Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series

by John Stockmyer

  Back Under The Stairs

  Book #2 in the Bandworld Series

  John G. Stockmyer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 John G. Stockmyer

  Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for purchasing this ebook. This book may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for any other purpose than the personal reading enjoyment by the purchaser. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. All rights reserved by the author.

  NOTE: This is the second of 10+ books in the Bandworld Series. The first book in the series is free. The other books in the series can be purchased for $4.99 each at the author's web site, and from other fine online retailers.

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  Acknowledgements

  Cover Art: Peter Ziomek

  Peter Ziomek is a graphic designer, comic book artist and instructor in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Peter received his B.S. in Graphic Design from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. He lived in Chicago for 14 years before moving to New Mexico in 1995. He is currently the Vice President and active creator with the New Mexico self publishers group 7000 B.C. He uses a combination of digital and traditional media to create works that range in style from cartoon to realistic. Influences include two-dimensional patterns, the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics, The Simpson's comics, Jeff Smith's Bone and brother Paul Ziomek. He is currently co-creating an all-ages comic book entitled "Fakin' the Funk" with Paul Ziomek. You can check out Peter's work at: www.overthetopcomics.com and www.7000bc.com.

  Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

  John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in e-commerce, audio-book production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media and innovative technology.

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  - John L. Stockmyer

  -1-

  Leet, First Head, nodded to his Second, his earnest young officer forming up the thin line of Malachite troopers across the back wall of the castle's main room. Counting every beat of his laboring heart, Leet knew it had only been minutes since his cadre of forty had stormed across the heavy timbered drawbridge to seize Hero Castle.

  Sweating.

  They were all sweating: the soldiers in their green tunics, swords buckled at their sides; the detail's two officers in their longer tabards. Had Pfnaravin been present to defend the castle with Mage-magic, they would now be dead.

  It was to run this risk that a cripple like Leet had been summoned from retirement; that he had been appointed to command this unit and sent deep into the enemy band of Stil-de-grain.

  Though the torches around the large dining hall had been set blazing in their ring holders, it was still too dark to see details. The room's smell was of yesterday's cooking mixed with moldering stone.

  "Two squads to search the castle!" Leet barked, a dull echo from the harsh stone walls mocking him by instant repetition. "All occupants down to the lowest slavey to be brought to me."

  "At once, Head soldier!" The young Second saluted, fist clinched, arm angled across his chest. Forgetting his infirmity in the danger of the moment, the Head attempted a return salute with his dead, right arm, finally switching to salute with his left -- clumsily -- his arm paralleling his green sash of command.

  The Second pivoted smartly. "Squads A and B ... left and right ... search!"

  At that command and with reasonable order, two units of ten marched off in opposite directions.

  The hunt begun, his men out of danger for the moment, Leet allowed himself the luxury of glancing about the sonorous room.

  Hero Castle. A fabled place. Raised upon the sacred ground where the Hero of them all had come back from the mysterious, other world. The place where the great Mage of Malachite, Pfnaravin, had crossed to that beyond -- then (rumor had it) recently returned.

  Faded, sepia tapestries decorated the room's high, gray stone walls.

  Before him in the rectangular room's center lay the fire stone cooking pit, the wrought iron framework above it supporting kettles on their s-irons.

  On a low platform to his right stood a wood trestle table, crude benches flanking each of its four sides.

  Nervously, Leet glanced up at the high, clerestory windows. Was relieved to see that the strange, golden light of Stil-de-grain still streamed through the down-light apertures. Though he much preferred the green sky of home, at least the angle of the light assured him there would be time for questioning the castle slaveys before down-light ended all communication with these foreigners.

  There was a snake sound to his left!

  Whirling, Leet's dangling arm flopping ludicrously, he saw a man approaching.

  Through the gloom, Leet recognized the priest, Dockw, the unctuous fraud making that slithering noise by mincing his elegant, small feet over the rough floor. Twelve lesser priests -- dressed in robes of white, their bald heads glistening like newly cracked eggs, cowered by the entrance.

  "May I be the first, mighty soldier, to congratulate you upon your conquest of this noble edifice?" the priest blathered, Dockw's voice whining across Leet's soul like a blade of stickl-grass cuts flesh. The sickly perfume of Dockw's holy unguent clawed at Leet's nose and throat.

  Dockw. Disgusting priest of the sky god, Hyet. Priest and spy for "good" King Lithoid.

  "I trust that your bowels flushed adequately," Leet said, dryly.

  "What? I fear, noble Head, that I ...."

  "The reason you were forced to stay behind."

  "Oh ... yes ...." Then hurrying: "Regrettable. Quite regrettable. Had I known that, at the very moment of attack, I would be stricken ...."

  As the weakling's lie continued to spew forth, Leet smiled grimly to himself. Using the excuse of bloat, Dockw had disappeared, deserting as Leet's expendables closed on the castle. Had Pfnaravin's magic withered Leet and his command, Dockw would have lived to carry home the glad news that an enraged Pfnaravin was, indeed, in Hero Castle, King Lithoid needing to send a proper army to capture Malachite's missing Mage.

  A spy and therefore dangero
us.

  At the same time laughable -- the priest's head plucked clean of hair and brightly painted in the circular colors of Hyet's sky above: a purple dot on top, banded by blue, outside of which was the green belt representing Malachite. Lower still, circled the gold firmament of Stil-de-grain, encompassed by the orange of Realgar, ringed by the red of mystic Cinnabar at the level of the priest's plucked brows. Below the bright rings, the celibate's colorless eyes blinked owlishly behind denuded lids.

  At the joining of the priest's fat thighs swung the sewn-on bag of out-sized, leather testicles, above which, thrust out and up at a grotesque angle, was the artificial phallus banded like the priest's bald head. (The heroic size of the stuffed leather penis in no way compensated for amputated genitals, of course, "neuterdom" the price one paid for the priesthood!) Hyet's acolytes must represent the ever impotent but potentially fertile sky.

  Disgusting!

  Particularly since the sight of this effeminate grotesquery brought home what Leet, himself, had lost. First his promising young Second, Bamb -- that fair-skinned, dark-haired boy. Then Leet's right arm, both wasted in the Great Mage War.

  Long ago.

  When noble Cleadon was King of Malachite.

  In those distant days, young Leet's cohort of Malachite defenders had been sent to ward off Azare's blows directed at the capital. Leet remembered how good it had been to be alive; the sky of Malachite so green and hot and bright; and honor to be won.

  So Leet had thought.

  Then, good King Cleadon had been murdered. Was succeeded -- in the absence of the true-blood prince -- by the king's half brother, Lithoid; among dark muttering that Lithoid had conspired in his brother's death. But only mutterings -- if you would live!

  With the flash of an assassin's knife, Lithoid had changed allegiance to fight along side the evil Auro!

  Still, a soldier supported king and country.

  The next shock came when Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite, fled to Stil-de-grain to organize the opposition's Mages in a successful attempt to shift the blue sky above Azare toward the black. So that, more and more, the magic of the Evil Mage-King faltered.

  It was in the final spasm of the war's death throws that Auro had unleashed his dread berserkers! Men maddened by confinement in the gathering dark!

  Though allegedly on the same side, it was one of the crazed fighters who, even after receiving Bamb's death stroke, had beheaded Leet's young guard, the madman thrashing forward to slash Leet's face and nearly sever Leet's right arm.

  A single tear of memory dried unshed in the dusty eye of Leet grown old.

  Marching feet startled the aAmy Head from his reverie!

  Soldiers, herding in the castle slaveys.

  Mostly women.

  Old.

  Poor.

  Ignorant.

  "Form them up before me," Leet commanded.

  Pushing and pulling, Leet's troops shaped the slavey men and women into a ragged line.

  Cooks, gardeners, scullions, drudges, turnspits. Belonging less to bands or kings than to their functions in this ancient pile of stone.

  Fear struck.

  The women weeping.

  Behind this line of luckless captives, A and B squads dressed in a single rank, each man watchful. Though unlikely, it was possible that the lowliest chattel-man might, in terror, strike out with a hidden knife.

  "I am Leet," the Head soldier said, stepping forward, his body militarily erect. "From the band of Malachite." Leet paused. "Stil-de-grain crumbles quickly before the attack of our heroic forces. As proof, even Hero Castle is now forfeit." Heroic forces? Somehow, the word seemed to fit taller men. Malachites were strong of limb, of course. Made more powerful by entering this weakly pulling band of Stil-de-grain. Man for man, the Stil-de-grainer could never hope to defeat the soldiers of a powerful pulling band like Malachite!

  Unless ....

  Unless the Crystal-Mage, Pfnaravin, strengthened the Stil-de-grain forces.

  Thinking of the grizzly Mage, Leet shivered. Forced himself to assume an icy calm.

  "I wish no injury to befall you," Leet continued, hoping to soothe these frightened menials. "I seek only the Mage, Pfnaravin. No harm will come to you ...." He let the pause sink in. "... if you tell me where he is."

  Nothing. ... But continued weeping.

  Leet advanced two steps, his dead arm aping the swing of living flesh. "You!" Leet snapped at the elderly man before him.

  Looking up in terror, the lumpish oldster lowered his eyes quickly, fixing them on his earth encrusted shoes. Gnarled fingers fumbled with the frayed sides of the man's coarse, workman's tunic. A gardener, by the look of him.

  "Have you seen Pfnaravin here?"

  "I ... I ..."

  "Speak up. The Mage cannot harm you now that we have come in force."

  "I ... He was here, Head soldier," whined the graybeard in the high, thin voice of age. "Leastwise, a man was here that folks said was him. I seen him. But ..."

  "But ...?"

  "But he isn't here no more. Not so's a body can ... see ... anyway." At that, the bent-over dotard looked all around, as if expecting ghosts.

  Leet, too, felt compelled to peer into the stone cooled shadows of the out-sized room. Who knew about the powers of such a Mage?

  Superstition.

  Unworthy, even in an aging half-man!

  "If he is elsewhere ...." -- a likely prospect since Leet and his band of penetrators were still alive -- "... where has he gone?"

  "None can say," the man piped, head shaking vigorously, eyes still on his muddy shoes. "Here ... then gone, he was."

  Leet backed up a pace. Fixed stony eyes on the others in the trembling line. "Can you say, any of you, where the Mage has gone?"

  Increased weeping from the women.

  "You," Leet said, taking two, quick side steps to face an aged drudge. "Where has the Mage, Pfnaravin, gone?"

  She only shook her head. Could no more find her tongue than if it had been pulled out by the root.

  Another sidestep. "And you?" A shake of the head. Another. "And you?" A mumble in the negative.

  "If I may suggest, revered Army Head ..." lisped the banded priest, "it's" voice behind Leet's back as chilling as the rasp of knives on well oiled stones, "... there are ... ways ... to loosen tongues. Many. Some of which I carry on my person."

  Torture.

  The mulish creature spoke of torture.

  A special "art" of priests in Malachite as in other bands.

  A maimed man himself, Leet was loathe to injure others. In the heat of war, a necessity. In cold blood, an abomination! Yet ....

  Leet was no more free to make his own commands than were his men. He also followed higher orders, in this case, to secure Pfnaravin at all cost. A directive with which Leet agreed. That hoary Mage could not be allowed to roam free to loose his magic on the soldiers of Malachite. Earlier in this very war, said rumor, Pfnaravin (newly returned from the other world) had destroyed a vast, automaton force sent from the black band itself. Withered them with forks of crystal-magic.

  Leet shuddered. Ran the fingers of his good hand through his short cut, graying hair. He preferred to think of anything but Mages. Or of their dangerous powers. For him, it was enough that there was magic in the light. Common magic. Torch magic. Cooking magic. Band battles, on the other hand, should be fought out man to man. Or in his case, half-a-man to man.

  Thank the gods of earth and sky that he had never married! That he had no children for the policies of kings and priests to rend limb from limb. Nor were his parents living, a mother or father who could be made to live too long -- screaming -- if Leet failed his king. No. Duty alone, made Leet serve Lithoid. Serve him unwillingly, perhaps. But serve him nonetheless. If Leet was not pledged to king and country, he was not a soldier. If he was not a soldier, he was not any kind of man.

  But torture ....! An anathema!

  "Should the Head be too tender for this work," whispered the hairless priest, bobbing h
is banded head obsequiously, "I, myself, could relieve you of the task by undertaking the examination of these slaveys. My only need would be a number of robust soldiers to restrain them while I do my work." Looking at the priest who had oozed up to stand beside him, Leet saw a smile of ecstasy on Dockw's powdered face. "Perhaps a touch of burning pepper on the lips or tongue or on some other, tender spot. Or rubbed into the eyes! A most salutary effect on stubborn tongues, I can assure you from experience." The prickless castrate, eyes closed in anticipation, was stroking his own body with soft fingers: sensuously. "If slow results are feasible, a soaked band of ox hide, bound about the head. Slowly to shrink, until the eyes bulge from their sockets."

  A cleansing thought blazed through Leet's mind! A quick thrust of Leet's sword -- even if hefted by a one hand cripple -- would have a "salutary effect" on the life of this loathsome "it!"

  Calming himself, the Army Head sighed. Crossed his chest with his live, left arm to finger the scar down his right cheek.

  The ugly truth was that this odious emasculate could well be right. People lied. Even simple slaveys such as these. Misplaced loyalty. Fear. Promise of payment for dissembling. Though it was not the business of a soldier, other means were sometimes needed to secure the truth.

  Torture.

  Perhaps a minimal amount to blunt a charge of negligence. A modicum of suffering to prevent a greater tragedy.

  But who to choose as victim/sacrifice for all the rest? If possible, a dull-wit who would suffer little pain.

  Looking down the line, Leet saw the perfect choice; strode to line's end to stand before a withered hag dressed all in lavender. "What is your name?"