Krozair of Kregen by Alan Burt Akers Page A

have caught the argenters. But the Eye of the World, like the Mediterranean, is a fluky place for wind. Oared vessels reign there except — and this I say with pride, for the pride is not for me — for the great race-built galleons of Vallia. We pulled in for the kill.
    Sails billowed and fluttered as the breeze fluked around. The argenters wallowed. We could see their people running about the decks and a pang struck through me, for I remembered when Duhrra and I had stood in an argenter and watched the Renders pulling in for us. That made me make sure that lookouts with keen eyes were aloft to spot the first hint of Green slicing toward us over the horizon.
    “They scurry like ponshos before leems,” observed Vax with bloodthirsty satisfaction.
    We stood on the quarterdeck. I looked at my son.
    “Do you so hate them, then, Vax? They are not of Magdag.”
    “I have reasons for hating them. You would know nothing of my reasons. But, believe me, they are very real.”
    Much though I was dismayed at my boy’s bloodthirstiness, I was cheered by his evident concern for the affairs of his own country. And, anyway, on Kregen a modicum of good honest skull-bashing is often the only antidote to poison. I deplore this; but while it remains true I prefer to have other people’s skulls bashed. The truth also is that I have done a great deal on Kregen to lessen the incidence of skull-bashing and bloodthirsty fighting in these latter days. I speak now of a time when the famous old Bells of Beng Kishi regularly rang in many and many a thick skull over the length and breadth of Kregen.
    Just to get Vax going a little more, I said, “And these marvelous reasons, Vax. I suppose your cramph of a father is mixed up with them — oh, but he’s dead, isn’t he?”
    He shot me a murderous glance. I did not know how much he remembered of what he’d maundered on about to me; I fancied he had precious little idea of what he had said.
    “My father—” He scowled and gripped his sword-hilt. “He did fight the Bloody Menahem. I will give the rast that.”
    Duhrra was looking at both of us with an expression that on his gleaming idiot-face looked most comical.
    “So you have something good to say about your father, then?”
    “By Vox! No! I believe he fought only through others, that his friends did the fighting, while he—”
    “Rukker’s going ahead!” bellowed the lookout.
    I was rather glad of the interruption.
    Fazhan bellowed down to Pugnarses Ob-Eye, our oar-master, who might boast only one eye but who ran a taut six oar banks.
    We heard Pugnarses’ whistle blow and then his full-blown voice telling the whip-Deldars interesting facts about their physiognomy and antecedents and probable destinations in the hereafter, and the beat of the oars quickened. No one on the quarterdeck or on the forecastle thought overmuch of the pains of the oar-slaves. We knew exactly what they were going through. Exactly.
    As Mangar, our drum-Deldar, increased the beat in response to the commands from Pugnarses and the oars thrashed faster, so we began to pull back the distance Rukker had surged ahead.
    Three swifters ravening down on four argenters. I found by chance that I would line up on the third ship from Menaham. Rukker would hit the lead ship, and Pur Naghan the second.
    There would be time. I said, “It’s surprising to me, Vax, that any man with a father like yours would bother to get born at all. I suppose you will spend the rest of your life hating him?”
    “And if I do, it will be spent gladly.”
    The first varter shots were coming in. Our varters up forward replied. Soon the bows would sing. I could not leave well alone.
    “Of course, if your father died before you were born, you have only the words of others. You don’t know yourself.”
    “I know enough! I know what being Apushniad means—” He checked himself there, and glared about. He wore mail and a helmet and he looked young and bold and vigorous and — and