somehow to precipitate a move into one of the Umoi cities, preferably Zond. What the Umoi had abandoned, their underpeople, the yalim, would inherit. Would, that is, it the yalim could overcome strong taboos about the abodes of the Old Gods. Legend had it that a body could die simply from looking at an Umoi city. Gene had his work cut out for him.
But for now, he faced a harder and much more unpleasant task: dealing with Yerga.
Gene looked up toward the mouth of the Royal Caves — the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting were the only tribe members who lived indoors. No one showed. The High Mistress usually greeted the troops when they returned from battle.
Gene dismounted, tethered his voort, and checked the beast’s wounded rump. The thick leathery hide was almost like armor. The lance had barely penetrated muscle underneath. Barring infection, the animal would live.
Had Gene been wearing gauntlets, he would have thrown one or two down, but in this neck of the woods the accepted way of calling a guy out was to rip down his tent. Gene went directly to Yerga’s campsite and did this thing.
The whole tribe held its breath. Yerga looked slowly about, then faced Gene and drew his sword, smiling a crooked, evil little smile.
Gene got the distinct feeling that he had walked the rest of the way into Yerga’s trap. He wondered now why he had ever thought he could best Yerga in a swordfight. This was not the castle, and the spell that gave Gene his talent was not operative here. But, as was the case with the translation spell, there was some carryover. Even without the spell, Gene had felt evenly matched with Yerga.
Now that there was no turning back, though, he had his doubts.
These things were best done quickly. Gene drew his sword, approached his opponent, and got even more worried. Now Yerga’s satisfied smile confirmed Gene’s suspicions that it had all been planned this way. But there was no hope of rescue, and no remedy except to turn tail and run. The rover was out in the desert somewhere, pinned under hundred-ton boulders. Zond was powerless to help. He was trapped in a backwater universe, bound by its peculiar laws. He would have to make the best of things, or die trying. Of course, the latter was the more likely possibility.
Yerga sprang at him, and Gene sidestepped a wicked lunge that nicked his rib cage. The crowd ohhed at the sight of first blood.
Not the greatest of beginnings, Gene thought. I’ve already half-defeated myself.
Gene countered with a series of feints and lunges, but Yerga’s masterly parrying left no opportunity. Then Yerga went back to the offensive, and Gene had to dance over an open campfire to get away.
Kicking out a hot coal that had wedged in his sandal, Gene got angry, mostly with himself. He had dug a fine psychological hole for himself, one of his gravest faults, on Earth as well as here. If he was to lose this fight, he was determined not to be defeated by his own self-doubt.
Gene attacked savagely, if not expertly, and sheer momentum drove Yerga back. Soon, though, the captain countered effectively, and broke the brunt of Gene’s offensive.
Thereafter it was give-and-take, neither combatant able to gain the upper hand.
Gene wished mightily for magic. It was hard to get used to the notion that there was none here. At least he didn’t think there was any. Maybe Sheila could tap whatever unseen forces were available. But this was probably a hard-science universe; and besides, Sheila was worlds away.
He missed her, and Linda, too. Two powerful magicians, those girls.
Again, Gene felt an unfocused resentment that his powers were relatively feeble, and only came on him inside the castle. But why? What was different about his case? It wasn’t fair.
He rejected that note of defeatism as well. Fair, hell. The universe — the
Yerga’s renewed attacks brought him back to the task at hand. Gene fought back strongly, gaining confidence and power with every stroke. Maybe Yerga was showing his age, or maybe it was just the fortunes of war, but the tide of battle seemed to be shifting. Yerga’s smile was gone, replaced by a look of grim concern.
The mortal combat went on and on, its deadly choreography carrying them across the length and breadth of the camp. Gene’s swordsmanship continued to improve, and Yerga’s confidence eroded precipitously.
At length, Yerga knew he was bested, and seemed to give up except for desperate parrying and backstepping. Gene maneuvered him toward a latrine. Yerga looked behind at the last second, tried to leap backward over it. His foot slipped into the hole and he fell, slamming his head against the side of the ditch.
Gene waded into the filth of the latrine and stood over him. Yerga was out cold.
The fight was over. Now all that remained was delivering the coup de grace. Gene raised his sword.
Then lowered it. He couldn’t do it, but not out of any feeling for Yerga. It was just not Gene’s style.
Of course, a refusal to slit Yerga’s throat might itself cause another loss of face. But he’d have to risk that.
He looked toward the mouth of the cave. Queen Vaya, the High Mistress, had been watching with regal detachment, and now she regarded Gene with questioning eyes that seemed to ask.
Gene’s command of the language was still shaky, even with Zond’s help. But he summoned all he knew and spoke.
“In the land of my birth, it is wrong for a man to take the life of another. I cannot do this thing. High Mistress, I beg your permission to spare my comrade-in-arms.”
And he thought, Jesus, I sound like a B movie character. But, hell, I’m in a B movie! I can smell the frigging popcorn!
The High Mistress gave it some thought, then nodded, shrugging. Okay, don’t kill the worthless jerk. Use him for hrunt bait, what do I give a shit.
She turned abruptly and went back into her palace.
Gene exhaled and slipped his copper sword into his belt. He fetched a waterskin and doused Yerga with its contents. Yerga’s eyes fluttered, and he came to.
He sat up, disoriented, then looked around. Titters rippled through the crowd of tribespeople. Then laughter came in waves.
Yerga looked up at the victor, his eyes radiating hatred. Gene suddenly realized that killing Yerga would have been the more charitable act.
You can’t fight city hall, Gene thought, and you can’t change the laws of a given universe, human or otherwise.
Live and learn.
Eighteen
Desert Island
“Isn’t there a tv game show where they ask you who you’d like to be marooned on a desert island with?”
Trent finished laying another layer of palm leaves on the roof and stepped back from his handiwork. It wasn’t a proper grass hut, more of a lean-to, but it would do in a pinch, or in a light rain shower. Major precipitation would be another matter. Sooner or later they’d have to move off the beach and seek shelter in the hills. Can’t live on raw shellfish and quasi-breadfruit forever.
“Maybe a parlor game,” he said. “Why?”
Sheila turned over on her stomach and bunched up a pile of leaves for use as a pillow. She was getting a terrific body tan. “Well, I can’t think of anyone I’d more like to be stranded with.”
“Than little ol’ me?”
“Than little ol’ you. Your Royal Highness, darling.”
“‘Nice of you to say.” He knelt and kissed the spot between her shoulder blades. “Goes double for me.
