Avenger of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  The air station turned out to be a mere miserable stockade constructed of coral and rocks, for timbers were hard to come by here. The Hamalese flag floated from a mast. Sentries patrolled, their bronze helmets brazen in the twin suns’ glare.

  No, there is little needs to be said. We surprised them and fought until we had killed enough to make the rest throw down their arms. We were merciful, although Wersting Rogahan fingered an evil-looking knife, muttering about slit throats.

  There were but two vollers there. One was the little patrol craft we had seen earlier, a three-seater, fast and not particularly comfortable. The other was more substantial, with decking and varter platforms, with two masts from which our first concern was to strip away the Hamalese flags.

  We discovered that a third flier, similar to this second one, was away on extended patrol over the islands. That, I reasoned, had been the rast who had thrown down the iron pots of fire upon Ovvend Barynth and Maskinonge.

  The moment this flier returned we could expect pursuit.

  Someone had let rip a defiant yell, as we fought, shouting: “Vallia! Vallia!” And someone else, caught up in the excitement, had roared out: “For Vallia and Prince Dray!”

  So these cramphs knew who we were.

  No, there is not much to say. What I remember with the most vividness is poop varterist Nath, whom Deldar Rogahan had dubbed an onker, flinging himself in front of the body of the first lieutenant, thereby taking the arrow that would have slain Insur ti Fotor.

  Later Hikdar Insur shook his head in wonderment, as he stood looking down upon the scrawny, hairy, half-naked body of this Nath. He looked up at me and I saw the pain in his face.

  “Why did he do it, Prince?”

  “You know the answer to that better than I do, Insur.”

  He started at my use of his first name, unadorned. These things are of importance on Kregen.

  “This is not the first time, Prince. We fought an argenter of Pandahem and there a lusty rogue just like this, Naghan the Ears, he was called, for his ears were large, I admit, and stuck out at right angles, well, he threw himself into a spear that would have de-gutted me. I slew the man who did it, as I slew this cramph of a Hamalian, here. But I do not understand it.”

  It was not for me to tell him that, on occasion, in the heat of battle, ordinary roaring, brawling fighting-men will gladly give their lives for others for whom they cherish an affection. It is not a thing much talked about in the refined drawing rooms of civilization. It is much out of fashion on this Earth, here, explained away by psychological expertise as obsessional madness, fighting idiocy, the seamy underside of truth to the legends of heroes. And, true, there is much to be said for that. But in battle many ordinary things become supernormal, and anything may happen.

  I did not think anyone, seaman or soldier or hired mercenary, would throw his own body into a spear aimed at Vad Nalgre Sultant, Vad of Kavinstok.

  So, instead, I clapped Insur ti Fotor on the back, and bade him give thanks to Opaz he was alive.

  “Do not waste the sacrifice of Nath,” I said.

  “I shall not, Prince. I am anxious to return to the village, for I left the leather pouch entrusted to my keeping by Captain Ehren with the Lamnia, Lorgad Endo. He is a brave fellow, right enough, but he is no fighting-man.”

  This was the pouch containing my writings upon the Hamalese secrets of the vollers.

  “You and Captain Ehren are charged with delivering that paper safely into the hands of the emperor himself. If you have any difficulty in getting to see him, as you may very well have, then ask for Delia, Princess Majestrix, and say you come from me.”

  He laughed. He was back to the affairs of Kregen once more, the reflections prompted by the death of Nath put into their proper perspective. “Aye, my Prince! A messenger from Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia, has a sure passport to the glorious presence of the Princess Majestrix!”

  I knew that, and it worried me at times. If an enemy said he came from me, and so wormed his way close to Delia . . . I had no ring to give as a talisman, for I detest wearing rings upon my fingers, or anywhere else, for that matter, even in my ear as a lusty sailorman should. I could only say to Insur ti Fotor that he should say certain words that would ensure a speedy passage through the fusty formalities and dry protocol of the palace.

  Strom Diluvon could fly an airboat and they all piled aboard the larger of the two craft. I piloted the smaller back, keeping a watch. We landed near the village and went the rest of the way on foot.

  The first thing Hikdar Insur did was to retrieve the precious pouch from Endo.

  Arrangements were quickly made. The Lamnian merchant paid out his Xilician sinvers to the chief man, Otbrinhan, and we took aboard dried fish, jars of water, and a supply of the gritty bread. A trading vessel threaded her way through this section of the islands once a month — that was the month of She of the Veils — coming from a sizable port town farther south. Otbrinhan was delighted.

  “Now we can buy real bronze plates for the dome of our temple!” he cried, thumping his tail.

  The village must catch enough fish not only to subsist but to sell for other essential supplies. I glanced up at the rock-built temple with its whitewashed walls. The dome, a mud-packed affair over cunning groinings, gleamed whitely in the suns. If this village could cover that dome with bronze that gleamed and sparkled — what a great triumph that would be!What a victory over other less fortunate villages on other islands nearby! What a marvelous tribute to Havil the Green!

  I have seen the great temple of Havil the Green in Ruathytu with its three great green domes. I try not to let sentiment overcome sense in my appreciation of the artifacts of those who call themselves my enemies. I had then a great detestation for the Green, as you know. Havil the Green was the great god of the state religion of Hamal. Yes, I knew with joy that the truer and more enlightened religion of Opaz, the glorious twinned spirit, was creeping into Hamal. And, too, I knew the loathsome cult of Lem the Silver Leem, with its dark ritual and bloodletting and sacrifice and lusting, grew daily stronger there. But, even I, Dray Prescot, who was a Krozair of Zy, must admit that the great temple of Havil the Green in Ruathytu was a most imposing affair.

  “I wish you well of it, Otbrinhan.”

  “May Havil the Green shine upon you, Notor, all the rest of your days!”

  I did not smile, but the grimace would have been perfectly in keeping. This little Yuccamot, Otbrinhan, did not know, could not know, that since my baptism in the Sacred Pool of the River Zelph in far Aphrasöe I was assured of a thousand years of life. I gave him the formal salutation and took myself off. I found the waso-Hikdar, Insur ti Fotor, checking the supplies being loaded into the patrol voller.

  “How long, Insur, have you been in the rank of waso-Hikdar?”

  “Three seasons, my Prince.”

  I pondered. I had no real influence in the navy of Vallia. Oh, I knew old Sonomon Barcash, the Kov of Ava. He was a highly placed admiral, what the Vallians called Jen Admiral.[3] He was not the Lord High Admiral, what the Vallians dub the Hyr Jen Admiral. But he owed me a favor. And, of a surety, this fine young man, Insur ti Fotor, deserved promotion in his rank.

  With a scrap of cloth and cuttlefish ink I wrote a short note, using the uncial style, to Sonomon Barcash, calling his attention to waso-Hikdar Insur, and suggesting he should be promoted at least to shiv- and rightfully to shebov-Hikdar.[4]

  I did not tell Insur what I had written. He stowed the cloth away with the leather pouch. To anticipate myself, I learned subsequently that between them, Captain Ehren and Hikdar Insur had made a copy of my writing concerning the secrets of the Hamalese vollers. Each man carried a copy. And, too, I learned that when my Delia discovered all and heard of my wishes concerning Insur, she put herself out, and, lo!, Insur ti Fotor became not a shiv-, not a shebov-, but an ord-Hikdar! Such is the glory and womanly wonder of my Delia, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, my Delia of Delphond!

  When I told Ca
ptain Ehren that it would please me if among two or three others of his men I thought should be rewarded, he would promote Wersting Rogahan to so-Deldar, the good captain made a face.

  “Truly, my Prince, that rascal has the luck of five-handed Eos-Bakchi! Very well, I will thus promote him in due deference to your wishes.” Then he boomed his gusty laugh and finished: “Aye, Majister! Rogue he is, but he deserves the rewards of his impertinence!”

  Insur carried another scrap of cloth, written in cuttlefish ink, and this called my Delia’s attention to Captain Lars Ehren himself. She knew as well as I the importance of loyal friends in the conflicts that lay ahead within Vallia. Captain Ehren was almost at the highest rank of Hikdar; I told Delia he should be promoted Jiktar, and this matter, being a weighty one, would demand all her skill. In the event, she contrived it, beautifully. Lars Ehren jumped the first grade within the Jiktar rank, becoming a dwa-Jiktar. This pleased me when it was told me, later . . . much later . . .

  Between that happy time and now there lay a great many adventures, and foolish escapades, and much danger, as you shall hear.

  Preparations were made, the route planned, the vollers checked. I wished to leave before sunset. This was accomplished. If you do not understand that I fully appreciated how selfish I was being in this distribution of favors, then you have listened with half an ear to these adventures. I drew a great and selfish satisfaction from giving favors and promotions to my friends. I do not make friends lightly, and I value them. Time has little of consequence in this matter. Perhaps this delight in assisting those who assist me is a weakness, a kind of insurance, a fear, deep and inexpressible, that they may turn and rend me. I do not know. But I like to think it pure selfishness on my part, and not dread of the unknowable future.

  Captain Ehren expostulated, red in the face, waving his arms.

  “But, Prince! Surely you will return to Vallia with us!”

  “Not so, Captain Lars. You have what I have already discovered about the vollers, safely stowed away in the pouch. But that is only the half of it. I must discover what this cayferm is. I think, maybe, the wise men of Vallia may not know, either. And it is essential that Vallia build her own vollers. You have seen what these vast and marvelous skyships of the Hamalians can do. Well! When they attack us in Vallia — and I say when and not if — we must be ready for them. You must fly to Vondium and lay all before the emperor. For me — it is Hamal and a little bladesmanship.”

  Puzzled he might be, loyal he most certainly was.

  “If this is your command, Prince, then may the Invisible Twins witness it is my duty to obey. I do so.” He took himself aboard the patrol flier. “Remberee, my Prince. Remberee!”

  “Remberee!” I called back. “Remberee!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hamun ham Farthytu returns to Ruathytu

  I, Dray Prescot, of Earth and of Kregen, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, trod once more the marble paving stones of the great city of Ruathytu, capital of the Empire of Hamal.

  Once more I was Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley.

  Yes, I have borne many names, for good or ill, but I confess that this alias of Hamun ham Farthytu, despite the promise I had given to the dying Amak, old Naghan, weighed on me. For one thing, to act the part of a simpleton, a weakling, never came easily. I had to put on an imbecilic expression, and force my corrugated old features into smiles, and never once let that fierce dark passion surge to the extent even of laying my hand upon the hilt of thraxter or rapier. I went directly to my inn, The Kyr Nath and the Fifi.

  The Lamnian merchant, Lorgad Endo, had responded with a warm generosity, if an untypical merchant’s way, when I had applied for the loan of three deldys. He had passed over six of the golden coins of Havilfar at once, without demur. I had insisted on giving him a piece of cloth on which, with cuttlefish ink, I had scribbled a note to Delia, telling her to repay the six deldys and to reimburse Koter Endo for the sinvers he had expended in the Yuccamot village on our behalf. This she did.

  So it was that I had been able to buy a decent gray shirt, a blue pair of trousers, a pair of somewhat cheap leather boots, and a flamboyant green jacket, with a scrap of dubious fur trimming, to sling like a hussar’s pelisse about my shoulders. My rapier and main-gauche were by now familiar weapons in the sacred quarter of Ruathytu, where the young bloods had taken up this foreign style with the same bungling enthusiasm they had taken up sleeth racing.

  Well, you may imagine some of my mixed feelings when I turned into that narrow alleyway in the sacred quarter, the Alley of Cloves, and so walked up to the inn, where it leaned in a bower of trees below the scarped embankment above. That large tree by the balcony of my window had seen many surreptitious nighttime exits and entrances, when I had been spying in Ruathytu seeking the voller secrets.

  The last time I had left here, discreetly clad, acting the part of Bagor ti Hemlad, I had not envisioned that before I returned to this lodging so much would come to pass: that I would find the secrets, be taken up as a thief, work as a slave, and then be taunted and tortured and made mock of by that she-leem, Queen Thyllis of Hamal. She was one queen who had opened an account with me for which the final reckoning remained still to be made.

  I turned in at the door and went up to my room. As I pushed the door open I saw a pretty little Fristle fifi, her silvery fur electric with passion, her eyes blazing, her arms about a hairy, bulky, bulbous-nosed, shambling barrel of a man, writhing and tossing on the bed.

  “Nulty!” I bellowed so that the drapes fluttered.

  Absolute turmoil!

  The Fristle girl flew off the bed, her long legs flashing, her blouse, of apple green, snapping even more buttons. She was remarkably pretty, as to their fame are so many of these young cat-girls, with their slanting eyes and pretty fur and delicate whiskers and delightful feline outlines. “Master!”

  Nulty was beside himself, and prostrate on the floor, and shooing the fifi away, and dragging the bedclothes straight, and tidying the room, and dragging up a sturm-wood chair, and bringing out a brass tray with a bottle of Malab’s Blood and remembering I did not care for that deep purple wine and so rushing in with a fresh squat bottle of Yellow Unction and pouring a glass, and offering me a brass dish of palines, and—

  “Stop!” I roared. “Nulty, you rascal! Stand and let me look at you!”

  “Master!” said Nulty. He came up to my chest, was broad and bulky, with a nose so bulbous I had to restrain myself from seizing for a shonage, a great shambling fellow with shock hair — and yet with shrewd sharp eyes for all that. He knew I was not the Amak of Paline Valley, for he had served old Naghan, and his son, Hamun. Rather, he knew I was not Hamun ham Farthytu. He knew my name was Dray Prescot. But by the right of a dying bequest and a promise, he knew I was, in very truth, the Amak of Paline Valley.

  “Your friend, Nulty,” I said. “I have no desire to stand in the way of a beautiful friendship. But I am hungry and thirsty for better fare than wine! Fetch a meal from the landlord. And, Nulty — tea! Tea!”

  “Aye, master,” said Nulty, the manservant I had acquired as Amak of Paline Valley. He scuttled off, and I caught a few choice phrases about how Havil the Green ran this world and how someone else could run it a damned sight better; that someone, he let Havil the Green remain in no doubt whatever, being none other than Nulty himself. I felt my lips move, and realized I was smiling. Nulty, this shambling barrel of an apim, was my body-servant and my friend. Also he was a Hamalian and therefore, as I was Prince Majister of Vallia, a most powerful and dangerous potential enemy.

  What rot these nationalities are, to be sure!

  He brought in the tea — that glorious fragrant Kregan tea — and a plate of choice vosk rashers, and momolams, with taylynes, and a vast squish pie with thick cream. I set to, and bellowed to him to draw up a chair and tuck in as well, and so between mouthfuls he had the story I wished him to know.

  “No, Nulty. I have not been back to Paline Valley.” And: “No, Nu
lty, I did not go to the place where I went after the duel.” And: “More tea, Nulty, you great fambly, for I’m parched!”

  I told him I had been off on a holiday during which I had lost everything gambling. That was so eminently believable it answered all his queries. I had set the stolen flier onto a due eastern course and let her go free and by now she would be well out into the Ocean of Clouds if a storm did not bring her down, for she’d been of that variety of voller susceptible to wind pressure.

  After that I’d walked and ridden partway in an amith-drawn tracked vehicle, and then walked. I had looked at the city of Ruathytu with its long-striding aqueducts bringing crystal-clear water from the hills to north and south, its many domed temples, its powerful walls, and its thronged bridges, the Bridge of Sicce with its towered houses crowded above the Black River. And, too, I had looked at the grim castle on its narrow crag just east of the junction of the two rivers, the castle of Hanitcha the Harrower that men called the Hanitchik. And, you may be sure, I had not failed to look most malevolently at the tall palace on its artificial lake island, the palace of Hammabi el Lamma, where the diabolical Queen Thyllis ruled with such evil and terrible power.

  All Nulty said was: “When do we return to Paline Valley, Amak? For I am grown weary of this great city.”

  “What? And where will you find a Fristle fifi there?”

  “I can live without them. No wife, no children for me, Amak. I served Amak Naghan, and his son, faithfully. Now you are returned safely, may Havil the Green be praised—”

  “Yes, well, as to that, there is nothing in Paline Valley to which to return, is there?”

  “We can rebuild! We can find people willing to go to start a new life. I have made friends. There are many guls, aye, and clums, also, who would leap with joy at the chance to start a fresh life.”

  That must be true. There were many slaves in Hamal’s Ruathytu, Zair knew. And one miserable step above them, different only in that they called themselves free men, were the oozing masses of clums. Above them, better off, as craftsmen, with rights under the laws, were the guls. All these working-class people groaned under oppressions and taxes and iniquities. If a gul by his daily work as, for instance, a cobbler, employing a clum or two and a few slaves, made a couple of sinvers a day, the strict government of Hamal would relieve him of one of them by way of taxes. Yet I, an Amak, a low rank of noble, paid only ten percent in income tax.