“All of a sudden, you got upset, making that vell kind of whinny and whine. Then something caught Ayrie’s eye. ‘Look!’ he whispered quick, giving me a shake. ‘Look at Madam Pum. Odd how she flies her flag like that.’
“But I had seen it too. Once, twice, thrice she let the banner dip, then reset it high and right again.
“For a moment that seemed the all of it, until the air was split with a scream from the elder fold. And then a flag fell. Angry shouts and grunts were heard, furious fists and rusty blades thrust. A second was torn and thrown to the ground. Then pitiful pleas, someone begging for life. A third banner broken and spat upon, like the others, repainted in blood.
“We stared at each other, Ayrie and me, both mute, less afraid than amazed. Sure we’d heard tell of the elders’ ways, but never seen them laid bare before us like this. Such brutal truth for two young boys. And it wasn’t done.
“It left a wake, that treble attack. As its dark deeds echoed over the uncaring plain, a few hoots and hollers broke out behind us in pockets among the folk. Then, with the speed of a well-planned scheme, a gang of seven, all from the same clan and armed with coup clubs, burst from their midst to charge ahead — right past our cart and into the elder ranks. Once there, their flags rose one by one to join the rest. They were crude by comparison, like the raw craft of cruel children. Elsewhere, they might have been taken for a laborer’s old launderings hung out to air, these rags torn to form from fraying frocks and threadbare britches… except for the burnt black and bloody crimson scrawled all over them. Together they made immortal the murders just done, with each one proudly painting a scene — stick folk stabbing stick victims to death and shaking stick stabbards in victory.
“About then I noticed that Madam Pum saw none of this. She rode as rigidly as ever, the commotion at her back, as if she had already figured the aftermath.
“‘Three hundred…’ stammered Ayrie. ‘There are three hundred, Fyrie.’
“A big bump jolted our cart. We pulled ourselves up off the floor only to tumble down again by way of a boney crunch and thud.
“‘Bodies,’ said Ayrie.
“We peered out through cracks in the cart’s sideboards and there they were. The felled elders, discarded in dirt and aground, barely wrapped in their own flags as funeral shrouds. How darkly had this day of dreams betrayed them. From a trio of treasured gems who had sparkled in that morning’s sun so bright and full of hope, to three sad sacks of blood and broken bone — abandoned, unburied, unmourned, and damned.
“Suddenly, a rider swift and cloaked broke from the vanguard to turn back on us. Galloping hard through the elder rows, the figure aimed dead at our woeful cart while I felt the heart beat in my throat. But then, with his speed, the cloak flew off and I knew not to fear. It was father.
“‘How are my boys, Mister Arrowborne? Did you keep them from that mess?’
“You, friend vell, made a neigh meaning yes then a nod and pranced for a few steps with pride.
“‘Well done!’ father hailed with a nod in return. Then he turned to us with a lesson to learn. ‘It’s the code of the elders, sons. They rule themselves by blade and blood.’
“‘Yes sir,’ we said.
“‘Just as the Semperor wanted. My father, your grand, explained it to me at roughly your age as well. This game. “Let them check themselves, my son, and you shan’t have elders to fear.” The Guard are taught not to intervene. Even today I have no say.’
“A red-clad pikesman and mount approached from the fiery eye of a sinking sun. ‘Treasuror Hurx!’ he called, voice a-boom. ‘The time draws near now, sir my sir. You are needed at the head.’
“Father gave wave of his hand to confirm. ‘Ayryx, Fyryx, let me look on you two. This is a day to remember. Soon shall we have the home we’ve long sought since even before I was born. Our struggle is all but over.’
“‘Yes sir,’ we said.
“‘Now mind your mother the rest of the ride,’ he ordered, but with a warm laugh. ‘Her sisters and she yet eye your behinds!’
“As father flew off in a cloud of dust, we turned to show our widest smiles to the ladies’ cart nearby. It seemed to entertain them, but mother still shot us a knowing look.
“Ayrie, though face a-fake in grins, couldn’t wait to whisper some secret to me.
“‘We must get a count of the folk,’ he said, ‘including our family, don’t forget.’ Brother sounded excited. ‘If they match the Semperor’s number too that means…’ he paused as if searching for something. ‘Well, I’m not keen on what it means, but we need to know. That’s for sure!’
“‘But how?’ I asked, forcing another too-happy look back.
“Ayrie pointed his index finger. ‘There’s just one way left I guess. Arrowboy, it’s up to you!’
“Yet you were way ahead of us two. The words had not passed Ayrie’s lips when you were already off, crashing through the waves of folk, turning their tide from side to side, and parting their number asunder. Then back you were before we knew it.
“Bumping the chevox that drew our cart, you had us pull to the side and stop as mother passed by displeased. The sun, now low, cast a rose and gold glow on the land, which you mined with your cloven front hooves for to find the treasured folks’ sum. We watched you dig figures in the soil, some number runes dead and long forgotten, symbols unburied by your toil, plowed out in an ancient arithmetic. The earth here was rich and black, a mother lode thick with life. It smelled sweet.”
Fyryx, the man, came back for a breath and a glimpse of his breathless old friend. Both forelimbs of this vell lay still — no counting on them anymore — although just once they seemed to twitch. He slipped his hands beneath a hoof, huge yet light, to lift it up. It was delicate with a beautiful shape but felt to him brittle and ready to break. So gently he set it down in the straw and withdrew to his boyhood again.
“Four types of shapes, that’s what you drew. Three diamonds inside a perfect circle, enclosed in a square on a triangle base. But what did it mean? What was this design? A trio of gems upon a moon, locked in a box, atop a peak. A sacred mount keeping three secrets safe? Neither Ayrie nor I had a clue.
“So we called an old folkster who came limping by, leathery-skinned, a big pack on his back, and hoped that he knew.
“‘Been an age since me’d seen that,’ he said with a spit. ‘On the knee of me grandy-dad learnt it. Sempyre ciphers they be. That one, this be…’ He bent himself closer and nearly tipped over then hacked an awful cough. ‘Yup. This be yer triplet-ten-three.’
“That didn’t help. And our blank looks got his back up.
“‘What dummy boys do ye be?’ he bristled. ‘The Treasuror’s two? Sad to see. Yer beast it packs more brains.’
“That got a laugh from you, Arrowboy. But the old prune turned only more bitter.
“‘Now so ye’ll let me go,’ he griped, ‘we’ll give ye yer cipher red and ripe…’
“He screwed up an eye at us.
“‘A thousand times bloody three,’ he cursed. ‘Er, three bloody thousand, whichever be worse.’
“And with that he spat and slumped off.
“The bulk of the folk had passed us by, some running to reach the wood’s edge before dark. Now they were all but there. But we stood stuck in time, dumbstruck, digesting their constant number. The number the Semperor set years before.”
“A shout from the slower folk woke us up.
“‘A child is born!’
“‘A baby boy!’
“‘The first in this place of promise.’
“‘Our home.’
“The news was like whiplash and laid us flat. It filled me with odd disappointment. A feeling of being let down somehow.
“‘Three thousand and one?’ I asked, my voice quiet.
“‘Three thousand and one,’ Ayrie sighed, a bit sad.
“You see, we wanted the wonder, the lore. A wizardly king to fight for, with charms and curses and spells to break, all to keep his
secrets safe. In a world where we could be heroes someday… But a newborn babe now stood in the way of our silly boyish dreams.
“Until…
“Another voice cried out. ‘Hear me, folk! Listen! There’s sorrow too. For his mother has passed in the birth. Just now gone. Young Miss Trooly, yet brave she was, she gave her own life for her son.’
“Silence fell fleetingly over all, as folk hung their heads in respect for the dead.
“‘It can’t be so,’ sobbed a girl. ‘O my Troo!’
“‘To Heaven…’ sang someone. ‘I’ll ever love you…’
“I looked at my brother. ‘A third magic number.’
“‘The Semperor’s Rule of Threes,’ he confirmed.
“As folk gathered up their things at last to take the journey’s final steps, a couple came forward to claim the child.
“‘His life shall bear testament to this day, the day we found haven and hope. We’ll name him Homeboy to honor his birthplace and raise him as our own.
“‘And please,’ they added solemnly, ‘bring the mother’s body. We shall make a sacred place here and bury her with dignity.’
“I worried a while that we’d done something dark, that our wishes had summoned some evil magician. This was wonder and lore alright, but not the way we’d ever dreamed. Our child’s play was over it seemed. No more games for Ayrie and me.”
“By now, even the wide boven beasts had lumbered along to leave us behind, while taking the time to drop unwelcome souvenirs in our path as they went — a minefield filled with fragrant reminders of their ruminations. So we climbed the sides of our cart and leapt, up to the top of your withers and hip, and rode vell-back the rest of the trip. Our chevox knew enough to follow, the poor abandoned cart in tow.
“We caught up to the slowest of slow folk and made our way woodward with them. They were the timeworn, the crippled and weak, but the wiliest ones at cheating death. Of these a few were Picklings, or what remained of them. The first folk heroes, chosen ten by each elder when the Treasured were culled from across the land. They were marked, it is said, for heart or head, for brawn or might, or out of spite. But no matter how or why, they survived. For near forty winters of withering bitter, enrobed in ice, entombed by snows, buried but alive… under two score summers’ devil sun, a-swamp in stinking muck too thick, half drowned, all sick, and swallowed by an evil hot, a heat that but hell knows… they thrived against even these awful odds — of oddcats and malaphants, reek frogs and flyrats, hungry snarl hogs by the pack, giant stingle wings, prick gnats, skyfire storms and blood snake rains, hollow fever in the veins, brain flukes, foul, leaking pus, and canker pox to eat the flesh — the only sleep, eternal rest, caught in corpse vine, skinworm mesh, or if you liked a dirt nap best, devil’s moss or sucker grass, depending how you’d rather pass. Although for a lad, the swamps were the test, where lurked it was said a siren lass who led men to wade into bogs too deep, to slip to the depths of marsh madness.
“So that’s how these salty old Picklings were brined — a fight to the death with death and time. Though bent by their struggles, never to fall. They were the most alive of us all.
“A wizened man, barefoot and draped in rags, stepped aside us from out of nowhere. He carried a young girl on his back and had a desperate look, a stare full of want that would not let go. The pair kept pace for a while that way before the poor soul finally spoke.
“‘Please… I know you are Huryx’ sons… good like him I’m sure of it. My grandchild, she can walk no more and I grow weak… I beg… may she ride with you… just the rest of the way?’
“‘Of course!’ said Ayrie. ‘Hand her up.’ And we squeezed the girl in between us.
“‘My name is Hannyn Lyll,’ she smiled. The prettiest thing I’d ever seen.
“As you pranced away with the three of us, I glanced back and saw her grandfather falter. Then he fell to his knees and wept.”
“The sky was full of silhouettes, prey birds upset at our arrival, all aswirl overhead. Their caws and cries echoed against the wood.
“Everyone scurried to make hasty camp in the little light left of the day. No time to explore our new home now, that would have to wait for tomorrow. But the sun set red in the distant west, the last of its blood spilled on full-bellied clouds portending the new life to come.
“It was not long before that vision was gone, washed away on the eventide of night.
“Someone shouted. ‘Hurry! Hurry up! The Treasuror is soon to speak!’ And we could see fires lit ahead and folk hoisting branches ablaze as torches.
“So you flew the rest of the way, old boy. It was all we could do to hold on. Our hair went everywhere in the wind and Hannyn, though she screamed, seemed to have the most fun… Well, maybe except for me.
“All were assembled on the rim of a rise where a tree wall rose from the airy plain. At our left the elders had planted their flags and sat or stood waiting, all whispers and signs. On our right the folk milled about in a mob, with more than a few sharing grog-skins of drink — mostly thick, potent mudmeade, guzzled and gulped. We wove a way between the two and stole a good spot right up front. Ayrie helped Hannyn down on his back then the four of us found soft seats in the grass.
“Father loomed large on a great, ancient stump that served as makeshift stage. His kind eyes surveyed the scene before him, embracing the moment to take it all in. One of them gave us a playful wink. He straightened his tattered and dust-covered clothes with a tug on the soily green waistcoat he loved, which used to be fancy in grandfather’s day, then raised both hands for silence. Mother stood by him in the glow, more motherly than ever in a plain but wild-made dress of undyed limberwood and vine. She shot the folk a look to hush them. The Guard, both rings aligned behind in their usual order of ull and syr, held pikes up high to make the point.
“With that our father, Huryx Hurx, the Treasuror, son of Treasurors, spoke.”
“‘Fellow travelers! Gather near. The time has come, O pioneers, to end this endless trail of tears. To roll our rock of ages here. To rest. At last.
“‘You elder statesmen! Lend an ear! You wander-lost of two score years! You Guard of war, our shield and spear! This is your tale be told.
“‘For thirteen thousand days of fear, you carried all that you could bear, and braved to save what we hold dear. Our word. Our blood.
“‘So hand and heart might live, you gave the all you had to give, leaving but your broken bones and dreams.
“‘And your reward, the wicked Wild, starless nightmare of a child.
“‘Your only guide, blind faith.’
“Father paused as if letting the words sink in while the flicker of a thousand flames reflected upon his handsome face. Then he pointed to the sky.
“‘Behold the stars! Heaven’s gate. A gift of light, the fruit of faith. Your reward, a golden pom. Cast on sacred ground.’
“He spread his arms wide. ‘Paradise found.’
“Many of the plain folk wept, or bowed their heads in prayer or thought.
“‘Trusted friends! Tested souls! This night is unlike all before. Folk of heart and soil! Four generations, lost no more.
“‘No more olders lost (fallen) gone too frail to follow, or fathers lost (slipped) in the swamps and swallowed, or mothers lost (cold) from the deathly hollows, or children lost (orphaned) left starved and sallow.
“‘No more.
“‘Our weary age is over — every one, new-born. Tomorrow, we make haven here. And evermore vow that we keep safe the ruby red blood enjeweled in us all. The gift of our fathers! The wealth of our land! The Semperor’s secret trove!
“‘Treasured ones…’ he added last, with right fist firm upon the heart and left held open to the wood, ‘Welcome home.’”
“The folk burst into a wild celebration with loud cheers and tossings of things in the air — sticks and stones, hats and shoes, small children too, who were then largely caught.
“‘Hur-yx! Hur-yx! Hur-yx! Hur-yx!’
&
nbsp; “The elders applauded politely, taking their cue from Madam Pum.
“Even the Guard joined in on the fun, chanting a sweet little dirge of their own, laced ever so lightly with death.
“O father! Dear da. Had I known or foreseen… I would give all now to warn you… How sour would turn the wine from that day, made of the shiny, sweet pom prize you gave. Yes, how the tempting fruit would rot and ever spoil our treasured lot. And how red the blood I would spill to go back, to return and turn your mind… if my foe were not that devil time.”
Fyryx spat on the straw, as if trying to purge a foul taste from his tongue.
“When we woke in the morning we all took stock of our new world and each of its wonders. The wood’s edge was lined by a dense stand of arbors — great stately hoaks full of cheek-filling haycorns and tall sweeping swillows as well — leavish trees willing to let us pass. They quickly gave way to a soft, mossy grove that welcomed bare feet and caressed the toes. From there the land rose in a slope just so to form a fine hillock for defenders to hold and for keeping a watch on the wide plain below. Atop of that hillock our peeled eyes found six sibling hillocks all around, each one a little less high and more round but blessed of green pastures for boven to graze with soft sweetgrass for pleasing cheese. And along these verdant, lazy fields flowed a forest lavish and alive, of wildflowers bright by honey hives, of fleshfruit hung low, fat nuts to try, with truffle root for Treasure Pie, and flocks of slow billit to catch and fry. For builder and maker it offered as much, in everwood lumber and limberwood trunks, or stone of all sorts for our roads, huts, and such.
“It seemed to some the Semperor himself had surely made this place — and made it just so to quench all thirst, to fill every want or need… even down to the cold, clear spring that we found just over the high hill’s crest, in a notch just right for settlement. And that’s where we set to making our Keep, by a babbling brook running east.
“Yet another thirst there was, an older hunger our master knew that could not be so happily measured or met. A dark want. A red need. The lust for blood. The wont to bleed… It would be a lie to deny it… And so the maker crafted here one more wonder, an instrument made to feed and satiate that beast. Too bad the children found it first.
The Lore Anthology: Lore of the Underlings: Episodes 1 - 5 Page 6