When we were taking an enforced rest after the battle, seeing to our wounded and counting the cost, and I sat in a miserable little tent of hides and pored over the map, in the light of a samphron-oil lamp we had captured from the Gorgrens, the merker came.
His fluttclepper was exhausted. These fast racing birds are built for speed and speed and more speed. He had reached us from Djanduin in record time.
After the Llahals had been made and he had gulped a goblet of wine, he said, “I see my message of warning is not necessary.”
“Tell us, man!” Kytun spat out wrathfully, as befitted a Kov kept waiting, although he was a good-hearted fellow as I well know.
“As to that,” I said, “the merker will say that the ships were a feint, that they carried straw dummies, that only a small force landed, and straightaway took themselves off when once they had aroused the neighborhood and news had been carried to Djanguraj in all haste, as they could see.”
The merker gaped at me.
Then Kytun let out a great bellow of laughter.
“By Zodjuin of the Silver Stux! Is that the way of it?”
“Aye, Kov,” said the messenger. He licked his bearded lips where the wine glittered in the lamplight. “It is as the Notor says. The reserve army marched out, and the Gorgrens had gone.” He looked at me. “By your leave, Notor, there is more.”
I nodded.
“The ships were provided by the leemshead Kov Nath Jagdur. The plan was his. A Gorgren was taken prisoner, and he talked freely.”
“By Djan!” said Kytun, leaping up and fairly rocking the tent with the violence of his anger. “One day I will take that false Kov’s head from his shoulders.”
“The king has sent messengers to the army of the east, to warn them; they began their westward march as soon as news was brought them that the Gorgrens had invaded by sea, difficult though it be to believe such a thing.”
“Difficult to believe the Gorgrens would sail the sea, merker, or difficult to believe Chuktar Rogan Kolanier — who is a Zan-Chuktar — would believe it and take his army of the east to the west?”
Kytun chortled at this, and my other officers crowded into the little tent gave vent to their amusement in various picturesque ways. The merker was not discomposed. His light colored eyes remained fastened on me. In his life, I suppose, he was accustomed to delivering messages that would evoke all manner of violent responses in their recipients.
“I think, Notor, both.”
I looked at him.
“Your name, merker?”
“If it please you, Notor, I am called Chan of the Wings.”
I nodded to him. I knew a messenger did not receive the appellation of the Wings lightly.
“The Pallan Coper sent you, I know. Therefore you must be a good man. Is there any other news?”
He had no need to hesitate. “Whatever was the news before, Notor, your victory here today will change everything. Now, perhaps, the food will flow more freely.” Then, with a great deal of meaning, he added,
“The king will be pleased.”
Kytun said, somewhat coarsely, “And the king had better think what best to be done about Chuktar Kolanier! He was completely caught by the wiles of those Opaz-forsaken Gorgrens.”
“Like Marshal Grouchy,” I said, but softly, for they could not understand that reference. Then, with a simple directness that took the wind out of my sails, for one, the merker Chan of the Wings, committed himself — and others, besides.
“I am privy to many secrets, Notor. I and my fellow merkers — and we are a not insignificant khand -
have been saved from despair by you and your army and your determination to save the country. These things we know, for we carry them. We are sworn to secrecy, but we know.” By khand he meant the merker’s guild, or caste, or brotherhood. They were small in number but, by reason of their calling, influential. A good merker is a great jewel in any man’s retinue. “We declare for you, Notor Prescot, as king. Take the throne, and we are with you.”
A murmur broke out from my officers. This, as far as they were concerned, was the first anyone had said of Notor Prescot, the Lord of Strombor — who was apim! — ascending the faerling throne in the sacred court of the warrior gods.
I sensed the hand of Pallan Coper in this. The old fox! He wanted someone he could trust on the throne, but he sure as the hot springs in the ice floes wasn’t going to sit on that hot seat himself!
It was left to Kytun to spring up, waving wildly, and knock the tent completely over so that his bellow rang out between the mountains, echoing back and forth: “Aye! Notor Prescot, Lord of Strombor! King of Djanduin!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There is little left to tell of that first sojourn of mine in the beautiful, wild and headstrong land of Djanduin. Beautiful — for we would look upon the Mountains of Mirth as their narrow peaks pierced the blue Kregan sky and the snow dazzle would glitter like all the diamonds and sapphires in creation; we could turn and look over the vast expanse of West Djanduin with its fields and forests, its meadows and farms, and we felt the ache in the heart that afflicts a man when he looks upon beauty. Wild — for leem prowled in the uncultivated areas, and great gales would blow up the Tarnish Channel and everyone would shutter their windows and pray the roof tiles stayed on. Headstrong — why, yes, for my Dwadjangs proved irresistible in battle, given a fair chance, and the sight of them surging into battle with their four arms going filled me always with a shivery sense of awe.
The Gorgrens remained for a time in occupation of East Djanduin.
The army of the east, hearing of my own army’s success, and knowing that the eastern front was for the moment secure, continued on to the capital. Here, before the current king could make a move to discipline him, Chuktar Rogan Kolanier, who was of the Porlin tan, or House, set his men upon the king’s bodyguard and burst into the palace. No one ever did know what happened to that king; but Chuktar R. Porlin Kolanier sat himself on the faerling throne in the sacred court of the warrior gods, and was duly crowned.
You may imagine the indignation of my men.
“The impious yetch!” Kytun bellowed, furious, his face an interesting scarlet, his eyes fairly snapping as he strode up waving the merker’s signal. We were camped at the base of the mountains, covering three exits, and our flyer scouts patrolled ceaselessly. “I’ll have to take his head from his shoulders, Dray! That is crystal clear.”
The merker had this time flown here in a flier, and the voller, a lean stripped one-man craft, openly flew the flag of the Pallan Coper. Coper was no longer Pallan of the Highways. Because he had remained alive when so many of his Obdjang colleagues had been murdered he had found himself pressed upward in the civil service beneath the various kings, and he was now Pallan of the Vollers.
“When you quiet down, Kytun, we must make sure the Gorgrens have really withdrawn from the Valley of the Bantings, for if they have it means they-”
“Dray! Dray! Didn’t you hear what I said?”
I looked up and although I do not smile easily I managed to crack out a millimeter of lip movement for Kytun, a great fighter and a good comrade.