Turmoil on Kregen

Chapter one

Chapter oneDelia said: “You put one needle like this, the other needle thus and place the wool just so. Then turn — oh, no!”

Like a slippery eel a needle fell from my fumbling fingers and tinkled on the marble floor of the high balcony.

“You fambly, Dray Prescot.” She reached down in a flowing motion of pure beauty and caught the needle up in her slender fingers that could wield a sword with the strength of steel. “Try again. Like this.”

“Yes, my heart,” I said — very meekly.

Once again the wool curled like a tentacle of a monster of myth and the needles went every which way. “Sink me!” I burst out. “I’ll not be beat by confounded knitting!”

“And quite right, too,” said Inch, all the seven feet length of him lounging out onto the balcony. “Anyway, I thought you could knit. Sasha taught me ages ago.”

From up here on this secluded balcony of the castle palace of Esser Rarioch all the splendid panorama of the City and Bay of Valkanium lay spread out beneath us. The early morning shimmered with the promise of a wonderful day. A light perfumed zephyr stole among the brilliance of the flowers bowering this niche of beauty. This, indeed, was what it was to feel young and alive on Kregen under the Suns of Scorpio!

Well, of course, I should have known better. The world of Kregen is undeniably supremely beautiful. It is also dark and terrible and menace forever lurks not far away.

Inch sat himself down in his fashion of curling those long legs away neatly. He wore a brass chain about his neck with a simply enormous padlock dangling on his morning tunic. The end of the chain vanished into the doorway — and here came Sasha, laughing, holding the brass links like a dog’s lead.

“And dear Inch made a fist of it at first, Dray — so do not despair.” She shook the chain gently so that it chingled.

Neither Delia nor myself questioned the meaning of the padlocked chain. Inch was from Ng’groga where life was dominated by Taboos. He’d broken a Taboo and was now doing penance. At least he’d not been at the squish pie, which he loved inordinately, for then he’d be standing on his head.

“True,” said Inch, equably. “What I wanted was — well, now that disgusting Spectre has been destroyed we have more problems.”

“Surprise me.”

“There are rumors up north of restlessness. The racters—”

“What!” said Delia, sitting up. “They conspired against my father. He was murdered. They disappeared. Don’t say—” She did not go on. Once the most powerful political party in Vallia, the racters had vanished as a cohesive force. Totally committed to gaining their selfish ends by whatever means they could, they had sought to rule all Vallia. Rich and powerful, they had at last been overcome during the Time of Troubles. Now Vallia was liberated and the emperor Drak and the empress Silda ran the country with benign hands.

I stood up and walked to the carved marble balustrade. If true, this news was bad — very bad. There was no doubt in my mind that my lad Drak was the best for Vallia. I had to believe he would handle this crisis — if it came to that — with his usual tact and firmness.

Speaking carefully, Inch went on: “There have been meetings. Mercenaries are being recruited. It is said, and it seems likely, this is the work of the grandchildren of those racters we defeated.”

The perfume of the flowers wafted sweetly all about and a little brown scorpion waddled along the balustrade towards me. “Dray Prescot!” The scorpion’s voice sounded harshly metallic.

Neither Inch nor Sasha could see or hear the scorpion. I spoke to the thing and I knew they could not hear me either. “Not now!”

“Onker! Look up!”

A sensation as of an agonizing groan shocked right through me. “Not now!” I said; but I looked up.

Oh, yes, there he was, planing in tight circles above with the twin sunslight striking in gold and scarlet glory from his feathers.

One black beady eye c****d a look of great calculation as he swung about above us. Delia did not gasp. She took my arm in that firm powerful grasp and I put my hand over hers. So, together, we looked up and waited for whatever of misfortune the Gdoinye would bring.

The squawk racketed down like the rip of a rusty saw.

“Dray Prescot! Onker! Emperor of Onkers!”

My free hand curled into a fist and tightened around the hilt of the rapier buckled up over the morning lounging robe. As you know, Kregans on most occasions of social life find it prudent to carry a weapon or two — preferably three or four. I’d contented myself with a rapier and left-hand dagger. Plus, of course, my old sailor knife snugged over my right hip. The rapier hilt bit into my skin, so fierce the desperation filling me.

“You failed to complete your assigned task in the Dawn Lands.”

Was there a squawking note of petty triumph in the Gdoinye’s words? Mayhap. I did not think so. He was the spy and messenger for the Star Lords and performed his duties to his own obscure satisfaction. Now he planed about with the Suns of Scorpio striking refulgently from his plumage. “The duty is urgent, onker. Urgent.”

Delia looked about, expecting to see the Gdoinya, the twin sister, which called her for missions for the Everoinye. Only the single great raptor sailed against the blue brightness of the day.

“When,” called up my Delia in the sweetest voice in two worlds, “when, oh great boaster, is it never most urgent?”

“Ha!” I exclaimed, both vastly amused and proud of Delia, Delia of the Blue Mountains, Delia of Delphond.

The Gdoinye swirled lower, flirting a wing as he banked in the turn. “You have the right of it, my lady. With the Everoinye it is always most urgent.” His tones did not racket down in a raucous squawk. Rather, they sounded downright respectful. Marvel of marvels! But then, naturally, even so supernatural a fellow as this fell under the spell of Delia’s poise and charm — and shrewdness, not to say downright cunning. “My lady, I bid you remberee.” This astonished me even more. Then, in the old intemperate screech: “Be about your business, emperor of onkers, so that the Everoinye may shed their light upon you.”

With that the Gdoinye winged up and away and the world filled with the pulsating blue light of the Giant Scorpion.

There was just time for me to cry out: “Delia! My heart!”

There was just time for Delia to call: “I know! My love—”

Then the sundering wash of blue radiance tore us apart.

What a tempestuous and frustrating life I led on Kregen! The damn Star Lords kept on hurling me away from all I held dear, tearing out the very roots of my being. There was no redress. No, by the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! Because I possessed the yrium, that marvelous and wonderful and hateful super-charisma, the Everoinye had chosen me to be their instrument in bringing all the islands and continents of Paz together to resist the Shanks who raided from around the curve of the world.

So be it. I’d do the dirty work at the speed of light, then hightail it back to all I wanted on Kregen or Earth.

The monstrous shape of the Scorpion formed and bore me away. That dratted Phantom Giant Blue Scorpion of the Star Lords whisked me aloft into winds and bluster. The Everoinye were adept at fashioning concealments for my sudden departures as I knew from conversations with those who’d been around when I’d gone — ha! Gone! Ripped away, more like. My slippered feet hit a soft mass and I sank down thigh-deep into clinging snow.

The first thing I noticed was — it was cold! Cuttingly cold.

The next item to take my attention — and this despite Zim and Genodras shining away up there in full daylight — was a shimmering vibration in the air and a trembling vibration through the snow. A noise like a million leems coughing rumbled through the frigid air.

A voice cut like the very chill all around: “Dray Prescot!”

Turning at once I stared up slope. The mingled red and green beams of sunslight streaked the whiteness of the snow. Tiny shards of glitter spiked up from the surface. Upslope a handsome wooden chalet promised refuge from the bitterness all about. My morning robe did nothing to keep me warm.

“Dray Prescot!” The voice rose, hectoring. “Come on! Hurry!”

“I’m hurrying, confound you, Otto the Lance!”

He looked just the same as the last time I’d seen him. He wore his black leathers over a mail shirt and was girded with weapons. Oh, and, of course, seeing he was a darling of the Star Lords, he had a voluminous ponsho fleece wrapped about him. His remarkable hat, very tall-crowned, still sported its aigrette of faerling feathers.

“I’ve told you not to call me Otto. At the moment I’m using the name Starson.” His bright angular face with that black bar of a moustache looked to be more worried than he’d admit to. He swung an arm up, pointing back. “Can’t you see!”

All this had taken but a few moments. I could see all right. Up there it looked as though the whole world was falling on us in a smothering welter of snow. The noise boomed on and on, louder and louder. White billows rolled and gushed and tumbled remorselessly down.

Avalanche!

The neat chalet stood directly in the path of the roaring tide and would be swept away headlong.

As Otto — or Starson — said, there was little time. We must hurry.

The snow churned away around my legs. The damned stuff impeded the slightest movement. Plunging up and down I ploughed my way up. “And if you’re Starson now, well, I’m still Jak.”

Just before he turned around to fight his way up through the snow, he called: “Aye! Jak the Sudden.”

Steam gushed from our mouths and nostrils. The awe-inspiring sight of the avalanche spurred us on. The thing would engulf the chalet and tear it to pieces and scatter the bits all the way down the mountainside.

No need to ask why we two kregoinyi had been catapulted here by the Star Lords. Someone crouched shivering in the chalet with the thunder of approaching doom in their ears. Probably they were far too frightened to think of running out and trying to escape. As we neared the wooden building I began to think we’d be swept away, too.

“Hurry, man, hurry!” His harsh voice rasped as the steam plumed from his mouth.

Saving my breath for fighting through the snow I quickened my pace. Stubbornness and silly puffed-up pride made me forge on and overtake this Otto, self-styled Starson. He favored me with a bitter glance as I went by so that, although I didn’t smile, I gleed a trifle. In addition, I plead in mitigation of my childish behavior two points. One, we were in a hurry and the quicker I got there the better. And, second, I said absolutely nothing in the way of suggesting he follow his own precept of urgency.

The roaring snow monster bore down on us, closer and closer.

The damned white clinging stuff clung all right. I’ve never liked snow. Never have. As I trudged on, every step a battle to lift the leg and thrust it forward and so down and the next leg up and down, I came across a deep rutted line carved into the snow, curving away to the left. There were two lines in parallel and the crystal glitter in the runnels showed they’d been made recently.

Whether or not I felt any sensation in my feet when I stamped them on the wooden steps of the porch I cannot say. Just thankful to be out of the damned snow I bashed the double doors open and plunged on through. A comfortable residence for a mountain retreat, the place spoke eloquently of money. The furnishings all were of good taste. That, at the moment, was a matter of supreme indifference to me.

“Where are you?” I bellowed. “Come on. Hurry!”

Starson bundled up at my back, yelling: “Kov! Kov!”

He pushed past, for I’d halted as my gaze fell on the coat rack by the door. The row of pegs supported a single ponsho fleece garment. On the floor below stood a single pair of bulky felt boots.

Racegoers speak with awe of the fabled zorca Fleet-hooves. He won every race in which he was entered. He led from the starting post to the finish. Famous and fabled though he was, he’d been dead these past two centuries — his name lived on.

If Fleet-hooves had started with me as we raced for the ponsho fleece and the boots, I’d have been wearing them whilst he was still thinking about lifting those fabled hooves on the start line.

Starson went yelling about the chalet and the onrushing rumble of the avalanche battered at our senses, battling with his shouts.

He came bursting in from the inner door waving his arms.

“There’s no one here!”

“Then let us depart.”

The noise rolled unbearably upon us. The floor shook. The far wall broke inwards in a smothering welter of snow. The whole chalet lifted and tilted. We were thrown toppling sideways as the chalet about us flew to flinders. Everything turned white and then black.

The avalanche bore everything away to oblivion.