Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Рэй Брэдбери
pushed into Hue Helm’s stonewalled tool shed. It had been cleared of everything, doubtless for some officer’s quarters. Hull drew himself up and stood passively in the gathering darkness where a single shaft of sunset light angled through the door, before which stood two grim Empire men.
One of them spoke. “Keep peaceful, Weed,” he said in his N’Orleans drawl. “Go ahead with your praying, or whatever it is you do.”
“I do nothing,” said Hull. “The mountainies believe that a right life is better than a right ending, and right or wrong a ghost’s but a ghost anyway.”
The guard laughed. “And a ghost you’ll be.”
“If a ghost I’ll be,” retorted Hull, turning slowly toward him, “I’d sooner turn one—fighting!”
He sprang suddenly, crashed a mighty fist against the arm that bore the weapon, thrust one guard upon the other, and overleaped the tangle into the dusk. As he spun to circle the house, something very hard smashed viciously against the back of his skull, sending him sprawling half dazed against the wall.
THE HARRIERS
After a brief moment Hull sprawled half stunned, then his muscles lost their paralysis and he thrust himself to his feet, whirling to face whatever assault threatened. In the doorway the guards still scrambled, but directly before him towered a rider on a black mount, and two men on foot flanked him. The rider, of course, was the Princess, her glorious green eyes luminous as a cat’s in the dusk as she slapped a short sword into its scabbard. It was a blow from the flat of its blade that had felled him.
She held now the blunt weapon of the blue beam. It came to him that he had never heard her speak, but she spoke now in a voice low and liquid, yet cold, cold as the flow of an ice-crusted winter stream. “Stand quiet, Hull Tarvish,” she said. “One flash will burst that stubborn heart of yours forever.”
Perforce he stood quiet, his back to the wall of the shed. He had no doubt at all that the Princess would kill him if he moved; he couldn’t doubt it with her icy eyes upon him. He stared sullenly back, and a phrase of Old Einar’s came strangely to his memory. “Satanically beautiful,” the old man had called her, and so she was. Hell or the art of Martin Sair had so fashioned her that no man could gaze unmoved on the false purity of her face, no man at least in whom flowed red blood.
She spoke again, letting her glance flicker disdainfully over the two appalled guards. “The Master will be pleased,” she said contemptuously, “to learn that one unarmed Weed outmatches two men of his own cohort.”
The nearer man faltered, “But your Highness, he rushed us unexpect—”
“No matter,” she cut in, and turned back to Hull. For the first time now he really felt the presence of death as she said coolly, “I am minded to kill you.”
“Then do it!” he snapped.
“I came here to watch you die,” she observed calmly. “It interests me to see men die, boldly or cowardly or resignedly. I think you would die boldly.”
It seemed to Hull that she was deliberately torturing him by this procrastination. “Try me!” he growled.
“But I think also,” she resumed, “that your living might amuse me more than your death, and”—for the first time there was a breath of feeling in her voice—“God knows I need amusement!” Her tones chilled again. “I give you your life.”
“Your Highness,” muttered the cowed guard, “the Master has ordered—”
“I countermand the orders,” she said shortly. And then to Hull. “You are a fighter. Are you also a man of honor?”
“If I’m not,” he retorted, “the lie that says I am would mean nothing to me.”
She smiled coldly. “Well, I think you are, Hull Tarvish. You go free on your word to carry no weapons, and your promise to visit me this evening in my quarters at the eldarch’s home.” She paused. “Well?”
“I give my word.”
“And I take it.” She crashed her heels against the ribs of the great stallion, and the beast reared and whirled. “Away, all of you!” she ordered. “You two, carry tub and water for my bath.” She rode off toward the street.
Hull let himself relax against the wall with a low “whew!” Sweat started on his cold forehead, and his mighty muscles felt almost weak. It wasn’t that he had feared death, he told himself, but the strain of facing those glorious, devilish emerald eyes, and the cold torment of the voice of Black Margot, and the sense of her taunting him, mocking him, even her last careless gesture of freeing him. He drew himself erect. After all, fear of death or none, he loved life, and let that be enough.
He walked slowly toward the street. Across the way lights glowed in Marcus Orison’s home, and he wondered if Vail were there, perhaps serving the Princess Margaret as he had so lately suggested the contrary. He wanted to find Vail; he wanted to use her cool loveliness as an antidote for the dark poison of the beauty he had been facing. And then, at the gate, he drew back suddenly. A group of men in Empire garb came striding by, and among them, helmetless and with his head bound, moved the Master.
His eyes fell on Hull. He paused suddenly and frowned. “You again!” he said. “How is it that you still live, Hull Tarvish?”
“The Princess ordered it.”
The frown faded. “So,” said Joaquin Smith slowly, “Margaret takes it upon herself to interfere somewhat too frequently. I suppose she also freed you?”
“Yes, on my promise not to bear arms.”
There was a curious expression in the face of the conqueror. “Well,” he said almost gently, “it was not my intention to torture you, but merely to have you killed for your treason. It may be that you will soon wish that my orders had been left unaltered.” He strode on into the eldarch’s dooryard, with his silent men following.
Hull turned his steps toward the center of the village. Everywhere he passed Empire men scurrying about the tasks of encampment, and supply wagons rumbled and jolted in the streets. He saw files of the soldiers passing slowly before cook-wagons and the smell of food floated on the air, reminding him that he was ravenously hungry. He hurried toward his room beside File Ormiston’s shop, and there, tragic-eyed and mist-pale, he found Vail Ormiston.
She was huddled on the doorstep with sour Enoch holding her against him. It was Enoch who first perceived Hull, and his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged, and a gurgling sound issued from his throat. And Vail looked up with uncomprehending eyes, stared for a moment without expression, and then, with a little moan, crumpled and fainted.
She was unconscious only a few moments, scarcely long enough for Hull to bear her into his room. There she lay now on his couch, clinging to his great hand, convinced at last of his living presence.
“I think,” she murmured, “that you’re as deathless as Joaquin Smith, Hull. I’ll never believe you dead again. Tell me—tell me how it happened.”
He told her. “Black Margot’s to thank for it,” he finished.
But the very name frightened Vail. “She means evil, Hull. She terrifies me with her witch’s eyes and her hellstained hair. I haven’t even dared go home for fear of her.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about me, Vail. I’m safe enough.”
Enoch cut in. “Here’s one for the Harriers, then,” he said sourly. “The pack needs him.”
“The Harriers?” Hull looked up puzzled.
“Oh, Hull, yes!” said Vail. “File Ormson’s been busy. The Harriers are what’s left of the army—the better citizens of Ormiston. The Master’s magic didn’t reach beyond the ridge, and over the hills there’s still powder and rifles. And the spell is no longer in the valley, either. One of