Intrigue of Antares Page 4

  Palfrey bratched, jumping forward like a startled deer into the roofed darkness. Only moments later the nose of a small four-place flier eased out and she settled on the paving beside Dagert.

  Palfrey’s face, showing immediate signs of indigestion, peered down from the controls abaft the tiny windscreen. The guards waited.

  “Up with you!” commanded Dagert. He turned to me and in that cloying dimness his teeth cut a curve of whiteness in the gloom. “Once again my thanks, tyr Drajak. I shall not forget you. Now I must be off as fast as Wheesh-amakler, spirit of the winds, will allow.”

  I said: “If you are flying westwards, might—”

  But he was up over the voller’s polished coaming and staring down at me with his raffish smile. He prodded Palfrey in the back.

  “Westwards? Ah — no, no. We fly north.”

  To this day I do not rightly know if there would have been time for me to leap up and board the craft. Palfrey was deuced quick. The little airboat lifted off soundlessly, scattering a few dead leaves, leaping straight up into the clouded sky. A faint: “Remberee, Drajak!” floated back. Then voller, Dagert, Palfrey and the two men at arms were gone.

  “Remberee!” I said under my breath with great disgust. I added: “And by Makki Grodno’s diseased liver and lights, you’re getting slow, Dray Prescot, too damned slow!”

  Oh, well, I had a sword of sorts that didn’t fit the scabbard and had already split the shrunken leather and cracked wood. I had a red breechclout and a decent tunic and a pair of reasonable shoes. Many times in the past, I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, had started off on an adventure with much less. Much less, by Djan!

  Without further ado I set off. The Maiden with the Many Smiles was dropping down to the western horizon. A couple of Kregen’s lesser moons were whirling past low overhead but I couldn’t see them through the clouds. The night would soon be gone and I wanted to be across the river before dawn.

  Cutting across the slope I soon reached the river. If there were any nasties in there, then in the mood I then was I would have short shrift with them. Mind you, I’d said in a fine free way how I’d force Dagert to take me in his voller, and see where that stupid boast had got me.

  He had not enquired for any additions to my name, although had he done so I’d have told him I was Drajak the Sudden. One of the men at arms had spoken to his comrade about Dagert’s servant, calling him Palfrey the Pfiffer. Those two military guards had not spoken much, intent on protecting their lord and earning their hire. Truly, although conditions and customs vary widely over Kregen, as they do on this Earth, much remains almost the same wherever you go.

  In the event I swam the river without problems. Wet yet heartened I crawled out on the opposite bank and started up the slope.

  Zim and Genodras rose in the multicolored glory of a Kregen dawn. As I slogged along a trail between tall green crops a few birds were singing. My twin shadows loped ahead of me.

  In the extraordinarily wide temperate regions of Kregen the Suns of Scorpio had little difficulty in drying up the overnight rain. The air freshened with that marvelous fragrance that is so very much Kregen’s own. And I was ravenously hungry and thirsty and about ready to find a convenient spot to put my head down and catch up my missing sleep.

  Better to go on for a bit yet, and look for somewhere promising, I decided. Even the Star Lords understood that mere humans, people like me, needed to sleep from time to time. The Everoinye had once been mortal human beings, so I believed. All the same, their ideas of the amount of sleep a fellow required fell far short of complete recuperation.

  As I tramped on I cogitated about those red-robed figures. They probably belonged to some nutty religious cult or other. Zair knew, there were enough of them all over Kregen to fill the pages of a million encyclopedias. They’d scared Palfrey the Pfiffer all right. If I’d leaped for the flier and missed and merely got a fingernail clinging on, Palfrey would have lifted off regardless.

  Not all the overnight clouds had dissipated and occasionally wide bands of shadows fleeted across the landscape. Red and green, an opaline mixture of colors, shadows and suns-light bathed the land in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of considerable charm.

  The river here curved in a loop and the trail from the bank led into the concavity at almost right angles and after a bur or so brought me to what was evidently a highway. Paved, the road had been carved out in a series of straightish lines. Not quite a Roman road it bore the hallmarks of a technological level capable of transferring people, goods, and troops with celerity. Even those countries of Paz on Kregen who possess the benefit of airboats for rapid travel never have enough for everyone’s needs. River and canal traffic is widespread. Here the rivers ran from north north west to south south east. The road ran west. That was my direction of travel, so I set off sturdily over the paving.

  This route should lead me direct to Bharang and, considerably further on, to the capital.

  Now my reading of Fweygo indicated to me he was a canny individual. He had been charged by the Star Lords with the safety of Princess Nandisha and her party. He had mounts who had to be handled carefully and nursed over long distances. He’d travel at night for safety’s sake and lie up during the day. If I kept going with only short intervals for rest I anticipated catching him in the not too distant future.

  Just who posed the threat to Nandisha I didn’t know. It was quite likely Fweygo didn’t know, either.

  The news of the sacking of Amintin had already passed along the road. One might have expected farm carts on their way to the town with produce. I passed none. Twice I felt it prudent to slip off the highway and conceal myself in bushes as parties of troops marched past.

  On the third occasion Five-handed Eos-Bakchi smiled on me. The Vallian spirit of good fortune arranged that I spotted a whole regiment of cavalry breaking camp and mounting up. When they had cantered off out of sight I inspected their campsite.

  One item I noted mentally was that they appeared in no hurry to reach Amintin. The other was that they were a very high-powered lot for their camp was a treasure trove of abandoned items. What they’d left over would feed a poor family for a month of She of the Veils.

  The regiment had been brilliantly attired and accoutred and they were riding zorcas. Their standards blazed in the lights of the suns. I found a discarded forage bag and was able to stuff it almost full of crusts, congealing porridge, a quarter-full pot of honey — real red slursh — and tumbled half under a bush a whole ham, a most splendid addition to my larder. I stuffed my inward parts before I stuffed the forage bag. Only a few ulms further on a small brook passed under a culvert and I was able to wash my breakfast down.

  Feeling much more cheerful I looked about for a spot to rest. A few burs sleep would see me set up sufficiently to march all night.

  This I duly did. This was the pattern of events for the next three days.

  By eating just enough to keep me going I still had a splendid feast for a good few days ahead left in the forage bag.

  The road passed through woods, over heathlands, and when it entered a town or village I felt it prudent to skirt around and bypass potential trouble.

  Here and there the paving was cracked and a little overgrown although nowhere sufficiently so to impede progress. On the fourth day I avoided a road gang busily at work lifting and replacing paving stones.

  The brilliance of the yellow sand they were tamping down as foundation indicated they knew what they were doing.

  Each side of the road had trenches acting as gutters well kept and free of weeds. The cunning camber ensured rainwater would run off freely. All this told me a great deal about the societal level of these people.

  On the fifth day more people were about and I felt it safe to stay on the road and offer a grave and polite salutation as we passed.

  On this day, too, I saw a strange mountain configuration some way off to the north. In general aspect it reminded me strongly of Ayers Rock in Australia. The top w
as serrated but at that distance it was too difficult to determine if the protuberances were natural rock forms or buildings. The mingled streaming lights of Zim and Genodras struck from the face and drove deep shadowed fissures the whole sprawled length of the mountain.

  Two days later I began to feel I ought to be catching up with Fweygo and the party.

  In the early morning with the dew still on the grass I swung down a long slope. I felt fine. My only concern was the damned scabbard which was on the point of falling to pieces. My shoes were in perfect condition, my tunic was slung over my back and I could expand my lungs and breathe in that glorious Kregan air.

  Nobody else traveled the road until I spied two figures walking slowly towards me. I kept on going, prepared for a polite: “Llahal, doms,” and nothing more.

  One of the people approaching was a man past the prime of life. On Kregen this meant he was over two hundred years old. He leaned heavily on a carved staff. He wore a brown robe with the hood thrown back to reveal a narrow head with wisps of hair hanging down. His face was puckered with pain and his mouth compressed into a thin slit. His eyes were strange, hidden beneath folds of flesh, swollen and reddish.

  At his side and clearly guiding walked a lad, a young lad, in a brown tunic. His fresh face was twisted with concern. He went barefoot.

  The old man had cloths wrapped about his feet. I saw among the rusty brown stains disfiguring the cloth new redder stains.

  As they approached the old man stumbled. His staff slipped. All his weight came down on the lad.

  Unable to sustain this, the lad was forced down and despite his desperate attempts the old man slid down and tumbled onto the paving.

  I leaped forward.

  The old man struggled to sit up on the dusty road. He licked those thin lips and said: “I am sorry, Nath. Truly sorry. My strength is gone out of me.”

  “Master!” Young Nath was close to tears. He made no attempt to try to get the old man to his feet. I stopped my foolish, useless leap, and just stopped in front of them.

  Nath looked at me with glistening eyes.

  I said: “Llahal.” And then hesitated, quite uncertain what to say or do next.

  Surprising me — and Nath, too, by his instinctive reaction of stretching out his hands to assist — the old man gripped his staff and hoisted himself up on his bleeding feet. I was not at all sure that, looking at me though he was, he was really seeing me.

  “Llahal, my friend. You see me in parlous plight. Please overlook my weakness.”

  Feeling utterly helpless I just stared at them, master and lad.

  Nath wiped a hand over his eyes and, sturdily, said: “This is San Padria na Fermintin. Lahal.”

  “Lahal. I am Drajak. What—?”

  San Padria, in his hoarse but strong voice: “We are pilgrims on the road to Farinsee.” I judged he used that voice to preach to vast congregations. “The way has been long and arduous; but we are nearly there.”

  “Yes, master,” chipped in Nath. “Not far now. But your feet—”

  “Are given by Cymbaro the Just to carry me about this world. Until they fail me utterly then they must carry me. Have I not taught you, young Nath, that pain is merely an extension of perception, to be treated no more and no less than any other perception?” He stood there in the dust, on those bleeding feet, leaning on his staff, and the dignity in him was a palpable force.

  Young Nath’s spindly legs sticking out under his brown tunic looked like sparrow’s legs. His face was pinched. So was San Padria’s. Struck by a thought, I said: “When did you last eat?”

  “When the lord Cymbaro pleased. Sustenance is more than bread.”

  “Oh, aye,” I said, and shifted the forage bag forward on its straps. I fished out two crusts, dovetailed together, and held them out in my hand whilst I lifted out the hambone. It was well-carved off by now; there was ample left to put more than metaphysical bread from Cymbaro into these two pilgrims stomachs. I looked up. They had not taken the crusts.

  “Please,” I said, and added, rather chancily, I suppose: “I trust that Cymbaro will approve.”

  Well, they hummed and hawed a bit but in the end they took the crusts and slices of ham and wolfed them down. Already San Padria looked healthier. It was just his damned feet.

  They told me Bharang was six day’s off; I judged that meant the distance would take me around a day and a bit. Farinsee turned out to be the mountain like Ayers Rock I’d passed. That meant they had at least twelve days to go at their speed. I did not hesitate further. “I own my own way of living.” I tried to speak with a solemnity I wasn’t really feeling. After all, the thing was so obvious. “You will cause me distress if you do not accept that.” I took off my sturdy shoes and handed them to Nath and gave him a very hard, very domineering Dray Prescot look. “They will fit well enough, young Nath, because Cymbaro obviously has it in mind that San Padria should reach Farinsee. Help the san to put them on.” Instantly he was on his knees and at work.

  The shoes did fit, and extremely well, too.

  They were stout of sole and soft of uppers. Young Nath sorted out strips of least bloodied cloth to bind the san’s feet. There was no doubt whatsoever of the calm power both enshrouding and exuding from this man. Whatever religion owned his allegiance benefited greatly. I acknowledged that the religion must have formed and shaped him, so that in that case the partnership was a rounded and satisfying whole.

  Nath, holding the san’s arm, said to me: “I thank you, master.”

  Feeling the occasion called for it, I said: “No, Nath. It is for me to thank you and the san for accepting.”

  San Padria turned his face to me; but his eyes, just about hidden under those puffy folds of unhealthy-looking flesh, may not have seen me at all. “That is almost a quotation from the Fifth Book of Cymbaro’s earliest teachings, before he ascended.”

  “Chapter ten, Verse three,” said Nath, as though prompted.

  The san moved his feet experimentally on the paving stones. “Very nice. I feel their ibma welcomes me.”

  Prodding forward with his curiously carved staff he took the first steps on this last stage towards Farinsee. Young Nath walked determinedly by his side. I could not stand and watch and wait for them to trudge out of sight along the road. That would have taken an unconscionably long time at their crawl. I gave a sigh. I knew with absolute certainty that those shoes were far better employed right now than they had been when I, fully accustomed to walking barefoot, had worn them.

  With a last look at that odd couple I swung about and resumed my march towards Bharang and the party with Fweygo.

  Chapter five

  From my considerable experience of assassins I was aware they preferred to work to a timetable. The dying moments of the fracas ahead on the road, some couple of burs after I’d said remberee to San Padria and young Nath, told me the assassins were operating under the most urgent of orders. Here they were, openly attacking a little cavalcade in daylight on the highroad.

  There was, it is true, a scraggle of woods either side of the road. The twin Suns of Scorpio shone down splendidly and lit up the unpleasant scene, when more often than not assassins like to work under the cloak of darkness — preferably in a night of Notor Zan.

  There were already more than enough dead folk lying about by the time I reached the scene attracted by shouts and the slide and scrape of steel. Dragging the sword from that shrunken and twisted scabbard held me up fractionally.

  There were zorcas standing in an uneasy group half in among the trees. They did not like the raw stink of blood and neither did I.

  By the time I reached there the assassins had just about finished their ghastly work. I did give a whoop and a holler rushing in to startle them and perhaps save some last poor wight’s life before they finished him off to turn to deal with me.

  “You cowardly stikitches!” I bellowed. “Hai!”

  Two of them, black capes flaring, swung about from a man sprawled on the paving with his back half-
propped against a decorated carriage. Three black-clad men lay face down before him and blood oozed from them. From the side an assassin swinging a short axe charged at me. The two men checked their weapons, seeing me, and swung about to join their comrade. The three of them, working as a team of long experience, closed in.

  Two swords and an axe against a sword of whose provenance and reliability I had the gravest of doubts — all right, then! In the normal fashion they tried to circle me. They were not prepared for the speed with which I hurtled into them.

  The axeman’s weapon faltered short as I chopped him down and in the next instant as I swung about to face the other two they were caught square on. Our blades clashed just the twice. A twisting slice saw the right hand one off and after a swift leap forward a thrust to the left dealt with the other.

  It had all been very quick and deadly. Had it not been I would not be here to tell you the tale.

  Mind you, as I’d mournfully guessed, the sword snapped in half. The stikitche reeled back, choking blood, and collapsed with half the blade stuck through his guts.

  A single quick but extremely comprehensive glance about assured me no other assassins lived. Now I could bend to the dying man.

  His first words were incomprehensible. Blood fouled his lips and ran down his chin.

  “Easy, dom, easy.” There was no use trying to move him to a more comfortable position. His internal injuries would only have been exacerbated and quite clearly he wanted to live long enough to tell me something.

  The sword dropped from his blood-dabbled glove. He seized my arm in a weak grip. Blood oozed from under his gloved fingers.

  “Strom Korden. Laha...” His voice garbled with the blood in his mouth. His breast under the bright robes and the banded armor barely moved. “Take the sword and...” A gobbet of blood gushed between his lips, to stain down with the rest. He tried again and only mumbles without meaning escaped him.

  I saw him make a tremendous effort. He swallowed with a convulsive contortion of his mouth and face that trembled down along his limbs. His head rolled. He had been a strong man in the prime of life with a thick brown moustache and heavy shock of hair, exposed now that his helmet, badly dented, had fallen off and rolled under the carriage.