Classic Audiobook Collection - Tedric by E. E. Smith ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: November 23, 2022

Tedric by E. E. Smith audiobook. Genre: scifi This is a wonderful combination of far future science fiction with Conan like sword and sorcery; lots of blood, gore, honor and evil. The immensely powerful hero, Tedric, is a man's man who refuses to accept the cruel human sacrifices demanded by the 'god' Sarpedion and is set on destroying him. To do this he needs some secrets of metallurgy that future social scientists are willing to give him. He manages to overcome all obstacles until of course he meets the dazzlingly lovely Lady Rhoaan who stops him cold. A great story written by the incomparable E. E. 'Doc' Smith, author of the Lensman series. And there is a great sequel to this story which will be added to the catalog. It is called Lord Tedric. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:27:36) Chapter 02 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Tedrick by E. Smith. Part 1 The critical point in time of mankind's whole existence is there. Right there! Prime physicist Scandos slashed his red pencil across the black trace of the chrono-viogram. Why must man be so stupid? Anyone with three brain cells working

should know that for the strength of an individual he should be fed, not bled. That for the strength of a race its virgins should be bred, not sacrifice to propitiate figmental deities. And it would be so easy to straighten things out. Nowhere in all reachable time does any other one man occupy such a tremendously, such a uniquely keystone position. Easy, yes, his assistant.

Ferman agreed. It is a shame to let Tetrick die with not one of his tremendous potentialities realized. It would be easy and simple to have him discover carburization and the necessary techniques of heat-treating. That freak meteorite need not lie there unsmelted for another 70 years. However, simple carbureization was not actually discovered until two generations. later, by another smith and another nation. And you know, Scandos, that there can be no such thing as a minor interference with the physical

events of the past. Any such, however small seeming, is bound to be catastrophically major. I know that, Scandos scowled blackly. We don't know enough about time. We don't know what would happen. We have known how to do it for a hundred years, but have been afraid to act, because in all that time no progress whatever has been made on the theory. He paused, then went on savagely. But which is better?

To have our entire time track snapped painlessly out of existence, if the extremists are right, or to sit helplessly on our fat rumps, wringing our hands, while we watch civilization build up to its own total destruction by lithium-tri-tide bombs? Look at the slope of that curve. The ultimate catastrophe is only 187 years away. But the council will not permit it, nor will the school. I know that, too. That is why I am not going to ask them.

Instead I'm asking you. We too know more of time than any others. Over the years I have found your judgment good. With your approval, I will act now. Without it, we will continue our futile testing. Number 811 is running now, I believe, and our aimless drifting. You are throwing the entire weight of such a decision on me? In one sense, yes.

in another only half, since I have already decided. Go ahead. So be it. Tedric, awaken. The Lomarian Iron Master woke up, not gradually and partially like one of our soft modern urbanites, but instantaneously and completely, as does the mountain wildcat.

At one instant he lay completely relaxed, to sound asleep. At the next he had sprung out of bed, seized his sword and leaped halfway across the room. Head thrown back, hard blue eyes keenly alert, sword-arm rock-steady, he stood there, poised and ready. Beautifully poised upon the balls of both feet, supremely ready to throw into action,

every inch of his six feet four, every pound of his two hundred plus of hard meat, gristle, and bone. So standing, the Smith stared motionlessly at the shimmering, almost invisible thing, hanging motionless in the air of his room, and at its equally tenuous occupant. I approve of you, Tedric. The thing, apparition, whatever it was, did not speak, and the Lomarian did not hear. The words formed themselves in the innermost depths of his brain.

While you perhaps are a little frightened, you are and have been completely in control. Any other man of your nation, yes, of your world, would have been scared out of what few wits he has. You are not one of ours, Lord. Tedric went to one knee. He knew, of course, that gods and gods and devout. devils existed, and while this was the first time that a god had sought him out personally,

he had heard of such happenings all his life. Since the god hadn't killed him instantly, he probably didn't intend to, right away at least. Hence, No god of Lomar approves of me. Also our gods are solid and heavy. What do you want of me, strange God? I am not a god.

If you could get through this grill, you. You could get through this grill, you could cut off my head with your sword, and I would die. Of course, so would Sar— Tedric broke off in the middle of the word. I see. It is dangerous to talk? Very. Even though a man is alone, the gods, and hence the priests who serve them, have power to hear. Then the man lies on the green rock and loses his brain, liver, and heart. You will not be overheard. I have power enough to see to that. Chedric remained silent. I understand your doubt. Think, then, that will do just as well. What is it that you are trying to do?

I wonder how I can hear when there is no sound. But men cannot understand the powers of gods. I am trying to find or make a metal that is very hard, but not brittle. is no good. I cannot harden it enough. My soft irons are too soft. My hard irons are too brittle. My in-betweens and the melts to which I have added various flavorings have all been either too soft or too brittle or both. I gathered that such was your problem. Your wrought iron is beautiful stuff. So was your white cast iron, and you would not ordinarily in your lifetime. come to know anything of either carbureization or high alloy steel to say nothing of both. I know exactly what you want, and I can show you exactly how to make it.

You can, Lord, the Smith's eyes flamed. And you will? That is why I have come to you, but whether or not I will teach you depends on certain matters, which I have not been able entirely to clarify. "'What do you want it for? That is what basically is your aim?' "'Our greatest god, Sarpedeon, is wrong, and I intend to kill him.' Tetrick's eyes flamed more savagely, his terrifically muscled body tensed. "'Rong? In what way?'

"'In every way.' In the intensity of his emotion, the smith spoke aloud. What good is a God who only kills and injures? What a nation needs, Lord, is people, people working together and not afraid. How can we of Lomar ever retain comfort and happiness if more die each year than are born? We are too few. All of us, except the priests, of course, must work unendingly to obtain only the necessities of life. This bears out my findings.

If you make high alloy steel, exactly what will you do with it? If you give me the god metal, Lord, I will make of it a sword and armor. A sword sharp enough and strong enough to cut through copper or iron without damage. Armour strong enough so that swords of copper or iron cannot cut through it. They must be so because I will have to cut my way alone. through a throng of armed and armored mercenaries and priests. Alone? Why? Because I cannot call in help.

Cannot let anyone know my goal. Any such would lie on the greenstone very soon. They suspect me. Perhaps they know. I am, however, the best smith in all Lomar. Hence they have slain me not. Nor will they until I have found what. I seek. Nor then, if by the favor of the gods, or by your favor, Lord, the medal be good enough.

It will be, but there's a lot more to fighting a platoon of soldiers than armor and a sword, my optimistic young savage. That the medal be of proof is all I ask, Lord, the smith insisted stubbornly. The rest of it lies in my care. So be it. And then? Sarpadian's image, as you must already know, is made of stone, wood, copper, and gold, besides the jewels, of course. I take his brain, liver, and heart, flood them with oil, and sacrifice them.

Just a minute! Sarpadian is not alive and never has been. Does not, as a matter of fact, exist? You just said yourself that his image was made of stone and copper, and— Don't be silly, Lord, or art testing me. Gods are spirits, bound to their images, and in a weaker way to their priests, by linkages of spirit force. Life force, it could be called.

When those links are broken by fire and sacrifice, the gods may not exactly die, but he can do no more of harm until his priests have made a new image and spent much time and effort in building up new linkage. One point now settled was bothering me. What God to sacrifice him to! I'll make an image for you to inhabit, Lord, and sacrifice him to you, my strange new God.

You will be my only God as long as I live. What is your name, Lord? I can't keep calling you strange God forever. My name is Scandos. Ski-sk. That word rides ill on my tongue. With your permission, Lord, I will call you Locer. Call me anything you like except a God.

I am not a God. You aren't being ridiculous, Lord Locer, Tedric chided. What a man sees with his eyes, hears with his ears, especially what a man hears without ears, as I hear now, he knows with certain knowledge to be the truth. No mere man could possibly do what you have done to say not of what you are about to do. Perhaps not an ordinary man of your—scandos almost said time, but caught himself, of your culture. But I am ordinary enough and mortal enough in my own.

Well, that could be said of all gods everywhere. The Smith's mean was quiet and unperturbed. His thought was loaded to saturation. with unshakable conviction. Scandos gave up. He could argue for a week he knew without making any impression whatever upon what the stubborn, hard-headed Tedric

knew so unalterably to be the truth. But just one thing, Lord, Tedric went on with scarcely a break. Have I made it clear that I intend to stop human sacrifice? That there is to be no more of it, even to you. We will offer you anything else, anything else. But not even your refusal to give me the God medal will change my stand on that.

Good. See to it that nothing ever does change it. As to offerings or sacrifices, there are to be none of any kind. I do not need, I do not want. I will not have any such. That is final. Act accordingly. yes lord sarpedeon is a great and powerful god but art sure that his sacrifice alone will establish linkages strong enough to last for all time

scandos almost started to argue again but checked himself after all the proposed sacrifice was necessary for tedrick and his race and it would do no harm sarpedon will be enough and as for the image that isn't necessary either. Art wrong, Lord. Without image and temple, everyone would think you a small weak God, which thought can never be. Besides, the image might make it easier for us to call on you in time of need.

You can't call me, even if I could receive your call, which is very doubtful, I wouldn't answer it. If you ever see me or hear from me again, it will be because I wish it, not you. Scandos intended this for a clincher, but it didn't turn out that way. Wonderful, Tetrick exclaimed. All gods act that way, in spite of what they, through their priests, say.

I am overwhelmingly glad that you are being honest with me. Hasst found me worthy of the god-metal, Lord Lucere? Yes, so let's get at it. Take that biggest chunk of metal which fell from the sky. you'll find it's about twice your weight. But I have never been able to work that particular piece of metal, Lord. I'm not surprised. Ordinary meteorites are nickel-iron, but this one carries two additional and highly unusual elements, tungsten and vanadium, which are necessary for our purpose.

To melt it, you'll have to run your fires a lot hotter. You'll also have to make a carbureizing pot, and willow charcoal and metallurgical coke and several other things. We'll go into details later. That greenstone, from which altars are made, you can secure some of it? Any amount of it. Of it, take your full weight,

and of the black ore of which you have occasionally used a little one-fourth of your weight. The instructions went on from ore to finished product in complete detail, and at its end? If you follow these directions carefully, you will have a high alloy steel, chrome-nickel vanadium, molybdenum, tungsten steel, to be exact,

case-hardened and heat-treated, exactly what you need. Can you remember them all? I can, Lord. Never have I dared write anything down, so my memory is good. Every quantity you have given me, every temperature and step

and process and item. They are all completely in mind. I go then. Good-bye. I thank you, Lord Lusir. Goodbye. The Lomarian bowed his head, and when he straightened up, his incomprehensible visitor was gone. Tadric went back to bed, and, strangely enough, was almost instantly asleep. And in the morning, after his customary huge breakfast of meat and bread and milk, He went to his sprawling establishment, which had no counterpart in modern industry, and called his foreman and his men together before they began the day's work. A strange god named Losser came to me in the night, and showed me how to make better iron,

he told them in perfectly matter-of-fact fashion. So stop whatever you're doing and tear the whole top off the big furnace. I'll tell you exactly how to rebuild it. The program, as outlined by Scandos, went along without a hitch, until the heat from the rebuilt furnace began to come blisteringly through the crude shields. Then even the foreman, faithful as he was, protested against such unheard of temperatures and techniques. It must be that way, Tedric insisted. Run more rods across from there to there to hold more hides and blankets. You four men, fetch water.

Throw it over the hides in blankets and him who turns the blower. Take shorter tricks in the hot places. Here, I'll man the blower myself until the heat wanes somewhat. He bent his mighty back to the crank, but even in that raging inferno of heat, he kept on talking. Knowest my iron sword? The one I wear with rubies in the hilt, he asked the foreman. That worthy did, with longing.

To buy it would take six months. of a foreman's pay. This furnace must stay this hot all day and all of tonight, and there are other things as bad. But it will not take long. Ten days should see the end of it. Actually seven days was the schedule. But Tedric did not want the priests to know that.

But for those ten days, matters must go exactly as I say. Work with me until this iron is made. and I give you that sword. And all of the others who shirk not, each will be given an iron sword, this in addition to your regular pay. Dust like the bargain? They liked it.

Then, during the hours of lull in which there was nothing much to do except keep the furious fires fed, Chedric worked upon the image of his god. While the Lomarian was neither a fideus nor a praxitelles, he was one of the finest craftsmen of his age. He had not, however, had a really good look at Scandos' face. Thus the head of the image, although it was a remarkably good piece of sculpture, looked more like that of Tetricks Foreman than that of the real Scandos,

and with the head any resemblance at all to Scandos ceased. The rest of the real Scandos was altogether too small and too pitifully weak to be acceptable as representative of any Lamarion's god. Hence the torso and limbs of the gleaming copper statue were wider, thicker, longer, bigger, and even more fantastically muscled than were Tedric's own. Also, the figure was hollow, filled with sand throughout except for an intricately carved gray sandstone brain

and red-painted hardwood liver and heart. They come, master, to the number of eleven. His lookout boy came running with news at mid-afternoon of the seventh day. One priest in copper, ten tarquians in iron, and each of five bowmen and spearmen. Tedric did not have to tell the boy where to go or what to do or to hurry about it. As both ran for the iron master's armor, the youngster was two steps in the lead. It was evident, too, that he had served a squire before, and frequently, for in seconds the erstwhile half-naked blacksmith was fully clothed in iron.

Thus it was an armored knight, leaning negligently upon a fifteen-pound forging hammer, who waited outside the shop's door, and watched his eleven visitors approach. The banner was that of a priest of the third rank. Good. They weren't worried about him enough yet to send a big one. and only ten mercenaries small short bandy-legged men of tark good enough fighters for their weight but they didn't wait much this wouldn't be too bad the group came up to within a few paces and stopped art in armor smith the discomfited priest demanded why why not tis my habit to greet guests in apparel of their own choosing There was a brief silence, then. To what do I owe the honor of this visit, priest?

He asked, only half sarcastically. I paid, as I have always paid, the fraction due. True, it is not about a fraction I come. It is noised that a strange God appeared to you, spoke to you, instructed you in your art that you are making an image of him. I made no secret of any of these things. things, I hide nothing from the great God or his minions, nor ever have. I have nothing to hide. Perhaps such conduct is very unseemly, decidedly ungodlike. He should not have appeared to you,

but to one of us, and in the temple. It is unsarpadian-like, certainly. All that Sarpadian has ever done for me is let me alone, and I have paid heavily. for that. What bargain did you make with this locerre? What was the price? No bargain was made. I thought it strange, but who am I, an ordinary man, to try to understand the actions or the reasonings of a God? There will be a price, I suppose. Whatever it is, I will pay it gladly. You will pay, rest assured, not to this locyre, but to great Sarpadian. I'm a good sarpedon. I'm I command you to destroy that image forthwith. You do. Why?

Since when has it been against the law to have a personal god? Most families of Lomar have them. Not like yours. Sarpadian does not permit your Losser to exist. Sarpadian has nothing to say about it. Losser already exists. Is the great god so weak, so afraid, so unable to defend him, himself against a one-man stranger, that he—

"'Take care, Smith! Silence! That is rankest blasphemy!' "'Perhaps, but I have blaspheme before, and Sarpedon hasn't killed me yet. Nor will he, me thinks, at least until his priests have collected his fraction of the finest iron ever forge, and which I only can make. Oh, yes, the new iron. Tell me exactly how it is made. You know better than to ask that question, priest. The secret will be known only to me and my God. We have equipment and tools designed specifically for getting information out of such as you.

Sees him in and smash that image. Hold, Tedric roared, in such a voice that not a man moved. if anybody takes one forward-step priest or makes one move toward spear or arrow your brains will spatter the walls across the street can your copper helmet stop this hammer can your girl-muscled fat-bellied priest's body move fast enough to dodge my blow and most of all those runty little slave-lings behind you waving his left arm contemptuously at the group, will also die before they cut me down. And if I die now, of what worth is Sarpadion's fraction of a metal

that will never be made? Think well, priest! Sarpadion's agent studied the truculent, glaring ironmaster for a long two minutes. Then, deciding that the proposed victim could not be taken alive, he led his crew back the way they had

come trailing fiery threats. And Tedric, going back into his shop, was thoroughly aware that those threats were not idle. So far he hadn't taken too much risk, but the next visit would be different, very different. He was exceedingly glad that none of his men knew that the pots they were firing so fiercely were, in fact, filled only with coke and willow charcoal. that armor and sword and shield and axe and hammer were at that moment getting their final heat treatment in a bath of oil but little hotter than boiling water in the sanctum to which he retired always alone to perform the incantations which his men and hence the priests of sarpedon believed as necessary as any other part of the metallurgical process end of part one Part 2 of Tedric by E. Smith

This Libravox recording is in the public domain. That evening he selected a smooth, fine-grained stone and wetted the already almost perfect cutting edge of his new sword, an edge which in cross-section was rather more like an extremely sharp cold chisel than a hollow ground razor. He fitted the two-hand grip meticulously with worked and tempered rawhide, thrilling again and again as each touch of an educated and talented fingertip, told him over and over that here was something brand new in metal, a real God metal. A piece of flat wrought iron about three-sixteenth by five inches, and about a foot long, all right, ready lay on a smooth and heavy hardwood block. He tapped it sharply with the sword's edge.

The blade rang like a bell. The iron showed a bright new scar that was all. Then a moderately heavy, two-handed blow, about as hard as he had ever dared swing an iron sword. Still, no damage. Then, heart in mouth. He gave the god metal its final test. struck with everything he had from heels and toes to fingertips he had never struck such a blow before except possibly with a war-axe or a sledge

There was a ringing clang. Two sundered slabs of iron flew to opposite ends of the room. The atrocious blade went on half an inch deep into solid oak. He wrenched the weapon free and stared at the unmoored edge. Unmored! For an instant, Tedric felt as though he were about to collapse. But sheerest joy does not disable. There was nothing left to do except make the links, hinge pins, and so on for his armor,

which did not take long. Hence, when the minions of Sarpedon next appeared, armored this time in the heaviest and best iron they had, and all set to overwhelm him by sheer weight of numbers, he was completely ready. Nor was there palaver or parley. The attackers opened the door, saw the, the Smith and rushed.

But Tedrick, although in plain sight, had chosen the battleground with care, he was in a corner. At his back a solid-walled stairway ran up to the second floor. On his right the wall was solid for twenty feet. On his left beyond the stairwell, the wall was equally solid for twice as four. They would have to come after him, and as he retreated, they would be fighting their way up, and not more than two at a time. The first swing, horizontal and neck high, was fully as fierce driven as the one that had cloven the testpiece and almost ruined his testing block.

The God-metal blade scarcely slowed as it went through armor and flesh and bone. In fact, the helmet and the head within it remained in place upon the shoulders for what seemed like seconds before the body toppled and the arteries spurted crimson jets. He didn't have to hit so hard then, good. Nobody could last very long the way he had started out. Wherefore the next blow, a vertical chop, merely split a man to the chin instead of to the naval, and the third, a backhanded return, didn't quite cut the victim's head clear off. And the blows his steel was taking.

aimed at head or neck or shoulder, were doing no harm at all. In fact, except for the noise, they scarcely bothered him. He had been designing and building armor for five years, and this was his masterpiece. The helmet was heavily patted, the shoulders twice as much so.

He had sacrificed some mobility. He could not turn his head very far in either direction, but the jointing was such that the force of any blow on the helmet from whatever direction coming, was taken by his tremendously capable shoulders. The weapons of the mercenaries could not dent, could not even nick, that case-hardened, high alloy steel. Swords bent, broke, twisted, hammers and axes bounced harmlessly off.

Nevertheless, the attackers pressed forward. And even though each blow of his devastating sword took a life, Tadrach was forced backward up the stairs step by step. Then there came about that for which he had been waiting. A copper-clad priest appeared behind the last rank of mercenaries, staring upward at something behind the Iron Master, beckoning frantically. The priest had split his forces,

had sent part of them by another way to the second floor, to trap him between two groups, had come in close to see the traps sprung. This was it. Taking a couple of quick, upward, backward steps, he launched himself into the air with all the power of his legs. And when two hundred and thirty pounds of man, dressed in eighty or ninety or a hundred pounds of steel,

leaps from a height of eight or ten feet upon a group of other men, those other men go down. Writing himself quickly, Tedric sprang toward the priest and swung. Swung with all the momentum of his mass and speed and all the power of his giant frame. Swung as though he were concentrating into the blow, all his hatred of Sarpadion and everything for which Sarpadion stood,

which, in fact, he was. And what such a saber-Simitar so driven and did to thin, showy copper armor and to the human flesh beneath it, is simply nothing to dwell upon here. Hold! He roared at the mercenaries, who hadn't quite decided whether or not to resume the attack, and they held. But you're dead!

The non-com stuttered. You must be! The great Sorpedeon would— A right lively corpse, I? Cedric snarled, Eurisarpedion, false God and coward, drinker of blood and slayer of the helpless, is weak, puny, and futile beside my Losser.

Hence, under Losser's shield and at Loseer's direction, I shall this day kill your foul and depraved God, shall send him back to the grisly hell from whence he came. Nor do I ask you to fight for. for me, nor would I so allow, for I trust you not, though you swore by all your gods. Do you fight for pleasure or for pay?' A growl was the only answer, but that was answer enough. He of Sarpedon who paid your wages lies there, dead.

All others of his ilk will die ere this day's sunset. Be advised, therefore. Fight no more until you know who pays. Wouldst any more of you be split like white fish ere I go? Time runneth short, but I would stay and oblige if pressed. He was not pressed. Tadric whirled and strode away. Should he get his horse or not?

No. He had never ridden mighty Drigar into danger wearing armor less capable than his own, and he wouldn't begin now. The temple of Sarpedeon was a tall, narrow building, with a far-flung outside staircase leaning up to the penthouse like excresence in which the green altar of sacrifice was. Tedric reached the foot of that staircase,

and grimly, doggedly cut his way up it. It was hard work, and he did not want to wear himself out too soon. He might need a lot of. and suddenly later on, and it would be a good idea to have something in reserve. As he mounted higher and higher, however, the opposition became less and less instead of greater and greater as he had expected. Priests were no longer there. He hadn't seen one for five minutes.

And in the penthouse itself, instead of the solid phalanx of opposition he had known would bar his way, there were only half a dozen mercenaries who promptly, turned tail and ran. The way is clear, hasten, Tedric shouted, and his youthful squire rushed up the ramp with his axe and hammer.

And with those ultra-hard, ultra-tuff implements, Tedric mauled and chopped the image of the god. Devon, Sarpadion's high priest, was desperate.

He believed thoroughly in his God. Equally thoroughly, however, he believed in the actuality and in the power of Tedric's new god. He had to, for the miracle he had performed, spoke for itself. While Sarpadian had not appeared personally in Devon's lifetime, he had so appeared many times in the past,

and by a sufficiently attractive sacrifice, he could be persuaded to appear again, particularly since this appearance would be in self-defense. No slave or any number of, of slaves would do, nor criminals. No ordinary version of the common people. This sacrifice must be of supreme quality. The king himself? Too old and tough and sinful. Ah, the king's daughter! At the thought the pit of his stomach turned cold. However, desperate situations require desperate remedies. He called in his henchmen and issued orders.

Thus it came about that a towering figure clad in flashing golden armor, the king himself, with a few courtiers scrambling far in his wake, dashed up the last few steps, just as Tadric was wrenching out Sarpidion's liver. "'Tedric! Attend!' the monarch panted. "'The priests have taken Roan and are about to—' Give her to Sorpedeon. They can't, sire. I've just killed Sarpedon right here.

But they can. They've taken the holiest one from the innermost shrine. Having shrined him on the temple of Skani. Slay me those traitor priests, for they slay Rowan, and you may— Tedric did not hear the rest of it. Nor was his mind chiefly concerned with the plight of the royal maid. It was Sarpedon he was after. With a blistering oath he dropped the God's liver,

whirled around, and leaped down the stairway. It would do no good to kill only one Sarpedon. He would have to kill them both, especially since the holiest one was the major image. The holiest one. The Sarpadion never before seen except by first-rank priests. Of course, that would be the one they'd use in sacrificing a king's daughter. He should have thought of that himself sooner, damn him for a fool.

It probably wasn't too late yet, but the sooner he got there, the better would be his chance of winning. Hence he ran, and farther and farther behind him came the king and the courtiers. Reaching the temple of Skanei, he found to his immense relief that he would not have to storm that heavily manned rampart alone. A full company of the Royal Guard was already there. Battle was in progress, but very little headway was being made against the close-packed defenders of the god, and Tedric knew why. A man fighting against a god was licked before he started, and he knew it.

He'd have to build up their morale. But did he have time? Probably. They couldn't hurry things too much without insulting Sarpedeon. For the absolutely necessary ceremonies took a lot of time. Anyway, he'd have to take the time, or he'd never reach the God. Art Lord Tedric? A burly captain disentangled himself from the front rank and saluted.

I'm Tadric, yes. Newest I was coming? Yes, Lord. Orders came by Helio, but now. You are in command. You speak with the voice of King Fagon himself. Good. Call your men back thirty paces.

Pick me out the twelve or fifteen strongest to lead. Men of the Royal Guard, he raised his voice to a volume audible, not only to his own men, but also to all the enemy. Who is the most powerful swordsman among you? Stand forward. This armor I wear is not of iron, but of God metal, the metal of Loire, my personal and all-powerful God. That all may here see and know, I command you to strike at me your shrewdest and most effective, most powerful blow.

The soldier, after a couple of false starts, did manage a stroke of sorts. I said strike, Tedric roared. Think you ordinary iron can harm the personal metal of a god? Strike where you please, at head or neck or shoulders or guts. But strike as though you meant it. Strike to kill. Shatter your sword. Strike!

Convulsively the fellow struck, swinging for the neck, and at the impact his blade snapped into three pieces. A wave of visible relief swept over the guardsman, one of dismay and shock over the ranks of the foe. I implore pardon, Lord, the soldier begged, dropping to one knee. Up, man tis nothing, and by my direct order,

Now, men, I can tell you a thing you would not have fully believed before. I have just killed half of Sarpedon, and he could not touch me. I am about to kill his other half. You will see me do it. Come what may of God or devil, you need not fear it, for I, and all with me fight under Lossier's shield. We men will have to do it. deal only with the flesh and blood of those runty mercenaries of Tark.

He studied the enemy formation briefly. A solid phalanx of spearmen with shields latticed and braced, close-set spears outthrust and anchored. Strictly defensive. They hadn't made a move to follow nor throw a single javelin when the king's forces withdrew. This wasn't going to be easy, but it was possible. We will make the formation

of the wedge with me as point, he went on. Sergeant, you will bear my sword and hammer. The rest of you will ram me into the center of that phalanx with everything of driving force that in you lies. I will make and maintain enough of opening. We'll go up that ramp like a fast ship plowing through waves. Make wedge. Drive!

Except for his own. armor of Godmetal, Tedric would have been crushed flat by the impact of the flying wedge against the soldiery packed so solidly on the stair. Several of the foe were so crushed, but the new armor held. Tedric could scarcely move his legs enough to take each step. His body was held as though in a vice, but his giant arms were free, and by dint of short, savage punching jabs and prods and strokes of his atrocious war acts, he made and maintained the narrow opening upon which the success of the whole operation depended. And into that constantly renewed opening, the Smith was driven, irresistibly driven,

by the concerted and synchronized strength of the strongest men of Lomar's Royal Guard. The result was not exactly like that of a diesel-powered snowplow, but it was good enough. The mercenaries did not flow over the sides of the ramp in two smooth waves. However, unable with either weapons or bodies to break through the slanting walls of iron formed by the smoothly overlapping shields of the guardsmen, over the edges they went, the living and the dead. The dreadful wedge drove on. As the guardsman neared the top of the stairway, the mercenaries disappeared.

Enough of that kind of thing was a great plenty, and Tedric, after a quick glance around to see what the situation was, seized his sword from the bearer. Old Devon had his knife aloft, but in only the third of the five formal passes. Two more to go. Kill those priests, he snapped at the captain. I'll take the three at the altar. You fellows take the rest of them. When Tedric reached the green altar, the sacrificial knife was again aloft, but the same stroke that severed Devon's upraised right arm, severed also his head and his whole left shoulder. Two more whistling strokes and a moment's study of the scene of action assured him that there would be no more sacrifices that day. The king's archers had followed close behind the guards.

The situation was well in hand. He exchanged sword for axe and hammer, and furiously, viciously, went to work on the God. He yanked out the holiest one's brain, liver and heart, hammered and chopped the rest of him to bits. That done, he turned to the altar. He had not even glanced at it before. Stretched taut, spread-eagled by wrists and ankles on the reeking blood-fowled green horace stone, the lady Rowan Lay, her yard-long, thick brown hair, a wide-flung riot. Six priests had not immobilized Rowan of Lomar without a struggle.

Her eyes went from shattered image to blood-covered armored giant and back to image. Her face was a study of part horrified, part-terified, part-worshipful amazement. He slashed the ropes, extended his mailed rife. hand. Or it hurt, Lady Rowan? No, just if. Taking his hand, she sat up, a bit grogily, and flexed wrists and ankles experimentally, while behind his visor the man stared and stared. Tall, wide, but trim, superbly made, a true scion of the old blood. Low serious liver! What a woman! He had undressed her men. He had undressed her men. more than once, but his visionings had fallen short, far short, of the entrancing the magnificent

truth. What a woman! A virgin? Technically so, perhaps. More shame to those pusillaminesous half-breed midges of the court. If he had been born noble! She slid off the altar and stood up, her eyes still dark, with fantastically mixed emotions. She threw both arms around his armored neck and snuggled close against his steel,

heedless that breasts and flanks were being smeared anew with half-dried blood. He put an iron-clad arm around her, moved her arm enough to open his visor, saw sea-green eyes, only a few inches below his own, staring straight into his. The man's quick passion flamed again. "'Gods of the ancients! What a woman! There was a mate for a full-grown man!' "'Thank the gods!' The king dashed up, panting, but in surprisingly good shape for a man of forty-odd, who had run so far in gold armor. Thanks be to all the gods you were in time. Just barely, sire, but in time. Name your reward, Lord Tedric. I will be glad to make you, my son.'

"'Not that, sire, ever. If there's anything in the world or the next, I don't want to be. It's Lady Rowan's brother.' "'Make him lord of the marches, father,' the girl said sharply. "'Knowest what the sages said. "'Tor which to be better,' the monarch agreed. "'Tedric of old Lomar, "'I appoint you, lord of the upper, the middle, and the lower marches.

"'The highest of the high.' Tedric went to his knees. "'I thank you, sire. Have I your backing and wiping out what is left of Sarpadion's power? If you will support the throne with the strength I so clearly see as to be yours, I will back you with the full power of the throne and anything you wish to do. Of course I will support you, sire, as long as I live and with all that in me lies. Since time first was, my blood has been vassal to yours and ever will be.

My brain, my liver, and my heart are yours. I thank you, Lord Tedric. Proceed. Tedric snapped to his feet. His sword flashed high in the air. His heavy voice rang out. People of Lomar, listen to a herald of the throne. Sarpedon is dead.

Lossair lives. Human sacrifice, yes, all sacrifice except the one I am about to perform, of Sarpadion himself to Lociar is done. That is and will be the law. To that end, there will be no more priests, but a priestess only. I speak as herald for the throne of Lomar. He turned to the girl, still clinging to his side. I had it first in mind, Lady Rowan, to make you priestess, but—

Not I, she interrupted vigorously. No priestess I, Lord Tetric. By Lossier's brain-girl, you're right. You've been wasted long enough. In another time track, another Scandos and another Furman, almost but not quite identical with those first so-named, poured over a chrono-viogram. The key point in time is there, the prime physicist said thoughtfully,

placing the point of his pencil near one jagged peak of the trace. The key figure is Lord Tetric of Lomar, the discoverer of the carburization of steel. He could be manipulated very easily, but after all the real catastrophe is about 318 years away. There is nothing alarming about the shape of the curve, and any interference with the actual physical events of the past would almost certainly prove calamitous. over the years i have found your judgment good what is your thought on this matter firman i would say to wait at least for a few weeks or months even though eight hundred twelve fails number eight hundred and fifty or number nine hundred may succeed at the very worst we will be in the same position then as now to take the action which has for a hundred years been specifically forbidden by both council and school So be it.

End of Tedrick by E. Smith. Thank you for listening.