by K R Sanford
Above the camp, stalactites intertwined with intricate flowing limestone columns. They plunged hundreds of feet to the Grand Ballroom. The white gypsum ceiling reflected soft green florescence from the river below.
“William, your people come down here quite often,” said Marco. “In fact, much of this construction has been here for a very long time.”
“Some, Captain,” replied William. “It has been a constant debate. Some of the Vallians want to keep things natural. Others say a little improvement is necessary.”
“Well, it is magnificent,” said Marco. “And I've seen a lot of magnificent things in my travels. I wouldn’t have believed it if you told me.”
“This is what we call the Grand Ballroom,” said William. “Overhead are the chandeliers. Here is good acoustics for celebrating nature with music.”
Marco looked at William. “This river,” he said. “This light from the water is some kind of kelp.”
“I don't know, Captain,” said William. “All I know is the river flows and it glows. The Vallians write songs about it. But, please enough talk for now. I'm exhausted, and the music will start in a few hours. Come, Captain, we will find Tildanfin's camp then we must rest. “
The four worked their way through makeshift tents. The faces of curiosity and concern followed them as they went.
The Chief spotted the white flowing mane and red-plumed headdress of Faragorn. Tildanfin sat at a table talking with a group of village folk. Shanna was a few yards away in a cabin tent asleep on a cot.
William greeted Tildanfin with the Vallian salute of an open hand.
Tildanfin turned and said, “Shanna's fine, Captain. She rests well. She fell asleep an hour ago. You and Chief Spierd can take the cots in the back. You look exhausted so we will talk after you have rested.”
“Thank you, Tildanfin,” said Marco. “That's kind of you.” The Chief made a graceful bow and both men ducked inside the big tent.
In the early morning hours, Balrug and Gonquin shared the news of the Grand Ballroom.
William's shadowy presence had disappeared. It was not until many hours later that a tarp behind Tildanfin's tent moved. The emerald stone and gold headband emerged once again.
William searched the ceiling of the Grand Ballroom. The giant limestone columns hung four hundred feet above his head. He sat up and marveled. The sensations of a new day seeped through his veins.
“It doesn’t look as though you get tired of this place,” said Marco.
William straightened his back then got up and looked at the Captain. “You're right,” he said. “I don't get tired of this place. I'm still amazed that the ceiling grows one drop by single drop.”
Marco sniffed at the air. “There is some fine cooking here this morning.” Marco beamed at being so alert with his olfactory glands.
“Did you have breakfast yet?” asked William.
“Nope,” replied Marco.
William grunted then passed his nose around and took one short sniff. His face wrinkled with distaste.
“There is something you don't like?” said Marco.
“No, it’s acid from the carbon dioxide when air interacts with the limestone walls,” said William. “It changes to calcite and forms stalactites. The odor is faint. I don’t expect you could find the smell.
It means these caverns are millions of years old. Then there are the Gorks. They get bolder every year. One day they will find a way to enter this ballroom. Then, we will be at war. We may have contact in the borehole as it is.”
“Forget about the Gorks,” said Marco. “Come on, let's get something to eat.”
William and Marco trekked the cavern floor. They stepped along the paths made of the yellow and orange flowstone.
In the open places, fine wooden porches stood. Vallians gathered and began the sounds of ancient melodies. The notes charmed and lulled the listening ears in simple serenade. A crowd gathered on the banks of the green glowing river. Tildanfin rose and made his way to one of the wooden porches. He made a solemn motion with his hand. From the musicians a gong sounded. The gathering of Vallians stilled their instruments. The sound of the gong faded. Tildanfin stood tall and read the names of the nine who died in the attack.
“Mary Ann Porter,” his voice booming clear throughout the Grand Ballroom. “Daughter of Bob and Janna Porter, alchemists; Cause of death: bomb attack by Earthmen.” Tildanfin paused to press the drama of the deaths. “Joderain Toler, son of Jon Toler, the farmer. Cause of death: bomb attack by Earthmen.”
There was great weeping in the Grand Ballroom. By the time the third name got read, the wails and mournful cries drowned out the last of the names. Tildanfin finished reading the list of deceased. He stepped from the platform. When he moved into the crowd, He offered his condolences to the families closest to him.
The musicians took center-stage. In unison they brought on the funeral march in percussion.
Boom! The sound of dread crashed against Marco's ears. Boom! Again the drums sounded and the orchestrated thunder went out. Marco's face winced at hearing the echoes off the cavern walls. Boom! The drums came again. Marco stopped eating to watch as the Vallians marched off the flowstone embankment. They continued to the frontage road and the fluorescent river.
Gonquin mounted Faragorn. They started after the march in the direction of the horsemen's camp.
Boom!
The slow methodical beat lead the march. The Vallians strode in mass. They marched along the river road for their late sons and daughters. The procession gathered momentum. More and more village folk joined the line moving to the horsemen's camp.
The procession neared the stacks of hay and oats. The musicians struck off-notes signaling a change in tempo.
“What's happening?” asked Marco.
“I'm not sure,” said William. “I go by feel on this one. It comes to me that the warriors ready themselves to make a run on the borehole. This act was never tried before today.
A display of anger against the Amedans might liken to suicide. To attempt such a thing is madness. A confrontation with the Emperor Lord Legion will only lead to death. Someone always dies when the Emperor gets involved.”
“People have already died, William,” said Marco.
“True,” replied William. “Come, we must warn the horsemen.” William marched off in the direction of the procession in a gait like one who sees with perfect vision.
“Wait,” cried Marco. Marco stuffed the last of his breakfast in his pockets then hurried after William.
“Marco, where are you going?” yelled the Chief.
Marco gestured. “Downriver, come on,” he said.
William and the two men strolled onto the frontage road. They found themselves in the heart of the Vallian procession. Young warriors struck wire cords stretched over fine wood boxes. The instruments fell into rhythm with the hard shuffling beats of the drums. The improvised music powered through the horsemen's camp. It drove the leaderless swarm along the frontage road to the borehole. They flashed the first of drawn Vallian steel.
“The Gorks have a fight on their hands,” cried William. He pointed to the high-arched gypsum corridor over the green fluorescent river. “When the river meets the main canal, the light will fade and the Gorks will be waiting but not with the strength we have. The music goes before us, Captain, and the Vallians have got themselves stirred up.”
“I can see that,” replied Marco. “I want to charge forward myself.”
The funeral procession turned war march continued at a formidable pace. “Soon it will be frightening,” said William, “if you were a Gork. The horsemen will mount-up in the main canal and there will be no stopping the assault.”
“Aren't you afraid of what the Lord Legion will do if he does not like what's going on?” said the Chief.
“He could kill us all,” replied William. “But he is not like the other Amedans. He likes, 'Ahwatootsee', as he calls it: those who show guts.”
“What's that?” asked Marc
o.
“That is a Gork word,” replied William. “It means: real gutsy, something that cuts deep into your bones. It’s an act that you can feel into the core of your spirit.”
William perked, sensing something on the road up ahead. “Look sharp now, Captain,” he whispered. “We will move quicker through the Amedans borehole. Chief, are you up to a five-mile run?”
“I’ll be fine, William,” said the Chief. “I'm stiff this morning but after I loosen up, in a mile or so, I’ll be fine.”
“Well, that's good, Chief,” replied William, “Don't say that too loud because the Vallian women will here you. Listen for the sound of the war charge.”
The river ran swift, lapping at the banks of the flowstone road. The fast-running current increased. It churned up the fluorescence of the river.
The young Vallian warriors cried with a feverous war chant. They were making their assault in the underground hollow. Mile after mile warriors and horsemen charged. It was a mad attack poisoned with misguided grief against an unseen foe.
The gypsum passage began to narrow. The borehole opened and the music faded. The only sounds in the Amedans borehole were the heavy hooves of the horses. The muffled sounds of Vallian sword and battle armor declared their intentions.
The warriors ran the length of the borehole. The horsemen galloped to an underground plateau where they came to a halt. The river widened to an easy flow. The light of the slow moving river dimmed in the low cavern. It darkened to luminous green. It was making their visibility more like the starlight over the swamps of Woodland Stream.
Gonquin dismounted Faragorn, giving him time to rest in the low cavern. Gonquin lead Faragorn to the head of the young Vallian army.
Marco motioned to the Chief. “Find a horse,” he said. “We will have to double-up, if we're going to ride the launch tube to the end. I want to be in the first group when we meet up with this Emperor Lord Legion.”
“Captain,” said William. “Gonquin signals for you to ride with him.”
Marco mounted Faragorn behind Gonquin. “Tuck your thumbs inside my belt, Captain, and get a good grip,” said Gonquin.
Chief Spierd mounted behind Arnockel on a black mare. William mounted with Lucia, a female Vallian on a tall chestnut stallion.
Marco marveled at the beauty of the woman. Her hair was long and fair like her proud steed. She was head-and-shoulders above William in the saddle. Her fine-leather vest covered a dark-blue blouse with gold trim. Her gauntlets were steel. Again they were trimmed in gold. Her regalia were fit for nobility. She kept her eyes fixed on the horsemen. She watched for signs and signals from the lead horses.
The horsemen moved off the plateau traveling swift and lite on the road. The horsemen picked up speed. Faragorn took little time outpacing the leaders of the Vallian cavalry.
The music rang out once again. The strumming of instruments, flutes, horns and drums ripped across the ceiling. The hard driving pace picked up both warrior and horse. Four hundred Vallians rode mile after mile. Nothing changed. No sign of life was anywhere.
They traveled fast and steady. Finally, Gonquin pointed forward. Marco strained his eyes in the dim light. The center of the underground river held the shadow of a starship. The ship took the full height and width of the launch tube.
The horses reached the hull of the alien vessel. They charged single-file alongside the narrow footpath. The starship's bow towered hundreds of feet above the horsemen. It made the army of Vallians look like a column of insects galloping alongside a drainpipe.
A sharp, conical point projected beyond the bow of the ship. It extended three-quarters of a mile over the fluorescent river. The river divided under the ship's belly giving it the appearance of floating in a bed of green neon liquid.
Massive power-cells ringed around the fuselage. The power rings spanned row upon row along the length of the vessel. Each power ring progressed larger and larger, towering over and around the ship. Midway, the rings digressed, making the ship symmetrical end to end.
Marco guessed five miles passed with nothing but power cells, too many to count. The ship's main body was smooth like satin with patches of green, black and purple. Marco figured the ship for light-speed. The power magazine was far beyond the capacities of the Interstellar Forces.
He looked over to Chief Spierd riding on the back of Arnockel's black mare. The Chief looked worried. Marco looked around at the young Vallian warriors. The warriors looked angry. He recalled Shanna's frightened face huddled inside the bottom of the old carob tree.
He remembered the names getting read and the grieving families of the nine dead. He recalled the burning village and the dome dropping on the homes of the Vallians. He shook his head and tried to think how he might find help in the Amedan Emperor. Only time would tell.
What would come from their benevolent ally? Marco tried to relax on the back of Faragorn's heaving body. He shifted his weight behind Gonquin. He put his mind back to studying the monstrous starship.
Ahead, Marco could see the faint glow of the end of the ship. This was where the launch tube stopped. This is where there were no more boreholes and no more ship. It was the end of the pale yellow road beneath the surface of an ancient planet.
As the Vallian army reached the end of the towering ship, a hollow recess loomed overhead. It illuminated the far rock wall. The rock wall rose vertical in a sheer cliff. It revealed openings to several smaller tunnels. A series of steps lead down the cliffs to an alcove where two white gypsum columns bordered on either side. The columns rested on a floor of a smooth polished flowstone. The floor reflected the appearance of transparent gold. A white gypsum monolith sprang up in the middle of the floor. The monolith formed into a white-mushroomed urn. There in the center of the urn rested the embodiment of the Emperor Lord Legion.
CHAPTER 7
_________________________________________
The Exodus
The Emperor Lord Legion measured three feet across. His crystalline sphere was a network of bright red blood vessels. His surface joined black and blue masses of jagged flesh. Amber light pulsated from within his core. It emanated an ominous, yet captivating glow. No energy bolts ran the circumference of his body. No white specks raced around his shell like the Amedan citizens.
The Emperor was something other than those of his domain. He sat supreme and alive. He was fascinated with the details of every new thing.
The Emperor accompanied five Amedan High Councils. They situated in a semi-circle around the Emperor. Their bodies were as Ambassador Gaff. They were luminous and round with the circumference of a human skull. The Emperor and the five Amedan rulers rested on round gold saucers set within the urn. Together, they shared in the Eucharist of their race.
The stalactites in the cavern formed curtains hundreds of feet above them. In the upper arches of the ceiling, tens of thousands of pockets were home to the Amedan High Rulers. White gypsum stone of the planet lined the pockets of the hives. They vaulted over the fluorescent river and served as the home of the Amedan citizens.
The upper walls and ceilings looked like eyes, watching all that took place. There, the Amedan rulers lived. They carried on their endless discussions non-stop, day and night. Everything the Emperor did and said on the floor below got seen and heard by the Amedan rulers above.
Iron cages lined the base of the flowstone floor. They were built in three sections. Two archways divided the cages. The archways gave entrance to more barred cages. The cages went on for as far as the eye could see. The cages were all empty, cleaned of debris.
Only the first cages near the Emperor's Court contained life-forms. These are the remains four-legged creatures in military dress. There, the four creatures with wings high above their bodies met their end. One of the winged creatures had the face of a lion. The other had the face of an ox. The next had the face of an eagle. And the last had the face of a man. The creatures were dead, stuffed trophies of the Emperor Lord Legion.
On the floor of the E
mperor's Court, two-legged beings came and went. They walked up and down the steps of the stalactite walls. They were coming in and going out of the limestone cliffs.
One of the two-legged creatures dressed in fine blue linen. He had long flowing black hair. He strutted across the floor and walked up to the Emperor Lord Legion’s Throne. His head was egg-shaped. His jaw set square. He had a snout like a bloodhound. His skin was shiny bronze. His build was powerful. He moved athletic. His hands were large and his fingers long. His feet were bare, webbed and clawed. He adjusted the gold staff on his belt. The living being knelt and spoke in a low razor-sharp tone. His posture was thoughtful.
“It is I, Lord Legion, your servant Grantham.”
“Ah, Grantham,” rumbled the voice of the Emperor. “From where have you come, my son?”
“I have come from the sea and from walking under surface of Ameda.”
“Ah, ha,” rumbled the voice of the Emperor. “You do not have complaint?”
“No, Your Majesty,” replied Grantham. “All is well.”
“Good,” said the Emperor. “Rise, my son and join me in a riddle.”
Grantham stood. He gestured with his hand and spoke again. “You have something?”
“Yes, my friend,” replied the Emperor, “Now a Riddle.”
“What flashes light?
Shakes and rumbles,
And bring strangers to my court?”
“These new ones attacked the Vallians,” replied Grantham. “Many of the Vallians are dead. And these new ones who have attacked, rest their ships on the sands of Emerald Sea. They come too close. My people complain of their smell.”
“Ah, ha,” laughed the Emperor. “Everything that does not smell like fish disagrees with your people.”
Grantham's wide jaw turned into a grin. “It's the defenses that smell.” Grantham's hands went out for the Emperor's understanding. “The attitude of these space travelers is troublesome.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the Emperor. “You are right. I do understand. They come in two ships. How many, Grantham, how many come in these ships?”
