I caught Seg’s eye, and he smiled that damned mocking smile of his, and nodded, as much as to say: “Righto, my old dom, you have a go at this onker.”
I faced up to the Hunting Kov.
“Listen, Loriman, and listen good. You need to exact revenge upon Csitra. I, also, have suffered at her hands, as has Seg, as have many of our friends.”
Loriman tried to interrupt, as much in anger at my tone as what I was saying. I brushed him aside and went on in that hard, intemperate bash-on way of Dray Prescot.
“Csitra can be contained. Her evil was mostly the result of her forced alliance with Phu-Si-Yantong, a most unsavory character whom you might have known as the Hyr Notor. Well, he is dead and well stuffed down on the Ice Floes of Sicce. Yantong and Csitra’s child, Phunik, attempted to carry on the evil work of his father, and now he, too, is dead, blown away in the Quern of Gramarye. The witch has been severely punished already.”
“But not enough—”
“Any revenge in the matter of the Lady Hebe is strictly up to you, Loriman. I tell you now in all seriousness that Csitra’s power is insufficient to create further mischief. Her occult meddling can be countered by superior kharrna. This is true, Loriman, believe me as you believe in the Great and Glorious Pandrite.”
His left fist was gripping and ungripping upon the hilt of his scabbarded sword. His lips twisted. He could see in my face that old demonic look, and he didn’t like it at all. But he listened.
“From the grouping of continents and islands over on the other side of the world of Kregen come the Shanks. Fish-heads. They burn and slay and spare none, apart from a few wights they keep as slaves who’d be better off dead. These are the foes we here in Paz must confront.”
“I know of the Shkanes, the Shtarkins. They are all evil, as the Shanks are evil. We will fight them, yes. But before that I will cut down this Csitra, Witch of Loh or no damned Witch of Loh. And that is also true, believe me!”
His words hung on the close air of that chamber, echoing and ringing. I just hoped our Wizards of Loh were able to continue their occult caul of protection over us.
Nath the Impenitent broke the spell.
In his gruff way he rasped out: “At least I shall be spared the task of dragging the Hunting Kov about by the collar.”
Seg laughed, as amused as I by the contrast.
As though the casual use of the names of powerful sorcerers summoned up their opposites, the phantasmal form of Deb-Lu shimmered against the wall. His newish turban toppled dangerously over one ear, his kindly face was marked by intense concentration. His robes, as always, looked as though he’d been pulled through a hedge backward. But his power was undeniable.
He beckoned.
“That,” said Seg, “is the way out.”
“Aye.”
Kov Loriman the Hunter wanted to continue the argument; but with the Wizard of Loh to act as our guide out of the Coup Blag, we had no wish to hang about further. With the women straggling along before and aft, we set off to follow Deb-Lu. Loriman’s face resembled black thunder.
“Very well, then, run! As for me — there is a task set to my hands within this evil place.”
Chapter six
Concerns a Star of Death
The Hunting Kov acted on his own words without a heartbeat’s hesitation.
His bulk shouldered the women aside. One tumbled to her knees, hair falling forward, her cry lost in the general hubbub. Loriman charged back, returning the way we had traversed.
The women cowered out of his way, distressed, not understanding as he barged past like a runaway chunkrah.
At the last he turned to look back.
His face, always hard and arrogant, held now a flushed look of triumph. There was in that fanatical expression an expressive wealth of dedication. Slave to his ideals of hunting, Kov Loriman had now been consumed utterly by them.
He visualized in Csitra the Witch the ultimate quarry.
The dust of the corridors, the rank smell of the women, the feeling of pressure of millions of tons of rock pressing in all about us, added as it were a tonal palette to the emotions flooding Kov Loriman.
He shook his sword aloft.
“By Hito the Hunter! She shall not survive me, that I swear by Pandrite the All-Glorious!” He slashed his sword down. “Hai, Jikai!”
He swung about, the light glanced once upon the metal of his harness, and he was gone.
Seg laughed. “By the Veiled Froyvil, my old dom! I’m swamped to know if I’m sorry or glad to see the back of the fellow!”
“Oh,” I said with a nonchalance I did not feel. “We’ll see old Loriman again, never fret.”
Nath the Impenitent sniffed. He had an arm about the waist of one of the more comely of the ladies. “I give him the chance of a hot cinder in the Ice Floes of Sicce if he goes up against the Witch. By Vox, she’ll devour him whole!”
“Let us press on, doms,” I said. I did not say to Nath that with the occult caul of protection afforded by our friendly Wizards of Loh, Loriman shouldn’t come to too much harm. That is, if the caul had been extended to encompass him in its magical embrace.
I trusted Deb-Lu had done that. I needed Loriman for a key part in my schemes.
The decision had been long in coming, and hard in the taking. But, come it had and taken it I had — now all that remained was to implement it.
“Come along,” I said in a tone of voice that made Seg favor me with a quizzical look. I knew I sounded far too casually light-hearted for this grim situation; but the decision, once taken, set that part of my worries free. And good old Seg would buckle down to his part in the scheme, that I knew, after he’d had a good old moan.
The girls set up a screaming just then and surged back on us in a frightened mob. There was a splendid display of thrashing arms and legs, of half-naked bodies tumbling one over the other, of faces screaming in fresh fear. The smells became near overpowering.
The fellow who caused all this stood like a gnarled tree, legs wide apart, black and golden armor — all shiny leather and dull metal and golden studs and rivets — relieved by a dramatically flung-back scarlet cape. His helmet held a skull-crest and surmounted a face of compressed ferocity, of down-drooping mustaches, of serrated sharpened teeth, of veinous-crimson eyes, of nostril slits pulsating like the underbelly of a fish.
Harsh and compelling without a morsel of humanity remaining in him after a lifetime of bloodshed, this Kanzai Warrior Brother was no figment of sorcerous imagination.
The Kanzai take in recruits from any suitable race although it is said they favor Chuliks and Khibils and Laceroti, and train these acolytes into adepts and Warrior Brothers. After that the world of Kregen is their oyster.
We were not overly bothered with them in Vallia, for the old emperor’s grandfather had cleared them out in a wholesale rubbish-clearance that was now the subject of many songs and stories. Pandahem had its share of Kanzai Brothers.
This fellow carried a thraxter and a shortsword scabbarded at his waist above the skirts of the laminated armor. He appeared to have no missile weapons, and this appearance was deceptive. He carried no bow; he had other nasty objects he could hurl with neck-slicing speed.
The Kanzai despised shields.
Now, from its scabbard he drew a chunkscreetz and this swordbreaker was more like a Japanese Sai than a European swordbreaker. Of strong iron, with two curved quillons designed to trap and snap an opponent’s blade, the swordbreaker was a weapon that had to be taken into account.
He moved with precise control, each movement taking a segment of time between periods of absolute stillness.
The length of chain he swung from a pouch made Seg draw in a quick breath. At one end of the chain swung a three-bladed knife, and the other a three-tined grappling hook. The thing was a Kregen adaptation of the Japanese Kyotetsu-shoge. The Kawa-naga, as an improvised weapon, varied subtly. I shared Seg’s distrust of these cripplers.
The links of chain spun about his head. H
is thin lips widened in a smile of invitation. He did not boast, for that is not the way of the Kanzai.
Nath blurted out: “I’ll settle his hash—”
“Stay, Nath. Maybe we can talk to this Kanzai Brother rather than fight him.”
“As soon hold back the River of Golden Smiles with your bare hands.”
The dulled metal chain links went whirr-whirr-whirr in a circle before the adept. He swung the chain in a bewildering series of patterns, of figures of eight and loops and cunning underhand passes. He went through what was clearly a training discipline. It was impressive, I’ll say that, by Krun.
That Seg stood with his bow ready for instant action was a situation so normal as not to warrant comment.
I called across: “I do not wish to slay you, Kanzai. There has been too much blood shed here already. I would ask you to allow us and these poor women to pass.”
The girls had quieted down to a low moan here and there and a muffled sob. They were resigning themselves to what was about to happen and not much caring for that.
You can’t take your eyes off a woman of Kregen when her blood is up and she smarts for revenge.
A swooping streaking line of silver struck from an outflung arm and hand straight for the heart of the Kanzai.
Before the girl had time to drop down, her knife slashed in to meet the slanted swordbreaker and bounce and chingle into a harmless arc and clang against the stone of the floor.
“Very pretty,” said Nath, on a breath.
The girl’s hair moved like a pit of snakes as she flung herself forward. Her flung knife had failed; now she would try her other weapons on this Kanzai adept.
The iron swordbreaker had flicked a bare hand’s breadth to deflect the girl’s knife. As the girl screeched and hurled herself at the Kanzai, I found myself wondering if he could thus easily deflect one of Seg’s Lohvian arrows.
I shouted in an evil voice: “Do not slay her, Kanzai, or you are a dead man.”
Whether or not he took notice of my braggart words I couldn’t be sure; in any event he merely tapped the girl on the head and stretched her in slumber on the floor of the chamber.
The chain resumed its whirring menace around his head.
“He is challenging us, that is certain sure.” Nath the Impenitent puffed his cheeks. “Insolent cramph.”
If we hadn’t had these confounded caterwauling women along, the situation would have been amusingly comical. As it was, our first duty now was to see the women safe.
Some of them were perfectly capable of looking after themselves in most situations they’d encounter on Kregen. This particular fate had just proved too much for them.
“We must push on,” I said. “We don’t have time to shilly-shally about down here now. There is a lot to do.”
“I suppose I shall have to shaft him, then.”
Seg didn’t sound happy at the prospect. Like me, he is a fellow well past the time when blood-shedding held any attractions.
Nath said: “He’s mighty clever with that chunkscreetz.”
For reply Seg merely flexed those marvelous archer’s shoulders of his and lifted the bow.
The Kanzai erupted like a tent in a gale.
The swordbreaker vanished into its scabbard. The whirling iron links clattered to stillness. His right hand raked into a cunningly-opened pocket and whipped out with a silver glint of metal between the brown fingers.
The Star of Death whirring like a woodchuck drew a line of destruction from the Kanzai’s hand to — my actions were controlled by a force outside of myself. I stepped up and the Krozair brand twitched before Seg. The glittering Star of Death and the superb longsword met and rang like a carillon of best silver bells from Vandayha.
The little star-shaped horror spun away, spinning, hit the ground and then, oddly, ran along like a child’s toy.
The Kanzai remained perfectly still. Seg did not loose.
For those few heartbeats we remained still, like a posed group in a museum. The chains remained silent and unstirring. Another Star of Death showed in the fingers of the Kanzai. This time he held it aloft, twirling it.
That movement broke the uncanny rigidity that held us all, and yet the Kanzai did not hurl his Star of Death, Seg did not loose his deadly Lohvian shaft.
The Kanzai Warrior Brother called across to us.
His voice was gruff, throaty, harsh, clanging with the resonances of a lifetime’s application to the demanding rigors of combat.
“Jikais! A stand-off.”
“Impudent devil!” exclaimed Seg, under his breath. “I can shaft him where he stands, one, two, three, and Havil take his damned swordbreaker.”
This Seg could do. No doubt of it. And, mark me, there was not an iota of boasting in his instinctive remark.
A tinkle of metal did not distract us. The Star of Death toppled onto its side. It had rolled along in a strange lopsided way, rhythmically bouncing in its progress. Something like a Japanese Shuriken, it was asymmetrical, its Kregan creators imparting a swooping deflection to its flight. Even so, the Krozair disciplines had enabled the Krozair longsword to deflect it from its intended target.
“Jikais!” called the Kanzai again.
“He,” observed Seg with some relish, “sounds suddenly apprehensive.”
“Didn’t expect his Star of Death to miss.”
“Quite.”
“Shaft him, Seg,” counseled Nath in his unruly bellow.
The Kanzai heard that.
The metal links stirred ripplingly across the cavern floor. The upflung throwing star glittered.
“Do you adhere to the decadent Rumay customs, doms?” he called across.
“No!” yelled Seg in a virulent voice.
I said nothing. Truth to tell, it might have been interesting to discover the adept’s reaction had we acknowledged the Rumay customs to him.
“That is as well.” He lowered the Star of Death.
“Look,” I said once more. “We can’t hang around here.” I shouted then, and I admit I put a little testiness into the bellow. “Kanzai! Stand aside and let us pass or you will suffer the consequences of your own foolishness.”
I started forward, the Krozair brand in my two fists, ready to swipe away a Star of Death or two or remove his head if he didn’t shift.
For a moment he hesitated. Clearly, he didn’t like what he saw of us. Just what he was doing down here in the Coup Blag was his affair and of no real interest to us.
The Star of Death vanished into its pouch. The links of chain coiled miraculously into loops and were stowed. As he stepped aside his right hand fastened on the hilt of his thraxter.
I stood next to him. I stared at him balefully.
“The ladies will now pass, Kanzai. Dernun?”[1]
He nodded and that gruesome skull atop his helmet, flounced with feathers, bobbed. He used his left hand in a gesture to indicate we were to pass.
“Get the shemales moving, Nath!”
With a scurry and bustle, and with many a white-eyed sideways glance at the adept, the girls scuttled past. Some did not scuttle. Some walked arrogantly past, heads high, swinging in their gait and bold. These were women who had not first sought for clothes to cover their nakedness but had first snatched up weapons. The Kanzai eyed them as they strutted past as he would have scrutinized any potential foe.
When all had gone by I said: “I give you thanks, dom.” I went to move off and then halted and turned to say: “And you? Down here?”
“I have my mission.”
That’s all we would get out of him. As a Kanzai Warrior Brother, an adept, he was answerable only to his master.
It takes all sorts to make a world and Kregen is a world of many wonders, many marvelous oddities, by Zair!
Turning to march off after the others, I heard him draw a breath and in the same instant I’d ducked, swerved and sprung about to come up with the longsword pressing against his ribs. I halted the thrust.
He took a step back, a very smart st
ep back, and his face expressed stupefaction.
“I was just—” he began. And then he swallowed and burst out: “By the Names! I do not know your Disciplines, dom; but you are sudden, most sudden.”
I glared at him, eyeball to eyeball.
Some cheap remark could have come so easily to my lips then.
I contented myself with a simple: “That is so, dom. Remberee.”
“Remberee, dom. I shall not forget you.”
Chapter seven
In the cavern of beauty
The shimmering manifestation of the Wizard of Loh Deb-Lu-Quienyin beckoned us on toward a gargoyle-crowned opening, black and ominous, jagged in the wall of the cavern.
We’d traversed a considerable quantity of corridor since our meeting with the Kanzai Warrior Brother. The women complained — very naturally — yet it was as obvious to them as to us that we had to keep moving and find a way to escape from the Coup Blag.
Old Deb-Lu’s turban was straight upon his head and he did not need to lift a hand to prevent the absurd headgear from toppling. His face looked grave.
Faintly, no louder than a distant whisper of wind, the sound of rushing water filtered through that gap of dark and evil aspect.
“The women need to rest up again, Jak,” called Nath. He marched at the back, shepherding the females along much as a ponsho-trag shepherds along his flock of woolly ponshos. He carried two of them, more or less comfortably, and it was clear to Seg and me that he was forming an attachment.
Just how wise or foolish that was down here in this magical maze remained to be seen.
“I don’t like the look of old Deb-Lu,” said Seg, in a quiet voice.
“There’s trouble up ahead, that’s for sure.”
“Better to have everyone rest up first, then.”
“Aye.” I called back to Nath. “We’ll take a breather, then, you Impenitent.”
“Quidang!”
The women flopped down and stretched out on the bare stone of the floor, grateful for the rest. Nath deposited his two with care and then stalked up to join Seg and me.
The girl with the pale shapely body and dark frizzy hair who’d hurled the knife at the Kanzai also walked up. She made a grimace of distaste that revealed the cruel sharpened teeth.
Warlord of Antares Page 5