Witches of Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  “I’ll get up there straight away.”

  She sighed.

  “I knew you’d say that, of course—”

  “And is the reason you held the news back this late—”

  “Well!” she flared up. “And weren’t you fascinated by the news of Queen Lush? Tell me true—”

  “Yes, yes, I was. And about Dayra and Lela, too. But this is here and now. If there is no more vitally important information I should know, then I’ll fly up first thing in the morning.” I eyed her. “I suppose I can always find time to spend another night with you.”

  “Despite this so important affair of state you must manage?”

  By Zair! But she was beautiful! And sharp, too, sharp and lovely and altogether the most wonderful girl in two worlds. And devious with it, believe me...

  We flew up together the next day.

  There was nothing I could say to stop the Empress of Vallia flying where she willed.

  The news she had given me of Drak must wait for a small space...

  Now quite a few Kregans are interested in gaining recognition and renown for great deeds, what they call absteilung, and fellows or girls with a great deal of absteilung to their credit are called kampeons. Just about all the lads in my guard corps were kampeons. Not all, for we trained up youngsters there, as you know. So, when Delia and I flew into the camp where the Ninth Army waited for the battle everyone hoped would be the last of this campaign, there were vast quantities of absteilung in the camp and many kampeons, with the prospect of more to come.

  They were all there. All those gallant comrades whom you have met in this narrative. And great was the rejoicing when we sat down to the serious business of deciding how best to bash the Racters, with a glass or two for counsel as well, I might add...

  I said, “You do extremely well without me. So go to it. Your plans are ineluctably fine.”

  Seg offered to shaft me, Turko wanted to twist my arms off, Inch swore he’d give me a short haircut, and Nath na Kochwold said tart words to the effect that the Phalanx wouldn’t take kindly if the emperor was not on parade.

  Delia, laughing, said: “You don’t think this grizzly old graint could keep his ugly old nose out of it, do you?”

  One item of information Delia gave me I considered interesting and then filed away in my mind. That was a mistake, as I was to discover.

  She told me that Marion had insisted on the new guard regiment of Jikai Vuvushis being committed to action, and Kapt Erndor, now Chief of Staff to the Kov Turko as well as the Ninth Army, was enthusiastic to have this addition to his strength. Marion had stalwartly refused to marry Strom Nango until the emperor could dance at her wedding. Now that I was back, she declared that as soon as the battle was won she’d finalize the wedding details. Of course, meekly, I agreed.

  Among the Vallian military officers attached as aides-de-camp to Strom Nango was Hikdar Ortyg Voman of the Fifteenth Lancers. I was surprised to see him. He’d been with his regiment down in the southwest with Drak. He was paying court to Sushi Vannerlan, and through her friendship with Marion the appointment had been arranged. From what I knew there was no shortage of action with Drak, quite the reverse. Sushi was here also, one of the camp followers we tolerated, as we tolerated very very few, for she played a demanding role in the hospital service, and Hikdar Ortyg Voman had pulled strings to be with her. I couldn’t blame him.

  The army was in fine fettle, crowing over their relatively unhindered march northward.

  “By Bongolin!” declared Nath na Kochwold. “Once Nath Famphreon talked to a few of ’em, they ate out of his hand!”

  Perhaps you can make some little attempt to gauge the depths of my feelings of relief that we had won through so far with so little blood spilt? That my plan of the lever and fulcrum had worked?

  “Just bash the last of ’em,” said Seg, smiling at Delia and me, “and we can all go home.”

  “Oh, no, Seg!” I said.

  “Do what, my old dom?”

  “It’ll be Balkan for you. The High Kov’s time is near.”

  “Yes, well—” He coughed a dry little cough. “I was contemplating taking an army over the mountains to deal with this so-called King of North Vallia.”

  “That will be done. It’s Balkan for you.”

  He knew what we were talking about. He knew I wanted to see him established on his own estates, legally and morally, as the Hyr Kov of Balkan.

  So far news of the invasion by the Shanks of Mehzta had not reached here. When it did arrive I knew damn well that high-spirited young people would want to take to the air instantly and fly over to help. This question had to be debated most carefully. The Presidio would have to make the final decision. As for myself, I would not leave the work set to my hand here, particularly when the Star Lords had assured me they had one of their agents out there already.

  The lads gave me a tremendous welcome when I rode out to inspect the various units of the Ninth Army.

  As for my guard corps, now they were back in business. Their business was looking after my hide.

  The “Hai Jikais!” rang over the parade grounds.

  This last battle looked to be open and shut and I was seriously debating whether or not I should take myself off somewhere else where I might be more useful. Zair knows, there was enough to do.

  Delia in her practical no-nonsense way, said: “It will not take long. And you know how they relish having you there—”

  “You’re right, my heart. But—!”

  “But nothing. And, I’m coming with you when—”

  “You’re doing no such thing!”

  “We’ll see.”

  So I knew I’d lost that argument.

  We sent out heralds all duly signposted to talk to the chief Racters, and received back only words of spite. The heralds uniformly reported that the army with the Sultants and Imlien thirsted for the forthcoming fight.

  I said, “Is this more sorcery?”

  “Who can tell, majister. They are confident.”

  Seg growled out, “I feel sorry for ’em. But, by the Veiled Froyvil! We’ve tried to accommodate them in the decent way, now we’ll accommodate ’em in six feet of earth.”

  “Seg!” said Milsi, and put her hand on his arm. At once he bent to her, attentive, and she smiled and for a moment they were oblivious of us.

  Whetti-Orbium, who as the manifestation of Opaz concerned with the weather, smiled on us from time to time and rained on us at others, decided to smile. The army marched out and in good order, took up positions around the smallish town of Stocrosmot and prepared for the final attack.

  To my great joy Nalgre the Point had kept a good hold of Snagglejaws. I could have had the choice of many a fine zorca, blood zorcas all. I chose snuffy, tufty, drab old Snagglejaws, for I knew his mettle. Nalgre, in his olumai way, accepted the position I offered him as an aide de camp. His panda face smiled warmly.

  “I’ll call you majister, Kadar the Silent, and be respectful. But you cannot wash away some memories.”

  “Nor would I wish to, Nalgre. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Oh, I won’t do that, by Lingloh! And, anyway, I’ll be off home to K’koza as soon as we’re finished up here.”

  “I shall be sorry to bid you remberee.”

  The battle plan worked like a charm. Even though I’d expressly requested that Marion’s warrior maidens be held in reserve, they got themselves into a fine old knock-about with a regiment of Brokelsh, and in the end they broke and routed the coarse and hairily uncouth bunch facing them. The whole line advanced. We sounded the view-halloo and the chase was on.

  This pursuit was necessary if we were to see and conclude an end to the unpleasant affair.

  I wanted none of it and left it to our cavalry to continue. With 1 and 2 ESW and 1EYJ, together with the new guard regiments, 1EFB and 1ELC, I looked across the edge of that battlefield where the dead lay in their windrows, and sighed, and ordered camp pitched. The baggage wagons came up and w
e set to do what we could.

  Hikdar Ortyg Voman passed staggering.

  “Hik!” I called. “You are wounded?”

  The twin suns had set and the stars were out, and the Maiden with the Many Smiles inched above the horizon.

  “No, Majis. It is Sushi — she is out there among the wounded and the dead — and I do not like that—”

  “It is her wish, Hik.”

  At that moment the Hamalese, Strom Nango, walked up.

  “Marion requests, majister, that you meet her at once by that twisted tree—” Nango pointed. The tree, bent out of shape, leaned against the wind. I nodded.

  “Very well, Strom.”

  Seg and Turko appeared, and Delia walked out of the tent. Inch would be inside securely fastening up his yellow hair.

  “What’s to do?”

  “No idea. Marion wants me over by that tree.”

  We all walked across, passing campfires where some of the lads were brewing up or roasting slices of meat. Most were flat on their backs, spark out after the battle. A group from the various duty squadrons followed. The night breeze cooled our flushed cheeks. The stars glittered with that particular brightness of Kregen. The silence was acute. There was no long low and dreadful moaning from the scene of battle.

  Under the tree, Sushi Vannerlan, her apron stained black-red, stood with Marion. The Jikai Vuvushis were camped nearby, and they were as tired as the men.

  “Hai, Marion. What is it?”

  She gripped Sushi’s arm. I looked at the two women, surprised. Just past the gnarled tree lay an ancient burial ground where for generations the dead of the town of Stocrosmot had been laid to rest. I thought of the cemetery outside Falkerium and other towns and cities.

  “Sushi?”

  “Majister—” She swallowed and started over. “Majister — the wounded and the dead — they are — strange—”

  Turko said, “When you’re dead you’re dead.”

  “Not,” said Seg, “in some places of Kregen.”

  Just then the breeze blew chill, colder than it should be on such a night.

  A low rippling movement across the ground beyond the tree took all my attention. Could it be? Why not? I had seen the dead walk when I’d been down the Moder. Kao is one of the many Kregish names for death, and the kaotim, the undead, specters, zombies, call them what you will, these are well known over Kregen.

  Were the dead walking?

  “May Erthyr the Bow keep us now!” said Seg in a hard, tight voice. He unlimbered his great Lohvian longbow.

  “By Morro the Muscle!” said Turko. “It is true!”

  A voice at our backs, strong, unperturbed: “Ngrangi is with us, for the Maiden with the Many Smiles floats alone in the sky.” Inch, not a single strand of his brave yellow hair exposed to the fuzzy pink moonlight of the Maiden with the Many Smiles, joined us. He carried sword and shield and was armored.

  I took the Krozair longsword off my back. I said to Delia: “You had best—”

  And she said, “At your side, fambly.”

  So we stood, a little group of comrades, with our kampeons, and watched as the ground rose up before us.

  Dead men and women, people just slain in the battle and others long dead, moved toward us. The pink moonlight caught on armor and weapon, glinted fuzzy rose. Skeletons, mummies, men and women apparently full-fleshed and filled with blood, advanced upon us.

  “Csitra the Witch of Loh has planned this well! How do we slay men already slain!” The voice was lost in the night.

  So we gripped our weapons and arrayed ourselves as the grisly horde bore on.

  Abruptly, with a shriek as of sundering metal, the mob of kaotim rushed upon us and we puny mortals were at hand strokes with the crazed hordes of the Undead of Kregen.

  Chapter twenty

  Undead of Kregen

  No nightmares trouble me over that horrid fight with the Undead. The poor creatures were husks only, shells, their spirits already wandering the Ice Floes of Sicce, seeking the sunny uplands beyond. Bundles of bone, swathings of rotten cloth, stained with the dirt of the years, many of them simply rushed in with clawed fingers seeking to rip us to pieces.

  These already dead we could deal with. The recently slain posed a tougher problem, for in their ghastly resurrection they snatched up sword or spear, pushed helmet straight, and wearing what armor they had worn in life plunged screeching upon us.

  I say we could deal with the dead. At first this did not appear to be the case.

  “They are dead!” screamed that same voice at my back. “How can we kill dead men?”

  Without looking back, I shouted: “Take that man into custody. Shut his damnfool mouth!”

  Then I really shouted, really let my old foretop-hailing voice belt out.

  “They are dead therefore half our work is already done! Chop ’em! Cut their legs off! Sunder them into pieces! And, my friends, go with Opaz for this night’s work.”

  Seg said: “You’re right, my old dom. But, first — just one...”

  A marvel with a bow, Seg Segutorio... He loosed and his aim, unerring, sent the rose-fletched shaft directly into the backbone of a prancing skeleton leading on the grisly mob. Bits of vertebrae sprayed. The skeleton’s top half fell, arms scarecrow-wide, bone bright. But the lower half, the pelvis and the legs, continued to run on toward us.

  “If,” said Seg, “it’s like that...” He thrust the longbow away and drew his drexer. “It’s leg-chopping time.”

  Milsi was back at the camp, and for the moment Seg had no fears for her. I had fears for Delia. By Zair! I was terrified for her. Yet she stood at my side, lithe and limber, sword poised, and she had possessed herself of a drexer in place of the rapier. She wore no Claw. The enormous shadow over me that was Korero the Shield would have to be spoken to; but he knew, as Turko the Shield had known before him.

  “Aye, Dray, aye. Rest easy.”

  “To you, then, Korero—”

  “Aye.”

  More shafts flitted from our ranks into the howling shambles running on; they did little damage. We were poised, braced, as the contents of the local graveyard crashed into us.

  By Makki Grodno’s dangling right eyeball and dripping left armpit! Csitra had gone too far with this latest curse. As we fought I could feel not red roaring anger but cold impatient venom.

  The superb Krozair brand sliced around in a whirl of roseate steely light, shattered bones, went on and no stain of blood marred that blade. We chopped the skeletons as we might chop firewood.

  Do not ask me how skeletons may be wired up so that they run and fight and their lower jaws clack in a ghastly grin against their upper teeth, let alone how they may be animated. Grotesque angular dancers, limbs flinging about in abandon, bony and thin, they tried to bite and claw even as we chopped them down.

  The skeletons were bad enough. The corpses dead long enough to begin decomposing were far worse. For all his macabre dancing parody, a skeleton is clean in a way a rotting corpse is not. Far, far worse to glimpse a row of exposed teeth, a jaw, a naked eyeball, a vine-net of veins, than just a bald skull, a long bony arm! Stinking, the corpses poured down on us. They were falling to pieces even as they charged.

  Seg slashed a foul thing of rags and bony fingers away and said, “Even Skort the Clawsang wouldn’t give these things the time of day.”

  “Your back, Seg!”

  He dodged, slashed, and a skull toppled. He and I and Turko and Inch fought there in the front rank. Useless for my guard corps to rage and protest and try to shove up. In this horrendous conflict we all must play our part.

  Skeletons, rotting corpses — they were bad. But the worst, by far and away the worst, rushed charging at us with wild war cries. Some of my lads cried out in horror.

  Through the din, distinctly, I heard one anguished scream: “It is Vango, my brother, Vango!”

  The voice of Nath na Kochwold: “Vango seeks the sunny uplands, Deldar Vangwin! This is not your brother! This is evil from the
pits — chop, Deld Vangwin, chop as you value your life!”

  So we fought our own dead comrades.

  Ghastly, horrible, and pathetic, yes, it was all these things. Also, the fight could have seen us all trooping down to the Ice Floes of Sicce by regiment, all wailing dolorously for the Gray Ones.

  Poor Nath na Kochwold had to see his brumbytes fighting dead pikemen. Swords in live hands clashed against shields clutched in dead, and swords in bloodless fists smashed against shields in the grip of the living. Useless to thrust. Useless to try anything except great hewing strokes that swept the dead away into bundles that mewed and tried to scrabble along, drawing legless torsos by bare hands.

  And, in all this horror — where were Khe-Hi-Bjanching and Ling-Li-Lwingling?

  Others in that great fight shared those fraught doubts, and Delia said: “They will be here soon. They just have to be!”

  Fascinating to see how my lads formed their ring about Delia. No skeleton penetrated that devoted circle of bronze and steel. Of course, Delia was mightily put out and kept advancing to take her share, and the ring would move and shift and so encircle her again. I approved. By Zair! If my Delia did not survive — well, the Star Lords could look for another tool, that was for sure.

  A churgur from the new regiment, First Emperor’s Life Churgurs, staggered back with a stux embedded in his neck. He fell. Immediately a comrade stepped up to take his place and front the gibbering horrors. I saw the dead man sprawled on the ground. I saw his right hand relax to let the sword fall away, I saw that hand turn inward, lift and fasten on the javelin. The fist ripped the stux free in a gush of blood. The man threw the stux down, picked up his sword, stood up, turned, hurled himself full at his comrades of a moment ago!

  A long Saxon-pattern axe swirled. The churgur fell in two pieces, still with blood enough to stain across the trampled ground. Targon the Tapster finished him off by chopping his legs away. Inch’s great axe flashed in that deadly circle as he cleared the zombies from his front, and I noticed the swathing mass of bandages about his hair fallen away so that strands of his yellow braids showed.