A Life for Kregen dp-19

by Alan Burt Akers

  That was one of the many times I regretted the enforced absence through sorcery of Balass the Hawk, for that kyr-kaidur could demonstrate sword and shield work to perfection. It seemed that the fighting men of Pandahem had heeded the lessons brought to their discomfiture by the iron legions of Hamal. The sword and shield men — we generally called them churgur infantry -

  marching down there looked as though they were not yet completely sure of their weapons. You can usually tell.

  The blocks of color moving all together represented massed regiments, five hundred or so men apiece, swinging along in column. We spied on them from the ridge of trees and marked their progress and the little breeze flicked and flecked the leaves about us and the slanting rays of the suns flickered opaz light upon the world. Kregen — ah, me, Kregen…

  “Nearer sixty than fifty,” said Korero.

  I nodded.

  “And a good quarter cavalry.”

  As though the name cavalry conjured him from the ground Karidge moved up at my side. He breathed only a little more heavily than usual, being a sprightly fellow with a tufty beard that bristled even when he sang. A consummate artist with a zorca, he was turning into a good cavalry commander. His regiment was always impeccable and meticulously turned out. They wore the red and yellow, for they were an imperial regiment, all three hundred and sixty of the jutmen, organized into six squadrons plus ancillaries. Karidge employed a long curved sword, and his dolman and pelisse were marvels of gold and silver lace and embroidery.

  “A damned great gang of them, majister, by the Spurs of Lasal the Vakka.”

  “Aye, Jiktar Karidge.”

  “We could knock a few feathers out of their tail.”

  “Aye. We could.”

  Targon the Tapster grunted. “Then let us mount up and ride.”

  “Tsleetha-tsleethi,” I said. “Let us watch them for a space.”

  The obvious plan was so obvious my men grumbled and fidgeted as we waited in the shade of the trees and watched the army march past below the ridge.

  Easy enough to knock a few feathers out of the tail, to ride down whooping and cut up the long straggling baggage lines and provender wagons. That was the way of the raiding cavalry. But I hungered for more. I hungered for the complete destruction of this damned army that had invaded our country. And that must wait until they were within easier striking distance and we could bring greater power down on them. I mentioned this to Karidge and to Jiktar Nalgre Randur, the numim commander of the nikvove regiment. They thought about the situation, and then Randur stroked his ferocious lion-man’s whiskers and gave his opinion that, as usual, the emperor was right; but that it was hard on a man to show him a mangy gaggle of foemen and then forbid him to unsheathe his sword. Jiktar Wando Varon ti GrollenDen, commanding the second zorca regiment, left his command strung out to guard our rear and walked through to join us. He wanted to know why we were not mounting up and riding down and, as he put it, letting some good Vallian air into those Opaz-forsaken Pandaheem down there.

  Another fiery-tempered, audacious, sword-swinging cavalryman was Wando Varon, who maintained his regiment smartly enough but harped all the time on spear work from the saddle. Holding these men in check now that they had set eyes on their enemy was like trying to hold an armful of kittens. I sighed.

  “Very well. But toward dusk, when the chances favor a swift and determined attack. And, for the sweet sake of Opaz, do not get entangled. Quickly in, quickly out, and avoid taking plunder.” I meant what I said. “They have regiments of zorcas down there. We will have to move like the Flame Winds of Father Tolki when you have had your fun.”

  Following my words there was a quantity of pelisse-swinging and feather ruffling and sword slapping, together with a deal of boot banging and moustache stroking. The cavalrymen swelled their chests. Their faces appeared to fill out, grow larger and firmer, and the brightness of their eyes matched the brilliance of their appearance. Yes, your dyed-in-the-wool jutman, your cavalryman who gallops in with a skirl and a whoop, knows how to ruffle it.

  The two regiments of zorcas and the single regiment of nikvoves totaled around a thousand riders. There were fifty or so of my choice band with me, together with the Pachaks. These last two sets of ruffians, and I joke most feebly there, I cautioned off to another duty.

  So, and for our mounts in a literal sense champing at the bit, we waited out the long descent of the suns. Dorgo the Clis, his scar giving him the look of a desperado who would as lief slit your throat as doff his hat, was sent off to Dogansmot with a few riders to find out what the invading army’s mischief had been there. This would be the first place they had bivouacked in that we had found and I felt the heaviness of heart that the usual rapine and plunder would have taken place. Dorgo rode circumspectly around toward the south before cutting west. The breeze at last died away and the rain gentled down, lustering all the greenery with a veil of silver.

  Dogansmot lies not too far from the eastern border of Thadelm where that vadvarate marches with the imperial province of Vond. Vond was solidly with the new emperor in Vondium, and we had ridden through from town to town and village to village in a kind of triumphal procession. We had left in our wake a determined intention of resistance to the invaders. A good blow here by this small cavalry force, the success of my own plan for the night, and then we could return and set our own army in motion. And, all the time I schemed, that irritating little itch persisted. There had to be another plot by our foemen afoot. This army below us was in one sense derisory for the sack of a great capital city. There just had to be other forces in the field.

  The army was from Pandahem, that seemed clear and would explain the absence of saddle flyers and vollers. We had seen not a single aerial force, and our own couple of air-boats were at a discreet distance, waiting the signal. There was something afoot, something nasty and something that boded ill for Vondium.

  When I told Barty that he might ride with the three regiments in command he said in his eager way: “That is very fine of you, Dray. But I’d rather ride with you. I know you’re up to some kind of deviltry and that sounds much more interesting than beating up a baggage train and firing tents.”

  I regarded him stonily. A stout-hearted young man, the Strom of Calimbrev, if a little hasty and not over-inclined to think of consequences. But I could not find it in me to deny his request to join in my little spot of mayhem.

  So Jiktar Nath Karidge, as the senior regimental commander, would conduct the cavalry. I gave him strict instructions and we checked sand-glasses, and then I led out my choice band and the Pachaks. The suns were drifting down behind banks of vermilion and emerald clouds, and the rain sifted in as though shaken from a trag’s pelt. We rode silently. Ahead of us lay an army preparing to bed down for the night.

  “They’re pretty free and easy with their lights,” observed Barty as we jogged down. Indeed, there was plenty of light from lanterns and torches, whereat I frowned. What I purposed needed the shrouding cloak of Notor Zan.

  “They act,” said Targon with all the wisdom of his newly won state as a veteran warrior, “as though they’re a friendly host. They didn’t even investigate the disappearance of their patrol.”

  “Whatever the explanation,” I said, “it must wait for now. Shastum!” Which is to say, “Silence!”

  The sand trickled away and by the last of the light we saw the final grains tumble through. In the growing shadows, flames licked up from the baggage lines and tents began to burn. No need for further orders. Everyone knew what had to be done and their part in the operation. The expertise we had laboriously acquired during those hectic and wearing times clearing out the Radvakkas and the Hamalese and their mercenaries was once again put to the test. Barty and the others led off, their mounts going quietly through the night, only an occasional stray chink of reflected light striking up from steel or armor.

  The sky faded in a dying riot of color. A few stars began to prick out. The tents burned splendidly and already an uproar was
beginning that would cloak our designs. Straight for the sumptuous marquee we rode, with its pennons of colors that held no heraldic significance, its pearl lights shining through the cloth, its armed guards, its total air of munificence. This, we were confident, was the marquee of the army commander.

  Guards rose to challenge us, cloak-flaring shadows in the night. We rode through or over them and the alarm was up. But we went galloping on, striking down opposition, intent on our target and our tasks. The thumping onrush of the zorcas, the sound of steel on iron, the shrieks of men, the bluster of wind and the frantic flicker of flames out of the corner of the eye melded to make a bedlam — a familiar bedlam that released inner compulsions together with the blood that coursed around the body, freely, stimulating us all to greater exertions.

  Two Chuliks disputed the cloth-of-gold entrance to the marquee. Their comrades were down. Targon and Naghan struck horizontally, lethal sweeping blows. The Chuliks tumbled away; but one was only half-dead, and his flung spear took Naghan in the shoulder. He yelped, more in surprise than pain. That would bite him later.

  “Take Naghan,” I yelled at Targon. “You too, Korero. Ride on.”

  In the bedlam about us as men struggled and died they obeyed instantly. I leaped off the zorca and tumbled pell-mell into the cloth-of-gold opening. Lamps burned in mellow blazes and I could see only a Rapa at the far end of the tunnel-like entrance about to loose a shaft. The bow snapped and the arrow sped. My rapier shisked up and the shaft caromed away, to slice through that precious cloth-of-gold. I was up and past the Rapa before he could draw, and left him coughing on the carpets. The inner cloths flung back. I strode through.

  This was a tented antechamber. Stout wooden posts had been driven into the ground and beautiful slave girls, practically naked, were chained by their necks to the posts. There were eleven posts and ten girls, and the odd post’s iron chain lay like a serpent upon the ground. I walked on past with a stony face and two more Rapas fell away, screeching.

  The girls were all screaming and caterwauling away, and I hoped I might release them if I returned this way. But ahead another tented chamber within the marquee revealed other men, sumptuously uniformed, relaxing with chased goblets of wine, and the girl who danced for them. She danced unwillingly, and a greasy slave-master snapped a whip at her buttocks, from time to time, to remind her of her duties. The men were slow to react to my presence.

  They displayed the same casual carelessness we had observed in the cavalry patrol and the general attitude of this army.

  Firmly convinced that the solution to the mystery must lie with the commander, I moved on. They saw the rapier in my fist, they saw the slender blade and the crimson stains, and they started to lumber to their feet. Their reactions began with surprise, went through startlement, anger, furious rage — and then went on to dismay and fear and a babbling rush to get away, anywhere away. Those who could escaped. Those who could not, including the slave-master with his whip, remained stretched out in the tented enclosure. I did not think many would sup wine and watch a girl being whipped into dancing for their pleasure again.

  “Hai, Jikai,” said the girl, very calmly. Her body was lithe and lissome, remarkable, firm and curved, and she swayed with natural grace as she picked up a discarded cloth to cover her nakedness. I gestured the rapier.

  “The commander?”

  “Oh, Lango is in there with his painted boys. You will have no trouble with him. Your men will destroy this army with ease.”

  “Mayhap,” I said. I went across to the inner opening which was fastened with more cloth-of-gold. The girl picked up a rapier and by the way she handled the blade it was clear she had used weapons before. She smiled at me.

  “But, I think, Jikai, you will let me deal with him.”

  “He is of concern to me only as an enemy of Vallia.”

  “So ho! A patriot. I had thought all patriots long since fled. Your name, Jikai?”

  “As to that, I have been called Jak the Drang. And you?”

  “Lahal, Jak the Drang. You may call me Jilian.”

  “Lahal, Jilian. Now, for the sweet sake of Opaz, let us get on and do this Lango’s business for him.”

  The close atmosphere with the lamps shining evenly, the long lines of drapes against the tent walls, the gold and silver goblets spilled across the rugs and the wine soaking into the priceless fabrics, the stink of blood, the sprawled bodies of the men, clung about us. Her coolness both amazed and amused me -

  the amusement a genuine feeling, the amazement stupid in a world where I had already encountered Jikai Vuvushis — Battle Maidens.

  I noticed without comment that Jilian selected from among the pile of tumbled clothes a red length of cloth to wrap around herself, ignoring the lustrous golds and silvers, the greens and blues. She called me Jikai, which in the connotation she used meant great warrior, and understood that I commanded men. She would get a shock, I thought, when she discovered I had merely three cavalry regiments with me. But all that must wait. We moved together toward the inner opening. Her face was pale. I thought that to be a natural part of her beauty and not brought on by the circumstances. There was color there, a palest tinge of rose along the cheekbones. Her face was artfully formed, low-browed, wide, with deep eyes that appeared in the lamps’ glow to burn with the desire to exact revenge. Well, there were red and angry weal marks on her buttocks and thighs, and I did not doubt she felt she had good cause to give back what had been taken out on her body. Her dark hair reached low over that broad white forehead, adding a luster to the eyes, giving an air of intenseness to her whole face, the features clear and pleasing, the mouth warm and red and mobile. She moved with grace. We stood together by the entrance and from beyond the muffling drapes of cloth-of-gold the sound of light laughter reached us.

  Jilian’s rapier flickered like the tail of a leem.

  “They laugh, those rasts. But now we will smoke them out.”

  “We must hurry. There is a whole army encamped about us and there will be many guards.”

  Her dark eyes flayed into me, and I could feel the pressure of her thoughts.

  “And do you, Jak the Drang, Jikai, fear an army?”

  “Assuredly so — when I have other irons in the fire.”

  She reached out and ripped away the cloth-of-gold.

  “Then let us heat this iron, together, and soon!”

  Chapter Eight

  Kov Colun Mogper of Mursham

  Wherever Jilian had sprung from, the people there had taught her swordplay. Also, and this I found highly intriguing, she stopped to pick up the thick black whip the slave-master had wielded. When we burst through into the inner tented enclosure of the army commander, Fat Lango, it was the whip which, cracking out like a striking risslaca tongue, barbed, lashed him into painful movement. He shrieked. The lash coiled and lifted and struck, and again Fat Lango shrieked.

  Jilian laughed.

  Her teeth were very white and even.

  The guards here were apim, slothful, over-dressed and arrogant to the point of stupidity. They did not interfere as Jilian lashed Lango.

  And, still, I carried the Krozair longsword scabbarded over my back. The painted and perfumed boys fled screaming from the wide pillow-strewn bed. Lango was bleeding. He tried to scramble away on all fours, like a dog, and the whip belted chunks of skin from his rump. Again Jilian laughed, drawing her arm up so that her whole body tensed, cracking the whip forward in a long raking slash that sliced all across Lango and made him shriek in agony. He fell face down, and now the whip rose and fell, rose and fell, and I saw the last of the guards run. I turned back.

  “Time to go, Jilian.”

  “I,” she said, panting only a little, magnificent in her barbarism, “have not yet finished.”

  “Then, lady, I must leave without you.”

  She looked up, and the whip trailed.

  “You would?”

  “Believe it.”

  “I do, Jikai, I do. And, I am ready.” With
this she struck not, as she had done, in the pain-ways of the whip, but in the death-ways. I have described this vile kind of Kregen whip before, like a Russian knout or a sjambok. A thick, tapering instrument of agony and death. Fat Lango jerked, abruptly, rearing up like a praying mantis; then he slumped and he was dead.

  “Now,” said Jilian, and she coiled that thick rope of vileness along her white arm. “Now, Jikai, I am ready.”

  She moved like a stalking chavonth toward the cloth-of-gold entrance. I went the other way, toward the rear, where blue and green striped cottons covered the thicker material of the marquee. She stared after me.

  “I go this way.”

  The bloody rapier licked out and stripped away the cloth, ripped in a lunge and a twisting tear down, and then across and down again. An opening gaped onto the starshot night.

  “I,” said Jilian, with some amused acerbity, “will go with you, Jak the Drang, Jikai.”

  “You may call me Jak, Jilian. And I welcome you. You are, I think, a mistress of the Jikai Vuvushis.”

  “Yes.”

  Together, shoulder to shoulder, we stepped out. Guy ropes angled, glimmering whitely, to catch unwary feet. The commotion boomed away and the flames were still shooting up, orange and lurid, blurring the luminous stars. I headed directly away from the sumptuous marquee of the commander, the late and unlamented Fat Lango, and I kept my eyes peeled for sight of my men. The uproar was prodigious, and once away from the marquee and only four dead men to betray that anyone had passed, we were able to slow down. But there was no sign of my men.