Witches of Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  That was probably quite true. Fighting men like this became bored with frightening speed. Some excitement stirred up the blood. I could never stomach them or their like, for my idea of a fighting man is vastly different. Still, it takes all sorts to make the wonderful and terrible world of Kregen revolve about the twin star of Antares.

  After that the necessary secret words of the initiate in the cult of Lem the Silver Leem were spoken. They were swods within the cult; I pitched myself a little higher, giving myself the ridiculous rank of Hikdar-majis-ponti. At least, they’d be polite from now on.

  They told me much of what I already knew or suspected and a deal that was new.

  Mercenaries were flooding into this northwestern part of Vallia again, coming via Racterland to the north, guaranteed passage by the Racters and payment by Princess Mira.

  I nodded as they spoke as though I understood. But I’d no idea who this Princess Mira was, apart from the fact that as an enemy of Vallia she would have to be dealt with.

  “There is much gold, dom,” said the one called Helvcin the Kaktu. “I saw the ships unloading. The string of calsanys stretched from ship out of sight through the port gate. By Kuerden the Merciless, if one of those beasts had stumbled and spilt his load...!”

  “By Krun!” amplified his comrade, one hight Movang the Splitter. “In the riot I’d have made my fortune. Hanitcha take me else.”

  “Now Malahak is my witness you speak it aright, Movang!” And Helvcin put a gnarly finger into his mouth to free a scrap of food caught in his teeth.

  “These great ones of the world,” I said. “If only Kaerlan the Merciful smiled on me...”

  “Oh, we’ll never smell any more of the gold than our pay. And that’s fair, I grant you.”

  They completely took me for a Hamalese, for I had spent a long time there, and was able to tell them more than they knew about Ruathytu, the capital of Hamal. By chance I also knew Dovad, from which town hailed Helvcin the Kaktu. I’d spent a few days there with Avec Brand and Ilter Monicep before taking the boat down the River Mak. I’d never visited Mardinglee, where Movang the Splitter had been born.

  I expect you can share some of my feelings at this resurrection of memories long ago, of times and places in Hamal. Then the empire had been ruled by poor mad Queen Thyllis, before she became the Empress, and Hamal was a deadly enemy to other nations beside Vallia. Now, with Prince Nedfar placed on the throne by me to become the new emperor, we were allies.

  By their lack of rapiers and left hand daggers, these two betrayed the fact they’d never been Bladesmen, never ruffled it in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu.

  Carefully letting drop tidbits of information, I casually built up the image of me I required them to have. When we got onto the topic of Lem the Silver Leem, I did feel relief that neither belonged to the temple to which I’d been taken by Nath Tolfeyr, himself a man of mystery, and been inducted into the vile cult to save my life. They had heard of that temple, though, by the aqueduct in Ruathytu, and accorded me even more respect. Apparently that particular temple held a big reputation among these decadent and torturing murderers of the Brown and Silvers.

  In due time they told me all they knew about Princess Mira. This was pathetically little. She was merely the name by which the paymasters knew who was providing the gold to pay the army against Vallia.

  I ventured a shaft.

  “It seems to me that perhaps Princess Mira will take what you win in Vallia for herself.”

  “If she does,” said Helvcin, spitting, “I shall not care, no by Krun, so long as I get my pay and a share of the loot.”

  Inch would have to wait.

  Even as I dredged their shallow minds for more information, I found myself thinking how grand it would be if Pompino the Iarvin were here. By Vox! He was a tool of the Everoinye, the Star Lords, as was I. He and I had burned a few temples to Lem the Silver Leem. As Kregoinye we both felt that we would burn more, although I desperately sought another solution to this monstrous disease calling itself a religion.

  They left to see to their fluttrells and we parted on the understanding that we’d meet in the evening. There was to be a ceremony this night. They’d be there to enjoy the sacrifice, the torture, the blood and the horror and the orgy that followed.

  I’d be there, too, but I’d be there for a vastly different set of reasons...

  They expected a good turnout for the ceremony. A camp lay only a few dwaburs off, containing a goodly number of adherents. The cult was being brought into my Vallia by mercenaries from Hamal.

  This was a situation so intolerable that it could not be allowed to continue past this night...

  Of course, once I’d got over that initial burst of anger, I saw that just burning the temple — as ever — wouldn’t stop them. We must smash up this conspiracy, defeat Layco Jhansi and the Racters, unite all true Vallians. Then we could completely expunge all traces of Lem the Silver Leem.

  For a weak moment I contemplated taking one of their fluttrells and continuing my flight to Inch. The war could be helped along if I did that, and that was my first concern.

  Then I recalled the anguish of Kotera Minvila over her daughter Maisie.

  That settled that, then.

  Chapter six

  The Chief Priest

  Waiting for the night to arrive turned out to be a cruel business.

  Numerous schemes flitted through my mind. The evil of Lem the Silver Leem was self-evident, at least to those who had witnessed its diabolical practices. If I worked myself into a feverish state, dwelling on the problems we faced and the hardness of the road that led to eventual success, I believe you will understand.

  At last Zim and Genodras sank beneath the horizon and the Maiden with the Many Smiles shone among the stars, with the Twins, eternally orbiting each other as they orbit Kregen.

  The dubious scheme I settled on at last did not call for me to walk out with either the two paktuns or the other people walking in from the camp. Back home in Vallia there were plenty of silver masks fashioned in the shape of the ugly faces of leems, trophies from successes of the past. There were also golden zhantil masks there...

  So it was necessary for me to creep out alone and unobserved and waylay one of the people walking in from the camp. I’d have a look at that camp as well, on the morrow, I promised myself. If I was still in the land of the living by then, that was.

  The fellow collapsed and I took his silver mask, his long brown cloak, and also his badge of brown and silver feathers. Mine had served its purpose, convincing Movang and Helvcin, but was clearly not as authentic as an original. Donning the cloak, arranging the longsword comfortably within the capacious brown folds, I strapped on the mask and set off for the temple.

  This, I saw, was merely the entrance tunnel to an abandoned mine.

  No chance, then, to set the place on fire. I might smoke a few of the rasts out.

  The cloak, the mask, the badge, gained me entrance without question or trouble. The foul stink of incense affronted my nostrils. Many tapers burned, and torches, and the glinting tunnel walls and roof loomed semi-circularly above, a blasphemous temple indeed.

  There stood the altar, a solid block of stone. They’d not carted that around with them but, most likely, had found it conveniently within the mine. The image of Lem, gleaming silver above, would be carried about, and I judged it to be fashioned from lightweight wood with a silver-gilt finish.

  To one side rested the cage, of split timbers, and within the cage, clad in a white dress and decked with flowers — Maisie.

  She was quite happy.

  Oh, yes, they knew how to handle their sacrifices, the damned Brown and Silvers.

  The new white dress.The flowers.The doll, the sweets and candies. She would burble happily to herself until the sacrificial knife descended. Her heart would still beat after it had been wrenched from her body; but before that she would have suffered tortures that could only make her death a release.

  Well, the bastards w
ere going to be disappointed on that score, at least, this night.

  If this fragile scheme I had concocted was going to work I’d have to make my way through the throng gathering before the altar and the image, ease along to the rear, and then sort out whatever and whoever lay beyond.

  The tunnel held a dank, stale smell which the incense worsened. The place struck me as eerie and unhealthy. The altar had been set up where a side passage led off into darkness. The opening, half blocked by a rotting wooden gate, held no interest for me, and I eased around the other side where the opposite tunnel, forming a cross, showed lights. Voices came from beyond hanging curtains. Three guards stood there, clad in brown and white, bearing spears, and they looked at me keenly.

  I used the formula words on them, letting them understand I was a visiting adherent of high rank. I wished to speak with the chief priest on a matter of the utmost urgency, and if they wished to retain their privates they’d better let me through at once. Bratch!

  They bratched and saluted, and I passed through the opening in the curtain into the antechamber beyond.

  More curtains concealed what lay to the left hand side; but the sound of voices and the clink of equipment told me the acolytes and the butchers were in there preparing themselves for the night’s tortures. To the right the curtain was half drawn and I caught a glimpse of men and women with the grander masks of the under-priests. Straight ahead lay my goal.

  The two guards here, both apims, did not wish to let me pass, so I had to put them to sleep standing up. I caught them left and right handed and eased them to the ground, which here was covered by a silver-patterned carpet. I did this not to break their falls but to prevent their noise alarming the occupant within.

  When I pushed through he looked up, the mask in his fingers, his robes already flowing about him.

  “What—?”

  His face was fleshy from good living, veinous, vinous, too, I daresay. He wore many rings, a habit I detest. He was firmly built and around my height, and I cut him down without a word. I caught the mask as it toppled from his nerveless fingers, and he fell on his face onto the carpet and his blood stained out across the bright silver threads.

  His robes fitted well enough. The rings were a nuisance; but they had to be slid on as part of the full regalia. His own sacrificial knife, sharp, curved, I picked up with great distaste and slid into the sheath ready for it. Then I strapped on his mask in place of the one I’d worn. When I was ready I took a breath, picked up his staff with its head fashioned like a leaping silver leem, all wedge-shaped head and eight legs, snarling and vicious and well-designed to impress the gullible.

  I shoved the curtains aside and hauled the two guards in by their ankles. I hit ’em again, just to keep ’em quiet a little longer, and then stalked out to stand at the far curtains. In only a few moments the acolytes and under-priests trooped out and the procession was formed and ready to go.

  The closeness of the stink from incense, the heat of tapers and torches, the brazier fire burning with its ghastly implements heating up, all this discomfort had to be pushed away. There was a job to be done. I’d chosen this hair-brained way of going about it, so there was just the thing to do.

  I, Dray Prescot, the Lord of Strombor, Krozair of Zy, dressed as a chief priest in the debased Cult of Lem the Silver Leem, led out the procession of abominations.

  Marching out front and center I raised both arms. Imposing, these debauched chief priests, no doubt about that... The noise of the congregation quieted. I addressed them. Oh, yes, I knew their stupid fancy rigmarole ranks and titles, and could work them up as I’d seen high priests do before, until they were ready for the Great Word. But, this time, and, too, of course because I probably was not performing in exactly the way a chief priest would go about conducting the ceremony, the Great Word was understood by the congregation to be different.

  It would be different, too, by Krun!

  After the introduction I hurried the next part, although speaking with the sonorous and, if the truth be told, deadly dull intonations of some of the priests.

  “Your own chief priest has been stricken down by Lem!” Well, it was obvious that by now many of the people out there clustered listening to me would have recognized I was not the man they knew. I went on: “He has blasphemed. He is stricken in his own quarters and lies in his own blood. The Name that Must Not Be Spoken has wrought this justice, and has sent me to reveal unto you the truth.”

  The ensuing hubbub died away as, still with my arms raised to create that very necessary aura of power, I towered over them.

  Then: “Listen, devotees! We serve Lem, the Silver Wonder. We have been betrayed by evil influences. We do not do well in this land of Vallia. Our deaths are written in the blood of Lem if we continue.”

  The whole atmosphere was conducive to making a person believe. The incense, the brazier, the tall unwavering flames of the torches, even the unspoken menace of the torturer’s implements, the altar, and the sacrifice herself, all exerted a powerful mesmeric spell. I claim no credit for the deed. What skill at oratory I have — apart from hailing the foretop in a gale — has been used, and I do grasp at the essentials of the art. I bore down on them.

  “I come to you at the first temple in this strange land of Vallia, to reveal the thinking of the Name that Must Not Be Spoken. We shall be destroyed here. We shall be betrayed. This is written. Return to your homelands. Return to the warm embrace of your friends, your lovers.”

  Thus I harangued them, building up a picture of disloyalty, of greed and of vengeance, seeding their minds with the belief that they had been betrayed into hiring on here in Vallia.

  Slowly, I lowered my arms.

  They stood, silent, attentive, yet half-hypnotized.

  With a firm and steady tread I crossed to the cage. The door was unlocked, ready for the ceremony. I opened the cage door, bent and, in a low voice, said: “Lahal, Maisie. Your mother has a special treat for you, and nicer sweets than these,” and with that I took her up into my arms.

  If I fouled it up now, we’d both be chopped...

  The sea of silver masks below moved, glinting in the torchlight. If Helvcin the Kaktu or Movang the Splitter stood there, as, indeed, they must, they might recognize in me the person they had spoken to in The Quork Nightly. But they would be held by the attitude of reverence for authority ingrained in them in Hamal, in Hamal of the Laws. They would reason that I had simply told them I was a Hikdar-majis-ponti so as not to reveal the true altitude of my lofty rank. For, I must be an important chief priest within the hierarchy to be doing what I was doing. Anything else was impossible, was beyond belief.

  Sheer bluff carried me through. Slowly and with enormous dignity I walked through the throng, carrying Maisie, and she just put her head on my shoulder and sucked a sticky sweet on a stick. One false move, one question, one slip... I walked on and I felt the sweat trickling down under that infernal silver mask. On I strode, calm, giving the impression of a figure full of authority. On to the exit from the mine tunnel.On and out into the sweet night air away from the stinks of that blasphemous place.

  When to start to run like hell?

  I had to hold on, to continue that calm and steady progress. Then a thought occurred to me. I stopped.

  I turned about. I lifted my free arm, and the silver-masked throng who’d followed me out halted, silent and waiting.

  In a strong clear voice, I shouted back: “Do not be deceived, fellow adherents. Lem is not deceived. The gold — the gold is false. The Princess Mira gives gold freely with one hand, and her sorcery will take it away with the other when you have done her work for her and she has no further use for you. Be warned! Vallia is no place for you.”

  With that, about I turned and walked off. And this time, by Zair, I walked a trifle faster.

  They did not follow. Some way down the back trail I could still hear their voices raised in argument. Once I was well away I just picked up the hem of the brown robe and ran — ran like a zorca
pursued by a leem.

  Chapter seven

  Inch — and squishes...

  When I walked into the great hall of the palace of Makolo, situated on a cliff overlooking Makanriel, the capital city of the kovnate province of the Black Mountains, they had just finished the evening meal. I was followed by a great crowd of retainers and guards and servants, all amazed and agog that the Emperor of Vallia had arrived.

  The sweet and luscious smell of squishes hung in the hall.

  I sighed.

  I knew what to expect when I walked into the small room at the back of the hall where folk would retire after the meal to drink wine and talk and relax after the day’s exertions.

  I was not disappointed.

  Squishes are, indeed, flavorsome morsels on the tongue, tiny fruits that melt and create incredible delights on their way. The dish had probably been squish pie, I guessed, and I felt the old juices starting up in my mouth. I’d flown hard and long on the stolen fluttrell, and poor old Salvation had perforce been left with master Urban the Unguent. The new fluttrell was a fine flyer, with a wicked eye, so I’d called him Salvation the Second.

  Maisie had been restored to her mother Minvila amid many tears and protestations of gratitude. I’d been able to press a little gold into her unwilling hand. Good folk, cruelly brought down by the evil times that had fallen on their province, they would, I felt sure, welcome a return to more settled and prosperous days when at last the Emperor of Vallia liberated the whole island.

  So, now, here I was, in the palace of Makolo in Makanriel in the Black Mountains.

  The colors of the Black Mountains, Black and Purple, shone from tapestry and streamer. The schturval, the emblem of the province, emblazoned in panoply about the hall and the retiring room, was an axe. At one time this axe had been of a common variety, double-bitted and not particularly well-crafted as to haft. Now that axe was of the Saxon pattern, small of head, long of haft and with that cunning curve and recurve to the wood that transferred such power and accuracy into the blow.