Bladesman of Antares dp-9

by Alan Burt Akers

  Flames sprouted about me and I felt nothing.

  Hirrume Warrior, captained by Hikdar Hardin, had not quite reached the correct position in the sky from which to release the flaming cage of combustibles onto the deck of the Vallian. The galleon I had not recognized had been burned. The one below now, creeping apparently slowly back toward us as we crept up along her wake, was Ovvend Barynth. A fine galleon, she was, belonging to the Kov of Ovvend, farther along the coast from Delphond, and I had been aboard her in the crowded harbor of Vondium in my capacity as Prince Majister of Vallia. In a few murs she would be a flaming volcano, and I the blazing human torch of her destruction.

  The flames touched me.

  Like a high-spirited zorca responding to a clumsy rider’s spurs, I felt the kiss of flame. I felt the heat. I felt the searing pain. I jumped.

  I jumped!

  Whether the drug needed the stimulus of pain to drag its victim back to life, whether I just shattered through my agony all the chemical bonds holding me, I did not know. What I did know was that strength and feeling flooded back to my arms and legs, to my shoulders and back — and to my rear, which felt as though my trousers were on fire.

  I leaped.

  I got a hand to the cable above the cage and I got the other onto the little wooden derrick. I hauled myself in hand over hand and gave a last barbaric kick at the flaming cage, knocking it free. It dropped away with a great hissing and roaring of flame — I did not stop to watch it drop all the way into the sea. I knew in the inferno of sensations clamoring at me that it would drop short of Ovvend Barynth. Even as I handed in along the derrick I caught a faint ironical cheer breaking up from the deck of the Vallian galleon. Trust my sailormen of Vallia to jeer at an enemy’s mistake!

  Ob-Eye was glaring at me, openmouthed, his hands half-raised. Someone had done half the job already on him. All I needed to do as I came inboard was to smash my fist into his one good eye, and knock him flat. A stux flashed past my ribs. A thraxter chunked down past my head, biting deep into the bulwark. I ignored all of them for the fiery pains shooting and darting up my backside. I was aflame, all right; my pants were well alight.

  I couldn’t stop. I charged headlong into the crowd of idlers who had gathered to watch me burn and bomb. They scattered, yelling, and thraxters flashed before my eyes. I seized the nearest guard, broke his neck, took his thraxter, slashed the faces of the next three who came at me, won a space in which it might be possible to extinguish the fire in my rear.

  I hurled myself onto the deck and rolled over and over in a vile stink of burning cloth and singed flesh. When I leaped up a fresh group of skymen faced me, ready to overbear me. I knew exactly what I must do. I was alone, stranded on the decks of an enemy sky ship stuffed with foemen, and I had a job to do. There was some satisfaction in it as I bellowed out, high and hard and as loud as I could, “Hai! Jikai!” I hurdled the group opposite me, put in a couple of thwacks as I cleared their prostrate bodies, gripped with my left hand onto the rail and went for the next bunch. They thought they had me penned between them and the control area, where Hikdar Hardin gaped like a loon above the skymen at the levers. These men were protected by a wrought-iron screened cage and I wrenched the door open so that the hinges squealed. Hardin clapped his mouth shut, whipped out his sword, and came for me. I did not kill him; a Bladesman pass and his sword went whirling up, end over end, sparkling. I thumped him alongside the temple with the hilt, just below the rim of his helmet, and showed my thraxter-point to the two skymen at the levers.

  One babbled, “Do not kill me, Notor! I know nothing-”

  The other went for his dagger.

  Him, I clouted and stretched senseless. The other one cowered back, screaming. Faces showed beyond the perforations in the wrought-iron screen. The door groaned. So I had to hit this screaming wretch, knocking him out. I bundled his unconscious body atop that of his comrade’s and wedged the Hikdar’s body across both, using the captain as a wedge. The wrought-iron door in the screen would not open easily now.

  I leaped to the levers. These, with Delia’s tuition fresh in my mind, I could understand. Hard over with the speed-forward lever. This, I knew, would bring the two silver boxes linked to the controls beneath my feet closer together. The boxes would most probably be in a well-armored compartment in the center of the ship. The other lever, that controlling attitude, I thrust to starboard. Now the two silver boxes would be rotating around each other in their concentric rings of wooden and bronze mountings. Hirrume Warrior responded instantly. The sky ship picked up speed and swung on to her new course. All this time the frenzied yelling outside the bridge-like control area mounted in fury. I laughed. I, Dray Prescot, laughed. Let them fume! To the Ice Floes of Sicce with all of them — and with that yetch Lem to keep them company!

  Through the forward screens, more pierced to afford a good view, I could see Pride of Hanitcha, the Queen’s sky ship, turning with contemptuous solid ease there in the thin air, swinging back to find out why we had not burned the second galleon. On our respective courses, which I found I could feel with the same instinctive feel I had for a frigate ghosting in under reduced canvas between shoals, I saw Pride of Hanitcha would cross directly above Ovvend Barynth. When sky ship crossed galleon more hideous spouts of fiery destruction would tumble down. .

  The speed lever was notched over as far as it would go. I hammered it with the flat of my hand. Outside that wrought-iron screen the crewmen of the sky ship howled and danced. Now they had brought up a timber and were using it as a battering ram. The sky ship hurtled on through thin air. I held her course. The wrought-iron door bulged, screeching, and one of the skymen’s arms was trapped, acting as a wedge. The Hikdar draped across, closing off movement. The door jerked again as the timber struck. The note boomed like a gong of battle.

  Now the devils were clambering on the wrought-iron roof trying to stick stuxes and thraxters down at me. I flailed the thraxter up at them, clanging against steel like an anvil chorus. Now the roof of the hexagonal bridge-like structure swarmed with men trying to get at me. Now I was in a cage of my own devising — a cage not filled with blazing combustibles but a cage affording me protection!

  They’d break through soon. I knew that. Again I hammered at the speed lever. Ahead of me the towered side of the Queen’s sky ship, pierced and looped and wicked with varters and catapults swung closer. Men were running about her decks. The Queen had not known what King Doghamrei was up to in his plans to get rid of me, and his insane plotting was going to cost Queen Thyllis dear. The bows of Pride of Hanitcha began to swing. She was trying to dip beneath my ram. If I missed I would not get another chance, by Vox!

  The cacophony of yelling outside the iron cage, where the skymen struggled to break in, mounted in intensity. They had realized what was happening. There was precious little deck for them to mass on, for the control cage had been specifically designed to stand as a fortress, a strong point, and its wrought-iron mesh, cunningly angled, afforded a fine view out but would prevent the easy entry of enemy bolts and arrows.

  No time to laugh now, no time for anything but to keep the sky ship on course and hold off these Hamalian rasts. .

  The door groaned and squealed and gapped a fraction, enough for an intrepid soul to hurl a stux. I caught it and returned it, a neat little cast through the iron crack, and the skyman screeched and fell away. Another took his place with a crossbow. The levers were hard over. I could force them no farther. If the skymen slew me and forced their way into the control cage they might yet be in time to divert the swift destructive rush of the sky ship.

  Dodging the first bolt as it whistled past my head was the quick and instinctive reaction of a Krozair. Leaving the levers, I jumped for the door, whipped the thraxter in and out, and tumbled the crossbowman back, spouting blood from a wrecked face.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” shouted a Hikdar, foaming, his face scarlet, urging his men on. He was a dwa-Hikdar and subordinate to his captain, Hardin, who was a zan-Hikdar,
and who now lay wedged against the door having desperately little chance of ever making that next and vital step to ob-Jiktar. The skymen made a fresh rush, bashing their timber against the door, as the dwa-Hikdar urged them on with that typical battle cry of Hamal: “Hanitch! Hanitch! Kill! Strike the nulsh down!”

  The iron door gonged. I thrust at the first unfortunate on the timber and he dodged back, colliding with his fellows. There was an instant’s confusion, then they had dropped the timber among their own feet and legs, and the timber fought for Vallia!

  “Hai! Jikai!” I roared at them to infuriate them, to goad them, and all the time the monstrous sky ship bore down on her equally monstrous consort across the swirling sky.

  Like a Bladesman I whickered the thraxter at them as, yelling, they rushed again. A quick glance forward showed me the Queen’s sky ship Pride of Hanitcha, painted, gilded, the flags fluttering, rushing in with so close and sudden a telescopic effect that in a trice all I could see was her central portion, its middle tower with a wrought-iron cage similar to the one in which I battled on. Then all that vanished in a single chaotic glimpse of the control cage. Pride of Hanitcha had made a last desperate attempt to slide under me. She failed.

  The crash hurled me across the cage and I grabbed the levers to steady myself. Men were reeling and shrieking about the decks, toppling, to plunge twisted over the side. With a deliberate savagery I thrust both levers hard down, sending Hirrume Warrior with Pride of Hanitcha impaled on her ram and her beak planted in her vitals plunging for the sea.

  Absolute bedlam foamed outside.

  They’d given up trying to break in. Men were screaming and yelling, calling on the gods and godlings and saints, bellowing all manner of oaths. Distinctly, over the racket, I heard a panic-stricken voice shrilling: “Help me now, Lem the Silver Leem! To you the sacrifice, to you the power, to me the deliverance! Lem! Lem!”

  Any idiot who called on Lem for help deserved all he got.

  Also, I heard a strong voice calling on Opaz, and this, I admit, gave me a pang. The sea rushed up. I caught a distorted glimpse of it, all twisted and on end, past the deck of the Queen’s sky ship. I’d gaffed that one, brutally! Judging distances is a necessary accomplishment of a first lieutenant of a seventy-four if he wishes to remain in that position. When the sea boiled beneath, for we were now almost standing on our starboard bow with men falling off in spouts of white foam into the water, I eased the controls. Those silver boxes would have to earn their keep now! Half of their secrets I knew. Somehow, whatever was really in the paol-box reacted with the mix of minerals in the vaol-box and lifted Hirrume Warrior. The sea flattened out beneath us. The ram spur of the sky ship must have sunk deeply into the vitals of Pride of Hanitcha and disrupted the careful balancing in the wood and bronze circles where her two silver boxes operated. She was not lifting. Together, flat, like a pair of old boots, the two sky ships splashed into the sea, gouting water and debris in a flower of destruction. Even while the ship floundered and the water cascaded up past the splintered bulwarks, I dragged the three unconscious men away from the door. I dragged it open on its buckled hinges, straining with effort. I roared out, crabbing along half on the deck, half on the bulwarks. What I looked like I do not care to imagine — what I remember is the decidedly cool feel about my backside. Men were leaping into the water, clinging to bits of wreckage. The sky ship might not sink for some time; there would be ample wreckage to support her company.

  Ob-Eye, his face congested, a beautiful swelling of magnificent coloration around his one good eye, saw me and yelled. He charged. There was no time for Bladesman’s work here. We had borne on past the track of the galleon, but she was bowling along in a stiff breeze and would be gone in a trice.

  “You cramph, you rast — I’ll cut you down, by Lem!”

  I slid his sword, circled, clunked him over the head, and dived over the side into the water. I started swimming, fast. I am able to swim fast, Zair be praised, and I had only to knock three clutching pairs of hands away as I scythed through the wreckage. The galleon, from this angle, towered into the blue sky, seemingly immense, a spired castle of white canvas, where before she had been a vulnerable toy on the ocean floor.

  I yelled.

  “Ovvend Barynth! Ahoy!” Water sloshed into my mouth and I spat, took a couple of strokes, and heaved up again, waving. “Ahoy! Ovvend Barynth! Ahoy, you pack of rascals! Vallia! Vallia! Ahoy!”

  The galleon sailed on, leaning with the wind, remote and majestic, aloof. I cursed. Spitting water, I lifted as far as I could, waving frantically. Behind me the sea was covered with wreckage and heads bobbed. I looked hungrily at the galleon as she surged past, white water spouting under her, the long race-built lines of her gliding through the water.

  What I would have to do I had no wish to do. But there was nothing else for it.

  “Ahoy, Ovvend Barynth! ”I really yelled now. “Ahoy, you bunch of witless scow-bellied loons! Vallia! I am Prince Dray Prescot! Prince Majister of Vallia! Haul up, you bunch of famblys! Ahoy! Ahoy!

  Vallia! Vallia!”

  An instant that was as long as eternity — then the main-topsail yard went over, the sail went to the mast, and I knew my vaunting self-boasting had at last made the captain take notice. I lay back in the water and floated and waited until the boat came. Brawny suns-bronzed arms hauled me in over the transom and I tumbled down to the stern sheets.

  “You said you were a prince!” The voice of the young officer was strongly accusative. I own I looked a sight, all hairy, filthy, blood smeared, and with the seat of my pants burned away. I fixed him with my eye.

  “Is Captain Lars Ehren still in command of Ovvend Barynth!”

  He looked bewildered. Water dripped from me: crimson water. Opaz knew what thoughts were going through the heads of his men. They had seen a great galleon of Vallia burn. They had seen one sky ship crash headlong into another and bring her down in destruction. And now a hairy maniac had swum over to them, bellowing like a chunkrah, claiming to be a prince of Vallia. No — not claiming to be a prince of Vallia.

  Claiming to be the Prince Majister.

  I had been through a pretty bizarre experience, and a fight that for all the lack of actual blade-to-blade contact was as deadly as any a Bladesman might covet, and so I now confess I was just a trifle sharp with this young man. And, too, wearing trousers without a seat is a far cry from not wearing trousers or a breechclout at all. .

  “Well, youngster! Brace up! I asked you a question.”

  We had pulled in close enough to Ovvend Barynth to make any reply of his superfluous. A chunky man with a huge spade beard leaped up onto the ratlines, gripping with one mahogany fist, peering down at his boat as she pulled alongside with the bowman standing up ready to hook on.

  “Prince Dray!” bellowed down this squat and bearded man. He almost fell off his own slip, so excited were his movements, letting go of the shrouds to wave and yell. “Prince Dray!”

  “Ahoy there, Captain Lars!” I roared up. “Lahal!”

  “Lahal it is, my Prince! And may Opaz be forever praised for sending you to me in this evil hour. Nikvove of Evir burned, Majister, burned! Did you see?”

  “I saw, Captain Lars.” Old naval habits impelled me up and out of the boat first. Captain Lars Ehren jumped to the deck and bellowed for due honors to be paid to me as I came aboard; but I roared at him, and clasped his hand. “You are for Hyrklana, of course? Vollers?”

  “Aye, Prince.”

  “It is a fruitless journey. Turn back, Captain. Put your helm over and brace your yards around. We can find our own fliers in Vallia, by Vox!”

  The Vallian deputation for Hyrklana aboard, of whom I knew only one man, and that slightly, demurred, but I overbore them. Truth to tell, I think the ghastly sight of a great Vallian galleon burning — there was now no sign of Nikvove of Evir at all — convinced them with more urgency. We picked up a mere handful of the men from the doomed ship who had managed to hurl themselves overboard. Captain
Lars Ehren turned his ship’s rakish beakhead to the north and with the wind over our starboard beam we punched into the seas, going home.

  There was much to be accomplished still in Hamal, for I had not given up my schemes for that country, not by a long zorca-horn. Rees the lion-man, chinless Chido, they would not be forgotten — the Trylon Rees with his booming laugh and his “We’ll make you a Bladesman yet, Hamun!” — and there was, also, that extraordinarily unpleasant Queen Thyllis to be reckoned with, and the obnoxious King Doghamrei -

  and there were others.

  I fancied that Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley, candidate for Bladesman, would one day ride into Ruathytu and go knocking on doors in the sacred quarter.

  I did not forget the cramphs of Hamal had burned and sunk a fine galleon of Vallia. But, most important, glorious and wonderful despite it had been bought in cunning and treachery, I carried with me fifty percent of the secrets of the fliers, and the wise men of Vallia must supply the answers for the other fifty percent. The Emperor, my Delia’s father, would want to know the reason why if they did not.

  Delia! Delia of the Blue Mountains, Delia of Delphond!

  Home, home to Vallia! Blow the winds! Roar the gales! Bear me on and on to Valka and my high fortress of Esser Rarioch overlooking Valkanium and the bay! Home, home, home. .

  “You shiver, my Prince!” Captain Lars Ehren looked concerned. “Your clothes — let me provide you with the best we have.”

  “A simple breechclout will do, Captain.” I sniffed the breeze, hugely. “I shall enjoy this journey home. A breech-clout, if you will, Captain — provided it is a scarlet one!”