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Tedric

That evening he selected a smooth, fine-grained stone and whetted the already almost perfect cutting edge of his new sword; an edge which in cross-section was rather more like an extremely sharp cold-chisel than a hollow-ground razor. He fitted the two-hand grip meticulously with worked and tempered rawhide, thrilling again and again as each touch of an educated and talented finger-tip told him over and over that here was some thing brand new in metal—a real god-metal. A piece of flat wrought iron, about three-sixteenths by five inches and about a foot long, already lay on a smooth and heavy hardwood block. He tapped it sharply with the sword's edge. The blade rang like a bell; the iron showed a bright new scar; that was all. Then a moderately heavy two-handed blow, about as hard as he had ever dared swing an iron sword. Still no damage. Then, heart in mouth, he gave the god-metal its final test; struck with everything he had, from heels and toes to finger-tips. He had never struck such a blow before, except possibly with a war-axe or a sledge. There was a ringing clang, two sundered slabs of iron flew to opposite ends of the room, the atrocious blade went on, half an inch deep into solid oak. He wrenched the weapon free and stared at the unmarred edge. UNMARRED! For an instant Tedric felt as though he were about to collapse; but sheerest joy does not disable. There was nothing left to do except make the links, hinge-pins, and so on for his armor, which did not take long. Hence, when the minions of Sarpedion next appeared, armored this time in the heaviest and best iron they had and all set to overwhelm him by sheer weight of numbers, he was completely ready. Nor was there palaver or parley. The attackers opened the door, saw the smith, and rushed. But Tedric, although in plain sight, had chosen the battleground with care. He was in a corner. At his back a solid-walled stairway ran up to the second floor. On his right the wall was solid for twenty feet. On his left, beyond the stairwell, the wall was equally solid for twice as far. They would have to come after him, and as he retreated, they would be fighting their way up, and not more than two at a time. This first swing, horizontal and neck-high, was fully as fierce-driven as the one that had cloven the test-piece and almost ruined his testing-block. The god-metal blade scarcely slowed as it went through armor and flesh and bone. In fact, the helmet and the head within it remained in place upon the shoulders for what seemed like seconds before the body toppled and the arteries spurted crimson jets. He didn't have to hit so hard, then. Good. Nobody could last very long, the way he had started out. Wherefore the next blow, a vertical chop, merely split a man to the chin instead of to the navel: and the third, a back-hand return, didn't quite cut the victim's head clear off. And the blows his steel was taking, aimed at head or neck or shoulder, were doing no harm at all. In fact, except for the noise, they scarcely bothered him. He had been designing and building armor for five years, and this was his masterpiece. The helmet was heavily padded: the shoulders twice as much so. He had sacrificed some mobility—he could not turn his head very far in either direction—but the jointing was such that the force of any blow on the helmet, from whatever direction coming, was taken by his tremendously capable shoulders. The weapons of the mercenaries could not dent, could not even nick, that case-hardened high-alloy steel. Swords bent, broke, twisted; hammers and axes bounced harmlessly off. Nevertheless the attackers pressed forward; and, even though each blow of his devastating sword took a life, Tedric was forced backward up the stairs, step by step. Then there came about that for which he had been waiting. A copper-clad priest appeared behind the last rank of mercenaries, staring upward at something behind the ironmaster, beckoning frantically. The priest had split his forces; had sent part of them by another way to the second floor to trap him between two groups; had come in close to see the trap sprung. This was it. Taking a couple of quick, upward, backward steps, he launched himself into the air with all the power of his legs. And when two hundred and thirty pounds of man, dressed in eighty or ninety or a hundred pounds of steel, leaps from a height of eight or ten feet upon a group of other men, those other men go down. Righting himself quickly, Tedric sprang toward the priest and swung; swung with all the momentum of his mass and speed and all the power of his giant frame; swung as though he were concentrating into the blow all his hatred of Sarpedion and everything for which Sarpedion stood—which in fact he was. And what such a saber-scimitar, so driven, did to thin, showy copper armor and to the human flesh beneath it, is simply nothing to dwell upon here. "HOLD!" he roared at the mercenaries, who hadn't quite decided whether or not to resume the attack, and they held. "Bu ... bub ... but you're dead!" the non-com stuttered. "You must be—the great Sarpedion would...." "A right lively corpse I!" Tedric snarled. "Your Sarpedion, false god and coward, drinker of blood and slayer of the helpless, is weak, puny, and futile beside my Llosir. Hence, under Llosir's shield and at Llosir's direction, I shall this day kill your foul and depraved god; shall send him back to the grisly hell from whence he came. "Nor do I ask you to fight for me. Nor would I so allow; for I trust you not, though you swore by all your gods. Do you fight for pleasure or for pay?" A growl was the only answer, but that was answer enough. "He of Sarpedion who paid your wages lies there dead. All others of his ilk will die ere this day's sunset. Be advised, therefore; fight no more until you know who pays. Wouldst any more of you be split like white-fish ere I go? Time runneth short, but I would stay and oblige if pressed." He was not pressed. Tedric whirled and strode away. Should he get his horse, or not? No. He had never ridden mighty Dreegor into danger wearing armor less capable than his own, and he wouldn't begin now. The Temple of Sarpedion was a tall, narrow building, with a far-flung outside staircase leading up to the penthouse-like excrescence in which the green altar of sacrifice was. Tedric reached the foot of that staircase and grimly, doggedly, cut his way up it. It was hard work, and he did not want to wear himself out too soon. He might need a lot, and suddenly, later on, and it would be a good idea to have something in reserve. As he mounted higher and higher, however, the opposition became less and less instead of greater and greater, as he had expected. Priests were no longer there—he hadn't seen one for five minutes. And in the penthouse itself, instead of the solid phalanx of opposition he had known would bar his way, there were only half a dozen mercenaries, who promptly turned tail and ran. "The way is clear! Hasten!" Tedric shouted, and his youthful squire rushed up the ramp with his axe and hammer. And with those ultra-hard, ultra-tough implements Tedric mauled and chopped the image of the god. <hr class="tb" /> Devann, Sarpedion's high priest, was desperate. He believed thoroughly in his god. Equally thoroughly, however, he believed in the actuality and in the power of Tedric's new god. He had to, for the miracle he had performed spoke for itself. While Sarpedion had not appeared personally in Devann's lifetime, he had so appeared many times in the past; and by a sufficiently attractive sacrifice he could be persuaded to appear again, particularly since this appearance would be in self-defense. No slave, or any number of slaves, would do. Nor criminals. No ordinary virgin of the common people. This sacrifice must be of supreme quality. The king himself? Too old and tough and sinful. Ah ... the king's daughter.... At the thought the pit of his stomach turned cold. However, desperate situations require desperate remedies. He called in his henchmen and issued orders. <hr class="tb" /> Thus it came about that a towering figure clad in flashing golden armor—the king himself, with a few courtiers scrambling far in his wake—dashed up the last few steps just as Tedric was wrenching out Sarpedion's liver. "Tedric, attend!" the monarch panted. "The priests have taken Rhoann and are about to give her to Sarpedion!" "They can't, sire. I've just killed Sarpedion, right here." "But they can! They've taken the Holiest One from the Innermost Shrine; have enshrined him on the Temple of Scheene. Slay me those traitor priests before they slay Rhoann and you may...." Tedric did not hear the rest of it, nor was his mind chiefly concerned with the plight of the royal maid. It was Sarpedion he was after. With a blistering oath he dropped the god's liver, whirled around and leaped down the stairway. It would do no good to kill only one Sarpedion. He would have to kill them both, especially since the Holiest One was the major image. The Holiest One ... the Sarpedion never before seen except by first-rank priests ... of course that would be the one they'd use in sacrificing a king's daughter. He should have thought of that himself, sooner, damn him for a fool! It probably wasn't too late yet, but the sooner he got there, the better would be his chance of winning. Hence he ran; and, farther and farther behind him, came the king and the courtiers. Reaching the Temple of Scheene, he found to his immense relief that he would not have to storm that heavily-manned rampart alone. A full company of the Royal Guard was already there. Battle was in progress, but very little headway was being made against the close-packed defenders of the god, and Tedric knew why. A man fighting against a god was licked before he started, and knew it. He'd have to build up their morale. But did he have time? Probably. They couldn't hurry things too much without insulting Sarpedion, for the absolutely necessary ceremonies took a lot of time. Anyway, he'd have to take the time, or he'd never reach the god. "Art Lord Tedric?" A burly captain disentangled himself from the front rank and saluted. "I'm Tedric, yes. Knewst I was coming?" "Yes, Lord. Orders came by helio but now. You are in command; you speak with the voice of King Phagon himself." "Good. Call your men back thirty paces. Pick me out the twelve or fifteen strongest, to lead. "Men of the Royal Guard!" He raised his voice to a volume audible not only to his own men, but also to all the enemy. "Who is the most powerful swordsman among you?... Stand forward.... This armor I wear is not of iron, but of god-metal, the metal of Llosir, my personal and all-powerful god. That all here may see and know, I command you to strike at me your shrewdest, most effective, most powerful blow." The soldier, after a couple of false starts, did manage a stroke of sorts. "I said strike!" Tedric roared. "Think you ordinary iron can harm the personal metal of a god? Strike where you please, at head or neck or shoulder or guts, but strike as though you meant it! Strike to kill! Shatter your sword! STRIKE!" Convulsively, the fellow struck, swinging for the neck, and at impact his blade snapped into three pieces. A wave of visible relief swept over the Guardsmen; one of dismay and shock over the ranks of the foe. "I implore pardon, Lord," the soldier begged, dropping to one knee. "Up, man! 'Tis nothing, and by my direct order. Now, men, I can tell you a thing you would not have fully believed before. I have just killed half of Sarpedion and he could not touch me. I am about to kill his other half—you will see me do it. Come what may of god or devil you need not fear it, for I and all with me fight under Llosir's shield. We men will have to deal only with the flesh and blood of those runty mercenaries of Tark." He studied the enemy formation briefly. A solid phalanx of spearmen, with shields latticed and braced; close-set spears out-thrust and anchored. Strictly defensive; they hadn't made a move to follow nor thrown a single javelin when the king's forces withdrew. This wasn't going to be easy, but it was possible. "We will make the formation of the wedge, with me as point," he went on. "Sergeant, you will bear my sword and hammer. The rest of you will ram me into the center of that phalanx with everything of driving force that in you lies. I will make and maintain enough of opening. We'll go up that ramp like a fast ship plowing through waves. Make wedge! Drive!" Except for his armor of god-metal Tedric would have been crushed flat by the impact of the flying wedge against the soldiery packed so solidly on the stair. Several of the foe were so crushed, but the new armor held. Tedric could scarcely move his legs enough to take each step, his body was held as though in a vise, but his giant arms were free; and by dint of short, savage, punching jabs and prods and strokes of his atrocious war-axe he made and maintained the narrow opening upon which the success of the whole operation depended. And into that constantly-renewed opening the smith was driven—irresistibly driven by the concerted and synchronized strength of the strongest men of Lomarr's Royal Guard. The result was not exactly like that of a diesel-powered snowplow, but it was good enough. The mercenaries did not flow over the sides of the ramp in two smooth waves. However, unable with either weapons or bodies to break through the slanting walls of iron formed by the smoothly-overlapping shields of the Guardsmen, over the edges they went, the living and the dead. The dreadful wedge drove on. As the Guardsmen neared the top of the stairway the mercenaries disappeared—enough of that kind of thing was a great plenty—and Tedric, after a quick glance around to see what the situation was, seized his sword from the bearer. Old Devann had his knife aloft, but in only the third of the five formal passes. Two more to go. "Kill those priests!" he snapped at the captain. "I'll take the three at the altar—you fellows take the rest of them!" When Tedric reached the green altar the sacrificial knife was again aloft; but the same stroke that severed Devann's upraised right arm severed also his head and his whole left shoulder. Two more whistling strokes and a moment's study of the scene of action assured him that there would be no more sacrifice that day. The King's Archers had followed close behind the Guards; the situation was well in hand. He exchanged sword for axe and hammer, and furiously, viciously, went to work on the god. He yanked out the Holiest One's brain, liver, and heart; hammered and chopped the rest of him to bits. That done, he turned to the altar—he had not even glanced at it before. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus2.jpg" width-obs="335" height-obs="500" alt=""/></div> Stretched taut, spread-eagled by wrists and ankles on the reeking, blood-fouled, green horror-stone, the Lady Rhoann lay, her yard-long, thick brown hair a wide-flung riot. Six priests had not immobilized Rhoann of Lomarr without a struggle. Her eyes went from shattered image to blood-covered armored giant and back to image; her face was a study of part-horrified, part-terrified, part-worshipful amazement. He slashed the ropes, extended his mailed right hand. "Art hurt, Lady Rhoann?" "No. Just stiff." Taking his hand, she sat up—a bit groggily—and flexed wrists and ankles experimentally, while, behind his visor, the man stared and stared. Tall—wide but trim—superbly made—a true scion of the old blood—Llosir's liver, what a woman! He had undressed her mentally more than once, but his visionings had fallen short, far short, of the entrancing, the magnificent truth. What a woman! A virgin? Huh! Technically so, perhaps ... more shame to those pusillanimous half-breed midgets of the court ... if he had been born noble.... She slid off the altar and stood up, her eyes still dark with fantastically mixed emotions. She threw both arms around his armored neck and snuggled close against his steel, heedless that breasts and flanks were being smeared anew with half-dried blood. He put an iron-clad arm around her, moved her arm enough to open his visor, saw sea-green eyes, only a few inches below his own, staring straight into his. The man's quick passion flamed again. Gods of the ancients, what a woman! There was a mate for a full-grown man! "Thank the gods!" The king dashed up, panting, but in surprisingly good shape for a man of forty-odd who had run so far in gold armor. "Thanks be to all the gods you were in time!" "Just barely, sire, but in time." "Name your reward, Lord Tedric. I will be glad to make you my son." "Not that, sire, ever. If there's anything in this world or the next I don't want to be, it's Lady Rhoann's brother." "Make him Lord of the Marches, father," the girl said, sharply. "Knowst what the sages said." "'Twould be better," the monarch agreed. "Tedric of old Lomarr, I appoint you Lord of the Upper, the Middle, and the Lower Marches, the Highest of the High." Tedric went to his knees. "I thank you, sire. Have I your backing in wiping out what is left of Sarpedion's power?" "If you will support the Throne with the strength I so clearly see is to be yours, I will back you, with the full power of the Throne, in anything you wish to do." "Of course I will support you, sire, as long as I live and with all that in me lies. Since time first was my blood has been vassal to yours, and ever will be. My brain, my liver, and my heart are yours." "I thank you, Lord Tedric. Proceed." Tedric snapped to his feet. His sword flashed high in air. His heavy voice rang out. "People of Lomarr, listen to a herald of the Throne! Sarpedion is dead; Llosir lives. Human sacrifice—yes, all sacrifice except the one I am about to perform, of Sarpedion himself to Llosir—is done. That is and will be the law. To that end there will be no more priests, but a priestess only. I speak as herald for the Throne of Lomarr!" He turned to the girl, still clinging to his side. "I had it first in mind, Lady Rhoann, to make you priestess, but...." "Not I!" she interrupted, vigorously. "No priestess I, Lord Tedric!" "By Llosir's brain, girl, you're right—you've been wasted long enough!" <hr class="tb" /> In another time-track another Skandos and another Furmin, almost but not quite identical with those first so named, pored over a chronoviagram. "The key point in time is there," the Prime Physicist said, thoughtfully, placing the point of his pencil near one jagged peak of the trace. "The key figure is Lord Tedric of Lomarr, the discoverer of the carburization of steel. He could be manipulated very easily ... but, after all, the real catastrophe is about three hundred eighteen years away; there is nothing alarming about the shape of the curve; and any interference with the actual physical events of the past would almost certainly prove calamitous. Over the years I have found your judgment good. What is your thought on this matter, Furmin?" "I would say to wait, at least for a few weeks or months. Even though eight hundred twelve fails, number eight hundred fifty or number nine hundred may succeed. At very worst, we will be in the same position then as now to take the action which has for a hundred years been specifically forbidden by both Council and School." "So be it." THE END <hr class="tb" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus1.jpg" width-obs="300" height-obs="364" alt=""/></div> The People Who Make OTHER WORLDS No. 11 EDWARD E. SMITH Born May 2, 1890; Sheboygan, Wisconsin. In December of the same year the family moved to Spokane, Washington, where we lived for about twelve years. I went to school through the sixth grade, sold newspapers, and so on—the routine life of a husky kid living on the wrong side of the tracks. In 1902 we moved to a homestead on the Pend d'Oreille River, in northern Idaho. There, besides picking up (in rather sketchy fashion) three more years of schooling, I worked at clearing land, harvesting, hay-baling, ranching, and umpteen different jobs in lumbering: from swamping out logs in the woods clear through to planing finished lumber in the mills. Deciding that I didn't like the woods, I let my older brother and sisters back me into a stiff collar and ship me to the prep school of the University of Idaho. From 1907 until 1914 I was either in school or earning money to go back. Mining, surveying, dozens of jobs in many lines—far too many to list here. In 1914 I graduated in chemical engineering. First job offered was in food work in the Bureau of Chemistry, Washington, D. C. Took it, and started studying organic and food chemistry at George Washington University. Married Jeannie MacDougall, of Boise, Idaho (formerly of Glasgow, Scotland) on Oct. 5, 1915. Three children—and, as of 1952, eight grandchildren. Became a specialist in cereal technology. Came the war. Wanted to fly a Jenny, but chemists were too scarce. (Or were Jennies too valuable?) So they gave me a commission in the reserve and loaned me to Herbert Hoover—for the duration, as it turned out. In pursuit of my M.S. and Ph.D. degrees I worked under Charles E. Munroe, probably the greatest high-explosives man yet to live. Got 'em—the M.S. in 1917, the Ph.D. in 1918; both from George Washington University. Chief Chemist F. W. Stock & Sons, Hillsdale, Mich., from 1919 to 1936; where I developed a line of fully-prepared cereal mixes; the most important of which turned out to be donut mixes. From 1936 to 1941 I was production manager for the Dawn Donut Co., of Jackson, Mich. Shortly after Pearl Harbor I went to Kingsbury Ordnance Plant, LaPorte, Ind., as chemical engineer on high explosives. (I was one year over age for reinstatement of my World War One commission). Senior chemical engineer, assistant chief, chief. Late in 1943 I was made head of the Inspection Division, and early in 1944 I was fired. Most of 1944 and most of 1945 I worked in various capacities on light farm machinery and heavy tanks for Allis-Chalmers. On Oct. 1, 1945, I came to Chicago as manager of the Cereal Mix Division of J. W. Allen & Co., which position I still hold. It's the biggest and best job I ever had. It has only one drawback—on it, unfortunately, I not only can't write stories on company time, but (since I have to concentrate my one-cylinder brain on SF in order to write SF) I can't write on my own time because the job gets in the way. Thus, I haven't done much writing since 1945. However, I hope to do more of it from now on. For, although I am only an amateur—or at best, a semi-pro—author, I certainly do not want to become an ex-author! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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