Avenger of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “At once, Apgarl.” The second Pachak easily lifted the log barring the lenken door and went out. These two had a chain of command, then, that was clear. That would be like the Pachaks.

  That glittering blade, a foot long, glittered in the lamp’s gleam as it circled above the guard’s head. Within the deadly circle of that bladed tail it behooved any fighting-man to beware.

  “Look, Deldar,” I said in a most reasonable tone of voice. “I have my duty to do. You are making an unnecessary fuss.”

  “Stand still!”

  “But—”

  “Guards do not come here through the wenches’ quarters, nor do they stride with thraxters in their hands. Be still.”

  I sighed. There was nothing else for it.

  Saffi must be beyond that blue-and-green-curlicued door. Singing or not, she must be there. It would take time to get her out, and the other Pachak would be back with his Hikdar soon.

  I did not kill the Pachak. As I say, and I believe you understand, I have a regard for that short stout race of halflings. I leaped, got in under his tail, elbowed his thraxter away, reached for his throat — and his two left arms jerked out like pistons and his shield smashed into my ribs and sent me sprawling back. I landed on my injured left shoulder. I felt the jab of scarlet pain, but there was no time to do anything else but roll frantically aside as his bladed tail came down thwacking onto the stones. He had struck with a flat blade so as to knock me out. I forced myself up and this time my thraxter met his in a jingle of steel. The tail whipped back ready for another blow. I nicked his sword down and prepared to sway aside from the next blow, and had barely time to gasp.

  “Onker!” said the Pachak. His tail, instead of curling over his shoulder and around and down for a blow, abruptly disappeared. In the next second I saw a betraying glitter between his legs. The foot-long blade, horizontal and lethal, darted like a javelin straight for me, impelled by the stiffened, muscular tail.

  If you have seen a flexible rammer used to thrust home a thirty-two pounder roundshot you will know how a flexible rope can become in a twinkling a hard bar. Even as I leaped I caught an expression on his face of pity, his blue eyes very bright. Then I was jumping up and the sword gripped in his tail hand hissed between my legs as it had hissed between his. I came down hard, got his tail between my knees, jerked upright. He looked his surprise. I straightened my legs, my knees snapped back perhaps four inches, enough to drag him forward, my thraxter bashed away his, and then, without stopping, I brought the hilt around and thunked it solidly against his chin. He gave a gasp; he did not fall down. I had to hit him three times before he sagged to his knees.

  He rolled over onto his side, his tail now limp, that deadly steel scraping uselessly across the stones. I stepped back and saluted him with the sword.

  Suddenly a low musical voice at my back said, “You give him the Jikai, then, Amak Hamun?”

  I whirled.

  Saffi stood in the doorway, her superb body bare, her glorious golden hair a dazzlement about her golden shoulders.

  “We are leaving now, Saffi.”

  “I am glad it is you who have come for me, Hamun. Is my father alive?”

  “He lives.”

  She let out a little sigh. She walked toward the fallen Pachak and took up his thraxter. I knew she would be skilled in its use. Also, she snapped off the cords of his green cape and flung it about herself. Then, together, we made for the open lenken door.

  I thought about the Pachak’s green cape as I picked up the crossbow from where I had dropped it. Pachaks, like Katakis, do not like billowy, tangling clothing at their backs, and it is clear to see why, for a cape might easily interfere with that smooth sweeping looping of their bladed tails. So, having to wear the Kov’s regulation uniform cape, perhaps this Pachak, whose name I knew was Apgarl, had fought at a disadvantage. Perhaps his cape equaled my abandoned crossbow. I had not wished to slay him, as I might easily have done. Maybe I had been lucky.

  Saffi, the daughter of Rees, the Trylon of the Golden Wind, must have observed the encounter; she had given a backhanded Jikai, so she must have observed the byplay with cape and crossbow.

  We went swiftly along the curving corridor. If anyone asked, we were merely a guard taking a captive along according to orders; and if that did not satisfy the interlocutor, then six inches of sharp steel would.

  The lion-girl walked with a free loping swing, and her face showed the burning passion of her nature. I said, “Look downcast, like a slave, Saffi. If you do not I shall spank you.”

  “You might try!” she flared.

  I glared at her. She lowered her eyes. She held the thraxter beneath the green cape, hidden, and I saw the way her right fist clenched. But she made her face assume a hangdog expression, and she hung her head in proper slave style.

  We spent some time finding our way down the passageways. Now if I relate what next befell us in a straightforward and matter-of-fact way, it will sound the merest flight of fancy. Yet that is my way, as these tapes prove. Quite clearly and without doubt, at least to my mind, the Star Lords or the Savanti had taken a most direct hand in events. What their motives were, I did not know; of their results I can speak with absolute authority. For as we turned from a small corridor into a wide paved cavern, ablaze with light and filled with people moving on their errands, I saw a small half-closed doorway. I stopped. Ahead across the paved area a marching body of troops approached. They were Pachaks, all of them, and they meant business. I grabbed Saffi’s arm and bundled her through the narrow doorway.

  “Hamun!”

  “Be silent, Saffi. I might battle them all — aye, and slay them all, if Zair smiled — but that is not the way of wisdom.”

  She pouted at me in the gloom. The place hung with dust we had disturbed, and if we sneezed we might betray ourselves. I moved farther down the narrow slot. Saffi inched along after. I felt a slight warm breeze on my cheek. There was practically no light now, and I could barely make out a bronze grille from which the warm perfumed air wafted.

  I put my finger to my lips. “Not a sound.” My words just reached her golden ears.

  Then — I must tell this just as it occurred. Then from the bronze grille and borne on the scented breeze came the sound of voices, talking in grim and purposeful fashion, three voices not so much arguing as discussing a knotty problem. I listened. In a moment we must back out of the slot and seek to escape.

  But I listened.

  The words bit through the dark air, hissing, sibilant, cold with a passionless dedication to an overweening ambition.

  There, deep in the depths of the fortress-city of Smerdislad, away on the island of Faol, close to the continent of Havilfar, many and many a dwabur from home, I heard those chillingly shocking words. There in the darkness I heard and I could not believe I heard right.

  For that thin and evil whisper said: “We must first win him to our views. For in all Vallia the man to be most feared is this same Dray Prescot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Savanti and the Star Lords ordain fate

  Saffi tugged my arm. I felt the wound in my shoulder. But I could not move. I think my mouth hung open in a foolish loose-lipped idiot’s grin. The voice of Phu-si-Yantong wafted through the bronze grille, there in the fortress of Smerdislad lost in the jungles of Faol.

  “We must bring every artifice to bear on this Dray Prescot.”

  The voice of Strom Rosil, the Kataki Chuktar: “Why not have him killed, and end it? A stikitche—”

  “Like your man sent to slay the fool Quarnach, Rosil?” said the voice of Vad Garnath, sharp with goading malice.

  Phu-si-Yantong quelled them. “He must not be slain. Through him we can rule all Vallia — aye, and the Vallian empire!”

  Strom Rosil would not easily be quelled, although he spoke in a lowered, malevolent tone. “My man was no professional stikitche. The hunt is delayed. I care nothing for the hunt, and the onker Quarnach may crawl about the corridors bleeding to death for all
I care. My Katakis and I need slaves! When we have Pandahem and then Vallia—”

  Vad Garnath laughed. Saffi, who tried to listen, shivered.

  “Much will depend on Queen Thyllis. For she believes her power to be absolute.”

  “Remember,” came the ghost-whisper of Yantong. “Today her power in Hamal is absolute. We plan for the day after tomorrow.”

  “And I grow impatient, by the Triple Tails of Targ the Untouchable!”

  “Then I caution you to learn wisdom, Rosil, or you may suffer from a visit from your own Chezra-gon-Kranak for your sins.”

  “By my tail!” The voice of the Chuktar Strom growled with malefic force through the bronzed grille. “I know well how to deal with those who cross my path.”

  Still I was unable to move. Saffi tugged again; I barely felt her fingers on my arm, although pain struck from my shoulder. These three had been talking and I had stumbled into the middle of their talk, so that much of what they said meant nothing, overheard as it was out of context. But I felt I was on the verge of great discoveries. Yantong was talking about Strom Rosil’s twin, the Stromich Ranjal who was, I gathered, about some evil business for this unholy trio. I could not tear myself away. I listened, fascinated.

  Saffi cautiously edged up close to me and I felt her golden hair tickling my neck. She put her lips close to my ear and whispered: “Amak Hamun! We must go before they search us out!”

  I did not reply.

  She was right. That paralysis dropped away. I began to move, and heard Phu-si-Yantong saying: “So the problem of Dray Prescot will find its own solution when the emperor is gone. Very well. I am concerned over this attempt by the king of Menahem to steal the secrets of voller manufacture.”

  Vad Garnath laughed again. “The spy Dopitka ti Appanshad was taken and put to the question and sent to Queen Thyllis’ syatra. The spines pierced him through and—”

  “Yes, Garnath, I can well imagine what happened to the spy from Menahem. But there may well be others. I am of Loh. I owe the cities of Havilfar — and Hamal and Hyrklana — much enmity from the old times and the ancient days. Without vollers the Empire of Loh was as a broken reed. Now the position has swung as the weathercock swings. Pandahem must not gain vollers, and none must be allowed to go to the Vallian rasts.” His whispering voice cut through the darkness. I found I was gripping the hilt of my thraxter with a grip that pained. “The vaol boxes and the paol boxes contain the seeds of a power greater than any you have imagined. They must never be broken.”

  “What if they are?” Vad Garnath sounded impatient. “Even I do not know the nobles of Hamal charged with these secrets. They are not spoken of. Until the Nine Faceless Ones approach a noble and summon him to voller-duty he — or anyone — must remain ignorant of the secrets. All a meddler will find is dirt and air.”

  Dirt and air!

  Now I felt absolutely certain that the Savanti or the Star Lords had brought me to just this spot and just this time. I stopped moving back and strained to listen, and Saffi fretfully tugged again, anxious to be gone.

  She dared not speak, and neither of us dared make a sound. So I listened as these three talked. They did not mention the word cayferm once, but I felt an uplifting sense that I had taken a measurable stride closer to the heart of the secret.

  Now I could leave here. Now I could see a course of action ahead of me that would bring the secrets tumbling into my lap like shonages from a full-grown tree. Marvelous!

  My first wriggling movement backward started Saffi agilely back down the slot. The last words I heard were from that Phu-si-Yantong upon whose face I had not yet gazed. He was giving Garnath orders about the volgendrins. Garnath was answering with the laughter entirely fled from his voice, and Rosil, too, sounded surly and vicious.

  The Wizard of Loh, Phu-si-Yantong, said, “Extra Gerawin and other efficient guards must be used. It does not matter from which country they come, for my plans call for all of Havilfar to yield to me the One True Way. Use Gerawin, Pachaks, anyone who can fight well and is loyal to his hire to defend the volgendrins.”

  Going back down the slot of darkness I mulled that over. We had to escape from this hellhole, but, equally, I had to know what secret information it was I had gained. I knew Gerawin only too well. They were squat, bandy-legged diffs with damned sharp tridents who so efficiently flew astride their tyryvols and guarded the Heavenly Mines where I had slaved in such horror. As for volgendrins, well, I had heard men speak of them and had passed it by, being busy about other pursuits. But the word conjured up certain possibilities . . .

  At the little half-hidden door leading out Saffi turned to me. In the lamplight splashing in, she looked furious clean through.

  “Father said you were a strange one, Amak Hamun! By Krun! He was right! Do you want to spend forever in here?”

  “What those men had to say interested me, Saffi.”

  “A fine time you pick to eavesdrop!”

  Well, that was true. I reflected, not without joy, that if I had not decided to try to rescue this glorious lion-maid, if I had selfishly gone about the much more important business of Vallia in Hamal, I would never have heard of this wizard, Phu-si-Yantong, would never have come here, to this hidden fortress, never have squeezed down a slot of blackness and so overheard evil plans concerning Vallia. The chances that seemed miraculous were no chances. I had chosen to try to rescue Saffi, and the Savanti had used that to their own ends. I felt convinced this must be the work of the Savanti, those mortal but superhuman men of the Swinging City, Aphrasöe, the more I thought on the question. They had the welfare of men at heart on Kregen, that I knew. Just what the Star Lords’ plans might be, I, a mortal, had no way of knowing.

  We could no longer mingle freely with the guards and slaves within the inner fortress. The alarm had been given. A lion-maid, as had been proven so conclusively, is a rare and precious object in vile dens where beautiful girls are hunted; Saffi needed a hooded cloak. The slave from whom we obtained the gray slave garment was probably very pleased indeed to be afforded the opportunity of a quiet sleep. Together, Saffi in her cloak, I as a forest-green-clad guardsman, we prowled on.

  Presently she said: “You go up, Hamun!”

  “Aye.”

  She sniffed and pulled the hood closer about her golden hair.

  Up we went, through passageways and caverns. We had to dodge away out of sight two or three times as bodies of guards marched past; among slaves we pressed on boldly.

  All feeling had left my shoulder now. I tucked my arm into the side of the tunic and it hung like a lump of meat on a butcher’s hook. I kept the crossbow. Saffi might take the one shot; I discarded the quiver. At last we saw doors ahead that, I trusted to Zair, must take us out to a landing platform on the roof. Only three guards stood their posts here, and all were Rapas. Saffi shot one. I spitted the second, and Saffi, not without a splendid example of swordplay, dispatched the third. We pushed through the open doors onto a flat roof and saw vollers lined up, quietly waiting for us.

  It was not quite as easy as that.

  To our right reared the tall glitteringly white column of the central tower. Up there no doubt the Kov of Faol had his own amusements. Certainly, he had guards. They began to shoot down as we ran for the nearest suitable voller, a four-place craft with rakish lines indicating speed. Other guards sprang to bar our path. We had a right merry set-to then, but in all honesty I recall little of it. I do remember Saffi, most glorious, blazing golden, striking shrewd blows, and myself shouting the Jikai to her, saying, “A true daughter of a noble father,” and other silly words besides. Then Saffi was pushing me into the voller. I flopped down. Saffi straddled above me. I recalled that I was supposed to be rescuing her, and levered myself up past her. I was able to smash the thraxter down on a couple of Rapas and an apim who would have dragged us out. The voller moved, lurched, sprang into the air.

  We soared away over the jungle.

  Zair must have been with us for it was some time before th
e pursuing airboats took off. The preparations for the hunt had begun early; the day was barely half gone. We could expect no grateful concealment as the twin suns, Zim and Genodras, sank below the horizon.

  Saffi set a course due south. Well, that would do for now. We must outrun our pursuers, or fox them in some way, and then we might begin the long flight back to Ruathytu. Saffi must have thought along the same lines, for she looked back, and her long golden hair blew out splendidly past her face. She laughed with an exultation that is reserved for the battle-mad or the gloriously adventurous of two worlds. I could not feel my shoulder; all I could feel was a damned gray wave roaring over my thick skull, blotting out reasonable thought.

  “We will outfly them, Hamun, and then hide in the jungle. They will never find us once we find a safe place!”

  “The — manhounds—” I croaked.

  “With a weapon in my fist, I do not think I would fear even a manhound, with you at my side!”

  Well, Numim girls are notorious for their ardor. I shivered. I was a damned sick apim, that was certain. After the dip in the sacred Pool of Baptism that had ensured me a full thousand years of life, I was also strongly able to recover from wounds and sickness. But it would take time; that fellow’s dagger had bitten deeply, more deeply than I realized. I was running a temperature, and I felt as bad as ever I had, apart from certain more scarlet moments of my life — as when I crossed the path of the Phokaym along the Klackadrin.

  Thoughts of Numim girls brought up certain memories. I now felt confident Numim girls were as tough as was said; and I fancied Numim men were also as tough and would keep a promise.

  “Straight on, Saffi,” I croaked out. “Keep going.” I managed to sprawl forward and stick my head up enough to see where we were going. Saffi looked back.

  “They keep close, Hamun. We should dive into the jungle and hide.”

  “No! Keep straight on.”

  She pouted at me, and her golden eyes regarded me with calculation.

  “I am not delirious, Saffi. I will get over this rast-given wound directly.” It was an effort to think and speak. “Keep on. Look for a clearing; caves, huts — and villas.”