A Life for Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  The totrixmen were remorselessly cut down. I did not particularly relish the sight; but it had to be done if you concede that the freedom and happiness, not to say health, of a country matters more than the lives of its harsh invaders.

  The amusing thing here was that Filbarrka did not seem in the least surprised to see me. He talked away, filled with his news, as we jogged along together. In a predominantly grass land I would have thought that guerilla tactics would prove particularly difficult; but Filbarrka would have none of that.

  “We ride rings around ’em, majister! And there are the foothills of the Blue Mountains if things get tough.”

  My flier was stashed away in a wood and the locals would keep an eye on it. The country was pastureland, lush and lovely, well watered and wooded, and zorcas could live here as though grazing in a zorca heaven. I told Filbarrka that as I was the emperor now, and the Blue Mountains and this plains section of it called Filbarrka, the same name for man and country, was the empress’s, he, Filbarrka na Filbarrka, was now an imperial Justicar and might style himself Nazab. He was pleased. But titles, I felt, meant little to him beside the thrill of simply riding a zorca.

  I told him the problem.

  He fired up at once. Eager, alive, filled with a fretting spirit, he tore into the problem.

  “Voves. Ah, yes, voves...”

  He had seen voves in action, having visited my clans in Segesthes at the invitation of Hap Loder. Now he began to talk in his quick, bubbling way, red-faced, twitching, full of cunning and guile and sound common sense.

  “As San Blarnoi says,” he observed. “Preparation is improved by digestion. Ha! We have a snug little camp in a fold of the hills — pimples to a Blue Mountain Boy, to be sure — where we can eat and drink — and think. But the tactical situation vis-à-vis a zorca and a vove is fascinating, fascinating. And I have had thoughts, by Vox, yes!

  “No clansman would dream of riding against voves with zorcas.”

  He did not say: “But they are only shaggy clansmen,” as many a wight would have done in Vallia. For, was not I, Dray Prescot, taken for just such a shaggy graint of a clansman?

  He did say with bluff politeness: “We do not have voves to go up against voves with, majister, as they do on the Great Plains.”

  “Discard all notions that I can magically produce an army of vove cavalry. The damned Hamalese burned most of the galleons. I’d hazard a guess that the shipping from Zenicce has been engaged to transport these voves we’re up against. And our own sailing skyships were dispersed and smashed up by the storm at Sicce’s Gates. We’re on our own, Nazab Filbarrka. It is zorcas for us—”

  “What could be better?” He rubbed his hands as we stepped away from the steeds where handlers were already leading them off, talking to them, cajoling them, for every Filbarrkian loves a zorca. We entered the camp area, tents under the trees in a fold in the hills. The weather remained bright; but I fancied it would rain before morning. The food was good, straight from a looted caravan. Filbarrka ate and drank as hugely as he talked. “The zorca is close-coupled, we know that. A good animal can turn on a copper ob. So we can run rings around voves—”

  “They charge in an unbroken knee-to-knee mass.”

  “Naturally. They aim to crush anything in their way.”

  “They do.”

  “So, majister, we are not in the way.”

  I quaffed good Vallian wine and hid my smile.

  The problem spread out for Filbarrka spurred him on as he would never spur on a zorca. I had my own ideas which I intended should meld in with his, so as to maintain the pleasant harmony. He shared my view that if an army was really serious about fighting to win and to stay alive, or as many swods as might be who would stay alive, the discipline must be instant and automatic. That demanded high-quality officers, and these, too, must instantly obey the orders of their generals. As to these latter, if Filbarrka himself was to be a Kapt, I fancied I’d take his recommendation on the others to be appointed. He drank his wine and then looked at me, his face large and happy in the lamplight.

  “How long do I have, majister? And — numbers?”

  “As to numbers, the reports I have indicate the clans brought over at least six divisions.”

  He nodded, for the calculation was easy. A division consisted of a thousand warriors. The clansmen stuck to the old ways of ranking, so that their Jiktars who commanded the divisions did, in fact, command a thousand.

  “By their colors, weapons and harness, it seems, there is more than one clan involved. From what I have been told I have identified the Clan of Rudimwy. The others are unknown to me and must come from north and east of the parts I know.”

  “Six thousand vove-mounted cavalry, clansmen, renowned and feared.” He brisked up. “Life is going to be interesting.”

  “As to time — yesterday. The army or armies that menace us from the southwest cannot be discounted. The lice that infest Vallia daily suck more blood. And Vondium’s army is not yet rebuilt, not ready.” A nasty thought occurred to me. “Anyway, it will be interesting to see who can train and provide their force first; the army in Vondium or you here.”

  That got to him. As I say — nasty.

  He drank again and one of his lieutenants — a raffish bunch, these, liberally bedecked with the ritualistic trappings of zorcamen — leaned across and passed the opinion that any zorcaman of Filbarrka, of the Blue Mountains, which was the blessed Delia’s province, could do what ten of those fat and callous-arsed citizens of Vondium could do, and in half the time, by Vox!

  That made it my turn to hide my face in the wine cup.

  Presently I asked about Korf Aighos of the Blue Mountain Boys.

  Filbarrka roared out a belly-laugh.

  “The old Korf! Why, he’s strung up so many damned flutsmen he could build a hedge with them. No mercenary ventures into the Blue Mountains these days.”

  “Does he send men to assist you down here on the plain?”

  “Aye, oh, aye. We strap everything down, then, and chain and padlock it all triple-tight.”

  Great reivers, the Blue Mountain Boys. Only because they shared a common fealty to Delia prevented the Blue Mountain Boys and the Filbarrkians of the plains from being at each other’s throats as once they had to their mutual loss and benefit.

  “And the Black Mountains? Kov Inch—?”

  “Not a word. The Black Mountains remain as impregnable to the invaders as the Blue. But they are hard-pressed by that rast up north of them, Kov Layco Jhansi.”

  “And east, too,” I said. “In Falinur.”

  “And, over the river, the black and whites, may their eyeballs fall out.”

  “Amen,” I said, companionably, and drank, and we chatted in this polite way a little longer.

  At last, judging the moment ripe, I proposed to Nazab Filbarrka that the Blue Mountain Boys be invited to contribute a component of the zorca force he would form. They might be infantry, archers, axemen, to fight in the intervals — anything, in my view, just so long as I could get their ferocious fighting ability put to use in the coming struggle.

  “And if we can get word to the Black Mountain Men, them too.”

  The threat posed by raids by the Racters over the border into the Black Mountains was serious; but the greater menace drew swiftly on us with those infernal Pypor-worshiping cramphs of clansmen and their voves from Segesthes. The Black Mountains must strip much of their own strength away, if we could reach them, to face Zankov. These are the hateful decisions emperors have to make every day before breakfast.

  For a brief treacherous moment my thoughts dwelled on Drak and his fortunes in Faol among the Manhounds.

  Filbarrka nodded in his enthusiastic fashion. “The great two-handed Sword of War of the Blue Mountains will serve excellently once I have broken up the main mass. I know they regained their pride in the weapon.” He cocked an eye at me, a knowing eye. “There was this business of you and the shorgortz, majister, as I recall.”

  “
Aye,” I said. “And the Sword of War was blunt.”

  “Against the Racters and Jhansi, and now these vovemen, the great Swords of War will be sharp.”

  “By Zim-Zair!” I said. “Yes!”

  Filbarrka began to expatiate on the methods and equipment he would use and need. “I am prejudiced toward comfort in the shape of a four-legged animal, and am convinced that in spite of apparent lessons to the contrary, zorca cavalry can successfully fight those mounted on heavier animals.” He rubbed his fingers together, happily planning cunning tactics and stratagems. “Weapons will be a slender lance, twelve feet long, for a start, until we see how the men behave and the weapons serve. A number of lead-weighted and feathered throwing darts with broad barbed heads will be kept in a case at the saddle.”

  “And a striking weapon, Nazab?”

  “From a nimble zorca curveting about against an oaf astride a lumbering vove? Oh, a mace. A heavy, flanged head mace. Hit the fellow anywhere with that, and one of the flanges will bite in and do his business for him.”

  “Very pretty. These weapons can be built for you in Vondium, together with such harness as you require.”

  “Excellent, excellent!”

  “And you will leave sufficient forces here to contain the confounded mercenaries.”

  “I will. But it will be a task to choose who is to go and who to stay.”

  “That’s why you are a Nazab.”

  “And you, majister, an emperor.”

  Just because of that it was possible for me to introduce the subject of shields. Some of Filbarrka’s people emitted loud snorting noises of derision at this; but I noticed others who, sitting forward intently, marked what was said.

  “Shields?” said Filbarrka. He entwined his fingers and bounced up and down on his seat. “Well, now... Yes. Yes, I have seen shields in action and, if we are to have them, I would favor a long triangular convex-section shield.”

  Well, argument ensued. In the end we agreed that the suggestions put forward by Filbarrka would be acted on to the best of our ability. The arsenals in Vondium had been instructed in the best way of manufacturing shields, and I guaranteed to supply the articles requested.

  As for armor, Filbarrka wanted a light quilted knee and elbow length coat with a steel bar sewn to the outside of the sleeve, steel right forearm guard and shoulder plates. These latter, being the trademark of the Vondium soldier, fitted in perfectly. In all probability what the arsenals produced would be high-quality iron; but we tended to call it steel, as one does. Steel is usually reserved for weapons.

  For helmets of the force, it was proposed that a small, round helmet rather like an acorn in shape, be fitted with a mail hood fastening up to the nasal. Mail was not easily come by in Vallia, as you know. The mail of the Eye of the World was effective but crudely heavy in comparison with the superb mesh of the Dawn Lands of Havilfar. The arsenals in Vondium could produce a mesh link that would serve. I had the sneaky suspicion that many a man of Filbarrka’s zorca force would ride into action without this mail hood.

  “And, in the rear ranks,” said Filbarrka with anticipatory satisfaction, “we substitute bows for the lance and darts. The shields must be different, too. Smaller round parrying shields fastened to the lower arm. They should serve capitally.”

  So it was settled. Settled, that was, in conference. The hard slog of bringing theory into practice must begin now. One supreme advantage Filbarrka did have. He could call on the services of superb zorcamen. That gave him a flying start.

  Although pressed to stay and see some more fun — they had a raid against a caravan, of whose route they had been apprised, planned for the next day — I expressed my regrets. Vondium and the raising of a great city to renewed effort called. Satisfied that the mercenaries and aragorn in this part of Vallia were paying dearly for their plunder, I bid the zorcamen of the plains of the Blue Mountains Remberee, and flew fast back to the capital city.

  The news that met me, conveyed by Enevon Ob-Eye with an appearance of studied calm, was that Barty Vessler the Strom of Calimbrev, wounded though he was, had stolen an airboat and flown from Vondium in the devil of a hurry and the devil of a state. My chief stylor contrived to appear matter-of-fact, but he was enraged, amused, and downright admiring about the stir.

  “Hardly stole, Enevon,” said Seg, stretching his arms, as he kept doing to explore the pains in his mending back. “It was his to start with, you know.”

  “It is gone now, and the Lord Farris is shorter still of air for surveillance.”

  No message had been left. I could only assume that Barty could contain himself no longer and had gone to carry on the overdue talk with Dayra interrupted by the storm and their escape from us. I did not know how long it had been since he had last seen her. I’d wager a king’s treasury against a copper ob that she was never the girl he remembered.

  Nothing could be done about that situation. Every effort must be bent to building up the warlike capacity of the city. Seg said: “I have scoured around, Dray, in the taverns and dopa dens and stewpots. I’ve dug up three hundred men who claim to have been Bowmen of Loh. Some may never have been within a hundred dwaburs of Loh; but I have them sweating over their drills now, under command of Treg Tregutorio, a right old devil but a man with a bow, by Vox. You will find they will stand come the day.”

  “Good,” I said, cheered in a way Seg could not hope to understand. “But, come the day, I shall need you to command the vanguard, as ever. I rely on you, you know.”

  “That is where Treg will want his men if I know him.”

  Despite his shortages, Farris kept up observations of the country and the day did come, sooner than we expected. Farris burst into my room without ceremony, looking wild-eyed, a most unusual state for him to be in.

  “Majister! That cramph Kov Colun! He is found — aye, and an army with him. A great army of mercenaries from Pandahem and Hamal, marching from the south on Vondium. There is little time left.”

  So, with what we had, we marched.

  We marched to the south.

  The host of clansmen mounted on their terrible and terrifying voves pressed in on us from the north. If we were to be the nut in the nutcracker, then we would make sure we broke off one of the jaws, broke and splintered, and sent it shattered back before we turned — with what we had — to strike at the other.

  In those dark days for Vondium and for Vallia there were few, and fewer with every day that passed, who believed any more that we would win through. But, still, we would fight. We would fight on, although doomed, fight on without surrendering. For that was the way of it, in those days. Surrender would bring our utter annihilation. Everyone knew that from bitter example. So we would fight on and if we were doomed, why, then, we would go down before Fate and put as brave a set of faces on it as we could muster.

  That was the way of the new Vallians.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Surprises in the Delphondian Campaign

  I had been wrong about Delphond.

  Delphond, the Garden of Vallia, a sweet, languorous, easy-going place where the fruit hung heavy on the tree and the fat kine filled lush pasturelands, where men and women laughed easily and ate well and quaffed good Delphondian ale, where life flowed in smooth mellow rhythms and it was good to be alive and rest awhile — Delphond, Delphond — the sword and fire and destruction came to Delphond. And the good people arose in their wrath. Calling on the name of Delia of Delphond, they rose and smote the invaders.

  Always I had considered the Delphondi would be too lazy, too good-natured, too easy-going, to resist, even though I had seen evidence of a new awareness and a growing suspicion during that time I had sought news of the mystery of the Black Feathers of the Great Chyyan.[1]

  The distance from Vondium to Delphond is not great. That was the paramount reason why the invasion army under command of Kov Colun Mogper of Mursham had chosen to land there, on the south coast. He might have sailed his fleet up the wide mouth of the Great River; but then he wo
uld have faced crippling odds as all the small craft we could muster would have assailed him. He was confident, I’ll give the cramph that. Straight across Delphond he marched, in a straight line, through the orchards and the cornfields, over the pastureland, and in his wake he left a broad swathe of destruction.

  Also, he left many a man of his regiments hacked to pieces in a ditch where the enraged Delphondi had thrown him.

  We marched southwest to get around that curve of the Great River, crossing the imperial province of Vond. We cut well south of the route of that earlier quick and improvised march against the mock army of Fat Lango. The comparative failure of that ruse had not deterred Kov Colun from setting forth on the balance of the ploy. If we did not stop him, he would be in Vondium, and Yantong would have won another round.

  Although I had long ago come to the conclusion that bricks and mortar were not worth human lives, there were other considerations in the decision to defend Vondium. The arsenals being there constituted one obvious reason. But for that, by Zair, I’d have let Kov Colun and Zankov fight it out between them.

  “By the Veiled Froyvil, my old dom,” exclaimed Seg, reining up and shading his eyes. We looked up into the high blue of a Kregen day. “That looks a trifle likely.”

  Up there, swirling away from the advance guard of our little army, black dots pirouetted across the blue. They appeared to frolic between puffball clouds; but we knew they were not of the frolicsome kind, being aerial cavalry of the army we challenged.

  “Mirvols,” I said. “So Colun has brought aerial forces with him.”

  “We’ve seen them off before, Dray! D’you mind the times in the Hostile Territories — and that scheming woman, Queen Lilah of Hiclantung?”

  “Aye, I mind me, Seg. But we have no air to speak of.”

  “Your Djangs from Valka—”

  “If they get here in time.”

  “Erthyr the Bow will see to it that they do.”

  Ahead of us stretched the open park-like landscape of Delphond. We had marched fast and light, having information from our spies that Colun tarried for his rearguard to come up. If all went as we planned, we would harass the invaders as far as we were able until we were all formed. That was a grim note — all. There were pitifully few of us left. And the new regiments were not ready.