Retief at Large (43 page)

            "Even
so, Great Tussore!" The Sulinorian proceeded to relate the circumstances
surrounding Retief's presence. Halfway through the recital, Tussore's eyelids
drooped. The hose fell from his hand. He snored.

            "So
the problem, Great One, is how to administer the prescribed rituals without
suffering the indecorum of being mowed down like ripe beer-corn by the
condemned one," the oldster concluded. "Great Tussore? Mighty
one?" He waved the hose frantically, but his efforts this time were
unavailing. The still figure stood, unmoving as a sphinx.

            "So
much for the wisdom of the ages," Retief said. "Nice try, Therion,
but it looks like the oracle's not interested. Let's go."

            "Make
silent this one, plenty quick!" a small Sulinorian rasped—the same one,
Retief thought, who had spoken up earlier. "No more time for pulling
string on wooden god! Cut away the head of this Terry, yes! And soon after,
fates proceed on schedule!"

            "Silence,
impertinent oaf!" Therion rounded on the speaker. "Your cacophonous
squeakings impugn the majesties of Sulinore! Give me your name, for later
disciplining!"

            The
one addressed backed away, looking flustered, as if suddenly conscious of being
conspicuous. Retief studied his face.

            "Well,
if it isn't my old friend Coriale," he said. "You ought to be an expert
on the subject of dying. Seems to me I've seen you expire twice already this
evening."

            The
Coriale-faced alien whirled suddenly, plunged for the rear rank.

            "Seize
him!" Therion called. The quarry ducked, dodged, dived through a gap in
the suddenly surging ranks, scuttled sideways as his retreat was cut off, made
a dash for the shrubbery. The chase pounded off into the underbrush. Retief
seated himself on a convenient pedestal and lit a dope-stick. Five minutes
passed before the crowd again surged into view, the darting quarry still in the
lead. He put on a sprint, scuttled to the shrine, dived inside.

            "His
impiety passes all bounds!" Therion puffed, coming up to Retief. "Now
the mad creature seeks shelter in the very crypt of Bozdune!"

            "Let
him be fetched out and dealt with!" someone shrilled.

            "Stay!"
Therion piped as the aroused crowd closed in. "We'll not bring dishonor to
the hero by scuffling about his feet. Come! Let us withdraw and leave this
fevered maniac to regain his sense among the shadows of the greatness which was
his race's!"

            Retief
took out his pocket light and played the beam between the columns of the
refugee's hiding place. Between the great steel-toed boots of Bozdune, a
smaller pair of feet was visible. He directed the light higher.

            "Correction,"
he said. "Not
his
race's; that's no Sulinorian. Look." The
light revealed a cloud of brown mist coiling upwards around the rigid features
of the preserved hero. "The meeting's been infiltrated by a masquerading
alien—an alien who exhales brown gas when he gets excited."

            "What's
this? Brown gas—?" Therion's question was interrupted by a startled cry
from a Sulinorian near the temple entry, followed a moment later by a snort
like a teased bull.

            "He
stirs! Bozdune rouses!" Suddenly Sulinorians were running in every
direction. Retief caught Therion's arm as the elder turned to follow the
general flight.

            "Unhand
me, fellow!" the oldster screeched as a bellow sounded from the shrine.
"Death I face with a proud smile—but there's something inappropriate about
being ripped limb from limb by an ancestor!"

            "Is
that the kind of fellow you make a hero of?' Retief inquired as smashing sounds
emanated from the crypt, followed by the hurtling body of the Coriale double,
which skidded to Retief's feet and lay moving feebly.

            "Unfortunately
Bozdune lost his wits as a result of three month's exposure to the Tickling
Torture at the hands of the infamous Kreee," Therion explained hastily.
"He's prone to rages, when suddenly aroused, and prudence demands my swift
removal hence!" He pulled free and bounded away with an agility remarkable
in a being of his age. Retief turned as a rumble of falling stone sounded from
the shrine. A mighty figure had appeared between the columns, stood with hands
pressed against them. Great cords of muscle stood out on his neck; his biceps
bulged; his
latissimi dorsi
strained. The column buckled and went over,
bringing down a section of the arhictrave. Bozdune roared as the marble slab
bounced from his back. With a final thrust he toppled a second column, stepped
forth as stone collapsed behind him. Eight feet high, massive as a buffalo, he
stood in the moonlight, snarling. His wild gaze fell on Retief.

            "Kreee!"
he bellowed. "I have you now!" and charged the lone Terran.

            Retief
stood his ground as Bozdune closed in.

            "You've
got me confused with someone else. Bozdune," he called. "I'm just a
Terry doing a little job of planet-saving."

            With
a bellow, the ancient fighter thundered past the spot where Retief had stood a
moment before. He fought his way clear of the underbrush into which the
momentum of his dash had carried him, rounded up his elusive prey.

            "And
in that connection, I'd like to ask a little favor of you," Retief
continued. "A group of opportunists called the Groaci are planning to
massacre all the foreign diplomats in town—"

            "Arrrrghhh!"
Bozdune roared and closed in swinging roundhouse swipes sufficient to
decapitate a horse. Retief leaned aside from one wild swing, ducked under
another, planted his feet and drove a solid left-right to the giant's stomach,
an effect like punching a sea-wall. He jumped aside as Bozdune grunted and made
an ineffective grab, landing a blow in his own midriff that staggered him.

            "Now,
the Groaci have the streets cordoned off," Retief went on. "And since
it's important that I get through to the Embassy with the news, I'd like to ask
you to lend a hand." He stepped back as Bozdune ripped his six-foot blade
from its sheath, whirled it overhead. Retief tossed the last rifle aside,
plucked a wrist-thick spear from the grip of a horned warrior which loomed
immobile beside him. Bozdune made a bound, brought the massive claymore down in
a whistling arc that cleaved air an inch to Retief's right as he faded aside.

            "Now,
if you'd just say a word to your descendants, I think they might consent to
lend a hand." Retief poked the spear hard against Bozdune's breastplate.
"How about it?"

            Bozdune
dropped his sword, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, and gave a
prodigious pull—and as Retief let go, tottered backward, tripped over a
fragment of shattered column and went down like a fallen oak. Retief heard the
dull
thonk!
as his head struck the marble steps of his erstwhile
shelter. He stepped quickly forward, used the warrior's own harness straps to
bind his wrists together, then his ankles. At that moment, the bushes parted
and Therion's aged faced appeared.

            "What
transpires?" he piped. His eye fixed on the prone giant. "What,
Bozdune the Bestial, felled by a mere outworlder?"

            "I'm
afraid I can't claim the glory," Retief said. "He ran out of
gas." He glanced toward the spot where the false Coriale had lain.
"But if you can find the ringer, I may be able to remedy that."

            "He's
here, the infamous dastard," a Sulinorian called, dragging the unfortunate
imposter from a clump of gorse. Retief got a grip on the captive's collar,
assisted him to Bozdune's side.

            "Breathe
on the nice man, Shorty," he ordered.

            A
great gout of brown gas puffed obediently forth.

            "Again."

            The
prisoner huffed and puffed, exhaling the vapor past the fallen fighter's
snoring visage. In a moment, Bozdune twitched, jerked and opened his eyes.

            "You're
still here, eh?" he said to Retief. "I thought I dreamed you."
He sniffed again.

            "Gadzoons,
first good air I've breathed in a couple hundred years. More!" He raised
his voice as Retief withdrew the pseudo-Coriale.

            "Not
unless you agree to lend a hand," Retief countered. "Then I promise
you all the sacred essence you want."

            "Are
you kidding? Just let me get my hands on these Gruckles or whoever they are
that think they can carve my home town up, and I'll grind them into library
paste!"

            "It's
a deal." Retief turned to Therion. "How about it? You in or
out?"

            "If
Bozdune approves the enterprise, then who are we to demur?" the oldster
inquired of the cool night air. "Rise, loyal Sons of Sulinore! For this
night at least, the ancient glories live again!"

            Retief
gave Bozdune another shot of gas, then passed the captive to Therion.

            "Don't
squeeze him too hard," he cautioned. "We've got to make him stretch
as far as we can; if this caper's going to succeed, we'll need all the ancient
glory we can muster."

            From
a shadowy arch half a block from the carved gates of the Terran Embassy,
Retief, seated astride Tussore's broad back, watched as the fifty-Groaci guard
detail sauntered past, their stemmed eyes scanning the street alertly, their
blast rifles ready at port arms. Behind him, the tread of booted Groaci feet
approached relentlessly.

            "Get
ready," he said softly. "Another ten seconds ..."

            There
was a chorus of weak shouts from the rear, a slapping of running feet, the
buzzzz-whapp!
of power guns firing; then a pair of Groaci troopers appeared, pelting
along in advance of a mighty figure in ancient armor. In full stride, he
overtook them, snatched them up by their necks and tossed them aside. Behind
him, a crowd of Sulinorians, toga skirts hitched high, brandished their
ceremonial knives as they followed their massive leader toward the gate. A moment
later, the giant was among the patrollers, flailing with a spike-studded mace
before the gun was fired.

            "Let's
go!" Retief kicked his heel into Tussore's sides, and the mighty
centauroid bounded forward. In an instant, they were in the thick of the melee,
Retief swinging a yard-long club as Tussore reared and struck out with
iron-hard hooves.

            "Cut
your way through!" Retief called to his mount. We can mop up later, after
we've taken care of the main event!"

            "Aiii!
What a lovely squishing sound these Gruckers make beneath my hooves!" the
old warrior yelled, but he wheeled and charged the gate. Half a block away,
Retief caught a glimpse of Bozdune, tossing Groaci troopers aside like straw
dummies. From every dark alleymouth and byway, Sulinorians were pouring. A lone
Groaci in the gatehouse brought up his blast-rifle, loosed a round that missed
by inches; then Retief's club felled him, and they were through, crossing the
lawn toward the lighted entry at full gallop. A startled Marine guard let out a
yell and reached for the lever which would slam the grill in the faces of the
invaders, but a sweep of Tussore's arm sent the sentry sprawling. Inside,
Retief swung down, started up the grand staircase, five steps at a time.
Suddenly Counsellor Clutchplate appeared on the landing above.

            "Retief!"
His eyes took in the massive, sweaty, horse-bodied Tussore, helmeted and
sword-girded, the motley horde of Sulinorians swarming behind.

            "Good
lord! Treason! Treachery! Hallucinations!" He whirled to run as Retief
caught him, spun him around.

            "Has
the banquet begun yet?" he demanded.