Beasts of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Quidang, majister!”

  Jiktar Rodan looked across at me before he fell back into his position at the head of the duty squadron. He took a breath. We had seen action together. He had taken wounds.

  “Yes, I know, Rodan. I am too soft with them.”

  “Yes, majister.” These old hands, training up the youngster, soldiers who had served with me for seasons, know how and when to take liberties with the emperor — not that they were regarded as liberties by me. We all did our jobs for Vallia and that was what counted. He went on, shaking his head, “We need to put a little backbone into them, by Vox!”

  I forbore to ask if he meant his youngsters or the party of drunken citizens.

  Certainly, the reaction of the duty squadron had been prompt and sharp, and had there been real trouble ahead then these lads of 2ESW would have nipped it in the bud.

  Ortyg Voinderam, who had run off with his Lady Fransha because he couldn’t wait for the legal bokkertu to be concluded, might benefit by a season or two of being trained up by crusty old vikatus like Jiktar Rodan. Vikatu the Dodger, the archetype of the old soldier, the old sweat, can teach lessons to civilians as well as the swods in the ranks...

  When I dismounted in a convenient inner courtyard of the imperial palace — convenient because it hadn’t been burned down or knocked to pieces — Rosala, one of Delia’s handmaids, was talking to a soldier in the half-shadows of an archway.

  I heard her say in a teasing voice, “And here is the emperor now, you famous jurukker, and I must fly!”

  She danced across the flags toward me.

  Delia knows how to look after her people. Rosala called the soldier a jurukker, that is to say guardsman, and I, perforce, had accepted this nomenclature. I will not belabor the point about my ambivalent attitudes to bodyguards and the like. They have their uses. And the men forming a juruk — a guard — are the important part of the structure for me.

  “Majis!” said Rosala, pert, half laughing. “The empress bid me tell you she has gone with the Lady Jilian. She hopes to be back late tomorrow.”

  Throwing Shadow’s reins to the groom who hurried up, and with a pat for the zorca’s gleaming black neck and a word or two for the groom, Yando the Limp, for he had taken a wound at the Battle of Kochwold, I went into the palace. Rosala lingered.

  “Do not suborn that soldier from his duty, Rosala...”

  She knew I teased her.

  “Majister!” Her eyes, her lips, her hair, all looked magnificent in the light of the moons. “He stands guard like a famous juruk, like the best soldier in the Sword Watch. Do you think he would desert his post for me?”

  I did not answer. Truth to tell, as I went into the palace in search of Khe-Hi-Bjanching, I realized that any soldier with any sense — anyone without commitments — would desert his post for a girl like Rosala. But she was handmaid to the Empress of Vallia. She was, besides being a girl of remarkable beauty, a girl of immense common sense. She knew the dangers thronging around an imperial palace on Kregen.

  And the news she brought that Delia had gone off meant, I judged, that Delia and Jilian were going their own way about finding the Lady Fransha.

  Now I am well aware that I am a crusty old curmudgeon who takes delight in foolish notions that appall the more sober-minded, plain Dray Prescot with the weight of an empire in ruins hanging on my shoulders. Yet, I think, and I truly believe, that I was genuinely more concerned for the safety and happiness of Ortyg and Fransha than I was for the political maneuverings surrounding their match. So, as I found Khe-Hi-Bjanching wide awake in the chambers given over to the Wizard of Loh, I felt the leap of gratitude to him and hope that all might yet be well.

  “Majister,” he greeted me. “I have been trying — but so far my powers fail me.”

  All my sudden hope vanished like thistledown.

  The chamber was illuminated in the mellow glow of samphron oil lamps and was filled with comfortable furnishings. There was nothing of the tawdry bric-a-brac of the common sorcerer here. Wizards of Loh, the most famed and feared thaumaturges of Kregen, as far as I then knew, needed no gimcrack trappings of skulls and bats blood and reptile inner parts and pickled dragons.

  “You have been into lupu, Khe-Hi?”

  “Yes. I sent my powers out and found nothing. It was strange. Ortyg Voinderam is no sorcerer of any kind, surely?”

  “No. Not as far as I know.”

  I felt the chill. If another sorcerer were at work here, preventing Bjanching from discovering the whereabouts of the runaways by means of his kharrna which gave him the power of observing events at a distance, then that other wizard might be the wizard...

  Bjanching saw all that on my face.

  “If Phu-Si-Yantong is interfering here...”

  “Sink me!” I burst out. “I’ll have that devil’s tripes one of these fine days. He is a maniac and although I have searched for some I have failed to find goodness in him yet.”

  “I do not know anyone who would say he was capable of an ounce of goodness—”

  “Well,” I grumped, “I suppose he must have some redeeming features. If we could discover what they were perhaps we might talk to him—” I looked at Bjanching. “Have you contacted Deb-Lu-Quienyin?”

  “I was about to do that when you arrived, majister.”

  Deb-Lu-Quienyin, with whom I had been through a fraught time or two, had remained with Drak and my friends in the north where I fancied he would be of inestimable value to them. He was just about the most powerful Wizard of Loh there was — always excepting that crazed power-mad devil Phu-Si-Yantong.

  Even though I had spent much time in company with Quienyin and Bjanching, and had seen Wizards of Loh performing their mysteries, I, like anyone else on Kregen, could never fully feel at ease as they set about their arcane rituals.

  Khe-Hi-Bjanching wore a severe robe of a lustrous black. No runes or magical symbols sullied his vestments, and the pallor of his face and the fiery red Lohvian hair seemed, by contrast, all the more striking. As a young — or relatively young — Wizard of Loh, Bjanching might have been excused displays of thaumaturgical fashion. He disdained them. He was able to exert his power and go into lupu — that strange, half-trance state in which his kharrna extended and gave him pictures of people and events many miles away — without fuss and without many of the physical preparations of other Wizards of Loh I had known.

  Waiting as Khe-Hi-Bjanching prepared himself, calmed his whole body and psyche, began to infiltrate the tendrils of his power into those arcane other worlds no mortal might tread with impunity, I found my sense of screaming impatience easing. This would take time, and time I did not have, yet I could wait quietly.

  Bjanching’s eyes rolled up until, in the moment before he placed his palms over them, his eyes glared forth sightlessly in white blankness. The waiting was mercifully short. The Wizard of Loh’s breathing lengthened and drew out, softer and softer, shallower and shallower, until it seemed he did not breathe at all. The chambers gave no sound. We were two primeval spirits, isolated in the great mysteries.

  Then — Bjanching lowered his hands.

  He stared at me, and in his face that knowing look told me he had broken through.

  I leaned forward eagerly. “Quienyin?”

  No answer.

  “San?” I gave the Wizard of Loh the honorific of dominie, or sage, and I breathed in a deep draught of the close air.

  “Majister—” The voice was Bjanching’s. “San Quienyin is there, on the periphery, and he is trying to make contact with me. But...”

  I put my teeth into my lip.

  For a long space the two wizards sought to reach each other through that timeless, formless, unknowable hinterland of the occult. Sweat began to roll down Bjanching’s face. Abruptly, he jumped up, his black gown swirling. He took three faltering steps, beginning to spin around in that dervish-like whirling by which some wizards summon their powers. Instead of going on with the rituals that had been unnecessary for him for
so long, he tottered and collapsed into his high-backed chair.

  He looked at me, and that look of knowingness had fled.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Majister — Quienyin and I were separated, as by a barrier of enormous force. This is new. We must work and investigate and—”

  “Yes, yes. Tell me!”

  “We cannot discern a single thing concerning the whereabouts of Voinderam and the Lady Fransha.”

  “Now the devil take it!” I said, and I swore.

  “But, majister — do you not see?”

  “I see, San, I see very well. Phu-Si-Yantong—”

  “Yes! That arch devil has interdicted our powers, and that means he has achieved a recrudescence of power taking him into an altogether new plane. I think, majister, I believe, we are in for a fight passing anything that has gone before.”

  “And it’s a fight you must win, or all Vallia is doomed.”

  Chapter five

  On the Day of Opaz the Deliverer

  Emder’s long, competent fingers deftly pulled the leather straps of my fancy sword belt into the correct position so that I might haul the buckles tight. Quietly-spoken, Emder, an invaluable man who acted as a valet as a mere part of his many functions. His neatness was of that unfussy kind an untidy person does not take as an affront.

  “Now the mazilla, majis.”

  He lifted the enormous collar ready to wrap it around the back of my neck. Now these ornate collars of Vallia, these mazillas, I had had trouble with before. They are stiff with gold wire, heavy with bullion, ablaze with gems. They poke up from your shoulders and enclose your head like a glittering oyster shell.

  Emder leaned sideways and took a look at my face. He sighed.

  “Today is the Day of Opaz the Deliverer. I know the processions will go on from suns rise to suns set—”

  “And the damned speeches, and the ceremonies and all the rest of it. By the Black Chunkrah!” I said, most feelingly, using a hallowed clansman’s oath. “I ought to be well out of it.”

  Emder pursed up his lips and gentled the huge collar down onto my shoulders. Mind you, the thing did give a weird kind of comfort, for it would take a monstrous blow of a sword to cut through that expensive protection. That was how they’d started in the first place, back in the days when Vallia was a motley collection of little nations all struggling for preeminence.

  Well, by Vox, we weren’t far off getting back to those ancient days now!

  Emder began closing the fastenings.

  “The people expect to see their emperor on this day, majis. And, as well, it is the day we keep in remembrance of the Battle of Voxyri—”

  “That anniversary I’ll keep, and with pleasure.” The Battle of Voxyri had taken place outside Vondium and inside the city after we’d broken in. It had taken place on the Day of Opaz the Deliverer. That battle had given us back Vondium, the capital of Vallia, and had seen me enthroned and crowned as emperor — for what that was worth.

  Then, and I own somewhat petulantly, I said, “And the empress has not returned?”

  “Rosala waits in patience, majis, and Floria with her.”

  I’d left Bjanching beginning the work he and Deb-Lu-Quienyin must tackle to attempt to thwart this new and horrifying power of the arch maniac, Phu-Si-Yantong. I’d completely forgotten about the celebrations arranged for today. And, all the time the processions wended about the city and the bedecked narrow boats glided along the canals, and the bands played and the people cheered, all the time wizards would be struggling and battling, one against the other, on planes far removed from the gorgeous and barbaric splendor of the Day of Opaz the Deliverer...

  “The empress didn’t forget about the punishments I’m going to have to endure today.” I wrenched a buckle tight and the mazilla swayed. My robes glittered. I felt a fool. “She took good care to see she wasn’t here to share my discomforts.”

  “Majis!”

  “All right, all right. I’m just in a foul mood.”

  “Yes, majis.”

  Good old Emder! A comrade, a friend, and a fellow to make sure the last button was sewed on the last shirt, the boots were polished to mirrors, the swords all held edges.

  There was nothing else for it. I had to do my duty this day. This was all a part of being emperor, just as much as worrying over zorca horn rot and the supply of corn and the new gold mines, and payment of the troops and education for the youngsters. And — all the rest of that...

  I will not go into details of the lavishness of the Day. The twin suns shone, Zim and Genodras, blazing down out of a clear sky. The waters of the canals scintillated in light. The houses were festooned with flags and bunting and draped curtains and streamers. The people shouted. The processions wound in and out, and the priests went through their rituals, earnestly and with dedication, and sweating more than a little.

  The bands played. Contingents of various regiments marched. The people pranced through the avenues and crowded the narrow boats so that the canals became solid walkways.

  Chanting lines of folk weaved in and out, all repeating over and over those ancient litanies, chief of which resounded all day among the half-ruined houses.

  “OO-lie O-paz ... OO-lie O-paz...” Over and over, rising and falling, Oolie Opaz, on and on and on.

  Surrounded by dignitaries and nobles and functionaries, I went as prescribed from place to place within the city. How different this was, by Vox, from those earlier times! Now I was surrounded by comrades, men and women who had fought with me shoulder to shoulder against our common foes. Now I had no fear, not now, not on this Day, of the poisoned frown, the disgusted look, the turning away in contempt.

  The Second Sword Watch were there, inconspicuous, but there, ready in case a more deadly threat manifested itself.

  Messengers in relays kept me informed on the progress of Bjanching. He had not gained clear contact with Quienyin. The two Wizards of Loh continued to investigate the extent and force of this new power wielded by Phu-Si-Yantong.

  Vallia is a civilized country of Kregen, with wild enough parts here and there, as I well knew. But all the same, these processions, the brilliance of jewels and feathers, the caparisoned animals, the uproar with the banging of drums and gongs and the fierce blowing of trumpets, the smells and the scents, the sheer vitality of it all, this was a splendid and barbaric spectacle.

  But the luster of the Day was dimmed for me until almost halfway through, just as we were approaching the hour of mid.

  “I am parched!” quoth Nath na Kochwold — who remembered his name with the utmost clarity — and he smiled. “I look forward to the meal they have prepared with almost as much pleasure as I look forward to the march past. By Vox! What we have left of the Phalanx is a poor remnant. But they will march with a swing.”

  “They will, Nath, they will.”

  We alighted from the narrow boat and burst into the light of the suns and the roaring welcome of the crowds. Above us lifted the bulk of the Temple of Opaz the Judge. Glistening, impressive, floating among the clouds, it seemed, that vision of spire and dome. I looked up. The manifestation of Opaz in the guise of Judge was traditionally linked with midday, the balancing point between night and night. Here the priests would have prepared a mouth-watering repast to tide us over the next part of the Day’s events. We were all sharp set.

  The marble steps glistened with gold-veined whiteness. Crimson drapes stained the marble with the semblance of blood. Ranked lines of men held back the pressing crowds. The color, the excitement and the heady energy of the celebrations filled everyone with the passionate conviction that it was divine to be alive on such a day as this.

  Pausing for a moment to speak to one of the swods guarding the marble stairs, I was aware of his hard, tanned face, the direct look of his brown Vallian eyes. He was a spearman of the Fifteenth Regiment, trim in leather and crimson, his shield with its proud devices angled just so, his stout spear precisely vertical, its steel head polished to a starry glit
ter.

  “Lahal, Kalei.” I noticed the absence of rank badges. “You were a Deldar when we fought together.”

  “Aye, majister. But I got into a fight with a poor fellow out of the Phalanx. They stripped one Deldar rank from me for every tooth he lost.”

  “Then—” I said, remembering. “Then he lost seven teeth.” Kalei’s hard face showed pleasure.

  “I will make ob-Deldar again in three of the months of the Maiden with the Many Smiles.”

  “When you reach shebov-Deldar again send me a message. I will make you a zan-Deldar at once.”[2]

  His pleasure increased. I was not being magnanimous. I was not pandering to the men in the ranks. A kampeon is a veteran, a soldier who has received recognition, a man who has won renown in the army. Kalei was a kampeon. Such men are valuable, as precious as gold to an army, for from their experience and war wisdom comes the training of the youngsters. Kalei was too valuable to spend his life carrying a spear as a swod in the ranks.

  And, at the same time, he had to be subject to the same iron discipline, what the swods call mazingle, as the men he trained up. There was no question of my instantly restoring his rank as a Deldar. That would undermine discipline.

  Kalei knew that.

  He saluted, an enormous bashing of his spear against his shield, and I nodded and walked on up the marble stairs.

  “Remberee, Kalei!”

  “Remberee, majister!” And then, unexpectedly, he added in his stentorian Deldar’s bellow, “May Vox of the Cunning Sword go with you always, majister!”

  The soldier near the foot of the wide sweep of marble steps moved. In neat precision they opened ranks. Their weapons and harness glittered. A sedan chair borne by eight Womoxes swayed up the steps from a narrow boat moored next to the boat in which we had arrived. The chair was sumptuous. It was splendid. Crimson velvet curtains and drapes of cloth of gold concealed the occupant. Tassels of bullion glittered. Feathers waved. The rear Womoxes, massive, bull-headed men from the island of Womox off the west coast of Vallia, raised their carved and gilt-encrusted carrying poles so that the sedan chair remained level.