To fly off and leave my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains! Just to sail away like that, leaving my Delia with all her beauty and love and sound common sense and untold flights of romantic happiness! What a fool I was! What an onker, what a get-onker! I turned the flier around over the sea westward of the island of Astar, isolate and remote, and swung back. What were state secrets and high politics compared with Delia — Delia, Princess Majestrix of Vallia!
Away over on my larboard lay the island of Pandahem, where Pando was no doubt attempting to shore up his Kovnate against his foes, and Tilda, Tilda of the Many Veils, was trying to support him and fighting against taking too much drink. I must visit them soon. But the Opaz-forsaken rasts of Hamal were attacking northward over the mountains in Pandahem, and soon they would conquer North Pandahem as they had subdued the South. Then it would be Vallia’s turn. How could I take my people of Djanduin, my people of Valka, up against the Hamalians without a strong air service? Oh, yes, the Vallian Air Service was strong and devoted and would fight. But I had seen the sky ships of the Hamalians. Against them the poor fliers the Hamalians sold to other countries would stand no chance. Against them flutduins would hurl themselves in vain. And Vallia, that great island of which the smaller island of Valka was a Stromnate, possessed no aerial cavalry at all.
No.
No, I could not selfishly return to Delia and let the world of Kregen go hang. I must turn this pitiful little voller about, and head south again, flying over the Southern Ocean to the continent of Havilfar, and to Hamal.
It was a doom laid upon me.
Because I had no heart to fly near the devastated ruins of Paline Valley, this time I took the little flier in over the northern coast of Hamal close by the town of Eomlad to the east of Skull Bay. Below lay thick impenetrable jungles and the heat persisted. Eomlad was situated inland on the banks of a wide sluggish river and as I passed I saw smoke and flames rising in the sultry air. Shades of that earlier visit!
This was, again, no business of mine. This time, I, Dray Prescot, Krozair of Zy, forced my voller on and left the burning town. I had business in Ruathytu.
Every instinct in me warred together. I wished to go to Eomlad and help. I knew that time was running out for my mission to be of use. Hamal’s attacks on Pandahem, leading to an invasion of Vallia, would not cease because I went to a burning town to see what help I might render. Anyway, the fighting was over. I had seen the swarms of sky ships departing. What had been going on there I did not know; I would discover all that concerned me at the capital, Ruathytu.
The burning and sack of Eomlad, a famous occasion, was a symptom of a great event that directly assisted me, as you will hear. I flew on, filled with the urgency of my quest, determined this time to allow no obstacles to stop me, obstacles like, for instance, a red-faced onker of a Strom with a grudge. Well, men grow corn for Zair to sickle, as they say in the Eye of the World. From Eomlad, the capital, Ruathytu, lies due southeast a distance just over two hundred dwaburs. With the shining level spear of the River Havilthytus in view along the southern horizon and with a luxuriantly growing farming area below, with small tributaries flowing south into the Havilthytus, their banks dotted with the white-walled, flat-roofed houses of villages, the confounded voller gave up on me. With some exertion and a masterful display of the aerial skill taught me by Delia, I brought the flier to earth with a bone-shaking jerk. I had plowed a nasty-looking furrow through a field of rich crops, and I knew the farmer would not be pleased.
I need not have worried about that poor devil of a farmer.
Even as I jumped from my ruined craft I saw evil tongues of flame burst from his flat roof, shimmering palely in the glow of Zim and Genodras, the two suns that are called Far and Havil in Havilfar, and greasy smoke broke away in puffs downwind.
So familiar are scenes like this in my homecoming to Kregen I had to remember that I was here because I had willed it, and not through the summons of the Scorpion. I ran toward the burning farmhouse. For my playacting part as Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley, I wore a crisp new white tunic run up for me by Delia’s sewing maidens. A rather handsome bead necklace of gold and rubies hung around my neck, borrowed from Delia’s gem casket. But, because I had taken my leave in Valka, I wore belted to my waist a rapier and a left-hand dagger, the Jiktar and the Hikdar. As I ran I saw men fighting, and women running, and I heard the bestial sound of combat. Why I embroiled myself in a single burning farmhouse when I had flown past a burning city I leave to others to explain; my flier had broken down here and so here was where action lay. The situation had to be sized up. I dare not plunge in on the wrong side; my mission in Hamal meant too much for silly mistakes like that.
There was, to my mind at least, no question which side to take.
The flutsmen were going about their work with dreadful efficiency.
These mercenaries of the skies are a fascinating phenomenon of Havilfar. If you pay them they will fight for you. This is true of the many various sorts of mercenaries on Kregen, yes; but the flutsmen consider themselves a cut above every other kind of fighting-man — and in this, as I had shown and was to show with greater severity, they were wrong.
Most of them were off their fluttrells, the birds chained down out of the way of the fighting, and the riders were shooting with crossbows at anyone who tried to break out of the flames. Familiar scenes! Horrible scenes! I had no business here and should get my tail out of it as quickly as possible; but, like the onker I am, I jumped in, flickering my rapier and main-gauche. Three flutsmen went down, narrow-bladed steel thrust through their midriffs, before any of them were aware of me. Cutting down the odds is one way of staying ahead. Three of them wielding thraxters came at me: Rapier and main-gauche against thraxter. . Well, the thraxter is a vertical-bladed weapon, and the rapier a horizontal-bladed weapon. The left-hand dagger gave me an advantage, but two of the flutsmen carried shields. It was warm work. I skipped and jumped, and braced away the seeking blades with my left-hand dagger while the rapier slid in, smooth, low, deadly, and so whipped out, glistening with blood. The fight did not last long.
A crowd of flutsmen took the sky amid a rustling of wings. I was alone. This meant that succor for the farm was at hand — or so I thought. I walked across to the door, which was just slaking into gray-and-black ash where the different woods had burned away. I could see no one alive. Inside the house lay a charred mass of burned bodies, most unpleasant, and I backed out. The suns still shone. The breeze blew. The smell of the crops reached in over that charnel-house stink. I went around the corner of the building to the stables, for youngsters often hide there during raids, and at first could see no one. I wiped my weapons on a piece of cloth hanging from a nail in a beam. There were no animals in the stables. The smell of urine and dung and straw hung rich and earthy on the air, and the flat evil taste of charred wood drifted from the husk of the house.
A pile of straw moved. A hand showed and, even as I watched, the hand gripped my ankle. I saw the straw slide away and I was staring down into the face of a Rapa, his fierce beaked birdlike face bloody and gashed, one eye missing, and in the remaining eye a dying glare of mad, vengeful terror. He gobbled at me, and blood ran greasily.
“Yetch! Nulsh! By Rhapaporgolam the Reaver of Souls! You will die!”
“Steady, dom!” I spoke with some acerbity. “I’m on your side.”
He did not hear me. His grip was just tight enough for me to have to kick harder to free myself than I would wish to kick a dying man. The Rapa’s wounds were very terrible, and he lurched from his hiding place, the straw falling away and glistening red with blood. I forced myself to remain upright, but I was not going to allow him, dying or not, to continue to grip my ankle. He was trying to trip me, and his strength would not have matched a woflo’s.
Like a stupid onker, I stood there with a dying man hanging on to my ankle and feebly trying to pitch me over. I heard two voices, two short sentences, the second following hard on the heel
s of the first: “Hai Jikai! For the Emperor!” And then: “Your back, dom! Look out!”
Then someone hit me under the ear. He hit hard enough for me to go headfirst over the prostrate Rapa, to break his grip on my ankle, to send me pitching into the bloody straw. I spat mouthfuls out, and in my head those famous old bells of Beng-Kishi rang and rang and dizzied me. Blearily I looked out on the stables.
The wounded Rapa was now dead. Another Rapa, dressed in blood-smeared half-armor, was also dead, his head near severed.
I blinked, I swallowed. Then I put a probing finger very gingerly to the tender spot under my ear, and I winced.
“He didn’t pay quite enough for your passage to the Ice Floes of Sicce, dom! Or else you have a skull as thick as a vosk’s!” said that second voice.
“As stupid as a vosk’s,” I said, staring blearily up at the man who boomed in so jovial and stentorian a voice, the man who had shouted to warn me, the man who had dispatched this poor pair of Rapas. He was not apim. He wore bronze lorica and helmet, with workmanlike straps of plain leather. He held a thraxter, shining with blood, in the professional grip of the fighting-man. In his helmet feathers glowed, brave feathers of purple and gold. He wore greaves, and they were gilded and shining. His face showed the glorious golden mane, now mostly confined beneath the helmet, and the equally glorious golden beard under his chin, of the Numim. He was not apim, like me. As I have promised you, I introduce types of people on Kregen when they impinge on my story. I had met Numims many times: they had served with Viridia the Render; they had marched under my flag, Old Superb, many times; I had fought with them and against them. The nearest approximation to their faces I can give you is to liken them to a human lion. If I refer to Numims as lion-men, you will understand why.
Now this Numim yelled at me as he put down a hand and hauled me to my feet.
“I can see by your clothes you are no fighting-man, dom!” He took in my rapier. “And I see you have taken up this fancy notion of the young bloods. Rapiers and daggers, they’re all the rage with the young aristos in Ruathytu these days!”
He pulled me up and I winced as pain flowed over my scalp. I brushed bloody straw away, and so the Numim must have taken flutsmen blood upon my white tunic for Rapa blood from the straw. Many races do not have red blood on Kregen, but red is the color mostly seen on battlefields.
“You did well, dom!” the lion-man roared again. He was in high good humor. Truth to tell, I seldom knew when he was not in high good humor. “We cleaned out this rast’s nest of emperor’s men; cleared them out with fire!”
“The Rapa shouted for the emperor,” I said, cautiously.
A thought occurred to him, and he drew himself up. “Llahal and Llahal,” he said, with the double-L
sound that is the greeting for strangers upon Kregen. “Your name?”
I knew he was an important personage, from the ornamentation of his dress and the jewels in the hilt of the thraxter. As part of my plan I would humor him.
“Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley. Llahal.”
“I am Rees ham Harshur, Trylon of the Golden Wind.”
So we made pappattu.
“You are fit enough to move, Amak Hamun?”
“I can move. But my voller cannot.”
He laughed. The Trylon of the Golden Wind was seldom able to pass a bur without breaking into great gusty laughter.
“The flutsmen are as always anxious to earn their hire. You must accept my hospitality. I return to the city now that our work here is done. I was checking its thoroughness when I came across you. You are keen, I will say that, Amak; but not overly skilled, by Krun!” He was laughing away now. “To be caught and held by the foot by a stinking dying Rapa while another clouts you over the head! That is a story!
You were fortunate he hit you with nothing worse than a wooden beam.”
“Yes,” I said.
We went out into the suns-shine to his voller. A Trylon is the next rank of nobility above a Strom. He was an important man. These Numims are a boisterous crowd, and they do not share that strong attribute of Earthly lions — they are not lazy. Trylon Rees was a bundle of energy.
“I had best fetch my things from my-” I began.
He waved a gauntleted hand most airily.
“Leave them, Amak Hamun. We will send a voller from the city to collect yours and bring it in. Climb aboard.”
Observing the fantamyrrh, for I did not wish to offend this lion-man, I stepped aboard his flier. She was a nice handy craft, with a smart Hikdar as captain, and a crew who wore the purple-and-gold favors in colored feathers and in scarves around their waists and shoulders. We went into the cabin and the voller lifted off for Ruathytu.
What Trylon Rees told me as we lolled in the cabin, drinking wine, a nice light pale yellow vintage from Barrath, interested me mightily. The emperor had been overthrown. Now Hamal was ruled by Queen Thyllis, who would soon be proclaimed empress. She was the old emperor’s niece, and she was, by the Trylon’s account, a remarkable woman. Any hopes I had that the outward expansion of Hamal’s frontiers and the consequent eternal wars would now cease were crushed as Rees said: “The old emperor was past it. He was leading us to disaster. Now that we have cleared him and his followers away — you had a hand in that, Amak, and therefore you have our thanks — we can get on with the job of prosecuting the war as it should be fought.” He shook that massively maned head. “Although I like a good fight, man to man, I am not overly fond of war.”
“You share my sentiments, Trylon.”
“What! You relish a fight — ah! I see.” He winked at me. “You would be a young blood and ruffle it with the best in the sacred quarter of Ruathytu. Well, we shall see what we shall see.” He poured more wine. “But as to this Krun-forsaken war — if only the rasts of Pandahem would leave us alone, we would not be under the necessity of fighting them.”
“Do the Pandaheem then war on us?”
I’ll admit now, that I slid in that word “us” very smartly indeed, getting my tongue around it and so squashing the “you” I had been about to say.
“You know they do, Amak!”
It was no part of my plans to fall out with a powerful man who could materially assist me to betray his own country.
“Of course. I was just wondering if, perhaps, the empire is not too far stretched-”
“Ah!” He leaned forward. “There you touch upon the nub of the question. We are stretched, but the empire is strong. There are thousands of clums available to fill the ranks of the army. And we can call on the guls, if need be. And we have wealth enough to hire mercenaries from overseas. We shall fight on the three present fronts — aye! And if necessary we can open more fronts to destroy our foes!”
You can’t really argue coherently against a belief like that. You have to show a fellow the error of his ways. One way of showing him would be to provide Vallia with a strong and reliable air service. So I nodded and said words to the effect that the new queen would bring good fortune to the empire. He looked at me with those great golden eyes of his very shrewd upon me. He sipped wine, and, deliberately, put the goblet down. “I’ve taken a fancy to you, young Hamun,” he said. There was no incongruousness in the statement to him. He was a good foot taller than I was, broad, bulky, and powerful. He was just leaving youth behind and entering into the full power of his prime. He was also very rich, and a Trylon. So he tended to treat me with a proprietorial air that, you may imagine, irked me. However, I dissimulated, for I had need of this Numim in my murky plans. I, Dray Prescot, patronized by a Numim Trylon!
He went on, speaking carefully: “This new queen of ours we’ve just put on the throne. We’ve done the best for Hamal. But, young Hamun, you take the advice of a man who knows a thing or two. Look out for her. Steer clear of her. She eats young ones like you before breakfast.”
I did not press him on the point. This new Queen Thyllis of Hamal did not figure in my plans. So began a phase of my life in Havilfar that amuses me each t
ime I recall it. Had Trylon Rees of the Golden Wind not turned up I would have found another high-ranking personage to vouch for me. I needed to get near those in power. I knew that the secret of the silver boxes would give me control of the manufacture of vollers. And, remembering my doing in Magdag, when I had lived the life of ease in the Emerald Eye Palace during the day, and had slipped out to the warrens for nefarious schemes by night, I fancied I knew a trick or two that would do nicely for these arrogant lords of Hamal.
Chapter Nine
“We’ll make a Bladesman of you yet!”
“No, no, no, Hamun! Your body behind the line! The arm straight before you lunge!” Rees flicked his rebated point away from my chest where his stop thrust would, had the point been sharp, have skewered me. He laughed even as he looked crestfallen. “I swear by Havil the Green — and no man should have to do that, by Krun! — you grow worse every day instead of better!”
He stripped the mask from his massive lion-face and hurled it at one of his slaves. The light from the southerly-aspect windows lay cool and shadowless within the salles d’armes. I stripped my mask off in turn. Had I pretended too far? Had I been too clumsy for belief? It is a sobering task to have to fight, even in practice, with a man and allow his point to reach in past your guard and thunk against your chest. It gave me a shivery queasy feeling, I can tell you.
“We’ll make a Bladesman of you, yet, Hamun!” boomed Trylon Rees. “Ho there, you rascals. Wine!”
His slaves bounded up with wine and clean cloths and sponges dipped in aromatic oils to cleanse him. From his seat under the windows Nath Tolfeyr laughed. “You’ll never make a Bladesman of friend Hamun!” Nath Tolfeyr was an indolent-seeming youth, with long arms and legs, an apim, and very skilled with the rapier and main-gauche. He wore gaudy clothes, all frills and bows and lace, and a hard-brimmed hat with a square outline and round upon the head. . very Spanish. “Never, I swear by Le — by Krun! — never while there are two suns in the sky.”
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