Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 2



Prince Leddravohr Neldeever was indulging himself in the one pursuit which could make him feel young again.

As the elder son of the King, and as head of all of Kolcorron’s military forces, he was expected to address himself mainly to matters of policy and broad strategy in warfare. As far as individual battles were concerned, his proper place was far to the rear in a heavily protected command post from which he could direct operations in safety. But he had little or no taste for hanging back and allowing deputies, in whose competence he rarely had faith anyway, to enjoy the real work of soldiering. Practically every junior officer and foot soldier had a winestory about how the prince had suddenly appeared at his side in the thick of battle and helped him hew his way to safety. Leddravohr encouraged the growth of the legends in the interests of discipline and morale.

He had been supervising the Third Army’s push into the Loongl Peninsula, on the eastern edge of the Kolcorronian possessions, when word had been received of unexpectedly strong resistance in one hilly region. The additional intelligence that brakka trees were plentiful in the area had been enough to lure Leddravohr into the front line. He had exchanged his regal white cuirass for one moulded from boiled leather and had taken personal control of part of an expeditionary force.

It was shortly after dawn when, accompanied by an experienced high-sergeant called Reeff, he bellied his way through forest undergrowth to the edge of a large clearing. This far to the east foreday was much longer than aftday, and Leddravohr knew he had ample reserves of light in which to mount an attack and carry out a thorough mopping-up operation afterwards. It was a goad feeling, knowing that yet more enemies of Kolcorron were soon to go down weltering in blood before his own sword. He carefully parted the last leafy screen and studied what was happening ahead.

A circular area some four-hundred yards in diameter had been totally cleared of tall vegetation except for a stand of brakka trees at the centre. About a hundred Gethan tribesmen and women were clustered around the trees, their attention concentrated on an object at the tip of one of the slim, straight trunks. Leddravohr counted the trees and found there were nine—a number which had magical and religious links with the heavenly constellation of the Tree.

He raised his field glasses and saw, as he had expected, that the object surmounting one of the trees was a naked woman. She was doubled over the tip of the trunk, her stomach pressed into the central orifice, and was held immovably in place by cords around her limbs.

“The savages are making one of their stupid sacrifices,” Leddravohr whispered, passing his glasses to Reeff.

The sergeant examined the scene for a long moment before returning the glasses. “My men could put the bitch to better uses than that,” he said, “but at least it makes things easier for us.”

He pointed at the thin glass tube attached to his wrist. Inside it was part of a cane shoot which had been marked with black pigment at regular intervals. A pacebeetle was devouring the shoot from one end, moving at the unchanging rate common to its kind.

“It is past the fifth division,” Reef said. “The other cohorts will be in position by now. We should go in while the savages are distracted.”

“Not yet.” Leddravohr continued watching the tribesmen through his glasses. “I can see two look-outs who are still facing outwards. These people are becoming a bit more wary, and don’t forget they have copied the idea of cannon from somewhere. Unless we take them completely by surprise they will have time to fire at us. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to breakfast on flying rock. I find it quite indigestible.”

Reeff grinned appreciatively. “We’ll wait till the tree blows.”

“It won’t be long—the top leaves are folding.” Leddravohr watched with interest as the uppermost of the tree’s four pairs of gigantic leaves rose from their normal horizontal position and furled themselves around the trunk. The phenomenon occurred about twice a year throughout a brakka tree’s span of maturity in the wild state, but it was one which as a native of Kolcorron he had rarely seen. In his country it was regarded as a waste of power crystals to permit a brakka to discharge itself.

There was a short delay after the top leaves had closed against the trunk, then the second pair quivered and slowly swung upwards. Leddravohr knew that, well below the ground, the partition which divided the tree’s combustion chamber was beginning to dissolve. Soon the green pikon crystals which had been extracted from the soil by the upper root system would mingle with the purple halvell gathered by the lower network of roots. The heat and gas thus generated would be contained for a brief period of time—then the tree would blast its pollen into the sky in an explosion which would be heard for miles.

Lying prone on the bed of soft vegetation, Leddravohr felt a pulsing warmth in his groin and realised he was becoming sexually excited. He focused his glasses on the woman lashed to the top of the tree, trying to pick out details of breast or buttock. Until that moment she had been so passive that he had believed her to be unconscious, perhaps drugged, but the movement of the huge leaves farther down the trunk appeared to have alerted her to the fact that her life was about to end, although her limbs were too well bound to permit any real struggle. She had begun twisting her head from side to side, swinging the long black hair which hid her face.

“Stupid bitch,” Leddravohr whispered. He had limited his study of the Gethan tribes to an assessment of their military capabilities, but he guessed their religion was the uninspired mishmash of superstitions found in most of the backward countries of Land. In all probability the woman had actually volunteered for her role in the fertility rite, believing that her sacrifice would guarantee her reincarnation as a princess on Overland. Generous dosages of wine and dried mushroom could render such ideas temporarily persuasive, but there was nothing like the imminence of death to induce a more rational mode of thought.

“Stupid bitch she may be, but I wish I had her under me right now,” Reeff growled. “I don’t know which is going to blow first—that tree or mine.”

“I’ll give her to you when we have finished our work,” Leddravohr said with a smile. “Which half will you take first?”

Reeff produced a nauseated grimace, expressing his admiration for the way in which the prince could match the best of his men in any branch of soldiering, including that of devising obscenities. Leddravohr turned his attention to the Gethan look-outs. His field glasses showed that they were, as he had anticipated, casting frequent glances towards the sacrificial tree, upon which the third pair of leaves had begun to rise. He knew there was a straightforward botanical reason for the tree’s behaviour—leaves in the horizontal attitude would have been snapped off by the recoil of the pollination discharge—but the sexual symbolism was potent and compelling. Leddravohr was confident that every one of the Gethan guards would be staring at the tree when the climactic moment arrived. He put his glasses away and took a firm grip on his sword as the leaves clasped the brakka’s trunk and, almost without delay, the lowermost pair began to stir. The flailing of the woman’s hair was frenetic now and her cries were thinly audible at the edge of the clearing, mingled with the chanting of a single male voice from somewhere near the centre of the tribal assembly.

“Ten nobles extra to the man who silences the priest,” Leddravohr said, reaffirming his dislike for all superstition-mongers, especially the variety who were too craven to do their own pointless butchery.

He raised a hand to his helmet and removed the cowl which had concealed its scarlet crest. The young lieutenants commanding the other three cohorts would be watching for the flash of colour as he emerged from the forest. Leddravohr tensed himself for action as the fourth pair of leaves lifted and closed around the brakka’s trunk, gentle as a lover’s hands. The woman trussed across the tip of the tree was suddenly quiescent, perhaps in a faint, perhaps petrified with dread. An intense pulsing silence descended over the clearing. Leddravohr knew that the partition in the tree’s combustion chamber had already given way, that a measure of green and purple crystals had already been mixed, that the energy released by them could be pent up for only a few seconds…

The sound of the explosion, although directed upwards, was appalling. The brakka’s trunk whipped and shuddered as the pollinated discharge ripped into the sky, a vaporous column momentarily tinged with blood, concentrically ringed with smoke.

Leddravohr felt the ground lift beneath him as a shock wave raced out through the surrounding forest, then he was on his feet and running. Deafened by the awesome blast of sound, he had to rely on the evidence of his eyes to gauge the degree of surprise in the attack. To the left and right he could see the orange helmet crests of two of his lieutenants, with dozens of soldiers emerging from the trees behind them. Directly ahead of him the Gethans were gazing spellbound at the sacrificial tree, whose leaves were already beginning to unfurl, but they were bound to discover their peril at any second. He had covered almost half the distance to the nearest guard and unless the man turned soon he was going to die-without even knowing what had hit him.

The man turned. His face contorted, the mouth curving downwards, as he shouted a warning. He stamped his right foot on something concealed in the grass. Leddravohr knew it was the Gethan version of a cannon—a brakka tube set on a shallow ramp and intended solely for anti-personnel use. The impact of the guard’s foot had shattered a glass or ceramic capsule in the breech and mixed its charge of power crystals, but—and this was why Kolcorron had little regard for such weapons—there was an inevitable delay before the discharge. Brief though the period was, it enabled Leddravohr to take evasive action. Shouting a warning to the soldiers behind him, he veered to the right and came at the Gethan from the side just as the cannon exploded and sent its fan-shaped spray of pebbles and rock fragments crackling through the grass. The guard had managed to draw his sword, but his preoccupation with the sacrifice had rendered him untuned and unready for combat. Leddravohr, without even breaking his stride, cut him down with a single slash across the neck and plunged on into the confusion of human figures beyond.

Normal time ceased to exist for Leddravohr as he cut his way towards the centre of the clearing. He was only dimly aware of the sounds of struggle being punctuated by further cannon blasts. At least two of the Gethans he killed were young women, something his men might grumble about later, but he had seen otherwise good soldiers lose their lives through trying to differentiate between the sexes during a battle. Turning a killing stroke into one which merely stunned involved making a decision and losing combat efficiency—and it took only an eyeblink for an enemy blade to find its mark.

Some of the Gethans were trying to make their escape, only to be felled or turned back by the encircling Kolcorronians. Others were making a fight of it as best they could, but their preoccupation with the ceremony had been fatal and they were paying the full price for their lack of vigilance. A group of tribesmen, plait-haired and outlandish in skin mosaics, got among the nine brakka trees and used the trunks as a natural fortification. Leddravohr saw two of his men take serious wounds, but the Gethans’ stand was short-lived. They were hampered by lack of room and made easy targets for spearmen from the second cohort.

All at once the battle was over.

With the fading of the crimson joy and the return of sanity Leddravohr’s cooler instincts reasserted themselves. He scanned his surroundings to make sure he was in no personal danger, that the only people still on their feet were Kolcorronian soldiers and captured Gethan women, then he turned his gaze to the sky. While in the forest he and his men had been safe from ptertha, but now they were in the open and at some slight risk.

The celestial globe which presented itself to Leddravohr’s scrutiny looked strange to a native of Kolcorron. He had grown up with the huge and misty sphere of Overland hanging directly overhead, but here in the Loongl Peninsula the sister world was displaced far to the west. Leddravohr could see clear sky straight above and it gave him an uncomfortable feeling, as though he had left an important flank exposed in a battle plan. No bluish specs were to be seen drifting against the patterns of daytime stars, however, and he decided it was safe to return his attention to the work at hand.

The scene all about him was a familiar one, filled with a medley of familiar sounds. Some of the Kolcorronians were shouting coarse jokes at each other as they moved about the clearing dispatching wounded Gethans and collecting battle trophies. The tribesmen had little that could be considered valuable, but their Y-shaped ptertha sticks would make interesting curios to be shown in the taverns of Ro-Atabri. Other soldiers were laughing and whooping as they stripped the dozen or so Gethan women who had been taken alive. That was a legitimate activity at this stage—men who had fought well were entitled to the prizes of war—and Leddravohr paid only enough attention to satisfy himself that no actual coupling had begun. In this kind of territory an enemy counterattack could be launched very quickly, and a soldier in rut was one of the most useless creatures in the universe.

Railo, Nothnalp and Chravell—the lieutenants who had led the other three cohorts—approached Leddravohr. The leather of Railo’s circular shield was badly gashed and there was a reddening bandage on his left arm, but he was fit and in good spirits. Nothnalp and Chravell were cleaning their swords with rags, removing all traces of contamination from the enamel inlays on the black blades.

“A successful operation, if I’m not mistaken,” Railo said, giving Leddravohr the informal field salute.

Leddravohr nodded. “What casualties?”

“Three dead and eleven wounded. Two of the wounded were hit by the cannon. They won’t see littlenight.”

“Will they take the Bright Road?”

Railo looked offended. “Of course.”

“I’ll speak to them before they go,” Leddravohr said. As a pragmatic man with no religious beliefs he suspected his words might not mean much to the dying soldiers, but it was the sort of gesture which would be appreciated by their comrades. Like his practice of permitting even the lowliest line soldier to speak to him without using the proper forms of address, it was one of the ways in which he retained the affection and loyalty of his troops. He kept to himself the intelligence that his motives were entirely practical.

“Do we push straight on the Gethan village?” Chravell, the tallest of the lieutenants, returned his sword to its sheath. “It’s not much more than a mile to the north-east, and they probably heard the cannon fire.”

Leddravohr considered the question. “How many adults remain in the village?”

“Practically none, according to the scouts. They all came here to see the show.” Chravell glanced briefly upwards at the dehumanised tatters of flesh and bone dangling from the tip of the sacrificial tree.

“In that case the village has ceased to be a military threat and has become an asset. Give me a map.” Leddravohr took the proffered sheet and went down on one knee to spread it on the ground. It had been drawn a short time previously by an aerial survey team and emphasised the local features of interest to the Kolcorronian commanders—the size and location of Gethan settlements, topography, rivers, and—most important from a strategic point of view—the distribution of brakka among the other types of forestation. Leddravohr studied it carefully, then outlined his plans.

Some twenty miles beyond the village was a much larger community, coded G31, capable of fielding an estimated three-hundred fighting men. The intervening terrain was, to say the least of it, difficult. It was densely wooded and crisscrossed with steep ridges, crevasses and fast-flowing streams—all of which conspired to make it a nightmare for Kolcorronian soldiers whose natural taste was for plains warfare.

“The savages must come to us,” Leddravohr announced. “A forced march across that type of ground will tire any man, so the faster they come the better for us. I take it this is a sacred place for them?”

“A holy of holies,” Railo said. “It’s very unusual to find nine brakka so close together.”

“Good! The first thing we do is bring the trees down. Instruct the sentinels to allow some villagers to get close enough to see what is happening, and to let them get away again. And just before littlenight send a detachment to burn the village—just to drive the message home. If we are lucky the savages will be so exhausted when they get here they’ll barely have enough strength to run on to our swords.”

Leddravohr concluded his deliberately simplistic verbal sketch by laughing and tossing the map back to Chravell. His judgment was that the Gethans of G31, even if provoked into a hasty attack, would be more dangerous opponents than the lowland villagers. The forthcoming battle, as well as providing valuable experience for the three young officers, would let him demonstrate once again that in his forties he was a better soldier than men half his age. He stood up, breathing deeply and pleasurably, looking forward to the remainder of a day which had begun well.

In spite of his relaxed mood, ingrained habit prompted him to check the open sky. No ptertha were visible, but he was alerted by a suggestion of movement in one of the vertical panels of sky seen through the trees to the west. He took out his field glasses, trained them on the adjoining patch of brightness and a moment later caught a brief glimpse of a low-flying airship.

It was obviously heading for the area command centre, which was about five miles away on the western edge of the peninsula. The vessel had been too distant for Leddravohr to be certain, but he thought he had seen a plume-and-sword symbol on the side of the gondola. He frowned as he tried to imagine what circumstance was bringing one of his father’s messengers to such an outlying region.

“The men are ready for breakfast,” Nothnalp said, removing his orange-crested helmet so that he could wipe perspiration from his neck. “A couple of extra strips of salt pork wouldn’t do any harm in this heat.”

Leddravohr nodded. “I suppose they’ve earned that much.”

“They’d also like to start on the women.”

“Not until we secure the area. Make sure it is fully patrolled, and get the slimers brought forward immediately—I want those trees on the ground fast.” Leddravohr moved away from the lieutenants and began a circuit of the clearing. The predominant sound was now that of the Gethan women screaming abuse in their barbaric tongue, but cooking fires were beginning to crackle and he could hear Railo shouting orders at the platoon leaders who were going on patrol.

Near the base of one of the brakka trees was a low wooden platform heavily daubed in green and yellow with the matt pigments used by the Gethans. The naked body of a white-bearded man lay across the platform, his torso displaying several stab wounds. Leddravohr guessed the dead man was the priest who had been conducting the ceremony of sacrifice. His guess was confirmed when he noticed high-sergeant Reeff and a line soldier in conversation close to the primitive structure. The two men’s voices were inaudible, but they were speaking with the peculiar intensity which soldiers reserved for the subject of money, and Leddravohr knew a bargain was being struck. He unstrapped his cuirass and sat down on a stump, waiting to see if Reeff was capable of any degree of subtlety. A moment later Reeff put his arm around the other man’s shoulders and brought him forward.

“This is Soo Eggezo,” Reeff said. “A good soldier. He’s the one who silenced the priest.”

“Useful work, Eggezo.” Leddravohr gazed blandly at the young soldier, who was tongue-tied and obviously overawed by his presence, and made no other response. There was an awkward silence.

“Sir, you generously offered a reward of ten nobles for killing the priest.” Reeff’s voice assumed a throaty sincerity. “Eggezo supports his mother and father in Ro-Atabri. The extra money would mean a great deal to them.”

“Of course.” Leddravohr opened his pouch and took out a ten-noble note and extended it to Eggezo. He waited until the soldier’s fingers had almost closed on the blue square of woven glass, then he quickly returned it to his pouch. Eggezo glanced uneasily at the sergeant.

“On second thoughts,” Leddravohr said, “these might be more … convenient. “He replaced the first note with two green squares of the five-noble denomination and handed them to Eggezo. He pretended to lose interest as the two men thanked him and hurried away. They went barely twenty paces before stopping for another whispered conversation, and when they parted Reeff was tucking something into a pocket. Leddravohr smiled as he committed Reeff s name to long-term memory. The sergeant was the sort of man he occasionally had use for—greedy, stupid and highly predictable. A few seconds later his interest in Reeff was pushed into the hinterland of his consciousness as a howl of jovial protest from many Kolcorronian throats told him the slimers had arrived to deal with the stand of brakka trees.

Leddravohr rose to his feet, as anxious as anybody to avoid getting downwind of the slimers, and watched the four semi-nude men emerge from the surrounding forest. They were carrying large gourds slung from padded yokes and they also bore spades and other kinds of digging implements. Their limbs were streaked with the living slime which was the principal tool of their trade. Every artifact they carried was made from glass, stone or ceramic because the slime would quickly have devoured all other materials, especially brakka. Even their breech clouts were woven from soft glass.

“Out of the way, dung-eaters,” their round-bellied leader shouted as they marched straight across the clearing to the brakka. His words provoked a barrage of insults from the soldiers, to which the other slimers responded with obscene gestures. Leddravohr moved to keep upwind of the four men, partly to escape the stench they were exuding, but mainly to ensure that none of the slime’s airborne spores settled on his person. The only way to rid one’s self of even the slightest contamination was by thorough and painful abrasion of the skin.

On reaching the nearest brakka the slimers set down their equipment and began work immediately. As they dug to expose the upper root system, the one which extracted pikon, they kept up their verbal abuse of all soldiers who caught their gaze. They could do so with impunity because they knew themselves to be the cornerstone of the Kolcorronian economy, an outcast elite, and were accorded unique privileges. They were also highly paid for their services. After ten years as a slimer a man could retire to a life of ease—provided he survived the lengthy process of being cleansed of the virulent mucus.

Leddravohr watched with interest as the radial upper roots were uncovered. A slimer opened one of the glass gourds and, using a spatula, proceeded to daub the main roots with the pus-like goo. Cultured from the solvent the brakka themselves had evolved to dissolve their combustion chamber diaphragms, the slime gave out a choking odour like bile-laden vomit mingled, incongruously, with the sweetness of whitefern. The roots, which would have resisted the sharpest blade, swelled visibly as their cellular structure was attacked. Two other slimers hacked through them with slate axes and, working with showy energy for the benefit of their audience, dug further down to reveal the lower root system and the bulbous swelling of the combustion chamber at the base of the trunk. Inside it was a valuable harvest of power crystals which would have to be removed, taking the utmost care to keep the two varieties separated, before the tree could be felled.

“Stand back, dung-eaters,” the oldest slimer called out. “Stand back and let…” His voice faded as he raised his eyes and for the first time realised that Leddravohr was present. He bowed deeply, with a grace which went ill with his naked and filth-streaked belly, and said, “I cannot apologise to you, Prince, because of course my remarks were not addressed to you.”

“Well put,” Leddravohr said, appreciating nimbleness of mind from such an unlikely source. “I’m pleased to learn you don’t suffer from suicidal tendencies. What’s your name?”

“It is Owpope, Prince.”

“Proceed with your labours, Owpope—I never tire of seeing the wealth of our country being produced.”

“Gladly, Prince, but there is always a slight risk of a blowout through the side of the chamber when we broach a tree.”

“Just exercise your normal discretion,” Leddravohr said, folding his arms. His acute hearing picked up a ripple of admiring whispers going through the nearby soldiery, and he knew he had added to his reputation as the prince with the common touch. The word would spread fast—Leddravohr loves his people so much that he will even converse with a slimer. The little episode was a calculated exercise in image-building, but in truth he did not feel he was demeaning himself by talking to a man like Owpope, whose work was of genuine importance to Kolcorron. It was the useless parasites—like the priests and philosophers—who earned his hatred and contempt. They would be the first to be purged out of existence when he eventually became King.

He was settling down to watch Owpope apply an elliptical pattern of slime to the curving base of the brakka trunk when his attention was again caught by a movement in the sky to the west. The airship had returned and was scudding through the narrow band of blue which separated Overland from the jagged wall of trees. Its appearance after such a short time meant that it had not landed at G1, the area command centre. The captain must have communicated with the base by sunwriter and then come directly to the forward zone—which made it almost certain that he was carrying an urgent message to Leddravohr from the King.

Mystified, Leddravohr shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare as he watched the airship slow down and manoeuvre towards a landing in the forest clearing.