by David Mason
David Mason
The Return of Kavin
A LANCER BOOK • 1972
A NOTE
For the authority concerning the events described in this and the preceding work (Kavin’s World), we have principally used the great work of Geryonis the Younger, referred to as Chronicle of the Kingdoms. Geryonis assigns the events of Prince Kavin’s life to approximately the ninth century of the Third Cycle, probably correctly.
According to the Chronicle, “There came into the world Three Lords, who being either demons or allied with demons, sent forth evil things, and sought to slay all men that lived, or to make of them slaves.
“These Three sent wars and plagues against that kingdom which was called Dorada, which lies eastward of Meryon, over against the Southern Sea. Then the Prince Kavin, of the house of Hostan, went with all of the people of Dorada, into another land, fleeing from that which had been sent against them.”
In that land, which is called Koremon, they of Dorada dwelt, and became great; since also there were certain ancient and wise folk of the Dragon land, who made compact with the folk of Koremon, and did thereby aid them greatly.
But the Prince Kavin, knowing of those Three Evil Lords, went with ten companions, and journeyed to the place where these Three were, and all their servants, with many armed men. There, it is said, the Prince caused the Three to be slain, so that the evil they did was no more upon the earth.
Yet, it was also said that the Prince Kavin was cast into a magical sleep, and stayed for seven lifetimes in that sleep; till he awoke again, and returned to Koremon. There, it is said, he lived, but told none of his name or what he was.
Yet, this tale cannot be true, since it is known that the Prince returned, and sat once more on the throne of that kingdom of Koremon. He lived and ruled, for the space of fifty years, or some say fifty-five; then, he died and lies with his ancestors.
It is also said of this King Kavin that he was wise, and that he ruled justly; also, that he had a certain spiritual being, who was not seen by any, yet was heard to speak with him in the voice of a woman upon certain private occasions. However, of this matter the chronicler knows nothing.
ONE
The galley came north by east, through the straits of Chema, rolling slightly in the wave-chop. Her long oars beat steadily to the dull thudding of a drum; ahead, the dawn reddened the sky, as the land fell away on either side. Now, the prow dipped and rose in the deeper waves of the open sea; the cruel bronze beak, slung upward for sailing, was whitened with salt.
On the high poop, men in thick seacloaks waited, watching the sky, while the steersmen leaned against the long whipstaff, holding the course.
A chill whisper of wind came from the north to the galley’s port quarter; the broad white pennant at the foremast top flapped and spread in the breeze, the golden eagle of imperial Mazain gleaming on its surface.
The steersmen thrust at the staff, and the galley turned, slowly; men hauled on deck, and her two triangular sails rose, creaking, and filled. The drumbeat ceased; the oars swung up, and locked back, with a clashing thunder.
The wind blew a little more strongly as the sun rose; the galley coursed ahead, steadily, south and east.
Below, men moved along the oarbanks, passing bowls of food to the ragged, weary rowers who sat, chained to their benches. It was dark down there, and the smell was memorable, a stench of sweat, human excrement, unwashed bodies, and bilge. It was silent, except for the creaking and murmuring of the ship itself.
The Amabar was a single-banker, two men to an oar, and forty oars to a side; one hundred and sixty men sat in the odorous dark, and there they would live, till they died. There was no reprieve likely from the imperial galleys.
The two men who sat on a midship bench were an odd pair; one a huge black, the other a lean, small man with light brown hair, pale skinned. The black man was nearly naked, except for the ragged kilt worn by most of the galley-slaves, not for modesty but to protect the bottom from the hard bench. He was bearded, heavily; he had odd blue markings on both cheeks, and his wide face was grim.
The smaller man wore the remnants of a fine linen shirt, and torn leather breeches. His beard was stubbled and new, as were the lash marks on his back; he had, even in his present condition, an oddly aristocratic look about his long-nosed face. At the moment, the long nose was wrinkling in disgust as he examined the bowl in his lap; he looked as if he were being presented with a serious dilemma.
“Something’s died in the porridge, Zamor,” the lean man said, still staring into his bowl.
“Whatever it was, it was lucky,” the black man said. He lifted his bowl and drained it off in a single gulp, and proceeded to munch on the lump of hard bread that was the second course. His strong white teeth clamped down, and he chewed slowly and swallowed. “I wouldn’t doubt they’d drop a rower into the pot, at that. Hate to waste money, these Mazain folk.”
“If I don’t eat it, I’ll likely drop at the oar,” the lean man said, thoughtfully. “If I do, I may be poisoned by it.” He shrugged and lifted the bowl, grimacing. “Ugh.”
“You’d best get used to it,” Zamor grunted, munching. He glanced curiously at his oarmate. “You pull well, for such a runtish one as you look… what did you say your name was? Hugon? A Meryonish name, isn’t that?”
“Hugon, yes,” the other said, with difficulty; he was trying to chew the bread. He gulped it down, and grinned. “As hard as Darina’s heart. Yes, my large friend, I was born in Meryon, and I wish I were there now.”
“You might be,” Zamor said, darkly.
“Eh?” Hugon stared at him.
“Well, if seeing your homeland through an oarhole will do,” Zamor said, grinning widely. “There’s talk. That bloody madman, the glorious and ever beloved of the gods, might yet decide to try a new war against the east.”
“You don’t sound like a loyal subject of the emperor,” Hugon observed.
Zamor spat. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“Why?”
“I’m a Numori,” Zamor said. His eyes gleamed oddly. “I am… I was… of some importance, once. As you seem to have been, sprat.” He shrugged. “Now… I’m what you are, and what we will be till we go through an oarport to feed the sharks.”
“I don’t know if I want to… ah, resign myself to that,” Hugon said in a low voice, staring at his hands, blistered and raw.
“You haven’t much choice, have you?”
Hugon was silent for a minute; then, he glanced at the black man.
“It depends,” he said.
“On what?” Zamor asked, and chuckled, grimly. “No doubt you’re a magician?”
“Well, now, as a matter of fact,” Hugon said, and stopped, rubbing his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.
“Are you?” Zamor said, in a low, fierce voice. “Use your art, man; break this iron on my ankle! Let me get up to that deck, long enough to lay hands on one or two of those fine Mazainian peacocks and pluck ‘em…” His hands knotted.
“I may be, ah, exaggerating,” Hugon said, glumly. “True, I’ve studied the Great Art for a short time, but…”
Zamor relaxed, and grunted.
“On the other hand, I may be able to think of something,” Hugon said, staring once more at his hands. “You’ll understand, I’m a man of some wit. I came to Mazain to add to my small store of knowledge, in fact… though I hardly expected to end in a galley. Most inhospitable, I’d say, these folk.”
“What was it?” Zamor asked.
“An unfortunate accident,” Hugon said. “There was a lady whose husband returned from his work too soon. He was a man of some importance, I’m afraid. But he neglected to tell me that, and he was a very poor swordsman, rest his soul.”
Zamor laughed, in spite of himself, a deep chuckle.
“But, about our problem,” Hugon went on. “I have been thinking hard. Now, I’m sure there’s not a man down here who would not like to see freedom again… and there’s a good many of us.”
“There are three score armed marines up there,” Zamor said, pointing upward. “Not to mention another score of seamen, and their officers… though they’re a poor enough lot. And then there’s these bits of jewelry.” He jangled his leg iron.
“It was just that I was thinking about,” Hugon said, and held out his hand under Zamor’s nose, opening it.
A thin, shining blade, with a finely serrated edge, lay in his palm. Zamor studied it and shrugged.
“So you’ve a knife,” he said, disinterestedly. “What use is that, except to cut your own throat?”
“It’s no mere knife,” Hugon told him. “Look closely. It’s a saw. But no common saw; it’s a blade made of metal for which there’s no name. It will cut iron as though the stuff were cheese.” He glanced down at the leg manacles. “Common iron, nothing to this tool.”
Zamor stared at him, with increasing interest now. “If what you say is true…”
“It is.”
“You could have escaped from the prison ashore, then,” Zamor said.
“I could have sliced bars away,” Hugon said. “And ended, speared like a fish, by some clod of a guardsman. That prison’s well guarded, damn it.”
“How did you hide such a thing, little man?” Zamor asked, staring.
“I had a way,” Hugon said, with an odd expression. “It doesn’t matter… but now, listen. If I were to manage to loosen every man below here, what then? You know this ship well. What would happen?”
“If you could do that…” Zamor said slowly. “The oarmasters come here too often… but if you could. Well, at night would be best, of course. Then, rush the deck, try to take weapons wherever they may be had. But damn it, these are beaten men down here. Many of them have been here so long…” Zamor paused, but there was a fire in his black eyes. “It would be worth it, even if we died,” he muttered.
Hugon’s lean face was expressionless; his hand was closed around the tool, and he watched Zamor, silently.
“This ship’s bound southward, along the lower coasts of Quenda province,” Zamor said, almost to himself. “There must be trouble… sea raiders from the southern seas, perhaps. Or smuggling, it may be.” He looked up, and his fierce eyes met Hugon’s. “Sea raiders, now. D’ye know what becomes of us, in a sea fight, man? The oars, cracking us like fleas in a pinch, when the other ship drives down the oarbanks. The fire-ball to roast us, or the sea to take us down, if we lose the fight; and if we win, we can hear the cheers… up there. And maybe, if the victory’s fine enough, they’ll send us down a skin or two of sour wine.”
Hugon nodded. “Then we’d best not wait for all that, eh?” he suggested.
“Let me see the thing again,” Zamor said.
Hugon chuckled. “I’ll do better than that,” he said, and bent down. “Watch.” He sawed the blade briskly, for a moment; and Zamor’s eyes widened incredulously. The thin saw slid into the black metal of the leg iron, clear through in a few strokes. The iron was still in place, but a gap showed in the circle; a second cut would have freed Hugon completely.
“By the Great Snake, it did it!” Zamor muttered, amazed.
“Then we’ll begin,” Hugon said, and leaned forward. He tapped the shoulder of the man ahead, a gaunt gray man who sat slumped over his bench. “Listen, friend…” Hugon began.
The Amabar sailed on under the steady wind; the sun rose higher, and the dark inner world grew hotter, and more odorous. Unknowing marines walked the upper deck, and officers stood, watching the sea ahead, while below, man whispered to man, each telling the one ahead of the plan.
At the forward end of the gallery above the rowers, a guard nodded, half asleep in the heat; and sometimes one or another of the two oarmasters passed through, along the narrow walk above the oarbenches, staring down contemptuously into the shadows, and swinging long whips, idly. None of those above noticed the muttering and whispering that ran, like a slow wave, down the benches as the hours passed.
Late in the day, a tall man, cloaked, long plumes sweeping from his cap, stepped down onto the walk and paused there. Behind him, another such stood, and the sailing-master next to that one, looking properly deferential; these were nobles of the empire, plainly enough.
“Phew,” Lord Barazan said, lifting a gold pomander to his nose. He spoke, over his shoulder. “Good Pharash, the stench! My lady spoke of it an hour ago, reaching up to the cabin itself.”
“I’ll order the banks hosed down, milord,” the sailing master said, anxiously. “As soon as possible… but, milord, the water fills the bilge when we hose these men down, and your lordship knows, the matter of the pumping…”
“May the Nine Gods preserve me,” Barazan said, in the general direction of the sky. “Orsha, you perceive the burdens I bear,” he said to the other noble. “My Amabar, allowed to go to leaking ruin through lack of care… while in trust with my good fool here, Pharash. Pumps that draw no water, seams untarred, and untrained scum at the oars.” He spread his hands in dramatic despair, and Orsha clucked sympathetically.
“Ah, well,” Barazan said. “We must do with what we have, in the Glorious Emperor’s service. But these oarsmen… Pharash, how many new hands are there below?”
“A hundred, my lord,” Pharash said.
“So many?” Barazan looked amazed. “No more than sixty still lived, then?”
“True, my lord,” Pharash said. “Disease, in the shore barrack where we kept them last month while we lay in dock, repairing. They do not do as well in the unhealthy air ashore.”
“A weak-looking lot, too, I perceive,” Barazan said, moving slowly along the walk, peering down. He paused and stared downward, hard-eyed. When he spoke again, his voice rang loudly, echoing under the deck. “All of you, there, hear. You’ve had a fine day’s rest, lolling about at your ease. We’ve a fine wind, good for another such day or two, so enjoy yourselves, lads.” He laughed harshly. “But we’ll meet the southern trades off Quenda shore, and then I’ll expect you to work a while. You’ll pull to the beat, and keep on pulling while there’s breath in you. And if there’s a man of you who doesn’t pull, then…” Barazan paused, and his teeth gleamed in the shadows. “Why, he’ll not need to pull an oar again.”
Behind Barazan, Orsha snickered. Otherwise, there was a deathly silence.
“Good, then,” Barazan said, after a moment. “I’m understood, eh, lads? Sleep well, and think about your sins. Here, you’ll have a great chance to atone for all you’ve ever done, and serve the emperor while you do that.” He turned and went out with the others; overhead, the hatch clanged shut.
“Now, there’s a fine one that I would love to hold some further conversation with,” Hugon muttered. Beside him, Zamor grunted, a bitterly amused sound.
“The sun is low,” Hugon said, peering through the narrow oar slit, past Zamor’s black bulk.
“Be patient,” Zamor muttered. He sat, hunched, his big hands clenching and opening, slowly. “You have been here only a day. I have been here half a year.”
The low murmuring went on, and the chuckle of the sea past the ports. The sky grew red, and then grayed to darkness.
In the great cabin, there were voices, and laughter; the sound of a woman singing came softly in the night wind. On deck, men moved about, trimming sail; then, the night watch came on, and lanterns were lit. Once there was the sound of hoarse laughter, smothered; a wine jar stood in the shadow of the cook’s deckhouse. The leading steersman glanced skyward, reading the familiar stars; behind him, the Axe turned, while the Dolphin’s green eye gleamed directly over the masthead, as it should.
In the pitch blackness, the blade passed, from man to man; each man cut, and cut again, and leg irons opened, one after another. Hugon and Zamor, already free
, sat tensely, listening; twice, guards walked along the gangway in the dim yellow lamplight, but passed along, seeing nothing amiss.
And once, a man gibbered insanely in the dark, feeling his foot move freely after so long; a moment’s crazy yammering, cut short by his oarmate’s hand clamped on his mouth. The guard glanced up, sleepily, and shouted a warning curse, but did nothing. Such lunatic sounds were not so unusual in the oarbanks.
It was midnight before the saw had finished its long journey up one bank and down the other. The whisper came back from man to man; and there was a rustle as men began to stand up.
Near the forward gangway, where the drummer usually sat, and where the guard now squatted, four men came sliding, swiftly, like seasnakes; up, onto the boards, two from either side. The yellow light fell on their maddened, bearded faces; gleamed in their wild eyes as they sprang. The guard went down beneath them, with only a choked gasp of terror; one of them snatched at his short sword and stabbed, again and again.
The whole act had taken only a moment. Now, more men swarmed up, climbing onto the gangway, panting, but wordless. Zamor, his face grim as carved black stone, thrust forward, through the others; his size made it easy for him to move in spite of the jammed walkway, and Hugon came close in his wake.
Under the closed hatch, there was a muttered conversation; then, Zamor lifted himself up onto the ladder, and his huge shoulder pushed, slowly and carefully, but with enormous force. A hinge gave, with a ripping noise; then, the hatchway was open. The men behind saw the stars overhead, and the glimmer of the masthead light.
Zamor lifted his head and peered across the darkened deck. Then, with a single thrust, he lifted himself up and out, and the others came pouring out behind him, still in terrible silence.
The big black sprang, in a wolf’s bound, toward the half dozen marines who squatted or stood near the break of the poop; the men had barely time to see him before he was upon them.
They were all big men, wearing the leather armor and round helmets of their corps; but Zamor was not merely bigger, but a man in whom rage had waited a long, long time. More than that, he was an Almor of the Numori; that race whose fighters were said to be the best in the world, men who lived for the art of war.