Warlord of Antares by Alan Burt Akers

touched down beyond the two Shanks and her fighting men, her voswods, had alighted, formed their ranks as they had done a hundred times in practice drills, and, heads down and spears leveled, swept down on the Fish-heads.
    The Shanks fought damned hard. Shtarkins, I believed them to be. Their fishy heads and fishy smells repelled me; but they were wonderful sailors and navigators. They fought with vicious intensity now that they were outnumbered and on the receiving end.
    And so, now, it could not last. And, this time, it was the Shanks who would not last, praise be to Opaz.
    In the end they tried to make a break for their airboats; but the Vallian skyship commander had spotted that possibility and had thrown a blocking force out. No Shanks reached sanctuary.
    I looked around the field. We had made the Shanks suffer; they had caused us injury.
    The dead were heaped up dolefully. Then I felt a jolt of surprise. Among a pile of Shtarkin dead lay the Kanzai Warrior Brother we had met in the maze of the Coup Blag.
    We’d never known his name. The dark log Phocis had spotted leaping out of the waterfall tunnel was now explained. We’d been far too absorbed in our own combat to notice the Kanzai adept. Yet I recalled, there
had
been a moment in the fight when the pressure lessened unaccountably.
    From the evidence before us, it was perfectly clear he had fought magnificently. I lifted my bloodstained sword in salute to him, and commended his warrior spirit on its way down to the Ice Floes of Sicce.
    “I wonder if he realized he was fighting for Paz,” said Seg. “He wouldn’t believe it; but he was.”
    “A most judicious thought, Seg, and one we must make sure Shalane understands.”
    “Here comes the skyship landing force commander. He’s a Jiktar. And I think — yes—” Seg shook his head, letting down from that sudden sharp scrutiny: “It’s old Hodo Fra-Le. I had a right go at him over the state of his archers a few seasons ago.”
    “His lads seem to have done all right here.”
    “Oh, aye. I went up to Zamra and fairly ran ’em ragged until they were up to scratch.”
    I did not give a laugh that would have been the normal accompaniment to my next thought; laughter on this stricken field spoke of the manic laughter that referred only to itself and the battle. My thought was that Seg was such a stickler in anything connected with toxophily that no one would feel surprise if he went down to the enemy before a fight and tried to smarten up their shooting as well.
    Hodo Fra-Le, a Pachak, clad in armor and with the integrity of his race strong upon him, marched up with a small group as bodyguard. He wore bobs and the medals had been well-earned. His Pachak face wore a pleased expression over the natural hardness and I guessed he was intrigued by the situation into which he had stumbled.
    “Llahal! I am glad to see some of you survive.”
    Sharing a natural curiosity he checked our group first, already knowing he had saved the crew of the scouter.
    Seg moved out very sharply up front. Big and extraordinarily powerful though he may be, Seg can move like greased lightning, as they say in Clishdrin, when necessary.
    He towered over Hodo Fra-Le, for Pachaks are not among your taller diffs of Kregen, and he clapped a friendly arm over a shoulder and bent his head and spoke most amicably and forcibly. Anyone listening to Seg Segutorio talk under those circumstances would devoutly believe.
    What Seg was doing was making sure he preserved my anonymity. It didn’t matter that Seg thought I sometimes played at the mysterious a trifle over the top; if I wanted to conceal my identity under a nom-de-guerre, than he would do his damnedest to see the deceit worked.
    When Hodo wheeled up he squeaked out: “Lahal, Jak.”
    “Lahal and Lahal, Hodo. You arrived opportunely.”
    “We have been searching for the fleet, majis — Jak. Since we arrived from Zamra we have not made contact.”
    “Deb-Lu must soon rectify that,”