Talons of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Read Free Book Online

lithe, the figure of the captain of the Vallian moved purposefully to the bulwark. He stared at us, and an outstretched hand was instantly filled by a telescope. He raised the glass to his eye. I felt like waving, and did not. I kept still and small, for Insur ti Fotor, with whom I had fought the Shanks, would recognize me wearing my old Dray Prescot face. He wore a trim naval officer’s uniform, with a little gold lace, just to let folk know he was the captain. For since my Delia had had him promoted to ord-Hikdar, he had climbed past the ninth and tenth grades of Hikdar, and was now a ley-Jiktar, into the fourth grade of Jiktar. He ran a taut ship; a single glance showed, unmistakably, all the marks of a vessel and crew on the top line, thrumming with energy and spirit. I counted Insur ti Fotor as a friend, and so I breathed again.
Tuscurs Maiden
would not be attacked and sunk by Vallian renders.
    Trade was reopening between the two islands, and Insur must be here with his fine ship as protection for Vallians against pirates of any nation. That was why he sailed down on us, to reassure himself that we were honest merchants.
    That could be left to Pompino and Linson. I could make myself scarce. The relief was intense. The thought of having to fight Vallians had been unpleasant for a variety of reasons. I decided to stay in my perch aloft as the formalities were observed.
    At Captain Insur ti Fotor’s side a fellow lifted a speaking trumpet to his lips. He was a Womox, and his own horns were nearly as large as the horn used to fashion the trumpet. He bellowed, his words rolling out flat and booming, magnified across the water.
    “You are a prisoner of war! Heave to!”
    Wersting Rogahan’s forrard varter let fly and a rock hummed fearsomely across our forecastle.
    “Heave to or I’ll sink you!”

Chapter four
    The instructive history of a zan-talen
    A second rock hurtled dangerously low over our deck. Wersting Rogahan was a remarkable shot with a varter, and could split the Chunkrah’s Eye at tremendous distances. A horrific thought occurred to me in the chaos of the moment — how would a shoot-out between Wersting and our two varterists, Wilma the Shot and Alwim the Eye, turn out? Impossible! I could not let that happen!
    Captain Linson bellowed furiously.
    “Prisoner of war? Prisoner of war! The Vallian is mad!”
    People scurried about the decks, confusion held them all, and the sudden powerful smell of the sea reached up to me in the cross-trees, blowing all the aromas of the ship away.
    “You said we could not outsail him!” screeched Pompino. The breeze blew words about like gulls over a cliff. Wilma and Alwim looked aft, ready for the signal to loose.
    The Womox bellowed again.
    “Heave to! Strike your colors!”
    “Never!” raged Pompino. He had drawn his sword and he waved it — somewhat foolishly — about his head.
    Over on the Vallian’s forecastle, low enough in the sleek galleon build, Wersting’s crew was hard at it rewinding the gros-varter. The next rock would not skim harmlessly above our heads. The next shot would crunch sickeningly in, to gout a fountain of splinters into bodies, to smash and rend, perhaps to bring down a mast.
    It seemed to me in the midst of this madness there remained but the one thing left to do.
    In that old foretop-hailing voice that had cut through more than one gale in Biscay I yelled down to Pompino.
    “Heave to, Pompino! Buy some time!”
    “You wouldn’t surrender, Jak!”
    “No. But we must find the explanation—”
    “We can pulp that damned varterist on their forecastle!” shrilled Wilma the Shot.
    “Belay that, Wilma!” If Linson refused to obey the order to heave to, if Pompino’s proud Khibil blood got the better of him, we’d all be pulped. “Just heave to!”
    Fiery whiskers flaring, Pompino glared up. He stuck his hands on his hips. His chin jutted.
    “You’re up to some deviltry, Jak!” he howled.
    “Aye. Fighting won’t save our necks