Free Omens of Kregen by Alan Burt Akers Page A

to choose a few likely lads.”
    “And lasses, of course.”
    “Oh, of course.”
    She eyed me. We were taking the first breakfast, of bosk rashers and fried eggs and enormous quantities of the superb Kregan tea, and dishes of palines to follow. Her look quite clearly summed me up.
    “You need not try to slip away by yourself. And I shall bring my best girls. As Dee Sheon is my witness, Dray Prescot, I’m not having you run your fool head into that she-leem’s lair without—”
    “I know, I know,” I groaned.
    “Well, I’m going,” said Targon the Tapster, “and that’s settled.”
    The other commanders of ESW and EYJ all chimed in saying that of course they would go.
    Nath na Kochwold, Kapt of the Phalanx, just held up a paline in his fingers, stared at me, said, “I’m ready for the off right now,” and put the paline into his mouth with great enjoyment.
    No one dreamed of not going to the horrendous terrors of the Coup Blag.
    This situation was not quite the same as that confronting me when I’d shot off to Hyrklana to dig out Naghan the Gnat, Tilly and Oby from the Jikhorkdun. It was similar but not the same.
    Korero the Shield simply said: “It’s about time I went on an adventure with you again.”
    By this time in the campaign I had all the regiments of my guards corps with me in the Eighth Army, so there were so many kampeons about the glitter of gold and the glint of medals fairly blinded a fellow.
    I said to Nath Karidge, a
beau sabreur
commanding Delia’s EDLG: “It’ll be on your feet, Nath, if you’re lucky. There’s no riding zorcas down there in the Coup Blag or through the Snarly Hills.”
    “One must make sacrifices from time to time.”
    I marveled.
    Mazingle is the name the swods give to discipline. This crowd of people around me now were most mazarna. That is the absence of discipline, unruly, rowdy. They were that, right enough.
    That afternoon, in absolute character, Nath Karidge was observed with an enormous pack stuffed with sand on his back, smothered in weapons, carrying a giant water bottle, and wearing stout marching boots, striding out across the bleak moorlands. As a rider he was getting into trim for a spot of walking. How like him!
    When he came back he said to me: “By Lasal the Vakka! My legs are like putty.”
    I said, “You will be with the empress.”
    He stared at me as though I were bereft of my senses.
    He managed to blurt out: “Where else?”
    I shook my head. These fellows! Nath Karidge was happily married, and with new additions to his family. Yet he would cheerfully give his life for Delia. Of such mettle are the men of Vallia, who do not serve blindly.
    Covell of the Golden Tongue had recently been fashioning a superior new poem cycle devoted to the heroes of Vallia. He thirsted for all the news of them available, going to extraordinary lengths to learn their stories. When he wrote, his verses carried the lilt and rhythms exactly suited to the personality and deeds of his subject. An invaluable master poet, San Covell of the Golden Tongue.
    The most serious aspect of the whole affair of Csitra’s attempt to assassinate Delia was simply the fact of the deed itself. The poor girl whose mind had been taken over by the witch, of course knew nothing of what had passed. She was a new arrival from Vondium, come up to join her regiment.
    Delia said: “And how many more people are there from Vondium possessed by this she-vampire? She will have sent them all over Vallia looking for you!”
    “Yes.”
    “She knows where you are now. Are we then to expect another of her horrible curses?”
    “She would have done so already, if she could. I suspect Deb-Lu has managed to achieve some mastery over her powers.”
    “I sincerely trust so, by Vox!”
    Shortly after that Khe-Hi-Bjanching and Ling-Li-Lwingling turned up, adamantly determined to go with the expedition to the Coup Blag. They were two people I really welcomed along.
    With them actually with Delia, I felt