Krozair of Kregen [Dray Prescot #14]

by Alan Burt Akers

  We pulled up and launched ourselves afresh into the fray, battling up with Pearl's men to take the Menaheem by surprise and so overpower their last resistance.

  “Thank Zair you appeared, Dak!” panted Pur Naghan. His mail had been ripped and blood showed on his shoulder. “They fight well, these Menaham sailors."

  “Bloody Menahem,” said Vax. “I owe them."

  “You owe a lot of people, it seems, Vax,” I said.

  He scowled at me, his brown eyes bright, his face flushed.

  “Do you mock me, Dak?"

  “Mock? Now, why should you think that?"

  “If you do—"

  Duhrra appeared, immense, his idiot-seeming face creased.

  “You do—uh—seem to poke fun, master."

  I knew that Duhrra regarded Vax as an oar-comrade, and this gladdened me. I realized I had gone far enough.

  I glanced over the side.

  “And while we prattle Rukker has boarded the last argenter."

  The cunning Kataki had taken the first ship, and then pulled out and dropped down to the last. Now he had two prizes.

  Pur Naghan said, “We will share this one, Dak, of course."

  Vax favored me with a scowl and took himself off. I bellowed the necessary orders and we took possession of our prizes. There were only three. Rukker's first impetuous attack with the ram had so holed the argenter that she was visibly sinking. A great deal of hustle took place as the goods were brought up and whipped across to the swifter. Chests and boxes, for they contained treasure, were favored over merchandise.

  Soon the three swifters and the three argenters began the voyage back to the island of Wabinosk. We called in at our usual island stopovers and met with no untoward incidents.

  We pulled with a fine reserve of manpower.

  The argenters were sailed by scratch crews and we held fair winds almost all the way, only having to tow the sailing vessels twice in calms.

  At the island hideout we inspected our spoils. The ship taken by Pearl and ourselves contained mostly sacks of dried mergem, whereat I felt greatly amused. This seemed to indicate Thyllis was in want of food for her people. Our ship contained a quantity of the fine tooled and worked leather for which Magdag is famous. As well there were sacks of chipalines and also, to my surprise, many wicker baskets loaded with crossbow bolts. These were uniformly of fine quality. I guessed they had been manufactured by the slaves and workers of the warrens, those people who, downtrodden and accursed, I had attempted to free, only in the moment of victory to be whisked away by the Star Lords and to leave them to defeat and continued enslavement. I picked up one of the iron quarrels and turned it over in my fingers. Yes, this was a fine artifact, and it should by rights be driven from a crossbow to lodge in the black heart of an overlord of Magdag. Had we not intercepted it, the bolt might well have battered its way into the heart of a Vallian.

  Of the cargo carried in the ship Rukker had taken we were concerned only with the treasure.

  It seemed fitting to me that all gold and silver and precious gems should be heaped into a great and glittering pile and then be shared out equally, portion by portion according to the Articles.

  Maybe I was naive in this belief. Rukker's ship had carried the majority of the treasure paid by King Genod for the Hamalese fliers and flyers. The saddle-birds and vollers had fetched extraordinarily high prices. I lifted a heap of golden oars and let them trickle through my fingers back to the glittering mass within the iron-bound lenken chest. This was what Thyllis needed. Her treasury must have been sorely used by the war and now, twenty-odd years after, she was busily building up her reserves so as once again to send sky-spanning fleets against Pandahem and Vallia.

  With these thoughts in my mind I went to the meeting with Rukker and the others of our people in positions of authority and found myself not one whit surprised that the Kataki claimed all the treasure he had taken for himself. I was not prepared to argue. I wanted to place my son Vax in safety and then see again King Genod. Only after that could I begin to think again about what to do to free myself from the prison of the inner sea.

  “You may keep what you claim, Rukker. If you can maintain your hold on it. For I do not renounce either my claim or the rightful claim of my people."

  He did not sneer at me; but his look, brooding and dark, held calculation. “I take note of your words, Dak the Proud. But I think you will be hard pressed to take what you claim."

  Vax bristled and shook off Duhrra's hand and barged forward.

  “I do not renounce—” he began.

  “Keep quiet, Vax,” I said.

  “By what right do you—” he blustered.

  I looked at him.

  Duhrra said, “The master speaks sooth, Vax.” And then the old devil added, “I think you needed a father to teach you the ways of life—duh! You will get yourself spitted if you go on like this."

  “Should I care, Duhrra?"

  When my son said those words I felt the hand of ice clench around my heart.

  Rukker broke the awkwardness, booming out in his coarse Kataki way, “You sail for Zandikar. Well and good, for, by Takroti, I am sick of all this quibbling.” He glared around, yet he was in a high good humor. “I will sail with you and from thence back to the Sea of Onyx. With this treasure I can alter certain events at home."

  So it was settled. The local Renders were only too pleased to see us go, for not only had we beaten off their attacks on us, after the first flush of welcome, in our operations we had shown them up almost humiliatingly. The four swifters and the three argenters made a nice little squadron, sailing east, cutting through the blue waters of the Eye of the World, sailing for Zandikar.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Rukker does not speak of his seamanship

  A man who has but two score years and ten to look forward to, and perhaps a little longer for good behavior, is filled with the thrusting desire to be up and doing—or he should be if he has any sense. To a Kregan with about two hundred years of life to use to explore experiences on his wild and wonderful planet, the desire to be up and doing burns no less strongly; but the Kregan can contemplate with equanimity the passing of a few seasons in doing something outside the mainstream of his life. Rukker the Kataki, as vicious and intemperate a Kregan as they come, made nothing of spending the time we had among the Renders of the inner sea. These little side excursions transform life for a Kregan. I, too, with a thousand years of life to use, shared much of that attitude, even though I had not thrown off the ways of the planet of my birth.

  This trip to Zandikar to see my son Vax safe was a mere side-jaunt. I did not forget that in this jaunt Delia, Vax's mother, would concur wholeheartedly with what I was doing.

  So we sailed past those mist-swathed coasts of mystery. The Eye of the World contains many areas that remain unknown, shores of faerie and romance, as well as shores of danger and horror. We pulled across the blue waters, from island to island, dropping down to coast most of the way in easy stages, venturing out across wide bays where the portolanos told us we would fetch the opposite headland in good time. I felt no sense of frustration. I was fascinated by Vax. This journey would have been a good time to become acquainted. How I longed to ask him for all the details of his life!

  Even the man I was then understood that children have their own secret areas sacrosanct from their parents’ understanding. But I hungered to know more of Vax, and through him, more of my other children. And, of course, most of all, to hear about my Delia.

  I might explore the Eye of the World. I was debarred from exploring my son's life.

  Duhrra did as I asked and would often regale me with tidbits of information he had gleaned. I slowly built up a picture. Vax would freely admit he did not come from the inner sea, and once he had indicated to Duhrra that he had learned much from the Krozairs of Zy and would soon have been admitted to membership of that august Order; he did not tell anyone he came from Vallia and Valka.

  “Whate
ver his father did, Dak,” said Duhrra, pulling the fingers of his right hand into the right shape to clasp a flagon of Chremson, “Vax felt he could no longer continue with the Krozairs. Duh—anyone who gets that close must be remarkable. The Krozairs—” He picked up the flagon but did not drink, looking thoughtful, as is proper when mention is made of the Krozairs of Zair. “Duh—they put ice and iron into a man, by the Magic Staff of Buzro! No wonder he detests his old man."

  “No wonder,” I said, and turned away.

  A commotion boiled up in Rukker's Vengeance Mortil and we all looked across the bright water. The sail billowed and crackled and then blew forward. The mast bent and bowed and came down with a run. We could hear the passionate yelling over there. I said, quite gently, to Fazhan ti Rozilloi, my ship-Hikdar, “Put the helm over, Fazhan. We must make a beaching. Rukker has proved once again that he is no sailor."

  “Aye, Dak,” said Fazhan, with a laugh. Rukker might be a ferocious and malevolent Kataki—with yet a spark of common decent humanity surprisingly in him—but, all the same, an old shellbacked sailorman would laugh at him for his woeful lack of seamanship and understanding of the sea.

  Vengeance Mortil might quite easily have continued under oar-power and certainly Rukker would have no thought for the well-being of his oar-slaves. We had ghosted through the islands and were now making southerly toward the southeasterly sweeping arm of the inner sea past Zimuzz. Astern we had left Zy, that famous extinct volcanic island cone set boldly within the jaws of the Sea of Swords. The coast here was seldom visited. A triangularly lobed bay southward received the waters of the River Zinkara, running from the Mountains of Ilkenesk. On the Zinkara stood the city of Rozilloi. Fazhan had heaved up a sigh when our calculations showed us we passed that longitude special to him. Zandikar lay some sixty dwaburs farther to the east. We could hope for a wind. So we set about beaching the swifters and anchoring the argenters and removing the weights. We made camp and prepared ourselves for what might come.

  Far inland, low rolling hills showed that purple-bruise color of distance, and on the sandy plains between only straggling trees grew. A party would have to push some way before they found a tree that would yield timber suitable for a mast. The made-masts of my own old Terrestrial navy were known here on the inner sea; but usually a single stout tree trunk was employed in swifters.

  We had stationed a lookout and he bellowed down.

  “Swifters! Green! Six of ‘em!"

  The curve of the bay where we had beached concealed us from seaward observation—an elementary precaution—and the lookout could see without being seen. The nearer headland under which we sheltered contained a mass of ruins, ancient stones, time worn and weathered, tumbled columns and arches, shattered walls. Up there I had a good view. There were six swifters, medium-sized vessels plowing in line ahead with their oars rising and falling in that remorseless beat. They pulled into the wind, long, low lean craft, evil and formidable. We waited carefully until they were past.

  Rukker said, “I will stand guard on the camp and the ships."

  “Very well,” I said. “It will be a nice task to select the proper tree for your mast"

  So it was decided. If those six Green swifters returned or if we were beset by unexpected foes, then Rukker and his men would defend the camp with ferocious efficiency. I took my sailors and a gang of slaves to drag the timbers, and set off inland.

  We spent the rest of the day as the suns declined searching for the right tree, and when we found it and cut it down and dragged it back, two of the lesser moons sped past above in their crazy whirling orbits, and She of the Veils smiled down in fuzzy pink radiance. We had seen no signs of life apart from the spoor of mortils and the bones of their prey, and the high circling of warvols, the vulture-like winged scavengers waiting for the mortils to finish. Once upon a time—or, as Kregans say, under a certain moon—this land had been lush and fertile, filled with the busy agriculture and commerce of the People of the Sunset. Now they had gone, and the land gleamed sere and empty under the moons.

  The moment we arrived back in camp we were greeted by news that filled me with amusement and filled Vax and the others with heated fury.

  Old Tamil told us—a cunning rascal, quick and sly, who had appointed himself Palinter in Crimson Magodont. As our Palinter, our purser, he could be relied on to wangle extra supplies for us in his accustomed tortuous dealings with the common resources; in looking out for himself he looked out for us.

  “That cramph of a Kataki!” spluttered Tamil, his off-center nose more than ever like a moon-bloom in the pink radiance of She of the Veils. “Took the treasure and sailed off!"

  Howls of execration broke out at this. But then those howls changed to jeers of derision as we looked where Tamil pointed.

  Less than an ulm offshore Vengeance Mortil lay becalmed in the water. She was down by the head. She stuck there, solid and unmoving, clearly held fast by fangs of rock piercing her bow.

  “So the rast took our treasure and sailed off and ran himself aground!” bellowed Fazhan. He looked as offended as any of them there. They were running down to the shore and waving their arms and brandishing weapons. It was a fitting sight for a madness. It was, also, somewhat humorous—at least, it seemed funny to me at the time.

  The treasure meant nothing, of course. It did mean something to these ragged rascals with me, and so that made it important to me because of them. But, all the same, the idea of a great and ferocious Kataki lord sweeping up all the treasure and loading it into his ship and sailing grandly off, only to get stuck on a rock, struck me as ludicrous and something to raise a guffaw.

  The old devil had cut down his own mast, of course, to get us ashore in this lonely spot and send us sailormen off on a wild-goose chase. When he had run aground—what must his thoughts have been? He had been thrown by his own varter, as the Kregans say. Boats were ferrying his men back. There was a sublime amount of confusion and argument; but no one came to blows. The first flush of anger dissipated in the sense of the ridiculousness of the Katakis.

  I said to Fazhan, “I will wager Rukker's words will be: ‘I do not wish to discuss this’ or ‘I will not speak of this again.’”

  “No bet,” said Fazhan, being a wise man.

  Pur Naghan was highly incensed, although seeing the humor of the situation, for he was bitterly annoyed by the evident lack of honor in Rukker's actions. Honor—aye, the Krozairs set great store by that ephemeral commodity.

  Rukker stormed ashore in high dudgeon. At least, that seems to me an evocative way of describing his malevolent scowls, the way his tail flicked irritably this way and that, the dark glitter of wrath in his evil eyes. He was on the verge of a killing mad.

  He said in his surly hoarse voice, “I shall not speak of this in the future."

  At this a howl went up. And, thankfully, among those howls sounded many a guffawing belly-laugh. I felt relief. I watched carefully. But I think the sheer ludicrousness of it all saved an eruption, for plenty of men there would have chopped Rukker given half the chance. But the heat evaporated from the moment. Wine went around. We ate at the camp fires. We were, after all, a bunch of daredevil Renders, comrades in arms, for the time being. Tricks like this must be expected in such company.

  The Maiden with the Many Smiles lifted and flooded down her golden light and we sat and drank and some of us sang. On the morrow we would fashion a new mast for Rukker and so sail off with the breeze toward Zandikar. We sang “The Swifter with the Kink,” of course, and “The Chuktar with the Glass Eye,” for they are fine carefree songs full of opportunities to expand the lungs and bellow. The firelight leaped upon our faces, on gleaming eyes and teeth, on mouths open and lustily bawling, on long bronzed necks open to the air. The red southern shore is populated by apims almost exclusively, and these apims, I had noticed, were contemptuous and intolerant of diffs. But it takes all kinds to make a world. Here some of the Zairian apims found that for all the tricks of the Katakis the other diffs of our compan
y were human men, after all, and not mere menagerie men.

  A little Och sang “The Cup Song of the Och Kings,” sending the plaintive notes welling out into the light of the moons, a yearning song telling of great days and great deeds, filled with the throbbing resonances of nostalgia. Then, as seemed always to happen when an Och sang that song, the moment he finished he pitched forward on his nose, out to the wide.

  We all roared and cheered. At the other fires others of the Renders caterwauled to the skies. A Gon leaped up, his skull shaved clean of all that white hair of which Gons are so ashamed, to their misfortune, and started in to sing a wild, skirling farrago, filled with spittings and abrupt, deep reverberations, of hints of horror, all accompanied by dramatic gestures evident of extreme terror. This was the song sometimes called “Of the Abominations of Oidrictzhn."[3]

  [3 Prescot spells this name out carefully. He pronounces it Oy-drick-t-shin. However he may recount his experiences here, there is no doubt they made a profound and uneasy impression on him. A.B.A.]

  A man—an apim, a Zairian—leaped clear across the fire, singeing the hairs on his legs, and screaming. He tackled the Gon with a full body-cracking charge, smacked him in the mouth, and so knocked him down and sat on his head.

  “You get onker!” screamed the apim, one Fazmarl the Beak—for, in truth, his nose was of prodigious proportions. “You wish to destroy us all!"

  We hauled him off and the Gon, Leganion, sat up, highly indignant. “It is a good song and will make your flesh creep."

  “Yes, you rast! Do you not know where we are?” Fazmarl the Beak swung his hand violently to point at the moonlit ruins crowning the headland, frowning down above us. “You prate that name—here! Onker!"

  One or two other men challenged Fazmarl, and he spluttered out a long rigmarole of weird doings and nightly spells and sorcery, there in the ruins of the Sunset People. He would not bring himself to repeat the name. But he made it very clear that the ruins harbored some malefic being in whom he believed and yet whose existence he must deny in the pure light of Zair.