Warlord of Antares (13 page)
“So that is why you renounced the throne and crown of Vallia? To go adventuring? Well, many may believe that.”
“It has a ring.”
“Aye. After this next fight of my Phalanx. Then I will decide.”
Nath na Kochwold could be the emperor’s Justicar of any imperial province he chose; he could not tear himself away from that terrible war instrument, the Phalanx. I do not think many in that small private room would take a wager on Nath’s final decision.
Drak sounded more resigned than irritated when he said: “I suppose you won’t take a proper army with you, father? Just you and Seg and a few choice spirits?”
“D’you take an army when you go adventuring?”
“
When!
”
Seg laughed. “I think, Drak my bonny emperor, I really do think that your father hasn’t stopped laughing since he dumped that job on you.”
“That, Uncle Seg, I am all too ready to believe.”
I didn’t miss that little word “uncle” in there, the old affectionate if inaccurate way our children called my blade comrade Seg. There would not be, I knew, much chance they’d address Milsi, Queen Mab of Croxdrin, as Auntie Milsi, because now they were grown up.
Farris then started on the practicalities of the venture, which I could leave to him with certitude. Besides being retained by Drak as the Justicar Crebent who ran Vallia with the Presidio when the emperor was absent, Farris was still the Commander of the Vallian Air Service.
“Just keep this whole thing secret,” I said. “You know what happens when folk get wind of an adventure.”
A mellow, jovial, not quite wheezing voice chimed in then, to say: “Lahal, all. I would be the first to jump at the chance of adventuring with you, Dray. But I have other shafts in the air.”
“San Quienyin!”
We all stood up as a mark of respect as Deb-Lu-Quienyin entered and found himself a comfortable chair. His atrocious turban, new though it might be, was already beginning to loosen and slip over one ear. He beamed on us.
He was real and not a projection through occult space. He took wine and drank and said: “The developments may be turned to our advantage, if we strike surely.”
Drak said: “I will lead the army and—”
“Majister.” Deb-Lu’s word brought instant attention. “With respect, better for you to attend to Vallia’s needs.”
Drak was not fool enough to argue with a Wizard of Loh when said Wizard of Loh spoke so positively.
“We are needed here, Drak.”
“In that case...” And here Nath na Kochwold jumped in with both feet. Drak laughed.
“Very well, Nath, you ferocious brumbyte!”
There were other preparations to be made. When all was ready and we boarded the voller a few days later, I had to admit to myself that I missed Delia’s firm and delicate hand on the helm of my destiny. I always felt much better flying off to harebrained escapades when she organized our logistics. So, with that thought in the hollow space between my ears and with a few choice spirits, I shouted down the remberees and the voller soared up into the mingled streaming radiance of the Suns of Scorpio.
Of mud, blood and a zorca horn
Rotting garbage piled head-high along the street scraped at nostrils and back of throat with rancid stenches. Smoking torches threw scraps of erratic illumination upon the macabre scenes, gleaming upon frenzied half-naked bodies, glinting upon pools of stinking water slimed in the ruts and runnels of the mud-choked street. The air crackled with high, empty screams of laughter, with shrieks of pain and the spitting conflagrations of the fires burning at every corner.
“By Vox!” breathed Seg. “Is every town of Menaham like this inferno?”
Beggars, thieves, prostitutes, pickpockets, the jetsam of society, existed in the poor quarter of the town of Gorlki in Menaham. License held absolute sway. Brutality, the dictate of the strong and ruthless, controlled all. Shrieking women ran like maenads, and lust-crazed men screamed after them like satyrs. If one wanted a medieval hell as a scene for a painting, then there would be no need to go further than this stinking Hades in Menaham’s Gorlki.
“This does not sit well with me,” said Orso, neatly guiding his zorca around two drunken men collapsed in each other’s arms, the knives falling laxly from their fists, their fight for the money-purse overtaken by the wine they had drunk. A wild-haired crone whose rags flapped like the rusty-black wings of a magbird darted in, cackling insanely, to snatch up the purse. Even as she scuttled off, so others descended on her like warvols, shrieking.
The stinks overpowered with the effluents of hell.
“I have seen much evil and sadness in Vallia,” said Nath the Impenitent. “But nothing like this.”
“Praise be to Opaz.”
“Oh, aye. A life here is not worth a Hamalese toc.”
Orso drew his sword. The drexer glittered cleanly in that midden of filth.
“Best, then, to be prepared.”
Nath’s fist, resting on his hilt, did not tighten. I knew he’d draw and be in action before Orso, even so, even good as Orso was. He’d finagled his way into joining us because Drak had asked me as a favor to take him. Drak owed a favor to Orso’s father, a wealthy financier, and as Drak was not going himself, then Orso might go with me. I had accepted because I did not want my son, the new emperor, loaded down with favors that might be called in on less favorable occasions.
Orso Frentar held his back upright, and gazed about keenly and kept a firm grip upon his blade. Balass the Hawk had tried him out in swordsmanship and professed himself as satisfied as Balass ever would be in matters of the sword.
We all wore long dark cloaks that fell over the hindquarters of our zorcas. We wore flat leather caps. We did not look imposing or wealthy; but we rode zorcas through this human quagmire and it would only be a matter of time before we were jumped.
A zorca with the single twisted spiral horn, close-coupled and mettlesome, is, after all, the finest four-legged saddle animal of Paz. So we rode alertly.
Not knowing this town of Gorlki, and the night drawing on, we’d entered through the nearest gate on the road we’d followed since leaving the voller. That gate, the Gate of Penitence, led directly into this disgusting portion of the town. The sights were bad enough, the stinks worse, and the iniquity the worst of all.
Our plans were simple and straightforward enough.
A diplomatic mission had been dispatched from Vondium to Tomboram. Also, spies had been sent in parallel to flesh out the picture of what was happening there.
The Vallian Expeditionary Force, to be led by Nath na Kochwold, to assist Iyam against the Menaham invasion, would go in over to the west, probably near the border with Lome. Queen Lushfymi of Lome was fully involved.
So, that left us to follow along in the wake of the triumphant Bloody Menahem and discover what we could and suss out the most appropriate places to strike.
As Orso said: “The first place is this stinking hell. Torch it all!”
“And then,” pointed out Seg, “where would the poor devils who live here now go?”
The Impenitent had rapidly adjusted to the new situation vis-à-vis himself and Seg and me. He continued to call me Jak as others had done in the same situation.
Now he said sharply: “Keep an eye on your calsany, Orso!”
The two pack calsanys trotted along on their leading reins. The panniers and pouches draping them must prove well-nigh irresistible temptations to the thieving fraternity.
Orso gave an impatient tug at his leading rein and his calsany lumbered up alongside Nath’s. I hadn’t wanted to take Orso along. His father, Lango Frentar, rotund and shining with perspiration, much decorated with gold, pressed. Drak had stated his request in a matter-of-fact way. I’d said, I recalled: “Well, Orso, if they bring your head back in a bucket, I will not be held responsible.”
In his scornful, high-tempered way, Orso rapped back: “If they bring my head back in a bucket, majister, it will deserve to rattle around in there.”
“So be it.” So, Orso Frentar rode with us.
The filth of the street splashed and slimed under the dainty hooves of the zorcas. They didn’t much care for the stench of this noisome place. I well knew that many a street of my own Earth, and not so long ago at that, presented the appearance of an open sewer, running green from wall to wall. Here and there barricades had been set up to direct the sewerage, and beyond on raised stoops shops and tatty bazaars sold wares of dubious value. Every other building seemed to be a pothouse, and most of those were dopa dens.
I settled the flowing cloak more comfortably upon my shoulders. A leather bandolier of terchicks nestled over my right shoulder and I felt the need to draw and throw with the utmost rapidity to be essential at the moment.
The Krozair longsword was scabbarded to the saddle. At my belt I wore a thraxter and a rapier and main gauche on their separate belts. As always, my old sailor knife nestled over my right hip.
We must have looked a formidable enough quartet for the more casual of the cutthroats to eye us malevolently and then to sneak away. Women importuned us, screeching creatures of contorted features and wild hair, eyes white blots in faces grimed and stained. Everyone dressed in rags; at least, we saw no one who wore what would be dubbed decent clothes.
Up ahead must lie the more respectable parts of this frontier town of Gorlki. Certain of the denizens of this human jungle decided we would not live to reach that haven.
We were without doubt foolish to ride through these slums; but, then, we were strangers and had not known.
Seg cocked an eye forward to where a wood and plaster balcony, called a jetty, overhung the street.
“Up there.”
“Aye.”
Ragged scarecrow-like objects up on the balcony flapped tattered clothes about themselves. They looked like rusty bats, wings abristle, ready to swoop down upon us as we rode past below.
On the opposite side of the street an open bonfire constricted the width. Weird caricatures of people danced about the fire and to the side tumblers and fire-eaters cavorted to tease a few copper obs from a small and gawping crowd.
The confusion and noise racketed all about and the hiss and splutter of the flames added an ominous accompaniment.
I said: “Nath, Orso. Heads down and ride like the Agate-winged jutmen of Hodan-Set.”
Seg and I dropped back. Our comrades jollied their zorcas into a run and the calsanys lumbered along aft. Pretty soon those calsanys would do what all calsanys do when they are startled and upset. That would make no difference at all in this stinking cesspool of a street.
Nath and Orso rode hard. They did not put their heads down but brandished their weapons, glittering in the crimson violence of the fire.
Four blackened raggedy shapes dropped from the balcony.
They misjudged the fall by a hand’s-breadth only, fooled by that sudden onrush. Seg’s blade slashed twice and so did mine. Four bundles spun away from the zorca hooves. Their blood splashed into the mud, unnoticed and immediately forgotten.
“Here come their fanshos!” screeched Orso.
Instantly he was at work slashing ferociously at the pack of starveling human wolves trying to drag him from the saddle. Their grimed faces shone with sweat and the fat dribbled from their last meal. Their eyes curdled white and glaring and their black-fanged winespouts shrieked threats and curses. There were enough of them to keep us busy for a mur or two and then we’d ridden them down, cut them down or — a zorca when annoyed becomes spiritedly ferocious. Orso’s zorca was clearly his personal animal and trained by him.
Orso’s zorca lifted his head, neighing, it seemed to me, in delight. A ragged bundle stuck through by the twisted spiral horn wriggled and flopped and a pair of filthy blood-smeared hands tried to force the spitted body off that cruel horn.
Orso shouted: “Quey-arn.”
At once the zorca lowered his head, shook, and the dying man slipped off into mud puddled by his own blood.
“They do not like that,” called Orso. “These scum do not like it up ’em, believe me.”
“Oh, aye,” said Seg as we cleared the last of the shattered band of robbers. “Oh, aye, Orso. I believe you.”
Orso, it was clear, heard nothing of the undertones in Seg’s reply.
Some way ahead a fresh altercation took our attention.
Directly before us torchlights splashed luridly from the Gate of Dolors set in the inner wall of the city. We were nearly out of the slums. A party of Moltingurs, fighting amongst themselves, failed to notice the two gauffrers stealing the prize over which the Moltingurs fought.
Orso laughed. “The fools have stolen the girl and now they will lose her through greed.”
The scene, distasteful as it was, was thus correctly read. The Moltingurs had taken the girl, a Lamnian maiden of considerable beauty, to sell to the highest bidder and before that transaction could be completed, the quarrel over the spoils had given the sneaky gauffrers the chance to steal the Lamnian girl to sell themselves.
Nath said: “They have only just brought her into this hellhole, for the gate is no distance away.”
“Aye.”
“It is clear she does not live here.”
“Aye, for she is still clean.”
I gentled my zorca and edged him over to the two gauffrers. Sharp rodent faces alight with greed, they carted the struggling girl like a sack, her golden fur glorious in the torchlights. I hit them over the head with the flat, one after the other, and they tumbled to the mud.
In the same instant Seg was off his zorca and taking up the girl’s bound form. Her eyes, wide and frightened, glared above the gag. Seg slung her over the zorca before him and vaulted into the saddle. The close-coupled zorca provided just room enough with none to spare. Seg led us in our last rush for the Gate of Dolors and we were through before the Moltingurs woke up to the facts of life.
“That was — sudden,” said Orso as we reined in. “You were very quick.”
Nath the Impenitent was comfortably getting back to the old companionship we had enjoyed down the Coup Blag, and now he said in his rich, juicy voice: “Oh, I’ve seen ’em faster, believe me.”
