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Scorpio Invasion [Dray Prescot #40]
by Alan Burt Akers
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Science Fiction/Fantasy

Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

Copyright ©1992 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.

Scorpio Invasion

Alan Burt Akers

Mushroom eBooks

Copyright © 1992, 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 Germany in 1992 by Heyne Verlag in German.

First English eBook edition by Savanti Press in 1996

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 1843197030

Dray Prescot

Dray Prescot has been described as a man above middle height, with brown hair and level brown eyes, brooding and dominating, with enormously broad shoulders and powerful physique. There is about him an abrasive honesty and an indomitable courage. He moves like a savage hunting cat, swift, sudden and lethal.

The superhuman Star Lords have brought him to Kregen, four hundred light years from Earth, where, in pursuance of their schemes for that marvelous and terrifying world, he has been successful on his own account. His education in the horrendous conditions of Nelson's Navy stood him in good stead in his early days on Kregen; now he has won lands and estates and has recently given up the job of being the Emperor of Vallia after putting the island empire together again with the help of the divine Delia, the empress. A fresh mission for the Star Lords has landed Prescot in much skullduggery and political intrigue, and a deal of skull bashing.

Down in the southern part of the mysterious continent of Loh he has with the aid of the kregoinya Mevancy nal Chardaz and of the kregoinye Caspar the Peaker, with the assistance of Trylon Kuong and of Llodi the Voice, kidnapped instead of killing Queen Leone. The Star Lords want a high-spirited lady called Kirsty to be queen, and have ordered Leone killed so that she cannot return through reincarnation.

The conspirators are hustling through the palace having succeeded in their plan. Now some resistance will be made against the hostile Shanks, Fish Faces raiding from over the curve of the world.

Crouching by the palace wall a reddish brown scorpion, glinting of body and arrogant of tail, speaks to Prescot, speaks directly from the Star Lords, from the Everoinye.

“You, Dray Prescot, have disobeyed the Everoinye and failed to do what you were commanded to do."

Now Prescot must answer for his disobedience, as he tells us in this volume, Scorpio Invasion.

Alan Burt Akers

Chapter one

“You will deal with the Shanks, Dray Prescot.” The rustling voice, like dead leaves blown scraping over gravel, spoke menacingly. “Before that you will answer for your disobedience."

I opened my mouth to shout in baffled rage that this cretin of a scorpion couldn't understand, and, then, I understood. Disobedience was the issue here. The blue radiance grew about me. I looked up to see the gigantic form of the phantom blue Scorpion hovering. Chill smote me. In an icy blueness I swept away into blackness.

Blackness and blueness swirling all about me ... Headlong tumbling with the breath knocked from my lungs ... The freezing grip of icy chains lapping my limbs ... Oh, yes, I knew all about these sensations. The high and mighty Everoinye, the Star Lords, were summoning me to their presence—and this time they were going to discipline me for what they considered disobedience.

Streaks of lambent blue fire shot through the blackness. My body felt black and blue too, by Vox. Instead of having Queen Leone assassinated and then, through the disgusting rites of Kaopan, making sure she could never be reincarnated, I'd saved her and switched in some poor pathetic dead girl to take her place. No one here in Makilorn apart from we plotters would know that. The Star Lords wanted Kirsty as queen, and now she would be.

As I thus hurtled helplessly through a maelstrom of supernatural forces I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, felt that perhaps all my modulated feelings for the Star Lords had been misplaced. I'd thought we'd been getting onto a better footing where we might understand more of one another's problems. Now, particularly after they'd sent Caspar the Peaker to assassinate Leone so that Kirsty might be queen, I fancied all my old hatred and contempt would flare up uncontrollably.

That, as I knew to my cost, would be a mistake.

Maybe, just maybe, the Star Lords’ plans could exist within the framework of decency. Perhaps, just perhaps, absolute power had not corrupted them past redemption.

Below me through the swirling mists I saw a patchwork of green.

Peering more closely I realized I was looking down from a great height upon fields and forests and hills.

This amazed me so completely that I stared without believing.

Never before had I seen anything outside the blue outlines of the phantom Scorpion as I was whisked up to meet the Everoinye or to be tumbled headlong, naked and unarmed, into some dismal spot of Kregen to sort out a problem for the Star Lords.

Arms and spirals of blue, like contorting tentacles, waved all about me. I could hear a vast rushing, as of the wind at the end of the world. A blustery gale swung me up, twisted me about so that for an instant I was staring directly upwards.

Like a lance thrust, a glittering streak of brilliant viridian green slashed across the heavens. I heard the discordant clashing and hissing as the vivid green streak sliced into the blue mists about me.

In the next instant I was right way up, looking down, and seeing my sword and harness falling through thin air below me.

With a single flicking lick of a blue tentacle, a line of blue radiance reached out, snatched the sword and harness, withdrew into the main bulk.

I knew who controlled that acid green. That was the Star Lord called Ahrinye. He might be a million years or so younger than the other Everoinye; he was at once impetuous and icily contemptuous and he wanted to run me hard, so hard that I believed I'd have little chance of survival.

The ground below was coming up mighty fast.

Seeing that ground, and the falling sword, continued to astonish me. When I say I'd not seen anything outside the blue Scorpion I mean ordinary earthly objects of Kregen; I'd seen plenty of fireworks as the Everoinye squabbled among themselves, and as Zena Iztar with her mellow golden yellow light tried to mediate.

The blueness was fading. Without a single doubt the blueness was thinning and vanishing. And I was still high in the air and falling straight down!

“Hey!” I shouted up, feeling the wind gusting about. “Hai!Star Lords!” I bellowed, feeling the wind now as a rushing force upon my falling body. “What are you doing?"

What they were doing was perfectly obvious. They were doing nothing.

“Help!” I hollered up. “I'll be squashed flat! Hai!"

Down and down I plummeted. The ground was confoundedly near by now. “You bunch of miserable onkers, you crew of cretins! Catch me!"

By the pustular nose and infected warts of Makki Grodno! The stupid phantom blue Scorpion had dropped me!

I twisted my head around to look up. Maybe I did that because I did not wish to stare at that frightening ground swishing up so rapidly.

Up there a dim redness washed away to one side. Red was often the color of the Star Lords when they argued with Ahrinye and his acrid green.

“Star Lords!” I bellowed. Still, down and down I fell.

The only explanation I could see for this contretemps was that Ahrinye had attempted to take over control of me and had not quite succeeded but had caused the Scorpion to drop me. The phantom blue Scorpion had fumbled.

“Ahrinye!” I yelled up. “Do something, you stupid great onker!"

Down below the ground looked a patchwork of green, and there were the roofs and towers of a town some way off by a river. I was going to hit and go splat! In a very very short time.

“Star Lords!” I shrieked. “Ahrinye!” And then, with desperation and cunning caused by despair, I yelled up: “Zena Iztar!"

She had been off on her own work far removed from Kregen, or so I had been led to believe. If the Star Lords were unable to agree to save me, my only hope remained Zena Iztar. She had promised her patronage and support for the schemes I wanted to implement for the good of Kregen. If I was dead I'd be of no further use to any of ‘em, by Krun.

Down below the ground was so close I could see walled gardens filled with greenery and flowers and fountains. Low red buildings bordered the gardens. In the next instant I'd go squash! and that would be the end of Dray Prescot, lord of this and that, etc, and prince of onkers.

Inevitably, my last thought would be of the one person in two worlds who matters more than anything else—including the damned Star Lords.

I thought of Delia, Delia of the Blue Mountains, Delia of Delphond. I'd not been as attentive to her as I ought to have been, as I desperately wanted to be, in the sweet name of Opaz. The Everoinye called me away from Delia. Still, the Sisters of the Rose called her away from me, too...

I composed myself for oblivion.

Two thin streaks of fire reached down from the heavens.

On one side the acrid green of Ahrinye smoked down to coil and lap beneath me.

On the other side the glorious golden yellow radiance diffused a cushion under me.

“Zena Iztar!” I gasped.

The sensation was like falling upon a fireman's safety sheet. My headlong descent checked. The torrent of wind past me ceased. I was still falling, but slowly as immaterial superhuman forces caught and cushioned me.

The water felt hard enough as I went bodily into it, by Krun!

Down and down I went, turning, ready to begin the ascent to the surface. Great, fat, golden fish swam lazily away, flicking their transparent fins insolently. The bottom of the pool, all green and clean, showed me I was in one of the carp pools of cultivated gardens. Lily stems twined away above. I gave a look of dislike to the tangle of stuff; a couple of flipper strokes drove me safely past and now I began to rise. Able to swim underwater for a long time, I was in no discomfort whatsoever from lack of air.

Although Zena Iztar and Ahrinye had slowed my fall, I'd still been traveling at a good rate of knots when I went into the water. The following rise in balancing compensation saw me shooting up swiftly. I felt a vast wet and floppy mass cushion above my head and then I popped up out of the water into the air with a lily pad balanced on my skull.

I must have shot up over man height before flopping back like a porpoise. In that fragment of time I saw an encircling red brick wall, a green and blossoming garden, an iron gate—and standing each side of that iron gate an armed and armored guard leaning on a spear.

In a lightning swift vision, that whole scene as it must have appeared to an observer etched itself on my brain. Sink me! It must have tickled up those two drowsy guards. There they were, standing guard duty with the sound of the party going on in the next garden. They were bored stiff, itchy, thirsty, and half-asleep. Then like a thunderbolt a thing falls straight out of the sky and goes splash! smack into the middle of the carp pond.

Before the guards have time to close their astonished mouths up leaps a fountain of water and a monstrous naked man like a salmon leaping the weir. Sploshing and splashing, down he goes into the water again. Just where he's come from, the guards really don't wish to think about. All they know is that he's fallen in the water.

That scene, bright and brittle, and wet, was good for a laugh in after years, especially with the lily pad balanced on my skull.

By the time I'd spouted water like a whale and got rid of the lily pad and swum to the bank, the guards had managed to close their mouths and were waiting on the edge ready to prod their spears at me.

I checked my stroke a few feet from the pond bank, treading water, and looked up.

“Hai, doms,” I called up. “It's a nice day for it."

Bored, insensitive, callous though these guards most certainly were they remained guards with a job to do for which they took pay. They wore uniforms of a cut and style unfamiliar to me. There was altogether too much flowing drapery, and gold lace, and looping cords and feathers. These were clearly gala uniforms, put on in honor of the party whose sounds were now clearly evident beyond the red brick wall. Two ornate pole arms slanted down at my head. I was not fool enough to imagine those fancy halberds would not be honed to razor sharpness.

“You're a dead man, dom,” said the left hand one. His face, brown and seamed, strip-bearded, wore no particular expression. Bored, he'd kill as a mere part of his duty.

“You know no man is allowed in here,” confirmed the other, whose face might have been his companion's twin.

The streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio slanted in across the pond and the ruby of Zim and the emerald of Genodras struck sparks of fire from the wicked spiked and bladed halberd heads.

I spouted some more water and pondered the situation.

If this amazes you, it should not. By this time in this my narrative you should be well aware that I, Dray Prescot, abhor violence and killing. Behavior of that kind has been forced on me by the force of circumstances and—I own it, I own it—by the arrogance of my own resentment and resistance to unjustified and cruel authority.

“Now, see here, doms—” I began.

They were having none of that. The sweet scent of fully blooming blossoms drifted across the carp pond. The suns shone. The air, that glorious fragrant air of Kregen, filled my lungs. And these two talked indifferently of killing.

“No good arguing,” said the left hand one. “Stick him, Lin. Them's the orders."

Obediently, Lin thrust his halberd at me.

There was no difficulty in evading the spiked halberd head. I paddled a little way off, regarding these two in frustrated sorrow.

“He wants to play clever,” observed Lin. “Better send for a bowman, Hwang, and get it over with.” He yawned. “We're off duty in half a bur."

Guardsmen can usually judge the time they stand on duty and know when their reliefs are due.

Hwang nodded and propped himself on his halberd. “Off you go, then."

Now this I did not want. I paddled toward the bank until I was within reach. Lin turned, waiting.

“Giving up, dom?"

I put a hand on the brick facing and looked up.

Hwang sucked a breath, stood upright, swiveled his halberd and thrust hard.

With a sinuous sideways movement I slid the blade, took the haft in my fist, and jerked harder than he'd thrust.

With a loud yell of rage and surprise he went headlong into the water. Lin shouted his own anger and swung his halberd down in a flat arc. This time I was not as clean in my response and Lin toppled sideways, staggering under the impact of his own halberd. Ignoring the splashings and frothing from the man in the water I hefted up onto the bank and as Lin attempted to rise put the hard toes of my right foot into his throat. He emitted a gargling gasping groan and collapsed.

Amidst a great deal of splashing and foaming Hwang spluttered: “You fool, dom! Now they'll...” His words were chopped off as he went under again.

Lin was unconscious. I looked at the pond as Hwang surfaced, spouting, and now his yells were of an entirely different character.

“Help! Help! I can't swim!"

“By the Black Chunkrah!” I said, fairly spitting with annoyance. “What a carry on!” And, feeling like a buffoon, I dived in, stroked swiftly to him as he went down again, and probably for the last time, got a fist into his fancy folderols of uniform, and hoicked him up. By the time I'd towed him to the bank and dragged him out his face held a beautiful tinge of green. I thumped him down where he groaned and vomited. I looked at the pair.

“The Divine Lady of Belschutz undoubtedly has a few words for you two,” I said. Working swiftly I stripped off a length of cloth of a reddish color and wrapped it about me, drawing the loose end up between my legs and fastening the makeshift breechclout firmly with Hwang's belt. He wore a second belt equipped with a sword, a lynxter of an ornate fancy pattern, and a dagger. This belt I buckled up about my waist. I looked about.

The noise we had made must surely bring more guards running.

These two lovelies were out of the reckoning for the moment. Now I had to find a safe way out of this infernal place. The noise of the party beyond the gate indicated that that was not the way to go.

In the opposite wall across the pond stood another gate.That way, then.

Leaving wet footprints that would dry rapidly in the heat of the suns I padded around the carp pond, heading for the gate.

I stopped stock-still. I must be growing senile. Was I then so wrapped up in the legends of Dray Prescot that I must always prance around half-naked clad only in a scarlet breechcloth and brandishing a sword?

I ran back very sharply to the prostrate guards and relieved them of all their weapons and Lin's uniform—which was dry. When I leaned over and stared at my reflection in the water I looked a proper fancy guard.

Then I retraced my steps around the pond to the farther gate.

This led into a further garden whose walls were covered with espaliers.

The colors and scents of flowers wafted most pleasantly across the central grassy lawn. A two-wheeled handcart carrying a rotund water tank was attended by two old Ochs who were painstakingly watering the borders. They looked up indifferently as I ran past. The jet of water did not waver by a hair's breadth. Making for the gate opposite the one I had entered by, I reflected that the old Ochs were slaves and they were females. The next gate led into a walled garden crammed with flowers.

By this time I had a shrewd suspicion that where I had touched down after the Scorpion dropped me had landed me in very hot water.

That made me look back for an instant at the spectacle I must have made tumbling out of the sky, going splash! into the water and then spouting up again with the lily pad balanced ludicrously on my head. Well, yes, I suppose it was comical. Had those two dozy guards, Lin and Kwang, been more awake they might even have found a little chuckle, if not going to the extreme of actually laughing.

More walled gardens followed, gate after gate. A few more female Och slaves barely looked up as I went by, intent upon their labors.

Given that the sound of the party ought to come from the central portions of this damned maze of gardens, then to keep on going directly away from the party should bring me to the outside wall. That, at least, was the theory. Ha! You who have followed my narrative will know how theories have the diabolical habit of mercilessly tripping up one hight Dray Prescot.

So far the guard uniform had brought me through without question. Slaves do not normally stand up when a guard passes and challenge him with a “Who are you?"

Other guards might, though.

Two other guards did. Directly, harshly, slanting their spears at my midriff. They were tough, hard-faced, wearing curved leather armor and polished metal helmets flaunting red and yellow feathers. They marched smartly in through the open gate towards which I was walking and simply marched straight up to me, pointed their spears, and challenged me in a most decisive and unmistakable way.

They did not speak exactly as Lin and Hwang had done; the burden of their message was exactly the same.

“There is no excuse,” said the left hand one in a clipped, tight voice. “You are not allowed here."

The right hand one said: “We shall take you along to the guardroom. Now just come along quietly."

To reinforce the words she used her spear to tickle my ribs.

“Now look here—” was as far as I got before the spear jabbed again.

“Get moving, you loveless spawn of Holpo the Blasphemer!"

Well, as many folk have said many times, if ladies wish to put on armor and act as soldiers, jikai vuvushis, and wield weapons, they are perfectly entitled to do so. In the struggles in Vallia during the Times of Troubles, I, myself, had cause to be thankful to the gallant regiments of jikai vuvushis who had fought so well for us. I had shuddered away from their use and had only reluctantly come to realize that girls, no less than boys, must be allowed to do what they wish and are able for the good of all.

All this being so, the obverse is also so.

I took the spear haft into my fist, pushed and then snatched it cleanly from the girl's grasp and used it to parry the second girl's automatic stroke. Then I tapped both as gently as I could under the fancy helmets just above their ears. I tried to catch both as they fell, but as I am an apim, Homo sapiens sapiens, and have only two arms, one of the poor girls pitched over onto the path. I lowered the other to her side and stepped back to view them. I shook my head. This happening is the obverse of the bright colors and armor and glittering weapons and flaunting feathers. They both slumbered peacefully.

When I moved off I did so very smartly.

Which was just as well.

A long blue-fletched Lohvian arrow sprouted from the thigh of the nearest sprawled girl.

Without thought, without hesitation, instantly, I hurled myself sideways, ducking away, fleeting over the ground.

More arrows flicked past. When a Bowmaid of Loh shoots at you, you must deflect the shafts, run and dodge the shafts, or let the shafts shaft you to death.

“By Makki Grodno's pustule-covered armpits and leprous biceps!” I said to myself as I leaped from side to side and raced on, zigzagging to save my life. “They're mighty sharp around here."

I went roaring past the open gate and immediately cut along to the left beside the wall. That pitiless rain of arrows dried up. I took a breath and scuttled rapidly along by the wall heading for a narrow door at the far end of the path. I ignored the opposite gate this time; it seemed to me that would only admit me onto more trouble. I could hear a few high-pitched shouts from the rear and guessed the Bowmaids would be running after me, their long legs flashing in the suns-light.

The door proved to be unlocked. When I opened it, slid through, and slammed it at my back I assumed the girls, seeing this garden empty, would realize I hadn't had time to cross to the opposite gate and therefore know I'd gone through here. In that case ... I slid the bolt firmly, snicking it into its socket with a click.

I turned around. The walls in this garden were completely bare of the vegetation of all kinds that graced the walls of the other gardens. The whole expanse was covered in coarse gravel of a reddish orange tint. In the centre stood a brick fountain with water gushing up and falling into a stone basin. A number of indentations here and there over the gravel thickened near the fountain. Each little scoop looked to be the size of a large animal's hoof, and the further indentations around the central one looked unmistakably and unpleasantly like the mark of giant claws.

The only other exit in this walled garden lay opposite and in the centre of the wall. The door stood wide open. I crossed to it.

To have rushed in through the open doorway would have been highly foolish. I loosened one of my swords and, leaning against the wall, poked an eyeball around the edge of the doorway. This garden looked perfectly normal. Perhaps there were a few more trees than usual and more pretty little birds, otherwise the flowers banked in profusion and the air was filled with their perfume. I took a breath and stepped past the edge of the doorway. At the side an opening had been formed. This was a double wall, creating a long alleyway between the gardens. The alleyway was floored in the same reddish orange gravel. Also, I had not failed to notice the size of this doorway, and the width of the alley between the walls convinced me the animal who lived here and was brought here to drink was of a considerable size.

I shoved my sword back firmly in the scabbard and prowled on.

So far I'd managed to avoid the cluster of roofs visible over the walls. Red tiled roofs, with flat terrace and balcony connecting features, they seemed to me to denote that this place was a luxurious country villa. In that, of course, I could be wildly wrong. By the movement of the twin suns I saw I was in the northern hemisphere of Kregen again. All these walled gardens would appear to indicate I was still in the continent of Loh.

From these conclusions and from what had happened to me since I'd arrived it was now quite clear just where I was. Whilst it is no doubt a splendid and magnificent thing to die young for some great cause, it is, as San Blarnoi points out, far more comfortable to support the great cause without getting killed. And, as the soldier poet Kapt Larghos the Lame observes in his military rhythms, you can get just as dead in a petty skirmish as you can in a full-scale battle. He should know—he got himself killed in an ambush fifteen hundred seasons ago.

The need at the moment was to find the outside wall and go either through a gateway or over the wall and get clear of these gardens. They were highly unhealthy—for unwanted men.

Going on cautiously I crossed three more enclosed spaces of flowers. Apart from that mad dash to the left away from the arrows, I believed I'd kept to a straight line. Unless the villa possessed grounds of enormous extent I ought to be nearing the outer wall, surely, for the sweet sake of Opaz?

Or, perhaps I was running along this series of gardens parallel to the outer wall? “By the Black Chunkrah!” I said to myself. “That is not one of your more helpful notions, Dray Prescot."

The next garden contained a pool clearly designed for people to go swimming. The place was deserted, but from beyond the far wall floated the happy sounds of laughter and the clink of glasses. I stopped and listened. You may believe me when I say I listened most carefully, most carefully indeed, by Krun!

Over in the jungles of South Pandahem we'd encountered the Cabaret Plant. This little beauty grew in the form of a large gourd with tendrils. It had the happy knack of making sounds as of a party to lure its victims to a carnivorous end. Seg and I had experience of the horrors which the dinkus of the forest call the Naree-Giver for they obtain the poison with which they tip their blowpipe darts. So, I stood and I tried to identify the merry sounds and the clink of bottles and glasses.

One thing was sure, I couldn't afford to hang around long. Those ferocious Bowmaids of Loh were after me and they'd shaft me on the spot. The idea that there might be Cabaret Plants growing here to yield their poison came as an ugly thought. Although, mind you, I didn't believe a Bowmaid of Loh needed to tip her deadly arrow heads with any poison.

Taking great care, I stuck an eyeball around the corner. Truth to tell, perhaps, the sight of a Cabaret Plant might have been more welcome than the scene that confronted me.

With caution I could have walked around and past a Cabaret Plant. There was no way I was going to pass this little lot. They were having a party, they were enjoying themselves, and they'd welcome me to their festivities as the human sacrifice to be offered up to whatever dark gods they worshipped.

The women wore precious little in the way of ordinary clothes. Sumptuous silks flowed from their shoulders and trailed them across the grass. They wore artificially-high-heeled shoes. Their navels were bare and many wore jewels there. Their hair piled high in artful mountains of gems and loops of pearls. There was a great use of blown glass as ornament, glittering in the radiance of the Suns, twining around neck and arm and thigh. Every woman was veiled.

“I knew it!” I said to myself. “That damned gerblish onker of a Scorpion! Dropped me down into a harem.Right into a seraglio. This is where I'll lose portions of my anatomy first, before they chop me up.” I felt quite warm. “That idiot Ahrinye and the Star Lords between ‘em are out to do me down.” This was not strictly true, as I knew; but, as I say, I was somewhat warm by this time.

The harem women moved in loose graceful poses. The veils were light chiffon-like drapes, heightening the beauty and mystery of the concealed faces. Most of the poor creatures would be slave, and there was a very great deal of money parading about there. And, they were drinking and listening to the music from an enclosed balcony, and appeared not to be too displeased with their lot.

Time to go. I drew back cautiously and turned about. The other gate in this garden would have to lead somewhere useful, by Krun!

Padding off towards the gate and keeping my head turning I saw the lissom figures appear above the wall to my right rear. Here came the Bowmaids!

Running fleetly over the grass and jinking from side to side, I managed to avoid the lethal arrows sleeting in. If they brought up any more girls they'd put down a barrage no one, not even a Krozair of Zy, was going to run through unscathed.

With a last burst of energy I roared through the gateway. The ground here was uniformly covered by reddish orange gravel. No fountain sparkled at the centre. Instead a monstrous form towered up, shaggy, shambling, its six arms forming a wagon wheel of colossal power. Its four legs supported it in a half-upright position. Its eyes were large, like saucers, round and staring—staring at me! A red tongue licked out past rubbery lips and the gleam of yellow fangs was enough to put a breeze up anybody's spine.

The thing shambled over the gravel towards me. The six arms reached for me. High excited shouts at my rear told me there was no way back.

“By the Blade of Kurin,” I snarled to myself, and ripped out my sword. “If this is the way of it, then I'll make a jikai of it!"

Chapter two

The thing advanced towards me, shambling. Something red shone in one of its hands. I cocked up the sword, braced and ready to rush in.

“Nnng—nnng—” The thing mouthed incomprehensible words, slobbering. It stopped stock-still. “Nnng—bbl—” It threw the red object from one hand to another and I saw it was a child's ball.

Ready to leap forward and deal in my usual way with monsters, I paused. The thing turned its grotesque head to one side, and I felt that movement was one of puzzlement, almost of pleading. Once more it threw the ball from hand to hand. Then it threw the ball at me. The rubbery lips writhed over the words. “Bbl—play!"

The ball bounced towards me.

I caught it in my left hand and threw it back. Instantly the thing assumed a crouching position, six arms waving. For a sick moment I thought I hadn't played the game correctly. The thing swayed from side to side as the ball flew towards it and I saw it was playing. It caught the ball cleanly and emitted a high chirruping noise of triumph. That sound was echoed by the menacing shouts of the Bowmaids chasing me.

The thing tossed the ball up again and threw it at me. This time I used the sword. Grasped in two hands, it swung like a bat, caught the ball on the fly and fairly belted it into the far corner of the garden.

That shot was worth a home run or a six over the pavilion any day.

The thing let rip a snorting squeak which I took to be pleasure and started off after his ball. Running around in the other direction I skirted along the wall and fairly sprinted for the distant gate.

The thing lollopped over to the ball and picked it up. When he swung back to where I'd been, he emitted a pinging sound of puzzlement.

Then my movement caught in the corner of his eye and he turned. What he was going to do now I didn't know—had I spoiled his game? Was I ready to be dealt with as monsters habitually deal with folk they don't like?

He let rip a squeak and hurled the ball at me. I noticed that he threw it ahead, allowing for my movement. Obligingly I used the sword and gave the ball a square cut that drove it past wide of his six arms. He started lolloping off after it. I went skidding non-stop through the open gateway.

The Bowmaids would know the animal and wouldn't be halted. I had to run like stink to get away before they shafted me.

Now the cluster of red roofs lay to the rear and the sounds of the party faded. These gardens were mostly given over to vegetables. At this I took heart.

My beliefs were justified shortly when, past a garden with the bright shoots of momolams sprouting healthily, I saw ahead a wall taller than any so far encountered. This jolly-well had to be the outer wall!

There were, naturally, no doors or gates visible in the entire length.

Suddenly, and with an icy chill, I heard among the shouts of the girls the growing howling and barking. I recognized those ululations. Werstings! A pack of the killer-dogs had been let loose on my heels. They'd follow me remorselessly until they were all slain—or, if I were extremely lucky, until I could shake them off. And that, by Krun, was extraordinarily hard to do.

Running through the nearest gateway into the next garden I looked about for some means of scaling that damned wall.

This was the outer wall and they were not stupid enough to grow trees or vines conveniently placed for intruders to enter—which meant they were useless to me trying to get out.

The menacing growls and sharp barks of the werstings appeared to me to grow louder and louder.

One aspect of these walled gardens that had impressed me from the outset was their tidiness and well-kept appearance. I'd seen female slave gardeners on my chase through here; but I'd not seen any of those little gardener's huts one finds in gardens where the tools of the trade are kept. The obvious answer for that was the slaves were issued with their implements from a central source by an overseer. Slave owners do not like stores of potential weapons lying about ready for the first disaffected slave to snatch up. No, sir.

With that in mind as I entered the next garden I saw the solution to my problem, along with, of course, further problems to obtain that solution.

These walls contained an orchard. The trees were not overly tall and in my state of urgency I didn't bother to notice what kind they were. What I wanted was one of the ladders the slaves were using to climb up to the tops of the trees. One of those ladders ought just to reach the wall.

Making sure my borrowed uniform was in correct order, I strutted up to the nearest tree. A woman was working away at the top of the ladder and a group waited below. I put on my harsh voice.

“Get that ladder down at once! Bring it over here! Grak!"

“Yes, master,” said the slave with a yellow headband. Slave she might be, she had her meed of petty authority, even if not up to the class of the balass stick.

The slaves wore the gray slave breechclout. The one at the top of the ladder slid down as neatly as a snotty would slide down the backstay. As I stood importantly, scowling at them, four of the slaves took up the ladder and the overseer looked expectantly at me.

“What are you waiting for?” I bellowed. “This way.” With that I started off strutting through the garden gate towards the outer wall.

They followed me, marching in step. They must have heard the sounds of the pursuit by now, the howling of the werstings and the excited calls of the Bowmaids and Jikai Vuvushis, but they gave no visible sign of interest. That kind of thing was not their concern. Truth to tell, it struck me that they probably associated noises of that kind with escaped slaves.

We reached the wall and I made a sharp and contemptuous gesture and up went the ladder to clatter against the top of the wall. It was short by about two feet; that would present no problem.

The slave overseer raised her dark eyes, fearfully, to glance at me.

The habit of instant obedience was so strong that, even if she believed what she saw, she couldn't question me. Clearly, in this section of the gardens, past the monster who wanted to play ball and here in the vegetable patches, male guards were allowed. All the same, I did not want to see these poor slaves punished on my account.

“I shall need the ladder. Go back to work. Schtump!"

They trailed off and I went up the ladder fast. A quick heave at the top and I was seated astride the wall. An arrow flicked past my ear.

The pursuit burst into the garden, Jikai Vuvushis brandishing spears and swords, Bowmaids of Loh running and stopping to take aim, and, foremost of all, the horrific pack of werstings, black and white striped hellions.

I knocked an arrow aside with my forearm. The werstings would not be able to climb the ladder; the ladies most certainly would. So, I bent, got a good grip, and heaved. Up came the ladder just as the foremost wersting made a savage leap. He fell back, baffled. The ladder balanced on the wall. With a swiveling motion I had it around and down on the outside. Down below lay a dusty lane, and another damned tall wall across the lane. Instead of as I'd expected dropping from the wall like a sneaky assassin, I was able calmly to descend the ladder like a respectable burglar going home from work.

The opposite wall looked just like this one, and was clearly the outer wall of the next-door villa. The lane looked the same in both directions. The taste of dust on the tongue was brought by a little breeze that whiffled along the alleyway. So, then, which way? In a mere matter of heartbeats my pursuers would come howling through the main gate and tear after me.

I went to the left.

There was a gate on my left, closed, and if that was the one the Bowmaids intended to use I'd better run as fast as I could, for the confounded lane ran straight as a die towards a further cluster of buildings beyond.

Now having werstings on your trail is strictly bad news. They are smart, although not in the same league as a Manhound. If I was to fool them I needed to be both clever and lucky. One thing I decided; it would not be a good idea to stroll into the town ahead wearing these guard clothes.

The folderols came off thankfully enough. If I had to chance local customs, I would have to do so. I kept a tunic-like upper garment, and with the red breechclout that would have to suffice. I made the castoff clothing into a ball and carefully teased out one end of a scarf to trail. With a good throw I sent the lot over the neighbor's wall and the trailing tail caught on the top and clung, hanging down. Good!

If that did nothing else, it would split the wersting pack.

After all, they had nothing of mine to sniff for the scent.

Running swiftly on I reached the end of the lane as a swimmer must reach the rocks just as his lungs fill with water. I nipped around the end of the wall. Like a trumpet, the lane magnified the horrid sounds of the werstings snuffling after me. I roused myself, took a breath, and sized up where I'd got myself into now and what was my best next step.

Generally, not always, civilizations that go in for private walled gardens with houses without outside windows also go in for a public face on their municipal buildings. I expected to see arcades and pillared porticoes, openness, squares and probably shade trees and fountains.

Four hundred light years away through empty space no doubt those expectations might have been realized. But I was on the splendid if horrific planet of Kregen, in the continent of Loh, and I could expect nothing to be familiar. We all spoke a language imposed on the territorial grouping of Paz, modified by local usage. Beyond that—well, as I turned about I saw that a common language was one thing, fashions in architecture quite another. One could call that style of architecture ‘Ornamented Fanciful’ for like a lavish wedding cake it sprouted tiers and balconies and dizzying perspectives of red tiled roofs and white colonnades. Yet the whole tended to an upward perspective. Beneath there were indeed arcades; but these held shadows and mysteries and were not, I judged, the sites of impassioned rhetoric and legal argument. I stared, pondering the best place to hide.

The ululations of those damned werstings howled on apace and it behooved me to get a move on.

Whether by ill chance or good fortune, I could not say, but just at the moment only a very few folk walked between those weird buildings.

Moving rapidly I crossed the intervening area and plunged into the shadowed arcade leading directly away from the hunting pack.

All this running about was distinctly annoying. I had work to do. That damnfool Scorpion had dropped me into some petty rushing about adventure when I ought to be about the business of Paz, the business of resisting the ruthless invasions of the Fish-Faces, the Shanks, from over the curve of the world. Many people of the grouping of lands called Paz wanted me to become what they called the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz. Needless to say I didn't want the job but felt it imposed on me, not only by the will of the people but by the desires of the Star Lords. They had suggested, it seemed to me, that this Emperor of Emperors nonsense was why they'd put up with me at all, why they'd brought me to Kregen.

The Star Lords used me in this vile way because I had the yrium, that special form of charisma that caused ordinary people and extraordinary people to lay down their lives to serve me. Oh, yes, I felt ashamed, I felt diminished. Yet, if the damned Shanks were to be prevented from murdering every woman, man and child in Paz, someone had to be found who could weld the disparate countries of Paz into a common union of resistance.

And, as you see, that onker was me, plain Dray Prescot.

The problem was, the divine Delia would become the Empress of Empresses. Of course, no one was more fitted to hold that office. But, all the same, I fretted over the potential dangers to which she would be exposed. Of course, that was a laugh. Dangers and Delia went hand in hand. Was she not a Sister of the Rose? Did she not flaunt off adventuring for them and on her own account? Yet I own if aught happened to my Delia, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, then all of Kregen and of Earth could go hang.

These fretful thoughts were more important to me at that moment, incongruously, I suppose, than the howling pack of slavering werstings and the Bowmaids of Loh and the Jikai Vuvushis out for my blood.

The arcade stretched ahead, patched with shadow, implicit with menace.

Just before I started off into those shadows a brief but excruciatingly brilliant vision of the shaggy monster and his red ball flamed before my eyes. My Val! He had the strength to rip my head clean off my shoulders. His six arms would have been the very devil to counter and beat. Powerful, dominating, a monster—and he'd wanted to play ball! Whew!

Forcing the image out of my vision I raced into the shadows of the arcade.

The wall to my right was pierced by a few tall narrow doorways, all shuttered by solid iron-barred wooden doors. Overhead the roof curved from column to column. To my right the radiance of the Suns of Scorpio threw light as I reached the corner of the building and scampered across to the next series of arcades. The dusty square over on the left remained empty and I felt that however strange and foreign this city might be, one would expect more people than that. A distant murmur like summer bees from ahead, I felt sure, would explain the mystery.

Again I crossed the shafting mingled lights of a cross street. The noise increased. Two men and a woman ran out from a door, which slammed as they left, and raced on ahead. Little detective work was needed to deduce they were running to join the crowd making the noise. I followed on.

Soon other people joined in and I was going rapidly along in quite a little crowd. No one took any notice of me. The men wore strange and fanciful costumes, all draping scarves and tassels, and multi-colored feathers in their wide and floppy hats. A few men wore brilliantly colored loincloths with bare legs, and had swords swinging at their sides. The women all wore veils. These veils were larger and thicker than the flimsy seductive bits of flimsy worn by the girls in the harem. We all ran along to join the procession.

Debouching into a kyro of some size surrounded by the spiring buildings founded on their arcades, the procession wound around and around the square until everyone had joined in. I was near the stern of the mob.

This suited me. Whatever morsel of scent the werstings had picked up must be obliterated and lost in all this throng.

A woman climbed onto the pedestal of a statue of a Khibil holding a Lohvian longbow aloft. The statue was twice life size, one of a number dotted about the kyro. She raised her arms and with surprising promptitude the crowds fell silent. She began to speak in an impassioned haranguing way, all about the lost glories of Walfarg, of the ancient Empire of Walfarg which the barbarian people of the outer world called the Empire of Loh. “Just as,” she cried, shrieking, “the benighted fools call the accursed Wizards of Walfarg Wizards of Loh!"

I felt the shock of that. I felt a distinct shock, not to say a tremor of dire chill. By Vox! To call a Wizard of Loh accursed! I stared in fascination at this woman, half expecting to see her turned into a little green toad.

Her face was of that strong hard variety that, nevertheless, is womanly handsome. She could not be called pretty; her appeal came from her inner strengths. This reminded me of Mevancy, although the two were vastly different women in appearance and in the nature of their inner strengths. She wore fancy silken robes attached to her shoulders and trailing; but they were flung back to reveal the curved leather armor across her breast and the pteruges covering her upper thighs. Incongruously, her navel was bare. She wore two swords, a lynxter and a short sword of that type which is called a laiker in Loh. Both weapons had over-ornate hilts. Her feet I could not see for the heads of the crowds between us. Her head was uncovered and her bright red Lohvian hair gleamed in the radiance of the suns.

To say this woman intrigued me must be an overstatement. What she had said and why she had said it—that interested me, by Krun!

Now she was ranting on about the absence of life and energy in the land. People were slothful. People were all sinful. All they thought of were their bellies, their beds, their money. “We must rise up,” she declaimed. “Rise up and take back what once was ours!"

A few thin shouts of approval lifted. A few harsher voices of dissent growled away. Most of the crowd remained dumb or talking in undertones between themselves.

So, I reasoned, the people had not raised themselves from their lethargy to run and see and listen to this woman. Oh, no. They were here to see her brought low. If that was not done by a Wizard of Loh then no doubt the agents of the local police or watch would soon swoop. The crowds were looking forward to that pleasurable entertainment.

I felt disgusted with them.

Now she was delivering herself of pent up fury and resentment at the judgment of history. She was blaming the fall of the Empire of Walfarg on the Wizards of Loh and also on the incompetence of Walfargian military men. “We must have boats that sail through the thin air!” she screeched. “We must breed giant birds to carry us on their wings into battle to bring us the victory!” At this the catcalls spurted from the crowds. “We must have these things! We will have them! As I stand here, I, Mul-lu-Manting, swear it! By the Seven Arcades I swear!"

This was heavy metal. The Seven Arcades, whatever they were, were words on the lips of Wizards of Loh when impassioned or inflamed to rage. Maybe this girl was some kind of Witch of Loh, maybe she'd failed her exams or had been defrocked. That would account for her attack on the Lohvian mages.

A stir in the crowd near me and the unmistakable tramp of iron-shod feet heralded the expected fun and games. There was no chance that I could intervene to help this woman. I felt that, had I the opportunity to do so, I would. The mass of people shrank away from the guards, clanking along. By the time they were within reach of the statue of the Khibil with the upraised bow, Mul-lu-Manting was long gone from the pedestal.

“The incompetent fools!” A shrewish little woman was scolding the miserable looking man at her side as though he were responsible. “The vile blasphemer, she got away from them. Now if I had her here—"

“Yes?” questioned a deep, resonant voice at my side. “And, lady, you would do exactly what?"

I sized up the speaker. He was muffled up in a light silken cloak, and his flat, floppy hat hung down around his ears and forehead. His eyes were bright and sharp enough. Before the shrewish woman could answer, her husband piped up: “This is no business of yours, walfger—"[1]

[1 walfger: mister, monsieur, herr. A.B.A.]

The woman shut him up with a rattled-out string of nastiness. Then she snapped: “Why, I'd teach her to mind her tongue and her manners!"

The slim figure of a girl in light draperies pushed forward and grasped the arm of the owner of the deep mellifluous voice. He was about to launch into what anyone could recognize as a sermon. The girl spoke swiftly. “It is no use, san. Come away, please, come away now."

He turned his head to regard her and I saw more of his face—a drawn, ascetic countenance, with the harsh lines of suffering etched around the mouth and eyes. “Yes, Xinthe, I suppose you are right. But have I not told you time and again about calling me san?"

The shrewish woman was lapping this up. Now she burst out: “You are one of those dreadful supporters of the witch Mul-lu-Manting. Call the guards! Help, help!"

Moving with enough speed to get there without loss of time I stepped up behind this unpleasant, little lady and placed my fingers on her neck at precisely the right spot. My other arm encircled a waist more pudgy than pleasant as she toppled unconscious. I pushed her at her husband—if indeed he was that unfortunate person.

“The lady has fainted,” I said. I spoke to him as an overseer might speak to a slave. “Take her home before she is injured."

“Yes, yes, master,” he gabbled and dragged her off, heels draggling. I wished him well of her.

The girl in the flowing draperies gasped. “I saw that!"

I let my head nod in the briefest of bows. “Better all around, my lady. Now let us take this walfger to a safer spot."

She gave me a hard shrewd look from bright hazel eyes. Her face was of the sort described as elfin; but there were the first faint traces of the lines of responsibility upon her forehead. She came to a decision.

“Very well. I thank you. Now we must get away before the guards find us."

As she spoke I heard that hateful howling of the wersting pack.

Chapter three

We three moved smoothly and without undue haste away from the crowds, and avoiding the further series of arcades struck down a side street. The mingled streaming lights of the Suns of Scorpio flamed into my eyes. Shadows lay to our rear, not overlong shadows, for here in Walfarg we were not too far north of the Equator. The heat was appreciably lessening as the afternoon turned into evening.

“And not a Llahal between us,” observed the man.

“Llahal,” I said at once. “My name is Drajak,” giving the name I'd used most recently down south in Tsungfaril. “Drajak ti Zamran."

“Lahal, walfger Drajak. I am Wanlicheng, Ornol Wanlicheng once of Paramdan and now a wandering scholar—"

“Oh, San Ornol! You are a great teacher,” burst out the girl, Xinthe. “Yes,” she went on, half scolding half laughing in resignation, “and well you know it!"

“And this,” said Ornol Wanlicheng in his mellifluous voice, “is, as you can see, my strict but patient student, Xinthe."

“Lahal, Wr Drajak.[2] Now, I think it best if we hurried,” and she urged Wanlicheng along. With that fearful howling following us I needed no urging to scamper on with them.

[2 Wr.: Abbreviation for walfger. A.B.A.]

Then the obvious and unpleasant thought occurred to me. If the werstings were still on my scent—and I really felt that now to be unlikely—they would follow this couple. I'd be bringing a wersting pack down on San Ornol Wanlicheng and on Lady Xinthe. I felt that to be something Dray Prescot would not do. So I told them I'd been followed by a wersting pack.

Xinthe, still hurrying on, shuddered. “They are terrible when aroused. Although the puppies are sweet."

“That is quite all right, Drajak. I have that which will remedy the situation.” Wanlicheng spoke quite casually, as though the problem were both simple and academic.

Apart from the central square where the buildings had been reasonably open and impressive, this town appeared to consist of a maze of twisting alleys sometimes bordered by arcades, more often the further we went on bordered only by tall blank walls. Shadows slanted across the bricks from the opposite wall. I would not care to say I saw the top of a single tree over any wall. Careful, then, these townsfolk.

The doorways were universally tall and thin and the doors of solid iron-banded and studded wood. The door which Xinthe unlocked and opened had once been painted blue; now it was mostly back to bare wood, dry and cracked. We went into the courtyard and Xinthe, after a look back, went to close the door. Wanlicheng stopped her.

“Just a moment, my dear, let me place a simple Seal of Passing.” He moved out into the alleyway again and Xinthe obstructed my view of what Wanlicheng was doing. “There, that should suffice.” He came back into the courtyard and Xinthe slammed the door.

Whether the werstings had missed my trail or whether Wanlicheng's Seal of Passing did the trick I couldn't then have said. Whichever, we were not troubled by a visit from the wersting pack or their Hikdar.

The courtyard was surrounded by buildings, all with mean little windows. Directly ahead an arched opening clearly led to the inner courtyard. To the right lay the stables, with the usual litter scattered about. There was about this courtyard a miserable, dingy feeling.

Wanlicheng led off through the arched opening into the inner courtyard. If I expected a blaze of color from gardens, spirited fountains, statuary, I was singularly disappointed. The inner courtyard was just a bigger version of the outer. Certainly, the windows were a fraction larger. Wanlicheng waited whilst Xinthe unlocked one of the narrow wooden doors in the row of doors all around the courtyard and we all went in and immediately climbed a blackwood stair in gloom made darker by our abrupt entrance from the last of the sunslight. At the top lay a chamber spartan in simplicity, furnished as a living room. I did not see a single cushion. The bentwood chairs looked hard and uninviting.

“Pray make yourself at home, Drajak. Xinthe, my dear, would you?"

“Red, white, or rosé, or your usual?"

“My usual for myself, I think. Drajak, your preference?"

“It makes no difference, San Ornol; but red would be nice."

“Ornol, please. I regard the word san as a vulgar form of ostentation, along with princes and kovs and the like. I do admit they sometimes have their uses, in the right place and the right time. But Walfarg has suffered too much from her sans and her Queens of Pain."

I could quite see his point. The once great and puissant Empire of Loh, ruled ruthlessly by the famous Queens of Pain, was now gone and crumbled away, blown like smoke in the wind. If the people, as that screaming girl Mul-lu-Manting had said, blamed the Wizards of Loh and their own rulers for the catastrophe, then they wouldn't much care for sans and queens.

Xinthe brought the wine in pottery jugs and readying myself for a tart and vinegary concoction I was pleasantly surprised to taste a smooth and bracing red. Wanlicheng observed my reactions. He smiled, that austere face breaking amazingly into an attractive beam. “Yes, I believe that wine and blood have an affinity, and therefore a good quality is essential."

“A sound principle,” I observed, and drank.

Xinthe disappeared and I assumed she was preparing the meal.

Etiquette was more likely than not to be entirely different here. Using what little conversational skills I have I quickly established that Xinthe stood as student, nurse and cook to Wanlicheng and that, thank you, walfger, you may assist with the washing up.

The meal was simple, good, perhaps a trifle too frugal for my taste; but then, an old sailorman like me is used to drawing in his belt buckle.

Wanlicheng, when we had finished eating and the washing up had been placed in its wooden racks, said: “Now, Xinthe, the preparation for the tenth corner."

“Yes, master—which Path do you mean?"

“Impudence!” His thin lips curved into a smile as he spoke. “You well know, tikshvu."

I felt a jolt at his joking use of that word tikshvu, which I have previously translated as missy. Usually it threatens and cows a young girl who has been rebellious. These people made their own rules, it seemed.

She spread her hands in her lap and nodded. “The Path of the Ib."

That is to say, the Path of the Spirit or Soul. Wanlicheng pursed his lips. “In the Path of the Ib, the tenth corner holds a special significance. It is similar to the importance of the seventh corner in the Path of the World."

“In the Path of the Flesh—” began Xinthe.

“Two Paths are enough for the moment.” He spoke sharply.

“Yes, master."

“Now, hold your attention to the ninth corner.” As he spoke he leaned down and placed his two thumbs over her closed eyelids. The shadows in the room lay deeply now as the suns sank. There was one cheap mineral oil lamp that remained unlit as Xinthe concentrated on her exercise.

I sat very quietly. Both Wanlicheng and Xinthe had the red hair of true Lohvians. Presently he stood back and without a sound sat down in his chair. The silence grew oppressive. I did not drink the fine red wine. I wondered what was going on in Xinthe's pretty head. As for her tutor, his gaze remained fastened upon her face.

At last her lips moved and in a whisper she said: “The corner is true. I am holding it. Fast."

Wanlicheng said: “Good. Fix it and then return."

When at last Xinthe opened her eyes the smile with which she favored her teacher was a wonderful sunburst of beauty. “Yes.” she said. “Oh, yes!"

His austere face revealed pleasure. Whatever his history might have been in the recent past, here was a man who understood the finer things of life. Speaking in that well-modulated voice he began a general conversation. Like most people meeting new acquaintances, he wanted to know all about me. For, as he observed: “One can tell you are not of Loh."

Xinthe continued to sit and I surmised she was recovering from whatever she had been doing inside her own skull.

I gave my usual farrago of lies concerning myself and then ventured a question about the scene I had just witnessed.

“There is no such thing as the One True Path. You must find your way as best you can, using whatever means you are able. This sometimes means you may have to deny a certain god, or embrace another. So far no one has been able to convince me that One True God exists, any more than One True Way.” I did not wish to contradict him on his point about gods; but I admit I felt this to be a serious chink in whatever theory he was expounding.

He went on to say that his belief in magic and in gods had failed him so often that he had looked around for a better way. He had been fortunate enough to meet a wise woman—he called her Lisa the Forthright, although that was not her real name—who had opened his eyes to Alternative Magic.

“We call our movement Alternative Magic, for it is that, in a real sense. But it is much much more than a mere alternative to magic and gods. We seek to perform the same work as that done by sorcerers—magic—and by gods—miracles—solely through our own human powers. This may sound impious, blasphemous, even. But I assure you, Drajak, a man or woman has the power there in their heads. Through the Paths we move forward to our goal. We can unleash the powers of the human mind and spirit and have no need of sorcerers. As to gods, they have other uses."

“There are then many of you?"

“Not as many as we would like. We have a goodly number of members, all the same, scattered about here and there."

“And you are not persecuted?"

“No, why should we be, since we do not spout our beliefs from statues in the main kyro of town."

Xinthe threw me a sharp glance. I shook my head.

“All this is completely new to me, Lady Xinthe. I am no spy."

Well, it wasn't completely new, of course. There are the two well-known ways to God: Rejection of Images or Affirmation of Images. In addition I had spoken to Kregen philosophers and mystics who recognized the three Paths Wanlicheng had mentioned plus the Path of Afflatus. What this mystic was trying to do was the new thing. If he could perform magic and miracles without any mumbo-jumbo, straight out of his head, then he would, indeed, be a remarkable fellow. And Xinthe and the mystic he called Lisa the Forthright would add their peculiarly feminine slant to the proceedings. If between them they could win through all the corners on the paths then I'd be the first to be interested.

They called themselves the Pilgrims.

Sometimes they were known as Wayfarers or Pathfinders.

They were out to perfect Alternative Magic for the good of humanity.

I wished them well.

Then I asked about the woman fanatic Mul-lu-Manting.

“She seeks to achieve her desires by ranting, preaching, trying to arouse the people to past glories. I fear she has no joy in her task."

What Mul-lu-Manting wanted was a new Empire of Loh. She reveled in the luxurious thoughts of the power and prestige once enjoyed by Walfarg. All that had been swept away, she claimed, by the failure of the Wizards of Walfarg and because the governments had failed to provide airboats. Because at the time the empire began to break up a king was on the throne, Mul-lu-Manting blamed the men for the catastrophe. With a return to women, ruling as Queens of Pain, then the Empire of Walfarg, the Empire of Loh, would return!

“People in Loh are too apathetic to bother about such a return to imperial glories.” Wanlicheng shook his head. “That thing is best forgotten."

“All the same,” observed Xinthe, “you cannot deny it was when Loh was ruled by kings that the empire broke up."

“In certain circumstances, denying a self evident truth can obliterate the truth for subsequent generations. So, missy, have a care!"

She happened to be eating a handful of palines and she threw one of the yellow berries at him. He caught it expertly enough, so I guessed this was not the first time. I was pleased that despite his austere appearance he was no stuffy old prig of a dominie. And if he could move mountains merely by using his head...!

I stood up.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Now I must be on my way."

“You will stay the night here, Drajak. I thought that was settled."

“That is kind of you—"

“You are a stranger in Changwutung. Apathetic the people may be; we have high walls. The alleys are not safe at night."

“I take your point and I thank you again. I shall be happy further to impose on your hospitality."

Xinthe threw a paline at me.

I caught it, popped it, and chewed pleasantly.

I looked forward to an enjoyable evening of civilized conversation.

Chapter four

By the time we retired I had not been disappointed in those expectations.

This apartment boasted two bedrooms, a kitchen and toilet facilities and the living room. I bunked down on the living room floor with an old, and, I am forced to report, a somewhat thin and threadbare blanket. To saythat to an old campaigner such things are commonplace is surely redundant by this time in the narrative of Dray Prescot. The rest of the apartments in this building were on the same frugal scale. Household slaves would remove the night soil in the morning, and water would be brought up.

When I tackled the question of slavery, I was partially mollified to hear Wanlicheng express the opinion that one person ought not to be able to own another. To this Xinthe nodded approval; but then in her feminine practical way, she added: “It would be inconvenient to lift and carry things oneself, up and down these stairs."

There were very few people in Paz who had not heard of the Shanks. In an odd but totally believable way it seemed the further away from the coast the stories were told the more hideous were the reports of the Shanks and their atrocities. The apathy into which Walfarg was sunk would, said Wanlicheng, make any Shank attack almost certain of success.

This was just the kind of information I needed—and, of course, by Krun, just the kind of news I did not want!

I went on to say: “Have you ever heard of an entity, a spirit, a ghost—some horrific supernatural being—called Carazaar? And, not to forget his repulsive multi-dimensional assistant, Arzuriel?"

They shook their heads. No, they hadn't.

“Or of a Wizard of Loh—I beg your pardon, a Wizard of Walfarg—called Na-Si-Fantong?"

“Fantong? Oh, he hasn't been heard of for some time. The last news with any pretensions to authority placed him in Kothmir. Rumor had it that he was mixed up in some unsavory trickery involving a necklace."

“As I heard it,” amplified Xinthe, “he had to leave Kothmir very rapidly with half the kov's army on his heels."

“But,” I said. “He had the necklace?"

“No. It was recovered."

I felt relief at that. Whatever this Fantong wanted all the gems of the Skantiklar for, one would get you ten they were for no good purpose. There were nine gems to be collected. He had failed to snatch the one from Queen Leone in Tsungfaril. I'd been involved in that affair. Just how many had he? Then, the unhealthy thought occurred to me.

I said: “Was the necklace intact?"

“Strange you should ask. There was one jewel missing. Quite a big one, from the account I heard."

So the scheming sorcerer had at least one ruby gem of the Skantiklar!

By the time we'd eaten and I was ready to leave I found I'd grown a healthy attachment to these two. What their relationship was outside the teacher student one was not my business. They slept in separate rooms.

Wanlicheng, strongly supported by Xinthe, suggested I stay for a time and study the various Paths to Alternative Magic.

Now, I admit it. I was tempted. If it could be done!

But—there were Tsungfaril, Mevancy, Tarankar, Taranik, Leone, not to mention Kuong and Llodi, down south. There were my immediate concerns, even if returning to Vallia and Valka remained always my ultimate objectives.

I expressed my regrets in such a way that they saw I was genuine. They wished me well on my journey.

And there, of course, was the rub. How was I to contrive transport all those dwaburs south?[3]

[3 dwabur: five miles. A.B.A.]

One notion occurred to me, an obvious one. I was too scared to use it. Oh, yes, I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, was far too conscious of the risks involved even to think of chancing going the other way, going home, and waiting for the Star Lords to seize me up and dump me down in the land of Tsungfaril where my labors were required.

Not, as they say in Clishdrin, not on your nellie!

So, then, how?

And, another little item in the account book before I left the subject of the Everoinye and their clever phantom blue Scorpion—could I trust the thing any more? The gerblish onker had dropped me, hadn't it? Right in it? Well, then!

“You look, Drajak, as though you have lost a zorca and found a calsany."

I twisted up my lips in some kind of ferocious smile. “If there was a time to use your Alternative Magic, it's now. Then I could fly through the air down south."

“One day, one day,” said Wanlicheng, comfortably.

Between me and my destination lay the jungles of Chem. In those dank depths lurked animal monsters and plant monsters like syatras and slaptras. Probably the jungles were swarming with head-hunting cannibals, waiting for me to provide their daily rations.

Well, if I couldn't reasonably walk there, couldn't fly there because there were no vollers, was too frightened to get the Star Lords to shift me, I'd have to go by ship.

As an old sailorman who'd been the First Lieutenant of a Seventy-Four, I anticipated no trouble in finding a berth, particularly as I had commanded swifters on the inner sea of Turismond, the Eye of the World, and swordships in the outer oceans, with particular reference to the Hoboling Islands and Pandahem. To coast down the western seaboard of Loh might be a pleasant experience. It might be ghastly. Either way, that was my path.

They accompanied me down to the levee where a number of river craft were tied up. They offered to pay the fare to the coast; but this I refused, and before long I was fixed up as a deckhand aboard a broad-beamed vessel going down loaded with goods for the towns to the west.

At first I thought I was lucky that the stupid Scorpion had dropped me much closer to the west coast of Loh than to the east. A little reflection made me revise that opinion. The west coast country of Tarankar was, we believed, infested with the Shanks. Their superb ships would patrol the sea approaches. H'mm. It would clearly have been safer, if longer, had I gone east about around Loh.

When we parted, Xinthe suddenly leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “You'll come back one day."

The lines were cast off and the vessel nosed out into the brownish waters. I bent to my sweep and then looked up and used one hand to wave to the shore as the vessel cleared the levee.

“Remberee, Ornol! Remberee, Xinthe!"

“Remberee, Drajak!"

Then I put my back into the sweep and hauled and we glided off into the pungent brown smell of the river.

The master, Tsien-Ting, a small nervous man with a bad facial blemish, delegated most of the work to his bosun, a hulking Khibil, Pondro the Pin. No sailorman needed to ask what kind of pin that was.

As the vessel, Quaynt's Fortune, glided down, way could be kept up easily by a few regular strokes from the sweeps. The large square sail was generally only used on long straight reaches running free. There was a set of fore and aft sails to be bent on when the vessel tacked up river. The life was strenuous only episodically. There were no voracious fish or monsters in the river, The River of Glinting Charm, which was mightily fortunate for the Khibil bosun, Pondro the Pin.

When he was fished out at the end of a boathook, he glared murderously at me.

What he said I couldn't have heard said better on any stage throughout Earth or Kregen.

“I'll get you for this!"

All I said was: “Next time don't try to use your pin on a defenseless head belonging to a fellow half your size."

The little Och, the vessel's cook, who'd caused the trouble, peered fearfully from the open top half of his galley door. I suppose, truth to tell, he was used to being knocked about by Pondro; but, well, that unfortunately is my way, to go interfering between basher and bashee.

Tsien-Ting bustled up, trying to act with authority, and squeaking like a woflo in a trap.

I felt annoyance. Remarkably, my irritation was not so much for myself as for the unwanted situation. There was nothing much else I could have done, as I saw it.

“Back to work, shint!” snapped Tsien-Ting.

This was quite uncalled for. I ignored him and grasped my sweep to assist us in negotiating the upcoming bend.

Why can't I, Dray Prescot, shut my eyes to injustice and petty terror, to the abuse of authority and to the injury of the weak? I can't; but had I been able to do so I'd have had a smoother life and a few less lumps to show, by Vox!

Sleeping with one eye open is a knack more or less essential to an adventuring kind of fellow on Kregen. I awoke instantly to the soft footfall and so was able to take Pondro's ankle in my fist and twist him over. Once more he went into the river. This time it was night. I hesitated. The splash had aroused no one, since everyone was asleep except for the Brokelsh deckhand, Bargray the Tumbs, and he thought the splash was me going overside. So, I hesitated. But I couldn't.

So I shouted: “Man overboard!"

Mind you, I drew the line at diving in after the rast.

By the time Pondro was fished out Quaynt's Fortune was alive with shouts and curses and lanterns and running feet. Once again Pondro opened his mouth to tell me my exact fate. I looked at him. He shut his mouth, quickly, gulped, and turned away.

Oh, well, that dreadful Devil Face of Dray Prescot sometimes comes in handy, I suppose.

All the same, I was not fool enough not to change vessels when the next sizeable town hove up around a wide curving bend. The place looked not too dissimilar from Changwutung at a distance; as is the nature of places, I expected many differences of detail. I was wrong.

This town of Ternantung was the twin of Changwutung.

Just about all that the outside world now knew of Walfarg in Loh were its mysterious walled gardens and veiled women. Perhaps, the notion occurred to me, perhaps after the fall of the empire, those were all there were.

Now it is not my intention to go into great detail concerning my journey down The River of Glinting Charm. There were the smells, rich and fruity close to the shore, surprisingly fresh in midstream. There were the never-ending delights of wild animals, and birds and fish. There were settlements along the banks and here my new vessel, Garrus, pulled in to buy and sell the goods she carried. The master, an apim called Nath Hsienu, known as Nath the Bollard, ran a much tighter ship than the ineffectual Tsien-Ting. There was no trouble aboard Garrus. In addition, Nath the Bollard was addicted to the game of Jikalla, and we had a number of interesting games, although, as you know, my main interest in that department is Jikaida.

Nath the Bollard warned me that finding a ship going south would be difficult.

“I've heard rumors of a great deal of nasty business going on along the coast there. My cousin twice removed, Naghan the Omurdour, sailed out with a fine crew of fellows. They were never seen again."

“And the rumors?"

“Those devil ships that helped destroy the empire. They've been seen again flying over the coast.” He looked at me meaningfully. Because of his work as a vessel's master he was nowhere near as apathetic to events as the majority of his countrymen. “Over the west coast. You know what that means."

I knew—or assumed I did. Those would be the Shank vollers. But it was clear Nath the Bollard was referring to the vollers of Havilfar and Hyrklana, the airboats that had contributed to the defeat of Loh.

“You've not seen them?"

He shook his head. “And don't want to. Some poor devil was fished out of the sea clinging to a stump of mast. He'd seen ‘em. Oh, no, if you see them ships flying through the air that's about the last thing you'll see, by Lingloh!"

This news was really more than rumor. The chances of finding a ship to sail south were looking more remote by the minute.

“Cheer up,” said Nath the Bollard, setting up a new game. “We're sailing all the way to Sardanar at the mouth of the river. If you manage to find a ship and sail out to get yourself killed, well, then, dom—at least you'll have had the time between then and now to play Jikalla!"

Chapter five

As it turned out, fate or chance took a hand. Take your pick of those two imposters; one or t'other will trip you up when you least expect it. In the event I didn't get to Sardanar on that trip; the place is not so much dire as lacking interest. It does have massive sea walls and fortifications dating back to the early days of the Walfargian empire. Those sea walls would prove of little use against an aerial armada.

On the succeeding days as we glided down the River of Glinting Charm we passed a considerable traffic going upstream. Nath said there were more vessels of all kinds breasting the current than usual at this season.

“I think,” I said, as I hauled my sweep to steer clear of a lopsided craft packed with people and bundles lolloping along and zigzagging wildly as the helmsman sought the westerly breeze, “I really do think I can guess why there are all these vessels going upstream."

“Aye,” said Nath the Bollard, taking his straw hat from his red hair and bashing it against his thigh. “Aye, by Hlo-Hli!"

The bosun, a lively fellow with a meaty jaw and a meaty fist, said: “You reckon it's them Fish Head devil worshippers?"

“Practically certain, Larghos."

Larghos the Bosun spat overside. “Reckon they're running too far."

I agreed with him. The plan of campaign the Shanks were probably following would call for their complete domination of the coastal seas. Only after that would they gather their forces for a push inland. The continent of Loh was so vast that they were likely to be swallowed up in its immensity, so they'd plan with Fish Headed cunning. Mind you, for the poor folk of Loh who happened to inhabit the areas chosen for invasion by the Shanks the invasion would mean the end of normalcy.

We hailed a passing craft and heard a garbled shout about fires.

“The devils are probably raiding up and down to strike terror as far as they can.” My own thoughts were that the already existing invasion of Tarankar would form the locus for their main thrust.

The next day not a single vessel plied upstream; on the next another bunch appeared, and the day after that only a trickle.

“The faint-hearts,” said Larghos the Bosun with large contempt.

I did not say: “Have you met a Shank yet, Larghos?” for that would have been insulting and cruel. But the thought persisted.

Other riverine craft sailed downstream and we generally kept a nice convoy distance between vessels for safety's sake. Looking ahead as I came on deck for a breath of air, having been soundly thrashed by Nath the Bollard with one of his favorite Jikalla tricks, I saw a vessel ahead closer than I liked. I mentioned this to the helmsman, Chang-So, and he snarled out: “They're luffing and hauling like a pack of famblys."

Nath and Larghos joined me on deck and we watched the movements of the vessel ahead.

“Ah!” said Nath. “There's the reason!"

A dark bundle flipped up from the deck, turned over in the air, and came down splash into the river.

Immediately the vessel picked up speed, spreading more canvas, and glided along to resume a safer distance. I craned overside to see what had been thrown overboard. A man was thrashing about in the water, going under and then rising in a spouting bubble. I threw off my tunic and dived in.

There was no need to knock him unconscious. I got a grip on him, said: “Hold still, dom,” and then as he instantly lay limply, swam back to Garrus. They'd swung the yard to back the course and there was no difficulty seizing the line and looping a bight around this young fellow. He went up streaming water, his red Lohvian hair plastered to his skull. I followed and shook myself like a dog. The radiance of the Suns would soon dry us off.

When he'd recovered, with a tot inside him, Nath the Bollard asked the obvious questions.

“Lahal, all,” the young lad said. He was young, at that, with a glint of fuzz on cheeks and chin. “My name is—Nath the Ready."

Instantly I disbelieved that. There are very very many Naths on Kregen and the name is so often used when it does not belong to the giver of the name that it's almost a totally useless pseudonym.

“Why'd they chuck you overboard?” demanded Larghos.

“They said I was unlucky."

“Oho! Then perhaps we'd better return you to the river!"

The lad flinched back, and then I saw in his face and eyes a defiant flash of anger, as though he was sick of being pushed around.

“Hold hard,” I said. “Just why are you unlucky, dom?"

“Oh, I threw the slops against the wind—"

“Ha!” burst out Nath the Bollard. “A menace!"

“Chuck him over again,” counseled the helmsman, Chang-So.

I caught the lad's eye and tried to give him an encouraging smile. What kind of expression I'd put on I wasn't sure; he gave me a hard stare but there was no more flinching back.

Nath the Bollard decided to keep this Nath the Ready aboard. As he said: “When we reach Hinjanchung around the next but one bend we will put ashore. That lot ahead will be there, too. We can ask them then."

For a moment I fancied the lad was going to speak out with the truth against certain discovery; he remained silent. I guessed he was hoping to slip ashore and make his escape. He wore a simple yellow tunic girt by a narrow belt from which hung an empty dagger scabbard and a scrip. His legs were bare. He wore a red breechclout which predisposed me in his favor.

As to his face, clearly it was as yet unformed by adult problems. There was a clarity in his skin, a breadth to his forehead most pleasing. Yet, at the same time there was a rebellious set to his jaw, a recklessness in his bearing. I fancied his history, short though it must necessarily be, would prove of interest.

In the event we went ashore in Hinjanchung. Nath the Bollard had Larghos the Bosun confine the lad to his locked cabin. When we'd found the crew of the vessel from which the lad had been thrown—in a sleazy tavern of dubious delights, the Zinul and Queng—the mystery was rapidly explained.

“A damned Wizard of Walfarg!"declared Hwang, the master. “We got rid of him the moment we found out the truth."

“In that case—” said Nath the Bollard, doubtfully.

Chang-So burst out: “Chuck him in!"

At that point the workings of fate, or chance, became more apparent to me. Had that unpleasant rast, Pondro the Pin, not been so unpleasant and I had been able to stay aboard Quaynt's Fortune, then I would have been well down the river, and would not have fished this young Wizard of Loh out of the water.

Not for a single moment did I believe the Star Lords or the Savanti had anything to do with this meeting.

I said: “Let me have a word with him."

No one objected. Back aboard Garrus I let the lad out of the bosun's cabin. I frowned at him, and he remained still.

Now if you are already way ahead of me in this my newest design I am not surprised. When I'd been counting up the ways of reaching Tsungfaril, far down in the south of Loh, I'd completely overlooked this obvious way.

“You are a Wizard of Loh.” He flushed up at this, but kept his mouth shut. I decided to test him. “Why didn't you turn the people who threw you overboard into little green frogs?"

“Oh,” he began airily, with all a spirited young man's arrogance. “I would have done so; but—” He saw my face and stopped speaking. He took a breath, and then in an entirely different tone of voice said: “I believe you know why I did not."

“Yes."

“So what do you want of me?"

“That is simple for a Wizard of Loh. If you would be so kind as to oblige me, I would ask you to go into lupu and contact a friend."

He made a face. “Lupu. That was an exercise I always—"

“Was?"

There were as I knew a number of ways a sorcerer could go into lupu, that magical trance-like state in which they could communicate and spy over vast distances. What did he mean, ‘was'?

He looked down at his feet. “They threw me out."

“Threw you out?” I repeated like a loon. “What do you mean, they threw you out?"

“What I say. I didn't pay enough attention to the lessons. I failed to pass an interim exam.” He looked up, hotly. “It was all the fault of that Pynsi! She promised me and then she gave her favors to that lout, Ul-ga-Sorming!"

“By the disgusting despicable deliquescing bowels of Makki Grodno! You mean you're a damned Wizard of Loh and you can't get into communication with a brother or sister wizard?” I fairly howled with mortification.

“Not really. Anyway, I've given it all up. I am going for a Bowman of Loh."

“And I suppose you failed in an examination to hit the Chunkrah's Eye!” I flamed out bitterly.

“No! I can shoot in my bow with the best!"

“And a fat lot of good that'll do me now!"

“Well, if that's the way you feel, I suppose you'd better throw me in the water again!"

I controlled my breathing. “Anyway, what's your name?"

“Nath the Ready."

“Yes, yes. Your real name, fambly."

Again he gave me that appraising glance. I suppose I was a trifle wrought up. Just as I thought I had a capital scheme to reach my friends, this jackanapes ruined it all because instead of studying his lessons he'd been mooning after a girl. I didn't have a hat on; if I had I'd have ripped it off and thrown it down on the deck and jumped on it. Too true, by Vox!

“I am Ra-Lu-Quonling."

“Ha!” I was already working out what to do with this fine fellow. “D'you know Deb-Lu-Quienyin?"

“Not personally. He left Whonban long before I was born."

“Ah—then you're related."

“All Wizards of Walfarg are related.” That was said with a little sniff, not so much of contempt as of recognition of my ignorance.

“I suppose so, more or less. D'you know Khe-Hi-Bjanching, or Ling-Li-Lwingling?"

“They were arriving in Whonban as I was leaving."

Quite seriously I said: “Are they both well?"

“As far as I know. You know them, then?"

“I do. Deb-Lu-Quienyin is at the moment somewhere in Vallia. You've heard of Vallia?"

Again that little touch of arrogant contempt. “Of course."

“Well, if he's too far away, you'll have to reach Khe-Hi or Ling-Li.” I reconsidered. “Better make it Khe-Hi. If Ling-Li's heavily involved with reproduction at the moment she won't want a fambly like you breaking in."

Icily, he said: “They have twins, a boy and a girl."

“My Val!” I felt the pleasure. “I have been out of circulation."

“I told you. I don't do lupu very well.” He was verging on the petulant. “Anyway, even if I was as good as Khe-Hi-Bjanching, I told you, I've given up being a wizard. Thaumaturgy and I have parted company. I'm going for a Bowman of Loh."

“I'll break your damn bow over your head, you ingrate! Didn't I fish you out of a watery grave?"

And he laughed.

And I laughed with him.

“Well, now,” I said, presently. “Come on, Ra-Lu-Quonling. It's vitally important I get a message through."

“We-ell, I suppose I could try. You know, I heard the stories concerning the mages of whom you speak. I know what they do these days."

“Oh?"

“They are among the most successful. They have as clients the royal and imperial house of Vallia."

That was the way a Wizard of Loh would see the relationship, and, as I never forgot, it was the correct way. Khe-Hi and Deb-Lu were true comrades, that is so; but they remained Wizards of Loh.

“So I believe,” I said, casually.

“As I said, we are well-educated in Whonban. Even if I skipped some lessons, I never skipped current history. And I read widely."

“Good for you, Ra-Lu. Now, you did say you would try—?"

“Yes. I will try to contact Khe-Hi-Bjanching. What message would you like me to give him, Dray Prescot?"

Chapter six

“Ouch!” I said. Then: “My name is Drajak ti Zamran, known as Drajak the Sudden. I would esteem it a favor if you could remember that. Anything else could prove embarrassing.” I added, menacingly: “For those who found out."

“Very well. If you remember that I am Nath the Ready."

“Oh, come on! Find a better name than that."

“Well, yes, perhaps."

“As to the message, ask Khe-Hi to contact Deb-Lu and arrange to send a voller—an airboat—down here. Send two so the pilot of the one I use can fly home. Have you got that?"

“Airboats,” he said, and the disgust dripped.

“You'd better also recommend that they don't tell anyone apart from the Lord Farris. Otherwise we'll have an invasion down here."

“I don't quite—"

“Never mind. Now, my lad, do your stuff—and you have my thanks."

“I shall need a little more room."

“Of course.” The clean crisp air of Kregen, only partially sullied by the smells of the river, whiffled up my nostrils most beautifully as we came up on deck. I breathed in. By Vox! This young feller-me-lad of a Wizard of Loh was going to fix my ticket, was going to arrange passage back to Tsungfaril, Mevancy, Llodi and all the others, back to intrigue and danger and death. Now he had committed himself he was spry about it.

We found a clear space at the rear of a ramshackle godown where the mud was not too thick. No one was about or could spy on us without being detected. Ra-Lu-Quonling squeezed his eyes shut, opened them wide, flexed his fingers, took three deep lungfuls of air, said: “Right."

He squatted down and lifted his hands to his eyes, threw his head back, remained silent and unmoving. I watched him gravely. He began to tremble, his lithe young body vibrating under the yellow tunic. Slowly he drew his hands down his face. His eyeballs were completely rolled up so that his eyes were mere white blots in that tanned young face. His breathing slackened. Quietly I waited for the next stage in this process. With a strangled cry, a gasp almost of physical pain, Ra-Lu-Quonling staggered to his feet. The shaking of his body ceased. His arms lifted until they were horizontal and like a scarecrow caught in a wind he began to revolve, faster and faster, a whirling dervish spinning in the mud. Abruptly, his whirlwind motion stopped. He flopped down onto his haunches and put his hands flat on the mud. His head tilted back.

Both of Ra-Lu-Quonling's eyes opened, not together, but one after the other. He stared balefully at me. I recalled the first time I had seen this process by which a Wizard of Loh went into lupu, when I had derided the whole notion, back then when with good old Seg I'd searched so desperately for Delia. The frail and not very competent Wizard of Loh Lu-si-Yuong had been unable to find her for me—and I struggling against what everyone said, that she was dead!—but he had warned us about Thelda's danger. He had been an old man; this young whippersnapper was young. Yet both used almost identical methods of attaining lupu. Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi would go into lupu and wander around Kregen through the various planes as you or I might open a door and walk from one room to another.

That very expertise in thaumaturgy ought not to disguise the weirdness of it, the spine-tingling uncanniness of what these mages could perform.

Although, to be sure, Deb-Lu had been experiencing difficulty in getting through down in South Loh. Still, I had every confidence that this self-named Nath the Ready could reach Khe-Hi. After all, although I'd no idea where Whonban was situated in Loh, it couldn't be all that far away from here, could it?

Quonling stared at me. He ought now to be coming out of it, having sent the message. He began to shake. I frowned. This, I did not remember. He opened his mouth.

A harsh rattling voice, deep in the bass register, issued from the lad's mouth. “I see him. So that is the fellow.” The boy's eyes were fixed burningly upon me. “After you treat your instructors with contempt you have the impudence to attempt to utilize your imperfect learning! You should know by now the way back for you is hard, very hard. Now go—"

All Quonling's young features writhed and his tongue darted out to lick his lips and I realized he was trying to speak to the owner of that harsh and merciless voice.

“I am a Whonbim!” His own voice gasped the words. “I am merely trying to do a favor for San Khe-Hi-Bjanching. He will vouch for me!"

“San Khe-Hi does not know of your existence, outcast!"

So I saw what had happened. My Val! Young Quonling was doing his best in lupu to contact Khe-Hi and his message had been intercepted by this interfering, officious, overbearing jumped up Wizard of Loh teacher!

“Please—san—San Khe-Hi-Bjanching will—"

“Enough! By the Seven Arcades! Am I to waste my time prattling to a rebellious youngster who has no respect! You—"

I stepped forward and grasped the lad's shoulders. I stared deeply into his eyes. On my face, quite without my own volition, that Devil Mask flamed out, that evil domineering look that has quelled many a proud spirit. Do not think I take any pride from that, quite the contrary; but the demon look of Dray Prescot has proved useful from time to time. As now.

“You do not give me a Llahal,” I said in that gravelly menacing voice of Dray Prescot. “You are a teacher who has failed with Quonling. I think it will go ill with you if you fail to pass my message to Khe-Hi."

There was no immediate response from the harsh rattling voice. I was prepared to wait only for a certain number of heartbeats for a reply.

He clearly couldn't know that; but he timed it so there were but three heartbeats to go.

“If you are who we believe you to be, your message will be passed."

I said: “It is not for you to quibble. I am not in the habit of repeating myself, even for Wizards of Walfarg. I will say to you, you without a Llahal between us, you know what is said about teachers. Now contact Khe-Hi and send my message!"

The gasp from Quonling's mouth could have come from the lad himself or his officious damned teacher. Either way, my words must have had some effect. Quonling pitched forward and put his young face into a patch of the more liquid mud we had tried to avoid. I caught his tunic and heaved him back. He was shaking all over now, and that was pure physical fear and reaction and not magical. By Krun! The poor lad had had a time of it!

He gargled a bit and I wiped the mud off. I wanted to know if that idiot teacher had sent the message.

At last he said: “I know what happened. I heard. But I do not believe. No, by Hlo-Hli herself, I do not credit it!"

“Has he sent the message, boy?"

“How should I know? I was disrespectful and disobedient, I know that. But I never went around uttering threats—"

“I seldom threaten. If it has to be done, I do it. Anyway, if you don't know we can only find out by waiting. Who was that onker, anyway?"

“That? Oh, that was Gal-ag-Foroming, one of the head tutors. He has the heaviest and springiest cane in all Whonban."

“Sometimes,” I said, “sometimes, I suppose, that is necessary. If he was any good as a tutor you'd pass your exams without the need of a cane."

Although I told the lad this, I am well aware there are exceptions in the case of the genuinely thick. Not the cane, of course, but the passing.

“Oh, he's clever, no doubt of that. Just that, well—"

“Some do, and some don't,” I said. “In that game trying hard is generally not good enough. What is accomplished is far too important to have people who fall down on the job.” I looked at him, and saw he had regained his color. He was pulling bits of mud out of his red hair. “I thank you for going into lupu, Ra-Lu. You were taking a risk I did not appreciate. I shall not forget that."

“Yes, well. I am more concerned about those plug-uglies who threw me in the water. They are aware my powers are strictly limited; yet they know I was to have been a Wizard of Walfarg and therefore they can punish me."

“What for?"

“Many people, not all, pile the blame for the loss of empire upon the sorcerers of Whonban. That and the lack of airboats and saddle birds."

“I'd have thought a Wizard of Loh could take care of himself. They strike mortal fear into the hearts of folk outside Loh, believe me."

“Why do you think we always seek to practice overseas?"

“That makes sense. And if you're half-trained, then—"

“Oh, I'm more than half-trained. The interim exam I failed was a mere trail-blazer for the finals. Those, I could have sailed through."

“Says you."

“I cut classes, yes, chasing that fickle Pynsi, and my frustration made me disrespectful. But I studied hard to catch up when Pynsi betrayed me."

“H'm,” I said, using that old quarterdeck procrastination. “We'd better decide what we're going to do with you, hadn't we?"

I unbuckled one of the swords I'd taken from those two dozy guards, Lin and Hwang, after I'd disposed of the lily pad on my head. Both weapons were lynxters, the straight cut and thruster of Loh, and there was nothing to choose between them. I handed the sword to the lad.

“Here, Ra-Lu. It does not do to go unarmed on Kregen."

“That is true.” He took the lynxter. “Still, I'm more of a dagger man. Although the bow is the prime weapon of all."

You can't argue with the Bowmen of Loh over that question.

He buckled the sword on and suddenly looked up.

“All right, then, Dray Prescot, Drajak the Sudden. I shall call myself Rollo. From Ra-Lu—see?"

I nodded. “A fine name. I knew a splendid artist, Rollo the Circle. He could draw a—"

“I know. So could our art master, Tun-du-Haffyien. Perfect."

I was taking to this young scamp. He knew who I was, and had read those outrageous romances about the Dray Prescot in the scarlet breechclout and ferocious Krozair longsword who went swinging about the world of Kregen righting wrongs, defending the weak and rescuing damsels in distress. Yet he treated me with indifferent ease as an equal. I liked that. Also, he may have dodged classes; he was almost a fully-fledged Wizard of Loh. He still had a very great deal to learn and master in his arcane arts. Even Deb-Lu and Khe-Hi and Ling-Li developed their skills as time went by. But he was not the loutish ignoramus deserving of being thrown out of Whonban.

“All right,” I said. “Rollo what?"

“Oh, I'll think about that later."

Maybe that was one of his problems. That he put things off.

“I have,” I said, changing the subject to one of vital importance. “I have just one gold piece, two silvers and seven coppers. You, I take it, have no cash.” This was what was left of the guards’ purses.

He shook his head. “You take it aright, Drajak."

“If the message got through to Khe-Hi and if Deb-Lu gets it, and if so when the Lord Farris sends the two vollers—well by a Herrelldrin Hell! We may have a long wait ahead of us, Rollo my lad!"

He nodded, suddenly glum. In truth, the prospect was not pleasing.

“Anyway,” I said, voicing an itch that had been worriting away at me. “How did that lot find out you were a Wizard of Loh?"

He looked resentful. “I had a bad dream and started up, yelling damn fool things that branded me. There was no denying it."

“Well, don't have any bad dreams around me, sunshine!"

“Not if I can help it, Sudden."

As I say, a sprightly young spark.

The plan I concocted was simple. Keeping out of the way we found cheap lodgings. I'd have preferred to have found another boat and gone on downriver; but we had to stay here to await the airboats. The nightly charge was one short silver. One of the silvers I had was short, the other broad, so that was three nights at least. We'd have to eat on the coppers and use the gold, changed into silvers, to keep a roof over our heads. “We will have to pull our belts in, my lad."

“I've been hungry before."

One scheme I'd immediately thought of and then reluctantly discarded was to march out into the country and camp rough. Decadent and decayed though Walfarg was, they continued a strong patrol and watch force and vagrants were harshly dealt with. This is not uncommon. I did not wish to spend the time waiting in the local lockup, which looked unhealthy.

If it came to it, mind you, we'd have to do that. We'd be fed. And we'd have to break out when the vollers arrived.

If they did.

The time it would take for a voller to fly down from Vallia would depend on her speed. I felt I could rely on Farris to send the fastest he could spare. The problem lay in what he could spare. There continued to be trouble in voller manufacture. Emperor Nedfar of Hamal was doing what he could, and his son Tyfar, and Delia and my Lela were out there by the viciously hostile Mountains of the West of Hamal trying to sort out the problem. I fretted over their welfare.

So Farris might not be able to send of the best. Our money was down to four silvers, only one of which was broad, and we were using the silvers to feed ourselves as well as pay for the lodgings. If nothing arrived soon, I'd have to think again.

The lodging house, not a real inn at all, was known simply as Mother Molly's. The smell of cooking permeated the place. The stairs were a greasy death trap. Still, this was far cheaper than an inn or tavern.

We had to get out for a breath of fresh air. Well, who could blame us for that? Inevitably, one day someone from the crew spotted Ra-Lu-Quonling. We started off running up the street and immediately there was a pack of them howling on our heels. Ra-Lu ran. As we skidded around a corner and headed past the fish market, he panted out: “I know what I shall call myself. By the Seven Arcades! I shall be Rollo the Runner!"

“Save your breath, Runner, for honoring your name."

A whole screaming foaming pack of them were streaming along after us and another bunch appeared ahead. No one drew a weapon. The mobs from the fish market joined and now a ring formed about us. The catcalls centered on one subject: “A Wizard of Walfarg! Blatter him into the ground! He's only a novice and knows nothing!"

“And his companion, the shint!"

“Can you do nothing, then, Rollo the Runner?"

“Nothing."

I looked about at the taunting crowds ready to beat us to a pulp. We could expect no mercy. There was no way out. I looked about—and then I looked up.

“Thank Opaz the Punctual!” I said, and waved my arms delightedly.

Chapter seven

They do not mess about, my lads of the Guard Corps.

Directly before the mobs advancing on us a massive burst of fire and smoke blossomed. Almost immediately another fire pot dropped over on the other side of the ring. The crowds halted, open-mouthed. A fishmonger ripped off his scale-coated apron which had caught alight. He flung it from him with a yelp, and two more bursts of fire and smoke smashed the crowds back. Even then, even then, so unaccustomed were Lohvians to fliers that many did not think to look up.

Perhaps they put the gouts of flame and smoke down to the wizardry of the sorcerer of Whonban. I looked up again in great relief. Rollo the Runner, as I will now call him, looked up with me. He said: “Oh!"

Two airboats circled, and with delicate precision dropped a few more fire pots to keep the crowds at bay. I did not think these folk cared to dare the perils of having combustibles flung down on them from above.

Whilst one voller kept the ring, the other touched down delicately. She was a clean-lined craft possessing that sweet petal shape of all good quality small and medium sized airboats. She was, I judged, a smallish ten seater, as was her companion aloft. A voice hailed.

“This way, jis! Step aboard!"

A hulking fellow in a bright yellow uniform appeared clambering down the short ladder, turning on the last step to wave me on. I said: “Go on, Rollo. Run."

He started off at once for the voller and the large fellow in the yellow uniform clambered back over the side. He fairly hoicked Rollo up off the ground and hurled him over the gunwale. I followed smartly and clambered aboard. The crowds were yelling now, in anger more than fear.

“Take her up, Loptyg!” bellowed the giant in the bright yellow uniform. He turned to me and bashed his right fist over his heart with force enough to make his kax vibrate. “Majister!"

“Lahal, Ornol Skobog. And am I going to have trouble with you?"

“Me, jis?"

“Aye, you rascal.You."

He looked down and his face was as red as my breechclout. “You know the chickens were strays and would have wandered off, jis, had I not saved them."

Very gravely, I said: “That is undeniably true; but Opaz preserve me from their fate.” Then I held out my hand and we shook Vallian fashion.

The voller climbed steadily and took up station with the other. Faces were staring over the gunwales. Now Sko means left and Bog is the name given to a fellow handy at bashing evildoers. This Ornol Skobog was an old kampeon in the Emperor's Yellow Jackets. I guessed that the Loptyg at the controls would be a rascally fellow called Loptyg the Muncible, serving in the Emperor's Sword Watch. Trust the two premier guards regiments to send men matched, one for one. I said: “This is Rollo the Runner."

Thus briefly we made the pappattu. Rollo was gripping onto the gunwale not looking over the side, and his face was the color of moldy cheese.

Ornol roared out: “Queasy in the gut, youngster? Haw!"

Rollo said in a faint voice: “I am perfectly well, thank you.” His voice quavered. “Are these contraptions safe?"

Now he didn't know it; but a few seasons ago that would have been a question of the utmost significance. These days we could buy reliable vollers from Hamal. “Safe?” bellowed Ornol, his whiskery, leathery face creasing in enjoyment. “If she breaks down you can always get out and push."

Rollo closed his eyes and clung on.

I said: “Who's in the other voller?"

He told me their names and I groaned. A bunch of hulus all right, tough, hard kampeons, fanatically loyal to me. Somehow or other enough of a word had got out so that these lads had flown down here. I'd have the devil of a job to persuade them not to fly with me but to go home.

“Where are we going, jis?” demanded Loptyg from the controls.

“For a start, Loptyg you fambly, you and all the rest are going home to Vallia. You belong in ESW and EYJ and not lollygagging about Loh."

An uncanny silence followed.

They were up to a scheme, no doubt of it. The jurukkers in my Guard Corps, guardsmen of superlative worth, toughened by seasons of campaigns and a score of battles won, formed a corps d'elite I had not wished into existence. They had formed themselves to protect me, the Emperor of Vallia. Now I'd shuffled off that job onto Drak he had his own guards. Whatever titles might be used, the units that formed the old ESW and EYJ now considered they served me, personally, and not Drak as emperor. And, by Vox, there was nothing sensible I could do about the situation.

They'd have to go home; I couldn't have even this handful traipsing about Tsungfaril. Later, probably inevitably, they would be called on.

Ornol coughed and said: “You will take us, jis? When you go adventuring?"

I fixed him with my eye. “You know I can't, Ornol. What are you now?” I glanced at his rank badges which are different in the emperor's juruk from those in use in the general army. That was my attempt not to have lower ranks in a guard corps counting as higher than those in the line, a system of some dubiety. “A ley Hikdar?H'm, you've flown high lately."

“But—"

“You are a ley Hikdar serving in the Emperor's Yellow Jackets. Your duty lies to the emperor—the Emperor Drak. I am no longer the Emperor of Vallia.” I spoke firmly but as kindly as I could. “And how did you find out I was here?"

“As to the second point, majister,"—suddenly very formal—"you know I cannot break faith. I can say the word slipped out as a new born babe slips into the world. As to the first point, the Emperor Drak, may Opaz have him in his keeping, has his own faithful juruk. We are your juruk. We guard you. We are EYJ—oh, and ESW, of course—and you are an emperor still, for all know the truth of the matter. You are the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz."

There it was again, the idea spreading that some idiot had to take the responsibility of welding Paz together to resist the Shanks, inter alia.

“And how do ELC and EFB feel about this?"

“They and the other regiments may be new in the guard; they are with us."

“And I suppose the Empress's Devoted Life Guard is of the same mind?"

“With Chuktar Karidge in command, who can doubt it, jis?"

“Well, I agree with that arrangement, at the least."

“So we can come with you—?"

I breathed in and I breathed out. If this great rascal of a faithful guardsman thought I was caught in my own spring trap—for they can't be hoist by their own petards on gunpowderless Kregen—he'd have to be proved wrong.

“Didn't the Lord Farris assign pilots from the Vallian Air Service?"

Ornol suddenly looked shifty at this. I said: “By Vox! Don't tell me you chucked ‘em over the side!"

“We wasn't very high up, jis.” Ornol spoke defensively, and Loptyg chipped in: “Not high up at all, jis."

I groaned. What would Farris say about my crusty guardsmen throwing his smart young fliers over the side?

Now I could see most of the way of it. After all, it is human nature to boast if you are confronted with comrades of a different service. Human nature, yes; but boasting and Dray Prescot parted company before they were acquainted. Farris, on receipt of the message from Deb-Lu, had quietly detailed a couple of his young Air Service fellows. And they couldn't help talking, boasting, over a wet in the local tavern—probably the Taylyne and Flea—and a few of my rascals had been in there too, slaking their thirsts. So the inevitable had happened. This little lot, led by Ornol Skobog, had kept their own silence successfully. They must have done. Otherwise I'd have had a sky full of vollers carrying ESW, EYJ, ELC, EFB, EZB and probably one or two more of the newer formations in the Guard Corps.

Rollo groaned.

“We'd better set down, Ornol, and let poor Rollo ease his inward parts."

“Quidang, jis!"

At least Rollo's discomfort could get us to alight without an argument.

Below, forested land swept past. The red roofs and walls of Hinjanchung had vanished over the horizon. In every direction stretched forest and open spaces, threaded with the glint of watercourses. Few countries of Kregen are populated to a limit that would be imposed by the land. As for overpopulation, yes, that does exist, and to our woe, as you will hear.

“There,” said Loptyg, pointing, and he nosed the flier down.

In a regular circular shape a patch of bright green showed ahead among the trees. The two vollers curved sweetly down and landed in the center.

“I,” quoth Ornol, “with your permission, jis, will step overside. By Vox! I need to stretch my legs."

This was understandable, for he'd flown all the livelong way from Vallia.

“Blotto!” rapped out Loptyg. I killed my instinctive smile. Blotto, which is Kregish for ditto, I always find amusing.

The two guardsmen jumped down and started to sprint about and turn, running and high-stepping, getting the cramps out of their muscles. The rascals in the other voller hopped over and did likewise. I turned to Rollo.

He said: “Can I open my eyes now?"

I said: “We are safely on good old Kregen."

He gave a shudder and opened his eyes, staring at me. His face began to resume its natural bright color. “By Hlo-Hli! What an experience!"

“You'll get used to it."

He looked over the side. At once a remarkable change came over him. He stiffened up, staring, eyes wide. Then: “No! No! Tell them, get back at once! Hurry! Bratch!"

Now my lads of the emperor's jurukkers are not infants at war and battle. So they were running about and getting the stiffness out of their limbs. They did not neglect elementary precautions. We might have spotted not a single sign of life among the trees or in the open. That did not mean that danger might not erupt upon us from the trees. After all, we were on Kregen, where immediate peril is a daily fact of life.

A fellow—I did not know his name—from First Emperor's Zorca Bows had his compound reflex bow strung and an arrow nocked as he exercised. Other guardsmen were clearly ready instantly to form a battle line if attacked. There was, as far as I could see, no sign of danger.

“Hurry!” screamed Rollo. “Come back! Come back as you value your lives!"

Ornol and the others heard. They looked toward the airboat.

I shouted in that old foretop hailing voice: “Back aboard! All of you.At once.Bratch!"

They clumped over and Ornol, out of that sense of duty that seems to ingrain itself in the officers of the Guard Corps, shoved the others on ahead. He would go last. If there was danger, then it was his duty to confront it as the folk under his command scrambled to safety.

He nearly made it.

A sound as of gruel slopping in a bowl, a sucking slobbering noise as of dregs running down a plughole burst up with a disgusting stench. The ground beneath Ornol caved in. At once he was engulfed to his thighs.

“It's a shuckerchun!” Rollo looked distressed. “It will suck us all down!"

As in any seafaring ship, there were coils of rope aboard the voller. I seized one up and hurled it at Ornol. He bighted a loop around his waist and immediately waist and line were sucked down. “Heave!” I shouted.

We tailed on and hauled. With gruesome sucking sounds Ornol started to lift, and then fell back.

“The shuckerchun will drag us all down!” Rollo was more than distressed now. His face was gaunt with the terror of his knowledge. “They can creep under houses and engulf them. We're done for!"

“Loptyg! Get to the controls. Lift off!"

He didn't bother with a Quidang. He jumped for the levers and slammed the lift control over. The voller lurched. I could see the brilliant treacherous green flowing up the side of the other voller like a tide.

“Lift off!” I bellowed.

Loptyg thrust the lever over all the way. The airboat shuddered. She quivered like an exhausted stallion. Ornol's head was going under.

“Come on! Come on!"

With a sound not quite like a cork coming out of a bottle, or that sound magnified and added to by a sloshing sucking, the voller leaped skywards.

Ornol dangled below, his powerful hands gripping the line, looking up.

“By Vox!” he said, and spat. “It tastes worse than a dopa den's floor at chucking out time."

Rollo sagged back. He saw me looking at him.

“I was sure we were all done for. No one can escape a shuckerchun."

“Unless they fly."

“Unless they fly."

Ornol was hauled in over the side. He stank.

“For the sweet sake of Opaz,” he said, spitting overside. “Find a river.” Then he said: “I give you thanks.” To him, the peril was over and now he wanted to clean up. Hard, the men of my juruk.

As for Rollo, he was only too pleased to be flying through thin air.

Chapter eight

I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, have led a rackety picaresque life on Kregen. This has been forced on me not entirely through the machinations of the Star Lords. Duty, inclination, self-interest, have led me from country to country and continent to continent. I have made many friends and many enemies on that gorgeous and horrendous world four hundred light years from the planet of my birth. My own true inclination is to settle down with Delia in Esser Rarioch, our palace home in Valka. Well, perhaps one day that ambition may be fulfilled. As it is, the Everoinye put tasks into my hands that, for the good of Paz, must be fulfilled.

Once the Star Lords had regained contact with me—and the concept that they didn't know where I was on Kregen came as an intriguing supposition, as a shock, by Krun!—they'd hoick me up out of wherever I happened to be and dump me down somewhere else to get on with my destiny.

That damnfool Scorpion had dropped me. Well, to be fair, he'd been unsettled by the acrid green thrusts of Ahrinye. All the same, I regarded with a somewhat leery anticipation my next jaunt with the phantom blue Scorpion.

For the moment we got on with what we had to do here. Ornol Skobog cleaned himself up in a pretty little stream running between a fine stand of trees. We dug out the provisions they'd brought, and the archer of 1EZB, Nath the Dorvenfull, brought down a fine deer. We all ate prodigiously.

Then I went at Ornol and the others with a fine old spate of authority.

During that emotional wrangle I sent Rollo off out of it. I told him to go into lupu and contact his old tutor, Gal-ag-Foroming, and give him my sincere thanks for passing on the message. This was not just to keep Rollo out of the argument with my lads. I felt it needful to thank the Wizard of Loh. After all, I'd been pretty sharp with him.

By the time those rascals of my Guard Corps were convinced I must fly on down south alone, Rollo had not returned from the woods. So I went off after him, suddenly uneasy that he might have run into more trouble.

I found him in a small natural clearing. He was sitting down comfortably with his back against a tree. He looked up as I approached.

“Ah, Dray! I thought you would be along soon."

The voice was not that of Rollo the Runner. I knew that wheezy voice.

“Deb-Lu!"

Rollo sat there, at ease, and Deb-Lu-Quienyin spoke to me through the lad.

He told me that there had been a right old furore. The two Air Service pilots were bruised but unharmed, and mighty rueful over their folly. All Vondium was buzzing with the business. “But, Jak, I do not think you will be over pleased about the outcome."

“I can guess,” I groaned.

“Yes. They have been most insistent. The emperor has ordered that all of your Guard Corps who wish may volunteer."

“That means the whole flaming lot!"

“Of course.” The cracked old voice, speaking to me over the miles and miles from distant Vallia, sparked with amusement.

Deb-Lu told me that Drak was content to keep his own guards. The name changes were insignificant. The PMSW—the Prince Majister's Sword Watch—would remain as a regiment for Drak's son—when he was born. The guardsmen forming the current PMSW had all volunteered into the new emperor's regiment, First Emperor's Red Jackets. At least, that solved some of the problems.

Deb-Lu went on to fill in some of the details I needed to know concerning the state of play in those parts of Kregen of immediate interest. The problem of Pandahem was being dealt with, as you shall hear in due time. My good comrade Gloag, who ran Strombor for me, hailed from the island of Mehzta. That island was under savage attack from the Shanks. Gloag, although fully assimilated into Strombor, felt he ought to take an expeditionary force to help out his birthplace. I could understand that.

“Tell Gloag to take what he wants from Strombor, always remembering to leave forces enough at home. He can contact Hap Loder. He'll lap up a chance like this. And the Clansmen ought to scare the Shanks!"

“Very well. I have no news of Delia. Seg and Inch are about affairs of state, Turko is thinking of marrying—"

“One day!"

Deb-Lu laughed. “Thinking of marrying off some of his people—"

“Oh!"

There was other news. Presently I said: “And, Deb-Lu—what of Khe-Hi and Ling-Li? I heard about the twins."

“They thrive. Khe-Hi is busy on a scheme we are concocting. I'll keep you informed. Communication has Substantially Eased."

There was a little more gossip. I finished by saying: “This bright rapscallion, Ra-Lu-Quonling—he calls himself Rollo the Runner—flunked his exams. Would you take him on?"

“With pleasure. I sense in him great potential. He just needs—as you would claim they say in Clishdrin—To Get His Act Together."

“Thank you, Deb-Lu. I think he'll turn out all right."

Rollo the Runner shifted, let out a breath, and stretched.

“You have finished, Drajak, satisfactorily?"

“Thank you, Rollo. That was courteous of you.” I told him what was proposed for his future. “Deb-Lu is a fine man and a very potent sorcerer. You couldn't do better."

“As to that, I'd rather go adventuring with you as a Bowman of Loh."

“You as well!” I sighed. “It's not on, lad. Where I'm going is highly unhealthy."

For, as I'm sure you have already anticipated, I knew what my next steps must be and where I was going. And, by Krun, unhealthy it was!

“I don't see why,” he began rebelliously. All that condescension I'd detected in him when we'd first met broke through again. “After all, I did save all your skins through my knowledge, did I not?"

“You did and we all give you thanks. But what lies ahead is—"

“Worse than a shuckerchun?"

“Far worse."

He remained silent.

A hint of his earlier disdain still persisted as, after a space, he said: “It does not need a genius to guess you are going up against these Shanks. I have heard the rumors. Are the Fish Heads, then, so terrible?"

I fixed him with my eye. “Yes."

He caught his breath. People who live far inland have to be educated where the sea and sailormen's ways are concerned. Once they have been indoctrinated with sea lore they can form navies as competent as an island's. The vast distances involved between what Rollo had known and the seaborne terror of the Shanks had, as I have said, inflated their reputations rather than the opposite. In all his youthful arrogance, fostered by the learning taught in Whonban, Rollo had understood that. He'd minimized the stories. Now I was coldly resurrecting all those hideous stories as facts.

“All the same,” he said rebelliously, “I would still—"

“You have what is probably the most splendid opportunity afforded any apprentice Wizard of Loh to study with Deb-Lu. Vallia is marvelous. You will like it there."

“More study!"

“If you wish to advance."

“That's the rote cry. Is advancement then the only criterion?"

“Trying to make the happiest life you can for yourself and those around you is, I suppose, the main criterion. And getting on in life generally helps that ambition. But, no, you are right. There are many other factors involved, and the more advanced you get on, the unhappier you become."

“Well, then!"

I started to move off back to the fliers. “You'll just have to face the needle, Rollo. Look, give Deb-Lu a couple of seasons. See how you go."

“Oh, yes! That means you get rid of me now."

“Don't make it harder on yourself."

After that we walked in silence between the trees back to the vollers. My thoughts centered on what the confounded Star Lords were up to.

Somehow or other, after all my experience on Kregen, I just couldn't bring myself to believe the Everoinye did not know where I was. They might have not the slightest interest in what I was doing, and had no intention of employing me in the immediate future; they kept themselves informed of my whereabouts. Their messenger and spy, the gorgeous gold and scarlet raptor called the Gdoinye, would fly over and cast his beady eye upon me and my doings. Or a little reddish brown scorpion would waddle out, waving his stinger arrogantly, and tell me my fortune in picturesque terms.

Certainly, as it seemed to me, both Ahrinye and Zena Iztar must know where I was, for they'd cushioned my fall. At least, that was my supposition. Zena Iztar, possibly the most mysterious of all these superhuman folk, had her own designs. I felt strongly she was a friend. Ahrinye probably would not tell the Star Lords out of spite or contrariness. So—I was still running, still my own man, still free to follow my own plans.

Those plans, as you are aware, called for a simple next step leading to horror.

Down south in Makilorn we'd pushed Leone off the throne so that Kirsty might be queen, as the Everoinye desired. The way of doing it was beside the immediate point. Could the practical success of that plot have been enough to ensure that what the Star Lords wished to happen in the future would now take place? Their plans matured over many years. I had rescued folk for them so that those peoples’ children could strut the stage of history. Why I'd saved quite a few of the men and women I had saved remained a mystery; no doubt in the years to come the reasoning of the Star Lords regarding them would come clear in some world-shaking catastrophe, or new religion, the death of a dynasty or a simple person being in the right place at the right time to influence world events.

Here and now there was no time to wait for those sweeping world movements. Here and now the Shanks were in Tarankar, and up to deviltry, and, like a canker, if they weren't stopped soon they'd spread to engulf the lands about them, and so spread further. And large though Loh might be, who would be bold enough to say when the Fish Heads would stop?

If the Star Lords couldn't see that then they must truly be senile.

Unless, of course, the whole damned shambles was just a game for them.

“By Vox, jis!” exclaimed Ornol as we reached the vollers. “You look as though you've eaten something that griped your guts rotten."

“Not eaten, Ornol. Thought."

“Ah, yes,” he said, wisely, nodding. “Quite so."

And Rollo laughed.

“This young scamp is going back to Vallia. Try to see he doesn't fall out of the voller. At least, over land."

“Quidang!"

The few preparations necessary were soon made. Everyone went aboard one of the fliers and I commanded the other in splendid isolation.

A delay occurred in the other voller and I heard a few shouts and a few by Voxs! Loptyg yelled: “The Kendur said you was coming with us!” and Rollo's clear young voice, sharp with condescension: “I have decided not to go. I have things to do here.” And Ornol, heavy and matter-of-fact: “You might have things to do, my lad. The Kendur gave an order and that order will be obeyed.” And Coram the Flatch, a dwa-Hikdar from 2ESW: “Aye, laddie. Obeyed to the death."

This affair had best be left to my lads to sort out. Some more uproar followed, and a quantity of appeals to gods, saints and devils of various persuasions, succeeded by an uncanny silence. Shortly thereafter the voller lifted off. A row of heads appeared over the gunwale and a gale of remberees gusted down. I hollered the remberees back and the flier shot up into the clear sky of Kregen, dwindled to a dot in the north and vanished. I sighed. They'd be home in Vallia in no time.

Resolutely, I turned my face to the south. A touch on the controls and I was aloft.

Chapter nine

I have said it before and, if the flint sickle of Kranlil the Reaper spares me, I shall certainly say it again. Ah! To speed through the sweet air of Kregen with the breeze in your hair and the radiance of the Suns all about! Now that is living!

On and on I urged the airboat in the sheer joy of flying. South the course headed, south to perils and horrors and death around every corner.

When I felt peckish—well, more than peckish, ravenous—I looped the bight of cord around the controls, keeping the voller on an even course and speed, and went off to rummage in the provisions aboard. My lads had done me proud. There were hampers of food, and bottles, and very soon I had the fire going on its slate bed. One has to be careful of fires aboard ships either of the seas or the air. Thinking of past adventures with Seg, I was meticulous and the voller did not catch alight.

The delicious aroma of cooking wafted up. I licked my lips. This was going to be a gargantuan meal, since it might be the last I'd get for some time. So everything went in and the succulent aromas filled the voller.

A plaintive voice said: “I declare my insides have betrayed me."

I did not turn around.

“There is a plate and eating irons,” I said. “Help yourself to a bottle."

“My insides thank you, even if I find it difficult."

He sat down nursing his bottle. I said: “How did you elude my guards?” The moment the words were out of my mouth I recognized the fatuity of the question.

With all his old condescension in full spate he said: “You forget. I am a Wizard of Walfarg."

He'd managed to slip overside of one voller and climb unnoticed into mine. Evidently, there was a lot more to this feller-me-lad than one might expect. He would bearcloser scrutiny.

Then, Wizard of Loh or not, he betrayed the fact that he was still a youngster flying in the face of a hostile world. In a quite different voice, and a voice I will not describe as apprehensive—not quite—he said: “You show no emotion, I mean, that I'm here. I'd expect you to be angry."

“It's no good crying after you've upset the calsany."

“If that's the way of it, I agree.” He changed the subject. “I hid under that canvas beside a box which, if I'm not mistaken, holds shafts. The box on the other side, I think, contains bows."

“Yes."

He swallowed. “I was wondering if I might—uh—borrow a bow.” He gave me a quick sidelong glance. “If we are going where the horrors cluster as thickly as you say, a good bow and a good shot will be useful."

“Most."

“Well?"

“Take your pick."

I watched him as he opened the boxes—standard Vallian Army service issue—and chose his bow. He made a good selection. His face betrayed his joy in archery and his pride in hitting the mark. He was, in those moments, more human than he'd been apart from his reactions to the shuckerchun. I'd have to dump him the first chance that came along.

“I swore I'd go adventuring as a Bowman of Loh. And, by Hlo-Hli, here I am doing exactly that!"

He evidently wanted to prattle on and as I could sink into my own thoughts for a spot of privacy he burbled on happily for some time. I managed the occasional monosyllable in reply. Then he said: “Your guards are very ferocious. I was fascinated by them. They are clearly devoted to your person and they hold you in great awe—"

“Awe?"

“Oh, yes. But I do not think they fear you."

“Fear me? By Vox, lad, I should certainly hope not!"

“Yet they go out and die for you."

“When they do they do,” I said, grumpily. Good men and women dying is a sore subject with me. So I went on: “You should see all the regiments on parade! The bands, the flags, the glitter and swing of it. Yes, that is the side of soldiering one should see and relish; but, of course, the reality is messy and unpleasant. My lads know I dislike wars. I try to keep ‘em alive, and they appreciate that."

“Oh,” he said with that know-all condescending air: “They appreciate much more than that in their Kendur, the Emperor of Emperors."

“And you,” I said with grave solemnity, “if there's any more of that then it's over the side with you and no remberee!"

He had the grace to look away and keep silent.

Dray Prescot does not get buttered up very easily, no, by Krun!

The meal was splendid and was splendidly dealt with. As we sat back, Rollo said: “I sense something—it is interesting. Look, I would like to carry out an experiment. Would you please close your eyes."

Now there are folk on Kregen—and, by Krun, on this Earth, too—in whose presence I'd never dream of closing my eyes for a moment. Still, I felt I could trust this young Rollo the Runner. So I closed my eyes.

In no very long time I heard the unmistakable sounds of Rollo being sick.

When I opened my eyes he was leaning over the rail emptying all that beautiful meal overside.

There were water pots and towels aboard and after he'd recovered and cleaned himself up I looked at his face. It was still green. He'd washed the sweat globules off. He didn't meet my eye.

“Your experiment went wrong?"

He took a swig of water and made a face. He looked most unhappy.

“No. It was entirely successful."

“In that case, save me from your failures."

He gave me a mean look and took another drink. “I sensed, as I said, something. Now I know what it is. You have a caul."

“So Deb-Lu informs me. It is sorcery."

“It is extraordinarily powerful—” he began. Then I caught on.

“I see! You'd have made me bring my guts up if Deb-Lu's caul of protection hadn't reflected your damned spell or whatever! I see—"

“No, no. A twinge only, I assure you."

I eyed him balefully; but I couldn't be wroth with the lad. He was only doing what his nature and interests led him to do. And, anyway, he'd come unstuck. On Kregen they cannot express that kind of disaster by saying the experiment backfired. They do have a saying, expressed in a single short word, that you swung with your sword and cut your own toes off. All that is compressed into the word snizzed. Rollo's experiment had snizzed.

“H'm. Very well. Also, my lad, this means you can perform feats of magic. That could be very useful—"

“Or it could get me killed. I know."

“So be it. Now, as you are intent on flying with me, it is necessary that you learn to pilot."

He looked alarmed. “Fly this contraption?"

“Shuckerchun."

He wiped his face with the yellow towel. “Yes, I see. Very well."

To handle an airboat of Kregen and control the silver boxes that give lift and motion is not very difficult. A certain skill is easy to master. Rollo was quick and intelligent and he had the knack very quickly. It is easy enough to fly a voller. The true skill of the great pilots comes with practice, dedication, verve and sheer giftedness in the air. Some of those daredevils can perform hair-raising stunts. A top class voller pilot is greatly valued in any country's Air Service.

Landing a flier is the trickiest part of the whole flight envelope. The pilot must judge his height and at precisely the right time operate the controls which draw the silver boxes apart in their brass and balass orbits. I never forget the first time Delia showed me all this. That was a heart-stopper, on more than one level, thanks be to Opaz!

“Gently, Rollo, that's the style. Get the feel and lower down gently."

We hit the grass with an almighty thump.

“Take her up and try again. Gently."

This time the bump was appreciably less.

“Again."

This time I had to grab the controls and thrust the lever hard over so that we shot up into the air like a leaping salmon. I said: “I don't want to have to keep on asking Lord Farris for more vollers."

Rollo's green tinge returned.

“This time nice and gently, then we'll see."

He made a near perfect landing. We came down in a clearing among the trees which did not contain a circular bright green centre.

“I tell you what,” he exclaimed, the successful landing already history. “I'll shoot you a round."

“Done."

So, there and then, we took up our bows, strung them, tested, and agreed the marks and ranges. He was very good. I think even Seg would have found a mite of grudging praise. For some reason I shot badly. This, I think, was that my mind kept ribbiting away at the frustrating problems of the future down south. This is, I know, unforgivable in a fighting man, and I have no excuse. The upshot was, I lost by a wide margin.

Rollo made no comment on my miserable shooting. In that, at the least, he showed a tact belonging to an older head. He might have commented that there went another Dray Prescot legend laid to rest. Mind you, most of the stories about shooting prowess were really down to Seg, as were the yarns of Dray Prescot leaping about with a great Saxon axe down to Inch.

“As you won you may have the honor of collecting up all the arrows."

The tree we were using as a mark bristled with shafts. Quite a few of mine had gone hurtling past further into the forest.

Rollo sniffed. “The prizes for marksmanship in Vallia are too generous."

“Don't,” I advised him, “don't ask what you get if you lose."

“Not justice, that's for sure, by Lingloh!"

“As we made no formal wager, no reward legitimately accrues. However, as you did manage to win, you may keep the bow and a couple of score."

“Ah! Now that is more like it. I give you thanks."

He went off to collect up the shafts in a much happier frame of mind.

I wasn't fool enough to think that a man—or a lad like Rollo—could be bought with cheap and easy gifts. There would be a considerable amount of prickly disdain from young Rollo the Runner yet.

When we climbed aboard, Rollo observed the fantamyrrh, which pleased me, and he took off with great panache, sweeping us up into the sky in headlong style. A few high clouds were forming and the day was well on the wane; I hadn't much cared for the proximity of those trees where we'd indulged in our toxophily. Rollo, I was sure, had I mentioned my suspicions, would have put them down to my losing the contest. A view which may have had some truth in it, by Krun.

We spotted a nice little river winding through a valley, with clumps of trees dotted here and there. The grass was still a nice green; but not that bright a green. In the shadows of the distance the red roofs and white spires of a town appeared to float among the haze. The Suns would soon be gone.

We camped aboard the voller for the night. We stood watch and watch. Although we might well have been safer had we continued to fly through the night there were two strikes against that course. One was that, even though we were in voller-less Loh, I was not altogether sure of blindly hurtling on through the darkness. The other was that I judged the experience would severely unsettle Rollo's nerves.

As is usual during an expedition, each meal may be your last. So I made sure we ate up well. This, then, formed the pattern of the succeeding period as we sped steadily on over Loh. More and more I came to appreciate Rollo's qualities. I felt absolutely certain Deb-Lu could turn him into a first class Wizard of Loh. The weather grew warmer.

“Drajak,” he said, one fine morning. “Do you intend to fly over Chem?” Now this was exactly the problem exercising my mind. Chem, tropical, clothed with jungles, fetid, stuffed with all manner of monsters, was not an inviting prospect. If we stayed aloft we should be safe, despite the certain sure presence there of gigantic flying creatures, all jaws and claws.

“If we trend westwards and fly along the coast we may attract unwelcome attention."

“Shanks."

“Aye."

“Some seasons ago I saw Las-po-Wehning just after he returned from Chem. He'd had a good position there, for almost forgotten cities exist deep within the jungles. The folk are as ferocious and unforgiving as the monsters they combat. Las-po had a yellow skin, sunken burning eyes, thin to the bone, with the shakes. He swore by the Seven Arcades nothing would induce him to return to Chem."

“All the same, we would be flying."

“You mean, you fly these contraptions at night time?"

I gave him a brief history of the troubles we used to experience with airboats we bought from Hamal. “Now Hamal is an ally they supply good vollers."

“You mean people risked their lives in these things knowing they could break down?"

“That was in the bad old days."

I did not elaborate. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that much. The truth was, any voller might break down for a variety of reasons, however fine the craftsmanship and excellent the silver boxes. Even today.

Rollo had the habit of abruptly changing the subject of conversation. He did this with a considerable measure of skill and with purpose. He'd come back to the original subject when it suited him. Now he said: “Your guards, for all your coddling of them, were most anxious to get into the fights ahead. They foresee many battles under your command as Emperor of Emperors, Emperor of Paz. They struck me as anxious to show the world their mettle."

This young feller-me-lad, this apprentice Wizard of Loh, had an old head on his shoulders—sometimes. He saw through outward appearances.

“H'm,” I said. “I'm not too sure about that. They are well aware of my views on battles."

“Of course. But if you wish to be the Emperor of Paz—"

“Just a moment, my lad! I don't want to be the blasted Emperor of Paz! My Val! Just think of what that entails. What I must do is forge alliances, friendships, between the countries of Paz. And far too many of them are at one another's throats as it is. That's not a job any sane man or woman would want, is it now?” If he could see through outward appearances, as I have just indicated, surely he could see I didn't want the rotten job?

“There are people who would leap at it."

“Makibs, the lot of ‘em. Look, you have a parcel of land that two nations claim. They go to war over it, and the issue is settled until the next war. I've got to go along to them both and mediate. I've got to sort out the problem. I've got to say one nation has the land and the other does not. Or I split it up. No matter what I decide, I'm wrong. Right?"

He favored me with a little smile. “But, think of the glory, the pomp, the prestige! That would make any man's blood rise."

“It is very clear you have no understanding of me—” I began. Then I hauled myself up. That little smile played over his face, crinkling his lips. Oh, yes, he was a wise one! He was searching me out, was testing me. The truth was, he remained a Wizard of Loh. I'd offered him employment, or, more correctly, had offered to become a client. He wanted to know my feelings and my attitudes to power. As he was perfectly entitled to do.

Slowly, I said: “Have you ever heard of a Wizard of Loh called Phu-Si-Yantong?"

He lost the smile at once.

“He betrayed the most sacred teachings of Whonban. Oh, yes, he was known. Now he is dead."

“Thank Opaz. And, yet, I always searched for some good in him."

“My teachers, also, looked. I do not think any was found."

“Well, then. He stands as an example. Yet I continue to choose to believe he was not wholly evil—"

With all the arrogance of youth he snapped: “That is mere foolishness."

“Perhaps."

He turned away to stare over the side at the horizon. I felt—I hoped—my replies had answered the questions he must have answered.

I said: “I've been stuck with this job of being a high and mighty emperor. Believe you me, by Vox, the moment the job is done I'm throwing in my hand. I have other things to do—"

“Better things?"

“In certain contexts, of course. In the context of the Shank invasion, those better things must wait. It's a damned duty thrust on me."

“When we have accomplished our adventure together, I shall be happy to study in Vallia with San Deb-Lu-Quienyin."

“Dondo!"Which is a way of saying: “Good!"

Again he changed the subject. He picked up one of the arrows, twiddling it between his fingers. “It is an acknowledged fact that the best fletchings are made from the blue feathers of the king korf of Erthyrdrin.” He gently smoothed the rose red fletchings made from the zim-korf of Valka. Farris knew my predilection in the matter of arrows and had stowed away these Valkan shafts for me. Brown and white feathers were more common, still, in the Vallian Army's arsenal of shafts. “These are not stained red. What is their origin? For, by Lingloh, they are very fine."

I told him, and added: “Even Bowmen of Erthyrdrin have been known to praise these over their own—sometimes."

He went on to say that the bow I'd given him was very fine, and waxed quite warm over its qualities. I didn't say that since the Archery of Vallia had been controlled and inspected by Seg only the very very best would suffice. I admit I looked forward with keen anticipation to Seg's reactions to this young feller-me-lad and his ambitions to become a Bowman of Loh.

That made me realize I'd have to be very firm with dear old Seg. There was no doubt Rollo's course in life must be steered in the thaumaturgical direction. He could be a Bowman of Loh as an avocation as much as he liked. And, of course, that brought me up all standing. What right had I to dictate what Rollo, or anyone else, should do with their lives?

Just because I was this blasted Emperor of Paz? Rather, that I might become this confounded Emperor fellow in due time.

I said: “Steer over to the west, then. We'll try a run along near the coast. Keep your eyes skinned."

“Oh, I will, I will. I don't want to be a slave of the Shanks."

“I'd have thought a Wizard of Loh could contrive something to avoid that fate."

He gave no answer as the voller curved away through the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns.

Chapter ten

Flying at a middling height we skittered along the coast of Chem.

The twin suns continued to pour down their mingled rays of ruby and jade from a cloudless sky. When the clouds formed in this part of Kregen they did so with regularity and severity. The sky would turn black. The rain would slash down in waterfalls that would engulf Niagara as Niagara would engulf a local trout stream. The trees to larboard formed a single floor of deep green. Occasional breaks occurred among that uniform bed of foliage. The coast formed either a series of curves where sandy beaches might afford good bathing, or stretched in a straight north south line where the waves broke remorselessly.

Those trees, Rollo informed me, were probably the famous brellam trees. He'd studied natural history as one of the subjects in the very thorough Whonban educational process. That seductive witch Pynsi had a lot to answer for, by Krun!

“They grow straight up and very tall. They spread wide branches and turn up their leaves in serried masses of cups. They prevent most of the rain and suns-light from falling to the surface, holding the liquid within their cellular structure. Consequently the ground beneath is relatively bare of lesser vegetation."

“Which would more than likely be parasitic."

“Of course, here in Chem. The brellam trees are peculiar to this coast. The slaptras and syatras lie more inland."

“I,” I said fervently, “do not wish to find them."

He made a grimace. “Quite."

Dots rose from the green carpet ahead of us. I peered under my hand.

At my gesture, Rollo span about swiftly and stared forward. I felt the tenseness in him that made his body stiffen into immobility.

“Now may Jallalak the Merciless be contumed!” His voice croaked. “Xichun!Damned xichun, flying to devour us!"

The flying animals swarmed up from their aerial perches. Like wind-driven leaves they were upon us in mere moments. Bodies glinted green and gold with red-edged scales, deeply curved wings beat strongly, sinuous necks and whiplike tails gave them a long menacing outline that the small heads with jaws stuffed with needle teeth perfectly complemented. These flying lizards were the kings and queens of predators among the life-forms of the forest canopy. Now they wanted us for lunch.

They were something like the xi of the Stratemsk. Iridescent wings fluttered about us. Tails lashed. Wedge-shaped heads darted forward.

Yet—our shape must have puzzled them. We had no wings. What, their lizard brains must be asking, what have we here?

They circled us, flying up and swooping down, around and around. Very soon they would dart in and seize their prey.

“Now,” I told Rollo, “is your chance to act as a Bowman of Loh."

In this I was being heartless and cruel. Rollo did not know the ability of most vollers to outspeed most varieties of flying birds and animals. These xichun could probably keep up with us for a short time, and then, inevitably, muscles would tire and the voller would speed on. Still, he wanted to act as a brave adventuring Bowman of Loh. This was his chance.

I give this explanation in all shame; and add that in just about the same heartbeat I recognized that meritorious though it might be to instruct this young tearaway in the rigors of the adventuring life, that could weigh as nothing beside the far more important consideration. By the sweet teachings of Opaz! I was actually contemplating shooting, killing and destroying living creatures merely to teach a young scamp a lesson!

I tell you, in that moment, I, Dray Prescot, etc., etc., felt extraordinarily small. Tiny, by Krun!

I shoved the controls over to full speed and full lift.

We began to speed up and shoot up in the air.

The xichun must have construed that movement as threatening them, for they chose that moment to attack. With a wild hissing and a massive beating of wings, they began their swooping onslaughts.

“Here they come!” yelled Rollo.

“Take the most threatening!” I bellowed back.

He lifted his bow and let fly. He missed.

“How can you shoot straight with the wind of this contraption? Every shaft will be blown aside!"

“Allow for it. Like this."

My shaft took the leading xichun in the wingroot. He span about and immediately fluttered down to the green treetops. I felt the emotion of sorrow for him, and of elation that I'd exactly hit my mark.

Rollo shot again and again missed. I took out a second xichun and then we were racing up and away and the flying lizards beat futile wings far in our rear.

Rollo looked back. His face began to resume its natural color.

“By Lingloh! We've escaped!"

I felt it prudent not to mention what had really occurred.

And then—and then as I turned to look forward again, there they were, flying in a ruler-straight line ahead of us. Their black hulls and their squared-off upper works could not be mistaken.

In a controlled voice I said: “Have a look for'ard, Rollo. Remember what you see."

With that I thrust the levers savagely over. The voller dropped vertically through thin air. There was one chance. If we could find a gap in the brellam trees we could fly between the widely-spaced trunks out of sight of those black-hulled flying ships and their damned Shank crews.

Rollo staggered as the flier dropped and grasped the rail. He stared forward and upwards. He was smart enough to understand instantly just what we had run into now.

In a small voice he said: “Do you think they will see us?"

“They have eyesight."

His right fist clutched the rail and his left clenched on the longbow. Deliberately, forcing himself to move, as I could clearly see, he peered overside. The green forest floor catapulted upwards. “There is a gap."

“Dondo!"

“Perhaps."

I knew exactly what he meant.

Up there that drilled line of ships began to turn. The Shank flying vessels began to curve in towards us. Two of the foremost in line dipped and then dropped clear through the air. There was no doubt they'd seen us, and now they were after us.

A quick glance below showed me the gap Rollo had seen. One of the giant brellam trees had fallen. The hole in the canopy exactly matched the fullest extent of a tree's branches. There was room for our small voller to dive in.

“We will do it!” Rollo's voice screeched up the scale with released emotions. “We can go through. But the Shank ships are too big to follow!"

I hesitated for only a couple of heartbeats. Better he get the full picture right away. I said: “They will launch smaller boats."

“Oh."

“And,” I added, “here come those confounded xichun again."

He stared below and aft. The flying lizards beat strongly on towards the gap in the trees. They had given up pursuit of us; now we were dropping back to where they could get their talons and teeth into us.

“We must smash straight through them.” He took his right fist off the rail and reached for an arrow.

The picture presented itself to me in one of those mental flashes of vision so familiar to a watch-keeping officer on a black night off Brest. This was a problem to be solved, trigonometry in action. Of course, this was no bloodless theory, this was red-raw action; all the same, our course of action was dictated by those same laws of abstract mathematics.

The gap, a kind of locus of action, remained the focus of attention. Towards it streamed the xichun, jaws filled with needle teeth agape. Towards it dropped the Shank fliers, and soon they'd launch pinnaces and longboats of the air. Towards it we flew in a desperate attempt to slip through first.

“Come on! Come on!” I was saying to myself. My lips clamped fast shut.

Rollo kept staring forward and up at the Shanks and then back and down at the xichun. The fist that held the longbow had the finest of trembles.

The breeze whistled past. The Suns shone. The air smelled rank with the jungle smell of Chem. I thought of Delia—a stupid remark, for whenever do I not think of her?—and tried to push the control levers past their stop notches. We dropped stone-like to the green gap.

“They're pushing out little airboats!” called Rollo.

“I see.” Half a dozen small fliers dropped away from the larger flying ships up there. They came down stone-like, too; I fancied we'd be through the hole in the canopy before they reached us. The question then was, would we slip through before the xichun reached us?

That question was answered very quickly in an uproar of battering wings, lashing tails and lancing heads. The xichun surrounded us as I slowed the voller down to a rate of descent that wouldn't smash us to pulp under the forest canopy. We sank down fast enough as it was, by Krun, and I had to keep one eye on the controls and the other on the xichun.

Rollo let fly, and missed, and swore, and so snatched up another shaft.

I made no move to use my bow. The voller dropped rapidly, and with a cautious nudge on the forward control lever I edged her into just the right position. A xichun got his jaws wedged into the wood gunwale under the rail. He was dragged down with us, flapping his wings in frenzy. Another of the lizards landed on deck in a great flutter. Rollo screeched a warning.

With regret I ripped out my sword—leaving the controls—leaped at him and dodging his strike cut halfway through his neck abaft that small head. His frothing scream was chopped off. He collapsed onto the deck, untidily strewing his wings and tail over the rails. There was no time to deal with the poor creature. He was impelled to kill and eat us through force of nature; we had no such compulsions.

There was time only to jump back to the controls and swerve the voller cleanly through the gap.

Looking upwards I saw the mass of fluttering wings and licking sinuous necks and tails. They swirled crazily about the hole in the leaves; they did not follow. This fact gave me a severe dose of dire foreboding.

Rollo choked out: “Even the xichun are afraid of what lives here!"

The lizard with his teeth caught went berserk. His wings buffeted a gale across the deck. At last with enormous effort he managed to drag his head free. He left a clump of those needle teeth standing in the gunwale, the green ichor dribbling down. He flew up in a series of lurches to join his fellows out in the light of the Suns. For, down here under the canopy, the light was deep-sea green, gray and leprous, unappetizing.

The slanting mingled rays of jade and ruby from the gap revealed a different world. Here the tall straight stems of the brellam trees reached from the forest floor to the forest canopy. That was not quite all, for, indeed, there were parasitical plant growths upon those splendid trunks. Perhaps there were not as many parasites as epiphytes, and certainly there were nowhere near as many as there would have been if the brellam trees had not excluded so much of the light of the Suns.

The ground was a long long way down, sheathed in gloom.

The rank smell of a jungle was here subtly altered. Those cup-shaped leaves grew to a considerable size, and then fell to be replaced by new growth. The ground was well mulched. But there was little else to add a particular smell. Small furtive movements upon the trunks and among the vines would be tiny creatures carving out a niche in the chain of life. I had a nasty idea of what lived down here, and what so frightened the xichun.

The black boat-shaped silhouette sprang into view in the centre of the gap. Instantly it was surrounded by infuriated xichun.

I said: “If the Shanks intend to follow us they will deal with the xichun as we did. Time to go."

“We cannot go west out of the forest—"

“That is true. But we can continue south."

“What? And hope to avoid the Shanks altogether?"

“We can but try."

I realized I was not being particularly helpful to Rollo; but my mind had gone back a good few seasons to that time when Delia, Seg, Thelda and I had flown down out of The Stratemsk to cross the Hostile Territories. We'd been attacked by giant coal-black impiters, as ferocious as these xichun. Our voller had been badly knocked about and was unable to escape. We'd probably have taken a nasty beating from the impiters, even if they hadn't succeeded in eating us all, had not a swarm of tiny pink and yellow birds saved us. They had a feud with the giant impiters; they won.[4]

[4 See Warrior of Scorpio, Volume 3 of the Dray Prescot Saga. A.B.A.]

I said: “Find some strong canvas, Rollo. Drag it out onto the deck and get ready to hide under it. Don't leave any gaps."

“Do what?"

“You heard."

“But—"

“And put in some of the flying silks and furs, too."

“Very well.” He'd caught the ugly undercurrent in my voice.

In the area of ground beneath the hole there would be the most unholy battle between new brellam trees and whatever other unfortunate vegetation had seeded itself there. In the end one brellam tree would win out over all the others and by denying them water and sunlight would dispose of his or her brothers and sisters. If the new area of leaves did not exactly fit the hole, adjustments would be made. These brellam trees lorded it, and they intended to keep the balance of nature that way. As for the animals of all kinds living on their trunks, these would be tolerated. I kept a sharp look out through the green gloom between those serried ranks of trunks.

This modulated deep green undersea gloom could have a profound effect on the spirits. I did not think the forest would provide adequate support for human beings to make a life here—it might, of course, humans are fiendishly adaptable—so that if we ran across any of the forgotten cities of Chem here I had the conviction their inhabitants would be a morose lot.

“The Whoorn-forsaken Shanks have broken through. They're following!"

I looked back. Two of the pinnaces flew down between the trunks, the suns light sparkling for the last time upon the weapons of the Shanks aboard. They started after us with evident evil intent.

“There will now be,” I said, trying to lighten this desperate situation, “a quantity of consummate flying."

“Eh?"

“We've got to go fluttclepper flick between the trees."[5]

[5 fluttclepper flick: Hell for leather—very fast and risky speed. A.B.A.]

“We have to escape—"

“Keep a lookout for any swarms of small birds."

He opened his mouth, and closed it, and then said: “Very well."

He didn't know what I meant, not yet. Havilfar is the continent for saddle flyers. As far as I knew there were no birds or flying animals in Loh large or powerful enough to carry a human being and who might be trained to do so. If they were large enough then, again as far as I knew, they were intractable. We had to go fluttclepper flick between and around the trunks and if we were caught then there'd be no more of Dray Prescot upon Kregen.

The Shanks soared along after us. We sped on ahead. I needed to calculate out the relative speeds, for I'd no way of knowing how fast the Shank's flying pinnaces could go. Farris had sent me a good voller; she was not of the finest but she had a fair pair of heels. As we sped along in that half light between the trees the Shanks gradually gained on us.

“Faster, Drajak! Faster!"

“See for yourself. The speed lever is hard against the stop."

“Then this time we are doomed—we must be!"

“This time we are doomed,” I parroted him. “What kind of weak melodramatic fustian is that? If we're done for, if we're going to die, then say so, for the sweet sake of Beng Pulphan!"

“All right, all right! Tighten your scabbard!"[6]

[6 Tighten your scabbard: Slang for ‘Don't lose your temper', ‘Don't get off your bike.’ A.B.A.]

I didn't reply directly to that acute remark; but I felt vastly pleased Rollo was acting so well. This kind of fraught situation would most certainly reduce many folk to abject terror. He'd wanted to go adventuring and, by Krun, he was tasting what it was like!

We roared on between those timeless trunks. The gray-green light washed us with a corpse pallor. The Shanks drew closer. Our voller would not fly any faster. The flying was demanding, swerving between the trees and lining up for the next gap and then a swift jink to avoid the trunk suddenly directly ahead. I had to give my full concentration to piloting; what Rollo was doing now was up to him. He might shaft a few Shanks before we were overrun.

The violent maneuvers at last dislodged the unfortunate xichun on the deck. He slid sideways as I jinked particularly sharply around a trunk and flopped off to tumble away below. He'd make food for the trees, eventually.

At last I saw them, up ahead.

At first I thought they were insects, a swarm of bees. They filled the aisle between the trees in a black cloud.

As we neared, for I dared not slow down, I hauled up the prepared silks and furs and draped them over me one-handed. I got the canvas up and Rollo was there, helping me.

“See to yourself—” I started.

“Now I see what you meant. Can you pilot this thing safely?"

“I don't know. I must look out ahead to avoid the trunks."

“So they'll be able to get at you—"

“Wrap yourself up and don't leave any chinks."

I didn't look back as Rollo wrapped himself up. I had a tiny gap to see through, a chink as large as one eye. Piloting was a nightmare, I can tell you! The voller hurtled on between the tree trunks.

The black cloud ahead resolved into a multitude of tiny dots. They were birds, sparrow size, with short stubby wings and long tails and beaks—those beaks! They were long and curved and sharp, sharp. If a xichun ventured down here through a gap it would be ripped to pieces. I knew.

And here we were, about to plunge into a furious flock of these ferocious little birds. I drew a breath, lined up the opening between the trees that formed a short aisle, aimed the voller, and hauled the flap of canvas across my eye.

In the next heartbeat the voller rang and resounded with the violence of hundreds of enraged little birds hurling themselves at us.

Chapter eleven

Sharp points thrust through folds of the canvas. I felt the blasted little prickings all over my body. These little frightfuls had beaks as sharp as one of Seg's arrow points! That made me think that Rollo the Runner at this rate of punishment might never get to Vallia and stroll through the glades of lisehn trees, from which the fine Vallian bowstaves are built.

I jumped and twitched as the beaks stuck into my flesh. But the canvas and the furs held off most of the length of the curved beaks. Mostly these birds caught and ate the small living things on the trunks, and insects hiding in the cracks of the bark. As for the xichun, they could drive the big lizards mad with their torments. And, if we weren't out of it quickly, so they would us.

All this time my mental clepsydra had been counting off the passing murs. We must have reached the end of that aisle through which I had set our course. I had to take another look out. I had to throw back the flap of canvas so I could see, and that meant the deadly little birds could thrust their beaks straight into my eye. By Makki Grodno's own suppurating and dangling eyeballs! I said to myself. Not zigging likely!

The dagger I'd taken from poor old Lin snugged into my hand. I held it up before my eye, cutting edge forward. Then, with my other hand I carefully lifted aside the flap of canvas. I stared past the dagger into the gloom under the canopy and at once tiny bodies were hurling themselves at my face, crazily beating at what they saw as a threat, smashing into the upright dagger. Many of them were cut and slid aside. I had to ignore all that uproar. I had to see where the tree trunks were and where the next aisle lay. The dagger shook in my fist so great was the pressure. The trunks lined out a trifle to the right. The dagger could not be lowered. So I humped around like an Eskimo and got my left hand down to the controls and still a fold of canvas buckled above my eye so that I could see past the dagger. Lining up the voller with the aisle between the tree trunks and dropping the canvas flap back took only moments. I let the dagger sag down. I felt as drained of energy as though I'd swum the Cyphren Sea.

After that, only a short time elapsed before the sound of small bodies striking the voller died away. No more sharp little beaks thrust their tips through the canvas armor. Now I could hear a constant cheep-cheep from the deck abaft the control position.

Faintly, muffled, a voice said: “They've gone!"

“Don't take off your canvas, Rollo! Hold still!"

Just then he gave an almighty yell. I guessed what had happened.

“Wait, wait,” I shouted back.

Now I could open the canvas sufficiently to see properly. No more tiny birds fluttered into my face. The aisle between the trunks petered out and I selected a new course. Then I looked back onto the deck.

The canvas hump was Rollo. A fair number of little birds had become entangled and stuck there, fluttering away like crazy. Others hopped and fluttered about the deck. The moment they flew up high enough they were whisked away aft. Rollo had thrown off his canvas the moment the main attack had ceased and one of these little fellows had stuck him.

“All right, Rollo. Cautiously. And shield your eyes, just in case."

The canvas hump moved as a sluggard moves on a Sunday morning. At last Rollo appeared, staring about, pale-faced.

I said: “Take a look aft, my lad."

He looked.

After a little interval, in which the birds fluttered and flew off, he said: “I cannot feel sorry for Shanks, after what has been said of them, no, by Lingloh! All the same—"

“All the same, these little birds of Paz have defeated a force of Shanks.” This was true. The two flying pinnaces were moving erratically among the trees. One smashed full into a trunk, broke up, fell. Bodies tumbled from it. I wondered what the life here would make of a fresh fish diet.

The other pinnace curved down and went on down and vanished in the shadows of the floor among those gargantuan trunks.

“All praise to the Names!” breathed Rollo. He threw the canvas down and the last of the birds freed themselves. Those stuck in my canvas cleared off as well. We had the voller to ourselves.

“We can keep on south between the trees—until the trees stop.” I eyed Rollo. “Or we can try west out to sea, or up and over the forest."

“The Shanks will be on the coast. We'll have to fly south."

I rather liked the way he'd said ‘fly’ so unaffectedly.

We had come through a nasty ordeal. Now we had to make the most of our chances. It would be necessary to keep an eye on Rollo in case he got the shakes. I had a shrewd idea he would not, since he regarded all this as a mere part of going adventuring. And, if he did, I had the equally shrewd idea he'd get over them sharpish.

The headlong onrush of the voller could now be eased. She cruised along sedately and there was an extraordinary amount of time to change course to avoid those solemn pillars rising to the green heavens.

Away to starboard the mingled rays of the Suns fell through a gap and made the intervening trunks dark bars, edged with color, the spaces between smoking with flittering life, hollow, fading away, on and on, into the tree-barred shadows of the distance.

Both Rollo and myself were impressed by these vistas of immensity concealed beneath a green canopy of leaves. The smell of the brellam forest remained with us in memory in after days, as I know. The many insects flittering in scintillating clouds contrasted with the tall solemnity of the trees. Undersea caverns? No, I do not think so. This strange world beneath the brellam trees’ leaves formed a world of itself, a world apart, a world that owed nothing to any comparison with undersea.

Presently Rollo heaved up a sigh and said: “I famish."

Rather too brightly, I replied: “A capital notion!"

Somberness, stillness, these were the keynotes here.

We ate something or other. I'd slowed the voller well down the scale of her speed range. Usually one does not push an airboat along as fast as she is capable all the time. The general belief at the time was that if you pushed a voller hard, you would materially shorten her life. Hence, pilots cruised whenever possible at optimum speed.

When, at last, we saw we were leaving the true brellam forest and entering the rain forest proper, the jungle, I decided we had to rise. The heat was now considerable, for although Kregen's temperate zones extend far further than Earth's, the Equator is still hot. We sweated, by Krun.

Up we went, finding a gap, and cautiously entering upon the realm of the air above the jungle, we floated up into the brilliance of the Suns.

A rapid and then a second more thorough scanning of three hundred and sixty degrees revealed no distant ominous dots. We had the sky to ourselves.

“Well, now!” exclaimed Rollo. He expanded his chest and looked pleased.

“Well now, young feller-me-lad, is for us to take stock."

I raked out the strongbox Farris had placed in the voller. Whatever its contents, it would have been guarded devotedly by my lads of the Guard Corps. Now my Delia in pursuance of her mysterious errands for the Sisters of the Rose, errands which took her from me as mercilessly as the Star Lords took me from her, had ordered the minting of a special coinage. In various sizes and weights, she had ordered produced gold, silver and bronze coins. Their difference from the normal coinage of Vallia lay in their anonymity. A vacuous face on the obverse, a blurred scene of battle and carnage on the reverse, a few profound words of the universal Kregish—'Honor that which is honorable'—and you had money you could spend anywhere without evoking comment.

As a great trading nation Vallia had access to coinage of many foreign nations. In the strongbox there would be coins from many countries beside the special Delian currency. There were also a reasonable number of Vallian talens, for people would be more likely to be suspicious of a foreign fellow without Vallian coins in his wallet. There were, I was intrigued to see, a goodly number of bronze krads, that patriotic coin minted by the Presidio of Vallia in the Times of Troubles and which formed the main part of the Vallian Freedom Army's wages. I rubbed my thumb over a krad, thinking back...

“Right, sunshine,” I said, rousing myself. “We'll have a share out."

“But—” he began, and fell silent.

“You'll have to learn to handle money circumspectly. If you wish to become a freelancing adventurer upon the face of Kregen, then there are many instructions to master and lessons to learn."

“Well, I'm learning—"

“Assuredly.” I was dividing the coins. I gave him half. I would have liked to have spared him more; but there were two reasons against that.

Stowing the coins away in the worn purse Farris had provided I spotted one coin so badly clipped it was shaped like an egg. It was one of Delia's special minting, what she called her ‘Funny Money'. There had been a ring of dots around the edge. Milling would never deter a good coin clipper of Kregen. Coin clipping in some quarters amounted to a religious obligation.

“You are generous, Drajak—"

“Oh, no. Don't mistake me. You're going to Vallia to study with San Deb-Lu. You can shoot in your bow on holidays."

He gave his condescending half-smile. “We have not yet finished this adventure. Vallia is a long way off as yet."

I didn't choose to answer.

Steadily we flew on devouring the distance and we saw no signs of Shanks. Crossing the desert proved a simple task, so simple as to remind me of the travails the caravan with Mevancy had suffered. Truly, to fly through the air is a great boon to travel! At least, on Kregen.

I said: “I do not think it would be a good idea to land in Makilorn, the capital city of Tsungfaril. We'd attract far too much attention."

“Yes, I see that. But if we land out of the way, how do we—?"

“Precisely. We can touch down on the west bank just before the suns rise, and hide the voller in one of the caves there. Then we'll have to walk in."

He made a face.

“I suppose so."

This, then, was the plan we followed. Nothing untoward happened and we stashed the voller away out of sight and marched in to the River of Drifting Leaves on which stands Makilorn. Here I stood no nonsense from the ferrymen, indicating to them that I'd been ferried across the river before and would pay only the prescribed price. Because Mevancy had been swindled on this point I called her pigeon, as she called me cabbage.

By our tunics we were clearly foreigners,[7] for hereabouts just about everyone wore the yellow or ochre colored gown and cloak of the desert. The heat was oppressive, lying like a leaden blanket, and wind or no wind there seemed always to be dust hanging in the air, flat on the tongue. I directed our steps to the Mishuro villa, for San Lunky Mishuro was one of us, in the conspiratorial business, even if, as a Diviner, attempting to stand aloof from our more devious goings on.

[7 The Kregish word for stranger is autmoil. A.B.A.]

The guard was unfamiliar to me; a silver coin and a curt word saw my message passed in via the Deldar. Very quickly the Deldar returned, calling: “Pass Drajak the Sudden through. The san commands!"

So, in we went into the courtyard under the shade trees and here came Lunky, hurrying along to meet us. He did not look just the same. He had grown, filling his new office as a Diviner, fuller in the face, more assured. “Drajak!” he exclaimed, bustling forward. “Where in the name of Lohrhiang the Unfathomable have you been?"

“As to that, Lunky, I wish I knew. Although, to be sure, Tsung Tan will know.” I gave him the Lahal and added: “You must ask San Chandro for the true explanation."

Now I was most anxious to know if our plotting had succeeded. I'd been snatched up by that fumble-tentacled Scorpion at the moment when we were escaping with Queen Leone, not having killed her. Now, was Kirsty firmly on the throne, the malefactors put down, everything going to plan?

Quickly Lunky sketched in the details of what had occurred whilst I'd been away. Yes, indeed, Kirsty was queen, and listened with great attention to Chandro. The fortunes of the party led by Shang-Li-Po were cast down. There was trouble in the west, out of Tarankar, and thither Kuong, Llodi and Mevancy had gone. I had half-guessed they'd be off to where the trouble lay; still, I was disappointed to have missed them.

“They have gone to Kuong's trylonate of Taranik. The queen collects an army to follow them. You will join that army, Drajak?"

He sounded wistful. I said: “Mistress Telsi thrives?"

“We are to be married as soon—” he spread the fingers of his left hand “—as soon as convenient. Affairs press hard."

I said: “You have your work here, Lunky. Fighting is not the way your life has been ordained.” I did not forget the way he'd tried to protect Telsi, the way he'd ridden back for Mevancy and me.

“To the glory of Tsung-Tan."He brisked up. I made the pappattu between him and Rollo, and he went on to say that it was time for a meal. Being good Kregans, we did not disagree. We went into the villa to a very fine meal, and Telsi was gracious and charming, and I started to itch at what I considered sinful delays. A fellow has to eat, true, by Krun! But, after that, he must get down to work. I looked at Rollo the Runner in some sorrow; still, the dastardly deed must be done. One thing was sure, I didn't want him stowing away again.

All work and no play may well make Jack a dull fellow; all play and no work assuredly makes Jack insufferable.

“You will go up to see San Chandro at the palace?” Lunky handed across the silver dish of palines as he spoke.

I shook my head. “I'd like to; but there is no time even for that civility. I must get off to Taranik.” I turned to Rollo. “There will be an invasion very soon, an invasion of a different sort from the damned Shanks. You are hereby appointed liaison officer. You will—"

“I am flying with you to Taranik."

“You will take care of the Guard Corps. You will explain just who Drajak the Sudden is, and why his name is Drajak."

Mistress Telsi, half-pouting, said brightly: “Why is anyone's name what it is? Why, then, Drajak, are you Drajak the Sudden?"

I laughed in a casual way, deflecting the question. “Oh, I suppose I'm too quick at times."

“Thankfully so,” breathed Lunky.

“I still think I ought to come with you—"

I cut him off brutally. “What clothes do they wear over in the west?” I popped a paline. “In Taranik, say, or Tarankar?"

“Very similar to ours. Desert robes—oh, I see!” Lunky gave my tunic a stare. “Yes, that would not do."

Telsi bustled about and outfitted me and, as Zair is my witness, I thought of Thelda and her busy bustling ways, and sighed, and came back to the present. Rollo was sulking. I knew very well I would have to slip away. Well, I'd had enough practice at that game, avoiding the fanatically loyal attention of my lads in the various jurukker regiments.

Rollo's fascination with my Guard Corps did not surprise me. Any body of folk of that nature hold and demand interest.

In the course of conversation one thing Rollo said interested me. His opinion, from what little he had already seen of Tsungfaril and Makilorn, was that these people were far less apathetic than those of Walfarg. This did not cheer me up. By Zair! These people needed a sharp pointy stick applied to their rear ends to get them moving in ways outside their own obsessions with going to their paradise of Gilium. There was no secret that Queen Kirsty's army would be almost entirely mercenaries.

That sharp pointy stick would be applied—mercilessly—by the Shanks.

Lunky offered Rollo the hospitality of the Mishuro villa. “This is somewhat different, my fine feller-me-lad, from our time in Hinjanchung."

“That is due to the generosity of you and your friends. Still—” he waved an airy hand. “Still, I shall not be staying here."

I compressed my lips. Well, he would have to be dumped, that's all.

In the event that was exactly what I did. I ascertained more information about the west, brought myself up to date on what the current situation was—all of which will be related in due time—and that evening slipped quietly out of the Mishuro villa by a well-remembered back way.

Silver paid my passage across the river. I was at the cave and bringing the voller out long before Rollo, even had he realized I'd gone—which a cunning half-lie had prevented—could have followed.

With that leaping spring of a fine flier under me I soared up into the night sky of Kregen, fleeing due west in the streaming golden pink radiance of She of the Blushes.

Chapter twelve

Through the apple green and rose pink of a splendid Kregen morning the voller soared on westwards. A voice at my back said: “So there you are!"

Slowly, I turned from the controls to look back, slowly, for the boiling fury inside me had to be contained. He stood there, not smiling and not frowning but wearing a sorrowful expression designed to cut me to the quick. His lower body shimmered and was not fully realized. His upper body seemed to float lopsidedly about and small curly blue flames lapped it in a waver of fire.

“You beastly, ungrateful, conniving hulu! You—you—” He could not go on. He was panting. His lupal projection showed that clearly enough.

The relief must have showed on my face, for just as I was about to speak he burst out: “By Lingloh! I see you are overjoyed to be rid of me!"

In a voice perhaps harsher than I meant, I said: “You have a job to do. I did not ask you to come adventuring with me. But as you have volunteered yourself for the task then you must buckle down to all of it."

“Oh, yes! I am to wet-nurse a gang of your jurukkers whilst you go flying off into wonderful adventures—"

He saw the lash of genuine anger in me as I ripped out: “So you really think I want to go flying off like this?” The bitterness in my words made his lupal projection flinch back. “Don't you think I'd far rather be at home, like any sensible person?"

He recovered himself from that blast of bitter anger. “Perhaps. Not everyone wants to skulk by the hearth—"

“You have a great deal to learn, Rollo. I just pray you stay alive to learn it."

All the same, there was truth in what he said. The trouble was not so much that I was flying off into some kind of adventure, as that I did not have Delia to share the excitements with me. That I'd never dream of taking her with me now, into the perils I foresaw ahead, was beside the point. Adventure, as I have said, is great on your own, when you can expand the chest and breathe the wonderful air of Kregen—even if down here in Tsungfaril a slick of sandy dust seemed always to film your tongue. And adventure with a few blade comrades is splendidly fine. It is the quality and intent of this so-called adventuring that dictates its values.

Maybe he saw some of that in my face, for he said somewhat surlily: “I intend to stay alive to my full allotment of seasons, thank you."

His image began to break up. As he'd admitted, his command of his own kharrna was still erratic. His kharrna would, one day, under the tutelage of Deb-Lu, become the powerful force it was in my comrade Wizards of Loh and then, like them, he could project his image in so concrete a form as to fool onlookers that he really was there.

“Remberee—” he called, and I replied as the last vestige of him winked out.

Just for a moment, when he'd first spoken, I'd thought he'd sneaked aboard as he had before. I let out a breath. Even then, even then, it would have been childish of me to have been surprised. Wizards of Loh could perform prodigies of sorcery, by Zair!

Flying on smoothly through the wine-rich Kregen air I passed over territory that looked distinctly uninviting. Now I was flying over true desert. For dwabur after dwabur rolling sand dunes stretched to the horizon in every direction. This was your genuine Sahara desert, right enough.

A touch on the controls sent the flier climbing. Higher up, that flat dusty taste on the tongue vanished, the heat diminished—although not by much, by Krun!—and conditions improved. As far as I could see the rippling dunes of unsullied sand stretched away to the horizons.

From Makilorn due west, after passing Orphasmot, the only centers of settled habitation were the oases. I flew past two in relatively quick succession, Claransmot and Hanjhin, and then the desert showed nothing until I reached Taranik. Here I felt it necessary to descend to enquire after my friends.

The appearance of an airboat in this cut-off place aroused tremendous interest not unmixed with a quantity of religious superstition. Only for a few moments were vague fears that I might be mobbed by a panic-stricken and vindictive mob viable; then the Crebent Kuong had left in charge shouldered through the mob. He was a fine-looking man with a mop of black hair, a robe more bright yellow than ochre, and a large sword hanging at his side. His face showed the lines of care and authority. Quickly I made the pappattu and was able to give this T'sien-Fu news, for they were awaiting momentarily the arrival of the next caravan. He expressed regret that Queen Leone was dead, and in so hideous a manner, and said that he had heard of Kirsty, the new queen. He shook his head in ignorance of the whereabouts of his Lord, Trylon Kuong, knowing only that Kuong had gone to Makilorn. He'd never heard of Mevancy nal Chardaz, or of Llodi the Voice.

Although the absence of Mevancy was annoying, I felt relief that I wouldn't have to go through the same rigmarole with her as I'd had to suffer with Rollo. Crebent T'sien-Fu pressed me to accept the hospitality he could offer. As for the oasis of Taranik itself, do not imagine one of those little palm fringed water holes of the desert. The place was called an oasis because it was just that, a source of water in the desert; it stretched around a lake for something like twenty five by twenty miles. Taranik with its regular cultivated fields and herds of animals was much more like the great oases on the Silk Road of Central Asia.

In addition, and pleasantly enough, the people tended to wear brighter clothes than the utilitarian ochre desert robes. Their houses of stucco with thick walls and small windows reflected the tented dwellings of these folk when they'd been nomads. This made me think that the desert must have been the result of severe climatic disturbances. No nomads would be very happy wandering about the desert over which I'd just flown. Truly, the marvels of Kregen are never ending.

Many of the girls wore headdresses of silver coins threaded together. I gathered these were their dowries, handed down from mother to daughter. They were called, not altogether accurately, reedkhansixes, and the bright coins enhanced the bright liveliness of the maidens’ faces. There was a distinctly more brisk feeling here than back in the main areas of Tsungfaril.

All the same, I felt it would be criminal of me to stay, even for a short visit. Regretfully, I declined Crebent T'sien-Fu's kind offer and climbed back into the flier, observing the fantamyrrh as I did so, thinking that this simple everyday act would help to demystify airboats for these people. With the shouts of “Remberee!” ringing in the air, the voller sprang upwards and I shot her into a steep climb towards the west.

As I have remarked before, all of Kregen is not hostile and horrible; there are friendly simple folk to be found all over that marvelous world.

The desert waste to the west became, if it were possible, even worse.

Towards evening, with Luz and Walig declining ahead of me in sheets and streamers of flame, viridian and crimson vying to paint the sky in a welter of colors, I made out on the far horizon a dark streak all across the land. At the same time I realized that to obtain this flung paint-box of color required clouds. There were clouds ahead. And, if I was not too mistaken, that dark line, rapidly broadening as I approached, must be vegetation. As though to confirm on the instant those thoughts, the declining suns touched with streamers of fire the course of a river wending from the north across my path towards the south.

The geographical situation here, then, would be a reasonably usual one. On this eastern bank of the river—whose name I had been told varied along its length and was here called She of the Sundering—the desert would form a sandy fringe; on the western bank the irrigations and cultivations would begin.

Kregen's first moon, The Maiden with the Many Smiles, lifted at my back, flushed rosy pink in the last of the sunsets. She would curve around over my right shoulder and remain shedding her fuzzy pink light so that it would be somewhat difficult to call this night a time of darkness. In view of this I decided to press on.

In addition, the Twins would soon be up, and then it would be very light indeed.

Despite this abundance of night-time illumination, any good Kregen relishes plenty of light shining upon his doings—those who do not, for various reasons, clearly do not qualify. That gave me the ironic thought that I did not always relish the searching beam of light upon my activities, no, by Krun!

So I was not at all surprised to see the dots of fire shining up from the ground beneath.

Now I had to make a decision.

I was here to do a job. Because of the perils of the situation, that task entailed the taking of risks. There was no other way—at least, that I could fathom out—in which I could do what I had come to do without a certain amount of risk.

On that somber note I nosed the voller down.

I made a good landing on soft ground encompassed by many small bushes. I sat in the voller waiting for a bur or so and after about an hour of Earthly time had passed decided that none of the folk around the camp fires had seen the airboat descend.

Wearing desert robes, with swords strapped to my sides and a longbow over my back, I set off.

Because of previous experience I fancied I had a good idea of just who the people were around the camp fires.

The direction to take had been committed to memory, for down on the ground not a wink of fire was to be seen from the camp.

Here in Loh folk were still totally unused to the concept of air power.

And, as you will readily perceive, this thought did nothing to cheer me.

They were keeping a good lookout after their own fashion. Pink shadows ran before me, the bushes thickened and clumped, and a few trees lifted above the general level. I spotted a wink of metal in one tree. I could feel a lump in the dryness of my throat.

Halting, I called out: “Llahal, doms!"

A sharp voice rapped back: “Hold still! Do not move if you value your life!"

“Oh, I value it,” I called back. “Still, I trust you will not keep me waiting here long."

They rose from the ground before me. A rope whistled around my legs and before I could pitch over they'd grabbed me. Well, if you start off by taking risks, you must continue without flinching.

Carried along like a badly wrapped bundle I was hurried into the firelight where they could take a better look at me.

They were what I'd expected, and yet, subtle differences made me imagine—hope, even—that they were better than I'd expected.

They were desperadoes. That was perfectly plain. They wore old clothes, scraps of armor, were all heavily armed, men and women alike. There were many diffs among them although apims remained in the majority.

They did not share the lassitude of the folk of Walfarg, still enervated all this time after the loss of their empire, or the apathy of the people of Tsungfaril obsessed with their dreams of the paradise of Gilium. In connection with the hopes of Gilium it is worth remarking that if you had no real hope of ascending into paradise through crime you tended to be somewhat brisker than your co-religionists. This had been noticeable in the gang led by Kei-Wo the Dipensis in Makilorn. It was generally believed their hopes of salvation lay in some munificent amnesty of Tsung-Tan.

A lantern flashed in my face.

“Shove the shint up here where we can take a good look."

I was hoisted to my feet and plunked down on a bench. They crowded around, bristling with weapons, hairy, scaly, warty, the light striking menacing reflections from eyes and teeth and fangs.

“By the Healing Spittle of the True Trog Himself! He's an ugly customer!"

The woman who spoke was bold and brassy, yellow of hair, swarthy of face, with enormous golden earrings. She wore a mail shirt and carried no less than three swords girt around her ample waist. Her feet, shod in good leather boots, and her legs, bare and brown, spread in an arrogant stance of accustomed command.

“Lahal, mistress,” I began politely.

“I am the Kovneva Layla nal Borrakesh and you call me my lady, or I'll have your tongue out!"

“My lady kovneva,” I said, again as politely as I could.

“Well, ragamo, tell us your name, where you're from and what you want spying us. After that we'll think of a way of sending you to the Death Jungles of Sichaz."

I shook my head. Ragamo—or ragama for a woman—is a kind of general insult usually employed when you're not sure if the person you are addressing is a real shint, or just a hulu or a fambly. Insults are nicely graded in Paz on Kregen. This kovneva employed the term to make sure I understood her position and power.

I said: “Far from spying on you I walked up and called out."

Someone at the back yelled: “He did, by the Lustrous Hair of the True Trog Himself!"

I went on: “I have come to Tarankar to kill Shanks."

That stopped them dead in their tracks. There was utter silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of this kovneva woman.

Presently, she said, in an altered voice: “Then you have come to seek your death, hulu. The Shanks rule all in Tarankar."

“So I am told. In my country we have fought battles with Shanks, and defeated them, killing many and forcing the miserable survivors to flee."

Shouts rose at this: “He lies! He lies!"

“We too have fought the Schtarkins,” she said when she could be heard. “We lost."

“Yet you are here, armed and armored. You are not slave."

“We have made a pact that we will all die sooner than that."

“That I well believe. But I must go on and discover things about these Fish Heads—"

“All that is necessary to know is to avoid them."

Continuing in as even a voice as I could contrive I went on speaking as though she had not interrupted.

“I need to know their strengths, their weapons, their airboats, their weaknesses—"

She gave a curt, hurtful laugh. “You mention airboats and then you prattle like a loon about weaknesses. The Shanks have no weaknesses."

“Yet we have beaten them in great battles."

“Well, they beat us in little battles."

I fixed my gaze on her, glaring into her eyes.

“Do you believe me, my lady kovneva?"

More shouts lifted at this, some for, some against. Layla nal Borrakesh sucked in a breath. “I must think on this. You will not be killed; at least, not yet."

A Khibil pushed forward, very arrogant, very superior. His clever foxy face with the bristling red whiskers was contorted into a snarl.

“My lady. Ask the shint how long ago he left the camp of Nath the Ron!"

A chorus of howls and shrieks followed this and the Khibil brushed up his whiskers in an access of self-confident cleverness.

The kovneva raised a hand and a modicum of quietness returned.

“Well, shint? When did you last see Nath the Ron?"

“Never heard of the fellow. Now, I really must—"

The uproar burst out again at this. It took no great genius to guess this Nath the Ron was the leader of a gang like the kovneva's and that the two were rivals.

The rope around me was becoming a nuisance. I took my left arm from the grip of the Brokelsh holding it and started to strip the rope away.

He tried to hit me. I lifted my left foot from the bench and kicked him—not too hard—on the nose, whereat he started a tremendous blowing and spluttering and, I am only half-sorry to report, a smidgen of blood dribbled down.

“He's escaping!” shouted the Khibil.

“I'm not, you stupid onker!” I bellowed at him.

The kovneva took a step back. The fellow grasping my right arm, a Thanko with a frizz of dark hair like a dirty mop and a long drooping nose, also stepped back, releasing me. I stretched. I looked at Layla nal Borrakesh and something of that old Dray Prescot Devil Look flashed into my face.

“Just listen, you bunch of famblys!” I used my foretop hailing voice. “I am here to fight the Shanks. I am not here to become embroiled in your petty quarrels. You can fight Nath the Ron if you wish. I cannot wish you well of it, for you and Ron Nath should join forces to help me fight and overthrow the Shanks until not a single Fish Head is left in Tarankar!"

Well, it was bombastic, boastful, things that are strange to Dray Prescot. I judged these things were needful at this time.

I suppose that just about the only thing in my favor was that I wasn't a Shank.

Indecision clouded Layla nal Borrakesh's face. Some of the others were arguing vehemently among themselves. Whatever they decided, I had decided that I would not hang about here. I'd make a run for it. Bowmen of Loh though many of them were, I'd damn-well outdodge their arrows.

The Khibil would have none of it.

He stepped forward as others stepped back, arguing. His whiskers fairly bristled up at me.

“I am Orlon Farantino, known as the Rekarder. You have not yet given your name or station. That is beside the point.” He tried to keep his voice even and icily menacing but the words tended to shrill out with the force of his passionate fury. “I say you lie, shint! You lie!"

“If you wish to fight me in the Hyr Jikordur you are going to be disappointed.” I spoke in a growly surly way, very contemptuous. “Keep your own station, Farantino, and don't stick your nose in where it's not wanted."

He gasped. One of his swords hissed from its scabbard. He rushed forward, face congested.

Somewhere the kovneva woman was shouting and people were yelling. The Khibil might be quick and strong; he'd certainly be clever. He tried to make a proper attack of it, holding his own anger in control so that he didn't just blindly hurl forward trying to stick me without finesse.

Very quickly I twisted and slipped that thrust, trapped his sword arm between my arm and side, reached down and grasped his throat in my other hand. I twisted his arm a trifle, and squeezed his throat a little. The face that had been black with anger transformed under the torchlights into an interesting color, of old boots, and beetroots, and moldy cheese.

I spoke directly into that remarkable visage.

“You ask my name, dom. I will tell you, so that you may not forget. Or, I shall tell you the name you are permitted to know.” His mouth was hanging open, the bottom lip loose, and spittle drooled down. I gave him another shake, just to remind him. His free arm remained dangling—he was a Khibil and was clever enough to know what would happen to him if he tried to use that free arm and fist to hit me.

“I am Chaadur na Dorfu, known as Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril.” The bench gave me height over the others and I stared around as I spoke this name, having no difficulty inventing it on the spot, as I had used the name Chaadur on previous occasions. I put venom into my voice. “You call me master, lord, lynxor, prince; you do not speak until you are given permission."

I threw him away.

Well, as I stared around at those emotion-filled faces in the lights of the fires and the torches and saw the glitter in eyeball and on teeth and fang, saw the fists curling around sword hilts and bowstaves, well, I said to myself, Dray Prescot, my boy, you've put on a good show—but is it good enough? Is this the time to run?

The question was immediately made superfluous.

A woman stumbling in her skirts ran into the firelights, screaming, screaming. “Nath the Ron! Nath the—” She tumbled forward and everyone could see the tall feathered shaft sticking up from the centre of her back.

Chapter thirteen

The scattering of these outlaws took place in the twinkling of an eye. One minute they were clustered about me standing on the bench and the next the firelight shone upon trampled grass and camp impedimenta.

An arrow went flick! past my ear, so the time had come to depart.

As I ran away from the nearest fire the sounds of combat flowered up beyond a clump of trees ahead. I had absolutely no desire to get mixed up in this petty squabble—as I had told these people—so I angled away from the trees, making for a line of bushes.

Of course, I had chosen the bushes where Nath the Ron's Bowmen were lurking.

Half a dozen arrows flew past, for I was dodging and jinking. The situation had abruptly turned sour. By Vox, I could get myself killed here!

In the open as I was, it would be foolish to turn around and run off in the other direction. The firelight would pick me up and the shafts would unerringly find their target. I hauled out my sword, whirled it over my head—just the once, just to reinforce the image of Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril—then went slap bang into the bushes.

The sword flicked three arrows away in the superb discipline of the Krozairs of Zy. Now I could see the Bowmen, stumbling back through the gaps between the bushes, trying to nock arrows and shoot me at the same time they wanted to run off. I let rip a roaring brutish fantastical kind of shout, a scream of berserk anger, and charged.

The archers scampered off, and two of the famblys dropped their bows.

Quickly hauling up and looking about I saw men and women struggling past the line of bushes, rushing at one another, a maddened mob of crazies fighting in a confused melee, a crowd of mob anger.

I felt the distaste. This was no place for me. Carefully looking about, for I did not want a hidden archer to shaft me, I started to edge off out of the firelight. At one time I'd imagined these outlaws would prove of value. Well, they still might. As of now they were useless. If they did not exterminate themselves first, the Shanks would surely catch up with them. Those camp fires...

I turned about.

“By Makki-Grodno's disgusted distended guts and gouty legs!” I said to myself. “Why do I have to worry my head about them?"

The answer to that, as you will readily perceive, is obvious.

Using what skills of skulking I possess—and whilst you may not believe Dray Prescot does much skulking in the general way of things, if you have followed my narrative, you will know I am a capital skulker—I kept out of trouble. Every now and then I had to thump somebody who challenged me. Usually they had just staggered out of the fight, dazed, and were seeking their way back. I killed no one. I thumped alike the members of Layla's gang and the members of Nath's gang.

Eventually I spotted her. She was prancing about with a sword in each fist, dodging from side to side of a tree trunk. The fellow she was fighting was thin as a broomstick, tall, clad in a fantastic costume, all tassels and slashes, loops of cord and rivulets of gold lace. His face was apim, but it bore a remarkable resemblance to a cunning monkey. These two thus battled isolated from the rest of the fight. The thin fellow's hair showed a dark flash of red when a torchlight fell upon it. He, too, wielded two swords. Around and around the tree this couple went, and who was chasing who you couldn't say. There were a few bodies on the ground nearby and I hoped they were not dead bodies.

“You treacherous cur, Nath,” the kovneva was panting out.

“You faithless besom,” the man panted back.

“I never was!” and clink clang went the swords.

“I know. You cannot deceive me. That prancing shint Farantino—"

“Never!” She slashed with her left sword and tried to thrust with her right. Nath blocked the first blow and deflected the second. He thrust back and I stepped between them and struck up their weapons.

“What a pair of hulus!” I stared at them with a look of vast contempt, which was very easy to muster. I twirled their swords around in a swift hook and clutch and they flew up into the air, all four. “Now listen to me, the pair of you. By Chusto! I ought to put you over my knee and tan the hide off you. First of all, shout to your people to stop this stupid fight!” I bore down on them. “Bratch!"

They jumped.

Of course they tried to argue and I shouted at them, not forgetting to tell them to remember to call me prince or lord or they'd regret it.

Eventually after a great deal of confusion we had it sorted out.

I strutted about, waving my sword, giving orders, lining up each side between the fires. Oh, yes, I, Dray Prescot, acted like some pompous self-important numbskull of a princeling. I'd judged these people, and as I talked to them in a fierce growly way I knew I had read them aright.

They were nothing like real outlaws. Rather, they were law-abiding and had run off from the Shank invasion. They wore armor and swords without much knowledge of their use—I judged the Khibil Farantino to be the most useful fighter. Luckily for Nath's gang Farantino had been out of it, and four people only had been killed, although a number were wounded, mostly bruises, for unless you have some skill it is difficult, despite romances to the contrary, to slice someone up with a sword.

I planted myself before this tall thin lath of a fellow. His red hair showed up well in the firelight. I eyed him up and down.

“So you are the Kov of Borrakesh.” I turned to his wife at his side. “And you are the Kovneva of Borrakesh. Well, by the Healing Spittle of the True Trog Himself, you are a right pair of famblys."

The sweet scent of a night bloom wafted from the bushes. The Moons wheeled by overhead, and one of Kregen's little lesser moons hurtled past like a flaming arrow across the heavens. And these two stared at each other as I left off castigating them. I finished: “For your stupid love quarrel has killed these four people and injured others. You should be damned well ashamed of yourselves. Utterly ashamed, by Chozputz!"

At that point the Khibil Farantino staggered back to the firelight. I grabbed him by an ear and ran him up to Nath. I shook the miserable Khibil.

“The lady swears Farantino is nothing. If you do not believe her I shall be forced to defend her honor as her champion and challenge you. Do you understand, Kov Nath?"

Layla's gasp was perfectly audible to me. I wondered what that gasp meant. Instantly, I understood, for she burst out: “Nath! You would be killed!"

He inclined his head. “There is no need for that, prince. I do believe, fully and completely. I was blinded by jealousy."

“Spoken like a true lord,” I said. “Now we can all be friends. Is there a wet in the house?"

Someone laughed. Jugs were produced and we sat on the benches and logs to quench our thirsts. I said: “I was going to leave you. I came back to warn you that your fires are visible from the air. They can be seen for a long way. And you know the Shanks use airboats."

As they digested that, I reflected that one person, at least, of the two gangs would not be friendly to me. Orlon Farantino the Rekarder would slip a knife into my back if he had the opportunity with the best will in the world. That meant that Chaadur na Dorfu, Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril, would not turn his back on the Khibil.

Answering what I had said, Nath said: “How can we light fires and not have them seen by these Shank airboats?"

“This is a problem faced by any army opposed by airpower."

“We could weave leaves overhead,” said Layla. “The smoke would—"

“And they'd see the light through the gaps!” Nath shook his head.

“I have no reliable method,” I informed them. “I must leave the solution of the problem to you. Probably you can screen smaller fires you need for cooking. After that, use the Moons."

“Yes,” said Layla. “That is one way."

After that they wanted to know about me. Now, do not imagine that the members of these two gangs, split by the lover's quarrel of their lord and lady, would abruptly forget and forgive all the hurts between them. There were still scores to be settled. More than one quarrel had to be nipped in the bud before it started the fighting again. So I was able to be casual about myself, interrupting my pack of lies by seizing two antagonists by their hair and dragging them apart.

“Prince Chaadur,” said Kov Nath na Borrakesh, very formal. “I offer you my thanks for what you have accomplished. Also, and my lady concurs, we offer our services in your fight against the Shanks."

I breathed in and I breathed out.

I managed a Dray Prescot grimacing smile.

I had made a start!

Chapter fourteen

Nath the Ron slid down from the line of bushes cresting the bank. After a last searching look along the road, I followed him.

“Well?"

“The fish convoy,” he said, and his monkey-like face wrinkled up in anticipation.

“There were twelve carts, mostly pulled by mytzers or Quoffas. I counted thirty-three guards—"

“I made it thirty. That seems a more rounded number."

“There were three at the tail end, archers, hidden by the last cart who came into view after you slid down the bank."

“Ah!” He shook his head. “Truly, this banditry is a business a fellow must learn as he learns his rote lessons at school."

I didn't mention that a mistake at school might mean a flogging; a mistake at banditry could result in you being shorter by a head or dancing on air.

Away to our left past a stand of trees lay the ruins of a town and on its thither outskirts the Shanks had built a small fort. The garrison had to be provisioned, and as the Fish Heads ate mostly fish, that had to be brought up from the coast. Kovneva Layla had told me that she believed the Schtarkins either couldn't or wouldn't eat fresh fish. Here, at least, was a small chink in their apparently invincible armor. I stared upwards as I lay beside Nath and the others, waiting for the sounds of the convoy to reach us. Up there the sky hung limpid and serene with a few wispy scraps of vapor struggling to coalesce into a real cloud. The day was fine and warm, and from the bank the rich scents of rustic blooms would, in normal circumstances, have formed a happy accompaniment to a merry picnic. I looked upwards for one reason alone; to see if there were any damned black-hulled fliers circling up there. All the information we had indicated the Shanks were seriously short of airboats, and those they had were normally occupied on patrol duties. It was not, Layla indicated, in the Shanks’ character to employ grand and costly airboats to ferry fish.

Now the shush and thump of hooves reached us. I looked along the line of men behind the bank. They were a vastly different bunch from the pathetic desperadoes I'd first met in the gangs of Nath and Layla. They had done this before. I'd shouted at them. We had taken in recruits. Now we commanded more than two hundred men and women of diverse races.

Of course, most of them were still amateurs. They were learning. After all, this was very much how the jurukkers of my Emperor's Sword Watch had begun. We had a few old hands. They'd explained a great deal when they told me that the professionals of Tarankar, the army and mercenaries, had fought the Shanks and had either been killed, captured or dispersed. Very few were left alive. The king and queen of the ruling race of diffs, those same riffims who had caused so much trouble for Trylon Kuong in Taranik, had been mercilessly butchered along with all the royal family. Shanks now lorded it in forsaken Tarankar.

The beautiful Fristle fifi on my other side started to crawl up the bank to the crest. I grabbed a delightfully formed ankle and hauled her down. She slid back and at once turned her face with those enormous eyes on me with a fierce look.

“Fan-Si,” I said, using my best imitation of a catman's hiss, “sit still!"

“Oh, you—” she said, and an image of Mevancy ghosted into my mind. “I want to get at them! They killed my mother and father and took away my brother! You—"

“We cannot attack until they have passed the kovneva."

She flicked her silver-gray tail. She was careful, though, not to overdo the normal Fristle fifi's sense of playfulness. She did not flick me with that enchanting tail, remembering I was a prince. Ha! She went on: “And how can you tell when they have passed the kovneva?"

“By listening—if you close those pretty lips."

She pouted. “You can tell by listening?"

“When certain charming fifis allow me to, Fan-Si."

Nath broke in: “Fan-Si! Shastum!"

At this direct command from the kov to keep silent, Fan-Si subsided.

The creak of carts and the rolling of wheels, the thump of hooves, drew nearer. One day Fan-Si would learn how to judge distances accurately by sound. Well, they say man sows for Zair to sickle. When the noise drew abreast of me I counted in my head to a hundred and fifty. Then I said, in a very quiet voice: “Now, Nath."

“Thank the Bright Eyes of the True Trog Himself!” He stood up and waved his arms.

Instantly the whole line of men and women rose up, hurled themselves up the bank. The Bowmen picked targets and started to loose. I went up fast, took in the situation, saw a clump of Shanks between two carts and went headlong down at them. I brandished my sword, a pretty useless activity I am not prone to but one I judged effective here. Nath was with me. Shanks were falling as the long Lohvian arrows pierced them. The uproar bellowed into the sky, screams and shrieks of pain and rage. Dust smoked underfoot.

We reached the Shanks who had taken cover from the arrows. Their tridents looked sharp and unpleasant. They were shrilling their warcries.

“Ishti!Ishti!"

Apart from a few other words of command, those were the only words of the Shank language the folk of Paz understood. I heard one of the Fish Heads hissing: “Shoot the archers! Shoot the archers!"

My sword came down and thrust forward, slipping a trident, and finishing up in a fishman's guts. Instantly I withdrew, ducking and whirling, and hacking at the next. Nath was roaring and bellowing and striking about wildly. Fan-Si was there, very prettily dropping to a rounded knee and striking up like a risslaca. Her opponent dropped his trident, clasping his scaly stomach. He fell down and Fan-Si jumped on his face.

An arrow streamed in over my shoulder and a Shank with his short little bow reeled back, the shaft through one fishy eye.

At the tail of the convoy Kovneva Layla led her party in, preventing escape, and at the front the Khibil, Farantino, blocked off further advance.

Fan-Si was up again, running fleetly after a Shank trying to crawl under a cart. If he thought he was safe there he was mightily mistaken.

Nath and Fan-Si grasped a foot each and hauled him out. The Fristle fifi struck first, mercilessly driving her sword down and through the fishman's neck above the rim of his scaled armor. He flopped.

Nath was panting, his monkey-face brilliant.

“Are there any left?” I bellowed. “Look carefully, fanshos!"

We looked. No Shanks lived.

The drivers sat huddled on their seats, the reins limp in their hands.

Only two of them had been shafted, and these were both Rapas. The others, mostly apims, Fristles, Ochs, with a single Brokelsh, sat dumbly.

I shouted at them, making myself vehement. “We will not slay you!"

The Brokelsh, all black body hair and surly, called: “We were made slave! We did not volunteer!"

This I believed.

“Get up on the carts,” I shouted, very commanding, very brisk. “Let's get moving! Bratch!"

Those of our gang detailed to take over the carts obeyed. The others helped turn the wagons around with much pushing and shoving, and then we all went thumping and creaking back down the road. Two dwaburs on we turned off into a narrow overgrown sidetrack. This led to the forest where we'd set up our headquarters in this section of Tarankar. We'dleft the scrubby eastern areas and were now approaching the main part of the country. As we marched along these people were busily engaged in bargaining and exchanging the spoils of the recent fight. We'd collected up all the tridents as a matter of principle; it was noticeable that despite the acknowledged effectiveness of the Shank weapon, no one particularly cared to take and use a trident for themselves.

Not only those detailed to the task but just about everyone kept scanning the sky.

My harshness over proper aerial surveillance, my brutal examples of what could happen if people wandered along staring at their feet, had at last paid dividends. Now our little band was extremely airpower conscious.

As the first leaves closed over our heads and the sounds of the forest floated from every direction between the trees and the smells took on that different aroma from those of the open country, I called cheerfully: “Let's have a song or three. Larghos the Throstle! A lead, if you please."

Larghos the Throstle possessed a fine voice and he led off at once with ‘The Milkmaid's Song’ and we all roared the choruses. After that we had ‘Happy the Day of the Shearing’ and then ‘The Well that Never Ran Dry'.

Catching sight of Farantino I noticed he was not singing. His lips were clamped tightly shut. The expression on his face reaffirmed my decision not to turn my back on the Khibil.

Our camp was a simple affair. We regarded the forest as home. Patrols and sentries at all times kept watch. Only twice had parties of Shanks attempted to penetrate to any depth in the forest. On the first occasion they had stumbled about for half an afternoon, found nothing, and cleared off.

The second occasion, apart from being more effective, was saddened for us by the cause of that improved performance. Human slaves, chained up like dogs, led the hunting party of Shanks. Again, they found nothing. We watched from concealment and, I confess it, I had the most extraordinary difficulty in preventing myself from rushing into a brawling hand-to-hand melee with these damned Fish Heads. We might obtain a minuscule initial advantage from a surprise attack; in a straight hand-to-hand the Shanks would murder my little band of amateurs.

So, as you can see, the old Dray Prescot might well have gone roaring into action shouting “Hai Jikai!” and got all his new friends killed.

All the same—all the same, by Zair!—I made up my mind that the next time the Opaz-forsaken Shanks ventured in here we'd shaft ‘em and play ‘em and torment ‘em and finally, I hoped, finish ‘em.

That must be for the future. As of now we marched into camp singing and looking forward to a fine fish supper.

Not that, as you know, I like fish. Still, there are some fish that are splendid: kippers and sardines, for example. The Schtarkins’ convoy contained boxes of stock fish. I made a face and Fan-Si smiled, mockingly.

In the event I made do with the remnant of last night's supper and sat with my back up against a tree, brooding. This life was very fine and free and romantic. Here we were, a bunch of outlaws in the forest, living on what we could shoot or steal, annoying the Shank masters. And all this was petty, was trivial, was not encompassing enough. Although, if you have a trivial fight and get a shaft or a blade through your guts...

No. By the Divine Lady of Belschutz and the corn on her left big toe! The cities beckoned. It would take me a month of Sundays to create a full-scale army with the materials to hand using these methods.

The Kov and Kovneva of Borrakesh could be left in charge here. They could expand this gang using my methods. I'd have to travel on. There were a couple of people I'd like to take with me, Larghos the Throstle for one and Fan-Si for a second and Moglin the Flatch for the third.

They'd help me train up a new gang. That made me remember to shout at Fan-Si as she went loping by, very seductive, wearing her usual silk shirt and breechclout. She saw me and smiled and came over.

“Well, Prince Chaadur?"

“I meant to tell you, young lady. What happened to your armor today?"

She grimaced and twirled her tail. “Oh, you know I cannot abide being shut up in a leather box!"

“Next time we go into action you will wear your armor, like it or not."

Her tail twinkled down between her legs. “It's all stuffy and hot and I can't move in it! How do you expect me to stick Shanks if I can't—"

I stood up. “Armor is for your protection. I agree it may slow you down; but you exaggerate."

She pouted. She was about to say something, something tart, no doubt, when I went on: “You will wear your armor about the camp until I tell you you may take it off. You'll soon get used to it."

“That's not fair! That's dreadful! And you a prince!"

There were so many cheap answers flooding into my head that I had to turn away. I managed to say: “Dismiss!” and hurried across to the fires where the kov and kovneva were just finishing up their fish.

Without preamble, I said: “The time has come for you to take over. You know by now what must be done."

“But, prince—where will you go?"

“Where there are Shanks to fight."

They shook their heads. “They're all about."

“And you will deal with those in this section.” I went on to tell them I would like to take Larghos, Fan-Si and Moglin and they couldn't very well refuse a prince, could they?

The important fact here was that I'd impressed them that I was a prince but that my real name was different from Chaadur. They accepted this with all the vivid old romances ringing in their skulls, princes in disguise traveling their kingdoms. Although, to be sure, they knew I was not of the Tarankarese ruling class, for I was apim and not riffim.

Nath and Layla, although apim, had ancient rights to their lands and titles, dating back before the riffim invasion and takeover. They had survived through the skill, cunning and groveling of their ancestors. There was nothing of that kind possible now the Shanks were the overlords.

Thinking of the peoples of other lands I knew, I had the strongest suspicions that my folk of Vallia, or Djanduin, or Strombor, would not so easily accept a fellow who came roaring in ordering about and claiming to be a prince. No, I fancy they'd be somewhat less credulous. But, then, these people had been lost, deprived of just about everything except their lives, not really knowing what to do and expressing their frustrations by quarrelling among themselves. They'd needed a prince, by Krun!

I found Moglin the Flatch painstakingly pulling an arrow through a straightener. Quality shafts were hard to come by in the greenwood; we could build our own and fletch them, we couldn't build arrows to professional quality. I thought of Master Twang and his spritely daughters, and sighed.

“Hai, Moglin!” I said, all jovial.

He replied politely, still working on his arrow. I told him that if he wished he might accompany me, for I had other gangs to train up.

He left off work and brushed up his whiskers, which were very fine. Unlike a Pachak or a Kildoi he had no tail hand. Although Katakis, who were generally detested as Slavemasters, habitually strapped six inches of daggered steel to their tails, Fristles seldom did so. This Moglin the Flatch had been known to strap a dagger to his tail.

Cautiously, he said: “I am honored, prince. Ah—is Fan-Si—?"

“Yes. I could not ask you to come with me if that meant leaving Fan-Si here. Oh, yes, she's coming along with us. Larghos the Throstle is going, and you all have dispensation from the kov."

“Then right gladly, prince. I own I wish to do unpleasant things to these Shanks. By Numi Hyrjiv the Splendid! They took Fardo the Splitter away, and he was my best friend and brother to Fan-Si.” Moglin's cat face screwed up in an access of venom. His fur was a deep russet brown, and he was built like an archer, with shoulders almost as broad as mine.

“And, Moglin, tell your Fan-Si to wear armor next time we fight."

“Quidang, prince. I agree with you. But she is willful and headstrong. She laughs and scorns—"

“I know, I know. Well, by Chozputz! She'll just have to, that's all!"

“Quidang!"

I went off to tell Larghos the Throstle about our proposed trip. He was sitting on a log singing, half to himself, a little ditty about the farmer who paid ten gold pieces for a slave and married her and demanded the gold back from her owner as her dowry. This song is known as the have it and eat it song. It's title, in the obscure way of Kregen humor, is ‘The Miscil Return'd'.

Larghos jumped at the chance to go adventuring, and, as he said in his modulated voice, “To even up the score a little."

His strong brown hands went methodically on as he spoke polishing up his strangdja, that feared and famous polearm of Chem with its steel holly-leaf shaped head. “Oh, yes, prince. I long to swing my Stinja down on their fishy heads."

As you know it has not been my habit to give names to my weapons. As I have remarked, a true warrior must fight with whatever comes to hand. If he relies on one favorite weapon, he is bound to come unstuck one day. Anyway, I always seemed to be acquiring and losing weapons and a name one day would be a memory the next. All, that is, apart from the Savanti swords and the great Krozair longswords.

So, everything was arranged. The next day scouts reported in that the Shanks had sent a considerable force up the road. There were carts in the procession, so maybe the fort had got their stock fish at last. All we had done was inconvenience the Shanks for a day.

That meant I had to harangue the gang with some vehemence. I used the fustian to good purpose, telling them they must think of a huge wild animal being stung by a multitude of bees. I instanced the case of the xichun and the tormenting little birds. I exhorted them to continue with pinpricks, for as the gangs grew so the pressure would grow. Their next objective, I told them, feeling the doubt in my heart, was to capture or destroy the local fort.

They waxed enthusiastic enough. Truth to tell I felt like a traitor at leaving them. Still, my mission was not to become embroiled in local guerilla operations, attractive though they undoubtedly were. My job was to find out about the Shanks and choose the weakest spot to strike.

I'd approached this gang knowing the risks I ran. What of the risks of the future when I approached a city?

“I'll send word,” I promised. “When the day dawns, you will know."

The Kov and Kovneva of Borrakesh stood with the combined gang shouting the remberees as we four trudged off along the forest trail. We would take a circuitous route. We called back the remberees, and then the forest closed about us.

In that moment, my chief thought was one of great delight and anticipation at the expected reactions of my new comrades to the airboat. By Vox! They'd be far worse than Rollo ever had been.

And as for that young scamp, was he doing what he ought to be doing, or was he contriving ways and means of following me into the Shank-infested perils of Tarankar? Then Fan-Si halted so that Moglin bumped into her.

“Quiet! There is someone ahead, lying in ambush. See!” She pointed with her free hand. “There, a glint of steel in the undergrowth!"

Chapter fifteen

“That,” I said, with a stupid and rather comical attempt at princely arrogance, “will be that confounded Khibil Farantino, may the True Trog rot him."

“There is more than one,” observed Larghos.

“True,” I conceded in your true princely condescending way. “The rast will have cajoled his friends into helping him. He fancies his honor has been slighted. The zigging great onker!” I finished, somewhat peevishly.

We slowed down and finally stopped. My three new comrades waited to see what this braggart prince would do.

I stepped forward.

I shouted. I used the old foretop hailing voice and I put spite and venom into my words.

“Come out, you crawling creeping horror! Come on, come on. Stand up! Step out! Let's see you!"

The bushes swayed and metal clinked against metal. Larghos's bow lifted, a lethal arc, his strangdja slung over the other shoulder. Moglin's bow was held slightly down, the arrow at half draw, in that easy practiced grip of your handsome Bowman of Loh. I yelled again.

“Come on, come on! My patience is nearly exhausted."

Now the bushes were agitated. Four men and two women stepped out onto the trail. Not one was Farantino. I felt amusement at my antics. These people were roughly dressed, almost in rags. They carried an assemblage of rusty weapons, one fellow with a strangdja with a broken shaft. They had rags tied around their feet. They were two apims, two Thankos and two Brokelsh. In short, they were a miserable looking bunch.

“Why, you great pack of famblys!” I stormed at them. “So you were going to waylay us from a bush? And would you have killed us?"

“No, master, no!” cried the Brokelsh woman, her hair wound about her waist. “We have not eaten for many days—"

I gave them my hard stare and they flinched back. I told them we were on a journey and could spare no food. They should walk boldly into the camp and declare themselves. I piled on the agony. I gave them that kind of speech I had rehearsed before, designed to open their eyes to the opportunities of the future. I gave them the old patriotic fustian. Also, I told them I was called Prince Chaadur, that this was not my real name, and that on the great day when we had removed the last of the Shanks they would know my name.

All this impressed them.

Whilst they would not change from frightened and hungry fugitives to brave bold guerillas in a twinkling, the process had begun.

So, therefore, much heartened, I bid them remberee and led my three companions forward.

Fan-Si tripped alongside and, very cheekily, said: “If that had been the Khibil he would not have stepped out."

“Possibly."

“You roared—"

“Fan-Si!” exclaimed Moglin, most uneasy.

“Well, Moggers, he did! Like a pregnant Quoffa!"

“Fan-Si!"

And I laughed.

We approached the bushes where I'd hidden the voller. I said: “Treat these bushes as possibly concealing an enemy force. Quiet, now."

We'd taken most of the day to march here from the camp and now evening shadows were falling across the land. I felt the airboat to be safely hidden; there was always the chance a Shank patrol had spotted it. Then they'd do what any commander would do: they'd leave the voller there and keep watch, ready to jump on anybody trying to reach her.

We moved forward cautiously. They kept still as I'd trained them, and moved rapidly when they did move. From bush to bush we went forward.

When the voller's hull came in sight, just her prow protruding past a bush ahead, I stopped. I waited. I listened. After a suitable time, with the shadows dropping deeper and deeper, all jade and ruby, I inched forward.

Covered by three bows I reached the voller. Nothing stirred. It took only a few moments to ensure no one kept watch. The voller was clean.

Fan-Si, Moglin the Flatch and Larghos the Throstle stood in a line and stared at the airboat, their mouths hanging open.

Observing the fantamyrrh, I stepped aboard.

“Come along, come along. Get aboard."

“But—"

“Don't lollygag about down there!"

“This is a Shank bird-contraption! We can't—"

“This is an airboat and it belongs to me, for the moment. Now if you want any supper, step aboard. Otherwise I'll fly off without you."

Needless to recite the confusion, the hesitation, the trepidation. Eventually, the three of them were safely aboard and we could see about supper.

Now it is not my intention to labor the events that followed. My task, as I saw it, was one of observation. Information was vital. We had no reliable reports out of Tarankar proper. And, to give an example of the lack of knowledge of the place held even by those as close as Makilorn—desert robes were not worn here, not in the forests and grasslands. We wore tunics and boleros, low-cut shirts, loose coats, and the predominant color was green with fawn a second favorite. So, I needed to know a lot more about the situation here before a fleet and army could be sent.

This, of course, posed the problem. To obtain that kind of information would entail close contact with the Shanks. At the moment I was attempting to build up the morale of the people, and to give them a leader now that their rulers were gone. I told myself I did this out of the best of reasons. Every blow we struck from ambush was a blow for freedom. We were forming a Liberation Army.

Well, I fancy I knew well enough the real reason why I spent time with the guerilla bands, forming organizations, training, teaching, putting backbone into them. I think I knew only too well why I led ambushes and sieges of isolated forts and dealt with the Fish Heads at that distance.

And—I could always claim what was the truth, that I was building up a dossier of intelligence on the conquerors against the day of liberation.

After the success with the gang led by Nath and Layla, we went on to organize and train and build up morale of four other gangs in various outlying districts. A range of mountains curving away to the southwest gave rise to streams. The valleys were pleasant and not always easy of access. This should be perfect guerilla country. In fact, I made the decision to clear all the Shanks out of this section and use it as the Home Base for the insurrection. Here was where the people readily accepted Prince Chaadur as their leader. At least, he knew what to do, and told and taught them. One or two self-important nobles offered a feeble resistance; my brisk manner swept all those objections aside.

In addition, my own personal band had grown from the first three to a sizeable force. In the final analysis, the voller overawed and impressed everyone, and was my ultimate arbiter.

The mountain and valley section was known as Clovang, the chief city as Clovangjin. Which prompts me to remark that the capital city of Tarankar was Taranjin. One day, I promised myself, one day...

As a matter of simple courtesy I'd insisted on my people taking proper rank titles. As to a hierarchy, they shook themselves out. Moglin the Flatch ran my archery, Larghos the Throstle my men at arms. We had practically no cavalry, for the Shanks recognized the value of draught and saddle animals and had swept so many up that the few that were left were mostly broken down. Fan-Si commanded the small nucleus of Jikai Vuvushis I hadn't the heart to prevent joining us. These three I'd dubbed Jiktars. To keep their heads from swelling too much I'd immediately added they were ob-Jiktars. A Jiktar more or less equates with a regimental commander's rank, and ob, meaning one, is the first and lowest rung of the ladder promotion within the Jiktar grade.

By the time the Shanks reacted vigorously to our activities we'd built up a nice little army formed of four gangs, plus my little band of some hundred souls, making a grand total of nearly eight hundred.

What, I could not help wondering with a deal of amusement, would the Presidio of Vallia, who loved to bestow grandiose titles on the armies we formed, make of the fellow who'd been the Emperor of Vallia and led those armies and their thousands of soldiers proudly declaring that eight hundred not very well armed and equipped folk formed an army?

Little Nikki the Lame first spotted the Shank airboats. He might have a crooked leg; he had the sharpest pair of eyes in the gang—I beg your pardon—in the Tarankar Army of Liberation.

“There they are!” he screamed down from the tallest tower in Clovangjin.

Soon we could all see them, the black hulled craft with their brightly painted squared off upperworks cruising low above the surrounding hills.

In a somber mood I counted—everyone counted. There were ten of them.

The Shanks’ flying ships, strangely enough to people of Paz, were uniform. They appeared to have hit on a good design and then simply repeated that single pattern. By contrast, Pazzian vollers and skyships were of all varieties. Up there the sky smiled down, Luz and Walig sending their streaming mingled opaline radiance to bathe the world in wonder, and here foolish mortal men and women were about to try to kill one another. Still, if one couldn't talk or argue with the Shanks, then one must come to the fluttrell's vane.

The city was mostly burned or knocked down. During their first invasion of these peaceful valleys the Shanks had killed the warriors and killed or taken away the people. The city lay empty and silent when we'd marched in. Nikki the Lame after his first warning shout pulled back into the shadows of the tower's broken parapet. Everyone hiding below knew exactly what to do. If anyone showed his or herself, I'd warned them, I'd cut their ears off.

The fliers up there circled, keeping their rigid formation, line astern. The lead ship might be the flagship; she was no different from any of the others. I'd fought these beauties before. Just how many men they could carry was still conjectural, for the Vallian Air Service had met Shank flying ships crewed differently and holding differing numbers of aerial soldiers. Down below we all waited, silent, unmoving. I doubted that a Schtarkin could spot a human eyeball peering through a narrow crack from two thousand feet.

The ships acted in such a manner as to convince me they were scouting the city in case we troublesome guerillas might be here. We struck and vanished, and they must guess we had a bolthole to go to.

As though they'd made up their fishy minds to do the job right, the first fire pots came tumbling down. This was going to be unpleasant, mightily unpleasant, by Krun!

They set fire to a block of houses that had been in relatively good condition. Black smoke rose lazily, almost straight up, there being little breeze. The flames hissed and crackled greedily. Because this danger had been foreseen I'd instructed my army to hide in places that had already been destroyed. No one was being roasted in that block of houses, thank Opaz.

Moglin was holding Fan-Si's tail. The gesture appeared one of affection. I'd told him to make sure the furious Fristle fifi didn't rush out, screaming revenge, and so betray us all.

If she did rush out, Moglin's grip would tighten hard.

The so-called army was scattered about in ruined buildings and caved-in cellars surrounding a fine square, a kyro that was not the main plaza of the city, and each little group had visual contact horizontally with the next. At least, that was the theory. Theory and practice are often not even on nodding acquaintance. One must plan as well as possible, set the whole machine in motion, and then do one's personal best with everything racketing away around in the general confusion.

You may think I've been boasting away about how wonderfully I'd trained up these ragged amateurs into a professional army; of course, it wasn't like that at all. One fact, however, I'd drummed into them. The Shank flying ships were not magical. They were capable of being defeated. They were a factor in the struggle of which to be wary; not of being frightened.

I stole a look at my companions in the gloom of the cellar. There were thirty or so of us packed in. Their faces showed a tightness of lip and a drawing down of eyebrows revealing tension. I did not think I detected fear. Turning back to look out through the crack again, I saw Deb-Lu-Quienyin sitting comfortably with his back against the angle of wall, staring directly into my face. I could see him; the others could not.

“Lahal, Jak. Are you enjoying yourself?"

I smiled and both shook and nodded my head. I didn't fancy what my people would say if Prince Chaadur started talking to thin air. Deb-Lu saw that at once. He pushed his turban straight and said: “There have been delays. As you are aware, the Law of Beng Frust states that when you urgently require an article you cannot find it. In this case it seems the silver boxes chose to go black in droves.” He saw the expression on my face. “I agree, Jak. This is Most Distressing News."

He went on: “Farris is moving mountains to re-equip with new silver boxes. The news is not good from Hamal—” Again he saw my face, and hurried on: “Princess Lela and Prince Tyfar are both well.” I felt the drain of emotion then. By Zair! What it is to love your children!

He went on to say the Air Service was using vorlcas, the Vallian sailing ships of the air. “Also, Farris has negotiated with Nedfar for some of their famblehoys. We are putting an Armada together; it is taking time and it is not of the quality we at first imagined."

All the same, whatever the ships, if they carried Vallian fighting men and women, and my lads of the Guard Corps—why, then, we'd smash the Shanks!

Deb-Lu said in his wheezy old voice: “Everyone thrives here in Vallia."

His image began to fade. Expecting him to vanish I gave a tiny nod to indicate the remberee. He thickened, momentarily, for time enough to say: “Your jurukkers are so restive, Farris may have to let them off the leash soon. That young scamp, Rollo the Runner, keeps demanding troops so that he can both follow your instructions and follow you physically."

With that, Deb-Lu winked out and I was staring across the dusty flagstones of the kyro.

As I thus looked, seeing nothing but the image of Deb-Lu in my retinas, I heard the gasps at my back.

My eyes cleared.

Touching down with elephantine grace the black hulls of two Shank flying ships settled in the centre of the kyro.

Moglin hissed: “Someone has been seen!"

“They know we're here, now,” snapped Fan-Si. “That's for sure."

Larghos said: “And here they come!"

From the black hulls like ants from an anthill the Shanks disembarked and formed ranks. Trumpets pealed. They began to march straight for us, weapons glittering, scaled armor glinting, tridents all aligned and their damned fishy shouts lifting: “Ishti! Ishti!"

Chapter sixteen

This was a moment when I'd have welcomed with the utmost fervor the sight of a couple of juruks of my lads of the Guard Corps, yes, by Vox!

As it was, we must hold to the plan and do what we could.

“Bows!” I snapped it out, harsh and flat.

One inestimable advantage we had. Our shootists were Bowmen and Bowmaids of Loh. Naturally, not every inhabitant of Loh is a Bowman. And not all Bowmen approach even remotely the superb skills of someone like Seg—well, that is a stupidly superfluous remark. There is, in my opinion, and a not so humble opinion at that, no archer in two worlds to rival Seg Segutorio.

These rabbity old thoughts went whirling through my brain as our archers stood up and drew and loosed.

From heaps of rubble, from broken walls, from gap-toothed house fronts, the dustrectium poured in.[8]

[8 Dustrectium: As Kregen has no gunpowder, this is the word used for firepower, from bows, ballistae, catapults, etc. A.B.A.]

Shafts, as they say in Clishdrin, blackened the sky.

I was up there, shooting in my bow, aiming at the serried ranks of Fish Heads as they trampled forward ready to break into the final charge.

Shanks were screeching and falling, toppling into the dust shafted clear through. Gaps were torn in their ranks. But still they came on. Extraordinarily hardy and tough are Shanks, fierce, merciless, determined to kill or enslave us all.

“Loose! Loose!” I bellowed, plying my bow with that steady flowing rhythm so beautifully exemplified in Seg. I could match my comrade—sometimes, not often—and on this day of such a scrappy affray I shot in such wise as I think might have pleased Seg.

The smell of blood would be rising from the bodies left in the rear of the charge, the stink of raw green ichor, the blood flowing in the veins of the Fish Heads. Their noise increased as they rushed on.

Larghos the Throstle put down his bow. He reached for his strangdja.

I agreed. I let rip one last shot that pierced a Fish Head waving a banner all green and gold, and as he pitched over onto his fishy face I snatched up the trident placed ready to hand.

The two flying ships that had landed to disgorge this bunch lifted off.

There had been, I estimated, something like a hundred and fifty Shank soldiers landed. We had wreaked fearful destruction in them. The survivors screeched on, undeterred, and in the next instant we were at hand strokes.

They tried to clamber over the rubble, to poke their tridents through the gaps through which we had shot. The stinking effluvium of rotten fish gusted over us. We held that first rush. They did not have the strength to overwhelm us in a single impetuous onslaught. We held them and drove them back, and corpses piled up before our defenses.

The instant they fell back I roared: “Bows!"

Once more the sleeting rain of death poured into them.

A swift glance up confirmed my suspicions of their next obvious step—or, rather, next two steps.

Two more flying ships were coasting in for a landing, and two more were curving overhead to pass directly above us. From those black hulls the fire pots would tumble down to burn us out.

Well, that last would not be all that easy. The ruins we had chosen were pretty well destroyed, burned shells. We had to hold this next frontal attack. After that, well, I decided to wait to see if we did hold the Fish Heads—or if they swamped us.

Fresh troops disembarked. They formed their rigid lines. The wink and glitter of weapons, the flutter of green and gold flags, the racket of their trumpets—huge conch shells banded in gold—all were calculated to drive us witless with fear. I thought it apt for us to make our presence felt in other ways besides simply killing Shanks.

I roared it out, forcefully, shouting at the enemy.

“Paz! Paz!"

Others took up the cry. We hurled our defiance back in their fishy faces. Then I heard another word being yelled out, a word spurting above the noise, shafting like an arrow at the foe.

“Paz! Chaadur! Paz! Chaadur!"

Well, now...

We shot them as they stormed in again. We cut them down as they tried to get at us. We held them. Good red blood ran to mingle with the green. But we held them.

From around the Kyro arrows fleeted into their ranks. The two fliers lifted off and another two touched down. This time I judged the Shanks put out only fifty men from the two. Maybe that was it. Maybe the other four fliers were fighting ships and not troop carriers. If so, then our chances had been immeasurably increased. Surely, we eight hundred in cover ought to see off four hundred charging across the open?

But, then, these were Shanks doing the charging.

I said to Larghos and Moglin: “We have held them twice. They will come in again, probably two or three times. But they are weaker and growing ever weaker still. You will hold them. I am off to put the final part of the plan into operation."

“Quidang, prince!"

The leaders of the other gangs forming the army knew of the plan. In their heaps of rubble and their barricaded cellars they would fight and kill Shanks whilst I got on with it.

“Fan-Si!” I was brisk. “Bring your half dozen girls and follow me."

Eight of us, we climbed back through the ruined buildings. At the rear a small party under Deldar Tongo the Lash kept lookout. They reported no single sign of an enemy to our rear. I sent them all but two back to reinforce the front.

“That is one thing I've noticed about Schtarkins,” I told Fan-Si and her girls as we hauled the branches and leaves away. “They tend to stick to a frontal attack, and to what they've decided. I've an idea the Shants, who are not quite like the Shanks, are more flexible."

Quickly we had the camouflage removed and I jumped up into the voller with a most abbreviated observation of the fantamyrrh. The girls followed smartly. I'd gone through the drills with them a number of times and they knew what to do.

A most careful look up was necessary. I didn't want to rise out of the ruins slap bang under a Shank flier.

Feeling the significance of the occasion I pushed the controls over and we floated up steadily until I could hold her level with the shattered top of the wall. A Shank was just flying past, going towards the Kyro, about two hundred feet above us. I let him go. There were two more being busy dropping fire pots over on the other side. We were in the clear.

Instantly I shoved the levers over to full lift and speed and up we soared into the mingled streaming lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

To breathe clean sweet air again! The stink of the battle blew away from my nostrils. The noise from below flowered up obscenely; but we flew high and fast above in the pure air.

So rapidly we rose, I was able to soar up above that Shank who'd been heading into the square. Fan-Si, very commanding, very strict, hurled the first fire pot.

“Smack in the Heart!” she exclaimed in glee. The Heart is the word often employed in archery-conscious Loh to designate the Chunkrah's Eye.

The Shanks down there were smart. Our fire pot went up and over the side; but Fan-Si's girls were hurling down more and as I drove on towards the other fliers the fellow below us began to burn.

Greasy black smoke wafted away as he turned, trying to find a place to land.

I banged the coaming. “Come on! Come on!” We sprang on, the air buffeting us, and I the only one whose hair rippled in the breeze.

Trust Fan-Si to choose all Fristle fifis for this task!

The Shanks had seen us. They began to rise. Well, now was the time to see if Farris had given me a splendid craft, or only a good one. I knew she was not of the fastest; but in a game like this, maneuver and lift were the key factors, unlike a normal airplane, more like a Harrier.

Hurtling headlong on through thin air I brought the voller across the nearest Shank as he rose. Arrows flicked up and fell away. The short Shank bows were of little use in these conditions, no matter how effective they might be from the Shank sailing ships of the oceans. The fifis dropped firepots. The second Fish Face burned.

Now we were over the kyro. Down there Shank bodies strewed the flagstone everywhere. The quick decision made, I turned slightly to get at the third Shank aloft; the two on the ground would have to wait.

I yelled: “Look around for the other ships. There should be five."

Fan-Si shrieked: “I cannot see them!"

“Well, we'll have this shint before us first.” With that our voller crossed clear along the Shank from stern to stem and the fire pots burned down.

Back we turned, a slewing broadside turn in the air, and went haring back across the kyro.

The fliers down there attempted to get off. They did not succeed.

They burned.

Now we could give our full attention to the search for the remaining five Shank flying ships.

Fan-Si spotted three of them, at last, going fast and low over the ground some way off, heading away from the city.

“What in a Herrelldrin Hell are they up to?” I growled.

Then I saw. Beneath the Shanks tiny dots ran and stumbled, and fell.

One of the gangs had broken and fled. I did not know who commanded, nor did I really wish to know, not then.

“The last two!” I roared. “Where the hell are they?"

This time Finsi the Silver cried out, pointing. Yes, there they were, flying high and fast, heading northeast.

“They're running!” I exclaimed in wonder.

All I could do now was drive as fast as possible after the three fliers tormenting the Pazzians on the ground as they fled.

Many dots lay on the grass and did not move.

We soared on and I climbed up for altitude.

“Report fire pot situation."

Fan-Si, instantly, said: “We have twenty left."

Good girl! She was a capital first lieutenant!

The three Shanks ahead were rising. They circled once, and I tensed as their prows pointed towards us. They continued their swing until their sterns showed. Then they flew away.

The only explanation I could find for this odd conduct was that they'd lost their landing force entirely, and suspected there were more aerial forces on our side about to be committed. After all, we'd popped up out of nowhere, giving them an almighty shock. They'd weighed their chances. They'd lost their landing force and half their aerial force. They might be rigid and might blindly follow through a plan once committed; in this situation they had the sense to know when to pull out.

I stood at the controls, easing the speed down, and watched the Fish Heads as they flew off. I know my face bore a brooding malevolent look of intolerant determination. They might have gone for now; they'd be back!

When they did, we'd either have to be a long way away, or be ready for them.

Gently I swung the voller back to the ruined city of Clovangjin.

A lot of clearing up would be necessary. There would be pain at good folk dead. Dulled though that pain might be by our undeniable victory, the agony would remain.

Somberly I brought the voller to earth at the side of the kyro. Larghos, Moglin, a whole crowd of people flooded out, flocking about us, cheering and waving their weapons. Someone yelled: “Hai, Jikai!” and that great cry was taken up until the square rang with sound. That jubilant noise rose above the stink of blood, both red and green, over the strewn bodies, Shanks and Pazzians, soared up like a benediction.

Hai Jikai!

Chapter seventeen

“Shank ships lie shattered, fly scattered, over the burning land:

Fish Faces fall fear-filled as Chaadur our Chief has planned."

Thus sang Larghos the Throstle, warbling a spritely tune for so doggerel a verse. Still, I felt his stanzas might improve with time and polishing. The most important factor was simply that these people were able to sing about their exploits. A legend was in the making.

All the same, even if this little gang calling itself an army was in the legend-fabricating business, we couldn't hang around Clovangjin much longer. If I knew my Shanks—as I did, I did, to my sorrow!—they'd be back mob-handed.

The survivors of the gang that had broken were rounded up and parceled out among the other gangs. I took pains to impress upon these folk the example thus set: “Turn your back on an enemy and you're done for.” I was now deliberately bringing down the inflated image of Prince Chaadur, deflating the pompousness. I spoke hard. “You have proved you can beat Shanks. Next time you fight ‘em, remember that."

So, now, we marched in the blaze of the suns, singing of our victory.

Clovangjin lay to our rear; our faces were turned towards the mountains. Had we hung around the ruined city the Shanks would surely have discovered us. This time they'd arrive in overwhelming numbers. Quite apart from the little fact that we'd all be dead or slaves, a defeat for this army now would set back my plans. To clear the entire mountain and valley area out I saw, belatedly, was for the moment beyond our strength. Patience, growing strength, more patience and then the time to strike—all very well and laudable in guerrillas.

That whole process was going to be far too slow for me.

Having got the show on the road, I turned back to the city where the voller nestled hidden in the rubble. Flying on over the column I looked down to see my little army trudging along, waving up to me, very blasé about airboats now. I smiled. Scouting ahead and keeping a most wary eye open for the first sight of tiny dots in the sky in any direction, I soon picked a likely spot for our first camp. Setting the flier down between bushes I trusted she'd be safe until I returned, then I started back for the army.

Fan-Si wanted to mock me for slogging along in the dust with them when I could have waited for them to turn up and guided them the last few ulms. Moglin tut-tutted. Larghos had stopped singing, and now he said: “My throat is drier than the Glarkie Dunes.” This was one of the names given to the desert to the east over She of the Sundering. Larghos went on: “If anyone should ride in the boat of the air it should be the musical artist."

Someone threw a small pebble at him, and we all laughed.

Still, Larghos had a point.

I said: “I would gladly ferry you all in relays. But there are two reasons against that. One is that continuous flying is going to attract unwelcome attention.” I stared back at the people following; none of them offered a comment. “The other is that you'll get fat and lazy if you fly everywhere. You must toughen your muscles and learn endurance."

Fan-Si's comment, I suppose, could be rendered in a very weak terrestrial play on words, so that I could report she said: “Endurance, yeah, en-durance vile."

No one threw a stone at the Fristle fifi.

We made camp just as the twin suns sank, illuminating the rocks and gulleys with a medley of greens and reds, streaming long shadows, and concealed our cook fires with slabs of rock. Sentries stood watch and watch as normal. By the morning when we breakfasted cold, everyone lay in good hidden positions. No one spoke. As the morning wore on so the tension grew. Luz and Walig scaled the Kregen sky. A few wisps of vapor coiled and disappeared. Beetles and insects scuttled over the ground.

The Shanks appeared just after the hour of mid.

Twenty-five fliers, black-hulled, purposeful, cruised over the ruined city. One interesting fact was on offer here. Some of the fliers up there differed slightly from their fellows. Not by much, true, but by enough to suggest they had been built for a different purpose. They flew a patrol circle, gradually widening the diameters, checking every inch below.

I suppose everyone of us held his or her breath when a Shank flew directly overhead. I know I did, by Krun!

So, as I thus cowered in a hole in the ground, I reflected with not a little ironic humor that the stories and legends of Dray Prescot painted him as a hero larger than life. Heroic stature, grandeur of character, nobleness of deed—oh, yes, my fine feathered friend Dray Prescot! Hiding in a hole in the ground!

All the same, all the same, by Vox! I didn't stand up and shake my sword at the Fish Heads in block-headed defiance. I stayed in my little hole.

From experience, we Pazzians knew the Shanks flew Extermination Patrols. The country of Tarankar formed a mixture and variety of prospects, from the tall mountains to the coastal plains and bluffs. Forests clothed much of the land, streams wended their ways into rivers and so to the sea. The Fish Heads kept the people they required to slave for them and the rest they killed. The country was not teeming with Freedom Fighters. There were scattered bands, and little armies like ours, and sometimes, to the shame of Paz, these forces fought among themselves. Where food is hard to come by, allegiances and loyalties tend to go to the wall. I'd managed to combine these gangs into a cohesive whole. But our strength remained pitiful.

So, thus somberly brooding, I watched the last of the flying ships wheel and depart. The last black hull vanished beyond the hills.

Fan-Si stood up, breathing deeply. “The shints!"

“Aye,” agreed Moglin the Flatch, and he stood up and put his arm about her waist.

This summation accorded well with our position. The plans would have to change, to adapt to the realities, instead of being based on my high-flown ideas of what I might achieve alone.

We resumed our trek. Because the Fish Heads had found no one on this patrol did not mean they would not look again. Clovang was no longer a friendly spot for Freedom Fighters.

Over the next sennight we marched secretly. We had enough food and we found good water. I put on a brave face. By this I mean I encouraged the little army, taught them, shouted at them, told them that the day of reckoning would arrive. I did not tell them that I intended to leave very soon. We experienced one tussle, a fleeting moment of combat, in which, short though it was, we lost twenty-five people. It happened in this wise: I had taken the voller up to scout a pass ahead through a cliff wall leading to an escarpment. The Shank flier was just about to lift off from beside a grove of trees as I appeared over the crest, for I was flying low.

Fan-Si did not wait for orders.

Instantly, she had struck fire and was hurling down the firepots.

Swinging the voller back in a tight renversement, the second volley already ready, we crossed the Shank again. He nosedived for the ground.

Black smoke poured aft and flames blew back from his afterparts.

We could see the Fish Heads jumping off the hull like black ants. They were making efforts to douse the blaze. Fan-Si tickled them up again with expertly flung pots. A sickly stink of charring fish floated up.

Moglin, beside his fifi, drew back his bow.

I said: “You will waste arrows at this distance, Moggers. We must contain them until the army arrive."

It was perfectly clear our scouts would see the smoke and would bring on the vanguard.

When eventually our small force of outriders came galloping over the crest, the short sharp combat ensued.

The great Lohvian longbows spat their deadly shafts. Shanks fell, just as the song said. They fought back, and we lost those twenty-five good men and women.

When it was all over and the Shank flying ship had burned herself out, we discovered a single miserable apim cowering in a bush perilously close to the blackened hulk. His face was black, too, and he coughed up the smoke, his eyes streaming. Still, that proximity had saved him.

“Doms, doms!” he cried, retching, shaking. “I did not dare believe!"

We gave him water to drink and slowly he recovered his wits. He wore only a tattered scrap of dirty cloth around his loins, and his lean body was whipmarked. He said he was Winkal, known as the Horknik, and he gave us thanks and praise to the True Trog Himself for his miraculous rescue.

He explained his presence aboard the enemy flier. “They sometimes take slaves to minister to their wants. They do not much care for the land."

This accorded with what we knew of the Shanks, a sea-faring race.

His task, he said, aboard the Shank was to ply his trade. He was a fletcher.

Moglin snorted: “Aye! The damned evil shints! They know by now the power of Bowmen of Loh!"

Winkal nodded wearily. “They recognize good fletching when they see it, may Matazar the Bow rot ‘em."

By this I gathered he had tried to build inferior shafts and been striped for his duplicity.

We found a secure campsite for the night and burned fires for the shortest time necessary to cook our suppers. Sentries prowled. Winkal, with a Kregan-sized meal in him for the first time in many a moon, told us of conditions in Taranjin. The tale was horrific; but not more so than we had come to expect of the devilish Fish-headed Shanks.

“They can't tell us apart,” he said around a mouthful of palines. “They just keep everyone locked up in compounds. Except us tradesfolk, of course.Them poor glahbers."[9]

[9 poor glahbers: equates with ‘poor devils'. An expression of pity. A.B.A.]

He spoke remarkably coherently after the horrors through which he had passed. He shook his head, still sickened by the sights he had witnessed. Yet he felt more sorrow for the people used as general slaves. Herded in like cattle, half-starved, beaten, they were dragged out when required. The Shanks were not stupid, in these matters as in others. Recognizing the superiority of the Lohvian longbow they employed bowyers and fletchers and treated them fractionally better than the common slaves. Other trades were employed—stylors, blacksmiths, hostlers. They cooked their own food.

Moglin said in his hissing catman's voice: “If they think to make Bowmen of Loh of themselves they are onkers!” He laughed, a sizzling sound of mockery. “We all know how long it takes to make a longbowman."

Whilst what he said was true enough, this was just another headache to be added to the list of migraines inflicting Paz.

I said: “Larghos—a song, an’ you will."

“Right readily, prince, right readily."

He, like us all, had no love of dwelling overlong on the miseries and horrors of life now the Shanks had arrived.

He sang of the love of Ornol the Wayfarer and Vilia the Fair, and of how the village farrier's jealousy overcame him, so that this Dien-sing the Droopeyed struck Ornol the Wayfarer, struck him down in cold blood. And of how Vilia took up her father's sword, and marched the length of the village street, head up, proud, carrying the sword which was called Dalendin. Of how the villagers all peered under their hands at this beautiful girl striding down the village street with the naked brand in both hands. How she struck Dien-sing the Droopeyed so that he fell back, wounded, crying out for mercy, and of how Vilia the Fair despaired of vengeance, and kicked him away. And of how Vilia the Fair bravely put the brand to her own throat, kneeling over the body of Ornol the Wayfarer, and so sliced the soft flesh and of how the first drop of blood fell upon her love and his eyes opened and he sat up and clasped her in his arms, putting away the great sword Dalendin and her wound healed and so they remained fast locked while Dien-Sing the Droopeyed crawled away, sobbing.

When the great song finished everyone sat silently, wrapped in private thoughts. Yes, I thought to myself, yes, Vilia is a heroine of Kregen.

After that we sang a few of the more raucous ditties of Paz and managed to convince ourselves we were a rousing band of right tearaways.

Still, I thought of the Song of Ornol and Vilia, and then forced away unpleasant thoughts and joined in the chorus of “No idea at all, no idea at all!"

Then Rafe the Ponshim recited the tale of Arngalf Galfarn, a warrior mighty among men, obsessed with love of women, who was tested by his god, Schnurrdun the All-seeing. If Arngalf Galfarn would renounce the love of women for a whole year and a day, and devote everything to the worship of his god, Schnurrdun the All-seeing would reward him in a way that would astonish the world of Kregen for ever. So Arngalf Galfarn accepted the contract. His rewards in this life would be great; but the greatest gift by far that Schnurrdun the All-seeing would lavish on him was this—that after his death his body would be carried up into the heavens, and his bones and blood and flesh would receive the blessed breath of the All-seeing and become stars. In the sky, blazing for ever, would be the constellation of Arngalf Galfarn the Faithful. At this point in his tale Rafe the Ponshim paused to moisten his mouth. We all recognized the story-teller's touch of suspense.

He resumed his tale on the last day of Arngalf Galfarn's trial. On that day baleful fate decreed that the most beautiful girl ever seen in the kingdom should meet Arngalf Galfarn's eye and the two should immediately fall passionately in love, shafted by the same lightning bolt, as they say on Kregen. On the next day Schnurrdun the All-seeing summoned Arngalf Galfarn more in sorrow than in anger.

“You have failed to demonstrate that you love me more than women."

“I love you more than women, Schnurrdun the All-seeing. It was just one part of my body that betrayed me. This I swear on the grave of Nath the Graintjid whom I slew after three days of combat."

“Then instead of your entire body being a constellation, I, Schnurrdun the All-seeing, shall cast that betraying part of you up to be a single shining star."

Arngalf Galfarn smiled, for he saw generations yet unborn would point to that star and recall his name, and speak of him with awe. Here Rafe the Ponshim once more sipped to moisten his mouth. Everyone sat around, absorbed in this tale, as old as Kregen itself, so it was said.

“You smile, Arngalf Galfarn. Yes, your name will be remembered. The star will shine. I am merciful; but you failed me. I shall cast up the betraying part of your body to shine forever.” The brows of the god drew together in a bar of justice. “I shall cast it up now."

The tales relate Arngalf Galfarn lived to be a very very old man.

We all looked up to see Galfarn's star shining away up there. There is a certain piquancy about this tale rather lacking, one feels, in a frozen big toe being cast up to become the Morning Star.

After a few final songs, the cups were drained, and we turned in. I found myself pondering on the song of Ornol and Vilia, very often called the Song of Dalendin. Yes, it did demonstrate the evils and the virtues of frail humanity. Quite clearly, it came from a different poetic tradition from the ancient tale of Arngalf Galfarn. Then, with my accustomed last thought, I went to sleep.

The very next day I told them.

Their dismay would have melted a heart of stone; it failed to move me. After their wailing protestations died away I stared at them, broodingly, and, I fancy, with a considerable quantity of sheer dominant arrogance. “You will fight on bravely. I am no longer needed. If you follow my precepts, seek always to hit and run, and only hit when you may afterwards run, maintain your food supplies, remain in good heart, nothing can defeat you. In the dawning of the Day I shall call you.” My face bore down hard on them. “In that great Day of Calling you will be ready."

“Aye,” they shouted. “Aye, Prince Chaadur, our Chief. We will!"

There was more fustian, more reassuring than bombastic, and then I said: “It is laid upon me to go into Taranjin itself—"

The uproar burst into a storm of protest. They shrieked and danced about abandoned to anticipatory fears. I saw an old lady, leaning on her spear, and the tears running thickly down her cheeks. Others were caterwauling away. They knew that to venture into the city where the Shanks ruled was to go to death.

I bellowed over their outcry. “I shall live!” Mind you, I wasn't at all sure about that, by Krun! “There are things I must know about the Fish Faces. It is a doom laid on me that I cannot evade."

In the end they saw they could not sway me from my avowed purpose.

So, feeling suddenly light-headed, aloof, almost that dire feeling one has marching into the Arena, I observed the fantamyrrh, stepped aboard the voller and took off.

“Remberee!” I called down as the wind rush tore past.

“Remberee!” they shrieked up. “Remberee, Prince Chaadur na Dorfu, Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril, our Chief, remberee!"

The voller swept up into the mingled radiance of the declining suns and as the jade and ruby shadows streamed over the coaming a lambent blue fire grew about me and I stared up into the gigantic bloated shape of the phantom Scorpion of the Star Lords.

Chapter eighteen

There was just time for me to bellow up: “You nurdling great onker! Don't drop me this time, you fumble-tentacled apology for a Scorpion!” before I went hurtling headlong into a purple-tinged mist of blue infinity.

Twice, three times, I rolled head over heels along wooden planking. Gasping, I sat up to see I was in a narrow, double-ended craft bobbing upon a blue sea under a shining silver sky.

All around stretched sparkling water. A faint zephyr blew across the deck. The boat was upflung, curved of line, with benches for a single bank of oarsmen along each side. She was similar to those swift piratical dwaprijjers that pester the trade among the Ivilian Keys. The scent of the sea mingled with her own smells of wood and tar, and the breeze bore in the fresh tang of ozone and seaweed.

I stood up. She was some seventy feet long, and narrow with it, and I looked about for a fellow mariner and saw none. I was alone aboard her.

A voice, harsh, clanging, resonant, said: “So you have finally come to answer for your misdeeds, Dray Prescot."

I whirled about. I saw no one.

“Your get onker of a Scorpion dropped me!” I felt maltreated. “The great fumble-tentacled idiot!"

“Yet you disobeyed our express commands."

I compressed my lips. I was without clothes or weapons. I took a breath and in a more reasonable tone, said: “I interpreted your commands to prevent tragedy and to bring success. Kirsty is queen in Tsungfaril."

“It is not for you to interpret. It is for you to obey."

“I did what you wanted, you—you.” I puffed out my cheeks, drew another ragged breath, and then burst out: “You wanted to murder young Leone in a most disgusting fashion! You are just a bunch of ancient murderers!"

A silence ensued.

Then: “We are well able to see your point of view. We understand. But does that alter your misdeeds?"

If that was what the Everoinye intended to harp on all the time, there seemed little chance for me. A most curious sensation grew in my inward parts, a feeling of nausea, of regret and farewell, and the overpoweringly savage desire to see Delia again, and clasp her in my arms for the last time, overwhelmed me.

Yet, I remained standing, head up, staring up into that blank and indifferent silver sky.

The boat rocked, the breeze blew, the scents twined about my nostrils. In all that vast expanse only this little boat contained a speck of life. And that poor benighted life was like to be snuffed out in the next heartbeat.

When the silence became unbearable, I opened my mouth to yell, and in that self-same instant the rasping voice spoke again.

“In our infinite wisdom and mercy, Dray Prescot, prince of onkers, we have decided to pardon you. Your crimes will be forgotten. There is work to your hands."

“I know that. I have to go to Taranjin and try to chuck those rotten Shanks out of Tarankar."

“No, Dray Prescot. We cannot permit you to throw your life away."

Whilst I was not quite dumbfounded by this remarkable statement, I admit it startled me. Once or twice the Star Lords had actively intervened to prevent me from being killed. Very few times, though, by Vox! Usually, they did not appear to care if I lived or died.

Speaking as clearly as I could, I outlined the plan. “I must get the slaves to unite. When they rise, the Freedom Fighters will move in from the surrounding country and matters will be arranged so that the armadas from Vallia and Hamal arrive at the same time. Together, we should beat the Fish Heads."

The voice showed a casual contempt that bit like acid.

“You call that a plan?"

“All right, you supercilious bunch of—of—” I hauled up, and managed to finish unpleasantly: “What is your wonderful plan then?"

“We have placed Kirsty as queen in Tsungfaril. Our work here is done. There is a task for you in Boromir of the Ashes."

I just didn't believe this. “What of Mevancy? What of Caspar the Peaker?"

“Their tasks have been laid down."

“If we want to get rid of the Shanks what better place than here in Tarankar? We must prevent them from establishing themselves so strongly we may not have the force to eject them. This invasion is the most serious we've seen so far."

Again a break occurred in this bizarre conversation and only the shushing sounds of the sea slapping the strakes of the boat broke the silence.

A voice I could almost have sworn differed by a tone of hoarseness from the first said: “That is a point."

“We have work for him to do; if he goes to Taranjin he will die."

“He may not."

“Because he is Dray Prescot, and has the yrium?"

I yelled out then: “You don't think I want to risk my neck, do you? It's our best chance. We can't just attack blindly; we must know what we face in Taranjin."

The boat bobbed up and down. A silver fish, gleaming and magnificent, leaped in a graceful arc and plunged back into the waves.

Mind you, if the Everoinye decided I was not to go to Taranjin, I'd be the first to give thanks, joyful in my release. I wouldn't mind, in those circumstances, going to this damned Boromir of the Ashes, wherever in a Herrelldrin Hell that was.

The distant sound as of voices in an adjoining room swelled through the air. I could understand nothing of what was being said and then, at the tail end, almost as an afterthought, a voice I was convinced belonged to another Star Lord, said: “Send Strom Irvil."

Strom Irvil! I did not burst out laughing. Well, if that ferocious and cantankerous numim went, I'd wish him well of it.

“Very well, Dray Prescot. You have convinced us your argument is sound. This is a decision not lightly taken."

By the pustular nose and decayed fangs of Makki Grodno! I bet it wasn't! The Star Lords had changed their minds. They'd heeded what a mere mortal said. This was indeed a marvel.

They went on: “You may meet a man called Wulk. Listen to him."

With that the boat rose up out of the water and sailed up into the remote blaze of that distant silver sky.

Holding on grimly, dreading that the blue Scorpion would swoop down to snatch me up—and drop me—I just hoped Ahrinye wasn't around.

The boat became cloaked in mist. I felt clammy tendrils swirl about me.

My breath fluttered short in my throat. It was hard to breathe.

Now the boat turned, lazily, swinging about, and abruptly, horribly, plunged downwards. Down and down we went and my ears went bang! and I clung on and a shining green sea opened beneath me. A coastline wended away to one side with a sprawling port with walls and towers, and ships floating in the harbor. I stared sickly. Shank ships!

The boat struck the sea in a long gliding motion that cleaved a clean path through the water. We surged on under the momentum of that stupendous fall. Straight as an arrow shot, the boat lanced for the entrance to the harbor, past the pharos, past the Akhram, swinging smoothly to fetch up against the quayside. I was staring at huge stones festooned with green growths, and weeds trailing in the still water, and iron bolts, and chains hanging down. Slimy stone steps led upwards. Perforce, I disembarked and climbed the stairs. I stepped boldly forth onto the quay to see squads of human slaves toiling, carrying bales, hauling ropes, and idly attentive guards using whips carelessly to drive on the hapless slaves. All the guards were Shanks.

No one took any notice of me.

As, somewhat bemused, I stood there like a loon, a glinting glance of golden and scarlet fire flew at my head. I ducked.

“You onker of onkers, Dray Prescot!"

There flew the Gdoinye, brilliant, in his coat of scarlet feathers, the golden feathers around his neck blinding in the suns light. The accipiter, messenger and spy of Star Lords, swooped about me. I knew no one else could see him.

His raucous caw mocked me. “You are invisible, they cannot see you. But if you do not move as fast as Karishmer of the Lightning Bolt ... You have just five murs. Run, onker, run!"

I shook my fist at him. I wore a dingy breechclout of sorts that had once been gray and was now merely dirty. He flew up there, magnificent in his scarlet and gold, cawing down his mockery.

“All right, you Bird of Ill Omen. I'll run. And one day I'll pluck your feathers and have you for dinner."

His coarse racking caw could only have been the laughter of a raptor of the Everoinye. His wings beat and he soared aloft and vanished. I made a dead run for the warehouses lining the rear of the quay. By Zair! But this day's happenings were adding pages of information to the book I made in my head concerning the Star Lords! Pages and pages!

As I dived into the welcoming shadows I wondered if the Everoinye had lost faith in their phantom blue Scorpion. That boat, was that a Scorpion replacement?

I wished now I'd taken more notice of the craft. What, for instance, might lie concealed beneath the deck?

Then there was no time for idle reflections of great and puissant superbeings as a surly voice hailed me.

“Hey, you cretin! What d'you think you're doing, hey?"

Turning about sharply I saw the fellow, miserable and slave like me. He was a Rapa, with draggling feathers and a lop-sided beak. He rattled on: “Get away from there, onker!"

He beckoned me away from the doors. We moved further into the shadows among sacks and bales. Everything stank of fish.

“I,” I said, assuming even here there would be a command structure, “am looking for the overseer.” One of the Kregish ways of expressing this is, as you know, the Wielder of the Balass Rod.

“Naghan the Marbut.” The Rapa sniffed through that bent beak. “Well, by Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls! You won't find the shint out there."

This was a start. I'd picked up a name cheaply. We continued to walk through the aisles between the stinking bales. And then, with the force of a gut punch, I recognized and cringed at my stupendous folly. Here I was, pitching myself headlong into this hell on earth, voluntarily shoving my head into the dragon's mouth. And I needn't have done, in all, to outward seeming, honor. My little army of Freedom Fighters had begged me not to go. The Star Lords had ordered me not to go. I didn't want to go. By Zair! I wished then, in that fish-stinking warehouse, I wished with all my heart that I was out of it, that I hadn't chosen this path. I wished fervently that the Everoinye would stoop down and pluck me out of it—now!

I, Dray Prescot, Pur Dray, Krozair of Zy and Lord of Strombor—I dreaded the future that I had brought on myself. I wanted out. I wanted to go back to that double-ended boat and accept the other mission of the Star Lords. I felt goose pimples over my body. I felt the dampness along my forehead. I'd acted as the great and puissant superhero, the hero of myth and legend, the impossibly shining knight sans peuret sans reproche.

Had I then fallen under the illusion of my own legend? By the stupendous backside and stringy hair of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! What an incredible onker I was! Why should I go off and do this daft thing when I could have whistled across to Boromir of the Ashes—wherever away that happened to be—and then make top speed back to Vallia and Valka? I did not groan as I walked through that fishy stench following the Rapa. No, I did not. Not quite.

Now as you know this marvelous memory bestowed on me by the Savanti nal Aphrasöe, the mortal but superhuman men and women of the Swinging City, enables me to reproduce verbatim conversations of seasons upon seasons ago between persons long dead. That, undeniably, to a fellow trying to tell a plain story is priceless. But, mercifully, the eidetic memory shuts down at times.

I do remember horror.

I do remember, over and over again, cursing myself for the greatest fool on two planets for even dreaming of venturing into Taranjin among the Fish Faces.

I do remember that I saw things I will not mention.

I do not remember—rather, the memories are buried so deep that even ghastly nightmares fail to recall them—I do not recall much of that sojourn in Taranjin.

When we had boldly ventured into the town of Gorlki in Menaham, on the island of Pandahem, Nath the Impenitent, Seg and me, we had thought to see the final scenes of human degradation. Orso Frentar had shared our opinion.[10]

[10 See Dray Prescot volume 37, being volume 4 of the Witch War Cycle, Warlord of Kregen. A.B.A.]

I'd slaved in the Black Marble Quarries of Zenicce. I'd slaved for the Overlords of Magdag in the City of the Megaliths. I'd slaved in the Heavenly Mines. I'd slaved in other places and other times. Oh, yes, Dray Prescot knew what slavery meant.

That was the later part of the reasons why Delia and I so abhorred slavery and rooted it out in our dominions and by argument and precept attempted to suppress it in the realms of our friends.

Unless slavery is worked in certain ways it leads to stagnation. The Shanks didn't care for libertarian philosophy. They needed certain tasks performed, and they used humans of Paz to do the work and if they died, what of that? There were always plenty more to be rounded up.

As to the humans themselves—they existed in holes and warrens, constantly in fear, scraping their bread off the pavements, living in the atbars of the backstreets. When they were called on to work they received a few scraps of food. I call them humans in contradistinction to the Shanks. But, of course, Shanks as intelligent living entities were humans, too. They were different from us. They couldn't tell one apim from another, one Fristle from his brother, two Rapas apart. They could tell the difference between a numim and an apim, a Brokelsh and a Khibil. Yet I know during that period of horror I forgot Shanks were a part of humanity. I wished only to see the world of Kregen rid of them forever.

Their idea of slave management sounded excellent—when a Pazzian worked for them he or she received food. There were queues at the workgates and the dockyards in the morning. The tradespeople worked independently in their smithy, or fletching arrows or building bows. They were fed according to their production. All this appeared a sound scheme.

I do remember one meeting in the atbars where I was reduced to screaming at the slaves, at folk like myself, trying to rouse them, trying to knit them into a cohesive force to resist, to rise on The Day.

The work was exhausting.

Using my skills—which Seg has honed and still mocks me for—I managed to get taken on as a bowyer. This meant I could eat on a relatively regular scale. Not so many of the slaves in the atbars. I saw people creeping along the streets, collapse and die, there in the gutter. And other folk walking past, clutching the last of their bread.Useless to give my small portion of rations away. I could not duplicate the loaves and fishes. Despite the agony of selfishness assailing me I had to eat, I had to remain as strong as I could be, so that I might go on. If I died, then what little hope these folk had would be gone.

And if you accuse me of megalomania, of imagining myself the bright shining and indispensable hero, then you are sadly adrift, my friends.

So, as you see, horror can become so great that it cancels itself out.

I do not believe even the most salacious reader could endure what I have not related.

Yet, at that time, during all that dreadful time, and despite my desire to rid the world of every last Shank blighting the face of Kregen, I still persisted in a tiny sane portion of my brain in the belief that Shanks were humans, too. They did what they did because they didn't think, didn't understand. If I could, as it were, convert a Fish Face instead of slaying him—wouldn't that be what Opaz, for one, would require?

That, I was realist enough to realize, was for the far future.

Taranjin had not been an affluent capital city. Oh, surely, there were the rich areas festooning their hills with private villas and sumptuous public palaces. The rulers, members of the riffim race of diffs, now dead and gone, had crushed all other life forms. The king's palace sprawled on a high bluff, like a lop-sided chocolate cake, grotesquely adorned. Within its lowering walls the resident Shanks now lorded it over Tarankar.

After a time the fish stinks simply became a part of the background, a part of everyday existence. People to whom I talked one day were gone, never to return, by the next. Fear stalked the streets. The compounds of the slaves continuously gave off that long low moaning of suffering that tears a person's insides out. No, this was not a happy place or a happy time.

The institution of slavery can be more abominable within one culture than another, so it is said. Dwelling on past misfortunes is, also, said to alleviate the present. I'd suffered in the Heavenly Mines, in Magdag, in the Black Marble Quarries of Zenicce. When Hunch, Nodgen and I had ventured into Moderdrin, the Humped Land, to go adventuring among Moders and Monsters, we'd been the slaves of Tarkshur the Lash. Tarkshur was a Kataki, low-browed, snaggle-toothed, with flaring nostrils and thick black hair, heavily oiled and curled. Katakis are man managers, slave masters. They have a long sinuous tail to which they strap six inches of daggered steel. You seldom see a Kataki as a slave or a mercenary or doing an honest job. They are slavers. And they are universally hated, called greeshes by the poor glahbers they enslave, torture, sell or kill.

The strange fact that when you think of someone they often turn up almost immediately is not so strange, really, given the unknown powers of the human mind. During that frightful trip down the Moder among traps and monsters I'd met Prince Tyfar and got to know Deb-Lu-Quienyin much better. So, on a raw evening when I'd slouched back exhausted from a small gathering where I'd explained what we should do, I saw the pallid figure of Deb-Lu waiting for me. He looked concerned, his face alarmed, and my heart sank.

“Deb-Lu. You look dreadful—what bad news do you bring?"

“I look dreadful! Jak! Jak! I am concerned over you—you look half dead—"

“I'll survive—just."

The tiny mud brick hut which was for the moment my home cramped in on all sides, one among rows beyond the atbars. There were rudimentary necessities needed for living. The stink of fish permeated everything—and I didn't notice it any more.

“I Remain Doubtful. Still. And, yes, I do bring some bad news."

I waited stoically.

What had happened was bad but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. The severe hold up of production of the materials for the silver boxes in Hamal coupled with the blackening of many of the boxes already installed in vollers and skyships meant a drastic reduction in aerial strength. The bad situation in Pandahem, where the Bloody Menahem continued their senseless and merciless attacks, drained aerial strength away to that theatre. A contingent had flown to Mehzta and I could not in all conscience object, for those fliers would be directly fighting Shanks.

My Guard Corps had, having become at last impossible to hold back, taken a gaggle of vorlcas and gone sailing off south.

“And there were no vollers in the fleet, Deb-Lu?"

“One.A small eight placer for emergencies."

Contrary winds had driven my lads well off course. They'd struggled back and become embroiled in a fight with a small squadron of Shanks. I gave thanks the Fish Faces were in small numbers; their black-hulled fliers could dance rings around our vorlcas, dependent as the latter were on the breeze for forward motion. The fight ended indecisively and our fleet had landed to effect repairs. They would not take long, Deb-Lu said, to get airborne again.

“So that means the armada from Hamal will arrive first."

Deb-Lu gave me their composition and numbers and I shook my head.

“This was what we did not want. Forty-five ships—h'mm. It may be needful, Deb-Lu, for you to contact Kapt Hamish ham Thanstrer.” I hated what I was saying, I detested the words as they fell from my lips. “I think it will be necessary to hold off the Hamalese Armada until all our ships can strike as one."

By these words I was condemning myself to longer sennights of this hell.

And, of course, it wasn't just me. If we wanted to gather all our forces to strike together then we'd all suffer, all of us here, suffer under the Opaz-forsaken lash of the Shanks, Djan rot ‘em!

Chapter nineteen

“Grak!Grak!"

The hateful word cracked out over the meaty sounds of whips and cries of pain. The thoughtless cruelty all about had driven many folk insane. The survivors worked and did what was commanded—and ate.

There is quite enough cruelty in two worlds. There is no need for me to belabor the point in my narrative, no need gratuitously to add to the catalogue of horrors poor suffering mankind and womankind must endure.

When you have seen two naked women, both mothers of young babes, fighting, clawing, scratching, biting, over a rotten fish head in the gutter, then, my friend, you do not lightly talk of horrors.

The Shank guards had evidently been chosen from those Fish Faces who by threatening gesture and the use of a few words of command in Kregish could keep control of the slaves and indicate their tasks. The dominant factor obsessing everyone was food. To control a populace into doing your bidding the plan is first to weaken them so that a revolt will be doomed before it has begun and then so to keep them half-starving and subjected that they will slave until they drop for a morsel to pass between their lips.

There were many, in truth, and I saw them, who simply refused to accept the situation, refused to work and so starved to death if they were not earlier shipped off to the Ice Floes of Sicce with a Shank trident through their guts.

Having a trade in your hands in Taranjin those days was like having a passport through hell to life.

Even so, Lao-Chan the Staver was summarily dispatched because he built one too many longbows that would not shoot true.

What Moglin the Flatch, our comrade Fristle Bowman, had said remained true. I caught a glimpse, one day when I was delivering a parcel of bowstaves, of a squad of Fish Faces trying to shoot in their longbows. They were making a sorry hash of the business. Shafts stuck in the log wall at the far end of the butts and precious few even stuck in the straw targets. I kept as quiet as a woflo and delivered the staves and so scuttled back out of the barracks. The building had once been a proud palace of a riffim noble.

That was the day's work of the evening, I remember, when I called the Brokelsh, Bargrad the Pellin, the Fristle, Foke the Clis, and the apim, Nath the Rumpador, to meet in that dolorous little hut. These three, it seemed to me, were the most promising.

I told them an Armada was on its way. I had to arrange for a signal to be made to the Freedom Fighters outside Taranjin. On the Day, I said, on the Day of Deliverance, we must strike.

“The people will not rise,” said the Brokelsh in his uncouth way. His black body bristle looked gray. “They are broken in the ib."

“That may be true. But the Shanks are not Pazzians. Already we have discovered little ways to trick them. If they can be shown to be fallible, the people will take heart.” I slammed a fist on my knee. “They must!"

“Yes,” spat the Fristle. “We trick them and steal food from the warehouses. But the costs are high."

I said: “A good fire ought to help."

“Burn the shints out.” Nath the Rumpador nursed a swollen jaw where the butt end of a Shank trident had smashed him. “Yes, I like that!"

We talked and argued and eventually decided to burn a certain barracks which housed a company of particularly unpleasant Schtarkins.

“It must look like an accident.” I sounded heavy and tired. “If these rasts suspect it was arson, sabotage—"

“The retribution will be frightful.” Nath the Rumpador nodded.

“We'll fix it,” growled Bargrad the Pellin. “I'll get old Palandi the Iarvin to design a device. He's a sneaky Khibil, full of himself—"

“And much reduced, much reduced,” said Foke the Clis.

“Broken in the ib,” confirmed the Brokelsh. “But I will speak to him."

Having settled that, I produced a half loaf, only a little moldy, and divided it up. I'd had that off a tray going past on a wagon.

Well, we burned the barracks.

A fine hullabaloo followed; but the incendiarism was put down to accident. For the next three days it rained hard. We did no more burning for a sennight, and then we burned a smithy where arrow heads were forged. That, too, given the danger of the fires, was put down to chance.

Because the Shanks couldn't tell one person from another of the same race of diffs we were able to work some schemes that in any other context would not have been possible. I was able to join a work gang in place of somebody else. The Shanks simply counted how many of us there were in any one gang, and kept checking that number. By this means I and my companions could move about Taranjin relatively freely. We needed to get the word out and spreading that the Day was coming. And to be ready. By this means, also, I was afforded the opportunity to take stock of the Shank forces. They were formidable. Clearly, however, this was the bridgehead for an Invasion. The forces gathered in Taranjin were not of the size to resist a concerted attack delivered by even a small proportion of the strength we could muster. The problem was mustering that strength.

When I'd worked my way around to joining a group of apim armorers, I had the layout pretty well firmly fixed in my head. Shan-lao Ortyghan at first resented my presence. He ran the shop and he was well aware that if he did not produce what the Shanks required he'd get no food, or he'd be stuck through with a trident. He was a bulky apim, with a stomach shrunken away from its former protuberant glory.

He had lost the skills of Naghan the Hammer and I had to convince him I was a competent armorer in all branches of that abstruse science before he would accept me as a substitute for Naghan the Hammer. Then he became more friendly.

When I said I required a sword he just turned away.

When I persisted, he said: “Those Shank shints can count, you know."

“So we cabbage a little metal from here and from there. You, Shan-lao Ortyghan, will provide enough good quality metal that the Fish Faces won't miss for me to forge a sword."

I will not go into the details necessary in the Convincing of Shan-lao Ortyghan the Armorer. Suffice it to say that he grunted out: “Very well, Prince Chaadur, we will cabbage the metal for you. And may the True Trog Himself bless our endeavors. For if we are caught—"

“We will not be. The Shanks can be fooled. Have we not proved that?"

“Aye.” He had to admit that, grudgingly. We could bamboozle the Fish Heads. It was risky; it was just about our only weapon at this time.

On a gray day of wind and rain and black clouds billowing a new reinforcement of Shank flying ships soared in from the sea. We counted the squadrons. There were five squadrons of thirteen ships each. Also, these ships were, again, of a different style from those which we were accustomed to see flying over Taranjin on patrols.

“By the Resplendent Bridzilkelsh!” swore Bargrad the Pellin, staring up with the rain beating on his pugnacious Brokelsh face. “The shints!More of ‘em. That upsets the balance, Prince Chaadur!"

“Aye."

The flying ships in their rigid lines through the bluster circled and lowered past the outskirts of the port, vanishing past the roofs, landing in the field allotted to them. This did, indeed, alter the balance.

The next time Deb-Lu contacted me, I'd have to make stronger representations through him to Drak, Emperor of Vallia, to release more vollers from the Vallian Air Service. Yes, very well, I knew they were committed and needed elsewhere. I'd just have to try to convince Drak that we needed them down here.

At this time, too, by cunning if simple appeals to the natural cleverness inherent in any Khibil's opinion of himself, I'd stiffened up old Palandi the Iarvin's resolve. In a pathetic attempt at the usual cutting superior manner of any Khibil, he said: “I have made the device, prince.” He showed me the little wooden box. I was at pains to admire his handiwork.

Truthfully, the thing was a little marvel. In the box a fruit would be connected at each end to rods which held a powerful twisted cord in rest. He'd suggested a gregarian, anything of a similar nature would have done, an orange, an apple, anything that would rot away. When the fruit rotted enough it released the cord which unwound like a spring. This struck sparks from a flint and toothed wheel. The sparks fell on the prepared tinder. The rest of the box was packed with combustibles. We had, therefore, if not a time bomb, then a timed incendiary device.

“Dondo!” I said, congratulating Palandi.

“Oh, aye,” he sniffed, brushing up his whiskers from which the red had faded to a dull gray. “She'll burn ‘em, may Bil the Khib frizzle ‘em."

The necessity was to select a fruit in the last stages of decomposition. Now, remember, food was so valuable, was so difficult to obtain, that to dedicate a whole fruit to our incendiarism was so altruistic as to be beyond credence.

“A fish head,” I said, firmly. “Any fruit is beyond our powers."

“Even a stinking fish head,” grumped Foke the Clis, “will be difficult."

So, and of course, in the event I donated a fish head out of a garbage pail outside a Shank barracks. You had to fight to get the garbage, too.

What with this scheme and that burning, this reconnaissance and that listing of forces, that horrendous time passed.

Through this period we discovered further ways of fooling and tricking the Shanks.

Shan-lao Ortyghan proved to be not only a fine armorer but an excellent engraver. He could produce the most wonderful patterns along a sword blade. When a party of Shank officers discovered examples of his work in a back room of the smithy they became, as Shan-lao expressed it: “Beside themselves with wonder and admiration of the workmanship.” Nothing would suffice but that they must have their own swords beautifully etched with patterns of fish and ships and clouds, and the whirling Celtic lines that made a blade an artifact of art and beauty.

“I'd a’ refused ‘em,” said Shan-lao, bitterly, “but they'll pay extra food."

“Quite right,” I said.

“But, prince—?"

“You'll need acid. Strong acid. You and your assistants will beautify the swords of the Fish Faces."

Here I was piercing two birds with a single shaft.

First of all, if we could get out hands on acid, then Palandi the Iarvin could use the method of having acid bite through a membrane for a timing device instead of a rotten fish head.

In the second place, as I said to the armorer: “You will execute the most wonderful designs upon the blades of the Shank weapons. If it is to become a fashion with them, then we'll use that to our own advantage."

“It sits ill with me, prince, to pander to a damned Fish Face."

“Assuredly. You will, good Shan-lao, cut the patterns deep. Very deep. The color will conceal the depth the acid has bitten. You see?"

“Oh, aye, I see. And when the swords break in a fight, they'll march around for me and stick a trident through my guts."

“When the fight happens, we'll all be in there fighting. If we don't we don't deserve to succeed. When we've scored the victory, the depth of the acid will not be an issue. Of course, if we do not win on the Day, then little will matter thereafter."

“By the Divine Tears of the True Trog Himself! You speak sooth there!"

“Then let the acid bite deeply, Shan-lao, and curse all the Shanks down to their hellish hell."

“Quidang to that, prince!"

In a similar fashion I persuaded a lithe rascal who swore by Diproo the Nimble-fingered to go along with a scheme I'd concocted in a moment, I suppose, of divine madness.

This Luan-Chi the Flexible joined Bargrad the Fellin and myself in an argument over a suitable use to which we might put Palandi's incendiary device.

“Barracks are fine,” I said. “But if we burn a food warehouse—"

Luan-Chi, a Thanko with a mop of dusty dark hair and the long and drooping nose of his race, said quickly: “That would not be clever."

“I'd burn the lot of ‘em,” growled Bargrad in his pugnacious uncouth Brokelsh way. “But Luan-Chi speaks true, prince. If we destroy food we reduce the amount the Bolsted-rotten Shanks will give us."

“Anyway,” amplified the thief, “it is reasonably difficult to burn."

“There is a certain warehouse adjacent to the Marine Bazaar,” I said in an even voice, not to be deflected. “They store barrels of fish there. The fish is preserved in oil. Oil. That will make a capital blaze."

“We'll all starve!"

“The Shanks have ample supplies of food. They deprive us to keep us in order, to keep us in chains. If they lose a warehouse of fish, they have plenty more. They go out fishing every damned day, don't they?"

“Yes—"

“Well, then. We burn the warehouse and we make sure at least one of the walls is broken down.” I glared at them with all the intolerant domination of Dray Prescot. “They will order slaves to rebuild the walls."

“So we will toil to rebuild the walls—"

“We build those walls in a certain way. We arrange the courses so that a section as wide as a door can be swiftly taken down. We will enter the warehouse secretly and take away many of those precious barrels of fish. Then we will rebuild the wall section so that it looks the same. They may guard the double doors at the front; we enter at—"

“By Diproo the Nimble-fingered, prince! A scheme! It will work!"

“Aye. With care and cunning, it will fool the Schtarkins."

So, that is precisely what we did. The Shanks never did figure out how barrels of fish were short in their inventory when the doors were fast shut and locked, with guards prowling. The walls stood, firm and solid. There must be some defect in their accounting procedures.

And our people ate good fish in oil.

These were just two of the schemes we tormented the Shanks with at that time. Perhaps the greatest weapon in our armory, though, was one I did not reveal to a soul. Since my tutor Maspero in far Aphrasöe had given me that genetic pill so that I could understand Kregish, I'd understood any language. Even the hissing spitting clicking racket of the Shanks.

One day creeping along out of the way like any slave, I passed into a square where along one side the Shanks had set up a row of stakes. On top writhed the poor unfortunates condemned for whatever crime they had committed.

There were forty-seven impaled persons. I counted as I walked past. The outcries had mostly died down, and the wrigglings stilled. The smells were no more unpleasant than most of Taranjin. Slaves like myself, passing along with downcast eyes, cast a single glance aloft, and then went back to scuttling along. They were just thanking the True Trog Himself it wasn't them up there.

A few Fish Faces with shiny tridents and scale armor were lolling about by the row of impalement stakes.

“You can't believe these people,” one of them was saying. This is a rough translation of the idiomatic fishy language. “Why do they do it?"

“If they become any more troublesome,” spat his companion, “they will become uneconomic."

“Get rid of ‘em all,” said another.

Walking on past with my head lowered I almost missed the response.

“Haven't you heard? The leaders have struck a deal. By the Great Scaled One! We'll soon have these drys whimpering in fear again and back under control."

Moving on in that slavish half crouch and shuffle I realized there were a number of facts to chew on here. Not one of those forty-seven poor devils had been anyone I knew, no members of the resistance cells we were setting up, so my conscience was, relatively speaking, clear on that score. If they'd been moved to do what they did because they'd heard of resistance within Taranjin, then I decided I wouldn't hold myself responsible for that, either. Once you were committed then you took your chances like anyone else.

So what was this deal the Shank Leaders had struck?

And, too, in the tacit admission that some at least of the people of Taranjin were slipping away from control meant that our campaign had an impact.

A few days later we worked a scam on the produce being brought in from the countryside. The Fish Heads really did not care to venture too far from the sea, although, as they had proved in the past, they would do so with frightful energy if they had to. They were growing accustomed to eating land produce. So our little group having arranged substitutes where necessary went along to the Ghat Gate and watched the loaded pack calsanys and high-sided carts rolling in. Shanks patrolled, giving an occasional lick with their whips, a vicious clout with their trident butt-ends.

The scam was a simple enough affair, workable when slaves hoisted the sacks on their shoulders and trotted in lines into the warehouses. We provided a sack identical to those being unloaded from the carts and carried into the building. Our accomplice was among the carriers. At a suitable place of shadows, under an arch, just past a door, the carrier would step out of line with his sack of flour and our man would take his place with his sack of sand.

This was garsun flour ground from the massive roots of the gola-gola plant. They tried to grow corn here but the varieties were not up to much, the climate not quite right, but garsun flour made a marvelous doughy-cake in lieu of ordinary bread. We had two sacks away and then it was my turn to step into the line with my sack of sand.

Jimjim the Randell slid past, ducking down into the archway's shadows as I stepped out. His sack of garsun flour would feed a lot of mouths. My sack of sand, I devoutly trusted, would be allocated to a Shank unit. I moved on smartly following the fellow ahead and a voice, harsh, cutting, phlegm-laded with arrogant fury, lashed out like a whip.

“Grak! C'mere, you miserable apology for a slave! You think you can fool me with a hoary old trick like that! You shint! C'mere!"

I just stuck my head down, not wishing to believe, and hoping he didn't mean me.

But he did.

“You! By the Triple Tails of Targ the Untouchable! We're going to have some change around here, we're going to have discipline and slaves knowing their place. C'mere, shint."

The thick and elastic coils of a black whip snapped about my waist and I was dragged back, the sack falling to the ground and spilling yellow sand across the bricks. I stared up.

Up there a black-browed Kataki hauled on his whip, and his sinuous tail with its six inches of daggered steel hovered before my eyes.

So now I knew the deal the Shanks had struck with the Katakis.

Chapter twenty

After the first blazing realization of the dreadful compact drawn out between Shank and Kataki, the thought uppermost in my mind was that I must not kill this arrogant and cruel bastard of a Whiptail.

If a slave killed a slavemaster, the retribution would be so frightful everything of suffering previously endured would pale into insignificance.

His whip hauled me towards him. He was a big fellow, clad in mesh, bright and bulky, well fed. His downdrawn Kataki face with the snaggly teeth and dark eyes bore down on me.

“By Koskei of the Daggered Tail! A trick that would not fool a green coy! C'mere, you cramph, and I'll stripe you!"

He expected me to try to pull back, to draw away from him. Instead I surged forward, inside the bight of the lash. My left hand freed the coil of whip about me. My right fist fastened on his tail just where the dagger hilt was strapped with leather and bright brass buckles. I yanked and then instantly thrust forward.

He was gobbling in black fury now.

There was the immediate necessity to duck a blow from his gauntleted fist. Balanced easily now, forcing the tail towards his belly, I kicked. I kicked good and hard, where it hurt, betwixt wind and water.

My toes are hard. I felt the soggy impact and he jumped under the impact. He started to double up and my left fist slashed him across that narrow Kataki jaw. He fell down and I threw his tail away.

An uproar began, slaves shrieking in mortal fear, mingled with the hoarse and furious bellows of more Kataki slave guards.

A swift look back past the shadows, past the line of slaves, showed me guards running up, whirling their whips, with the mingled suns shine glittering off their steel-tipped tails. Time to go.

Jimjim the Randell had vanished, gone with his sack of garsun flour, hurrying to one of our secret hoards. Bargrad the Fellin stood in a dark corner, his savage Brokelsh face expressing a mixture of fear and surprise. His sack of sand still rested across his shoulders.

“Drop that sack, Bargrad! Run!"

The sack went onto the brick flooring and the Brokelsh was away like a deer startled by dogs. I rushed after him, around the corner of the warehouse, down the stinking alleyway beyond. There was a certain hole in the cross wall at the end and Bargrad fairly threw himself in and through. I followed, taking a bit of skin off my elbow as I went.

The noise at our backs materially abated. We were now in a dark and narrow passageway that led past the second wall out onto Mare Street. The suns shine lay in a glitter of ruby and jade across the fish scales and bones littering the street, and a few slaves moved about carrying barrels into the next warehouse along. We had to reach and mingle with them, just two more fish among the rest.

By the time we'd slowed down and put half a dozen barrel-carrying slaves behind us, the next guards up ahead came into view. I let out a breath. They were all Shanks.

We could fool Shanks; we might fool Katakis if we had the luck of Five-handed Eos-Bakchi with us, otherwise—never!

That evening we called an emergency meeting of the Taranjin Freedom Fighters.

Those people you have met were there plus a good few newcomers, attracted to the group by our success. Everyone had a long face. The mood was grim. Little needed to be said, for we all understood the nature of the problem we faced. That problem had been intensified a thousand-fold. Katakis were man-managers and knew only too well how to handle slaves.

“Yet,” I said, “we must carry on somehow."

Bargrad wanted to know when this boasted Armada would come to our rescue, when the Freedom Fighters in the country would join us.

Since I'd had no recent communication over the eerie means of the planes with Deb-Lu, I couldn't answer. I gave a rote answer, promising that the Armada would come, and saw their confidence and belief waning.

We were cramped into a tiny mud brick hut, that inhabited by Master Chan Tang Lui, with no internal lights and only the radiance of the Maiden with the Many Smiles to show up our apprehensive and lugubrious faces. Even so, the Katakis found us in secret conclave. They'd have had us all if we had not had our bolthole prepared and were able to escape out into the shadows. As it was, it was a close run thing. And this was on the first day of the Whiptails’ arrival!

A few days’ later, with nothing done in the way of fooling the Shanks, I had to accept the needle. Our resistance to the Shank Invasion had collapsed.

All over town in the following sennight or so all our clever scams were unmasked by Katakis, expert bastards at sussing out schemes thought up by desperate slaves. They did not discover the trick wall. One reason for that was unpleasant in its implications. Most of the Freedom Fighters were too frightened to risk it. I went into the warehouse and collected a barrel of fish in oil; but alone it was hard work. With the fish as bait I tried to re-enlist some of the Liberty Warriors; few were interested.

With their superior cunning the Katakis actually increased some of the rations doled out to slaves. This helped to reduce the slaves’ willingness to chance the awful punishments meted out to those who were caught stealing.

The Whiptails did not discover the tiny little workshop where Master Palandi the Iarvin built the incendiary devices. He gave me six of them, and then indicated his unwillingness to carry on. His fear was perfectly understandable. I had six; I did not press for more.

These examples functioned through the action of acid eating away amembrane to release the twisted cord. At least, this obviated one small disadvantage of the fish-head timed examples, although I felt convinced the Shanks wouldn't notice one new rotten-fish stink among all the miasma of rotten-fish stinks in which we all lived.

The future might look dark. If I couldn't lead a great crusade of Freedom Fighters, then I must do what I could alone to whittle away at the Shank power. Accordingly, through Shan-lao Ortyghan, I obtained a position as a nik-armorer or shal-armorer to one of the Fishy Leaders. He was known to us slaves as lord, and that was all he was called as far as we knew. The rivalry between the Shank leaders to obtain the services of the most expert Pazzian slaves ought to work in our favor. I was taken on as assistant armorer and my main tasks were cleaning weapons and armor. I found myself surrounded by the paraphernalia of combat and war. In addition, the Shank lord through his Kataki taskmasters had me taken aboard his flying ship to clean and polish there. Well, now, if Dray Prescot couldn't fashion a scheme out of this situation, a scheme highly unpleasant to the Fish Faces, he didn't deserve to be the Emperor of Emperors, Emperor of Paz, no, by Zim-Zair!

In the little dingy canvas bag holding my cleaning equipment rested the six eggs of fire, as Palandi called them, for they hatched flame. The cleaning equipment, sounding grand, consisted of brick dust, oil and rags. Spittle was the other vital ingredient. So, I cleaned fighting gear.

The metal we had been cabbaging for the sword Shan-lao was to make was not sufficient. Now I was surrounded by weapons! The Shanks might be vicious and merciless killers, they were slack over managing slaves. Not so the Katakis, and a guard stood outside the armory door at all times slaves were near weapons. The door was locked from the outside. I spat and polished.

This was the period in which I learned a great deal about Shank flying ships and about the weapons of the Fish Faces.

One day it chanced that my companion slave, a little Och, Onso the Gnat, had a gripe in his guts and was absent. I was alone. I cleaned and polished assiduously. Then, in a great wave of longing and desperation, the temptation to take and hide one of these weapons swept over me.

That temptation had to be resisted. The old saw about: ‘I can resist everything except temptation’ had to be denied. The Katakis might unlock our chains when we worked aboard the flying ships—they remained slave drivers still. A single sword missing would be noted at once as the slavemaster counted stock. Then—I did not care to dwell on that particular then.

Just as I'd reached that somber conclusion the armory door opened and two Jibrfarils stood there, black whips trailing in grotesque counterpoint to their daggered tails. They exuded menace.

“You, apim,” said one through his snaggly teeth. “Fetch your cleaning gear. You go with us."

The cleaning bag dangling from a fist, I went out with them. Now what had gone wrong?

This armory lay under the top deck of the aftercastle and we went along forward. I took note of the flagship. She was one of the newer large slab-sided craft and along the starboard bulwark I counted the butts of ten varters. These ballistae impressed me as being superior to other Shank artillery I'd seen; they were nowhere near the quality of the gros varters of Vallia. The ship possessed two fighting towers and a raised armored control tower. The decks were, to a first lieutenant of a Royal Navy Seventy Four, absolutely filthy.

Up forward the forecastle boasted four more smaller ballistae and a brace of catapults. This was officer country and I was shoved through a brass-studded doorway. The cabin was well-lit by mineral oil lamps. A scuttle was partially obscured by a half-drawn curtain. A smell of oil and polish reached my nostrils through the eternal unnoticed fish stink. I looked about.

When the Kataki explained why I was here I breathed easier.

The lord wanted some personal cleaning done. Like many warlords he kept up a trophy room, an idiosyncrasy of barbaric pride amusing to those who do not dwell upon their past personal victories. I speak from a private point of view; it is important that soldiers know and appreciate what their regiments have done in the past so that they maintain the tradition of duty, honor and bravery.

Rather naturally I thought of other trophy rooms I had known and particularly that of Gafard, the King's Striker, Sea Zhantil. Aboard a green swifter of Magdag he'd organized a trophy room so that he could retain possession of certain personal belongings of a certain Krozair also known as the Sea Zhantil.

By this time I was getting the hang of the Shank rank markings and the Fish Face I took to be the Ship Hikdar was talking in a most cringing fashion to the lord. I must give their conversation in plain unadorned prose for to hear their strange splashing clicking fishy speech gave a Pazzian a most uncomfortable, not to say eerie, feeling.

“And you personally guarantee the safety here?” demanded the lord.

“Absolutely, lord. The slaves fear the Katakis. They call them greeshes, or Jibrfarils."[11]

[11 Jibrfaril: pain lover, in the sense of taking pleasure from giving pain. A.B.A.]

As these Pazzian words clicked out from the splashing fishy words, the Katakis stiffened and their daggered tails shot up. They resented that, and they couldn't help show it. I saw there was no love lost between employer and employee in this devilish compact between Shank and Kataki.

“Place two in control at all times."

“Yes, lord."

With that the Fish Faces took their odiferous presence off. I looked about. The Katakis went over to a small table against the inner bulkhead and sat down to some obscure game involving slapping their tail daggers one against t'other. One of them growled: “Grak, slave!"

Hauling out my cleaning gear I set to work. The trophies were ranked in glass cabinets, adorned with shells and fishes and squid motifs. Many of the items were from fights between Shank and Schtarkin, as far as I could make out, between Schturgin and Shant. Also there were, to my sorrow, altogether far too many taken from soldiers and sailors of Paz. I recognized some of the blazons. A pair of shields from the Iron Legions of Hamal, a lance pennon much ripped and bloodied from Hyrklana, a helmet and a coat of mesh from a country of the Dawn Lands, a cartwheel of swords from many of the nations around the Shrouded Sea, a powerful crossbow that had once belonged to a swod in a regiment of Canops. In a cabinet in isolated splendor as I looked around, I saw half a Vallian flag. The tresh had been carefully cleaned and what was left gave my heart a thump. The regimental numbers were missing; I fancied that was from a Green Coat regiment of Vallian Spearmen almost broken in the Battle of the Incendiary Vosks.

Then, as I saw what had been carefully hung in its own glass case, I froze. Well, they didn't often venture far from the Eye of the World. Only once or twice in his lifetime would a Krozair go awandering. The roving bug might bite in the wisdom of Zair and then a few companions would seek adventure and fortune upon wider oceans. To the best of my most recent knowledge the Fish Faces had not penetrated into the inner sea of Turismond. This gear, scarlet and bronze, this great Krozair longsword, had been borne by a Krozair brother fighting for some doomed cause against the Shanks.

When I came to take down the Krozair brand to clean everything with ten-fold meticulousness, I held the sword reverently. I saw that I was trembling. Instantly, I told myself severely and with contemptuous passion, I must hold onto reality. Swords are merely lumps of metal forged into special shapes to perform unpleasant work. A chunk of metal forged into a ploughshare is of infinitely greater worth—except, except in some special circumstances. And, by Zim-Zair, those special circumstances had dogged me all my life!

The macabre thought did occur to me that this was the work of the Star Lords. Certainly, after our most recent meetings they might very well throw me some help. Too, by thinking of an audience of the Everoinye as a meeting rather than a confrontation, I was breaking new ground. If they had indeed tossed down this Krozair longsword to my assistance then that would be a fantastic notion; but it was a credible one.

The longsword had belonged to a Krozair of Zamu. The secret marks were plain to me. She balanced perfectly—well, now, that is a superfluous observation as this perfect balance is one of the recipes for the production of the superb Krozair longsword.

“Careful with that, shint,” rapped the Kataki with blue cult marks down his cheeks.

His companion snarled a sneer. “That great bar of iron? It's useless. By Takroti! I don't see why this Kiko of a Shant lord keeps the stupid thing."

“What he takes, he keeps."

“Aye."

So, I cleaned the Shant lord's trophies. The very last was a stux near the door, a hefty throwing spear with red feathers decorating the join of haft and head. Then I was finished and was shepherded out.

For my reward, when they chained me up again, I was thrown something ugly out of the refuse of the shandishalah booths along the fish quays.

Having determined to strike a more positive blow than this shilly-shallying about, I arranged with Shan-lao to take another slave's task of delivering boxes of arrows to the fleet. The impression I'd gained was that here barrels were not too easily come by, coopers being scarce, and the English system of packing arrows in barrels was not followed. Accordingly, I drove a creaking four-wheel cart drawn by two mytzers under the watchful gaze of guards onto the field. The Shank flying ships were berthed in neat rows. I delivered the boxes of arrows with due humility. Six of the Shank ships received a box containing a fire egg.

The last of the six was the lord's flagship.

As I came out on deck having stowed the boxes at the back of the magazine my two Kataki guards accosted me and in their brutal way told me to cut along to the trophy room. The lord wanted his trophies cleaned again.

As before they removed my chains and then sat down to their tail-dagger thumping game. I went to work, spitting and brick-dusting and polishing. I'd brought a whetstone and put a decent edge on some of the blades. The Katakis merely grunted reluctant approval at this. I spent a deal of time on the Krozair brand.

The scarlet breechclout was clean and pressed—no doubt by a female slave—and the lestenhide belt supple with oils. The scabbard had been disengaged from the bronze lockets. In general there are only two styles of scabbard for a Krozair longsword, this one, the plain and unadorned krosturr style, the other being the highly decorated hyrzim fashion. Both, however, feature the device of the hubless spoked wheel.

A hubbub began outside. The two whiptails took no notice for a time and then, curiosity winning them over, crossed to the door and stood looking out.

Temptation, as I say, is a sore taskmistress.

With smooth and practiced movements I discarded the gray slave clout and donned the brave old scarlet and pulled the belt tight. That felt good!

I took up the great Krozair longsword.

The brand glittered in the light as I twirled her about. I felt the secret disciplines of my brotherhood, the Krozairs of Zy, gave me insights and understandings unimaginable to a non-Krozair—I felt just wonderful.

Reality, of course, was that I was a slave play-acting.

The uproar outside had now grown to considerable proportions. Screams fizzed into the air. Intrigued, I crossed to the scuttle and looked out.

A black hulled ship had recently landed and from her a coffle of slaves staggered along, struggling, as the whips rose and fell, rose and fell. These people had evidently recently been caught, for they wore normal clothes and they resisted still. Their guards were becoming exasperated. Dust spurted up and glinted, and red welts lashed across the slaves as they tried to fight back.

Among the glittering scaled armor of his officers, the Shank lord pointed.

“Bring those slaves up here. They will serve as an object lesson to the others.” More slaves and guards were debouching from the flier.

One of his aides, a Fish Face who had a few words of Kregish, managed to convey the lord's orders to the Kataki Chuktar with the group.

This fellow, immense, banded in iron, flaunting feathers, at once protested. “They are merchandise, lord. They can be disciplined—"

“Shastum! Aboard—bring them!"

There was no arguing with the power these Fish Heads wielded. The Kataki Chuktar subsided, his face as black as the hull of a Shank ship. This lord was an objectionable bastard with a face like a cod and enough gold loading him down to sink a bullion argenter to the deepest depths of the Risshamal Deep. He held out his hand and an aide slapped a trident into his grip.

So that was what he'd do. He was going to enjoy himself thoroughly in the next few murs. He'd go along the line of miserable slaves and thrust his trident into each one's guts, and twist and pull. The filthy state of his deck wouldn't offend him in the slightest.

Sick with despair and horror I stood and watched as the line of shouting screaming Pazzians was hauled aboard. They were thrust against the bulwarks.

Unwilling to witness the horror about to occur, I started to turn away from the scuttle. The Pazzians remained defiant, having to be forcefully smashed back. I started to turn away—and then I halted. My fists wrapped about the great Krozair longsword bit and pained and knotted into grainy lumps.

So I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, stared blankly upon my friends.

Rollo the Runner reeled back under the smash of a trident butt. His face was congested with anger, bruised, blackened, vicious. And, with him, stood Mevancy nal Chardaz, and Trylon Kuong, and Llodi the Voice. The Shank lord raised his trident. In only moments I'd have four less friends on Kregen.

I stood there, lumpen.

A great Hero?A legend?A flying figure in a scarlet breechclout wielding a glittering longsword? Me? A beaten slave?

All the passion and fury of the old Dray Prescot lashed out. No longer was I the latter day Prescot, rational, trying to be calm, hoping to achieve just ends by judicial discussion. Now I was that selfsame red raw Dray Prescot who had first landed on Kregen, savage with resentment at unjust authority, vengeful against those who did me wrong.

Even as passion flowed through me I thanked whoever it might be—the Star Lords, the Savanti nal Aphrasöe or some other greater power—who had placed into my fists the weapon with which I might redress oppression.

I moved with a suddenness I had not forgotten.

The two Katakis watching from the door were cut down by two precise blows.

I snatched up the red-feathered stux and sprang out onto the deck.

The Shank lord had degutted one poor devil of a Mionch who went down screaming to snap one of his long tusks against the deck. The lord drew back the trident for his next blow and the red feathers of the throwing spear nestled neatly between his fishy shoulder blades.

His aides and officers let out screeches of astonishment and incredulous rage as the lord toppled and fell. In a body, glittering with scaled armor, they turned to face me.

Mevancy, Kuong, Llodi and Rollo stared with enormous and disbelieving eyes.

The Fish Heads shrieked in rage, ripping out their swords and brandishing their tridents.

The stink of rotten fish suddenly assaulted my nostrils, a smell I hadn't noticed in too long a time.

Here, then, was where Dray Prescot discovered the great and final secret.

“Hai Jikai!” Redness crept in. “Hai Jikai, you murdering torturing kleeshes of Fish Faces! Hai Jikai!"

Gripping the great Krozair longsword in that cunning two-handed Krozair grip, the brave old scarlet breechclout flaming under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio, facing hopeless odds, I, Dray Prescot, hurled myself hurtling headlong forward.

“Hai Jikai!"

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.