Wielding a Red Sword (21 page)

This squad was on a mission. The host was barely literate in Spanish, his native language, but one of his henchmen could read well. “It’s the farm across the stream, there,” the man said. “We’ll have to watch it; he’s got dogs.”

“We know how to deal with dogs,” the host said, and the others laughed coarsely.

They trekked to a small wooden bridge across the river. Two emaciated children were sitting there. They stretched out their thin arms in a gesture of supplication as the party approached. “Candy?” the little boy begged in Spanish. Mym could understand this language now, because he was tuning into the sense of it as rendered by the host’s brain.

“Get out of our way!” a henchman grunted. He lifted his boot, set it against the boy’s shoulder, and shoved. With a scream the boy tumbled backward into the river.

“Death Squad!” the little girl cried, struggling to her feet. “Bad men!” She started to run away.

“Don’t let her go!” the host cried. “Can’t have her telling anyone we were here.”

A henchman strode after the girl and caught her. He hauled her back by one spindly arm. “What do we do with her?”

“Kill her,” the host said.

“But she’s just a kid,” the henchman protested.

“She’s a
witness
,” the host clarified.

“But we can’t just—”

“Where are your guts?” the host demanded. “We’ve got a job to do.” He drew his knife. “We don’t want noise. I’ll show you how to make it quiet.”

He took hold of the girl’s straggly hair, hauled her head up, and brought the knife to her exposed throat.

Mym acted. He exerted his will and paralyzed the man’s arms. The little girl dropped from the slackening grasp and lay on the ground, unmoving. She had fainted.

“See? No noise,” Mym forced the man’s vocal apparatus to say. It was difficult, because Mym had to focus the thought without language, forcing it through the brain so that it came out in the proper words.

“No noise,” the henchman echoed, relieved. “For a minute I thought you were going to kill her!”

Mym eased up on his control. The host found himself in the awkward position of having done a senseless thing by his definition. He had indeed intended to kill the child. Now he had to explain his action.

It was easier for him to pretend that things had gone as planned. “Now you know,” he said gruffly and turned and moved on across the bridge.

Mym had navigated that crisis. But had he done it by proper planning and decision or by simply muddling through? He still had a lot to learn of the Way of Strategy!

They proceeded on toward the farm. Mym now knew that this was a killer group that went surreptitiously to murder individuals who opposed the policies of this nation’s government; he had read about these during his military studies. Thousands or tens of thousands had been killed in this manner—but instead of securing the government’s power, this had generated a backlash that had become a full-fledged guerrilla revolution. This government was at war with its own people and would have fallen long ago if not generously supported by powerful outside interests.

Mym had no sympathy with terrorism, whether practiced by the government or against it. If this was the way
this government operated, his sympathies were with the opposition.

But it was not his job to dictate the political system of a nation or the manner it maintained its base of power. It was his job to supervise the violence that resulted.

Well, perhaps he could redefine his job. He had succeeded in drastically changing the configuration of the war between Babylonia and Persia; was there a way to eliminate these Death Squads here?

Aside from arranging another elimination of a head of state, he wasn’t sure how. And when he started practicing assassination himself, how did that differ from what the Death Squads were doing? It was no easy decision.

Now the men were near the farmhouses. The dogs spotted them and charged. A henchman tossed down bits of meat that he removed from a special package. The dogs, poorly trained, paused to snap up the meat—and in moments they were writhing on the ground. The bait was poisoned, of course.

“He’s supposed to be alone today,” the literate henchman said. “His wife’s off at the big celebration.” Mym wasn’t able to grasp the exact nature of the celebration; it was tied in too closely with cultural values that did not align with his own.

“We’ll play it safe, anyway,” the host said. “We’ll surround the house. I’ll challenge him from the front; you be ready to catch him when he tries to sneak out the back.”

They deployed accordingly. But as the host came to the front, the figure of a woman appeared in the doorway.

The host cursed under his breath. Mym read his thought: the intelligence had been wrong. The wife was home. Now it would be messy, and they would have to kill her too. They would charge extra for that.

The woman disappeared inside the house, slamming the door. The host charged, knowing that time was now of the essence. He would have to catch and kill the woman, because his weak-kneed cohorts wouldn’t want to do it. He couldn’t have her escaping and bearing the report of the identity of the killers; that would embarrass the employer, who preferred anonymity.

He lifted his boot and kicked at the flimsy door. It crashed inward. He stepped over it and into the house. There was the woman, speaking into a telephone.

A telephone! There was another vital detail the intelligence report had overlooked! If he had known about that, he would have taken time to cut the wires before approaching the house. It was a nuisance, but had to be done. Now it was too late; she had already made the call.

He strode across and swept the phone out of her hand. The woman screamed and spun away from him. He caught at her, getting hold of her shawl. It came free, and he threw it down and grabbed again, this time catching her blouse. That tore as she fought to escape, exposing her haltered bosom. Evidently she had been less formally garbed and donned her blouse over the halter when she heard activity near the house.

The host paused. This was a well-shaped woman! Of course he had to kill her—but it would be a shame to let a form like that go to waste. The henchman would catch the escaping man; he could spare a few minutes.

He got both hands on her and bore her back against the wall. She screamed, so he knocked her in the face. Blood welled at her lips, but the scream cut off.

He caught at the halter and yanked. The thing was sturdier than it looked; instead of coming away it stretched out and down, baring one of her breasts. The sexual passion of the host was magnified by this sight. He stared at the breast, then reached for it.

Mym, bemused at the proceedings, had failed to act in time to abate the host’s violence. Now he exerted himself, fighting to control the sudden lust of the man. But though he had been successful in saving the girl-child, he was now up against a greater determination. The host had not really wanted to kill the child, but had intended to do it as a necessary thing; in contrast, he was inflamed by desire to possess this woman before he killed her. Perhaps with more experience, Mym could have assumed control. As it was, he could not. While he tried, the host opened his own clothing and brought his body up against that of the woman.

Mym gave up the struggle and withdrew. He had possessed
a hundred different and lovely young women in his life as a prince, but had raped none. He refused to share a body engaged in such an act.

Now he stood beside the man and woman, watching the commencement of the rape. He was angry.

He touched his Sword. Suddenly he was solid. He reached out and grasped the thug’s collar and hauled him back. But the man was heavier than Mym, and this pull was not enough.

Mym touched his Sword again. If the instrument could make him solid, it could make him solider! He reached out a second time, caught the collar, and made a terrific exertion.

The man was lifted back and away, and hurled at the opposite wall. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious. It was as if a giant had thrown him!

Curious despite the situation, Mym turned and struck the wall with his fist. His fist punched right through it.

He had indeed become more solid! Ordinary matter was now of a lesser density, so that his flesh had the relative mass of a sledgehammer, and his force was magnified many times. No wonder the thug had flown!

The woman was staring right through him. Mym remained invisible; she had no notion what had saved her. Then she recovered her wits and scrambled up and away, simultaneously hauling her halter back into place.

The thug had been right about one thing; she was an attractive woman. But now Mym had to attend to the other members of the Death Squad, to prevent them from killing the wealthy farmer.

He looked through the house, but saw only the woman, hiding behind the stove. The farmer must already be outside.

But when he went outside, he found the three other Squad members waiting. The farmer had not emerged.

The woman must have been alone. That intelligence was really fouled up!

Then Mym heard something. It was a kind of scuffling down the drive leading to the house. Something was coming. More killers from the government?

He summoned his horse with a thought, and the animal appeared. Mym mounted, and the horse staggered.

Oh. That extra mass. He touched the Sword and willed himself back to masslessness. The horse relaxed.

They galloped toward the new sound. In moments they spied the source and paused, astonished.

It was a troop of ghastly people shambling along. Their eyes were staring, their mouths hung open, and drool fell across their chins. Their hair was wild, their clothing haphazard. Their arms and legs moved as if operated by marionette strings, jerking up and forward and slapping down. Each one of them seemed about to collapse, but somehow did not.

These were not ordinary people! They were zombies! What were they doing here, roused from their ground?

From the ground? There was that theme again!

Mym watched as the zombie troop shuffled along toward the farmhouse. The members of the Death Squad saw them and yelled. The leader staggered out, still woozy from his fall. The zombies continued without pause.

This could not be coincidence! The woman must have summoned the zombies when she phoned. But that explained only part of the mystery of this occasion. Where had the zombies come from, and how had the woman known about them? Where was the man of the house? Why had he left his lovely wife unprotected?

Shots were fired. The zombies proceeded without pause. The Death Squad members fired again, taking better aim—but still there was no visible effect. They were baffled.

Now the woman appeared in the doorway. She yelled at the zombies and pointed to the Death Squad members.

The zombies understood. They pursued the men.

Too late, the men realized what they were up against. They tried to scramble away, but the zombies surrounded them. Dangling hands flopped against the men, and slack jaws worked. The attack was inefficient, but it was apparent that the zombies felt no pain, so that nothing the men could do to them had any effect. Each of the men was soon buried under a clumsy mass of bodies, and slobbering mouths labored to bite at living flesh.

Mym might have interfered, but found he had no inclination. He knew firsthand the evil of the Death Squad
members; they were not worth saving. Also, he had no desire to make physical contact with the zombies, who were about as repulsive as creatures of human form could be. He realized now that they were not refugees from a graveyard, for none of their flesh was rotting and there was no earth on them; rather, they were like almost total idiots.

Another horse galloped down from the sky. At first Mym thought it was one of his own companions, but then he realized that the color of the horse did not match those he knew. It wasn’t any color; it was pale, though the rider was caped in black. Certainly it was supernatural, however.

The horse landed and trotted to him. Now Mym saw the skull-features of Thanatos, the Incarnation of Death. “What are you doing here, Mars?” Thanatos called.

“I think I am supervising a battle,” Mym returned in singsong. “Of precisely what nature, I hardly know.”

“Of an illicit nature!” Thanatos said. “Those are zombies!”

“I had come to that conclusion,” Mym agreed. “But they seem to be serving a good cause.”

Thanatos was obviously agitated. “Do you know what a zombie is?”

“An undead,” Mym replied. “We have them in India, too, though I have never seen them fight a battle before.”

“A zombie is a living man whose soul has been removed.”

“Yes, I suppose so, since life departs with the soul. If the mortal body does not lie still, it is called a zombie.”

“But these bodies have not been killed!” Thanatos said. “They are not on my schedule.”

“They are evidently on mine,” Mym sang. “They are doing a necessary job, summoned in defense of that young woman.”

“You may organize a battle as you choose,” Thanatos said, his bone-jaw grim. “But you may not impinge on my prerogatives. You may not interfere with the souls of mortals before their deaths.”

“I don’t know how these zombies came to be,” Mym sang. “But if they are what it takes to set matters straight, I’m amenable.”

“If you do not eliminate the zombies, I will!” Thanatos said angrily.

This sounded like a challenge, and Mym was not in the mood to be challenged on his own turf. Evidently Thanatos represented the Ground, but that did not give him leave to interfere with Fire. “Show me how to make a zombie, and perhaps I will know how to eliminate one,” he sang.

“Like this!” Thanatos said, and reached his skeletal hand into Mym’s body. The fingers passed right through his flesh, which wasn’t surprising while he was insubstantial. But then they caught on something within him and pulled on it, and he was abruptly in mortal agony.

Thanatos had grasped his soul and was pulling it from his body!

Mym reacted involuntarily. He stepped into Thanatos, overlapping him, and exerted his will to take over the other man’s mind. That transferred some of his agony to the host—to Thanatos.