Pro

by Gordon R. Dickson

  He stood in the cargo area, dripping, the whole boat alive with coughing laughter as the Homskarters there laughed at him.

  “The outlander wanted a drink!” shouted someone. “Why didn’t you ask me, Outlander? I had a little ale left!”

  “Why didn’t the killers get him?” somebody asked, and the humor died in a new seriousness.

  “Because there aren’t any out here. They live around the shore weeds, not in deep water!” snarled

  Harb, too furious to think. He was looking around the faces surrounding him for Witta, but the Homskarter second-in-command unaccountably was not to be seen.

  Abruptly, Harb remembered to take advantage of this change to turn their reaction to his advantage.

  “In any case,” he added, “we outlanders have ways many don’t know. We aren’t easy to kill”—once more he looked around for Witta, but could not make him out—“and those who try it always live to regret it. Many fish and even animals know this and often they’ll avoid attacking us.”

  “A magic life, Outlander?” said the voice of Rajn, with irony; and Harb knew that the king, at least, had not been convinced by his implication of strange powers in humans. On the other hand, if it had indeed been Witta who had pushed him overboard, hoping that the predator fish would take care of him, Harb was fairly certain Rajn had not been involved in the attempt. At least, not as long as Harb was still useful to the Homskarter king.

  Dawn came finally. They hoisted their sails, caught the breeze once more and by morning caught sight of something on the water far ahead that finally resolved itself in land of some sort. They were well out of sight of the shore now; and evidently they had drifted off their line of sailing during the night, for what they saw were at an angle to the way they were headed.

  They corrected course and the land began to get larger, revealing itself at last as what certainly looked like an island, lying low and green in the sea.

  Perversely, hardly had they sighted it than the wind changed direction, pushing them away from it. However, the sight of land had raised the warriors spirits. With a good deal of noise and a certain amount of horseplay, the sails were hauled down; and the paddlers went energetically to work.

  At first they could hardly tell they were making progress. But gradually the island seemed to lengthen in front of them and lift itself higher above the waves. After that, changes began to be visible in more rapid sequence. The island grew steadily in size and a low rise of hills covered by vegetation became discernable, above the whiter strip of shore. This change continued until it became plain that they were headed toward a bay, beyond which some of the sharper-eyed could swear that they saw structures of some sort. Estimates began to be made as to how soon they would actually touch shore again, with some of the optimistic placing that moment at the native equivalent of less than an hour off, when something new was seen.

  Without warning, appearing as if by magic from nowhere—it took Harb a moment to realize they were emerging from behind a headland of the bay—were three moving shapes. Even at this distance it was possible to make out that they were boats; and as he watched they turned to head directly toward the fleet of canots and came on.

  Aboard the canots the warriors had fallen silent. For now that they had the distance to the land to use as a yard-stick, these three craft coming to meet them obviously could be seen to be large, indeed. The canots were several times the size of the village craft they had seen back on the lake shore. But these three vessels coming were each double or more the length of the largest canot and high-sided, as well as decked, in proportion. They rode steadily on the small waves which managed to rock the canots, they each had one large square sail forward, and they were propelled in addition not by arm paddles—their sides were far too high for that—but by long oars for which their sides were pierced.

  At the bow each one had a high painted prow with a beak built into it at the water line and an open forecastle upon which a number of figures began to be visible as the two fleets drew together at the sum of their combined speeds through the water. As the three island craft came closer, a steady sound began to carry over the water to the canots. It was the regular clanging of something that sounded like an off-key cymbal, or perhaps just a strip of ordinary iron being hammered steadily and rhythmically by just another such strip of iron. And, as the three island vessels came close enough for real details to be seen, the warriors in the canots could make out that the figures on each of the elevated forecastles and stemcastles wore some kind of high, plumed headdress and stood beside a mechanism of some sort.

  At first the warriors in the canots had been struck into an awe-filled silence by the sheer size of the boats coming toward them. Now, however, that these craft were closer, a reaction began to set in. At first scattered, and then general, yells and waving of weapons began to erupt among the canots, and the paddlers bent to their work. The forest dwellers began to take heart from the number of their canots compared to the craft opposing them—who were three only, even if large; and a wave of enthusiasm for the coming conflict seemed to race through the canots like a forest fire through treetops.

  The canots swarmed toward the three island vessels. The three came on steadily, in V-formation, one leading, the other two flanking and trailing. Suddenly, it seemed, they and the canots were only a few canot-lengths apart. Then, with no lapse of time at all, they had come together.

  The leading two canots made the mistake of meeting the first island ship head on. Her beak tossed the first one aside, splitting it open as it did so; and the second one was literally ridden under the surface of the water, as the island vessel rammed and sank her.

  Abruptly, the three were surrounded by the canots; and for the first time the mechanisms on each raised forecastle went into action. These proved to be a form of shaft-firing ballistae, each one like a monster crossbow shooting a quarrel as large as an ordinary spear. Where one of these struck a canot, they pierced two or three warriors at once or went clear through the bottom of it. At the same time, other figures had raised up all along the sides of the island vessels and were hurling large rocks down into the surrounding canots; and these rocks also felled warriors, or tore through the bottoms of the smaller vessels.

  But the most devastating effect was that through all this action the oarsmen of the island craft, protected by the high, sturdy sides of their vessel, continued to row. On the canots all paddling had automatically ceased with the moment of meeting the enemy. But under the steady drive of their oars the island vessels drew clear, turned, and came back at their own equivalent of flank speed.

  They crashed into a fleet of canots that this time were a picture of confusion. Some canots were trying to close with the opposing boats, some were desperately trying to avoid being beaked or ridden under. In this confusion the island craft had a holiday. They cut another murderous swath through the fleet of canots and turned to come back a third time.

  But by now, however, the pickings had suddenly become much leaner. The canots had learned their lesson, which was to disperse. They might not be able to match the island vessels in straight-away speed, but with their paddlers in action they were much more agile. The few that the island craft came close to, dodged out of the way of the larger vessels with no difficulty. Gradually the canots drew off and lay in a ring around the larger boats and the largeboats ceased rowing.

  It was, plainly, a standoff. If the warriors in the canots could have boarded the three other boats, their overwhelming numbers would have given them victory in short order. But they could not board without getting close, and they could not get close without being rammed or sunk by missiles. On the other hand, if the canots had only remained still in close formation, the islanders could have run through and sunk them all in short order; but the canots were no longer being obliging in that respect.

  On his own, much lower forecastle, Rajn snarled under his breath, staring at the three enemy craft.

  “Outlander!” he shouted. “Outlander, come here!
”

  Back in the central part of the canot, Harb rose reluctantly and went forward. No hands were extended to shove him—the native caution where unknown powers of the outlanders was still in existence to a certain extent—but he could feel the savage fury and animosity of the figures around him as if it was a heat emanating from their hairy bodies. He came up, mounted the forecastle and stood beside Rajn.

  “Yes, King?” he said.

  “Outlander!” snapped Rajn. “Look around. This was your idea—to come here. Five cities haven’t cost us as much in men as we’ve just lost to foes who have not even had one of their own people bruised by us! You got us here. You tell us how to conquer those craft!”

  Harb took a deep breath. His mind had been racing ever since the moment of the first disastrous closing with the island vessels. He had only one answer in mind; and if it did not work, there would be no escape for him, trapped on a small boat in the center of a lake like this.

  “Had you asked me before your canots charged at these ships, King,” he said boldly, “I could have saved you a great many of the warriors you have lost. But I was not asked. Now, it’s true, you’ve lost a good deal of your strength; but there is still a way to victory if the warriors will do exactly what I say.”

  Rajn stared at him. That stare was not easy to meet; but Harb met it.

  “Say on,” said Rajn, with ominous quietness.

  “The canots cannot get close to the island boats without being run down and sunk,” said Harb. “But there is another way to get warriors aboard these craft to take them.”

  Harb pointed at a last few of the forest natives from the sunken canots who had not yet been picked up. One of the island craft backed water on its left oars and swung suddenly toward three of these. It seemed to be right on top of them, but at the last moment all three disappeared—only to reappear a moment later out of reach on the far side of the boat.

  “Swim to them,” Harb said, “go underwater when close, then surface all around the ship at once and climb aboard—up the oars or any other way there is. It won’t be easy but it can be done.”

  He stopped speaking. Rajn still looked at him. From behind Harb, Witta’s voice said one word.

  “Killers.”

  “Are killers attacking those men in the water out there?” said Harb without turning around. “Did killers attack me, when somehow”—he emphasized the word slightly—“I went overboard last night? As I told you all then, the killers are only in the shore water, not out here.”

  He stopped again. Still, there was silence. Silently, fervently and internally he hoped that there were not other, large fish operating as predators in these deeper waters. It was plain that finally he had come to a time when he could not get by on words alone. He took off his sword belt, threw off his body armor and rebelted the sword about his waist.

  “Follow me,” he said, and dove over the side.

  He dared not look back to see if any were following him until he was well underway toward the nearest island ship. Then, it turned out to be unnecessary, as he began to be passed up by swimming Homskarters. Soon, the water around him was full of bodies.

  The island craft saw them coming and turned toward them. Stones and the large spears began to fly. Harb dived, swam a short distance underwater just to hide his whereabouts from anyone on the island ship who might have picked him as a specific target, and then resurfaced . . . and panicked.

  He had misjudged the speed with which the island ship could approach them. The vessel was almost on top of him.

  Stiff with fear, he dove deep, and heard the beat of oars and saw the shadow of the island boat’s keel passing above him. All about him in the underwater were other forest natives. They came up together, gasping for air behind the island craft, which had now halted. Warriors about Harb were climbing oars, swarming up the sides of the boat.

  A madness came over Harb. He forgot entirely that being without his shield he was effectively without the whole bag of tricks he counted on to keep himself safe. He found himself clambering up over the side of the boat. A native within swung an axe at him, but he tumbled inside the boat and the axe flashed over his head, burying itself in the boat’s side. As its owner tried to wrench it free, Harb drew his sword, reached up and drove it through the other’s body. Then he was fighting an individual in a plumed headdress and the action dissolved into a blur . . .

  Chapter Nine

  Harb came back to himself gradually. He was lying on something soft that moved rhythmically and he felt queasy. Both his head and his neck ached.Slowly he came fully awake and realized he was lying on the cargo in the mid-section of Rajn’s ship. It was early morning and they were traveling.

  He tried to sit up, but at the first movement a sharp pain seemed to enter his right temple just above his eye and probe back and down into his neck and left shoulder. He gritted his teeth however and did sit up.Gingerly he put his hand up to his head and found it crusty and rough with dried blood that had turned his hair into an asphalt-like lump and poured down evidently as far as the base of his skull.

  “Awake, Outlander?” said the voice of Rajn. “It’s time.”

  Harb tried to speak; but all that came out of his mouth was a croak. He moved stiffly, his head stabbing him at each movement until he could get to the open ale barrel standing broached just beyond the cargo section. He drank from its unpleasant-tasting contents without caring that he had no lemon-flavored pill to disguise them. All that mattered was the chance to swallow water or the next available thing to it.

  With the liquid in him, he felt a little better. Reviving, he was conscious of a black and burning hatred toward Rajn for making it necessary for him to get himself injured in this way. But he dared not show those feelings to the Homskarter king. He swallowed arid spoke.

  “What happened to me?”

  “I don’t think it was an axe or a sword, Outlander,” said Rajn, coughing humorously. “Either one would have split your skull open, instead of just denting it a little. Maybe it was a mixing spoon, or a baby’s toy.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Headed home, of course,” said Rajn. His jocularity faded. “There are other islands and other ships, it seems. We’ll come back ready to take them all next year. Meanwhile, there were some good pickings in that one bay. We’ll even bring back your grain and prisoners—only we’ll pick them up closer to home on the way back.”

  Harb looked at him, marvelling.

  “How long have I . . .”

  “Slumbered? Two days now,” said Rajn.

  “Two days!” Harb felt a stab of anxiety. He must have had a concussion. A concussion could be deadly out here beyond modem medical aid. On the other hand, he had already survived two days; so possibly he was all right.

  So they started back to the forest villages, though not without some difficulties. There still remained those who wished to continue the sword-trail simply for the pleasure of killing and looting, even though they would not be able to carry home any more than they had now. This attitude, however, was met by strong objections from Rajn and the lesser chiefs,who clearly saw their individual advantage of taking home as many healthy warriors as possible. Finally, there was the religious question involved in carrying back such a large number of slaves as Harb wanted, slaves who would be only potential sacrifices. Might not the Gods be annoyed by being made to wait for these sacrifices?

  The argument for this went on for a number of days before it dawned on Harb that no one was serious about it. The forest warriors were merely soothing their consciences by finding excuses to do what they intended to do in any case.

  At last, all discussion over, they loaded their canots and headed upstream. By this time Harb had completely recovered from his head injury. This was slower going than the downstream trip; but they were aided by a light, if prevailing wind from the south at this time of year. Each canot hoisted a rag of a sail—much more than a rag, Harb judged, and a canot would run a real risk of overturning in a gust—and wi
th this to aid them, found themselves back in the shadows of the forest vegetation within three weeks.

  From this point on, the return went swiftly, since most of their travel was across lakes where there was no current against them. There was a parting celebration at each community where any sizeable number of warriors dropped off, and a friendly wrangle over how many of the slaves should be taken by those who were parting from the main body. This was a drain on the number of captured villagers that Harb had not foreseen. He could not complain about it openly, but he ground his teeth in private. It shortened his already strained temper, under pressure with the need of keeping up the appearance of enjoying the return.

  The truth of the matter was that in spite of his self-training before coming to 4938ID, he was not really emotionally acclimated to living in canot-close proximity to the natives of this world for some days on end. Sharing a narrow fifty-foot boat with them was a little like occupying the same amount of space with a shoulder-to-shoulder pack of wild animals with the gift of speech and the skill to use weapons. They were essentially as dangerous as predatory animals,as unwashed, as reactive, and as unpredictable in their emotional reactions. When they were not working, sleeping, or eating, they were either quarreling or playing the most primitive of practical jokes on each other.

  Harb found himself taking any excuse at all to getaway by himself. So it happened that on one of the occasions when a fair-sized group was parting from the expeditions and the usual party was in progress, Harb wandered off into the woods for an hour or two of privacy. Luckily, as he stepped into the concealment of the branches, he switched the heat sensor unit in his helmet into connection with an alarm beamed to his inner ear; because some fifteen minutes later the alarm went off.

  Automatically, Harb flipped down the heat-sensing visor and turned on his heel, searching the thick undergrowth for the aura that had triggered the alarm. He found it behind him, upwind. There was nothing in sight to ordinary vision, but the scale at the side of the screen was reading a body the size of a male warrior, some twenty feet away through the thick vegetation. Harb thought quickly, and took a chance with a guess.