Beasts of Antares by Alan Burt Akers Page A

that soon six hundred zorcas would be taken on strength. I was looking forward to telling Nath Karidge.
    Turko and Korero came in and my little study began to fill up. These men had all campaigned together and were comrades in arms, and so I pushed the papers across my desk, put my feet up and let the evening roll. We were joined by other comrades and adjourned to a larger chamber. Pretty soon we started singing. It was a good night.
    A good night, yes — but not the way an emperor should carry on when he has a ramshackle empire to run. No, by Krun!
    Delia’s remark that I was feeling sorry for myself carried a deal of truth. Well, if Delia says something, it usually is true and if it is uncomfortable into the bargain, then that means you must spruce up and see about setting matters right.
    Nath Karidge did not join us that night as we sang the old songs. As always, or almost always for the exceptions proved the rule, I started up “The Bowmen of Loh.” We all sang lustily.
    “I suppose Seg will give command of his Second Army over to someone and return to us,” said Turko as the last refrain died away.
    Seg Segutorio, the master bowman, the best Bowman of Loh on Kregen in my estimation, was sorely missed.
    “Aye,” I said. “And as soon as Inch sorts out his Black Mountains—” And then I frowned.
    This nonsense with Voinderam and Fransha had put back our plans, and Inch would have to battle on alone in his Black Mountains for a space. Turko spoke up. j
    “The quicker I can march north and sort out Layco Jhansi the quicker I will be able to hook left and reach Inch.”
    “They make little progress in the Blue Mountains,” said Filbarrka. “That great rascal Korf Aighos told me there are winged devils in great numbers in the mountains, barring off the Blue from the Black.”
    We all digested that unwillingly.
    Then someone started up that silly song, “The Milkmaid’s Pail,” and we all joined in and, for some of us, drove back the shadows.
    Now while these raucous parties we held on Kregen were not your Viking-type carouse, nor yet your Hussar or Lancer shindig, they were vociferous and splendidly barbaric. A couple of aides got into a paddy over a little shishi who had jilted one of them. The cause of the quarrel was not altogether clear. The occasion was turned to jest and merriment as we escorted the wrathful pair to the nearest guardroom where we would find a couple of wooden swords. With the rudis they would settle the matter, get the black humors out, and then with clearer heads — that might be ringing with all the Bells of Beng Kishi — try to solve the problem.
    With the wooden swords solemnly carried on a red velvet cushion, we trooped out into a practice yard. The guards on duty smirked with pleasure at the thought of young bloods knocking hell out of each other. We had an audience as we went out under the Moons of Kregen. The stone walls bore the marks of fires. One side of the courtyard was a mass of rubble where the stables of the state carriages had been destroyed.
    We were making a din. Yet I saw a man half in the shadows. He carried a long pike. He was going through the manual of drill as taught to a brumbyte in the files. At our noise he turned and dropped the pike. It clanged on the cobbles.
    The Maiden with the Many Smiles shone in fuzzy pink glory upon the face of Nath Karidge.
    “Nath!” those devils with me chorused, filled with glee.
    Karidge just stood there. He wore a brumbyte’s kit, a soldier’s harness that held a bronze-studded leather coat, a vosk-skull helmet, and he slanted the brumbyte’s shield, the crimson flower, in the approved position.
    “Majister!”
    These frolicsome men with me couldn’t understand why Chuktar Nath Karidge, the reckless cavalry commander, should attire himself like this and go through the manual of drill with pike and shield.
    I knew.
    “Let the two hotheads at each other with their wooden swords,” I said. “Let the strict code of the