The tables were well provided with food and wines. The chairs were deep and comfortable. We could talk and argue and plan here all night.
A flick-flick plant upon the windowsill curled its tendrils, seeking flies to pop down its orange cone. Turko had imported some pleasant-smelling blooms which stood about in pots of Pandahem ware. I sat down, stretched out my naked feet, and took up Seg’s Jholaix.
“Here’s to Milsi,” I said.
We all solemnly drank. By Krun! It was good!
“Now let’s find a way of bashing Jhansi.”
Erndor rolled out the map upon a cleared space on the table. We all sat looking at it, and, I own, not a little glumly.
“I,” I said, “have not a single idea in my stupid vosk-skull of a head.”
“One thing,” said Seg. “The Ninth Army is in good heart despite the setbacks.”
“Oh, aye,” confirmed Erndor. “They keep up, they keep up. But I wonder how much longer they can go on being pushed back from territory so hardly won.”
“What information do you get from your spies, Turko?” I eyed him alertly. “If we could receive timely news just where that cramph Jhansi intends to attack—”
“Many men and women have been sent. We get scrappy information back. The last two pieces of news were false.”
“He’s penetrated your apparat there, and misleads you.”
“Yes. We marched out to where we expected to find his army, and he crept in behind our backs and sacked two towns.”
“A bad business.”
A silver bowl of squishes stood on the table. I picked out one of the little fruits, looked at it, then deposited it where it filled my mouth with taste.
“Aye,” said Turko. “I’d like to see Inch again. We communicate and he fights like a demon for his Black Hills.”
“With Inch and you, Turko,” said Seg, fretfully, “we ought to crush Jhansi like a rotten nut.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that the days when we were all wandering adventurers, seeking our fortunes in the wide world, are all over. Now you’re kovs, with lands and responsibilities—” I stopped. Then I said, “At least, Inch is a Kov with a fight on his hands; you, Turko, are here with your back against the wall—”
“And I am without lands,” said Seg. “Well, that does not worry me.”
Quite casually, I said, “You are marked to be the Hyr Kov of Balkan when the present incumbent dies off, for he has no heirs.”
Turko and Erndor had the sense to remain silent.
Seg fetched up a breath. “I am supposed to be the King of Croxdrin. That means only that if it makes Milsi happy, so be it. We shall go back there from time to time. But Balkan? They always keep out of trouble.”
“Precisely. They serve only themselves up there. It’s a rich province. You’ll do nicely up there, Seg, and if, like me, you’re a permanent absentee landlord, then they’ll keep the place going and the cash rolling into your coffers.”
“It is generous — hell, no, that’s not what I mean.”
“Well, drink up this splendid Jholaix your wife has kindly provided, and let us get back to thinking of ways of bashing Jhansi.”
“I’ll speak to you later about this, my old dom, by the Veiled Froyvil, yes!”
So we talked more about Turko’s problems. I should mention here that Balkan is pronounced with both a’s flat, rhyming with ashcan. It was no ashcan of a province, though; Balkan was an immensely rich Hyr Kovnate. Its schturval was brown and red, its symbol an eagle.
As I sipped the splendid wine and the talk drifted on I found myself reflecting on just how funny a lot it was to be an emperor. The powers of such a one may appear enormous to the uninitiated. The truth is, as I have pointed out, the powers vary with strength and character, with the influence of other governing bodies, with factions, with the goodwill of the populace, with business and banking interests. Many an emperor takes the estates of deceased nobles who have no heirs into his own hands. He may then, if he pleases, bestow them upon loyal friends. How easy, it may seem, just to say to dear old Seg: “You are the Hyr Kov of Balkan!”
Well, in the ferocious and pragmatic ways of Kregen, Seg might have to fight for his new kovnate.
The talk turned then and drew me back.
“With the new accretion of flyers,” Kapt Erndor was saying just as the knock came on the door, “I can set up a reasonably efficient system of aerial patrols.”
The door opened to admit Nath na Kochwold, looking dusty. He made a gesture with his fingers, pointing to his mouth. Laughing, Seg hoisted a jug and Nath took it, swallowed, wiped his mouth, said: “By Vox! It’s like a night of Notor Zan out there!”
“All to rights?”
“Aye. The lads are all tucked in. And, I can tell you, there were only four fights among the different Kerchuris. Remarkable.” He drank again and glanced at Erndor. “These aerial patrols. To cover the entire border they’ll have to be spread very thinly.”
“Very.”
“Still,” said Seg cheerfully. “There must be well-known routes. I recall reconnoitering over there and thinking it was open land. But there must be well-trodden ways we can omit.”
“True.”
“If you’ll release the flutduins to me, strom, I’ll set up a system first thing.”
“Excellent, Erndor, excellent.”
Nath said: “It is a great pity the fleet has had to return to Vondium. We do not really have enough aerial transports to get a large enough force into action quickly enough.”
“That,” pointed out Turko, “caused my retreat and you your Battle of Marndor.”
“H’m,” I said. “Maybe we can persuade Farris to spare us a voller or two. I am sorry that Deb-Lu-Quienyin had to return to Vondium. He is a comfort.”
They did not reply; but drank. They all knew exactly what I meant.
“If you’ll pardon me, strom, I’ll turn in. I have a heavy day tomorrow.”
“And us all, I think.”
Erndor left, saying his good nights, and Seg, standing tall and powerful in the room, downed the last of his wine. Nath na Kochwold poured the last of the bottle.
“I’ll just finish this. There are details I wish to talk over with Turko.”
So Seg and I left together. We’d been quartered in a fine accommodation block across the courtyard. The stone entrance was guarded by one of Turko’s men and also by a kampeon from 1ESW. They saluted as we bid them good night. The entrance hall was carpeted, and featured jars of Pandahem ware, an over-life-size statue of a dancing talu, heavy sturm-wood chairs and a wide table where visitors might deposit their cloaks. The carpet felt thick underfoot.
Seg yawned.
“I shan’t be sorry to get to sleep, my old dom. See you in the morning.” With that he ran fleetly up the stairs. He almost collided with a girl coming down. She wore a yellow apron and carried a brass tray whereon reposed a half-flagon and two jugs, besides a dish of palines.
With his habitual gallantry, Seg apologized, made sure the girl was all right, and then went leaping on up.
She passed me with eyes she intended to be downcast, but she could not resist a single liquid glance up. I managed a grimace that might pass for a smile, and said, “The guards are grateful that you look after them, believe me.”
She colored up, managed a mouselike: “Yes, majister,” and skipped outside. Her slippers were red with pretty white bows.
I’d reached the top of the stairs when I heard the crash from outside. Stopping, one hand on the balustrade, I turned to look down into the entrance hall.
The lamps threw scattered illumination across the carpet, picked out the fantastic decoration on one rotund jar. The blooms filled the air with a perfume at once heady and sharp.
Through the open door two sounds reached me, mingled together in horrid counterpoint.
One — the terrified screaming of a girl. The other — the snarling growl of a beast.
I started down the stairs like a madman.
In the next second the werewolf would sink those long yellow fangs into that soft body.
There was only one thing I could do.
With a ferocious yell I plunged down the stairs, ripping out my sword, that useless sword of steel.
Chapter sixteen
A corpse speaks
Steel! Steel! Useless...
That beautiful drexer fashioned in the armories of Valka, designed to take all the best of the Havilfarese thraxter, the Vallian clanxer and what we could contrive of the Savanti Sword — all that skill and cunning, that knowledge and craft — all wasted, impotent, useless...
I went down the stairs so fast I almost pitched onto my nose. The werewolf saw me. His eyes, reddened in the lamps’ glare, seemed to shoot sparks. The saliva that dripped between his fangs hung thick and clotted. He panted. He looked what he was, vicious and deadly and utterly without understanding of human mercy.
He leaped the girl to get at me. He snarled up the stairs, lips drawn back blackly to bare those curved sharp fangs. His hair spiked in a thick bristle about his neck. Oh, yes, as I went hurtling down I could see he was a very devil of a werewolf.
The penultimate step before I’d be on him — or he on me — I took off. I jumped. I soared clean over his back and landed cat-footed on the carpet beyond. With a growl from some blasphemous bowel-region he swiveled about. In the heartbeat before he turned I slashed the sword at him, sliced deeply into his hind leg.
He screeched — who wouldn’t? — and swung away. My second blow sizzled past his nose as he went back.
The wound in his hind leg affected his agility in no way at all. He seemed not to have been touched.
With a guttural explosion of sound he leaped again.
This time I contrived to roll under and to the side and as I went I gave him the old leem-hunter’s trick.
Had he been a leem, even, one of the fiercest of all Kregen’s predators, his guts would have spilled out through that long slicing slash along his belly. I saw blood ooze. I saw it, I swear. But he landed on the carpet, screeching, and cocked that lean body around to get at me once more.
In this oddly one-sided combat, weird and uncanny, there was no raw stink of spilled blood. I’ve fought many a wild beast, as you know, and have developed techniques for dealing with the different species — to my shame, I add, for a number of them merely fight so savagely because that is their nature — and by this time any four-legged animal of this wolfish mold, large though he be, would have been done for.
When the ganchark charged again I caught the distinct impression that he was as speedy as an ordinary wolf, a fast one, admittedly. I did not think I’d slowed him at all by my blows.
This time I tried a new ploy and smashed him full across the muzzle. He yelped and catapulted past to the right as I slid to the left. Again no wound appeared.
Only a moment or two had elapsed since I’d rushed so recklessly down the stairs. The girl lay in a swoon, and we antagonists circled her to get at each other. He came on, I struck and slid, and once more he charged. This could go on all night...
In a few moments more Seg would come roaring down and that prospect alarmed me and nerved me to make an end quickly — but how?
He came at me headlong, muzzle agape, and I struck more to fend him off than to try to hurt him. Where the guards at the door were was probably down wandering among the Ice Floes of Sicce.
The next attack saw me crash sideways into a gorgeous jar of Pandahem ware. It went over with a smash. Bits of ceramic sprayed. I dodged sideways and nearly did myself a serious injury on the outspread fingers of the dancing talu.
My left hand gripped the bicep of one of the statue’s eight arms. I held myself straight to face the next attack — and then I realized.
Fool! Onker! Get onker! Of course!
Now it had to be arranged. The stoppered vial in my pouch remained intact. I reached in, fumbled about, and drew it forth. If I dropped it now, when the ganchark, slavering, leaped again...
I dodged away, swiveling, fending the thing off and yet not allowing myself to remain in the path of his leap. His teeth looked mightily unpleasant. Again I circled to the statue of the dancing talu. The eight arms, extended in that familiar wagon wheel of abandonment, were fashioned, like the trunk and legs, of bronze. The head, all artful secret smiles, was of gold.
But the fingernails...
I smeared the ganjid on as many fingernails as I could reach on that pass, slashed nastily at the werewolf and saw a chunk of gray fur fly. That was about as much as I could hurt him — yet. More ganjid smeared over other fingernails. I drew out, dropped the vial, poised.
Seg’s yell reached me from the stairs.
“Dray!”
“Stand back, Seg!”
The werewolf leaped. I waited, flashed the sword as I had flashed it so many times before in his reddened eyes, and then skipped sideways. But, this time, I drove the sword full at his face and let go. It slid into an eye. I felt it go in as I went sideways.
He paused, shrieking, and then...!
The sword began to ease out of his eye. Bodily, it moved back. He stood trembling, his tongue hanging, as the sword was pushed out of his eye by supernatural forces and dropped with a thud upon the carpet.
He snarled now as though admitting that the thrust would have killed a lesser beast, a savage animal who was not were...
He leaped.
I took the over-life-size statue of the dancing talu by two of his lower arms and I lifted him and turned him. I held him angled forward. The ganchark leaped at me and hurtled straight onto a hedge fashioned from the dudinter fingers of the statue.
Later we counted the number of fingernails that pierced him.
Five.
Five electrum fingernails coated with wolfsbane, five of them, they did for him, all right.
Seg raced down into the hall, yelling. Other people appeared and if they’d been watching then I did not fault them. They’d had the courage in that case not to run away. We stood in a ring looking at the werewolf, and two of the girls bent over the limp form of the serving girl.
“The puncture lady’s coming,” said a Pachak wearing his badge of office.
We watched.
Who would lie revealed when the evil occult force leached away from that fearsome gray form?
The gray fur shimmered, the fierce head rounded, the form softened until the body of the guard who had stood at the entrance and bid us good night lay on the carpet.
“Larghos m’Mondifer,” I said. He was a doughty kampeon who had recently been enrolled as a jurukker in 1ESW.
Then something happened for which we were totally unprepared.
The corpse opened its eyes.
Before anyone could scream or faint, the mouth opened. A sighing of air, as of the opening of a long-disused tomb, and then the corpse of Larghos m’Mondifer spoke.
“This, Dray Prescot, was not my doing.”
Now the screams rang out, now the fainting ones slid to the carpet.
The body of Larghos m’Mondifer turned black. The skin shone like enamel, then dulled to ash. Cracks appeared running all over in a spiderweb. The guardsman collapsed. He fell in on himself, and then only an outline in black dust showed on that thick carpet, and then that whisked away and there was nothing left of a fine fighting man of Vallia who had been changed into a werewolf.
Chapter seventeen
The Emperor of Vallia’s werewolves
The Werewolf of Vondium, then, had not been alone...
Stringent inquiries revealed nothing to distinguish poor Larghos m’Mondifer from any other of the guard corps. He’d done his duty, stood his guard, fought well in the Battle of Marndor. I just didn’t like the way the two werewolves had been members of my own bodyguard.
And just what was a corpse doing, spouting mysteries?
&nb
sp; Seg said, “We were told, Milsi and me, that there were werewolves up along the plains of Northern Croxdrin. Werewerstings, they were supposed to be.”
Marion cocked her head at him at this. Nath na Kochwold looked grim. We were taking our usual second breakfast standing up and nobody was feeling at all cheerful.
“What the hell did that poor fellow mean?” demanded Turko.
“He spoke my name. A dead man. All right, I am at a loss. If Deb-Lu is engaged on his own weighty affairs we must send for Khe-Hi-Bjanching right away.”
Khe-Hi was down in the southwest with Drak. I’d not argue about calling him, for this mystery deepened and we needed a Wizard of Loh.
In the days that followed we went about our business in a dour, almost sullen way. There were two more werewolf attacks that left the victims with torn-out throats.
We sent for the dudinter weapons from Vondium.
Khe-Hi-Bjanching, red-haired, his austerely handsome face a trifle plumper in these latter days, arrived by fast voller. He was abreast of the situation. Wizards of Loh have their means of communication.
In his chiseled-steel voice he said, “I have the ganjid recipe and will begin at once, majister. This is a bad business. Rumors fly wildly all over Vallia.”
“Rumors won’t sink supernatural fangs into you, Khe-Hi.”
“There are facets to this business that intrigue me. Deb-Lu has a great deal on at the moment.”
I wasn’t going to pry into what was going on between these two puissant wizards. They were friends. I was convinced about that, and they had both served Vallia and me well in the past. Khe-Hi went off to the kitchens and his acolytes began the collection of the necessaries.
There would be no fumbling in the gathering of ingredients required by Khe-Hi. Oh, no! A deal younger than Deb-Lu, his powers grew every season, or so it seemed. I had known him longer than Deb-Lu, and because Delia had told me to pull him out of a hole, he fancied he owed me a debt. We had talked around this, and I think both had come to the understanding that our friendship and mutual loyalty reached a much higher level than mere gratitude.
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