Savage Scorpio (27 page)

The emperor fell back.

“Ashti!” he screeched.

“Yes, emperor. We cannot wait. Your interfering son-in-law has returned, and he knows the truth. So you must die tonight, now!”

Chapter Twenty

Savage Kregen

“Slay him, you fools, and have done!”

Ashti Melekhi pointed scornfully at the emperor, who fell back over his chair, twisting, knocking the golden cups of wine to the priceless carpets.

I stepped out into the light. The long dark cloak covered my face in shadow.

“Whoever he is, slay him also!” cried Melekhi.

The Chuliks advanced with grim purpose.

“You see, emperor,” I said. “There’s no telling an old onker the truth even if it’s staring him in the face.”

The emperor choked. He tried to struggle up. “Guards!” he got out in a strangled voice. “Guards! To me! To me!”

“What!” said I. “D’you want more of ’em to do your business for you? This bitch has bought them all.”

Ashti Melekhi drew in a sharp breath. Her face glowed with pleasure, her grey-green eyes bright, her pursed red mouth moist.

“The Prince Majister! Two with but a single cast! Now the gods smile on me.”

“It depends on which gods,” I said as I threw off the swathing cloak. “Some of that fraternity are not too reliable.”

“Slay them both,” screeched Melekhi. She held her hands pressed to her thin breast. She craned to watch.

The rapier came out smoothly enough, and the left-hand dagger. These Chuliks were past masters at their art, trained from birth. I was in for a strenuous few murs — or however long the fight lasted. The problem would be to keep the emperor from being killed.

I never forgot he was an emperor. Now he struggled up and the look on his face would have quelled an ordinary rabble. He grabbed for the bedhead table. He kept a sword ready to hand there as do all sensible folk on Kregen.

“I am the emperor!” he shouted. “Foresworn traitoress!”

“Now, emperor,” I said. “Remember. Remember the fight with the third party outside your very own palace grounds?” As I said this I crossed swords with the first of the Chuliks, who came on with great panache. I twinkled his blade about; but he knew that one, and I had a quick little spot of nimble parry and duck with his left hand companion before the rapier went into his guts and I could withdraw, skip aside and so kick another Chulik betwixt wind and water. He staggered; but I gave him no time to fall, by reason of the dagger that skewered into his eye. Bits of fluid gristle and blood spurted.

“I remember that fight, Dray Prescot!”

“Aye. Well, I’ll pull your hair again if you get in the way.”

Two Chuliks were down. The four remaining came on, violently, rapidly, and I had a deal of ducking and parrying to do, using the full of the blade, feeling the solid power of their blows ring and chingle along the steel.

“Get past him, you fools!” screeched Melekhi. “Get at the emperor.”

“You stay behind me, emperor!” I yelled, and shoved him back with my shoulder, as cursing and swashing his blade, he struggled to get past the bed and the table.

Because of that wide, ornate, draped bed the Chuliks could not get around me on one side, or leap at my back. They had to come at me from the front and the right. This, I fancy, put them at a disadvantage. There were four of them. Nath the Iarvin stood, blocky, solid, immense, at the side of his mistress, watching it all with those cold piggy eyes.

And I saw, instantly, that the Chuliks would be cut down when they had done their work.

This Nath was good with a blade. Everyone knew that.

A third Chulik staggered back, most surprised. He had thought I would thrust with the rapier, having feinted for that purpose, and he had dropped into line ready for the riposte. But my rapier held down the blades of two of his companions, beating them back. My main gauche whipped across, very fast, horizontal, very nastily.

The Chulik looked surprised because his throat was cut from ear to ear. He grinned at me with a blood-bubbling mouth where his throat should be.

The fourth Chulik, for the moment disengaged, shoved his dying comrade aside to get at me, and as he came on so I dropped and gut-thrust him before he even settled, and sent him toppling over on the last long journey to the Ice Foes of Sicce.

The other two stepped back, their blades snaking up, free of mine, and so for a space we looked at one another.

“What do you wait for!” Melekhi stamped her foot — a futile, stupid gesture. “Slay them both!”

And Nath the Iarvin spoke.

“He is a great swordsman, my lady.”

“And so are you — better, by all accounts.”

“Then let me—”

“Wait!”

The Chuliks were filled with the blood lust and the purport of this exchange passed them by. They leaped in, still deadly, still ferociously anxious to spill my tripes.

Well aware that this brooding Nath was watching my play I tried to play the next one cleverly and foin a little and a Chulik blade sliced down my face. I cursed and jumped aside and my brand scorched across his face, not where I had intended and I felt the steel jar against a tusk. He screamed.

This was turning from a pleasant little passage at arms into the bloody and squalid fight it truly was.

There was no Jikai here, I surmised.

Blood ran down my chin.

The two were heartened at this and came on. The emperor was still thrashing and swashing about, and he near-nicked me a couple of times.

“Keep you back, you great onker!” I said. “By Zair! I don’t want your nose sliced off for my Delia to see!”

“Let me at ’em!” he was yelling, kicking the chair, the table, the bed, foaming.

My blade licked in and out, and the Chuliks, who can handle weapons, played me, one against the other; but I had them in the end, although not as I had expected.

The right hand one stepped back. He stepped away from the struggle of his comrade. Swiftly he thrust his rapier under his left arm and whipped out a throwing knife. It was not a terchick, being altogether heavier and not so finely balanced; but it would do the emperor’s business for him.

Fight fire with fire. There was no time. I lifted the left-hand dagger. I hurled it as my Clansmen hurl the terchicks, riding the backs of their voves. Left-handed, right-handed, it makes little difference to a Clansman.

At the same time I slid the point of the last Chulik and presented my point to his throat.

The main gauche flew true. It smashed into the Chulik’s face, staggering him, bringing a great splashing spurt of dark blood. And the rapier point slid, cutting through the windpipe and the jugular of the Chulik before me. The distant yellow-tusk screeched, flailing about, spraying gobbets of blood, screaming. The one before me glared madly, trying to wrench the blade from his throat, and that damned fool the emperor came up — well, not between my legs, but close by them — surged up to take a juicy whack with his blade at the wriggling Chulik.

The mercenary flailed over backwards taking my rapier with him.

I stood there, glaring myself, furiously angry,

“Get back out of it, you fambly!” I roared.

And Ashti Melekhi, in a voice like steel, said: “Now, Nath. Now.”

Nath the Iarvin drew his rapier and main gauche with the single fluid motion that told of a master fencer. He advanced on me and the look on his dark powerful features meant only one thing in the whole wide world of Kregen.

I stood before him, my hands empty.

“Dray!” screeched the emperor, squirming about between bed and table. “A sword — here — take mine!”

“Too late for that, rast,” said this Nath, speaking up, very jovial, very purring-pleased now he had been unleashed.

“True,” I said, brightly. “True.”

Nath leaped in with that smooth skilful poised motion of the bladesman.

So, with a sigh, I, Dray Prescot, Krozair of Zy, unlimbered the deadly Krozair brand, and with spread fists, met that headlong charge.

His first swift passage aimed at sliding past the long blade was met and repulsed. He dodged back, the main gauche fending. He blinked.

“You’d best put up that old bar of iron, dom. Make it easy on yourself. Just relax and, by the Blade of Kurin, I swear to make it quick and painless.”

And, as he spoke, cunning bladesman, he leaped again and so twinkled his blades before my eyes. Cunning, cunning! Oh, yes, he was very good as a bladesman, this Nath the Iarvin. But I have been a bladesman in my time — still am, I suppose. He had not met a Krozair brand before. All that old agony of indecision of mine about a Krozair brand facing a rapier — well, that has been settled. The beautiful blade, perfectly balanced, rotated smoothly, oiled, flaming with power, scorched in past his darting blades, sank in over his silver-studded black belt, sank in and in and burst on through.

I withdrew.

He stood, gaping, bewildered. Even as he began to shake and topple and the weapons fall from his hands, the door opened.

A man stepped through, very alert, intense, filled with an eagerness of spirit I could recognize. My gaze switched back to Nath as the blood bubbled out over his brown tunic. His outspread arms with the brown and green banded sleeves quivered; his hands gripped and relaxed, gripped and relaxed, and they would never more grasp rapier or main gauche. The irony was not lost on me. By the rapier he had lived, and by the longsword he had died.

“What!” I cried. “Another ponsho for the slaughter.”

The man who had entered stopped stock still.

He wore Vallian evening clothes, a deep crimson robe, embroidered with silver risslacas, circled by a jeweled belt, very thin, from which swung on gemmed lockets a long dagger. Around his neck a chain formed of gold links and rubies and laybrites caught the samphron oil lamp’s gleam and winked and shone magnificently, the red and yellow gems blinding.

“Layco!” cried Ashti Melekhi, and she lifted her arms imploringly.

“Majister!” said this newcomer, this man I now knew to be Kov Layco Jhansi. “You are unharmed?”

“Never better,” growled the emperor. “And these rasts are dead, and that she-leem is the blackest traitor this side of Cottmer’s Caverns.”

“Layco!” shrieked Melekhi again. Her white scornful face caught up all the agony in her, and she screamed. She ripped the dagger from her belt and crouched, ready to spring.

Layco Jhansi appeared to be in the prime of life, short, with closely cropped brown hair. His face was regular, unmarked by suffering, his eyes large and luminous. He carried within himself a shining spirit that marked him out as a man who would adorn any walk of life he chose to inhabit.

Ashti Melekhi poised, the slim dagger held high. In a heartbeat she would hurl it straight at the emperor — it was written clearly on that white and twisted face.

No one there could know the Krozair brand would flick the flying dagger away. The moment hung with menace. Then Jhansi stepped in close to Ashti Melekhi. He whipped his own needle-slim dagger out. She saw him from the corner of her eye.

She screamed and fell back as the dagger plunged into her bosom. The green leathers punctured and as Kov Layco withdrew the blade blood welled.

“No! No — Layco!” she screamed. “Please — please—” The dagger in the Chief Pallan’s hand lifted again. This time it would finish her. “Please, Layco! I could not help it!”

“You could not, Ashti,” said Jhansi. “But you are a traitoress. Foresworn. The life of the emperor is not to be taken lightly or without punishment.”

And his dagger flashed down and buried itself in her heart.

Thus died Ashti Melekhi, the Vadnicha of Venga.

“A just retribution for a foul traitoress, majister,” said Jhansi. He calmly left his blade where it jutted from the bosom of the corpse. He walked across to the emperor and bowed.

“You are unharmed, majister?”

“I’m perfectly all right. This great hairy graint of a Clansman stopped me from having any fun again — it’s always the same.”

I held down my disgust. What did he know of the actual hurly-burly of battle? What fun was there in that? He did not even inhabit the same kind of world my Djangs or my Clansmen did when they spoke of fun.

“I shall have everything seen to, majister.” He eyed me with a lively glance. He hesitated, which I fancied was an odd thing for him to do. He glanced toward the door, and opened his mouth; then he closed that firm-lipped mouth and nodded. “By morning the culprits, if there are any left, will have been rooted out. And I shall start with the guards at your door. They must have heard the commotion, and yet they did nothing.”

“Bought,” I said. “Bought and paid for.”

“Aye, prince,” he said. Even without the pappattu and the Lahals, he knew who I was. “But who?”

“We’ll find out.”

“And the quicker the better,” said the emperor. “I must give you thanks, Layco, for saving my life. That she-leem would have skewered me with that dagger. But it means she cannot testify.”

“I shall do all I can, majister.”

“Yes, Layco. On you I rely. You never fail me.”

I remained silent.

“You honor me, as always, majister.”

“I shall never forget your loyalty for as long as I live.” The emperor looked around on the shambles, on the dead, the six Chuliks, the bladesman, the vadnicha. He shook his head. “Indeed, it is a terrible thing to be an emperor.”

And I felt the stupid giggle starting deep within me.

The emperor’s enemies had attempted to poison him and get him out of the way of their schemes, remove him at the first from the palace revolution. My wonderful Delia and our friends had foiled that plot and cured the emperor. The guilty had been punished. The traitors would be paid off, and the loyal guards return. Layco Jhansi would see to that.

But — but! We had given the emperor a thousand years of life.

Never before had he been seated so thoroughly upon the throne. It was a joke. His enemies would fade away and vanish like Drig’s Lanterns. The emperor of Vallia would remain the emperor of Vallia for a thousand years.

I felt the relief like wine bubbles rising and bursting.

It was marvelous!

And my Delia — how we would laugh, together, back with our family in Esser Rarioch.