Witches of Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  We rollicked in and the wine came up and we sat and stretched our legs and talked, and, inevitably, we sang.

  I forbade the great song “The Fetching of Drak na Valka” for that would take too long. There were plenty of Valkans there, naturally, and they all called me strom, much to the disapproval of the Vallians of Vondium. So we sang “Naghan the Wily”, a Valkan ditty, and “King Naghan his Fall and Rise.”

  We sang relatively few soldiers’ songs, and this, too, was understandable given the company. We did, though, have a bash at “Have a care with my Poppy” and “The Brumbyte’s Love Potion.”

  In an interlude I leaned over to Farris and spoke quietly. “I really must leave soon, Farris. I’ll just ease out unobtrusively. You can calm ’em down when I’m gone.”

  He knew me by now.

  “If you must, Dray. Opaz knows the work never ceases.”

  “We must all come to the fluttrell’s vane,” I said, and at the next opportunity to excuse myself did so and went outside. The night breathed sweet and still, and She of the Veils sailed golden above. In those moon-drenched shadows I started off, swinging my arms, feeling the lightness of freedom once again.

  A shape at my side, a small hand clutching my arm, a girl’s voice, whispering in alarm in my ear—

  “Dray! Dray! Your face! What are you thinking of, you great fambly! Here — in here, bratch!”

  With that she hauled me into a narrow slot of shadowed rose-colored radiance in which we were hidden from all sight from the inn windows.

  The shadows fell across me, the shifting illumination across her face.

  I did not know her.

  She was clad, as best I could make out, in trim-fitting russet leathers, rapier and dagger scabbarded to a narrow waist. Her face was not beautiful. Rather, in its round perkiness it held a cheekiness that would infuriate and enchant. Her eyes — I thought — were Vallian brown. Her large floppy hat drooped about her ears.

  I just managed to bite off an instinctive: “Who the hell are you?” No one I do not know and cherish calls me Dray. No one. But she had.

  She stared at me anxiously. She made no move to draw her dagger to spit me.

  “It seems you believe you know me, Kotera,” I said, and my growly old voice came out alarmingly small.

  “Oh, you clown! What d’you think you’re doing, parading around with your face?”

  “It’s mine—”

  Now it happened that I’d swung a plum-colored flying cloak about me as I’d stepped out of The Rose of Valka. A furtive movement from the end of the little alley into which this remarkable lady had dragged me drew my instant attention.

  My right hand crossed to fasten upon the hilt of my rapier.

  A man enveloped in a cloak moved across the alley mouth. I could not see his face, turned away from me and shadowed. But he looked a nasty customer. Big and ugly, no doubt, strong and powerful, and ready to knock some poor innocent down and rob them as to quaff a stoup of ale. He moved not at a crouch but as though coiled and ready to spring savagely upon any who stood in his path. I must say he’d give anyone a queasy turn.

  The girl saw him.

  She turned that round cheeky face up to me and I saw it was transfixed with horror.

  She choked out words, shattered.

  “By Zim-Zair! It’s — My Val!”

  With that she fairly flew along the alley, burst out, grabbed this ugly customer by an arm as she’d grabbed me, and the last I saw of this unlikely and highly suspicious couple was their twinned shadows fleeting over the cobbles. Then they vanished.

  I shook my head, “Now what in a Herrelldrin Hell was all that about?”

  I did not shrug my shoulders; but I kept my fist wrapped about my rapier hilt as I went off to find Lightning.

  There was, of course, no sign of either of them beyond the alley, not the lissom saucy girl or the big ugly fellow who looked as though he ate a whole chunkrah for breakfast.

  At the last there, as she’d grasped his arm, he’d turned to her. I’d seen his face. As I say, he was a ferocious plug-ugly brute, with a strong nose and arrogant jut to his chin. He was a fellow I’d think twice about before dealing with. He forced me to think the unwelcome thought, the memory I sidestepped. He held in him something of Mefto the Kazzur, and that was a puzzlement indeed.

  Lightning flapped his wings twice and then we were airborne. I shoved the silly incident from my mind and concentrated on what lay ahead.

  As they say: “No man or woman born of Opaz knows all the Secrets of Imrien.”

  The flight under the Moons proved uneventful.

  When, after the regulation number of halts along the way to refresh Lightning, he slanted down to the new camp of Turko’s Ninth Army, I was feverish with the desire to get things moving.

  This time we’d defeat Layco Jhansi, defeat the Racters, deal with the upstart King of North Vallia, and finish up with all this section of Vallia happily re-united.

  The Ninth Army was well back to being once again a formidable fighting force. The reinforcements brought the strength up, Seg and Kapt Erndor had brought in regiments of fine fellows, the Phalanx was up to strength, and as soon as Farris brought in Inch’s people from the west, we’d have as fine a fighting army under our hands as you could wish for.

  On the morning of the next day, the very next morning after I’d joined the army, the air filled with millions of buzzing insects.

  Wasps, bees, hornets, all stinging and buzzing, drove the camp into instant confusion, and sent the men of this fine fighting army running madly in every direction.

  The Witch of Loh, Csitra, had struck again.

  Chapter nine

  Stung

  Pandemonium! Utter confusion! Men ran and swiped and flapped and swatted everywhere I looked. The river fringing the camp splashed and spouted as men leaped bodily in. Soon the water was dotted with human heads, ducking and surfacing, like berries washed in a basin.

  The wasps and bees and hornets — and other typically Kregish stinger horrors — swarmed so thickly in the air they appeared solid clouds, black and yellow, red and orange, bottle green.

  Our poor saddle animals, of course, both of the ground and the air, went mad. They galloped or flew off and with a sinking heart I knew we’d not see them again for some good long time. Or, to be more accurate, some evil long time.

  I was not stung once.

  Everywhere I looked the swarms pirouetted and swooped. They were maddened and had no hesitation in stinging. They’d been goaded before being unleashed on us. Men with faces like pincushions ran past, screaming. I saw a couple of Jikai Vuvushis slapping and beating at each other, their slim bodies and pretty faces swelling grotesquely.

  Still I was not stung.

  As abruptly as they had appeared, the swarms vanished.

  One moment the ground was darkened by their shadows, as if at the heart of a thundercloud, the next the morning lights of Zim and Genodras streamed apple green and rosy pink across the plain.

  Once more I will pass over the scenes that followed.

  Enough to say that we had injuries to throw back our calculations, men and women shaken by this fresh show of sorcerous power.

  Khe-Hi and Ling-Li told me that while they had had no real problem in dispersing the swarms, and, indeed, their reactions had been swift, still it had taken time. Also, and this was far more serious, Khe-Hisaid: “We felt the power of the twinned kharrnas against us distinctly. The mastery of the arts of the uhu, Phunik, has grown alarmingly.”

  “Someone once speculated that Csitra and Phunik could never achieve the power of Phu-Si-Yantong or constitute a serious threat.”

  Khe-Hi’s wry grimace told me what he thought of that theory.

  “Who can say that? What knowledge do they have of the arts? Oh, no. Any Wizard of Loh may grow into the mastery his powers confer. Phunik could easily surpass his father. There is no one in the whole wide world who can guarantee he cannot or will not.”

  “Drawing
a knife across his throat,” put in Nath na Kochwold, speaking through bloated lips, “might settle the issue.”

  No one commented on the pun, for it didn’t exist in quite that form in Kregish. We did agree with Nath. All the same, although Csitra and Phunik quite evidently were a serious threat to us, I clung onto my feeling of confidence that our three mages would achieve the mastery.

  As we broke up this small conference to see about the immediate tasks, a voice at the back piped up.

  What that voice said — and I didn’t recognize the speaker — was: “All these catastrophes fall on us when the emperor is here.”

  There was the sound of a scuffle and then people were moving off. I made no attempt to follow up an inquiry for there were still people here, loyal to me, who expected emperors to have off the heads of all those who spoke against them.

  What that comment did make me do was understand that, indeed it was true, Csitra only struck when I was around.

  She had left me alone when I’d been in the Black Mountains and in the Blue Mountains and in Vondium. Why? What was different? Surely a blow there would be even more damaging?

  Only Seg and Turko commented on the fact that I’d not been stung, everyone else apparently conceiving it the divine right of rulers not to be stung when the swods were.

  “I told you, Dray,” said Turko. “She really does fancy you.”

  “Right, my old dom. She doesn’t want to spoil your pretty face.”

  I glared at them, comrades both. I didn’t laugh; but they did, despite the gravity of it all. Then we went to work to bring the army back to its senses. The needlemen and puncture ladies ran out of ointment and unguents and we sent fast vollers for fresh supplies.

  We were delayed; that was all.

  Our two mages now kept a continuous vigil, turn by turn; but they reported no further sorcerous attacks.

  My bodyguard corps had been stung more severely than most for the simple and warming reason that they conceived their duty lay in standing between me and danger. Targon the Tapster, hardly able to speak, his face a molten red lump, reported in, for he it was who commanded by rote 1ESW this day.

  “I am very sorry to see you in this case, Targon. And the lads, too.Particularly when I am the only one who escaped.”

  Useless to attempt to reproduce the sounds Targon made when he spoke. What he said was: “We all volunteered to serve you, majis, and of what worth a man if he cannot stand by his word? And, anyway, you are wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. Wenerl the Lightfoot also was not stung.”

  I saw at once. My face must have registered the shock, for Targon croaked out: “Majis! You—”

  “Call the lads,” I said, my words harsh and grating. “First Emperor’s Sword Watch only. Somewhere off a little way across the plain where we can be alone and unobserved. I’ll meet you all there in a single bur.”

  “Quidang!”

  When I found Khe-Hi and Ling-Li — who were also not marked, but one did not expect wizards and witches to fail to protect themselves — with our small group we walked out to the plain where 1ESW formed impeccable lines. They all understood.

  The jurukkers of the guards, splendid fighting men every one, many of them kampeons, stood in impeccable ranks; but they were fidgeting and trying not to scratch at themselves, and their faces and exposed portions of their bodies wafted the pungent fumes of unguents and liniments.

  “One mur for scratching!” I bellowed. “Then attention.”

  Scabbarded at my waist and in addition to my usual armory, I wore a particular blade. That sword was forged from dudinter. The electrum did not gleam sharply, for the blade had been smeared with ganjid, the wizard’s preparation that, in conjunction with the dudinter weapon, could drink the transformed life from a werewolf. I knew that many soldiers carried their dudinter blades in their kit — just in case.

  The ranks quieted down as much as I could reasonably expect.

  During that werewolf period, Csitra had controlled some of the warrior maidens in our army from her distant lair. When the girls kissed a man, they bit — and the man, at Csitra’s pleasure, staring through his eyes, turned into a ganchark, a ravening werewolf.

  Wenerl the Lightfoot had been on guard duty in the palace gardens in Vondium and he had been attacked by a werewolf which escaped. I remember how I’d wondered if his mind would recover as easily as his body. Now he wore four medals on his chest, when at the time of the werewolf attack he had worn three bobs. He stood there in the front rank, trim, hard, a fighting man from helmet to boots, his weapons sharp and clean. I felt the pain in my breast.

  But he had not been stung.

  Csitra, then, had made a mistake.

  I shouted: “Wenerl the Lightfoot. Front and center.”

  He marched up with a clang and stood to attention. I guessed he’d been crowing over his comrades about his good luck in not being stung. Poor Wenerl! He didn’t know, of course.

  “Jurukker Wenerl! Tell me what you remember of the night you were attacked by the ganchark.”

  “Quidang, majister — but, majister, I recall nothing. I must have run after the beast — for I only remember waking up with a full clang of the Bells of Beng Kishi in my head, and a wounded shoulder—”

  Although to read the expressions on the faces of those assembled here was well-nigh impossible, I guessed from the deep hush that fell upon the regiment and those gathered with me, that many grasped the hideous truth, as in all Opaz’s truth, that truth was hideous.

  I unlimbered the ganjid-smeared dudinter blade and held the point at Wenerl’s throat. He did not flinch. Was I not the emperor whom he served loyally?

  I looked deeply into his brown Vallian eyes. I could see the veins, and the little lights, and, in truth, just brown eyes.

  I said, “Csitra. With this man you have failed. Is there need to claim his life?”

  Wenerl said, “This man means nothing to me.”

  “But he does to me, Csitra.”

  “And you mean much to me, Dray Prescot, and yet you scorn me—”

  “Wrong, witch. I do not scorn you. I feel sorrow for you—”

  That was a mistake.

  “You pity me! You dare to pity me!”

  In my ear Khe-Hi whispered: “I have it now, Dray, if you wish to see...”

  “Thank you, Khe-Hi; but no. My concern is with Wenerl and I will not be distracted—”

  Wenerl’s voice broke in, saying: “Who is it that stands at your shoulder, Dray Prescot, for there are shadows there—”

  Casually, I said, “Just a shadow or two, Csitra, they are nothing.” Khe-hi had obviously wrought a little stroke of his own to avoid Csitra’s observation of him through Wenerl’s eyes. I went on: “This man is held in thrall to you, the poison in his veins will turn him into a werewolf when you desire. But instead of that you have used him to spy on us. If you do not agree to spare him, then I shall surely kill him — and with my own hand, not entrusting the task to another — so that, in either case, you will have no eyes in my camp.”

  “Why do you not travel to the Coup Blag and see me, Dray Prescot? You know I can offer you much—”

  “Give me an answer, woman!”

  “You swear to me that—”

  “I promise you nothing, witch.”

  “I have Pronounced the Nine Unspeakable Curses against Vallia, and they cost me much pain and blood and life energy. They may not be drawn back so easily. Yet this I would do—”

  “You know my answer. Spare me this man—”

  “So much effort, so much concern, for one stupid tikshim, worth perhaps a few coins in the bagnios?”

  Will against will. Stubbornness against Obstinacy.

  Then, surprising me, she said: “You do not ask to see me, Dray Prescot. I am a woman not without attractions. Why do you not look upon me, instead of this worthless man? Or is it that you are afraid?”

  “One last time, Csitra the Witch. Spare this man’s life. There can be
no other dealings between us.”

  “You would think well of me if I did?”

  My face must have ricked up in some devilish way, for I swear I heard the voice in Wenerl’s throat emit a noise very much like a gasp.

  “Think well of you? How can I, after the damage you have wrought?” Then, and thinking primarily of poor old Wenerl the kampeon standing there like a straw dummy, I added with cunning: “But I should certainly think better of you.”

  So we stood, locked through the eyes of a man whose life trembled in the balance of greed and lust and cunning and contempt. Wenerl gave a great shudder.

  His voice said: “Take him, Dray Prescot.”

  And Wenerl half-stumbled, snapped to immediate attention, and bellowed out: “Quidang, majister!”

  I did not relax, and the dudinter blade did not tremble. It had brought a small spot of blood out on Wenerl’s neck when he stumbled. Khe-Hi exclaimed at this.

  “She has kept her word. Wenerl would be dead else.”

  “All the same, best keep him under observation for a time. Wenerl,” I barked at him. “You are excused normal duties for three days. Attend to your comrades.”

  So that was done, and the regiment marched off in good order, and each man there understood a little more of what being a dratted commander entailed.

  At least, a commander on the magical and mysterious world of Kregen!

  Before news circulated that the emperor had in some mysterious way prevented any further plagues from descending upon us, Nath reported in a way that was, in the circumstances, entirely inevitable.

  We stood in under the flap of the HQ tent, a rather ornate affair used for the business of running the army, and Nath rubbed his chin, saying gloomily: “The rate is up to a marked degree. One in fifty and—”

  “Not to be wondered at. The rate should go down once the men get to know they won’t be plagued again.” Then I added in as somber a tone as Nath na Kochwold’s: “Until that she-leem worms another pair of eyes into the camp.”

  “The worst is that one of Turko’s Falinurese regiments has deserted entire.”

  “That isbad. Whose?”