Гарднер Дозуа - The Good Old Stuff

Frome gathered himself for another charge. Sirat blew and blew, his expression changing from confidence to alarm as nobody came. Frome knew that no Dzlieri in the neighborhood could hear the whistle over the continuous blast of the one attached to the kettle. But Sirat, unable to hear ultrasonics, did not know his signals were jammed.

As Frome started towards him again, Sirat threw a chair. It flew with deadly force; part of it gave Frome’s knuckles a nasty rap while another part smote him on the forehead, sending him reeling back.

Sirat darted across the room again on his short legs and tore from the wall one of those groups of native weapons he ornamented his palace with.

Down with a clatter came the mass of cutlery: a pair of crossed battle-axes, a gisarme, and a brass buckler. By the time Frome, having recovered from the impact of the chair, came up, Sirat had possessed himself of the buckler and one of the axes. He whirled and brought up the buckler just in time to ward off a lunge of the spear. Then he struck out with his ax and spun himself half around as he met only empty air. Frome, seeing the blow coming, had leaped back.

Sirat followed, striking out again and again. Frome gave ground, afraid to parry for fear of having his spear ruined, then drove Sirat back again by jabs at his head, legs, and exposed arm. They began to circle, the spearpoint now and then clattering against the shield.

Frome found that he could hold Sirat off by his longer reach, but could not easily get past the buckler. Round they went, clank/clank/

Sirat was slow for a second and Frome drove the spearpoint into his right thigh, just above the knee ... But the thrust, not centered, inflicted only a flesh-wound and a great rip in Sirat’s pants. Sirat leaped forward, whirling his ax, and drove Frome back almost to the wall before the latter stopped him with his thrusts.

They circled again. Then came a moment when Sirat was between Frome and the door to the sitting-room. Quick as a flash Sirat threw his ax at Frome, dropped his shield, turned, and ran for the curtained door, calling “Help!”

Frome dodged the ax, which nevertheless hit him a jarring blow in the shoulder. As he recovered, he saw Sirat halfway to safety, hands out to wrench the curtain aside. He could not possibly catch the Siamese before the latter reached the sitting-room and summoned his delinquent guards to help him.

Frome threw his spear like a javelin. The shaft arced through the air and the point entered Sirat’s broad back. In it went. And in, until half its length was out of sight.

Sirat fell forward, face down, clutching at the carpet and gasping.

Blood ran from his mouth.

Frome strode over to where the would-be emperor lay and wrenched out the spear. He held it poised, ready to drive home again, until Sirat ceased to move. He was almost sorry ... But there was no time for Hamlet-like attitudes; he wiped the blade on Sirat’ s clothes, carried it over to the bed, and sawed through Elena’s bonds with the edge.

Without waiting for explanations he said: “If we’re quick, we may get away before they find out. That is, if the guards haven’t heard the noise in here.”

“They will think it was he and I,” she replied. “Before he dragged me in here he told them not to come in, no matter what they heard, unless he whistled for them.”

“Serves him right. I’m going down-street to get some of his zebras.

Where’s that bloody gun of his?”

“In that chest,” she said, pointing. “He locked it in there, I suppose because he was afraid I’d snatch it and shoot him—as though I could kill any sentient being.”

“How do we get into—” Frome began, and stopped as he saw that the chest had a combination lock. “I fear we don’t. How about his ammunition-chest in the storeroom?”

“That has a combination lock, too.”

“Tamates!” growled Frome. “It looks as though we’d have to start out without a gun. While I’m gone, try to collect a sack of tucker from the kitchen, and whatever else looks useful.” And out he went through the slit.

Outside the palace, he took care to saunter as if on legitimate business. The Dzlieri, having cast off what few inhibitions they normally possessed, were too far gone in their own amusements to pay him much heed, though one or two roared greetings at him .

Catching the zebras, though, was something else. The animals dodged around the corral, evading with ease his efforts to seize their bridles. Finally he called to a Dzlieri he knew: “Mzumelitsen, lend a hand, will you? God wants a ride.”

“Wait till I finish what I am doing,” said the Dzlieri.

Frome waited until Mzumelitsen finished what he was doing and came over to help collect three zebras. Once caught, the animals followed Frome back to the palace tamely enough. He hitched them to the rail in the rear and went into the machine-shop, where he rummaged until he found a machete and a hatchet. He also gathered up the radar-target, which looked sdll serviceable if slightly battered.

When he got back he found that Elena had acquired a bag of food, a supply of matches, and a few other items. These they loaded on one of the zebras, and the other two they saddled.

When they rode out of Amnairad, the Dzlieri celebration was still in its full raucous swing.

Next day they were beginning to raise the lower slopes of the foothills of Mount Ertma when Frome held up a hand and said: “Listen!”

Through the muffling mass of the Vishnuvan jungle they heard loud Dzlieri voices. Then the sound of bodies moving along the trail came to their ears.

Frome exchanged one look with Elena and they broke into a gallop. The pursuers must have been coming fast also, for the sounds behind became louder and louder. Frome caught a glimpse of the gleam of metal behind them. Whoops told them the Dzlieri had seen them, too.

Frome said: “You go on; I’ll lead them off the trail and lose them.”

“I won’t! I won’t desert you—”

“Do as I say!”

“But—”

“Go on!” he yelled so fiercely that she went. Then he sat waiting until they came into sight, fighting down his own fears, for he had no illusions about being able to “lose” the Dzlieri in their native jungle.

They poured up the trail towards him with triumphant screams. If he only had a gun ... At least they did not seem to have any, either. They had only a few guns that would shoot (not counting the shotguns, whose shells were still locked up) and would have divided into many small parties to scour the trails leading out from their center.

Frome turned the zebra’s head off into the jungle. Thank the gods the growth was thinner here than lower down, where the jungle was practically impassable off the trails.

He kicked his mount into an irregular nm and vainly tried to protect his face from the lashing branches. Thorns ripped his skin and a trunk gave his right leg a brutal blow. As the Dzlieri bounded off the trail after him, he guided his beast in a wide semicircle around them to intersect the trail again behind his pursuers.

When he reached the trail, and could keep his eyes open again, he saw that the whole mob was crowding after him and gaining, led by Mishinatven. As the trail bent, Sirat’s lieutenant cut across the corner and hurled himself back on the path beside the Earthman. Frome felt for his machete, which had been slapping against his left leg.

The Dzlieri thundered at him from the right, holding a javelin up for a stab.

“Trickster! Deicide!” screamed Mishinatven, and thrust. Frome slashed through the shaft. As they galloped side by side, the point grazed Frome’s arm and fell to the ground.

Mishinatven swung the rest of the shaft and whacked Frome’s shoulders.

Frome slashed back; heard the clang of brass as the Dzlieri brought up his buckler. Mishinatven dropped the javelin and snatched out his short sword. Frome parried the first cut and, as Mishinatven recovered, struck at the Dzlieri’s sword-hand and felt the blade bite bone. The sword spun away.