The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  While the general stared at him open-mouthed, absorbing the idea, he explained it to the others, taking care to edit out his comment about time travel.

  A shocked silence greeted his suggestion, followed immediately by a confusion of alarms and protests, summed up after a few moments by the Prior of the Templars.

  “The Tatars are without honor!” he shouted. “They cannot be trusted in a magic cart with Christians! Besides, because they are limbs of Satan, they know no fear—so how can they be frightened off even by the terrible spectacle of the prince’s armies?”

  He was answered by Thorfinn Thorfinnson, who first held up his hand portentously for silence. “It is true, Sir Prior, that the Tatars are without honor as we know it. And it is also true that they are very brave. But that does not mean that they know no caution. Consider how assiduously they avoid the pitfalls of our strength to strike at our unguarded weaknesses! The course suggested by my sworn brother is fraught with peril, but if the prince’s forces are indeed as awe-inspiring as we have heard, Subutai may very well decide that there is more to gain by withdrawing than by pushing on. Besides, have we another choice?”

  The archbishop turned to General Pollard. “Highness,” he said, “do you consider that this plan has merit?”

  The general’s eyes flashed again. Once more he saw himself, if not actually at the head of mounted armies, at least in a position to decide their destinies. He felt inspired. He stood erect. “Listen!” he proclaimed. “This will be my message to the Tatars—that when they behold the cavalry of my country and those surrounding it, they will at once take flight! I shall tell them that, as Prince Palatine of Washington and the Potomac, I wish to spare my vassals and my allies the trouble and expense of bringing our vast forces over the great Western Sea, but that if they do not instantly retire into Asia, I most assuredly shall do so—for we too are Christians and your kinsmen! If they persist, I shall destroy them utterly. That is my message! Let it be taken to the Tatars! And Papa—that is, Count von Schimmelhorn—and I shall show them that it is no empty threat!”

  Latin is a splendid tongue for such pronouncements, and the general was tremendously impressive. A few timid voices of protest sputtered and went out. Suddenly, a new spirit seemed to animate the room. There were wild cheers, from the Hungarians especially, and a ferocious clash of arms.

  “Good!” growled the Lord Koloman. “It is better to have a plan than to have none. It is better to act against the Tatars than wait for them to slay us! Highness, let me carry your message to them.”

  “Lord Koloman,” said Thorfinn, “let us wait until tomorrow. Word will reach Prince Batu and Subutai soon enough, be assured of it! Everyone has already seen the magic horse appear in our midst, and vanish with the Lady Ermintrude, and bring her back again with the cart and my sworn brother, and Their Highnesses, and His Highness’ officer, and the lovely Lady Bluebelle. These wonders have without a doubt already been reported to our enemies. Now we need only boast to everyone about the armies the prince is bringing to our aid. If I mistake not, they will send ambassadors to us. What do you think, Count Rudolf?”

  The count nodded. “I agree,” he said. “And we would do well to parley with them here or in the open field, rather than in their camp, where they can prepare all manner of treacheries. We shall wait. And now—” He clapped his hands for servants. “—let us drink and talk of less weighty matters.”

  The ladies were escorted in. Camellia Jo Pollard bubbling with excitement at being treated as a Princess Palatine, Ermintrude eager to rejoin her great magician, and the Lady Bluebelle, now decked out in some of Mrs. Pollard’s gaudier baubles, glowing with a full-blooded vitality which brought an instant cry of admiration from Thorfinn Thorfinnson.

  Bluebelle nudged Papa Schimmelhorn playfully. “Hey,” she said, “that big Scandahoovian’s a chunk of real male man, Pop. Lookit them muscles. What dja say his name was?”

  “It iss Thorfinn Thorfinnson,” replied Papa Schimmelhorn. “He iss a baron.”

  Never taking his eyes off Bluebelle, Thorfinn uttered a string of excited words in Old Norse. “Say, what’s that all about?” she asked. “Ho-ho-ho! He iss talking about you, Frau Bluebelle. He says he likes you because you haff a big behind, und together you und he vould make shtrong sons!”

  Bluebelle simpered modestly. “You tell the lunk with a big Swede like him it might be sorta fun,” she said, and blushed a shocking pink. And, when Papa Schimmelhorn passed the word along, Thorfinn roared happily and swelled his chest until it almost burst his sur-coat. Then he and Bluebelle, properly chaperoned by a serving woman, drifted away towards the battlements; and Ermintrude, hustling her magician to a cozy Corner, cuddled up to him and demanded that he tell her all that had transpired and how soon he and the prince would chase away the Tatars.

  * * * *

  There was much serious discussion before night fell, for Count Rudolf and Thorfinn, the archbishop and Lord Koloman were all agreed that every contingency must be anticipated. To them, the general demonstrated his binoculars, which were then entrusted to a picked paladin who was to watch for any movement by the enemy. Sergeant Leatherbee reported that no attempt had been made by anyone against the time-pony and its cart, and that the knights assigned to guard duty by Thorfinn were still at their posts. Then, under Papa Schimmelhorn’s instructions, pony, cart, and all were ceremoniously borne upstairs to the great chamber assigned to him, adjoining that with which the Pollards had been honored, both of which the count normally reserved for visiting royalty.

  At the general’s polite request, conveyed by the Archbishop, they were left alone.

  General Pollard sat down heavily and mopped his brow. “Papa,” he said, “I never realized that saving Europe from the Mongols would present so many problems.”

  “Don’t vorry, soldier boy,” laughed Papa Schimmelhorn. “Thorfinn Thorfinnson knows all about die Mongols, und now he iss in luff vith Bluebelle, so eferything vill vork out fine.”

  “Bluebelle Bottomley and her amours,” said the general stiffly, “have nothing to do with the military problems facing us. If we are indeed to take Mongol representatives on a time tour of the world’s finest cavalry, I will have to plan our itinerary very carefully. We must show them the best Western cavalry in battle, not merely on parade.”

  “Maybe der Lidtle Big Horn und General Custard?” suggested Papa Schimmelhorn helpfully.

  “That is not precisely what I had in mind.” The general sniffed. “We must produce a tremendous impact on their minds, so that they will have no doubt of our superiority! I have several battles picked which should do very nicely, but you said you have to have the exact latitude and longitude, to say nothing of the date and time and maps of the terrain, and I simply don’t have the necessary data with me.”

  “Dot’s okay. Ve chust chump on der time-pony und go home, und you can look up eferything, und ve come back chust vhen ve haff shtarted, like before. No vun vill know except der sergeant, und lidtle Ermintrude. I ask her if maybe she vants to take a ride.”

  The general grumbled that the matter was too serious; that they could afford no such distractions. But Papa Schimmelhorn tempted him successfully. “Soldier boy,” he said, “I tell you—this time you can ride der pony. Iss time you learn how, und I vill show you. Ermintrude und I, ve ride back in der cart together.”

  In a few minutes he returned with the Lady Ermintrude who seemed delighted at the prospect. Then he cautioned the general against touching the controls, inserted a small part of the mechanism he had removed as a precaution against monkey business, and they were off. Though it is hard to measure time spent in time travel, it was long enough for the couple in the cart to improve their already close acquaintance and for the general to get a heady taste of the joys of time riding. When they materialized again inside the stable, his earlier sulkiness had vanished, and he not only opened the do
or of the house to them, but invited them to help themselves to refreshments. As he strode off to his study whistling Garry Owen, Papa Schimmelhorn promptly picked up Ermintrude in his brawny arms, allowed her to balance a small case of ale on his shoulder, and disappeared with her up the stairs.

  It took the general more than an hour to finish his researches, and then he spent another twenty minutes confirming the precise details with the Pentagon by telephone. When everything was ready, he had four dates and places: June 18, 1815, Waterloo; October 25, 1854, Balaclava; June 9, 1863, Brandy Station, Virginia; and September 2, 1898, Omdurman, Sudan. He also had detailed topographic maps of each locality and diagrams of the momentous actions fought there.

  Ermintrude was rumpled and radiant, and Papa Schimmelhorn, equally rumpled, looked as though he had just eaten a plump canary, but General Pollard scarcely noticed them. “I must ride this horse more often, Papa!” he exclaimed, vaulting to the saddle. “It’s wonderful! It’s just like steeplechasing!”

  “Chust don’t touch die dinguses,” warned Papa Schimmelhorn. “Only pump die pedals.”

  They came back safely only a few seconds after leaving Drachendonnerfels, and Ermintrude, kissing her magician, went off to tidy up. The general was elated. “I hope those Mongols send us somebody who really understands the science of war!” he exclaimed. Then he settled down to showing Papa Schimmelhorn exactly where and when they’d have to go next day, making precise sketches so that they might observe without running too great a risk of getting shot or speared or sabered, and speculating on the psychological shock the Mongol emissaries were certain to receive.

  They retired soon after dark, Papa Schimmelhorn to pleasant dreams of pretty pussycats, the general to fantastic rides on hitherto undreamed-of beasts, heroic battles against terrible foes, and ponderous histories in which his name and fame were indelibly recorded. They both were wakened shortly after dawn by Thorfinn Thorfinnson and Sergeant Leatherbee.

  “The Tatars have arrived!” Thorfinn announced.

  “The goddamn gooks are here!” declared the sergeant.

  The Mongols had indeed arrived. Though they remained at a respectful distance from those outer defenses of Drachendonnerfels that denied the waist of its peninsula to mainland assailants, their numbers seemed overwhelming, and even General Pollard, at first sight of them, was awed. Each tuman consisted of ten thousand men, and there must have been nearly a dozen tumans. In addition, at some distance a mighty camp had been established, with its vast wagons and huge felt tents, its herds and picket lines and cooking fires.

  “What will they do now?” asked the general.

  “Baron Thorfinn says that they will wait,” answered the archbishop, “and then they will do their best to frighten us. As for me, I must confess that they have frightened me already.”

  The Mongols waited. They engaged in martial exercises and displays of horsemanship. Not until noon did their emissaries appear—a group of three men slowly and solemnly making their way toward the causeway.

  Count Rudolf, the Prior of the Templars, and a Magyar who could speak the Mongol tongue rode out to meet them.

  The Mongol spokesman demanded the instant surrender of the castle and all within it, including the magician and his magic horse.

  Count Rudolf refused bluntly even to speak to him, for he was merely a commander of a regiment, unqualified to treat with princes.

  Negotiations were broken off, and there were more warlike demonstrations. Then another deputation sallied forth, and this time it was headed by the commander of a tuman, and included a nephew of Prince Batu’s. Count Rudolf arrogantly conveyed the haughty message from the Prince Palatine of Washington and the Potomac, and the deputation went back with it.

  An hour later, Prince Batu’s nephew returned alone. His uncle, he declared, would send a group of three to ride the magic horse and cart to the lands of the strange prince and see whether he spoke the truth. They would meet halfway between the castle and the horde. Then, if they failed to return, or if, returning, they said that he had lied, Drachendonnerfels would be stormed and leveled to the ground, and every living creature in it cruelly slain.

  The effect of all this on Papa Schimmelhorn was by no means salutary. He told the general that he would much prefer to go back when they came from, where a man could spend his time chasing pretty pussycats in peace and plenty; and the argument that he would be leaving Western Civilization in the lurch left him completely cold. It was only when Ermintrude interceded physically that finally he agreed.

  General Pollard and Sergeant Leatherbee armed themselves. So, after bidding Bluebelle an emotional farewell, did Thorfinn Thorfinnson. In the distance, they could see their Mongol counterparts already starting out. With a fanfare of braying trumpets the castle’s sally port opened for them. A mounted party of the garrison stood ready to dash out and rescue them if necessary.

  “Wait until we are perhaps twenty yards apart,” ordered the general, “then appear between us with the horse and cart.”

  “Okay, soldier boy,” replied Papa Schimmelhorn, not very happily.

  General Pollard and Thorfin Thorfinnson rode forward resolutely, Sergeant Leatherbee a horselength to the rear and beside him a man-at-arms to act as horse holder. The four Mongols approached in a similar formation. As the space between the parties narrowed, there was no attempt to attack them or to interfere.

  The general saw that the elder of the leading Mongols was a man probably in his sixties, a man taller than the average of his countrymen, still lean and hard as nails, helmeted and armored in steel and lacquered leather, and plainly garbed after the Mongol fashion, but carrying a gilt and jeweled scimitar of Persian workmanship.

  At that instant, Thorfinn seized his arm. “Look!” he hissed. “It is Subutai himself!”

  General Pollard did not understand the language, but he was thoroughly familiar with the name. A thrill went through him at the thought of meeting a commander who actually had ridden, conquering, from the deserts of Mongolia to the Danube, from India to northernmost Muscovy—a thrill accompanied by some misgivings. He realized, with a momentary chill, that it would take great cavalry indeed to appear impressive to those uncompromising basalt eyes.

  Subutai’s companion was much younger, similarly accoutered but bearing also a bow and two full quivers; and he was followed by a broad man with Eastern eyes and an Assyrian nose, who in turn was attended by an ordinary soldier.

  Then, on the dot, Papa Schimmelhorn materialized the time-pony and its cart. “Here ve are, soldier boy!” he cried, and waved in the friendliest way imaginable to Subutai, who did not wave back.

  The Mongols now approached more cautiously. They circled the time-pony. They regarded their soon-to-be fellow time-tourists stonily. Then cold introductions were exchanged. The younger Mongol was another relative of Batu’s, and the man with the Assyrian nose was an officer of uncertain origin who had some knowledge of Latin.

  “We are honored,” said General Pollard, “that the famous orlok Subutai should show his trust in us by coming personally to view the power of our arms.”

  Subutai answered curtly that there was no question of trust involved, for the world knew what happened to those stupid enough to betray the Mongols. “If your arms are indeed as mighty as you say,” he declared, “then it is proper that I myself should judge them, and not an officer of less experience. If they are not—” He gestured at the horde behind him.

  Then each party dismounted, handing their reins to the horse holders. Courteously, the general bowed to Subutai, indicating that he should step first into the pony cart; then he followed, and the two commanders sat down side by side. Thorfinn and the younger Mongol moved up next to them, and finally the man with the Assyrian nose squeezed in with Sergeant Leatherbee. It was a tight fit all around, and the pony cart’s feeble springs protested dismally.

&nbs
p; “To Waterloo!” the General’s voice rang out.

  And, “Off ve go!” shouted Papa Schimmelhorn, leaning forward and pumping vigorously.

  They wavered; they were surrounded by the pearly shimmer; their Mongol guests, too disciplined to show any signs of fear, still glanced around them apprehensively.

  Then the world formed again around them, a green world full of the memories of recent rain—and of thunder, thunder in the far sky, and closer thunder from the massed guns of the two armies contending in the valley to the south.

  General Pollard had picked their place and time with precision. It was perhaps two o’clock, and d’Erlon’s infantry divisions, moving forward in their dense phalanxes, had crushed through the defenders of Papelotte and LaHaye, had scattered a Dutch-Belgian brigade to the four winds, and were advancing on the crest, where Picton’s infantry were poised to spring.

  Now Subutai’s interest really was aroused. “We ourselves used such thunder-engines at Kai-feng-fu,” he commented, “but never in such number or with such effect.”

  Through his binoculars, the general saw Picton’s counterstroke, and he saw Picton die. Then he saw what he had come to see: the great charge of the two brigades of heavy cavalry, the Union Brigade consisting of the Royal Dragoons, the Iniskillings, and the Royal Scots Greys, and the Household Brigade of the Life Guards, the King’s Dragoon Guards, and the Blues. They thundered down against the infantry, against the French cavalry supporting d’Erlon’s men. They carried everything before them; and then, ignoring their own trumpeters blowing recall, swept on across the valley, into the very teeth of Napoleon’s masses—where they were cut to pieces.