Floreskand_King

by Morton Faulkner

  An alarm had been raised from the main building and now a row of archers hurried through the doorway and knelt at the top of the broad marble steps; they fired down into the courtyard.

  Edural’s men were ready, however, and formed a turtle of shields, advancing implacably.

  Saurosen peered over the stone merlon. Below, a number of commandeered boats were scudding across the still taal, men-at-arms in front hefting grappling irons from the quartermaster’s wagon. Each boat carried eight men.

  “To me, men!” Saurosen called, striding towards the door of the far corner tower that led into the main building.

  Ten men-at-arms moved along the walkway with him and two of them splintered the wooden door with their battle-axes. Six of them rushed through the doorway.

  Saurosen took a moment to check on the progress of the boats. Two had run aground on the edge of the island and the men in the bows were flinging their grapnels up at the windows in the main building. Satisfied, he turned to descend the tower.

  The element of surprise was still his. They could win the day if his men pressed hard.

  ***

  Yordine Tallast climbed the stairs from the infirmary and was met by Courdour Alomar on a landing. “Saurosen is attacking, sire,” Alomar said. “His troops have entered the courtyard and taken the battlements already!”

  “This wasn’t quite the plan!” Tallast’s mud-brown eyes darkened as he scrutinised Alomar. “The swine brings his forces too soon! I’m not dressed for battle, damn the man!”

  Alomar’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Plan? Never mind that, my lord. You must look to your grand-daughter’s safety. He may have come for her!”

  “What? No, he’s after my wealth!”

  “How can you be sure?” Alomar said in surprise.

  “When I had confirmation he would come, I brought out as many valuables as I could, to tempt him!”

  “You invited conflict with him and the sixth toumen?”

  “Aye – though it pains me that my son should attack the family home!”

  “I smell the ordure of politics, my lord… I still believe Saurosen may want to take Lady Lahra as spoils. Her safety is your priority.”

  Again, Tallast studied Alomar’s armour. “You came with Tael and the Kellan-Mesqa last night, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I have a task for you. It is hazardous, but I judge you are capable.”

  “Whatever you require, my lord.”

  ***

  Saurosen and his men had broken into the dormitory that housed the guest entertainers. The musicians and dancers were drowsy after a night of drinking and debauchery.

  “Their acts were atrocious and boring,” Saurosen shouted. “Kill them all!”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” whimpered a sword-swallower, dodging a spear-thrust; then he was impaled on the Black Sword.

  “Swallow that, charlatan!” Saurosen bellowed, then withdrew the blade and wiped it on the man’s clothing.

  Men and women tried dodging the armed intruders, but they had no chance. A dancer fled to the windowsill and opened the window, jumped to his death.

  “Keep the women?” suggested a man-at-arms.

  “If you like. But make sure they’re held secure!”

  “Thank you, sire!” The soldier wound a female dancer in sheets, tying them tight until she was helpless in a cocoon, only her face visible. “I’ll save you for later!”

  Saurosen walked into another room. This one was empty, though there was evidence of a hasty evacuation.

  With Nostor Vata at his side, he moved from room to room. In one, he found a man in a nightshirt trembling with fear behind a cupboard. He sank the Black Sword in the man’s chest. “Is there nobody worthy to fight here?” he berated.

  “You will meet someone most worthy soon, sire,” Nostor Vata said.

  “Promise?”

  “Oh, yes, sire.”

  He encountered some of the men who had scaled the rear wall and entered by windows; swarthy muscular types whose eyes gleamed with lust and greed. He wondered at General Edural’s recruitment system. Still, they fought for him.

  He checked the exterior balconies of two rooms, but nobody was hiding there.

  The sun had risen, a satin sunrise of oyster and duck-egg blue, against which trailed skeins of ibis; all reflected by the taal waters.

  He returned inside, his blood-lust far from sated.

  Finally, they emerged on the upper gallery.

  Here, pandemonium reigned. Maids fled before armed men. Two men in Yordine livery were flung over the bannister to their deaths in the dining hall.

  Getting his bearings, Saurosen made his way to the door of Lady Lahra’s room. He kicked it open. The bed was in disarray, but there was no sign of his conquest-to-be.

  “She has been taken to the infirmary,” Nostor Vata said.

  “You knew?”

  “Not until I entered the room. Then I knew.”

  Gritting his teeth, Saurosen barged past her and stepped onto the gallery again.

  ***

  Alomar had avoided most of the intruders; those who got in his way died under the blade of his battle-axe as he made his way along the varteron walkway, heading for the round tower. The external stairs were littered with the dead of Saurosen’s sixth toumen.

  Slaying left and right, Alomar snagged a grappling iron from a parapet and flung it up to the roof of the round tower. As it caught and held secure, a man in Yordine livery appeared, ready to dislodge it.

  “Hold,” Alomar called, “I’ve been sent by Yordine Tallast!”

  The soldier hesitated, and then shouted. “Come on, then. We need every man!”

  Alomar slung his axe over his shoulder and grabbed the rope.

  Planting his feet firmly on the wall of the round tower, he heaved himself up, hand over hand, with effortless ease.

  Reaching the top, he swung his legs over and then hauled up the rope. He straightened, shaking the Yordine soldier’s hand.

  “I remember seeing you last night,” the soldier said, pointing at Alomar’s ever-open eyes.

  “Aye, it’s a distinctive feature.”

  “You climbed that – but you’re not out of breath?”

  “Try climbing the Sonalumes, lad. That takes your breath away, I assure you!”

  “Why has our master sent you, stranger?”

  “Can you direct me to the signal room?”

  “Yes. Follow me!”

  ***

  Rom swamp

  Ulran’s boat passed tumulus islands where he noticed pottery littered all about, cluttered with lava blackstone and glazed carved effigies.

  “These are our burial places,” Tael explained.

  Gradually, the channels they rowed through grew wider and to Ulran’s eye less distinguishable.

  Then they entered sections of open blue lagoons fringed with dense forests of golden reeds as high as a two-storey building.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ulran detected movement, and readied his spear. He relaxed. It was merely an island of reeds moving with the slight breeze.

  A great flock of geese spiralled up from behind a wall of reeds, the bugles of their voices drifting thin and clear across the marshland, drowning the bleats, whistles, croaks and groans of the hidden denizens.

  “Watch out, Ulran,” Tael warned.

  Ulran sensed it an instant before it erupted out of that same wall of reeds. “Your first flensigg!” Tael exclaimed.

  It was an enormous creature, a raging tornado of slashing tusks that he knew could rip the flesh like knives and leave white bone open to the sky. Tael had advised him that if he became a victim, he was never to lie on his back, else he’d be gored. “Lie on your face and you might survive.” Ulran had noted the number of Rom clan who carried scars of past gorings.

  For all its bulk, it moved fast.

  Ulran aimed steadily, sending the pointed and barbed spear towards the flensigg’s brain, above its tiny red eyes.<
br />
  But in the last instant, it snorted, lifted its head as if listening, and the point skimmed off its horn and cut into the right eye-socket. It squealed loudly and as it veered away, its tusk tore at Tael’s ankle, upsetting him in the thwarts.

  Splashing in the shallow water, the flensigg rushed into a mass of reeds and was gone.

  “Damn, we need to track it down, it is even more dangerous now it’s wounded,” Tael said, hissing between gritted teeth.

  “Let me see,” said Clen and leaned over, placing his hand on Tael’s ripped flesh.

  Immediately, the blood stopped flowing. “You’re a healer, Clen?” Tael asked.

  “A novice, but that might ease the pain and help the wound mend.”

  Tael froze, grasped Ulran’s arm. “Wait, friend. Listen!”

  Across the water he heard it, a sound of a high-pitched drumbeat.

  Constant, insistent.

  The vibrations seemed to accumulate, sending ripples in the water.

  Ulran sensed the boat they stood in thrum with the sound.

  “The Yordine toran is in danger!” Tael said.

  ***

  Toran Hewqoma, Rom Taal

  The drum virtually filled the top floor of the round tower, its skein of many sewn hides stretched taut. Two massive drumsticks with skin heads hung on the wall by the entrance door. There were seven openings, like windows, but fluted and curved upwards, in the circular wall above the drum.

  The Yordine soldier said that normally six men took turns two at a time to beat the drum, but now there was only one; the others had succumbed to enemy arrows.

  “Deploy your last drummer to fight, soldier. I’ll sound the alarm.” Alomar grabbed the drumsticks and stepped onto the membrane.

  It was so taut there was little bounce.

  He stood in the middle and began striking the drumskin with the two sticks.

  The pulsating beat grew in volume as he pounded away.

  To begin with, the sticks were light, yet after an unmeasurable amount of time they started to seem heavier. Yet he continued to strike the drumskin, his ears and indeed his whole pody pulsating, well into the night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CONFLICT

  “The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.”

  - The Xadra of Quotamantir

  Night fell and the toran was under siege. Saurosen had captured half of the place, but not all. The infirmary was impossible to reach, as it was well defended, so he must do without the sweet-smelling little lady for now.

  As he sat at the empty dining table in the great hall, he fretted that he’d been unable to find Lady Lahra. He hungered for that tainted innocence. And silence wouldn’t go amiss, either.

  He held his head in his hands and groaned. “Won’t somebody stop that infernal drumming?”

  “It comes from the round tower, sire. Our men cannot break into it. They fight like demons.”

  “What about your magic?”

  “I am depleted, sire. I need to rebuild my resources and that will take time.”

  “A pity. When I’m again king I’ll make sure I have two Sardans!”

  “That drum is the least of your concerns, sire. Your men are packing away jewels and gold,” Nostor Vata said equably. “When they have enough, they will abandon you here in the toran.”

  “I have the Black Sword, witch. They will stay for that.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  “Then you must charm them with your enchantments!”

  “That is not possible, sire. And you well know it.”

  “You are becoming tiresome, Nostor Vata!”

  “I live to serve. And advise.”

  “As long as I let you live?”

  She shook her head. “Your threats mean nothing to me, your higness.”

  He chewed his lip and eyed a squire. “Light more torches. This place is dark and miserable. And bring me wine!”

  Two captive squires rushed away to do his bidding, while Nostor Vata ignited more torches.

  General Edural entered, helmet under his arm. His armour was bloodied and dented, and his face streamed with dirt, dried blood and sweat. “Sire, I bring dire news!”

  Licking his parched lips, Saurosen snapped, “Where’s that wine?”

  A squire hurried in with a tray, a pitcher of wine and four crystal flagons.

  “About time!” He gestured to Edural. “Join me and Sister Vata in a drink, General. You’ve deserved it!”

  “Sir?”

  “Drink, damn you – and then tell me your dire news.”

  Edural stepped forward, placed his helmet to one side on the table and then poured wine into three flagons.

  “Your health, General, Sister!” Saurosen barked and raised the glass to his lips. For a fleeting instant he wondered if he should have a pledger, then shrugged off that thought. It was smooth, warm, but not unpleasant, and tasted of berries. He licked his lips. “Tell me.”

  “Almost half of our men are in chronic pain, incapable of fighting or in most cases even standing.”

  “What? How in the name of the Overlord are we meant to maintain a siege?”

  Edural gulped his wine. “I’ve asked our physician what ails them.”

  “And?”

  “He has read about it, sire. It’s peculiar to Taalland. The men have been infected with hrzia…”

  Saurosen cocked an eyebrow at Nostor Vata.

  “That’s not good,” she said.

  “You’re telling me? I’d already worked that out!”

  ***

  Alomar stopped the drumming, yet it tended to persist in his head and thrum through his frame for a short while afterwards. He peered out the window.

  At the round tower door’s entrance onto the walkway, there were four men wearing the sixth toumen livery; but two of them were twisted over, leaning on the parapet, gripping their sides, their faces in agony.

  He lowered the grappling-iron’s rope and scaled down, landing among the four.

  His arrival was unexpected. Before the able two could react, Alomar despatched them with his battle-axe. “I’ll put you out of your misery,” he told the other two and shoved them over the wall.

  He hurried along the walkway and entered the door into the main building. His battle-axe made short work of two of Saurosen’s men. Others had no fight in them, but lay groaning on the floor. Skirting the afflicted, he made his way to the sound of battle that echoed in the passages.

  Yordine Tallast still hadn’t changed from his night-clothes, which were blood-sodden. Despite his age he wielded a sword with skill, and used a shield he must have obtained from a fallen soldier.

  Glancing over his shoulder after he sliced the side off the face of an opponent, Tallast said, “Well done, man. Let’s hope the drum brings aid!”

  Aid from where? Alomar had no time to dwell on that, though, as he fought to keep back the pressing tide of men from the sixth toumen. And then he spotted Saurosen urging men into the conflict. At his side was the Sardan, Nostor Vata. A shimmering veil seemed to surround her; none of Tallast’s men attacked her: it was as though she was invisible, or perhaps invulnerable.

  Growling angrily, Alomar decided he’d had enough of that invulnerable concept and ploughed through the three opponents in front of him, swinging his axe left and right at high speed, sending limbs and heads spinning away in the confined space.

  Then he was clear, and confronted Saurosen.

  Alomar swung the axe at Saurosen with all his might.

  With remarkable speed, Saurosen countered, the fabled Black Sword slicing the axe-head from the helve. As the metal clattered to the floor, Alomar unsheathed his sword in time to parry Saurosen’s next downward slice. Other metal rang during the fight, but the contact between these two swords was deafening in comparison.

  Only his great bulk and muscle enabled Alomar to press Saurosen hard, for the king was a skilled swordsman, one of the best he’d encountered.

  Time lost meaning. He be
laboured and pounded with his blade, yet at each thrust or sally Saurosen neatly deflected a potentially killing cut.

  Slowly, however, Saurosen buckled under the sheer force of Alomar’s onslaught, and backed away along the passage.

  Out of the corner of his eye Alomar kept the king’s witch in view. She didn’t seem to be involved in the fighting; she was simply there, at the side of her liege; unless her powers – whatever they comprised – had waned. He’d heard that even the greatest of enchanters could not perform their occult arts continuously; they must replenish their will-power and strength.

  Haunting, a great horn blew, echoing. Other horns joined in; a cacophanous chorus. “The Tramaloma answered the call of the drum,” rejoiced Tallast. “They are here!”

  “Retreat!” bellowed Saurosen, as he edged to a wall window.

  The surviving men in the passage rallied round him, attacking Alomar from all sides now.

  During this unexpected diversion, Alomar was incapable of preventing Saurosen from jumping on to the windowsill.

  Saurosen sheathed his sword, shouted, “Nostor Vata, to me!”

  And then Saurosen vanished from the window. Nostor Vata followed, and then a handful of the sixth toumen went after her, while the valiant rearguard fought to the last man.

  By the time Alomar reached the window over the tumble of corpses and looked out, Saurosen, his witch and five men-at-arms were in a boat, moving away, heading mandunron towards the reeds of Rom Swamp.

  Trumpets sounded, high in pitch, coming from the direction of the causeway. “The twentieth toumen!” Tallast exclaimed. “We are truly saved!”

  Alomar noticed that while Saurosen was escaping to his right, far to the left appeared a host of outriggers with huge prows, and accompanying them were men astride taalruffs. Scattered here and there were sixth toumen horsemen, attempting to negotiate the strips of submerged ground, fetlocks splashing; a few riders tumbled off their mounts, but the majority coped well and were trailing after Saurosen’s boat.

  The bulk of the Tramaloma vessels continued on their course to relieve the toran, but Alomar spotted one boat veering off to his right, giving chase to Saurosen. He cursed his eyes, which now watered as he strained to see. He didn’t know, but he suspected Ulran was in that boat.