His wife, the Scepta of Zacker, brushed her hands across his zulus, switching them on. He took flight, a gentle rise above the bedroom’s butter pat tiles. He allowed himself to drift, turning as he did, watching her fade while the flying sandals transported him to the door and beyond.
2
Through the corridors of time, Harris Cartwright — Lord Belmundus drifted alone, pondering his departure, saddened at his loss. Yet, as he proceeded, he shook it off and focused on the task ahead; and such a task it was, with no guarantee for success, only the sureness of nature’s force bashing against formidable rocks — a rolling tide across a crimson sea — the red kowlinka of the Forling.
He had heard from Cosawta — the sillifoons proving useful. The Seneschal had reached the Kalugu, but was detained. Suspicions were rampant in the mordanka — Cosawta’s absence prolonged and, by the tone of the interrogation, a spy, most likely from the Dodingdaten, had whispered of activity in the borderlands. That a Fumarcan would spill the beans could have been expected, these pirates self-serving to a high degree, but losing the element of surprise for an attack was a major blow, if it had indeed occurred. The Cetrone forces were comparatively few, under trained and reliant on superior ordinance, much of which they had barely mastered. If a large Yunocker force engaged them before they reached the gates of Montjoy, the campaign could be in jeopardy.
At least the sillifoons worked, and Cosawta had managed to bullshit his way out of custody, reminding his mordanka trading partners that he was nothing more than the ferryman — a dealer in contraband. Why would he return to the Kalugu if anything untoward percolated in the Dodaloo and beyond? He just wanted to get his sqwallen fix and dope out in the sustiya. Still, Harris was wary of the mission, especially if Tarhippus got wind of the plan and deployed his full might, nipping it in the bud. Although it was inconceivable that a Cetrone force could cross the Forling, the Yunockers might not be ignorant of the Culpeeper’s kowlinka-proof hovercraft. They could put the pieces together, stupid as they were.
Harris reached the clan house’s foyer. On the threshold hovered a young Cetrone warrior, fully geared and draped in a blue feathered cape. Harris thought he looked like a wild pheasant. The warrior blocked his path, and then, landing, went to one knee, raising his blundaboomer high — a sign of respect.
“Lord Belmundus.”
Harris lifted the lad’s chin.
“Who are you?”
“I am your new Taleenay, my lord.”
“Ah, yes.” Harris recalled that Yustichisqua, now a captain, chose a new adjutant for his lord. Was this he? So young, but who could tell with the Cetrone? He might have been seventy-five and not look a day over twenty. “What’s your name?”
“Detonto, my lord.”
Harris chuckled, but repressed a laugh.
“Detonto? Well, at least I can pronounce it, which goes to your favor. Be upstanding.”
Detanto stood, and then drifted on his zulus, bowing again.
“They await you, my lord.”
Harris didn’t need to ask who. He knew. He had a new set of Danuwa, led by Little Bird. Detonto turned, and then preceded, Harris following him over the threshold and into the plaza. There the cadre hovered, bowing at once to their commander. Harris felt a pang of pride and fear. These men trusted him — his military judgment, of which he had none, and his battle experience, which amounted to a skirmish with a porcorporian. But he was an actor and act he would — as they expected. Any chink in the armor might prove fatal to esprit de corps.
Four Danuwa were present, each draped in their clan garb, armor light, but armed to the teeth. The headdresses were stunning. Harris wondered how the head gear would fare in battle. It might scare the enemy like a bunch of Hottentots on the warpath. But that was a good thing, wasn’t it?
From the alisoqua clan was Oustestee, his chest hung with bear claws, his neck wrapped in a fur, despite the warm weather. From the geetli clan was Cheowie, a short man with a mongrel look, his face paint giving him a hang-dog expression. From the chisqua clan was Estatoie, a bony warrior with eagle feathers hung from an owl-eared headdress. Quite astonishing, especially the face paint, giving his eyes a hollow look. Finally, from the tlugu clan was Tosawa, his cape flaked with bark and twigs, branches bursting from his hair. Harris thought Birnam Wood might be on the march today.
The men settled to the ground at Harris’ approached. They pounded their chests in a salute, and then shook their waddly wazzoos. Harris nodded to each in turn. He supposed a little speech was in order, something a la Henry V, but decided to cleave to the decree of silence. There was much he had to say, but mostly he had questions. There was plenty of time for a palaver once they got underway. He turned to Detonto.
“Is there much razzle-dazzle from the citizens?”
“Razzle-dazzle, my lord?”
“Partying? Celebration?”
“None,” Detonto replied. “It has been decreed.”
“Just so.”
“Many stand and weep, my lord, but it is to be expected.”
“Just so.”
Suddenly, Harris heard hissing, and then spitting sounds. Across the plaza came the old woman. She pounded her cane furiously on the path.
“Here you stand while we wait,” she croaked at Lord Belmundus.
“I see you’re not observing the silence,” Harris remarked.
“Why should I? I see a pile of danger sitting in my selu fields and I would see it gone. Yet you stand here with your boobooyaks dragging like snaligrogs.”
“You should be praying for our success and safety.”
“I have, Lord Belmundus,” she quipped, and then spit at him, the spray decorating his Columbincus. “There you have it. My blessing.”
She turned to Detonto and spit at him. He bowed.
“I thank you,” he said humbly.
Harris realized that this was truly the blessing and not one of Nayowee’s insults. She faced and spit in turn at each Danuwa, who bowed his head in thanks. When she reached the end of the row, she turned to Harris.
“Yet, you are still here. Will you stand as rust for the ages, monuments to good intentions? Or will you take your gugubasgi from this place and do the Primordius Centrum’s bidding?”
Harris wished he had a blundaboomer to blow the old hag away with one discharge of gingergust — turn her to stone perhaps. But he drew in his breath and nodded to his new Taleenay.
“Lead on.”
As this Cetrone military leadership filtered through the lanes and groves, many Echotans stood vigil in silence, heads bowed and praying. Harris sensed their fears and sorrows, and yet he also felt their pride. He wondered what they expected from this mission. What was the endgame? He knew many wanted their enemies slaughtered at any cost, while some would just settle for a turning of the tables — an enslaved Yunocker nation under the command of waddly wazzoo-wielding Cetrone. In his heart Harris knew this could not be delivered — not with a ragtag contingent of farmers-turned-warriors, despite the superior ordinance. The more Harris considered the mission, the more he dwelled on the desperation he had witnessed in the Banetuckle, the dying and starving souls awaiting reaptide. That was the key. Liberation. Still, the logistics of liberation was a battle unto itself. Secretly, he cursed his brother-in-law for rushing away to become the advanced guard, leaving him here to lead the charge. If Harris was writing a script, he would have crafted events differently.
“Dinatli.”
Yustichisqua was there, hovering at the edge of the selu fields. He wore his grand blue cape; the one Harris had given him on the day of his first hunt. Unlike the Danuwa, Captain Yustichisqua wore a simple skull cap with one blue feather tucked in his headband. His breastplate was leather and both arms were bared to display his two gollywi, a point of pride and prestige. He was the son of Kittowa, after all, and was blood brother to Lord Belmundus. Aside his waddly wazzoo, gasohisgi was sheathed, but prominent. Harris grinned broadly upon seeing him, so proud was he.
“Old man,” Harris said. “How many have we?”
“Eight-thousand and twenty-seven, assembled in double and triple Seecoys, Fustigars filled with forty each and Loribringus fully supplied and manned, oginali.”
“Eight-thousand,” Harris said proudly, although he knew this was not nearly enough.
“Eight-thousand and twenty-seven, oginali.” Yustichisqua looked to Detonto. “Is your new Taleenay satisfactory?”
“I suppose so, old man. I’ve just met him and he’s done nothing out of the ordinary yet. Seems young, but . . . I can never judge these things. Still, if he’s your choice, I’m sure he’ll work out.”
“He is one of Lord Cosawta’s many bastards, oginali.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He is proud to be so,” Yustichisqua said.
Detonto bowed, and moved closer, but Harris stopped him.
“Wait there, Detonto. I wish to confer with the captain.”
Detonto bowed again, and then joined the Danuwa. Harris drifted beside Yustichisqua, voices lowered to a whisper.
“So, what do you think?”
“Think, oginali?”
“What’s the plan of attack?”
“It is not for me to say.”
“On the contrary.”
Yustichisqua shrugged, and then slipped his hand into his left brasset and extracted a triangular device.
“The navakawee is working,” he said, switching the pad on, a light blinking. He held it up. “The way is clear.”
The Culpeeper brothers had developed a navigational system using the branchy-wanchie, which triangulated with a beacon attached to the Gananadana. Yustichisqua’s love for maps made him a natural to assume the navigational duties.
“Is it, old man? Is the way clear?”
“Look and see, oginali.”
Harris glanced at the navakawee, nodding.
“I’ll leave those readings to you. Crossing the Forling this time will be a snap, but what do we do when we reach Montjoy?”
Yustichisqua frowned.
“We knock Tarhippus from his fiery Cabriolin and beat him with his own gwasdis. I long to see the zugginaks make him their dinner.”
“Good goal,” Harris said, sighing. “But we’re only eight-thousand.”
“Eight-thousand and twenty-seven.”
Harris laughed.
“Yes, I see your point. Those extra twenty-seven make the difference.”
“It is not in numbers that we are strong, oginali. It is in our souls. Every beating heart — every pulsing waddly wazzoo is set on the goal.”
Harris read ardor on Little Bird’s face and wished he could know what goal was set.
“You and I, old man — we have experienced reaptide. We have waded through the Banetuckle. No other in our band has seen it.”
“They have been bred to it, oginali. They have been carefully taught to know of the suffering. They have waited for this day.”
“So you’ve been told, not having been here yourself.”
Yustichisqua shook his head.
“I must believe it or return to Wanona’s bed and forget my life in the Kalugu.”
“No,” Harris chided. “We must stay the course, consider our limited forces and apply them to best effect. That may mean leaving Tarhippus to scratch his ass with a broken bottle.”
Yustichisqua chuckled. Harris pointed to the navakawee.
“Set a course to the middle of the Forling. We’ll cross in two stages. By the time we reach midcourse, I’ll know and tell you my plan.” He studied Little Bird’s face. “Are you afraid, Dinatli?”
“Does it show?”
“No, and don’t let it. But keep your fear at hand. You’ll need it.” He signaled to Detonto, who moved forward, the Danuwa in tow. “Gentlemen, let’s do this thing.”
3
Harris drifted into the selu field, where his Seecoy awaited him. He discharged Yustichisqua and the Danuwa to their posts, each commanding a squadron. Detonto revved the Seecoy, and then waited for Lord Belmundus to take his position.
“Take her up,” Harris said softly, and Detonto skillfully worked the pedals and levers, raising the Seecoy above the heads of selu.
Harris was glad his new Taleenay could drive. Not every Cetrone could fly in a straight line, many Seecoys waffling more than flying. As he reached an altitude to survey the eight-thousand (and twenty-seven), Harris was floored by the panorama. Thousands of Seecoys were revved. With each squadron, were dozens of Fustigars manned with itching infantry and ready-to-explode ordinance. Additional supplies of food and weapons were packed into Loribringus — a convoy prepared to trail behind the fleet like a bridal train. Harris was moved. He felt downright Shakespearean and wished he could muster one of those Henry V speeches. He wouldn’t even need a script writer. Had he not extemporaneously whipped out an impassioned recitation during the last moments of Othellohito? Still, there was nothing to aid him. He didn’t have a boomer-boomer, one of those funnel thingies to amplify his voice.
“Detonto,” he murmured.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Isn’t it grand?”
“In what way, my lord?”
Harris cocked his head, staring at his new Taleenay. This had to be Cosawta’s son. Harris wondered, when acclimated, if Detonto would display his father’s colorful vernacular.
“Where’s your sense of grandeur, sir?” Harris asked. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“No, my lord. I cannot say I have. But it is a means to an end.”
“A means to an . . .”
Detonto was correct, but the moment was dashed. Harris was glad he didn’t have a boomer-boomer. He might have clunked Detonto over the head with it.
Bing bong. Bing bong.
The sillifoon signaled — a ring-tone Harris created himself. He flipped it open, and raised the hood extender.
“Yes, old man,” he said, and then corrected himself. “I mean, BeeDust here, who be?”
He heard Little Bird through the speaker — lima-charlie.
“2Gollies I be. Do the tludachi roar?”
Harris had not cared much for security over the branchy-wanchie system, considering the Yunockers were cellular mutes, but Moe Culpeeper insisted. You never know who’s got their flappers up and ready to blab to the moonbeams. Harris took this to mean, you couldn’t trust a Fumarcan as far as you could spit. So he assigned each sillifoon user a code name and devised a predetermined set of coded phrases. Another language, he thought, and why the fuck not?
“It roars to all points, 2Gollies,” he responded. “Take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”
“Swallowing, BeeDust. Look to the selu and you will see the gadu rise.”
“Over.”
“Over and ouch.”
Bing bong. Bing bong.
Harris closed his sillifoon and looked to the selu to watch the rising of the gadu. The golden Seecoys slowly arose, a ballet in the making. The Fustigars waffled above the grain, the sheaves flattening in their wake. The Loribringus skirted the ground, and then spun upward like silvery fleas on a blond dog.
“Isn’t it grand?” Harris murmured again as he watched his fleet arise and move forward under his say so — hundreds of sillifoons bing-bonging orders, rippling through the branchy-wanchie from Yustichisqua’s command. “Take the lead, Detonto,” Harris said. “Take the lead.”
Detonto throttled the Seecoy and overtook the fleet, reaching the base of Mount Talasee in short order. Such speed. Such power. Harris hoped the majority of drivers could master Seecoys as Detonto had, but hope was hope and not fact. Still, it was a good start. Harris glanced back at the fleet — Cosawta’s fleet. How could he be pissed at the Seneschal? This logistical engineering feat was a colossal undertaking — a miracle of patience, something Cosawta often lacked.
“Isn’t it grand?” he repeated, expecting Detonto to question him again. But the Taleenay was quiet, going about his duties. Harris tried to t
ear away from awestruck wonder and undertook the practical task of securing a store of wadi-wadi.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 67
