Land and Overland - Omnibus (50 page)

His only answer was a hurried salute as Keero wheeled away with a sergeant beside him to deploy the soldiers in a circle around the skyship. Gartasian took a pair of binoculars out of his saddle pouch and trained them on the gondola.

He could see the heads of the four crewmen as they went about the work of securing the ship, but something else in the magnified image attracted his attention. The gondola was of basically the same design as those used in the Migration, and yet had no anti-ptertha cannon on the sides. In spite of the weight penalty imposed by such weapons, they had been deemed necessary for the passage through Land's lower atmosphere, and Gartasian found their absence intriguing. Could it really be a sign that the ptertha—the airborne globes whose poison had all but annihilated Kolcorron—had ceased their onslaught on humanity? Gartasian's heart lurched as he again considered the possibilities. A civilisation which embraced two worlds … a mass return to Land for those who were discontent on Overland … miraculous reunions with loved ones who were believed to be long-dead…

"You fool!" Gartasian made the whispered accusation as he put the binoculars away. "What new folly is this? Are you so excellent a commander that you can afford to handicap yourself with winedreams?"

As he made ready to ride forward he reminded himself of two pertinent facts—his advancement in the army had been hindered by the ambivalence springing from his guilt; and fate had now given him an unparalleled opportunity to compensate by placing him close to the landing site of the enigmatic skyship. The sunwriter message from Prad had said that King Chakkell was on his way with all possible speed, and that in the meantime Colonel Gartasian was empowered to deal with the situation and take any steps he considered necessary. A good showing on this occasion could yield incalculable benefits in the future.

"Remain here," he said to Lieutenant Keero, who was just returning to his starting point. He nudged his bluehorn into a walk which he deliberately kept slow, demonstrating to the visitors that his intentions were not hostile. As he neared the ship he was uneasily aware that his cuirass, moulded from boiled leather, would provide little protection if he were to be fired upon, but he remained upright in the saddle, presenting the appearance of one who was satisfied with his ability to deal with the situation.

Those aboard the ship, observing his approach, ceased their activities and came to stand at the near side of the gondola. Gartasian looked for an identifiable commander, but the crew all seemed to be of an age—not much more than twenty—and were wearing identical brown shirts and jerkins. The only visible insignia were small circles of different colours sewn to the lapels of the jerkins, but the variations had no significance for Gartasian.

He was surprised to note that the men were sufficiently alike to have been mistaken for brothers—each with a narrow forehead, close-set eyes and narrow jutting jaw. As he entered the shadow of the balloon he saw, with a sudden sense of disquiet, that the four had dark jaundiced complexions and a peculiar metallic sheen to their skins. It was an appearance which would have suggested a recent brush with some cruel disease, except that the men also exuded that unconscious arrogance which can arise from being superbly fit. They regarded Gartasian with expressions which to him seemed both amused and contemptuous.

"I am Colonel Gartasian," he said, halting his bluehorn a few yards from the gondola. "On behalf of King Chakkell, the planetary ruler, I welcome you to Overland. We were greatly surprised by the sight of your ship, and many questions clamour in our minds."

"Keep your questions and your welcome to yourself." The man on the right, tallest of the four, spoke in oddly accented Kolcorronian. "My name is Orracolde, and I am the commander here, but I also have the honour of being a royal courier. I come to this world with a message from King Rassamarden."

Gartasian was shocked by the speaker's immediate and overt hostility, but he decided to control his temper. "I have never heard of a King Rassamarden."

"That is hardly surprising under the circumstances," Orracolde said, smiling disdainfully. "Now, I expected that Prad would be dead by this time, but how did Chakkell become King? What of Prad's son, Leddravohr? And Pouche?"

"They too are dead," Gartasian said stiffly, realising that the deliberate challenge in Orracolde's manner would have to be taken up for the sake of honour. "And for your further enlightenment, I intend that this meeting will henceforth be conducted along different lines. I will provide the questions, and you the answers."

"And what if I decide otherwise,
old
warrior?"

"My men have your ship surrounded."

"That fact had not escaped my attention," Orracolde said. "But unless their flea-infested mounts can soar like eagles they pose my ship no threat. We can be airborne in an instant." He turned away from the rail and a second later the skyship's burner discharged a burst of hot gas into the balloon which loomed overhead, maintaining its buoyancy. Gartasian's bluehorn, startled by the echoing blast, half-reared and he had to act quickly to bring it under control, much to the amusement of the four onlookers. It came to him that for the present the visitors were in a greatly superior position, and that unless he devised a better method of dealing with them he could be humiliated. He glanced at the sparse circle of mounted soldiers, now seeming so distant, and chose new tactics.

"Neither of us has anything to gain by quarrelling," he said reasonably. "The message you spoke of can be relayed to the King through me, or—if you would prefer it—you can wait until his Majesty arrives in person."

Orracolde tilted his head. "How long will that take?"

"The King is already on his way and could be here within the hour."

"Giving you ample time in which to draw up long-range cannon!" Orracolde scanned the brush-covered terrain as though expecting to find evidence of troop movements.

"But we have no reason to bear you ill will," Gartasian protested, dismayed by the other man's irrationality. What kind of envoy was this? And what kind of a ruler would entrust such a man with diplomatic responsibility?

"Do not take me for a fool,
old
warrior—I will deliver King Rassamarden's message without delay." Orracolde stooped, momentarily disappearing behind the gondola's side, and when he came into view again he was removing a yellowish scroll from a leather tube.

Gartasian had time in which to find his thoughts seizing on a triviality. Orracolde derogated him with every sentence he spoke, but he uttered the word "old" with a particular venom, as though it was one of the most insulting in his vocabulary. It was a minor mystery compared to the other puzzling aspects of what was happening, even though Gartasian had never considered himself as being old, and he resolutely pushed it aside as he saw Orracolde unroll a square sheet of heavy paper.

"I am an instrument of King Rassamarden, and the following message must be regarded as issuing directly from his lips," Orracolde said.

"I, King Rassamarden, am the rightful sovereign of all men and women born on the planet of Land, and of all their offspring, wherever they may be. In consequence, all new territories on the planet of Overland are considered to have been occupied on my behalf. I therefore proclaim myself sole ruler of Land and Overland. Be it known that I intend to exact all tributes which are rightfully mine."

Orracolde lowered the paper and stared solemnly at Gartasian, awaiting his response.

Gartasian gaped at him for a few seconds, then began to laugh. The sheer preposterousness of what he had heard, combined with the pompous style of the delivery, had abruptly translated the entire scene into farce. Release of the tension which had been growing inside him fuelled his mirth, and he had genuine difficulty in bringing his breathing back under control.

"Have you lost your reason,
old
man?" Orracolde leaned over the rail, bronzed face thrust forward, like a snake spitting venom. "I see nothing to laugh at."

"Only because you can't see yourself," Gartasian said. "I don't know which was the greater fool—Rassamarden for issuing that ridiculous message; or you for undertaking such a long and hazardous journey to deliver it."

"Your punishment for insulting the King will be death."

"I tremble."

Orracolde's mouth twitched. "I will remember you, Gartasian, but for now I have more important concerns. Littlenight will soon be upon us. When darkness falls I will take my ship aloft—rather than give you the chance to launch a sneak attack—but I will pause at a height of one thousand feet and wait for aftday. Chakkell will no doubt be with you by that time, and you will communicate his response to me by sunwriter."

"Response?"

"Yes. Either Chakkell bows the knee to King Rassamarden willingly—or he will be compelled to do so."

"You truly
are
mad—a madman speaking for a madman." Gartasian held his bluehorn steady while one of the crewmen fired another burst of gas into the balloon. "Are you talking of war between our two worlds?"

"Most certainly."

Struggling with his growing incredulity, Gartasian said, "And how would such a war be prosecuted?"

"A fleet of skyships is already under construction."

"How many?"

Orracolde produced a thin smile. "Enough."

"There could never be enough," Gartasian said calmly. "Our soldiers would be waiting for each ship as it landed."

"You don't really expect me to swallow that,
old
warrior," Orracolde said, his smile widening. "I know how thinly your population must be scattered. With informed use of wind cells we can put down almost anywhere on this planet. We could land under cover of darkness, but there will be little need for stealth, because we have weapons the like of which you have never imagined.

"And on top of everything else—" Orracolde paused to glance at his three companions, who gave approving nods as though knowing what he was about to say—"there is the natural and undeniable superiority of the New Men."

"Men are men," Gartasian said, unimpressed. "How can there be
new
men?"

"Nature saw to that. Nature and the ptertha. We have been created with total immunity to the ptertha plague."

"So that's it!" Gartasian ran his gaze over the four narrow faces which, with their inhuman metallic sheen, could almost have belonged to four statues cast from the same mould, and understanding began to flicker in his mind. "I thought that … perhaps … the ptertha might have ceased their attacks."

"The attacks continue unabated, but now they are futile."

"And what about … my kind? Are there any survivors?"

"None," Orracolde said, smugly triumphant. "The old have all been swept away."

Gartasian was silent for a moment, saying a final goodbye to his wife and son, then his thoughts were drawn back to the problems of the present and the need to learn all he could about the interplanetary visitors. Implicit in the few words Orracolde had already spoken was a dreadful scenario, a vision of a civilisation in its death throes. The drifting globes of the ptertha had swarmed in the skies of Land, hunting down their human quarries without mercy, driving them closer and closer to extinction, until their numbers were so…

My
stomach is on fire!

The burning sensation was so severe that Gartasian almost doubled over. Within seconds the heat centre beneath his chest had spread tendrils into the rest of his torso, and at the same time the air about him seemed to cool a little. Unwilling to show any sign of discomfort, he sat perfectly still in the saddle and waited for the spasm to come to an end. It continued unabated and he realised he would have to try disregarding it while he gathered precious information.

"All swept away?" he said.
"All?
But that means your entire population has been born since the Migration."

"Since the Flight. We refer to that act of cowardice and betrayal as the Flight."

"But how could the babes have survived? Without parents it would have been…"

"We were born of those who had partial immunity," Orracolde cut in. "Many of them lived long enough."

Gartasian shook his head, pursuing the thought in spite of the spreading fire at the core of his being. "But many must have perished! What is your total population?"

"Do you think me a fool?" Orracolde said, a sneer appearing on his dark countenance. "I came here to learn about this world—not to throw away knowledge about my own. I have seen as much as I need to see, and as littlenight is almost here…"

"Your reluctance to answer my question is answer enough! Your numbers must be small indeed—perhaps even less than ours." Gartasian gave a violent shudder as, in contrast to the heat within his body, the air seemed to press in on him with a clammy coldness. He touched his brow, found it slick with perspiration, and a shocking idea was born deep in his mind, coiling like a worm. He had not seen a case of pterthacosis since his youth on Land, but nobody of his generation could ever forget the symptoms—the burning sensation in the stomach, the copious sweating, the chest pains and the bloating of the spleen…

"You grow pale,
old
warrior," Orracolde said. "What ails you?"

Gartasian held his voice steady. "Nothing ails me."

"But you sweat and shiver and…" Orracolde leaned forward across the rail, his gaze hunting over Gartasian's face, and his eyes widened. There was a moment of near-telepathic communion, then Orracolde drew back and gave a whispered order to his crew. One of them stooped out of sight and the ship's burner began a continuous roar while the other two men hurriedly began releasing the anchor lines from the downward-pointing cannon.

Gartasian had a pure, clear understanding of what he had read in the other man's eyes, and in the instant of accepting his own death sentence his mind had vaulted far beyond the circumscribed present. Earlier Orracolde had boasted of weapons outside the Overlanders' imaginings, but even he had been taken by surprise, had not sensed the dreadful truth foreshadowed by his own words. He and his crew were weapons in themselves—carriers of the ptertha plague in a form so virulent that an unprotected person had only to go near them to be smitten!