The First Protector

The First Protector
CHAPTER ONE

Excerpt from the Journal and Report on Sapient Earth Peoples, Cultures, and Levels of Technology by Investigator Ma'el on Day 112,537. In the local calendar reckoning 308 years since the Birth of the Christus, subsequent to my arrival…

–

The barbarity and senseless cruelty that pervades this beautiful land is a disappointment and constant irritation to me. My sensors reveal two nearby sources of danger involving the use of the solid weapons that these people call swords. No physical harm can befall any Taelon on this world but my new servant, who has a lively if traumatized mind and for whom I have developed a feeling of sympathy over the past few years, will certainly die if I do not eliminate the threat by revealing the full extent of my advanced technology.

"Following the terrible mistake of Days 432 to 461, I have forbidden myself to interfere in the affairs of these Earth people or to display my powers to them other than with a few simple tricks. My ability to see future events on this planet has become uncertain. Unless there is a favorable combination of the laws of chance, the working of which these people call good luck, I fear that I shall lose my latest, most psychologically intriguing and affectionate servant…"

–

On Declan's right the winter sun was dying a bloody, spectacular death behind the distant Mountains of Arne to the west and shedding a deep orange light that colored the heather and trees around him a deeper and more intense green, while the peak of Slieve Devilsipit to the northeast still remained in bright sunlight. In the near twilight to his right a full moon was rising in a clear sky that promised another night of biting frost. But Declan had no eyes for the beauties of the sunset, the moon, or the scenery around him because of the stiffness of fatigue in his limbs, which would not be improved by the mists rising from the damp ground all around him, and the resounding flatulence of hunger in his belly, which was so loud at times that he thought surely his intended victims would hear it.

He had attention only for the two people in the driving seat of the tented wagon he had been following since it had left the settlement at Menagh three hours to the north.

One of them was a tall old man wrapped in a heavy cloak whose cowl had slipped briefly to reveal a shining and utterly hairless head. The other was a boy, shorter, thin, and still too young to have hair on his chin. Their features were shaded by the awning that sheltered them from the weather. They were probably itinerant tinkers with nothing of great value in their wheeled dwelling. Declan had never before killed an old man or a boy, but he was so cold and hungry and angry that if they did not give him food, no matter how little they had for themselves, he might do just that.

Trying to still the chattering of his teeth and angry with impatience, Declan pulled his ragged cloak more tightly about him and began gradually closing the distance to the wagon, but keeping among the trees and undergrowth that bordered the rutted track the tinkers were using. He would wait until they had stopped for the night, probably in the wooded region a few leagues ahead, and were preparing their evening meal before making his attack. He checked that his long-axe was moving freely in its shoulder harness and at his waist the gladius, which had failed to protect the life of its former Roman owner, was also easy in its scabbard.

The sunset had died to a red smudge in the sky behind him and the trees ahead were showing black and silver rather than green in the strengthening light of the full moon when the wagon turned off the track into a small clearing and stopped. The old man climbed to the ground slowly while the boy jumped down and began unharnessing their horse. A few minutes later he tethered it under a tree and fetched blankets which he draped and fastened around its neck, back, and haunches to protect it from the night chill before shaking out some hay for it to eat. Obviously a considerate as well as a practical boy where horses were concerned, Declan thought, as the other began building a fire which the old man kindled with surprising speed.

Warmth and food was all he wanted, and Declan was telling himself again that there was no need for anyone to die, when suddenly he froze.

Voices. There were three, no four of them coming from the undergrowth midway between Declan's position and the tinkers' campfire. They were talking quietly, but his ears were good and he could hear every word they spoke. One voice sounded older, deep with authority and a hint of breathlessness that suggested that the speaker was large in girth. This speaker was making it plain that they, too, were waiting for the campfire to be fully alight so that the eyes of their victims would be too dazzled to see the attack out of the darkness until it was too late. Unlike Declan, the man was making it plain that he was greedy for loot rather than hungry for food because his orders were to kill the tinkers first and then plunder their possessions. The wagon and beast would fetch a good price, he said quietly, his voice beginning to wheeze with excitement, because only the rich or highborn could afford horses. From the talk they had heard in surrounding villages and farms, it seemed that these two tinkers were strange and secretive people who did not really need to ply their trade. It was said that their wagon might even be carrying a small hoard of silver or gold.

Some people had the minds of credulous children, Declan thought angrily, and these four had the minds of cruel, greedy, and uncaring children.

But his anger, he told himself truthfully, was due more to disappointment and the fear of unassuaged hunger than any strong feeling of sympathy for the tinkers. He did not want to have to share the available food with four other robbers, always supposing that they, with their greater strength in numbers, would agree to a sharing and not try to kill him outright for his impertinence and presumption in asking for a share. If he was to go on living through this night and perhaps the day or days that would follow with cold and hunger, Declan could see only one solution to his problem.

He left them talking quietly about all the wonderful, exciting, and depraved things they could do with the tinkers' hoard, but not quietly enough for them to be able to hear the sound of his light, swift footfalls as he turned and ran under the trees in a wide semicircle that would bring him out at the other side of the tinkers' camp.

Declan's approach to the two people at the cooking fire was hidden by the wagon, but he allowed his feet to fall heavily because his intention was to warn the tinkers of his approach rather than frighten and harm them. But by the time he appeared, the thin youth had heard him coming and had run back to the vehicle where he was trying to pull a sword from beneath the driving bench. The weapon was longer than the gladius at his waist, heavy, and with its bronze edges blunted so that it was more of a club than a sword. Declan shook his head and strode quickly to the cloaked figure beside the fire.

"Old man," he said quickly, pointing across the fire toward the darkness under the trees, "listen carefully and do as I say. There is a band of four robbers out there who are going to attack you and the boy within the next few moments. Their purpose is to slay and rob you. Both of you must go to the wagon, place your backs against the lowest and most strongly built part so that they will not be able to take you from the rear while I guard against a frontal or flanking attack… What are you doing, boy?"

The youth was running at him, his too-heavy sword upraised to strike. Declan stepped back quickly to avoid the wild, unbalanced swing while drawing the axe from its shoulder harness, and at the next swing he knocked the tip of the boy's sword to the ground. He used the flat of the axeblade so as not to nick the iron cutting edges because those he tried to keep as finely honed as a shaving knife.

"If you want to fight," he said in a tone that mixed exasperation and admiration at the other's bravery, "you should try to defend your…"

He had been about to say father or grandfather, but hesitated. At close quarters he could see that the old man's face was completely hairless and totally without expression. Not only was his skull as shining and featureless as an ocean-washed stone, there was not the slightest trace of hair around his mouth and chin or even where his lashes and eyebrows should have been. This, Declan thought, was a person who had suffered some strange malady or, perhaps, he had travelled from a far country where everyone looked like that. When compared with the thick, black hair and delicate and animated features of the boy, it was obvious that there was no family relationship.

"… your master," he corrected himself, and went on, "Stand before him, guard him from attack and don't try to swing that pig-sticker around your head or try to slash with it. It's blunt, too heavy for you and it would swing you off balance and leave you open to a counterattack. The only advantage it has is its length. You are young and fast on your feet, so duck under your enemy's slash then step forward and stab with it, straight-armed…"

"Like this?" said the boy, jabbing the point of the blade viciously at his chest. Surprised at the other's strength, Declan danced backward out of range.

"Behave yourself, boy!" he said angrily. "Do you want me to take the flat of my hand to your skinny rump? 1 am not your enemy."

"So you pretend," said the boy, showing no sign of fear as he moved back, his sword still raised. "We are not gullible fools and we don't believe your generous offer of help. You wear the rags of a beggar but carry a large, bright long-axe. You, too, are a robber like the others, if there are any others."

Ignoring him, Declan turned to the old man and said, "Control this cheeky young cub's tongue, and both of you move back to the wagon, now, and do as I say. I've no time to waste on stupid arguing because…" He heard the quiet thump and swishing of feet in the undergrowth and, looking away from the fire to avoid losing his night vision, he swung around to face the sound before ending, "… they are here!"

There were four of them as he had guessed, advancing at a confident, unhurried run in close line abreast, their cloaks thrown back to free their arms for fighting. Two of them carried short swords and knives while another, who was armed with only a pikestaff, broke away without a word being spoken, to begin running in the direction of the wagon and the old man and boy. The fourth man, who was a little in front of the others and plainly their leader, was swinging an axe that was in length and weight the equal of Declan's own.

The other's belly, as he had suspected it would be from hearing the man's wheezing voice earlier, was larger than his chest but not by much, and the arms that bulged out of the short-sleeved tunic looked as if they had been grown on a tree. The hair and beard showed streaks of reddish-white in the firelight which also glittered on teeth that were bared in a wide snarl of anticipation.

The big man was the principal danger and, if the other two made a simultaneous flanking attack, he would be unbeatable and Declan would not have to worry about feeling cold or hungry or anything else for much longer. This would have to be a short fight, he decided, because he would certainly lose a long one and it was plain that they were confident of being able to kill him. Somehow he had to try to make them overconfident so that they would not worry about attacking him one at a time so that he would be able to spring his surprise. He lowered his weapon and made a low, frightened, pleading sound, the cry of an arrant coward who has no wish to do battle, then he turned and ran around the fire and toward the trees.

But not nearly as fast as he was able.

One of the his attackers stopped and gave a low, scornful laugh while the second one's run slowed to a walk. It was plain that they did not wish to spoil their leader's fun by sharing in the kill. Declan ran slowly and waited until the sound of the big man's pounding feet and his loud, labored breathing were close behind him, then he sprang his surprise. Instead of running faster he checked his pace and turned, swinging his axe transversely at chest level.

The other was a large man but slow he was not His axe was already raised for a vertical blow that would have split his victim's head in two, but Declan was able to alter the direction of his own attack so as to knock the other's swinging blade down and away from his body while raising his own weapon to aim another blow. But Declan did not check his swing to defend himself as the other would have expected. Instead he pivoted on both feet, increased the speed of his swing, rotated full circle and, ignoring the blade coming down at him, jumped forward. He heard the thick leather of the other's tunic and underlying clothing rip apart and felt a slower pull against his wrists as a protruding tip of his axe met the stronger and softer resistance of flesh before pulling free. Frantically he dodged aside to avoid the other's two-handed vertical swing as the big man gave a high-pitched grunt.

The other's axeblade thudded harmlessly into the ground beside Declan, then he took one hand away from the handle to press it tightly against his middle. He backed away then, dragging the axe along the ground while blood that looked black in the firelight trickled between his fingers. Plainly the big man was no longer a threat, but the fight was not yet over. The heat of the nearby fire was warming his body, but hunger and his recent exertions were making him so weak that the axe felt like a heavy wooden log in his hands.

The man who had held back earlier to allow his leader to slay Declan was running at him from one side while the other one was rounding the fire to attack from the opposite flank. The wagon and tinkers were out of sight behind him and he couldn't risk looking back to see what the pikeman was doing to them. He ran at the nearest of the two attackers swinging the axe around his head but, he realized at once, not to good effect. The other was able to fend off the blow with his shorter weapon, duck forward and under and slash at his lower body with the knife that he also carried. Frantically, Declan bent forward at the waist so that the blade tore a long rent in his already-torn garments but not in him. He jumped back and swung around to see what the other attacker was doing.

At first it seemed that the man was standing still at about ten paces distant and doing nothing at all. Then he saw that the other had dropped his short sword to the ground and was holding, not a knife but a vicious looking gae bolga, a throwing weapon with forward-angled spikes along both sides of its short blade, behind and below his waist, and with his arm stretched back to hurl it at Declan. Without a stout shield to deflect the thrown blade, there was only one defense possible and that was another attack.

He changed quickly to a one-handed grip on the thick shaft of his axe and with a great effort raised the blade to the level of the other's face. He began to run toward the man sideways so as to present the thinnest possible target against the dark background of the trees but, he felt sure, awkwardly and far too slowly. His hope, a truly desperate one, was that the sharp, advancing point of his axehead would worry the other enough to put him off his aim.

But it was something else that did that.

The clearing and surrounding trees were lit suddenly as if by a flash of lightning that had come to ground close behind him. So bright was the light that for a moment the flames of the cooking fire were bleached out to show only the gray of charring logs. He was so surprised that he scarcely felt the points of the thrown gae bolga as they ripped across his cheek.

His two attackers backed away, blinking, their faces contorted by fear, and were turning and running for the trees when a sharp cry from behind him made Declan swing around.

The old man was holding something in his hands that shone brightly, although the light seemed to be fading from white to yellow as he watched. Beside him the boy was holding his sword at full extension as he had been instructed and the pikeman, his weapon already dropping to the ground, was backing away, clutching at his shoulder and whimpering with pain. The robber turned quickly and, still dazzled by the old man's strange light, he too stumbled toward the shelter of the trees. The battle, it seemed, was over and won.

Declan replaced his axe in its harness and tried to keep from staggering with weakness as he strode back to the wagon. Relief made his voice harsher than he had intended.

"Pleased I am to see that you fared well, old man," he said. "But you, boy, you should have aimed and stuck that pikeman in the chest or belly. He wanted to take your life, and you gave him another chance to do it someday…"

"I do not take life," the boy interrupted, his voice almost strident with anger. "I am a healer."

"Even a stupid apprentice healer," said Declan scornfully, "must continue to live if he hopes to practice the high art."

"Enough," the boy replied, glaring up at him. "Your cheek is opened, the blood is flowing and the edges of the wound will need to be pulled together. I promise you, our ragged and uncouth guardian, that the work will be neater and you will feel less pain if you curb your unmannerly tongue."