Andalon Arises

by T B Phillips

  “Whatever floats your boats, Boy.”

  Campton continued, “The Astian Council is unconvinced that Andalon is stable. We need peace with The Cove and Fjorik so that The Falconers can resume their work.”

  Matteas raised a brow. “Then why exaggerate Braston’s crimes? Why not recognize him in The Cove and call it a day?”

  “Because we need him removed.” He pointed at Marcus. “He is going after his brother and, later, you, My Liege. You made a good decision to blame him for the death of your mother, but we can’t reach him.”

  Realization finally crossed the king’s face. “You are hoping one of the pirates will cash in on the bounty and take care of him for us?”

  Shol agreed. “Exactly. It’s our best option.”

  “What about my own brother? He’s a problem and holds Eskera.”

  Brohn answered. “We have the harbor securely blockaded. Our armada and overwhelming troop strength will march soon from Soston.”

  “What are we waiting for? Why haven’t we attacked?”

  “We’re waiting for the grass to green up enough for the horses, then we’ll march.”

  Marcus had calmed down considerably, but Shol could see that anxiety still had a grip. “What is it that bothers you, My Liege?”

  “Is Robert really like a Falconer? Did he really kill ten?”

  “Nonsense.” Shol shook his head. “Those are rumors spread by his followers, just as Braston’s call him the Kraken King.”

  “Then how did he defeat our forces? We had bigger numbers.”

  “Betrayal, sire. Merrimac Lourdes surprised The Falconers and turned his army on ours. We won’t let it happen again.”

  “Matteas, how many have defected to his side?” The concern on the boy’s face had grown.

  Shol interrupted, “None besides Lourdes. Your troops are loyal.” His answer earned a raised eyebrow from Brohn. Since the boy still wasn’t convinced, he continued, “sire, rest assured that you rule the Empire. You’re a strong leader and the people adore you. But the council behaves like spoiled children and you need to trust their pacification to me.” The boy remained silent, biting his lip out of frustration. “Nonetheless, the ball is about the begin and I recommend that you get ready.” His eyes followed the boy from the room and then turned to Brohn.

  The Captain General asked, “Why did you lie to him?”

  “Which time?”

  “About his brother for one.” The soldier sipped his wine then added, “And second, you and I both know that he’s not in charge of shit. He needs to know that troops are defecting and marching to Eskera. Our army has lost a quarter of its force and daily musters continue to fall lighter each day.”

  “I’ve planned a special treat for the defectors,” he replied. “But those troops will return to our side after we crush Robert in Eskera. We’ll make an example out of his death as soon as we’ve taken the city.”

  “When it comes time for that, I hope that you do. But your featherheads failed last time, so let’s wait and see how it turns out.” Matteas tilted back his wine glass and then followed his son.

  A stone panel moved and then swung away. An imposing figure wearing robes and a feathered collar stepped out of the passage. Shol glanced up briefly and then back to the door. “He’s right. Ten of your finest failed.”

  “They were not prepared for his power, but we will not be surprised again.”

  “That’s happened several times now.” He listed them off with his fingers, “Don’t forget about the forest and streets of Diaph.”

  The specter nodded. “We now know what we are up against. We prepare daily and know the limit of his power. The boy could only split five times.”

  “But what about the pirates? What can Braston do? What about the woman in black who defeated you?”

  Kestrel removed his hood and revealed his bald head. His skin was stitched together in several places and part of the skull had caved in from impact. He was a hideous sight and Shol shuddered at the number of priests that it took to resurrect him. Two of them nearly died in the process. “We will find her.”

  “How many of the others have you retrieved and restored?”

  “Many but not all. The boy in Eskera ordered those burned before the priests could reach them.”

  Campton felt anger welling up inside. For eight centuries The Falconers had maintained order on the continent. He couldn’t let it fall apart under his leadership. “I think we need to call upon your southern friends.”

  Kestral nodded his agreement. “I think that is wise. They have other skills that may prove useful.”

  Campton nodded his agreement then added, “The boy wants technology.”

  “Will you give it to him?”

  “Of course not. The Council would never agree. Giving them cannons to fight Pescari was risky enough. No, they’ve already been helped along too far. If we can’t contain this, then my father may order a cleansing and start anew.”

  “That hasn’t happened for nearly nine hundred years.”

  “No,” Shol agreed, “not in the north, it hasn’t.” He put a hand on the shoulder of what was left of his childhood friend, searching for the soul that once resided in these blank and emotionless eyes. “I won’t fail, Kestrel. We need to destroy Braston and the other awakened emotants. We shall bring them out of the shadows.”

  Kestrel nodded agreement then asked, “What of your brother? Where did he flee?”

  “I wish I knew, but when we find him my father’s orders are clear.”

  The Falconer bowed and replaced his hood, leaving the way he had entered. Campton focused his attention on a large wall map of Andalon, trying to figure out his next move. There are so many, and more awaken each day. He reached out a finger and touched a piece of land to the south, “Yes, Kestrel, the skills of your friends will be very useful.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Felicima dropped low beneath the walls of the city, lightly coloring the sky red as she prepared to sleep. Even as she faded the glow on the horizon raged as the Steppes of Cinder burned. The angry caldera in which she rested erupted more frequently, no doubt the result of her nightly tantrums. She grew indignant at the recent injustices toward her children and her nightly rest grew more interrupted. Each morning brought more soot and ash with the westerly winds.

  Teot emerged from his hovel and started the long walk to the meeting lodge. He frowned at the many Westonese merchants who had set up shop. The governor had promised the district would remain exclusively Pescari, but these newcomers ran the seediest businesses. Although the brothels and had been kept at bay, several gambling and drinking halls had moved deeper into the sector. He paused outside one such establishment, listening to the sounds of his many kinsmen wasting their hard-earned wages inside.

  Coin was sparse for his people and the concept of money new, introduced by the Andalonian benefactors. General labor was easily found in the city of Weston, especially with the rebuilding of the western gate and wall. More recently Teot’s kinsmen earned their coin by working the coal mines east of the city. The hard work demanded much of a man’s energy, but allowed them to stay largely out of the eye of Felicima while they worked below ground.

  His concentration broke when a woman laughed inside a gambling den. Teot frowned. Women should not be celebrating in public. He walked to the door and strained to see past the brute barring the door.

  “Paying customers only.” The doorman held his hand out for Teot’s coin. The Westonese man carried himself with the same bearing as the city soldiers, most likely earning extra wages while providing security for the games within.

  “I only want to look.”

  “That costs money too. Pay up or move along.”

  Teot shrugged and went along his way, but his frustration had grown. He didn’t see much past the guard but had glimpsed enough debauchery to fuel
disgust. By the time he reached the meeting lodge, the others were seated around the sacred flame and sage smoldered in bowls.

  The elders sat in a circle around the pit and Daska poured water atop the rocks that glowed red with heat. Steam rose into the air around the men, all stripped to the waist and sweating beads down their backs and chests. Teot removed his jerkin and took the empty seat next to the old man. All eyes fell upon him.

  “The shappan is still missing.” Daska spoke the words without emotion, stating a fact but asking the question that all in the lodge were asking.

  “He is well,” Teot answered.

  “Well of body or of mind? There is much distinction between the two.”

  The missing chieftain’s uncle let the words wash over him. Unlike like cooling sweat from the steam the accusations fueled his anger. “He is still shappan, to speak otherwise would offend Felicima.”

  “Do not condescend by preaching knowledge of Felicima to an elder!” Daska’s words erupted with the ferocity of the caldera and Teot fell silent. “You are son of Dromond, one of the greatest shappan the Pescari have ever known. One would think you would have learned humility.”

  “My apologies, Elder Daska.”

  The older man nodded acceptance and asked, “Where is Taros?”

  “There is a stone mill along the river. He meditates within, awaiting a sign from Felicima.”

  Another man added to the exchange, “While he awaits her message, he is missing the many signs in the city.”

  Teot wanted to protect Taros but could not ignore the truth behind the words of the council. “You speak true, Pleot. Tonight, I heard a woman’s voice in the gambling tavern.”

  The man spat on the rocks. The spittle sizzled and quickly evaporated. “The young Pescari are acting like Andalonians, tempted by wealth and quickly losing touch with our ways.”

  Daska bowed his head in a long pause, considering his words. All eyes fell upon him, waiting with anticipation for the elder to speak. When he finally did, his voice was low and quiet. “The youth are indeed acting sinfully, but the disease of greed has spread to Pescari of all ages. I have heard stories of blasphemy and debauchery from the mining camps, where our young women entertain our men like whores.”

  The elders gasped and Daska continued, “But that is not the worst of our problems. We are quickly becoming reliant upon Cassus Eachann and the Weston council. He provides the work and coin as well as the means of spending it. He sent soldiers to protect us from acts of hatred by the Westonese, but, in reality, they trap us like cattle. They force us to eat the grass that we trample into dirt and our own filth.”

  Pleot interrupted, “Our people are lost. Felicima will unleash her fury upon us if she cannot see our shappan.”

  Daska nodded and threw more water down, making the steam fill the room. The heat of it raged as hot as the men’s emotions. “You speak true, Pleot. His people are losing their way. And now the Westonese are asking for our weapons?”

  Pleot nodded and held up his hands. “Soldiers have been moving door to door asking for us to give up both bow and blade. They say that we don’t need them since there’s nothing to hunt in the city.”

  “That’s true,” another elder answered, “we buy what we want with Westonese gold. There’s no need to hunt any longer, and the wars are over now that our people are united under the shappan.”

  Daska wrinkled his face at the boy’s name. “Start taking our weapons to the mines. Hide them away so that we’ll have them if and when we need them.”

  Daska spoke wisely but Teot did not condone the air of command in his voice. “Are you speaking as shappan now, Elder?”

  “Someone needs to as long as your nephew hides.”

  “Challenge him to Shapalote before you make decisions for him.”

  Another of the elders, a grey headed and shriveled ancient named Romond broke his silence. All heads turned and even Daska was surprised. “There is an alternative to Shapalote, if we decide to remove the shappan.”

  Teot shifted his weight uneasily. Taros was his nephew, the son of his late sister, Lynette. Although familial ties should be put aside for the good of the greater Pescari need, brazen talk of removing him was an insult. Out of respect for council and the ways of his people he bit his own tongue and allowed Romond to continue.

  “No man or woman among the Pescari can challenge the shappan while he wields the power of our goddess. But if he has abandoned us, then he has conceded his authority under Shapalote and the elder council can choose another to lead. If he returns after we have chosen another, or before but with a damaged mind, then we can lawfully claim the right of Paramalote.”

  The lodge went entirely silent except for the sizzle of water dancing on hot rocks. Teot felt his heart drop at the mention of assassination but knew that the elders were not plotting. They were merely considering options if Taros did not return. With a trembling voice he addressed them, “I will find my nephew and speak to his heart so that he returns to his duties and his people.” Daska and the others nodded their approval. “If he will not, then I will be the one to claim the right of Paramalote. He is of my blood and I will be the one shunned by spilling it on the ground.”

  Daska raised his hand in acquiescence. “Fine. The right will be yours.” He paused to pour water on the rocks and watched the steam rise. “Of course, once we discover who is the new the agent of Felicima you may lose that right to another.”

  Teot spit on the rocks, then rose from the circle. He retrieved his jerkin before leaving the lodge and walked into the night. The cool air bit into his hot skin and would have taken away his breath except that he was too troubled to feel. Sounds of sinful Pescari echoed down the street, no longer fearing their goddess or hiding their celebration. He paused in front of the same tavern as before, pulling his shirt over his head.

  Teot watched as a Pescari woman exited the tavern holding the arm of a Westonese man. They laughed and kissed openly in the night air, publicly displaying their impropriety for all to witness. Has she no shame, this woman? Rage burned inside of Teot as he followed them, keeping to the shadows of the city.

  The woman led the man around the corner to a tenement that housed several families. He peeked through the window to see which apartment they entered and then followed. Although they were trying to be quiet, they were quite noisy in their drunkenness, making it easy to track them. He paused at the door and waited. Once he was confident that they had gone into a bedroom he tried the door. It opened easily, allowing him to trespass.

  The apartment was small, and he stood in a tiny kitchen with a small hearth. What am I doing? Their sin is not my concern. But sounds of their passion soon reached his ears. A knife lay forgotten near a chopping block and he absently reached for it, gripping it tighter as the woman moaned louder.

  He scanned the tiny apartment. Two rooms were separated from the main area by curtains. Despite this family’s eager adoption of Westonese culture, they, like many others, couldn’t bring themselves to sleep behind closed doors. He peeked inside the first. A pallet of straw lay in the corner and two small bodies slept peacefully in a single blanket. Teot thanked Felicima that the lovers had not awakened the children. He made a quick prayer that she keeps them asleep no matter what happened next. As he moved toward the second room something caught his eye in the kitchen.

  A wooden bin sat near the hearth and several pieces of black coal rested within. His eyes shot to the bedroom where sounds of lovemaking intensified. How does a single mother afford coal? He looked down at the floor and saw black marks on the wood. Closer inspection revealed that they were not scuffs. They were stains where a Pescari man’s work boots had trodden, leaving behind evidence of the mine in which he worked. Realization fueled his anger and boiled it into rage.

  He dashed to the second curtain and pulled it aside. The Westonese man and the Pescari woman lay spent on a small pil
e of blankets. They panted from exhaustion with eyes closed, wrapped in an embrace. A single flame danced atop a candle on the windowsill, casting shadows as the couple drifted into a drunken sleep. Sinful sweat beaded on their naked skin.

  A glint of reflected light caught his eye. On the floor next to the woman, a single golden coin lay where it had been carefully placed. Teot stared at the Westonese god. To how much sin must these coins contribute? His hand tightened around the hilt of the knife as he knelt beside the couple.

  His hand drove the point deep into the chest of the sleeping woman, piercing her heart. Her eyes shot open in alarm, but his hand clamped down on her mouth, stifling her cry. Her nails dug deep into his forearm and warm blood dripped down to his hand. He brought his face closer to hers and stared at the monster reflected in her glassy orbs. His burned the color of fire.

  Ferocious heat boiled inside Teot. He felt at his wounds and recoiled. He had not expected the icy chill of his skin. Suddenly, the candle snuffed and instantly pitched the room into blackness. He pulled the knife from the woman’s breast and plunged it again, this time into the eye socket of the sleeping man. The blow killed him instantly.

  Unquenched, the heat within Teot grew. He was as angry as before and the sacrifice did little to quell the burning. He stepped back and stretched out his trembling hand. With a satisfying release he directed the cleansing flames of Felicima. The stained and filthy body of the whore blackened beside her customer. He was careful not to mar the second body, leaving him whole. When her husband returned from the mines, he would know that her sinfulness had drawn the agent of the Felicima.

  Chapter Twelve

  Barely a breeze blew across the Southern Ocean and the waves crested low and far apart. The sun shone while clouds drifted lazily, high above the water without any threat to sailors. It was a perfect day for sailing, but Amash Horslei hugged the rail of the ship. Every now and then he would empty the contents of his stomach over the side, retching until his insides hurt from effort. It had been this way for two days.