Clouds blew furiously overhead, drowning the faces of the suns. Up there the moons were lining out in that deadly conjunction which would certainly spell destruction and might mean death for many a seaport city around Kregen where the seaward defenses had been neglected. Even the three smaller moons, which hurtle frantically low over the face of the planet, were in conjunction. The first and largest moon, the Maiden with the Many Smiles, the two second moons, the Twins, and the third Moon, She of the Veils, all were exerting their gravitational pull together with the Suns.
When no moons are in the sky of Kregen — when they cannot be seen, that is — it is called a night of Notor Zan. When all the moons blaze at the full, when even the three smallest join with the major four, that is called the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom. We could see nothing overhead but the dark swirling clouds lowering down, but we knew what was going on out there as we knew how the waters of the ocean were responding to the titanic forces.
The Dam shuddered.
All that monstrous construction thrilled to the shock, alive with the vibration.
The wind tore the reason from our skulls.
The tide burst through.
The gale broomed its own violence and added to the pell-mell tumult. I hung onto the guardrail, my hair blown forward over my face, staring at the mouth of the Grand Canal.
The opening was small at this distance and the argenters appeared like dots in the gloom, but I have imagination and the whole scene was described vividly to me later by one who was there and saw it all at close hand.
Across the bay leaped the tidal bore.
A wall of water, tipped with the vicious fangs of breakers, towering, cresting, blowing, omnipotent in its might. How tall was the eagre?
The famous Severn bore rushes up at the equinoxes to heights of five to six feet. Good friends have told me that in New Brunswick they have seen the daily tidal bore roaring up the river from the Bay of Fundy in a mightily impressive sight: a genuine wall of water simply rolling up the river with the floodwater following directly behind. The rise and fall of the tide in the Bay of Fundy is known to every schoolboy. At the head of the bay the tidal height reaches a fantastic sixty-two feet and even halfway up, at Passamaquoddy Bay, it is twenty-five feet. The force and power of millions of tons of water rolling along with the fang-toothed eagre at their head are enough to convince the most skeptical of mortals that in sober truth nature is the lord and master of the worlds we inhabit.
All this power and smashing violence, the colossal movement of water — with only one sun and one moon! How high?
I stood there as the Dam thrilled to the vibrations of untold millions of tons of water smashing at its ancient structure, as the water spumed through the opening I had made, shuddering under the shrill of the wind. How high?
I saw the small shape of an argenter lifted up and up and up. It broke apart. It flew apart as a barrel flies apart when its hoops are broken through. Planks, timbers, bundles — dark, pitiful objects — whirling and smoking through the frenzied turmoil of the waves, with the spume covering all with a white confetti of death.
Horrible, terrible, malignant. I would prefer to pass lightly over that destruction of a fleet, for I am an old sailor who has a love for ships.
But the ships were broken and riven. Crushed against the hard stone of the terraced Grand Canal, tossed up like chips to fall, cracking open and spilling shrieking bloody things that had been men, the ships died. The wind lashed the sea and drove relentlessly on. The bore sliced through the Grand Canal and the waters boiled and roared and fought as they cascaded on.
On and on through the cut smoked the waters.
The tide had struck and destroyed, shouting in its strength.
How high?
High enough for death.
High enough to claw up past terrace after terrace of the Grand Canal, filling the cut with the violence of unleashed waters, rolling remorselessly on and on over the wrecked remnants that had once been a fleet proud with flags.
So, I thought, ended Genod Gannius plans to use vollers from Hamal against Zairians.
The sight of those broad comfortable ships, those splendid argenters, being smashed to driftwood did not please me, even when I knew what they were and what errand they had been on.
I, an old first lieutenant of a seventy-four, am sentimental in these matters.
Against the shriek of the wind Duhrra’s voice reached me thinned. "It is time we moved on, Dak my master. I see the green moving in the shadows beyond the Dam."
The darkness pressed down as the stormclouds boiled. The Todalpheme were anxious to lower the caissons once I gave them leave. I stepped past the body of the Jiktar. He had been a Ghittawrer, a Grodnim member of a green brotherhood that attempted to ape the ways and disciplines of the Krozairs. His sword would be of fine quality. Duhrra and I would leave the novices; we must find our own way out of this situation. I turned back.
"One boon I ask," I said to the novice. "The tide will reach Shazmoz but will scarce do further damage. Do not tell the Grodnims the names you have heard us use."
"Then what names shall we tell them? They are hard men and will be exceedingly angry."
"Say you heard us call each other Krozairs."
The Todalpheme’s face betrayed his speculation through the continuing shock. "That will make them even more wroth."
Then I laughed. "I shall be sorry to miss that pleasant sight."
So, laughing, Duhrra and I ran rapidly from the Dam of Days.
Once we had slipped into the storm-shadows at the far end we were able to circle and mingle with the Grodnims, securing ourselves from all possible suspicion. We were merely two paktuns, serving Grodno the Green.
I had stooped to take the longsword from the Jiktar. It was a fine weapon. Its pattern was startlingly similar to a true Krozair longsword, but it was not. Its edge was dented in only two places, where Duhrra’s common blade looked almost like a saw. He too possessed himself a fine new blade. All the common longswords bore on the flat of the blade below the guard the etched monogram G.G.M. I remembered that. The Jiktar’s sword bore a device I knew, a lairgodont surmounted by the rayed sun. The lairgodont, a most ferocious carnivorous risslaca, is known over much of Kregen but is most numerous in northern Turismond. So I kept the hilt of the longsword, with its device and decoration of emeralds, hidden under a flap of green cloth, for that symbol denotes a green brotherhood devoted to Grodno.
We took our chances, Duhrra and I, and we passed through the encamped army of Genod Gannius, commanded by his Chuktar of the west, and so came at length free of them and to the east of the Grand Canal, on the northern shore.
"I am for Magdag, Duhrra. There I shall find a galleon, a great ship of the outer oceans. I shall bid you remberee."
"We shall see," he replied. He was altogether too complacent. He had said that idiot "duh" barely half a dozen times since I had dubbed him Duhrra of the Days.
Truth to tell, after the visitation on the Dam I had been hourly expecting the return of the damned Gdoinye and the apparition of the blue Scorpion. I felt sure I had not beaten the Star Lords and I expected them to whisk me away. If they chose to hurl me headlong into fresh adventure on Kregen, well, that had been the pattern of my life and I would do what I could to fight through and reach Valka and Delia. If they chose to toss me contemptuously back to Earth I felt I might truly go mad. I did not think I could face another spell of twenty years on the planet of my birth.
We had stolen three sectrixes and had enough plunder loaded on the third to last us. We rode gently, for we had a way to go. The gale had passed, scouring the sky. With a new day the Suns of Scorpio flamed above, casting down their mingled streaming light. We rode in an opaline radiance.
The sea glittered to our right and the deserted countryside about us testified to the savagery of man in the inner sea. Also, I realized, it indicated that the sea could turn savage and cruel if the Dam of Days did not regulate the Tides of Kregen. Ahead of u
s a little knoll posed the usual problem. I said, "We are two greens, Duhrra of the Days, lest you forget. We may ride up boldly."
"Aye, Dak, my master. But if they be not too many . . ."
I glanced at the stump. In his saddle bag he carried the leather attachments to buckle on, the hooks and implements given him by the doctors of the Todalpheme. We had paid for them with golden oars taken from a Grodnim who lay in the bushes with a slit throat.
"You must wait to test your new hook, Duhrra of the Days."
"May Uncle Zobab quickly smile upon my stump then, for I long dearly to . . . uh . . . prove . . ."
The sectrixes stopped in mid-stride. Duhrra sat erect in the saddle with his big moon-face arrested with down-dropping jaw. I looked at the knoll.
A scarlet and golden figure sat a zhyan there.
The enormous pure white bird with the scarlet beak and claws took to the air and with a few lazy beats of its four wings settled at my side. I gazed at the woman seated on the zhyan’s back.
She smiled gently at me.
"Lahal, Pur Dray."
"I am no longer Pur Dray, Madam Ivanovna."
"And on Kregen I am not Madam Ivanovna. You may address me as Zena Iztar."
Her robes sparkled in the light of the suns. All scarlet and rose, crimson and ruby, with golden tissue vestments and sumptuous gems and trappings, she presented a dazzling sight to an old sailor who was no longer a Krozair of Zy. She wore armor, golden plates cunningly fashioned, fitted to her, making me see the full voluptuous figure, the strength, the lissomness, the lithe power in a seductive frame. I did not return the smile.
"Why do you seek me out, Zena Iztar?"
"Didn’t the yellow overthrow the Scorpion’s blue?"
"Aye."
"Do you not then owe me gratitude?"
"I waited three damned long years after you visited me in London."
"Aye."
We stared at each other.
Then, touching her red lips with a painted and gilded fingernail: "You are no longer a Krozair of Zy."
"No. It is of no consequence now."
"I think you lie."
I did not think I lied. "No, I do not lie. If those Zair-forsaken cramphs of Star Lords do not catch up with me I intend to sail to Valka. There is where my labors are required."
The marvel, the magic, the sheer wonder of this visitation, this apparition, had no power to move me now. I was sullen. I knew what I wanted to do at last — about time too — and I suspected most evilly that I was to be prevented.
I repeated, speaking so that she gazed down haughtily at me, although she did not flinch by more than a slight shifting of her head: "I am for Valka."
"And what of the Eye of the World? What of your friends here? What of Zair?"
"I am Apushniad!"
"Yet we both know that Dray Prescot is a man who could alter that, if he willed."
"He does not so will."
"I feared this. I had hoped—"
"Look, Zena Iztar. I want to go home! I want to see Delia again. Is that so strange? I have been tossed around, made slave, pranced about with these disgusting greens of Grodno — now I want to go back to Delia again."
"She is safe and well in Esser Rarioch."
"Aye! And that is where I want to be also."
"Why did you open the Dam of Days and destroy the vollers from Hamal? Was that a rational act of a man who does not care?"
"I am not a rational man! I thought to strike a blow for Sanurkazz and Zy and Felteraz. That is all."
"It is not all. I must leave you now. But I will tell you this: in your stiff-necked pride and in your selfishness you will fail. You will not be allowed to return to Valka."
"By the Star Lords?"
"No."
Before I could roar out a fresh question, for I was exceedingly angry, as I felt I had every right to be, the zhyan clashed its four wide wings, raising a whirlwind of dust, and rose into the air. I watched it fly up. The scarlet and gold figure leaned out and down, looking at me until vision was lost. Even then, I suspected, this hulu of a Madam Ivanovna, this fancy Zena Iztar, could still see me, a hulking great fighting man, hot with the lust to bash something around because he could not go home to his wife and children.
". . . uh . . . to prove I can take a swordsman with my right hand."
"Do what?" I said.
"Master! What is it?"
I forced myself to sit in the uncomfortable saddle, take up the reins and try to make the stupid sectrix behave.
"Nothing, Duhrra of the Days. A vision. It is passed. I still ride to Magdag and I will still find a galleon. There is much to be done in the outer oceans. I will shake the dust of Grodno and Zair from my feet and say good riddance."
Much had been explained to me, if not in words, but a very great deal remained; there were yet mysteries to be solved. I’d think about them when I reached Valka and once more held Delia in my arms, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, my Delia of Delphond.
"Uh . . . I shall never say good riddance to Zair. But I think I will go with you across the wild and wonderful outer oceans."
I recollected myself. What the hell did I think Duhrra was going to do if I left him stranded in Magdag, the fortress city of the megaliths, the home of the Overlords of Magdag, the archenemies of all Zairians? I glared at him.
"Very well, the Duhrra of the Days. You come with me." I could not smile, but I said, "And right gladly will you be welcome."
"Uh," said Duhrra. "I think perhaps tomorrow I will try my new hook."
About the author
Alan Burt Akers is a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer. Bulmer published over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction.
More details about the author, and current links to other sources of information, can be found at
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
The Dray Prescot Series
The Delian Cycle:
1. Transit to Scorpio
2. The Suns of Scorpio
3. Warrior of Scorpio
4. Swordships of Scorpio
5. Prince of Scorpio
Havilfar Cycle:
6. Manhounds of Antares
7. Arena of Antares
8. Fliers of Antares
9. Bladesman of Antares
10. Avenger of Antares
11. Armada of Antares
The Krozair Cycle:
12. The Tides of Kregen
13. Renegade of Kregen
14. Krozair of Kregen
Notes
[1] Dbs: dwaburs per bur. A dwabur is five miles and a bur is forty minutes. Dbs is the usual measurement for fliers. Land or sea transport speed is more often given in ubs, ulms per bur. An ulm is about 1,500 yards. [A.B.A.]
[2] See Warrior of Scorpio, Dray Prescot #3. Prescot’s account of how he escaped the Phokaym and crossed the Klackadrin on foot is, unfortunately, lost. [A.B.A.]
[3] Jernu: This word for lord belongs to the Zairians and is not often used by Prescot. It equates with the Vallian Jen and the Hamalian Notor. Its correct use is clear in this context. A.B.A.
[4] Weng da: Who goes there?
[5] Roz: title of nobility similar to outer oceans’ Kov, Duke.
Copyright © 1976, Kenneth Bulmer
Alan Burt Akers has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published by Daw Books, Inc. in 1976.
This Edition published in 2006 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 1843194201
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The Tides of Kregen Page 21
