Avenger of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Nath coughed and, abruptly, I understood. Nath Tolfeyr had told Strom Dolan that I wished to be converted and to adore Lem. He had saved me. Why?

  “I shall remember, Strom Dolan.”

  He jumped a little at my use of his real name, for he was a Hyr-Prince Chuk in the Lem hierarchy. But we were out of the tunnel now, under the stars and the moons.

  We shook hands, but not in the Hamalese way. We said good night; we did not say Remberee. We shook hands and we used words that were sacred to Lem. All this was childish stuff, of course, but at least it gave me valuable knowledge as to how pappattu was being made. I fancied I’d know a damned leem lover from now on.

  Nath said he would accompany me. We were lucky in picking up a link clum outside the Thoth Jikhorkdun. The massive pile reared against the stars. Despite what had transpired this night my mind went back to the island-realm of Hyrklana, and the capital of Huringa. There, in the Jikhorkdun, I had fought as a kaidur — as a hyr-kaidur! So when Nath passed some remark about meeting footpads, a disgruntled pack of clums, or slaves on the run, I slapped my thraxter and said: “By Kaidun, Nath! If we cannot see off a pack of mangy curs like that, may our arms fail with the glass eye and brass sword of Beng Thrax!”

  He glanced at me in the wavering light of the torch upheld in the clum’s hand. “By Havil, Hamun! You speak like a kaidur!”

  “I had an interest in the Jikhorkdun,” I said, slurring the word and thus betraying an amateur knowledge. “It passed.”

  “I confess I rejoice in the games too, the spectacles.” And here he launched into an enthusiastic description of the latest games, in which kaidur had fought kaidur, and coys had struggled for their lives against wild beasts, and all the old stories of the amphitheater came out. I looked at the clum going ahead with the torch, a painfully thin lad with a shock of brown hair. His ribs stuck out above the dingy green loincloth swathed around his middle by a length of rope. He was in poor condition, half starved, no doubt living in some filthy hovel in one of the disgusting shanty towns, working long hours at night with his link light, desperate for customers and then dependent on the whim of those who employed him. The usual price was an ob an ulm. Some of these fine gentry of Ruathytu thought it a jest to turn a link man away with a toe, which is a copper coin worth one sixth of an ob, or, even, with nothing at all save threats.

  The clums and guls of Ruathytu use the word “havvey” instead of “toc,” which is precious to them, forming the coin of which they see most. If you see any connection between the slang word “havvey” and the great and glorious name of Havil — well, you are right . . .

  We went to Nath Tolfeyr’s lodgings and he said he did not mind if I slept on the floor. An old campaigner sleeps on floors as a matter of course. I did not wish to disturb Rees’s household at this late hour. Just before we paid off the link-man, Nath leaving that task for me, I spoke as he lowered his torch. He would extinguish that the moment his customers had gone. Torches cost money. He could find his way back in the dark, on the lookout for customers, shouting, “Loxo! Loxo!” “Loxo” is one of the names in Kregish for these torches of wood with their wrappings of tow and pitch. “What is your name, link-man?” I said.

  “Naghan, if it pleases you, Notor.”

  “Well, Naghan, here are seven obs.” Seven obs had once led me to a duel.

  He took them, joyful at receiving twice his hire. Then I tossed him another coin. “And here is a silver sinver. I find I have suddenly lost my taste for silver.”

  “Thank you, Notor! May Havil bless you, Notor!” He would have babbled on, but, feeling the greatest get-onker in two worlds, I went inside and slammed the door so the frame rattled.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Of a fire and an abduction

  The next morning, after I had taken an extensive bath to rid myself of the odor of the previous night, an incredible thing happened to me. I went along to one of the tailors’ shops in the Street of Threads, which opened off the Kyro of the Vadvars, and there I bought a brand-new, brilliant green jacket.

  I tried it on and, of course, it was far too narrow across the shoulders. The stitching creaked. The shopkeeper, a wizened gul with tired eyes and tailor’s chalk marks all over his own worn but immaculate clothes, exclaimed in surprise. Most of the gul shops here were owned by Horters or nobles, and the guls must go home to their own quarters at night.

  I felt the snow-white ling fur trimming. I am fond of ling fur. I think of my Delia and the Plains of Segesthes when I touch that smooth, silky fur.

  “Can you alter it?”

  “Indeed yes, Notor.”

  “This afternoon, then.”

  He bowed me out. He’d have to insert a fresh panel all the way up the back, a good two hands’ breadths wider.

  The incredible thing was, simply, that I felt pure relief at wearing a green jacket. Incredible — positively eerie! That I, a Krozair Brother, should actually feel I was cleaner wearing the green! Well, I think this goes to show how much that depravity of the night before, with Lem the Silver Leem, had affected me.

  I promised myself as I strolled along toward Rees’s villa, I would seek out Ornol that night. Too many side issues had taken my feet from the path. Mind you, it did occur to me to wonder just how the wise men of Vallia were performing with the information I had sent them via Delia and the emperor.

  Just as I was going past a baker’s shop and sniffing the delightful flavor of those long Kregan loaves, I was hailed by Tothord, the Elten of the Ruby Hills. He looked animated.

  “Have you not heard, Hamun? They are bringing in a new batch of prisoners today! I shall watch the procession, and then it will be the Jikhorkdun for me!”

  For him and half Ruathytu. This Tothord gloated over the torture of those poor devils of prisoners of war as they were thrust into the arena, to be slain by armored and armed men, or to be devoured by wild beasts. I did not keep up with the Jikhorkdun here in Ruathytu. It was messier even than the Arena in Huringa, where I had fought as a hyr-kaidur. They had been days, though!

  I took an amith-trolley with Tothord to see the procession come splendidly down the Arrow of Hork to the Arena. I went merely because I thought I would carry the information and a report to Rees and Chido, and thereby cheer them.

  A whole regiment of infantry preceded the prisoners. This regiment, and like a good spy I committed to memory their number and their strength, was the twenty-first regiment of foot, the numerals blazed proudly forth on their shields. Their band marched ahead, their colors flying in the radiance of the suns. Then came the prisoners. They staggered and shambled, loaded with chains, and I saw that many had bloody feet, after their long march up through Hamal from their homeland of Clef Pesquadrin, in the western portion of the Dawn Lands, under the shadow of the mountains.

  They were slender, nut-brown-skinned men, with long, lank black hair that fell past their shoulders. Most had been stripped of their clothes, but some still wore scraps of leather and the remnants of once brave harness. Yes, they staggered and stumbled as they walked, for they had been pressed in the last stages of their march to reach the Great Jikhorkdun on the time allotted to them. I had to turn away. Tothord stood there on tiptoe, yelling with the rest of the onlookers, his mouth open and spittle upon his lips, his face frenzied.

  Well, and might not just such a procession of beaten Hamalians be treated with the same reception, in a few years’ time, when paraded through the streets of Vondium?

  Then a tremendous shriek arose from the crowd and I swung back to look. The prisoners had passed and a second regiment swung along just coming into view. But, between them, snuffling with heads low, their matted hair combed into arrogant upflung cockscombs and streaming out behind, loping along on human hands and feet grown into ferocious killing instruments, their serrated jagged teeth gleaming — yes — jiklos. Manhounds!

  There were twenty of them, held in leash by iron chains, and their keepers were armored and armed with long prodding goads, which they used wi
th great care. These were the famous Manhounds of Faol, which is an island in the far northwest of Havilfar. How, then, had these beasts — beasts, for all they were apim! — come to be in the south? Then I realized there would have been ample time to have brought the manhounds into the parade and so give an extra titillation to the excited crowds. The prisoners from Clef Pesquadrin knew exactly what was in store for them in the Arena, poor devils.

  Turning away, barely remembering I ought to note the number of this second regiment (the two hundred and fifty-first regiment of foot), I blundered off. No one paid me any attention. Because I had had my green coat burned and the new one was not yet ready, I had a gray coat slung over my shoulders. I went on toward Rees’s villa.

  The people of Ruathytu were still well fed, I reflected, with ample food and all the items of civilized living they required. If the clums could afford to buy it, there was food available for them also. No, this great empire of Hamal had not even begun to feel the pinch of war. Well, by Vox, I vowed, if they attacked Vallia they’d very soon learn of the miseries brought by war!

  When I got to the villa I was met by distressing news.

  Rees’s Chamberlain met me in the entrance hall. He was a lion-man, also, immensely big and burly, with a fantastic ruffed mane of blowing gold. He wore a robe of decent white, as we had done back in Paline Valley, and a bunch of keys swung from his belt — as did a thraxter, also. He carried a wand of office. It appeared to be a solid gold wand; later I discovered it was mere sturm-wood gilded over. This man, Korgan the Keys, bore so sorrowful a look on his face I thought Rees was dead.

  “No, Notor. He is not dead. But Doctor Larghos the Needle fears for his life. None may visit, save Lady Rashi.”

  “May Havil and Krun have him in their keeping,” I said quickly, but not automatically. I promised myself that if Zair would condescend as a good god should to save the life of my friend, I would perform certain obligations when I once more trod good Zairian soil on the southern shore of the inner sea.

  Chido and his father and sister had left for Eurys less than a bur ago. They had flown. The old Vad had said, icily I guessed, that if his son Chido’s friend had chosen to stay out all night then they could not wait around on his pleasure to say Remberee. Well, that fitted the traditional character of the man, all fire and dignity and pride.

  So, disconsolate, I wandered off, at a loose end in the sacred quarter of Ruathytu. Drig knows that is an open invitation for idle hands and mischief!

  The rest of the day passed somehow. I took the baths of nine, and loitered about the colonnades, and took meals in the Kregan fashion, six or so square meals a day minimum. By mid-afternoon the street throngs had thinned considerably and the bestial drumroll bursting out of the Great Jikhorkdun and the other Arenas told where the people had gone.

  Feeling pretty beastly myself, I took myself north over the Bridge of Swords that leads from the vast kyro before the Great Temple of Havil the Green, across the River Havilthytus. I walked along quietly, inconspicuous enough, toward the soldiers’ quarter. Here the massive square-cut blocks of the barracks rose in neat regimental checkerboards. (I do not say like Jikaida boards, for I have a finicky sense of propriety in these matters.) I was able to get close enough to an outside block and to creep unobserved along the brick wall to the gateway with its wooden doors. The sentry went to sleep standing up, with my help, and I lowered him to the ground. From the bushes a mere four double-armfuls of brush and twigs, all nice and dry from the suns’ radiance, were sufficient. I struck flame with flint and steel and set the brush alight. Waiting until after the flames took and abruptly crackled up fiercely, I ran off.

  Moments later I again walked up the road out of the tree shadows. A little crowd of passersby had gathered and, together, in a companionable exchange of considered opinions, we watched the barrack block burn down.

  The soldiers ran and the fire engines galloped up — quoffas going as fast as they could drawing huge vats of water, totrixes drawing the equipment — but they couldn’t halt the flames. The smoke rose, a black smudge against the bright sky.

  Petty? Of course. A great blow for Vallia against Hamal? Hardly. A venting of spleen, a letting of bile? Certainly.

  But, then, it is true: Drig will find work for empty hands.

  An aqueduct from the hills to the north passed close by these soldiers’ barracks. Farther south it split into two, one branch going to the Great Temple and the other to the Hanitchik on its narrow island due east. I eyed the tall stone-built arches. Hmm. I remember that little “Hmm” most clearly.

  Now, had I a few barrels of gunpowder . . . I sighed, and took myself off to prepare for the night.

  On the way I called in at the tailor’s. The green jacket was ready, the white ling fur soft and silky, magnificent. The fur was wasted as trimming, really, for it is long and lightweight, and ideal for warm coats. But such is the way of these decadent societies. I paid over the golden deldys and went back to the villa.

  I had not expected my arrival to be greeted in the way it was.

  Rashi, Rees’s charming wife, clasped me into her arms sobbing and crying and shrieking all over me. Young Roban was standing in the dining room doorway, distraught and crying with huge dry sobs that shook his body. The chamberlain, Rorgan the Keys, lay stretched dead upon the floor, his blood dribbling away, for he had not died easily. I could see that, with the eyes of a warrior; but there were no dead bodies in a ring around him, as there surely had been when at last he had sunk down, his fouled thraxter snapped across.

  Across the entrance hall the bodies of two slave girls lay sprawled indecently, where they had been flung forward by the stuxes that still jutted up from the center of their slender backs, the cruel iron heads deeply buried.

  Other slaves showed terrified faces, peering around corners and from doorways. None would approach this frightful scene of carnage.

  I held the shaking form of the lady of the house, and stared about. “Rees!” I shouted. “In Zair’s name! What has happened here?”

  A voice quavered from the head of the stairs, an old man’s voice, and I looked up, over the trembling shoulders of Rashi.

  “Hamun,” said Rees, the lion-man, from the head of the stairs, where he stood supported by two of his retainers. His face showed a sickly greenish-yellow. “Reesnik, my son — they have slain him . . . slain him . . .”

  Then my friend, Trylon Rees of the Golden Wind, pitched full length down the stairs, out of the helpless feeble hands of his retainers. Gently I set Rashi aside and ran to Rees. He was not dead. I lifted my head and yelled.

  “Doctor Larghos the Needle! Here, man, as you value your life!”

  Larghos came forward, with blood smearing his white coat, holding his bag open. A spray of needles tinkled to the floor as he stumbled. I grasped him and held him up.

  “I have seen—” he gasped. “Saffi is gone, gone!”

  “Look to the Notor,” I growled.

  The doctor, regaining some semblance of sanity, for it was not his blood that so dreadfully smeared his coat but the blood of the few guards left alive, bent to Rees and began his healing work.

  Looking about, I tried to think. Someone in this madhouse must know what had happened . . . but then I knew too, with the sick feeling of dread certainty, just what devilish business had gone on here.

  Vad Garnath had had his revenge! He had slain Rees’s son and taken away his daughter Saffi, to sell into slavery.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I give my word

  Rees gave a long moan from the floor, a shuddering tortured cry of agony. I jumped across. Doctor Larghos looked up, his face contorted with grief.

  “He will live, Notor, just. He must be taken upstairs, but carefully, for he is sore wounded internally. He will live, by the grace of Havil.”

  “Men!” I bellowed. I looked around and half a dozen faces disappeared behind pillars and doorways. I leaped for the nearest and dragged out two retainers by the scruffs of their nec
ks. “Help me with the master or you die!” I meant it, too. Between us, and with exquisite care, we took Rees back up the stairs and into his room where we placed him back in his bed. He groaned as he lay back, but his feverish eyes remained open, staring up at me with a glitter that told of the torture eating at his brain.

  “Hamun — old friend—”

  That was not strictly true, for we had known each other for so short a period. But what he felt I felt, too.

  “Do not speak, Notor,” said Larghos.

  “I must. It was Garnath, Hamun. Garnath!”

  “Aye.” I fussed with the sheets. “The laws in Hamal—”

  “The law cannot touch him, for there is no — no proof.” Talking was agony for him, but he forced the words out. “I know it was Garnath. But all who saw him are dead — dead, like Reesnik.”

  Doctor Larghos tried to silence him, but the lion-man snarled — a little, weak snarl — and said in a breathy whisper: “I would go seek him out and demand just restitution, Hamun. But—” His glazed eyes rolled and he looked down the bed. “I — am not — able.”

  What could I do?

  What could I say?

  I do not make friends lightly. I value those I have.

  I gently pressed his shoulder back to the pillow. I stared down into his lion-face.

  “I will go, Rees. I will tear the rast to pieces if necessary.”

  “Saffi . . .”

  So, I had to say it.

  “I will bring Saffi home, Rees, safe and sound, if she lives.” Then I saw the pain in his eyes, and so I added quickly: “She does live, Rees. Believe in that.”

  He nodded and a last whisper came from him just before Larghos thrust in the Notor Zan needle that would put him into a deep sleep. “I trust you, old fellow. Saffi . . .”

  I stepped back from the bed.

  I had given my word. I would break my word to Lem the Silver Leem, to an overlord of Magdag. But not to Rees, not to a friend.

  Tonight I was to go to seek Ornol, and in some foul dopa den bribe him to the secret Vallia would need. I had perjured myself in this fresh promise. Delia would understand and forgive me, but I would not forgive myself. What was the life of the daughter of an enemy of Vallia worth? Nothing? Nothing!