle with one firm metal hand.

  "I must ask Bor Damon for permission to let you inside, my lord. He does not want be awakened iiiIIIP!!"

  Dohan slammed a concave piece of aluminum, a miniature mirror, onto the visorplate of the robot's head - and held it there. The light-beams from Lachtfot's eye-sensors were reflected by the mirror, bounced back into them, were sent out again, reflected and bounced back, and so on. Within a second, this feedback of signals caused an epileptic fit in the robot's brain - it lost its balance and clattered to the floor, flailing its limbs helplessly.

  Quickly, Dohan sneaked into Darc's quarters and shrugged him awake. Darc, though very tired, instantly grasped the situation and staggered to his feet. Dohan took Darc's diary and his few belongings, and helped him out into the elevator. They managed to get into the hangar bay unseen. Supported on Dohan's strong arms, Darc stumbled up the cargo ramp into the rear section of the Sunray. He was buckled up in a couch seat, and given some drink from a bottle.