Scorpio Invasion

by Alan Burt Akers

  She pouted. She was about to say something, something tart, no doubt, when I went on: “You will wear your armor about the camp until I tell you you may take it off. You’ll soon get used to it.”

  “That’s not fair! That’s dreadful! And you a prince!”

  There were so many cheap answers flooding into my head that I had to turn away. I managed to say: “Dismiss!” and hurried across to the fires where the kov and kovneva were just finishing up their fish.

  Without preamble, I said: “The time has come for you to take over. You know by now what must be done.”

  “But, prince — where will you go?”

  “Where there are Shanks to fight.”

  They shook their heads. “They’re all about.”

  “And you will deal with those in this section.” I went on to tell them I would like to take Larghos, Fan-Si and Moglin and they couldn’t very well refuse a prince, could they?

  The important fact here was that I’d impressed them that I was a prince but that my real name was different from Chaadur. They accepted this with all the vivid old romances ringing in their skulls, princes in disguise traveling their kingdoms. Although, to be sure, they knew I was not of the Tarankarese ruling class, for I was apim and not riffim.

  Nath and Layla, although apim, had ancient rights to their lands and titles, dating back before the riffim invasion and takeover. They had survived through the skill, cunning and groveling of their ancestors. There was nothing of that kind possible now the Shanks were the overlords.

  Thinking of the peoples of other lands I knew, I had the strongest suspicions that my folk of Vallia, or Djanduin, or Strombor, would not so easily accept a fellow who came roaring in ordering about and claiming to be a prince. No, I fancy they’d be somewhat less credulous. But, then, these people had been lost, deprived of just about everything except their lives, not really knowing what to do and expressing their frustrations by quarrelling among themselves. They’d needed a prince, by Krun!

  I found Moglin the Flatch painstakingly pulling an arrow through a straightener. Quality shafts were hard to come by in the greenwood; we could build our own and fletch them, we couldn’t build arrows to professional quality. I thought of Master Twang and his spritely daughters, and sighed.

  “Hai, Moglin!” I said, all jovial.

  He replied politely, still working on his arrow. I told him that if he wished he might accompany me, for I had other gangs to train up.

  He left off work and brushed up his whiskers, which were very fine. Unlike a Pachak or a Kildoi he had no tail hand. Although Katakis, who were generally detested as Slavemasters, habitually strapped six inches of daggered steel to their tails, Fristles seldom did so. This Moglin the Flatch had been known to strap a dagger to his tail.

  Cautiously, he said: “I am honored, prince. Ah — is Fan-Si—?”

  “Yes. I could not ask you to come with me if that meant leaving Fan-Si here. Oh, yes, she’s coming along with us. Larghos the Throstle is going, and you all have dispensation from the kov.”

  “Then right gladly, prince. I own I wish to do unpleasant things to these Shanks. By Numi Hyrjiv the Splendid! They took Fardo the Splitter away, and he was my best friend and brother to Fan-Si.” Moglin’s cat face screwed up in an access of venom. His fur was a deep russet brown, and he was built like an archer, with shoulders almost as broad as mine.

  “And, Moglin, tell your Fan-Si to wear armor next time we fight.”

  “Quidang, prince. I agree with you. But she is willful and headstrong. She laughs and scorns—”

  “I know, I know. Well, by Chozputz! She’ll just have to, that’s all!”

  “Quidang!”

  I went off to tell Larghos the Throstle about our proposed trip. He was sitting on a log singing, half to himself, a little ditty about the farmer who paid ten gold pieces for a slave and married her and demanded the gold back from her owner as her dowry. This song is known as the have it and eat it song. It’s title, in the obscure way of Kregen humor, is ‘The Miscil Return’d’.

  Larghos jumped at the chance to go adventuring, and, as he said in his modulated voice, “To even up the score a little.”

  His strong brown hands went methodically on as he spoke polishing up his strangdja, that feared and famous polearm of Chem with its steel holly-leaf shaped head. “Oh, yes, prince. I long to swing my Stinja down on their fishy heads.”

  As you know it has not been my habit to give names to my weapons. As I have remarked, a true warrior must fight with whatever comes to hand. If he relies on one favorite weapon, he is bound to come unstuck one day. Anyway, I always seemed to be acquiring and losing weapons and a name one day would be a memory the next. All, that is, apart from the Savanti swords and the great Krozair longswords.

  So, everything was arranged. The next day scouts reported in that the Shanks had sent a considerable force up the road. There were carts in the procession, so maybe the fort had got their stock fish at last. All we had done was inconvenience the Shanks for a day.

  That meant I had to harangue the gang with some vehemence. I used the fustian to good purpose, telling them they must think of a huge wild animal being stung by a multitude of bees. I instanced the case of the xichun and the tormenting little birds. I exhorted them to continue with pinpricks, for as the gangs grew so the pressure would grow. Their next objective, I told them, feeling the doubt in my heart, was to capture or destroy the local fort.

  They waxed enthusiastic enough. Truth to tell I felt like a traitor at leaving them. Still, my mission was not to become embroiled in local guerilla operations, attractive though they undoubtedly were. My job was to find out about the Shanks and choose the weakest spot to strike.

  I’d approached this gang knowing the risks I ran. What of the risks of the future when I approached a city?

  “I’ll send word,” I promised. “When the day dawns, you will know.”

  The Kov and Kovneva of Borrakesh stood with the combined gang shouting the remberees as we four trudged off along the forest trail. We would take a circuitous route. We called back the remberees, and then the forest closed about us.

  In that moment, my chief thought was one of great delight and anticipation at the expected reactions of my new comrades to the airboat. By Vox! They’d be far worse than Rollo ever had been.

  And as for that young scamp, was he doing what he ought to be doing, or was he contriving ways and means of following me into the Shank-infested perils of Tarankar? Then Fan-Si halted so that Moglin bumped into her.

  “Quiet! There is someone ahead, lying in ambush. See!” She pointed with her free hand. “There, a glint of steel in the undergrowth!”

  Chapter fifteen

  “That,” I said, with a stupid and rather comical attempt at princely arrogance, “will be that confounded Khibil Farantino, may the True Trog rot him.”

  “There is more than one,” observed Larghos.

  “True,” I conceded in your true princely condescending way. “The rast will have cajoled his friends into helping him. He fancies his honor has been slighted. The zigging great onker!” I finished, somewhat peevishly.

  We slowed down and finally stopped. My three new comrades waited to see what this braggart prince would do.

  I stepped forward.

  I shouted. I used the old foretop hailing voice and I put spite and venom into my words.

  “Come out, you crawling creeping horror! Come on, come on. Stand up! Step out! Let’s see you!”

  The bushes swayed and metal clinked against metal. Larghos’s bow lifted, a lethal arc, his strangdja slung over the other shoulder. Moglin’s bow was held slightly down, the arrow at half draw, in that easy practiced grip of your handsome Bowman of Loh. I yelled again.

  “Come on, come on! My patience is nearly exhausted.”

  Now the bushes were agitated. Four men and two women stepped out onto the trail. Not one was Farantino. I felt amusement at my antics. These people were roughly dressed, almost in rags. They c
arried an assemblage of rusty weapons, one fellow with a strangdja with a broken shaft. They had rags tied around their feet. They were two apims, two Thankos and two Brokelsh. In short, they were a miserable looking bunch.

  “Why, you great pack of famblys!” I stormed at them. “So you were going to waylay us from a bush? And would you have killed us?”

  “No, master, no!” cried the Brokelsh woman, her hair wound about her waist. “We have not eaten for many days—”

  I gave them my hard stare and they flinched back. I told them we were on a journey and could spare no food. They should walk boldly into the camp and declare themselves. I piled on the agony. I gave them that kind of speech I had rehearsed before, designed to open their eyes to the opportunities of the future. I gave them the old patriotic fustian. Also, I told them I was called Prince Chaadur, that this was not my real name, and that on the great day when we had removed the last of the Shanks they would know my name.

  All this impressed them.

  Whilst they would not change from frightened and hungry fugitives to brave bold guerillas in a twinkling, the process had begun.

  So, therefore, much heartened, I bid them remberee and led my three companions forward.

  Fan-Si tripped alongside and, very cheekily, said: “If that had been the Khibil he would not have stepped out.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You roared—”

  “Fan-Si!” exclaimed Moglin, most uneasy.

  “Well, Moggers, he did! Like a pregnant Quoffa!”

  “Fan-Si!”

  And I laughed.

  We approached the bushes where I’d hidden the voller. I said: “Treat these bushes as possibly concealing an enemy force. Quiet, now.”

  We’d taken most of the day to march here from the camp and now evening shadows were falling across the land. I felt the airboat to be safely hidden; there was always the chance a Shank patrol had spotted it. Then they’d do what any commander would do: they’d leave the voller there and keep watch, ready to jump on anybody trying to reach her.

  We moved forward cautiously. They kept still as I’d trained them, and moved rapidly when they did move. From bush to bush we went forward.

  When the voller’s hull came in sight, just her prow protruding past a bush ahead, I stopped. I waited. I listened. After a suitable time, with the shadows dropping deeper and deeper, all jade and ruby, I inched forward.

  Covered by three bows I reached the voller. Nothing stirred. It took only a few moments to ensure no one kept watch. The voller was clean.

  Fan-Si, Moglin the Flatch and Larghos the Throstle stood in a line and stared at the airboat, their mouths hanging open.

  Observing the fantamyrrh, I stepped aboard.

  “Come along, come along. Get aboard.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t lollygag about down there!”

  “This is a Shank bird-contraption! We can’t—”

  “This is an airboat and it belongs to me, for the moment. Now if you want any supper, step aboard. Otherwise I’ll fly off without you.”

  Needless to recite the confusion, the hesitation, the trepidation. Eventually, the three of them were safely aboard and we could see about supper.

  Now it is not my intention to labor the events that followed. My task, as I saw it, was one of observation. Information was vital. We had no reliable reports out of Tarankar proper. And, to give an example of the lack of knowledge of the place held even by those as close as Makilorn — desert robes were not worn here, not in the forests and grasslands. We wore tunics and boleros, low-cut shirts, loose coats, and the predominant color was green with fawn a second favorite. So, I needed to know a lot more about the situation here before a fleet and army could be sent.

  This, of course, posed the problem. To obtain that kind of information would entail close contact with the Shanks. At the moment I was attempting to build up the morale of the people, and to give them a leader now that their rulers were gone. I told myself I did this out of the best of reasons. Every blow we struck from ambush was a blow for freedom. We were forming a Liberation Army.

  Well, I fancy I knew well enough the real reason why I spent time with the guerilla bands, forming organizations, training, teaching, putting backbone into them. I think I knew only too well why I led ambushes and sieges of isolated forts and dealt with the Fish Heads at that distance.

  And — I could always claim what was the truth, that I was building up a dossier of intelligence on the conquerors against the day of liberation.

  After the success with the gang led by Nath and Layla, we went on to organize and train and build up morale of four other gangs in various outlying districts. A range of mountains curving away to the southwest gave rise to streams. The valleys were pleasant and not always easy of access. This should be perfect guerilla country. In fact, I made the decision to clear all the Shanks out of this section and use it as the Home Base for the insurrection. Here was where the people readily accepted Prince Chaadur as their leader. At least, he knew what to do, and told and taught them. One or two self-important nobles offered a feeble resistance; my brisk manner swept all those objections aside.

  In addition, my own personal band had grown from the first three to a sizeable force. In the final analysis, the voller overawed and impressed everyone, and was my ultimate arbiter.

  The mountain and valley section was known as Clovang, the chief city as Clovangjin. Which prompts me to remark that the capital city of Tarankar was Taranjin. One day, I promised myself, one day...

  As a matter of simple courtesy I’d insisted on my people taking proper rank titles. As to a hierarchy, they shook themselves out. Moglin the Flatch ran my archery, Larghos the Throstle my men at arms. We had practically no cavalry, for the Shanks recognized the value of draught and saddle animals and had swept so many up that the few that were left were mostly broken down. Fan-Si commanded the small nucleus of Jikai Vuvushis I hadn’t the heart to prevent joining us. These three I’d dubbed Jiktars. To keep their heads from swelling too much I’d immediately added they were ob-Jiktars. A Jiktar more or less equates with a regimental commander’s rank, and ob, meaning one, is the first and lowest rung of the ladder promotion within the Jiktar grade.

  By the time the Shanks reacted vigorously to our activities we’d built up a nice little army formed of four gangs, plus my little band of some hundred souls, making a grand total of nearly eight hundred.

  What, I could not help wondering with a deal of amusement, would the Presidio of Vallia, who loved to bestow grandiose titles on the armies we formed, make of the fellow who’d been the Emperor of Vallia and led those armies and their thousands of soldiers proudly declaring that eight hundred not very well armed and equipped folk formed an army?

  Little Nikki the Lame first spotted the Shank airboats. He might have a crooked leg; he had the sharpest pair of eyes in the gang — I beg your pardon — in the Tarankar Army of Liberation.

  “There they are!” he screamed down from the tallest tower in Clovangjin.

  Soon we could all see them, the black hulled craft with their brightly painted squared off upperworks cruising low above the surrounding hills.

  In a somber mood I counted — everyone counted. There were ten of them.

  The Shanks’ flying ships, strangely enough to people of Paz, were uniform. They appeared to have hit on a good design and then simply repeated that single pattern. By contrast, Pazzian vollers and skyships were of all varieties. Up there the sky smiled down, Luz and Walig sending their streaming mingled opaline radiance to bathe the world in wonder, and here foolish mortal men and women were about to try to kill one another. Still, if one couldn’t talk or argue with the Shanks, then one must come to the fluttrell’s vane.

  The city was mostly burned or knocked down. During their first invasion of these peaceful valleys the Shanks had killed the warriors and killed or taken away the people. The city lay empty and silent when we’d marched in. Nikki the Lame after his first warning shout
pulled back into the shadows of the tower’s broken parapet. Everyone hiding below knew exactly what to do. If anyone showed his or herself, I’d warned them, I’d cut their ears off.

  The fliers up there circled, keeping their rigid formation, line astern. The lead ship might be the flagship; she was no different from any of the others. I’d fought these beauties before. Just how many men they could carry was still conjectural, for the Vallian Air Service had met Shank flying ships crewed differently and holding differing numbers of aerial soldiers. Down below we all waited, silent, unmoving. I doubted that a Schtarkin could spot a human eyeball peering through a narrow crack from two thousand feet.

  The ships acted in such a manner as to convince me they were scouting the city in case we troublesome guerillas might be here. We struck and vanished, and they must guess we had a bolthole to go to.

  As though they’d made up their fishy minds to do the job right, the first fire pots came tumbling down. This was going to be unpleasant, mightily unpleasant, by Krun!

  They set fire to a block of houses that had been in relatively good condition. Black smoke rose lazily, almost straight up, there being little breeze. The flames hissed and crackled greedily. Because this danger had been foreseen I’d instructed my army to hide in places that had already been destroyed. No one was being roasted in that block of houses, thank Opaz.

  Moglin was holding Fan-Si’s tail. The gesture appeared one of affection. I’d told him to make sure the furious Fristle fifi didn’t rush out, screaming revenge, and so betray us all.

  If she did rush out, Moglin’s grip would tighten hard.

  The so-called army was scattered about in ruined buildings and caved-in cellars surrounding a fine square, a kyro that was not the main plaza of the city, and each little group had visual contact horizontally with the next. At least, that was the theory. Theory and practice are often not even on nodding acquaintance. One must plan as well as possible, set the whole machine in motion, and then do one’s personal best with everything racketing away around in the general confusion.

  You may think I’ve been boasting away about how wonderfully I’d trained up these ragged amateurs into a professional army; of course, it wasn’t like that at all. One fact, however, I’d drummed into them. The Shank flying ships were not magical. They were capable of being defeated. They were a factor in the struggle of which to be wary; not of being frightened.