Scorpio Invasion

by Alan Burt Akers

  The answer to that, as you will readily perceive, is obvious.

  Using what skills of skulking I possess — and whilst you may not believe Dray Prescot does much skulking in the general way of things, if you have followed my narrative, you will know I am a capital skulker — I kept out of trouble. Every now and then I had to thump somebody who challenged me. Usually they had just staggered out of the fight, dazed, and were seeking their way back. I killed no one. I thumped alike the members of Layla’s gang and the members of Nath’s gang.

  Eventually I spotted her. She was prancing about with a sword in each fist, dodging from side to side of a tree trunk. The fellow she was fighting was thin as a broomstick, tall, clad in a fantastic costume, all tassels and slashes, loops of cord and rivulets of gold lace. His face was apim, but it bore a remarkable resemblance to a cunning monkey. These two thus battled isolated from the rest of the fight. The thin fellow’s hair showed a dark flash of red when a torchlight fell upon it. He, too, wielded two swords. Around and around the tree this couple went, and who was chasing who you couldn’t say. There were a few bodies on the ground nearby and I hoped they were not dead bodies.

  “You treacherous cur, Nath,” the kovneva was panting out.

  “You faithless besom,” the man panted back.

  “I never was!” and clink clang went the swords.

  “I know. You cannot deceive me. That prancing shint Farantino—”

  “Never!” She slashed with her left sword and tried to thrust with her right. Nath blocked the first blow and deflected the second. He thrust back and I stepped between them and struck up their weapons.

  “What a pair of hulus!” I stared at them with a look of vast contempt, which was very easy to muster. I twirled their swords around in a swift hook and clutch and they flew up into the air, all four. “Now listen to me, the pair of you. By Chusto! I ought to put you over my knee and tan the hide off you. First of all, shout to your people to stop this stupid fight!” I bore down on them. “Bratch!”

  They jumped.

  Of course they tried to argue and I shouted at them, not forgetting to tell them to remember to call me prince or lord or they’d regret it.

  Eventually after a great deal of confusion we had it sorted out.

  I strutted about, waving my sword, giving orders, lining up each side between the fires. Oh, yes, I, Dray Prescot, acted like some pompous self-important numbskull of a princeling. I’d judged these people, and as I talked to them in a fierce growly way I knew I had read them aright.

  They were nothing like real outlaws. Rather, they were law-abiding and had run off from the Shank invasion. They wore armor and swords without much knowledge of their use — I judged the Khibil Farantino to be the most useful fighter. Luckily for Nath’s gang Farantino had been out of it, and four people only had been killed, although a number were wounded, mostly bruises, for unless you have some skill it is difficult, despite romances to the contrary, to slice someone up with a sword.

  I planted myself before this tall thin lath of a fellow. His red hair showed up well in the firelight. I eyed him up and down.

  “So you are the Kov of Borrakesh.” I turned to his wife at his side. “And you are the Kovneva of Borrakesh. Well, by the Healing Spittle of the True Trog Himself, you are a right pair of famblys.”

  The sweet scent of a night bloom wafted from the bushes. The Moons wheeled by overhead, and one of Kregen’s little lesser moons hurtled past like a flaming arrow across the heavens. And these two stared at each other as I left off castigating them. I finished: “For your stupid love quarrel has killed these four people and injured others. You should be damned well ashamed of yourselves. Utterly ashamed, by Chozputz!”

  At that point the Khibil Farantino staggered back to the firelight. I grabbed him by an ear and ran him up to Nath. I shook the miserable Khibil.

  “The lady swears Farantino is nothing. If you do not believe her I shall be forced to defend her honor as her champion and challenge you. Do you understand, Kov Nath?”

  Layla’s gasp was perfectly audible to me. I wondered what that gasp meant. Instantly, I understood, for she burst out: “Nath! You would be killed!”

  He inclined his head. “There is no need for that, prince. I do believe, fully and completely. I was blinded by jealousy.”

  “Spoken like a true lord,” I said. “Now we can all be friends. Is there a wet in the house?”

  Someone laughed. Jugs were produced and we sat on the benches and logs to quench our thirsts. I said: “I was going to leave you. I came back to warn you that your fires are visible from the air. They can be seen for a long way. And you know the Shanks use airboats.”

  As they digested that, I reflected that one person, at least, of the two gangs would not be friendly to me. Orlon Farantino the Rekarder would slip a knife into my back if he had the opportunity with the best will in the world. That meant that Chaadur na Dorfu, Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril, would not turn his back on the Khibil.

  Answering what I had said, Nath said: “How can we light fires and not have them seen by these Shank airboats?”

  “This is a problem faced by any army opposed by airpower.”

  “We could weave leaves overhead,” said Layla. “The smoke would—”

  “And they’d see the light through the gaps!” Nath shook his head.

  “I have no reliable method,” I informed them. “I must leave the solution of the problem to you. Probably you can screen smaller fires you need for cooking. After that, use the Moons.”

  “Yes,” said Layla. “That is one way.”

  After that they wanted to know about me. Now, do not imagine that the members of these two gangs, split by the lover’s quarrel of their lord and lady, would abruptly forget and forgive all the hurts between them. There were still scores to be settled. More than one quarrel had to be nipped in the bud before it started the fighting again. So I was able to be casual about myself, interrupting my pack of lies by seizing two antagonists by their hair and dragging them apart.

  “Prince Chaadur,” said Kov Nath na Borrakesh, very formal. “I offer you my thanks for what you have accomplished. Also, and my lady concurs, we offer our services in your fight against the Shanks.”

  I breathed in and I breathed out.

  I managed a Dray Prescot grimacing smile.

  I had made a start!

  Chapter fourteen

  Nath the Ron slid down from the line of bushes cresting the bank. After a last searching look along the road, I followed him.

  “Well?”

  “The fish convoy,” he said, and his monkey-like face wrinkled up in anticipation.

  “There were twelve carts, mostly pulled by mytzers or Quoffas. I counted thirty-three guards—”

  “I made it thirty. That seems a more rounded number.”

  “There were three at the tail end, archers, hidden by the last cart who came into view after you slid down the bank.”

  “Ah!” He shook his head. “Truly, this banditry is a business a fellow must learn as he learns his rote lessons at school.”

  I didn’t mention that a mistake at school might mean a flogging; a mistake at banditry could result in you being shorter by a head or dancing on air.

  Away to our left past a stand of trees lay the ruins of a town and on its thither outskirts the Shanks had built a small fort. The garrison had to be provisioned, and as the Fish Heads ate mostly fish, that had to be brought up from the coast. Kovneva Layla had told me that she believed the Schtarkins either couldn’t or wouldn’t eat fresh fish. Here, at least, was a small chink in their apparently invincible armor. I stared upwards as I lay beside Nath and the others, waiting for the sounds of the convoy to reach us. Up there the sky hung limpid and serene with a few wispy scraps of vapor struggling to coalesce into a real cloud. The day was fine and warm, and from the bank the rich scents of rustic blooms would, in normal circumstances, have formed a happy accompaniment to a merry picnic. I looked upwards for one reason alon
e; to see if there were any damned black-hulled fliers circling up there. All the information we had indicated the Shanks were seriously short of airboats, and those they had were normally occupied on patrol duties. It was not, Layla indicated, in the Shanks’ character to employ grand and costly airboats to ferry fish.

  Now the shush and thump of hooves reached us. I looked along the line of men behind the bank. They were a vastly different bunch from the pathetic desperadoes I’d first met in the gangs of Nath and Layla. They had done this before. I’d shouted at them. We had taken in recruits. Now we commanded more than two hundred men and women of diverse races.

  Of course, most of them were still amateurs. They were learning. After all, this was very much how the jurukkers of my Emperor’s Sword Watch had begun. We had a few old hands. They’d explained a great deal when they told me that the professionals of Tarankar, the army and mercenaries, had fought the Shanks and had either been killed, captured or dispersed. Very few were left alive. The king and queen of the ruling race of diffs, those same riffims who had caused so much trouble for Trylon Kuong in Taranik, had been mercilessly butchered along with all the royal family. Shanks now lorded it in forsaken Tarankar.

  The beautiful Fristle fifi on my other side started to crawl up the bank to the crest. I grabbed a delightfully formed ankle and hauled her down. She slid back and at once turned her face with those enormous eyes on me with a fierce look.

  “Fan-Si,” I said, using my best imitation of a catman’s hiss, “sit still!”

  “Oh, you—” she said, and an image of Mevancy ghosted into my mind. “I want to get at them! They killed my mother and father and took away my brother! You—”

  “We cannot attack until they have passed the kovneva.”

  She flicked her silver-gray tail. She was careful, though, not to overdo the normal Fristle fifi’s sense of playfulness. She did not flick me with that enchanting tail, remembering I was a prince. Ha! She went on: “And how can you tell when they have passed the kovneva?”

  “By listening — if you close those pretty lips.”

  She pouted. “You can tell by listening?”

  “When certain charming fifis allow me to, Fan-Si.”

  Nath broke in: “Fan-Si! Shastum!”

  At this direct command from the kov to keep silent, Fan-Si subsided.

  The creak of carts and the rolling of wheels, the thump of hooves, drew nearer. One day Fan-Si would learn how to judge distances accurately by sound. Well, they say man sows for Zair to sickle. When the noise drew abreast of me I counted in my head to a hundred and fifty. Then I said, in a very quiet voice: “Now, Nath.”

  “Thank the Bright Eyes of the True Trog Himself!” He stood up and waved his arms.

  Instantly the whole line of men and women rose up, hurled themselves up the bank. The Bowmen picked targets and started to loose. I went up fast, took in the situation, saw a clump of Shanks between two carts and went headlong down at them. I brandished my sword, a pretty useless activity I am not prone to but one I judged effective here. Nath was with me. Shanks were falling as the long Lohvian arrows pierced them. The uproar bellowed into the sky, screams and shrieks of pain and rage. Dust smoked underfoot.

  We reached the Shanks who had taken cover from the arrows. Their tridents looked sharp and unpleasant. They were shrilling their warcries.

  “Ishti!Ishti!”

  Apart from a few other words of command, those were the only words of the Shank language the folk of Paz understood. I heard one of the Fish Heads hissing: “Shoot the archers! Shoot the archers!”

  My sword came down and thrust forward, slipping a trident, and finishing up in a fishman’s guts. Instantly I withdrew, ducking and whirling, and hacking at the next. Nath was roaring and bellowing and striking about wildly. Fan-Si was there, very prettily dropping to a rounded knee and striking up like a risslaca. Her opponent dropped his trident, clasping his scaly stomach. He fell down and Fan-Si jumped on his face.

  An arrow streamed in over my shoulder and a Shank with his short little bow reeled back, the shaft through one fishy eye.

  At the tail of the convoy Kovneva Layla led her party in, preventing escape, and at the front the Khibil, Farantino, blocked off further advance.

  Fan-Si was up again, running fleetly after a Shank trying to crawl under a cart. If he thought he was safe there he was mightily mistaken.

  Nath and Fan-Si grasped a foot each and hauled him out. The Fristle fifi struck first, mercilessly driving her sword down and through the fishman’s neck above the rim of his scaled armor. He flopped.

  Nath was panting, his monkey-face brilliant.

  “Are there any left?” I bellowed. “Look carefully, fanshos!”

  We looked. No Shanks lived.

  The drivers sat huddled on their seats, the reins limp in their hands.

  Only two of them had been shafted, and these were both Rapas. The others, mostly apims, Fristles, Ochs, with a single Brokelsh, sat dumbly.

  I shouted at them, making myself vehement. “We will not slay you!”

  The Brokelsh, all black body hair and surly, called: “We were made slave! We did not volunteer!”

  This I believed.

  “Get up on the carts,” I shouted, very commanding, very brisk. “Let’s get moving! Bratch!”

  Those of our gang detailed to take over the carts obeyed. The others helped turn the wagons around with much pushing and shoving, and then we all went thumping and creaking back down the road. Two dwaburs on we turned off into a narrow overgrown sidetrack. This led to the forest where we’d set up our headquarters in this section of Tarankar. We’dleft the scrubby eastern areas and were now approaching the main part of the country. As we marched along these people were busily engaged in bargaining and exchanging the spoils of the recent fight. We’d collected up all the tridents as a matter of principle; it was noticeable that despite the acknowledged effectiveness of the Shank weapon, no one particularly cared to take and use a trident for themselves.

  Not only those detailed to the task but just about everyone kept scanning the sky.

  My harshness over proper aerial surveillance, my brutal examples of what could happen if people wandered along staring at their feet, had at last paid dividends. Now our little band was extremely airpower conscious.

  As the first leaves closed over our heads and the sounds of the forest floated from every direction between the trees and the smells took on that different aroma from those of the open country, I called cheerfully: “Let’s have a song or three. Larghos the Throstle! A lead, if you please.”

  Larghos the Throstle possessed a fine voice and he led off at once with ‘The Milkmaid’s Song’ and we all roared the choruses. After that we had ‘Happy the Day of the Shearing’ and then ‘The Well that Never Ran Dry’.

  Catching sight of Farantino I noticed he was not singing. His lips were clamped tightly shut. The expression on his face reaffirmed my decision not to turn my back on the Khibil.

  Our camp was a simple affair. We regarded the forest as home. Patrols and sentries at all times kept watch. Only twice had parties of Shanks attempted to penetrate to any depth in the forest. On the first occasion they had stumbled about for half an afternoon, found nothing, and cleared off.

  The second occasion, apart from being more effective, was saddened for us by the cause of that improved performance. Human slaves, chained up like dogs, led the hunting party of Shanks. Again, they found nothing. We watched from concealment and, I confess it, I had the most extraordinary difficulty in preventing myself from rushing into a brawling hand-to-hand melee with these damned Fish Heads. We might obtain a minuscule initial advantage from a surprise attack; in a straight hand-to-hand the Shanks would murder my little band of amateurs.

  So, as you can see, the old Dray Prescot might well have gone roaring into action shouting “Hai Jikai!” and got all his new friends killed.

  All the same — all the same, by Zair! — I made up my mind that the next time the Opaz-fors
aken Shanks ventured in here we’d shaft ’em and play ’em and torment ’em and finally, I hoped, finish ’em.

  That must be for the future. As of now we marched into camp singing and looking forward to a fine fish supper.

  Not that, as you know, I like fish. Still, there are some fish that are splendid: kippers and sardines, for example. The Schtarkins’ convoy contained boxes of stock fish. I made a face and Fan-Si smiled, mockingly.

  In the event I made do with the remnant of last night’s supper and sat with my back up against a tree, brooding. This life was very fine and free and romantic. Here we were, a bunch of outlaws in the forest, living on what we could shoot or steal, annoying the Shank masters. And all this was petty, was trivial, was not encompassing enough. Although, if you have a trivial fight and get a shaft or a blade through your guts...

  No. By the Divine Lady of Belschutz and the corn on her left big toe! The cities beckoned. It would take me a month of Sundays to create a full-scale army with the materials to hand using these methods.

  The Kov and Kovneva of Borrakesh could be left in charge here. They could expand this gang using my methods. I’d have to travel on. There were a couple of people I’d like to take with me, Larghos the Throstle for one and Fan-Si for a second and Moglin the Flatch for the third.

  They’d help me train up a new gang. That made me remember to shout at Fan-Si as she went loping by, very seductive, wearing her usual silk shirt and breechclout. She saw me and smiled and came over.

  “Well, Prince Chaadur?”

  “I meant to tell you, young lady. What happened to your armor today?”

  She grimaced and twirled her tail. “Oh, you know I cannot abide being shut up in a leather box!”

  “Next time we go into action you will wear your armor, like it or not.”

  Her tail twinkled down between her legs. “It’s all stuffy and hot and I can’t move in it! How do you expect me to stick Shanks if I can’t—”

  I stood up. “Armor is for your protection. I agree it may slow you down; but you exaggerate.”