Beasts of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Without hesitation, Tom reached over and hauled on the net to which I clung, hauling it in until he could reach me.

  I yelled.

  “No! No! Get Travok!” I screamed it out. “Travok!”

  But Tom Arclay doggedly hauled on.

  I put my hand on a damned splinter in the ruined bulwark and I turned my head and looked down. Tom’s face was wet with tears and I could not look at him.

  Travok’s net split. It parted down the middle and Travok Arclay fell and fell, fell away, dwindling to a little spinning black dot with tiny whirling arms and legs.

  I could not watch him all the way.

  All I could do was haul myself over the side. I couldn’t look at Travok as he fell spinning down and I couldn’t look at his twin, Tom, as he collapsed on the deck.

  Truthfully, I could look at no man in that instant — least of all myself.

  Chapter eight

  Zenobya

  “Hyrklana!” I said. I shouted it savagely. We were back in Vondium and a lot had happened and I was raw, ravaged, contemptuously intolerant of myself. I didn’t want fine young men dying for me, I didn’t want fine young men having to make that kind of awful decision — for me. “I’m going to Hyrklana. But before I do I am going to do one thing — send Sans Fantor and Therfenen in. Bratch!”

  Not often do I use that hard word, bratch! It means jump, move, get the lead out. Sometimes, perhaps, I should have used it more.

  The messengers bratched.

  When the two wise men came in they looked pale. No doubt they had heard that the emperor was in a foul mood. Everyone who could recall what emperors traditionally did when they were in foul moods would tremble. Shoulders and heads would have air gaps. In the old days.

  “Sans,” I said. My words were hard. “Come in. There is a task to your hands I will have done immediately.”

  Among the gorgeous rams of the imperial palace this audience chamber had been refurbished, the roof not having fallen in, and the throne — a mere marble affair with only about a sackful of jewels embedded in golden settings — replaced from where it had been toppled among rubble. It had avoided being looted by this, for although a mere sackful of gems is paltry when embellishing one of an emperor’s collection of thrones, it is highly prized and valuable portable property to a reiving mercenary. This was the Chamber of Allakar, and it impressed the two wise men, who were more used to meeting me in my homely study or their workrooms.

  “Majister?” They quavered like little old gnomes instead of acting as they usually did, as wise men and savants of the Empire of Vallia. I frowned.

  “Take what is necessary of the minerals we prepare for inclusion in the next batch of silver boxes for vollers. Make up small boxes, in pairs. Attach them to strong leather belts in slides, so that they can be moved together or drawn apart. If anyone falls over the side of a flier again I want him to have some means of saving his life. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, majister...” And, “Aye majister...”

  I sent them off with their promise of immediate production of the safety flying belts mocking me. If only Travok had had a belt!

  The fight had not lasted long after we had come to hand strokes. We had captured two of the vollers — useful additions to the Lord Farris’s fleet — and the third had flown. One of those we had captured — the one Captain Dorndorf had smashed his Opazfaril down on so ruthlessly — was not much good for anything. She could be stripped for her lumber. It was the silver boxes that were important. We would build a new and better voller around them.

  There were prisoners. We in Vallia of the parts that had been liberated kept no slaves. The prisoners would have to be repatriated on flights back to Persinia. These fighting men were from Chobishaw and most wroth they were that they had failed to capture the voller we had rescued. These Chobishaws spoke in fine manly terms, but I didn’t have time for their pleas.

  “No,” I said to their leader, whose impressive plate armor had been taken away, and whose face with its long down-drooping moustaches and thin nose expressed the utmost fury and scorn — baffled fury and useless scorn. “No. I will not yield up to you the Lady Zenobya. She is her own lady to decide her own fate. She asks help of Vallia. She—”

  “The king has decreed her death! She has no claim to the throne of Pershaw—”

  “I think the lady has a claim.”

  “If she has — and we do not agree on that — it will be canceled in death.”

  “Not,” I said nastily, “while the Lady Zenobya appeals to Vallia.”

  “Vallia!” This Chobishaw laughed then, his thin nose arrogant. “Vallia! There is no Vallia any more. It is ruined!”

  The damned devil! He was almost right... Almost...

  But we had liberated much of the main island and the fringing islands of the coasts, and we would free the remainder.

  “King Pafnut refuses to deal any longer with you Vallians. Chobishaw looks to other and stronger empires.”

  “By all means,” I said, “if these can be found. Now go away and wait until we can send you home.”

  The dark blood rushed to his thin face.

  He was wheeled around by my lads of 2ESW and then I called, “I am told you in Chobishaw are very clever with numbers and can make circles out of straight lines and tricks of that sort. But can you make vollers?”

  He looked back at me, venom in his face. That thin nose, those down-drooping mustachios, that pallid face with the thin scornful lips — if they were all like that back where he came from no wonder the Lady Zenobya had found no joy of them.

  “We do not need to make our own fliers. We can buy them from our good friends.”

  I resisted the impulse to retort. He was in all probability not speaking of Hamal, for Hamal desperately needed all the vollers she could make herself. Unless, that is, vast new factories had been opened. With mad Empress Thyllis, anything was possible.

  All the same, I told Naghan Vanki to begin an investigation to discover just where these folk of Persinia did buy their airboats.

  The story the Lady Zenobya told us was charming. She said she ought to have had a few more heads off, and then she wouldn’t have needed to stow away in a flier bringing nikvoves to us. Her hereditary foemen from Chobishaw had only got wind of the stratagem at the last moment. Their pursuit had ended with the Lady Zenobya being received as an honored guest in Vondium.

  Pershaw, of course, was now firmly under the thumb of King Pafnut of Chobishaw.

  “I have many brave fighting men loyal to me, but they lack a leader, they lack instruction, they are bemused by what has happened.”

  Lady Zenobya spoke in a fierce way, like a zhantilla defending her cubs. A poised woman, beautiful — yes, of course — but she contained within herself a determination one felt gained its own ends against seemingly insuperable odds, and this lent her beauty an aura of power missing from those women who imagine beauty is skin deep. She was not from Loh, but she had red hair, a deep and lustrous auburn that shone splendidly in the lights of the Chamber of Allakar. We got to know the Lady Zenobya better later on — as you shall hear — and we discovered that her charm and politeness concealed a Machiavellian diplomacy and gift of misdirection that, combined with her forthright honesty, gave her a diabolical ingenuity.

  Among the nikvoves brought in the voller in which she had stowed away she had contrived to arrange that her own favorite animal should be included. Mind you, his eight legs and powerful body were clad in an odd hide of black and white, with immoderate amounts of hairy mane, tail and hocks. His name was Sjames, and he was, so Zenobya claimed, supernaturally intelligent.

  Whether the last was true or not seemed something we would have to wait to find out. For now, the Lady Zenobya looked splendid, riding her Sjames, cantering out into the countryside around Vondium, her auburn hair a flame in the lights of the suns.

  The decision to go to Hyrklana was forced on me by that horrific occurrence in Opazfaril.

  The process
was not as clear-cut as that makes it sound. I was still confused. The sight of Tom Arclay hauling me in and letting his twin beloved brother fall to his death... No, I wanted nothing more of that for a space.

  The shame crushed me. And, too, the deeply sensed and avoided feeling that an emperor to be an emperor must needs receive that kind of sacrifice, filled me with self-horror. To throw away your life in the heat of battle and sacrifice yourself to save another — yes. Mad though that may be, it is not as rare as the cynics would have us believe. It is a part of that battle rapture of which I hold such strong feelings. I dislike — to use a pale word — the red veil that clouds vision and sanity.

  But Tom Arclay had acted coldly, determinedly, unswerving in his devotion to the Emperor of Vallia.

  I had to get away.

  The two Wizards of Loh had by means of pooled power forced a passage between themselves through the occult realms. The kharrna exercised by Phu-Si-Yantong was not, then, all-powerful.

  Nothing fresh came to hand on the whereabouts of Voinderam and Fransha. Our schemes for Mavindeul were perforce frozen. Once Turko got up there with his army, liberated his new kovnate of Falinur, hooked left into Vennar and dealt with Layco Jhansi, we could link up with the Black Mountain Men and the Blue Mountain Boys. After that it would be the Racters of the north. Perhaps we did not really require Mavindeul to rise for us.

  I felt we did. It would save lives.

  The Lord Farris had promised air support for Turko.

  We worked out the army he would take, and the Presidio, with that sense of grandeur I found slightly comic, christened Turko’s force the Ninth Army.

  The Eighth Army, which had won that battle centered around the thorn-ivy trap, the Battle of Ovalia, I had reserved to my own hand. Many of the same regiments would march with Turko. I held onto the army number.

  Nine is the sacred and magical number on Kregen. Turko was pleased.

  “It’s all a foolishness, Turko,” I told him. “You have a Phalanx and regiments of churgurs. Your soldiers are keen. Your spearmen are a little raw. But your archers are first class. Your kreutzin will serve you well. But do not get ideas of glory and grandeur just because this collection is called the Ninth Army...”

  “If I didn’t know you better, Dray, I’d want to know whose side you are on.”

  “You’re taking a capital adviser in Kapt Erndor. He is an old Freedom Fighter from Valka and as cunning as a leem.”

  “I’m glad he is with us. I value his advice.”

  I nodded. Turko might have been made up to be a kov by me, and have fought in many battles, but he lacked the professional experience of a general in command. He’d learn, I made no mistake about that. And the truth was Turko had learned a very great deal regarding campaigning and logistics, strategy and tactics and the all-important field of operations in the wars in which we had fought together.

  Units were being sent from both Drak’s and Seg’s armies to join Turko. I sent a messenger to tell Seg to take over command of both forces, the First and the Second Armies, and another messenger to tell Drak to come home to Vondium.

  “I’d like to see Seg before I start,” said Turko. “But I don’t think it possible. By Morro the Muscle! I miss that man!”

  “Me, too.”

  “And it’s a pity Voinderam couldn’t cork it until the legal bokkertu was settled. I was counting on him. He is rated as a swordsman — not that swordsmen mean—”

  “Quite.”

  He smiled. “No, Dray. I mean Voinderam took up with the shield; he saw the possibilities early. He has gained a fine reputation as a churgur. I believe he would have put some useful regiments into the field.”

  “Sword and shield men are still thin on the ground, I agree. But the Vallians are learning.”

  And so was I. I tried to cram a hundred burs into every Kregan day, which Opaz has decided should hold but forty-eight. Drak and Farris and the Presidio ought to be able to handle affairs while I was away. By Vox! They had done it before, and for all my own long-faced doubts, what we had of Vallia was in better shape than anything seen for seasons. For all the work I did, I was not indispensable as an emperor. And that was the way I wanted it to be.

  As always when Delia was in Vondium with me, the efforts proved not only more worthwhile but also much easier. Jilian trailed back to the city, swearing and swishing her wicked claw about, completely foxed. The elopers had run away and vanished.

  The Lady Zenobya proved popular in the assemblies and balls. Filbarrka hung about the city, working on plans for the cavalry force of freedmen. Nath Karidge took delivery of his six hundred first-class zorcas and the EDLG grew as prime men came in.

  Although I had promised myself I’d leave as soon as Turko flew off with his army, I now delayed my own departure until the EDLG had been properly raised, formed, and put into a reasonable state of readiness. This was one kind of excuse I did not need for myself.

  Delia designed the uniform. I was delighted. It carried the brave old scarlet well, with yellow trim and a decent area of darker colors — varying with squadron — to set off the dashing effect. Guidons loaded with bullion were presented to the standard bearers of each squadron. The trumpets were of silver — we vetoed gold on the scores of weight and tone. Yes, the Empress’s Devoted Life Guard, glittering, polished, prancing on nimble zorcas, looked a superb regiment. They were not mere ornaments. Each trooper was a kampeon. They would give of their loyalty to Delia; they’d fight for her. They’d fight to the death.

  Turko and Korero had agreed to disagree. Turko, as a kov, had a task. But he kept on trying to tell Korero what to do, the better to protect me with his shields.

  Korero pulled his golden beard with his tail hand and said, “It is just as well we are leaving.”

  And then Turko said the right thing, and they were friends again.

  “I could do with a regiment like the EDLG with me, up in Falinur,” said Turko wistfully, as the guidons were presented. Korero nudged him. At once, Turko went on, “But, by Morro the Muscle! The Empress demands the best there is in all Vallia!”

  Because I am weak in some matters, I gravely acceded to Tom Arclay’s request to accompany Kov Turko of Falinur.

  I had done what had to be done over the death of Travok.

  I will not detail the events, but I felt no slackening of my anger, my contempt. The world was not a just place, not Earth, not Kregen. And the fact that I had been in no real danger, hanging over the side of Opazfaril, must never be revealed. If Tom knew that he had sacrificed his twin brother’s life in vain...!

  So, in my weakness and selfishness, I was glad to know Tom would be flying off with Turko. That great Khamorro would look out for Tom Arclay, now, with a special fervor.

  But he had something else on his mind.

  We were sprawled on the mat in the gymnasium, having contorted ourselves in a few falls, and tied ourselves in knots. Turko sat up and blew his cheeks out.

  “They don’t go in for the martial arts in Hyrklana, Dray? No unarmed combat in the arena?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s edged and pointed weapons. When you are lucky enough to be given them. Sometimes in the Jikhorkdun you are sent against wild beasts with your bare hands.”

  “Well...? That would be—”

  “Ghastly. I have seen it.”

  So he said, “So, my old dom, you keep well away from the Jikhorkdun in Huringa—”

  I found a craggy smile. “Deb-Lu-Quienyin told me that our friends are involved with the Jikhorkdun again.”

  “No!”

  “I shall gather more details before I go. It’s not the arena in the Jikhorkdun that bothers me so much. I just hope fat Queen Fahia and her neemus do not get a scent of me.”

  Then we indulged in a few more falls, the skills and disciplines of the Khamsters pitted against those of the Krozairs, and both learning from each other. Queen Fahia’s pet neemus, feral, treacherous, black as a night of Notor Zan, decorated the steps of he
r throne. I was not enamored of the idea of seeing Fahia again or renewing acquaintance with her pets.

  The moment Drak arrived I knew I’d be surrounded by an orgy of back-slapping, arm-wrenching, uproarious hullabaloo as my comrades of the First Emperor’s Sword Watch renewed their acquaintance with me. I knew they felt pushed away from me, almost slighted, but I’d impressed them forcibly with the notion that their duty lay with Drak, seeing that he was the one fighting the war up there. Now nothing would keep those ruffians of 1ESW from standing watch over me, as in the old days. Certainly, 2ESW would not. Nor would the Yellow Jackets, who would return with Drak. These kampeons felt they had a divine right to put their own bodies between me and the deadly shaft, the murderous sword. I was not happy about that, as you know; but I had to accept the needle, as they say on Kregen.

  An interesting strand of the past was revealed to me at that time. Among the many people I saw every day on business of one sort or another there were always a score or so who came offering their swords, seeking a particular favor. I tried to accommodate them all, according to their merits.

  One limber fellow was wheeled in during the bur I put aside for this purpose — the waiting room was always filled and Enevon would allow no golden corruption to seek preference — and I sized him up. The pakzhan glittered at his throat. His pakai was coiled around his shoulder three times, that mercenary’s record of trophies, the string of victory rings. His face was hard — as it would be, it would be! — and he held himself alert. He wore a tufted goat-like beard. He looked at me forthrightly.

  “Koter Ian Vandrop, majister! Known to myself as Ian the Onker, for not having returned to Vondium sooner.”

  This could be flannel, of course. But he looked likely. More than likely. He was hyr-paktun, experienced, with his tally of kills.

  I quizzed him on his service and learned he had served all over Paz, our grouping of continents and islands on this side of Kregen. He would find employment with me.

  “But not as a mercenary. You are a Vallian.”