“Your rights will be allowed you when you are judged. For I take you back to Zandikar. There you will be judged for murder.”
“Murder?” Gafard’s jaw muscles ridged. He stared at me. His eyes held a look no man should suffer — a look I had borne as I cradled my Velia in my arms and watched her die.
“Aye, Gafard — murder. This kleesh’s fluttrell was wounded by Grogor’s shot. The bird was falling. Velia was callously thrown off by this kleesh to save himself.”
“It is a lie!” Genod staggered up, distraught, panting, whooping great gulps of air. He had drawn his Ghittawrer blade with the tawdry emblem of his Green Brotherhood upon it. “A lie!”
“I never heard the Lord of Strombor was a Krozair who lied.”
“I speak the truth, Gafard. This kleesh whom you worship threw my daughter down to her death — threw down your wife!”
Once the first stone is dislodged in a wall or a dam the final pressure mounts swiftly and more swiftly to the point of breaking and utter collapse. This Gafard — the King’s Striker, Sea Zhantil, my
son-in-law —
had revered the genius king Genod, the king with the yrium, had worshiped my daughter Velia, and had envied my reputation upon the Eye of the World and had attempted to emulate me. Zair knows, the poor hulu was a tormented man. Struck and buffeted by passions and beliefs, by desires and duties, he had been caught in a mind-shattering trap. Renegade, loyal Grodnim of Magdag, once a loyal Zairian, he now faced the final collapse of everything in his life. He had been tortured in his ib by beliefs and truths beyond the breaking of a mortal man. Even as King Genod, foaming, berserk, launched himself forward with the Ghittawrer blade lifting, so Gafard bellowed and flung himself at the king.
“King Genod!”
“Stand aside, Gafard, you rast, while I cut down this devil.”
“Genod — murderer!” Gafard’s howl pricked the nape of the neck. “I have served you faithfully. I revered you past reason. You repay me by murdering my Velia, the only woman in the world—”
“Lies! Lies!”
They stood for perhaps a half dozen heartbeats, their chests laboring to draw breath as they shouted, their faces demoniac with convulsive rage and revelation.
Then Genod lunged viciously forward, shrieking he would slay us both, and Gafard, with a snarl like a wild beast dragged heels first from its lair into the hostile world, leaped on the king, one hand to his throat, the other around his waist. So they struggled, bodies locked, animated with hatred and passion.
The rest of their contorted yells were lost as they struggled. The Ghittawrer blade slashed down and Gafard ignored it and forced the king back. I jumped forward to separate them, for I wanted to take Genod for trial — I truly believe I wished this — and the struggle carried them raving to the coaming of the voller.
Without a pause in their struggle one with the other they toppled over the coaming and pitched out over the side of the voller. I put my hand on the coaming and looked down.
Over and over they toppled, falling through the thin air as my Velia had fallen. They still fought as they fell. I did not turn away with a shudder. I watched them as they dwindled and fell away and so I remained, graven, watching as the king and Gafard, the King’s Striker, smashed to red jelly in the central square of Zandikar.
The single thought burning in my brain as I brought the voller to land was that Grogor must not be slain in the coming battle, for Grogor would know where Didi, the daughter of Gafard and Velia, was kept hidden. Somewhere in Magdag or on one of Gafard’s estates; yes, Grogor would take me to my granddaughter.
The kyro filled with a rushing clamor as the people and the soldiers ran. Life, which had for a moment turned aside, now resumed the reins. Gafard was dead. There would be a proper time to mourn. I did not forget that apocalyptic vision of the Gdoinye, the spy of the Star Lords, and its deliberate attack on the white dove of the Savanti. I knew, with that special doom I feel is laid upon me, that the toils of supernatural manipulations had been only temporarily evaded.
The consternation and then the bemused wonder and then the joyful acclamations seized all Zandikar. Everyone understood what the death of this vile king Genod would mean. I had to quiet the uproar, raising my hands, bellowing to make them listen.
“Prince Glycas is not dead. That cramph will lead now. We must still fight!”
“Aye!” they bellowed. And then I heard the name the people of Zandikar shouted, the name they screeched in their determination to resist to the end. “Aye, Zadak! We will fight and never surrender! We fight for Zadak and Zandikar!”
In the hullabaloo I found Queen Miam. Zeg stood at her side and they were both removed from common cares, entranced with each other — as was very proper in ordinary times; but of little use to us here in the siege. Others crowded around.
“Who is this Zadak, Miam? I would care to meet him.”
She laughed — Miam’s laugh was always a wonder. “I think I should like that, also.” She clung on to Zeg’s arm. He looked down on her with that look — well, we all know about that. She beckoned to me. “I introduce you with the full pappattu to Zadak. For the Dak that was is the Zadak of Zandikar. Do you agree?”
I repeated the formula. “I agree, Queen Miam. I thank you.”
Then they all began cheering. Well, the famous old “Z” had been added to my name, and that was all very well and fine; but the battle remained to be won. The feeling was a strange one. As I seldom had used King Zo’s gift of the title of Sea Zhantil, so I seldom used Zadray. I would always think of the Sea Zhantil as being Gafard. He had earned the title. I said to Zeg and Vax, harshly, coldly, “Come with me.”
Zeg was too mazed with love to bristle, and Vax knew me by now. They followed me, these two hulking sons of mine, and we strode through the people to the cleared area where the king of Magdag and his favorite lay in the dust.
They had fought bitterly until the end. Genod had landed first. Gafard was not, therefore, so badly crushed. The fingers of the King’s Striker were still tightly wrapped around the throat of the king. He had choked the kleesh. I just hoped Genod had not been dead before he hit.
I turned them over and freed the gripping fingers. Blood ran everywhere. I pulled Gafard over onto his back. He flopped.
“Look on this man’s face, Vax. Look well.” I spoke with a savage bitterness that chilled Vax. “Look on this man’s face, Zeg. Look well. Remember him. Remember him.”
Zeg started to say something, a farrago about my calling him Pur Zeg and being respectful to a Krozair Brother.
“Look, Zeg, on this man’s face. Make sure you remember every line of it.” I bent down and brushed my fingers and thumb over the black moustaches. I forced them away from their silly downturned Magdaggian shape and brushed them up into the old arrogant Zairian fashion. “Look on this man Gafard. There are those to whom you will be asked to speak of Gafard. Do not forget him.”
I stalked away and Zeg caught my shoulder and said, harshly, “You may be called Zadak of Zandikar now, Dak the Insolent. But I shall not tolerate your insolence! Either you—”
I swung about and shook his hand free. I glared at him. He did not flinch back — for which I was pleased — but he stopped talking. “Do not say it, Pur Zeg, Krozair of Zy, jernu, Prince. Do not say what you will regret.”
What might have happened then, Zair knows; a shrilling shout racketed from the walls and so we all knew the last fight had begun.
There were things to be done. I said to Vax, “Prince Zeg will take care of the queen now. We have one vol — flying boat. Will you take her, with fighting-men, and do what you can?”
Before Vax could answer and so show me up for the onker I was, Duhrra boomed his idiotic bellow. “Duh — Dak! Vax flew the flying boat when we had to leave you on the beach. I’m going with him. It is all arranged.”
I did not smile. “So be it.” I glared at my son. “And may Zair and this Opaz you speak of go with you.”
Everyone ran to take up their appointed stations. Everyone felt convinced this was the last fight. We watched as the vollers rose from the camp of the Grodnims. They soared up and formed ready to sweep over the walls of Zandikar. We all let out huge shouts of joy when two fliers collided. And we all shouted with joy again when two more suddenly dropped down to crash onto the ground. No one here — apart from myself and my two sons — could understand why the airboats should fall and crash.
“Glycas is out for all the glory himself. Well, we will give him a bellyful before the day is done.”
We all knew the city was doomed, for we had nothing with which to counteract the fliers. In that moment as the vollers, all flying their green swifter pennons and standards, soared up to destroy us, a fresh series of shouts broke out from the seaward walls. I looked back — and
up.
Queen Miam put a hand on Zeg’s arm, and swayed. Zeg held her. Roz Janri and Pallan Zavarin exclaimed in joy. Up there, sweeping in over the city, flew vollers. And each flier bore the red flags of Zair.
“It is my brother, Prince Drak!” roared Zeg. “It must be! By Zair! He cuts his time fine!”
I was busily counting the vollers sweeping in so grandly with their red banners flying. Fifty! Fifty against over ninety. The plans must change. I bellowed out the orders. Sniz blew his guts out. Messengers galloped. We would hold the walls as we had done for so long. With vollers to fight vollers we had a chance.
As the main bulk of the Zairian aerial armada sailed on over the city to engage the oncoming Green fleet, the lead ship curved through the sky. We waved a multitude of red flags from our tower atop the Palace of Fragrant Incense, and Drak brought his flagship down in a courtyard below. We all met in the High Hall, halfway between up and down, and the greetings! The roarings! The back-thumpings! I stood in the shadows, and I looked at my eldest son.
Drak had been fourteen when I’d been ejected from Kregen and thrust back to Earth. Now he was a big, tough mature man, grown into Kregan manhood. The marks of power were on him, and yet I judged — I hoped, by Vox! — that he had not forgotten the lessons drummed into him by Delia and me, lessons designed to prevent the disease of uncontrollable power from corrupting him. I had the gloomiest of forebodings that for Zeg power had already done its not-so-insidious work. The two brothers embraced each other with genuine warmth, and Zeg said, swiftly, that Jaidur was here and aloft, at which Drak said that, by Vox, that was where
he
should be, but he had alighted to learn our plans. So he was not altogether a headlong fool, then.
“And where is Zadak that he may come forward!” said Miam, who was known to Drak and who kissed him with sisterly affection.
It was no use shilly-shallying anymore in the shadows of the High Hall. I stamped a scowl over my ugly old face and stepped forward. If Drak recognized me that would not make any difference to the battle. I planted myself down, and I growled out, “Llahal, Prince Drak, Krozair. If you hold the zigging Grodnim flying boats in check, we will hold the walls.”
Drak looked at me, taken aback. Then his eyebrows lifted by a hairbreadth and a shadow passed over his face. I glared at him malignantly.
“The queen has told me of you, Zadak. I give you Lahal. I am outnumbered two to one. But we will hold the Grodnims until not one of us flies.”
He spoke up in a grave way, as a man with the cares of high office speaks. I liked the set of his head on his shoulders, the way he held himself. If Vax was still a young tearaway and Zeg a haughty and imperious killer, Drak was a darkly powerful man of affairs, versed in the ways of Kregen; a true prince of Vallia.
What a situation! I stood with my three sons, and could not acknowledge them, could not stride forward and clasp them in my arms. I suppose something more demoniacal than mere malignity showed on my face. I half turned away and shouted, “The prince has spoken! We resist to the end!”
“Hai!” came the answering shouts. “Hai, Jikai!”
“You—” said my son Drak. “We have never met, I know, and yet, something in you — it is odd.” On that darkly handsome face of his, in which the beauty of his mother had somehow not been altogether overlaid by my own ugly features, although he was not as handsome as Vax, and not as brilliant in appearance as Zeg, a small, puzzled smile flitted. “It is a long time ago, now, and I grieve for that. But, by Vox, you remind me of my father.”
“And do you hate your father, as your brothers do?”
“Of course he does!” Zeg said sharply. “For we have been cruelly treated. Apushniad! Let us get to work.”
“Hatred?” said Drak. “Sometimes I think — but, this is a private affair, of the family and of honor. I give you respect for your defense of Zandikar, Zadak. But this is not a matter to discuss in public.”
“I agree. Before you go aloft, I beg a favor. Go down with me to the central square. There is a man I would wish you to see before he is dumped in an unmarked grave.”
The last was not strictly true. I’d see that a marker was set up — if I lived. So Drak, too, stared down on the dead face of his brother-in-law. I spoke to him as I had to Zeg and Vax. He understood I wanted to boast of my prowess, and he frowned, and I did not disabuse him. He soared aloft to join his little fleet as the two aerial armadas clashed.
The fight that followed bellowed and clanged away in grisly style. We faced great odds. One enormous advantage we had, for the men of Vallia and Valka flying our vollers were trained men, many of them of the Vallian Air Service, and their experience in the air served them well in the fight against twice their number. Even then I saw a couple of Vallian vollers flutter to the ground, victims of the inferior workmanship with which Hamal cursed all the fliers she sold abroad.
The tactics of Glycas were simple. While some fliers attempted to get through and land parties of men inside the city, others settled just inside the walls and made determined onslaughts on the gates to open them to the waiting army. These we attacked with grim and savage ferocity, knowing that the opening of one gate would finish us. We fought desperately. But I saw, as I was staggering back from a charge that had destroyed the men from four fliers but had withered our own men away, that we were losing. More and more fliers settled inside and the green banners waved thickly in clumps, here and there. At any moment now a gate would go down and the damned Grodnims would be in.