“Well, we showed them what Hamalese can do, the rasts."
“Aye,” I said. “Did you understand any of it? Who were they?"
“Cramphs who swear on Spikatur. They have caused us much injury. By Krun! I'd like to spit ‘em all!"
“A worthy ambition, Lobur. If you can find them."
He didn't like that, and we trailed back to Prince Nedfar.
Nedfar greeted me with warmth, for we had gone together through some of the horrors of the Moder. And I had assisted his son, Prince Tyfar, to escape. He knew about Jak the Shot.
“You are thrice welcome, Horter Jak. Lahal and Lahal."
“Lahal, prince. I am glad to see you are uninjured."
Lobur said, “Jak wishes to join the Air Service—"
“Excellent.” Nedfar, a resolute, honest, admirable man, smiled approvingly. “Hamal fights on too many—” Then he checked himself. He shook his head. “Welcome, Horter Jak."
He'd been about to say that Hamal fought on too many fronts and was overextended. That was true. When the invasion broke into their damned homeland they'd have another front, only it would be at their front door.
“I am at your disposal, prince."
Slaves summoned in haste from Kov Thrangulf's villa ran up, and with them the resident needleman. The doctor bent to the wounded. Some of them were bearing their wounds stoically; only a couple screamed and groaned and writhed. This was the ugly face of striving to a good end.
One of the hunters devoted to Spikatur had not been killed. His wounds prevented him from running off. As Lobur approached, no doubt to make some searching and unpleasant inquiries as a preliminary to horror in the dungeons of the Hanitchik, the wounded man drew his dagger and slit his own throat. It was done quickly and efficiently, very bloodily, and most oppressively. The commotion that caused gave me time to get my wind back, metaphorically speaking. I knew Prince Tyfar must have spoken to his father, and to his sister, Princess Thefi, as well as Lobur, about Jak the Shot. At first I'd led them to believe I hailed from Djanduin; later they believed I was Hamalese. I could lay no claims to titles or estates in Hamal, thus Nedfar had called me horter, a plain gentleman. For the moment, this suited me. I had labored long to preserve the integrity of the ham Farthytu name. I would not jeopardize it now.
Lobur delivered Tyfar's message to Prince Nedfar, a simple affair of delay in some voller sheds and that he would meet the party later at The Golden Zhantil. Everyone in Ruathytu had heard of that famous tavern, for it was of the highest possible class, and catered exclusively to a clientele from the upper strata of nobility. During my stay in the Sacred Quarter I had not supposed I'd ever need to go there. Now, it seemed, I was included in this evening party as of right. I found this charming, by Krun!
High up outside the tavern and supported on convoluted iron brackets the massive golden representation of a zhantil lowered down on all who entered. That magnificent eight-legged savage animal glittered in many torchlights. It was reputedly fashioned from solid gold. No one was likely to make the attempt to discover the truth of this story, put about by the owner, Thorndu the Wine, for invariably a crowd of muscle-bulging sword-swinging guards checked on the patrons. If you were not accepted, then you'd go headfirst out onto the cobbles.
The raffish blades of the Quarter used to laugh, and swear by Krun the thing was solid lead with a smear of leaf.
Be that as it may, the interior of The Golden Zhantil was luxurious and sweet-scented and awash with wine and the good things of life. There was no stinting here. Hamal might be at war, and struggling with increasing desperation against the foes she had raised up against her; here decadence breathed lushly, replete with wealth and privilege.
I wondered what Nedfar wanted in a place like this, for he was a man of rectitude, upright and honest, and not much given to the sleazy kind of debauch. When Tyfar turned up, a couple of glasses later, I found out. As for Tyfar—how his eyes popped when he saw me!
The last time we'd seen each other, he'd been haring off with a wounded Jaezila, urged intemperately by me to think of his honor and save our comrade, while I fought off those who sought to slay us. He stood for a moment, the old Tyfar, open, honest, twinkling at me, and then he clapped me on the shoulder, unable to speak.
“I haven't clawed my way back from the Ice Floes of Sicce, prince.” I clapped him on the back. I had to remember to speak as though to a prince who did me honor in even acknowledging my existence here in Hamal. “I joy to see you again."
“By Krun, Jak! I hoped, and yet I could not believe—but one should expect miracles where you are concerned, I think."
We two had no truck with mawkishness, valuing a comradeship forged in blood above mere sentimentality.
With the arrival of Tyfar, Prince Nedfar's party, which did not, I was intrigued to notice, include Kov Thrangulf, got down to business. The men they had come to see, high-ranking officers in the Air Service, wanted to finish this business and then devote themselves to the pleasures offered by the tavern.
“There is now no doubt whatsoever, prince,” said one of the Air Service Kapts, a Vad Homath. He was a lean man, with a scarred face and bristly hair, much decorated with gold lace. “Our spies confirm the rumors in every detail."
“But you do not know where he has gone?"
Vad Homath stroked a finger down his scarred cheek. “Back to Vallia, I expect, the cramph."
My ears, I felt sure, must have stuck an arm's breadth out of my head. Vallia!
“Well, Homath,” said another Kapt impatiently, “that is as may be. But we have to strike at Hyrklana, now, and strike fast, before they are ready to attack us."
“By Barfurd! You have the right of it."
This other Kapt nodded in a truculent way. He was called Kov Naghan, and was a bullet-hard, leather-faced professional fighting man. Astride a saddle-flyer, commanding from the deck of a skyship or ordering the iron legions of Hamal into action, this was the type of man we had to meet and overcome.
But—Vallia! And—a cramph, going back there? I decided to loose a shaft and see what target popped up.
“You speak, notors, of that gretchuk empire of Vallia?” I looked at Nedfar as though seeking his permission to continue. He nodded. “But, Hyrklana? Are they not our allies?"
Tyfar favored me with an odd look.
“Only because we imposed our will, Horter Jak.” Kov Naghan spoke with a civility he owed me as a valued associate of Prince Nedfar, who had spoken warmly of our exploits and of my desire to join the Air Service. “But I can tell you, for the news will be general by the morning. Hyrklana has declared against us. The Emperor of Vallia had a hand in that, the Havil-forsaken rast!"
“The Emperor of Vallia!” I said. Then, and I could not stop myself, indulging in this deplorable habit I had of putting as many spokes in as many Hamalian wheels as possible, I said, “That is bad news. I am told this new Emperor of Vallia is a most formidable figure who will destroy the Empress Thyllis if he has the chance."
Now Tyfar did stare at me, hard. I looked back at him, and said, “We fight for Hamal, do we not?"
Nedfar frowned. So I guessed I'd gone too far. Nedfar might be the second cousin of Thyllis; he might detest what she was about; but he was Hamalese and he understood duty and loyalty.
My blade comrade Tyfar saved me. “What Jak is saying makes uncomfortable hearing. But it is true. This is a setback for us. We do fight for Hamal, and we must succeed."
When princes speak, even princes who are a trifle suspect among dour professional fighting men, when there is a prince present who is famous for his integrity and prowess, it behooves lesser mortals to listen—even such high and mighty lesser mortals as these nobles in The Golden Zhantil. They nodded, these generals and nobles, and the consensus of opinion was that we would have to fight that much harder to overcome this setback.
During the more detailed discussions following I had the sense to take myself off and sit at a table by the farthest window. Being too push
y is counterproductive. Presently Tyfar joined me. He was smiling in his frank way, clearly pleased to see me, yet puzzled, too, by my appearance here in Ruathytu. To be absolutely honest, which is a task so difficult of accomplishment as to be virtually impossible, I must admit some notion of what had transpired had been with me from the beginning. From a position within the Hamalian Air Service I would be capitally placed to carry out my work. And, of course, inevitably, that brought up the question of honor. Tyfar and I were true blade comrades. How could I descend to using that friendship to such despicable ends? Easy, my friend, damned easy, when you have the people of an empire to take care of; and hard, abominably hard, when you laugh and talk with your comrade and know you are betraying him. Almost, almost I threw it all in and told Tyfar outright that the girl he knew as Jaezila was the Princess Majestrix of Vallia, and I was her father, and we were at war with Hamal. Almost—but not quite.
We talked over many of the events that had transpired since last we met, and my version was mightily censored, that is obvious. Tyfar had been fully occupied with the Air Service. When Jaezila was mentioned I simply said I looked forward to seeing her again, and did Tyfar know when she would be in Ruathytu. He did not know. Then he said, “You must understand, Jak, I do not fathom that girl at all. One moment I believe she has some friendly feeling for me, and the next, well—” He lifted his glass and put it down without drinking. “I know she detests me and thinks of me as a ninny. I am in despair."
“Then,” I said, and I spoke with knowledge from conversations with Jaezila, “you have no need to be. When this stupid war is over, you and Jaezila will—"
“That long, Jak!"
“It may not be all that long, Tyfar. You have difficulty in obtaining vollers, now, more so after Hyrklana declared against us. Your father is a man among men. I think he can see which way the wind is blowing."
“I do not care for the sound of this."
“Agreed. But you have to look facts in the face. You and Jaezila are so dear to me that I—” I stopped. Deliberately I sipped the wine, a good vintage, clear and bright. I could not bear the thought of what had happened to Barty Vessler, who had been stabbed in the back by a rast who would one day pay for that crime, happening to Tyfar. I said heavily, “When you next see Jaezila, then act as your heart prompts you."
He fired up, but delicately I guided the conversation into further talk of the deteriorating military situation. This was what I was in Hamal for. When we invaded I wanted to have as many facts available as possible. The places to strike must be decided without blindfolds; this was crucial. The lives of too many men hung on these decisions for me to make mistakes.
Tyfar shook his head. “These fanatics of Spikatur Hunting Sword burn our voller yards. We guard them well now, and the losses have come down. But that ties up men."
“And the famblehoys?"
He looked surprised. “You are well informed. We try to keep them away from the cities. They are not popular."
“Understandable. And you are recruiting clums into the army—"
“The old days are dead. Now everyone must fight. And the iron legions of Hamal can mould men, make of them soldiers. The army will fight, however poorly the Air Service may do."
So, hating myself and feeling for Tyfar, I said, “But the army loses in Vallia. The iron legions recoil from the army of Vallia. And, we all know of the Battle of Jholaix."
“The Vallians were lucky there and we lost by a fluke. Everyone says so.” He gripped his full glass. “The army will fight!"
“Of course. I have heard little news out of Pandahem lately."
“The Hyr Notor commands there, by warrant from the empress. The island remains quiet. But what you say of Vallia is so, Jak, and it rankles. I believe more than one of our armies was broken up there."
The Hyr Notor was the name that maniacal Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, called himself as he pulled the wool over Thyllis's eyes. Both shared the same stupid ambition. Incredible though it may sound, both of them wanted to rule the world—or, more realistically, to control our grouping of islands and continents, the whole gorgeous panoply of lands and peoples called Paz. Nuts, both of them.
Thinking to finish this odd little conversation on a more promising note before Lobur joined us, I said, “I do not believe I have to reiterate to you my admiration for your father. But I must tell you that my obligations in certain quarters are now at an end."
He looked up sharply. He had, along with others, taken the notion which I had fostered that I worked in secret for the Empress Thyllis. That gambit had served. Now I was after bigger fish. I went on, “You do understand me, Tyfar?"
“I—think I do. But if anyone else should thus understand what you are most carefully not saying, your head and shoulders would be separated by an air gap, believe you me!"
* * *
Chapter ten
Of a Crossbow Bolt
War and Love are intimately bound up in many of the philosophies of Kregen as well as giving color and sparkle to the never-ending myth cycles. In the preparations for those two activities a divergence of approach may be discerned. As the sere grasslands flashed past below and the voller swooped headlong for the rickety wooden stockade ahead, I reflected that out of this ship's company and the soldiers she carried, more than ninety-nine in a hundred would far prefer to prepare for Love than War.
The odd less than one in a hundred was, indeed, odd. But these men are found in abundance on Kregen, probably more so than on this Earth. These are the Warlovers. I detest them. But they exist, they are a part of the universe we inhabit, and in times of crisis we understand the reason for their existence.
Vad Homath, his forefinger eternally stroking down his scar, was such a man.
He peered ahead, his narrow face just like any of the famous birds of prey that will have your eyes out like winkles on a pin. An overly ornate helmet covered his bristly hair done in that peculiar style, all smothered in gold lace. That was a new fad in Ruathytu in those days. He was leaving the handling of the airboat to her captain, a Hikdar who kept nervously swallowing, and to the helm-Deldars. Crouched in the bulky main body of the vessel some two hundred and fifty soldiers fidgeted about and coughed, and waited uneasily for the moment of disembarkation.
This was just a practice. The half-regiment of men had gone through basic training, and were now having the final polish applied. Most of them were clums, freemen but the poorest of the poor, at last allowed into the august ranks of the army. I fancied most of them would prefer to be out of it.
“Keep her head up, onker,” Vad Homath's words grated.
The Hikdar shrilled in anger at the helm-Deldars, who heaved on their levers and brought the voller's bows up. We were due to skip over the wooden fence, touch down, and see how fast we could disgorge the half-regiment. This was just the kind of exercise I had done a thousand times with my fighting men of Vallia. Here I was in a position to make interesting comparisons. I admit to a fatuous glow at the feeling I was doing my job as a spy—and getting paid for it, too, by the foe!
The windrush over the prow ruffled the flags, those damned purple and golden flags of Thyllis, with the green of Hamal slashed through. I looked down at the soldiers. Their faces under the brims of the helmets looked white. I noticed the way they gripped spears, and crossbows. By the time warlovers like Homath, and the army Jiktar, Landon Thorgur, were finished with them, they'd be drilled, disciplined, regimented, ready to become part of the iron legions of Hamal.
And there lay the problem confronting Vallia and her allies. Insidiously though we might work, cutting here, burning there, in the end we had to face the iron legions. There was no way of avoiding that confrontation.
Men like these had marched west and south and north from Hamal and had conquered everywhere. True, the wild men from the Mountains of the West had checked the advance, and that had been met by a redistribution of forces against more sophisticated enemies. In the Dawn Lands down south Hamal continued her advan
ce. Pandahem lay under her heel, with Phu-Si-Yantong in command and plotting further deviltry. Only in Vallia had a real check met the Hamalese. There we had beaten them fair and square. Rather than be whittled away by the mountain guerilla tactics of the wild men of the west, the Hamalese had turned their attentions south. Only in Vallia had the iron legions been met and worsted, by the radvakkas and by the warriors of Vallia. Thyllis knew that; she'd sent hecatombs of the poor devils who had failed to the horrors of the syatra pit in her throne room, or the jaws of the manhounds in the Hall of Notor Zan. More importantly, in a military sense, those in command of the army, those charged with its continuing performance, would know and, knowing, prepare countermeasures.
As Vad Homath ostentatiously lifted his left hand in the air I knew what I was doing had a direct bearing on the struggles to come. He shook the ruffles at his wrist free. Then, with an equally meaningful gesture, he placed his right middle finger over his pulse. We all knew that he would time us to the last heartbeat.
A glance ahead showed the wooden fence skipping beneath us. The Hikdar shouted, the helm-Deldars thrust their levers hard over, and the voller plunged for the ground.
She hit heavily. The whole fabric of the airboat shook and she groaned, for she was an ancient craft, in Hamalian terms good only for training, although in Vallia we'd have had her through force of circumstance in the front fighting line. Dust spouted up from the hard ground. The Deldars were bellowing as Deldars always do bellow. The wooden flaps covering the openings along the sides crashed down and the men started to run out over these ramps. You could taste the sweat and fear. The Deldars did not actually brandish whips; but the impression was there, hard and vivid, like desert sunshine. The noise of bronze- and iron-studded sandals clattered into the hot air. The uproar battered on. I was supposed to be observing what went on and learning. I did think that a bunch of smart girls with bows could have made a sorry mess of these iron legionaries as they debouched from the voller.
Legions of Antares [Dray Prescot #25] Page 10
