"Or-gar-gee,” whispered the Frian as he slid out of the boat and began to push it back through the reeds, as quietly as he could. When they reached the safety of the backwater, Dau broke into excited speech. "Or-gar-gee. When it is hot, he sleeps, then Master kills. The Master will be pleased."
*****
Ibrogdiss was indeed pleased. The bad omens were hastily forgotten and as soon as the lilies were stowed in tall jars in the hold, preparations for a hunt began. The Merchant Hunter squeezed Forollkin's shoulder.
"You found the water-serpent, it is your right to throw the first spear."
Startled, Forollkin began to murmur something about conceding the right when a harsh voice spoke from behind him.
"My Master is still a tender youth, unused to such feats of strength and courage." Gidjabolgo was awake at last. "It would not be right to tempt him to his own destruction. You understand, Lord Merchant, that it is a devoted servant's privilege to say what his master merely thinks."
"And to make stale jokes, without being whipped for it, " said Kerish hastily. "My brother is a renowned hunter and warrior but we are bound to complete the Emperor's mission.”
Even as he spoke, he knew from the set of his brother's mouth that he was wasting his words.
"The Emperor will forgive me," said Forollkin. "I will gladly join your hunt."
"Good, good," murmured Ibrogdiss, who had been watching the sharp exchange between masters and servant with great interest. "No doubt your spirit will protect you. I will lend you a spear and you must put on Frian clothes, or the eye of the or-gar-gee may see your scarlet among the reeds."
The Merchant Hunter hurried below to his small cabin and Forollkin smiled wryly at his half-brother.
"You and your `Our spirit will protect us'. Do you have a `strong charm' for me?”
"The water-serpents can't be as dangerous as they look," said Kerish hopefully. "After all, Ibrogdiss has led many hunts and lived to sport a double chin and grey in his green hair."
"Perhaps he always finds someone else to strike the first blow," remarked Gidjabolgo.
Forollkin turned on him angrily. "I'll thank you to hold your tongue."
"It will be the first thanks I've had from you for my services," said Gidjabolgo. “My Masters must forgive me if I do not play the servant's role convincingly. Should I crawl more, cringe more? Should I kiss the ground beneath your feet, or in this case the deck, or the river slime . . ."
"Just stay out of our way," growled Forollkin.
"Very well, Master, I will cease to serve your every need, cease to watch over your possessions when you leave them unguarded . . ."
He stopped as a Frian serf approached them carrying a moss-green kilt and cloak for Forollkin. The Galkians took them and retired to their tent.
"What was that last remark supposed to mean?" demanded Forollkin.
Kerish knelt among the cushions beside his travelling chest. "It's been opened.”
"Is anything missing?" asked Forollkin, as his half-brother rummaged through their clothes and jewels.
Kerish sat back on his heels. "Nothing. I suppose Gidjabolgo was only pretending to be asleep and saw someone enter our tent. Do you think Ibrogdiss doubts our story?"
"I can't say I'd blame him," answered Forollkin. "Well, there's little in your chest to make him more suspicious."
"There are my zeloka jewels. He might know that only the Godborn are allowed to wear them."
Forollkin began to unfasten his tunic. "If he knew that much, he'd know what the Godborn look like and your eyes will always betray you."
"Perhaps he does know." Kerish smiled wickedly. "You had better drop a hint that our mothers received exalted visitors."
"Drop it yourself," growled Forollkin. "You're the better liar."
Kerish helped his brother to drape himself in the long Frian cloak and tie up his hair. When they came back into the fierce noonday sun, Ibrogdiss was crooning over his spears. He handed a long, bronze-shafted weapon to Forollkin, saying, "This is Igiya, my finest spear. She has killed nine or-gar-gee. You must make her your own. Give her a new name and feed her with your blood."
“A name?”
“Call her Death-Flash,” suggested Kerish.
Ibrogdiss nodded. “A good name. Feed her, pet her, whisper to her and she will not fail you.”
Forollkin scratched his hand and rubbed a few drops of his own blood into the smooth bronze. Then, feeling very foolish, he stroked the shaft of the spear, whispering, “Death-Flash, strike true.”
Next a bowl of river mud was brought to him and the Merchant Hunter insisted that Forollkin rub it into his face and body.
"Then the or-gar-gee will not smell you, and we shall come close enough to kill.”
Very reluctantly, Forollkin allowed himself to be daubed with the evil-smelling mud, while Ibrogdiss stripped down to his kilt and a few favourite amulets. Seeing the Merchant Hunter muffled in his green robes, the Galkians had thought him fat; now they saw that his oiled body was hard-muscled and strong. It seemed a stranger to his plump, unlined face.
The final preparation was the dipping of the hunters' spears in a bubbling pot of yellow liquid.
"This is poison, strong and quick," said Ibrogdiss. "When you pierce the eye of the or-gar-gee, this will hasten its death throes. Remember you must aim for the eye. The rest of the hide is too thick, and do not scratch yourself with your spear again or you will die before your quarry. You are ready?"
Forollkin nodded but Kerish suddenly ran back to their tent and returned with something bright, half-hidden in his hands.
"Your `strong charm' - the High Priest's gift," he said in Galkian. "He promised it would never fail you."
Forollkin took the dagger and tucked it in the waist of his kilt.
Again the reed boat was lowered, with Dau chosen to paddle for the hunters. Kerish caused a delay by insisting on coming with them. After a short argument, conducted in rapid Galkian, Ibrogdiss intervened to suggest that Kerish should watch the fight from the safety of a nearby hillock. This was agreed and a serf was assigned to guide him there.
"And I will, of course, accompany my Master," said Gidjabolgo.
Kerish was still puzzling over the man's motive half an hour later as they reached a hillock crowned with gir trees. They had come by a circuitous and uncomfortable route through tall grasses that bit like blades into the unwary hand. The Frian gestured to Kerish and Gidjabolgo to climb up into one of the gnarled trees.
The young Galkian swung himself on to one of the broadest branches. Panting and complaining, Gidjabolgo, the Forgite, hauled his bulk on to a lower, spikier branch while the Frian serf crouched, out of sight and smell, under the roots.
The lake lay like a bronze mirror, dropped among the reeds. A few of the bolder birds had returned but there was an ominous stillness about the place. The gir trees grew on the only sizeable hillock for miles around. Kerish could see the ship still anchored in mid-river and a slight movement in the reeds betrayed the approach of the hunters. Gidjabolgo was twisting about on his branch and muttering in Forgish. Why had he chosen to come? To see Forollkin die? `If so, my brother's grave shall have a blood offering', vowed Kerish grimly.
"Can you see them, my far-sighted Master?" enquired Gidjabolgo sweetly.
"They are not through the reeds yet. Speak more quietly. We mustn't wake the or-gar-gee."
"I am not afraid," said Gidjabolgo. "Haven't you promised us the protection of the Gentle God? From all I hear he protected you most efficiently from the Brigands of Fangmere, though others were not so fortunate."
Kerish choked down his anger as the prow of Forollkin's boat clove the reeds.
"You are right," he said coldly. "I cannot swear that the Gentle God helps those who do not believe in gentleness."
"Or gods," answered Gidjabolgo lightly.
*****
Crouching in the reed boat, Forollkin repeated Ibrogdiss' instructions to himself. The or-gar-gee was sleeping now but they
must approach quietly for the creature's hearing was keen. Once awake, the protective lid would slide back from the great eye that saw in all directions at once. Then, if they were close enough, their spears could pass through the eye into the or-gar-gee's brain. If they missed their aim, the danger was considerable and even if they did pierce the eye the death throes of a water-serpent were long and terrible.
They had reached the edge of the lake. Signalling for absolute silence, Ibrogdiss parted the reeds. After a moment he beckoned to Forollkin, who edged forward. He saw something black projecting just above the surface; the nostrils of the or-gar-gee, its breath rippling the water. Ibrogdiss judged where the rest of the great body might be lying and how deep, and signed to Dau to skirt round the edge of the lake.
As they launched into open water, Forollkin felt a thrill of expectation. He was afraid, but pleasurably so. It would be a great feat to kill an or-gar-gee, something to boast of when they returned to Galkis.
Kerish and Gidjabolgo saw the boat glide towards the sleeping or-gar-gee. The Forgite was extraordinarily uncomfortable, and regretting the impulse that had brought him there. The branch on which he sat jabbed into him in several tender places, the leaves of the gir tree dripped water and slime on his head and a column of evil-looking insects was patiently crawling up the trunk towards him. Still, he had the consolation of watching Kerish-lo-Taan while the young Galkian was oblivious of him.
The Prince was sitting, straight-backed as ever, clutching the purple jewel he always wore. The hood of his tunic covered the black and silver hair and shadowed the fine-boned face but his eyes were more brilliant than ever. Gidjabolgo suddenly felt that their brilliance came from a light behind the eyes; its struggles to escape provoked explosions of colour, purple and gold and
black . . .
With fierce concentration, Kerish-lo-Taan framed prayer after prayer for his brother's safety. As always when he prayed, a part of him remained detached, almost mocking, and he used it to imagine his brother's progress. He remembered what it was like to sit in the shallow boat that rocked with every movement. `Zeldin, hear me, protect my brother.' He remembered the smell of the river slime, the faint hum of insects everywhere, and the ominous ripples on the green surface. `Imarko, Lady of Heaven, guard my brother.' He could almost feel the prickly cloth of Ibrogdiss' cloak, the drying mud caking on his cheeks, the shaft of the spear slipping in his damp hands. `Zeldin, send him victory!'
His sight blurred, the distant view of the lake melded with a wall of reeds, with the beads of sweat trickling down Ibrogdiss' back, with the glint of the dagger at his waist.
*****
Forollkin began to feel remarkably confident. Dau was crouched over his paddle, mouthing a prayer. Ibrogdiss was taut as a bow-string, his chubby hands stroking the shaft of his spear. They were close now. The Merchant Hunter signalled to Forollkin to take up his position. The Galkian knelt on one knee holding the spear in his right hand, and bracing himself against the boat with his left. Ibrogdiss crouched behind him, ready to throw the second spear. Dau barely dipped the paddle in the water as he propelled them forward. They could clearly see the snout of the or-gar-gee and the water around them eddied with the monster's breath. The boat glided to within a foot of the creature.
Ibrogdiss pointed to where the eye should be and shouted a sudden appeal to Thith-nek, the Spirit of Huntsmen. There were a few, still, agonizing seconds, and then the lake became a whirlpool. The huge head rose out of the water. The jaws gaped in Forollkin's face. The scaly covering began to slide back from the vulnerable eye.
In panic, Forollkin threw too soon and too clumsily. The spear struck the creature's snout without even grazing its wrinkled skin. The or-gar-gee gave a roar of outrage, uncoiled its long body and lashed out at the reed boat. As the boat overturned, Dau dived and swam for the reeds and Ibrogdiss threw his spear. It missed the eye and the Merchant Hunter sank beneath the slap of a wave.
Forollkin was tossed into the air and landed, not in the water, but across the water-serpent's broad head. He found himself lying beside the great eye that gleamed with a savage intelligence. His feet dangled inches from the snapping jaws. The or-gar-gee began to toss its head, trying to shake its burden off, so it could seize and crush him.
Forollkin knew it would only be a few moments before the water-serpent succeeded for he could not get a firm hold on the creature's slimy hide. He had forgotten the High Priest's dagger but Kerish had not. Suddenly his fingers were gripping the cirge hilt and he was sinking the blade deep into the monster's eye.
The or-gar-gee screamed and writhed, churning the lake. Forollkin was thrown clear and the sky whirled round him before he struck the muddied waves. After a few sips of foul lake water, he remembered to close his mouth and swim. He struggled to the surface and someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him against something buoyant.
Forollkin opened his clogged eyes and found that he and both the Frians were clinging to the upturned boat. In its death agonies, the or-gar-gee was rolling away from them, crushing the reeds that fringed the other shore of the lake. Forollkin watched it, numbly waiting for the lethal coils to reach towards him again, but gradually the creature's struggles ceased and the lake began to settle. The or-gar-gee was dead.
*****
Five minutes later, still dripping wet and pale with shock, Forollkin picked his way through the reeds to the gir tree hillock. He was greeted by the alarming sight of Gidjabolgo and the Frian serf kneeling beside his unconscious brother.
Forollkin pushed them aside. "What happened?"
"He fainted from shock," said the Forgite, "just after you killed it."
Forollkin gave his brother an exasperated shake and Kerish opened his eyes and murmured, "I remembered, we . . . Forollkin, are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm all right, hardly a bruise, but I can't leave you for a minute, can I? Kerish, what's the matter? Is your head hurting? Did you hit it as you fell?"
"I suppose I must have done." Kerish slowly sat up. "I feel so tired. Forollkin. . ." He smiled suddenly. "I'm glad you killed it, even if you are dripping mud all over me."
For the rest of the day the crew of the Green Hunter worked feverishly, diving and fixing ropes to the or-gar-gee and dragging its huge carcass to the nearest firm land. There they hacked through the comparatively soft underbelly, peeled off the valuable skin and cut up the meat for smoking. At dusk there was a feast, and the usual fare of broiled fish and stringy marsh fowls was replaced by portions of roasted or-gar-gee, oozing with fat and smelling like river slime, and cup after fiery cup of girgan.
Lights were hung from the rigging. and incense burners were lit to keep away the clouds of insects gathering round the huge corpse. For once, the Galkians ate on deck with Ibrogdiss and his men, sprawled among a pile of soft cushions.
Forollkin was wallowing in a sea of satisfaction. Fired by the girgan he magnified his achievement until it ranked with the deeds of ancient heroes. Doggedly chewing an almost indestructible piece of or-gar-gee blubber, Kerish watched his brother flourish the victorious dagger in front of Ibrogdiss for the third time.
"The gift of the High Priest of Galkis. He told me it would never fail to kill."
Ibrogdiss began to look mildly interested. The kill had been hardly more than a lucky accident and the Merchant Hunter was bored with the Galkian's boasting, but a magic weapon might be something worth having. He took the dagger and examined it closely.
"This High Priest is a powerful one? The dagger will always kill?"
"Only in my Master's hand," Gidjabolgo spoke from the shadows, where he crouched with his own platter of blubber and flagon of girgan. "A gift that one cannot give away is doubly generous."
Disappointed, Ibrogdiss returned the dagger. "I understand. It is the same with my spear. In my hands it holds the strength of Log-ol-ben, for I offered my fairest concubine to the shaman of the god, in return for his power."
"Your concubine?"
Ibrogdiss misinter
preted Forollkin's surprise and winked at him. "Yes, a sacrifice indeed, for she was very fair, but she talked too much."
Kerish rinsed away the rancid taste of the or-gar-gee with a mouthful of girgan and asked, "What kind of god is this Log-ol-ben?"
"A mighty spirit, the Hunter to whom the or-gar-gees are worms to crush beneath his heel."
"He is the greatest of your Frian gods?"
"Some would say that Ench-arkis the Thunderer is greater," answered Ibrogdiss as if he were discussing the relative merits of shipwrights or vineyards. "Or the Three Headed One, whose name should not be spoken; or Nar-Irk, the Master of Disease, the Slayer of the Weak; or Lig-a-loda, the Laughing One, the Lord of Gauza, but Log-ol-ben protects me on this journey."
The Children of the Wind (Seven Citadels) Page 2