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  FLORESKAND:

  KING

  Morton Faulkner

  FLORESKAND: KING

  When Ulran and Cobrora Fhord left Lornwater on their quest to resolve the mystery of the red tellars (Floreskand: Wings), the city was ripe for rebellion against King Saurosen, holder of the Black Sword.

  In charge of the Red Tellar Inn, Ulran’s son Ranell is drawn into a conspiracy with nobles to support Prince Haltese, the king’s heir, to overthrow the tyrant. Inevitably, as a mining disaster and a murder in a holy fane stoke the fires of discontent, open rebellion swamps the streets.

  Conflict turns into civil war, where the three cities’ streets become a battleground. Conflict is not confined to Lornwater, however. There’s fighting below ground in the mysterious tunnels and caves of the Underpeople, and within the forest that surrounds the city, and ultimately in the swamps and lakes of Taalland.

  Subterfuge, betrayal, conspiracy, intrigue, greed, revenge and a thirst for power motivate rich and poor individuals, whether that’s Lord Tanellor, Baron Laan, Gildmaster Olelsang, Lord-General Launette, ex-slave-girl Jan-re Osa, Captain Aurelan Crossis, Sergeant Bayuan Aco or miner Rujon.

  Muddying the fight are not only bizarre creatures – the vicious garstigg, the ravenous lugarzos or the deadly flensigg – but also the mystics from the Sardan sect, Brother Clen, Sisters Hara, Illasa and Nostor Vata.

  At stake is the Black Sword, the powerful symbol that entitles the holder to take the throne of Lornwater.

  FLORESKAND: KING

  The right of Morton Faulkner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author or Manatee Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews.

  .

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Manatee Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1976173745

  ISBN-10: 1976173744

  First printing, October, 2017

  Copyright 2017 Morton Faulkner

  Cover

  Dreamstime stock-image-47175246

  Praise for Floreskand: Wings

  This story has a complex yet well-structured plot presented in a relaxed writing style which easily draws the reader into an alien landscape whose topography, vegetation and inhabitants are described in almost affectionate detail… twists and turns in the presentation of the plot expand the telling of the tale and there are many duly woven into the pattern to enrich and excite the reader. The journey through the Sonalume Mountains has a strong element of authenticity to it, concentrating on the treacherous ice and snow coupled to an intense bitter cold. This seems to derive from an actual experience that must have been quite wretched at the time… This is quite clearly the first volume of what is intended to be an entire sequence of stories about the world of Floreskand, a very cultivated creation. - Nigel Robert Wilson, British Fantasy Society review

  A fast-paced fantasy adventure... Tensions and evocative language keep the reader turning the pages to the very end! – Anne E. Summers, author of The Singing Mountain

  An expansive … must-read for lovers of magic and military fantasy. – KateMarie Collins, best-selling author of Daughter of Hauk, Mark of the Successor and Son of Corse

  A beautiful and atmospheric tale. The author has skilfully developed the characters in a way that you feel you are right there with them on their quest. I can say that I have read many fantasy stories I have truly enjoyed, but only a few have left that lingering haunting feeling within me. – Amazon review

  Great read. A well thought out book which is so descriptive you feel part of the story. A fantasy adventure that draws you into the quest. – Amazon review

  Contents

  Maps:

  Floreskand - 1

  Lornwater area - 2

  Lornwater’s three cities - 3

  Taalland area - 4

  Chapter 1 – Dust - 5

  Chapter 2 – Contenders - 12

  Chapter 3 – Lugarzos - 17

  Chapter 4 – Ratava - 24

  Chapter 5 – Jan-re Osa - 27

  Chapter 6 – Smalthouse - 35

  Chapter 7 – Gildhouse - 42

  Chapter 8 – Tremors - 48

  Chapter 9 – Whistle - 55

  Chapter 10 – Allegiance - 59

  Chapter 11 – Impress - 69

  Chapter 12 – Regeneration - 78

  Chapter 13 – Unrest - 86

  Chapter 14 – Garstigg – 96

  Chapter 15 – Caravan - 108

  Chapter 16 – Nhyrachons - 112

  Chapter 17 – Audience - 121

  Chapter 18 – Deflected - 132

  Chapter 19 – Condemned - 138

  Chapter 20 – Lineage - 144

  Chapter 21 – Tears - 153

  Chapter 22 – Etiquette - 157

  Chapter 23 – Vilare - 163

  Chapter 24 – Broken - 172

  Chapter 25 – Sardan - 184

  Chapter 26 – Torture - 190

  Chapter 27 – Demons - 194

  Chapter 28 – Sno - 200

  Chapter 29 – Duty - 206

  Chapter 30 – Assault - 215

  Chapter 31 – Cobrora - 226

  Chapter 32 – Counter-attack - 233

  Chapter 33 – Telicia - 242

  Chapter 34 – Saelec - 248

  Chapter 35 – Mind-snatch - 257

  Chapter 36 – Occult - 266

  Chapter 37 – Aeleg - 272

  Chapter 38 – Jikki - 278

  Chapter 39 – Wretch - 283

  Chapter 40 – Reckoning - 294

  Chapter 41 – Ulran - 303

  Chapter 42 – Friend - 309

  Chapter 43 – Hewqoma - 323

  Chapter 44 – Mist - 334

  Chapter 45 – Conflict - 343

  Epilogue – Message - 352

  Glossaries

  A – Names, places and meanings - 354

  B – Characters in Floreskand: King - 362

  C – Madurava (compass) points - 365

  D – The Arisan Calendar - 366

  E – Lords and gods – religious structure - 367

  CHAPTER ONE

  DUST

  “Everything in the past died yesterday;

  everything in the future was born today.”

  - The Tanlin, 204.10

  Third Sapin of Juvous

  Oxor mines, Oxor Rift

  Caged purblind birds sang, their high-pitched tones echoing through the maze of the Oxor cobalt mine tunnels. A mixture of tree trunk and hartwood props groaned as they supported the rocky ceilings.

  “The king can’t deny us our festival,” growled Rujon Sos. His words echoed in this small underground amphitheatre that joined several tunnels. His bare muscular torso gleamed with a sweaty sheen. Though this section only accommodated twelve miners, all of whom now stopped hammering at the rock walls, there were six other dark shadowy entrances to tunnels where more men hacked at the rock and sweated, the blows of their implements echoing along the passageways.

  “Like the rest of us, you’re just a miner, a vassal of King Saurosen,” snapped Dasse Wenn, his rat’s nest of a beard dust-covered. His beefy features twisted in distaste, grey eyes full of hate. Sos suspected that Dasse was a weasel – albeit a short brawny weasel – and regularly reported to the king’s min
ister anything that might earn him a few base coins.

  Saurosen IV had persistently deprived his people of their little pleasures; and now he had banned their carnival. Considering these festivities had taken place without fail annually for 1062 years, commemorating the crowning of Lornwater’s first King, Kcarran, Sos thought the people had taken the edict commendably well; but he doubted if they’d abide by it, merely paying lip-service. He couldn’t comprehend why Dasse was so passive about the king’s contempt for his people.

  “We must withdraw our labour, teach Saurosen a lesson!” Sos’ strident voice echoed through the smalt mine. The tunnel to his left went quiet, save for the chirping of songbirds.

  “The king doesn’t take lessons from minions like us!” Dasse said in a guttural tone.

  Everywhere glimmered with a blue-tinged buttery glow as the candles flickered. Most candles were placed on rock ledges, but a handful of miners wore cloth caps with wax candles fastened to their brims. Each man simply wore a breachcloth and thick, boiled leather boots, as the temperature deep in the mine was so intense that any clothing would become sopping wet and prove cumbersome and heavy.

  “You miss the point, Dasse,” snapped Sos. “Hear that silence? Most of our shift has downed tools already.”

  “The overseer and his men won’t stand for it. He’ll send for Lord Tanellor, who will bring troops, and they will force those fools back into the mine. We should have no part in that!” Dasse coughed on fetid air that was tainted a faint blue. “The vent shafts are next to useless!” His thin lips curled back in a sneer, revealing buck teeth. “I don’t fancy my head on a spike, Rujon Sos.”

  “That’s often the fate of Saurosen’s spies!” Sos riposted, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his square jaw.

  The others audibly gasped.

  “You’ll regret those words, Rujon Sos!”

  “I have witnesses, Dasse. If you’re threatening me…”

  Dasse laughed, arms gesturing at the rocky walls. “I’d rather work down here than die. Saurosen can have all the smaltglass goblets he wants, so long as I have a full pewter one in the Pick and Shovel when our shift’s done!”

  “That’s defeatist talk.” Sos ground his teeth together, whirled round and, gripping his hammer and chisel, scanned the ten other miners. “What say you all?”

  Only murmurs reached him, the whites of the fearful eyes of his fellow miners gleaming. He knew the majority agreed with him; but they also knew that Dasse wasn’t to be trusted.

  He jabbed his chisel at the nearest wooden prop. “Look at this cankered wood, it’s not fit. We’re working in a death-trap. Lord Tanellor’s begged and pleaded for new material, but Saurosen won’t countenance it!”

  “He’s always been mean with his money, that one,” said a miner on Sos’ right.

  “Aye, and with his favours, as well,” said another.

  “What favours?” another demanded, derisively.

  Sos persisted: “Despots like Saurosen can’t be allowed–”

  “Allowed?”

  Abruptly, Sos was barged by Dasse, shoved to the rock-strewn floor. He felt a stinging sensation across his cheek and brow and stared up into the hate-filled visage of Dasse. His hand came away covered in blood. Sitting astride him, Dasse brandished his chisel.

  Sos twisted and heaved before Dasse could deliver another blow, thrusting Dasse off him. Most of the others shouted encouragement to Sos; though not all, he noticed.

  He scrambled to his feet, gripping his hammer; his chisel was discarded somewhere.

  Now his back started to sting: his left shoulder-blade, which had broken his fall.

  The pair circled one another. The first heavy impact had loosened Dasse’s long jet-black hair and it now trailed over his massive shoulders.

  “Sweet Arqitor, stop!” called one man.

  “Stop it before someone gets hurt!” another shouted, but neither Sos nor Dasse listened.

  Dasse rushed him, shrieking unintelligibly, wielding his chisel.

  Sos side-stepped smartly, and then slammed his hammer into the side of Dasse’s shoulder as he passed, and swiftly leaped onto the man’s back as he tumbled against a pit-prop.

  The wooden post groaned and the rock above crumbled, small pebbles skittering to the ground.

  “Stop it, both of you!” a man shrieked. “You’ll bring the whole mine down on us! Daughters of Arqitor preserve us!”

  Snatching, grasping, clawing, the pair rolled, hands slipping on sweaty skin, slicing with hammer and chisel, crying out in shrill tones as the tools sank into flesh. Then, within seconds, they both rolled against a small open conduit that collapsed at their pressure and it created a wide entrance that sloped deep into blackness.

  ***

  Lord Tanellor, Duke of Oxor, rode alongside the captain of the palace guards, Aurelan Crossis. Behind them followed a half-gamen of mounted soldiers. The pounding of their horse hoofs stopped and dust settled eerily as they reined in when they came upon the rift of land, a deep gaping wound gouged into the red-brown earth, where the Oxor mining camp lay. Aurelan had heard from a Daughter of Arqitor that the rift was probably caused by a prehistoric upheaval. When the mines petered out under Lornwater, and following the spate of collapses and subsidence, the people had moved further afield in search of more suitable mineral and ore sites. Mere accident had disclosed the thick vein of ore, halfway down this rift’s chasm.

  His scarlet cloak flapping in the updraught, Lord Tanellor raised his tall frame in the stirrups, leather saddle creaking. The eyes of his loyal soldiers remained on him. “There’s something amiss,” he said. “Note the silence.”

  Aurelan nodded, sliding a finger under the tight chin-strap of his bronze helmet; his head swam slightly for he felt uncomfortable up here, astride his mount, gazing all that way down at the mine area. The usual banging and clangour of mining was conspicuously absent; no rockfalls and shouting, no curses and songs, no picks thudding into hard rock, no spades ringing hollowly. He eyed Tanellor. “The overseer’s messenger said they were refusing to go below-ground, is that right, my lord?”

  “Yes, I had word that the overseer’s men couldn’t force them, they were outnumbered – and as you can see, they are all gone.” Tanellor cocked an eyebrow. “Surely the Devastators haven’t been here?”

  “It’s always possible, my lord. Sightings have been made of the Baronculer horde – and they could easily sell the stolen ore; caravans don’t ask questions about the origins of merchandise.”

  ***

  Amidst falling rock and rubble, Sos sensed his heart shudder as he plummeted into unknown depths, his shoulders and knees bashing painfully into solid rock as he tumbled. He was barely aware of gripping onto Dasse as they fell into the enveloping darkness.

  “What’s that?” someone snapped. “Listen!” The voice echoed, gave Sos hope; they weren’t far off; they’d rescue us, surely?

  Sos thudded to a stop, full against the still form of Dasse. He heard the distinct crack of a bone, but there was no sound from his opponent. He groaned. Ye gods, if Dasse’s dead, I’ll be charged with murder! He wiped blood from his eye, but that didn’t help him see into the stygian dark. He looked up, but there was no trace of any candle glow above. The narrow tunnel they’d stumbled into must have turned at an angle underground, blotted out the candle-light. He thought he knew why. This tunnel was intended to offer some ventilation for the deeper levels. It was Lord Tanellor’s doing, as ever considering the safety of the miners. Even that had caused Saurosen to belly-ache, by all accounts.

  He combed a hand through his short crinkly russet-coloured hair, though it was doubtless now chalky white with dust. A couple of lumps on his skull were sore as he touched them. He wasn’t sure what felt worse, the deep cut that ran from forehead to cheek, which still bled and stung, or his many bashed and bruised limbs. Then he sensed Dasse under him, unmoving. Fumbling blindly, his fingers found his opponent’s face and he brushed his hand over the man’s neck, palpating for
a pulse.

  Thank the gods, he yet lived! He let out a great sigh of relief, and coughed on dust. He eased his back against the rock wall, grateful to breathe in the draught of air that funnelled through here. At least we won’t suffocate in this dark place.

  Then his heart sank as he heard the cry, “The birds – they’ve stopped singing!”

  In almost the same instant, there was an enormous explosion and the earth beneath him rumbled and shimmered, moving, trembling. “Gods save us!”

  Earth and rock groaned and shrieked, drowning his words, deafening as it seemed to part all around him.

  Men’s screams were abruptly drowned.

  Eerily, luminous blue dust filled the remains of the tunnels and clogged the air.

  ***

  Lord Tanellor and Aurelan Crossis dismounted and strode to the chasm’s edge. Aurelan fought the queasiness brought about by the height. His troop stayed on their mounts, waiting, lances ready, hoofs tapping the ground, accoutrements clanking. He knew that not one of his men relished going up against recalcitrant miners; they were their own people, after all.

  Below them was the canyon floor, rust-coloured, dotted with sparse weeds, tools, wagons and boulders, but barren of miners or the overseer and his men. To the right were the miner’s tents. A half-dozen women, camp followers in garish robes, stood nearby, staring at the sky.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Tanellor asked.

  Aurelan shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted. “A lone red tellar, flying towards Lornwater.”

  “What business has a bird of the Overlord with the three cities?” Tanellor queried.

  Aurelan shrugged, and shook his head, dismissing his vexation with heights. “I do not know, sir. But those women might construe it as an omen. A bad omen. They’re usually gossiping, playing board games, waiting for their men to come up. Yet now they seem struck dumb. I don’t think it is the sight of the red tellar, however, that has affected them.” He looked around. “The Kellan-Mesqa haven’t been near here, sir. They would have left traces, and those women would have been taken off or left as corpses.”