Avenger of Antares by Alan Burt Akers

excitement, had roared out: “For Vallia and Prince Dray!”
    So these cramphs knew who we were.
    No, there is not much to say. What I remember with the most vividness is poop varterist Nath, whom Deldar Rogahan had dubbed an onker, flinging himself in front of the body of the first lieutenant, thereby taking the arrow that would have slain Insur ti Fotor.
    Later Hikdar Insur shook his head in wonderment, as he stood looking down upon the scrawny, hairy, half-naked body of this Nath. He looked up at me and I saw the pain in his face.
    “Why did he do it, Prince?”
    “You know the answer to that better than I do, Insur.”
    He started at my use of his first name, unadorned. These things are of importance on Kregen.
    “This is not the first time, Prince. We fought an argenter of Pandahem and there a lusty rogue just like this, Naghan the Ears, he was called, for his ears were large, I admit, and stuck out at right angles, well, he threw himself into a spear that would have de-gutted me. I slew the man who did it, as I slew this cramph of a Hamalian, here. But I do not understand it.”
    It was not for me to tell him that, on occasion, in the heat of battle, ordinary roaring, brawling fighting-men will gladly give their lives for others for whom they cherish an affection. It is not a thing much talked about in the refined drawing rooms of civilization. It is much out of fashion on this Earth, here, explained away by psychological expertise as obsessional madness, fighting idiocy, the seamy underside of truth to the legends of heroes. And, true, there is much to be said for that. But in battle many ordinary things become supernormal, and anything may happen.
    I did not think anyone, seaman or soldier or hired mercenary, would throw his own body into a spear aimed at Vad Nalgre Sultant, Vad of Kavinstok.
    So, instead, I clapped Insur ti Fotor on the back, and bade him give thanks to Opaz he was alive.
    “Do not waste the sacrifice of Nath,” I said.
    “I shall not, Prince. I am anxious to return to the village, for I left the leather pouch entrusted to my keeping by Captain Ehren with the Lamnia, Lorgad Endo. He is a brave fellow, right enough, but he is no fighting-man.”
    This was the pouch containing my writings upon the Hamalese secrets of the vollers.
    “You and Captain Ehren are charged with delivering that paper safely into the hands of the emperor himself. If you have any difficulty in getting to see him, as you may very well have, then ask for Delia, Princess Majestrix, and say you come from me.”
    He laughed. He was back to the affairs of Kregen once more, the reflections prompted by the death of Nath put into their proper perspective. “Aye, my Prince! A messenger from Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia, has a sure passport to the glorious presence of the Princess Majestrix!”
    I knew that, and it worried me at times. If an enemy said he came from me, and so wormed his way close to Delia . . . I had no ring to give as a talisman, for I detest wearing rings upon my fingers, or anywhere else, for that matter, even in my ear as a lusty sailorman should. I could only say to Insur ti Fotor that he should say certain words that would ensure a speedy passage through the fusty formalities and dry protocol of the palace.
    Strom Diluvon could fly an airboat and they all piled aboard the larger of the two craft. I piloted the smaller back, keeping a watch. We landed near the village and went the rest of the way on foot.
    The first thing Hikdar Insur did was to retrieve the precious pouch from Endo.
    Arrangements were quickly made. The Lamnian merchant paid out his Xilician sinvers to the chief man, Otbrinhan, and we took aboard dried fish, jars of water, and a supply of the gritty bread. A trading vessel threaded her way through this section of the islands once a month — that was the month of She of the Veils — coming from a sizable port town farther south. Otbrinhan was delighted.
    “Now we can buy real