Warlord of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  When she let go of my hair and let me get up, I blew out my cheeks, and said: “One tumble deserves another.”

  “We are due for dinner and Milsi’s view of etiquette coincides with mine, you great hairy graint.”

  “Quidang!”

  At dinner we naturally discussed the points of contention still bothering us. Outside, the river shimmered under the radiance of Kregen’s first moon, the Maiden with the Many Smiles. The service inside was just as smoothly brilliant. Kov Llipton, a handsome numim, and his wife, the lush Rahishta, attended. Llipton ran Croxdrin for Milsi during her absences. There was no sign of Princess Mishti, and while this saddened Milsi, she was aware that the girl still needed time to put the clamorous thoughts seething in her head into order.

  There was absolutely no news of the whereabouts of Csitra.

  The Witch of Loh had vanished. Our three mages, Deb-Lu-Quienyin, Khe-Hi-Bjanching and his wife, Ling-Li-Lwingling, reported that all trace of Csitra’s sorceries had been removed.

  “Do you believe this to be the end of the Witch War, then?” demanded Delia.

  “Never, by the Veiled Froyvil! We’ve not heard the last of that black-hearted one!”

  “Agreed, dear,” said Milsi.

  “I agree, also,” I said. “And you, Delia?”

  “Yes, except that...”

  We waited and then, as Delia instead of going on with what had been in her mind lifted a crystal goblet of rich red, Milsi burst out: “Delia? What do you mean?”

  Delia put the goblet down with precision. Everyone around the table looked politely at her. She wiped her lips with excruciatingly bright-yellow napery.

  “Khe-Hi and Ling-Li said they could sense a distinct change in the witch’s — oh, I do not know what arcane words they employ for their arts — in her kharrna, in her center of sorcerous emission. They were uncertain and dear old Deb-Lu was unable to confirm.”

  “Confirm what?”

  “Would you care to explain what wizards mean when they talk their gobbledygook together?”

  “No.”

  “It is just that we must expect the unexpected.”

  I was about to make the superfluous comment that, on Kregen, one has always to expect the unexpected to stay alive, when Kov Llipton leaned forward to speak.

  The lionman spoke gravely. “Forgive me, but you talk, majisters and majestrixes, of Wizards of Loh with great familiarity.”

  I sat back.

  Yes, what Llipton said was half-true. We tended these days to think of the three mages as our comrades, as friends, before Wizards and a Witch of Loh.

  Milsi said on a breath: “We never forget their power, kov, never.”

  And that was true, by Krun!

  “They are unaccountable folk,” went on Llipton in that serious tone. “What they do they do. They follow their own mysterious purposes. They bow the head to no one.”

  I took up a small handful of palines from the silver dish. “What you say is right, kov. Yet I have known a Wizard of Loh much reduced and brought down who served a tyrant slavishly. That was in the Hostile Territories of Turismond.”

  “I have heard of them, of course. They are being settled by colonies from all over nowadays, I hear.” Llipton brushed his numim whiskers. “By Numi Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor! majister, what sorcery could thus enslave a Wizard of Loh?”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking of Umgar Stro, “I do not believe sorcery was involved. But, as to our friends who also happen to be mages, they are a part of the empire now. And we are exceedingly fortunate for that.”

  “Exceedingly,” said Seg, and I knew he was thinking of the times Deb-Lu had used his kharrna to our benefit.

  “Well,” said Delia in her brisk fashion, “Khe-Hi and Ling-Li have gone back to Loh. Their children must be born there. Otherwise, they could not become real Wizards and Witches of Loh.”

  “The patterns must be preserved.”

  So we talked as we sat on around the table which bore the ruins of the splendid meal we had demolished.

  Later that evening as we prepared to retire in the sumptuous chambers put at our disposal, Delia said: “I am always a little fretful when Khe-Hi and Ling-Li and dear Deb-Lu are not close by.”

  “Yet Deb-Lu worked his miracles at a distance—”

  “Oh, I know! But, all the same—”

  “All the same you will stop fretting and come to bed like any empress — no, confound it! By Zair! Sometimes, glad though I am to be rid of the job, I forget.”

  “Drak and Silda make an exemplary pair as emperor and empress. I am content.”

  So, by Vox, was I!

  After we had spent a short time in Milsi’s and Seg’s realms of Croxdrin, we took our farewells, called down the remberees, and took off for Vallia.

  Flying north with the combined fleets we saw not a sign of Shank airboats. We had reconnaissance out everywhere searching for the base we were confident they must have established to support this forward thrust. So far no sightings had been reported.

  We broke the journey halfway to call in on the country of Jholaix, in the extreme northeast corner of Pandahem. Here Milsi was able to visit with her relatives, and — I believe I have no need to tell you who have been following my story — we had a riotous time. Jholaix produces what are considered the best wines of this part of Paz.

  We met with folk there who were dissatisfied with the way events were turning out, and we materially furthered our cause. I felt confident that Jholaix, with Milsi’s relatives, friends and contacts, would prove a powerful ally.

  There is little need, it seems to me, to relate the scenes of pandemonium and celebration that occurred when we returned to Vallia. The citizens had accepted Drak and Silda as the new rulers. Yet all felt that special allegiance to the divine Delia. Oh, yes, we had a tremendous shindig, I can tell you, and we made, as they say in Clishdrin, the welkin ring all the long night through.

  Our first visit the next morning was to see how Nath the Impenitent fared.

  He was sitting propped up in a vast bed in the villa we had made over to his use, with his friends Perli and Sanchi dancing delightful attendance. Phocis, too, had a wing to herself and a few of her friends remaining from their fraught ordeal down the Coup Blag.

  The Little Sisters of Patience had taken Shalane and the Rumay fanatics under their wing. There, as Delia said with a half-smile, it was all bread and water, prayers and housekeeping. “They will soon,” she said with a pert shake of her adorable head, “grow tired of that.”

  “I must admit, my heart, I am disquieted at our bringing the Rumay fanaticism back to Vallia.”

  “Agreed. Once Shalane and the other wounded are well, they must make their decisions for the future.”

  “Aye. If Jilian Sweet-Tooth were here she’d soon knock them into shape in her regiment of Jikai Vuvushis.”

  “She still pursues her own ends, as you know. If they wish to join a regiment, all well and good. I feel that they will choose not to do so. They are independent to a fault. It will probably be best for us to send them back to their homes.”

  “Aye.”

  As for Nath the Impenitent, he was genuinely glad to see us.

  Seg and I went in first, bearing gifts, and he greeted us in the old happy way we had established during our comradeship down Csitra’s damned magical maze.

  I had made immediate enquiries of my chief stylor, Ob-eye Enevon, and he had rapidly ransacked the files and plunked down on my desk the details of Nath’s misdeeds, punishment, and subsequent fate.

  “Old Hack ’n’ Slay!” I exclaimed. “So that’s who he is. No wonder he jumped at the words, and he used them during the fight around the downed vollers. And he robbed his regiment’s cash box. Well, I know why he did that. And he would have repaid but for the malignancy of his divisional commander.”

  “Chuktar Strom Enar Thandon,” said Enevon, nodding. “His report is certainly damning.”

  I told Enevon that Nath the Impenitent had taken the money
from the regimental strong box to save his sister’s daughter from the abhorrent followers of Lem the Silver Leem.

  “Then,” said Enevon, “it was a worthy deed.”

  “Aye. Nath would have repaid had he been promoted. As we can see from the file, his promotion was blocked by this same Enar Thandon.”

  “He was commander of the 32nd Brigade of churgurs, yet he was not promoted from Jiktar to Chuktar.”

  I rapped my knuckles on the file.

  “I suspected the Impenitent was a good soldier, and this proves it. See the list of his bobs. No, by Krun, this won’t do in the Vallian Army. I’ll have a word or three with Enar Thandon—” I shut up. Then I said: “This will have to go to the emperor, Enevon.”

  “Yes, jis, no doubt of it.”

  I gave him a leery look. “Jis, Enevon?” Jis, a contraction of majister, was now more and more used in the meaning of “sir.”

  “Reminds me of the old times, Dray.”

  “They had quite a fight getting Nath into the cells.”

  “I’ll see the papers go to your son, then.”

  “Please, Enevon. Now I’ll go and see the old Impenitent.”

  So, there were Seg and I, with our gifts, and Nath roaring at us from the bed, scarlet-faced with pleasure.

  “Jak! Seg!” he bellowed. “Lahal and Lahal. Come in and have a stoup. I am being capitally provided for, and by whom I’ve not an idea in a Herrelldrin Hell.”

  We shook hands in the Vallian fashion, and Perli and Sanchi poured parclear, for it was too early for ale.

  “We’re glad to see you are feeling better, Nath,” said Seg, lifting his glass.

  “Oh, aye, fit, fit! But you’re late! Young Ortyg has comforted me a great deal. Tell me where you’ve been and what fresh adventures you’ve had.” He heaved up a sigh. “I confess I’m sorry to have missed ’em.”

  “Nothing of importance, Jik,” I said.

  He spilled his parclear.

  “Jik?”

  I looked at him. He put a finger to his lips and said:

  “So you knew my name when I spoke in the Coup Blag. That life is passed and best forgotten.”

  “Nath Javed,” I said. “Jiktar of the 32nd Brigade of Churgurs. Old Hack ’n’ Slay. Caught with his fingers in the regimental funds.”

  “Yes, yes, I told you and you swore to hold your tongue. But not my rank or the brigade — so—”

  Seg lowered his glass and spoke in his powerful way. “Nath, we detest the evil creed of Lem the Silver Leem. We are dedicated to its utter overthrow and destruction.”

  “I will give you amen to that, doms. Aye, by Vox!”

  “Good.” Seg was brisk. “When you are recovered, we will do somewhat regarding the vile people who took away your sister’s daughter.”

  Nath moistened his lips. “I have hated all lords and nobles, and the emperor, and with good reason. Now there is a new emperor. Will he be any different?”

  Seg started to say something and Nath went on in almost a ruminative way. “Yet, you two, the Horkandur and the Bogandur, are lords also, as I know. Yet I do not hate you. You are dear comrades. Are there, then, lords and lords?”

  “There are. And, one of them, Enar Thandon, I believe, will rue the day he acted as he did.”

  Again Nath started. An uproar began at the door and young Ortyg Thingol burst in bearing a flagon of ale and shouting that the hour of mid had passed and Nath was due his wet. He saw Seg and me. His bright face flushed with color and the brown curls danced. He was mightily discomfited.

  “Majister!” he croaked out. The flagon shook. “Your pardon, majister, I did not know you and Jen Seg were here.”

  “Evidently,” growled Seg. He glanced at me in so comical a way that I broke out laughing.

  Nath shot up in the bed.

  “Majister!” he bellowed. “What is this about majister?”

  I said: “I crave your pardon, Jik Nath, for deceiving you. But it was, as you can see, essential that I be known as Jak the Bogandur. You do see that?”

  His eyes popped. He tried to speak and gobbled for air. At that moment Delia and Milsi entered, bringing their gifts, and bringing a radiance and warmth into the sickroom.

  “Dray!” called Milsi. “So this is the fearsome Impenitent!”

  For a moment the confusion that followed left me a trifle breathless. Now Nath had said he’d never seen the emperor close up and that was why he’d not known me. He must have seen the empress, even though he may have denied it.

  He scrabbled up in the bed, shedding sheets, trying to claw his way out and stand on his feet. He stood up all right, swaying, bursting sweat all over that scarlet face.

  “Majestrix!” he roared out, and fell full flat on his face.

  Seg and I hauled him back into the bed and then we all stood around looking down on him.

  So, as you see, even a dedicated noble- and emperor-hater like old Hack ’n’ Slay cherished the divine Delia and would serve her past death.

  The needleman was called. Nath was out to the world. We were shooed out and left, telling Perli and Sanchi, dumb with shock, that we would return.

  “D’ye see the old Impenitent’s face?” demanded Seg. “When he remembered how pally he’d been treating the Bogandur!”

  “He will,” said Delia in her most practical way, “get over it.”

  “If this means he’ll be loyal to Drak—”

  “I do not think, my heart, there will be any doubt of that.”

  What young Ortyg Thingol said was correct; it was past the hour of mid and therefore, acting the part of respectable citizens, we could legitimately make our way back for a long and thirst-quenching drink of ale. Wine would come later.

  Now these days in Vondium the Proud City, capital of Vallia, where I was no longer the emperor, I had fancied I could have a deal of time to myself and generally laze about. Some hope! There always seemed something to do.

  Drak and Silda and the Presidio were busily carrying on the work of putting the country back together again after the Times of Troubles. We conferred with many people you have met in this narrative of my adventures, and many others who worked nobly for Vallia. The army was in good heart. The great galleons of Vallia were being built again. The Air Service was painstakingly increasing the aerial fleets; but that work was dependent on the good news out of Hamal and Hyrklana where vollers were constructed. Supplies of airboats and saddle animals were being bought from Balintol.

  All in all, we had precious little time to spend to ourselves.

  The terror of the Witch of Loh’s Nine Curses against Vallia had been removed, or so we believed. And, still, there was no news either of Csitra or the Shanks.

  One evening we had gone through what I considered the tedious business of an enormous State Function. Drak and Silda looked the part of emperor and empress to perfection. When, at last, we could doff the ceremonial robes and remove the ornate mazillas, tall gem-encrusted collars that fair enclosed a person’s head, we felt we had earned a small portion of time for relaxation.

  Many of our friends and comrades gathered in the newly-furbished Corbitzey Chambers, hung with ruby-drapes and lit by many samphron oil lamps. The air was scented sweetly with Moon-blooms, and the tables groaned under food and drink. The assembled company would start singing soon, in the well-established and hallowed traditions of Vallia.

  The Lord Farris and Nath na Kochwold were talking quietly in a corner with Seg and me when a gong-note sounded and a messenger walked into the brilliantly-lit chamber. Roben ti Vindlesheim standing with us glanced across and then went on talking in his dark-browed intensive way, concentrating on his beloved canals to the exclusion, it seemed to his amused and affectionate friends, of everything else.

  Mantig Roben had been appointed by me when I’d been emperor to put Vallia’s once-superb network of canals back into good condition. Many of the waterways had fallen into disuse. A bustling land full of commerce and travel needs canals, by Vox. Roben, quick-mannered, absor
bed in his own work for Vallia, was just one more of the good comrades gathered about the throne during and after the Times of Troubles.

  Seg said: “The messenger goes straight to Drak, Dray. They are learning.”

  “And about time, too, by Bongolin.”

  From the trim and clean appearance of the messenger we knew he had not flown here astride a saddle bird but had flown aboard a voller. Watching Drak’s hard, competent face, so like my own and yet so unlike, I saw the flashing expression there reveal not indecision but a weighing of different courses of action. Indecision and Drak did not often lie together.

  The major indecision of Drak’s life so far had been his shilly-shallying about Silda.

  Now he glanced across at my corner, saw me watching him among all the throngs of gaily-clothed folk between. He started across. As he approached I felt my old heart banging. Drak was every inch an emperor, by Zair, and I was proud of the lad.

  I waited for him to speak. A hush fell about the group and more folk, curious as ever, formed a ring.

  “It is Menaham.” Drak’s left fist rested on his rapier hilt. “The Bloody Menahem. We all wondered what would chance with this new king they have. Well, now we know.” He glanced around, and only a fool would see indecision on that powerful, dominating and — yes — handsome face. “The imbecile has invaded Iyam and carries fire and the sword across the land toward Lome and Yumapan.”

  Halted in his passionate tirade about the canals, Mantig Roben ti Vindlesheim was the first to speak. It was, as it were, a continuation of his thoughts.

  “Let them hack each other to pieces in Pandahem, jis. We have Vallia to heal and rebuild. It is no concern of ours.”

  From the growl of assent, quite a number of the folk there shared that sentiment.

  Drak’s head thrust forward obstinately. He stared full at me as he spoke, a lowering, brooding look of concentration. He knew my aims for Paz, all right, knew them damned well.

  “This is evil news, yes. It destroys much we in Vallia have worked for. But it does concern us, for it concerns Paz.”

  Chapter twelve