Rebel of Antares [Dray Prescot #24]

by Alan Burt Akers

  When one mentions a trinket from Balintol, which is a mysterious place, by Vox, one is always interested. Tyfar looked at the moon, telling the time, and then we went along the colonnade.

  “This had better be good, young lady,” said Tyfar. “To keep a revolution waiting!"

  Noran's villa, like any well-furnished palace on Kregen, was stuffed with curios, objets d'art, fascinating treasures from all over the world gathered together through the centuries. We had time to inspect this item Jaezila had marked before the meeting began. The Maiden with the Many Smiles cast down a fuzzy pink light. Shadows burned pink, and the night air smelled sweet. The moonblooms were out. We walked along toward the building that formed an extension to the Strigicaw Complex, and a frightful hubbub broke out at our backs.

  Tyfar whirled. We looked back along the colonnade.

  “That's not Kov Naghan,” said Tyfar.

  Dark figures ran under the arches, and the sounds of wood smashing told us the door was being broken in. The jangle of steel broke brilliantly into the night.

  He whipped out his sword and started to run back, and I caught him by his belt and hauled him in.

  “Wait, Tyfar, wait."

  “But—"

  Those dark figures ran fleetly toward us. They looked demonic, agile, and the glitter of their weapons struck an edged note of horror.

  “We have been discovered by the queen!"

  “Then we must fight them!” said Jaezila. Her rapier gleamed liquid silver. She took two paces.

  Tyfar put a hand on her arm and looked at me. I let his belt go. “You stop Jaezila, Tyfar, as I stop you. If we have been betrayed, there is nothing more to be saved by getting killed."

  “But my honor—"

  “I respect your honor, prince. But my honor says that you will take Jaezila and move back through the colonnade. I will hold them until you reach a good spot."

  I stopped talking then for an arrow spat from nowhere and pierced Jaezila through her left arm. She did not cry out, but she gasped. She staggered. Tyfar caught her and glared wildly at me.

  “There, you see!” I cried, annoyed. “Now take Jaezila and go! Do not argue."

  I reached out with the thraxter and flicked a second arrow away. Dodging behind a column, I shouted most fiercely toward Tyfar and Jaezila. “She's in pain and you dillydally, prince? Where is your famous honor? Save Jaezila—that is your duty!"

  “But—you—Jak—"

  “By Krun! I've never met a man who'd argue when a girl needs to be saved."

  I almost thought I'd overdone it. But he scooped Jaezila and ran like a scuttling locrofer, bent above her in his arms, and as he ran he flung back: “I will run and I will save Jaezila, Jak, you may depend on that. But for the sake of our comradeship I will not forget why I ran or who made me run away from a fight."

  So I, Dray Prescot, laughed. In the next seconds my sword crossed with the first of the guards who sought to pass me and rush after my comrades and take them. The steel slithered and scraped. I took the first one cleanly and skipped away and so nicked the second. The third and fourth came on together and tried to sandwich me, whereat I let them come in and then, with the old one-two-hop, avoided them and clouted their heads together. They were Rhaclaws with domed heads as wide as their shoulders. They slumped to the stone floor of the colonnade. One remained, and he came on bravely, so that I dazzled him, and hit him with the hilt.

  At the far end under the roof of the colonnade the shadows clustered. I trusted Tyfar would have the wit to keep on running. This was no time to hang around or make a stand. More guards were running up, and the noise from the meeting room smashed into the night air. Ariane's plot had been discovered and was in the process of being shattered.

  There was absolutely no doubt in my mind what the lady Ariane would be doing now. She would follow the same course of conduct as that she had adopted down in the Moder where among the crazed mob she sought only to save herself and refused to aid others. Tyfar had seen that. Only his own code of honor maintained his civility toward Ariane. So now she'd be running and if Naghan the Doorn got himself killed protecting her, well, that was what he was paid for, and Ariane would soon hire a new retainer with a halberd. So I held no brief for her.

  As for the other plotters, they must take their chances.

  So, with slumbering guards strewing the stone flags of the colonnade, I took myself off. Tyfar and Jaezila were well away by now. Heading for a narrow alley between sumptuous buildings leading to the outside wall, I heard that typical ringing sliding susurration of bronze links above my head. I leaped. The net dropped on me. They are very cunning with metal nets in Hyrklana. The mesh enfolded me as an octopus engulfs its prey. I thrashed about, entangled, and they trotted up and bashed me on the head, just to be on the safe side.

  * * *

  Chapter nine

  Red for the Ruby Drang

  The brilliance of the twin Suns of Scorpio, Zim and Genodras, beat down into the stone-walled yard. The sand strewing the floor was not the silver sand of the Arena, but coarse stuff suitable for a training area where coys were given a few rudiments of the craft before being sent out to face death. About two hundred miserable wights sat or stood about in the heat. I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky I was there at all, arena fodder, rather than lying in some pit with my head tucked neatly under my arm.

  A certain amount of guile had been necessary to achieve this end. Using the painful art taught me by Deb-Lu-Quienyin, I had put on a doleful, moronic face and passed myself off as merely a hired guard who knew nothing—as Havil the Green was my witness!—of what went on among the great lords. Victims for the arenas of the many Jikhorkduns of Hyrklana were always needed. As a mere hired guard, who knew nothing, it was not even worth putting me to the question, and with the other guards captured I'd been packed off to the Jikhorkdun.

  “Stand up! Stand up! Get in line, you no-good rasts!"

  The bulky man with the whip walked along slashing about, and we cowed souls formed up into a long line. At the far end of the enclosure stood four men. They wore armor and carried weapons. Other arena guards were positioned at strategic points. We were all naked and weaponless, browbeaten in line.

  As I took stock of what was taking place and the line shuffled toward the four men, I saw that as a coy reached the end of the line he walked to one of the four armored men in rotation, and then went through a doorway at the rear. The four men and the four doorways were marked. Over each door a splash of color stood out vividly in the suns. The four men each wore a colored favor. The line inched along toward the four men and the four doors.

  A simple calculation told me that when I reached the head of the line I would, in my turn, have to walk toward the man with the flaunting green feathers in his helmet.

  Now, had those feathers been yellow, or blue, even, I do not think I would have cared a jot. I'd simply have walked along and gone through the yellow or blue door. But green! Well, I had long since overcome my irrational, as it turned out, detestation of green. But, for some reason that I did not care to fathom out, I pushed in front of the fellow before me and checked him and so marched smartly toward the man wearing the red feathers. Again, I might in avoiding the green have walked to join the yellows or blues, and I do not think I would have cared. Fate, if it was fate, sent me once again to fight with the Ruby Drang.

  “What are they going to do, dom?” said a young Rapa, his beaked face unhappy, his feathers limp.

  “You have never sat in the stands?"

  “No—I work on my father's farm, and—"

  I said, “Do not lose heart, fight as hard as you can, and die well.” I turned away. I would not make acquaintances, let alone friends, among men marked for death.

  The manhandlers with whips and spears—and all wearing red favors—sorted out us fifty recruits who had been apportioned to the Ruby Drang. They went about their work with methodical thoroughness; this they had done many times before.

  “You—over
here! You—over there!” The whips snapped.

  No one ran berserk, trying to escape. We were all too cowed. As for me, I had to bide my chances and stay alive.

  “Spearmen, stand there. Swordsmen, stand there. Archers, here.” They sorted us out and, after a moment's wondering if it might be useful to stand with the archers, I went over to the small group of men who claimed to be able to handle a sword. The managers of the Jikhorkdun had the nasty habit of sending archers up against unpleasant flying animals. Everything was carried out with punctiliousness and yet with an air of boredom, as though mere repetition dulled the alertness of the manhandlers. I knew that was false. One attempt to escape, a single try, and the retribution would be swift, I knew.

  We were given red breechclouts and a cloth band to tie around our foreheads to keep our hair tidy and to hold a single red feather. The men stuck the feathers in awkwardly, talking in frightened whispers. Like a fool, I own, when I put the red feather into the cloth headband I felt—not a thrill, dear Zair, no!—but a kind of spine-stiffener, a flood of memories, a final reminder of where I was.

  The blow on my head which had caused those famous old Bells of Beng Kishi to chime in my skull could be used as an excuse for stupid behavior. Not one of us was damaged goods, for the arena managers were strict; but some of us were in a sorry state, right enough. The face I now had was my own, if rather hangdog. The cheldur strutted out and stood on his pedestal and rested his fists on the wooden rail. His face was a mere mass of scars, although he still had both eyes. His red jerkin and his saffron kilt and his silver greaves made of him a figure of splendor. But it was his sword that marked him off from us, for we stood sullenly before him unarmed.

  He shouted in his bullfrog bellow.

  “Coys! You now fight for the Ruby Drang. If you live you may become kaidurs. If you die—die well! There is gold and wine and women and ease for those who live."

  He swelled there above us on his pedestal. “I am Hundal the Oivon! You do as I say and you do nothing else. Or by the glass eye and brass sword of Beng Thrax you will do nothing else—ever!"

  We believed him.

  A sense of much greater speed in all the aspects of the Arena was clearly apparent from the days before the great war on the continent. We coys were assigned quarters and given some sketchy training with tricks and stratagems. But it seemed to me the blood fever gripped these people, clasping them helplessly in its grip. Spectacle was demanded, and more spectacle. The hunger for sensation, for blood and death, was insatiable.

  Hundal the Oivon sweated over us. Like anyone closely involved with his color faction, he wanted the reds to win. At the moment the blues, devotees of the sapphire graint, were in the ascendant. We, we were informed, if we lived, would help to redress that balance and once again place the red of the ruby drang at the summit of the victory poles. These cheldurs who train up the apprentices for the Arena are singular to Kregen, it seems, for although they have wide privileges, they do not have the same opportunities as the old Roman lanistae. Hundal sweated over us—and he made us sweat, by Kaidun!

  Well aware that the first fight I got into was likely to be the last, and that this first encounter out on the silver sand carried more danger by reason of the surroundings, I felt relief mixed with annoyance that a group of us was chosen to test out some apprentice yellows. It was to be a sword and shield encounter, a minor bout during a slack time, mainly to determine what quality the new material might be. Well, the spectacle of the amphitheater with the tiered seating lofting up into the sky, the rows of eager, blood-obsessed faces, the yelling and the infernal din, the stink of blood and animals, the smell of sweat and oiled leather ... Yes, the Jikhorkdun can get under a man's skin, well enough, once he is a kaidur and understands what he fights for. I would have none of it. I intended to keep a whole skin and get out of here as fast as possible.

  The coys went in awe of the kaidurs and hyr-kaidurs, who strode about like gods. To face one of those superlative fighting men would be the end, and yet, in many and many a breast beat a heart that would thrill to the kaiderin of it all, before it was stilled forever...

  To perform a High Kaidur, that was the dream...

  Preparations were still very thorough. Hundal chose an interesting mix of men; half were those who in training appeared more likely to cut off their own ears than their opponents', and the other half consisted of men who showed promise. We waited behind the iron-barred gate and the racket from the Arena, this close, dinned in our ears maddeningly. Fristle women poured the coarse red wine, called Beng Thrax's spit, into leather cups for us to refresh ourselves in the dust and heat. And I still did not know that drink was spiced with drugs that inflamed a man and turned him into an insensate fighting fury. So we waited until it was our turn to step out into that oval of death, a melting pot of passion, a crucible of conflict, and stake our lives for the enjoyment of the populace of Huringa.

  The storm of emotions that hit me as I stepped out onto the silver sand! Instinctively I turned to look up at the royal box, glittering and high; the place gaped empty. Fahia would not waste her time on a program filler like this. As a devotee of everything pertaining to the Jikhorkdun, a woman who could recite the names of hyr-kaidurs for seasons past together with the kaidurs they had performed, she reserved her patronage for the best displays.

  “By Havil, Chaadur! Don't stand gawping! Here come the yellows!” Norhan yelled at me.

  Chaadur was the name I had given. I looked across the Arena and the yellow coys, shrieking and yelling and waving their swords, charged toward us. Hundal had warned us. “They'll come out like evil spirits from Cottmer's Caverns. Don't let that worry you. Just get stuck in."

  So we did.

  The fight proved Hundal's eye. The yellows’ training had been just as thorough as our own in the time, I daresay. I recognized a few men who had waited in line with me to be chosen in the yard. Of the reds, we lost all those who had failed to measure up, and the yellows lost all except one, who ran shrieking about the Arena, under the wall, with the crowd yelling at him to stand and fight. A couple of our blood-crazed reds ran after him. It was left to a couple of the Arena guards to step out from a pillared area offset from the queen's box and feather him as he ran. He sank down, and that was the last of the yellows. The red totem would move up by a fraction of a notch. It would take a much more important kaidur than this to make any significant changes. Yet, as we walked back, feeling the aches and the aftereffects, Hundal greeted us warmly, and pointed out that we had lifted the ruby drang, not depressed the red, and that was as it should be.

  Norhan, a shock-headed fellow with a twist to his lips and a remarkably evil eye, said, “You were moonstruck in there, at first, Chaadur. It is just as well I am quick-witted."

  “Indubitably, Norhan. And my thanks."

  He cocked that fishy eye of his at me and licked his lips, and we trailed off to the barracks.

  During the next few days we trained hard and fought twice more, and Hundal and Oivon called me aside as we washed ourselves of the blood and filth after a grueling set-to with a pack of blegs of the blues. We'd drawn. And, with the old fever for the ruby drang hot upon me, I raged that we had not won.

  “We are gaining strength, Chaadur,” said Hundal. He glowered at me, a bluff, ruddy-faced professional cheldur. “I see you are of the reds."

  “Aye."

  “And also, Chaadur, I think you have fought before. You were a paktun, a mercenary, perhaps?"

  That seemed the easiest thing to agree to. I nodded as I sluiced water. The basins ran red.

  “You will make kaidur very soon. It is in my mind to try you single tomorrow."

  Again I sluiced water, and nodded. The quicker I could rid myself of being a coy and apprentice, start to climb the ladder of victories, win my way to a position as kaidur, the quicker I would get a freer run of this place. We were prisoners. There was no easy way past the guards, as I well knew. I did not intend to rot here until I was killed. This was my r
oute out.

  “Tomorrow, then. You fight a churgur of the greens. As ever, by Kaidun, he will be good. I rely on you, Chaadur."

  So it was fixed. I did not doubt there were wagers even on so small a match. The pairs paraded in their armor and feathers across the silver sand, the trumpets pealed, the suns cast down their mingled streaming lights, and we fought. Afterwards, as I washed myself again, Hundal said, “You may count that as your first victory, Chaadur."

  We stood by the door and the noise of splashing water and yelling almost obscured the footfalls. I turned, warily.

  Hundal said, “Lahal, Cleitar. Did you see Chaadur just now? Have you come to sniff him out for yourself?"

  Cleitar Adria still appeared a little strange to me, with the dead scar tissue glistening down the left half of his face and the lifeless socket that had once been an eye. He looked just as tough and ruthless as he had when we'd been taken up together as slaves and fought in the arena. I had won free, with help, and Cleitar had gone on to become a hyr-kaidur and then a senior cheldur. I noticed Hundal's respectful attitude, despite his pointed remarks about another trainer looking over his men. I had to speak up sharply, and yet not arouse suspicions.

  “Lahal, cheldur,” I said. “I am new here, very new. It is all strange. But if you—"

  And then Hundal's outraged bellow silenced me.

  “Coy! You do not speak until spoken to! And especially to a kai-cheldur! Impudent fambly! Onker!"

  But Cleitar had taken the message. He understood, for I had told him in a drinking den here in the Jikhorkdun that I worked in secret for Queen Fahia. As a story, I had taken some good mileage out of that, by Kaidun! Now he nodded, very much the superior officer, and said that he had seen me fight and was faintly interested. “All the new young coys are flatfish these days. It is pleasant to find a man who can use a sword."

  “He can, Cleitar, he can,” burbled Hundal.

  They talked on and I stood back respectfully. Cleitar might give me considerable assistance to escape, and I was not going to miss that opportunity. They knew how to manage men in the Jikhorkdun, especially recalcitrant men.