Casually, I said: “I’m going to have a look at the voller. What d’you call her?”
Seg said: “She had some folderol name or other. Delia—”
“Shankjid,” said Delia, firmly.
“H’m,” I said, walking on slowly. “A mighty boastful name, that; but one I rather care for.” Jid means bane. The name had to be true.
Directly before me stood two Fristle swods. A swod is the soldier in the ranks, the fellow on whose shoulders everything else rests. In the Guard regiments, although a guard is a juruk and therefore the lads could call themselves jurukkers, and often did, mostly they called themselves swods.
The two Fristles had magnificent cat-men’s whiskers. They wore the red of the regiment, and armor, with weaponry girded about them. They held halberds horizontally. Standing against this barrier, Moglin the Flatch stared at the Fristles balefully. His bow slanted over his shoulder. Fan-Si stood as it were to his rear and side, and his arm was about her.
Moglin was saying: “...anybody at all messes with Fan-Si gets a shaft through the guts. Quick, by the barbed shafts of the True Trog Himself!”
Flarvil the Nose, the left hand Fristle, said: “You’re fretting over nothing. The girl is safer here than anywhere else on Kregen.”
“That’s right,” amplified Ortyghan the Dagger. “The Kendur don’t allow anything like that.” Then he said in a most indignant tone: “You are forgetting you’re dealing with One ESW.”
Then, because they were 1ESW and were romantic Fristles, despite being ferocious swods, Flarvil added, slyly: “Unless, in course, that sweet little Fan-Si prefers a fine upstanding guardsman.”
Fan-Si did not exactly giggle; but her tail switched about delightfully.
Ortyghan the Dagger was given that cognomen because he often strapped a dagger to his tail. Fristles were taking up the habit. If the Opaz-forsaken Katakis could blade daggered steel, so could Fristles!
Seg and Delia walked alongside me, with Inch and Milsi and Sasha.
“By Odifor!” quoth Ortyghan, and his daggered tail flashed up over his shoulder. “Any fine girl with any sense would prefer a gallant fellow out of the Kendur’s One ESW!” His laugh and that of Flarvil perfectly expressed their playfulness; I could see they teased poor Moglin.
Fan-Si saw that, too. She tugged Moglin. “Come on, Moggers. If they won’t let us past to see the prince, then they won’t.”
“They call Prince Chaadur, Drajak the Sudden, an emperor.” Moglin sounded disbelieving, uneasy. Fan-Si kept silent and pulled him away.
Three figures cut off the Fristles from my sight and three of the highest chiefs of 1ESW walked up to me, smiling yet grave. Dorgo the Clis, Naghan ti Lodkwara and Targon the Tapster, good comrades all, wanted to know if we were camping here for the night.
“I hadn’t thought,” I said, dragging my mind back to this minor decision and away from the dreadful mess I’d made with my new friends.
“Why not?” demanded Delia. “There is water, and the clearing is safe.”
“We could all do with some sweet ibroi and the ship with some pungent ibroi,” said Milsi, mentioning cleaning materials.
“That’s true, by the Veiled Froyvil.”
“So we will camp,” I said.
“Quidang, jis,” said Targon. “We’re well equipped.”
They’d see to that, all right. Kampeons all, old campaigners, able to look after themselves in the Furnace Fires of Inshurfraz. They’d set up watches and organize everything down to the last detail.
I looked about the clearing. People were already busy setting up the firepits and bringing food out of the voller. There’d be a right old shebang tonight. Over in a little group by themselves I spotted Kuong, Mevancy and Rollo. With a measure of guilt, I supposed they’d tried to walk over to see me, and the lads had politely stopped them, and turned them back. Llodi and Tuco, with Larghos, were joined by Moglin and Fan-Si.
Truly, I’d been remiss!
I said to Delia: “I’ve made rather a leem’s nest of them.”
She understood at once. “Well, no harm done if we smooth all now.”
When Delia decides to be charming I seriously believe she could make a savage and malignant leem lap milk from her fingers.
Kuong was immediately overwhelmed. Rollo left off being supercilious. And Mevancy — ah, Mevancy! She flowered as Delia in the most natural way admitted her to a personal friendship. There was nothing supercilious about Delia, no hidden mockery. She understood with an intuition that never fails to astound me. Well, as I never tire of saying, there is no single lady of Earth or of Kregen to equal my Delia, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountain’s.
After a bit, I said: “Before we start the party I must get the bronze boxes fitted into their orbits.”
Milsi, half-pouting, said: “Must you, Dray, right away?”
Mevancy gave an enormous start. I suppose she’d understood from the moment we’d all met up. I suppose, understanding, she had not accepted that belief into her conscious mind. Now she had to face it.
Oddly enough, it was Llodi who said: “I was just getting used to calling you Prince Chaadur, Drajak. And now you’re Dray Prescot an’ all. Fair muddles a fellow up, it does, an’ everything.”
“Call me what you feel comfortable with,” I said. “What you like.” Then, very quickly, I added: “Only, not Kendur. The lads have a lien on that.”
Mevancy’s face was the color of the setting Zim. Slowly, she said: “I said you were never as good as the real Dray Prescot.” For a dreadful moment I thought she was going to cry. Her voice was choked. “It’s a funny old world, isn’t it, cab— I mean, majister.”
Sternly, I said: “If you do not call me cabbage, pigeon, I shall be most hurt.”
“But—”
Delia took her arm in the most friendly fashion. “I have some nice clothes in a cedar trunk with crushed flowers. You must choose what you like. There are far too many for me.”
In something of a daze, Mevancy went off with the divine Delia.
Well, we had the most enormous party that night, singing and dancing by the lights of the Moons. It was a high old time. There was ample to eat and enough to drink and no one was boorish enough to get drunk.
The night passed and although I could have wished that the Suns of Scorpio would wait before they rose into the dawn sky, rise they did and it was another day. Delia said: “Out, Emperor of Emperors,” and one dainty foot delightfully joined to a rounded rosy limb gave me a right old thump and out I went, tumbling onto the cabin deck.
I sat up and a great smashing knocking on the cabin door was followed at once by Seg’s bellow.
“Hai! Up and out! There’s a confounded Shank airboat just flying over us!”
Chapter seven
Oby’s dreams of becoming a famous voller kampeon had become true. He was, as I could testify, if not the very best then one of the very best of pilots of Vallia. He held honorary rank of Chuktar in the Vallian Air Service; but he was employed as the emperor’s personal pilot — that is, my personal pilot. Now he had no need to be told what to do.
He took Shankjid up with that smooth easy ascending curve that is the mark of the superb pilot. There was nothing left of the rapid jerky recklessness with which, say, Rollo, took up a flier. Rollo was a green novice beside Oby, yet Oby, once, had been just such a tearaway.
Clinging onto the companionway rail I managed to prevent myself from being hurled bodily back to the deck. Delia, on the step above me, swung back like a graceful willow leaning under the wind. With a smooth movement she regained her balance and was up the companionway ahead of me.
We burst out on deck to find a scene of busy and orderly uproar.
My lads of 1ESW are variously cavalry, infantry of any sort, artillerymen and engineers. They can turn their hand to any of the dark arts of war. Now they were preparing the varters along the bulwarks. Others were ascending to the fighting tops, while others laid out sand and water buckets. C
ontingents of bowmen were distributing themselves in coigns of vantage about the ship. In short, Shankjid was Clearing for Action.
Lifting up swiftly into the fresh morning air, I caught the last whiff of fragrance from the flowers and shrubs below. Now all the aromas about me were of battle and of a ship preparing for action.
Still, and despite all the years between, in these moments I missed the sights and sounds and scents of a ship of the line — the matches in their tubs, the rumble of guns on the hollow decks, the quick patter of the powder monkeys, and, above all, the move and tang of the sea.
Drums thundered through the ship and everyone fell silent.
Everyone nearby was looking at me.
I drew a breath and then pointed at the Shank vessel which was curving away and still above us.
“There is your enemy!” I shouted it out, big and bluff and strong. “Let us go and blatter the rast!”
“Hai!” they screeched in a savage chorus.
The Hai Jikais would come after we’d nobbled this cramph.
Oby’s flying skill continued to prevent the Shank from doing as he wished and flying directly over us. When the firepots rained down our fire parties would spring into action. These aerial sailors would hurl firepots from their catapults; but they were very very careful over the procedure, and not too happy about it. Petard hoisting — what Kregans call snizzing — is catastrophic aboard a wooden vessel up in thin air.
Well, we survivors of the Shank lord’s flagship knew that, by Vox!
Seg, clad in war harness and girded with swords, carried his great Lohvian longbow in his bronzed fist. He cocked his handsome head up.
“He’s a good flier up there; but I think Oby’s got him by the short and curlies.”
I looked at my blade comrade and, deliberately, I drew my eyebrows down. “You look out for yourself today, Seg. No stupid heroics.”
My eyebrow antics, I could clearly see, made Seg want to burst out into delighted laughter. Still, he understood my feelings, for he growled: “I’d say the same to you, my old dom, if it would do any good.” He gave me his funny quizzical look. “But it’d make no difference.”
“You forget, I have Korero to shield me.”
“Yes, and I have Tim Timutorio.”
I gave Seg a sideways glance, taking my gaze from the Shank ship. Tim Timutorio, a Bowman of Loh from Seg’s country of Erthyrdrin, had lost the use of three of the fingers of his right hand. How that bestiality had occurred no one had asked. Now he lifted a shield at Seg’s back in battle.
“I am diffident in this — I wish you could get a Kildoi.”
“Oh, old Tim will do. Perhaps Korero might know of a friend.”
At that moment Inch rolled up. He had a bright red scarf wrapped tightly around his hair and his helmet perched somewhat. He carried a bow.
Seg said: “You don’t actually hit anybody with that, Inch. You have to pull it back and let the stick thing in the middle fly off and hit your enemy. I thought you might care to know.”
“I thank you most sincerely for your information, Seg. Why, I was wondering what had happened to the head off this haft — which is a skinny and puny little thing, to be sure.”
“You wait ’til you try to pull it.”
The bow happened to be strung, so we were spared the pantomime these two would have gone through over that. Inch was a good shot, anyway. He just preferred to charge and get stuck in with his axe.
I thought I’d give good old Seg a jolt.
The enemy ship had given up trying to fly over us and was now clawing for height. Height, in one sense, corresponded to the weather gage in sailing ships of the sea. Oby was going up, too, and beginning to crowd the Shank. Now it is a fact that until great guns and steel ships were used on Earth’s oceans, few ships were sunk by gunfire. Flame and explosion destroyed ships. Gunfire dismasted them, knocked out guns and killed crew, all in preparation for the final act — boarding. So the far less powerful ballistae and catapults could not even do the damage guns could do. A thirty-two pound roundshot driven by gunpowder, smashing into solid oak would make a hell of a mess; a chunk of rock from a catapult hitting the same solid oak would dong a nasty dint, the damage would be far less. So it was that everyone aboard knew we’d shoot it out, and try to extinguish any fires that were started, and perhaps set a few blazes going aboard the Fish Head, but that in the end it would have to be a boarding action that would settle the issue.
So, as I said, just to tickle old Seg up, I said: “I found a capital crossbow in the trophy room. I’ll give it a shot.”
Seg gave me a withering look, whereat I smiled.
Delia joined us carrying a splendid longbow. Well, she can shoot it out with the best. I heard a scuffle at my back and half turned as a hoarse voice said: “That Larghos is all puffed up on account of being a Bowman of Loh, an’ all, Drajak. C’n I span that crossbow for you, Drajak?”
I held the weapon out. “Certainly.”
He hitched his strangdja over his shoulder and grasped the crossbow. He looked pleased. I said: “You’ll need your strangdja when we board, so don’t get yourself killed before then.”
“That’s all right,” he said in a cheerful way. “I’ll be standing at your back, an’ all, won’t I?”
Seg and Inch both burst into delighted guffaws. Delia favored me with a look that said, quite clearly: “And you’d better not get yourself killed, either, Dray Prescot!”
The day’s radiance shone down in mingled tints of jade and ruby. The air tasted like wine. The two ships circled, gaining height, acting like two contestants in the ring, seeking openings and weakness in the other. With a quick in-turn the Fish Face tried to cross our bows. The maneuver was carried out smartly. Even if the ensuing rake would not have the smashing impact of a gunfire rake, it would still be unhealthy. Oby was having none of that. Deftly he swung Shankjid in a tighter turn than the Shank’s and the two vessels raced along parallel. Here was where the shooting would search out marksmanship and courage. Arrows rose from the Shank and shafts sped from us in reply. A massive chunk of rock went hurtling and skipping across the deck, carrying away two crewmen in a red splodge. As always, I felt the anger and the despair. Good folk being cruelly cut down by those damned reiving Shanks!
Our dustrectium smashed into the Fish Face.
We could see chunks of his bulwarks splintering and collapsing under the impact of our flung stones. Mind you, our bulwarks began to take on a chewed look. Korero hovered close. No arrow would pierce Delia whilst Korero stood watch and ward, for he knew my standing instruction in situations like this. He might be my shield bearer; his orders were to protect Delia. Powerful though Korero the Kildoi was, even he wouldn’t be able to stop a flying granite boulder on his shields.
Seg said: “She’s not like any Shank I’ve seen before.”
I said: “They’re building different patterns these days. She has a fighting top, when their first ships only had lower galleries.”
Seg grunted. “Well, we have two fighting tops.” He shot in his bow and reached for another arrow. “See that fellow bending to the varter on their quarterdeck? He has a damned red scarf—”
“I see him. What, a gold talen?”
“Done.”
I knew I’d lose the wager. Seg seldom misses. Still, if we couldn’t have a friendly shooting wager or two, just like the old days, what was Kregen coming to?
He said: “That’s one gold you owe me. What about that monstrous mechanical object you laughingly refer to as a bow?”
Llodi stretched out and slapped the crossbow into my hands.
“All right. You’re on. And you can choose.”
“The next fellow on the same varter. He’s already done too much damage as it is.”
When I had duly reduced the crew of the ballista by one more, Seg sniffed and made no comment. Even he recognized that a crossbow was of more use in certain special circumstances. Llodi busily wound up his windlass. I stared about. The decks were be
ginning to take on that look of a shambles. There was no doubt that the Fish Face was pressing in. Clearly, he was getting the worst of this long range duel and wanted to come to close quarters, to board and so come to hand strokes.
Now whilst that was comforting in one way, it left a dilemma to the commander of Shankjid. The voller, a product of Tomecdrin in Balintol, was strange to me. She was a bit of a fantastical craft, with fighting tops rather like tiered wedding cakes, all angles and spikes and balconies. She was some thirty-five feet in breadth and about three times that in length, with two decks pierced for varters, twenty a side in two tiers. Now these were ordinary or common varters, not the superior gros-varters of Vallia. This was where the comforting bit came in, for we were out-shooting the Fish Head with our normal weapons.
The dilemma was whether to go on pounding the Schtarkin or to close and board. In other circumstances boarding was the final and decisive act. This was turning into a classical single ship encounter. Both vessels were of two decks, so they did not really fall into the category of frigates; but in everything else this was like one of the great frigate engagements of Earth.
The odd thing was, as the ships circled and swung about and ran parallel for a space, and as we shot and loosed, I was under the strongest illusion that as a passenger I was not in command. Oby was the captain. If Seg or Inch had exercised strategic or planning control, that was proper.
So the dilemma was not mine. I rather fancied I’d shoot the cramph up a little more before boarding. If you have an edge, use it.
Certainly, our shafts were taking a heavy toll of the Fish Faces.
Larghos the Throstle, who usually employed a strangdja, was a Bowman of Loh. He and Moglin the Flatch were shooting well and fluently. I caught a glimpse of Fan-Si lifting her bow.
I shouted, viciously: “Fan-Si! C’mere! Bratch!”
She walked up, swinging her tail, well-knowing what I wanted.
“I shall not be patient with you for very long! Go below and do not come back on deck without your armor! Dernun!”
She started to give me a saucy look, saw I was not joking, and scuttled off, her tail very much down.
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