Mack Reynolds - The Space Barbarians

The lips of Don of the Clarks drew back over his teeth. “What has happened to you, John of the Hawks?”

“Perhaps I have grown a bit wiser.”

“You will not aid us in the coming battle?”

“There will be no coming battle, Don.”

The clannsman’s eyes narrowed. “The plan can and will go through without you, John.”

John shook his head. “No. It all depends upon surprise and your advance raiders coming through the sewers. If warned, the Sidonians would easily repulse you.”

“If warned!”

“Return to the clannsmen, Don of the Clarks, and tell them that I, once Supreme Raid Cacique of the Loch Confederation, have joined with the men from Beyond and will soon enter the government of the city. Say that I urge that all the clanns that have thus far taken to the hills and fought the new ways make their peace with the men of the League.”

He looked away, as though seeing into a far distance. “In the long run, though perhaps you and I will not live to see it, that is the shortest path to Caledonia’s regaining of her liberty.”

There was suddenly a skean in Don of the Clarks’ right hand. “You will not betray us, John! You who were my blood brother but have now turned slink and discarded your own kilts!”

John took a quick step back and went into a fighter’s crouch, his hands slightly forward. “I am unarmed, Don of the Clarks.”

Don came in slowly, alertly. No one knew better than he the fighting qualities of John of the Hawks.

John tensed, his eyes narrow, his hands extended a bit further out.

And Don of the Clarks came to a halt, stood erect and tossed the dagger aside.

“I cannot do it,” he said simply. “You are my blood brother and have saved my life an untold number of times. How would the town criers shout this, were I to kill you?”

John put his hand out and grasped the other’s shoulder. “I do what I must do, Don of the Clarks.”

“I know. I do not understand, but I trust you.” He looked down at his feet in disgust. “It would have been the greatest raid of all times. The bards…”

“The bards would have sung themselves hoarse,” John said sourly.

He reached into a coverall pocket and fetched forth a small box. “When you return, Don of the Clarks, give this to Alice of the Thompsons. Be sure she takes it. On your honor as my blood brother, be sure she takes it.”

Don frowned down at the packet.

“And tell her,” John said, “that somehow, someday, I will come to pay the brideright to the Clann Thompson and honorably steal her for my bride.”