Allies of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “King Telmont?” The speaker, a fellow with a wooden leg and a cast in his left eye, spat. He was a good shot. “We hid what we thought we could keep and sent all the women out into the hills. That stinking yetch’s men took what we left—”

  “Ah, but Nath,” spoke up his companion, a lean-faced man with the marks of the cobbler upon him. “We worked it well, did we not? Just enough left in the town to be taken, and not so little that the soldiers became suspicious there was more.”

  “Aye, Mildo, we fooled the cramph.” Three eyes turned in my direction, the fourth inspecting the opposite wall.

  I held up a hand, busily chewing an onion, raw and rich and juicy, and spraying among the odor bits and pieces as I spoke. “Now then, doms — I’m just a traveling man.” I always enjoyed handing out this one, for it was in its own way perfectly true. “D’you want a ditch dug? A fence repaired — although that’s pretty technical — the wood chopped? I ran ten dwaburs without stopping when Telmont’s army showed up.”

  No doubt about it, ragged, not-too-clean, leering, uncouth, I looked my part.

  Nath the Peg sniffed and I shuffled out five more copper obs onto the sturm wood table. “You’ll join me, doms?”

  “Aye, dom, we’ll join you.”

  Their thoughts were transparent. I was probably not a spy for Telmont’s quartermasters come to check up on the paucity of supplies from this little town of Homis Creek. But if I were they had me in their clutches and would find me out.

  The delicate Och maiden brought the fresh ale with the grace of a being of Creation blessed with six limbs. As she turned to go, I said, “May Ochenshum bless you.”

  She favored me with a startled look over her shoulder, and fled, and I wondered if it was my words that had surprised her or the bits of onion that sprayed against her shoulders.

  Mildo the Last supped and wiped his lips. “We don’t take kindly to mercenaries around here and we fooled Telmont. But he’ll have this new Emperor Nedfar where he wants him. Aye, that is certain sure.”

  The cavortings of kings and emperors affected places like Homis Creek only in indirect ways — matters of billeting soldiers and taxes — which were direct enough when they bit.

  “How so?” I said, around a fresh onion that crunched beautifully, rich and juicy.

  “Why, the emperor’s daughter, of course, and her fancy man.”

  So surprising, these words, that I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out along with sprays of onion: “The princess Thefi and Lobur the Dagger?”

  “You’ve heard about them, then? Oh, aye, they’re with the army all right. And now he’s got them, old Hot and Cold Telmont will make Emperor Nedfar dance to his tune, you mark my words.”

  Chapter thirteen

  Princess Thefi and Lobur the Dagger

  There is a venerable saying on Kregen, attributed to various sources, among whom scholars squabble most fiercely over the competing claims of Nalgre ti Liancesmot, a long-dead playwright, and San Blarnoi, a possibly mythical figure or consortium of wise men of the past, which runs: “When you look too long upon the face of a leem you may grow a leem’s tail.”

  As I stowed the flier in a patch of woods and started out to walk into King Telmont’s camp, I recalled this saying, and its meaning. Typically Kregan is that modifier, “May.” If you take that ferocious eight-legged hunting beast, the leem, as a symbol for terror and horrific evil, then Kregans do not say if you fight against monsters or devils you will turn into a monster or a devil. You may possibly not grow a leem’s tail.

  Never think for an instant that I was unaware that because of the deeds I had been called on to perform on Kregen I might grow to be like those against whom I struggled. There are two orders of fighting men, and I believe if you have listened to my words through my story you will understand the kind of fighting man I am, whether or not fate played a part in that. If you do not see that, then I have been spending my breath to no avail.

  So, as I walked between the outlying totrix lines with those fractious six-legged saddle animals tugging at the ropes, I pondered how I would react when face-to-face with Vad Garnath and his evil associate, the Kataki Strom.

  Bone-headed heroes of many of the stirring tales of Kregen would simply barge in swinging. I’d been like that, once upon a time. I still was, Zair forgive me, but I had learned — not much, a little, enough to make me look first; and that, by Vox, makes the doing of the deed a thousand times harder and more dangerous.

  “Hey, dom!” called the bristle-haired Brokelsh Deldar. “You tazll?”

  “Aye, dom.”

  “Then join my pastang, we have a vacancy since that onker Norlgo drank himself into the well. You look handy.”

  “What happened to Norlgo?”

  “Why, he drank himself into the well.”

  I stopped. The path had been churned up by military boots, some of the ranked tents were decrepit, most were in that middle stage of life when repairs were constant, and only a half-dozen were new. Flags fluttered. Men moved about over the endless fatigues inseparable from an army encampment.

  “How so?”

  “I told you, dom. Norlgo thought he would drink a score of flagons, and he could only manage sixteen and then he fell down the well and cracked his head open.”

  “Oh, I see. Let me look around first, Deldar, as to which pastang I join.”

  “As you wish. It’s all the same to me. But you’ll find none as open-handed as our Jiktar, who spreads gold every pay day with a lavish hand.”

  “I thank you for your information.” Walking down, casual, not hurrying, it seemed clear to me that recruits were welcomed here. Oh, yes, I was clearly a paktun, well-armed, lithe and limber and wearing the silver pakmort at my throat and with a dangling array of trophy rings in the pakai at my shoulder. Counting tents, counting heads, counting animals — counting damn well everything and totting it all up in my head — I walked on.

  Camps vary considerably from race to race and army to army, but where you have a commander he will usually inhabit a tent larger and more luxurious than the general mob. King Telmont’s marquee lofted, striped blue and green, bright with banners, set snugly by the small grove of trees sheltering the well down which, no doubt, sixteen-flagon Norlgo tumbled. I marched up to the guards bold as Krasny work.

  “Aye, dom,” said the Deldar on duty. He was apim, like me. “We can always take a paktun of the right mettle. You look likely.”

  “Easy, Deldar. I’m still looking.”

  He squinted in the radiance of the suns, and showed a snaggle of teeth. “The King’s Ironfists offer to take you. You will not do better than that.”

  This was, given the nature of this army, probably true.

  I really had no wish to waste time going through the business of hiring out as a mercenary; but I had to gain entrance into the kingly enclosures. I just wanted this business to be a quick in and out and away clean, with Lobur and Thefi in tow.

  As I have remarked, the problems of retaining a semblance of humanity on a factory production line, of beating the rush hour into the office, or getting to milk the cows, of doing all the humdrum tasks demanded of us here on this Earth are far more pressing than setting off to rescue a princess and her lover from a wicked enemy on a distant world. Paying the bills hits us more shrewdly than swinging a sword at a monster. All the same, I was on Kregen, and on Kregen rescuing princesses and swinging swords are part of normal life.

  That is, part of normal life for some folk on Kregen, not all; for folk who take up the adventuring career, who seek their fortunes on that exotic and bizarre world of peril and beauty, for — in short — poor doomed damned souls like me.

  “Make up your mind, dom.”

  “I will—” I said, and then a fancy dandy tricked-out little Hikdar appeared. Now it is possible in some armies of Kregen for a young man with the right connections and qualities to enter on a military career as a Hikdar without going through the tedious business of rising through the ranks a
s a Deldar. Most Deldars are bluff and rough and bellow — well, to be honest, just about all Deldars bellow.

  This Hikdar with the gold bullion and flounders minced over, almost tangled in his own sword, looking agitated.

  “Brassud, Deldar!” he called out in a throttled squeak. Brassud is not quite the same as “Attention!” being more of an adjuration to brace up; but it achieved results. “The king is coming!”

  That was enough.

  Hot and Cold Telmont was on his rounds. To retain some semblance of loyalty among their troops kings have to go out and about from time to time, like politicians kissing babies. Telmont and his retinue trotted into sight.

  A gilded bunch, a blaze of gold and jewelry, of plumes and feathers and cloaks. Their zorcas were fine-spirited animals. Among the group riding in attendance on the king came the Princess Thefi and Lobur the Dagger.

  Well, now!

  This, I had not expected.

  If Telmont held Thefi as a threat to her father, as a surety that Nedfar would do as Telmont wanted, then it was to be expected she would be held in durance vile. As it was, here she came, trotting along on a splendid gray zorca, laughing and joking with Lobur, who looked just the rapscallion he was. His smile was brilliant. He leaned across to Thefi and she responded, laughing, and they trotted on in the lights of the suns, and I gaped up at them.

  They saw me.

  “Jak!”

  Well, it was reunion time. I had last seen these two as they escaped in a green-painted Courier voller, eloping and in love. As the swods of the guards stood, stiff as icicles, and the Hikdar aped their pose if not their manner, old Hot and Cold Telmont rode on at the head of his retinue. All I noticed of him was the litter of jewels on his armor and the flowing green cloak, the way he sat lumpily in his saddle, and the face like a half-empty sack of flour rescued from a burning mill.

  Thefi and Lobur reined in, and while Lobur sat his saddle, puzzled and half smiling, Thefi impulsively dismounted and then stood, abruptly embarrassed, gripping her zorca’s saddle bow.

  “Jak!”

  “Lahal, princess,” I said, and I spoke gravely. “Lahal, Lobur.”

  Lobur did not answer. He turned an ugly face on the Hikdar. “All right, fambly! Get on about your own business.”

  “Quidang, notor!” babbled the youngster, pink-tinged, and in turn rounding on the Deldar. The Deldar’s blunt face expressed no emotion at the kicking order of the world as he bellowed his guard back to duty.

  The Dagger looked much as I had last seen him. His dark hair cut long and curled, his nose rather shorter than longer, his casual free air, all reminded me of his past impression — except that I could find no trace of that old forthright candor in his eyes. His dagger swung at his belt. He wore bright clothes, with only a few gems. As for Thefi — well, she looked decidedly the same, beautiful and willful, and also markedly different. She had chosen to elope with Lobur and I had assisted them both. I had thought she might regret her actions when high-flown emotions drove rational thought from her head. In my guise as a gruff old warrior paktun I would not again commit the gaffe of questioning her on so tender a point.

  I said, “I am surprised to see you here. I thought you were flying to Pandahem.”

  Still fixed in that stiff pose by her zorca, Thefi said, “We did, Jak, we did. Then when the Hyr Notor came to Ruathytu—”

  “The Hyr Notor!”

  She flinched back at my tone, my expression. There was no time to curse myself.

  “Why, yes. He received us very kindly in Pandahem. Then in Ruathytu—” She faltered.

  Lobur swung an elegant leg over his zorca and jumped down. “You are distressing the princess, Jak. You know what happened in the city? What happened to the Hyr Notor?”

  I knew all right. The Hyr Notor was — had been — the Wizard of Loh Phu-Si-Yantong, and even now I did not know if he had been all evil, or if there had been a spot of goodness in him as I hoped. He had been blown away by the Quern of Gramarye fashioned in sorcery by Deb-Lu-Quienyin and Khe-Hi-Bjanching, good comrades both. Quite obviously he had planned to use Thefi in schemes against her father, just as Vad Garnath and King Telmont were now doing.

  “I heard,” I said.

  “We have to resist those devils of Vallia and Hyrklana and drive them back.” Lobur’s fist fastened onto his dagger handle. His name was Lobur ham Hufadet, from an ancient and honorable family of Trefimlad. But he did not own a fortune. Tyfar had offered the opinion that if Lobur wished to marry his sister then he must do a great deed in the world. Was this the great deed?

  As though my thoughts were transparent to her, Thefi said, “And Tyfar? You have seen him? He is well?”

  “He is well. Yes, I have seen him. He grieves for you, Thefi, unknowing of your fate.”

  Then Lobur surprised me, in an area in which I should not have been surprised.

  “You call the princess princess, Jak. Have you forgotten?”

  I shook my head, a universal gesture among apims. “No. And Prince Nedfar—”

  “How is he, Jak?” Thefi let go of the zorca and took a step forward. “We heard such terrible stories — Ruathytu is in flames, and the horrible Vallians have Father chained up and put a crown of mockery upon his head—”

  Well, that was to be expected. This belief just made life more difficult for me.

  “The prince is well. There is no crown of mockery.”

  “I do not quite—?”

  The zorca hooves clickety-clicking along faded on the warm air, and the shouts of soldiers drifted in, the clink and clatter of weapons training mingling incongruously with the domestic sounds of buckets and plates, knives and forks. One of the important and impressive mealtimes of Kregen was due, and the army drew in deep breaths of appreciative expectation. That warm Kregan air swarmed with mouth-watering scents. It was roast ordel and yellow-juiced shollos and thick gravy and it smelled heavenly.

  Trust old Hot and Cold to ride out on rounds when the men were being well fed.

  “Why are you here with Telmont, princess?”

  She looked startled and then puzzled. The smoothness of her forehead suddenly showed shadowed lines. “But we—”

  “We have to fight our enemies, Jak, and that is why you have joined us.” Lobur spoke with an edginess that made me think he had his mind on other schemes.

  “Fight our enemies, yes. But we have to establish just who our enemies are—”

  “Jak!” Thefi burst out. “We know that!”

  “I am not so sure. You do not know the half of it.”

  Lobur’s dagger clicked as he loosened it. “You’d better explain what you mean.”

  “I shall. But I would prefer to talk more privately.”

  By the suppurating scabies of Makki Grodno! Here I’d expected to have to carve my way through a wall of living flesh and wade through drenchings of blood to free these two, and that would have been the easy part, by Krun. They were here of their own free will, anxious to help King Telmont, and in no need of rescue. It was enough to make a person turn to drink, or temperance, given your previous inclination.

  Walking along between them as they led their zorcas quietly along we skirted past the voller lines. A little wind blew the serried flags. Telmont was short of vollers, and they were well guarded. Among them I noticed a courier flier, painted green, with the big yellow-gold word COURIER blazoned on her sides. She was number Jay Kay Pe 448 Ve and had been piloted by cheerful young Bonzo before Lobur and Thefi brought her away out of Ruathytu. I’d seen to it that Bonzo was all right and with that little swallowing laugh he’d said he was going to do what he wanted to do, and I’d told him that the war was not over yet. He flew Courier vollers for a time yet, did Bonzo. Any thoughts that I might once again steal that flier away vanished as I appreciated the strength of the guard details.

  “Now then, Jak,” said Thefi as we walked on into an open space where we would not be overheard, “I gather you want to tell us something we do not know.” She shive
red. “I feel it will be evil...”

  “Not so, princess. Rather, good news. Splendid news.”

  After a few sentences in which I tried to explain the new situation, Thefi burst out furiously. “I don’t believe my father or my brother would believe what the Vallians say! It can’t be true! We have to fight them—”

  “No, princess, we do not have to fight them. We have to fight the Shanks, and I could wish we did not have to do even that.”

  “I grant you we must fight the Shanks when they raid,” said Lobur. “But, as for the rest of this fabrication, why, it makes me think strangely. You have always been a mysterious fellow, first hailing from Djanduin, then Hamal, and now where?” He looked at me, his brows drawn down, and his fist on his dagger handle. “Vallia, perhaps?”

  I took a breath—

  A party of guards marched briskly along, their spears all sloped exactly, their helmets shining, for they were of the King’s Ironfists. No difficult calculation told me I could fight my way through them and probably seize a voller, chained down or not. I might even manage that with Thefi draped around my neck and shrieking blue murder that she was being abducted. Even, perhaps, with Lobur and his damned dagger to contend with.

  Yes, I might have done all those things in the typical bone-headed way of your barbarian hero — but that would alienate Thefi. That seemed clear. She would struggle and scream and in the ensuing excitement some stray arrow or stux might kill her instead of me. That was a chance I would not take.

  The truth of her father’s position as I saw it was not the truth as she saw it.

  I said, “Your father, Prince Nedfar, is now the Emperor of Hamal and in alliance with Vallia, Hyrklana, Djanduin and other forward-looking countries.”

  Lobur looked disgusted.

  Thefi blanched.

  “You have been deceived, Jak! You must have been. My father would never join hands with Vallia. Tyfar has told me. He and father would never do it.”

  “But they have—”

  “No! Never! Treat that great devil Dray Prescot as a human being? It is unthinkable.”

  “But he is a human being, princess.”