A Fortune for Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  A man shrieked in terror and as we whirled to look back into the Chamber of the Flame other men took up that scream of horror.

  This Mausoleum of the Moder was guarded.

  From the transparent tank opposite the silver gate the colossal tentacled monster rose, twining those slimy arms and clawing at the sides, lifting itself up. As its gross body climbed to the lip of the tank its eyes, red as fire, large as shields, blazed upon us, and its serrated yellow beak clashed with a champing grating sound that chilled the blood.

  I reached forward, seized the handle, and slammed the gate shut.

  Instantly, the octopoid monster shrank back into its tank.

  “By Havil!”

  “May the gods preserve us!”

  “To open the gate is to release — that !”

  Prince Nedfar said over the hubbub: “It seems a perfectly logical arrangement.”

  Tyr Ungovich’s unpleasant voice scratched out. “Well, notors. And what do you suggest now?”

  “We cannot stay down here forever!” shouted Loriman.

  “Yet if we open the gate—” said Yagno.

  “Cannot you spell the beast, San Yagno?”

  Ungovich said, “I do not think a mortal spell will affect that beauty.”

  I looked at Quienyin. He had been keeping silent lately. He caught my look and, in the pause after Ungovich’s conversation-stopping statement, said, “This is not a case for spells. This needs the military mind, organization, determination and decision.”

  Prince Nedfar, Prince Tyfar, I was pleased to see, understood at once what Quienyin meant.

  Ungovich said, “I do not see—”

  Loriman had grasped it, now.

  “Then stand aside, Tyr, and let those who do see — do!”

  “Before you begin,” I said, “notors, two things.” I shouted to Hunch who was standing nearby with his aptitude of overhearing likely conversations. “Did more than one monster climb up its tank?”

  “Aye, notor!” shouted back Hunch, quaking.

  “And, two,” I drew an arrow and nocked it. “Will a shaft perhaps dissuade a monster from climbing—?”

  “You delude yourself!” said Ungovich.

  “I think not, Notor Jak.”

  “But more than one monster moves. So we must be quick.”

  All the same, I held the Lohvian longbow half-bent, the arrow gripped in the old archer’s knack in my left fist, as we went about organizing what had to be done.

  We allowed half a bur for final preparations. The Deldars — those who were left — bellowed and roared in fine Deldar style and the men formed ranks. The slaves, piled with loot, were positioned and threatened with unmentionables if they stirred too soon and did not run when told to grak. The notables arranged themselves with each party. Nedfar would lead. I offered to be the last, and Tyfar and Lobur said they would stay also, seeing that my party consisted of myself and two men only. Hunch and Nodgen, shuffling up under enormous bundles, looked at me reproachfully.

  “Remember,” Nedfar called, his voice ringing out for us all to hear. “There is no need for panic. Long before there is any danger we will prevent it. Do not jostle or push. Any man who disobeys me will be cut down.”

  There spoke your true Prince of Hamal, by Krun!

  What we were about to attempt was obvious in the context of the situation. I just hoped the situation would not change. The bastard up there, the Wizard of the Moder, the Moder-lord, could so easily change the rules.

  Quienyin stood beside me. “I think I will—”

  “You, San, will go out with an early party — as you value my friendship!”

  “But, Jak—”

  “It will be a pretty skip and jump at the end, I think.”

  He looked at me with a worried expression. And he was a Wizard of Loh! “The Moder-lord will run us hard.”

  “Aye.”

  He nodded. “You are right. I feel strength in the — in the air. Mayhap I can do most good as you suggest.”

  “I am confident of it.”

  Prince Tyfar walked to the head of the line to bid his father luck, as I judged, and then he turned to Ariane. She nodded, once, white-faced under that rosy-red, and swung away to speak to her numim bodyguard. The Pachak twins guarded her close. Tyfar, scowling, came back to me.

  “Notor Jak — my fellows will swing the gate. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Then I added, “Prince.”

  “You are a strange fellow — and I see you still wear the red.”

  “I overlooked that, prince. Still, it is the color of blood.”

  “Oh, no, Jak! Why, that loincloth is brilliant scarlet!”

  “So it is. Well, let us swing the gate and hope it is not stained a darker red.”

  Ungovich came over. “Get as many through at one time as you can.” As he spoke I felt an irrational desire to haul off that concealing hood and have a look at this mysterious man.

  He stalked off to take his position in the line, and Quienyin rubbed his thumb under his jaw, scratching.

  “I think,” he said, and he looked meaningfully at Tyfar and me. “I really do think you should not allow the creature to climb out of the tank.”

  “Once out—?” said Tyfar.

  “Indubitably, my dear prince.”

  I turned away. Deb-Lu-Quienyin was most certainly feeling some tremor of the future, some inkling of the resurrection of his powers. I wondered what kind of a man he really was. The old buffer I knew was certainly far removed from a puissant and feared Wizard of Loh, that was for sure.

  All the relaxed air had gone out of the situation. The hullabaloo as the treasures were spilled out wantonly had vanished. Now the men looked anxiously at the silver gate, and cast uneasy glances over their shoulders at the ominous writhing shapes in the tanks. That close confining breathless sensation clamped down on us.

  Prince Nedfar called, “In the name of Havil the Green! Open the gate!”

  Tyfar nodded to his men, chief among whom were Barkindrar and Nath the Shaft. The silver gate swung open. Nedfar stepped resolutely through, his shield and sword positioned, vanished out of my sight. I swung about, narrowly watching that coiling slimy monstrosity within the tank lifting itself up. The tentacles seemed to be signaling to me, hypnotically waving and demanding my obedience. The tentacles slid over the rim. One red eye appeared, and another. The curved serrated beak showed. Over half the bloated body lifted above the rim of the tank.

  “Close the gate!” I bellowed.

  Tyfar’s men slammed the gate, and others held back the next in line. They halted, sullenly, looking back.

  The monster slowly sank down into its tank.

  I watched it narrowly. Down and down it dropped behind its transparent wall. I fancied, when it stopped moving, it had not dropped as far down as it had been.

  “Gate!”

  The gate opened and the line began to pass through, inevitably jostling and pushing. Now that the first party had gone on through and had not reported back disaster, the second party were more confident.

  When the gate was shut at my shout and we waited for the coiled monster to subside I took stock of the man who came up to stand beside me, breathing deeply. Kov Thrangulf held himself stiffly erect, and his face flushed a dark and painful red. Over in the third group, where we had thought it wisest to include the women of the expedition, Lobur was laughing and talking to the Princess Thefi, who was responding beautifully. Thrangulf bent his lowering brows upon them. Ahead of the princess, the lady Ariane and her people waited patiently.

  “By Havil,” said Thrangulf. “I am forced to put up with much!”

  I watched the monster sinking down. When it came to rest I was convinced it was not as far down as previously.

  And — one limp tentacle hung down over the rim of the tank and was not withdrawn. “Gate!”

  The people pushed along. Following the women’s group a column of Chuliks waited. One of them was quite clearly incapacitated from the drink and as
they moved forward he toppled flat on his face. Some of his comrades were for leaving him; in the end and moving with speed, they threw his sack of booty away and a comrade hoisted him up onto his shoulder, perched precariously along with the swollen bundle of swag. “If he wants his life, we will give him that. But as for his booty—”

  “He will never make paktun now,” said another. They pressed on. The little check caused them to be tardy, opening up a gap into which they crowded forward smartly, leaving a gap to their rear. I eyed the monster. The tentacles writhed above the rim and a red, shield-sized eye peered balefully down. It seemed to me the damned thing was climbing up quicker each time. I would take no chances. As the serrated beak began to move forward above that gross body, surrounded in slimy coils, I bellowed,

  “Shut the gate!” I whirled as shouts broke out by the silver gate. Tyfar and his men were pulling the gate but three burly Chuliks struggled within the opening, effectively blocking the closure. They insisted on pushing through. The gate hung open, jammed. And the monster began to hiss. “Out of it, you cramphs!”

  shouted Tyfar. I ran. I sped up to the gate and gave the center Chulik such a buffet he took off headlong, his feet flying up. He vanished out of sight and his two comrades were caught, a fist around each pigtail of coiled hair, and thrust savagely on. Tyfar’s men hauled the gate shut.

  I stood back. I felt intensely annoyed by such stupidity.

  The monster hissed and began to descend — and the thing dropped down reluctantly...

  “By Krun, Notor Jak! You deal severely.”

  “Onkers,” I said. “Get onkers.”

  “Next time—”

  “Next time teach ’em with steel!”

  And I stomped away.

  Kov Thrangulf was staring at me as though I was a madman.

  “That was Prince Tyfar to whom you had the honor of addressing yourself—”

  “I know. And he’ll be a prince in that tentacular beast’s inward parts if he doesn’t look lively!”

  Kov Loriman stumped over. He had elected to stay with the last party, which did not surprise me.

  Despite all the horrors of this place I had the dark suspicion that he rather fancied getting his blade into one of those red eyes.

  “The prince was given the task because he is a prince and the son of a prince. But if he cannot manage—”

  “He will,” I said. “Kov. Do not fret.” Then I added ominously, “By the time it is our turn that beast is not going peaceably back to its tank.”

  He looked at my bow — I should say that I had put the bow away once I had taken up my new task —

  and he grunted. “I say shaft it, Notor Jak.”

  That was sweet politeness from the Hunting Kov.

  “I think,” I said, “I might try a shaft at it the next time it shoves its ugly snout out.”

  “Let us all try, by the Blind Archer!”

  When next the gate was opened all the archers left let fly at the flaming red orb of the tentacular monster.

  If the shafts hit at all, it was difficult to say. They ricocheted and caromed away. When that happens to an arrow driven by a Lohvian bowstave, the archer knows he has loosed at something special.

  “The thing is cased in some kind of damned armor!”

  “Kov — would you care to try your sword against it?”

  He took my meaning at once. The veins in his purple nose swelled. He looked meanly at me. “When the order to open the gate is given — I will...” He hesitated, and then said, “I will try.”

  Kov Thrangulf drew his sword. “If you will, kov, I will stand at your side and smite blow for blow.”

  “You are welcome, Kov. Let us stand together and smite!”

  Although as usual I was amused by all these kovs this and kovs that, here was an intriguing example of etiquette functioning in ways that were universally recognized on Kregen.

  The gate opened and the two kovs, positioned and ready, leaped to strike doughty blows at the writhing tentacles. Their swords rebounded. I would not have been surprised had they both been snatched up and ground to pulp in that ugly yellow beak. Kov Thrangulf went on slashing and hacking like a madman, quite uselessly. Kov Loriman dragged him back and a glistening tentacle swept past closer than any fighting man cared to see. A bright blue favor was wrenched from the shoulder plate of Thrangulf’s armor.

  “By Krun, kov! That was—” Thrangulf swallowed down and looked about. “You pulled me back!”

  “Aye! Otherwise you’d be beak-fodder by now — kov!”

  Then it was time to bellow the gate closed. The monster was now quite clearly remaining much higher in the tank, and three tentacles hung down outside the rim. As we waited a thought crossed my mind. The Krozair longsword might only be an illusion; it could cut, had cut — would it cut this monster?

  I went across. The two kovs were stiltedly polite, one to the other, and it was clear Loriman’s opinion of Thrangulf as a fighting man had plummeted. I lifted the Krozair brand.

  Loriman said, “You are wasting your time.”

  “Nevertheless, it is needful I try.” And I slashed.

  The shock vibrated right up my arms, through my shoulders and exploded in my skull. I was swung around and staggered.

  “I told you,” said Loriman.

  Thoroughly bad-tempered I stomped across and bellowed for them to open the gate. On that occasion we did not get above half the next waiting group through. I began to calculate the odds.

  That confounded red and green checkered hood came into view and the rusty hinge voice croaked,

  “You cannot do it.”

  “We will try.”

  “That is the privilege of apims.”

  So that meant nothing. He could be apim or diff and say that, say the same words with vastly different meanings.

  I went down to the gate and gave Tyfar’s men a thorough talking to. Then I stalked along the waiting lines and threatened them. The threats were redundant with the looming menace writhing within the tanks.

  Four limp tentacles hung down outside; those within the transparent walls coiled and squirmed.

  And, the tanks farther around in the circle showed their awful denizens at precisely higher stages of movement, as though they were notes in a scale — a scale of horror.

  I said to the people at the tail end, “If we all move faster, and do not stumble, we will all get through —

  just.”

  Hunch looked ill. Nodgen shook his spear.

  Kov Thrangulf came up to me again, puffing his cheeks out.

  “They all contume me,” he said. He was by way of being light-headed. “I do not have that famous ham in my name. My grandfather carved out the kovnate, and I have held it. Is not that a great thing?”

  “Aye, kov.” I spoke true words — for I knew of the dangers and difficulties in retaining a hold on lands and titles.

  “I am a plain man. I do my best. The Empress Thyllis has turned her face from me.” He sounded maudlin. I think at that moment he believed he was going to die, that he was facing certain death and not the possibilities of death that lurked in the Moder. “I am a plain man,” he said again. “Not fancy. I try.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Kov.”

  “My grandfather, the kov. He lived too long. My father never forgave him for that.” He choked up and wiped his mouth. “My father showed me his displeasure, knowing I would be kov.”

  Another batch of fugitives went through and I narrowly surveyed those remaining, measuring the length of the lines against the height up the tank of the nearest monster. And, as I thus watched the lines and the monsters, and listened to Kov Thrangulf, I was aware of another thought itching away, a trembling suspicion that we would not get away as easily as all that, even from here.

  I felt sorry for Thrangulf. What he said added up; but the urgencies of the moment supervened, so I contented myself with saying, “All men have a purpose in life, kov. Find yours.”

  He looked at me as though
I had struck him. I stared back, and he took a step away from me as though blown by an invisible wind. I suppose my ugly old beakhead carried that demoniac look.

  “Take your place in line, kov, and go through quickly...”

  “I shall not forget you, Notor Jak — even if I die!”

  He resumed his place in the line. The process of escape went on, a remorseless logic of attrition. Now there were a dozen tentacles hanging outside the tank. Limp when the gate was closed, they wriggled to squirming life when the gate opened, hauling up that gross body. The red eyes glared malevolently. The serrated beak clashed.

  Hunch and Nodgen looked at me appealingly. I showed them a stony face. Someone had to bring up the rear. I could have wished it was someone other than them, though.

  No prowling monster wandered through, gibbering. Had one done so I believe we would have roared with laughter at the inconsequentiality of such an apparition at this time.

  Many of the nearer monsters hung close to the tops of their tanks, and bunches of tentacles hung down outside.

  When but three groups of people remained I said to Loriman: “Let us leave the gate closed for a longer period, kov. Mayhap that beast will slip down.”

  “We can try...”

  So we waited, apprehensively, in that gruesome chamber among the overturned treasures. The tentacles of the monster hung limp. It did not, as far as I could see, drop down an inch. We waited.

  Presently, Loriman swore. He said, “By Hito the Hunter! It is no use. Open the gate and send the next one through.”

  We did so.

  The monster balanced on the very rim of the tank, swaying and clacking its beak. That beak could grind stone to powder.

  I believe the very remorselessness of the whole process, the gradual approach of the monster to escape and our destruction, the logic of it all, wore us down more than any screaming screeching monster-charge could ever do. And something of that feeling must have permeated the Moder-lord, watching us, no doubt, and giggling and mumbling soggy toothless jaws. A piece of discarded gold in the shape of a dancing Talu, beautiful and abandoned, stood up and began to dance toward a cabinet that righted itself and shuffled its legs into the position it had occupied before. The glass joined together over the Talu.