Winds of Torsham (The Kohrinju Tai Saga Book 2)

by J P Nelson

  The Bai’Yeuntite Crater was just over eighty miles north-by-northeast of Foljur Sound. Lushandri said it was the deepest point of the Gulf of Gahrbrondi and was about two hundred twenty miles in diameter. Most island sailors avoided it due to all manner of superstitions. But it was true many vessels had entered the zone and not returned.

  Strange sightings were reported there as well. The last was some thirty years before, when a fishing vessel swore a giant bird of metal swooped into the ocean, then screamed a loud death cry and took to fire as a phoenix. But a new bird did not rise up, as in the legends.

  As they sailed, Lushandri retold tale upon tale of the gulf, history, and some of her father’s exploits. While she spun story, Jha’Ley wondered, not for the first time, why he did not kiss this beautiful and fascinating woman. There was something there, something he could not explain. Likewise, he wondered why she did not kiss him. Was he losing his touch? He smiled at the thought. No, that was not it.

  Upon reaching point of destination, once more she passed her hand over the rune, and a couple more, and invoked the cloaking magic. Taking him again by the hand, she put a foot to gunwale and asked, “Are you ready?”

  He grinned at her, “Yes, my lady.”

  Then they dove into the ocean, deep into the mysterious realm of Bai’Yeuntite Crater.

  Jann Raul Jha’Ley thrived on tales of wonder and exploration, woven by his father, Teaberry when he was around, Old Uncle, and Mister G’Tabb had quite a few to tell … when you could get him to talk, that is. But nothing came close to what he was seeing now. Far, far below, much farther down than he had ever been, were things he could not have ever imagined.

  Lushandri had not just been spinning seaman’s tales which grew with the telling. Down below were vessels of such size … he saw two broken hulls of craft which dwarfed even the largest ships of the day … and they had no mast. How could a vessel of such size traverse the ocean without means of propulsion?

  He saw one vessel with a strange fan emerging from her stern. What was that? And then there were … Lushandri led him to what she thought must be the strange metal bird reported by the fishermen. Its hull was broken into three large pieces, if a hull it was. But what were the large fins, or were they wings? There were no feathers, so they could not be wings. But if they were fins, how did it fly, if indeed this was the thing in the air? And what was the strange writing on the sides? Surely it was a sea vessel of some kind. But how could it fly?

  Many puzzles, many mysteries. He could spend his life down here exploring. Those fishermen must have seen the craft moving at such speed it was gliding the water surface. He had seen it done. But if this vessel was true and he was piecing it together correctly in his mind, the fins were as wide as the hull was long.

  Their time in the crater was much more of the same. Jha’Ley could not help but imagine Fhascully down here exploring, only he would be interested in the many kinds of fish, and there were many. There were species he had never heard about, and some were big. None gave bother, however, and Lushandri educated him well on which ones to observe from afar, and which ones he could touch.

  ‘She knows so much, I want to learn it all,’ he mused, ‘this is where I belong, this is like home for me.’

  His night was spent in a private berth. Inside of his hammock, he once more reflected on the thought of a kiss … on more actually. But why did it not seem right? It went beyond his gentleman’s code, etched deep within him by mom and pop alike. No, there was something else.

  The morning Jha’Ley was to cast off was spent enjoying a breakfast at Sam’s Kettle Café with Lushandri. Before making his departure, she walked with him to a quiet and private spot just aside from the café. She took his hands in hers and was quiet for several moments, then looked up at him. He saw a sadness in her face and a slow tear fell from her lovely eyes. He became aware of something hard within his hand as she said in a soft voice, “You are a good man, Jann Raul Jha’Ley. You are not of this world, yet you are.”

  Her lips trembled but a moment as she reached up, then to his side she placed upon his cheek a lingering kiss. Then into his ear she whispered, “You are so much like your father, Jann Raul.”

  Startled, he responded in a hesitant tone, “My father? You knew … my father?” He canted his head, “My natural father?”

  “Yes. I knew him. I … I knew him well. Of that I am certain.”

  “Are you, are you the mother of my birth?”

  There were more tears as she seemed to be trying to reach into his eyes with her own. For a moment Jha’Ley felt as if they were bonded by soul. Who was Lushandri, really?

  More tears, then she softly smiled and said, “No, I am not your birth mother. But I would have gladly been.”

  Was she speaking the truth? There was something there, something Jha’Ley could feel, a connection of some sort. Had the fates brought them together? Or perhaps better said, back together?

  She gently bit the right side of her lower lip and added, “Please be safe. I would that you return …”

  He squeezed her hands, then kissed her on the cheek as well. Then held her close, “I will, I promise I will.”

  When he stepped upon deck to cast off, he was wearing a small pendant against his chest. The symbol was an ancient elvin rune of safeguarding.

  ___________________________

  The war broke and the Clarise was released from service as a privateer vessel. But Captain Jha’Ley’s reputation had become strong and he spent the next few years transporting dignitaries, enforcing naval law about Vedoa’s territorial waters, and was sent to investigate crimes upon the sea. It was such an investigation during which we brushed paths the first time, albeit ever-so-slightly.

  Trade in a strong, highly addictive drug commonly called Morning Glory was becoming prominent along the Ponskitan Sea, and some were smuggling it into Vedoa. Vedoa is known for its strong spirited drink, but powdered products snorted into the nose to make the brain stupid was not accepted.

  Morning Glory is a white powder which saps the mind of all reason, and can lead to addiction within two or three uses. The plants from which this is produced are found in the wild hills on Yamana Island, in a cluster of islands just west of Antillias. Since the East Aeshean War, certain residents of the island were getting rich making the powder and exporting it up and down the Ponskitan Sea. The product was even making its way up to the Pihpikow Road and into the bridge-city of Stafford.

  Being a country which stresses athletic prowess and physical perfection, as well as a strong emphasis on personal achievement, the Vedoan government looks most unfavorably on such practices. Those caught producing such products are hung with the same scorn as thieves and vandals.

  Today, they call me Timber Wolf, but at the time of 5138 ED, I was in the pits of Port Sancridge, just northeast of Cape Thenahgo, fighting as Kuynuku … or Hieunagii … or Scaffindye … or Taegu Manchia … whatever they wanted to call me.

  Here I must make another interjection. If this tome of record is the first volume of the saga which you now read, you will find challenge comprehending much of what is to follow. You would stand well in your own stead to peruse the previous volume afore continuing ahead.

  Nextly, I do not speak in such manner as I have been putting to quill, thus far upon these scrolls. It has been my challenge to do service of the Vedoan manner of impeccable speech. But from this point onward, I shall take leave of the pattern and return to my own manner of conversement … with respect, of course, to the manner of dialogue and accents as best as I can record them.

  Are you following me? The fancy talk has had me tangling my tongue and cramping my fingers. Enough is enough.

  In 5135 ED, I had been a major in an army with the best damned general this world has ever seen, General Tyorrin Hoscoe Val’Ihrus of the legendary Dahruban Army. He was my best friend, mentor and more like a father than anything I had ever known. In a nutshell, we led The Kingdom of Keoghnariu through a war against some nasty critter
s with intelligence and a mean morning star … and won.

  To get it all, like I said, you need to go back and read the first volume, because there is just too much to recapture in telling now.

  For most of the last three years I was a slave, being drug around the plains and middle-Aeshean deserts to fight to the death in these pits, being baited like a bunch of fighting roosters, dogs or what-have-you. I talked to no one, didn’t try to escape, didn’t do anything but fight. Now don’t go asking why, we’ll get to that later.

  My look was kinda-sorta savage looking. I’m half-elf and half-human, but don’t hold the human part against me. At five-foot-ten marks, I weighed, actually still do, around one hundred eighty pounds with my boots on, which is pretty much most of the time. My body is ripped, I mean the muscles ripple, and I’m built like a gymnast. I can put twice my weight over my head because I work out all the time, then I can heal myself and do it again, and I can put twice that on my shoulders, do a deep knee bend, then stand up again.

  At that point in time I fought in my ever-present, never-wearing-out knee-high moccasins with six-inch fringe hanging all the way around, leggings I made from old blankets which tucked into my boots, and a loin cloth which draped down to about mid-thigh. The belt which held up my loin-cloth and leggings was made from a rope and tied to hang from my left side like a sash.

  The clothing was tattered and sparse, but my momma, the Dsh’Tharr Tell Singer, Kelshinua Fhai’Tuhra, raised me to be as neat as could be whenever possible, and I bathed every chance I got.

  My hair was long past my shoulders and white-blonde in color, skin a deeply tanned olive tone and my eyes, they said my eyes looked like flaming blue steel when I was angry, which was most of the time. Like I said, I was a slave, fighting in the pits for the entertainment of others.

  I spoke to nobody, befriended nobody, and Mon’Gouchett to Craiken Hades if I was going to sleep with anybody. None of these jiuks from the pits, most assuredly.

  A couple of months back, I had been bought by this fellow from eastern Aeshea who actually spoke a civilized tongue, Vedoic to be specific. I had learned Vedoic as a romantic language during my four and a half years in Keoghnariu, but I never let on. He called himself Lucky Laury, although I thought it sounded more like a lisp in his speech, to me.

  He staged low-class fights in what was called pit-shops around the east coast. I also figured out he would build up a fighter, set things up, then drug the man so he would lose … putting big money in his pocket. Twice he tried that on me, but I could heal myself. His tough luck.

  He never liked me anyway, although I had been my last owner’s main attraction. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t support Bloodbaiting, as our profession is often called, but don’t you save the best for last? My matches were always the ones that earned the most response.

  Whatever.

  Laury insisted on keeping me in the middle of the fighting card. I always thought it was because I refused to bend over for him, if you get my drift, because the ones who did would get to fight someone who had been drugged, and he made them headliners. It didn’t matter if they were male or female.

  At the time, female fighters in the pits were becoming popular, and our owner was into whatever would draw coin. You might see any combination of man to man, woman to woman, man to woman, paired team and mixed pair teams. It was all to the death, regardless. The lowest of the low promoters would even bait children. Yup, you guessed it, our owner would bait children as young as five and six years old, he didn’t care.

  If you gave Laury service, and made him like it, he would ensure you won. It was a common practice in the pit racket. If he didn’t like you, he would mix something special in your food or drink that would turn your brain to so much mud, and the inferior fighter would invariably win. It was something commonly referred to as a screw-job, the act of fixing a fighter so he or she would definitely lose, I mean; just another mark of a low-class promoter in a low-class pit.

  Again, whatever, that was how Lucky Laury fixed his fights.

  What I didn’t know at the time, was the fight-fixer was also fixing another finagle … he was up to his lucky locks in the growing Morning Glory trade. I had never heard of the term Morning Glory, but in looking back that is what he drugged his predetermined losers with. It was the night of my second fight in a low-class tavern named the Leather Barrel, down in its underground level, when I had my first brush with Captain Jha’Ley, or more specifically, his crew.

  Mine was the fight on top of the mid-card, not even a main event. For the third time, Laury tried to set me up for a screw-job. He wasn’t very intelligent, although he thought he was. I could feel the effects of Morning Glory with which he had heavily laced my food.

  Having already *Healed* myself, I simply pretended to be high until the fight began. But as I was announced for the fight, I saw five men of military-style bearing, if not clothing, enter the pit room and sorta fan out, like they were casing the place. They weren’t paying any attention to the stooge across from me, or me.

  These men weren’t here to watch fights, they were here for something else. What? I didn’t know or care.

  Usually making a big deal out of saying, “Begin,” this time I saw Laury give his man a wink, upon which the wanna-be fighter suddenly lunged at me. Mister Lucky must have really wanted me to go down, because he thought a lot of his yell. He thought a lot of himself, actually, but no matter.

  The creature across from me didn’t even deserve to be called a man, in my opinion, of any species. He was short, nothing wrong with that, but slovenly built, stank of an herb with which I was as yet unfamiliar, but later learned was something called Ashley Weed, possessed no real skill, and was what we gladiatorial types called a Kerny-Bob.

  A Kerny-Bob is a very low-class fighter who has been put over as a star or champion. More often than not, they are favor-traders, as I said before they can be male or female, or the promoter is simply down and out on finances and trying to build a show with nothing but curtain-risers, the kind of fighter you see in the opening match.

  This Bob was really bad. From his initial lunge I could tell I would have to work hard to make him look a little bit good and draw heat from the crowd, you know, screams and yells. As he moved in I just stumbled to the side and let his kick sweep past as he fell down, I was supposed to be high, remember? But it didn’t matter, there just wasn’t anything here to work with.

  Moving about I looked directly into Laury’s eyes and winked. He grimaced, put his hand to his face and turned around. The Bob got up and found me, then he attempted to step forward with his left foot while punching from his waist with his left hand, then he stomped forward with his right foot while trying to punch at me, again from the waist, with his right fist. ‘What idiot taught him to do that,’ I thought as I simply stepped out of his way.

  I forgot to keep pretending to act high as I almost laughed at him. The crowd was already letting fly with jeers at the bumbling idiot.

  Next he raised both hands way up in the air, I guess to hit me with the inside of both forearms. Maybe he hoped I would stand still for him to hit me, I don’t know, I just jabbed him in the nose with the intent of a one-two jab-and-cross-punch technique … but I didn’t even get the cross in, he just fell backward from the jab.

  Walking over with my hands up, I looked to the crowd as if to say, “What is this, a joke?” I waited for him to roll to his hands and knees, then reached down and grabbed his hair … Laury threw his hands up and stormed off.

  Pulling his head back, I asked him in a language forgotten by the world of men, “Who the hell taught you how to fight?” Then I chopped him hard into his exposed throat with the axe-edge of my hand.

  That was it, fight over.

  Back in my cell I had just sat down to rest when two of Laury’s men, a couple of stooges named Dobber and Jeromeo, came in acting nervous and heading for a chest on which was stacked blankets and such. The chubby one, Jeromeo, grabbed an armful of blankets as the
skinny one, Dobber, fumbled at the lock with a ring of keys hanging from his pants, which usually hung halfway down his butt.

  Suddenly, one of the five men I had noticed previously came into the cell room and asked in Vedoic, “Which one of you is called Dobber?”

  Dobber asked, “Who by gods are you?”

  “I am Lieutenant Cynric of the VNS Clarise. We believe Dobber works for Laury, smuggling …”

  Suddenly Dobber lunged, but slipped on the floor as Jeromeo, coward that he was, jumped back against my cell, dropped his blankets and was fumbling for his dagger. Why, I don’t know, perhaps it was some soldier left in me which had not yet died, but I sprang forward and wrapped my arm through the bars. Grabbing Jeromeo around the throat, I seized his dagger and ran him through the kidney twice.

  Another one of Laury’s stooges came around the corner, saw Dobber struggling with Cynric, drew a small sword and charged. Letting Jeromeo slide to the floor, I stood back and waited for the right moment, then threw the blade between bars and into the stooge’s throat. I saw two more of Cynric’s mates enter the hall with blades drawn.

  Lieutenant Cynric stood with Dobber’s hands tied behind his back and said, “You are being charged with smuggling Morning Glory aboard a vessel of Vedoa, inside a crate of fish, no less.”

  Dobber was whimpering, “It wasn’t me, my dad will get you …”

  Pushing the man toward his mates, the officer looked at me and asked, “Do you speak Vedoic?”

  “Yes,” I answered, the first words I had spoken in a long time.

  “Do you know anything of Morning Glory?”

  I slowly shook my head, “What is it?”

  “A powder, a drug which …”

  I nodded my head to the chest, “Stuff put into your food to make you stupid?”

  He looked to the chest, “I suppose one could consume it in such fashion.” He waved a finger at a mate with a free hand to come forward. Then he said to me, “Thank you,” and he nodded to the two men on the floor.