The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  “Can I sit down while we wait?” she asked in her most polite voice.

  “No, I think not,” the simpering voice replied.

  “It is too bad we don’t know how long that purgle will be,” a second, rough voice noted, “then we could amuse ourselves while we wait–she is quite pretty, for a kara slave,” he added, laughing gruffly; two others laughed with him.

  “Yes, too bad,” the simpering voice agreed while the others laughed, “but Lord Xythrax would obliterate us all, if he caught us.” His statement stopped their laughter, and silence returned, but for the natural sounds, for several moments.

  “I’d like to obliterate him!” the rough voice exclaimed suddenly. “I can’t stand him, or any of the others like him!”

  “That kind of talk will get you transformed into one of his toy nekerpu,” the simpering voice replied. “Would you like to do his bidding for the rest of time?” he asked.

  “Grr!” the rough voice answered, and Kovaine could tell that he was afraid. “The thought makes my blood turn to ice!”

  “It should, unless you are stupid,” a nasally voice noted. “Besides, none know where he has hidden his soul–if we could discover that little fact . . . ,” he let his voice trail off, and the rough voice snorted.

  “Aye, if only,” the rough voice said, “but you are more likely to see me as Magsamel first!” Three of them laughed at this idea.

  “Quiet! Someone is coming!” the simpering voice hissed.

  “Where is Xythrax?” a purring, female voice asked, but there was a note of challenge and roughness in the voice.

  “Off retrieving our guest,” the simpering voice replied; the others laughed at this response, but their laughter sounded strained.

  “So, she is the one,” the female stated. “She doesn’t look like much to me, but then, I am no kortexi, and who can understand their taste in females?” she asked, a hint of laughter mixed with a note of sarcasm in her sultry voice; the red kailum holding her laughed raucously.

  “She is one of our kara slaves,” the simpering voice noted when the laughter died away, “the daughter of a prominent kara of Belford.”

  “How fitting!” the female exclaimed. “The kortexi and the kara–a perfect pair . . . once we have finished with them both,” she went on after a slight pause and igniting the laughter again.

  “Does she know?” the female voice asked.

  “She has been told nothing,” the simpering voice answered.

  “Now is the time to tell her . . . ,” the female voice began, then paused, “but only enough to start her wondering.”

  “Xythrax never told us to . . . ,” the simpering voice tried to protest, but the female cut him off abruptly.

  “He told you only what you needed to know,” she snapped, “and now I will tell her what she needs to know: the kortexi is your destined mate; it amused the Great Lord to find you, and bring you to this kortexi, your future husband, only to separate you again, without either of you really knowing anything about the other. This will make his search more . . . interesting,” she added, her voice more sultry, almost a purr, before she laughed wickedly; the others joined her.

  “Me? Marry a kortexi?” Kovaine said. “He will kill me as soon as he learns what I am, what you have made me into.”

  The female voice laughed again. “He might just do that,” she said, “which will make his pain, on realization of what he has done, all the sweeter.”

  Kovaine tried to pull away from those holding her, but her struggling only caused them to grip her tighter; she stopped struggling in order to stop the pain from their vise-like hands. She tried slumping in apparent defeat, to get them to relax their hold on her, but they only laughed harder and pulled her to her feet.

  “Look!” the nasal voice exclaimed, stopping both their laughter and her struggling. “Our master returns!”

  “I must fetch the breeder,” the female said.

  Kovaine heard the sounds of the female voice leaving, then heard the sounds of many heavy feet, soon followed by the bony voice speaking, which must have been Xythrax.

  “Yes,” Xythrax’s bony, deep voice began, “I have loosened my hold upon you, but only so that you may struggle against your plight and cause yourself further injury. Remember that I, Xythrax, right hand of Gar, Great Lord of the Universe, hold you a finger’s width from your personal hell. The Great Lord commanded your capture, chosen of the One, the would-be mightiest warrior to ever walk the land, but being chosen is to become a lodestone for evil: the brighter your light shines, the greater the darkness that will surround you and snuff out your light. The Great Lord commanded that we give you special treatment, for you will create the instrument of your own downfall. Behold,” he said, raising his voice, “a pura breeder.”

  The sounds that followed were too soft for Kovaine to distinguish what they were, so she focused instead upon the words; she wondered what Xythrax meant by calling this kortexi chosen of the One, and the other things about lodestones and lights. Then another thought occurred to her: if these kortexi were as prudish as she had heard, how would this one, her future mate, feel about being forced to have sex with a pura? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of ripping cloth, followed by a new voice so loud it echoed around her.

  “No!” the kortexi shouted in denial of what she guessed must be happening, then his shout became a howl of anguish that tore at her insides; she felt sorry for the kortexi captive, remembering how it felt to be forced.

  “Remember,” Xythrax said, “you must not resist, lest I plunge you into the flames of your physical hell. We give this service to all would-be kortexem who fall into our hands.”

  “Claws, not hands,” the female voice purred. “You will give me much pleasure, young one, once the breeder has finished with you.”

  “Rupansa!” a new female voice cracked like a whip. “He is mine,” the voice hissed, “not yours! I was chosen for this!”

  “Demansa, dear sister,” the first female voice–Rupansa–simpered, “I was merely preparing him for you. . . .”

  “Lying potuka!” the second, Demansa, snapped. “Our master will feed you to his pet if you do not follow the plan, especially with this one, and the plan says I have him first–the strongest seed produces the most powerful offspring.”

  Rupansa laughed. “Not in one who has never . . . ,” she paused, for Kovaine had screamed and broken free of her captors, hurtling herself at the ponkolam, although she could not see them.

  “No! You won’t have him!” Kovaine screamed. “He’s mine!” When the second ponkola, Demansa, had appeared and started speaking, something awoke deep inside Kovaine, a feeling that she had never felt in all her life, a feeling of jealousy, and with it, a desire to possess the unnamed northerner for herself alone. As the feeling of jealousy grew, her anger grew with it, until the moment when Rupansa laughed. Since the attention of her captors was on the two ponkolam, Kovaine managed to jerk her arms free of their clutching hands and leap forward; one of the red kailum reached out to snatch her back, catching her hood and pulling both hood and blindfold free. Kovaine saw both ponkolam looking at her, looks of surprise mingled with amusement on their faces, neither making any move to protect themselves, and then her eyes met those of the kortexi, his straight black hair disheveled, his clothes torn open revealing a well-muscled chest, stomach, strong thighs and loins, but instead of feeling a surge of desire when her eyes met his dark eyes, she felt a wave of fear and panic that caused her to stagger to a halt; an instant later, the heavy hand of one of her captors struck the side of her head, sending her body sprawling and her mind into darkness.

  “Do not be afraid, Sir Blakstar,” a kindly voice, filled with concern, spoke beside him, “you are not losing your mind.”

  Blakstar jerked his head around and saw a figure, cloaked in white, standing beside him, the only thing visible in the darkness, and the only sound audible in the silence; the figure’s head was covered with a hood of the same light, brilliantly-w
hite material that overshadowed his face, so all that the kortexi could discern of the figure was that he was of a lighter build than Blakstar and as tall.

  “Who . . . what . . . how?” Blakstar stammered, his lips not capable of asking all the questions in his mind.

  “This is the world of dreams, Sir Blakstar,” the figure answered, “and your mind has fled here to escape the horror your body is about to suffer.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand.”

  “If you knew what happens to you,” the figure went on, his voice more kindly than before, “what my rebellious brother has perpetrated upon you, you would be incapable of acting at all, let alone fulfilling the mission our Father has reserved for you, and my brother would win by default; for this reason, I have brought you here, to protect you and protect the future.”

  “I still do not understand,” Blakstar said, “who are you?”

  “I am . . . ,” the figure began, then hesitated before continuing, “a friend, someone who has your best interests at heart, and there is a place I must show you, and someone you must meet–a young wetha, about your age, who will one day become your mate.” The figure pointed, and a column of light illuminated a second, smaller figure, huddled on the ground; all Blakstar could see of this second figure was her golden hair and the shiny black silk of her robe. Blakstar suddenly realized what his ‘friend’ had said about this new figure; he turned to look at the figure in white, and felt his own chin drop, then he rushed forward and knelt beside the fallen wetha, carefully taking one of her small hands, surprised to feel rough calluses on the palm and fingers of the hand that looked too pretty to have ever done any work.

  “My lady,” he spoke in a soft voice, “are you injured?”

  She pulled her hand from his, the hand going to her temple. “I . . . ,” she tried to speak, then pushed herself into a sitting position, “. . . someone hit me,” she continued, looking around blearily.

  Blakstar stared at her elfin face, her blue eyes, noticing that her mouth and lips seemed slightly too wide and large for her small face, but her eyes held him, seeming to him to be two blue sapphires; he took her hand and held it gently, smiling down at her.

  Her eyes continued to look around, finally focusing on him and his dark eyes staring at her; she gasped and crawled backward away from him. “You!” she hissed, looking at him in fear and anger. “Where am I? What have you done to me?” She scrambled to her feet, continuing to back away and crouching with her hands out in front.

  “Do not be afraid,” the figure in white spoke in the same, calming voice. “You have joined us in the world of dreams.”

  “This is a dream?” she asked, relaxing only slightly.

  Blakstar stood and started toward her.

  “Stay where you are!” she snapped, seeing him move toward her.

  “Please,” Blakstar implored, “I mean you no harm, you of all wetham.”

  “I don’t believe you, kortexi!” she exclaimed. “I know you’re trying to trick me into lowering my guard: you kortexem kill all my kind on sight for what we are!”

  Blakstar shook his head and held out his hand to her, inviting her to take it. “All I know of you, my lady,” he said, “is that you are my destined mate.”

  She snorted. “You’ll change your mind about that,” she scoffed, “as soon as you find out what I really am.”

  A musical sound interrupted them, and both Blakstar and the wetha turned to the source of the sound and saw that the figure in white was laughing, a happy and infectious sound that seemed out of place in this shadowy realm.

  “You are very amusing,” the figure laughed, “considering that before you joined us, you attacked two ponkolam to assert your exclusive right to possess Sir Blakstar for yourself, and you were so insistent in asserting your right to him that you attacked them without a weapon,” he added, still chuckling to himself.

  The wetha blushed furiously. “How do you . . . how could you . . . that doesn’t matter!” she stammered and finally exclaimed heatedly.

  “A blush from you, my dear girl?” the figure asked, amused. “Why, I don’t think you have blushed since you were a small child!”

  The wetha tried to respond, but the figure’s words had flustered her; Blakstar took a hesitant step toward her, his hand still held out.

  “Please, my lady, I assure you that I mean you no harm,” he said, “that I would . . . ,” he started to go on, but gasped suddenly and clutched at his chest. He felt a burning, searing pain there, as if someone were drawing lines on his chest with fire. He tore open his white robe and saw red lines burning brightly across his chest; he heard the girl gasp and looked up to see her pointing at him with one hand and covering her mouth with the other, but before he could ask her what was wrong, he saw both her hands fly to her own chest, and she cried out in similar pain. She tore open her own robe, and Blakstar caught a glimpse of red light before he averted his eyes as it was improper for him to look at her bare chest before they were married. He heard her gasp again.

  “What is happening to me?” she cried. “Why is the sign of Gar burned with fire onto my chest? Has he sold himself to the Great Lord, and dragged me with him? I want nothing to do with Gar or anyone who associates with him!”

  A feeling of dread filled Blakstar, and he looked again at the symbol on his own chest and realized that she was right: it was Gar’s sign burned into his chest. He opened his mouth to deny that he was Gar’s servant, when he felt the area at the bottom of his belly and the top of his loins burn with similar lines of fire. He opened his robe further to see new lines, but he could tell at once this was a different sign, and he heard the wetha stifle another scream of pain. He looked up and, chancing a glance, saw her hunched over, her hands in the same place on her own body as the new sign on his own, then she suddenly straightened, her hands going to her lower back; Blakstar hastily turned his eyes back to himself, realizing that it was a ‘b’ rune written in fire on the lowest part of his belly. Curiosity drew his eyes to the girl once more, and he saw that she had pulled her short robe up and off her bottom, which made him cringe, but there was the same rune written in fire at the base of her spine. She was glaring at him over her shoulder, having noticed the rune inscribed on the lowest part of his belly; he hastily closed his robe, which caused her to grin mischievously.

  “This is your fault!” she exclaimed, the grin sliding off her face as she stabbed a finger at him, causing him to jump. He tried to look away, since she did not bother to close her robe. “You have the same marks on you!”

  “It is not his fault any more than it is yours,” the figure said, still speaking in the same calm voice. “It is the fault of my rebellious brother, Gar, who seeks to thwart the plan by marking you both in this way.”

  “I don’t believe you!” she denied. “I don’t even know who you are, so why should I accept anything you say, since this is only a dream?”

  “Ah, but this is a special dream–a special place,” the figure replied, and they could just see his smile. “I understand how you feel,” he went on calmly, “but you must trust me, else Gar has already won.”

  She started to protest, but the figure raised his hand and stopped her; Blakstar was surprised that she obeyed him.

  “There is little time left,” the figure went on, waving his arm. The darkness around them shimmered and became a clearing in the forest with the kortexem’s mountain towering nearby. This clearing was blackened and burned; twisted trees surrounded it. Near the center and turned toward the mountain, a blackened tree, more twisted than the others, grew at an odd angle to the ground; it curved away from the mountain, staying close to the ground, as if some giant foot had crushed it when a sapling. The branches on the trunk had been broken off, leaving foot long stubs seared clean by whatever fire had blackened both the tree and the surrounding glade.

  “I show you this place so that the two of you will know where you can meet when you dream,” the figure went on. “Here you will come in your dreams;
here you will be able to get to know one another, and I exhort you to look past your differences, for you will find that you are more alike than you are different.”

  The wetha opened her mouth to retort, but her form suddenly flattened and began to shrink; Blakstar ran toward her.

  “I will find you and rescue you!” he shouted to her. He could see that she heard him, but she looked troubled, less sure of herself as she faded from view. Blakstar turned to face the figure in white. “I never got her name,” he said, and felt himself flattening and being pulled out of the world of dreams. As his mind went blank, he heard a voice speak, as soft as an echo, the voice of the figure whispering to him.

  “But you already know it. . . .”

  Chapter 4

  . . . then Gar went north

  to Shigmar taking the disguise

  of a kailu long absent from revered

  halls of learning to enter the sacred

  glade of visions where evil had never

  walked before. . . .

  from “The Great Year,” song cycle by Sir Kovar, written 3553

  A lone, young wethi wandered the forested slopes of the Monti-stethreu, or “Mountains of the Fallen Star,” the range forming the northern border of the valley of Shigmar. The tall and broad shouldered wethi threw back his hood, revealing a mass of curly, brown hair. He placed one brown booted foot on the trunk of a fallen larch, cradled his wooden staff in the crook of his right arm, and hooked his left thumb in his wide leather belt. His brown eyes gazed at the forest surrounding him, seeing occasional patches of snow in sunken hollows and fresh new growth where the sun touched the forest floor. Squirrels poked heads out of holes, inspecting the world they had left in the grip of winter and seeking fresh morsels to satisfy the hunger born of a long winter’s sleep. The morning dew glistened and steamed wherever the sunlight touched; birds sang songs of renewal, passing overhead as they gathered twigs for new nests. The young wethi inhaled deeply the air heavy with the scents of fir and pine. He sighed as he exhaled. For him, the forest was paradise, his place to go for gathering strength and peace. He inhaled again and let the air escape slowly before stepping over the fallen larch and moving deeper into the forest.