Fliers of Antares (25 page)

They reacted with breathy snarls, lifting so as to slash me with their claws as well as attempt to hamstring me and then seize me by the throat. The thraxter slashed into the neck of the right-hand one, a controlled stroke. I followed on without a pause, ducking and avoiding the second’s lunge. Now he was howling, shrill ululations that would bring the guards running. I flicked the thraxter at him and he avoided it and sprang. I barely managed to dive flat and roll over and kick him mercilessly in the belly as he flew past. We both sprang up to renew the attack, but I was that fraction faster, and I buried the thraxter in his muscular chest as he scrabbled for me. I had to thrust with massive force to penetrate the plate of gristle beneath the skin; but, shrieking and foaming and attempting to claw at the blade, he died.

I dragged the thraxter free, one foot on the black-and-white-striped corpse. I ran for the double-doors, closed them with a thump, and slotted the thick lenken beam into place in its iron staples. Now let a wersting try to sneak in!

Fresh yells broke from outside. They quieted and I heard a voice, a harsh, intemperate, hectoring voice, the foul-mouthed bellowing voice of Ornol ham Feoste, Kov of Apulad.

“You, Chaadur! We know you are in there! Come out quietly, you kleesh, and obey the law! Or, by Hanitcha the Harrower, we’ll break in and tear the beating heart out of you and feed it to the werstings!”

A promise of Jikai

I, Dray Prescot, of Earth and of Kregen, had failed.

Failed miserably. Failed utterly.

The armed guards and soldiers of Kov Ornol surrounded the shed. The ferocious snarls and howls of the werstings resounded through the pink-lit gloom and I could hear their claws scrabbling at the doors. The Kov and his men were convinced they had me trapped in here, and they would no doubt seek to keep the werstings away from my throat so that their famous laws of Hamal could pronounce upon me. What did the law prescribe for the murder of a Kovneva?

Maybe the Jikhorkdun would be too merciful.

I was absolutely certain that Kov Ornol would go to the full rigors the law allowed in his punishment of me before I was hanged.

All this meant nothing.

All I could think of was that I had failed. I knew no more of the secrets of the fliers than when I flew one over Valka and the damned thing broke down.

There had to be some answer, somewhere . . .

Like a maniac I began to overturn amphorae, smash at silver boxes, run through the shed slicing and slashing with the thraxter, turn over the piles of dirt, slewing it about as we had slewed the fiery vomit of Muruaa. But nothing more was vouchsafed me in understanding of the ways of a voller.

So sure I had been that I would discover the secret here! Deldar Naghan the Triangle had told me that here in Sumbakir we built only small vollers, two- and four-place fliers, sometimes a six-place job for a special order. Over in Conelawlad, he said, they built larger vessels. The Air Service had their ships built in a number of yards, some near Ruathytu, the capital itself, some near Hollalalad, others at Malathytu. Maybe, there, I would find the answers I sought . . .

“Come out, you Kovneva-murdering rast! Come out so that I may plunge my hands into your guts and rip out your evil stinking heart!”

I didn’t bother to reply.

If the answer was not here, then here was no place for me.

I thought of Avec Brand the Niltch, and of Ilter Monicep, and I knew I would miss them in the future. They were a right pair, and no mistake. Even though they were Hamalese and swore by Havil the Green, and called Opaz vile, they had been good friends. Now, I must bid them a farewell they would never hear.

The double-doors shuddered as a beam thumped against them. Those doors would stand considerable maltreatment before they would give. There would be time.

“By Hanitcha the Harrower! You yetch, Chaadur! As Malahak is my witness I will hang you by the heels over a slow fire and watch your eyeballs sizzle! You nulsh! Rast! I will carve you into strips for the werstings!”

Still I did not reply. The door shivered and a panel smashed through.

The snarls and howls of the werstings now concentrated into one area, off to one side of the door, and I guessed the Deldars had leashed them up. The Kov wanted to get his own hands on me. The werstings had done their work well. Now in the business of tearing me to shreds the Kov would take over.

The werstings were snapping and screeching in a frenzied way. Kov Ornol yelled viciously. “By Hanitcha the Harrower! Keep those nurdling werstings quiet! I want the nulsh to know what I shall do to him.”

The werstings quieted down. I pulled the glowing ashes from a fire where the soldering equipment lay on the benches, and blew upon it, and fed it shavings from the grooves cut for the silver boxes in the flier’s control apparatus, which looks not unlike a series of wheels a spider might construct, pivoted and swiveled. In fanning a little blaze, I built the fire. The yells outside, the thumpings on the door, all added a macabre note of chaos to the orderliness within.

I took the fire and spread it in the bottom sections of smashed amphorae like scoops. When the preparations were ready I stood back and surveyed the pink-lit gloom of the place with the red glowing eyes of the fire-crocks positioned by the fliers.

Where could the answer I so eagerly sought be hidden?

There was nothing here. I had to steel myself to that. The door splintered and the holding beam groaned and sagged. A few more murs and it would give. The doors would swing open and the Kov and his soldiers would rush in.

A fight would be a diversion. I had more important tasks to do. I knew from my private calendar that I had a few days left, and that was all, to the time of my disappearance from the voller over the Shrouded Sea.

The flier I had selected, a fast two-place craft with the lean and rakish lines of a racer that had been built, as we knew, to the special orders of a famous voller-racer in Ruathytu, lifted me easily to the roof. I eased in the down-dropping flap of the skylight and its sturm-wood lattice fell free, allowing a flood of pink light from the Twins to illuminate in fuzzy rose and wavering black the interior of the shed. I dropped to the floor again and hopped out of the flier, ran swiftly around the shed tipping the fire-filled amphorae crocks over. Some smoldered; one or two caught at the canvas or hide of the coverings and burst instantly into flames. Back in the two-place voller I rose into the air as the door at last caved in, with a smash, and soldiers leaped into the shed.

They did not see me at first. They saw the flames.

“Fire! Fire!”

After that they would be busy for a while. I shot through the opened skylight and set the controls for up and forward, and raced away into the night.

It had been so easy. If I felt regret, that was as natural as the regret I felt over my failure. And, I was to meet the Kov of Apulad, Ornol ham Feoste, again, as you shall hear . . .

The Star Lords had given me a year as a second prison sentence on top of the first. I had served my time — eleven years which had taken the space of ten. Now I was free! I was racing through the pink-lit night sky of Kregen for the Shrouded Sea and the airboat and my friends — and Delia!

If they pursued me I did not know then. The racer was swift, a fine craft; I was confident it would have won many important trophy challenges in the fliers’ races of Ruathytu. Now, she carried me fast and far toward the southwest, over the River Os, broad and calm far below, over the settled and industrious lands beyond, past the areas in turmoil where the legions of Hamal sought to extend their empire’s sway. On and on I flew, and into the daylight, and with a pause to hunt up a little food in one of the pockets of wild country found in even the most densely developed countryside of Kregen, I flashed over Methydria and so came at last to the shores of the Shrouded Sea.

All my regrets were put behind me. To the Ice Floes of Sicce with concerns over vollers for the moment! Ahead, only a day in the future, lay all I cared for or wanted in two worlds. I looked down at the pile of silver boxes I had brought, carefully separated – those from the red-walled room at one end of the voller, those from the black-walled room at the other. I would get around to those in the fullness of time.

No stormclouds, no lightnings, no supernatural phenomena prevented me carrying out my designs. The Star Lords had no objections to my rejoining Delia just after I had tumbled out of the voller in the storm, instead of waiting until I had been transported from the Heavenly Mines. Perhaps the Star Lords were, at least, taking notice of me as a human being and not as a mere puppet to obey their august wills. I did not know. I do know that I rode the little voller high above the Shrouded Sea and watched the storm bursting and roiling far out across the waters, and the feeling I had, that in the storm an airboat flew, with me aboard, chilled and exhilarated me.

Surely, the Star Lords could see that I could be trusted not to do a foolish thing? I would not seek out of overweening pride or curiosity to investigate the storm, to see if I might in fact see myself. I would see only my damn fool self smash the stanchion and tumble overboard, like a veritable coy!

With that seaman’s instinct reinforced by my years of wandering the Great Plains of Segesthes I found the island of Shanpo in the Lesser Sharangil Archipelago, the islands black formless splotches against the pink glitter of the water. I swung down. Below me the Kataki were at their evil trade, the aragorn and the slave-masters arrogant in their vileness. Well, their day would come.

With the dawn I took the racer on to the far side of the island. I knew exactly what was going on in that small fishing village on the other shore, right at this minute, right now . . .

The slaves were rubbing their eyes, I among them, and cursing at the poor quality of the food, and being beaten. An aragorn would be running into the square and yelling and the Katakis would be beating the slaves into cover, and the fishing village would be in the process of being made to look innocent as the airboat flying Old Superb cruised into view.

All that was happening, over the hill, even now, as I waited . . . I felt my breathing quicken and I cursed and I spoke aloud, wrathfully, to myself.

“By the diseased intestines of Makki-Grodno, you great nurdling onker! Calm down!”

With what emotions I lifted the little racing voller into the morning air and guided her up past the trees and held her there and then — oh, yes! And then—!

That magnificent flier flew into sight, over the trees, picking up speed, heading to make another desperate search for the husband of the Princess Majestrix of Vallia. The flags of scarlet and yellow flew proudly from every staff. I stared up and I swallowed.

“By Zim-Zair!” I said.

I sent the racer up in a swirl of power and the levers were hard over and she fairly stormed through the air. I roared up to the big voller and circled her. I dived beneath her keel and rose on the other side and so turned and planed back, an Immelman of perfect execution, and dived down over the decks. Everyone had turned out. A packed forest of faces stared up at me from the decks. Arms waved, scarves fluttered. I looked over the side.

Yes! Yes — there stood Delia, one hand lifted to her forehead to shield the glow of Zim and Genodras. And — she recognized me! She waved — she waved fiercely, joyfully, triumphantly!

I slammed the little racer for the airboat’s deck, for she would fit neatly enough in the broad space, and I landed her and stepped out. With a rib-crunching tackle, Delia clasped me to her and I held her and we stood and stood, fast locked in each other’s arms.

“Dray! Dray!” she said at last, drawing back. “We’ve been looking all over! We’ve been frantic. And the little voller? And your clothes? And — and—”

They were all there, crowding around, shouting and laughing and welcoming me back. Seg Segutorio, Inch, Turko the Shield, Korf Aighos, Tom ti Vulheim, Naghan the Gnat, Balass the Hawk, and Tilly and Oby — all of them, jumping up and down and trying to get at me, and Delia holding me, holding me! Obquam of Tajkent, the flying Strom, circled around in his excitement — he, so grave and reserved. They made such a racket I could not make myself heard. I held up my left hand, for my right clasped my Delia to me.

They fell silent.

“Dray!” said Delia. “You great shaggy graint! You must tell us all about it — but first, you need a bath. And then we will have tea. And then we can continue on to Migladrin—”

So now they had to know, this early, this brutally.

“A bath and tea,” I said. “Oh, my Delia, my Princess Majestrix!” I shouted. Then, loudly, for all to hear “You must go on to Migladrin and do what is necessary there. As for me, my duty to Valka and Vallia now lies elsewhere.”

They hung on my words. Delia looked up at me, half frowning. “Now where are you flying off to, Dray Prescot?”

“I have unfinished business in Hamal. I must go to Hamal.”

Their reaction should not have surprised me, but it did.

Instantly, all of them, were yelling it out: “Hamal! Hamal! We will go with you to Hamal!”

“Even to the Heavenly Mines?”

“Aye, Dray Prescot, Prince Majister! Even to the Heavenly Mines!”

This was nonsense, of course — but glorious nonsense!

There were things to be done, important things upon Kregen, for the good of Vallia and Valka and Migladrin and for the wishes of the Star Lords. I held Delia close.

“And will you, Dray, really venture to the Heavenly Mines?”

“Aye, for it will be a kind of Jikai.”

“Then you will not leave me. I shall, of course, come with you.”

I laughed — I, Dray Prescot, laughed.

“As to that, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, we shall see what we shall see!”

Alan Burt Akers is a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer. Bulmer has published over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction.

More details about the author, and current links to other sources of information, can be found at
www.mushroom-ebooks.com