As my Djangs would say, Yanpa chased after Drig’s Lanterns.
“But there are too many Junka-forsaken warriors bashing about the Hills,” Yanpa complained. His hands shook. “They march everywhere, spoiling. They drive the spirits away.”
“Warriors?”
“Aye! Hundreds — thousands. They gather to the war drums and the trumpets. The banners fly. A band chased me yesterday-”
“Hawkwas?” demanded Uthnior. His lean face jutted aggressively forward.
“Also. Many mercenaries, many warriors, many paktuns.”
“Where is their camp?”
“Camp? Camp?” His withered old arms windmilled. “There are many camps. The leathers fill the valleys.”
“The chief camp?”
His eyeballs rolled. If this moment of lucidity passed before he answered we would be no better off. But he licked his cracked lips, the spittle shining, and laughed and hugged himself. “They meet at Hockwafernes. I saw the temple. I saw and they did not know.” He hugged himself in glee. Uthnior pulled an earlobe. “Hockwafernes. I know it. Some would call it a place blessed and others a place damned. It is certain devils reside there.”
“Devils!” tittered Yanpa the Fran. “Aye! Junka has taken them all up into his hand and some spilled through his fingers and scuttled away and hide and tremble in Hockwafernes.”
“And others say, old man, that the devils wait there for the tombstones to be lifted, for the funeral pyres to suck in the smoke and flame, for the Ice Floes of Sicce to melt-”
“May Opaz the Light of Days protect us all!” exclaimed Barty, on a breath. He shivered, and looked across the fire into the enveloping trees.
A clatter of stones along the bank of the brook brought us about, instantly. Barty stared toward the source of the noise, hidden beyond a bend in the stream and a stand of trees. Uthnior looked about. I nodded, grim-faced, to the trees and we eased back into their cover. Yanpa came with us, casting a nervous glance back at his riding preysany and his pack calsany. The animals cropped grass alongside our totrixes.
The Rapa who trudged into view, walking sullenly along the river bank, was a fighting man, a warrior, clad in war harness and carrying a monstrous blanket-wrapped bundle on his shoulder. He muttered to himself as he walked, casting dark savage looks from side to side. The instant he saw the camp and the animals he threw the bundle down and the sword appeared in his fist in a twinkling glitter of light. He glared about, uncertain.
I called: “Llahal, dom. We mean you no mischief.”
He was confident enough. Where he stood he commanded our approach and before we could get to him he could make the decision to fight or run. I caught the silver glint at his throat, above the armor, and guessed he would not run.
How he would withstand a cloth-yard shaft driven straight at him was another matter entirely. I did not test him. I stepped out and held up my empty hand.
“Llahal, dom,” he said in his surly way. People say all Rapas stink. This is not so. He turned his massively beaked face to regard me. He was of that family of Rapas with brilliant red feathers around the beak, and bands of red and black feathers running aft, and white feathers circling the eyes. His fierce vulturine face leered at me. I went forward.
After we made pappattu and learned he was Rojashin the Kaktu, a paktun, on his way to join Trylon Udo na Gelkwa who was raising an army and employing many mercenaries, Rojashin said with a surly curse: “And my confounded zorca fell and smashed two legs. I have walked two dwaburs like a common slave.” His predatory eye fastened on our animals.
Uthnior’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.
“You are mercenaries, also? I see you are not full paktuns.”
He spoke with some contempt, this Rojashin the Rapa. The little silver mortilhead gleamed at his throat, the pakmort, proud symbol of mercenaries who have achieved the coveted status of paktun. Of course, the word paktun is used loosely these days for almost any mercenary, and usage is changing. Kregen is a world that is not static, that is not stamped into an unchanging mold. Customs, habits, traditions evolve. It was becoming the fashion to call all high-quality mercenary warriors paktuns, and those with the pakmort consequently were called mortpaktuns. Hyr-paktuns, who wore the pakzhan, would then be dubbed zhanpaktuns. But it would be foolish to call a youngster newly left the farm and run off to be a mercenary a paktun. So new hands, green fighting-men, coys, tended to be called a variety of unflattering names, of which paktunik is perhaps the least offensive.
We were like to have trouble with this one. Rojashin went on grumbling, fleering derogatory remarks about a bunch of thieving masichieri masquerading as soldiers he had seen. He kept on looking at our animals, and fingering his sword, while he ate the food we gave him. He answered our questions readily enough. Trylon Udo was gathering a great army in the Northeast. Men were coming from all over. Many traveled from across the seas. He, himself, had been lured by gold from North Segesthes. But for the mischance of the fallen zorca he would have been at Hockwafernes, having the directions written down safely. Then, he had been promised by the recruiting agent, the army would march south through Vallia and storm and take Vondium. The plunder would be enormous. The sack of the greatest city in this part of the world must yield fantastic wealth to anyone lucky enough to be alive after the assault.
“And, by the Ib Reiver himself, I am like to be cheated of the opportunity.”
I decided I would offer this braggart Rojashin the Kaktu the use of my pack totrix and we would ride into Trylon Udo’s camp together. That way I would discover at first hand the details of the threat to Vondium. Also, I had the shrewdest of suspicions that Dayra would be found there, too. But fate has a nasty habit of knocking my schemes askew.
To call this Rapa a braggart may seem harsh; but I saw the newness of his pakmort, the sharpness of the silver edges, and guessed he was still in the grip of the elation that comes with the achievement. He stood up and drew out his sword with his right hand, wiping his left hand across that damned great beak.
“I will take a totrix now. If you resist, I shall slay you all.”
I sighed.
He had summed up Uthnior as a guide, and us as his clients, and he disregarded Yanpa the Fran as a diseased madman.
“You may ride with us-” I began.
The Rapa bellowed. “By Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls! You cowardly rasts! I shall cut you all down and then take all.”
With that he charged full tilt at Barty.
Barty had been sitting cross-legged munching on a handful of palines. As the Rapa bore down, the sword flaming lethally, Barty let out a yell and rolled sideways in a tangle, berries spurting up like pips from a squeezed fruit. Yanpa let out a pure screech of terror and dived for his preysany. Uthnior held back, glancing at me. I gave no sign.
Barty, all in a tangle, rolled desperately as the sword thwacked down. Uthnior let out a growl. His fist closed on his sword hilt and the blade slid halfway out.
Then, and only then, I said: “Shaft the cramph, if you have to, Uthnior. He will have only himself to blame.”
Barty yelled again and flopped about like a stranded whale. He got a knee under him and shoved up, dragging his rapier out.
I sighed again. One day, I supposed, he would learn.
By my right side a usefully sized rock lay to hand. I picked it up, weighed it, tossed it up and down a couple of times, and then hurled it full at the Rapa’s head.
The rock clanged off his neck guard. He staggered forward, arms flailing, tripped over Barty and sprawled onto the ground. His beak cut a swath through the mud.
But the helmet had prevented a knock-out blow. The Rapa was up on his feet, moving with ferocious speed, slashing the rapier away in a grating twinkle of steel. In the next second he would have had Barty’s head off.
Uthnior loosed.
The shaft passed cleanly through the Rapa’s wattled neck, bursting past the wrapped scarf, scything on to break free in a gouting smother of blood. Rojashin the Kaktu stood up, very tall. His fingers relaxed on the sword and it flew into the trees. He stood. Then he fell. His legs kicked. He lay still. I felt most disgruntled.