Fliers of Antares dp-8

by Alan Burt Akers

  I waited for one of them to break the silence, but all, every one, lowered his eyelids as my gaze fell upon him. I glared with special ferocity upon Felder Mindner, for he was my Jiktar of flutduins, and he looked away, and slapped his sabretache against his leg, and fidgeted; but he did not speak.

  “By Zim-Zair!” I burst out, at last, forced by their sullen silence to speak against my will. “Must I explain everything!”

  Kytun — that same K. Kholin Dom, who was a Kov and a good comrade — at last lifted his head, the coppery hair flying, and he said, “Dray — Notor Prescot, Lord of Strombor! We have followed you faithfully and well, in good times and in bad. But now that Djanguraj is attacked from the sea we-”

  I would not let him continue. I did not wish him to utter words he would afterward regret.

  “Yes! You have vowed to follow me, and I seek nothing from any of you, except the saving of the country!”

  This was a lie. Thankfully, it was the last lie I had need of telling my men, my wonderful men, of Djanduin.

  And, do not misunderstand me, for there were many girls who marched and rode and flew with us, glorious girls with coppery hair and tawny skins and flashing eyes, girls whose four arms were as deft with sword and djangir as any man’s. Girls who, into the bargain, had other, gentler skills.

  “You have sworn to serve me as I serve you in freeing our country from the devil Gorgrens and the devil leems-heads! Together, Obdjang, Dwadjang, apim, diff, we will cleanse Djanduin and found for ourselves a new, clean, brave country where our children may live in peace!”

  Around us now the army gathered, my army, the force I had built up and trained and given spirit, all so that Khokkak the Meddler might glee within my skull.

  In the sound of stamping hooves, the snorts of joats, the rustling of flutduin wings, the clink of armor and weapons, that silence came back. It hung there between us like a rashoon of the inner sea, stark and dark and brutal.

  I glared at Felder; he is a fine fellow but a blockhead. I glared at the Obdjang Chuktar Panjit, and he rubbed his whiskers and looked away.

  Again I looked around the circle of my officers, my trusted comrades, and again they looked away. And then Kytun stepped forward. He dragged out — not his thraxter but his djangir. He lifted it high.

  “I trust Notor Prescot! I believe in him! I, for one, will fly to the Mountains of Mirth and there thrash the Gorgrens, once and for all!” He swung the broad short blade about his head. “Who will follow me and ride with Notor Prescot?”

  The spell was broken, the dam breached. The djangirs flashed out, a forest of blades, and they cried, every one, that they would follow me. For, by Djan, was I not Notor Prescot, the man who had sworn he would put their poor abused country back on its feet again?

  I stood, looking on them as they shouted and cheered and pledged themselves again, as the great cry was taken up by the massed men beyond, as infantry and cavalry and artillery and flyers all caught the fever, the understanding that this was a new and bright beginning, a fresh compact between themselves and me. And I looked and saw what I had wrought.

  In that moment, I now see, I drove Khokkak the Meddler from my brain. In that moment there on the wind-blowing plain with the acclamations and the pledges of my men ringing in my ears, I sloughed off at last my willful foolishness, my malicious antics. I had decided to become King of Djanduin because I had been bored, on a whim, as something to do to amuse me. Now I saw something I should have seen from the very beginning: that I had been meddling in the affairs of men and women, men and women whose own lives were profoundly affected by my petty games. Never again with the men of Djanduin could I act the games-master. The country needed a strong hand at the helm. If I could become King of Djanduin, I would do so. Not, this time, just for amusement and to see if I could do it in the time allowed me, but so as to fulfill all the glib pledges I had made, so as really to make of the country a fine and wonderful place in which to live — as we had in Valka!

  So we rode and flew and marched to the Mountains of Mirth, and we caught the Gorgrens as they tried to debouch from a high pass. The battle was long and weary, but in the end we overcame and routed them and sent them packing back to East Djanduin. When we had overcome our internal problems and gathered our strength we in our turn would descend from the Mountains of Mirth and drive the cramphs of Gorgrens right out of Djanduin and back over their own borders.

  As you know the colors of Djanduin are orange and gray. I had not bothered overmuch about banners and flags, apart from ensuring that every unit flew its identifying guidon or standard. But just before the battle in the high pass of the Mountains of Mirth, in the pass known as the Jaws of Nundji, I had made a flag. I told the women who stitched it that it was to be a large flag, and a noble one, with a heavy gold-bullion fringe, and with golden ropes and tassels, and to the men who turned the staff I told them I wanted a djangir blade mounted atop, proudly, as was fitting.

  So, when we fought the Gorgrens in the pass of the Jaws of Nundji, and routed them utterly, my old flag flew over my men. That old flag with its yellow cross on the scarlet field floated high as we charged down. Truly, with Old Superb to fight under, I was totally committed. No longer was I merely playing a political and military game, so as to see if I might make myself king within a stipulated time. Now, I did not care if I became king or not. Now I decided that Djanduin came first. . You may laugh and mock and call me a sentimental fool. For, of course, you might say, these Djangs were a leaderless bunch, naturally they would accept my decision. But they were hotheaded fighting-men, and they believed their homes were in danger, behind their backs, with their enemies creeping upon their wives and children from the sea. Had you been there on that windswept plain, under the streaming brilliance of the Suns of Scorpio, I do not think you would have dubbed me either an onker or sentimental.

  When we were taking an enforced rest after the battle, seeing to our wounded and counting the cost, and I sat in a miserable little tent of hides and pored over the map, in the light of a samphron-oil lamp we had captured from the Gorgrens, the merker came.

  His fluttclepper was exhausted. These fast racing birds are built for speed and speed and more speed. He had reached us from Djanduin in record time.

  After the Llahals had been made and he had gulped a goblet of wine, he said, “I see my message of warning is not necessary.”

  “Tell us, man!” Kytun spat out wrathfully, as befitted a Kov kept waiting, although he was a good-hearted fellow as I well know.

  “As to that,” I said, “the merker will say that the ships were a feint, that they carried straw dummies, that only a small force landed, and straightaway took themselves off when once they had aroused the neighborhood and news had been carried to Djanguraj in all haste, as they could see.”

  The merker gaped at me.

  Then Kytun let out a great bellow of laughter.

  “By Zodjuin of the Silver Stux! Is that the way of it?”

  “Aye, Kov,” said the messenger. He licked his bearded lips where the wine glittered in the lamplight. “It is as the Notor says. The reserve army marched out, and the Gorgrens had gone.” He looked at me. “By your leave, Notor, there is more.”

  I nodded.

  “The ships were provided by the leemshead Kov Nath Jagdur. The plan was his. A Gorgren was taken prisoner, and he talked freely.”

  “By Djan!” said Kytun, leaping up and fairly rocking the tent with the violence of his anger. “One day I will take that false Kov’s head from his shoulders.”

  “The king has sent messengers to the army of the east, to warn them; they began their westward march as soon as news was brought them that the Gorgrens had invaded by sea, difficult though it be to believe such a thing.”

  “Difficult to believe the Gorgrens would sail the sea, merker, or difficult to believe Chuktar Rogan Kolanier — who is a Zan-Chuktar — would believe it and take his army of the east to the west?”

  Kytun chortled at this, and my other of
ficers crowded into the little tent gave vent to their amusement in various picturesque ways. The merker was not discomposed. His light colored eyes remained fastened on me. In his life, I suppose, he was accustomed to delivering messages that would evoke all manner of violent responses in their recipients.

  “I think, Notor, both.”

  I looked at him.

  “Your name, merker?”

  “If it please you, Notor, I am called Chan of the Wings.”

  I nodded to him. I knew a messenger did not receive the appellation of the Wings lightly.

  “The Pallan Coper sent you, I know. Therefore you must be a good man. Is there any other news?”

  He had no need to hesitate. “Whatever was the news before, Notor, your victory here today will change everything. Now, perhaps, the food will flow more freely.” Then, with a great deal of meaning, he added,

  “The king will be pleased.”

  Kytun said, somewhat coarsely, “And the king had better think what best to be done about Chuktar Kolanier! He was completely caught by the wiles of those Opaz-forsaken Gorgrens.”

  “Like Marshal Grouchy,” I said, but softly, for they could not understand that reference. Then, with a simple directness that took the wind out of my sails, for one, the merker Chan of the Wings, committed himself — and others, besides.

  “I am privy to many secrets, Notor. I and my fellow merkers — and we are a not insignificant khand -

  have been saved from despair by you and your army and your determination to save the country. These things we know, for we carry them. We are sworn to secrecy, but we know.” By khand he meant the merker’s guild, or caste, or brotherhood. They were small in number but, by reason of their calling, influential. A good merker is a great jewel in any man’s retinue. “We declare for you, Notor Prescot, as king. Take the throne, and we are with you.”

  A murmur broke out from my officers. This, as far as they were concerned, was the first anyone had said of Notor Prescot, the Lord of Strombor — who was apim! — ascending the faerling throne in the sacred court of the warrior gods.

  I sensed the hand of Pallan Coper in this. The old fox! He wanted someone he could trust on the throne, but he sure as the hot springs in the ice floes wasn’t going to sit on that hot seat himself!

  It was left to Kytun to spring up, waving wildly, and knock the tent completely over so that his bellow rang out between the mountains, echoing back and forth: “Aye! Notor Prescot, Lord of Strombor! King of Djanduin!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kytun Kholin Dorn

  There is little left to tell of that first sojourn of mine in the beautiful, wild and headstrong land of Djanduin. Beautiful — for we would look upon the Mountains of Mirth as their narrow peaks pierced the blue Kregan sky and the snow dazzle would glitter like all the diamonds and sapphires in creation; we could turn and look over the vast expanse of West Djanduin with its fields and forests, its meadows and farms, and we felt the ache in the heart that afflicts a man when he looks upon beauty. Wild — for leem prowled in the uncultivated areas, and great gales would blow up the Tarnish Channel and everyone would shutter their windows and pray the roof tiles stayed on. Headstrong — why, yes, for my Dwadjangs proved irresistible in battle, given a fair chance, and the sight of them surging into battle with their four arms going filled me always with a shivery sense of awe.

  The Gorgrens remained for a time in occupation of East Djanduin.

  The army of the east, hearing of my own army’s success, and knowing that the eastern front was for the moment secure, continued on to the capital. Here, before the current king could make a move to discipline him, Chuktar Rogan Kolanier, who was of the Porlin tan, or House, set his men upon the king’s bodyguard and burst into the palace. No one ever did know what happened to that king; but Chuktar R. Porlin Kolanier sat himself on the faerling throne in the sacred court of the warrior gods, and was duly crowned.

  You may imagine the indignation of my men.

  “The impious yetch!” Kytun bellowed, furious, his face an interesting scarlet, his eyes fairly snapping as he strode up waving the merker’s signal. We were camped at the base of the mountains, covering three exits, and our flyer scouts patrolled ceaselessly. “I’ll have to take his head from his shoulders, Dray! That is crystal clear.”

  The merker had this time flown here in a flier, and the voller, a lean stripped one-man craft, openly flew the flag of the Pallan Coper. Coper was no longer Pallan of the Highways. Because he had remained alive when so many of his Obdjang colleagues had been murdered he had found himself pressed upward in the civil service beneath the various kings, and he was now Pallan of the Vollers.

  “When you quiet down, Kytun, we must make sure the Gorgrens have really withdrawn from the Valley of the Bantings, for if they have it means they-”

  “Dray! Dray! Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  I looked up and although I do not smile easily I managed to crack out a millimeter of lip movement for Kytun, a great fighter and a good comrade.

  “I heard, Kytun. There is a saying: ‘Give a man full armor and two shields to ride a fluttclepper.’ This Chuktar Kolanier will not last.”

  He glowered down, sullen with his concern for my dignity. “Agreed, Dray, agreed. But we should march for Djanguraj and place you on the faerling throne!”

  I stood up. “Perhaps, Kytun, I would prefer to see you seated there.”

  Kytun threw back his head and bellowed with laughter, his good humor restored. “Me! The Kov of Uttar Djombey? Why, I have no desire to sit on the throne. It needs an Obdjang or an apim. You, Dray Prescot, you!”

  We sent back a noncommittal reply by the merker and his flier shot away, traveling fast and low as a flyer came in from the scouts to report the Valley of the Bantings clear. I set about rearranging our dispositions. Truth to tell, I was merely marking time, giving this new King Kolanier enough rope to hang himself. I knew — or thought I did — that Ortyg Coper would send me the word when it was time to move.

  The banting, by the way, is a cheeky little rock-bird of brilliant coloration, not unlike the English chaffinch in a superficial way; their nests high along the rocky clefts grow greater each season and they fill the valley with their darting wings. They live on lizards and insects and are regarded with great affection by the Djangs.

  My own messengers were out in force, and with the Kholin tan solidly behind me, and with the obvious scarcity of Obdjangs either capable or willing to take the throne, I felt it to be a mere matter of waiting until the right time and then of striking hard and surely. I had no wish to gain the throne in the same stupid way of those onkers who would, when I succeeded, become my predecessors, and then of having someone else rise up behind my back. Also, I admit, the whole country was sick and tired of this nonsense. They needed a person at the helm who would direct and control, fairly and justly, giving aid to the weak and yet not penalizing too unfairly the strong and clever, so that the wheels of industry and commerce, of religion and order, might continue to turn.

  I, Dray Prescot, had set out to take the throne because I had nothing better to do. Now that I had had my eyes opened by the sheer loyalty, the dependence of my men, I hesitated. What right had I to aspire to another country’s throne? Would I do any better for them than any of the other idiots who had grabbed the crown from greed? Perhaps I might; as you know I had had considerable success in Valka, and the Clans of Felschraung and Longuelm had prospered. But — and it was a big but — had all the joy gone from the scheme? Because I might now take the throne, had all the contest gone from the exercise?

  With all the force of a millstone running downhill events had taken charge. I discovered that the Kov of Hyr Khor, this Nath Jagdur, had once been of the Djin tan. When he had been declared leemshead, an outlaw, his tan had rejected him. He had made short work of them, and now he alone remained of the tan, with the exception of a young, crippled girl who had sought protection in North Djanduin with the Bolin tan, and who was now, therefo
re, behind the enemy lines, in an area dominated by the Gorgrens.

  Day by day secret messages of support flowed in. Coper was now working urgently. The treasury was bankrupt. The soldiers received no pay. No ships called. The harvest had been good but the farmers, true to their canny nature, hid most of their produce and sold only a tithe of it in the markets. There were riots in the city. The new king, this Kolanier, caroused in the palace, and sent his men out into the countryside to burn barns and seize hidden food. This food was then brought back to the city and distributed only to those in favor with the king. That meant his army and their dependents. Coper wrote that he felt disaster of a colossal scale could not now be prevented unless I struck soon. So I had to make up my mind.

  I prevaricated.

  Oh, yes, I was very far from the Dray Prescot who once would hurl himself unthinkingly into the leem’s jaws. Now I pondered long and deeply, and, if I say that in the end I made up my mind to do as Coper and Kytun and our other friends begged me to do, and if that sounds megalomaniac to you, I can ask only for understanding. I am conscious always of that old saw about absolute power corrupting absolutely. I had held power in my hands. If I was corrupt I could blame only myself. That I did not think myself corrupt meant merely that, perhaps, I did not grasp the truth. But, also, I doubt if any of you would care to stand up and say to me, face to face, what you might murmur behind my back. Is that megalomania?

  I try always to treat a man fairly, to give him his just deserts, and to seek for mercy if he is evil, and to heap overpraise on him if he is meritorious.

  These are a weakling’s ways, I know.

  On the day appointed we marched for Djanguraj.

  We made a magnificent spectacle.

  The flutduins beat the sky with their yellow wings, their sharp black beaks pointed on toward success. The infantry marched in their regulation formations, pastang by pastang, regiment by regiment. The artillery trundled on, drawn by sleek teams of quoffas or calsanys. The joats of the cavalry jingled as they trotted on over the white roads. And, over all the host, which had swollen day by day with fresh and eager men anxious to have an end of the troubles, there floated my old scarlet and yellow flag, Old Superb.