Scorpio Ablaze [Dray Prescot #41]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Did the Schtarkins up there realize they were hunting a man who meant them mischief? They were keeping me from getting on with the task of slinging them out of Tarankar and out of Loh and eventually of all Paz. Even one day could be vital. I fumed—quite futilely.

  The ship settled in the clearing. Fish Faces alighted. They fanned out and a mean looking bunch came over to inspect the fire.

  Now if that miserable hunk of evil called Carazaar put in an appearance now...

  Confident they hadn't seen me I hung around on the skirts of the forest, moving slowly and cautiously so as to keep the parties that ventured in some distance off. They were hunting methodically; but they still refused to go very far in among the trees. That was, of course, most sensible of them. Presently the voller lifted gently and slid into a narrow slot among the foliage on the southern edge of the clearing. She halted and lowered to the ground. Shanks started to cut branches, selecting those with plenty of leaves, and began to cover the voller. Pretty soon the vessel was camouflaged so as not to be visible from the air.

  This was distinctly not good.

  Whether or not they knew who I was, they were well aware the smoke was intended to attract my friends. They were waiting quietly in ambush.

  The heat grew and the humidity closed clammily all about.

  I made a brief lunch of suitable roots, not wishing to chance a fire. At its precise time the rain cannon-balled down, slashing into the leaves, bouncing in solid sheets in the clearing, drumming heavily, splashing into the river. When it ceased and everything steamed I looked with a deal of apprehension to the southward, hoping not to see Shankjid under a press of canvas sailing grandly into view.

  The clearing sky revealed only clouds moving away.

  The suns burned off the moisture. I gave Zim and Genodras ample time to dry things off. I collected a big leaf full of dry twigs. I set off around the clearing and I know my face bore a look of the utmost malevolence.

  Perhaps Five-handed Eos-Bakchi, the Vallian spirit of fortune and good luck, did smile benignly upon me.

  Crouched in the twinned shadows of a bush less than ten paces from the camouflaged vessel I looked across the clearing to its northern edge and saw movement there among the trees. The Shanks reacted instantly. As they tumbled down from the voller and raced across the clearing half a dozen gangling figures broke cover from the north and then halted, staring at the Fish Faces. There were six of the weird Praying Mantis creatures.

  They appeared to have no fear of the Shanks. Probably they had never seen a Fish Face before. One of them was minus two forearms. So he'd gone for help.

  Moving forward silently I found a fleeting moment of pity for the strange jungle creatures. I hoped they'd have the sense to run off—but not before they'd served their purpose. I lost sight of them as the lower gallery of the voller cut them off. Now they would have to take their chances. Once they were in among the trees they'd be safe.

  The familiar fishy reek stung my nostrils as I swung up into the gallery. The long narrow expanse was deserted. Working now with precision and speed I built a little pile of dry twigs, got the flint and steel going, puffed the fire alight. Underneath the voller the lower fighting gallery had been protected from the rain. Like any painted wooden ship of the air, she was dry—tinder dry. Swiftly the fire took hold.

  I believe an unpleasant smile disfigured my mouth.

  Eos-Bakchi smiled again. In a rope bower all neatly racked stood a line of fire pots. These were intended to be dropped upon the Shanks’ victims from above. My good humor increased. A little snicking sound attracted my attention. A door was just sliding open at the end of the gallery.

  I did not want the fire discovered just yet. With almost the speed of Seg Segutorio the Lohvian longbow was off my shoulder, an arrow was nocked and the stave lifted and bent. I believe it unnecessary to remark that during the rain the bow had been unstrung and restrung afterwards with a dry string. A Shank in a scale shirt walked through the open door and then looked stupidly at the rose-fletched shaft protruding from his chest. The pile had gone clean through the scale and through him.

  He fell down with an odd wheezing sigh.

  Waiting for a handful of heartbeats I saw no more. Probably he'd been off trying to get into the party chasing across the clearing after the strangers and had thus neglected his sentry duty here. Letting him lie I fired up the flame pots and hurled them with great satisfaction in a slew along the gallery. Everything began to burn. Time to go.

  A wall of flame and smoke cut me off from the sliding door and the sprawled Fish Head. The stink of marine life mounted nauseatingly as fishy oils began to bubble. Lowering myself off the gallery back into the jungle at least brought the familiar raw, menacing, throat-choking stink of the rain forest to clear my nostrils of fish.

  Shrill yells bounced about the clearing. The Praying Mantis people had gone and I could only hope they'd run off and not been shafted. The Shanks were running back towards their burning vessel like crazy men. I faded into the skirts of the trees and circled around. The spit and crackle of flames and the crashing of burned-through beams sounded as pleasant music in my ears. They couldn't have spotted me for no one chased after me.

  The smoke blew at an angle across the clearing. I took notice. The wind had shifted, was now from the east. That should make life easier for Oby tacking Shankjid up northerly.

  From the cover of leaves I peered out at the blazing vessel.

  This summary justice was no more than they deserved. Oh, yes, they were consummate seamen, and were now proving themselves to be fine airmen. Perhaps there were overriding reasons why they had to come ravening around the curve of the world to raid our lands. But because they did, our imperative was to stop them. Burning ships is no business I take joy in, as you know. If it has to be done, do it with some dignity. I could take little delight in the sorry business, and certainly could not gloat over the destruction of any ship. Except, perhaps, well there have been occasions in my turbulent career when I tended to send up a little cheer when a ship burned. Once, I recall, they threw me overside with my pants alight ... Still, she'd burned, she'd burned.

  There was no way the Fish Faces were going to extinguish that fire. It had taken hold now, and spat and spluttered and had begun shooting out fat sparks all around like fireworks of Earth. The Shanks were now marooned here in the jungles of lost Chem. Could I feel sorry for them? Well, yes. In a remote way that detached me from petty animosity and allowed me to view the situation from the point of view of a man vis-à-vis another man, I could feel for them. But—one must harden the heart, summon up the blood, make strong the sinews when adversaries insist on knocking you over the head and stealing your land and property. Oh, yes, I could feel sorry for ‘em; but they'd got what they deserved.

  When a fresh shadow drifted across the clearing and the Shanks looked up as I did to see a voller flying over, I realized instantly that we were in a nip and tuck situation. The voller was from Hamal. She was of a small medium size, double decked with fighting galleries and two fighting tops. She looked hard and professional. I remembered Mathdi. She circled as her complement studied the situation below them.

  If her captain had any sense, seeing the burning Shank ship and the castaway Fish Faces, he'd up sticks and sail off. The jungle would take care of Schtarkins who hated to venture far from the sea.

  The Hamalese flier circled again.

  If I was going to get myself rescued from this jungle then it behooved me to clip stirrup and slap leather as they say in Segesthes.

  The trouble was, as soon as I made myself known the Shanks would take a most unhealthy interest in my welfare.

  No use shilly-shallying about, no use hesitating. Saddle up!

  I sprinted out into the clearing and started waving my arms like semaphores.

  Up there they could see I was apim and not a Fish Head. The voller remained in her circling pattern. I waved crazily and looked over towards the fire. Shanks were screeching and starti
ng to run across towards me.

  “Get down here!” I bellowed up. “Drop a ladder, or by Hanitcha the Harrower, I'll never see the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu again!"

  That galvanized them into activity. The voller swooped down and a rope ladder unrolled and swung like a trapeze artist's nightmare.

  There would be the one chance to grab that. Arrows began to fly from the voller and a few of the leading Shanks went down. So vengeful and lusting after my hide, so great was their fury for revenge, they didn't shoot at all but simply rushed in a shrieking mob.

  The ladder swirled towards me, twisting. And it was just above the full stretch of my upflung arms. I braced myself, got set and felt all the glory of Kregen surging about me and infusing my veins with a beat of passionate blood. I wasn't going to be beaten by a pack of measly Fish Heads, no, nor by a giddily swinging rope ladder, no by Vox!

  At the precise instant I judged correct, I felt a sharp nick along my upper left arm. As I put everything into a wild leap upwards I said to myself: “So the bastards have thought to shoot at me at last!"

  The penultimate rung slapped hard into my fists, stingingly.

  I was whipped away like a slinger's bullet.

  I held on as a monkey holds on to his mother. I didn't intend to be cast off like that slinger's bullet.

  A couple of tridents flashed past my twisting body. I hauled up. Climbing undulating rope ladders is a difficult art which had been mastered very quickly after I'd joined the Royal Navy. I went hand over hand like a monkey and I didn't bother to use my feet.

  When I stuck my head over the rail a whole line of heads along the bulwarks regarded me as though I was a devil springing up through a stage trapdoor.

  “Lahal!” I called. “Permission to come aboard?” Before anyone on deck had time to reply I took a look down. The Fish Faces were hopping up and down like jumping beans. Tridents flashed in the light of the suns. Oh, yes, by Krun! They were good and mad! We swept away from them over the treetops and the last I saw of that ship's crew was their vessel still merrily burning and sending up coils of smoke.

  A metallic voice above me said: “Lahal, majister. You are most welcome aboard.” I didn't need to see the speaker to know he didn't mean what he'd just said. Twisting my head back up I sized up this fellow. He was a Khibil and his foxy face fairly bristled with arrogant whiskers. Supercilious, Khibils, and condescending with it. As far as they are concerned, every other race of diffs on Kregen is of far less consequence. He looked to be a smart spry specimen of his race, brisk and competent. But he didn't like me, and he had difficulty concealing that animosity.

  With a last heave at the ladder and a lithe vault I was over the bulwark and braced on the deck. This Khibil was Hamalese. Hamal and Vallia had been mortal blood enemies for a long long time. Only recently had Emperor Nedfar and I patched up the differences and declared alliance. Old wounds smarted still. Old enmities had not been eradicated by the stroke of a pen or a handclasp. It was going to be back-watching time now.

  “Lahal, majister,” he said again. He was being punctilious. “Allow me to present myself. I am Jiktar Taranto ham Armit, Rango of Firthlad.” He gestured gracefully to the woman who walked quietly to stand at his side. Her features glowed with Khibil health, foxy and shrewd, animate with self assurance. “My sister, the Rangicha Taranta."

  “Majister,” she said in a full voice. “Lahal.” She might have been speaking over her shoulder to a casual acquaintance in the street.

  “Lahal, Rangicha."

  Her eyebrows came together. I was being polite, true. But she'd have much preferred me to have addressed her as my lady Taranta. Of such petty nuances in etiquette are sore subjects made.

  To ease that subtle tension I looked about and then, unable to resist riling him some more, told the Ranga: “You run a tidy ship."

  “Thank you, majister. I have been detailed to take you to Fleet Admiral Harulf ham Hilzim."

  “Detailed?"

  “Yes. I came looking for you. There was sorcery in it."

  “Ah. I see.” And I did. Deb-Lu had contacted his opposite number in Hamal who'd contacted the Hamalese fleet. The admiral had ordered this uppity Khibil to nip across and pick me up. I said: “Is a battle imminent?"

  “Yes, majister. The Schturgins are in great force."

  If that was the reason for his dislike then I could feel relief. We'd be back with the fleet in time for the fight, I did not doubt. What I did doubt, though, was that explanation for his malice. He'd probably fought hard for mad Empress Thyllis and resisted everyone until the end of the campaign. Then, with any other option far less attractive, he'd come over and joined Nedfar. And he still hated Vallians.

  The thought did occur to wonder why old Harulf ham Hilzim had picked this Khibil Taranto ham Armit. I'd had little contact with Hilzim during my times in Ruathytu; but I knew him by sight.

  As far as I could tell he was loyal to Nedfar. But, it could well be, he was not. There might be plots afoot to oust Nedfar and put in some puppet of a group of diehard Hamalese nationalists. That would put Nedfar's son Tyfar at risk, and with him my daughter Lela. This contemptuous Khibil Taranto would merit watching.

  I didn't forget how damned fast and high he'd swung the rope ladder.

  So, you see, even in the midst of all the problems confronting me down here in Loh, problems enough to last a sage man for a long time, fresh problems stemming from old troubles were rearing monstrously ugly heads of doubt and suspicion. All would have to be dealt with in the fullness of time.

  As the voller fled across the dwaburs—her name was Dovad Daisy—Rango Taranto forced himself to the amenities.

  No doubt he wouldn't quickly forget the time in Hamal when apim and diff forgot their old friendships, when diffs were regarded askance and excluded from positions of power. My blade comrade Rees had suffered from that disgusting chauvinism. The situation had been saved through the sheer necessity for Hamal to use all her resources in the war. Tolerance of diffs of whatever race and from whatever race seems to me a mark of the culture and civilization of any peoples. And, of course, the very word tolerance in itself expresses those things that are hurtful.

  Well, they made me reasonably comfortable, showing me to a small cabin where I could wash and where some welcome food was provided. A hulking great fellow came in, knocking the door all sideways with his bulk, his huge face awash with whiskers. His eyes were all but invisible among the creases and the hair. His mouth was very red-lipped.

  “Lahal, majister!” he roared out in a voice like a hailing trumpet.

  I gave him a narrow stare, munching my palines.

  “Lahal, Hikdar."

  His face grew even more suffused. His hair fairly bristled.

  “I am Ship Hikdar Sternum Hamparz, majister!"

  I shook my head. “Sternum Hamparz is a slender young fellow without a beard with whom I had the honor to share bread at breakfast—oh—many many seasons ago in Ruathytu. I'll give you that Sternum served in the Hamalian Air Service; but he had not yet reached the dizzy heights of a Deldar, let alone a Hikdar, and a Ship Hikdar at that."

  “Yes, majister. It was many many seasons ago. And you spilled the slursh over the fristle fifi serving us—"

  “By Krun! It is you! Lahal and Lahal, Sternum!"

  I jumped up and took his hand. He'd always been a rough and tumble fellow, even back then, and now look at him! And, too, this explained somewhat why Hilzim had sent the uppity Khibil. His First Lieutenant, Sternum Hamparz, would keep an eye on him.

  We cracked a bur or two on news, and I was pleased to know Sternum had supported Nedfar from the first, although not meeting up with me in those campaigns. He told me that the fleet now were seeking the Shanks in high confidence. There were upwards of fifty vollers, and the Hamalese had even condescended to bring along some of the unpowered fliers they called famblehoys, towed by powered vollers. “Oh, yes, majister. We'll whack ‘em. By Kuerden the Merciless! We'll give ‘em a bloody nose!"
>
  “They are—uh—competent opponents. Tough."

  “Surely. But, by Krun, we have the beating of them!"

  There was no sign of a crack in Sternum's confidence. After a time I was able to quiz him on the Khibil Taranto.

  “Shrewd and deep, shrewd and deep. Managed to keep his head after the battle when he offered up his sword. He pretends to serve the emperor loyally. His thoughts stray in other directions, by Krun!

  I nodded. “As I suspected. And you—?"

  “The emperor asked me—personally, mind, personally!—to sail with the Rango. I was called back to Ruathytu specially for this task. I was sorry to leave Prince Tyfar ... Majister?"

  He'd seen my face and he stopped speaking abruptly.

  I said: “Sternum. You saw Prince Tyfar? And the Princess Lela?"

  He licked those red lips buried among the hair. “Why, yes, majister. She and the prince were fighting the wild men over the mountains.” I felt my heart go flip-flop. What it is to worry and fret over a loved one when they are far away and doing God knows what and running all manner of risks. Sometimes they get in touch, and they are so casual it stings. They say they visit crocodile farms. They say they canoe up a river filled with Head Hunters. They say they dive for pearls on coral reefs. And all the time you yourself sit at home and sweat blood.

  All Sternum could confirm was that Lela and Tyfar were still alive when he'd reluctantly left them. The problems of the production of the minerals and powders for the silver boxes remained unsolved.

  It would be trite to comment that this news once more reinforced the global extent of our commitments, that every action everywhere tied up with every action everywhere else—so to speak.

  Sternum added that he had changed and grown up and went on to say that all those seasons ago when he had no idea I was Dray Prescot, arch enemy of Hamal, he still saw greatness in me. I stopped him then, knowing he referred to this damned yrium with which I am cursed—or blessed—and well understanding his initial confusion when my identity became known. This bluff red-faced fighting man was the perfect exemplar why Hamal and Vallia ought to remain firm friends against the outer foes. There were plenty of warriors just like him in Vallia.