A Victory for Kregen (16 page)

“Perhaps you know the man I seek?”

“There is such a man?” He looked puzzled again and I guessed he was considering the reason he had found for himself for my lack of response to his genial challenge.

“There is. His name is Turko—”

He looked about at once, and put a finger to his lips.

“Ssh, dom! Have you no wits! Caution!”

He drew me out of the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio into the shadows under the eaves. He looked about again, with much eye rolling. For a Chulik he was evidencing much non-Chulik behavior. But, then, his tusks had been sawed off, and that must profoundly change the mental attitudes of any self-respecting Chulik.

For a start, how could one call him a Yellow-Tusker now?

The dependent fronds of a brilliantly green tree, a fugitive from the jungle — or the advance guard of the jungle returning — concealed us from prying eyes out along the boardwalk. Kimche stared at me, and his tongue crept out to lick his lips.

“I did not take you for Hamalese. If you are, I shall surely fight and slay you — you do understand that?”

“I do.”

One factor I had not overlooked was the simple problem of the island of Pandahem now being in the vulture-like grip of Phu-Si-Yantong. With the duped help of the iron legions of Hamal he, under his cloaking alias of the Hyr Notor, had conquered the various and separate kingdoms of the island. Queen Lush of Lome had been his tool, coming from Pandahem, and was now with us of Vallia. Other rulers had been subjugated or slain. Yantong ran the island working through human tools. If there was a resistance to Hamal, then Turko would be up to his Khamorro neck in it, that was for sure.

“I am aware of the problems you Pandaheem face—”

“Tell me your name, rank, and station, dom.”

He had no fear of me or my weapons. In a twinkling he would have my back across his knee, and, snap!

— one more Hamalese cramph gone to the Ice Floes of Sicce.

“I am Jak the Sturr. And I fight against Hamal.”

He stared at me with those feral black Chulik eyes.

He nodded. “Very well. And Turko is in trouble. Do not think you can deceive him, for he is a man among men.”

“When can I see him? Where is he?”

“Early this morning, before dawn, he went to Black Algon’s marquee to reason with him once again. I do not think he was successful.” Kimche screwed up his mouth. “I think Turko must take my advice and break the yetch’s back.”

I sighed.

Problems, problems...

“Tell me, Kimche the Lock.”

The story was simple and straightforward and not at all pretty. One of the wrestlers’ comrades, a young Khibil called Andrinos, was deeply in love with a Khibil maiden who was slave to Black Algon. She worked in a fire-eating and magic act. Black Algon, gloating in his own power, would not release her or sell her. Andrinos was in despair. His comrades had vowed to help him; but short of violence, gold being of no assistance, they had so far failed to secure the maiden Saenci’s release.

“Trust Turko to become embroiled in an affair like this. Can nothing be done to convince Black Algon to part with the girl?”

“One thing only, by Likshu the Treacherous. Break the nulsh’s back!”

Now, I had hitherto on Kregen detested Chuliks as fierce and inhuman diffs. They had caused me much pain. But, then, so had other diffs, and apims, too, by Krun! Lately, certain experiences had modified my views on the Yellow-Tuskers, and, too, I did not forget that Chulik with whom I had spoken before the Battle of the Dragon’s Bones. So I could talk quite reasonably to Kimche the Lock, and treat him as a man first, discounting all my old hostile feelings toward Chuliks. Truly, life brings changes to the most flinty of characters!

“The marquee of Black Algon? And you say this fellow supports the Hamalese?”

“Aye. If you go there, take care. He has many friends among the wrestlers in the booth of Jimstye Gaptooth. He is the mortal foe of us at the Golden Prychan, who are comrades all.”

One of the cardinal principles of staying alive on Kregen is to remember names. Names confer power, not power for misuse, but self-power, the knowledge to orient a life-style amid dangers. If you forget or confuse names, you can end up skewered on the end of a rapier or have your head off in the slice of a cleaver — so be warned!

I nodded. “I shall tread carefully. Tell me, Kimche, does this Jimstye Gaptooth have any Khamorros in his booth?”

“Yes.”

The monosyllable shook me. The savagery with which Kimche spoke told me much. I did not press.

What there was to learn I would find out. That was as certain as Zim and Genodras rose and set, by Zair!

Black Algon’s marquee was tightly shut and his slaves told me he had gone into the city about important business. There was no sign of Turko. When I mentioned Saenci, the Khibil slave girl, the slaves ran off.

Annoyed, I walked around the fairground, spying it out, seeing the bright booths and sideshows and all the gaudy come-ons and money-taking-offs revealed in the pitiless light of the suns. The air dried up the mud. Shortly after the hour of mid the rains would fall down in solid masses of water, and the mud would ooze again into its sticky consistency. I took myself back to the Golden Prychan.

“It is time for ale, Jak the Sturr,” Kimche greeted me. He took me through the wide, sawdust-sanded floor into a back snug. The bamboo-paneled room contained about a dozen wrestlers. They looked a ripe assortment of battered humanity. The ale was brought in by Fristle fifis, and we sat to drink.

I was reminded of Dav Olmes and his penchant for stopping at the least provocation for a stoup of ale.

These men were drinkers.

Food, very naturally, was brought in and no one seemed to be concerned if I would pay the reckoning.

There were Khamorros among these wrestlers. Kimche wiped suds, and leaned forward, and said, “You know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl, Jak?”

“I know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl.”

“Well, it is not quite like that, Kimche,” put in broken-nosed Naghan the Grip.

“I know, I know. But Andrinos and Saenci worry our Turko. That is what concerns us. He is our best Khamorro and Jimstye Gaptooth has three high kham Khamorros — and what may a mortal man do against them?”

The other wrestlers, florid and bulky and coiling with muscles, grumbled and grunted, and drank.

Truthfully, there are few mortal men who may go up in handgrips against a Khamorro and stand a chance in a Herrelldrin hell of winning.

I asked the obvious questions, and learned that the wagers dictated the relative powers of the contests.

In catch as catch can the ordinary wrestler, with Turko available, handled his opposite number and called in Turko in the inevitable crisis. As Jimstye Gaptooth could put more Khamorros onto the canvas than the consortium operating from the Golden Prychan, Turko was called on frequently.

The smell of sweat in the bamboo-walled snug was barely noticeable, for these wrestlers were particular about themselves. But the smells of oils and liniments rose pungently. Some of the men wore bandages, tightly strapped and pasted, and two carried broken arms in slings of clean yellow cloth.

“And,” said Nolro, a young Khamorro whose headband indicated he had barely begun his climb through the khams, “where is Turko, anyway?”

“And Andrinos?”

“By Morro the Muscle!” declared Nolro. “We fight tonight and if Turko is not here—”

Kimche reached for the ale. “He will be ready to step onto the canvas, Nolro. You, of all men, should know that.”

“I do. But — I worry...”

When they questioned how I had come to know Turko I simply said we had met in the past and as I was passing through I thought to look him up. I made no big thing of it, and went on to question them as to the advisability of all this ale-drinking if they fought this night. They guffawed.

“This ale gives us our strength, dom!”

Well, it might, too, given that it was brewed from top-quality Kregan barley and hops and was filled with good things. I drank and wiped my lips, and we talked of this and that. And still, Turko did not appear.

He was never once referred to as Turko the Shield. A couple of times they called him Turko the Rym, and I will not advise you of what that means. So the time passed and then the note of exasperation in their voices sharpened. They were a consortium of wrestlers, and if one let the others down, his shares were forfeit. Also, his honor was smirched, that was plain. I sighed. I had no desire to step into a ring and take Turko’s place. But, if I had to, I had to...

The secret disciplines under which the Khamorros train in Herrelldrin, the syples, their allegiances and their kham status, are all shown on their reed-syple, the headband with its symbols. I could read a paltry handful of those, from previous experience, and recognized none of the reed-syples of the Khamorros here.

Turko, of his own desire, wore a plain scarlet reed-syple. By this he proclaimed his allegiance, his disdain of other syple disciplines, and to hell with anyone who questioned his kham status. A bit of a rogue Khamorro, our Turko the Shield. And he had a fine mocking way with him, too!

I looked at Muvko the Breaker, who appeared to be the likeliest of the khamsters present.

“Muvko,” I said, with a smile. “I mistook good Kimche’s offer of a fall or three. After we have finished our bout, would you do me the honor of gripping wrists?”

He laughed good naturedly. I guessed these Khamorros were not high khamsters, lacking the refinement of skill to take them into the master class, and were happy to find employment in a fairground booth. For all that, no ordinary unskilled mortal in the arcane lore of wrestling stood a chance against them in fair combat.

“If Kimche leaves you with any bones joined together.”

“By Beng Drudoj Grip and Fall!” quoth Kimche. He was mightily pleased and showing it for a Chulik.

But, remember, he was minus his tusks. “You are my man, Jak, after all!”

“Then let us begin,” I said, and stood up.

Their practice ring was functional. An alcove with a neat little bronze statue of Beng Drudoj, the patron saint of wrestlers, faced a broad table with medical impedimenta at hand. Most of the medical assistance, as far as I could see, consisted of bottles of liniment and unguents, bandages and slings, and copious buckets into which a man might spit his teeth. And over this table on which a defeated combatant would be laid out frowned the intolerant bronze features of Beng Drudoj Grip and Fall.

These spartan surroundings were enough to perk a flutter through the heart!

Because I have had the good fortune to go through the Disciplines of the Krozairs of Zy, which teach a man wrestling and unarmed combat tricks — all the martial arts — that leave the best syples of the Khamorros far in the shadows, I had been able, without actually fighting Turko, to convince him that I had the besting of him and many a high khamster.

So, Kimche and I stripped off and began and it was not made too swift and there was a deal of grunting and straining before he gave me best. I stood back.

“You fight well, Kimche. But—”

“By Likshu the Treacherous!” he panted, standing up and shaking himself like a dog run from the sea.

“You must be a Khamorro!”

“No, Kimche. I am not a Khamorro.”

“Then,” said Muvko the Breaker, stepping forward, “let us see what you can avail against a true khamster.”

Muvko was, as I had suspected, competent within the syples. Again I made nothing great of it, and the contest prolonged itself long past the moment when Turko, for one, would have had Muvko flat on his back. But it is foolish to puff up one’s abilities if there are skullduggeries to follow.

“Now may Morro the Muscle be my witness!” declared Muvko, sitting up and staring at me. “If you are no Khamorro — what manner of man are you?”

Useless to answer, “A Krozair of Zy.” So I smiled, and said, “I had luck and the knack of it, Muvko.

Now, who is for ale?”

My intentions were plain to them. And, having seen me in action, they were fully in agreement.

“And when Turko returns, we will have a few words to say!”

“Aye!”

The daily downpour had come and gone outside, no doubt adding a fair quantity of fresh growth in that voracious jungle, and we started to prepare seriously for the evening’s contest.

Hoping that I had not created too great an impression, I joined in. After all, ordinary wrestlers stand no real chances against Khamorros. The wagers and rules reflected this, as they would have to do. So —

how could I be explained? As a freak, that seemed the only answer, and thus I was accepted. They made plain I was standing in for Turko, and could have no share of the consortium’s profits on my own account. This seemed reasonable.

A smart trot across to the marquee of Black Algon revealed the place open and girding its magical loins for the night’s doings. Black Algon, himself, was still not there. Neither were Saenci and Turko. And Andrinos was still missing.

Back at the Golden Prychan, Kimche expressed himself of the opinion that mischief was afoot but that, by Beng Drudoj Triceps and Biceps, he had no inkling what it might be.

“Sink me!” I burst out. “If he’s got Turko and the others chained up in some infernal chundrog, I’ll—”

“So would we all, Jak, if we knew if and where!”

“There is one way to find out, a very old and still reasonably efficacious way.”

“If you can find any rast to question.”

‘True, may the black lotus-flowers of Hodan-Set breathe on the cramph!”

“Jimstye Gaptooth may know,” said Nolro. “He must put in an appearance tonight when his men fight us.”

“By Morro the Muscle! Could we do it?” demanded Muvko.

A hubbub ensued. Of one thing I was sure, in all the bicep-rolling, muscle-flexing, stomach-tautening going on around me, these fellows would be ugly customers to cross on a wet and windy night, by Krun!

Kimche, the Chulik, a man who had been trained from birth to bear weapons and who now, tuskless, worked as a wrestler in a fairground booth, struck a note of warning.