Omens of Kregen Read online

  Captain Voromin said: “Where away now, d’you think, majis?”

  I had to bring my confused senses back to the issue at hand. Men’s lives were at stake. Good men, my men, and the lives of loyal women, too. I straightened up, and I kept my hand gripping onto Delia’s hand. The firm reassurance there was mightily comforting, I assure you, mighty comforting.

  “I think,” I said with a deliberately contrived drawl, “I really do think, Cap’n, you may draw a course of sou’ sou’west.”

  “Quidang!”

  Onward we hurtled with the air rushing past over the windshields. Visibility remained inconstant, with patches of misty cloud trailing streamers between the main masses. Below us the ground fleeted past, patched with light and shadow. We saw little sign of occupancy down there for the folk had no wish to be taken up as slaves by the soldiers of the King of North Vallia.

  The outlying arm of cloud before us billowed majestically into the afternoon sky. The twin suns smote the edges into cusps of palest apple green and orange — red fire, darkening into jade and crimson. Against the floods of light and the massy heart of the clouds, were those fleeting specks the shapes of airboats twisting and turning in combat?

  Bright speckles of flame fell tumbling down. Captain Voromin had no doubts.

  “They’ve caught ’em,” he said, lowering his telescope.

  Targon, eager and looking mighty hungry, voiced the thought in our minds.

  “Yes, Cap’n. But who has caught whom?”

  “Storm Risinghas loosed her birds.” Voromin rattled off the names of three other ships of ours he had identified. “I think the catching was mutual.”

  “If all ships are present,” I said, “we will even up the fight when we arrive. Pray Opaz we are in time.”

  With all the speed with which our silver boxes could power us we rampaged on and hurled our vollers into action.

  Because Nath’s Hammer had to retrieve her flutduin squadron she was late in coming up; by the time she arrived we were in the thick of it.

  Two of the ships from North Vallia closed in on us. After the initial clashes, few firepots were thrown; the action became far too close for dangerous antics of that nature.

  Grappling hooks flew and their cruel iron barbs fastened like talons on bulwarks and galleries. The roaring yelling of men in combat crescendoed. With howls of rage, the enemy tried to board.

  “I suppose they shout like that to keep up their spirits,” observed Targon, loftily. The ranks of ESW remained silent. The archers poured in a lethal sleet of shafts that swept away the oncoming line of enemy.

  Korero’s upturned shields deflected a few arrows. They had been loosed from the fighting top of the ship opposing us, for the sturdy bulwarks protected us from shots from the enemy deck. Before I could rip out the obvious command, Deldar Phanton Vimura, in command of our lads in the fighting top of Heart of Imrien, directed his bowmen onto the enemy fighting top. The contest might have been interesting — archers versus archers — but the aerial ratings handling one of the stern gros-varters angled their weapon up and let fly with an enormous chunk of rock.

  Their first shot clipped a slice out of the side of the top; the next pulverized the entire wooden side facing us.

  Bodies spilled out.

  Targon said: “I believe they did not expect to find us so crammed with soldiers. Time now, d’you think, to go and blatter ’em?”

  “I’ll—” I began.

  Delia said: “I’ll go with you.”

  I said: “Righto, Targon. Off you go.”

  Without waiting to listen in to the domestic row he was well aware was about to break out in the imperial household, Targon shot off to the lads. They still didn’t put up a cheer as they reformed from shooters to blatterers and went charging over the bulwarks. That deadly silent and irresistible rush promised far more menace to the foe than a lot of caterwauling. When our lads did yell in the moments before they hit the enemy ranks on his own decks, they shouted. Aye, by Vox, then they shouted loud enough to blow the blasted enemy away!

  “You continue to amaze me, husband.”

  “Why? Because I do not relish having you spiked through or fall overside?”

  “I am wearing a safety belt—”

  I grumped up, feeling a fatuous fool. “Aye, aye, so you are. But on the first count—”

  “I am coming around to the belief, as I may have pointed out to you before, that you, Dray Prescot, are growing soft.”

  A tremendous racket broke out aboard the ship to our starboard with a seething commotion upon her deck. The vessel to larboard appeared to be ours already. The lads had simply gone headlong in and hurled away all opposition.

  “Anyway,” I said in my best growly hairy-bear way: “It’s too late now.”

  “Targon was right, I judge. They are an aerial fighting force and had no idea we had so many troops aboard.”

  We watched as the officers charged with the various duties saw to what had to be done. Some of the North Vallian fliers escaped and plunged like fleeing rabbits into the clouds. There was little chance we would catch them in those masses of vapor before nightfall, so pursuit was not carried out. Prize crews went aboard the captured vollers.

  Hundreds of flags flew bravely against the twilight as we retraced our course to alight at the forward base camp established at the Well of Parting. Everybody felt elated at the unexpected successful outcome of our expedition.

  “Soon the main body will join us,” said Korero. “Then I wonder if you’ll give me such a peaceful battle.”

  “We’ve won a small aerial skirmish,” I said, and I own my tones were somber. “The big fight is yet to come. In all honesty, Korero, I cannot answer your question.”

  “As San Blarnoi says,” observed Delia, “hope alone does not sickle corn.”

  “Nor does it cause a change in the breeze.” I was watching the leaves of the trees growing around the well. “But, as I’m an old sailorman, the breeze is shifting. It won’t be long before the Fleet is up with us. Then, my friends, we shall see what we shall see.”

  Chapter five

  I inspect the zorca lines

  My lad Drak flew up to see me at the camp of the Well of Parting. Delia and I shared a simple tent — oh, yes, true, it was a trifle more grand than any of the others; but as Deft-Fingered Minch pointed out, I was, after all, the fellow the people had chosen to be emperor and so I ought to make a bit of a show for their sakes.

  Deft-Fingered Minch, a trusted comrade and a kampeon of great renown, was the man in command of the folk who cared for me on campaign. Delia’s own arrangements were equally Spartan. She was aglow with happiness at seeing her son again and as they embraced I own I felt that silly but wonderfully understandable family pride in love and affection.

  Drak looked tremendous. He was a big and powerful man, solidly built yet lithe and quick on his feet. I thought he was handsome, although he’d bristled up at any suggestions I made of that kind. He had that damn-you-Prescot look about him with the arrogant Prescot beak-head of a nose. Yet Delia was in him, too, giving him far more grace and poise and downright aristocratic manners than any I could aspire to.

  “And, Drak, my dear,” said Delia as she released him, “where is Silda?”

  Drak swirled off his cape and I put a jar of ale into his hand.

  “She has gone up to Balkan to see her father. I sent a couple of regiments with her—”

  “Ah!” I said.

  “And what does that mean, father?”

  “Just that you’ll be those two regiments short when you march off against this King of North Vallia.”

  “Me!”

  “Aye, my lad. You.”

  He drank and then he did not wipe his hand across his mouth; but he did say: “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed! I need that!”

  I said: “The Mountains of the North stretch across Vallia from Zaphoret in the east to Kavinstock in the west, where we are now.” I gave Drak a hard stare. “There are the two tradi
tional routes north and south, one to the east and one to the west. Two.”

  He drank again, looking at me, and then he put down the jar. I made no move to refill it. He put a hand to the outer buckles over his shoulder to release his armor.

  “I see.” The tang of the buckle came free. “You go north from here and I take the Army of Northeast Vallia and we strike inward together.”

  “Precisely,” I said. “So why are you taking off your armor?”

  “Dray!” said Delia. She swung to face me. “Are you such a monster?”

  I humphed up at this. “Time,” I said. “It will take time for Drak to get across and organize and march.”

  “One night?” She gave me that old look that curled the toes in my boots. “Since I saw Drak and Silda a great deal has happened.”

  I went over and ripped open the other buckles on Drak’s armor, snatched off the breast and back, and tossed them down on the rugs. “Of course. Absolutely.”

  “Now you are in a bad temper.”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you why. I want to go to the wedding of Drak and Silda, the soon-to-be Emperor and Empress of Vallia. That wedding must be held in Vondium the Proud, the capital city of the Empire of Vallia. Yet if I go to Vondium that she-leem Csitra will spoil the wedding.”

  For a moment, silence closed in on us in the tent.

  “And if I go chasing off to deal with Csitra first, as I wanted to do, that could take months. I wouldn’t ask Drak and Silda to wait. So the difficulty remains.”

  Delia, as I may have remarked before, is not only the most beautiful woman in two worlds, she is also the most clever and devious, not to say downright cunning.

  “I shall,” she said, and her words and little gesture effectively dealt with the subject, “I shall have a few words with dear Deb-Lu.”

  “Excellent, mother,” exclaimed Drak. “And now I would like another stoup and I am ravenous. Did I tell you that Silda sends her love and respects...?”

  I slouched off to a totally unnecessary inspection of the zorca lines where the swods might find me a stoup and where we could have a yarn or two before I returned for the evening meal.

  If I sound like an old graint with a thorn in his foot, then, well, by Vox, I suppose I was.

  The lines of the various regiments were well spread out. Sometimes too close proximity creates frictions that besides being totally unnecessary lead to internecine strife. The swods were most welcoming and a jar was produced instanter. In the nature of things I could not know all the faces around the campfires; I knew most of them, though.

  They wanted to know what the future held and some of them, the newer lads, wanted to know when we’d be going home. I have expressed my views on those great commanders and captains of history who led faithful armies all around the world on gyrations of conquest. Eventually, the soldiers become tired and soured. No sane man wants a continual career of conflict.

  A policy of rotation was strongly in force. So I was able to reassure them and, perfectly truthfully, say that home was distinctly on the agenda. As to the old argument about home-leave sapping a soldier’s willpower and determination, if a fellow — or a girl — is fighting for their home and loved ones, that spur should surely sustain their spirits.

  When affairs go well, that is, of course. When the course of the war drags and the outcome is uncertain, why then all manner of mischiefs may darken the imagination. Walking slowly between the lines of tents back to that splendid tent where the flags flew and the guards stood to, glittering and imposing figures, I tried to sort out what I really wanted for the future.

  Csitra had to be dealt with. The continents and islands of Paz had to understand that they must cling together in alliance against the Fishheads, the Leem Lovers, the Shanks who raided from over the curve of the world. There were many matters outstanding between me and the Star Lords. It seemed to me the Kroveres of Iztar would find busy occupation dealing with the evil cult of Lem the Silver Leem.

  Delia stepped out of the tent and said in that delightful way: “And have you found the calsany yet?”

  I said: “While you are with me I could lose a million zorcas and never notice.”

  At once she moved forward and slipped her arm through mine. The guards stood lance-stiff — for, of course, on Kregen there are no ramrods — but I knew they were taking all this in with alert enjoyment.

  In the tiny space between the outer and inner flaps of the tent she stopped and kissed me. I kissed her; by Zair! This was what mattered in life, and all the rest could go hang.

  We went on through and a little party had gathered to meet Drak, as was proper. During the meal and after, we talked and many of my thoughts found expression. Drak brought up the point of what forces he would be allotted.

  “You commanded the First Army down in the southwest. The Second is over in the northeast. I suggest you retain command of the First, taking up what forces you require and can be spared from the southwest. Vodun Alloran will move the Ice Floes of Sicce to make amends, so that corner of the island is now safe.”

  “Very well. And the Second Army?”

  “You assume command of both. You’re going to have a hell of a task breaking through and hooking left.”

  He nodded and sat back in his seat. A very tough and very hard man, this son of mine, a man destined to be an emperor, as I surely was not. Well, perhaps that is wrong. Perhaps the destiny that was forced on Dray Prescot through being a sailorman and soldier, a slave, a mercenary, a kaidur, has brought him to the ranks of various nobilities, and does also include the sentence being passed on him of being a king and emperor.

  “Turko sent a lot of his Ninth Army up to help Seg,” Delia pointed out.

  I’d retained the name of the Eighth Army for sentimental reasons, connected with thorn-ivy, and was using it again for this campaign into North Vallia.

  “Of course,” went on Delia, “knowing Seg as we do we must not be surprised if he inspires the people of Balkan and becomes their High Kov very quickly and then marches over the mountains to help us. Yes?”

  Drak said: “I hope Silda...” Then he stopped himself.

  Delia and I knew what was in his mind. Well, I’d suffered enough for Delia’s sake, and now Drak suffered for Silda.

  Now it is not my intention to give a blow-by-blow account of the North Vallian Campaign. The broad outlines of our plan were followed through with accuracy enough to ensure that the plan worked.

  Drak took elements of the First and Second Armies around the east of the mountains and I took my Eighth around the western end of the mountains after we routed the hostile advance force at the Battle of the Blue Lizdun.

  Now that the end was in sight we were joined by many folk who, even in the troublous times through which we had gone, had contrived to remain neutral. Neutral, one should add, in stance, for any neutral may have to suffer armed men marching through his lands and eating his produce and doing the unwholesome things badly led armies do even if the sufferers are not openly enemies.

  Maybe it is churlish of me to say that; but we could have done with the help of these people earlier on. One such, of course, was the lord of Balkan; but he had reached the end of his journey upon Kregen and had shuffled off to meet the Gray Ones beckoning on the Ice Floes of Sicce. He died without living issue. Seg’s campaign up in Balkan came, in after years, to be talked about as a marvel of diplomacy, tact, firmness and plain good commonsense. He had the Balkans solidly for him in a miraculously short space of time.

  The pronunciation of Balkan is not like the terrestrial “ball” but like “bat.” I mention this because Seg’s Hyr Kovnate of Balkan was nothing like the Balkans here on Earth. Also the stress falls on the second syllable: Balkan.

  He sent me regular letters by merker, those spry young folk who skim through the air aboard their birds carrying important messages. We had instituted the merker system in Vallia on a small scale, importing from Djanduin a useful colony of the small fast birds used there, the fluttclepper
s.

  I was seriously considering asking some of my winged friends who lived down south in Havilfar if they might not care to emigrate and come to live with us in Vallia. It seemed to me a flying man or woman was even more suitable as a merker.

  Still, that must be for the future.

  Right now we had the North Vallian campaign to fight and to bring to a successful conclusion.

  The days went by in marching and flying forward until we bumped the hostiles again and then we would fight. Battles were fought of intense ferocity. Others were over after our first charge.

  Drak’s fortunes prospered on the east. And Seg, that astounding blade comrade of mine, Seg Segutorio, did just as Delia said he would.

  The merker flew in with Seg’s latest. He had gathered a goodly force and was headed through the Kazzchun Pass to create mayhem in the center of North Vallia, in the province of Durheim. As he wrote: “I have experience of a River called the Kazzchun, so it is suitable, my old dom, I learn about a pass with the same name.”

  I smiled as I read this. The kovnate province of Durheim lay to the east and was separated by the River of Golden Sliptingers from the hyr-kovnate of Erstveheim to the west. My Eighth had sent a corps to the south west into the finger of land containing the vadvarate of Thothveheim, and the main body of the army was now pushing hard to the northeast through Erstveheim. Drak had to negotiate the trylonate of Tremi before bursting through into Durheim.

  So, like the three flukes of a trident, and those three prongs would cooperate fully, we were poised to rip the fraudulent kingdom of North Vallia to shreds — and then to repair and reunite with the homeland.

  Marion said to me one day as the wind blew over our shoulders, fluttering scarves and swelling the sails of the vorlcas: “Prince Drak will surely detach a force to march north?”

  At her shoulder stood her husband, Strom Nango. I could not detect avarice in either of their faces; rather Marion looked sad, and Nango concerned.