The Lohvian Cycle I

Chapter three

Chapter threeUnder my nose the dusty sand moved past at a steady walking pace. The saddle of the lictrix was not particularly well-adapted to a man’s body slung over athwartships, head hanging down one side and heels the other. And six-legged riding animals — in general — are not as comfortable as four or eight-legged ones.

“Try moving your other arm, cabbage!”

I couldn’t snarl back that, by Krun, I was trying, wasn’t I?

My right arm possessed some movement, although it seemed to move of its own volition. I’d hit myself on the nose trying to wipe my mouth, for example. Now I was working away on the left arm, and hoping against hope that the little finger would vouchsafe me a sign of future success.

I hadn’t heard Mevancy and the two lictrixes returning. I put that down to my utter concentration on what Rippasch was about to do, and of my attempts to move my arm. Certainly the vultures had not heard. Mevancy, I suppose because there was no other audience, had fallen into the habit of talking to me. She spoke not quite as a mother to a child, more like a person talking to herself. Now she said: “I dislike killing anything, cabbage; but I thought the vulture was about to feast on your eyeballs.”

We rode along towards the west in the wake of the caravan. Mevancy had a filled water bottle. I could only assume she had managed to escape from the bandits and steal the two lictrixes. Certainly, I warmed to her. She was brave and resourceful, that was clear. And she’d come back for me.

Of course, her tongue was more of a cutting instrument than a bludgeon; but she could deliver a few shrewd whacks with it, nonetheless.

“Well, cabbage, you’ve lost your fancy foreign sword and dagger. Now if you could use a sword at all we could fix you up with a lynxter, or a Havilfarese thraxter. If you know how to use them, that is.”

After a space she went on: “If those Gahamond-forsaken bandits show up again — well, cabbage, we’ll run. That’s all we can do.”

That was an eventuality I did not look forward to. Galloping face down over an animal’s back is no fun way to ride.

And notice, please, that that was my first thought. Only second came the thought that I did not relish running away from foes.

I might have won a resounding victory and be able to move my right arm and my left little finger; but my head was still dazed and mazed and stuffed full with chair upholsterer’s padding.

“Reminds me of the time old Kervaney the Wand’s caravan was attacked. That was up in Snarlendrin. Right in the middle of it the Rains came down. Ha! Talk about mud baths. By Spurl! We were a bunch of mudlarks all thwacking away at one another. Nath the Onker’s sword slipped out of his fist and stuck clean through the throat of the drikinger who was just about to strike Kervaney down. Flew through the air like he’d hurled it.” Here Mevancy paused and I imagined she was shaking her head in amused reflection. “Old Kervaney couldn’t do enough for Nath the Onker who’d saved his life. And it was the making of Nath the Onker, too. Called him Nath the Volscreetz after that.”

Whilst the anecdote possessed some vestigial interest, I quite failed to see what beautiful Rains had to do with the dry and dusty desert trail that was slowly desiccating us and sucking us into sere husks.

Like any sensible desert or wasteland traveler, Mevancy allowed no water drinking during the day. At the going down of the suns we could drink.

Surmising that she did not wish to close up too close to the bandits ahead I was not surprised when she ordered an early halt. Caravans are slow by their very nature. I assumed she’d halted just out of sight of the dust cloud up ahead. A few hard dry bushes grew in strips here and there and a couple afforded us cover. This particular species of wasteland had stretches of pure sandy desert interspersed with straggly bushes in strips and clumps as hills broke the flatness of the plain. It was not unlike some parts of Arizona. The people of the caravan had mentioned the Salt Desert to the west with some trepidation, and this I gathered was similar to the great salt deserts of western China.

She said: “One good thing, cabbage. I don’t have to threaten you to keep quiet. These dumb beasts that are not so dumb are different.”

Dumped off the lictrix I sprawled out on the dust behind a bush. Mevancy gave my head a twist on my neck so I could see along the ground and through the dry branches. I could hear her at my back and one of the lictrixes emitted a snorting whinny cut abruptly short. By this I knew Mevancy was tying cloths about their mouths. So we were in ambush, then...

Soon after that I heard them.

Soft shushing and harder hoofbeats, the jingle of bit and bridle, they were riding with assurance, confident of their own power and prowess. They rode into sight down the little incline past the dry bushes. They rode zorcas. They were mailed and carried slender lances and bows. Their helmets bore clumps of feathers, dyed bright red and yellow. In my life on Kregen red and yellow have been my colors more often than not.

I counted twenty-five of them.

The leader rode a blood zorca of superlative quality. His head was held erect and he laughed openly, a fiery red moustache curling up past his nose and his eyes creasing up in good humor.

“You speak sooth, Hangol. We will have these abandoned of Tsung-Tan by supper.”

“And then, lynxor, we shall put them to the sword.”

“I suppose so. It is just. Anyway, you will enjoy it.”

“Oh, yes,” said this Hangol. He rode just that fraction of a space to the rear on the leader’s left side. We were to the south of the trail so the party of zorca riders crossed from right to left. I noticed this Hangol held his head a trifle turned away and put this down to a fawning attention on his leader and paymaster. His zorca was fine and his armor resplendent, and among his plethora of weapons, in the good old Kregan way, hung thraxter and main gauche. This told me he was left-handed.

Mevancy stood up, strode out from the cover of the bushes, spraddled her legs, put her hands on her hips and yelled. “Llahal and Llahal!”

They all reined up as though they’d been shot.

I quite enjoyed that. Had I been that leader with the fiery red moustaches paying this fellow Hangol to be my cadade, my captain of the guard, I’d have his hide for failing to post point, outriders and flanks. By Krun, yes!

Bows were drawn and arrowheads glittered in the declining light, all aimed at Mevancy.

The standard-bearer had a little difficulty in handling his zorca, who jounced around and wanted to kick his legs a trifle. The banner, a tresh of red and yellow of intricate design and difficult to distinguish at that distance, fluttered bravely.

“Declare your intentions or you are dead!” shouted up this Hangol.

Mevancy laughed.

“I chose to stand forth and greet you. I could have chosen to shaft you. You do not know how many bows are here with me.”

The leader leaned gracefully and spoke quietly to Hangol. Hangol’s helmet bobbed and even at this distance and seeing the whole scene on its side, I saw the surliness of that response. The cadade shouted up.

“We give you the Llahal. This is Leotes li Ningwan, Vad of Sabiling, Paol-ur-bliem.”

The leader favored Hangol with a swift look of sharp displeasure, and then recovered his good humor. So he was a vad, just one rank below a kov, a duke. Well, he was high and mighty then. Just what the significance of Paol-ur-bliem might be I couldn’t fathom. Paol is generally regarded as the earthly part of vaol-paol, the eternal cycle of existence encompassing fate and destiny. Bliem is a word for life.

With her back to me Mevancy’s expression might be anything; I rather fancied she was putting on one of her more genial looks.

“Llahal, Vad Leotes. If you’re after those Tsung-Tan forsaken drikingers, then I shall ride with you.” She made a small gesture with her left hand. “I am Mevancy nal Chardaz. Lahal.”

The vad lifted his hand. “You and your forces will be welcome, my lady.”

“Now,” I said to myself, “Lady Mevancy nal Chardaz, let’s see you get out of this one without moving!”

She simply hauled her lictrix from the cover of the bushes, mounted up and flung a word back to me before cantering down the slope.

“I’ll be back for you, cabbage. Don’t run off.”

She must have impressed Vad Leotes, for they spoke together briefly and then they swung their steeds’ heads around to the west and galloped off.

I lifted my left arm and shook my fist after this hoity-toity miss.

Then I realized what I had done.

I lifted both arms, and clenched and unclenched my fists.

By Zair!

Now I could get to work on my legs.

My feet were now just about healed and if I could once get up on my pins I had no doubts whatsoever I’d walk. I’d damned well run!

Making muscles obey the dictates of my brain, telling sinews and tendons to pull, forcing my paralyzed legs to move at all — that was the trick.

As I lay there under the sere black bush and struggled to move, the twin suns steadily declined. Zim and Genodras, which here in this part of Loh are called Luz and Walig, cast long and longer shadows, emerald and ruby, smoking in the dusty light. There is no need to belabor my pains. At the time I heard a caravan approaching from the east, I felt the first bendings of my knees. By the time the caravan was in sight and preparing to make camp I was up on hands and knees, and when the first tents went up I went up too, to stand totteringly, reeling, dazed — but up on my own two feet.

After that it was a matter of climbing up onto the lictrix’s saddle, a feat rather like climbing a peak in The Stratemsk, and of gently ambling down the incline towards the caravan and the camp. I was stopped very quickly, naturally. A man put a long polearm up at me. I saw it was a strangdja, a weapon of Chem, much feared.

“Whereaway, dom?” he said, in no hostile way, for I think he had the wit to guess from whence I came.

I smiled at him.

“Llahal, dom,” I said. “I’m from the caravan that was attacked.”

Then I stopped speaking.

What actually issued from my mouth was something like: “Lla — l — mm — mm — cvn — tat—”

So. I was still unable to speak.

The guard — he wore brass-studded leathers and a leather cap — put his strangdja on the ground and reached up. “Here, dom. You need attention, and we’ve the best Puncture Lady this side of Tarankar.” He caught me as I fell off. His nose was ripe and large and possessed fissures like those of a river system as it enters the Delta. His mouth was wide and mobile. I felt the limber strength of him as he caught me. He yelled: “Hai! Nath! Scrimshi! Come and give this poor devil a hand.”

Three bulky leather-clad men hauled me up and carried me into a tent where the sweet scent of palines growing in a tub made my mouth water. I suppose the efforts I’d put out just recently had drained some other reserve of energy quite distinct from whatever lack caused the paralysis. They gave me a handful of palines and I devoured the yellow berries knowing that in themselves they could cure a mighty lot of Kregen’s ills. I stood up, swaying, it is true, and again essayed to speak, with the same dismal result.

The Puncture Lady wore a neat blue dress with a yellow collar and cuffs. She bustled in ready to order, organize and generally boss people about. Her face showed all that in its straight lines, its angle of jaw, the tightness of the prim mouth. She started to punch me, here and there.

“Nothing wrong with him,” she pronounced. “I’d think him drunk if he smelled of liquor. He’s fit. You say he’s from the caravan we found?”

“We think so, doctor,” said the fellow with the strangdja.

“Where else can he have come from?” said the one called Scrimshi.

The one called Nath said: “Maybe he ran off and hid and pretended to be sick.” He nodded wisely. “It is known.”

I started to swing my arms about like a windmill in protest. The Puncture Lady grasped both my wrists and put my arms down by my side. She had no difficulty in doing that. I tried to resist and could feel her pressure on my wrists inexorably forcing down my arms. By Krun! I was weaker than a woflo!

“I dunno—” said the fellow with the strangdja. “I wish we could understand what he’s trying to say.”

“Well, whatever it is, it does not alter the fact that there’s nothing wrong with him.”

I tried to throw my arms about again and she simply held them fast.

The tent was furnished in this section more as a doctor’s waiting room and I supposed there were sick in the caravan. A carpet of a weave unknown to me covered the floor. There was one chair and table of plain bent wood. I could see no paper or writing equipment.

These three caravan guards quite probably could not read or write and so did not think to communicate with me in that way. But surely this doctor would? She looked tired beneath her hard professional veneer. I surmised that Vad Leotes demanded much from his people.

“What shall we do with him, Doctor Fenella?”

“Oh, find him a corner somewhere. If he’s run off from his duty the vad will want to see him. Oh, yes, assuredly so.”

“Come on, Llodi, give us a hand,” said Nath. The man who had first halted me tucked his strangdja under his arm and helped Nath and Scrimshi haul me out of the Puncture Lady’s tent.

Already a little queue of sick folk was forming.

Outside, twinned shadows lay long, with that effect peculiar to worlds with more than one sun of each shadow being, as it were, re-lit by the other sun. They carried me along with my head hanging down; I knew where we were going for I could hear the animals, the whicker and snort through wide nostrils, the stamp of hooves and the slap of rope against picket.

“Bung him down among the calsanys,” said the one called Scrimshi, and he snickered. I’d marked him as an unpleasant sort of person.

“Naw,” said Llodi. “What with him being sick, an’ all.”

“Then sling him here.” Nath settled it by dumping my feet onto the bare ground. I toppled around and fell onto a heap of fodder bags.

“That’ll do.”

Llodi bent to me. “You stay here, dom. You’ll be all right.”

“We’ll tell the next watch to keep an eye out.” Scrimshi breathed in, swelling his chest. “You’d better not run off. The vad’ll want you.”

They went off about their guard duty. I pondered. Well, now, I was in no state to take the lictrix and make off. Anyway, I didn’t really want to. I own I felt unease about the safety of that young female tearaway Mevancy. What she recalled of the fire I didn’t know; what I surmised was that she had little memory before she dragged me out. As far as she was concerned, she really had rescued me. I would go along with that.

So I made myself comfortable on the fodder bags — and went to sleep.