: Alan Burt Akers
: Omens of Kregen Dray Prescot 36
: Mushroom eBooks
: 9781843196822
: 1
: CHF 3.90
:
: Science Fiction
: English
: 240
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

Striving to save his strife torn empire of Vallia from the Nine Unspeakable Curses, Dray Prescot has faced a plague of murderous werewolves and attack by the witch hordes.
Now he must conquer the bloodthirsty forces of the would be king of North Vallia, while at the same time protecting the realm from the evil witch Csitra and her sorcerous son. Journeying to the witch's dark Maze of Coup Blag, Dray and his comrades must meet the challenge of this realm of traps and treasures, where death waits around every turn, and a wizardly battle of destruction is the price of winning free...
Omens of Kregen is the thirty-sixth book in the epic fifty-two book saga of Dray Prescot of Earth and of Kregen by Kenneth Bulmer, writing as Alan Burt Akers. The series continues withWarlord of Antares.

Chapter one


Concerning the crime of old Hack ’n’ Slay


Old Hack ’n’ Slay, caught with his fingers in the regimental funds, went on the rampage.

He hurled the first three fellows out through the windows of the tavern. The clientele huddled away into corners, including even soldiers from various regiments who knew old Hack ’n’ Slay and like the ordinary citizens wanted nothing to do with this fracas.

In a furious melee six of his fellows poured all over poor old Hack ’n’ Slay. They heaved up and down like men clinging to a boat in a gale.

Scarlet of face, ferocious of eye, old Hack ’n’ Slay roared his refusal to be taken into custody.

“Calm down, Jik!” yelped the Deldar who hung onto one arm and was flapped up and down like a bird’s wing. “You’re nabbed.”

Flagons of wine went every which way, strewing the floor with their pungent brews. The fumes coiled into the nostrils of the combatants. Yet no one drew a pointed or edged weapon. This was a strictly regimental matter. The lads of the 11th Churgurs would settle this among themselves. Old Hack ’n’ Slay might have dipped his sticky finger into the regimental funds, he remained Jiktar Nath Javed, the regimental commander, commanding also the 32nd Brigade, of which the 11th Churgurs formed a part, and he was well known and liked.

“I’ll have the Opaz-forsaken money tomorrow!” bellowed Jiktar Nath Javed, throwing a bulky soldier over his shoulder. “Lemme up!”

“No good, Jik! Grab that foot, Ompey. His arm, Cwonley, his left arm, you great onker!”

Crash went a table, and jugs and bottles smashed into vinous ruin.

“Get his feet from under him.”

“I’ll twist all your ears off, you horrible—”

Up and down the length of the tavern, The Cockerell Winged, the struggle blistered on. Hack ’n’ Slay was no man to be dragged down even by six of his own hefty lads.

“Listen to me, you pack of famblys. I’ll—”

“Yowp!” gobbled a churgur as an elbow nudged his ribs. The rest piled on. In the end they coiled a cunning loop of rope around his ankles and he crashed over to hit his nose on the edge of the upturned table. He let rip a rafter-shattering roar. Then they were on him like ants on a honey pot, holding him down, lapping him in rope, trussing him up like a chicken for the pot.

He kept on roaring his head off so they stuffed a kerchief into his horrendous maw and then wrapped that up in a scarf. Seeing there was nothing else for it, old Hack ’n’ Slay quieted down and they lifted him up like a rolled carpet and took him off.

Through the pleasant evening they went, with three of Kregen’s moons high in the sky casting down their refulgent pinkish light and the scent of Moonblooms filling the air