Never before in his fantastic career on Kregen, planet of the twin suns of Antares, had Dray Prescot been in such a desperate predicament. A despised outcast by his friends who wore the red of Zair, he had now been condemned by his old enemies whose battle color was the green of the sun Grodno. For while among these slavers and conquerors of the green, searching for a way to turn the tide of war to his own redemption and his friends' advantage, he had personally encountered the deadly animosity of Grodno's king, had betrayed his champion, and had shattered all he had so carefully worked for. But continue he must, for now, in addition to the enormous feat that alone would restore his honor, he had a blood vengeance to achieve that overrode everything.
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April 18, 1977
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Excerpt from Krozair of Kregen (Dray Prescot #14) by Alan Burt Akers
The chains of Rukker the Kataki and Fazhan ti Rozilloi
The lash curved high in the air, hard, etched black. I, Gadak the Renegade, grasped the harsh iron chains that bound me so savagely to this coffle of slaves, and which made of us one miserable body. We stumbled down the dusty streets under the lash toward the harbor.
The people of this evil city of Magdag barely noticed us, did not even bother to spit at us or revile us, for we were but one small coffle among many. The iron ring about my neck chafed the skin raw and driblets of blood ran down onto my chest and back.
"By Zair!" the man on my left, for we were chained two and two, gasped, his face a scarlet mask of effort. "I swear the cramph won't be happy until he's had my head off."
"He will not do that. We are needed to pull at the oars."
The overseer, careless in his authority, slashed his thonged whip and my companion yelped and stumbled. I let go of my own chain to help him up. The fellow in front, a giant of a man with the black body-bristle of a Brokelsh, surged forward. The length of chain between us straightened and, by Krun, it felt as though my own head were the one being wrenched off.
"Thank you, dom," the Zairian I had assisted was saying.
Ignoring him, I lurched forward and made a grab at the chain so as to ease the ring about my neck. A voice at my back bellowed in vicious temper.
"Rast! Keep steady, you zigging cramph!"
There was no point in turning about and chastising the fellow. We were all slaves together and I might have yelled as he had done if my own pains had not been caused by myself. The uneven lurching carried back like a wave along the coffle. The air was rent with blasphemies. Listening, I used this occurrence to learn about my fellow slaves, for we had merely been hauled out willy-nilly and chained up together for the walk from the bagnio to the harbor and the galleys.
The stones of Magdag under our feet and rising in wall and terrace and archway all about us held no more pity for our plight than the hearts of the Magdaggians. From the curses and prayers that went up, I knew we were a mixed bunch: Zairian prisoners, Grodnim criminals. And, in truth, I the renegade -- who had once been of Zair and who said he was now of Grodno -- hardly knew to which of these gods to cleave for the injuries that had been done me.
We were being whipped down to be taken aboard a galley and there enter upon hell on earth.
The glorious mingled suns-light poured down in radiance about us, the streaming mingled lights of Zim and Genodras, the red and green suns of Antares. We stumbled along with our twin shadows mocking us, forever chained to us as we would be chained to our rowing benches.
"If I get my hands on that rast . . ." The Zairian at my left side, with his red face and perfectly bald head, showed a spirit to be expected of a Zairian. I wondered if he would be broken by the torments ahead of him, of all of us. All our heads had been shaved as smooth as loloo's eggs. We wore the gray slave breechclouts, which would be taken from us once we were shackled to our benches. All this I had endured before. This time, I vowed, I would make a positive effort very early on and escape.
The enormity of the death of my daughter Velia still had a stinging power to wring my heart. I had known she was my daughter for so pitifully short a time. I had known her as my Lady of the Stars for a short space before that, and we had talked. But I had found her and then, it seemed in the same heartbeat, she had been taken from me.
This mad king, this genius, this king Genod, who ruled in vile Magdag, had thrown her from the back of his fluttrell as the saddle-bird, winged, had fluttered to the ground. Genod had been in fear of his life then, and had thrown a girl for whom he had planned an abduction out to her death.