Krozair of Kregen [Dray Prescot #14]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “You poor fool! Know you not this genius king of yours is evil? Evil and vile and ready for the justice of Drig's heavy hand?"

  The king had had enough. This Genod Gannius had made himself king of Magdag and led the Grodnim confederation. He had humored me. Now he would slay me. He whipped out the Genodder and threw himself into an attacking crouch. The blade gleamed.

  “I shall cut you up myself, rast."

  “Surrender, Gadak! The king has no equal with the shortsword. Throw yourself on his mercy,” Gafard pleaded.

  “He knows nothing of mercy.” I drew the Genodder at my right side. “Let me show you what he thinks of mercy."

  Genod had not come to power merely because he was a genius at war. Anyway, I suspected shrewdly that his genius was a propaganda fiction; he had been successful because of the new army his father had created on the model of my old vosk-skulls from the warrens of Magdag. With a screech our blades met.

  He was very good with the shortsword. As always in a fight I go into the combat with the stark knowledge that this could be the last fight, the final conflict, and that I will be shipped out to the Ice Floes of Sicce at the end. This evil king had risen to power as much through his prowess as a fighting-man as through his war genius.

  His skin was extraordinarily smooth. Pale and soft like a woman's skin, it covered muscles whipcord tough. He feinted and lunged and I covered and showed the point. He parried and the blades ground resonantly and parted. He jumped back. “Give yourself up, cramph, to the kingly justice!"

  I leaped in and twisted the Genodder about in a way that owed nothing to the skills of Green Magdag but rather to the wild outlandish skirlings of my Clansmen. We used the shortsword out there on the wide Plains of Segesthes. In shortsword work a Clansman would have cut up any Genodderman of Magdag, aye, and quaffed his wine as he fought. Hap Loder would have.

  Genod's face took on a sudden strained look as he feinted and lunged. Gafard cried out, expecting the blow to be mortal, but the king's blade went nowhere near me and I slashed and his bright green cloak fell away, the golden cords cut through. He stumbled back. But he had courage, the rast, and he came in again. And again I parried and foined with him and so cut away the brilliant gold and green tunic to reveal the mail beneath, and went on and so slashed and cut him about until all his gorgeous apparel had been ripped away and he stood in the mail alone. Then, and only then, I used the old but always cunning lever on him and the Genodder spun from his hand and flew up and out to plunge down to the ground beneath.

  He panted. His face had turned lemon-green. His eyes were wild upon me as he shrank back.

  “If you are the best Genodderman in Magdag, you cramph,” I said, “your Zair-forsaken land is doomed, and praise to Zair for that!"

  “Who are you?” he croaked.

  Gafard did not draw. I flicked the sword about, between them, and I said to Gafard, “Tell him who I am."

  “You—” Gafard's hands trembled. He gripped the hilt of his Ghittawrer longsword and the scabbard shook. “You are Gadak, who was Dak, and yet I think—"

  “Yes, Gafard. You think?"

  “What you said, there in the Zhantil's Lair. I have tried to think. You would not go after my Lady of the Stars, even though I pleaded as best I could—and you knew I loved her—and—"

  “Aye, you loved her, Gafard. She told me that. And she loved you. Never was man more blessed than to receive the love of my Lady of the Stars."

  “Yes—you would not go—and then—then you did go. Did I say something, anything—I cannot remember—"

  I did not know if he was speaking the truth. Yet the horrific scene in the hunting lodge when I had discovered that the Lady of the Stars was my daughter could have been so painful to him that he had shut it out of his mind. It is known. I glared at him.

  “You told me, in all truth, who my Lady of the Stars was."

  “Ah! And then you went?"

  “Yes."

  He trembled uncontrollably now. He had doted on his lady, and he had yearned to emulate the exploits of her father, saying there was a matter between him and Pur Dray. Now I had realized he did not mean he wished to fight me, as I had then thought. He had wished to talk to his father-in-law. As was, in very truth, proper. For I would have a hand in the bokkertu.

  The king roused himself. He looked ghastly. “What is all this nonsense, Gafard! Kill the cramph, here and now!"

  “I do not think I can do that, Majister."

  “Then try, you ungrateful cramph!"

  “Tell him who I am, Gafard."

  Gafard's face had lost all its color. His bronze tan floated on his skin. He looked frenzied. “I—I think—"

  “Why should I not slay you now, Gafard—you who bow down to his kleesh of a king? Oh, yes, Gafard, you know who I am. You have dreamed of this meeting. You save relics. You say there is a matter between us. By Zair! There is a matter between us!"

  He gasped and tried to speak and his mouth merely opened and closed.

  “There is a matter! I want to know why you fawn on this foul object, and let him steal away my daughter, Velia!"

  He did not fall. In truth, the shock of the meeting would have felled a lesser man with all the passionate longings he had put into just such a confrontation. He wet his lips. The cords in his neck strained like ropes in a hurricane. He croaked, and tried again, and, at last, he could say the words.

  “Pur Dray! Pur Dray Prescot! The Lord of Strombor! Krozair of Zy!"

  The king shrieked at this, and cowered away, his hands fumbling at his throat. Like a fool, I ignored him.

  “No, Gafard—son-in-law! I am no longer a Krozair of Zy, for I am Apushniad. But—yes, I am Dray Prescot!"

  For a moment no one spoke. The moment was too heavy for mere words.

  The king levered himself up. His anguished face bore the look of a madman. His hand fumbled at his neck.

  “Dray Prescot! The Bane of Grodno!” His hand whipped the cunning little throwing knife from the sheath at his back. “Then die, Dray Prescot, die!"

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  The Siege of Zandikar: IV.

  Of partings and of meetings

  “Die, Dray Prescot, die!"

  The glittering throwing knife hurtled from the fingers of the king straight at my face.

  And, in that selfsame instant, as though time shuttered through a macabre repetition, I caught a single flashing glimpse over the side of the voller of a gorgeous scarlet and golden bird of prey in full diving vicious attack upon a shining white dove.

  The two scenes merged and melded in my eyes and became one.

  The golden and scarlet raptor of the Star Lords, their spy and messenger, striking with black-taloned claws at the white dove of the Savanti, and the glittering terchick, the Kregan throwing knife, hurled full at my face, were one and the same. I saw the Savanti dove hesitate and swerve and the lancing blow of scarlet and gold shriek past. The Genodder in my fist sprang up and twitched in the old cunning Disciplines and the terchick rang like a gong-note of despair, clanging against the blade and springing in a gleaming curve away into the vast reaches of the sky. The king's mouth slobbered wetly and he began to claw out his Ghittawrer longsword.

  “He is a Krozair, Majister,” said Gafard, staring at me with hunger and despair.

  “You call this object ‘Majister,’ Gafard. Yet he stole my daughter away from you, and now she is dead. You are a man. I know that. You prated on about the Lord of Strombor, and you emulated my deeds and sought my renown. I would surrender all those deeds and give all that renown if my Velia were back with me, alive!"

  He pushed himself up. He had stopped shaking. “I, too, Pur Dray, would give everything I own, everything I am—"

  “The girl was a fool, a shishi!” shrieked Genod. “I am the king. It is my right to take—"

  “Your rights will be allowed you when you are judged. For I take you back to Zandikar. There you will be judged for murder."

  “Mur
der?” Gafard's jaw muscles ridged. He stared at me. His eyes held a look no man should suffer—a look I had borne as I cradled my Velia in my arms and watched her die.

  “Aye, Gafard—murder. This kleesh's fluttrell was wounded by Grogor's shot. The bird was falling. Velia was callously thrown off by this kleesh to save himself."

  “It is a lie!” Genod staggered up, distraught, panting, whooping great gulps of air. He had drawn his Ghittawrer blade with the tawdry emblem of his Green Brotherhood upon it. “A lie!"

  “I never heard the Lord of Strombor was a Krozair who lied."

  “I speak the truth, Gafard. This kleesh whom you worship threw my daughter down to her death—threw down your wife!"

  Once the first stone is dislodged in a wall or a dam the final pressure mounts swiftly and more swiftly to the point of breaking and utter collapse. This Gafard—the King's Striker, Sea Zhantil, my son-in-law— had revered the genius king Genod, the king with the yrium, had worshiped my daughter Velia, and had envied my reputation upon the Eye of the World and had attempted to emulate me. Zair knows, the poor hulu was a tormented man. Struck and buffeted by passions and beliefs, by desires and duties, he had been caught in a mind-shattering trap. Renegade, loyal Grodnim of Magdag, once a loyal Zairian, he now faced the final collapse of everything in his life. He had been tortured in his ib by beliefs and truths beyond the breaking of a mortal man. Even as King Genod, foaming, berserk, launched himself forward with the Ghittawrer blade lifting, so Gafard bellowed and flung himself at the king.

  “King Genod!"

  “Stand aside, Gafard, you rast, while I cut down this devil."

  “Genod—murderer!” Gafard's howl pricked the nape of the neck. “I have served you faithfully. I revered you past reason. You repay me by murdering my Velia, the only woman in the world—"

  “Lies! Lies!"

  They stood for perhaps a half dozen heartbeats, their chests laboring to draw breath as they shouted, their faces demoniac with convulsive rage and revelation.

  Then Genod lunged viciously forward, shrieking he would slay us both, and Gafard, with a snarl like a wild beast dragged heels first from its lair into the hostile world, leaped on the king, one hand to his throat, the other around his waist. So they struggled, bodies locked, animated with hatred and passion.

  The rest of their contorted yells were lost as they struggled. The Ghittawrer blade slashed down and Gafard ignored it and forced the king back. I jumped forward to separate them, for I wanted to take Genod for trial—I truly believe I wished this—and the struggle carried them raving to the coaming of the voller.

  Without a pause in their struggle one with the other they toppled over the coaming and pitched out over the side of the voller. I put my hand on the coaming and looked down.

  Over and over they toppled, falling through the thin air as my Velia had fallen. They still fought as they fell. I did not turn away with a shudder. I watched them as they dwindled and fell away and so I remained, graven, watching as the king and Gafard, the King's Striker, smashed to red jelly in the central square of Zandikar.

  The single thought burning in my brain as I brought the voller to land was that Grogor must not be slain in the coming battle, for Grogor would know where Didi, the daughter of Gafard and Velia, was kept hidden. Somewhere in Magdag or on one of Gafard's estates; yes, Grogor would take me to my granddaughter.

  The kyro filled with a rushing clamor as the people and the soldiers ran. Life, which had for a moment turned aside, now resumed the reins. Gafard was dead. There would be a proper time to mourn. I did not forget that apocalyptic vision of the Gdoinye, the spy of the Star Lords, and its deliberate attack on the white dove of the Savanti. I knew, with that special doom I feel is laid upon me, that the toils of supernatural manipulations had been only temporarily evaded.

  The consternation and then the bemused wonder and then the joyful acclamations seized all Zandikar. Everyone understood what the death of this vile king Genod would mean. I had to quiet the uproar, raising my hands, bellowing to make them listen.

  “Prince Glycas is not dead. That cramph will lead now. We must still fight!"

  “Aye!” they bellowed. And then I heard the name the people of Zandikar shouted, the name they screeched in their determination to resist to the end. “Aye, Zadak! We will fight and never surrender! We fight for Zadak and Zandikar!"

  In the hullabaloo I found Queen Miam. Zeg stood at her side and they were both removed from common cares, entranced with each other—as was very proper in ordinary times; but of little use to us here in the siege. Others crowded around.

  “Who is this Zadak, Miam? I would care to meet him."

  She laughed—Miam's laugh was always a wonder. “I think I should like that, also.” She clung on to Zeg's arm. He looked down on her with that look—well, we all know about that. She beckoned to me. “I introduce you with the full pappattu to Zadak. For the Dak that was is the Zadak of Zandikar. Do you agree?"

  I repeated the formula. “I agree, Queen Miam. I thank you."

  Then they all began cheering. Well, the famous old “Z” had been added to my name, and that was all very well and fine; but the battle remained to be won. The feeling was a strange one. As I seldom had used King Zo's gift of the title of Sea Zhantil, so I seldom used Zadray. I would always think of the Sea Zhantil as being Gafard. He had earned the title. I said to Zeg and Vax, harshly, coldly, “Come with me."

  Zeg was too mazed with love to bristle, and Vax knew me by now. They followed me, these two hulking sons of mine, and we strode through the people to the cleared area where the king of Magdag and his favorite lay in the dust.

  They had fought bitterly until the end. Genod had landed first. Gafard was not, therefore, so badly crushed. The fingers of the King's Striker were still tightly wrapped around the throat of the king. He had choked the kleesh. I just hoped Genod had not been dead before he hit.

  I turned them over and freed the gripping fingers. Blood ran everywhere. I pulled Gafard over onto his back. He flopped.

  “Look on this man's face, Vax. Look well.” I spoke with a savage bitterness that chilled Vax. “Look on this man's face, Zeg. Look well. Remember him. Remember him."

  Zeg started to say something, a farrago about my calling him Pur Zeg and being respectful to a Krozair Brother.

  “Look, Zeg, on this man's face. Make sure you remember every line of it.” I bent down and brushed my fingers and thumb over the black moustaches. I forced them away from their silly downturned Magdaggian shape and brushed them up into the old arrogant Zairian fashion. “Look on this man Gafard. There are those to whom you will be asked to speak of Gafard. Do not forget him."

  I stalked away and Zeg caught my shoulder and said, harshly, “You may be called Zadak of Zandikar now, Dak the Insolent. But I shall not tolerate your insolence! Either you—"

  I swung about and shook his hand free. I glared at him. He did not flinch back—for which I was pleased—but he stopped talking. “Do not say it, Pur Zeg, Krozair of Zy, jernu, Prince. Do not say what you will regret."

  What might have happened then, Zair knows; a shrilling shout racketed from the walls and so we all knew the last fight had begun.

  There were things to be done. I said to Vax, “Prince Zeg will take care of the queen now. We have one vol—flying boat. Will you take her, with fighting-men, and do what you can?"

  Before Vax could answer and so show me up for the onker I was, Duhrra boomed his idiotic bellow. “Duh—Dak! Vax flew the flying boat when we had to leave you on the beach. I'm going with him. It is all arranged."

  I did not smile. “So be it.” I glared at my son. “And may Zair and this Opaz you speak of go with you."

  Everyone ran to take up their appointed stations. Everyone felt convinced this was the last fight. We watched as the vollers rose from the camp of the Grodnims. They soared up and formed ready to sweep over the walls of Zandikar. We all let out huge shouts of joy when two fliers collided. And we all shouted with joy aga
in when two more suddenly dropped down to crash onto the ground. No one here—apart from myself and my two sons—could understand why the airboats should fall and crash.

  “Glycas is out for all the glory himself. Well, we will give him a bellyful before the day is done."

  We all knew the city was doomed, for we had nothing with which to counteract the fliers. In that moment as the vollers, all flying their green swifter pennons and standards, soared up to destroy us, a fresh series of shouts broke out from the seaward walls. I looked back—and up.

  Queen Miam put a hand on Zeg's arm, and swayed. Zeg held her. Roz Janri and Pallan Zavarin exclaimed in joy. Up there, sweeping in over the city, flew vollers. And each flier bore the red flags of Zair.

  “It is my brother, Prince Drak!” roared Zeg. “It must be! By Zair! He cuts his time fine!"

  I was busily counting the vollers sweeping in so grandly with their red banners flying. Fifty! Fifty against over ninety. The plans must change. I bellowed out the orders. Sniz blew his guts out. Messengers galloped. We would hold the walls as we had done for so long. With vollers to fight vollers we had a chance.

  As the main bulk of the Zairian aerial armada sailed on over the city to engage the oncoming Green fleet, the lead ship curved through the sky. We waved a multitude of red flags from our tower atop the Palace of Fragrant Incense, and Drak brought his flagship down in a courtyard below. We all met in the High Hall, halfway between up and down, and the greetings! The roarings! The back-thumpings! I stood in the shadows, and I looked at my eldest son.

  Drak had been fourteen when I'd been ejected from Kregen and thrust back to Earth. Now he was a big, tough mature man, grown into Kregan manhood. The marks of power were on him, and yet I judged—I hoped, by Vox!—that he had not forgotten the lessons drummed into him by Delia and me, lessons designed to prevent the disease of uncontrollable power from corrupting him. I had the gloomiest of forebodings that for Zeg power had already done its not-so-insidious work. The two brothers embraced each other with genuine warmth, and Zeg said, swiftly, that Jaidur was here and aloft, at which Drak said that, by Vox, that was where he should be, but he had alighted to learn our plans. So he was not altogether a headlong fool, then.