Prince of Scorpio

flogged every now and then and given a ride, and flogged again, so that they preferred to haul rather than face the incessant extra floggings. If you think I came to hate these slave-guards — you are right.

The red and black bands on their sleeves burned into my brain.

But I said I would not dwell on this unhappy period of my life. I would prefer to forget it, although I do not believe I ever will.

At last we came to the flight of locks leading to the inner network of waterways of Vondium. We locked through and finally came to a long low stone warehouse where more guards waited for us. The regular haulers were taken away to their barracks. We criminals were rounded up, loaded with chains — whereat many a man screamed as the harsh iron bit into his open wounds — and dragged off. All I could see was the stone beneath my feet. The guards were mere blurs of dark crimson in the corner of my eyes. I heard them whistling as they strode along — a tune I knew, surely — The Bowmen of Loh. That did not belong to any part of my life now; that came from a distant and dimly-remembered time when I was fit and well, with clean clothes on my back, a full belly, laughter and wine, kind faces about me. . I trudged and stumbled on over the stones, done for.

Down dank stairways we went, into dark dungeons where the leepitix darted and scrabbled, where the rats gnawed dead men’s bones, where the vermin clustered in the corners waiting for fresh meat. We were chained to the wall.

I slumped down. I did not think I could raise a little finger to bash a guard, as I would customarily have struck with my fists until either the guards were dead or I was out like a light. I tried to rest and sleep, but phantasms thronged my brain, and I moaned. Chains rattled and clanked dismally. We were not fed. Guards came for us, men wearing the red and black, and we were hauled out. We were starving, for we had not eaten for two days. There were ten of us, I saw, ten starved lean scarecrows, all hairy, filthy, and covered in sores. We were moaning as we were dragged along, our chains rattling on the stones. Up we were dragged, half throttled in the chains. Up and up. We were in the Emperor’s palace in Vondium. We were pulled out onto a wide and shining floor. Sunshine lanced down, emerald and crimson. There was a great throng of people, courtiers, guards, Air Servicemen, women gorgeous in fine clothes. All was a dazzlement to me. I could barely stand. I was weak, I tottered and fell, and a boot kicked me up. Korf Aighos fell and was dragged. I fell and was dragged. We left a bloody trail across that shining floor.

I looked up. All distorted, on its side, a throne soared, it seemed to the ceiling, that shattered the light into a myriad shards like diamonds. A figure sat on the throne, a blaze of gold and crimson. A second throne stood at the side, gorgeous, splendid, not of the world I inhabited. I was aware of the hum of conversation, and stray words spouted up, like black ice breaking free of the pack. We were the assassins, the murderers, the bandits, who stole and raped and killed. The guards moved back. A wedge of dark crimson gave a backdrop to the thrones. I saw the white blurs of many faces. Jewels winked into my brain like fire and ice. I was down, done for, finished. A voice boomed close.

“Here, my lord Emperor, are the malefactors for your justice!”

No trial, then-

I tried to stand up. I, Dray Prescot, wouldn’t show these scum anything other than defiance, contempt; I tried to stand up, my chains dragging me down. I staggered. I fell. The hard polished floor came up cruelly. I lay, drugged with fatigue. Hunger was no longer noticeable, except that I couldn’t stand up and call these people and this Emperor a pack of kleeshes.

Of what use any further struggle? I had failed. I had failed to do what I had so vaingloriously boasted. I had said I would stride before the Emperor and demand from him the hand of his daughter Delia in marriage.

And here I was, before the Emperor, swathed in chains like a wild beast, bearing the scars of floggings, the red blood running from open sores, covered in vermin, filthy, with my hair stinking in my own nostrils, bathed in repulsiveness.

Oh, Dray Prescot, how are the mighty fallen!

I heard a cry and then a shout of horror.

I struggled to stand up and could not.

They would take me out now and cut off my head.

I heard a rustling, and then a great soughing sobbing from a thousand throats around the enormous throne room. I felt that rustling close. I felt a breath of wind and then I smelled a clean, sweet, fresh scent

— I felt warm soft arms go around me, all white and rosy, naked, taking me up as I was, as I was in my filth and degradation, clasping me to her beast.

“Oh, my Dray! My Dray! I have found you at last!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“The man who kills Dray Prescot I’ll have burned alive!”

My Delia!

Some resource then, some last vestige of — not pride — love, some last remnant of love for my Delia forced me up onto my knees. She held me close and she was sobbing in a way that gave me a deep hatred for anyone or anything who could make her thus break her heart — and knowing that person was me. I stood up. She would not let me go.

“Dray! Oh, Dray, I have been frantic! Dray!”

“Delia,” I managed to say. The throne room whirled about my head. I staggered dizzily, and she held me, her dear body firm against me. “I love you, my Delia. I shall never stop loving you.”

She kept sobbing my name, over and over, and hugging and clasping me to her. I could see very little. Hands drew us apart. Soft, anxious, gentle hands of court ladies, noblewomen, tugging my Delia away. And harsh, fierce, cruel hands of slave-masters and guards dragging me away, with a blow from a whip-handle across the face to speed my going.

Delia screamed.

I struggled.

I do not know where the strength came from.

I took the whip-handle between my teeth and I jerked. I brought my head back and snapped it forward and the lash whistled. I forced myself to see, forcing my eyes to open and to tell me what was going on. A blow smashed against the back of my head and I staggered forward. I spun clumsily. I reached up against all that dead weight of iron, took the whip from my mouth, and brought the handle down across the fellow’s face. He toppled back spouting blood, shrieking. I lashed the whip at the guards, and one was caught around the neck. I dragged him toward me, broke his neck, and threw him aside. I was ready to do this as often as was required.

I heard a shrill scream — and recognized Delia’s voice, the voice of the Majestrix. The first time I had ever heard her use her voice like that: “Do not kill him! The man who kills Dray Prescot I’ll have burned alive!”

“Daughter, daughter!” The testy voice — the Emperor!

I flung back my head.

“I am Dray Prescot! I claim your daughter Delia! She is mine! Before all the world, she is mine!”

The guards pounced then, and I smashed and slashed them back. I yelled again, shouting into that golden haze.

“She is mine — and I am hers! There is nothing you can do, Emperor, nothing!”

A guard coiled his lash across the blood-fouled shining floor and tripped me. I bent, dragged the lash in, and before he could let go I kneed him, and then brought my fists down on his neck. His head hung strangely before he pitched to the floor.

I knew Delia was struggling in the hands of the nobles, who would be outraged at her behavior. I caught another guard and dispatched him. I felt nothing. I was a shining figure molded from blood. The Emperor was cursing; I could tell his voice and would not forget it.