A Life for Kregen (17 page)
The standards were presented, the trumpets blew, and a band from the Second Archers, a seasoned outfit, played stirring marches. By my express wish they played “The Bowmen of Loh.” Seg looked at me. Then he looked away. Well, in this life we all have to learn, and it is always the hard way, and painful.
The parade marched off to the strains of “Old Drak Himself,” which was by way of being a growing habit, and would soon be a tradition, when a flier circled across the rooftops, obviously searching. Seg had been given a Lohvian longbow by Log and his other comrades, for he felt naked without, and the great bow was out of its scabbard, strung, and an arrow nocked at a speed which would have dizzied the green archers marching off the parade ground.
I saw the schturval painted up on the side of the flier. Gray, red and green, with a black bar.
“Lower your bow, Seg. Those are the colors of Calimbrev. The flier is from Barty Vessler.”
Seg lowered the bow; but he only half unbent it and he kept the shaft ready in that casual, superbly competent way of a true Bowman of Loh, the master archers of Kregen.
The men in the voller spotted us. What with Cleitar holding my own flag aloft, and with Ortyg the Tresh lifting the new flag of Vallia, and the blaze of scarlet and gold about, it was pretty clear where stood the Emperor of Vallia.
Targon the Tapster and Naghan ti Lodkwara, who had rejoined after his wound had half-healed, exchanged remarks. The others of my choice band, also, expressed opinions. I sat, looking forward and up, stony-faced. These staunch companions of the choice band and Seg had lived and worked with me in different times, and, it seemed, times centuries apart. Seg was not himself. If anyone questioned me, and no one did, I was prepared to be reasonable on the point. But Seg Segutorio meant a great deal, a very great deal, as you will know. As, to be sure, did every single one of the choice band.
The flier landed and Hikdar Douron jumped down and ran across, saluting as he hauled up before me.
“Majister!”
“Spit it out, Hikdar Douron.”
“The strom begs to report,” he started off. I killed my smile. That, for a certainty, was not the way Barty had given his message.
“Yes?”
“The — person — he sought has left certain signs so that the Strom is confident he knows where she is. But the strom has been wounded and is mewed up in the fortress of the Stony Korf. He cannot leave our wounded.”
I said: “Why did you not all leave in the flier?”
“We have been joined by freedom fighters — we could not bring them all and the strom would not abandon them. Honor—”
Barty’s honor! Well, the lad was in the right of it.
I turned to speak and Seg said: “Stony Korf! I know that devil’s eyrie. It is in Falinur, that is supposed to be my kovnate, may it rot in the Ice Floes of Sicce.”
The decision was made without thinking about it.
Farris was told he was to take over. No attack was imminent, everyone was sure. I would take a pruned down group of the most ferocious desperadoes of my band. Seg would come. We were at last going to find my daughter Dayra. We were going to talk to Ros the Claw.
And about time, too.
A Bowman Topples a Blazing Brand
To be free of the cares of empire! Once more to ride the winds and with a cutthroat band of loyal companions to hurtle across the face of Kregen, speeding beneath the Moons, and sword in hand once more to plunge into headlong adventure. Ah! This was the old Dray Prescot, a fellow with whom I had barely been on nodding acquaintance lately.
We had packed Barty’s flier with men and supplies and, Hikdar Douron having assured us we were adequate for the job ahead, I had not pressed Farris to release any more vollers from his small and hard-pressed fleet. Our sailing skyships would be, by days, too slow.
Now in fading light, Douron pointed ahead, where a jagged line of peaks rose against the star-glitter. This was an uncomfortable little corner of Seg’s kovnate, a sour, dull place inhabited by sour, dull people. They insisted on keeping slaves and all Seg’s attempts had failed to convince them otherwise. I knew that toward the end, before the Time of Troubles, he had been at his wits’ end, unwilling to use the force at his disposal against the people of his new kovnate, and yet, sharing my views, desperate to end the blasphemy against human nature that slavery was, in very truth, in our eyes.
“I remember this fortress,” said Seg. He wiped his lips and peered ahead. “When I asked its chief, a bent-nosed rascal called Andir the Ornc, to manumit his slaves, he threw my messenger out, a fine young fellow, Naghan Larjester, and sent him back to me with a nose as bent as his own. It was a jest. I was screwing up my mind to march on him with my people and make an example of him, when the emperor was poisoned.”
“I think, Seg,” I said with some gravity as we flew down, “I really do think you are well out of Falinur. It is a kovnate of which much may be made. But slavery has to be ended. And there has been far too much water under the bridge.”
“If you mean, Dray,” said the Kov of Falinur, “that you wish to strip my kovnate from me, why, then, I will be the first to throw my hat in the air.”
“I will do what you wish. You are still a kov, that is something useful to be in this world, as you know. And a kov must have estates. There is a province ready for you, once—”
“Aye,” he said, his wild blue eyes bright in that mingled light. “Aye, dom! I know! Once we have cleared out whatever bunch of rasts is sucking it dry now.”
“Aye. And there will be a lot of that, by Krun.”
He did not ask where away this new kovnate of his might be and, truth to tell, I was in nowise sure myself. But, I was firmly convinced, unalterably convinced; Seg Segutorio was a kov and would have a kovnate.
He told me something of conditions he had found north of the Mountains of the North when he had gone seeking Thelda in Evir, the northernmost province. A fellow had taken over up there and was calling himself the King of Urn Vallia. He controlled Durheim and Huvadu although running into some trouble from the High Kov of Erstveheim. Venga, of which the hapless Ashti Melekhi had been the vadnicha, had been invaded and her twin brother, the vad, was on the run. It was all a mess up there, and, that was true of the southwest and the southeast and the mountains, also. There was no profit in worrying over those broader problems now when the stone fortress below rushed up toward us as the flier dropped, and we saw the men waving below, waiting for us.
We were in enemy territory here. That was a foul note, to be sure. Enemy territory, in Falinur, one of the heartlands of Vallia!
Almost, we got through unobserved. Almost...
As we skimmed for the stone ramparts a volley of arrows whisked up toward us. Campfires burned in a circle about the fortress of the Stony Korf. A few shafts punched into the flier; but no one was hit. Varter bolts lanced the dusky air. We even saw two catapult stones come arching up, like balls tossed high in sport, and curve over and so fall away. But the arrows persisted. Seg perked up, taking a professional interest.
“Undurkers,” said Seg. The fascinating information in his comment was the comparative lack of contempt. I wondered what scrapes he’d pulled out of since we’d parted that might have given him this new outlook. Certainly, he was scathing enough about the short bow, as was I. “Undurkers. Well, my old dom, we’ve seen them off before.”
“And will again, despite that we have no Bowmen of Loh with us, save yourself.”
He did not laugh. The voller whooshed air over the crumbled stone battlements and circled once, losing speed, before dropping to a mossy patch of stone at the center of the tower. That was just about all this place was, a tower. Seg said, quietly, as the besieged folk came up: “You may not be a Bowman of Loh; but you’d give most of them a run for their money.”
Well, of course, from Seg Segutorio, that was high praise.
Then we were exchanging Lahals and jumping from the flier and I was being led off to where Barty sat under a canvas awning, looking most disgruntled, with an arrow-wound in his shoulder.
The people clustered around, their bearded grimy faces reflecting villainously in the torchlights. They were smiling a little, now, thinking rescue had reached them. The scene was like a witch’s coven. Barty waved a hand.
“The emperor and I would speak in private.” He had not risen to greet me — and the reason for that was plain enough. His people backed off. My own desperadoes were busily engaged in estimating the defenses and getting an idea of the enemy out there in the darkness that shut down with the last of the suns. It was not a night of Notor Zan; but for a space the star glitter and two of Kregen’s smaller moons gave the impression of a night darker than it really was. Seg stood at my shoulder. Barty looked up. His face looked odd; his usual high color had fled; but his pallor was made more leaden by the red stains under the skin, high on each cheekbone. He looked at Seg.
“I said the emperor and I would be alone.”
Seg did not move.
I said, “Seg, this handsome young man who has fallen so low is Barty Vessler, the Strom of Calimbrev. And, Barty, you have the honor and pleasure of meeting Seg Segutorio, the Kov of Falinur.”
Barty opened his mouth, shut his mouth, extended his hand as the pappattu was made. My new friends had said harsh words about Falinur and its kov. But, as always, I could not be harsh on Barty. So I added, casually, “Seg is with us in this.” Here I had to trip daintily around certain subjects. “He is aware of the problem and—”
“Oh, them,” said Seg. “My girl Silda wanted to go off and be some kind of Jikai Vuvushi. But Thelda didn’t like the idea and I had to bring Silda home.” He glanced at me, and, amazingly, laughed. “She is not at all pleased that Drak has gone off adventuring in Faol.”
So ho, I said to myself, so the weathervane spins that way, does it...?
Barty’s news was both stimulating and depressing. Dayra had most certainly been seen and then the local gang of mercenaries who held the district for Layco Jhansi had mewed him and his men up here, together with the local Freedom Fighters. And, one of these, the guerilla chief, was in a right state over his wife. I said: “Dayra first. Then the others, all of them, as many as we can contrive.”
“I agree. But Dayra isn’t with this bunch of cramphs trying to burn us out.” His words were not idle. Every now and then a varter bolt tied with burning flax would arch up and over and fall into the tower. Sand was flung in strewed winnowed falls to quench the flames.
“Well, young Barty! Where the hell is she, then?”
At this he spread his hands helplessly, and winced, and looked more gray and drawn than I liked.
“My spies got wind of what she came for. That kleesh Zankov has been thoroughly rejected by the Northeast Parties, and so he is seeking an alliance with Jhansi.”
Seg ran a hand along his longbow. “It will be interesting to meet this Zankov.”
“But now,” I said. “Right now!”
“Majister,” said Barty, and his voice shook. “I do not know.”
“These cramphs are getting troublesome,” said Seg, brushing sparks away as a blazing bolt hit and bounced near us.
“Where was she last seen, Barty?”
“Trakon’s Pillars. Jhansi was supposed to be meeting her at a summer villa the old kov had there.”
“Him,” said Seg, and sniffed. “I’d as lief Naghan Furtway had his Opaz-forsaken kovnate back again.”
“You know the place, Seg?”
“Yes. Damned degenerate pest hole. Furtway was a great Jikaida player — you know that, Dray — and the whole place was built like a Jikaida board. Most odd. And devilish, too. I can take you there. But our friends outside grow impatient.”
A few words soon showed that the mercenaries outside the tower had been reinforced after Hikdar Douron had left for Vondium. We had brought men, yes; but had we brought enough to break through the ring? Barty was all for getting up and bashing on. There were saddle animals stabled in the lower floors. But the Jiktar who ran his guards, a man who could have sat for a portrait to represent the professional, life-time fighting man, shook his head.
“In my view we are still too few,” said Jiktar Noronfer.
“Um,” said Seg.
“We must break out!”
Barty sank back on the blankets. He looked in bad case.
Then Jiktar Noronfer, with the infuriating ability of the professional to state a situation as though it was not a matter of life and death affecting him no less than anyone else, said: “They will break in before the flier can return to Vondium for help.”
Another iron-headed bolt arched over the ancient stone battlements and hit, bouncing. The flames from the tar and bitumen-soaked flax blazed up. The brand skated across the stones straight for us like a comet on a collision course.
Barty let out a feeble yell. Jiktar Noronfer dived out of the way. The caroming bolt leaped, like a fractious zorca, spat sparks, sizzling with a noise like a cage full of serpents. It roared directly at us.
I leaped for Barty. Seg — the infernal idiot! — seized up Noronfer’s dropped spear and swung toward the blazing brand. Even as I got Barty up and scrambled him out of the way so Seg with a beautifully lithe skip and jump got the spear point under the iron head of the bolt and heaved. Then he, too, jumped for safety. His cloak was alight. He landed and rolled and I put Barty down as gently as I could contrive and as the flaming bolt reared up and spilled over the stones at our back I leaped on Seg. With my bare hands I batted at the flames and got his cloak ripped off and tossed aside. I was not burned, thank Zair — well, not much, not enough to notice.
Seg sat up.
“Thanks, my old dom. We’ve enough light as it is without using me as a living torch.”
“You maniacal Erthyr nitwit! Why didn’t you jump out of the way?”
“Never thought you’d get the youngster out of it in time. You were damned quick.”
“Not as quick as you, you—”
Seg’s face drew in with pain. His eyes misted. Torchlight hung shadows along his jaw and his cheeks hollowed.
“Get that tunic off! And the kax! Your wound, when you were slave—”