Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Now, I would have bet you would,” the guard said.

  Two other guards were slouching near the wall. They waved to the Augustii as if the errand was regular, if not late. Harris didn’t react, not knowing Ricktus Morphinus’ usual response. However, the sentry guard suddenly raised a burripsun, shining it in Yustichisqua’s face. Little Bird deflected the light.

  “It is as I thought,” the guard snapped, laughing. “Zecronisians are near blind.”

  “Yes,” Harris concurred, pulling Yustichisqua forward. “Our eyes are sensitive. That is why we are hooded and cloaked. Please deflect your birrupsun, sir.”

  “Since when do I take my orders from you?”

  “Never,” Harris said, bowing to assure that his own face was lower than the light. “But in the spirit of cooperation, let us pass in darkness to the mordanka.”

  Yustichisqua had proceeded through the gate, while Harris made deep gestures to the guard as if begging for crumbs from a baker. The sentry guard enjoyed the servility of a man who was, by law, not a servant. Harris could see satisfaction welling in the sentry’s eyes and wished he could draw his sword and cut those eyeballs out. How light-sensitive would they be? But the other two guards joined him in a congratulatory mood. It was late, stormy and these minions were bored, no doubt. Tormenting two Zecronisian agents would be good entertainment to chase the hours until morning.

  “Ah, go to the mordanka,” the sentry said. “I get my share every time you pass through, so what do I care?”

  His share? How did this operation work? Harris had to remember Garan as a Gucheeda as well as a Deegosgi. Shady dealings profited the unscrupulous. Perhaps this was the grease which let this plan work.

  “Thank you,” Harris blurted, thinking something else.

  Harris turned and followed Yustichisqua, who progressed into the courtyard. He caught up to Little Bird at the edge of a gallery — a narrow street, where Yustichisqua had hesitated.

  “We did it, old man,” Harris said. “The Treaty of Parazell has been broken. I’d love to tell them to wipe their asses with it, but . . . you know. They’d . . . well, you know.”

  “They would kill us, and still may, oginali.”

  A thunderous roar sounded, the storm, no doubt. But there was doubt. The rain lashed at the path before them — a latticework stone causeway, which spanned whatever roared beneath it.

  “The Deetsuneeli,” Yustichisqua mumbled, fear in the word. “The Place Where Death Crosses.”

  “We’re prepared for this, old man.”

  “I hope these borabas work.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “For you, there is no question. You can walk on phitron and kaybar . . .”

  “I can walk on fuggipantis too.” Little Bird giggled, nervously. “You didn’t think I knew what that meant, did you?”

  “It will not matter if the Tludachi eats me.”

  On cue, the Tygger roared, his charpgris stink striking Harris between the nostrils.

  “Well, in the words of Melonius: Everyone needs to die someday. Tonight’s as good as any other.”

  “If I should slip through,” Yustichisqua said, “let me slip.”

  “Like hell, I will.”

  “Really, oginali. If I fall and you are touching me, you shall fall too.”

  “So that’s how it works,” Harris said, grinning. “I thought so. But I’m wearing borabas. Won’t that leave me hanging upside down if my boots get caught?”

  “But Tludachi can jump and . . .” Yustichisqua gazed into Harris’ eyes, a grin spreading across his face. “I see what you mean.”

  He lifted his foot and stepped onto the Place Where Death Crosses.

  The tludachi roared.

  Chapter Four

  The Place Where Death Crosses

  1

  Yustichisqua lifted his foot and stepped onto the Place Where Death Crosses.

  The tludachi roared.

  The foot came down lightly at first, Little Bird expecting to seep through the Deetsuneeli and collapse into awaiting jaws. But the borabas held, the phitron a saving grace between the Cetrone and his fate.

  “I am walking, oginali,” he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “It’s a good thing, walking,” Harris said, moving him along.

  The tludachi leaped to the latticework, clawing through the slats. Harris’ comfort in the borabas’ efficacy to keep Yustichisqua from falling was earnest, but if the Tygger clawed its way through, the boots would be useless.

  “Let’s move it along, old man,” he said. “This racket will bring the guards.”

  “But we are Augustii.”

  “I don’t care if we’re Christ walking on water. The faster I clear this plank, the better I’ll feel.”

  A second tludachi joined its mate. The ground shook now, the growls unnerving Harris, who nearly dropped the sack and ran. He tugged Yustichisqua forward, a difficult task while bent by a third leg pinch.

  The Place Where Death Crosses seemed endless, extending to a far wall. Harris hoped it wasn’t a dead-end. More tludachi joined the ruckus, the floor vibrating with their wrath. Their stench far exceeded Yustichisqua’s charpgris splashes. The planking buckled and rose under the beasts’ power.

  “They will break through, oginali,”

  “How can they? It’s kaybar. I thought kaybar kept everything at bay except Cetrone.”

  “But the seams are separating.”

  So they were, and between them, a paw slapped topside. Harris leaped over it. Little Bird hesitated, turning to retreat.

  “Jump it,” Harris barked. “Jump it now.”

  Little Bird hopped over the swiping paw. The beast’s anger flared more, now that its quarry evaded him. Harris jogged, tough in this get-up. Yustichisqua plodded behind him. The end was in sight, but another seam opened, wider than the first. A tludachi head popped up, its saber teeth bristling in the rain.

  “Shit,” Harris said, stopping short, barring Yustichisqua’s progress. “Perhaps Melonius’ statement’ll come true.”

  The paw swiped at them, but poor purchase and the beast’s weight dragged it back into the pit.

  “Now,” Harris shouted. “Jump now.”

  He pitched forward, pulling Little Bird, the zulu sacks rattling. Leaping the gap could prove fatal, because the cargo weighed them down. They leaped, hitting the other side like two tumbleweeds, rolling to the plank’s end.

  “Help, oginali.”

  Little Bird’s leg straddled the kaybar. It plunged through, borabas and all. Harris grabbed him, risking a trip himself, but he was well grounded. He took Little Bird into his arms and fell backward, ripping Yustichisqua’s leg out of the pit. They both panted in the rain as the tludachi tried unsuccessfully to break out. The ruckus was menacing, but the beasts fell into angry fighting, which promised to thin their population by one.

  “Are you alright?” Harris asked.

  “I shat on my extra leg, perhaps.”

  Harris laughed, but knew they had to get going.

  “Well, with the stinks around here, I won’t notice it.”

  He helped Yustichisqua up.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.

  “But we will need to cross it again when we leave, oginali.”

  “Always a source of cheer, you are. Which way now?”

  The wall was not a dead-end, but forced them to choose — a dilemma in the true sense of the word.

  “The mordanka is that way,” Little Bird said, pointing left.

  “We’re not going to the mordanka.”

  “Then we shall go the other way.”

  Yustichisqua turned right, leading Harris into the heart of the Kalugu.

  2

  The way narrowed — dark — the street crooked — the houses, hovels. The rain didn’t improve their appearance. The lightning highlighted the disrepair. Harris sighed at the sight.

  How can anyone live here?

  Yustichisqua shuffled. Along w
alls and in niches, Cetrone sat, inert as if dead. Harris thought they might be dead, but the occasional twitch and pipe glow told him this the living suffering. The tangle of streets cut through vacant lots where Cetrone slept. Women suckled babies unsheltered from the elements. Children sat, wide-eyed and big bellied, too weak to beg for whatever these Augustii travelers carried in the korinkles.

  “Little Bird,” Harris whispered, as if in a morgue. “What is this place?”

  “The Banetuckle, oginali — the Place of Desperation.”

  “Little Bird,” Harris whispered again. “Why are they outside in this weather?”

  “It does not matter, oginali. Most places are infested with morggus and bettlebuds. Not good for eating. The rain soothes the bites.”

  “They look so forlorn — dreamy.”

  “It is the sqwallen. The regulati administer a dose twice a day to keep order here, now that these Cetrone have left the yehu — the clan districts.”

  “Barbaric.”

  Harris noticed the waifs went barefoot.

  “I thought wearing zulus was the law.”

  “These Cetrone have sold their zulus to pay for sqwallen.”

  “Pay for it?”

  “Yes.” Yustichisqua gazed into Harris’ eyes. “These people have lost gollywi support and shelter. They come here to die. Without zulus, they cannot leave the Kalugu. Without zulus, they violate the regulations. They will be taken to the Porias or suffer in the reaptide.”

  Harris stared at the dismal lot — helpless souls, crawling if not sleeping. People without hope, waiting for . . . for what? The Porias? The reaptide, whatever that could be?

  “The Yunockers can’t be such bastards,” he muttered.

  “They are the enemy. They are the conquerors. It is expensive to transport all the Banetuckle to the Porias and set their bones on fire. The zugginaks will pass this way and feed on the living. The already dead will feed the tludachi.”

  Harris clenched his fists. He stared at faces as they passed. An old man drooled into his beard, his headband buckled by the rain. His woman might have been dead, her eyes closed, her old breasts sagging beneath her buckskins, but she hiccupped, showing the rag-tag vestiges of life, such as it was.

  A young man squatted, his fingers in a bowl of gruel — sqwallen, his eyes flashing at his neighbors, fearing they might ask him to share it. Most were too weak to stir, but upon seeing the Augustii spinctae, the man clutched the bowl to his shallow chest and spit as a warning.

  A child sat in a puddle, naked and drenched. He splashed his feet, looking for his toes. His belly bulged, but he appeared bright enough. Harris thought to take him in his arms and give him shelter. But could he sweep all the children under the Augustii’s cloak? Could he save them from the death, which already crept here?

  A young woman chatted to the night, a furtive conversation with the thunder. When Harris passed, she stopped, staring at him accusingly, as if she hated all foreigners, especially interlopers from the Byybykyyip. She gnashed her teeth, and then stuck out her tongue. Harris turned to Little Bird.

  “Take me away from this.”

  “We are almost there, oginali.”

  Harris hurried into the next alley — another horror scene, where several men fought for the attentions of a girl, who didn’t seem to care who won her. She flirted, raising her buckskins, showing her lopsided breasts. Her belly was scarred, raising her audience’s temperament. She ran in a circle, two geezers trying to catch her, stepping over human debris — the already dead or dying.

  Harris pushed Little Bird forward. He prayed the next turn would take him away from these sights. It did not.

  Shadows mulled aimlessly, hundreds searching for nothing — empty beings treading in the driving rain, moaning vacant words. Harris couldn’t comprehend them. Zombie. Only these forms were still living. He halted, but Little Bird proceeded.

  How can he walk among them?

  Harris’ breath hitched. He trembled and began to weep. Still, he pushed his way forward, lost souls easily swept aside with a brush from his cloak. The street seemed endless. The gutters spilt refuse. The pavement crept with depravity. A picture of Hell, only it wasn’t a picture.

  “When?” he whispered to Yustichisqua.

  “We are near, oginali.”

  They turned a corner and, as if a boundary had been crossed, the street was quiet and empty, except a few Cetrone, who roved on zulus between houses. The dwellings didn’t improve, but the district kept their horrors indoors.

  Harris hastened to Yustichisqua’s side.

  “Where are we now?” he stammered.

  “The district of the chisqua clan. My clan. Near the chisqua yehu — the bird clan house.”

  “Then let’s get there, before . . . before . . .”

  Harris shook, his head swimming. The tears gushed now. He sobbed, and drifted to the street’s edge, sitting in a heap, the cloak clustered about his cowl, the sack sinking to the ground.

  “Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, coming to him, holding his hand. “I am sorry this makes you sad, but it is in this sadness you know the truth.”

  “I’d rather have the lie, old man.”

  Harris rocked, gasping for air. The world was gone — all worlds were gone, both inner and outer. The actor had fled. The heart bled. If he never saw another soul, he could not forget the Banetuckle of the Kalugu. He squeezed the rain and looked to the lightning. He roared like a tludachi.

  “Bring me back the lie, Yustichisqua,” he shouted. “I should’ve never come here. I should’ve left the treaty intact.”

  Little Bird took him into his arms.

  “No, oginali. Your eyes are the ones that see, while all others are blind. You are the new dawn. You were my new dawn, and so shall it be for all who come to know you.”

  Harris wrapped his arms about this friend of friends, rocking him until he recalled they sat in a torrent with an unfulfilled mission.

  3

  Harris tried to block these horrors from his mind, but how could he? Had the secret of the Kalugu been revealed to be a graveyard unlike any other? He quivered to think on it. He had little time to ponder, because Yustichisqua marched steadily onward through several lanes and streets lined by a labyrinth of shattered hovels. Few Cetrone were abroad in this neighborhood. The sack seemed heavier as if the zulus had become lodestones, each able to redeem a life.

  Yustichisqua halted, turning toward an ancient hovel — a black house with a wide front. Through display windows, Harris saw dim light, most likely waddly wazzoos.

  “This is the place, oginali. This is the chisqua yehu — the bird clan house.”

  “It doesn’t look promising,” Harris remarked. “Has it always been so gloomy?”

  “It is the best way to hide secrets — to blend into the surroundings.” He raised his hand to the rain, catching the drops and bringing the moisture to his lips. “My clan’s heart is kept within, although we must take care. The regulati come at reaptide.”

  Harris didn’t ask. Reaptide sounded ominous and he had his fill of ominous for the night. Yustichisqua peered through the window. Then he opened the door — made of phitron to prevent easy passage. He held it for Harris, who crossed the threshold. Harris’ first instinct was to let his cowl slip, but when he reached for it, Yustichisqua grunted.

  “Not yet, oginali.”

  Harris moved forward into a wide hall arrayed with mats and low beds — a hospital, perhaps. Most were occupied by sleeping Cetrone. Beside some were waddly wazzoos, dimly burning. Most wore zulus, powered down, clamped from heel to toe. Beside all were bowls of vicious gruel — sqwallen.

  “Is this a dormitory?” he whispered.

  “It is a den,” Little Bird replied.

  A sqwallen den.

  These slumberers were lost in a numb world. Some snored, while others stirred lightly. A few mumbled, and then one sat up. Harris paused. This one stared blankly at the intruders, then reached for his bowl, spooned some gray slime to
his lips, swallowed, and, after a few grumbles, returned to his dream state.

  “I don’t understand,” Harris said.

  “The clan administers daily doses, in comfort and at a discount.”

  Harris shook his head.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Not so loud,” Yustichisqua warned.

  “Why? They’re all asleep.”