Floreskand_King Read online

  In the lead was a man in the apparel of a Scribe, red and yellow patterned breeches and shirt and a red hat with a tassel.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Feider’s father demanded of the Scribe.

  His mouth surprisingly dry, Feider stood at his father’s side; he was garbed in the robes of an apprentice monk. He trembled slightly, for he knew full well what the black curtains signified; and he was sure that his father did too, though he was in denial.

  Without uttering a word, the Court Scribe stepped to one side and drew open the black curtain.

  Father let out a plaintive cry, then moaned, “Oh, by the gods, no!”

  Lying on a bed of ash was Sno, stripped naked, her throat discoloured by dark congealed blood. Her chest was imprinted with a red weal in the shape of some esoteric symbol. Long black hair encircled her head and her eyes were closed; no more would he behold those lovely dark brown doe eyes.

  Father sank to his knees, a hand shakily touching Sno’s pale cold arm.

  Feider wanted to be sick. The ash and the black curtains meant that Sno lay in a traitor’s bier. As blood drained from his face, he glanced around, and realised that the watching neighbours knew that as well.

  He felt no shame, only anger, and grated his teeth.

  The Scribe let drop the curtain. “Your daughter is returned to you without the raiment she was graciously permitted to wear due to her royal appointment.”

  “You – you callous–”

  “Begetter, please!” Feider interrupted, helping his father to his feet. “The Scribe is doing his duty, he is not to blame!” This last he said between clenched teeth.

  “I am not permitted to express regret,” the Scribe said, “you understand, but if I were so allowed, be assured I would.”

  “What…” her father croaked, “what did she…?”

  “Your daughter was slain by Quotamantier’s talisman while attempting to murder the prince.”

  Both Feider and his father exhaled a gasp of astonishment.

  “No! This cannot be!” Feider exclaimed.

  “She was caught in the act. There can be no mistake.” The Scribe agitatedly touched the collar of his tunic. “She was dealt with appropriately.”

  Feider’s fists clenched. “By slitting her throat?”

  His father wailed.

  The Scribe’s gaze shifted away, to the two bearers who now retrieved the palanquin poles. He removed a roll of parchment from his jacket, unfurled it, took a hammer from his belt and like a magician produced a nail as if from nowhere. He nailed the notice to the Lin-kan doorpost. “You are exempt, Lin-kan Feider, but your family are to be cast into exile forthwith,” he said, his voice sombre and cold. “They have until sundown to leave the city.” He slipped the hammer into his belt, turned on his heel and left.

  “Exempt?” Feider queried, his head spinning.

  “They know you’re a novice monk,” his father said, his voice weak, grating. “You serve the monastery. You must return to them earlier than planned, my son. There is no home here for you now.”

  “Where will you go, Begetter?”

  “Our relatives in Goldalese, for now. Until the shame follows us. Then we might have to think again.” He gently shoved Feider to the stairs. “Go, prepare to leave.”

  With leaden feet, Feider climbed to his room. On entering, he was startled by movement on his windowsill. The fluttering of wings of a saptor; its companion perched a short distance away.

  The messenger bird must have arrived almost at the same time as the dread palanquin.

  Calming the bird, he fed it seed and removed the message ring. He rolled open the thin sliver of parchment. In the tear-stained note from Sno, she said that the night before she was raped by Prince Saurosen. She stated that she was going to kill the prince. May the gods have mercy on her soul, she scrawled. Pray for me, dearest brother, she pleaded at its close then signed it.

  Feider crushed the note in his hand, his face muscles tense.

  He wouldn’t return to the monastery. There was nothing for him there, either. He no longer believed.

  Red anger impelled him to seek revenge, but his monkish training told him to bide his time. He was neither capable nor ready.

  His heart weighed like stone, as he paid for and arranged Sno’s final journey. Then he helped his mother and father load their most precious belongings onto a dray. He pulled the cart for them to Goldalese. When he was satisfied they were safe with his cousins, he pretended he was returning to the monastery. Once out of sight of the city, he made a diversion to Endawn. He had heard that mercenaries were being recruited there.

  Alone, Feider travelled, constantly on the alert for the encroachment of the vile-smelling lugarzos. He was fortunate, none scented his passing. He rested his horse frequently as they spanned the great plainsgrass, the ominous smoking cone of Astle on their left. He felt slightly safer as he rode along the manderon edge of the Fault. Below in the massive valley spread the rocky desolate expanse of blackened magma and the bones of long-dead men.

  At last he came to the Ren-Kan Crossing. Here, he paid his fee and both he and his horse were lowered on an ingenious wooden trestle contraption. Once on the bottom of the Manderranmeron Fault, he tentatively led his horse over the tumbled rock to the man at the other sheer cliff side. The Ren-kan family had worked this crossing for many years, in open competition with the Endawn family’s Andorestil crossing on the Arisan road, maintaining a system of pulleys, block and tackle. Maybe one day a bridge would be built, he thought. The problem with that was that either Astle or Danumne might jettison magma that would destroy any structure. And it wasn’t simply an unrealistic fantasy – the Ren-kans had lost two sets of trestles in Feider’s memory. There was one bridge that spanned the fault, but it was in the disputed region on the border with Tarakanda.

  Before he arrived at the gates of Endawn, he chose a new name, Aurelan Crossis, knowing that his preparations for vengeance would take time, and he would need to guard against discovery.

  ***

  The plains, manderon of Goldalese

  Jutting above the rim of the Manderranmeron Fault far to the left, the cone of Astle sent its smoke at an angle into the azure sky. The winds currently blew to the varteron, Lord-General Launette noted. Some of the denizens of Taalland would choke on the black and grey cinders, he mused, adjusting the black leather patch that covered his right eye. He wondered how long their swampland would remain; a few more gutsy eruptions from Astle, and he believed the swamp would be no more.

  The day was hot, the sun beating upon his metal armour. Sweat soaked his neck under his shoulder-length black hair. Amidst the tall stalks birds sang desultory songs.

  He turned in his saddle and glanced at the way he’d come. The caravan stretched a good two launmarks, most of the riders and carts travelling in single file. Outriders kept vigil against any Baronculer. A richly caparisoned caravan was a tempting invitation.

  Abruptly, a cloud of grey birds with black-flecked wings flew out of the grass, cawing: ghosthawks, harbingers.

  Captain Omagma rode up to his side. He was newly appointed to Launette’s staff, a burly, tall man, with a thin black moustache, a cleft chin, a flat nose, and a scar running down the left side of his face, on either side of which long pigtails dangled. “All goes well, my lord.”

  “I think not.”

  Omagma’s bushy eyebrows arched and his sunken deep brown eyes glittered with curiosity.

  “The ghosthawks have vanished,” Launette said by way of explanation. It was eerie, the strange silence that settled around them, as if the bird-sound had been quenched by Vensor, the black lesslord of Bridansor.

  Stroking his medium-length pointed black beard and upper lip devoid of moustache, Launette scanned the swaying grassland. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were near. “I can definitely smell them,” he said under his breath. He lifted his head, curved nose distended slightly as he breathed in. “There’s a goodly number of the swine not a l
aunmark distant.” He pointed across the waving grass, to the dunsaron, not far from the spot where the ghosthawks had launched into flight.

  “Swine, my lord?”

  “Lugarzos.”

  Omgama paled. “You can truly smell them?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d know that rank odour anywhere.”

  Omagma’s mouth gaped wide. “I have never encountered any, my lord.

  “Count yourself fortunate, Captain.”

  “I’ll investigate, my lord.” Omagma swung his mount round.

  “No! Stay, damn your hide!” Launette rode up to him, snatched at the bridle. “Select twenty men, approach in a double line, one man behind the other. Use your shields, as I advised before we set out.” He released the captain’s horse. “Get your men ready!”

  Riding off, Omgama rallied his men using rapid sign language. They were all mounted, their horses armoured at the breast and throat to protect them from the tall grasses that could unexpectedly slice into flesh.

  Launette rode to the left-hand side of the double row of mounted men. He withdrew his sword. Briefly, it glinted in the sunlight. It was a while since it had tasted blood. He narrowed his eyes, spotted the tell-tale motion amidst the sea of grass – seed-heads bobbing contrary to the natural course of the breeze.

  Then he spurred his horse forward, and the others did the same.

  The grass stalks spread to left and right of him as his mount ploughed on. In the horses’ wake, a swathe of trampled grassland.

  Before any conflict he sensed his heart sing, his limbs quicken. Still in his prime at forty-nine years, he approached the coming contest in an ambivalent mood: he desired it, even relished it, yet common sense and experience taught him caution and to hold onto a modicum of sensible fear.

  Greenish-yellow scales emerged from the pale green meadow directly ahead of him. Lugarzos! To left and right, he counted at least thirty of the creatures. They moved fast, measuring a man’s height when upright, though in the main they covered the ground on all fours. Their tails whipped out behind them, a vicious weapon with its hard pointed fluke. The lugarzos resembled reptilian men, yet they were animal. Scientists in Lornwater decreed they were a missing link between snakes and man, but Launette couldn’t countenance that.

  Man or animal, they wore what resembled leather clothing and wielded weapons. Their gaping maws housed razor-sharp teeth, serried rows, three above and two below. Their eyes were mere slits beneath jutting bushy brows. Their right hand was shaped like a spiked shovel, capable of digging into the earth or eviscerating prey, while their left was almost normal, comprising three long fingers and an opposable thumb.

  One raced towards him now, brandishing a large wooden club studded with spiked thorns. If that thing bludgeoned his horse, he’d be down amongst them in an instant. Launette swung his huge sword around his head, his leather and armour creaking, and flung it at the attacker.

  The sword blade embedded deep into the creature’s breast and the thing stumbled forward a couple of steps then toppled on its side, its tail flicking in a death-throe. As he rode past the corpse, Launette leaned from the saddle and snatched the sword hilt. The momentum of his horse carried the corpse a little way until Launette shook it free of his blade, spattering his mount’s flank with grey-green blood.

  He’d retrieved his weapon barely in time, as another lugarzo lunged at him, but this one only carried a knife fashioned from stone. Launette ducked as the creature’s pointed tail swished towards his head, its hard scales grazing his metal epaulette. He gave a single swipe, sliced off the tail, covering himself and his horse in gore. His horse reared, clearly disliking this kind of stench, blood and gore unlike anything else they’d encountered in combat. Without its tail, the lugarzo appeared rudderless, stumbling left then right, bellowing incoherently. Swiftly, Launette forced his horse forward and swiftly beheaded the creature.

  With an effort, he steadied his mount and surveyed the battle.

  On all sides, the lugarzos fought. One horseman was raised off his mount, the shovel-like hand sunk deep within his torso, and then discarded like so much offal; the horse met a similar fate, dying noisily.

  Horses shrieked outlandishly and men wailed and mustered their battle-cry with dry mouths.

  Finally, Omgama and his men repelled the attack.

  Launette rode among the foul-smelling corpses, some without head or tail. “Direct the caravan away from these – the stink will linger on their clothes and wagons, otherwise.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Omgama hesitated, didn’t immediately jerk his horse away to do his lord’s bidding.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “I can smell their spilt blood now, but there was no discernible reek before we cut them down. How…?”

  “I’ve encountered them before.” He tapped his hooked nose. “I’m blessed with an unusual eye and nose, it seems. They have both served me well in conflict.”

  Omgama shuddered. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.” He gestured absently. “Of course I’ve seen them in picture books in the library, but I thought they were myth… They belong underground. What are they doing here?”

  Leaning forward on his saddle pommel, Launette stared at the captain with his single eye, its colour muddy, like the Saloar Teen in full flood. “You’ve felt the tremors of late?”

  “Yes, my lord. But I don’t give credence to them; it’s the lesslords Trasor and Frasor quarrelling, nothing more.”

  Launette let out a barking laugh. “You should think less on the progeny of Bridansor and more on nature’s signals the land offers up.” The captain looked puzzled. He went on, “The lugarzos are natural predators of schwarms.”

  Captain Omgama pursed his lips, looking troubled. “I’ve heard of the schwarms, but only from drunken miners. They say they’ve encountered a few…”

  “They have – and give them all the respect they can, in order to continue mining in safety… But now it seems the schwarms are affected by the tremors. I have received reports that they’re moving away from the plains, heading into the mountains. In the absence of their natural prey, I suspect the lugarzos are seeking fresh meat, human meat.”

  Omgama shuddered. “They failed at that this time – only thanks to your early warning, my lord.”

  “Aye. There are plenty more, but none too close at present. Clearly, our advance guard didn’t encounter any of them, either.” He raised his eye-patch, scanned the horizon with his opaque right eye, then nodded and replaced the leather cover. “Something is amiss with Floreskand, Captain Omgama.”

  With a flourish of his left hand, he made the sigil of the Overlord in the air. “Dark days lie ahead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RATAVA

  “He who injures others injures himself.”

  - The Tanlin, 450.17

  Underground

  Rujon Sos regained consciousness and an involuntary groan passed his lips as his muscles and bones ached all over. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn’t, they were sealed somehow. He coughed on dust that grated in his mouth and clogged his nostrils, then wiped a hand over his face, cleared grime away and was finally able to open his eyes. He blinked; grit rubbed against the rims, drawing tears. He recalled where he was: surprisingly, it wasn’t dark. An eerie green glow permeated this narrow shaft, the source of the light further down the slope. He shifted and realised the weight on his legs was Dasse. He fingered Dasse’s neck; he still lived. The air in here seemed thick, visible, tainted with a blue hue, but it was breathable.

  Ye gods, he’d choked on worse in these damnable mines!

  He cricked his neck to glance up and behind them. There was a vent hole above, but it was now quite narrow. The cave-in must have blocked it after they’d fallen through, he supposed. He ran a hand over the surface of the shaft. It was remarkably smooth. Perhaps water had run through here in the distant past? His heart sank for a fleeting instant as he wondered if he might drown if water returned soon.

  Their
only option was to descend the slope. And hope there was another shaft or tunnel that led to the surface. Twisting round, he grabbed Dasse’s bare shoulder and dragged the man along behind.

  It was slow work and, as he crawled and dragged, his muscles burning, the wound stabbing, his bruises throbbing, he detected an unwelcome fetid odour – something organic but long hidden from sunlight, worse than a stagnant pond, though that vaguely reminded him of the new stench.

  ***

  Fourth Sidin of Juvous

  Rujon Sos blinked in the sepulchral light. For a brief time his aches and bruises were of little interest as he lay on a rock shelf, resting on one elbow. Below him stretched a cavernous place, shimmering in a strange blue-green light. Abutting against the rock columns and boulders was a collection of single storey buildings, each with windows and doorways. An anaemic moss covered much of the floor of the cavern. His nostrils seemed clogged with the odour of rotten flesh.

  A groan to his left attracted his attention. Dasse was supine on an adjacent rock shelf. “Where in the name of gods am I?” Dasse mumbled.

  “Underground,” Sos supplied.

  “Under – ? Ye gods, my elbow, my leg, they’re agony!”

  Sos wondered if he’d caused more physical damage when dragging Dasse. “You fell badly,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

  He heard a scrabbling sound of small stones being displaced, and from that direction a woman walked in a crouch towards them.

  Dasse let out a gasp.

  She seemed malnourished, some of her skeleton showing beneath her skin, skin that was pale, almost translucent. Like them, she only wore a loincloth and shoes. Her breasts were small, pert. Her nose was prominent and curved. Sos could not determine her age.

  His heart trembled as he noticed her eyes. One eye appeared normal while the other had a membrane that flicked over it; both glowed green in the gloomy light. She carried a wicker basket and knelt by his side. Her breath fanned his face, sweet-smelling and warm, as she leaned over him and peeled away the bandage from his brow. You will live, Rujon Sos, she whispered.