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until I could have a doctor treat his stump.
The fires roared and crackled and the smoke beat down as the breeze blew. I held Duhrra. More figures
appeared, men wearing the red. Now I deliberately moved away from a fight. A Hikdar shouted, high,
triumphant: "We have the cramphs on the run!"
I did not grunt sourly at him that the Grodnim-gastas had done the work for which they came.
Together Duhrra and I went from that scene of carnage and fire and blood to seek a needleman to tend
Duhrra s pain and stump.
He breathed a harsh intake of breath. "I do not think, Dak, that I would like men to call me Duhrra the
Ob-Handed."
"If you insist they do not, they will not," I said peacefully.
"That is true."
So we walked away, and I ruminated that I had had the best of the bargain that night.
For Duhrra had lost a hand and I had gained a name.
Chapter Sixteen
I come to my senses
I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of No! No! I was no longer a Brother of the
Krozairs of Zy. I must not forget that. I could not forget that. It was branded on my brain with a searing
iron.
I, that same plain Dray Prescot who had born many names on Kregen under Antares, no longer a
Krozair Brother, had to assume a fresh alias.
The reasons were plain and pressing: should a man calling himself Prescot be encountered among the
army, here in the west, where there were many Krozair Brothers, then the word would pass, the
retribution would be swift.
I obviously had to have an alias, and one had been given into my keeping. I would honor the name of
Dak. The old white-haired man had proved a true Jikai. In my misery and determination I keenly felt the
task of keeping the name of Dak unsullied.
The conceit must have moved me that I had used the name Drak many times before; it was the name of
the mythical hero of Vallia, part-god, part-man, and it was the name of my eldest son. Drak and Dak.
Yes, the conceit moved me.
The next day the wreckage of the base could be surveyed.
The Grodnims had wreaked great destruction, yet there was much left they had not touched. This had
been a pinprick which, of itself, would not materially harm the armies of Zairians fighting in the west, but
which, added to many other similar pinpricks, could place all that strenuous effort in jeopardy.
Still, no longer a Krozair, what business was this of mine? I held warm affections for Mayfwy and for
Felteraz. I could see the patterns of warfare out here plainly enough. But I held to my own destiny. My
Delia had given me my orders, fully understanding my own agony of spirit, the tearing torture I must have
experienced in leaving the Eye of the World with all I had held dear there in the Brotherhood of Zy
blackened and ruined. And yet . . . and yet. Was being a Krozair Brother so marvelously vital and
important a part of my life when set against all that waited for me in the Outer Oceans? No. No, I was a
fool, as usual.
For twenty-one miserable years I had not beheld my Delia, I had seen her for a mere bur, there in the
fish cell of the fortress of Zy. Looking around at the ruined camp, seeing workers and soldiers hard at
repairing, restacking and carrying away burned and ruined stores, I seemed to feel the scales drop from
my eyes.
Pride.
That was all it had been. Mere stupid pride.
I had felt my idiot self-esteem hurt, because the single body of men I held in most regard on Kregen had
turned me out, disgraced me. And I even understood why they had done it, why they had acted as they
did. As the Savanti had thrown me out of the paradise of Aphrase and I had felt no real animosity
toward them, knowing I had transgressed against their laws, so this time I held no animosity, for in the
understanding of Kregen I had again transgressed. No amount of arguing or pleading could possibly
change a single Krozair s mind, let alone that of Pur Kazz, the Grand Archbold.
No. The answer was simple.
I had come to my senses.
I would not deny myself or Delia what rightfully belonged to us.
And that, by Krun, was that!
How vicious and cruel those damned Star Lords were! They had banished me to Earth for twenty-one
years. And in all that dolorous length of time my Delia had waited for me. When I had previously been
banished from Delia as when I fought in the arena of the Jikhorkdun in Huringa, or when I made
myself King of Djanduin she had spent only a fraction of time in waiting. The Star Lords had created a
time loop by some alchemy of their own, so that when, for instance, I fought in Valka and cleared my
island of the slavers and aragorn, I had been acting in the past, and my Delia had not even known.
Because of that feeling that Delia was not at home pining for me and the marvel of why so perfect a
woman should ever bother her head over a bulk like me always escapes me I had acted as I would
have acted in a time loop. Then the agony of waiting had been for me alone.
Now my Delia shared that agony.
I was worse than a mere fool, an onker of onkers. I was an ingrate, a tormentor, a prideful villain, and I
deserved all I got.
The decision was made.
I went to say goodbye to Duhrra.
His stump had been cauterized and bound up and he was cheerful enough, considering.
"It is remberee, Duhrra."
"I found Naghan the Show. His head had been cleft in twain."
"It grieves me to hear it."
"I cannot wrestle with one hand "
"Come now! You could lay most two-handed men flat on their backs without blinking. And think of the
billing! The famous wrestler fights with one hand tied behind his back. You would make a fortune."
"It no longer appeals to me."
"So what will you do?"
"You say you are going to the west? That is where the army fights."
"Yes. But I do not go to fight."
He regarded me with a lift of one heavy eyebrow. His thick shoulders rolled as he eased his arm,
favoring the stump.
"They are going to fix me up with a hook."
"Is it Duhrra the Hook, then?"
"No!"
I said, "I go to find a ship. Maybe I will have to go as far as the Akhram."
"I have been there."
"It is on the green northern shore."
"True. But the Grand Canal and the Todalpheme of the Akhram stand aloof. As they must."
He still looked the same, still with that same heavy, doughy, expressionless idiot-face. His dark eyes
looked at me with meaning. He could be highly useful.
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