The Magic Labyrinth (29 page)

He raised the pistol in his left hand, keeping the cutlass in his right. He could aim with either hand, though not well. At this range, though, he could not miss. But did he have to shoot?

The decision never had to be made. As he waited, eyes straining, finger tight on the trigger, he was lifted up and hurled over the railing.

For a minute or so, he was so stunned that he had no idea of what had happened. He knew he was in the water, choking, spitting, struggling. But how had he gotten there? And why?

He bumped into something. His hands felt cold flesh. A corpse. He shoved it away and slipped off the heavy bandolier.

Before him, but now about sixty feet away, was the vast boat. How had he gotten so far away from it? Had he been swimming? Or floating? It didn’t matter. He was here, and the boat was there. He would swim back to it. This was the second time he’d been in The River. What I dip you in three times is true.

As he thrashed toward the vessel, he saw that the railing of the boiler deck was closer to the water than it should be. The boat was sinking!

Now he knew what had tossed him off the deck like a fly shrugged off by a horse. Except that he had no wings. It had been an explosion below the water line. In the boiler deck where ammunition was stored. And it would have been set off, of course, by John’s men.

He had gone through too much. Even the imminent loss of his beautiful
Not For Hire,
which should have brought tearing pain and tears, did not affect him much. He was too tired and too desperate. Almost, he told himself, too tired to be desperate.

He swam toward the boat. His right hand came down hard on something. He cried out with pain, then reached out again. Wet slippery wood curved under his hand. Gasping with joy, he seized it and pulled himself forward. He didn’t know what it was, a piece of canoe or dugout, but it was enough to buoy him.

Where was Joe?

He called out. There was no answer. He tried again and got the same silence.

Had the explosion gotten Joe? The detonations would have hurled a strong pressure wave through the water. Anyone near it would probably have been killed. But Joe wasn’t close enough. Or was he? It must have been a hell of a blast.

Or perhaps Joe had just lost consciousness from the pain of his broken bone and slipped off into The River.

He called twice more. Someone shrieked from far away, a woman’s voice. Some other poor soul floating in The River.

The boat was visibly settling down. There would be many compartments, large and small, with closed doors and hatches. There might even be enough enclosed air to keep the Riverboat afloat. Eventually, she would drift into shore; she could even be towed in by sailing ships or rowboats or both.

For such a deep-shaded pessimist, he was incredibly optimistic.

He wasn’t going to make it. The prow of the vessel—it was drifting backwards—slid by him. And now he saw the launch, the
Post No Bills.
It was moving very slowly, apparently looking for swimmers. Its searchlight probed across the waters, stopped, moved back, and centered on something. It was too far away for him even to see whatever the beam was on. The launch was also too distant to hear his cries.

Suddenly, he remembered King John. The man was bound and helpless in a locked cabin. He was doomed unless someone got to him. He couldn’t cry out, and it was doubtful that anyone would be near enough to hear him, if he could be heard. And even then there was no key available. The lock could be shot off, but…why speculate? John was udoomed. He would sit there not even knowing that the boat was going down. The water would flood the main deck, and he still wouldn’t know. Those cabins were watertight. Not until the air suddenly became stuffy would he guess what had happened. Then he would struggle desperately, squirm, twist, writhe, calling out for help through the gag. The air would get fouler and fouler, and he would slowly choke to death.

His last moments would be horrible.

It was a scene which Sam would once have projected on his mind’s screen with great pleasure.

Now he could only wish that he could get to the boat and rescue John. Not that he’d let him go scot-free. He’d see that he got that promised trial. But he did not wish John to suffer so or to die so terribly. He did not want anybody to go through that.

Yes, he was soft, John would have enjoyed thinking of him if he were in such a situation. No matter. He wasn’t John, and he was glad of it.

He forgot about John as the launch started up again. It headed for the other side of the Riverboat and then had disappeared. Was Anderson now about to pick up the survivors from the stricken vessel? If he was, he’d have to help finish the last hold-outs from the
Rex,
the jackasses who didn’t know when to quit. Maybe they would have sense enough now to surrender.

“Tham!”

The bellow came from behind him. He turned, keeping one arm halfway around the curving wood. “Joe! Where are you?”

“Over here, Tham! I paththed out! I chutht came to, Tham, but I don’t think I can make it!”

“Hang on, Joe!” Clemens shouted. “I’ll get to you! Keep yelling! I’ll be there soon! Keep yelling so I’ll know where you are!”

It wasn’t easy to turn the big piece of flotsam and get going straight toward the bank. He had to hang on with one arm and paddle with the other. He kicked his feet, too. Now and then he had to stop to catch his breath. Then he would shout, “Joe! Where are you? Joe! Yell so I can hear you!”

Silence. Had Joe fainted again? If so, had he strapped himself to whatever was holding him up? He must have. Otherwise, he would have sunk when he passed out the first time. But maybe he’d been lying on something. Maybe…

Since he had to rest for a moment, anyway, he looked behind him. The boat had slid even further downstream. The River was creeping up along the walls of the main deck. In a short time, John’s cabin would be under water.

He began pushing the wood toward the bank. The fires on shore illuminated the surface somewhat. Though he could see plenty of debris, he couldn’t distinguish any as Joe Miller.

Now he could see that the people on shore were putting out in boats and canoes. Their torches burned brightly by the hundreds. Coming to the rescue, though why they should want to help the people who’d burned down a quarter of their buildings was incomprehensible.

No. They were doing for the destroyers what he would have done for John if he could have. And, actually, the Virolanders did not have cause to hate the Riverboat people as he had to hate John.

By then he understood that he had drifted in much closer to shore than he had thought. It was only about a half-mile to the bank. The dark silhouettes of the rescue craft were coming swiftly, considering they were all being paddled or rowed. Not swiftly enough, though. He was getting cold. The water was warmer than the air, but it wasn’t warm enough. About forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in this area if he remembered correctly.

The River had lost much heat while passing over the north pole, and it hadn’t picked up much yet. He was suffering from intense fatigue, aided and abetted by the shock of combat and chilly water. It would be ironic if he perished before the rescuers got to him.

Just like life. Just like death.

It would have been nice to quit stroking and kicking. So easy to give up, drift, and let others do the work. But he had to find Joe. Besides, if he did quit exercising, he’d lose his body warmth that much quicker. It would be so comfortable…he shook his head, breathed deeply, and tried to urge his dead limbs into life.

Presently—or was it presently, how much time had elapsed?—there was a boat alongside him. Many torches burned on it. Strong arms were hoisting him up, and he was laid shivering on the deck. Warm thick cloths were laid over him. Hot coffee was being poured down him. He sat up and shivered as the cloths fell off and the air struck him.

“Joe!” he said. “Joe! Get Joe!”

“What’s he saying?” someone said in Esperanto.

“He’s speaking English,” a woman said. “He says to get Joe.”

A woman’s face was next to his. She said, “Who’s Joe?”

“My best friend,” Sam said weakly. “And he’s not even human. Maybe that accounts for it.” He laughed tiredly, “Ho, ho, ho! Maybe that’s it.”

“Where is this Joe?” the woman said. She was a good-looker. The flaming torches showed a heart-shaped face, big eyes, a broad high forehead, a retroussé nose, wide full lips, a strong chin and jaw. Long yellow wavy hair.

What was he doing admiring a woman at this time? He should be thinking of…Gwenafra.

Vaguely, he felt ashamed that not once since the action had started had he worried about Gwenafra. Where was she? And why hadn’t he thought about her? He really loved her.

“This Joe?” the woman said again.

“He’s a titanthrop, an ape-man. A hairy giant with a gigantic schnozzola. He’s out there, somewhere close. Save him!”

The woman stood up and said something in Esperanto. A man beyond her held a torch out and looked into the darkness. There were many other torches out there, but they didn’t seem to help. The sky was clouding up swiftly, the starlight was being shut out.

He looked around his immediate area. He was sitting on the raised deck of a longboat. Below him, on each side, were about a dozen paddlers.

“There’s something floating out there,” the man with the torch said. “It looks bulky. Maybe it’s this titanthrop.”

The man had his back turned to Sam. He wore an Eskimo suit of white cloths over head, body, and feet. He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were very broad. And his voice sounded vaguely familiar. Somewhere, a long time before, Sam had heard that voice.

The man called out to nearby boats and told them what to look for. Presently, there was a shout. Sam looked at the source. Some men on another longboat were attempting to haul something huge out of the water.

“Joe!” he croaked.

The man in the white suite turned then. He was holding the flaming pine so that his face was fully illumined.

Sam saw his features clearly, the broad handsome face, the thick straw-colored eyebrows, the square massive jaw, the even white teeth. His grin was evil.

“Bloodaxe!”

“
Já,
” the man said, “
Eirikr
.” Then, in Esperanto, “I have waited a long long time for you, Sam Clemens.”

Screaming, Sam rose and leaped from the boat.

The cold dark waters closed upon him. He went down, down, then straightened out and began swimming. How far could he go before he had to surface for air? Could he get away from his nemesis long enough to get aboard another boat? Surely the Virolanders would not permit Erik to kill him? That would be against their principles. But Erik would wait until he had a chance, and then he would strike.

Joe! Joe would protect him! Joe would do more than that. He would kill the Norseman.

Gasping, sputtering, Sam’s head broke through into the air. Ahead was a boat filled with people. The torches showed their faces clearly. All were looking at him.

Behind came the splashing of a swimmer.

Sam turned around. Erik was only a few feet from him.

Sam yelled again, and once more he dived. If he could come up on the other side of that boat, if he could get aboard it before…

A hand closed around his ankle.

Sam turned and fought, but the Norseman was bigger and far stronger. Sam was helpless. He would be drowned out of sight of the others, and Erik could claim that he had just been trying to save the poor mad devil.

An arm came from behind him and hooked around his neck. Sam struggled like a fish caught in a net, but he knew that he was done for. After all this time, after all these narrow escapes, to die like this…

He awoke on the deck of the longboat, coughing and choking. Water gushed from his mouth and nose. Two strong warm arms held him.

He looked up. Erik Bloodaxe was still holding him.

“Don’t kill me!” Sam said.

Erik was naked and wet. The water on his body glistened in the torchlight. It also fell upon a white object connected to a cord around Erik’s neck.

It was the spiral bone of a hornfish, the symbol worn by members of the Church of the Second Chance.

Two men had come to the same conclusion.

They’d had enough of this senseless bloodshed. Now they’d do something they would have done if each hadn’t been so sure that the other was on the other boat. But, during the long struggle, neither had seen the other. The other had never been on the boat or had wisely left it before the battle or had been blown to bits or into the water.

Each believed that if he died, the great project was doomed to failure, though each visualized the failure differently.

They saw an opportunity to escape now. In the heat and confusion of the combat, no one would notice their desertion. Or, if anyone did, he’d not be able to do anything about it. They would leap into The River and swim to shore and continue their long long journey. Neither had his grail, one being locked up in the sunken
Rex
and the other inside a locked storage room of the
Not For Hire.
They would steal free grails from the Virolanders and go on up The River in a sailboat.

One man had doffed his armor and dropped his weapon on the deck and had grasped the railing to vault over it when the other spoke behind him. The first man whirled, stooping, and picked up his cutlass. Though he hadn’t heard the voice of the other for forty years, he instantly recognized it.

When he slowly turned around, though, he did not recognize the face and body he identified with the voice.

The man who’d come from the hatchway behind him spoke in a language which, now, only two on this boat could understand. His tone was harsh.

“Yes, it’s I, though much changed.”

The man by the railing said, “Why did you do it? Why?”

“You would never understand why,” the man in the doorway said. “You’re evil. So were the others, even…”

“
Were!
” the man by the railing said.

“Yes.
Were.
”

“They’re all dead then. I’d suspected as much.”

He glanced at the helmet and cutlass on the deck. It was too bad that he hadn’t been halted before he discarded them. His enemy had an advantage now. The man by the railing also knew that if he tried to leap over the railing or flip backwards over it, the other was swift and skilled enough to skewer him with his weapon by throwing it.

“So,” he said, “you plan on killing me, too. You’ve reached bottom; you’re lost forever.”

“I had to kill the Operator,” the first man said emotionlessly.

“I couldn’t even think of doing such evil,” the man by the railing said.

“I am
not
evil!” the other cried. “It is you who…”

He struggled with himself, then got the words out.

“There is no use arguing.”

The man by the railing said, “Is it too late even now for you to change your mind? You would be forgiven, you would be sent to the Gardenplanet for therapy. You could join me and the agents and work with us to get to the tower…”

“No,” the first man said. “Don’t be stupid.”

He lifted his cutlass and advanced on the other, who assumed the on-guard position. The duel was short and savage and ended when the unarmored man, bleeding from a dozen slashes, fell with the other’s point in his throat.

The killer dragged the body to the railing, lifted it up in his arms, kissed the mouth of the corpse, and dropped it into the water. Tears streamed down his cheeks; he shook with sobs.