Short Fiction Poul Anderson (reading a book .TXT) đ
- Author: Poul Anderson
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Freha came up, the cloak blowing about her wonderful naked body in the wild wind. She was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as he saw her. âLadyâ âlady, forgiveâ ââ
âForgive a traitor?â she asked, wrath sparking in her voice.
âWhy are the priests after me?â rapped Alfric.
The guard stared. âSurelyâ âsurely you knowâ ââ
âI know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man.â
âThe prophecyâ âthe priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy.â ââ ⊠Later they said thatâ ââ the guardâs desperate eyes turned to Freha. âThey said you, your majestyâ ââ His voice trailed off.
âSay on,â she snapped. âGive me the priestsâ own words. By Dannos, theyâll all swing for this! I am still Empress of Valkarion!â
Alfric looked at her in sudden shock, as if he had been clubbed. Empressâ âthe Empress of Valkarionâ â
âButâ âthey said you were not, your majestyâ ââ ⊠the Emperor is dead, he died soon after sundownâ ââ
âAs soon as I was gone, eh? A priestâs work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!â
âThe High Priest sent word over the city. He told of the prophecyâ âwe all knew of that, but he told it anew. But he said the heathen king could still be slain, and offered a thousand gildars to the man who did it.â The guard gulped. âThen he said youâ âforgive me, lady, you asked for his wordsâ âhe said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Empress Hildaborg, half barbarian, idolatrous witchâ âthose were his words, your majestyâ âshe lay under the Templeâs ban. He said she was to be killed, or better captured, with the heathen stranger, with whom she would probably join forces. He put the most solemn curse of the Two Moons on anyone who should aid you and the man, or even fail to help hunt for youâ ââ The guardsman sank to his knees, shaking. âLady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuseâ ââ
âWhat of my Household troops?â she snapped.
âThe priests sent a detachment of the city guards against themâ âa dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palaceâ ââ
âLittle help there, then.â Hildaborg laughed mirthlessly. âAll the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfric.â
The barbarianâs head was spinning. âYou areâ âthe Empress,â he gasped, âand thereâs some nonsense about me.â ââ ⊠What is this prophecy? Why did youâ ââ his voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded off into the moaning wind.
âNo time now, someone may be along any moment.â ââ ⊠Where to hide, where to hide?â
Alfricâs eyes traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly he laughed, a harsh metallic bark. âWhy, in the very lair of the foe!â he said. âAs good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us.â
She nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfric looked narrowly at the prisoner. âIf you betray usâ ââ he murmured.
âI wonâtâ âby the Moons, I swear I wonâtâ ââ
âIndeed you wonât,â said Alfric, and lifted sword to cut him down.
Hildaborg sprang up and grabbed his arm. âThatâs a barbarous trick,â she exclaimed angrily. âYou need only bind and gag him, and hide him in one of these ruins.â
âWhy worry about the life of a guardsman?â he asked contemptuously.
Her dark head lifted in pride. âI am Empress of the guardsmen too,â she said.
âAs you like,â shrugged Alfric.
The captive turned a face of utter worship to the woman. âYou must secure me,â he said, his voice shaking. âBut when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady.â
Hildaborg smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guard as she had said. Then she turned to Alfric. âYou are hard of heart,â she murmured, âbut perhaps Valkarion needs one like you, strong and ruthless.â Her deep eyes glowed. âHow you fought, Alfric! How you fought!â
The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. âIâve had enough,â he growled. âIâve been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, Iâve been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone wantâ ââ he laughed humorlesslyâ ââbesides our heads?â
âThe prophecyâ âit is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfric. It was made I know not how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, at the time of the Empireâs greatest glory. There was a half-mad priestess who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believedâ âwhat could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold. Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who use the book to guide their policies.â
âHmmmmâ âI wonder. Iâve no great faith in spaedom myself.â
âThese prophecies are true, Alfric! Now and again they have erred, but I think that is simply because the songs had become garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the Book has been written anew by timeâs own pen.â Hildaborg slipped a guardsmanâs tunic over her slim form. Her eyes were half-shut, dreaming. âThey say the Sibyl was loved by Dannos, who gave her the gift of prophecy, and that Amaris jealously decreed she should foretell evil oftener than good. But a wise man at court, who had read much of the almost forgotten science of the ancients, told me he thought the prophecies could be explained rationally. He said sometimes the mind can slip forward along theâ âthe
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