Omens of Kregen [Dray Prescot #36] Read online

  “So,” I said. “Is Loriman here solely for that hunting? He was of Spikatur. There is no doubt of that."

  Seg gave me a look as he went on carefully polishing up that little bow.

  “You mean, is Loriman a tool of the witch's?"

  “Aye."

  “Instead of coming here as a member of Spikatur Hunting Sword?"

  “Aye."

  “Either way a shaft in his guts might solve the problem."

  “He's a useful man in a tight corner. I think I'll test him out and gauge his reaction."

  Soon after that, having brought in supplies and prepared ourselves as best we could, and with the rest of the expedition joining, we all observed the fantamyrrh as we stepped into Kov Hurngal's voller. Up from that small speck of civilization in the wilderness of the jungle we flew, slanting up into the mingled streaming lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

  With the speed lever hard over we pelted full speed ahead for the Coup Blag.

  * * *

  Chapter twelve

  Over the Snarly Hills

  Over the Snarly Hills we flew swift and straight as a lance stroke.

  Below us the rain forest and the jungle reeled past. Those frightful hills up which we had toiled and then struggled down only to clamber up again, passed like models in a child's playroom. High above those clearings we soared where the pools of water, oily with poison, reflected light in a queasy way. The last pool in its clearing also carried that betraying sheen of evil. The Slaptra, the plant that struck lethally at sound, flattening the ground around the pool and gouging deep spadelike depressions in the mud—the Slaptra was gone.

  “Someone's been doing a spot of gardening,” observed Seg.

  Before I could reply, San Aramplo said in his haughty Khibil way: “There is evil in the water. I sense it most clearly."

  “The poison killed the plants growing in the water. They were Slaptras."

  “Of course. A sensible arrangement."

  When Seg and I had discovered that the sorcerer going with us was a Khibil, Seg had given me such a comical look of despair I'd almost burst out laughing. A sorcerer is always high and mighty. Any Khibil regards him—or her—self as a member of the most superior race in all of Kregen, noses in the air, all hoity-toity, Khibils. Their fox-featured faces, with those arrogant reddish whiskers, their sharp eyes, their cutting ways, were very familiar to me.

  This wizard, San Aramplo, was a member of the Thaumaturges of Thagramond. They were a small cult, widely spread, and reputed, as so many of Kregen's varied assortment of sorcerers are, to wield real and supernatural powers. They were not, of course, in the same class as any Wizard of Loh.

  This foxy-faced Khibil mage had sensed the poison in the water, and the evil of it, as Fregeff, the Fristle wizard, had done before him. So San Aramplo had some genuine powers.

  We all just hoped he would be able to handle the magics of the maze we were about to penetrate.

  When he went into the purple-curtained opening to his private cabin, Nath the Impenitent gave a rolling wriggle to his heavy shoulders, and said, “Sorcerers. Never could abide ‘em."

  “Ah, but,” piped up Ortyg Thingol, “they are not all the same. San Bjanching was very helpful when I couldn't understand my mathematics lessons."

  This was news to me, and I listened with lively interest. It seemed Khe-Hi was helping out in the education of the youngsters training up. Very good!

  “They're all too big for their boots,” said Nath. “Sorcerers, nobles, lords and ladies. They don't have time for us common folk."

  Ortyg yelped: “Oh, come on, Nath! It's not as bad as that!"

  “I've seen life, my lad."

  There was little Ortyg could say to that, except a lame reply that, well, and, by Vox, he was going to see life too!

  “By the Veiled Froyvil, Nath! You may not like the fellow; but he is going to be invaluable to us, believe you me."

  No one commented that, if Seg and I were pantors down here in Pandahem, and as we were Vallians, then we were jens in Vallia. That put us in the bad graces of Nath the Impenitent; yet he treated us with unfailing courtesy, and we imagined he recognized in Seg and me fellow kampeons, fellow adventurers in the face of this life he so detested.

  We flew at a moderate height and despite the wind of our passage we could smell the raw rank stink of the jungle below.

  This voller of Kov Hurngal's flew well enough, and we suspected she'd been fitted with brand new silver boxes for the expedition. Her name was Hanitcha Triumph. She was capacious enough to take upward of a hundred souls as passengers, and was reasonably well-provided with varters and catapults. She had but the one fighting top and her lower fighting galleries were on the narrow side. Still, painted bright blue and green, with a quantity of gimcrack work and gilding, she looked pretty enough. She was, without the shadow of a doubt, far far better than marching through the Snarly Hills, by Krun!

  Vainly, as we bore on, I kept a lookout for other fliers in the air, hoping to see some of our Vallian comrades continuing our interrupted expedition.

  The idea of actually flying right up to the Coup Blag and landing before that fantastically sculptured cliff face and then marching in, somehow did not seem smart to me.

  “We ought,” I said to Seg, “to land a little way off and march the rest."

  “Aye. You're right."

  From the cabin opening hung with golden drapes stepped the Lady Hebe. She appeared to affect a net of pearls for her hair at all times. Her gown was of blue, shorter, and girded with a broad golden belt. Her sandals were marvels of nothingness. As for her face, well, she had widely spaced eyes, dark under level brows. Her forehead was broad and tinged with that darker tone I had noticed in her hands. Her nose was short and her mouth full. She was a lady who knew her own mind, strong-willed, and quite able, as we had observed, to stoop to coquetry to gain her ends. She was a vadni, so in the pecking order of nobility she was one rung below a kovneva. And she was proud, no doubt of that. Also, I thought she was sad.

  A man stepped up to greet her, smiling, smirking rather, bowing fulsomely. Some folk on Kregen will tell you a Rapa cannot smile. Well, they have predatory beaked faces, vulturine features, and their feathers come in a bewildering variety of colors—although beware those of the darker hues!—and so one has to read the expressions from experience and this fellow's beak clearly smirked.

  “Tyr Rogarsh,” said the Lady Hebe.

  They walked off together. The Rapa, this Tyr Rogarsh the Rattler, wore solid leather harness such as would be worn by a flutswod, with a brace of swords and brilliant feathers matching his own whiffling in his helmet. At his throat the wink of gold gleamed and scintillated and told the whole damn world who and what he was.

  “He's useful,” said Seg. “I gather as a mercenary he was employed by Hamal, rose to be Chuktar, did well in a number of scraps—until he ran into our lads from Vallia."

  Ortyg laughed with delight. Nath remained mute.

  “So now he's tazll, unemployed, and so seeks to continue his expensive habits by plundering tombs."

  “That's what they appear to believe the Coup Blag is. Just a burial mound with lashings of treasure within."

  “And the bandits who used to infest the place?"

  “Long gone and it's the ancient tombs story now."

  “Something doesn't add up here.” I cocked an eye over Seg's shoulder. “And here's the last member of the expedition, Strom Tothor ham Hemfar. He, I judge, looks even more useful."

  The numim roared out a rollicking “Lahal!” and strode up, a glorious golden lion-man, big, lithe, rolling with muscle. His ferocious face beamed upon us. He wore plain leather harness, and the weapons he carried were strictly no-nonsense practical man-slayers, none of your fancy jeweled pinkers here, by Krun!

  We returned the Lahal, and Strom Tothor bellowed out his good humor.

  “Have you seen that rascal Rogarsh, notors?"

  “He has just gone for a tour around the deck
with the Lady Hebe, notor."

  “Ha! Well, I owe him a beating at Jikaida. His Pallan destroyed mine, and I want the return, and this time I shall surely crush him into the board, by Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor!"

  You couldn't help warming to the lion-man. A splendid race of diffs, numims, and I counted at least one as a blade comrade. I dearly wanted to ask this Tothor if he knew Rees ham Harshur, the Trylon of the Golden Wind, lands that had now, alas, almost all blown away. Well, I'd try to elicit the information when the moment seemed opportune.

  “You play at Jikaida, notors?"

  “Occasionally,” said Seg, for Jikaida as the premier board game of Paz in Kregen is universal. Unless the game was completely beyond your mental capacities, you played Jikaida. For those who did not, Vajikry, the Game of the Moons, were small beer as compensation.

  “The Lady Hebe is a cunning player,” went on Tothor. “You have to watch her left flank Chuktar."

  I knew the ploy; but I didn't want to give anything away at this stage. We were simple block-headed lords out for adventure and fun. I said, “It would be best if we did not land too close to the Coup Blag. We must march the last dwabur or two."

  “You think so? I will be guided by you in this. I'll speak to Kov Hurngal. He is, after all, in command of the expedition."

  From what we had been able to make out, Kov Hurngal had been fired up by the Lady Hebe to go to the Coup Blag. She thirsted after adventure, and, with it, gold. Now the wars were over, apart from the disturbances over on the Mountains of the West, which few people seemed to take seriously, to hear them talk, there were thousands of soldiers and mercenaries out of a job. The Rapa Rogarsh and the numim Tothor had been recruited as stout companions in the venture, for they had served aforetime with Hurngal.

  All these principals had with them, very naturally, a cloud of retainers, of servants and slaves. A little army was due to venture into the maze.

  Kov Loriman had with him his group of tough Chuliks. I wanted to know how he had become involved with Hurngal and Hebe.

  There was no love lost between the two kovs. Maybe the lady was the cause?

  Where she hailed from had not been vouchsafed us yet. But if Hurngal, Rogarsh, and Tothor were Hamalese, then she might well also be. Loriman now said he came from western Pandahem, from the land of Yumapan, directly south over the mountains from Queen Lush's Lome.

  One item we picked up displeased me. For all the new understanding and alliance between Vallia and Hamal, the Hamalese aboard Hanitcha Triumph still retained their enmity toward Vallians. Loriman usually evaded the subject. As for the sorcerer, he remained aloof from us all.

  Seg and I had passed on a warning to Hurngal anent the saddle flyers we had encountered hereabouts. They were brunnelleys, with four scarlet clawed feet, their feathers in blue and brown and mauve. They were a good solid reliable saddle bird, and fetched their due price in the flutmarkets.

  “Saddle birds?” Hurngal said dismissively. “In Pandahem?"

  “Aye,” Seg told him, keeping his temper.

  “Well, we know how to deal with them in Hamal."

  So, as well as scouring the sky for traces of our comrades, we also kept a smart lookout for hostile flyers.

  Shortly after that I began to think it would behoove us to descend. Ahead over the eternal tops of the trees rose a rounded hill. Below that would be the carved rock face, and the pool, and the entrance.

  I spotted Kov Loriman leaning against the bulwark entirely alone. Some of the crew were keeping themselves busy fussing over a varter, others were scrubbing out, so I said to Seg, “Hold on. I'll test him with the oath of Spikatur. See how he reacts."

  “Aye, my old dom. I'll keep an eye on you."

  Moving casually I walked up the deck toward Loriman. Now the Hunting Kov might allow slaves to wash him and dress him and even feed him; in the matter of weapons he was a different personality. He had a whetstone out and was methodically sharpening up his left-hand dagger.

  “Lahal, notor,” I said pleasantly. I may add that I found speaking pleasantly easy enough at the moment. “We will have to land soon. By Sasco, I'll—"

  With blurring speed the dagger switched up and a single spark of fire blinded from the blade before the point pressed against my throat.

  “You yetch! A nulsh of Spikatur Hunting Sword! I'll slit your throat across from ear to ear!"

  * * *

  Chapter thirteen

  Loriman the Hunter listens to me

  In that fraught moment I knew there'd be no hesitation in my blade comrade, Seg Segutorio. Not a single whisker of hesitation, by the Veiled Froyvil, no!

  With a desperate twist and jerk and a cunning arm lock, I managed to swivel Loriman around sideways.

  The cruelly barbed arrow from Seg's bow went thwunk! most evilly into the wooden bulwark.

  “Hold on, Seg!” I yelled. “The idiot has it all wrong!"

  By this time, I may say, Loriman's dagger was in my fist and he was inspecting the point with apoplectic eyes that wanted to cross.

  “You rast!” he managed to choke out. “I'll have you jikaidered and then your tripes drawn and your—"

  “Quiet down, Loriman.” I held him in a Krozair grip on his neck so that he could barely move and speaking cost him an effort. “Are you telling me you no longer belong to or support Spikatur Hunting Sword?"

  “You are a dead man—"

  “Oh, for the sweet sake of the Lady Dulshini's leprous knees! Listen, you fambly. I fought SHS for many seasons. If you are truly against them now, then we are allies."

  He tried to shake his head and that was a mistake, for his face twisted in the stab of pain. “I gave my life to Spikatur. And I was betrayed—"

  “So,” I rapped out, casting a shaft not entirely at random, “you go to the Coup Blag, which was infested with the rasts of Spikatur, to exact revenge."

  “Aye, by the smoking blood of San and Pandiflur himself!"

  “I am heartily glad to hear it. You have my admiration for seeing the light and attempting to expiate your guilt."

  He gobbled at this, whereat I gave him a smile so that he flinched back. “I shall release you now. Remember, far from my being a dead man, you are if you do not stand quietly and talk in a civilized way."

  When I let him go he stumbled and rubbed his neck. But he recovered with leem-speed. His right hand hovered over his rapier hilt. Then his eyes swiveled to the arrow in the bulwark.

  “Look, kov,” I said with ostentatious patience. “If you stand against Spikatur, then you are my ally."

  Abruptly, his look became hard to fathom.

  “All right,” I rattled on in my old harsh way. “You want to kill me now. Well, you won't. I may slay you if you annoy me."

  Just then a voice hailed down from the deck above the cabin roof.

  “Notor? Is all well?"

  The Rapa Rogarsh leaned over, feathers bristling.

  “Tell him all is well, kov. For I assure you, it is. Otherwise, of course—"

  The Hunting Kov shouted up in somewhat of a croak: “All is well, you great fambly!"

  “Quidang, notor."

  I shouted up: “Tell Hurngal it is time we landed."

  By this time it was quite clear my face held that old hateful expression people call the Dray Prescot Look of the Devil. Loriman was sweating. About then he started to realize I was not someone he might trifle with.

  I spoke up to take advantage of the moment.

  “Look, Loriman, I bear you no ill will.” Well, that was not entirely true; but since his change of allegiance from Spikatur Hunting Sword I fancied something might be made of him. “I must tell you this fast. I've no idea what these other famblys think they're getting into in the Coup Blag. I've been in there, and so has my comrade. We got out more dead than alive, and we were lucky to get out at all.” He tried to say something, and I carried on natheless. “Shut up and listen! There's a damned Witch in there I'll hazard is a sight more powerful than our Khibil ma
ge. It's going to be tough.” I'd summed up this Hunting Kov down the Moder. He was a man consumed with self-estimation, true; he was also damned useful in a fight against just the sort of monsters and powers we were going up against. If he were presented with a challenge, he'd accept it. I was, in street parlance, handing him a dare.

  I finished up. “You'll be putting your life on the line, Loriman."

  He sucked in air and his chest swelled; but I did not think there was conscious braggadocio in that, he wanted to get some fresh air into his lungs.

  “You do not,” he said in a voice as grating as crocodiles on gravel, “address me as you should. You call me notor."

  “I'll call you an onker if you shilly-shally about now, you great—great onker of a kov! Don't you understand what I'm telling you?"

  He shook his head and it occurred to me he was suddenly out of his depth and—perhaps for the first time for a long time—unsure of himself...

  He had to get it through his thick vosk skull of a head. I tried a different tack. “I'm a reasonable sort of fellow, Kov Loriman. I detest violence. I do not go in for hunting anything that moves. But if that pleases you, then so be it. You'll find targets in the maze."

  He said in a dulled kind of voice, like leaden balls falling on a leaded slate roof: “I think I have seen you before."

  I betrayed not a flicker of interest. After all, it didn't really matter if he did recall that I'd been along when we were down the Moder; but, as you know, I find a juvenile kind of amusement in disguises, and false names, and hiding my light under a bushel.

  So, not recking what else might come of my words, I said: “Perhaps in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu? It is of no consequence. To defeat Spikatur we have to stick together. I am willing. Are you?"

  He knew what I meant, right enough.

  “I should have you killed on the spot. It is odd that I do not call at once for my guards."

  “Your Chulik bully boys?” I smiled. “Your guards can try. Hanitcha the Harrower is like to carry them off."