Scorpio Drums [Dray Prescot #42] Page 11

  “No spotty-linds within range, Drajak.”

  “Right. Now, are we all agreed to wake ‘em up?”

  Mevancy, being a woman and therefore a trifle of a schemer in these affairs, said: “I'd like to scout ahead for a way. If there are more vorlinds up there, we could warn these people.” She arched her eyebrows at us. “They ought to be grateful, by Spurl, then, surely!”

  “Capital!” exclaimed Rollo. “I'll go.”

  “We'll all go,” I said in what I realized was a menacing voice.

  We found six more up the pathway and dispatched them all. We had been talking a whole lot lately. All four of us had waxed positively loquacious. This had to be caused by our uncanny surroundings.

  “All set? Right. Let's walk in.”

  Seeing that column of men come to life was amazing enough. They walked on in the first instance as though nothing had happened. Their knees moved up and down and their legs swung forward. But something had happened. Muscles had grown stiff, even though the spell mitigated the full effects. Some stumbled, some fell, all cried out in terror and despair.

  Those cries told me something of their recent history.

  The two Brokelsh dropped their burdens and sprang—clumsily—to the assistance of their lord. “Lynxor!” The Lohvian word for lord rang in the cavern and I tried to detect meaning. Did they really care for their master? They looked as though they meant business, for they caught him before he fell and supported him. I suppose they were fussing over him. This cheered me up in one direction and made me doubt in another. Obviously.

  We four stepped forward and we all had a shaft nocked and the string half drawn.

  “Llahal, doms!” I shouted in a firm, demanding voice. “Llahal!”

  The reactions should not have astonished us. But they did.

  A shrieking wail screeched up from the slaves, they dropped their bundles and baskets and ran madly back along the path. The guards milled about trying to form a line to front us. Bows lifted.

  “We are not demons!” I bellowed. “We are travelers like yourselves!”

  It was touch and go.

  The lord straightened up. He held a lynxter, the sword pointed at us and did not tremble.

  “Stand!” he said in a clear, crisp voice.

  He'd dropped his bow and drawn his sword sharpish enough, by Krun!

  “Llahal, lynxor.” I made the greeting even more demanding than before. I looked hard at him, at his pale cheeks, his dark eyes, that stiff small black beard. I lowered the bow. “We seek the way out of this maze.” I gestured with the bow. “There are beasts we shafted up there.”

  “Beasts? Vorlinds, yes, we have been pestered by them.” He wasn't sure yet, not quite sure of us. He turned abruptly to the guards. “Fetch the poor people back before they run into more mischief.”

  “Quidang!” rapped the lead Rapa who wore more feathers than the others among his own. He was the cadade, the captain of the guard. He belted out quick orders and some of the guard went running off after the witless slaves. I felt I could take an easier breath.

  “Your name?” He sheathed his sword.

  I made the pappattu, introducing us, and he announced himself as Chan Holomin, Strom of Wioldrin. Strom being roughly equivalent to a terrestrial count made him a member of the higher nobility. Where Wioldrin was I didn't know; I fancied he hailed from Walfarg.

  Further to smooth over this meeting, I said: “We felt a tremor, and weakness took us. Then we saw you in like case.”

  The guards were returning with the runaways and the hullabaloo quietened down. He pulled at that stiff beard. “I felt most peculiar, by Wurzam! We have traveled a long way and have not previously been troubled by sorcerers.” He gave us a sharp glance.

  Before he could frame in words what he was thinking I cut in: “We suspected sorcery, too. I suppose there must be a great deal of it down here.”

  He asked about our travels and we assured him there was no way out that way and in the end we agreed to cut off to the side of the cavern, wary of savage cats, and seek a fresh opening. Mevancy set herself to learn all she could. Chan admitted he was out for adventure and could not resist the challenge from the moment he first heard of the Realm of the Drums. By clever, seemingly innocuous questions, Mevancy drew forth the startling information that Chan and his party had ventured in here some five hundred seasons ago. All that time they'd stood there, clear of dust and decay, waiting all unknowingly to be released from the stasis spell.

  Just how many others were there down here, all frozen?

  He said he'd ventured in from an opening in the walls, sneaking in from the forest under cover of night, not wishing to let his presence be known to the inhabitants of the City of Eternal Twilight. He had a map of the way to get here; once inside he was as lost as us. Then he said: “It is told that the great and puissant Queen Satra ventured here. As everyone knows, she mysteriously vanished a few seasons ago. I am beginning to believe the rumors are correct. You could wander about down here for a lifetime.”

  One minor mystery was cleared up as Chan talked on. It was clear to us he was glad of the company. He'd started with over two hundred people, so he was considerably reduced. The mystery was this—the inscription we had come across indicated adventurers were expected. The folk of the City of Twilight knew about the labyrinth under their feet and never ventured down. They usually admitted anyone foolish enough to try to descend. Queen Satra, omnipotent, had accepted the challenge and taken a huge retinue down with her. That, at least, was the rumor which Chan now believed true.

  “So you sneaked in after her, on the quiet?”

  He started to bristle up at the crudity of my remark; then he smiled a trifle ruefully. “You are blunt, Drajak the Sudden. Yes.”

  His reaction heartened me. If he turned out to be your usual unpleasant example of so-called nobility we'd take our chances on our own. If he proved to be a reasonable traveling companion then we would, as I phrased it to myself, allow him to accompany us.

  There was, indeed, a fresh opening in the side of the cave. I had a quick quiet word with Rollo. “Your map?”

  “Still holding it in my head. I'd welcome pens and paper, though.”

  “We'll try this Chan fellow, later on.”

  “Seems a reasonable sort, I suppose.”

  “Mevancy is prepared to trust him.”

  “I bet friend Llodi isn't, by Hlo-Hli!”

  The opening led into a rough-hewn passageway which wound round and about so that I felt sorry for poor Rollo trying to keep a track of it all in his head. I said to Chan: “Did you make a map as you went along?”

  He gave an odd sideways look. He hesitated, and then said: “We began in that fashion. But Orgli, my stylor, was eaten by a syatra. After that every way we went led nowhere. I think, Drajak the Sudden, we are all resigned to our fate.”

  “Nonsense!” I exclaimed, probably with more force than I intended.

  Again Chan favored me with that leery look. Llodi, marching along on my heels, said in an unnaturally loud voice: “I agree with you, Prince Drajak!” He went on: “Why, the king your father would never surrender!”

  Chan jumped. So that was it! Good old Llodi! He'd spotted the way this strom didn't relish the familiarity with which I spoke to him.

  I said with some acerbity: “Now, Llodi, you know I am incognito.”

  At once Mevancy jumped in. “Please forgive him, majister.”

  Rollo joined in. “Please, majister. One has to become accustomed to calling Prince Drajak simply Drajak the Sudden.”

  My comrades meant well, of course. But was I always to be encompassed around with stupid titles? Still, they'd passed the issue off and the deception might help us. Then I smiled inwardly. It was no deception!

  “You are forgiven,” I said with my most imperial manner.

  “Majister,” Chan started up. “Had I known, I would—”

  “Now, Strom Chan. Just call me Drajak. And what is that shadow ahead, just past th
at buttress?”

  We all stopped abruptly. Up there the pearly light dimmed. If every time we came across perils the light faded, the prospects loomed even more unpleasantly. I could see pretty clearly, though, and made out a humped shape with prongs upon its back. As we stared, four red eyes opened. Four red eyes regarded us balefully and a gusting stench wafted upon us.

  “A stinkback!” Chan held out his hand. “Axe!”

  One of his Brokelsh slapped the haft of the axe into his fist.

  “Bowmen!” ordered Chan in a firm voice. Then, to us, he said: “They are the very devil. Armored. You have to chop through them.”

  Rapas stepped up smartly enough and let fly. Some of their arrows chinkled off the scaled hide, others lodged, and one red eye vanished. At once a crescendo of screeching bellowed up, the stench increased, and the stinkback charged.

  I stepped in front of Mevancy, the Krozair longsword snouting. “Get out of the way, pigeon!”

  “I'll—” she began.

  I glimpsed Rollo hauling her back and Llodi stepping up with his sword at the ready. He said, through his teeth: “I wish I had me good old strangdja now, what with them scales an’ all.”

  The next few moments were a pandemonium of thrashing claws and smiting steel, of a Rapa staggering back without his beak, of Chan leaping with me and of us smiting together. Llodi went in low, thrusting.

  He bounced back.

  Blow after blow rained down. Chan staggered as a claw ripped at him. I managed to get another eye and then I smashed the Krozair brand down onto the junction of forelimb and shoulder. The leg was not severed; it dangled. Llodi was up and at my side, panting, slashing his sword down. Chan got back into the fight and a couple of Rapas edged in from the side and used their strangdjas. Huge, slashing blows hacked the stinkback to pieces.

  When it was all over the place stank disgustingly.

  “Move out!” yelled Chan. Then he glanced quickly at me, and I said: “Carry on, Chan.”

  We hurried past the poor dead beast.

  Up ahead the floor began to curve to the right and descend.

  “By the nit-infested and tangled curls of the Divine Lady of Belschutz!” I said to myself. “Down!” Then I pondered as we walked on and down into the pearly radiance. We might very well have to go down again, and deeper and deeper, before we could find a way up and out. That was the nasty habit of these labyrinth builders, by Krun!

  That is, if there was a way out.

  As though reading my thoughts, Rollo said: “If Strom Chan came in through an opening in the walls, then surely we must be able to find that way out? Or another opening?”

  “We'll find a way out.” I spoke bluffly, putting confidence into my voice. “And we'll take some treasure with us, for good measure.”

  “By Wurzam! I'm with you, Drajak!” exclaimed Chan.

  I gave him a twitch of my top lip to show I appreciated that.

  Then he said: “I had wondered about that sword you carry. It appeared hopelessly unbalanced. Yet it did as much damage as a strangdja.”

  “It is a competent weapon.” I wasn't going to be drawn on the terrible destructive abilities of a true Krozair longsword, nor its origins.

  The passage continued down and the walls began to smooth out, still with the mark of cold chisels upon them. Mevancy contrived to walk alongside.

  “Cabbage—you pushed me out of the way.”

  “Aye.”

  “I intend to stand and—”

  “I know you do, pigeon.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, then, remember the Star Lords would be most displeased with me if I let you get killed. And I shudder to think what the Empress Delia would say to anybody who returned and I did not.”

  Now, of course, that was a cruel and heartless thing to say to her.

  Her face, always flushed by reason of her need for a high blood pressure to shoot her bindles, reddened even more. She blinked rapidly. For a dreadful moment I thought she would burst into tears—I swear I thought I saw a sparkle on her eyelids. Then she stuck a shoulder in the air and stalked off to walk with Rollo.

  By the Black Chunkrah! The last thing I wanted was to become even more involved in Mevancy's emotional problems. She had enough worries over selecting a proper father for any daughters she might have so that they would be born with bindles on their forearms. She stalked on ahead with Rollo.

  “You have to admire her, though, Drajak, what with her being a girl an’ everything.”

  “Oh, I do, Llodi, I do.”

  Now, why in a Herrelldrin Hell did that come out as though I were mocking the poor girl? I had a tremendous admiration and affection for Mevancy. She contrived an inner beauty that shone out to captivate mere men.

  Llodi grunted and said: “I missed me strangdja, back there.”

  Now what I said next must be heard in context. I said: “There will be plenty of fights to come. There'll be spare weapons aplenty.”

  “I s'pose so, what with these monsters an’ all.”

  Llodi would find his strangdja, of that I had no doubt. We were in for a stormy passage before we won free of this labyrinth. Now, if you view looting a corpse with abhorrence, you are absolutely right in general. In particular, sometimes, it is necessary or customary. As a paktun, an acknowledged mercenary of standing, would automatically take the pakai, the string of trophy rings, from a vanquished rival, so he would expect his own pakai to be taken from him. He was entitled to his trophies of victory. In the same way any mercenary, any soldier, will take what he needs from the dead. And any mercenary, certainly, and many a soldier, when dead and looking down from whatever heaven he inhabits, will nod when a living mortal in need rifles through the possessions on his dead body, and say: “Thy need is greater than mine.”

  There's little use for swords and armor buried with dead warriors. Modern archaeologists welcome the fact. No respectful warrior would ransack the tomb of another—unless pressing considerations swept aside the morality of it. So if any of you following my narrative imagine I have ever advocated stealing from dead bodies here on Earth, you are sadly mistaken. That, of course, refers to civilian life. There is a strong and vibrant civilian life on Kregen, as I have said; but Kregen is Kregen, and Kregen is not Earth, by Zair!

  All this by way of explanation of the dart that streaked from the hidden wall slit.

  The smells were left to the rear and we debouched into a chamber that was no longer a cavern, for the walls were masonry, and many areas were covered with tapestries. The pearly light suffused the whole large area with that soft and lambent glow so soothing to the eyes. Tables and chairs stood about, and chests banded in black iron were piled against one wall.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Chan, and strode forward eagerly.

  Most of the chests were rotted and the black iron rusting. Chan stopped. He tugged his beard. “Worthless—or camouflage?”

  “Or, lord,” said Dravka, the Brokelsh who carried his armor. “Trapped?”

  The other Brokelsh, Braga, turned and beckoned curtly. The Rapa cadade was quite clearly used to this. A couple of his guards ran a slave up to the Brokelsh. The slave, a shaven-haired Gon, just stood there with eyes half-closed, mouth slack and drooling a little. The finest of trembles vibrated his limbs. He looked like a limp propped-up sack.

  Two Rapa guards slapped their strangdjas into their outside hands and grasped the Gon with their inside fists and ran him forward. They intended to catapult him towards the chests and retire. It did not quite work out like that.

  They thrust the Gon on so that he staggered, tangle-footed. He crashed down and his shaven skull cracked against a chest. Everybody knew something terrible would follow. One of the Rapas put a surprised hand to his throat above the corselet rim. The streaking flash of metal from the wall slit had existed for a heartbeat. The sliver of the dart stood in his throat. He looked dazed. Then he fell with a crash.

  “Hlo-Hli have mercy!” exclaimed Chan.

  The Gon lay the
re with a thin trickle of dark blood trailing across that shaven skull where already the white spikes of hair were growing through.

  The Rapa guard on the floor jerked out in convulsions. He choked. Black liquid welled from his beak. Chan looked down and his face betrayed exhaustion and tension and fear. He said: “We have seen this before. Poor Rogrifor will take a long time to die—in agony. In mercy, Rhagran,” he said to the Rapa captain of the guard. “Despatch him.”

  “May Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls take him!” and the sword sliced delicately across the man's throat.

  Llodi started to say something and I stopped him. “I will speak to Chan in the matter of the strangdja.”

  The dead guard's weapon lay on the floor. I said to Chan: “You will do me a favor, Strom Chan, if you allow my comrade Llodi to take the strangdja.”

  “Of course, of course.” He was tugging his beard and staring down on the dead Rapa.

  So, in this wise, Llodi gained possession of a strangdja, that feared weapon of Chem with its holly-leaf shaped head of metal spikes and edges that can take off a head with the easiest of ease.

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  * * *

  Chapter thirteen

  The chests proved worthless.

  The Gon, scared past caring, slowly recovered. We had lost the life of a man for nothing. Except—one of the guards, a Brukaj very heavily built, picked up a small diamond ring. His stubborn bulldog face looked sullen as the Rapa cadade made him hand the ring over.