Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Much to do?” he asked. “And I do it, freely and often.”

  She laughed, her breasts heaving for more of that doing. However, as unsated as Lord and Lady were, they knew time was not theirs to bid. She grasped him for one last embrace, and then gently pushed him aside. He rolled, his hand still seeking hers — their fingers entwined as only lovers can know.

  “I shall stay here forever, and nothing you can do will force me from your side,” he declared.

  “You might think it, my lord,” she replied. “But the plan will not do its own bidding. You lead us now.”

  This was true. Cosawta was departing for the Kalugu, the Gananadana outfitted for the long haul across the Forling. Two hurdles delayed the invasion. The continuance of yichiyusti and the completion of the new sillifoons and the branchy-wanchie system. The green sky was regarded as an ill omen and, as Enitachopco stated, I shall not take advantage of Kuriakis while he stirs. So it was decreed, the military mission would wait until the sky turned fair. There was still much to do — training, strategizing, amassing supplies, but also a need to reconnoiter Montjoy and, in particular, the Kalugu.

  “I have been absent too long,” Cosawta had announced at a planning meeting. “The Yunockers of the mordanka are accustomed to my contraband runs and will grow suspicious if I delay further. I fear their fucking curiosity might be piqued already, so long I have been gone.”

  Harris was not prepared for this. He assumed the invasion would be led by the Seneschal — Cetronia’s natural leader, after the Elector. But Cosawta tinkered with the new vehicles and weaponry, ignoring Harris’ entreaty to stay and lead.

  “You are capable of the task, great Sisterfucker. You and your Taleenay.”

  Yustichisqua had been embraced by the seegoniga clan and had been counseled in new responsibilities. Little Bird threw caution to the wind and agreed to every task and mission bestowed on him. But he also complained, wanting to spend more time with Wanona. He also missed his constant commiseration with Lord Belmundus. Harris missed his companion, but this was the plan for Yustichisqua. Maturity. Reliance. Self-confidence and a married life — a different and more pleasant form of servitude. Still, Little Bird complained to his former overlord often.

  “Oginali,” he said. “I fear my squadrons will not follow me.”

  Harris scanned the Taleenay, who wore a new asano, a royal blue cape and a breastplate of conontoroy — a true martial figure. Who wouldn’t follow this uniform?

  “You were born to it, old man,” Harris said.

  “Maybe so, but I am more at ease fetching dinner from the Scullery Dorgan.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Harris placed his arm around Yustichisqua’s shoulder. “You’re just untethered, that’s all. You’re not used to married life and having a household.”

  “I suppose you are correct, Dinatli.” He grinned at the new term. “I am not a warrior, but I am true to my new clan. They say I must wield gasohisgi and lead the Cetrone into battle.” He chuckled. “I wear two gollywi and must now have the bravery for two clans. Yet, I am just learning the ways of blundaboomers and wadi-wadi. I am unsure when I steer a Seecoy.”

  Everyone had a learning curve when it came to Culpeeper inventions. Harris took to it like a duck to minnows, but Yustichisqua preferred a close-in fight. Artillery and tricky strategems were hard for him to embrace. Still, he had more skill than the average Cetrone digger, weaver or baker, who needed to apply themselves to weaponry they scarcely could have imagined.

  “You’re doing fine,” Harris said. “Besides, let the Fumarca do their jobs. We pay them enough.”

  True. As the hardware was delivered and assembled in Echota and, after the initial gawking and exploration of the new-fangled material by the citizenry, a contingent of Fumarca streamed in from the Dodingdaten and Comastee, their assignment to train byudra diggers and adanadasga workers to drive Seecoys and Loribringus — to fire blundaboomers and i-nu wadi and to operate the sillifoons, when on line. The Fumarca were a rowdy bunch amidst more settled folk and many Cetrone had to grow accustomed to discipline. Cosawta set the tone, moving amongst them, shouting orders and attending to their uniforms — drilling the squad leaders until they dropped and teaching them gruff orders dotted with colorful adjectives meant to shock new troops. By the time Cosawta neared departure, a cadre of cursing, barking, sneering sergeants and corporals littered the Cetronian training grounds.

  As Harris wandered the halls of the seegoniga clan house, having left his wife’s bed reluctantly, he mused on the one controversy this mobilization brought and, upon thinking about it, reached into his asano and pulled one out — the sillifoon.

  2

  Harris saw no point in Cosawta’s journey to the Kalugu to spy unless he had a ready means of reporting his findings to Cetronia. Messages in a bottle were out. So a delaying point was the completion of useable, long-distance sillifoons. A working model had been presented to Harris within two weeks of his return from Comastee.

  “Better range,” Moe Culpeeper stated emphatically, popping a hood-like extension from the back of the device. “And when the branchy-wanchie is up, you can speak to the Queen ‘neath London Bridge.”

  “You know . . .” Harris said, taking the device. He meant to say that London Bridge was in Arizona, but decided a discussion of its sale and removal would be a wasted tangent on an early twentieth-century Australian. So he weighed the sillifoon in his palm, and grinned with satisfaction. “This might be the ticket.”

  It would have been the ticket, except for the branchy-wanchie. A Fumarcan team of ten arrived from the Dodingdaten. They had been contracted to drape Echota in cable and antennae. The work began without problems, drawing only curiosity from every clan, and expected amusement from the children until Nayowee saw the work.

  “Do not mar these sacred trees,” she barked, waving her cane, and then beating ladders and hoists. “Never shall our city be marred by such damnation.”

  Although the workers continued, they found spectator’s curiosity growing hostile, bands of detractors chanting beneath the project. Harris marched to the site, dispersing the crowd, but he was scant deterrent for Nayowee.

  “You may conduct your aggression as you will, Lord Belmundus,” Nayowee snapped. “But remember who healed you and who has the power to bring you down.”

  Harris bowed to the ranting woman, but drew Hierarchus and touched his Columbincus.

  “This is not the business of the asi-asa, Nayowee. This is a necessary step to the Elector’s plans and the Seneschal’s mission.”

  Nayowee raised her cane as if to duel with her former patient. Yustichisqua arrived with a squad of newly minted chisqua and tlugu soldiers. He positioned them between Nayowee and Harris.

  “Ah,” Nayowee cackled. “The Little Bird has a new beak and will attempt to peck at his betters.”

  She laughed, but continued to threaten.

  “Old woman,” Yustichisqua said, his sternness never daunted. “You and I know each other, so do not try my anger. It is real when unsheathed.”

  “I suggest you unsheath your gugubasgi and rejoin your asgay in the nest,” she snapped. “I am too much woman for you.”

  Yustichisqua drew gasohisgi. Harris came between Little Bird and the old healer — between brashun blade and power cane. The soldiers fidgeted, the extent of their training to date.

  “Please,” Harris said, touching the point of gasohisgi and the tip of the cane. “We prepare for the liberation. Don’t either of you forget it.”

  Yustichisqua sheathed his dagger, and then bowed.

  “I am sorry, Dinatli.”

  “I am not,” Nayowee snapped, but lowered her cane.

  “Is there . . .” Harris cocked his head, staring at the old woman. “Is there a way we can proceed and still preserve the sanctity of these groves?”

  Nayowee snorted, but did not howl. She turned about, looking upward at the workers, who were frozen to their hoists and ladders.

  “What need do
you have of these bastards from the black shores?” She came close to Harris. “Their conontoroy and yustunalla will make the trees cry to the spirits and bring us dread and disaster. How can you succeed if you poison these groves?”

  “Perhaps we could protect the boughs with . . . with one of your concoctions.”

  “I have no such thing.”

  “I do,” came a voice in the crowd.

  A swarthy Cetrone stepped forward, dressed in the Zecronisian robes of the Wudayleegu. Yustichisqua balked. Harris raised his arms in welcome.

  “Garan,” he stammered.

  Garan the Gucheeda bowed, first to Harris and then to Nayowee.

  “I can procure barrels of jupsim,” he said. “It is made from the blood of these trees and will fare happily with their kin.”

  This was a lie and even Harris knew it. Even so, Nayowee pondered it.

  “It might be so,” she mused. She turned away, shaking her head, but retreating. “It might be so,” she repeated until she was far from sight.

  Garan bowed again to Harris.

  “Lord Belmundus,” he said. “You have become a great power in the land.” He then acknowledged Yustichisqua. “And Captain, you cut a fine figure before your squadrons. If I were a Yunocker devil, I would crap my asano at your sight.”

  Yustichisqua chuckled nervously.

  “You do me honor, sir.”

  “I am only the Gucheeda, come to make deals with these.” He pointed into the trees at the Fumarcans, who resumed their work. “I am always ready with my hand extended for a fistful of yedalas.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have some wisgi, would you?” Harris asked.

  “I might have a bottle or two at my disposal.”

  “Well, I can afford your price.”

  “Are you sure?”

  3

  Garan had come to the Dodingdaten by sea, in his grand caravel, Ponsetossit, moored in Brega Bay. When he heard the Fumarcan gossip about a great Ayelli lord who carried two brashun blades and a double Columbincus, he knew without doubt who had prospered in Cetronia. So he traveled inland to the border, and then to Comastee, where he witnessed the great stir of industry — weapons and vehicles on the move. He hitched a ride with his old trading partners, the Culpeeper brothers and had just arrived in Echota when Nayowee’s diatribe reached its height.

  “Good timing,” he said, raising a wisgi flask, toasting Harris.

  They had retreated with Yustichisqua to Harris’ suite, where Littafulchee called for selu gadu and segasti cakes. However, she wasn’t very hospitable. Harris wasn’t sure if Garan presented a thorn in the clan’s side. He was Cetrone and belonged nominally to the alisoqua clan. Still, he was as Fumarcan as could be. All Echota knew Garan, but few spoke well of him. Perhaps it was his ostentatious dress and his rugged manners.

  “Tell me, friend,” Harris asked. “How is Elypticus?”

  “He is on Borsa-pu, the fifth island in the Makronican Archipelago.”

  “He’s settled then?”

  “Hardly,” Garan sighed. “He longs for Montjoy. He misses his companions and . . . and I believe he misses you, my lord.”

  “Me?”

  “He is faithful.”

  “That he was.”

  “Is faithful, my lord.” Garan poured more wisgi, even for Littafulchee, who had extended a clean cup forward. “If Elypticus could, he would have journeyed with me to the Dodingdaten, but he has a good head for business.”

  “That would have suited him then,” Harris noted.

  “It would, but . . .” Garan downed his liquor. “But the temptations of the port are more than he could resist. He is handy as my agent on Borsa-pu. I have tried to keep practicality alive in my enterprise.”

  “And what enterprise may that be, Gucheeda,” Littafulchee snapped. “Any Thirdling would welcome the chance to romp in the bordellos of the outlanders.”

  “Just so, my lady.”

  Harris stared at his wife, puzzled by her aggression. Was it the wisgi? Could be.

  “Forgive my asgay,” he said to Garan. “She is not accustomed to . . .”

  “To what, my lord?” Littafulchee asked, her eyes widening. “To men assessing a woman’s disposition?”

  Harris looked to Yustichisqua, who quickly drank up, and then glanced away.

  “Perhaps, that’s it,” Harris said. “My lady is a treasure beyond all accounting, but like all models of perfection, is no such thing.”

  Littafulchee slammed the cup down, and leaned into the conversation.

  “Forgive me, Gucheeda. My rudeness is perfect for my mood. My lord has been everything to me and is only now the source of annoyance, but . . .” She stood, turning away. Grief overcame her. “We must soon be parted,” she stammered.

  Harris stood, panic gripping him. What did she mean?

  “We will never be parted.”

  He grasped her shoulders.

  “Then you shall not go to war?”

  “Of course, I go. But . . .”

  “But I shall not.”

  “You can fight,” he said. “I’ve seen you.”

  But did he want his treasure placed in harm’s way? Of course, he didn’t, but he knew better than to restrain her.

  “I will not be at your side, husgi. I am forbidden.”

  “By whose command? Not the old woman?”

  “She is not warm to it, but has no say in the matter. It is my father who decrees it.”

  Harris was aghast. The company departed quickly, with promises to meet again. Littafulchee drifted toward her bed, her anger waning to sorrow. Harris pondered the impending separation. He had assumed she would be beside him in his Seecoy, her own arsenal at the ready — sillifoon in hand, contradicting his commands and throwing her share of wadi-wadi.

  “Why has your father commanded this?” he asked, sitting gently bedside. “I shall see him. Surely he can be persuaded. Surely I can persuade him.”

  “Why he has done so is . . . is for a mysterious purpose known to few.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I am not sure of it myself and so speculation would only divert you from your course.”

  Harris embraced her.

  “Divert me, my love? I’ve been diverted since the first time I set eyes on you. How can I be expected to operate with you far from my side?”

  “You must bear it, as I must.”

  “You’re not bearing it well.”

  “I am sorry to have been rude to the Gucheeda, but he is not a person of favor in our midst.”

  “But he’s been a great help. He planned my escape from the Katorias.”

  “Cosawta planned that, my love. The Gucheeda was but a means, and paid well.”

  Harris rubbed her shoulders.

  “Still, I regard him as oginali.”

  “I cannot steer you from your true feelings, and will not. But we will be parted for a time, and . . .”

  “Don’t think of it further. Don’t take it to the next level.” He kissed her, and then drank in her eyes. “If time’s not on our side now, then . . .”

  She smiled for the first time. He was out of his asano in a flash and between her breasts even faster.

  4

  Lord Belmundus could have sailed in the perfumed sheets forever, but there was much to do. Reluctantly, he joined Yustichisqua and Garan beneath the branchy-wanchie, overseeing buckets of jupsim for coating the sacred boughs. The cost in brantsgi for the extra work would come dear, but the Fumarcans did not work free. The citizens of the Dodingdaten were not mercenaries and would not be racing across the Forling to fight in bloody battles. Although the defeat of Montjoy, whose leadership did not particularly favor the Fumarcans and the other outland denizens, would benefit from the business. There would always be shady deals and back alley barters among the various Farn constituencies. With that in mind, Harris headed to the selu field — one fallow by design — one designated for weapons training.

  “Proving grounds,” he told Yustichisqua.
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  “I am astonished, oginali.”

  “At what?”

  “I am astonished the old woman has not complained about this place, which will most likely never sprout another stalk. Instead she raves over a few sacred boughs near the plaza.”