A Life for Kregen

Chapter Thirteen

To be free of the cares of empire! Once more to ride the winds and with a cutthroat band of loyal companions to hurtle across the face of Kregen, speeding beneath the Moons, and sword in hand once more to plunge into headlong adventure. Ah! This was the old Dray Prescot, a fellow with whom I had barely been on nodding acquaintance lately.

We had packed Barty’s flier with men and supplies and, Hikdar Douron having assured us we were adequate for the job ahead, I had not pressed Farris to release any more vollers from his small and hard-pressed fleet. Our sailing skyships would be, by days, too slow. Now in fading light, Douron pointed ahead, where a jagged line of peaks rose against the star-glitter. This was an uncomfortable little corner of Seg’s kovnate, a sour, dull place inhabited by sour, dull people. They insisted on keeping slaves and all Seg’s attempts had failed to convince them otherwise. I knew that toward the end, before the Time of Troubles, he had been at his wits’ end, unwilling to use the force at his disposal against the people of his new kovnate, and yet, sharing my views, desperate to end the blasphemy against human nature that slavery was, in very truth, in our eyes.

“I remember this fortress,” said Seg. He wiped his lips and peered ahead. “When I asked its chief, a bent-nosed rascal called Andir the Ornc, to manumit his slaves, he threw my messenger out, a fine young fellow, Naghan Larjester, and sent him back to me with a nose as bent as his own. It was a jest. I was screwing up my mind to march on him with my people and make an example of him, when the emperor was poisoned.”

“I think, Seg,” I said with some gravity as we flew down, “I really do think you are well out of Falinur. It is a kovnate of which much may be made. But slavery has to be ended. And there has been far too much water under the bridge.”

“If you mean, Dray,” said the Kov of Falinur, “that you wish to strip my kovnate from me, why, then, I will be the first to throw my hat in the air.”

“I will do what you wish. You are still a kov, that is something useful to be in this world, as you know. And a kov must have estates. There is a province ready for you, once-”

“Aye,” he said, his wild blue eyes bright in that mingled light. “Aye, dom! I know! Once we have cleared out whatever bunch of rasts is sucking it dry now.”

“Aye. And there will be a lot of that, by Krun.”

He did not ask where away this new kovnate of his might be and, truth to tell, I was in nowise sure myself. But, I was firmly convinced, unalterably convinced; Seg Segutorio was a kov and would have a kovnate.

He told me something of conditions he had found north of the Mountains of the North when he had gone seeking Thelda in Evir, the northernmost province. A fellow had taken over up there and was calling himself the King of Urn Vallia. He controlled Durheim and Huvadu although running into some trouble from the High Kov of Erstveheim. Venga, of which the hapless Ashti Melekhi had been the vadnicha, had been invaded and her twin brother, the vad, was on the run. It was all a mess up there, and, that was true of the southwest and the southeast and the mountains, also. There was no profit in worrying over those broader problems now when the stone fortress below rushed up toward us as the flier dropped, and we saw the men waving below, waiting for us.

We were in enemy territory here. That was a foul note, to be sure. Enemy territory, in Falinur, one of the heartlands of Vallia!

Almost, we got through unobserved. Almost…

As we skimmed for the stone ramparts a volley of arrows whisked up toward us. Campfires burned in a circle about the fortress of the Stony Korf. A few shafts punched into the flier; but no one was hit. Varter bolts lanced the dusky air. We even saw two catapult stones come arching up, like balls tossed high in sport, and curve over and so fall away. But the arrows persisted. Seg perked up, taking a professional interest.

“Undurkers,” said Seg. The fascinating information in his comment was the comparative lack of contempt. I wondered what scrapes he’d pulled out of since we’d parted that might have given him this new outlook. Certainly, he was scathing enough about the short bow, as was I. “Undurkers. Well, my old dom, we’ve seen them off before.”

“And will again, despite that we have no Bowmen of Loh with us, save yourself.”

He did not laugh. The voller whooshed air over the crumbled stone battlements and circled once, losing speed, before dropping to a mossy patch of stone at the center of the tower. That was just about all this place was, a tower. Seg said, quietly, as the besieged folk came up: “You may not be a Bowman of Loh; but you’d give most of them a run for their money.”

Well, of course, from Seg Segutorio, that was high praise.

Then we were exchanging Lahals and jumping from the flier and I was being led off to where Barty sat under a canvas awning, looking most disgruntled, with an arrow-wound in his shoulder. The people clustered around, their bearded grimy faces reflecting villainously in the torchlights. They were smiling a little, now, thinking rescue had reached them. The scene was like a witch’s coven. Barty waved a hand.

“The emperor and I would speak in private.” He had not risen to greet me — and the reason for that was plain enough. His people backed off. My own desperadoes were busily engaged in estimating the defenses and getting an idea of the enemy out there in the darkness that shut down with the last of the suns. It was not a night of Notor Zan; but for a space the star glitter and two of Kregen’s smaller moons gave the impression of a night darker than it really was. Seg stood at my shoulder. Barty looked up. His face looked odd; his usual high color had fled; but his pallor was made more leaden by the red stains under the skin, high on each cheekbone. He looked at Seg.

“I said the emperor and I would be alone.”

Seg did not move.

I said, “Seg, this handsome young man who has fallen so low is Barty Vessler, the Strom of Calimbrev. And, Barty, you have the honor and pleasure of meeting Seg Segutorio, the Kov of Falinur.”

Barty opened his mouth, shut his mouth, extended his hand as the pappattu was made. My new friends had said harsh words about Falinur and its kov. But, as always, I could not be harsh on Barty. So I added, casually, “Seg is with us in this.” Here I had to trip daintily around certain subjects. “He is aware of the problem and-”

“Oh, them,” said Seg. “My girl Silda wanted to go off and be some kind of Jikai Vuvushi. But Thelda didn’t like the idea and I had to bring Silda home.” He glanced at me, and, amazingly, laughed. “She is not at all pleased that Drak has gone off adventuring in Faol.”

So ho, I said to myself, so the weathervane spins that way, does it…?

Barty’s news was both stimulating and depressing. Dayra had most certainly been seen and then the local gang of mercenaries who held the district for Layco Jhansi had mewed him and his men up here, together with the local Freedom Fighters. And, one of these, the guerilla chief, was in a right state over his wife. I said: “Dayra first. Then the others, all of them, as many as we can contrive.”

“I agree. But Dayra isn’t with this bunch of cramphs trying to burn us out.” His words were not idle. Every now and then a varter bolt tied with burning flax would arch up and over and fall into the tower. Sand was flung in strewed winnowed falls to quench the flames.

“Well, young Barty! Where the hell is she, then?”

At this he spread his hands helplessly, and winced, and looked more gray and drawn than I liked.

“My spies got wind of what she came for. That kleesh Zankov has been thoroughly rejected by the Northeast Parties, and so he is seeking an alliance with Jhansi.”

Seg ran a hand along his longbow. “It will be interesting to meet this Zankov.”

“But now,” I said. “Right now!”

“Majister,” said Barty, and his voice shook. “I do not know.”

“These cramphs are getting troublesome,” said Seg, brushing sparks away as a blazing bolt hit and bounced near us.

“Where was she last seen, Barty?”

“Trakon’s Pillars. Jhansi was supposed to be meeting her at a summer villa the old kov had there.”

“Him,” said Seg, and sniffed. “I’d as lief Naghan Furtway had his Opaz-forsaken kovnate back again.”

“You know the place, Seg?”

“Yes. Damned degenerate pest hole. Furtway was a great Jikaida player — you know that, Dray -

and the whole place was built like a Jikaida board. Most odd. And devilish, too. I can take you there. But our friends outside grow impatient.”

A few words soon showed that the mercenaries outside the tower had been reinforced after Hikdar Douron had left for Vondium. We had brought men, yes; but had we brought enough to break through the ring? Barty was all for getting up and bashing on. There were saddle animals stabled in the lower floors. But the Jiktar who ran his guards, a man who could have sat for a portrait to represent the professional, life-time fighting man, shook his head.

“In my view we are still too few,” said Jiktar Noronfer.

“Um,” said Seg.

“We must break out!”

Barty sank back on the blankets. He looked in bad case.

Then Jiktar Noronfer, with the infuriating ability of the professional to state a situation as though it was not a matter of life and death affecting him no less than anyone else, said: “They will break in before the flier can return to Vondium for help.”

Another iron-headed bolt arched over the ancient stone battlements and hit, bouncing. The flames from the tar and bitumen-soaked flax blazed up. The brand skated across the stones straight for us like a comet on a collision course.

Barty let out a feeble yell. Jiktar Noronfer dived out of the way. The caroming bolt leaped, like a fractious zorca, spat sparks, sizzling with a noise like a cage full of serpents. It roared directly at us. I leaped for Barty. Seg — the infernal idiot! — seized up Noronfer’s dropped spear and swung toward the blazing brand. Even as I got Barty up and scrambled him out of the way so Seg with a beautifully lithe skip and jump got the spear point under the iron head of the bolt and heaved. Then he, too, jumped for safety. His cloak was alight. He landed and rolled and I put Barty down as gently as I could contrive and as the flaming bolt reared up and spilled over the stones at our back I leaped on Seg. With my bare hands I batted at the flames and got his cloak ripped off and tossed aside. I was not burned, thank Zair

— well, not much, not enough to notice.

Seg sat up.

“Thanks, my old dom. We’ve enough light as it is without using me as a living torch.”

“You maniacal Erthyr nitwit! Why didn’t you jump out of the way?”

“Never thought you’d get the youngster out of it in time. You were damned quick.”

“Not as quick as you, you-”

Seg’s face drew in with pain. His eyes misted. Torchlight hung shadows along his jaw and his cheeks hollowed.

“Get that tunic off! And the kax! Your wound, when you were slave-”

“Aye, Dray, aye. It’s plaguing me, devil take it.”

Seg’s wound had opened and the bloody mess made me go cold. Barty’s needleman was summoned and we kept everyone else away and I made up my mind.

I made up my mind not as the Emperor of Vallia, not as Dayra’s father, not as a friend to young Barty. I made up my mind because Seg needed immediate and expert attention which the needleman here was not equipped to give. He could insert his acupuncture needles and dull Seg’s pain. But that was not enough. This was just another obstacle and, like all obstacles, must be evaluated and the best course chosen.

Seg protested vehemently. But I would not be swayed.

“And Jiktar Noronfer,” I said with emphasis, my face I am sure as hard and merciless as it had ever been. “I see you are a shebov-Jiktar. If you wish to gain the remaining three steps in the Jiktar grade to make zan-Jiktar and, if you are lucky and live, ob-Chuktar, you had best pick up the spear you dropped and fight with us.”

“I will fight, majister. I do not seek to excuse my conduct.”

“Make it so.”

I thought he would come through and fight well, better than well, after the spectacle he had made. But I would keep my eye on him.

Barty and Seg, of course, both of them, kicked up a frightful indignant racket. But I was prepared in this to be high-handed, very high-handed, even going to the ridiculous length of reminding them that I was, for Vox’s sake, the Emperor of Vallia. Thankfully, it did not come to that sorry pass and they agreed. I turned on Jiktar Noronfer.

“Wheel me up the leader of the local Freedom Fighters, Jiktar. He ought to know his way around.”

“Quidang, majister!” barked Noronfer, very businesslike, and clattered off down the stairs to the lower stories.

Seg looked mighty sullen. Because he, like me, had dipped in the Sacred Pool of Baptism he would live a thousand years and his wounds would heal swiftly and cleanly, leaving no scars. But nature will not always be baulked and his wound had been far more serious than I evidently had realized. He would heal. But that last foolhardy, heroic act had burst the fragile adhesions of the wound’s surfaces. He needed proper rest and attention and that, by Krun, was that. As Kregans say, the situation was Queyd-arn-tung! No more need be said on the subject.

Barty, too, as I say, had to have his lines read to him. The two wounded men lay side by side, Seg on his side, and glowered at me. At last Seg said, “That flint-fodder outside. You have a good longbow?

Mine-”

“Rest easy and stop chaffering like a loloo over chicks!”

“Thelda-”

“I know. In this short time we’ve been away there could be news in Vondium. The whole world can change in an instant.” By Zair! But wasn’t that right! I knew, perhaps none better, how in a twinkling life can make a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, and stand you on your head, gasping, with nothing ever the same again. “And you can go see if Delia is back, too.”

“I will. And getting out of here?”

“The plan calls for us to rush ’em and knife through. It will knock over a dermiflon.” Which is a cast-iron guarantee of success. “Now shut your great fanged wine-spout and let yourself be loaded aboard the voller. And, Seg-”

“Yes, my old dom?”

“Take care of yourself. You hear?”

His smile might be a wan ghost of his old reckless fey laugh; but he mustered up a smile for me. “I hear.”

And then, being Seg Segutorio and the best comrade a man could have on two worlds, he barbed in a cutting: “Majister!”

I winced, and then they came and took Seg and Barty and the other wounded and loaded them into the voller.

As the flier rose into the air I saw a dark hunched shape lift in an embrasure and the thin pencil mark of a great Lohvian longbow being fully drawn. That was Seg Segutorio for you. Despite his lacerated and bleeding back he was up there and ready to cast down a few deadly shafts to help us. The cramphs out there were flint-fodder, no doubt of it, and I crossed to the battlements and looked down. Three dark figures spun away, arms wide, screeching soundlessly as She of the Veils rose through wreathing mists and shed her fuzzy pink and golden light. Now we would have light enough to see by, light enough to kill by — if we were unlucky or unskilled, light enough to die by.

The voller vanished into the night and another besieger toppled with a long Lohvian arrow through him. Four times, Seg had shot. I do not think there was another archer in the whole world who could have loosed three — and hit with every shot.

Losing Seg like this naturally made me think of Inch and Turko and Balass and Oby and the rest. By Krun! Devil take these troubles consuming Vallia. I ought to be out scouring Kregen for my friends. Going down to the lower stories I found them choked with saddle animals and calsanys. Jiktar Noronfer was just about to climb back up. He looked annoyed.

“Beg to report, majister! The local chief — Lol Polisto ti Sygurd — has just got back.” He paused, waiting. I did not amuse him by bursting out with a hot-headed: “Back from where, by Vox!” I looked at him. Noronfer wet his lips, suddenly, and finished in a rush: “His wife has been taken by these rasts and they sent a message. He tried to fight through; but was beaten back.”

I said: “Was he wounded?”

“No, majister.”

I looked again at Noronfer, and, again, he wet his lips.

I wondered what Barty was coming to. Noronfer was a mercenary, although not yet a paktun despite his rank of Jiktar, and he must have seen the way we were ceasing to employ mercenaries in Vallia. Yes, more than an eye would have to be kept on this one…

Lol Polisto ti Sygurd lay exhausted on a straw pallet, smothered in blood, not his own, and looked savage and wan and distraught and, also, a useful-appearing fighting man. As the leader of the local resistance fighters warring in guerilla fashion against the minions of Layco Jhansi he must have a fair amount of the yrium, the power to move men to actions of which they deem themselves incapable. I did not smile; but I bent down to shake hands, saying: “Lahal, Tyr Lol Polisto. Tell me; their numbers, their strengths — their weaknesses?”

“Cramphs, the lot of them!” He struggled to stand up; but I pushed him down, gently. He whooped in a breath. He was a fit, limber man, with dark hair and he reminded me, with Seg in my mind, very much of that master bowman. Now he got out: “At least two hundred of them, swordsmen and Undurkers. Layco Jhansi is determined to have my head and uses the Lady Thelda as bait. By Opaz the Deliverer! I pray she is still safe, she and the child they took with them, the Opaz-forsaken kleeshes.”

My response was instant, particularly as thinking of Seg’s Thelda brought the plight of this man more sharply into focus. He was clearly suffering anguish. If Jhansi had taken Lol Polisto’s wife Thelda as a hostage, I, for one, had no sanguine hopes for her survival, hers or the child’s. I told Lol Polisto the plan and he expressed the opinion that as a plan it would sieve greens very well, which warmed me to him; but that if we swung our swords right merrily enough we should break through with the warriors I had brought. We had, as yet, no wounded to worry our heads over. The saddle animals were made ready, a mixed bunch, and I was found a zorca who, although his single spiral horn was broken, appeared a spirited-enough beast and anxious to get out of the dark and fetid hole in which he found himself penned. We mounted up and the rest grasped the stirrup leathers. Talk about the 92nd charging on the stirrups of the Scots Greys at Waterloo! The big lenken double doors were thrown open with a smash and golden moonlight splashed in. Then we were out, a dark mass of men and animals, roaring out and slap bang into the surprised mercenaries opposite us. It was all a sheerly onward-surging mass tumbling the foe left and right.

We racketed on, leaping shadows, swarming on, sweeping away in an instant a line of Undurkers who were thrown down and shattered, sent reeling, before they could pull string to chin. We hit the mercenaries and pulped them and then went on, striking fiercely left and right, leaving a trail of bloody corpses bleeding on the churned up dirt.

The drexer proved admirable for this foul work; and, to be sure, I did my share. But I kept both Lol Polisto and Jiktar Noronfer in my sights as we galloped fiercely on. A quick bellow to Polisto directed him to lead on. I hauled my maddened beast up, his polished hooves striking the air, swung him about. The tail of our company pressed swiftly on and now the mercenary cavalry was reacting. Totrixmen appeared like lumbering phantasms from the golden-fretted shadows.

“Jhansi! Jhansi!” They screeched as they came on. The golden glitter of moonlight ran down their blades.

“You make a man twist to follow you!” exclaimed Korero, hauling his twin shields up. Only a few arrows sported down. Dorgo the Clis reined up beside me, and Naghan and Targon the other side. Others of the choice band clumped. We formed a small but very knobbly afterguard, a nut these cramphs of mercenary totrixmen would find extraordinarily hard to crack.

Dorgo had reported on the blasphemies he had witnessed in Dogansmot. These men we faced tonight were very different from that fatuous army of Fat Lango’s, which had sat down and vegetated after the death of its leader; but they shared the same avariciousness for rapine and pillage. We were sharp set for them. On they came, heads bent, weapons glittering, and we faced them, and if I say we were the more vicious and savage and barbaric, well, I think that to be true if understandable, Zair forgive us. The two lines clashed and there was a moment of tinker-work before we belted them, belted them in true style, hip and thigh. The totrixmen turned and fled. Someone set up a cheer, but I bellowed out intemperately: “Stow your gab! There will be more of ’em. Now, ride. Ride!”

We swung our mounts’ heads and gladly galloped off into the golden-tinged darkness.