MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (16 page)

"But what do you think?"

The amusement vanished from the Mongol's manner, and he turned his attention once more to his weapons. "I think that it is pointless to think of such things. I am here. Why I am here is unimportant. The time to plan and ponder a battle is before the conflict is joined, not while actively engaged with the enemy. Then hindsight is a dangerous indulgence, for it draws our concentration away from the task at hand. One must condition oneself to reject such thoughts in favor of studying the terrain and the changing face of the battle in progress. I do not care why I am here. I am, however, interested in the nature of my punishment and how best to endure it."

For a few moments, I watched him examine the tools of his trade.

"That reminds me of a question I meant to ask when I saw the Cong," I said at last. "You speak of battle. Is there fighting here? War? Can people die in Hell?"

"My words were figurative," he grunted. "In my mind, life itself, or afterlife, is a battle
.
.
.
a constant confrontation of opposition in an effort to exert one's own will on others. To answer your question, however, yes, people can die in Hell. I have experienced it myself. As I said earlier, not all the people here share your admiration of me or my kind. The revival process is unpleasant enough that I do not wish to repeat the experience any more than is absolutely necessary. In regard to war and fighting
.
.
."

He paused and looked around us with the tight-lipped, humorless grin I had noticed before.

".
.
.
There are people here. Anywhere there are people there will be war and fighting
.
.
.
sometime, on some level. As a student of military history, I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"Is this the punishment you spoke of, then?" I said after a few minutes' thought. "Are you paying for a lifelong series of battles with eternal battle in the afterlife?"

The hard, dark eyes fixed on me again.

"You know very little of Hell, Will Hawker."

With those words he began to gather his weapons, securing them one by one upon his body. It occurred to me that I had somehow offended the Khan with my last question.

"You're right. I don't know about Hell. That shouldn't be surprising, as I've just arrived today. What you said earlier about not wasting time wondering why you're here
.
.
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I didn't even know that. Since I got here I've been doing nothing but bothering people about why I'm here. I didn't know the protocol or customs, so if I insulted you somehow by asking about your punishment, it was unintentional. You mentioned it yourself earlier is all. I thought it was all right to discuss it."

The man's movements slowed, then ceased completely.

"You owe me no apology, Will Hawker," he said with a sigh, his eyes never leaving the ground. "It is simply that my true punishment is distasteful enough to me that I do not like to dwell upon it, much less discuss it. If anything, our talk has provided me with momentary divergence from my thoughts. For that I owe you thanks, and will answer your questions."

He raised his gaze to meet my own.

"I did fight my entire life, but because of that, battle would not be a punishment to me
.
.
.
simply a continuation of my normal existence. No, my punishment is far more subtle than that. You have correctly perceived that I am preparing for battle. Look around you and tell me what you see
.
.
.
or more important, what you don't see."

Puzzled, I swept my eyes around in a full circle.

"I
.
.
.
I'm afraid I don't understand."

"What you don't see," the Khan supplied, "is followers. I have no army, no horde. Unlike any previous life, any battle I encounter here I must fight alone."

It took a moment for the irony of the Khan's situation to sink in. One of the greatest leaders the world has known—a ruler of nations, commander of troops numbering in the hundreds of thousands—reduced to single combat with nothing to organize other than his personal weapons.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. "It must be very difficult for you."

The Khan was on his feet in an angry surge.

"Do not pity me, Will Hawker," he hissed. "Hate me, fear me, for those reactions I am accustomed to dealing with. But spare me your sympathy. In my entire life I never imposed my burdens or sorrows on another, and I will not have that happen now. I have been stripped of everything I worked to build. Leave me my pride."

Snatching up his bow, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" I called. "Take me with you!"

He faced me again, the dark eyes studying me intently.

"I will be your army
.
.
.
or aide. I'm not much, but it will double your force."

"It may not be wise to interfere with the fate planned for me," the Khan said carefully. "Perhaps you should wait until you know more of Hell before making such a rash commitment."

Now it was my turn to laugh.

"To follow Genghis Khan into battle would be the dream of a lifetime for me. I'd face the Devil himself for the chance."

"You may not be speaking figuratively," the Mongol warned. "But come, walk beside me and tell me of yourself. It is clear you have a warrior's interest and heart. What is your background?"

A small chill flitted across my heart.

"Well, as I told you, I've studied military history. I'm familiar with the writings of Clausewitz, Sun Tsu, Hart
.
.
."

The Khan waved his hand impatiently.

"No, I mean, what is your firsthand experience."

"I
.
.
.
um
.
.
.
studied the martial arts for over twenty years—you know, karate and kung fu. I did a little fencing and riflery, but never had a chance to get into archery
.
.
."

I stopped talking, for the Khan had halted in his steps and was studying me carefully.

"Am I not making myself clear, Will Hawker?" he said. "I am not asking about your studies. I wish to know what your actual combat experience is."

I licked my lips, unable to meet his gaze.

"None," I admitted. "My country had only one war while I was of age to serve, against the Viet Cong we saw earlier. When I tried to volunteer for combat duty, I was rejected. Medically unfit for active service, they said."

"And so you studied war as a hobby."

"That's right. I had always wanted to be a soldier. Not getting into the army was one of the biggest disappointments of my life. It made me feel I had somehow failed as a man, so I kept up my studies as best I could on my own."

"You had friends? You would talk to them of strategies and battle plans?"

"That's right."

"And whenever possible, you would talk to other noncombatants—children and women—explaining to them the mind of a soldier and his necessary role in society?"

"Well, sometimes. Most of them didn't want to listen, but I did what I could."

In the silence that followed, I sneaked a glance at the Khan. He was staring at the horizon, his face expressionless. Finally, he heaved a great sigh.

"You may not fight beside me, Will Hawker. Better that I fight alone."

"But I'm fit enough to fight. Those doctors only
.
.
."

"I didn't say that you
can
not. I said that you
may
not. I do not wish you for a follower."

"But
.
.
.
I
.
.
.
Why
.
.
."

Words failed me in my confusion. The Khan shook his head minutely and turned to face me.

"I told you before, all I have left is my pride and I guard it jealously. It will not allow me to accept a follower such as you. Still, your offer of loyalty was both generous and sincere, so courtesy demands that I at least try to explain my position to you."

He paused for a moment and his gaze drifted into distant focus as he organized his thoughts.

"I mention earlier that I tried not to waste time wondering why I was here in Hell, but the most disciplined minds wander, and I have formed a theory as to the reason for my punishment. My fatal weakness is not that for killing and bloodshed, but rather of vanity. You see, I liked being Khan. Liked it far too much for the good of my followers or the world. When I was elected Khan of the united tribes, the Horde, I perceived that we were too strong to be attacked. Whatever defense I organized would eventually stagnate from disuse, until the tribes fell to bickering among themselves from boredom. Then the Horde would dissolve, taking with it my position and title. To avoid this, I instituted an expansionist policy and put the Horde on the attack. We were constantly pushing our borders outward, which guaranteed the Horde would be fighting, and I kept them fighting, and therefore united in purpose, until my death. Vanity made me a warmonger, so here I am paying the price that I never accounted for during my life."

His eyes focused on me again.

"But I got something for it. It is my guess that you are in Hell because you got nothing for your war efforts. War is a terrible thing, Will Hawker. It is not a game or a hobby, but a horrible means to an end. Wars are fought for land or wealth, or as in my case, a title and power. Noncombatant warriors such as you and your friends cling to romantic ideas of honor and ideals that any combat soldier loses in his first encounter. You never fight the wars yourself, so you have no idea of what is involved. Still, you encourage others to war, or even worse, argue to make battle an acceptable part of life. Blind ignorance makes you a warmonger, and ignorance is uncontrollable because, unlike greed, it can never be satisfied. I may be condemned by history for my part in war, and justly so
.
.
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but you, Will Hawker, and all your friends, are a hundred times worse than I and my kind, and I will not sully my name and banner by having you stand beside me in battle."

With a final curt nod, he left me standing there as he stomped away to his unnamed battle alone.

Watching him go, I had pause to consider the bitter irony of Hell. The legendary leader of men was now forced to fight alone, while I, who yearned for battle all my life, would be denied the chance even in afterlife. It occurred to me that, unlike the Khan, my afterlife was going to be simply an extension of my previous life, for I had succeeded in building and living in Hell even before I died.

Bowing my head, I wept.

Two Gentlemen of the Trade

Robert Lynn Asprin

House Gregori and House Hannon were not particularly noteworthy in Merovingian hierarchy. There was old money behind each to be sure, but not enough to rate them as exceptionally rich. They had not specialized in commerce as so many other houses had, and therefore were not a controlling or even influential force in any given commodity or market. They were not old enough or large enough to impact the convoluted politics of either the town or the local religions. In fact, it is doubtful they would have been any better known than a fashionable shop or tavern, were it not for one thing: the Feud.

No one in town knew for sure how the feud between House Gregori and House Hannon began. Questions brought widely varying answers, not only from the two houses, but from different members of the same house as well. Some said it had something to do with a broken marriage contract, others that it was somehow related to a blatant criminal act involving either a business deal or a gaming wager. There were even those who maintained that the feud pre-existed the settlement of the town and had merely been renewed. In short, almost every reason for a feud to exist had at one time or another been touted as the truth, but in reality no one in Merovingen really knew or cared. What mattered was that the feud existed.

Violence was common enough in Merovingen-above. While differences were not always settled by physical confrontation or reprisal, the option was always there and never overlooked in either planning or defense. Feuds were also fairly commonplace, but they were generally short lived and nearly always limited in their scope by unspoken gentlemen's agreements. In direct contrast, the Gregori-Hannon Feud was carried on at levels of viciousness that made even the most hardened citizen uneasy. There were no safe-zones, no truces. Women, even infants were as fair targets as the menfolk. It was said that both houses retained assassins to stalk the other, as well as offering open contracts for the death of any rival house member. Whether it was true or not, it made each member of either house a walking target for any local bravo who believed the rumors.

If anything, the feud doubtlessly saved many lives in the overall scheme of things—by example alone. Many a dispute in Merovingen cooled at the last moment with the simple advisement of "Let's not make a Gregori-Hannon thing out of this." And while the more sane edged away from the Gregoris and Hannons, the feud raged as the two houses mechanically acted out their obsessive hatred.

Festival time was usually Gregori-Hannon open season, each house stalking the other through the celebrations, each never pausing to think that they themselves were the bait that lured the other side out. This year, however, House Gregori remained barricaded in its holding. The elder Gregroi was ill, perhaps dying. So for the moment, at least, natural death took precedence.

"It's the Hannons! It has to be!"

The doctor paused in his ministerings and scowled up at the pacing man.

"Pietor Gregori!" he intoned in a stern voice. "Again I must ask you to keep still! Your father needs his rest, and I cannot concentrate with your constant prattle."

"Sorry, Terrosi," Pietor said, dropping heavily onto a chair. "It just doesn't make any sense. You've said yourself that Father's never been sick a day in his life. The only time he's spent abed is recovering from wounds. He was fine when you gave him his yearly check-up last week. It has to be poison
.
.
.
and the Hannons must be behind it. The question is how did they do it?"

"Of course it's the Hannons." The elder Gregori was struggling to rise on one elbow, waving aside the hovering doctor. "You know it, and I know it, Pietor. Never mind what this doddering fool says. It's poison. I can feel it eating at my insides. Now quit fretting at what we already know. The question isn't how they did it, it's what you're going to do about it! You're the eldest since your uncle was killed. The house will look to you for leadership. I want you out hunting Hannon blood, not sitting around here trying to hold my hand."