Lord tedric, p.1
Lord Tedric, page 1
Lord Tedric
By E. E. "Doc" Smith
Gordon Eklund
CHAPTER I
Fist-Boxing
The blond swordsman treads cautiously forward. Overhead, the eye of a red sun gleams with the faint light of a tired flame. A bleak, blasted, cratered landscape, its tedium interrupted only by the twisted skeletal remains of a single tree, stretches away from the swordsman on all sides. A hot wind, choked with black dust, burns at his eyes and lips. The swordsman draws his iron weapon free of its sheath. He moves relentlessly now. Gray eyes narrow to see the first sign of an approaching enemy. The swordsman thinks: I am Lord Tedric of the Marshes, warrior-king of all civilized Lomarr.
If I fall this day, if I perish in this hell, the world will long remember my glory. But he must not fall. He must not die. The obliteration of the ancient curse of black wizardry lies too near at hand. A few more steps, A few more passes of the longsword. The forbidden castle of Sarpedion stands ahead, beyond the unseen horizon. He will fight on. He will emerge triumphant. He will rule as Lord Tedric, first Emperor of the Human World.
Then, suddenly, they are upon him. The hordes of Sarpedion rise from the broken land like a plague of insects. Tedric lifts his swordand prepares to meet their assault. The odds against him are one hundred to one. Yet he will win. He must.
Phillip Nolan, a senior cadet at the Imperial Academy of the Corps of the One Hundred on the artificial planet Nexus in the heart of the Empire of Man, leaned back in his chair and raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes against the fierce glare of the overhead lights. A meter and a half from where he sat, between the ropes of a square ring, two men dressed from head to toes in heavy steel stalked one another like lumbering beasts in a savage jungle. Suddenly, the larger of the two men lashed out. There was a ring of steel striking steel. The second man struggled to back away. The larger man lunged forward, swinging again. Clang. Again, he swung. "Like to place a wager, sir?" asked Traynor, Phillip Nolan's personal man-servant, who stood beside his chair. "I'll stand you five-to-one the big fellow flattens him inside three minutes." Nolan shook his head.
"Your salary is already too large, Traynor. I have no wish to fatten it." The larger of the boxers, Nolan recalled, was known as Tedric. If he had another name-a family name-Nolan was not aware of it. "The only reason the bout has lasted this long is that Tedric's being kind." "From pity, do you think?" Nolan shrugged. "Let's call it mercy." Another ringing clang drew Nolan's attention back to the ring. Tedric had backed his opponent, a native Earther named Dani Bayne, into a corner.
The armored men stood toe-to-toe, pounding one another with steel fists, but Tedric threw a halfdozen punches for everyone he received in return. Nolan knew it was only a matter of time now-and not much time at that. Tedric hit Bayne on top of the head.
Clang. Bayne sagged. Tedric hit him in the chest. Clang. The jaw. The chest again, then an uppercut to the face. Bayne seemed to rise a full centimeter off the floor. Tedric stepped back, lowered his arms, and watched as Bayne hit the floor with a conclusive thud. Nolan let out a whistle of admiration. "That was damned impressive." The rest of the audience, the combined senior and junior classes of the Academy, nearly three hundred men, applauded loudly, but Nolan failed to join them. He stared at the fallen Bayne and slowly shook his head. "That Tedric is as good a boxer as any I've seen," he told Traynor. "And Bayne defeated every opponent in the tournament easily until now."
"He could beat me."
"Tedric?"
"No, Bayne."
The referee, an ancient one-armed veteran of the Wykzl War, counted the final toll above Bayne. Tedric, in a corner, knowing that the right was over, removed his armored helmet. Although hispale face and blond hair were streaked with sweat, he barely seemed to be breathing hard. He shook off his gloves, wiped his face with the back of a hand, and reached down to unfasten the metal plates that covered his chest.
"I think I'llshake his hand," Nolan said, standing impulsively.
"But, sir, your own bout-"
"Let it wait for Carey. I'll be back."
As he leaped into the ring, Nolan tried to recall what little he knew of this man, Tedric.
Naturally, he had noticed him-at a height of two meters, Tedric was a very noticeable man-but despite nearly two years together at the Academy, Nolan could not remember exchanging a word with Tedric. He was the class mystery man, with no friends and few acquaintances; rumors concerning his origins had circulated since the very first days.
Nolan seldom paid much attention to such tales, but nonetheless he did sometimes wonder. Who was this man? What was he doing here at the Academy among the tired remnants of the noblest families of the once magnificent Empire of Man? Tedric was smoothing the creases in his pale blue senior class uniform when Nolan approached.
Glancing up, Tedric's eyes showed a peculiar fusion of arrogance and uncertainty.
"What do you want?" he asked coldly.
Nolan tried a grin. "Nothing more than to say congratulations." Reaching out, he took Tedric's hand between both of his and shook. "I want to say that I've never seen sucha display in all of my life. You're going to win this tournament, you know. There isn't a one of us who can touch you."
"Winning is a possibility." Tedric spoke with a slight hesitancy, as if Galactic were not his native language. But that was impossible-for any human being. Wasn't it?
"I'd call it a hell of a lot more than that," Nolan said. "You've got only one more man to whipeither me or Matthew Carey."
There was a flash of something-could it be an-
ger?-in Tedric's eyes at the mention of Carey's name, but it quickly subsided. He shrugged. "The best man will win."
"Ah, yes. Yes, of course. So they say, but-" Nolan seldom felt at a loss for words, but talking to Tedric was like pulling elephants' teeth. "I'm afraid I missed your preliminary bouts. How did they go?"
"I won."
"By knockout?"
"Yes.
Nolan let his grin become a laugh. "That's fantastic. Incredible. When I win, it's usually because the other guy gets tired chasing me around the ring and decides to take a snooze to rest. You nearly killed poor Bayne."
"That was not my intention," Tedric said stiffly. It was plain to Nolan that Tedric had no interest in further conversation, even if he'd had any to begin with, which Nolan rather doubted. He started to say something else, thought better of it, shrugged inwardly, then made a polite how. "Perhaps we will see each other again before graduation."
"It is quite possible."
"Oh, you mean in the tournament final?" Nolan laughed. "I'm afraid there's no way I can whip Carey."
"Nonetheless, I wish you luck."
"You do?" Nolan couldn't conceal his surprise -and pleasure. "Well, I thank you for that."
As he crossed the ring, as puzzled as when he'd first gone to speak to Tedric, Nolan spotted Traynor hurrying to intercept him. He paused and waited.
"Sir, surely you can't have forgotten that you fight next."
"I haven't forgotten, no." Nolan turned and glanced at Tedric, who was now leaving the ring. "I just wish I could."
"You can whip him, sir. I know you can . "And you're a liar, Traynor. I know you are."
Tedric was leaving the auditorium. His departure raised an odd mixture of emotions in Nolan: disappointment that Tedric had not stayed to see him fight and relief that he had not stayed to see him lose. Nolan turned and held out his hands to Traynor. "All right, dress me," he said. "Let's prepare the lamb for the slaughter."
Later, in his corner, burdened down by forty pounds of armored plate, Nolan waited impatiently for his opponent, Matthew Carey, to arrive. "Isn't this just like Carey?" he said. "He must be trying to heighten the drama by making everyone sit on their hands and wait."
"What did you discuss with that man, Tedric?" Traynor asked. Nolan couldn't tell if he was really interested or merely trying to divert attention from the impending bout.
"I couldn't say we discussed much of anything. I told him how much I admired his abilities. He told me I had a chance to beat Carey."
"That was nice of him."
"I don't think he was trying to be nice."
"No, he's a strange one for sure. There's a rumor -I don't know if you've heard it or not, sir-that he has some connection with the Scientists."
Nolan had heard that rumor-it was all anyone had ever talked about for two years in connection
with Tedric. "I first heard that rumor a week aft we arrived here."
"And is it true?"
Nolan struggled to shrug his shoulders beneath the bulk of the armor he wore. "I'd be the last to know either way. The Scientists don't confide in me.
Traynor laughed-too loud. it was the usual sort of laughter a servant made in reply to one of his master's weak jokes. Nolan decided it was time to be serious. After all, maybe Tedric was rightmaybe there was some wav of beating Matthew Carey. Nolan had been trying ever since he and Carey had been big enough to. stand on their own feet. Nolan had fought fairly and unfairly, clean and foul, viciously and kindly, mean and sly. He had lost every time. Still, there might be a way. Hadn't the ancients a saying: the strength of a pure heart is greater than the strength of a dozen foul on ') Nolan didn't know if his heart was pure; he knew Carey's sure as hell wasn't.
A rustle in the crowd below made Nolan turn his helmeted head. Through a narrow doorway at the far end of the auditorium, a tall figure dressed in black lumbered slowly into the room. Nolan knew at once who it had to be: Matthew Carey. He frowned at the sight of the soaring blue eagle, the Carey family crest, inscribed on the chest of the armored suit. "I'll beat him to death," he murmured. "I swear I will."
But, even as he spoke, he knew that was not true. Carey approached the ring through the Crowd. There was a polite smattering of applause. No cadet in the Academy actually liked Carey, but
none of them wanted him to know that. Despite an obvious attempt at trudging like a man weighted down, Carey moved his feet with unexpected ease. Nolan thought there just might be something fishy about that suit of black armor. A new alloy, he guessed, something lighter than steel. That was just like Matthew Carey, too. He was a man who left little to chance.
A trio of female servants, each dressed in a silver thigh-length gown emblazened with the Carey family eagle assisted Carey through the ropes. The presence of women at the Academy stood in strict defiance of the ancient code of the Corps. Nolan had raised a lone protest when Carey first moved the women into his quarters the previous year; but it was futile. There was little anyone or anything could do when faced with the wishes of a Carey. Legalities did not matter; the Careys wrote their own laws.
Nolan pushed Traynor away, then lumbered forward to meet Carey at center ring. He felt fat and bloated compared to the sureness and grace with which Carey moved. The referee brought them together and spoke quickly regarding the rules of the game. Nolan forced himself to meet Carey's rigid gaze. It wasn't the arrogance in those pale disembodied eyes peeping through the narrow slit in the black helmet that disturbed him; it was the amusement. Carey was laughing at him-laughing with the supreme confidence of one who knows full well that the universe is nothing more than a private plum ripe for the plucking.
"Now please shake hands," the referee said, "go to your corners, and may the better man win."
"I expect I will," Carey said dryly. He thrust out a hand. "Shall we shake on that, Phillip?" "No, we shall not." Nolan turned his back and hurried away with as much dignity as the weight of his armor would permit. Behind, he could hear Carey's rich laughter filling the dead silence of the big room.
"You perhaps shouldn't have done that, sir," Traynor said, from behind the ropes. "It won't look like good form in the eyes of your classmen." "They only wish they had my guts," Nolan said. "You shouldn't let him irritate you that way."
"It's more than irritation, Traynor. That man won't rest until he's humiliated me and my family to the point where none of us will be able to raise our heads above our navels.I won't let him do that. He can beat me up a hundred times a night and I won't."
The bell rang.
As soon as he went forward to meet Carey, Nolan felt his anger evaporate. Whom was he trying to kid? Pride was one thing, but defeat was something else. He had refused to shake hands with Carey. Carey was going to win this fight. Which, in the long run, was the greater humiliation?
Still, he would try. He always tried. Carey danced swiftly forward to meet him. The sport of armored fist-boxing had long since abolished the traditional concept of a limited number of rounds of a specific duration. After the opening bell, a bout continued until one fighter failed to regain his feet after a count of ten seconds. Despite this, serious injuries were very rare, and the blame for most of these lay with faulty equipment.
Nolan knew that the worst that could hap-
pen to him today was defeat, but defeat was terrible enough in itself.
He decided to swing first!
As he raised his right arm, straining against the weight of the armor, he saw Carey's laughing eyes. The sight only enraged him, so that he swung twice as hard as planned, which was a mistake. Long before his fist swept home, Carey was gone. Nolan's hand whistled through the empty air, and the force of the blow carried him out and down. He felt his feet slipping from under him and knew he was falling. He tried to throw out his h ands to blunt the force of the fall, but the weight of his arms made that impossible. He hit the canvas flat on his face and lay there, struggling to breathe.
The referee began a hesitant count: "One... two... three. . .
Nolan sensed Carey standing above. "Shut up," Carey told the referee. "That was a slip.
Make him get up. I want to hit him once."
Nolan could hear the audience's laughter. Blinking away frustrated tears, he fought to his knees. "You're cheating," he told Carey. "Your armor is made from something that's not steel,"
"There's nothing in the rules about steel. You can quit if you want, Nolan. Otherwise, start fighting.
Nolan gritted his teeth. Carey was taunting him, and he knew he couldn't afford another wild angry punch like that last one. He forced himself to be calm. Fists raised, he trudged forward, driving Carey in front of him. He would try to pin him in a corner. Carey unleashed a series of swift left hands. Nolan took them on his steel fists. The blows barely stung. Nolan started to think. What if the lightness of Carey's armor extended to his fists as well? He could move fast but not punch hard. There might be a real advantage there. If I catch him, I kill him, Nolan thought.
Carey seemed unaware. He moved back easily, letting Nolan carry the fight, flicking an occasional left hand. The corner was nearby. Another meter and I've got him, Nolan thought. Victory is mine at last.
Carey stopped in apparent surprise when his spine touched the corner ropes. He made an effort to slip free, but Nolan planted both feet and refused to budge. One punch, he thought, and that will be it. If I miss, I'll never catch him again. Nolan let his right fist fly.
But, as he did, Carey also moved. He lifted his right arm in a wide arc. The fist sped through the air. Even as it fell, Nolan understood. A trick. The diversionary left hand.
The right, poised in readiness, created from a substance not only lighter but also tougher than steel. He knew he was beat before Carey's right hand smashed the crown of his helmet. He reeled, seeing black, then bright red. He fell. He never felt himself hit, never heard the referee's count.
When he awoke, Nolan saw the empty helmet on the canvas beside his head. Straining to see, he made out Traynor's concerned face hanging in apparent mid-air.
The auditorium was silent and empty.
Nolan shut his eyes.
But even here, in private darkness, he still saw Matthew Carey's taunting eyes, heard his derisive
laughter like the haunting cry of some great bird of prey.
Beaten, Phillip Nolan sat in his room and thought about the past.
At one time the Nolan family had stood at the pinnacle of power and privilege within the Empire of Man. No other family was nearly as famous, respected, or rich. Among his ancestors, Phillip Nolan could number three imperial counselors, two fleet admirals, and a half-dozen Corps Cornmanders.
At this time-approximately a century in the past-the Carey family occupied a small plot of land on an obscure world known as Milrod Eleven. The Careys were not rich except by local standards, nor were they famous, and even their nearest neighbors saw no reason to hold them in high respect.
So what had occurred within such a brief span of time to alter the situation so dramatically? To the best of Phillip Nolan's knowledge, things had begun to change the day Fraken Carey managed to bribe enough credit to obtain his oldest son, a boy named Melor, an appointment to the Imperial Academy of the Corps of the One Hundred. Melor, probably the ablest and certainly the most deceitful of the Careys, had been graduated at the top of his class of cadets and rewarded with a commission as a brigade lieutenant under the command of the Imperial Fleet Admiral, Tompkins Nolan.
This was during the last days of the centuries-long Wykzl War, and after the final battle in space, when the Empire of Man at last met
abject defeat, it was Melor Carey who returned to Earth a hero, victorious in a minor skirmish, while Tompkins Nolan was branded failure or worse. For Phillip Nolan, this was more than mere history. His own fate was intimately involved. The reasons behind the simultaneous rise of the Careys and fall of the Nolans lay bound up with the history of the Empire of Man over the past one hundred years. Largely, it was a matter of corruption. An expansive, thriving Empire created leaders of a similar sort, golden men to build a Golden Age. But the Empire of today, corrupt and decadent, required nothing more than what the Careys could give it-more of the same.
