Barrington Bayley - Star Winds

A thought came to Rachad. He reached out and unscrewed the lid, leaving it in place but loose on the top of the jar. Then, crossing the room, he lay on his bed and closed his eyes.

He had intended merely to sleep and to spy on the King surreptitiously, but instead found that he must have dozed off for a few minutes. He awoke with a start, to see that the King had succeeded in climbing out of the jar and, dripping water onto the tabletop, had made his way to where the Queen was imprisoned at the other end of the line, separated from him by the Priest and the Knight. Now the homunculus was frantically trying to shin up the smooth glass surface, while the Queen, her hands pressed against the inside of the jar, watched him intently, her pretty face wide-eyed with alarm and expectancy.

Already the King was beginning to flag. Rachad recalled that an homunculus could not live long once removed from its nurturing solution. He continued to watch for a while, until the King fell to the tabletop in exhaustion, his arms clasped pathetically around the jar.

Then it occurred to Rachad to try a second experiment. In his thoughts, he ordered the King to rise, to return to his own place. At first nothing happened. Propping himself on one elbow, Rachad tried again, imagining his thoughts as a mental force that was reaching out to the dying homunculus, silently commanding his obedience. Now the King responded. He raised his head, clambered slowly to his feet, and with stooped, dragging steps plodded doggedly back the way he had come.

Thrilled, Rachad followed every inch of his progress, never letting up the mental effort. Halfway home, however, the King’s strength gave out, and he collapsed in a bedraggled heap.

Rachad sprang from the bed, not wanting to lose one of his living toys, and picked up the homunculus. It felt cold and soft in his hand, and wriggled feebly. He plopped it back into the empty jar and screwed on the cap.

The King sank to the bottom, where he squatted with his head between his upthrust knees, hiding his face with his arms.

The incident seemed to have disturbed the other homunculi. The Knight was impotently swinging his axe against the wall of his glass prison. The Priest, too, banged indignantly against the inside of his own jar, silently mouthing.

Rachad returned to his bed, much entertained by the entire episode.

He grinned to himself. Next time he would arrange for the King actually to succeed in reaching the Queen. It would be fun to see what the two of them got up to, when ensconced in the same jar together.

But in a way, he thought wryly, his own situation was not unlike theirs. They were encased in their glass jars, he in the Aegis. By now he had all but despaired of ever finding a way to open the gate. He was so wearied of his life here that, were he not afraid of what Matello might do to him, he would have considered abandoning his mission altogether and asking the duke to let him go—if that could have been done without arousing his suspicions.

Refreshed by his immersion in the mineral water, the King was coming to his feet again to adopt the formally upright pose which was characteristic of all the homunculi. At least, Rachad reflected, he could now find some diversion in using his mental power on them, using them as living dolls.

He lay down and was about to drift into sleep again, when he suddenly sat bolt upright. The idea that had come to him had illuminated his thoughts like a flash of lightning.

What fool he had been! How obvious it was!

He stared at the homunculi. The way to open the Aegis was right there in front of his eyes!

Desperately Baron Matello hacked with his long-bladed broadsword at the Kerek officer that was trying to dismember him with one of its curiously curved sickle-weapons. Skittering back and forth on its four legs, the creature swung the sickle to and fro in clever, deceptive thrusts. Matello swiped the weapon aside hastily and, wielding his sword with both hands, renewed the attack.

Vapor puffed as the edge of his blade bit into the alien’s nacreous neck armor. He chopped again, and cut the giraffe-like neck right through. Decapitated, gouting greenish blood, the Kerek collapsed.

Then a human Kerek-warrior rushed at Matello from across the deck of the Bucentaur . So swift and furious was the onslaught that the baron reeled back, receiving a confused impression of honey-colored armor and a deadly, flickering scythe-sword.

Wildly he sought to defend himself. Suddenly the golden-armored figure bent at the waist and tipped forward, a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, falling on Matello.

The baron pushed the corpse aside and raised his sword in thanks to the archer who had probably saved his life.

He had never known such a shambles. Though his men had practically cleared the Bucentaur’ s deck of Kerek now, the galley that had rammed her was solidly enmeshed in her superstructure. But the fact was that so far Matello’s ship had come off lightly. Not far away floated the gutted hulk of the royal barge, still glowing with sticky fire, and attached to the Bucentaur by a long flexible trunk through which the king and his retinue had escaped as the flames spread.

Matello leaned wearily on his sword, thinking that there might have been a chance of victory if only everything could have been gotten ready in time. As it was, the Kerek had emerged from the shoals and attacked Lutheron’s gathering fleet with a huge horde, catching it by surprise.

The two fleets were now battling as they traveled together at superlight velocity. And that battle, invisible from where Matello stood for the most part, was ending in the total destruction of Maralian power.

Peering into space, he saw something that chilled him. He saw glints of blue in the distance, quickly resolving into a score of galleys bearing remorselessly down on the Bucentaur . And these new, larger galleys the Kerek were deploying now, Matello knew, were equipped with catapults and spring cannon. He glared around him, aware that the Bucentaur had already lost a good part of her armament—as well as her smaller craft—in earlier encounters.

Then a gladsome sight glided into view to cut off the attacking squadron. It was the Amanda , a giant Maralian galleon, almost as large as the Bucentaur but every inch a fighting ship. She bristled with huge weapons and besides that was undamaged, being part of the small reserve that had but recently added itself to the battle.

Even as he watched she let loose a drenching salvo of sticky fire, the combustible that burned under any conditions, that stuck to its target and spread until it had consumed it. Matello watched for a few moments, then turned and dodged through one of the hooded doorways. Sheathing his green-dripping sword, he loped through the long passageways, a tall figure in his tight-fitting purple spacesuit which was ribbed with steel bands for armor. Soon he came to the control room. Sliding back his faceplate, he entered.

King Lutheron was present, his face pale, his features gaunt. He was staring at the big viewscreen where the huge galleon was beating off the Kerek ships.

The captain rose as Matello appeared. “The Amanda is screening us from further attacks while she can, my lord. She signals us to withdraw, to save the king while we may.” He glanced at Lutheron with a troubled expression.

“I agree,” Matello rumbled. “Without doubt that is what we should do.”

King Lutheron tore his gaze with difficulty from the glass screen. His voice was reedy with grief. “A king without a country?” he said. “Maralia is about to be overrun.”

“To lose the battle is bad enough,” Matello argued, “but if Your Majesty falls too… While Your Majesty lives there is still hope. But when a king falls in battle, often his nation disappears under the heel of the conqueror forever.”