Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Do not meddle, Tappiolus,” Arquebus said. “A time might come to strike your Lucifers, but this is not it.”

  “Why not?” asked the man, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder. He inspected Harris like a drill sergeant. “You might think you are a hot potato, sir, but I have seen your work. Flash in the pan.”

  Harris frowned. Who the hell was this guy? He had a perceptible Italian accent, which befit his pencil-thin mustache.

  “How could you know my work?” Harris snapped.

  “I know it,” Tappiolus said, showboating for the others. “In film school we studied your filmography. Not inspiring. Examples for avoidance.”

  Harris twitched, but Arquebus held him back. The other three men laughed. However, the giant — that stately being called Kuriakis, kept his hand extended, waiting for Harris’ lips to grace knuckles in homage. Harris brushed Arquebus’ away, and then turned. This stirred the others to rebuke — a chorus of indignant growls.

  “How dare you turn your back on the Elector,” Tappiolus snapped. “You are unworthy of us, sir.”

  “Perhaps, you are correct, Tappiolus,” Kuriakis said, disappointment in his voice.

  Harris gazed along the strand. The terrerbyrd still gave a merry chase, its wings flapping its pursuers away. Then Harris saw his enchantress on Mortis House’s veranda.

  “Charminus,” he murmured.

  “Ah, yes,” Kuriakis said. “My daughter.” Then to Tappiolus. “Whether this new consort is worthy, he is still only second to you in her eyes. Take consolation in that and accept it, Tappiolus.”

  Harris turned. He recalled Arquebus’ talk of a co-consort, a film actor drawn from the future.

  So that’s how he knows my work.

  Verified, the insult stung more now.

  “You’re an actor too,” Harris said to Tappiolus.

  “We are all actors by the grace of Scepta preference.”

  Tappiolus bowed, as did the others from within their Cabriolins. Two of these were Asians, while the third distinctly Mediterranean, swarthy and tan. It was true. Harris had been drawn into an uncontracted role, and cast in an eternal play — without top billing. And this smug asshole, who looked like a cheap version of Valentino, was his co-star, and a critic on vintage film, to boot. Vintage film? Harris never considered the efficacy of his own legacy, or lack of one.

  “Sir,” he said to Kuriakis, bowing slightly as a concession. “I know you mean well and I am a pawn in the scheme of things, but I assure you, I’m not the man for the part.”

  Kuriakis extended the ring again. Harris balked, but this time looked to Arquebus for help. Arquebus urged compliance.

  “Either you kiss it,” Tappiolus snapped, “or throw your other boot at him. You have no other choices.”

  “No one does,” said the Mediterranean man, who cocked his head and waved a small baton — a strange decorative stick.

  “Sceptas choose us,” Tappiolus said. “Only they can release us. You are a replacement for a recently released consort, so your fate is sealed.”

  “Released?”

  “Not in the way you think, Harris,” Arquebus said.

  Harris felt the beach heat through his right sock and considered throwing his left boot, and then making a level run for it. But to where? He looked to Mortis House, Charminus posing alluringly at the door. If she held his fate, could there be much harm in smooching her father’s ring. Little risk, he thought.

  He bowed slightly, and then touched his lips to the jade ring. Gales of laughter rained from Tappiolus. Harris already hated the man, despite the short acquaintance.

  3

  “Brother,” Tappiolus carped, still laughing. “Welcome to the Pod.”

  The horn sounded as the terrerbyrd swooped, pursued by the hunters in their Cabriolins. Kuriakis raised his staff, pointing it skyward. He shot a golden bolt at the beast, grazing it and altering its course toward shore.

  “Enough pother,” Kuriakis declared. “I came to the Plageris to hunt. We shall continue this discussion later.” He grinned at Harris. “Come aloft with us.”

  The Elector retreated to his steed, which the two runners barely reined in. Another runner helped Kuriakis into the saddle.

  “It is a fine day to chase up dinner,” the Elector shouted. “Joella will want a feast and I shall not disappoint her.” He pointed the staff at Harris. “Go aloft with Arquebus. As for the rest of you lazy blighters, enough dawdle. Enough pother. Aloft with you! Aloft!”

  Nightmare rose on its hind legs, its emerald hoof pads flashing, its crimson snort steaming.

  “Hoy!” the Elector shouted, and soon the great Kuriakis was aloft again, charging toward the terrerbyrd.

  The Pod followed, each to their Cabriolins, cloaks flapping in the wind — batons aimed at the flying quarry — tom-toms and kazoos playing in their wake.

  Arquebus touched Harris’ shoulder.

  “That business with the boot has endeared you to him,” he remarked. “But I fear you have an enemy in Tappiolus.”

  Harris watched the Pod as they rose over the tide.

  “They’re flying high.”

  “Have you objections to flight? I hear the men of your time routinely fly.”

  “Yes, but in . . . bigger birds.”

  “Come aloft then — with me. We shall take it easy. No sense stoking your fears.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Harris just had made a film that had him in harness a host of times. He’d been required to do his own stunts, flying above a set with his crotch tethered in a ball-crushing harness suit. Arquebus bowed, and then escorted him to the Cabriolin.

  “How does this thing go?” Harris asked.

  “I shall manage it. Now is not the time for learning. Hold tightly to the railing and enjoy the view.”

  Harris grinned. The vehicle, simple — rudimentary even, consisted of a round platform loosely enclosed by three circumferential tubes, making the contraption look like a flying trash barrel. A raised panel displayed an array of lights, the controls, no doubt.

  “No seat belts?” Harris asked, but there were no seats, so the question seemed lame.

  He leaned his back on the railing while Arquebus played with the controls and rubbed some device pinned to his cloak. The craft lifted smoothly, drifting parallel to the shoreline. Harris grinned, a stiff breeze striking his gob and dancing through his hair. He saw Charminus on the veranda. She wore a purple gown, a cowl hooding her. Still alluring, Harris wondered why he would ever want to leave her. However, the thought wasn’t his own, but telepathically implanted as he passed before her smile, an antidote to his escape plan. His reverie broke when he noticed the other one — the Trone, standing behind her mistress, toting a tray of refreshments.

  “Who’s that with Charminus?”

  “Her Trone,” Arquebus replied.

  “I meant, what’s her name?”

  “Trones are not called by name.”

  Disappointing. He tried to shake off the Scepta’s allure, which told him he pleased her and she wanted him again and again — for eternity.

  Harris sighed, and then gazed skyward.

  4

  Skyward. The Cabriolin banked over waves, rising when it neared the Pod. The hunters assaulted the terrerbyrd with a battery of fiery flashes, which shot from their batons. Arquebus had a baton also, attached to the front railing. Harris perused it. A puzzle. No visible mechanism — trigger, hammer, buttons or barrels. He touched it.

  “What is this thing?”

  “A Stick.”

  “A Stick?”

  “That is what it is called. What else could it be?”

  “I thought you’d call it a fire torch or a big bad bang-bang or something.”

  “No. Just a Stick.”

  “How does it . . .”

  “It does nothing. The power comes from the operator, not the Stick. It merely focuses.”

  Harris took the Stick from its holder, bringing it to his eye. It was decorated, bu
t otherwise it was as Arquebus declared — a Stick, made from a sturdy wood. The only mark he discerned, beside the decorations, was etched on a plate near the stub end — a V crisscrossed by two wavy lines.

  “What’s this symbol?”

  “That is I, dear friend,” Arquebus said. “The V is the sigil for my Scepta — the Scepta Soffira. The two waves declares me as her second consort. The first consort is Agrimentikos.” He pointed ahead. “That is he, showing off for the Elector with his fancy dips and swirls. He still will not score a hit.”

  The man — Agrimentikos, was the Mediterranean.

  “And why won’t he score a hit?”

  “He is a bad shot.” Arquebus chuckled. “He is better quoting lines from Sophocles and Aristophanes. He does a wonderful Opoponax. But shooting? And even if he could shoot straight, none dares upstage Kuriakis.”

  “Do I detect rivalry between you and your co-consort?”

  Arquebus leered.

  “I know my place as you shall learn yours.”

  Harris watched Kuriakis the Great as he soared as nimbly as Perseus on Pegasus, teasing the terrerbyrd, while the Pod corralled it until it tuckered. Although the beast still dodged the flashes, it ceased attacking. The consorts shone now, edging closer to the prey than other Pod members. The younger men eased off, drifting to the periphery. The runners, who flew on strange electronic footgear, unfurled a net over the tide to catch the byrd when it was felled.

  “Why aren’t we joining the fray?” Harris asked.

  “Time enough on another day. Even the Thirdlings fall back now.”

  “Thirdlings?”

  Before Arquebus replied, one young man brought his Cabriolin near. He saluted Arquebus, who returned the salute with a nod. Harris nodded also to match the custom. The younger man came so close, his Cabriolin nearly touched Arquebus’ railing.

  “Wonderful hunt today, father,” the lad said.

  “I should say. The Scullery Dorgan will be busy cooking tonight.”

  “Nothing like byrd in red sauce.”

  “Nothing like it.” Arquebus turned and addressed Harris. “Where are my manners? Harris Cartwright, may I introduce you to Elypticus, my seventh son.”

  “His favorite, I might add,” the Thirdling remarked. “Glad to make your acquaintance, lord and most honored to receive the salute of a consort of distinction.” Elypticus bowed deeply, and then flashed Harris a grin. “Impressive bootwork back there, lord. I have never seen anything like it in all my life.”

  “Short as that has been,” Arquebus remarked, drawing giggles from his son.

  Harris smiled, and nodded again.

  “Glad to meet you also,” he said, and then addressed Arquebus. “Your son?”

  “Do you doubt it, sir?” Arquebus replied, and then brightened. “I have a jolly idea — a Bardian inspiration if I do say so myself.” He addressed his son now. “Mr. Cartwright has expressed a desire to join in the fray. How about giving him a wee taste?”

  Elypticus winked, mischievously, and then opened his Cabriolin gate.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Jump. Come aboard, lord.”

  Harris hesitated, the gulf between the two vehicles being unsteady, but then leaped the gap landing in Thirdling Elypticus’ care.

  “Hold tight,” Arquebus said. “And son, remember he is co-consort to the dark one. If he comes to harm, you might find yourself in dire straits.”

  Elypticus nodded again, closed the gate and sped off, Harris lurching in the sudden acceleration.

  5

  Harris regarded Elypticus, Sir John’s Thirdling son. Although the lad was tall — a hand taller than Harris, his face was that of a twelve-year old. Unsettling.

  “First time up?” Elypticus asked.

  “Yes,” Harris said, looking down.

  The netting now crisscrossed the sea. Beneath it, the waves churned.

  “You should hold fast to the rail.” Harris gripped. “Better fasten about my waist.”

  Harris did so. Immediately, the lad shook his head, his helmet feathers whipping the air. The Cabriolin accelerated, rising at least two-hundred feet in a few seconds. Harris gasped, but liked the thrill. They continued to rise until the Pod were specks and the terrerbyrd was mosquito-size. It was liberating.

  Harris glanced to the suns and the moons beyond. He saw Mortis House, now a squat protrusion, emerging from the dunes, its rear lost to the scrub. The Plageris was an island, the Bottleblue Sea vast. He searched for landmarks — the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building would be nice, but beyond the island’s girt was an unending expanse of turquoise — no horizon — no sign he was in the round world still. Odd.

  Elypticus gave a shout — a wild woohoo, and brought the Cabriolin higher and drove it faster.

  “Hold tight, lord.”

  “Pretty fast,” Harris said. “Maybe, too fast.”

  “Not a bit of it. I am free and away from Farn and my brothers and the duty rolls and patrols. The sky is clear here — never green. Nothing tethers me to promise or prophecy.”

  Before Harris puzzled out which promise and what prophecy, the Cabriolin dipped, falling seaward in a joy ride’s hectic speed. His heart raced. Exhilarating. This bested the fastest roller coaster he had ridden, and he had ridden a few ballbusters. But the Cabriolin’s angle was steep. His grip slipped. The netting came up fast. The terrerbyrd wailed, and then fell, blasted by the Elector’s staff. Before the Cabriolin reached the Pod, Elypticus swerved sharply, almost dumping Harris out.

  “Whoa,” he gasped. “That was some ride, but . . .”

  “Again,” Elypticus shouted like the child Harris suspected.

  Harris heard shouts from the other Thirdlings — warning shouts. He noticed the consorts gathering in formation. Still, Elypticus shot for the sky, the wind nearly blowing Harris aloft. Fun was fun, but this seemed reckless. Then, down again, this time over the open sea. As they leveled off, Harris witnessed a wonder — a long brown object swimming through the waves. He recognized it, and, although it still amazed, panic suddenly gripped him.

  “Not so close,” he shouted.

  But the moment swallowed the lad.

  “We can get closer, lord. Shall we?”

  “No.”

  Then the Cabriolin plunged again, this time directly over the misancorpus, which wasn’t up for visitors. It whipped about, its massive torso leaping from the water, its jaws on a direct course for luncheon.

  “Pull up,” Harris screamed. “Pull up.”

  John Briarcliff’s son, seventh or otherwise, must have had a death wish, because he flew the Cabriolin through the misancorpus’ open jaws, making it to the other side just as the megateeth clamped shut.

  “Woohoo.”

  Harris squeezed Elypticus’ waist.

  “Enough,” he shouted. “Get us out of here.”

  “Whatever you say, lord.”

  Elypticus was suddenly demure. He leveled the vehicle and sped shoreward, a host of consorts and Thirdlings surrounding him as he halted, hovering over Mortis House, before landing. Harris released his death grip, pushing the gate open and leaping to the sand. He was dizzy, in part from motion, but also from inspecting the misancorpus’ tonsils. He staggered as the other Cabriolins landed. Elypticus went prostrate at the base of the ramp.

  “Forgive him, my lady,” Arquebus said, addressing Charminus, who stood angrily on the veranda. “He is a rash boy, only three now, but one more year will see him either in control or dead.”

  Arquebus surveyed his contrite son. The runners hauled the netting from the water, dragging the terrerbyrd’s corpse over the shore’s slick. Kuriakis, on Nightmare, hovered at a distance, unwinding his steed from the heat of the hunt. The Elector seemed to reflect on events — chanting to the sea in a language Harris couldn’t comprehend.

  Harris struggled to stay standing; too many G’s having pressed him silly. Sir John steadied him, while the others turned their attentions to the harvest.

&nb
sp; “That was some ride,” Harris said, still breathless. He glanced back at Elypticus, and then addressed Arquebus. “I hope he’s not in trouble. He meant well, and I egged him on.”

  “What shall be, shall be,” Arquebus replied.

  Arquebus bowed to Charminus, a tribute to sculptured ice. She had removed the purple gown and stood now in her black denim, reminding Harris of his dilemma. The ride momentarily diluted any notions of escape, replacing them with prayers for survival.