Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Gernu! She is taken! Stikitches—real assassins in metal faces, professionals ... They ride toward the Volgodonts’ Aerie!"

  The Volgodonts’ Aerie, another hunting lodge like the Zhantil's Lair, stood some three burs’ ride away in the woods. That, we could not have foreseen.

  Gafard's face appeared both shrunken and bloated. His eyes glared. All the drink he had taken made his face enormous and yet the horror of the moment shriveled him. He gasped and struggled to breathe. I caught him and lowered him into his chair. Grogor stood, half bent, expecting an avalanche of invective. Gafard croaked words, vicious, harsh words like bolts from a crossbow.

  “We must ride, Grogor! Have the sectrixes saddled up. Gather the men. We must ride like Zhuannar of the Storm!"

  “Rather, master, call on Grakki-Grodno—"

  I knew what he meant. Grakki-Grodno was the sky-god of draft-beasts of Magdag. So for all his brave talk, he had failed the test.

  But Grogor said, “The king has taken my Lady and she is now his. He is the king and he has the yrium. The men would have fought for you—have fought for you, master—when she was rightfully yours. Now she is rightfully the king's. No man will raise his hand against the king.” Then, this bulky, sweaty man, a renegade, drew himself up. “I would ride, my lord. Would you have me ride alone against the king?"

  He had a powerful point. Gafard looked crushed. The strength and power oozed out of him. I felt a crushing sorrow for the Lady of the Stars. Evidently the little shishi had failed to convince the king. Spies had done the rest. There were those in Gafard's household who did not love him, that was certain, and we had made a splendid spectacle riding out of Magdag. There was no point in my offering to ride. If Gafard roused himself, if Grogor rode, that would be three of us against a band of professional stikitches. The assassins of Kregen are an efficient bunch of rasts when they have to be, and on a task of kidnapping they are no less ruthless. No, sorrowful though this made me, I would have to go with the majority.

  My own concerns for my Delia must come first. My Delia—ah! How I longed for her then ... How could a pretty girl, even a girl with the fire and spirit and charm of the Lady of the Stars, stand for a moment in my thoughts against my Delia!

  The shadows in the corner of that masculine room—with the harsh trophies of the hunt upon the walls, the stands of arms, the pieces of harness and mail, the tall motionless drapes—all breathed to me of softer, sweeter things: of Delia's laugh, the sight of her as we swam together in Esser Rarioch, the love we had for our children, all the intimate details that make of a man and a woman, make of a marriage, a single and indivisible oneness.

  No, I would not throw away my Delia's happiness for my Lady of the Stars.

  Gafard was breathing in hoarse, rattling gasps. The drink, the shock, the fuddlement, had left him bereft of that incisive command. He had been stricken down.

  “The men will not ride!” He shook his head, hardly able to believe and yet knowing the stark truth of it. He turned to me and stretched out a hand. “And you, Gadak the Renegade, the man I chose and pampered—will you, Gadak, ride for me this night?"

  “No,” I said.

  He fell back in the chair. His face sagged. He looked distraught, wild, near-insane.

  Then he proved himself.

  “Then to Sicce with you all! I will ride myself, alone, for I know well what my Lord of Strombor will say!"

  I felt no shock, only puzzlement.

  He staggered up, waving his arms, casting about for his mail. I gripped his arm and Grogor jumped. I said, “What is this of the Lord of Strombor?"

  Gafard swung a wild, sweaty face upon me. The sweat clung to his dark, clustered curls and dripped down his face. The lines in that face were etched deep. His beard bristled.

  “You onker! If the king takes my Lady—Pur Dray is in the city! He has been seen in Magdag, it is very sure.” He spoke down from that high screech, as a man explaining a simple problem to a child. He put a hand on my hand. “Let me go, Gadak, traitor, ingrate! I will save my Lady for Pur Dray and then I will deal with you."

  I held him. Grogor moved and I swung my head and glared at him. “Stand, Grogor, as you value your life!” I shook Gafard, the King's Striker. “Listen to me, Gafard! You prate of Pur Dray, the Lord of Strombor. What has he to do with this matter? Tell me the matter that lies between you, Gafard! Tell me! What has the Lord of Strombor to do with the Lady of the Stars?"

  Some semblance of sanity returned to him. He was Gafard, the Sea-Zhantil, and he was not to be shaken by a mere mercenary, a renegade, a man he had made!

  “You cramph!” he said. He spoke thickly. “You are a dead man—for you sit and let my Lady go to certain death—hideous death—death by torture for what she knows, and, before that, to humiliation and the baiting of a trap."

  “Tell me, Gafard, you nurdling great onker! Tell me!"

  He shrieked as my fingers bit into the bones of his arm.

  He twisted and glared up, his fierce, predatory face close to mine and so like my own, so like my own.

  “You fool! Pur Dray, the greatest Krozair of the Eye of the World, is here, in Magdag. And King Genod takes the Lady of the Stars! When he finds out, as he will find out—for he has the yrium, he will find out—then—and then—"

  I shook him again. I bore down on him, all the hateful ferocity in my face overmatching his own. Grogor took another step and I said “Grogor!” and he stopped stock still.

  “When the king finds out what, Gafard? What is this trap? Tell me or I will break your arm off!"

  He shrieked again and foam sprang to his lips. He tried to pull away and Grogor moved once more so I swung Gafard, the King's Striker, about, prepared to hurl him at Grogor. I could feel his bones grinding under my fingers.

  “Now, Gafard, now!"

  “You are a dead man, Gadak! For King Genod has taken Velia, who is the daughter of Pur Dray, the Lord of Strombor."

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stricken by genius

  Gafard screamed it out, foaming, as I hurled him into the chair.

  “The king has taken Velia, Princess Velia, daughter to Pur Dray, the Lord of Strombor, Prince Majister of Vallia!"

  Everything blurred.

  I remember colliding with Grogor on my way to the door and knocking him flying. There were stairs. There were people shouting and milling. Men stood in my way and were suddenly not there. There were softnesses under my feet. The air was suddenly cool and fresh. Stars blazed. The moons were up, gliding silently through the starfields. The sectrix stalls lay shrouded in darkness. Harness—no time, no time—bareback! A sectrix beneath me. A vicious kick, more vicious kicks. The lolloping six-legged gait. Hard, merciless kicks, the flat of my sword, then sharper, more urgent bounding. The dark flicker of tree branches overhead. The dazzlement of the moons. The harsh, jolting ride, the clamor of hooves, the rush of wind, the pain, the agony, the remorse—

  Velia!

  My little Velia!

  Fragments, I remember, of that night ride with the horror gibbering and clawing at me, the ghastly specters obscenely taunting me, mocking me—

  I knew what this kleesh of a King Genod would do when he discovered he held in his hands the daughter of Dray Prescot, the Lord of Strombor, the notorious and dreaded Krozair of Zy.

  I would consign all the Krzy to Sicce to save my daughter.

  What would Delia say? What would be her agony?

  I galloped and galloped and I galloped as a man who has no heart, has never had a heart, and is never likely to find a heart in this wicked world.

  Velia ... Velia ... The sectrix hooves beat out her name on the hard forest paths, over the rippling grasslands silver and pink and gold beneath the moons, the breeze swaying them as a breeze ruffles the inner sea.

  Years and years ago I had last seen her. I had not recognized her, and she had not recognized me.

  Yet—was not that strange feeling I had suffered now explained, the weird
compulsion in me to do nothing to destroy the happiness of the Lady of the Stars? Now I knew why Gafard, the King's Striker, was not bundled in a blanket and safely in the hands of the Krozairs upon the fortress isle of Zy.

  If we had not recognized each other's faces, and our names had been strange and false, had not the blood called, one to the other? Oh, maybe that is sentimental nonsense, maybe it is mere wishful thinking; but there had been some deep psychological force drawing and binding me to my daughter. Perhaps the racial unconscious, if there be such a thing, is most pronounced and powerful in relatives, and the only bond as powerful as that of a father to his daughter is that of a mother to her son.

  The sectrix's hoofbeats echoed in my ears, a strange triple echo. I twisted about. In that streaming moonlight a second sectrix followed me, bounding along, its rider's cape flaring in the golden light. The man rode like a maniac. He rode as I rode.

  I recognized Grogor.

  I smashed at my mount again and he responded. We flew out into a clearing of the tall grasses and splashed across a stream. On and on—the stikitches would take my daughter to the king at the Volgodonts’ Aerie. There was every chance he would have flown here in the little two-place airboat. If he had I would take his voller. Somehow I did not think I would bother to take him back to Zy.

  Looking back now, as that mad ride brought me raving across the wild country to the Volgodonts’ Aerie, I recognize my headlong foolishness. I had been denied many of the best years in which a father may see his children growing up. Velia had been three when the damned Star Lords had whirled me back to Earth for a miserable twenty-one years; she would be twenty-five now. What had her life been like?

  Fragments, impressions, the jolting of the sectrix, the blustering of the wind, the pain in my jaws, and over all the moonshine, streaming gold and pink and glorious upon the nighted face of Kregen, mocking the blackness upon me. For every moon shone in the sky, full and gleaming, in that tiny period when the three smaller moons in their hurtling passages coincide and form with the Maiden with the Many Smiles, and the Twins, and She of the Veils; that magic time of the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom.

  Brilliant the light, brilliant and yet soft with the exquisite delicacy of moonlight.

  The land lay as though enchanted.

  And through that magic midnight splendor I rode with the devils gibbering at me and ghastly phantasms tormenting my mind, for I knew that this genius king planned no pleasure for my Velia.

  Through a screen of trees I flung the sectrix, striking away branches and leaves, silver and gold and rose in the radiance, and bore out onto a meadow where a stream ran, liquid bronze under the moons of Kregen—and there lifted the Volgodonts’ Aerie.

  Stark and many pinnacled, it rose against the stars like a stretched and piercing claw of a volgodont itself.

  The sectrix was not as fine a mount as Grogor's. Now Gafard's second in command was up with me. The two animals galloped neck and neck. I did not speak. I could not speak. I stared ahead as a leem stares, entirely vicious and feral, without mercy.

  Grogor shouted. “We will never save her—only us two! The lord follows. Gadak, this is madness!"

  I did not answer him, but hit my failing beast with the flat of the sword.

  “The lord bid me say he would forgive you, Gadak, only if you humble yourself to him—he follows—Gadak!"

  Still I did not answer. We raced on. I feel sure that you who listen to my story will long ago have realized who the Lady of the Stars was, that she was my daughter. Now, with hindsight, it seemed obvious. But, to me, plain Dray Prescot who had so little experience of daughters to go on, how could that stunning truth possibly be easy? I had not known, had had no remotest idea. How could I?

  Sectrix riders trotted out into the clearing to front us.

  I saw their green cloaks, weird in the moons’ radiances, and the blackness of their clothes. Pinkly golden glitter reflected from their steel facemasks. They wore mail.

  Grogor saw and cursed.

  I did not halt the laboring sectrix. The animal lunged straight ahead, gasping in convulsive effort, the steam jetting from his nostrils. The stikitches lifted their swords. There were six of them, I believe. I did not count. I recollect the jar of blade on blade, the quick and deadly cut, and the vicious thrust. I lopped and chopped. I spitted. The facemasks splintered in shards of flying metal. I whirled that Ghittawrer weapon and I sliced those damned assassins, and there was no real time or reason in it beyond the swirling madness in my brain, the crazy viciousness of insanity driving me on.

  The six of them, if there were six of them, lay sprawled upon the grass of the meadow, their black and shining blood dribbling in pools from their mutilated bodies. I did not spare a single look, but hit the sectrix and galloped on. I did hear Grogor screaming: “You are a devil!” That was true. Why remark on it?

  “We are too late!” Grogor was yelling and hauling his beast up. He almost collided with me, the six-legged animals struggling together and staggering sideways.

  “Get out of my way, rast!” I said, hauling my mount up, driving it to stand and run although it was almost done. “Look!” Grogor pointed. He pointed up. I looked. If the king was away in the voller it would be over.

  A great winged shape lofted from the top tower of the Volgodonts’ Aerie. Against the radiance of the moons the fluttrell soared up, his wide pinions beating in that long, effortless rhythm of the saddle bird.

  Grogor yelled in openmouthed disbelief. The truth was plain. More argenters had arrived from Hamal and as well as vollers they carried saddle birds. The fluttrell was the most common saddle-mount of Havilfar. Thyllis had spared a few to please the whim of King Genod and he had mastered the knack of flying and had come here, in person, to show off his prowess to his new conquest, the Lady of the Stars, who had once been the lady of Gafard, the King's Striker, and was now the lady of the king—for a time.

  “The devil from the bat-caves!” yelled Grogor. My sectrix staggered with exhaustion. Grogor hauled out his bow, drew and nocked an arrow, lifted and let fly. I reached out to him, dropping the blood-choked Ghittawrer sword. But his fingers released the string and the shaft flew. If he hit Velia ... !

  The fluttrell winged up, its pinions beating. I did not see the arrow strike. I saw those wings suddenly flap limply; they beat off-rhythm; and the bird swerved in the air.

  Grogor's arrow had wounded the fluttrell, yet it could still fly. I saw it curve around in a mazy, sweeping circle. It was dropping. The wings beat erratically. The bird extended its legs, talons spread wide.

  Grogor hauled out his sword. He yelled, high and fierce. He sent his mount charging for the point where the bird would land. I could see two figures on the fluttrell's back, abaft the wide head vane. Two figures, struggling. I held my breath.

  The king must have newly learned the art of flying a saddlebird. I guessed my Velia—my Velia! My daughter!—would be an expert in the air, trained by my Djangs astride flutduins. She would not thus foolishly struggle as a bird planed in for a landing.

  Grogor's sword blurred in the mingled light of the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom.

  The king saw us below him. I saw his face, a pale blur in the light, saw it lift and stare past that other face so near his hateful features, stare and look past me. I turned. A body of men rode in the shadows of the trees. It was difficult to distinguish them, save for the green and the mail and the glitter of weapons and war harness. I did not think they rode on behalf of Gafard. But they might. Gafard, himself, might ride at their head.

  This is what the king thought.

  I swung back. Grogor was bellowing and shaking his sword.

  The bird made a last effort. It beat its wings and tried to rise. The two faces up there were close together as the bird tried to lift and fly in obedience to the frenzied flogging from Genod's goad. It tried to beat its pinions and rise up, and could not. I saw those two faces—then there was one face only above the fluttrell's back and a white-clad form pitc
hing headlong from the air.

  King Genod, the genius, had thrown my daughter from the fluttrell, thrown her to the ground beneath.

  Relieved of the extra weight the fluttrell beat more powerfully and rose. Its wings thrashed the air. It lifted and soared up. Grogor's second shot fell far too short.

  I saw all that from the corner of my eye, not heeding.

  I saw the spinning form of Velia, her white dress swirling out, pitch down through the empty air. She fell. She fell to the ground. She fell. She fell on the ground.

  I was riding hard.

  How often I had picked up little Velia as she tottered on her chubby little legs, there on the high terrace of Esser Rarioch, learning to walk, determined, clambering up and trying again, to tumble down again in a sprawl of her short white dress.

  I rode on.

  An arrow whipped in past Grogor's ear. He swung his mount about, yelled, high: “Overlords! We are dead men! We must run!"

  He stuck in his spurs and was away, the sectrix hurtling along low over the ground, its shadows spreading about it, undulating eerie blobs of half-darkness.

  The overlords of Magdag trotted over the meadow toward me.

  I galloped and I did not care what the damned overlords did.

  The six legs of my beast skidded and splayed as I reined it up. I was off its bare back. It just stood, waiting for me to remount.

  I knelt.

  She lay crumpled, her white dress spread out, with no sign of blood anywhere. Her eyes were open, those beautiful brown eyes I could see now were those of a Vallian; beautiful brown eyes like my Delia's. Her glowing brown hair was dyed black and artificially curled, in imitation of a Zairian. That was so.

  “Velia,” I said, and I choked.

  “Why, Gadak,” she said. “You know my name.” As she spoke a tiny line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “I—I like that, Gadak, for I have always been fond of you."

  “Velia—” I took her hand in mine as I knelt. It was cold. “Velia—I am not Gadak. That is not my name."