It was just as he saw The Barbarian's squat black tankette lurch
hurriedly into a nest of boulders that young Giulion Geoffrey realized
he had been betrayed. With the muzzle of his own cannon still hot from
the shell that had jammed The Barbarian's turret, he had yanked the
starboard track lever to wheel into position for the finishing shot. All
around him, the remnants of The Barbarian's invading army were being cut
to flaming ribbons by the armored vehicles of the Seaboard League. The
night was shot through by billows of cannon fire, and the din of
laboring engines, guns, and rent metal was a cacophonic climax to the
Seaboard League's first decisive victory over the inland invaders. Young
Geoffrey could justifiably feel that he would cap that climax by
personally accounting for the greatest of the inland barbarians; the
barbarian general himself. He trained his sights on the scarlet bearpaw
painted on the skewed turret's flank, and laid his hand on the firing
lever.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of another tankette
rushing up on his port side. He glanced at it, saw its graceful
handcrafting, and knew it for one of the League's own. He could even see
the insigne; the mailed heel trampling a stand of wheat; Harolde Dugald,
of the neighboring fief. Geoffrey was on coldly polite terms with
Dugald--he had no use for the other man's way of treating his serfs--and
now he felt a prickle of indignant rage at this attempt to usurp a
share of his glory. He saw Dugald's turret begin to traverse, and
hastily tried to get the finishing shot into The Barbarian's tankette
before the other Leaguesman could fire. But Dugald was not aiming for
The Barbarian. First he had to eliminate Geoffrey from the scene
entirely. When he fired, at almost point-blank range, the world seemed
to explode in Giulion's eyes.
[Illustration: _Illustrated by Ed Emsh_]
Somehow, no whistling shard of metal actually hit him. But the tankette,
sturdy as it was, could not hope to protect him entirely. He was thrown
viciously into the air, his ribs first smashing into the side of the
hatch, and then he was thrown clear, onto the rocky ground of the
foothills; agonized, stunned to semi-consciousness, he lay feebly
beating at his smoldering tunic while Dugald spun viciously by him,
almost crushing him under one tread. He saw Dugald's tankette plunge
into the rocks after The Barbarian, and then, suddenly, the battle was
beyond him. Dugald, The Barbarian; all the thundering might that had
clashed here on the eastern seaboard of what had, long ago, been The
United States of America--all of this had suddenly, as battles will,
whirled off in a new direction and left Giulion Geoffrey to lie hurt and
unconscious in the night.
* * *
He awoke to the trickle of cold water between his teeth. His lips bit
into the threaded metal of a canteen top, and a huge arm supported his
shoulders. Broad shoulders and a massive head loomed over him against
the stars. A rumbling, gentle voice said: "All right, lad, now swallow
some before it's all wasted."
He peered around him in the night. It was as still as the bottom of a
grave. Nothing moved. He drew a ragged breath that ended in a sharp
gasp, and the rumbling voice said: "Ribs?"