“I need to see what there is to see,” he said, gazing up at the wall’s top. “Buhippus and Parnasus will come with me.”
“My lord,” Detonto said. “If you mean to rise to this occasion, the enemy will pick you off before your crown clears the yuyenihi.”
Harris grasped his Taleenay’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. I’m not in a sacrificial mood today.”
“Just suicidal,” Detonto quipped.
Harris grinned, and then looked to Buhippus.
“Are you with me?”
“I agree we must know and not guess.”
“Is that a yes?”
Buhippus nodded his assent.
“Parnasus?”
“Always, my lord.”
“Watch for my signal, Detonto. I’ll send you one bing bong on my sillifoon, if the fucking thing works. If not, I’ll drop it on your head.” He laughed. “Then I want a concentrated force of wadi-wadi on this wall and an all out assault on whatever’s on the other side.”
“Why not blindly charge now, my lord,” Oustestee asked.
“Timing,” Harris said. “If they’re waiting beyond the phitron, Sticks aimed to welcome us, we will not do it. I want their pants down and their asses exposed. Many will fall, but we shall not be slaughtered. If anyone is the butcher boy today, it’s me.” He looked to his companions. “Ready for this?”
Buhippus grunted. Parnasus grinned. Together, on zulus, they arose, like cream to the top.
2
Harris faced the wall as he ascended, thinking of a time when he rode an outside elevator at the Hotel Concordia. But that had been a different experience — a glass capsule facing the brilliant, moonlit (single moon) night with the endless carpet of Los Angeles’ lights spread before him. This was a solid wall of black phitron, featureless until the top, when the ominous blades of yuyenihi forced him and his companions to push away, floating precariously above the courtyard.
“I shall look first,” Parnasus said.
“That task falls to me,” Buhippus replied.
“No,” Harris said. “Together. Rise steady and be prepared to be blown off your perch.”
Harris gradually arose to the barbed wire, Parnasus and Buhippus keeping abreast. Harris clenched his hand on Friend Tony, anticipating a pounding. But as his eyes cleared the wall, he observed the Yunockers preoccupied with their revenge — the execution of the Trones — slaves who dared to raise hands against their masters.
“Not a sound,” he whispered.
He stared toward the outer walls and the gates. He spotted Tosawa’s squadron taking the sentinels out, one by one — stealthily as if scripted in a castle invasion flick. He also saw the Montjoy regulati approaching in force. Soon this invasion of the Kalugu would be a siege, but when it came to that, every Yunocker inside now must either be dead or dying. Mercy was not an option for survival. Harris could also see the top of the Gananadana, still submerged in a distant skywell, hidden from ground sight.
The great square known as the Gonada Gigaha — the Place of Execution was living up to its name. In a pit, the executed Cetrone were layered to be either burned or turned into tludachi food. He noticed, even from this height, victims still alive, squirming to the trench’s edge, using their dead brothers and sisters as cover. Still living were huddling Cetrone, struggling under their tethers, beaten into submission by Yunocker guards. A line of regulati stood in an ordered array, their Sticks at their side, while a tall Yunocker conducted the drill. Twenty or so Cetrone were segmented from the main group and pushed forward to the wall. They still struggled to be free — men, women, and children, clinging to each other with the knowledge that, in this last clutch, they would pay for freedom’s audacity. Free they would be, but not liberated to rule the day or even the sqwallen bowls.
Harris trembled as the regulati raised their Sticks. He reached into his korinkle and withdrew his sillifoon. One button press and, far below, he heard the ubiquitous bing bong. Soon, many sillifoons were bing bonging — like small church bells calling the faithful to prayer. He nodded to Buhippus, and then to Parnasus. With a flourish, Lord Belmundus raised his waddly wazzoo to cheers from below. It was two quick maneuvers to the top of his Columbincus, and then he fired Hierarchus at the chief Yunocker, sprawling him at the firing squad’s feet.
“That got their attention,” Harris barked.
“This will get it even more,” Buhippus shouted, firing his Stick at the executioners.
Harris felt the wall vibrate as the inu-wadis blasted the surface and hundreds of Cetrone leaped through the narrow barrier. With a wave of fierce vengeance running and zipping and trundling across the Gonada Gigaha, Harris swept down into the fray. Sticks fired wildly, a good thing, which surprise could only muster. If planning had kicked in, the Yunockers would have formed battle arrays and systematically picked off the intruders. But surprise inspired random warfare, a tactic giving better odds for a mob of club-wielding patriots.
Harris lost all notions of form. He plunged into the execution grounds, wielding Hierarchus. He watched as his crew battered the reckless regulati forces. He aimed his dickey foot in the direction of the pinioned prisoners, who still feebly tried to loose their bonds. He raised Hierarchus, and then, after sweeping the field of all comers, he snapped the bonds fettering a Cetrone woman, who wept from fear and thanks.
“Do your best to earn your freedom,” he said to her.
She nodded, and rushed into battle. He continued cutting the bonds.
“Earn your freedom.”
Children, men, both clear-eyed and sqwallen-addled, heard the same message.
“Join your brethren. Do your best to earn your freedom.”
Then Harris was confronted by a fierce warrior — a Yunocker set on ending this liberation. The man was a foot taller than Lord Belmundus and, unlike the others, armed with a battering staff, one with an array of vicious spikes at its tip.
“Ayelli intruder,” the warrior barked. “I am Pupissicus, the tludachi tamer. This is my taming stick. Beware it, because it is your doom.”
Harris was unnerved by the man, hesitating as the staff lashed downward, missing him by a single happy hop to the right. Harris unleashed Hierarchus, but the flash rebounded against the wall and downed combatants both behind and to Pupissicus’ side. The staff came down swiftly again and Harris prepared to be struck. Damage, it would do. But before the spikes did their worse, Pupissicus was pushed into the wall by three Cetrone. The warrior grunted, but before he could regroup, another three Cetrone pushed him to his knees. A child kicked him in the face. Harris stood dumbfounded. The prisoners he had freed were earning their freedom or, at any rate, his freedom. He left them to slaughter the giant. They beat him to pudding with his own tludachi taming staff.
When Harris turned, he was further amazed. Yunockers fell into blood pools beside their Cetrone assailants. There was no victory dance — just a slug fest, Sticks firing and blundaboomers blasting — smoke and death everywhere. He looked to the walls, where Tosawa’s squadron pushed over Yunocker bodies, securing the parapet, an absolute necessity with the Montjoy garrisons assembling on the other side of the Gulliwailit.
Harris sought familiar faces — his Danuwa, his Taleenay, Parnasus or Buhippus, but in the chaos, all men were anonymous. What if they had fallen? He couldn’t bear that. So he raised Hierarchus, switched on his zulus and buzzed across the battleground. He confronted a Yunocker who had gained the upper hand in a bout with an old Cetrone man, who was armed with a bubrapti — a club used to pound quillerfoil. The old man was on his back, growling and fiercely protecting his waddly wazzoo. The Yunocker pinned his chest with his Stick. Harris drew his attention, but didn’t succeed ending the threat, until Hierarchus glowed blue and the enemy’s head was relieved from its body in one, steady stroke. A fountain of blood spouted from the falling torso, covering the old man, who shot to his feet and danced in the puddle. The sight both gladdened and sickened Harris. He wasn’t cut out for this shi
t, but conceded that the Gonada Gigaha had been appropriately named.
Then a terrible rumbling shattered the far wall, the one between the tludachi pit and the main gate. He heard ominous growls through the smoke. The ground glowed, and then fire shot across the field, taking many Cetrone and Yunocker alike by surprise. The flames whipped into a storm, the smoke drawn aside, revealing a fiery Cabriolin, flanked by two massive zugginaks, harnessed to the master regulati himself — General Tarhippus.
3
Harris had no time to admire this entrance, because Tarhippus moved swiftly, his glowing gwasdis snapping Cetrone after Cetrone as he gained prominence in the Gonada Gigaha. Harris raised Hierarchus and slapped his Columbincus. He shot his most powerful blast, knowing it would leave him drained, if not dead, but it was now or never. The flash whipped across the battleground, knocking combatants left and right, but on target for Tarhippus’ Cabriolin. But suddenly, it dispersed, ricocheting off the vehicle, the full force striking the parapet, downing a dozen warriors in Tosawa’s squadron.
“Shit.”
Tarhippus roared, satanic to the toe.
“Lord Belmundus,” he shouted, still laughing. “You cannot hurt me. This vehicle has been crafted to shield me from such Ayelli tricks.”
Harris watched as the zugginaks raced toward him. He wondered whether they were coated in jupsim or trained to deflect Ayelli tricks. He staggered, the last blast draining him, but he wasn’t about to end his life as dog chow. He fumbled for Friend Tony, drawing it from its cane-sheath. He slapped his double Columbincus, fully expecting it to play fart sounds or Stars and Stripes Forever — anything but a responsive defense to two big-ass, maddened zugginaks. But it flashed his signature sapphire-blue and Friend Tony woke up forming a forked spear of lightning, catching both killer dogs between the eyes, simultaneously. A CGI artist couldn’t have done it better. Lord Belmundus crashed to his ass. He didn’t think he could get up again. It was his last hurrah.
Tarhippus’ laugh diminished. In fact, it turned to rage, evidently unhappy with the death of his two favorite pets. His Cabriolin raced toward Harris with one undeniable aim, gwasdis snapping the ground and downing any warrior deterrent in its way. The electric green whips came close to Harris’ zulus. He crabbed back, his asano riding up his ass, and then he turned over, protecting his waddly wazzoo. When he did this, the lamp shone brightly, blinding Tarhippus temporarily, and affecting aim. His Cabriolin overshot its mark, Harris watching the undercarriage pass overhead.
Quickly, Harris got to his feet. He couldn’t feel his feet, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of his one opportunity to thwart death-by-gwasdis. He ran a few steps before realizing this wasn’t going to work. He swiped his hands to his zulus, switching them on, soon finding the ground gone and the wall-gap approaching. He knew the way out, but to where? He would be over the tludachi pit, but he had the presence of mind to recall the pride of tludachi Cosawta had tamed. They were probably these pit tyggers. Still, beyond that, there was the gate, which, if Tosawa was still negotiating the issue, could be manned with a regulati gate garrison. Then there was the bridge — exposed over the Gulliwailit and, at the other end, the whole fucking Montjoy army waiting for one speck of an Ayelli renegade to burst through the portcullis and declare himself a victor. Still, did Harris have a choice, with Tarhippus on his heels?
No.
Harris was correct in his assessment of the pit. It was open and empty and he was on zulus, so he didn’t need to tip-toe through the tulips and over the planks. He also was happy to see the gate unguarded, although the bodies heaped along the portcullis were Cetrone, victims of Tarhippus’ rude entry. Beyond he saw the army, but it was engaged.
“God bless you, Tosawa. I’ll mint that medal yet.”
The parapets were returning fire, keeping the regulati at bay. Harris assumed they had orders to stay put until Tarhippus could prove he had the biggest balls in Montjoy. Harris zoomed over the pit and through the gate, gwasdis coming close as he escaped. He slowed as he came over the bridge. He sensed entrapment, so he landed and turned.
Tarhippus was under the portcullis, laughing again.
“You have thoroughly pissed me off, Lord Belmundus.”
“I hope so,” Harris replied, the moment for negotiations long past.
“Those pups were my children.”
“They looked like you.”
“I should hope so, but where are my manners? Let me introduce you to your death. You have been abandoned by the Elector and I am no longer constrained to capture and bring you to judgment.”
“Looks like I’m a goner, Tarhippus,” Harris said, pointing to the army at his back. “But if you haven’t noticed, the Kalugu is free of you. Thousands of Yunockers drip blood in their favorite haunt, blood drawn by the people — my people — a down payment on their liberation.”
“Down payment?” Tarhippus said, still laughing.
“Yes.” He turned to the army. “Hear me, foolish followers of this mindless turd. The Kalugu is open for business, and that business is Yunocker-killing. Come across and join the bloodbath.”
Many murmurs met this assessment, and Tarhippus no longer laughed.
“Enough of this,” he growled, moving toward Lord Belmundus, who raised Hierarchus knowing he had barely enough energy in his system to make a decorative flower display, even if it couldn’t penetrate Tarhippus’ shield.
Tarhippus’ gwasdis were at the ready, a double whip to slice Lord Belmundus asunder. But then the Cabriolin rattled and hemorrhaged. A fire display disrupted its undercarriage. When the thing landed, Harris looked beyond. There, in the portcullis, stood Detonto, his blundaboomer streaming wadi-wadi, experimenting evidently with the Culpeeper’s invention on yet another metal.
Tarhippus twirled about, the gwasdis having a new target. The whip aimed at the blundaboomer and succeeded in snapping it out of Detonto’s hands. The other gwasdi latched onto the Taleenay’s ankle, pulling him down. However, an aniniya blast, fired from the bridge’s edge, caught Tarhippus on the shoulder. He wailed and dropped one of his gwasdis.
“Yustichisqua,” Harris murmured, watching Little Bird rise on his Seecoy from beneath the bridge.
“Oginali, 2Gollies I be.”
“Evidently,” Harris said, tears welling.
He rushed to the bridge’s edge, just as Tarhippus caught Little Bird about the waist with the gwasdis. The Seecoy dropped into the moat, Yustichisqua dangling from the bridge.
“Dinatli,” Harris shouted. “Hold on.”
“It burns, oginali. It burns.”
“Just hold on.”
Harris tried to touch the whip, but Tarhippus was reeling Little Bird in, laughing the whole time. Harris gripped the strand tightly, but the burning was horrible. He could smell his flesh baking. He turned and looked Tarhippus in the eyes — those devilishly crimson pupils filled with distilled hatred. His laugh exposed sharp, pointed teeth — a monster’s grin. Then, the eyes rolled back, and the shoulders were pinched. Tarhippus let loose his grip on the gwasdis. Harris watched as the handle slipped and, with it, Yustichisqua.
“Hold on, old man.”
He also saw the reason for Tarhippus’ lapse. A man was in the Cabriolin, beating him about the head.
“Buhippus?”
The slugfest ensued, Tarhippus wearing a surprised look, while Buhippus pounded away. But after the initial surprise, the devil of Montjoy renewed his aggressive spirit and pushed back. The brothers wrestled about the Cabriolin until the vehicle overturned and they both tumbled into the drink. The gwasdi failed, slipping more, Yustichisqua screaming in pain and now about to spill into the Gulliwailit. But before he could drop, a whistle came from above, and then a shout.
“We are here! We are here!”
The gondola swept beneath Little Bird as he dropped, catching him in Tomatly’s lap. The Gananadana had descended dangerously low, but just in time. In fact, Cosawta waved Harris to jump also, but the gap was too wide to assure a safe
landing.
With Tarhippus’ fall and the Gananadana’s rescue effort, the Montjoy army’s orders to stay on their side of the bridge were cancelled. They moved forward, shooting at the Gananadana. Despite jupsim, two waddly wazzoos were damaged, making any ascent over the Kalugu’s walls precarious, if not impossible.
“Go,” Harris shouted.
“We will be smashed to death, Sisterfucker.”
“No, go,” came another shout.
It was Parnasus, who raised the blundaboomer, and aimed it at the wall.
“Wadi-wadi! Wadi-wadi!”
Blast.
“Start your counting,” Parnasus shouted.
Cosawta steered the Gananadana directly toward the transformed wall, a barrage of Stick fire peppering the gondola and bouncing off the canopy. Harris held his breath as the gondola passed through the phitron. The canopy was caught up on the yuyenihi temporarily, but finally pulled through — battle scars and all.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 73
