Renegade of Kregen dp-13

by Alan Burt Akers

  I recognized Grogor.

  I smashed at my mount again and he responded. We flew out into a clearing of the tall grasses and splashed across a stream. On and on — the stikitches would take my daughter to the king at the Volgodonts’ Aerie. There was every chance he would have flown here in the little two-place airboat. If he had I would take his voller. Somehow I did not think I would bother to take him back to Zy. Looking back now, as that mad ride brought me raving across the wild country to the Volgodonts’

  Aerie, I recognize my headlong foolishness. I had been denied many of the best years in which a father may see his children growing up. Velia had been three when the damned Star Lords had whirled me back to Earth for a miserable twenty-one years; she would be twenty-five now. What had her life been like?

  Fragments, impressions, the jolting of the sectrix, the blustering of the wind, the pain in my jaws, and over all the moonshine, streaming gold and pink and glorious upon the nighted face of Kregen, mocking the blackness upon me. For every moon shone in the sky, full and gleaming, in that tiny period when the three smaller moons in their hurtling passages coincide and form with the Maiden with the Many Smiles, and the Twins, and She of the Veils; that magic time of the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom. Brilliant the light, brilliant and yet soft with the exquisite delicacy of moonlight. The land lay as though enchanted.

  And through that magic midnight splendor I rode with the devils gibbering at me and ghastly phantasms tormenting my mind, for I knew that this genius king planned no pleasure for my Velia. Through a screen of trees I flung the sectrix, striking away branches and leaves, silver and gold and rose in the radiance, and bore out onto a meadow where a stream ran, liquid bronze under the moons of Kregen — and there lifted the Volgodonts’ Aerie.

  Stark and many pinnacled, it rose against the stars like a stretched and piercing claw of a volgodont itself.

  The sectrix was not as fine a mount as Grogor’s. Now Gafard’s second in command was up with me. The two animals galloped neck and neck. I did not speak. I could not speak. I stared ahead as a leem stares, entirely vicious and feral, without mercy.

  Grogor shouted. "We will never save her — only us two! The lord follows. Gadak, this is madness!" I did not answer him, but hit my failing beast with the flat of the sword.

  "The lord bid me say he would forgive you, Gadak, only if you humble yourself to him — he follows -

  Gadak!"

  Still I did not answer. We raced on. I feel sure that you who listen to my story will long ago have realized who the Lady of the Stars was, that she was my daughter. Now, with hindsight, it seemed obvious. But, to me, plain Dray Prescot who had so little experience of daughters to go on, how could that stunning truth possibly be easy? I had not known, had had no remotest idea. How could I?

  Sectrix riders trotted out into the clearing to front us.

  I saw their green cloaks, weird in the moons’ radiances, and the blackness of their clothes. Pinkly golden glitter reflected from their steel facemasks. They wore mail.

  Grogor saw and cursed.

  I did not halt the laboring sectrix. The animal lunged straight ahead, gasping in convulsive effort, the steam jetting from his nostrils. The stikitches lifted their swords. There were six of them, I believe. I did not count. I recollect the jar of blade on blade, the quick and deadly cut, and the vicious thrust. I lopped and chopped. I spitted. The facemasks splintered in shards of flying metal. I whirled that Ghittawrer weapon and I sliced those damned assassins, and there was no real time or reason in it beyond the swirling madness in my brain, the crazy viciousness of insanity driving me on. The six of them, if there were six of them, lay sprawled upon the grass of the meadow, their black and shining blood dribbling in pools from their mutilated bodies. I did not spare a single look, but hit the sectrix and galloped on. I did hear Grogor screaming: "You are a devil!" That was true. Why remark on it?

  "We are too late!" Grogor was yelling and hauling his beast up. He almost collided with me, the six-legged animals struggling together and staggering sideways.

  "Get out of my way, rast!" I said, hauling my mount up, driving it to stand and run although it was almost done. "Look!" Grogor pointed. He pointed up. I looked. If the king was away in the voller it would be over.

  A great winged shape lofted from the top tower of the Volgodonts’ Aerie. Against the radiance of the moons the fluttrell soared up, his wide pinions beating in that long, effortless rhythm of the saddle bird. Grogor yelled in openmouthed disbelief. The truth was plain. More argenters had arrived from Hamal and as well as vollers they carried saddle birds. The fluttrell was the most common saddle-mount of Havilfar. Thyllis had spared a few to please the whim of King Genod and he had mastered the knack of flying and had come here, in person, to show off his prowess to his new conquest, the Lady of the Stars, who had once been the lady of Gafard, the King’s Striker, and was now the lady of the king — for a time.

  "The devil from the bat-caves!" yelled Grogor. My sectrix staggered with exhaustion. Grogor hauled out his bow, drew and nocked an arrow, lifted and let fly. I reached out to him, dropping the blood-choked Ghittawrer sword. But his fingers released the string and the shaft flew. If he hit Velia. .!

  The fluttrell winged up, its pinions beating. I did not see the arrow strike. I saw those wings suddenly flap limply; they beat off-rhythm; and the bird swerved in the air.

  Grogor’s arrow had wounded the fluttrell, yet it could still fly. I saw it curve around in a mazy, sweeping circle. It was dropping. The wings beat erratically. The bird extended its legs, talons spread wide. Grogor hauled out his sword. He yelled, high and fierce. He sent his mount charging for the point where the bird would land. I could see two figures on the fluttrell’s back, abaft the wide head vane. Two figures, struggling. I held my breath.

  The king must have newly learned the art of flying a saddlebird. I guessed my Velia — my Velia! My daughter! — would be an expert in the air, trained by my Djangs astride flutduins. She would not thus foolishly struggle as a bird planed in for a landing.

  Grogor’s sword blurred in the mingled light of the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom. The king saw us below him. I saw his face, a pale blur in the light, saw it lift and stare past that other face so near his hateful features, stare and look past me. I turned. A body of men rode in the shadows of the trees. It was difficult to distinguish them, save for the green and the mail and the glitter of weapons and war harness. I did not think they rode on behalf of Gafard. But they might. Gafard, himself, might ride at their head.

  This is what the king thought.

  I swung back. Grogor was bellowing and shaking his sword.

  The bird made a last effort. It beat its wings and tried to rise. The two faces up there were close together as the bird tried to lift and fly in obedience to the frenzied flogging from Genod’s goad. It tried to beat its pinions and rise up, and could not. I saw those two faces — then there was one face only above the fluttrell’s back and a white-clad form pitching headlong from the air. King Genod, the genius, had thrown my daughter from the fluttrell, thrown her to the ground beneath. Relieved of the extra weight the fluttrell beat more powerfully and rose. Its wings thrashed the air. It lifted and soared up. Grogor’s second shot fell far too short.

  I saw all that from the corner of my eye, not heeding.

  I saw the spinning form of Velia, her white dress swirling out, pitch down through the empty air. She fell. She fell to the ground. She fell. She fell on the ground.

  I was riding hard.

  How often I had picked up little Velia as she tottered on her chubby little legs, there on the high terrace of Esser Rarioch, learning to walk, determined, clambering up and trying again, to tumble down again in a sprawl of her short white dress.

  I rode on.

  An arrow whipped in past Grogor’s ear. He swung his mount about, yelled, high: "Overlords! We are dead men! We must run!"

  He stuck in his spurs and was away, the sectrix hurtling along low over the groun
d, its shadows spreading about it, undulating eerie blobs of half-darkness.

  The overlords of Magdag trotted over the meadow toward me.

  I galloped and I did not care what the damned overlords did.

  The six legs of my beast skidded and splayed as I reined it up. I was off its bare back. It just stood, waiting for me to remount.

  I knelt.

  She lay crumpled, her white dress spread out, with no sign of blood anywhere. Her eyes were open, those beautiful brown eyes I could see now were those of a Vallian; beautiful brown eyes like my Delia’s. Her glowing brown hair was dyed black and artificially curled, in imitation of a Zairian. That was so.

  "Velia," I said, and I choked.

  "Why, Gadak," she said. "You know my name." As she spoke a tiny line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "I–I like that, Gadak, for I have always been fond of you."

  "Velia-" I took her hand in mine as I knelt. It was cold. "Velia — I am not Gadak. That is not my name."

  She smiled up. Now I could see my Delia in her face — my glorious Delia reborn in a subtly different way, as glorious, as wonderful — and thrown callously through the air by a genius.

  "You will look after me, Gadak? And my lord? He is safe?"

  "He is safe, my heart. Listen — I love your mother as no man has loved a woman. There in Esser Rarioch we were happy, and we joyed in our twins, Segnik and Velia-" She stared at me, her soft mouth curling in puzzlement, for she felt no pain.

  "What do you say, Gadak? What of — Esser Rarioch, and Valka? And — my mother — you — I have no father. He is gone away, a long way away, a long time ago."

  Those Star Lords! If I’d had one under my hands then, he would never more play cruel tricks on plain men.

  "Yes, Velia, you are my dear daughter, for I am your father, and I have sinned — it is all my fault -

  and-"

  "Father. .?"

  "Yes."

  I did not know what she would do. Had she cursed and reviled me I would know she was right. She said, "Gadak — you do not say this — to please me? Where is my lord? Has he told you to say this?"

  I held her hand and it was cold. I touched her lips with a silk kerchief and wiped away the blood. I smoothed her hair. We spoke, then, and I told her little things, things that she would understand Dray Prescot, the Strom of Valka, would understand. She could not move. She smiled and I saw in her face that she forgave me. I did not deserve that, but she forgave me. We talked — and I took her into my arms and held her and smoothed her hair and looked down upon her face. Her pallor gave her an ethereal beauty there in the light of the moons of Kregen as the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom gleamed in pure brilliance against the stars.

  "Father?" She understood I spoke the truth. "I wish my lord were here. We are married. In the rites of Zair and Opaz. He is a fierce man, proud and brave, but very gentle. He means well." She moved her head slowly to one side, and then back, nestling in my arms, and looked at me. "There is a child. My little Didi. Gafard — my lord, my beloved — keeps her well hidden. She will love her new grandfather."

  I had to close my mouth. I could not speak.

  "I came with Zeg to the Eye of the World. He is a great Krozair, Father, a famous Krozair of Zy. And

  — and I was taken. I fought them with my dagger as Mother knew I would. The Sisters of the Rose. . but it was Gafard, my lord. I knew, even then, and he knew, too." She breathed a long, shuddering sigh and I looked down on her, but she went on speaking in that small girl’s voice through the gathering darkness about her. "The king — Genod — is evil, Father. Drak and Zeg have told me. Now he has vollers and birds. The overlords — they laughed when the king flew off with me. If only Gafard-" The mists were closing down over her eyes. She stared up, trying to see me clearly. "Father — where is Mother? Where is my lord?"

  "They will soon be here, Velia, my heart. You will soon see them. And little Didi." Now I could hear the trampling of sectrixes and the clatter of harness. The overlords of Magdag were riding up for me. A strong party galloped in pursuit of Grogor. They left their comrades to deal with the willful girl and this uncouth man of Gafard’s. They approached slowly, confident in their might. My sectrix still stood, head drooping, reins dangling, waiting for me to mount up and ride. I held my Velia in my arms, her head against my breast, and I would not move.

  "It is very dark, Father. Is this the night of Notor Zan?"

  "Yes, Velia. The Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom is all rolled up and put away, and the dark cloak of Notor Zan is unfolded. You will sleep for a while. Then Mother and Drak and Lela and Segnik and your Didi will come to see you."

  "I long to see them again, and Jaidur and Dayra and-" Her soft whispering voice gathered strength.

  "And my lord?" She tried to move in my arms. "And my lord Gafard? He will come to see me. He is safe

  — Father! He is safe?"

  "Yes, Velia my daughter, Gafard is safe."

  "You will like him, Father. I wished you could have known him. He is a very good man and he loves me so." Her eyes were wide open, not seeing me. "It is very dark. When will Mother come to see me? And Gafard. ."

  The overlords of Magdag trampled nearer in their iron and their might. I, Dray Prescot, with a host of stupid titles, sat and held my daughter Velia in my arms. Shadows fell across the bright faces of the moons.

  Toward the end her sight cleared. She looked up as I held her cradled and she saw the tiny gold and enamel valkavol she had given me.

  "The valkavol!" she said, and the dark blood ran down her white chin, thick and thicker. "Father — it will be all right. ."

  I did not care if the whole of Kregen heard her. The overlords meant nothing. The metallic rattle of their war harness sounded loudly now, the stamp of sectrix hooves iron-hard on the turf. She lost that brief spurt of luminous reason. She lay back in my arms, as she had when I had first held her, looking up from her tiny face to the glory of my Delia beyond, smiling. Her hands and her face were ice-cold.

  "My lord. ." she whispered. "My love. ."

  She was slipping from me.

  "Mother," she said. "Here is Father."

  The pallor of her face, the coldness of her, and that ugly red dribble from her mouth. .

  "Father-" she said again. And then: "Gafard." She spoke his name three or four times. At the end she said, "Oh, to be home in Val-"

  The overlords of Magdag rode up to take me.

  I sat on the ground holding the broken body of my daughter in my arms as they came for me — as my Velia died.

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  Alan Burt Akers

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