Allies of Antares (11 page)

“A Havil-forsaken moorkrim sorcerer!”

“Cut off his head —
now
!”

“Burn him!”

The uproar continued as the swods roughhoused their prisoner across the rocks to their Deldar. Deldar Fresk Thyfurnin looked grave. Like us all he was exhausted from the aftereffects of the fighting and the lack of sleep. He said to me, “They were lucky to catch the Arditchoith. Nasty customers, as dangerous as a wounded leem.”

One of the sub-officers, a matoc, reported in that the wildman sorcerer, the Arditchoith, had been snapped up by a party as he tumbled from a rocky ledge in the cave. Both sides had been surprised and shocked. But here was the sorcerer, wild as all hell, safely gagged and bound.

“Make sure the gag is tight, matoc.”

“Quidang, by Kuerden the Merciless!”

The uproar attracted Seg and Kytun and they walked across from the flutduin lines. Presently we would have to take off with Tyfar and pray he survived his ordeal.

Seg was just saying, “They’ll never get any information out of him if they rough him up like that,” in a judicious way when the sorcerer — by some sleight of thaumaturgy, no doubt — broke momentarily free. Those few moments were enough. His bandy legs twinkling, he broke through the startled swods, leaped for a boulder, balanced, leaped for the far side, and tumbled clean into the all-embracing arms of a party of Djangs come to see what the excitement was all about. They held him, and he would not escape them.

“By Zodjuin of the Silver Stux!” rapped Kytun. “This fellow is a man! Let’s find out more about him.”

The Djangs grasped the wildman and he was run up to stand defiantly before Kytun. Now Kytun is a majestically impressive figure, broad, bulky, regal of mien, and his four arms are so evidently capable of dealing out punishment and destruction that he inspires universal respect. Also, as I know, those same four muscular arms and deadly hands can be infinitely tender in caring for those he loves, and in looking after the flowers that so delight him in his garden back home in his paradise island of Uttar Djombey.

An imposing, dominating, intimidating figure, then, Kytun Kholin Dom. The wildman sorcerer, the Arditchoith, stared furiously up through his shock of disarranged hair with a look of malignant hatred. His whole posture, the jumping of the muscles in his face above the gag, spoke eloquently of vivid resentment and animosity and nothing of fear or trembling.

“Spying on us, were you?” quoth Kytun. “Well, we’ll soon find out if there are any more of you. Take off his gag. There are questions he must be asked.”

Sinewy Djang fingers stripped away the leather gag.

A frenzied chorus of shrieks battered into the air.

“Don’t take off the gag!”

“Stop! Stop!”

“Keep him tongueless!”

It was too late.

The horrified shouts of the Hamalese soldiers changed to shrieks of consternation and fear.

The wildman sorcerer spoke.

What he said he spat out in no language I knew, although the language genetically coded pill I’d taken years ago enabled me to grasp at the essence of what he was saying.

Rather — at what he was calling up.

In a screeched invective-laden invocation he called upon the Pale Vampire Worms. His stutter of words seemed to swell and crackle among the rocks. The soldiers yelled and fought to climb aboard the nearest tyryvol or flutduin. A coldness dropped upon the platform in the canyon and clouds passed before the faces of the suns.

From a myriad cracks grazing the surface of the platform elongated white forms emerged. They writhed. Sinewy, puffed, bloated with pale slime shining, they oozed from the dank recesses of nightmare to swarm onto the ledge and descend upon the panic-stricken people.

A crack at my feet disgorged a plump white worm — I’d not noticed any crack there before — and as I stumbled back the thing lifted into the air. White, corrugated like a concertina, slime-running, the Pale Vampire Worm looked upon me with two round crimson eyes protruding prominently. Real power, then, he had, this wildman wizard.

The sword was in my fist and the blade went around in a horizontal slash before I knew what was happening.

The worm fell in two severed halves, and the tail end shriveled into a pale wormcast and the head spun about, the two bulging eyes red as freshly spilled blood, and began to grow a new tail.

The air filled with the horrors, and those of us left on the ledge slashed and leaped and flailed away — and many a man fell with a worm fastened to his throat, kicking and struggling as the Pale Vampire Worm turned the color of blood.

Kytun slashed with four djangirs and the frighteningly efficient short sword of Djanduin in his capable grip kept the horrors at bay. But they oozed from the clefts in the rock and swarmed upon us. Our blades ran with ichor and tails fell to shrivel; but the heads pirouetted and grew afresh and came on again.

Deldar Fresk tripped one of his men, running in blind panic. The man tumbled over and Fresk grabbed his crossbow. For a Deldar of Hamalian crossbowmen to span and load was a matter of training and drill and superb expertise. Even as I cut and hacked with sword and main gauche I saw Fresk aim the crossbow and loose.

The bolt struck the wildman sorcerer in the head.

His head exploded.

Instantly, every Pale Vampire Worm vanished.

There was no craze of cracks fretting the surface of the platform.

Kytun used his lower left hand’s forefinger to wipe away a scrap of brain from his cheek.

“Djan!”

“You!” said Seg. “Take his gag off... Let’s ask him some questions...

It became extraordinarily urgent for me to step up and speak in a bright voice which, with a sigh I confess, came out like a rough-edged file. But they listened.

“Forget the damned sorcerer and the Pale Vampire Worms. Where is Tyfar? And Jaezila?”

Seg and Kytun were my comrades and had recently been introduced to Tyfar, a fellow comrade. The simmer of the volcano heralding a verbal slanging match over the Pale Vampire Worms and the cause of their appearance was instantly forgotten. Down by the flutduin lines, as where the tyryvols had been tethered by their late owners, the confusion ebbed as men realized the worms no longer existed. Few birds were left. Men sprawled on the ground, drained of blood, and they remained and did not rise up returned to full health. Wherever the damned worms had gone they’d taken the blood with them.

There was no sign of Tyfar or his people, and Jaezila was missing also. I just hoped she was sticking like glue to Tyfar, caring for him and gaining protection from his people’s swordarms. I swung on Deldar Fresk.

“Well done, Deldar! We owe our lives to you.”

“I have heard of these Havil-forsaken moorkrim wizards. I do not wish to meet another.”

“Unless,” said Seg with a look at Kytun, “unless he’s well and truly gagged.”

“I’ll have the leather gag and thongs ready, I promise, by all the Warrior Gods of Djanduin!”

And — we all laughed.

Khotan the Needle had vanished and I sincerely trusted he was in attendance on Tyfar. I could guess that Barkindrar and Nath the Shaft, faithful to their creed and duty — not so rare a habit of mind on Kregen as it has become on Earth — had bundled their prince and Jaezila and the needleman aboard saddlebirds and thwacked them into the air. I’d been skipping and jumping and slashing at Pale Vampire Worms at the time.

Fresk said, “We shall be all right here, notor.”

I looked at him.

He nodded to the flutduins remaining. “Clearly, you will fly back to Ruathytu.”

“Yes,” I said. I roused myself. This burden of imposition on men who were men like myself was a part of the punishment I endured for the presumption of allowing myself to be made an emperor. But I refused to become lost in self-pity. There was another side to being an emperor. I had no authority in the Hamalian army, but...

“I shall see to it, Deldar Fresk, that you are made up to Jiktar. I have noticed you.”

He did not flush or stammer. He looked me in the eye and I wondered if he wanted to spit in my eye.

Then he said, “Thank you, notor.”

That was all.

Well, by Krun! And what else did I expect?

So, because we were lords and masters and of the high ones of Kregen, we took the flutduins and the tyryvols and flew away. We left Deldar Fresk and the men without mounts to await subsequent rescue. I did not look back. By Zair! Only overpoweringly important issues would cause me to fly off and leave brave men in a plight like that.

And, the truth was, without question, that the problems I faced were overpoweringly important. As we flew up into the radiances of Zim and Genodras, it was the overpowering part of that thought that was the most daunting.

Chapter nine

I Mention the Emperor of Pandahem

The Freak Merchants and the magicians and the conjurers had returned to their usual haunts in Ruathytu. Under the strict laws of Hamal they found life harder than in most of the exotic cities of Kregen; but in the eternal strength of their kind they survived.

In the brawling sprawling smoking open-air souk the man next to the fellow whose trick was pouring boiling water over various parts of his anatomy without apparent effect caught up his ungainly reptiles and hung them about him, tails curling and fangs clashing. Copper obs rattled in the earthenware bowls. The noise and stink and confusion racketed to the bright sky where the twin suns shone down serenely. The uproar was truly prodigious.

Strings of laden calsanys trotted past. Slaves scurried about their business, for master or mistress, down-drooping of mien, sunk in the busy apathy of slavery. The riders who spurred through the throngs were cursed at and spat after; but they forced a way through. The dust lifted, thick and choking. The smells could have been sculpted by chisels.

“He’s down here somewhere,” said Seg, avoiding a brass bowl on the end of a chain at the end of a pole at the end of a procession of brass-bowl-bearing slaves.

“Somewhere.”

“Well, by the sign of The Crushed Toad.”

“That infamous place,” said Hamdi the Yenakker, a very great rogue but tall and upright and carrying himself with a swagger, a Hamalese who had sworn eternal fidelity to Vallia as the new power, “that sink of iniquity is there.” He pointed. The place was tumbledown and smothered in creeping vines; but a soldier would see the thickness of the walls and the placement of slit windows high in the angles. “But there is no sign of your man.”

“Your man, Hamdi,” said Seg, moving out of the way of a cowled woman with a bosom and a basket.

“I merely repeat what I was told. He can tell you what you wish to know about Spikatur Hunting Sword.”

“And,” I said, “I have the bag of gold he asks for and I’d sooner he took charge of it. I’ve had a dozen fingers clutching at it already.”

We all wore nondescript clothes of the swathing kind concealing most of our weaponry. In here they’d take your favorite jeweled dagger off you at one end and sell it back to you at the other. The Souk of Opportunity, this place was called, and no one was in any doubt whose opportunity it was.

Opportunity was another name for Hamdi the Yenakker. There is little that needs to be said about him. There are Vicars of Bray on Kregen, but his wholehearted embracing of Vallia and all things Vallian after the taking of Ruathytu was most certainly not an unalloyed advantage. Oh, yes, Hamdi had his connections, and we were to find great use for him. But his attitude, which unkind men might dub fawning on Vallia, was like to offend others, others like Prince Nedfar and Prince Tyfar. Happily they were both recovered of their wounds and day by day as the Peace Conference broke up around our ears and King Telmont marched nearer, we worked on Nedfar to accept our proposals. It was not an easy time.

Nothing much to be said about Hamdi the Yenakker, and, yet, surely, there was this to be said for him — he was one embodiment of our desire for Hamal and Vallia to work together for the future of the whole of Paz against the Shanks. So, as shrewd Ortyg Fellin Coper pointed out: “The realization of honest plans does not always bring the expected result.”

We pushed our way toward The Crushed Toad. This Souk of Opportunity had grown up over the seasons in a section of one of the two Wayfarer’s Drinniks, and the wide dusty space was now more congested than usual. The reasons were simple. Hamal’s commerce normally went by air but since the wars and our virtual destruction of Hamal’s air arm, the various forms of land transport returned to favor of necessity. This Urn-Clef Wayfarer’s Drinnik northwest of the city just outside the Walls of the Suns, with the sky-spanning arches of the aqueduct carrying water down to the Arena slanting across the eastern section, sent off caravans to the northern parts of Hamal. The River Havilthytus serviced the west. Lacking the impressive canal system of Vallia, Hamal’s land communications were superior, for ownership of an airboat remained still a pricey business.

Inside The Crushed Toad Hamdi led us to a small upper room which we entered with fists wrapped around sword hilts. Only one man sat at table, his shirt open to the waist revealing a forest of blackish hairs, his double chins partially obscured by an ale jug. Liquid dribbled down the creases in his skin. He slapped the jug down and bellowed.

“Lahal, Hamdi, you rogue! Where is the gold?”

Hamdi caught my eye and nodded, very stiff.

“This is Nath the Dwa. His twin, Nath the Ob,
[3]
did not survive the Empress Thyllis’s invitation to an outing in her Arena.”

“The bosks stuck him clear through the guts,” said this Nath the Dwa. “I own I was glad to learn that bitch Thyllis was dead, although the manner of her death escapes me.”

“She was blown away by sorcery,” I said. The lesten-hide bag of gold thumped down on the table. “Here is the gold. Now tell us of Spika—”

“Hush, man! Hamdi — you were followed? Check the stairs.”

Seg looked out of the door, went to the landing, came back. “All clear. We were not followed.”

Nath the Dwa took another draught. A heel of bread and a chunk of cheese lay dying on a wooden platter. There was no flick-flick plant in the room; there were a dozen or so flies.