Golden Scorpio (12 page)
He was a marvel, this man. He was of the Kildoi, a race of diffs not very well known mainly inhabiting Balintol. The immensely powerful physique, the fluid shifting movements, the slide and rope of muscles, all added to the clear and intelligent anticipation of a blow, enabled him to last out in his suffering where lesser men would have been shrieking in shredded agony. But — there was about his anticipation of a blow more than mere intelligence. Much mumbo jumbo is spoken and written about the mystic means whereby a man may judge a blow although blindfolded, and there is great truth in this. Certainly I know what I know of many Disciplines. The Krozairs, chiefest of all, of course, and the Khamster syples of the Khamorros, the Velyan techniques of the Martial Monks of Djanduin, and many more. Much foolishness is written and believed about mysticism in combat; but the kernel of truth remains. In this fellow, this Kildoi, I saw a man who was a High Adept, a True and Proven Master.
This was no business of mine. So why did I stand there?
This was something of a different order from that radvakka who had so thoughtlessly kicked his Khibil slave up the rear. That was of the daily nature of a slave’s life and a vileness I and Delia would try to end as soon as we might — a thankless and difficult task, Opaz knew. But this obscenity before me was something else again. Still and all, all the same, without doubt — it was nothing to do with me. So, you see, I prevaricated.
One of the radvakkas slashed his whip and the Kildoi slid the blow easily and instantly swayed the other way and avoided a lashing blow from an iron bar. He was very very good. In the event, before I turned away — for I hewed to my main task and would not imperil that even for so marvelous a fellow as this — one of the Iron Riders threw his wooden bludgeon to the ground in disgust.
“You see?” he bellowed. “By the Iron Helm of Getranchi. Did I not say so?”
“Maybe you were right,” said another. “But he affords sport.”
“Sport? I have hit him once only. Once! You call that sport?”
“Maybe,” put in a third. “You cannot hit straight.”
I rather hoped they’d start a brawl at this; but they went on arguing. The Kildoi stood, poised, lithe, his bruises hard and shining upon him, the blood trickling down that plated chest. I felt for him. And, although this was no business of mine, I did not go away.
“Give him another few murs,” said the aggrieved radvakka at last. “It was a waste of time exchanging him. He must be kept in chains all day — he’s far too dangerous for a good slave. A waste of time.”
“A few murs, then. I own, he is worse than a Kataki.”
They started it up again, hitting and slashing, and despite all the wonderful alacrity of the Kildoi he took blows. The blood shone upon his tawny skin.
Of course this was no business of mine — a strange diff, a camp of enemies, in a part of Vallia hostile to the center — what possible business was it of mine, who had urgent business with a ring and a willful kovneva and the commands of the Star Lords? And those just for starters — with all the rest of my problems looming and gibbering at me?
Emperor of Vallia. That was just a laugh. But, just suppose I was the emperor. Then the concerns of all Vallia were mine, and the concerns of all the people in the empire. And, anyway, I’d taken a great liking to this tailed, four-armed marvel who stood, shining with blood, yet golden and still defiant. He was a man I fancied I could understand. No business of mine — this situation was the business and concern of all men.
So, not reluctantly, but joyfully, I hauled out the broadsword and stepped silently into the ruined building.
Korero
This was no time for chivalry. No time for the honored traditions of combat. This was going to be nip and tuck.
I hewed through the necks of the first two radvakkas, just above the iron corselet rims, back-handed a third across his face, chunked the reeking broadsword into the eye of a fourth. But there were ten of them, nine in the circle and the slipstick man taking the bets. The others roared at me, raving, ripping out their swords.
The first two fell smoothly enough, and I leaped across their collapsing bodies to get at the last three. The slipstick man tried to throw a knife. Well, he threw it, but the aim was deflected by my left arm. The broadsword went in and out, swung left-handed, and there was just the one left facing me.
He was mumbling something incoherent about a devil; but I smacked his blade away sharply and chunked him down into the tamped earth floor. The slipstick man was almost at the ruined window-opening, shrieking, getting away.
The broadsword lifted into the air, I caught it at the point of balance. I drew back, let fly. Point first the blade skimmed across that dolorous room, burst into the back of his neck, spouted on out. He stopped shrieking and staggered forward and sideways, collapsing in a quivering heap.
The dagger whipped out and a swift succession of four slicing cuts freed the Kildoi’s arms. The rope around his handed tail chained to the ring slashed and fell away. I managed to force a smile for him.
“Llahal and Llahal, dom. Let us get out of here, sharpish.”
“Llahal, dom. You are very — welcome — whatever kind of demon you may be.”
I padded across to the window and retrieved the broadsword. I looked outside. Someone must have heard the racket and be coming to investigate. I swung back.
“Devil I may be. But we’re both consigned to the Ice Floes of Sicce if we don’t use our noodles. Here — help me strip this fellow. He looks big enough.”
Between us we got the riveted iron from the corpse and I shrugged it on. A helmet from the pile in the corner slammed on my head. The cunning metal plates flapped into place before my face. I slung the shaggy pelt over my shoulder and looked through the eye slits in the metal mask.
The Kildoi had snatched up a shaggy pelt and draped it about himself.
We stepped through the shattered window opening and I leaped up onto Lumpy.
“Take the reins. Lead us along — gently. Keep your head down.”
He said nothing but did as I bid. Sitting astride the benhoff, led by a cowed slave, I rode sedately out into the street. A few radvakkas were riding up to find out what the racket was. One of them reined across and started to speak.
“A pestilential fellow,” I said, making my gruff old voice harsher and more malignant still. “By the Iron Fist of Getranchi! He took a long time to die.”
“Hai!” quoth this Iron Rider. “Did you win?”
“Aye. I won.”
We rode on.
As quickly as possible I guided us away from the main street and away from the campfires. Nikwald was only so big and we would never avoid eventual discovery once the hunt was up. We had to get clean away, and the suns would not be gone for a bur yet. I kept listening for sounds that would indicate the massacre had been discovered; but as we approached the broken-down wall of the onetime fortress town nothing sounded apart from the familiar noises of warriors encamped.
We found the second benhoff at the lines under the wall. One radvakka who wanted to know why we took the beast fell down. I did not think he would get up again. The Kildoi mounted up, and I noticed that he fought the stiffness of his cuts and bruises with the phlegmatic calm of one inured to hardship and the injustices of life.
“We must wait until the suns are gone. She of the Veils will give us a bur before she rises. In that time—”
“Aye, dom. We ride.”
“Just so. Until then, we keep out of sight.”
That was not too difficult in a brawling barbarian camp, even when the racket broke out that told the discovery had been made. Parties of Iron Riders began galloping in all directions. Useless to try to disguise this Kildoi in the time available; I decided we had to try.
Dismounted, we stood in the shadow of the crumbled wall, ready to ride out. A radvakka had the misfortune to approach, without seeing us, to investigate the breach in the wall at this point. The suns were almost gone. Mingled jade and crimson light speared through the gap and threw opaline-bordered shadows across the detritus. I was about to reach out for the Iron Rider when the Kildoi said: “Mine, I think, dom.”
“My pleasure.”
His tail hand, so much like that of a Pachak, whipped out. It fastened on the throat of the radvakka, choking off his cry, hauled him from the saddle. He crashed to the ground with a savagery that told me much. There was no need to silence him after that. The Kildoi was halfway through trying to fit his artfully articulated shoulders into the riveted iron when the patrol rode up. We two froze. In the shadows, we ought to escape detection; but if one of our benhoffs reacted to the presence of the others...
Our hands fondled the benhoffs, massaging the rolls of fat, giving the benhoffs pleasurable sensations, keeping them quiet.
The riders drew off. I let out a breath.
The suns were nearly gone, drowning in an opaline glory.
“Close,” I said. I stared at the shadows that chingled with iron as they rode away.
“Close. I am Korero, dom. Your name?”
My mind was on those damned Iron Riders. I said: “I am Dray—” And then I caught myself, and said, swiftly: “I am Jak the Drang. Lahal, Korero.”
“Lahal, Jak the Drang.”
He passed no comment. But, even then, I fancied he had heard that confounded stupid word “Dray” and stored it away.
The dying radiance of the Suns of Scorpio stained across the sky of Kregen. In silence we mounted up. He was an old hand, this Korero, a fellow used to the kind of nefarious business we were about. He made no fuss about what had to be done but got on with it. An old campaigner, and yet he was young, I judged, although tall for a Kildoi, being a good four inches taller than me. He moved with a contained muscular alertness, a springiness, a limber strength. And his reflexes were quicksilver, I had witnessed that.
We rode away from Nikwald, very quietly, into the shadows before She of the Veils rose to shed her fuzzy pink and golden light across the land. I made sure the Ring of Destiny still snugged in my breechclout. We rode. If pursuit there was we saw nothing of it.
We spoke very little, aware how sound traveled at night over the plains. I taxed Korero on the absence of any appellation to his name, whereat he half-smiled, and said: “You are Jak the Drang. I have been Korero this and Korero that, from time to time. Mayhap, one day, I will tell you.”
We rode companionably back the way I had come and in due time reached Thiurdsmot. Carrying the ring I found the kovneva.
Bird of Ill Omen
Thiurdsmot girded itself for the fray, everyone engaged in a grim preparation for the coming conflict, and Marta Renberg, Kovneva of Aduimbrev, was in raptures over the Ring of Destiny.
She turned it this way and that, holding it out at arm’s length, admiring it as it glittered on her finger.
“Splendid!” she declared. “With this ring all my troubles are over.”
Larghos looked at me, and away, and said nothing. We stood in the wide window embrasure of a tower given over to the kovneva’s use. The trappings and furnishing were luxurious, as was to be expected. The handmaidens were flushed of cheek and brighter of eye. All in all, absolute confidence radiated about the walls and turrets of Thiurdsmot and nerved the ranks of the Hamalian army and their mercenary allies.
Standing respectfully before the kovneva I looked out through the window. Troops marched in their strict formations in the kyro far below. The colors of Hamal and Aduimbrev floated everywhere, mingled with the colors of the freelances and the paktuns with their own bands. A fluttrell formation winged past, the big birds keeping a beautiful precision of formation, the flyers on their backs leaning into the windrush.
Vollers sailed down to land at the vollerpark. These I eyed with a covetousness I trusted did not show on my savage old leem-face. One of those — one of those airboats I’d have this night and be away, or my name was not Dray Prescot. Zamra, Valka and Veliadrin, to scout, to discover, to do what might be done. And then — Strombor and Delia. Yes, my course was plain.
Marta was transported with pleasure. She had not actually said thank you or commended me on my action and this did not surprise me. As far as she was concerned my usefulness to her had finished and one did not expect civility from a great noble, male or female, in these circumstances. Had she wished to employ me again no doubt she would have remembered to toss me a crumb of some tawdry kind as a reward. Mind you, this forgetfulness of favors is not confined to the nobility or the gentry alone. The poor people, for all there are a great many of them, often share the same distressing character defect.
To carry out Phu-si-Yantong’s demands in this part of Vallia a Chuktar had been appointed in command. He was an ord-Chuktar, and therefore an important man in almost any army. He and Marta appeared to get along together and as she began to tell him just how the ring would discompose the mailed cavalry of the Iron Riders I was able to ease away out of their notices. This Chuktar Nath ham Holophar was a strom, the Strom of Warhurn, and I’d been ready to take action in case he recognized me. But that was highly unlikely, for the desperado Jak the Drang did not look much like Hamun ham Farthytu, the Amak of Paline Valley.
Their plan was one of the obvious ones, given the circumstances. Once the ring had exerted its power, controlled and directed by the kovneva, the army of Hamal would ride over what was left of the radvakkas. The aerial might they could bring to bear would finish them off. They saw no problems.
Scouts brought in details of the radvakka’s movements. The battle was imminent, and I intended to be long gone before that.
The only note that ought to have indicated caution to the Hamalese sounded in the increased numbers of Iron Riders. Reports estimated at least three bands had joined, making nine thousand.
Chuktar ham Holophar had thirty regiments of infantry, foot and crossbows, and five thousand totrix and zorca cavalry, together with a strong varter force. With the aerial wings that ought to be enough to see off the Riders — so ham Holophar said, with some grimness — without the magical influence of the ring.