Storm over Vallia (14 page)

“Queen Lush! By Vox! Why does the woman have to choose the day of a battle to come visiting!”

Diplomatically, Endru rapped out: “It is clear she did not know a battle was due today.”

“I don’t know,” said Drak, almost snarling. “I wouldn’t put anything past her — and she is very, very welcome, of course. Always. Except — perhaps today...”

No one in the tent cared to mention that the queen had been referred to by her nickname by the prince. The old emperor, whom Queen Lushfymi had hoped to marry, had said with great meaning that anyone who called her Queen Lush would have his or her head off. And he’d meant it.

For all that, in these latter days Queen Lush was the name by which most folk thought of Queen Lushfymi of Lome.

Drak scowled. He stuck his fist onto his rapier hilt and fiddled, an uncharacteristic gesture.

“Kapt Enwood, you’ll have to take the right wing and I’ll handle the left. Brytevax Thandor will command the center. By these means if the queen cannot be persuaded to watch the battle from a safe distance she will at least not be in the thick of it.”

“With pleasure, jis!” exclaimed Enwood. He rubbed his hands. He’d thought he was in for a dull day. The plan called for the right wing to attack and the left to be refused.

“And not a word to the queen about the battle plan! Is that understood?”

“Understood, prince!” Everyone spoke up as though on parade.

Drak looked about on these people, folk he counted as friends and companions as well as loyal subordinates, all working for the good of Vallia. He could, had he wished, have become emotional. Instead, and without drawing his sword to bless them, he said: “Fight today with Vox to point and sharpen your weapons. May the light of Opaz go with you and your soldiers, every one. Remberee!”

“Remberee, prince!” they said, and then took their leave and went about the business of the day.

Nath the Strict came in with a tray bearing a cup of scalding hot Kregan tea and a silver plate of miscils and palines, all of which Drak tumbled down his gullet, not taking from the delicacies the enjoyment he should. His mind was plagued with doubts, which he knew he would throw off once the trumpets pealed the advance.

Concern for Queen Lush preyed on his mind.

His own small juruk jikai, consisting of Endru’s PMSW and Naghan’s PMDA, would see he came to no personal harm. Also, he was well aware that his father’s bunch of madmen, ESW and EYJ, although much preferring to be with the emperor, would take particular care of his son.

So that left Leone Starhammer’s QLJV a free hand to care for the queen.

He had often heard his grandfather complaining about the way his people insisted on looking after him and standing in the way when the old devil wanted to get to handstrokes with the foe. His father, an even greater devil, said the same, even more vehemently. Now Drak understood much of those complaints.

If he told anyone of the bodyguards corps to go off and reinforce the right wing, as had been the original plan, they’d kick up an awful rumpus. They might not refuse; they’d make damn sure they were within striking distance of where he placed himself in the battle line.

Damn Queen Lush!

Then he felt remorse at his own churlishness.

She was a wonderful woman, who worked wholeheartedly for Vallia. Once her own country had been properly cleared of the flutsmen and slavers and aragorn who festered there, as they still did in the unliberated parts of Vallia, she would have to choose where to live. She would always be welcome in Vallia. Drak was sure of that.

Finishing the tea which as ever was the best drink a man could quaff, good honest Kregan tea, he snatched a handful of palines and quit the tent. There’d be strong wine for the swods in the ranks, for the soldiers deserved that, at the least.

Before him the army moved like a multi-colored quilt spread over the ground. He enumerated off the formations, saw the flutter of flags, the treshes brilliant under the growing power of the suns. Armor and weapons glinted. Bands played. Nearer and in the center the three Kerchuris of the phalanx force sent up their paean, a strong solemn hymn to battle. Every now and again they’d change into a sprightly and usually risqué song, simply open-handed joyous ditties they’d sing as they marched forward into hell.

On the right of the line marched the First Vallia. The center was held by the Second Therminsax. Over on the left the Fifth Drak marched like a solid wall.

The Second had received their name from the town where the emperor had first created the phalanx. The Fifth were named for the half-man half-god mythical figure of Vallia’s dim and legendary past. He, too, was thusly named.

The other Kerchuri of the Third Phalanx, the Sixth, were called the Sixth Delia. He wished they were with him today.

As for the Second Phalanx, up in the northeast past Hawkwa country, they consisted of the Third Opaz and the Fourth Velia.

He tried to brisk himself up as he mounted aboard his zorca, Happy Calamity. The days after the Battle of Corvamsmot were over. Alloran had won crushingly there. He’d had this blight mysteriously called Zankov with him then. In letters from his father and mother, Drak had been warned against this Zankov. The most disturbing item of news was that his younger sister Dayra might be implicated with the fellow’s misdeeds. There was a suspicion that he was acting as the paymaster for Alloran. Whatever the truth of all these rumors, one thing was known.

Zankov had slain the old emperor and blamed Drak’s father, the new emperor. This slander was proved by Queen Lush, who knew the truth. At this memory Drak suddenly, overpoweringly, found himself longing for today never to happen.

If only... If only he were back in Valka, or Delphond, riding zorcas in the wide plains below the Blue Mountains! If only he could give up the time necessary to study the old books... If only — well, he had a battle on his hands and a queen to cosset. A fugitive glimpse of Silda Segutoria’s face and form passed before him, and he sighed, knowing if she were here they’d never keep her out of the hottest fighting.

His retinue closed up. Trumpeters, standard bearers, messengers, they were all tense, quivering, anticipating the excitements of the day. Also, they should expect the horrors. He rode out ahead, stony-faced, still and erect in the saddle.

The mass of soldiers ahead moving out with purpose, must act like a gigantic organism this day. They must crush Strom Rosil Yasi for good and press on through Ovvend and hurl into Kaldi and so reclaim all the mainland for Vallia.

One of his aides, beside himself with excitement, called out: “Jis! The queen!”

Drak turned his head and looked.

The blaze of color and glitter of gold and gems would fair blind anyone. Queen Lushfymi rode at the head of her regiment, with Leone and the high officers in close attendance. The queen rode a gray, and the zorca was so white as to appear ghostlike. The zorca’s single spiral horn jutting from the center of her forehead was completely coated with gold leaf. Every scrap of harness was studded with gems. Drak was not so foolish as to suppose those jewels to be paste.

Queen Lush wore armor, golden armor, encrusted with gems. Enormous clouds of feathers floated over her helmet. She carried the usual arsenal of Kregan weapons, and spare weaponry as well. Drak didn’t know if she looked splendid or foolish.

He tended to suspect she was absolutely splendid and only his own ill humor could make him think otherwise.

Her cavalcade halted, pushing his own folk a trifle to make room. Zorca hooves stamped. The suns glinted blindingly off armor and jewels and weapons. The strong sweet perfume of the women wafted across the small intervening space.

“Lahal, majestrix.”

“Lahal, my dear Drak. I’ve come to make sure you poor silly dear that you don’t get yourself killed.”

Chapter twelve

Of Water and of Blood

The manacles of iron, old and rusty, cut into his wrists cruelly. The fetters were of the same rusty antiquity and bit into his ankles. He was stripped naked. He hung suspended against a dismal brick wall, all running and slimy and green, and considered he was very hard done by. Very hard indeed.

The cell was small enough, in all conscience, and light entered through a barred opening high in a tunnel-like slot indicating ground level was high above his head.

The jailers had, at the least, taken away the skeleton hanging on the opposite wall that had greeted San Fraipur when they’d dragged him down here. By the sacred radiance of Opaz! This was a dolorous place.

The jailers did feed him. One was a Gon, a tallish fellow rather stooped, with the bald shaven head of a Gon smothered in butter. The other was an apim, with half a left ear, a bent and broken nose, no teeth that were visible, and hands like claws. They fed him thin gruel, without honey, and crusts of bread green as grass. On this dreadful fare San Fraipur perforce kept body and ib together.

And why?

In the great and glorious name of Opaz — why?

Because he’d told Vodun Alloran the truth?

Or, perhaps, because that thing Arachna had so willed it?

“Return in four burs,” King Vodun Alloran had said, “and give me the answers to my questions.”

This Fraipur had done to the best of his ability.

He’d noticed, there in that stifling throne room with the black and green clad Katakis standing guard around the draped walls, that Alloran was flushed so that his face shone with sweat and passion. Since he had dismissed Fraipur he must have gone through some profound experience. So judged the sorcerer.

“Well, Fraipur! Speak out, man!”

No longer, then, the polite address as San...

“I have given the question much thought. The forces with Strom Rosil are known, unless he has suffered another reverse.”

Alloran didn’t like that. With a sad and ugly feeling, for Fraipur had been devoted to this man, he recognized that he felt pleasure at his shaft.

“Go on, Fraipur. Tsleetha-tsleethi!”

“Yes, majister. The strengths of the Prince Majister are known only as to the last reports. I judge, and with reason, that he will receive reinforcements that will enable him to do more than resist the future advance of Strom Rosil.” Fraipur hurried on. “If Kaldi is to be prevented from falling into the hands of Prince Drak, then we must send more troops.”

Alloran leaned back. He looked pleased. “Yes?”

“That is the simple-minded reading of the situation, one any school child could arrive at.”

“And?”

“Not and, majister, but. You would need to strip forces from their garrisons here in Rahartdrin. You would have to postpone the invasion of Tezpor and the other islands.” Here he shot a hard look at the king. “You do remember, majister, what you have promised regarding Fruningen?”

Alloran roused himself in his throne. He leaned forward and his face blackened.

“You are insolent, Fraipur! What I choose to do with Fruningen, with any conquest, is mine alone to decide! Is that clear?”

“But, majister — Fruningen is small, a home for my friends, the teaching academies for the wizards—”

“If they are all as you are — well, never mind that. I will think on it. Go on with your answers.”

Fraipur felt a drop of sweat plop off the end of his nose. He closed his eyes, opened them, and said: “What will happen is this, majister, if you decide to reinforce Strom Rosil Yasi against the Vallians—”

“I am the true Vallia!”

“Of course. Against the usurpers. They have greater resources now, they have more regiments. You will be sucked in and overwhelmed—”

“I do not care for this, Fraipur!”

Fraipur struggled on.

“I judge the situation to be one for negotiation. If you hold Rahartdrin, the other islands, you will prove to be extremely hard to attack and dislodge. The sea crossing will be dangerous, and you have a fleet to protect the shores. Rather than lose many men in attempting to oust you, the emperor may come to terms, will recognize you—”

Alloran stood up. His face was a blot of anger.

“And I thought you a great mage! You are contemptible. You see nothing. Don’t you understand I have many mercenaries sailing to join me? They come from North Pandahem, thousands of them. Soon I shall be so strong as to overwhelm this brat Prince Drak.”

“The people — the usurpers — in Vondium know that. They have a fleet, in the air they are far more powerful than are you. They will take steps to prevent the paktuns from reaching you—”

“Enough! You have failed me yet again, Fraipur.”

Alloran sat back on his throne. He put his chin on his right fist, gazing levelly at the sorcerer. His left hand began to run the rapier up and down in the scabbard.

“Tell me, what do you know of Water and of Blood?”

“Water and blood? Why, one you may drink with relish, the other not. One passes in to comfort, the other passes out to end it all. If there is a choice—”

“You prattle like an infant with a rattle in its teeth. I know the answer. I have been shown. Water is thin, not for a warrior. Blood is thick, and will slake a warrior’s thirst. I choose blood!”

A conceit took Fraipur then, so that he was able to speak up.

“If you must choose between water and blood, majister, then my advice is to choose water. For the water represents the seas about Rahartdrin and the islands, which will wall you off in safety to come to terms with the emperor. The usurping emperor, to be sure. The blood will flow to everyone’s ruin if you try to fight on the mainland.”

So, here he was.

A famed Wizard of Fruningen strung up in rusty chains that were like to take his hands off soon. It was intolerable! His powers were real enough and he was confident he had read Alloran’s riddle aright. That damned Arachna had told him that about the water and the blood. Well, the she leem, she’d been clever enough, seeing what was ahead, to cloak her answer so that the idiot Alloran brought his doom on his own head.

Oh, yes, Fraipur’s powers were real enough; but they did not extend to getting him out of these chains and up that tunnel and through the iron-barred opening and out into the blessed fresh air of Kregen.