Short Fiction Poul Anderson (reading a book .TXT) 📖

Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of armor, chained hand and foot, hauled roughly to his feet. He lurched mechanically along, and slowly his head cleared. Through a mist of throbbing pain, he saw that Hildaborg walked beside him. Spears pricked their backs, the chains rattled on ankles and wrists. They were in the middle of a tight triple ring of guards, marching up the hill toward the Temple.

The villas of the mighty lay around them, white in the moonlight, fragrant with gardens. Alfric saw fountains splashing, and even then thought of the parched land beyond the walls, land that might flower again if it had that water.

But that would never be. He would swing high above the city, the falkhs would pick out his eyes⁠—Hildaborg would die, and the grip of the Temple would be locked on Valkarion till its last stones were dust on the wind.

Strength came back, a bleak resolve not to go down without one more fight. His brain began whirring, the old cold craftiness of his turbulent lifetime surged forward⁠ ⁠… hopeless. They were caught, they were done; all his struggles were the vain writhings of a beast in a cage.

“So this ends it.” Hildaborg’s voice was weary. Then she smiled a little. “But we made a good try, Alfric.” And warmly: “And we have loved each other. That is enough.”

“It is not,” he answered. “But it is something.”

“Silence!” commanded the priest.

Now they were on the hillcrest, the mighty walls of the Temple looming before them. Alfric saw it aswarm with slaves and guards and priests of all degrees. The gong-beat was a steady, tremendous crashing⁠—it seemed to fill the world with its brazen clamor. High rose the chant of the Moon Wedding.

The warrior glanced aside, over to the palace. There was a bridge spanning the gully between the two hillcrests, and guards were on it. Other guards, city and Temple, were besieging the palace; he saw their fires in a ring about it. They were setting up a great ballista whose stones, he knew, would bring the walls down in ruin.

From the hilltop he could see over the moon-whitened desert and the vast reach of the old sea-bottom. Once it had been blue and alive, glittering with sunlight, the long waves rolling in to crash in foam and thunder on a dazzling beach. The harbor of Valkarion had been crowded with ships from all the world, a forest of tall masts, a wild perfumery of salt and tar and the spices of the south. And beyond, the land had been green, and white clouds had sailed through a soft blue summer sky.

Well, it was gone⁠—the world was dried into desert and scrubby forest and harsh meadowland, sand blew in the ancient beds of rivers and seas, the air was thin and chill and held a bitter tang of rust. The cities were in ruins, the Empire was a shadow, and man was gone back to a few wretched remnants, sinking into barbarism and death.

Alfric looked up to the cold, splendid night sky. There was a tradition from the wise ancients, he had once been told, that those swarming bright star-hosts were other worlds and suns, happier, maybe, than this. It was some consolation.

The Moons were near their mating now. Bright Dannos was sweeping triumphantly down on pale Mother Amaris; he would cover her and then pass on, and out of that wedding would come the fate of the world. Cold fate, dark destiny⁠—night and famine and death, the moons hurtling over a world sunk into final oblivion.

Well, men died, sometime or other, and all they could do about it was to meet the end bravely. Alfric squared his shoulders and marched into the Temple.

There was a long corridor, at the end of which he saw a vast room flashing in gold and silver and fiery jewels, draped with the costliest ancient tapestries. Even then, Alfric’s eyes gleamed greenly. To loot that room!

They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of steps into the Temple dungeons. Alfric had been in enough jails before not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildaborg shuddered and pressed closer to him.

A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell and died raggedly into the echoes. The priest smirked. “A heretic is being shown the error of his ways,” he said unctuously. “He blasphemed against the Moons and swore he would abide by the Empress.”

“Then the gods abide by him,” said Hildaborg defiantly.

The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill’s heart, and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few scant inches between⁠—miles between, a world between, thought Alfric wearily⁠—he would never kiss her again⁠—

The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildaborg’s voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: “What can we do?”

“Nothing, now.” The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity, and relaxed. “Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise⁠—die.”

“I don’t want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and feel the wind and bear your sons.”

“I don’t enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to Aslak⁠—”

“But we didn’t, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should die too⁠—” Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark.

He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence.

Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest.

He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering-cold. When he spoke,