Free Talons of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page B

assassins’ faces are commonly concealed. We hit them hard, and they hit us hard.
    Ridzi the Rangora catapulted backwards. A thick spear transfixed his belly. Larghos, with a cunning sideways belt of his sword, dispatched the fellow, all eyes and teeth, who had thrust his spear through Ridzi.
    The Brokelsh sank down. For a tiny moment his voice reached me through the hubbub.
    “By Bridzilkelsh the Resplendent! I am done for!”
    Blackness gushed from his mouth.
    “Hold up, dom,” I said. “We’ll carry you—”
    But the Brokelsh, Ridzi the Rangora, keeled over onto his side, the spear haft drawing up his knees in a rictus of agony. In the next heartbeat he was dead.
    In a heavy rush of bodies more of our fellows joined in from the fight up front. Quendur the Ripper cut down his man, swirled at another, called across in a high, bright voice: “They run in front, Jak! Now we have them here!”
    I did not reply, catching a heavy blow in a slanting glide on the dagger and thrusting with the thraxter. Recovering, I ducked and belted a blow sideways to take the knees from a Rapa who gobbled and, before he could fall over, had his beak removed by Murkizon’s enormous axe.
    “Tromple all over ’em!”
    “Hai!” roared Pompino, catching a Brown and Silver trying to get at the gherimcal. The man sank down in a puddle. My comrade glared about. Quendur was in the act of swiping at a Fristle who now clearly wished to backpedal. The fight was all but over. The remaining Brown and Silvers drew off.
    “Hurry!” I said in that penetrating whisper that cuts like splintered glass. “They’ll be shafting us now.”
    Quendur saw where Ridzi lay, doubled up over the spear, the black stain on the cobbles. He stepped forward, took up the handle of the gherimcal, the other three calsters took their handles. Tilda gave no sign of life. The chair lifted. In a bunch, weapons naked and stained, we ran for the palace.
    Unwilling to leave a comrade, I hoisted up Ridzi, breaking the disgusting spear off. I hurled the broken haft into the radiance of the Moons, cursing stupid waste. With the hairy bloody body of the Brokelsh over my shoulder I ran after the others.
    The avenue leading from that kyro where we had been ambushed led on for a couple of hundred paces and then opened out into the plaza fronting the palace. The building of itself appeared to be no great size under the moons. Some of its towers lofted to a goodly height, and one dome gleamed silky-sheened in the radiance.
    There was no moat or drawbridge. Instead a double gate flanked by watchtowers protected the entrance. I did not give that fortification a long life against an expert siege-master.
    Two apim guards in little sentry boxes, their spears slanted, watched us running up.
    As we approached in a rushing wheeze of panting breaths and staccato cracks of studded sandals, the gates creaked open. They creaked. Through the noise of our progress the wood and iron creaked loudly and distinctly.
    We did not stop but rushed straight through into a walled courtyard where torches flared.
    The gates creaked and closed at our backs.
    “Safe,” said Pompino. He looked wrought up. “We’ve done it!”
    “Aye,” I said, as they put the gherimcal down. “And here is some of the cost.” Over my shoulder, Ridzi lolled.
    There was no decent answer Pompino could find to that.
    Tuscurs Maiden’s
Ship Hikdar, Boris Pordon, appeared. He looked worried sick.
    “Thank Pandrite you are safe, horter!” He spoke to Pompino directly. “We were about to run out to your assistance—”
    Pompino brushed that aside. “The whole affair was over before you could have reached us. It was a hindrance only.”
    The decoy party and the fake chair had made a simple, safe journey here, unmolested. The canvas and wood construction stood to one side and I looked at it critically. Well... Seen like this it might have fooled the Leem Lovers. It had not done so, and that luck played against us.
    The torches