The Balintol Cycle I

Chapter five

Chapter fiveFrom my considerable experience of assassins I was aware they preferred to work to a timetable. The dying moments of the fracas ahead on the road, some couple of burs after I’d said remberee to San Padria and young Nath, told me the assassins were operating under the most urgent of orders. Here they were, openly attacking a little cavalcade in daylight on the highroad.

There was, it is true, a scraggle of woods either side of the road. The twin Suns of Scorpio shone down splendidly and lit up the unpleasant scene, when more often than not assassins like to work under the cloak of darkness — preferably in a night of Notor Zan.

There were already more than enough dead folk lying about by the time I reached the scene attracted by shouts and the slide and scrape of steel. Dragging the sword from that shrunken and twisted scabbard held me up fractionally.

There were zorcas standing in an uneasy group half in among the trees. They did not like the raw stink of blood and neither did I.

By the time I reached there the assassins had just about finished their ghastly work. I did give a whoop and a holler rushing in to startle them and perhaps save some last poor wight’s life before they finished him off to turn to deal with me.

“You cowardly stikitches!” I bellowed. “Hai!”

Two of them, black capes flaring, swung about from a man sprawled on the paving with his back half-propped against a decorated carriage. Three black-clad men lay face down before him and blood oozed from them. From the side an assassin swinging a short axe charged at me. The two men checked their weapons, seeing me, and swung about to join their comrade. The three of them, working as a team of long experience, closed in.

Two swords and an axe against a sword of whose provenance and reliability I had the gravest of doubts — all right, then! In the normal fashion they tried to circle me. They were not prepared for the speed with which I hurtled into them.

The axeman’s weapon faltered short as I chopped him down and in the next instant as I swung about to face the other two they were caught square on. Our blades clashed just the twice. A twisting slice saw the right hand one off and after a swift leap forward a thrust to the left dealt with the other.

It had all been very quick and deadly. Had it not been I would not be here to tell you the tale.

Mind you, as I’d mournfully guessed, the sword snapped in half. The stikitche reeled back, choking blood, and collapsed with half the blade stuck through his guts.

A single quick but extremely comprehensive glance about assured me no other assassins lived. Now I could bend to the dying man.

His first words were incomprehensible. Blood fouled his lips and ran down his chin.

“Easy, dom, easy.” There was no use trying to move him to a more comfortable position. His internal injuries would only have been exacerbated and quite clearly he wanted to live long enough to tell me something.

The sword dropped from his blood-dabbled glove. He seized my arm in a weak grip. Blood oozed from under his gloved fingers.

“Strom Korden. Laha...” His voice garbled with the blood in his mouth. His breast under the bright robes and the banded armor barely moved. “Take the sword and...” A gobbet of blood gushed between his lips, to stain down with the rest. He tried again and only mumbles without meaning escaped him.

I saw him make a tremendous effort. He swallowed with a convulsive contortion of his mouth and face that trembled down along his limbs. His head rolled. He had been a strong man in the prime of life with a thick brown moustache and heavy shock of hair, exposed now that his helmet, badly dented, had fallen off and rolled under the carriage.

“To Hyr Kov Brannomar.” His voice dropped in tone and volume. He was almost gone. “You must...” His eyes closed and his lips worked together. “By Cymbaro the Just I charge you!” That surged forth with the last remnant of his powers. He coughed and the blood poured down. His words were barely understandable and they trailed off into gibberish. “Take — take the sword — take the sword and...”

I bent and spoke gently into his ear.

“As Cymbaro is my witness, Strom Korden, I will take the sword to Hyr Kov Brannomar.”

Only Opaz knew if he heard me. When I straightened up the life had gone from him and he was dead.

I sat back on my heels for a moment and mentally consigned him to the protection of Cymbaro the Just.

Then I stood up briskly and looked about.

Scenes like this, although repeated often enough upon Kregen, always have the power to disturb. What this nobleman’s errand might be, to deliver the sword to Kov Brannomar, what the meaning was, I could not know. There was nothing else I could have done. Not a Krozair of Zy, not a Krovere of Iztar, not a koter of Vallia. Oh, no, I was bound by a sacred oath. I just hoped he had died with the comforting knowledge that he had done his duty as well as he could.

The sword must be the one he had gripped and used in his last fight. I bent and picked it up. There were plenty of black clothes to wipe the blade clean.

It was of that variety of sword more generally found in the easterly regions of Paz called a braxter. Nominally a straight cut and thruster it did have a slight and cunning curve to the blade. The steel rang with quality. The hilt was a plain affair of cross quillons and twisted silver wire grip. The only mark to distinguish it from a thousand other such braxters was the ruby set in the pommel. I judged the gem to be genuine although not of great value.

I took a deep breath and then expelled my breath in disgust. The sweet Kregish air lay flat and stinking on my tongue.

There was absolutely no use trying to force this sword into my shrunken and now useless scabbard. Strom Korden wore a plain leather belt about his waist, fastened by a bronze buckle. The lockets from which the simple scabbard swung were also of bronze. The whole rig was plain and workmanlike, a bladesman’s harness. The sword belonged in that scabbard and no other. With due reverence I unbuckled the belt and slid it from around the strom’s waist. I cleaned it up. I buckled it on and thrust the sword away. At that, by the Blade of Kurin, it felt right, far better than the rig I discarded.

Going around the dead bodies on the slight off chance one or two might still be alive, I found to my complete non-astonishment that all had been faithfully dealt with. These stikitches had known their trade and only the stout defense put up by Strom Korden had saved him for the short time left to discharge himself of his duty.

None of the armor available would fit me, that was obvious at a glance. Like any prudent warrior or paktun of Kregen who always tries to carry as much weaponry as is sensible and compatible with encumbrance and weight carried, I selected another braxter very like the sword I must carry to Kov Brannomar. I took its associated belt and scabbard and strapped on the rig. Also, I found a nice Bowie-type knife that could snug in the accustomed place I wore such a weapon, over my right hip. In addition, I availed myself of a quiver of arrows and a bow, one of the built and backed and heavily re-curved variety. No doubt my good blade comrade Seg Segutorio would have pulled a face; there were no great Lohvian longbows on offer.

As to transport, I rejected the carriage without hesitation. Still, I had a veritable remuda of zorcas at my disposal. Their spiral horns shone in the suns-light. Their wise spirited eyes regarded me warily; a clansman of the Great Plains of Segesthes knows well how to handle animals — voves, zorcas, chunkrahs — and I had no trouble.

The carriage itself had a schturval painted on the door, and this device denoting name, family, house or clan looked to be a stylized representation of a four-winged animal with a long tail and a double set of nasty looking teeth. Out of mythology, it was, and I had no idea of its name. Over its wicked head was painted a golden crown surmounting a helmet and two brailed scarves of red and blue trailed down tastefully.

There were also, I was extremely grateful to see, plenty of provisions, food and drink in good quantity and quality. There and then I tucked into a repast such as I had not tasted for far too long.

As I chewed and swallowed I reflected morosely on the injustice of the marvelous and terrible world of Kregen. Among the bodies lay six men each wearing a brown hooded robe like the one San Padria had worn. All had been chopped down and only three of them had used weapons, as was readily apparent. Also, there were bodies that made my lips thin unpleasantly.

Five of them, five young girls at the beginning of their adult lives, each pretty in her own way, each now lying dead with no future ahead at all. They wore multicolored gowns short as to hem and their legs just looked pathetic. Some had bells fastened around their ankles, and as you know I still had not made up my mind if this custom was tasteful or merely vulgar.

My feelings made me want to leave this spot immediately, yet I had at least to think about giving these poor folk decent burials. My mind was made up on the instant by the sight of more travelers approaching along the way I had traveled. I did not want to get into the inevitable hassle that would follow if I stayed around. Anyway, I had to get on and the newcomers could perform the funeral rites far better than I.

The zorcas pricked up their ears as I approached and some pawed the ground under the trees. One animal looked likely, a gray with eyes that appeared to be saying: “Ride me! I am the best!” I walked up to him, soothing him, and put my hand on his bridle. A glint of light in the dapple of suns shine beneath the trees and a hefty thwunk as the flung dagger sank into the tree trunk by my head made me instinctively swirl about and hunker down and the bow was in my left fist and the arrow nocked and half-drawn ready before I caught up with my reactions.

A shrill cracked voice screamed: “Assassin!”

In a voice that smacked back like a thunderclap I yelled: “I’m not an assassin, you fambly!” I was wrought up. “As Cymbaro is my witness, I am no stikitche!” Then I managed to quieten down a bit and finished in a less belligerent but no less loud voice: “Do I look like one?”

The voice, hesitant, choked, said: “No! But—”

“I can see you, hiding behind the carriage. Come out and show yourself or I’ll feather you between the spokes of the wheel.”

“If I had another dagger you’d talk differently!”

“Here!” I fairly snarled out. I reached up and wrenched the pretty jeweled thing from the tree trunk. “Have it back!”

I hurled it so that it stuck into the side of the carriage.

“There you are!”

In a hesitating almost sobbing voice, she said: “You’re stealing the strom’s zorca!”

I breathed out thinly through my nose.

“I’m not stealing him! I’m borrowing him!”

“That’s what they all say when they’re caught.”

“By the pendulous swag belly and monolithic veined thighs of Makki Grodno!” I bellowed out. I stood up and started across. “I’ve had enough of this. Come on out, miss, bratch!”

With the bow and shaft gripped in that cunning archer’s hold and my right fist bunched and half-c****d I must have made a daunting sight as I marched across. I own my face must have glowered out a great deal of that demonic expression folk call the Dray Prescot Devil Look.

“Up!” I said, and I snapped it out sharply, like an order rapped out on the barrack square. “Come on out.”

She wriggled her way out from under the carriage like a kitten squeezing through a narrow gap. Her pink dress was ripped all down the left side and flaps of it dangled. She made a half-hearted attempt to pull it up over her body. She stood up, breathing loudly. In her hands she cradled a bloody mess of hair. Tears stained down her cheeks and blood congealed all across the left side of her face and in her fair dusty hair. Whatever restraints had held that splendid hair were gone, smashed away in the blow that had done her damage, and despite the dust and blood her hair was truly a glory.

She saw me looking at the bloody mess she held so tightly against her, against her bare flesh where the pink dress flapped open. Some change of expression as I stared was reflected in the strange shift of color in her eyes, clear in the light of the suns, a swirl as of oil on water or silk drawn through the fingers. From green to gray her eyes mirrored my own change of expression.

“Bandi,” she said, in a small voice. “My little Bandi.” Tears trickled stickily down her dusty and bloodied cheeks.

The animal was a mili-milu, one of those small friendly monkey-like creatures women keep as pets, perched on their shoulders, quick and mischievous but delightful. This little fellow had done his duty by his mistress, for the savage blow that should have killed her outright had smashed the mili-milu and his death had softened the shock to the girl. She’d been lying unconscious and unnoticed under the vegetation-choked end of the carriage all the time.

In a voice I gentled as much as I could, I said: “Let me take Bandi and—”

“No!” she flared.

“People are coming along the road. I must leave before they arrive. They will see to the burials. Please.”

She was young, like the other girls on the threshold of life. Of medium height, she was fully formed and I saw her legs were muscled in that particular way of a dancer’s training. Despite all the horror she held herself well and her head struck defiantly erect.

I said: “Whatever — Strom Korden charged me with his last breath to do his duty. That I must do. So I shall say remberee.” I gave her a hard stare and turned to stalk off to the gray zorca. Over my shoulder I said: “Your dagger is stuck in the carriage door.”

My reaction to her refusal to surrender the mangled remains of her pet clearly puzzled her. If she was a normal young girl, and I saw no reason to doubt otherwise, she’d be in shock. Normalcy in dealing with her now was vital.

My own rather overbearing first impression on her had been met and challenged by her own innate courage. She was a dancer well enough, and I was vaguely pleased to see she wore no bells around her ankles, and she was well-muscled, lithe and acrobatic without doubt. A tough little lady, then, whose toughness was all sliding muscle and rounded forms without a single unsightly bulge. I continued to stalk off as she spoke.

“At least, tell me your name.”

“Drajak.”

“You are very abrupt.”

“Some people call me Drajak the Sudden. Now, if you—”

“I am called Tiri.”

As I made no response but once more laid my hand on the zorca’s bridle she flashed out with: “Tiri is short for Tirivenswatha.”

I couldn’t help saying, dryly: “I am glad to hear it. I have little truck with long names.”

“I think the Lady Balsitha has deformed your ibma.”

“As I do not know who the Lady Balsitha might be, nor yet what an ibma is, you must forgive me if I do not tremble in my shoes.”

And she laughed.

“What shoes?”

I looked down, startled, and, by Krun! it was true.

As a hardened old adventurer and a sailor used to treading hard decks going about barefooted is no novelty to me. Still and all, a decent pair of shoes wouldn’t come amiss. Somewhat disgruntled, I swung back.

Little time was spent in finding a good pair of shoes, tough of sole and soft of uppers as had been the others, and I hauled them on. The party walking and riding up the road were near by now. I straightened up and she surprised me again. Gravely, she handed me the red ruined remains of Bandi, her mili-milu.

Equally gravely I took the poor thing and then reverently placed it down beside the still form of Strom Korden. “They will give him a proper burial with the due observances.” I turned back to her.

She had taken a belt and scabbard and was pulling the buckle tight. The tongue went into just about the last hole about her slender waist. She stuck a braxter into the scabbard with a snap.

I nodded, half in approval half in amusement.

“Very good, young Tiri. Now it is remberee. Farewell.”

“No.”

“No?”

For an insane instant I thought she might offer to challenge me.

She picked up an embroidered bag near the carriage and walked across to the zorcas under the trees.

“No. I am coming with you.”

With that, she gave a strong athletic leap and was astride the gray zorca I had chosen and taking up his reins.

“Come on, Drajak the Sudden. What are you lollygagging about for?”

She swung the zorca’s head and cantered out onto the road. Perforce I clambered aboard another likely-looking animal and chik-chikked him along. The other zorcas followed.

Resignedly, feeling something of the emotions of a fellow caught in a hurricane where he had been expecting a mild breeze. I trotted along in her wake.

Now what little she-madam was I embroiled with this time?