Allies of Antares [Dray Prescot #26]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “I'm on your side, you pack of famblys!"

  And then the wildmen took it on themselves to show their nastiness, and they shot my tyryvol under me.

  I felt his body bunch and jerk with the bite of the arrows. He uttered a shrill squawk and then a dolorous descending moan. His wings trembled. He fell. We pitched down for the last ten or fifteen feet and I was only saved from a broken neck by his collapsing body. I leaped off, feeling immense sadness for him. After his little escapade over the valley with me dangling like a bobbin, we had come to an understanding. His bright eyes glazed over. His slim head on its slender neck shuddered and drooped laxly, and he was dead.

  For a moment—a stupid, defenseless moment—I stood looking down on him.

  “Jak! Get your fool head down!"

  “All right, Tyfar, all right."

  I stomped across to his rock. Two arrows broke against the face as I dodged into cover.

  “Jak!” said Jaezila. “Prince Nedfar—?"

  “He'll be all right. Seg went back with him to find a needleman."

  “And you two came after me.” Tyfar put his hands on his hips and glared at us. Trim, defiant, eager, a true comrade, he shook his head. He looked as though he could go ten rounds with a dinosaur, bandaged head and all.

  He winced when he shook his head.

  “We came after you, Ty, because we didn't think you could be trusted out alone.” Jaezila spoke sweetly.

  He looked at her. “You mean you couldn't keep away from my funeral."

  “Now, Ty—"

  He gestured with a blood-splashed hand. “Well, look! We're boxed in here. I told Jaezila she was a ninny to fly in alone. Now you do the same."

  He was right, of course. And we were not about to go into maudlin scenes of swearing eternal comradeship as we were chopped. For a start, neither Jaezila nor I intended to be chopped, and Tyfar wouldn't, either, once we jollied him out of his mood.

  “What happened?"

  “He fouled it up,” said Jaezila, with her haughtiness of manner most pronounced.

  “Well?"

  Tyfar looked chastened. “I had a message to come here to catch a damned bandi—"

  “We heard something of that. The message was a trap."

  “Yes. I've been hitting the moorkrim hard lately and this is their way of getting rid of me."

  “And all you brought was two regiments?"

  He looked furious. “We're thin on the ground and just about nonexistent in the air. I'm supposed to command the Twentieth Army, and they stripped most of my troops. Tell me, Jak, for the sweet sake of Havil, what really happened in Ruathytu? We heard garbled reports of a battle—"

  “First of all, what was your father doing here?"

  “He wanted to see me. What about I've no idea. He heard where I'd gone and followed. He descried the situation and tried to go for help. It seems that wildmen brought him down. And then you—"

  “Seg will bring up help. There is no doubt whatsoever of that."

  “I don't know who Seg is—"

  “A friend. A good friend."

  “Now tell me about the battle—"

  I frowned. How to tell a young keen general commanding troops that his country had been defeated not only in a battle but in the war? That his foemen lorded it in his capital city? I swallowed. I tried.

  His face lengthened. He half turned away. He put a hand on the rock behind which we sheltered.

  “You mean to say we lost?"

  “Yes."

  For only a heartbeat I doubted him; then he proved once again that he was Prince Tyfar.

  “Well, we lost this one. But we won't lose the next—"

  “I knew you would say that, Tyfar. I have to try to make you see that the Vallians and Hyrklese, particularly, desire friendship with Hamal."

  “A fine way they have of showing it.” He was suffering now as the enormity of what had befallen his country sank in. “You mean they just took Ruathytu? Just like that?"

  “It was not easy. It was a bonny fight. But the Djangs settled the issue."

  He listened as the story of the Taking of Ruathytu unfolded. He stood very still. I watched his hands. Slowly they constricted into fists, knobby and hard, the fists of a fighting man as, spread on a page, they were the shapely hands of a scholar. A man of parts, Prince Tyfar.

  “We three have been through some rousing adventures,” he said, stirring himself. “The Empress Thyllis made a pact with the Hyr Notor, who was a Wizard of Loh. I remember our times, Jak, with Deb-Lu-Quienyin. I could have wished he had been there, at the Battle of Ruathytu, to help us."

  I could not look at him, at my comrade. Deb-Lu had been there. Without his sorcerous powers we might well have lost. In the end it had been Deb-Lu, aided by Khe-Hi-Bjanching, who had defeated Phu-Si-Yantong, the Wizard of Loh whom Tyfar knew as the Hyr Notor. Tyfar would have to know one day. How would he react when he recalled our conversation?

  That was merely a smaller component of the greater puzzle. And now Tyfar, all unknowing, heaped fresh fuel on the blaze that would explode when the time came.

  “So the Djangs took a hand? I know little of them but, Jak, you once said you were from Djanduin, that you had estates there."

  “I did and I have."

  He cocked an eye at me.

  “The Hamalese were beaten by a combination of people who had grown tired of Thyllis's mad dreams of empire, and they were aided by the Djangs—"

  “That is easy enough to understand.” Tyfar sounded bitter. “If Vallia entered the fight against us, then that arch devil, Dray Prescot, is Emperor of Vallia and King of Djanduin. His evil influence brought about our ruin."

  “Ty—” said Jaezila.

  She looked most unhappy. She stretched out a hand toward this young Prince of Hamal, and a shower of insects burst from a pot flung over the rocks. The pot smashed to bits on the stone and the buzzing, winging, stinging insects swarmed out. Instantly we were hard at work swatting and dancing and banging. Arrows flew in.

  “Keep your eyes front!” bellowed Tyfar at the swods as he flailed away at the clouds of maddening stingers. “We'll take the insects off you! Look to your front!"

  The Deldars took up his orders and the swods stuck grimly to their posts, clutching crossbow and spear, and when the attack came screeching in it was met by disciplined men under orders. We stepped up to fight, and we met and rebuffed the onslaught. When the wildmen retreated, leaving their dead, we slumped back, exhausted.

  “They won't repeat that trick in a hurry. It must have taken them a long time to collect the insects. How many pots did they throw in?"

  “Twenty, at least."

  'They'll try something else soon."

  A number of openings into the cliff where the ledge joined led into a series of caves. A stream ran through to fall away into a sink hole. Into this sanctuary the wounded were carried. Tyfar had brought a doctor with this little force; but he had been wounded. Now he lay on a cloak and told other less wounded men what to do to alleviate suffering.

  Tyfar explained that he'd brought four vollers, small craft, and all four had been burned by the wildmen. The men had fought their way through to this outcrop and made of it a fortress. The moorkrim clearly considered the affray and its successful outcome for them to be merely a matter of time. “We started with two regiments, crossbows and spears, and they were weak, anyway. Now we're down to what amounts to little over one reasonably strong regiment, five hundred or so men. We take the roll call; but it is depressing."

  I learned what had happened to the rest of Tyfar's Twentieth Army. The bulk was spread along his sector of the frontier, with strong contingents removed and sent east. I pondered this. I did not think any elements of the Twentieth had been in action against us in Ruathytu. I pursed up my lips, and then, casually, I said, “D'you know anything about King Telmont, Tyfar? What sort of fellow he is?"

  “Telmont?” Tyfar turned back at the entrance of the caves with a final encouraging word to a spea
rman with a shaft through his shoulder. “Not much. He was called Telmont the Hot and Cold until he hanged and burned enough people to stop the name being bandied about. But it is true. He can't make up his mind on anything, except hanging and burning."

  “Any chance that, now that Empress Thyllis is dead, the people would shout for Telmont as emperor?"

  Tyfar swiveled to stare at me. His eyes opened.

  “It is a thought—one that had not occurred to me. But—well, he is a king of some means. He could buy support.” Tyfar frowned and then laughed. “No, no, Jak. He'd never make up his mind to reach for the crown. He'd have to have someone to kick him up the backside."

  Thinking of Vad Garnath, and the Kataki Strom, I said, “Perhaps he has. He is supposed to be marching on Ruathytu."

  Then Tyfar said something that stopped me in my tracks.

  “He is! To throw out this devilish alliance! Then I must hurry and join him and drive back the Vallians and their despicable allies!"

  “Oh, Ty!” exclaimed Jaezila.

  She looked fierce.

  “Now what's the matter? I mean, of course, when we get out of this pickle we're in."

  We went back to the rocks, and there was a jaunty bounce to Tyfar's step. Now he had an aim in life. I refused to despair. Tyfar now believed our friend Seg would bring relief. Then Tyfar would collect what men he could and rush off to join King Telmont. That made sense to a loyal Hamalese. Sweet sense.

  “Listen, Tyfar. I heard no good spoken of Telmont—"

  “Of course not! He's a fool. But if he is raising the standard of resistance to Vallia—"

  “Your father has a greater claim to the crown and throne of Hamal. Think of that."

  “You have spoken of this before—"

  “Aye! Even when Thyllis sat on the throne. Now that she is dead I speak openly. I want to see you father, Nedfar, Emperor of Hamal."

  Tyfar put a hand to his bandage. “Yes, but—” He walked on. “We have no real support. Thyllis saw to that. She maneuvered father away from the center of power. He was included in the high command only because he is an astute soldier. No, Jak. No one would stand with father—"

  I took a breath. I said, “Suppose the alliance stood for him? Suppose Djanduin and Hyrklana and Vallia all said Prince Nedfar, Emperor of Hamal, Jikai! What then?"

  He controlled his contemptuous anger. “You mean treat with our enemies? Supplicate them, be beholden to them? Fawn on them as slaves fawn on their master who brings the slopbowl of porridge?"

  “One thing, Tyfar, you'd have to get straight.” His honest anger nettled me. “If it is to work you'd have to get rid of slavery. I can tell you that is one thing the Vallians and Djangs won't tolerate."

  His cheeks were pinched in and white. “I detest slavery, too, yet it is a necessity for ordered life—"

  “We won't go into that now. I know your point of view. I respect you too much to think you a hypocrite. But leave that for now. Think about your father as emperor, with friends at his side—"

  “Friends!"

  “Aye, Ty, you ninny! Friends!” Jaezila was as wrought up as the man she loved and who loved her—although they fenced one with the other, afraid, it seemed, to acknowledge their own emotions.

  “I don't understand this.” Perplexity made Tyfar calm. “What authority do you have to make this suggestion?"

  Not now. Not the right time...

  “It is a serious proposal I heard about. You and your father were not available, and so could not be approached. But you will be. The Vallians are in deadly earnest about this. They don't want continual war with Hamal. There are the damned Leem-loving Shanks—"

  “I know, I know. But here come the wildmen and they are our first concern..."

  So we took up our weapons and went smashing into action again, slashing and thrusting and driving the moorkrim back over the lip of the ledge. They went flying over, their skins and furs and feathers a panoply of savage warriors, our steel in their hearts. We fought them. But we lost men and our numbers were thinned and we knew we would never last too many assaults of that ferocious nature.

  Tyfar panted. “The devils! By Krun! If only we had a voller!"

  The medicaments were holding out and we patched up our wounds. We drank thirstily from the stream. The water was ice cold. As for food, that was in good supply and we could eat heartily, in the grim understanding that we were likely to be killed before we starved to death.

  Jaezila finished putting a gel-impregnated bandage on Barkindrar the Bullet's leg. He was a hairy Brokelsh, a faithful retainer to Tyfar, a comrade with whom we had gone through perils. Nath the Shaft, a bowman from Ruathytu, tut-tutted and said: “You stick your leg out when you sling, Barkindrar, and you expect to get a shaft in it."

  “It's just a hole. Had it been a slingshot it'd have busted my leg—"

  “All right, you two,” said Jaezila. “Save your temper for the wildmen."

  “Yes, my lady,” they said together. They put great store by Jaezila, did these two, Barkindrar and Nath, Bullet and Shaft.

  Intrigued by Tyfar's passionate yearning for a voller, I asked him what one voller would do, since he had lost four.

  “Do? Jak! Why, man, get Jaezila to safety, of course!"

  A pandemonium of yells and screams at our backs coincided with the next onslaught. Wildmen roared onto the platform and as we fought them others dropped like monkeys from the caves in the cliff, howled down upon our backs, trapped us in jaws of death.

  * * *

  Chapter six

  Seg and Kytun Are Not Repentant

  Like big fat flies dropping off a carcass the wildmen plummeted out of the holes in the cliff. They howled down upon our astonished soldiers. The wildmen in front and now these suddenly appearing demons in the rear...

  “Steady!” Tyfar stood up, not so much fearless as indifferent to anything but holding his men. “Face front! You—face rear—” he bellowed in a voice that astonished me. He sorted the men out even as the two sides sought to close upon us and crush us in the jaws of death.

  As for me—the Krozair brand leaped like a live spirit. The wildmen, hairy and shaggy and nasty, bore in with skirling bravery, scorning cuts and bruises, only dropping when some serious portion of their anatomy was chopped away, only dying when not enough remained of that anatomy to sustain life. Dust puffed under stamping feet. Sweat shone briefly, and the dust covered the sweat and caked men's faces and arms. That peculiar haze of dust and sweat hovered above the battle as brings back the memories to an old fighting man.

  Jaezila swirled splendidly, her sword wreaking devastation upon the hairy skin-clad host. Diplomatically I left Tyfar and Jaezila to work out a modus vivendi between themselves. Contenting myself with keeping my own skin unpunctured I could watch out for them and knock the odd persistent fellow away and still let them fight on, back to back, defiant and splendid. And, by Vox! The fight was warm, exceedingly warm. We were overmatched in numbers. The very animal vitality of the moorkrim astonished by its ability to sustain damage and to leap from rock to crag to boulder, swinging sword or thrusting with polearm all along the way. It was like fighting a collection of Springheeled Jacks.

  In the midst of the fight, Jaezila and Tyfar kept on at each other. Back to back for much of the time, they each made lurid guesses as to the activity of the other: “Have you untangled your feet yet, Ty?” and: “I should have worn a thicker backplate with you there, Zila,” and so nonsensically forth. Tyfar's axe, dull and fouled with blood, cut mercilessly down with massive sweeps. No one was getting past him to sink a blade into Jaezila's undefended back.

  For a moment or two it became vitally necessary for me to leap and skip about as a dozen or so scuttling horrors plopped down from a cliff-edge hole. They came for me as a target. These were the caving experts of the moorkrim, often called moorakrim, swarthy of skin, bent of back, grimed with the marks of soil. Their fingers were long, bony and taloned, and their hands formed scoops. Like all the wildmen, th
ey were bandy. Without doubt once the Hamalese had been killed these two sorts of moorkrim would fight among themselves for the spoil.

  They hurled javelins at me, they threw stones, and the stones were more dangerous than the javelins.

  Great displeasure is taken by a Krozair of Zy if he is forced to beat away flung stones with his Krozair longsword. Beating away arrows and javelins is one thing; driving off a stone over mid-off is quite another. I felt the chunks of stone cracking against the steel.

  “You mangy pack of powkies!” I yelled, and started off for them, howling all manner of abuse and swirling the sword, as much to scare them as to bash away their stones. They hesitated. One or two hopped about from one bandy leg to another.

  “Schtump!” I bellowed and ran faster, and caught the two nearest fellows, the two bravest or more foolhardy, I dare say, and swept them into four. I shook the Krozair brand at the others and charged at them, thinking among all the scarlet flashes of annoyance how my Krozair brothers would frown at this wanton display of vanity.

  But the wildmen scuttled back on their bandy legs and with swinging skins about their shoulders disappeared into a hole in the cliff. To let them go was no decision. I started back to Tyfar and Jaezila and saw one of the commanding officers of the regiments fall. The Jiktar simply fell straight down. His helmet was dented by a thrown rock—a very large rock.

  Up on a ledge over our heads a group of the moorakrim worked busily at what was—what had to be—a catapult.

  I stared up. The suns were slipping down the sky and the light lay full on the cliff face. The wildmen up there did have a catapult, a small affair with a squat beam and a narrow twisted sinew spring. But it could throw.

  The arm came over and the clang distinctly preceded the arrival of the stone. That one missed.

  Then a wildman tried to spit me and I parried and riposted and looked up at the ledge and that catapult.

  “Cover me, Deldar!” I said to the neatly groomed officer—he had a spot of dirt on his cheek and his right shoulder arm-piece was cut through—who staggered back with half a dozen of his men. They recoiled from an advancing line of wildmen, moving now with purpose as they sought to clear the platform.