Warlord of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

Of the Mystique of Paz

  Mysticism forms a vital ingredient in the lives of some people who cannot exist without the thrills and terrors of supernatural experiences — or quasi-supernatural delusions — and the feeling they are communing with forces beyond those of nature. There are other folk who see no need for flummery of this kind to explain the disasters and successes of life. They are in touch with aspects of nature quite satisfactory to them.

  When millions of people devote themselves to the service of an abstract ideal, surely, some will say, mysticism reaches an apex, no matter what the ideal. Others will say that practical self-interest and the well-being of their fellow humans motivate their actions.

  The theory for the moment could be ignored; we needed the results. When my lad Drak spoke so intensely about Paz, I felt enormous relief. I had not been sure that he would put matters in the same order of priority that I had done. He had, I’d noticed, been furbishing up the palace at a faster rate than in my days as emperor. But in matters of importance he could see clearly enough that what we in Vallia were doing or trying to do — was really a matter of simple common sense.

  Nowadays, when the word Paz was spoken, there clung around the sound an aura of mysticism, of grandeur, of yearning. Invisible trumpets pealed and carried the name Paz.

  Most folk could feel that little shiver up the spine at the idea of Paz. The continents of Turismond to the west, Segesthes to the east, Loh between and Havilfar to the south, joined by the islands of Pandahem and Vallia formed the grouping of lands known as Paz.

  “The news is certainly evil for the poor devils of Iyam,” said Nath na Kochwold.

  Seg said: “Are there no more details?”

  Some, a little, of the tenseness drained from Drak as he turned at once to answer Seg.

  “Precious little, Seg. Only that this insufferable new king of theirs doesn’t understand mercy.”

  “In that case he may be king for a very short time.”

  One or two of the people smiled at this, and Naghan Strandar in his familiar way laughed, agreeing.

  When I’d been putting smashed-up Vallia back together, and being lumbered with the job of being emperor along the way, people had gathered about to help. You know a few of them. It was diashum[2] to work and, if necessary, to die for Vallia.

  When as emperor I’d run the Presidio and court, do not believe that the fighters, bankers, architects, artists, flyers, musicians — many and many splendid folk of diverse talents — were a chorus of approval. I was not surrounded by yes-men. Oh no, by Vox, very far from it.

  We all shared the dream, we differed in the way of human nature in how that glittering dream might best be realized.

  So, now, as the news of this maniacal King Posno’s invasion of his western neighbor was discussed, there were voices lifted passionately to say that we needed no further entanglements abroad. Money and work were needed in Vallia. Mantig Roben spluttered as he said: “With the money and manpower you will waste fighting in Pandahem I can rebuild many dwaburs of canal. There is our country’s wealth.”

  Somebody ripped out: “If you live to sail the waters of your precious canals, Mantig.”

  “This cretinous cramph King Posno is not invading Vallia, is he?”

  “The Pandaheem recall what happened to them the last time they tried.”

  “Well, then, my point is proved.”

  Somebody else wouldn’t have that, and vehemently carried on the argument. I caught various eyes, and we sauntered away to find ourselves a quiet retiring room where the news might be discussed more fully and more logically.

  I said: “If I were callous, as many emperors are callous, I would say this was not evil news, was good news, was most excellent news.”

  “How can that be, when the alliance falls into ruin?” demanded Nath na Kochwold.

  “Why, Nath,” I said, completely unable to refrain from teasing my splendid blade comrade. “I confess I am astonished. I thought you joyed in putting your Phalanxes in motion.”

  “As to that, you know I do — oh. I see.” His face reflected a wry realization that, once again, he’d been taken for a gentle little ride. “Will you show any preference in your selection?”

  “Now then, Nath,” I said. And again, I confess, I spoke only half in jest. “You are forgetting.”

  “Your pardon. It is not easy.” Nath na Kochwold, who had won his name in that great battle, considered that all his Phalanxes were perfect. He knew, also, that over the seasons I had out of experience formed certain attachments to certain Phalanxes.

  What was true was that in the Phalanx Vallia had a battle-winning weapon. Nath had taken this gentle jesting in good part, and now he turned to Drak and said: “Well, then. And which Phalanxes will you require. All are ready.”

  “When we work out the forces to go, then you’ll know.”

  “Quidang.”

  “It is good news, father, in that sense.” Drak did not drink from his golden and jeweled goblet but nursed it between both hands, face intent. “We may impose our will upon Menaham after we have defeated them.”

  “There is no doubt about that,” said the Lord Farris.

  I opened my mouth, saw Seg glancing at me, and closed that fount of spouting babblement.

  “The only fault in the logic is that the Bloody Menahem are so — so bloody.” Drak spoke with feeling.

  “They may be forced to bow the neck, they may be bribed, they may be—”

  Nath cut in: “They could all be exterminated.”

  Farris, as tough now as ever despite his age, sucked in a breath. “Yes, Nath na Kochwold. If such a deed were required to be done, I would choose you for the task.”

  “I stand corrected, Farris. You are right.” Nath spoke openly. Then his passionate and justice-demanding nature burst out. “But, all the same, that would settle the issue.”

  Cutting in and alleviating some of the tension, Larghos the Sko-handed pointed out: “The realm of Tomboram to the east of Menaham is firmly allied to us. They will help.”

  Mantig Roben said: “Yes, good, a sound point. Let Tomboram shoulder the task in its entirety.”

  “We would have to support them with cash, Mantig,” said Drak in a mild voice. “So your canals would still not profit by that scheme. We must play our part.”

  Seg said: “This business of Tomboram could be more tricky than we suppose. Menaham and Tomboram, traditional enemies for hundreds of seasons, do not take their eyes off each other. We have fought there before. So...”

  No one was louche enough to say out loud what Seg meant: “What has happened to allow Menaham to attack westward without fear of attack from the east?”

  I said more sharply than I intended: “Drak. Have you heard from your mother recently?”

  “Three days ago, explaining that she could not attend today.”

  “The same for me,” I said. “Seg?”

  “Milsi sent at the same time, same reason.”

  “That appears satisfactory, then. Seg?”

  “Oh, I’m with you, my old dom. And I think Nath the Impenitent is well enough. He might enjoy a little exercise.”

  “Capital.”

  Both Seg and I knew well enough that our ladies would spit rivets when they discovered we’d gone off adventuring on our own. Still, they were tied up with the Sisters of the Rose, and they had adventures enough, by Vox!

  Drak said in his serious voice: “Father. You will—”

  “Oh, I will, all right. Don’t fret.”

  Nath na Kochwold swelled up his chest and stared at me with great bitterness.

  “Some people,” he said, grinding out the words. “Some people have all the fun. Rest assured that—”

  “Look, Nath,” I said. “You have been offered an imperial province as Justicar from me, and I believe the Emperor Drak will honor that pledge. Yet you insist on remaining with your Phalanxes. If you want to come adventuring with Seg and me, you have to renounce certain things.”

  “So that is
why you renounced the throne and crown of Vallia? To go adventuring? Well, many may believe that.”

  “It has a ring.”

  “Aye. After this next fight of my Phalanx. Then I will decide.”

  Nath na Kochwold could be the emperor’s Justicar of any imperial province he chose; he could not tear himself away from that terrible war instrument, the Phalanx. I do not think many in that small private room would take a wager on Nath’s final decision.

  Drak sounded more resigned than irritated when he said: “I suppose you won’t take a proper army with you, father? Just you and Seg and a few choice spirits?”

  “D’you take an army when you go adventuring?”

  “When!”

  Seg laughed. “I think, Drak my bonny emperor, I really do think that your father hasn’t stopped laughing since he dumped that job on you.”

  “That, Uncle Seg, I am all too ready to believe.”

  I didn’t miss that little word “uncle” in there, the old affectionate if inaccurate way our children called my blade comrade Seg. There would not be, I knew, much chance they’d address Milsi, Queen Mab of Croxdrin, as Auntie Milsi, because now they were grown up.

  Farris then started on the practicalities of the venture, which I could leave to him with certitude. Besides being retained by Drak as the Justicar Crebent who ran Vallia with the Presidio when the emperor was absent, Farris was still the Commander of the Vallian Air Service.

  “Just keep this whole thing secret,” I said. “You know what happens when folk get wind of an adventure.”

  A mellow, jovial, not quite wheezing voice chimed in then, to say: “Lahal, all. I would be the first to jump at the chance of adventuring with you, Dray. But I have other shafts in the air.”

  “San Quienyin!”

  We all stood up as a mark of respect as Deb-Lu-Quienyin entered and found himself a comfortable chair. His atrocious turban, new though it might be, was already beginning to loosen and slip over one ear. He beamed on us.

  He was real and not a projection through occult space. He took wine and drank and said: “The developments may be turned to our advantage, if we strike surely.”

  Drak said: “I will lead the army and—”

  “Majister.” Deb-Lu’s word brought instant attention. “With respect, better for you to attend to Vallia’s needs.”

  Drak was not fool enough to argue with a Wizard of Loh when said Wizard of Loh spoke so positively.

  “We are needed here, Drak.”

  “In that case...” And here Nath na Kochwold jumped in with both feet. Drak laughed.

  “Very well, Nath, you ferocious brumbyte!”

  There were other preparations to be made. When all was ready and we boarded the voller a few days later, I had to admit to myself that I missed Delia’s firm and delicate hand on the helm of my destiny. I always felt much better flying off to harebrained escapades when she organized our logistics. So, with that thought in the hollow space between my ears and with a few choice spirits, I shouted down the remberees and the voller soared up into the mingled streaming radiance of the Suns of Scorpio.

  Chapter thirteen

  Of mud, blood and a zorca horn

  Rotting garbage piled head-high along the street scraped at nostrils and back of throat with rancid stenches. Smoking torches threw scraps of erratic illumination upon the macabre scenes, gleaming upon frenzied half-naked bodies, glinting upon pools of stinking water slimed in the ruts and runnels of the mud-choked street. The air crackled with high, empty screams of laughter, with shrieks of pain and the spitting conflagrations of the fires burning at every corner.

  “By Vox!” breathed Seg. “Is every town of Menaham like this inferno?”

  Beggars, thieves, prostitutes, pickpockets, the jetsam of society, existed in the poor quarter of the town of Gorlki in Menaham. License held absolute sway. Brutality, the dictate of the strong and ruthless, controlled all. Shrieking women ran like maenads, and lust-crazed men screamed after them like satyrs. If one wanted a medieval hell as a scene for a painting, then there would be no need to go further than this stinking Hades in Menaham’s Gorlki.

  “This does not sit well with me,” said Orso, neatly guiding his zorca around two drunken men collapsed in each other’s arms, the knives falling laxly from their fists, their fight for the money-purse overtaken by the wine they had drunk. A wild-haired crone whose rags flapped like the rusty-black wings of a magbird darted in, cackling insanely, to snatch up the purse. Even as she scuttled off, so others descended on her like warvols, shrieking.

  The stinks overpowered with the effluents of hell.

  “I have seen much evil and sadness in Vallia,” said Nath the Impenitent. “But nothing like this.”

  “Praise be to Opaz.”

  “Oh, aye. A life here is not worth a Hamalese toc.”

  Orso drew his sword. The drexer glittered cleanly in that midden of filth.

  “Best, then, to be prepared.”

  Nath’s fist, resting on his hilt, did not tighten. I knew he’d draw and be in action before Orso, even so, even good as Orso was. He’d finagled his way into joining us because Drak had asked me as a favor to take him. Drak owed a favor to Orso’s father, a wealthy financier, and as Drak was not going himself, then Orso might go with me. I had accepted because I did not want my son, the new emperor, loaded down with favors that might be called in on less favorable occasions.

  Orso Frentar held his back upright, and gazed about keenly and kept a firm grip upon his blade. Balass the Hawk had tried him out in swordsmanship and professed himself as satisfied as Balass ever would be in matters of the sword.

  We all wore long dark cloaks that fell over the hindquarters of our zorcas. We wore flat leather caps. We did not look imposing or wealthy; but we rode zorcas through this human quagmire and it would only be a matter of time before we were jumped.

  A zorca with the single twisted spiral horn, close-coupled and mettlesome, is, after all, the finest four-legged saddle animal of Paz. So we rode alertly.

  Not knowing this town of Gorlki, and the night drawing on, we’d entered through the nearest gate on the road we’d followed since leaving the voller. That gate, the Gate of Penitence, led directly into this disgusting portion of the town. The sights were bad enough, the stinks worse, and the iniquity the worst of all.

  Our plans were simple and straightforward enough.

  A diplomatic mission had been dispatched from Vondium to Tomboram. Also, spies had been sent in parallel to flesh out the picture of what was happening there.

  The Vallian Expeditionary Force, to be led by Nath na Kochwold, to assist Iyam against the Menaham invasion, would go in over to the west, probably near the border with Lome. Queen Lushfymi of Lome was fully involved.

  So, that left us to follow along in the wake of the triumphant Bloody Menahem and discover what we could and suss out the most appropriate places to strike.

  As Orso said: “The first place is this stinking hell. Torch it all!”

  “And then,” pointed out Seg, “where would the poor devils who live here now go?”

  The Impenitent had rapidly adjusted to the new situation vis-à-vis himself and Seg and me. He continued to call me Jak as others had done in the same situation.

  Now he said sharply: “Keep an eye on your calsany, Orso!”

  The two pack calsanys trotted along on their leading reins. The panniers and pouches draping them must prove well-nigh irresistible temptations to the thieving fraternity.

  Orso gave an impatient tug at his leading rein and his calsany lumbered up alongside Nath’s. I hadn’t wanted to take Orso along. His father, Lango Frentar, rotund and shining with perspiration, much decorated with gold, pressed. Drak had stated his request in a matter-of-fact way. I’d said, I recalled: “Well, Orso, if they bring your head back in a bucket, I will not be held responsible.”

  In his scornful, high-tempered way, Orso rapped back: “If they bring my head back in a bucket, majister, it will deserve to ra
ttle around in there.”

  “So be it.” So, Orso Frentar rode with us.

  The filth of the street splashed and slimed under the dainty hooves of the zorcas. They didn’t much care for the stench of this noisome place. I well knew that many a street of my own Earth, and not so long ago at that, presented the appearance of an open sewer, running green from wall to wall. Here and there barricades had been set up to direct the sewerage, and beyond on raised stoops shops and tatty bazaars sold wares of dubious value. Every other building seemed to be a pothouse, and most of those were dopa dens.

  I settled the flowing cloak more comfortably upon my shoulders. A leather bandolier of terchicks nestled over my right shoulder and I felt the need to draw and throw with the utmost rapidity to be essential at the moment.

  The Krozair longsword was scabbarded to the saddle. At my belt I wore a thraxter and a rapier and main gauche on their separate belts. As always, my old sailor knife nestled over my right hip.

  We must have looked a formidable enough quartet for the more casual of the cutthroats to eye us malevolently and then to sneak away. Women importuned us, screeching creatures of contorted features and wild hair, eyes white blots in faces grimed and stained. Everyone dressed in rags; at least, we saw no one who wore what would be dubbed decent clothes.

  Up ahead must lie the more respectable parts of this frontier town of Gorlki. Certain of the denizens of this human jungle decided we would not live to reach that haven.

  We were without doubt foolish to ride through these slums; but, then, we were strangers and had not known.

  Seg cocked an eye forward to where a wood and plaster balcony, called a jetty, overhung the street.

  “Up there.”

  “Aye.”

  Ragged scarecrow-like objects up on the balcony flapped tattered clothes about themselves. They looked like rusty bats, wings abristle, ready to swoop down upon us as we rode past below.

  On the opposite side of the street an open bonfire constricted the width. Weird caricatures of people danced about the fire and to the side tumblers and fire-eaters cavorted to tease a few copper obs from a small and gawping crowd.