Scorpio Invasion (3 page)

The harem women moved in loose graceful poses. The veils were light chiffon-like drapes, heightening the beauty and mystery of the concealed faces. Most of the poor creatures would be slave, and there was a very great deal of money parading about there. And, they were drinking and listening to the music from an enclosed balcony, and appeared not to be too displeased with their lot.

Time to go. I drew back cautiously and turned about. The other gate in this garden would have to lead somewhere useful, by Krun!

Padding off towards the gate and keeping my head turning I saw the lissom figures appear above the wall to my right rear. Here came the Bowmaids!

Running fleetly over the grass and jinking from side to side, I managed to avoid the lethal arrows sleeting in. If they brought up any more girls they’d put down a barrage no one, not even a Krozair of Zy, was going to run through unscathed.

With a last burst of energy I roared through the gateway. The ground here was uniformly covered by reddish orange gravel. No fountain sparkled at the centre. Instead a monstrous form towered up, shaggy, shambling, its six arms forming a wagon wheel of colossal power. Its four legs supported it in a half-upright position. Its eyes were large, like saucers, round and staring — staring at me! A red tongue licked out past rubbery lips and the gleam of yellow fangs was enough to put a breeze up anybody’s spine.

The thing shambled over the gravel towards me. The six arms reached for me. High excited shouts at my rear told me there was no way back.

“By the Blade of Kurin,” I snarled to myself, and ripped out my sword. “If this is the way of it, then I’ll make a jikai of it!”

The thing advanced towards me, shambling. Something red shone in one of its hands. I cocked up the sword, braced and ready to rush in.

“Nnng — nnng—” The thing mouthed incomprehensible words, slobbering. It stopped stock-still. “Nnng — bbl—” It threw the red object from one hand to another and I saw it was a child’s ball.

Ready to leap forward and deal in my usual way with monsters, I paused. The thing turned its grotesque head to one side, and I felt that movement was one of puzzlement, almost of pleading. Once more it threw the ball from hand to hand. Then it threw the ball at me. The rubbery lips writhed over the words. “Bbl — play!”

The ball bounced towards me.

I caught it in my left hand and threw it back. Instantly the thing assumed a crouching position, six arms waving. For a sick moment I thought I hadn’t played the game correctly. The thing swayed from side to side as the ball flew towards it and I saw it was playing. It caught the ball cleanly and emitted a high chirruping noise of triumph. That sound was echoed by the menacing shouts of the Bowmaids chasing me.

The thing tossed the ball up again and threw it at me. This time I used the sword. Grasped in two hands, it swung like a bat, caught the ball on the fly and fairly belted it into the far corner of the garden.

That shot was worth a home run or a six over the pavilion any day.

The thing let rip a snorting squeak which I took to be pleasure and started off after his ball. Running around in the other direction I skirted along the wall and fairly sprinted for the distant gate.

The thing lollopped over to the ball and picked it up. When he swung back to where I’d been, he emitted a pinging sound of puzzlement.

Then my movement caught in the corner of his eye and he turned. What he was going to do now I didn’t know — had I spoiled his game? Was I ready to be dealt with as monsters habitually deal with folk they don’t like?

He let rip a squeak and hurled the ball at me. I noticed that he threw it ahead, allowing for my movement. Obligingly I used the sword and gave the ball a square cut that drove it past wide of his six arms. He started lolloping off after it. I went skidding non-stop through the open gateway.

The Bowmaids would know the animal and wouldn’t be halted. I had to run like stink to get away before they shafted me.

Now the cluster of red roofs lay to the rear and the sounds of the party faded. These gardens were mostly given over to vegetables. At this I took heart.

My beliefs were justified shortly when, past a garden with the bright shoots of momolams sprouting healthily, I saw ahead a wall taller than any so far encountered. This jolly-well had to be the outer wall!

There were, naturally, no doors or gates visible in the entire length.

Suddenly, and with an icy chill, I heard among the shouts of the girls the growing howling and barking. I recognized those ululations. Werstings! A pack of the killer-dogs had been let loose on my heels. They’d follow me remorselessly until they were all slain — or, if I were extremely lucky, until I could shake them off. And that, by Krun, was extraordinarily hard to do.

Running through the nearest gateway into the next garden I looked about for some means of scaling that damned wall.

This was the outer wall and they were not stupid enough to grow trees or vines conveniently placed for intruders to enter — which meant they were useless to me trying to get out.

The menacing growls and sharp barks of the werstings appeared to me to grow louder and louder.

One aspect of these walled gardens that had impressed me from the outset was their tidiness and well-kept appearance. I’d seen female slave gardeners on my chase through here; but I’d not seen any of those little gardener’s huts one finds in gardens where the tools of the trade are kept. The obvious answer for that was the slaves were issued with their implements from a central source by an overseer. Slave owners do not like stores of potential weapons lying about ready for the first disaffected slave to snatch up. No, sir.

With that in mind as I entered the next garden I saw the solution to my problem, along with, of course, further problems to obtain that solution.

These walls contained an orchard. The trees were not overly tall and in my state of urgency I didn’t bother to notice what kind they were. What I wanted was one of the ladders the slaves were using to climb up to the tops of the trees. One of those ladders ought just to reach the wall.

Making sure my borrowed uniform was in correct order, I strutted up to the nearest tree. A woman was working away at the top of the ladder and a group waited below. I put on my harsh voice.

“Get that ladder down at once! Bring it over here! Grak!”

“Yes, master,” said the slave with a yellow headband. Slave she might be, she had her meed of petty authority, even if not up to the class of the balass stick.

The slaves wore the gray slave breechclout. The one at the top of the ladder slid down as neatly as a snotty would slide down the backstay. As I stood importantly, scowling at them, four of the slaves took up the ladder and the overseer looked expectantly at me.

“What are you waiting for?” I bellowed. “This way.” With that I started off strutting through the garden gate towards the outer wall.

They followed me, marching in step. They must have heard the sounds of the pursuit by now, the howling of the werstings and the excited calls of the Bowmaids and Jikai Vuvushis, but they gave no visible sign of interest. That kind of thing was not their concern. Truth to tell, it struck me that they probably associated noises of that kind with escaped slaves.

We reached the wall and I made a sharp and contemptuous gesture and up went the ladder to clatter against the top of the wall. It was short by about two feet; that would present no problem.

The slave overseer raised her dark eyes, fearfully, to glance at me.

The habit of instant obedience was so strong that, even if she believed what she saw, she couldn’t question me. Clearly, in this section of the gardens, past the monster who wanted to play ball and here in the vegetable patches, male guards were allowed. All the same, I did not want to see these poor slaves punished on my account.

“I shall need the ladder. Go back to work. Schtump!”

They trailed off and I went up the ladder fast. A quick heave at the top and I was seated astride the wall. An arrow flicked past my ear.

The pursuit burst into the garden, Jikai Vuvushis brandishing spears and swords, Bowmaids of Loh running and stopping to take aim, and, foremost of all, the horrific pack of werstings, black and white striped hellions.

I knocked an arrow aside with my forearm. The werstings would not be able to climb the ladder; the ladies most certainly would. So, I bent, got a good grip, and heaved. Up came the ladder just as the foremost wersting made a savage leap. He fell back, baffled. The ladder balanced on the wall. With a swiveling motion I had it around and down on the outside. Down below lay a dusty lane, and another damned tall wall across the lane. Instead of as I’d expected dropping from the wall like a sneaky assassin, I was able calmly to descend the ladder like a respectable burglar going home from work.

The opposite wall looked just like this one, and was clearly the outer wall of the next-door villa. The lane looked the same in both directions. The taste of dust on the tongue was brought by a little breeze that whiffled along the alleyway. So, then, which way? In a mere matter of heartbeats my pursuers would come howling through the main gate and tear after me.

I went to the left.

There was a gate on my left, closed, and if that was the one the Bowmaids intended to use I’d better run as fast as I could, for the confounded lane ran straight as a die towards a further cluster of buildings beyond.

Now having werstings on your trail is strictly bad news. They are smart, although not in the same league as a Manhound. If I was to fool them I needed to be both clever and lucky. One thing I decided; it would not be a good idea to stroll into the town ahead wearing these guard clothes.

The folderols came off thankfully enough. If I had to chance local customs, I would have to do so. I kept a tunic-like upper garment, and with the red breechclout that would have to suffice. I made the castoff clothing into a ball and carefully teased out one end of a scarf to trail. With a good throw I sent the lot over the neighbor’s wall and the trailing tail caught on the top and clung, hanging down. Good!

If that did nothing else, it would split the wersting pack.

After all, they had nothing of mine to sniff for the scent.

Running swiftly on I reached the end of the lane as a swimmer must reach the rocks just as his lungs fill with water. I nipped around the end of the wall. Like a trumpet, the lane magnified the horrid sounds of the werstings snuffling after me. I roused myself, took a breath, and sized up where I’d got myself into now and what was my best next step.

Generally, not always, civilizations that go in for private walled gardens with houses without outside windows also go in for a public face on their municipal buildings. I expected to see arcades and pillared porticoes, openness, squares and probably shade trees and fountains.

Four hundred light years away through empty space no doubt those expectations might have been realized. But I was on the splendid if horrific planet of Kregen, in the continent of Loh, and I could expect nothing to be familiar. We all spoke a language imposed on the territorial grouping of Paz, modified by local usage. Beyond that — well, as I turned about I saw that a common language was one thing, fashions in architecture quite another. One could call that style of architecture ‘Ornamented Fanciful’ for like a lavish wedding cake it sprouted tiers and balconies and dizzying perspectives of red tiled roofs and white colonnades. Yet the whole tended to an upward perspective. Beneath there were indeed arcades; but these held shadows and mysteries and were not, I judged, the sites of impassioned rhetoric and legal argument. I stared, pondering the best place to hide.

The ululations of those damned werstings howled on apace and it behooved me to get a move on.

Whether by ill chance or good fortune, I could not say, but just at the moment only a very few folk walked between those weird buildings.

Moving rapidly I crossed the intervening area and plunged into the shadowed arcade leading directly away from the hunting pack.

All this running about was distinctly annoying. I had work to do. That damnfool Scorpion had dropped me into some petty rushing about adventure when I ought to be about the business of Paz, the business of resisting the ruthless invasions of the Fish-Faces, the Shanks, from over the curve of the world. Many people of the grouping of lands called Paz wanted me to become what they called the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz. Needless to say I didn’t want the job but felt it imposed on me, not only by the will of the people but by the desires of the Star Lords. They had suggested, it seemed to me, that this Emperor of Emperors nonsense was why they’d put up with me at all, why they’d brought me to Kregen.

The Star Lords used me in this vile way because I had the yrium, that special form of charisma that caused ordinary people and extraordinary people to lay down their lives to serve me. Oh, yes, I felt ashamed, I felt diminished. Yet, if the damned Shanks were to be prevented from murdering every woman, man and child in Paz, someone had to be found who could weld the disparate countries of Paz into a common union of resistance.

And, as you see, that onker was me, plain Dray Prescot.

The problem was, the divine Delia would become the Empress of Empresses. Of course, no one was more fitted to hold that office. But, all the same, I fretted over the potential dangers to which she would be exposed. Of course, that was a laugh. Dangers and Delia went hand in hand. Was she not a Sister of the Rose? Did she not flaunt off adventuring for them and on her own account? Yet I own if aught happened to my Delia, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains, then all of Kregen and of Earth could go hang.

These fretful thoughts were more important to me at that moment, incongruously, I suppose, than the howling pack of slavering werstings and the Bowmaids of Loh and the Jikai Vuvushis out for my blood.

The arcade stretched ahead, patched with shadow, implicit with menace.

Just before I started off into those shadows a brief but excruciatingly brilliant vision of the shaggy monster and his red ball flamed before my eyes. My Val! He had the strength to rip my head clean off my shoulders. His six arms would have been the very devil to counter and beat. Powerful, dominating, a monster — and he’d wanted to play ball! Whew!