Golden Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page A

Larghos? You are supposed to be a fighting man — you have served as a paktun, have you not? Somewhere in Pandahem? Let me deal with politics.” The kovneva’s petulant words served to illuminate the depths of her personal frustrations and cares.
    I cocked an eye at Larghos. A paktun he might be; he did not look like one. There was not a scar on his body as far as I could see. But he was a spare, limber fellow, with a straight back and a cut about his jaw that showed there was more to him than Marta either allowed or recognized.
    He managed a light laugh.
    “Oh, I am not a politician. I know that well enough.” He glanced across at me, a thing easy enough to do seeing that the kovneva reached up only to our shoulders. “But a paktun — no. No, I was never honored with the pakmort as were you, Jak the Drang.” He looked away. “Although I do not see you wearing the silver mortil-head at the moment.”
    “When I turfed that pile of stones down after your coach I had less than I have now.”
    The two handmaidens giggled at this.
    I had offered no explanations. They would not get any, however much they might ask.
    “This ring,” I said, harking back to a subject that intrigued me more by its infantilism than anything else.
    “The Ring of Destiny, once owned by La-Si-Quenying, a mighty Wizard of Loh of the distant past. Quenying’s Ring. Once I have that in my hand no one will stop me.”
    I did not smile.
    “I know the Wizards of Loh hold great and mysterious powers,” I said. That was true enough, by Krun! “I have heard of a great Wizard of Loh in these latter days. A most powerful man—”
    “Can you call them men?” said Larghos. His face had lost a trifle of its color as he spoke.
    We moved forward into a small clearing where two fallen trees had intertwined their branches high above, leaning one against another, and a third lay along the ground, rotting quietly away. Beetles and ants and woodlice were busy about their own businesses. Here we rested for a space and they told me about the Ring of Destiny, Quenying’s Ring.
    It seemed clear enough to me. Phu-si-Yantong it was whose murky schemes coiled about this possessed woman. She believed that if she could take possession of this so-called magical ring she would miraculously find all her problems solved. She could at a stroke dispose of the perils of the radvakkas, gain everything she coveted. As she spoke I saw more. From the way Larghos glowered, and then smoothed out his face, I saw the way this pretty little scenario was scripted. For the kovneva fancied her luck as empress. She would wed this Seakon, who was without a bride, and become Empress of Vallia. The ring would do this for her, as a mere part of its miraculous properties. And, to cap it all, I was absolutely sure it must be Phu-si-Yantong who had sold her this stinking kettle of fish. But she believed passionately.
    She had been on the way to the fortress town of Nikwald in the kovnate of Sakwara when the radvakkas had attacked.
    Nikwald was in Sakwara, Hawkwa territory. Now it was over-run by the radvakkas. The Iron Riders would not take kindly to the notion of a Vallian kovneva driving up to their encampments in search of a magical ring. I rubbed my nose.
    The thought that occurred to me, to be instantly dispelled, also occurred to Marta Renberg.
    She turned from where she sat on a fallen branch and surveyed me, her head on one side. A shafting of the mingled light cast her face for a moment into a softer mold, with all the petulant lines smoothed away. She looked radiant, in that moment, almost beautiful. She was well aware of the impression she created. Larghos shifted and cleared his throat; he did not spit.
    “Jak the Drang?”
    I sat silent.
    “You are a paktun, a renowned soldier of fortune. You could fetch me the ring.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “There would be a great reward in it.”
    “Would not the ring itself—?”
    “No!” She flared up, agitated. “No — for Phu — for I