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    Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]
    Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]
    Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]
    Ebook255 pages8 hours

    Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]

    By Alan Burt Akers

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    Never before in his adventurous career under the double suns of Antares had Dray Prescot been in as desperate a situation as he found himself on his second entry into the city of Magdag. Magdag had been the scene of one of Prescot's earliest experiences on Kregen and he recalled it with loathing as a city of power-lusting slavers, of decadent worshippers of the Green Sun. As one who had been initiated into the chivalric order of Krozairs, he despised all that that city stood for.

    But now Prescot was an outcast. Any Krozair, any follower of the Red Sun of his former friends, would slay him on sight. For him there was only one way to recover his home, his children, his self-respect. He would have to perform an act of valor so extreme, so fabulous, that its glory would wash away all that now stained his name. Only by reaching to the very heart of mighty Magdag could he hope to achieve such a suicidal triumph.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMushroom Publishing
    Release dateDec 14, 2011
    ISBN9781843195283
    Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13]
    Author

    Alan Burt Akers

    Alan Burt Akers is a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer, who died in December 2005 aged eighty-four.Bulmer wrote over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction, both under his real name and numerous pseudonyms, including Alan Burt Akers, Frank Brandon, Rupert Clinton, Ernest Corley, Peter Green, Adam Hardy, Philip Kent, Bruno Krauss, Karl Maras, Manning Norvil, Dray Prescot, Chesman Scot, Nelson Sherwood, Richard Silver, H. Philip Stratford, and Tully Zetford. Kenneth Johns was a collective pseudonym used for a collaboration with author John Newman. Some of Bulmer's works were published along with the works of other authors under "house names" (collective pseudonyms) such as Ken Blake (for a series of tie-ins with the 1970s television programme The Professionals), Arthur Frazier, Neil Langholm, Charles R. Pike, and Andrew Quiller.Bulmer was also active in science fiction fandom, and in the 1970s he edited nine issues of the New Writings in Science Fiction anthology series in succession to John Carnell, who originated the series.

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      Book preview

      Renegade of Kregen [Dray Prescot #13] - Alan Burt Akers

      Chapter one

      We ride into Magdag

      We rode, Duhrra of the Days and I, into Magdag. Magdag, the city of the megaliths, the chief city of the Grodnims, those devoted followers of Grodno the Green, stank in our nostrils, us followers of the true path of Zair.

      This place is a cesspit of vileness. Duhrra spat, juicily, into the dust of the roadway. It should be smashed like my hand and cauterized like my stump.

      Amen to that, Duhrra. You know I am taking ship here for Vallia. You are gladly welcome to join me. If you wish to smash and cauterize Magdag, kindly give me time to go aboard and weigh.

      He gazed at me, his big moonface sweating, his foolish-seeming mouth gaping.

      Duh — you’re a hard man, Dak.

      Aye — and I should be harder. Now shut your black-fanged wine-spout. Here is a pack of Magdag devils in person.

      We slumped in our saddles and half closed our eyes and let our heads droop on our breasts as we rode past a body of Magdaggian sectrixmen riding toward the west. I did not even bother to fleer them a searching glance as we lumbered by. Ahead lay the fortress city of Magdag, a place of great power and great evil, and I wished only to take myself as speedily as possible aboard a galleon from Vallia and tell her captain to sail me home as fast as his vessel could sail, home to Vallia and Valka.

      Home — back to Esser Rarioch, my high fortress overlooking the bay and Valkanium, home to Delia and the twins!

      The dusty road led straight to the western gate, an imposing structure of many levels, battlemented, loopholed, a tough nut to crack in any siege. The road itself thronged with people coming and going, for as a large and prosperous city Magdag demanded the unremitting toil of many hands to keep its belly fed. Here, on the green northern shore of the inner sea, those working hands would be slave.

      Shadows of the gate dropped about us. The smells began in earnest. I intended to talk to no one. Straight to the harbor — the nearest of the numerous harbors of Magdag — and there seek information on the first ship of Vallia; yes, that was the plan. If I had to wait a sennight or so I felt I could just support the extra torment, for I had suffered much of late. The twin Suns of Scorpio streamed their mingled light upon the walls and battlements of the city, giving the evil place a spurious grandeur and glory. All the light and color of two worlds cannot in the end disguise true evil. So I thought then and, by Zair, so I think now.

      The stupid sectrixes with their six legs and their blunt stubborn heads sensed the ending of their day’s labors and a comfortable stall and food, and they speeded up their lumbering trot. Maybe they were not so stupid after all. Jogging awkwardly up and down we passed the lofty pointed arch of the gateway beneath the hard, incurious stares of Magdaggian soldiery, hired mercenaries mostly, with a few Homo sapiens among them, and turned sharp right-handed for the harbor area.

      The eternal sounds of a great city rose about us, mingling with the stinks. The shadows clustered.

      And remember, Duhrra. You wear the green. Think like a Grodnim. Look like a Grodnim. Act like a Grodnim.

      Aye, Dak my master. Uh — Think, look, and act like a devil.

      Aye.

      He shifted the stump of his right arm, severed at the wrist, and folded swathing rags more securely to conceal his hook.

      I do not forget I wear the red beneath all this green.

      That is well. Do not forget and strip off and reveal all to everyone. In all else — forget.

      He caught the tone of my voice and hawked and spat again and we cantered through the deepening twilight toward a certain sailors’ tavern where news was to be had. The shadows lengthened.

      A line of beggars along the decaying inner wall cried out and held up pitiful mutilations, rattling their wooden begging bowls. These were men who had been used by the overlords of Magdag in war, and being wounded or rendered unfit for further duty, had been cast off. They were not even of use as slaves.

      Somewhere a few good days’ ride back to the west lay the corpses of half a dozen devils of Magdag. The gold and silver oars that had once jingled in their purses made the same bright sounds in ours. Money has no cares over its owners. I drew out a handful of copper obs, that almost universal single-value copper coin of Kregen, and threw them, one by one, at the beggars as we passed. The act gave me no pleasure.

      Grodno bless you, gernu! May the delights of Gyphimedes be yours tonight, gernu! The babbling cries lifted as we rode past. The gutter ran with slime here. May you sup with Shagash, gernu! The sweet Greenness of Grodno upon you, gernu!

      I kept my ugly old face iron-hard as we passed. There was every chance, had this scene been enacted fifty years ago here, that some of those men might have come by their afflictions at the end of my longsword. Duhrra’s sectrix pushed close.

      Waste of obs, he said.

      Aye.

      My thoughts pained me. In Holy Sanurkazz, the chief city of the Zairians of the southern shore of the inner sea, sights like this, of maimed and blinded men piteously begging, were almost unknown. The various orders of chivalry of Zair saw to that. That was one of their prime functions besides the greatest function of all, which was their sacred duty, the destruction of everything of the Green and of Grodno upon the Eye of the World. My thoughts should not pain me. Once I had been a Krozair of Zy, a member of the Krozair Order held in highest repute. I had been ejected, ignominiously thrown out, declared Apushniad, my longsword broken. Of all the fancy titles I held on Kregen, only being a Krozair of Zy had meant much to me. Now I must push all thoughts of the Krzy away. I was for home, for Vallia and Valka. And, too, I do my wonderful four-armed warrior Djangs a grave injustice if I say I did not hold being their king as of high importance and meaning in my life.

      The names of places that have special significances to me ring and resound in my head. At that time, apart from Felschraung and Longuelm, which were not places but the names of my wild Clansmen of Segesthes, a number of names could move me.

      Strombor. Valka. Djanduin.

      Yes, and Felteraz, too, here in the Eye of the World where I had been cruel to Mayfwy, widow of my oar-comrade Zorg. I can remember my thoughts, triggered by that pitiful line of broken men, mulling and jangling in my skull and giving me not so much a headache as an infernal feeling of wishing to get home to my Delia and finding some sense in this beautiful and horrific world of Kregen. I was just thinking that, too, under my alias of Hamun ham Farthytu, Paline Valley in Hamal had meaning for me, when I caught the suppressed breathing from the shadows of the next archway, the incautious chink of steel.

      The reins tautened under my fingers and I slowed the eager sectrix. Duhrra reined in alongside me.

      I came here in order to take a ship and sail away. I did not seek trouble. My right hand crossed my body and fastened on the hilt of the longsword scabbarded at my waist. But sink me! If any cramph wants to make trouble I will accommodate him!

      Duhrra’s long exhalation of breath sounded like a benediction. His big face gleamed in the erratic light of a distant torch bracketed to a slimy wall. I knew there could only be trouble in vile Magdag. By Zair! Right happy this will make me—

      You take the left-hand rasts, Duhrra.

      Aye, master.

      Duhrra could swing a longsword with his left hand. I knew.

      We rode another half a dozen yards and the tall pointed archway rose over our heads carrying either a cross street or a house above the harbor road we followed. The shadows blacked out the forms of the men waiting. I did not think they would be stikitches — professional assassins — but more likely would be desperate men ready to kill for money, and men of that stamp are to be found wherever men congregate together.

      Well aware they could see me, I did not draw.

      Surprise is a useful weapon. So is a longsword. Even the sword I bore, taken from the body of that Grodnim Jiktar who had attempted to stop me opening the caissons of the gate of the Dam of Days and so destroying a convoy of foemen’s ships. I held the hilt that was almost the hilt of a true Krozair longsword. The blade bore the device of a lairgodont, a most ferocious carnivorous risslaca, surmounted by a rayed sun. That device denoted a Green Brotherhood devoted to Grodno. The sword had served me well since we had left the Dam of Days and the Grand Canal at the extreme western end of the inner sea. Now it would serve again.

      The lesten-hide grip over wood and iron ridged firmly into my hand. This thing would have to be quick — quick and deadly. I saw the shadows move.

      The thieves made the mistake of shouting. No doubt they sought to frighten us. As they leaped so they screeched.

      Gashil! Gashil! To Sicce with you!

      Duhrra bellowed a fruity oath and his sword blurred up and down. My blade leaped for the throat of the first attacker. He staggered back, trying to scream, with the black blood spouting. Twice more I struck as the leems of the sewers leaped. One reeled back, sightless, faceless, dying. The other, a Rapa, skewed his sword across and partially deflected the blow so that the blade sliced through the crest atop his gray vulturine face. He stopped screeching Gashil, the legendary patron of bandits, and screamed out a string of Rapa oaths. But, for all that, his sword lunged in again. I leaned out and over, looped the weapon in a shadowy blur, lifted it, and so slashed down. The Rapa dropped his sword. He took a step from the shadows into the pink moonlight, his hands to his head. He had been cleft down to the bridge of that big vulturine beak. Only then did he fall. Rapas are fierce opponents and worthy to be called warriors, even if they do stink in the nostrils of apims like me.

      Duhrra’s sectrix backed and collided with mine. I swung a swift glance toward him. The one-handed man’s sword skittered up into the air, spinning, catching the slanting rays of pink and golden moonlight. I saw beyond his sectrix the lithe vicious shape of a numim closing in for the kill.

      Look out! I yelled, trying to kick my beast into action and so close. I would be too late.

      The numim, his golden lion-face a single blaze of ferocious pleasure in the moonlight, which slanted narrowly above the eastern roofs, leaped for Duhrra, a longsword upraised. I felt that my comrade was doomed. I reversed the sword ready to throw, and—

      A bar of steel twinkled cleanly in the moonlight. It thrust straight at the numim. The lion-man’s leap ended in a shriek and a gurgle. He slumped to the ground. He tried to rise and run, and collapsed, and lay, groaning and cursing.

      Duhrra turned his big face toward me. He looked more like an idiot than ever.

      The rasts, he said. He lifted his right arm.

      Where he usually wore his hook, fitted for him by the doctors attached to the Akhram by the Grand Canal, now a brand of steel flamed black and gold in the moonlight. I knew why he had carried what I supposed was his hook concealed in rags, for we had wished to prevent news of a one-handed man being bandied about. Now I realized he had concealed more than a mere hook.

      He waved the blade at me, socketed into leather and wood over his stump, and his great idiot face showed pleasurable delight in a new toy.

      They did not expect this, Dak. They didn’t like it.

      He slid a leg over his saddle and jumped to the ground. I was very conscious of the shadows about us, the darkness of the pointed archway in which the ambush had taken place, the comparative brilliance beyond as She of the Veils rose higher and cast down her light. Eyes could be watching us; but that was a thing I could do nothing about.

      The wounded numim lay gasping on the ground. He had rolled over and so lay on his back, gasping and cursing, and glaring up at us. Blood stained his golden mane. I had known a numim who had been a great man and a good friend, even if he had been a citizen of hostile Hamal. I stopped as Duhrra bent.

      You, rast, said Duhrra of the Days, may receive a boon at my hands. You may go to roister with Gashil, to sit on the right hand of Grodno in the radiance of Genodras. You are equally doomed, cramph. For Grodno is the true devil.

      And Duhrra sliced the cripple-blade across the numim’s throat and so slew him.

      He stood back and turned to me.

      He had seen my hook — or, rather, the blade. He would have talked. I do not think you would care for that, Dak, my master.

      All I could say was, No.

      Methodically, Duhrra cleaned the cripple-blade and its tang which fixed into the socket of the stump, turning with a cunning twist to lock. He unlocked it and cleaned the tang and the socket as we rode on, for we did not wish to tarry with the street cumbered with dead bodies. Magdag has a force of hired mercenaries to fight with her own people, and she had the night watch, who delight in catching thieves and ne’er-do-wells, for each one gains them a bounty when sent to slave at the oar benches of the galleys.

      Presently Duhrra, his stump once more concealed, said, You seem to know this devil’s nest passing well, master.

      Aye. I once lived here for a space — in good times and evil. And must I keep on telling you I am not your master?

      No, master.

      What does that mean?

      A hurrying group from an alehouse passed, men and women of a number of different racial stocks, all swathed in dirty green garments, with link-slaves to light their way. They passed the sectrixes like a flood, opening out before and closing aft. I twisted in the awkward wooden saddle to stare after them. The torchlights scattered red and orange reflections. The shadows grew darker and swooped down, writhing. Silently, with only a rush of sandaled feet, those people passed us.

      Are they phantoms? Duhrra’s face showed no shock, but I saw the coverings over his stump moving.

      No, you great fambly! They are workpeople going to their hovels after drinking as the suns set. They go in a group with torches because—

      Yes. Well, there is one little lot who will not disturb them this night, by Za—

      Onker! I bellowed.

      I had no need to say more. But Duhrra, who looked like a great muscle-bound idiot, could play games, also.

      By Grodno the Green! he said loudly. You call me onker, master!

      I glared at him. Neither of us would smile. The moment was amusing. I shook the reins and we cantered past the alehouse with its sign of a broken pot — broken by skylarking children, I shouldn’t wonder — and so turned into the Alley of Weights which would take us to the main waterfront of Foreigners’ Pool. The alley lay in darkness, but from the waterfront the sounds of rollicking and roistering lured us on. I had no real fear of another attempt on us so close to the clustered taverns of the waterfront, but we rode with swords in our hands, just in case. As to the carousing — the sounds rose thin and few. I had fancied the Pool would be jumping; perhaps it was too early.

      She of the Veils had risen clear of the roofs now and as we reached the end of the Alley of Weights and saw the dark water before us a jaggedly rippling ribbon of pinkly golden light stretched, as though to welcome us back to the sea. Lights shone from the taverns and alehouses, for sailors’ work is thirsty work. Again I fancied business was slack. The tavern I wanted, known to be the favorite of the Vallian seamen who had sailed here all the weary way across the Outer Oceans, was called The Net and Trident. I knew little of it, for, as you know, my former residence in Magdag had been once in the slave warrens and once in the Emerald Eye Palace.

      In those old days I had spied out a deal of Magdag, as I have mentioned, with a true Krozair’s eye for weaknesses in the defense against the great day when the call rang out and we of Zair went up against the hated men of Grodno.

      Well, the call had gone out, and I had failed to answer the Azhurad, and so had been ejected, was no longer a Krzy, was Apushniad. I’d been on Earth at the time, banished for twenty-one terrible years; but how to explain that to a man of Kregen?

      A couple of drunks staggered past. Our sectrixes let a silly snort escape their nostrils, and I kicked the flank of mine to remind him his work was not yet done. The third sectrix with our dunnage strapped to his back tailed along in the rear.

      There were damned few ships tied up. I saw an argenter, one of those broad, stubby comfortable ships, probably from Menaham, although her flags were not visible in the harbor. Beyond her lay three of the broad ships of the inner sea, dwarfed by the argenter. Seeing both types of ship so close together gave me a true idea of the impressiveness of the ships of the Outer Oceans. The little merchant ships of the Eye of the World would never brave the terrors outside the inner sea.

      There was no galleon from Vallia moored up.

      I looked hard as we reined up outside The Net and Trident. No. No, it was sure. I could not see a single Vallian ship.

      Well, I was annoyed. It meant I must wait until one sailed in from the Outer Oceans, sailing in through the Grand Canal and along to Magdag. I would wait. There was nothing else to do.

      We tied the sectrixes to the rail, at which they showed their spite. Later, when I had asked the questions boiling in me, we could stable them properly. We pushed into the tavern and stood for a moment adjusting to heat and light and noise.

      The place was not overly full, and the patrons were mostly sailors of the inner sea, with a mercenary guard or two, and at a table beneath the balcony of the upper floor a group of men who might be merchants in a small way of business.

      A few serving wenches — I dislike the name of shif commonly given to these girls — moved among the tables and benches. We moved farther into the room, letting the door swing shut at our backs. My right hand hung at my side, ready. The sawdust on the floor showed itself to be old and in urgent need of replacement. The odors of old grease and burned fat and sour wine clung about the room.

      Nodding to a table in a corner where no one was likely to get at our backs, I went over and Duhrra followed. His right arm was buried in his green cloak. We wore the mesh mail beneath our green robes, but we had removed our coifs earlier. We sat down and stared about, rather as two hungry and thirsty travelers might do. And, in truth, that was what we were.

      One of the girls hurried over, plastering a smile on her face. She was apim, and not happy, worn out and tired already even though the night’s drinking had barely begun.

      Duhrra began an argument about the wine she might serve, and he went dangerously near perilous ground by asking if they had

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