Beasts of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Some of these dubious fighting men were not apims, not Homo sapiens, being diffs of various races. A Rapa with his wattled neck and vulture head and waving tufts of feathers pressed me and I cut him a little, so that he shrieked and, turning, ran off. A Fristle, his cat face a bristle, spat at Korero, whose arm — one of his arms, the speed made it difficult to see exactly which one of the assemblage — raked out and biffed the Fristle through the gaping window. Korero used the hilt of his sword.

  A Brokelsh, coarsely furred and coarse of manner, sought to drive his spear through Mevek’s guts. Mevek was, at the time, hotly engaged with a fellow who tried to bring a cleaver down from the crown of Mevek’s head to the junction of his collarbone.

  Mevek dealt with the cleaver fellow just in time, and swung about. He saw what happened.

  Turko hove up, twitched the Brokelsh’s spear away, upended him, twirled him as a maid twirls a feather duster in all the old plays and heaved him over the heads of the rest of us out the window. Then, without pausing, Turko slid a long thrust of a sword in the grip of the next mercenary who had delusions of grandeur. The Khamorro grip fastened on the screaming wight and he was twitched up, up and away.

  Turko, perfectly balanced, breathing easily, not in the slightest discommoded, looked about for the next one.

  Mevek stared at Turko.

  The fight was dying. A few more quick flurries, the shriek of a fool who hadn’t the sense to duck, and the masichieri departed.

  But the battle was not over yet, and we had not escaped scot free. A number of Mevek’s men sprawled on the floor in their own blood, wounded, dead and dying.

  “It seems,” said Mevek, breathing hard and his eyebrows twitching uneasily, “that I owe you my life. And I do not know your name.” Turko smiled.

  A commotion outside drew our attention to the open doorway, and once again we grasped our swords ready to beat off a fresh attack. Introductions could wait. Crossing to the door, I peered out cautiously.

  The Maiden with the Many Smiles illuminated the crossroads. The shuttered houses remained dark and mysterious. The folk of this village of Infinon of the Crossroads wanted nothing to do with the night’s nefarious doings.

  The stink of spilled blood and the tang of dust obliterated the smell of the flowers of the white shansili trailing on its trellis over the door.

  A group of riders astride totrixes were bringing their clumsy six-footed steeds up in a rush, and the moon glinted from their lance tips and harness. These were the fellows come to finish the job the masichieri had failed to do. I did not doubt that Jhansi’s illegitimate son, Macsadu the Kroks, rode at their head.

  “They mean to finish us off once and for all,” growled Mevek at my shoulder.

  “Aye,” panted Vanderini, shoving up with his sword crusted with blood. “But we’ll—”

  “Yes, you old wart,” said Mevek, by which I judged there was a comradeship between them.

  “We can but fight,” I said. “We would never reach our zorcas in time.”

  “And if we could,” said Karidge, stepping out and, surprising me, looking in the opposite direction, “I do not think, majister, you would gallop off.”

  “I would, Nath, and thankful to be able.”

  His reckless face looked shocked as he swung back.

  “But, majister—”

  “I have work to do for Vallia, Nath, work such that it would ill betide me to get killed before it is done.”

  “Ye-es,” he said. The doubt was alive in him. “I see.”

  “No, Nath, you do not see now. But, I think, you will see one day. And, if we get out of this scrape in one piece, soon.”

  “Where is this marvel who makes men fly?” bellowed Mevek. “By Vox! I would have him stand at my side in the fight.”

  “I am here, Chuktar Mevek,” said Turko, in his silky tones.

  “How you manage it, and without naked steel in your fists, passes me. But, by all the names, you are a marvel.”

  “Men have said that before, Mevek,” I said. “I am glad to see you share their opinion.”

  The totrix riders were now almost on us. They rode knee to knee, in a jingling, ominous trot, and it behooved us to duck back into the inn before they speared us where we stood.

  Again Nath Karidge looked away at the crossroads. The intensity of his stance, the piercing stare, gave me to think. So, when the first shafts arched and the steel birds struck in among the totrix riders, I was not surprised.

  Zorcamen rode swiftly from the shifting shadows. They bore on in a close, disciplined mass. Archers in front, loosing with the fluent rapidity of experts, lancers following on, they galloped along the road.

  The archers fanned out, still shooting, using their nimble zorcas with superb skill. As the zorcabows opened out, so the lancers bored on through in a solid bone-crushing charge. The lance heads with their red and white pennons all came down. The steel heads glimmered cruelly in that wavering light.

  When the half-squadron hit, they plunged in like a fist into a tub of butter. In a twinkling the individual combats broke out as the melee swirled along between the shuttered houses. Caught utterly by surprise, thrown into confusion, the totrix men gave no thought to fighting — only to flight.

  A trumpet pealed the recall. As one, the lancers disengaged. The archers shot until their targets flitted into the shadows and were lost.

  Karidge yelled in his strong voice: “No pursuit, Jiktar Tromo! Form up, emperor’s guard!”

  With drilled precision the two half-squadrons swung back and formed at the door of the Sign of the Headless Zorcaman.

  “Well — by all the names!” declared Mevek.

  His men huddled, gaping at the red and yellow uniforms, the feathers, the furred pelisses. Yes, zorcamen, archers and lancers, make a fine show, by Krun!

  Nath Karidge was staring at me in great uncertainty.

  Mevek, however, voiced the mutual thoughts first.

  “So you brought a bodyguard, emperor, after all.”

  “It was necessary,” said Karidge, very firmly, brooking no argument, no recrimination. “The emperor did not order the bodyguard. I did so on my own responsibility.” He looked down, and then up, defiantly. “I disobeyed your orders, majister, and now I accept that I will be sent as a simple trooper, to pay for my crime.”

  “You assume I would send you to a cavalry regiment?”

  He suddenly looked aghast.

  “But — majister—”

  Karidge was a zorcaman first, last and all the time.

  “I am minded to send you to the Phalanx, to be a brumbyte.” I said brumbyte deliberately, and not soldier, for I wished Karidge to understand the situation.

  “Majister...” He spoke in a weak, strangled voice.

  “I shall speak to you, Chuktar Karidge, about this later. For now, I thank you for your two half-squadrons. They judged it nicely. Jiktar Tromo? Send him to me later on.”

  “Quidang, majister!”

  Then it was a matter of clearing up and finalizing what was understood between the guerrillas and myself. I heard Karidge saying to Korero, “In the Phalanx — I admire them, of course — but to trail a pike as a brumbyte! One of your muscled fellows with a vosk-skull helmet and a damned great pike and the view of the fellow in front’s backside! By Vox! I couldn’t bear it!”

  “Cheer up, Nath,” Korero advised him. “The emperor has a funny way with him at times.”

  “Aye!”

  Keeping a straight face, I walked over to Turko and Mevek who were arguing about payment for the damage to the inn.

  “These folk have been badly treated,” Mevek was saying, his flat face now filled with passion. “I shall pay for the damage. And then—” and he laughed “—I shall find a damned convoy of Jhansi’s and take from it what he owes.”

  “I feel I have a better claim,” said Turko.

  “You are then a rich man, you who save my life and refuse to tell me the name of the man to whom I owe it?”

  �
��No, I suppose, if all goes well, I could be rich one day. But wealth does not interest me for itself. It is what may be done with riches — like paying for this damage.”

  I said, “Let Mevek pay and take the gold from Jhansi. I like the sound of that.”

  There, you see!” burst out Mevek. His impassivity had quite deserted him. “The emperor speaks sense.”

  “I shall return to Vondium now, Mevek. You call yourself a Chuktar?”

  The note of interrogation prompted him to a long, circumstantial story about once having served in a mercenary army raised somewhere in Pandahem, and he was a Chuktar by that right as well as being the leader of his guerrilla band.

  “Then Chuktar it is, Mevek. An ord Chuktar, I would say.” Ord — Kregish for eight — meant he had only two more steps to go before becoming a Kapt.

  “Thank you, majister—”

  “And now you serve the new Kov of Falinur, Kov Turko?”

  He squinted up at me.

  “What has passed cannot alter my decision—”

  Turning to Turko the Shield, I said, “Kov, I would like to introduce to you Ord-Chuktar Mevek, a fine fellow and one whom you must watch. Mevek, you have the honor of being presented to Kov Turko of Falinur.”

  Well...

  I suppose to a tired old cynic this was all childish stuff. I am tired, right enough, even though I recognize tiredness as a mortal sin, and I am cynical enough betimes; yet I viewed this confrontation with a quiet relish. The sight of Mevek’s eyebrows was reward enough.

  Turko maintained a marvelous composure, and yet I knew well enough that superior Khamorro was thoroughly enjoying himself. And, with all this fun and games, we had made a significant breakthrough in relations with some of the people of Falinur. Oh, there were many of them who would side with Jhansi, and detest their new kov. But we had to be patient, and do the right things — the right things in our eyes, of course — and eventually demonstrate that we were not bloodsuckers, not slavers, and were seeking the good of all the folk of Falinur.

  That was just about impossible, given the tenacious clinging to slavery of many of the masters of Falinur. But I felt strongly that Turko would succeed. He was going to bring a different technique to Falinur from the mild methods of Seg. I might deplore this. But, as the surgeons say, you cannot amputate without losing a little blood.

  We left Chuktar Mevek with promises that we would soon return with the army of liberation. At least, Kov Turko would lead that army; I planned to travel to Hyrklana. With the cavalry escort fore and aft, we rode back south as She of the Veils, the fourth moon of Kregen, rose to follow the Maiden with the Many Smiles between the stars.

  Chapter three

  In Which Nath Nazabhan, Kapt of the Phalanx, Is at Last Named

  “A sorcerer was reported sniffing around one of the university buildings.”

  “Ortyg Voinderam has absconded with the Lady Fransha, and her father, the Lord of Mavindeul, having recovered from a fit occasioned by his paroxysm of rage, vows vengeance, and his agents have been seen in Drak’s City.”

  “Filemon, the shoe contractor, has defaulted on payment for a thousand hides.”

  “An outbreak of horn rot is reported in the zorcas of Thoth Valaha.”

  “It is reported that an idol of Mev-ira-Halviren opened its eyes and spoke, since when a multitude of the credulous flock to the temple of this outmoded religion, and the priests wax fat.”

  “A Hamalese spy has been apprehended in Delphond and is being brought to Vondium in chains.”

  “It is reliably reported that...”

  “The latest situation appreciations show that...”

  “What are your orders concerning...”

  And so on and so on...

  The motives of anyone who takes on the job of putting a country back together again after seasons of unrest and destruction surely need very close scrutiny.

  While the process of reconstruction is going on there is little time if any for introspection. It is all work, work and more work, from long before the twin Suns of Scorpio rise to long after they set. All the same, despite the constant crushing work load, doubts must creep in. Self-analysis is probably engendered by the pressures and fatigue. And then, as they say in Balintol, you’ll forget which hand to use and stand there, motionless, like a cartwheel.

  Enevon Ob-Eye, my chief stylor, had recruited a large and growing bureau to handle the paperwork.

  Every death warrant was seen by me, personally, and in many cases with discussions with the magistrates concerned to delve deeper into the matter, the sentences were commuted to lesser punishments. This damned Hamalese spy, for instance...

  “Hang him,” said Nath Nazabhan, the fierceness of his words matched by the anger he felt against the enemies of his country. “Hang him from the highest branch in all Vondium.”

  I sipped the wine, for it was evening and the lights had been brought in and the curtains closed. My small workroom with the books and charts, the arms rack, enclosed us. The wine was superb — Vela’s Tears from Valka — and I swallowed down, keeping Nath waiting before replying.

  Then: “Nath. It is high time this vexed question of your name was settled.”

  “You will not hang this Hamalese spy?”

  “Probably not. If you ask him which he prefers, to be hanged by us or sent back to the Empress Thyllis, what do you think he will reply?”

  Nath’s face creased. “So we hang him?” He could see the funny side of that. “Because it is more tender?”

  “He might be won over. At least, we must make the attempt. Naghan Vanki will earn his keep as the chief spymaster in this.”

  “I am privileged to command the Phalanx. We are the most powerful fighting force Vallia possesses. I leave spies and darkness of that kind to Vanki’s faceless minions.”

  “And, Nath, that is the problem. Your father’s rank of Nazab gives you the right to call yourself Nazabhan. We have talked on this. You are the Kapt of the Phalanx. I have warned you often enough that the Phalanx is vulnerable—”

  “And have we not overturned all who came against us?”

  “Yes, yes. We have done well together. And you keep shying away from this business of your name.”

  Enevon Ob-Eye rustled papers at the side of my desk where he had brought in the latest reports. A small folding stool allowed him to sit down to the job. His own offices were large and crammed with people and files and papers.

  “If I may speak for Nath, majis? He wishes to remain in the Imperial service, with your blessing, as a Justicar governing a province or city. He has no ambitions to be ennobled in the main ranks of the peerage — at least—” and here Enevon squinted his one eye up— “that is how I read the situation.”

  “That is so, Enevon.” Nath spoke crisply.

  I said, “You know that at any time you wish you may be appointed Justicar to govern the city or province of your choice. The imperial provinces around Vondium are in our hands once more, and arrangements can be made that will not unduly upset the incumbents.” Nath Nazabhan was a good comrade, a fine man, who led the Phalanx and who was devoted to that immense cutting instrument of war, as the brumbytes within the ranks were devoted to him. So, I added, “You’d have to leave the Phalanx, of course.”

  “That, I am not prepared to do.”

  Enevon closed his eye. I leaned back and sipped the wine.

  “So, as you are set in your ways, Nath, and it is necessary that you be rewarded—”

  “It is not necessary, majister!”

  “Oh, but, Nath, it is.”

  Nath, as a superb example of the splendid young fighting men who had fought shoulder to shoulder to liberate Vallia and stave off the attacks of the predators feasting on the prostrate empire, a blade comrade, a man of unquestioned loyalty, Nath must be seen to shine in that galaxy of gallants who had stepped forth to save Vallia in her Time of Troubles.

  “You remember the Battle of Kochwold, Nath?”

  “Who can ever forget
it?”

  “We had three Phalanxes there. It was a famous victory.”

  “Aye.”

  “It appears to me that Nath na Kochwold has a ring.”[1]

  “Majister?”

  Enevon rustled more papers and pulled out a large sheet much embellished with fine writing and scrollwork. He placed this down before me and then fussed in his meticulous way with the sealing equipment. I looked steadily at Nath.

  “Kyr Nath! No more shilly-shallying. Your rank will be formally announced when the lists are promulgated. You are Nath na Kochwold.” Then, and I hoped in no testy way, I added, “There are so many Naths on Kregen you have to accept the needle in this.” And I signed and sealed the patent.

  Nath opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and his lower jaw moved sideways before he spoke.

  “And I keep the Phalanx?”

  I nodded.

  “Then, majister, I thank you. By Vox! I shall have no difficulty in remembering my name!”

  The feeling of relief I experienced in having pushed that problem to a solution lasted for some time as we worked on. But, inevitably, more problems came crowding in and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel remained obscured. Mind you, to call rewarding Nath — or anyone of the people who labored so hard for Vallia — a problem is to be foolish. It was just Nath’s insistence on remaining with the Phalanx that prevented my using him in a wider capacity for which he was perfectly suited.

  Plans for Turko to march northward to Falinur pushed ahead. An army had to be collected. It had to be equipped and fed. And, at the same time, the rest of the territories regained in the island had to be protected.

  Two new plants for processing the bumper crop of mergem we had been blessed with this season had just reached completion. Mergem, a leguminous plant, when dried may be stored for long periods and then reconstituted. It is rich in protein, vitamins and minerals, with trace elements — although at the time I knew nothing of them, by Vox! — and has seen many a beleaguered city safely through a siege. With little persuasion from me, the Presidio, to whom I was delegating more and more responsibility, had ordered the planting of vast areas of mergem. These two new processing facilities would give an even larger return than the traditional methods of grinding and drying in the suns light. Now we could use not only the pods, but the stalks as well.