(have you read
the prologue?)
“For who if not the King
is responsible for the well-being of his people! If he fails to provide
his subjects with the bare minimums needed to support life…if he watches
them suffer and die in squalor and disease…if he watches other nations
pick and gnaw on our bones without lifting his finger? …Then I ask You,
can we watch this in silence? …Do we, his people not lift our hand to ask
why? …and if he yet does not answer our pleas, do we let things be? Do
we go home to our starving children, look in their eyes and say: we tried
all we could?
Nay, I scream at you. Nay! We
will stand for this no longer! We shall arise as one, storm the gates of
the council hall and take what we need! If the current leaders ignore us,
choose new leaders from amongst us who will NOT! If we act as one, nothing
can stop us!”
A short extract from the speech of
Jarron Tilessin in the Kóreme central market as recorded in ‘The
Mirror of Our Soul’ – a biography of his travels (from the private
library of Lord Damalanthas Quithas)
The raven looked
at the carnage below. Smoke from the burning wagons obscured the human
corpses on the ground, but the noise of fighting had died down, and nothing
moved below its perch. It hopped off the branch with a loud squawk, flapped
its wings a couple of times, and landed hungrily on a body furthest from
the dying blaze. Tearing the shirt apart with a swift jerk of the sharp
beak, it pecked at the flesh beneath.
“Hiaaaa.”
The sudden cry spooked the large
bird, interrupting its meal. It flapped up, complaining loudly.
“Damn birds. I hate them.”
The small shape looked around warily,
tentatively smelling the air around him. He looked at the smoking wagons
in disgust, moving slowly from shadow to shadow. The tiny, drawn bow might
have looked comical to an observer, had the observer been able to spot
the stealthy halfling hunter, but the arrows were poisoned, and could paralyze
a deer in seconds.
A second shape joined the first,
moving just as quietly through the undergrowth. They began to search the
wagon remains systematically, looking for clues of the disaster. The caravan
was returning to Rotan and since the halflings were Rotan's allies, they
had to know what had happened. At first it looked like a raid for booty,
but the wagons were empty, having delivered their food to the starving
people of Feroll. Everything was destroyed by the fire, leaving no evidence
of the attackers. They were about to leave, when one of the halflings signaled.
“Flinter! Flinter, come see this.”
The halfling picked up a branch,
and rolled the blackened tube-like object out of the glowing cinders. Flinter
looked down. He touched the object quickly, to judge the heat of it. It
was cold to the touch. Amazed, Flinter picked it up through his woolen
cloak. He wiped it quickly of the soot. What emerged out of his cloak was
an intricate metal scroll case, engraved in glowing runes that were quickly
fading in the sunlight. He looked around again, making his mind up quickly.
This was far too important for a simple scout like himself. The Elders
had to see this, and quickly. The two halflings faded into the undergrowth
as quietly as they had emerged.
Today was going to be a day of mystery. Grumplin
rolled out of bed, wincing at the cold floor beneath his feet. He stretched
his round three-foot tall body, listening to the grumbling of his stomach.
It was bright outside, and he could hear the children frolicking. He washed
up in a hurry – one could not ignore one’s stomach for long – and he put
on his best travelling clothes. He picked the ornaments very carefully.
Today, he would visit important people, representing his whole nation.
The grumbling in his stomach broke him out of his reverie. With practiced
strokes (he started cooking when he was four years old), he finished his
omelet, and sat down heartily to his meal. Two bites and a swallow later
he stood up again, and washed the dishes in a basin of water. There was
a knock on the door of his wagon.
“Come in, come in. I’m almost ready.”
The door opened, and Elder Drimble
walked in, smiling. He sat down, holding his stately belly.
“Good morning, Grumplin. I have
some last instructions.”
Grumplin shivered. He was going
to be so far away from his wagon. So many strange places. Maybe he should
refuse. It wasn’t too late.
Elder Drimble was one hundred and
five. He read Grumplin’s wilting expression instantly.
“Joranth would be so proud of you.
You’re taking a first step on the road that made him our greatest hero.
We’re all jealous of you.”
Grumplin swallowed hard, tucking
in his round belly, and raising his chins. It was too late to refuse.
“That’s the spirit,” said the elder,
smiling at him. “You’ll be all right. Don’t worry. You are delivering a
message, and all messengers are sacred in human lands. You’ll be safe.
Anyway, the Lords will protect you. They promised to. Think of this as
an adventure.”
“But Elder Drimble, they are all
so far. And I don’t even know how to ride a pony. Perhaps Flinter…”
Elder Drimble held his hand up,
interrupting him, “He cannot read, and he is too shy to meet people. You
can speak and scribe eight languages, you have read all texts about the
Lords of Rotan, and you can remember details of what your neighbor wore
to the market a month ago. All these wonderful traits make you far more
suited than Flinter as a messenger.”
He sighed, looking at Grumplin’s
crestfallen expression. “This is important, Grumplin. We need to get these
letters to the Lords. It’s urgent. The caravan wagon that carrying the
scroll case was burnt to a cinder. The letters contain information that
they need to know.”
His face lit up in a smile, as he
remembered something. He fished around in his pockets, grumbling.
“Ah, hah. Here it is. The ring of
Tess Mellowbelly. She traveled to the farthest shores with this. It will
get you instantly to where you want to be, and back in time for supper.
It has only eight charges left, so use it wisely.”
Grumplin put his hand out and the
ring slipped on his index finger. It was far too big. Elder Drimble frowned,
and put the ring on his thumb. It was still loose.
He coughed, “The ring was a…gift
from her travelling companion. All you have to do is speak ‘YAWANARAF’
while thinking of the place where you want to be. Don’t worry. It’s perfectly
safe, unless you think of the moon. Now here is the book compiled by Gnurr.
Its artwork should give you an idea of where you want to go.”
Grumplin opened the book, and turned
the pages quickly. His eyes focused on each frame, absorbing every small
detail, storing it perfectly in separate niches in his head.
“All right, I’m finished,” he said
moments later.
Elder Drimble just shook his head
in amazement, “And you ask me why you’re right for this? Bah, you’re perfect!
Now remember to study everything and everyone. We need to know how the
other nations see us. It’ll make it easier for us to decide on where to
take our people.”
Grumplin put on his pack. He could
smell the pancakes within, and his stomach rumbled its approval.
With a groan, Elder Drimble stood
up, leaning on his walking stick, “Good luck Grumplin, and may Mundiree
watch over you.”
Grumplin concentrated hard. He would
start with an easy task. He focused the picture in his mind, and spoke
the word. The world folded like a piece of paper, and he could not even
hear himself scream…
“….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”
Light unfolded, and he dropped to
his knees, looking blankly ahead of him. A waft of venison in gravy filled
his nostrils, awakening him from his stupor. He was in a long corridor.
He was sure he was thinking of the Rotan Palace kitchens when he activated
the ring. He looked up, barely in time to cover his head. A boot caught
him painfully in the side.
“What the….waaaaaaah”
The waiter went down with a crash
of broken glass and scattering silverware.
Grumplin sat up, and licked his
hand. It was covered in gravy – a touch too salty. The waiter got up with
a groan. He looked at the scattered dishes, holding his head, “Oh no, that’s
all I needed.”
He turned around, his face hardening
at the sight of the cowering halfling.
“You! What are you doing here? Who
let you in here?”
Grumplin felt his skin crawl, and
his toe-hair curling. Men were so BIG.
The man’s eyes bulged, threatening
to pop out of their sockets.
“Ruben! RUBEN, you lout. Get rid
of this vagrant, immediately!”
He glanced once more at the halfling,
and marched off back to the kitchens. Grumplin got up, feeling his bruised
ribs. He turned to walk away and froze. There was an angel walking towards
him. She was of human height, but of perfect halfling proportions. Her
cherub round face was surrounded by a crown of golden mane of hair, and
she carried herself with a grace that was difficult to match.
“Can I help you my friend?” She
asked with a smile.
“Umm…Aaah…I’m look…I’m looking for
Lady Tekuna…Chand. I have a missive.”
She raised her eyebrows, a half-smile
crossing her face.
“I think I can help you there…,”
she said, looking at him pointedly.
“Umm…Grumplin, ma’am.”
He handed her the scroll, and she
read it quickly, frowning at the contents.
She turned to leave. “Well Grumplin,
if you follow me, I’m sure she’ll turn up somewhere. In the meantime, you
can tell me where you got this interesting ring.”
She looked at the inscription inside
his ring, and handed it to him while he was checking his fingers.
“You must have dropped it. It’s
not quite your size, you know.”
“Yes ma’am. It belonged to a hero
of our nation.”
“I’m sure it did.”
They followed several thin passages
and staircases. With delight, Grumplin noticed that the woman was even
quieter than he was. She put her finger to her lips, smiling at him. He
blushed, turning red with embarrassment. She moved a brick on the wall,
and an entrance opened into a huge, beautifully decorated hallway. She
strode quickly forward, and Grumplin had to jog in order to keep up. The
carpets swallowed the patter of his footsteps. They stopped before a large
door with ‘ Guestroom 121’ written in round golden letters. The angel looked
around while leaning her ear closer to the door. She knocked quietly. Nobody
answered.
“Looks like nobody is at home. What
a shame. We came all this way to visit. We must leave him a message.”
She turned the handle with a soft
squeak, but the door would not open.
“How peculiar,” she muttered to
him, leaning over the lock. “The door’s jammed. I must see to it that the
mechanisms are oiled again.”
She winked at him, and removed something
from her hair.
“Hmmm, Anwell has really made an
effort to put in better locks. Luckily, the lock designer works for me,
so that I’ve had three months practice on everyone else.”
Grumplin shifted from foot to foot.
Halflings didn’t bother with locks, seeing as it was a nuisance, but if
someone locked a door, it seemed to him as if they didn’t want people to
enter.
“Oh don’t look so worried, we’ll
just peek inside, and leave a message.”
The lock clicked, and she winced,
glancing around. She peeked inside, looking carefully around the walls.
As her eyes passed over him, she smiled apologetically:
“Sorry, but one can never be too
careful. Plus, if you don’t practice, you just get worse. Come on.”
He stepped into the apartment, and
she closed the door quietly behind him.
Grumplin looked around. The room
was massive. Huge paintings decorated the walls with history of the lands.
The curtains were drawn. They were heavy, crimson in the faint outside
light. There was a writing desk on the wall, covered by parchments. Besides
it stood a wall cabinet containing many leather bound books. Grumplin’s
hands were twitching. So much knowledge was contained within. He looked
away wistfully, continuing with his examination. In the corner, the large
four-posted bed was neatly draped in glistening sheets and pillows. Grumplin
sighed. If there was anything he could possibly appreciate more than food,
it was a comfortable bed. The carpets were soothing to his feet. They were
made of the softest wool he had ever felt. There were dishes of silver
stacked on the bedside table, and he could still smell the breakfast that
was half eaten.
“Psst.”
He tore his eyes away from the plates
and looked around. The lady had opened the cabinet, and was removing a
volume from within. She looked mesmerized, but her actions were slow, controlled
and deliberate.
“Now the trick is in…removing the
book without…disturbing any of the dust around it. It requires a bit of
patience.”
Grumplin shifted from foot to foot,
feeling ever more uncomfortable. The lady opened the book, and he hissed
in surprise. The covers contained a box, finely constructed out of thin
dark wood. Patterns were carved onto it. The angel-lady was frowning. She
lifted the book into the light, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. She sighed,
lowering the book:
“Blast, he’s put a ward on it. If
I open it wrong, it’ll burn the documents within. How rude.”
Grumplin was beginning to feel his
very healthy danger-sense warming up…but he really wanted to help this
angel, if only to see her smile.
“Umm, I think that…”
She looked at him, raising her eyebrows
hopefully: “Go on, please.”
“Hrrm, Hrrm,” there was a dust ball
caught in his throat. “I think I can open the rune.”
He finished quietly, not daring
to look up at her.
“How sure are you?”
He shifted his feet again: “Well
you see, I recognize the pattern as the silent prayer to Wiobra, from the
tome ‘Ages of Silence’, when his priests were hounded wrongfully for the
death of King…”
“Yeah, skip the history, and…?
“…What it is, is a complex pattern
representing the passage through the afterlife. If followed correctly,
it leads to Wiobra. If followed incorrectly, it would curse the supplicant
with His disfavor.”
“…And you know how to trace the
pattern correctly?”
Grumplin was beginning to feel this
was a VERY bad idea. The lady had mentioned something about burning…
“Umm…but maybe…probably I am wrong.”
The lady stood back, looking at
him appraisingly. She moved closer to him, and he caught her sweet perfume:
“I would be most grateful…”
His head was beginning to pound.
“Ok...I suppose I could try… It
goes like this…”
He knelt by the open book on the
floor. The pattern in the wood was not stained, and he couldn’t see it
clearly. This was going to be trickier than he had thought. He closed his
eyes. Clearing his mind of all else, he slowly imagined the pages he had
read six years ago. Holding the image solid in his mind, he slowly traced
the pattern on the cover. Clockwise and down for the Antechamber…Down and
across for the River Crossing…Spiraling in for the Vortex, Jumping across
and diagonally up for the Halls of Solitude…and finally forward and arch
left for the Throne Room…
…There was a click, and the lid
moved, snapping him out of his reverie. He snatched his hands, imagining
the flames. There was silence. He opened his eyes.
“Well done. Well done indeed,” said
a pleased voice well behind him. The lady moved from behind the curtain,
smiling widely at him. He smiled back.
There was a large parchment folded
in the box. She slowly unraveled it, and her face wrinkled in concern:
“Oh my…that’s a large sum of money…we
have to go. There is no time to lose. That message of yours is a lot more
important than you realize.”
The door squeaked, as the handle
turned. She knelt before him, level with his eyes and gripped him by the
shoulders.
“Listen very carefully. There is
no more time for games. We’re all in extreme danger. Go to Euvgeni now.
Deliver your mess…”
The door splintered asunder, sending
shrapnel flying like knives. Men spilled into the room, short blades gleaming
wickedly. Grumplin was transfixed. His feet would not obey, and his eyes
could not close.
“Go! Use the ring!” He heard someone
scream behind him.
The front intruder stiffened in
mid-stride, gripping a black handle sticking out of his skull. Blood covered
his face. Someone pushed Grumplin in the side, and he heard a quiet whistle
as something flew past his neck. He felt a brief pain, and he felt a warm
patch trickle down his arm.
“Go! Tell Euvgeni…ahhh”
He turned at the cry of pain. The
lady was wrestling one of the men. There was a cut in her side, seeping
blood. He tried swallowing, and he found his throat dry. Suddenly the lady
knelt, and with an overbalanced wide sweep of the blade, the man went stumbling
over her. His foot caught her head and with a yelp he crashed through the
heavy drapes.
“Kolya is the traitor! Kolya!” She
screamed, looking desperately at him. She was frantically fiddling with
a cube in her hand. Someone grabbed him roughly by the injured shoulder,
and a red heat wave of pain gripped him. He howled as the world blurred
in his head. Through the haze, he imagined the woodlands. He tried to focus
on the houses, and the huge barbarians laughing amongst them, the women
in their soft pelts, and the kids chasing chickens…but it was all red.
“YAWANARAF”
There was a loud pop in his ears,
and he could feel himself stretching…stretching until his bones snapped,
his tendons pulled out and ripped, until he felt thinner than a string,
thinner than a hair. And he was weaving and knotting into the strangest
shapes. Then with a wrench on his arm, the world returned, and there was
light.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh,” he screamed,
looking over his shoulder. There was an arm grasping him. As he turned,
it dropped to the ground. It was neatly sheared at the elbow. Grumplin
looked at the twitching limb on the ground, looked at the blood on his
hurt shoulder, and he raised his hand in front of his eyes. Where there
should have been a thumb, there was only to see a shattered stump, smoking
like a pipe. All of a sudden, it all seemed very funny. With a smile on
his face he stood up, swayed once, and fainted.
“Cheers Claris,”
“To your health brother,” said the
woman lounging on the sofa, smiling bitterly at him. She was what men called
‘full-bodied’. Her golden hair was swept back and upwards, held in place
by an intricate net and a fine ebony comb. Heavy make-up, done in the Tel
fashion accented her narrow, upturned eyes. She wore the loose silken robe
loosely, acutely aware of the stares that it drew. Claris liked to be in
the center of everyone’s attention. Unfortunately, as Pierce found out,
she was even more expensive to entertain than when she was a child. She
was spoilt, used to opulence and the comforts that she liked so much. But,
all said and done, she was also possibly the most influential woman in
the family (with an ear close to their father) AND she knew better than
to leave a trail of clues behind her. Pierce would rather have the company
of his snake (when hungry), than his sister’s. Unfortunately, the recent
events left Pierce short of money, and sorely lacking in allies. Damalanthas
had not been satisfied with his humiliation alone. No, after he had finished
with the courts, the House of the Roaring Tiger had slipped a few notches
in the game. It would take a few years to recover the losses, even if no
more problems occurred. Which made him the perfect target for the minor
Houses out there, or his sister’s manipulations.
“What’s wrong, Pierce? You look
like you want to strangle someone,” she breathed sulkily, watching his
face for clues. He had to be careful, or he would end up as dry and stiff
as her last lover.
He smiled widely, faking boredom,
“Oh, forget it, it’s nothing. It’s the weather. It always puts me in a
foul mood when it rains.”
“You should take a break when we’re
finished. Come back home with me, and I’ll show you parties you haven’t
even dreamt of in this backwater. These Easterlings are getting to you.”
He laughed gently, carefully lowering
his head over the cup to hide his hatred of her.
“No, I’m afraid that father has
given me very specific instructions. I’m to remain here, alert for any
more of those cursed RMA agents. I tell you, for every one we find they
plant two more. The magical costs alone are running over budget.”
He looked up again, his bored mask
once again on his face. She was stretching on the sofa, admiring his servant.
He could always get another one.
“Well, it all ties back into my
plans,” she purred at him. “Stay low for the next couple of weeks, and
they will be too busy trying to calm their populace to bother you. That’s
when you clean out your nest once and for all.”
“Yes, and if you don’t succeed,
the others string me up for making a mess.”
Her low chuckle caught him by surprise.
She was in a good mood.
“Yes. Perfect, isn’t it?” She said,
feigning innocence on her face.
Oh perfect, all right. If any more
embarrassments were found on his doorstep, he would be gelded – just like
his brother. With so many of his brethren around him, the House was most
zestful when it came to meting out punishment. And there was nothing that
would give Claris more pleasure than to hear him squeak. If only he didn’t
need her money…He would have to make sure that she didn’t survive, one
way or another. He tried to refocus on the game of Savatte, but his mind
was too occupied. His next move was a risky deception. She smiled at him
as he looked up – a very predatory smile.
“My agent is in place. It’s time
to strike. The first move is ours. Let the games begin. Tonight, the king
dies. Long live the king.”
With a contemptuous flick of her
hand, she moved her Chah over his pawn, ignoring his ruse. Slowly she lifted
the pawn to her mouth, crunching on the icing into the sweet cake underneath.
With every sound, he could feel his own bones grinding to powder in her
teeth.
(Now read part
two.)
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