EXILED Defenders of Ar

by Jack Lovejoy

  Khal ignored him at first, as he introduced his collection of stuffed enemies, figure by figure, with the pride of a connoisseur, to the eight horrified commanders. These had been the famous and powerful of the land before the invasion; their names the commanders knew like legends. All of them had taken part in the surprise attack on Kazerclawm, and recognized the effigy of the elegant young governor.

  They murmured their appreciation as they moved about the chamber. Then they were truly horrified, for posed in martial array were none other than their quondam generalissimo and the commander of the pursuit forces who had let the refugees escape.

  “My taxidermists finished mounting them only late last night.” Khal examined the figures. “This is my own first look at them. I was busy with another enemy, one who foolishly thought he could elude my vigilance. He too will one day find a place here, but not just yet. Greed and haste must never be allowed to mar the delights of vengeance. I was certainly not hasty with these two, yet as you see there is no evidence of my passion. Rare workmanship! I must provide such artists new material to work with.” The eight commanders glanced nervously at each other. “Ah, here’s my good Nizzam. Have you learned your lesson about filling my goblet from the left side, and not the right? Perhaps next time I won’t be so generous.”

  “It will never happen again, master. Never, I promise. I swear to you.” Nizzam abjectly kissed the hem of his robe. “Thank you for your generosity.”

  “Be seated here.” Khal pointed to the most beautiful piece of furniture in the entire room, a small dainty couch of inlaid precious woods, silken upholstery, and gemstones. “Assume the pose I showed you. That’s right. A poor substitute for the one who will shortly repose here, gentlemrem. A young she-mrem of rare beauty, a flawless cream white. A White Dancer, in fact. Nizzam here knows her, and will help me bring her here, the crowning jewel in my entire collection. Won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, anything, master.”

  Khal’s ruby eyes glittered down at him. “Your response seemed slow. Have you any reservations?”

  No. Nizzam groveled. He had no reservations. Nor had any of the eight commanders who now seated themselves nervously at the dinner table, although normally they squabbled like curs over every scrap of preference or advantage. Neither the service nor the delectable viands set before them left anything to be desired; the wine was a famous vintage. But they had little appetite. Perhaps it was their silent audience, perhaps the disgusting food devoured greedily by Khal, or the liskash servitor who waited personally on him, perhaps they had secret suspicions about what might be in their own food and drink. In any case, they only sipped and nibbled at what was for them a lavish banquet.

  Nizzam was not invited to sit down; he never was. He was merely a factotum of the lowest degree, in continual terror of his life, and scurried discreetly to the vestibule the instant he noticed a messenger enter. Another mistake today could cost him his hide—literally.

  Relays of professional runners had brought the message fifty leagues in a single day, a service for which a goodly reward might normally be expected. But the messenger did not wait. Weary and still breathing hard from running, he was nonetheless able to put a couple of miles between himself and Cragsclaw, within minutes after delivering his message at the door.

  Nizzam’s first wild fancy was to try and match him stride for stride, over hill and dale. He had never heard of a marchland fastness called Ravarbal, but knew the report of events there would not please his master, who was already displeased with him today. Dragging his feet, he slowly returned to the dinner table, whispered the message—then very quickly dived for cover, behind the effigies of the king and queen of Dobaragh.

  “Fools! Idiots!” Khal shrieked so maniacally that all eight commanders fairly bounced in their chairs. “This vengeance is mine by right. Mine! Mine! Mine! A flawless cream white! Why haven’t my orders been carried out?” He sent his liskash servitor flying from the hall, and stalked back and forth through his collection of effigies raving like a madman.

  Then all at once he stopped in his tracks. His ruby eyes glittered with frenzy, and his webbed fingers groped unconsciously for the Third Eye, as if some new development threatened its power, as if the true meaning of what he had just heard had suddenly penetrated his mind. His hissing scream exploded through the hall like a volcanic bomb:

  “They must be stopped! At all costs, they must be stopped!

  Now I know what they’re after!”

  The legate from the Eastern Lords, one of the smaller, more intelligent liskash, who entered the hall at that moment with Khal’s servitor, was startled by the outburst. He both feared and hated Kahl, for he sensed that he was despised.

  “Call off the siege of Ar!” Kahl shrieked at him. “We march at once! All available troops. I know what they’re after. They must be stopped. At once, at all costs....”

  Though the legate could not understand what the all-powerful sorcerer was ranting about, and suspected at first that this time he really had lost his mind, he was certainly not going to call off the siege of Ar on any pretext. Not with victory almost within their grasp. His sole loyalty was to the aggrandizement of the Eastern Lords and, though he dreaded the wrath of the raging figure before him, he stood firm.

  Khal startled them all again by suddenly ceasing to rave.

  Cold, rational, again in full command of his evil faculties, he gazed at the legate with icy malice.

  “It will be remembered,” he hissed, and stalked from the chamber to make arrangements of his own.

  “Three days lost dodging spooks and legends,” grumbled Severakh. It was morning, and the port of Namakhazar sprawled about its haven in the coastal valley like a toy city. The ships at anchor certainly appeared like toys at this distance; too tiny and fragile ever to survive out on the vast shining sea beyond. “Where’s that Cajhet?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to sneak up on me like that?” “I’m sorry, sir. I was just, uh, I mean—”

  “Just trying to get back to your tent for more disgraceful behavior, without my seeing you? I’m ashamed to be in the same army with you.”

  Cajhet stood at attention, without daring to look his gruff old commander in the eye. He knew he was in trouble; in normal times he would probably have landed in one of his own dungeon cells. But what else could he do? Kizzlecosh had gotten them safely through bandit country, and no matter what the regulations said, if he didn’t sleep in her tent every night—he got very little sleep, in fact—her feelings might be hurt. His ears tingled at the very thought….

  “This is your hometown.” Severakh continued to glower disgustedly at him. “You should have contacts here, at least a few relatives who could help us. I want you back here by sundown with a good report, or I’ll know the reason why.

  We’re already behind schedule. Well, why are you still standing there?”

  “Uh, it’s like this, sir. Kizzlecosh says she wants to meet my mother, so I thought—”

  The explosion of curses startled him. Then he found himself seized by the throat and shaken. But Severakh was too canny an old soldier not to exploit any given opportunity, by any means.

  “All right,” he sighed, releasing Cajhet. “Take the wench down to the harbor and drown her, for all I care. Just be back here by sundown with a good report. Remember, there’s more places you can be drowned than the sea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As it turned out, Severakh could have marched his whole contingent straight into Namakhazar as bravenly as Kizzlecosh herself. Gatemen, sailors, sea captains, innkeepers, waterfront idlers—she had a way of making any inquiry a confrontation, and quickly got whatever information she wanted. She also got a job.

  “I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back, love,” she promised. “You’re so brave, I’m proud of you.” And she hugged him to her massive bosom. “Now let�
��s go find your mother.”

  Fabulous riches dwelt cheek by jowl with squalid poverty; outside of the palace quarter, the only law was that of tooth and claw. Everybody carried weapons, and knew how to use them. There was in fact relatively little crime or violence, since retaliation was too swift and certain, and even the drunken brawls along the waterfront were seen as just part of the night’s entertainment for the sailors involved.

  It was in a notoriously low dive, part of which overhung the very water on pilings, that Kizzlecosh got her job. Bouncers seldom lasted long in the Tangletide, so she had been hired on the spot.

  It had been many years since Cajhet had last seen his raunchy old mother, and he was not sure he would still recognize her. Following the directions of her neighbors, he found her in the Temple of Attapran, the patron goddess of sailors. It seemed his mother now sat in some temple or other, every morning of her life, with the notion that she was thereby expiating old sins. Her worship of gods and goddesses was as promiscuous as her earlier life had been.

  “Hello, Cajhet.” She recognized her son at once. “You look like you need feeding up. A bit of heft looks good on a mrem.”

  She was then introduced to Kizzlecosh, and the two females, after a few suspicious moments, recognized in each other kindred spirits. They shared a bawdy conspiratorial laugh that made Cajhet nervous, although he didn’t know why.

  His mother’s real name was Bastanza, although he alone seemed to remember that. She was familiarly called “Buppy”, very familiarly, it turned out. He felt all the old pangs of his youth as they returned through the narrow squalid lanes of the waterfront to her dwelling, for the male half of the neighborhood greeted her with sly endearments, while the female half was as bawdily conspiratorial with her as she had been with Kizzlecosh. The few rivals and enemies she had among the latter were no match for her in obscene repartee.

  Cajhet recalled only two of the extraordinary number of half-brothers and -sisters he was introduced to along the way, although they all seemed to know his name. What extravagant tales his mother must have told them about him, he could only guess. For they all seemed to think he was a military hero, intimate with kings.

  The briny tang of the air, over laden with the tarry-fishy smells of the docks, reminded him vividly of the many nights he had spent sleeping on doorsteps or wandering the noisome streets, while his mother entertained a friend, sometimes several friends. More than once he had come home to find strange mrem seated up and down the stairs, waiting to get in to see her.

  She now dwelled in more spacious quarters—the entire upper two stories of an apartment house—so she had evidently prospered during the intervening years, by one means or another. The furnishings reflected her own tawdry opulence. She had a pair of slatternly servants, and five children still living at home.

  “Make yourselves comfortable, dears,” she said. “I always do.” She exchanged another bawdy conspiratorial laugh with Kizzlecosh, and the two she-mrem withdrew to a plush window seat for some real conspiracy.

  Cajhet had been personally warned by Severakh himself not to reveal anything about their enterprise, but of course Kizzlecosh had gotten every detail out of him the first night. She seemed to get every detail she needed out of Buppy as well—they were already pals—and soon the kits were sent running on mysterious errands. One by one Cajhet’s half brothers entered the dwelling, conferred with the two females, and departed.

  In the days that followed, Severakh took part in the conferences, while the kits were sent on other mysterious errands, to fetch other half-brothers from all over the city. It became quite embarrassing for Cajhet, after a while. He was excluded from the conferences; soon he was excluded from the very apartment. Some nights, at least. It seemed that his mother, despite her age and opulent figure, had enticed yet another lover. Once more he found himself sitting on doorsteps, or wandering the crowded, brawling, noisome streets of the waterfront, as if he were a kit again.

  He sometimes fell in with his comrades, alone or in twos and threes; like himself they were relegated to the streets, although for other reasons.

  Severakh had imposed on them a discipline which recalled their Kazerclawm drills; in addition, he placed the waterfront taverns off limits, so no careless word could betray their mission to a spy or informer. Their only recreation now was walking the streets after sundown, in inconspicuous groups of no more than two or three. They understood the perils of the expedition before them, if not its true purpose; nonetheless it grew harder with each passing night to walk by the open door of a tavern.

  It was even worse by day, when they had nothing to do but skulk out of sight, in the scattered tenement rooms where they were lodged. But the outfitting of their ship was best accomplished by Cajhet’s half-brothers, who were already within a day or two of completing their work. In addition to shipfitters, these included merchants, sea captains, wharfingers, harbor officials, and common seamrem; the few who had even heard of the Shadow Islands believed them to be mythical. There were no charts. The search for a trustworthy pilot had to be carried out with hermetic secrecy.

  The sole pretender to any real knowledge about the islands turned out to be a waterfront lounger known only as Shimsham, and considered half mad. Miserably poor, declawed for theft years ago, and laughed at for his wild ideas, the grisly, scrounging, drunken old sailor claimed to have been shipwrecked in the Shadow Islands as a youth. For a drink or two he’d spin yarns by the skein about monsters and demons, pirates, storms, shipwreck, and beautiful island she-mrem. And if you didn’t like one tale, he’d spin you another.

  Cajhet happened to be present the first time Shimsham was brought in to tell his story. “Three claws above the horizon, and due west,” was all the navigation he could remember from his youthful adventure. Since he had no claws himself any more, and was obviously drunk, even this vague reference seemed implausible. Severakh had him kicked down the stairs.

  Kizzlecosh was meanwhile making inquiries of her own.

  The Tangletide sat at the foot of a notorious smugglers’ wharf; she had already earned a reputation for ferocity, and began a new collection of ears. But any mention of the Shadow Islands only provoked jibes and laughter. “Ask Shimsham,” was the invariable response. “He escaped on a raft, but had to leave his wits behind. Not enough room aboard.” Then laughter and coarse badinage.

  Cajhet himself, at least for the first few nights after Kizzlecosh got her new job, managed to sneak a drink or two at the alley door of the Tangletide. It was always accompanied by breath crushing hugs and intimate grooming, and tonight he wondered if he was really that thirsty after all. Even a desperate voyage into uncharted seas would be a reprieve from his usual labors....

  Then he realized that a little she-kit was standing in front of the doorstep where he sat, head in hands, looking curiously down at him. He was about to shoo her away, when he recognized her as a half-sister.

  “Kizzlecosh said I should run and fetch you,” she lisped.

  “She’s anxious to see you about something, she didn’t say what,” the girl added with a sly giggle. “Better hurry. She just bit somebody’s ear off.”

  With tingling ears, Cajhet at once rose and followed her.

  Kizzlecosh had intimated that she was making special arrangements with the tavern keeper for afternoon and evening visits. Was that why she had summoned him? He noticed that his half-sister was still watching him with precocious curiosity, and he glared sternly at her.

  She responded with an impudent grimace that squelched any ideas he might have had about fraternal authority.

  It was still an hour before midnight, but the Tangletide was already crowded with ruffians. The sea ballads here were lilting, and the musicians seemed able to play any tune called for—which was probably lucky for them. Cajhet found Kizzlecosh behind the bar, nailing up a tufty, grizzled ear; the third already in her new collection, though she been here less t
han a week.

  “Recognize it?”

  Cajhet shook his head. “But it looks very nice beside the others, love,” he added quickly, afraid he may have hurt her feelings. “You’ll have a collection bigger than your last, in no time.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Right now, I have to establish my reputation, so I’m being extra strict.” She bit the air with her sharp, powerful teeth, then gave him an affectionate hug. “Won’t have time for many more of those for a while, my little Cajie-wajie. Not after what I just heard.”

  He winked lecherously, and poked a sly finger into her massive bosom. “Then we’d better not lose a minute, love.”

  She exploded with bawdy laughter, and gave him so passionate a hug that his eyes rolled in his head. When his vision at last restabilized, he found that she had drawn him into the deserted passageway to the kitchen.

  “That’s Haggle’s ear I just nailed up.” She lowered her voice. “I spotted him skulking through the streets on my way here tonight, and pounced. Held him by the ear till he told me everything. The slimy liskash sold us out to an even slimier reptile. One at Cragsclaw. His first skulkers are already here, and a horde of bandits and desert marauders not far behind ‘em. Why these think you’re so important, I still don’t know. But it don’t matter now. All ships have been restricted to port, unless cleared personally by the governor himself, and a whole big flotilla has been ordered fitted out for some big voyage, somewheres to the west. The same place you’re heading, is my guess.”

  “Don’t look like we’re heading anywhere right now.” Cajhet frowned.

  “You’d better—and dragon-quick. Haggie sold the big liskash all your names, and when the army gets here you’ll all be hunted down, then dragged off to Cragsclaw for you-know-what. Tell old Severakh right now. Even tomorrow morning might be too late.”

  “You’re right, love. I’ll check with one of the officers—”

  “Just go home and check with your mother. She’ll know where to find Severakh at this hour,” she added drily.