THE PRINCESS OF AKKIR

by Robert F. Young

The title of this unusual story might lead one to expect a standard fantasy tale with princesses, swords, and sorcery. Well, there is a princess, of sorts, and a sword, and even a certain form of sorcery.

But in a story by Robert F. Young, nothing is ever exactly what it seems. Enjoy.

art: Val Lakey Lindahn

Harry Westwood, who believed in monsters (he had slain seven), made camp for the night near the bank of a small creek that wound down from the Crimson Hills. After inflating his tent, he activated his portable campfire; then he opened a thermo-pac dinner and a thermo-pac container of coffee and sat down by the fire. He ate beneath the stars.

He kept his rifle close beside him. It was a new Folz-Hedir, so ingeniously assembled that its barrel and mechanism and streamlined stock seemed to be of one piece. He wanted it within easy reach, for Papsukil's castle was just beyond the hills, and the ogre might be abroad. Westwood hoped that he would be. If he could kill Papsukil tonight, half the job would be done. The other half—freeing the Princess—would then be a lead-pipe cinch.

It went without saying that when he killed Papsukil he would also have to kill the ogre's steed, for his contract stated that both monsters had to be extirpated. (The Office of Galactic Guidance never used the word "kill," since in a biological sense it was impossible to kill a creature that had not been born. Nevertheless, Westwood knew that Papsukil, when dying, would bleed real blood, and that Morga, his steed, would too, and insofar as he was concerned, the correct word was "kill.")

He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee. The temperature had dropped at least a dozen degrees since the sun had set. Nights were cold in Akkir, although the tiny country was in God Bless This World's equatorial zone. But for the moment he had his campfire to keep him warm; later on, when he went to bed, he would turn the tent's wired-in heating unit on. All of the comforts of home. But they did not quite please him, and he found himself thinking of the Akkirian girls he had seen in the little native village he had set out from that morning. The Akkirians were a primitive people, but physically they were one of the most beautiful races in the galaxy, and the girls he had seen tripped like nymphs through his mind. He became so engrossed in their light fantastic that he was taken unawares when a flesh-and-blood Akkirian girl stepped out of the darkness into the firelight.

He got quickly to his feet, gripping his rifle. He peered into the darkness behind her and strained his ears for the slightest unorthodox sound. But he saw no one else and heard only the purling of the creek, the faint chirping of insects and the realistic crackling of the campfire.

"I am Khaisidra," the girl said.

The Princess! "How did you escape?"

"He lets me escape sometimes so he can recapture me. It is a game he plays."

They spoke in Akkirian, which Westwood had taken a crash-course in. The girl had deep, dark eyes. Her black hair was wet and clung to the sides of her face, and he knew she must have been bathing in the creek. She wore a single sarong-like garment, and her feet were bare. She was almost as tall as Westwood, and her narrow face, with its fine line of forehead, nose, and chin, suggested the face of a princess. He had to remind himself that she was not one, that the villagers referred to her as one only because she lived in a castle. In their minds, only princesses lived in castles, whether they did so of their own free will or were forced to. All Khaisidra had been before Papsukil abducted her was a milk girl. And appearances to the contrary, that was all she was now.

"If he let you escape," he said, "he must be out looking for you."

"Yes. By now he probably is."

"Has he ever harmed you?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"No. I have eaten well. I do not eat what he does," she added quickly. "He hunts small animals for me to cook."

"We'll wait for him."

"Why are you here?"

"It's my business to kill monsters people like the Akkirians create."

"We did not create Papsukil. He rode into our village one day and stole two children. When our warriors followed him to his castle, they tried to fell him with arrows when he came out the door, but the arrows bounced off his iron clothes and he laughed at them. He came back to the village again and again and stole more children, and he went to other villages too. But our warriors have always been helpless against him. One day when he rode into our village he saw me and carried me away. So you see, we did not create him."

"But when he first appeared, everybody knew who he was."

"Of course. Our parents had told us about him, and their parents had told them. We knew that someday he would come."

Westwood laughed. "That's why he came."

"Because we knew?"

"Because you created him."

He saw that she still did not understand. He had not expected her to. Primitive people were incapable of comprehending that if enough of them believed something was true for a long enough period of time, it became true, and their ignorance was the secret of their "success."

Thunder sounded in the hills. It crescendoed, and Westwood knew it was the hoofbeats of Papsukil's steed. "He is looking for me," Khaisidra said. "I must go."

"No," Westwood said. "Stay here by the fire where he can see you. I'll hide in the trees and when he appears I'll kill him and his steed."

"No! It is he who will kill you!" She turned, and ran off into the darkness.

He ran after her, only to see her vanish into a stand of trees near the foot of the nearest hill. He knew he could never catch her, and returned to the fire. The crescendo of hoofbeats came to an end, and looking up into the hills he saw steed and rider silhouetted against the night sky. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, but before he could aim it, steed and rider disappeared. He wondered if Papsukil had seen him. There were slower hoofbeats now, and he knew that the ogre was descending the hill. Suddenly there was a soft cry, and a moment later Papsukil and his steed appeared on another hilltop. Westwood saw that he had the girl.

The silhouette disappeared. Thunder sounded again, but this time it diminished and gradually faded away. Westwood swore. If Khaisidra had not panicked, he could have gotten both Papsukil and his steed.

Had the ogre seen him? he wondered. He did not think so. But he must have spotted the campfire.

I'll get him tomorrow, Westwood thought. I'll hang his scalp in my den. Next to the scalps of Trisk, Udon, Mother Magrab, Chitzen, Mimb, Dijleha and Diw.

He drank the rest of his coffee. It was cold. Khaisidra stepped into his mind. Indeed, she had not really stepped out of it. The mere sight of her had lent romance to his mission. He felt like some knight of old, out of the pages of Malory.

After turning off the campfire he activated the tent's repulsifield and expanded it till it encompassed the campsite; then he crawled into the tent with his rifle and closed the flap. He turned on the heating unit, kicked off his boots and stretched out on the inflated floor. To get his mind off Khaisidra he thought of the gods, ogres, dragons and giants man had created in the past. Of the pantheon the Greeks had installed on the heights of Mount Olympus. Of Grendel and Grendel's dam whom the thanes had created over their mead in Hrothgar's Hall. Of the cannibalistic Windigo. Of the dragon Fafnir. Of the. Abominable Snowman and of Bigfoot. Of Paul Bunyan. Paul Bunyan did not really belong on the list, though, for he had never materialized. The people who had dreamed him up had been semi-civilized and had not truly believed he was real. Earth had been free from gods and ogres and dragons and giants for a long time. But interstellar travel had brought them to the fore again, and before you took over a new planet you had to lay to rest the monsters its masochistic inhabitants had subconsciously brought into being. You could not have a Chitzen or a Mother Magrab demanding sacrifices from or preying upon the colonists. You could not have a Papsukil abducting their children.

He turned on his side. He felt of his right hand to see if it was till there. It was a ritual he always performed just before he fell asleep. The hand was prosthetic, with all the properties of the original. Dijleha the ogress had bitten the real one off. He used to have nightmares about it. In his dreams he would see the terrible tiers of her rocklike teeth coming together just past his wrist. He had sacrificed the hand so he could cast pneumo-cartridges down her throat. Yes, for a long time he had had nightmares. But not any more. He slept soundly the whole night through.

In the morning when he stepped outside his tent, he discovered why the Planet Preparatory Team had named the hills the "Crimson Hills," for the rays of the rising sun had given their crests a blood-red cast. It was as though Papsukil had ridden out during the night and struck down a thousand foes. But the cast did not last long, and by the time he finished his morning coffee the hilltops had turned green.

He struck camp, deactivating the repulsifield and then deflating the tent and folding it into a small, oblong bundle that fitted easily into his pack. He put the portable campfire in after it. He did not hurry. By nature, he was a calm, cold man.

Before closing the pack he took out two of the thermopacs and put one in each of the side pockets of his trousers. Then he cached the pack in a nearby stand of trees. He filled his canteen in the creek and added a water-purifying tablet. He checked to see if the extra charges for his Folz-Hedir were still attached to his belt, then slung the Folz-Hedir and set out at a leisurely pace. He was a tall, spare man. Many suns had prematurely aged his narrow face and there was a touch of telangiectasis in his cheeks. He ascended the hill on which he had first seen Papsukil. There, he found the hoofprints of the ogre's steed. They were deeper than he had thought they would be, but he was not surprised. Papsukil was not a giant, but the Akkirians had given him larger-than-life proportions, therefore Morga had to be larger-than-life too.

He did not climb any more hills, but wound his way through them. He had walked all the way from the village and it had taken him a whole day to reach the hills. The forest that covered most of Akkir had ruled out a ground vehicle, and the Galactic Guidance outpost, where the port airfarer had set him down, had no aircraft of its own. He would not have tried to get Papsukil from the air in any case, for experience had taught him that it was more viable for a Beowulf to hunt his quarry on the ground.

When he emerged from a pass in the hills he saw the castle. It was about a mile away and stood on a grassy plateau that stretched away to the feet of an ancient chain of mountains. Long ago the castle had belonged to Papsukil's prototype and namesake, a feudal lord who had ruled most of Akkir. His serfs, unable any longer to endure his ruthlessness, had risen up against him, and after a bloody battle on the plateau they had murdered him and all the other inhabitants of the castle. Then they had fled into the forest. Unquestionably he had been a cruel taskmaster, but it was highly unlikely that he had been anthropophagous. But the tales the serfs told their children and those which their children told their children had described him as such, and successive generations had probably added to rather than detracted from his putative cannibalism. As in all such cases, mass belief had at length subverted reality, and the castle which had stood empty for decades was empty no longer, and the peace and the freedom the serfs had fought for and obtained was being trodden into the dirt by the hooves of the new Papsukil's mighty steed.

Westwood, who knew fear only when he was safe and secure among his fellow beings on Earth, walked boldly out onto the plateau and directed his footsteps toward the castle. At intervals he passed the collapsed walls of the huts where the serfs used to live. Only grass grew now where once they had sown their crops. Occasionally he came upon skeletons. Some were those of serfs, some of knights. In the latter case, rusted armor partly covered the bones.

The castle faced the hills. It was a square, unimaginative structure with four towers. The towers constituted the four corners of the building but were not much higher than the building itself. Part of the roof had fallen in. As he grew closer, he saw that the portcullis was closed. The sun was quite high in the sky by this time and threw the castle's shadow sideways across the plateau. He could see the facade clearly. There were no windows on the lowest floor, and the two towers in the front had only one window each, located a short distance below their pinnacles. But perhaps there were other windows which he could not see from his present position.

In the window of the tower on his right he saw a tiny figure. Khaisidra. She was watching his advance across the plateau. He hoped that Papsukil was too. He wanted the ogre to come rushing out of the castle and to mount his steed and come charging toward him across the plateau. And then he thought, Morga, where is Morga? The steed should have been tethered outside the castle, near the portcullis. But he could see no sign of it. He heard hoofbeats then, and spinning around, saw Morga pounding toward him with the ogre astride its back.

Evidently Papsukil had seen him last night, and had either divined his purpose or had pounded it out of Khaisidra. He had been hiding in the hills waiting for Westwood to walk out into the open so that he could take him by surprise. Westwood grinned.

He had already raised his rifle to his shoulder. It had no safety; he had had it removed. One projectile should do the trick. Then one more for Morga. Morga was an Akkirian horse of indeterminate sex, ugly to begin with by terrestrial standards and made more so by its larger-than-life size. As it grew closer he saw to his surprise that its eyes were a gentle brown. There was no bridle upon its head and no saddle on its back.

Papsukil's armor covered him from head to foot and he wore mailed gloves. There was a crimson panache attached to his helmet. The visor was open, revealing his face. It was a handsome face, although the nose was a bit too long and the eyes were a crocodile red. They were fixed on Westwood and were filled with contempt. Westwood expected him to raise his sword, but he did not. Instead, just as Westwood was about to press the activator, the ogre veered his steed, lashed out with a long whip, caught the rifle in its cord, and with an abrupt snap sent it flying through the air.

Westwood dove into the ruins of a nearby hut. Morga's hooves missed his legs by inches. None of the walls were over two feet high, but he found a hollow between an inner wall and an outer one and hunched down in it. The hoofbeats ceased. He stole a glance over the topmost stones of the outer wall and saw that Papsukil had turned his steed. Glancing at the castle, Westwood saw that Khaisidra had not moved from her tower window.

Papsukil began riding around the ruins, flicking his whip. Its tip almost touched Westwood's back. He hunched down lower. He heard the creaking of Papsukil's armor. The whip lash came again, snapped just above his head. He heard the ogre's laughter. It made him think of stones rolling down a rocky hillside.

He had another weapon—an ancient .22 caliber handgun which he carried as a good-luck piece. It was loaded, but he had no extra cartridges. He knew that its bullets were incapable of penetrating the ogre's armor, but perhaps he could get a good shot at the ogre's face.

He stole another glance, almost lost an eye. He used his cap as a decoy, and when the lash of Papsukil's whip cut it in two, got off a quick shot with the handgun. It went wild.

He hunched back down again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a snake. The Planet Preparatory Team had warned him that almost all the snakes in Akkir were poisonous. He seized this one near the neck with his prosthetic hand. A red fang shot forth from the tiny mouth and buried itself in the synthetic flesh. He laughed; then he stood up quickly and threw the snake toward Papsukil's steed. It landed near Morga's front hooves, and the steed reared wildly, nearly throwing Papsukil from its back. Still standing, Westwood emptied the handgun, aiming for the ogre's face, but Morga's wild rearings made the target an impossible one. But some of the bullets struck the ogre's armor, for Westwood heard them when they ricocheted.

He hunched back down out of sight again. As soon as Papsukil got Morga back under control he resumed snapping the whip. Westwood knew he was trying to snake the lash so the tip would cut into his head or back, but the ogre never quite succeeded. The game went on all the rest of the morning. As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Westwood began to sweat.

Afternoon. Papsukil, tireless, continued to ride around the ruins, lashing out with his whip. But he never came close to Westwood; apparently the sound of the handgun and the high-pitched squealing of the bullets as they ricocheted from his armor had made him afraid.

Westwood kept slaking his thirst with small mouthfuls from his canteen. He was hungry, but there was no way he could reach into one of his side pockets for a thermo-pac without rising to his knees. At long last, the sun went down. He heard the hoofbeats fade away then, and standing up, saw that Papsukil was riding toward the castle. Upon reaching it, the ogre dismounted, tethered Morga, walked over to the portcullis, raised it as easily as though it were an automated overhead garage door, stepped through the entranceway and slammed the portcullis back down.

Had he gone home for supper? Westwood wondered.

The thought made him shudder.

He looked at the tower window in which he had seen Khaisidra. It was empty.

After stretching his legs, he went looking for his rifle. The stars were coming out, shedding pale, unreal radiance upon the plateau. The castle became a gray pile of stones. He pulled a pocketlight out of his back pocket and flicked it on. After a long while, he found the rifle. It had landed in one of the ruins. He examined it closely but found no sign of damage. He was surprised that it had not accidentally gone off. The activator was highly sensitive and only the slightest touch was needed in order to launch a projectile.

He wondered why Papsukil had not tried to find it. But the answer was obvious: Papsukil did not know it was a gun. He did not know what a gun was, and probably thought the Folz-Hedir was a spear. Guns were far in Akkir's future, and he knew no more about them than his creators did.

Despite his castle, despite his armor, despite his steed, despite his aristocratic countenance, he was a peasant.

At first thought, this might seem to put him at a disadvantage, but Westwood knew better. He had learned from experience that it was impossible to anticipate what a peasant might do or how he might think unless you were a peasant yourself.

The castle windows were dark. Perhaps Papsukil had gone to bed. With Khaisidra. Westwood found the thought unendurable. Surely she would not bed down with an ogre! But what choice did the poor girl have?

If only she hadn't run away last night, fearing for his safety! He could have gotten Papsukil easily when the ogre rode into the firelight, and Morga too, and he and Khaisidra could have returned to the village, and her nightmare would have come to an end.

He sat down on one of the crumbled walls of the hut and, keeping his eyes fixed on the castle, opened one of the thermo-pacs he had brought with him. Again, he ate beneath the stars. When he finished he lighted a cigarette, wishing he had brought a container of coffee.

It had grown cold, and he had neither tent nor campfire to keep him warm. He shrugged. He could endure the cold. He continued to keep his eyes fixed on the castle. Conceivably Papsukil might let Khaisidra escape again. But it was a wan hope, and as the hours passed it gradually faded.

He dozed off, awoke with a start. The scene was unchanged. He dozed off again, only for a moment, he thought, but when he looked to the east he saw that the sky was turning gray. He got to his feet and began walking back and forth, and presently his increased circulation restored warmth to his arms and legs. At length he paused and stood staring at the castle. He knew that Papsukil had not ridden out during the night on his steed, for Morga's hoofbeats would have awakened him, and he was certain the ogre would not have come out on foot. The villagers had said he never went anywhere without his steed. Westwood, then, had two courses of action: he could continue to wait till the ogre showed himself, or he could try to get inside the castle.

The time of day decided him. Dawn was when you caught the enemy unaware. He slung his Folz-Hedir and set forth across the plateau.

* * *

The castle grew before him, acquiring greater detail as more light crept into the sky. He saw as he came closer that it was surrounded by a hedge of small thorn trees. There was a large gap in the hedge in front of the portcullis. Presently he could make out Morga. The steed was tethered to one of the trees near the gap. From a distance the hedge had seemed like part of the castle.

Morga watched him as he approached, but made no sound. The tether consisted of vines which had been braided together and was tied to one of Morga's hind legs. Boldly, Westwood walked right up to the steed's side. It whinnied softly then, and its brown eyes seemed even gentler than before. With its oversized feet and its great chest and shoulders and powerful haunches, it looked more like a draft horse than a steed. He stroked its neck. He wondered if he should kill it now. But he knew he could not bring himself to at such close range, and besides, Papsukil might be roused from sleep by the sound of the shot.

He went through the opening in the hedge and made his way along the stone wall of the castle. It was his intention to circle the building in the hope that the windows in its sides and in the back might be lower. Conceivably there might be a back door. He came presently to the base of the tower in whose window he had seen Khaisidra. The stone blocks were so unevenly laid that a good mountaineer could have climbed them to the window, but he had never climbed a mountain in his life. Then he saw the rope which hung down from the window, and looking up, saw Khaisidra gazing down at him. She beckoned to him when their eyes met, and he seized the rope and began to climb.

It, too, consisted of braided vines. If such a rope could restrain Morga, it ought easily to be able to support his weight. But suppose Papsukil had forced the girl to lower it? Suppose the ogre were in her room now, waiting to pounce upon him? He paused, and looked up at her again. She seemed to sense his thoughts. "I am alone," she called in a low voice. "Papsukil is not here." The calmness of her voice reassured him, and he resumed his ascent.

The window was a good sixty feet from the ground. He was breathing hard when at last he reached it. Khaisidra helped him crawl over the stone sill into the room. The light of the nascent day coming through the single window informed him that Papsukil was not there.

The room was round, he saw, and the only object it contained was a pallet. In the center of the floor was a square opening. Approaching it, he saw that it gave access to a stone flight of stairs. He returned to Khaisidra's side. In the dawnlight she seemed even more like a princess than she had in the light of his artificial campfire. Her black hair fell in straight lines to her shoulders and the pinkness that heralded the rising of the sun had a transcendent effect on her face. It was said she was the most beautiful girl in the village. Westwood knew now that this was true.

She pulled the rope back up. "Papsukil made it for me so I could escape," she said. "But last night he forbade me to do so."

"I still don't understand," Westwood said. "Why should he want you to escape?"

"He thinks it is fun to recapture me. He knows he can do so with ease. But he takes no chances. When he lets me ride Morga, he holds Morga by a long rope so that I cannot get away."

"Where is he now?"

"He is asleep."

"Will you take me to his room?"

"Yes. . . . He said you have another weapon besides your spear." "It no longer works."

"Papsukil said it threw little stones. He heard them when they hit his armor."

"It can't any more."

"You will have to use your spear then. Come."

He followed her over to the stairwell and they started down, Khaisidra in the lead. He unslung his rifle. The stairwell grew dark almost at once, and holding his rifle in his left hand he pulled out his pocketlight with his right and flicked it on. He expected Khaisidra to be startled by the sudden burst of brightness, but she showed no surprise. The stairwell was helical and wound down through rooms like the one they had left, except that they had no windows. He could smell the musty dampness of the castle now. And he became aware of another smell. It was a musky smell, and he knew it emanated from Khaisidra. He exorcised the thoughts that climbed venous ladders into his mind.

Four floors down they came to a room from which a corridor led into the castle proper. He followed Khaisidra across the room. The dust on the corridor floor showed a host of footprints, large and small. They circumvented a pile of rusted metal. It was the armor of a fallen knight. Through the open visor a pair of eyeless sockets stared up into Westwood's face. Nearby lay the unarmored skeleton of a serf. The walls were interrupted at even intervals by rusted metal doors.

Light showed up ahead. Westwood turned his pocketlight off, replaced it in his pocket and transferred the Folz-Hedir from his left to his right hand. He was certain they were approaching the hall of the castle. Khaisidra was moving more slowly now. He matched her new pace, staying just behind her. Presently he was able to make out the doorway through which the light came.

When they reached it, Khaisidra stepped through it without hesitation. He paused for a moment before following her. A sixth sense? He thought so later. He could see most of the huge hall from where he stood. Its ceiling was the castle roof, and the early morning light pouring through the hole where part of the roof had collapsed provided the only illumination. In the center of the huge room stood a long table with three legs. Bits and pieces of other items of furniture were scattered over the dusty floor. The fallen beams of the roof had never been cleared away. Circling the room was a lofty gallery. He assumed that a stairway led up to it from the main floor, but he could not see it from where he stood. Beyond the table was a pile of small, white bones. The miasma that permeated the room filled his throat and made him want to vomit.

Ignoring his sixth sense, he stepped through the doorway. As he did so, Khaisidra seized the Folz-Hedir, and with a quick jerk, pulled it from his hand. She ran several yards away, waving the rifle, and cried, "His other weapon is broken!" Westwood saw the stairs which the edge of the doorway had hidden from his eyes. Descending them with drawn sword was Papsukil.

His first thought was to try to make it back to the tower, but he knew that even if he succeeded in outdistancing Papsukil, the ogre would be close enough behind him to sever the rope before he was halfway to the ground. The only other available exit from the hall was an archway in the wall to his left, but the portcullis was discernible just beyond it. He knew he lacked the strength to raise the portcullis by hand, and he also knew that even if the mechanism with which it was supposed to be raised was still in working order, the operation would take too long.

It went without saying that Papsukil would be upon him before he could wrest the Folz-Hedir from Khaisidra.

From the beginning she had played him for a fool. She had told Papsukil that a hunter had come to kill him, and after the ogre's ambush failed, she set up a fail-safe one of her own. And Westwood had walked right into it with his eyes wide open. He had forgotten that she, too, was a peasant. Before Papsukil had abducted her she had lived in a wretched native hut and had been nothing but a milk girl. Now, she lived in a castle, and in her own eyes and in the eyes of her people, she had become a princess. It mattered not that Papsukil II had a taste for the flesh of little children. All that mattered was her new status quo. Having become a princess, she intended to remain one.

Westwood backed away from the creature who had lifted her above the common herd. The ogre had divested himself of his armor, possibly out of contempt for his opponent, and was wearing a filthy red doublet and even filthier blue pantaloons. His black hair was streaked with gray and had never become acquainted with a comb. He was at least a foot taller than Westwood, and his muscles were long and lean.

He smiled, and Westwood saw for the first time that his teeth were pointed.

They went well with his crocodile red eyes.

The damsel fair Westwood had come to rescue stood on the sidelines, breathlessly awaiting the forthcoming encounter.

The ogre swung his sword. Westwood avoided the blade by leaping back. As he did so, he nearly tripped over one of the fallen beams. It was about ten feet long and had the thickness and width of a two-by-four. He picked it up and pointed it at Papsukil. Angrily Papsukil swung at it with his sword, but Westwood jerked it to one side, avoiding the blow, then brought it back on target and charged. The end struck the ogre in the stomach. He gasped and doubled over, and the sword fell from his hand. Westwood dropped the beam and leaped upon Papsukil's back. Encircling the ogre's neck with his left arm, 'he locked the fingers of both hands in a wrestler's grip and began to apply pressure. The added weight caused Papsukil to fall to the floor.

His fingers found Westwood's and tried to claw them apart. When this failed, he staggered to his feet. Westwood knew what was coming then, and tried to relax when the ogre deliberately fell backward onto the floor. It was Westwood's turn to gasp, and he did so, but he did not relinquish his hold even though he knew he had suffered at least one broken rib.

Papsukil managed to roll over onto his stomach and tried to stand up again. But he could not. His face was already turning blue. Westwood thought then that he had won, but he hadn't, quite, for an instant later he felt a stabbing pain in his back. Turning his head, he saw Khaisidra standing above him with the Folz-Hedir. Still believing it was a spear, she jabbed its muzzle into his back again. The pain almost made him cry out but he did not break his hold. Then he saw that the fingers of Khaisidra's right hand were perilously close to the activator. Any moment now she would press it accidentally. This moment? He gambled that it would be, released his hold and rolled to one side. The jab she had meant for him struck Papsukil between the shoulder blades. Simultaneously the rifle went off. The hollowness of the hall amplified the guttural cough of the discharge, and acrid smoke rose up from a yawning hole in Papsukil's back.

Getting to his feet, Westwood bent down and rolled the body over. The chest was a hideous mélange of broken bones and blood. He looked at Khaisidra. The recoil had almost knocked her down. Her milieu had now been reduced to two objects. First she stared at Papsukil's body, then she stared at the gun. Westwood went over and took it away from her. She turned, then, and ran toward the portcullis.

He looked at Papsukil's body. He looked at the pile of little bones. He heard the creaking of the ancient mechanism as Khaisidra raised the portcullis. He looked at Papsukil's body again, then he pumped another charge into the barrel of the Folz-Hedir.

One down, one more to go.

Khaisidra had raised the portcullis just high enough to enable her to crawl through the entranceway. Westwood raised it higher and ducked in under it. Each breath he took racked him with pain.

The sun had risen and dew glistened on the plateau. Khaisidra had untied Morga and was trying to climb upon its back. He watched her. At last, after seizing the steed's mane and scrambling with both legs, she succeeded, and a moment later Morga began pounding across the plateau toward the hills. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and fixed its sight upon his target. The rifle coughed. The recoil stabbed him with pain. She did not fall at once from Morga's back. She rode for a while instead, her head hanging at a grotesque angle from her partially severed neck. Then, slowly, she slipped from the steed's back, and tumbled to the ground. Morga veered to the left then, and began circling toward the mountains. He lowered the rifle. The suhlight outlined the steed with gold. The gold made him think of the bounty he had thrown away. Westwood watched the steed till the castle hid it from view, then he slung his rifle and began the long journey home.