The spaceship was ancient, yet the mysterious force of the Great
Destroyer chained within the sealed coils between the hulls drove it
with unthinkable speed across the star-shot darkness. The interior was
close and smoky, for the only light came from oil lamps turned low to
slow the fouling of the air. Once, there had been light without fire
in the thousand-foot hulls, but the tiny orbs set into the ceilings
had failed for they were not of a kind with the force in the sealed,
eternal coils.
On the lower decks, the horses of the small party of Valkyr warriors
aboard stomped the steel deck-plates, impatient in their close
confinement; while in the tiny bubble of glass at the very prow of the
ancient vessel, two shamen of the hereditary caste of Navigators drove
the pulsing starship toward the spot beyond the veil of the Coalsack
where their astrolabes and armillary spheres told them that the misty
globe of Kalgan lay.
Many men--risking indictment as warlocks or sorcerers--had tried to
probe the secrets of the Great Destroyer and compute the speed of
these mighty spacecraft of antiquity. Some had even claimed a speed
of 100,000 miles per hour for them. But since the starships made the
voyage from Earth to the agricultural worlds of Proxima Centauri in
slightly less than twenty-eight hours, such calculations would place
the nearest star-system an astounding _two million eight hundred
thousand_ miles from Earth--a figure that was as absurd to all
Navigators as it was inconceivable to laymen.
The great spaceship bearing the Warlord of Valkyr's blazon solidified
into reality near Kalgan as its great velocity diminished. It circled
the planet to kill speed and nosed down into the damp air of the grey
world. The high cloud cover passed, it slanted down into slightly
clearer air. Kalgan did not rotate: in its slow orbit around the red
giant parent star, the planet turned first one face, and then another
to the slight heat of its sun. Great oceans covered the poles, and the
central land mass was like a craggy girdle of rock and soil around the
bulging equator. Only in the twilight zone was life endurable, and
the city of Neg, stronghold of Freka the Unknown, was the only urban
grouping on the planet.
Neg lay sullen in the eternal twilight when at last Kieron's spaceship
landed outside the gates and the debarkation of his retinue had begun;
the spaceport, however, was ablaze with flares and torches, and the
lord of Kalgan had sent a corps of drummers--signal honors--to greet
the visiting star-king. The hot, misty night air throbbed with the
beat of the huge kettle-drums, and weapons and jewelled harness flashed
in the yellow light of the flames.
At last the debarkation was complete, and Kieron and his warriors
were led by a torch-bearing procession of soldiery into the fortified
city of Neg--along ancient cobbled streets--through small crowded
squares--and finally to the Citadel of Neg itself. The residence of
Freka the Unknown, Lord of Kalgan.
The people they passed were a silent, sullen lot. Dull, brutish faces.
The faces of slaves and serfs held in bondage by fear and force. These
people, Kieron reflected, would go mad in a carnival of destruction if
the heavy hand of their lord should falter.
He turned his attention from the people of Neg to the massive Citadel.
It was a powerful keep with high walls and turreted outworks. It spoke
of Kalgan's bloody history in every squat, functional line. A history
of endless rebellion and uprising, of coups and upheavals. Warrior
after warrior had set himself up as ruler of this sullen world only
to fall before the assaults of his own vassals. It had ever been the
policy of the Imperial Government never to interfere with these purely
local affairs. It was felt that out of the crucibles of domestic strife
would arise the best fighting men, and they, in turn, could serve the
Imperium. As long as Kalgan produced its levy of fighting men and
spaceships, no one on Earth cared about the local government. So Kalgan
wallowed in blood.
Out of the last nightmare had come Freka. He had risen rapidly to power
on Kalgan--and _stayed_ in power. Hated by his people, he nevertheless
ruled harshly, for that was his way. Kieron had been told that this
warrior who had sprung out of nowhere was different from other men. The
Imperial courtiers claimed that he cared nothing for wine or women, and
that he loved only battle. It would take such a man, thought Kieron
studying the Citadel, to take and hold a world like Kalgan. It would
take such a man to want it!
If Freka of Kalgan loved bloodshed, he would be happy when this coming
council of star-kings ended, the Valkyr reflected moodily. He knew
himself how near to rebellion he was, and the other lords of the Outer
Marches, the lords of Auriga, Doorn, Quintain, Helia--all were ready to
strike the Imperial crown from Toran's foolish head.
* * * * *
Kieron was escorted with his warriors to a luxurious suite within the
Citadel. Freka, he was informed, regretted his inability to greet him
personally, but intended to meet all the gathered star-kings in the
Great Hall within twelve hours. Meanwhile, there would be entertainment
for the visiting warriors, and the hospitality of Kalgan. Which
hospitality, claimed the hawk-faced steward pridefully, was without
peer in the known Universe!
An imp of perversity stirred in Kieron. He found that he did
not completely trust Freka of Kalgan. There was a premeditated
cold-bloodedness about this whole business of the star-kings' grievance
council that alerted him to danger. There should have been less
smoothness and efficiency in the way the visitors were handled, Kieron
thought illogically, remembering the troubles he, himself, had gone to
whenever outworld rulers had visited Valkyr. He was suddenly glad that
he had warned Nevitta to use extreme caution should it be necessary to
bring Alys to Kalgan. It was possible he was being over-suspicious, but
he could not forget that Alys herself had seen a warlock from Kalgan
in familiar conversation with the woman really to blame for the danger
that smouldered red among the worlds of the Empire.
The drums told the Valkyr that the other star-kings were arriving.
Torches flared in the courtyards of the Citadel, and the hissing roar
of spaceships landing told of the eagles gathering.
Through the long, featureless twilight, the sounds continued. Freka
made no appearances, but the promised entertainment was forthcoming
and lavish. Food and wine in profusion were brought to the apartments
of the Valkyrs. Musicians and minstrels came too, to sing and play the
love songs and warchants of ancient Valkyr while the warriors roared
approval.
Kieron sat on the high seat reserved for him and watched the dancing
yellow light of the flambeaux light up the stone rooms and play across
the ruddy faces of his warriors as they drank and gamed and quarreled.
Dancing girls were sent them, and the Valkyrs howled with savage
pleasure as the naked bodies, glistening with scented oils, gyrated in
the barbaric rhythms of the sword dances steel whirring in bright arcs
above the tawny heads. The long, gloomy twilight passed unregretted
in the warm, flame-splashed closeness of the Citadel. Kieron watched
thoughtfully as more women and fiery vintages were brought into the
merrymaking. The finest wines and the best women were passed hand
to hand over the heads of laughing warriors to Kieron's place, and
he drank deeply of both. The wines were heady, the full lips of the
sybaritic houris bittersweet, but Kieron smiled inwardly--if Freka the
Unknown sought to bring him into the gathering of the star-kings drunk
and satiated and amenable to suggestion, the lord of Kalgan knew little
of the capacity of the men of the Edge.
The hours passed and revelry filled the Citadel of Neg. Life on the
outer worlds was harsh, and the gathering warriors took full measure
of the pleasures placed at their disposal by the lord of Kalgan. The
misty, eternal dusk rang with the drinking songs and battle-cries, the
quarreling and lovemaking of warriors from a dozen outworld planets.
Each star-king, Kieron knew, was being entertained separately, plied
with wine and woman-flesh until the hour for the meeting came.
The sands had run their course in the glass five times before the
trumpets blared through the Citadel, calling the lords to the meeting.
Kieron left his men to enjoy themselves, and with an attendant in the
harness of Kalgan made his way toward the Great Hall.
Through dark passageways that reeked of ancient violence, by walls hung
with tapestries and antique weapons, they went; over flagstones worn
smooth by generations. This keep had been old when the reconquering
heirs to the Thousand Emperors rode their chargers into the Great Hall
and dictated their peace terms to the interregnal lords of Kalgan.
* * * * *
The hall was a vast, vaulted stone room filled with the smoky heat
of torches and many bodies. It teemed with be-jewelled warriors,
star-kings, warlords, aides and attendants. For just a moment the lord
of Valkyr regretted having come into the impressive gathering alone.
Yet it was unimportant. These men were--for the most part--his peers
and friends; the warrior kings of the Edge.
Odo of Helia was there, filling the room with his great laughter; and
Theron, the Lord of Auriga; Kleph of Quintain; and others. Many others.
Kieron saw the white mane of his father's friend Eric, the Warlord
of Doorn, the great Red Sun beyond the Horsehead Nebula. Here was an
aggregation of might to give even a Galactic Emperor pause. The warlike
worlds of the Edge, gathered on Kalgan to decide the issue of war
against the uneasy crown of Imperial Earth.
Questions coursed through Kieron's mind as he stood among the
star-kings. Alys--pleading with Toran--what success could she have
against the insidious power of the Consort? Was Alys in danger? And
there was Geller, the mysterious warlock of the Marshes. Kieron felt
he must seek out the man. There were questions that only Geller could
answer. Yet at the thought of a warlock--a familiar of the Great
Destroyer--Kieron's blood ran cold.
The Valkyr looked about him. That there was power enough here to crush
the forces of Earth, there was no doubt. But what then? When Toran
was stripped of his power, who would wear the crown? The Empire was
a necessity--without it the dark ages of the Interregnum would fall
again. For four generations the mantle of shadows had hovered over the
youngling Second Empire. Not even the most savage wanted a return of
the lost years of isolation. The Empire must live. But the Empire would
need a titular head. If not Toran, the foolish weak boy, then who?
Kieron's suspicions stirred....
A rumble of tympani announced the entrance of the host. The murmuring
voices grew still. Freka the Unknown had entered the Great Hall.
Kieron stared. The man was--magnificent! The tall figure was muscled
like a statue from the Dawn Age; sinews rippling under the golden hide
like oiled machinery, grace and power in every movement. A mane of hair
the color of fire framed a face of classic purity--ascetic, almost
inhuman in its perfection. The pale eyes that swept the assemblage
were like drops of molten silver. Hot, but with a cold heat that seared
with an icy touch. Kieron shivered. This man was already half a god....
Yet there was something in Freka that stirred resentment in the Valkyr.
Some indefinable lack that was sensed rather than seen. Kieron knew he
looked upon a magnificent star-king, but there was no warmth in the man.
Kieron fought down the unreasonable dislike. It was not his way to
judge men so emotionally. _Perhaps_, thought the Valkyr, _I imagine the
coldness._ But it was there!
Yet when Freka spoke, the feeling vanished, and Kieron felt himself
transported by the timbre and resonant power of the voice.
"Star-kings of the Empire!" Freka cried, and the sound of his words
rolled out over the gathering like a wave, gaining power even as he
continued: "For more than a hundred years you and your fathers have
fought for the glory and gain of the Great Throne! Under Gilmer of
Kaidor you carried the gonfalon of Imperial Earth to the Edge and
planted it there under the light of Andromeda itself! Your blood was
shed and your treasure spent for the new Emperors! And what is your
reward? _The heavy hand of a fool!_ Your people writhe under the burden
of excessive taxation--your women starve and your children are sold
into slavery! You are in bondage to a foolish boy who squats like a
toad on the Great Throne...."
* * * * *
Kieron listened breathlessly as Freka of Kalgan wove a web of
half-truths around the assembled warriors. The compelling power of the
man was astounding.
"The worlds writhe in the grip of an idiot! Helia, Doorn, Auriga,
Valkyr, Quintain...." He called the roll of the warrior worlds. "Yes,
and Kalgan, too! There is not enough wealth in the Universe to satiate
Toran and the Great Throne! And the Court laughs at our complaints! At
us! The star-kings who are the fists of the Empire! How long will we
endure it? How long will we maintain Toran on a throne that he is too
weak to hold?"
_Toran_, thought Kieron grimly, always Toran. Never a word of Ivane or
Landor or the favorites who twisted Toran around their fingers.
Freka's voice dropped low and he leaned out over the first row of
upturned faces. "I call upon you--as you love your people and your
freedom--to join with Kalgan and rid the Empire of this weakling and
his money-grubbing and neglect!"
In the crowd, someone stirred. All but this one seemed hypnotized. It
was old Eric of Doorn who stepped forward.
"You speak treason! You brought us here to discuss grievances, and you
preach rebellion and treason, I say!" he shouted angrily.
Freka turned cold eyes on the old warrior.
"If this is treason," he said ominously, "it is the Emperor's
treason--not ours."
Eric of Doorn seemed to wilt under the icy gaze of those inhuman eyes.
Kieron watched him step back into the circle of his followers, fear
in his aging face. There was a power in Freka to quell almost any
insurrection here, thought the Valkyr uneasily. He, himself, was bound
by the promise he had made to Alys, but it was only that that kept him
from casting in his lot with the compelling lord of Kalgan. Such a
feeling was unreason itself, he knew, and he fought against it, drawing
on his reserves of information to strengthen his resolve to obstruct
Freka if he could. Yet it was easy to understand how this strange man
had sprung out of obscurity and made himself master of Kalgan. Freka
was a creature made for leadership.
Kieron stood away from the crowd and forced himself to speak. All his
earlier suspicions were growing like a suffocating cloud within him.
Someone was being fooled and used, and it was _not_ the lord of Kalgan!
"You, Freka!" he cried, and the lords turned to listen. "You shout of
getting rid of Toran--but what do you offer in his place?"
Freka's eyes were like steel now, glinting dully in the light of the
wall-torches.
"Not myself. Is that what you feared?" The fine mouth curled
scornfully. "I ask no man to lay down his life so that _I_ may take for
myself the Great Throne and the sable mantle of Emperor! I renounce
here and now any claim to the Imperial Crown! When the time is right, I
will make my wishes known."
The crowd of star-kings murmured approvingly. Freka had won them.
"A vote!" someone cried. "Those who are with Freka and against Toran! A
vote!"
Swords leaped from scabbards and glittered in the torchlight while the
chamber rang to a savage cheer. Here was war and loot to satisfy the
savage heart! The sack of Imperial Earth herself! Even old Eric of
Doorn's sword was reluctantly raised. Kieron alone remained silent,
sword sheathed.
Freka looked down at him coldly.
"Well, Valkyr? Do you ride with us?"
"I need more time to consider," said Kieron carefully.
Freka's laughter was like a lash. "Time! Time to worry about risking
his skin! Valkyr needs time!"
Kieron felt his quick anger surging. The blood pounded in his temples,
throbbing, pulsing, goading him to fight. His hand closed on the hilt
of his sword and it slipped half out of the sheath. But Kieron caught
himself. There was something sinister in this deliberate attempt to
ruin him--to brand him a coward before his peers. A man faced two
choices here, apparently; follow Freka into rebellion, or be branded
craven. Kieron glared into the cold eyes of the Kalgan lord. The
temptation to challenge him was strong--as strong as Kieron's whole
background and training in the harsh warrior-code of the Edge. But
he could not. Not yet. There were too many irons in the fire to be
watched. There was Alys and her plea to Toran. There was the plight of
his people. He could not risk the danger to himself of driving a blade
through Freka's throat, no matter how his blood boiled with rage.
He turned on his heel and strode from the Great Hall, the laughter of
Freka and the star-kings ringing mockingly in his ears.