Scorpio Ablaze

by Alan Burt Akers

  Seg said: “They don’t learn.”

  “No, because they’re dead.”

  “Quite.”

  “Have a look at young Rollo. He wants to go off adventuring as a Bowman of Loh. I would value your opinion.”

  There was every indication that Rollo was in an inflated frame of mind. So far I hadn’t told Seg that Rollo was in reality an apprentice Wizard of Loh. I’d told Delia last night and she’d laughed and whistled and said: “Dear Deb-Lu has a handful, there.”

  Now Rollo the Runner, as he called himself, shot with a neat delicacy that brought a grunt of approval from Seg. “Perhaps a little more extension,” he said, his head a little on one side, studying technique. “He can be made into a fine bowman — if he’ll listen, of course.”

  I said: “As to that, Seg, I’d rather he trains up to be what he is, a Wizard of Loh. Oh, and keep that close.”

  Inch said: “Can’t he chuck a spell across there?”

  “He’s a novice. You’ll have to wait until Deb-Lu is through with him.”

  A damned great chunk of stone blistered into the bulwark before our little group and as the splinters flew Korero and Tim slapped their shields across. The stone rebounded and fell away below. The Shank was hitting us well enough, and every now and then we could feel and hear a particularly shrewd knock echo and tremble through the vessel.

  As often happened in single ship actions, there was going to be little left of either ship at the end.

  We continued to shoot well. Fan-Si crept back on deck wearing armor. I ignored her. Milsi and Sasha, as befitted them, were shooting when the ranges came down. Everyone at the varters labored to shoot as rapidly as possible. And still Oby kept up his intricate maneuvers to baffle the Fish Face. By now, I began to think, we ought to be considering closing and boarding.

  Kuong’s Repositer, San Cheng, stuck closely by the trylon. He was doing his own particular duty in recording everything Kuong did. Later, this would be placed into the records so that Kuong, when he came back to Kregen as a newborn baby after his death, would know what he had done in this battle.

  I said to Seg: “About time Oby closed, d’you think?”

  “The notion had flitted through my skull. It’s up to you.”

  “Do what?”

  Inch said: “Get on with it, Dray. My shooting arm is tiring before I’ve swung my axe.”

  “But — Oby is the captain!”

  At that moment, the coincidence perfectly explainable by the necessity of the next few moments, Glima turned up with a message from Oby.

  “Majister — Captain Master Oby would like to know—”

  “Thank you, Glima. Ask him to take her in, will you?”

  “Quidang!” She was off, bare legs flashing, her long silver hair a shining girdle about her bare waist.

  Llodi handed me the freshly-spanned crossbow.

  The thought occurred to me that if I could be so sharp with Fan-Si, a fighting Jikai Vuvushi, over the wearing of armor, then surely Glima in her humbler yet essential role as messenger ought to merit the same consideration? Fan-Si detested armor because it restricted her, and in that I agreed yet felt the advantages in most circumstances outweighed the disadvantages. As a messenger, Glima would want to run as fast as she could. This, as they say in Clishdrin, would have to be taken under advisement.

  With the crossbow in my hands I lined up against the most convenient target aboard the Fish Face. “This’ll be the penultimate shot, Llodi. After that, we must clamber aboard somehow.”

  I loosed and handed the crossbow to Llodi.

  Shankjid swerved sweetly in mid air. Oby had her in perfect control. We could see the bright colored upperworks of the Fish Head as his black hull slimed away out of sight below. Oby had him. We were ready to smash into him and our boarders go leaping across in a red roaring tide of destruction. Oh, yes, with a good ship under him there was no holding Oby. He had brought us into the perfect position to strike.

  Inch said: “Time I went for’ard. Good hunting!” He vanished down the companionway heading for the forward fighting galleries.

  Seg said: “I’ll tell you somebody who’ll say a few choice words when he hears what he’s missed.”

  “Yeh,” I said.

  “Too right. Old Hack ’n’ Slay will be livid.”

  Nath Javed, old Hack ’n’ Slay, was away as a Chuktar in command of the 43rd Mixed Infantry Brigade. This consisted of a regiment of archers, one of churgurs and one of spearmen. This kind of formation had been found useful to bolster a sag in the line or to add impetus to a thrust. Well, he couldn’t be an army commander and at the same time go adventuring with Seg and me. And, truth to tell, I somewhat missed him then.

  “I’d better get down and for’ard myself.”

  “I’ll shoot out a few more of ’em first.”

  “Can you keep the girls—?”

  “I’ll try.”

  There was little hope of stopping Delia from joining the boarding party. I’d mention it to her, in a forlorn hope she’d listen.

  Seg lifted his bow and I started off and a distinct and sharp check jolted through the ship. Seg missed his shot. I caught the rail. Other folk had been staggered. The idea that we’d hit the Shank ship lasted only a moment; the check was not of that order of violence.

  “What in a Herrelldrin Hell happened?” Seg was furious.

  Ahead where only a moment ago the bright upperworks of the Shank had been slipping away so that our boarders lining the lower galleries could leap aboard, now they were rising up into view. Either we were going down or the Fish Head was climbing above us. Seg had his balance and calmly loosed into a pack of Fish Faces clustered on their sloping deck.

  Glima ran up, and there was a trace of blood mingled with that silver hair at her waist. She panted.

  “Captain Master Oby mentioned the glass eye and brass sword of Beng Thrax. Also he said by Kaidun. There is something wrong with the bronze boxes.”

  The Shank vessel was lifting, was turning. In only moments the Schtarkins would come raving down among us on our decks instead of us going roaring down on theirs. Again the voller jerked under my feet and her speed fell off. There was no other course for me, now.

  “Hold ’em!” I yelled to the people on the deck. “I’ll see what’s the matter with these Opaz-confounded bronze boxes!”

  I leaped for the companionway.

  Chapter eight

  The cause of the trouble was instantly obvious.

  What was to be done to rectify the problem was not as readily obvious.

  Where that confounded shuckerchun had sucked off some of the strakes, the hole had been roughly patched with timber. The new wood was much lighter than the original scantlings. By the immutable laws of fate, the vaol-paol, two strikes had been scored in almost the same area.

  I thought of that Shank varter crew Seg and I had reduced. Maybe their ballista had been the very one, keeping its aim true, to send two chunks of rock into this very spot. The patchings lay in splinters. The baulk of timber supporting the armored power box had been knocked all skew-whiff. The two iron plates with popped rivets had fallen off. So that the second strike had come whistling in and fair smashed into the bronze boxes.

  No doubt that had been one of the gut hits I’d felt in the ship.

  The bronze and balass orbits looked to be functioning reasonably well. The trouble was trickling from a corner of a bronze box. Tiny granules were trickling away from a crumpled corner. Now the exact mixture of minerals and other substances in the box was a most profound secret. Even though I’d been instrumental in seating Nedfar as Emperor of Hamal, I still didn’t know the full composition of the silver boxes. A group variously known as the Faceless Nine kept that secret, and death was the reward for failed attempts to penetrate the mystery. That secret cabal had other names. Yet the damned Shanks had found ways to duplicate the powers of the silver boxes in their bronze boxes.

  Well, it was no use crying over that now. Something had to
be done, and done instanter.

  As I watched, the orbits revolved as Oby tried to get Shankjid to rise and fly forward. I felt the ship lift a trifle; there was no detectable forward movement.

  As is my custom I do not wear folderols and flying tassels and scarves and bullion and gold lace, particularly when going into battle. Any swod of mine is trim for action. So the only spare piece of cloth I had that I could get to quickly was — the brave old scarlet breechclout.

  That came off as quick as thought and I wrapped it about the leaking bronze box.

  The incongruousness of the action and the look of the thing was perfectly apparent to me — and perfectly unimportant.

  Glima leaned down from the ladder and shouted: “The Fish Faces are aboard!”

  So it was a case of us trying to resist them as they leaped on us, rather than us ravening down on them.

  “Mind you keep out of the way, Glima! Or take armor from a dead Fish Face. D’you hear, girl?”

  “I hear master. You have no breechclout — master.”

  “No. And I’ll have yours if you don’t get yourself to safety!”

  At this she did give a giggle, which heartened me immensely.

  The grimness of the situation was thrust viciously upon me in the next instant as a body came tumbling head over heels down the ladder. Glima gave a squeal and jumped out of the way. The dead swod — and I didn’t know his name! — was young, heartbreakingly young. He still clutched the trident through his throat. I said: “To Opaz, my lad,” and ripped his red breechclout off and wrapped it about my own nakedness. Then I went up on deck.

  That classical single ship action had turned nasty.

  The Shank flying ship hovered just off our bows and was pouring in shot after shot deep into Shankjid’s hull. Our deck was covered by a sprawling mass of struggling fighters. The Shanks were aboard with a vengeance.

  Balass the Hawk, shield high, sword low, was cutting a swathe through shrieking Fish Faces. Inch had reappeared on the upper deck and no one lived within the sweep of his axe. With all the superb skill of the master Bowman he truly is, Seg was shooting at selected targets. Very sensibly he had taken himself up to a vantage point and as I looked he shafted a Shank in the act of stabbing a trident into Chandarlie the Montro’s back. Others of our company suddenly found their opponent reeling back with a long red-fletched arrow clear through them.

  Kuong was fighting with that dedicated young man’s application that worried me for his safety. Llodi’s strangdja ran green. Tuco, also, was using a strangdja and laying about him. Larghos the Throstle and Moglin the Flatch, likewise, were employing strangdjas to deadly effect. There was no sign of Fan-Si, Mevancy, Milsi or Sasha. I looked for Delia and could not see her. The girls were Up To Something. I could smell it.

  So I unlimbered the great Krozair longsword and rumbled down into the fight.

  Shouts lifted, screeching. The Shanks were shrieking: “Ishti! Ishti!” Some of our folk felt inclined to waste breath in shouting back: “Vallia! Valka!” Most saved their efforts for fighting Shanks.

  If what Rollo had said was true about his meeting with my lads of the Guard Corps, that they were thirsting for a good fight, then their wishes had been vouchsafed them. Now with every reason the fighting prowess of the various races of Shanks was greatly feared. Everyone knew the Fish Faces were violent and lethal in battle. Still, and if there is a twisted pride in this then for that I beg forgiveness, some folk of Paz are just as violently lethal — if not more so. Among that select company must be placed my Djangs of Djanduin, the Clansmen of Segesthes and the lads of the various regiments of my Guard Corps. The Bladesmen and rufflers of Ruathytu’s Sacred Quarter, the Bladesmen — called Bravo Fighters — of Zenicce, do not have quite that same wild and untamed savageness. The Iron Legions of Hamal are drilled soldiers through and through, like the Canops. There is a world of difference between a soldier and a warrior. The wonder of it is, the jurukkers of my Guard Corps are warriors and soldiers.

  Many of their names you know, far more you do not, for to weigh everyone’s worth is impossible in so small a compass, and chance dictates who gets a mention and who does not. Also, there were quite a few newer men I did not know, for the Chiefs kept the regiments well filled up.

  Seg saw me and left off that smooth flowing shooting rhythm to point off to starboard. Over there a gang of Fish Faces were trying to overwhelm a varter crew who resisted not only with sword and spear, but with spike and windlass handle. Soundlessly I rushed across the small space of open deck and the longsword twitched left and slashed right and two Fish Heads were no longer in possession of those fishy heads. I dragged in a breath. I had to control that mad passion to slay all these bastards who so mercilessly oppressed the ordinary people of Paz.

  The next three Shanks went down smartly enough and the varter crew disposed of the remainder of that bunch. The raw stink of spilled green blood smoked into the air. There was no time to waste; more Fish Faces raced towards us, brandishing their tridents. If they thought to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies by this ferocious appearance, then in the normal course of normal battles for them they’d think correctly. Unfortunately for this particular Shank flying ship’s crew, they were up against fellows who didn’t go in for showiness and boasting and weapons brandishing. The proper place for weapons in the fists of my lads of the Guard Corps was not brandishing about in thin air but stuck into the guts of damned Opaz-forsaken Shanks.

  Korero appeared beside me, two enormous shields upraised, a sword in his tail hand. He glowed golden in the light.

  “You fambly!” he yelled at me. He was in a right old paddy. “I’ve been looking for you—”

  I yelled back, at once alarmed, apprehensive — no, speak the truth — I was scared clean through. “Delia?”

  The onrushing Shanks were almost upon us.

  “She went with the rest of the ladies and that mad bunch of Fristle Jikai Vuvushis—”

  Then we were at handstrokes. Korero, with four arm hands and a tail hand, could protect my back, protect his side, and attack on the other side. He was most comforting to have at my back, yet I wanted him with Delia, protecting her. We slashed that bunch of Fish Heads away and glared about for more.

  “Well, Korero?”

  “All the women went below.”

  They most definitely were Up To Something. I’d find out about it in due time — if they lived.

  Some of the Schtarkins were trying to form a slender line along the deck. They could see the cumbering corpses of their own people, and, thank Zair, precious few of ours. They were forming up for a proper disciplined charge. They came on when they were ready, menacing, shrilling: “Ishti! Ishti!” Their scales coruscated in the morning light, their weapons glittered.

  The leader fell down. The Fish Face next to him also fell down. Both had long red-fletched arrows through their eyeballs.

  Now I know Seg has experimented with loosing two shafts from a bow at the same time. I doubted he’d be doing that right now. I took a heartbeat to glance away from the advancing Shanks. Seg was there, already bending a new shaft. In an adjoining coign of advantage stood Rollo in the act of drawing an arrow from his quiver. My lips thinned. If Rollo thought he could stand and shoot shot for shot with Seg Segutorio, then he was sadly mistaken. All the same, the lad was doing well, and I hoped he would survive this fight.

  I wasn’t prepared to hang about waiting for damned Shanks to charge me. I gave the briefest of forward jerks with my sword, snapped out, “Charge!” and went crashing off down the deck smack into the Fish Faces.

  The lads were up with me, and a solid wall we smashed into the solid wall of Shanks. We hacked and thrust and parried and ducked and overthrew that neat Schtarkin line. We cut them down in their own blood.

  When that little dust-up was over we’d cleared the after portion of the decks. We held our own voller from the stern forward to the front fighting top. Arrows were spouting down from there like bees buzzing from
a hive. Forward of that the control top was isolated and the fighting was taking place in an attempt to push on forward up the deck. For the moment, Oby was up there in the control top separated from us.

  Seg and Rollo jumped down from their positions halfway up the after fighting top and joined me. I was looking forward.

  “There has to be a better way,” I said, fretfully.

  Rollo panted out: “Can’t we go down a deck and run along and then jump up behind ’em?”

  Korero said: “They’re fighting down there just as we are up here.”

  I had to push my desperate fears for Delia out of my head. That I could not merely meant I had to live with my terrors for her and try to carry on, get this thing over with, so that she might be safe.

  “We’d better go up there and get stuck in, give Inch and Balass a hand. And look out for young Kuong. He’s all go.”

  “From what you say he believes in, my old dom, he don’t care if he does get the chop.”

  “True.”

  “By the Veiled Froyvil! You can really find some weird ones in Loh!”

  “Oh, aye,” I said. “Particularly from the northernmost tip.”

  We were advancing on the enemy as we spoke, and we had a few more of our little personal licks in before we would come to handstrokes.

  Rollo was looking from Seg to me and back, and shaking his head. He must have thought we were a right couple of nutters.

  In a wild melee of clashing steel and the screech and slide of steel against iron we pressed forward. Men screamed and died. Others screamed and dragged themselves out of the thick of the conflict, nursing hideous wounds. Blood fouled the decks and ran greasily across the planking. This madness proves that human beings are all mad, for surely only mad people would countenance such insane behavior? True. But, as you know to your cost, there are times when madness is the only answer.

  Seg fought with silent and applied magnificence. He shared my views. We barged our way through the press and soon saw Inch, as it were, enclosed in a ring of Schturgin dead.