Short Fiction

few yards from the man who had the wineskin, and waited for the Barbarian to appear at the opposite end of the trailer.
When it happened, it happened quite suddenly, as these things will. One moment the other sentry was craning his neck for another look at what was going on elsewhere. The next he was down on his knees, croaking through a compressed throat, with the Barbarian’s arm under his chin and a driving knee ready to smash at the back of his neck again.
Geoffrey jumped forward, toward his own man. The man-at-arms had dropped his wineskin in surprise and was staring at what was happening to his comrade. When he heard Geoffrey come out of the underbrush, the face he turned was white and oddly distended with shock, as though all the bones had drained out of it. He might have appeared fierce enough, ordinarily. But things were happening too fast for him.
Geoffrey had never killed anyone but a noble in his life. Not intentionally and at close range, in any case. The completely baffled and helpless look of this one somehow found time to remind him that this was not, after all, one of his peers⁠—that the man was hopelessly outclassed in fair combat⁠—or in anything else, for that matter. Geoffrey did not stop to weigh the probity of this idea. It was the central tenet of his education and environment. Furthermore, there was some truth in it.
He couldn’t kill the man. He swept up his arm and struck the flat of the Barbarian’s broad knife against the side of the guard’s head, and bowled the man over with his rush. But the guard had a hard skull. He stared up with glazed but conscious eyes, and squalled: “Lord Geoffrey!” Geoffrey hit him again, and this time the guard stayed down, but the damage was done. Scrambling to his feet, Geoffrey ran over to the Barbarian, who was letting the other guard ooze to the ground.
“We’ll have to hurry!” Geoffrey panted. “Before that man comes back to his senses.”
The Barbarian gave him a disgusted look, but nodded. “Hurry we shall.” He lurched to the trailer door and slapped it with the flat of his hand. “Let’s go, Myka.”
There was a scrambling sound inside the trailer, and the light went out. The door slid open, and Geoffrey found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She was lithe almost to the point of boyishness, even though she was clearly some years older than Geoffrey. She had short hair the color of hammered copper, high cheekbones, and tawny eyes. She was wearing a tunic and short trousers, and there was an empty pistol holster strapped around her waist. Obviously, she was not a lady. But it was much too late for Geoffrey to care about that. She stopped in the doorway, shaking her head slowly at the Barbarian. “I swear, Hodd,” she said in a low, laughing voice, “one of these days you won’t come back from the dead, and I’ll be surprised.”
“It was close enough, this time,” the Barbarian growled. He jerked his head toward Geoffrey. “That young buck over there knows how to handle his enemies. Once he learns what to do about his friends, I may have to retire.”
Myka arched her burning eyebrows. “Oh? What’s the story behind that, I’d like to know.”
“We can always talk,” Geoffrey said a little edgily. “But we can’t always find an empty tankette.”
“Quite right, lad,” the Barbarian said. “I saw some vehicles parked over that way.”
“Those belong to the nobles. There ought to be some captured ones of yours somewhere around here.”
“With plenty of guards on them. No, thanks.”
“That didn’t trouble you earlier.”
“Myka, as you may have noticed, is more than a tank. This time the prize isn’t worth it. I’d rather just slip over to where I can get transportation for the choosing.”
“Not with my help.”
The Barbarian looked at him and grunted. He seemed oddly disappointed. “I would have bet the other way,” he muttered. Then the shaggy head rose, and he circled Myka’s waist with one arm. “All right, I’ll do it without your help.”
“Is Myka trained to drive a tankette and fight at the same time?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better do it my way. You’d make a poor showing, kicking drive levers with a broken leg.” Geoffrey nodded toward the Barbarian’s right shin. “It’s been that way since before you picked me up, hasn’t it? I saw it wobble when you kneed that man-at-arms.”
Myka looked at the Barbarian sharply, worry on her face, but the man was chuckling. “All right, bucko, we’ll do it your way.”
“Fine.” Geoffrey wasn’t so sure it was. Suddenly he was committed not only to helping the Barbarian escape, but also to escape with him. He was faintly surprised at himself. But there was something about the man. Something worth saving, no matter what. And there was the business now of having been recognized. Once Dugald learned he was still alive, there would be a considerable amount of danger in staying in the vicinity. Of course, he had only to stoop over the unconscious guard with the Barbarian’s knife.⁠ ⁠…
With a quick motion, he tossed the weapon back to its owner.
That one was an easy choice, Geoffrey thought. Simply stealing⁠—or was it recapturing?⁠—a tankette and using it to drive away with Myka and the Barbarian didn’t mean he had to go all the way to the barbarian lands with them. Let the guard revive and run to Dugald with the news. All Geoffrey had to do was to remove himself a few miles, find shelter, and bide his time.
One recaptured barbarian tankette might not even be missed. And the guard might not be believed⁠—well, that was a thin hope⁠—but, in any case, no one had any reason to suspect the Barbarian was still alive. There’d be no general pursuit.
Well⁠ ⁠… maybe not. There was a man-at-arms choked to death, by a stronger arm than Geoffrey’s, and it was the Barbarian’s woman who would be missing.