A Victory for Kregen Page 2

  But, for all that, they possessed the only riding animals that we could expect to lay hands on around this desolate place.

  With the rising of the Twins, the two second moons of Kregen eternally orbiting each other, we rose also and gathered our weapons and set off marching across the Humped Land.

  Under the moon glitter, the dark and ominous shapes of the Moders rose from the plain about us. They stretched for mile after mile, set in patterns, and at random, some relatively small, others encompassing many miles of subterranean passages.

  “D’you fancy going down another one to see what we can lay hands on, Hunch?” I overheard Nodgen speaking thus, and half-turned. Hunch spluttered a passionate protest.

  “What! Has your ib decayed, Nodgen! Go down there again!”

  “It was a thought,” said Nodgen, and he laughed in his coarse, bristly, Brokelsh way.

  The Pachak twins marched in silence, and their eyes remained alert and they scanned every inch of the way.

  The slinger and the archer marched one each side of their lord, Prince Tyfar. He strode on, head up, breathing deeply and easily. Yes, I had seen much of goodness in this young man during those periods of horror; now, with our way ahead at least for the moment clear, I hauled alongside him and we fell into a conversation about — of all things — the state of theater in Ruathytu, the capital of Hamal.

  “A few houses play the old pieces,” he said. He sounded aggrieved. “But by far the majority play these new nonsenses, all decadence and thumping and sensation. It is the war, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Fighting men—”

  “But, surely, Jak, a fighting man needs the sustenance of the inner spirit? Needs to have himself revitalized?”

  “You mean, when he isn’t trying to stop his head coming off?”

  Tyfar breathed in. He eyed me meanly. “You mock me, Jak.”

  “Not so. I agree with you. But you are a prince—”

  “I am! But — what has that to do with it?”

  “Just that you have had the advantages and privileges of an education that was not primarily aimed at earning a living.”

  I probed deliberately here. I had opened a gambit — in Jikaida I would have been opening the files for the Deldars to link ready for the zeunting — and he was aware that I meant more than I said.

  “You know no man may inherit his father’s estates and titles as easily as he climbs into bed, Jak. You know that, one day, when — and I pray to all the gods it is a long and distant day — my father dies I shall be called on to fight for what is mine. You know that. The law upholds. But a man must uphold himself as well as the law. I have been trained as a fighting man, and much I detested it at the time.”

  I had heard how he had always been running off to the libraries as a young lad, and how he had taken up the axe as a kind of reproach to those who taught him.

  The conversation at my nudging came around to his axe and he repeated what the slaves had said. He preferred the knowledge that came from books; but he had become an accomplished axeman as though to proclaim his independence from that emblem of many things, the sword. I thought I understood.

  There was in this young prince an inner fire I found engaging. His diffident manner, so noticeable when in the company of his father, had all fallen away under the tutelage of the horrors of the Moder. He gave his orders with a snap; yet one was fully alive to his own estimation of himself and what he was doing, as though he saw himself acting a part on a stage of his imagination.

  Our conversation wended along most comfortably, and Quienyin joined us to debate again what we had discovered and our chances of the morrow. Our voices were low-toned. And we all kept a sharp lookout.

  “We must seek to move from one point of vantage to another,” I said. “If we get our backs against good cover we can deal with the swarth folk. Once one of them is dismounted we will see what his mettle is on his own two feet.”

  “Yes,” nodded Quienyin. “I fancied they did have only two legs apiece. Although, of course, you cannot be sure.”

  “Quite.”

  “I couldn’t make out what kind of diff they were,” said Tyfar. “There was something of the Chulik about them—”

  “No tusks, though,” said Quienyin.

  “No tusks. But something about the jut of the head.”

  “We shall find out when the suns are up,” I said, and that tended to end the conversation for a space.

  The Moders rose from the rubbly plain something like a dwabur apart. Walking those five miles gave us an itchy feeling up the spine, traipsing as we were across relatively open ground. The trouble was, that open ground was probably safer than the areas in the immediate vicinity of the artificial mountains, the Moders, the tombs of the ancient dead and their treasurers and magics.

  The rosy shadows of the next Moder enfolded us, and Hunch, for one, let go with a sigh of relief.

  “Still!”

  Modo’s piercing voice reached us, thrown so as to tell us the position and not to reach to the danger he had spotted ahead. We stopped stock-still. A few scrubby thorn bushes threw splotchy shadows from the Twins. In this dappled shade we stood and watched the file of Nierdriks pad past.

  They looked like ghostly silhouettes, animated dark dolls against the radiance of the moons. Silently they padded past, one after the other. They were walking. I, for one, was content to let them go. Had they been riding, now, straddling any of the magnificent assortment of Kregan riding animals — why, then, I do not think my companions would have let them go...

  When the last had gone, vanishing into the shadows of the Moder, we resumed our progress.

  And we kept even more alert, staring about even more vigilantly.

  Quienyin kept up with us, struggling along without a murmur.

  “Prince,” I whispered quietly so that the Wizard of Loh would not overhear. “I think we must rest for a moment or two—”

  “Rest, Jak? I thought the plan was to march as far as we might in the light of the moons and rest in the heat of the suns.”

  He saw my gaze fixed on Quienyin, who had not turned to stare back at us but was doggedly ploughing on over the rubbly surface.

  “Ah — yes, of course. It is thoughtless of me.”

  Tyfar hurried ahead and checked the Pachaks in the vanguard.

  We all rested, although of us all only Quienyin needed the break.

  Again I pondered on Prince Tyfar. Many a haughty prince would simply have gone on, ignoring anyone else’s discomfort. That Quienyin was a Wizard of Loh was now known to my companions; but that had not caused Tyfar to call a brief halt.

  We discussed the fate of our dead fellows of the expedition, and we expressed ourselves as confident that the survivors had escaped. We had seen them emerging into the sunshine before we had been trapped within the Moder, and Tyfar, it was clear, could not countenance any thoughts that his father and sister had not escaped to safety.

  “And, Jak, do not forget. Lobur the Dagger was there and he is mighty tender of my sister Thefi.”

  “As is Kov Thrangulf.”

  “Oh, yes, Kov Thrangulf.”

  That pretty little triangle had its explosion due, all in Zair’s good time.

  When we set off again Quienyin unprotestingly marched stoutly with us. Dawn was not far off. The sweet smell of the air, only faintly tinged with dust, the host of fat stars, the glistering glide of the moons, all held that special pre-dawn hollowness, that waiting silence for the new day.

  I began to spy the land with more stringency, seeking a strong place where we might rest. What I needed was precise and as we dipped down into a little groove or runnel in the ground, with thorn-ivy crowned ridges each side, I felt we had come as near as I could hope for. This was not perfect; it was as precise as we would find.

  “Here, I think, Tyfar.”

  He stared about. I watched his face, wondering if he would suffer a character change now that we were out in the fresh air.

  The thorn-ivy, vicious
stuff that flays the unwary, clustered thickly on the two ridgeways bordering the runnel. This was the real spiny ivy of Kregen. The Kregish for ivy is hagli. If we kept low we would be out of sight of a rider approaching at right angles. We chose a kink in the runnel so we could arrange one avenue only to watch. The clumped bushes shone a lustrous green and the thorns prickled like an army of miniature spearmen.

  “You think so, Jak?” Tyfar looked uncertain.

  The three principals stood together. The other six would not offer their opinions until asked, although the two Pachaks had every right to speak up.

  Presently, Tyfar called, “Barkindrar, Nath. We camp here.”

  I nodded to myself.

  That was the way it ought to be done. Confidence. The two Pachaks said nothing; silently they got on with cutting thorn-ivy and fashioning a form of boma around the open angle of the kink in the runnel. Old campaigners, these two Pachak hyr-paktuns, capital fellows to have along with you in a chancy business.

  “I am quite fond of bright-leaved hagli around the door,” said Quienyin. “But this stuff is murderous.”

  We hauled the thorn-ivy around, using sticks and weapons and not touching the stuff, and so fashioned the boma. I spied the land in the first flush of light. Jumping out, I walked a way off, turned to check the look of our hide.

  It looked innocent enough.

  Going back along the runnel I felt a burst of confidence.

  We could hole up there all day and never be spotted unless some damned rider fell on top of us.

  If that was what was in Tyfar’s mind, it most certainly was not in mine.

  Hunch was in no doubt.

  “We can hole up here all day,” he said to Nodgen. “We’ve water to last us and we can march on to the next stream tonight.” He yawned. “I think I shall sleep all day.”

  “The dawn wind will blow our tracks away,” said Nodgen. “But you’ll stand your watch like the rest of us, you skulking Tryfant.”

  “At least I don’t always need a shave—”

  “Quiet, you two,” I said.

  They froze.

  “All of you — still!”

  As the light brightened with the rising of the red sun, Zim, and the green sun, Genodras, and the shadows fleeted across the sere land, specks drifted high against the radiance. We squinted our eyes. Yes —

  Flutsmen. They were flutsmen up there, sky flyers sweeping across the land on the lookout for prey. True mercenaries of the skies, the flutsmen serve for pay in various armies; but they mostly enjoy reiving on their own account. And no man is safe from them.

  We remained perfectly still.

  High and menacing, the wings of their flyers lifting and falling in rhythm, the flutsmen circled twice, rising and falling, and then lined out and headed north.

  “May the leather of their clerketers rot so they fall off and break their evil necks,” said Hunch. He shut his eyes tightly. “Have they gone?”

  “They’ve gone, you fambly — you can stop shaking.”

  “The trouble is,” said Hunch the Tryfant, opening his eyes and looking serious. “I couldn’t run away then, and you know how it upsets me not to have a clear run.”

  There spoke your true Tryfant. But Hunch had proved a good comrade, despite his avowed intention of running off if the going got too tough.

  We composed ourselves for the day. I positioned myself so that my head was just under the lowest prickly branch of a thorn-ivy bush, where I had to be careful. The view afforded lowered down — the dusty surface, ocher and dun, blowing a little with the dawn wind, and the prospects of the Moders, massive artificial mounds that gave the Humped Land its name of Moderdrin, spotting the landscape for as far as I could see. Slowly, the Suns of Scorpio crawled across the heavens. And we waited and sweated.

  The first sign came, as so often, in a patch of lifting dust.

  I narrowed my eyes against the glare. The dust plumed white streamers and grew closer. A body of men rode out there. Logu Fre-Da, who was on watch, called down gently, “Swarths.”

  We remained still. The dust neared.

  Dark shapes, fragmentary, appearing and disappearing, thickened beneath the dust. We waited.

  “How many, Logu?”

  An appreciable pause ensued before he replied.

  “At least a dozen, notor — perhaps as many as twenty.”

  “They will ride nearer.”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps twenty — twenty of those hard dark riders who had hounded our caravan toward one particular Moder. Their swarths, agile, scaled risslacas with wedged-shaped heads, fanged, terrible, would carry them in a thumping rash if they spotted us. They would have no mercy, seeing we were not an expedition but merely victims for their sport — or so it was easy to believe.

  For very many of the mysterious races of Kregen that is just how it is, no matter that there are many splendid races on Kregen who regard that kind of bestial behavior with abhorrence. There was no mistake with this little lot. If they spotted us they’d seek to have sport with us before they slew us.

  “Not a squeak out of you,” said Prince Tyfar. “Or you’ll be down among the Ice Floes of Sicce before you’ve finished yammering.”

  Not one of these men crouching with noses in the dust would make so much as a bleat. Now we could hear the soft shurr and stomp of the swarths. From their angle of approach they were making for the nearest Moder. They would pass within three hundred paces of our little thorn boma. They’d never see us. Not from where they would pass, avoiding the line of thorn-ivy. All we had to do was remain perfectly still and silent and we’d be safe.

  Gently, making no fuss over it, I stood up.

  I climbed out past the edge of the thorn-ivy.

  “Jak!” screeched Tyfar. I heard the others cursing.

  I walked a few paces forward, toward the swarth riders. I lifted my arms high. I shouted.

  “Hai! Rasts! Over here! You zigging bunch of cramphs — what are you waiting for?”

  Chapter two

  Of the Testing of a Wizard of Loh

  Hunch’s agonized wail floated up at my back.

  “He’s mad! Oh, may the good Tryflor save me now!”

  The ground felt hard and rocky underfoot. The air tasted sweet. The brightness of the day fell about me.

  “Hai! Rasts of the dunghill! Why do you tarry?”

  Sharp-edged, brittle, black against the radiance, the swarth riders crowded forward. They saw me, standing clear of the thorn boma. I stood alone. The runnel led directly toward me. The vicious heads of the swarths jerked around, dragged by reins in equally vicious fists.

  White dust drifted away downwind. The smell of tiny violet flowers crowning spiky bushes, shyly hiding in crevices along the crumbly sides of the runnel, reached me. The suns shone, the wind blew, the flowers blossomed — and I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, challenged this glorious world of Kregen to do what it could against me...

  As Hunch the Tryfant had said, shocked, I must be mad. Well, he was not above four foot six tall, and a Tryfant, and so there were excuses for him. I took a step forward, seeking a secure purchase for my gripping toes, and I drew forth the Lohvian longbow.

  The saddle dinosaurs were coated in that white dust, but as they moved and jostled the sheen of their purply-green scales glittered against the thorn-ivy. They began to move, urged on by the riders perched on their backs. All those long, thin lances descended from the vertical, slotting into the horizontal, and lethal steel point was aimed for my heart.

  Four abreast — that was all the runnel would allow. There was some jostling and cavorting for positions.

  Each swarth-man was determined to be in the front rank of four, knowing that those following on would have only tattered rags and blood to take as an aiming point.

  I banished my comrades from my mind.

  Now the Lohvian longbow mattered — the great longbow was the only thing that mattered, that and the shafts fletched with the blue feath
ers of the king korf of Erthyrdrin. The longbow I had found in the crystal cave that provided what I lacked and its arrows fletched with the rose-red feathers of the zim korf of Valka had vanished with all the other phantasmal artifacts of the Moder. This longbow, these shafts, came from the Mausoleum of the Flame, and they were real.

  The bow drew sweetly. The first shaft sped. The second was in the air, and the third was loosed before the first struck. The fourth followed instantly.

  Four honed steel bodkins drove in to a cruel depth.

  The shrieks and the bedlam, the racket of crashing swarths and hurtling riders, might sound sweetly, but there was no time to contemplate them. Two more shafts sped and then I was up and through the little gap in the thorn-ivy we had made dragging bushes down for the boma. Out on the lip of the runnel I could flank those harsh riders. More shafts arched.

  The dust swirled. The uproar boiled. Now Nath the Shaft, using his composite bow, joined in.

  Barkindrar the Bullet swung and hurled.

  The dust obscured much of the tangle.

  We shot into the mess.

  Three swarths cleared the obstacles to their front. They raged down the runnel, heads outstretched, scales glittering between the dust streaks. The lances reached forward. The riders, heads bent in metallic helmets, short cloaks flaring, bellowed down the slot.

  One I took. One Nath took. One Barkindrar took.

  Nodgen was up and leaping about, waving his spear.

  “Leave some for me!”

  The two Pachaks were running forward, their tail hands stiff above their heads, the daggered steel brilliant.

  “They run!” yelled Tyfar, beside himself, running on with his axe poised.

  Four swarths galloped madly away; and one carried a dead rider lolling from the saddle, one sped with empty saddle, and the other two were being urged on with whip and spur.

  These two last were shot out by Tyfar’s retainers. I had thrown down the Lohvian longbow which had served so well and, ripping out the thraxter, the straight cut and thrust sword of Havilfar, leaped headlong into the dust.