Scorpio Triumph [Dray Prescot #43]

by Alan Burt Akers

  The rapier I'd borrowed from the cadade Romano had been handed back and I'd repossessed the little curved sword. The crowbar was hung on my belt. Seg had given that a look, and said nothing, hoping, I knew, to tantalize me by his incuriousness.

  I said: “As soon as Milsi gets back, Seg, would you ask her to ask the queen for my gear? That conniving bitch Licria took it all. As a princess, she's bad news. If she knocks the queen off and becomes a Queen of Pain herself, we could be in for a great deal of trouble.”

  “Milsi has sized her up. The little Licria will find herself in more trouble than she can handle if she doesn't behave.”

  These few words gave me a deal of comfort. Milsi, as the Queen of Croxdrin, I felt, had experience in dealing with unruly princesses.

  We reached the tent and there stood before the opening a young fellow from First Emperor's Life Churgurs. His frame was broad and powerful, his head small by comparison. He was young, the down still on his cheeks. He held himself rigidly upright, shield with the brave devices and spear at exactly the correct angles. His whole demeanor spoke of a young fellow drilled and disciplined, and anxious and willing to live up to the expectations formed of him. My lads kept the Guard Corps regiments well filled up, and this likely lad would fill in splendidly for the future.

  About to pass him with my usual greeting, I stopped. I didn't know him. He'd been told about me, that I knew. I looked at him and he flushed painfully clear up to his forehead under the brim of his helmet. He'd have soft brown Vallian hair. His freckles stood out as though someone had splattered his young face with red ink.

  I said: “Your name, jurukker?”

  “Nath, Nath the Tumbs, if it please you, majister.”

  So easily then I could have blasted his ears off. What kind of way was that for a jurukker, a tough guardsman, to speak? I clamped my lips shut and I heard Seg move at my back. I spoke in a flat and neutral tone.

  “Nath the Tumbs. You are a valued member of my Guard Corps. You have certain privileges not accorded others. You do not need to call me majister. To my swods of the guard I am their Kendur. You call me Kendur, or jis.” His face was now almost all red ink. “You never speak as a slave speaks—you know damn well we do not have slaves in Vallia.”

  “Yes, jis.”

  I asked him a few more questions—where his home was, how long he'd been in the Life Churgurs, how his mother and father fared, simple questions. I refuse to feel shame at this shameless manipulation. I did not ask simply because I was supposed to be a great ruler, and condescended to his people—oh, no. Every single swod in the army was precious to me. At last I said: “Very good, Nath. I compliment you on your turn out. Carry on like this and very soon you'll be a Deldar, no doubt of it.”

  “Quidang, jis—thank you.”

  So when I went into the tent Seg said: “He'll get himself killed now because he's a Life Churgur and—”

  “I know, Seg. It is necessary for the good of Paz—and that means the people, including that young Nath's mother and father—that fine young fellows like him fight the enemies of Paz.” I bashed a fist into my palm. “Don't you think I'd love to finish with all this fighting and destruction and send all the lads home and go back to Esser Rarioch with Delia?”

  “You don't have to convince me, my old dom. Except—well, the old sweats in the corps have one home only, and that is in the Guard Corps.”

  “Yes, and that young Nath will grow into their ways. Oh, sure, he'll willingly die for me. I'd sooner he lived for me.”

  Seg started to take off his armor and we let that conversation lapse. My chiefs of the Guard Corps selected likely well set-up young lads and trained them hard, devilishly hard, by Vox. The traditions of the corps held old hares and red necks in a unity of purpose and dedication. What Seg said about the kampeons of the different regiments knowing only one home was absolutely correct. Everything they did was centered on their unit within the Guard Corps. Well, the whole impressive organization had been set up by my comrades in the first instance to keep any daggers out of my back. With the passage of time more regiments had been added to the original Sword Watch and then the Yellow Jackets, ELC, EFB, EZB, ERV, and others in the pipeline together with artillery batteries and medical and supply columns. That original notion had not been mine and for a time I'd been troubled by the creation of an elite force within the army and subsequently had done all I could to meld all the parts together. Another elite force, of course, was Nath na Kochwold's Phalanx. I had taken the decision not to incorporate a Phalanx unit within the Guard Corps. The Vallian Army co-operated well, and we had fostered that spirit of mutual help and comradeship.

  The news of my return had gone out and one by one the search parties marched in. As you may imagine there were many scenes of reunion as I greeted my comrades old and new. As for Delia—I held her close, close!—and not for the first time wondered why on Kregen I was such a fool as ever to leave her. Milsi and Sasha showed their relief that I was safe and very quickly thereafter a bunch of Delia's Jikai Vuvushis stalked in led by Milsi. They carried my gear. Milsi smiled a smile that was almost a smirk.

  “The queen indicated to me, my dear Dray, that she was not happy with the young madam.”

  “Oh, yes,” amplified Sasha, bending her head under the tent roof. “That little she-leem needs her claws clipped.”

  “That will not be an easy job.” I sounded serious, and both beautiful women lost their smiles at my tone. “She is dangerous. If she has the queen assassinated and takes over—look out for squalls.”

  “This grizzly graint of a husband is right. But I think,” said Delia, “that we have a Princess's Swordsman to bring on that will surprise her most splendidly.” In the game of Jikaida the Princess's Swordsman can be brought on at the last extremity when the opponent is about to capture the princess—as the game is played in LionardDen, known as Jikaida City. My friends had been regaled by my tales of what had happened to me there—and by the missing tail hand of Mefto the Kazzur I'd been a very lucky fellow. Here in Loh, the piece called the king or princess would be termed the queen. So Delia's comment was apt, even if it brought up a few hairy memories to me.

  “If you mean me—” I began.

  “Oh, no, Dray!” Milsi had her secret smile back now. “Oh, no.”

  “You might as well know what we know.” Delia brushed a hand through her brown hair where the pearly light through the tent opening brought out those outrageous tints of auburn. “Your friend Mevancy has a scheme.”

  I looked at Delia's forearms where the pricks made by Mevancy's darts were fast healing. I shuddered, deep down, and merely nodded.

  “Mevancy is a funny girl,” said Sasha. “But I think she's as nice as Milsi says.”

  “Yes,” said Seg. “And now you've got your gear back, my old dom, perhaps you'd tell us—”

  “Yes,” put in Inch. “That crowbar?”

  I laughed and told them, whereat they laughed, too.

  All the same, as I drew up the brave old scarlet breechclout and fastened the dulled silver buckle of the lesten hide belt, I did feel better for that. The drexer and rapier swung on their own belts at my left side, the main gauche went on the right and a hefty knife snugged over my right hip. The Krozair longsword and the Lohvian longbow and quiver could be snatched up in an instant and strapped on. So, by Zair, I felt equipped again. All the same, that jolly old crowbar had served nobly in the office of hikdar.

  As for Mevancy's scheme, if I asked her and she did not wish to confide in me, she wouldn't tell. She considered herself the leader in our dealings for the Star Lords, and as a kregoinya she showed fire and spirit so I willingly went along with that notion.

  When, somewhat diffidently, I mentioned to Delia that she might like to break the astonishing news to Queen Satra that her empire had blown with the wind, she laughed and looked affectionately at Milsi.

  “Oh, I think Milsi has the queen's ear.”

  “It does seem so,” said Milsi. She sounded surprised
it should be so.

  “If that's settled, then, thank you, Milsi.” I own I felt relieved the matter was going to be handled with tact.

  “She wants to know all about what happened, Dray. I expect we'll be invited to dinner tonight. I'll go along and find out.”

  “A good time,” Seg nodded. “We'll all be there and can confirm the preposterous story.”

  Later on when Milsi returned she said the dinner invitation had been immediately extended. Then she added: “That unpleasant Trylon Ge-fu-Schian will also be there.”

  “And,” said Seg, glancing at his wife.

  “Oh, yes. The little madam will be there, never fear.”

  “Well, now,” said Delia in her most charming way. “I really believe we can all look forward to a most pleasant dinner engagement tonight!”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter five

  “A most interesting tale, Milsi, dear. Absolutely fascinating.”

  “But it is all true—”

  “Oh, come now! I love a good fairy story. I positively dote on them. But, naturally, one cannot believe them, can one?”

  Queen Satra, plump and dumpy, her white hair jutting forward in a widow's peak, leaned forward on one dimpled elbow. Her round face with its little pink mouth from one corner of which peeped the tip of a tooth bore the faintest trace of a flush. Her dark brilliant eyes sized up Milsi as she spoke so quietly and insistently.

  “Whatever gods you wish me to swear on—”

  “Really, Milsi! You shouldn't go so far!”

  Delia said smoothly: “It is a strange story, majestrix, strange and true.”

  “You all confirm what Milsi says, I hear you. But you are all Vallians. I suspect this is wishful thinking.”

  Trylon Ge-fu-Schian laughed a scornful bark of contempt.

  “Vallians would swear on any god or spirit and forget in the next instant. Treat them as they deserve, my queen.”

  He was a well-fleshed fellow, and had eaten and drunk his fill. There was plenty of food down here in the Realm of the Drums when you knew where to find it. He wore lounging robes of dazzling cut and color, all oranges and reds, with far too much gold. Rings loaded his fingers. Yet he looked to be a fighting man, well set-up, harsh, with a sallow face and a twist to his mouth that—at least to me—indicated he didn't care how many people he thrust through or how many heads he lopped off.

  He carried a curved dagger in an unwholesomely decorated sheath. We Vallians wore our rapiers and left hand daggers, which indicated the power wielded by Satra, an authority vested in her guards standing alertly by door and canvas walls.

  “When we reach the surface, the facts will be proved.” Delia continued to speak calmly. She did not look at me.

  “The facts of your pitiful attempts at lies!” rapped out Schian.

  I said: “You and Princess Licria had me and my friends rapped over the head and carted off as sacrifices for the degenerate priests of the Pit of the Fire. I'll overlook that in the presence of the queen. You insult my wife again and I'll—”

  “Dray!” said Delia, sharply, very sharply.

  I glared at Schian and that old Devil Look of Dray Prescot must have flamed in my face. Grimly, utterly determined, I went on: “Very well. Just remember, Schian.”

  He colored up to his hair. His hand whipped to the hilt of the dagger. “You can't talk to me like that, you shint!”

  Licria, stirring the trouble, said in her hissing way: “This shint insults us, and we do nothing! Aunt! We cannot allow this.”

  Queen Satra, I saw with, at first, some amazement, was enjoying this. Then I saw the reason for that. She had been one of those fabled Queens of Pain, a real true Queen of Pain of Loh. She'd probably had more people done away with than this rast Schian had had hot breakfasts. She had grown fat and indulgent, and she didn't much care for her niece. Oh, yes, she'd sit and watch, as a cat watches a mouse.

  Sasha said: “Really, majestrix, this is a quarrel that is entirely unnecessary. After all, Trylon Ge-fu did have Drajak kidnapped and sold to the people of the Drums. That was not very nice.”

  Inch glanced across at his wife. He nodded his head atop that tall lanky frame, but he did not say anything.

  “What I do, I do!” blared Schian.

  Licria licked her lips. She glanced under her eyelids at the queen. She was a cunning shrew and must by now have grown to judge her aunt's moods. She saw which way the wind was blowing.

  Princess Licria with her chalk white face and her dark red Lohvian hair coming forward in its widow's peak was, no doubt, a beautiful girl. She was, I believed, a Jikai Vuvushi. The trouble was, the more you looked at her the more you saw that beauty was barely skin deep. It was more properly cosmetic deep. Her eyes, kohled, dark, brilliant, showed her relationship with the queen. Oh, yes, this little madam Princess Licria wanted to be a Queen of Pain and Empress of Loh, and she'd do more than kill to gain her heart's desire.

  She said: “Perhaps the men can settle this question when we reach the surface and prove the Vallians to be liars all.”

  Queen Satra just picked up a ripe plum, and bit it, and said nothing. She gave the faintest of nods.

  Delia took an even breath. “When we reach the surface you will find the truth of our story. I well understand you cannot believe it now.”

  Schian fairly snarled out: “When we have conquered Hamal and the rest of Havilfar falls to us, we shall march on Vallia.”

  Seg, who'd been idly toying with a piece of bread and saying nothing, lifted the bread to his mouth. He and I, we do not waste food. Before he ate, he said in a voice like a whiplash: “You will march across the sea to face the Hamalese airboats and the Vallian galleons.”

  Licria in her sharp way, snapped out: “We have fleets of ships.”

  “Yes, but I told you,” Milsi piped up. “The Hamalese flying ships destroyed your fleets of sea going ships. They—”

  “We have many Wizards and Witches of many persuasions. None can resist the power of their kharrna.”

  “Yet, majestrix,” said Milsi in her calm and dignified way, “they failed. Do not ask me how. History simply says the Hamalese routed and destroyed the Lohvian armadas.”

  “Rubbish!” snapped Schian, his face still beetroot red.

  The queen looked slowly at Milsi. The queen had taken to Milsi. This was probably because when Seg and I had met her she'd been a trifle older, in physiological terms, than us. We'd bathed in the waters of the Sacred Pool of Baptism in far Aphrasöe and were as old, physiologically, now as we had been then. Chronologically, a great deal of smoke had blown with the wind since then. We'd all matured—even that roaring maniacal reprobate Dray Prescot had grown some sense in the thick vosk skull of his head—but we were all young. Milsi shone out as the dignified mature grand lady among us, and, to our delight, she was picking up our rip-roaring ways.

  “It would be interesting,” said Queen Satra in a voice artificially small, a teasing, goading voice, “if we knew exactly why our Witches and Wizards of Loh failed. Why the detestable Hamalese won. Then—”

  Licria knew when to jump in. “Of course, aunt! How clever! Then we could take measures, and stop it all.” She laughed, a metallic laugh of utter malice. “If the nonsense were true, that is.”

  “If you must interrupt when I am speaking, child, pray do not do so in the presence of others.”

  Licria, squashed, retired in confusion.

  Satra went on: “How say you to that, Milsi dear?”

  “A question for the philosophers! Could one change the future?”

  Schian fairly snarled out: “The future for Loh is settled. We shall dominate all of Paz. It is our manifest destiny.”

  I said to myself: “As they say in Clishdrin, by Krun!”

  Just then a guard marched smartly in, saluted and shouted: “My queen! San Mar-Win-Naltong has arrived!”

  Before the queen had time to nod or say anything an impressive figure stalked into t
he dining tent. This Wizard of Loh was clearly not going to hang about outside waiting for permission to enter. He was, in a way I found unimpressive, arrogant. Certainly, I'd never dream of keeping Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi waiting. Yet they'd come in, as it were, properly. This fellow with his lavishly embroidered robes and gold and gem-smothered turban simply exuded self-satisfaction and overweening pride. Maybe, if he was representative of the Wizards of Loh current during his time, that explained their failure.

  “San Mar-Win.” The queen motioned and an attendant ran a chair up to the table. With a great swishing of his robes and angling of his jewel-encrusted staff to catch the lights and glitter, he sat himself down beside Satra. He gazed about on us Vallians down his nose.

  “Magic is being used, queen. The magic within this Realm of the Drums is weakening. A new thaumaturgy has been detected.”

  “Has the college any—?”

  He interrupted without any anticipation of a rebuke similar to the one administered to Licria. “We are resolving the situation. There is a weak source approaching us, and a somewhat stronger locus some way off.”

  I saw no reason to suggest to them that one of these might be the Lady Merlee, a Witch of the Demaskar Persuasion. If that were the case then who or what was the second?

  A faint blue began to grow in a corner of the tent. A single glance at the locus of radiance told me this was not the Scorpion of the Star Lords—thank Opaz! As the familiar kindly features of Deb-Lu appeared and his figure thickened into visibility I decided that this was not the weak source. Deb-Lu was anything but weak, by Zair! So there were two other witches or wizards wandering about out there.

  “Lahal, all. Pardon my intrusion. There is News of Some Import.”

  He spoke pleasantly, and those clearly audible Capital Letters told my friends and me that what Deb-Lu had to tell was important.

  As a matter of common courtesy we Vallians immediately stood up as Deb-Lu appeared. As for the others—instant confusion followed.