Her Father's Fugitive Throne

by Brandon Barr

Until he arrived here, in Tilmar, there had been few prophecies given. Mostly words for the scribes. A song of praise for the Makers, a rebuke to a cobbler. Curses for Jauphenna’s wicked parents. Twice a word of wisdom for a pig farmer and a blacksmith. But now, he felt a heaviness had come over his thoughts. He hid it as best he could from the others, but unmistakably, he knew some form of tragedy was about to take place. Something dark would become of someone dear to him—someone other than the old scribes. Only Jauphenna and Shauwby were that beloved by him.

  If this dark boding sense was true, that meant he would have to be all the more watchful. All the more careful. Their little group could not separate. Together they were safe. As long as they stayed near Shauwby.

  “So,” said Jauphenna. “Are we going?”

  Wiluit masked the emotions of his thoughts and met Jauphenna’s searching gaze.

  “If that’s what the gods will, then we shall travel with King Trigon’s daughter, wherever that may be. I’m sure we’ll have more adventures in the woods awaiting us down the road. The Makers know how much you love to swim in their icy lakes.”

  “And eat mushrooms,” said Jauphenna.

  “Not the poison ones though!” said Shauwby with furrowed brows.

  “No, not the poison ones,” said Wiluit. He looked again out the window. More than two dozen riders were mounted on horses in the courtyard. He saw the Luminar’s daughter, Meluscia, mount her horse.

  Quickly, he opened the window and shouted, “Wait. We are coming with you.”

  Every head below peered up in his direction.

  “We’re coming down now!” he shouted again.

  Meluscia nodded. “We’ll wait for you.”

  He closed the window quickly.

  “We’re off again,” said Wiluit. He turned to Takmuk. “Don’t forget your scriptures.”

  “I didn’t forget them the last time,” groused Takmuk, shaking his quill pen at Wiluit. “You were supposed to grab them.”

  “Alright,” said Wiluit. “Are you taking them this time, or am I?”

  “I shall take them, lest you forget them again,” he said, a little playfulness in his annoyed tone.

  Jauphenna already had her clothes bag slung over her shoulder and was holding Shauwby’s hand.

  “I hope we don’t have to travel long with them. I’ve never cared for princesses. And especially not that one. You heard what she did.”

  “She’s not a princess,” said Wiluit, “I believe I heard her called Luminess Imminent.”

  “Whatever she is, she has a look about her. You know I’m good at reading people. She’s as slimy as a slug. I suggest you keep your distance.”

  Wiluit hefted Seethus’ heavy bag of books over his shoulder. “I’ll try my best not to get slimed,” he said. “Now take Shauwby down to the stables, I’ll be there shortly.”

  Jauphenna led Shauwby from the room, and Wiluit turned to the bed where Seethus still slept.

  Even with the old man’s walking staff, he would have to help him down the two flights of stairs.

  Gently, he shook the old man’s arm. “Seethus, we’re leaving. Wake up, Seethus.”

  The old man did not move.

  Wiluit shook him more firmly. Then turned him from his side onto his back. The old man wheezed, then a snort issued from his throat.

  “What? What?” moaned Seethus, his eyes still closed.

  “We are on the move again, my friend,” said Wiluit.

  Seethus’ purplish lips pursed together, then formed into a smile. Slowly, his eyes blinked open. “Another adventure. Very good, then.”

  Wiluit helped him to his feet and handed him his staff. He shouldered the old man’s bag of books and started the slow walk to the door. Once Seethus’ blood warmed, he would move a little faster.

  “By the gods’ grace, these old bones are still creaking,” said Seethus with a rasping laugh.

  Wiluit grinned. At one hundred twenty-eight years, Seethus’ age and cheerful attitude were no small miracle.

  Chapter Three

  MELUSCIA

  Seated upon her horse, Meluscia watched as the two younger prophets rode out from the stables upon a large brown horse. The older girl, Jauphenna, had the small boy at her back. One glance from Jauphenna told Meluscia that the girl’s disgust for her had not lessened a hair.

  The sight of the girl’s scorn fanned the guilt that smoldered in her soul.

  The girl prophetess trotted her horse up beside Meluscia. “The gods wish us to go with you to the Verdlands,” said Jauphenna, her tone flat.

  “I am glad the gods and their Tongues will bless this mission,” said Meluscia.

  “Truly?” Jauphenna smirked. “Do you not fear my mouth will ring with more of your secrets?”

  Meluscia looked away from Jauphenna. It was true. The girl’s probing word had shattered Meluscia’s private world. Her past sins, her weaknesses—even her thoughts felt unprotected in this girl’s presence.

  Jauphenna pulled on the reins of her horse, moving away. “Nothing is hidden from the gods,” she called out. Clinging on to her back was the smallest Tongue, Shauwby. The boy smiled shyly in her direction.

  Meluscia looked over the rough-faced soldiers in the courtyard, unable to mask the red shame burning her cheeks. At the stables behind the soldiers, two more horses stepped out of the shadows. Wiluit, the leader of the group, had one of the two older men saddled behind him. The other horse carried the second old man, who sat hunched upon his mount with a perturbed grimace.

  Meluscia noticed an unease amongst the soldiers as the band of five prophets came together on their horses. The five had come out of the Verdlands. Perhaps it was mistrust she saw in the soldiers’ eyes.

  A horse and rider strode up beside her. “My Lady,” said a familiar voice, “is something troubling you?”

  Meluscia turned toward Praseme on her mount. “Quite a lot. Tonight…can we talk?”

  “Of course,” she said with smiling eyes.

  Meluscia summoned her resolve, the words of Savarah again coming to mind:

  Get on your damn horse and go to the Verdlands. Do what you’ve set out to do…

  “Who will lead this party to the Verdlands?” shouted Meluscia, turning to the soldiers.

  Heads turned to one man standing in the back. His long, curling black hair swung past his face as he dipped his head in acknowledgement of his role.

  “I am Kaolin, at your service.”

  “Thank you, Kaolin,” said Meluscia. “I entrust my party’s safe passage to you. Lead the way. We will follow your good judgment.”

  Kaolin nodded, then barked out orders to his fellow soldiers. With all the haste she’d expected, their group was parading down the streets of Tilmar as the entire populace of the town lined the shops and houses, all eyes on her.

  She remembered a part of herself she had only recently lost. The part whose goal was to never see herself as stationed above the commoner. To treat them with as much dignity as a high official.

  Despite the looming conversation with Praseme that night, she managed to smile and return a wave from every friendly hand. As she did this, she found her spirits lifting. This was who she wanted to be. This was the Meluscia she’d smothered under a blanket of disgrace.

  It was time to pay for her transgressions. No matter the cost. No matter if the entire kingdom discovered what she’d done. She’d have that cursed spy hole blasted when she returned to the Hold!

  Tonight, she would seal her fate and tell Praseme what she’d done. Repent, and return to the path she’d strayed from.

  SAVARAH

  “Just one,” said Savarah under her breath.

  She turned her horse toward a brackish pond. It was a small detour from her journey toward the wastelands. She dismounted, tying her horse to a scraggy pine.

  The gods were going to help her kill. She sneered at the thought of Isolaug’s surprise. One of his own Shadowmen, turned by love, aided by the Makers, coming to destroy the body that
hosted his spirit. He, of course, would flee to another body, but his spell over his puppet king would be broken and the kingdom he had built around him would crumble.

  Savarah’s horse snorted behind her where it was tied, as if feeling her energy and delight as she made her way to the shore.

  She waded out only six or seven steps before she caught a terrapin by its leg as it attempted to swim away from her. She looked back at her horse. It watched her dumbly, its long tail whipping at the occasional fly. Savarah arched back and threw the terrapin onto the shore.

  She watched it bounce and roll on the dirt as she moved out of the green-tinted water. Her ankles sank into the mud with each step, until she reached the dry, crusted shoreline and moved straight to the terrapin.

  The creature was upside-down, struggling feebly to right itself. She raised her heel and stamped down hard on its undershell. She repeated the motion, until the shell cracked. Then she picked it up and threw the shell against the closest tree trunk.

  The impact startled a long slender creature at the base of the tree, and it skittered away over dried needles and dirt. The shape of it fanned Savarah’s fury. The reptilian form of a lizard. Savarah burst toward the tree, tracking the scampering legs as they kicked up dust with each shuffling movement. It jumped upon the trunk of a tree and began to climb. Savarah sprang at the trunk, hand like a claw, and pinned the lizard against the bark.

  The creature hissed.

  She drew it away from the tree, gripping its body tight in her hand. The open mouth was splayed menacingly as it continued to hiss.

  This was the form her master had taken. Lizards only lived on the borderlands of the Blue Mountain Realm, where the wasteland came together with the foothills. She was close now.

  She looked up at the sky. Tomorrow was the day spoken of by the young prophet. The ship would arrive with the blessing of the gods.

  Something to help her destroy her master.

  Savarah turned back to the lizard. The creature had run out of breath to hiss at her. Her grip unrelenting, she squeezed the small body to the point of crushing it.

  She stared closely at the lizard’s face. Its slitted pupils gazed back, incapable of emotion.

  Isolaug. Master. I am coming for you.

  She swung her arm back, the lizard’s head protruding from her fisted hand, then drove its gaping mouth into the tree.

  QUICK FIRE

  Catching the kiehueth cost us three months and fifteen lives, three of which were our own. If we ever want to rear our heads on that planet again, we had better offload an entire frigate of chocolate and liquor. They were sorely disappointed by the twenty cases of whiskey and box of truffles. Tell Kenna I get to slap her whenever I want now.

  Loam was a breeze. Destroyed the tower, picked up three VOKKs for our own uses, plus everything The Divine King asked for.

  PS—our three dead were killed by the natives, not the kiehueth. Turned our guys into pincushions with all the spears and arrows. Tell that to Kenna too. I hope she cries. Then pukes her guts out.

  -Captain Mhadrees, Quick Fire, transmission to Mauris TeHekee, COO, Red Merchant Enterprises

  Chapter Four

  AVEN

  Don’t let them take you alive.

  Daeymara’s warning echoed in Aven’s mind as the landrider he was strapped to sped toward the mercenary starship waiting on the hilltop. The engine squealed as it climbed the steep ramp into the ship. Other landriders followed after them in a screeching buzz, like a swarm of bees.

  The landrider came to a stop, and the mercenary driving it dismounted and came around to where Aven lay helpless. The mercenary’s head was shaved on the sides, a line of black, spiky hair running down the center of his skull. His eyes were cold and unreadable as he unstrapped Aven from the landrider.

  “Get up!” he shouted, pointing his weapon between Aven’s eyes. The bright light in the ship’s hold clearly showed the bloody lines crisscrossing the right side of his face. It was the same mercenary who had tried to take Daeymara’s life. Aven had caused those cuts when he shattered the vial holding the butterfly against the man’s face.

  What was the fate of the other Missionaries? It had all happened so fast. One moment they were walking on the dirt road, headed to Aven’s farm; the next, they had scattered, running for their lives from the mercenaries.

  Aven managed to stand, though it was difficult with both his hands and his feet bound. The mercenary produced a knife and cut the rope binding his legs, so he could walk. The huge ramp began folding up. Aven had a passing thought of jumping out at the last moment. But the ship was already climbing fast, the ground falling away, and Aven’s stomach lurched at the speed. A moment later the ramp closed with a hiss of air, and the opportunity was gone.

  Suddenly, the room tilted, and the walls rattled. Aven nearly tumbled over as the ship leapt forward, but he managed to reach out with his bound hands and grab a rail anchored to the wall. The force pulling on his insides told him the vessel was moving extremely fast.

  Aven looked around and counted six mercenaries in the room: large, dark-haired men with weapons slung over their shoulders. They were also having trouble standing.

  “Can you reach the COM?” shouted one of the men holding onto the wall on the opposite side of the hold. Aven glanced at him. It was the same man who’d shot Daeymara’s with the blue lightning. He had a round face, eyes set wide like an owl’s.

  “I can. Watch this one for me, Dheeg,” replied the spiky-haired mercenary, pointing the barrel of his weapon at Aven’s face.

  Dheeg held onto the rail with one hand, pointing his weapon at Aven with the other hand. “Tell Mhadrees we’re stuck in here with the VOKKs, and the grav isn’t kicking on!”

  “Tell him we’ve got some live ones,” shouted another mercenary, whose left eye was an empty socket. “Gonna have us some entertainment!”

  Aven looked behind him to the rear of the ship. Against the back wall were three of the landriders clustered close together. Daeymara was strapped to one of them. A patch of blackened skin marked her face below her right eye where the lightning from the weapon had struck her. Zoecara’s mangled form had been haphazardly tied to another landrider, one arm hanging loose from the vehicle. Streaks of blood ran down her hand. Blood continued to drip from her limp fingers. On the other landrider was Pike. Aven saw his pale mouth moving, as if he were biting his lips, perhaps in pain, but his eyes were closed.

  The force pushing on Aven suddenly eased.

  The spiky-haired mercenary returned and grabbed Aven’s shoulder, pressing his weapon into his ribs.

  “Move.”

  “Careful with that one,” came another voice. It was the man with the missing eye. “His VOKK and the other kid’s are the only ones we can be sure ain’t damaged.”

  “Mhadrees is going to be mad that Dheeg roasted the one woman,” said the spike-haired mercenary.

  The one-eyed mercenary scowled. “We still got two, maybe three. Mhadrees can jump out the airlock, all I care. Put something hard in his glass, and he’ll be fine.”

  Spiky-hair shoved Aven forward. “Go on, piss-brain.”

  Aven went, resisting the desire to defy the man. He took in his surroundings as the mercenary gripped his shoulder and pushed him forward down a corridor.

  The corridor was narrower than the ones on the Guardian starship. The weak overhead lights revealed a filth-covered floor. Yellowish-green streaks marked the walls, and there were dark scuffs where something had gouged and scraped the metal. What looked like dried blood was splashed on the wall. Some had dripped down to the floor.

  Aven glanced behind him and saw Pike following, limping as the one-eyed man held a weapon to his back—a gun, his VOKK reminded him.

  Behind them, two men carried Daeymara. A spark of hope rose in him. Could she still be alive? One of the mercenaries had said maybe three of the VOKKs were still good. But if she was still alive, he feared her wakening. She would be in such terrible pain. She needed Ala
el, the guardian physician. If she was alive, he would be able to help her. The way the mercenaries carried her, they clearly didn’t care about her condition. Behind Daeymara, one of the mercenaries was dragging Zoecara by her feet. Her head slid along the metal floor, leaving a thin trail of blood.

  Yes, thought Aven. It’s blood on the wall.

  They passed several doors with round, darkened portholes set at eye-level. He wondered what lay behind them. Around a bend in the corridor was a large, sliding gate made of heavy metal bars. As they passed by, Aven glanced inside. The room beyond was mostly dark, the dim overhead lights only illuminating a small area just inside the gate.

  Then, in the gloom, something large moved. Aven jerked away in surprise as a monstrous head pressed against the bars. From the grotesque snout, a long pink tongue shot out at him, licking at his shirt. Aven lost his balance and fell against the far wall of the corridor.

  The sound of the one-eyed man’s uncontrolled cackling echoed down the hall. Aven’s eyes stayed fixed on the creature as the head withdrew into the darkness and disappeared.

  A vivid mental image suddenly appeared in his mind. Aven grabbed at his head as the image overwhelmed his thoughts. He saw himself inside the darkened room. The monster had its clawed foot on his chest, pinning his arms down. The pale pink tongue slithered across his face like a writhing worm. Then the image was gone, and Aven heard the chatter of voices, followed by laughter.

  He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at a dingy light. He jolted upright, disoriented.

  “He’s up!” came a voice to his left. A chorus of chuckles followed.

  Aven turned his head toward the voices. Three of the mercenaries were seated around a small table, staring at him. Between him and them was a metal grate. Aven’s eyes darted around, trying to make sense of where he was.

  What had happened? How did he get there? He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.

  He was sitting on the floor in a small, rectangular room. There was no furniture in the room except for a cot. On the cot lay Daeymara. She’d been completely stripped of clothing. Pike was huddled in a corner, his arms crossed over his knees. He was scowling, his eyes stony.