“You have failed me!” the thing’s voice whispered now, weird and out of Kregen and altogether blasphemous. “I shall leave you to your fate. Oidrictzhn returns to the Abominations from which it came.”
The shadows rushed together as bats swoop about a church steeple. A noxious odor made me retch. The shadows paled and wafted and there were left only the shadows flung from the torches and streaming behind the moons’ radiance.
An arrow flicked past my ear.
I hoisted the girl. I was myself again.
I ran. That was a fair old run, a scamper across the sand and sward between the ruins until I had reached the tumbled columns and so run on, safely now, into the bushes.
Only one man stood there to welcome me.
I said, “I salute you, Rukker. And the others?”
His booming laugh rang somewhat hollow. “They scuttled.”
“Then let us go down to our ships and push off. This is an evil place.”
News of the Red and the Green
The mingled streaming radiance of the Suns of Scorpio filled the Eye of the World with light and color. Our little squadron bore on over a sparkling sea, with the wind in our canvas and the spray lifting whitely from our forefeet. Often I have spoken of that glorious opaz radiance of the twin suns of Antares, but seldom have I so luxuriated in the brilliance of the Suns of Scorpio as on the morning following that ghastly nighted encounter with Oidrictzhn of the Abominations.
That part of the southern shore of the inner sea is called the Shadow Coast. The name is apt. Of all the men who had climbed so boldly up to the ruins all but one had fled away. Now I stood on my quarterdeck and watched
Vengeance Mortil
as Rukker urged her along. The new timber for the mast had been pitched aboard and no one had questioned our sailing before the new mast was stepped.
The plan was for us to beach up well away from the Shadow Coast and then step Rukker’s new mast. But the Kataki lord had other ideas. Fazhan commented acidly, and Duhrra let fall a few astonished Duhs. Vax looked on Rukker’s swifter with compressed lips. For
Vengeance Mortil
and the argenter Rukker claimed as his prize and manned with his own men curved away to larboard. Our course to the east carried us on with the wind. Rukker bore away to the northeast.
“Does he mean to leave us, then?” said Fazhan, peering under his hand.
“It seems so.”
Vax laughed nastily.
Duhrra said: “Duh — when he finds out!”
My men had done a good job, so Fazhan said. With old Tamil the Palinter there to weigh and assess, we had deducted our shares of the treasure. Rocks had been placed at the bottom of the chests, with canvas over that and the fair proportion of treasure belonging to Rukker spread artfully to conceal all. Rukker, believing he carried all the treasure, bore away from us. I wondered if he questioned why we did not follow.
One of the hands began laughing. He was a prijiker and stood on the forecastle now in his accustomed place, leaning against the overhanging bulk of the beakhead. Others of the men began to laugh.
“Nath the Berkumsay!” I bellowed. “Belay that caterwauling.”
He looked back and I saw the puzzlement chasing the laughter in his face. I turned to Portain, the ship-Deldar, and said with some irritation, “Go forward and tell Nath the Berkumsay to shut his black-fanged winespout. If he wishes to bring Rukker back tell him to swim after
Vengeance Mortil
and tell the Kataki personally.”
“Quidang!”
[4]
bellowed the ship-Deldar. He bustled forward and very shortly thereafter no one laughed at Rukker as he sailed away with his fair treasure shares, and the rest merely rocks.
“When he finds out,” said Fazhan, with some glee, “I am wondering if he will summon the calmness to say that he will not speak of this in the future. Ho — it is indeed a great jest.”
These men had not been up in the ruins of the Sunset People, they had not witnessed the Beast from Time; I felt glad they had been spared that. But, all the same, I wondered if they’d be quite so merry and carefree this morning had they seen what I had seen.
Rukker’s two ships disappeared over the horizon rim and we settled down to the haul to Zandikar.
Toward evening as we began to look out particularly for our expected landfall for the night, a tiny island called the Island of Pliks, the lookout sighted a sail and hallooed down.
We flew red flags.
The vessel, a small coaster, bore a red flag, also.
We made the Island of Pliks together and after all had been seen to in our camp a party from the coaster came across. They were either incautious, brave, or they did not care. Red flags may be flown by anyone in the inner sea.
After we had drunk tea and sat in the light of the moons eating palines, the coaster captain heaved up a sigh and said, “If you sail to Zandikar, dom, you sail to destruction.”
“What?” Vax’s lean hard face looked exceedingly dangerous in the ruddy fire-glow. “Spit it out!”
The coaster master, a weather-beaten old salt with a massy beard and a face graven by wind and wine, cocked an eye at this highly strung stripling with the wide shoulders and lean powerful look of the fighting-man.
“Be careful they do not spit you out, son, if you venture there.”
Duhrra put his steel hand on Vax’s arm. The touch seemed to calm the lad. Maybe it was Duhrra’s hand, maybe Vax was learning tact and discretion; whatever it was, he said, “I would like to know what passes in Zandikar. There is a girl—”
“Ah,” said the master, who called himself Ornol the Waves. “A girl, is it? Well, King Zenno is partial to young girls.”
“King Zenno? Who is he? King Zinna reigns in Zandikar.”
I listened, as we all listened. This was news.
“King Zinna is dead, slain by the very hand of King Zenno. Since the siege the city is—”
“Siege? Zandikar is under siege?”
The coaster master, Ornol the Waves, flicked a finger of palines into his mouth, and grunted as he chewed, speaking offhandedly. “You are strangely ill-informed, doms.”
“We have been faring in the western sea, taking Grodnim devils. Tell us of the siege and of King Zenno.”
“As to the siege, there is little to say. That rast, Prince Glycas, sits down before Zandikar and throttles the city.”
There rose sounds of disgust and of anger from the ranks of my men, who were red Zairians. This news was bad, very bad.
“And King Zenno, who was a reiver called Starkey the Wersting, slew the old king and with his paktuns took the city and dubbed himself Zenno — out of mockery or politics, it is all one.”
Pur Naghan ti Perzefn started up at this. He looked incensed.
“The rast dares to arrogate the ‘Z’ to himself? No man may take the letter unless he is born with it already, or unless he creates a hyr Jikai. No one!”
Men were calling out, demanding to know more; others were blaspheming away about Prince Glycas and the Grodnims; others cussing away about the paktuns. I did not smile; but I felt the nudge of amusement that Pur Naghan, a Krozair of Zamu, should feel more concern over a man taking to his name the letter “Z,” which as an initial letter is hard come by, hard won, given seldom without a hyr Jikai.
An idle thought occurred to me that the Krozair Bold who had ousted my friend Pur Zenkiren for the position of Grand Archbold, this Pur Kazz, did not proudly own the initial “Z,” that he was Pur Kazz and not Pur Zakazz. Well, he had done what he had out of a fanatical belief in his power and authority and in the Krozair-given right to judge. He had judged wrongly, and because of that I was expelled from the Krozairs of Zy, was Apushniad. I had not thought of this matter for some time, and now I rose and shook the black thoughts from me, and went walking quietly in the fuzzy pink moons-light, pondering.
If Zandikar was besieged, would our plans have to change?
There was further information I must have. At the fires Ornol the Waves expatiated on the plight of Zandikar, the city of the Ten Dikars. Prince Glycas had the city in a death-lock. His Grodnim army defeated all who sought to stand against it. It was only a matter of time before he took the city. The Grodnims, led by the overlords of Magdag but drawn from many cities and towns of the northern lands, had leap-frogged once more. They had avoided certain fortress-cities of the southern coast and had landed before Zandikar. They had, in particular, avoided a head-on confrontation with Zy. I could visualize the position with a clarity made all the more awful by the directness of the threat. In this the hand of the genius king Genod was clearly apparent.
Pur Naghan had the gist of it, also.
“I am a Krozair of Zamu!” Here was no time for a strange and mystic reticence, a blanket of aloofness that is usual with Krozairs in non-Krozair company. Here was a time for strong leadership. “Zamu lies a mere twenty-five dwaburs from Zandikar, by the land route. By sea there are many islands and the coast curves strongly in the Nose of Zogo and the way is difficult for an attacker. We must sail to Zamu and join the army that will march to the relief of Zandikar.”
Ornol the Waves had finished his palines and was drinking our wine. He swallowed, the wine wet on his lips above the beard, and he said, “I told you. Prince Glycas and his army are invincible. The relief expedition from Zamu is destroyed.”
Pur Naghan sagged back, stunned.
The hubbub increased. All now understood the peril.
“The rasts can march from Zandikar and take Zamu. The cities will fall, one after the other. And from Zamu they can march across the base of the peninsula of Fenzerdrin, across the River of Golden Smiles.”
“Aye!” shouted others. “And before them lies Holy Sanurkazz itself!”
Holy Sanurkazz!
The sea journey is laborious, and in the name of Zair rightfully so, for in this lies devious protection to Sanurkazz, the chief city and holy place of Zairia. But Prince Glycas and the Grodnims would be marching with their invincible army, securing their rear with Zandikar and Zamu, marching across the base of Fenzerdrin, to attack Holy Sanurkazz from the land.
It was a plan that would work, given the deadly tool with which King Genod would put it into operation.
And — a few dwaburs east of Sanurkazz lay Felteraz, beautiful Felteraz, the home of Mayfwy, the widow of my oar-comrade Zorg. I had done much, I would do much more, to protect Mayfwy.
I stood up and glared upon that ruffianly assembly, all gesticulating and arguing and thumping balled fist into hand, and gradually they looked up at me and fell silent.
“We sail for Zandikar. It is there we can smash the kleeshes of Grodnims. We sail with the dawn.”
I walked away. I did not wish anyone to argue, for I would have had to cut him down.
Later I sought out Pur Naghan.
“Yes, Dak, I agree with the plan. I would dearly love to go to Zamu for— But you are right. We must stop them at Zandikar.”
“Yes, Pur Naghan.”
“You are a hard man. Yet the men follow you. Sometimes I find that strange. I am proud but I am also realistic. I know a man — it is to me the men should look, as an avowed Krozair; but I follow you as willingly as they. It is passing strange.”
“If you wish to lead, Pur Naghan, I would not challenge you.”
He favored me with a strange, lopsided look.
“I believe you. I do not understand; but I believe. No, Dak, I am content as we are. You are a leader. You have the yrium. As for me—” He moved his right hand in a vague gesture, quite at variance with the man I knew he was. “I am Pur Naghan. I have not yet become Nazhan. I sometimes wonder if I ever will, and the thought of being Pur Zanazhan eludes me.”
“Naghan is an ancient and honored name on Kregen.” I thought to snap his spine erect. “And in Zandikar, by Zair, you should find deeds worthy to place the ‘Z’ in your name.”
“Aye, Dak,” he said, his hand clenching. “Aye!”
It should be remarked here that the Zairians in their use of that truly honorable name of Naghan softened the hated “G” into a “J.”
The coaster skipper, Ornol the Waves, had not put into Zandikar. He had picked up trade among the islands as was the custom and was making for Zimuzz. That great fortress-city, home of the Krozairs of Zimuzz, had been bypassed by Prince Glycas. Before we sailed on the next morning one of his men was brought to me by Duhrra. This man bore the short straight bow of the inner sea; but I noted it was somewhat longer than the average, and stouter. He appeared limber and with the bowman’s strength of shoulder, and his nut-brown face creased up around his eyes. This was Dolan the Bow, and I knew a man did not achieve that soubriquet unless he had earned it.
“This man, Dolan the Bow, wishes to go with us,” said Duhrra.
There was no need for hesitation. I guessed he was a Zandikarese from the bow. “You are very welcome, Dolan.”
He smiled. He did not say much. But Seg would have got on with him, I knew that, and it cheered me.
As we pulled steadily past the last headland of the Island of Pliks we saw considerable activity in the coaster’s camp.
Dolan the Bow smiled again, his face crinkling up like a crickle nut, brown and rosy and filled with goodness. “Ornol will be disappointed,” he said. Then, “I will show you the safe channels into Zandikar. The Grodnims have wrecked many swifters there, Zair be praised.”
We bore on along our easterly and four days later we pulled in for our last landfall. Dolan had suggested we should make a long hard night’s pulling of it for the final leg, bypassing the usual stopover. I agreed. Swifters’ speeds vary and we had the argenters, subject to the fickle vagaries of the winds if we did not tow them, and the journey was long and tiring. The two men we had chosen to skipper the argenters had by now sufficient experience of them to be able to handle them with reasonable confidence. They were bluff sea dogs of the Eye of the World, and they did not mince their words when they accosted me on the quarterdeck of
Crimson Magodont.
The gist of their argument was that they would be perfectly happy to drive in, in a swifter; but they doubted the capacity of the argenters. I told them they would be towed for the last dangerous part; but they remained somewhat reluctant.