I would remember that golden chavonth figurehead. Maybe I might live to shake that Krozair captain's hand.
Gafard was livid with rage.
He looked dangerous.
“The rast! Twenty good broad ships—burned! And I'll wager he has no more than twenty casualties, if that."
We had thirty dead and wounded.
Later, when Gafard's anger had cooled—and this was after he had spent a bur with the Lady of the Stars—I said to him, when it was safe, for I had no wish to puncture the boil of his anger again and drown in the suppuration: “An interesting vessel, that Krozair swifter."
“You must have seen them, as have I. They play about with their ship specifications, the shipwrights of Sanurkazz. I'd say she was a seven-seven hundred-and-forty-four. Double banked, shallow draft, broadish in the beam, but quick and deadly."
“I saw the oars, gernu. Seven-seven, you say?"
“Not tiered—raked. A diabolical design. But, given a fairer margin, I'd say Volgodont's Fang could catch her."
Yes, I said to myself. Yes, I'd risk that. The speed of turning had been found in a greater beam for length ratio; maybe there was more than just the one controversy in Sanurkazz these days. Maybe the short-keel people had gone over to the long-keel argument and then given their ships a broader beam and so regained their original position.
She'd been low in the water, long and deadly, and I knew she was a highly tuned precision fighting instrument.
As she'd cut through the sea a deal of spray had flown over the prijikers, wetting my old comrade, Pur Kardazh.
Where I had stood the spray had flown clear.
Maybe the swifters of the inner sea were developing faster than I had given them credit for, for with a man's life-span extending to two hundred years, change was bound to be slower on Kregen than on Earth.
“The Golden Chavonth?" said Gafard, pulling his black beard. “Aye. Aye, I'll remember her."
For the rest of that day we went on our way, slowly gathering up the convoy, for the breeze I had expected got up. I wondered how the captain of Golden Chavonth would have dealt with a hundred and fifty of the broad ships instead of the fifty he had met, and of which he had destroyed twenty.
The swifters closed up, the sails were set, and we passed the rest of the night on course for Benarej Island. We were late for the rendezvous; but we met the other squadron, fifteen swifters of various sizes, and, after a day spent recovering, we all weighed or were slipped for the southern shore.
By Zair, though! Hadn't that Krozair swifter presented a grand sight with all her flags red and glorious under the Suns of Scorpio! And hadn't her captain led Gafard, the King's Striker, the Sea-Zhantil, a right merry dance!
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Of Duhrra, dopa, and friends
I, Gadak, a Green Grodnim of very dubious reliability, watched moodily as the army disembarked. There seemed to be no end to the lines of marching men, the strings of sectrixes, the rolling thunder of the varters on their wheeled carriages. There were hebramen, also, and the Grodnims considered these would give them a decided advantage in scouting against the Zairians.
So I stood on the quarterdeck of Volgodont's Fang, where she had been pulled up onto the shelving beach, and I brooded.
Duhrra stood with me and he breathed harshly through his opened mouth, his hook hidden within his green robe.
“You are sure he did not recognize you, Dak—Gadak?"
“No. Anyway, I had a fold of white cloth about my face. I fancy it is a precaution we could both do well to adopt all the time. The sand in the wind here gives ample excuse."
I had not told Duhrra that it was a Krozair Brother I had recognized and he no doubt took it that I referred to one of the seamen, one of the prijiker party, or the varterists. I fancy he wanted to know nothing about Krozairs. They are regarded as men apart, dedicated, austere, giving their whole being to fighting the Green for the glory of Zair. Those Brothers who choose to take the world-scene, as had I, achieve this sense of awed mystery when they adopt the Krozair symbol no less than the Bolds, who are men dedicated for every single mur of their lives to the Krozair Brethren.
That symbol had been displayed in Golden Chavonth: the hubless spoked wheel within the scarlet circle. That device had stirred me. I felt uneasy. I had been ejected and I must regain my place in order to leave the inner sea and I was doing precious little about it. That there was precious little I could do at the moment had no importance in the sense of nagging frustration.
My plans depended on a great stroke, a High Jikai.
I was kept running about on errands for Gafard.
He provided me with a hebra, a spirited little animal, for all it was no match for a zorca, and I grew to like it. Its name was Grodnofaril, and I thought it inexpedient to change that, so I called it “Boy” and left well alone.
We had landed on the main southern shore in a deeply indented arm of the sea some twenty dwaburs to the east of Shazmoz. The east. About twenty dwaburs across country to the east of us rose the Zairian fortress town of Pynzalo. It goes without saying that any town or city on the Red or Green shore must be strongly fortified if it lies within a day's march of the sea. These frowning battlemented places must be strong. Most towns and cities are inland, well away from raid and foray.
King Genod's idea was simple enough. Reputed a genius at war, he demonstrated some of the necessary qualities of genius by issuing instructions to his subordinates that were easy to comprehend. Their execution would be another matter, of course.
After Shazmoz had been relieved the combined Zairian armies had fought on to the west, rolling up some of the Grodnim defensive positions, for they had been weak, every mind being set upon advance to the east. Now the advance had stalled and both armies lay in stalemate.
Our descent onto the rear like this would seriously disrupt communications, at the least. We had already caught a supply column—and there was nothing I could do about that. Even ships that coasted along the shore could be snapped up. Once the fleet of broad ships had discharged the army and supplies for a period they left us, to return to Magdag. They were expected again very shortly, bearing the main supply buildup. So, here we sat, astride the Red communications, and very ready to strike in any direction.
More fleeting raids by Zairian swifters had bothered us, but since that destructive onslaught by Golden Chavonth nothing so damaging had been achieved against us. I fancied that Gafard might not wait for his full supplies. They had been faced, the king and the King's Striker, with the alternatives of dispatching half the army with full supplies, or all the army with limited supplies. In my view, given the caliber of Gafard, the king had chosen correctly. One must always remember the slowness of armies when men march on their feet, and draft and pack animals carry their gear and supplies and there are no mechanical contrivances for transport.
I fancied Gafard would strike east, at Pynzalo.
With that fortress reduced and its supplies captured, and with his swifters dominating this whole stretch of coast through their use of slipways and bays and beaches, Gafard could then form a firm rear on Pynzalo and turn west. With Prince Glycas to the west, they would have the Zairian forces caught like a nut between crackers.
Just how long it would take for Sanurkazz to realize the position and scrape up another army to fling against Pynzalo could, for me, remain only conjecture. I did not know how far the treasury's resources had been depleted. I did know that both sides had expended vast amounts of treasure on this internecine warfare. Red and Green! Well, I was supposed to have grown to a more mature wisdom, but I own I still felt the old surge when Red rose up to challenge Green, still the blood thumped quicker through my veins.
One night after I had been all day chasing hither and yon carrying orders—and, incidentally, coming to know the composition of this army, its strengths and its weaknesses—Duhrra rolled into the tent we shared, not so much drunk as fuddled and annoyed.
“
Tonight,” he said, slumping down on his cot with a crash. “Tonight, my Gadak of the Green—I escape!"
I took the bottle from his hand and sniffed. Dopa. I threw the thing into the moon-shot darkness and I followed it out to the hanging water bottle and I took that into the tent and sloshed the entire contents over this Duhrra of the Days and his cot. He spluttered and roared and I reached down and put a hand over his mouth.
“Duhrra of the Days,” I said, in that kind of penetrating whisper that smacks of drama. “If you wish your entrails to be drawn out, then by all means continue to shout of your intentions."
His eyes glared up at me over my hand.
He put his left hand on my wrist and tried to draw my hand away. I resisted. I did not let him take my hand away.
I said, “If you wish to go over the hill you must plan. There must be food and water, a mount, a plan of escape. Onker! Think on, Duhrra of the Days."
I took my hand away.
He dragged in a harsh breath. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Aye, Gadak of the Green! You argue well and shrewdly. Yet you do nothing to escape. I begin to think you really love these zigging Grodnims. You wish to stay with them forever. I do not think—"
“No, Duhrra, you do not think."
“Duh—I do, so!"
I shook my head. I know I wore that old evil expression on my face in the moons-glow, for he flinched back.
“I do not intend to escape, meekly run away, like a cur with its tail between its legs. When I go, I go in style, in a way all men may see, and say—'That was a Zairian!’”
“Fine words."
“Aye."
He still did not know what to make of me. Of late I had been your true dyed-in-the-wool Grodnim. The religious observances that amused me had been dealt with faithfully. I think that Duhrra did doubt me then. And he had every right so to doubt, for I doubted myself.
All my life I have been a loner. With the exception of my Delia I have never revealed myself. And yet I have good friends, as you know. Seg Segutorio and Inch—great men, fine blade comrades, true friends. And there were others you have heard me speak of—Hap Loder, Gloag, Prince Varden Wanek, Kytun Kholin Dom, and Ortyg Fellin Coper. And there were my friends who lived in Esser Rarioch: Turko the Shield, Balass the Hawk, Naghan the Gnat. And I included here Tilly and Oby. There were others of whom you know. There was most particularly here in the Eye of the World Mayfwy of Felteraz. How could I face them with the knowledge I bore? I do not make friends easily. When I do make a friend I tremble lest I destroy that friendship through one of my typical, stupid tearaway actions.
Not for me the easy assumption that friends remain friends no matter what atrocities I commit.
How would Rees and Chido regard me? They were of Hamal, the empire ruled by mad Queen Thyllis, and were deadly foemen to Vallia. Yet during my days as a spy in Ruathytu, capital of Hamal, I had found true friendship with Rees, Trylon of the Golden Wind, and with chuckling, chinless, pop-eyed Chido, a courtesy amak. I had been tortured by the decisions forced on me, the honest attempt to rationalize the friendship I felt for Rees and Chido and the numbing knowledge that our countries fought and hated each other.
Duhrra punctured my problems with a new brashness owing much to dopa.
“So, Gadak the Great Planner. When is this to be?"
“As soon as the right opportunity offers.” I did not smile at his words. But this was much more like it—much more a cheerful companion, this Duhrra who chided me for my lapses from grace, my omission of good works. That to him these good works could exist only in labor for the Red of Zair meant only his vision was scaled to the Eye of the World. Maybe I had been slack of late. But, despite all, for me, still, it was Red and not Green. The conflict in the Eye of the World might be of tiny dimensions when compared with the dramas of the Outer Oceans. When a fellow was caught up in them they tended to reduce visibility to the immediate horizon.
Duhrra possessed the appearance of that kind of superbly built idiot calculated at first glance to deceive. I have met your true moron from time to time, and usually give him a wide berth. They do not amuse me, as they appear to amuse so many people, these slack-faced giants with muscles of gods and brains of calsanys. Duhrra was basically right in his desires to go and do something for Zair.
My problem was that what I did must rank as a High Jikai, a world-shaking feat of arms that men would talk about and nod their heads over sagely and consider to be worthy to stand in the legends of Kregen along with the other high feats of achievement. That it would be damned difficult to do I knew. Maybe I overmatched myself against fate.
“We will strike for honor, Duhrra, but I do not believe I shock you when I say that honor is a poor substitute for life."
“Duh—you threw away my bottle!"
“Aye—now get some sleep. I must think."
But my thoughts coiled around my friends and my shortcomings.
These feelings of dissatisfaction with myself prompted me to the reflection—which I try always to keep somewhere near the forefront of my mind—that a man must work hard at keeping friends. At least, I know this was so for me. I did not feel that no matter what I did my comrades would remain loyal to me forever and ever. I know this is the counsel of perfection, the David and Jonathan summit; and I knew, too, I would never lose my affections for Seg and Inch and the others just because they were foolish at some time or other, or played me false out of a lapse from the counsels of morality we all accepted in our own ways; but I felt always that I was under trial. If this proves me lacking in understanding, as I suppose it does, it also proves that I am a true loner.
I would not have understood had someone at this time pointed out to me that—in my assumptions that no matter what my friends did I would forgive them but if I erred they would not forgive—I did my friends a grave injustice and imputed a higher value to my friendship than I was prepared to extend to theirs. I knew, then, I was not worthy of my Delia, and, also, not worthy of the friendship extended to me by Seg and Inch and the others. This is what I believed.
So, with Duhrra as with Melow the Supple, with Vomanus of Vindelka, with all my comrades, I chose to hew to the line of rectitude—and as always the savage barbarian that is the true me, I often think to my shame, would break out and I'd go raving off doing all the things that should, if my philosophy was correct, have resulted in the cloak of Notor Zan falling on me from a great height.
Kytun Kholin Dom—that magnificent four-armed warrior Djang, a kov—and Ortyg Fellin Coper—a wise and learned Obdjang statesman, a Pallan—ran my kingdom of Djanduin in the southwest of Havilfar for me when I was away. I had been away on Earth, banished by the Star Lords, for twenty-one Terrestrial years, and since my return and all this imbroglio in the inner sea I had not been back to Djanduin. I had no doubts whatsoever, no doubts at all, that Kytun and Ortyg ran the country with all the efficiency and honesty we had built up between us. I was still the king of Djanduin, and when I returned I would be greeted as such. Provided, of course, they were both still in power and no further revolutions had taken place. Against a warrior of the caliber of K. Kholin Dom and the statecraft of O. Fellin Coper, I did not fancy the chances of new revolutionaries, for we carried the people with us. I give this example to illuminate my tangled feelings about friends.
Twenty-one years’ absence and then a cheerful “Lahal, Ortyg. Lahal, Kytun,” and I would resume the throne as though I had not been away. Blind I was in those days, for although I gave thanks to Zair—or, in this case, to Djan—for my friends, I did not fully understand the quality of their friendship, and how blessed I was in the receiving of it.
All of which led to a very subdued Duhrra, with a hand to his bald head, crawling out of the tent on the following morning and moaning for a handful of palines.
“Dopa,” I said.
“Aye, master. Dopa. Duh—a fearsome drink."
“And suitable only for those who wish to become as calsanys."
“There
are many bottles in the infantry lines. I was led astray."
Dopa if drunk in sufficient quantity is guaranteed to make a man fighting mad. Did Gafard, then, need dopa to whip his splendid army to fighting pitch? I was surprised.
When I was summoned to the usual morning briefing ready to begin a day astride my hebra, Boy, carrying messages, Gafard appeared to be wrought to a high pitch himself, as though he, that hard, practical, seasoned warrior, had been drinking dopa.
“Gernus,” he said to the assembled officers and the aides standing respectfully in the rear. “Great news! We are highly honored. The king himself, the All-Highest, sends news he will pay us a visit—we must expect him today."
Later I saw the arrival of King Genod. He flew in by voller.
The moment I saw the petal-shape of the airboat flitting in over the camp from the shining sea, I knew the instrument had been placed into my hands.
This, then, would be the means of creating a High Jikai.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
King Genod reviews his army
A considerable bulk of the army drew up on parade to greet the arrival of their king, this Genod Gannius, genius at war.
In my capacity as aide to the general in command here I rode my sectrix, Blue Cloud, and clad in mail and green, waited respectfully among the ranks of the aides, well to the rear of Gafard and his high officers.
The trumpets pealed, the flags flew, the twin suns cast down their mingled opaz radiance, sectrixes snorted, and the mailed ranks stood immobile, splendid, imposing, their pikes all slanted as one, the suns-light glittering from their helmets.
There were two vollers.
One was the small two-place flier I had seen over the Grand Canal, before I'd released the tide and so swept away the vessels carrying the consignment of vollers from Hamal.
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