Short Fiction - Algis Budrys (chrysanthemum read aloud .TXT) 📗

the point where a rolling boulder’s momentum would be great enough to do much damage. As Geoffrey watched, the man in the turret yanked his lanyard, and a solid shot boomed through the straggled line of bearded men. If it had been grape or canister, it might have done a good deal of damage. But the cannon had been loaded with Geoffrey’s tankette in mind, and the tribesmen only jeered. One of them dashed forward, under the cannon’s smoking muzzle, and jammed a wedge-shaped stone between the left side track and the massive forward track roller. The track jammed, broke, and whipped back in whistling fragments. The tankette slewed around while the unharmed tribesman danced out of the way. The noble in the turret could only watch helplessly. Apparently he had no sidearm. Geoffrey peered at him as the tribesmen swarmed over the tankette and dragged him out of the turret. It was Dugald, and Geoffrey’s arm still tingled from the slap that had knocked the pistol irretrievably into the night-shadowed brush at the battlefield.

“What are they going to do to him?” he asked the Barbarian.

“Make him meet the test of fitness, I suppose.”

“Fitness?”

Geoffrey did not get the answer to his question immediately. The woods all around him were stirring, and bearded men in homespun, carrying fantastic rifles, were casually walking toward him. The Barbarian pushed himself up to his feet without any show of surprise.

“Howdy,” he said. “Figured you were right around.”

One of the tribesmen⁠—a gaunt, incredibly tall man with a grizzled beard⁠—nodded. “I seen you makin’ signs while you was hangin’ off that tank, before. Got a mark?”

The Barbarian extended his right arm and turned his wrist over. A faint double scar, crossed at right angles, showed in the skin.

The tribesman peered at it and grunted. “Old one.”

“I got it twenty years ago, when I first came through here,” the Barbarian answered.

“Double, too. Ain’t many of those.”

“My name’s Hodd Savage.”

“Oh,” the tribesman said. His entire manner changed. Without becoming servile, it was respectful. He extended his hand. “Sime Weatherby.” He and the Barbarian clasped hands. “That your woman down there?” the tribesman asked, nodding toward Myka.

“That’s right.”

“Good enough.” For the first time, Weatherby looked directly at Geoffrey. “What about him?”

The Barbarian shook his head. “No mark.”

The tribesman nodded. “I figured, from the way he was actin’.” He seemed to make no particular signal⁠—perhaps none was needed⁠—but Geoffrey’s arms were suddenly taken from behind, and his wrists were tied.

“We’ll see if he can get him a mark today,” Weatherby said. He looked to his left, where other men were just pushing Dugald into the ring they had formed around the group. “Seein’ as there’s two of them, one of ’em ought to make it.”

Geoffrey and Dugald stared expressionlessly at each other. The Barbarian kept his eyes on Geoffrey’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “Can’t have two men fight to the death without one of them coming out alive, usually.”

The tribesmen lived in wooden cabins tucked away among trees and hidden in narrow little valleys. Geoffrey was surprised to see windmills, and wire fencing for the cattle pastures that adjoined their homes. He was even more interested in their rifles, which, the tribesmen told him, were repeaters. He was puzzled by the absence of a cylinder, such as could be found on the generally unreliable revolvers one saw occasionally.

The tribesmen were treating both him and Dugald with a complete absence of the savagery he expected. They were being perfectly matter-of-fact. If his hands had not been tied, Geoffrey might not have been a prisoner at all. This puzzled him as well. A prisoner, after all, could not expect to be treated very well. True, he and Dugald were nobles, but this could not possibly mean anything to persons as uncivilized as mountain tribesmen.

Yet somehow, the only thing that was done was that all of them; the tribesmen, the Barbarian, Myka, Dugald and he⁠—made their way to Weatherby’s home. A number of the tribesmen continued on their way from there, going to their own homes to bring their families to watch the test. The remainder stayed behind to post guard. Dugald was put in one room, and Geoffrey in another. The Barbarian and Myka went off somewhere with Weatherby⁠—presumably to have breakfast. Geoffrey could smell food cooking, somewhere toward the back of the house. The smell sat intolerably on his empty stomach.

He sat for perhaps a half hour in the room, which was almost bare of furniture. There was a straight-backed chair, in which he sat, a narrow bed, and a bureau. Even though his hands were still tied behind his back, he did his best to search the room for something to help him⁠—though he had no idea of what he would do next after he managed to escape from the room itself.

The problem did not arise, because the room had been stripped of anything with a sharp edge on which to cut his lashings, and of anything else he might put to use. These people had obviously held prisoners here before. He sat back down in his chair, and stared at the wall.

Eventually, someone opened the door. Geoffrey looked over, and saw that it was the Barbarian. He looked at the inlander coldly, but the Barbarian did not seem to notice. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“On top of everything else,” he began without preamble, “I’ve just finished a hearty breakfast. That ought to really make you mad at me.”

“I’m not concerned with you, or your meals,” Geoffrey pointed out.

The Barbarian’s eyes twinkled. “It doesn’t bother you, my getting your help and then not protecting you from these intransigent tribesmen?”

“Hardly. I’d be a fool to expect it.”

“Would you, now? Look, bucko⁠—these people live a hard way of life. Living on a mountain is a good way not to live comfortably. But it’s a good way of living your own way, if you can stand the gaff. These people can. Every one of them. They’ve got their