Prosperine: The Adventures of the Space Heroine Hickory Lace: Books 1, 2 & 3 (The Prosperine Trilogy)

by PJ McDermott

  He needed to find a better disguise, one that would stand closer scrutiny in the city’s public places. He searched amongst the poor districts for a store selling recycled clothing and found one in a dark laneway. He scaled the wall to the rear of the property and forced the door lock with the sword. It opened with a click.

  Inside, he helped himself to some rags—a dull, threadbare cloak that stretched from his neck to his feet and a pair of boots that were less fashionable and a better fit than those he currently wore. He chose some long sleeved gloves to cover the scales on his hands and wrapped a dirty scarf around his face in the manner of one afflicted by the wasting disease, prevalent in the city. Finally, he pulled the hood of the cloak low over his head to shade his eyes.

  Satisfied his appearance would excite little response other than to encourage others to avoid him, he left the store and walked unhurriedly to the edge of town.

  He found the place he sought—a tavern frequented by Sequana’s followers in the days before the war—and opened the door. The smell of cooking made his head swim. He would have preferred a haunch of bloody meat, but the aroma of newly baked bread and roast vegetables seemed like ambrosia of the Gods. There were a number of Avanauri partaking of the evening meal. In a shadowy corner, he spied what he sought. A few disheveled individuals were hunched over a table, segregated from the rest of the patrons.

  “What are you doing there?” A servant, holding a tray piled with food in one hand, stood ten feet away and stared at him belligerently. “Haravashi are not allowed to enter through the front door. Go to the hole quickly before you are seen.”

  Vogel grunted, then shuffled his way over to the area set aside for the unfortunates in every Avanauri hostel. He passed a table laden with scraps, day old corn bread and pots of steaming stews from yesterday’s dinner. The waiter called after him.

  “Don’t you know anything? If you have a bowl, take some soup. If not, you’ll have to be content with some corn bread and raw honey. Drop your two cerstes in the basin at the end and take a seat at the table with your friends.”

  Vogel picked up two pieces of bread, dipped them in the pot of honey and threw a couple of small coins he had taken from the clothing shop into the receptacle. The others at the table, a ramshackle foursome dressed in rags and sporting dirty bandages on several parts of their body, did no more than glance at him before they returned to their meal.

  The Bikashi felt his stomach growl and wolfed down the bread. It barely took the edge off his hunger, but he didn’t want to risk the ire of the waiter by going for more. One by one, the other haravashi finished their scraps and left. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the waiter arrived to move him on, but he would stay as long as possible. He settled down to wait and tuned his ears to the conversation around him.

  “…and the government should be ashamed of persecuting a naur like the Teacher…”

  “…those haravashi shouldn’t be allowed in the same room as decent folk…”

  “…kill all the Erlachi, I say…”

  “…told me it was some sort of giant flying beast…”

  “…he was mad, I tell you. He would have killed us all…”

  Vogel’s eyes swiveled towards the source of this last comment. A tall, unkempt individual leaned against the bar speaking with the landlord. His speech sounded slurred, and he slopped the contents of his tankard onto the counter.

  The naur had consumed too much of the potent Avanauri ale, and the bartender encouraged him to leave. “Tell me about it when you’re sober, Thurle. I can’t understand a word you say when you’ve been drinking like this. Go home and go to bed.”

  With a stab of excitement, Vogel recognized the drunk as Sequana’s lieutenant. Thurle—the one who had been a nephew of the Chief Peacekeeper. A treacherous piece of work, he thought. He had betrayed not only his uncle but the rest of his family when he joined the revolutionaries with Sequana.

  Vogel felt surprised that the naur had survived the final battle. He had seen him riding beside Sequana when the cursed Charakai had attacked. Thurle would know where to find the rebel chieftain.

  Sequana had welcomed the Bikashi to his cause, and the two had developed a grudging respect for each other. He was one of the few Avanauri citizens aware of the alien presence on Prosperine. He was also his best bet for getting off this planet, as he had contact with the various smuggler groups that might give him passage for a fee.

  He saw the waiter making a bee-line for him and stood up slowly from the table.

  “Don’t forget. Backdoor. There behind you. Can’t have you bumping into any of the clientele, can we?” He scowled as Vogel hobbled slowly towards the exit. “Hurry! And make sure you’ve got everything. I don’t want you leaving behind a diseased rag or spoon.”

  The lieutenant swayed as he made his way across the common area between the inner and outer walls of Ezekan. This was the domain of the homeless and less fortunate naurs, the perpetually poor, the ex-criminals, the diseased and the freed prisoners from the revolution and their families. In contrast to the rest of the city, there were no large communes here, only wooden shacks and tents crowded against the walls on either side of an open sewer.

  Ignoring the stench, Vogel confronted Thurle before he reached his destination.

  Thurle yelped and leaped out of the way as Vogel reached towards him. “Go away you disgusting filth! What do you want? I have nothing for you.” He crossed his hands under his armpits and hunched his shoulders to make himself a smaller target for the bandaged hand.

  “Thurle, you know me,” said the Bikashi in a guttural voice.

  The lieutenant scowled. “I don’t care who you are. I have no money. Let me be. I don’t want your diseased carcass anywhere near me.”

  “Shrelek! I have no disease,” roared Vogel, tearing the cloth from his face.

  Thurle’s mouth opened and shut several times before he could stutter, “Vogel…Vogel? Is it you?”

  “How many other Bikashi are you acquainted with, naur?”

  The Avanauri made to embrace the commander, then drew back, unable to meet Vogel’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Please excuse my foolishness, commander. It’s just that I haven’t seen any of my old comrades for a long time.” He choked and mumbled, “Most are dead, now.”

  “Comrade?” Vogel’s laugh was a low growl that set his proboscis quivering. He studied the naur through hooded eyes. “Ah, so we were. We fought together against a common enemy.”

  “And for a common cause,” said Thurle. “Come, we are almost at my home, primitive as it is. I have a bottle of Erlachi wine that I have stored for just such an occasion.”

  Vogel let the reference pass. The Avanauri seemed in a bad way. His face looked pale and sickly, and he had a pathetically hopeful light in his eyes. His jacket was soiled and tattered at the sleeves, and his shoulders were hunched as though he carried a great burden. Clearly, the peace had not been kind to him.

  Thurle jumped across a trickle of sewage and beckoned the Bikashi to follow. The naur pulled aside a canvas flap covering the entry to his cabin and ushered Vogel inside. “The locals looted and set fire to this place when I first arrived. I managed to save everything except a few baubles and the door.” He grinned as though this were a great joke. “Come in, sit at the table. I will fetch the bottle. Where have you been all this time? What is it—six months since we lost the battle at Ezekan?”

  The Bikashi did not respond.

  “Where did I put the goblets? Ah, here they are.” Thurle wiped the ornate cups with a rag and poured some of the dull red liquor into each. “It’s not been easy around here, I can tell you,” he said, placing one cup before Vogel. He sat opposite and raised his wine in a toast then drained half of it. “Still, what can you expect?” He fiddled with the stem of the goblet. “We might have been as oppressive in victory, had Balor smiled on us.” He glanced at Vogel’s cup, which lay untouched. “Not drinking? It’s a good brew, I assure you.”

  Vogel stared unblinkin
gly at Thurle. His eyes and mouth were narrow slits and his nose for once was still. “I am not interested in your wine.”

  The voice growled low and threatening, and Thurle shrank back in his chair. “What do you want with me?” In his agitation, he knocked over his goblet.

  “I want to find Sequana. Where is he?”

  Thurle’s shoulders relaxed. He wiped an arm across his forehead, then refilled his cup. “Balor, Vogel! I thought you were going to kill me.” He let out a long shuddering laugh, then fell silent. After a few moments, he continued, “Sequana is dead, murdered by the Castalienan whore. He tried to rally the Erlachi to his cause, but they resisted his charms, compelling though they were. Sequana, himself, fell under the spell of the Sword of Connat-sѐra-Haagar, Balor curse it. It drove him to madness. He trusted no one, not even me. In the end, he took to murdering his own—even his loyal nauris bodyguard.”

  Sequana is dead? Vogel controlled himself with an effort. “How did he come by the Sword?”

  “He ordered me to take it from the Temple of Balor. It felt wrong to me, but Sequana insisted on it. I don’t know what happened to it after his death.” He glanced uneasily at the weapon that the Bikashi wore at his side.

  Vogel took the blade from its makeshift scabbard and slapped it on the table between them. “This is the sword?” He already knew the answer, but needed Thurle to be sure of it in his own mind.

  “That is the Sword of Connat-sèra-Haagar that I took from the temple and gave to Sequana. How come you by it?” He cringed away from the table.

  “It is mine by right of conquest, kinslayer.”

  Thurle’s eyes opened wide, and he half rose, his hand reaching for the dagger at his side. “What say you? Have you been driven mad, too?”

  The Bikashi commander laughed. “You are not the first to think so. No, it is whispered in the taverns of Ezekan that Josipe-sѐr-Amagon died in the dungeons of Kandromena cursing your name.”

  “How do you…? I…I did not mean for him to die. I would have released him, but…” He trailed off in the force of Vogel’s gaze, then his fury returned. “He did nothing for me. I was family, but he kept me in the ranks, never showed me care or respect. I’m glad he died!”

  “Of course. I do not condemn you for it. Any Bikashi soldier would do the same.” He paused and searched the Avanauri’s eyes for long moments. Eventually, he said, “Thurle, the sword is mine to command, and you know something of the strength it gives to he who wields it.” He waited until the naur nodded, then continued, “We are embarking on a great journey, this sword and I, one that will deliver great riches at its end. I need to engage the services of half a dozen worthy fighters. Will you join me as my lieutenant and submit to my authority?”

  Thurle’s mouth gaped like a fish and his eyes widened. “Wha… what kind of riches?”

  Vogel waved a hand carelessly. “Let us say there will be enough treasure for you to live out the rest of your life in splendor and allow you to indulge in every sumptuous delight your mind can imagine.” He smiled. The battle being fought among his emotions played out clearly on the naur’s face. Poverty and the desperate need to be thought worthy struggled against his fear of the Bikashi and the sword.

  “Where will the journey take us? Where is this treasure to be found?” Thurle licked his lips, hope gleaming in his eyes.

  “We must go to the Scarf.”

  Thurle’s chest deflated, and his head dropped. “We must go to our death to be rich? That is no bargain.”

  “It will be a long and arduous journey, and some may die, yes, but we will have food and drink to comfort us along the way. With a little luck and a lot of courage, we may survive to enjoy our wealth. Thurle, I have been there, and I have returned. It will be easier with companions.”

  The Avanauri gazed around his home. A cold draft whistled through the gaps in the walls. He had chopped up the door for firewood, but none remained. A bed of straw lay against the far wall, home to a family of rats and an army of fleas. There was nothing to put in the pot—if there were a pot to put it in, that is. The sum total of his wealth was in this room: two chairs, a table, and two battered goblets.

  It wasn’t the best solution, thought Vogel. He would have preferred to deal with Sequana, who could have arranged a meeting with the Dark Suns to get him off this planet. He would have returned later with a troop of Bikashi Warriors to claim the prize he had left on the island. But with Sequana dead, he could see no better way to escape. The alternative had been a spur of the moment decision. Convincing the Avanauri had been simple. The naur was desperate for a change in fortune and would do anything, go anywhere, to achieve it.

  Vogel still didn’t know how he would get off the planet, not in detail, but he’d improvise once he had a better handle on the situation. Anything was better than hanging around this city until he was caught.

  Thurle had left for Harbor Town to recruit the six fighters he needed. Vogel had warned him not to reveal his identity, and to hire only villains who were highly skilled in the use of sword and bow. He would personally assess their skills before they set sail. Thurle had already chartered a fast ship for the voyage. Its master was a black-hearted murderer who drove his crew like slaves and would sell his mother, if he had one, for a small pile of the devil’s coin.

  All being well, the journey should take three or four days. Thurle would be his lieutenant, his voice to the crew. He, himself, would stay below until they were well under way, only coming on deck at night.

  He planned to take on extra supplies at Dominion Island, then head to the twin-peaked island in the Scarf via the Karack Channel. He closed his eyes. If he could find it. The Karack Channel belonged almost to the realms of myths and legends. It was reputed to be the only sea passage between Avanaux and Castaliena, the vast northern and southern continents of Prosperine. The captain claimed that over the years, a few mariners had navigated through the Scarf to get to Avanaux and vice versa, but the charts, such as they were, had been shown to be unreliable.

  The sword had whispered to him to return to the Scarf, that it would show him the way. He hoped his faith in it was not misplaced. He also hoped he wasn’t losing his mind.

  Visions

  Connat-sѐra-Haagar sat hunched on the wooden throne, her hands and forehead resting on the pommel of the sword. It had been many years since the war with the Erlachi, an eon it seemed since she first held the sword aloft. Her strength had been unequaled in all of Avanaux, and she had slept little, filling her nights with an insatiable appetite for learning.

  Now, staying awake had become a challenge, and she could not remember the last book she’d read. The pigmentation around her neck and cheekbones had turned dark brown, and the strip of feathery hair that grew from her brow to her shoulders was limp and dull. The skin covering her still-muscular frame was translucent leather. She raised hollow eyes to the sky, seeking divine inspiration.

  The bond between she and the sword had grown stronger with each passing year. In the beginning, she’d resisted the cravings for power, but slowly, insidiously, the sword had asserted its grip until it seemed she had no will other than that of the sword. Together, they had become a fierce and indomitable force, forging the warlike and politically disparate territories of Avanaux into a powerful, united nation.

  She thought she’d become a fair, a wise, ruler since defeating the Erlachi. She’d put in place a system for representative government and introduced many improvements to better the lives of her people.

  But, as her pigmentation changed from the beautiful green and purple of her youth to this dark mockery of the flowering she had never experienced, it seemed that the opportunity, even her desire for battle, had waned. She had become old. And then the sword began to whisper its secrets of strange places and stranger beings. In these final days, she had come to know the real purpose of the sword and she wept.

  She called for parchment and writing implements and wrote:

  The sword that some call the Sword of Con
nat and others call the Sword of Balor was forged long before the birth of the Avanauri, the Erlachi or any other people of Avanaux, save the Lonilki. The father of life breathed the gift of invisibility into his servants, the Lonilki, so that they might escape the ravages of time and continue to pay him homage. You know them. The Lonilki live by the gates of Balor’s palace and have dwelt there longer even than the Masters of the Sword.

  The sword was not created by Balor, but the all-seeing Balor permitted it to be forged in the great fires of the Segniori, a peaceful people, in their time of need. In that year, the Segniori saw the world was ending. The days were long and dry, and the sun rose in the sky with a terrible light and heat that oppressed the people. Crops shriveled in the fields, and the yarrak died of thirst in great numbers.

  Balor led the leaders of the Segniori to a new country in a land far from the sun, and he instructed them to build two magic chariots to carry all the people and their treasure to their new home.

  Before the Segniori could complete their task, they were challenged by a savage warrior race from the sky who threatened to destroy the Segniori and all their works. The learned ones of the Segniori made a plan and forged the sword, granting it great power, so that it would forever protect the peoples of Prosperine from danger.

  A thousand years passed before the Wargus returned, but they were vanquished by Saarg the Destroyer, and fled, vowing to come again.

  The purpose of the sword is to defend all the inhabitants of Prosperine from destruction. It was not created for battle between Avanauri and Erlachi, neither by any naur against any other. The penalty for such is madness and death. I, Connat-sѐra-Haagar, greatest warrior of the Avanauri, tell you this with my dying breath. The sword must be guarded in the Temple for all time until it awakens to protect all the peoples of Prosperine.

  Connat-sѐra-Haagar signed the document and laid down the pen. She had written a true account of what the sword had told her, but it was not the entire truth. She hoped it would be enough.