Captive of the Centaurianess by Poul Anderson Page B

smattering of Kathantuman, might have blushed at these had time allowed. As was, he was again borne off on the tide of assault.
    He saw little of what followed. In this warren of hallways and apartments, combat became almost entirely hand-to-hand. That was just what suited the Varannians, and what Dyann had counted on.
    He did glimpse her in action when she rounded a corner and found a hostile platoon. She sprang, swung her feet ahead of her while she flew, and knocked the wind out of two men. As she landed on them, her sword howled in an arc which left two or three more disabled. One who stood farther off tossed a grenade at her. She snatched it and threw it back. He managed to catch and return it, but was barely able to duck before she flung it again and it blew in a door behind him. While this game went on, Dyann rendered a foeman unconscious by a swordblow to his helmet, broke the nose of another with the pommel of her weapon, and kneed a third. Then several more Centaurians joined in.
    The gang of them went on. They had nothing left to do here. Ray dodged among their victims, past the door which the grenade had obligingly opened, into the apartment beyond. Maybe he could hide under a bed.
    A hoarse shout sent him spinning around. Two members of the platoon had recovered enough to stagger in pursuit of him. He would have cried, "Hail, Wilder!" and explained what a peaceful citizen he was. Unfortunately, he too wore barbarian helmet and cuirass.
    Before he could raise his hands, a Jovian had lifted rifle and fired. The shot missed. Though the range was close, the man was shaken. Also, in his time on Varann Ray had inevitably developed some strength and quickness. He didn't exactly dodge the bullet, but he flinched fast. His wild sword-swing connected. The Jovian sank to the floor and got busy staunching a bad cut.
    His companion charged, with a clubbed rifle that was perhaps empty. Ray turned to meet him and tripped on his own scabbard. He clattered to the floor and the enemy tripped over him. Ray climbed onto the fellow's back, removed his helmet, and beat his head up and down till he lay semiconscious.
    I've got to find someplace safe , Ray thought frantically. Back to the ships, maybe? He scuttled from the apartment, overleaped the human wreckage outside, and made haste.
    Not far beyond, he came to an intersection. A tommy gun blast from the left nearly touched him. "No-o-o," he whimpered, and hit the deck once more.
    A boot in his ribs gained his attention. "Get up!" he heard.
    He reeled to obey. What he saw was like a physical blow. Elegantly black-clad men, the famous elite guard of the Leader, accompanied Martin Wilder himself. Beside the dictator stood none less than Colonel Roshevsky-Feldkamp— in charge of local defense? Ray wondered, and tried to stretch his arms higher.
    "Tallantyre!" His old opponent glared at him for a time which took on characteristics of eternity. "So you are responsible."
    "No, I'm not, so help me, no," Ray chattered.
    "Who else could have brought these savages here?" The officer cuffed the Earthling; head wobbled on neck. "If it weren't for your hostage value, I'd shoot you immediately. But I had better defer that pleasure. March!"
    The detachment proceeded wherever it was bound. That chanced to be down a mercantile corridor, on which shops fronted. Smashed glass and gutted displays showed that the Centaurians were already collecting souvenirs.
    Wilder condescended to address the prisoner: "Never think that this criminal assault of yours has truly penetrated any part of us. We may have to retire temporarily from our capital, but already help has been summoned and is on its way, the entire navy bound here on a sacred mission of vengeance."
    Will the Centaurians stop their looting in time to get clear of that? Ray thought in terror. Somehow I doubt it.
    "I beg your pardon, glorious sir," interjected Roshevsky-Feldkamp, "but we really must make haste, before the invaders discover the