“In the name of Lem! Who are you?"
From a side passage barred by an iron door, now open, a Hikdar stepped out. He carried a shield like my own, except that the fluttrell and the numerals six and five were raised from the surface and colored silver. He glared at me with his hard, mahogany-tough face filled with a surprise that swiftly changed to suspicion and then to certainty as he spoke.
“I know every man of the eighty in the Fifth Pastang! You are not one of my men—there is no desertion from—by the Great and Bone-Crushing Lem himself! You are Dray Prescot!"
And his thraxter whipped out and his shield came around with a thump and he charged straight for me.
Even as I responded in kind I had to fight the nausea of knowing that these devils of Canops had forced information from my friends; this Hikdar could never otherwise have known my name. He came in very expertly, shouting the while to summon more men. He had to be dealt with quickly. Using a shield like this, with a sword, came strangely at first, but I had not forgotten what I had taught my old vosk-helmets of the warrens. Thraxters clashed against shields, and I bashed him low, against the swell of the lorica over his belly, and then slipped a nasty little thrust in that finished him. The thraxters were suited for this work, being not too long yet long enough to make swordplay of some value, coupled with a shield used as an offensive weapon. The sound of iron nails on the stone blattered echoing along between the walls.
There was just the one way to go and that was the way I took. Around me now barred openings revealed cells. Hairy bewhiskered faces pressed up against the bars and a dolorous chorus of catcalls and shrieks echoed through the dimly lighted way. Many prisoners, there were, and yet they were all probably segregated, there on punishment detail, military prisoners serving sentences. Those I sought would be lower, in the dungeons. A crossbow bolt hissed past and a voice lifted, ringing between the stone walls.
“Do not kill him, nulsh! He is to be taken and questioned."
That, I feel sure, had little bearing on the bolt that bounced off my head. It is doubtful if even the tall bronze helmet would have done much. I felt the blow, saw a blinding stream of sparks flaring across my eyes, and then I fell into darkness.
Unconsciousness could not have lasted long. The blow had been a glancing one and when I opened my eyes I could feel the wet stickiness of blood down my face. Hands were placing a rough bandage around my head, tucking the ends in, most painfully. I tried to kick the offender, but he avoided the blow, and a voice said: “The nul is conscious."
They used the word nul as the Khamorros did, did these Canops, to mean a person who was not one of themselves.
They had stripped off the armor and the white tunic beneath and the short white kiltlike garment that was all they considered a shield-carrying man would need there in the way of defense. I was clad only in the old scarlet breech-clout. They dragged me along by my hair, whereat I turned, sluggishly I know, and tried to bite the wrists of the hands that dragged me, and was beaten back for my pains.
The broad-flagged stone chamber into which they dragged me was clearly a guardroom. There were seven Canop soldiers and a Hikdar. Also there was a Khamorro. I knew this lithely muscled man must be a khamster from every lineament of him. That he wore a green breechclout meant nothing. Around his head a broad risslaca-leather strap had been cinctured tightly and from it dangled an assortment of objects that, at the time, meant nothing to me. He was obsequious to the soldiers, and ready to do their bidding, and I guessed he stood in their employment as Turko had suggested the Khamorros would be employed—not as slaves but as special and highly prized body servants.
The Hikdar had already sent word of my capture up through the underground ways to the nobles above, and they would soon want me dragged before them, if they did not save the trouble and come down here themselves to witness my punishment. I guessed Hikdar Markman ti Coyton would be in their forefront. I just hoped his guts still hurt.
Unlike the guards of Prince Glycas of Magdag, these Canops had not heard of me. They tied me up with thongs and bundled me into a corner to await the chaining and the questioning when the city commandant and his retinue arrived. So there was time.
The thongs came free with a series of wrist movements and a final bursting surge. I stood up. The soldiers turned, gaping, and I knew they might all die but that the Khamorro, without a weapon in his fist, must be the man I must consider most. So after I kicked the first guard and broke the neck of the second, the thraxter I snatched up and flung took the Khamorro between the ribs. The second thraxter I scooped up did not last much longer, breaking as it wrenched free of the fourth guard. The Hikdar was raving, swirling his sword, urging his men on to attack me and at the same time yelling for them to span a bow and shoot me in the legs. By the time he had sorted out his priorities he had run out of men. The seven of them and the Khamorro lay where they had dropped.
But this Hikdar of Canopdrin was not without courage and he came at me with his thraxter held most neatly—but he fought without a shield, for there had been no time for him to snatch one up from the arms racks along the wall. This was a tremendous disadvantage for him, and he went down, still trying to fight. Now I would have to hurry. No time, therefore, then, to feel sorry for these Canops—vile reavers though they were.
I took two crossbows and two thraxters, the finest I could find. I did not stop for shields or armor but padded out and very quickly ran across a guard party marching back off guard duty. The three soldiers went down with ruthless speed. The dwa-Deldar I showed the point of a thraxter and then jammed it into his throat just enough to draw blood.
“Where are the prisoners, kleesh? The Khamorro, the Rapa, and the two apim girls?"
He told me. I hit him over the head, for that had been our unspoken compact, and ran off down the tunnelway indicated. The dungeon was barred by an iron grille. The guard there was most happy to open it for me. Beyond that lay another grille and this guard—large, surly, and evidently in a foul temper for rating this duty, wanted to contest it with me. I cut him up—I had to—and passed on. Inside the dungeon only my four companions waited to greet me.
They had been stripped stark naked and hung against the wall in chains.
The two girls glared at me with mad eyes, not believing this half-naked apparition with the scarlet breechclout and the red blood splashed all over him could be me, the Dray Prescot they had been trying to cozen.
Rapechak said, “You are welcome, Dray Prescot."
I placed the crossbows and the quivers of bolts down and turned my face up to look at Turko. He looked in bad shape, clearly he had not fully recovered from that experience in the jungle of Faol. He looked at me and then his eyes flicked in a sharp gaze over my head.
“Lahal, Dray Prescot,” he said. “Yes, you are most welcome. But you will have need of your weapons, I think."
I turned swiftly.
Ten paces from me stood two Khamorros. Both were large, superbly muscled, fit and tough, and both stood with hands on hips regarding me as they might a plate of palines.
Around their heads both wore wide bands of soft risslaca-leather and again a mixed assortment of objects hung down.
“They are only Khamorros, Turko,” I said, prodding. I wanted to get his spirit back.
“The reed-syples,” said Turko, in a strangled voice. “The headbands,” he added, for my benefit. “These are great khams, both. Without your weapons, Dray Prescot, you are a doomed man."
Perhaps there was no mocking taunt in his voice. Perhaps I read into his words what my own guilty conscience put there. I do not know, but I acted as the most callow and vainglorious onker of a boaster could act.
“Great khams, Turko? I do not believe I need mere steel weapons to deal with them."
And I pitched the two swords onto the stone floor, where they rang like tocsin bells, and swung to face the two Khamorros, my hands empty.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
The Hai Hikai creates a shield
&nb
sp; “You great nurdling fool!"
Turko's anguished cry racked up from the foundations of his being. Now he gave himself up for lost.
Rapechak the Rapa shouted: “Now by Rhapaporgolam the Reaver of Souls! You are a dead man, Dray Prescot!"
Saenda screamed almost incoherently: “You horrible onker, Dray! I'll never forgive you for this!"
And Quaesa simply burst into a long howling shriek.
The two Khamorros stared as though they could not believe their eyes. One of them, the slightly smaller of the two, even went through a quick routine of flexing his muscles and rippling his strength at me. He looked up at the naked bodies of the girls and, again letting that stupid bravado overwhelm me, I clapped my hands.
“Excellent, nulsh,” I said. “A great performance. I hope you do as well when your head rolls into the north corner and your body rolls into the south."
Oh, yes. It shames me now when I look back at that long-gone day, and seeing the whole scene as though brightly lit upon a stage, recognize my own youthful headstrong passions and my own stupidity! I was a bit of a maniac in my younger days, and here I'd been boasting to myself that I had been conquering that hasty arrogance of mine, that harsh intolerance, that desperate desire to kick and smash anyone and anything that smacked of authority and sadism and attempts to put me down. I had bowed the knee and kowtowed and done the full-incline—and here it had all ended with as foolhardy an act of onkerishness as any two worlds witnessed.
For these were great khams. They had reached enormously elevated heights in the hierarchy of the Khamorros, their khams sky-high. They were of a different syple from Turko—had they been of his own syple they might have rescued him—and they were as contemptuous of him as of me.
They thought to make of it a sport, and, not without a certain charming politeness, debated one with the other who should have first crack at me. Remembering the sage counsel of old Zinki during those painful sessions of combat on the island of Zy in the Eye of the World, I was content to let them come to me.
The shorter, the one who had gone through the quick exercise drill, stepped forward. He had yielded because he was that much fractionally the lesser of the two, as he admitted. “I am Boro, and I am a great kham.” He went on then to describe himself and his renown, his attainments and his exploits. At each word poor Turko moaned, and I heard him say: “By the Muscle! You have picked the wrong men to demonstrate to me, Dray! They are masters! Great khams!"
When this Boro had finished he stood waiting.
So, to humor him, and because if I did not end this farce soon guards with real weapons would burst in, I said, “I am Dray Prescot, Krozair of Zy."
If he didn't understand, as I didn't understand all his titles and accomplishments, that was his loss.
Then, very swift and deadly, he was upon me.
I did what I had planned to do ... almost...
He was quick, and he was strong and he was very, very good. I felt his blows. I could feel it when he hit me. I slid his rush, for, of course, it was no blind-chunkrah rush, and he laid a hand on my arm and I had to do a quick double-twist and near break his fingers before he would let go. He stepped back and a great pleased smile lit his face.
“So you know the arts, Dray Prescot! I shall enjoy this!"
This time I managed to deflect his attack, and for a short space we twisted, body to body, doing all the things I had no desire to do. Everything he did I matched, but I was in defense all the time except for a single opportunity and that ended with Boro going up in the air and landing on his shoulder blades. He roared as I jumped on him, and rolled away, so that I missed and gouged the stone floor instead. Like a leem he was on his feet, and now his face was dark and congested with anger, which proved that his kham was a trifle shaky.
“I shall tear your limbs off and—” he started.
“Save it, Boro the Boaster! There's no time!"
We set to again, and again he used all his skill and avoided the grips and blows that would have flattened a lesser man. I could feel my anger at his strong obstinacy boiling up and I had to keep it down. I'd gone into this childish exhibition and now I had to pay the reckoning.
He circled, came in from the side, and I bent and took him and he took me. We rolled on the floor and he tried to break my arm, as he had threatened, and I cross-checked him so that he cried out, shocked at the sudden pain, and managed to break and leap clear. My parting blow hissed past his ear.
His comrade, the bigger Khamorro, said, “It seems, Boro, that he bests you.” At which Boro roared his anger. “I am Morgo. I am a greater kham than Boro. You will not escape so easily from me."
I circled them both, warily, for they were both after me now. I shouted up to Turko, high: “Are all these Khamorros such braggart boasters and such spineless fighters?"
Turko said something, I know not what, and Boro and Morgo charged. I backed swiftly and in a succession of flurries of dodges and weavings, of arm blocks and of kicks, I won free. This could not be allowed to go on. The next time I would have to do something drastic. Old Zinki had laughed, one time, telling us of what Pur Zenkiren had done to a couple of Magdaggian overlords. I had a great affection for the austere Pur Zenkiren, who was Archbold-Elect. If I could pay him the compliment of imitating him, I would do so.
Boro and Morgo split me between them and came in from both sides. I backed again, circling, and my foot hit against a sword where I had tossed it down so contemptuously.
“Pick up your sword, Dray! For the sake of the Muscle, man! Use the weapon you understand! They have only been playing with you!"
If that was true, of course, life would become exceedingly complicated and remarkably interesting in the next mur.
Deliberately, I kicked the sword aside.
Turko moaned.
The two Khamorros flexed their muscles. The sweat stood out on their skins like liquid gold. Working as a team they rushed me again and in a flurry of chops and grips that failed and hooks that barely missed, Boro wrenched away the bandage around my head so that blood flowed down over my face and left eye. I blinked and cursed.
“By the Black Chunkrah! You fight foul!"
They did not answer; they were both panting, their magnificent chests heaving and glistening with sweat.
This time, I saw, they meant to finish it. Boro came in a little ahead of Morgo, and he designed, I saw instantly, to feint an attack and then roll under me so that I would fall into the arms of Morgo. When Boro rushed I sidestepped. He came with me and our forearms smashed together and I stepped back.
For an instant he had an opportunity, for the distance I had gone seemed to him to be overlarge, giving him the chance of taking two skipping steps and putting in the jagger. This is that blow delivered by the feet with the body wholly off the ground. He chose the double jagger, with both feet. He did it superbly well, and for any ordinary wrestler it would have been the end, for those iron-hard soles of his would have crushed into the chest and knocked all the wind out and smashed the fellow over, to be gripped and thrust facedown into the dirt, finished, if his ribs weren't all cracked to Kingdom Come.
Turko's scream ripped into the stink of the dungeon.
Morgo's bellow of “Hai Hikai!” passed unheeded.
Everything happened in a fluidity of motion beautiful to behold, making me wish I'd been there when Pur Zenkiren did this to those overlords of Magdag. I took Boro's ankles in both fists and I leaned back, as a hammer-thrower leans in the circle, and spun. He carried all that forward momentum into a sideways rotation, with my body leaning back, muscles ridged, acting as the hub. Around me he spun, parallel to the ground. I lifted a little higher as his head flew around and aimed him, and, as though wielding a great Krozair long-sword, I laid his head smack alongside Morgo's head.
I let go.
Both Khamorros collapsed. Blood and brains gushed from their nostrils and their ears.
“By the Muscle!” I heard Turko whisper.
Quaesa wouldn't st
op screaming. Saenda had done things she afterward would never remember. Rapechak said, “I believe the correct term is Hai Hikai, Dray Prescot! Hai Hikai!"
He was right. The unarmed combat masters, like the Khamorros, like old Zinki, do not use the swordsman's great Hai Jikai—instead, they say: “Hai Hikai."
Turko the Khamorro looked at me. His face held a frozen look of horror. Then he spoke, in a husky whisper.
“Hai Hikai, Dray Prescot! Hai Hikai!"
Freeing the four prisoners was simple enough, for the keys had been in the keeping of Morgo the Khamorro, who was now no doubt practicing his art somewhere under the alert eye of Morro the Muscle himself. They were stiff and sore and the two girls collapsed, moaning, for Quaesa had stopped screaming the instant she felt my hands on her, unlocking the chains. Turko picked up the blood-soaked bandage and rewound it around my head. He looked at it, his dark eyes filled with a pain he did not believe.
“As a reed-syple, Dray Prescot, that bloody bandage is extraordinarily fitting."
As you know I make it a rule never to apologize; I would have apologized to Turko, then, for acting in such a stupid way, when Rapechak, picking up a crossbow and quiver of bolts, said with an evil chuckle: “I think we may fight our way out now, Dray Prescot."
I handed him one of the swords. I made up my mind. I said, “Turko, you called me Dray, back there. I would—like—it if you and Rapechak dropped the Prescot."
This was no trifle.
We said no more, but I know Rapechak, the Rapa, at least, was pleased. At the iron grilles we took clothes from the guards and sketchily gave the girls a breechclout each and a few rags for the men. Turko stopped. He looked down at the guard's thraxter, still in his fist. The shield lay to one side. Turko's face was completely expressionless.
I watched him. He bent and picked up the sword. He held it for a space, the guard's open hand like some mute testament below. Then he tossed the sword down. I started to turn away and then halted. Turko picked up the shield. He hefted it, looked at the straps inside, turned it around, slid it up his left arm, swung it about. Then, turning to face me, holding the shield up, he said, “I am ready to follow you, Dray."
Manhounds of Antares [Dray Prescot #6] Page 20