Legions of Antares by Alan Burt Akers Read Free Book Online Page A

Crebent, a kind of bailiff and majordomo and chief troubleshooter rolled into one, and I trusted him.
    “There is no Crebent, dom. But there are two of us. You’d best come along quietly, for all you wear a sword. We are used to swords. The Amak will want a word with you.”
    “The Amak?”
    This so much surprised and amused me I allowed myself to be escorted along to the imposing four-story house at the end of the compound. A lot was going on. A few soldiers lounged around the well, laughing and joking. They did not look particularly bright specimens of swods, the ordinary soldiers, and their uniforms were more raggedy than was seemly for representatives of the iron legions of Hamal.
    One of my escorts, the one whose nostrils bristled hair, snorted. “Useless onkers.”
    His companion, who was missing his left ear, spat into the dust. “Line of Supply. They eat us out of house and home. The quicker they go the better.”
    “But,” I said. “Do they not protect you against the wild men from over the mountains?”
    Both escorts laughed, showing black snaggly teeth.
    “The Amak has the mirvols, beautiful flyers all, and powerful men to fly them. And you speak small when the Amak addresses you.”
    The mirvol perching towers, indeed, were loaded with splendid flying animals. The two-story house nearby was the barracks for the Amak’s personal force. In the old days they had been volunteers from Paline Valley. This new Amak, whoever he was, would have hired mercenaries, I did not doubt.
    The house struck cool. Rush mats covered the floor and walls. The light of the twin suns was muted. Water tinkled.
    Whoever this fellow was who called himself the Amak, he’d built a splendid house. As I was the Amak, I rather fancied I would enjoy living here.
    Although I had removed most of the flaunting marks and feathers and streamers from the flying leathers, the supple clothing was still enough to brand me a flutsman. The four fluttrells also would give this impression. There had seemed no reason not to fly straight to the valley. How I erred in this! After all these seasons, I could still make the most elementary mistake in life on Kregen. The seriousness of this mistake bore in on me only slowly — two stout overseers with cudgels, well, they had not amounted to much. The talk of some resident Amak would be straightened out. But the rank of paktuns who waited for us in the hall and who stuck to me like glue were quite another matter.
    “Keep silent. March with us. If you run you will be cut down.”
    The words slapped out crisp and yet, somehow, flat. The Deldar in command possessed a face much worn away by drink. We marched along the corridor to see that the Amak and the two overseers, their duty done, went back to their work. They could be going up to the paline fields or out onto the dusty grasslands to see that the cattle were herded properly. I confess, I am still enthralled at the sight of vast herds of cattle being handled not by men riding animals on the ground, but flying saddle birds of the air. To see the swift flight, the swerve, and the way the cattle instinctively obey — that is a sight, by Krun!
    We marched out under a curved tile roof and the suns blinded down. I blinked. This small open space, after the fashion of an atrium, contained besides the expected fountain and pool and green plants and flowers, the ugly blot of a flogging frame.
    Four men, backs bare, were strung up and being flogged.
    They were all unconscious. Their heads lolled. The stylor at the side with his slate chalked off the lashes as the Deldars of the Whip struck. I felt that foolish expression on my face tightening and I had to force myself to remain composed. This needed explanation — and perhaps the four men deserved punishment? Although even devoted Nulty would not hand out so vicious a punishment unless the crime was horrendous.
    The Deldar commanding the detail marching me along called across. He sounded right jovial.
    “Hey,