Floreskand_Wings

by Morton Faulkner

  The storm seemed to go on for all eternity then finally a glimpse of light could be seen ahead, dreamlike in its quality. Yellow-white, completely framed by darkness, it was like viewing the Sonalume Mountains through gauze.

  Wisps of steam rose and meandered. Fhord heard the song of a bird. Prisms of light dazzlingly refracted on drops of moisture in the air. Bright green grass beckoned, still, soft. Thick beams of godly light slanted through the last shreds of black-grey clouds at the rear of the ranmeron-marching anvil-heads.

  “We’re through!”

  Such was the cry of relief as each member of the party passed into the sunlight again.

  As Fhord emerged, with the girl moaning half-consciously, she looked back upon an uncanny sight.

  It looked as though the Hansenand were riding out of some hideous black tunnel. The sky ranmeronwards as far as she could see was the same silvery mass she’d discerned earlier, yet close by the black feathered into brown-grey and grey and thinned into circling moving wisps, forming a mysterious tunnel. The steam and gasses from the sodden ground swathed about the horses’ fetlocks, creating the impression that they rode on the air itself. They appeared like an avenging army of the gods, returning after some victory over the Black.

  Here, the grassland felt as though it hadn’t been touched by the hail. It was soft and dry.

  There was plenty of brushwood about and Solendoral declared that they would make camp here, in a slight depression, to dry out the wagons and other belongings. He ended by saying that once camp had been formed, he wished to bring Rakcra and Etor to account.

  Solendoral’s second-in-command had made a roll-call and fortunately everyone survived Nikkonslor’s onslaught, though few escaped unbruised or unscathed. One horse had broken its leg and was slain; a few strays rode into camp shortly after the roll-call, including one belonging to the girl Fhord had rescued.

  ***

  Fourth Dekinma of Fornious: “Three thousand six hundred and fifty-eight Solendoral. Council to the Elders called,” intoned the scribe. His quill flicked and made a scratching sound over the parchment.

  Behind his kneeling form stood the Hansenand’s gigantic metal chest, crammed with parchment scrolls – the horde’s Elder Records – now filling two wagons. As one Devastator remarked, “The records increase in proportion to the decrease of our own numbers, or so it seems.” Naturally, only the most recent Records travelled with them, together with relevant Laws and Decisions, whilst the bulk of old material was sealed and buried in barrows dotted around Floreskand, their whereabouts known only to a select few.

  The pungent odour of drying rain-sodden furs filled Fhord’s nostrils. Six wagons formed a rough semi-circle, the depression’s slight earth ridge completing the circle form. Upon the ridge were silhouetted two mounted lookouts. Tethered on lengthy grazing ropes and hobbled, the horses were secured to the other side of the wagon wheels. Women and children sat on or lounged against the wagons.

  Immediately beneath the earth-ridge was placed a wooden throne, very angular in appearance, which Fhord later learned was simply constructed from four wagons’ tail-gates, with the aid of some stones and leather lashing. The speedy way in which it was erected clearly showed that it had been used before.

  On the right-hand side of the throne stood a white-bearded, wizened old man, the Hansenand Tangakol, and in his bony hands he held an unfurled banner embroidered with colourful yet apparently meaningless figures.

  Ulran whispered in explanation: “The patterns are memory triggers to the minds of the Kellan-Mesqa legend keepers.” All Kellan-Mesqa legend was transmitted mnemonically. “This is but one of many banners, its presence here at the trial to signify that the precedence of legend will judge.”

  Devastators gathered to right and left. Alomar stood near, as a potential witness.

  Four camp fires were dotted around the centre of the circle. Darting shadows played on grim features, and lent a sinister aspect to everything and everybody.

  Then Solendoral entered, robed in furs and wearing a brass helm that glittered in the firelight. In one hand he held a drawn sword, its blade damascened; in the other, a thick tome which contained all the names of his predecessors, going back before Hewwa’s Revenge.

  In his wake strode two men, his second-in-command and his aide. Solendoral lowered himself solemnly into his makeshift throne and nodded for the proceedings to begin.

  Without looking up once, the wizened scribe moved his quill to record every order and spoken word.

  Fhord later had an opportunity to study similar scrollwork and found the Records clipped and brusque, quite unlike those of the Ranmeron Empire – contained in Lornwater’s Archives – which were flowery and verged on magniloquence. Of course, brevity would be their maxim since they must perforce carry their Records around with them.

  Flanked by sombre guards, both Rakcra and Etor stepped into the firelit circle. Divested of armour and weapons, they stood proudly but respectfully facing Solendoral.

  “Explain,” commanded their leader. “Etor first.”

  Tall for his few years, browned with the sun and his bronze body gleaming in the light, Etor nodded and lifted a heavily bandaged hand. “This I received from Rakcra, a reward for saving his woman!” He turned scowling eyes upon his opponent and spat upon the fire in front of them: spittle sizzled. “But let me here and now, before this Council, say I love and cherish Rakcra as I would my own kin. But I ask that the ancient Law of our people be invoked against Rakcra – here, this night!”

  And so saying, Etor ripped off the bandage – much of it reddened – to display a hand with three crushed fingers, blackened and lifeless.

  A murmur of disapproval at the youth’s histrionics could be heard. But others were sympathetic, seeing a warrior’s right hand so mutilated.

  At this point Ulran stepped forward. “May I inspect the hand?” he enquired of both Solendoral and Etor.

  The youth looked to his leader. Solendoral nodded and Etor followed suit.

  Ulran held the hand up to the firelight, studied it closely, betraying nothing. Then he let go. “After the proceedings, I will comment, if I may? For the moment, I am content.”

  Etor seemed to perceive an opportunity for strengthening his case and called to the innman, “See here, Ulran – would you say I have good cause to seek proper justice?”

  “I’m not your judge. You have a leader.”

  Those words alone were enough to redden the youth’s face.

  Haltingly, lapsing into a formal address, Etor continued his explanation: “I was riding like the wind against the evil hail, as were we all, when I heard a faint cry for help, off the main track. Obviously, someone had strayed. It sounded like a girl. She wasn’t far off, else I wouldn’t have heard her. I found her horseless: Woura, of the auburn hair. I had dismounted to give her a hand up onto my own mount when Rakcra–” he pointed savagely at his opponent, “– came by and barged into my horse. The reins broke and my poor animal, startled by the blow and the terrible storm, ran off, only to be found later after we camped. I asked Rakcra to take the girl on his horse and I would jog alongside, holding a stirrup for guidance.”

  Etor’s tone lowered and he eyed the assembled Devastators. “And what did he do, this Rakcra? He swung his battle-axe at me! Yes – his axe! I have no doubt he meant but to use the side of the blade to bruise or stun me, but even so, he was taking his jealousy too far!” He grinned, only too well aware that all assembled knew that Woura was spoken for by Rakcra. “Fortunately, my bracer deflected the downward swing, but alas the blow was not completely spent before it landed upon these poor fingers you see smashed.

  “In great pain, I grabbed hold of Rakcra’s leather belt and heaved him to the ground. Ever mindful of the urgency to get Woura to safety, I told her to mount up and be gone.

  “Then we fought fist to fist, though I had but one and was sorely disadvantaged. And that is the true tale, Solendoral, O Leader. Etor has finished.”

  Fhord e
xpressed surprise that Rakcra, whom she believed to be innocent could stand and listen to Etor without even once interrupting.

  Ulran whispered, “Rakcra dare not – one interruption would lose him the trial. One of the Laws of Justice is that each party shall have unbroken say. Truth can be gleaned from lies spoken, you know.”

  Rakcra cleared his throat, looked upon his opponent and smiled thinly. There were some present who openly admitted that they would not have wished Rakcra to smile at them in that manner. “Much of what Etor says is true. He did find Woura unhorsed and alone, far off the beaten track. But she was not wholly aware of what was happening and easy prey to this blackguard’s lusts!”

  A startled intake of breath came from the women onlookers. Etor’s face coloured, his lips, tight-clenched, held back retorts that would cost him the trial. “Aye, passion seethed in my mind as I saw him: anger. How unlike a Hansenand he has always been, I believe I thought. Woura is still lying abed, recovering. But I wonder whether it is a recovery from the fall or something far worse?

  “If our Laws permitted, I would ask for a postponement of judgement till she, the prime witness, was able to speak. But that is not our way – as warriors, we stand or fall by what is in our hearts and by the words our hearts have us speak. I hold no malice towards Etor. But neither do I like him. I imagine he lost control of himself for a brief time. Perhaps the evil of the storm was somehow in his veins.”

  Rakcra shook his head. “Yes, I hit out at him, though not with axe. I kicked his back as he leaned over Woura. As he sprawled in the mud, his horse fled, scared by a blinding tongue from Nikkonslor. I quickly dismounted and lifted Woura up into my saddle. I had barely finished securing her in the stirrups when Etor struck me from behind, using the hilt of his sword, I think. This attack was enough to startle my horse and he fled.

  “Whilst he had no intention of using the sword, he used it within its sheath, hitting me repeatedly on both upper arms as I tried to close with him. In desperation, I grabbed up a stone and hurled it – and luckily for me if not for Etor, the stone hit his sword-hand and disarmed him. We then fought with fists until Solendoral and Courdour Alomar found us grappling upon the ground like wayward children.”

  As he ended, Rakcra lowered his head. “And that is the truth, O Solendoral. Rakcra has finished also.”

  Silence fell in the camp as their leader paused in thought.

  Fhord’s sympathies lay with Rakcra. Yet hadn’t Rakcra openly admitted that he had irreparably damaged Etor’s hand?

  Solendoral must have been thinking along similar lines. He raised his head and called to Ulran. “Brother, do you wish to comment on the wound, which is after all the crux of the whole business?”

  “Certainly.” Ulran stepped forward, alongside the two opponents. “The three fingers are completely useless.”

  “I see.” Solendoral sighed. “Then I have no option but to pronounce that our Ancient Law be obeyed. Do you, Etor, wish for three fingers, or for payment in goods and chattels?”

  A broad yellow grin. “I wish for the three fingers of Rakcra’s right hand, O Leader!”

  “Then you shall have them,” commanded Solendoral. “Prepare yourself, Rakcra.”

  The young man nodded solemnly and rolled up his sleeve.

  A large flat stone was carried out between two men and placed down before the largest of the fires. Another Devastator came out and handed Etor his own sword. As was the custom, he cut his own palm with the blade to prove that there was no poison upon it.

  Then Rakcra knelt and placed his hand upon the stone, the three fingers extended, thumb and little finger folded back.

  A silence even greater than before befell the camp. Even the lookouts tensed, only half-watching the dark plains about the natural hollow of land.

  “Three only,” emphasised Solendoral.

  “I trust he can count.” Rakcra grinned and the sword descended.

  Only one finger flew off into the fire where it sizzled.

  Rakcra winced and tears brimmed his eyes as he looked upon the two surviving digits. “Take your time, friend, the judgement is yours, and rightly so.”

  “Good to hear you say it!” snarled Etor and chopped off the other two fingers together. “Do as you wish now!” he ended and stood up, wiping the blood from his blade.

  Grotesquely pale in the firelight, Rakcra struggled to his feet and staggered two paces to the fire. He lifted out a charred firebrand and placed it over his bleeding stumps.

  The smell of burnt flesh soon filled the inner circle.

  Fhord felt queasy, her stomach somersaulting but she kept the food down.

  Etor watched, his hard eyes showing no emotion. “And let that be an end to it!” he growled, turning to walk out of the Council ring.

  “Not quite!” boomed Ulran.

  “You have anything to add, brother?” queried Solendoral.

  “Yes. A slight bending of justice – you see, Etor here still possesses his fingers, useless though they may be. But now Rakcra does not. The balance is uneven, I would say – wouldn’t you?”

  For a fleeting moment a smile flashed across Solendoral’s mouth. “Yes,” he said, eyeing the tome in his lap. “I believe the balance must be restored. And I command that Rakcra remove the three fingers declared useless!”

  Rakcra stepped forward. “I see no purpose being served by me doing this, O Leader. This could go on endlessly, were we to subject our finger-stumps to measurement, eager to get exact interpretation – why, it may not stop at fingers! One slip and it could be a hand, an arm. I accept your judgement, Leader – spare Etor’s useless fingers.”

  Applause broke out but Solendoral raised a hand to halt it. “Be it known, my judgement stands. Etor shall lose those fingers, though by the hands of the Tangakol Ogranth. Also be it known that on record it shall be said that Rakcra was in the right and Etor in the wrong. But whether right or wrong, violence between kith and kin within the Hansenand cannot be tolerated. We are few enough without squabbling among ourselves. Fight, by all means, but for survival, not jealousy and lust! The Council is ended!”

  Solendoral rose from his throne and strode out of the circle.

  Later, Fhord smiled to herself. “He intended to deprive Etor of his smashed fingers anyway, didn’t he?”

  “I suspect so,” said Alomar.

  “Yes,” Ulran agreed. “He is versed in the arts of medicine too. One look is enough – gangrene will set in before the camp fires are cold. And even then, Etor might be lucky to survive with an arm.”

  Ulran’s prediction seemed true prophecy. As the days wore on, Woura recovered and confirmed most of what Rakcra had declared, though she continued to have some blank spots in her memory.

  The girl Fhord had rescued suffered with a fierce chill but after three days was up and about and back to normal.

  Etor was confined in the lead wagon, tossing and turning minus his three fingers, sweat saturating his bedding. Ulran used some of Alomar’s herbs and reduced Etor’s body temperature and, against the wishes of the victual-women, he starved the man. Already, he feared the arm would have to be cut at elbow-height. When he told Fhord of this the city-dweller was upset. “Would that mean Rakcra would have to lose his, as well?”

  The innman shrugged. “Morally... it depends... Cause and effect would answer that Rakcra is responsible. But if you were a fatalist like me, then you would accept it, blaming no-one. It simply depends on Etor – should he have any lucid moments. However, in Law there is no re-trial: Solendoral declared it ended.”

  Twelve days after encountering the Hansenand, on the First Sabin of Darous, they came upon the foothills of Sonalume.

  For the first time, Fhord could clearly see the Twin Peaks of Mount Soveram – Marle and Torne – thinly draped in wispy mauve clouds.

  Looking out from the stench of the sick-wagon, Ulran said, “Not long now, Fhord – then we’ll be on our own again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TALUS

 
; And Talus, the man of iron, as he broke off

  the rocks from the hard cliff, stayed them

  from making their approach.

  – The Lay of Lorgen

  Despite his triumph, Por-al Row still felt uneasy as he cleaned up the mess of broken vials, beakers and earthenware pots that lay shattered upon the stone slabs of the cellar floor. A foul stench filled the dark, confined space. In some way, that creature had eluded him! And it had been downed, as well.

  Irritably, he found a half-spent black candle and ignited it with his tinder-box.

  If Yip-nef Dom knew how his prized hunting hawks had been employed – the enchanter shuddered at the thought of his liege’s wrath. Already the cells were full. He had no wish to join the inmates, though that evil little witch would doubtless love to see it.

  But he felt now, more than ever, that the bird was the real threat to his designs, along with that weedy city-dweller. As yet, he did not know why the prophecies required the presence of the innman. As for Courdour Alomar – if that were indeed him – his presence must be accidental; but also timely, if only to slake Yip-nef Dom’s thirst for revenge.

  Por-al Row used the rush broom to good effect and rid the cellar of the exploded remains of his experiment if not the noisome smell.

  Well, at least there was no way that they could reach Arisa before the appointed deadline. They would be too late. The Sonalumes could not be crossed in time; even if they risked going through Astrey Caron Pass. The cold was murderous. Hadn’t he experienced it himself? No amount of spell-casting helped him out there, exposed to the harsh reality of the natural elements. He had shivered as much as ordinary men, to his undying shame.

  He beat his chest in silence, sobs of pent-up rage shaking his crooked angular frame.

  Why me, dear gods? Why must I be accursed with this mortal body, tying me down when my mind tells me I should be striving for the heights, the pinnacle of existence, unshackled by mortal coil? Why me?

  ***