The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  Rudolf, Count von Kroissengrau, was a doting father, and he naturally was limited by the beliefs and fancies of his century. But he was tough and powerful, and his level head and high intelligence had, until then at least, kept him alive and Drachendonnerfels secure in the most perilous of times. Unlike Twentieth Century men, he did not automatically recoil from any hint of magic forces; indeed, if they appeared beneficent, he was quite ready to take advantage of them. He demanded silence from the hall and from his daughter, and received it. Then, very formally, he introduced himself to Papa Schimmelhorn, reciting all his titles and the more important details of his lineage.

  Papa Schimmelhorn replied in kind, giving himself a castle in the Alps, a thousand men-at-arms, a doctorate in the arcane sciences from Princeton University, and any number of suddenly ennobled ancestors and relatives, including Fifi Fledermaus, whom he proclaimed a baroness. After that, dramatically, he introduced General and Mrs. Pollard as the Prince and Princess Palatine of Washington and the Potomac, and explained that the general was a veritable Alexander, Scipio, Hannibal, and Caesar rolled into one, who could save them from the Mongols if anybody could.

  The general stepped down from the pony cart and saluted. So did Sergeant Leatherbee. Bluebelle, whom Papa Schimmelhorn had explained away as Mrs. Pollard’s lady-in-waiting, followed them and essayed a clumsy curtsey.

  Fired by Ermintrude’s enthusiasm, Count Rudolf was suitably impressed. He declared that Drachendonnerfels was honored by so high a company and welcomed their assistance against the enemy. “I do not doubt,” he declared, sighing heavily, “that the prince is a paladin of high renown in his own country. Unhappily, my castle now is full of great commanders without armies. The demon Tatars have made mincemeat of them. No, I am afraid that we have more use for a magician here than for any number of great generals. But we shall speak of all these matters later. First we shall feast; then I shall show you Drachendonnerfels and our defenses; after that we shall take counsel. In a moment, I shall have my heralds proclaim you, after you have met those men upon whose strength and wisdom I most rely—”

  Ermintrude interrupted him by whispering in his ear.

  “Of course!” he told her. “I am ashamed I did not think of it. You may escort the princess and her lady to a proper chamber so that she can don raiment better suited to her rank and dignity.” And he bowed ceremoniously to Mrs. Pollard as she was led away, Bluebelle hefting the luggage in her wake.

  Then Papa Schimmelhorn and the general were presented successively to the archbishop, whose name was Alberic and who was cousin to the King of Bohemia, to a variety of counts and barons, a Prior of the Knights Templars, several fiery Hungarian magnates, a vastly dark and strangely scarred old man from the Carpathians, and finally, with special pride, to the blond giant in the Viking helm, who—Papa Schimmelhorn had noticed—had seemed unable to take his eyes off Bluebelle and was still staring in the direction of her disappearance.

  “This,” declared Count Rudolf, “is Thorfinn Thorfinnson, who now commands our troops. He is a mighty warrior from far away, who has been made a baron by the Emperor. He was in the service of the High Prince of Vladimir, until the High Prince yielded to the Tatars and swore fealty to them. He knows all about these Tatars and how they fight and even understands their barbarous tongue.”

  A touch regretfully, Thorfinn Thorfinnson turned his attention to Papa Schimmelhorn. “Sir Count and Magician,” he declared, as they clasped hands, “in my travels I have seen many wonders. I have seen wily Finns with bags of wind to sell, and such as could turn lead into pure gold. But your magic horse is not only the most wonderful of all, but the most useful.” His laughter boomed out through the hall. “Perhaps it can outspeed the horses of the Tatars—God knows no others can!”

  Suddenly Thorfinn’s name and accent and appearance all clicked into place, and Count von Schimmelhorn was reminded of an episode during his misspent youth, when he had followed a pretty pussycat named Ragnhild to her home in Iceland, where for months they had scandalized the community in which she lived before she married a local fisherman and bade him farewell. Naturally, he had learned the language fluently, and now he remembered that Modern Icelandic differed very little from Old Norse.

  To Thorfinn’s astonishment, he heard himself hailed in his native tongue. He drew back. Then he reached forward and embraced Papa Schimmelhorn in a bear hug. “God be praised!” he bellowed. “He has sent us a true magician, one who has lived in my own isle! Sir Count, tell me—surely your mother at least was my countrywoman? I am certain of it! Now we need no longer fear the Tatars! You and I shall be sworn brothers—I swear it by this helmet which belonged to my great-grandfather, the renowned Halvar Bearbiter!—and we together shall drive the Tatars from this land!”

  Papa Schimmelhorn pounded him on the back and bellowed back just as joyfully. He had found understanding Count Rudolf, and making himself understood in turn, rather more difficult than getting through to Ermintrude. Thorfinn, he realized, would be a great help in bridging the communications gap.

  Explanations were made to the count and to the Pollards, and Papa Schimmelhorn dutifully translated a short speech of the general’s concerning the Mongol threat to Western Civilization and the importance of a really effective cavalry leadership, which he was prepared to provide. His message was listened to very soberly, but with scant enthusiasm. Count Rudolf thanked His Highness politely for his offer and the sentiment behind it, but he was compelled to point out that Drackendonnerfels was a solitary rock in a sea of horsemen and that this Tatar cavalry was unfortunately the only cavalry available.

  He escorted them to the High Table, ordered ale and wine to be poured, and accepted a bottle of the general’s bourbon which Papa Schimmelhorn presented to him. Sergeant Leatherbee mounted guard over the time-pony and its cart, glaring suspiciously at the four knights detailed by Thorfinn Thorfinnson to assist him. Soon Mrs. Pollard was escorted in again, now dryeyed and robed in splendor. She wore the evening gown created for her to celebrate the general’s triumph over the gnurrs, and a fantastic display of jewelry culminating in a tiara, none of which the Thirteenth Century recognized as costume. Ermintrude led her to the High Table, seated her next to her Prince Palatine and General of the Armies, and took her own seat between her father and Count von Schimmelhorn, whose knee she surreptitiously squeezed under the table. At the count’s command, the heralds did their stuff, and Papa Schimmelhorn impressed everyone tremendously by presenting a cuckoo clock to Ermintrude and demonstrating it several times. Then they feasted, after Count Rudolf had apologized for the meager fare forced upon them by the vicissitudes of war. Serfs and servants bustled back and forth with steaming joints, roast fowl, boars’ heads, wine and ale—all in the decidedly pungent atmosphere typical of a crowded Thirteenth Century castle, where the principles of military sanitation were not properly comprehended.

  Sniffing, General Pollard remarked upon this to his wife. “They certainly know nothing about mess hall management,” he told her. “And I don’t suppose they’d appreciate my teaching them.”

  Mrs. Pollard, gnawing at the drumstick of a swan served her by the count’s own hands, agreed that they might not. “But anyway,” she whispered, “I’m sure it’s all organic, so there isn’t that for you to fret about. Just this once I’m going to forget all about my calories.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn conversed with Ermintrude, with her father, and with Thorfinn Thorfinnson, who sat beside him. He told them of the war against the gnurrs, about which Thorfinn promised to compose a glorious saga, and wisely he said nothing about coming from the future, explaining that the land of the Prince Palatine lay far across the ocean to the West. Then Thorfinn, wonderingly, remarked that if it lay even beyond Vinland it must be indeed remote, which removed any need for further explanation.

  General Pollard, meanwhile, discovered to his joy that he was by no means as linguistically isola
ted as he had supposed. In his pre-Academy days, he had attended a very strict and famous private school for boys, where for six years he had studied Latin, at which he had excelled, practically memorizing Caesar, Livy, Polybius, and other works of military interest. Now, when Archbishop Alberic, beside him, addressed him in that tongue, he almost neighed with pleasure and launched into a disquisition on the martial uses of the horse which not only impressed the cleric, but made him wonder momentarily whether, by some miracle, the patron saint of horses had been sent down to them.

  The archbishop discussed such questions as whether the Tatars were the Scourge of God, punishing Christians for their many sins, or simply instruments of Satan. The general, bowing to his superior expertise, confined himself to the Tatars and their horses, and how horses might best be used to drive them off. They got along famously, and when Count Rudolf’s final belch signaled that the feast was over, if not sworn brothers, they at least were friends.

  Then the count took them for a guided tour of Drachendonnerfels and its defenses. It was a mighty structure of gray stone, crowning and dominating a narrow-waisted peninsula around which a river flowed. Its battlements frowned over sheer cliffs on three sides, and beneath them stretched a gently sloping, lightly wooded area where a mob of refugees was now encamped, together with their motley household goods and domestic animals. These were the ones who had been unable to crowd into the castle proper. They came from far and near—Germans and Magyars and Bohemians, and strange men from stranger tribes once unknown in the Christian West. Their smells and noises floated up the walls. Here and there in the distance, the smoke of burnings could be seen, and far away but clearly visible a Mongol tumen riding at full gallop, its disciplined tens and hundreds following their yak-tail standards.

  “There they are!” Count Rudolf pointed. “Without mercy. Tireless. Raiding as they ride, they move as far in a single day as we do in a week, and then do battle. When we have them trapped, they vanish; when we least expect them, they appear. They are not demons—for they die like other men. But surely demons must be riding with them.” He shuddered. “Come, let us hold council.”

  As they parted from the ladies, Thorfinn Thorfinnson lagged behind a little with his sworn brother and whispered in his ear. “The Lady Bluebelle,” he enquired, “is she married?” Papa Schimmelhorn assured him that, at least at the moment, she was not.

  “Ah-ha!”cried Thorfinn. “That is good! Look at her—clear white skin, thick hair, good strong teeth—and her thighs! Never have I seen a woman with thighs so broad. I tell you, she and I would breed mighty sons! I shall wait. Then, when we succeed against the Tatars, perhaps you will speak to her in my behalf?”

  And Papa Schimmelhorn, who did not consider Bluebelle a pretty little pussycat, promised him he’d do his very best.

  * * * *

  Rudolf von Kroissengrau held his council of war high in a turret room overlooking his Mongol-ravaged countryside. Present were the Prince Palatine of Washington and the Potomac, Thorfinn Thorfinnson, the Archbishop Alberic, the count himself, the Prior of the Knights Templars, the dark, curiously scarred old man from the Carpathians, several members of the greater and lesser nobility who, having been deprived of their armed forces by the Mongols, had lost much status, and Papa Schimmelhorn, who felt rather out of place because he really wasn’t a military man and would much rather have been with Ermintrude.

  Count Rudolf opened the proceedings by inviting the prince, as ranking noble and most illustrious commander there, to present his plan. The general rose, declared modestly that he was just a simple soldier who would do his best, and then, at length and with much technical detail, obliged him. He spoke sometimes in English, which was translated by Papa Schimmelhorn, and sometimes in sonorous Latin, which the archbishop interpreted.

  “But it is not simply my long experience or my knowledge of the most advanced doctrines of cavalry employment which persuade me that it is my mission to defeat the Tatar enemy. No, my friends! Consider—my noble wife, impelled by that feminine curiosity and frailty with which we are all familiar, leaped onto the magic horse, a gift to me from Graf von Schimmelhorn, and was instantly brought here to Drachendonnerfels! Again, the Lady Ermintrude, perhaps similarly inspired, took her place in the saddle and was at once transported back to me. Who can doubt that the Hand of God brought me here, where obviously I am so badly needed?”

  They had listened to him gravely silent; and now the old man from the Carpathians arose, begged the count’s leave to speak, and, leaning heavily on his huge, two-handed sword, addressed them in a voice harsh as the scrape of dungeon hinges.

  “Great Prince,” he said, “I myself have no doubt that your arrival was indeed a miracle—” Everyone at the table nodded.

  “—but yet we must not read the Will of God too readily, lest we read it not aright. From what you have explained of your country’s cavalry, I am sure that given time you could build us a force the Tatars would indeed have to reckon with. But you have told us that we must unite the kings and princes of the west and north and south, most of whom, despite the Tatar threat, are at daggers drawn. Highness, even if you yourself appeared to each of them on your magic horse—even then few would unite, or if they did it would take months of arguing. Let me tell you of these Tatars!” His scarred mouth twisted savagely. “My keep in the Carpathian Mountains was impregnable. For a hundred years, and half a hundred more, it had remained inviolate. Sir, they stormed and captured it within eight hours. And when they first appeared, I obeyed my orders from the king and sent my messengers riding the fastest horses in the land to warn him. Aye, they warned King Bela, on his throne in Budapest—and even as they did so the first Tatar patrols entered the outskirts of the city. My messengers only had to ride. The Tatars, in their thousands, rode and burned, raped and slew and looted—and took no longer to arrive. No, Your Highness, by the time we could unite the kings of Christendom, by the time you could train their forces, Christendom would be no more, and the foul Tatars would rule everything to the Western Sea. Your own lands, which Baron Thorfinn tells me are far, far away, beyond any we have yet imagined, may have the power to hold them off—but have you enough magic horses to bring your power to us? Surely we must deliberate very carefully and seek to learn if God did not have some other end in view when He sent you and this great magician to our aid, for which—” He bowed his head. “—I humbly thank Him.”

  There was a murmur of approval, and sadly the archbishop said, “Highness, more than once we have sent embassies begging kings and princes to unite with us—and they never heed us until the Tatars are at their very gates. Lord Koloman is right. Unless you can indeed bring your mighty armies swiftly across the sea, we must indeed find another way.”

  General Pollard, on the point of arguing, suddenly realized that the failure of Christendom to unite against the Mongols had not been for want of trying on the part of dedicated, far-sighted men. He sighed and, temporarily at least, filed away his mental picture of himself, with drawn sword, leading an army of cavalry greater than any mobilized since the War Against the Gnurrs.

  “Lord Koloman,” asked Count Rudolf, “in what way can we prevail if not with our swords? You are wise in the ways of war and of our enemy. What thoughts come to your mind?”

  “I do not know,” Lord Koloman said slowly, “but if we cannot hope to match the Tatars’ strength, then I can think of one way only—to outwit them. That will be very difficult, for they are serpents in their subtlety. Their spies are everywhere. Everywhere traitors lurk to do their bidding.”

  For a moment, despondency descended on the room. Then Thorfinn Thorfinnson laughed his enormous laugh. “Friend Koloman, all that was yesterday! Today we have a great magician, who has become sworn brother to me, and with him he has brought this mighty captain. Yes, there are spies and traitors everywhere, and so word of their arrival will go swiftly to Prince Batu and to Subutai. They will
at once want to know more—remember, they never move without learning every detail about their enemies.”

  “And what will happen then?” Count Rudolf asked.

  Two or three of the dispossessed nobles in the room stirred uneasily, and one of them spoke up. “Th-they will concentrate, and they will storm this castle regardless of the cost! That is what will happen!”

  Suddenly Thorfinn Thorfinnson towered over them. “Then you will be killed!” he roared. “Do you fear to die?”

  The nobles shrank away, and again Thorfinn laughed aloud. “One reason you have been defeated and are here is because you do not understand this enemy. Do you think Subutai is stupid? He will see instantly that a magician who can appear in a twinkling on a magic horse can vanish just as quickly! Even if our walls came down he would have nothing for his pains. No, he will try more devious methods—and so must we.”

  He sat down, and Count Rudolf again took over. Everyone’s spirits had been raised, except perhaps General Pollard’s, and now the discussion of what might be done became general. It went on for about twenty minutes with no noticeable result. Then, when all were on the point of giving up, the archbishop took time out to pray for guidance, and his prayers were answered.

  “Noble sirs,” he declared. “In our pride, we have rudely neglected our first duty. We have not asked advice of the great magician whom God has sent us.” He turned to Papa Schimmelhorn. “Sir Count, your pardon. Pray give us your sage counsel.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn hadn’t really had his mind on the proceedings for some time and had been trying to figure out a way to bow out gracefully and play games with Ermintrude. Now he shook his head to clear it, furrowed his brow in thought, and, speaking to the general, said the first thing that came to mind. “Soldier boy,” he said, “Vhy don’t ve take maybe a few Mongols for a lidtle ride in der time-pony und der cart? They don’t undershtand about time trafel, und ve show them all your cavalry. Maybe then they are sheared und run avay back home?”