Omens of Kregen by Alan Burt Akers

have pointed out to you before, that you, Dray Prescot, are growing soft.”
    A tremendous racket broke out aboard the ship to our starboard with a seething commotion upon her deck. The vessel to larboard appeared to be ours already. The lads had simply gone headlong in and hurled away all opposition.
    “Anyway,” I said in my best growly hairy-bear way: “It’s too late now.”
    “Targon was right, I judge. They are an aerial fighting force and had no idea we had so many troops aboard.”
    We watched as the officers charged with the various duties saw to what had to be done. Some of the North Vallian fliers escaped and plunged like fleeing rabbits into the clouds. There was little chance we would catch them in those masses of vapor before nightfall, so pursuit was not carried out. Prize crews went aboard the captured vollers.
    Hundreds of flags flew bravely against the twilight as we retraced our course to alight at the forward base camp established at the Well of Parting. Everybody felt elated at the unexpected successful outcome of our expedition.
    “Soon the main body will join us,” said Korero. “Then I wonder if you’ll give me such a peaceful battle.”
    “We’ve won a small aerial skirmish,” I said, and I own my tones were somber. “The big fight is yet to come. In all honesty, Korero, I cannot answer your question.”
    “As San Blarnoi says,” observed Delia, “hope alone does not sickle corn.”
    “Nor does it cause a change in the breeze.” I was watching the leaves of the trees growing around the well. “But, as I’m an old sailorman, the breeze is shifting. It won’t be long before the Fleet is up with us. Then, my friends, we shall see what we shall see.”

Chapter five
    I inspect the zorca lines
    My lad Drak flew up to see me at the camp of the Well of Parting. Delia and I shared a simple tent — oh, yes, true, it was a trifle more grand than any of the others; but as Deft-Fingered Minch pointed out, I was, after all, the fellow the people had chosen to be emperor and so I ought to make a bit of a show for their sakes.
    Deft-Fingered Minch, a trusted comrade and a kampeon of great renown, was the man in command of the folk who cared for me on campaign. Delia’s own arrangements were equally Spartan. She was aglow with happiness at seeing her son again and as they embraced I own I felt that silly but wonderfully understandable family pride in love and affection.
    Drak looked tremendous. He was a big and powerful man, solidly built yet lithe and quick on his feet. I thought he was handsome, although he’d bristled up at any suggestions I made of that kind. He had that damn-you-Prescot look about him with the arrogant Prescot beak-head of a nose. Yet Delia was in him, too, giving him far more grace and poise and downright aristocratic manners than any I could aspire to.
    “And, Drak, my dear,” said Delia as she released him, “where is Silda?”
    Drak swirled off his cape and I put a jar of ale into his hand.
    “She has gone up to Balkan to see her father. I sent a couple of regiments with her—”
    “Ah!” I said.
    “And what does that mean, father?”
    “Just that you’ll be those two regiments short when you march off against this King of North Vallia.”
    “Me!”
    “Aye, my lad. You.”
    He drank and then he did not wipe his hand across his mouth; but he did say: “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed! I need that!”
    I said: “The Mountains of the North stretch across Vallia from Zaphoret in the east to Kavinstock in the west, where we are now.” I gave Drak a hard stare. “There are the two traditional routes north and south, one to the east and one to the west. Two.”
    He drank again, looking at me, and then he put down the jar. I made no move to refill it. He put a hand to the outer buckles over his shoulder to release his armor.
    “I see.” The tang of the buckle came free. “You go north from here and I take the Army of Northeast Vallia and we strike inward