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Warlord of Antares [Dray Prescot #37]
by Alan Burt Akers
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Science Fiction/Fantasy

Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

Copyright ©1988 by Kenneth Bulmer

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Warlord of Antares

Alan Burt Akers

Mushroom eBooks

Copyright © 1988, Kenneth Bulmer

Alan Burt Akers has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

First published in USA in 1988 by Daw Books, Inc..

Originally published as “by Dray Prescot, as told to Alan Burt Akers".

This Edition published in 2008 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

eISBN 1843196883

Warlord of Antares

Dray Prescot has been described by someone who has seen him on this Earth as a man above middle height with brown hair and level brown eyes, brooding and dominating, with enormously broad shoulders and powerful physique. He moves like a savage hunting cat, silent and deadly. There is about him an abrasive honesty and an indomitable courage.

Reared in the harsh conditions of Nelson's Navy, he failed to find success on Earth. When the Savanti nal Aphrasöe selected and then rejected him for their purposes, he was taken up by the Everoinye, the Star Lords. They have flung him through four hundred light-years of empty space to the planet Kregen, orbiting the binary Antares, many times. On Kregen, beautiful and terrible, exotic and mysterious, Prescot's innate talents flowered and he secured success beyond his wildest dreams.

Now the grouping of continents and islands called Paz are threatened by the Shanks, fish-headed reivers from over the curve of the world. Prescot's task now is to unite all of Paz in alliance against the aggressors. Not all the people of Paz are willing to forget their old enmities. And there is Csitra, the Witch of Loh, who lusts after Prescot and would drag down all of Vallia to ruin for his sake. In the passionate, shrewd, charismatic figure of Delia of Delphond, and his family and blade comrades, Prescot possesses riches past the mundane dreams of empire.

Alan Burt Akers

Chapter one

Metal

I, Dray Prescot, the Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, whirled head over heels helplessly through a tempestuous void into the black boiling belly of hell.

“What the hell's going on?” I bellowed. It felt as though I yelled with a mouth full of feathers.

Around and around I went, up and down, and I sincerely believed I was being pulled apart, as those unpleasant Echenegs pull people apart with a variety of wild animals. I tried to curl up into a fetal ball.

This experience was entirely new. The Star Lords had sent their giant blue Scorpion down to snatch me up from Kregen. I expected to be taken through various chambers and possibly be transported in a marvelous chair that hissed, and so be able to speak to those distant, immortal and superhuman entities the Everoinye.

Instead I was being torn to pieces in a black whirling madhouse.

Just what, by the putrescent eyeballs and pustular nose of Makki Grodno, was going on?

I know I am a fallible clown. The years spent on Earth trying to make a career in Nelson's Navy had been blank for me. I'd had a few successes since being hauled up by the ears and dumped down into trouble on Kregen. Yes, I supposed I was some way on to the grand scheme of uniting the peoples of the lands of Paz.

This time, when I saw the Star Lords, I'd said to myself, this time I'll have a few very hard words for them.

So they dragged me up in the midst of a whirlwind, battered my ears with blasts of wind and horrendous noise, tumbled me upside down and inside out for all I knew.

My heels hit hard and jarred clear up the spine into my skull.

I staggered forward. The blackness like the ear cavity of a Lepecranch bat folded about me. I blinked.

Well, I still wore the brave old scarlet breechclout. I still had the Krozair longsword. Apart from those two items and the sailor knife scabbarded from its belt over my right hip, there was only me.

With a convulsive heave I stumbled up. I shook my fist at the impenetrable blackness.

“All right, you high and mighty Everoinye! Come on! Let's be having you!"

If anything, the wind screeched louder and more fiercely, and a cold cutting edge of ice crept into its teeth.

“Damn you, you indifferent—” I roared on, verbiage of almost meaningless bravado when set against the awful forces colliding about my insignificant form. The words were stoppered in my throat.

A single slashing streak of viridian green swiped all across that blackness and drove sparkles and spots of brilliance into my eyes.

That searing shaft of green lasted only a couple of heartbeats and was gone; I knew who—or what—it was.

That was the impetuous and icily contemptuous Star Lord the others called Ahrinye. I thought he would be no friend to me.

The whole world shifted and swung and I fell to my knees. I didn't know if I was on a world, any world, or drifted on a shard of rock between the stars, or was buried deep within some unguessable hell.

I knew the Star Lords to be fallible, as was I. I could not believe those superhuman entities of vast intellect and distant purposes to be fools. Again, as was I. Their powers were so great that the limited imagination of a mortal man might never encompass a fraction of a jot or tittle. As the universe swept up and down and around and around I tried with barbaric savagery to hold on to the central idea that the Star Lords needed me.

With my own puny willpower I had fought them in the old days when I imagined them indifferent and opposed to all my own wishes. In our more recent alliance I had glimpsed reasons why they had chosen me to do what I had to do for them. I had not fought them recently. But, now...

When all this nonsense settled down and the world became right way up again, I'd have a few words to say, by Zair, a few words!

A looseness in the air about me and a lightness in my limbs heralded another change. The universe steadied. I could smell nothing. The darkness shifted about me and I felt harsh rock beneath my feet; but I could smell nothing and that is always very strange, very strange.

When the pale yellow streak appeared horizontally and glimmered with spectral fires, for a few treacherous moments I imagined this to be Zena Iztar. But this yellow was not her glorious golden yellow, refulgent, bringing a reassurance and a promise. Zena Iztar and I had not met for too long a time and I guessed she was about some supernatural task in realms and dimensions unknowable to mere mortal humanity.

Against the yellow streak, which widened steadily, sharp black peaks stood out like saw edges. I confess it took me a little time to realize I was watching the dawn.

That lemon yellow runneled between the mountain peaks. Shadows lay long and sharp-edged. Each of the scattering of boulders and pebbles all about me on that circular plain cast its own individual shadow. The peaks ringed the plain, and ringed me, too, as though I stood in prison.

Desolation is the only word to describe that place.

I didn't give a damn about the desolation. Only one thing mattered now—and the horror of it made me put my fist onto the hilt of the Krozair longsword, gripping not in bravado but reaching out for reassurance and put a pulse throbbing evilly in my temples.

For if this was the dawn, as indeed it was, and that yellow glow was the sun, as it probably was, why, then I was no longer on Kregen.

The twin suns of Antares, Zim and Genodras, stream down their mingled opaline radiance upon the world of Kregen, red and green, ruby and emerald. Not yellow.

The only other world of which I had any experience was Earth, and Earth has a little yellow sun.

I did not break down in despair, as I had every right to do. I did not think I was on Earth, for the feel to my body recalled a fever dream of the African coast. In the next instant the blackness returned and the madness of whirling about upside down swooped upon me.

When, after what seemed if not an eternity then a damn long time, I was once more plunked down on my feet, I felt convinced that the Star Lords were in deep trouble. Those awesome beings had the power to hurl me about the world of Kregen willy-nilly. They could fling me four hundred light-years back to Earth, and reach out and bring me back—when they chose.

Now, it seemed, they were fumbling what ought to be the simple task of dragging me up into their presence.

I stood upon one of what looked like a worldwide series of metal boxes. Each box was of the size of a decent three-bedroom suburban house. That homely image did nothing to reassure me in the face of this alienness. I felt the oddness, the strangeness. Just metal boxes for as far as I could see, and the alleyways between them slots of shadow, menacing and unfriendly.

Nothing moved in all that metal expanse.

The sky was just a silvery white distance, an even flow of light that illuminated the hard metal and thrust blackness into the slots between.

Because there seemed nothing else to do, I thought I'd take a look at what might exist in the alleyways, seeing that the tops of the boxes were uniformly flat, empty of anything, and dismally uninteresting.

At the corner of the box a metal ladder ran down the side. The rungs were spaced for a normal-sized person. In the context of the inhabitants of Earth, normal-sized can be understood. In those of Kregen it has to be understood to refer, as I use it, to apims, Homo sapiens sapiens like me and the rest of us terrestrials.

The rungs of the ladder struck cold. I went down hand under hand and, oddly enough, I recalled the days when I'd had to descend from the rigging via the shrouds instead of as a youngster I'd been in the habit of sliding down the backstay.

The damned ground was all metal, too.

Extending about five feet up from the ground, the wall of the box was discolored. Instead of that steely-silvery sheen, the metal looked rusty, pitted and corroded, as though steel and alloy were breaking down.

The alleyway here was about twenty feet across and the box on the opposite side was also decayed.

Down here the perspective both loomed and towered.

The vanishing point was just that from the extended lines of the edges of the boxes, and I fancied they dwindled out of sight far more sharply than logic would suggest. I did not understand what I was looking at. That goes without saying; but I say it nevertheless in the light of much information that came my way later, information I am sure many of you listening to my narrative on these tapes have been born into.

The dizzying perspective extended to the right and to the left.

Either way, therefore—it didn't matter as far as I could see—would do. So I set off to the left and at the first intersection I took a single step out and immediately whipped back, flat against the metal wall, and the Krozair longsword snouted up.

The man out there wore a complete harness of armor and he carried a nasty-looking sword in his fist.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

Catching a breath and dropping low, I let an eyeball peer around the corner.

The man just stood there.

I watched him.

He stood, silent and motionless. His armor appeared to be fashioned from the same silvery-steely metal as that of the boxes. And from his ankles to his chest, the corroding rust of decay struck pitmarks that caught the light and turned the metal into a granular web.

After a time I straightened up and walked out.

“Llahal, dom,” I called in the formal Kregish greeting.

He made no reply. I studied him a trifle more closely, the longsword now hanging at my side. The blade was ready for action, I can tell you, ready for action in a jiffy!

His sword puzzled me, for it was cylindrical as to blade, without guard or quillons, and from its hilt a corrugated tube ran to the pack on the fellow's back.

His face was entirely covered, save for grillwork which I fancied was located in an odd place for either breaths or sights.

“Llahal!” I called again.

No reply.

I walked across to him.

Now many folk account me a fellow who walks softly. Some say I move stealthily, and others with less humor say I move sneakily. Either way, on a metal floor, I made no sound.

One of this armored man's legs fell away from his body. He keeled over. His leg crumbled to powder as it hit the ground, and his body tumbled down, to sprawl out in a tangle of metal arms and one metal leg.

I stopped moving.

All I could think was that the vibration through the metal ground had been the final straw in his destruction.

The metal rang with ironic sweetness as it struck the metal ground, a sound incongruous in these arid surroundings.

There was nothing I could do for the poor fellow, so with a word or two to Zair and Djan and Opaz to light him on his way down to the Ice Floes of Sicce, I marched on.

The furtive scuffling sound from ahead came as a positive relief.

Flat against a metal side of a box, I stared down the alleyway.

A thing like a horse-sized caterpillar came into view. He clumped along on a multitude of little legs all going up and down in a rippling rhythm. His four eyes protruded on stalks. His feeding proboscis uncurled as he reached a corroded wall on the next box and I swore he put the end against the decayed metal and started to suck it in. I could have sworn, yes; but it did not seem rational. But, then, what the hell was rational around here just lately?

His body was colored in much the same steely-silvery sheen as the metal all around, and black hairs sprouted here and there. His eyes were red. He slurped the rotten metal in, and soon he'd cut himself a semicircle and was starting on the next sweep.

From locations just beneath and either side of his feeding tube a pair of grasping claws were folded limply. He did not use them to rip the metal away. By their size and ruggedness I fancied he'd have no trouble doing that if he came to a section of metal not quite decayed enough for him to suck up.

There is no pleasure in killing animals. There are really only two reasons or excuses for slaying animals, one that they are dangerous pests, and two you need to eat. I was sharp-set by this time; but this metal-eating caterpillar struck me as being a not particularly tasty dish. So I turned around and went the other way.

Judging by the increasingly desperate state of my stomach, I must have marched on for a good long time. In all that journey the boxes and the alleyways did not vary. I ran across a dozen or so more armored men in the alleyway and a couple more on roofs; not a one of them spoke and none moved. Their armor was in the process of decaying, so I judged the poor devils had been a long time dead.

Also I saw a couple of dozen of the metal-eating caterpillars. I gave them all a wide berth and went on.

What I hoped to achieve by this senseless wandering escaped me. I couldn't just stand in one spot and wait to die. Surely, if I persevered and went on long enough I must come across someone, or something other than these mindless ranks of boxes? I might, if I was not dead of hunger and thirst beforehand.

Just as I'd reached this conclusion in my miserable thoughts I heard a sharp hissing from ahead.

That hissing sounded familiar. It sounded remarkably like the hissing the magical chair of the Star Lords made as it whistled you along from chamber to chamber.

A dark object appeared from an intersection about a hundred yards ahead, flashed across from right to left, vanished.

The shape in the fleeting instant I'd glimpsed it could have been the shape of a Star Lord's chair.

I ran up to the cross alleyway and stared down; there was no sign of the chair and the habitual silence of this place clamped down again.

After that a number of chairs hissed past and always, infuriatingly, across alleyways too far off, so that there was no way I could hail. Always assuming, that was, that anybody sat in the chairs.

The metal boxes possessed doors, as I discovered, of many different sizes. There was no way I could gain ingress. The gap between door and jamb was hairfine thin, and there were no doorknobs, handles or any other system of opening. That there must be a system to open the doors was obvious, otherwise they wouldn't be there; I could not fathom it out.

Soon I was progressing through an area where the decay of the metal walls was far advanced and where large numbers of the caterpillars fed contentedly. I took considerable detours to avoid them.

At one corner I spotted a caterpillar who had been at full stretch, retract his body and go rhythmically off in search of fresh decay. Where he had chopped away left a jagged-edged gap.

Very cautiously I looked inside.

All was in darkness.

The silvery light spilling in from outside revealed what seemed to me to be more ranks of boxes, one after the other, receding into the dimness. There appeared no point in going in there to find a lot of small boxes when I had a lot of big boxes out here to play with.

Yes, I was growing more and more hungry and more and more annoyed.

What I imagined to be the final annoyance, although in that I was wrong, hissed past close at hand. A chair shot out of the alleyway opposite and pelted on and vanished past me. It went by close. And the damned thing was empty.

So, I lifted up my head and voice and I roared out: “Star Lords! What in blazes is going on! Are you all asleep, or are you all senile?"

Echoes rolled around eerily.

“Sink me!” I burst out. “I wish those doddering old fools would get both oars in the water."

Nothing responded so there was nothing I could do but march on in hope.

I didn't go near any of the dead men in their decaying armor. They hadn't been struck down in a fight, so it was a good guess that they'd died of disease. I did not wish to have anything to do with that.

Only one of them was not wearing full harness. He was a numim, and his ferocious lionman's face lay lax and crumpled in death. He carried a water bottle at his belt. I licked my lips. But that water could be the death of me. The numim's chest was crushed in, a most unappetizing sight, and a curved sword lay on the metal near his right hand.

I went on.

Now I really was hungry, and no doubt about it.

Pretty soon I'd join the caterpillars and rip off a chunk of decaying metal and find out what their diet tasted like. They looked big and chunky and well fed. Perhaps the corroded metal was really tasty. I pushed aside vivid mental pictures of pies and puddings, of steaks and gammons, of fruit and vegetables and endless cups of tea, and stalked on. And more and more my gaze was drawn to that rotten and tempting decaying metal.

“By the Black Chunkrah!” Head up, feeling a fool as though I was under observation, I marched over to the nearest wall and ripped off a handful of scrunchy metal.

It felt like biscuits just holding together; crumbs fell away. I molded the handful in my palm. I looked at it. I sniffed it. No smell. Cautiously I tasted a tiny portion with the tip of my tongue. The hardness at once melted into paste. And the taste—deuced odd. Like vinegar, and yet not sharp and unpleasant, with a touch of gherkin in there, and spice, and a generous portion of piccalilli and tomatoes, and, under all this bizarre mixture, the feeling that, yes, by Krun, this was metal I was eating.

I ate some more. After a couple of handfuls it became more than palatable. I could guess that a fellow could get addicted to this stuff. This, therefore, would not do. I did not know of any metal-eating caterpillars on Kregen.

Munching the paste, well, teeth were unnecessary for, as the caterpillars did, I could simply slurp it down once it had been moistened, I trotted on. I confess I felt in a more reasonable frame of mind. That state of mind was still bloody in the extreme, mind, and I stored up the fruitiest epithets in my skull for use against the Everoinye—when and if they ever put in an appearance.

Now I know about the Mysterious Universe and all that, and of the mystifying nature of humankind's choice, of destiny and all that, and of the inevitability of death; but I hadn't chosen to come here, I was not at this moment concerned with the mystery of the universe, and I most certainly did not intend to die here.

I was interested in the mystery of this place, for understanding that might hoick me out of it.

There appeared to me in all sober reality little chance that I couldunderstand this crazy gaggle of metal boxes.

The miserable nagging doubt began to creep in that I had chosen the wrong way, that I should have gone right instead of left.

I can tell you, the bonhomie brought on by an unexpectedly good meal in a place not at once apparent for gastronomic delights, wore off sharpish, very sharpish, by Vox.

In this churlish frame of mind the fact that the metal was not corroded on the boxes I was passing took time to sink in. What made me realize this were the antics of a caterpillar I'd automatically switched alleyways to avoid.

He was lifting his head and aiming that feeding proboscis and shooting a jet of liquid in neat patterned swipes over the wall. The liquid glistered with the sheen of the rainbow before vanishing.

“So that's it,” I said. “These hairy horrors squirt some gunk on the metal, that starts to rot away, then they trundle along and slurp it up."

That made no difference to my taste for the stuff. I've eaten far worse than that on Kregen.

Farther on, with pristine boxes all about me, I ran across an object that—at last!—signaled a change.

A slender, near-gossamer tower rose up into that indeterminate silvery sky. The lacework of the weblike struts and girders, delicate and fairy-like, formed a contrast of overwhelming power.

Approaching that enchanted spire with great caution I stared up its height. I couldn't see the top against that all-encompassing whiteness; but it was remote and far distant, for the latticework blended and formed a line no thicker than a hair before it was lost to my vision.

Now why I did what I did might have remained a mystery to me, had not a memory of Zena Iztar occurred to me. When, as Madam Ivanovna, she had visited me on Earth, she had said: “When the need to strike arises, you must strike with a gong-note of power."

What the blazes she'd meant then I'd no idea.

But the memory recurred to me now, and as Zena Iztar might move in mysterious ways but always to a purpose, I whipped up the great Krozair longsword and struck the flat against the latticework of that fairy tower.

The structure gonged pure and mellow.

In the next instant I was upside down, buffeted by a mad whirlpool of blackness, hurtling head over heels out of the blackness and into a refulgent blueness. I gasped as I landed with a thump.

Noise burst about my head, men shouting and arguing, women laughing and screaming, and in my nostrils stank the stenches of a tavern, of rancid fat, of burned meat, of wetted sawdust, the smells of spilled wine and ale and the cheap scents of women.

Chapter two

Of Emperors in a Thieves Tavern

Apart from the too-obvious fact I was in a tavern, I had absolutely no idea where on Kregen I was. Well, that was the usual engaging way of the Star Lords. The Everoinye would drag me off from whatever I happened to be doing and chuck me down somewhere to do their dirty work for them. It was beginning to look as though they were genuinely incapable of doing that work themselves.

Instead of their habitual practice of tossing me in at the deep end to face horrendous perils stark naked, this time I still possessed the scarlet breechclout and the longsword, the belted loincloth and the sailor knife.

Everyone in the tavern must have thought I'd fallen from the balcony along this side of the taproom.

I regained my balance and, rather naturally, the longsword remained in my fist. The blade snouted up and the samphron oil lamps caught and runneled in a golden silver glitter.

An absolute—a deathly—hush fell over the tavern.

No one spoke. No one moved. All that raucous laughter, the screaming of insults, the savage words that must inevitably lead to a fight, all the hullabaloo died as though a giant door had slammed.

They were a rough old lot. Most of them would cross the road to avoid the Watch. There was probably more stolen property about their persons, and no doubt in the landlord's cellars, than would comfortably fit into a six-krahnik wain. Their faces showed the marks of hard experience, of cunning and skullduggery, of thievery and mayhem. Also, they were not too clean and many were scarred and more than a few one-eyed.

In this company the sudden arrival of a stranger was like to see that foolhardy wight with a second mouth to laugh with, a mouth stretching across his throat.

The immediate action into which I had dropped was pitifully obvious. A young lad was being bullied by a hulking brute and in the next few moments would have had his head knocked in and the purse removed from his belt. If this was the state to which the Star Lords had reduced me, then I was very deep down indeed.

Then I contumed myself for a proud idiot. Any injustice must be fought, and if the injustice close to hand appears pitifully insignificant, it is not, and must be fought as hard as the greatest of injustices. For of the small the great are fashioned.

And still that cutthroat crew stood silent and still, glaring on me as though I was a ghost, an ib broken from the flesh and blood body.

Suddenly, as though flung from a catapult, the lad pushed himself up from where the bully had bent him back over the table. He leaped up and instantly dropped down and went into the full incline, nose in the filthy sawdust and brown breechclouted rump high in the air.

A yellow-haired woman, very blowsy, whose bodice strings were unlatched in a slatternly way, screeched in a shriek that pierced eardrums.

“It is! It is the emperor! It is Dray Prescot!"

Then—and I swear it as Zair is my witness!—that whole ruffianly crew from bully to pot boy, thumped down onto their knees, stuck their noses into the sawdust and elevated their bottoms in a sea of rotundity.

In a voice that cracked out more like a whip than a roar, I shouted: “If you know who I am, then you know I do not like the full incline. It is not seemly in a man or woman. By Vox! Stand up!"

The rustlings and surgings and gaspings as they struggled up really were funny; I could see the humorous side of this; but I was all at sea here and in too much of a hurry to laugh. Which is always a mistake.

There was no surprise to be felt when the lad and the bully and the yellow-haired woman all started in shouting at one another and at me, accusing, counter-accusing. The row was over the woman's affections, a perfectly ordinary squabble. Harm might have come to the lad. So the Emperor of Vallia had dropped in to sort out the problem and see justice was done.

They were not surprised, once they'd overcome the initial shock. Everyone in Vallia had read the books, read or heard the poems, seen the plays and puppet shows, telling of the deeds of Dray Prescot. No one bothered to wonder how the emperor could be in so many places at one and the same time. He was Dray Prescot, and so he could be expected to turn up in times of trouble.

An old buffer with lank hair, three front teeth and a look of a dyspeptic owl sitting on a stool to the side, and saying nothing, ought to be the one.

I said: “Dom, tell me the rights of this."

He led off at once, cacklingly, relating how young Larghos thought he was beloved of Buxom Trodi, who was enamored of Nath the Biceps.

“They but gulled the lad, majister, and no harm done. But young Larghos pulled a knife—"

I glared at the youngster.

“Did you draw steel in this quarrel?"

He flushed scarlet and stammered. “Yes, majister."

Probably he had intended to scare Nath the Biceps off before his head was bashed in. I suggested that.

“No, majister. That is, yes, majister; but I did not want to kill Nath. If the knife had stuck him a little, I would not have sorrowed."

Nath the Biceps, boiling up, broke out with: “I was only going to clip you side o’ the ear, you great fambly!"

“So the matter is settled.” I spoke like granite. “You must find another light o’ love, Larghos."

“Indeed, yes, majister. Thank you, majister."

“Thank you, majister,” chorused the other two.

I stared around the taproom by the light of the samphron oil lamps. A place like this would normally be lit by cheap mineral oil lamps. A thieves’ den, then.

I spoke forcefully.

“You have evidently not heard. I have renounced the crown of Vallia. I am no longer the emperor, nor is the divine Delia the empress. Our son and his bride now rule. Hai, Jikai, Drak and Silda, Emperor and Empress of Vallia!"

One or two of them called out a “Hai, Jikai."

Others shuffled their feet. A lot had reason to turn their heads. I felt the puzzlement.

“What ails you, doms? Why do you not give the Hai, Jikai to our new emperor and empress?"

The lank-haired, three-toothed buffer piped up, speaking for all.

“We heard, majister, as my name is Orol the Wise. We scarcely credited that you would turn your back on Vallia and leave us, thieves though we be. For our sons and daughters have served you well. We have nothing against Prince Drak and Princess Silda. But you and the divine Delia are emperor and empress. Opaz knows that."

I couldn't very well ask them where I was. Well, I could, and they'd answer and most of them would think this merely another whim. But I fancied I didn't need to ask. I thought I was in Vondium, the capital of Vallia. I thought I was in the old city, in Drak's City, a place apart, a city within a city, the haunt of thieves and runaways, of disaffected folk and of assassins.

“Yes,” I said. “Your young men have served as kreutzin and have done prodigies. But all our loyalties go now to the new emperor and empress."

“It's not right,” spoke out a fellow with one eye and a scar to match.

I shook my head. Well, of course, this whole scene was farcical. Here was I arguing the rights and wrongs of empire with a bunch of cutthroats in an evil-smelling tavern. Yet the situation was serious. Was this the attitude of many of the citizenry of Vallia? If so, it portended ill for my lad Drak and his gorgeous bride Silda, the daughter of my blade-comrade Seg Segutorio.

So, in that lugubrious and squalid tavern I spoke up and told them somewhat of the dangers of the Shanks from over the curve of the world, how they raided us.

“These devilish Fish-heads burn and pillage and seize all. Now they will attack inland as well as our coasts, for they have fliers."

At this there was a murmur of alarm and horror.

“Yes, doms, we in Vallia are in for it. All the lands of Paz must unite together to resist these Leem Lovers. If we fail to act together now, we will not have another chance."

A fellow with a glint of silver at his throat, wearing a leather jack and with a scar across his jaw that gave his whole countenance a leering and lopsided look, shouldered up. He carried, I noticed, a drexer for a sword. In his left fist he held a tankard which slopped suds; but he was not intoxicated. His right fist rested on his broad lestenhide belt whose buckle looked to be gold. I say looked, the ways of these folk in Drak's City are cunning in forgery and artifice.

“Emperor,” he cried. “Majister. We have fought for Vallia against the Hamalese, and against the Clansmen from Segesthes. We have fought the damned Pandaheem. Now you ask us to make friends with them, perhaps to kiss them on the cheek."

“If necessary,” said I, speaking up. “If you care for a mouthful of whiskers, that is."

That raised a few titters.

He was not to be deterred. He had darkish hair which grew low on his forehead, and darkish eyebrows which knit furiously together as he scowled.

“You say, majister, you are not the emperor any more. You are our emperor, and we have fought for you. I have never fought in any of Prince Drak's armies."

I had him to rights now. I didn't know his name—well, even with the memory conferred upon me by the Savanti nal Aphrasöe, I couldn't know the name of every swod in the army.

But he'd be one of the mercenaries who'd returned home from service overseas and would have been used as a drill-master for the young lads from Drak's City who had been volunteered into the new Vallian army by the Aleygyn, the chief of the assassins of Drak's City. He wore no rank markings; he'd be a Deldar at the least. I had not missed the silver glitter at his throat marking him for a mortpaktun, a renowned mercenary.

“What regiment?” I said.

“Fourth Emperor's Yellow Jackets, majister."

“A right hairy bunch. I know of your deeds. Your name?"

“Ord-Deldar Yomin the Clis, majister."

“Very well, Deldar. I tell you in Opaz's twinned truth, I have renounced the crown and throne of Vallia, I have abdicated, and the divine Delia, also. The Emperor Drak and the Empress Silda are now your lawful lords and lady. It is to them we all owe our duty."

Those ferocious eyebrows of his twisted about at this. Then a sudden and cunning expression turned his face into a veritable mask of shrewdness.

He flung up his right hand, excited with his own discovery.

“Listen, doms!” he bellowed. “I have riddled it! I see it all! All the lands of Paz must unite and we all know there is only one person who can perform that prodigious task."

“Aye!” they cackled it out, laughing at their own access of understanding. “Aye! Only one man!"

“Of course Dray Prescot and the divine Delia must have someone else on the throne of Vallia, for they are to lead all Paz! It is sooth. Hai, Dray Prescot! Hai, Delia! Emperor of Emperors and Empress of Empresses! Hai, Jikai! Hai, Jikai!"

So they all took it up, caterwauling it out, over and over, and a fine show they made of flashing wicked-looking knives and cudgels and coshes in the air. What a rapscallion bunch!

And I stood there, like a loon, like the fallible fool I was. I, Dray Prescot, the Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy—and various other bodies besides—was now to add to my burden of titles a fresh load of responsibility hung on me by a pack of rogues in a dissolute tavern!

It was enough to make a plain old sailorman snatch off his hat and throw it on the ground and jump on it, by Zair!

The pandemonium hullabalooed on and it might have gone on until the Ice Floes of Sicce went up in steam for all I knew. But a blueness swept in and I felt the cold and the wind and I began that long fall upward into the giant blue form of the Scorpion, huge and ghostly and radiantly blue above me.

What that plug ugly bunch in the tavern thought I didn't know. They'd just put this flashy vanishment down to another of those fabulous Dray Prescot tricks, to be repeated in story and song and regaled to one and all around the hearth, around the campfires, in hall and hovel alike all over Vallia.

Around me the blueness swelled and bloated with that phantom form of the Scorpion. The red flush spread across my vision and there was not a single spark of golden yellow or, thankfully, of acrid green.

As I whirled up through the void so I realized all my anger against the Star Lords had evaporated. I couldn't sustain that juvenile emotion under the stress of sheer continued existence. Emperor of Emperors? I didn't want to be an Emperor of bloody Emperors!

So, out of the blueness I somersaulted and so crashed down thump into a room into which I had never been before. I knew I was about to speak with the Star Lords, and anyone who spoke to them needed to think long and deeply on what he said. Long and deeply, by Zair.

Chapter three

I treat with the Star Lords

Mind you, I ought still to be angry with the Star Lords.

Their information had told me the damned Shanks were attacking Mehzta, hundreds of dwaburs away to the east. The conquest of the island would take them some time. We could not send our own troops because of the troubles through which we were going. You have time, the Everoinye had told me, you have time to settle affairs in Vallia and to prepare Paz for the Shank invasion.

And the fishy-headed devils had turned up to attack us in Pandahem, just south of here.

Not only that, the Shanks used airboats, fliers that sailed through the air and fought us with fire. Yes, the Star Lords should have warned of that.

That was the bone of contention I had with them.

The room, oval in shape and with curved cornices, held a cool mild light which came from a source I could not identify. It simply permeated all the space. There was a single chair, with arms, a back and with deep upholstery in an ivory color. There was a table with a single central leg. On the table—a flagon and a glass.

This time I did not hesitate. I crossed to the table, poured a full glass of the wine, a light yellow, and then sat down in the chair.

All this, mark you, without so much as a by your leave.

The walls had been done out in intricate curlicues of flowers and leaves, of grasses and ferns, all in natural colors, and the effect was soothing. A white rectangle against the wall facing the chair rather spoiled the effect.

A voice from thin air spoke and I couldn't understand half the words, even with the genetic language pill the Savanti had given me. I sat still, sipped the wine, and said nothing.

I was, if the truth be told, rather husbanding a growing resentment. Those damned Shanks in their airboats! The Star Lords should have warned me.

The voice spoke again, and this time testily.

“Look at the picture and think of what you wish to see."

“What picture?"

A sigh. “The white rectangle, onker."

So I looked and I thought.

Far below there was jungle. It smoked hot and harshly green into the glare of the Suns of Scorpio. The fliers streamed on in perfect formation. My viewpoint moved in dazzlingly to the lead ship, that superb voller called Pride of Vondium.

She stood quite alone right up in the prow, magnificent, glorious, the suns catching those outrageous auburn tints in her hair and burnishing them to bronze. She was clad for war, girt with swords, and with a bow in her fist. She stood peering ahead and down, searching, searching.

My heart called out to her, called despairingly and forlornly, for she could not hear me, could not know I gazed upon her with such longing.

“Delia,” I cried. “My Delia of the Blue Mountains, my Delia of Delphond."

Was it just coincidence?

As I thus cried out in that mystic chamber among the Star Lords, so Delia started, and looked up and then about her. Her face—glorious, glorious!—turned so that she looked, as it were, full upon me.

Like any fool I held out my arms.

She smiled, suddenly, dazzlingly, so that I felt the shock of it.

My Delia smiled, and I felt the comfort of that, sundered from her by unimaginable gulfs.

The picture misted and died.

Wild and chaotic thoughts clashed and jumbled in my skull. What a foolish useless lump of a husband I was! How my Delia seemed always condemned to search for me. And yet—I shivered at the thought that if that splendid armada from Vallia found what they looked for, if they discovered the Coup Blag they would find also the Witch of Loh, Csitra, secreted inside like a spider at the center of her web.

She had lost her child, certainly, and her power was much reduced. But her malignancy continued unabated. She would do all she could to harm Vallia in her insane pursuit of me.

There was comfort to be found in the presence with Delia of the Witch and Wizard of Loh who were our loyal companions. Their combined powers should be enough to counter the kharrna of Csitra.

There was no time for more thought as the thin voice from empty air spoke again.

“Think again, Dray Prescot."

This time Seg Segutorio jumped into the picture, almost as though he was there in the room with me. Good old Seg! His wild black hair and fey blue eyes, his bowman's shoulders, all filled the screen with his presence. His handsome face was wrought into a scowl and he was telling someone I could not see to jump. There was no mistaking that.

He looked still to be in the bewildering mazes of the Coup Blag, and yet I'd thought he'd scrambled free through the hole in the roof. Well, I'd find that out soon enough, I did not doubt.

If Seg really still wandered about in the maze, then no doubt Nath the Impenitent remained with him. Perhaps also Loriman the Hunter was there. Maybe they hadn't made it through that split in the roof of the chamber as it collapsed and fell about our ears. They remained therefore in deadly danger.

The fleet from Vallia led on by Delia had clearly been searching. Yet the Mages from Loh knew where the maze was, for they had succored me there and fought and destroyed the uhu Phunik, Csitra's child.

Therefore—and the revelation struck me once again with the power of the Everoinye—therefore my friends searched for me.

The Star Lords manipulated authority in so terrible a fashion that the Wizards of Loh were as puny mewling mortals in their grip. For all their mystical mastery, the Lohvian sorcerers could not scry my whereabouts when the Everoinye had me in their grasp.

The next item at which I chose to look would have raised the blood pressure of any honest seaman of Paz.

The ocean sparkled in a ruffle of blue-green and white. I could not smell that tangy sea breeze there in that secret room; but in my imagination I could snuff up the ozone and the seaweed and the fresh riot of air as the breeze blustered past.

Three ships burned upon the bright face of the sea.

From the little that remained I took them to be argenters, broad-beamed merchant craft. Above them circled the hateful black-hulled fliers of the Shanks. The airboats with their brightly-painted squared-off upperworks had given the three ships of Paz no chance. Fire pots had rained down. It was now all over, and had I been there instead of watching that terrible scene from an unknown distance I could have achieved little more.

Little more than nothing would still be nothing.

“Yes,” sighed that nasal voice. “There is your task, Dray Prescot, and yet—"

“Hold it, hold it,” I interrupted, not recking of the damned power of the Star Lords. “I know all about that lot. Why didn't you warn me of them? You said the Shanks were over in Mehzta. Yet they are here off the coast of Pandahem and likely to—"

Instead of cutting me off peremptorily with cutting sarcasm, as they would probably have done in the old days, they interrupted with: “The Shanks are in Mehzta. The fight sways back and forth. These are Shtarkins, along with Shkanes. Their use of vollers is recent."

“That doesn't alter the fact you should have told me."

A spark of their old arrogance spurted.

“We are not answerable to you, Dray Prescot. You answer to us!"

“Yes and no,” I said, and heard myself speaking, and I was in a fair old state, I can tell you. This was quite unlike normal dealings with the Star Lords, unknown arbiters of life and death. I realized I was holding the glass of light yellow with a grip that would fracture the globe if I didn't manage to control myself.

The Star Lords went on to apprise me of the details of the vollers run by the Shanks, details that I shall pass along when they become relevant, and something of what they said calmed me down. All the same, I felt that the bargain I fancied we had patched up between us had been seriously endangered, and I had been betrayed.

“Not so, onker. You have had time to deal with your problems, there is time yet to go. We shall tell you when that time comes, never fear."

I did not slang them. I wanted to know why what had happened to me since being snatched up from the collapsing palace, leaving Seg, and arriving here, had occurred. The details seemed to me so bizarre as to warrant an explanation that, in all probability, I would not understand.

The voice gained an edge as it answered.

“You need not know why. We have many responsibilities and in Kregen we—” and here when I interrupted, not understanding, the voice snapped: “The easiest concept for you to grasp is melting pot. Yes. We are almost sure your brains can understand that."

I wasn't sure: I didn't say so.

“A dead numim, did you say?"

“As a doornail, poor devil."

This was followed by a long silence.

After a space I said: “I did see, earlier, the green presence of Ahrinye—"

“Silence, onker!"

Well, if the young and arrogantly energetic Ahrinye was trying a scheme on against the other Star Lords, he might well be successful if their powers really were fading. And young? Maybe he was a million or so years less in age.

Presently the voice—and I thought it was by a shade different from the first—said: “Our responsibilities sometimes demand assistance."

Almost, almost I blurted out: “Call on me, any time.” But I managed to keep the black bile down.

The Star Lord went on: “If we so will it, you will be called on to serve in the bacra area—"

“Bacra area?"

“Where you were, fambly."

That did not mean anything to me.

“But we deem you to be more useful following the course we have set out—"

“A course I initiated before you suggested it, Star Lords! I don't forget that."

A silence.

Typical of the Everoinye, they loftily ignored that point. It was, in truth, a petty point, and indicating my own stupid self-esteem. They indicated they were unhappy at the way I risked my neck for purposes other than theirs. They'd twice now hoicked me up out of it when I'd tried to pull first Seg and young Ortyg, then Loriman, out of danger. But, and I felt a sudden coolness down my spine at this, they told me a thing I should have realized.

“We understand you to be reckless and a daredevil and an onker of onkers, Dray Prescot. We suppose you to continue thus. Maybe, one day, we shall not require you, and your usefulness to us will be at an end."

“Come the day!” I bellowed up. “Come the day!"

“You forget—"

“I don't forget! Those two times are the only times you've lifted a finger to help me. You've never worried yourselves over my skin. I'd have been dead a thousand times by now for all you care."

The silence this time seemed to be charged with that insufferable pressure that clamps down just before a thunderstorm.

“We are sending you back now, Dray Prescot, to rejoin your comrades."

“I see. Tell me. All this trudging about mazes and underground corridors. Can you give me something to help me see a trifle better in the dark? Is that beyond your powers?"

“Not at all. A trifle."

“Well?"

“You were ever ungracious in your ways."

“I'm gracious to those who are polite to me."

Let them suck on that one, the high and mighty bunch of onkers!

From the white rectangle hanging blankly on the wall a shaft of pure white light hit me in the face so that I blinked, and cursed, and flung up a hand. If this was their idea of a joke it hurt.

This might not be a joke. This might be a new form of punishment for insubordination.

“Remember your tasks, Dray Prescot. You have reunited Vallia. Now your task is to unite Paz—"

“That's easier said than done, despite all our grand talk. The task is greater than I imagined."

“Of course."

I fumed away and saw I'd get no farther. At least, I'd given the Star Lords a piece of my mind, not that they needed much in the way of extra brains. Maybe their powers were fading; they were still so immeasurably stronger than any other force I knew of on Kregen, they remained superhuman and all-powerful.

The transition rustled in on wings of blueness and I was up and away again, like a scarecrow blown headlong in a gale. Just as I went I reflected bitterly that they'd not given me a magic torch or something to light up the darkness, the stingy taskmasters.

Whirling around I went thump down on my feet. Rock scraped underfoot and the orange flare of torches burned into my eyes. The passage was rough hewn and the light shone in brilliantly from the corner. A man stepped around the edge of stone into view.

“Hai, my old dom. I knew you'd be around here somewhere."

Chapter four

Horrors in the Coup Blag

Our greetings were necessarily brief, for, as Seg said: “There's an unfriendly monster fellow with a horrendous set of gnashers chasing us. I've shafted two of his eyes; but we need to find a little space to tackle him properly."

Nath the Impenitent, bulking hugely in the passage, roared on half-dragging the suddenly unimposing form of Kov Loriman the Hunter.

The Hunting Kov was a husk of his former self. Gone were the bluster and arrogance. Gone was his imperious look. He appeared shrunken. Since his lady had been slain and swallowed up in the earth, he had scarcely moved under his own volition.

“Hai, Jak,” rasped out Nath the Impenitent, fiery-faced, spiky with contained anger. “We must get on. The beast is snapping at my heels."

There was no time or need for me to argue.

If these two said run, then I'd run. If Seg, who is the finest bowman in two worlds, had shafted the beast twice, and the thing still lived, then running was clearly and eminently the most sensible course of action.

Nath held up a torch in his left hand. His right dragged on Loriman. Seg held a torch in his left hand, and his right grasped his bow with the arrow nocked in that old and cunning bowman's fashion.

I wondered why Seg was doing it cack-handed; there was no time to ask now as we ran on along the corridor. The floor caught at our feet, rough-hewn as it was. The light glanced weirdly from the jagged walls and roof. The place held a musty stink as of last week's socks left and forgotten in the laundry basket.

Before we'd reached the next corner the beast rounded his corner and rumbled along the corridor after us.

I cast a look back.

Nasty. No doubt of that. And the loss of two of his four eyes made his temper even worse. He looked to be all spine and scale, with grasping forelimbs, claws and, as Seg had said, a jawful of gnashers. Nasty, right enough. We ran on.

The chamber into which we pelted around the next bend lofted high and vasty into purple mistiness where the flare of our torches merely touched the edges of mystery with orange. There appeared little comfort for wandering adventurers here.

“This'll do,” said Seg, full of confidence.

Most unkindly, I said: “P'raps a flat-trajectory compound reflex might—"

“Oho!” burst out Seg. “You're a backstabber too, are you?"

He thrust the torch at me, transferred the great Lohvian longbow into his left fist and took up the nocked arrow into those supremely capable archer's fingers of his. We could hear the beast roar from the tunnel. Our torches threw a little light and I blinked, for their radiance held an odd glow to me now, as I paused in the chamber. The light glinted on scale and spine and on two fiery eyes.

Seg loosed.

A watcher would say he blurred into action; the loosing of the two shafts was so swift, the second following the first so rapidly, that the whole transaction was over in a twinkling, the two arrows flying almost before Seg moved.

“Well,” said Nath the Impenitent. “I shan't have to run dragging this damned lord about, now. I thank you for that, Seg the Horkandur."

Seg smiled and then looked at me.

“Little flat bows,” he said. Then he shoved that superb Lohvian longbow up on his shoulder and whipped out his knife.

As I went over with him to help dig out his four arrows, Seg said over his shoulder: “Not until we meet the next horror, Nath."

The first two arrows had merely destroyed the eyes. The second pair had penetrated deeply into the brain. I left those two to Seg.

Truth to tell, as I believe I have struggled to explain, the death of wild animals, even monsters intent on devouring me, is always a saddening and chastening experience.

Nath the Impenitent let rip with his grunting snort of a laugh when we rejoined him.

“The next horror is likely to be seriously conulted by you mad pair."

Conulted, as I may have mentioned, means to receive a nasty shock, a body blow, and I found its usage, and particularly by a rough tough customer like Nath, in these surroundings, decidedly charming.

Also, and this pleased me immensely, Nath with his ingrown hatred and contempt for lords and nobles, had quite grown to accept Seg and me as companions.

“Oh, aye,” said Seg in his raffish offhand way. “We'll conult a few more of the confounded creepy crawlies down here yet. But with half the maze vanished away I fancy it won't be long before we're out of it altogether."

The way Seg easily accepted the heights—or depths—of sorcery involved here did not amaze me. His own fey nature told him things that more lumpen mortals could never understand. With the death of the Witch of Loh's hermaphrodite child, the uhu Phunik, its ethereal constructions had vanished. Opulent underground chambers, palaces of wonder, had not simply whiffed away with Phunik's death. Oh, no. There had been a gargantuan upheaval as the fabric of the normal universe resumed its shape and the distortions of magical art withdrew.

In other words, the whole lot fell down in a hell of a smother.

Most of the people in the party who had ventured down into the maze of the Coup Blag had got away, scrambling up the slippery slope of detritus to emerge into the lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Kov Loriman, shattered by the death of his lady Hebe, existing now like a man drugged or in a trance, had been the cause of Seg's, Nath's and my enforced further entrapment in the maze of the Coup Blag.

By this time, as was clearly apparent, old Nath the Impenitent recognized he was lumbered with Kov Loriman. Nath was conscious of his insular Vallian blood, and of the fact that the lords of the land cared nothing for him, and this famous Hunting Kov was not even Vallian, he was from Yumapan in the west of the island of Pandahem. Well, Nath would be saying to himself, they might be stumbling about in a damned hole in the ground in Pandahem, he'd drag this haughty noble out of it by the scruff of the neck and then pitch him over onto his nose. This, I fancied, would also be the reading Seg would give to the situation.

The rocky corridor turned twice upon itself and then led into a room where some light seeped in from a webwork of cracks in the ceiling.

“If that lot's due to fall down—” began Nath, ominously.

“—we'll depart with the utmost urgency,” finished Seg, cheerfully.

Loriman slumped to the stone floor with a thump. His head hung down so that his armored shoulders peaked. He'd lost his helmet. Looking at this once blustery, damn-you-to-hell fellow, I experienced a sudden, quick, quite surprising stab of pity.

Mind you, if Delia was—well, never mind that.

“Two exits,” sang out Seg. “D'you have a fancy?"

“They both look the same,” observed Nath.

“Toss a blade,” I said.

Now the meaning of a couple of odd looks Nath had given me when he'd met up with me again revealed themselves.

“Need to stand from under if you toss up that great bar of iron, Jak."

He'd seen me use the Krozair longsword in action; now I realized he'd seen me step out with the old scarlet breechclout and with the longsword cocked up and, of course, all the legends and tales of Dray Prescot would have come into his mind. That was how Dray Prescot, the Emperor of Vallia, whirled about the world, righting wrongs, rescuing both princesses and tavern girls from danger, slaying dire monsters and putting Vallia back together again and recreating the empire as a place where folk could live happily in safety.

There would be absolutely no connection in his head. I was Jak the Bogandur, admittedly a lesser noble of some kind; but a decent enough fellow for a lord, as was our comrade Seg the Horkandur. The Emperor of Vallia was altogether another fellow, a rogue and cramph Nath detested wholeheartedly.

He'd already said he disbelieved the tales about Dray Prescot. Well, that made two of us.

Once we were out of this maze I'd have to make the attempt to put the record straight. Nath had been court-martialed, and I had promised myself that I'd have that lot sorted, too. The main priorities now were getting out of the Coup Blag, of finding our Vallian aerial fleet, and of going and bashing the fliers of those Opaz-forsaken Shanks.

We went through the left-hand door and found only another of these baffling corridors.

Loriman shambled along like a drugged wild animal chained and leashed by callous performing-animal handlers.

“He won't be much good if we get into another fight.” Seg paced along like a savage wild animal himself, chained and leashed by this damned maze.

“Maybe that would bring him back to his senses."

“If that were so, then bring on the fight sharpish."

None of us recognized any of the passageways and chambers through which we made our way. These subterranean burrowings would be either natural formations or sorcerous constructs fashioned by Csitra. All Phunik's magical architecture had vanished along with him, and good riddance too, by Krun.

We spoke little, going cautiously.

Nath the Impenitent did say, with that grumbly growl: “There's been no food lately and my insides are like the purse of a pickpocket at an orgy."

I thought of my scrunchy meal of caterpillar-rotted metal, and said nothing.

Noise from up ahead halted us. After a long time of listening, we moved carefully forward along a tunnel hung with tapestries.

Any damn tapestry can hide a fellow with a bow or a knife, ready to degut you. We inspected everything with enormous thoroughness, and even then one of the tapestries detached itself from its hangings and like a monstrous bat swooped down on us.

We flailed about with our swords, and Seg put a torch to the flapping horror and scorched it away. It flip-flopped off, burning, crackling to shredded blackness.

We caught our breaths.

“Strangle your eyes out and your head off, that,” remarked Nath. Any amusement I might feel at his by now complete adaptation to the requirements of survival in the Coup Blag had to be indulged in when we were out of it.

We went on toward the source of the noises ahead, and we gave a pretty hefty tug at each tapestry as we passed. There were only three more we had to torch.

The noises increased in volume and sorted themselves out into two varieties. Both varieties were exceedingly ugly. One was the screams of women. The other was the sound of nuzzling and grunting as of beasts feeding.

Seg's face, which I have often described as handsome, as, indeed, it is, shocked suddenly with blood. He took the appearance of an eagle about to swoop. When my blade comrade appears like that, it is best for evildoers to run and hide and pray they are not discovered by Seg Segutorio.

Nath ripped out: “That sounds like—” and then he started off after Seg.

Kov Loriman flopped sacklike onto the floor.

If what was going on in the chamber up ahead was as my comrades and I suspected, then this would be the opportunity—evil and heart-breaking though it be—to revive the Hunting Kov. If I had read his character aright, then despite all his arrogance and haughty treatment of others, his slavish indulgence in hunting, this situation would appeal to those traits of character I knew him to possess which had not been deadened by his lofty station in life. I seized him under his left shoulder and fairly dragged him along the passageway.

The women were of many races, diffs and apims. Not all were young and beautiful, though they mostly were younger rather than older, and their condition suggested they were kept hard at arduous tasks when they were not employed as they were now. Some retained remnants of clothing. None wore ornaments or jewelry. And they screamed.

The bestial sounds came from the gorilla-faced malkos who were, after all, men, even if they were not apim. They were employed as guards by Csitra in her maze of the Coup Blag. They were unpleasant, brutish customers, and Seg had dealt firmly with a bloodthirsty pack of them when he'd met the lady Milsi, who was now his wife.

I hauled Kov Loriman up straight. I had not drawn my own sword, and so was able to draw his and thrust it into his hand. I wrapped his fingers about the expensive hilt.

Loriman was a Pandahem noble, widely-traveled, as I guessed, who'd been to many countries and down to the southern continent of Havilfar. He'd seen a lot of the world in his travels, during his hunting forays. He would have heard of the legends and stories clustered about the name of the Emperor of Vallia, Dray Prescot, and like any sophisticated man, would have considered them palpable falsehoods. Still and all, he'd have heard of Dray Prescot in his scarlet breechclout with the great Krozair longsword flaming.

Now it is quite clear that in this my narrative I tell you of the surface of things openly, thus allowing you the pleasure of teasing out the inner meanings. I do not mean hidden meanings. They are plainly there for those who see beneath the tapestry of the language. Language itself, whether of Earth or of Kregen, is at once a communication and a barrier.

Kov Loriman had to be made to see what his eyes told him was going on. And this meant I delayed my own entry into the fight and assistance to Seg and Nath.

So, and without any hidden meanings in this case, you can see that I thus risked the lives and sanity of these poor half-demented and savagely brutalized women.

Seg shot. There is little that can be added to those evocative words. Seg Segutorio shot.

Nath the Impenitent, sword a brand of flame, leaped down into the chamber and started to lay about him. Malkos screeched, spouted blood, and died.

Most of the gorilla-faced diffs were without armor. Their weapons were piled against one wall. They had been chasing the women, joying in the licence allowed them by the Witch of Loh. Bestial though they were, they died like any mortal man.

I saw Nath swing his sword in a cunning drawing stroke. The malko's head flew off to roll bouncing on the filthy straw-matted floor. Crimson blood from the severed neck spouted across the white bosom and neck of the girl still clasped in the malko's arms. The crimson splash seared into white skin. The woman drew a breath to scream, and the headless body fell away, tumbling onto the straw. She put her hands to herself, looking down, and she could not find the breath to scream any more.

Nath surged on, his brand a bar of crimson. Seg's shafts spitted malkos as they ran for their weapons.

I shook Kov Loriman as a teacher shakes a recalcitrant child.

“Look, Loriman. Look on what goes forward here. If that lady there were the Lady Hebe—"

The girl to whom I pointed, slim and shrieking and naked and distraught almost beyond reason, struggled in the grip of a malko so passionately involved he had failed to grasp the significance of the other uproar going on about him.

“Suppose that were the Lady Hebe, Loriman! She might be dead; there are many other ladies demanding your service. You are called the Hunting Kov, Loriman. Is your prideful selfishness so profound and your arrogant self-esteem so great, that you have forgotten you are a hunting kov and—"

There was more I was wound up to spout into his ear. But he let rip with a groaning, snorting howl of anguish. He snatched up the sword in his fist. His face tautened, lost its slack look of imbecility, hardened into a semblance of the Hunting Kov I knew.

“By all the gods of Panachreem!” he screeched.

He whirled the sword once about his head and tore free of my grasp, hurled himself down into the melee.

“And about bloody time too, by Krun!” I said as I unlimbered the Krozair brand and roared into the fray.

Some of the malkos, naked as they were, had reached their stacked weapons. They took up their swords, thraxters mostly, and turned to face us. There was no doubt in their minds that even after this surprise which had brought down a number of them, they would quickly dispose of us four foolish souls.

By this time Seg had knocked off most of the isolated targets. Those remaining were masked by the caterwauling women or by the tables they used as barricades or even by Nath and Loriman. Seg stashed his longbow and drew his drexer and with sword in fist joined me as we hurtled into combat.

Chapter five

How Loriman the Hunter returned to life

Dour, stocky, withdrawn people, malkos, prone to savagery beyond the bounds of reason. They have much body hair. Their gorilla-like faces are capable of expressions, emotions clearly discernable to any apim. Now, as they battled back at us, after lust came rage.

Seg's quiver was empty. So that was the real reason he had stopped shooting. His sword flamed alongside mine.

No fighting is a pretty affair, no matter how the romanticists attempt to dress it up in fine language. Oh, yes, there is a panache, a surge of blood and a feeling that what you are about, being worthwhile, uplifts the spirits. But it is a dreadful business. When a heavy steel blade swishes through the air powered by the muscles and energy of a full-grown man, and strikes flesh and blood, the results may be grotesque, outrageous, gory and, inevitably, horrible.

The malkos, being paid guards, fought well.

The Impenitent appeared to be in his element, striking shrewd, economical blows after that initial strike of decapitating fury. In the past I had worried over Seg's prowess as a bladesman; I worried no longer, for he was superb. Kov Loriman now demonstrated that he had recovered from that black pit of despair. I was not sure he had fully recovered; for this business his sword work proved more than adequate.

So we smashed and hacked and thrust and destroyed.

There was no surprise to a Kregan in seeing some of the naked women snatch up fallen weapons, daggers, knives, swords, and spring like furies upon the malkos. They had many indignities to avenge, and while vengeance is a child's game, here one could understand and in part sympathize.

We did not slay them all, for at the end a handful ran off through a secret door that opened in the blank stone wall. It clashed shut and Seg just had time to drag a frenzied girl away before she was crushed between the closing stones.

“Kill them!” she screeched, twisting and writhing in Seg's grip. “Slay them all in the name of Pandrite the All-Glorious!"

“Armipand will surely take them all up into his special terror,” said Seg, easily. “Now you just rest quietly, young lady, and get your breath."

She panted, hair swirling, chest heaving, her body all a glisten of sweat. The long dagger with the blood smeared upon the blade and splashed up her arm formed a fitting accessory for such a spitfire girl.

Already Nath was cleaning his sword.

The Hunting Kov looked about as a man looks upon the dawn after he has freshly risen from his bed.

He stared at Seg and he stared at me, and he said: “I remember."

I nodded in acknowledgment. It was left to Seg to say: “Good. I am glad to see you recovered, kov. Now perhaps you'd take out your knife and help."

With that Seg started in on the task of recovering his arrows.

When we'd cut them all out and cleaned them up, Seg was disgusted to find that two of the shafts had broken through.

“You must expect shafts to break, Horkandur,” said Nath.

Seg began stripping the arrows down, removing heads and flights and nocks.

“That is true, my old Impenitent; but in our situation not to be relished."

Loriman spat out: “In our situation that damned witch will be watching us and know where we are and will—"

“Just for the moment,” I broke in, “I think she has other problems on her mind."

“And, anyway,” said Seg, stowing the salvaged arrow parts in his pouch, “In this present situation we have all these women to concern us."

Most of the screaming and crying had stopped and the women were trying to find bits and pieces of clothing from the malkos. Many of them also took up weapons to add to those they had already used. The display of naked female bodies was covered up. One or two of the girls began to mutilate the malkos and I, in a state of indecision, wondered if that should be stopped when Loriman bellowed.

“Stop that, you creatures! Hunting and killing are one thing; what you are about is another."

One of the girls, very pale of skin, with frizzy dark hair, her teeth filed to points, stared back, the knife in her fist dripping blood onto the legs of the malko flat on the floor.

“What do you know of—?"

“I know enough of your dark Rumay customs, harpy!"

The Impenitent growled out: “I don't like it; but you can see it from their point of view."

“If it's their custom,” said Seg. “Anyway, it doesn't hurt the malkos, seeing they're dead."

“I will not tolerate Rumay rituals,” ground out Loriman. “And that is final. Queyd-arn-tung!"

The woman glared back, her eyes like rinds. She hadn't bothered to collect any clothes, being too intent on her task of ritual revenge and absolution, and dark blood splotched her pale shapely body.

“One last cut, then, master."

Loriman opened his mouth and I cracked out: “Do it!"

She cut and held her trophy aloft and Loriman, face congested, swung toward me.

“What do you know of this, Jak the Bogandur! This is women's evil work against men—"

“Alive yes; dead, is it of consequence to an unbeliever?” I gave him a hard stare and he, while not exactly flinching back, braced himself. “Or, Kov Loriman the Hunter, are you, too, a believer?"

“Were I not under a vow to desist from chastising you, Jak, I would challenge and strike you down where you stand!"

Seg laughed.

The Impenitent, enormously pleased at that moment, sang out: “Here, doms! There is food and wine!"

Loriman gave me a look that might have drilled through the best armor steel. He breathed in so that his harness creaked. Then he hunched up his left shoulder, swung his sword around in a gesture of complete contempt, and went off to where Nath had found the victuals.

Seg said: “He'll do himself a mischief one of these days."

“I am glad to see he is getting back to his old self. And, I tell you this, Seg. He won't want to leave the Coup Blag when we do."

“Quite."

The truth was obvious to both of us. Loriman would now insist on finding Csitra and dealing with her. She, or rather her hermaphrodite child Phunik, had slain the Lady Hebe. Loriman would never forget or forgive that. His desire for revenge was a cancer that burrowed far too deeply for rationality to alter.

We went off to the table where Nath and Loriman were stuffing their faces.

The women gathered around to eat and drink, and a weird-looking crew they were.

We elicited their stories, which were sad and cruel and painfully familiar.

Kidnapped, they'd been brought to the maze and employed on menial tasks, abused and ill-treated, seeing their only escape in death.

“So we shall have to take them all along with us.” Seg braced himself up. “Well, if we have to, we have to. By the Veiled Froyvil, we can do it!"

Nath nodded in agreement.

Now people speak of your complete soldier very often as a man or woman who thinks, lives and talks only of soldiering. There are such unhappy wights about, on Earth as on Kregen. They are not complete human beings, that seems clear. They have their uses. A fellow takes up soldiering because he has to, there being no alternative at the time. As soon as he can, he finishes with it.

My misfortune on Kregen had been that circumstances dictated that my life and soldiering had been intimately intertwined for a long time, a damn long time, too long a damned time, by Krun.

So Nath, a Vallian, was in my eyes a complete soldier who understood far more than simple soldiering.

Loriman chewed and swallowed and said: “I agree the women must be saved, if that is possible. But they will be an encumbrance when we face Csitra."

“Ah,” said Seg.

“What, Horkandur, does that ‘ah’ mean?"

A noble very much used to having his own way, this Kov Loriman. As a kov, the Kregan rank approximating an earthly Duke, he did not have to be too careful in considering other people's finer feelings. He'd arrived at the conclusion that Seg and I were not to be treated in quite the offhand and unthinking way he handled other people. This understanding, being new to him, clashed with his natural instincts. He intended to go and find Csitra the Witch of Loh and exact revenge. He couldn't quite comprehend that we did not share that desire.

“It means,” said Seg, “there are other shafts in the air."

“Explain yourself!"

I caught Seg's eye, and he smiled that damned mocking smile of his, and nodded, as much as to say: “Righto, my old dom, you have a go at this onker."

I faced up to the Hunting Kov.

“Listen, Loriman, and listen good. You need to exact revenge upon Csitra. I, also, have suffered at her hands, as has Seg, as have many of our friends."

Loriman tried to interrupt, as much in anger at my tone as what I was saying. I brushed him aside and went on in that hard, intemperate bash-on way of Dray Prescot.

“Csitra can be contained. Her evil was mostly the result of her forced alliance with Phu-Si-Yantong, a most unsavory character whom you might have known as the Hyr Notor. Well, he is dead and well stuffed down on the Ice Floes of Sicce. Yantong and Csitra's child, Phunik, attempted to carry on the evil work of his father, and now he, too, is dead, blown away in the Quern of Gramarye. The witch has been severely punished already."

“But not enough—"

“Any revenge in the matter of the Lady Hebe is strictly up to you, Loriman. I tell you now in all seriousness that Csitra's power is insufficient to create further mischief. Her occult meddling can be countered by superior kharrna. This is true, Loriman, believe me as you believe in the Great and Glorious Pandrite."

His left fist was gripping and ungripping upon the hilt of his scabbarded sword. His lips twisted. He could see in my face that old demonic look, and he didn't like it at all. But he listened.

“From the grouping of continents and islands over on the other side of the world of Kregen come the Shanks. Fish-heads. They burn and slay and spare none, apart from a few wights they keep as slaves who'd be better off dead. These are the foes we here in Paz must confront."

“I know of the Shkanes, the Shtarkins. They are all evil, as the Shanks are evil. We will fight them, yes. But before that I will cut down this Csitra, Witch of Loh or no damned Witch of Loh. And that is also true, believe me!"

His words hung on the close air of that chamber, echoing and ringing. I just hoped our Wizards of Loh were able to continue their occult caul of protection over us.

Nath the Impenitent broke the spell.

In his gruff way he rasped out: “At least I shall be spared the task of dragging the Hunting Kov about by the collar."

Seg laughed, as amused as I by the contrast.

As though the casual use of the names of powerful sorcerers summoned up their opposites, the phantasmal form of Deb-Lu shimmered against the wall. His newish turban toppled dangerously over one ear, his kindly face was marked by intense concentration. His robes, as always, looked as though he'd been pulled through a hedge backward. But his power was undeniable.

He beckoned.

“That,” said Seg, “is the way out."

“Aye."

Kov Loriman the Hunter wanted to continue the argument; but with the Wizard of Loh to act as our guide out of the Coup Blag, we had no wish to hang about further. With the women straggling along before and aft, we set off to follow Deb-Lu. Loriman's face resembled black thunder.

“Very well, then, run! As for me—there is a task set to my hands within this evil place."

Chapter six

Concerns a Star of Death

The Hunting Kov acted on his own words without a heartbeat's hesitation.

His bulk shouldered the women aside. One tumbled to her knees, hair falling forward, her cry lost in the general hubbub. Loriman charged back, returning the way we had traversed.

The women cowered out of his way, distressed, not understanding as he barged past like a runaway chunkrah.

At the last he turned to look back.

His face, always hard and arrogant, held now a flushed look of triumph. There was in that fanatical expression an expressive wealth of dedication. Slave to his ideals of hunting, Kov Loriman had now been consumed utterly by them.

He visualized in Csitra the Witch the ultimate quarry.

The dust of the corridors, the rank smell of the women, the feeling of pressure of millions of tons of rock pressing in all about us, added as it were a tonal palette to the emotions flooding Kov Loriman.

He shook his sword aloft.

“By Hito the Hunter! She shall not survive me, that I swear by Pandrite the All-Glorious!” He slashed his sword down. “Hai, Jikai!"

He swung about, the light glanced once upon the metal of his harness, and he was gone.

Seg laughed. “By the Veiled Froyvil, my old dom! I'm swamped to know if I'm sorry or glad to see the back of the fellow!"

“Oh,” I said with a nonchalance I did not feel. “We'll see old Loriman again, never fret."

Nath the Impenitent sniffed. He had an arm about the waist of one of the more comely of the ladies. “I give him the chance of a hot cinder in the Ice Floes of Sicce if he goes up against the Witch. By Vox, she'll devour him whole!"

“Let us press on, doms,” I said. I did not say to Nath that with the occult caul of protection afforded by our friendly Wizards of Loh, Loriman shouldn't come to too much harm. That is, if the caul had been extended to encompass him in its magical embrace.

I trusted Deb-Lu had done that. I needed Loriman for a key part in my schemes.

The decision had been long in coming, and hard in the taking. But, come it had and taken it I had—now all that remained was to implement it.

“Come along,” I said in a tone of voice that made Seg favor me with a quizzical look. I knew I sounded far too casually light-hearted for this grim situation; but the decision, once taken, set that part of my worries free. And good old Seg would buckle down to his part in the scheme, that I knew, after he'd had a good old moan.

The girls set up a screaming just then and surged back on us in a frightened mob. There was a splendid display of thrashing arms and legs, of half-naked bodies tumbling one over the other, of faces screaming in fresh fear. The smells became near overpowering.

The fellow who caused all this stood like a gnarled tree, legs wide apart, black and golden armor—all shiny leather and dull metal and golden studs and rivets—relieved by a dramatically flung-back scarlet cape. His helmet held a skull-crest and surmounted a face of compressed ferocity, of down-drooping mustaches, of serrated sharpened teeth, of veinous-crimson eyes, of nostril slits pulsating like the underbelly of a fish.

Harsh and compelling without a morsel of humanity remaining in him after a lifetime of bloodshed, this Kanzai Warrior Brother was no figment of sorcerous imagination.

The Kanzai take in recruits from any suitable race although it is said they favor Chuliks and Khibils and Laceroti, and train these acolytes into adepts and Warrior Brothers. After that the world of Kregen is their oyster.

We were not overly bothered with them in Vallia, for the old emperor's grandfather had cleared them out in a wholesale rubbish-clearance that was now the subject of many songs and stories. Pandahem had its share of Kanzai Brothers.

This fellow carried a thraxter and a shortsword scabbarded at his waist above the skirts of the laminated armor. He appeared to have no missile weapons, and this appearance was deceptive. He carried no bow; he had other nasty objects he could hurl with neck-slicing speed.

The Kanzai despised shields.

Now, from its scabbard he drew a chunkscreetz and this swordbreaker was more like a Japanese Sai than a European swordbreaker. Of strong iron, with two curved quillons designed to trap and snap an opponent's blade, the swordbreaker was a weapon that had to be taken into account.

He moved with precise control, each movement taking a segment of time between periods of absolute stillness.

The length of chain he swung from a pouch made Seg draw in a quick breath. At one end of the chain swung a three-bladed knife, and the other a three-tined grappling hook. The thing was a Kregen adaptation of the Japanese Kyotetsu-shoge. The Kawa-naga, as an improvised weapon, varied subtly. I shared Seg's distrust of these cripplers.

The links of chain spun about his head. His thin lips widened in a smile of invitation. He did not boast, for that is not the way of the Kanzai.

Nath blurted out: “I'll settle his hash—"

“Stay, Nath. Maybe we can talk to this Kanzai Brother rather than fight him."

“As soon hold back the River of Golden Smiles with your bare hands."

The dulled metal chain links went whirr-whirr-whirr in a circle before the adept. He swung the chain in a bewildering series of patterns, of figures of eight and loops and cunning underhand passes. He went through what was clearly a training discipline. It was impressive, I'll say that, by Krun.

That Seg stood with his bow ready for instant action was a situation so normal as not to warrant comment.

I called across: “I do not wish to slay you, Kanzai. There has been too much blood shed here already. I would ask you to allow us and these poor women to pass."

The girls had quieted down to a low moan here and there and a muffled sob. They were resigning themselves to what was about to happen and not much caring for that.

You can't take your eyes off a woman of Kregen when her blood is up and she smarts for revenge.

A swooping streaking line of silver struck from an outflung arm and hand straight for the heart of the Kanzai.

Before the girl had time to drop down, her knife slashed in to meet the slanted swordbreaker and bounce and chingle into a harmless arc and clang against the stone of the floor.

“Very pretty,” said Nath, on a breath.

The girl's hair moved like a pit of snakes as she flung herself forward. Her flung knife had failed; now she would try her other weapons on this Kanzai adept.

The iron swordbreaker had flicked a bare hand's breadth to deflect the girl's knife. As the girl screeched and hurled herself at the Kanzai, I found myself wondering if he could thus easily deflect one of Seg's Lohvian arrows.

I shouted in an evil voice: “Do not slay her, Kanzai, or you are a dead man."

Whether or not he took notice of my braggart words I couldn't be sure; in any event he merely tapped the girl on the head and stretched her in slumber on the floor of the chamber.

The chain resumed its whirring menace around his head.

“He is challenging us, that is certain sure.” Nath the Impenitent puffed his cheeks. “Insolent cramph."

If we hadn't had these confounded caterwauling women along, the situation would have been amusingly comical. As it was, our first duty now was to see the women safe.

Some of them were perfectly capable of looking after themselves in most situations they'd encounter on Kregen. This particular fate had just proved too much for them.

“We must push on,” I said. “We don't have time to shilly-shally about down here now. There is a lot to do."

“I suppose I shall have to shaft him, then."

Seg didn't sound happy at the prospect. Like me, he is a fellow well past the time when blood-shedding held any attractions.

Nath said: “He's mighty clever with that chunkscreetz."

For reply Seg merely flexed those marvelous archer's shoulders of his and lifted the bow.

The Kanzai erupted like a tent in a gale.

The swordbreaker vanished into its scabbard. The whirling iron links clattered to stillness. His right hand raked into a cunningly-opened pocket and whipped out with a silver glint of metal between the brown fingers.

The Star of Death whirring like a woodchuck drew a line of destruction from the Kanzai's hand to—my actions were controlled by a force outside of myself. I stepped up and the Krozair brand twitched before Seg. The glittering Star of Death and the superb longsword met and rang like a carillon of best silver bells from Vandayha.

The little star-shaped horror spun away, spinning, hit the ground and then, oddly, ran along like a child's toy.

The Kanzai remained perfectly still. Seg did not loose.

For those few heartbeats we remained still, like a posed group in a museum. The chains remained silent and unstirring. Another Star of Death showed in the fingers of the Kanzai. This time he held it aloft, twirling it.

That movement broke the uncanny rigidity that held us all, and yet the Kanzai did not hurl his Star of Death, Seg did not loose his deadly Lohvian shaft.

The Kanzai Warrior Brother called across to us.

His voice was gruff, throaty, harsh, clanging with the resonances of a lifetime's application to the demanding rigors of combat.

“Jikais! A stand-off."

“Impudent devil!” exclaimed Seg, under his breath. “I can shaft him where he stands, one, two, three, and Havil take his damned swordbreaker."

This Seg could do. No doubt of it. And, mark me, there was not an iota of boasting in his instinctive remark.

A tinkle of metal did not distract us. The Star of Death toppled onto its side. It had rolled along in a strange lopsided way, rhythmically bouncing in its progress. Something like a Japanese Shuriken, it was asymmetrical, its Kregan creators imparting a swooping deflection to its flight. Even so, the Krozair disciplines had enabled the Krozair longsword to deflect it from its intended target.

“Jikais!” called the Kanzai again.

“He,” observed Seg with some relish, “sounds suddenly apprehensive."

“Didn't expect his Star of Death to miss."

“Quite."

“Shaft him, Seg,” counseled Nath in his unruly bellow.

The Kanzai heard that.

The metal links stirred ripplingly across the cavern floor. The upflung throwing star glittered.

“Do you adhere to the decadent Rumay customs, doms?” he called across.

“No!” yelled Seg in a virulent voice.

I said nothing. Truth to tell, it might have been interesting to discover the adept's reaction had we acknowledged the Rumay customs to him.

“That is as well.” He lowered the Star of Death.

“Look,” I said once more. “We can't hang around here.” I shouted then, and I admit I put a little testiness into the bellow. “Kanzai! Stand aside and let us pass or you will suffer the consequences of your own foolishness."

I started forward, the Krozair brand in my two fists, ready to swipe away a Star of Death or two or remove his head if he didn't shift.

For a moment he hesitated. Clearly, he didn't like what he saw of us. Just what he was doing down here in the Coup Blag was his affair and of no real interest to us.

The Star of Death vanished into its pouch. The links of chain coiled miraculously into loops and were stowed. As he stepped aside his right hand fastened on the hilt of his thraxter.

I stood next to him. I stared at him balefully.

“The ladies will now pass, Kanzai. Dernun?"[1]

[1 dernun?: Savvy, understood, capiche? Not very polite. A.B.A.]

He nodded and that gruesome skull atop his helmet, flounced with feathers, bobbed. He used his left hand in a gesture to indicate we were to pass.

“Get the shemales moving, Nath!"

With a scurry and bustle, and with many a white-eyed sideways glance at the adept, the girls scuttled past. Some did not scuttle. Some walked arrogantly past, heads high, swinging in their gait and bold. These were women who had not first sought for clothes to cover their nakedness but had first snatched up weapons. The Kanzai eyed them as they strutted past as he would have scrutinized any potential foe.

When all had gone by I said: “I give you thanks, dom.” I went to move off and then halted and turned to say: “And you? Down here?"

“I have my mission."

That's all we would get out of him. As a Kanzai Warrior Brother, an adept, he was answerable only to his master.

It takes all sorts to make a world and Kregen is a world of many wonders, many marvelous oddities, by Zair!

Turning to march off after the others, I heard him draw a breath and in the same instant I'd ducked, swerved and sprung about to come up with the longsword pressing against his ribs. I halted the thrust.

He took a step back, a very smart step back, and his face expressed stupefaction.

“I was just—” he began. And then he swallowed and burst out: “By the Names! I do not know your Disciplines, dom; but you are sudden, most sudden."

I glared at him, eyeball to eyeball.

Some cheap remark could have come so easily to my lips then.

I contented myself with a simple: “That is so, dom. Remberee."

“Remberee, dom. I shall not forget you."

Chapter seven

In the cavern of beauty

The shimmering manifestation of the Wizard of Loh Deb-Lu-Quienyin beckoned us on toward a gargoyle-crowned opening, black and ominous, jagged in the wall of the cavern.

We'd traversed a considerable quantity of corridor since our meeting with the Kanzai Warrior Brother. The women complained—very naturally—yet it was as obvious to them as to us that we had to keep moving and find a way to escape from the Coup Blag.

Old Deb-Lu's turban was straight upon his head and he did not need to lift a hand to prevent the absurd headgear from toppling. His face looked grave.

Faintly, no louder than a distant whisper of wind, the sound of rushing water filtered through that gap of dark and evil aspect.

“The women need to rest up again, Jak,” called Nath. He marched at the back, shepherding the females along much as a ponsho-trag shepherds along his flock of woolly ponshos. He carried two of them, more or less comfortably, and it was clear to Seg and me that he was forming an attachment.

Just how wise or foolish that was down here in this magical maze remained to be seen.

“I don't like the look of old Deb-Lu,” said Seg, in a quiet voice.

“There's trouble up ahead, that's for sure."

“Better to have everyone rest up first, then."

“Aye.” I called back to Nath. “We'll take a breather, then, you Impenitent."

“Quidang!"

The women flopped down and stretched out on the bare stone of the floor, grateful for the rest. Nath deposited his two with care and then stalked up to join Seg and me.

The girl with the pale shapely body and dark frizzy hair who'd hurled the knife at the Kanzai also walked up. She made a grimace of distaste that revealed the cruel sharpened teeth.

“Well, men, if we must go forward let us get on, for the sake of Mayruna the Perforater!"

“You would leave your friends here?” demanded Seg.

“Not my friends, man, of whom there are few left. These other frail fools, yes, of course."

Rashly Nath the Impenitent burst out: “Your Perforater is not to my liking, woman!"

She gave him a look, an upward, slanting, calculating look that seemed to strip away skin and flesh.

“That is very true, man. Mayruna the Perforater is not to your liking in this world or the other."

With what I hoped was a nicely judged amount of acerbity, I said: “We cannot push on yet, young lady. When the women are rested, we will see what that water ahead brings us. Is that clear?"

She opened her mouth and I haven't the faintest idea what she might have said. I cut in sharply.

“So it would be less foolish of you to go and rest now, like the others."

She had retrieved that flung knife so contemptuously disposed of by the Kanzai adept. Her brown fingers twitched once in the direction of the knife's hilt, and then she puffed her cheeks, turned away with the frizzy hair glinting with the crystal overhead lights. Dust and dirt matted the hair. She said nothing and went back to drop down and find what comfort she could from the hard stone floor.

“Keep an eye on that one, Nath,” said Seg in his serious way.

“Aye, Horkandur, aye. I don't fancy her knife tickling between my ribs."

“She has friends here,” I pointed out.

“If, Bogandur,” said Nath, “they are all like her it will be exceedingly interesting."

Seg pursed up his lips. I could sense something had been worrying away at my blade comrade, and now, without showing the slightest impoliteness to Nath by not taking up his comment and introducing a fresh, he said: “We have been spared the visitation of monsters and unwholesome beasties lately. Yet I fancy the Witch will not let us go without taking a last crack at us. Yes?"

“Indubitably,” said Nath, who was fond of the word.

“Aye,” I said. “And with all these women along—"

“My point, precisely.” Seg's fey blue eyes showed a bright merriment. “Our ferocious lady friends of the Rumay persuasion may then earn their keep."

Nath rumbled a huge guffaw from his stomach, highly impressed by the indubitableness of the proposition.

Not for the first time—and assuredly, by Vox, not for the last—I found myself rejoicing in the company and companionship of good comrades. Yes, yes, I love to go off adventuring alone, wearing the brave old scarlet and swinging a great Krozair longsword; but equally I joy in adventures shared with boon comrades.

And here I pulled myself up sharply and with a most unpleasant jolt of guilt.

What the hell was I doing contemplating going off adventuring when all of Paz demanded my utmost exertions? We had to escape from this damnable Coup Blag, Witch of Loh or no damn Witch of Loh, and then I had to see about organizing the countries to fight shoulder to shoulder. And by countries one always means the people of the nations. There would be no easy ride trying to convince some of the rulers in the lands of Paz to work together. The task which, in the early days, I had considered to be just another problem set to my hands, was altogether far greater and fraught with bristling difficulties I had not foreseen.

The simple answer and the one I had at first thought to be the one the Star Lords intended was just to go around to these various lands and gain control.

That meant conquest, naked war and conquest.

Or, it would mean that if there were no subtler way I could take over the running of a nation.

Now I saw that for one man to go around making himself king of this and prince of that was paranoia of a sublime madness. It was megalomania on a grand scale.

No. There had to be other ways, and just at the moment I had no idea what those ways might be.

Oh, yes, assuredly, I had a scheme dreamed up for Pandahem which I intended to put into operation the moment we were out of here and running free. But that was but a small chunk of the main problem.

“You look, Bogandur,” said Nath, “as though you have lost a zorca and found a calsany."

“Rather, Nath,” I said with feeling, “found a woflo."

“That you cannot ride."

“Unless the one shrinks or the other grows."

“Most profound,” put in Seg. “And I'm starving."

Nath rumbled up a grunting cough.

“I wish you hadn't said that, Seg. Now I am reminded that my guts are like the last flagon at dawn."

“And,” shot back Seg, “I wish you hadn't mentioned anything to do with flagons."

The little sally-affray gave us some tithe of amusement. I stood up and stretched and looked around.

Seg stood up as well and said: “Yes. Time to go."

Nath rolled off to get the ladies moving.

Again Deb-Lu appeared, shimmering and ghostlike.

The jagged opening into which he beckoned us did not look inviting. But trusting the Wizard of Loh absolutely as I did, I had no hesitation in heading directly into that Stygian blackness.

The sound of rushing water rustled and echoed about us, bouncing from the walls and drumming in our ears.

Feeling cautiously ahead, probing with the longsword, I made slow progress. Here, safety was far more important than speed.

Just rushing blindly ahead would get you killed stone bonkers dead, no doubt of that, by Krun!

The eeriness of this alien underground maze must not be allowed to affect our nerves. Yes, we were deep underground, walled by millions of tons of rock, creeping along in total darkness, prey to all the imagined fears the human mind can invent. Yet we had to hold onto our courage and press on and front the dangers and terrors as they leaped upon us.

The faintest iridescent shifting of mingled colors from a rockface far far ahead indicated the presence of distant light. With that faint and far off glow ahead the whole feeling to this cautious crawl through darkness altered. As we went on so the light strengthened. Our angle to the rockface shifted and gradually the predominant color emerged as an eye-searing viridian.

“Shades of Genodras,” I said to myself, and prowled on. The twin Suns of Scorpio, Zim and Genodras, might be shining away in the Kregan sky outside, or, for all I knew, it could be pitch dark and some of Kregen's seven moons float refulgently among the stars. The diurnal rhythms of the world had, for the moment, been abandoned.

The noise now boomed and reverberated everywhere so that I was convinced a waterfall of some size lay in store for us.

Dampness in the air lay on the lips and tongue. The stone floor slicked with moisture. Along the walls as the green light intensified grew algaes and lichens, and the skipping figures of tiklos appeared and vanished among the crevices.

“I suppose,” said Seg in a resigned and injured tone of voice, “we won't be able to drink the dratted water."

“Dunno, Seg. Maybe now Csitra's had her wings clipped natural things are back to being natural."

“At least the she-witch did feed us from time to time."

“Aye."

Directly ahead the green light poured through a wide opening set at an angle so that the radiance bounced from the rock face opposite. The noise now reached a painful intensity. The women stumbled along with their hands clapped over their ears.

Deb-Lu's figure showed to the side of the passage. A crevice in the rock, a mere jagged crack stretching from the floor up to a peak something like ten feet overhead, slashed a streak of blackness against the shining stone.

“Through there!” exclaimed Nath. “When there's a large opening ahead?"

“The Wizard of Loh has not failed us yet.” I looked back over the mob. “Keep together.” With that I plunged into the crack of blackness.

Cobwebs slurred furrily across my face. Irritably I brushed them away and pressed on, sword extended. The floor was rough and littered with detritus fallen from the apex of the fault. The noise lessened at once.

The experience was spine-tingling and unpleasant. The crack broke to the left and then to the right, and more dinging cobwebs festooned around my head. A distant wash of green light glimmered in a vague triangular shape before me. I took a breath and smelled dampness and green growing creepers and the oily and unidentifiable smell of alien life. I forced myself on and stepped past the broken end of the fault onto brown and golden gravel.

“All clear!” I bellowed back and then moved on a few paces to inspect this new and enormously vast cavern.

Light diffused green and gentle from the unseen roof—only a radiance seeped down from overhead. Winged creatures flew and darted, streaks of blue and white, among the stalagmite-like spires clustered around the left-hand wall. The golden brown gravel gradually merged with golden sand leading to the edge of a river. The roaring of the waterfall reached through a drift of spray spilling from the tunnel mouth where the river entered the cavern. The green growing smells, wet vegetation, trailing waterweeds, and the unmistakable smell of lavender coulory blended to form a not unpleasant cocktail of scents.

“Well,” said Seg stepping out, “what have we here? Fish for supper?"

Then his fey blue eyes, surveying the scene, softened. He looked around and said: “Y'know, my old dom, this is a remarkably pretty place to find so deep underground."

“There are even trees growing with their roots in the water. And those birds—if they are birds—look quite unthreatening and cheerful."

The women trailed out of the crack in the cavern wall and incontinently flopped down on the gravel.

Nath deposited his pretty burdens and came over to join Seg and me.

“A forest under the ground!” he exclaimed.

“Could be an enchanted forest, my old Impenitent."

“Very probably, Horkandur. If so, we can surely avoid it by going around it."

“In,” said Seg waspishly, “dubitably."

“Let the women rest for a time,” I said. “We'd better search for the way out."

Nath heaved up a grunting sigh. “I don't much care, Bogandur, to leave the women unguarded down here."

“You are right, of course, Nath. And you will do the honors?"

“I will."

“If anything occurs,” said Seg in his light and casual way. “You start yelling and then defend them all and hack and slay until we get back, right?"

I looked at Nath and saw him give a sudden start, as though thoroughly surprised and taken unawares. I'd no idea what could have caused that.

“I will,” he said again, and this time in a much harsher and much shorter snap.

The pale shapely girl with the frizzy hair walked across. With her were her companions, and their hair, too, spiked out, and I guessed that in times of stress it, too, could resemble the snake tresses of a Medusa.

“We will search one way, man, if you search the other."

Most of them were half-clad. All had knives, spears or swords, and they looked a nasty bunch to argue with. Their Fuzzy-Wuzzy appearance reminded me I had no Martini-Henrys or Gardner guns to deal with them.

“Very well.” Then I added: “I do not wish to continue to call you woman, woman. Would you favor me with your name?"

Now names are matters of great and imperative importance upon that miraculous and marvelous world of Kregen. Many peoples employ only use names, for their own name if known to an enemy confers power to the foe. She gave me a look, a hard appraising look. Dust glinted in her hair.

“You may call me Shalane, man."

“Very well, Shalane."

The group of Rumay fanatics went off to the right and as we trailed off in the other direction, Nath said: “They are not Battle Maidens; but many Jikai Vuvushis I have known who glory only in the uniform and the pomp and the show of being a War Woman would run screaming at the sight of them, aye, by Vox, many of them."

“Oh, aye,” said Seg. “A most scrapworthy bunch."

So we set off to explore this new world we had discovered deep underground and to encounter what new perils it might hold.

Chapter eight

"Save your breath for breathing!"

With our usual wary step, Seg and I walked along following the course of the river downstream. Nath remained with the women and the Rumay fanatics went upriver. We would then circle the cavern seeking egress.

“Y'know, Seg, there has to be a reason for a place like this."

“You mean a place of beauty among all the horrors of the Coup Blag?"

“Right. This is not quite the sort of cavern we're accustomed to finding deep in the heart of a mountain."

“We're well down underground here, all right. But I rather fancy this cavern is still in the mountain above the outside ground level."

“And that causes an idea to form, perhaps?"

“Aye, by Vox, an idea of some fraughtness."

“I agree."

“Well, my old dom, if it is the way, it is the way. By the Veiled Froyvil! We've come through thinner scrapes before this!"

So, not much caring for the idea in our heads, we went on along the river bank. Vegetation with the abundant water and never-ending light grew profusely and we saw many varieties of plants that I'd never seen before.

The blue and white flying creatures were joined by others of multicolored feathers, and they swooped and cavorted above our heads.

“Ah!” exclaimed Seg, and darted forward. “Palines!"

I lost no time in joining him and picking the bright yellow berries and stuffing them into my mouth. Palines—ah, they are a boon Kregen confers almost anywhere you travel and they'll keep you healthy and clear hangovers and generally make life worth living.

The scents of this delightful place sharpened about us. We breathed in refreshingly. The nonsensical notion flitted across my mind that one could live here in perfect tranquility for the rest of one's natural span.

The river ran smoothly and shining under the radiance. Fish leaped. We saw no sign of aquatic predators.

The colors and sounds and perfumes of this place delighted us. The trilling of the birds complemented the scents of the flowers in a sensory palette soothing and yet exhilarating. Here, the weary could rest.

We saw the place where the river entered the cliff face from some way off. Trees clothed the lower portions; the rocks frowned gaunt and bare above. We walked on, alert for danger even as our senses were soothed by the beauty and serenity of the cavern. Soon we stood before the river's exit.

“Ugly,” commented Seg. “Dratted ugly, by Sasco!"

The river plunged into its carven hole, fashioned into the likeness of a snarling mouth. The sculpted face surrounding that unwholesome oriflee bore the likeness of a devil, a Kregen devil, which puts those of Earth to shame.

The rock here glistened dully with a green patina. The river rustled between the banks and plunged over smoothly and evenly with little spume or fuss. The blackness of the hole into which the river entered was of a blackness highly disturbing to those of nervous dispositions. I owned to myself that I tried to lighten the effect by a lightness in thinking of that damned hole; if you didn't feel amused by it you'd run screaming. Some of those poor women with us were most definitely of a nervous disposition, unfortunately.

“Come on, Seg, let's find the way out of this place."

“I'm with you. Unfocuses your eyes, does that blasted hole swallowing the river."

We gave the demonic face lowering down above us a last look, then we set off along the base of the cavern wall.

I suppose, to be honest, we both knew what it would come to, that there would be no escape from the deed. Still, we searched diligently all the way around for the way out, until we reached the gap in the rock through which the river entered the cavern. Then we went downstream to the camp.

Shalane spat and said: “There is no way out but the way we entered."

“D'you want to retrace your steps in there?"

A great hullabaloo started at this, and Seg and I went off to eat some of the fish Nath had caught and cooked. Some of the women had brightened appreciably in these pleasant surroundings, and were busy about our camp. I do not much care for fish; I recall that meal with pleasure.

In the end, of course, there was nothing else for it.

I felt no surprise when, staring up at the demonic face swallowing the river, some of the women turned around. They went back to the camp, calling that they would stay here.

“We can't leave them!” Nath looked outraged.

“We cannot in all conscience force them to go against their wishes, can we? They will be safe here—"

“But—forever?"

Seg said: “We'll talk to ‘em again. It won't be all that bad, by the Veiled Froyvil!"

Eventually six of the women remained adamant that they would stay. They could do without men gladly.

“So be it."

“Havila have you in her keeping,” said one of the women who was not staying, bold of face and grasping a spear.

From the slain malkos the Rumay women had taken axes as well as swords and spears, and we set to work to chop enough branches and trees to make sufficient rafts. They were bound together with lianas, and everyone pitched in to help.

While everyone was busy I glanced up to see the ghostly form of Deb-Lu standing beside me. He nodded and tried to make his serious look revert to his usual kindly expression. This time he whispered: “It is the only way."

“Yes, for we will not go back."

“May the Lords of the Seven Arcades go with you, Dray.” He rustled up the hint of a smile. “And Vox and Djan and Zair, of course, also."

He vanished.

Seg came across and said: “He has no more news?"

“Only that this is the way out."

“That's all right then!"

And Seg swung off to shout at a girl fumble-fingering a botch of a knot.

“You'll ride on that raft, shishi, and if it falls to bits, you'll only have yourself to blame."

“Men!” she flared up at him, swirling red-brown hair about her naked shoulders. “You should be tying this."

“I'll show you—then you finish the rest."

This was quite unlike the Seg Segutorio I knew who was always punctiliously polite and gallant to women. He did not much care for the bunch we'd saved from the malkos, that was clear. Apart from the Rumay fanatics, whose beliefs and actions were self-explanatory, others of these women held secrets that made me wonder just how much trouble we were storing up for ourselves. It could be the women had been imprisoned after a process of justice, even in the Coup Blag. I doubted it; but it was possible.

Nath the Impenitent's whole attitude was quite different. He had already sorted out the women in his own mind. He had the leems and the ponshos marked.

The two girls he had been caring for were, I had to admit, in a different class from the others. Nath had chosen well, and yet these two, pretty though they were, shared all the toughness and spirit of the Rumay fanatics.

No one questioned Nath's right to share a raft with these two girls: Seg and I sorted out who would sail with whom, and suggested to Nath he take more of the ladies with him.

“The three of us will have to take different rafts, that is obvious. I don't like it; it is a duty laid on us."

“It is, my old dom, a duty only if we choose to accept it."

“By Chozputz, Seg! You are right, and yet I'd far rather we did not have to accept the mission, take on this heavy burden."

Nath rumbled out: “The Rumay women can handle themselves, doms. It is the others we must care for."

In the end we had it sorted out and the little armada of rafts lay on the bank of the river, waiting.

We ate of the cooked fish and of handfuls of palines. Among the trailing vines and plentiful leaves of the trees against the cliff, small agile figures clambered to gibber at us. The women left here would not need to exist on an exclusively fish diet.

I didn't fully trust to the lianas to lash the rafts and so had insisted on using other materials as well: split bark twisted and plaited, proved excellent. The rafts were serviceable. I hadn't served as a Powder Monkey and as a First Lieutenant in Nelson's Navy for nothing. Well, by Krun, I had got nothing for it, that was true, and I suspected my lack of success on Earth had a great deal to do with what others considered my considerable success on Kregen.

We ripped up blankets of moss and heaping mounds of leaves to form pliable cushions and we lashed everyone down with many strands of our plaited ropes. When all was ready Seg, Nath and I launched the other rafts, then Seg and I lashed Nath down and launched him, and I lashed Seg down and launched him amid an icy silence of reprobation that he was not the last.

As the current swirled him off he yelled back: “One of these days you'll take a risk too many, you stiff-necked hulu! I can be spared from Kregen; you—"

“Close the black-fanged winespout, my old dom!” I hollered back. “Save your breath for breathing!"

In the next instant Seg aboard his raft whirled into the black demon-guarded opening.

Lashing myself down as securely as I could, I felt my priorities of safety had been correct. Going first was not the peril that going unsecured would be.

Using forearms only, I thrust the long branch at the bank and eased the raft the last few inches off the mud. The current caught us at once, and we spun about, caught and sucked along with instant force. The smell of the mud, of the algae, of the water, struck up with physical force as we hurtled along.

The girls aboard my raft squealed; but they were very good and tried to keep silent. I think three of them fainted as we burst from the soft green radiance into the unholy darkness of the tunnel.

Phocis, a dark-haired girl with a full fresh face who clutched a spear at her side, stared up at me in the stern. At the moment, the raft had swirled around and I was going first. The branch with which I had equipped myself as a pole and rudder was completely useless for the moment.

Then Phocis and all the others vanished in the gloom.

As I saw it the main problem would come if the roof descended low enough for us to strike our heads. A makeshift arrangement of branches lashed upright and with cross-members would never protect us from the jags at this speed; it might give us a little warning.

Well, I will not dwell on that horrendous ride along an underground river in almost total darkness. Phosphorescence glimmered along the walls from time to time, enough to show us the long sliding gleam of the water. I managed to twirl the craft so that I was at the stern and able to steer. The girls lay low at my feet. Phocis still clung onto her spear. We hurtled along, a chip in a millrace, and all our fates were in the hands of whoever controlled them; certainly they were not in ours.

No, I will not dwell on that experience.

A thought occurred to me and, oddly, it comforted me in that ghastly situation. No one had volunteered to return through the mazes of the Coup Blag. All had chosen the perils of the underground river in preference to the horrors of Csitra's domains.

More than once the roof descended so that I, the highest of the crew, had to duck fiercely. The rock looked highly unfriendly, ready to slice like razors.

And—all the time and with deadly meaning—the river increased the speed of the current flow.

To dwell on that spirit-shrinking experience? No. I may be Dray Prescot, called by those whose paths I have crossed the Bravest of the Brave; I do not wish to repeat, even in remembrance, the journey down that subterranean river.

Twice we saw strange mingled lights falling upon us from rifts in the roof. I judged that we were approaching the edge of the mountain where faults in the structure allowed the streaming radiance of Zim and Genodras to filter down to this underground world. We were close to the outside now and in moments we shot out into the resplendent brilliance of daylight.

Here was the moment of truth.

Here we could win or lose all.

The river spewed out of its worn hole in the side of the mountain and fountained down in a waterfall. The noise boomed enormously. Spray engulfed us. I held on and counted and as each figure followed the next as we went helter-skelter down that slope of water I felt the rise of a bubble of nausea into my throat.

We hit.

The raft splintered into fragments.

Everything went up and down and around and around.

There was only noise and sickness and water and confusion.

Deep under the surface we plunged. Instinctively I thrashed with arms and legs. The lungful of air would not last long. The surface held life, and I fought fiercely, feeling the bruising battering of that headlong smashing impact.

My head broke through and I gulped in glorious Kregen air. Tossing the hair back and staring around, I saw heads in the water, and, also, saw the danger in which we still remained.

Phocis spluttered up at my side, still clutching her spear.

We began to grasp the wretched girls and swim with them away from the impact area of the fall. The noise engulfed us. Spray sleeted into a white mist. Slowly we managed to drag ourselves farther off and strike out for the bank.

Ghostly memories of my original arrival on this marvelous planet of Kregen occurred. Then I'd sailed down the River Aph aboard a leaf boat and had dared the might of a waterfall by many many times higher and more spectacular than this exit of the underground river from the mountain of the Coup Blag. Those days did not seem dim and distant, rather, they formed a portion of the living tapestry of my career on Kregen. Just as this very day as we reached the bank and hauled ourselves out, dripping wet and panting, formed another of the links in the living tapestry.

“By the Veiled Froyvil, my old dom! That was a tidy little to-do!"

“Aye. I see we have lost some of the women."

“An unavoidable tragedy, Bogandur,” said Nath. “We have saved the majority, and for that we must rejoice and give thanks to Opaz the All-Glorious."

“That is so,” said Seg, “and to Erthyr the Bow. One of the Rumay women's rafts vanished completely."

“If they are caught in the eye of the fall, then by this time all hope must be abandoned for them."

Gradually we dried ourselves off and sorted ourselves out. Phocis, who had kept herself very much to herself previously, proved a tower of strength in soothing and helping the weaker women. The Rumay fanatics were fit and ready, it seemed, to take on a crack regiment of Chuliks.

“We,” said Shalane, making a direct statement, “will move off at once. We cannot stay here."

Her dark hair was already drying and frizzing out, and now it had had a wash it gleamed far more splendidly than ever it had done in the maze. Her fierce downdrawn face showed she was in no mood to argue.

Around us the banks stretched to low cliffs crowned with bushes cutting off further vision. The sky beamed gloriously above and the twin Suns of Scorpio cast down their mingled streaming radiance to light the world in an opaline haze of splendor.

Sniffing with enormous appreciation at the wine-rich Kregan air, looking upward and expanding my chest, I saw an airboat fly into view above the bushes.

Her hull was a dense black. Her upperworks, painted in a bewildering variety of clashing colors, were squared off and hard, pierced for throwing engines, frowning ominously above us.

“By all the imps in a Herrelldrin Hell!” burst out Seg in fury. “Dratted Shanks. That's all we need right now!"

“Keep absolutely still!” I bellowed, yet not so loud as to reach up through the air to that silent flier up there. “Do not move as you value your lives!"

Chapter nine

Of bushes, beliefs and airboats

The deadly Shank voller up there flew with ponderous purpose across the river. We crouched low and still, deathly still.

This vessel must be from the fleet we had fought on our way over Pandahem. If our own fleet had managed to regain contact—and anything could have happened during the time Seg and I had been stumbling about in the Coup Blag—then I had to hope a Vallian voller would fly over soon.

No one moved a hairsbreadth until the Shank vanished over the farther bushes.

“Of course,” said Seg, helpfully, “he could have spotted us and given no indication, and be landing troops right now out of our sight."

“He could,” said the Impenitent in that grunting gruff way of his. “And there could be one of our own fliers about right now, ready to pounce on him."

“I'll go for a scout around.” Seg didn't waste time arguing but started off at once to the bush-lined crest.

Shalane, spiky and venomous, spat out: “Our fliers, man?"

Nath opened his mouth and I said: “There are many other islands and continents in Paz, Shalane, besides Pandahem. All of us, together, fight the Shanks."

“If they are men like other men then I will fight them,” she said, in an offhand, dismissive way.

“Oh,” I said. “You'll find them somewhat different, if you haven't fought them before. But I don't doubt you'll be able to cut a few trophies."

“Sanka,” she said to one of her girls. “Get up there and scout. I don't trust a man to do a proper job."

Sanka scurried off, all frizzy hair and naked flesh, with a nasty-looking sword swinging at her side.

Shalane swung back to Nath. “You said ‘our fliers', man. What nation in Pandahem are you from that has airboats?"

Nath cast a glance at me that summed up fury and annoyance at his lapse, and, also, I sensed, a great deal of damn-you-to-hell with respect to this ferocious woman.

“We have come through quite a deal together, Shalane.” I returned the scorching stare she gave me, with interest. “But we are not yet comrades in arms. There is much you do not know that you will discover later."

“Now."

“Perhaps."

“You said there are other islands besides Pandahem."

“And continents."

“Other islands. I thought you three men strange. I have heard of Vallia."

“Have you heard, Shalane, that Vallia and the nations of Pandahem are now allies against the Shanks?"

She showed the chiseled teeth in a grimace of malicious amusement. “Even the Bloody Menahem?"

“Well—” I started, whereat she laughed aloud.

“Man, man! Your words fall upon you and crush you."

With what I considered exemplary patience I went on: “By Chusto, woman, listen! With the exception of those idiots of Menaham all of Pandahem stands with Vallia."

“I shall believe that when I see it. I have heard, also, of this Emperor of Vallia, Dray Prescot. The stories in the souks are marvelous but quite unbelievable."

“Those stories are trifles to amuse children.” Then, because even here I couldn't malign the good-heartedness of the Vallian and Valkan storytellers, I added: “There is a kernel of truth to them. It is enlarged upon."

Nath rumbled out: “Dray Prescot! Emperor of Vallia! I'd as lief crush him beneath my heel as give him a Lahal."

“So you, Impenitent,” snapped out Shalane waspishly, “are not Vallian also?"

Nath—who, remember, was ferociously proud of being Vallian—puffed up his cheeks into scarlet globs and his scowl would have cracked a window at fifty paces. “As to that, woman—” he started, rumbling like a volcano.

I cut in.

“No more time for shilly-shallying, Nath. Tell this poor woman Shalane the truth."

Her fist clenched convulsively on her sword hilt.

“Poor woman, man! I'll—"

Sanka came into view fleeting down the slope waving her arms. Seg ran astern of her and, I suppose, some deviltry got into him so that in all this petty wrangling he didn't intend to be beaten into second place.

Seg speeded up and slid past Sanka so that she seemed to be running backward. I cast a quick glance at Shalane and tried not to take any glee from her black look of anger at this fresh indignity.

“The rast is returning,” said Seg, breathing evenly, completely unruffled. “And there's another following him."

I'd not been entirely consumed by the arguments with Shalane and had selected a likely site where bushes grew thickly to the margin of the river. I pointed.

“All in there and still as woflos when chavniks prowl!"

We all ran across and huddled in the bushes.

This vegetation wasn't thorn ivy; I did not believe any Thorn Ivy Trap would be sprung here.

Our joy at escaping from the grim confines of the maze had been swiftly transformed into sick apprehension at sight of the dreaded Shanks.

Some of the women had been bruised, all had been battered, and I wanted to get them into the care of a puncture lady as soon as might be. I most certainly did not want to get into a fight with them on our hands. Yes, the Rumay fanatics would fight, of that I had no doubt; just how well they would do against the incredible ferocity of a fish-headed, trident-armed Shank remained conjectural.

As far as I could see, they had not done at all well where the malkos were concerned. Again the idea crossed my mind that all these women were criminals imprisoned in the maze. That might, for all the oddity of it, square with Csitra's character.

As we waited and trembled crouched over in our bushes I tried to put that thought together with the notion that the vast and beautiful cavern from which we had taken passage down the river was outside the witch's jurisdiction. If not that, then that Deb-Lu-Quienyin had curtailed her power in that direction.

That Deb-Lu had not put in a recent appearance I judged was caused by his attention to other duties. He had a vast realm in which to be constantly vigilant and, unlike those ordained as kregoinye by the Star Lords, could not be in two places at one and the same time.

With an eyeball screwed to a chink in the leaves, I watched the steady and catlike progression of the Shank flier.

I knew Seg was chafing to shaft the cramphs up there, and clamping down on his very natural desires to shoot.

In this situation all we could hope to do was wait for the Shank airboat to fly away. A nasty problem troubling me was—why had the bastard flown back?

A slender but sinuously-muscled form at my side stirred and an elbow dug into my ribs.

“Keep still, Phocis. If not to prevent the Shanks seeing us, then for the sake of my bruised ribs."

“By the Wooldark Mitraeus, Jak! You are enough to make a girl forsake her vows."

Then, for she was looking out at an angle from me, she said in a sharper voice: “Something dark came flying out of the hole where the waterfall begins. I lost it in its descent. Like a log."

“I hope it wasn't one of our poor girls trapped on a rocky ledge in there and washed down after us."

Seg whispered: “There's the second voller."

Even as he spoke both ships of the air speeded up and rose. They circled and raced across the river and then I saw something that made me clench my teeth together until the jaws ached.

A Vallian flier swooped down trying to evade the pounce of the two Shanks. She was a scouter, trim and fast; but they hemmed her in and all the time they were shooting at her.

The outcome of that fight could not be in doubt.

Battered and smashed, her steering gone and her lift decaying rapidly, the Vallian dropped down.

A fast scouter, she was of a type I recognized only because we'd bought half a dozen from King Filbarrka and Queen Zenobya, whose realms in Balintol were firmly allied with Vallia. She carried blue and yellow checkered flags, whereat I knew she was from my kovnate island of Zamra. Now this was odd, as I did not recall any similar vessels in the fleet that had sailed to Pandahem. Therefore, reinforcements must have been sent us. This was good news. The bad news was that this scouter was doomed and her crew just about done for.

She hit heavily and ripped into shreds. Agile figures dark against the suns’ light leaped out and the silver wink of stars from their weapons held cold comfort.

The Shanks landed promptly but unhurriedly, and disgorged rank after rank of fish-headed fighting demons.

In a low-voiced monotone Nath Javed the Impenitent cursed everything, from fate, the Ice Floes of Sicce, the benighted of Opaz, the forsaken of Vox, the destroyed of Kurin, his own bad luck and, finally, himself.

Then he said: “Well, it all had to end one day. I cannot skulk here."

Seg said in his lightest and most flamboyant style: “Oh, aye, my old Impenitent. I agree. But I do not think we will walk away from this fight."

“Indubitably."

Shalane, from her bush, spat out: “You are not going to—no, you cannot? Surely—"

I said: “You may not believe now, Shalane, that this is your fight and the fight of the Rumay belief. But it is so."

With that I stood up, unlimbered the great Krozair longsword and with a lilting: “Hai, Jikai!” roared out of my bush and along the riverbank full tilt at the packed ranks of the fish-headed Shanks.

Chapter ten

Wounds

This was not the first time and—if the cruel fates spare me—not the last when I thus roared into the charge with Seg Segutorio to shoot me in.

As I bounded on, roaring my fool head off, so Seg's shafts flowered overhead.

A master bowman, the finest archer on two worlds, Seg. His strings were dry from his pouch, safe from the watery passage of the river. The crimson-fletched shafts skewered into the packed ranks of the Shanks.

I did not count the number of times Seg shot, for I knew he did not have arrows enough to dispose of the foe; I did see two arrows at least pierce through two men each, and I judge I saw a third that penetrated through three Shanks before its force was expended.

Through the thunder of blood in my head I heard the heavy beat of footsteps alongside, and the lighter patter on the other side. Nath the Impenitent, enormous, scarlet, bursting with passionate intensity, hullabalooed along determined to keep up and swing into action at the same time. Phocis fleeted along, and a single swift glance showed me her spear held most professionally in the hands of a most determined young lady.

Well, like us all, she would take her chances in the coming conflict.

The lads from the downed Vallian flier had not been idle. They'd rigged a varter from the wreckage and now the bolt-thrower began to hurl its cruel iron darts into the massed Shanks.

Just before our pathetic little bunch from the riverbank hit I spotted the two left arms of the yellow-haired men wearing Vallian Air Service uniforms. This did not surprise me. I'd set up communities of Pachaks on Zamra. They were citizens of Zamra and of Vallia. They were, also, fighting men of absolute integrity and of deadly skill and cunning.

“Hai, Jikai!” I bellowed.

Well, by Vox, if this was to be the last great fight, as I believed, then I'd use that great war cry properly and for the final time.

We hit the Shanks and in an instant were involved in a melee of striking and dodging, of ducking and of bashing as we sought to exploit the gap created by Seg's masterful shooting.

The Krozair brand swept and lopped, struck and thrust. It was essential to use economy, to strike with force just sufficient for the purpose. Try it in the red-blood-roaring madness of an affray! Nice theories fall apart under the manic goad of battle.

We exploited the gap and by thus concentrating our onslaught we could deal with those Shanks who could get at us. The others, for the moment, until they could rally themselves, were out of it.

Seg joined us for the melee. Then in the contorted actions of battle, where you smite to the front and dodge and trust no one is smashing down on your back, I saw the Rumay women.

They fought like slinking devils, low and upthrusting, fluid, bitter and without mercy.

All the same, they died, as the Shanks died. Phocis took a tine through her upper arm and I swept the fish-headed creature away in two halves. The tine was smooth and not barbed, for it was a melee-trident and not a throwing weapon, so it came out suckingly easily enough.

“Leave me and go on,” she panted out.

“I can fight here as well as anywhere."

There was time to say no more as the Shanks, rallying, pelted at us again. Seg and I fought them as we had in the old days. Nath fought them and learned, I did not doubt, many new tricks of nastiness.

From the flank the Pachaks screeched into a wild attack. I believe it is a part of their mystique that they cast off their helmets and let their long yellow hair stream free. They go berserk. This in people of the character I know them to be always has struck me as suspiciously unlikely. For instance, this bunch from the downed voller did not cast off their helmets. Their straw yellow hair streamed abaft them as they charged and they were wild and abandoned to the passions of battle; as to being genuinely berserk—I do not think so.

Even with all the Pachaks and all the Rumay women and the other women like Phocis who joined in the battle, we could never have gained the victory over this number of Shanks. We would have fought the last great battle. Someone, somewhere, might have spoken of the deed as a High Jikai. Probably not. We would have died and been forgotten.

Phocis had drawn a scrap of cloth from her shirt around the wound. She was using the Shank trident as a weapon. She forced herself up and fought alongside us, wielding the three-tined trident with consummate skill.

Soon her blood on the metal was joined by that of Shanks.

Shalane swirled like a demoness, appearing to shed sparks, striking in all directions at once. Her tigress girls struggled and struck, fought and died. I surmised they had not met the Shanks in battle before and were not in the same awe of the Fishheads as those who had had the misfortune and the glory to meet them.

A shadow passed over us.

I did not look up.

It was very necessary at that moment to despatch the fellow to the left side who was trying to stick his damned trident into Seg's side.

The Krozair brand sliced and the Shanks screeched and fell away and then—again very necessarily—the Krozair brand was needed on the other side where Phocis, cleverly spitting her opponent, momentarily left herself open to a third thrust. Here I thrust past the incoming tines, bouncing them off with the blade and so going on to haul up without punching clean through backbone as well.

“Like a damned beetle on a pin!” Phocis retrieved her trident and instantly set to again, raging.

The raw stink of blood, red blood and green ichor, smoked into the air. The ground muddied with blood. And still Seg and I, Nath and Phocis and Shalane and the Rumay women battled on. This madness could not last.

Nath stood amidst a heap of Shank corpses, roaring defiance. Shalane appeared to be everywhere, cutting and cutting. Seg's cool skilled swordsmanship cleared the ring, and Phocis with her Shank trident stopped many a Shank dead in his tracks. But, still, it could not last.

In one of those uncanny little lulls that obtrude in almost any fight where muscles are the only motive power, Seg flicked drops from his blade and stared balefully at the Shanks just across from us. They were forming up for another of the charges that had proved unsuccessful.

I said: “Seg...” There was an unmistakable tone of warning there.

He scowled back at me. “All right, Dray, all right. Not yet, anyway."

He could fight with cool professionalism, could our Seg Segutorio; equally, if the mood took him he'd go roaring into the fray with all a Pachak's berserk fury and a whole shovelful more. This was a legacy of those strange mountains and valleys of the land of his birth, Erthyrdrin, the northernmost country of the continent of Loh. And Loh is as mysterious a place as you can want.

The Shanks started to fidget and move and shake their weapons again. Not all wielded tridents.

“Here they come again,” called Nath. He was covered in blood and looked to be in an exalted mood. “Hack ‘n’ slay!” he bellowed, the words clear and distinct and forming a battlecry. “Hack ‘n’ slay, my lads, hack ‘n’ slay!"

“Aye!” ripped out Seg.

This next onslaught was ferocious and frightful. I saw Shalane go down with a spear through her, and in that microscopic section of time I could spare for a thought about her I surmised the wound would not be fatal.

I knocked two Shanks down who were trying to spear Seg, and Phocis stuck her trident through the eyes of another. The Krozair brand flamed around, and a fourth attacker's arm fell off. Seg sliced his man and we cleared the ring.

I saw Nath, bloated, scarlet, huge, smash over sideways with a trident sticking into him with an obscene wiggle of the shaft.

So this is how it goes, I said to myself, one by one they will go down and Seg and I will be left to the last.

The two girls cared for by Nath must have joined in the fracas after the initial charge. Whatever the truth of the matter, they appeared now and flung themselves wailing upon Nath. He lay like a fallen oak tree, arms wide, and I swear his expression was exactly that he must have worn when being thrown out of the tavern, after he'd spent all his soldier's pay.

“Hai, Jikai!” I vomited the words out and swung the Krozair brand over my head. I did not feel a fool doing this outrageous gesture and mouthing the great words. If it was to be all over, then get it all over with.

The Shanks did not appear to wish to continue the combat.

They were milling about. If those cold-hearted reivers from over the curve of the world could be said to be hesitant, uncertain, then they appeared at a loss now.

Then we saw the reason and set up such a caterwauling row as would have brought the Watch of any strict city out in a sweat rash.

A skyship had touched down beyond the two Shanks and her fighting men, her voswods, had alighted, formed their ranks as they had done a hundred times in practice drills, and, heads down and spears leveled, swept down on the Fish-heads.

The Shanks fought damned hard. Shtarkins, I believed them to be. Their fishy heads and fishy smells repelled me; but they were wonderful sailors and navigators. They fought with vicious intensity now that they were outnumbered and on the receiving end.

And so, now, it could not last. And, this time, it was the Shanks who would not last, praise be to Opaz.

In the end they tried to make a break for their airboats; but the Vallian skyship commander had spotted that possibility and had thrown a blocking force out. No Shanks reached sanctuary.

I looked around the field. We had made the Shanks suffer; they had caused us injury.

The dead were heaped up dolefully. Then I felt a jolt of surprise. Among a pile of Shtarkin dead lay the Kanzai Warrior Brother we had met in the maze of the Coup Blag.

We'd never known his name. The dark log Phocis had spotted leaping out of the waterfall tunnel was now explained. We'd been far too absorbed in our own combat to notice the Kanzai adept. Yet I recalled, there had been a moment in the fight when the pressure lessened unaccountably.

From the evidence before us, it was perfectly clear he had fought magnificently. I lifted my bloodstained sword in salute to him, and commended his warrior spirit on its way down to the Ice Floes of Sicce.

“I wonder if he realized he was fighting for Paz,” said Seg. “He wouldn't believe it; but he was."

“A most judicious thought, Seg, and one we must make sure Shalane understands."

“Here comes the skyship landing force commander. He's a Jiktar. And I think—yes—” Seg shook his head, letting down from that sudden sharp scrutiny: “It's old Hodo Fra-Le. I had a right go at him over the state of his archers a few seasons ago."

“His lads seem to have done all right here."

“Oh, aye. I went up to Zamra and fairly ran ‘em ragged until they were up to scratch."

I did not give a laugh that would have been the normal accompaniment to my next thought; laughter on this stricken field spoke of the manic laughter that referred only to itself and the battle. My thought was that Seg was such a stickler in anything connected with toxophily that no one would feel surprise if he went down to the enemy before a fight and tried to smarten up their shooting as well.

Hodo Fra-Le, a Pachak, clad in armor and with the integrity of his race strong upon him, marched up with a small group as bodyguard. He wore bobs and the medals had been well-earned. His Pachak face wore a pleased expression over the natural hardness and I guessed he was intrigued by the situation into which he had stumbled.

“Llahal! I am glad to see some of you survive."

Sharing a natural curiosity he checked our group first, already knowing he had saved the crew of the scouter.

Seg moved out very sharply up front. Big and extraordinarily powerful though he may be, Seg can move like greased lightning, as they say in Clishdrin, when necessary.

He towered over Hodo Fra-Le, for Pachaks are not among your taller diffs of Kregen, and he clapped a friendly arm over a shoulder and bent his head and spoke most amicably and forcibly. Anyone listening to Seg Segutorio talk under those circumstances would devoutly believe.

What Seg was doing was making sure he preserved my anonymity. It didn't matter that Seg thought I sometimes played at the mysterious a trifle over the top; if I wanted to conceal my identity under a nom-de-guerre, than he would do his damnedest to see the deceit worked.

When Hodo wheeled up he squeaked out: “Lahal, Jak."

“Lahal and Lahal, Hodo. You arrived opportunely."

“We have been searching for the fleet, majis—Jak. Since we arrived from Zamra we have not made contact."

“Deb-Lu must soon rectify that,” pointed out Seg.

“I trust so, jen.” Hodo addressed Seg correctly as Jen, Lord, and if anyone overheard they'd know he was not from Pandahem, where lords are Pantors.

As we walked along to try to sort out the mess, I realized the stupidity of that thought. Anyone could see Hodo Fra-Le was not of Pandahem, what with that enormous skyship in the background!

Nath the Impenitent was not dead.

I felt a tremendous lift of the heart at this news, and gave thanks to Opaz and Zair.

Nath was shifted off into the skyship's sickbay and the two girls—Perli and Sanchi—went with him. The skyship, a splendid vessel built in Hamal and given the name Zamra Venturer was the answer to our immediate problems.

Her captain, Jiktar Nalgre Voernswert ti Zanchenden, warned by his land force commander, welcomed me as Jak. The stories told in the souks had one benefit, at the least.

Our other wounded were cared for. Shalane was desperately injured and hovered on the slippery slope down to the Ice Floes. I would not care to see her die. Phocis, by contrast, with a medical poultice on her punctured arm would be as good as new tomorrow.

This was not the time for congratulation or for slackening of effort. Yes, we had won free at last from the maze of the Coup Blag. We had the wonderful benefit of having airboats in which to fly over the inhospitable jungle. We all felt the enormous relief as a physical burden removed from our shoulders. But we could not relax. There remained far too much to do if we were to save Paz.

Although Jiktar Nalgre managed to remember to call me Jak instead of majister, he was all aquiver to put up a good front and do well. Seg told him to take Zamra Venturer around to the other side of the mountain so that we might find out what had befallen our youngest comrade, Cadet Ortyg Thingol.

He'd been left outside the mountain with Kov Hurngal's airboat and an ink stained Relt stylor, Hurngal's secretary. Ortyg had resisted being left and only a promise that he was in the most important position of having command of the airboat and having to rescue us had mollified him.

Now here we were flying in a mammoth skyship. I heaved up a sigh. Well, brown-curled handsome and romantic young air cadets have to learn the hard facts of life like anyone else, by Vox.

I decided to leave the voller in case Kov Loriman the Hunter did emerge into the suns’ light. As for the Relt, now his employer, Kov Hurngal, was dead he was free to stay or fly with us.

As for the Rumay women—the downing of their leader affected them all in a way that, to me at least, came as a surprise. They were stunned and apathetic. Sanka, who assumed the command, made one attempt to rally them. After that they all sat in a huddle crooning ritual dirges. I did not say as I felt very much like bursting out: “Shalane ain't dead yet, you famblys!"

“They'll have to be kept sequestered from the crew,” pointed out the ship's captain, Jiktar Nalgre Voernswert ti Zanchenden. He was often known as Nalgre the Blunt. “They're enough to frizzle the heart of a stone-monster."

“They'll be all right when Shalane gets better."

“By Corg! I devoutly trust so!"

So, in much better heart than we had been when last the twin suns Zim and Genodras set over the shadowy face of Kregen, we flew off to find the rest of the Vallian armada.

Chapter eleven

How old Hack ‘n’ Slay stood up

The real world of Kregen, as my Kregish friends are fond of remarking in many proverbs and adages, is always changing, continually surprising, exotic even to those born under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Yet there are places familiar and dear because of that.

Seg and Milsi were adamant that we could now spend the time with them we had promised. Delia—ah! My Delia smoothed all and so we flew off to Croxdrin where Milsi was Queen and Seg was King. Along the River of Bloody Jaws we had had adventures, with more to come, no doubt; for now we could just be ourselves and enjoy life. That, after all, as the wise men say, is the reason we are here at all.

Shalane mended slowly and so we had packed her and her Rumay fanatics off to Vallia to be cared for by the first sorority who volunteered.

“I rather hope it will be the Sisters of Samphron,” said Delia, smiling as she took in the scent of the bunch of flowers just brought into the rooms in Milsi's palace where we were quartered. “Or the Little Sisters of—"

“What?” I teased her. “You're scared of what they might do to your girls of the Sisters of the Rose?"

When she let go of my hair and let me get up, I blew out my cheeks, and said: “One tumble deserves another."

“We are due for dinner and Milsi's view of etiquette coincides with mine, you great hairy graint."

“Quidang!"

At dinner we naturally discussed the points of contention still bothering us. Outside, the river shimmered under the radiance of Kregen's first moon, the Maiden with the Many Smiles. The service inside was just as smoothly brilliant. Kov Llipton, a handsome numim, and his wife, the lush Rahishta, attended. Llipton ran Croxdrin for Milsi during her absences. There was no sign of Princess Mishti, and while this saddened Milsi, she was aware that the girl still needed time to put the clamorous thoughts seething in her head into order.

There was absolutely no news of the whereabouts of Csitra.

The Witch of Loh had vanished. Our three mages, Deb-Lu-Quienyin, Khe-Hi-Bjanching and his wife, Ling-Li-Lwingling, reported that all trace of Csitra's sorceries had been removed.

“Do you believe this to be the end of the Witch War, then?” demanded Delia.

“Never, by the Veiled Froyvil! We've not heard the last of that black-hearted one!"

“Agreed, dear,” said Milsi.

“I agree, also,” I said. “And you, Delia?"

“Yes, except that..."

We waited and then, as Delia instead of going on with what had been in her mind lifted a crystal goblet of rich red, Milsi burst out: “Delia? What do you mean?"

Delia put the goblet down with precision. Everyone around the table looked politely at her. She wiped her lips with excruciatingly bright-yellow napery.

“Khe-Hi and Ling-Li said they could sense a distinct change in the witch's—oh, I do not know what arcane words they employ for their arts—in her kharrna, in her center of sorcerous emission. They were uncertain and dear old Deb-Lu was unable to confirm."

“Confirm what?"

“Would you care to explain what wizards mean when they talk their gobbledygook together?"

“No."

“It is just that we must expect the unexpected."

I was about to make the superfluous comment that, on Kregen, one has always to expect the unexpected to stay alive, when Kov Llipton leaned forward to speak.

The lionman spoke gravely. “Forgive me, but you talk, majisters and majestrixes, of Wizards of Loh with great familiarity."

I sat back.

Yes, what Llipton said was half-true. We tended these days to think of the three mages as our comrades, as friends, before Wizards and a Witch of Loh.

Milsi said on a breath: “We never forget their power, kov, never."

And that was true, by Krun!

“They are unaccountable folk,” went on Llipton in that serious tone. “What they do they do. They follow their own mysterious purposes. They bow the head to no one."

I took up a small handful of palines from the silver dish. “What you say is right, kov. Yet I have known a Wizard of Loh much reduced and brought down who served a tyrant slavishly. That was in the Hostile Territories of Turismond."

“I have heard of them, of course. They are being settled by colonies from all over nowadays, I hear.” Llipton brushed his numim whiskers. “By Numi Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor! majister, what sorcery could thus enslave a Wizard of Loh?"

“Oh,” I said, thinking of Umgar Stro, “I do not believe sorcery was involved. But, as to our friends who also happen to be mages, they are a part of the empire now. And we are exceedingly fortunate for that."

“Exceedingly,” said Seg, and I knew he was thinking of the times Deb-Lu had used his kharrna to our benefit.

“Well,” said Delia in her brisk fashion, “Khe-Hi and Ling-Li have gone back to Loh. Their children must be born there. Otherwise, they could not become real Wizards and Witches of Loh."

“The patterns must be preserved."

So we talked as we sat on around the table which bore the ruins of the splendid meal we had demolished.

Later that evening as we prepared to retire in the sumptuous chambers put at our disposal, Delia said: “I am always a little fretful when Khe-Hi and Ling-Li and dear Deb-Lu are not close by."

“Yet Deb-Lu worked his miracles at a distance—"

“Oh, I know! But, all the same—"

“All the same you will stop fretting and come to bed like any empress—no, confound it! By Zair! Sometimes, glad though I am to be rid of the job, I forget."

“Drak and Silda make an exemplary pair as emperor and empress. I am content."

So, by Vox, was I!

After we had spent a short time in Milsi's and Seg's realms of Croxdrin, we took our farewells, called down the remberees, and took off for Vallia.

Flying north with the combined fleets we saw not a sign of Shank airboats. We had reconnaissance out everywhere searching for the base we were confident they must have established to support this forward thrust. So far no sightings had been reported.

We broke the journey halfway to call in on the country of Jholaix, in the extreme northeast corner of Pandahem. Here Milsi was able to visit with her relatives, and—I believe I have no need to tell you who have been following my story—we had a riotous time. Jholaix produces what are considered the best wines of this part of Paz.

We met with folk there who were dissatisfied with the way events were turning out, and we materially furthered our cause. I felt confident that Jholaix, with Milsi's relatives, friends and contacts, would prove a powerful ally.

There is little need, it seems to me, to relate the scenes of pandemonium and celebration that occurred when we returned to Vallia. The citizens had accepted Drak and Silda as the new rulers. Yet all felt that special allegiance to the divine Delia. Oh, yes, we had a tremendous shindig, I can tell you, and we made, as they say in Clishdrin, the welkin ring all the long night through.

Our first visit the next morning was to see how Nath the Impenitent fared.

He was sitting propped up in a vast bed in the villa we had made over to his use, with his friends Perli and Sanchi dancing delightful attendance. Phocis, too, had a wing to herself and a few of her friends remaining from their fraught ordeal down the Coup Blag.

The Little Sisters of Patience had taken Shalane and the Rumay fanatics under their wing. There, as Delia said with a half-smile, it was all bread and water, prayers and housekeeping. “They will soon,” she said with a pert shake of her adorable head, “grow tired of that."

“I must admit, my heart, I am disquieted at our bringing the Rumay fanaticism back to Vallia."

“Agreed. Once Shalane and the other wounded are well, they must make their decisions for the future."

“Aye. If Jilian Sweet-Tooth were here she'd soon knock them into shape in her regiment of Jikai Vuvushis."

“She still pursues her own ends, as you know. If they wish to join a regiment, all well and good. I feel that they will choose not to do so. They are independent to a fault. It will probably be best for us to send them back to their homes."

“Aye."

As for Nath the Impenitent, he was genuinely glad to see us.

Seg and I went in first, bearing gifts, and he greeted us in the old happy way we had established during our comradeship down Csitra's damned magical maze.

I had made immediate enquiries of my chief stylor, Ob-eye Enevon, and he had rapidly ransacked the files and plunked down on my desk the details of Nath's misdeeds, punishment, and subsequent fate.

“Old Hack ‘n’ Slay!” I exclaimed. “So that's who he is. No wonder he jumped at the words, and he used them during the fight around the downed vollers. And he robbed his regiment's cash box. Well, I know why he did that. And he would have repaid but for the malignancy of his divisional commander."

“Chuktar Strom Enar Thandon,” said Enevon, nodding. “His report is certainly damning."

I told Enevon that Nath the Impenitent had taken the money from the regimental strong box to save his sister's daughter from the abhorrent followers of Lem the Silver Leem.

“Then,” said Enevon, “it was a worthy deed."

“Aye. Nath would have repaid had he been promoted. As we can see from the file, his promotion was blocked by this same Enar Thandon."

“He was commander of the 32nd Brigade of churgurs, yet he was not promoted from Jiktar to Chuktar."

I rapped my knuckles on the file.

“I suspected the Impenitent was a good soldier, and this proves it. See the list of his bobs. No, by Krun, this won't do in the Vallian Army. I'll have a word or three with Enar Thandon—” I shut up. Then I said: “This will have to go to the emperor, Enevon."

“Yes, jis, no doubt of it."

I gave him a leery look. “Jis, Enevon?” Jis, a contraction of majister, was now more and more used in the meaning of “sir."

“Reminds me of the old times, Dray."

“They had quite a fight getting Nath into the cells."

“I'll see the papers go to your son, then."

“Please, Enevon. Now I'll go and see the old Impenitent."

So, there were Seg and I, with our gifts, and Nath roaring at us from the bed, scarlet-faced with pleasure.

“Jak! Seg!” he bellowed. “Lahal and Lahal. Come in and have a stoup. I am being capitally provided for, and by whom I've not an idea in a Herrelldrin Hell."

We shook hands in the Vallian fashion, and Perli and Sanchi poured parclear, for it was too early for ale.

“We're glad to see you are feeling better, Nath,” said Seg, lifting his glass.

“Oh, aye, fit, fit! But you're late! Young Ortyg has comforted me a great deal. Tell me where you've been and what fresh adventures you've had.” He heaved up a sigh. “I confess I'm sorry to have missed ‘em."

“Nothing of importance, Jik,” I said.

He spilled his parclear.

“Jik?"

I looked at him. He put a finger to his lips and said:

“So you knew my name when I spoke in the Coup Blag. That life is passed and best forgotten."

“Nath Javed,” I said. “Jiktar of the 32nd Brigade of Churgurs. Old Hack ‘n’ Slay. Caught with his fingers in the regimental funds."

“Yes, yes, I told you and you swore to hold your tongue. But not my rank or the brigade—so—"

Seg lowered his glass and spoke in his powerful way. “Nath, we detest the evil creed of Lem the Silver Leem. We are dedicated to its utter overthrow and destruction."

“I will give you amen to that, doms. Aye, by Vox!"

“Good.” Seg was brisk. “When you are recovered, we will do somewhat regarding the vile people who took away your sister's daughter."

Nath moistened his lips. “I have hated all lords and nobles, and the emperor, and with good reason. Now there is a new emperor. Will he be any different?"

Seg started to say something and Nath went on in almost a ruminative way. “Yet, you two, the Horkandur and the Bogandur, are lords also, as I know. Yet I do not hate you. You are dear comrades. Are there, then, lords and lords?"

“There are. And, one of them, Enar Thandon, I believe, will rue the day he acted as he did."

Again Nath started. An uproar began at the door and young Ortyg Thingol burst in bearing a flagon of ale and shouting that the hour of mid had passed and Nath was due his wet. He saw Seg and me. His bright face flushed with color and the brown curls danced. He was mightily discomfited.

“Majister!” he croaked out. The flagon shook. “Your pardon, majister, I did not know you and Jen Seg were here."

“Evidently,” growled Seg. He glanced at me in so comical a way that I broke out laughing.

Nath shot up in the bed.

“Majister!” he bellowed. “What is this about majister?"

I said: “I crave your pardon, Jik Nath, for deceiving you. But it was, as you can see, essential that I be known as Jak the Bogandur. You do see that?"

His eyes popped. He tried to speak and gobbled for air. At that moment Delia and Milsi entered, bringing their gifts, and bringing a radiance and warmth into the sickroom.

“Dray!” called Milsi. “So this is the fearsome Impenitent!"

For a moment the confusion that followed left me a trifle breathless. Now Nath had said he'd never seen the emperor close up and that was why he'd not known me. He must have seen the empress, even though he may have denied it.

He scrabbled up in the bed, shedding sheets, trying to claw his way out and stand on his feet. He stood up all right, swaying, bursting sweat all over that scarlet face.

“Majestrix!” he roared out, and fell full flat on his face.

Seg and I hauled him back into the bed and then we all stood around looking down on him.

So, as you see, even a dedicated noble- and emperor-hater like old Hack ‘n’ Slay cherished the divine Delia and would serve her past death.

The needleman was called. Nath was out to the world. We were shooed out and left, telling Perli and Sanchi, dumb with shock, that we would return.

“D'ye see the old Impenitent's face?” demanded Seg. “When he remembered how pally he'd been treating the Bogandur!"

“He will,” said Delia in her most practical way, “get over it."

“If this means he'll be loyal to Drak—"

“I do not think, my heart, there will be any doubt of that."

What young Ortyg Thingol said was correct; it was past the hour of mid and therefore, acting the part of respectable citizens, we could legitimately make our way back for a long and thirst-quenching drink of ale. Wine would come later.

Now these days in Vondium the Proud City, capital of Vallia, where I was no longer the emperor, I had fancied I could have a deal of time to myself and generally laze about. Some hope! There always seemed something to do.

Drak and Silda and the Presidio were busily carrying on the work of putting the country back together again after the Times of Troubles. We conferred with many people you have met in this narrative of my adventures, and many others who worked nobly for Vallia. The army was in good heart. The great galleons of Vallia were being built again. The Air Service was painstakingly increasing the aerial fleets; but that work was dependent on the good news out of Hamal and Hyrklana where vollers were constructed. Supplies of airboats and saddle animals were being bought from Balintol.

All in all, we had precious little time to spend to ourselves.

The terror of the Witch of Loh's Nine Curses against Vallia had been removed, or so we believed. And, still, there was no news either of Csitra or the Shanks.

One evening we had gone through what I considered the tedious business of an enormous State Function. Drak and Silda looked the part of emperor and empress to perfection. When, at last, we could doff the ceremonial robes and remove the ornate mazillas, tall gem-encrusted collars that fair enclosed a person's head, we felt we had earned a small portion of time for relaxation.

Many of our friends and comrades gathered in the newly-furbished Corbitzey Chambers, hung with ruby-drapes and lit by many samphron oil lamps. The air was scented sweetly with Moon-blooms, and the tables groaned under food and drink. The assembled company would start singing soon, in the well-established and hallowed traditions of Vallia.

The Lord Farris and Nath na Kochwold were talking quietly in a corner with Seg and me when a gong-note sounded and a messenger walked into the brilliantly-lit chamber. Roben ti Vindlesheim standing with us glanced across and then went on talking in his dark-browed intensive way, concentrating on his beloved canals to the exclusion, it seemed to his amused and affectionate friends, of everything else.

Mantig Roben had been appointed by me when I'd been emperor to put Vallia's once-superb network of canals back into good condition. Many of the waterways had fallen into disuse. A bustling land full of commerce and travel needs canals, by Vox. Roben, quick-mannered, absorbed in his own work for Vallia, was just one more of the good comrades gathered about the throne during and after the Times of Troubles.

Seg said: “The messenger goes straight to Drak, Dray. They are learning."

“And about time, too, by Bongolin."

From the trim and clean appearance of the messenger we knew he had not flown here astride a saddle bird but had flown aboard a voller. Watching Drak's hard, competent face, so like my own and yet so unlike, I saw the flashing expression there reveal not indecision but a weighing of different courses of action. Indecision and Drak did not often lie together.

The major indecision of Drak's life so far had been his shilly-shallying about Silda.

Now he glanced across at my corner, saw me watching him among all the throngs of gaily-clothed folk between. He started across. As he approached I felt my old heart banging. Drak was every inch an emperor, by Zair, and I was proud of the lad.

I waited for him to speak. A hush fell about the group and more folk, curious as ever, formed a ring.

“It is Menaham.” Drak's left fist rested on his rapier hilt. “The Bloody Menahem. We all wondered what would chance with this new king they have. Well, now we know.” He glanced around, and only a fool would see indecision on that powerful, dominating and—yes—handsome face. “The imbecile has invaded Iyam and carries fire and the sword across the land toward Lome and Yumapan."

Halted in his passionate tirade about the canals, Mantig Roben ti Vindlesheim was the first to speak. It was, as it were, a continuation of his thoughts.

“Let them hack each other to pieces in Pandahem, jis. We have Vallia to heal and rebuild. It is no concern of ours."

From the growl of assent, quite a number of the folk there shared that sentiment.

Drak's head thrust forward obstinately. He stared full at me as he spoke, a lowering, brooding look of concentration. He knew my aims for Paz, all right, knew them damned well.

“This is evil news, yes. It destroys much we in Vallia have worked for. But it does concern us, for it concerns Paz."

Chapter twelve

Of the Mystique of Paz

Mysticism forms a vital ingredient in the lives of some people who cannot exist without the thrills and terrors of supernatural experiences—or quasi-supernatural delusions—and the feeling they are communing with forces beyond those of nature. There are other folk who see no need for flummery of this kind to explain the disasters and successes of life. They are in touch with aspects of nature quite satisfactory to them.

When millions of people devote themselves to the service of an abstract ideal, surely, some will say, mysticism reaches an apex, no matter what the ideal. Others will say that practical self-interest and the well-being of their fellow humans motivate their actions.

The theory for the moment could be ignored; we needed the results. When my lad Drak spoke so intensely about Paz, I felt enormous relief. I had not been sure that he would put matters in the same order of priority that I had done. He had, I'd noticed, been furbishing up the palace at a faster rate than in my days as emperor. But in matters of importance he could see clearly enough that what we in Vallia were doing or trying to do—was really a matter of simple common sense.

Nowadays, when the word Paz was spoken, there clung around the sound an aura of mysticism, of grandeur, of yearning. Invisible trumpets pealed and carried the name Paz.

Most folk could feel that little shiver up the spine at the idea of Paz. The continents of Turismond to the west, Segesthes to the east, Loh between and Havilfar to the south, joined by the islands of Pandahem and Vallia formed the grouping of lands known as Paz.

“The news is certainly evil for the poor devils of Iyam,” said Nath na Kochwold.

Seg said: “Are there no more details?"

Some, a little, of the tenseness drained from Drak as he turned at once to answer Seg.

“Precious little, Seg. Only that this insufferable new king of theirs doesn't understand mercy."

“In that case he may be king for a very short time."

One or two of the people smiled at this, and Naghan Strandar in his familiar way laughed, agreeing.

When I'd been putting smashed-up Vallia back together, and being lumbered with the job of being emperor along the way, people had gathered about to help. You know a few of them. It was diashum[2] to work and, if necessary, to die for Vallia.

[2 diashum: magnificent. A.B.A.]

When as emperor I'd run the Presidio and court, do not believe that the fighters, bankers, architects, artists, flyers, musicians—many and many splendid folk of diverse talents—were a chorus of approval. I was not surrounded by yes-men. Oh no, by Vox, very far from it.

We all shared the dream, we differed in the way of human nature in how that glittering dream might best be realized.

So, now, as the news of this maniacal King Posno's invasion of his western neighbor was discussed, there were voices lifted passionately to say that we needed no further entanglements abroad. Money and work were needed in Vallia. Mantig Roben spluttered as he said: “With the money and manpower you will waste fighting in Pandahem I can rebuild many dwaburs of canal. There is our country's wealth."

Somebody ripped out: “If you live to sail the waters of your precious canals, Mantig."

“This cretinous cramph King Posno is not invading Vallia, is he?"

“The Pandaheem recall what happened to them the last time they tried."

“Well, then, my point is proved."

Somebody else wouldn't have that, and vehemently carried on the argument. I caught various eyes, and we sauntered away to find ourselves a quiet retiring room where the news might be discussed more fully and more logically.

I said: “If I were callous, as many emperors are callous, I would say this was not evil news, was good news, was most excellent news."

“How can that be, when the alliance falls into ruin?” demanded Nath na Kochwold.

“Why, Nath,” I said, completely unable to refrain from teasing my splendid blade comrade. “I confess I am astonished. I thought you joyed in putting your Phalanxes in motion."

“As to that, you know I do—oh. I see.” His face reflected a wry realization that, once again, he'd been taken for a gentle little ride. “Will you show any preference in your selection?"

“Now then, Nath,” I said. And again, I confess, I spoke only half in jest. “You are forgetting."

“Your pardon. It is not easy.” Nath na Kochwold, who had won his name in that great battle, considered that all his Phalanxes were perfect. He knew, also, that over the seasons I had out of experience formed certain attachments to certain Phalanxes.

What was true was that in the Phalanx Vallia had a battle-winning weapon. Nath had taken this gentle jesting in good part, and now he turned to Drak and said: “Well, then. And which Phalanxes will you require. All are ready."

“When we work out the forces to go, then you'll know."

“Quidang."

“It is good news, father, in that sense.” Drak did not drink from his golden and jeweled goblet but nursed it between both hands, face intent. “We may impose our will upon Menaham after we have defeated them."

“There is no doubt about that,” said the Lord Farris.

I opened my mouth, saw Seg glancing at me, and closed that fount of spouting babblement.

“The only fault in the logic is that the Bloody Menahem are so—so bloody.” Drak spoke with feeling.

“They may be forced to bow the neck, they may be bribed, they may be—"

Nath cut in: “They could all be exterminated."

Farris, as tough now as ever despite his age, sucked in a breath. “Yes, Nath na Kochwold. If such a deed were required to be done, I would choose you for the task."

“I stand corrected, Farris. You are right.” Nath spoke openly. Then his passionate and justice-demanding nature burst out. “But, all the same, that would settle the issue."

Cutting in and alleviating some of the tension, Larghos the Sko-handed pointed out: “The realm of Tomboram to the east of Menaham is firmly allied to us. They will help."

Mantig Roben said: “Yes, good, a sound point. Let Tomboram shoulder the task in its entirety."

“We would have to support them with cash, Mantig,” said Drak in a mild voice. “So your canals would still not profit by that scheme. We must play our part."

Seg said: “This business of Tomboram could be more tricky than we suppose. Menaham and Tomboram, traditional enemies for hundreds of seasons, do not take their eyes off each other. We have fought there before. So..."

No one was louche enough to say out loud what Seg meant: “What has happened to allow Menaham to attack westward without fear of attack from the east?"

I said more sharply than I intended: “Drak. Have you heard from your mother recently?"

“Three days ago, explaining that she could not attend today."

“The same for me,” I said. “Seg?"

“Milsi sent at the same time, same reason."

“That appears satisfactory, then. Seg?"

“Oh, I'm with you, my old dom. And I think Nath the Impenitent is well enough. He might enjoy a little exercise."

“Capital."

Both Seg and I knew well enough that our ladies would spit rivets when they discovered we'd gone off adventuring on our own. Still, they were tied up with the Sisters of the Rose, and they had adventures enough, by Vox!

Drak said in his serious voice: “Father. You will—"

“Oh, I will, all right. Don't fret."

Nath na Kochwold swelled up his chest and stared at me with great bitterness.

“Some people,” he said, grinding out the words. “Some people have all the fun. Rest assured that—"

“Look, Nath,” I said. “You have been offered an imperial province as Justicar from me, and I believe the Emperor Drak will honor that pledge. Yet you insist on remaining with your Phalanxes. If you want to come adventuring with Seg and me, you have to renounce certain things."

“So that is why you renounced the throne and crown of Vallia? To go adventuring? Well, many may believe that."

“It has a ring."

“Aye. After this next fight of my Phalanx. Then I will decide."

Nath na Kochwold could be the emperor's Justicar of any imperial province he chose; he could not tear himself away from that terrible war instrument, the Phalanx. I do not think many in that small private room would take a wager on Nath's final decision.

Drak sounded more resigned than irritated when he said: “I suppose you won't take a proper army with you, father? Just you and Seg and a few choice spirits?"

“D'you take an army when you go adventuring?"

“When!"

Seg laughed. “I think, Drak my bonny emperor, I really do think that your father hasn't stopped laughing since he dumped that job on you."

“That, Uncle Seg, I am all too ready to believe."

I didn't miss that little word “uncle” in there, the old affectionate if inaccurate way our children called my blade comrade Seg. There would not be, I knew, much chance they'd address Milsi, Queen Mab of Croxdrin, as Auntie Milsi, because now they were grown up.

Farris then started on the practicalities of the venture, which I could leave to him with certitude. Besides being retained by Drak as the Justicar Crebent who ran Vallia with the Presidio when the emperor was absent, Farris was still the Commander of the Vallian Air Service.

“Just keep this whole thing secret,” I said. “You know what happens when folk get wind of an adventure."

A mellow, jovial, not quite wheezing voice chimed in then, to say: “Lahal, all. I would be the first to jump at the chance of adventuring with you, Dray. But I have other shafts in the air."

“San Quienyin!"

We all stood up as a mark of respect as Deb-Lu-Quienyin entered and found himself a comfortable chair. His atrocious turban, new though it might be, was already beginning to loosen and slip over one ear. He beamed on us.

He was real and not a projection through occult space. He took wine and drank and said: “The developments may be turned to our advantage, if we strike surely."

Drak said: “I will lead the army and—"

“Majister.” Deb-Lu's word brought instant attention. “With respect, better for you to attend to Vallia's needs."

Drak was not fool enough to argue with a Wizard of Loh when said Wizard of Loh spoke so positively.

“We are needed here, Drak."

“In that case...” And here Nath na Kochwold jumped in with both feet. Drak laughed.

“Very well, Nath, you ferocious brumbyte!"

There were other preparations to be made. When all was ready and we boarded the voller a few days later, I had to admit to myself that I missed Delia's firm and delicate hand on the helm of my destiny. I always felt much better flying off to harebrained escapades when she organized our logistics. So, with that thought in the hollow space between my ears and with a few choice spirits, I shouted down the remberees and the voller soared up into the mingled streaming radiance of the Suns of Scorpio.

Chapter thirteen

Of mud, blood and a zorca horn

Rotting garbage piled head-high along the street scraped at nostrils and back of throat with rancid stenches. Smoking torches threw scraps of erratic illumination upon the macabre scenes, gleaming upon frenzied half-naked bodies, glinting upon pools of stinking water slimed in the ruts and runnels of the mud-choked street. The air crackled with high, empty screams of laughter, with shrieks of pain and the spitting conflagrations of the fires burning at every corner.

“By Vox!” breathed Seg. “Is every town of Menaham like this inferno?"

Beggars, thieves, prostitutes, pickpockets, the jetsam of society, existed in the poor quarter of the town of Gorlki in Menaham. License held absolute sway. Brutality, the dictate of the strong and ruthless, controlled all. Shrieking women ran like maenads, and lust-crazed men screamed after them like satyrs. If one wanted a medieval hell as a scene for a painting, then there would be no need to go further than this stinking Hades in Menaham's Gorlki.

“This does not sit well with me,” said Orso, neatly guiding his zorca around two drunken men collapsed in each other's arms, the knives falling laxly from their fists, their fight for the money-purse overtaken by the wine they had drunk. A wild-haired crone whose rags flapped like the rusty-black wings of a magbird darted in, cackling insanely, to snatch up the purse. Even as she scuttled off, so others descended on her like warvols, shrieking.

The stinks overpowered with the effluents of hell.

“I have seen much evil and sadness in Vallia,” said Nath the Impenitent. “But nothing like this."

“Praise be to Opaz."

“Oh, aye. A life here is not worth a Hamalese toc."

Orso drew his sword. The drexer glittered cleanly in that midden of filth.

“Best, then, to be prepared."

Nath's fist, resting on his hilt, did not tighten. I knew he'd draw and be in action before Orso, even so, even good as Orso was. He'd finagled his way into joining us because Drak had asked me as a favor to take him. Drak owed a favor to Orso's father, a wealthy financier, and as Drak was not going himself, then Orso might go with me. I had accepted because I did not want my son, the new emperor, loaded down with favors that might be called in on less favorable occasions.

Orso Frentar held his back upright, and gazed about keenly and kept a firm grip upon his blade. Balass the Hawk had tried him out in swordsmanship and professed himself as satisfied as Balass ever would be in matters of the sword.

We all wore long dark cloaks that fell over the hindquarters of our zorcas. We wore flat leather caps. We did not look imposing or wealthy; but we rode zorcas through this human quagmire and it would only be a matter of time before we were jumped.

A zorca with the single twisted spiral horn, close-coupled and mettlesome, is, after all, the finest four-legged saddle animal of Paz. So we rode alertly.

Not knowing this town of Gorlki, and the night drawing on, we'd entered through the nearest gate on the road we'd followed since leaving the voller. That gate, the Gate of Penitence, led directly into this disgusting portion of the town. The sights were bad enough, the stinks worse, and the iniquity the worst of all.

Our plans were simple and straightforward enough.

A diplomatic mission had been dispatched from Vondium to Tomboram. Also, spies had been sent in parallel to flesh out the picture of what was happening there.

The Vallian Expeditionary Force, to be led by Nath na Kochwold, to assist Iyam against the Menaham invasion, would go in over to the west, probably near the border with Lome. Queen Lushfymi of Lome was fully involved.

So, that left us to follow along in the wake of the triumphant Bloody Menahem and discover what we could and suss out the most appropriate places to strike.

As Orso said: “The first place is this stinking hell. Torch it all!"

“And then,” pointed out Seg, “where would the poor devils who live here now go?"

The Impenitent had rapidly adjusted to the new situation vis-à-vis himself and Seg and me. He continued to call me Jak as others had done in the same situation.

Now he said sharply: “Keep an eye on your calsany, Orso!"

The two pack calsanys trotted along on their leading reins. The panniers and pouches draping them must prove well-nigh irresistible temptations to the thieving fraternity.

Orso gave an impatient tug at his leading rein and his calsany lumbered up alongside Nath's. I hadn't wanted to take Orso along. His father, Lango Frentar, rotund and shining with perspiration, much decorated with gold, pressed. Drak had stated his request in a matter-of-fact way. I'd said, I recalled: “Well, Orso, if they bring your head back in a bucket, I will not be held responsible."

In his scornful, high-tempered way, Orso rapped back: “If they bring my head back in a bucket, majister, it will deserve to rattle around in there."

“So be it.” So, Orso Frentar rode with us.

The filth of the street splashed and slimed under the dainty hooves of the zorcas. They didn't much care for the stench of this noisome place. I well knew that many a street of my own Earth, and not so long ago at that, presented the appearance of an open sewer, running green from wall to wall. Here and there barricades had been set up to direct the sewerage, and beyond on raised stoops shops and tatty bazaars sold wares of dubious value. Every other building seemed to be a pothouse, and most of those were dopa dens.

I settled the flowing cloak more comfortably upon my shoulders. A leather bandolier of terchicks nestled over my right shoulder and I felt the need to draw and throw with the utmost rapidity to be essential at the moment.

The Krozair longsword was scabbarded to the saddle. At my belt I wore a thraxter and a rapier and main gauche on their separate belts. As always, my old sailor knife nestled over my right hip.

We must have looked a formidable enough quartet for the more casual of the cutthroats to eye us malevolently and then to sneak away. Women importuned us, screeching creatures of contorted features and wild hair, eyes white blots in faces grimed and stained. Everyone dressed in rags; at least, we saw no one who wore what would be dubbed decent clothes.

Up ahead must lie the more respectable parts of this frontier town of Gorlki. Certain of the denizens of this human jungle decided we would not live to reach that haven.

We were without doubt foolish to ride through these slums; but, then, we were strangers and had not known.

Seg cocked an eye forward to where a wood and plaster balcony, called a jetty, overhung the street.

“Up there."

“Aye."

Ragged scarecrow-like objects up on the balcony flapped tattered clothes about themselves. They looked like rusty bats, wings abristle, ready to swoop down upon us as we rode past below.

On the opposite side of the street an open bonfire constricted the width. Weird caricatures of people danced about the fire and to the side tumblers and fire-eaters cavorted to tease a few copper obs from a small and gawping crowd.

The confusion and noise racketed all about and the hiss and splutter of the flames added an ominous accompaniment.

I said: “Nath, Orso. Heads down and ride like the Agate-winged jutmen of Hodan-Set."

Seg and I dropped back. Our comrades jollied their zorcas into a run and the calsanys lumbered along aft. Pretty soon those calsanys would do what all calsanys do when they are startled and upset. That would make no difference at all in this stinking cesspool of a street.

Nath and Orso rode hard. They did not put their heads down but brandished their weapons, glittering in the crimson violence of the fire.

Four blackened raggedy shapes dropped from the balcony.

They misjudged the fall by a hand's-breadth only, fooled by that sudden onrush. Seg's blade slashed twice and so did mine. Four bundles spun away from the zorca hooves. Their blood splashed into the mud, unnoticed and immediately forgotten.

“Here come their fanshos!” screeched Orso.

Instantly he was at work slashing ferociously at the pack of starveling human wolves trying to drag him from the saddle. Their grimed faces shone with sweat and the fat dribbled from their last meal. Their eyes curdled white and glaring and their black-fanged winespouts shrieked threats and curses. There were enough of them to keep us busy for a mur or two and then we'd ridden them down, cut them down or—a zorca when annoyed becomes spiritedly ferocious. Orso's zorca was clearly his personal animal and trained by him.

Orso's zorca lifted his head, neighing, it seemed to me, in delight. A ragged bundle stuck through by the twisted spiral horn wriggled and flopped and a pair of filthy blood-smeared hands tried to force the spitted body off that cruel horn.

Orso shouted: “Quey-arn."

At once the zorca lowered his head, shook, and the dying man slipped off into mud puddled by his own blood.

“They do not like that,” called Orso. “These scum do not like it up ‘em, believe me."

“Oh, aye,” said Seg as we cleared the last of the shattered band of robbers. “Oh, aye, Orso. I believe you."

Orso, it was clear, heard nothing of the undertones in Seg's reply.

Some way ahead a fresh altercation took our attention.

Directly before us torchlights splashed luridly from the Gate of Dolors set in the inner wall of the city. We were nearly out of the slums. A party of Moltingurs, fighting amongst themselves, failed to notice the two gauffrers stealing the prize over which the Moltingurs fought.

Orso laughed. “The fools have stolen the girl and now they will lose her through greed."

The scene, distasteful as it was, was thus correctly read. The Moltingurs had taken the girl, a Lamnian maiden of considerable beauty, to sell to the highest bidder and before that transaction could be completed, the quarrel over the spoils had given the sneaky gauffrers the chance to steal the Lamnian girl to sell themselves.

Nath said: “They have only just brought her into this hellhole, for the gate is no distance away."

“Aye."

“It is clear she does not live here."

“Aye, for she is still clean."

I gentled my zorca and edged him over to the two gauffrers. Sharp rodent faces alight with greed, they carted the struggling girl like a sack, her golden fur glorious in the torchlights. I hit them over the head with the flat, one after the other, and they tumbled to the mud.

In the same instant Seg was off his zorca and taking up the girl's bound form. Her eyes, wide and frightened, glared above the gag. Seg slung her over the zorca before him and vaulted into the saddle. The close-coupled zorca provided just room enough with none to spare. Seg led us in our last rush for the Gate of Dolors and we were through before the Moltingurs woke up to the facts of life.

“That was—sudden,” said Orso as we reined in. “You were very quick."

Nath the Impenitent was comfortably getting back to the old companionship we had enjoyed down the Coup Blag, and now he said in his rich, juicy voice: “Oh, I've seen ‘em faster, believe me."

And Seg laughed.

“We'd better find a decent tavern and then see about getting this poor girl home.” He bent and removed her gag and then helped her to the ground. The cobbles here were dry and reasonably clean. Nath whipped out his nasty-looking knife, and before the girl had time to flinch he'd snicked her bonds free.

In a superb attempt to hold onto her breeding and courage, she said: “I thank you jikais for—” and then she keeled over and would have toppled headlong if Seg's strong bowman's arm had not lapped her slender waist.

“Well, now,” I said, most helpfully.

“She must be got into a bed and a puncture lady sent for quicker than a cisfly spits,” said Seg. He lifted her and started for The Leather Bottle a few doors along. We followed. The Leather Bottle obviously was not the best of taverns; but this was an emergency.

The landlord, an Och hight Niswan the Lop, was only too anxious to help when Nath showed him gold, and Orso slid a bloodied cleaning cloth over his sword blade.

The puncture lady, of three chins, ample bosom, starched petticoats and smelling of peppermint, tut-tutted and threw us out of the upper bedchamber and, later, pronounced the oracle that the Lamnian maiden would live, allowed us in, took her gold and departed swinging her bag of mystery.

“Well,” said Seg, smiling with that handsome face of his most reassuring to a defenseless lady in these horrendous happenings. “I'm glad you are feeling better."

“They kidnapped me,” she whispered, her face still drawn with remembered terror and sick apprehension. “They were going to sell me—it was horrible!"

I confess I sounded most priggish when I couldn't stop myself from saying: “You must expect this sort of thing to happen in a slave-owning society."

“I'm not—quite sure—how do you mean?"

I felt annoyed I'd been such a boor, but good old Seg smoothed it over and she said her name was Yamsin Weymlo and her father was a merchant. Being Lamnian, this was usual.

Orso said: “You were lucky, Yamsin. Now had Katakis taken you, the gauffrers would have been chopped and you'd be—"

“Quite,” snapped Seg, chopping Orso's indelicacies.

“We'll get word to your father right away,” I said. “Now you rest easy. We'll be on hand and if you need anything, just shout."

Her golden fur gleamed against the pillow and her beautiful face, beautiful to anyone of any race with eyes to see, relaxed a tiny amount, enough to reassure me.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I give thanks to Mother Heymamlo. And, I give thanks to you, my four jikais.

Chapter fourteen

I take up a collection

The mingled lights of Antares streamed into the upper chamber of The Scepter and Wand, a luxurious inn and posting house of Gorlki adjacent to the Wayfarer's Drinnik beyond the walls.

Yamsin Weymlo lay asleep in an adjoining bedchamber with her own nurse and handmaidens to care for her.

Sitting in a deep brocaded armchair, her father, Dolan Weymlo, munched palines and kept ratatatting his fingers on his knee. He looked worried.

He'd thanked us effusively for the rescue of his daughter, the light of his life, and only female relative now his wife, the gentle Pilsi, and passed—as he confidently believed—through the Ice Floes of Sicce to the sunny uplands beyond. He had discovered his daughter's loss only a short time before we'd reported her safe, and that short time had aged him.

But the worry nagging at him was not connected with his daughter's peril. That had passed. His misfortunes persisted. Frankly, he told us what plagued him.

“I am a merchant, well, almost all us Lamnians are merchants, and agents of the king pestered me for supplies for this pestiferous war.” He lifted a paline; but he did not put the luscious berry into his mouth. “Wars may bring profit for those unscrupulous enough to batten on other folks’ misery. I prefer the profits of peace."

“You are, then, Horter Weymlo, exceeding wise."

“A wisdom bought by hard experience."

“So,” I said. “A shot at random. You brought these supplies for the king and his army was most grateful. But you have not been paid, nor are likely to be paid."

His shrewd old eyes looked up. “You are a merchant, too, then?"

“No. But it is not difficult to know the ways of the great ones of the world. They do not often vary."

“True, by Beng Feylam the Bonder of Warehouses."

Nath had really no need for the little grunt of agreement, and then the checked intake of a breath, and then a scuffle of his booted foot. Nath the Impenitent, old Hack ‘n’ Slay, had had his views of at least some of the great ones of the world changed lately.

“This king,” said Seg, who since his winning of a kingdom had become a trifle more tolerant of monarchs—a trifle only, mind. He is new to the throne I hear."

“Aye. His uncle died as inconvenient uncles in the way of ambitious nephews do die from time to time."

Lamilo, the Lamnian with only one arm, clad in sober but sumptuous clothes next to Weymlo, leaned closer and whispered. What he said was easy to guess.

“Yes, yes, good Lamilo,” said the merchant. “That is sooth. But I judge these jikais to be men of honor. Besides, they are not of Menaham."

“All the same, horter, some care—"

“I tell you, I am past caring in this."

Orso shuffled and spoke up. “We thank you for your hospitality, Horter Weymlo. We are glad to have saved your daughter from a hideous fate. But, now, I think we must take our leave."

Seg threw a swift amused glance. I judged Orso was trying to extricate me from what he considered a sticky and uninteresting situation. Little, I feared, did the gallant Koter Orso Frentar know of Dray Prescot!

Immediately the Lamnian rose and gathered his gold-embroidered robes about him. They are shrewd, are Lamnians, and yet so often their countenances express perpetual surprise at the world's follies. This is, of course, a potent source of strength in their merchanting deals.

“If you must leave so soon ... I give you my thanks and may Havil the Green speed your ways."

I cut in. “Horter Orso is concerned for the welfare of our zorcas.” I gave Orso a stare. “Thank you for thinking of them. When you have finished no doubt we will meet in the taproom."

He was hooked on his own hook and so could do no more than nod stiffly and leave. I breathed in and out when he'd left the room and said to Weymlo: “Pray, be seated, horter. I fancy there are matters we may discuss."

He glanced at me, shrewd and sharp, and then resumed his seat. He took up a crystal goblet of parclear and looked at me over the rim. “You are paktuns seeking employment?"

“We are tazll at the moment, yes. But we are in no hurry. If you deign, I'd like to hear more of this king."

“King Morbihom of the Iron Hand.” He smiled. “Yes, I know the sobriquet is ridiculous. He chose it himself."

“He is leaving a wake of destruction through Iyam."

“Destruction, terror and the loss of all hope. If he is not stopped soon—rather, if he does not stop soon—he will be on the borders of Lome."

Lamilo, Weymlo's stylor, said: “We must follow in the path of the king to speak with him personally."

Weymlo waved a beringed hand. “Easy to say, Lamilo."

They told us that they'd asked for payment through the usual channels and had been fobbed off. They'd approached officials of various authorities within the army and the persons in charge of supply, to no avail. Now, they had determined to go to the commanding Kapts in the field to bring pressure on the responsible officials to pay up.

“Why not,” said Seg, “go straight to the king?"

“Exactly!” cracked out Stylor Lamilo.

“Tsleetha-tsleethi,” counseled Weymlo. “The Kapts first. Through them the king will be swayed."

“The king is swayed only by the queen and by his Wizard of Loh, this Al-Ar-Mergondon whose name be...” Here Lamilo stopped speaking with a snap of his Lamnian jaws. Only fools speak ill of wizards, even when the wizards are dwaburs away.

“What is known of this wizard?” said Seg into the awkward little silence.

“He is powerful, abrupt, terrible in his wrath."

A chill seeped around our bones there in that upper chamber of The Scepter and Wand.

The relationships between king, queen and wizard might follow well-established patterns, or this instance might throw up an entirely new stratification and power-arrangement. Familiar or unfamiliar, the situation had to be turned to our advantage.

Weymlo insisted we stay for the first meal of mid, traditionally a light snack, followed by the more substantial lunch of the second meal of mid. Here the superb Kregan tea could be drunk as well as parclear and sazz. We tucked in and over the meal learned more of the local situation and what we might expect to encounter as we progressed toward the battle front.

Suddenly and out of the blue, a complete non-sequitur, Seg said: “May Havil the Green look down!” He sounded serious. “Orso! We have completely forgotten him and he is down in the stables or the taproom waiting."

“Ha!” and Nath the Impenitent downed his cup.

“I,” I said, standing up, “with your leave, Horter Weymlo, will go down."

Seg was having enormous difficulty in not bursting out laughing, and Nath was stuffing his face. Weymlo nodded and said: “By all means,” and I trotted off.

The blackwood stairs from the upper floors led into the taproom; Orso was not there. In the other direction a narrow brick-walled passage led to the inner courtyard.

A few freymuls and preysanys were tethered up and quietly drinking from the trough. A soughwood tree overhung a corner of the yard. A few blooms wilted on a windowsill. Dust tasted on the air.

“Orso!” I called. No answer.

Two sides were lined with stables. Most of the split doors were closed. A flutter of movement just inside an open door drew my attention and I walked across and went into the dimness beyond. My mouth opened to call Orso again.

A very sharp blade caressed my neck from ear to chin. I stood absolutely still.

“Stand still,” rasped the unmistakable tones of a Rapa. “Or you are a dead man."

The redundancy of the remark escaped the Rapa, who moved around, the knife still pressed against my neck.

His dingy feathers smelled unpleasantly. His clothes were a collection of castoffs from half a dozen different sources. He was well-practiced with a knife, that was patently obvious, and his ferocious vulturine face, beaked and menacing, indicated that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Back into the shadows."

We moved farther into the dimness. He was smart, no doubt of it; but I'd been lax, no doubt of that, either.

“Drop your weapon belts."

I did so.

“Now move away."

I moved farther into the straw-smelling stall.

He stepped back. His beak tilted. “Now hand over your money.” The knife gestured eloquently.

The small lesten-hide bag of gold, silver and copper tucked into my broad waist belt held enough to satisfy this small-time holdup Rapa. He weighed it and fondled it. When Seg and I went off adventuring, we mostly carried our gold in pockets inside our belts. And elsewhere. The Rapa did not ask. He pulled the string of the money back with his beak and then made a mistake.

He cocked his head on one side and looked down at the bag. The dimness made him look longer than he should have done.

The intervening distance passed in no time at all and I was on him. A stunning blow to his wrist, a grasping turn and the knife was in my possession. I gave him a backhander across the beak and he stumbled back, spitting feathers.

One hand to his face he glared at me with that lopsided look of Rapas. Absolute baffled fury engorged him

He said: “I think I made a mistake."

“Quite possibly. Hand back my money."

He threw the purse onto the straw at my feet.

“So we are quits, then."

I said nothing but continued to stare at him.

“You have your weapons and your money. Give me back my knife and I'll be off."

“I'll keep your knife, dom."

“By Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls!"

But he turned and went toward the open door. As he reached the jamb, I threw his knife. It struck through a flapping rag of his clothes and pinned the filthy cloth to the wood. He swung about at once, beak quivering.

He half-raised a hand and I shook my head.

“Now hand over all your money."

He couldn't believe this. The hand lifted farther so I whipped out the old sailor knife and poised.

“Your money, dom. Or this one is through your eye."

Hissing with that gobbling, guttural hiss of enraged Rapas, he fished out his money bag and threw it down.

“And the rest."

He found some more coins tied into the corners of his clothes.

“Take the knife from the wood, very carefully, and throw it down."

By this time he realized he wouldn't outthrow me.

At the last he looked back, his feathers most bedraggled, to say: “I shall remember you, dom."

There was nothing I wished to say to that, and he mooched despondently off into the mingled lights of Antares. I picked up his knife, and it was a cheap blade of Krasny work; still, it threw accurately. His money amounted to little enough, by Krun, and most of it wasn't his to start with, anyway, I didn't doubt. There was still no sign of Orso so I took myself off to the upper room.

“No Orso?” said Seg.

“No.” I put the Rapa's money on the table and said to Stylor Lamilo: “Would you see this goes to a deserving charity, stylor, as a favor?"

“Of course. But—?"

“Oh,” I said, sitting down and picking a juicy paline from the dish. “I just took up a collection for a good cause."

Chapter fifteen

Murlock the Spry

Dolan Weymlo proved an interesting traveling companion, for his merchanting business had carried him into many parts of Kregen. He had transacted profitable deals in lands I'd never visited, and had met folk of whom I had no knowledge.

The old stories of people with an eye in their chests and legs growing from their foreheads were trotted out.

Weymlo, I fancied, used these as a test. Nath believed in these caricatures, and hung on Weymlo's every word, eyes wide open and ears flapping.

Orso, upright and scornful in the saddle, rode on by himself. We were content that our traveling arrangements should thus be settled, but as I said to Seg: “There are four of us, and we should be united. I approve of Orso riding solo; I do not much care for the division it may cause in our ranks."

“He's young and the blood's fair bursting around his body,” said Seg. “He'll measure up when the shaft nocks the string."

As we rode westward through devastated Iyam, the twin suns shone splendidly and the weather was brilliantly perfect even for Northern Pandahem. This island is blessed in many ways. The east-west central spine of mountains cuts the island into two distinctly different parts, their characters at variance. Down south lie the festering jungles. Up here in the northern parts the weather was noticeably warmer than in Vallia; but nowhere near unpleasant.

So, under dappled skies and with nature smiling all about we rode past blackened ruins, obscene in their gutted shells, past gibbets festooned with their dreadful freight, past fields where the loosely thrown soil failed to cover the decomposing and stinking corpses. Oh, yes, the triumphant path of this great King Posno, who called himself King Morbihom of the Iron Hand, was most easy to follow.

We were attacked only three times.

The miserable and desperate creatures hiding in ruins or among crevices of the hillsides, could be shooed off with a show of force. The flash of blades indicated to them that they had not picked on a merchant's defenseless caravan. On both occasions Weymlo ordered his people to leave parcels of food as we rode off.

The third attack was of a different nature.

Being a Lamnian with merchanting skills in his blood, Dolan Weymlo had been unable to resist concluding a few deals in Gorlki. We had a string of calsanys and plains asses with us, loaded with merchandise that—at least in theory—should fetch good prices when we came up with the army. He and Lamilo rode preysanys. The lady Yamsin rode a freymul, often called the poor man's zorca. Also there were the bodyguard mercenaries already hired.

They were a motley crew. There was not a real paktun among the mercenaries. Most paktuns would be off in the king's army, naturally, and these were low-quality soldiers or youngsters just starting out on the mercenary life. They were not, I judged, to be classed as masichieri who, while calling themselves paktuns, are little better than mere drikingers, bandits.

We four had politely refused Weymlo's offer of employment. We rode with him from mutual advantage, we gaining the cover of a sizable force, and he gaining the added protection of four professional blades.

So, the third attack came in with a whoop and a holler, and with deadly meaning.

These were deserters, riffraff from the army, drikingers, men desperate in ways far deeper and darker than the desperations of the miserable wights whose homes had been destroyed. This is not a paradox. These gentry were bound for Cottmer's Caverns no matter who caught them. And they knew it.

Orso slashed into action at once, kneeing his fighting zorca into a frenzy.

Our mercenaries faced this first serious challenge. When Seg, Nath and I roared out ahead, sweeping away the first ragged charge, the mercenaries took heart and pitched in. They fought as well as they could, and I do not doubt that more than one raw youngster discovered something there of what being a mercenary entailed. We lost only three of them, two dead and one wounded who would recover.

Just before the fight Seg and I had slipped the silken cords of our pakzhans out so that the golden wink of the zhantil-head device glittered at our throats. Only paktuns who have earned great renown are given the accolade of the pakzhan from their peers. They are known as zhanpaktuns. Those with the silver mortil-head device, the pakmort, are known as mortpaktuns.

I have known brigands to simply run off immediately they spot a wink of gold at the throat of the fellow they thought they would attack and rob.

Nath the Impenitent, of course, having served only in the Vallian Army, was not a mercenary. Orso Frentar had not served as a mercenary, either. Here we had further opportunity to observe his swordsmanship, which had been learned at the best academies of Vondium.

“Very neat and precise,” was Seg's verdict.

“I will not pass judgment until we have been in a real hack ‘n’ slay situation."

“Balass the Hawk's very words."

“Aye,” growled out Nath. “In the bash of a melee, fine theories are blown away like bubbles."

Seg started to say: “Indu—"

And Nath roared out, joyfully: “—bitably, Horkandur!"

We rode back to join the caravan and the servants climbed up from under the plains asses. No one in his right mind would shelter under a calsany in those circumstances.

Stylor Lamilo walked carefully down the line of pack animals, counting.

“Not one lost,” he reported.

The captain of the mercenaries, a Fristle hight Foison the Stroke, preened his whiskers and took the credit for this successful execution of the duties for which he and his men had been hired. As a cadade, Foison the Stroke should go far in his chosen profession.

A hoarse shout attracted our attention.

The bushes where the deserters and brigands had secreted themselves hemmed the area in a trifle, although the broad lands stretched beyond, and among the dark bundles of dead bodies an arm lifted.

“Soho,” exclaimed the cadade, Foison the Stroke. “One still lives. Well, by Odifor, he will not live long."

He hefted his thraxter and strutted out, his cat-face venomous.

I turned at once to the Lamnian merchant.

“Horter Weymlo.” I spoke urgently. “Do you not think it wise to question this fellow? He could prove useful, if you can order your cadade to stop in time."

“Foison!” called Weymlo at once, without quibbling. “Hold! We will ask the fellow a question or three before you spit him."

Foison swung about, the sword high. Then he spat back in his catman fashion: “Quidang!"

The brigand was dragged up. He had been wounded in the foot and had lost blood. A fearsome scar, still red and recent, bifurcated his left cheek. He was an apim, thin and scrawny, with a disreputable mop of brown hair, two front teeth missing and with a ferret-like look of desperate cunning about him. Yet he faced up to us openly enough, hopping on one foot, held by guards.

“Here he is, horter,” said Foison. “And a nasty rast he is. The quicker the sliver slides between his ribs the better."

Weymlo licked his lips. Gentle as a rule though they are, Lamnians by reason of their vocation inevitably brush up against violence. He put on a stern expression.

“You deserve death. Have you anything to say?"

When the brigand spoke, he tended to whistle by reason of those two missing teeth. He made himself stand up on his one good foot and he squared his shoulders.

“I am Murlock known as the Spry.” Well, that cognomen fitted, I judged. He went on: “I was condemned unjustly for a crime I did not commit. I escaped. Around here the only way to stay alive is to join a band. Otherwise you are dead, either by the bands, by soldiers, or by hunger."

“That I believe,” said Weymlo.

“When I escaped, I was wounded—” Here he motioned to the scar. “I was forced to stay with the drikingers. I did not fight you. That I swear by Pymanomar the All-Seeing!"

“A likely story!” cut in Foison, spitting derision.

“It is true! I hid in a bush and Gartang the Kazzur, as bloody-minded a devil as ever breathed, cut my foot because I did not attack with the others. Him, I slew."

“Ah!” said Seg. “Then show us."

So off we all trooped into the bushes, and there lay a hulking great Brokelsh with a knife still in his throat. His clothes and harness betokened a drikinger with pretensions to grandeur. Murlock the Spry stirred the body with his wounded foot and gave a yelp of agony.

“Look at the knife and I will tell you what is engraved on the handle."

Foison gestured and one of his men bent and, after a struggle, dragged the bloodied knife free. Weymlo held out his hand, distastefully, and then looked at the handle.

“Well?"

“In the Mercy of Gashnid."

“That is what is engraved on the handle,” said Weymlo, looking up.

After that there was some discussion; but we all felt we could believe this Murlock the Spry's story. After all, he was not the first unfortunate to be forced temporarily into a bandit gang. Nor, I fancied—at least on Kregen—would he be the last.

“Bind up his foot and put him on the back of a calsany,” ordered Weymlo. “And then let us depart from this benighted spot."

That, then, was the sum total of our adventures during this first leg of our journey to find this King Morbihom of the Iron Hand.

For, as is obvious, the best plans of Vallia would be served if we could reach this maniac king and talk to him.

During the ride, among other items of information I had from Weymlo, the fact that he hailed originally from Tomboram offered me the opportunity to inquire after my friends, Tilda and Pando. After the wedding in Vondium they had returned home. Weymlo had nothing more than my secret agents had already reported to me. He did add that the King of Tomboram had taken a sickness.

Seg cocked an eye at me and said: “If old Inch hears this, well, he might—well, who knows?"

“That tall streak might do anything."

I let the matter rest there for it is, after all, as you must realize, another story altogether.

Seeking this insufferable King Morbihom of the Iron Hand we rode across Iyam and so approached the border of Lome.

Looking around at the ruins of yet another burned town, Seg shook his head and said: “Poor old Queen Lush!"

I agreed. I trembled for Queen Lush's realm.

Yet there were issues at stake here far greater than the well-being of a queen and her realm and its people. King Posno, the idiot King Morbihom of the Iron Hand, had to be stopped, and stopped damn quickly, for the sake of all Paz.

Chapter sixteen

Concerns a meal by the king's camp

The great, all-conquering King Morbihom suffered a set-back and his forces, bested in the field by Queen Lush's army of Lome, recoiled upon the town of Molophom.

There, at last, we caught up with the king.

Or, to be truthful, we caught up with the Kapts, the court, the hangers-on and camp followers, all the tumult of an army on campaign temporarily defeated and thirsting for revenge. The immediate result of Weymlo's request to meet with the Kapts of the army was a brusque refusal.

No one said: “I told you so."

Rings of campfires burned into the night on the ground outside the town. Inside all was uproar. Drunkenness was a mere everyday occurrence. Pillage, rapine, burnings and hangings went on all the time. The place was picked over like the skeleton of a kipper.

All the rumors spoke of fresh troops with Queen Lush. Powerful regiments from that hell hole over the sea—Vallia, Vallia the Vile—had raced to her rescue and the defence of Lome.

“Still,” we were told, over and over. “The king is not defeated. We have more soldiers. Next time the land will run red with the blood of Lomian and Vallian alike!"

While the Bloody Menahem were bloody in the extreme, as anyone who had dealings with them could tell you, there still remained Menahem and Menahem, men and women different in outlook and degrees of bloodthirstiness.

Weymlo and Lamilo went in search of those who might listen to reason and further the just cause of an honest merchant being paid for the wares he had sold.

Morbihom himself, for I suppose it easier to call the idiot by the grandiose name he had dubbed himself instead of his own name of Posno, had no truck with the town of Molophom, blackened and half-ruined as it was. His guarded enclosure, bright with flags and striped marquees, was set up on a level stretch of pleasant sward beside the River of Rippling Reeds. Here no one would imagine his army had just suffered a reverse.

As in most armies of this nature when many of the soldiers were mercenaries, it was possible to ride around without too much hassle. Seg and I were challenged only when we tried to enter the king's enclosure, and here we were able, simply enough, to allay any feeble suspicion by our status as hyrpaktuns. We would be welcomed with open arms by the recruiting officers of the king's army.

Using a familiar ploy, I said to the Deldar at the gate: “We will be happy to join the king, Del. Give us a few days to—well, dom, you know."

“Aye, dom. Well enough. One day, and soon, I trust, I will wear the gold.” And he touched the silver mortil-head at his throat.

“My felicitations,” said Seg as we rode off.

“A cutthroat bunch,” I observed.

“A blade at their throats rather than the gold would seem equitable, by the Veiled Froyvil!"

Among our comrades, Seg and I were known as a comical duo, and when Inch was around as a jestful trio; at times like these our thoughts were far enough from the comical to reach right around in the vaol-paol and start us laughing from the other direction. Once you could no longer laugh, even at such horrendous creatures as the Menahem Kazzurs, then you were done for.

Trotting off, we spied on the other bank of the river a stockade forming a long line of palings. Sentries patrolled. A casual question to an Och carrying water from the river elicited the information that this was the prisoner stockade.

The same thought occurred to both of us.

“There is no doubt at all.” Seg was positive. “Erthyr would approve of no other course."

“You are right."

“Oh, indubitably."

We arrived back at the little camp set up away from the army encampments to find stupendous news.

Lamilo and Weymlo beamed their furry Lamnian smiles at us. Bundles and bales were being opened and Yamsin was busy superintending the arrangement of the wardrobe and the presents.

An appointment had been made with Kapt Rorman the Indestructible, general of the Second Menaham Army. The Lamnians were due at the general's tent just as the suns went down.

We congratulated them and wished them well and then went off, leaving them to their excited preparations.

Murlock the Spry, most unspry-like with his foot bandaged and propped on a log, called across. His thin face with the raw, healing scar looked as apprehensive as ever. He'd been employed as best he could around the camp, and Weymlo had dropped a few silver dhems into his hand. Now he wanted to know what his fate would be. As he said: “If the king's men find out—"

“No fear of that, at least yet,” Seg told him.

“I suppose you'll be off and running the moment your foot heals.” I stared at the offending appendage.

He looked even more guilty.

“As to that, doms, I do not think so. If you would take me, I would serve you well. And cheaply."

“Doing what?"

“My father, may his bones never be disturbed, was a Third Under Chamberlain at the Second Court of the Palace of Exotic Delights. I trained up to follow in his illustrious footsteps.” He shook his head. “Alas, the Mensaguals, the cruel Arbiters of Fate, dictated otherwise."

Seg snorted in amusement. “We are in no need of those kind of entertainments, Murlock."

“Ah, but, horter, I am well-trained in the management of a household. You would be served in the field as you have never before been served. I know."

He didn't know, of course. Seeing our faces, he went on: “My punishment was over a mere peccadillo—why, the girl was more eager than I! I swear it by Pymanomar the Ever-Just! I must try to make my way in the world again."

Seg and I held ourselves in check and did not burst out laughing. In the end we said: “Very well, Murlock the Spry. And see you are as good as your word."

At that his cares fell from him. He bounded up on his wounded foot and danced across to us, shouting: “My thanks, horters! Thrice blessed in the name of Havil!"

“Your foot,” pointed out Seg.

“A miraculous cure, horters!"

“Murlock the Spry,” I said. “More likely Murlock the Cunning."

“Cunning in providing all your wants. You will eat tonight as you have not done on this journey!"

Nath and Orso, strolling over, listened to this fresh news with fascination. Nath licked his lips.

“I trust the rascal is as good a cook as a liar."

“I shall see to it that he tastes every morsel before I eat it,” quoth Orso.

That evening we saw the Lamnians off, and splendidly sumptuous they looked for their meeting with Kapt Rorman.

Then we settled to taste and test the meal prepared by Murlock the Spry. He had shrugged off caustic comments about his foot's improvement, and had disappeared during the early part of the afternoon. Under the first fuzzy pink rays of the Maiden with the Many Smiles, we sat down to dine.

No doubt about it. Murlock was a blue-ribbon chef. He was not as good as Emder, or even as Deft-Fingered Minch; but he was top class. We sat back after the repast, not bloated but comfortably full.

“So that is how they eat in a place like the Palace of Exotic Delights,” remarked Nath, picking his teeth. “The prices must be ruinous."

Murlock, just carrying away four plates all together, plus four smaller plates and four used glasses, plus sundry other items, halted and swung about. For a thin ferrety fellow he looked wrought up.

“Horter! Were you not a renowned hyrpaktun wearing the gold pakzhan I would challenge you for the insult!"

“Do what?"

“D'you think my illustrious father worked in a mere tavern? The Palace of Exotic Delights is one of the king's palaces beside the Azure Lake in Pelasmohnia!"

“Oh,” said Nath, quite unrepentant.

We managed to soothe Murlock's ruffled feathers and he produced what was a superior wine, a vintage with which I was unfamiliar. We sat around the fire drinking companionably, and when Murlock had finished the washing up, he was called to join us.

“How,” demanded Orso, “did you steal this food?"

“We do not much fancy the late food's owners cutting up rough,” put in Nath.

“The food was come by honestly, horters, that I swear by Pyman—"

“Yes, yes,” Orso crackled, wiping his lips. “Enough of that. We believe you even if a million wouldn't."

As Seg said: “There are Menahem and Menahem.” He meant, of course, that Murlock as a palace servant, not slave, was not quite the same as your normal Bloody Menahem. I reflected that he had, at least, stuck his knife into the neck of Gartang the Kazzur neatly enough. He might not be as soft and flabby as so many palace servants become.

The night flowed on about us with the scents of night-blooming flowers mingled with the woodsmoke from the camp fires.

Presently Seg said: “Well, my old dom. And where are our Lamnian friends, then?"

“There is little need to worry our heads over them,” said Orso. “They are skilled negotiators."

“The negotiating was done when the deal was struck. They went to collect payment due to them."

Nath rumbled out: “I like ‘em, them Lamnians."

“Job for us tonight,” Seg told him. “So banish all thoughts of your sack."

Murlock looked disappointed. He heaved up a sigh and said: “If you demand my services later, horters, then naturally I am at your command. I was hoping—there is a sweet little shishi in the—well—"

“It seems to me,” said Seg and he was bottling up his enjoyment, “that you chase anything female you see."

“Not anything, horter. There is taste."

“Ah, of course!” And Seg laid a wise finger alongside his nose.

“All the same,” I said, rather heavily. “That does not tell us where the Lamnians are."

Murlock stood up. “Before I go off duty, with your permission, horters, naturally, I will make enquiries."

“Yes, yes, very well,” said Orso.

Seg and I, together, said: “Thank you, Murlock."

Orso looked at us after Murlock had gone into the moon-shadows. His face was intense.

“I am forced to call you Jak, majister, and you, jen, as Seg. I am not a noble; but my father is incredibly wealthy and may buy a dozen lords. He may yet buy a title, if he chooses. Yet you treat these scum as though they are koters and brothers in arms."

Seg and I waited for each other to speak, and so Nath in his rough way rumbled out: “Doesn't hurt to treat a fellow decent, Orso. Never know when he might have a knife in your throat."

“Come the day when he ever gets a knife near my throat!"

Seg changed the conversation then and we talked desultorily of this and that until Murlock returned.

He did not sit down as he was gestured to do. He said: “I have a second cousin in Kapt Rorman the Indestructible's camp kitchen staff. I can come and go freely. My appearance is much changed.” Here he touched the scar.

“Well? Get on with it!” That was Orso.

“The Lamnians have been arrested and detained at the king's pleasure."

Orso just sneered at the news, clearly persuading himself that he'd expected duplicity all along. Nath rumbled out a curse and started to talk. Seg cut in and I said: “The plans remain. But it will be just you three, now."

I stood up and put a hand on Murlock's shoulder.

“You have, I think, a cousin in the king's camp kitchen staff."

At his abruptly scared nod, I went on confidently to say: “Exactly so. Then we will stroll up there and see what may be done about our Lamnian friends."

Chapter seventeen

Al-Ar-Mergondon

The glow of a more golden light impinging on the fuzzy pink radiance of the Maiden with the Many Smiles heralded the breaking of She of the Veils from cloud wrack. Mingled moons’ light fell across the camp and the river and the wrecked town and one could be forgiven for believing that in that luminescence the countryside slept peacefully.

I did not have to take Murlock the Spry by one ear and run him over to the king's enclosure. He trotted along willingly enough; I knew he'd take himself off the moment he had a chance.

In the streaming mingled golden and rosy radiance of the two moons, we approached the guarded gate. Over most of Paz the first and third Moons of Kregen are generally known as The Maiden with the Many Smiles and She of the Veils. The two second moons, the Twins, have many and various names all over, and as for the three hurtling lesser moons, so often are they referred to in the terms of endearment one uses to pets their names are legion.

“No!” whispered Murlock, grabbing my arm and trying to haul me away. “Not there!"

He dragged me off the beaten path leading to the gate.

What he intended made absolute sense. He led us around to the other side of the enclosure where a small gate gave admittance to the slaves and servants. Small though it might be, this gate, too, was guarded.

“Let me do the talking, horter."

“Am I slave or servant?” I had taken the trouble to collect a parcel of sticks as firewood and bound the bundle with string. Down the center snugged the Krozair blade, so the thing took after the guise of a fasces.

“Servant.” Here Murlock shifted my swords he wore strapped to his waist as though they stung him. He was strictly a knife-man. He might learn, given time and life. He carried the bottle of Risslaca Ichor wrapped in straw and slung from his left shoulder.

“Llanitch!” called the sentry in due form.

Obediently we halted.

“Second chef Apgarl the Sauce's cousin come to see him, jurukker, on a matter of high culinary policy."

Murlock rapped that out in the same hard formal tones the guard had used ordering us to halt. Now Murlock relaxed and went on in a different tone of voice: “It's the Havil-retarded clingberry and mustard sauce, dom. Won't go right nohow. My cousin's the expert in that field and I have to get it right for the morning, without fail."

“You cooks have it soft as it is,” growled the sentry; but he, too, relaxed, and after another gibe or two waved us into the king's enclosure.

“You're in, horter,” squeaked Murlock. “So I'll be off.” The enormity of what he had done must have caught up with him about then, for he did look a strange color.

“Not yet, dom, not yet. Stick close."

“You could have brought your friends as well. I'd have got them through easy.” Now the deed was accomplished he dwelt with pride on how he had fooled the guard; he did not want anything further to go wrong. “And the Lamnians won't be caged up here, surely? Not in my experience."

“They're not ordinary prisoners taken in a fight."

We were approaching the cooking area and the scents really were quite delicious. The cooks never slept in King Morbihom's camp, for he would call for food, anything from a light snack to a twenty-course banquet, at any hour of day or night. Torches lit the scene. There was no secret now where Murlock had acquired the high-class ingredients for the meal he had cooked us. The Kapt's cook was a cousin. I guessed the catering families were intertwined through the whole structure of Menaham society.

“Maybe they aren't ordinary prisoners. They're not here!"

“We will see."

Now the problem of secreting a weapon in a pile of firewood is that, sooner or later, you have to dump the wood near the fire.

I began to regret my stubbornness in lugging the Krozair brand along with me. This was work for daggers and knives, perhaps a rapier or thraxter. Still, stubborn I, Dray Prescot, am ... My friends call it obstinacy and others dub it pig-headedness. I was stuck with a decision and must, therefore, in the best traditions of Kregen, make the most of it.

When I captured the first passing soldier, treating him summarily and dragging him somewhat forcibly into the rose and golden shadows of a tent, Murlock's alarm increased.

“All right, Murlock. I won't treat any of your array of cousins like this. Satisfied?"

He licked his lips. “Only that Garhand the Pickler, who deserves to be pickled. You won't pass as a guard."

“Rather tart, is he? Don't intend to—not yet."

The guard rolled his head around and mumbled: “Luli! Don't go away, Luli! Luli, c'mere—"

I took his chin between my fist and hefted him up and glared at him. I made him see the devil look. He flinched.

“Where are the Lamnian prisoners, dom?"

“Can't say—"

“It's your life."

Very little persuasion was needed for him to blurt out the location of the tent in which the three Lamnians were being held. No decision, as far as he was aware, had been reached on their fate.

“The king will prize more contracts from them in return for their lives,” said Murlock with the air of one who understands the business of affairs of corrupt courts. “Now can I go?"

“Just don't get caught, you Spry, you hear?"

“Once I depart from your company, I have every right to be here visiting my cousin."

“Well, if you take him Risslaca Ichor, he's a bigger fool than his cousin."

“Remberee, horter. I hope I see you again."

“I shall want a slap up first breakfast!"

“Ha!” And off he went to see his cousin.

No matter how many times you creep into a tent to rescue somebody, no two times are alike.

Each and every time can see your fool head off and bouncing. I hadn't missed Murlock's way of taking his leave. That: “Once I depart from your company” when he would normally have said a far more colloquial way of taking off.

And, as I am sure you will have realized, all this time I was wrestling with my conscience over my usage of the Lamnians in quite this way. My conscience is sometimes an elastic beast, and at others a constricting dungeon of the deepest depths and finest steel bars. Of course I'd do what I could to help the Lamnians escape. That is obvious, by Vox! As to squeezing their money out of the king—well, that was a splendid idea and one I subscribed to. Just how it was to be done remained a mystery, to me, at least.

The guard wore a broad green and blue sash over his armor, which was of a common kind, and the sash across my jack gave the same impression. Often where armor is not all that easily come by and no two sets of harness are alike, regiments and formations are denoted by sashes, favors, feathers. In his helmet tufted blue and green feathers. I put the helmet on and then strapped up the longsword over my back. I'd taken a drexer from the calsany pack in place of the thraxter I'd worn when first venturing into Gorlki.

So, with the sash and the feathers, I looked just another hired guard. I pushed the pakzhan down out of sight.

The idea that I was on a desperate mission occurred to me, to be pushed aside.

Murlock had served his part. He'd gotten me in, he'd brought in my weaponry and armor, and now it was all down to me.

Going carefully in the fuzzy moonlight I managed to avoid tripping over any guylines and so fetched up before the tent indicated. At that precise moment, as the gods smiled upon man's foolish endeavors, an uproarious hullabaloo started up on the opposite bank of the River of Rippling Reeds.

Good old Seg!

He'd judged it to a nicety even he couldn't have anticipated. He, Nath and Orso were now hard at it over there, creating mayhem and busily liberating the Lomian and Vallian prisoners. The reaction on this side of the river came commendably quickly and soldiers ran yelling from their quarters. There was a clumsy rope-propelled pontoon arrangement provided to cross the river and the soldiers ran down to the bank to line up at the gate to board. I strolled across to the two sentries on the prison tent.

I used a well-worn device.

The burden was this: “Hai, doms! You have all the luck. The Jik wants you over there, and I'm stuck here on sentry go. May Havil take it!"

Eagerly, they ran off, guessing they would have some skull-bashing in prospect. I took up a properly soldierlike stance until they vanished into the moons-drenched shadows, and then I went into the tent.

Just in time I managed to avoid Yamsin's pottery cup. The thing flew up and shattered on the ground. I held her in my arms, as she writhed and twisted, calling me all the vile beasts she could lay her tongue to.

“Calm down, Mistress Yamsin. We must be quiet—"

“Horter Jak!"

“Aye.” I stared hard at the Lamnians. “Swiftly and quietly and we are out of here and safe."

With all his merchant's nerves aquiver, Weymlo got out: “You are welcome, Jak, right welcome. We will never be paid by the king now. He would have our heads first."

“The cramph,” put in Lamilo, in a most un-like Lamnian snarl.

“Fling your cloaks about you and follow me."

I wasn't at all sure it was going to be particularly easy; in any event in all the confusion we were able to slip out through the gate, leaving two unconscious sentries sprawled on the ground. We hared off into the pink shadows.

The opportunity was too good to miss.

“The best thing for you is to pack your camp right away and get well clear before dawn. With a good start you should not be troubled.” I did not add that what I intended would materially assist their chances of complete escape.

“But you, Jak!"

“A trifle of unfinished business. Shall we meet in, say Linansmot? Perhaps in four days’ time?"

“If we are not taken up, we will be there."

“Good. Off you go, and may Pandrite go with you."

“And may Pandrite the All-Powerful go with you, too."

I waited just long enough to see them well away and then turned back for the encampment gate.

The two sentries were just waking up as I entered. Helping them to further slumber I ran rapidly on before the swirls of confusion rip-roaring about swirled my way.

The king's pavilion, the largest and most grand structure, could not be missed. Even with the turmoil going on there was no chance of entrance through the front and I circled around to the back. My judgment suggested King Morbihom would merely go to the flap of his pavilion and give orders. He would not concern himself personally over a matter as simple as that of rounding up escaped prisoners. He'd send troops across the river and then return to the delights within his personal silken enclosure.

My old sailor knife slit down and the cloth parted and I was through.

Naturally, this sumptuous portable palace being on Kregen, it was not a single erection but a bewildering maze of cloth-hung passageways and rooms. Various marquee-sized tents joined together formed a lavish field headquarters. I turned to the right as I came to the first tent's junction with the next, and gave no thought to why I went that way.

One or two people were about, mostly slave; and these I ignored, only having to tap on the skulls of a couple of the king's personal bodyguard who proved inquisitive. I stepped out into a small enclosure, intending to cut right through the cloth into the next.

Two stout poles thrust into the ground to form a cross supported the body of a man. I stopped.

He wore sumptuous robes, and by the runic inscriptions and the fellow's flaming red hair, I took him to be from Loh, a Wizard of Loh. His face bore black marks; but it bore also the marks of passion and habitual authority. His turban lay to one side, dented in. His robes were ripped open and his shirt also, baring his chest. Streaky red marks like strawberry jam disfigured the skin.

He lifted his head as I entered.

“Drugged,” he said in a slurred furry voice. “Memphees. The king requites me most unjustly."

“Al-Ar-Mergondon, I presume?"

“You are right. And now you are here you may assist me to escape."

“As to that—"

“Oh, I think you will. I have been expecting you, Dray Prescot."

Chapter eighteen

I pay for our foe's supplies

Well, if it came to it, I could always pay the Lamnians myself. Out of friendship. However odd it might sound for me to pay good red Vallian gold to the purveyors of supplies to Vallia's enemies, it made solid common sense to me. I fancied that Weymlo, in order to make a living, and the king of Tomboram being sick and not going to war, had been decoyed into selling to Morbihom. Also, the illness of Tomboram's monarch probably explained Menaham's freedom of action.

I was in sufficient control of myself to betray no great start of surprise when this Wizard of Loh used my name.

Instead I looked around, saw the boxes and bales ripped open and vandalized, the overset tables and chairs, the spilled wine. I went up to Al-Ar-Mergondon, whipped out my knife, cut him free and caught him as he fell.

“Easy, san, easy."

“Yes. I am still weak. The devilish Memphees drains a man, wizard or no wizard."

“I know."

As, indeed, I did. That rascally villain, Vad Garnath, long gone down to the Ice Floes of Sicce, had had me drugged just before a Bladesman's duel. Memphees, concocted from the bark of the poison tree memph and the cactus trechinolc, seeps through the body and takes away the senses. Once Mergondon, helpless, had been trussed up, even his arcane arts had been unable to free him.

The thought occurred to me to wonder if Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi or Ling-Li could not have loosened their bonds.

“Such a task is not within my powers,” said Mergondon.

“Come on, Mergondon,” I said, determined that we should start our relationship on the right lines from the very beginning. “If we are to escape this hell hole, then you must brace yourself up. Brassud!"

“Of course. And all because the army suffered a reverse. I was blamed, the ingrate!"

“Step lively,” I said, and began to retrace my steps. We were not disturbed going out as I had not been bothered coming in. A swathing great cloak around the wizard sufficed to conceal him and his hair vanished under my helmet. Outside in the moons’ light I dragged him off in the direction of the river. He hauled up.

“This way, Prescot? I cannot swim."

“Don't fret over that problem. Come on!"

Approaching the river gate I saw the sentries clustered there and the torch lights flaring. Well, to have expected anything else would have been foolish.

“You will never—"

“Just shut the black-fanged winespout, there's a good wizard, san."

He said in the hardest tones he'd employed yet: “I had heard you were an unusual man, Prescot. I am beginning to see the stories are not exaggerated."

I unlimbered the great Krozair longsword.

“Stick closely to me. Make sure you duck when necessary. Apart from the guards, I don't want to cut your head off."

He gave an odd little shiver and then we headed for the gate and the guards.

They came at us to interrogate at first, and then, unfortunately for them and to my eternal sorrow, to die.

The blade swished and cut, hacked and slew, and every now and then did a little thrusting. Mergondon stuck to my back like a leech.

The guards pressed, shouting and creating a hellish din, and the work became warm. Mergondon mumbled something like: “I did not think it would be like this!” Then he shouted: “Jurukkers! It is me—"

A shriek burst from the guard trying to get at me from the side, drowning Mergondon's panicky call. The guard reeled drunkenly away. A long rose-fletched shaft had fair split his backbone in two.

In the next heartbeat Nath and Orso, dripping wet, shocked into action, laying about themselves. Seg's bellow rose above the din.

“This way, fanshos!"

A raggedy mob of wet fighters rose up from the bank and tore into the remaining guards. In mere moments it was all over. We caught our breaths.

Seg, beaming, hollered: “Righto, my old dom. All aboard!"

We piled into the pontoon which swayed alarmingly. The released prisoners were crowing with delight. Seg slashed the rope and the pontoon began to drift down the river.

By the time reinforcements ran up through the king's encampment we were in midstream and poling along splendidly.

I took hold of Al-Ar-Mergondon, bent down and put my whiskery face close to his ear. “Listen, san. Do not call me Prescot. Just Jak. It is, you understand, a matter of your life."

“I don't—"

“Jak. Remember!"

“This is no way to treat a Wizard of Loh!"

“Better, you will agree, than the way Morbihom treated you?"

He crouched down, then, and I fancied he was sulking.

While most of the released prisoners were from the Lomian army, some hailed from Vallia. Of them I knew only Nath the Iartus, a Hikdar, and he was able to outline for me what had been happening. He was, I may add, absolutely spitting rivets that he had been caught and not at all surprised that the Emperor of Vallia—or the ex-emperor—had turned up to rescue him.

Seg came over to say: “We've lost our zorcas, though."

“Yes. Probably not a clever move to go back."

“Orso is furious. He'd trained that zorca of his."

“So we observed."

Nath the Impenitent remarked: “Well, Murlock the Spry will do well out of it."

“He's busy cooking a breakfast we shall not eat."

“For that I mourn our loss,” said Nath, and rubbed his stomach ruefully.

We managed to sleep fitfully as the pontoon drifted downriver and long before dawn poled in to the opposite bank and abandoned our craft. We set off due west, watchfully, and when we ran across a Lomian cavalry patrol we realized we had been traversing the no-man's-land between the two fronts.

After that it was a matter of everybody going off to rejoin their units and of our little group plus the wizard finding Headquarters. Nath na Kochwold welcomed us with enormous glee, and we ate and drank and told him what we had learned of the Menaham Order of Battle. Our spying mission was, for the moment at least, at an end.

Queen Lushfymi of Lome, nominally in personal command of her gallant army, had sense enough to put her trust with Kapts of proven skill. I was pleased to see the high commands of Vallia and Lome cooperating well. Personally, I refused to interfere and simply let Nath na Kochwold carry on in his own effective fashion, and extremely effective that was too, by Krun, in the running of the smart and powerful contingent from Vallia.

The Presidio had, as was their wont in these matters, given these forces the grandiloquent name of The Fourth Army. The lads were in good heart. They'd won the first contest in which they'd indulged after landing, and were ready for what was to come.

I paid my respects to Queen Lush and fabricated an excuse which would keep me out of her way. Orso decided to take up the offer of joining Nath's staff. He'd performed well in those aspects of our admittedly low-key adventure that demanded courage and resolution and skill. But there are other factors needed in the character of an adventurer upon Kregen who wishes to do more than merely carve a bloody path through human flesh, as they say in Clishdrin.

When that was settled, I said to Nath the Impenitent: “The papers have come through, and it's all settled. No stain attaches to your reputation. You are once again a Jiktar and as of now you are promoted at least to Ley-Chuktar."

“That is munificent, Jak. I would be churlish to refuse. But—what of the missing cash?"

“All paid back. Now—"

“By you, of course!"

I looked him in the eye, seeing his scarlet pride in that rugged face and the lifting of the weights on his mind, and I said in a harsh and damn-you-to-hell fashion: “Now, see here, Chuktar Nath Javed, sometime known as Hack ‘n’ Slay and sometime known as the Impenitent! You will earn that money! We have unfinished business with the devils of Lem the Silver Leem. When Seg and I next tangle with them, you will be up there battling with us. Is that clear?"

He gave a brusque nod. “Thank you, majister."

I did not misunderstand his use of majister here.

I went on: “There's a little job for you here, and then you're free to follow your own inclinations. You can go to Vallia and see about your sister, for instance."

“If Opaz wills."

“Of course. I arranged to meet our Lamnian friends in Linansmot. Take them the money owed by King Morbihom—"

“But, Jak! You're not paying for our enemy's supplies!"

Very little explanation was needed to show him what was in my mind and I finished with: “So they can supply us. They will be most useful."

“I'll get over to Linansmot straight away."

“Take a cavalry squadron with you, Nath."

“Quidang."

With that out of the way I went over to the tavern where we put up and found Seg and Al-Ar-Mergondon. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the Wizard of Loh. He kept fulminating against King Morbihom, with reason.

With Khe-Hi-Bjanching and Ling-Li-Lwingling away in Loh discovering what being parents was all about, and Deb-Lu-Quienyin as always busily occupied on a number of different schemes, it might be convenient, to say the least, to have another Wizard of Loh to help us.

He jumped at the offer.

With Seg using those marvelous fingers of his in creating a new bowstave at the table, and Al-Ar sitting across from me, the wine between us, I said: “Have you heard of a Witch of Loh called Csitra?"

“Csitra.” He rolled the name around his tongue. “Csitra what?"

“That I have not discovered. She was mated with Phu-Si-Yantong."

“He is dead."

“Aye."

“I had heard of a Witch of Loh in connection with Yantong. That is all. The name means nothing to me."

“Perhaps, at a time convenient to yourself, you could go into lupu and discover her whereabouts."

“I will try."

All this, as you may hear, was conducted on a most formal basis. We were like two dogs sniffing around each other, ready for mere acquaintanceship and alliance or for real friendship, as the Mensaguals decreed.

Mergondon took his wine and before he drank, he spoke and, I judged, with something of an effort.

“The Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong is better off dead, the yukpam,[3] by the Seven Arcades yes."

[3 yukpam: A receptacle for containing muck. The nearest terrestrial equivalent would be scumbag; but that expression was not used at the time. A.B.A.]

“Never was truer word spoken,” said Seg, in his most cheerful fashion, working on his bow.

I felt a little surprise that a person like a Wizard of Loh should use so coarse a word as yukpam, particularly after the nature of the preceding conversation. Still, it takes all kinds to make a world.

He had expressed his gratitude without effusiveness and in a dignified way. Now he went on to say: “When the Yantong calling himself the Hyr Notor ran Pandahem, they were remarkable days."

“All Pandahem must work together now against the Shanks,” I told him. “And that means Menaham, as well."

“King Morbihom has not had the privilege of my arts for very long. The man is a bloodthirsty simpleton."

The gambit was accepted by Seg who said in his lazy way: “And you'd be the one to knock him down, right?"

“If the opportunity was vouchsafed me."

So, as I say, I was not absolutely sure what to do with Al-Ar-Mergondon. There was, and understandably enough, a tenseness about him, a feeling of uncertainty and unease, despite our efforts to reassure him.

The political situation inside Lome had been a constant source of concern—well, by Krun, that applies to most countries, I suppose—and those forces sent across by my lad Drak acting with decision as the Prince Majister had performed well. They'd assisted the folk loyal to Queen Lush and the land was coming back to normalcy when this treacherous attack from Menaham set everything boiling again.

Kapt Nath Molim, the Trylon of Polnehm, very smart, still quite young, and devoted to Queen Lush, had stood up under the test well. He remained, as Drak had told me, still very much out for Number One. His experience with our armies in Vallia had convinced him that the future for both our countries lay in mutual help and alliance.

Drak had shifted the mercenaries out of Vallia to help Lome. They had put up as resolute a resistance to mad King Morbihom as they could contrive, but they'd have been done for if the fresh army with Nath na Kochwold had not arrived.

The Fifth Phalanx was with Nath consisting of the Ninth Kerchuri Dayra and the Tenth Kerchuri Jaidur. Brytevax[4] Orlon Sangar commanded. He had commanded the old Tenth Kerchuri in that traumatic Battle of Ovalia, where we had set the Thorn Ivy Trap. Now, a seasoned warrior and commander, he was well aware that in the Phalanx we had the battle-winning instrument to give us the final victory.

[4 brytevax: Short form of Brumbytevax, Commander of a Phalanx. From brumbyte, pikeman. A.B.A.]

Seg and I had chosen to set up our quarters in the upper room of The Throstle and Swill which stood on the opposite side of the square from The Rokveil Crown'd where Nath na Kochwold and the other ranking officers lodged. There were ample taverns and inns in this town of Mompass to care for us.

A messenger brought a note from Milsi saying she was let off the hook and wanted Seg to go meet her in Vondium.

“So the Sisters of the Rose do grant leave, then!"

“Sometimes,” I said, remembering.

“Still, it is dratted inconvenient. I can't leave you and the army with this campaign on our hands—"

“You,” I told my blade comrade with ferocity, “will take your voller and hightail it to Vondium right now. And give my love to Milsi. Dernun?"

“Quidang! And, my old dom—well, no matter, no matter..."

No need whatsoever for more words between Seg and me.

As a matter of policy, although both Seg and I detested all the flummery, I insisted that he be sent off with due ceremony. Guards turned out, bands played, banners flew. Seg Segutorio, King of Croxdrin and High Kov of Balkan, soared aloft on course for Vallia and Vondium. We called the remberees and the twin suns shone and the flags fluttered and trumpets pealed their high notes of departure. After that I took myself off to The Throstle and Swill to sink a flagon or two and shake off the black dog that descended, unwanted but not entirely unexpected.

Al-Ar-Mergondon came up and we settled to a game of Jikaida. He was good and the contest was close.

Nath the Impenitent had not returned from Linansmot, although the four days were past. I did not think for a single mur that he had taken the Lamnians’ money and run. There were great strokes and adventures in store for old Hack ‘n’ Slay.

With a strange sigh and a flutter of all his features, Mergondon pushed back from the table. His eyes rolled up. The Chuktar he had been about to move slipped from his fingers and rolled across the table. A distinct sense of chill brushed across my skin. Mergondon went rigid.

“Dray,” he said. He spoke in his own normal voice, with an added breathlessness that echoed oddly in the upper chamber. “Dray. Forgive my speaking to you like this through San Mergondon. Pay him my respects. He will understand the urgency."

“Deb-Lu!"

“It is Yumapan. The emperor has received intelligence that Morbihom intends to march onward after he has crushed Lome. An alliance is essential. He asks that you visit him."

“Reply,” I said, standing up, “that I am on my way."

Chapter nineteen

At the Eye of Imladiel

To hurtle on through the clean crisp air of Kregen! To stand in the prow of the voller and feel the wind in your hair and all the urgent vibrancy beneath your feet urging you on! Yes, to have flown headlong through the sweet air of Kregen is to have tasted life, my friends!

Below us the mountains whirled past, their peaks rising ahead of us, wreathed in snow, cloud mantled, superb. Mergondon knew the way through those granite masses, and we skimmed low over high passes where wild animals, shaggy and pelted, tossed their horns at us in defiance.

On through thin air we rushed. And yet on this journey I did not chase frantically onward to rescue a loved one, to snatch a sacrifice from evil priests of a vile cult or to plunge at once into scarlet action. Oh, no. Now I simply flew with this Wizard of Loh to talk alliances with Pelleham, the Emperor of Yumapan.

All the world could see that once King Morbihom had eaten up Iyam and Lome, he would attack Yumapan. The mountains had proved a barrier in the past. I had a shrewd suspicion that riding on his tide of success, Morbihom would have little difficulty in buying or hiring airboats for the coming campaign. There would be much booty.

Hitherto Pelleham's greatest concerns had been the renders from the Hoboling Islands. These pirates festered in the chains of islands and raided coasts at will, in between taking up fat argosies and their treasures.

Yumapan had extended into the south of the island of Pandahem, conquering the small kingdoms in the south and west and eventually establishing a natural frontier line. The country could with reasonable justification, then, call itself an empire.

That particular specimen of conquest had taken place a good few seasons ago and the situation was now stabilized. Morbihom was out to stir the cesspit again.

So it was natural that Pelleham should seek allies and his first thought must have been Vallia. It was natural, too, that he would wish to discuss the situation with me in the first instance on a semiofficial level. When he and I had agreed the agenda, as it were, the fanfares could sound and the official deputations meet and consult. Speed, clearly, was of the essence. That had been eloquently evidenced by the occult means used to bring us together.

Mergondon had simply said: “I accept San Quienyin's apologies to me. He must find using his kharrna debilitating and to speak through a fellow Wizard of Loh saved him much."

I didn't comment on that. I did feel a breeze of alarm. Good old Deb-Lu—surely he was not once again losing his powers?

The warmth of this area enfolded us once more as we descended from those high passes. The land spread below, lush and green and well-watered and filled with game. This was tremendous hunting country—for those who cared for it—and I recollected that Kov Loriman the Hunter hailed from Yumapan.

We were to meet Emperor Pelleham not at his capital city but privately at a noble's hunting lodge. Here we could escape prying eyes and ears, owned by damned spies sent in by King Morbihom.

“I came through here on my way from Loh,” Mergondon told me. “Quite a few seasons ago, now. Not a very interesting place. The people seem able only to encompass one idée fixe in their lives."

“Yes, so I believe."

As though it was all a part of the same conversation, he added: “Just so I can see Morbihom squirm. By Hlo-Hli! The fellow is a worm!"

I did not reply. The distant glint of metal, high in the sky, caught my intrigued attention. Airboats are very few and far between in Pandahem. I stared closely, and Mergondon joined me at the rail to search between the clouds.

“There!"

“Aye."

Instantly, I recognized what I was staring at.

The shapely black hulls showed up hard and etched against cloud banks. The brilliantly colored, squared-off upper works lost much of their color at this distance but remained unmistakable. Shanks. The Shank armada flew steadily on course toward the south. We skipped between cloud masses for a time, tracking them; but their course would take them out over the coast of the island, and if they continued long enough without changing direction they'd hit Loh at Chem.

Mergondon said: “They look—purposeful."

“Extremely."

We saw no other fliers as we finished our journey and dropped down to land at the hunting lodge known as The Eye of Imladiel. Forests and open country surrounded the buildings and a considerable amount of agriculture was in evidence. We were expected.

Seen from the air the main buildings were arranged in the form of a letter W. Off to the north side rambling stables and outbuildings no doubt housed the functional parts of the establishment. To the east a cleared area of gravel had, resting in grand isolation on the golden brown, a single voller. She was a smallish ten-place craft and by her lines had been built in Hamal. She flew no flags. I brought our flier in neatly to land alongside.

At the far end of the landing zone a large collection of carriages rested, poles up, and lines of zorcas, krahniks and other animals were being exercised. The smell of lavender hung pleasantly on the air.

We were met by a fussy rotund chamberlain, all in blue and gold, with an honor guard of Chuliks. Every Chulik tusk was banded in red gold and their pigtails hanging from their shaven yellow heads were all plaited with blue and gold threads. No carriage or conveyance was provided for us; but the distance was not far and we walked along proudly enough.

I noticed an odd puzzling little shimmer about the parked carriages and the animals and put it down to heat haze rising from the gravel. The surface had been well-cared for and recently raked for not a single wheel-rut showed and only a few small tenacious weeds grew here and there.

“This way, excellencies!” chirruped the chamberlain, waving his ivory wand like a bandmaster, and obediently we followed him along a tapestry-hung corridor to the black balass doors with golden risslaca handles at the far end.

A trumpet pealed and the doors swung open.

Now at this point I ought to mention that, as I deemed the occasion ceremonial and important, if only of a semi-official nature, I had outfitted myself with some thought as to the proper appearance of an ex-emperor on a delicate mission. It goes without saying that I wore the old scarlet breechclout. But, over that I had donned a fashionable white half-robe, and over that a glittering golden cape. The thing was remarkable, really, I suppose, with a tall Vallian mazilla, and this collar, too, was all of cloth of gold. The cape was the genuine article and was reputed to be at least two hundred seasons old. It was still in reasonably good repair, and although I knew I looked a jackanapes in my own eyes, in the eyes of foreign princes I would look a proper prince.

Al-Ar-Mergondon, of course, dressed as a Wizard of Loh dresses, so that all the world may tremble.

In its own architectural fashion this long arched chamber was as remarkable as my foolish cape. Both held magnificence integrally within themselves; both suggested oldness gone to seed and carefully repaired. An odd shimmer along the walls and pillars frazzled at the eyesight.

Down the right-hand side, ceiling-high windows were draped in deepest purple. Each window was closed by a heavy horizontal bar of balass wood. Before each window stood a man dressed in green and black livery, with a steel chain in his fists. At the end of each chain hunkered a wersting. The vicious black and white striped hunting dogs, each with only four legs, opened jaws to reveal fangs they'd be only too happy to sink deeply into your flesh. I guessed they came from the islands of Nycresand off the east coast of Loh.

The other side of the room contained a series of enormous mirrors of polished silver, and that strange little shimmer clung about their surfaces, distorting the images within.

At the far end beneath a golden canopy, a reception committee awaited us.

The Chulik guards’ iron-studded war boots did not ring upon the marble underfoot. They made dull thudding noises. My own ankle-high moccasins, soft and supple, made no sound at all.

As we approached the waiting group, I tried to throw off this stupid sense of oppressive stuffiness ailing me.

Here we were about to enter into important talks with the Emperor of Yumapan concerning the future well-being of Pandahem and of Paz. I stuck my chin in the air and stalked on. I could not stop my left fist from straying to the rapier hilt and I forced the constricting fingers to relax.

Curtains of that same deep purple hung against the end wall. Torches threw orange streamers into the mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio falling across the marble floor.

There were no flowers I could see blooming in this vaulted chamber, yet the air smelled of that raw rank pungency of damp vegetation, muddy stems rotting gently into a vegetable decay.

A further double rank of Chulik guards stood at attention in rear of the hosts. We drew closer over that shining marble floor. To the right stood a figure cloaked in blue with silver and golden moons and suns and comets emblazoned about his person, carrying a skin-bound tome chained to his waist. His bearded face peered gauntly from under the peaked hood of the robe. His eyes appeared mere white crescents.

To the left stood a woman, shapely in a deep purple gown that brushed the floor and left her shoulders bare. Hair of a blue-black coiffed high and threaded with pearls gave her an imperial air, yet her face, painted and kohled, denied that suggestion. Her lips were wide and thin and too red.

In the center stood a man in harness of war, metal and bronze, girded with swords, decked with feathers, hard, domineering, implacable. His powerful face looked shrunken to me, robbed of much of its inner strength and his eyes were far more pouched than I remembered and cloudy as though he had yet to recover from some grievous wound.

I did not think that Kov Loriman the Hunter was really Emperor Pelleham of Yumapan.

Perhaps he would think that Jak the Bogandur was not really Dray Prescot, ex-Emperor of Vallia.

We halted and the thudding of feet echoed to silence.

“Lahal, Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia,” said Loriman. His voice slurred as though weary beyond bearing.

“Lahal, Kov Loriman."

The woman started at this, and the magician turned those uncanny crescents of whiteness toward me.

“You are—” he paused, and then, swallowing, went on: “You are most welcome, majister."

“I give you thanks. Where is the Emperor Pelleham?"

Perhaps he just did not recognize me. He had failed to do so before. The eye sees what the brain expects. He expected to see Dray Prescot, and not Jak the Bogandur.

Mind you, I was glad to see he had escaped from the Coup Blag. He might be a mighty hunter in most of the wrong ways; but he had been useful and I wanted him alive to further my schemes. The loss of his lady, which we had considered him over, must have treacherously struck again at him, in reflex, as it were, and reduced him. He was not as mindlessly numb as he had been; but it was clear he was not himself.

“The emperor?” He gazed about blankly, as though Pelleham might abruptly appear through a trapdoor in the floor. Then: “Oh, she will be here at once now you have arrived."

So, I suppose, thinking back, it was then that I was sure, and realized, and didn't even bother to begin cursing myself for the most credulous fool in two worlds.

I said, instead: “She?"

“Of course.” He half turned that massive head: “Blow!"

The six Chulik trumpeters in the front rank blew the peals.

Their comrades leveled crossbows. Even all the Disciplines of the Krozairs of Zy would not give me the skill, speed or luck to swat away those dozens of bolts.

The purple curtains lifted on golden cords.

She walked in as herself. There were no tintinnabulations from golden bells, no pacing ferocious creatures from nightmare, no chained chail sheom, no hulking armed guards. Just a single woman in a dress of sheer white.

“Lahal, Dray."

“Lahal, Csitra."

Chapter twenty

Csitra

Now that Csitra the Witch of Loh considered she had at last won outright, she was prepared to be all condescending graciousness.

She glowed with health and vitality. Her appearance was probably what she really looked like. Her hair, for example, was no longer jetty black, but the flaming red of the true Lohvian. Her face, hawkish, resolute, possessed that fragile off-center lack of perfect beauty that is the hallmark of pure beauty. She wore not a single gem, not a single adornment. The slippers that showed the tips of toes beneath the white dress glinted gold. That was the sum total of show.

Her arms were bare. The white dress was cut deeply to her navel. No diamond glittered there and I did not expect to see one.

She lifted those bare white arms and said simply:

“You are most welcome, my dearest Dray."

“Oh, I dare say. Why all the flummery to trick me here?"

“Please."

“We have really nothing left to say to each other. Except that—"

“Yes?” She put both hands to her breasts.

“Except that while I do not regret his passing, I feel sorrow for you as a mother that your uhu is dead."

“It were better we did not speak of Phunik—now."

“Yes. I suppose so. Well, and what do you propose, Csitra?"

The situation was perfectly clear, of course. She had probably experienced not the slightest difficulty in putting poor old Kov Loriman the Hunter under her spell. He was like a zombie now, obeying without question. I'd have to see what could be done about him. She'd tricked Mergondon into believing it was Deb-Lu who spoke through him. A clever ruse that, so that true voices were not heard.

I just hoped Mergondon had had the sense to shoot off an occult message for help to Deb-Lu. The truth is, I counted on that elementary scream for succor.

Then Al-Ar-Mergondon, Wizard of Loh, said: “What are your orders for me now, sana?"

Thus easily was my stupid bubble of hope burst.

I gave him a look.

He flinched back.

“Yes,” he said, and he fairly spat the words. “You have been finely caught, you onker, and by Hlo-Hli, I am glad I had a hand in it."

“What,” I said. “What harm have I ever done you?"

“None that I can think of, save that the sana dotes on you...” Here he hauled himself up sharply. If he'd been about to criticize Csitra, he sensibly thought better of it.

And, too, another strand of the plot came clear. This idiot Mergondon was enamored of Csitra; ensorcelled by her or not, he lusted after her and would do her bidding just as readily as poor old Kov Loriman.

The whole situation looked a damned sight blacker than it had at first, by Krun, damned blacker!

Those ranks of crossbows all leveled at my guts represented an argument I couldn't counter.

I squinted casually at the purple drapes concealing the rear wall. A door there? Not necessarily. Csitra might have any sorcerous methods of effecting an entrance.

Hell's bells and buckets of blood!

There just had to be a way out of this mess!

And Csitra put that way to me, cooing sweetly as any turtledove, and twice as venomous as the deadliest snake in two worlds.

“Why are we standing here like this, so stiff and formal? Come along, my dearest, and we will share a bottle and talk together."

I had to say: “I take it you'll bring all the guards and their crossbows, too?” and the moment the stupid words were out of my mouth I wished I hadn't uttered them.

“Why, of course, my love! For our protection."

She was wise enough to know how to keep a fellow down.

Instead of leaving that somber purple-draped chamber with the werstings and the Chulik guards, we were waited on by scantily-clad slave girls who brought in table and chairs, flagons and glasses, bowls of fruits and palines. I sat down. There wasn't much dratted else I could do.

Loriman and his magician and the black-haired blue-gowned woman retreated a few paces and stood with Mergondon in a group looking surreptitiously at us.

“Kov,” said Csitra in a voice like brass bristles brushing down steel. “Tell Ban Urfenger and the Lady Lara to look away."

“At once, sana."

“And move further off.” And she waved an elegant ringless hand, shooing the four away.

Mergondon shot me a nasty look.

“He will not harm you, my dearest. For one thing, he does not have the kharrna. And for another he knows what will happen to him if he made any attempt."

“You have them well-trained."

“Anyone who serves me, yes. And—anyone who stands in my way.” She put her hand on mine upon the table.

The shock struck through with repugnance and yet—and yet ... Like the shocks played with at Electric Parties at the turn of the century, it thrilled through me, there was no doubt of that. The thrill of repugnance? Certainly there was nothing of the lure of the forbidden here. I'd see her dead and consigned down to the Ice Floes of Sicce, and probably spare her one salt tear. On reflection, no, I'd waste even a single tear on the witch.

“You are not drinking, my sweet."

These endearments grated on me. I detested them. Poor, stupid, foolish, evil woman ... Well, she wasn't all evil, I truly believed. As you know, I strive ever to find the good in people. Very few people, if any, are totally evil. Perhaps Phu-Si-Yantong had been the nearest to total evil I'd known, and his unwholesome influence had created the monster Csitra the Witch out of whatever kind of girl she had been aforetime.

“I find I am not thirsty, and my appetite has deserted me."

“Oh, come now.” And she started to wheedle me with a paline, like any doting mother trying to get her baby to eat.

All this told me in the most eloquent terms that she considered she had won, had really and truly won. Only a little time and effort, she obviously believed, were needed to conquer me completely.

And—what the hell could I do?

Her own personal protection must give her confidence that a brainless blow of a sword would not hurt her.

In a different situation her confidence would have amused me. She worked busily at maintaining this cozy teatime atmosphere. The crudity of a sword blow in this situation, quite apart from its uselessness, would inject a coarseness very far from what she was attempting to achieve.

Very well, then. A sword blow? A slashing stroke of the great Krozair longsword?

I am not sure if something of the Hamlet syndrome affected me. Poor, silly, confused woman, she might well be better off dead. Yet I did not relish that task despite all that had passed. Her powers were real: that I did know.

She made no attempt to influence me as she had once before and I believe she understood that that failure would be repeated here. She went about her task with other weapons and using other means.

The little chamberlain joined the four onlookers. The Chulik guards remained impassively alert. And the rank smell of damp vegetation hung perplexingly in the air of that splendid chamber.

I shifted around on the chair so that I might easily whip the Krozair brand free of the scabbard.

Just how long I would have before the sleeting storm of crossbow bolts tore me into fragments I did not know. If they were to destroy me, then destroy me they would. The idea persisted that the steel would bounce from Csitra. She was her own best protection and the crossbows represented mere gloss within her occult realm.

I said: “You tell me that you love me and want me for yourself. How long, do you think, that would last?"

Her startlement, I judge, was genuine.

“I do not understand you, my love."

“A plaything? For you? Is that all you want?"

She flared up.

“You do not comprehend the depth of my passion for you, Dray! There are no words, there is not room enough in all the world to squeeze in half of my feelings."

“Maybe in two worlds?"

“What—? Do you mock me?"

“No."

“What do you mean, in two worlds?"

“I don't think you would understand, Csitra. And, if you did, you would recoil.” I went on in a hard and most unpleasant tone. “At least, that has been my experience with other Wizards and Witches of Loh."

She favored me with a look that was like the blinds being drawn up on the glory of the Suns. She licked her lips. “So you know of the Sunset People? Is that why—?"

“I know of the Savanti, yes. That is not why."

“Then am I truly blessed! I am proved! There is between us an unbreakable bond, Dray, and you cannot deny it!"

I was about to burst out with: “By the Black Chunkrah, woman! Of course I can!” But I held my tongue. This deluded witch lusted after me, and that, besides being her misfortune, was highly inconvenient for me. There was a name, a person, not mentioned yet. All my own sorrows were nothing beside the terror tearing me apart that Csitra would harm her.

I thrust those ghastly thoughts aside in panic lest Csitra, or Mergondon, could truly read another person's mind.

Khe-Hi and Ling-Li were away in Loh. I found myself tensing up in anticipation that good old Deb-Lu must put in an appearance soon. He had the power to thwart this witch. Working together, with Deb-Lu handling Csitra and I taking care of the Chulik archers, we could escape this moil and I might come out alive and whole.

And, still, the idea persisted that perhaps, just perhaps, I overrated Csitra's powers and a steel blade could finish her.

This farce had to be played along further. If I made the stroke and it failed, she must finally understand that she could never win me. After that, well...

That risk could not be taken until all else failed.

“I have labored long and successfully for this outcome,” she prattled on. She was amazing. She was acting like a blushing maiden with a strapping lad at the farmyard gate. “I find I am a little weary. We must rest and then we will have a lovely banquet and talk and you will see."

“Very well."

She had deluded herself into believing what she wanted was true and had occurred. Like any trapped animal I must wait my chance. We made a macabre pair, to be sure.

She stood up and out of simple politeness I rose also. She smiled that calculating witching smile and walked off, swaying, and the purple drapes fell into place and she was gone.

Kov Loriman came over and said: “You are a most fortunate man, majister."

Following the kov, Mergondon spat out: “Undeservedly. If I had my way there would be short shrift for you, Prescot."

I ignored the mage and said to Loriman: “You do not recognize me, Kov Loriman?"

“We have never met to my certain knowledge."

His speech was still slurred, his eyes clouded. There was nothing I could do to bring him out of his tranced state. In matters that did not touch upon Csitra, he appeared to be himself. He announced his intention of going hunting on the morrow. First thing. The woman, Lady Lara, and the blue-gowned mage, San Urfenger, joined in the conversation. The sheer matter-of-factness of these people's conduct might have amazed me but for the malignancy now plain in Mergondon. During the talk of this evening's banquet and the hunt tomorrow his caustic interjections obtruded the reality of what passed here.

A silver gong note sounded muffled. The chamberlain skipped off toward the wall of silver mirrors and one swiveled open. He went through the opening and a moment or so later returned in a hurry bearing a sheet of paper.

“Yes, Hursey?” said Loriman, extending his hand.

“Bad news, pantor, very bad news."

Loriman took the paper, read and then looked up with a deal of his old bash-on regardless temper flaring.

“It is from the Emperor Pelleham. The capital is attacked by a swarm of airboats. He commands our instant assistance. This changes all."

“Those devils the Bloody Menahem are attacking us already?” exclaimed the Lady Lara.

Loriman crackled the paper in his fist.

“The emperor does not mention the Bloody Menahem."

They started up a babble of talk amongst themselves.

I said: “It is not the Bloody Menahem. These vollers are Shanks."

Mergondon ground out: “It is of no concern to us."

“But yes, san,” said Urfenger, turning those white crescents of eyes upon the Lohvian sorcerer. “It touches us deeply. We must assist the emperor."

“If they are Shanks or devils from Menaham, we must hunt them all down!” roared Loriman.

I said: “A Vallian air fleet has been hunting these Shanks. If a message can be got to them..."

“That is beyond my powers,” said Urfenger.

Loriman, Lady Lara and I looked at Mergondon.

He said: “I do nothing without the authority of the sana."

“But—” I began.

“Queyd-arn-tung!"[5]

[5 Queyd-arn-tung: No more need be said. A.B.A.]

“Hursey,” rapped out Loriman. “Carry this news to the Sana Csitra. Hurry!"

“At once, pantor."

So, there we all waited like patients outside a dentist's door until the great sorceress made her entrance.

She had changed into a gown of crimson and gold, all glitter and sliding ruby gleams. Her hair was coiffed up and smothered with gems. She did, indeed, look magnificent with her golden eyelids and golden fingernails; I did not care for her at all but had I done so I would have preferred her as she'd looked earlier.

The situation was plain enough and she nodded her head and pursed up her lips. She gave an excellent portrayal of a great princess deciding upon the destinies of nations, and well aware that an audience studied her every move.

“This is, sana, after all,” spluttered Mergondon into the argument, “no concern of ours."

“But, sana,” protested Loriman, almost as vitally alive as he used to be. “These villains of the air will destroy our city and—"

“I agree it is no concern of ours.” Her voice like cut glass chiming, silenced the babble. She turned that queenly head to regard me. Her eyes—they were green at the moment—veiled as the golden eyelids descended. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“And you, dearest Dray. What do you say?"

I said: “If a message may be sent to the Vallian air fleet they will put down these dratted Shanks."

“A message?"

“Mergondon can do it. So, too, can you. You have proved it often enough in the past."

“Yes, I did, did I not? I once spoke to you, I recall, through the lips of a corpse."

“Yes."

“Should I do it? Why should I do it?"

“The Shanks are enemies to us all."

“They have not harmed me."

“Yet."

“You are then so sure?"

“Yes."

She pursed up her lips again, very coquettish, very undecided, a maiden unable to choose between two pretty hats.

“I can easily send a message to your aerial fleet, my love. I can do so at once."

“Then I give you my thanks—"

“Oh, dear heart! I want much more than that!"

So, then, I saw it all and the pit and the way I had fallen headlong down upon the stakes.

Slowly, she nodded, and her little finger touched the corner of her mouth, and dragged down the lower lip.

“That is right, Dray. I will do what you ask when you promise me you will do what I want."

I closed my eyes.

The capital city of Yumapan, wonderful and splendid as it no doubt was, the safety of Emperor Pelleham's domains, were not the issue at stake here. If we could smash or disperse that Shank fleet that had been plaguing Pandahem we would have struck a powerful blow and given ourselves another valuable breathing space for the greater battles ahead. Politics and love, well, they mix at times like oil and water and at others are inseparably intertwined.

I could deny this woman what she wanted and allow the Leem Lovers to devastate a city, a country. I could. I did not think the latter action was that of a man.

The obvious thought occurred to me. Any promise made under duress is not binding. Poor Harold of England was hooked on that one by William the Bastard. I could promise this woman anything and then repudiate my word. I could.

I most certainly would not—could not—repudiate Delia.

“Very well,” I said, speaking as evenly as I could. Her head went up. Her hands half-lifted. Her nostrils flared. She must have heard that constricting choke in my voice.

“You swear?"

If my hands shook now I was done for.

I answered very smartly. Any shilly-shallying now, any words like: “Is swearing necessary between us?” and prevarication, and this woman would know I lied.

“I swear."

It meant nothing.

She smiled now and it was as though honey dripped from her mouth. “I will send the message myself. I know how to find your grand fleet well enough, and to direct them to Yumakrell. This fellow Pelleham should be relieved."

San Urfenger fairly jumped forward. “Thank you, sana, thank you. And we must all ride to join the fight."

She looked at him with the vacant air of one who discovers an itch on the back of the neck during an important affair. “Ride? Ah, yes. And you, kov, will wish to ride to the rescue, also?"

“Yes, sana."

“I shall retire to the private rooms you have placed at my disposal. When I have done as the emperor of emperors, Dray Prescot, requires of me, we shall take the voller and fly away to mutual happiness. Dernun?"

“Understood, sana. And I thank you."

The whole thing, this whole business, from the moment she'd made her entrance to now, had been conducted on a passionless plane of logic, of bowing to the inevitable. I sensed that any display of emotion would smudge the effect as of mud upon a bright canvas. There were other ways of chicanery, I'd discovered, to deal with this pitiless progress.

Her departure was as grand as her entrance. We all stood to watch her go, and I did not doubt that she would contact the Vallian air fleet and direct them to their quarry.

After that we two were to fly off in the voller to everlasting happiness. Ha!

I said: “Kov, I gather this Eye of Imladiel is your hunting lodge?"

“It is."

I walked to the table and sat down. “Then perhaps you would be good enough to order food. I think we must all be starving."

“At once, majister, at once.” He was properly subservient as a kov to a great and puissant emperor of emperors. Anyway, how the hell had Csitra got hold of that?

The serving wenches brought in food, and splendid though it was I rammed it down and quaffed without taking notice of the viands at all. Mergondon remained sullen. Csitra had said he did not possess the power to harm her; I assumed she was right but was not prepared to risk much on it.

I'd thrown off the grand golden cape and was in the act of raising a goblet to my lips when Loriman stood up. His face bore all the old look of intemperate authority, scarlet and glowing, and the scales had fallen from his eyes. I knew then that Csitra had done as she had promised.

“Jak the Bogandur!” ground out Loriman. “What the hell are you doing here?"

“I am glad to see you still alive, kov."

“Of course I'm alive, you rast! And now we may settle the differences between us."

My first reaction was one of amusement. Then I felt annoyance. Loriman had vowed not to fight me until we were both safe out of the Coup Blag. He suffered from feelings of loss of dignity, he fancied I had slighted him, and he thirsted after redress. Well, now we were both safely out of the Coup Blag. He drew his rapier and glared at me.

“On guard, you cramph, and by Hito the Hunter, I shall spit you through."

“Lord!” croaked out Urfenger. “Please—"

“Silence, san! This is a matter of honor."

“Look, Loriman,” I said, and I still sat and I did not draw my sword. “You have to go fight the Shanks—"

“They will still be there when I have taught you the lesson you so richly—"

“—deserve,” I said, thoroughly fed-up. “All right, you onker, so be it. And don't say I didn't warn you."

I drew my rapier and main gauche and we set to. He was a fine swordsman, as I knew; but I'd already seen him in action and knew his mettle and standard. His tricks were cunning and used with power; my counters were just that sufficient fraction more diabolical and more powerful. We circled and the blades clashed and rang and I cut the leather straps holding his armor and then the tunic and so, carefully, ribboned his clothes. He sweated and roared and grew sweatily more and more scarlet and then I disarmed him with a turn and a flick and placed the point of the rapier at his breast.

“Do you bare the throat, Loriman?"

His idea of honor was perfectly sufficient for him to bellow defiance and allow me to slay him. I knew that.

I said: “I told you, Loriman, that our mutual enemies are the Shanks. I shall not kill you, for you have much fighting ahead against the Fishheads."

“You shame, me, you—you—"

“Not so."

San Urfenger appeared, a blue-robed shadow in the corners of our eyes.

“Majister, your pardon.” He moved closer to Loriman. “Pantor, you do ill to cross the will of the emperor of emperors, the emperor of all Paz."

Loriman's eyes rolled whitely. He licked ineffectively at spittle drooling from his lip. “The emperor...?"

It was clear to me, although not to Urfenger, that the lifting of the spell on Loriman had canceled out his recent memories of me. He started to shake. He began to stand up and pull away from my rapier point.

“At this moment,” said Urfenger, “the Shanks attack Yumakrell and the life of the Emperor Pelleham is in danger. It is there our duty lies, kov."

“Emperor of Paz?” said Loriman. He looked wild, enraged, as though monstrously cheated. “Jak the Bogandur—Dray Prescot?"

“Aye,” I said, and flicked the rapier away and held out my hand. “And a friend."

We were held by this pretty drama, locked into a circle of desires and dying hatreds and burgeoning new horizons. A crimson and golden movement heralded Csitra's entrance. She glowed with vitality and beauty and the inner ecstasy of ultimate victory. Sweet the triumph in her breast!

The Lady Lara gave a squeal of alarm.

My gaze switched around. Mergondon stood with legs braced wide, a look of demoniac hatred upon his face and a crossbow leveled full on me. His finger tightened upon the latch.

“No!"

The scream of a tormented soul burst from Csitra.

She flung herself forward, arms wide, red hair flowing, flung herself full before me.

The crossbow bolt entered her breast, pierced her through.

Loriman's voice smashed out above the screams.

“Guards! Feather him, and feather the Chulik whose bow he took! Bratch!"

Instantly a score of bolts ripped Mergondon and the poor stupefied Chulik guard to shreds.

Loriman swung back to face me, face engorged, brilliant with anger and resolve.

“You see, Dray Prescot, how I dealt with you in all honor?"

“Aye."

“For the future—give me time."

“Until the Shanks arrive in full force. Until then only. Dernun?"

“Quidang!"

So, then, I bent to Csitra, the Witch of Loh, who had given her life for me out of misguided love.

Blood dribbled from her mouth. She moved a hand, the fingers curling like petals. I took her hand, and pressed, and so stared down upon her.

“You see, Dray my dearest, how it was? All my arts could not prevent it. The Seven Arcades call."

“Csitra,” I said, and could not go on.

“Oh, yes. You will live. You are the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz—"

“That is nothing."

“It is. And there is—the empress..."

“Yes."

Her eyes dulled over. She gripped my hand and the strength passed from her fingers. Her head lolled lower.

“You did love me, Dray, didn't you?"

I looked down on her and I knew, even then, even in that charged moment, that I could not lie where the lie touched my Delia, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains.

I opened my mouth and saw that there was no need for an answer.

She was gone, gone down to the Ice Floes of Sicce to be met by the Gray Ones and to make her way through the mists and so seek the pathway to the sunny uplands beyond. I hoped her journey through the Seven Arcades would be accomplished without pain. She had suffered pain in her mortal life and now she was gone I wished her well.

So died Csitra, the Witch of Loh.

Thus ended the Witch War.

Epilogue

“Thus ended the Witch War."

With these words the tape from Dray Prescot whispered to silence.

I just sat, half slumped forward in the wing armchair, and stared at the cassette player; but I saw—oh, I saw the rolling plains of Segesthes, the treacherous jungles of Pandahem, the glitter and rush of swifters upon the Eye of the World in Turismond, the riotous confusion of the Sacred Quarter in Ruathytu, the glisten along the canals and boulevards of Vondium, the Bravo Fighters swaggering in the enclave city of Zenicce.

And, too, I saw Aphrasöe the Swinging City and a simple leaf boat with a Scorpion for crew sailing down the River Aph where Dray Prescot's adventures on the fascinating world of Kregen began.

From that beginning until now there have been over two and a half million words in Dray Prescot's narrative.

Many people have passed before us limned in the magic fire of imagination, men and women of forms unknown to this Earth, people of heroic stature and trembling cowards, rogues and fools, ordinary folk trying to live ordinary decent lives, adventurers and swashbucklers, men and women of a diversity to make up a whole planet.

We have tried to discover the mysteries of the Savanti and the Star Lords and with Prescot have abused their spy and messenger the Gdoinye knowing that the blue fire of the Scorpion hovers, close and menacing...

For the moment I have received no more tapes from Dray Prescot.

There is not a shadow of doubt in my mind that he is upon Kregen now deeply involved with the many projects under his hand, still defying the Shanks, still attempting to reach an understanding with the Star Lords, still trying to complete all the manifold tasks besetting him.

Oh, no; Dray Prescot with Delia—Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains—and his family and friends still battles on, undefeated and defiant under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Alan Burt Akers

A Glossary to the Witch War Cycle

Compiled by Els Withers.

References to the five books of the cycle are given as:

WWK Werewolves of Kregen

WOK Witches of Kregen

SOV Storm over Vallia

OOK Omens of Kregen

WOA Warlord of Antares

NB: Previous glossaries covering items not included here can be found in Volume 5: Prince of Scorpio, Volume 7: Arena of Antares, Volume 11: Armada of Antares, Volume 14: Krozair of Kregen, Volume 18: Golden Scorpio, Volume 22: A Victory for Kregen, Volume 26: Allies of Antares, and Volume 32: Seg the Bowman.

A

agio: a custom practiced by mercenaries of putting their wealth into a common pot before a battle, those sharing it out being fewer than those contributing.

Alexeyim's trakir: a hefty sliver of iron sharpened at both ends and hurled in battle by the Alexeyim to deadly effect.

Alloran, Kov Vodun of Kaldi: Sent by Prescot to liberate southwest Vallia. Became a traitor and tried to usurp the throne of Vallia under the influence of Arachna, but upon her death became once again loyal. SOV

Applica the Bounteous, Temple of: a temple in Rashumsmot. WWK

Arachna: a sorceress of mixed Kataki and Kildoi ancestry who suborned Vodun Alloran; was killed by Lon the Knees. Prescot says that this is not her real name, which is too long and complex to be used conveniently. SOV

Aramplo, San: a wizard, an adept of the Thaumaturges of Thagramond; a member of the second expedition to the Coup Blag; died on that expedition. OOK

Ava: an island off the northwest coast of Vallia.

Azure Strigicaw: a voller in the fleet meeting the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

B

bacra area: a strange region of house-sized metal boxes and giant metal-eating caterpillars visited by Prescot; it holds some unknown significance for the Star Lords. WOA

Bakan: an old name for the province of Balkan.

Barange Fairshum: a palace in Falkerium.

Battle of Bengarl's Blight: the final battle in the reunification of Vallia. OOK

Battle of Blue Lizdun: in which Prescot's army defeated the advance force of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Battle of Corvamsmot: in which the forces of Prince Drak defeated those of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Battle of Cowdenholm: which ended in a draw between the forces of Prince Drak and those of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Battle of Farnrien's Edge: in which the Vallian Freedom Army soundly defeated the forces of Layco Jhansi. WWK

Battle of Gwalherm: in which the Vallian Freedom Army conclusively defeated the King of North Vallia. OOK

Battle of Marndor: in which the Vallian army defeated the forces of Layco Jhansi in Falinur. WWK

Battle of Swanton's Bay: took place in the Southwest Vallian campaign; ended in a defeat for the imperial forces. SOV

Belzur the Aphorist: a playwright renowned in all Vallia.

Beng Brorgal: the patron saint of tavern brawlers.

Beng Debrant: the patron saint of animal husbandry.

Beng Feylam the Bonder of Warehouses: a patron saint of merchants.

Bengarl: a tiny village in the province of Erstveheim; site of the Battle of Bengarl's Blight.

"Black was the River and Black was her Hair": a maudlin song of Hamal.

Bolto the Knot: the ship-Deldar of Logan's Fancy. WWK

Branka: a thief of Rashumsmot. SOV

Broken Vaol-Paol, The: a dance for a large group of people.

brunnelley: a four-legged saddle bird, colored in mauves, blues, and browns, with a yellow beak and red claws.

brytevax: short form of brumbytevax; the commander of a Phalanx.

C

Cabaret Plant: a carnivorous plant of South Pandahem which lures its victims with sounds resembling conversation and the clink of glasses.

Cackling leer: a grotesque denizen of the Coup Blag, all dripping greeny-black robes and tassels, with a leering mouth.

Caul of Protection: a sorcerous spell of protection.

Cedro: the nephew of Kov Vodun Alloran. WWK

chark: a gray, shaggy wild beast. Normally hunts in packs, although the rogues are most dangerous. Said to possess a rudimentary language of their own.

Chem, Sea of: the sea south of Pandahem.

Chemsi the Fair: a mistress of Vodun Alloran. WWK

chunkscreetz: a type of sword used by a Kanzai Warrior Brother.

conult: to give someone a tremendous buffet about the heart, either physically or psychically.

Coup Blag: a maze of horrors in South Pandahem, which was used as a trap for Prescot by Csitra and Phunik. OOK, WOA

crottle: a word describing the effects of burning or charring food so that it becomes tasteless and generally inedible.

Csitra: a witch of Loh, the widow of Phu-Si-Yantong. Lured Prescot to the Coup Blag to destroy him, but became enamored of him, allowing him to escape. Pronounced the Nine Unspeakable Curses against Vallia. Ultimately gave her life to save Prescot. OOK, WOA

D

The Dancing Flea: a low-class tavern in Rashumsmot. SOV

Dolours, Gate of: in the inner wall of Gorlki.

The Dragon's Roost: a tavern in Selsmot. OOK

Drak Exalted, Hall of: a large chamber in the Imperial Palace in Vondium.

Drill the Eye: a commander of the Emperor's Yellow Jackets. OOK

Durheim: a kovnate province in the center of North Vallia.

Dweloin, San: a poet who lived 3000 years ago.

E

Emiltur, Fangar: the Jiktar of a Valkan archer regiment. WWK

Endru, Vintang ti Vandayha: the Jiktar of one of Prince Drak's personal bodyguard regiments. SOV

Enwood nal Venticar, Kapt: Drak's right-hand man and chief of staff as Prince Majister of Vallia. SOV

Ephanion, Nalgre: the Jiktar of a Valkan archer regiment. WWK

Erclan: a Jurukker in 2ESW. WWK

Erstveheim: a hyr-kovnate province to the west of Durheim in North Vallia.

F

Failsham, Gilda: the Chuktar of Vodun Alloran's Jikai Vuvushis; a member of the Sisters of the Sword. SOV

Fakransmot: a village in Falkerdrin.

Famphreon, Kov Nath: the son of Natyzha Famphreon, Kovneva of Falkerdrin. Became Kov upon her death and his rescue by Prescot from Ered Imlien. WOK

Fardew, Ongarr: a brigade-Chuktar in the Vallian Army; one of the judges at the hearing of Nath Javed. OOK

The Feathered Ponsho: a tavern in Tali. WOK

Fintle: the family name of triplets, Oby, Dwaby, and Sosie, all working as secret agents of Vallia. WOK

Flick-Flock: a gambling game played with multicolored rods.

Foison the Stroke: the cadade in the caravan of Dolan Weymlo. WOA

Fortro: the brother-in-law of Nath Javed, who sold his daughter to the adherents of Lem. OOK

Fraipur: a wizard of Fruningen, in the service of Vodun Alloran, who helped rescue Prince Drak from Alloran. SOV

Fra-Le, Hodo: a leader of Zamran archers sent with the reinforcements to the armada against Csitra. WOA

Francine: the sister of Nath Javed, who sold her daughter to the adherents of Lem. OOK

Frant: a middle-sized island off the northwest coast of Vallia.

Frastel, Stromni Marion of Huvadu: a member of the Sisters of the Sword; her band of Jikai Vuvushis was used by Csitra to spread the plague of werewolves in Vallia. WWK

Frentar, Lango: a wealthy Vallian financier. WOA

Frentar, Orso: the son of Lango Frentar; went with Prescot's expedition to Menaham. WOA

The Frog and Jut: a tavern in Vondium. WWK

Fruningen: an island which serves as the home for a school of wizardry.

G

Gah: a continent of Schan.

ganchark: a human being cursed with the propensity to transform into a chark; similar to a werewolf. WWK

ganjid: a potion used in conjunction with dudinter to kill a ganchark. WWK

Gartang the Kazzur: the leader of a band of brigands in Menaham. WOA

Gliderholme: a small market town of Falinur.

Golden Sliptingers, River of: separating the provinces of Durheim and Erstveheim in North Vallia.

Goordor the Murvish: a legendary sorcerer of Murcroinim who killed the ganchark of Therminsax. WWK

Gordoholme: a village in Vennar.

Gorlki: a town in Menaham.

Grace, Avenue of: a street in Falkerium.

Greatheart: a zorca purchased in Falkerium by Prescot. WOK

greeps: slender, bright green shoots that must be cooked expertly and with precision as to temperature and duration to bring out the flavor.

H

Hack ‘n’ Slay: the nickname given to Jiktar Nath Javed.

Hallandlas: a town in Hamal north of Ruathytu.

Hanitcha Triumph: a voller used on Prescot's second foray into the Coup Blag. OOK

Hardolf, Nath: the captain of Logan's Fancy. WWK

Harveng: an apprentice of Deb-Lu-Quienyin. WWK

Heart of Imrien: the lead voller in the armada sent to meet the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Hebe, Lady: a member of the second expedition to the Coup Blag; was fought over by Kov Loriman and Kov Hurtal ham Hortang. Was killed inside the Coup Blag. OOK

Hemfar, Strom Tothor ham: a member of the second expedition to the Coup Blag. OOK

Hemlock, Larghos: the first lieutenant of Heart of Imrien. OOK

He of the Bright Face: the river separating the kovnates of Bormark and Malpettar; also known as She of the Mellifluous Breath.

Hern-vilar: a race of diffs with green skins.

Heymamlo, Mother: a Lamnia deity.

Hofnar, Strom Nango ham: a Jiktar in the Hamalian aerial cavalry; engaged to Marion Frastel. WWK

Hortang, Kov Hurngal ham: the leader of the second expedition to the Coup Blag. OOK

Hursey: the chamberlain at the Eye of Imladiel. WOA

Huvadu: a stromnate province located barely south of Evir in Vallia.

Hygonsax: a fort in the Mountains of the West in Hamal.

I

Imladiel, Eye of: Kov Loriman's hunting lodge in Yumapan where Prescot and Csitra met for the last time. WOA

Imlien, Ered: the Trylon who held Nath Famphreon captive. WOK

J

Javed, Lelia: the eldest sister of Nath Javed; a Sister of Voxyra. OOK

Javed, Nath: a Jiktar commanding the 32nd brigade of the Vallian Freedom Army; accused of stealing regimental funds, he was reduced in rank to swod as punishment and called Nath the Impenitent; ventured into the Coup Blag with Prescot and was later vindicated. OOK, WOA

jes: short form of address for a female superior.

Jikvar: a razor-sharp clawlike weapon used by the Sisters of the Rose.

jikvarpam: the sack used by a Sister of the Rose to carry her Jikvar.

Jinia ti Follendorf: one of the Jikai Vuvushis of Marion Frastel's regiment, bewitched by Csitra. WWK

jis: short from of address for a male superior.

K

Kadar the Silent: an alias used by Prescot in Falkerdrin. WOK

Kalden: the capital city of the province of Kaldi.

Kando, Crafty: one of a band of ruffians who helped rescue Prince Drak from Vodun Alloran. SOV

Kanzai: a martial brotherhood of Kregen, which takes as recruits mainly Chuliks, Khibils, and Laceroti; highly skilled and dangerous fighters.

Kawa-naga: weapon used by Kanzai Warrior Brothers consisting of a length of chain with a three-bladed knife at one end and a three-tined grappling hook at the other.

Kazzchun Pass: a pass in the center of the Mountains of the North in Vallia.

Kensha: a rosé wine drunk with a sprinkling of herbs.

khiganer: a tunic which fastens by a wide flap along the left side of the body and along the left shoulder.

K'koza: a country in Whonban in Loh, home of Nalgre the Point.

Krokan the Glorious, Street of: located in Rashumsmot.

krell: chief.

L

Laceroti: a race of diffs.

Lakelmi, Kapt Logan: a Lohvian mercenary in the service of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Lamilo: the stylor of Dolan Weymlo. WOA

Lara: a lady attending Kov Loriman the Hunter at the Eye of Imladiel. WOA

Larghos the lame: a bard dead five hundred years.

The Leather Bottle: a tavern in Rashumsmot. SOV

The Leather Bottle: a tavern in Gorlki. WOA

Lingloh, by: a Lohvian oath.

Little Sisters of Patience: a sorority of Vallia which took charge of the group of Rumay fanatics brought back by Prescot from the Coup Blag.

Llipton, Kov: the regent of Croxdrin in the absence of King Crox and Queen Mab. WOA

Logan's Fancy: a vorlca in the aerial armada of Vallia.

Lomon the Jaws: the cadade at the palace of Tali's Crown in Tali. WOK

Lon the Knees: a beast handler of southwest Vallia who became involved in the campaign against Vodun Alloran. SOV

Lop-eared Tobi: one of a band of ruffians who helped rescue Prince Drak from Vodun Alloran. SOV

Loptyg, Logan: a silversmith of Vondium. WWK

Lyss the Lone: an alias used by Silda Segutorio in southwest Vallia. SOV

M

Maisie: a young girl rescued by Prescot from the adherents of Lem. WOK

Makanriel: the capital city of the kovnate province of the Black Mountains.

Makolo: Inch's palace in Makanriel.

Mangarl the Mangler: the leader of a band of cutthroats in Falkerium. WOK

Mantig ti Fillan: a Kerchurivax fighting with Prince Drak in southwest Vallia. SOV

Mantig, Ob-eye: one of a band of ruffians who helped rescue Prince Drak from Vodun Alloran. SOV

Mantissae: the servants of Arachna. SOV

Mayruna the Perforator: sworn by and called upon by Rumay fanatics.

mazarna: lack of discipline.

Mecrilli, Floring: one of Marion Frastel's regiment of Jikai Vuvushis; used a tool by Csitra. WWK

Mergondon, Al-Ar-: a wizard of Loh, advisor to King Morbihom. Controlled by Csitra until her death at his hands. WOA

m'Mondifer, Larghos: a kampeon of 1ESW who became a werewolf and was killed by Prescot. WWK

mobiumim: an official in a city, similar to a mayor.

Molim, Nath: the Trylon of the province of Polnehm in Lome. SOV, WOA

Molophom: a town in Lome.

Mompass: a town in Lome.

Morbihom of the Iron Hand: the name taken by King Posno of Menaham. WOA

Movang the Splitter: a Hamalese mercenary in the hire of Layco Jhansi. WOK

Murlock the Spry: a Menahem household servant and chef who assisted Prescot and his friends in Iyam. WOA

Myer, Pallan: responsible for education in the Empire of Vallia. WWK

N

Na-Du, Modo: a Chuktar in charge in the liberation of Venga. OOK

Naformo, Nath: a messenger of Natyzha Famphreon. WWK

Nafto the Hair: a guardsman who became a werewolf. WWK

Naghan the Abstemious: a Deldar in the Vallian Freedom Army; tried to convince Nath Javed to appeal his conviction of theft. OOK

Naghan the Chains: the chamberlain of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Naghan Deslayer the Fifth: a Kregan philosopher.

Naghan's Reply: a skyship of the Vallian aerial armada; destroyed in a storm. WWK

Nalgre the Point: a paktun who helped Prescot rescue Kov Nath Famphreon. WOK

Nath's Hammer: a voller in the fleet sent north to meet the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Nath the Greatest Ever: one name used by the King of North Vallia. OOK

Nath the Strict: Prince Drak's orderly. SOV

Nat-Su, Joldo: the city prefect of Vondium in charge of the Watch. WWK

Nevanter, Larghos the Lace Merchant: the mobiumim of Vendalume. WOK

Ngrozyan the Axe, by: an oath of Ng'groga.

Nine Unspeakable Curses: pronounced by the witch Csitra against Vallia; they include werewolves, zombies, and vermin. WWK

Niswan the Lop: the landlord of The Leather Bottle in Gorlki. WOA

Nogad ti Therminsax: the Jiktar in command of Pride of Vondium. OOK

Nogad ti Vendleheim: a Jiktar succeeding Nath Javed as commander of the 11th Churgurs. OOK

Nojas the Shriven: a deity worshipped in parts of North Vallia.

Nol: Lon the Knees's twin brother. SOV

O

Olaseph the Nik: a Kregan philosopher.

olumai: a race of diffs resembling pandas.

Opaz Omnipotent, Best and Greatest, Kyro of: a square in Vondium, where Drak and Silda were married.

Opaz Unknown, Temple of: located in Vondium; site of the wedding of Khe-Hi-Blanching and Ling-Li-Lwingling.

Opnar the Silk: the tailor to Vodun Alloran. SOV

Ortyghan, Ortyg: a goldsmith of Vondium. WWK

Ortygno, Param: a dudinter-smith of Vondium. WWK

otlora: no-nonsense.

P

pam: receptacle, container.

Pelleham: the Emperor of Yumapan. WOA

Penitence, Gate of: in the walls of Gorlki.

Phindan: an apprentice of Deb-Lu-Quienyin. WWK

Phocis: one of several Rumay fanatics rescued in the Coup Blag by Prescot, Sag Segutorio, and Nath Javed. WOA

Phunik: the hermaphrodite child of Phu-Si-Yantong and Csitra. Together with Csitra tried to destroy Prescot in the Coup Blag. Killed by Deb-Lu-Quienyin and Khe-Hi-Bjanching. OOK

The Piebald Zorca: an inn in Vondium. WWK

Polnehm: a trylonate province in Lome.

Posno: the King of Menaham, who dubbed himself Morbihom of the Iron Hand and invaded Iyam, Lome, and Yumapan. WOA

Pride of Falkerium: a voller in the fleet meeting the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Pride of Vondium: the flagship of the armada against Csitra. OOK

Prishilla the Otlora: a physician of Vondium. WWK

Q

The Queng and Scriver: a modest inn in Falkerium. WOK

Quern of Gramarye: a radiant disc of sorcerous power which appears in battles between wizards.

The Quork Nightly: a tavern in Snarkter. WOK

R

Rahartium: the capital city of the province of Rahartdrin, largely destroyed by war.

ranstak: a race of diffs with tails, hooded eyes, and compressed features.

Rashumsmot: a town in the province of Rahartdrin, grown in importance since the devastation of Rahartium.

Repentance, Walls of: part of the city walls of Ruathytu.

Rippasch: vulture.

The Risslaca Transfix'd: a tavern in Vondium. WOK

Roben, Mantig ti Vindlesheim: an engineer appointed by Prescot to rebuild Vallia's system of canals. WOA

Rogarsh the Rattler, Tyr: a mercenary on Prescot's second expedition to the Coup Blag. OOK

The Rokveil Crown'd: a tavern in Mompass. WOA

Roombidge: a port on the north coast of Falkerdrin.

Rorman the Indestructible: Kapt of the Second Menaham Army. WOA

Rose of Valka: an airboat in the armada against Csitra. OOK

Rumay: a fanatical group of women, fierce fighters, with customs such as mutilation of dead enemies.

Rundle the Flatch: one of a band of ruffians who helped rescue Prince Drak from Vodun Alloran. SOV

S

Salvation: a fluttrell ridden by Prescot from Falinur to the Black Mountains. WOK

Sanka: one of several Rumay fanatics rescued in the Coup Blag by Prescot, Seg Segutorio, and Nath Javed. WOA

Sassy: the daughter of Fortro and Francine; sold by them to the adherents of Lem but redeemed by Nath Javed. OOK

Scancho: the cadade of lady Hebe's guard. OOK

Scauron the Gaunt: a man working in the service of Vodun Alloran; kidnapped Prince Drak. SOV

The Sceptre and Wand: a luxurious inn of Gorlki. WOA

The Secret Seven: fabled champions of many stories and legends of Paz.

Segutorio, Silda: the daughter of Seg Segutorio and Thelda; infiltrated the forces of Vodun Alloran and helped liberate southwest Vallia. Sister of the Rose. Married Prescot's son Drak. Became Empress of Vallia upon the abdication of Delia. SOV, OOK

Selsmot: a town in the jungles of South Pandahem; starting point for expeditions to the Coup Blag.

Shalane: leader of a band of Rumay fanatics rescued in the Coup Blag by Prescot, Seg Segutorio, and Nath Javed. WOA

shal-cadade: vice-captain of the guard.

Shango Lady: a skyship in the armada against Csitra. OOK

shbilliding: a riotous assembly of devotees of liquid refreshment.

She of the Mellifluous Breath: a river separating Bormark and Malpettar; also known as He of the Bright Face.

"Shush-chiff of Pavishkeemi the Beloved, The": a song of Pandahem.

The Silver Lotus: an inn in Rashumsmot. SOV

Sisters of Renunciation: a fictitious sorority often used by Sisters of the Rose as a cover-name.

Sisters of Voxyra: a sorority of Vallia; a splinter group from the Sisters of the Sword. OOK

Snagglejaws: a zorca of misleading appearance ridden by Prescot in Falkerdrin. WOK

Snarkter: a town in Vennar.

Snarly Hills: hills in South Pandahem among which the Coup Blag is located.

Snowy Mountains: a name for the mountains in extreme northern Vallia.

Solars Gratitude, Chamber of: apartments on the south side of the palace of Tali's Crown.

Spurs of Lasal the Vakka, by: a light cavalryman's oath.

Starhammer, Leone: the Chuktar of Queen Lushfymi's regiment of Jikai Vuvushis. SOV

Storm Rising: a voller in the fleet meeting the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Strandar, Naghan: chief Pallan and a senator in the Presidio of Vallia.

Strelviz Lancer: a voller in the fleet meeting the invasion of the King of North Vallia. OOK

Strugmin's Rot: a disease afflicting fluttrells; among the symptoms is a yellowish cast to the feathers.

Sultant, Fanti: the daughter of Ornol Sultant. WOK

Sultant, Ornol: the son of Nalgre Sultant, Vad of Kavinstok. WOK

T

Tali: a city at the northern border of the province of Falkerdrin.

Thandon, Enar: a Chuktar in the Vallian Freedom Army; a Strom; one of the judges at the trial of Nath Javed. OOK

Thangkar, Rodo: a legendary werewolf of Therminsax. WWK

Thantar: a harpist blinded as a result of an accident in childhood. WWK

Thaumaturges of Thagramond: a small and widely-spread cult of wizards.

Thelda the Voluptuous: a mistress of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Thingol, Ortyg: a cadet aboard Heart of Imrien. Waited outside the Coup Blag while Prescot, Seg Segutorio, and Nath Javed ventured within. OOK

Thostan, Noni: the Hikdar of Marion Frastel's Jikai Vuvushis. WWK

Thothveheim: a vadvarate province on a peninsula in the west of North Vallia.

The Thread of Life: a play written by Belzur the Aphorist.

The Throstle and Swill: a tavern in Mompass. WOA

Tom the Toes: a churgur in the Vallian Freedom Army. WWK

Tremi: a vadvarate province east of Durheim in North Vallia.

U

Unstabi: a Chuktar of Undurkor Archers, who joined the traitor Vodun Alloran. SOV

Upvil: the landlord of The Leather Bottle in Rashumsmot. SOV

Urban the Unguent: a veterinarian of Snarkter, who treated Prescot's fluttrell Salvation. WOK

Urfenger, San: a magician attending Kov Loriman the Hunter at the Eye of Imladiel. WOA

Urnhart Boulevard: a street in Rashumsmot. SOV

V

Vannerlan, Ortyg: a Vallian Jiktar, killed in battle.

Vannerlan, Sushi: the widow of Ortyg Vannerlan. WWK

Veltan, Thandor ti Therfuing: known as Thandor the Rock; commander of Prince Drak's phalangite force in southwest Vallia. SOV

Venarden, Fruli: a Sister of the Rose who was used by Csitra in an assassination attempt against Delia; killed at the Battle of Bengarl's Blight. OOK

Venavito: an imperial province in southwest Vallia.

Vendalume: a city in Vennar.

Venga: a vadvarate province northwest of Erstveheim.

vimshu: a kind of small tiara.

Vimura, Phanton: a Deldar commanding the fighting top of Heart of Imrien. OOK

Voernswert, Nalgre ti Zanchenden: the Jiktar in command of Zamra Venturer. WOA

Volanch, Emder: a Chuktar in the Vallian Freedom Army. WOK

Volanta, Mandi: a Sister of the Rose who joined the forces of Vodun Alloran. SOV

Volgo: a strom in the service of Natyzha Famphreon. WWK

Voman, Ortyg: a Hikdar in the Fifteenth Lancers of the Vallian Freedom Army. WWK

Voromin, Lorgad: the captain of Heart of Imrien. OOK

W

Wenerl the Lightfoot: a kampeon of 1ESW; one of the werewolves’ victims. WWK

Weymlo, Dolan: a merchant of Menaham. WOA

Weymlo, Yamsin: the daughter of Dolan Weymlo, rescued from kidnappers in Menaham by Prescot and his friends. WOA

Whonban: a mysterious place in Loh.

Wooldark Mitraeus, by the: a Rumay oath.

Y

Yolanda the Gregarian: one of a band of ruffians who helped rescue Prince Drak from Vodun Alloran. SOV

Yomin the Clis: a drill-master for lads in the Vallian army from Drak's City. WOA

Yuhkvor: an island off the northwest coast of Vallia.

yukpam: a receptacle for containing muck.

Yumakrell: the capital city of the Empire of Yumapan.

Z

Zamra Venturer: a Vallian airboat sent as reinforcement to the armada against Csitra. WOA

Zandi: a Sister of the Rose and a member of Delia's personal bodyguard. OOK

Zaphoret: a province at the eastern end of the Mountains of the North in Vallia.

zazzer: a type of warrior of the Eye of the World who drinks until reaching a fighting frenzy before battle. WWK

About the author

Alan Burt Akers was a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer, who died in December 2005 aged eighty-four.

Bulmer wrote over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction, both under his real name and numerous pseudonyms, including Alan Burt Akers, Frank Brandon, Rupert Clinton, Ernest Corley, Peter Green, Adam Hardy, Philip Kent, Bruno Krauss, Karl Maras, Manning Norvil, Chesman Scot, Nelson Sherwood, Richard Silver, H. Philip Stratford, and Tully Zetford. Kenneth Johns was a collective pseudonym used for a collaboration with author John Newman. Some of Bulmer's works were published along with the works of other authors under “house names” (collective pseudonyms) such as Ken Blake (for a series of tie-ins with the 1970s television programme The Professionals), Arthur Frazier, Neil Langholm, Charles R. Pike, and Andrew Quiller.

Bulmer was also active in science fiction fandom, and in the 1970s he edited nine issues of the New Writings in Science Fiction anthology series in succession to John Carnell, who originated the series.

More details about the author, and current links to other sources of information, can be found at www.mushroom-ebooks.com, and at wikipedia.org.

The Dray Prescot Series

The Delian Cycle:

1. Transit to Scorpio

2. The Suns of Scorpio

3. Warrior of Scorpio

4. Swordships of Scorpio

5. Prince of Scorpio

Havilfar Cycle:

6. Manhounds of Antares

7. Arena of Antares

8. Fliers of Antares

9. Bladesman of Antares

10. Avenger of Antares

11. Armada of Antares

The Krozair Cycle:

12. The Tides of Kregen

13. Renegade of Kregen

14. Krozair of Kregen

Vallian cycle:

15. Secret Scorpio

16. Savage Scorpio

17. Captive Scorpio

18. Golden Scorpio

Jikaida cycle:

19. A Life for Kregen

20. A Sword for Kregen

21. A Fortune for Kregen

22. A Victory for Kregen

Spikatur cycle:

23. Beasts of Antares

24. Rebel of Antares

25. Legions of Antares

26. Allies of Antares

Pandahem cycle:

27. Mazes of Scorpio

28. Delia of Vallia

29. Fires of Scorpio

30. Talons of Scorpio

31. Masks of Scorpio

32. Seg the Bowman

Witch War cycle:

33. Werewolves of Kregen

34. Witches of Kregen

35. Storm over Vallia

36. Omens of Kregen

37. Warlord of Antares

Lohvian cycle:

38. Scorpio Reborn

39. Scorpio Assassin

40. Scorpio Invasion

41. Scorpio Ablaze

42. Scorpio Drums

43. Scorpio Triumph

Balintol cycle:

44. Intrigue of Antares

45. Gangs of Antares

46. Demons of Antares

47. Scourge of Antares

48. Challenge of Antares

49. Wrath of Antares

50. Shadows over Kregen

Phantom cycle:

51. Murder on Kregen

52. Turmoil on Kregen

Visit www.mushroom-ebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.