Scorpio Reborn [Dray Prescot #38]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Strom Hangol roared past cutting a swathe from the flank through a bunch of the bandits. He actually took time out to notice me. And as he galloped on he sneered. He actually thought it important enough in the middle of a brisk little action to show me his contempt.

  By this time, having heard other folk talking in unguarded moments, I had to come to the conclusion that Strom Hangol was not worth contempt.

  This conclusion is always saddening, however just. One does not like to lose a human being in the sight of whatever gods may be believed in.

  The drikingers fought viciously and hard for a time; then the fire went out of them.

  Right at the end, a bandit flogging his zorca on roared in towards me in the final throes of the battle rapture that gripped him. He was a Rapa, beaked and feathered, and his sword glittered as he swung it down towards me. I saw Strom Hangol past the Rapa in a perfect position to give the killing thrust with his lance. Hangol hauled his zorca back. His face was a mask of glee. Here was where without effort he repaid the slights he imagined he'd suffered at my hands. My paralyzed hands, by Krun!

  That half silver mask of Hangol's with the mingled emerald and ruby lights splintering from its edges, covering only the right side of his face, complemented the glee transfiguring the fleshly half of his face.

  The bandit screeched in unholy gloating as he whipped his sword down at me. I tried—of course I tried!—to slide the blow as the Krozair Disciplines aided me. I was looking straight at the Rapa. His feathers bristled green and red. The sword glittered. He was gloating in this last moment of killing lust before he made his getaway.

  Crimson spurted from his left eye. Instantly crimson spouted in a gout from his right eye.

  I watched, fascinated.

  The Rapa screamed. He dropped his sword and clawed at his face.

  He could not see. His eyes were ruined beyond redemption. I fancied I could see a thin stick-like object, like a needle, sticking out of each of his eyes. He was screaming and yelling and rocking about on his zorca, clearly a man without hope in this world, and it was a mercy for him that Mevancy rode up and sliced her lynxter neatly across his throat.

  The Rapa fell off his zorca, spraying blood everywhere. Strom Hangol rode off in urgent pursuit of the remnants of the bandits. Mevancy reined up by me.

  “Why can't you keep out of trouble, cabbage? You are a sore trial to me."

  I said: “You just wait!” but all that came out was: “Yo-js-tt."

  “Oh! You Drajak!” she said.

  She slid a slim leg over her lictrix and jumped to the ground. She was highly capable with the dead Rapa's zorca, seizing the bridle reins firmly, letting the animal see who was his new master, gentling him, stroking his nose at the root of the proud spiral horn—zorcas love that. He quietened down. She turned a flushed triumphant face to me.

  “Hai! Now I have a mount!"

  I nodded and pointed to her lictrix.

  “Oh, yes, cabbage, of course—only do try not to lose this one."

  Just then, Vad Leotes rode up with his escort. He looked puffed up with excitement, bursting with rich blood running through his veins, and his red moustaches fairly bristled.

  “My Lady Mevancy!” he called. I gathered he'd been worried about her in the fight.

  “My lord!” she said, laughing, mischievous.

  Instantly he was himself. He smiled and bowed gallantly. “I see you have won a fine zorca. You may keep him, if you wish."

  Now Mevancy wasn't fool enough to go shouting that she'd won the damn beast and so therefore of course she'd keep him. She knew as everyone else knew that any loot obtained by people of the caravan belonged to the vad.

  She smiled. “Why, thank you, Leotes. It is a generous gift."

  He made some fustian gallant reply but I wasn't listening. I had my mind set on climbing up on that lictrix and of essaying a few swings of Mevancy's lynxter. Mevancy mounted up and, indeed, she cut a fine figure. Nafty appeared and was told to transfer her kit from the lictrix to the zorca. This took no time at all and then she and the vad rode off followed by the escort.

  Well, I tied old Tuftytail to a cart and took hold of the lictrix. I managed to mount him without too much trouble and I sat back, taking a breather, wondering and hoping that this was the beginning of the end of the paralysis.

  A little breeze began to blow warmly from the northwest, bringing with it the unmistakable tang of salt. That made me feel pleased that the idiot drikingers had made this lictrix available for me to ride through the Great Salt Desert. I gave him a little rein and walked him about and began to feel quite at home. The caravan was getting itself back in order now and the calsanys were quietening down. Some of the slaves were already preparing graves for the dead of the caravan; what they would do with the dead bandits I did not know. There was a quantity of shouting and a few trumpet calls. This activity and the new mount had taken my mind off an investigation I had intended to carry out as soon as possible.

  Now I rode back to where Tuftytail was tied up and dismounted. The dead Rapa lay where he had fallen, weltering in his own blood. I bent to that beaked vulturine face, not without a quiver of ironic appreciation that this vulture-headed man had perished through the loss of his eyes. I looked. The orbits were already congealing with blood, puss dribbling. If I had seen a small stick-like object it was not there now.

  As I straightened up, Nath the Arm walked up. Blood stained his legs.

  “Hai, onker,” he said, heavily. “Scrimshi. I had to—he was sore wounded. He begged me. D'you understand, onker? He begged me!"

  I gargled out stupid ineffectual words.

  “Oh, shut your black-fanged winespout, if that's all you can do!” Nath the Arm had been badly affected. “Well, he's well on his way through the Death Jungles of Sichaz. I just hope the spectral syatras don't get him."

  Scrimshi I had put down as an unpleasant person on first acquaintance; still, he'd improved with time and I felt sorry for him.

  I didn't try to speak again but pointed to my mouth and then did an imitation of a man singing.

  “Huh?” said Nath the Arm. Then: “Oh, I see. Dunno. Last I saw, he was in a right old ding dong with a couple of Fristles. By Yakwang! He put one down so fast with the strangdja hoicking off his arm the other shint ran off screaming. Then I had a pestiferous Brokelsh to deal with after he'd done for Scrimshi. Well, I suppose Tsung-Tan might have him in his keeping if you believe in Gilium."

  Nath the Arm went off trailing his strangdja, that wicked holly-leaf shaped head glistening thickly with blood, not all of it red. I knew he'd start to clean and polish that up soon and I also knew—well, trusted more than knew for a certainty—that he'd soon be over the death of Scrimshi. The mercenary's trade brings passing comrades and death in liberal portions.

  The caravan's Saddler, a little Och called Tanki the Stitch, did not tut-tut overmuch when presented with the new saddle requirements. Most folk of Kregen with the wide array of splendid saddle animals are philosophical about the different saddle requirements. They cope without fuss with saddles of different specifications. All the same, it was more convenient for Mevancy to swap the Rapa's saddle for one more suitable for a lady. Her old lictrix saddle, again, would not suit, as it was adapted for a six-legged animal. It was a tight fit for me and Tanki the Stitch altered it for me—Mevancy paid.

  Certainly, I'd had my belt back from the bandits who'd stolen it; the pouches were empty of money and most of the bits and pieces a fellow carries around. Unable to work, penniless, I had perforce for the moment to rely on Mevancy's generosity. She must have been clever and quick to have got her own money back when she escaped from the drikingers.

  One of the guards, Deldar Gurong, that same Deldar who'd tried to order Scrimshi off to point duty, rode in carrying a parcel of weaponry taken from dead bandits. Among the swords, so Mevancy told me later, were weapons belonging to the lords Tawang and Shalang. This trading of weapons is commonplace among any fraternity of fighting men
or sorority of Jikai Vuvushis—even if their trade is banditry. I felt a spark of interest and wrote my question and she raised one round shoulder. “Can't say, cabbage. I saw no rapiers or daggers."

  She saw my face and said roughly: “Well, cabbage, it was only a thin sticker of a sword and a clumsy great dagger. That scum Hangol wears ‘em, I notice, though I've yet to see him use ‘em in a fight."

  I didn't bother to write that often it is better to use a stout fighting sword rather than a rapier in these kind of rough-house combats.

  Vad Leotes might have employed a miserable specimen for a cadade; his choice of Caravan Master couldn't be bettered. Master Pandarun held that dark aloof dignity of those who spend long periods out in the great wastelands of the world. His face was not as seamed or craggy as that of Llodi's; but it reminded you vividly that this man had slept under the stars more often than under a roof. He wore loose flowing robes of a fawn color and a mass of white cloth perched on his dark hair. When he spoke his caravan crews jumped.

  Master Pandarun told us that in Meimgarum, the oasis city on this eastern side of the Great Salt Desert, we would spend a few days preparing for the crossing. His thin mouth curved only slightly as he said: “All the saddle animals are sold there and we hire—"

  “All sold!” exclaimed Mevancy. “But my fine new zorca!"

  “It would be cruel to try to take him across the Salt Desert, my lady."

  Her lips compressed. Her nostrils flared. She glared at me and said: “And you needn't laugh, either, cabbage!"

  I couldn't say anything sensible. “But,” I said to myself, “by the disgusting putrescent protruding pot-belly of Makki Grodno! The injustice of the woman! I wasn't laughing at her discomfiture, by Krun!"

  Truth to tell, there was precious little to laugh about at all as we trailed into Meimgarum between white flat-roofed houses and drooping trees. And to cap that, of course, as everyone said, the Great Salt Desert was no laughing matter at all.

  * * *

  Chapter six

  Well, as I may have remarked before, any desert is unpleasant to the unwary and salt deserts are worse than most. This specimen of salt desert was referred to bitterly as the Gleek Frankai. The good folk of Meimgarum made a living preparing travelers to cross the desert and of repairing them once they had crossed from the west.

  All our saddle and draught animals were sold and the carts and carriages with them. No great noble would bring his own personal coach on this journey knowing it must be sold. We hired slounchers, animals that, I suppose, must be regarded as Loh's form of camel. Being of Kregen, of course, they had eight legs and three humps; but otherwise their morphology followed the necessities of desert living, like an Earthly camel. Some were exceedingly bad-tempered and others docile. It was known that they would kill anyone who attempted to molest their young. As a consequence slouncher handlers had to be a tough breed of people when it came to training time in a young slouncher's life.

  As for clothes, we all bought light airy robes, and massy turbans, and sand scarves. In this part of Loh sand scarves were called flamins. We all dressed up and looked one another over critically, and there was a quantity of high-pitched, nervous laughter at our appearances.

  I remained pathetically weak and had a deal of trouble scaling the high side of the mount allotted to me for the crossing. He was called Flamdi and I hoped against hope he had a placid temperament.

  Mevancy dealt with her slouncher unhesitatingly, and the animal seemed to me to understand the rider on his back would take no nonsense from him.

  Despite my weakness and inability to speak coherently, when I heard that on the western side of the salt desert a large river ran southerly through Ankharum, I made up my mind to take it down to the southern coast of Loh. There was bound to be a port and shipping and I could arrange passage home. I brushed aside any consideration of the problems involved in that course of action. I had finished the work the Star Lords had brought me here for. The quicker I got myself home to Valka the better.

  The thought had not escaped my attention that Delia might also have finished her work, for the SoR, and be high-tailing it for Esser Rarioch.

  “By Makki Grodno's disgusting diseased left eyeball!” I said to myself. “That's the plan, and the plan will work!"

  Oh, well, as they say in Sanurkazz, Zair lays many a trap for the unwary feet of the boastful.

  We did not, of course, carry very much money across the desert. The family with whom Master Pandarun dealt were known to him from previous transactions. We sold our carts, carriages and animals to the representatives of the Nuong-Hi family in Meimgarum, and received bonded receipts which would be redeemed in Ankharum for conveyances and animals of similar quality. The force of greed might well impel bandits to operate within the desert if a caravan was foolish enough to carry the money it had received in the sales. Families like that of Nuong-Hi materially lessened that risk.

  I do not wish to make a song and dance about the desert crossing. It was difficult and it was unpleasant but only three people died, and two of them through their own fault. We emerged dust and mica smothered, encrusted with salt and longing for baths and drinks. Perhaps the most impressive aspects of the Gleek Frankai were the solid pillars of salt forming white cathedral aisles, a bewildering maze of alleyways stretching fingerlike, fashioned by the twin powers of erosion and wind. Yes, an unhealthy place, that Great Salt Desert of southern Loh.

  Why some people are as they are is a mystery of life, known only to Opaz the Fashioner. Everyone agreed with Master Pandarun that we should spend a few days in Ankharum recovering. For his part, the salty crossing appeared to have made no difference to him at all. So we saw about buying fresh conveyances with our bonded receipts. Mevancy obtained a good class zorca for herself and a nice lictrix, called Swiggletoe, for me. Lord Nanji Tawang could be heard from here to the coast, I shouldn't wonder, as he bellowed his outrage.

  “My rig was first class, a genuine Porstheimer! Now, by Loncuum, you have the effrontery to offer me this rubbish in exchange!"

  Languin Nuong-Hi spread his brown hands in apology. A thin and lugubrious individual, he had done his best to provide us with kit similar to that we had parted with to his cousin in Meimgarum. “It may not be a Porstheimer, lord; nevertheless it is a first class rig."

  “It is rubbish! I demand proper recompense!"

  “There is not a Porstheimer in all Ankharum at this moment—"

  Lady Floria said: “And these people have the effrontery to call themselves honest merchants. They are cheating you, Nanji."

  “I know. Well, they will rue the day they started that trick. You, tikshim! I demand a cash settlement of the difference."

  Again Languin Nuong-Hi spread his hands. “If that is your wish, lord. The difference is fifty mings."

  “Fifty mings! Fifty gold pieces! Are you makib, bereft of your senses!"

  “No, lord. This rig is a Merkaller, the equal to a Porstheimer. The difference in cost is fifty mings."

  Mevancy caught my eye and jerked her head. Leading our animals we walked outside Master Languin Nuong-Hi's establishment. I'd not much idea of the cost of either a Porstheimer or a Merkaller. That wasn't important. This petty incident, despite Nanji Tawang's real cause for annoyance, showed the fellow up in a bad light. He was a trylon and so of some exalted state, between a vad and a strom. He was the Trylon of Fuokane. His rantings displeased Mevancy.

  “A boring boor,” she pronounced, nodding her head. “They'd give cramphs like that short shrift back in Chardaz, I can tell you, cabbage!"

  I managed a smile. I knew my folk of Valka would do likewise.

  However they settled that matter between the family of Nuong-Hi and Trylon Nanji na Fuokane, settled it was, for the fellow appeared sitting in the coach and wearing an expression of constipated disgust. What intrigued me was to see that the Lady Floria Inglewong shared the coach with Nanji. Well, I would be rid of them in a couple of days once I could arrange transport down the Rive
r of Oneness. Written enquiries elicited the information that flatboats, barges and fast packet slikkers, boats similar to dhows, plied the river, and with gold passage was easy to obtain.

  I wrote for Mevancy: “When we finish this journey, where do you go then?"

  She said tartly: “The journey has to be finished yet, cabbage."

  Patiently I wrote: “Yes.” I wanted to know where I might send money in repayment for that I had had from her. Also I would like to repay the cash I intended to borrow or steal from her in the immediate future. “I have to know where to send to repay your generosity."

  She said, roughly: “Don't worry your head about that."

  I started to scrawl: “But I do—” when her firm tanned hand closed over mine and squeezed. I had no strength to resist. She looked at me, gave me a twist of her supple lips that approximated a smile, and almost snarled: “I said it doesn't matter. Forget the gold!"

  She flounced off, then, and I stared at her shapely back and legs as she vanished among the zorca lines. She did care for the beasts she employed. The thought occurred that she regarded me as just another beast to be looked after.

  Llodi the Voice walked up head turned from where he'd been watching Mevancy. I'd been really pleased he had not been chopped in the bandit raid; but along with Nath the Arm he had become subdued after Scrimshi's death. Now he turned back to look at me. “I'd make myself scarce, if I was you, Drajak.” He hawked and spat. “Strom Hangol's on his way over here."

  The avoidance of a confrontation with that rast was imperative. I gave Llodi my parody of a smile and took myself off.

  One odd thing about that brief period in Ankharum was the growing feeling of doom surrounding this caravan. There seemed to me no rhyme or reason for this feeling; yet I sensed that Llodi shared it, and Mevancy, too, by her sudden abruptness at times. We'd made a successful crossing of the Great Salt Desert. Our financial standing was good, despite the tantrums of Nanji and Floria. We had a top class caravan master in Pandarun. We had a powerful noble and his retainers as escort. Yet—yet no one seemed light-hearted, not even Nafty. As for Pondo, his surliness turned his face lemon sour. No one could find a good word to say about our prospects of onward travel to the west. Doom and disaster permeated everyday life in our caravan.