(eng) Alan Burt Akers - Dray Prescot 32 by Seg the Bowman

Author:Seg the Bowman [Bowman, Seg the]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter twelve

The Law of the River

It is said overmuch of Kregen, and is widely believed, that Chuliks have no sense of humanity. Trained from birth as they are to the military art, they possess a strict sense of order, of the need for rules and regulations, for the necessity of ladders of command to avoid confusion. Their codes of conduct are different from those of many other races. They have nothing of the fanatical dedication to honor, to their nikobi, of the Pachaks. They have nothing to do with the races who change colors upon the battlefield as the swing and sway of conflict brings victory or defeat.

Over the seasons Seg had been nurturing a growing conviction that the Chuliks were misjudged. Their own harsh upbringing and sense of values denied them the outgoing frankness that might have changed general opinion. They could not readily accept a proffered hand of friendship.

When Nath Chandarl the Dorvenhork said, “I would not have witnessed the outrage to the little dinko, Bamba,” Seg could see what the Chulik meant. He was not, in these later seasons of greater wisdom, surprised, as he would have been even a few short seasons ago.

For the Rapa, Rafikhan, a different set of mores had to be applied. Given the license, it was common knowledge what would happen to a woman of another race if she was thrown into the Rapa court. But Rafikhan had joined in the fight with relish, his flung knife extinguishing a brown and white feathered soldier, his ferocious hands and beak destroying another.

As for the Khibil, Khardun the Franch, his innate sense of superiority had motivated him to protect his friends. Amnesty for wrongdoers was very foreign to a Khibil’s philosophy.

The Fristle, Naghan the Slippy, although not a mercenary, had played his part. He said he was a metalworker, and detested the river, and Seg believed him, willy-nilly.

Now they sailed up the Kazzchun River in Obolya’s boat, paying their way in solid silver Dhems, and kept a watchful lookout for pursuit. The brown and white feathered soldiery of Trylon Muryan would be after them if no other lord felt inclined to send his paktuns in pursuit.

Obolya the Zorcanim, of course, remained in total ignorance of the malefactions of the ne’er-do-wells who took passage in his boat. He labored under the impression that he had hired on the Chulik and the Khibil. No one disabused him of the notion.

As Seg said, “I give you thanks, friends, for your courage and help. You earned your hire, to speak in base commercial paktunish terms, exceedingly well. But, for now, why not take a holiday from my service and serve Obolya?”

This could be done in honor and so was done.

That it might have unforeseen consequences did not escape Seg, but he felt it to be the best way of making sure of Obolya’s friendship.

A mercenary does not leave a dead body lying around abandoned when time and circumstance give him the opportunity to make sure the poor dead fellow has no more assistance to offer.

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