Captive Scorpio dp-17

by Alan Burt Akers

  “That Nath Typhohan!” he raved. “I know him! I’ve wrestled him, and thrown him, and fenced with him and pinked him. Now he’s the Strom of Vilandeul he has the effrontery to lay claim to the most beautiful land of my island! He wants the Shadow Forests of Calimbrev! I ask you!”

  I nodded. “I had trouble with his father. Well-” I said, uncomfortably, “not me. My son Drak and Tom Tomor. I was away at the time. The Strom of Vilandeul laid claim to parts of Veliadrin, west of the Varamin Mountains.”

  “The trouble is Nath’s Stromnate of Vilandeul is small and is penned in by powerful kovnates. He is land hungry.”

  “You can understand that.”

  “We must stick together, pri — Jak. If it comes to it, we’ll have to hire mercenaries and go up against him. No damned Typhohan is going to steal my land from me, by Vox!”

  Mildly, I said: “In Valka we have our own army. And I would heartily dislike having to fight Vallians. We threw the aragorn and the slavers out. Don’t they trouble you?”

  “A little. They take a few slaves from me. Nothing I can’t live with.”

  My mildness vanished. “If you entertain any notions of marrying Dayra, I fancy you will have to manumit your slaves. The whole lot. And I will help you deal with the slavers.”

  He blinked.

  Even so good-hearted a fellow as Barty could not really understand my attitude about slaves. Had not Opaz made slaves for other men to use? Of course he had. Therefore a good citizen of Vallia must employ what Opaz had put into his hands.

  This must be pursued later. I said in my harsh old voice: “What have you discovered about Dayra?”

  “I have spoken to the landlord. She was seen with a rascally gang of Hawkwas hiring zorcas and riding northeast.”

  Hawkwa was the contemptuous name given in hatred and fear by the civilized people of Vallia in the old days to the reivers from the Northeast, and in turn used by the barbarians in boastful pride and reciprocal contempt.

  “Also, I have hired a guide.”

  Well, I could not complain. Barty had done well. In the time I had been making inquiries in Vondium and hobnobbing with the emperor he had been hard at work here. I warmed to him. He must cherish genuine feelings for my daughter, for he had not gone rushing back to his island to fend off the predatory demands of Nath Typhohan, the Strom of Vilandeul. Well, I would help him there, for his island lay close to Veliadrin. And the Elten of Avanar, Tom Tomor, had given the old Strom of Vilandeul a salutary lesson over land-grabbing.

  “We will not ride,” I said with a snap. “We will take your flier, seeing she has space for a dozen or more and the zorcas. My two-seat craft will be useless. The guide you have found-”

  “Uthnior Chavonthjid. A hunter with a fine reputation. And expensive, by Vox.”

  “Well, this Uthnior will have to get used to airboats if he is not already familiar with them. We have no time to lose.”

  Transferring the gear I had brought to Barty’s flier did not take long, despite the mountains of stuff Delia always insisted I take along with me on these expeditions. More often than not I lost most of it, and returned draggle-tailed and almost empty-handed. Weapons, food and — well, little else, really, on Kregen, apart from necessary clothing against the weather — are all that are required. Of food we had wicker hampers piled up. Of weapons we took the usual Kregen arsenal. Uthnior Chavonthjid turned out to be the picture of a leem hunter, lean, rangy, broad-shouldered, with that weather-beaten face that conveys an ample sense of experience and wide horizons. His history contained nothing out of the usual, save for the incident that claimed for him the coveted jid appended to the animal he had slain bare-handed, or the danger he had overcome. The chavonth is a feral big cat, savage and tirelessly vindictive. Uthnior had met and bested one, breaking its back. The word jid is seldom used alone, which is why I always use bane — as, for instance, in the Bane of Grodno. I felt confident that Uthnior Chavonthjid would prove a fine, tough guide for us. As to his reliability, that remained to be weighed in the balance.

  As we flew at the sedate speed of Barty’s capacious flier toward the Kwan Hills, in which rises the River Emerade, some forty dwaburs or so from Thengelsax, I was once more forcibly struck by the incongruity of having to hire a guide to any part of Vallia. But the truth remained — and, alas, still remains

  — that some parts of Vallia are barbaric and untamed still.

  You may recall the Ochre Limits. There nature set the obstacles in the path. Here, the Kwan Hills, densely forested, alive with game, untracked and mysterious, were the haunts of the drikingers, the reivers, the Hawkwas, who set the limits to strangers.

  Uthnior, to my surprise, had refused to take zorcas.

  “Koter Jakhan,” he said in his grave manner. “Where we are going the totrix is the mount for us.”

  Only a half-mur’s pondering convinced me I must heed the specialist knowledge of the man on the spot. Nath Dangorn, called Totrix, would have chuckled. But he along with the rest of the newly created Order of Kroveres of Iztar, was far away. This was a family matter, and Barty had his rights in it, also. So we took six totrixes in the rigged-up stalls in the rear of Barty’s flier, and the awkward, stubborn, six-legged riding animals did not take kindly to being thus hurled helplessly through thin air. We touched down at the edge of a wood well clear of the outskirts of the town of Tarkwa-fash. From here, with the blue haze of the Kwan Hills beckoning us on, we would ride. The voller was hidden in the trees with cut branches piled upon her. Uthnior eyed the mass of weapons and gear. Then he looked at Barty and me with a wary, reflective glance that was instantly appreciated by me, at least, although Barty soon understood.

  Uthnior himself slung his personal gear on his baggage totrix. All six were provided with the riding saddle of this part of Kregen, a tall, broad, comfortable seat. Uthnior buckled on his crossbow with care, strapping the quivers of bolts alongside, checking the swing of the three swords and the variety of polearms he carried. His provision bags went the other side. Barty pulled his lower lip.

  “You have brought a mighty fine array of weaponry, Jak. Tell me, Uthnior, what is it best for us to take?”

  I did not fail to notice that the guide carried a short but powerful bow, a compound reflex weapon of considerable beauty and precision, over his shoulder. The quiverful of arrows to match were fletched with a neutral greeny-browny set of feathers. But the steel heads were all wide, keen, wedge-shaped flesh-cutters, with vicious barbs. This bow, it was clear, was his personal close-range missile weapon. The crossbow was for the fancy shooting.

  Uthnior looked at my Lohvian longbow. The quiverful of arrows were fletched with the brilliant blue plumage of the crested korf of the Blue Mountains. As to the piles, they were my usual mix, different heads for different tasks. “That is a bow from Loh, I think,” he said. “A longbow?”

  “Aye. You have seen one before?”

  His reply astonished me although it should not have.

  “No. Never.”

  This showed yet again the sheer size of the island of Vallia. Away up here the hunters used crossbows or the reflex bow. The longbow was virtually unknown. And yet, the weird thing was, if I took a flier and flew due east for eighty or so dwaburs I would arrive in the island of Zamra. Most odd. Of course, the heartlands of the Northeast lay farther to the north, mainly around the Stackwamors, which was why the reivers had full rein down here.

  “We must shoot a match, Chavonthjid, when opportunity offers.”

  “I would welcome that. Although I fancy this longbow of yours clumsy to handle.”

  Not prepared to get into an argument over that — what he said was true for one unskilled in the use of the supreme Lohvian longbow — I urged us to complete our preparations and to mount up and ride. We wanted to get into the foothills before nightfall.

  In the end I stuck to my usual custom and took my accustomed arsenal. Barty hewed to the middle path and selected a mix of weapons that made Uthnior merely smile, rather tha
n frown, and we set off. Uthnior, it turned out, had a grandmother from the Northeast. He was at home here. If I give the impression that for a Southern Vallian to venture into these parts was like trespassing into enemy territory, then I give a false impression. We were still in Vallia and the emperor’s writ still ran here, albeit very often evaded or downright ignored. These people paid taxes to the Presidio and emperor in Vondium. They were Vallians and proud of it — if they could be Northeastern Vallians. It was the agitators who fomented unrest, hanging their banditry on the respectable peg of self-determination — or so I was led to believe. I thought them wrong. But, equally, I know that big does not equal best, and small can, indeed, be charmingly beautiful.

  There is an old saying that has its echo on Kregen — A good big ’un will beat a good little ’un. I looked always to the future, past the time when Vallia would have come to an arrangement with the countries of Pandahem, and achieved peace with Hamal — and I hoped without having to thrash them in a long and costly war — and brought in the whole fantastic continent of Havilfar. When the groupings of islands and continents called Paz were truly one — then we could deal with the Chanks. We would have to deal with the devils from over the curve of the world before then, of course, dolefully so, as best we could.

  We broke in among the foothills of the Kwan Range and we made camp in a secluded gulley with water and fodder to hand. We had seen not a soul. The game abounded, and regarded us rather in the light of trespassers, evidence of the infrequency of human intrusion.

  In the course of a regular season Uthnior would guide just the one hunting party, and there were other hunters each with his own patch; he had been free to take employment with Barty because his hunting party had called it off over the recrudescence of the border troubles. He’d never married, seemingly preferring the open freedom of the hunter’s life. His home was where he happened to be. He appeared to me a competent, grave, inwardly content man, with a deep understanding and love for the strange ways of nature upon Kregen.

  As was becoming increasingly my habit these days when I met fresh acquaintances, I studied this hunter with the Kroveres of Iztar in mind. Would he or would he not be found worthy to be admitted to the Order? Already I had been impressed by his manner. As for Barty, that young man for all his virtues had some way to go yet before the Order would consider him.

  We pressed on again while the golden and pink moonlight gave us illumination, She of the Veils and the Twins lighting the way through the broken country. Ever upward we trended. The six-legged totrixes were an uncomfortable ride; but I am used to their waywardnesses and, deprived of a zorca, made the best of them.

  We traveled for the rest of the night and as the last small hurtling moon vanished in the haze off to our left Uthnior indicated we should make camp again.

  The fire we built was small, compact, shielded by a rocky overhang. When full daylight came we doused it and sat, resting, looking about as the light brightened. Barty could not rest for long.

  “Can we not push on, Uthnior?”

  The guide pulled a grass stem from the corner of his mouth.

  “You hired me to guide you to the camp of the Hawkwas. I know the area they frequent — and avoid it. In general terms I can take you straight there. You will be observed closely over the last dwabur or so.”

  Listening quietly to him I made no comment; but I guessed accurately what he would say next.

  “Complete directions can be given you. I will be happy to do that. But you must go on by yourselves at the end. I shall wait three days for you. No more.”

  Ten

  Of the Pride of a Rapa Paktun

  The mizzle of rain eased and a wan grayish daylight seeped through the massed clouds. Hillsides, woods, bushes, open swards dripped water. Barty swung off his hooded cape and the water sprayed. The totrixes ambled along in that skewed six-legged gait. Uthnior slid his cape off expertly and let the water drain off into the grass.

  Gray clouds hung about the mountains. The pass ahead glinted with a waterfall’s sudden silver.

  “Five burs ride beyond the pass,” said the guide, pointing. “Then I leave you to go on. There is a cave. Three days I shall wait. After that-”

  “You needn’t go on!” exclaimed Barty. “If we don’t come back in three days we’ll be dead. I know.”

  Uthnior had little experience of airboats, for his hunter clients liked to get into the saddle as soon as possible, and at the time I took at face value his assertion that fliers would be useless in the maze of valleys and gullies and hilly peaks around us. The Kwan Hills were no place to crash in, that was certain. Our six-legged mounts ambled along and the twin suns struggled to pierce the thick cloud layer above. That pass ahead, with its thread of silver, the dark sodden slopes on either hand, the cavernous bellies of the low-lying clouds above — my fingers began to twitch. Fingerspitzengefuhl. Yes, the Germans had the word for it, the twitch in the finger tips. The old breeze up the spine. I rolled my eyes about, looking up the slopes, seeing clumps of vegetation dripping with moisture, vague pale blurs of wan sunshine trying to strike glints from the drops and producing glimmering pearls.

  “Here they come!” I bellowed and ripped out the longbow.

  They bounded down the slopes screeching like demons, leaping from tussock to tussock, waving their weapons, ragged bands of men and women, their armor and harness dun-earth in color and wet, wet with the wet ground on which they had lain in ambush.

  “Hawkwas!” yelled Uthnior, and his bow was in his hand.

  Reflex compound bow and Lohvian longbow spat as one.

  Barty’s bow slapped out a little later, as the hunter and I loosed again. In this kind of sudden fierce attack as fighting men and women roar at you, screeching, aiming to top you, you have to assume that, have to understand they are hostile and react to that, and not hang about wondering if this is merely a too-enthusiastic welcome. We shot to stop the attack. Men screamed with shafts feathered through them. They tumbled down the wet hill-slopes, tattered bundles, arms and legs flopping.

  The arrows we loosed took their toll, and then it was handstrokes.

  All the old cliches about letting the mind divorce itself from the corporeal body, the sword being held and not held, the mysteries of the Disciplines, all these things chunked into place. Because I was mounted and because I was in a hurry to get through these Hawkwas I used the Krozair longsword. The brand flamed in the weak sunlight Hawkwas shrieked and fell away. Blood splattered. Barty was slashing about with the clanxer I had insisted he bring, the straight cut and thruster more use in this kind of work than a rapier. Uthnior struck mighty sweeping blows with a polearm, a scythe-like blade mounted on a staff, an overgrown version of the glaive my people of Valka know so well how to use. We urged our totrixes on, the baggage animals tethered to the saddles following willy-nilly, and we broke through the screeching mob. The Hawkwas fought us, for they saw we were but three and there were nineteen or twenty of them. But the deadly arrows had cut them down and the swords completed the task.

  A last remnant, three men, turned to run back, casting aside their weapons. Uthnior slapped his polearm away and took out his bow. He shot cleanly into the back of the nearest fugitive. He must have sensed my thoughts, for he bellowed savagely at me.

  “They will bring their Opaz-forsaken friends, koter!”

  As he dispatched the penultimate wretch, I, with some compunction and self-disgust, loosed at the last. Practical matters despite all other concepts had to reign here. I valued my daughter Dayra above these bandits of the hills. It was horrible and messy; it was, as I took it, inevitable. There was no point in gathering up the scattered weapons.

  We rode from that accursed spot as quickly as we could move the totrixes along, after I had recovered my arrows.

  And the rain came drifting back.

  “You have, I think, fought before,” observed Uthnior as we jogged along.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see that one-” began Barty.<
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  “Not now, Barty,” I said.

  We drew our cape hoods up and slouched in the saddles and rode through the valley and past the feathery glinting waterfall and so came out to the saddle beyond, where the land lifted away from us, misty, clouded by rain veils, gray and wet.

  Barty said, with an oath: “What I would give for a piping hot cup of tea — right now — vydra tea, for that is what I like best.”

  “I, too, am fond of vydra tea,” said Uthnior.

  I hauled out a wine bottle and passed it across. “You will have to make do with wine, Barty. For now.”

  “I suppose so.”

  When we reached the cave of which the guide had spoken we reined in. The rocky face of the cliff closed down, and the uneven track wound down toward thickly wooded and much cut up land beyond. The veils of rain blew across like vertical sweeps from gigantic sword blades. Uthnior hesitated.

  “To wait here, now, will not be advisable.”

  “Our tracks will be washed out.” I said tentatively.

  “Assuredly, koter. But the bodies of the Hawkwas will be found. Their friends will search. It will not be difficult to find a lone man hiding in a cave.”

  “So you-” began Barty.

  “Ride with us until you find a secure hide,” I said.

  Barty swung to face me, annoyed; but he saw my face and did not pursue the argument. We rode on. The sense of desolation that depressed me here in these Kwan Hills lightened a little as the rain eased. I knew the atmospheric feelings were mine, that in other circumstances I would have joyed to explore here. Barty relapsed into a hurt silence, unable to comprehend why my companionship had so sadly fallen away. Uthnior led on, alert, sniffing the wind, his eyes forever scanning the distant prospects that opened up with each turn in our winding progress through the hills.