outcome of a foolish whim made manifest in destiny, I had dived into the battle myself. The great and impossibly long sword I had taken from Kov Nath at our first encounter at the inn had given me ideas. Without Naghan the Gnat I had done the work myself, with the assistance of a young armorer, Wil of the Bellows, who was handy with a tempering hammer.
At least, memory of our days spent in the smithy around the forge as, stripped to the waist, our bodies running with sweat, our muscles bulging, drinking huge drafts of a much-watered weak wine, we worked the metal in cunning fashion, yes, at least, those memories recur with pleasure. I took off enough of the blade to bring what was left to the length of the blade of a Krozair longsword. We were scrupulously careful not to impair the temper, for the steel was of fine meld, springy, strong, capable of taking a sharp edge. I rebuilt the handle, and gave it that subtle two-handed Krozair grip. I bound it with silver wire we took from the shattered effects of a Gorgren supply column, looted and burned in the hills. The overly ornate and clumsy quillons were cut back by a fine craftsman, for they had been built snugly into the blade and handle, and I rewound the velvet before them, thinking it a flamboyant touch, but, possibly, a useful one, and I left the lugs before the velvet, for obvious reasons. So it was with a sword not properly a Krozair longsword, and yet with a weapon that had much of the superb quality of that magnificent brand, that I went into action.
As to the balance, Wil of the Bellows and I spent a long time getting the pommel weight just right. The blade balanced perfectly.
Wil had shaken his head, at the beginning, and said, “The great swords of the islands of Djanduin are notorious, Notor. You are cutting this one down-”
“Aye, young Wil. And for a reason.”
But he, like them all here, had never heard of the inner sea, the Eye of the World, and a Krozair of Zy meant nothing to them. Well, in various actions, they saw what a Krozair longsword might do in the hands of a Krozair brother skilled in these matters.
“By Zodjuin of the Rainbow, Dray!” yelled Kytun as we pressed the remnants of Kov Nath’s army back past the canal of fresh water, over the arcaded bridge, and into the Palazzo of the Four Winds.
“You fight almost as well as a normal man with four arms!”
It was an old jest.
Djanguraj is a sprawling, arcaded, windy city with much granite and brick and little marble. The merezo
— where the zorca and sleeth race — is one of the finer buildings. The palace contains many courtyards and inner ways, with the sacred court of the warrior gods placed centrally. To reach it we encircled the entire area and with flutduin flyers on patrol and the fliers available also helping to cover escape by air, we pressed on to the central sacred court.
Ortyg Coper had joined us, and he wore armor and carried thraxter, shield, and djangir, but he was not at home in a warrior’s garb, and I detailed sturdy Nath ti Jondaria, a Djang who understood that an order from me was to be obeyed until death without a thought or a question in that craggy skull of his, to look out for Coper and to guard him from his own excitement and unskilled desire to be a man among men.
Now we came up against wildly vicious Djangs armed with the great sword of the islands of Djanduin. They were Nath Jagdur’s personal bodyguard, men recruited from his own island of Hyr Khor. Against them, and with an unholy zest that infuriated all present, went the great swordsmen from Kytun’s island of Uttar Djombey. There was work to be done here for the future.
A merker alighted in a rush of fluttclepper wings and I had to draw back from the forefront of the battle at this vital moment of conquest to deal with problems of handling the city. There were orders to give, and decisions to make, all the pressing demands on a commander in battle that, in truth, were my proper role instead of bashing on with my longsword. I sent a scrabble of merkers into the air and racing on zorcas among the arcaded avenues of the city so as to make absolutely sure of every point within Djanguraj.
Coper had done his work well. Despite my proud boasts I could never have kept the city once I had taken it without his work. The fruits of those labors now bore sweet fruit. The people appeared everywhere, shouting for Notor Prescot, and great crowds surged up the avenues, waving flags of orange and gray, and there were many who waved small copies of Old Superb in their violent excitement. Coper was hauled out of the line by the scruff of his neck and Nath ti Jondaria, a bluff fellow with a moustache wider than his ears, grinned hugely as he dumped Ortyg Coper down. They are good friends in nature’s way, are Obdjang and Dwadjang, but the four-armed Djangs love to exhibit their strengths to the gerbil-faced Obdjangs. We are all human.
“Here, Notor, is the Pallan as you ordered!”
“Thank you, Nath. If you wish to carve yourself some fun in the battle-”
But he was off, running and waving his sword above his head, screeching with sheer joy at being alive.
“Now, Ortyg, we must plan the food supplies. That is the most important item in our plans. The people shout for us now, and for that I thank you with all my heart, but they will change their tune if we cannot feed them.”
Ortyg Coper squirmed inside his uncomfortable armor.
“You speak the truth, Dray. And, as Mother Diocaster is my witness, I was never cut out to be a warrior. Now, as to food, there are caches we have uncovered here and there-” And so we went at it, with maps and lists and sending off of merkers with orders to the detachments of the army. Quoffa carts were collected by the hundred, and calsanys with panniers ready prepared. Djanguraj would not starve if I could help it.
The noise of battle sensibly diminished. Coper and his stylors and I worked on in a feverish bustle, for we knew we must instantly show the people that we were not as other conquerors had been, and that we really meant what we said about the welfare of the Djangs of Djanduin. Presently Chan of the Wings appeared. He was walking. His leather flying gear showed a streak of blood, and he held his djangir in his hand. When he advanced to stand before me at the long tables set up in the court of the Stux of Zodjuin, he looked not so much tired as regretful and resentful of his errand. This was most unlike a merker.
“Well, Chan of the Wings,” I said, scribbling notes at the foot of a distribution list — that was for palines, I noticed, having asked to inspect the paline supply position personally — and looking up sharply. “You have a message?”
“Aye, Notor Prescot, whom henceforth men will hail as King of Djanduin. The last remnants of the leemsheads are barricaded within the sacred court. Kov Kytun Kholin Dom pens them there. And the Opaz-forsaken rast of a Kov Nath Jagdur has sent a message-”
Instantly my mind flew back seven years, to the moment when I had appeared by the Star Lords’
command in Djanduin, beside the burning inn. And I could hear myself shouting, so as to give a little breathing space, throw a little bafflement into the picture, half-taunting this Nath Jagdur, Kov of Hyr Khor. His men had been hurling stuxes at me, and loosing when they could, and he had been trying to get at me with that damned great sword which now swung at my side. I remembered letting him have a curse and an offer.
“By the Black Chunkrah, Kov Nath! Let you and me settle this between ourselves, like true Horters.”
And he had laughed and said he was no Horter.
Neither am I, when it comes down to it. If I had to cut him up or stick him I would do so, fairly or foully.
“I am coming, Chan of the Wings,” I said, and rose and clapped my left hand to that great sword of the island of Djanduin that I had cut down into an imitation longsword of the Eye of the World. I strode off toward the sacred court of the warrior gods.
Chan shook his head.
“You seem ever able, Notor, to read a man’s mind.”
How easy to have said, in the old harsh way, “Believe it!”
But that would have been cheap.
Kytun met me, blood-spattered, angry, alive with his deep humor and his fighting blood aroused and baffled.
“By the blood of Holy Djan-kadjiryon!” he bellowed. “The yetch challenges you, Dray! He challenges you to single combat!”
“He but takes up a challenge issued seven years ago, Kytun.” I spoke mildly. I had no wish, now, to fight this wild leem of a rebellious Kov who had made himself king; but I would so do. I would do so for the sake of this new country of mine. For, make no mistake, Djanduin had become a country I counted and honored.
Coper had also pushed up with us, and now he squeaked his own outrage.
“If he kills you, Dray, if he does — why — it is all for nothing, for he will be the rightful king still-”
“I do not think Djanduin would care for that.”
