The Krozair Cycle

“Wizard of Scorpio”-1

“Wizard of Scorpio”Wizard of Scorpio is the first story written about Dray Prescot that is not of novel length. It was written especially for the 200th DAW book, The DAW Science Fiction Reader, edited by Donald A. Wollheim, and in the epic of Prescot's adventures it falls between the Havilfar Cycle and the Krozair Cycle.

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Delia is the most perfect woman in two worlds. Had she not been so perfect on that particular day of mellow sunshine in Foke Lyrsmin’s garden as we waited to witness his wedding with the lady Merle, then the subsequent harebrained adventures and headlong action that hurled me furiously through the sweet-scented air beneath the moons of Kregen would not have occurred. But, had I not gone through those ordeals and fought those fights, then I would have been the poorer, as you will hear.

A merry group of nobles nearby on the lawn laughed and chattered and so the screams and shouts from the little marble pavilion where the airboat had just touched down reached me attenuated, distant and without menace. This was a cheerful wedding day and everyone was de-termined to enjoy the occasion to the utmost. The bride had been surrounded by an excited flutter of her friends, envious of her good fortune in marrying a kov, for to marry a noble of higher rank she must needs wed a prince or king, and I put the commotion down to high spirits.

The airboat lifted away, going fast over the trees. Her side flamed brilliantly as the polished brasswork caught the mingled streaming lights of the suns of Scorpio. Then she was gone from my view over the garden, for I stood talk-ing to Foke Lyrsmin in his study, with the tall Windows thrown wide.

Foke had been showing me his latest rapier, an acquisi-tion of which he was proud and which he intended to wear at the ceremony. Now he turned back from the window.

“These young people,” he said, spreading his hands. He was a cheerful little fellow, a trifle on the small side, wiry, and I had found him not unreasonable company on this first meeting. “Your father-in-law does me great honor, prince,” he went on. “But—”

“The emperor will arrive in his own time, Kov.”

That old devil, the Emperor of Vallia, father of my Delia, had not turned up yet and we were all waiting for him. Well, it may be the privilege of an emperor to be late; but I’ve always taught the emperor’s grandchil-dren that politeness demands punctuality on parade.

This Foke Lyrsmin was the Kov of Vyborg, and Vyborg is a Kovnate province on the western edge of Vallia. By this marriage with the lady Merle, daughter of Trylon Jefan Werden, he reinforced the links with his northern borders. That puissant man, the Emperor of Vallia, ap-proved, and as Merle was a girlhood friend of Delia’s, we had left our children back home in Valka, away to the east, and come to the wedding in the hopes of relaxation and enjoyment.

The door at our backs burst open and Jefan Werden came hobbling in, his lined and dyspeptic face exhibiting all the agony of a man with gout having his foot run over by a tram.

“My daughter!” he shouted. He was genuinely angry and alarmed, his face sagging with shock. “Merle! Merle! She’s gone!”

“Merle! Gone?” Kov Foke put out a hand. He looked not so much shattered as bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“What I say! Merle — she’s been taken — kidnapped!”

They glared at each other, oblivious of my presence. That suited me. If someone had kidnapped the lady Merle and he was captured his head would roll. That was for sure. I would do what I could to help. That, also, was sure.

The noise outside increased. People were running aim-lessly amid a screaming and a shrieking. The facts must be established at once. But Merle’s father burst out:

“Four men, all dressed in black — the cramphs! They took my daughter — and they—”

“Who? Who?” yelped Kov Foke, interrupting, his face now as crimson as a moment before it had been green.

“They wore metal masks. But I know who hired them! I know who it was who paid them, the rast! Vangar Riurik! He’s been sniffing around after my daughter for the last five seasons. I gave him his marching orders — and this is what he does! What the emperor will say—”

I stepped forward. This was suddenly more serious.

“You say it was Vangar Riurik. How can you be sure? He is the Strom of Quivir.”

“I know, prince, I know!” Even as Merle’s father shouted so the yelling outside went on and on. “And Quivir is a stromnate of the island of Zamra, and you, Prince Majister, are the Kov of Zamra. Riurik owes allegiance to you.” He stared at me, and I saw the abrupt, crafty light in his eyes.

If he was going to suggest I’d had anything to do with this lover’s argument, this romantic kidnapping of the bride just before the ceremony, then he’d picked the wrong man. He knew enough of me to still the tongue in his head. This was an affair of mine only in so far as I must discipline an unruly follower, who held the stromnate of Quivir at my hands. I knew young Vangar Riurik, a right tearaway and a fine fighting man, and I knew also that this was a thing perfectly possible for him.

“He will no doubt fly back to Zamra with Merle,” I said, putting Foke’s rapier down on his desk and knocking over an inkwell. The bright red ink splattered the carpet — luckily the carpet was not of Walfarg Weave. “We shall follow at once. I will replace your carpet, Kov.”

I made for the door.

A mass of people spilled from the corridor, creating a tremendous noise. The whole household had been over-turned like an ant’s nest with boiling water. I saw young Oby trying to force his way through. His face was con-torted with the effort of wedging his lithe young body between a fat dowager stromni and an equally plump kotera whose violet dress caught about Oby’s ears. He pulled it with an anger that seemed to me to be quite out of proportion. A scamp, an imp of Satan, Oby; but his actions made me curious.

The Trylon Jefan Werden hobbled up at my back. He was still panting with exertion and anger and I half-turned to see what he wanted.

“Prince,” he began.

I have heard that tone of voice before.

“Prince, my daughter was talking to her friends — they were laughing and joking, and—”

“Well? Spit it out!”

“The Princess Majestrix—”

He had no need to go on. He licked his lips. He saw my face and he seemed to shrivel.

The crowd of people milling and pushing in the cor-ridor, creating a babel of confusion, flowed around me as butter flows around a hot knife. I do not think I knocked anyone down. I do remember running outside onto the grass into that glorious mingled radiance from the twin suns Zim and Genodras. Oby ran at my side, yelling. I heard something of what he said. An airboat rested on a paved court by the ornamental fishponds. The neat petal shape of fabric-covered wooded frames, the windshield glittering in the light, told me the craft was a small four-place runabout. It would do. I leaped in and thrust savage-ly at the controls.

The flier leaped forward, rose perhaps four feet into the air, almost knocked Oby sprawling, nosed down and went with an almighty splash into the fishpond. Water smashed my face and lily-pads wrapped around my neck.

I did not curse.

Oby sprinted up, shouting, pulled the access panels out to get at the silver boxes that controlled the airboat. He looked back up. “Finished, my prince! Exhausted!” Since he had disavowed his ambitions to fight in the arena, Oby had taken up the study of the fliers, and was a use-ful hand. If he said the silver boxes were finished, they were. After a life of varying length the boxes would turn a leaden color, and then one must buy new.

“Another flier, Oby! As you love the Princess!”

“Aye, my prince!” And Oby was off, a limber young lad, full of fire and energy and deviltry.

Do not wonder that I let Oby fetch the flier. We had flown here from Valka in a small air boat with just a few people and I had talked Vangar ti Valkanium, my chief of fliers, into allowing Oby to pilot us. He would know where every flier was parked and to whom every voller be-longed. Being an imp, he would fetch the fastest voller, no matter whose.

So for a few moments in which I forced myself — Zair knows how! — to remain calm, I had time to understand what had happened.

As I said, my Delia is the most perfect woman in two worlds. She is also the most beautiful. I say this in all humility. In addition she possesses a superb courage that matches the courage of a mother zhantil who will fight to the death anyone or anything that molests her cubs. So I had no difficulty in imagining that scene in which the kid-nappers had leaped from their voller to seize Merle and just as they were bundling her aboard smothered in a cloak Delia had leaped forward. Yes! The sight of my Delia rushing into the fray with that thin slender dagger glittering is enough to make the stoutest of assassins blanch. So they had taken her as well. It had all been a scramble, a confusion, and the airboat had lifted off with my Delia aboard.

My Delia! My Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, flew through the bright skies of Kregen in the grip of kidnappers who did not want her along. What might happen made my heart a stone, made my fist grip onto my rapier, made me even more of a devil than I al-ready am.

Here came Oby with the voller, swirling down directly to land before me without a wasted moment. He stepped out and handed me my scabbarded longsword and a glossy black flying fur made up from foburf skins. I leaped in.

He yelled at me, skipping around to the other side. “My prince!” he bellowed, and I knew what he was saying be-fore he shouted. “I’m coming too!”

“No, you’re not, young Oby. You will raise all Valka, all Zamra, all Delphond, all of the Blue Mountains! Tell the emperor! Riurik will probably fly seaward of Rahart-drin. I’m relying on you, Oby!”

“Aye, my prince.” But he looked mighty chapfallen, all the same.

By the time I was airborne a number of other vollers were being crammed with men and were taking off. But Oby had chosen well. I did not know whose this voller was; she was a fleet craft and flew like a dream. If Vangar Riurik chose to return to Zamra by flying between the mainland and the island of Rahartdrin I would miss him. But I suspected he would attempt to avoid pursuit by going out to sea. I smashed the voller’s controls hard over and the little craft soared into the mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

The blue, blue sea of Kregen flashed past below.

Rahartdrin was a brown smudge on the southern hori-zon. I saw the dots of fliers there. If Riurik had gone that way the pursuit would bay on his heels. I kept my ugly old face turned seawards. Oxkalin the Blind Spirit must guide me now.

Onwards through the thin air with the slipstream blatter-ing about my ears, on and on! Ahead two black dots... Vollers! Two — had Riurik chosen to meet Merle and her abductors here, pay them off and carry the girl in triumph back to Quivir? It was a plan.

One flier ahead span away, turning end over end, dropped to the sea. I stared. I felt the pains gripping my chest, eating at my guts. Dots with tiny arms and legs spread-eagled fell away from the voller. Uselessly I forced the levers over, urging the voller to the limit. Now the second flier was speeding away — speeding directly away, straight out to sea. That was a strange course to steer for a man wanting to fly east, to Quivir. Maybe he had seen me. If Delia had fallen — and I did not believe she had — then the cramph would see nothing else after I caught up with him.

I could not believe that of Vangar Riurik. Rather, I would believe that the moment he saw the ghastly mis-take his hired men had made he would turn and in all humility bring Delia, the Princess Majestrix of the Empire of Vallia, straight away back to her ugly great leem-slayer of a husband. At once!