The Man Without a Planet

TEN

“THE BEST DEFENSE is a strong offense”—this ancient and immemorial rule of military tactics still held true after count­less millennia of combat. Linton turned to face his Queen— she was pale but calm, and radiantly lovely.

“Do you trust me?” he demanded. Surprised a little, she eyed him curiously.

Then, after a minute, she replied: “Yes, I think that I may trust you.”

“Then listen to me, and heed me. I am willing to be thy Shakar, to lead thy fight—but I am beyond the point where I will serve as willing pawn of any officialdom. I will not follow where another commands—I lead, or I do nothing. Choose! Choose now. Take me for thy Shakar—place your destiny and your trust completely in me—and I swear to you by all the thousand Gods of Space that I will serve you well, and will do aught that a man could do to render Valadon into your hands again—or decline my services. Speak!”

She looked at him long and steadily, with those mar­velously keen and penetrating eyes … weighing the hon­est sincerity that rang in his tones and shone in his eyes … measuring the lean, explosive strength and clean, fighting man­hood of him—and decided.

“Very well.”

He took out Asloth and laid the golden sword at her feet, in the old, old Rilké ceremony. She took it up and handed it to him, hilt-forward. He kissed the naked blade and re­turned it to its scabbard.

“Now then, my lady. The help of Pelaire is lost to you— through no action of mine, but through the treachery in­herent in your would-be collaborator, Yaklar of Pelaire, whom I exposed before your chieftains—nor do I apologize for it. To have kept silent would be to have betrayed the confidence you have just demonstrated towards me. Answer—could I have done other than I did, in honor?”

She smiled faintly, just a little, at the earnest—and rather boyish—intensity and forcefulness of this new Raul Linton—a stranger whose commanding ways she rather liked.

“No,” she agreed soberly, “you did right. I was distraught, seeing my plans collapse, or I would not have flung out my words at you so recklessly.”

“Very well! But although Pelaire is lost—we have still to deal with the problem of those accursed warships lurking up the Rift, but between us we shall dream up some pre­text for getting rid of them—although Pelaire is lost, we need not give up Valadon. In fact, your hope of regaining your domain was never more certain of fulfillment than it is at this moment.”

A puzzled frown creased her smooth brow: “How so? Frankly, I prefer my victories to bear less resemblance to a rout,” she said, unknowingly paraphrasing the words of a very ancient but no less lovely queen, uttered under situations not very dissimilar from these.

He laughed.

“You know it not, but the battle is half-won! Although it is not to be fought in the manner of which you would probably prefer—we shall have to forego the brave bugles, banners snapping in the breeze, and bloodied tyrants, broken and kneeling at your feet!”

Her frown deepened, and she began to tap the fingers of one hand on her throne-chair.

“I do not follow you, and now I begin to mistrust you! What do you mean? Do you imply you will not lead my forces into battle?”

Blithely—and abruptly—he ignored the present trend of conversation, with a blunt question:

“What is your first name?”

She blinked. “Innald,” she said, “but I demand that you tell me—”

“Innald. I like it. Strong and hard, yet female. A good, brave-sounding name. Now, you be a brave girl—trust me—and I promise my plan will see you clearly out of this.”

“Shakar Lin-ton! I must insist—you have seized the initi­ative from me—you are speaking beyond me, but I must know what you intend—!”

He laughed again, a bit wildly.

“I shall take from you more—much more, Innald—than that! To follow me, as you have sworn, you must give up all your dreams of conquest and war and of splendid gory revenge! I shall take them all, each one—and give you Valadon on the point of this golden sword!”

Her eyes blazed. Innald could endure insult, defiance, even betrayal—but her royal (and womanly, as well) sense of pride balked at being laughed at and gentled as if she were only a woman.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a lifted hand.

“Enough questions for now! I have much to do.”

“Are not you aware that you are only my officer—and that you are seizing command a trifle impetuously—that you are being a bit forward?” she hissed, icily.

“Have you selected me as your Shakar because you as­sumed that I was shy, meek, retiring, and—backwards?” he shot back instantly. It rocked her a bit, he noticed.

“Hai! You are the most stubborn, difficult, hard to man­age, impolite, infuriating and insulting man that I have ever met! How dare you speak to me—”

“And you,” he snapped back, not giving her time enough to finish her profile of his character and deportment, “are one of the most wrong-headed, self-righteous, self-pitying, self­martyred women I have ever met! And one of the most beautiful. No, I rescind that last statement, if you will per­mit. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. But, to return to your description of me: let me remind you that I did not choose to come here—I was invited. I did not apply for the position of your Shalcar—I had it offered to me. I did not agree to take it on your terms—j/om agreed to my terms. Now be a good girl and let me get about my business. I’ll win Valadon for you, or do my best. But I must have a free hand!”

She was so furious she could not speak. Her eyes snapped sparks and her tawny face flushed with heady color, bright­ening cheeks and mouth.

“You are utterly adorable when you are angry. Did no one ever tell you that before, Innald? You should always be mad—cultivate it!”

With that, and a gay salute, he was gone, leaving her gasping with rage and tingling all over with fury. But when she got her breath back and had a few moments to digest the swift-moving flow of events, a half-smile warmed her lips. What woman, however aggressive, does not secretly desire to meet a man capable of mastering her? Before long a small dimple showed at the comer of her wonderful mouth, and the bright hardness of her eyes turned soft, almost dream-full, as she stared meditatively at the door through which he had just passed ….

It was twenty minutes later. Raul had just met with Wilm Bardry in his quarters. Gundorm Varl had related occurrences to Bardry and he was jubilant with the turn of events, say­ing things were working out precisely according to his plans. Now they must get rid of the war-fleet waiting down the Rift, and summon official government forces to Valadon, to whom they would deliver the captive Arthon and his crew, and to whom they could turn (having thus saved the Cluster a small, brief, but terribly expensive war) for re­dress of ills, revocation of exileship and outlawry, and res­toration of the Dais of Valadon to its rightful Kahani.

Events, however, had taken another turn—and very much for the worse!

Sharl came crashing into the suite, with a half-dozen armed men behind him, including Zarkandu and the old Shann of Kartoy.

“Linton! Quick! Somehow the Arthon has broken loose—his guards have seized weapons and are fighting their way to the skimmer now!”

Raul sprang to his feet and headed for the door.

“Wilm! Gundorm—with us! There’s no time to lose—once they reach the skimmer, Yaklar’ll call his fleet on the comset. We’ve got to head them off!”

Sharl pointed with his sword. “This way—they will be taking the other route—it is longer, but they cannot know it—we may be able to reach the skimmer before they do!”

They followed his lead, hurtling down the corridor, boots hammering on smooth-worn stone, and then down a winding stair, stumbling, half-falling in their haste. Raul felt his heart thudding with anxiety, pounding as if it would burst free of the cage of his ribs. They must stop the Warlord from contacting his fleet!

It seemed to consume an interminable length of time- clattering down the coil of stone steps—but at last they burst into a central corridor.

“This way!”

They came out into the vast caven-mouth, echoing with the clatter of their feet. Across the wide, flat floor, spotted here and there with oil-stains, and stacked with crated ma­chinery, including some sections of hull-plating from a partially-dismantled ship—they saw the skimmer.

And in the same moment, from the opposite side of the cavern, a crowd of disheveled Pelairi burst out of another entrance. The two groups spied each other simultaneously.

Raul raced across the cavern, followed by the others. Asloth flashed nakedly in his fist, glistening in the dim illu­mination.

There was a soundless flash, a puff of white fire—a long, thin, intensely brilliant needle of energy speared past his shoulder to strike a man behind him. He heard the horrible sizzling sound of human flesh searing in a laser-beam and a full-throated cry of agony as the man fell.

“They have energy-weapons! Quick—take shelter behind these hull-plates!” he bellowed, scrambling behind one of the curving shields of proton-steel. Panting hoarsely, gasp­ing for breath, the others followed his lead. Another laser-beam flared in a dazzling shower of sparks as it raked the shield, but the heavy metal was sufficient to block the ray.

They were safe—but trapped! Helplessly pinned down, with the Axthon’s warriors free to advance to the skimmer. Raul felt a terrible bottomless pit of despair open up within him, draining his will to fight.

“Are any of you armed?” he snapped. It was the small, plump Chahuna, Bar-Kusac, the man who had been his guide when first he arrived on Ophmar, who replied for them all.

“Only with steel blades, kazar.”

Raul clenched his teeth, grinding savagely. Beside him, the huge blond hulk of Gundorm Varl crouched. “Say th’ word, commander, and we’ll rush ’em!”

He shook his tousled thatch.

“No good, Gundorm. They could pick us off before we could get halfway across the cavern.”

Another sizzling beam played over the shield, spitting up a rain of blinding sparks.

“Listen!”

They huddled there, ears straining, as a shuffling, slap­ping sound came to them.

Sharl cursed vividly. “They are crossing the cavern! They will reach the skimmer within a moment—”

Suddenly Raul reached out and seized his arm.

“The dampener—you still have it?”

Sharl’s eyes widened with delight.

“Aye!—but will it work on energy-weapons?”

Raul shrugged. “Arion knows! But try it—quick—time’s running out!” while the chieftain fumbled, searching in his robes for the indispensable little tool, Raul whispered swift instructions to the others.

“If the gadget works, it will kill their lasers. We’ll have only a few seconds to rush them, before they discover their guns don’t work. Every man must be ready—sword in hand!”

“Here!” Sharl breathed. “Shall I-?”

Raul nodded vigorously.

“Ready, warriors! Make every second count—”

As Sharl activated the crystal rod, Raul rose to his feet and shouted to attract the Pelairi’s attention.

One of them snapped a bolt at his head—or tried to. But nothing happened. The pistol would not fire!

In a flash, Raul was over the barrier and hurtling upon the astounded guards—the others pelting along at his side. Faces mirroring shock and astonishment, the Pelairi leveled the deadly snouts of laser pistols at the oncoming men— to no result.

Then Asloth sank to the hilt in one guard’s bulky chest. Ripping the sword clear, Raul snapped a quick chop-cut at the lifted arm of a second, half-severing the limb. Shouts and cries of the assaulted Pelairi mingled with fierce, tri­umphant war-cries of the Rilké. His slim blade flashed out, piercing the throat of one of the Arthon’s pet wizards. Be­side him, bellowing out a wordless song of joy, Gundorm Varl was battering in the head of another with a length of iron pipe he had snatched up from the litter of spare parts and miscellaneous machinery.

All was turmoil—utter confusion. They had come upon the guards as they stood in a clump, and the two groups now intermixed—dangerous for close-quarters fighting, when it is hard to tell friend from enemy. Luckily, the Pelairi were garbed in the saffron livery of the Arthon’s private guard, and were thus distinguishable. Through the confusion of strike, recoil, thrust, parry, strike again, Linton caught glimpses of what was going on about him.

He saw Zarkandu, nude to the waist, save for tattered rib­bons of black cloth which still adhered to his intact collar, his bare brown torso laced with scarlet blood from a shoulder-cut, grinned with a fighting snarl that revealed the flash of bared teeth, as he struck away a sword with his bare arm and drove his dirk home in a Pelairi heart. Beyond him, the old Shann of Kartoy, shouting the savage rhythms of a Rilké war-song, was dueling with two grim-faced Pelairi at once, swords flickering as agilely as serpents’ tongues. In the brief glimpse Raul caught before surging, battling figures obscured his view, he saw the graybeard parry a stroke and strike—sinking his steel through his opponent’s heart with a flawless stroke of superb swordsmanship.

And behind them all, straddling the steel barricade, Sharl stood aiming the dampener at the knot of struggling men—and cursing ferociously that he was doomed to stand “idly” by, and miss so glorious a battle!

But then suddenly Raul was too busy to note what the others were doing, for two swordsmen engaged him, too, as the Sharui. Asloth sang and rang in the thrilling song of steel beating upon steel, as the golden blade wove a sparkling web of steel between him and the two enemies. Truly was the “Golden Girl” forged in a fortunate hour—a sharbaré, in very truth—nor did ever Mnardus God-Smith beat out a finer blade on his divine anvil! In his grip, she seemed to come to life with a strange power of self-movement.

Almost without action of his own will or sword-skill, her saber-blade and rapier-point flashed through the deadly air—drawing a thread of scarlet across one man’s belly and toppling him to the floor, feet tangled in his own bowels—sinking a foot in the heart of his second opponent—and then flashing free to engage the steel of a third.

He fought in a timeless small continuum, occupied only by himself and Asloth, and endless Pelairi who arose to confront him—and fell in a gush of arterial crimson. Sound of the combat around him faded—vision smeared into a gray blue—exhaustion seeped through his dancing body like a slow, heavy fluid, weighing down his arm, dulling his brain, slowing his motions. One blade sped past his heavy guard to draw a red line across his cheek—another slim épée sank painlessly (and without harm) through the flesh part of his thigh. Another sword, swept in a vicious, back-handed disemboweling stroke, cut through the fabric of his tunic and grazed his middle as he sprang clumsily back to elude it.

Although fatigue numbed him like a drug, the training of years of sword-skill sustained him … or was it the fierce, singing spirit that inhabited the sword, pouring vitality into his exhausted body from its slim, living length of steel? He did not know. He fought on, as one in an endless dream.

And then, colors emerged from the dull haze that en­wrapped him, and he suddenly found himself alone, stag­gering but still on his feet, fighting for breath, lungs heav­ing and throat on fire as if with every gasping breath he drew in fiery vapors. But—miraculously—no enemy faced him.

As the spinning mists faded from his vision, and he looked around with keener comprehension—he saw one figure racing across the floor towards the skimmer.

Yaklar!

The cowardly Warlord, seeing the struggling host en­gaged, had dodged around the clot of battling figures, and was making for the ship, leaving his followers to die fighting.

Raul stumbled, seeking to move, but his exhausted muscles could not be forced into action. He glanced around with des­pair, seeking aid, but all his friends were engaged and would not even hear if he had shouted. He snatched up a laser in desperation from one of the fallen and yelled frantically, windmilling his arms to catch Sharl’s attention. When the chieftain noticed him, he gestured violently, pantomiming to Sharl that he was to switch off the dampener—and at last, Sharl comprehended, and the pistol came to life in Raul’s numb hands.

By now the Arthon was entering the small atmospheric flyer. While bloodless fingers fumbled to fire the gun, he could see within the ship through the transparent observation blister, the bulky, cloaked form hunched over what must be a communicator.

There was no time to run after him. He raised and sighted the gun coolly—and fired.

The blazing needle of white fire snapped through the tough plastic and seared through the Arthon. His figure convulsed galvanically as the ray tore through his body and exploded in a flare of sparks against the control panel. Raul snapped off the weapon and watched dully as the dead body fell from view.

Had he been too late?