Rebel of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “How was it you failed in your attempt to rescue Princess Lildra?”

  He gasped and took a step back. It was not theatrical. He was genuinely shocked.

  “Quiet, I beg you!” He looked about, and the color fled. “How — how could you know? If it is known — the Jikhorkdun—”

  “Aye. She would have sport with you.”

  “Yes. I have come to detest the Arena of late.”

  “By your mien I guess you hold a meeting tonight with those who share the queen’s favors — as do you — and not with those who share your true desires.”

  He nodded and said, “A formal reception. Tiresome. I am married and with two sets of twins. I have responsibilities. What do you know of Princess Lildra, whom Opaz preserve?”

  “I fight — at the moment — against Hamal. I know of plots to bring Hyrklana into the Hamalese camp. For the sake of Vallia I do not care for that. I think if Queen Lildra sat on the throne instead of Queen Fahia, the world would smile more cheerfully.”

  “Then you know Fahia inclines toward Hamal, after all this time? She believes there is much gain for her. The ordinary folk do not like the Hamalese, as you know. I have much support.”

  I looked him straight in the eye. He drew in his chin, facing me, looking back. He was, after all, a queen’s chief minister.

  “Do you desire to make yourself King of Hyrklana, Orlan?”

  “No, majister.” His answer came back like a bowshot. I believed him. He had always exercised power from the background.

  Before I could question him further, he said, “It is not safe for you to stay here like this. I will find clothes and weapons.” Trust a good Kregan to bracket those together! “Then we can talk. After this damned reception. In my chambers.”

  “Very well. First — where does Fahia hide Princess Lildra?”

  “The Jasmine Tower in the Castle of Afferatu.”

  There clung to him that quivering air of excitement. I suppose one could suggest, without too much megalomania, that he was impressed by having an emperor dressed up in slave’s gear in his ablutions; there was something else, and that something else puzzled me. It seemed he was expecting me to say what he waited for me to say. I stretched my back and looked toward the door.

  “Yes, it is a good idea for me to leave. I came here to see you. Is there anything else you have to say?” I studied him and, by Vox, he started to smile like a grinning lurfing. This meeting had been prosaic enough, Opaz knew. I said, and I own my voice was a trifle tinged with impatience, “You do not seem very surprised to see me.”

  “I am, I am. And, yet, majister — no.” He laughed openly. “I am astonished to find you dressed up in slaves’ gear when you could have come with an embassy to the front door. As the Emperor of Vallia you would be welcome—”

  “I, Drak the Sword, welcome in Queen Fahia’s eyes?”

  “No. Of course not. But — why, majister, did you come if it was not to add to your son’s pleas?”

  I gaped.

  “My son?”

  “Of course. Prince Jaidur. He has been working on the lords and ladies of Huringa to bring them into alliance with Vallia, acting on your instructions.”

  Had I been wearing a hat I would have snatched it off, hurled it to the floor and jumped on it.

  By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki-Grodno!

  “Jaidur — here?”

  “You are telling me you did not know?”

  Sometimes emperors have the opportunity to exercise a right which in others would be rudeness. I did not answer directly. I said, “Let me get into a safe bolt hole, with some clothes and weapons, and then I’ll have a word with that young imp Jaidur.”

  “At once, majister.”

  The doors moved and then started to open and at once the blast of noise from the meeting burst in. Orlan looked stricken. He glared about like a hunted beast seeking asylum from the pack.

  “You must hide, majister! Quickly—”

  I just picked up the mop and bent over.

  “Take no notice of me, and neither will they. Is the Fristle woman trustworthy? Not now. Later.”

  Four young men in high spirits caroused into the ablutions and began skylarking about, throwing water. Orlan stepped forward and the strongest desire in me to laugh had to be suppressed. The change in demeanor in those four foolish young men was remarkable. Well, as I had to keep reminding myself: Orlan Mahmud was Queen Fahia’s principal minister. With a quantity of hangdoggery and sheep-facery, and quickly sloshed water, the four lads departed.

  “All the same, Orlan,” I said, when the door closed, “I will avail myself of your kind offer right away. Where do I go?”

  “I will fetch you myself.”

  We went out through the smaller door into the corridors and anterooms, and as a slave I shuffled along half a dozen paces in rear. Orlan was clever. No doubt he had dealt with spies in a similar manner. Eventually, up a dark blackwood stair, I found myself in a small room, smelling faintly of dust and ripe apples, with a bed and table and not much else. Orlan closed the door, which was locked by a monstrous great bronze and iron contraption.

  “You will be safe here. Only I have the key. I must get back to that tiresome reception.”

  “Assuredly. Tell me, before you go, what was Arrian nal Amklana like, as a man?”

  “He was a friend. He was frothy, yes, but his heart was sound. He was with me in the cavern when you held up the slate slab so that we might all escape.”

  The feeling of satisfaction within me, almost like that of digestive juices moving, came from two sources. I was pleased that Princess Lilah had loved a man. Of course, when the Star Lords sent their damned great blue Scorpion to snatch me up and deposit me somewhere else to do their bidding I more often than not remained in ignorance of just who it was I had rescued. I’d not known in this case; now I thought I did.

  Orlan hesitated at the door and turned diffidently. “Arrian won Princess Lilah. He was a true man, and there was nothing I could say to that, for I loved her myself. He chose to go into captivity with her — as I would have done.” And he went out and locked the bronze and iron contraption after him.

  In the nal Amklana family, it seemed clear, the twin sister was the hard and ruthless one, the twin brother the easygoing and softhearted one. Perhaps his daughter would prove a broken reed; perhaps she would be embittered and vicious in her hatred of everyone. All I knew was that I had to rescue her and see about helping the rebellion along...

  A most gorgeously formed Sybli wearing a slit shush-chiff of laypom-yellow material, her baby face bouncy with smiles, brought me food and drink. Through the half-open door I caught a glimpse of a giant Khibil, a massive glimmer of steel, dangling Orlan’s key ring. So he did trust someone other than himself in his villa... In only a few burs, Orlan returned. He looked weary, and his face was whiter and more strained than it ought to be. He moved a hand despondently.

  “The queen is set on her course, majister. We must depose her and install the Princess Lildra as queen!”

  “Agreed. I’ll get along to the Castle of Afferatu.”

  He sat down on the bed. “Yes. I will send word. We have people down there, but they are despondent after the last failure.”

  I thought to say, “Can you tell me anything of Spikatur Hunting Sword, Orlan?”

  “By Harg! I was approached recently and I think other lords also. Then I heard nothing. And then arrests were made and men and women were sent to the Jikhorkdun. It was done by Kov Hogan who is a spymaster it would be better not to cross. He says he is a queen’s man, but I know he has been bought by Hamalese gold. He hates me.”

  We talked for a space and I told him that Spikatur Hunting Sword was a conspiracy directed against Hamal. “They claim to have no leaders, which probably means local chapters each doing what it can and reporting back — but to whom? They assassinate Hamalese. They burn voller factories. They attempt to be a thorn in the flesh of Hamal and her friends.”

/>   It occurred to me that if the local chapter of Spikatur had not been broken up then Tyfar would have been in serious danger.

  “What can you tell me of the plot formulated by Vad Noran?”

  “He was betrayed. By whom, I do not know.” Orlan spread his hands. “There are always plots and always, always, always, those who will betray for money.”

  “Or ideals.”

  “Those as well. It comes down to the same thing in the end. Men and women broken or turned out into the Arena.”

  “Yet you persist?”

  “I must. There is no other way.”

  From this nighttime meeting in a small room smelling of dust and apples we both learned much. He was eager to ally with Vallia and Djanduin and whoever else would stand against Hamal. I spoke to him of the Shanks, or Shants, Shtarkins, the fishheads from the other side of the world, and he shared my dreams of a great confederation to stand against these leem-loving reivers.

  “I have sent word to Prince Jaidur, and he will come, I have no doubt, as soon as possible to see his father. He is a busy young man.”

  “Aye,” I said. “Busy.”

  The Sybli in her slinky shush-chiff, that alluring evening gown worn by Kregan girls on holiday or festive occasions, brought us wine and we drank a little companionably. Orlan left late, and I debated if it was wise for me to wait for Jaidur. He was still resentful that I was his father, although he had proved himself a fine young man and a splendid son to his mother. I’d give him until the morning, I told myself, and then I’d be off, and the little dusty-apple-smelling room tinged with a lambent blueness.

  My first reaction was one of complete stupidity. Not stupefaction, for whatever tricks the Star Lords and their Scorpion got up to would not, I thought, surprise me. I shook my head. I slumped down on the bed. “Not now,” I said aloud. “Not bloody now!”

  And the gigantic form of the Scorpion leered down on me, gloating. Far larger than the modest confines of the room, that enormous shape glowed with blue fire, and I felt the winds sweeping me up and the coldness chilling my flesh and I went whirling away end over end, yelling my foolish head off that I wouldn’t go, by the putrid diseased left eyeball of Makki-Grodno.

  But — I went.

  In the next few heartbeats I expected to be hurled down all naked and unarmed somewhere on Kregen’s savage surface to rescue some poor devils at the whim of the Star Lords. The Everoinye, the Star Lords, cared not a whit for what I might be doing. If I rebelled against them I could be hurled back to Earth and left to rot. Once, I had rotted on Earth for twenty-one years.

  Never again — not ever again, could I allow that...

  By the exercise of willpower I had accomplished that defiance. My own puny mortal will had been set against the superhuman demands of the Everoinye. And I had influenced events. Mind you, they’d gotten their revenge in flinging me to Earth and leaving me there to molder away until, in the fullness of time and with the help of other forces, I had returned to Kregen.

  So now, tentatively, I tried to resist.

  Suppose I were thrown down into Segesthes, miles away to the east, or Turismond, miles away to the west? Suppose they dumped me down in the Eye of the World? I fought them. I had to go to the Castle of Afferatu to rescue a princess. The will of the Star Lords, I thought, being superhuman, must overwhelm my own desires. They were usually aloof, and although there was dissension among them with the young Star Lord, Ahrinye, demanding a greater share of power, they just did not bother about humanity. So I thought in my ignorance. And so, thinking that, I struggled against them.

  A voice whispered in, like a dagger.

  “You swore, Dray Prescot, there was a compact between us.”

  By three things I knew this was not the voice of Ahrinye. First: The blueness tinged with a deep crimson, and there was no sign of the acid green associated with Ahrinye. Second: The voice was not his, although superhuman and remote, not drilling in my head like a white-hot auger. And, third: I had no compact with him, and had at best a ramshackle kind of agreement with the Everoinye themselves.

  So I said, “I hear you, Star Lords. Have I not done your bidding well and faithfully? And I know you have no thought or care for humankind, so that anything I might say will not move you.”

  Into the rushing wind swirling about me seeped that macabre silence and stillness found in the eye of a storm. The blueness of the Scorpion faded as the pulsating crimson brightened. I looked in vain for the first glimmerings of friendly yellow. The voice husked now, as though speaking in my ear, and yet I knew I sat on a bed in a dusty apple-smelling room in Orlan Mahmud’s villa. All around me the crimson stretched, and gradually it coalesced beneath me and broadened and lifted above into a hollow vault.

  “You have obeyed, Dray Prescot, although we know your resentment of us.”

  I marveled. These beings, although once human, were no longer a part of the human race. How could they be? I did not know. I was confused.

  “What do you want of me now? I have work to do—”

  “We released you for your work in Vallia. Now you will work for us in Hyrklana, as you did once before, just the other day. And your work here is goodly in our eyes.”

  I just didn’t believe this.

  “Goodly — my work? You mock me, Star Lords!”

  “Mockery is for fools. No doubt that is why you mock others so much.”

  I clenched my fists. I was no longer sitting on the bed, I was standing on a hard crimson floor and the vault above blazed with white stars through the crimson curve. I stared, sick.

  “What—”

  “Listen! You will be sent to where you wish to go. In this thing our wishes coincide. Also, a bundle will go with you, for it grows heavy in the transubstantiated state. It seems to us, Dray Prescot, that you are not as other men. You are reckless, foolish, headstrong and cunning. Also, you have striven to resist us. As a Kregoinye, one who serves us on Kregen, you have done well despite yourself. Continue to do well.”

  I held myself in check. If I angered the Everoinye I could be back on Earth instantly, stranded on the world of my birth.

  Yet I could not hold back: “I do not admit to being a Kregoinye—”

  “Yet you are.”

  The hardness of the crimson floor seemed to me to be no illusion. A soft wind blew. I thought I could see distant shapes, insubstantial, gossamer, floating at the extremity of vision. I appeared to be standing on the floor of an impossible vast hall, vaulted with star-pierced crimson. Somewhere there was music. I breathed deeply. Was that a face, a face of enormous size, peering down at me? Were those eyes, as large as suns, shooting forth crimson light within the crimson immensity? I shut my own eyes, dazzled.

  I felt the coldness of a damp wind on my naked skin and the earthly sough of tree branches stirred by wind. I opened my eyes and I was standing at the edge of a wood, dark in the light of two of Kregen’s lesser moons hurtling past low above. I looked about. The breeze blew damp and chill. The grass was wet. The trees sighed, black masses flogging in the coming gale, and I sucked in a breath of air vastly different from the last lungful I had breathed in that supernal chamber.

  My foot kicked a solid bundle, and I looked down. Wrapped in an old gray blanket, the bundle looked — odd. I bent and undid the rope knots and threw the blanket back. I stared.

  That gray blanket reeked with a repellent odor of fish.

  Inside, a short scarlet cape showed the typical thin and elegant gold embroidery of Valka. I lifted it aside to reveal a rapier and main gauche of fine Vallian manufacture. There was a first-class thraxter that had been taken at the Battle of Jholaix. I touched the old scarlet breechclout and fingered the broad lesten-hide belt with the dulled silver buckle. The breast and back gleamed with the luster of oiled armor, their chasings and embossings superb examples of the armorer-decorator’s art. The helmet was really a plain steel cap with a rim of trimmed ling fur and a flaunting tuft of scarlet feathers I remembered I’d not cared for but had worn
to show my position to my men in battle.

  No surprise at all that the very first item I picked up, holding in my fists, and staring deeply, was that special sword Naghan the Gnat and I had designed and forged and built in the armory of Esser Rarioch, in Valka. That sword was as good a copy as we could contrive of the superlative Krozair longsword.

  Well!

  Yes, I knew this bundle of clothing and weapons. I’d last seen these swords, this armor, when I’d defied the Star Lords and been thrown back to Earth for twenty-one years. They had tried to bribe me then by hurling me down into action for them with my gear still intact. Usually — always — I was naked and unarmed. Slowly, I picked up the gear, looking at it, feeling it, expecting it to evaporate into moonshine as the pseudo-weapons from the Moder had done. But the metal felt hard and ridged under my fingers, the scarlet breechclout snugged neatly and the plain lesten-hide belt cinched tightly with the silver buckle.

  I tore out half the flaunting scarlet feather from the steel cap and I hoped, as I donned the armor, that it would be taken as a favor of the ruby drang. For I was still in Hyrklana, and those lights beyond the curve of the wood must be the Castle of Afferatu.

  With the rain-laden wind blustering about my ears, head down, I started off to rescue a princess from a guarded tower.

  Chapter thirteen

  At the Castle of Afferatu

  I should really have said to rescue a princess from a dragon-guarded tower. For her jailers had four captive risslacas, dinosaurs of ferocious aspect, chained up at the inner and outer gates. The walls towered. The arrow slits were narrow and deep. The moat was brimming and the drawbridge was up.

  “No hope,” said Dogon the Lansetter as we stood under a tree that dripped water on our heads and shoulders and down our necks.

  The local rebels were very disheartened, dispirited, seeing nothing but failure ahead after their last failure. They’d been easy enough to find and identify from the information Orlan Mahmud had given me. We skulked in the woods and spied on the castle and we might as well have been on the first of Kregen’s seven moons, the Maiden with the Many Smiles. There were perhaps twenty-five of us — I say perhaps, for I wouldn’t care to try half of them in action. Men and women, boys and girls, both diff and apim, they looked up apathetically as Dogon the Lansetter and I trailed into the camp. Everything was sodden. There were no tents. And the waterproofs were wet inside and out. As for a fire — ha!