A NOVEL OF ADVENTURE
BY JEFFREY BLAIR LATTA
"This island state
of yours," he asked quietly; "Eukara -- just how important is it to this
moon? I was told Eukara was insignificant."
The tangerine girl
nodded distantly, the skyglow glimmering in her gaze as if on restless
waters. "We are a very minor state," she replied. "We have
no great industries or commerce. Our army is tiny; our navy is limited
to a fleet of six wingships."
"Then why should the
Trayken take such an interest in Eukara?" Seagrave's distracted mutter
showed he was only half speaking to the girl at his side; his mind grappled
with the problem as if with a mortal opponent. "Why would they bring
their Armada here? Merely to punish you for resisting them?
To set an example? I don't know that much about the Trayken, but
they don't strike me as the type to waste this much effort without expectation
of gain. Do you have anything they need? Is there some strategic
importance to your islands?"
Shyrin Shas pondered
the question a moment, her slim brows troughing pensively. After
a moment, she shook her head hopelessly. "I don't know of anything,"
she responded. "They have already subdued the major states of our
moon. Their Armada serves largely to police their conquered territories.
Perhaps they fear our brief resistance might lead others to fight back,
as well."
Seagrave grunted sceptically.
"I don't doubt they would like to make an example of you," he said.
"But there are easier ways to do it than to bring their entire Armada down
on your furry heads. They'd be breaking a butterfly on a wheel."
"A butterfly?"
The princess glanced quizzically up at her dark companion. "What
is a butterfly?"
Seagrave seemed not
to have heard the question; he was too immersed in unravelling this puzzle.
"There must be something," he mumbled determinedly. "There
must be something about this tiny state of yours -- something important
enough to warrant all this effort. Something --"
"Listen!"
It was Pallin Pol who hissed the startled warning.
Instantly Seagrave
heard the sound as well -- the whirring of approaching narses. With
a sweep of his arm, he drew Shyrin Shas back into the covering foliage,
dropping to his haunches at her side. His slitted gaze scanned the
star-bearded vault overhead. Pallin Pol crouched with them.
For a moment, they waited, rigid with tingling nerves.
Abruptly four narses
soared from over the trees behind, flying gracefully out over the forested
plain, the red skyglow glinting from the lacquered armour of the Trayken
Rayvers upon their backs. Seagrave caught only a glimpse of the caped
rider in the lead, a view from below and from behind -- but it was enough
to fire his blood and bring him bounding to his feet.
"Dol Hashar!"
he snarled.
Almost at the same
moment, four more mounted Rayvers swooped past overhead. They flew
low and in single file. There was no time to reason or weigh the
wisdom of his actions; the opportunity presented by this chance encounter
would not come again.
Shyrin Shas could only
watch in wide-eyed horror as the wingless pirate hurtled to the cliff's
edge and sprang recklessly out into the void. She cried out, clenching
her fists so the nails cut her delicate palms -- then gasped in mingled
relief and dread as his strong arms caught hold of the cinched straps under
the scaly belly of the rearmost narse.
In a flash, Seagrave
was carried out over the rose-dusted plain, his lithe body swinging wildly
against the stars as he fought to secure his perilous clasp. Shryin
Shas rushed from the trees to the cliff's edge, a low moan rising from
her lifting breasts, fists bunched to her throat.
Only after he had jumped
did Seagrave realize how insane his actions were; by then it was too late.
Catching hold of the narse's saddlestrap, he could only cling for dear
life -- and pray his weight wouldn't alert the Rayver riding just above
his head.
Glancing down, he saw
the forest far below; the swollen black gasbags passed beneath his swaying
feet, looming steadily closer even as his sweat-damp fingers gradually
lost their purchase. His muscles knotted on his arms and back as
he struggled to regain his grip. The movement served to irritate
the narse, already discomfited by the creature clinging to its scaly belly.
Almost disdainfully, it flicked at him with its long snake-like tail.
Seagrave gritted his teeth as the slender tip snapped across his wrists,
leaving a stinging red line. The tail curled the opposite way, then
flicked again, catching him on the other side.
He was still too high
up to jump. The Traykens began to circle above a wingship, waiting
while Dol Hashar and his three Rayvers dismounted on the deck below.
Seagrave grimaced as the tail stung him again, this time making an audible
crack which he felt sure must alert the Trayken above. The pain he
could endure, but discovery would mean certain death. He cast another glance
downward, then released his grip, dropping instantly away in a dizzy breathless
plunge...
He landed atop the
black gasbag. Though the surface yielded to his weight, there was
sufficient resistance to drive his knees up into his chest and blast the
wind from his lungs. For a moment he sprawled on the cool fabric,
dazed. Slowly he regained his senses, struggling to his knees and
shaking his head -- then clambered quickly down the net stretched over
the curve of the bag until he was hidden from the four Rayvers still circling
overhead.
Dol Hashar had vanished
with the other three Rayvers. After a moment, the waiting Traykens
soared off over the sea of wingships, their vigilance no longer required.
Stealthily, Seagrave
scrambled down the ratlines to the open deck. Much of the ship was
painted as black as the gasbags, though the boards underfoot were wooden
and plain. The deck was deserted, and Seagrave glided from shadow
to shadow, allowing only brief snatches of light to flicker on his tanned
skin. The four narses eyed him nervously as he passed, their swollen
limbless bodies hovering just above the deck, wings humming insistently
in the cool silence.
In Seagrave's mind,
one thought crowded out all others: to kill Dol Hashar. He had sworn
to avenge the slave girl, Montaz, tortured to death by the Trayken draykhis.
But, until now, no opportunity had presented itself. Now he had Dol
Hashar trapped somewhere aboard this ship. That he had been easily
bested in his last encounter with the draykhis hardly bothered his vengeful
thoughts at all...
There were several
raised hoods, like airvents, ranged along the deck. Passing one of
these, Seagrave was brought up short by a sudden scream - - a man in excruciating
pain. He sprang to the hood and peered through the narrow slot along
one side.
His breath hissed explosively
through his teeth.
He was looking down
into a large chamber with wooden walls and slim brass beams. Hanging
gem-lanterns cast a lurid topaz glow over the scene. A heavy wooden
door, shaped like an upside down triangle, was set in the far wall, a prisoner's
meaty fists constricted around the bars of the door's single window.
In the middle of the
chamber, Bishras Bid was bound to one of the slender support beams with
his back to Seagrave, facing the door. The red-skinned youth's arms
were drawn up and around to the back of the pole, then bound in place with
chains. His body hung with toes barely reaching the floor, wings
quivering futilely on either side of the column at his spine. A muscular
Trayken stood in front of the captive, placidly replacing a glowing poker
amongst the fiery coals of a small gilded brazier. Seagrave couldn't
see what had been done to the youth, but the rebel's voice was a dry anguished
croak.
"You monsters!" Bishras
Bid gasped. "Ask me what you like, I won't tell you anything."
Abruptly Seagrave dropped
low behind the vent as something landed softly on the deck in the far shadows.
A moment later, Shyrin Shas and Pallin Pol glided out of the darkness,
the blue man winded and streaming with sweat. Scowling, Seagrave
rose and motioned them over.
As they reached his
side, Pallin Pol hurriedly explained: "She commanded me to carry her after
you. I couldn't refuse her -- she is my princess."
Seagrave raised a hand
to forestall further comment, then indicated the slit in the vent.
Shyrin Shas crouched and peered through the slot. Her supple body
stiffened at the sight beneath.
Even as Seagrave returned
to the aperture, a side door slid open in the chamber below and Dol Hashar
shouldered through the triangular threshold followed by a Rayver.
The draykhis barely glanced at the tortured youth as he continued listening
to the words of his underling.
"What are they saying?"
Seagrave whispered to Shyrin Shas. "I don't understand the language."
After a moment, she
translated: "The Rayver tells Dol Hashar they have recovered the stolen
worm cannon from a fenok village which was massacred. They don't
know who stole the weapon nor who killed the fenoks." She paused
as Dol Hashar spoke. Seagrave noticed how she shivered at his words.
"Dol Hashar asks if they have found me yet; he says he is not pleased by
the delay and wonders how hard it can be to find one woman imprisoned with
the fenoks. The Rayver replies that they are still searching."
Again she paused, listening -- then continued: "Dol Hashar reminds him
that the recovery of the tal-stone is of the utmost importance. More
Rayvers are to be dispatched on the search."
Seagrave nodded, mildly
gratified. "So, they don't have the Lin tal- stone. Jakar Jet's
deal must have gone sour. That's something, I guess."
Abruptly Dol Hashar
wheeled, turning his back on the Rayver and coming around to face Bishras
Bid. His tiny black eyes surveyed the hanging youth with a caressing
glance, and he nodded slowly. "Very good," he told the torturer.
"I see you have already been at work on this one. Has he told you
anything concerning the tal-stone or the princess?"
Dol Hashar spoke in
Kamir, presumably wanting the prisoners to understand.
"I have only just begun,"
the torturer replied evenly. "Shall I continue?"
Dol Hashar placidly
waved the torturer aside and stepped closer to the rebel. Bishras
Bid stirred weakly in his bonds.
"Dol Hashar," he gasped,
his voice quivering as much with rage as with pain. "You monster!
Undo these chains and I'll tear out your black heart!"
A malevolent smile
twisted the draykhis's mouth, one finger tapping pensively against his
outthrust jaw. "I understand you were discovered with the two other
prisoners atop Eukara," Dol Hashar hissed softly. "No doubt you were
searching for the princess even as we were. Tell me -- did you have
any luck in your search?"
In response, Bishras
Bid spat full in Dol Hashar's face. For a moment, the draykhis regarded
his trembling prisoner in silence, his gaunt features unreadable.
Only the slight opening of his cooling gills on either side of his head
hinted at the ghastly scene about to unfold.
Dol Hashar chuckled
in a deep, rolling growl. He casually raised one gloved hand and
curved ebony claws slowly grew from the fingertips. He reached down
on a level with the rebel's hips, his hand sliding from view behind the
scarlet body.
Shyrin Shas clutched
Seagrave's arm as Bishras Bid began to scream. The scream rose
quickly to a shrill, horrible shriek of frenzied, unimaginable torment.
Slowly Dol Hashar raked his claws up the youth's writhing figure, his powerful
muscles cording as he pressed deeply, forcing the twisting captive back
against the pillar. Even as the claws reached the rebel's ribs, the
screaming abruptly stopped, and Bishras Bid slumped motionless in his fetters
-- disembowelled.
With hideous leisure,
Dol Hashar wiped his dripping claws on a towel passed to him by one of
the two Rayvers.
"Feed the body to the
jampans," Dol Hashar told the Rayvers, again speaking so the other prisoners
might understand. "Then bind up one of the other two -- it doesn't
matter which. I will return shortly."
Even as Dol Hashar
spoke, Shyrin Shas buried her face against Seagrave's chest, all her orange
flesh trembling with horror at the grisly spectacle she had witnessed.
Seagrave enfolded her in his arms, softly stroking her fur, knowing no
words could erase the memory of Bishras Bid's ghastly death. His
features were pale, but his eyes smoldered as he looked at Pallin Pol and
muttered tightly: "Take her back to the cliff. This time, keep
her there. I don't care if she threatens you with death -- don't
bring her back here again. If I haven't returned by morning, you
will have to get her back to Jinja Khyam yourself."
Surprisingly, Shyrin
Shas offered no resistance as she was gently passed into the arms of the
blue Kamir. "What are you going to do?" Pallin Pol asked Seagrave.
"I had intended to
kill Dol Hashar," Seagrave replied grimly. "But now I have to rescue
Fanas Fel and Zhanak Zen -- if I can. Now go."
Seagrave watched as
Pallin Pol lifted the trembling girl, spread his shimmering wings and lofted
into the reddening night.
The ship's deck was
flanked by four large circular platforms or turrets, raised up like quarterdecks
and hanging half out beyond the hull on each side. Each turret was
large enough to accommodate twenty men on top. The ship's lower decks
were reached by triangular doors set in the curved wooden walls of these
turrets.
Barely had Pallin Pol
and Shyrin Shas dwindled into the upper darkness than one of these doors
slid open, heaving a slim carpet of light across the nighted boards, almost
revealing Seagrave in its unexpected wash. The two Rayvers emerged,
bearing between them the limp corpse of Bishras Bid. Seagrave dropped
to his haunches behind the vent and waited for them to pass; then he sprang
erect and crossed to the open doorway in six hungry strides.
A companion ladder
led down from the doorway. Warily descending this, Seagrave found
himself in a long corridor dimly lit by topaz glim-gems set in silver and
gold cressets. Triangular doors flanked the hallway, but, through
the open door at the end of the passage, he discerned the gilt gleam of
the brazier used to torture Bishras Bid.
Seagrave glided down
the corridor, making no more sound than a whispering breeze. Once
in the torture chamber, he slid closed the door behind him, then rushed
to the cell door with its barred window.
"Fanas Fel?" he hissed
into the darkness beyond the grille. "Zhanak Zen?"
There was the sound
of indrawn breaths and the rustle of rising limbs. Then heavy fists
clasped the bars and Fanas Fel's pallid features loomed in the shadows.
"Moryan," he exclaimed.
"Bishras Bid --"
"I saw," Seagrave told
him soberly. "There was nothing I could do. How do you unlock
this damn door?"
"The key on the wall,"
Fanas Fel instructed, motioning with his fingers through the bars.
"Hurry -- they'll be back any moment."
Snatching the key from
its hook, Seagrave saw it was merely another lodestone. He touched
the key to the metal plate at the top of the door, gratified to hear the
sharp click as the lock opened. He jerked open the door, which, like
all the doors on this ship, slid into a slot in its frame. Fanas
Fel and Zhanak Zen stumbled out into the light.
Without a moment to
lose, Seagrave sprang to the hall door and opened it just a crack to check
if the way was clear. Satisfied, he rushed the rebels out into the
hallway, then down the dim passage to the companionway. Halfway up
the ladder, he paused abruptly -- then bounded back down.
"Where are you going?"
hissed Fanas Fel urgently.
"Go on without me,"
Seagrave paused to whisper. "I should have closed the cell door.
It might buy us a little more time to escape."
Speeding back to the
torture chamber, Seagrave sealed the cell door, hearing the lock click
as it caught. He picked up the lodestone key from the floor where
he'd dropped it, cast about for some place to dispose of the key, then
tossed it into the coals of the brazier provoking a mist of spiralling
sparks.
Bounding back out into
the hallway, he was halfway to the ladder when a door opened at the foot
of the companionway and a tall Rayver shouldered into the passage.
Even as Seagrave stumbled to a halt, a second door opened behind him and
another Rayver emerged. The two Traykens spotted the breeches-clad
intruder at the same moment. Neither Rayver carried a leister, but,
if their strength was anything like Dol Hashar's, Seagrave knew they really
didn't need one.
For a moment, the pirate
looked sharply from one to the other, his muscular body deeply crouched
like a cornered panther, a low snarl curling his lips. His hand leapt
to his cutlass -- only to touch the barren mouth of his scabbard.
With sudden horror, he recalled that he had dropped the blade during his
fight with the fenfyr.
As Seagrave soberly
surveyed the black Armada furtively concealed atop the floating island
of Nakris, a vague uneasiness stirred in his mind. He spoke to the
princess without shifting his burning eyes.
