Captive Scorpio

by Alan Burt Akers

  Down at the far end of the valley where a river emptied into a lake, gleaming with silvery-green reflections in the lights of the suns, a township had been built. It surrounded with its wooden houses and stockade an edifice of considerable architectural splendor.

  This was the Temple of Hockwafernes.

  Truth to tell, I then paid the place scant attention. One glance convinced me the temple was of remarkable workmanship and outstanding beauty to be found tucked away here. Then I had to ease my way through the protocol demanded. Pappattu had to be made. The curvettings of social and military positions had to be observed. Rojashin the Kaktu had been traveling alone — to have donned his gear would not have been worth the trouble had he had companions — and I had to pick and choose most carefully among the various commanders recruiting their regiments.

  The camp was large and was only one of many. Many races of diffs thronged the alleyways between the tents and crowded the open spaces. The usual camp followers plied their varying trades. I downed a long drink of parclear to ease the dust, for the rains had stopped and the twin suns shone clear, and looked about. The sheer size of all this could defeat my purpose.

  Where, among this host, was my daughter Dayra to be found?

  The hundreds of professional free lances were outnumbered by the thousands of irregulars. I was halted half a dozen times with offers of instant rank within this regiment or that, for the glitter of the pakmort at my throat attracted the regimental recruiting Deldars like flies.

  It seemed a good idea to take the thing off. As you know I had been elected a paktun by a duly constituted court of honor, and was entitled to wear the pakmort. My own mortilhead lay somewhere in one of the drawers in the bedroom in Esser Rarioch in Valkanium in Valka. At that time I was not a hyr-paktun — at least, not officially so. I dodged behind a tent and unlooped the silver symbol and the silken cords. The name on the back read simply: KAKTU — presumably they had not felt there was room enough for Rojashin also. I stowed the pakmort away in my pouch. After that, clad in the Rapa’s armor, let out around the shoulders, I was able to progress more easily, although still importuned to join up — though now as a simple swod.

  The uproar and the noise and the rising clouds of dust and the stinks were all familiar. Fights broke out. Bets were shrieked. Some kind of drilling was going on, and a couple of parcels of totrix cavalry were attempting evolutions. Some of my first fears eased. This army was not ready for battle yet.

  As to finding Dayra — well, if all I had heard was correct then it was not sheer stupid pride that led me to the commander’s area. Dayra was running with the big boys of this outfit.

  No one of this raffish mob being fashioned into an army was allowed through the gateways into the wooden-built town around the temple. The Hawkwas maintained their own integrity. I did not blame them. Chuliks stood guard. There were not a lot of them; but they had clearly been selected for the important positions as was sensible. I did not see many Pachaks, and for this was glad.

  A Chulik ob-Deldar chased me away from the gateway where the men of his squad stood guard. I allowed myself to be chased off, not without a casually ripe insult or two. One had to maintain a camouflage in situations like these.

  To occupy myself during the time until the suns went down I found stabling for the totrixes, paid good money to attempt to ensure some security for them and my gear, ate a huge meal, talked to the swods, sang a few ditties in the ale tents, and, in general, kept my eyes open and ears fully extended.

  The talk was all of the plunder of Vondium and the south.

  There were also darker rumors — and that shows just how murky they were — of a great enlightenment, a marvelous intervention of supernatural powers, that would be revealed before the army marched, giving the signal for the great adventure. The Trylon Udo had command of wonderful forces, and these would be summoned to aid the army.

  The swods in the ale tent with whom I was drinking and singing were just finishing up that rollicking song well known under its euphemistic name of “Bear Up Your Arms” when the last cadences faltered and died, and the men broke out into cheers and jeers and lewd remarks. A company of women warriors swung past in the gathering shadows. They looked purposeful and businesslike, their spears all a-slanting in line, their helmets gleaming in the last light of the suns.

  Intrigued, I threw down my reckoning and wandered out and so followed the martial ladies. Straight to the Chulik-guarded gate they marched. The Chuliks sprang back, at attention, and the Hikdar at their head led the Amazons through. I shook my head. No matter how matter-of-fact the custom is on Kregen, still I suffer from hidden phobias, deeply-driven ideas of womenkind, that make me view with unease the idea of girls taking their part in battle. That they do so — and have done for more years on this Earth than they have not, and will do so again in the future — has no power to move me. But I accept what is, as a fellow must. I was about to turn away with that dark feeling of unease strong upon me, when I saw the Chulik guard had been changed. I saw the Chulik who stood by the gateway, the fading light glistening on his tusks; I saw him clear.

  There was little need for a flashing glimpse of the rapier swinging alongside the thraxter at his side to remind me. That rapier hilt was fashioned ornately into the likeness of a mortil.

  At once I knew him, and at once I turned away, forcing myself to move with the casual lecherous movements of a swod watching the women warriors. That Chulik was the one who had seen me over the side of the mysterious flier when I’d gone chasing from Vondium after Delia.

  A blaze of speculation burst inside my old vosk skull of a head.

  The man who commanded the flier had known me, so he had said. I moved into the shadows, smoothly, and breathed more easily when I was out of sight of the gateway and no alarm went up.

  The fellow with the gratingly harsh voice commanding the flier had attempted to conceal the fact he was flying to Vondium. He had mischief planned there, and now he was here. At least, it was a fair assumption he was here. There were few fliers parked in this camp; I had heard the aerial wings of the army were quartered to the north, south of the Stackwamors.

  In the eternal circle of vaol-paol all events may happen many times. In the tiny moment of darkness between the setting of the suns and the rising of She of the Veils I was up and over the wooden stockade and dropping lightly down inside the town.

  I avoided the guards in preference to putting them to sleep, for many of the soldiers guarding the walls were these same warrior women I had watched marching so smartly in.

  The wooden buildings surrounding the opulent temple revealed the types to be expected and I aimed for the largest, which must be the Kregan equivalent to the Town Hall. I will pass quickly over that episode, for although I wormed my way in and looked about I learned absolutely nothing. The trylon was away. Guards lounged about, and nothing was afoot. So I withdrew and waited in the shadows under the wooden eaves.

  A great deal of noise spilled out with the yellow lamplight from a tavern across the dusty street; but I did not venture in. The troops in the city would be the trylon’s own men, Hawkwas and well-trusted paktuns like the Chuliks who would be known. I would face instant exposure as an interloper.

  Over there they were singing “King Harulf’s Red Zorca” and then they started on “Sogandar the Upright and the Sylvie.” A group of Chuliks staggered out, half drunk and disgusted with all this decadent singing. The swods were bellowing out the refrain and killing themselves laughing as they warbled: “No idea at all, at all, no idea at all,” when a fresh group of men emerged, their cloaks about their faces, and their swords drawn. Instantly I merged with the shadows and followed them.

  There was little chance that the Star Lords or the Savanti sent the chance my way, even though Maspero, my tutor in Aphrasöe the Swinging City, had personally aided me recently. The credit was most probably due to Opaz, although I would not exclude Zair or Djan from the reckoning. Whoever it was guided me to those men, and I heard
one of them whisper in a cutting voice: “If we are late because of your drinking and singing, Naghan the Neemu, Zankov is like to have your tripes out. You know what kind of maniac he is if crossed.”

  “Aye, Nundi, I know! You should have hauled me away before.”

  “Let us hurry, famblys,” growled another. Wrapped in their cloaks, their swords bright in the rising moon, they bustled swiftly along the rutted street between the overhanging houses. I followed.

  Zankov!

  At last. At last I could feel myself closing with the heart of this mystery.

  They led me to a shuttered house in darkness. The door opened and shafted yellow lamplight and then closed tightly again. I eyed the roof. To climb up was simple enough for an old sailorman and I gained the ridge and prised open a skylight. No matter how many times I stealthily clamber into a house to spy nefariously, it always sets the old blood a-thumping. Softly I padded down the blackwood stairs and so came to a tall curtain from which spilled the lamplight in a long beckoning finger from the central parting. Cautiously I applied my eye, saw what I needed, and then set my ear to the narrow opening.

  The curtains covered a high window, a kind of mezzanine floor above the main hall. Below, a group of men and women sat around a table on which stood flagons of wine and dishes of fruit. To describe them all now would weary; suffice to say I recognized none of them. I could not see those directly below me. Had I done so — well, that is for later.

  The man called Naghan the Neemu was being properly contrite and being cut to pieces by a slender, dapper, sharp-faced fellow clad all in black leather. I looked at this one. There was about his taut nervous manner, the sharp gestures of his narrow hands, the quick stutter of his voice, a sense of burning frustration, the smell of hidden fires, the idea of resentment spilling over and barely contained. He flayed Naghan the Neemu. And, as he spoke vicious, cutting words, I saw his eyes, and saw the Vallian brown change and darken and so remembered Nath ti Javvansmot’s words at The Speckled Gyp.

  For Zankov laughed as he verbally flayed Naghan the Neemu. He reveled in inflicting his own power on others, that was plain. He laughed hurtfully, and told Naghan what his punishment was to be, and his eyes darkened in that narrow feline face.

  “Lucky it is for you, Naghan, our guest is delayed. Had he been constrained to wait for the likes of you—”

  “I serve loyally!” spoke up Naghan. “I believe in the Cause. I care for the zorcas—”

  “And you will personally sweep out the stalls! Personally! With bucket and broom. Our guest brooks no delays from your kind. Remember and do not forget. You are a mere tool and I shall use you as a tool — so keep to your zorcas and do not be late in future.”

  And Naghan the Neemu — and a man does not obtain that sobriquet upon Kregen lightly — meekly bowed his head.

  The women gathered here looked as ruthless as the men. Probably they were far more vicious, I thought then. I had the macabre idea I would recognize Dayra. I had not recognized Velia. But I thought — then — that I must know my own daughter after the harrowing experiences through which I had gone with Velia, my Lady of the Stars.

  She must be sitting directly below me, if she were here.

  Gently I drew forth the longsword.

  The longbow remained cased, for I had deemed it prudent to conceal that weapon in the camp. There was general talk among the swods about facing the Crimson Bowmen of the emperor, and tales that the bodyguard had been bought, which eased many an uneasy thought for the future in the army.

  I would leap down among this unsavory little lot and hoick Dayra out of it and if anyone of them tried to prevent me he would feel what good Krozair steel might do.

  These, of course, were the maundering and chauvinistic thoughts of a fond parent who failed to comprehend the working of his daughter’s mind. But I would learn — bitterly.

  Easing up ready to get a good purchase and so leap down with a skirling yell to throw a startlement into them, I heard Zankov saying: “He is here now. You will all stand.”

  Amid a scraping of sturmwood chairs they all stood up. A door opened and a bulky figure appeared below me, going toward the table where Zankov stood, smiling, holding out his hand.

  I saw the dark cloak of the newcomer, saw the low round helmet without feather or ornamentation. I saw a furtive flicker of steel and a whiplike tail bladed with a glittering, dagger slice up in the long slit in the center of the cloak’s back.

  A Kataki.

  And Zankov was saying: “You are heartily welcome. I bid you Lahal and Lahal, Ranjal Yasi, Stromich of Morcray.”

  Silently I resheathed the longsword and sank back into the shadows.

  Twelve

  Concerning the Throne of Vallia

  They were all laughing and cheerful down there now, chattering away, handing out wine, quaffing, exchanging toasts, all very merry as nits in a ponsho fleece. I sat back in the shadows and glowered, my fists white on the hilts of my swords, my thoughts black as the cloak of Notor Zan.

  “Your pass brought me safely through the gates, Zankov. But only, I think, because my men were on duty. There was a Deldar there also, a Khibil, most insulting. I would like him flogged tomorrow, flogged jikaider.”

  “It shall be done, Stromich.”

  “Are we all here?”

  “All save for the Princess Dayra. She is expected the day after tomorrow.”

  At this I roused myself. My savage thoughts refused to come to order. So Dayra was mixed up with this evil bunch — and she was not here. The day after tomorrow. Almost, then, I withdrew. But the knowledge that with the arrival of this Kataki, the twin brother to the Kataki Strom, an old enemy, the stakes in the affair had been raised to an entirely new plane, I remained.

  The Stromich Ranjal turned to shake the hands of those below me I could not see. But I could see his face.

  Low-browed, the squat face of a Kataki, fringed with thick black hair, oiled and curled. Flaring nostrils and gape-jawed mouth with snaggly teeth has a Kataki. Wide set his eyes, brilliant and yet narrow and cold. Slavemasters, Katakis, aragorn, evil men to all they enslave. Their bladed whiptails curve arrogantly above their heads. Yes, Katakis are diffs who give to Kregen much of the evil in its brilliant reputation.

  Many thoughts rushed through my head. Strom Rosil Yasi and I had clashed before. I had heard of his twin brother, this Stromich Ranjal who strutted below me now. The pair of them were prime candidates for the Ice Floes of Sicce. Down south in Hamal, the enemy of Vallia, these two Katakis held high office. They were here to injure Vallia. More — they were the tools of the Wizard of Loh, Phu-si-Yantong. That devil had been balked in his attempt to control Vallia through the false creed of the Black Chyyan, and now, here he was again making a fresh attempt through these Katakis.

  The man who had stood on the poop of the airboat upon which I had so incontinently landed, who had given his hoarse-voiced orders to throw my flier over and to spare me — that man was this same Stromich Ranjal na Morcray. There was no mistaking that voice, now I heard it again and had a face and form to put to it. I marked him. I marked him well.

  Who had been giving Ranjal his orders in the flier?

  Could that have been Yantong himself?

  Could it?

  I did not know; but somehow, even then, I doubted it. From what I knew of Phu-si-Yantong, and that was precious little, I fancied he operated whenever he could at long distance through tools like these Katakis and like Vad Garnath ham Hestan. An old chapter of my life was being re-opened here. Yantong sought to employ me as a tool for his insane ambitions. That was why he had ordered that I should not be assassinated. I began to think again, around about then, and thought that just perhaps Yantong had grown weary of waiting, and with the Black Feathers of the Great Chyyan, and now this plot to arouse the Northeast of Vallia, he was committed to moving on an entirely new front in his aggression against Vallia.

  As to myself, maybe I no longer figured in his computations.

  A
s I listened to the conversation below some of the outlines came clearer.

  “I look forward to meeting this Princess Dayra,” Ranjal was saying in that hoarse croak. “My masters have great plans for her. You, Zankov, can answer for her?”

  “Assuredly.” All the nervous energy of Zankov showed in his nervous twitching, the spread of his hands, the wriggle of his shoulders, the fleer of nostrils. “She believes in the Cause. She is devoted. She has proved that.”

  “Good. When the army moves we shall strike swiftly. The Trylon Udo is a fool and will be put down. But he is a figurehead and lends color to the endeavor. But the throne and crown of Vallia will not go to him.”

  Everyone in the room — and I, aloft — knew who hungered for the throne.

  Zankov fluttered his fingers against his ears, and cheeks, and then snapped his forefingers and thumbs together.

  “No. Not to Udo. To him who deserves it — who will lay unqualified claim to the crown by virtue of marriage to the Princess Dayra.”

  Stromich Ranjal nodded matter-of-factly. “You will see to disposing of the rest of the family? There must be no other claimant.”

  “I shall joy in the task! I have a right to the throne — my ancestors demand it of me, in blood. But Stromich, your orders have been to spare the life of the Prince Majister. What—”

  “Those orders stand, as of now. I think my masters will shortly issue new directives.”

  This was fascinating, listening to these schemers dispose of my life. I own I felt a little sorry for them. . .

  Now it is important to know that when a paktun is elected by those who thus become his peers, and receives the silver pakmort, he receives also a little silver ring by which the pakmort is attached to the silken cords. In the case of a hyr-paktun the ring is of gold. When a paktun slays another in battle or in the ritual of the Jikordur — the strictly controlled duel to the death — he does not take among the consequent loot the dead man’s pakmort. That goes to the stocks for reissue with a new name, generally, although there are other uses to which it is put. But the victorious paktun claims the silver ring. This he strings upon a silken cord and wears about his person as a badge of prowess. If the slain paktun has a string of rings, the victor will take them all and string them with those he has.