“What a sight!” screamed Barty.
“It is a battle,” I shouted back.
But it was not like any battle we had fought before.
The arrows criss-crossed. The Hamalese wheeled up their varters in the intervals between regiments, and the iron bolts loosed. Larghos Cwopin, a good man with a knife and a ready laugh, abruptly vomited from his saddle, the varter bolt piercing him through and through, iron and red with blood. The zorcas galloped on. The arrows fell. Men screamed and fought and died.
Korero the Shield performed prodigies, his four arms and tail hand manipulating his shields with that rhythmic grace of perfect mental and bodily co-ordination, a marvel.
Many feats of heroism passed unremarked. The red mask of horror floated before our eyes. The iron of Hamal remained unbreached. I could feel the armor upon my body, the helmet pressing my head, the grip of the zorca between my knees, I could feel all and know I was alive and yet feel nothing, for death hovered near.
The noise roared on and now the brumbytes broke into a deep-voiced song, almost a paean, a heavy beating song that blended with the solid nerve-tingling blam-blam-berram of their drums. The flags flew. The name of the song does not matter — rather, as the armies clashed at last, the name means so much I cannot repeat it. It has been said that the best position for light troops to stand before the advancing phalanx is two hundred feet out. The guerillas of Vallia were much farther out than that; and so their fight, brief though it was, lasted far longer than I cared for. Then the Hakkodin were up with them and then — and then the savage bristle of pikes crunched into the shields of Hamal.
Even as the guerillas and the Hakkodins passed back in the intervals, the Hakkodins urging the guerillas on, and the archers faded to take up new positions in rear, drills gone through a thousand times, so the second line of Jodhris in the checkerboard smashed awesomely into the swods.
The Hamalian cavalry was caught as it debouched onto the Drinnik and was whiffed away as the Iron Riders had been whiffed away. The Phalanx moved forward, moved on and into and through the lines of Hamalian soldiers. They should not have done, of course. They should not have been able to do that magnificent thing. But the irregulars, the Freedom Fighters, the guerillas, had opened the way, had given the phalanx that little time it needed, and the phalanx swept on.
The thought hit me as I sent our little band hurtling on to enter the city as the Phalanx formed Relianch by Relianch to press on over Voxyri Bridge and through the Voxyri Gate, the marvelous and yet vexatious thought, that there would be no holding the brumbytes now. They would believe themselves perfectly capable of going up as a phalanx against sword and shield men and of winning every time. And I knew that was not on.
Through the Gate and into the city I bellowed for Volodu to sound the “Brumbytes, stand fast.” And then: “Archers, Hakkodin — General Chase.”
General Chase. Yes, I know. But my old sea-faring days had dictated that, and now, how it fitted!
The city seethed and bubbled with conflict and the noise surf-roared into the heavens. This moment was the moment we had looked forward to, when ragged half-armed people swept crazily upon the army of Hamal and, far more particularly upon the masichieri. Getting these fighters into the city had been the trick and it would never have been done without the timely assistance of the Phalanx. So I believe. I know miracles occur; I can only say that a miracle had occurred there, on Voxyri Drinnik when the brumbytes of the phalanx toppled the sword and shield swods of Hamal.
The conflict rattled and roared and thundered on, surging this way and that. Many a poor devil toppled into a canal. The fight gradually assumed an order, a shape, and centered on the palace. Somehow I was out there in the front, loosing those deadly rose-feathered shafts, whipping out the longsword when the counter-attacks came in, urging on the men, urging them all on, guerilla and Hakkodin alike, cherishing them, giving them by example effective ways of fighting this kind of messy affair.
Every now and then a man or a woman would give a sudden, startled look. I would bellow out in the old intemperate, good-humored way: “On! On for Vallia!”
By the time the kyro before the palace had been reached we all knew that the city was ours. The remnants of the invaders clustered in the palace which reared, lapped in scaffolding, ringed by lumber and stone and all the bush paraphernalia of rebuilding. Phu-si-Yantong had, indeed, sought to beautify his conquest.
The various leaders of the different bands and groups came together and, where necessary, I made the necessary pappattu. We stood, a group of ferocious men in the grip of the victory fever, and stared balefully upon the palace. The wink of weapons and the glitter of helmet and the flutter of plume and flag told us the place was still garrisoned.
“We will not attack,” I said. “We do not have to lose any more good men. They will come out, all in due time.”
There were arguments, of course. But I would not be swayed.
Many of my men were furious, and Nath Nazabhan and Dorgo the Clis and others of like ilk chief among them.
“How can we proclaim Jak the Drang Emperor of Vallia if we are not in the palace? That would not be right or decent!”
“Perhaps I do not wish to be emperor—”
“But you have the right!”
“The right of the sword.”
“The right of leading us all, the right of holding men’s hearts, the right of justice — Vallia cries out for an emperor to hold men together in amity — and you are the man!”
Even I, however reluctantly, could see the sense in that last sentiment. Vallia needed to be healed.
With a twinkling and altogether wonderful suddenness, flags of truce equivalent to white flags appeared along the battlements. Trumpets blew the parley. A deputation advanced from the palace across the kyro to where our group of commanders waited. Our people yelled, until our trumpets blew the still. In silence save for a little breeze that whispered with the flags, the men of Hamal, invaders in Vallia, advanced to surrender to the Vallians.
The scene struck brilliance and color, illuminated, stark, vibrating, it seemed to me, with the historical importance of the moment.
And here I must confess that although memory is not faulty, much of the ensuing event, many of the happenings that followed, echo back to me now vaguely, ill-defined, charged with an emotion and a wonder altogether marvelous — and embarrassing, too to an old sea-salt like me, a simple fighting man.
The commanders formed a semicircle and I found myself standing a little front and center. In that group of loyal men were many to whom you have been introduced; the roll call is profoundly moving. Behind them clustered, seething and yet silent and intent, the victorious forces of Vallia who had retaken their capital city.
The Hamalese made a brave show in their armor and uniforms, but they carried no weapons, and they looked strained and exhausted.
At their head marched a man I knew.
He had been in attendance on Queen Thyllis when that woman had dragged me through the streets of Ruathytu in her triumphal procession when she made herself Empress of Hamal. I had been lapped in chains and dragged at the tail of a calsany. This man, Vad Inrien ham Thofoler, had been a dwa-Chuktar then, a man bucking for power and position. Clearly he had reached both, for now he was a general, a Kapt, in command of the Hamalese forces in this sector of Vallia. He marched up, his heavy face with the bitter lines about the nose and lips held in that rigid look of disdain for what was going on. He halted before me.
The silence held, thin, acute, with only the little breeze to ruffle flags and standards and scurry leaves over the stones of the kyro. He slapped up his arm in salute.
“Hai, Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia. We cry quarter. We would negotiate—”
The pressing crowd at the back of the group of my commanders sucked in a single gigantic gulp of breath. A few small cries broke out, then more and more, a sudden tempest of yells and shouts.
“Dray Prescot! Dray Prescot! This is Jak t
he Drang! Our own Jak the Drang, Emperor of Vallia!”
And then — it had to happen, sooner or later — amongst the yelling, Nath Nazabhan and the others brought order. They yelled in their turn, words that were picked up and repeated back through the hosts and along the avenues and boulevards, until the very sky over Vondium rang.
“This man whom you know as Jak the Drang is Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia.”
The yells — the shouts — the astounded bellows of disbelief.
At last I signaled to Volodu the Lungs, whose mouth hung open foolishly, and he blew the still. Korero wore a tiny sly smile, and that confirmed me in my suspicions that he knew.
“I am Dray Prescot.” I roared it out. “And I am Jak the Drang. And we Vallians have gained a great triumph this day of Opaz the Deliverer.”
The incredulous uproar would have broken out again. I saw Korero move forward and he took out a certain scarlet bundle. I wondered with dizzied startlement just how much Delia had told him. He hauled out a pike and he tied on that old scarlet flag, to hoist it up. I heard the people yelling again: “Hai Jikai! Hai Jikai, Dray Prescot, Jak the Drang! Hai, Jikai!”
So I looked up, expecting to see Old Superb, that flag with the yellow cross on the scarlet field. And I saw — I saw a flag I had once seen in my mind’s eye, seasons and seasons ago as we flew home from the Battle of the Dragon’s Bones.
The yellow saltire of Vallia on the red ground flew there, but superimposed upon it gleamed my old yellow cross. The tresh formed a union of colors, a new flag, the new flag of Vallia.
A dark vision crossed my mind. We had Hamal to deal with, we had the vile religion of Lem the Silver Leem to transform into something of worth or suppress utterly, we had problems overseas and at home, and, looming monstrously over all, we had the shanks from over the curve of the world to resist or be finally beaten down. For only a small and precious space could we rest, rejoicing in what we had accomplished, for so much more remained to be done.
In a joyful procession amid a tumultuous host we moved into the palace of Vondium. The regalia was brought out. Where the false emperor Seakon had gone no one knew or cared. The precious objects, the ceremonial adjuncts, the crown, the throne, Drak’s Sword — of which I shall have more to say — were brought out so that all might see. They sat me on the throne and the crown settled on my head and I took the necessary things, hand by hand, and the priests chanted and the trumpets blew and the people yelled.
Through it all a hollowness possessed me, for the rest of Vallia we had not so far liberated remained.
But the moment was sacred and meaningful.
For the fact was indisputable. I was the Emperor of Vallia, chosen by the people, emperor by their will, and seated on the throne because they willed it.
How long I remained there was something I, and I alone, I fancied, would decide.
Men and women passed before me, swearing allegiance. In turn they were promised support, that Vallia would be freed, that life and liberty would be theirs, and happiness too, if they could contrive that profoundly difficult achievement.
I looked up. Of course. The Gdoinye and the white dove of the Savanti floated up there against the blue. They had not forgotten me. I would have more trouble from them in the future.
As I looked a voller fleeted in over the kyro and swooped for the palace. I saw her flags. Valkan flags, and the flags of Delphond and the Blue Mountains, Old Superb — all flew from her masts. But, over all, that new flag of Vallia floated, free, defiant, yellow and scarlet in the blaze of the suns, heralding a new epoch in the history of Kregen.
Surfeited on emotions both transcendental and foreboding and, just for this wonderful moment, blurring into a haze of thankfulness, I walked forward to greet Delia.
The whole of Vondium rang with the exultations.
“Hai Jikai, Delia, Empress of Vallia. Hai Jikai, Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia!”
By Zair, I said to myself as Delia and I walked toward each other and the air vibrated with the noise and excitement. I must remember I am a Krozair of Zy and, too, I must not forget the Kroveres of Iztar. The Corruption of Empire must never foul this moment. The Sovereign State must serve every single person, each to each. If ever the corruption of power touched me, if ever megalomania assaulted my sanity, I would remember the good men who had died looking forward to this moment.
The truth was I had not wanted to be Emperor of Vallia; but if I had been chosen for that onerous task by the conjoined will of the people, then — for a space until I talked my son Drak into taking over — I’d be as competent and just and professional an emperor as I knew how, by Zim-Zair!
The uplifted swords glittered blindingly in the streaming mingled lights of Antares, the Suns of Scorpio. “Jikai! Hai Jikai!” roared the multitudes.
It was a moment to treasure, a moment to remember.
“So you are the Emperor of Vallia in your own right, Dray,” said Delia. She smiled and the suns glimmered pale in comparison. “Now what will you do?”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, I haven’t even started yet.”
A Glossary to the Vallian Cycle of the Saga of Dray Prescot
References to the four books of the cycle are given as:
SES: Secret Scorpio
SVS: Savage Scorpio
CPS: Captive Scorpio
GOS: Golden Scorpio
NB: Previous glossaries covering entries not included here will be found in Volume 5: Prince of Scorpio; Volume 7: Arena of Antares; Volume 11: Armada of Antares; Volume 14: Krozair of Kregen.
A
Ahrinye: Star Lord of acrid tongue in apparent opposition to other Everoinye.
Arlton: Island to the north of Veliadrin. Name means pestle.
Aleygyn: Title of chief of stikitches.
“Anete ham Terhenning”: A tragic song of Hamal.
Ararsnet, Roybin ti Autonne: Secret agent working for Prescot. (SES)
Arial, Fair of: A fair held for the people of the Czarin Sea on the island of Drayzm after the pirates cleared away.
Arkadon: Pleasant market town in Delphond.
atra: Amulet, lucky charm.
audo: Military term for section of eight to ten men.
Autonne: Town on the west coast of Veliadrin.
Avandil, Rafik: A numim assigned by Phu-si-Yantong to observe Prescot. Eventually unmasked as Makfaril.
B
Ba-Domek: Island on which is situated the city of Aphrasöe.
Bakan: High kovnate of Vallia situated to the south of the Mountains of the North.
The Ball and Chain: An unsavory hostelry a stone’s throw from the Gate of Skulls in Drak’s City in Vondium.
Battle of Sabbator: Final battle in which the Phalanx of the North East of Vallia overthrew the Iron Riders.
Battle of Therminsax: The fight in which the army of Therminsax with the Phalanx as the core gained its first success against the Iron Riders.
Battle of Voxyri: Climactic battle in which the Freedom Fighters and the Phalanx of Vallia defeated the army of Hamal and its mercenary allies across the Drinnik and over the Bridge and through the Gate of Voxyri.
“Bear Up Your Arms”: A rollicking song of which this is the euphemistic title.
Beng Dikkane: Patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz.
Beng Drangil: Patron saint of Ovvend.
benhoff: Shaggy, powerful, six-legged riding animal of North Segesthes, with lean hind-sixths and a roll of fat across the chest. Used by the radvakkas.
Bet-Aqsa: Island west of Havilfar in the Ocean of Doubt.
“Black Is the River and Black Was Her Hair”: A tragical ditty of Hamal which Prescot described as farcical.
“Black Wings over Sabbator”: A great song made in remembrance of The Battle of Sabbator.
Blade of Kurin, by the: A swordsman’s oath.
Blarnoi, San: Either a real person or a consortium of misty figures of the dim past to whom many aphorisms and sayings current on Kregen are attributed.
&n
bsp; blatter: Slang word for quick and successful assault and battery, a headlong attack.
Brassud: Brace up.
Bratch!: Move! Jump! Not as vicious as the infamous Grak! but still a powerful word of command implying move it or you know what will happen.
Bratchlin: The File Closer at the rear of each file of the phalanx.
Bregal: A small town of Ystilbur of the Dawn Lands of Havilfar.
brumby: A powerful eight-legged and armored battering ram of whirlwind destruction armed with a long straight horn in the center of his forehead, the brumby is thought to be either extinct or legendary.
brumbyte: Name for the pikeman in the files of the phalanx.
Bryvondrin: Imperial province of Vallia north of the capital.
C
Calimbrev: Island Stromnate southwest of Veliadrin.
Cansinsax: Town of Aduimbrev where the Iron Riders defeated an army of Hamalese. (GOS)
Charboi, Dr: In the pay of Ashti Melekhi poisoned the Emperor of Vallia. (SVS)
chyyan: A large, heavy-winged bird, all rusty black save for scarlet eyes and claws and beak, with four wings like its distant cousin the zhyan.
Cleitar the Smith: Blacksmith who lost his family in the radvakka and Hamalian troubles and from then on carried Prescot’s banner of Vallia.
Czarin Sea: Studded with islands off east coast of Vallia.
D
“The Daisies of Delphond”: A charming song celebrating the ladies as well as the daisies of the Garden of Vallia.
Danmork: Leader of the fourth and tenth files in the Relianch of the phalanx.
Golden Scorpio Page 23