He reappeared with the blankets draped over his shoulders along with a leather bag, a stout staff in his handand a wicked-looking knitS in a wooden scabbard at his waist. I waited outside to avoid the tearful traditional departure scene. He eventually emerged, looking slightly more sober, and stood swaying at my side. “Lead on, master.” “You show me the way. I want to visit Capo Doccia’s keep,” “No! Can it be true that you fight for him?” “That is the last thing I would ever do. In fact I would fight against him for a wooden groat. The truth is that the Capo has a friend of mine locked away in there. I want to get a message to him.” “There is great danger in even going close to his keep.” “I’m sure of it, but I am fearless. And I must contact my friend. You lead the way-and through the woods if you don’t mind. I don’t want to be seen by either Capo Doccia or his men. “ Obviously neither did Dreng. He sobered up as he led me by obscure paths and hidden ways to the other side of the forest. I peered out carefully at the roadway leading to the drawbridge, to the entrance to the keep.
“Any closer and they will see us,” he whispered. I looked up at the late afternoon sun and nodded agreement.
“It’s been a busy day. We’ll lay up in the woods here and make our move in the morning.” “No move. It’s death!” His teeth chattered though the afternoon was hot. He hurried as he led the way deeper into the forest, to a grassy hollow with a stream running through it. He produced a clay cup from his bag, fiHed it with water and brought it to me. I slurped and realized that having a knave wasn’t a bad idea after all. Once his chores were done he spread the blankets on the grass and promptly fell asleep on his. I sat down with my back to a tree and, for the first time, had a chance to examine the gun I had lifted.
It was sleek and new and did not fit this broken-down planet at all. Of course-it had to be from the Venian ship. The Bishop said that they had probably been smuggling weapons. And I was holding one of them in my hands. I looked at it more closely.
No identification, or serial number-or any other indication where it had been manufactured. And it was pretty obvious why. If the League agents succeeded in getting their hands on one of these it would be impossible to trace it back to the planet of origin. The gun was small in size, about haMway between a rifle and a pistol. I can claim some acquaintance with small arms-1 am an honored member of the Pearly Gates Gun Club and Barbecue Society because I am a pretty good shot and helped them win tournaments-but I had never seen anything like this before. I looked into the muzzle. It was about . 30 calibre, and unusually enough it was a smoothbore. It had-apen, iron sights, a trigger with safety button, one other lever on the stock. I turned this and the gun broke in half and a handful of small cartridges fell to the ground. I looked at one closely and began to understand how the gun worked.
“Neat. No lands or grooves so there is no worry about keeping the barrel clean. Instead of rotating, the bullet has fins to keep it in straight flight. And, uggh, make a nastier hole in anyone it hits. And no cartridge case eitherthis is solid propellent. Does away with all the worries about ejecting the brass.” I peeked into the chamber. “Efficient and foolproof. Push your cartridges into the recessed stock. When it’s full put one more into the chamber. Close and lock. A little solar screen here to keep a battery charged. Pull the trigger, a spot in the chamber glows hot and ignites the charge. The expanding gas shoots out the bullet-while part of the gas is diverted to ram the next bullet into the chamber. Rugged, almost foolproof, cheap to make. And deadly.” Depressed and tired, I ‘lay the gun beside me, dropped the sword close to hand, lay back on the blanket and followed Dreng’s good example.
By dawn we were slept out and slightly hungover. Dreng brought me water, then handed over a strip of what looked like smoked leather. He took one himself and began chewing on it industriously. Breakfast in bed-the greatest! I bit my piece and almost broke a tooth. It not only resembled smoked leather, but tasted exactly like it as well.
By the time that the drawbridge clanked down for the day we were lying in a copse on the hill above it, as close as we could get. It was the nearest cover that we could find since, for pretty obvious reasons, all the trees and shrubs had been cleared away from the approaches to the gate. It wasn’t as near as I liked, but would have to do. But it was far too close for Dreng for I could feel him shivering at my side. The first thing to emerge from the gate was a small body of armed men, followed by four slaves dragging a cart.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Tax collecting. Getting in their share of the crops.” “We’ve now seen who comes out-but do any of your farmers ever go in?” “Madness and death! Never!” “What about selling them food.” “They take all they want from us.” “Do you sell them firewood?” “They steal what they need.” They had a pretty one-sided economy, I thought gloomily. But I had to come up with something-1 just couldn’t leave The Bishop as a slave in this dismal place. My cogitation was interrupted by a commotion inside the gate. Then, as though my thoughts had coalesced into reality, a figure burst out of the gate, knocking aside the guard there, rushing on.
The Bishop!
Running fast. But right behind him were the pursuing guards.
“Take this and follow me!” I shouted, jamming the hilt of the sword into Dreng’s hand. Then I was off down the slope as fast as I could go, shouting to draw their attention. They ignored me until I fired a shot over their heads.
Things got pretty busy after that. The guards slowed, one even dived to the ground and put his hands over his head. The Bishop pelted on-but one of his pursuers was right behind him, swinging a long pike. Catching The Bishop on the back and knocking him down. I fired again as I ran, jumped over The Bishop and felled the pikeman with the butt of my gun.
“Up the hill!” I called out when I saw that The Bishop was struggling to his feet, blood all over his back. I banged off two more shots, then turned to help him. And saw that Dreng was clutching the sword-but still lying on top of the hill.
“Get down here and help him or I’ll kill you myselfT I shouted, turning and firing again. I hadn’t hit anyone but I was sure keeping their heads down. The Bishop stumbled on and Dreng, having plumbed some deep well of decency-or in fear that I would kill him-was coming to our aid. Shots were whistling past us now so I spun and returned their fire.
We reached the top of the low hill, went over it towards the relative safety of the woods. Dreng and I half carried the great form of The Bishop as he stumbled and staggered. I took a quick-and reassuring-look at his back. There was a shallow cut there, nothing too bad. Our pursuers were still not in sight when we crashed through the bushes and reached the safety of the trees.
“Dreng-lead us out of here. They mustn’t catch us now!” Surprisingly enough they didn’t The farm lad must have played in these woods for all of his young life because he knew every track and path. But it was hard work. We staggered on, then struggled our way along a steep grassy slope with a few miserable bushes halfway up. Dreng pulled the bushes aside to reveal the entrance to a shallow cave.
“Chased a Furry in here once. No one else knows about it.” The entrance was low and it was a labor to pull The Bishop through. But once inside, the cave opened out and there was more than enough space to sit up, although it wasn’t high enough to stand. I took one of the blankets and spread it out, then rolled The Bishop onto it so that he lay on his side. He groaned. His face was filthy and bruised. He had not an easy time of it. Then he looked towards me and smiled.
“Thank you, my boy. I knew you would be there.” “You did? That’s more than I knew.” “Nonsense. But, quickly please, the...” He writhed and moaned and his body arched into the air with unbearable pain. The paincuff-1 had forgotten about iti And it was receiving a continuous signal, certain death.