Scorpio Invasion (17 page)

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!”

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]

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.