Tales of the Wold Newton Universe

by Philip José Farmer

  One of the riders dismounted and walked toward the three who had been running, now huddled together on the ground like frightened children. One of them mustered up enough courage to pull away from the others and swipe his arm toward the rider in a gesture of defiance; the gesture was rewarded by his meeting the same grisly fate as the earlier victim, thanks to a short burst from the rider’s gun. The two remaining runners fell forward with their arms outstretched in surrender; the rider stepped forward and yanked them up to their feet, his weapon held ready to fire again as he and the other rider herded them to a place outside the camera’s field of vision.

  “Who are they?” von Billman demanded. “What are they doing to those poor people?”

  “I don’t know,” Gribardsun responded, gently pushing Rachel toward her husband as he spoke. He moved toward the exit hatch and added, “But I intend to find out.”

  “John?” Rachel called after him, barely masking the concern in her voice. “What are you going to do?”

  This time Gribardsun did not answer. He paused long enough to unlock the expedition’s weapons box and remove an automatic pistol, as well as a leather belt and scabbard holding the old hunting knife he had insisted upon bringing along. Securing the belt and scabbard around the waist of his single-piece tunic, Gribardsun opened the portal and waited as the timeship’s stairway platform slid down into place. Once the platform was secure, he stepped through the hatch and started down the steps.

  The others hesitated for a moment before following him, Drummond stopping long enough to grab a .30-caliber automatic rifle from the weapons locker. They reached the foot of the stairs and stood behind Gribardsun, where they were met by a sight none could have anticipated during the many months of planning and preparation for this voyage.

  An entire platoon of riders like those they had seen on the viewscreen—twenty in all—stood in formation approximately two hundred yards from the timeship, lined up in four rows of five and facing Gribardsun and the others. Between the second and third row stood a group of about forty or fifty men, women and children who appeared to be from the same tribe as the two just captured. They were also lined up in rows, and bound together by large chains attached to clasps secured around their necks and the ankles of their right legs. One was a young female child whose neck was similarly chained but rode on the shoulder of a man Gribardsun assumed was her father. The two new additions were shepherded toward the group by their capturers, and barely struggled now as they were chained into place.

  “Slavers,” Rachel gasped. Gribardsun nodded grimly.

  “But who are they?” von Billman asked again. He turned to Gribardsun and added, “And where do they come from? Look at the size of them—it’s like a race of giants.”

  “What about those guns they carry?” Drummond queried. “They seem to turn the very air around them into some kind of missile. Technology like that doesn’t exist in our time; how can it exist in 12,000 B.C.?”

  Gribardsun held up a hand to silence them. “Perhaps some of our questions are about to be answered,” he half whispered.

  The others followed his gaze and watched as the front row of slavers nudged their steeds forward toward them. Four of the riders carried large banners, bearing an insignia resembling a starburst. The rider in the middle was obviously the leader; he rode about half a length in front of the others and held himself with an air of superiority. When the quintet reached a point about midway between their fellows and the Gribardsun party, the leader held up a hand and they came to a halt.

  The leader reached up with both hands and removed his armored helmet, revealing a face both human and leonine in appearance. The skin had a reddish-brown tint, and the head was topped by a shock of bright white hair like an unkempt Mohawk. He sat there quietly for a moment, his eyes gazing upon each of the time travelers one at a time. His eyes lingered upon Rachel a bit longer than the others, a fact that did not escape her notice—nor that of her husband. She took a half-step backward as both Drummond and Gribardsun assumed protective stances on either side of her, an act which brought a trace of a smile to the leader’s face.

  Finally he spoke. “Which among you is in command?”

  Rachel and Drummond’s eyes grew wide, and von Billman—the linguist of the group—for a moment appeared as though he was about to faint. “English!” he exclaimed. “He speaks English! But how?”

  Gribardsun alone appeared unfazed by this discovery. Gently pushing Rachel closer to her husband, he took several steps forward and gazed up at the leader. “I am John Gribardsun,” he said simply.

  “I don’t care,” was the leader’s response.

  For one of only a very few times in his life, Gribardsun did not know how to react. He had never really considered himself an egotist, but over the years had learned to put his natural sense of self-confidence to good use and had become accustomed—unwittingly, perhaps—to a certain type of reaction when he did. Those rare occasions when he failed to elicit such a reaction tended to stay with him—necessary reminders that, no matter how much he might wish to deny it, he was only human after all.

  But now was not the time to dwell upon that. Changing the subject, he said simply, “You speak our tongue.”

  “Do I?” the leader retorted. “Or would it be more precise to instead say that you speak ours?” He paused for a moment as if letting that suggestion sink in before continuing. “But that is a mystery to be considered later. For the moment the only thing you are required to know is that you and your companions are now the property of Seris Dourn.”

  Although he dared not show it, Gribardsun couldn’t help but be amused by the haughtiness in the other’s tone of voice; it reminded him of so many of his fellow dukes in the days before England had abolished titles. Gribardsun asked, “I assume you are Seris Dourn?”

  “Your assumption is flattering but inaccurate. I am Teran Lynd, the emperor’s representative and humble servant.”

  “I see. Then allow me to ask the emperor’s representative and humble servant a question..” Gribardsun took another step toward Lynd’s steed. “By what right do you enslave these people, or claim ownership over my companions and myself?”

  A great, booming laugh erupted from Lynd. “By what right?” he repeated. “The right of superior power, of course. We can conquer, therefore we conquer. What other right does one need?” He raised one hand and gestured; the two riders Gribardsun’s party first saw on the viewscreen rode up to join him. “Take them,” Lynd commanded. “The men will join the ranks of our slaves. The woman...” His voice trailed off as his gaze moved back in Rachel’s direction, then he added, “The woman I have other plans for.”

  The riders nudged their steeds in unison, but the great beasts had barely taken a step when Drummond brought up his rifle and fired. The shot bounced harmlessly off Lynd’s armor; the entire front line of his command responded by raising their own weapons and firing in Drummond’s direction.

  “No!” The scream came from von Billman. He grabbed Rachel by the arm and managed to pull her down to the ground out of the line of fire. As he rolled atop Rachel to protect her, von Billman caught a quick glimpse of the expression on her husband’s face as one of the blasts hit him full in the chest. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone look so surprised...

  Drummond Silverstein died not knowing that there would be no voyage home for his companions. One of the marauders’ shots had struck the time traveler; the others impacted against his ship. The H. G. Wells I shuddered violently as though located at the epicenter of an earthquake, then seemed to fold into itself before imploding like a planet caught in the throes of a black hole. Rachel screamed, and von Billman struck the ground with an angry fist.

  All this happened within the course of only a few seconds. Gribardsun took advantage of the confusion to launch himself up and forward, striking Teran Lynd with his shoulder and knocking him off his mount onto the ground. Both men jumped quickly to their feet, and a roar erupted from the back of Lynd’s throat
like the jungle cat he resembled. Gribardsun brought up his pistol, only to have it knocked out of his hand by a swing of Lynd’s massive right hand. Lynd charged forward, striking Gribardsun full force and sending him sprawling backward into the grass.

  They struggled there, rolling around on the ground as each battled to gain the upper hand. At one point Gribardsun was able to maneuver himself up on top of his adversary, locking his well-muscled legs around the bigger man’s arms. Holding his left forearm against Lynd’s throat, he reached down with his right hand in an attempt to draw his hunting knife. But Lynd managed to free one of his arms and thrust it upward, ramming Gribardsun hard in the jaw. Gribardsun tumbled in one direction and his knife in the other, as Lynd jumped back to his feet. Momentarily dazed, Gribardsun raised himself up onto his hands and knees, shook his head and managed to stand up as well.

  “John! Look out behind you!”

  At Rachel’s cry, Gribardsun whirled around in time to see one of the other riders advancing on him, his rifle drawn. Before he could fire, Gribardsun jumped at him and grabbed the barrel of the weapon with both hands; he yanked the gun out of the rider’s hands, sending him up over the head of his mount and onto the ground. The mount was unable to stop in time and ran directly over the rider, killing him instantly.

  Gribardsun swung the rifle up like a club and brought it crashing down onto a large nearby rock, splintering it into dozens of pieces. He turned again, just in time to see Lynd pull back his fist in preparation to strike. Gribardsun avoided the fist and lunged at Lynd again, and as the two continued to trade blows, one of Lynd’s standard bearers rode forward and brought his pole down across the back of Gribardsun’s head.

  The last sound Gribardsun heard before sliding into unconsciousness was Rachel screaming again...

  * * *

  He awoke to find himself seated on the ground with his arms pulled behind him, secured by leather straps around the trunk of a small tree. A campfire provided the only illumination, and several tents dotted the nearby landscape. Gribardsun’s jumpsuit, tattered in the fight with Teran Lynd, had been replaced while he was unconscious by a loincloth fashioned from the hide of some manner of beast. There was a soft metallic rustling sound off to his right. Gribardsun glanced in that direction and saw the small throng of aborigines who had been taken captive earlier, still chained together as they slept on the cold dirt.

  One of the captives sat upright, kneeling forward with his face buried in his arms, which lay folded across his raised knees. Gribardsun recognized the man and called out to him. “Robert?”

  Von Billman raised his head and turned in the direction of the other’s voice. The corners of his mouth curved up into a slight smile. “John! Thank God you’re all right, man. I was beginning to fear that I might have lost you as well..”

  “I still live,” Gribardsun replied. Then, recalling von Billman’s comment, he asked, “Where is Rachel?”

  Von Billman’s smile disappeared. “In one of the tents, I think,” the linguist responded. “She and several of the other women were separated from the rest of us after our captors made camp. I overheard a bit of conversation between two of our fellow prisoners; it seems this Lynd fellow has developed quite the affinity for the local women.” He paused briefly before adding, “From what I gather, Rachel and the others are to be the latest additions to his harem.”

  That last comment caused Gribardsun to see something that had escaped his notice before. While the male captives’ ages ranged from very young to very old, and everything between, the females were all either small children to prepubescent teens or middle-aged and older. Women between the ages of around fourteen or fifteen to twenty-five or thirty were nowhere to be seen, save for several who appeared sickly or in some other way unappealing to someone with certain activities on their mind.

  Von Billman watched as Gribardsun glanced around the camp. “Not exactly the sort of situation a person might typically expect to find himself in, is it?”

  This time it was Gribardsun’s turn to offer a slight—albeit grim—smile. “For most people, I suppose,” he replied. “You said you overheard some of the Magdalenians talking. Do they also speak English?”

  “Only a few of them, and those few not very well,” von Billman answered. “Apparently these marauders have been a presence here long enough for a few of them to pick up some of the language. Although it is still a mystery to me where our captors might have learned it, given that they are obviously not native to the area.”

  Gribardsun asked, “Have you been able to learn anything about our hosts?”

  “Just enough to deepen the mystery, I’m afraid,” von Billman said glumly. “They appear to be extraterrestrial in origin, which would certainly explain their appearance. One of the Magdalenian children—a little girl named Anana—spoke of a ‘great boat that came down from the sky.’ Roughly a year and a half ago, if I understood her correctly. Shortly after they arrived they raided this tribe’s village and at least two others located not far away. A number of men and women from each village were captured and apparently enslaved—for what reason, no one seems to know—and there have been several more raids since then...”

  Before von Billman could say more, the door flap to the largest of the tents opened and Teran Lynd stepped out, flanked by a pair of guards. In addition to the firearms seen earlier, each guard wore a large broadsword strapped across his back and carried a smaller dagger in a belt wrapped around his tunic.

  Lynd wore a knife as well—Gribardsun’s hunting knife, its scabbard secured to Lynd’s waist like a trophy. Gribardsun looked from the knife up into the eyes of his captor and said simply, “That belongs to me.”

  In response, Lynd merely smiled. He knelt down in front of Gribardsun as if to speak, then brought the back of his hand hard against Gribardsun’s face. Despite the force of the blow, the time traveler barely flinched; a tiny trickle of blood ran down from the corner of Gribardsun’s lip, but he did not speak.

  Lynd rose to full height and stood silently for a moment. He announced, “I believe I am going to enjoy watching you die.”

  “You are not the first to have expressed such sentiments,” Gribardsun replied evenly. “I doubt you shall be the last.”

  “We shall see.” Lynd turned and took a couple of steps away, then whirled back to face Gribardsun. “You should consider yourself fortunate,” he said. “I wanted to merely kill you and be done with it. But my warriors were so impressed by your fighting skills that they felt a simple execution would be...” He paused as if searching for the right words, then concluded, “a terrible waste.”

  “No doubt you’ll be able to think of something appropriately entertaining,” Gribardsun observed.

  Lynd smiled, his lion-like teeth and eyes gleaming in the firelight. “I believe I already have,” he stated. He turned and pointed at a tent at the far end of the camp. “In that tent we are holding one of my people—a criminal and traitor, found guilty of treason against his emperor. I’ve been trying to think of a punishment befitting his transgressions. It occurs to me that pitting the two of you against one another in battle would be a worthy solution to both questions. And so tomorrow morning that is exactly what will occur.”

  “A battle to the death, then,” Gribardsun said. “And what becomes of the winner?”

  Lynd smiled again. “The ‘winner’ is given the opportunity to live long enough to return with us to our city, and witness my marriage to that exquisite female who accompanied you here,” he replied. “Then he shall be chained to an altar and sacrificed as an offering to our gods.”

  A look of horror fell over von Billman’s features. Gribardsun glared at Lynd. “Where is Rachel?” he demanded.

  “In the tent next to mine, being attended to by several of my other wives,” Lynd told him. He knelt down in front of Gribardsun again. “Whatever other reason you might have had for coming here, I am grateful to you for bringing this Rachel to me. She’s not like the other women here. There’s a fi
re in her that I find most appealing.”

  He stood up and added, “Yes, I shall indeed enjoy watching you die.”

  “As you said, we shall see,” Gribardsun told him.

  Lynd merely laughed as he turned and strode back toward his tent, his guards right behind him. Von Billman watched until they entered the tent, turned to Gribardsun with a distressed expression. “I have an uneasy feeling, my friend, that you may have made too strong an impression upon our host.”

  Gribardsun nodded. “I seem to have that effect on some people,” he said humorlessly. Both men fell silent, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  A stinging cloud of loose dirt, kicked up into his face by one of Lynd’s guards, roused Gribardsun from his slumber. For a moment he forgot he was bound to the tree, causing the guard to laugh when Gribardsun was unable to stand. The guard loosened the leather straps and pulled Gribardsun to his feet. Von Billman, awakened by the guard’s laughter, opened his eyes in time to see Gribardsun being led toward a clearing on the opposite side of the camp where the rest of Lynd’s party was assembled.

  At the same time, from the tent Lynd had pointed out the previous night, another guard emerged with a second member of his race, this one with his arms secured behind him and a heavy chain binding his ankles together. Both prisoners were brought to the center of the clearing and stood before Lynd, seated and posturing like Caesar at the Colosseum, flanked by two guards and several Magdalenian women Gribardsun guessed to be favorites from his harem. To Lynd’s immediate left stood Rachel, her uniform tunic replaced by a halter top and loincloth made of some silken-type fabric, the latter held in place by an ornate belt of gold.