Floreskand_Wings

by Morton Faulkner

  He dimly recalled those nightmarish moments at the foot of the Tanalumes and was thankful he had not succumbed to the wish to die.

  This was what life was all about: to breathe in the heady fragrance of the Salt-taal, the fresh winds and spindrift, to hold this sweet woman’s hand.

  In the intervening moons Jaryar had grown into full womanhood and, imperceptibly almost, he felt a change in attitude towards her. Whenever she could not be with him for some pressing reason – and the reason had to be very pressing indeed – he felt lost, as though his right arm had been amputated. The joy of life waned in her absence; but for his reasoning that she would be back soon, he would have lapsed into a profound melancholia. She was with him so much, her soft caring voice in his ears so often, he lived and breathed Jaryar.

  Their regular visits to the graveside of his father transformed abruptly from a sombre pilgrimage to something special, to be anticipated, as the Ramous flowers budded and the warm sun beat upon them. For here, in the home of death, they found a reason for living, yet they never voiced it.

  Then the day came that he no longer needed any support at all. He had lately been unable to sleep, knowing that the true test was approaching. And he had asked himself night after night, would Jaryar still feel for him when he could walk unaided? Or would the bond snap between them? Was his disability the only thing that really kept them close? However irrational he told himself such thoughts were, they persisted.

  Solemnly, he laid the walking stick upon his father’s grave, stood up straight and stepped back.

  “You’ve done it!” exclaimed Jaryar, eyes alight.

  For many many moons Jaryar had willed this to happen. This was the culmination of all the tears of frustration, the pain of failure, the soaring sensation of hope and faith reborn from defeat.

  He held her hand, gripped it tight. “Not without your help, my love,” he said. And they kissed.

  For so long she seemed to have sensed his innermost reasoning: not until he considered himself completely whole again would he commit himself; she intuitively knew that his feelings ran as deep as her own. In that she could not be mistaken; especially not now, as their first kiss lingered.

  Alomar’s doubts sailed away on the breeze. They were as one and would always be so.

  Shortly after their marriage, with the dowry, they moved into Janoven.

  The oceanic island born from the great deeps rose one dawn without warning. The size of the landmass was incredible; the Janoven inhabitants could hardly believe their eyes.

  Steam gushed, smoke billowed high into the sky and the surrounding sea boiled and bubbled. And still the island rose higher and higher, an immense hunchback of basalt rock, red-hot lava spraying out of its hollow cone.

  A few people appreciated the imminent danger and tried evacuating the city, but the spectacle drew so many crowds the roads out were soon blocked with wagons and villagers.

  Alomar himself had been working high up in the citadel’s armoury when the island emerged; he had a spectacular view. Then, he realised that the water level was agitated and rising.

  The steaming hot water was spreading towards Fullantran – and today Jaryar habitually went to the village to buy fish. Surely, the fisherfolk, well versed in the ways of the sea, would recognise the danger and seek high ground?

  But he could not leave it to chance. He discarded his tools and hurried down the high winding steps.

  The island continued to rise and then exploded, showering the area with white-hot stones and boulders; but, worse, the eruption created a tidal wave of boiling water.

  And the wave came on and on and overwhelmed the entire fishing village. On the wave rushed, climbing high up the banks, flooding the outlying hamlets of Janoven.

  Finally, the waves crashed violently against the city’s defensive walls. Though all the gates had been closed, water still seeped under and some splashed over the walls with the first pounding, and scalded spectators. Then the wave’s force veered around the city’s sloping revetments and created a quagmire moat.

  Alomar came upon the city gates just after they slammed shut. One of the gate-men fell into the seeping water and screamed and screamed as he was boiled like a wildfowl.

  Only instinct for survival prevented Alomar from threshing through the water and opening the gates.

  “Jaryar!” Scrambling to the battlements, he clutched onto a feeble hope, that she might somehow have avoided the wave and the island’s spewing vomit from Below.

  From the curtain wall of the city, among hundreds of others held in thrall, he watched as the fateful island settled and slowly sank until only about one-third remained above the surface, brooding almost, mocking them all.

  It took some days for the water to cool and drain away.

  He found her and she was not like he had remembered.

  Physically and mentally numb, he returned to the sad remains of the cemetery, the place of so much happiness shared, and there he interred her amidst tears that no amount of will-power could quench.

  There was nothing left in life for him; that he knew as surely as he stood there, face crumpling while he looked upon her grave alongside his father’s. There, too, wedged in the cracked tombstone of his father, a little rotten now, his walking stick.

  The legs that she had helped to save trembled and he collapsed to his knees, painfully hitting the stone flags.

  He left the place of mourning only as the moon shone its silver cold luminescence full upon the grave. He walked away in a dream.

  Alomar was still in a dream when he purchased certain potions mostly used for god-worship. He mixed the vile concoction and swallowed the entire thick and glutinous liquid.

  A full bottle of inferior wine washed it down.

  After that, everything took on a nightmare quality. He had no regrets about taking his own life. He suffered no pain, for which he was glad. It seemed until this point in time when he was forsaking even time itself that he had always borne some form of pain, some terrible loss.

  Enough! Die and be salved.

  But then things were not quite right. He knew not what the Overlord looked like, but he knew one thing: the Overlord refused to see him!

  But without seeing the Overlord, there was no death – only a timeless limbo.

  He lay upon the quartz-tiled floor, paralysed with the effects of the potion and stared up at the ornate ceiling of the empty shell that had been their home. The patterns of the ceiling swam before his eyes, foggy and swathing, lowering green and white, sickly of hue. Everything seemed to coalesce into a vaguely human shape, the facial features shimmering but never discernible, save for the black maw of a mouth.

  And then the mouth opened and closed and spoke in a thunderous, deafening basso profundo:

  “You have deigned to come too soon, Courdour Alomar! You come to a god you deny! Daqsekor is greatly displeased for you were not summoned! In consequence of your temerity, the Overlord believes your fate should be never to rest eternal! Think, Courdour Alomar. Dwell upon this, a fate that would condemn you to an eternal wandering!”

  Unable to move, incapable of even batting an eyelid, Alomar lay there and his whole inner being seemed to writhe and jerk in anguish at the horrifying prospect of being denied the oblivion of death.

  “However,” the Overlord’s messenger went on, “Daqsekor, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, has decided to give you one last chance. There is one place upon this world where the living and the dead, gods and demons, human and non-human co-exist together. One place, alone. If you, Courdour Alomar, can find this place, then you shall be admitted to the Overlord’s domain. If not, then you will continue to live, to exist until the end of time itself! This place you should seek is the Navel of the World.” And as suddenly and as strangely as it appeared, the apparition faded and was gone. Slowly, painfully, Alomar’s limbs contracted in violent spasms. Face contorted in incredible agony, he raised himself and staggered, vomit rising in rebellion against the vile potion he had swal
lowed.

  Cursed! Condemned to an everlasting life with no respite, to live a loveless existence, never to join Jaryar in the Grove of the Overlord.

  In one shattering impulse, he grabbed his sword from its scabbard and whirled it above his head, brought it down and across his offered throat. No man could live with his jugular vein emptying life’s blood from the body. He would defy the Overlord; he would–

  The sword slashed into his throat, cutting painfully, but it broke. As the snapped blade fell to the floor, he eyed himself in a mirror. All he had sustained was a superficial cut, a flesh wound, and a great deal of pain.

  Over the years to come he realised his folly in trying to inflict a mortal wound on himself. Something always went wrong, saving him.

  All kinds of pain.

  All he could do, then, was roam the land in the hope of finding the Navel of the World. And in his constant search, he could live an adventurous life in the hope that another sword might cut him down, extinguish his immortal flame.

  *

  Fhord lowered her goblet and stared at their host. “Then – you’re immortal?”

  “Aye, lass – now you know why I regard you as but a youngster! All who walk this world now are but babes compared with my age!” The warrior leaned back and laughed bitterly.

  Fhord froze. “Your throat –?”

  “No scar, eh? Alas, the Overlord is too kind to me. My body can repair itself – after many years – and of those I have plenty!”

  “And you still seek the Navel?” Ulran asked quietly.

  “Oh, I’ve grown to live with this curse!” He chuckled at his choice of words. “But that one hope keeps me sane, that one day I shall find this place and rejoin Jaryar.” Sombrely, he lowered his gaze. “I only hope I realise I’ve found it when I get there.”

  “And you think that that–” Fhord hesitated, the memories of the cellar starkly imprinted on her mind, “– that sekor, it will help you in some way?”

  The immortal shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, but deep in my bones, yes, I believe it will help me, somehow. When it is ready.”

  “So, what will you do now, Alomar?” asked Ulran.

  A grin. “What else? I’ll join you to Arisa! My life is destined to lead where happenstance directs. Fate brought you into my company. There must be some Grand Design in our journey to Arisa and I trust my quest will be connected. Like Cobrora Fhord, here, I too feel drawn to join your quest. So, yes, I’ll leave with you first light tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  BLIGHTED

  They depart when we hate to lose them.

  – Dialogues of Meshanel

  When Courdour Alomar descended the stone stairs into the ward on the following day, Fhord, astride the patient Sarolee, involuntarily let out a gasp, so imposing was the immortal warrior’s presence.

  Contrary to Ulran, Courdour believed in using armour in combat. Each man to his own, she thought, but she wondered how the warrior managed, weighed down as he was. Surely, it was better to be unhampered?

  Courdour had discarded his distinctive traveller’s trappings and now stood at the foot of the stairs, completely attired in accoutrements of war. Over his hide shirt and leggings hung strips of ironwood strung together to form his breastplate; similar armour protected his pelvis and thighs; whilst his arms and shins were covered with lacquered wood plates. A dull grey mail-shirt guarded his genitals and mail gloves and hood protected his hands and throat.

  In contrast, he still wore his floppy black hat and in the crook of his arm held a burnished gold helmet – which appeared as old as the rest of the equipment – its crest gone, only a plinth remaining. His shield – oval with a few holes through which he could jab at his opponent – was scarred and dented, and hung from his shoulder. A large two-handed broadsword with nicks in the blade was slung across his back.

  To complete his stock of weaponry, a short-sword and poniard were strapped to his wide leather belt.

  “You seem well enough equipped to take on the entire Kellan-Mesqa hordes,” Ulran remarked.

  A shrug and his armour rattled. “Aye, but it’s tried and tested and has never failed me!” He held up his short-sword amidst further clinking and rattling. “The gear is so old its like is no longer made. But then, in those far gone days, things were made to last.”

  Ponderously, he mounted his black Borsalac and swung the stallion around. “Enough talk – let’s make tracks!”

  So, Fhord mused, despite taking them into his confidence, Courdour’s attitude and abrupt manner had not improved. But at least she could appreciate the causes. She still pined the loss of Slane, but now that she shared a similar loss to Courdour, she felt she too could rise above the pain of sorrow.

  The spirits of the marsh still attempted infiltrating their ranks but were mysteriously repelled. Here, too, was cause for Eron to study.

  They negotiated the manderon side of Marron Marsh, with Courdour leading the way.

  It had been an uncanny feeling as they left the silent Toran Nebulous behind. Fhord glanced back after a few paces to see it no more. But the prospect of adventure ahead emboldened her.

  On emerging into brilliant daylight, Fhord breathed a sigh of relief. Their horses and mule briskly trod the firm turf of plainsland. The grasses were moist after last night’s storm, yet the Castle grounds had remained dry.

  “We should make good time now,” said Ulran.

  Scalrin, like some good omen, flew above them, sometimes a little ahead, sometimes trailing, and the bird’s presence certainly tended to calm any fears Fhord harboured.

  But she still clung to her amulets.

  When they came upon Kellan-Mesqa tracks, she tried pitching her mind ahead, in the frail hope of contacting other minds, other movement. But her attempt was doomed.

  It was precisely at this moment that a terrible screeching deafened them all.

  As one, they peered up.

  Scalrin was in trouble.

  As if from nowhere, a large flock of hawks appeared. The great bird was surrounded by the darting, screeching grey-brown bodies and flapping dark wings.

  Scalrin weaved and bit, talons clawing at those foolish enough to come too close, but numbers would eventually tell: the great bird was outnumbered by about fifty to one.

  Fhord’s heart lurched as one reckless hawk dived from on high, thudding home, arrow-like, into Scalrin’s wing.

  Red feathers scattered and the great bird’s beak opened in a silent scream of agony.

  Other hawks saw their chance and closed in, about ten at once.

  Amazingly, Scalrin beat them off, only sustaining two further jabs at his back.

  But the onlookers could see that the red tellar was losing and would soon be vanquished. The brave creature’s retaliatory moves were already slower and laboured.

  Scalrin must have appreciated the hopelessness of his predicament, for he suddenly stopped, plummeted earthwards toward Ulran and his companions.

  At the innman’s instructions, Courdour Alomar was prepared for this eventuality and unlatched his bow and arrow from the saddle. He loosed five arrows in the space of a heartbeat and five attackers, closest on Scalrin’s tail, dropped to earth, dead or, screeching, mortally wounded.

  Fearlessly, the remainder flew after the now escaping red tellar, as Scalrin had taken advantage of the respite afforded by the warrior’s arrows. He was winging close to the plainsland, massive red wings beating, the wind-rush of his movement bending the grasses beneath him.

  Soon the red tellar was out of sight. The screeching hawks speeding after him also vanished, their noise lingering for a few moments.

  The sudden onset of contrasting silence made Scalrin’s departure all the more eerie.

  All three travellers kept their thoughts to themselves.

  At length, Ulran spoke. “He’ll be back.” His voice held unshakeable confidence.

  Fhord couldn’t help but wonder if the innman might be mistaken. With all her being, she hoped not.
More than all her charms, Scalrin, she felt, was their good luck. With the Overlord’s bird in their company, how could they come to harm? But now...

  “Aye, he’ll be back, I warrant,” Courdour echoed. The bird’s absence affected them all. “But where in all Below did those hawks spring from?” He dismounted and studied a dead hawk, with an arrow skewering its chest. On its left leg was a small gold band. “They’re hunting hawks, Ulran.”

  “I thought they must be.”

  “You mean, that attack was deliberate?” Fhord trembled at the thought.

  “It seems that way,” replied Ulran. “But I know of no Kellan-Mesqa horde that uses hawks for hunting.”

  “What if it isn’t the Devastators this time?” asked Fhord, approaching panic.

  “Then we have other, well-concealed enemies, Fhord. And until they show themselves, we must just bide our time – and beware!”

  Astride the now jumpy Sarolee, Fhord suddenly felt very vulnerable in the middle of this expanse of grass and scrub.

  ***

  Later, Fhord called across to Ulran, “Have the Kellan-Mesqa ever crossed swords with Kormish Warriors, do you know?”

  Ulran grinned. “You appear remarkably interested in them. Why?”

  “Well, as you’ll recall, I always wanted to make that pilgrimage to Sianlar and, well, I’d heard rumours about The Drop – that if people spent too much time there, they went insane. I just wondered, how the pilgrims fare, for Sianlar is close to the Varteron Edge...”

  “Go on.”

  “It just seems to me, perhaps the Kormish Warriors have something to do with the acromania rumour. Otherwise, quite a few of those pilgrims might have diverted to The Drop, and even attempted scaling down it out of curiosity. But few would risk the madness.”

  Ulran shrugged. Fhord’s imagination certainly did her credit.

  “And the camp fires people have seen in the jungles at the bottom of The Drop – green-yellow, I think, someone said. Obviously, some people live there, perhaps the Insane Ones.”

  “That seems like a piece of quite valid reasoning.” He couldn’t mention the firefly trees without explaining. “When you do go on your pilgrimage – perhaps after we’ve finished whatever we have to do in Arion – you will embark on the road to Sianlar. Then, you could test your theories. I’m afraid I cannot give you an answer. The pilgrimage is a private affair, for each individual, and as such must be kept sanctified within oneself. So, you see, I am bound not to say anything. Though, I might add, you’re quite right about people keeping clear of The Drop; that, I saw, clearly. And, obviously, the insanity rumour had much to do with it.”