Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  He turned sharply. The gate was closing as a line of thunderstruck Gurts and their escorts returned from the kowlinka fields. Harris pumped his Columbincus, accelerating. He saw the guards in the two towers alert to his approach. They hastened to close the gate. They signaled one another, hitting the lock buttons with ever-increasing desperation.

  The two patrols merged. Harris braced for a Stick blast. He wondered how it felt, but decided he preferred ignorance on that score. However, the regulati didn’t fire. Harris was correct in his assumption, evidently. Tarhippus wanted to flay him alive — so much more entertaining than explaining to Lord Kuriakis why the prisoner had escaped and the inquisition went astray.

  Suddenly, a Stick fired, but not from the rear. It blasted the left tower, confusing Harris. Why would the Gurt escorts fire at the guard in the left tower? Then another blast struck the right tower. The gate froze, both guards incapacitated. Harris didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But as he approached the exit, another series of blasts pelted the towers. Then he saw a rogue Cabriolin — one he recognized.

  “Parnasus,” he muttered, and then shouted. “Parnasus.”

  “Hurry, my lord,” Parnasus replied, shooting over Harris’ head at the approaching patrols.

  The patrols finally came alive, their Sticks blazing. Harris looked for his Stick, but the holder was empty. He only had Tony and he wasn’t sure how to fire it. Cut, yes. Slice, definitely. However, although he saw Cosawta blast away with the brashun blade, this art still eluded Lord Belmundus.

  Parnasus scaled the heights, his Cabriolin taking a few hits. But he rushed the tower.

  “Hurry, my lord,” he shouted.

  Harris knew. Parnasus was attempting to man the gate controls.

  The patrols closed in. If Harris didn’t manage to get through the gate now, he’d be so much Spam in a can. He girded his ass cheeks and pumped his Columbincus again. The Cabriolin surged. He held on tightly. The space between the portals was spare, so Harris needed to focus. He leaned forward, blasts now flying over his shoulder as if, short of killing him, the regulati wanted to wing him — a painful deterrent, keeping him alive and kicking for their sadistic chief.

  Gurts went prostrate before the approaching horde. The regulati escort still seemed confused, but two got their act together and pursued Parnasus. The Danuwa fired an amazingly accurate shot, knocking them from their Cabriolin, sending them plummeting. Their vehicle slammed into the gate, shattering.

  It came to this. Harris slipped through the gate by the narrowest of margins. The patrol needed to cut their speed if they were to avoid a pileup. In single file, they could slip through the gate and pursue him. That was the anticipated scenario. Then the gate began to close. The Danawu had achieved his goal.

  “Good work, Parnasus,” Harris muttered, but then choked on these words.

  As Harris heard the regulati scream when they crashed into the gate, he imagined Yunocker carnage — flies caught in a zapper, falling into a metallic heap, entertaining the Gurts. Still, he trembled at the thought of brave Parnasus. He would be shot down or captured — sacrificed like an awidena in a mutton stew. It would be a miserable end for a brave warrior.

  Harris stared ahead, the dry desert heat blasting his brow. The red sand — the kowlinka, was kicked up in a whirlwind. He sensed many eyes — porcorporian, gasuntsgi and even the dangerous noya tludachi, watching him as a moveable feast served on a speedy platter. The prospects leveled — the Katorias versus the Forling. However, he prefered nourishing an ugly porcorporian than giving Tarhippus a single moment’s satisfaction.

  “Poor, brave Parnasus,” he muttered, tears forming, but drying before they could run. “I must have done something good to deserve the likes of you.”

  He bowed his head — silence before him — silence behind him. He had escaped General Tarhippus’ cruelty. Would he fare better in the Forling, an unforgiving land? Silence. A telling silence. Despite the hungry eyes, the silence told him true. He was alone and might have discovered the last round-up — a tomb for Lord Belmundus.

  “All curtains come down,” he mused, and sighed.

  But the only audience listening wanted to eat him for dinner.

  Part IV

  Cut, and Check the Gate

  Chapter One

  Oh, Home on the Range

  1

  Dizzy from the heat, Lord Belmundus jetted in a direct line into the red dust of the Forling. He had much on his mind and shut out the movement of the porcorporians beneath him. They shifted through the sand like silverfish — lethal silverfish, with lobster claws and tarantula jaws. He kept the Cabriolin as high as possible and steady in the crosscurrents. However, he had no confirmation of his direction, because the magneto on the vehicle’s compass was missing indicators. Besides, east was west and south was north in this bass-ackward world. Who knew whether there was an equivalent to time zones or interfarn date lines?

  Medians and longitudinal navigation was the least of Harris’ worries. General Tarhippus would send a brigade after him. Why they hadn’t lifted high over the gates and chased him when they had the chance was a mystery. But they were stupid, after all. Then he wondered why he didn’t do the same. It could have been the swirls of yuyenihi — the razor-sharp barbed-wire used effectively in the Yuganawu. Still, he wanted to put many miles between him and the gate before the suns set and the soft glow of the three moons played their nocturne for the Forling’s critters.

  As the wind played in his hair, a terrible thought struck him. He was alone. It was the first time he was pitched into solitude since the Plageris, and even that was short-lived, having the company of the blue-headed stupid-birds and the ballet of the misancorpus — until Arquebus showed up with his Bardian welcoming speeches. Nothing balletic struck him watching the dunes ripple with the porcorporians. No consort from the Old Vic was on the horizon with a rendition of Prospero. Hell, there was no horizon, but there never had been in Farn, so why should he expect one now? But the sudden thought of being a solitary sentient on an expanse of blowing red sand was frightening. Then, his Columbincus flashed and the Cabriolin choked — a chug-chug that didn’t bode well. In fact, he recalled such a chug-chug on his last visit to the Forling. Then he attributed it to sabotage. What were the chances of driving another lemon? What were the chances Lord Tappiolus found this one vehicle in a thousand to remove the spark plugs?

  “Shit,” Harris said, as the Cabriolin descended.

  It didn’t stop. Lower, it leveled off and flew better, but it slowed to a rate which wouldn’t beat the suns-set or a porcorporian’s claws. It wouldn’t outrun a gasuntsgi at a rapid hop. He released his hand from his Columbincus and the Cabriolin shut down. At least, he knew why it quit now. He let it hover to the ground. He gazed in every direction expecting to see the desert rush at him — noya tludachi galloping with their saber teeth raised for the kill. He anticipated a lobster claw — hold the drawn butter, if you please.

  His hand went to Tony’s hilt. He might not know how to fire this thing like a light-saber, but he had had enough training on the set of The Magic Planet to slice more than bologna. Then his sight fell on the korinkle — the knapsack.

  “Let’s see what my Little Bird packed for me,” he murmured, squatting in the cab.

  The korinkle was laced tightly. Beside it were three awidena skins filled with what he hoped would be water, but what was probably brantsgi — better for the cold Forling nights. Inside the sack were assorted trays, sealed with wax. There was an ample supply of mongerhide. Although tasty, it was easier on the entry than on the stinging exit. Three loaves of bupka, the good kind with prysyst and mollicops. He held another container to his eye.

  “Jipjipjiptipu,” he said in a high-pitched tone. Tasty fungimus — Zecronisian mushrooms. “I’ll be farting for an eternity.”

  Other containers were packed with yukayosu, asdoyuwi, suweechi and the delicious stewganasti. Whatever these things were, Harris would need them to stay alive. He then sp
otted two smaller tubs, one marked with a black symbol he recognized — for sleeping, and the other, a red sigil — for waking. He opened the first and sniffed.

  “Sqwallen,” he said. “Old man, what were you thinking?”

  Then he paused. The evil jomar-quillerfoil porridge was a drug, after all. It had its uses. The other tub was the antidote, pilocarpinus, although Harris couldn’t figure out how one administered the solution when under the influence of the problem. He tucked them away in the korinkle. Then his hand hit something wedged in the bottom — a cloth-wrapped object. He pulled it out, letting the outer shell fall aside.

  “Zulus,” He grinned. “These’ll come in handy, I bet.”

  Then he regarded the cloth — a cloak, and no mere shoddy poncho, but a cloak coated with jupsim. He also found two borripsuns. He checked them out, flashing them about the cab. He stood. He could use these now, because night was spreading her pall across the Forling. The dunes became silhouettes against the emerging moons as first Solus disappeared, and then Dodecadatamus. Nothing else was revealed. Perhaps the fauna of the Forling retired for the night. Somehow he doubted that. He thought he saw the flashes of eyes bouncing back in the borripsuns’ glow. He raised Tony, which illuminated the periphery. Dozens of critters scurried. They didn’t look like anything he had seen in daylight or in his research at the Cartisforium. He shuddered.

  “It’s gonna be a long night,” he said, and turned Tony off.

  2

  Long and cold. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees in a matter of a half-hour. The Didaniyisgi wasn’t dressed for the climate change. He shivered for at least an hour until he resorted to the jupsim cloak. He was immediately warmed. The miracle Gurt coating, which nature hardened against moisture, proved an excellent insulation. What other properties did it have? Was it porcorporian proof? Could it stop a saber tooth at a single bound? He was thankful for the restored warmth and hunkered down in the Cabriolin.

  He slept in fits and starts, but just when sleep settled in, it was shattered by merciless cries — banshees stirring the souls of the dead. More probably, the tludachi found a night-whatever or a nocturnal-what’s-it, something with three heads and grisly gills — greatly roaring in the dark, howling to the moons in its final death-cry. Harris also heard footsteps — thunderous, sand shaking movement. He was tempted to pop up and shine a birrupsun across the desert, but decided he’d rather not know. Perhaps it was large enough to keep him safe, unless its appetite exceeded its curiosity. In that case, he wouldn’t much worry. He’d be digested all the same. Finally, wrapped in the cloak, thanking Yustichisqua for the forethought, he dozed into a deep dreamless sleep.

  He stirred in the morning chill, the jupsim cloak now cooling him as insulation does. He wasn’t sure where he was — the previous day’s events swallowed in the recesses of his mental state. No dreams — just a vacuum of the body shutting down for repairs, the brain drifting to sleep like a damaged Cabriolin. He was numb, but did feel a sharp pain in his foot, which he thought odd, because he wore borabas. He glanced down the length of the cloak at his exposed foot. He saw his toes — the lower portion of his boot torn away. Clamped on his foot was a pugnacious creature, sucking on his instep.

  “Fuck,” Harris screamed, shaking his foot.

  The damn thing — a gasuntsgi, didn’t pause, but chomped down in a different place. Harris yelped, kicking with his other foot, a fully-borabas’d foot with heavy phitron soles. The grotesque rabbit screeched, first in pain, and then threateningly. But it let go.

  Harris grabbed Tony, and with a single swipe, decapitated the beast, blood (probably his own) spraying the cab thickly. Harris kicked the creature out. But when he tried to stand on the gasuntsgi-bitten foot, he collapsed — the foot numb, as if injected with an anesthetic, which it probably was. He glanced around the edge of the Cabriolin. He was surrounded by gasuntsgi. They hopped toward the vehicle, their vampire fangs ready for a drink.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “There’s not enough of me to satisfy them all. I’ll be dead in twenty minutes.”

  He felt light-headed, but managed to hop on his one foot to the control panel. He touched his Columbincus, which responded like a charm. The Cabriolin, however, wasn’t as responsive. It revved, choked, lifted a few inches from the sand, and then set back down. Harris tried again, this time managing to move forward, but not up. He could have been driving an old Volkswagen — one trailed by the Halloween bunnies. Still, there was enough oomph to distance himself from the vampire crew.

  “I’m glad they don’t fly like bats,” he thought, and then banished the thought from his mind, thinking the ears might convert into wings. Thankfully not.

  The foot pained him, and yet it was numb. He hoped these funny bunnies weren’t toxic, although there was a good chance they were. Even so, if he didn’t stop the bleeding, he’d be in la-la land soon. So he chanced landing over the next dune. He glanced about for his pursuers, but they had given up — he hoped.

  Harris cropped to the side of the Cabriolin, examining the foot. Two sets of punctures were evident, and both oozed red and black. The red was his, but the black was the gasuntsgi’s contribution. He dove into the korinkle and unwrapped a loaf of bupka. He bit down and chewed (he was hungry and couldn’t help himself). He reached for an awidena skin and drank some brantsgi.

  “Wisgi,” he said, smiling. “Bless that Garan.”

  But wisgi was a good thing now, and not to drink. He used the bread wrapper to wipe the wound, and then sopped up the rest with the bupka. He wasn’t that hungry after all, and there were priorities. He then took a mongerhide stick, bit down and poured the wisgi over his foot.

  “Man, that hurts,” he gasped. “Motherfucker and the bunny you hopped in on.”

  He bit the mongerhide in twain, and then carefully replaced it in the korinkle. The foot throbbed.

  “How am I supposed to get across this fucking desert like this?” he muttered. “I might as well hitch a ride on the first porcorporian I see and let it perform the amputation.”

  Then he had an idea. Well, not an idea, but an instinctive reaction. He raised Tony and struck his Columbincus. Then he touched the brashun blade to the punctures. They clotted and the blood stopped flowing.

  “Thank God.”

  But the pain was unyielding, and the numbness unabated. Then another idea dawned on him. He shuffled through the korinkle for the sqwallen. He opened the top. He wasn’t sure whether he should use it as a poultice or to swallow it. The stuff was vile and narcotic. He sniffed it and choked. Then he espied the sigil — for sleeping. Sleeping was the last thing he wanted to do, so he took a glop of sqwallen and spread it over his foot.

  “Looks like pigeon shit,” he muttered.

  But he felt better instantly. He couldn’t imagine what the stuff did to the innards, but he did. He had seen the poor souls of the Banetuckle. He hopped to his feet, and headed for the control panel. He pounded his Columbincus and touched the controls. The Cabriolin spluttered, rising slightly, flickered, and then gave up the ghost.

  3

  Harris was not in an analytical mood. Why the Cabriolin ceased to function was not in his ken. He wasn’t a Gurt mechanic nor did he have a driver’s manual. There was no glove compartment in the thing with a step-by-step, and no Farn equivalent to AAA. He didn’t panic. He had anticipated this contingency when he first landed the contraption last night. But the prospects didn’t delight him either. He sighed and stared numbly out at the Forling — dune after dune of unforgiving red sand. He shrugged. He would have got out and kicked the damn thing, but with his foot in this condition, it would be self-defeating. He went to the korinkle and dove into the bottom.

  “It’s zulu time.”

  Harris was glad Yustichisqua had the foresight to include a pair of these, but now that he tried to slip them on, he was confronted by a left foot which had swelled to a considerable size. Zulus weren’t one size fits all like the borabas. He managed to strap on the heel, but th
e instep flapped loose. Once engaged, the thing would flip-flop at will and he’d be on his ass in a flash. He studied the problem, thinking that the best way to get the things on was to chop off his toes. He shook his head and grinned at the thought. It was improbable, but when push came to shove, he might need to shove. Then he looked to the birrupsun wrappers — cloth and just the right length to twist into ropes. So he tied one to his instep, giving it a tight yank. Even with the sqwallen and the wisgi, the pain shot up to his kneecap.

  “If I live to tell Mom about this one, it won’t be clean,” he muttered.

  He completed the task and switched on the zulus. He managed to hover upright, the Gerry rigging staying in place. He filled the korinkle with as much loot as he could, grabbed Tony and slung the awidena skins over his shoulders.