“Yes, oginali, the Yuyutlu, where the Gurts make the goods and craft the stones. There the Zecronisians negotiate the selling and the trading.”
The Pod crossed the city center, where the marketplace spilled into a sprawl of square buildings. Symmetry. Some buildings were tall across the Pod’s path, but the majority were low and squat. One was walled — a fortress arising like a dark tidal wave. Yustichisqua grunted as they passed it.
“What’s that place?”
“The Yuganawu, oginali. The place of the governing.”
“But I thought the government was in the Ayelli.”
“No. The Ayelli is the place of the ruler, but the Yunockers govern from the Yuganawu, and below us are their homes. The Cetrone serve the Yunockers also and are very much in this place — the central ward of the city. We are subjected to the governing.”
Harris scanned the place from the heights. Cold and geometric — much like photos he recalled of Hitler’s dream for Nuremburg. Other fortresses arose to the east (or to the west by Farn reckoning).
“And those?” Harris asked.
“The Porias and the Katorias — the old and new prisons, oginali.” Yustichisqua slid around the Cabriolin’s railing so his face could be seen. “The old one is for the peoples of Montjoy, made of kaybar and secure. The new one is for the Cetrone, built with Phitron and impenetrable.”
Phitron — the black stone. That explained what Harris saw next, on the right and lost to a night black wall — a secure zone, much like the Phitron prison, only larger and patrolled by Yunockers, like wasps about a hive.
“The Kalugu?” he asked.
“Yes,” Yustichisqua replied. “My home. The place where we are drawn from when in service until the reaptide takes us away.”
“I can’t see over the walls, Little Bird.”
“You may never see it, oginali. May the spirits of my waddly wazzoo keep you from seeing it. It would burden your heart — and yours is a good heart, oginali.”
Harris turned his head toward Agrimentikos, who had fixed his stare upon Little Bird. The old consort knew the Trone would tell the tale of the Kalugu sympathetically. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t be helped. Not with a thousand Cabriolins or a dozen Nightmares. The place was off-limits to the Ayelli by a treaty crafted in good faith.
This world was as it was — places set and, like a water clock or the two suns and three moons, churned on a never ending course despite well-meaning thoughts from an actor drawn from the outer world — despite the hem and haw of a young servant, even if he was a Dune Tygger at his back. Agrimentikos knew. But it was Arquebus who had worrisome eyes. It was Tappiolus who had captured the plot, simmering it as the Pod reached the Montjoy’s city walls.
3
The walls were high and gated — a real gate this time, branched with barbed wire and heavily guarded. The gate was opened out of respect for the Elector, but it could have remained shut — Kuriakis easily guiding Nightmare over the razor-sharp spirals, which could never pretend to hold back immortality.
Once across the wall, the vast red desert astonished Harris. He careened to see the other side. He could not. A heat wave baked his face like strolling inside a pizza oven. Below, scrub — a dark defile with scant vegetation edged by drifting crimson sand.
“It’s so red,” he muttered.
“Kowlinka,” Little Bird said. “It is called kowlinka and is used to make pots in the Yuyutlu.”
“Good to know.”
When the Pod cleared the margins, a line of dunes arose suddenly. These writhed with activity — a hot wind, the red drifts rippling like the tide, but also something beneath them.
“They are there,” Yustichisqua said, fear in his voice. “The Porcorporian.”
Harris stared down to see which denizen from the Cartisforium Little Bird described. Soon there was no doubt. From the drifting sand, an occasional claw emerged, and then a scaly back and an ugly scorpion-like thing called the Porcorporian — gross and ferocious. It chased things called Gasuntsgi, vampire bunny rabbits, which would, no doubt, suck anything dry given the chance. Small. Their outlines could be seen hopping about the drifting terrain, claws clapping at their tails. Then, as fast as they appeared, they were gone, down rabbit holes beneath the sand.
Horns blasted. Harris’ brother consorts hooted and hollered — war whoops. Something was a-foot, but not a Tippagore, but something feline — worthy of war whooping.
Dune Tyggers prowled in a five pack — lavender and furry, a bit larger than outland tigers, but similar in most respects otherwise — stripes (deep purple) and lethal teeth — the scimitars of old Smilidon of the La Brea — the Saber Toothed tiger.
“Hoy, Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos shouted. “Follow me and we shall bag one as an exercise in straight shooting.”
Harris nodded. He felt Yustichisqua cinch about his waist. Then he dipped his Cabriolin over the lead Tygger.
“Noya Tludachi,” Agrimentikos shouted.
“Excuse me?”
“Noya Tludachi, oginali,” Little Bird muttered. “It is the name for the Dune Tygger.”
“Ah,” Harris said, drawing up his Stick, holding it lance-like. “They’re beautiful creatures. It’s a shame to zap one.”
“Good eating,” Yustichisqua said.
It was always about the belly. However, in the case of Kuriakis’ hunting parties, the hunt was priority one. Harris watched his brethren and their assault team assail the tludachi, a spark cloud rising above the dunes. He glanced at Agrimentikos, and then at Arquebus, Sticks close at hand. Agrimentikos nodded, giving Harris the honor of the first shot — a difficult honor to redeem. This wasn’t a movie set with green screen and CGI animation. The creature was flesh and didn’t wake this morning knowing a bunch of wild-ass guys would stream across its home with lightning rods and sear its fur. Still, Harris was Lord Belmundus now. Mercy on the hunt would be misconstrued as pussy galore. So he clenched his Stick as Eng and Chang had taught, and then steadied his Cabriolin¸ recalling the exact spot on his Columbincus supporting accurate shooting.
“One, two, three,” he muttered, and then fired.
“Yes,” Agrimentikos shouted.
Elypticus hooted. Arquebus grinned. Harris had landed his first strike, directly through the beast’s right eye. As the Cabriolin hovered over the downed Tygger, Harris felt the marksman’s pride, but also a hunter’s pain. The Noya Tludachi was a beautiful creature, its fur reminding Harris of many Red Carpet coats. The beast was in pain, still thrashing about. It swiped its paw up to its assailants, but three more bolts brought it down finally. Agrimentikos came to Harris’ side. He beamed like a proud parent.
“Good work, Lord Belmundus.”
“Boots,” came a cry from above. It was Kuriakis, standing high in Nightmare’s stirrups. He waved his wand in triumph. “That shot shall be etched on the pillars of Greary Gree, it will.”
Harris could hear the shouts of the other consorts and Thirdlings.
Boots! Boots! Boots!
He was certain Lord Tappiolus’ voice was not in this threnody.
4
The horns blared again. The cymbals crashed. The drums beat. All attention was drawn away from the Dune Tyggers, because the Tippagore had been found. Kuriakis raised his staff like a lance and the Pod went aloft. Harris had difficulty keeping abreast with Agrimentikos, the Cabriolin showing signs of a power loss. Perhaps it was running out of gas. But how could that be? Harris looked to Little Bird.
“Perhaps the heat, oginali. Perhaps much kowlinka in the intake.”
“Perhaps.”
However, they were aloft and on the make. Agrimentikos didn’t care whether his charge was trailing. The Elector, always given the honor of felling the quarry, there was no need to rush. Harris spotted the beast — a marvel.
“It’s much smaller than the one in the library,” he muttered.
“I am glad for that, oginali.”
“But smaller might mean fiercer.”
The Tipp
agore, about twenty feet long and as rug-like as an Afghan hound, trundled, bristling — puffs of red sand spewing from its nostrils. It’s horns, sharp — it’s tusks, at the ready. But the Pod, an airborne force, defied tusks. Harris soon discovered their use. When Hasamun and Posan’s squad circled the lumbering beast, it turned and reared — its elephantine legs poised to kick, its ram-like head twitching wildly. The tusks caught the legs of two Trones and, when they fell, the beast stomped them into a bloodstain.
“Did you see that, oginali?” Little Bird squealed.
“We’ll stay clear unless we’re needed,” Harris replied. “I think I’ve made my mark on that tludachi thing.”
The Pod rushed the beast, which galloped along the dunes, more sure-footed than could be anticipated. However, the Pod corralled it on the flat scrub, where it continued to rear, threatening with its natural armor. Still, it showed signs of tiring. Harris hovered lower and at a distance, especially when Kuriakis went in for the kill. He couldn’t witness that. He drifted further away, but close enough not to be called a coward. No one watched him, or so he thought.
As he drifted further, the stench of the Tippagore heightened. The beast emitted a skunk odor with notes of petroleum products. Harris expected that the further away he drifted, the fewer stenches he’d experience. Maybe the beast, downed and dying, intensified its odor. Then Little Bird tugged on Harris’ cape.
“Oginali.”
Harris turned. Directly behind him was another Tippagore, larger than the first.
“Holy crap,” he stammered, slamming his hand on the Cabriolin altitude button. “That’s the motherfucker I saw in the Cartisforium.”
It was — a thirty footer and uttering heart-rending wails at the events just over the dune. Harris pounded his hand on the controls. No response. Then, when the Cabriolin jerked into action, it went sideways, directly into the beast’s jaws.
“Turn, turn, oginali.”
“I’m trying.”
He took a deep breath, trying the up button again. No go. Then the side navigations. An evil thought crossed his mind. His Cabriolin might be a lemon and to be returned to the show room. Perhaps someone tampered with it. Suddenly, the controls kicked in — not the up, but side to side. This kicked him back from the tusks, providing him a tour of the beast’s massive length — its long tented carpeting. Harris saw activity there other than legs.
“What the fuck?”
“I see baby Tippagores,” Little Bird said, almost gleefully.
“Nothing like a pissed off Mamagore. We’d better get out of here . . . fast.”
However, before they could paddle away in this half-assed contraption, the Pod arrived, whooping and howling at their luck — finding a second and larger quarry for the Scullery Dorgan. Hell, this one would feed the Ayelli for a month.
The mother Tippagore whined. Harris thought it was a cry for her mate, who was being carved by the cargo Trones even as she called. She couldn’t trundle away, because she had at least a dozen suckling baby Tippagores attached to a mammary assembly line. She was doomed, and perhaps baby Tippagore was a delicacy in the Ayelli, like veal cutlet.
Harris landed his dickey Cabriolin just as Tappiolus arrived.
“I must admit, Boots,” Tappiolus remarked, “this is a find which will give you an advantage in Charminus’ bed.”
“It’s the female,” Harris said, and not as a point of information. “She’s suckling her young. Let her be.”
“Now there is a novel idea which will give us a good laugh.”
Harris disembarked, marching toward his fellow consort, Stick in hand.
“I said, let her be.”
The Tippagore watched this exchange, whimpering like a wounded puppy.
“Ah. Lord Belmundus is soft for the beast. How tender.”
The rest of the Pod landed with Thirdlings and Trones assembled behind Tappiolus. Still, Harris rushed forward at a run. He raised his Stick.
“Stop this at once,” Agrimentikos shouted. “What will this prove, Lord Belmundus? We have come to hunt and hunt we must.”
“And hunt we shall,” came the booming voice of the Elector on Nightmare. “Lower your Stick, Boots.”
Harris halted. He trembled, lowering his Stick, and then facing Kuriakis.
“Father,” he said. “This Tippagore protects her young, which suckle beneath her. Pass her by, I beg you.”
“But Boots. This is a wonderful specimen — docile. An easy kill.”
Harris dropped his Stick and went to one knee.
“Where I’m from, father, we take pity on the helpless. You have good quarry already. Spare this one.”
“But why?”
“If you kill her, future hunts will be jeopardized. Her young will not grow to maturity. Tippagores may become rarer than they are now. Endangered even.”
He scored a point, and he knew it. However, the silence was interrupted by a collective gasp. He saw everyone distracted. He turned to see a raised claw and an approaching jaw. A porcorporian had popped from its lair for a midday feast — co-consort would do nicely.
Harris shuffled backward, reaching for his Stick. However, someone had kicked it away. No question whom. He also had a flash no one — not consort, not Thirdling, not Elector had raised a Stick in his defense. Perhaps, they were surprised. The thing approached fast.
So this is how I die, he thought.
A painful death, one wrought by broken bones and spurting blood. How he wished for his stunt double. Then the porcorporian chattered, shuddering. Its claw slipped sideways in the lurch, but the beast collapsed a few feet from Harris’ all-too-famous boots. Green ooze poured from the creature’s skull. Someone had thrown something at the critter. Then, from atop the dead thing, stood a lad — dagger in hand.
“Oginali.”
5
“Arrest that Trone,” Tappiolus shouted.
Harris stood, turned and gasped.
“What are you talking about?”
“That Trone has a weapon,” Tappiolus cried, waving his hand for his Thirdlings to surround Little Bird.
Yustichisqua stood bemused on the porcorporian’s crown. The only sound beyond the wind came from the Tippagore, which grunted its approval. Harris kneeled to Kuriakis, who scratched his head. Such bravery could not be rewarded with an arrest.
“If we allow Trones to be armed, Boots,” Kuriakis said, fatherly, “they would murder us in our sleep.”
“Open your eyes, father,” Harris replied. “This Trone saved the life of his lord, while everyone else stood around with their fingers up their asses. How is that for murdering me in my sleep?”
Kuriakis rubbed his beard, looking to the other consorts, who hung noncommittal expressions.
“That might be so,” Tappiolus said, “but it is a matter of convenience. To have such a weapon, and then to use it, is unprecedented.”
“It is,” Harris shouted.
“And where did he get the thing?” Tappiolus carped.
“I gave it to him,” Harris replied. “My gift.”
Murmuring now and light discussion. Thirdling hands cuffed comments. Even the Tippagore commented with a grunt. Harris saw he would not get a fair hearing. He’d have more success saving Mama Tippagore. The time for pleading was over. Harris stood tall, facing the Pod, raising his right hand high, and pressing his left one on his Columbincus.
“I am Lord Belmundus the Just,” he shouted. “You named me so. I come to you with valor and honor.” He pointed to Little Bird. “I ride with my Stick glowing strong and with a Dune Tygger at my back. Behold Lord Belmundus’ Noya tludachi.”
Harris bowed to his Trone. Everyone gasped. Tappiolus waved his hand again to set the arrest in motion, but Yustichisqua raised the dagger, placing it against his heart. Suddenly, every Trone on that scrubby field grunted and knelt. Tappiolus halted.
“Be still, Lord Tappiolus,” Kuriakis commanded. “We have a singular demonstration of allegiance, which cannot be dismissed as criminality
. No. No. It cannot.” Kuriakis looked to Harris, shaking his head, as if he still couldn’t fathom the breach of protocol. Still, who ruled here? Who had the key to order? “Boots, you are a quandary. Leave it to my daughter to draw an anomaly from the outer lands. She brought us Tappiolus, who has been given great responsibility, and then we had Lord . . . well, never mind. Not all choices are wise. As for you, I believe you are a hunter at heart. You have vision. So . . . so, I decree this. You may run your household as you will if it does not inspire others to thwart the law. Monitoring will be strict.” He pointed to Yustichisqua. “I will send you a bejeweled case for that gift — a royal gift to be sure. Never doubt it. In its case, you may admire it when you say your spirit prayers to your waddly wazzoo.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 24