Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “And it’s not safe for you to return to the Hellraisers?” Tiri’s question was just too artless to pass muster.

  All the same, Dimpy bit. “I know how much I owe you for your help. Believe me, I am very grateful. But I’ll hafta go back.”

  “We’ll speak to Ranaj,” said Fweygo in a casual way. “He’ll find you a job in the palace. That’ll be better than thieving for a living.”

  Dimpy flared up. “I’m not a thief! I told you, that was a stupid Hellraiser test. Anyway, anything we take up here’s been taken from us down there before!”

  Tiri started up then and Fweygo and I realized when we weren’t wanted. Dimpy was in an awkward position. He had a splendid chance to get out of the warrens, one not easily come by in the normal course of events, yet the problem of his family remained. I fancied young Tirivenswatha would have a hand in sorting out what eventuated. They made a fine couple, at that. The idea was not too ridiculous. We joined a group where Fat Lardo, one of the cooks, was retailing the latest gossip from the streets.

  Yet another beautiful young girl had been found dead. Her naked and bloody body had been discovered early this morning dumped in the gutter of Penitence Alley which ran alongside the Temple of Tolaar. She had been murdered in a most brutal fashion, badly cut up, and her heart had not been found.

  “Who was she?” Fweygo wanted to know.

  “Paline Lanto. She was a respectable shop girl.”

  “A lover’s tiff?”

  Oily Nath, the fry-up artist, burst out: “Blood and guts everywhere? Some lover! Some tiff!”

  That appeared an appropriate comment and everyone solemnly nodded heads. Poor little Paline Lanto was only the last in a horrific line of murder victims. All had been nauseatingly mutilated. Affairs of this nature are best left to the proper authorities. The City Guard ought to be investigating. So far they had told us nothing regarding Byrom’s kidnapping and I doubted if they’d have any greater success over these murders.

  A waft of cold air breezed over us and Fweygo looked around sharply, one of his fists going to the hilt of his sword.

  Directly opposite me a blue mist irradiated by an inner glow formed. I did not change expression; but I felt my heart give an almighty thump.

  Slowly the blue mist thickened and took on the form of a man in a long robe. The familiar kindly features of San Deb-Lu beamed out at me. No one took any notice. Our comrade Wizard of Loh had powers, by Zair, powers! He beckoned. I stood up, excusing myself, and followed the apparition out and along the passage to a storeroom.

  “Lahal, Jak.”

  “Lahal, San.”

  “This fellow Wocut — calls himself a sorcerer. Odd Type.” By the inflexion in his voice I could tell Deb-Lu was using capital letters to express deeper meanings to his words. “I’ve already checked him out. In his desire to emigrate to Vallia I Believe Him To Be Sincere.” Deb-Lu went on to say that Drak had given his assent and that in Vondium Wocut would have a very close eye kept on him by Khe-Hi and Ling-Li. So, naturally, I wanted to know all the news from home, and the sorcerer retailed many fascinating details.

  He finished by saying in his doubtful voice: “I cannot pretend to understand why you remain here in Balintol, Dray. I do know there is a reason. Vallia muchly wants this treaty for the airboats and riding animals Tolindrin can provide. If I—”

  I dared to interrupt the Wizard of Loh.

  “The old king here did not approve of most sorcery. It is mostly religion and its mysteries. And I believe there are many.”

  He sniffed. “Well, I must go. It is good to see you again, Dray. Leave your friend Wocut to us. Now I bid you remberee.”

  “Remberee, Deb-Lu.”

  Without a plop of displaced air, phut, he was gone.

  Because of that meeting, so eerie to someone who does not do much business with wizards, I went to tell Fweygo I would go with Tiri to the shrine of Cymbaro. He nodded emphatically. “Yes. The greater danger lies with the lion children, and so I should be here.”

  Well, by Krun, and what else would you expect?

  My words to Deb-Lu about religion here barely scratched the surface. There were temples to many goddesses and gods and minor godlings on all the hills and a motley bunch to form any sort of pantheon they were, too. Unlike our Ancient Greeks they didn’t have a temple to the unknown god. Any cult could run up a shrine, always provided they paid their taxes to the king, promptly and in full. The thought occurred to me to wonder if wriggling out of paying taxes was the reason why the red-robed priests of Dokerty met secretly, at night and in remote ruins.

  Tiri had more luggage now than when we’d arrived and Ranaj appointed a porter to carry it for her to the temple. Standing by the doorway with her baggage at her feet, she looked a little forlorn. The porter, a powerful Brukaj, hovered, waiting.

  As I approached, Dimpy appeared from the opposite direction and walked sturdily towards us, head up, color high. I could guess what he intended to do.

  At that moment the blue wavering radiance formed before me and the phantom shape of Deb-Lu appeared, still smiling. He raised a hand. Striding on, Dimpy marched clean through that ghostly apparition. He shivered, suddenly, and looked about with wary eyes, as though expecting an ambush.

  “By Dromang! What was that?” He lost some of his color.

  Tiri’s imperious little head twitched up and she frowned. In her clear acid voice, she said: “Unbelievers believe many foolish things, fambly.”

  Dimpy bristled at that. Deb-Lu said: “What you suspected is perfectly correct, Dray. The young prince is being held prisoner by this charming fellow Prince Ortyg at one of his hideouts down below.”

  “Thank you, Deb-Lu. Directions?”

  Since the death of the Fristle, Fonnell the Fractious, his gang had split up. Some of the olive-green clad rogues had formed a smaller gang, some had joined up with other groupings of the ruffians down in the warrens and Ranaj — and King Tom — had made it their business to keep tabs on them. I had an idea of some of the spies they used; not all. Ortyg, who had employed Fonnell, must be continuing to use some members of the old olive-green gang.

  The Wizard of Loh told me the way to the particular warren. He finished: “By the Seven Arcades, Drak! They’re a mighty unhealthy bunch there.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “You Watch Out. This whippersnapper Prince Ortyg is what people in these parts, I believe, call a right blintz.”

  “They do. All the same, as ever, I wonder if he really—”

  “Like your doubts about Phu-Si-Yantong?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  Tiri and Dimpy were eyeing each other, not hearing a word we said. The porter stared vacantly about, rubbing his head. Oh, yes, by Vox. Wizards of Loh have powers!

  By those same powers my sorcerous comrade cloaked my own words. I asked him if Byrom stood in immediate danger and was reassured by the reply. What the kidnappers’ plans were we did not know. The fact that there was no ransom demand was certainly worrying; Deb-Lu considered they wanted something more than merely money, or putting Nandisha’s son out of the running for the crown. When the princess was distracted past her wits’ end, Deb-Lu suggested, then the weasel-faced Prince Ortyg would strike.

  Deb-Lu-Quienyin just put up his hand in time to prevent his bulbous turban from toppling over an ear. I enjoyed the sight, by Krun! After a few more words we said the remberees and Deb-Lu vanished.

  With Fweygo to guard the numims I had two options. Tiri or Byrom. Ranaj was happy to provide an escort for the temple dancer and Dimpy stoutly declared his intention of going along. I excused myself, without explanation, and made the necessary preparations.

  Within the bur I was kitted up and off into the devil’s kitchens of the stews between the hills.

  Chapter seven

  An arrow chinked off the wall a handbreadth from my head. I slid into the shadow of an ale barrel like a ferret down a rabbit hole.

  Across the intersection of roads running at right an
gles through two valleys a crude barricade had been thrown up. Tables, wardrobes, barrels, upended carts, all jumbled together to make an obstacle to Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus. They shot at the defenders of the dismal street at my back and tried a charge which carried some of the barricade. The Raging Volcanoes fell back, slashing axes about in desperation.

  These two gangs at each other’s throats were damned inconvenient, by Krun. A girl staggered into my ale barrel and collapsed, an arrow through her throat. She gargled blood. Her grimy face carried a look of profound shock and her ripped-open tunic revealed a pallid body smothered in blood. She toppled and fell close by my side.

  More arrows skimmed in, to chingle against the wall and tumble uselessly to the muddy ground. The girl twitched, dark blood pulsing with the last force of her heartbeats past the shaft. Her eyes glazed. The noise and confusion hammered on unheedingly.

  What waste! What nonsense! Destruction, horror and death, and all for a measly hundred paces or so of tumbledown houses, filthy dopa dens and a muddle of ramshackle shacks. A spotted strowger with a broken arrow in his flank yip-yip-yipped across the road. I felt sorry for the little fellow; but — what could aid him now?

  Mind you, I’d known a fat queen whose pet spotted strowgers loved nothing better than to chew on the bodies of her victims. The opposite cliff face glowed high up with the opaline radiance of the Suns; down here in the slot the shadows crawled as torches flared. The battle continued in mayhem and carnage. The Raging Volcanoes mustered a reserve and smashed back at Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus. Weapons clashed all along the barricade. Men and women screamed. Bodies tumbled to fall in red ruin and be trampled on by the blood lusting combatants.

  Well, by Vox! The sharper I got out of this mess the sooner I’d be on my way to finding young Byrom.

  Crouching behind an ale barrel as a fight erupted in front of me seemed to me, Dray Prescot, Vovedeer, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, to be the most sensible course of action in two worlds, too right, by the diseased and pendulous nether parts of Makki-Grodno!

  The sides of the hills here were capable of being climbed with great difficulty so this is where I’d been led down, for where I wanted to go was hemmed in by practically vertical cliffs. There’d been no difficulty in contacting Naghan Raerdu through one of his men, for we’d arranged to have a reliable person on watch. Milsi the Slinky had given me no recognition; but at my jerk of the head she’d led off to where Naghan the Barrel could be found at this time. He moved around the city, logically enough. After that he simply detailed a party to escort me down, grumbling at the danger I insisted on placing myself in, and I sent them off long before reaching the bottom. Now I found myself embroiled in this infuriating fracas. By the hairy and infested nostrils of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! It was enough to make a fellow mad clean through!

  A move had to be made soon if I was to succeed.

  Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus held three arms of the crossroads and they wanted the fourth arm, currently in the possession of the Raging Volcanoes. Whatever treaty had been agreed in the past had fallen through, as was the way down in the warrens of Oxonium as up on the hills. I was on the Nasty’s side of the barricade and my target lay somewhere down at the far end of the Volcanoes’ street.

  Among the frantic figures fighting to defend the makeshift wall a dozen or so wore the olive green of Fonnell’s old gang. So that explained why Byrom had been spirited away there. Prince Ortyg had maintained his connection with the olive green gang members.

  This poor dead urchin girl at my side represented so much of what was wrong with two worlds. This profound if obvious thought was abruptly shattered. Something exceedingly hard and sharp pushed into my back. A voice like a bottle emptying growled: “Skulking, hey! I’ll soon sort you out, by Reder, yes!”

  That damned uncomfortable object prodding my back was a sword. Slowly I turned my head. He was hairy, broad, flat of nose and coarse of lip. In the nature of the fellow a glisten of scar ran down his left cheek and the eye above was puckered up. He was a Brokelsh. “Up, skulker!” He jabbed. “Up and at that barricade!”

  In all the noise the door at my back had opened silently. I didn’t sweat; the ugly thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was getting slow. One thing an old leem-hunter and a fighting man must never be is slow. I stood up and pointed to the dead girl.

  “Easy, dom. Came back to see—”

  “Save your whining excuses. I don’t know you. I’ll know you again, skulker, by Reder, I’ll know you.”

  Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus must be a sizeable gang, then. Fair enough that anyone wouldn’t know personally all the members. I’d get by all right. When no one recognized me, as must inevitably follow, then, by Krun, would be the time to worry.

  He took the sword away. He pushed me out from the barrel into the street. Mud slicked underfoot. There were more torches now and shadows lay uncertainly across the furious scene. A fresh onslaught developed as the Nasty’s hurled once more at the defenders.

  Caught up in the attack I found myself trying to clamber up an overturned hand barrow. A Rapa made determined efforts to degut me with his spear. My left fist wrapped around the shaft and I pulled.

  He yowled and flew over the barrow to land on his beak. My new acquaintance stuck his sword through the Rapa who twisted and shrieked and tried to wriggle away.

  “Stinking Beaky!”

  A crossbow bolt flicked over my shoulder. The Fristle ahead threw down the weapon and dragged out a scimitar and slashed. My own return blocked the blow and sent the braxter darting at his chest. Startled, he backed off. The Brokelsh jumped up beside me. More Volcanoes were running up to guard this sudden breach. It was a matter of skip and jump, of cut and thrust, as we tried to hold the hand barrow for Nagzalla. An advang whose porcine features were convulsed with fury leaped alongside us to help hold the barrow. He swung a broad-bladed polearm and swept the head from the shoulders of a poor devil who failed to dodge in time. Blood spouted everywhere.

  “To me!” roared the Brokelsh, hair flying all over the place. “Neemus! Neemus! To Brory the Bold! Neemus!”

  A couple more Nagzallas ran up and for a space we held the barrow, trying to force our way on and being pressed back. In the erratic torchlight every move was dangerous. Keeping a balance and picking a target, hitting and trying not to be hit, the whole crazy combat proved difficult. A loud crack splintered up followed by two more splitting bangs. The barrow’s bottom just caved in. Down we all tumbled, inextricably mixed up, arms and legs and heads all jumbled together like crabs in a basket.

  Something clunked against my nose and water started into my eyes. I gave an almighty heave. Smelly hair thrust against my lips. I bit. I bit damned hard, I can tell you, not caring whose hide it was. In all the uproar any yell was lost. I got a good purchase and shoved the hairy one aside and rose up out of the shambles. The stink of blood roughened on my tongue. The Fristle clawed up beside me. He tried to give me a thwack but his scimitar had no room to swing and I just belted him on the nose with a clenched fist. He flopped back into the pile of bodies.

  A bellowed roar: “Back! Set back, fanshos!” and we Nagzallas tumbled back out of the wreckage.

  They were all panting, blood-smeared, evil of eye. We pulled back to rejoin the rest of the gang in their positions. For a space now it would be shooting until another charge could be mounted.

  “By Reder, Brory!” The advang’s snout was all aquiver. “We nearly did it! Another push and—”

  “And we’d be cut off and chopped!”

  That was true, by Krun. More Volcanoes had been closing on the barrow in the moments before it collapsed.

  Brory the Bold eyed me. He were standing in the shadows of a doorway and every now and then an arrow fleeted in. “You fought well, skulker. Your name?”

  “Kadar the Hammer.” The name popped into my head. I’d used it before and it was serviceable.

  He grunted. “Stick close by me when we attack again.”

  Whe
n I’d kitted myself out for this jaunt I’d selected a simple tan leather jack with a few greenish brass studs here and there. I’d taken off the shamlak and under the jack wore a common brown tunic. The braxter was munitions quality from Nandisha’s armory and I was surprised and pleased the thing hadn’t snapped across yet. In view of that almost inevitable happening I carried another scabbarded alongside the rapier. Brory the Bold gave the rapier a leery look.

  “Fancy yourself with the toothpick, do you, dom?”

  I summoned up a casual shrug. “When necessary.”

  He grunted again in that coarse Brokelsh way.

  He did not comment on the short-hafted single-bladed axe I had slung over my shoulder. Axes are useful in some fights. This specimen was not unlike one of the axes wielded by my Clansmen on the Great Plains of Segesthes. That, of course, was not surprising as those fair grazing and hunting grounds lay to the north over the mountains.

  High above our heads a cluster of lights traveled slowly from one hill to the next. Up there, riding in the calimer on the invisible cables, haughty folk wouldn’t even bother to look down at the chasms beneath. The lights of the cable car, high against the dark sky, did look romantic and mysterious. Down here it was all blood, dirt and death.

  Most of the gangs organized themselves into sub-divisions called chapters and with conscious ostentation named their leaders with military ranks. This Brokelsh, Brory the Bold, turned out to be a chapter Jiktar, meaning he ran the chapter. Dimpy had told us he’d been a chapter deldar in his broken-up gang. Now the Jiktar busied himself putting together a fresh force for the next attack.

  In my not un-extensive experience of street fighting I’d found that charging maniacally up an open street was usually a sure recipe for disaster. We generally burrowed our way through the buildings flanking the street. It seemed to me that Brory considered the barricade no real obstacle. Well, by Djan, it was a ramshackle enough structure; it had already proved too tough a nut for these bully boys to crack.