Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “It is the difference between past and future,” Garan explained. “The trees have stood unblemished since Cetrone arrival here. A fallow field beckons a future crop. The old healer does not look forward. She relies on the past for her power. The future can defend itself when and if it arrives.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Yustichisqua said.

  The Culpeeper brothers stood at the edge of the firing range, their field glasses peering at the results of the morning training initiative. A line of twelve chisqua clansmen stood, legs spread and anchored to a trench line. At the far end of the field, a cluster of geetli clansmen stood draped in conontoroy armor. Harris held his right hand high, Hierarchus sending up a beam.

  “Hold your fire,” he shouted, and then turned to Moe Culpeeper. “How’s it going?”

  “Their aim is a bit flippant, but with gingergust, it makes no never mind.”

  “And what’s the rate down at the plate?” Harris asked Larry.

  “They’re shy still and might need an arse reamer.”

  “Can I assist in that?”

  “You’ll be the ticket, Lord Belmundus,” Moe replied.

  Both brothers shook their heads, encouraging Harris to take a stance. He looked to Garan.

  “Warriors aren’t born, my friend,” Harris said. “I never expected farmers and basket weavers to master the art of war.”

  “Like actors do?” Garan quipped.

  “Some acting is in order,” he replied. “Yustichisqua.”

  “Yes, oginali.”

  “Let’s give them a demonstration.”

  Harris approached a young chisqua soldier and snapped his blundaboomer from his hands.

  “Easy now,” Harris said. “You don’t need precision in this game. You just need to discharge the stuff and be ready to fire again in eighty seconds. Can you do that?”

  “I think I can, sir,” the young man replied.

  “Good. Yustichisqua! Run it down.”

  Yustichisqua ran toward the target — a wall of phitron thirty yards away. The geetli cleared aside. Harris shouldered the blundaboomer, and then turned as Yustichisqua approached the wall at a full gallop. Harris raised the weapon, locked his eye into the sights and pulled the trigger. A red powdery puff — gingergust, or as the Cetrone called it, gigoo susti, the red smoke, raced across the field, striking the wall, just as Yustichisqua reached it. Little Bird penetrated it when the phitron transformed into kaybar.

  “Count it out,” Moe shouted, and the geetli began to count.

  When they reached eighty, Yustichisqua reemerged through the wall, turned and banged his fists on it.

  “Phitron again,” he shouted, and a great cheer went up.

  Adadooski.

  Arkmo.

  Harris returned the blundaboomer to the young chisqua.

  “Now that’s the way we go at it. Eighty is the count for the gigoo susti. If you blast it or throw it in wadi-wadi, an eighty count is all you have. Do you fucking understand me . . . son?”

  The young man shook his head eagerly.

  “So do it.”

  Harris jumped aside quickly, as the dozen chisqua took aim and fired their blundaboomers, a thunderous wave of gingergust whipped across the field, striking the wall. The geetli hopped through it, their counting still heard, but muffled by preoccupation. At seventy-five, a few reemerged. At seventy-eight, the rest, except three, who popped through at the eighty mark, not quite clearing the transformation.

  “Fry me arse,” Larry shouted. “There’s always one or two that need bleedin’ extrication.”

  Yustichisqua was berating the stuckees, while Larry and Moe rushed toward the targets, yelling if this were a bloody battle, you’d be as dead as me Aunt Tilde’s brassier. Harris shook his head, and then glanced at Garan.

  “You should see them drive Seecoys. It’s like bumper cars at Coney Island.”

  “I suppose that means they are inexpert at it?” Garan said.

  “Suppose it not.” Harris was suddenly demure. “But they have heart. They want to liberate their countrymen. They will die for it.”

  “At any rate,” Garan noted, “I am not the Cetrone to speak to that. I will be on my ship braving sea serpents instead.” Harris frowned. “Be not amazed, Lord Belmundus. There is a reason they call me the Gucheeda. I am no hero and have been shunned for my inaction.”

  “Yet you’re here.”

  “I came to see you, my lord.” Garan bowed. “I might be a tludachi turd for all Cetronia to spurn, but I care — even at a distance, I care.”

  Harris supposed Garan could keep his own counsel in all things. Lord Belmundus, newly indoctrinated, was not a proselytizer. Garan had done well by him. There was no need for him to go further. There were enough Cetrone patriots to die on the red sands of the Forling.

  Within a day, the branchy-wanchies were functional. Harris inspected crates of sillifoons and set about distributing this first shipment to each clan. Cosawta held classes on the device’s operation, code names and authetication. Soon the Cetrone were strutting about the streets talking to each other — walking into ditches and falling over drain covers. Infectious. Harris was amused, but knew the squadron leaders would need a strategy to communicate between the ranks. The casual glow of eased communication had to be reined and refined before the green sky mellowed — if it mellowed. However, with the sillifoon issue settled, Cosawta prepared the Gananadana to depart for Montjoy.

  “I go to see what there is to see,” Cosawta shouted in a grand speech from the gondola, Tomatly on the ropes.

  “To see! To see!”

  All Echota assembled to send the Seneschal off upon the great mission, including Enitachopco and his brothers. Only Littafulchee did not come and Harris wondered why. She had prepared to come, but was unusually sad by her brother’s departure. Nayowee showed up, standing near the gondola, scowling.

  “I go to see what there is to see,” Cosawta announced, waving his sillifoon high. “And I will tell you of it using my sillifoon — God-speaker.”

  “God-speaker?” Nayowee shouted, and then turned to the crowd. “Believe it not,” she croaked. “He will be speaking to the sacred trees and they will be speaking to you. But be on your best behavior, because if you anger the trees, they will swallow the words and be mute.” She laughed. “The trees hold your destiny.”

  “The trees! The trees!”

  “So be it,” Cosawta said. “I can think of worse intercessors than these trees.”

  “So can I,” Enitachopco said, raising his pipe.

  His brothers did the same.

  “The trees are friendly,” Elejoy noted.

  “The news will be favorable,” Coweeshee added.

  “Who cares about the trees?” Tucharechee snapped. He gazed down at Nayowee, who cowered. “I care more for the sky and Kuriakis’ mood. Nephew,” he shouted. “Knock on the Elector of Montjoy’s silver door and tell him to wipe his ass and be about his normal business so we may blast away his walls and liberate our people.”

  A great cheer arose, drums beating and horns bleating.

  Adadooski.

  Arkmo.

  “I shall do it,” Cosawta shouted.

  “Do it! Do it!”

  Enitachopco blew three perfect smoke rings toward his son and raised his pipe again. The singing and the dancing commenced. The Gananadana started its journey to the Kalugu.

  5

  Littafulchee had taken to her quarters. She ate little and spoke less. Harris assumed she was still upset by her father’s refusal to let her join the impending campaign. But there was no reason which Harris could fathom which would keep her from bidding her brother farewell. Still, Harris was cautious, not wishing to brook an argument. As dour as she had turned, she was still kind to her husgi and treated him with respect. He wanted more than respect, but chalked her mood up to the anomaly of womankind — an ignorant scapegoat of a reason handy for ignorant men — a convenience of an excuse — women!

  Harris cont
inued his inspection tours, supervising supply wagons — spacious Loribringus stacked high with armaments and foodstuffs. Other Loribringus were filled with precious metals (aninya in particular), woven goods, sacks of selu and . . . women. Yes, women, because this, along with korinkle upon korinkle of yedalas was payment for goods delivered and services rendered by the Fumarcans. Their work completed, they formed convoys to cross Mount Talasee and return to the Dodingdaten and Comastee.

  Harris was loathed to see them go. He enjoyed sitting in their circles, hearing various stories and histories — how they fell through this hole or that into Farn. Some came through mountains, while others dropped in during sea tempests. A few came through the Bermuda Triangle, or at least that’s how Harris deduced it. They came on all one-way journeys with never a guarantee they would find places in the Dodingdaten. For every outlander who blew about Aolium or hot-footed it through Volcanium, dozens were lost in the pits of Terrastrium or the mists of Magus.

  Mostly Harris would miss Garan.

  “I trust we shall meet again,” the Gucheeda said on his parting evening.

  “I would hope so, sir,” Harris replied. “Battle might get me.”

  “Never you. Life in Farn is long and you are the consort to a Scepta.”

  “Two, perhaps.”

  “One,” Garan said. “That other one has no claim on you now.”

  “I suppose,” Harris said, thinking of Littafulchee’s mood. “When you see my Danuwa, tell him that he is missed.”

  “Elypticus will hear those words. They will go directly to his heart. He is a noble spirit — much beyond my poor efforts. He has a place in Farn’s story yet, if I am any judge of destiny.”

  “I sincerely hope you’re right, and . . . I thank you again for the many kindnesses and services you’ve rendered me.”

  “I shall require payment someday.”

  “No doubt.”

  Garan bowed low, and joined the convoy.

  Harris returned to the clan house with a heavy heart. He meant to divert his steps to Yustichisqua’s place to discuss strategy and peruse maps. Little Bird had a fondness for cartography and had learned battle planning from Cosawta. It was all classroom stuff, but it might prove useful.

  Suddenly, weariness overcame Lord Belmundus.

  Much to do, he thought.

  He had accomplished much already. Tomorrow would be soon enough for more. He found his way to his apartments — to his bedroom. Littafulchee was asleep. He gazed at her as she peacefully slept beneath cascades of silk sheets. He wanted to wake her and caress her and revel in her beauty, but she slept soundly and he was weary.

  “I’d be too pooped to pop,” he muttered, and then placed Friend Tony aside, unhitched his sash, Hierarchus falling to the floor. The asano and the brassets went next. He nuzzled into the bed with nothing but his Columbincus glowing. He was asleep in a flash, but he dreamed.

  The dream — powerful as dreams could be to the weary, brought him back to Charminus’ bed. Such images would stir stone to passion, but he embraced them with ardor. The Scepta was faceless — just a mass of breasts in a cloud of bedding, but he recalled the hours — the weeks imprisoned between her legs. As he trembled before the jade ring, he turned away. He was hanging aloft from the Gananadana’s gondola, overlooking a red sea of kowlinka. The porcorporians snapped, trying their best to reach him, but the Tippagore charged. A battle ensued — a crimson tide with gingergusts and explosions — wadi-wadi flying aloft, exploding near black walls. Cabriolins buzzed overhead, as did Seecoys. The air was redolent with war — choking smoke and sweet blood pouring across the Forling. Then the stream turned clear and he saw Nayowee standing beneath the Sittiquo trees, her cane pointing at him. She cackled about something, but he couldn’t hear her, so he popped open his sillifoon. So did she — remarkable that she had one. Lord Belmundus, she croaked. Listen to the trees, because they have a tale. Your tale. His lips quivered, meaning to ask her to tell him his tale quickly, but no need. She did. The walls shall fall, but so shall many and you will see the hill of the Ayelli in a different light.

  Harris listened hard, but static clutched the message and distorted it. He shouted into the sillifoon.

  Old woman, tell me now.

  But he heard the trees — a chorus of branchy-wanchies, shaking their razor leaves and shouting Adadooski. Arkmo. Hail Lord Belmundus, Boots of Montjoy.

  “Boots of Montjoy,” he murmured in his sleep.

  Then he awoke, reaching for Littafulchee. She wasn’t there. He sat bolt upright, feeling the empty spot.

  “Boots of Montjoy,” he stammered. “What a dream. Where are you? Where are you, my love? I need you.”

  He glanced toward the light — toward the window. There his wife stood, draped in a starry nightgown. She wept.

  “Littafulchee,” he called. “You’re crying. Why?”

  She turned.

  “We must be parted, husgi.”

  “Not yet. Not yet.”

  “Yes.”

  She stood aside, allowing the light to radiate across her breasts. She lifted her hand toward the window.

  “Yes, my love, we must.”

  Harris stood, reaching for Friend Tony. He pushed toward the window, and then looked out.

  “It’s come,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Kuriakis no longer stirs.”

  Chapter Two

  Like the Rolling Tide Across a Crimson Sea

  1

  Harris stared into the mirror, seeking the man who he had been — the frivolous actor, tethered to roles and junkets and scarce else. He saw him — the signature gap between his teeth. His hair had grown — shaggy even, and his stubble emerged on the warmest mornings. Still, the image looking back seemed different. Not older, nor wiser, if wisdom could be reflected. But his eyes were darker — redder, and his lips thicker.

  “I’m a star,” he muttered, and then chuckled, although on this morning he had nothing to amuse him.

  He had to take it as it came, suspecting levity would be a pint low today. Suddenly, another face appeared in the mirror — an older face, which looked much younger, although gladder than his.

  “A star,” she said.

  “Two stars,” he replied, reaching for her hand and drawing it across his chest, as naked as the rest of him.

  “Are you Solus or Dodecadatamus?” she asked.

  “Which attracts which?”

  “Who can tell when a lady is parted from her lord?”

  She kissed his neck, and then wrapped her arms about his shoulders, pulling him into her breasts.

  “I will miss you so,” he muttered.

  “Hush,” she replied. “My father has declared a day of silence in your honor. I shall follow the fold and speak no more.”

  She pressed her fingers, first to her lips and then to his. She darted away. He stood, watching her while she arranged his undergarments. This task should not be her task. He had been dressing himself, having shed the private laziness of Yustichisqua.

  Harris reached for his golden loin cloth, but Littafulchee wagged her finger. He sighed, and then assented. Her fingers prickled as she wrapped the garment about his waist and fastened the cloth about his crotch. He found it difficult to tame his baser nature. But she was quick about it. Soon she latched his conontoroy breastplate over his shoulders and shielded his chest. This was followed by his asano and cape. As she fastened the clasp about his collar, Harris grasped her wrists and drew her nearer. She allowed him one kiss before fetching his belt. On that circlet she hung Hierarchus, a Stick and a pouch containing his sillifoon. Then she lovingly affixed his waddly wazzoo to his asano, like a Scotsman wears his sporran. The brassets followed and a garter of yustunalla. He bowed his head as she crowned him with his helmet, a new tiara fashioned with three blue hollies — the crown of the seegoniga clan.

  Harris lifted his feet in turn while Littafulchee clamped on the zulus — a special pair, bejeweled and fitted for comfort over his dickey f
oot. He would not go into battle hobbling on Friend Tony. Instead, the cane would be held like a baton — a symbol of leadership. Finally, she brought him the double Columbincus. This he took himself and fastened it as he had learned, allowing the brooch to catch the light. Once in place, Littafulchee caressed it, permitting one final, parting kiss.

  Harris took her into his arms, his brass jangling for anyone who cared. He didn’t. He had much to say now, but she stilled his lips with her fingers, running them to his chin, and then to his Columbincus. Tears rolled down her cheeks. If fingers failed to leave him speechless, her tears succeeded. He turned away to hide his own, fearing they might shake him from his course. But she would never allow him to stay, and he was hardened to the commitment. He felt her fingers on his back as she affixed the last element — a korinkle filled with selu gadu and other Cetrone delicacies. Gone were the days of hard tack and mongerhide, although he liked the sausage of the Ayelli. But that seemed so long ago.