The Ginger Star-Volume I of The Book of Skaith

by Leigh Brackett

He had not planned it this way. He had not thought that a direct attack on the Citadel would be possible. But this unexpected, and highly uncertain, weapon had been put into his hand, and he had decided to use it.

  Now.

  As swiftly and brutally as possible.

  The thermal area seemed to go on forever. Then suddenly they had passed through it, and the mountains were there, and the Citadel.

  Dark and strong and solid, clinging to the mountain flank, the compact shape of its walls and towers looking like an outcrop of the native rock. The fortress and fountainhead, from which a handful of men ruled a planet.

  He could understand why it had been built here, hidden behind its perpetual curtain. In the days of the Wandering, when everything was chaos, this place would have been isolated from the main streams of migration, and therefore relatively safe. Tall crags protected the Citadel at back and side, the thermal pits guarded its front. With all that, and the Northhounds, the Lords Protector need not have worried overmuch about bands of plunderers coming south over the passes. From the size of the Citadel, they would have garrisoned fewer than a hundred men, and they would not have needed more.

  How many men would be there now, after all these centuries of peace? He did not know. He looked at the Northhounds and hoped that they would be adequate. Otherwise, any number would be too many against one man with a knife.

  There were sentries on the walls, bright-eyed men with blank faces. They saw Stark at the edge of the cloud with the pack behind him, and even over the roaring of the vent-holes Stark could hear their sudden shouting.

  Hurry! he told the Northhounds.

  No hurry, said the young dog, whose name was Gerd.

  The Northhounds trotted on toward the base of the Citadel, courses of stone laid in upon the rock.

  They will kill you, Stark told them, and ran, dodging this way and that.

  Arrows began to fly from the walls. In the roiling copper shadow they flew. None hit Stark, though he felt the wind of them. Some stuck in the ground. Two hit Northhounds.

  I said they would kill you.

  He was under the base of the Citadel now, where the arrows could not reach him.

  Why, N'Chaka?

  It was a cry of puzzled anguish. The Northhounds began to run.

  They believe you have come to attack them.

  We have always been faithful.

  A third hound rolled over screaming, an arrow through his flanks.

  They doubt you now.

  And small wonder. For the first time since the first whelp of them was born, they had let in an intruder. They had brought in an intruder.

  The Northhounds bayed.

  There was a hole in the rock. They ran into it. The cave was large and dry, sheltered from the wind. It smelled of kennel and there were troughs where the hounds were fed. At the back was a door of thick iron bars with heavy bolts on the inner side.

  Stark went to the door. He could sense the bewilderment and rage in their beast minds.

  They tried to kill you. Why did you not send fear to them?

  Gerd growled and whimpered. He was one of the first two hit. The arrow had gashed his rump painfully. We never sent fear to those. We will now.

  Stark reached through to the bolts and began to draw them.

  Are there humans in the Citadel?

  Gerd answered irritably, With Wandsmen.

  If they were with the Wandsmen, or the Lords Protector, it was no concern of Gerd's.

  But there are humans? You can touch their minds?

  Human. One mind. Touch.

  One mind. One human.

  Gerrith?

  Halk?

  Ashton?

  Stark opened the door. Come and kill for N'Chaka.

  They came.

  There was a hall with storerooms on either side, and then a rough stair that went up into darkness. Stark climbed as fast as he dared, much faster than was wise, his knife in his hand. The people of the Citadel were surprised, shocked, off-guard, and he wanted to use that advantage. At the top was a massive iron door to be shut if anyone managed to pass living through the Northhound's kennel, and a windlass arrangement to drop a section of the stair. Beyond was a chamber cluttered with the debris of long occupancy, things working their way down the scale to eventual burial in the thermal pits. A barred slit let in daylight, which was only a little better than no light at all.

  A broader stair led up from this room, into a long low hall lighted at intervals by lamps. There were no windows. Row upon row of wooden racks crammed the space, leaning and sagging under the weight of endless rolls of parchment.

  The records, Stark guessed, of generations of Wandsmen who had come to the Citadel to report and confer concerning their work in the world.

  They looked as though they would burn well. So did the enormous timbers that sustained the roof.

  There was a stair on the opposite side of the hall. He was halfway to it when a body of men came plunging down. They might have been on their way to close that iron door.

  They stopped dead when they saw the Northhounds. The hounds never came inside the Citadel. They could not conceive of such a thing happening. Yet it had happened.

  Their faces and their bright eyes remained expressionless even after the Northhounds had sent fear.

  Kill, said Stark, and the pack killed. They were very angry, very swift. When they had finished, he picked up a sword, leaving belt and scabbard untouched. The sword would wipe clean.

  He started up the stair.

  Gerd spoke in his mind. N'Chaka. Wandsmen—

  He saw white in his mind and knew that Gerd meant the Lords Protector. The hounds did not distinguish between Wandsmen.

  Wandsmen say kill you.

  He had expected this. The hounds were loyal to the Wandsmen. How strong was his own hold over them? If the Wandsmen were stronger, he would finish here as the blank-faced men had finished.

  He turned to Gerd, looking straight into the hell-hound eyes.

  You cannot kill N'Chaka.

  Gerd stared at him steadily. The bristled lips pulled back to show the rows of fangs. There was still blood on them. The pack whined and whimpered, clawing the stones.

  Who do you follow? Stark asked.

  We follow the strongest. But Flay obeyed Wandsmen—

  I am not Flay. I am N'Chaka. Shall I kill you as I killed Flay?

  He would have done it. The sword point was aimed straight for Gerd's throat and he was as hungry for blood as they were.

  Gerd knew it. The fiery gaze slid aside. The head hung down. The pack became quiet.

  Send fear, Stark said. Drive away all but the Wandsmen and the human. Drive away the servants who kill you. Then we will talk to the Wandsmen.

  Not kill?

  Not the Wandsmen, not the human. Talk.

  But Stark's hand gripped the sword.

  The Northhounds obeyed him. He felt the air vibrate with their sending.

  He led them up the stair.

  Some men were at the top. Terror was on them, an agony in the gut. The Northhounds tore them leisurely. Gerd picked up the leader and carried him in his jaws like a kitten.

  No one else stood against them. All the others had had strength enough to run.

  Stark came at length into another hall, higher than the one that held the records but not so long, with windows open onto the eternal mist. It was sparsely furnished, ascetic, a place for meditation. Kell à Marg, spiteful daughter of Skaith, had been wrong. There was no hint here of secret sin and luxury, either in the hall or in the faces of the seven white-robed men who stood there in attitudes of arrested motion, overwhelmed by the swiftness with which this thing had happened.

  There was an eighth man, not wearing a white robe.

  Simon Ashton.

  Gerd dropped what he was carrying. Stark put his left hand on the hound's great head and said, "Let the Earthman come to me."

  Ashton came and stood at Stark's right hand. He was thinner than Stark remembered an
d he showed the strain of long captivity. Otherwise he seemed unhurt.

  Stark said to the Lords Protector, "Where is Gerrith?"

  The foremost of them answered. Like the others, he was an old man. Not aged or infirm, but old in work and dedication as well as years. His thin hard jaw and fierce eyes reflected an uncompromising and inflexible toughness.

  "We questioned her, and the wounded man, and then sent them south with Gelmar. It was not believed that you could survive the Children in the House of the Mother."

  He looked at the Northhounds. "This too would not have been believed."

  "Nevertheless," said Stark, "I am here."

  And now that he was here, he wondered what he was going to do with them. They were old men. Unyielding old men, devoted to their principles, ruling with the iron rod of righteousness, cruel only to be kind. He hated them. If they had killed Ashton he could have killed them, but Ashton was alive and safe and he could not see himself slaughtering them in cold blood.

  There was another factor. The Northhounds. They felt his thoughts and growled, and Gerd leaned his massive shoulder against Stark's side, to hold him.

  The man in white smiled briefly. "That instinct, at least, is too strong for you. They will not let you kill us."

  "Go, then," said Stark. "Take your servants and go. Let the people of Skaith see the Lords Protector for what they are, not gods or immortals but only seven old men cast adrift in the world. I will pull down this Citadel."

  "You may destroy it. You cannot destroy what it stands for. It will remain a symbol. You cannot destroy us, for the work we do is greater than our physical bodies. The prophecy is false, man from the stars. You will not prevail. We shall continue to serve our people."

  He paused. "My name is Ferdias. Remember it."

  Stark nodded. "I'll remember. And prophecy or not, Ferdias, you have served too long."

  "And what do you serve? The littleness of one man. For one man, you set our world in turmoil." He looked at Ashton.

  "He too is only a symbol," said Stark softly. "The symbol of reality. That is what you're fighting, not one man, or two. Go and fight it, Ferdias. Wait for the stars to crash in on you. Because they will."

  They turned and left him. He stared after their proud and stubborn backs, and the Northhounds held him, whimpering.

  "You are a fool, Eric," Ashton said, and shook his head. "As Ferdias said, it does seem a lot for one man."

  "Well," said Stark, "before we're done, you may wish I'd left you with the Lords Protector. What made them decide against killing you?"

  "I convinced them I'd be more valuable to them alive. They're very worried men, Eric. They know they're threatened by something big, but they don't know how big. They don't really understand. The whole concept of space-flight and the Galactic Union is too new and strange. Really shattering. They don't know how to deal with it, and they thought I might be of some help to them since I'm part of it. I pointed out that they could always kill me later on."

  He looked at the Northhounds and shivered. "I won't ask you how you did that. I'm afraid I know."

  "Of all men, you ought to," said Stark, and smiled. Then he asked, "How long ago did Gelmar leave, with Gerrith?"

  "It was yesterday."

  "They won't have got far ahead of us, then. Not with Halk slowing them down. Simon, I know that the Ministry cannot condone the vandalism I am about to commit, but you won't try to stop me, will you?"

  Again Ashton looked at the pack. "Not likely. Your friends might be annoyed."

  Stark set about destroying the Citadel as well as he could, and it was well enough. The furnishings, the hall of records, and the great timber beams burned hotly. Most of the outer walls would be left, but the interior would not be habitable, and in any case the sacred isolation of the Citadel was gone for all time, as was the superstitious awe that went with it.

  He thought the destruction of the Lords Protector might be just as complete. He was glad, when he considered it, that he had not been able to kill them. They would have remained forever a potent and holy legend. The truth, when the people saw it, would kill them more certainly than the sword.

  The Northhounds did not attempt to interfere with his burning of the Citadel. Their guardianship seemed to have been associated only with the pleasurable aspects of keeping intruders away from it.

  Stark stood with Ashton on the road outside the Citadel, watching the flames lick at the window-places, and he said, "So far, so good. There is still Gerrith, and a long walk south, and then we'll see what we can do about Irnan and the freedom of the stars. Not to speak of getting ourselves safely away from Skaith."

  "It's a large order," said Ashton.

  "We have allies." Stark turned to the Northhounds, to Gerd. What will you do now that there is nothing left for you to guard?

  We will follow the strongest, said Gerd, licking Stark's hand.

  And so you will, thought Stark, until I fall sick or wounded, and then you will do to me as you did to Flay. Or try to.

  He bore them no ill-will for that. It was their nature. He laid his hand on Gerd's head.

  Come, then.

  With Ashton at his side, Stark set his face to the passes of the Bleak Mountains and the Wandsmen's Road beyond. Somewhere on that road was Gerrith, and at its end, the starships waited.

  Appendix

  THE BACKGROUND

  SKAITH,

  dying planet of a dying star far out in the Orion Spur. Knowledge of the inevitable demise of their world has colored every facet of life for the people of Skaith, giving rise to many strange religions and customs. Over the centuries, different groups have sought salvation in different ways.

  Some preferred, through controlled genetic mutation—a science now long lost—to worship a chosen deity with their whole being, as:

  THE CHILDREN OF THE SEA-OUR-MOTHER,

  who have returned to the primal womb whence all life sprang, losing their humanity in the process, and with it their understanding of the coming doom;

  THE CHILDREN OF SKAITH-OUR-MOTHER,

  who worship their equivalent of the Earth-Mother, dwelling deep within her warm, protective body, safe from the creeping death Outside;

  THE FALLARIN,

  who wanted wings, the better to adore their dying lord, the Sun. In them, however, the mutation was imperfect—they have wings but cannot really fly. In compensation, they have become brothers to the winds, with power to call upon the currents of the air to do their bidding. They are served by

  THE TARF,

  who are genetic mutations from non-human stock. The above are relatively small groups. Most of the other survivors of the Wandering—that time of chaos when the great cities of the north were abandoned to the cold—have adapted to existing conditions and lead not-uncomfortable lives in the Fertile Belt, though strange survivals still exist in the Barrens and in the Darklands of the north (such as the Harsenyi, a tribe of northern nomads, message-bearers between various groups, and the Outdwellers, a strange far-northern people given to cannibalism). The productive section of the population has been harnessed to the support of the largest body of doom-worshipers.

  THE FARERS,

  who, feeling that all effort is useless because there is no future for Skaith, spend their lives in faring from place to place as the mood takes them, filling their hours with the gratifications of the moment, secure in the knowledge that they will be fed, housed, clothed, and cared for by the authority of

  THE WANDSMEN,

  whose rule brought stability out of chaos after the Wandering, but who, after two thousand years or so, have become onerous to many, as their original plan, which was to protect the weak from the strong, to feed the hungry, and to shelter the homeless, has become warped by time and the necessities of power into a serfdom under which the providers labor. The Wandsmen enforce their laws by the use of mercenary troops. The Wandsmen's superiors, or "officers," are

  THE LORDS PROTECTOR,

  a council of seven old me
n drawn from the highest ranks of the Wandsmen, chosen for their wisdom and ability. These are regarded almost as deities by the Farers, and since their rule has been unbroken and their individual personalities always hidden from the vulgar gaze, they are thought to be immortal.

  THE NORTHHOUNDS

  are genetically mutated animals bred as guardians of the Citadel. They are telepaths, and kill by destroying human minds with fear. Stark became their leader at the Citadel.

  Skaith, in her heyday, despite advanced technology, scientific knowledge, and industrial might, never developed spaceflight, so that when she began her long dying, depleted of resources and her people slipping back into barbarism, there was no chance of escape for anyone—until the starships came. Then the poison of hope began to work, and the lines of battle were drawn between the entrenched power of the Wandsmen and the rebels who have demanded freedom to emigrate to a better world.

  THE PLACES

  THE CITADEL,

  a half-legendary retreat of the Lords Protector, in the High North. Destroyed by the off-worlder Stark.

  GED DAROD,

  holy city of the Wandsmen, a place of pilgrimage, seat of their temporal power.

  IRNAN,

  a city-state in the north temperate zone. Here Gerrith, the wise woman, made her prophecy of the Dark Man from the stars who would destroy the Lords Protector and set her people free. For this she was slain by the Wandsmen. The Irnanese were prime movers in the fight for emigration.

  TREGAD,

  a similar city-state, sometime ally of Irnan.

  SKEG,

  a seaport and formerly the location of the only star-port, until that was burned by order of the Wandsmen and the starships banished forever from Skaith.

  YURUNNA,

  a northern base of the Wandsmen, where the Northhounds were bred. Captured by Stark with a coalition of desert tribesmen and Fallarin.

  THYRA,

  a place south of and near the Witchfires, where a race of smiths reclaim iron from the rusting bones of a great ruined city.

  THE TOWERS,

  another ruin, where the People of the Towers dwell in the northern cold and darkness, awaiting the coming of the star-ships.