Alan Akers - Captive Scorpio

The dead Rapa, Rojashin the Kaktu, had owned a silken string of seven rings, one of them gold. These were attached to the left shoulder of his harness. This symbol, usually, is referred to as the pakai. The pakai I now wore hung down by my left shoulder.

“You will remember, Zankov, when you seat yourself upon the throne in the palace of Vondium, and are duly crowned and given the Jikai as emperor, to whom you owe all your fortune? You will remember to whom you owe your loyalty and to whom you will dedicate your service and your life?”

Zankov twitched his fingers and nodded. He was so suffused with anticipatory glory he could not speak

— an unusual condition for him, I judged.

The door opened again — I could not see it; but it creaked upon a hinge — and a sharp hard voice said:

“Jens! Koters! Koteras! Trylon Udo has returned unexpectedly and is calling for-”

The speaker got no further. At once the people at the meeting started to rise and to gather their cloaks and weapons and, at that moment, I shifted incautiously, and the pakai struck its string of rings against my armor.

The sound rang like a carillon.

No wonder, I said to myself fiercely, no wonder I abhor dangling adornments. Flying tassels and trailing scarves and whirling belts are no fit gear for a fighting man.

Zankov glared up at the curtained mezzanine window.

“Up there!” he shouted. “Quick, you cramphs! Someone spies on us!”

He was quick enough on the uptake, I’ll give him that.

“Right, you nidge,” I said under my breath. “By the Black Chunkrah! I’ll sort you out and damned quick!”

I freed the longsword and prepared to leap down and slice them up a trifle. The thought of settling affairs with Zankov and with Stromich Ranjal pleased me mightily.

Then — and then, by Zair, I hesitated. I, Dray Prescot that wild leem of a fellow, took thought for events beyond the immediate prospect of a brisk bashing of skulls. My daughter Dayra was expected the day after tomorrow. Who knew what other villainy these fellows had planned? Far better to wait. Far better to be the calculating, cool, cunning Dray Prescot who took thought for the future and bided his time to strike.

So — as Zair is my witness — the Krozair longsword went snap back into the scabbard and I turned and ran back the way I had come so stealthily.

Even then it was nip and tuck. But I eluded them and I did not have to essay a single handstroke, which, I might add, displeased me at the time, for all my good resolutions. Back over the town stockade I went and avoided all trouble. I found my billet, all paid for, and bedded down. One day I had to live through without trouble, and then I would see Dayra and bring her out of this rasts’ nest.

The last thing I did before I slept was to rip off that damned jangling pakai and stuff it away in my gear. Confounded unwarrior-like trinket — it had nearly botched the whole affair.

I sat next morning in the early radiance of the Suns of Scorpio polishing up the armor. I had bought a choice breakfast of vosk rashers and loloo’s eggs, swilled down an inordinate amount of good Kregan tea, chewed a handful of palines, and now, stripped down to a breechclout — which was, incidentally, a normal sober yellow — sat companionably with a couple of other mercenaries hard at the task that would keep us alive on the day of battle.

We spoke in that rapid shorthand of warriors, at ease, knowing our own worth — or, at least, they did

— and bending diligently to our tasks.

The Rapa paktun’s armor had been fashioned from good quality iron with bronze fittings. The breast and back were molded, and so formed a quality kax, a corselet that covered the trunk and extended in a graceful curve below the belt and yet afforded free movement to the legs. I retained my own weapons. The longbow and longsword I kept covered; the other of my weapons excited no untoward comment, being a Vallian clanxer and a Valkan shortsword, and a rapier and main gauche. The Rapa’s spear was not a quality weapon; but I kept it for the color it afforded.

Nalgre the Shebov worked on his armor on the other side of the blanket. He was the seventh son of his family and had taken up the mercenary life as a release from farm work. Now he carefully buckled up his armor, a kax tralkish — what on Earth is called a lorica segmentata — and whistled cheerfully as he worked.

Dolan the Sling methodically oiled his scaled kax, seeing that each bronze scale was firmly affixed to the leather. At his right side his sling lay ready to hand. With a leaden lozenge-shaped bullet Dolan fancied his luck against any archer. But then, as he said, he had not faced a Bowman of Loh.

“Although, Jak the Kaktu,” he said, “we routed a bunch of Undurkers three, four seasons ago when we were working for the King of Sanderdrin. Quite a dust up, that was.”

“We’re likely to square up to Bowmen of Loh if they don’t win over the emperor’s guard,” said Nalgre.

“And damned quick.”

“Undurkers,” I said, rubbing the oiled rag methodically. “I had a dust-up with them a while back. Some Bowmen of Loh did for them, skewered ’em right through well beyond their range.”

“Which side were you on?”

“Well, by Vox, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“So you were on the right side.”

They laughed. The paktuns of Kregen can see the humor in the situation, when from day to day they may be victors or slain. It gives them the old zest to life.

A whole day to get through. Forty-eight burs to the day. Fifty murs to the bur. And a Kregan bur is roughly equal to forty terrestrial minutes. A long time to keep out of mischief for a wild leem of a fellow. Not that, recently, I’d felt much like a leem. Like a calsany, perhaps. And everyone knows what calsanys do when they get excited. Nalgre and Dolan talked on about the female warriors — Battle Maidens they called them, Jikai Vuvushis — and we sent a camp slave for a couple of bottles of parclear to ease our throats. The suns rolled across the heavens and everything was going splendidly, for these two like myself were tazll mercenaries, unemployed, determining to enlist with the trylon’s regiments or none. I did not tell them Udo had returned overnight; the information had not yet percolated through. Even when the dust of a squabble rose beyond the next row of tents I felt no inclination to become involved.

But when Nalgre and Dolan stood up and peered across and said: “That looks interesting,” I realized I would have to go, for to do otherwise would be most odd in a paktun. So we yelled at the camp slave — he was shared by the two comrades and for a fee I could join in the syndicate — to guard our gear. We strapped on a sword or two and ambled across to see the fun. The dust billowed up from a cleared space and rose over the heads of the gathered swods. I call them swods, P.B.I., soldiers; in truth they were much more of a hastily gathered rabble, with a leavening of hardened professionals among them. No doubt, given time, Trylon Udo would smarten them up. By the time they’d marched all the long way to Vondium they’d either be an army or they’d be long since dispersed. We had little difficulty in shoving our way to the front of the ring. Bets were being wagered all around, and the excitement fizzed.

The sharp smell of the dust peppered nostrils and stung eyes. I was pleased Nalgre had thought to bring a bottle of parclear, that sherbet drink that so refreshes. The noise blattered skywards. The Suns of Scorpio shone down. On the morrow I would see my daughter Dayra. I knew the house. This time I would not wear a stupid dangling clanging object and the Krozair longsword would find business. Two girls fought in the dust.