Read Online Masks of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
Tags: Religión, Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Romance, Rome, Fantasy, Contemporary, History, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Fathers and daughters, Science Fiction; Fantasy; & Magic, Ancient, Parents, cults, Undercover operations, Imaginary wars and battles, Emperors
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padded off looking for trouble. How odd, and yet how exhilarating, to be out adventuring with my daughter Dayra! I thought of the times I’d gone off on adventures like this with Lela, my eldest daughter, known as Jaezila, and I vowed certain vows and if I thought of my daughter, Velia, well, then, I did, and the whole world might stop and still make no difference...
By a side wall in a patio where a well covered by a sharply pitched blue slate roof lorded it, we found a flunkey who was only too pleased to put down his water bucket and take us along to where the Vallian prisoners were confined. Usually, when you are on a rescue mission of this nature, it is not as easy as this... I watched the fellow in his gray slave breechclout. Dayra paced ahead eagerly.
We heard them before we reached them.
They were singing.
It seems to me entirely unnecessary to say that I’d borrowed the sword from the guard who’d gone to sleep. Now I lifted the weapon, as it were, for all the silliness of it, for all the stupidity of it that it may reveal, I lifted the sword in involuntary salute.
The men and women of Vallia, prisoners, sang.
They were not singing one of the great songs of Vallia, a patriotic paean of glory and valor and nobility.
Oh, no. They were not singing one of the rollicking Vallian songs that poke fun at the various enemies Vallia has had to contend with from time to time. Oh, no.
Oh, no. They were singing “The Song of Logan Lop-Ears and His Faithful Calsany.” This, in its enumeration of the terrible problems poor Logan Lop-Ears faced taking his father’s calsany to market to sell the poor beast, adumbrates stanza by stanza the vicissitudes of folk’s lives and mishaps. It provokes, needless to say, considerable mirth.
And the Vallians roared out with gusto, particularly those stanzas that often have their words subtly altered to fit circumstances.
Dayra glanced back at me. Her color was up and her eyes were bright. I nodded. For that moment, I, too, could not speak.
The slave flunkey could. He said: “There will be guards with swords, masters. They will kill you, and me too. Let me go, I beg you—”
“We will not harm you, dom,” I said truthfully. “Just bide quietly and see what will be.”
There were guards, four of them. They were just about to bang on the door to stop the singing, and then, for the Vallians would not stop for that, more likely than not go busting in to crack a few heads. Dayra leaped. There was a steely, diamond-bright glitter before her. One of the guards fell back, trying to scream through a wrecked face. His companion staggered drunkenly sideways as Dayra’s rapier licked back. The other two were barely aware of what was going on until they slumped, and Dayra took one of them, also...
The fattest held the key ring at his belt. Dayra stooped. I stepped back a pace, half-turning, listening.
“Tell them to keep singing, but softer. You go on, Ros. I will see if — yes!”
Around the corner behind us came five more guards, big beefy fellows carrying stuxes as well as swords and spears.
Dayra gave them a single comprehensive glance.
“Come to change the guard. Very well — father!”
She leaped for the door, the key in her fist.
I swung back to face these five who ran on, shouting.
Now if I say I was pleased to see them, you may wonder. I was. The reason, simple enough, was that they carried weapons. My folk of Vallia would need those weapons.
The guards ran up, hurling their javelins. These stuxes flew with varying directions and power, for two of the fellows were apim, one was Brokelsh, one a Rapa and the fifth a bleg. He’d be difficult to knock over. Now it was vitally necessary that I allowed not a single stux to pass me. If one flew over my shoulder it could strike into Dayra’s slender back as she bent to the prison lock. So — I caught the first one, deflected the next and the next and the fourth, damnably, nicked me along my left forearm. I used the
By a side wall in a patio where a well covered by a sharply pitched blue slate roof lorded it, we found a flunkey who was only too pleased to put down his water bucket and take us along to where the Vallian prisoners were confined. Usually, when you are on a rescue mission of this nature, it is not as easy as this... I watched the fellow in his gray slave breechclout. Dayra paced ahead eagerly.
We heard them before we reached them.
They were singing.
It seems to me entirely unnecessary to say that I’d borrowed the sword from the guard who’d gone to sleep. Now I lifted the weapon, as it were, for all the silliness of it, for all the stupidity of it that it may reveal, I lifted the sword in involuntary salute.
The men and women of Vallia, prisoners, sang.
They were not singing one of the great songs of Vallia, a patriotic paean of glory and valor and nobility.
Oh, no. They were not singing one of the rollicking Vallian songs that poke fun at the various enemies Vallia has had to contend with from time to time. Oh, no.
Oh, no. They were singing “The Song of Logan Lop-Ears and His Faithful Calsany.” This, in its enumeration of the terrible problems poor Logan Lop-Ears faced taking his father’s calsany to market to sell the poor beast, adumbrates stanza by stanza the vicissitudes of folk’s lives and mishaps. It provokes, needless to say, considerable mirth.
And the Vallians roared out with gusto, particularly those stanzas that often have their words subtly altered to fit circumstances.
Dayra glanced back at me. Her color was up and her eyes were bright. I nodded. For that moment, I, too, could not speak.
The slave flunkey could. He said: “There will be guards with swords, masters. They will kill you, and me too. Let me go, I beg you—”
“We will not harm you, dom,” I said truthfully. “Just bide quietly and see what will be.”
There were guards, four of them. They were just about to bang on the door to stop the singing, and then, for the Vallians would not stop for that, more likely than not go busting in to crack a few heads. Dayra leaped. There was a steely, diamond-bright glitter before her. One of the guards fell back, trying to scream through a wrecked face. His companion staggered drunkenly sideways as Dayra’s rapier licked back. The other two were barely aware of what was going on until they slumped, and Dayra took one of them, also...
The fattest held the key ring at his belt. Dayra stooped. I stepped back a pace, half-turning, listening.
“Tell them to keep singing, but softer. You go on, Ros. I will see if — yes!”
Around the corner behind us came five more guards, big beefy fellows carrying stuxes as well as swords and spears.
Dayra gave them a single comprehensive glance.
“Come to change the guard. Very well — father!”
She leaped for the door, the key in her fist.
I swung back to face these five who ran on, shouting.
Now if I say I was pleased to see them, you may wonder. I was. The reason, simple enough, was that they carried weapons. My folk of Vallia would need those weapons.
The guards ran up, hurling their javelins. These stuxes flew with varying directions and power, for two of the fellows were apim, one was Brokelsh, one a Rapa and the fifth a bleg. He’d be difficult to knock over. Now it was vitally necessary that I allowed not a single stux to pass me. If one flew over my shoulder it could strike into Dayra’s slender back as she bent to the prison lock. So — I caught the first one, deflected the next and the next and the fourth, damnably, nicked me along my left forearm. I used the
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