Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

dizzily to his feet. Alfric knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought his own blade against the guardsman’s throat. “Hold,” he said. “One word, one movement, and you’ll roll in the gutter with your comrades.”

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. “Lady⁠—lady, forgive⁠—”

“Forgive a traitor?” she asked, wrath sparking in her voice.

“Why are the priests after me?” rapped Alfric.

The guard stared. “Surely⁠—surely you know⁠—”

“I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man.”

“The prophecy⁠—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy.⁠ ⁠… Later they said that⁠—” the guard’s desperate eyes turned to Freha. “They said you, your majesty⁠—” His voice trailed off.

“Say on,” she snapped. “Give me the priests’ own words. By Dannos, they’ll all swing for this! I am still Empress of Valkarion!”

Alfric looked at her in sudden shock, as if he had been clubbed. Empress⁠—the Empress of Valkarion⁠—

“But⁠—they said you were not, your majesty⁠ ⁠… the Emperor is dead, he died soon after sundown⁠—”

“As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest’s work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!”

“The High Priest sent word over the city. He told of the prophecy⁠—we 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.” The guard gulped. “Then he said you⁠—forgive me, lady, you asked for his words⁠—he said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Empress Hildaborg, half barbarian, idolatrous witch⁠—those were his words, your majesty⁠—she lay under the Temple’s 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 you⁠—” The guardsman sank to his knees, shaking. “Lady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuse⁠—”

“What of my Household troops?” she snapped.

“The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them⁠—a dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace⁠—”

“Little help there, then.” Hildaborg laughed mirthlessly. “All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfric.”

The barbarian’s head was spinning. “You are⁠—the Empress,” he gasped, “and there’s some nonsense about me.⁠ ⁠… What is this prophecy? Why did you⁠—” his voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded off into the moaning wind.

“No time now, someone may be along any moment.⁠ ⁠… Where to hide, where to hide?”

Alfric’s eyes traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly he laughed, a harsh metallic bark. “Why, in the very lair of the foe!” he said. “As good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us.”

She nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfric looked narrowly at the prisoner. “If you betray us⁠—” he murmured.

“I won’t⁠—by the Moons, I swear I won’t⁠—”

“Indeed you won’t,” said Alfric, and lifted sword to cut him down.

Hildaborg sprang up and grabbed his arm. “That’s a barbarous trick,” she exclaimed angrily. “You need only bind and gag him, and hide him in one of these ruins.”

“Why worry about the life of a guardsman?” he asked contemptuously.

Her dark head lifted in pride. “I am Empress of the guardsmen too,” she said.

“As you like,” shrugged Alfric.

The captive turned a face of utter worship to the woman. “You must secure me,” he said, his voice shaking. “But when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady.”

Hildaborg smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guard as she had said. Then she turned to Alfric. “You are hard of heart,” she murmured, “but perhaps Valkarion needs one like you, strong and ruthless.” Her deep eyes glowed. “How you fought, Alfric! How you fought!”

The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. “I’ve had enough,” he growled. “I’ve been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, I’ve 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 want⁠—” he laughed humorlessly⁠—“besides our heads?”

“The prophecy⁠—it 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 Empire’s greatest glory. There was a half-mad priestess who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believed⁠—what 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.”

“Hmmmm⁠—I wonder. I’ve no great faith in spaedom myself.”

“These 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 time’s own pen.” Hildaborg slipped a guardsman’s tunic over her slim form. Her eyes were half-shut, dreaming. “They 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 the⁠—the