Alan Akers - A Life for Kregen

Well, poor fool, Dray Prescot. Instantly Rovard the Murvish spun his magical apparatus into wilder swings and sweeps and the reek of him puffed loathsomely into the anteroom. But I stood there, defying him. Poor fool indeed!

For, of course, I should have appeared to succumb. I should have pretended to fall under the hypnotic sway. In a deceit like that I could have carried off easily enough, I fancy, lay the way to learn much. But I did not. I do not think it was pride, pride that showed itself in my unsought ability to withstand his sorcery. For I have little truck with pride. Rather, it was a sheerly warrior’s reaction, an instinct to fight back when attacked.

So, for a space, we stood there, locked in psychic combat.

And then — by Zair! — and then the horrifying numbness began to eat at my brain and the anteroom spun dizzily about me and I staggered, brought low as a tree is brought low when floods eat away its roots.

The stink of smoke clinging in the anteroom mingled with the stench from Rovard. My head felt unscrewed, ready to lift off as a voller lifts off, and spin away and up into the vasty reaches beyond the stars. I had traveled between the stars, carried along by the Star Lords, and the queasy sensation in my guts acted as an unpleasant tonic to afford me an antidote to that drifting, rising, floating sensation of helplessness.

If the Star Lords who held such potent sway over my affairs on Kregen had given me protection, if Zena Iztar to whom I looked for help had spun a dazzling net of defense for me, I needed that help now. One of the troubles with me, I often feel, is that I am not flesh, fowl or good red herring. I hover and drift between roles and if, as friends have assured me, that is a part of strength, it’s a peculiar form of strength when compared with the single-mindedness of those who know exactly what they want and go hell for leather for it and devil take anyone who gets in their way.

Probably that feeling, dredged from the hidden themes fundamental to my nature, is why I take such joy in adopting disguises and assuming different names. My story so far will make much clear; I do know that when Rovard sought to dominate me and thrust his will power down over mine as a man cloaks a beast before he slits its throat, he aroused such a storm of rejection that I have the nasty feeling that even if the Star Lords and Zena Iztar had not pressed the sign of their protection upon me I might have resisted him. And — I had sworn to myself not to lose my temper.

I staggered and almost fell. The waves of psychic power beat upon me as the tides of Kregen beat upon the rocks of the sea shores. I staggered; but I did not fall.

I glared back. My hand did not grope toward the rapier hilt. I made no physical move save to plant my feet firmly on the rugs. I battled. I used that same will power I had sought to use against the Star Lords and so prevent them from hurling me back to Earth. I struggled. It was done. Do not ask me how it was done.

I was standing up, tall, wide-shouldered, and Rovard was vomiting all over the rugs, a vile stream as he retched and choked.

Norgoth let out a howl of pure frustration.

And Ralton laughed.

The woman screamed.

The Rapa touched a secret latch and the steel hoop sprang open and then, poor fool, he stood gaping witlessly as nothing sprang foaming and clawed in death toward my throat. Norgoth glared around, his eyes rolling up as his sorcerer vomited and vomited upon the rugs.

“There is a greater sorcery here,” he said. He looked wild, frightened and yet still bolstered by remnants of his own imagined strength. “A Wizard of Loh. There is a Wizard of Loh near and he thwarts all.”

I shook my head. I was amused.

“Not so.”

As though he took my words as a signal, for they were true as far as I knew, Norgoth acted. For all the magical powers I believed assisted me, I remained a mortal man still. Maybe there were no sorcerous powers. Maybe my dip in the Pool of Baptism was enough. Perhaps the Savanti nal Aphrasoe had exerted some influence. But, for all that, I was a mere mortal man and could be slain by steel. On those spindly legs Norgoth leaped.

He did not lack courage. His hand closed on my rapier hilt and I realized with a shock that the sorcerer’s attack had left me weak, weak and slow.

My own hand clamped on his before he could draw. He would have done better to have tried for the left-hand dagger. For a space we struggled. He struck me in the face with the brass-studded back of his glove, and I took the blow and felt the sticky wetness and so gave him back the buffet. He sprawled back. His gross body balanced wonderfully upon those thin and ludicrous legs and he did not fall. But he collided with the woman. She pushed him off with a curse and tried to stick her nails into my eyes. I swayed and tripped her and I did not hit her as she went down.

Ralton remained standing, steadfast, unmoving.

The sorcerer now held his guts under the stinking pelts and groaned and gagged and rolled his eyes, which had reappeared from wherever they had been during his demonstration of sorcerous powers. The Rapa kept fiddling with his steel chain and collar and made no move against me. I hauled the woman up by the collar of her tunic and stood her on her feet and pushed her at Norgoth. The two clung. Well, they were fit partners, I judged.

Then, with a fine swing and panache, the guards threw open the door and the anteroom filled with twinkling steel.

“Hold!” I bellowed. “All is in order. See that the deputation from Layco Jhansi is assisted on its way back. They are returning — now !”

At this, Ralton Dwa-Erentor took a step forward, his face strained, puzzled, and his right hand half extended.

I looked at him, a straight, level, demanding glare.

“My thanks, Ralton Dwa-Erentor. I recall your sleeth — Silverscale, I think — gave my zorca a fine run. But sleeths will never best zorcas. Go back to Jhansi and remember this.”

He took my meaning.

“I will, majister.”

So I stood aside as the guards, tough, no-nonsense Pachaks, saw the embassy out. The woman favored me with a long look of loathing. The Rapa held the steel collar open, and his vulturine face with the arrogant beak exhibited expected joy at once more beholding his pet, whatever ferocious beast it might be. The sorcerer, Rovard the Murvish, had to be assisted out. Green foam-flecked slime dribbled from his beard. And, I swear it, his eyes were crossed as he left.

The last to leave was Malervo Norgoth.

He said, “I shall carry your words to Kov Layco. But I do not think he will be discomfited by them.”

“Words won’t hurt you,” I said, most cheerfully, “unless a Wizard utters them, and then only if you are credulous. Tell him there is a length of rope waiting for him, with a loop at the end. I fancy it will snug right tightly up under his ear when the time comes.”

“When the time comes, Dray Prescot, the rope will be around your neck.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt I deserve it. But Jhansi will be there first to show me the way.”

So they left and there was no Remberees between us, and I was told that they did not observe the fantamyrrh — except Ralton Dwa-Erentor.

Taking myself off to the Sapphire Reception Room I reflected that there was little in this to please. The exhibition to which I had just been treated ruled out the possibility of thinking about the offer of alliance from Jhansi. But then, could the offer have been genuine? My reactions in more or less having the embassy slung out must have been right, instinctively right. And I had promised myself not to flare up into that old intemperate rage. Almost, I had broken that promise. I tried not to feel smug as I went back to the people waiting for the news.