Intrigue of Antares Read online

  From the inner portal emerged two men, their heads together talking intently. The audience might be finished; what was being said was clearly not settled. One man must be San Paynor, not at all unlike San Padria, with that same selfless devotion to what he believed in. The other was a young fellow with a fine open face, smooth pale hair, with that habitual turn to his mobile lips indicating he laughed a lot. He wore a shamlak of a blue color very similar to that I wore but with gold loops. He had a rapier and main gauche belted to his waist. I noticed that both weapons were fastened to the same belt.

  What they were saying was drowned in the smash of the door at our backs and the hullabaloo that began immediately.

  I swung about.

  This young fellow’s guards jumped to protect him, as I immediately placed myself before Tiri.

  Three brown clad priests staggered back, their robes slashed, blood spattering them. The wooden staves in their trembling hands were pitifully useless against the might that stormed in.

  A swarm of men roared into the room, brandishing weapons, their faces dark with the lust for blood. Each wore olive green.

  At once the anteroom echoed to the sound of combat.

  Chapter ten

  I, Dray Prescot, of two worlds, tend to use anything that comes to hand as a weapon. In my left hand Tiri’s embroidered bag whistled around in a vicious arc and smashed into the side of the first would-be killer’s head. What the young madam kept in that bag I didn’t know. It weighed enough, by Krun. Clunk! The fellow went over sideways, yowling. I kicked him as he went down and in a swooping motion snatched the sword as it toppled from his lax fingers.

  Talk about the flailing handbags of little old ladies! The mop heads would have been proud of me then, not a doubt of it.

  The two Rapas following on the heels of the first jumped forward with every intention of spitting me and Tiri. A twirling twinkle of blades followed by a stop thrust took care of the first. I was fully conscious of the uproar all about us in the anteroom; that was pushed aside as information only. The second Rapa swung savagely and a sliding deflection of my borrowed brand left him open. I hit him precisely where neck joined head in a ruffle of yellowish feathers. He went down all right; but the confounded Krasny-work blade snapped with a mocking ping.

  Tiri yelped: “Your back!” but I was already ducking and swinging around. The Brokelsh quite clearly thought he had me at a disadvantage. His black-haired face showed pleasure. I threw the sword hilt into that plug-ugly countenance and, instantly drawing the braxter taken from the victim of the ambush, put the uncouth Brokelsh out of the fight.

  A swift glance showed me Tiri with her sword clutched in her fist flashing away at the lumbering Brokelsh on her side. For a single heartbeat I watched, studying, before hurling forward. She could handle a blade, that was clear.

  As is the way with a scrappy sort of combat of this nature one must concentrate on what immediately threatens. At the same time one is generally aware of the trend of the proceedings. I suspect most soldiers keep this cautious weather eye open to show them whether they should bravely fight on or run. In this instance the young lord’s guards although surprised were battling back and the attackers were not having it all their own way. The young lord himself was dragging San Paynor back and the priest was struggling to break free of his grip.

  My forward movement caught Tiri’s Brokelsh totally unprepared and between us the dancing girl and myself knocked him down.

  “Get over to the san, Tiri.”

  She said tartly: “Yes, that is best. And if you’ve broken my Besoulon I’ll have your hide.”

  Apart from not knowing what a Besoulon was although understanding it must be something fragile in her bag, I could not help seeing the difference between her now and the girl I’d found on the road.

  In the space our attacks had provided we pushed up beside the lord and the san. Paynor stopped struggling and said: “Tiri!” He sounded as though he did not know if he should be glad or sorry to see her.

  “San! This is dreadful!”

  “Oh, aye,” said the young lord. “And you will help me take this wonderful but stubborn san to safety — now!”

  Some of his guards were down and one staggered towards us with a spear through him. The rush of attackers that followed was most ugly and we had a quick bout of duck, parry and lunge or slash before we cleared our front. One overlarge Fristle charged towards us yelling for others to support him. His olive green clothes were liberally bedecked with tatty gold lace, his whiskery cat’s face blazed with fury, and he slished and sliced a monstrous sword like a falchion about ready to lop heads.

  The young nobleman wielded his rapier with some dexterity; but I saw he possessed none of the higher arts of skill in the usage of that exacting weapon. At least, he was not exhibiting them now.

  A flung spear hurtled towards Tiri’s head and in that same instant my sword flashed angling upward to deflect the deadly weapon. The Fristle’s blade sliced down at my body. Tiri thrust her braxter at the catman from the side as I drew myself away. I felt a stinging pain down across my left hip. “Get on! Get on!” screamed the Fristle, his armor breaking the force of Tiri’s thrust. “Get the blintzes!”

  For that instant of confusion everything became distorted, vague, as though these events were happening to other people. The Hytak in command of the lord’s guard shouted: “Away, notor! Hurry!”

  By this time San Paynor had had enough. He started for the inner door calling to Tiri. She refused to move and I gave her a shove so that for a moment the young lord and I faced the mob together. Only for a moment, though. As the attackers surged forward, he snapped out: “Go through the door. I will cover you. Bratch!”

  Now it is not my custom to obey those who yell ‘Bratch!’ at me, even though this young spark’s intentions were highly honorable. Also, as you must be aware by now, Dray Prescot runs away from foes sometimes; but, I venture to think, does not do so very often if comrades are left. Oh, yes, I know...

  So, puffed with stupid pride, I said: “Do you go first, dom.”

  In the same instant it was necessary to deflect another spear. Everything had taken place at breakneck speed. I turned my face on the lord and realized he was not a youngster after all, but a man matured into the earliest portion of his Kregish adult life. I snarled out: “Go, fambly!”

  We were interrupted in what might have turned into an acrimonious discussion by having to skip and jump and fight off another attack. His guard commander reached us, cutting down a polsim on the way. “Notor!”

  The lord said: “This is no time to pursue this further. But I—”

  From the open doorway through which Tiri and the priest had gone a scream knifed clear through all the hubbub.

  I was through the doorway and running down the passage and to hell with the niceties of who scuttled off from the enemy first. Two men were trying to kill Tiri and the priest and the temple dancer was whirling her sword about splendidly. San Paynor had screamed. Sensible fellow. I simply roared into them, these two apims, and took no chances.

  Tiri panted out, a lock of hair falling across her forehead: “They came through the inner court.”

  A yell from the lordling drew my instant attention. He and his guard commander were hurtling through the doorway and along the passageway towards us. His face was contorted. “Go!” he yelled.

  The thought, instantly rejected, occurred to me that we might have attempted to barricade that door. Muscle, weight and axes would quickly have smashed a way through. San Paynor was already scuttling off and Tiri and I followed, the lord and his henchman tailing on.

  The inner court showed the angled light of the suns among small trees whose leaves glowed like lambent green coins. Their perfume formed an incongruous backdrop to the reek of blood that must surely stench this pleasant court out shortly. More men — apims — wearing the olive green were dropping from the left hand wall.

  “They have worked this well,” said Tiri in her tight little
voice.

  “Useful to know your way around this place,” I said with considerable sarcasm. I made my voice irascible. “Tiri! You and the san! I don’t know what these rasts want but if it’s you and the san they’re going to be unlucky, by Krun. San Paynor! Take Tiri off to safety — now!”

  “But, Drajak—”

  “Now!”

  This direct appeal to the priest of Cymbaro to do something positive worked like a treat. He seemed to grow in stature. He took Tiri by the hand, saying: “Your friend is right, my dear. Come.”

  They hurried off towards the right under a colonnade of lemon-colored marble where vines heavy with fruit hung down gracefully. I, your rough tough uncouth fighting man par example, faced the foe ready to fight to the death to secure the safety of my friends. Oh, well, that is often the way of it on Kregen.

  The affray flickered into existence with a few dead bodies tumbling about and blood spouting. The lord’s guard commander was a good fighter, as one would expect from a Hytak, and we performed well. But press of numbers forced us back.

  “D’you know the layout of this place?” I said to the Hytak during one of these pauses that occur in combats of this nature as each side draws breath for a fresh round.

  “No, dom.” He was wiping the blood off the blade strapped to his tail. “You’re a bonny fighter. I am Chulgar ti Daster. I earn my hire and fight to the death for my master and—”

  “And you chatter too much, Chulgar, my friend,” broke in his master. Chulgar fell silent and went on wiping his tail blade. But I knew what he was about to say. Now the reckoning of pay and service was due.

  “I’m Drajak. We need to find a way out of this mess. And if that means we run off—” Here I turned towards the lordling and bent my brows on him, giving him a most devilish look, “then we run off.”

  “I am not in the habit—” he began, very stiffly.

  “Nor am I, dom,” I choked him off. “But—” I paused. I’d been about to say: ‘Since I’ve been on Kregen.’ That wouldn’t do. I said: “But I’ve lived long enough to learn when to fight and when to — ah — disengage, fall back and reform.” Then I added in a softer voice the word for ‘D’you understand?’ that, harshly spoken, does upset people. “Dernun?”

  He gave me a hard look, trying to meet my glare. Then he turned his head away, looking into the courtyard. So he was quite able to cover any discomfiture he might have felt by snapping out: “Here they come again, Cymbaro rot ’em.”

  A bunch of Rapas and polsims mixed up with the apims advanced cautiously towards us. A sound at our backs brought my head around to see brown clad priests emerging into the light of the suns. They carried weapons and moved purposefully; but I could place no great reliance on them as fighting men. Naturally, the young madam was with them.

  Amid a deal of shouting the two sides met and it was all hack and thrust and skip and jump and the fight sprawled across the courtyard. Mind you, by Krun, I was determined to grab Tiri and run off as soon as the opportunity afforded. Just what these olive green clad ruffians wanted I did not, as I had said, know. But the quicker Tiri and myself were off out of it the better.

  Things did not turn out quite as I expected. Well, that is the way of Kregen, as I should have learned by now.

  The ugly Fristle with his damned great falchion was there, knocking over priests and yeowling like a maniac. He had a nasty great hairy wart to the larboard of his nose. For a moment in the melee we faced off; then he rushed off to the side towards some priests who were doing remarkably well. I charged after him, a swirl of the fight engulfed us and I was surrounded by olive green-clad killers.

  The pain along my hip where that confounded whiskery cat-man had hit me had been pushed away in the needs of getting on with the fight. As I battled against half a dozen of them, doing my best not to get spitted, I understood what else had happened when the Fristle sliced me with his falchion.

  Knocking down a Brokelsh and clearing a space I pulled back to rejoin the priests. I heard, sharp and distinct over the hullabaloo, a pinging sound. Something like a lasso locked my knees together and over I went, sprawling helplessly along the tiles. My legs pulled free and twice I rolled over and over to come up spitting with fury. The warty-faced Fristle let out a scream of triumph and leaped.

  He did not leap on me. He scooped up an abandoned scabbarded sword, gripping the hilt. I understood. I roared up to hurl myself at him. He ripped Strom Korden’s sword from the scabbard to face off against me, falchion in right hand, braxter in left. That hit on my hip, besides nicking me, had sliced far enough through the strom’s swordbelt to snap it after my frantic exertions. He yelled again and, turning, ran nimbly off.

  Other attackers were in the way. The fury I felt was all mixed up with annoyance at my own stupidity. The courtyard rang and echoed with the clang of steel. The olive green-clad bodies were all retiring, were pulling back, and into the courtyard raced more men, men in armor and not an olive-green shamlak or tunic in sight.

  The newcomers had swarmed over the same wall the attackers had used. The fight banged and caromed away and Amak Dagert of Paylen, very suave, strolled up to me, wiping his rapier.

  “Hai!” he said. “I fancy my debt is paid, my friend.”

  I said: “Doubtless.” I picked up the empty scabbard and slung it over my shoulder. The strom’s sword was going back in there, or I’d know the reason why. Then I recognized the foolish pomposity of the boast. “I am glad to see you, amak. Those blintzes were becoming pests.”

  “All pests go down to the Ice Floes of Sicce in Hanitcha’s good time. Now, what brings you here?”

  Palfrey the Pfiffer walked up then. His shortsword was suspiciously clean for a loyal retainer in a fight with his lord. “They all ran off, notor.”

  “Palfrey,” I said, acknowledging him. Then: “As to my presence here, it was a matter of temple business.”

  Paylen wasn’t interested in me. In a sharp hectoring voice he demanded: “They were followed?”

  “Oh, aye, my lord.” Palfrey sounded injured. “Nath the Iarvin and his party.”

  Dagert nodded. He finished wiping his rapier and thrust it away. Then, characteristically, he ran a delicate forefinger over that black pencil moustache.

  I started to say: “They took something of mine—” when the sound of running footsteps, a rushing swirl of skirts and a breathless voice all added up to Tiri gasping out: “Thank Cymbaro! I thought it certain sure you’d be dead!”

  She still clasped her sword and there was dark blood upon the blade. Rather dryly, I said: “I am glad to see you are still in one piece. The san and the young lord?”

  “Safe. Thanks to—” Her gaze dwelled on Dagert.

  Making the pappattu to introduce them I wondered, idly, if it were possible for a temple dancer to marry an amak. What if? It was no business of mine. I said to Tiri: “It seems you are not safe even here in the shrine.”

  Dagert said: “This young lord is safe?”

  Tiri nodded. “Yes, notor.”

  All I was conscious of rested on two items. One, Tiri had to be carted off back to Nandisha’s for her own protection. Two: I had to get off after Strom Korden’s sword sharpish. Its loss rankled.

  With the loud trample of iron-shod boots the courtyard abruptly came to life with a new act in this drama. Men in the panoply of armor, brightly attired, girded with weapons, their faces bronzed and hard, surrounded us. A hikdar stepped forward, very formal. He addressed me.

  “You are Drajak known as the Sudden?” At my nod he went on: “You will place yourself at my disposal.” To his men: “Bring him!”

  Chapter eleven

  “Well, Drajak known as the Sudden, where is it? Hand it across immediately!”

  I stood in a hall of parquetry, surrounded by armed guards of a most particularly impressive appearance, facing a tall throne in which sat a noble who could have my head off by a mere gesture of his little finger.

  I was, as they say in Clishdrin, well and t
ruly paddleless up that famous creek. The armed men had turned out to be a mixture of the City Guard and a certain noble’s retinue. You could tell the difference by their badges and insigne. I’d been marched past the sumptuous architecture of Oxonium where the kaotreshes flew in the breeze. There had been no need for us to leave Grand Central, for the palace of the noble lay hard by that of the king. Between two towers, one on each of their outer walls, king and noble had a private cable car system, spanning the branch of the artificial moat that surrounded the royal palace. Indeed, I was in powerful company here.

  The hikdar of the detail, Tygnam ti Fralen, went to give me a poke with the chape of his scabbard. The noble held up a hand.

  “Give him time to answer, Hikdar Tygnam.”

  “Quidang, notor!”

  I relaxed. This anxious hikdar had treated me perfectly correctly and fully prepared though I was to give him a crafty kick where it would do the most good, I had no pleasure in it. As for the problem of the moment, I could see no way around it. No way, at least, in which I might come off with a whole skin. The habitual use of authority in this place was marked by humanity. That I had deduced from what I’d seen and heard. All the same, failure would not be tolerated.

  Of course, I could lie and deny ever having had the blasted thing. But that wouldn’t square with what I saw as a sacred promise to Strom Korden. In addition, the lie would be immediately punctured by the information these people had of me, my name and deeds on the road.

  Could I claim the assassins had made off with it? Don’t, Dray Prescot, I said to myself, be childish. Tirivenswatha knew.

  So, I stared full on this puissant lord, this Hyr Kov Brannomar.

  In the middle part of life, I judged him, although that is always a difficult assessment on Kregen. There is on that planet this rather rare condition — if it be a disease the savants and doctors have not yet discovered or decided — in which a person’s hair, instead of retaining its full color over most of the span of years, turns gray or white relatively early on in life. Kov Brannomar’s hair was a silvery cap. His beard and moustache were silvery in color. With his bronzed powerful face, hard etched with command, with bright dark eyes and thin but mobile mouth, that silver poll gave him the formidable appearance of your true lord of the ages. The scar slanting down his left cheek, brilliant against his skin, added rather than subtracted from that aura of omnipotence.