Big Planet

7 Heinzelman the Hell-horse

The sun was at zenith, and the coiled gray-green vegetation of the steppe gave off a smoky aroma. As the column approached, it was gradually joined by groups of Cossacks, who fell in behind the slow-jogging zipangotes.

Glystra asked Morwatz, “Is this their usual method of attack?”

Morwatz yanked at his black headgear. “They observe no usual methods.”

Glystra said, “Order your men to take five darts apiece from the pack and stand ready for action.”

Morwatz seemed to fill out, expand. His chest and shoulders became rigid, his face tightened. He strode down the front of the square, barking orders. The Beaujolains straightened, formed harder ranks. In groups of five, they passed beside the pack animal which carried the darts, marched back into ranks.

Bishop said dubiously, “Aren’t you afraid that—” he paused.

“I’m afraid to act afraid,” said Glystra. “They’d be off like jack-rabbits toward the forest. It’s a matter of morale. We’ve got to act as if these gypsies were dirt under our feet.”

“I guess you’re right—in theory.”

The mounted column halted a hundred yards across the moor, just out of catapult range. The beasts were heavier than those in the pack train—sleek, seal-brown, soft-padded creatures, with ridged convex backs, long heavy necks. They were decked in trappings of shaggy leather painted with crude designs, and each wore a white rhinoceros-like horn strapped to its snout.

A tall burly man sat on the first of the zipangotes. He wore blue satin trousers, a short black cloak, a peaked leather cap with cusped ear-pieces protruding at either side. A three-inch brass ring hung from each ear, and on each side of his chest he wore a medal of polished iron. He had a round muscular heavy-lidded face; his skin was maroon as if charged with a special strong blood.

Glystra heard Morwatz mutter, “Heinzelman the Hell-horse!” And his voice was as flat as if he were reading the hour of his own death.

Glystra re-examined the man, noted his complete ease, an indifferent confidence more striking than any arrogance. Behind rode a dozen others similarly garbed, and still further behind skulked a hundred men and woman in be-ribboned and be-tasselled breeches of dull red, green or blue, heavy fustian blouses, leather skull-caps, some of which were crested by complicated white objects.

Glystra turned to check the formation of the Beaujolains—thwinggg! something sang past his throat like a hornet. He recoiled, ducked, looked full in the flat face of Abbigens, lowering his catapult with a curiously black expression.

“Morwatz,” said Glystra, “take the catapult from Abbigens, tie his wrists together, hobble him.”

Morwatz hesitated a fraction of an instant, then turned, spoke to a pair of soldiers.

There was a scuffle which Glystra ignored—for now Heinzelman the Hell-horse and his Politburos had dismounted and were approaching.

Heinzelman halted a few paces distant, half-smiling, toying with his quirt. “What is your thought encroaching on the land of the gypsies?” His voice was soft and fluent.

“We’re heading for Kirstendale, past the swamps,” said Glystra. “The route crosses Nomadland.”

Heinzelman drew back his lips, displaying teeth marvellously inlaid with minute bits of colored stone. “You risk your flesh, entering this land of hungry men.”

“The risk is to the hungry men.”

“From the soldiers?” Heinzelman made a contemptuous gesture. “I will kill each and drink his blood.”

Glystra heard a whimper, a cry. “Claude—Claude—”

Hot blood pulsed in his brain. He stood swaying, then became conscious of Heinzelman’s amused scrutiny. “Who calls my name?”

Heinzelman looked negligently over his shoulder. “A woman of the slopes we found by the forest this morning. She will be spitted at this evening’s camp.”

Glystra said, “Bring her forth, I will buy her from you.”

Heinzelman said lazily, “Then you have wealth? This is a fortunate day for the gypsies.”

Glystra tried to hold his voice steady. “Bring forth this woman or I’ll send a man to take her.”

“A man? One man?” Heinzelman’s eyes narrowed. “What race of man are you? Not Beaujolain, and you are too dark for a Maquir…”

Glystra casually brought forth his ion-shine. “I am an electrician.” And grinned at his own joke.

Heinzelman rubbed his heavy chin. “In what parts live they?”

“It’s not a race; it’s an occupation.”

“Ah! There are none such among us; we pursue our own business. We are warriors, killers, eaters. And if I gave you the woman, tonight we should go hungry.”

Glystra came to a grim decision. He turned his head. “Bring out Abbigens.” To Heinzelman: “Electricians carry death in their every gesture.”

Abbigens had been thrust forward, and stood still as a pillar, his pale mouth sagging.

Glystra said, “If killing you did not serve a practical purpose, I’d probably march you all the way to Earth Enclave for de-aberration.” He raised the ion-shine. Abbigens’ face was like risen dough. He began to laugh wildly. “What a joke! What a joke on you, Glystra!” The violet ray snapped out, power crackled down the conductive channel. Abbigens was dead.

Heinzelman appeared faintly bored.

“Give me the woman,” said Glystra, “or I’ll bring this same death to you. I give you the corpse in her place.” He used the push-button rasp of authority. “Quick!”

Heinzelman looked up in faint surprise, hesitated, then made a motion to his men. “Let him have her.”

Nancy came limping forward, fell shaking and sobbing at Glystra’s knees. He ignored her. “Take your meat,” he said to Heinzelman. “Go your way and we go ours.”

Heinzelman had regained whatever composure he had lost. “I’ve seen those electrical clubs before. The Bajarnum of Beaujolais brings them down from the sky. But they kill no more certainly than our lances. Especially in the dark, when lances come from many directions and the club points in only one.”

Glystra turned to Morwatz. “Give the command to march.”

Morwatz stood back, jerked his arm up and down. “Forward!”

Heinzelman nodded, half-smiling. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”

The Great Slope was a shadow behind the western haze; the steppe spread as wide as an ocean, carpeted with blue-green bracken except where black-green furze filled the deeper hollows. And behind were the gypsies, a dark clot like flies on stale meat, the Cossacks squatting around the heavier mass of the Politburos on their zipangotes.

In late afternoon a dark shadow appeared in the distance. “Looks like trees, probably an artesian pond,” said Cloyville.

Glystra looked around the horizon. “It seems to be the only shelter in sight. We’d better camp for the night.” He looked uneasily toward the dark specks in the rear. “I’m afraid we’re in for more trouble.”

The shadow took on substance, became a copse of a dozen trees. Underneath was a carpet of blue-white moss and lush herbage. A dozen gypsy women scuttled from the shadows, hulking creatures in dirty black robes, to disappear over the lip of a nearby swale. A moment later a flock of fragile white creatures rose up on translucent wings and wheeled down-wind.

At the center of the copse was a small pond bordered by fat rust-colored reeds. A scattering of transparent bubbles, like jellyfish, lay in the mud of the rim. Glystra looked in suspicion at the water, which seemed brackish, but the Beaujolains drank it with relish. Beside the pond was a tall rick full of branches loaded with acorn-like fruit; beside the rick were tubs full of rank beer and a crude still.

The Beaujolains advanced eagerly to investigate the still. Morwatz ran shouting to stop them; reluctantly they turned back.

Glystra took a small cup from one of the packs, gave it to Morwatz. “Serve a measure to each of your men.”

There was a whoop of approval and a keg was broached. Glystra said to Pianza, “If we could serve them grog every night we’d never need to guard them.”

Pianza shook his head. “Just children. Very little emotional control. I hope they don’t become boisterous.”

“Liquor or not, we can’t relax. You and Cloyville take the first four hours, Bishop, Ketch and I will take the next four. Keep a sharp eye on the beast with the darts.” He went to change the bandage on Corbus’ neck but found Nancy there before him.

The Beaujolains, singing now, built a fire, and heaping on quantities of the branches from the rick, breathed in the aromatic smoke. Pianza called to Glystra in a worried voice. “They’re fighting drunk. I hope they don’t get any worse.”

Glystra watched in growing apprehension. The Beaujolains were pushing and shouting, trying to shoulder into the densest clouds of smoke, where they stood with faces wreathed in foolish smiles. When they themselves had been pushed aside, immediately they raised angry outcries, cursed, pushed and elbowed a way back into the smoke.

“Must be a narcotic,” said Glystra. “Big Planet marijuana. Got to put a stop to it.” He stepped forward. “Morwatz!”

Morwatz, red-eyed and flushed from his own indulgence in the smoke, turned a reluctant face to the call. “Get your men fed and bedded down; enough of the smoke breathing.”

Morwatz made a slurred acquiescence, and turning on his men, after a volley of curses, succeeded in bringing order to the camp. A tureen of porridge was prepared— wheat flavored with handfuls of dry meat and fungus.

Glystra went to squat beside Morwatz, where he ate a little apart from his troops. “What is that stuff?” He gestured toward the rick.

Morwatz looked a little sheepish. “It’s called zygage— a very potent drug, very valuable.” He puffed himself up. “Generally only the lowest castes inhale smoke—very vulgar, the crudest sensations—”

“How do you usually take it then?”

Morwatz breathed heavily. “Normally I do not take it at all. Far too expensive for a warrior. The Mercantils occasionally brew a potion, but its use leads to debility, so I am told. The soldiers will sleep well tonight, so you will observe. Zygage saps much vitality; smoke, potion or nose-salve, the user pays very dearly for his pleasure… But look you there, what manner of drug does your man take?”

Glystra turned his head. Bishop was swallowing his customary handful of vitamins.

Glystra grinned. “That’s a different kind of drug. It has little effect—makes Bishop think he’s healthy. He’d never know the difference if someone fed him chalk.”

Morwatz was puzzled. “Another strange and useless Earth custom.”

Glystra rejoined his companions. Nancy had served Corbus, then went to sit by herself among the zipangotes, as inconspicuous as possible. Glystra had not spoken to her since she had run to his feet from behind the Politburos.

From the fire came a sudden tumult of hoarse quarrelling. A soldier had quietly cast a new armful of the zygage branches on the flames, and Morwatz had come forward expostulating. The soldier, stumbling and red-eyed, cursed him back.

Glystra sighed. “Now it’s discipline. Well—” he rose to his feet “—I suppose we’ve got to make an example.”

Morwatz was pulling the smoking branches from the blaze; the soldier lurched up, kicked him. Morwatz fell face down into the coals.

Cloyville ran forward to pull at the screaming Morwatz; three soldiers leapt on his back, pulled him down. Pianza aimed the ion-shine, but held his fire for fear of shocking Cloyville. Beaujolains came at him from all directions. He aimed, fired: Snap—snap—snap. Three soldiers fell flat, shrivelled flesh. The others swarmed over him.

The clearing was suddenly alive with wild-eyed men, screaming and savage. One sprang at Ketch, toppled him. Glystra killed him with his ion-shine, then felt viciously strong arms seize him from behind, hurl him to the ground.

The Earthmen lay weaponless, arms lashed behind their backs.

Nearby Morwatz lay moaning from deep in his throat. The soldier who had first kicked him came forward, a tall man with concave cheeks, a pocked forehead, a split nose. He looked down, and Morwatz regarded him with glazing eyes and moans gradually ascending in pitch. The soldier deliberately drew his sword, punctured Morwatz’ neck— once, twice, three times, as if he were prodding a rock. Morwatz, gurgled, died. He turned, came to look at his captives, tapped Glystra’s chin with the reeking sword. He laughed. “Your death will not be at my hands. It’s back to Grosgarth for you, and there’ll be a reward to set us up as noblemen… Let Charley Lyssider have his will with you”

“The gypsies!” said Glystra in a choked voice. ”They’ll kill us all!”

“Pah. Dirty animals!” He swung his sword in a wild flourish. “We’ll kill them as they come!” He gave a great exultant roar, a wordless drug-addled cry of pure abandon. Leaping to the rick, he threw armful after armful of branches into the blaze. The smoke poured forth, the Beaujolains inhaled it in tremendous racking gulps. Breaking free to gasp for air, they fell to their hands and knees, crawled back to suck up new lungfuls.

Glystra tugged at his bonds, but they had been well-tied, cinched up with no fegard for circulation. He craned his neck. Where was Nancy? Nowhere in sight. Had she escaped? Where could she escape to? Glystra ground his teeth. The gypsies would take her and there would be no succor this time… Unless she could slip back to the forest during the night. She had clearly fled. The copse was too small to conceal her, and she was nowhere within the range of vision. Twilight was drifting down from the Great Slope—a warm achingly beautiful time of luminous violet air with velvety black and gray shadows below… There was a distant sound that he found himself listening to, a far chanting from the steppe, a stave of four notes on a minor scale, punctuated by a rumbling bellow as of a brass horn.

The breeze shifted. Smoke from the smouldering zygage drifted through the rapt soldiers to float across the bound Earthmen. Twist, turn as they might, avoiding the smoke was impossible. Pungent and sweet, it blossomed up through their nostrils directly into their brains. For a moment they felt nothing; then as one man they lay back, succumbing to the irresistible power of the drug.

The first sensation was double, triple vitality, a thousandfold perceptiveness that saw, heard, felt, smelt with minuscule and catholic exactness. Each leaf on the tree became an identity, each pulse a singular and unique experience. Flitting swarms of pleasant experiences crowded into the mind: triumphs of love, zest of skiing, sailing, space-boating, diving; the joy of colors, the freedom of clouds. At the same time another part of the mind was furiously active; problems beame simplicities; hardships—such as the bonds and the prospect of death at the hands of Charley Lysidder—were details hardly worth attention. And off in the distance the chanting waxed louder. Glystra heard it; surely the Beaujolains must hear it likewise… But if they heard it they heeded it not at all.

The breeze shifted again; the smoke drifted away. Glystra felt an instant resentment; he fought his bonds, looked enviously to the Beaujolains standing quiet, quivering slightly in the rapturous smoke.

The chanting was loud, close at hand. The Beaujolains at last heeded. They stumbled away from the fire, black hats askew, eyes bulging, bloodshot, faces distended, mouths gaping and gasping for air.

The leader raised his head like a wolf, screamed.

The cry pleased the Beaujolains. Each one threw back his head and echoed it. Scream after scream of furious challenge rang out toward the gypsies. Now laughing, crying, they loaded themselves with darts, ran out of the copse toward the gypsy horde.

The leader called out; the soldiers, without halting, ordered themselves into a loose formation, and shrilling the eager challenge, charged into the afterglow.

The copse was quiet. Glystra rolled to his knees, struggled to his feet, looked around for means to loosen his bonds. Pianza called in a husky voice, “Stand still; I’ll see if I can pull the ropes loose.” He rose to his own knees, raised to his feet. He backed against Glystra’s hand, fumbled with the thongs.

He gasped in frustration. “My fingers are numb… I can’t move my hands…”

The Beaujolains had crossed the twilight; now the gypsy chanting came to a halt, and only the deep bellow of the horn sounded. Detail was blurred in the evening; Glystra could see men falling, then a convulsive Beaujolain charge which plunged into the gypsies like a knife.

The battle was lost in the dusk.