Gorgoroth (Haladras Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Karr

  “What do you call this?” said Endrick, drawing out his sword.

  “And unwanted attention-getter. Ditch it, and get yourself a blaster. You too… your majesty.”

  Despite his discomfort with carrying the weapon created by his foe, Morvath, Skylar did not object to Grüny’s request. He saw the wisdom of it. They must seek as much as possible to blend in.

  Skylar spent the remainder of the evening in researching the materials he had taken from his father’s desk. Endrick inventoried all their purchases, ensuring that nothing had been missed. They were scarcely at the beginning of their quest, and already Skylar felt the weight of it pressing on his mind. So much could go wrong. Before he fell asleep that night, his thoughts turned to Kendyl. It pained him to recall her words. If only he could make her understand…No, it couldn’t be. Even if he tried to talk to her again, he couldn’t tell her why he came to Haladras. It was better if she hated him. He had made up his mind on that front long ago. She was better off without him in her life. Safer.

  The next morning, Grüny left early for the docks to see that the Luna was ready for departure and that all their supplies had been delivered and properly stored in the ship’s cargo hold. If all was well, they hoped to leave as soon as midday. In the meantime, Skylar and Endrick set out to follow Grüny’s mandate.

  They found a small outfitter who carried blasters. Neither Endrick nor Skylar knew much about the weapon. As the shop had nowhere for them to test the weapons, they had to rely on the recommendation of the shopkeeper. After hefting several in their hands, they decided on a pair of compacts, which they could easily carry as sidearms. Grüny would likely tell them the weapons were worthless when they arrived at the docks. But as far as Skylar was concerned, the blasters were for show. He had no intention of using his.

  “I think some breakfast is in order,” said Endrick, as they left the outfitter and stepped out into the searing heat.

  “Breakfast? We had breakfast just an hour ago.”

  “Well, my stomach’s already forgotten it.”

  Skylar felt no desire to eat. He was eager to get to the harbor. Nonetheless, he humored Endrick. Several hours still remained before they could leave for Oon Vunda, anyway.

  An hour later, Endrick’s belly thoroughly stuffed, arrived at Cloud Harbor. They found Grüny in a foul mood. He was yelling at no one in particular and pulling crates out onto the deck.

  “Numbskulls!” he muttered. “Don’t know how to load a simple cargo hold.”

  Despite Grüny’s frustration, with Skylar and Endrick’s help, they soon fixed the poorly stowed cargo. Skylar still remembered a thing or two about loading cargo from his days as an apprentice at the docks. Within the hour, the ship was loaded, fueled, and inspected. Shortly after that, they received clearance to take off.

  As they boarded the Luna, Skylar glanced back. He didn’t know what—or who—he expected to see. Rasbus? Kendyl? All he saw was a scattered group of dockhands and ship pilots, all bustling to and fro across the deck. Slowly, he turned and entered the shuttle.

  The journey to Oon Vunda passed slowly. Though the Luna had proven herself reliable, she was cramped, and not built for comfort. Skylar spent much of his time each day rehearsing their plans in his mind. He explored all the possible outcomes, wondering if they were on the right course to find his sister, or if she was even still lived. Endrick slept much and complained about the quality of the food. Grüny, when he wasn’t at the ship’s controls, instructed Skylar and Endrick on how to deal with smugglers—and people in general—on Oon Vunda.

  On the fourth day of their journey since leaving Haladras, Skylar went to the cargo hold to fetch a sack of dried biscuits. He was just about to close the cargo hold door when he heard something like a sneeze coming from within. Startled, he turned around and listened. Again, he heard it, more clearly this time. Cautiously, he made his way to the far end of the hold, peaking around each row of crates. When he reached the last row, he nearly cried out in shock. There sitting on the floor, shivering was a girl with flaming red hair and dazzling blue eyes.

  Seven

  Rizain Du Kava stood in the portal to the sanatorium.

  Even from across the room, she could feel his eyes piercing daggers. The princess lay in a bed, her head propped up on a pillow. For how long she had slept there, she did not know. She still felt exhausted. Rizain, she knew, would not take that as an excuse. Weakly, she forced herself to sit up.

  The gash in thigh shot jolts of pain all through her body as she moved. She ground her teeth, choking down the pain. A fresh bout of dizziness momentarily seized her. When she had control of herself, she met his gaze.

  Rizain stepped into the room and moved toward her bed.

  “You deserve that gash on your leg,” he said, in a barely audible voice. “You deserve to be dead.”

  The princess did not respond.

  “That was far too close,” he said.

  “He was a good fighter.”

  “I trained you better,” he replied, his voice biting. “You allowed his blade to control the fight. His eyes, Shahra, you did not watch his eyes. You watched his blade.”

  “It was difficult not to watch when it was coming at my throat.”

  “Don’t get insolent with me!” he stepped nearer, he eyes threatening.

  The princess involuntarily gulped and straightened her back.

  “Yes, master,” she replied, humbly.

  Rizain drew in a long slow breath through his nostrils, then exhaled with equal control. The harsh lines in his forehead faded slightly as he did so. And the fire in his eyes cooled to mere embers. When he spoke again, the edge in his voice had dulled.

  “My sworn duty is to train you to defeat any opponent. How can I do so, if you ignore my training? If you had been fighting me, you would be dead.”

  He drew closer still, so that he loomed over her like a brooding thundercloud. She raised her head to keep looking into his dark eyes.

  “If you fight like that again,” he said, “you will lose. This is real, Shahra. Your opponents mean to kill you—they long to kill you. Do not let an opponent control you like that ever again.”

  “Yes, master.”

  She did not seek to defend her performance. Though she felt angry for being so chided, she knew Rizain spoke the truth. And she scolded herself for such sloppy execution.

  “I concur with Du Kava,” came her mother’s voice from behind.

  Rizain turned and stepped to the side, revealing the empress standing just inside the portal. A scowl of discontent, which the princess knew well, shadowed her face. Unlike Rizain, she did not come closer, but remained there with her arms at her sides and her tall figure drawn up to its full height. From the iron crown atop her head to the hem of her scarlet robe, she was the Empress, in full regal majesty and menace. Not an ounce of mother.

  “You were careless,” the empress went on. “It made me sick to watch you struggle out there like one who’s never fought before. Need I remind you—again—how important these Trials are?”

  The princess shook her head slowly.

  “Good. I’ll expect better from you next time. Now, tomorrow you shall attend Commander Roarde’s burial ceremony. This shall endear you more in the peoples’ hearts. The healers shall visit you at the castle to see to your hurts. Then, back to training. Rizain, I expect has some instructions for you.”

  “A thousand left-handed feints—your form was sloppy. Then, two hours of meditation. After that, report back to me.”

  The princess responded with a bow of her head.

  “I return to the castle, now,” said the empress. “Your carriage shall take you back when you feel your strength sufficient. Rizain shall return with you. Also, your serving wench is waiting outside, should you require anything.”

  With that, the empress turned around and sailed out of the room. Rizain likewise departed, no doubt to go wait stoically outside. When she felt sufficient time
had passed for her mother to be out of earshot, she called for Icca.

  The scrawny creature came scuttling in, gripping the edges of her apron, the way she did when she was anxious about something. The way she always did. The girl curtsied quickly before coming over to the princess' bedside.

  "Yes, my lady?" she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Bring me some water.”

  Icca immediately went to one of the side tables and poured a glass of water from a vase. She brought it to the princess, who swigged it slowly.

  “Are you much hurt, my lady?”

  “As you see,” said the princess, curtly.

  The princess vaguely wondered what had become of her nurse. Probably scared off by Rizain.

  Good riddance.

  “Your next trial…” said Icca tremulously, “what is it to be?”

  Rarely did the princess allow her wench to be conversational. She preferred the girl to be as silent as possible. And it was easy to keep her that way. Curiosity, she knew, got the girl’s mouth moving, though. No one else spoke to the creature, except to order her about. None could blame them. The pathetic excuse for a Tor didn’t deserve a friend. Despite that, the princess deigned to sate the girl’s curiosity.

  “The Hishram Gauntlet,” she replied.

  * * *

  “A new hand?” said Rolander in astonishment.

  “And why not?” responded the professor. “As I see it, there is no reason to build something frivolous simply because you have never built anything before. I should think you would have many uses for a new hand.”

  “I would, I would. But…how can that be possible? I’ve never heard of using mechanics to rebuild human body parts. And even if it were, it would be far outside our capability.”

  Jonobar cocked his head to the side and looked at Rolander as if he had declared some interesting fact that the professor never heard before.

  “Outside our capability?” he said. “Master Rolander, you seem to be under the impression that I am here to provide you a mediocre education. Quite the contrary. I intend to provide you a superior education. And that does not come without the stretching of one’s mind and the expanding of one’s capabilities.

  "As to the possibility, I would have us speak in terms of feasibility or practicability. Should we have to spend the next twelve years in the pursuit, that would be infeasible for our current situation. However, I believe it neither impossible nor impractical. My colleague, whom I mentioned to you, has been pioneering a new field of study which he calls biomechatronics.”

  Rolander repeated the word aloud, letting it sink into his brain and take meaning. It was not a word he had ever heard or read about. But the mere sound of it gave him goosebumps.

  “That’s right,” said Jonobar. “Simply put, it is the integration of living organisms and mechanical apparatus. But this is not merely the act of superficially attaching some mechanical gadget to an arm or leg. Rather the device being wholly connected with the nerves and muscles of the body, so that they act in harmony. So that the devices—in essence—receives commands from the brain, just as does a finger, toe, or any other member of the body.”

  Rolander could not even fathom such a thing. A man-made device being controlled directly by the brain? Impossible. There didn’t exist any sort of medium to bridge the barrier between the artificial and the biological in such a manner. Did there? Rolander was neither an expert in biology nor anatomy. Perhaps this professor had discovered some way to interface the two. He yearned to know how.

  “So, are you up for the challenge?” said Jonobar. “I will need to give special instructions to my colleague if we are to embark into this new frontier. I am sure he will be all too delighted to deluge us with his research and study findings.”

  Subconsciously, Rolander glanced down at his forearm, at the place where his hand used to be. A new hand. Was it possible?

  Several weeks, Jonobar estimated would be needed for the new curriculum to arrive. He felt he would burst before then. With each day that passed, Rolander felt all the more anxious to begin work on his new hand.

  During the interim Jonobar began to teaching him some of the basics of mechanics and automata. Most of which Rolander already knew.

  One morning, a few days after their original discussion about Rolander’s hand, Jonobar came in to begin their lessons. The professor had on his old poet’s cap and a gray robe. His disheveled beard looked even more tangled and frayed than usual. But the dark eyes behind the spectacles looked sharp.

  “I have something of interest to show you, master Rolander,” said Jonobar with an unaccustomed hint of energy in his voice.

  Rolander immediately thought of the new curriculum. Less than a week had passed, though, since Jonobar sent his inquiry. It couldn’t have arrived already. Still, Rolander allowed himself to entertain the possibility.

  “Come over to the lamp,” said Jonobar.

  They walked over to one of the walls, where stood a large table. With the help of a few servants and the castle’s chief carpenter, they had built a crude laboratory out of an old butcher table, some phosphorescent lamps, and an assortment of hand tools Jonobar secured from a city vendor. Jonobar turned on one of the lamps and reached into the left breast of his robe. After a moment of digging, he drew out a small wooden box and placed it under the lamplight.

  Rolander looked at the box inquisitively.

  “Open it,” instructed Jonobar.

  Rolander took the little box in his hands and removed the lid. Inside, a metallic object caught the light and glinted brightly. He leaned in for a closer look. The object had silver wings, six jointed legs, and a silver body, with thorax and abdomen like that of an insect.

  “What is this?” said Rolander, though he already knew in his heart the answer.

  “Something I picked up from a small shop in the Dosser District. One of the finest examples of automata I’ve seen. It’s called a Tracker.”

  Eight

  “Kendyl?”

  Skylar stared down at the bright red-head as though he were seeing a ghost. She shivered again and weakly replied.

  “So, you remember my name?” she replied feebly.

  “What are you—”

  Skylar broke off, realizing that she was unwell. He crouched down to help her to up. She resisted.

  “You’re ill,” he said. “Let me help you to the main cabin. You’ll be warmer there. And I can fetch you some blankets.

  “I’m fine,” said Kendyl. “Just cold and hungry.”

  “Haven’t you anything to eat?” replied Skylar. He immediately wished he hadn’t said it.

  “Your cook failed to consider that there might be a stowaway in the cargo hold and leave out a dish for me. I had an oat bar to nibble on. And a water flask.”

  Despite her initial protest, Kendyl allowed him to help her up. She was weak and pale.

  “You don’t need to grip my arm like that,” she said. “I can walk.”

  “Sorry.”

  Skylar quickly let go, and awkwardly ushered her out of the cargo hold. They found Endrick sitting down at the steel table that served as their dining table, desk, and planning surface. At first sight of Kendyl, Endrick threw his hands into the air and let out a cry.

  “Great Yurik! Her again? How did she get on board? On second thought, don’t tell me. Just put her back where to found her.”

  "I'm not putting her back," said Skylar, moving one of the chairs for Kendyl to sit in. Then he ran to the sleeping quarters and stole a blanket from his bunk. When we returned, Endrick was hunched over his folded arms, looking down at the table muttering something about damsels being trouble. Hesitantly, Skylar took the blanket and wrapped it around Kendyl's shoulders. A bit to his surprise, she didn't jerk away or claim she didn't want it but wrapped the warm material tightly around her fatigued body. The blanket was his own, that he brought from home. A gift from his mother when he was eight. She had weave
d it herself out of scraps of yarn she had saved from the textile mill.

  “I’ll get you some water,” he said, striding over to the mess unit and dispensing a bottle of water. He handed it to her. “It’s cold and tastes like sulfur, but I’m sure you need the hydration. I’ll get you something to eat, too.”

  Kendyl did no reply, but merely brought the bottle to her lips and took a sip. The cringe on her face showed that she found the water to be as disgusting as Skylar did. She looked up at Skylar with a wary look on her face, then swallowed like rocks were going down her throat.

  “After a while, you get used to it,” said Skylar.

  “Now, don’t get too used to it,” said Endrick. “Or to eating our food. We didn’t bring enough stores for four people. It won’t do for all of us to go starving to death on this flying scrapyard.”

  “Since you eat for two, I’ll just halve your portions.”

  In spite of Endrick's protests about withering away to a skinny shadow, Skylar got out as much food as he could readily find. In terms of palatability, it wasn't much. The famished girl didn't complain but set into everything with more appetite than even Endrick himself usually managed. After she had eaten, color gradually returned to her face and vitality to her body. Now she sat up and looked more alert. Endrick and Skylar quizzed her as much as she allowed them to. Of primary interest to Skylar was why she was aboard.

  “I don’t want to talk about that right now,” she said.

  “Well, then, how did you get onboard?”

  She explained that she asked one of the dockhands she knew about the incoming private vessels from Ahlderon. According to him, the Luna was the only one that week so far. She also learned from him that an order of supplies had been sent to the harbor to be loaded onto the Luna. Knowing that, she went to the harbor, where she located the ship and hid in the cargo hold in a moment when no one was watching.

  "Why didn't you tell us that you were on board?" said Skylar. "We could have saved you from going cold and hungry in the cargo hold."