DRAY PRESCOT

To those unfamiliar with the Saga of Dray Prescot, all that it is necessary to know is that he has been summoned to Kregen, an exotic world orbiting the double star Antares, to carry out the mysterious purposes of the Star Lords. To survive the perils that confront him on that beautiful and terrible world he must be resourceful and courageous, strong and devious. There is no denying he presents an enigmatic figure. There are more profound depths to his character than are called for by mere savage survival.

Educated in the harsh environment of Nelson’s navy and by the Savanti nal Aphrasöe of Kregen, he is a man above middle height, with brown hair and eyes, the quiet movements of a hunting big cat and a physique of exceptional power.

Taking on the job of Emperor of Vallia, with the Empress Delia by his side, Prescot is determined to press on with his schemes to unite in friendship all the peoples of their half of Kregen in the union of Paz. Vallia and her allies, Djanduin, Hyrklana and some of the realms of the Dawn Lands, have defeated the puissant Empire of Hamal; but Hamal is not laid in ruins. From over the curve of the world dark and more terrible dangers sail down to destroy the bright civilization of Paz. Together with Delia, his family and his comrades, Prescot sees this as a time to make a fresh start. This is the opportunity to forge new alliances against all perils under the Suns of Scorpio.

Chapter one

Ructions in the Peace Conference

During the second week of the Peace Conference only forty-nine duels were fought, so the delegates realized they were making real progress.

The main sessions took place in a long-disused assembly chamber of the palace of Ruathytu and here day by day the benches filled with vociferous people all determined to have their say about the horrible fate to be meted out to defeated Hamal. The people divided by nation and race, and each faction felt convinced its own solution was not only the perfect one, but the one to be adopted by everyone else.

This led to differences of opinion.

“A gold deldy per person,” shouted a king from the Dawn Lands. In the overheated atmosphere, with the drapes drawn away from the long windows and still the air stifling, his face looked a bronze mask of sweat. He shook his fist. “Nothing less—”

“Less?” A king from a neighboring realm of the Dawn Lands sneered, white lace kerchief to face, not bothering to rise to speak. “Less? Make it two gold deldys.”

“Aye!” called a high-ranking noble, gold-bedecked. “Hamal has the gold. Hamal can pay!” Then, no doubt feeling that although no king he must maintain his dignity, he bellowed: “And make it three gold deldys!”

Stylors wrote busily at long tables positioned near the center of the open space between the ranked seating. They covered reams of paper with what was said, proposals and counterproposals. They recorded very few agreements.

Other delegates joined in the raising of the indemnity, and shouts of “four!” and “five” and “seven” brought the blood flushing to forehead and cheeks, brought a sparkle to eyes, brought feathers ruffling dangerously and fur sparking with static. The punishment rose until there was scarcely gold in all of Paz, let alone merely the empire of Hamal, to pay what would be demanded. Then someone raised the question of saddle flyers being taken in compensation, demanding their fair share of zhyans in preference to lesser birds. This caused fresh outbreaks of acrimony. Another delegate banged his sword on the floor and demanded full restitution plus damages for all the airboats his country had lost.

“Take all the fliers that Hamal has!” he cried. “And—”

“You would fly your own airboats home and claim they were lost!” challenged a puffy-faced king with hair noticeable by its absence, for it had been torn off by a wild animal seasons ago. “The Peace Conference demands a full accounting from you—”

“Aye! And from you, King Nodgen the Bald! We have sure proof you flew undamaged vollers back to your black-hearted kingdom and—”

The ensuing sword-flourishing and blade-whickering was dealt with by the marshals. On this day that task fell by rotation to four-armed Djangs, who had no trouble separating the combatants and escorting them back to their seats. Djangs, aside from being among the most superb fighting men of Kregen, are less in awe of kings and nobles not of Djanduin.

“You are not allowed to fight in the Peace Conference.” The Djang Hikdar in command of the marshal detail carried off his duties with that Djang blend of competent military expertise and wild warrior fanaticism. He made sure the rival kings were both sitting in their seats before he marched his men off. No blood was spilled on that occasion over that particular quarrel in the chamber; blood flowed in the duel that followed. Outside.

All in all, the Peace Conference to decide what to do with Hamal presented a sorry spectacle.

From Vallia, Drak, the Prince Majister, and Kov Seg Segutorio made eloquent appeals for progress. King Jaidur of Hyrklana expressed his contempt for the delegates. His queen, Lildra, hushed him in her queenly way; but the feeling was abroad that the Peace Conference was doomed.

Young King Rogpe of Mandua announced that he did not feel secure enough on his throne to waste time in Hamal. He had only turned up after the battles, his armies being commanded by Kov Konec and Vad Dav Olmes, because his succession to his father had been challenged and the law had, tardily, upheld his claim. If everyone began to go home, Hamal was likely to be plundered without check in revenge for her own sins of the past.

The Kingdom of Djanduin was represented by O. Fellin Coper. As an Obdjang — equipped by nature with a cheerful pert gerbil-like face and only two arms and a keenly incisive brain — he was no fighting man. At his side sat K. Kholin Dom. As a Dwadjang — equipped by nature with a ferocious assemblage of fighting equipment and a brain completely at sea in the arcana of Higher Command — he was a warrior who upheld O. Fellin Coper’s decisions. The aerial assault delivered on the Hamalian capital city of Ruathytu had decided the issue and won the battle. That assault had been a Djanduin affair. The forces commanded by Seg Segutorio had joined in the final assault.

Now that mere mortal kings and princes and kovs sought to put together a Peace Treaty, the actual course of the fighting was conveniently pushed aside. Everyone demanded an equal say. That proved perfectly acceptable, provided common sense prevailed. As the Prince Majister of Vallia said: “Common sense seems to have fled! By Vox! Are we all a pack of ninnies unable to agree on anything?”

Some of the delegates from the Dawn Lands left off arguing and quarreling among themselves long enough to shout answers. Then, they went back to slanging one another.

Seg said, “I suggest we take into consideration the views of those members of the conference—”

Jaidur interrupted. “We take no notice, Uncle Seg! We tell these idiots from the Dawn Lands what we decide!”

Drak — serious, intense, dedicated — leaned forward, frowning. “The Dawn Lands contributed greatly to the success. And to ignore them because we are united and thus stronger is illegal.”

Seg sat back, saying nothing. His blue eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts, and his reckless face was composed.

“Illegal!” Jaidur laughed. He was still a right tearaway despite having come to the throne of Hyrklana, a rich island off the east coast of Havilfar, and with the realm its queen, Lildra. His mother, Delia of Vallia, had great hopes that he would reform and become a dutiful king. Now he roared his enjoyment of the jest. “Illegal, brother! What we decide will settle the fate of Hamal for many seasons to come. We must decide in our favor. If these fools from the Dawn Lands—”

“Gently, Jaidur, gently,” said Seg.

King Jaidur sat back in his chair. He put a hand to his lips and Lildra put her hand down on his shoulder. Jaidur leaned back, closing his eyes, and he touched Lildra’s hand. He drew reassurance and strength from the contact. Just so had his father gained reassurance and strength from Jaidur’s mother.

“The problem is the Dawn Lands will not choose a spokesman. They are individuals, and are contrary for the sake of contrariness and drive everyone else into frenzy by their quarrels.”

“True, prince,” said Seg.

“We have complete agreement,” said Ortyg Fellin Coper, brushing his whiskers, being brisk, “between Djanduin, Vallia and Hyrklana. That combination is, indeed, very powerful.”

“Powerful!” shouted across that king from the Dawn Lands who had begun the escalation of the gold indemnity. “But we in the Dawn Lands can put more troops into the field, more vollers, more saddle flyers. Woe to anyone who forgets that.”

Jaidur burst out: “More! Of course! And woe to you for forgetting it as Hamal destroyed you piecemeal!”

Seg moved with the speed of a Bowman of Loh. He stopped in front of Jaidur, half-bending as though talking, and he motioned to Lildra. It was nicely done. The fatuous king was left talking to Kov Seg’s backside, Lildra was smiling at him, and Jaidur was being masked — and, no doubt, having a severe and nostalgic telling-off from his Uncle Seg. Had a duel been fought Jaidur would certainly have won, being a Krozair of Zy; but the deplorable publicity would have done Hyrklana and Vallia no good. Kytun Kholin Dom, clever enough in matters of this nature, rolled over to the Dawn Lands king and, taking him in comradely fashion by the elbow, lifted him away, saying something like: “And I can show you a Jholaix we dug out of the wine cellars you’ve never dreamed existed.”

The Peace Conference survived these bruises; but no one was prepared to say how long such damage could go on.

In all these arguments and statements of opinion and position, no one bothered to think what the Hamalese might say. They had been beaten. Ergo, they must pay up and do as they were told and thank all their gods they were still alive. Yet to claim that no one bothered to think of the Hamalese is to avoid the real issue. Everyone shied away from the central point, the overriding question, the problem that put all the others — including the details of compensation and punishment — into the shade.

All the delegates to the Peace Conference were only too acutely aware that they must think of the Hamalese. And they kept fobbing off that dominant issue.

Who was to rule Hamal now that the old Empress, Empress Thyllis, was dead and buried?

“Dismember the damned place,” was a commonly voiced solution.

“Split it up into kovnates and vadvarates and Stromnates and do not allow a single kingdom. Divide and rule.” This was a solution favored of many. The rulers from the Dawn Lands would feel far more comfortable if north of the River Os lay, instead of a single huge nation, a whole series of little ones in reflection of themselves.

It was left to Drak to point out: “And have continual warfare between the little countries — as you do all the time?”

By Vox! You win a battle and take a city and have a peace conference — and you start to find out where the problems really are!

Seg said, “Little is beautiful, and big is beautiful. Big is unwieldy and little is plain suicidal. We have to find a median way.”

Because the invasion from Vallia had sidestepped the island of Pandahem and gone straight into Hamal, the future held problems there, also. As Drak said, “Now the nations of Pandahem have the dread of the devilish Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, removed, they will rapidly throw out the Hamalese occupation forces. I am sure they will want a say in what is decided for Hamal.”

One of the Dawn Lands rulers — King Nafun of Hambascett, who had begun the auction in increasing gold deldys — snorted his disgust. He reared up in his seat, glaring about, the sweat now appearing to be melting from a wax death mask. “Pandahem? Pandahem? Have they sent troops? Have they aided us? No! They have no right to sit at the table that decides the fate of Hamal. We who fought, we—”

His neighbor-king, wily King Harmburr of Ezionn, bellowed out at that. “Fought? Fought? I saw no troops of Hambascett the Treacherous when I fought the Hamalese mercenaries—”

“And I saw not a swod of Decadent Ezionn when I routed the Hamalese heavy cavalry—”

“By the Veiled Froyvil!” said Seg. He let rip a sigh that was more like a stentor blowing to gain passage for a swifter than a lovesick swain languishing for his lady. “Cannot you two either leave each other alone, fight it out, or just shut up?”

Now a kov does not ordinarily talk to two kings in quite those terms.

Drak sat forward anxiously, and Jaidur looked with swift concern over at Seg. Both Drak and Jaidur — with their brother Zeg — had known and loved Seg Segutorio from the moment they had been aware of his existence.

King Harmburr of Ezionn and King Nafun of Hambascett turned to look at Seg. He continued to sit. He had prevented a confrontation with Jaidur, only to precipitate a worse one on his own head.

Drak said, “We have done enough for the day. Let us depart and reconvene on the morrow when—”

“Softly, Prince of Vallia!” quoth Nafun. He wiped his face with a sodden kerchief. “I have been insulted—”

“You!” snapped King Harmburr. He was a waspish little fellow. “You! The lout insulted me—”

Seg stood up. He moved lazily. He smiled. “I shall not fight either of you, or your hired champions. You two are stupid cretins, and what is more, you know it. Aye!” He drowned out their protestations. “I can see ahead. I can see perhaps things that would not please you. You both know we must deal with Hamal fairly, or there will never be peace. So think. Act like kings. Even if it is difficult to act like men.”

“The kov speaks with the words of the gods,” said Drak. He knew when to bring religion into it. Cunning, resourceful, ruthless, Drak, Prince Majister of Vallia, and yet upright, honest, loyal, a man of the highest principles. Sometimes those high principles made life for lesser mortals damned uncomfortable. Jaidur, his brother, was of altogether more volatile a nature. As for Zeg, the middle brother, who was now King Zeg of Zandikar miles and miles away in the inner sea, the Eye of the World, I’d not heard from him for just not long enough to make me worried. Pretty soon, when this Hamal nonsense was cleared up, I was due a trip to the Eye of the World...

The two kings were in nowise chastened. But other delegates were growing tired of this incessant wrangling. Even rulers of countries of the Dawn Lands traditionally opposed to one another cooled in face of the problems ahead. Various candidates for various sections of Hamal were touted. We all agreed that those nations of the Dawn Lands with frontiers on the River Os, the southern boundary of Hamal, had a prior right in the decisions affecting the parcels of land across their borders. This seemed fair to the delegates.

Even that caused disagreement. A number of the nations right in the north of the Dawn Lands immediately to the south of the River Os, He of the Commendable Countenance, had been in subjection to Hamal for so long they had not contributed anything to the armies of the alliance. In fact, some of them had actually had their own men in the ranks of the Hamalian army. These difficulties had to be discussed and agreements reached.

What at first glance seemed fair, on closer inspection turned ugly with imponderables.

Many of the delegates supported rival claimants. No one was aware of any legitimate issue of the Empress Thyllis and her nonentity of a husband. He had disappeared long ago. A number of relations existed: distant cousins aplenty, and a group of men and women claiming the emperor as their uncle. After Thyllis had been shot to death by a crossbow bolt, loosed by Rosil, the Kataki Strom, Phu-Si-Yantong had proclaimed himself as Emperor of Hamal. Now what seemed to many of the delegates a ludicrous legal situation arose. Did this brief occupation of the throne acquire legality, and, if so, how did it affect the claims of Thyllis’s husband’s cousins and nephews?

Intriguing.

Nothing would stop the lawyers from inflicting day-long speeches upon the subject with all the happy hunting ground of the inflexible Laws of Hamal in which to play — short of nipping the problem in the bud. Drak, Prince Majister of Vallia, did just that.

“No legitimacy accrues to the Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, now dead — thanks be to Opaz! — or any of his assigns or heirs through this illegal usurpation of the throne.” Drak looked around the chamber meaningfully. There was so much gold and silver displayed, so many gems, that the delegates could blind with radiance the unwary eye. “We have enough problems sorting out who is to take over in Hamal without saddling ourselves with more.”

“Agreed!” The shouts were unanimous. On one subject, then, the famous Conquerors of Hamal could agree...

In the tiny hush of reaction to the outburst, young King Rogpe of Mandua stood up. He drew his sumptuous robes about him in the instinctive gathering of resources gesture of one about to plunge into unpleasant argument; almost immediately he loosened the fur-trimmed velvet, for Hamal was warmer than Mandua. “There is a matter I must have settled before I return.” He held up a hand as some delegates started to protest.

Young and uncertain, Rogpe might be; in what he had to say he was in deadly earnest and therefore articulate and convincing.

“Here me! I speak of the case of those countries who actively allied themselves with Hamal! Most notably that of Shanodrin!”

“Slay ’em all!” and, “Burn their towns around their ears!” The suggestions on what should be done with collaborators bubbled up merrily and uglily.

“Prince Mefto A’Shanofero, known as Mefto the Kazzur! He stands indicted before this assembly! He and his accomplices must be brought to trial.”

No one there in that glittering chamber was unaware that Mefto the Kazzur had sought through his alliance with the Hamalese to dominate much of the Dawn Lands. The Kingdom of Mandua had suffered. Now Rogpe put a hand to his quiff of fair hair. He smiled, a nervous smile yet one which revealed his feelings of triumph at delayed revenge accomplished.

Puffy faced, impatient, King Nodgen the Bald leaped to his feet. He shook a fist at Rogpe.

“Yes, yes, my young fighting king, yes! We will deal with the traitor Mefto the Kazzur. But we have more zhantils to saddle here. There is no doubt that if Hamal is to be kept under proper control the empire must be given a Hamalese to rule. That man is King Telmont—”

Nodgen the Bald’s words were lost in a chorus of catcalls and fiercely amused expostulations and accusations.

“King Telmont is not related in any way to Thyllis—”

“He cowers in his kingdom in the far Black Hills—”

“He is spineless!”

The knowledge of family relationships and intricate blood ties and links and alliances through marriage were meat and drink to the rulers in the Dawn Lands. Such knowledge was of vital consequence. By understanding why one king did this and one queen did the opposite through the promptings of family loyalties enabled a tricky course of diplomacy to be set. The delegates had to keep themselves informed of the intrigues that fomented all the time. It was a matter of survival, along with always remembering names, for by forgetting a name one might lose a kingdom.

The rival king who had accused Nodgen the Bald of flying his airboats back home and then claiming compensation for their loss rose to shout with great scorn: “We know why you champion this King Telmont, Nodgen the Bald! How much gold has he paid you? What promises has he made?”

The marshal Djangs eased forward, wary.

“I spit on your robe, King Nalgre the Defaced! I deny your accusations, I hurl them back into your teeth—”

Fresh fuel was heaped on the fire of enmity; the duel that would follow later might enlarge catastrophically to include two entire countries, at each other’s throats — as usual. These local wars had been contained in the mutual onslaught on Hamal. Now, with the sad inevitability of human nature, they would burst out again, raw and red and bloody.

The damping down of that squabble — a damping down only, for to extinguish it would take longer and demand harsher means — was left to Drak. By the grimness of his demeanor he left no one in any doubt of his anger and contempt. He tried to bring the Peace Conference back to considerations of what lay immediately to hand. “We each have a rapier to sharpen, and so accommodations must be made. If the delegates from the Dawn Lands insist on fighting among themselves, we deplore that but accept it as a burden of history. The future of Hamal must be assured. Let no one forget that all of us face a greater menace from the Shanks who raid us from over the oceans.”

“Aye,” said Jaidur. This was a matter touching him and his new kingdom nearly. “And I suspect the damned Shanks will soon stop raiding and attempt permanent settlements—”

Fresh uproar at this statement could not conceal the wave of dread that swept over the chamber. All men of this grouping of continents and islands called Paz who lived near a coastline were dreadfully aware of the menace of the Shanks. Fish heads, they called them, Leem Lovers, any scurrilous name a man could put his tongue to, all revealing the horror their name conjured up.

As though the mere mention of the Shanks put a pause to the precedent proceedings, a fresh session opened with a concerted attack on the delegates from Vallia, Hyrklana and Djanduin.

Nodgen the Bald, irked at the dismissal of his claims for King Telmont, pointed a forefinger at Drak. He swept that indicting digit around to encompass Seg, Jaidur, Kytun and O. Fellin Coper. The unmistakable result of the gesture was to isolate these men and to range the other delegates against them.

“You sit there fulminating against us. You sit there pompously pontificating. Yet who are you? You are not of Havilfar North and Central—”

Kytun bellowed: “We are of Havilfar South West!”

Jaidur said, “We are of Hyrklana off Havilfar East!”

Drak and Seg remained silent, very sensibly.

“Look at you!” Nodgen waggled that forefinger. “All of you, lackeys. Aye, lackeys!”

Kytun’s four arms windmilled and Ortyg, with a squeak of alarm, tugged at his comrade’s military cape. “Let him chatter, Kytun!”

“Lackeys!” roared K. Kholin Dom, fearsome, ferocious, a warrior four-armed Dwadjang. “Explain yourself — king!”

“That is not difficult!” shouted another delegate.

“No! Lackeys — all of you — lackeys of one man!”

“Let me blatter ’em!” pleaded Kytun, his face a black sunburst.

“Hold still, Kytun, do!” Ortyg’s gerbil-face expressed concern for Kytun, nothing for the shouted accusations.

Nodgen the Bald bellowed: “One man commands you, the father of the King of Hyrklana; the King of Djanduin; the Emperor of Vallia. One man — and where is he? Why is he not here to talk to us — does he think himself so far above us—?”

The picture wavered.

As though heated air rose before the scene in the assembly chamber the whole glittering assemblage shivered and undulated.

“Your pardon,” said Deb-Lu-Quienyin. “I must admit I allowed my concentration to lapse.”

The Wizard of Loh’s eyes encompassed the world. I stared into those eyes and looked through the sorcerous power of Deb-Lu into the Peace Conference. People in there were shouting and waving fists although, I was thankful to observe, no one was foolish enough to draw a sword.

“It is all right, Deb-Lu,” I said. “I must be tiring you. And what they say is right, in one way. I do not wish to go down and sit among them for these dreary proceedings.”

“Very practical.”

“And if that is being high and mighty — so be it.”

“Shall I go on?”

“It is hardly worth it. They will decide nothing. But Drak tries hard. No, I need a wet and—”

The picture I saw through the Wizard of Loh’s eyes came into focus. We sat comfortably in a small aerie high in the Mirvol Keep of the palace of Ruathytu, the Hammabi el Lamma. Whoever had lived here before, probably a Chuktar of saddle birds, had done himself well. There was ample provision of wine and fine fare. The picture steadied and the resplendent assembly came back into focus. Deb-Lu-Quienyin had arranged a signomant, a device which eased his powers of observation at a distance, and its placing discreetly in the chamber allowed us excellent vision all around, if in a little foreshortened a fashion.

The wet I promised myself had to wait for the double doors at the far end of the assembly chamber crashed open. The Djangs on duty there recovered swiftly and their stuxes thrust steel heads at the man who burst in. They halted their instinctive reaction at once, for the man was clearly a merker, a messenger who had flown hard. His leathers were glazed with dust.

He held up a hand and shouted so that all could hear.

“Lahal, notors! King Telmont has gathered a great army and marches on us. He vows vengeance. He has sworn to retake the city of Ruathytu and to place the crown of empire upon his head. And his chief promise is this: he will seize by the heels and utterly destroy the man called Dray Prescot.”

Deb-Lu let out a cry and the picture I saw through his eyes vanished instantly. I blinked.

“Jak!” said Deb-Lu. “This is serious—”

“What?” I said. “Not you, too? You did not think, like those delegates down there, that by one battle and the taking of their capital the whole puissant Empire of Hamal would be conquered?”