The Primitive

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Leon Vardis' whole life was keyed to revenge. If it couldn't be wreaked on the peasants who had burned his mother as a witch on the primitive planet of Rhome, then it could, most gloriously could, be let loose on the contemptuous sophisticates who rescued him from certain death, toyed with him for their own amusement and then, uncaring, cast him aside on the metropolitan planet of Joslen. But first his apprenticeship - as peasant farmer on Pharos, as space mercenary on more planets then you'd care to name. Then independence, as a stellar trader. And at last an opportunity to act as Fate, slowly, and with ironically sophisticated enjoyment, For in the hypnotic jewels of far Shergol lay the seeds of a truly cosmic vengeance. Leon's saga was complete. The ultimate leveller had been unleashed on the galaxy.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 140

Sample

His name was Leon Vardis and he was nine when his mother died. He never knew his father who, he was given to understand, had
died in some distant affray. He was a tall, well-formed boy with thick dark hair reaching to his shoulders, blue eyes deep-set
beneath level brows, a firm chin and a mouth which was normally soft but which could be cruel at times of anger. Fatherless,
he had quickly learned to rely on none, questing far into the northern hills in search of game, necessity making him adept
with sling, bow and knife.


The summer had been hot, with searing winds and no rain, so that the crops stood weakly in the fields, the stalks brittle
and the seed shrivelled in the ears. He had left early, moving in a wide sweep from the edge of his mother’s holding to where
a dry riverbed snaked up the rocky slopes. There could be snakes beneath the stones, or lizards, or other things containing
meat and moisture. Noon found him high on the hills, his game-bag empty, ravenous and burning with thirst. Sitting, he drank
from his canteen and ate a slice of rough bread smeared with a paste made of cockroaches and ants, dried, pounded and mixed
with a little honey. Resting, he looked down at the village.


Weitonburg was a small place. A cluster of buildings stood at the crossroads; a meeting hall which also served as a church
and council chamber, schoolroom and courthouse. A tavern, forge, tanning yard and general store. To one side reared the communal
granaries, the livestock pens and a carpenter’s yard. Around them, smaller houses built of wood and stone housed the elite
of the community. Further out, standing alone in dusty fields, a straggle of lesser dwellings belonged to those who worked
their own land. Leon had good eyes. From where he sat he could see tiny figures, like ants, moving restlessly about the centre of the village. From the south, a cloud of dust rose from beneath the hooves of a solitary
horseman heading towards the community. The regular, ten-day messenger, from Elkton, perhaps. It could hardly have been a
casual traveller.


Rising, he continued his hunt, pressing higher and deeper into the hills, following a narrow gulley and losing sight of the
village. He collected a mass of beetles which he placed in a tin, a double-handful of grass seeds and a few edible roots,
withered by lack of moisture but still containing starch and flavour. Rounding a boulder, he caught a glimpse of movement,
and froze as he saw the lizard. It was a big one, almost two feet from snout to tail, food for at least two days. Cautiously,
he studied the terrain.


To advance would be to frighten the beast, to move too quickly the same. It rested on the summit of a rock, head towards a
patch of shadow cast by a spined bush, good cover if it should decide to run. Leon backed, slowly, bare feet silent on the
sun-heated stone. Out of sight, he climbed so as to get above and beyond his prey, dropping down to attack it from the other
side. His sling would make too much noise at such close quarters. His bow was light, the arrows crude, good enough to kill
unarmoured game but doubtful against the lizard, unless he could hit the tiny target of an eye. Stooping, he picked up a large
stone. If he could throw it hard enough and accurately enough he would knock the creature from the rock, stun it perhaps,
leave it to squirm while he gashed the throat and belly with his knife. As he shifted his feet, arm poised to throw the stone,
the ground fell away from beneath his feet.


It was a pit some fifteen feet deep, the sides smooth and narrowing as they reared towards the surface, where a thin crust
of soil had been left to trap the unwary. The air was dank and held a foetid odour. To one side, an opening about two feet
wide made a dark patch against the sunlight streaming through the ragged opening above. Close to it, the odour was stronger, a sharp, acrid, insect smell and the edge was scored with the thin gouges of scrabbling limbs.


Leon backed, swallowing, his body oozing the sweat of fear. For the moment he was safe, the brilliant sunlight would keep
the creature at bay, but when darkness fell it would emerge to feast, later climbing the walls of its pit to restore the skin
of surface dirt with saliva-cemented soil.


Desperately he examined his prison. The pit was six feet wide at the bottom, far too wide for him to straddle, narrowing to
half as much at the surface. He had fallen heavily, smashing his bow, and bruising side and shoulder. The arrows would be
of no use against the armoured thing lurking in the side opening, his sling little better. He had his knife, and the stone
he’d intended to use against the lizard. Neither would be of much use when it grew dark.


Uneasily he glanced at the opening above. Already the sun had moved across the sky so that the lower reaches of the pit were
thick with shadows. From the opening came a scraping sound, and a waft of stench clogged his nostrils. The thing was hungry
and getting impatient. There was no time to lose.


Grimly Leon attacked the side of the pit, stabbing at the smoothed soil with his knife, gouging foot and handholes in the
gritty surface. He worked to one side of the opening, sending little showers of loosened soil over his head and back, blinking
as, back arched, he slowly mounted. It took a long time. Several times he had to stop, climbing down to ease his aching muscles,
uneasily aware of the stirrings of the thing in its lair. When he finally reached the opening, it was dusk, thick shadows
filling the pit and only a diffused glow illuminating the upper portions.


As he dug the last handhold the thing emerged from its nest.

He heard the scrape of something large, a thin chittering, a scrabbling, and choked in an almost overpowering reek. Frantically
he slammed the blade deep into the crumbling soil, heaved, managed to get his free hand on the ragged edge of the opening. Dirt showered on head and shoulders as his weight tore at the earth. He fell, hanging suspended by his grip
on the knife, while below him a black shape rushed furiously upwards.


Fear spurred his flagging strength. With a convulsive jerk he heaved upwards, found the edge again, lifted his other hand
while his foot kicked against the hilt of the knife. Arms and chest beyond the edge of the pit he kicked, screamed as he felt
something tear at his leg, kicked again with frantic terror. Thorns tore at his hand as he gripped a branch and pulled, stones
ripping his skin as he rolled desperately from the edge of the pit. Within the opening black limbs rose, spined, hooked, followed
by the pincer-jaws and glittering eyes of the subterranean predator.


Gasping, retching from the stench of the thing, Leon ran back down the path he had taken. Blood shone red in the dying light
as it dripped from his lacerated ankle, his torn hands and chest. Only when the danger was safely behind him did he dare to
halt to examine his wounds. With his teeth he drew the thorns from his hand and then tore a strip of fabric from his kirtle
to bandage his leg. The wounds were long, shallow, the flesh removed as if with a surgical instrument, burning like fire from
the venom the creature had carried on its claws. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled on his way.


He saw the fire as he left the hills. It was quite dark, the moonless sky sprinkled with stars, and against the darkness the
glow of the fire leapt with accentuated brilliance. He raced towards it, the pain of his wounds forgotten, heart hammering
in his chest as he recognised the site of the blaze. It was his house that was burning, the shack in which he lived with his
mother, gouts of flame leaping from the roof as the sun-dried timbers roared, sparks showering from writhing columns of smoke.
The fire blinded him. He didn’t see the shadow which rose to one side of the trail, the bulk of the body which snared him
in its arms.


‘What—?’

‘Quiet, boy! Silent for your life!’

He twisted, recognising the face touched by the ruby glow. ‘Grochen! Let me go! My mother—’

‘—is dying!’ The voice matched the man, hard, rough, aggressively strong. One big hand clamped across Leon’s mouth as Grochen
lifted him and carried him deep into the corn flanking the trail Stalks snapped and rustled as they moved, the sounds lost
in the roaring fury of the blaze, the maniacal yells of men bearing torches, the screaming of something lashed to a stake
and wreathed in flame.


‘Your mother,’ said Grochen. His voice was strained like that of a man torn between tears and anger. ‘I came visiting and
she was worried at your absence. I went to look for you and was in the hills when they came. Then it was too late. All I could
do was to wait for your return.’


Leon jerked, fighting the hand which was clamped on his mouth.

‘Steady, lad!’ Grochen held fast to the struggling boy. ‘They’ll kill you too, if they find you. I heard them talking; the
witch and her spawn both, they said. That’s why I waited for you. Now be still. There’s nothing we can do.’


Nothing but watch his mother burn.

The night was old before they could move. A thin wind had risen from the east, stirring the ashes and filling the air with
the stench of charring flesh. The men had gone, first to the tavern and then to their homes, using their women and then falling
into heavy slumber. Like ghosts, Grochen and the boy made their way to the house of the Chief Elder, hugging shadows, pausing
by the locked panel of the back door. There were dogs, but they knew Leon and allowed him to stroke their muzzles, dying beneath
Grochen’s blade before they could bark the alarm.


Gently Leon leaned against the panel, leaned and pushed, veins standing rigid against his throat and forehead, muscles taut,
legs firm against the earth as he fought the bar within. It yielded with a dull snap and they entered darkness. A curtain moved and starlight cast its eerie glow.


Grochen’s voice was a whisper. ‘Leon?’

‘Upstairs.’

He led the way, heart pounding, mouth dry with anticipation. Only twice in his life had he entered Elder Philbart’s house;
once when Cylla, the daughter of Philbart’s bondsmaid, had shown Leon the library of eighteen books, and once when the Provost
had sent him with a message. The first time Cylla had led him, with the devilment of youth, upstairs to the master bedroom,
the second he had only reached the entrance chamber; but that single time had been enough. He knew where the Elder would be
sleeping.


He paused before the door and felt Grochen at his side. He had followed the big man from the fire, knowing, without the necessity
of words, what had to be done. It was like a drug in his veins, so that every cell of his being quivered with a life of its
own. There was sickness and there was horror but also there was a grim determination. Alone he could never have done it, but
he was not alone.


‘Now,’ said Grochen, and thrust open the door.

The Elder was old and his sleep could not have been easy. He reared up in the wide bed, primitive warning widening his eyes,
opening his mouth to summon aid. The cry died beneath the cover of Grochen’s hand, that same hand pressing the figure back
onto the bed, the head into the pillow.


‘Now, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Now!’

Leon’s hand fell from his empty sheath. ‘My knife! I have no knife!’

‘Use mine.’ Grochen extended the hilt, the blade still wet with dogs’ blood. ‘Quickly!’

The hilt was big in his hand, the blade a curved and pointed instrument of death. He rested the point against the scrawny
throat and pushed. The skin was tougher than he had imagined. The point drew a single drop of blood which welled from the
skin around the steel.


Philbart heaved, his thin body arching from the bed, his eyes wild as they rolled in their sockets. His eyes shone, huge with
terror, catching a glimmer of starlight from the curtains and reflecting it like flame.


Leon thrust at the blade, felt a resistance, a sudden yielding, saw the thick spurting which wet pillow and hand.

‘For my mother,’ he said. ‘For the woman you allowed to be killed.’

And stepped back, sobbing for breath as he watched the old man die.

They left the house as they had entered, quietly, carrying a bundle of clothing, weapons, some articles of value, together
with food and a flask of water and another of wine. Leon had wanted to fire the building to repay death and flames with more
of the same, but Grochen had stopped him.


‘No, lad, there is a better way.’ He explained as they stood in the starlight. ‘The whole village is guilty and the whole
village should pay. Can you carry these things?’


The bundle was heavy, but Leon nodded.

‘Good. Take the road to the east, but walk a hundred yards to the right. I shall follow you. If I am caught, get rid of what
you carry and veer to the south. Enter the third village you find and tell them you are lost. Say nothing about . . .