The Rise of Azlyn (Book 4): Planet Urth, no. 4

by Jennifer and Christopher Martucci

  My mind screams that sonny boy was commandeering a wagon pulled by chained and beaten humans. They have plenty of automobiles available, yet his chosen method of transport was to be pulled by humans. He wanted all to see his abuse of them. It’s not exactly an image that conjures warm, fuzzy feelings of peace and harmony, as I’m sure his father the King is well aware. But I hold my tongue.

  “Peace between Kildare and a city of humans would be a sign to the rest of the world that anything is possible, even if they did kill off our rural brethren and half of my army. We are a civilized species. We rise above revenge. We can forgive, coexist.”

  I can’t tell whether he’s serious or not. I wonder if it’s possible he doesn’t know that I was among the humans who killed his son. The General would have reported such a thing, wouldn’t he have? Logically, he would have. But then again, we killed The General and all his troops. With that in mind, it occurs to me that there wouldn’t be a way for King Leon to even know I’m the same person The General pursued to the underground city.

  Deciding to be blunt, I say, “I would like to believe that there could be peace between us. My people are tired of being hunted, made to hide and live as refugees. We just want to live free, free of violence.”

  King Leon stands, the fat of his torso draping over his pelvis. On stumpy legs so short his generous backside threatens to drag along the polished floors, he waddles toward me with his hand outthrust. “Then we are in agreement. I want what you want.”

  Taken aback, I steal a sidelong glance at Will, wondering whether he is as stunned as I am that Urthmen are capable of behaving as they do here, that they haven’t descended on us, swinging clubs with primitive grunts. He seems as shocked as I am. Every Urthman we’ve ever encountered has been animalistic, savage and bloodthirsty.

  “How will we go about the process? How would you let it be known to the small towns and cities beyond Kildare that the war between humans and Urthmen has ended?”

  Plump hands stroke his belly and the area above his eyes creases unattractively. “That is something we will work out together. But before we go into specifics, we have prepared a feast for you and your friends. I was informed of your arrival the moment you entered the city. I had the finest food Kildare has to offer sent over so we could celebrate this momentous occasion.” Grinning again and looking scary, he puffs his chest out proudly. “Come, I’ll take you to the dining hall.” He toddles alongside me, shuffling impossibly small feet.

  As I walk next to him and we make our way down the long corridor, King Leon huffs and pants. It is a background sound that demonstrates the panic I feel that Will, Andris, Arnost and I will be what is served for lunch. I’ve never known an Urthman to dine on human flesh, but then again, I’ve never known Urthmen as exotic and overfed as the one next to me. Something tells me that if we were the least bit appetizing, we’d be the main course. I certainly hope we won’t be.

  “Let’s celebrate,” King Leon says as he shoves a large solid door with the letters “K” and “L” engraved in gold upon it.

  Holding my breath, I step inside, all the while hoping against hope that it is not our deaths we’ll be celebrating.

  Chapter 20

  Warm scents of cooked meats and spices greet me on a mouthwatering puff of air that escapes the opened door to the dining hall. Famished, even the sight of King Leon’s horrid rump jiggling and wiggling as it swings from side to side does not ruin my appetite.

  “Ah, my staff has outdone themselves.” The Urthmen king rubs his thick hands together, licking and smacking his oversized lips together.

  Shuddering at the act, I avert my eyes and turn them to the feast laid out before us. A staggering assortment of food is arranged on a long, gleaming mahogany table studded with crystal goblets and pale plates so clean and shiny I’m certain I can see my reflection in them if I gaze into their pale surface. At the center of the table, an entire boart, long and plump, sits on a silver platter. Cooked and garnished with greens, decoratively cut fruit and an apple in its mouth, the boart’s skin is glossy, glazed in a golden-brown substance. Around the boart, vegetables, most of which I’ve never seen, are loaded onto trays along with amber colored fluid poured into low, boat-shaped pitchers with long lips on one end and handles at the other end. Around the table, more than two dozen chairs are positioned, each seat covered in cushioned fabric.

  King Leon shuffles to the chair closest to him and pulls it away from the table. “Please, have a seat. Everyone, sit and enjoy.”

  I lower myself into the chair and watch as Will, Andris and Arnost follow suit. After we’re situated, roughly eighteen more Urthmen join us. Clad in draping lengths of rich fabric in a deep burgundy hue, they file in through the door we used, exuding an air of regality, of importance, with every step they take. Despite their manner, my skin still tingles with the prickle of warning. Like the scuttle of innumerable insect feelers scurrying across my flesh, the sensation unsettles me. I eye them warily.

  As if perceiving my growing unease, King Leon introduces the Urthmen entering. “Avery, these are my council members.” He rattles off names so quickly I have no chance of remembering any of them. “They’re involved in every piece of legislation passed in this magnificent city.”

  Introducing them to me does little to abate my apprehension. I continue to watch the councilmen as they take their seats around the table. Once everyone is seated, the chatter among those who just entered wanes quickly and the King speaks. “Let us enjoy this wonderful food.” He looks to me, then to Will, Andris and Arnost. “Help yourselves to whatever you like.” A complacent smile carves his round face, and then every Uthman at the table launches at least one hand forward, reaching and grabbing for the food. Foregoing utensils, they use their bare hands to tear hunks of meat from the boart, to pluck carrots and field greens from bowls and scoop the tawny gravy from its container.

  For a moment I am stunned, speechless and frozen, as I watch Urthmen who appeared refined upon first impression scrabble for food like wild animals. They pile their plates high and briefly, I think the way in which they went about obtaining it is the oddest thing I’ve seen in a while. That thought is quickly dispelled, however, when they promptly drop their faces into their mountains of food and proceed to dine. Arms draped around their plates, a blend of nasal and throaty sounds resonate from them. Grunting and snorting, their misshapen heads remain buried in their food. I look at Will, Arnost and Andris. Their eyes are wide and their lips are parted in disgust, their expressions illustrating exactly how I feel.

  Lifting his head briefly, King Leon trains an unfocused gaze on me. Glassy and heated as if love-struck, his eyes are vacant. “Aren’t you going to eat?” Strings of boart flesh and other pale meat are wedged between his teeth and dangle from his lips, and sauce is smeared from his chin to his nasal openings where a corn kernel blocks one hole. Lifting a stumpy finger and covering his open nose hole, he clamps his lips shut and blows, shooting the kernel to the table. He then picks it up and eats it.

  Barely reining in the urge to vomit, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and reach for the carving knife and fork resting against the platter. I don’t know why they even bother to have utensils on the table when they don’t use them. Still, I feel compelled to use them. Inserting the tines into it, I slice a piece of meat for myself then Will, Arnost and Andris. They each thank me, our behavior a gentle hint or perhaps an example for the Urthmen. Once I’ve placed a few items on my plate, I taste the boart meat first. I expect it to be the most delicious meat I’ve ever tasted, especially after seeing the fervor with which the Urthmen enjoyed it, but am disappointed. True, I’m glad to have a meal at all, one that I didn’t have to hunt and kill myself. Nevertheless, the meat is bland and tough, not bad, just not good either, and nothing like the boart prepared at Cassowary for our feast.

  Chewing loudly, one of the council members leans across the table on his elbows and says, “So how many humans do you have living in Cassowary now?” Bits
of food spit from his mouth and speckle the wood.

  Bobbing one shoulder, I answer vaguely, unsure of why he’s asking. “I don’t know, a lot.”

  Undaunted by my ambiguity, he persists. “Well, let’s see, there were twenty-thousand slaves already there, so we know there’s more than that.” The thin skin where eyebrows ought to be waggles. “How many humans did you bring? How many did you have when you overtook it?”

  Moving away from the table slightly, my eyes dart from the Urthman addressing me to King Leon. Lost in his meal, the King doesn’t lift his eyes. “Why?” I ask and return my attention to the being in front of me.

  Waving a hand in front of his face, he tries to be coy. “I’m just curious how many it took to override the eight thousand soldiers we had stationed there.” His lipless smile trembles almost imperceptibly at one corner.

  Deciding to answer and see where it leads his probe, I lie and say, “Twenty-thousand,” when really it was around fifteen thousand. I’m still not keen on divulging key information or specifics.

  Baited, his beady eyes widen. “And they are all well trained?”

  “They are the finest soldiers on the planet.” My answer falls without hesitation. Only instead of silencing any further questions, my comment generates a burst of laughter. Quickly however, the laughter is subdued, a series of stern glances issued from the one or two who don’t join in before their composure is resumed. “What’s so funny?” I glare among the robed Urthmen, my blood simmering.

  Clearing his throat loudly, King Leon’s voice booms. “Nothing at all is funny.” He shoots his councilmen an indecipherable look then flashes an ugly smile that is as disingenuous of an expression as I’ve seen. He gulps the contents of his goblet, emptying it, and then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “How many archers do you have on the perimeter, you know, along the wall and such?”

  In my head, I’m screaming, “Are you serious?!” Surely he doesn’t believe he’s being subtle in his attempt to grill me and my friends for information. No one—not even an Urthman—is that dumb, are they? I wonder. The fact that he intends to extract information from me this way is infuriating.

  Pushing my frustration down as deep as it will go, I assume a breezy, nonchalant attitude. “Hmm, I’m not sure of the exact number. A few.” I’m careful to keep my tone light, as if I’m oblivious of their obvious intentions.

  “A few.” Forming a steeple with his fingers, the King persists. “You must have had quite a few scouts too, to know that my army was coming.”

  Bristling at his audacity, I stiffen, allowing a bit of my annoyance to seep into my posture. “Are we going to keep talking about this?” Hearing the abruptness of my tone, I catch myself and take a deep breath. “Who wants to discuss the ugliness of war, right?” I add with sweetness I certainly do not feel. “We’re here to discuss peace, and to celebrate.”

  Confused expressions ripple through the Urthmen. They look to one another then to the King, searching and unsure of how to react, and awareness shivers across my skin. They expect me to give them information that would jeopardize my people. Peace was never the intent. The furtive glances, the press for details about our forces—both reveal as much.

  Clearing his throat, King Leon’s shifty eyes rove from council member to council member as if communicating a clandestine message. After receiving a slight nod from the one across from me, he says, “Why don’t we finish up here and return to my office where we can discuss our peace treaty.”

  I nod. “That sounds like a good idea.” No longer hungry in the least, I move my fork around my plate woodenly, contemplating that we are most certainly not making it out of Kildare alive.

  Tense minutes feel like hours and just when I feel as if I can’t bear the strain any longer, the soft scrape of King Leon’s chair against the floor signifies an end to our meal and the ridiculous platitudes that precede our execution.

  Wordlessly, he lumbers from his seat and down the hall, back to his office. Guards escort us, just as they did when we first went to the King’s chamber. Only this time, they remain with us, standing stoically.

  King Leon situates himself at his throne and after picking at his small pointed teeth for a time asks, “How many swords do you have on hand at Cassowary? Do you have enough for each person?”

  Anger creeps up from my collar, heating my neck and cheeks. I struggle to keep my tone even when I reply, “Discussing matters of defense is not something I’ll do with you, King Leon.”

  Small eyes narrow and harden. He holds my gaze, staring at me with unrestrained hatred. When they leave me and land on the guards behind me, I know that the mask has dropped. The pretense is over. With a nod, they lunge. Swords are unsheathed and placed at each of our necks. The press of steel against my throat is cold as it bites my skin. I swallow against it and feel the unwavering pressure of a monster’s blade poised to slit me open. A dozen more swarm to protect the King and rightly so, for if the opportunity presents itself, I will kill him first.

  “Now, you are going to tell me everything I want to know.” Smugness saturates his words as he smiles malevolently.

  “Screw you,” I bark.

  His smile collapses and with speed that betrays his heft, he extracts a small dagger from his pants pocket. He calmly walks to where Andris is secured in place with a dagger at his throat and stabs his own at his neck just below his chin. Blood spurts, a torrent of red gushing from the wound.

  A shrill scream echoes, strident and foreign, and the ornate walls of the room billow briefly. My vision flickers. Voices sound as if they’re resonating from ashore and I am submerged below water. What I’m seeing can’t be real. The blood, so much blood, drains from my friend, and King Leon stands beside him, calm as a coiled snake and holding the mortal instrument.

  “No!” Arnost screams but the blade held to his throat is pushed tighter, breaking the skin.

  “You’re a filthy monster!” I shout.

  “You are going to tell me what I want to know.” The King’s words drip from his tongue like venom.

  “Your troops attacked and were outsmarted. The rest ran back like the cowards they are!” I spit.

  A slow serpentine smile slithers across his face. “They didn’t run. I ordered them back,” he hisses. “As we speak, they, along with two hundred-thousand more I’ve drafted into our army, are assembling to leave tomorrow morning.” He chuckles with self-satisfaction. “And we have metal ramps to cover the little ditch you dug. We’ll drive right through your front gate and kill every man, woman and child you have there.” More poisonous laughter oozes from him.

  Grinding my molars so hard the enamel threatens to splinter, I growl, “They’ll be ready for you.”

  Tapping a putrid little finger to one of his many chins, he says, “Oh, you think they will, do you?” Acid taints each syllable he speaks. “And is it because of your scouts?” Gesturing to a guard nearest the door, the King sneers. Within seconds, Ron and the two other scouts I deployed are brought in. Naked and covered in slashes, angry welts and bruises, Ron, Rob and Roger’s bodies look to have been tortured to the very brink of death.

  My brows gather and my eyes widen, a small gasp seeping from me.

  King Leon laughs. “I guess they won’t know we’re coming after all.” He clips his head toward the guards holding my men. The glint of the guards’ finely honed blades gleam in the light of the chandelier overhead before they drag them across the throats of the three men. They hold them in place until life escapes them then allow their bodies to collapse to the floor.

  Struggling for air, my lungs tighten and burn. My entire body trembles. In my periphery, I see Will and Arnost. Arnost’s eyes look crazed and Will looks as if he’ll be sick at any moment. But my attention leaves them as soon as movement from the King stirs. With his guards flanking him, King Leon returns to his throne.

  “Ah, Avery, I still can’t believe you came. And humans think they’re smart!” He tosses his head back and snorts derisively. “We are
going to torture you, then hang your three bodies right in downtown Kildare for all our troops to see before they leave to finish off the rest of your people.” He laughs so that his rotund body shakes. “Did you really think there could be peace between us, that you’d leave here alive?”

  Watching King Leon as he stands and totters over to his curio chest to pour himself a drink from a heavy crystal decanter sitting atop a mirrored tray, the haze of shock lifts from my brain. My gaze zeroes in on the peace lily I brought with me. Loaded with plastic explosives tucked within its soil, the plant is linked to a remote detonator in my pocket, one of two that I carry. Sliding my hand into the left pocket of my sweatshirt, I find the small raised bump that sets it off. I press it and a sonic boom sends shockwaves snaking in every direction. The walls shake and a blast of particle charged air launches me into the far wall, the Urthman that held his blade to my neck taking the brunt of the impact. The stink of sulfur and another coppery scent permeate the air. My ears ring, but above it I hear the clang of metal hitting the floor. Looking down, I spot a sword. I immediately grab it. Will and Arnost do the same, scooping up the swords their sentinels dropped when their bodies were driven into the wall.

  Through the smoke, I see that King Leon no longer stands. He does not sit either. He is scattered, his body reduced to chunks of gore that cling to the walls and floor, and a sick sense of glee fills me. All of his guards have suffered the same fate.

  Adrenaline snaps through my body like lightning. The moment of reckoning has arrived. A war cry echoing the energy that pounds through my body rips from Arnost, and madness glitters in the depths of his dark eyes. Barrel chest heaving and rippling muscles flexing to thick cords, Arnost grasps the head of the Urthman nearest to him. In one swift motion, he lifts him off the floor and throws him. The Urthman’s body crashes through a floor-to-ceiling window and sends a shower of dichroic shards spraying to the ground. He screams as he plummets to the ground below.