Free Scorpio Invasion by Alan Burt Akers

Runner, for honoring your name.”
    A whole screaming foaming pack of them were streaming along after us and another bunch appeared ahead. No one drew a weapon. The mobs from the fish market joined and now a ring formed about us. The catcalls centered on one subject: “A Wizard of Walfarg! Blatter him into the ground! He’s only a novice and knows nothing!”
    “And his companion, the shint!”
    “Can you do nothing, then, Rollo the Runner?”
    “Nothing.”
    I looked about at the taunting crowds ready to beat us to a pulp. We could expect no mercy. There was no way out. I looked about — and then I looked up.
    “Thank Opaz the Punctual!” I said, and waved my arms delightedly.

Chapter seven
    They do not mess about, my lads of the Guard Corps.
    Directly before the mobs advancing on us a massive burst of fire and smoke blossomed. Almost immediately another fire pot dropped over on the other side of the ring. The crowds halted, open-mouthed. A fishmonger ripped off his scale-coated apron which had caught alight. He flung it from him with a yelp, and two more bursts of fire and smoke smashed the crowds back. Even then, even then, so unaccustomed were Lohvians to fliers that many did not think to look up.
    Perhaps they put the gouts of flame and smoke down to the wizardry of the sorcerer of Whonban. I looked up again in great relief. Rollo the Runner, as I will now call him, looked up with me. He said: “Oh!”
    Two airboats circled, and with delicate precision dropped a few more fire pots to keep the crowds at bay. I did not think these folk cared to dare the perils of having combustibles flung down on them from above.
    Whilst one voller kept the ring, the other touched down delicately. She was a clean-lined craft possessing that sweet petal shape of all good quality small and medium sized airboats. She was, I judged, a smallish ten seater, as was her companion aloft. A voice hailed.
    “This way, jis! Step aboard!”
    A hulking fellow in a bright yellow uniform appeared clambering down the short ladder, turning on the last step to wave me on. I said: “Go on, Rollo. Run.”
    He started off at once for the voller and the large fellow in the yellow uniform clambered back over the side. He fairly hoicked Rollo up off the ground and hurled him over the gunwale. I followed smartly and clambered aboard. The crowds were yelling now, in anger more than fear.
    “Take her up, Loptyg!” bellowed the giant in the bright yellow uniform. He turned to me and bashed his right fist over his heart with force enough to make his kax vibrate. “Majister!”
    “Lahal, Ornol Skobog. And am I going to have trouble with you?”
    “Me, jis?”
    “Aye, you rascal.You.”
    He looked down and his face was as red as my breechclout. “You know the chickens were strays and would have wandered off, jis, had I not saved them.”
    Very gravely, I said: “That is undeniably true; but Opaz preserve me from their fate.” Then I held out my hand and we shook Vallian fashion.
    The voller climbed steadily and took up station with the other. Faces were staring over the gunwales. Now Sko means left and Bog is the name given to a fellow handy at bashing evildoers. This Ornol Skobog was an old kampeon in the Emperor’s Yellow Jackets. I guessed that the Loptyg at the controls would be a rascally fellow called Loptyg the Muncible, serving in the Emperor’s Sword Watch. Trust the two premier guards regiments to send men matched, one for one. I said: “This is Rollo the Runner.”
    Thus briefly we made the pappattu. Rollo was gripping onto the gunwale not looking over the side, and his face was the color of moldy cheese.
    Ornol roared out: “Queasy in the gut, youngster? Haw!”
    Rollo said in a faint voice: “I am perfectly well, thank you.” His voice quavered. “Are these contraptions safe?”
    Now he didn’t know it; but a few seasons ago that would have been a question of the utmost significance. These days we could buy reliable vollers from