A Victory for Kregen (21 page)

“Lahal!” said this voice. “Lahal and Lahal, Strom Drak! It’s me, Torn Tomor. And you are now Emperor of Vallia. Lahal, majister, Lahal!”

I stood up and looked at him.

Yes, he had the virile toughness of his father and the slim agility of his mother, and if he had a tithe of their strengths he would be a most puissant young man. I smiled.

“Lahal, Torn Tomor. And your father and mother are well and thrive, thanks be to Opaz. And, as for you, your faith was too fragile, for the murderer confessed.” He started at this, a young, eager, alive man with all his life to lead. “Yes, Torn, you ran off to be a paktun when we all knew you would not strike down a man from the shadows, with steel between his shoulder blades.”

“But,” he stammered, “majister — everyone said — it looked black—”

“It is black no more. Do I need to ask why you return to Vallia?”

“By Vox, no!” spoke up Clardo the Clis. “But—” And here his scarred face swung toward Torn Tomor. “—is this really the emperor, Torn? How can he be, seeing the emperor sits in Vondium and waits for us to fight and win his battles for him?”

The argenter gave a lurching heave that made us all brace ourselves to the sway of her. The muddy shore was not far off and soon the ship would splinter to flinders. Turko stood at my side. Andrinos was holding Saenci. I looked at the crowding men, hardened men, professional fighting men, tough and ruthless in combat, easy and reckless in camp. Yes, they were mercenaries, going to Vallia to find employment. A few quick words established what I had instantly guessed, and what had made Deb-Lu-Quienyin direct me here. Every man was a Vallian. Each man had gone off from his own country as a lad, seeing that Vallia had no army but employed paktuns to fight for gold. And, now the mother country was in dire danger, beset by enemies, her sons were returning home. But they were not the country bumpkins, the smart townies, who had left. Now they were paktuns and hyrpaktuns. Now they were professionals. I sighed. What I could do with a hundred thousand like this!

The voller had taken with her the secrets of her silver boxes, and I had to quell the spurt of anger. All that had chanced to me since leaving Vallia for the Dawn Lands formed a part of a pattern, that was clear. Prince Tyfar and Quienyin; well, Quienyin was actively assisting me now and Tyfar was going to have a much more prominent part to play in my plans than he dreamed of. By Zair! He had a much bigger part to play than I dreamed of! How fate does throw the knucklebones, and sits back, giggling.

And that Vajikry fanatic, Trylon Nath Orscop, had afforded me a voller able to pull. No Vajikry, no voller. No voller, no ship of fighting men for Vallia.

Turko said, “We’re going to hit any mur — and that company you spoke of. They’re waiting.”

Along the edge of the surf the lines of totrixmen cantered. They looked hard and sharp. They were waiting for us. As we staggered up out of the clutch of the sea they would ride forward and spear us. The Vallians in the ship were shouting and waving. They thought these riders were waiting to succor them.

And that was the sensible thought to any Vallian who had left the country before the Time of Troubles.

I shouted, hard and high, in an ugly voice.

“Those jutmen are our mortal foes! They will spear us as we wade ashore through the mud. Each man must be ready to resist them. They are a parcel of the cramphs who are eating up your homeland.”

Well, that changed the demeanor of the returning mercenaries wonderfully.

A staff-slinger stepped forward. “Lahal, majister. I am Larghos the Sko-handed.” He spread his left hand. “My men will loose, seeing all the bowstrings will be wet.”

Larghos had a long, narrow chin, and a slinger’s shoulders. A squatter, fiery-faced man stepped forward, spluttering.

“Lahal, majister! I am Drill the Eye.” He waved an oilskin pouch. “Give me a few murs to string our bows and we will see!”

I did not laugh. But the vivid image of Barkindrar the Bullet and Nath the Shaft flashed up before me. By Krun! But they do love a fine professional argument, these slingers and these bowmen of Kregen!

I eyed the surf. It was not too dangerous; but it would knock a fellow over unless he was well-braced and not too far out.

“Stand back, you missile men, and give the swordsmen a chance. Loose over them.” Again I eyed the narrowing distance between us and the shore. “If she grounds close enough, best you remain aboard for as long as you can and shoot from here.”

“Aye, majister!” they shouted. “Until she falls to pieces!”

That was the moment the keel of the argenter touched bottom. We held our breaths. Some of that luxurious stern ornamentation, all gingerbread work, fell off with a roar and a splash. She lifted up with the surge of the waves and shuddered on. Thrice more she touched and thrice more she lifted and rolled nearer the shore.

The breeze blew our hair forward and chilled our skins. The smell of brine and mud grew more pungent.

Turko had found a shield — I saw him talking to a swarthy fellow who nodded and handed his shield over without a fuss. I marked him. The shield was the rectangular cylindrical shield of Havilfar. Efficient.

When a vessel marked for destruction touches the shore always, I think, a man must mourn for another hostage lost to the implacable elements.
Mancha of Tlinganden
struck at last, and her keel scraped through slimy mud, and the black stuff swirled up in the water alongside. She shuddered on for a few more paces, and then stuck, slewing slightly, canting over, coming to her final rest with a kind of peace we had bought for her. She did not fly into flinders, as I had feared. But her doom was certain. We plunged down into the sea and struck out for the shore.

Andrinos swam with me and Turko was there also, the shield almost like a surfboard.

The surf crashed about us and men yelled and were knocked flying, and surfaced, spluttering and going doggedly on. With an increase of pace I managed to get ahead. I did not wear the mesh-link iron harness. I held the thraxter, and the sword glimmered wet with running water. Jumping the retreating waves, I crashed on up that muddy beach, feeling the gluey muck clinging and trying to haul me back.

Like a mud-devil I reached forward with the water around my waist, and the muck did not wash off.

The riders on the beach turned their mounts to face us.

They rode down, the six legs of the totrixes splaying out, their heads high against the commotion of wind and water. The spear points twitched down. They cantered on, full of confidence that they would spear us poor half-drowned rats before we could stagger clear of the waterline.

Two of them came for me. I braced myself with the tug of the sea about me. The first abruptly switched from his saddle as though jerked by puppet cords. A long arrow sprouted from his neck. The second had no time to puzzle over his comrade’s fate. I leaped for him, brushed the spear aside, sank the thraxter in.

After that as the paktuns roared up out of the sea, naked, shining with mud and water, half-crazed, yelling, we tore into the totrixmen. Leaden bullets flew. Shafts pierced. Swords glinted and ran red. We had the beating of them in the first half-dozen murs. We fought as men fight coming up out of their graves.

Only a dozen or so survived to gallop off wildly.

Panting, the Vallians gathered, and stared balefully after the fleeing riders.

“Hai, Jikai! Emperor!” someone shouted.

I quieted the hubbub.

“I think we are on the island of Wenhartdrin. It is a rich land, and the best wines of Vallia, some say, come from here.But the whole land here is in the grip of our enemies. We are Vallians!”

“Aye!”

“Let us then see what honest Vallians may do, by Vox, and in the radiance of the Invisible Twins made manifest through the light of Opaz, let us go forward!”

And, by Vox, forward we went!

The captain and first lieutenant of the argenter had been killed in an accident, and this in part accounted for her doomed course of destruction toward the rocks. Most of the crew were Hobolings who are among the finest of topmen. These and the other deckhands had no part of our fight. I did not inquire how the arrangements for the passage had been made. We agreed to leave these folk on the island and see to it that they were repatriated.

Ashore, we busied ourselves scrubbing off the mud. The ship broke apart slowly. I marked the spot. On a more auspicious occasion I’d return here and see if I could salvage those silver boxes from the sunken voller.

Boxes and bales and barrels floated ashore, mingled with the sad detritus of a destroyed ship. There were many fat bales of a good quality cloth, all of that bright, strong, yellow color called tromp. There was food, also, that was not contaminated by sea water and we soon had fires going and tea brewing and food sizzling. To clothe our nakedness we cut up squares of the tromp cloth and made holes and so put them over our heads. We cinched our belts tight, and we looked a fine rousing rabble under the suns.

Some few remnants of the paktuns’ original clothes drifted ashore, and a few pairs of boots. But, in general, we were a band of yellow brigands to all intents as we set off.

The old emperor, Delia’s father, had always liked the wines from Wenhartdrin. We marched on and soon passed signs of viticulture, most of it blackened and ruined. Houses had burned. We saw no one for some time until, reaching a tumbledown village, we found a few poor people who told us the news. This was simple. Strom Rosil Yasi, being a damned Kataki and therefore by nature a slavemaster, was more interested in human merchandise. These folk were left free and alive because they were too ill, too weak, or could till just enough land to provide food for the conquering invaders. Well, by Zair, we sorted out that local problem.

The band of yellow-clad comrades fought like men possessed. As we progressed into the island and saw the evidences of what being occupied meant, they grew hard and fierce even above all their mercenary habits. We found the aragorn, slavers who occupy an area and from a strong point terrorize and suck dry everything of value, and we slew them in battle and drove them into the sea. Wenhartdrin is not above fifteen dwaburs long and ten wide, shaped rather like two triangles apex to apex. We discovered that Strom Rosil Yasi, known as the Kataki Strom, had left but two squadrons of cavalry and a half regiment of infantry to hold the island. These men were all mercenaries of various races.

Military organization varies from country to country on Kregen, that stands to reason; but hereabouts the regiment of infantry very often consisted of six pastangs of eighty or so men each, giving four eighty men to a regiment. So there were around two hundred to two hundred and forty mercenaries swanning about Wenhartdrin that we had to deal with. Cavalry regiments varied more widely in numbers and composition and we had seen off one squadron on the beach and the second squadron, some hundred or so, we caught in a pretty little ambush along a defile crowded with tufa trees. By this time a portion of our force was mounted; but what with sickness and casualties, we now numbered not much more than a hundred and seventy-five or so.

We had shaken out into a loose organization, all wearing those tromp-colored uniforms which, gradually and against all expectations, smartened up and grew into proper uniforms. Larghos the Sko-handed commanded a group of expert staff-slingers. Drill the Eye commanded his bowmen — they used the compound reflex bow, not the great Lohvian longbow. The bulk of the force consisted of swordsmen, many of them sword and shield men, churgurs, and these were handled by Clardo the Clis. Although these people had gathered together relatively recently to return to Vallia, many of them had served as groups in one war or another, and in general their names and reputations were known among themselves.

On the evening when we knew on the morrow we would have to go up against that half regiment, I stood talking quietly to Torn Tomor. The campfires burned and the viands sizzled and the wine passed around companionably. We talked of his parents, Tom Tomor ti Vulheim, the Elten of Avanar and his wife, Bibi, who were comrades of the Strom of Valka and Elders of the high assembly of Valka.

“And you will wear the orange of the high assembly in due course, Torn,” I said. “Be very sure of that.”

“Before that, majister, I will serve in the Strom’s Sacred Life Guard.”

He saw my instinctive frown, a twist of irritation to my lips I could not halt. I have mentioned before my equivocal feelings regarding these bodyguards. When we had been clearing out the island of Valka, before I was fetched to be the strom — which is grandly recorded in the famous song “The Fetching of Drak na Valka” — they had put together a devoted band of blade comrades to stand watch and ward over my person, in battle and camp and wherever the blade of an assassin might strike. They had served nobly, even though I had still managed to find a few adventures on my own account, as you have heard.

As I struggled to find the right words, a man passed us. He was, as I thought, talking to himself. Torn Tomor glanced across. The fellow’s head was turned to his left shoulder and his right hand gestured vehemently as though he spoke to someone who walked at his side. He was a swordsman, with thick brown mustachios and that swagger of your true hyrpaktun.

“Oh,” said Torn, “that’s old Frandor the Altrak.”

“He looks—” I began cautiously.

“Don’t bother your head about old Frandor. He lost his twin brother in a battle seasons ago and still fancies he is with him. He talks to him all the time. Watch him at meals. He takes a phantom plate and fills it with phantom food and offers it to his brother — who lies moldering somewhere in Loh, and his ib is wandering the Ice Floes of Sicce seeking the sunny uplands beyond.”

“He is not makib,” I said. I guessed Frandor was not insane. He just had one of those little funny habits fighting men are prone to.

Many of the most renowned of fighting men had peculiarities that would, on this Earth, have landed them in lunatic asylums. Nath the Flimcop, when his name was shouted out at roll call, would answer with a roar: “Gone fishing!” No punishments could break him of the habit; and now that he was a paktun he could get away with that very mild example of irrational behavior. Some of the near nut cases among seasoned fighting men would shrivel your hair. Naghan the Thumb collected the right thumbs of those he defeated and he wore a belt of the shriveled things around his waist. He had swum ashore with the thumb belt. It had grown considerably since, and he was debating how best to loop it up into a double thickness.