I looked at my two companions. They were of an age. Tiri had reacted in the way I had come to expect of her in our relatively short acquaintance after she had first flung a jeweled dagger at my head. Her fair hair was neatly combed back and gleamed golden. As a temple dancer she walked with the grace of an Aephar girl, her lithe whipcord tough body rounded and beautifully graceful. Her bright face with that determined little jut of chin would do the business for many and many a poor love-besotted oaf under the Suns of Scorpio. Oh, yes, a most wonderful young madam full of high spirits and a bubbling aliveness that enchanted and a tongue as sharp as a rapier. She danced to the greater glory of Cymbaro the Just and of that religion I had formed a higher opinion than many upon the face of Kregen.
Then a thought occurred to me that made my old beakhead of a face scowl and then crease into a grimace that could have been mistaken for a smile.
“Your guts paining you, Drajak?” Oh, how sweet the words!
“I was just thinking what our comrade Fweygo will say when we report we lost your purse to a—”
She tossed that imperious little head. “As a Kildoi, Fweygo will surmise—aloud—how we could be so easily gulled and where was the Watch. They believe in law and order.”
“Sometimes.” I thought of Mefto the Kazzur...
What Tiri didn't know was that Fweygo and I were kregoinyes sent to Tolindrin to protect the numim twins. She thought we worked for Princess Nandisha who employed the numim twins’ parents to care for her and for her twins, lady Nisha and lord Byrom. The intrigues fomented by the death of the king and the appointment of his successor had not been resolved. Rather, they had grown worse and would become diabolically more troublesome in the immediate future.
Right in the middle of it all, for our sins, stood Fweygo and I.
We paid the few coppers for our fare in the cable car from Barter Hill. I had heard the place referred to as the Hill of Dancing Ghosts but I had not pursued the question as to why. We reached Nandisha's palace without incident and the moment we were inside, here came Fweygo, clad in armor and wearing swords, a most sullen annoyed Kildoi expression on his handsome Kildoi face.
His tail hand, I saw, grasped a dagger of which he was particularly fond. A great deal of shouting and screaming echoed from further inside the palace.
“What—?” began Tiri.
“The young prince, lord Byrom. He is missing. It is certain sure he has been kidnapped.”
Instantly I saw why my comrade was so annoyed. Our task, given to us by the Star Lords, was to protect the numim twins. Now, though, we would have to divert all our efforts into rescuing the little lord for whose mother, nominally, we worked.
“The princess?” Tiri showed her concern.
“Badly shaken and upset; but her people are with her. She is resting.” A lion roar battered around our ears. Ranaj, the powerful father of the numim twins was girt for battle like Fweygo, and his energy blazed. “You are ready? Don't stand gawping, Drajak. What a hulu! Come on, and you, Fweygo. They've taken the prince to the Clipped Rhok. A den of ancient evil. Come on! Come on!”
Perforce, willy-nilly, Star Lords or no, we were hustled out to do the duty we owed Princess Nandisha and her son.
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* * *
Chapter three
“Tiri!” I yelled back over my shoulder. “Look out for our smelly young friend.”
“Yes. You—I hope the young prince is—all right.”
There was no point in recovering my shamlak, that had already pinched in the nostrils of my friends. There was just time to grab a replacement and then we all hurried out and down the steps from Nandisha's palace. People in the normal course of the day do not walk about clad in full plate armor and carrying an arsenal of weapons; when they do so other folk know they are engaged on urgent business of a lethal kind. All I had was the new shamlak—a tasteful mid-blue in color—and my rapier and main gauche, with the heavy knife over my right hip. Fweygo, Ranaj and the bunch of fighting men from Princess Nandisha's guard were armored and armed—I assure you—up to the eyebrows rather than merely to the teeth.
The Clipped Rhok, a most unsavory hostelry, was situated on the Hill of Lurking Shadows and we drew only cursory glances of enquiry as we took the necessary cable cars to reach our destination.
Fweygo filled me in on the details of what had happened and, as is often the case in these disasters, simple human error was to blame.
One guard late, another feeling unwell, the prince with just a single guardian, the sudden rush of black-clad forms, one dead guard and the result—here we were hot on the rescue trail.
Fweygo nodded towards one youthful guard running with us.
“At least Sammle the Erkanstater kept his head. He was too late to intervene. He followed the kidnappers, saw where they went, and rushed back to report to Ranaj.”
“Good for him.”
Lurking Shadows turned out to be an apt description of the hill. The slanting rays of Zim and Genodras, here in Balintol called Mabal and Matol, seemed only to draw deep crimson and emerald shadows into the narrow and winding streets. Buildings leaned over us. No-one offered to stop us, an armed and purposeful body of men; had that happened I would not have been surprised.
The impression of these mean streets drove out the mood of farce that had been strong with me since the episode with the young lad despite the underlying seriousness of it all. The kidnap of the prince had merely served to add to that unreal feeling of comicality. Now, the chase was serious, the stakes high—and both Fweygo and I expected that at any moment the Everoinye would reach down and pluck us aloft and so hurl us down to where we should be—guarding the numim twins.
Ranaj didn't intend to go roaring like a blustering lionman into the tavern. He sent a small party ahead, some pressed on to seal the rear exits, and we stalked on, wary for every shadow.
Although the buildings of the Hill of Lurking Shadows were oppressive enough and the narrow streets winding and treacherous, this place was in no real way comparable with the runnels of the warrens between the hills. Up here might not be heaven; down there was well on the way to hell.
Ranaj with his golden fur and his superb lionman physique performed many functions within Nandisha's household; butler, major-domo, footman, quartermaster. As her cadade, the captain of the guard, a position of the utmost responsibility in every noble household, he perhaps took this task as his most important. He'd hired on Fweygo and me as temporary reinforcements during a time of particular difficulty, and now, having seen us operate, was evidently reluctant to part with our services. Certainly, he did not treat us like two ordinary swods of the palace guard.
It seemed to me that Ranaj would be as unlikely to accept the human error explanation for the kidnap as I would be in his position. One guard late, one unwell, and the poor devil left on duty murdered? Oh no, by the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! Those two dubious characters would be up and facing an enquiry instanter. Sammle the Erkanstater, a numim, had been late because he'd been sent along to replace the sick dutyman; no, it was the other latecomer and the fellow with the gut ache who'd be questioned.
From the advance party, Naghan the Twist, a Gon, reported back. He told Ranaj the tavern was only lightly patronized at this time of day, and the best chances were that prince Byrom was being held in one of the upstairs rooms. He gave a rapid rundown on the layout of The Clipped Rhok.
Speed, quite obviously, was essential and Ranaj went for the direct solution. Some of us would keep the patrons entertained whilst others stormed up the stairs. Any escape would be blocked off front and back and all windows would be covered.
Ranaj said very curtly: “Fweygo, Drajak. You stay with me.”
We nodded our assent. Mind you, I did wonder if we would be able to obey if the Everoinye decided differently, yes, by Krun.
The Clipped Rhok turned out to be an impressive structure in these surroundings, although on other hills it would look a
wreck.
At the front hung a white flag with a black circle surrounding a white center. This was the kaotresh, the flag of death, and even the semi-criminal fraternity inhabiting this place had the sense to fly the kaotresh to mourn the passing of the king. Only when the new king, King Tomendishto, was crowned would his bright flags be unfurled.
The advance party under Naghan the Twist's orders from the cadade went inside as we approached and when we entered we had a clear run to the stairs. Any possibility of someone running up to warn those aloft was instantly checked. No one made the attempt.
The lionman went up the blackwood stairs three at a time. Fweygo and I followed, with Sammle and the rest at our backs.
A pot-bellied fellow with a huge beard appeared at the top of the steps and Ranaj simply hit him over the head and Fweygo caught him as he fell. I passed the limp body on down. All this was done in silence, apart from the soft thwunk of the blow.
A corridor dimly lit by a dirty window at the far end revealed closed doors each side. Ranaj motioned with his drawn sword. We all took up our positions outside the doors and looked at the cadade. He nodded his head with a look of the utmost determination on his golden-whiskered face and we smashed the doors in and sprang inside.
My room contained an apim and a Sylvie closely entwined on the grimy bed. To anyone with fastidious tastes there was nothing in the sordid room to interest in the slightest. I shot back into the corridor and now shouts and screams broke out. Fweygo catapulted out of the next door and shook his head. Others of our party were re-entering the corridor, Ranaj among them. Noises blurted from the end.
We all ran along in a jumbled mass, picking up other men as they found empty or innocuous rooms. Directly in front of us Neap the Traiky came flying out of the end room to land on his ear in the corridor. He yelled. A flung dagger went ‘zip!’ past his head as he tried to sit up. Traiky means Lucky, and surely Neap was most fortunate in that the dagger missed his polsim head and even more lucky, immeasurably so, when we burst into the room and saw just who had thrown him out.
Two of our men lay unconscious where they had been thrown into a corner, and a third was shaking like a leaf, hands in front of him empty and his sword tossed down at his feet.
The four Chuliks had evidently been playing one of their obscure Chulik games, for dice and cards strewed a small table, wine and snacks stood ready to hand and they'd been enjoying themselves in ways strange to those who were not Chuliks.
The four Yellow-tuskers glared at us with their round black eyes showing annoyance. They had not drawn weapons. Their smooth oily yellow faces glistened in the lamplight. Apart from them and our unfortunate fellows there was no one else in the gaming room.
Ranaj bellowed a curse and then: “We apologize for intruding. We have no quarrel with you—unless you know the whereabouts of the young prince.” He sounded wrought up and dangerous.
Before the Chuliks could answer, a burst of light slashed into the room from the window, half-blinding us. An enormous thunder clap followed so rapidly that the storm must be directly above us.
I felt a force seize me up. The window was as black as a Herrelldrin Hell. That force lifted me and hurled me straight at the window. Glass and wood smashed away as I hurtled through. A crazy glimpse of Fweygo flying at my side and a blurred impression of darkness beneath sped away. Surrounded by a roaring maelstrom I went flying through thin air.
No rain spattered me. I could see nothing apart from blackness. Over and over I flew, suspended, deafened, exasperated.
My feet hit hard marble. I staggered forward and my sight cleared. Fweygo spluttered at my side. We stood in a corridor of Nandisha's palace. Directly before us the princess struggled in the grip of two hefty Brokelsh, all hairy and armored. A Rapa swished his sword about facing—facing the cause of our supernatural flight through some other plane of existence.
Serinka, Ranaj's numim wife, lay on the floor with a dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth. She stared up with horrified eyes, staring at her twins. Young Rofi and Rolan, slender daggers in their fists, were poised to hurl themselves upon the despoilers of their mother.
“So that's it!” grated Fweygo.
In the next instant the numim twins who were the charges given into our protection by the Star Lords would rush in to protect their mother and Princess Nandisha, and these fine bully boys would cut them down without mercy.
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* * *
Chapter four
Fweygo just went bull-headed for the Rapa. The fellow was one of those vulture-headed Rapas, blackly-feathered. His beaked face shocked in startlement, and no wonder. Suddenly, apparently from nowhere, two fighting men blocked him from carrying out this easy assignment. Fweygo roared in, his sword a bar of reflected light in the corridor lamps’ glow.
That left the two Brokelsh to me. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that Fweygo, a glorious golden Kildoi, would deal with the Rapa in extremely short order, and that was the more important of the two fights here.
Nandisha kept up her shrieking. “Help me! Help!”
There was just time to hear Fweygo bellow: “Rofi! Rolan! Stand out of the way—now!” Then I gave the nearest Brokelsh a clout over the head with the steel guarded hilt of the left hand dagger. He reeled away but did not fall. The other Brokelsh let go of the princess who incontinently collapsed. Her screaming died away to a low moaning as she cowered on the patterned marble.
The Brokelsh used a straight sword, the braxter of Balintol, and he was still surprised enough at our sudden arrival to be slow in his reactions. I should have spitted him there and then; but Nandisha, still moaning: “Help! Oh, Help me!” twined her arms about my legs as I stepped forward. She nearly had me over. The Brokelsh regained the initiative. He came at me with the sword snouting and cut at my head. I ducked and swayed back like a tree gripped fast by its roots blown savagely by a howling gale.
“Leggo, princess!”
“Help me!”
“I will if you'll leggo!”
The Brokelsh laughed nastily and I saw the way his eyes darted a glance past my shoulder, so I ducked again. I couldn't kick back but I swung the main gauche back in a flailing arc as far as I could. I felt it connect with a reasonably satisfying thump and heard the first Brokelsh let out another yelp. The rapier in my right fist switched the sneering Brokelsh's blade away; but I couldn't take the necessary step forward to run him through.
These two nasty pieces of work were wearing brass-studded leather armor. Just above the rim of the leather, right through the throat; that was the target.
Nandisha screamed some more and hugged me tight. Nearly toppling over I wriggled my body to keep some sort of balance. What a carry on! What a way for a tough old ruffianly warrior to fight!
A bubbling scream burst up at my back and was followed by a soggy sound of a body falling.
That was the fellow at my back attended to. Good old Fweygo!
A silver dazzlement of light streaked over my shoulder. The dagger embedded itself in the eye of the Brokelsh who was just about to leap forward and settle my hash once and for all.
He looked quite surprised—again. He folded up in the middle and then sank to his knees. He toppled forward quite slowly until the dagger hilt touched the marble. The blade went in a little further. He rolled over sideways and emitted a ghoulish grunt, as air was expelled from his lungs.
“I thought, Drajak,” said Fweygo in a most kindly fashion, “I really was beginning to think that you were getting the hang of fighting.” His tone of voice was soft and regretful—and cut like the sharpest sword that ever came out of the armories of Zenicce, cut to the quick, by Krun!
He stepped around the ludicrous statue-like pair of us, me fast gripped in the octopus-like wrapping of Nandisha's arms. He shook his head sorrowfully as he careful pulled his dagger free, using his considerable strength. He began to wipe the blade, still shaking that golden head of his thoughtfully.
�
��Y'know, Drajak, I can't understand why you don't use a proper sword. That rapier and dagger work, it's complicated, as I know only too well from my youth.”
I swallowed down hard. I said: “Would you kindly ask the princess to release her prisoner?”
He let out a low amused laugh. “This sword. It is a most splendid weapon, as I suspected when I first saw it in the market.”
That blade was a drexer, and it had been designed by Naghan the Gnat and me in my home in Esser Rarioch. The quality of the steel was so superior to the Krasny work weaponry of Tolindrin as to allow of no comparison. Fweygo had been most fortunate to find the drexer so far from its place of origin. There was a story in that, I knew; and most probably a damned sad story too, by Vox.
My unblooded weapons could be placed carefully on the marble. I bent down. “Princess.” I began to prise her fingers away from my legs. “If you will release me, please—”
Her tear-streaked face turned up and she looked at me in deep puzzlement. “What? Oh, it's you, Drajak.” She came to her senses, more or less. She looked around. The numim twins were helping their mother to rise. She shook herself and started towards the princess. Nandisha let out a tiny scream, quickly stifled.
“Serinka! You—what—you are all right?”
“Thank you, princess. Here, let me attend you.” With that Serinka, a most gracious numim lady, started to untwine Nandisha's octopus grip. I let out a breath. Fweygo gave me a most comical look, one golden eyebrow raised. There was no blood on the dagger he gripped in his tail hand. Of course, being a Kildoi, he had been able to draw the dagger from the eye of the Brokelsh and wipe the blade of his drexer at the same time. Apims like me, with only a miserable pair of arms and no tail hand, could not do those simple things any Kildoi did without thinking.
The numim lady assisted the apim princess to an overstuffed couch against the corridor wall. They talked quickly together, and both turned to ask at the same time what our news of the prince was. Fweygo said simply that he had not yet been found at The Clipped Rhok. Nandisha sank back, looking pale and weak, and Serinka chafed her hands. The two women did not enquire how it was we had so fortunately turned up to save them. For all they knew we could have left the tavern ages ago and walked quietly back. No doubt they expected to see Ranaj and his guardsmen soon.
Gangs of Antares [Dray Prescot #45] Page 3