Read The Fallable Fiend Online
Authors: L. Sprague deCamp
The Fallable Fiend (14 page)
Then over the ridge separating the two camps came the rest of the Hrunting army, with its great block of mammoths in the middle. The cold was nothing to the Shvenites in their furs and sheepskins and to the mammoths in their hairy hides.
Meanwhile, the Zolonians entered the nearly vacant Paaluan camp, sweeping the few cannibals there before them. The sailors passed on out the front gate to assail the Paaluans in the rear.
But the cannibals, for all their strange customs, were fell fighters. Their dragons might be immobilized, their bouncer cavalry be scattered like chaff, their bodies be littering the plain, and they be surrounded and outnumbered. Natheless, the survivors formed a vast hollow square, with pikes bristling on all sides, and stood fast.
From within the square, their archers sent flight after flight of high-arching arrows, and their javelineers cast twirl-spears. They beat off charge after charge by foot, horse, and mammoth. Each attack left more bodies piled in front of the steady ranks of the spearmen. The Hrunting horse archers whirled past the square, pouring shafts into the massed ranks. When a Paaluan fell, his comrades closed the gap.
I was surprised that the first charge of mammoths did not roll over the cannibals and scatter them, but then I saw what they did. As the hairy monsters shuffled forward, with leathern sleeves on their trunks to protect them from sword cuts, the Paaluan wizards sent illusions of flying monsters against them. Squealing with terror and shaking their heads, the mammoths turned back.
Beside me in the tower, Admiral Diodis cursed and prayed, while messengers came and went. His speech was disjointed: “Tell Captain Furio to move men from his left wing to his right!—Zevatas, king of the gods, help thy faithful worshipers—by Vaisus’ brazen arse, get in there! Get close, so they can’t use their pikes!—Franda, mother of gods—Tell Lieutenant Omphes he hangs back; if he bestir himself not, he’ll hang
up
later . . .”
###
Then another force arrived. This was an army of gaunt, pallid men from the city of Ir. They jog-trotted through the Paaluan camp, past our tower, and out on the battlefield. Their trumpets warned the Zolonians to clear the path, and they went through the gap at a run.
The Irians crashed into the hollow square with a fury that nought could withstand. Men climbed over the bodies of their fellows to get at their foes. When their spears were broken, they fought with their swords; when they lost their swords, with their daggers; when these had gone, with nails and teeth. In a trice they had broken the square and were pouring into the interior, spearing and swording Paaluans in the back.
At the same time, another charge by the mammoths got home. The wizards inside the square were too busy being slain to cast another spell. The beasts plowed into the foe, swinging their heads. With each jerk, one or two cannibals would be caught by the huge tusks and sent flying.
The dust became so thick that it was hard to see anything. Little by little, Paaluan fugitives appeared out of the cloud, racing across the plain and throwing away weapons and armor. After them came Hvaednir’s horsemen, shooting and spearing.
Of the original seven thousand Paaluans who had marched up the Kyamos, a little over six thousand were left at the beginning of the battle, the rest having perished in the siege or succumbed to sickness. Of this six thousand-odd, the great majority fell on the field, for no prisoners were taken. A few got away; but, lacking means to cross the Western Ocean, all were hunted down and slain during the ensuing months.
The greater part of the Paaluan losses took place after the Irians pierced the square and the formation began to break up. By contrast, of the nearly ten thousand men that fought against the cannibals that day, several hundred were killed or later died of their wounds. This was a sizable loss, but still only a small fraction of that of their foes. Such disparity in losses is not, I am told, unusual in battles on the Prime Plane, since a crowd of fleeing men can be slaughtered with comparative ease and safety by their pursuers.
Strictly speaking, one prisoner was taken: General Ulola, who was found wounded on the field. A quick-witted Irian officer stopped the soldiers from killing him as they were doing with other wounded cannibals. Rather than slay him at once, the Irians took the rest of the day to try and formally condemn him.
General Segovian acted as chief justicer. Since Charondas the renegade had prudently disappeared, there was nobody to translate for the general. He made some vehement but unintelligible speeches. My tendrils told me that he was filled with righteous indignation, that he should be punished for doing what he considered only right and proper.
In any case, he was found guilty and, despite his struggles and vociferous protests, placed on the headsman’s block prepared for me. An Irian cut the rope. Down came the log,
crash,
and off flew General Ulola’s head.
I was sorry in a way. If he had been spared and I could have learnt to communicate with him, there were some interesting philosophical points on the morality of cannibalism, which he had brought up, which I should have been glad to pursue further. After all, I had eaten Prime Planers myself, even if I had never wantonly hunted them for aliment. But then, human beings have no due appreciation of abstract questions.
The battle had another curious consequence. The dragons had been frozen stiff by Yurog’s spell, but the spell did not last for ay. Our victorious fighters had all but forgotten the statuesque reptiles when they began to thaw out and move. The commanders at once ordered their men to slay the monsters. This they did to a number; but not a few, no longer under control of their Paaluan masters, fled the battlefield and escaped. Some were hunted down. But I later heard rumors of dragon-lizards dwelling in the great Marsh of Moru, in southern Xylar, where the clime may be mild enough to sustain them the year around.
XI
PRINCE HVAEDNIR
I have read many of those imaginary narratives that Prime Planers compose for one another’s amusement, which are called “fiction.” We have nothing like this on the Twelfth Plane, being too logical and literal-minded a species to enjoy it. I confess, however, that I have acquired a taste for the stuff, even though my fellow demons look at me askance as if I had become addicted to a dangerous narcotic.
In these imaginary narratives, called “stories,” the human authors assume that the climax of a story solves all the problems posed and brings the action to a neat, tidy end. In a story, the battle of Ir would have been the climax. Then the hero would have mated with the heroine, the villains would have been destroyed, and the leading survivors, it is implied, would have lived happily ever after.
In real life, it is different. After this battle, the survivors continued their lives as before, with the usual ups and downs of fortune. Sometimes they profited from their virtues or suffered from their faults; sometimes the inscrutable workings of fate raised them high or cast them low irrespective of their merits.
Prince Hvaednir was overseeing the care of his wounded after the battle and the merciful cutting of the throats of those who seemed likely to die. General Segovian approached him and spoke, but neither could understand the other. Hvaednir looked around for Shnorri. Not finding him, he sighted me, standing with Admiral Diodis. The admiral was engaged in similar duties. Hvaednir called: “Ho, Zdim! Come hither and interpret.”
“With your kind permission, Admiral,” I said. “Prince Hvaednir wants me.”
“Is that the Hruntings’ commander?” said the admiral. “I’ll have a word with him myself.”
Presently I was making formal introductions among the three commanders and translating for them. When amenities had been exchanged, Hvaednir asked: “Can I do aught for you, General?”
“Food,” said Segovian. “The Irians starve.”
“You shall have it. Admiral, what can we do about this?”
“We have spare food in the ships. How about you?”
“We can match you for the supplies in our camp. But after today, I know not . . .”
“Permit me, Prince,” said the admiral. “Your force is full of daredevil riders. Why not send messengers north, east, and south, with word of this victory? Whilst they’re at it, they can let it be known that any farmer or produce merchant who wishes a quick profit has but to get a cartload of edibles to Ir ahead of the rush.”
Hvaednir made a mow. “Appealing to base commercial lusts is not the way
we
do things, but I suppose you know your Novarians.”
The admiral chuckled. “ ‘Base commercial lusts’ forsooth! Sink me if you don’t see that they bring results.”
Indeed they did. On the second day after the battle, laden asses and creaking farm carts began to arrive from Solymbria, Metouro, and Xylar. How they covered such distances in that time I know not. Some must have driven their beasts all night.
Meanwhile, Hvaednir and the admiral agreed to distribute enough food from their stores to furnish every Irian in the city one good repast. General Segovian said: “Prince, why come you not into the city ere nightfall, to receive the plaudits of a grateful people?”
Hvaednir glanced down at his armor, covered with dust and blood. “What, looking like this? I mean, my dear sir, I am too fatigued tonight. Tomorrow I shall be glad to. The food, however, shall go forthwith.”
I bid the admiral farewell and accompanied Prince Hvaednir back to the camp. Shnorri, having received a minor wound in the arm, was there ahead of us. Hvaednir clapped his cousin on the back, bringing a yell of pain from the wounded man.
“A murrain!” said Shnorri. “Now you have started this thing to bleeding again.”
“I am sorry,” said Hvaednir. “I never thought . . . But it was a fine battle, was it not?”
“If we do not have to fight the Gendings within a year, what of our losses,” said Shnorri.
“Oh, you are always glooming. Wine! Where in the afterworld are those worthless servants of ours? Ah, there you are! Wine, and speedily!” When the flagon and bottle were brought, he drank deep. “You know, cousin, I like this southern land. Think of being able to drink real wine the year round—none of our weak, sour steppe beer!”
“Novaria in summer is too cursed hot for me,” said Shnorri, sweating.
Hvaednir had food for the three of us brought to the tent, but he kept on drinking at a rate that promised trouble. Sure enough, the sun had been down scarce an hour when the golden prince began to utter thoughts that a prudent being would have kept to himself.
“Why in the nine hells,” he growled, “should I have to wait around forever for old winter-locks to die, when I could carve out a country of my own? For a beginning, a few hundred stout warriors were enough to seize Ir from these craven money-grubbers—”
“I notice that Segovian’s men were no cravens in today’s affray,” said Shnorri.
“Oh, that! I daresay I could beat some proper nomadic discipline into them. Might even make warriors of them. And why not? Am I not the victor of the greatest battle of our time? The bards will sing of it. By Greipnek’s beard, once given a good start, I shall be a greater conqueror than Heilsung the Invincible . . .”
Shnorri said: “Zdim, you had better go to your own tent. I shall see you at daybreak.”
Evidently, Shnorri did not wish me to overhear any more of his cousin’s indiscretions. I bade them good night and returned to my quarters, where I sat in thought. It occurred to me that I ought to slip away from the camp under cover of darkness, go to Ir, and warn the Syndicate against Hvaednir’s burgeoning ambitions.
When I had come to this conclusion, I discovered that a sentry had been posted at my tent. This did not utterly dismay me, because I foresaw that in the letdown after the battle, discipline would relax. In the normal course of events, the sentry would probably get drunk himself, wander off, or fall asleep. I had only to watch and wait for an hour or two . . .
###
The next thing I knew, the dawn sun was streaming in through the flap of my tent and Shnorri was shaking me awake. “Up, lazybones!” he cried. “We are about to set out in the grand procession to Ir, to receive the plaudits of a grateful people. You must come with us as interpreter for Hvaednir; I shall have too many other duties.”
I shook myself awake. I had slept right through the time when I meant to go to Ir to warn the Irians. Although this was a grave lapse on my part, I had some excuse, having had no proper sleep for two days and nights. I asked Shnorri, who still had one arm in a sling: “Prince, what about that plan I heard Hvaednir broach last night, of seizing Ir and using it as a base for further empery?”
“Pooh! That was just your sweet Novarian wine talking. I argued him out of such folly. He has solemnly promised me that, if Ir keep faith with him, he will do the same by Ir.”
“He seemed like a mild enough youth back in Shven. What has gotten into him?”
“Methinks yesterday’s victory has gone to his head—that, and having his own first independent command. On the steppe, the cham kept him on a tight rein. But I am sure he will be all right.”
“Too bad you are not next in line. You are much wiser than he.”
“Hush, demon! Such thoughts were treasonable, albeit I thank you for the compliment. Hvaednir is not really stupid—merely spoiled and of commonplace mind—and he is far handsomer than I. This counts among Shvenites. Moreover, he is a better man of his hands than I shall ever be; I am too fat for leading charges. But enough of this haver. Don some garment and come with us.”
###
We marched across the battlefield, through the Paaluans’ camp—already partly dismantled—and to Ardyman’s Tower. We climbed the broad spiral ramp and entered the main portal, now open for the first time in over two months. Inside, the courtyard resounded with the clatter of workmen repairing the great mirror, which had been damaged but never quite put out of operation by the besiegers’ catapult missiles.
The entire Syndicate, which now included Her Excellency Roska sar-Blixens, met us. Chief Syndic Jimmon—a little thinner but still comfortably upholstered—made a speech. He read a citation from a parchment scroll and handed Hvaednir a symbolic key to the city. These formalities accomplished, Jimmon said to me: “Hail, O Zdim! You’ll have some fascinating tales to tell us when the ceremonies are over, eh? Now, Prince, we have laid out a suitable parade route. We shall march the length of Ardyman Avenue, then turn right . . .”
We marched into the underground city, where the only illumination was furnished by beams of sunlight reflected from mirror to mirror. In front, to the beat of drums, marched a company of Hruntings, armed to the teeth; then Shnorri with a couple of chiefs and several Syndics; then more warriors. Then came Hvaednir, Jimmon, and the rest of the chiefs; then Admiral Diodis and some of his sailors, and so forth. Jimmon walked on one side of Hvaednir and I on the other. Hvaednir had garbed himself in the most awesome costume that the Hruntings’ wardrobe afforded. He wore a winged golden helm, a fur-edged white woollen tunic embroidered in gold thread, and a jeweled sword. He could have been one of the Prime Plane’s gods.
Having enjoyed their first good meal since the beginning of the siege, the Irians cheered us mightily. In that confined space, the reverberating sound hurt the ears. I watched for a chance to slip away and warn the Syndics against Hvaednir, but none came.
The parade ended at the Guildhall, which was filled with officers of the guilds and most of the merchant class. For three hours I listened to speeches and translated Novarian to Shvenish and vice versa. Jimmon made the longest one; Hvaednir, the shortest. All speeches were trains of well-worn stock phrases: “Deadly perils . . . gallant allies . . . blood-thirsty savages . . . immortal fatherland . . . doughty warriors . . . hour of need . . . noble ancestors . . . intrepid heroes . . . implacable foes . . . eternal friendship . . . undying gratitude . . .” and so on.
The audience stood and applauded when all was done. Then the Syndics, Admiral Diodis, General Segovian, Hvaednir, Shnorri, and I went to dinner in one of the smaller chambers. So many pressed compliments upon Hvaednir that I was almost kept too busy translating to eat.
Hvaednir ate and drank heartily; especially, he drank. At first he displayed the roynish table manners of the steppe, but as Shnorri kept nudging him in the ribs, he began to imitate Novarian customs.
###
When it was over, Hvaednir cleared his throat and stood up, saying: “Your Excellencies! On behalf of my cousin, Prince Shnorri, and myself, I—ah—I extend heartfelt thanks for this entertainment and for the many honors bestowed upon us this morning.
“Now, however, we must come to practical matters. Your envoy, the worthy Zdim, overcame deadly perils to reach the headquarters of the Hruntings and importune us to send this expeditionary force. Zdim started out with a written offer of compensation but lost his papers to the cavemen of the Ellornas. He remembered the terms, however, and, after the usual bargaining, an oral understanding was reached.
“When we reached the Kyamos, we dispatched Zdim to gain entrance to the city, confirm this understanding in writing, and return to us with your signatures. Again misfortune robbed him of he documents, and he came close to losing his life as well.
“All is not lost, however.” Hvaednir produced from his embroidered jacket the two copies, somewhat tattered, of the agreement that we had drawn up in the camp the night before the battle. “These were picked up in the cannibals’ camp. I am sure that, in recognition of the services of the fearless Hrunting warriors in saving your city, there will be no difficulty about getting you to append your signatures now and to begin payment forthwith.”
The smile that usually pervaded Jimmon’s round face was wiped off. “Humph. Of course, noble sir, none would dream of withholding a just reward from our heroic feodaries. But may I have the actual terms agreed upon, pray?”
Hvaednir passed one of the two copies to Jimmon. The other he handed to Shnorri, saying: “Read this aloud, cousin, since you speak the language and read with more facility than I.”
When Shnorri had finished, Jimmon arose, dangling his reading glass by its ribbon. He launched into another verbose encomium on the valor of the Hruntings.
“But,” he continued, “we must, of course, take certain realities into account. The city has suffered dreadfully during this cruel siege, and our resources will be sorely strained during the recovery. It is also a fact that, for all their dash and heroism, the Hruntings were not the only ones to take part in the battle. Admiral Diodis’ gallant tars played their role, to say nought of our own Irians.
“And furthermore, noble Prince, it is also a fact that no true legal obligation exists on our part, since the gage in question was not signed before the fact. Of course, with generosity and goodwill on all sides, I am sure that an amicable settlement can be reached amongst us . . .”
Gods of Ning, I thought, is the fool going to try to wriggle out of paying the nomad, when the latter has him in his power?
“. . . and so, dear friend and noble colleague, I am sure you will agree to the necessity of—ah—adjusting these demands in accordance with realities.”
“What had you in mind?” said Hvaednir in a tight voice.
“Oh, something on the order of twopence a man a day, with nought extra for the mammoths. The beasts have after all been eating our fine Irian hay to their hearts’ content—”
Prince Hvaednir’s face turned crimson. “Horse dung!” he roared. “Last night I promised that, if Ir kept faith with me, I would do likewise; but if not, then not. No brave steppe warrior permits some paper law to stop him from doing right. You welshers are condemned from your own mouths, and be what follows on your own heads!”
He blew a blast on a silver whistle. A score of Hruntings filed into the chamber with bared swords and took positions behind the other diners. Roska screamed.
“One false move, and off go your heads,” said Hvaednir. “I hereby pronounce myself king of Ir and of such other lands as may in the future come under my sway. Chief Fikken!”