3
Shouts interrupted the palaver — shouts mingled with wails, followed by a chorus of bing bongs. Every sillifoon in the henhouse awoke.
“We are under attack,” Cheowie announced after answering his.
Harris, whose sillifoon was the only quiet one, went for Hierarchus.
“How can the enemy strike so far from the city?” he asked.
However, hadn’t a patrol attacked the Gananadana mid-Forling?
“Not the enemy,” Yustichisqua said, closing his sillifoon. He pointed to the entrance to the henhouse. “There.”
Creeping over the threshold, a sinister creature was poised to jump. Its eyes glared red, its long fangs set to strike.
“Gasuntsgi,” Harris exclaimed.
His foot throbbed in remembrance, but he didn’t loll about waiting for the vampire bunny to get the better of him again. He raised Hierarchus and shot a golden beam at the thing’s head, splattering fur and blood across the tent flap. Several gasuntsgi followed in its wake, as if the example of one mattered not as long as the blood’s fresh aroma egged them on.
“Quickly,” Harris shouted. “Get your boobooyaks in gear. Shoot those fucking things back to the hell they came from.”
Cheowie raised his blundaboomer, shooting a spiraling green flash of aniniya, blasting three gasuntsgi. Estatoie was still on his sillifoon shouting orders to his squadron to kill the invaders to the last rabbit’s foot. Oustestee jumped through the tent flap, shouting at the monsters, blasting them left and right, sending them every which way to the kowlinka. Tosawa joined Detonto firing Sticks, and then batting the bastards, despite the creature’s inclination to latch onto the weapon and attempt to suck the aniniya from the muzzle. A game of hockey ensued, pucking the greedy blood grubbers into the henhouse corners, where Harris and Yustichisqua mutilated them with brashun blades.
“Stay clear of their fangs, old man,” Harris warned. “Even when dead, their fever can spread. We’ve left Nayowee and her asi-asa behind. I don’t think our medics can cope with gasuntsgi bites.”
Harris kicked a few carcasses aside, taking care where his foot landed, using Friend Tony to best advantage. He emerged from the tent. The roar of blundaboomers and Sticks enlivened the night, striking shadowy waves of hopping forms. The attack was met with fire power. Distinguishing blood on the kowlinka was difficult, but warren pits were evident.
“Holy crap,” Harris said.
“I see it too, oginali.”
“I think we pitched camp over their lair.”
“It seems so,” Yustichisqua replied. He lifted his waddly wazzoo, swinging it. “They are creatures of the night, Dinatli.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making it daytime.”
Harris kindled his lamp and swung it also. A brilliant light glowed above the ground — a burning mist. He grabbed his sillifoon and bing bonged.
“I am here, oginali. You need not call me.”
“Shit. Wrong number.” He fumbled again, still maintaining the lamp. “Damn.” Bing bong. “That’s better. Who be? Who be?” He waited. “BeeDust here. BeeDust here. Ah. BigDog. Listen to me and get the word in the air.”
He glanced at Yustichisqua.
“Tell them to make it day,” Little Bird said.
“Yes. Make it day. Make it day. Do you ken it? Do you? Good. Make it day.”
Suddenly, the world of the Forling resounded with bing bongs, and then lit up as if Solus and Dodecadatamus had made an untimely appearance. The kowlinka shone bright in rabbit eyes — eyes stunned in the daylight.
“Kill them,” Harris shouted. “Kill every last fucking devil.”
Battle shouts, billows of aniniya and blasted bundles of devilment drizzled the dunes. Then, as the gasuntsgi bodies flew through the air, tumbling down sand mountains, claws arose to catch them. Lavender fur flew also, saber teeth clamping on rabbits — a natural clean-up for the spoils of war. The porcorporian and the Tludachi ate their fill, leaving the Golden Eight to thrive in the unnatural daylight until the battle line settled back into night’s silence.
Chapter Four
Walls of Phitron
1
Morning brought aftermath’s scene — scant remains, except the feast’s stench, now that the porcorporian and the tludachi had had their fill. Harris stared as he stood on the henhouse threshold. He watched as the Tippagore lumbered passed, her knowing eyes glancing at Harris, as if she had come to assess a far-wandering child. She didn’t stop — just trundled over the dunes like a giant caterpillar on a shifty crimson leaf.
“I can still take it down, my lord,” Detonto said, suddenly at his side.
“For what purpose?”
“For meat, if for nothing else.”
Harris shook his head and gave his Taleenay a side glance.
“We’ve had enough carnage for the moment. How did you fare in the attack?”
“I twisted my foot. The night was cold.”
Harris grinned.
“You advised me not to make things too comfortable, Detonto. I try to oblige.”
Detonto gave him a curt bow.
“At any rate, my lord, we have had target practice.”
“Yes, but at what cost?” He opened his sillifoon. Bing bong. “BeeDust here.”
“2Gollies I be,” came the reply.
“Have you counted the beans, 2Gollies?”
“Counted, BeeDust. Eight still they be.”
“Eight?” Harris laughed. “Full jar then? Full jar?”
“Eight and twenty-seven.”
Harris glanced at Detonto.
“Looks like we came through unscathed.” He returned to the sillifoon. “Find the mustard and pack the spoons. On a picnic we shall go. Do you ken it?”
“I ken it, BeeDust. Over and ouch.”
“Over and . . .” Harris closed the device, and returned his gaze to the retreating Tippagore. “Goodbye, Mama,” he murmured. “On a picnic we shall go.”
2
They had survived the night — uncomfortable night, with no casualties except minor scrapes and a few weapon mishaps — dud blasts and jammed jimmies, but nothing to write home about. Harris still had his eight-thousand and twenty-seven golden warriors, who now had engaged an enemy — real targets with pointed ears and threatening fangs. They managed to blast them to kingdom come, or at least into the jaws of strange monstrosity allies, which waited on the periphery for dinner. Once sated, the more bestial threat retreated to sleep off their full bellies. The cold hardened the warriors and the gasuntsgi gave them target practice and enough adrenaline to chalk up a win for the home team. Harris was pleased.
He broke camp and soon the Golden Eight raced on their final stretch across the Forling. They were within a mile of Montjoy by late morning. The fleet stretched in a long chain across the height of the last dune. Harris looked left and right, watching for anomalies in the line. There were none. Had the Golden Eight straightened up to fly right? He awaited word.
Bing bong
Harris grabbed his sillifoon.
“BeeDust here.”
“Sisterfucker, is that you?”
Harris nearly dropped the device, but recovering, he looked through the gespocular.
“I see you,” he said, spying the top of the Gananadana rising from within the Kalugu.
“O see yo, Sisterfucker,” came the generous reply. “Tow hee joo.”
“I’m here, you asshole, ain’t I?”
“I never doubted you. But you should be here, where I stand. This is the moment in time.”
Harris was glad to hear his brother-in-law’s voice, but the apparent disregard for using code unsettled him, especially this close to Montjoy. The Cetrone phrases could go by undetected, and even the Sisterfucker address probably wouldn’t register, but the last bit was clearly a clarion call to arms.
“Boatman1, watch the leaves in the wind. Do you ken it?”
“Just raise your wadi-wadi up and get your boobooyak here. Do
-no-du-ga-hu-yi.”
Cosawta’s voice was gone, but the Gananadana was in full view now, the silvery glint of her waddly wazzoos flashing across the desert. Harris grinned. The rules were made for all, but never for the Seneschal. Hadn’t he insisted on the code words?
“I ken it,” he muttered.
“My lord?” Detonto said. “Do we go?”
“We go, but first . . .” The sillifoon was open again, hood spread. Bing bong. “2Gollies.”
“2Gollies I be,” came the response.
“Front and center. Solus is high in the sky.”
Before Harris could close the conversation, a squad of twenty-five Cetrone gleamed past him, like racers at NASCAR. Their Seecoys turned to face him. Then Yustichisqua zoomed to the fore, holding gasohisgi above his head. Harris closed his sillifoon without so much as an over and ouch.
“Oginali,” Little Bird proclaimed, his voice booming. “We go to our fates in the name of Enitachopco and in memory of Hedonacaria.” Then he raised his waddly wazzoo. “To Cetronia and all Cetrone.”
His squadron lifted their blazing lamps high and repeated these words. It gave Harris chills. He waved Yustichisqua forward.
“Old man,” Harris said, the words choking. “You have done me proud. I order you to live. Don’t do anything foolish, like sacrifice yourself for me. I’m not worth it.”
“Dinatli,” Yustichisqua said. “Farn is upon your shoulders, but if you say you are worthless, then it is so. Know this, oginali, I will always be your Little Bird, serving you with heart and soul, because you lifted me from the sqwallen and showed me the son of Kittowa again. But if I can help it, I shall return to your side to serve another day. Do you ken it?”
“I ken it, Dinatli. I ken it well.”
Harris bowed to Yustichisqua, who would have balked at such a gesture, but not this time. Not this time. He ken it well.
3
Detonto maneuvered the Seecoy from the left flank to the right flank, Lord Belmundus inspecting the fleet. As Harris passed each of his Danuwa, they saluted him. There was no need to bark commandments over the sillifoons. They had their orders. His assault would be the only signal they needed.
Harris assumed the commander’s role, one he had played before — a junior commissioned officer in The Battle of Fort Dixon, but in that role the fort was a military academy and he was squashing a renegade uprising among students. This was a juicier role and . . . real. But the martial look was important to inspire the fleet to the steel force needed to penetrate the phitron walls — to blast them with wadi-wadi and briefly transform them into passable kaybar. With a wave of Friend Tony, the lead Fustigars drifted forward, preparing their approach to the Kalugu, warriors readied with ino-wadi launchers and blundaboomers. Their pounding would be the key to victory. They drifted forward, gaining momentum.
Suddenly, Harris heard violent explosions coming from the main gates of Montjoy. He grinned.
“Good job, old man,” he muttered. “Detonto.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Prepare for our run.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The fleet rushed forward, the disturbance at the main gate signaling the feint. A short interval was allowed the Yunockers to cluster to the Forling walls, and then the Fustigars landed, the gingergust warriors wielding the weapons, firing at the Kalugu walls. Others wielded aniniya blasters, because, as expected, the pounding of feet on the kowlinka (zulus impractical now), disturbed the porcorporians, their scaly bodies shifting to the surface for a meal. Still, amidst waving claws and streaks of aniniya firepower, the wadi-wadi troops managed the correct range to blast the walls.
Harris felt the rush of battle. Soon the Yunockers would wake up to the truth and deploy their forces to the Kalugu, but the window of opportunity was perfect. Only the count of eighty stood between his forces and their spectacular break in. He watched his Danuwa positioning their squadrons for their given tasks and was pleased.
“Detonto, get ready for the plunge.”
“Yes, my lord. Secure yourself and be prepared to count.”
“Got it,” Harris said, strapping himself to the Seecoy seat, and taking a deep breath.
He prayed he was able to pass through the walls. This depended on tricky science now. The walls would transform for a time, allowing Detonto to pass through. This would permit passage for the Seecoy and its cargo and Harris was its cargo. But to better assure his chances, he leaned forward and placed his hands on Detonto’s shoulders.
“We shall be fine, my lord. Count true.”
The Seecoy surged forward, the world blurring. A gingergust blast preceded them, a cloud of red smoke, and then crimson and then . . . the wall transformed and they were inside it. The kaybar was thick — mucky and cold. Harris gasped, his breath hitching, but he remembered to count. “One,” he muttered, as they struck. “Two,” a second later, or he hoped it was a second and not a second and a half, or a millisecond. It mattered, although he had practiced the timing. He felt weak — dizzy. He was sure this distorted the count. He gripped tightly to Detonto’s shoulders. Ahead was still murky and airless. He recalled the thickness of these walls and his passage through them with Yustichisqua. Harris never relished it, even when time wasn’t an issue. Now the passage seemed interminable.
“Thirty-two,” he gasped, and hoped it was truly thirty-two and not some number in advance of it.
Sleep. He felt like sleeping. He heard strange sounds, the creaking of stone and the melting of rock. He saw figures running in the muddle — figures tossing granaydos — wadi-wadi with the magic Culpeeper formula. Then he heard wailing. The walls were reverting, catching his warriors in their grip.
“Sixty-one,” he yelped. “Faster, Detonto. Faster.”
“We are at full speed.”
“Then why are we slowing.”
“The change is beginning.”
“But we’re only at sixty-five . . . I mean sixty-eight.”
“Seventy-three, my lord. Seventy-four.”
“Shit.”
Harris had lost count. Now he hoped Detonto’s backup count was accurate. Then he felt a mighty tug on his arm followed by a jolt. The Seecoy slowed to a near crawl.
“Eighty,” Detonto gasped, choking.
But then, the air softened and the vehicle lurched forward, free of the walls. Estatoie’s Seecoy was parked on the other side, his squadron firing wadi-wadi from the interior, freeing stuck Seecoys and allowing warriors to tumble into the clan house. There were many dead Cetrone in that tumble — sacrifices to the cause.
Harris patted Detonto’s shoulders with renewed confidence.
“Are you okay, Detonto?”
“Dizzy and sore, my lord. Especially my shoulders.”
Harris grinned, removing his hands.
“That was some fucking ride.” He glanced up. “Estatoie. Remind me to give you a medal, when we come around to stamping one.”
“Medal, my lord?”
“Don’t sweat it.”
Harris glanced about, trying to get his bearings. The place was familiar, and then he recognized a scrubby old Cetrone hovering near a passageway.
“Talqwah?”
The man gave a start, and then bowed.
“Lord Belmundus,” the old spooner squawked. “The Seneschal has told us true. You have returned.”
Estatoie approached Talqwah, his Seecoy having landed.
“Who are you, sir, to address our commander?”
Talqwah fell prostrate.
“It’s okay, Estatoie,” Harris said. “He is the spooner of the sqwallen house and the guardian of the Yodanado. He is also Yustichisqua’s uncle.”
“Welcome to the chisqua clan house,” Talqwah muttered from his prone position.
Estatoie helped him up, brushing him off and daring to touch his waddly wazzoo, a new one Harris gauged it to be, since Harris sported the original. Harris approached the spooner, Friend Tony now much required, his foot not liking the trip through the kaybar.<
br />
“We don’t have much time, Talqwah,” Harris said. “Take me to the siti.” He turned to Estatoie. “Enter the sqwallen house. Stir those you can, and muster all able-bodied Cetrone. The time is short. The clock is ticking.”
Estatoie clapped his fist to his chest. He was surrounded by warriors. He then took off at a run in the direction of Harris’ head nod.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 69
