Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  Bing bong. Bing bong.

  “BeeDust here.”

  “2Gollies I be.”

  “Yes, 2Gollies, speak your mind.”

  “Isn’t it grand, oginali?” came the voice.

  “Yes, old man. All eight-thousand of them.”

  “Eight-thousand and twenty-seven.”

  Over and ouch.

  Chapter Three

  The Golden Eight

  1

  With the Dodaloo behind him, Harris scanned the crimson sea of kowlinka. To him the Forling was an ocean of blood — his blood running through memories of his last crossing. But there was a difference now. He was not alone. He had the eight-thousand at his back — and he began calling his force the Golden Eight, because their metallic brilliance shimmered beneath Farn’s dual suns like a precious necklace drawn across a fiery lake. The other difference was speed. Cabriolins were remarkably slow compared with Seecoys, which had zoom-zoom in an overdrive, which Harris physically felt. Seecoys could also fly lower, the grillwork design impervious to the kowlinka’s damaging effects. Although Harris did not believe in infallibility — Seecoys were machines, after all. However, Cabriolins would be sputtering at this point in the journey and this low to the dunes. Of course, flying low meant vigilance. A claw could snap up and pull a vehicle down. Therefore, constant bing-bonging was necessary between the flanks and the supply train, assuring lower altitudes were still higher than a porcorporian’s reach or a tludachi’s leap.

  Heat was a factor. Harris believed Cabriolins handled the heat best. The humidity buckling from the dunes unsettled the Seecoys, making them waffle. He expected some fatalities from bad driving, but the expectation heightened when otherwise good drivers hung onto their levers like rodeo steer riders. He observed many near misses.

  “Sillifoon ahead, Detonto, and tell Oustestee’s squad to fly higher or we’ll have a pile up for sure.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Detonto replied, flipping his sillifoon open and coldly repeating the message, in code: Off the griddle. Off the griddle. Flip those flap jacks.

  Harris watched as Oustestee’s squad waffled higher, straightening. Soon after this correction, he issued another one to Tosawa’s squad. This time the code was Gadu cooking too close. Unstick. Unstick, meaning, of course, your vehicles are too close together — separate.

  Harris wished he could relax. Several checks with Yustichisqua told him the fleet was making steady progress and would be midcourse by nightfall; remarkable, considering his last crossing, which took the better part of two weeks. However, he didn’t congratulate himself prematurely. He knew the desert heat would drop off at dusk and a freeze would make travel too cold for comfort. He wanted to be dug in and ready before the Forling creatures had a chance to penetrate the Golden Eight’s vulnerabilities. He also wanted every swinging waddly wazzoo to be lit, and each warrior fed and energized — a good sleep, with one man on and one man off in a vigil. It was paramount to review the invasion plans with his Danuwa. Thus, his mind raced.

  “Look there, my lord,” Detonto said. “A mighty beast.”

  Harris raised his gespocular — a powerful spyglass fashioned by Larry Culpeeper in Lord Belmundus’ honor (no charge — a gift). Harris grinned as he watched.

  “That, Detonto, is a Tippagore.”

  “We had best run it down,” Detonto replied.

  “And why do you say that?”

  “It might attack us or block the way.”

  “It’s a harmless creature.”

  “It does not look harmless to me, my lord. I have never seen such a monster.”

  “Monster!” Harris was offended. He sat beside Detonto, blinking wildly. “You have no knowledge of the Forling. How can you be sure what is or isn’t a monster?”

  “I am sorry to offend you, my lord, but we are crossing on a mission and should not bypass possible threats undisturbed. The creature looks like a monster to me.”

  Harris shook his head.

  “It’s a Tippagore and the female has strong preservation instincts. She’ll protect her babies and kill you, to be sure. But if left alone, she’s as docile as an awidena.”

  “Bigger than any awidena I have ever seen, my lord.”

  “Well, you haven’t seen much. You’re a good driver and operate the sillifoon satisfactorily, but you must use more than your eyes when surveying the land.”

  Harris didn’t know why he was taking his anxiety out on his new Taleenay. Perhaps he had become so accustomed to Yustichisqua’s soft and supple touch, this new one’s steely view of things unsettled him. This discussion could have continued, but Harris hobbled to the back rail, and then watched as they passed over the Tippagore.

  “Mama,” he said, taking another deep glance through the gespocular.

  He saw the female stop, gazing at the vehicles overhead, her carpet train tightening over her brood. At a distance, the bull raised slightly to defend against the invaders. But as the fleet approached, they avoided his tusks and horns. Harris was glad for it. If one of these creatures were harmed, he couldn’t bear it. He glanced again at Detonto. Not a warm spot in his veins, he thought. But not everyone was like Little Bird and, from a combat point of view, an unimpassioned companion might be best.

  The red glow of the Forling turned amber at dusk. Harris became anxious. He could hear the tludachi roaring. He opened his sillifoon.

  “BeeDust here.”

  “2Gollies I be,” came the answer.

  “Are we at checkmate by your charts?”

  “Nearly so.”

  Harris sighed, and then tapped Detonto’s shoulder.

  “Bring her down on the other side of that bluff,” he said, his Taleenay nodding and engaging levers. Harris raised the sillifoon again. “2Gollies, set the table for dinner and invite the guests for tea.”

  “Ringing the bell, BeeDust.”

  “When down, light the lanterns and serve the punch, and then gather the roosters in the henhouse to peck seed.”

  “Out at the plate, BeeDust. Over and ouch.”

  “Over and ouch.”

  Harris scanned the periphery, watching the flanks descend and land. One by one the waddly wazzoos lit. Detonto brought the Seecoy down gently. Soon a Loribringus parked beside them, its drivers anchoring into the dunes and pitching a gargantuan tent — the henhouse of the coded message. Detonto stood, nodded to Harris and waited orders. Harris, unaccustomed to taking the lead in the Taleenay business, Little Bird having taking the initiative automatically, paused.

  “Good job, Detonto,” Harris said.

  “I am sorry, my lord. I shall do better tomorrow.”

  Harris was taken aback by this response. Was good not good enough? Apparently not. But Harris didn’t want to change Detonto’s perceptions. The bastard had been brought up in a menagerie, after all, where discipline was required to stay ahead of his father’s tludachi pets.

  “I’m sure of it,” Harris stammered. “See to the henhouse. Make sure the table’s set and the amenities prepared.”

  “Not too comfortable, my lord,” Detonto suggested tartly. “We are roaming in the wild and should not delude our senses.”

  Detonto didn’t wait for a response, but switched on his zulus and buzzed off the Seecoy, to attend to his duties.

  Harris glanced at the sprawl of the Golden Eight, now a shadowy range of hills — tents pitched and waddly wazzoos displayed. He grabbed Friend Tony and kindled his own waddly wazzoo. Odd this lamp — comforting and symbolic, but as utilitarian as any lantern in the dark. However, the dark dispelled by this light was chased, retreating fast, but returning slowly as if its retreat was a conscious act. Harris activated his zulus and drifted across the kowlinka. Zulus, prone to outage, would be used sparingly in the Forling. Still, when Harris landed, he heard the distant howls of the desert denizens and raised his lamp high, expecting to see a tooth or a claw. Instead, he saw a welcomed face. His captain had arrived.

  2

  Yustichisqua munched on a large selu g
adu chunk as he spun the navakawee at the center of the gathered Danuwa. They huddled beneath the henhouse tent, while Lord Belmundus made inquiries about the troops’ temperament, the state of the vehicles and generally assessed espirit de corps¸ which he judge running high with a peppering of prebattle jitters, but no more. For all but a Cetrone handful, this was their first encounter with the Forling. A small band remembered an expedition many years ago — too long for most memories. They had seen the desert in the same way Harris had and recalled its brutality. The new way of engagement was an improvement, but still harbored fears. Harris acknowledged these sentiments, but preferred the fresh perspective of newly minted warriors.

  Cheowie was one such veteran. He glanced over his shoulder with every distant tludachi howl.

  “Gentlemen,” Harris said, firmly. “So far, so good. If anyone has reservations, put them aside until they’re warranted.” He pointed to Cheowie. “The alisoqua have followed this course before, I know. But we’re a new force in the land, and you’re my Danuwa — a new warrior breed. You must know the plan in detail. So watch and listen.”

  Yustichisqua clapped and the navakawee shot a map projection across the floor. All present leaned forward to observe.

  “Behold Montjoy and the Kalugu,” Harris said. Suddenly, he and Yustichisqua were experts on the subject, few knowing things such as maps and terrain and walls and the refinements of wards. “You must etch this map in your mind to follow the plan.”

  “What are your orders, oginali?” Yustichisqua asked.

  Harris drew Friend Tony from its cane-scabbard, amazing his Danuwa with the brashun blade. He struck its point at the gates of Montjoy.

  “Montjoy — the home of your oppressor — a place where Cetrone work and die so the Yunockers can enjoy peace and pleasure.”

  “We shall destroy it,” Estatoie shouted.

  “The walls shall fall,” Cheowie echoed.

  “Let the blundaboomers blast every standing stone,” Oustestee rumbled.

  Tosawa remained silent, shaking his head.

  “You have doubts, Tosawa?” Harris asked.

  “They are high walls and strong,” Tosawa said. “The enemy will not sit idle while we announce our welcome at the gates. When we blast them, they will return fire. They will pour onto the Forling and block our way. And if we should enter, they will be there at every step.”

  “How can you say such things, Tosawa?” Estatoie complained. “We are strong. We have wadi-wadi.”

  “And when the phitron is restored after the eighty count?” Tosawa posed.

  “We will throw more and more and again and again,” Cheowie stated.

  “Gigoo susti transforms walls, not men,” Tosawa argued.

  “Then we will trap them within their own defenses,” Oustestee countered.

  “That is true,” Tosawa said. “But it does not strike me as a good application.”

  Estatoie’s chest heaved, while his two companions pouted. Tosawa continued to shake his head.

  “It is a most unlikely way of thinking,” Yustichisqua said, drawing their attention from the gate.

  Harris moved Tony to the Kalugu’s walls.

  “The Kalugu,” he said, tapping the projection poignantly. “While Montjoy is shame, the Kalugu is poison.” He stared at his Danuwa, who seemed puzzled. “You’re concentrating on the enemy and not the goal. The dark ward is sorrow’s source. When reaptide’s klaxon sounds, the Yunockers release the zugginaks to tear your countrymen’s flesh. The Banetuckle is emptied into the mouths of hungry tludachi. Where blood doesn’t flow, the sqwallen does, a hideous concoction snaring the Cetrone with dazed confusion — a dream state, compelling them to serve the overlords until they can’t lift their waddly wazzoos. Then, they are stripped of zulus and thrown to the denizens.”

  Harris watched his Danuwa’s eyes filling with horror and tears. Their mouths hung in disbelief, but they knew it to be true. The Seneschal had told them stories of the Kalugu, but Lord Belmundus’ dagger tongue brought it home.

  “I am a child of reaptide,” Yustichisqua said. “I have tasted the sqwallen and watched my mother torn apart by zugginaks. I have served in the kaleezos of the Yuganawu and have climbed the hill to the Ayelli.” Yustichisqua bowed to Harris, and then turned violently on the others. “Do not waste my time with foolish talk about attacking Montjoy and defeating the enemy until our people are free from the Kalugu’s jaws. I am the son of Kittowa, but I was born a Trone. Then I met my oginali, who is now my commander and Dinatli. I tell you this. Until the Kalugu is free, we are Trones still. I mean to be a Trone no longer.”

  Little Bird raised the navakawee high and the Kalugu came into sharp focus. The Danuwa trained their attention on the black walls. The goal was clear — no glory in dominion. The plan was a glorified prison escape, and the logistics would be difficult.

  “There you have it, gentlemen,” Harris stated. “Our goal. The liberation of the Kalugu. Our left flank will do as Cheowie suggests — storm the gates of Montjoy, but as a feint. Its purpose is to keep the Yunockers thinking we lack a strategy — sure to lose, if that was our game. But this is grusoker of the highest order. While the flank keeps the enemy busy, our main force will skirt the Kalugu walls deploying wave after wave of wadi-wadi, penetrating the phitron. The walls are thick. I know, because I’ve passed through them — I and Yustichisqua. There will be casualties for those caught beyond the eighty count. Still, those sacrificed will get us through, tag-team fashion. Once we breech, each squadron is assigned a specific task and target.”

  Yustichisqua refocused the navakawee, bringing the interior of the Kalugu into sharper focus.

  “Estatoie,” Harris said. “You will liberate the clan houses. Lord Cosawta has prepared them for your arrival.” Estatoie slapped his chest. “Good, but . . . many Cetrone will be drug addled and will resist you. Others will prove useless.”

  “I understand.”

  “Be sure you do.” He turned to Oustestee. “The defeat of the mordanka falls to the geetli. You must fight hard — destroy the garrison and the kennels. Lives depend on it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Cheowie, you shall split your squadron. Your best warriors will bring succor to the Banetuckle.” He looked Cheowie square in the eye. “This will take courage. It will be hard. You must forewarn your warriors that what they’ll witness will lie heavy on their hearts and minds. But the survivors of the Banetuckle must be rescued, carried to safety and caring.”

  “Yes, my lord. We will be strong, my lord.” Cheowie nodded. “And the remainder of the squadron?”

  “They will seize the sustiya — a stockpile of aniniya and other material. It’ll prove essential, especially if we’re besieged. Lord Cosawta’s told me the sustiya’s guarded by trusted men, who will take up arms and join us.”

  “It shall be as you command, my lord,” Cheowie replied.

  “Tosawa.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “To you I entrust the Kalugu’s outer walls, and the bridge over the Gulliwailit. When the enemy realizes that our true goal is the Kalugu, they’ll storm it. You must hold the walls at all costs until we secure the interior and evacuate the downtrodden.”

  Tosawa remained silent. Harris cocked his head.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “None, my lord. I am stunned by the honor you bestow upon me.”

  “It might be an honor, but it’s also a death sentence.”

  “An honor to be so sacrificed,” Tosawa said.

  He reached for Harris’ asano and kissed the hem.

  “Don’t embarrass me.”

  “I am sorry, but . . .”

  “No need for sorrow. Five more like you and I could conquer Farn entirely.”

  The projection turned slowly, returning to the walls of Montjoy.

  “And who shall lead the feint?” Cheowie asked.

  Harris turned to Little Bird.

  “I shall,” Yustichisqua said. “I shall beat my
head upon my enemy’s walls and splatter my blood upon their gates.”

  He bowed. Harris choked back tears. He wanted his Dinatli by his side in this action — to have his Noya Tludachi at his back. But he knew it couldn’t be. Yustichisqua had anger to vent.

  “Just so,” Harris murmured. “Those are the orders, gentlemen, and like most orders, they’ll go awry. But if you cleave to your objectives, straight path or crooked, we’re bound to make a difference and reach the final goal. We’ll either succeed or die doing it. In any event, Montjoy will long remember the day — the day Cetronia struck back.”