The smaller vessels, propelled by sail and oar, were halfway to the battered walls before the "Dreadnaught" got moving, but the steampowered battleship soon caught up with them. The attackers opened ranks and the hurtling ship plunged through, aimed directly at the drooping ruins of the sea gate. The armored bow hit, tore them screaming from their hinges, and plowed on into the pool inside. Even with full speed astern, they were making headway when they hit the dock and shuddered to a stop, with the sharp prow jammed deep into the pilings. Behind them came the roaring Perssonoj and from ahead the defending Trozelligoj, and in an instant deadly battle was joined. The Hertug's n.o.ble bodyguard were in the first wave and were waiting to protect their leader as he rushed off to the attack.

Jason slipped an emergency flask of home distillate from its padded rack and downed a stimulating dose. He poured a second one into a beaker to enjoy more slowly, and watched the battle from his vantage point on the bridge.

From the first instant that the forces met, the outcome had never been in doubt. The defenders were battered, burned, and outnumbered, and they were suffering from crushed morale. They could only fall back as the Perssonoj charged over the crumbled walls and in through the open sea gate. The courtyard was swept clear and the battle moved off into the depths of the keep: it was time for Jason to do his next part.

He drained his beaker, slipped a small shield on his left arm, and grabbed up the morning star, which had proved so useful already. Ijale was somewhere in there, he was sure, and he had to find her before there were any unfortunate accidents. He felt a responsibility for the girl-she would still be walking the coastal deserts in a slave band if he hadn't come along. For better or worse, she was in this trouble because of him, and he had to get her out of it safely. He hurried ash.o.r.e.

The fire in the damp thatch of the roof seemed to have gone out without causing any further damage to the stone building, but it still smoked and the halls were thick with the reek of it. In the entrance hall there was just death-bodies and blood and a few wounded. Jason kicked open a door and went deeper into the keep. A last battle was being fought by the outnumbered defenders in the main dining hall, but he skirted it and pushed through into the kitchens. Here there were only slaves cowering under the tables, and the chief cook, who attacked him with a cleaver. Jason disarmed him with a twitch of the morning star, and threatened painful death if the man didn't tell him where Ijale was. The cook talked, willingly, clutching his b.l.o.o.d.y arm, but he knew nothing. The slaves only gabbled in fear, and were hopeless. Jason pushed on.

A fearful roar of voices and a constant crashing drew him to the major remaining conflict in what was obviously the main hail, lit by tall windows and hung with flags and pennants. It was a shambles now as the warring groups surged back and forth, slipping in the blood and on the bodies of the wounded and dead. A flurry of bolts from crossbowmen at the far end of the hall drove the fighting men apart, forcing the attackers to raise their shields to defend themselves.

A line of armored and shielded men stretched across the room, and at their rear was a smaller knot of men, more gayly decorated and jeweled, undoubtedly the n.o.ble family of the Trozelligoj themselves. They were on the dining dais, now swept clear of furniture, and could look over the heads of the men battling below them. One of them caught sight of Jason when he entered and pointed towards him with his sword, while talking rapidly with the others. Then they all turned their attention to him and the group opened up.

Jason saw that they held Ijale, cruelly chained and bound, and that one of them had his sword pressed to her bosom. They waved his attention to this and their meaning was obvious enough: do not attack, or she dies. They had no idea what she meant to him, or if she meant anything at all, but they must have suspected him of some affection. They were about to be slaughtered, so any desperate move was worth trying.

Jason's reaction was a roaring rage that sent him hurtling forward.

Logically, he knew that there could be no compromise now; victory was at hand, and any attempt to reason with the Hertug or the desperate Perssonoj would be sure to result in Ijale's death. He must reach her!

The Trozelligoj soldiers were knocked aside as he plunged into them from the rear and flung himself on the guarding line of armored men. An arrow hurtled by, barely missing him, but unnoticed, and he was upon them. The suddenness of his attack and his charging weight drove the line back for an instant and his morning star whistled through a gap between two shields, hitting square on a helmeted face. He caught a descending sword on his shield and slammed into the man he had hit, who went down. Once past the soldiers, he did not stay to battle but pushed on, while the line tried to close to face the enemy who had rushed to take advantage of Jason's suicidal attack.

There was another member of the group on the dais whom Jason had not noticed before; he glimpsed him now as he attacked. It was Mikah, the traitor, here! He stood next to Ijale, who was going to be murdered because Jason could not possibly reach her in time. The sword was already plunging down to slay her.

Jason had just an instant's sight of Mikah as the latter stepped forward and clutched the swordsman's shoulders and hurled him backwards to the floor.

Then Jason was attacked from all sides at once and was fighting desperately for his life.

The odds were too great-five, six to one-all of the attackers armored and desperate. But he did not have to win, only to hold them off a seconds longer until his own men arrived. They were just behind him; he could hear their victorious roar as the line of defenders went down. Jason caught one sword on his shield, kicked another attacker aside, and beat off a third with his morning star.

But there were too many. They were all about him. He thrust two aside, then turned to face the others behind him. There-the old man, the leader of these people, anger in his eyes . . . a long sword in his hands. . . thrusting.

"Die, demon! Die, destroyer!" the Trozelligoj screeched and lunged. The long, cool blade caught Jason just above the belt, thrust into his body with a searing pain, transfixed him, emerging from his back.

16.

It was pain, but it was not unbearable. What was unendurable was the sure knowledge of death. The old man had killed him. It was all over. Almost without malice, Jason raised his shield and pushed it against the man, sending him stumbling backwards. The sword remained, slim shining death through his body.

"Leave it," Jason said hoa.r.s.ely to Ijale, who raised her chained hands to pull it out, her eyes numb with terror.

The battle was over, and through the blurring of pain Jason could see the Hertug before him, the awareness of death written also on his face. "Cloths,"

Jason said, as clearly as he could. "Have them ready to press to the wounds when the sword is removed."

Strong hands of the soldiers held him up and the cloths were ready. The Hertug stood before Jason, who merely nodded and closed his eyes. Once more the pain struck at him and he fell. He was lowered to the carpet, his clothes were torn open, the flow of blood compressed beneath the waiting bandages.

As he lost consciousness, grateful for this relief from agony, he wondered why he bothered. Why prolong the pain? He could only die here, light years from antiseptics and antibiotics, with destruction pushed through his guts. He could only die.

Jason struggled back to awareness just once to see Ijale kneeling over him with a needle and thread, sewing together the raw lips of the wound in his abdomen. The light went away again, and the next time he opened his eyes he was in his own bedroom looking at the sunlight flooding in through the broken windows. Something obscured the light, and first his forehead and his cheeks, then his lips, were moistened and cooled. It made him realize how dry his throat was and how strong the pain was.

"Water . . ." he rasped, and was surprised at the weakness of his voice.

"It was told me that you should not drink-with a cut there," Ijale said, pointing to his body, her lips taut.

"I don't think it will matter. . . one way or the other," he told her, the knowledge of impending death more painful by far than the wound. The Hertug appeared beside Ijale, his drawn expression a mirror image of hers, and held a small box out to Jason.

"The sciuloj have obtained these, the roots of the bede that deaden pain and make it feel distant. You must chew on it, though not too much; there is great danger if too much of the bede is taken."

Not for me, Jason thought, forcing his jaws to chew the dry, dusty root. A pain killer, a narcotic, a habit-forming drug . . . I'm going to have very little time to get the habit.

Whatever the drug was, it worked fine and Jason was grateful. The pain slipped away, as did his thirst, and though he felt a little lightheaded he was no longer exhausted. "How did the battle go?" he asked the Hertug, who was standing, arms folded, scowling at fate.

"Victory is ours. The only surviving Trozelligoj are our slaves; their clan has ceased to exist. Some soldiers fled, but they do not count. Their keep is ours, and the most secret chambers where they build their engines. If you could but see their machines. . ." At the realization that Jason could not see them, and would see but little else, the Hertug fell to scowling again.

"Cheer up," Jason told him. "Win one, win them all. There are no other mobs strong enough to stand up to you now. Keep moving before they can combine. Pick off the most unfriendly ones first. If possible, try not to kill all their technicians; you'll want someone to explain their secrets after you have beaten them. Move fast, and by winter you'll own Appsala."

"We'll give you the finest funeral Appsala has ever seen," the Hertug burst out.

"I'm sure of it. Spare no expense."

"There will be feasts and prayers, and your remains will be turned to ash in the electric furnace in the honor of the G.o.d Elektro."

"Nothing could make me happier. . ."

"And afterwards they will be taken to sea at the head of a magnificent funeral procession, ship after ship, all of them heavily armed so that on the return voyage we can fall on the Mastreguloj and take them unawares."

"That's more like it, Hertug. I thought for a while there that you were getting too sentimental."

A crashing at the door drew Jason's attention and he turned his head, slowly, to see a group of slaves dragging heavily insulated cables into the room.

Others carried boxes of equipment, and behind them came the slave overseer cracking his whip, driving Mikah's tottering, chained figure before him. Mikah was booted into a corner, where he collapsed.

"I was going to kill the traitor," the Hertug said, "until I thought how nice it would be for you to torture him to death yourself. You'll enjoy that. The arc furnace will be hot soon and you can cook him bit by bit, send him ahead as a sacrifice to Elektro to smooth the way for your coming."

"That's very considerate of you," Jason said, eying Mikah's battered form.

"Chain him to the wall, then leave us, so that I may think of the most ingenious and terrible tortures for him."

"I shall do as you ask. But you must let me watch the ceremony. I am always interested in something new in torture."

"I'm sure you are, Hertug."

They left, and Jason saw Ijale stalking Mikah with the kitchen knife.

"Don't do it," Jason told her. "It's no good, no good at all."

She obediently put the knife down, and took up the sponge to wipe Jason's face. Mikab lifted his head and looked at Jason. His face was bruised, and one eye was puffed shut.

"Would you tell me," Jason asked, "just what in h.e.l.l you thought you were doing by betraying us and trying to get me captured by the Trozelligoj?"

"Though you torture me, my lips are eternally shut."

"Don't be a bigger idiot than usual. No one's going to torture you. I just wonder what you had in mind this time-what ever led you to pull this kind of stunt?"

"I did what I thought best," Mikah answered, drawing himself up.

"You always do what you think best-only you usually think wrong. Didn't you like the way I treated you?"

"There was nothing personal in what I did. It was for the good of suffering mankind."

"I think you did it for the reward and a new job, and because you were angry at me," Jason needled, knowing Mikah's weaknesses.

"Never! If you must know . . . I did it to prevent war. . . ."

"Just what do you mean by that?"

Mikah scowled, looking ominous and judicial in spite of his battered eye.

His chains rattled as he pointed an accusing finger at Jason.

"Deep in drink one day you did confess your crime to me, and did speak of your plans to wage deadly war among these innocent people, to embroil them in slaughter and to set cruel despotism about their necks. I knew then what I had to do. You had to be stopped. I forced my lips shut, not daring to say a word lest I reveal my thoughts, because I knew a way.

"I had been approached by a man in the hire of the Trozelligoj, a clan of honest laborers and mechanics, he a.s.sured me, who wished to hire you away from the Perssonoj at a good wage. I did not answer him at the time, because any plan to free us would involve violence and kiss of life, and I could not consider this even though refusing meant my remaining in chains. Then, when I learned of your bloodthirsty intentions, I examined my conscience and saw what had to be done. We would all be removed from here, taken to the Trozelligoj, who promised that no harm would come to you, though you would be kept a prisoner. The war would be averted."

"You are a simple fool," Jason said, without pa.s.sion. Mikah flushed. "I do not care what your opinion is of me. I would act the same again if there was the opportunity."

"Even though you now know that the mob you were selling out to are no better than the ones here? Didn't you stop one of them from killing Ijale during the fighting? I suppose I should thank you for that -even though you are the one who got her into the spot."

"I do not want your thanks. It was the pa.s.sion of the moment that made them threatened her. I cannot blame them. . . ."

"It doesn't matter one way or the other. The war is over; they lost, and my plans for an industrial revolution will go through without a hitch, even without my personal attention. About the only thing you have accomplished is to bring about my death-which I find very hard to forgive."

"What madness...?"

"Madness, you narrow-minded fool!" Jason pushed himself up on one arm, but bad to drop back as an arrow of pain shot through the m.u.f.fling layers of the drug. "Do you think I'm lying here because I'm tired? Your kidnapping and intriguing led me a lot further into battle than I ever intended, and right onto a long, sharp, unsanitary sword. It stuck me like a pig."

"I don't understand what you are saying."

"Then you are being very dim. I was run through, front to back. My knowledge of anatomy is not as good as it might be, but at a guess I would say no organ of vital importance was penetrated. If my liver or any major blood vessels had been punctured, I wouldn't be talking to you now. But .1 don't know of any way to make a hole through the abdomen without cutting a loop or two of intestine, slicing up the peritoneuin and bringing in a lot of nice hungry bacteria.

In case you haven't read the first-aid book lately, what happens next is an infection called peritonitis, which, considering the medical knowledge on this planet, is one hundred per cent fatal."

This shut Mikah up nicely, but it didn't cheer Jason very much, so he dosed his eyes for a little rest. When he opened them again it was -I- dark and he dozed on and off until dawn, when he had to wake hale to tell her to bring him the bowl of bede roots. She wiped his forehead and he noticed the expression on her face.

"Then it's not getting hotter in here," he said. "It's me."

"You were hurt because 0f me," Ijale wailed, and she began to cry.

"Nonsense!" Jason told her. "No matter what way I die, it will be suicide. I settled that a long time ago. On the planet where 1 was born there was nothing but sunny days and endless peace and a long, long life. I decided to leave, preferring a short, full one to a long and empty one. Now let's have a bit more of that root to chew on, because I would like to forget my troubles."

The drug was powerful, and the infection was deep. Jason drifted along sinking into the reddish fog of the bede, then coming back up out of it to find nothing changed. Ijale was still there, tending him, Mikah in the far corner brooding in his chains. He wondered what would happen to them when he died, and the thought troubled him.

It was during one of these black, conscious moods that he heard the sound, a growing rumble that suddenly cracked the air outside, then died away. He levered himself up onto his elbows, heedless of the pain, and shouted.

"Ijale, where are you? Come here at once!"

She ran in from the other room, and he was conscious of shouts outside, voices on the ca.n.a.l, in the courtyard. Had he really heard it? Or was it a feverish hallucination? Ijale was trying to force him down, but he shrugged her away and called to Mikah. "Did you hear anything just then? Did you hear it?"

"I was asleep-I think I heard. .

"A roar-it woke me up. It sounded like. . . but it is impossible - .

"Impossible? Why impossible? It was a rocket engine, wasn't it? Here on this primitive planet."

"But there are no rockets here."

'There are now, you idiot. Why do you think I built my radio broadcasting prayer wheel?" He frowned in sudden thought, trying to cudgel his fogged and fevered brain into action.

"Ijale," he called, rooting under his pillow for the purse concealed there.

"Take this money-all of it-and get down to the Temple of Elektro and give it to the priests. Don't let anyone stop you, because this is the most important thing you have ever done. They have probably stopped grinding the wheel and have all gone outside for a look at the excitement. That rocket will never find the right spot without a guide beam-and if it lands any place else in Appsala there could be trouble. Tell them to crank, and not to stop cranking, because a ship of the G.o.ds is on the way here and it needs all the prayers it can get."

She ran out and Jason sank back, breathing rapidly. Was it a s.p.a.ceship out there that had picked up his S.O.S.? Would it have a doctor or a medical machine that could cure him at this advanced stage of infection? It must have, every ship carried some medical provision. For the first time since he had been wounded he allowed himself to believe that there might be a chance he could survive, and a black weight lifted from him. He even managed a smile at Mikah.

"I have a feeling, Mikah old son, that we have eaten our last kreno. Do you think you can bear up under that burden?"

"I will be forced to turn you in," Mikah said gravely. "Your crimes are too serious to conceal; I cannot do otherwise. I must tell the captain to notify the police. . ."

"How did a man with your kind of mind live this long?" Jason asked coldly. "What's to stop me from having you killed and buried right now so that you could make no charges?"

"I do not think you would do that. You are not without a certain kind of honor."

"Certain kind of honor'! A word of praise from you! Can it be possible that there is the tiniest of c.h.i.n.ks in the rock-ribbed fastness of your mind?"

Before Mikah could answer the roar of the rocket returned, coming lower and not dying away as before, but growing louder instead, becoming deafening, and a shadow moved across the sun.

"Chemical rockets!" Jason shouted over the noise. "A pinnace or landing boat from a s.p.a.cer . . . it must be zeroing in on my spark radio- there's no possibility of coincidence here." At that moment Ijale ran into the room and hurled herself down by Jason's bed.

'The priests have fled," she wailed; "everyone is in hiding. A great fire- breathing beast has come down to destroy us all!" Her voice was suddenly a shout as the roar in the courtyard outside stopped.

"It's down safely," Jason breathed, then pointed to his drawing materials on the table. "The paper and a pencil, Ijale. Let me have them. I'm going to write a note that I want you to take down to the ship that landed." She recoiled, shivering.

"You mustn't be afraid, Ijale, it's just a ship like the ones that you have been in, only one made to sail in the air rather than on the water. It will have people in it who won't harm you. Go out and show them this note, then bring them here."