Legions of Antares [Dray Prescot #25]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “So you can't get out of Ruathytu and you want me to do it for you. Here.” I handed across a goblet filled to the brim. “How do you expect me to do it, then? A magic zorca?"

  He looked at the wine and licked his lips again. His face was fuzzed with beard, drawn and dirty. The crossbow trembled.

  “Do you want the wine or not?"

  He crumbled. He put the crossbow down and reached for the wine. There was no hesitation on my part as he took the goblet.

  “My thanks, Jak. I have no one else to turn to."

  “You know how Nedfar has taken this?"

  “He will agree in the end. His high and mighty honor has been besmirched, that's what riles him. If he were like an ordinary man instead of a stuck-up prince it would be easy. As for that buffoon Thrangulf, I'll stick him if he crosses me."

  This Lobur before me now was a very different fellow from the Lobur I'd known before. I kicked the chest to the side.

  “We are going to Thefi now, Lobur. You'd better pray she is in good health and spirits. D'you forget Tyfar?"

  “No.” He finished his wine at a gulp. “I do not forget Tyfar!"

  Outside the quarters in the courtyard a little Och slave with only three arms who pushed a broom all day caused Lobur to jump and dodge into the shadows. I called the Och, and I put on the strong haughtily casual voice of your habitual hateful slave-handler.

  “Slave! Go at once to Hikdar Bonnu in Mathdi and tell him Jiktar Jak orders him to wait. He will receive a message. Is that clear?” I tossed a copper ob into the air.

  “Clear, master.” The Och spluttered out the words. He dropped his broom and caught the copper coin skillfully. He ran across the dusty courtyard.

  I said to Lobur, “You can come out now, Dagger—the little three-armed Och slave has gone.” Well, I was not feeling too happy about Lobur the Dagger. “We cannot delay. You do not know what those fellows of mine will get up too if I'm not around."

  “Then, for the sake of Havil, let us hurry!"

  He didn't know the half of it about hurrying, by Krun! Just as I had things organized; myself with ingress into the map room and my lads in Mathdi to cut up rough and perform a little mayhem and then join Seg, this idiot Lobur brought his passionate elopement into the picture. As they say, Men sow for Zair to reap.

  Through the fuzz I noticed how long and lean Lobur's chin looked, and the way the line of his lips twisted down and then up as he spoke. He looked both haunted and hunted.

  My first concern now must be for the safety and welfare of Thefi. It wasn't Lobur's fault he'd fallen in love with a girl whose hand, however willing she might be, he could win only by the most prodigious of efforts. As Tyfar had said in his gentle way, Lobur did not appear to be making any efforts. Once I was satisfied about Thefi, I could think about Lobur and the pair of them. If this is a priggish holier-than-thou attitude, then so be it. It was the way it was going to be, at least, for me.

  We found Thefi huddled on a pallet in a miserable garret with a holed roof and splintered floors, high in a warren off Fish Fin Street, leading down to the Havilthytus. The place possessed its own aroma. I do not care for fish. Thefi looked better than I'd feared. She started up as we entered, drawing a shawl about her. Her hair was combed, her face was clean, and the draggly old dress she wore was stitched and decent.

  “Jak! But—but—” Then, almost accusingly: “Lobur! You shouldn't have brought Jak into this. We could all be—"

  “Hush, Thefi! Jak is a friend. You remember the Moder? He will find us a voller, you'll see."

  I said, “Princess. You are well?"

  “Yes, yes. But we must get away—"

  Did this answer my unvoiced queries? Was Thefi heart and soul in this business? Some reticence about her could be easily explained by the circumstances and her natural fears. All the same, I fancied I detected a hesitation here.

  They explained that they were paying an extortionate amount to the rogue who owned the tenement, that Thefi had been unable to bring much cash, and that she had in the rush of their elopement dropped the bag containing her jewels. Someone had had a find, then. I passed across the bag I had with me, which contained enough to satisfy the landlord for a pair of sennights.

  “By Krun! He is charging you—but you had best stay here until I can arrange for your departure."

  “If Prince Nedfar gets wind of where we are—"

  “He will not from me, Lobur.” Then I looked directly at Thefi. “And you, princess?"

  She understood well enough what I was asking. She leaned her head back, and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

  “I did not think it would—would be like this."

  There was nothing else I could get from her, short of asking outright and thus precipitating a nasty scene with Lobur. I promised to return with news, again assured them of my best will, and told them not to take any foolish chances. My warnings were unnecessary; but they served to emphasize the plight Thefi found herself in.

  Then, just as I was leaving, Lobur said, “You are captain of a voller. If we can reach Pandahem I have a good friend there. He will do anything for us. You will be rewarded."

  “Pandahem, is it, Lobur? Well, I'm not in this for reward."

  “No. No, of course not, Jak. I should have realized."

  During this short and uneasy conversation Lobur stood by the door on the alert. This grasping landlord would spy on them if he could. They had told him they were Nath and Natema hiding from Nath's outraged wife. Once the fellow understood she was Princess Thefi, daughter of Prince Nedfar, he'd be off to collect his reward like a bolt from an arbalest. They took care.

  Joining with this subterfuge, I pulled my scarf up around my face, and calling, “Remberee, Nath, Natema,” I blundered down the rickety stairs and out onto Fish Fin Street. The scarf—it was a green flamanch with yellow borders—served double duty here, for it also filtered out some of the odors.

  When I trotted out my orders in the stateroom of Mathdi, Bonnu screwed up his face. His head went up.

  “As they say—to hear is to obey. But, in this—!"

  “I know, Bonnu. The lads are spoiling for a fight. But they'll get all the fighting they want when they serve with Kov Seg. Mark my words!"

  As just about all the Quoffas and krahniks, as superior draught animals, were pulling government equipment, I had to employ a lopsided mytzer whose low-slung body shuffled along on nine instead of his ration of ten legs all moving in unison. He hauled a two-wheeled cart on which my gear was piled. His driver was a Relt, whose beaked miserable face showed patches of missing feathers where his master had taken a crop to him with too heavy a hand. We presented an odd spectacle, I daresay, a strapping dwa-Jiktar of the Hamalian Air Service marching at the rear of a bouncy little cart hauled by a poor tradesman's mytzer. For all that, these animals give excellent service and have splendid pulling power. We trundled along the busy streets of Ruathytu en route for Prince Nedfar's villa where I was to be quartered as his newest aide.

  Reposing confidence in ship-Hikdar Bonnu, and knowing that for the moment there was nothing I could do about the Lobur-Thefi situation, I could let those events for the moment hang fire—an expression not found on Kregen yet, thank Zair. I could concentrate on getting into the map room of the palace.

  This was an odd experience.

  Rather naturally, I was not Nedfar's only aide. As a prince with a mind of his own, who had shown that he did not always see eye to eye with the empress, he yet wielded immense powers. His uprightness and strength of character endeared him to many Hamalese, and brought contumely on his head from the more fanatical of Thyllis's adherents. There were four of us in the skiff as we were rowed across the Havilthytus toward the artificial island. The palace reared, stark and somber and yet spired and turreted, a masterpiece of Kregan architecture, giving off an aura of splendor and pomp, and of chill horror.

  The other two aides were nobles both, Strom Nath and Trylon Handur, youngish men with their careers to m
ake, wealthy, resplendent with health and fancy uniforms, adept with weapons, and alike—almost—as two peas in a pod. But they were not buffoons, and they knew their duties. Nedfar would not have bothered with them had they not been competent.

  I was dressed up in a fine ornate uniform of blue with green trimmings and with much gold lace and feathers. The thing itched abominably. But it would serve as a passport. The skiff touched the green-slimed gray stones and we let Nedfar jump out first. Always, I had to quell that instinctive movement to be first to leave a boat, last to enter. The sentries stiffened into bronze and iron statues and we went through the iron-bound gates and so entered Hammabi el Lamma.

  Everything breathed opulence. The passageways would have taken three zorca chariots abreast. The ceilings were high enough for voller aerobatics. Marble and gold and dudinter smothered the walls. Curtains and drapes hung in artful folds, and the tapestries must have been worth millions. The fusty smell of a vast hive of people could not take away the impression of grandeur. We marched along like ants. Guards, sentries, paktuns, officers of all the armed services, stylors and slaves passed and repassed amid a continuous murmur of thousands of voices. I kept tag of the way we went by counting the enormous jars of Pandahem ware that stood, smothered in flowers, at every corner and angle. Truly, the place was a labyrinth of wealth.

  We passed a party of women all beautifully dressed and who were neat and competent and feminine in the way Kregan ladies are. Nedfar stopped for a few words with their grand dame, who smiled and was gracious, her hair done up with pearls, her dress a blue and silver marvel. When he rejoined us, Nedfar said:

  “Kovneva Dorena, a most powerful lady, charming and understanding. They are here as a delegation to offer their jewels in Hamal's dark days."

  I perked up at mention of dark days for Hamal. Like most folk, I was in the dark as to the true situation, and the darker it was for Hamal the brighter for the allies. All the same, I vowed that all this nonsense of dark and bright would be swept away once the war was over. We had, as a united Paz, to face the dreaded Shanks.

  More guards saluted and we passed through corridor after corridor. Far below lay the dungeons and the cells where once I had languished. As for the Hall of Notor Zan, we did not go near that somber place. Thyllis's throne room with its horrible syatra pit lay in a different wing as we climbed the last flight of marble stairs to the military planning wing. I felt a tremble along my limbs. The famous moorn vew, the map room, lay only a few paces ahead. After all this, would there be nothing of value to my friends on those jealously guarded maps?

  And then we three aides halted in an anteroom and Nedfar said, “Amuse yourselves for a bur or two.” He strode off, upright, purposeful, his desperate concern for his daughter thrust aside in his concern for his country.

  I just stared. I had to close my mouth.

  I turned to Trylon Handur, who walked across to a side table for the wine. “Trylon—do we not accompany the prince?"

  Handur looked over his shoulder. He was casual. “No. He has gone to the map room. We are not allowed in there."

  Somehow or other I was still standing there, my face politely blank, still the perfect aide. Somehow or other I was not rushing madly after Nedfar, and shouldering past, and hurtling into the room where the secrets of our enemy's dispositions were revealed. Perhaps they were, perhaps they were not. But I was still standing there, starting to look around for the wine, still dwa-Jiktar Jak the Shot. How it was done escapes me.

  Strom Nath followed me. “I wish this unfortunate business over the prince's daughter had not occurred just now.” I roused myself and we reached for wineglasses together. “The prince is the chief hope of Hamal. That gretchuk empire of Vallia is very strong—"

  “But we are stronger, Nath,” said Trylon Handur.

  “Oh, yes. But there is Hyrklana and the Dawn Lands, too—"

  Double doors at the side of the room opened as the Chulik guards drew the valves aside and a messenger ran in. He ran. He was splashed with mud and had wisps of grass in his hair, so we surmised he'd come a cropper. His blue uniform, that of the messenger corps of the Air Service, was ripped. He said to Trylon Handur, “An urgent signal, Trylon—” He handed across an oilskin-sealed packet.

  Randur took it, put his glass down, ran across to the smaller door in the corner where two Chuliks opened it as he arrived. He vanished inside. The messenger fell into a chair.

  Strom Nath handed him wine and he tossed it off in a gulp.

  Presently, the messenger said, “It will be no secret soon. Kapt Hlandli ham Therdun has been beaten. His army is in ruins and streaming back from Hallandlad."

  Now this was news! Ruathytu lies some one thousand miles south of the north coast, and Hallandlad is fair and square halfway between. The army was Seg's, that had won the victory. He was forced to march most of the way, for we had nowhere near enough aerial transport. He would leapfrog what regiments he could, of course; but the danger of that was being caught by detachments. The messenger went on speaking, and from what he did not say I gathered Seg had made use of the natural capacity in military matters of his opposing general, this Kapt Hlandli ham Therdun. He'd sucked ham Therdun into the belief Seg was overextended, the Hamalese had attacked, screeching their war cry of “Hanitch! Hanitch!” and Seg had dumped the bulk of his army on them from a great height. I gloated.

  Trylon Handur came out of that small door and handed Strom Nath a message packet. “For Kapt Naghan. He is to move at once."

  Now here was the dilemma. I now knew that Naghan was to take his army, held in reserve in Ruathytu, north to attack Seg. But there was no way I could warn him of this. What the hell had happened to Deb-Lu-Quienyin? I shuddered to believe the obvious. That devil Phu-Si-Yantong had used his enormous powers and forced Deb-Lu onto the defensive, unable to use his own kharrna to communicate with me.

  Handur shook his head in admiration. “The prince is a marvel! This disastrous news, and he checks the maps—which we are not allowed to see—writes, and gives his orders. With his worries about his daughter, he knows exactly the right plan to smash these damned Vallian invaders."

  I said, “He is indeed a marvel. All the same, this is not the great plan that will save Hamal altogether."

  “Oh, no. But that exists. Everyone knows that."

  If I couldn't get into that map room soon I fancied I'd burst!

  Six tall windows each side of the double doors let in light. I strolled across—seething!—and looked out. A landing platform here had been built high against the wall, with the sky above and a nasty drop below. On the platform were ranked a number of courier vollers. To one side and neatly segregated stood perching towers for mirvols and scratching bars for fluttcleppers and volcleppers. The vollers were all just about the same, small two-place jobs with a van-like rear. They were all-over green in color and along their sides and sterns painted in yellow-gold was the word courier.

  I rubbed my chin. Now one of those vollers would serve Lobur and Thefi a treat. Also, one would get me through to Seg or Drak later in the game. A landing platform to be borne in mind, then...

  The guards out there were mostly apims; but there were Chuliks and Khibils and a couple of Rapas. There were no Pachaks I could see. Inside this anteroom the guards stood woodenly at their doors, opening them when necessary, and by the time I'd dealt with them all, reinforcements would come pelting in in overwhelming numbers.

  The door in the fourth wall opened and a crowd of aides to other members of the high command jostled through. They'd been eating heavily and drinking well, for we with Nedfar were late arrivals. The uproar of laughter and conversation filled the anteroom. No doubt some of the high command would be members of the Nine Faceless Ones of Hamal who directed many affairs and particularly appointed nobles to the production of vollers. The news of the disastrous Battle of Hallandlad sobered the boisterous aides. For my part, I knew that the colors of my regiments in the battle would bear the honor embroidered in gold thread. Si
nk me else!

  Shortly thereafter a deal of coming and going ensued as fresh orders were written and sent off. Ruathytu would be like a beehive tonight. This was to the good. If men were drawn off to the north they could not reinforce the armies facing the invasions from east and south.

  When an aide was required from the group waiting a man would come out of that small door and bellow his name. This man presented a singular appearance, for he was blind. He wore a silly over-ornate uniform and a velvet cap with a feather; but his legs were chained so that he could just walk and not run. He carried a yellow stick with a bronze head, with which he felt along the walls and floor, although long custom in this occupation had given him a sure sense of direction.

  “Trylon Handur!” he shouted in a parade-ground bellow. He must have been an old warrior, blinded in action, and now peculiarly suited for this work. Handur started up and ran through the door.

  No doubt because of the seriousness of the news and the tenseness of the atmosphere in the anteroom, so far not one of the aides had strolled over to inspect the new aide. Among a certain type of noble—no less in Vallia than Hamal—the desire to bully and humiliate inferiors and new acquaintances is an old and nauseating phenomenon. I was in no mood to be temperate; but I did keep myself to myself, over by the windows.

  When Handur reappeared he carried the oilskin packet that was the hallmark of the messengers’ trade. I had to take it to the Chuktar of the artillery park over in the soldiers’ quarter, north of the river. “Take a messenger voller,” said Handur. “And be quick. The packet cannot be entrusted to anyone else."

  I nodded and taking the packet went out through the double doors. The Jiktar on duty pointed out a voller and pilot I might use. The green-painted craft with the yellow-gold lettering looked flimsy; but she was fast with rakish lines. Her pilot settled at the controls and we were off.

  He was a cheerful sort who invariably began any sentence with a little laugh. His fair hair blew about. He said his one desire was for the war to finish, as he had no enmity for Vallia, having been there and liking the place. He told me he was called Bonzo, although that was not his name. One day, I surmised, when he scraped up enough courage to disdain the job in which he found himself, he would make his mark upon the world. In this I was right.