A Victory for Kregen (7 page)

Now your true-blue mercenary of the skies knows when to fight from his natural perch, astride the back of a bird or flying animal, or when to alight and get on with handstrokes on the ground. We had seen off a sizeable gang of this bunch; now the rest forced their fluttrells in to haphazard landings and leaped off their backs, swords and spears brandished. They leaped toward us over the dust between the rocks.

Nath the Shaft calmly shot two of them out even as they cocked their legs over the wicker saddles and the sheening feathers.

The rest of us shot methodically, and then we were at the tinker’s work. The flutsmen they were close to proved to be a surprise. They were the usual mixture of diffs and apims, a Rapa, a Fristle, a Brokelsh.

They were clearly still unaware quite of their losses. They ran in and started to fight bravely enough. But when half their number fell, screaming, with not one of us so much as scratched, they abruptly came to a realization of the situation. As I said, they were of poor quality. They were, if you will pardon the conceit, masichieri of the skies.

When this raggle-taggle band broke back for their birds, I shouted the orders it was necessary to give and see obeyed instantly.

The Pachaks raced forward first. They were, after all, hyr-paktuns, with the golden pakzhan at their throats. They were more used to what goes on in the aftermath of battles than Tyfar’s two retainers, or the Tryfant Hunch. But Nodgen, who had been a mercenary in his time — almost made paktun —

understood swiftly, and was out of the rocks and running after the two Pachaks.

Tyfar yelled to me. “The people out there!”

“Let us go over, by all means.”

So the rest of us ran past the end of the thorn-ivy and quitted the shelter of the rocks. We ran toward the boil of dust marking the fight. Long before we reached it, the flutsmen were lifting away, the birds’

wings flapping with vigorous downstrokes to gain takeoff speed.

Then I let out a roar.

“The famblys! Come back! Come back—”

But the jutmen, freed of the horror of the flutsmen all around them, simply clapped in their spurs and went haring away across the flats. They galloped in a string and they had their heads down and I do not doubt that most of them had their eyes shut, also.

So we stopped running, and stood and watched the folk we had rescued simply flee in panic.

“The stupid onkers!” said Tyfar. He breathed in, and then made a grimace of distaste, and spat. The dust drifted in, clogging our mouths, flat and unpleasant on the tongue.

Among the drift of detritus of the fight — dead animals, dead birds, dead flutsmen, dead jutmen, and a scatter of weapons — an arm lifted.

“One of them,” I said, “at least is alive.”

We ran across.

He had been a strong fighting man, clad in bronze-bound leather, with a neat trim of silver to the rim of his helmet. His face, heavily bearded, was waxen now, all the high color fled. His lips were ricked back.

Near him lay a young man, dressed in clothes and armor of exceeding richness, and this young man’s neck was twisted and ripped, and he could have looked down his own shoulder blades, had his eyes still possessed the gift of sight.

“He — is dead — the young lord,” gasped the bearded, dying man. “So — best — I die, too...”

“Who was he?” said Tyfar. He spoke in a hard, contained voice.

The bearded lips opened but only a gargle sounded.

I bent closer.

“Rest easy, dom. You are safe now—”

“Flutsmen — lord, my lord — you must—” His head fell sideways, and those craggy, bearded lips gusted a last breath.

I stood up.

“I,” said Tyfar, “wonder who they were.”

“It does not matter. They are dead or fled.”

We stared about on that unpleasant scene.

Presently, Hunch said, “Can we go back to the rocks now, please?”

“Not before you and Barkindrar and Nath have collected what is useful to us. And be quick about it.

There may be other flutsmen about.”

Hunch looked sick.

“Do we have to?”

“Assuredly you do. Now — jump!”

Tyfar nodded. “Nath, Barkindrar, set to it.”

I ploughed in to help select anything we thought would be of use to us. But, as a prince, Tyfar moved a little way off. He did not help us strip the dead of the rich armor, or rake through the satchels, or lift up the blood-caked weapons. But he did not walk away. He stood nearby, and if any further flutsmen showed up, why, then he would show what being a prince involved.

The bulky, bearded man bothered me. He had given his life, and that had not been enough. His young lord was dead. I surmised they were part of an expedition out to venture down a Moder after treasure and magic, and had been separated from the main body by the Muzzard vakkas. Then the flutsmen, ever avid to pick up morsels like that, had attacked.

Twisted under a fine zorca that had been shafted — I took a single look and then looked away. The vile things that happen to faithful saddle animals at the hands of men is a sore subject with me, as with many other men on two worlds. Twisted under this poor dead zorca, as I say, lay the body of a large man who had been pitched from the saddle. His neck had broken.

I studied his face, calm, lined, filled with the remnants of a vigor that had sustained him in life and was now deserting him in death. He wore magnificent armor. It had not stopped his neck from being smashed. I sucked in my breath and went to work.

He was not the bearded servitor’s young lord, and I guessed he was a lord in his own right, gone adventuring on his own account. The expedition of which we nine were the last to escape from Moderdrin had contained nine separate expeditions within our ranks. The armor came off easily, for it had been well cared for. I hoisted it on my back and took his weapons and then trailed off after the others who were hurrying back to the rocks.

I saw Prince Tyfar looking at me.

He said nothing.

I said, “When you have been adventuring out in the wild and hostile world, Tyfar—” And then I stopped myself.

He would not understand. He might learn — if he lived long enough. But I knew enough to know that his ideas of honor could not comprehend my motives.

“Just, Tyfar, one thing.”

“Yes, Jak?”

“Do not think the less of me. I hazard a guess that you have never starved, never been flogged, never really wanted in all your life. These things give a man a different view of the values in life and, yes, I know I am being insufferable and almost preaching, but I value your comradeship and would not see it spoiled over so small a matter.”

And, even then, that was the wrong note. The matter was not small when it touched the honor of a prince of Hamal.

Then he surprised me.

“I have a deal to learn — everything is not contained in books or the instructions of axemasters. I shall don this poor young lord’s armor, which Nath and Barkindrar carry back for me — when it is necessary.”

I felt, I admit, suitably chastened.

When he reached the outcrop, the others had finished up their work and had secured the surviving fluttrells. The big birds were chained down by their wing chains, and had found it suddenly restful in the shade.

I nodded. “Well done.”

“And, what do we do with the swarths?”

“Cut them loose,” said Tyfar. “They will fend for themselves and, eventually, find their way to fresh employment.”

“Agreed.”

The night would soon be upon us and although we could fly quite easily by the light of the moons, we judged it better to give the fluttrells a time to recuperate. Hunch busied himself brewing up tea, that superb Kregan tea, for a supply was discovered in the saddlebags we had taken from the dead animals.

Also, we found something that told us who at least some of these folk had been.

Modo brought the package across and we opened it and read the warrant in the last of the light.

“Rolan Hamarker, Vad of Thangal — most odd.” Tyfar looked up from the paper. “That is a good Hamalese name. Yet I do not know of anyone called that. Thangal has no Vad. It is a Trylonate.”

“Due northwest of Ruthmayern,” I said.

“Yes. This is, indeed, a curiosity.”

“And this came from the effects of the young man?”

“Yes, Jak,” said Modo.

“Well, there was nothing with the other lord to identify him. And that, to me, is stranger still.”

“You are right, by Krun!” said Tyfar.

“Perhaps,” said Quienyin in his mellow voice. “They did not wish to give their true names when they ventured into Moderdrin.”

“Of course.” Tyfar beamed on the Wizard of Loh. “You have the right of it.”

“Probably,” I said.

We now had a plethora of weapons and armor and equipment. So we could take our pick. Any good Kregan will take as many weapons along with him as the situation warrants, or the situation that might arise the day after tomorrow will warrant.

As I picked up the dead lord’s sword, I looked across at Tyfar and said, “But that warrant, made out for Rolan Hamarker, gives him authority to arrest anyone he sees fit to question. It is exceedingly wide.

And, of course, you observe the signature and the seal?”

“I do. It is the seal of King Doghamrei. Although the scrawl is so bad it could have been signed by any damned slave who had stolen the seal cylinder.”

“King Doghamrei,” I said, and I fell silent, my mind choked with memories: of Ob-Eye, his one optic quite mad, trussing me up and stuffing me into a metal cage, of the cage being swung over the bulwarks of the massive Hamalian skyship Hirrume Warrior, of Ob-Eye thrusting the torch into the mass of combustibles piled around my bound form, of the cage being readied to drop onto the decks of the Vallian galleon Ovvend Barynth on the sea below. They’d set my pants alight, all right. Somehow, because I was a Krozair of Zy, as I truly think, and because I did not wish to be parted from Delia, I had gotten out of that scrape. But — all those vile things had been done to me not on the orders of the Empress Thyllis — Queen Thyllis as she was then — but of King Doghamrei. Oh, yes, I recalled him with some clarity.

And so, because of all those old memories ghosting up, I said, “By Krun! I’ve half a mind to feel sorry he’s still alive.”

Then I looked at Tyfar.

He smiled.

“Then in that you do not stand alone, Jak. He never did succeed in his plot to marry the empress — her poor doting husband still mopes away in some fusty tower or other — and King Doghamrei is still only a servile king in fee to the empress.”

“Well, I was incautious in my sentiments. Perhaps, one day, you will understand my feelings.”

“My father once fought a duel with Doghamrei—”

“Ha! Then I’ll wager Prince Nedfar acted as a true horter and let the rast off — more’s the pity.”

“He did and it is. But that is smoke blown with the wind.”

“Your father, Tyfar, is a prince for whom I cherish the most lively affection and respect. Now, why couldn’t he be a king — or even an emperor?”

Tyfar drew his cheeks in. He looked suddenly grave, all the banter fled.

“You run on leem’s tracks hastily, Jak.”

“I will say no more. I have said too much.”

“Yes. But, I think — I know — your sentiments are not yours alone.”

“Ah!”

Now, of course, all this sentiment was sweet in the ears of a Vallian. Anything to discomfit Hamal until that empire was willing to talk decently to her neighbors must be to the advantage of Vallia. All the same, what I had said about Tyfar’s father, Prince Nedfar, was true.

What a plot it would be to depose Thyllis and set up Nedfar as emperor of Hamal! I fancied I could talk to him, get him to see reason, see that all the countries of Paz had to unite to face the menace of the shanks, who raided and spoiled from over the curve of the world. For I felt sure their depredations, raids at the moment, would develop into a mass migration, a gigantic attempt to invade our lands. And that, we of Paz could not in honor allow. The fish heads would not be satisfied until every one of us, diff and apim, man, woman, and child, was exterminated.

We made our selections of weapons and armor and equipment and stuffed ourselves with the food in the saddlebags. Then we decided to let our meal go down and set off astride the fluttrells in exactly two burs.

Sitting with my back propped up against a folded cloak on a rock, I popped palines into my mouth, chewing the luscious berries contentedly. Quienyin sat down by my side and I offered him the yellow berries, extending the dish.

He chewed. Tyfar walked across and we passed the dish around. We felt relaxed, comfortable, perfectly confident that now that we had flying steeds we would be out of Moderdrin in no time. Quienyin coughed.

“Prince Tyfar. This war between you and your neighbors, which has extended into Vallia—”

“Yes. Vallia is recalcitrant. The Hyr Notor has the command there. But the news is — odd, to say the least. We have had to recall a number of regiments.”

“So I believe. They have a new emperor up in Vallia now, do they not? Tell me, Tyfar, what are your views on this new and fearsome emperor of Vallia, this Dray Prescot?”

One of the tethered fluttrells let out a squawk, and Hunch gentled him with quick, sympathetic skill. A small branch broke and fell from the fire. Nath and Barkindrar suddenly laughed, and I caught a coarse reference to Vajikry. The light of the moons shone exceedingly brightly upon the dusty land.

“The Emperor of Vallia?” said Tyfar, Prince of Hamal. “Well, now. A hyr-lif might be written about that great devil.”

“Tyfar,” I said, “did you see this great devil Dray Prescot paraded through the streets of Ruathytu lashed to the tail of a calsany? In the Empress Thyllis’s coronation procession?”

“Aye, Jak, I did.”

“And, Tyfar,” said Quienyin, and he looked at me as he spoke to the Prince, “your thoughts on that occasion?”

Tyfar poked at the fire with a stripped branch.

“This Emperor Dray — it was just, that he should be brought down and humbled, but the way of the doing of it...”