The Spikatur Cycle

Chapter two

Chapter two

Of the disobedience of Nath KaridgeThe windows exploded in fountains of splintered wood and patterned glass and struggling men collapsed inward to sprawl, still fighting, over the tables and settles. The guerrillas and the mercenaries hunting them fought madly across the floor.

Korero’s glittering figure swirled like a lightning bolt of destruction.

Nath Karidge, characteristically the first to get in among his foemen, swung his curved sword with precision and gusto.

Naghan the Barrel whipped a stout clanxer, a straight cut and thruster of Vallia, into his adversary and then stiff-armed it about in a horizontal s***h that dislodged the Adam’s apple of the next.

Vanderini, swearing horribly and the blood running down his face, cut back into the pressing mass.

Chuktar Mevek, a sword and a dagger swirling, fought madly, as though working out a private grudge eating away his soul.

And I, Dray Prescot, I fought too, seeing that these miserable masichieri sought to kill me and I didn’t have the time to die, not right now, with all I had still to do waiting to be done.

A screaming wretch flew over the battling throng. He turned a complete cartwheel as he whistled though the air. He departed from the taproom through the only window so far unbroken. Wearing the windowpanes like a collar, he vanished.

So I knew Turko the Khamorro was in action.

The fight, for all its shortness, was exceedingly ferocious.

One of the problems with low-class mercenaries is their rapid loss of interest if the day goes against them.

Not for me to judge any man in what he does, unless that happens to be against the well-being of Vallia and he is hauled up before me in my capacity as emperor. I did not condemn, nor even cavil, as the mercenaries, seeing that we were not to be easily plucked, lost interest. By ones and twos, and then a half dozen at a time, they ran out of the shattered doorway. A few hardy souls left were either cut down or persuaded to depart. I noticed that Mevek far preferred to cut them down than let them escape. He had his reasons, I did not doubt.

Some of these dubious fighting men were not apims, not Homo sapiens, being diffs of various races. A Rapa with his wattled neck and vulture head and waving tufts of feathers pressed me and I cut him a little, so that he shrieked and, turning, ran off. A Fristle, his cat face a bristle, spat at Korero, whose arm — one of his arms, the speed made it difficult to see exactly which one of the assemblage — raked out and biffed the Fristle through the gaping window. Korero used the hilt of his sword.

A Brokelsh, coarsely furred and coarse of manner, sought to drive his spear through Mevek’s guts. Mevek was, at the time, hotly engaged with a fellow who tried to bring a cleaver down from the crown of Mevek’s head to the junction of his collarbone.

Mevek dealt with the cleaver fellow just in time, and swung about. He saw what happened.

Turko hove up, twitched the Brokelsh’s spear away, upended him, twirled him as a maid twirls a feather duster in all the old plays and heaved him over the heads of the rest of us out the window. Then, without pausing, Turko slid a long thrust of a sword in the grip of the next mercenary who had delusions of grandeur. The Khamorro grip fastened on the screaming wight and he was twitched up, up and away.

Turko, perfectly balanced, breathing easily, not in the slightest discommoded, looked about for the next one.

Mevek stared at Turko.

The fight was dying. A few more quick flurries, the shriek of a fool who hadn’t the sense to duck, and the masichieri departed.

But the battle was not over yet, and we had not escaped scot free. A number of Mevek’s men sprawled on the floor in their own blood, wounded, dead and dying.

“It seems,” said Mevek, breathing hard and his eyebrows twitching uneasily, “that I owe you my life. And I do not know your name.” Turko smiled.

A commotion outside drew our attention to the open doorway, and once again we grasped our swords ready to beat off a fresh attack. Introductions could wait. Crossing to the door, I peered out cautiously.

The Maiden with the Many Smiles illuminated the crossroads. The shuttered houses remained dark and mysterious. The folk of this village of Infinon of the Crossroads wanted nothing to do with the night’s nefarious doings.

The stink of spilled blood and the tang of dust obliterated the smell of the flowers of the white shansili trailing on its trellis over the door.

A group of riders astride totrixes were bringing their clumsy six-footed steeds up in a rush, and the moon glinted from their lance tips and harness. These were the fellows come to finish the job the masichieri had failed to do. I did not doubt that Jhansi’s illegitimate son, Macsadu the Kroks, rode at their head.

“They mean to finish us off once and for all,” growled Mevek at my shoulder.

“Aye,” panted Vanderini, shoving up with his sword crusted with blood. “But we’ll—”

“Yes, you old wart,” said Mevek, by which I judged there was a comradeship between them.

“We can but fight,” I said. “We would never reach our zorcas in time.”

“And if we could,” said Karidge, stepping out and, surprising me, looking in the opposite direction, “I do not think, majister, you would gallop off.”

“I would, Nath, and thankful to be able.”

His reckless face looked shocked as he swung back.

“But, majister—”

“I have work to do for Vallia, Nath, work such that it would ill betide me to get killed before it is done.”

“Ye-es,” he said. The doubt was alive in him. “I see.”

“No, Nath, you do not see now. But, I think, you will see one day. And, if we get out of this scrape in one piece, soon.”

“Where is this marvel who makes men fly?” bellowed Mevek. “By Vox! I would have him stand at my side in the fight.”

“I am here, Chuktar Mevek,” said Turko, in his silky tones.

“How you manage it, and without naked steel in your fists, passes me. But, by all the names, you are a marvel.”

“Men have said that before, Mevek,” I said. “I am glad to see you share their opinion.”

The totrix riders were now almost on us. They rode knee to knee, in a jingling, ominous trot, and it behooved us to duck back into the inn before they speared us where we stood.

Again Nath Karidge looked away at the crossroads. The intensity of his stance, the piercing stare, gave me to think. So, when the first shafts arched and the steel birds struck in among the totrix riders, I was not surprised.

Zorcamen rode swiftly from the shifting shadows. They bore on in a close, disciplined mass. Archers in front, loosing with the fluent rapidity of experts, lancers following on, they galloped along the road.

The archers fanned out, still shooting, using their nimble zorcas with superb skill. As the zorcabows opened out, so the lancers bored on through in a solid bone-crushing charge. The lance heads with their red and white pennons all came down. The steel heads glimmered cruelly in that wavering light.

When the half-squadron hit, they plunged in like a fist into a tub of butter. In a twinkling the individual combats broke out as the melee swirled along between the shuttered houses. Caught utterly by surprise, thrown into confusion, the totrix men gave no thought to fighting — only to flight.

A trumpet pealed the recall. As one, the lancers disengaged. The archers shot until their targets flitted into the shadows and were lost.

Karidge yelled in his strong voice: “No pursuit, Jiktar Tromo! Form up, emperor’s guard!”

With drilled precision the two half-squadrons swung back and formed at the door of the Sign of the Headless Zorcaman.

“Well — by all the names!” declared Mevek.

His men huddled, gaping at the red and yellow uniforms, the feathers, the furred pelisses. Yes, zorcamen, archers and lancers, make a fine show, by Krun!

Nath Karidge was staring at me in great uncertainty.

Mevek, however, voiced the mutual thoughts first.

“So you brought a bodyguard, emperor, after all.”

“It was necessary,” said Karidge, very firmly, brooking no argument, no recrimination. “The emperor did not order the bodyguard. I did so on my own responsibility.” He looked down, and then up, defiantly. “I disobeyed your orders, majister, and now I accept that I will be sent as a simple trooper, to pay for my crime.”

“You assume I would send you to a cavalry regiment?”

He suddenly looked aghast.

“But — majister—”

Karidge was a zorcaman first, last and all the time.

“I am minded to send you to the Phalanx, to be a brumbyte.” I said brumbyte deliberately, and not soldier, for I wished Karidge to understand the situation.

“Majister...” He spoke in a weak, strangled voice.

“I shall speak to you, Chuktar Karidge, about this later. For now, I thank you for your two half-squadrons. They judged it nicely. Jiktar Tromo? Send him to me later on.”

“Quidang, majister!”

Then it was a matter of clearing up and finalizing what was understood between the guerrillas and myself. I heard Karidge saying to Korero, “In the Phalanx — I admire them, of course — but to trail a pike as a brumbyte! One of your muscled fellows with a vosk-skull helmet and a damned great pike and the view of the fellow in front’s backside! By Vox! I couldn’t bear it!”

“Cheer up, Nath,” Korero advised him. “The emperor has a funny way with him at times.”

“Aye!”

Keeping a straight face, I walked over to Turko and Mevek who were arguing about payment for the damage to the inn.

“These folk have been badly treated,” Mevek was saying, his flat face now filled with passion. “I shall pay for the damage. And then—” and he laughed “—I shall find a damned convoy of Jhansi’s and take from it what he owes.”

“I feel I have a better claim,” said Turko.

“You are then a rich man, you who save my life and refuse to tell me the name of the man to whom I owe it?”

“No, I suppose, if all goes well, I could be rich one day. But wealth does not interest me for itself. It is what may be done with riches — like paying for this damage.”

I said, “Let Mevek pay and take the gold from Jhansi. I like the sound of that.”

There, you see!” burst out Mevek. His impassivity had quite deserted him. “The emperor speaks sense.”

“I shall return to Vondium now, Mevek. You call yourself a Chuktar?”

The note of interrogation prompted him to a long, circumstantial story about once having served in a mercenary army raised somewhere in Pandahem, and he was a Chuktar by that right as well as being the leader of his guerrilla band.

“Then Chuktar it is, Mevek. An ord Chuktar, I would say.” Ord — Kregish for eight — meant he had only two more steps to go before becoming a Kapt.

“Thank you, majister—”

“And now you serve the new Kov of Falinur, Kov Turko?”

He squinted up at me.

“What has passed cannot alter my decision—”

Turning to Turko the Shield, I said, “Kov, I would like to introduce to you Ord-Chuktar Mevek, a fine fellow and one whom you must watch. Mevek, you have the honor of being presented to Kov Turko of Falinur.”

Well...

I suppose to a tired old cynic this was all childish stuff. I am tired, right enough, even though I recognize tiredness as a mortal sin, and I am cynical enough betimes; yet I viewed this confrontation with a quiet relish. The sight of Mevek’s eyebrows was reward enough.

Turko maintained a marvelous composure, and yet I knew well enough that superior Khamorro was thoroughly enjoying himself. And, with all this fun and games, we had made a significant breakthrough in relations with some of the people of Falinur. Oh, there were many of them who would side with Jhansi, and detest their new kov. But we had to be patient, and do the right things — the right things in our eyes, of course — and eventually demonstrate that we were not bloodsuckers, not slavers, and were seeking the good of all the folk of Falinur.

That was just about impossible, given the tenacious clinging to slavery of many of the masters of Falinur. But I felt strongly that Turko would succeed. He was going to bring a different technique to Falinur from the mild methods of Seg. I might deplore this. But, as the surgeons say, you cannot amputate without losing a little blood.

We left Chuktar Mevek with promises that we would soon return with the army of liberation. At least, Kov Turko would lead that army; I planned to travel to Hyrklana. With the cavalry escort fore and aft, we rode back south as She of the Veils, the fourth moon of Kregen, rose to follow the Maiden with the Many Smiles between the stars.