Wrath of Antares by Alan Burt Akers

Author:Alan Burt Akers [Akers, Alan Burt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Adventure, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781843197669
Publisher: Mushroom eBooks
Published: 1996-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter thirteen

Fweygo’s circle of death meant that I could not stand shoulder to shoulder with him. As he whirled creating a spray of blood about him so he retreated slowly. I ran down and instantly was engaged in a savage combat with four of them, four ugly fellows with their short red capes flying as they pranced about.

They had to be dealt with sharply. One of their braxters was grabbed up and I swung that into action at once, only to see it snap across at the second blow.

The broken hilt went hurling across to mangle a man’s face.

Fweygo snapped out: “You have it?”

I chopped a fellow left, ducked and sliced his companion before I snarled back: “No. The box held a scorpion only.”

The Kildoi said nothing; but his skilled swordcraft sharpened up. We reached the open door with the Red Capes like a pack of hungry werstings struggling to drag us down.

“Go on!”

There was no time for argument so I did as Fweygo bid and backed into the opening. I moved back to give him room and took a good grip on the edge of the door.

His form contorted like a marionette silhouetted against the lamplight of the temple. His swords flashed red. “Come on!” He continued to fight. “Get set! I’m hauling you in!”

With that I grabbed the thick upper part of his tail as it coiled back for a killing thrust up between his legs, and pulled.

He went back past me so fast a Red Cape had the misfortune to follow. I clouted him on the back of the neck and slammed the door shut in the face of the next guard. Probably the force pulped his nose.

Pulling the beam down into the brackets to bar the door I judged it strong enough to resist for some time.

Fweygo yelled out: “You pulled my tail!”

“Aye.” Naturally enough I was well aware that races of diffs with tails do not like their nether appendages pulled. It stands to reason. It is an indignity. It demands instant retribution.

So, quietly for all my inner fury, I added: “I crave your pardon, Fweygo. It was necessary.”

He shook his shoulders, the golden gleam muted by the dim red radiance. “Well.” He spoke a mite grudgingly. “You did warn me.”

“And the damned box contained no Prism of Power but an Opaz-forsaken scorpion.”

“The Everoinye—” He shook his head. “No. Impossible.”

“I agree. The scorpion was put there as a guard. So?”

By this time we were marching smartly along the corridor. The light brightened. No doubt this was a way used by the priests.

“So where is it?”

The answer to that was obvious, and also unknown.

“San Cuisar escaped and he took the Prism of Power with him. That’s why the Red Capes were after him.”

“Aye.” Fweygo went on wiping his swords as we marched. “You said he was going to W’Watchun.”

“So he said.”

“I’ll have to think about this. Look, there’s a door up ahead.” The Kildoi in his bewildering fashion went on wiping a sword, opened the door and stuck another sword through.

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