Legions of Antares [Dray Prescot #25]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Perhaps when I reached Djanduin and flew to the capital, Djanguraj, and touched down in the court of the Stux of Zodjuin in the palace there, our Wizards of Loh might have freer access.

  The folk of Windy Djanguraj welcomed us as only Djangs can.

  The immensely ferocious four-armed Dwadjangs and the shrewd two-armed Obdjangs with their pert gerbil-faces might be no rivals in the twin fields of war and diplomacy; they are well-matched when it comes to entertaining guests and comrades. For a moment I allowed the tensions and worries to slip away. If I felt any guilt I looked at that question squarely and decided that the campaign was running smoothly, I was not indispensable, and I needed to spend time with my people of Djanduin.

  Kytun Kholin Dom did his usual trick. His upper left arm enfolded me, his lower left thumped me on the back, his upper right hand gripped my own right hand and his lower right fist tattooed against my ribs. I gripped and hammered back with my half of his equipment. By Djan! It was good to be back in Djanduin!

  Ortyg Fellin Coper, his whiskers dancing, forced himself into the melee to greet me, and his wife Sinkie threw herself on me. Oh, yes, this was coming home with a vengeance.

  We went through the outrageous extravaganza of Djang celebrations, with processions and bonfires and torchlights and enormous mountains of food and rushing rivers of wine. The people yelled themselves hoarse. I went everywhere and saw everyone and felt great comfort in the prosperity of the country. The local enemy, the Gorgrens, would not be a threat again for some time. They would come back, in the end, for they are a malignant lot and pose problems of unity.

  “And so we march against Hamal, Dray?"

  “Aye."

  “You speak with a heavy heart,” said O. Fellin Coper. He brushed his whiskers, his face concerned, alert, one of the controlling minds of the country, my co-regent with Kytun.

  “I think of the price we will pay—for megalomania."

  K. Kholin Dom swelled his massive ribcage, and his magnificent simpleness revealed itself as he said, “We do not often venture from Djanduin, but we have certain news of what these Hamalese are up to. They will not stop by themselves. The only sure way of stopping them is to stop them ourselves.” He picked up a flagon and held it. “No, Ortyg, no, you are right. The king has a heavy heart, as do we all for the fine fighting men who will die. But if this sacrifice is not made, far worse will follow.” Then he let rip a yell which brought all the faces along the tables up to stare at us. “By Zodjuin of the Silver Stux! Here is to Notor Prescot, King of Djanduin, and hell and damnation to all our foes!"

  I lowered my eyelids as the deafening roar of approbation broke in the banqueting hall. With Djangs at a fellow's back, what is there to fear from mortal men on Kregen?

  Enough, by Zair, as you shall hear...

  Through the following days we discussed plans. Rather, we elaborated and refined The Plan. For, in Djan's own truth, there was but the one ploy open to us, and chancy though it might be and dangerous, it offered a rapid end to bloodshed. And when it comes to a gamble in war, there is no one like a Djang to snatch up the challenge with a fearsome shout of laughter. The regiments were inspected and the fliers and flyers of the Air Services. The four-armed Djangs are among the most impressive of fighting men on Kregen, their prowess immeasurable among their peer; and for all that they are little known outside the southwest corner of Havilfar, for they keep themselves to themselves. They are not the brightest of strategists. Point them in the right direction and start them going, and very little will stop them. It is the gerbil-faced Obdjangs who are the brains of the country, and the two races love each other and work together splendidly.

  I might add that my crew of rascally fighting men in Mathdi were most polite during their stay in Djanduin, and Bonnu kept them well in hand.

  During all my adventures over Kregen I had always, as you know, taken every opportunity to write to the places on that terrible and beautiful world of special interest to me, and Kytun and Ortyg were up to date with news. As a consequence of that they had been in communication with Valka, where many Djangs trained up Valkans to fly flutduins, and had employed Valkans—and Vallians—in work more suited to apims. This was how they knew of affairs in Hamal. Reports came in during that time bringing the latest information on the progress of the invasions, of the incursions of the wild men over the Mountains of the West. In many of these reports the name of Prince Tyfar was prominent.

  I said to Ortyg and Kytun, “Listen, my friends. This Prince Tyfar. He is a great man. He is no enemy, for he shares our dream of uniting all Paz.” I stretched the truth here a little, but it was true, even if not yet spelled out. “We will never raise hand against him or his father, Prince Nedfar."

  “Then if he brings his army against us?"

  I frowned. “I do not know for a surety. But I do not think he will desert his post. The wild men are a pest."

  They nodded. And I knew what they were thinking. If anybody—anybody—tried to fight me or them, the Djangs would be ruthless in protecting me and themselves. Selah!

  Then, as though continuing a thought begun in his head, Ortyg said, “This Empire of Hamal is a rich country, enormously wealthy. We can live off the land if we have to. But—our vollers remain unreliable, as ever."

  “At least they are vollers,” I said. “The Vallians are using enormous fleets of sailers of the skies. Their vorlcas must use the winds. And there have been some fair old battles along the lines of communication. Yes, we live off Hamal. We'd never be able to invade at all if we could not."

  This point seemed the appropriate one for me to apprise them of my intentions.

  “Mathdi will be going back to Kov Seg and Prince Drak and King Jaidur and then around to Dav Olmes and that oddball collection of Dawn Lands armies.” The word was not oddball, being a Kregish word, but that fits. They are a rum bunch in the Dawn Lands, by Krun. “Then she'll be coming back to you for the assault."

  “And you, Dray?"

  “I'm going to deprive you of a single-place flier. I am for Ruathytu."

  “Burn the place down,” grunted Kytun.

  “But leave the treasury,” said Ortyg.

  That was my Djangs, to the life.

  At that point in the preparations there were three separate plans in operation, each resting on the shoulders of the one preceding. Maybe it was a pretty notion that the simple plan of the Hamalese high command should be used to confound itself; if we failed all Hamal would gloat in our discomfiture. As for us, well, a lot of us would be dead.

  They'd heard down in Djanduin of Pundhri the Serene, the philosopher I had rescued at the behest of the Star Lords. They approved of his work and teachings, for neither Dwadjang nor Obdjang was apim, and I realized that perhaps I had underestimated not only Pundhri's importance but the acumen of the Everoinye. Here was a focal point for the future, a strong motivation for the realization of the dreams I had for all of Paz.

  There were tremendous scenes as I boarded the little single-place voller. I observed the fantamyrrh in the sight of the people and their noise shook the stones of the palace. The ruby and jade lights of the Suns of Scorpio in their streaming mingled radiance bathed the sea of faces uplifted to the landing platform. I looked down and lifted my arm in salute. They were yelling in unison now, chanting it out.

  “Notor Prescot, King of Djanduin! Jikai!” Then, as the voller lifted: “Remberee, Notor Prescot! Remberee!"

  “Remberee!” I bellowed down, and turned my face away up to the sky. What it is to have folk like the Djangs as friends!

  A damned sight better than having them as foes, believe me.

  Everything was drawing together beautifully. Always, something goes wrong with the best of plans, naturally, given the contrary nature of the fates or chance or skill that rule our lives; but short of a major catastrophe we had set up the situation so as to gain the most advantage from any eventuality. The flier soared up and away from Djanduin, heading north and east, and on course for Hamal not by
the most direct route but by the safest. My reading of the situation was that it would be criminal of me to take a chance now when I flew a voller that might break down at any moment. So the dwaburs to Hamal were eaten up and the expectations rose in me headily.

  What a vision! To encompass the downfall of Empress Thyllis and to make of Hamal an ally in the greater struggles ahead! Slung over my back I wore hidden under my cloak a Krozair longsword, one of those I now attempted to have stored in places where I had friends and where I might turn up in need. Djanguraj now had an armory of Krozair longswords—rather, swords made in Djanduin by Wil of the Bellows, after the pattern of Krozair longswords. Believe me when I say that I, a Brother of the Krozairs of Zy, took thankful comfort from the feel of that superb brand snugged close to my body. A tug, a twist, a cunning draw—and the blade would flame free in a heartbeat.

  As I hurtled on over the face of Kregen under the Suns of Scorpio, I felt convinced the Krozair brand would play a part in the dangers ahead. By Zair! I tremble to think that, had I known—had I but known!—the nature of the horror that lurked waiting for me in Ruathytu, I would have turned the voller in the air and flown away, anywhere away from the capital city of Hamal.

  * * *

  Chapter twenty

  The Empress Thyllis of Hamal

  Far-reaching changes had taken place in Ruathytu during my absence, for I had been away some time as the invading armies approached the capital. For one thing, Pundhri the Serene was in the city and preaching, for the exposition of his philosophy approached the preacher's art and fire. For another, only the great Arena remained in use; slaves had become too valuable to slaughter by the carload as in the old days. The number of fighting men had increased significantly, both mercenaries and swods of the iron legions. Also, aerial strength was marked by its absence. Here were clear signs of the high command's plan in operation. Seg would have to face the final onslaught and face many more adversaries than we had calculated.

  The odd and annoying outcome of the Star Lords’ instructions to rescue Pundhri worked to our disadvantage, however meritorious the end in view. Now that diffs were no longer regarded with contumely, the ranks of Hamal's fighting formations were filling with them. Pundhri took much of that credit, together with a general revulsion of feeling against racism. I approved; but it was making life difficult for the allies, by Krun.

  Not caring to frequent the haunts where I was known as Jak, I spent a few days as Hamun ham Farthytu, and realized afresh how easy it would be to sink into the ways of life of the Sacred Quarter. I saw and kept out of the way of that stupid boorish Trylon with whom I'd had a run in at The Fluttrell Feather in Thalansen. Inquiries elicited the information that he was Horgil Hunderd, Trylon of Deep Valley, still enormously wealthy, a womanizer, an upstart, and here to present the three regiments of paktuns he had raised to the empress.

  One of the more disturbing sights abroad—at least to me—was the numbers of Katakis everywhere employed. Katakis are a nasty race of diffs, low-browed, fierce and savage of aspect, armed with long whiplike tails to which they strap six niches of bladed steel. Their main joy in life, it is said, is inflicting pain, they are sworn at as jibrfarils, and their main occupation is slaving. They were here to chain up the remnants of the armies invading Hamal after the Hamalese had won.

  A few theaters remained open and I saw a performance of The Queen's Secret, an anonymous play written only three hundred seasons or so ago. It is in my opinion overvalued; but it was better than the populist blood-thumpers dished up everywhere to drum up morale. I spent one evening in The Chuktar Hofardu, an inn named for a long-dead Hamalese kampeon, where I learned a deal of the grass-roots opinions of the swods and something of their morale, and where we finished up the night singing the old songs. Odd, singing songs with swods again in Ruathytu. We went through “When the Fluttrell Flirts His Wing” and “Chuktar's Orders” and “The Chulik's Bent Tusk.” We rollicked out “Sogandar the Upright and the Sylvie” and we all had No Idea At All, at all, No idea at all, and the laughter threatened the rafters. Damned odd, when very soon I'd be leading warriors to fight and slay these warriors who sang with me.

  I steered clear of The Scented Sylvie and other like places. Ruathytu was bubbling nicely, and news of the various invasion columns was that they continued their advance, living off the land and fighting off attacks on their communications. Not long now...

  The temple of Werl-am-Nardith by the Hirrume Gate had been beautifully embellished within, and as I passed by on a morning of high cloud with the suns of Antares striking glints of ruby and jade from every cornice and dome, Black Sadrap hailed me.

  We shook hands and then Rollo the Circle waddled over. He was, if anything, even larger of stomach.

  “I am pleased to see you, Zaydo! We're all finished here and what do you think of our news?"

  I managed a smile, for I was pleased to see Rollo and his band of wandering artists. I didn't know his news; but when he told me I was dutifully impressed.

  “The Empress of all Hamal has commanded us! We are to decorate some of her glorious chambers! I tell you, Zaydo, this will be the making of us."

  “My congratulations.” I did not add that he might be very lucky to be paid. Thyllis would have the work done and spend the money on her mercenaries and fob Rollo off with a title. She had been distributing patents of nobility lavishly in these latter days. Well, perhaps Rollo knew that, and calculated that to be a greater advantage. We talked in the suns light and then we went for a wet and I had to keep up the Zaydo role, and, in fine, I got myself a job assisting in mixing paint and carrying ladders and scaffolding and generally being useful.

  I seized the opportunity.

  By Vox! This was capital!

  Now the Krozair longsword I wore hidden under my cloak had been built with quillons just wide enough to afford proper protection to the hands. We had built a few examples with quillons which folded forward along the blade, and by the press of a stud would spring out into place. Wil of the Bellows pursed up his lips at these, and wiped his hands on his leather apron, saying “Well, I would not like to trust those if a particularly powerful blow is struck full against them, by Zodjuin of the Sword, no!"

  So I had this example. But it was clearly not going to be easy for me to scuttle up and down ladders carrying pots of paint with a great bar of steel over my back.

  The artists were assigned quarters in some moldering sheds in a little-used court to the east of the Hammabi el Lamma, near the point of the artificial island. There was the usual fuss from the sentries in allowing us ingress; but after a sennight we became a part of the furnishings, and could come and go with our aprons all the colors of the rainbow, and paint in our hair and daubing our faces. I made sure my face was wonderfully streaked with color. Carrying a ladder or a length of plank enabled a fellow to wander past the sentries with a familiar: “Lahal, dom!” and some comment on the progress of the factions in the Jikhorkdun. Majordomos showed us the chambers to be decorated, a complex in a side corridor from the throne room which Thyllis was bringing back into use.

  There was every reason to refuse to allow myself to become excited. Yes, I was in Thyllis's palace. I was near her infernal throne room with the manhounds snarling on the steps, and her diabolical syatra pit. A deal more useful would have been to be near the map room...

  Among all the paraphernalia of the artists’ equipment there were ample hiding places for the longsword and I got into the habit of keeping it handy wrapped in a length of paint-stained sacking. Among the medley of paints and pots and ladders and boxes it passed unnoticed. The reasons for this are easy to discern—the reasons for my wanting the Krozair brand handy...

  The combination of arms into which the allies against Hamal had entered creaked along with many hitches and holdups. But the plans did progress and, thanks be to Zair, there were no major disasters. The day of the Seeking after Truth, as they say in the Risslaca Hork in Balintol, drew nearer with every suns rise. At the time I f
ancied that what next occurred was purest coincidence; very soon thereafter I was disabused of that paltry notion.

  The high command's plans appeared to be working, for they had checked a number of our weaker columns and only Seg's army pressed on. We kept abreast of the news, and I was aware of the mounting tension. Damned uneasy it all was, too, knowing that Seg gambled with the deaths of thousands of good men, and with his own death, also. His army had been reinforced and was stronger than the Hamalese knew, and our aerial forces were massed ready to hit the enemy as they pounced. When Seg halted to give battle short of Ruathytu, the expressions of surprise amongst the Hamalese amused me. Good old Seg!

  At this stage of this macabre dance of death Kytun and Seg would be in constant communication. Unless I heard to the contrary then, the day on which Rollo the Circle planned to paint the ceiling of Thyllis's Chamber of the Chemzite Graints would be the day when that ceiling might collapse in tiles and plaster.

  On that evening which ought to be the last evening of the old order in Hamal, Thyllis held a levee in her throne room for the forces who would march out. They would hit Seg with almost everything they had, and yet they would still leave forces inside the city, for the high command were not novices at war. I cleaned myself up, put on a neat dark blue tunic over the old scarlet breechclout, gray trousers and ankle boots of soft leather proved comfortable, and the silver-gray fur edging of the green cape was suitably foppish. That cape was cut both high and low and concealed the longsword. I buckled up rapier and dagger and, not wearing a hat, sallied forth wearing a quite different face I calculated I could hold for some time without too much discomfort. Joining the army officers and commanders of the paktuns, and looking grim and stern and remote, I went with them along to the throne room. It was easy enough, and I felt reassured that it was not too easy, for I dodged the sentries carrying out their checks by the simple expedient of temporarily assuming the face of a fellow in the crowd to the rear. I do not know if he got in or if they threw him out; certainly there was no fuss.