Scorpio Invasion [Dray Prescot #40]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Those people you have met were there plus a good few newcomers, attracted to the group by our success. Everyone had a long face. The mood was grim. Little needed to be said, for we all understood the nature of the problem we faced. That problem had been intensified a thousand-fold. Katakis were man-managers and knew only too well how to handle slaves.

  “Yet,” I said, “we must carry on somehow."

  Bargrad wanted to know when this boasted Armada would come to our rescue, when the Freedom Fighters in the country would join us.

  Since I'd had no recent communication over the eerie means of the planes with Deb-Lu, I couldn't answer. I gave a rote answer, promising that the Armada would come, and saw their confidence and belief waning.

  We were cramped into a tiny mud brick hut, that inhabited by Master Chan Tang Lui, with no internal lights and only the radiance of the Maiden with the Many Smiles to show up our apprehensive and lugubrious faces. Even so, the Katakis found us in secret conclave. They'd have had us all if we had not had our bolthole prepared and were able to escape out into the shadows. As it was, it was a close run thing. And this was on the first day of the Whiptails’ arrival!

  A few days’ later, with nothing done in the way of fooling the Shanks, I had to accept the needle. Our resistance to the Shank Invasion had collapsed.

  All over town in the following sennight or so all our clever scams were unmasked by Katakis, expert bastards at sussing out schemes thought up by desperate slaves. They did not discover the trick wall. One reason for that was unpleasant in its implications. Most of the Freedom Fighters were too frightened to risk it. I went into the warehouse and collected a barrel of fish in oil; but alone it was hard work. With the fish as bait I tried to re-enlist some of the Liberty Warriors; few were interested.

  With their superior cunning the Katakis actually increased some of the rations doled out to slaves. This helped to reduce the slaves’ willingness to chance the awful punishments meted out to those who were caught stealing.

  The Whiptails did not discover the tiny little workshop where Master Palandi the Iarvin built the incendiary devices. He gave me six of them, and then indicated his unwillingness to carry on. His fear was perfectly understandable. I had six; I did not press for more.

  These examples functioned through the action of acid eating away amembrane to release the twisted cord. At least, this obviated one small disadvantage of the fish-head timed examples, although I felt convinced the Shanks wouldn't notice one new rotten-fish stink among all the miasma of rotten-fish stinks in which we all lived.

  The future might look dark. If I couldn't lead a great crusade of Freedom Fighters, then I must do what I could alone to whittle away at the Shank power. Accordingly, through Shan-lao Ortyghan, I obtained a position as a nik-armorer or shal-armorer to one of the Fishy Leaders. He was known to us slaves as lord, and that was all he was called as far as we knew. The rivalry between the Shank leaders to obtain the services of the most expert Pazzian slaves ought to work in our favor. I was taken on as assistant armorer and my main tasks were cleaning weapons and armor. I found myself surrounded by the paraphernalia of combat and war. In addition, the Shank lord through his Kataki taskmasters had me taken aboard his flying ship to clean and polish there. Well, now, if Dray Prescot couldn't fashion a scheme out of this situation, a scheme highly unpleasant to the Fish Faces, he didn't deserve to be the Emperor of Emperors, Emperor of Paz, no, by Zim-Zair!

  In the little dingy canvas bag holding my cleaning equipment rested the six eggs of fire, as Palandi called them, for they hatched flame. The cleaning equipment, sounding grand, consisted of brick dust, oil and rags. Spittle was the other vital ingredient. So, I cleaned fighting gear.

  The metal we had been cabbaging for the sword Shan-lao was to make was not sufficient. Now I was surrounded by weapons! The Shanks might be vicious and merciless killers, they were slack over managing slaves. Not so the Katakis, and a guard stood outside the armory door at all times slaves were near weapons. The door was locked from the outside. I spat and polished.

  This was the period in which I learned a great deal about Shank flying ships and about the weapons of the Fish Faces.

  One day it chanced that my companion slave, a little Och, Onso the Gnat, had a gripe in his guts and was absent. I was alone. I cleaned and polished assiduously. Then, in a great wave of longing and desperation, the temptation to take and hide one of these weapons swept over me.

  That temptation had to be resisted. The old saw about: ‘I can resist everything except temptation’ had to be denied. The Katakis might unlock our chains when we worked aboard the flying ships—they remained slave drivers still. A single sword missing would be noted at once as the slavemaster counted stock. Then—I did not care to dwell on that particular then.

  Just as I'd reached that somber conclusion the armory door opened and two Jibrfarils stood there, black whips trailing in grotesque counterpoint to their daggered tails. They exuded menace.

  “You, apim,” said one through his snaggly teeth. “Fetch your cleaning gear. You go with us."

  The cleaning bag dangling from a fist, I went out with them. Now what had gone wrong?

  This armory lay under the top deck of the aftercastle and we went along forward. I took note of the flagship. She was one of the newer large slab-sided craft and along the starboard bulwark I counted the butts of ten varters. These ballistae impressed me as being superior to other Shank artillery I'd seen; they were nowhere near the quality of the gros varters of Vallia. The ship possessed two fighting towers and a raised armored control tower. The decks were, to a first lieutenant of a Royal Navy Seventy Four, absolutely filthy.

  Up forward the forecastle boasted four more smaller ballistae and a brace of catapults. This was officer country and I was shoved through a brass-studded doorway. The cabin was well-lit by mineral oil lamps. A scuttle was partially obscured by a half-drawn curtain. A smell of oil and polish reached my nostrils through the eternal unnoticed fish stink. I looked about.

  When the Kataki explained why I was here I breathed easier.

  The lord wanted some personal cleaning done. Like many warlords he kept up a trophy room, an idiosyncrasy of barbaric pride amusing to those who do not dwell upon their past personal victories. I speak from a private point of view; it is important that soldiers know and appreciate what their regiments have done in the past so that they maintain the tradition of duty, honor and bravery.

  Rather naturally I thought of other trophy rooms I had known and particularly that of Gafard, the King's Striker, Sea Zhantil. Aboard a green swifter of Magdag he'd organized a trophy room so that he could retain possession of certain personal belongings of a certain Krozair also known as the Sea Zhantil.

  By this time I was getting the hang of the Shank rank markings and the Fish Face I took to be the Ship Hikdar was talking in a most cringing fashion to the lord. I must give their conversation in plain unadorned prose for to hear their strange splashing clicking fishy speech gave a Pazzian a most uncomfortable, not to say eerie, feeling.

  “And you personally guarantee the safety here?” demanded the lord.

  “Absolutely, lord. The slaves fear the Katakis. They call them greeshes, or Jibrfarils."[11]

  [11 Jibrfaril: pain lover, in the sense of taking pleasure from giving pain. A.B.A.]

  As these Pazzian words clicked out from the splashing fishy words, the Katakis stiffened and their daggered tails shot up. They resented that, and they couldn't help show it. I saw there was no love lost between employer and employee in this devilish compact between Shank and Kataki.

  “Place two in control at all times."

  “Yes, lord."

  With that the Fish Faces took their odiferous presence off. I looked about. The Katakis went over to a small table against the inner bulkhead and sat down to some obscure game involving slapping their tail daggers one against t'other. One of them growled: “Grak, slave!"

  Hauling out my cleaning gear I set to work. The troph
ies were ranked in glass cabinets, adorned with shells and fishes and squid motifs. Many of the items were from fights between Shank and Schtarkin, as far as I could make out, between Schturgin and Shant. Also there were, to my sorrow, altogether far too many taken from soldiers and sailors of Paz. I recognized some of the blazons. A pair of shields from the Iron Legions of Hamal, a lance pennon much ripped and bloodied from Hyrklana, a helmet and a coat of mesh from a country of the Dawn Lands, a cartwheel of swords from many of the nations around the Shrouded Sea, a powerful crossbow that had once belonged to a swod in a regiment of Canops. In a cabinet in isolated splendor as I looked around, I saw half a Vallian flag. The tresh had been carefully cleaned and what was left gave my heart a thump. The regimental numbers were missing; I fancied that was from a Green Coat regiment of Vallian Spearmen almost broken in the Battle of the Incendiary Vosks.

  Then, as I saw what had been carefully hung in its own glass case, I froze. Well, they didn't often venture far from the Eye of the World. Only once or twice in his lifetime would a Krozair go awandering. The roving bug might bite in the wisdom of Zair and then a few companions would seek adventure and fortune upon wider oceans. To the best of my most recent knowledge the Fish Faces had not penetrated into the inner sea of Turismond. This gear, scarlet and bronze, this great Krozair longsword, had been borne by a Krozair brother fighting for some doomed cause against the Shanks.

  When I came to take down the Krozair brand to clean everything with ten-fold meticulousness, I held the sword reverently. I saw that I was trembling. Instantly, I told myself severely and with contemptuous passion, I must hold onto reality. Swords are merely lumps of metal forged into special shapes to perform unpleasant work. A chunk of metal forged into a ploughshare is of infinitely greater worth—except, except in some special circumstances. And, by Zim-Zair, those special circumstances had dogged me all my life!

  The macabre thought did occur to me that this was the work of the Star Lords. Certainly, after our most recent meetings they might very well throw me some help. Too, by thinking of an audience of the Everoinye as a meeting rather than a confrontation, I was breaking new ground. If they had indeed tossed down this Krozair longsword to my assistance then that would be a fantastic notion; but it was a credible one.

  The longsword had belonged to a Krozair of Zamu. The secret marks were plain to me. She balanced perfectly—well, now, that is a superfluous observation as this perfect balance is one of the recipes for the production of the superb Krozair longsword.

  “Careful with that, shint,” rapped the Kataki with blue cult marks down his cheeks.

  His companion snarled a sneer. “That great bar of iron? It's useless. By Takroti! I don't see why this Kiko of a Shant lord keeps the stupid thing."

  “What he takes, he keeps."

  “Aye."

  So, I cleaned the Shant lord's trophies. The very last was a stux near the door, a hefty throwing spear with red feathers decorating the join of haft and head. Then I was finished and was shepherded out.

  For my reward, when they chained me up again, I was thrown something ugly out of the refuse of the shandishalah booths along the fish quays.

  Having determined to strike a more positive blow than this shilly-shallying about, I arranged with Shan-lao to take another slave's task of delivering boxes of arrows to the fleet. The impression I'd gained was that here barrels were not too easily come by, coopers being scarce, and the English system of packing arrows in barrels was not followed. Accordingly, I drove a creaking four-wheel cart drawn by two mytzers under the watchful gaze of guards onto the field. The Shank flying ships were berthed in neat rows. I delivered the boxes of arrows with due humility. Six of the Shank ships received a box containing a fire egg.

  The last of the six was the lord's flagship.

  As I came out on deck having stowed the boxes at the back of the magazine my two Kataki guards accosted me and in their brutal way told me to cut along to the trophy room. The lord wanted his trophies cleaned again.

  As before they removed my chains and then sat down to their tail-dagger thumping game. I went to work, spitting and brick-dusting and polishing. I'd brought a whetstone and put a decent edge on some of the blades. The Katakis merely grunted reluctant approval at this. I spent a deal of time on the Krozair brand.

  The scarlet breechclout was clean and pressed—no doubt by a female slave—and the lestenhide belt supple with oils. The scabbard had been disengaged from the bronze lockets. In general there are only two styles of scabbard for a Krozair longsword, this one, the plain and unadorned krosturr style, the other being the highly decorated hyrzim fashion. Both, however, feature the device of the hubless spoked wheel.

  A hubbub began outside. The two whiptails took no notice for a time and then, curiosity winning them over, crossed to the door and stood looking out.

  Temptation, as I say, is a sore taskmistress.

  With smooth and practiced movements I discarded the gray slave clout and donned the brave old scarlet and pulled the belt tight. That felt good!

  I took up the great Krozair longsword.

  The brand glittered in the light as I twirled her about. I felt the secret disciplines of my brotherhood, the Krozairs of Zy, gave me insights and understandings unimaginable to a non-Krozair—I felt just wonderful.

  Reality, of course, was that I was a slave play-acting.

  The uproar outside had now grown to considerable proportions. Screams fizzed into the air. Intrigued, I crossed to the scuttle and looked out.

  A black hulled ship had recently landed and from her a coffle of slaves staggered along, struggling, as the whips rose and fell, rose and fell. These people had evidently recently been caught, for they wore normal clothes and they resisted still. Their guards were becoming exasperated. Dust spurted up and glinted, and red welts lashed across the slaves as they tried to fight back.

  Among the glittering scaled armor of his officers, the Shank lord pointed.

  “Bring those slaves up here. They will serve as an object lesson to the others.” More slaves and guards were debouching from the flier.

  One of his aides, a Fish Face who had a few words of Kregish, managed to convey the lord's orders to the Kataki Chuktar with the group.

  This fellow, immense, banded in iron, flaunting feathers, at once protested. “They are merchandise, lord. They can be disciplined—"

  “Shastum! Aboard—bring them!"

  There was no arguing with the power these Fish Heads wielded. The Kataki Chuktar subsided, his face as black as the hull of a Shank ship. This lord was an objectionable bastard with a face like a cod and enough gold loading him down to sink a bullion argenter to the deepest depths of the Risshamal Deep. He held out his hand and an aide slapped a trident into his grip.

  So that was what he'd do. He was going to enjoy himself thoroughly in the next few murs. He'd go along the line of miserable slaves and thrust his trident into each one's guts, and twist and pull. The filthy state of his deck wouldn't offend him in the slightest.

  Sick with despair and horror I stood and watched as the line of shouting screaming Pazzians was hauled aboard. They were thrust against the bulwarks.

  Unwilling to witness the horror about to occur, I started to turn away from the scuttle. The Pazzians remained defiant, having to be forcefully smashed back. I started to turn away—and then I halted. My fists wrapped about the great Krozair longsword bit and pained and knotted into grainy lumps.

  So I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, stared blankly upon my friends.

  Rollo the Runner reeled back under the smash of a trident butt. His face was congested with anger, bruised, blackened, vicious. And, with him, stood Mevancy nal Chardaz, and Trylon Kuong, and Llodi the Voice. The Shank lord raised his trident. In only moments I'd have four less friends on Kregen.

  I stood there, lumpen.

  A great Hero?A legend?A flying figure in a scarlet breechclout wielding a glittering longsword? Me? A beaten slave?

 
; All the passion and fury of the old Dray Prescot lashed out. No longer was I the latter day Prescot, rational, trying to be calm, hoping to achieve just ends by judicial discussion. Now I was that selfsame red raw Dray Prescot who had first landed on Kregen, savage with resentment at unjust authority, vengeful against those who did me wrong.

  Even as passion flowed through me I thanked whoever it might be—the Star Lords, the Savanti nal Aphrasöe or some other greater power—who had placed into my fists the weapon with which I might redress oppression.

  I moved with a suddenness I had not forgotten.

  The two Katakis watching from the door were cut down by two precise blows.

  I snatched up the red-feathered stux and sprang out onto the deck.

  The Shank lord had degutted one poor devil of a Mionch who went down screaming to snap one of his long tusks against the deck. The lord drew back the trident for his next blow and the red feathers of the throwing spear nestled neatly between his fishy shoulder blades.

  His aides and officers let out screeches of astonishment and incredulous rage as the lord toppled and fell. In a body, glittering with scaled armor, they turned to face me.

  Mevancy, Kuong, Llodi and Rollo stared with enormous and disbelieving eyes.

  The Fish Heads shrieked in rage, ripping out their swords and brandishing their tridents.

  The stink of rotten fish suddenly assaulted my nostrils, a smell I hadn't noticed in too long a time.

  Here, then, was where Dray Prescot discovered the great and final secret.

  “Hai Jikai!” Redness crept in. “Hai Jikai, you murdering torturing kleeshes of Fish Faces! Hai Jikai!"

  Gripping the great Krozair longsword in that cunning two-handed Krozair grip, the brave old scarlet breechclout flaming under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio, facing hopeless odds, I, Dray Prescot, hurled myself hurtling headlong forward.

  “Hai Jikai!"

  * * *

  About the author

  Alan Burt Akers was a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer, who died in December 2005 aged eighty-four.