The Avengers of Carrig by John Brunner Read Free Book Online Page A

custom of Carrig, and for it men died yearly. It was not fitting that an irreverentstranger should trample his clumsy feet across sacred ground as Belfeor was doing. Saikmar turned to the other statue flanking the twywit symbol—that of Oric, god of everything sharp, fangs, claws, darts, and spears—and besought him to blunt Belfeor’s weapons so that they would not wound.
    With dawn came the clangor of gongs in the streets, announcing the departure of the advance party who had in some ways a more dangerous task even than the contenders, for they had to scramble among the cavern-riddled foothills of the volcanic range and rout the king from his slumber. More parradiles than the king wintered in those warm caves, and there was always the risk of disturbing a mother with young, who would attack on sight because she had not hibernated. The king, however, would be drowsy and placid, and the business of coming awake, gulping down the provisions he had stored last fall and emerging into the daylight would occupy him long enough for the advance guard to make their getaway.
    When the gongs had died in the distance, the priests came to fetch the contenders and make sacrifice in their name on the hearthstone of the temple. After that, it was for them to decide what to do until the king was wakened. Those who were not too excited could sleep away the morning and refresh themselves after their wakeful night Much to his own surprise this was what Saikmar did, lying on a bundle of cloaks while his riggers double-checked his glider, renewing the thongs of tough elastic kowtschook which propelled its darts, testing every inch of the control cords to make sure they would not snap.
    He did not see what became of Belfeor. When he inquired on waking, he found that no one very much cared.
    Each of the clans had its own launching-site for gliders. Clan Twywit’s was closest of all to the city, and the party accompanying Saikmar could delay their departure a full hour beyond the others’ without risking the loss of their chance at the king. It was almost noon when they took station on the grassy plateau among the volcanic peaks, and looked over the landscape for signs of activity. Saikmar knew this area better than his own clan’s estate, for he had flown over it hundreds of times and each smoking craterwas an old friend of his, ready to lend the help of an updraught or veil him temporarily with blinding smoke. Yet he found himself trembling as he waited for the riggers to set up his glider on its launching-ramp.
    “Scared?” Luchan said. As a former contender he had the right to be present at the launching-site, though Saikmar would have been happier without him; Luchan’s missing arm and closed eye were unpleasant reminders of what the king could do to an over-bold attacker.
    “A little,” Saikmar acknowledged.
    “You’ve taken nothing of Sir Bavis’, I hope?” Luchan murmured. “No luck-cup or anything like it?”
    Saikmar shook his head. “None has been sent to me,” he declared. He and Luchan had talked about this before—the slanderous charge that Sir Bavis drugged the contenders.
    Luchan shrugged and gave a twisted smile. “Myself, I did. I think I was unwise. However, since you’ve been sent none and I lack all proof for my charge except that after the drink I felt less than completely myself, let’s refrain from blighting the day with talk of such matters. What were you thinking of when I spoke?”
    “Of the stranger Belfeor,” Saikmar answered. “He gives me a disturbing sense of—of menace.”
    Luchan clapped him on the shoulder with his surviving hand. “What you have to worry about today is the king, my friend, not some foolish and arrogant stranger! I’ve been making inquiries, and no one seems to know what’s become of him since he left the temple. No one has seen him with a glider on the way here, no one has any knowledge of where he might plan to set up a launching-ramp, or of any servants or riggers he