Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

  The Questing Least: Book One

  Overlords

  Matthew M. Pyke

  —this one is for Mum and S.P.,

  to hint at the tumultuousness of the past years—

  Also by Matthew M. Pyke:

  Novels

  Unseen

  Horizon

  Anthologies

  Heat, Light, Microwaves, Magic: The Obelisk

  Microwaves, Magic: T2 Reset

  Magic: Aleutian Sun

  The Complete Harder Than Diamonds Trilogy (Omnibus Edition)

  The Complete Prequel Mini-Series to The Last Days of Qenateed (Even the gods Die)

  Short Stories

  The Stars Are My Eyes

  The Neutron Hammer

  Where Spacemen Fear to Tread

  Young Lion

  Electrum

  GEM

  All the events and characters depicted in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or to real events, is entirely coincidental. This e-book is a work of fiction/fantasy.

  OVERLORDS

  Copyright © 2020 by Matthew M. Pyke.

  All rights reserved.

  Star Forge Press

  Cover by Elaine Aneira ‘Son of the North’

  First Edition: May 2020

  EBook Version: 1.00

  It is not down in any map; true places never are.

  —Melville

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Prologue

  You see what I see. They hear what we hear, know. A tome.

  Battered sands, furious and yellow.

  A vault of blue, radiant, curved over.

  Jutting, fissured, and sheeny ebony telescoped against the encroachment.

  Dunes—the uproar. Melting, shifting, coalescing; torched from an oval of white. The eye. The eternal harasser.

  A groan.

  A rotund, frenzied mouse scuttled over the labyrinthine patchwork of uneven square tiles, compacted sediments set off by geometric eccentricities, lattices and circles bewitching the eyes. A spell, a curse, a blessing, foretold. A groan again. More pronounced. A howling wind answered throatily, between the crevices, shadows, of transduction.

  Drifting ... drifting.

  A hooded form, bent like wire, stood fixedly before seductive serpents of smoke, writhing ribbons of vanishing grey and white, liberated spirits, for a point hard fixed aloft. The nameless spoke. In contradictions, whispering. An inverted triangle—glinting, orange and pine-hued—dangled; the ascending vapours slipped stealthily past the counterweight of the hunched murmurer; a pendant.

  Something unutterable.

  The congruence of minds reasserted—a puzzle of math, blossoming.

  A white flash darted to the other side, striking the impenetrable in-dark.

  A waft of rose, corroded metal, alchemy of salts, of life, tickled the nostrils.

  The figure bowed, returning in the agony of moments. A low utterance intruded upon the leaden atmosphere, yearning for the furrowed slate. The fluidity of thoughts, condensed. A limpid boil of musings burst the air. A paled face chalky and blue, flashed, sickly indigo—out of breath, once more. The pendant danced momentarily, musical and reddish yellow, cleaving the noxious wick's fumes. A cough. Then a muted laugh. Liver-painted lips parted and displayed a jagged mountain range of pollen-stained teeth. A hiss of air breached the toothy gap.

  The figure came more clearly into view, appearing from a distance, and transmogrified suddenly into a crow; then it shot straight for—

  * * *

  Trees ... so softly cleaved by dainty tentacles of light, the prominence of morning’s unalloyed light, seeping, stretching into a half-awake deciduous forest. The trees shifted past; the rays of gentle luminousness, flickering. A stone-strewn stream supplanted the trees. The raven flew its velvet black feathers lustrous from the spreading sun beams. In a moment, in the dissonance of flapping and cawing, it alighted on the fluidic, crystal water of the brook and became a dark branch. The green of wood, covered in light moss, smoky bark, drifted to the bottom, settling on a bed of sand and smooth pebbles.

  Waters ran over it.

  Time immemorial enveloped it, seeking to erode it, consume it.

  * * *

  A bright and yellow dog approached the reeds. The stream, now a slow-moving river, surged past. A cat came to the dog’s side, flicking its tail. The dog panted with mounting excitement. The cat peered into the waters with its emerald eyes, the slits of which were shadowy and wondrous. The dog yelped once. And wagged its tail.

  The creatures remained transfixed on the stick, which was lodged between two beige stones. The melodious lapping of the swollen stream against the stony shore continued. The dog made a motion to leap—but lurched back, its blushed tongue swaying loosely. The cat turned and beamed at the dog, its striated tail sweeping the earth into a fan shape. The yellow dog jumped in place, yipping occasionally with exhilaration, at the prospect of fetching the water-soaked limb from an ancient tree, of raven.

  In a single motion, the stick broke free and began drifting down the creek. The marmalade cat motioned to jump into the shimmering waters but stopped, leaning heavily forward. The dog grew fevered. Barking and yipping, it chased the branch as it slid and tumbled over scattered stones. The cat scampered after the dog, its tail up.

  The branch was soon dammed by a collection of fallen leaves and twigs, algae. The cat sat by the yellow dog, which cocked its head and yipped lightly.

  The stream ran past.

  The animals were silent.

  Without warning, the dog leapt from the bank and crashed into the stream, sending up bending rays of water droplets. The cat wiggled its rump. It looked ready to pounce. The dog, now reluctant, treaded water anxiously as it moved toward the stationary branch. The cat watched closely, at times slowly rolling its head. When the dog reached the spot above the stuck twig, it dove furiously for the bottom. The water sloshed, then grew still. After a moment, the yellow dog’s snout pierced the surface triumphantly. In its mouth was the soggy stick. The cat traced circles in the air with its head as it studied minnows, shooting here and there in the semi tranquil waters. The dog headed for the bank, its head tilted back, branch horizontal to the river, clamped lightly by ivory teeth.

  The dog jumped and slipped onto the bank. Bustling through reeds, it reached the verdant patio of grass and soon froze. It gazed vacantly at the ground, twig in its mouth. The cat sauntered over to it and sat on the carpet-like grass. The feline traded glances with the yellow dog and the spot before it. The small branch fell to the grass. Both animals observed it with immense curiosity.

  Within seconds, little white and pink flowers began to bloom on the branch. They soon shrivelled and disappeared. The moss coating the branch retreated, revealing a healthy, light-brown bark. The animals were spellbound.

  Shafts of burning light broke forth from the nearby forest, glowing above the resting stick. In the blink of an eye, the branch vanished. In its place was a peridot stone, roughly heart shaped, and shadowy emeralds. The two creatures were motionless before it. The stone soon took on a mauve tint—and hissed. The yellow dog barked quietly, just once.

  At me.

  The stone is me.

  They joined me and became us.

  We perceived the world around us. It was good ...

  The mists came and went, the cyclic reddening of the sky, the dying and rebirth of the trees, the bu
ffeting winds ... of our heart. I saw and understood and relayed all things to them, to us. They were me, and I was them. And although a thousand rains and snows covered us, their strata mounding upon me, I existed and felt.

  The biting cold.

  Searing heat.

  Of perpetual darkness and burgeoning light. Here I awaited the foe. And so, begins the journey of the Idiot King …

  I

  “The stone … your mother gave it to you.”

  King Pallan looked down at the gem, hanging from a cord around his neck. He remained silent for a time. “Yes, she gave it to me when I was little. I always have it with me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bennett, the royal butler, stiffened his pose. “Shall I—” Bennett stopped as he could see the king’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

  Staring at a portrait of his mother above the mantelpiece in the quiet study, the king soon replied, “Shall I? Have you ever seen such a kind and stately woman?”

  Bennett pivoted in place with mechanical precision, and gazed briefly at the oil painting. He turned back to the king and commented, with a trace of disappointment mixed with sarcasm, “Yes, our queen, Queen Iris, was quite the lovely woman—the gem of the kingdom and prize of your father. A pity she is no longer with us.”

  King Pallan, catching the subtle slight, grumbled and regained his composure.

  “Shall I put you down for Morning Star?”

  Jerreth, captain of the guard, wearing, perhaps unnecessarily, full armour, announced his entrance into the study with a series of clunks, tings, and scraping sounds, coupled with laboured breathing. He eventually stood near the fireplace.

  King Pallan leaned toward Bennett, who stood as erect as ever in his royal butler garb and seemed eager to receive the king’s hushed request. “Put me down for Morning Star.”

  Bennett cracked a subtle smile, as if one side of his face had fractured while the other remained as fixed as granite. “For Morning Star, sir.”

  “Shh! That dog is going to make me money this time. I know it.”

  In a low voice, Bennett answered, “He’s the talk of the town.”

  “Yes, I know that. Be quiet about it. I’m running low on my allowance—”

  “And, you, if I may, have accumulated a rather large set of debts. I looked into your fund, and you do not have enough to cover the bet.”

  King Pallan looked at his butler with annoyance. “Yes-yes-yes. I remember. This time, that dog will make me money, and I will be able to pay down much of my debt.” Becoming hesitant, he began, meekly, “Can I, you wouldn’t mind, if you could be so gracious as to—”

  Bennett interposed, “You needn’t ask. I would be glad to assist you with the necessary funds for the transaction. Shall we say fifty this time?”

  Jerreth cleared his throat once. He remained standing at attention near the cosy fire, facing the right wall, a lance in his hand.

  King Pallan glanced impatiently at his captain of the guard. Returning his attention to Bennett, he said, rather hurriedly, “Fifty. Nothing more. I should be able to get the rest. Put me down as soon as feasible.”

  “Fifty”—Bennett gently bowed to King Pallan—“as soon as feasible.” The hint of a smile appeared on his regal, elderly face.

  King Pallan interjected, “Coming, Jerreth—I have not forgotten about you.”

  Bennett asked, “The king’s plan for the day?”

  King Pallan, seemingly torn between going with his knight and answering the question, remarked after a moment, “I shall shoot some arrows—play some gavan—after attending to them, the guard. Arrows, my good butler, are a thing of beauty. Cathartic for the troubled heart.”

  Bennett gave an impression of holding back laughter. “Yes, of course, sire. Lunch at the usual time?”

  “Yes, that works; bring me some pickles this time. I have a yearning for pickles and devilled ham. A day of gavan makes one rather hungry … and do I miss it, thoroughly.”

  Bennett quipped, “You played yesterday, sir.” And in a lower, more submissive voice, “And the day before, and the day before that, and the one previous to that.”

  King Pallan grumbled, now visibly irritated. “Yes. You have an annoying habit of reminding me of my failings, Bennett.” Swinging over to Jerreth, he raised his voice. “Coming, Jerreth—I have not forgotten about you and the men!” Facing his royal butler once again, he stressed, “And not a thing for them to do.”

  Bennett answered airily, “And peace roundabout; all quiet, as it were.”

  King Pallan bobbed his head, smirking. “Yes, all quiet, roundabout. Every day. Continuing peace; nothing to do except gavan and shooting arrows.”

  Bennett grinned slightly as he bowed his head. Clicking his heels together once, he left the king and his knight in the study.

  King Pallan briefly paced before the statue-like knight. Impulsively, he said, “Come, I will see the men off.”

  Jerreth, swaying a little, replied, “Yes, sire. The men await you in the courtyard.”

  “Then let us not keep them waiting!”

  The two navigated a labyrinth of corridors through the royal castle. King Pallan led and his stalwart knight tailed him closely, making a clanging racket. As they passed the kitchen, a maid entreated the king to stop and taste some soup.

  “I have no time for that, Catherine.”

  The maid made a pleading look and smiled gently at the anxious King Pallan.

  “Oh, all right. A little taste of soup won’t put us off that much, will it, Jerreth?”

  “No, sire, not that much. Not at all!”

  King Pallan cocked his head back, as the steam from the wooden ladle was quite hot. He then gingerly brought his face to the ladle and cautiously sniffed it. “Hmm.” Tasting the soup, he casually washed it around his mouth and swallowed. “Not bad, mum.”

  “Oh, bless you, sire! It is my own recipe. The royal cooks were none too pleased with me experimenting, with, you, know, the feast a’coming.”

  King Pallan nodded impatiently. “Yes, mum.” He abruptly turned and shoved the ladle into the mouth slit of Jerreth’s armour. “Have a try, Jerreth. You might like it—it should bring some warmth to those old bones of yours.”

  Jerreth sprung erect, as if shocked, and after swallowing with a low groan, remarked heartily, “Quite good, mum! I am sure the men will be quite pleased with anything you make, after a hard day—”

  King Pallan cut him off. “Of doing nothing. Come along, Jerreth; your men await us.”

  “Yes, straightaway, sire!”

  Catherine, smiling widely, put her hands together as she watched the two men march through the long hallway that led to the inner courtyard, all the while clangs and tings echoing through the bare-walled hallway, as the king muttered.

  Flinging open the wooden door, King Pallan froze for an instant in the threshold. Jerreth accidentally bumped into him.

  “Quite sorry, sir! I hadn’t noticed you had stopped.”

  King Pallan gradually turned to him, and then back to the courtyard. In a low tone of voice, he commented, “It’s a wonder you notice anything, Jerreth.”

  The courtyard was filled with lively birdsong. Light dew was lifting from the lush, verdant grass, every blade throbbing with colour and energy. The sun had just begun to peek through the trees, announcing the arrival of another day. The air began to warm gently.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? Spring is upon us, my good Jerreth. And do you know what that means?”

  “I’m not sure, sire. Perhaps yard work?”

  “Gavan. And lots of it.”

  Jerreth thought for a moment. “That is quite singular, sir.”

  “Singular indeed, my good knight. There’ll be plenty of rest for you and your men.” His voice trailed off. “As always …”

  “Quite so, my good lord! Quite so!”

  King Pallan shook his head in apparent disgust, and then barked, “Come along.”

  Jerreth snapped to and offered a gravelly response, as if hi
s vocal cords had been caught off guard. “Straightaway!”

  King Pallan took three steps and was then arrested by a signal from his loyal knight.

  “Sir Clyde, my good lord, he is at rest.”

  King Pallan turned. “Hmm.”

  A large male tabby cat was lounging on top of a wooden box, its tail draped listlessly over the side. Aroused from its slumber, the cat swatted half-heartedly at a butterfly flying erratically near its head. Near the cat’s ramshackle box, hewn into the stone of the royal palace, was a wooden trap door the cat used to enter and exit the castle at whim.

  “Sir Clyde’s water bowl is getting low, sire.”

  “The servants will take care of it, Jerreth. You needn’t worry about such matters.”

  “Right, sir. I shall post a guard nearby.”

  King Pallan rolled his eyes. “Not necessary, Jerreth. Come along. The men await us, and the day is creeping along; the fair meadows of gavan are calling.”

  “Yes, My Lord—noted. Noted, sire.” He mumbled, “I’ll post a guard anyway, for Sir Clyde, the king’s cat.”

  The two made their way across the lawn, passed through two wooden gates, and entered a grander courtyard, situated at the front of the castle though some distance back from the front wall, which displayed battle scars, seemingly inflicted long ago in some forgotten war or wars. A group of armoured men, perhaps fifty, stood in a line, one holding a pole with a small, red, triangular-shaped flag at the end, gently waving in the mounting breeze.

  King Pallan approached them and stopped at the armoured knight holding the pole. After looking him over for a moment, King Pallan briefly inspected the rest of the soldiers. Jerreth followed behind him. Circling overhead was a hawk, wings spread wide as it rode the early morning thermals from a strengthening sun. The men’s armour, the thin, segmented metal plates stitched into a makeshift suit, looked faded, almost corroded, as if it had not been worn or seen action in many years. A careful eye could catch a thin coating of dust here and there on their armour, as if the suits themselves had been pulled, rather unceremoniously, from some medieval museum and donned haphazardly. The king’s darting eye didn’t seem bothered by his men’s lack of attention to detail; just being there seemed good enough, as if the entire display was meant to fulfil some prearranged agreement that both parties had long forgotten and was essentially a matter of habit, something to do in the morning before the parties went their separate ways.