The Tides of Kregen [Dray Prescot #12]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Yet this dilemma of which I spoke is further enhanced by this ... unfortunate ... happening. For it is of a piece."

  “I shall remember."

  “There are powers, Zenkiren, over and above—I cannot speak of them even if I could, for I do not yet understand them.” I would not tell him of my dreadful thoughts about this Genod Gannius. For the full horror of that I must wait until I learned the truth.

  Duhrra was beginning to shift about, from one foot to the other, and he kept whistling thinly through his teeth, which were good and strong and yellow, so I knew he was thinking of his stump and the hook Molyz the Hook-Maker might fashion for him.

  Zenkiren took up a pen—it was a quill and not a reed so he was keeping up some standards under siege—and wrote swiftly on the back of an old order, long since finished with and now in these stringent times pressed into service again. ‘Take this to Molyz ti Sanurkazz. He is authorized to use the necessary leather and iron."

  “Thank you, Jernu.” Duhrra took the paper and looked at me.

  “I will meet you at the gate by which we came in, in time to depart."

  “Zair keep you.” Duhrra went out in search of a surrogate hand. The guards joked with him in desultory fashion. Though they were under siege and likely to starve to death if they were not stuck through first, yet they were still Zairians who loved a good laugh. My heart warmed to them.

  Zenkiren took the opportunity to transact some business. The siege had become by now a matter of logistics, of empty storehouses, of morale and only occasionally of fighting. I knew if he asked me to stay and fight I would have to refuse. So much more of importance waited outside, in the greater world. He did not ask me. For that I was grateful, having no pride left.

  We talked at length, for much time separated us. As with the other news I had gleaned I will apprise you of what matters at the opportune time. Suffice it to say I heard more bad news and it all centered on the new devil-given powers of the Grodnims.

  “We can sustain very few further attacks in force. At least the Grodnims’ new method of fighting does not aid them in siegecraft.” He tapped his columns of figures scribbled over and over and altered often on the sheets of paper scattered on the table. “We have held them. No doubt we could hold them until the Ice Floes of Sicce go up in steam if we could eat. Unless they ship a larger army across we will not go down beaten in battle; only our unfortunate desire to eat will destroy us."

  He cocked an eye at me. “And does not Roz Nath strive?"

  Feeling the eyes of the Pachak, Logu Pa-We on me, I answered: “I do not think you should hold any hope in Roz Nath."

  “Ha!” he said, a bark of sound, whether a laugh or a sob I did not know. “I have never reposed hope in Nath Lorft to march in and rescue us. But he performs a useful function, for Roz Nazlifurn will find his task that much easier.” He stopped himself from talking then, stopped himself visibly. He rustled the papers on the table with his quill and said at random, “We grow less every day, less mouths to feed. We will last out."

  His motives were transparent. There was a secret about this Roz Nazlifurn. I was going out of Shazmoz, through enemy lines, and might easily be captured. What I did not know I could not tell.

  As though seeking to throw me further off, he added in a lighter voice: “We Krozairs do not put much store by titles and ranks of nobility. Would you not willingly trade a prince's crown, supposing you owned one, for membership of the order?” He pulled his lips back in a parody of a smile.

  I did not smile. He did not know my history. The question hurt, stung. I surely would have, before the Apushniad! And now ... I rose from the chair and spoke politely. Now I had changed my priorities. I was hewing to my nature, as I then thought, doing the correct thing in difficult circumstances and to hell with anyone who thought otherwise.

  “It is time to bid you remberee, Pur Zenkiren. I regret the long empty years. I made a mistake in not returning to the Eye of the World sooner. But bear in mind the Krozair dilemma. At the least, it will make a capital subject for debate."

  He shook my hand as they do in the inner sea, and I felt again the old Krozair grip. He smiled, this time a real smile. “See, Pur Dray. I call you Pur and I give you the right hand of fellowship. I have decided the Apushniad was incorrect. Now it remains to prove it."

  I felt this keenly.

  “You do me great honor, Zenkiren. I have been an onker, and yet the slaves in Magdag ... they are human and needed to be set free. I did what I thought correct, according to my lights."

  “Zair holds dominion over all and if it is His will—” He shivered and plucked at his gown, feeling the emblem stitched there, making me plainly see why it was so threadbare and worn. “Good will come of all this. Zair would not will it otherwise."

  “Remberee, Pur Zenkiren."

  “Remberee, Pur Dray."

  So I went out and through the nighted streets and soon found Duhrra walking up to the gate. He carried his right hand inside his folded blanket-cloak. The guards brought our sectrixes. They wished us well. We rode away from doomed Shazmoz with the star glitter high above and a small moon slamming past above our heads.

  The Pachak hyr-paktun Logu Pa-We and his brother would see us safely back. There need be no alarms on that score. I rode the damned sectrix in his ungainly waddle and I thought.

  I could live with what I had done with the old slave phalanx and my old vosk-helmets. Then we had fought for our lives and liberty. What followed later was not of our doing. But...

  But when I had first been transported here into the Eye of the World by the Star Lords their clear command had been to save the lives of two young people from the hideous rock-apes, the grundals. This I had done. I had ensured that Gahan Gannius and Valima should live. They had lived. They had married and begotten a son. That son must be Genod Gannius. I, Dray Prescot, had directly brought doom and destruction upon my beloved Zairians!

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  A brush with risslacas and a sighting at the Akhram

  My Deldars had been ranked, as we say opening a game of Jikaida, and now I must press on and push all the spidery shadows of past follies behind me.

  By the Black Chunkrah! What a nurdling onker I had been! For all the kindness Pur Zenkiren had been able to show me, I knew, and this without rancor or disappointment too great to be borne, that he would in all probability be quite unable to resolve the riddle. The two impossibilities canceled each other out; the Krozair dilemma remained. I would remain Apushniad. I had resigned myself to that. And then, gladly, fiercely, I declared that it was not a resignation but a joyous awakening to the true values of my life on Kregen.

  “Down there, master!” said Duhrra, pointing. “Zair-forsaken Grodnims, may Uncle Zobab rot their livers and fester their tripes."

  I spoke somewhat sharply as we rode the high bluff trending toward the sea, with the suns’ radiance all about us and the thin piping of birds to keep us company. “What color do you wear on your back, oh Duhrra of the Mighty Muscles?"

  He looked suitably discomfited and resentful.

  “The damned green, master. And an itchy, vile, mean and crawling color it is, to be sure."

  I was not going to argue with him. We had said remberee to the Pachaks and ridden off, going west, wearing the green over our reds. Now we had almost reached the farthest point of the Eye of the World. Before us would soon appear the Grand Canal and the Akhram, and, if we went that far, beyond them the Dam of Days.

  Our sectrixes paced on. We kept to the wending ridge of bluffs above the narrow coastal strip for, however much we might wear the green and pass ourselves off as mercenaries, the ever-present danger was that Duhrra would explode into action against the Magdaggians, and I would be scant murs after.

  Green is a charming color and restful to the eyes. There are a number of fine uses for green: it is the color of rifle regiments, of racing cars, of Robin Hood; I have nothing against the color itself. Had the Grodnims chosen to w
ear red and the Zairians green, my sentiments would have remained as they were, against what would have been the cramphs of red Grodnims. I did not forget what went on in their monstrous ziggurats and megaliths during the time of the green sun's eclipse.

  A war party below, trotting their sectrixes parallel to us, had seen us; we must keep steadily on and give them no cause for suspicion.

  In Havilfar, that progressive and yet barbaric continent, one of the most widespread of religions was that of Havil the Green. Havil, named for the Havilfarese word for Genodras, the green sun. How, you might ask, could anyone worship the small green sun when confronted with the magnificence of the huge red sun? The answer is simple and yet profound, and one that has made me ponder long. During eclipse, the red swallows the green utterly. There is no longer a green sun. But, eventually, lo! the green sun emerges, newly born, fresh, refulgent, a bright new sun eternally young. Oh, yes, rebirth and recreation play as significant a part in the religions of Kregen as of Earth.

  Duhrra began to hum softly, The Chuktar with the Glass Eye, and we rode carefully, shading the liquid gleam of our eyes as we looked down on the war party pacing us below.

  I shook the reins. “I think we had best join them. They will wonder why we ride aloof in this dangerous land. You, Duhrra the Mighty Mangler, must keep a straight tongue in your mouth."

  He grew affronted when I taunted him with that old title he tried to forget. He humped and grumped and then came out with: “And you, a Krozair Brother!"

  “I may have been.” He knew enough now to desert me or remain; he had chosen to stay with me.

  “My twin was a Zaman to the Krozairs of Zamu. The zigging Grodnims captured him and tortured him and slew him. I do not forget that."

  “I lost a good friend under the whips of the rasts of Magdag."

  “Then let us join them as you suggest and as soon as we are able let us slay every one, every last cramph."

  “If we have to, we will, but our purpose is to reach the Akhram. Your hook depends on it, you tell me."

  “Aye.” He favored his stump. “Aye, master, it does."

  I licked my fingers and stroked my mustaches. “Pull those damn bristling mustaches of yours down, Duhrra. We will have to wear a hangdog down-dropping Grodnim pair if we are to pass muster."

  We stroked the Zairian mustaches into hangdog Grodnim mustaches. It pained us, but it was necessary.

  When a Grodnim strains tea or soup through his facial hair a good Zairian has to decide whether to laugh or throw up.

  So we rode down the slope and joined the Grodnims. They were not Magdaggians, being from the free Grodnim city of Laggig-Laggu, a large and prosperous conurbation some twenty dwaburs inland of the northern shore of the Laggu River. Hard, businesslike warriors, they handled their sectrixes with confidence and I took note of their weapons. There were ten of them and their Deldar told us they were joining the Chuktar of the west. We nodded as though understanding.

  Where we marched was the southern shore. It had belonged to Zair. Now followers of Grodno rode confidently there. From the very last western extremity of the Eye of the World right up to Shazmoz, the green flaunted triumphantly over the red. This area had always been relatively deserted, the haunt of wild beasts, used for hunting.

  My own plans were now settled. Duhrra needed to go to the Akhram, for there were to be found associated with the Todalpheme, who monitored the tides, doctors of a higher quality than the usual. His stump was not yet ready to accept the chafing of a leather socket and hook, so Molyz the Hook-Maker had told him, and the doctors of the Akhram would advise him further. So that was why Duhrra rode. As for me, my plans envisaged waiting, and damned impatiently too, for a ship of Vallia to pass through the Grand Canal bound back home. The galleons from Vallia carried on trade with the Eye of the World, as I have said, and I was confident one would eventually arrive. The voller was gone, and riding, walking, climbing and, in the end, crawling, over the Stratemsk, the hostile territories, the Klackadrin and then eastern Turismond would take far, far longer, if I survived it.

  “Risslacas!” shouted the Deldar, yanking his longsword out, sticking his stirrups in and racing away at the head of his squad. We followed, keeping closed up. On the ridge above us two risslacas hopped along. They were carnivorous and no doubt regarded us as juicy dinners. This was obviously their territory. They were big, with enormous rear legs and haunches, pear-shaped bodies with neck frills of spines, two small grasping forelegs apiece and heads that could gulp an entire sectrix.

  The sectrixes knew it. They were terrified. They bounded along on their six legs, letting terrified snorts of panic blast from their open mouths, not conserving their energies to run. Damn stupid sectrixes. Had I been riding a zorca it would have flown like the wind, everything concentrated on galloping. Had I ridden a vove I would have had to restrain it from going up the slope and knocking the risslacas over.

  “May Grotal the Reducer wither their bones!” yelped the man riding by Duhrra. Sheer panic hit these Grodnims. The enormous size of the risslacas and the sharp glitter from their teeth and eyes were enough to unman them. I cocked an eye up the slope, knowing the sectrix, maddened with fear though it was, would not put a foot wrong now. The fur of the risslacas, a slatey brown ocher, fluffed as they cooled their laboring bodies. Fur and feathers are used to protect from heat as well as to conserve it. The two main families of risslacas, the cold-blooded and the warm-blooded, are well represented on Kregen, as I have said. It is a fair scheme to assign dinosaurs a class of their own, distinct from reptiles, birds and mammals. Their expenditure of energy would heat their bodies quickly and then they would have to rest to dispose of all that body-heat if they were cold-blooded. The sectrix had no doubts what they were. It ran with its blunt head outstretched and its six legs pumping, pumping, its body convulsing with effort.

  The men of Laggig-Laggu carried short bows cased at their sides. By some considerable effort I edged my mount alongside the man who kept calling on Grodno and demanding that Grotal the Reducer deform, wither, plague, the risslacas so that he might escape.

  “Let me have that, dom.” I slid the bow from the case and with it a handful of arrows. The bow was a poor thing if one thought of the longbow of Loh—or of Valka now!—but it would serve. Duhrra saw what I was doing.

  “No, master!” he bellowed. “You have no chance!"

  “The risslacas were designed by—” Then I rephrased that, for the name of Zair instead of Grodno had almost slipped from my babbling lips. “They hunt sectrixes. That is how they eat."

  He couldn't argue. The sectrix wouldn't stop no matter how much I banged it, so I did not try. I turned in that damned uncomfortable seat and slapped an arrow into the bow, prepared to see if I might win approval in the eyes of Seg Segutorio, who is, I believe, the finest bowman of Loh of them all.

  I do not claim to be as fine a bowman as Seg. That would be prideful folly. We have shot many a round and sometimes I win. The lumpen, ungainly, impossible gait of the sectrix made accurate shooting almost impossible. By calculation, riding the humps and bumps, the yawing and swaying, I fancied I would hit a risslaca eventually! There were only two weak points, the eyes. There were too few arrows to risk the chance. When Duhrra saw me cock a leg over the high wooden saddle he fairly yelled in outrage.

  “Go on, Duhrra and, if I live, make sure you come back for me."

  I slipped off and the sectrixes were gone in a billow of dust before he could answer. I turned.

  By Krun!

  They were big! And they were close!

  The first arrow spit from the bow. I would not miss at a time like this. Two arrows whipped from the bow and the leading risslaca went crazy, screaming, pawing with his ridiculous little forelegs, waving that enormous head from side to side. From each eye an arrow sprouted. The second dinosaur came on. He was, if anything, larger than the other, and cleverer or luckier, for he moved as the third arrow shot and it chingled and broke against his snout.

 
; He was almost on me, snorting, spurts of steam belching from his gappy nostrils, his mouth wide and cavernous and blood-red, ringed with fangs. I shot again and his left eye went black for him. There was time now only to leap to that side, into his blind spot. His head swayed. I ran off, turned, notched the last arrow. His head swayed around; he saw me with his remaining eye; he charged. The arrow shot spitefully.

  He shrieked and ran, ran in circles, colliding with his mate. Then, maddened by pain and unable to see, the two dinosaurs fell on each other, biting, clawing. It was hideous and pathetic and disgusting. I felt no flush of victory. I felt sorry for them, for they had been hunting, doing what nature had intended they should do. It was their misfortune that they chose to hunt Dray Prescot.

  Somewhat glumly I left them and walked on in the trail of the sectrixes. It took three burs before Duhrra came back for me. He was cursing and swearing and when he saw me he looked like a man who sees a ghost, a broken ib returned to Kregen, all ghastly and gibbering.

  I mounted up.

  “Thank you for coming back, Duhrra. There may be others."

  “Those Grodno-gastas! Refused to return, said we were no business of theirs! Rode on, quaking, the cramphs!"

  The sectrixes were still nervous, sweating, trembling. We galloped them a little, to ease their fears and to stop them from catching cold. They would have to be coddled this night.

  “That rast of a Grodnim swod will have a good story to account for the loss of his bow."

  “Aye, master. And I will have a story that tells of how a maniac called Dak acted like a—uh ... no one will believe me."

  “If the risslacas had not been stopped,” I said, letting my mount gallop ahead, “no one would have told any stories."

  “That is true, by Zair!"

  So it was in a growing spirit of comradeship, for all that Duhrra insisted on slipping the odd “master” into his sentences, and occasionally letting fall that idiot's “duh,” we came at last to the Grand Canal, after a long enough and tiring journey.