Demons of Antares [Dray Prescot #46]

By Alan Burt Akers

Demons of Antares is the long-awaited book forty-six of the saga of Dray Prescot.

Dray Prescot is on the subcontinent of Balintol where he has the task of uniting the disparate countries so that all Paz can defend itself against the predatory, fish-headed Shanks from the other side of the world. This undertaking is complicated by the megalomaniac desires of certain princes and nobles who are determined to win the crown of Tolindrin for themselves, and are willing to destroy anyone who gets in their way. They have hired mercenary armies and allied themselves with the traditional enemies of the country.

He has to use all his strengths and all his scheming and tricks to achieve his goal with as little bloodshed as possible. The Star Lords have thrown him into new danger that is all too familiar to him as a Kregoinye. For the sake of his love of Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains, Dray Prescot sets everything else aside and throws himself into new and deadly hazards under the streaming mingled lights of the suns of Scorpio.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mushroom Publishing
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781843197515

Alan Burt Akers

Alan Burt Akers is a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer, who died in December 2005 aged eighty-four.Bulmer wrote over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction, both under his real name and numerous pseudonyms, including Alan Burt Akers, Frank Brandon, Rupert Clinton, Ernest Corley, Peter Green, Adam Hardy, Philip Kent, Bruno Krauss, Karl Maras, Manning Norvil, Dray Prescot, Chesman Scot, Nelson Sherwood, Richard Silver, H. Philip Stratford, and Tully Zetford. Kenneth Johns was a collective pseudonym used for a collaboration with author John Newman. Some of Bulmer's works were published along with the works of other authors under "house names" (collective pseudonyms) such as Ken Blake (for a series of tie-ins with the 1970s television programme The Professionals), Arthur Frazier, Neil Langholm, Charles R. Pike, and Andrew Quiller.Bulmer was also active in science fiction fandom, and in the 1970s he edited nine issues of the New Writings in Science Fiction anthology series in succession to John Carnell, who originated the series.

Book preview

A note from the publisher

Although the first 37 books of the saga of Dray Prescot were published in English, books 38 to 52 were previously published in German translations only. They were written in English by Ken Bulmer (writing as Alan Burt Akers) and the current Mushroom eBooks and Bladud Books editions are published from the original type-written manuscripts. Unfortunately, the original manuscript for Demons of Antares could not be found, and the decision was made to attempt to retranslate it into English using the German translation as the source.

A project like this would not normally be attempted, because translating from English into German and back again would almost certainly result in the loss of too much of the author’s voice and style. However, we had the advantage of forty-five previous volumes in the series to refer to, and a vast pool of in-depth fan knowledge to call upon. Also, the German edition is a very faithful and accurate translation by Andreas Decker, who translated the entire series into German for Heyne Verlag.

Translating into a very rough and ready version of English proved to be ridiculously easy, thanks mostly to Google Translator Toolkit. A number of volunteers then worked hard to tidy this machine translation into readable English. More volunteers then brought their extensive knowledge of Dray Prescot and Kregen to bear, honing the text into a style hard to distinguish from the rest of the books in the series.

After reading and re-reading, checking and re-checking so many times, I feel confident this book closely represents Ken Bulmer’s intent. I am also confident that there are mistakes. Please let me know ([e-mail]) if you spot any — this is, and always will be, a work in progress.

I would like to thank Ken Bulmer’s family for allowing us to even attempt this, and Andreas Decker and Heyne for producing the German edition. Thank you to everyone who contributed time and energy and encouragement, including Michael Victor Bassett, Helen Folkes, Simon Maybury, Sven Paulik, Stephen J. Servello, Michael Sutton, Tyketriker, Els Withers, and many others...

And thank you, Ken, for Dray Prescot.

Martyn Folkes

Dray Prescot

Lit by the ruby and emerald fires of Antares, the planet Kregen, four hundred light years from Earth, is a world harsh yet beautiful, terrible yet alluring. There any man or woman may achieve what their heart desires if they plan and struggle and keep faith with their innate purpose. The Star Lords have brought Dray Prescot to this place and plunged him headlong into danger and adventure, and he must cope with tasks in their service that at first glance seem insurmountable.

Dray Prescot, as described by one who has seen him on this Earth, is a man above middle height with brown hair and level brown eyes, brooding and dominating, with enormously broad shoulders and a powerful physique. There is about him an abrasive honesty and indomitable courage. He moves like a savage hunting cat, sudden, silent and lethal. Reared in the harsh conditions of Nelson’s Navy he is a man who, relatively unsuccessful on Earth, is ideally suited to the new life to which he was called by the Star Lords.

Currently, he is on the subcontinent of Balintol where he has the task of uniting the disparate countries so that all Paz can defend itself against the predatory, fish-headed Shanks from the other side of the world. This undertaking is complicated by the megalomaniac desires of certain princes and nobles who are determined to win the crown of Tolindrin for themselves, and are willing to destroy anyone who gets in their way. For this reason they have hired mercenary armies and allied themselves with the traditional enemies of the country.

Dray Prescot has to use all his strengths and all his scheming and tricks to achieve his goal with as little bloodshed as possible. The Star Lords have thrown him into new danger that is all too familiar to him as a Kregoinye. For the sake of his love of Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains, Dray Prescot sets everything else aside and throws himself into new and deadly hazards under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Alan Burt Akers

Chapter one

One of the best ways to survive on Kregen is to know at all times exactly what is going on behind your back. The cat-man, his whiskery face distorted with rage, turned towards his adversary and exchanged blows, but apparently forgot in the heat of battle this essential habit that makes for an unabbreviated life.

As the airboat swayed in the sky, a hulking fellow stormed up behind the Fristle and clubbed him over the head. The Fristle let out a short, surprised, pained cry, and fell helplessly out of the lifter.

His two attackers leaned over the rail to watch him fall.

The Fristle was clinging on with one hand, his whiskery face contorted with pain and fear.

No, doms! he shouted. It was all a misunderstanding!

They laughed. They were Rapas, with heads that bore a close resemblance to black vultures. They carried swords, but for the Fristle the cudgel had been sufficient. They mocked him.

Doms! For sweet Tolaar’s sake!

This was another mistake that could quickly bring death.

Tolaar! The Rapa’s anger was frightening. Dokerty has no time for blintzes who worship Tolaar!

With these words, he raised his cudgel to smash down on the Fristle’s hand.

I stepped forward and intercepted the downward blow.

All right, doms. You’ve had your fun! Pull him up now.

They turned around. I held the cudgel in a grip that I judged would prevent any further use — either against me or against the Fristle.

Clear off, blintz!

Schtump, you rast!

I was in no mood to be overly polite, nor even to have sport with them. With a sudden jerk that surprised both of them the cudgel came into my possession and I brandished it first under one beak and then under the other.

No. You are the ones who will clear off.

Are you one of those damned Tolaar followers? one of the Rapas rumbled.

No. And I’m no Dokerty cultist either.

For a moment, nothing happened. The airboat, a quite ordinary passenger lifter, was flying above the clouds on its way to Oxonium. An invitation from San Paynor, the high priest of Cymbaro, had taken me to Farinsee where I paid a visit to young Tiri who was progressing well in the studies that would eventually confer strange and mystical powers upon her. It had gone well. Now the next task awaited me. Young Dimpy had remained in Farinsee.

All of us wore ponsho fleeces over our fashionable shamlaks because at this height the bite of the cold could be considerable.

The brief, breathless moment came to an abrupt end. I reached down with my free hand to heave the trembling Fristle aboard — and both Rapas threw themselves on me.

A strange cloud blocked my view. Either the Rapas were damned fast, or I was incredibly slow, because they were instantly on me, by Krun! The first threw himself against my legs. His sidekick aimed at my head with his cudgel. He hit me but I did not feel the impact. Somehow, I was hanging onto the railing, holding tight with one hand while with the other I tried to protect my head. Of the Fristle there was no sign. No cry of despair could be heard. If he had fallen to the ground, he’d had the courtesy to do it quietly.

The cudgel struck my hand. Again I felt nothing. But I fell. Of that I was sure. The strange cloud that impaired my vision blotted out the leaf-shaped silhouette of the flier. Instead I saw treetops, the glint of a river and a red roof.

I fell head over heels through the air. I remember that I had the ridiculous idea that Dray Prescot’s end had finally come, and that this was my last fall.

I plummeted downwards, and could do nothing except wonder if the Star Lords would hoick me out of mortal danger at the last minute.

Strangely, the trees, river and roof beneath me dissolved. I hurtled past steep rocky cliffs bathed in a gloomy red light from the fiery lava lake lurking at the bottom. Everything around me was red.

The impact was hard. I opened my eyes. Everything was dark.

A voice growled: Keep still, you blintz!

For two heartbeats, I wondered if these were the hellish mists that veiled the gateway to the Ice Floes of Sicce. Or maybe it was a Herrelldrin Hell. Then I came to my senses.

It had been merely a dream — in the best tradition of Victorian ghost stories.

By the ruptured eyeballs and dangling entrails of Makki-Grodno! I had dreamed it all. I was staying overnight in a caravanserai north of Oxonium, which was recently hit by an earthquake. The owner of the gruff voice was a traveler like me. I did not sweat, but I felt a shudder, by Krun! That dream had been too real in a very unpleasant way.

Granted, it had vividly demonstrated one of the many problems with which Tolindrin in the subcontinent of Balintol struggled. The two religions of Tolaar and Dokerty, opponents in a religious war, were the cause of riots and civil commotion all over the country, and nowhere caused more damage than in the capital Oxonium.

To my way of thinking the superior religion of Cymbaro was being pushed to one side. I pulled myself up from the floor without making any effort to reply to the unfriendly remark, and crawled back onto the bed.

The obsessive attempts of powerful nobles and princesses to overthrow King Tom, and even to lay claim to the crown, already gave the country enough problems to cope with — and it could well do without a religious war, by Vox!

Someone was snoring softly. The dormitory was not at all full; there were only half a dozen travelers staying here.

Of course it occurred to me to wonder what Delia would say when I told her I had fallen out of bed.

Her beautiful nose would turn up, her magnificent eyes would flash, and her rose-red lips would pucker up into a laugh. Confound it! I said to myself. Could this state of affairs in Tolindrin have even the slightest importance when compared with Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains? Of course not. Not at all!

And yet there lurked in the background, driving me on as always, the ghostly, ubiquitous presence of the Star Lords. I had to unite all Balintol to resist the predatory Shanks from the other side of the world whose greedy fish eyes had already fixed on their next prey.

Hyr Kov Brannomar, the most powerful man in the kingdom, next to King Tom, was of the opinion that the greatest threat to the country came from the intrigues of the treacherous young prince Ortyg. The prince had fled to Caneldrin, Tolindrin’s immediate neighbor to the north, to assure himself of the help of the king there. The armies of Caneldrin would roll over Tolindrin and spread fire, death and destruction.

Hyr Kov Khon the Mak had gone to the islands of the Chuliks off the south coast of the subcontinent. He would be able to recruit an army there now that the Chuliks were sure that the Shanks would pass by their islands and attack Balintol directly. The Shanks had already tried their luck against the Chuliks and had suffered a crushing defeat. Now they would attack by a different route.

So King Tom, Brannomar and myself agreed that the greatest threat to Tolindrin came from the north. We came to the conclusion that Caneldrin would use the impetuous Prince Ortyg’s money and troops for an attack, after which they themselves would try to take control of the country. It was an old and ugly story.

The plans of Ortyg had to be thwarted, and sharpish. Only then could we take care of Khon the Mak.

And so it was that I, the unimportant Dray Prescot, was on his way north to do a bit of spying. We must have knowledge of Ortyg’s plans.

Brannomar had other spies on the trail of Khon the Mak, of course. He had mentioned that he had also put a few of his men on Ortyg. I preferred to keep my plans to myself, for the obvious reason of security.

When the travelers came together for the first breakfast, the threatening storm that had forced a premature landing the night before could still be seen on the northern horizon. The captain of the lifter, Llanili the Stout, was clearly doubtful. Many of the passengers watched the menacing black stripe on the horizon and shook their heads. No. They would not travel today. They would wait for a clear sky.

A bright, firm female voice rose above the quiet discussion.

A bag of one hundred gold pieces, Captain Llanili, if we continue our flight.

An abrupt silence fell, and we all turned curiously to look at the woman.

She rose from her chair and stood up straight. She was tall and wore a long, gray-green dress. Here and there a few embroideries sparkled. A simple belt of silver rings circled her narrow waist and held a useful-looking sword and a small dagger. Her face was not one you would immediately call classically beautiful. Her well-proportioned features — a purist would probably have complained that her lush mouth impaired her looks — told of serene determination and suppressed passion. She wore her hair cut short. It was, as they say, as black as a raven’s wing.

She lifted a leather pouch. One hundred pieces of gold.

Llanili wet his lips. As his name suggested he was fat, and his indecision made him sweat.

It’s not worth the risk, someone called out.

I will fly with you! said another.

Two attendants stood dutifully behind their mistress. They were neatly dressed and wore ponsho fleeces. This was a lady who was not to be trifled with. Her expression hardened. Well, Captain Llanili? What do you say?

My Lady Q’Quensella, I...

Well? she asked. It is not necessary that you use the double initials, she added sarcastically, as if she was swatting at an annoying fly. I am Quensella.

Certainly, certainly, my lady.

He put his hands together. They were shaking. Finally, he nodded. I will fly.

Good. She was pretty forceful.

In the end, only four of the half-dozen men from the dormitory ventured onto the flight: two Fristles, a Rapa, and a small Och. Oh, and of course me.

After breakfast we all hurried outside.

The caravanserai was not large, little more than an outpost. Llanili’s airboat was a simple, robust flier with a cabin in the middle of the deck and an acceptable turn of speed. I glanced to the north and saw that the dull horizon had not changed much. Perhaps the storm was moving away from us. We would soon find out.

Another lady decided to join us. She was wrapped from head to toe in a simple hooded cloak, which revealed only two bright eyes and the tip of a perky nose. The pointed protrusion near the back hem of the cloak betrayed the presence of a hidden weapon. She spoke rarely, and then with a hard, unrelenting voice. She called herself Froisier, which in my opinion was not her real name.

A burst of energy from the two silver boxes, which provide the lift and movement, raised the flier. We climbed up into the air and once again wrapped ourselves in our furs and ponsho fleeces.

The Och sat on a bench and buried himself in a book.

The two Fristles laughed, their cat faces distorted with excitement. Both rested their left hands on their sword hilts, and had cudgels dangling handily from their belts.

The Rapa gave them suspicious looks. He had a pile of luggage with him; to all appearances he was a traveling merchant. He wore neither sword nor cudgel, just a simple dagger. He seemed nervous.

Then he took out a book and began to read.

I could see that this was a religious book, dedicated to Tolaar. He kept his beak lowered. His feathers had a greenish-black color.

The ladies had retired to the cabin amidships and so I sat there and strained my old vosk-skull, thinking about how I could bring some order to the deadlocked Tolindrin.

Tolaar! hissed an unpleasant Fristle voice. You might as well worship the nine demons of Narfreal!

The Rapa said nothing. He kept his beak lowered.

In the eyes of Dokerty, Tolaar is an abomination!

An uncomfortable feeling crept over me concerning this situation. The obvious thought occurred to me: was I still dreaming?

Was I on the hard beds of the caravanserai, and was this the second part of my dream? Except now it was not two Rapas provoking a Fristle, but the reverse? Or was it all real?

I got up and sauntered towards the bows of the lifter. The headwind was fairly benign, and Llanili flew straight and fast. We floated over a flat landscape with trees and rivers. The villages were few and far between and clung