“I'd guess we're about to get our due,” St. Helens whispered. “Even you, Jon, for riding with the Roundear.”
Jon glared at him. Though he had told her about Female Liberation, she sometimes considered him a chauvinist. No one had helped him more than she. Why if she hadn't grabbed Kelvin's hand and aimed the Mouvar weapon for him, the witch would have won! Maybe she should tell him about the alias bit and see how snug his infamous top was then.
But was this really about that? St. Helens seemed to think they were here for some sort of reward or recognition, but he could be, and usually was, mistaken.
Curtains were pulled open by two lackeys in royal livery. There sat King Rufurt on his throne. Instead of his crown he wore an absurd, tight-fitting stockelcap. He also wore a deep frown, which was even more unusual for him.
“Hackleberry, Crumbs, and Sean Reilly, alias St. Helens, you have been summoned to my presence without explanation. You are wondering why.”
This was not, Jon thought, the king's customary way of speaking. But she couldn't ponder that right now; she was too busy trying to look covertly at St. Helens to see how he liked that “alias"!
But the fool hadn't even picked up on it. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I suspect the recent conflict with Aratex and its annexing has a little something to do with it.”
“Roundear, I did not give you permission to speak,” the king said sharply. “My patience has been severely strained lately. Do not strain it further.”
St. Helens looked surprised. In a heartbeat or less he'd realize he'd been insulted and get angry. But even as Jon thought this, the king was standing, glaring at them. Judging from his expression, he was about to order their executions.
Jon found that she was doing what everyone else was doing. All five were trying hard to close unsightly gaping mouths.
“You know of course about Klingland and Kance,” Rufurt continued. “Those two related kingdoms ruled by brats Kildom and Kildee. Long have they been a thorn in your kingdom's side.”
“But-- but Your Majesty!” Mor exclaimed, unable to hold his peace. “There has never been trouble between our kingdoms! Never, in all of history!”
“You're a historian, Crumb?”
“N-no, Your Majesty. But it's common knowledge. With other of the seven kingdoms, such as Aratex before we annexed it, there might have been trouble, but never-- “
“Silence!” the king shouted. “You will not interrupt again! Not on pain of torture!”
Mor looked as if he were about to choke. After having been treated as an equal by King Rufurt, this was embarrassing in the extreme to him.
“As I was saying,” Rufurt continued grimly, “there have always been difficulties. Only recently it has come to my attention that these two kingdoms plan aggressive war. We must take action before they invade our territory. The roundear should have known this. ‘Uniting four,’ the prophecy says, but just when the ‘hero’ is needed, he's gone. Probably dallying with wenches in a far foreign land.”
“Your Majesty, I protest!” Heln exclaimed, for once not philosophical about a slight.
“Silence!” the king roared. “Do not presume that because you are mated to the roundear and carry his brat that you are above punishment!”
Heln gasped, started to open her mouth, then closed it. Jon, though furious herself, was glad that the woman managed to stifle her reaction. This had gone beyond error or thoughtless affront. This was deliberate insult, by the last person expected to do it.
Something was not right, here. This wasn't the king who had spent all those years in his own dungeon with her father. It couldn't be!
“So they plan aggression, and we must move fast,” the king said, as if satisfied with his logic. “Fortunately there is another kingdom willing to be our ally: Hermandy.”
“Hermandy!” Les cried. “But Hermandy has always been-- “
Again the king's eyes glared around, as if with a hatred of all present and, indeed, of all mankind. It was a look that had never been seen on Rufurt's face, even during imprisonment and humiliation. There was more than hatred there; there was madness.
Jon swallowed. That didn't help, so she swallowed again. Something was starting to form in her mind, something she dared not consider directly right now. But it pushed forward relentlessly.
In the other frame there had been such a king. She had not seen him, and none present had, but Kelvin had, and John Knight, and so had Kian. Oh, if only they are all right! If only they are safe in that other frame with nothing more serious than flopeared persons and overgrown snakes to worry about!
Les hung his head. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Do not do so again. As I was saying, the situation is critical. Obviously I will have no help from the Roundear, so I am ordering you male Crumbs to lead troops into Klingland and Kance. And you, Reilly, do you have that belt that allowed you to fly?”
“No, Your Majesty. Kelvin has that, as well as the gauntlets and the Mouvar weapon.”
“Typical,” the king said sourly. “Irresponsible in an agent of prophecy. But never mind that. You are ordered to proceed forthwith to Hermandy, as my personal messenger to King Bitler.”
St. Helens looked startled. “Your Majesty, I've never been-- “
“Those are your orders. Are you refusing to obey?”
“What an attitude! The king seemed to be trying to provoke dissent, so he could claim treason. “No, Your Majesty,” St. Helens said. “It's just that I haven't been to Hermandy and I haven't dealt with kings.”
“You dealt with Phillip of Aratex.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. But-- ” Then, seeing the way the king was looking at him, St. Helens reverted to his charm, which was a considerable asset because it was normally well hidden. “Though I haven't had the honor to serve you in such a capacity before, I certainly will now.”
If the king was charmed, he did a remarkable job of concealing it. He turned brusquely to Mor and Les, as if he had never even spoken to St. Helens. “And you, Crumbs?”
Mor shrugged, perhaps not trusting himself to speak. There was something about the way the king had pronounced their name that made it seem derogatory. Les answered for both of them. “We certainly will follow your orders, Your Majesty. Though neither of us have been in uniform since the recent war, we'll endeavor to serve you as we must.”
Again this graciousness was wasted on the king. “You will do that.” His dour attention now turned to Heln. “Since your errant husband is not here, you will stay at the palace until he returns or the royal physician delivers you of child. Whichever event occurs first.”
Heln had the wit not to show by her expression that this was the last place she preferred to be. The king had not called her a guest, and it might be more like imprisonment.
Jon straightened her shoulders. She was next, she knew.
“And you, Jon Hackleberry, sister to the hero and mate to Lester Crumb-- ” The way he spoke those words made it sound like a disparagement. He was suddenly very good at sounding bad! “You will stay with her as her companion. Is that acceptable?”
“Very acceptable,” Jon said tersely. As it has to be. But at least I'll have the chance to watch over Heln. She'll need an ally. Until Kelvin's return. Until he's back here, and knocks your lying carcass off the throne you usurped, you impostor!
“Then this audience is at an end.” Uncharacteristically, the king clapped his hands, and retainers who had assuredly not been here during their recent visit took them in charge and led them from his presence.
When they were alone, getting their breath, getting their color back, Jon said what she had been thinking. “He's not.”
“Lass, I've thought that myself!” Mor said. “But if he isn't who he looks like, then-- “
“That other king, I think. The one Kelvin talked about.”
“King-- ” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Rowforth. Of Hud? King Rowforth of the torture chamber and the serpents?”
>
“Who else?” she asked, and saw no disagreement in the others.
“But how-- ?”
“I don't know. I thought they were going to execute him,” Jon said.
“Kelvin wouldn't execute anybody in cold blood,” Heln said.
Jon nodded. “A pity, maybe. He must have escaped. It has to be. How else?”
Mor nodded. “Uh, I don't know. But it just doesn't make sense. Even if his own people didn't kill him, and he got here, there's Rufurt.”
“Which is why we have to play along, Father,” Les said. “For the sake of the real king.”
“You really think he's not?” St. Helens asked.
“Don't you?” Mor returned.
St. Helens said some volcanic words. Heln turned away, but did not seem to take strong exception. “But kings will be kings, as the saying goes. It could be he's had a lot on his mind. Maybe his imprisonment is catching up with him, a gear loose somewhere. A bad situation coming up, a bad time for it, and-- “
“You don't believe that,” Jon said.
“No,” St. Helens admitted. “We'd better do just as this one says. If he's not the Rufurt we fought for, then it will be out with him.”
“And if there's a war started as a result?” Les asked.
“Hm, there is the prophecy.”
“St. Helens!” his pregnant daughter said. “You really want to be fighting again? I thought you'd had enough. After your crossbow wound and after old Melbah-- “
“Yes, yes, it was a close thing. But Kelvin did come back in time, didn't he? Just in time. Right, Jon?”
Jon found herself nodding. “We stopped her,” she said. In her mind she saw again the moment of the Mouvar's weapon finally going off and sending its antimagic to turn the evil back on its sender. But that seemed almost a lifetime ago. The situation now was not that desperate. But would it become so? She was very much afraid it would.
St. Helens was smiling. He liked the idea of a war that would fulfill that prophecy line. He liked it, though the last two words, “uniting two,” had almost cost his life and the lives of Les and Mor.
You'd better not give me any trouble, St. Helens, she thought viciously. I'm a liberated woman, and I'm on to you. You're an opportunist, but you won't opportune your way with tyrants. Try, and I won't wait for Kelvin. Succeed, and I'll rock your charming head off! And she made a tiny motion with her hand, as if using her sling to hurl a rock at someone's head.
CHAPTER 3
Tribute
Kelvin opened his eyes to see a squat, ugly being with a head growing out of its shoulders and no neck at all. The being was crouched down, turning the Mouvar weapon over and over in webbed, long-fingered hands. The creature's arms and legs and webbed toes matched its fingers. On either side of the blunt head were round, flat spots resembling those on the head of a froog. More than anything it seemed like a giant froog with human additions.
As he turned, he could see the others of his party, also conscious. His father looked as bewildered and helpless as he felt. Kian looked, if anything, worse, as though all his buoyancy and confidence were now replaced with despair. Froog men and women were all about them in this steamy swamp. All their weapons were being inspected and chatted over. Kelvin and his companions themselves were bound hand and foot.
“Ohhh, we're not where we should be,” John Knight said. “I'm sorry, Kelvin, you were right. The controls on the transporter were tampered with.”
But by whom? Kelvin dared not speak the question. There were more immediate matters. One of these squatted directly in front of him and thrust a large, flat thumb of a greenish webbed hand into his face.
“You godhunters go to god,” the creature said. Its voice was liquid and bubbling, as if breathed out under water. Throat sacks just beneath its head vibrated as it spoke, obviously with difficulty.
“We're not godhunters,” Kelvin said. Whatever they are.
“We see,” said the being. “We see. God see. God see all.”
What god? A god to creatures who looked like these could be evil and multieyed. He imagined a serpent with eyes all along its back and belly and sides: gigantic, looking down at them from concealment in those prickly tree branches, or invisibly from the orangish sky.
“There won't be any wedding,” Kian moaned. “I'm sorry, Kelvin, Father.”
“You didn't bring us, Son. We came of our own accord.” Trust John Knight to try to make them feel better. “We'll get this straightened out and then we'll go to the right place and get you and Lonny married as planned.”
“You go to god,” the froog-eared creature said reprovingly. “Strangers, tribute. Tribute, strangers.”
As it spoke, another of the creatures was poking a stick with sticky needles on it into the Mouvar weapon's bell-shaped muzzle. Its webbed fingers touched and squeezed the trigger. Pretty sparks and a low hissing amused and possibly delighted the meddler, doing no harm. There was no hostile magic so the display was entirely meaningless.
“I'd say these are real primitives,” John Knight said. “Not sophisticates like the flopears.”
Kelvin knew what he meant. The flopears of the other frame had been extremely savvy and tough creatures. It might be nice if these were their analogues in this strange frame. The beings here seemed to have no inkling. If John had insulted them by calling them primitives, they did not realize it.
The froog-face in front of him repeated, “You go to god. You go to god. All of you together to god.”
“Persistent devil,” John remarked. “You lads have any idea how to define a godhunter?”
“One who hunts a god,” Kelvin said. Stupid talk, but it was necessary to keep their courage up. Where was the levitation belt? He had worn it around his middle and now it was gone. His father-in-law St. Helens had become quite expert with it during the late unpleasantness, and afterward Kelvin had practiced with it and gotten quite good himself...
Where was that belt? With it, he could extricate them all from this predicament.
A great cry went up. One of the froogears was strutting about wearing it over its naked loins.
“Oh, boy,” John said. “If-- but maybe it won't.”
Just then it did. Webbed fingers found and pressed the pretty red button. The froogear went sailing up. Froog-faces turned upward, greatly excited or indifferent as suited the individual. Some of the faces made croaking sounds. The biggest of the creatures stretched out an arm and croaked advice.
The fumbler fumbled some more. Off he went, first to the east and then to the west, and finally smack into a prickly tree. While hanging there, not seriously hurt or alarmed, the aeronaut moved the lever at the side of the belt forward and back. The result was that the creature worked itself deeper into the prickly branches.
The big froogear stepped over to John and nudged him with a webbed toe. “Get him down!”
“I'm tied,” John said, reasonably.
“Tell how. Get down.”
John considered briefly. “Press red button. Move lever to middle position. Climb down tree.”
The big froogear turned his face treeward and croaked an evident translation. Almost immediately the adventurer was visible sliding and scrambling among the branches. He fell partway, landed in greenish mud, and got up laughing. A quick roll in a pile of red sand and he approached the leader and held out the soiled but unharmed belt.
“Did we win one, Father?” Kelvin asked. “Are they going to think twice before croaking us in some form of sacrifice?”
“I'd like to think so, Son. These aren't flopears. Maybe they've got something like our dragons, and maybe something like the serpents the flopears sacrificed to. But if they've got the brains of a fleouse they'll be impressed.”
The impression seemed to relate only to John Knight. The leader and his followers acted almost as if levitation belts weren't really strange. What was with these creatures, anyway?
After a suitable interval, during which all their gear was examined and reexamined, the leader g
ave orders. The prisoners were lifted and carried on slippery smooth froogear shoulders. The creatures might look clumsy, but they were quite strong. Behind them, Kelvin managed to discern, other green shoulders carried everything they had brought that was not presently attached to them, including all weapons.
Well, now. If they had any chance to escape, they could grab one of the weapons and make it good. Evidently the froogears didn't really understand the nature of those devices.
Then most of the stuff, including the weapons, was deposited in a hollow tree, and left behind. Kelvin's hope sank; so much for having their things handy!
They were carried an interminable distance. Through vast expanses of swamp. Between prickly tree trunks that looked like something that ought to be growing in a desert. Past huge piles of reddish sand sometimes shading to an orange the color of the sky of this world. Through brush growing in greenish water and up from patches of semiliquid land. Swamp creatures like allidiles splashed out of their way, snapping great toothy snouts, slapping broad tails that made muddy waves.
“Father, do you think one of those?” Kelvin asked, nodding his head at one of the toothy horrors. “Their god?” The thought was revolting, but had to be considered. Allidiles fed most nastily, and these scaled reptilians were the same except bigger.
“Let's just try to wait and be surprised,” John said. “And be alert, both of you! Don't give up hope. There just may be-- ” He broke off to curse as a froogear snatched a wriggling orange serpent from his chest. The snake hissed, bared dripping fangs, and snapped at the face of the froogear-- but immediately lost its head in the crunching jaws of the froogear. John's rescuer chewed, spat, then raised the still squirming body and directed the squirting blood into its wide, open mouth.
“Gross!” Kian said, using one of the expressions his father had taught him. “That's worse than anything I've seen on two worlds.”
“Or three worlds, for me,” John agreed. “Ugh! What must their god be like?”
Kelvin didn't say anything. He was trying not to vomit on himself and his carrier. Some hero, he thought again. Some legendary hero to upchuck just at the sight of blood.