Legions of Antares by Alan Burt Akers

promised much and Nulty loved him. Then it all turned sour and Hardil had proclaimed himself Amak, hired his bully boys, ousted Nulty and those faithful to me, and set about making it all legal in the law courts at Ruathytu, the capital.
    I said, “I blame myself. Absentee landlords are a sin; but sometimes are unavoidable.”
    “Not you, notor, not you. Me. I should have descried his character. Bad blood.”
    “Your hands?”
    He was over the first wonderment, now, and so he said matter-of-factly, “Nothing could cure them. They curled up on me and remain curled, useless. It is a judgment.”
    “Nonsense! We’ll find a cure.”
    I was thinking of the sacred pool of baptism in far Aphrasöe, the Swinging City of the Savanti. A cup of that milky fluid would cure Nulty. That was on my personal agenda for the future.
    I said, “I do not have a great deal of time. There are affairs I must manage in Ruathytu.”
    “Making sure Hardil is ejected as Amak?”
    “That, too. The laws are strict. Possession is a great deal; but not all. I am the Amak — as you witnessed, Nulty — and so if this Hardil the Mak is not slain he will stand condemned.”
    A voice croaked from the straw.
    “I believe you to be the real Amak, notor. But Hardil holds the power.”
    Nulty barked roughly. “Hold still, Nath! You do not know the notor. He will sort this out. I give thanks to all the gods he has returned.”
    The sinking sensation this kind of faith produced had to be brushed aside. I said, “What support has Hardil apart from his hired paktuns? Can you rely on our people? Tell me the whole situation, Nulty.”
    Truth to tell, I was anxious to press on to such an extent I was in danger of minimizing the peril here. I just did not want to waste a lot of time. But events forced me to the understanding that I had to take care of these people, who had vowed allegiance to me as their Amak, before I could think of leaving them. This Hardil, following along the road of many a usurper, had instituted a reign of terror to seat himself securely. What was needed to topple him was some way of dealing with his bully boys. His coup had taken place when men of Paline Valley, forming part of an aerial cavalry regiment, had been badly beaten in some sky skirmish. The histories of the wars would not mention that little affray; it had denuded Paline Valley of many stout fighting men.
    Again, as is in the nature of these affairs, the survivors were undecided how best to deal with Hardil and divided in their councils. Hardil flogged, maimed and killed. So far he had not killed Nulty, which that tough man attributed to a lingering regard on the part of the usurping Amak for his old foster father. I did not mention that more probably it was a matter of policy. Nulty could do nothing chained in the cells; dead he might become a martyr. That was not certain, but it had its precedents.
    “But, master, I could have done something, chained though I am. But my hands, and the ingratitude, and — something died in me.”
    “We will do it now, Nulty, old friend, and we will do it together.”
    The bundle of misery on the straw grunted disbelief. So I set myself to kindling the spark here, in the cells. That, it seemed to me, was not only a good place to start, it was the only damned place, by Krun.
    The need for speed impelled me to shortcuts. Away in Vallia and in Hyrklana armies were being gathered to invade Hamal. I had to do my part. Perhaps the presence of Train of Supply troops in the valley aided me, for they were sloppy and generally not actively fit men, and their attitudes infected the paktuns hired by Hardil. Slackness spreads insidiously.
    The food — awful gunk in pottery bowls — was brought by a bent-over Och crone. The only thing of interest was the spoon. This was wooden. So the first and most simple plan was dashed.
    Nulty said, “The guard commander—?”
    “Right, Nulty, you old devil. You’re coming back to life already.”
    Had the