by Allan Cole
The Far Kingdoms
Volume #1
By Allan Cole And Chris Bunch
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Published By Allan Cole And Chris Bunch At Smashwords.com
Copyright © 2009 by Allan Cole And Chris Bunch
Cover Art Copyright Thomas Kidd
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For Jason, Susan And Alissia,
Elizabeth Rice Bunch
And For Kathryn And Karen
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The Far Kingdoms Saga:
A Foreword From Allan Cole
When my late partner, Chris Bunch, and I finished the final book in the eight-novel Sten series, the last thing on our minds was to write a fantasy novel. We were hard science fiction guys – space ships with AM2-powered chain guns - escaping an attacking flotilla into hyperspace.
We both grew up on Buck Rogers Saturday matinee serials, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. Other than a sneaking fondness for Conan The Barbarian, we generally avoided swords and sorcery and certainly fairy princesses and unicorns.
So how is it that Team Bunch & Cole ended up writing not one fantasy novel, but four?
It was like this: our editors at Ballantine/Del Rey Books were putting the serious arm on us to come up with a fantasy series. We said not a chance, and ducked and dodged like John Carter fleeing a pride of banth across the desolate plains of Barsoom.
In his usual diplomatic manner, Chris told them, "No way am I writing about fucking elves and Tinkerbell fairies and unicorns and shit."
I wholeheartedly agreed - and that, it would seem would be that. Besides, we had just sold a trilogy of historical novels under the main title of "The Wars Of The Shannons," to Ballantine Books and were happily boning up on black powder weapons and colonial-era bayonet tactics.
But they kept the pressure up. Fantasy was hot, they said, and we ought to follow up our success with Sten into the fantasy field. In short, they were as persistent as clotting Alex Kilgour intent on boring Sten’s ears off with a shaggy dog story.
We sighed and shuddered and finally said, okay maybe we’ll think about it. And they burst through that chink in our armor like a depleted uranium round through wormy cheese and before we knew it we were on a strict deadline to come up with something "pretty damned quick" so we could make the fall schedule.
As it happened, I was relaxing after work reading up on the great explorers and expeditions of old. I became particularly interested in Sir Richard Burton – not the 20th Century actor and husband of Elizabeth Taylor, but the 19th Century explorer genius who found the source of the Nile, entered the forbidden city of Mecca in disguise, spoke 29 languages, was a master with gun and sword and, in his spare time, translated The Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra. (Check out his Wikipedia entry at: http://tinyurl.com/3e765h)
I was telling Chris about the guy, when all of sudden he got this funny look on his face. "Shit!" he said. And he dragged out a bottle of single malt from his desk, poured us both a hefty shot and added, "That’s it, Cole. That’s our fantasy. Hell, there’s enough meat in there for a whole bloody series of the suckers."
I was dubious. Chris pressed on. "We’ll pattern our hero after Burton. Set the whole thing in a world we invent. An historical novel, but it’ll be a history we make up. Instead of the source of the Nile, we’ll have some legendary far off place, where the streets are paved with gold and such."
I nodded. "The Far Kingdoms," I said. Not only understanding his notion but accidentally naming the series.
The only problem was that Burton, by all accounts, was pretty much of a son of a bitch. Had no qualms about running up a river in Africa in gunboats, blowing the hell out of the populace in the way of the place he wanted to go. And all those languages? Most of them he got from the assiduous study of "pillow dictionaries;" Girls he bought, or rented, to teach him the local language whilst warming his bones.
So we came up with another character. Made him an innocent – son of a merchant prince, a bit of a wastrel but wants to mend his ways. Enamored with Burton’s vision, he finances the expeditions and goes along. The whole first story is his journal - a first person account of their adventures. We named him Amalric Antero. We named the Burton character, Janos Greycloak. We also created a third character, Rali Antero, Amalric’s warrior sister, who stars in two of the books, including this one - The Warrior Returns.
We pitched the whole thing to our editors on the phone. In the end, we came away with a commitment for four novels. The first three – The Far Kingdoms, A Warrior’s Tale, and Kingdoms Of The Night – were written by the two of us. I wrote the concluding volume – The Warrior Returns – solo.
One final thing. To make it palatable for science fiction guys to do fantasy, we came up with an ultimate goal – and theme – that ties all four books together. And that’s to discover the secret of a Unified Field Theory that combines the major forces of the physical world with…. Magic!
Oh, and that unicorn? If you look closely, in one of the books you’ll come upon a scene where a group of bandits is gathered about a campfire, roasting and eating with great relish, a creature that looks very much like a unicorn.
Enjoy the voyage.
Allan Cole, Boca Raton, 2/8/2011
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PART ONE:
THE FIRST VOYAGE
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CHAPTER ONE
THE COURTESAN
King of Fire.
King of Water.
Queen of the Muse.
I, Amalric Emilie Antero, put quill to linen on this, the second candleday of the Harvest Month, in the tenth year of the Time of Lizard. I swear on the heads of my descendants all I write is true. I beseech thee, My Lords and My Lady, to look with favor upon this journal. Fire, light the way through dim memory. Water, nourish the fruit of my thoughts. Muse, look with kindness on my poor skills and grant me words worthy of the tale I tell. The tale of my travels to the Far Kingdoms.
And what I found.
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As I reread those lines I could hear Janos's laugh. It was a deep drum of a laugh that could warm a cold night, or turn a fool's words to stone. I heard it loud, as if he sat next to me, instead of from a distance of over forty years. The laughter mocked me. Not for writing this history. He approved of histories and all books of knowledge. He thought them more sacred than any holy cedar grove, more telling than the mirror of any Seer. Yes, he would have approved, even if this account sometimes paints him in an ugly light. Which it shall. It shall. For have I not sworn to tell the truth? Janos was Truth's most ardent worshipper. Even when he lied... Especially when he lied.
The mockery, I am sure, was for the traditional opening spell I penned, calling on fire, water, and the Muse to assist me in my endeavors.
"It's a silly custom," he would have said. "What's more, it is also a waste of your energies and your substance. It's like curing a nest of warts, and then not having anything left over for important things like a demon in your skull. A knotted thread's as good as thrice-blessed toad skin for a wart, and much less expensive, besides."
Then he would have slapped me on the back and filled our wine glasses to the brim. "Just start the book, Amalric. It'll come to you as you go."
Very well, then... It began with a woman.
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Her name was Melina and she was the most exquisite courtesan in all Orissa. Even after all these years, my loins stir when I remember her. She had large dark eyes a man could lose his soul in and long perfumed waves of black hair to cover him with if he were accepted into her embrace. She had the form of a goddess, with golden skin, hennaed lips, red-tipped breasts and silken thighs that promised the most welcome harbor any voyager of the flesh could imagine. In short, I was a man of exactly twenty summers, and I lusted for her with all the blind, unreasoning youthmust that hot-blooded age carries. If she had satisfied that lust, I would not be telling this story. Instead she held me transfixed in her professional thrall with nothing more than promises.
I was on a rare bit of business for my father the day I entangled myself in her net. A ship bearing goods from the West had just disgorged its cargo into one of my father's warehouses and it was my duty to oversee the accounting. This did not mean I was to interfere with my father's excellent slave clerks. I was there as a "presence of authority" as my father put it. This meant keeping the bribes allocated to the port officer, city tax collector and Evocators' tithingman to a sensible level. I had a purse of gold and silver coins to slip into greedy fingers, and had been warned if I paid out all of it, profits from this voyage would be slim. The voyage had been long and with much incident, including a storm which had caught and battered our ship just off the mouth of the river that nourishes our city. It was tricky business and I was amazed at the time that he'd entrusted it to me. But my father was trying to encourage me during a time of youthful confusion. He saw merit in me I did not see in myself.
The port officer was green but overly cautious to make up for this failing. As we went from crate to bundle to barrel to jar and toted up the value, I saw a look of craft mar his youthful eyes as he envisioned a bribe equal to a year's wages. As his appetite sharpened, my mind raced for a solution. My gaze fell on a broken bundle of fabric. I groaned, ripped it open and let the rich cloth spill onto the dusty warehouse floor. I shouted for the ship's captain, ignoring the startled look on the port officer's face. He must have thought I'd gone mad. But the look turned to amazement when the captain arrived and I showed him the offending cloth and cursed its poor quality.
"You are either a fool who has been taken by a great cheat," I berated him, "or you are that great cheat in the flesh." I swore the cloth was of substandard quality, and even a dimwit could see it would rot within a week in Orissa's moist river climate. And if this was so, what of the other goods? "Damme, captain, look at me when I speak!"
The captain was an old hand and caught on quickly. He moaned regret and swore ignorance. I sent him away to contemplate my father's wrath and turned back to the port officer. His smile was weak when I apologized, and the smile grew weaker still as I expanded on that apology - slipping him a single coin for his bribe - to include the obviously diminished value of the cargo. He did not protest, but gripped the coin tightly and fled before I came to my senses and said it was too much.
The city tax collector took no thought at all - he owed my father many favors - so he was happy with a rare trinket from the West to pleasure his much younger wife.
Believing myself a new master of commerce, I awaited with confidence the tithingman from the Evocators' Council. But the sorcerer who showed himself quickly pricked that thinly stretched silk. Prevotant was known as one of the fattest, greediest Evocators in Orissa. He was notorious for his poor skills as a wizard, but frightening talent for skinning a merchant of his purse. The moment he saw me he chuckled in glee that one so young and stupid was all that stood between him and fortune. His chuckle was echoed by a shrill chittering from the Favorite clinging to his shoulder. In that time there were still a few, usually older, Evocators who kept a Favorite to assist them in casting spells. Part animal, part demon, they could change their size at will from twice that of a man, to even smaller than the scaly thing curled around Prevotant's neck. The creature's chittering grew wilder, as the Favorite stirred itself into a boiling broth of excitement. Most Favorites were high-strung and sometimes difficult to control, but I could see this creature was as hysterical as a much beaten dog. Instead of soothing it with a soft word and stroking its leathery hide, Prevotant cursed and gave it a stinging blow. The Favorite squealed in pain and anger, but subsided. Still, I could see it was brooding, for its skin had turned from black to pulsing red. It worried at a bloody sore with small, sharp teeth.
"Perhaps he's hungry," I offered, thinking to ingratiate myself. "I could send for a morsel to tempt him."
The Favorite chirped, but Prevotant flapped his jowls from side to side: "Never mind him. Let's get to the business at hand." He puffed up his girth and fixed me with a fierce stare. "I have reports of sorcerous contraband hidden in your cargo."
My good sense fled before his charge. It was an old ploy at the docks, especially among the Evocators' tithingmen. My father would have dismissed it with a laugh. I knew this. My father had always made a point to mention these small confrontations and conquests to aid my education. But, knowing and doing - ah, now, there's a great divide. My face, that great betrayer of red-headed folk, turned as fiery as my hair.
I sputtered: " But... But... That's not possible. We ordered all precautions taken. All precautions!"
Prevotant grimaced and pulled some scribblings from his stained robes. He examined quill scratches, keeping his hand cupped to hide them from my view. He shook his head, gloomy, then replaced his notes. His Favorite snatched at the pocket, receiving another blow. "Nasty beast," the Evocator hissed, then he shifted his attention back to me. "None the less," he said, "these charges are serious. Serious indeed." He gazed lovingly at my father's goods. "I have no choice, but to... but to..."
But I was gaping, numb. His head gave an impatient jerk and he stared at me, hard. "BUT TO-"
Light belatedly dawned. "Oh. Oh... Right!" I grabbed my belt and gave the purse a great shake. His eyes widened at the rattle and his face glowed as he counted his new wealth. A burst of chatter from the Favorite hinted at the deep emotions at play. He absently pinched the creature in rebuke. As for me, I realized my error the instant I'd acted. Now Prevotant knew what I had, and all I had was his to take. Disaster lay on one side, humiliation on the other, as I groped for wit. And the bargaining began.
"Well, yes," he said at last, "There are certain things I should do. Some would say, required to do. But I would need assistance. Ten colleagues... or more."
I shook the belt again, angry that I had no choice but to plunge on. "But, you..., " I said, wearily joining his game, "BUT YOU-"
"... Don't necessarily have to go by the book," he answered. "I've learned to trust my sweet nature in these matters." He eyed the purse, but I kept my hand in place.
"I could do it myself," he said, willing that hand to free the gold. "Except that would require..." He looked over the cargo again. "... My masters wouldn't permit me to tithe you less than... three coppers for every tenth weight?"
I sighed. "Then I must depart at once to my father's house to bring news of his ruin." I patted the purse. "The tithing you ask will take all this... and more."
Prevotant looked pained. His jowls sagged. But I saw the eyes of his Favorite glint and its tongue flicked at me, tasting for fear. I held my nerve, betraying nothing. The Evocator broke first.
"I have it," he said. "I'll perform a simple purification. But to be safe, it must include the whole warehouse. The tithe for that is set at one copper per hundred weight."
He lifted a hand. "However... there's still only my Favorite and myself to perform the enchantment. There's a great deal of work and prep-" I slipped the purse from my belt and gave it to him. The Favorite hooted greedily as his master swiftly tucked it away. "I'll have it done in no time," he said, briskly. "No time at all."
I sent a slave to fetch his things from his litter and in a few moments he'd set up a tripod, a brass bowl of hot coals dangling beneath it and was tossing pinches of various dusts
and molds and powders into the bowl. A ghastly smell arose, but there was no smoke. His Favorite leaped to the floor, jumping about and shrieking protests at what lay ahead. I'm sure it would have fled if not for the long, slim chain Prevotant clutched in his fist.
The Evocator had chosen a narrow aisle between crates of wooden toys to place the tripod. It was to help direct the force of the enchantment, he said. He waddled down it, dragging the Favorite behind. It fought all the way, squalling like a child and choking itself on the chain. "Stop," Prevotant hissed. "You'll only make it worse."
He eased himself to one knee and scrawled a circle on the floor, then a square encompassing that. He shortened his grip on the chain and pulled the Favorite to him. Its little teeth snapped frantically at his fingers, but he finally got it by the neck and hurled into the circle. The creature was still for a few moments, stunned by the fall. Prevotant nodded." Good. And if you give me any more trouble I'll have you skinned for shoes." The Evocator puffed back to his feet and strode to the tripod. He motioned for me to join him and I complied.
"I need the presence of an owner," he explained, "or the purity spell will not be lasting."
He dug out another pouch from his kit. "I want to make it good and strong," he said. "I like to see a satisfied client."
There were people scattered about the warehouse. Clerks and loaders, and prospective customers getting an early look at the goods. "Shall I clear the place?" I asked.
"No need. There's little danger." He dropped a fat fistful of what appeared to be brown shavings into the bowl. There was a wet hiss as they fell on the coals. I looked closer and once again noted there was no smoke.
He began, abrupt: "Oh, demons who dwell in darkness," he intoned. "Beware! Be-ware!" A hiss as he shook more brown stuff on the coals. And I saw the coals begin to lose their glow, as if the heat were being sucked from them.
"Fire to Cold. Cold to Fire. I summon flames to seek you out. Beware, demons! Be-ware!"
