Storm over Vallia

by Alan Burt Akers

  Some distance away from Fraipur’s miserable dungeon and considerably higher, Silda Segutoria sat polishing up her sword, the drexer glitteringly bright already, and thinking dark thoughts.

  By Vox! This time she’d go armed to the teeth!

  Still, poor old Lon the Knees. It was not really his fault. He lived in a parlous society, a heaving mass of humanity not far removed from the slaves. He’d have made enemies as well as friends. And, to be sure, she found herself warming to the bandy-legged fellow. He was a real character. Still and all, he had to produce Crafty Kando soon, or Silda Segutoria, if not Lyss the Lone, would blow up like a volcano in full eruption.

  She strapped on the drexer on its individual belt alongside the rapier and shifted the various straps and fittings until they felt comfortable. The knapsack nestled on her left hip. She could dive her left hand in there in a jiffy, and she’d not cut herself up as that poor little spinlikl had done.

  Her black leathers were soft and supple from skillful ministrations. Over her shoulders she swirled a dark plum-colored half-cloak. On her head, in place of the uniform helmet, or the lady’s version of the universal Vallian floppy-brimmed hat, she slapped a charcoal-gray boltsch, a round hat fabricated from a felt-like material, flat and wide which could be pulled down fetchingly on one side. Within and padded to her head was a hard-boiled leather skull.

  She’d bought the thing yesterday, it had cost two and a half silver stivers, and she’d ripped out the bright yellow and green feathers. No doubt the hat represented plunder, for the feathers were not local. No doubt, also, that was why she’d been able to haggle down to two and a half. The thing was worth a trifle more than that.

  The schturval[11] of Rahartdrin, now officially extinguished by King Vodun, was yellow and green with two diagonal red slashes, together with a lotus flower.

  Making sure everything was shipshape and Vallian fashion, she stomped out in her tall black boots.

  Perhaps, this time, she could arrange what amounted to a meeting between two worlds.

  High life and low life having failed, she’d fallen back on the sensible person’s course of action and gone for religion.

  All folk tended to have one chief god in whom they reposed trust and confidence, although some of the horrors called religions in Havilfar created sheer terror in the believers. As well as Opaz, chiefest among the spirits, the light of the Invisible Twins made manifest, Vallians gave their allegiance to a bewildering variety of other gods, godlings, goddesses and spirits.

  Vox stood in a category apart; from being the favorite of the warriors Vox had spread into universal use.

  Mind you, said Silda to herself as she marched briskly along in the mid-afternoon suns light, all these temples gave openings for a whole slew of priests and priestesses to wax fat on the credulous. Cities claimed precedence very often on economic, military or political grounds. The factor of the number of temples within a city could never be ignored. The city with more temples than its neighbor always made its citizens feel they had scored heavily even before any argument began.

  Rashumsmot, as its name indicated, was a town and not a city. If King Vodun decided to stay on here he might well build and enlarge the place and call it Rashumsden. He would have little need of inviting new priests, temples and godlings into his new city, for Rashumsmot was already lavishly provided, as any self-respecting town must be, with a splendiferous array of places of worship.

  “The Temple of Applica the Bounteous,” she’d told Lon, most firmly. “I don’t give a damn if Crafty Kando thinks Applica is a fat old besom. Just get him there. The Day is the Day of Applica Conceived, so there will be crowds.”

  “But, Lyss—”

  “It’s hard enough to arrange my off-duty to coincide with the whims of your friend. By Vox, Lon! Time’s a-wasting.”

  “Yes, Lyss...”

  So, here she was, a plum-colored cloak swirled about her black leathers concealing her weaponry, a hat pulled over one ear, striding off to the half-ruined temple of a fat old lady goddess who oversaw the production of twins — if you believed that, of course.

  The temple had not suffered too badly and had not burned. The roof over the priestess’s quarters had been stoved in, no doubt by an airboat falling on it, and they had shifted the acolytes out of their rooms to take them over. The main area lay open, fronting five tall columns and a broad flight of steps whereon the priestesses performed. The congregation was composed of a wide variety of people, three quarters of them women. The most noticeable common denominator was that they were pregnant.

  Lon spotted Silda and trotted over and they stood in the shadows of the first interior wall, shoulder high, to watch. Lon quivered.

  “There he is. And Lop-eared Tobi’s with him, too.”

  Following Lon’s inconspicuous gesture, Silda saw the two men. Crafty Kando appeared much as he had when he’d put his nose into The Leather Bottle. His companion had made some attempt to smarten himself up to visit the temple, and still contrived to look an unhanged ruffian, bad teeth, pocked skin and stringy hair and all.

  Two worlds, meeting on neutral territory, said Silda to herself, and sighed, and thrust away weak thoughts of happier days and places where she’d rather be right now.

  Incense smoke drifted across, mingling with the choked smells of the mass of people. Many were kneeling. They were being led through the rites of the service by the priestesses and chanted and responded to order. Crafty Kando and Lop-eared Tobi eased across and Lon moved forward by the low wall to speak with them. Silda waited. At last Lon turned, smiling, and Silda walked over to join them.

  The pappattu was made quickly, informally, and Silda, about to broach the subject burning uppermost in her mind now she’d actually made contact with the thief, saw over his shoulder a woman in a brown dress beckoning to someone hidden beyond a pillar. Before Silda spoke she saw a bull-necked swaggering fellow step out from beyond the pillar. By his black brows alone she would have recognized him as Ortyg the Kaktu. The last time she’d seen him in The Dancing Flea she’d knocked him down. Well, well, now...

  Without more ado, Ortyg hurled his knife and then whipped out his sword and charged. The knife thudded into the wood trim of the corner as Silda shoved Crafty Kando out of the way. Four other men ran in the wake of Ortyg the Kaktu. He knocked over a pregnant woman kneeling in his way. His face was black with passion.

  “I’ll have you now, rast, cramph, vermin!”

  The three men with Silda swung about sharply, and exclamations unfit for utterance in a temple fell from their lips. Silda didn’t bother with any of that. Out came her rapier in a twinkling and the main gauche, the Jiktar and the Hikdar. She leaped forward. Ortyg recognized her. His scowling face broke into a dazzling smile, black teeth and all, and he fairly howled down.

  Silda had no time to waste. This was not the time for pretty expositions of the art of the sword. Anyway, Ortyg was out to kill them all, that was clear, and she could not afford to take risks, for herself or for Lon.

  So she took the clumsy blow along the left-hand dagger, stuck Ortyg through the guts, withdrew, slashed the next fellow down the face, came back into line to stick the third in the eye. The fourth was gasping up blood around the knife in his throat. Lon started forward.

  “I’ll buy you a new knife, Lon. Run!”

  Incontinently, the four of them ran out of the uproar spreading within the Temple of Applica the Bounteous.

  They didn’t stop running and then walking swiftly until they were past the Street of Krokan the Glorious where they could ease down and catch their breath. Of them all, Lop-eared Tobi whooped in the most gasps and wheezes. Silda’s breathing was scarcely troubled.

  “By Diproo the Nimble-Fingered!” said Kando. “What she-cat have you found yourself this time, Lon?”

  Chapter thirteen

  To smash a dragon’s egg

  King Vodun Alloran found he was most vexed with himself for being troubled over San Fraipur, the Wizard of Fruningen
. Fraipur had served Alloran’s father and then himself with devotion and expertise, his advice sound and well-judged. What troubled King Vodun was simply that he could not make up his mind if Fraipur should be killed out of hand, left to rot in his dungeon, tortured to death or smothered. And, if torture was decided on, then Alloran would have to make his choice of the various alternatives the torture masters could offer. Yes, it was a vexing question.

  “By the Triple-Tails of Targ the Untouchable!” he burst out. “I’ll throw the problem to Five-handed Eos Bakchi.”

  At his outburst the Kataki guards around the walls swiveled their narrow demonic eyes upon him. He was apim, not Kataki, yet he used Kataki oaths. He continued to call upon the name of Opaz in public, for Arachna counseled him it was as yet unwise to move too rapidly. He certainly counted himself the most fortunate of men that he had discovered her and that she had entered his service. The Katakis served him well.

  There was a time, he remembered, when he loathed Katakis with their bladed whiptails and their slaving ways, but that was before Arachna had opened his eyes.

  He gave his orders to his chamberlain Naghan the Chains and in due time four husky fighting men were wheeled in. Each was naked. All were apim. They stared about, dazzled by the magnificence all around, nervous yet relieved that they had not been thrown to the wild animals or sold off as slaves.

  Chin propped on fist, Alloran studied them. Yes, they looked evenly matched; he would not take a certain bet on any one of them. Eos-Bakchi, spirit of chance, would decide.

  As the men stood huddled and limp with dawning apprehension, Alloran’s serving girls tied colored ribbons about the men’s left arms. White for smothering. Red for death. Green for torture. Black for rotting. Each man was handed a Vallian dagger, long, slender and lethal.

  “Fight!” commanded Alloran. “All against all in melee. The winner will gain his life.” To himself, he added with a sly self-pleasing humor: “And if he is in respectable condition, the honor of Arachna!”

  The men fought.

  Afterward slaves cleared away the mess and swabbed the floor and the man wearing the black arm band, streaming blood, was carried off in a blanket. He still lived. Him, Alloran made the promise, he would reward by a visit to savor the honor of Arachna.

  With that tiresome problem out of the way, he could turn to the question of building this wonderful new phalanx his people had promised him. He knew the Phalanx of Vallia, and understood that Strom Rosil mayhap did not. With the thousands of mercenaries flooding in from North Pandahem, funded by Zankov’s gold, he would crush the usurpers and then begin the great march on Vondium.

  The phalanx he was building would be a vital component of his army. He sat back and held up his hand and a sprite in silver gauze placed a golden goblet therein. Alloran drank. Life was going to be good and get better, by Takroti!

  When everything was prepared he was informed by a Mantissa and went through into the inner chamber. All proceeded as before, except that the man was a Fristle. When Arachna threw back the cloak the golden furry body of a Fristle fifi drove the breath thick and clogging into Alloran’s throat. The tail-hand crept out along the bed, took up the snake-curved dagger and thrust the blade deeply into the Fristle’s vitals. The mingled shriek of agony and ecstasy, the blood and the limp falling away, and Arachna spoke in those husky cobwebbed tones reaching in through mazy distances.

  “If you do not wish to be eaten by the dragon, you must smash the egg in the nest.”

  Pondering Arachna’s words, Alloran walked slowly from the secret chamber, through his throne room without pausing, and so on toward the top floor of the west wing.

  Naghan the Chains hovered, and to him Alloran said, “Fetch food and wines for the lady Chemsi and me.”

  “At once, majister, at once.”

  Just before Naghan hurried off Alloran snapped out: “And find Scauron the Gaunt and send him to me.”

  “Your command, majister.”

  Scauron the Gaunt, decided King Vodun as he strode off to share a pleasant meal and company with his light o’ love, was the perfect tool for smashing dragon’s eggs.

  * * * *

  Three victories having taken the Prince Majister of Vallia across the province of Ovvend to the borders of the kovnate of Kaldi, he paused there to consider the next steps. The first victory, Vongleru, had been hard fought, as expected. The second, Ondorno, gained slightly more readily. The most recent battle had seen the Vallian forces routing their opponents at Naghan the Folly’s Ford with convincing ease.

  All the same, Drak was under no illusions that the war was won. He could not just march his army across Kaldi without a by your leave. The Kataki Strom was reeling back with a bloody nose; he was a long way from being beaten.

  Also, Prince Drak must take careful thought for the other fronts in Vallia. Up in the northeast they were having continual trouble and an army containing the whole of the Second Phalanx swatted this way and that. He could expect, at least for the moment, no reinforcements from there. Up in the central portions of the island Kov Turko fought for his province against Layco Jhansi and also against the Racters. Turko had the Fourth Phalanx consisting of the Seventh Lela and the Eighth Seg, two Kerchuris who were seeing a lot of action. Turko would rather be asking for more men than releasing them to fight elsewhere.

  In the capital, the Lord Farris and the Presidio ran the country in the absence of the emperor and the Prince Majister, and loyal and competent they were, too, thank Opaz! They were in the business of raising fresh troops. But soldiers, saddle animals and flyers, artillery, weaponry, did not grow on trees or sprout from the ground.

  Pacing restlessly up and down inside his tent, jurukkers on guard outside, abstaining from wine until the hour grew on, Drak pulled at his lower lip and struggled with the decisions he must make. As for Queen Lushfymi — the woman was a treasure and a jewel, no doubt of that. She had behaved herself during the battles, and had come to no harm. Her conversation, easy, educated, witty, turned on topics increasingly concerned with the desirability of Drak, as the putative emperor, finding a wife and thus ensuring the succession. No doubt was left in anyone’s mind, least of all in Drak’s, that he was expected to choose Queen Lushfymi of Lome. After all, she outshone all other women, did she not?

  Well, pondered Drak, cut by guilt and memories, well...

  He heard the sentries bellow the ritual challenge: “Llanitch!” Anyone ordered to “Halt!” quite like that halted at once, otherwise they’d be shafted. Then the tent flap was thrown back. Drak half-turned, expecting to see a sentry barging in to announce whoever the visitor was, and he saw a lithe and limber young lady, clad in russet leathers, a rapier and main gauche at her hips, a long evil-looking whip curled up over her shoulder, a plain bag with red stitching slung so that she could dive her left hand into it without thought. Her face glowed at him, mischievous, beautiful with that familiar heartbreaking beauty he knew so well, yet fierce, dominating, and haunted by some inner conflict not yet resolved.

  “Drak, you old shaggy sea-leem, you!”

  “Dayra! You little monkey! What in a Herrelldrin Hell are you doing here?”

  Brother and sister clasped each other, old sores forgotten, joying in seeing each other again. Life in the turbulent world of Kregen drives folk apart and makes reunions all the more joyful.

  Presently Drak said, “Now you are here it is appropriately enough the time for wine.”

  “Assuredly, brother. But a mouthful only for me. I must fly on sharpish.”

  “Oh?”

  They sat side by side on the sprawl of cushions on the floor and Dayra took the goblet of wine.

  “Yes. I’m flying to Hamal. It’s about time I saw Lela again and I want to size up this bright new prince of hers.”

  “I hear Prince Tyfar of Hamal is a splendid fellow.”

  “So I hear. I want to see for myself. And you know he calls her Zila. That’s because father and he knew her as Jaezila. Father calls her that nearl
y all the time instead of Lela. Mother sometimes despairs of him, I tell you.”

  They talked on, exchanging news, happy that now they could talk thus without the black memories of the past intruding. Dayra just said, almost in passing: “Zankov is dead, or I think he must be, seeing that Cap’n Murkizon broke his backbone across.”

  Drak took up his wine, drinking to cover the pause for consideration. Whatever the troubles with that bastard Zankov may have been, Dayra possessed a bright spirit that reacted emotionally and which might not be altogether rational still. He was just about to make some noncommittal remark when Dayra went on speaking as though the subject had not been brought up.

  “Oh, and Drak, you great fambly, when are you and Silda to be married? I cannot understand why you are leaving it so late.”

  Because he was so genuinely glad to see this wayward sister who had caused such concern to the family and heartache for his mother, he refused to become stupidly pompous and indignant. He swallowed the wine.

  “It is not arranged in any way that I shall marry Silda.”

  “There, you see!” flamed Dayra, known as Ros the Claw. “Why is it that you shall marry her? Why is it not that Silda hasn’t decided to marry you? Because you are a man?”

  “No, you fambly — I apologize. I have to remember to think like the Prince Majister who may someday be emperor. Surely you recognize that? As for Silda — I think she would marry me if—”

  “Would! If! Why, you insufferable onker! She loves you!”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then—?”

  When Drak did not answer, Dayra burst out: “It’s this fat Queen Lush! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Well, Dayra, look—”

  “Since I’ve been back with the family — or at least those who’ve been around — I’ve learned a few surprising things. Anyway, what about Uncle Seg? What about mother and father? Oh, I know you can’t marry someone because your folks think you should, but, Drak, dear — Queen Lush!”

  “She is a remarkable woman—”