Free Gangs of Antares by Alan Burt Akers Page A

far end of the Volcanoes’ street.
    Among the frantic figures fighting to defend the makeshift wall a dozen or so wore the olive green of Fonnell’s old gang. So that explained why Byrom had been spirited away there. Prince Ortyg had maintained his connection with the olive green gang members.
    This poor dead urchin girl at my side represented so much of what was wrong with two worlds. This profound if obvious thought was abruptly shattered. Something exceedingly hard and sharp pushed into my back. A voice like a bottle emptying growled: “Skulking, hey! I’ll soon sort you out, by Reder, yes!”
    That damned uncomfortable object prodding my back was a sword. Slowly I turned my head. He was hairy, broad, flat of nose and coarse of lip. In the nature of the fellow a glisten of scar ran down his left cheek and the eye above was puckered up. He was a Brokelsh. “Up, skulker!” He jabbed. “Up and at that barricade!”
    In all the noise the door at my back had opened silently. I didn’t sweat; the ugly thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was getting slow. One thing an old leem-hunter and a fighting man must never be is slow. I stood up and pointed to the dead girl.
    “Easy, dom. Came back to see—”
    “Save your whining excuses. I don’t know you. I’ll know you again, skulker, by Reder, I’ll know you.”
    Nagzalla’s Nasty Neemus must be a sizeable gang, then. Fair enough that anyone wouldn’t know personally all the members. I’d get by all right. When no one recognized me, as must inevitably follow, then, by Krun, would be the time to worry.
    He took the sword away. He pushed me out from the barrel into the street. Mud slicked underfoot. There were more torches now and shadows lay uncertainly across the furious scene. A fresh onslaught developed as the Nasty’s hurled once more at the defenders.
    Caught up in the attack I found myself trying to clamber up an overturned hand barrow. A Rapa made determined efforts to degut me with his spear. My left fist wrapped around the shaft and I pulled.
    He yowled and flew over the barrow to land on his beak. My new acquaintance stuck his sword through the Rapa who twisted and shrieked and tried to wriggle away.
    “Stinking Beaky!”
    A crossbow bolt flicked over my shoulder. The Fristle ahead threw down the weapon and dragged out a scimitar and slashed. My own return blocked the blow and sent the braxter darting at his chest. Startled, he backed off. The Brokelsh jumped up beside me. More Volcanoes were running up to guard this sudden breach. It was a matter of skip and jump, of cut and thrust, as we tried to hold the hand barrow for Nagzalla. An advang whose porcine features were convulsed with fury leaped alongside us to help hold the barrow. He swung a broad-bladed polearm and swept the head from the shoulders of a poor devil who failed to dodge in time. Blood spouted everywhere.
    “To me!” roared the Brokelsh, hair flying all over the place. “Neemus! Neemus! To Brory the Bold! Neemus!”
    A couple more Nagzallas ran up and for a space we held the barrow, trying to force our way on and being pressed back. In the erratic torchlight every move was dangerous. Keeping a balance and picking a target, hitting and trying not to be hit, the whole crazy combat proved difficult. A loud crack splintered up followed by two more splitting bangs. The barrow’s bottom just caved in. Down we all tumbled, inextricably mixed up, arms and legs and heads all jumbled together like crabs in a basket.
    Something clunked against my nose and water started into my eyes. I gave an almighty heave. Smelly hair thrust against my lips. I bit. I bit damned hard, I can tell you, not caring whose hide it was. In all the uproar any yell was lost. I got a good purchase and shoved the hairy one aside and rose up out of the shambles. The stink of blood roughened on my tongue. The Fristle clawed up beside me. He tried to give me a thwack but his scimitar had no room to swing and I just belted