Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  A pang shot through me. By Vox, yes! I could envisage my swods of the Emperor’s Sword Watch or the Emperor’s Yellow Jackets cleaning up this street like a giant broom. And the brumbytes of the Phalanx — they’d just swarm over the chairs and tables and carts like a tidal wave. Oh, well, they were far away and no doubt busy.

  So that the next whooping charge met with the same fate as the previous efforts.

  Although the valley was narrow the central roadway was flanked by buildings. I eyed them meanly. In my bones I could feel strongly that the Star Lords would not allow me to disport myself like this for much longer. They’d want me back on duty. They’d hoick me out in the very near future, that I darkly surmised. It behooved me to get that move on I’d promised myself some time ago when the Suns were flooding the opposite crest with opaline radiance. Now the slot lay in total darkness, and The Maiden with the Many Smiles would drift down a fuzzy pinkish light soon that would do something to relieve this infernal imitation of a night of Notor Zan.

  Brory had taken a slight cut over an ear and his head was bound up in a red-stained yellow bandage. He grunted when I spoke to him; but he listened. He told me, curtly, that to go through the houses would destroy what they were fighting to gain. I said that they’d gain nothing but more dead and wounded if they didn’t, whereat he grunted again. “You may crave violent action,” I said. “But action has to be directed. If you weren’t the chapter Jiktar I’d say you were acting like a tanzy.”

  He didn’t grunt at that. Oh, no, by Djan! He bristled up in his uncouth hairy Brokelsh way. “Who the hell do you think you are? I run the chapter — not you! I don’t even know where you come from. Nobody seems to know you.”

  “Did I or did I not fight on the barricade?”

  “You did.”

  There were no torches near us so I could stand out in the street and point — dramatically! — at the barricade.

  “Send your people to their deaths, Brory! Have them shot down and cut up! I’ll find a way through the buildings.”

  The blessed or cursed power I have, the yrium, blazed forth. The Star Lords had chosen me to be this impossible Emperor of Emperors. Wishing it were otherwise, still, I knew they had chosen well. Brory wilted. He caught the blast of the yrium in full flight. He obeyed.

  Not sullenly, as might be expected, but in a sprightly way he organized afresh. He ran the chapter responsible for this end of the street. Other streets had their own chapters. He called in his hikdars and told them and they told the deldars and they shouted at the — I hesitate to call these ragamuffin rapscallions swods — at the bedraggled gang members who’d been beaten back so many times.

  I did discover that Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus were in fact attempting to retake this section of streets they’d lost a season or so ago. They’d been weaker then. They’d been called Nagzalla’s Neemus then. As they rebuilt their strength they’d put in the word Nasty to remind them that they had a debt to pay and territory to take from the Raging Volcanoes.

  Brory might obey authority when he could see the sense of it. That did not mean he would forget his own position. He said: “You are not a member of the Neemus.”

  “No. I’m tazll at the moment.”

  By that he knew I was an unemployed mercenary.

  He nodded emphatically. “When this shindig is all over and we’ve taken Nath Market Street and if you’re still alive, I feel we will accept you as a full member.” He brushed hair away from the bandage. “As a paktun you understand these things.”

  “Aye.”

  Most of the runnels of Oxonium crossed a trifle askew of right angles so we chose the diagonal point with the least houses on the corner. Pickaxes were brought up. Unlit torches were handed out. There was a tenseness among these Neemus, a way of holding the breath, of speaking in clipped syllables. They’d taken a beating in their attempts to take back what they considered rightfully theirs. Now they were about to embark on what could be a crazy adventure. They could die more certainly this way than on the barricade.

  And — at whose say so?

  Some unknown plug-ugly who had suddenly appeared among them, telling their leaders what to do, handing out orders, cutting them down to size — merciless in his criticism.

  Oh, yes, by the ruptured entrails and dangling eyeballs of Makki Grodno! This fellow Kadar the Hammer drove ’em, drove ’em good.

  As for me, plain Dray Prescot, alias Kadar the Hammer, I looked around on this rabble, their eyes like coals, their grimy fists clutched about weapons, their mouths open and panting like wolves.

  “For the sake of Reder! Wenda! Let’s go!”

  Chapter eight

  The last chunk of rock eased away and shuttered lanternlight struck across the room beyond. A storehouse, the place smelled acridly of vegetables in store too long. Brory shouldered through the gap we had made, wasting no time, sword in fist.

  Other Neemus at our back pressed on, wraithlike in the encompassing dimness. We made as little noise as possible. All the same we were well aware that the Volcanoes must soon detect our activities and take immediate action in retaliation. The buildings at the end of the row were constructed of rocks fallen from the cliffs cemented together. Further on there were wattle and daub shacks and lath and plaster houses.

  Brory gestured for men to start on the opposite wall.

  “Quiet, you hulus!” he snarled and the picks chinked more delicately.

  Outside in the cross street, noise flowered up into the starlit sky. The Neemus were putting in another doomed frontal attack to cover our activities. If this stratagem failed — I refused even to contemplate such an eventuality. On a purely personal basis I had to succeed. As San Blarnoi says: ‘A single man may succeed where an army will fail.’

  Well, by Krun, all well and good, that might be true. I was that single man. On Kregen an army at your back is a mighty comfort. An opening was made, the rocks carefully prised loose and placed gently on the floor. This next building was a house from which the family had long since fled back into the warrens owned by the Volcanoes. A few simple furnishings stood forlornly abandoned. When — and not if, Brory had declared — the Neemus regained this street the people of theirs who had been dispossessed would return to what were their own homes. The noise outside increased. We were penetrating through the houses to the point where the barricade had been set up and we were under no illusions that the house would be undefended.

  I said: “Make larger holes. We want to get reinforcements through as quickly as possible.”

  Brory nodded and whispered the orders. All Nagzalla’s gang wore a representation of a black neemu somewhere about their persons. The Volcanoes wore some fantastic spouting triangle. Up front, I peered into a room where slanting lanternlight revealed a window in the far wall. I frowned.

  Whilst most of the houses were built in rows, not all were terraced, and here we had a cross alleyway leading from the main street to the trackway at the foot of the cliffs. A few strides took me to the window.

  The alley was not wide and the structure opposite, wreathed in shadow, would be the building abutting the barricade.

  Brory wanted to know if we should make a hole in the wall and I told him yes. We needed to get men up front as fast as we could. What I didn’t say was that we might have to run for it just as damn fast, by Krun.

  The uproar along the barricade died down a trifle. The Neemus must be faltering in the forlorn attack. We must hurry.

  Through the window I went and sprinted to crouch by the opposite wall beneath a window. Cautiously I stuck an eyeball around the side of the frame.

  I froze. A small brown scorpion waddled easily across the window sill in front of my nose. He moved in the arrogant swing of your true scorpion. I held my breath. He scuttled off into the shadows of the cemented-together stones forming the window surround and architrave. I let my breath out silently. Yes, I said to myself, oh, yes, by Zair. I agree. I agree with you absolutely, Everoinye. What was I doing puddling about in alleyw
ays with a gang of cutthroats when I was supposed to be about the business of becoming an emperor? What indeed! Circumstances distort actions, as the Star Lords well knew. I had to get on with this affair, muy pronto. This thought made me more reckless than I usually am, Opaz forgive me.

  I’d no idea if this scorpion was truly from the Star Lords or was simply a fellow who lived in these parts. That didn’t matter. What did was the effect he had on me and on the subsequent events.

  To my right the alley ran into the shadows of the cliff face. To the left shards of torchlight threw up the grotesque contortions of men and women locked in battle. I realized I’d done this all wrong.

  I’d hoped to be able to worm through the houses and come out at the back of the barricade. The Volcanoes were too canny for that simple stratagem to succeed. The window revealed what amounted to the front line. Archers were shooting from windows to my left, cutting into the Neemus climbing the barricade, flanking them.

  Other men and women were moving in and out of the doorway in the opposite wall of the room. A fellow was trying to restring a crossbow and cursing, and a Fristle was methodically running a sharpening stone along the edge of his scimitar. I ducked back. At my side Brory whispered: “There’s a door here—”

  “Get as many lads through there as quickly as possible. This room must be cleared instanter. On my signal. I’m going in through the window. That’s the signal.”

  “Quidang!”

  With that I heaved up, took a last rapid glance into the room, and launched myself through the opening.

  The Fristle sprang up, swirling his newly sharpened scimitar. The crossbow re-stringer dropped the bow and snatched for his sword. At the first blow my braxter snapped across. I didn’t bother to waste breath cursing. The axe ripped free from its thong at my side and came around in a blurred arc. Down went the Fristle and the bowman yelped, and dodged, and the backhand swing took him across the top of his head. He collapsed.

  The bowmen at the windows to the left were slow to react. By the time they’d turned about, yelling alarm, the room filled with Neemus at my back as I shot headlong through the door into the next room. Then it was a mad bedlam of hack and slay, dodging return blows, keeping a steady footing, and driving powerfully on.

  Now we were committed. If we didn’t clear these Volcanoes out very rapidly we’d be overwhelmed before our reinforcements arrived.

  No time for niceties. Bash on, swing and hit, strike and bash on. Brory and his people supported superbly and we smashed our way through the enemy. The door to our left must — it had to, by Krun! — lead out onto the street abaft that confounded barricade.

  In the lead, with a dripping axe in my fist, I catapulted through and the rest of the Neemus roared on after.

  Torchlight splashed luridly over the action along the barricade. People were struggling like doomed wights in hell. Weapons flamed. The noises and the stinks beat maddeningly in our ears and nostrils. A massive yellow-skinned fellow hurled a trident at me and I batted it away. Brory was screaming orders in the tumult. We hit the defenders like a tidal wave. A bald-headed Gon called Garlash the Lips blew his trumpet. The notes rang clear and true above the hellish racket.

  That was the signal for the final and triumphant onslaught of maddened Neemus outside. They charged in as we swept the wall clear from our side. Caught between two axes of attack the defenders crumbled.

  When it was all over here and a screeching bunch of our fellows went hell for leather down the street chasing the remnants of the Volcanoes, I found Brory the Bold cleaning his sword and staring at a huddle of prisoners. Being still in somewhat of a hurry I did not properly clean the axe but wrapped the head in a chunk of cloth ripped from a corpse. The axe was so befouled cleaning would be a major task. And, I thought of improperly cleaned weapons and Vomanus.

  Brory said: “Y’know, Kadar, I’ve been married four times. Each wife’s been killed one way or another.” He nodded his head to a strapping prisoner whose dark hair floated freely about a flushed face. Her leather breastplate hung askew and her pale body showed weals and blood streaks. “A beauty, hey? Yes, I think a marriage is next.”

  By the way the girl was slyly shooting looks the Brokelsh’s way, might indicate the marriage would prove a success. It might also mean a dagger in his back on the night of the consummation.

  I said: “I wish you well. I’ll take a look down the end.”

  “My thanks, Kadar the Hammer. A true black Neemu, so you are.”

  I grunted, said something about seeing him later, and took myself off after our hunters of Volcanoes.

  As I had indicated, this Nath Market Street was narrow. At the far end the streets leading off broadened out into Volcano territory. This rumble between gangs would be steered well clear of by the City Watch. Those Katakis were far too canny to embroil themselves to no benefit. A ponsho would get you a zorca they’d be sniffing round to buy as cheaply as possible any prisoners available to sell on to their disgusting slaver relatives. If Brory did marry that dark-haired beauty she’d be far better off than sold to the non-existent mercies of the Whiptails.

  A wall-eyed chapter Jiktar called Nath the Seeing urged on his people as I came up with them. Nath the Seeing had taken over from Brory, whose folk were exhausted. By the same token the Volcanoes would have brought up reinforcements. This looked like the end of the road for Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus here.

  But — oh, no, by Krun! — but not for Dray Prescot!

  Nath the Seeing was not, as a grizzled old fighting man might expect, busily having a barricade built across the mouth of Nath Market Street. In any conurbation rules and laws must be worked out, written or unwritten. Between the two rival gangs this central crossroads forming a substantial plaza remained a no man’s land. The reason for this reared up from the center.

  From a rearing gray stone construction of squared masonry a lofting tower of cunning cross-struts reached up and up. In the darkness the top was not visible save for a warning light. A constellation of lights moved smoothly against the nighted sky over our heads, going towards the top of the tower where the cables between hills were supported. Up there, as I had thought before, the people in the cable car probably gave not a single glance down to the stews.

  Much of the time people moved freely between the hills, for the gangs recognized the need for trade and barter. Food had to be brought in. Of course, the gangs took their own taxation. Only in times of trouble, as had happened this night, saw open warfare. Nath the Seeing cocked his head sideways to look across the kyro where only a few late folk walked home, thankful the fighting was finished.

  “In Nagzalla’s good time,” he said with great satisfaction, “we’ll have all three of ’em. Margayla, Homespun and Pin Streets. By Reder, yes!”

  I said something politely in the affirmative. He cocked his head and focused an eye on me.

  “You did well in the fight back there. Brory reckoned you were red hot. Good Neemu material.”

  What the devil was I doing standing shilly-shallying around like this being patronized by a jumped up gang member! I told Nath the Seeing that if I ran Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus there’d be a lot of changes, mostly at the top. I finished by bidding him the remberees and walking off smartly, leaving him with his moist mouth hanging open.

  The place I wanted was located in Margayla Street, directly across the plaza. On one side Pin Street was also Volcano territory. Homespun on the other was not, being controlled by the Skullbiters, a sub-group of the Hellraisers. Now the commotion had died away the Kataki City Watch would be on the prowl once more so it behoved me to keep an eye open. There were ale houses open. I licked my lips.

  No. Duty before pleasure. Young Byrom must be thoroughly frightened, feeling sick, wondering what was going to happen to him. He must be my only concern. As for the Kataki Watch and the Star Lords, they must be pushed to the back of my vosk skull of a head for now.

  Passing an ale house, open, with lights shining and men and women entering an
d leaving, some staggering, I reflected that ale was a food. This ale was thick and sweet and dark. Once they put hops in it and turned it into beer it became bitter and pale. I went resolutely on. Something was always going on through the night down here in the abyss and I was importuned for many a weird and wonderful product or service. Vibrant life, energetic and raw, pulsed all about me. The fighting was remembered but was now a thing of the past — until the next time.

  Despite the dubious pleasures being enjoyed down here, you surely could feel sympathy for the folk trapped in the stews between the hills — but! But never forget these people owned slaves too.

  Although Balintol is a nice warm continent, the temperature drops a few degrees down in the slots, naturally — one reason why the exposure of the wide-cleavage shamlak is not popular. Apart from the pestering peddlers no one offered to halt my progress and very shortly the end of the street came in sight sketchily illuminated by hanging lanterns. The next square had its cable car tower; there was a significant difference between this masonry construction and the last.

  Here a guardhouse was built into the base. Here the notorious Kataki City Watch maintained what amounted to a police station, a precinct house, from which they could sally forth on raids and to which they could return for safety. A chair lift could hoist them to the platform at the top, where they could pick up a cable car.

  There were quite a few of these Watch guardhouses situated in the runnels; most of the time the Whiptails would sail down in lifters to go about their nefarious activities and return to their barracks above.

  I ignored all that and turned to survey my target.

  The place was not a tavern as I had expected — oh, yes, there was a drinking saloon on the ground floor — but the lanterns and signs proclaimed the four-storey solid-looking building a house of ill-repute. It was well patronized and probably never closed its doors. Everything about it indicated it was a high class house. Some of the olive-green bunch had done well, then, and Prince Ortyg must be well satisfied.