Scorpio Invasion (19 page)

Instantly, she had struck fire and was hurling down the firepots.

Swinging the voller back in a tight
renversement
, the second volley already ready, we crossed the Shank again. He nosedived for the ground.

Black smoke poured aft and flames blew back from his afterparts.

We could see the Fish Heads jumping off the hull like black ants. They were making efforts to douse the blaze. Fan-Si tickled them up again with expertly flung pots. A sickly stink of charring fish floated up.

Moglin, beside his fifi, drew back his bow.

I said: “You will waste arrows at this distance, Moggers. We must contain them until the army arrive.”

It was perfectly clear our scouts would see the smoke and would bring on the vanguard.

When eventually our small force of outriders came galloping over the crest, the short sharp combat ensued.

The great Lohvian longbows spat their deadly shafts. Shanks fell, just as the song said. They fought back, and we lost those twenty-five good men and women.

When it was all over and the Shank flying ship had burned herself out, we discovered a single miserable apim cowering in a bush perilously close to the blackened hulk. His face was black, too, and he coughed up the smoke, his eyes streaming. Still, that proximity had saved him.

“Doms, doms!” he cried, retching, shaking. “I did not dare believe!”

We gave him water to drink and slowly he recovered his wits. He wore only a tattered scrap of dirty cloth around his loins, and his lean body was whipmarked. He said he was Winkal, known as the Horknik, and he gave us thanks and praise to the True Trog Himself for his miraculous rescue.

He explained his presence aboard the enemy flier. “They sometimes take slaves to minister to their wants. They do not much care for the land.”

This accorded with what we knew of the Shanks, a sea-faring race.

His task, he said, aboard the Shank was to ply his trade. He was a fletcher.

Moglin snorted: “Aye! The damned evil shints! They know by now the power of Bowmen of Loh!”

Winkal nodded wearily. “They recognize good fletching when they see it, may Matazar the Bow rot ’em.”

By this I gathered he had tried to build inferior shafts and been striped for his duplicity.

We found a secure campsite for the night and burned fires for the shortest time necessary to cook our suppers. Sentries prowled. Winkal, with a Kregan-sized meal in him for the first time in many a moon, told us of conditions in Taranjin. The tale was horrific; but not more so than we had come to expect of the devilish Fish-headed Shanks.

“They can’t tell us apart,” he said around a mouthful of palines. “They just keep everyone locked up in compounds. Except us tradesfolk, of course.Them poor glahbers.”
[9]

He spoke remarkably coherently after the horrors through which he had passed. He shook his head, still sickened by the sights he had witnessed. Yet he felt more sorrow for the people used as general slaves. Herded in like cattle, half-starved, beaten, they were dragged out when required. The Shanks were not stupid, in these matters as in others. Recognizing the superiority of the Lohvian longbow they employed bowyers and fletchers and treated them fractionally better than the common slaves. Other trades were employed – stylors, blacksmiths, hostlers. They cooked their own food.

Moglin said in his hissing catman’s voice: “If they think to make Bowmen of Loh of themselves they are onkers!” He laughed, a sizzling sound of mockery. “We all know how long it takes to make a longbowman.”

Whilst what he said was true enough, this was just another headache to be added to the list of migraines inflicting Paz.

I said: “Larghos — a song, an’ you will.”

“Right readily, prince, right readily.”

He, like us all, had no love of dwelling overlong on the miseries and horrors of life now the Shanks had arrived.

He sang of the love of Ornol the Wayfarer and Vilia the Fair, and of how the village farrier’s jealousy overcame him, so that this Dien-sing the Droopeyed struck Ornol the Wayfarer, struck him down in cold blood. And of how Vilia took up her father’s sword, and marched the length of the village street, head up, proud, carrying the sword which was called Dalendin. Of how the villagers all peered under their hands at this beautiful girl striding down the village street with the naked brand in both hands. How she struck Dien-sing the Droopeyed so that he fell back, wounded, crying out for mercy, and of how Vilia the Fair despaired of vengeance, and kicked him away. And of how Vilia the Fair bravely put the brand to her own throat, kneeling over the body of Ornol the Wayfarer, and so sliced the soft flesh and of how the first drop of blood fell upon her love and his eyes opened and he sat up and clasped her in his arms, putting away the great sword Dalendin and her wound healed and so they remained fast locked while Dien-Sing the Droopeyed crawled away, sobbing.

When the great song finished everyone sat silently, wrapped in private thoughts. Yes, I thought to myself, yes, Vilia is a heroine of Kregen.

After that we sang a few of the more raucous ditties of Paz and managed to convince ourselves we were a rousing band of right tearaways.

Still, I thought of the Song of Ornol and Vilia, and then forced away unpleasant thoughts and joined in the chorus of “No idea at all, no idea at all!”

Then Rafe the Ponshim recited the tale of Arngalf Galfarn, a warrior mighty among men, obsessed with love of women, who was tested by his god, Schnurrdun the All-seeing. If Arngalf Galfarn would renounce the love of women for a whole year and a day, and devote everything to the worship of his god, Schnurrdun the All-seeing would reward him in a way that would astonish the world of Kregen for ever. So Arngalf Galfarn accepted the contract. His rewards in this life would be great; but the greatest gift by far that Schnurrdun the All-seeing would lavish on him was this — that after his death his body would be carried up into the heavens, and his bones and blood and flesh would receive the blessed breath of the All-seeing and become stars. In the sky, blazing for ever, would be the constellation of Arngalf Galfarn the Faithful. At this point in his tale Rafe the Ponshim paused to moisten his mouth. We all recognized the story-teller’s touch of suspense.

He resumed his tale on the last day of Arngalf Galfarn’s trial. On that day baleful fate decreed that the most beautiful girl ever seen in the kingdom should meet Arngalf Galfarn’s eye and the two should immediately fall passionately in love, shafted by the same lightning bolt, as they say on Kregen. On the next day Schnurrdun the All-seeing summoned Arngalf Galfarn more in sorrow than in anger.

“You have failed to demonstrate that you love me more than women.”

“I love you more than women, Schnurrdun the All-seeing. It was just one part of my body that betrayed me. This I swear on the grave of Nath the Graintjid whom I slew after three days of combat.”

“Then instead of your entire body being a constellation, I, Schnurrdun the All-seeing, shall cast that betraying part of you up to be a single shining star.”

Arngalf Galfarn smiled, for he saw generations yet unborn would point to that star and recall his name, and speak of him with awe. Here Rafe the Ponshim once more sipped to moisten his mouth. Everyone sat around, absorbed in this tale, as old as Kregen itself, so it was said.

“You smile, Arngalf Galfarn. Yes, your name will be remembered. The star will shine. I am merciful; but you failed me. I shall cast up the betraying part of your body to shine forever.” The brows of the god drew together in a bar of justice. “I shall cast it up now.”

The tales relate Arngalf Galfarn lived to be a very very old man.

We all looked up to see Galfarn’s star shining away up there. There is a certain piquancy about this tale rather lacking, one feels, in a frozen big toe being cast up to become the Morning Star.

After a few final songs, the cups were drained, and we turned in. I found myself pondering on the song of Ornol and Vilia, very often called the Song of Dalendin. Yes, it did demonstrate the evils and the virtues of frail humanity. Quite clearly, it came from a different poetic tradition from the ancient tale of Arngalf Galfarn. Then, with my accustomed last thought, I went to sleep.

The very next day I told them.

Their dismay would have melted a heart of stone; it failed to move me. After their wailing protestations died away I stared at them, broodingly, and, I fancy, with a considerable quantity of sheer dominant arrogance. “You will fight on bravely. I am no longer needed. If you follow my precepts, seek always to hit and run, and only hit when you may afterwards run, maintain your food supplies, remain in good heart, nothing can defeat you. In the dawning of the Day I shall call you.” My face bore down hard on them. “In that great Day of Calling you will be ready.”

“Aye,” they shouted. “Aye, Prince Chaadur, our Chief. We will!”

There was more fustian, more reassuring than bombastic, and then I said: “It is laid upon me to go into Taranjin itself—”

The uproar burst into a storm of protest. They shrieked and danced about abandoned to anticipatory fears. I saw an old lady, leaning on her spear, and the tears running thickly down her cheeks. Others were caterwauling away. They knew that to venture into the city where the Shanks ruled was to go to death.

I bellowed over their outcry. “I shall live!” Mind you, I wasn’t at all sure about that, by Krun! “There are things I must know about the Fish Faces. It is a doom laid on me that I cannot evade.”

In the end they saw they could not sway me from my avowed purpose.

So, feeling suddenly light-headed, aloof, almost that dire feeling one has marching into the Arena, I observed the fantamyrrh, stepped aboard the voller and took off.

“Remberee!” I called down as the wind rush tore past.

“Remberee!” they shrieked up. “Remberee, Prince Chaadur na Dorfu, Chaadur the Striker, Kurinfaril, our Chief, remberee!”

The voller swept up into the mingled radiance of the declining suns and as the jade and ruby shadows streamed over the coaming a lambent blue fire grew about me and I stared up into the gigantic bloated shape of the phantom Scorpion of the Star Lords.

There was just time for me to bellow up: “You nurdling great onker! Don’t drop me this time, you fumble-tentacled apology for a Scorpion!” before I went hurtling headlong into a purple-tinged mist of blue infinity.

Twice, three times, I rolled head over heels along wooden planking. Gasping, I sat up to see I was in a narrow, double-ended craft bobbing upon a blue sea under a shining silver sky.

All around stretched sparkling water. A faint zephyr blew across the deck. The boat was upflung, curved of line, with benches for a single bank of oarsmen along each side. She was similar to those swift piratical dwaprijjers that pester the trade among the Ivilian Keys. The scent of the sea mingled with her own smells of wood and tar, and the breeze bore in the fresh tang of ozone and seaweed.

I stood up. She was some seventy feet long, and narrow with it, and I looked about for a fellow mariner and saw none. I was alone aboard her.

A voice, harsh, clanging, resonant, said: “So you have finally come to answer for your misdeeds, Dray Prescot.”

I whirled about. I saw no one.

“Your get onker of a Scorpion dropped me!” I felt maltreated. “The great fumble-tentacled idiot!”

“Yet you disobeyed our express commands.”

I compressed my lips. I was without clothes or weapons. I took a breath and in a more reasonable tone, said: “I interpreted your commands to prevent tragedy and to bring success. Kirsty is queen in Tsungfaril.”

“It is not for you to interpret. It is for you to obey.”

“I did what you wanted, you — you.” I puffed out my cheeks, drew another ragged breath, and then burst out: “You wanted to murder young Leone in a most disgusting fashion! You are just a bunch of ancient murderers!”

A silence ensued.

Then: “We are well able to see your point of view. We understand. But does that alter your misdeeds?”

If that was what the Everoinye intended to harp on all the time, there seemed little chance for me. A most curious sensation grew in my inward parts, a feeling of nausea, of regret and farewell, and the overpoweringly savage desire to see Delia again, and clasp her in my arms for the last time, overwhelmed me.

Yet, I remained standing, head up, staring up into that blank and indifferent silver sky.

The boat rocked, the breeze blew, the scents twined about my nostrils. In all that vast expanse only this little boat contained a speck of life. And that poor benighted life was like to be snuffed out in the next heartbeat.

When the silence became unbearable, I opened my mouth to yell, and in that self-same instant the rasping voice spoke again.

“In our infinite wisdom and mercy, Dray Prescot, prince of onkers, we have decided to pardon you. Your crimes will be forgotten. There is work to your hands.”

“I know that. I have to go to Taranjin and try to chuck those rotten Shanks out of Tarankar.”

“No, Dray Prescot. We cannot permit you to throw your life away.”

Whilst I was not quite dumbfounded by this remarkable statement, I admit it startled me. Once or twice the Star Lords had actively intervened to prevent me from being killed. Very few times, though, by Vox! Usually, they did not appear to care if I lived or died.

Speaking as clearly as I could, I outlined the plan. “I must get the slaves to unite. When they rise, the Freedom Fighters will move in from the surrounding country and matters will be arranged so that the armadas from Vallia and Hamal arrive at the same time. Together, we should beat the Fish Heads.”

The voice showed a casual contempt that bit like acid.

“You call that a plan?”

“All right, you supercilious bunch of — of—” I hauled up, and managed to finish unpleasantly: “What is your wonderful plan then?”

“We have placed Kirsty as queen in Tsungfaril. Our work here is done. There is a task for you in Boromir of the Ashes.”

I just didn’t believe this. “What of Mevancy? What of Caspar the Peaker?”