Storm over Vallia (20 page)
“You will use the rest of the brigade, Leone?”
A regiment of zorcabows and a regiment of zorca lancers had been placed at Leone’s disposal. But they were male regiments. She sniffed.
“Only if we have to—”
“I think it would be wise.”
“Yes, majestrix.”
They were near enough to Rashumsmot, in all conscience. The paktuns were pillaging their way to the next port of call where they’d no doubt burn and slay and loot before seizing the ships there. That Queen Lushfymi, who had chosen to ride out with her bodyguard regiment, chanced to be the one to stumble on this band of paktuns, meant in her eyes that she had been chosen by Pandrite to effect their destruction. There was no hope of taking them into her employ — not now, not with Drak and his views hovering. If only... Well, that was all gone, smoke blown with the wind...
As the brigade moved forward with scouts out ahead she reflected despondently and with a panic threatening to erupt, a panic she kept firmly battened down, that she just had to get Drak to speak soon. She was not growing any younger. Oh, yes, her arts kept her beauty intact and she’d not age for many and many a season yet. But she felt the passing of time, felt it cruelly.
Her spies reported that the common folk adored her. Most of them would welcome a marriage that would join the powerful Empire of Vallia with a wealthy country of Pandahem. Old enmities could be forgotten. The future looked bright.
And she, Lushfymi, would be Empress of Vallia!
She would have to have at least one child. Well, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
She’d pay that price and as soon as the brat was born, or the twins — for they were regarded as bringing good luck on Kregen — he or she could be taken off by the wet-nurses and she need never see it again except at formal functions. She wasn’t prepared to risk losing her figure, no, by Pandrite!
Of course, she would love her child. She did not get on with children; but her own would surely be different. Just look at the deplorable family life of the emperor!
She’d make sure Drak toed the line, that was for certain.
The scouts had spotted the mercenaries now and Leone’s trumpeters pealed out orders. The brigade shook out. They were by a fraction just under a thousand strong, for they’d taken losses in the campaign and the crossing to Rahartdrin had not been easy. The paktuns, Leone estimated, numbered four or five hundred.
“Smash them,” said the queen. “No prisoners.”
Leone began to give orders concerning the girls to stick by the queen as the charge went in, when Lushfymi interrupted. She spoke tartly.
“No, Leone! I shall ride with you and the regiment this day.”
“But — majestrix!”
“Don’t argue, Leone. The paktuns do not stand a chance against us. There is no danger.”
Privately, Leone told a couple of hefty Deldars to stay one each side of the queen and not to leave her, no matter what.
“And drag her zorca off out of it if it turns nasty.”
“Quidang!”
Leone Starhammer knew what she was about. The paktuns had only about a hundred mounted with them, and she guessed the queen dismissed the footsoldiers as a mere trifle. People got killed making foolish mistakes like that. Leone organized the attack properly, and did not take any more chances than any commander must take. The zorcabows moved forward, shooting, followed by the lancers. The bodyguard regiment, QLJV, struck in from the flank.
The result was not in doubt.
The smells were, as usual, offensive, the screams distressing. No one liked to see a zorca writhing with a dart through that supple flank. The paktuns fought for their lives, and then broke. As a wave surges up the shingle the brigade roared in and completed the rout.
A last despairing shot from a line of crossbowmen before they threw down their weapons and ran soared from the routing mass. One bolt struck Queen Lushfymi in the side. She did not fall from the saddle because the Deldars grabbed her.
Horrified, Leone shrieked for the puncture ladies.
Red blood oozed only a little, a very little, around the cruel iron barb embedded in Queen Lushfymi’s soft side.
* * * *
“Look, Milsi my dear,” said Delia, Empress of Vallia. “When you bring your knee up you must bring it up with force sufficient to drive a man’s insides up past his breastbone. Nothing else will do.”
“Yes, Delia,” said Milsi.
“And,” said Silda, “it is wise to kick him as he falls down.”
“I understand the rapier well enough,” said Milsi, Queen Mab of Croxdrin. “But this throwing people about and twisting their arms and legs, and hitting them so that—”
“So that they do not give you any further trouble.”
“Yes, Delia.”
A tremendous crash shook the rafters on the opposite side of the salle, and the three women turned to watch, smiling, as the pile of girls there sorted themselves out. They’d been indulging in a free-for-all, and the tangle of arms and legs looked like knitting after a chavnik had played with it. Here in Lancival, no courtesies and privileges of rank existed in the structure of the Sisters of the Rose, so that Milsi, as a novice initiate, could forget she was a queen.
“You’re coming along splendidly, stepmother,” said Silda, and her light laugh told Milsi that the understanding between them was ripening in its own good time into affection. Neither woman wished to rush this totally important relationship.
“I am glad to hear it, stepdaughter. This Hikvar is an art I may learn. But the Grakvar!” Milsi gave a slight shudder. “Slashing a thick black whip about! That is bad enough, Opaz knows. But when I consider the Jikvar — well, I am lost for words to explain my feelings. They—”
“Not all Sisters of the Rose go through Lancival, Milsi,” interrupted Delia. “Your feelings do you credit. If I do not sound too stupidly pompous, we in the SoR bear a heavy responsibility with the burden of the Jikvar upon our Order. There — am I babbling, Silda dear?”
“In no way, Delia. I did not have to snatch my claw from the knapsack, a makeshift jikvarpam, down in Rashumsmot. But—” here she turned to look hard at Milsi “—but had the necessity arisen, there would have been a number of evil folk without faces down there.”
“Evil doers were sent swimming in the Kazzchun River in Croxdrin,” said Milsi. “I suppose the swiftness and degree of justice may vary; the intention remains the same.”
A girl clad in white leathers entered the salle. She moved with a brisk grace, her color up, her head high. Rapier and main gauche swung at her side, the jikvarpam with its red stitching neatly nestling by her hip. Straight to Delia she marched, then halted and gave the slightest tilt of her head in respectful greeting.
“FarilSheon, Delia. News.”
“SheonFaril, Yzobel. Tell us.”
“Queen Lush has been sorely wounded. A crossbow bolt in the side. The puncture ladies give her a fifty-fifty chance. The Prince Majister is distraught—”
“By the hairy black warts and suppurating nose of my husband’s famous Makki Grodno!” Delia saw it all, saw it all in a flash, and was appalled and angry, venomously angry.
“I’ll go—” said Silda.
“Of course, my dear. Opaz alone knows what mischief will chance now.” But Delia knew that Silda, too, had grasped the implications and possible consequences of this disastrous news.
Milsi said, “Seg is up in Balkan now and wants me to join him. Silda, if you want me, I’ll come with you.”
Impulsively, Silda stretched out her hand.
“Please — Milsi—”
“That’s settled, then,” broke in Delia. “Yzobel — organize a fast flier, the swiftest voller we have.”
“Quidang!”
“I know that stubborn, upright, sober son of mine.” Delia started off for the changing rooms. “If we women cannot fashion a scheme of honor in this, then he’ll deserve to be lumbered with Queen Lush, by Vox, he will!”
With which tangled sentiment, Delia led them in their headlong flight down to Rahartdrin.
* * * *
Yolande the Gregarian looked in the pottery dish upon the side shelf so many times a day she lost count. The water in the dish, of an odd silvery metallic hue, just sat there, doing nothing, just plain damned water.
“You’re wasting your time,” Crafty Kando told her. He had accepted the needle, as they say on Kregen, and went on with his life in the old ruffianly way.
“What went — somewhere — Kando, can come back.”
“Not in this life, Yolande, no by Diproo the Nimble-fingered. The witch is dead. Her gems vanished with her. That is just plain water.”
“All the same, I’ll keep the water. You never know...”
“How I wish I’d pocketed some of the gold! That might have remained gold instead of sorcerously vanishing—”
“You can’t blame the lady Lyss the Lone. She did warn us—”
“Oh, aye! And we were used, Yolande, used. The only good thing to come out of this affair is the death of Ortyg the Kaktu and his cronies.”
“They’ll set the Ice Floes a-rocking.”
“Aye, by Beng Brorgal!”
When Lon the Knees came in, Yolande had put on a clean dress, fluffed up her hair, and wore a nice scent.
Lon flinched back as he entered. For a moment he thought a powcy had perfumed the room before he’d died and rotted instantly.
“Lahal, all,” he said, and made play with a vivid green and yellow kerchief.
“Lon!” beamed Yolande, almost squirming with pleasure, desire and female intentions. “Come in. Wine?”
He sat down and accepted the wine. Yolande was about to open the proceedings on her own account, when Kando said: “Is there any more news on the queen’s condition? You ought to hear all the gossip at the prince’s stables.”
“She still lives.” Lon sipped. “They say she is so stuck with acupuncture needles a hedgehog would look bald.”
Yolande stood up and went across to look in the pottery dish. The water remained water. On the way back she took the opportunity to pass by Lon’s chair and put a hand on his shoulder. Lon felt the hand of doom. He remained very still. The perfume overwhelmed him and he flapped his kerchief as though driving away a fly.
“Lon, my dear,” cooed Yolande. “Such a nice position you have now. Why, the Prince Majister of Vallia takes you on, gives you a smart livery, lets you take care of his zorcas! You need a fine strong woman to look out for you now you are doing so well.”
“One day, one day, I expect, Yolande...”
“You oughtn’t to leave it too long, you know. There are lots of conniving women who’d be only too anxious to take you on. Then they’d run you ragged, nag all day, fleece you of your cash — why, Lon, my dear, you need a proper woman to look after you.”
Crafty Kando, thoroughly enjoying all this, hid his face in his tankard. It was ale for him. Lon, as the potential next husband, drank the wine.
Making a manful attempt to change the subject, Lon said: “They’ve been plagued dreadful over in the main island. They’ve had frogs fall from the sky, a plague of insects, and I did hear the dead rose—”
“I’m sure I don’t wish to hear about that!” burst out Yolande. She smiled. “More wine, Lon my dear?”
Kando decided he’d better speak up now and leave poor old Lon to fight a rearguard action when he’d gone.
“Look, Lon. I’ve a little scheme on tomorrow night. I could do with a couple of fast zorcas to—”
“You’re not stealing my zorcas, Kando!”
“No, no, you fambly. Just borrowing.”
“Well, I dunno. The prince has a fellow up there, Nath the Strict, who’s his orderly. He has an eye like a gimlet.”
“Well, Lon,” said Kando, expansively. “He can be outwitted by an old leem-hunter like you!”
“Probably. I’ll think about it. But I’m not going to act like an onker and lose my position. The prince trusts me.”
“Of course! He likes you. He won’t mind if you borrow a couple of blood zorcas. And, Lon, I need ’em for the scheme to work. Speed, d’you see?”
“Oh, I see all right.”
“Good! Then that’s settled. Tomorrow night.”
He stood up, said his thank yous to Yolande the Gregarian, and started for the door. Hastily, Lon stood up.
“I’ll come with you, Kando. Work to do, you know.”
“Oh, Lon!” exclaimed Yolande. “Surely you will stay for another cup of wine? And there is something I want to show you—”
“Thank you, Yolande; but I must get on about the prince’s business. It’s all go.”
Almost killing himself laughing, Kando went out and Lon the Knees, a fixed smile on his face, his kerchief at the ready, fairly bolted after him. They called the remberees and fled into the night. Yolande sighed, pursed up her lips, and then — just in case — trotted over to have another look in the pottery dish.
Queen Lush gives an order
Thandor the Rock bashed his right fist numbingly against his breastplate — he adhered to the old ways, did Brumbytevax Thandor Veltan ti Therfuing in saluting as other trifles — and bellowed out: “Well, jis, I’ve looked at ’em. They were coming along, coming along. But we’d have chewed ’em up and trompled ’em down, aye, by a Brumbyte’s Elbow!”
“Come in, come in, Thandor, and sit yourself down and take a glass of wine.” Drak indicated the chair across from his own, and the table between loaded with rather good wines.
The two Kapts sitting on the elongated chair, after the fashion of a sofa, left as much space as possible between them. Kapt Logan Lakelmi was well aware that he was an extremely fortunate man to be sitting here being treated politely as the commanding general of an army instead of being in a ditch somewhere with his head parted from his shoulders, or swinging in an iron cage with the birds disposing of him piece by bloody piece.
The Prince Majister had merely said, “You obeyed the orders of your lord, Kapt Logan. If there was sorcery influencing you, we cannot say. You were a traitor to Vallia. But you may keep your life. I think you will serve the empire and the Emperor of Vallia faithfully from now on.”
Lakelmi had replied, “I believe, majister, that I, too, along with many other people, was ensorcelled. I regret what has passed. I shall hew to your person and pledge my loyalty to the emperor.”
Even so, Kapt Enwood nal Venticar, with scarlet memories of battles and death, would take a time to get over what had passed. He was, as he was at pains to repeat whenever possible, an old Freedom Fighter from Valka. Valka, in his and other people’s opinions, because of the struggles they had endured, bred the best soldiers, tacticians and strategists in all Vallia.
