“Lord Belmundus,” Littafulchee said. “Follow us to the sustiya — a place of safety.”
The klaxon unnerved Harris, but more so the barks — the zugginaks, and the screams of those caught in their jaws. He glanced at the terror flooding Yustichisqua’s face. No question hesitating now. To the sustiya they would go, and hide and wait for the passing of reaptide.
Chapter Six
Reaptide
1
What Harris could not see, he certainly could imagine. The klaxon couldn’t drown the agony beyond the yehu walls. The regulati shouted commands above wailing women and pleading men. This didn’t appear to be willing sacrifices for a promised uprising. Barbarity raised its head beneath the zugginak’s barking and the tludachi’s roar. Harris wondered what he would see when he wended his way through the Banetuckle to the Deetsaneeli and the Gulliwailit Bridge. Straddling the Kalugu walls seemed the better option to escape, now that he had shucked his Augustii disguise.
Littafulchee held his hand as she floated ahead, her waddly wazzoo lighting the course like fairy dust through the yehu’s gloomy corridors and rain-drenched courtyards. With each courtyard, the sounds of reaptide intensified horribly. Harris heard breaking glass and the sizzle of Sticks firing. Resisters? How could the sqwallen-addled Cetrone resist such wanton slaughter? Or was mercy afoot in the Kalugu?
Yustichisqua wept, not from cowardice, but from a deep remembrance. He had lived here. Death’s raging swarm was as natural to him as caring for his rope lamp. Perhaps reaptide laid heavier on his mind now that he was sqwallen-free and exposed to freedom’s light.
Harris touched Little Bird’s shoulder.
“I shall be fine, oginali. I recall my brother, lost at reaptide.”
How sad.
“Come quickly,” Littafulchee insisted. “We near the sustiya.”
“It is just ahead,” Cosawta boomed, pushing Tomatly, the diminutive Cetrone propelled on his zulus, his waddly wazzoo waving in the breeze.
The last courtyard ended in a narrow alley. Drenched walls cascaded in a waterfall overflowing the gutters. Thunder cracked. Lightning flashed. A strange building appeared ahead — gumdrop-shaped with no visible door. But when Harris reached it, he found the entrance down a short flight and over a causeway. The outside deceived, because inside it was large, rotund and receded deep into a cistern spun to a spiraling causeway, funneling into an abyss.
Littafulchee and Tomatly’s zulus wisked down the causeway. Harris and Yustichisqua’s heavy phitron footsteps clanked beneath their borabas.
“You could wake the Zinbear with those boots,” Cosawta quipped, laughing, his own tread heavy, but silent. “Garan’s resourcefulness reflects in your gear, Lord Belmundus. Your squire pounds away like a Dodingdaten Fumarca.”
“I am no such thing,” Little Bird protested. “I am the Taleenay.”
“And so the Book of Light shall record for future generations of Cetrone,” Cosawta said.
Harris found this banter uneasy, the klaxon still raging above the storm — the massacre relentlessly beyond his sight.
“How can you bear it?” he asked Littafulchee. “The reaptide?”
“How can you say I do?” she replied. “To dwell in the Kalugu is not to dwell at all, Lord Belmundus. You may think me callous to their plight, but it is my plight also. No Cetrone has gone untouched by the regulati and their expedient means. If we had been the conquerors, our hearts would have been sensitive to the vanquished. There would be no reaptide and never the yuluyi — the weeping road.”
Harris recalled Yustichisqua’s sad song about the trail of tears, which forced the Cetrone from their homes in Montjoy across the Forling to the Spice Mountains. He heard Little Bird’s furtive weeping now, even as the Taleenay stomped down the gangway into the the sustiya’s bowels.
“I don’t know what to think,” Harris said. “There’s been travail in my world too, although it never touched me directly. In my country, there’s diversity — many suffer, while many others thrive. But we do it by our own management. We’re dealt the cards and play them to our best abilities. I must admit, we often forget we’re privileged among the races. In my world, there’s more yearning than aspiration — more blind eyes turned from the realities that undo us.”
Littafulchee paused, hovering. She studied Harris like a schoolmarm inspecting a fresh candidate.
“Do not turn a blind eye to the reaptide,” she said. “Listen to the klaxon, but also hear your Taleenay’s sobbing.”
Harris didn’t know how to respond. Was he chastised? Did this stern Cetrone lady scorned all other worlds? How could she and still remain beyond self-indictment? As Littafulchee continued down the gangway, Harris glanced at Yustichisqua, who sniffled, but otherwise stood tall.
“I am fine, oginali,” he said. “I was just recalling another reaptide — the one that took my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” Harris whispered.
“Do not be so,” Little Bird sighed. “She was not in the Banetuckle, and was sqwallen-free. She rushed into the street because I was abroad and she would have me safe. But I had already found my way into the yehu, only she did not know it. The doors were locked to her and she could not come in for safety.” He choked, his eyes batting away tears. “As I watched through the window, the zugginaks took her. She died on their first bite, so suffered little. I suffered more.”
Harris touched Yustichisqua’s shoulder to ease the pain, a modest gesture, which went far to soothe him. Harris thought of his own mother — a lady who would run into the jaws of Pit Bulls and Dobermans to keep him safe. It was a difficult image to encompass, so he shook his head and hastened on his course.
2
In the sustiya’s deepest haunt, the klaxon was finally muffled, the barking hushed. The storm, still heard, reflected lightning through the gumdrop roof down the shaft to the floor. These flashes revealed a treasure warehouse covered in the gossamer cloth, which most Cetrone used to weave their underwear.
Cosawta halted, raising his arms over the vast trove.
“The destination for the trade,” he announced. “Your efforts are heaped beneath these rugs, Lord Belmundus.” He reached for one, pulling it aside grandly. “Aniniya.” He pulled another. “Aniniya.” And another. “Everywhere, Aniniya.”
Yustichisqua danced about the skirts. He beamed, his tears having abated.
“We could take on Tarhippus himself with so much aniniya,” he declared with uncustomary brashness.
“But it must be fitted into Sticks first,” Tomatly twittered. He pointed to other piles — crafted wooden rods and metal rings. “It is not easy to fit them.”
Harris stared at the stockpile, moving closer for a better look, but when he came to the skirt, his brooch shone its brightest blue. He grasped it, and then noticed his sword flickered as if joining in an elemental convocation.
“What the fuck?” he said, turning to Littafulchee apologetically. She wasn’t fazed.
“Fuck, you say,” Cosawta said, roaring. “I agree.” He dared to touch Harris’ Columbincus. “This is the stuff of gods and Electors.”
“I am no god,” Harris said quickly. “I’m just a stranger tossed into Farn by the sex kitten from hell.”
Cosawta winked.
“Do not be so harsh upon your Scepta,” he said. “She is compelled by law to exhibit her abilities in your unsuspecting world. Many others would regard you as a lucky sonofabitch to spend many weeks playing between Charminus’ legs.”
“Brother,” Littafulchee snapped. “You forget yourself. Recall that when Lord Belmundus and Lord Tappiolus perform their consort duties, I am present — serving and waiting. I must pretend it does not happen.”
“Well, sister, you cannot be titillated by the sight, but Yustichisqua has a prime seat for it.” He laughed, and then patted Little Bird’s back. “Eh, Yustichisqua?”
“I scarcely notice,” Little Bird replied.
“Is there something wrong with you?” Cosawta asked.
�
��Nothing,” Little Bird said, pawing the aniniya. “It is my oginali’s occupation. He must do it as he is a consort. I am there to keep him clean and revive him after the act.”
“Revive him?”
Harris pushed Cosawta’s hand off the brooch.
“Please,” he said. “I never remember my . . . my encounters with Charminus. She flashes her ring and, the next thing I know, Little Bird is beside me, waking me and feeding me my favorite shit from the Scullery Dorgan. It’s like . . . how can I say it?”
“It is like consuming sqwallen,” Littafulchee said.
That was it — nail hit on the head. The ring and Corzanthe combination kept him attentive to Charminus. He was no more than a dildo, and his batteries were low, because all his urges were spent. However, he was uncomfortable talking about this in current company — company who was present when he went between Charminus’ legs. It was tasteless to discuss such things during the current carnage devastating the Banetuckle.
“Enough,” he said. “Why has my Columbincus come alive? Why does my sword flicker?”
“And my dagger?” Yustichisqua added.
Littafulchee dared touch the brooch also, but unlike Cosawta’s corsair slap, her touch caressed, the light dancing between her fingers.
“The Columbincus awakes because your heart does, Lord Belmundus. The power is not in the stone, but inside you. That is why we can chance the regulati trade for small amounts of Columbincus without much fear. Their spirit is hollow and, except powering a few weapons, they cannot extend their souls to find the true measure.”
“And I can?” Harris asked.
“You have,” she said, her hand wandering to his chest. “You have the spark within you. It is the spark which makes you Ayelli. Charminus drew you from many, because she harvests only men who have the spark.”
“But . . .”
Littafulchee lowered her eyes, and removed her hand. She clasped them about her waddly wazzoo, which brightened.
“You have power, Lord Belmundus,” she said. “How much power is to be revealed, but you must trust your instincts. The Yodanado are correct. I would not think it, but I trust them. You have power.”
Cosawta roared.
“You light our world,” he shouted. “You can light up this whole fucking pile of aniniya.”
“Only,” Littafulchee whispered, “you must learn how to do it.”
3
Harris turned aside, this woman’s words alluring — his passions stirred.
“And yet you can let your people fall into zugginak jaws,” he said.
“It is not I who do it, Lord Belmundus,” she explained softly. “The reaptide has been with us since the defeat times — since the regulati rebuilt the Kalugu, turning it into the place of confinement. I do not do these things. Until there is change, I must accept it as the way.”
Harris walked across the aniniya, his Columbincus flickering. His sword answered it, so Harris drew it. It was a beautiful thing. He had failed to notice it before. He had many prop blades in his career — some weighted fine for use, while others showpieces studded with a gallery of sham gems. This sword was simple — sleek and scantily decorated. But its blade shimmered, alternating between blue and silver. Its glow strengthened. The question wasn’t why it glowed, but how he caused it to glow.
“Is this a brashun blade?” he asked Cosawta. “Does that mean I’ll win when I tangle with General Tarhippus?”
“Do not press your luck,” Cosawta replied. “Unless you have the discipline, a flashing weapon will only serve to light the way to your destruction. But, when mastered, you could vanquish a squad of Yunockers with a single thrust.”
Harris balanced the weapon, and grinned.
“Who can teach me?” he mumbled.
“Now there is a question. You cannot throw shit against the wind and expect it to come back as sweet mollicop.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Cosawta said, grasping Harris’ wrist, forcing the sword back into its scabbard. “It means, only an Elector can teach you the full mastery of this sword.”
“I don’t think Kuriakis is likely to do that.”
“I do not know, but I believe you are correct.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Cosawta laughed. He strode over the aniniya, reaching the top of the pile. There he stood, fists balled and handled to his waist.
“Have some vision, Lord Belmundus.” He swept his hand across the stockpile. “If you stood at the front of a thousand Cetrone with your sword ablaze, they would not ask you to perform miracles. They would follow you and assume a man who had such power did not need to flaunt it.” He grinned. “Look at me. Am I a sight for anyone to behold? The regulati address me with respect and not for any secret weapon, but for my appearance, my arrogance and my muscles. I fly a ferry. They need Columbincus. I can navigate across the Forling to Cetronia and the Dodingdaten.”
Suddenly, he glanced into the darkness, his eyes wide — his lips quivering.
“There is a place beyond this hell, Lord Belmundus, where the air is touched with the scent of cinnamon. The waters flow clear and the rills shine with gemstones. It is the place of the mountain meadow’s shade.” He sighed. “And I, Cosawta of the Zacker, take wing in my ferry and carry the contraband across the dunes to the homeland.” He turned. “Of course, it is not really the homeland. This is our home, now beshatted with Yunockers and every fucking foreigner who drifts in for profit. Do not think the shit of a million tludachi is less sweet than one fucking Yunocker who turns his head in disdain and calls to the hellhounds to eat our flesh — to scourge our hearts.” He raised his arms, his fists clenched to the lightning. “We are the defeated and yet they did not defeat us. We are destined to rise again and slay the darkness and, if these Yunockers and the spawn of Electors come between us and our destiny, so be it. They shall know a worse reaptide. And you shall bring it to them, Lord Belmundus.”
Harris backed away. Cosawta’s ethereal recall of traveling over the desert in a balloon to a fairytale kingdom now had transformed into a vision of Armageddon. It unsettled Harris. Yustichisqua and Tomatly looked at the ferryman with admiration. Littafulchee stood supportive, but tense, as if engaged in some pledge of allegiance. However, she broke the moment.
“Lord Belmundus,” she said. “Your sword is an alloy of Farn’s most powerful metals.”
Harris unsheathed the sword and regarded it again. It still flickered. Little Bird stared at his dagger also. It seemed to be having a conversation with its bigger brother.
“It is aniniya,” Harris replied, as if Littafulchee’s statement was a quiz.
“Yes,” she said. “Aniniya and . . .”
“Columbincus,” he said.
“Exactly so,” Cosawta echoed, hopping from his summit. “You should name the fucking thing.”
“Name it?” Harris asked. “You mean like Excalibur or Sting?”
“Name it what you will, because it will be your companion.”
Harris grinned, brandishing it in his hand. If this was a prop, he’d be thanking a craftsman from the art department, but the person owed thanks for this beauty probably didn’t need the thanks. The Elector’s Gift, he thought, but that was presumption. Then it came to him in a flash.
“Tony,” he said. “I’ll call it Tony.”
“Tony, oginali?” Little Bird asked. “What does this word mean?”
“It’s a name — short for Anthony.”
“Tony?” Cosawta said.
“You would’ve liked him,” Harris replied. “Full of F-words, like you.”
“With daring, I would hope.”
“Buck naked forceful brass balls — that’s Tony to a T.”
“Tony, it shall be,” Littafulchee said.
Harris turned to Yustichisqua.
“Name your dagger, old man.”
“Name it?”
“Of course. If you’re going to stand behind me and watch my back, I�
��d like to know I’m protected by a noble blade with a snappy name.”
Little Bird grinned, pondering.
“Gasohisgi," he said. “It means — I got your back.”
Harris laughed.
“Gaso . . . whatever. You most certainly do.”
4
The klaxon sounded again — distant, but distinct.
“It is over,” Littafulchee said.
“It is over. It is over,” Tomatly squeaked, dancing about on his zulus.
“Thank God,” Harris replied.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 43