Yet, all this was a mere frame for the woman who lolled in the throne.
Dressed in green and black with lavish gold ornamentation, she lolled with one white hand to her chin. Her pallor was intense. Her dark hair descended into a widow’s peak over her forehead and swept in voluptuous tresses to her shoulders. Her green eyes regarded the scene beneath her, luminous slits of jade. Around her forehead a jeweled band held at its center a wedge-shaped reptilian head, jaws agape, scaled, ruby eyes malevolent.
Seg’s hiss of indrawn breath was unmistakable.
“Csitra!”
The throne soared above the moorkrim. Two or three of those more brave or foolhardy than their companions chanced a shot. The shafts passed through the apparition. The woman’s eyelids, coated in gold leaf, partially closed. Her mouth, a purple-red bud-shape, pouted.
The wildmen collapsed. They fell and lay in their windrows, unmarked, unwounded; but dead, all dead.
The Jikai Vuvushis stared up. No sound, no smell, nothing apart from the ghostly advance of the phantom throne and the Witch of Loh disturbed the mountains.
The whole scene fluctuated and wavered. I blinked. Black and red flashes of light and darkness slashed across like lightning upon a night of Notor Zan. The rocks, the mountains, the abandoned corpses of the moorkrim, the very throne itself, all shimmered as though seen through smoke or deep beneath the sea.
Csitra — if this manifestation was of the Witch of Loh of the Coup Blag — was putting forth occult energy. She had destroyed the wildmen for her own purposes; now she influenced the Jikai Vuvushis so that one by one they dropped upon the harsh ground, sprawling into the dust.
The vision faded, flickered — and was gone.
I came to my senses with the sounds of men and women coming alive about me, the smell of the tent and of oiled leather, the feel of sweat upon the air.
What we had witnessed was of immense importance. That would be investigated. I had the utmost faith in Khe-Hi and Deb-Lu. But there was a certain thing I must do...
Deb-Lu’s image wavered as though he prepared to begone. Ling-Li-Lwingling’s projection remained, and she half-turned toward Khe-Hi. I called out, harshly.
“Sana! A moment. We have met, as you will recall. I must tell you that you are heartily welcome in Vallia. I—”
“You have changed your tune, tiks—” she began to say, and then halted herself. Perhaps she had realized that as no one likes being addressed as tikshim — worse than our Earthly my man — thus to address an emperor in whose lands she might wish to live was little short of impolitic.
“Come to Vallia, Ling-Li-Lwingling. I hold Khe-Hi in the highest possible esteem. As for this Csitra — I can feel sorry for her, for she was enamored of an evil man.”
“I will think on it, Dray Prescot.”
Then, suddenly, like a smashed lamp, she vanished.
The Jikai Vuvushis sat on their seats like mice, hushed, shattered by what had been revealed to them, secrets locked into their unremembering memories.
Khe-Hi did not waste time on his own affairs. He said: “I believe I have the way of it now, Dray. I do not yet know the details of how it was done; but it is enough to know that it was done.”
“Csitra bewitched the girls through her occult magic.” I took a breath, feeling through all the evil horror the first hopes that now we could conquer the plague of werewolves. “They did not know — do not know. But it is they, the Jikai Vuvushis who survived in the Mountains of the West, who have been creating the werewolves.”
“Yes. Without doubt.”
“By the Veiled Froyvil!” burst out Seg. “Turko! I had an idea he wasn’t inspecting that churgur regiment — and Jurukker Floring Mecrilli is not here! I’ll wager—”
“That’s Turko — and that girl tried hard to entrap me...”
We all rushed out of the tent. Turko! If we were right, and we knew we were right, then our comrade Kov Turko, Turko the Shield, was being transmogrified into a werewolf!
Chapter twenty-one
Csitra’s Pronouncement
“Kov Turko! Turko the Shield!” People rushed about the camp, shouting, yelling. “Jurukker Mecrilli! Floring Mecrilli! Kov Turko!” Everywhere men and women were running, ripping open tents, upturning carts, burrowing into piles of stores. The noise soared up to the suns. I was in a terrible state. Old Turko — turning into a ganchark! It didn’t bear thinking of.
After I’d raced up and down yelling uselessly, I forced myself to calm down. This had to be thought out. A flutduin patrol was sent winging off to the churgur regiment out on the plain just in case Turko had really gone there.
Khe-Hi came panting up. “Dray, Dray! There is still a chance nothing has happened yet.”
“What?”
“The stabs of occult energy. They must be the signals by which Csitra triggers a girl into action. I believe she bewitched the girls so that she could use her kharrna to spy through their eyes—”
“My Val!”
“—and when a victim and situation were ripe, she would order the girl to—”
“Do what, bite a chunk out of him—?”
“No, but—”
“Perhaps...”
I thought of what had happened. Of guards on duty kissing. Of the way Floring Mecrilli simply wanted to kiss me. Of the spots of blood on the mouths of men, caught as werewolves, who had not killed a victim. I thought I saw.
“Csitra peers through the eyes of a girl, sees a man, and then stabs her power. The girl and the man kiss.”
“I will have all their teeth examined. It is known that teeth may be hollowed out and poison secreted. This will be no ordinary poison...”
“By Vox, no!”
“A bitten lip, a drop of blood, is that so unusual?”
Seg rushed by, yelling. “They think he took a voller! Come on, Dray!”
“Khe-Hi!” I fairly yelled. “Go into lupu and find him, and then tell us!”
“At once.”
Even as Seg and I sprinted for the voller lines a ghostly figure materialized by the voller’s chains, its turban toppling over one ear.
“He has gone to Gliderholme with the Jikai Vuvushi. There is a tavern there, The Sweet Gregarian.”
“Warn him, Deb-Lu! Warn him!”
Deb-Lu’s lupal projection wavered and vanished. Seg and I vaulted into the voller and the handlers cast off the chains. As we rose a frantic figure fairly hurled itself at the airboat. We looked over the side. Nath na Kochwold hung there, gripping onto a dangling chain, yelling blue bloody murder up at us. We hauled him inboard, and you may judge of our feelings when we made no uncouth jokes.
On that swift desperate flight to the little market town of Gliderholme which we had recently liberated from Jhansi’s clutches, we tried to talk coherently about this affair and not to jabber mindlessly in anticipatory dread of defeat and Turko’s ghastly death.
For, make no mistake, we knew what would have to be done...
“Hollowed-out teeth,” said Nath. He shivered. “Well, how many teeth, then, per girl?”
We started to figure the computations.
“A damned lot,” growled Seg. “Look at that howling pack after Farnrien’s Edge.”
“A lot of kissing went on then, that’s for sure.”
Other airboats fleeted after us. There was no further apparition either of Deb-Lu or of Khe-Hi. The air rushed past. We smashed the speed lever over to the stop. We roared on through the sweet air of Kregen under the twin suns, and we prayed to all the gods and spirits.
Although the ancients on our Earth speculated and the wise men of Kregen, also, had scientific and medical knowledge well beyond comparable levels on the Earth of that time, I was not fully aware of what a virus was or could do. Now I understand that Csitra employed the virus that caused the change in a man and turned him into a werewolf. The disease of lycanthropy, in which a person imagines himself to be a werewolf, must have played a part. The girl smiled and beckoned, and the foolish man succ
umbed, and Csitra watched all through the girl’s eyes. A sweet kiss, succulent and juicy, and then the quick nip, the love bite, the token of passion. And, later, the awful change when Csitra willed, and the howling pursuit and the screaming and terrified victim... Yes, the Witch Csitra had done great damage...
And those poor damned Jikai Vuvushis did not know a single iota of it all...
How Csitra must have laughed when they were incorporated into my guard corps. She could never have anticipated such a tremendous boost to her plans. And her plans had been working. She was quite clearly trying to alienate me. If wherever I went I was trailed by gancharks, the people would fall away, the fingers would point, there would be muttering, and dark looks, and then rebellion. She did not want to kill me, just to make sure I had no home in Vallia.
Her uhu, fruit of her unhappy liaison with Yantong, had quite other motives. Now I understood what Csitra meant when she spoke to me through the corpse of Larghos m’Mondifer. As a werewolf, Larghos had been impelled to attack me by Phunik. That could be the only explanation.
His mother still held power over him. While that situation lasted, I could feel a little freer. But, what when the uhu Phunik came into his own powers?
I had to look to Deb-Lu-Quienyin and to Khe-Hi-Bjanching. Also, with luck there would be Ling-Li-Lwingling to help. I trusted so.
“There it is!” yelped Seg. “There’s the town. Now where’s this dratted tavern?”
The thought of all that would be lost if we could not save Turko caused me to quiver as though straining against a dead weight. I thought of the times when Turko and I had escaped from the Manhounds, when we’d ventured down into Mungul Sidrath, of a score of adventures together, when we’d escaped from the wrestler’s booths in Mahendrasmot. No! I wouldn’t lose Turko! I couldn’t!
Seg spotted the tavern by the sign. He simply slapped the voller down into the courtyard, thus smashing up one of Farris’s fleet, and we leaped out, not stopping for the shouts, and roared into the tavern.
Now Seg is a fine large fellow and the great lump of belly and chins that got in his way simply somersaulted out of it. Nath straddled the fallen man and we crashed up the blackwood stairs. Four doors at the top of the stairs, one half-open and so could be ignored. Three doors...
We each kicked one open.
The noise from below must be reaching up to the occupants of the rooms by now. Someone was going to go to investigate. The fates that run our lives, if such things as fates exist, sometimes smile and more often frown upon me.
A furred and feline Fristle swung open Nath’s door even as he kicked. Then my boot crashed against my door and I went barging through. The fates, then, had selected me...
Turko, wearing a most fetching robe, was in the act of pouring a goblet of wine. The room was a simple tavern room with curtains, lamps, tables and chairs and a bed in the alcove. Upon the bed lay Floring Mecrilli wearing not very much but enough to maintain her estimation of herself and her decency. Turko looked up and the wine shot across the table.
“What the zigging hell!”
A scream of so rich and fearsome a quality burst from Floring that both Turko and I jumped to stare at her. She flung herself up from the bed, shedding draperies, her face ghastly, her eyes enormous, her forefinger pointing...
She pointed at the ghostly form of Deb-Lu who waveringly materialized at the foot of the bed.
“Khe-Hi!” came the faint voice of Deb-Lu. “Muster yourself, San, and quickly—”
Deb-Lu vanished.
Turko yelled: “What the hell’s going on?”
I shouted: “Stand away from that girl, Turko, as you value your immortal ib.”
Csitra, schemingly watching the scene through Floring’s eyes, made her last cast. She knew there was but one chance. Her stab of occult power penetrated the defenses woven by our two Wizards of Loh; but they were far stronger than she and would quickly annul her ascendancy.
Floring Mecrilli, a Jikai Vuvushi very quick and lithe, impelled by sorcerous powers, simply leaped on Turko.
He staggered back and yet, being Turko, one hand supported both himself and the girl around her waist.
“Throw her off, Turko!”
She did not kiss him. Like a snake she struck. Her mouth opened and a star splintered whitely from her teeth. She bit into his lips. Her head snaked back and blood glistened on Turko’s mouth.
“By Erthyr!” yelled Seg at my back. I saw the point of a dudinter arrow appear at my shoulder, aimed at the girl, and as Seg loosed I struck the shaft up. It caromed away and smacked into the ceiling.
“What the—?”
“Look at Turko. The girl’s part is over.”
There was — as usual — the one slender chance.
By the kiss of dudinter...
Turko’s transformation began to take place as Csitra’s planning bore this evil fruit. Hair began to sprout on his hands, on his cheeks. He started up, and his eyes showed the horror dragging at him. I leaped.
The dudinter blade, smeared with ganjid, cut into his mouth. He tried to evade me, and I held him, I held a famed and feared Khamorro, and I cut into that bleeding lip.
Seg was there, gripping Turko, and Nath, too. We held him, and I cut his lip deeply, and dragged the flesh away, and then sucked and spat, sucked and spat, and shuddered deep into my vitals...
All this cutting and sucking and spitting is usually of little value; for the poison runs deeply and quickly. But the ganjid and the dudinter swayed the contest. Turko looked terrible. His eyelids closed and they were like overripe plums. He sagged in our arms. We carried him to the bed, stepping over the unconscious body of Floring on the way. We put him down and there was no need to send for the needleman, for Dolan the Pills who’d followed us in a voller, appeared, knowing he would be needed.
Critically we watched the hair on Turko’s hands and face. Slowly, the hair vanished and he was our old Turko again. Dolan gave him one of his pills, as famed and feared as a very Khamorro himself, and Turko slept.
“By the Veiled Froyvil, my old dom. I’d not like to go through that again!”
“Nor, by Vox, would I!” quoth Nath na Kochwold.
“It would be best not to move the kov until he has rested,” said Dolan. “But the girl had better be removed.”
“It’s not her fault,” I said, somewhat harshly. “She must go back to her friends until we find a way to rid them of this curse.”
A strong guard was posted on Turko’s room, on the Sweet Gregarian, on the town of Gliderholme. When we reached the courtyard Oby stood contemplating the wreck of the voller, clicking his teeth against his tongue and fingering his chin.
“Some people,” he said to no one in particular as we appeared, “should go back to learning to fly.”
But he knew the score and simply expressed his feelings elliptically.
“See what you can do, Oby. Turko is asleep and is our own Turko.”
“Thank Opaz!”
During the next sennight as we finalized our preparations for what we hoped would be the final advance, news came in that the sorcerously duped people of Vennar were massing to resist us. Jhansi employed a certain Sorcerer of Murcroinim, one Rovard the Murvish. In his skins and bones, his leem-skull upon his head, shaking his morntarch, he conveyed the impression of a fearsome power. Also, he stank. The effluvium of rasts and sewers clung to him and preceded him by a goodly length of smelling range. He it was who overbore ordinary folk, turned them into screaming fanatics ready to fight until they were slain.
With Jhansi’s regular paktuns leaving him, he had once again called on Rovard the Murvish for ungodly assistance.
Recovered, Turko had rejoined, and at this news he said, “I’ve had my belly full of sorcery. Let us go forward and blatter them. The Wizards, to whom I owe much, will do what they can. I do not think the issue will be in doubt.”
“I agree,” said Seg.
The coming campaign would not be easy, would not be a walkover. But we felt u
plifted that we had removed the plague of the werewolves. The girls’ teeth had been examined. They were not hollowed out. The virus, as I now know it to have been, had been precipitated by thaumaturgical art ready for use when the girl bit into the soft flesh of her lover’s lip. The Wizards of Loh assured us the girls could be cured, completely, and could take up normal lives. At this we rejoiced.
Just before we were due to march and fly out, a voller winged in over the camp. We looked up and did not recognize her, although both Korero and Oby were confident she had been built in Balintol.
Khe-Hi started forward eagerly.
Well, yes... She looked as she had looked when she’d spoken so abruptly to me from the gherimcal upon the field of blue and yellows, just before that tremendous fight with Prince Mefto the Kazzur. Her ivory-smooth face, the level blue eyes, the piled masses of her auburn hair; all were as I remembered them. But, now, she stepped from the voller, inclined her head in greeting, and then walked swayingly towards Khe-Hi.
He looked radiant.
The Lahals were made, and everyone considered this a good omen for the coming campaign.
Khe-Hi said: “Dray. Ling-Li wants a private word as soon as possible.”
“Of course. Oh, and when are you being married?”
“When you have heard what Ling-Li has to say, and decisions have been made, we will then set a date.”
“Bad as that, is it?”
“Worse.”
I refused to feel premature alarm. Seg, Turko, Nath and I went with Khe-Hi to this meeting with the Witch of Loh. Her tent was furnished luxuriously with her own belongings brought in her flier. She had a small retinue.
“Lahal, Sana. Tell us this dire news.”
“Sit down, Dray Prescot. And the rest. Wine. Listen. I bear you no ill-will; I deprecate what I have to say. But if I am to live in Vallia with Khe-Hi, then I must do what I can to make my new home agreeable.”
“A most sensible attitude,” I said gravely.
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