Wrath of Antares

Chapter one-2

Now although in many manufacturing processes there will be unpleasant wastes, on Kregen the amounts were so small that Mother Nature could deal with them without trouble. Kregan water is not filled with impurities. Still, Kregans use a simple and effective method of water purification. Water from source is run through beds of heather. This needs to be old heather with hairy stalks so that the solids are trapped and pure water flows through. I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that Kregan water is a superb drink on its own. Mind you, Beng Dikkane and his ales do have a salutary effect on the original liquid!

Still wrapped in bright yellow bandages I grew stronger each day. When I asked for a sword so that practice could be taken I admit I was surprised when Shalli trotted in holding my drexer in its scabbard as though it were infected with some deadly disease.

She held it out, her snub nose wrinkling in distaste.

All her reactions to a weapon were perfectly understood by me. Gravely, I said: “Thank you, Shalli.” Then, unable to keep my black-fanged winespout shut, quite unnecessarily, I added: “A weapon is merely an object. The person wielding it is—” Then I stopped myself from this preachy babbling, and turned away, and sat on the bed.

So, after that, I was able to go through the exercises of a sword. My muscles objected at first; very quickly suppleness and speed returned. Because of my dip in the Sacred Pool in far Aphrasöe wounds healed quickly. The calamitous rock fall had broken bones, cut and lacerated me, given me a fine old headache. But I mended so rapidly that the three little nurses pursed up their lips in surprise.

All the same, Doctor Drewinger kept on with his damned Clonset Jibr’chun. Bound about like a mummy I stretched and thrust, parried and riposted against shadows.

There was no denying I’d get better far faster than Doctor Drewinger and Mistress H’Havalini could imagine. There was no real need for the close-wrapped bandages. They began to interfere with my sword exercises. Surreptitiously, I loosened the yellow cloth here and there at vital places to allow easier movement. After that the drexer turned into the familiar blur of silver as it hissed through the air.

Still, by the Black Chunkrah, I was not up to standard yet!

Whatever damage had been done to my head must be getting better for pain struck only now and then and the Bells of Beng-Kishi donged and dinged away to blessed silence.

All this made me realize that I’d been cooped up for goodness knows how long. I needed a good long walk in the fresh air.

The only problem with that ambition was that I was located in the heart of a mountain. Still, a brisk stroll through the various chambers and passages ought to start the blood pumping. Accordingly, when the little Och nurse came in with a bowl of gunk that, to be sure, tasted very fine, I drank it off, said thank you nicely, and then went on: “And now, Solana, I am going for a walk.” I handed her the bowl and set off for the door.

Her alarm became at once visible. “Majister—” She stammered something about it being far too early for me to venture out. “What Doctor Drewinger will say I daren’t imagine.”

Assuring her that she would not get into trouble on my account I went out and stalked along the carpeted passage under the glow of lamps held in the hands of statues of various interesting kinds. The window in the bedroom, of course, had been merely decorative. There were more fake windows with painted vistas beyond. At least, I assumed they were pictures. With an Illusionist of W’Watchun’s skill they could be real phantom fields and trees out there.

By the time I turned the corner at the end I was already feeling more cheerful, although nothing would lift the blackness of spirit that permanently engulfed me. One just had to go on.

The belt supporting the sword cinched tight around my waist. Sheer habit impelled me to take the weapon. Oh, and, yes, this was Kregen and on that tremendous and dangerous world having a handy weapon is more often than not a vital item of survival.

Inevitably, my steps took me in the direction of the three tunnels. No one appeared to be about, and I guessed Solana had run off to tell the good doctor of my misdeeds. Entering the center tunnel and starting along it I walked in a most sober, most grave, most despairing way. Had Delia been a phantom? Had she been snatched to safety in time?

The end of the tunnel, past the place where the debris from the fall had been cleared away, took me out onto that narrow, wind-blown ledge. The colossal scale of the chasm below impressed me all over again. Standing with my back pressed against the stone I could see the clouds writhing down there as the wind blew. A few birds wheeled and cavorted. The place struck me suddenly as entirely abhorrent.

I began to turn away to re-enter the cave leading to the tunnels. A glint of silver at the corner of my eye brought me back to stare out once more. The silver was no illusion, no trick of the eye.

Starting from the lip of the precipice, just beyond my feet, a silvery bridge extended out across the gulf. I gaped at it. Pretty silver lamps were strung above the walkway. High clouds dissipated the red and green lights of the twin suns. The lamps burned brighter even as I watched.

The bridge was there. There could be no doubt among all my troubled doubts about that statement of fact.

Now the Illusionist, San W’Watchun, and I had been getting along capitally during the recent events surrounding the protection of his famous Wall and my destruction of the Prism of Power. But it was still fresh in my memory how he had tricked me into believing I had never been to Kregen, that I was still stuck in the Royal Navy back on the Earth of my birth, four hundred light years away. He’d stopped pestering me to learn the secret of gunpowder. He appeared genuine.

Tentatively I put a foot on the slats of the bridge. If W’Watchun wanted to get rid of me, seeing me of no further use to him, he might guess I’d accept this challenge. Then, halfway across, he’d fold the bridge and I’d plummet down there into the gulf.

The bridge felt firm. It did not sway as it ought, given its construction and the strength of the breeze. With one foot on the silvery bridge and the other on the precipice lip, I pondered. This reminded me of having one foot on shore and the other in the boat. When the boat moved away with the current, then, splash! in you went.

A breath sucked deeply into my lungs, chest out, head up, I put the other foot onto the bridge and took a couple of steps forward.

With a jolt that staggered me so that I grabbed at the handrail, the slats underfoot began to move smoothly on. The handrail kept pace. Holding on, balanced, I was carried forward over the abyss.

“Sink me!” I said, aloud, both annoyed and relieved. “Old W’Watchun has really scrambled my brains with all his illusions.”

Of course! I should have realized at once. I was being summoned by the Star Lords.

With that established I could anticipate what would come. I would ask. The Everoinye would reply. But — would they? Might they not as they so often did fob me off? ‘That is not for you to know.’ How many damned times had they said that in their lofty way?

Well, this time the occasion was far more important — nothing else was even remotely comparable in importance — so I’d keep on asking. I’d lose my temper. I’d rant and rave. What I determined was that I’d not lift a finger ever again to assist the Star Lords. Never!

That was settled. Queyd-arn-tung! No more need be said.

Over the seasons since my arrival upon Kregen the Star Lords had used a number of different ways to transport me into their august presence. There had been a variety of locations in which they’d interviewed me. The sheer awesomeness of this being taken up — or it could as easily be down — to face superhuman people continued to make me feel a trifle queasy as to the guts. Oh, yes, by Krun, I’d yelled at their spy and messenger, the Gdoinye. It was nowhere as easy to rant and rave at them.

The bridge continued to slide smoothly on towards the distant cloud bank. Beyond there I’d probably find an impressive golden gateway, or a series of passages along which chairs hissed rapidly. Whatever lay ahead, I hoped the Everoinye would provide a welcome glass of wine. By Mother Zinzu the Blessed — I would welcome that!

The blueness struck with supernatural swiftness. Cold and wind and penetrating blueness everywhere enveloped me. I glanced up. Yes, there he was, the Giant Blue Scorpion, leering down on me, snatching me away from the bridge, hurling me — somewhere.

Even as I tumbled head over heels through the blue void, I snarled to myself: “By Vox! Can’t they make up their confounded minds which way they want to summon me?”

Only when my shoulder blades thumped onto hard ground did the realization hit me that the Blue Scorpion really did come from the Everoinye. They’d snatched me off the silvery bridge. Perhaps, after all, that bridge was a product of W’Watchun’s sorcery.

There was no time to ponder anything other than to take in the scene before me and to act. My job for the Star Lords involved being hurled into perilous situations to rescue somebody. I took that seriously; the Emperor of All Paz bit I still found difficult to swallow. So I just ripped out the sword and charged.

If the truth be told, I suppose that after all my trials and tribulations and frustrations, the sheer act of laying about me with a blade vented the bad humors. This would get the blood flowing. I trusted to Kurin that the internal blood would be mine. As for the external, well, these were a pack of villains for sure. In this attitude I own to the shame of it — but, remember, this was Kregen.

A rutted and dusty road ran through a little glade among overhanging trees. The temperature felt much as it had been in Winlan, from which I’d been transported. A farm wagon stood with a broken front wheel, tilted over to the side. There was no sign of draught animals, mytzers, probably. The traces were cut and the animals had fled, frightened by the clamor of battle.

Dead bodies encumbered the ground as I ran swiftly on.

The mercenaries guarding the wagon had fought well and earned their hire. Their dead lay intermingled with the bodies of the men attacking them — fighting men who wore short red capes.

There was therefore no problem over whose side I was to assist. Two guards were left, being attacked by four of the red-caped men. Then I checked. Directly before me a fellow whose right arm had been cut off and which lay at his side, reared up despairingly. He was close to death.

His face was a mere mask of blood over ashen features. His eyes were pits of blackness. He tried to shout and blood gushed from his mouth. His armor was riven. He coughed blood and as I reached him he lifted his left hand imploringly. He must have seen me arrive. He husked out words all blood-spattered.

“Kregoinye! In the — wagon—”

He fell back, exhausted to death.

I shouted as I raced past. “Kregoinye, dom. May you traverse the Ice Floes of Sicce safely!”

One of the guards was down. The other swept his blade one way and a return thrust skewered him. He toppled over, shrieking.

So there were four of these Dokerty-lovers for me to deal with. Something caught at my legs and I almost tripped over. Dragging myself upright I roared on. Two swift cuts, left and right, and there were only two opponents left. As I swirled around to accept the onslaught I felt once more something clutch at my legs.

Red cape flaring, the first leaped at me. He raised his sword. Moving smoothly to deflect the blow and riposte, I felt my legs as though caught in a vice. I spared a swift glance down.

Yellow bandages! By Zair, the damned bandages had unraveled and now they were entwined about my legs like a man-trap. A yellow trail abaft me showed how they’d undone and straggled free to trip me up. I fell over.

The fellow’s face was contorted with hatred and the desire to kill me. His mouth ricked open in a murderous snarl. He started to swing the blade down at my head.

With startling suddenness a throwing-knife sprouted from his eye. It made that typical sound — ter-chick! — as it went in. He screamed and fell away.

A light, silvery, altogether wonderful voice at my back called: “And now what mess have you dropped yourself into, Dray Prescot?”