The Fall of the Shell Read online

  BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are productsof the author’s imagination or are used in a fictional setting. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 1982 by Paul O. Williams

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Williams, Paul O., 1935–

  The fall of the shell / Paul O. Williams

  p. cm.—(Beyond armageddon)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8032-9848-4 (pbk.: alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-8032-9848-X (pbk.: alk. paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8032-9925-2 (electronic: e-pub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8032-9926-9 (electronic: mobi)

  1. Regression (Civilization)—Fiction. 2. Nuclear warfare—Fiction. 3. Middle West—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.145532F3 2005

  813’.54—dc22 2005004903

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content

  For Sherwood Megan,

  Gwyneth, and Catlin

  Contents

  Principal Characters

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  Glossary

  Principal Characters

  Udge: Protector of Threerivers

  Bival: the Southcounsel of Threerivers

  Warret: Bival’s husband

  Gamwyn and Brudoer: twin boys, age fourteen, of Threerivers, sons of Rotag and Pion

  Sagan: Protector of Pelbarigan

  Ahroe: a guardcaptain of Pelbarigan

  Jaiyan: a giant Sentani trader who lived at the north edge of Tusco country

  Misque: a Peshtak girl, age fifteen

  Artess and Reo: twin sister and brother, Tantal by birth, growing up at Murkal

  A complete glossary of characters and places may be found at the end of the book.

  I

  HIGH in the curve of the Broad Tower of Threerivers, the southernmost of the three Pelbar cities on the Heart River, Bival stood with her hands behind her, looking out across the water. She scanned the hills and trees for the first fall eagles but saw only the last of the vultures that haunted the river in summer. Behind Bival, Udge, the Protector, sat silently playing cross squares with Dardan, her closest crony, while three others sat watching and drinking hot tea.

  Bival thought she caught a glint of light from the west-bank trees a half-ayas or more downriver from the city, but, squinting, she saw no more. Then, shifting her eyes farther downstream, she saw a small boat coming upriver. It still lay too far off to see in any detail. She shaded her eyes. “I wish we had accepted that device, that telescope the Pelbarigan Academy offered us,” she mused. “A boat is coming.”

  Udge raised her eyebrows. “Patience. You will see it soon enough. We need none of their innovations. Now. This is a game best played without distractions. Dardan, I am going to put your Protector in check.” Udge moved her white minister diagonally across the board.

  Dardan grunted and continued to study the board, then blocked the move with one of her males.

  Meanwhile, on the west bank, three Peshtak scouts gazed through the fall foliage at the city. Steelet, the eldest, a smooth-faced, slightly stocky man, said, “The early scouts were right. A strange swine-bellied-looking place. High curved walls with terraces. One large guard tower. Three other strange-shaped towers—almost like land snails. But even stranger. Look at those walls. Swinish diamond patterns. How many egg-sucking Pelbar in there?”

  “Who can tell? We think not many. Maybe not five hundred. I don’t like it, though. Remember what happened to the Tantal at Northwall.”

  Steelet spat. Just then a fourth man came running quietly through the woods, waving his arms for silence. He scooped dirt and sand onto the tiny fire—and the fish propped by it with sticks.

  “A boat,” he hissed. “One man.” He still knelt, smoothing and heaping the dirt, as Dure, whispering curses, tried to extricate his catfish from the mess. A word from Steelet and they all crouched, still. A fabric-covered canoe, with a light load, approached, near the bank to escape the channel currents. One thin old man paddled it. Dure and Gnau silently strung their bows and moved toward the shore bushes.

  As the canoe neared their hiding place, the mournful recognition horn sounded, long and ringing, from the watch at Threerivers, and the man in the canoe took up his short bull’s horn and returned the call. Steelet placed a hand on the back of each bowman, and the Peshtak crouched to watch the man draw near and pass upriver, with long, slow strokes. He was a Sentani, almost toothless, but sturdy and knotty-armed. Steelet cursed under his breath.

  Finally he whispered, “I told you not to light that fire.” “Even a mere underling has to eat sometimes,” Dure said. He again scraped at his catfish. “He didn’t smell the fire. It was small and all dry sassafras.”

  “I don’t know. He seemed to pause in one stroke. Maybe not. To be sure, we’ll move upstream after sunset. Bullguts. This makes no sense, anyhow. Even if we took this city, how long could we hold it?”

  “We could make a treaty.”

  “This is not a good idea. We should try south, down the Heart.”

  “Tell it to Annon. See how he likes that idea. With all those leather-backed Tusco.”

  “Shut your erupted face before I fill it with that gritty fish,” Steelet said, glancing around. But the other three had fallen silent, watching the boatman dip and stroke toward the strange city rising into the hazy light. Steelet quieted too, focusing on the haunting bulk of Threerivers as if he could commit it to memory.

  When the old Sentani had finally paddled to the city, four guardsmen met him at the stone landing. They were dressed in maroon tunics and narrow-legged pants tied below the knee with banded fabric belts. They wore short-swords loosely hung on their left sides. “Ravell,” said one. “It’s been a long time. What do you have? A light canoe. Aren’t you trading then?”

  “Trading? Yes,” said the old man, stretching. “I’ve got something for Bival. It ought to be worth my trip.” The youngest guardsman turned and trotted to the city’s small entrance to inform the council member, who had finally recognized the old trader from her high window and begun the long descent to the river to meet him. They were old acquaintances. In the past she had often asked him to bring her objects of strange design. He had, only faintly understanding why, and she had explained to him the curious likenesses she saw in unlike objects—in snake scales and pine cones, vine tendrils and snail shells. But always there remained a certain reticence, a distance between them.

  The people of Threerivers were secretive. Traditionally, during the centuries of hostilities with the outside tribes, the Pelbar had stayed behind the great walls of the city, except for truceweeks. Unlike the other Pelbar cities, Pelbarigan and Northwall, they at Threerivers had not broken their long habit of shutting out others even in the sixteen years since peace came to the Heart River following the great battle at Northwall.

  Nonetheless, the city had imaginative people in it, and one of them was, Bival, who questioned the traders in detail when she could. She had even been to Pelbarigan, but regarded it as an overgrown, squarish, boorish, bustling place of industry, without sufficient aesthetic refinement.

  Ravell was a lone trader, wh
o plied the Heart River all the way to Tusco country in the south, meeting the Tusco and trading in the neutral zone far below the mouth of the Oh River, bringing cotton, rice, and southern teas. But this time, meeting him, Bival saw he had none of those things, but only a small bark box which he held out to her.

  She took it, puzzled, and looked up at him. “Ravell. How long has it been? Three years. Come in to the Room of Visitors and eat. What is this? Is this all?”

  “It is for you. It will be worth my trip, I think, when you see it,” said the old man, puffing his sibilants through slack lips. “It was hard enough for me to get it,” he added. “It will be costly. I am asking seven winter tunics.”

  Bival raised her eyebrows. But later, inside, as he sucked at his sweetened tea, Bival lifted the lid of the box and moved aside the rabbit-skin linings, and saw a strange shell. Taking it out, she gasped. It was obviously an exact model of the Protector’s Broad Tower, a symmetrical spiral shell that topped the center of the city, above the terraces. The shell was bound with blue ribbons. Bival could see that it had been split with great care, and that the ribbons held it together. She gently untied them and took the shell apart, again drawing in her breath as she saw the interior partitions of the beautiful unfolding spiral, each exactly placed, each gently curved. Now she understood the reason for the room divisions in the Broad Tower. Craydor, the designer of Threerivers over three hundred years ago, had simply used a model like this. Amazing.

  She looked up at Ravell, who sat silently regarding her. “It came from the southern sea, the bitter water beyond the mouth of the Heart,” he said.

  “You? Were you there?”

  “No. I got it from the Tusco of U Bend. I ventured beyond the neutral zone, without really knowing, and they took me and enslaved me. I spent three years there. But Jaiyan heard of it upriver, and he warned the Tusco traders to let me go or hear from the Sentani of Koorb.”

  “So they gave you the shell?”

  “I stole it from their white tower. I judged they owed me that much. It was one of their curios, but when I saw it, I knew you would want it.”

  “Seven tunics?”

  “Seven.”

  “You shall have them. Come back in the morning for them.”

  The Sentani demurred, holding up his hands. “I must stay inside tonight.”

  “Inside? It is never done here. You know that.”

  “Not far south I smelled a faint fire. Just before the horn sounded I caught a glimpse of men in the bushes, armed, watching me. I was glad for that horn.”

  “Men? What kind of men?”

  Ravell shrugged, holding out his hands. “All I know is they were men who didn’t want to be seen. I saw one bow, small and recurved.”

  The guardsman nearby overheard and said, “I see no reason why he couldn’t stay inside, Southcounsel. If you permit, I shall ask the guardcaptain.”

  She inclined her head, and the man departed. Then she returned the shell to the old man, and he carefully replaced it in the box. “Until morning, then?” She held out her palms, and they touched agreement and good-bye. Then she turned and left.

  Later, in the small, stone-walled room she shared with her husband, Bival rummaged in a wicker box as she asked, “Where are the chits we have been saving?”

  “Not in that box. Look on the enclosed shelf. Why do you ask?”

  “I need them.”

  “You? Need them? They are almost all from my afterduty work. What do we need?”

  “We? This is too important to quibble about, Warret. The most amazing thing has happened. The Sentani trader, Ravell, has brought a marvelous shell—the model for the Broad Tower. I had suspected Craydor had a real model. It’s like her. For years I have been trying to understand Craydor’s designs. This is a key.”

  “But I had been saving the chits for a pellute. For three years. I had nearly enough. My afterduty work.”

  Bival stood up straight and sighed. “Warret, I am simply not going to argue. It’s too demeaning. You’ll benefit from this. You’ll just have to trust my judgment. That’s an end to it.”

  Warret stared. “An end? Just like that? Yes, it is an end.” He began gathering his clothing off his shelves.

  Bival frowned. “What is this now? More opposition? Will you never learn your place?”

  Warret didn’t reply, but continued wrapping his clothing in a bundle.

  “You took an oath of marriage. A Pelbar oath. Just tossing it aside? You agreed to obey. No one ever said it would always be easy.”

  “I am exercising my oath from a greater distance.” He turned toward the door. She stood in his way. He simply stopped, passively.

  “Now you are going to put those things back on the shelves.”

  He turned and set the bundle down, cramming it onto a shelf.

  “Don’t be a child. Fold them as they should be.”

  “I like them that way.”

  “I will see you put on water-lifting.” Warret didn’t reply, but simply stood in one spot. She finally tired of staring at him and returned to her hunt for the chits. He never moved. With an exasperated sigh, she counted them over, returned two to the wicker basket she found them in, and left to exchange the remainder for seven tunics.

  Later, when she returned, carrying the heavy clothing, Warret was not there, nor was his bundle of clothes. Bival slumped on her bed in thought, smoothing the tunics with her hands. Her husband would come to agree. She saw a gain in power through the shell. He would benefit in spite of himself.

  Meanwhile, across the river, a squad of guardsmen following Ravell’s directions found the dead fire of the Peshtak scouts. By torchlight they searched the area, finding only a few stray tracks that told them nothing.

  As they left, the Peshtak leader, Steelet, remarked from a thicket several hundred arms away, “I was right. The old man did see something. Bullguts on him. On you, too, Dure. We’ll watch tomorrow, then return to the Oh. This city may be our answer, but I doubt it. All this pigrooting land is too flat and open. Give me mountains to hide in.”

  In the morning, when Bival awoke, her husband still had not returned. She made a mental note to request that he be returned to water-lifting, for Threerivers still raised all its water from underground springs to the spiral tower high over the city. From there it flowed down to all the bathing rooms and kitchens, as well as to the curved terrace gardens that arced in tiers around the southern half of the city roof, stepping downward in graceful sweeps, thickly planted all growing season.

  Below, Ravell awaited Bival anxiously. Because of the strangers, he wanted to put a whole day and a night of steady paddling between him and Threerivers. “I’m going back to Koorb,” he told the Southcounsel when she arrived. “I think I’ve had enough trading for a while, maybe for always.” He smiled toothlessly, handing her the box. She was so eager for it that she scarcely said a proper goodbye.

  Letting Ravell out, the guardsman grinned. “I think she’s pleased,” he remarked, giving the trader a gift of a small ceramic jar of honey, encased in wicker for travel. They palmed good-bye and the guardsman helped the old man shove his canoe out into the current. They gave each other one last glance, smiling. Then Ravell swept the west bank with his eyes and began to dig his paddle into the water in deep, strong strokes, driving out into the channel.

  Bival could hardly contain her excitement. Finally, high up the spiral stairs to the Broad Tower, she paused on a landing. She would give the shell one close, private examination before showing it to the Protector. She put the box on a broad window ledge, where the rising sun could stream in on it. Undoing the bindings, she set thie shell out, its two halves spread, and soon stood lost in a contemplation of its form.

  She didn’t hear the twins, Gamwyn and Brudoer, bumping down the stairs above her with bags of trash and laundry collected from the Protector’s quarters and the council common room. The boys were fourteen, bored, energetic, and busy shoving each other, giggling and pretending anger. As they rounded the
curve to the landing, Brudoer swung his bag, and Gamwyn, avoiding it, jumped back, into Bival. She lurched. With a gasp she saw the two halves of the shell, like wings with no bird, caught in the autumn breeze, falling, spinning, gliding, catching on the last terrace wall, shattering, then falling again, in white flakes diminishing over the edge of the high city wall. She whirled.

  The boys stood in stunned silence. With an incoherent yell she struck out at Gamwyn with her heavy, ringed hand, laying open his right cheek. She continued to pound on him as he shrieked and staggered, holding his blood-spattered face with crimson hands.

  After a shocked moment, Brudoer shucked off his belt, and swung its heavy buckle at Bival, in quick, furious arcs, unmindful of the horror of what he, a mere boy, was doing to a city leader.

  She spun at Brudoer, holding her hands up and grabbing at the belt. Gamwyn sank to the stone floor, holding his face. Bival finally caught the belt and jerked it, sending Brudoer sprawling as two guardsmen ran breathlessly up the spiral stairs. One seized Brudoer, who still struggled, screeching, “Let go, fish face. Look at my brother. I’ll kill her. Let—” The guardsman covered his mouth with a forearm.

  “Southcounsel,” he began.

  She struck at Brudoer again, but the guardsman turned, shielding the boy with his body. Bival’s head and hands were bleeding. “Confine them,” she said, curtly. “They attacked me. And you, Brudoer, after all I have done for you, with your poor, slow head. Garbage. What a fool! Teaching mathematics to an assassin. Now, guardsman, confine them. Do it now. I must go to the infirmary.” Without another word she descended the stairs, leaving the two nonplussed guardsmen with the boys.

  “What happened?” one asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I bumped her,” Gamwyn murmured, holding his bleeding cheek. “I’m sorry. Good Aven, Brad, what have you done?”

  Brudoer couldn’t answer. The other guardsman still held an arm across his face. Wheq the boy tried to bite him, he strengthened his grip cruelly until Brudoer stopped struggling. More guardsmen arrived and Brudoer was taken downstairs. Two men knelt over Gamwyn, saying, “Take your hand away. We won’t hurt you. Come on, now. Take away your hand.” When he finally did, blood welled up behind it, and the guardsman gasped slightly. “Can you walk?” he asked.