Scorpio Ablaze

by Alan Burt Akers

  He paused there. If he was puzzled I hadn’t spoken he covered that well. All the time he sat in his chair and jabbered, he was destroying the picture of horror he presented. Familiarity might not, in this instance, breed contempt. He was an apparition, using his kharrna to project his image in lupu to this spot. And he brought his retinue along into the bargain. He had power all right. Enough power, as I surmised, to choke off the combined powers of Deb-Lu and Khe-Hi.

  The little corpse-white thing half hidden in the shadows wriggled up. The massive head and crown inclined as the thing whispered into an ear. He straightened up. Those fearsome eyes, all blue-black and red, fixed me.

  “N’gil suggests your fear is feigned.”

  I said nothing.

  “N’gil wants to know if, even at this late hour, you would join us.”

  In a short time my friends should be along. The black and gray smoke from my fire was dying. But it ought to be enough. I wanted to get rid of this unnatural sorcerer and his gang before Shankjid arrived.

  All the time he talked and I didn’t I was watching the edge of the forest in case Arzuriel showed up. With his four tentacles, each with a head with jaws at its tip, he’d make a likely candidate for the monster gallery in the jungle. There was no sign of him.

  “Well, Dray Prescot?”

  “No thanks, Carazaar. Your kind of existence is too unhealthy for me.”

  N’gil drew in a hissing breath.

  “I have told you you are a prince of fools, Dray Prescot, an onker of onkers, a get onker—”

  I interrupted.

  “I’ve been told that — many times — by people who could slow fry you in your own sorcery.”

  His ghastly face twisted. “I do not believe you.”

  “That’s your privilege, Carazaar. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Stretching to the rear and slightly to the sides of the throne the air was hazy, vague with half-seen moving shapes. No doubt that was some kind of reflection through the planes of Carazaar’s hang out. From just above the throne a gasp sounded, clear and sharp, between my remark and Carazaar’s immediate snarling retort.

  I guessed that to be the woman with the plump white arms who carried Carazaar’s fish-faced crown about for him. Would she like him?

  Now from my previous experience I knew that a sword slash would go clean through this apparition. Of them all, so far, only Arzuriel had been solid, and he’d drifted through a brick wall to get at me. Could I rely, then, on the Bowmaids’ shafts not going solidly through me?

  Using the Krozair Disciplines I could knock the arrows out of the air. But, suppose they contained thaumaturgy of a superior order? Then the sword would go through the shaft without deflecting it, and the charmed arrow could penetrate me and stick me clear through. That was not a happy thought, no, by the Crooked Shaft of Hork the Squint!

  Perhaps he saw the intention on my face, black thoughts giving me that old Dray Prescot Devil Look. I own I scowled.

  His right fist gripped the double-headed axe. He lifted it high and shook it. It was pure Theatre.

  “There is yet time, Dray Prescot, for you to change your mind.”

  The chair, the Bowmaids, the naked girls, the chained things, N’gil and Carazaar himself began to fade. I spoke up.

  “Remberee, Carazaar. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  The apparition blinked and was gone.

  Chapter thirteen

  For too long a moment I just stood there. The vision of that reekingly evil character persisted. Two shadows, one red, the other green, drifted across the clearing before me, each suffused by a wash of color from the other sun. The Suns were sinking now and the rays slanted into the forest. I looked up.

  Instantly I was running like a maniac — running into the nearest of the trees.

  I’d expected to see Shankjid up there, sailing to my rescue.

  The hull of the flier up there was midnight black.

  So that’s why that bastard Carazaar held me still!

  If I could make the treeline I stood a chance of shaking off pursuit. Any fancy notion of standing stock still so I wouldn’t be noticed was like hoping a hunk of red meat wouldn’t be noticed by a hungry leem. Any idea of slipping over the bank and hiding in the river was just as foolish. Even if the Shanks up there didn’t have Katakis with them, they wouldn’t miss a trick like that.

  If the Fish Faces did have Katakis with them, and the Whiptails had a pack of werstings, then I was in deep deep trouble.

  Those black and white striped hunting dogs can run down a scent like a toddler can scent a banje shop two streets off.

  The Fish Heads up there were on the ball. A rock flew past my head, gouged a chunk of dirt, rebounded on to slam into a trunk with force enough to spray chips of bark. I put my head down and ran. If they shot arrows off after me they missed. Probably their short bows weren’t up to the job. By the time they got their varter reloaded I dived in between the trees. This time the rock mangled the head of a bush just out from the shadows.

  Back in the clearing the flier had touched down. Shanks were jumping out, screeching their warcries, brandishing tridents. They glittered, sharp and cruel, in the declining suns light.

  They started off towards me.

  Now wandering about at night in a jungle is not a particularly healthy pastime, and not something I would recommend for light entertainment. Mind you, I’ve done it. Seg and I have had our share of nighttime jungles.

  Here, though, there would be dangers of a different kind from those of the forests of South Pandahem. The vegetable carnivores would be just as lethal as the animal — more so, given certain circumstances.

  With the utmost caution afforded by the need to travel fast, I headed deeper between the trees.

  The obvious plan occurred to me. If I circled around I could hope to shake off the Fish Faces and then, when they gave up the chase and took off, I could sneak back into the clearing.

  There’d been no sign of Katakis or werstings. As far as we knew, the Shanks did not have a tame form of bloodhound. The shadows dropped, deep black-green and a red as sullen as the red of Carazaar’s robes.

  I started to circle to my left.

  Again, if what we believed of the Shanks was true, they disliked much foot activity far from the sea. There was the river. If I could cross that in some way — say by jumping along the boulders, or swinging on a liana — they might not believe I’d do that. They’d search out the section where I’d vanished into the trees as best they could, and then they’d give up. It wasn’t much of a plan; it was the best I had.

  There was no chance I’d venture deeper into the forest.

  Now it was dark under the branches. Mist coiled promisingly. I slowed down to a quick walk, still searching every step, and listened out.

  The sounds of men crashing along floated in the still, misty air. They appeared to be going straight on along the direction I’d first taken. Slowing right down, I continued to listen and scan all about. The odd thing was that I could still see remarkably well in a situation I knew must be murky. The mist cut off vision far more than the darkness.

  And another thing — the stillness of the air. That was not nice at all. That meant my friends couldn’t sail Shankjid. She was stuck wherever she’d reached when the breeze died.

  With an abrupt crescendo of sound, a shrill screaming broke out off to my right and rear. I didn’t exactly smile; but I felt a grim and ugly amusement. The Shanks had run into a denizen of the nighted jungle.

  The uproar swelled and then died and went away. Presently the sounds drifted in again. The Fish Faces were on their way back to their ship.

  I reached the river. Already a few stars glittered, high and remote from man’s foolishness.

  The smells of the jungle changed with the fall of night. Exotic blooms opened to drink of moons light sifting down between the branches, and other exotic blooms closed their petals to wait for the rise of the Suns. Something exceedingly nasty co
ughed way off to the right.

  A few steps along the bank showed me a way to cross.

  The outcrop of rock here, which caused the river to bend in its course and opened out the clearing, had tumbled boulders haphazardly. I jumped nimbly across as though playing hopscotch. I became no wetter than I already was.

  Night sounds of the forest screeched and grunted and laughed all about. I went along the bank a little way looking towards the Shank ship. My fire had gone out but in the open there was enough light to pick out details. Some of the Fish Faces congregated about the voller and there was a quantity of arm waving and trident brandishing. The noise they made surged in hisses and splashes like a racing tide.

  Settling down in the concealment of a rock I waited and watched. By this time I was ravenously hungry. The moment the Schtarkins took off I’d have to go hunting.

  A number of unpleasant thoughts rose to collide in my old vosk skull of a head. Had Carazaar held me here after summoning the Shank voller? Or was she simply flying nearby and thus convenient for the task? Also, how did Carazaar know exactly where to find me? There was a most disturbing answer to that important question.

  He had interfered with the lupal projections of Khe-Hi and Deb-Lu. As they worked their way through the planes so as to talk to me down here in Chem, could Carazaar track them? Had my two comrade Wizards of Loh actually brought Carazaar here?

  Just who or what Carazaar was no one seemed to know. I say ‘seemed’ because our Wizards of Loh had not yet reported their investigations. Could it be that in investigating Carazaar they had summoned up greater powers? Powers able to do what Carazaar had done, and able for the future to harm us all most profoundly?

  Of one thing I remained tenaciously sure. The cauls of protection afforded me and my family and friends remained operative. They must be. Otherwise, Carazaar would have dealt with us long ago.

  A group of Shanks approached from the far side of the ship, making a deal of noise. I guessed they were reporting in their failure to find me. Did they know who they were hunting? I’d no way of telling. Maybe it was pure chance they’d drifted down and spotted me. Maybe they had nothing whatsoever to do with Carazaar. I could only make a guess, a judgment based on a cynical disbelief in too many coincidences, either happy or unfortunate. Carazaar’s connection with the Shanks appeared to me to be indisputable. All those fishy symbols, for instance. This was a sad reflection. Here was another ally, along with the damned Katakis, taking sides with the Shanks against the folk of Paz.

  The ensuing and obvious thought did occur to me. This clever sorcerer Carazaar, and his minions Arzuriel and N’gil — and how many other monstrous associates he had — might not hail from Paz at all. They might, as did the Shanks, come from over the curve of the world.

  The nighttime insects were up and flying and attempting to bite and sting and suck. The crushed herb juice we smeared on ourselves to keep the insects off was wearing too thin after my immersion in the river so I spent a bur or two collecting the correct leaves and rubbing the juice over my body. I’d always felt that the scent gave a human some kind of camouflage in the forest against predators hunting primarily by smell. I’d no idea if I was right.

  What were my people in Shankjid doing now? Probably going mad with frustration that the breeze had died. Still, the rising of the Suns should whistle up a wind, and if it wasn’t too foul, they’d be here. If the Shank voller had not departed by then — I refused to contemplate what might happen then. I’d put money on my lads, though, by Krun!

  I caught and skinned my supper, and going into the verge of the forest found a boulder to act as shield and so was able to build a tiny fire which kebabed the meat reasonably enough with a root or two. This was not a sumptuous Kregan meal and to follow there was only water from the stream. But I found some tropical palines and so assuaged the demands of the inner man.

  The Shanks had not lit any fires so they were continuing to cook their fishy meals aboard their vessel. The ship hulked there in the clearing, bulky and dark and a damned nuisance. I collected up a number of sticks about a palm or so long and started to whittle them into points at both ends. The tree I selected stood just within the rim of the jungle yet not so far in as to be overnear another. It had a decent trunk with a crotch about twenty feet up. There was no difficulty climbing to the branch junction. With my old sailor knife I made holes in the trunk beneath me, circumferentially, so to speak, and stuck the sharp spikes in slanting down. If anything tried to get at me up the trunk he’d make enough noise negotiating the spikes to rouse me. I repeated the exercise on the two upper branches, this time with the points sticking upwards. Then I composed myself in the crotch and went to sleep.

  Rather to my surprise I woke up with the dawn.

  As a habitually light sleeper — well, as you know, drunken sleep on Kregen is often never awoken from — I’d expected some nocturnal incident. I awoke fresh and clear-eyed, and taking in deep draughts of that superb early morning air of Kregen, even in a rain forest, I looked about.

  The Shanks were still there but from the activity going on looked as though they were about to depart. The naughty notion of sending a shaft after them, to help them on their way, did cross my mind, to be immediately rejected. I’d had enough trouble getting rid of ’em, I most certainly didn’t want the cramphs chasing me again, no, by Vox!

  Before the twin Suns of Scorpio had risen above the tree tops the voller lifted off. Her brightly painted upperworks foreshortened as she rose and that evil black hull turned with supple ease. She cleared off to the south west, going fast.

  I let out a breath, said a few inhospitable words re all the different brands of Fish Faces, and climbed down from my night’s lodging.

  Chapter fourteen

  After a vigorous wash in the stream I enjoyed a breakfast that was a simple repetition of last night’s supper. The dilemma in which I found myself was obvious.

  Whilst it was needful to light a smoking fire to let my friends know where I was, the smoke might well bring the same Shank or another on patrol.

  Also, and this dismayed me more than the smoke problem, the breeze that got up shifted around to the north. The brilliance of the suns and the freshness of the air suddenly seemed more chill. The sounds of the forest echoed with a greater menace. Even the scents soured.

  There was one bright spot. Carazaar did not put in another appearance. Maybe his kharrna was limited, so that he used great chunks of it to accomplish his deeds, and was then incapable of action for some time. Maybe.

  All the time I kept up a lookout for anything flying over, and for my Praying Mantis friend of the previous day.

  After a bur or so of this futile shilly-shallying I saw there was nothing else for it. Shankjid could make her way north by a long and tedious succession of boards, tacking against that diabolical north wind. My lads ought to be able to deal with a single Shank voller, although from our recent experiences I harbored dark and shadowed doubts I would not share with a single soul. If they could not then we’d all be stuck down here in the jungles of Chem.

  The fire lighting business had been underway for only a few moments before I stopped striking the flint and steel. Yesterday I’d decided that I had to be out in the open for my friends in Shankjid to spot me. That had been the reason I hadn’t immediately made my way back upstream along the bank. They’d never see me under the tree cover.

  But — Shankjid had not put in an appearance. This confounded foul breeze meant they could be anywhere trying to tack up north. I remained totally undecided on my best course of action.

  The good night’s sleep had freshened me up physically. It had done nothing to sharpen up the brain cells.

  Reluctantly I came to the unpalatable conclusion that I had no other option. I had to light my fire and waft the smoke and trust in Opaz and hope that Five-handed Eos-Bakchi would smile on my endeavors.

  With some frustrated savagery I struck flint and steel and the tump caught first time and a trifle of careful bl
owing brought a blaze. Soon smoke drifted into the air, blown southwards.

  With some forethought I’d sited the fire near the northern edge of the clearing. If Carazaar put in an appearance, or some damned Shank voller, I could fade into the trees pronto.

  The suns crept across the sky. I began to feel peckish.

  This time I spotted the flier early. He sailed in from the south going steadily on a dead level course. One look — “By Makki Grodno’s false wig and clotted nose! A stinking Fish Face!”

  Instantly I dived into the shelter of the forest.

  The voller was the same one. He’d come sniffing back, and no doubt this time meant to finish the job. I scowled.

  Did the Schtarkins up there realize they were hunting a man who meant them mischief? They were keeping me from getting on with the task of slinging them out of Tarankar and out of Loh and eventually of all Paz. Even one day could be vital. I fumed — quite futilely.

  The ship settled in the clearing. Fish Faces alighted. They fanned out and a mean looking bunch came over to inspect the fire.

  Now if that miserable hunk of evil called Carazaar put in an appearance now...

  Confident they hadn’t seen me I hung around on the skirts of the forest, moving slowly and cautiously so as to keep the parties that ventured in some distance off. They were hunting methodically; but they still refused to go very far in among the trees. That was, of course, most sensible of them. Presently the voller lifted gently and slid into a narrow slot among the foliage on the southern edge of the clearing. She halted and lowered to the ground. Shanks started to cut branches, selecting those with plenty of leaves, and began to cover the voller. Pretty soon the vessel was camouflaged so as not to be visible from the air.

  This was distinctly not good.