Omens of Kregen (eBook)

Chapter one

Concerning the crime of old Hack ’n’ Slay

Old Hack ’n’ Slay, caught with his fingers in the regimental funds, went on the rampage.

He hurled the first three fellows out through the windows of the tavern. The clientele huddled away into corners, including even soldiers from various regiments who knew old Hack ’n’ Slay and like the ordinary citizens wanted nothing to do with this fracas.

In a furious melee six of his fellows poured all over poor old Hack ’n’ Slay. They heaved up and down like men clinging to a boat in a gale.

Scarlet of face, ferocious of eye, old Hack ’n’ Slay roared his refusal to be taken into custody.

“Calm down, Jik!” yelped the Deldar who hung onto one arm and was flapped up and down like a bird’s wing. “You’re nabbed.”

Flagons of wine went every which way, strewing the floor with their pungent brews. The fumes coiled into the nostrils of the combatants. Yet no one drew a pointed or edged weapon. This was a strictly regimental matter. The lads of the 11th Churgurs would settle this among themselves. Old Hack ’n’ Slay might have dipped his sticky finger into the regimental funds, he remained Jiktar Nath Javed, the regimental commander, commanding also the 32nd Brigade, of which the 11th Churgurs formed a part, and he was well known and liked.

“I’ll have the Opaz-forsaken money tomorrow!” bellowed Jiktar Nath Javed, throwing a bulky soldier over his shoulder. “Lemme up!”

“No good, Jik! Grab that foot, Ompey. His arm, Cwonley, his left arm, you great onker!”

Crash went a table, and jugs and bottles smashed into vinous ruin.

“Get his feet from under him.”

“I’ll twist all your ears off, you horrible—”

Up and down the length of the tavern, The Cockerell Winged, the struggle blistered on. Hack ’n’ Slay was no man to be dragged down even by six of his own hefty lads.

“Listen to me, you pack of famblys. I’ll—”

“Yowp!” gobbled a churgur as an elbow nudged his ribs. The rest piled on. In the end they coiled a cunning loop of rope around his ankles and he crashed over to hit his nose on the edge of the upturned table. He let rip a rafter-shattering roar. Then they were on him like ants on a honey pot, holding him down, lapping him in rope, trussing him up like a chicken for the pot.

He kept on roaring his head off so they stuffed a kerchief into his horrendous maw and then wrapped that up in a scarf. Seeing there was nothing else for it, old Hack ’n’ Slay quieted down and they lifted him up like a rolled carpet and took him off.

Through the pleasant evening they went, with three of Kregen’s moons high in the sky casting down their refulgent pinkish light and the scent of Moonblooms filling the air with fragrance.

People out to enjoy themselves turned to stare. The soldiers just marched grimly on, their commander slung over their shoulders, conscious of the indignity of these proceedings yet not giving a damn what the passersby might think.

This was serious. Jiktar Nath Javed, old Hack ’n’ Slay, just given the command of the 32nd Brigade, had pilfered the funds of his own regiment. Only because the division inspectorate had called and found the discrepancy — hell, they’d dumped the empty cash box out onto the parade ground for all to see — had Jiktar Javed been caught out.

Dumped down in the cells he gave up all resistance. They removed his gag and bonds, they took away all his belts and harness, all his weaponry. Sitting slumped into a corner, head on hands on knees, he gave no more trouble that night.

In the morning, after he’d washed and dressed punctiliously, they gave him slursh with red honey stirred in, three fried eggs with a huge hunk of bread, and a pottery dish of palines, whereat he swore they were trying to starve him.

Initially he was run up before the divisional commander, Chuktar Enar Thandon, a neat and dapper man, a Strom, with a clipped moustache, a mouth like a wound and eyes that could, so the swods in the ranks said, bore straight through the toughest armor around. Chuktar Thandon was flanked, in a matter of this seriousness, by the other two brigade commanders. They stared narrowly at Jiktar Nath Javed. For his part, Nath had little time for Lords.

The hearing was fully recorded by an almost silent Xaffer, who scribbled down his notes in his own particular method from which later he would write up a full report. Guards stood at the doors and windows of the commander’s room, a place half office, half duty room, fully armed and armored after the churgur way.

The proceedings began with various witnesses establishing that the strongbox had been full of gold and silver coins, and was now empty. Other witnesses swore they’d seen old Hack ’n’ Slay in such and such a place at such and such a time. The evidence bore in remorselessly.

Eventually, Nath Javed bellowed out: “I don’t deny I borrowed the cash—”

“Borrowed?”

“Aye, borrowed—”

Old Hack ’n’ Slay had risen through the full ten grades within the Jiktar rank. A Jiktar normally commanded a regiment. As a Zan-Jiktar, his next step was to become the first grade within the Chuktar rank, an Ob-Chuktar. Normally, Chuktars commanded brigades and various higher formations as required. Just why old Hack ’n’ Slay had not received the promotion he must have counted on was not apparent then. It must have been a sore point with him, though.

“You are a Jiktar, Nath,” said Enar Thandon. “A Zan-Jiktar. Are you telling us you have amassed debts your pay cannot honor?”

“Not debts — well, not just debts.”

“But,” put in one of the brigade Chuktars, Ongarr Fardew, commanding the bowmen, “you admit you stole the money?”

“No, you great fambly! I merely borrowed it—”

“Moderate your tone, Nath. We are all friends here.”

“Friends?” Hack ’n’ Slay spat it out. “I wonder. Friends would listen to what I say, by Vox, and not sit in judgment overhastily.”

“We do not sit in judgment.” Enar Thandon rapped that out sharply enough. Then, with even more sharpness, he added: “Yet.”

“This is merely an inquiry to establish your guilt,” said Chuktar Ongarr Fardew. He spoke in a neutral way; Nath Javed scowled and, about to roar out the obvious reply to that, was interrupted as Enar Thandon in his acidulated way cut in.

“You admit you took the money from the cash box. You admit you have debts you cannot pay. I feel it would be inadmissible in officers of honor to find you anything less than guilty.”

“I didn’t steal the rotten money—”

“There is no other construction we can put upon your actions.”

“Agreed.” The Court of Inquiry was unanimous.

After a few further formalities, very necessary in matters of this kind to ensure that the legality of the proceedings could not be challenged at a later date, the court gave instructions for old Hack ’n’ Slay to be wheeled out and back to his cell.

As Enar Thandon said to the others, as they stood up and prepared to go about the more mundane business of the day: “Our new emperor is such a stickler for justice under the law, one dare not put a foot wrong.”

“Aye,” said Chuktar Bonn, commanding the 31st Brigade. “One gains the impression that after we smashed Hamal into the ground we have taken up their disease of laws and lawyers.”

“Hamal,” said Enar Thandon, in an off-hand, sneering way. “Them. They have been our enemies for many seasons, and now our new emperor welcomes them as allies and friends.”

“Some friends.” Ongarr Fardew expressed supreme contempt.

Talking amicably among themselves, the three Chuktars of the 30th Division of infantry went out into the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio. That glorious ruby and jade illumination lay athwart the land, drenching the world in color and light. These three were wrapped up in their own concerns, barely noticing the brilliance of the day.

All these events were witnessed by Deldar Naghan the Abstemious. A long, mournful-looking fellow with a suspicious cast to his features, he was a superb soldier and a man who served loyally. As a churgur, a man heavily armored, and armed with javelin, shield and sword, he possessed the powerful physique and bodily strength to serve in the ranks of the shock infantry.

He did not spit as the three Chuktars strutted off. But he did say to one of his swods: “They’re all jumped-up, young Dolan. Mark me, when we get up north where the action is they’ll sing a different tune.”

Dolan, young, freckle-faced and green, couldn’t help but say: “If they hear you, Deldar, they’ll fritter your hide.”

“They can try. I wonder what’ll happen to old Hack ’n’ Slay.”

That the 30th Division of infantry was a raw outfit was manifest. They had been stiffened by a cadre of experienced swods and Deldars. Too many of their Hikdars, men who commanded the company-sized pastangs, had come in to that rank direct instead of being promoted up through the grades of Deldar. There were very many young lads in the ranks, eager youngsters, maybe, but callow and not yet hardened into the requisite toughness required of swods who went into battle and put their lives on the line.

Deldar Naghan the Abstemious wiped his mouth and went about his duties with punctiliousness. He could feel sorry for old Hack ’n’ Slay, with whom he had served before; but then, Jiktar Nath Javed, old Hack ’n’ Slay, had been caught with his fingers in the regimental chest. That was not like the old...