Omens of Kregen (14 page)

A man stepped up to greet her, smiling, smirking rather, bowing fulsomely. Some folk on Kregen will tell you a Rapa cannot smile. Well, they have predatory beaked faces, vulturine features, and their feathers come in a bewildering variety of colors — although beware those of the darker hues! — and so one has to read the expressions from experience and this fellow’s beak clearly smirked.

“Tyr Rogarsh,” said the Lady Hebe.

They walked off together. The Rapa, this Tyr Rogarsh the Rattler, wore solid leather harness such as would be worn by a flutswod, with a brace of swords and brilliant feathers matching his own whiffling in his helmet. At his throat the wink of gold gleamed and scintillated and told the whole damn world who and what he was.

“He’s useful,” said Seg. “I gather as a mercenary he was employed by Hamal, rose to be Chuktar, did well in a number of scraps — until he ran into our lads from Vallia.”

Ortyg laughed with delight. Nath remained mute.

“So now he’s tazll, unemployed, and so seeks to continue his expensive habits by plundering tombs.”

“That’s what they appear to believe the Coup Blag is. Just a burial mound with lashings of treasure within.”

“And the bandits who used to infest the place?”

“Long gone and it’s the ancient tombs story now.”

“Something doesn’t add up here.” I cocked an eye over Seg’s shoulder. “And here’s the last member of the expedition, Strom Tothor ham Hemfar. He, I judge, looks even more useful.”

The numim roared out a rollicking “Lahal!” and strode up, a glorious golden lion-man, big, lithe, rolling with muscle. His ferocious face beamed upon us. He wore plain leather harness, and the weapons he carried were strictly no-nonsense practical man-slayers, none of your fancy jeweled pinkers here, by Krun!

We returned the Lahal, and Strom Tothor bellowed out his good humor.

“Have you seen that rascal Rogarsh, notors?”

“He has just gone for a tour around the deck with the Lady Hebe, notor.”

“Ha! Well, I owe him a beating at Jikaida. His Pallan destroyed mine, and I want the return, and this time I shall surely crush him into the board, by Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor!”

You couldn’t help warming to the lion-man. A splendid race of diffs, numims, and I counted at least one as a blade comrade. I dearly wanted to ask this Tothor if he knew Rees ham Harshur, the Trylon of the Golden Wind, lands that had now, alas, almost all blown away. Well, I’d try to elicit the information when the moment seemed opportune.

“You play at Jikaida, notors?”

“Occasionally,” said Seg, for Jikaida as the premier board game of Paz in Kregen is universal. Unless the game was completely beyond your mental capacities, you played Jikaida. For those who did not, Vajikry, the Game of the Moons, were small beer as compensation.

“The Lady Hebe is a cunning player,” went on Tothor. “You have to watch her left flank Chuktar.”

I knew the ploy; but I didn’t want to give anything away at this stage. We were simple block-headed lords out for adventure and fun. I said, “It would be best if we did not land too close to the Coup Blag. We must march the last dwabur or two.”

“You think so? I will be guided by you in this. I’ll speak to Kov Hurngal. He is, after all, in command of the expedition.”

From what we had been able to make out, Kov Hurngal had been fired up by the Lady Hebe to go to the Coup Blag. She thirsted after adventure, and, with it, gold. Now the wars were over, apart from the disturbances over on the Mountains of the West, which few people seemed to take seriously, to hear them talk, there were thousands of soldiers and mercenaries out of a job. The Rapa Rogarsh and the numim Tothor had been recruited as stout companions in the venture, for they had served aforetime with Hurngal.

All these principals had with them, very naturally, a cloud of retainers, of servants and slaves. A little army was due to venture into the maze.

Kov Loriman had with him his group of tough Chuliks. I wanted to know how he had become involved with Hurngal and Hebe.

There was no love lost between the two kovs. Maybe the lady was the cause?

Where she hailed from had not been vouchsafed us yet. But if Hurngal, Rogarsh, and Tothor were Hamalese, then she might well also be. Loriman now said he came from western Pandahem, from the land of Yumapan, directly south over the mountains from Queen Lush’s Lome.

One item we picked up displeased me. For all the new understanding and alliance between Vallia and Hamal, the Hamalese aboard
Hanitcha Triumph
still retained their enmity toward Vallians. Loriman usually evaded the subject. As for the sorcerer, he remained aloof from us all.

Seg and I had passed on a warning to Hurngal anent the saddle flyers we had encountered hereabouts. They were brunnelleys, with four scarlet clawed feet, their feathers in blue and brown and mauve. They were a good solid reliable saddle bird, and fetched their due price in the flutmarkets.

“Saddle birds?” Hurngal said dismissively. “In Pandahem?”

“Aye,” Seg told him, keeping his temper.

“Well, we know how to deal with them in Hamal.”

So, as well as scouring the sky for traces of our comrades, we also kept a smart lookout for hostile flyers.

Shortly after that I began to think it would behoove us to descend. Ahead over the eternal tops of the trees rose a rounded hill. Below that would be the carved rock face, and the pool, and the entrance.

I spotted Kov Loriman leaning against the bulwark entirely alone. Some of the crew were keeping themselves busy fussing over a varter, others were scrubbing out, so I said to Seg, “Hold on. I’ll test him with the oath of Spikatur. See how he reacts.”

“Aye, my old dom. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Moving casually I walked up the deck toward Loriman. Now the Hunting Kov might allow slaves to wash him and dress him and even feed him; in the matter of weapons he was a different personality. He had a whetstone out and was methodically sharpening up his left-hand dagger.

“Lahal, notor,” I said pleasantly. I may add that I found speaking pleasantly easy enough at the moment. “We will have to land soon. By Sasco, I’ll—”

With blurring speed the dagger switched up and a single spark of fire blinded from the blade before the point pressed against my throat.

“You yetch! A nulsh of Spikatur Hunting Sword! I’ll slit your throat across from ear to ear!”

Chapter thirteen

Loriman the Hunter listens to me

In that fraught moment I knew there’d be no hesitation in my blade comrade, Seg Segutorio. Not a single whisker of hesitation, by the Veiled Froyvil, no!

With a desperate twist and jerk and a cunning arm lock, I managed to swivel Loriman around sideways.

The cruelly barbed arrow from Seg’s bow went
thwunk!
most evilly into the wooden bulwark.

“Hold on, Seg!” I yelled. “The idiot has it all wrong!”

By this time, I may say, Loriman’s dagger was in my fist and he was inspecting the point with apoplectic eyes that wanted to cross.

“You rast!” he managed to choke out. “I’ll have you jikaidered and then your tripes drawn and your—”

“Quiet down, Loriman.” I held him in a Krozair grip on his neck so that he could barely move and speaking cost him an effort. “Are you telling me you no longer belong to or support Spikatur Hunting Sword?”

“You are a dead man—”

“Oh, for the sweet sake of the Lady Dulshini’s leprous knees! Listen, you fambly. I fought SHS for many seasons. If you are truly against them now, then we are allies.”

He tried to shake his head and that was a mistake, for his face twisted in the stab of pain. “I gave my life to Spikatur. And I was betrayed—”

“So,” I rapped out, casting a shaft not entirely at random, “you go to the Coup Blag, which was infested with the rasts of Spikatur, to exact revenge.”

“Aye, by the smoking blood of San and Pandiflur himself!”

“I am heartily glad to hear it. You have my admiration for seeing the light and attempting to expiate your guilt.”

He gobbled at this, whereat I gave him a smile so that he flinched back. “I shall release you now. Remember, far from my being a dead man, you are if you do not stand quietly and talk in a civilized way.”

When I let him go he stumbled and rubbed his neck. But he recovered with leem-speed. His right hand hovered over his rapier hilt. Then his eyes swiveled to the arrow in the bulwark.

“Look, kov,” I said with ostentatious patience. “If you stand against Spikatur, then you are my ally.”

Abruptly, his look became hard to fathom.

“All right,” I rattled on in my old harsh way. “You want to kill me now. Well, you won’t. I may slay you if you annoy me.”

Just then a voice hailed down from the deck above the cabin roof.

“Notor? Is all well?”

The Rapa Rogarsh leaned over, feathers bristling.

“Tell him all is well, kov. For I assure you, it is. Otherwise, of course—”

The Hunting Kov shouted up in somewhat of a croak: “All is well, you great fambly!”

“Quidang, notor.”

I shouted up: “Tell Hurngal it is time we landed.”

By this time it was quite clear my face held that old hateful expression people call the Dray Prescot Look of the Devil. Loriman was sweating. About then he started to realize I was not someone he might trifle with.

I spoke up to take advantage of the moment.

“Look, Loriman, I bear you no ill will.” Well, that was not entirely true; but since his change of allegiance from Spikatur Hunting Sword I fancied something might be made of him. “I must tell you this fast. I’ve no idea what these other famblys think they’re getting into in the Coup Blag. I’ve been in there, and so has my comrade. We got out more dead than alive, and we were lucky to get out at all.” He tried to say something, and I carried on natheless. “Shut up and listen! There’s a damned Witch in there I’ll hazard is a sight more powerful than our Khibil mage. It’s going to be tough.” I’d summed up this Hunting Kov down the Moder. He was a man consumed with self-estimation, true; he was also damned useful in a fight against just the sort of monsters and powers we were going up against. If he were presented with a challenge, he’d accept it. I was, in street parlance, handing him a dare.

I finished up. “You’ll be putting your life on the line, Loriman.”

He sucked in air and his chest swelled; but I did not think there was conscious braggadocio in that, he wanted to get some fresh air into his lungs.

“You do not,” he said in a voice as grating as crocodiles on gravel, “address me as you should. You call me notor.”

“I’ll call you an onker if you shilly-shally about now, you great — great onker of a kov! Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”

He shook his head and it occurred to me he was suddenly out of his depth and — perhaps for the first time for a long time — unsure of himself...

He had to get it through his thick vosk skull of a head. I tried a different tack. “I’m a reasonable sort of fellow, Kov Loriman. I detest violence. I do not go in for hunting anything that moves. But if that pleases you, then so be it. You’ll find targets in the maze.”

He said in a dulled kind of voice, like leaden balls falling on a leaded slate roof: “I think I have seen you before.”

I betrayed not a flicker of interest. After all, it didn’t really matter if he did recall that I’d been along when we were down the Moder; but, as you know, I find a juvenile kind of amusement in disguises, and false names, and hiding my light under a bushel.

So, not recking what else might come of my words, I said: “Perhaps in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu? It is of no consequence. To defeat Spikatur we have to stick together. I am willing. Are you?”

He knew what I meant, right enough.

“I should have you killed on the spot. It is odd that I do not call at once for my guards.”

“Your Chulik bully boys?” I smiled. “Your guards can try. Hanitcha the Harrower is like to carry them off.”

“I believe—” he started to say and then Rogarsh yelled: “Kov Hurngal intends to land right outside the rock!”

“The stupid, stiff-necked cramph!” I burst out. Then I hauled myself up. I pondered. I felt quite certain Csitra would know we were coming, although, from what Deb-Lu had told me, she would not know I was along. So we just landed and got out and went into the entrance. That would make little difference.

Loriman must have realized I had thought the matter over when I said, in a different voice: “Very well. It is all one.” For he did not make a scathing remark about my weathercock decisions.

So, as we flew on to land outside the front door to Csitra’s maze, Loriman, rubbing neck, and I, exchanged a few more pleasantries. I was not fool enough to think he would not seek revenge for the slight to his honor. So I was able to feel pleasure when he spoke out forcibly.

“You are the man known as Jak the Horkandur. Very well, Jak the Horkandur. I warn you. We may be allies in what lies ahead; but when it is over, you shall answer to me in the matter of honor.”

“Done,” I said.

Then he said, “You are a fool of so reckless a rashness, I wonder...”

What he wondered I did not inquire. I spoke pleasantly, again, quoting from the bard Larghos the Lame, dead these five hundred seasons. Loriman scowled and then, amazingly, his heavy, bristly features broke into what I assumed was a smile.

“I shall enjoy venturing with you. And even more what will follow.”

“If you get out alive.” I nodded at the Khibil sorcerer who came out onto the deck and stood poised by the rail staring down and forward. “He will have to earn his hire.”

In what the Hunting Kov said then, I heaved up a sigh of relief. He had accepted me, and with me Seg and Ortyg and Nath, as allies in the ordeals ahead. He spoke without condescension, seriously, discussing our prospects and our resources.

Of the Khibil, he said, “He came to me highly recommended. He has worked miracles in Hamal. His power is great. Also he has a ring which protects him.”

“Two items, kov. One, I put no store by rings of protection, or anything else, come to that. Two, I suspect you are the real leader of this expedition and not that blowhard Hurngal.”