Allies of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  When Seg heard the news he fired up and we started making plans for enjoying ourselves in the short interval between Nedfar’s coronation and our departure to deal with King Telmont.

  The strong parties of guards who had, perforce, to go everywhere with the notables irked us; but slackness on our part and a relaxation of watchfulness had resulted in the ugly affray at The Sensil Paradise. We could not afford to have Nedfar killed, in a cold political way, and in the warm concerns of friendship.

  Coronations, tiresome though they are in reality, are generally regarded as occasions of the utmost importance.

  If I say that Nedfar’s coronation as Emperor of Hamal proved a splendid affair, filled with pomp and circumstance, impressive and magnificent with its civilized fashions superimposed on but not obliterating the savage Kregan customs underlying all ritual I should have to qualify that judgment. And, too, if I say that in all these grand ceremonies I remember mainly the presence of Delia and the holiday we spent together between the coronation and the battles, I think you will not misunderstand me. My Delia! She grew more beautiful, more lovely, more damned mischievous, every season, so it seemed to me. Her work for the Sisters of the Rose, that mysterious organization of women devoted to good works, the alleviation of suffering, the sword and the whip, kept her apart from me for long periods. Just as, to my sadness, the Star Lords threw me off about Kregen to labor for them. So Delia and I snatched what happiness we could when we could.

  Drak came with his mother, leaving affairs in Vallia in capable hands, and we stood for Nedfar at his coronation, and were warmed by the plaudits of the multitude.

  “At least the people seem to like their new emperor,” said Drak, as we relaxed after the second day of the ceremonies.

  “So they should,” said Seg. “For a Hamalese he is a fine man, a fine man.” He cocked his shrewd blue eye at me. “And I’ll admit, just maybe, we may have misjudged the Hamalese in the past.” Then he laughed, his reckless mocking laugh. “Crossbows and all!”

  “You are incorrigible,” said Delia, and we who knew her smiled at the way she thus mocked what the conventionally minded would take as a daring and clever remark. Subtle, is Delia, Empress of Vallia — as I know, by Zair!

  During all the junketing we had to discuss the forthcoming campaign against Vad Garnath and King Telmont, and the processions and parades gave us an opportunity to take a look at the forces we might be able to muster. Many of the men had gone home, of course, as that is a sensible course of action when you lose a war. The old regiments were in disarray, many disappeared, many shrunken, many broken up. The Air Service was a parody of its once powerful force. I spent time with Nedfar telling him how we had liberated Vallia.

  “And so it is true, Jak, that you employed no mercenaries? We heard the stories at the time, when our armies, commanded by the Hyr Notor, invaded and sought to subdue you, and we could scarcely credit them.”

  “Don’t harp on all that, Nedfar. I know you set your face against Thyllis’s crazy ambitions and had no part in the invasion of Vallia. You displease me by referring to what we want forgotten, and the blame you seek to take on yourself.”

  He smiled.

  “We first met when I was a prince and you a slave, I think? And now — well, times change, times change. And the stories about Vallia throwing out the mercenaries are true.”

  “Yes. But you don’t have the same luxury. You will have to employ what forces we of Vallia and Hyrklana have, what Djanduin can bring, and minimize their importance. For Hamal to rise again as a great power of integrity in the world it seems to me you have to do what we in Vallia did. You have to sort out your affairs yourself.” I stared at him, willing him to understand. “I could have brought a great army of my Djangs to Vallia, and taken the rebels and misguided ensorcelled wights to pieces. But then, what would Vallians have said?”

  “They would not have been overjoyed—”

  “No. The same here. You must show the world that it was a Hamalian army that fought and beat the damned rebels of Vad Garnath and his puppet, Telmont.”

  “I see that. But the Hamalese army—”

  “It can and will be done, Nedfar. There will be Vallian support, discreetly as may be, but there. Just in case.”

  “Now,” I said, and I own my voice took a brisker, harsher note I detested, “I must talk about a matter far more important than battles and armies and wars.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye! Your son Tyfar and my daughter Jaezila — that is, Lela. Cannot you make them see sense?”

  He relaxed, reaching out for the wine which stood upon a table whose legs were formed after the fashion of zhantils. A tall blue drape curtained each segment of the windows, the samphron oil lamps were lit, the study was snug and secure; Nedfar liked some of the things I could take pleasure in.

  “Sense? I see what everyone sees. But Tyfar is — well, he is a son to a father. I see your fine son Drak — does he bow and scrape when you whistle?”

  “Too damned right he does not!”

  “So how can I—”

  A knock on the door — discreet but unmistakably the knock of the sentry’s spear — heralded Delia. She looked radiant, dressed in sheerest white, her brown hair highlighted by its own gorgeous auburn tints, devoid of jewelry. She wore those two small brooches, one beside the other, and a narrow jeweled belt from which swung a long Vallian dagger. Her smiles filled the room with more sunshine mustered by Zim and Genodras together.

  Nedfar rose at once.

  “Lahal, majestrix.”

  “Lahal, majister — although, to be sure, you are halfway between prince and majister this night, I suppose.”

  “True. And I would not be a half-emperor this night if Jak here had not—”

  Delia looked at me and then at Nedfar. I knew what she was thinking.

  “Nedfar,” I said. “My name is Dray.”

  He nodded, a slow thoughtful nod. “Yes. But I am told that few people are allowed the intimacy of calling you Dray, at least, to your face.”

  “That is true. Although, for some reason, it is not that they are not allowed as, that — well — they—”

  “They shrivel with their effrontery when they look at you, dear heart!” And Delia curled up, laughing.

  Honestly, I really wished Nedfar were not there; and then, to compound the mischief, other people joined us. The conversation centered on what to do about this silly situation of lack of communication between Tyfar and Jaezila. I tended to call Lela Jaezila all the time now, except in formal use. Seg and Drak had their heads together, drinking and arguing, and I knew they’d come up with nothing. Thefi was there, flushed and pretty, and soon the crowd moved to the adjoining chamber, which was larger and had comfortable seats and tables loaded with bottles. More people came in. This is the Kregan way, of course. Kregen is a world of joiners, it seems. The noise rose, and, wherever you listened, everyone was arguing away about the best methods of lifting the shades from the eyes of Tyfar and Jaezila and of organizing them and, in general, of seeing to it that their love had a happy ending.

  The noise, although loud, formed itself around those two names, so often repeated — Jaezila and Tyfar.

  The door opened and Prince Tyfar of Hamal and the Princess Majestrix of Vallia entered.

  Silence.

  Like fish frozen for centuries in the ice of the polar seas, the good folk who only heartbeats ago had been happily chattering away remained still and silent. The experience was edifying. And yet there was good-heartedness in it, and all the more reason for the flush of guilt to strike the people dumb, for every person there wished only well for these star-crossed lovers.

  Delia said to me, “Dray! You will dance?”

  As a question it would have brought a regiment of the toughest swods on Kregen to instant obedience.

  “I will dance, Delia.”

  So, solemnly, to the strains of a discreet orchestra — a little band, really, of only twenty instruments — we danced and ve
ry quickly — thankfully quickly, by Zair! — the room filled with dancers. Tyfar and Jaezila danced. And I wondered if they had any real inkling of that silence when they entered, the silence that Delia’s imperious command had filled with the music for the dance.

  Anybody might have called for the dance to cover that blank moment of general embarrassment. Oh, yes. But few, damn few if any, by Vox, could have done it with the charm and skill and downright cunning of my Delia!

  These social occasions gave us the opportunity to talk and assess the fighting men and women who would battle for the future of Hamal. And, as I saw it, for Paz, our half of Kregen.

  Many of the men who would march out with us you have met in my narrative, and many more who have not been introduced, men I had come to know and respect and assess. Nath Karidge, who commanded Delia’s personal bodyguard, the Empress’s Devoted Life Guard, the EDLG, was now up-ranked to a zan-Chuktar, a rank of great height. He was a fine Beau-Sabreur, your light cavalryman, from his boots to his plume. Being a zorca man, he did not favor spurs. Deep in conversation with Mileon Ristemer, he became aware of the shadow at his shoulder, and looked up and saw me. Instantly his raffish smile broke out, to-be followed by that drawing of himself up to attention.

  “Easy, Nath. Your regiment is a credit to you. But I wanted to talk to Mileon here.”

  “Of course, majister. I will—”

  “You will stay and give us the benefit of your advice.”

  He smiled and looked pleased. In the perfumed air of the chamber where the dancers gyrated and the orchestra scraped and blew away in melodious style, where feathers and fans fluttered and the naked arms of ladies wrapped about their partners’ necks or waists as the lines of dancers closed and parted, more than one knot of grim fighting men spoke of the prospects of the morrow.

  “Your plan to use the thomplods, Mileon. I have some experience with turiloths who are monstrous great beasts and can knock down a gate as quick as you like.”

  Mileon Ristemer nodded, absorbed at once. He was a paktun, son to old Nomile Ristemer, a banker of Vondium, who had come home to fight for his country. A stout, chunky man, he wore the silver mortilhead at his throat and was now a Jiktar commanding the newly formed fourth regiment of the Emperor’s Yellow Jackets, the 4EYJ. He was due for promotion to ob-Chuktar any day now, continuing in command of the regiment. He had ideas, had Mileon Ristemer, on using gigantic beasts crowned with howdahs stuffed with fighting men to act as a species of land-born battleship in the midst of the fray.

  “Turiloths?” he said. “The boloth of Turismond. Yes.”

  “We were besieged in Zandikar and we shot the damned turiloths with varters as they came in.”

  “Oh, yes, majister, I grant you that. But my thomplods will be in the battle line. It will be difficult to wheel up handy varters or catapults to shoot them there.”

  “Well, you will have your chance. You have arranged it all with Unmok the Nets?”

  Now he laughed and Nath bellowed his enjoyment.

  “Aye, majister. He is a little Och I have great respect for. He was talking about going into the wine-making business, but he agreed to contact his sources and supply thomplods. They are not easy to find, being unwieldy brutes at the best of times.”

  “So why not use boloths, or dermiflons, or — well, Kregen is stuffed with wonderful animals.” Here I paused and frowned.

  “And the idea of using them in men’s battles does not please me.”

  It was left to Nath Karidge to say, “Agreed, majister. But if we ride zorcas into battle — and there is no animal on all of Kregen to equal a zorca — then anything else must follow.”

  This argument was fallacious, but it was convincing, for all that. We didn’t like it; we liked less the thought of what might happen — what would happen — if we failed to use all our efforts to secure ourselves against our foes.

  So, in the ending of that small conversation, one of many of a like nature, it was agreed the thomplods with their armored howdahs, their saxnikcals, or, sometimes, calsaxes, should be started off early toward the southeast. 4EYJ would go along. I forbore to inquire from Mileon, who was filled with enthusiasm, just what the swods of his Guard regiment had to say about acting as nursemaids to a bunch of plodding haystacks. The advantage gained by using thomplods was that they could upset many breeds of saddle animal. Once the thomplods got near enough to the enemy cavalry we trusted they would run off, banished from the battle.

  “I have had many barrels of the mixture made up, majister. Our thomplods will have no smell to disturb our cavalry on the march.”

  Nath said, “And don’t forget the water to wash off the mixture, Mileon, just before we start. And—” here he looked fierce “—and if your monsters panic our own cavalry I’ll not answer for your fate.”

  “Well, your zorca regiment will be safe.”

  “So will Telmont’s zorca cavalry.”

  “So that means,” I said, “you have a fine target, Nath.”

  Because this was Kregen, where customs differ country by country and race by race, it was perfectly proper and natural for the dancing to stop and the singing to begin, which is a civilized occurrence in general favor.

  We sang the old songs, and new ones composed in honor of Nedfar and also, I was pleased to note, the alliances that were so new and were to be tested in battle. In the days of Thyllis the Hamalese had tended to the mournful kind of song, at least to the ears of a Vallian. Now we sang songs of greater cheer, and old favorites like “When the Havilthytus Runs Red” were not to be heard. Which was a Good Thing. We sang “When the Fluttrell Flirts His Wing” and “Nine Times She Chose a Ring.” We did not, I may say, in this company sing “Sogandar the Upright and the Sylvie” or “The Maid with the Single Veil.”

  We Vallians gave them “The Swifter with the Kink,” which was perhaps not as politic as might have been desired, since Hamal had no seagoing navy to talk of, and Vallia’s galleons were the finest — barring those of the Shanks — afloat, so that we could afford to sing a song poking fun at a swifter, a fast, not very seaworthy Kregan galleass. The evening had grown into an Occasion. We all faced daunting perils in the future and so seized the fleeting opportunity to enjoy ourselves while we could. Delia leaned across to me as we stood by a linen-covered table where the bottles shone and goblets and glasses were filled and refilled. When Delia wishes to show a little style in our self-mocking way, she uses a fan. Now she flicked the fan open to conceal the lower half of her face. Her eyes sparked up explosions in me. Those brown eyes in which I can drown forever... I put down my glass.

  Chamberlains appeared and I gave them a look, saying, “We are leaving. No fuss, for the sake of Havil the Green.” They retired, bowing, understanding, perhaps; perhaps understanding only that the ways of the high ones of Vallia were vastly different from those they were used to in Hamal.

  So Delia and I left the shindig and I had no feelings of being an old fogey traipsing off to bed before the fun had finished. We had battles and campaigns to fight and then would be the time to sing and dance, hoping we would live through the conflicts. Someone started singing “She Kissed the Mortilhead,” which tells of a princess who ran away from her palace for love of a paktun. Delia smiled as we left. “That, I think,” she said, “will be Seg.”

  This evening the guard detail on the suite of apartments given over to our use in the Hammabi el Lamma, the Alshyss Tower, was from 1ESW. They had flown in with Drak. Of the juruk I knew every jurukker, every guardsman in the Guard was a comrade. We were jocular, jurukkers and Delia and I. I went in and closed the door. I shut the door and bolted it. Swords in hand, Delia and I went around the rooms. We were on Kregen and in a magnificent palace, and so this was a sensible precaution.

  Then we could shut out the whole damned world altogether.

  Chapter eighteen

  Mutiny

  Mud.

  The Land of Shining Mud was — muddy.

  Seg picked off splotches of dried mud
from his uniform and made a face.

  “He’s heading for the higher ground away to the west. I’ve kept the scouts after him. But he still outnumbers us, and—”

  “Our fellows will be here in time, Seg.”

  “Oh, aye.” Seg looked around the camp, which appeared to be slipping beneath the mud, and his orderly — Yando the Limp — brought him up a stoup of ale which Seg knocked back in a swallow. “Oh, aye,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But if we slip up and Garnath catches us before we’re ready — we’re for the Ice Floes of Sicce, my old dom.”

  “We’ve run rings around him so far.”

  “H’umph! Well, that’s only because you’re—” He stopped, blew his nose, made a face and then hauled his longbow forward to look critically at it. “Damn weather.”

  Nedfar walked across from a campfire, holding a leg of a chicken and gnawing into the meat. “Does the rast still run, kov?”

  “Aye, majister. We have him bluffed. He still thinks we outnumber him.”

  “I wish our forces would arrive.” Nedfar swallowed. “We can’t go on deceiving Garnath forever. I remember him as a slippery customer, and he has this Havil-forsaken rast the Kataki Strom to advise him, also.”

  I said, “I wonder what King Telmont is doing in all this?”

  “Playing with his women, most likely. He is a cipher.”

  “He’s after your crown,” said Seg.

  The days passed as what became known as the Campaign of Mud progressed. We had rushed forces into the southeast only to discover that Telmont’s recruiting drive had proved phenomenally successful. He had imported thousands of mercenaries. He had drummed up levies — who would probably run away the moment the first shafts rose — and although weak in the air, as were we, now possessed a hardened core to his army and a froth of units of dubious value. The hardened core was large and comfortable.