The Riders of Thunder Realm

by Steven Lochran

  Nobody spoke to Joss, not even when dinner was being served. Sausages and baked beans threatened to spill over the edges of his plate as he sat down on a log by the fire, pretending not to notice as the other prentices quietly edged away from him. The only one not to disappear was Edgar.

  ‘You shouldn’t get too close. Whatever I’ve got is catching from the looks of it,’ Joss told him.

  ‘They’re just nervous. Sur Verity is fearsome at the best of times. But I don’t think anyone’s ever seen her as mad as this.’ Edgar sat down beside him and handed him his humming knife. ‘Thought you’d like to have this back.’

  ‘Glad to know I bring out the best in Sur Verity,’ Joss said, taking the sheathed dagger and stuffing it into his belt before scooping up a mouthful of beans with his spoon. The sauce was thick and greasy enough to be mistaken for congealed mammoth blubber. He forced himself to swallow. Convinced he’d eaten all that he could stomach, he tossed the plate down in front of him. ‘You know if they’re still looking for a volunteer to take the watch?’

  ‘I think Horace is meant to be doing it,’ Edgar replied. ‘And if I didn’t get the chance to say it properly before, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you did for me. I really do owe you –’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘I don’t know about that …’ Edgar protested as Joss rose from the fireside. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To help Horace out,’ replied Joss, adjusting his sword-belt.

  Edgar’s gaze drifted to the Champion’s Blade. ‘What’s it like carrying that around, anyway?’

  ‘’S heavy,’ Joss said, and trudged away to find the camp boss. Volunteering to take the first watch that evening, he soon found himself alone among the livestock, listening from afar as the others told each other tall tales and bawdy jokes.

  He’d grown used to this over the years, hearing only snippets of gossip about rival orders, stories of the Ghost City and the Stitched Witch, and the tales of grave misfortune about those who’d failed while on the Way. Nobody ever seemed to notice his absence. Why would they? He had no stories of his own to share. And tonight, he had no mind to listen. He was far too lost in his own regrets for that.

  He knew he shouldn’t have been so brusque with Edgar. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that Joss was in this position. If Joss had been smart, he’d have left Edgar to his fate. Surely that’s what everyone else would have done. But Joss had given up trying to fit in with his peers long ago. The only person to have never made him feel like an outsider was Edgar, who had been kind and forthcoming from the day they’d first met. Joss had always appreciated that, and now he was brushing him off like a flea from a raptor’s feathers.

  He tried imagining how he might explain himself. He might have talked about growing up in the Orphan House, all but ignored, and how he’d learnt to rely only on himself. He might have given voice to the concerns he had that all this effort in running the Gauntlet would have been for naught if Sur Verity or Lord Malkus suspected Edgar’s involvement. If he were less prudent, he could have raged about how his accomplishment might have otherwise been celebrated, that he’d really achieved something rather than having committed a grave sin. Or he could have simply called Edgar ‘friend’, and said he was sorry for being rude.

  None of those words would come, though. It was like an amputee trying to reach out with a phantom limb. He just didn’t have it in him.

  The evening wore on, and Joss watched as the members of Round Shield Ranch drifted one by one from the fire to bed down for the night. Eventually he was left entirely by himself, with only the moon and the stars to provide him with any light. Nobody came to replace him. Not until an hour before sunrise, when Horace Vahst waddled over to poke him in the back.

  ‘I got it from here, Blade Keeper,’ Horace said, gargling on his own mucus before hocking a gob of phlegm into the stream. ‘Why don’t you go polish your sword or something?’

  Horace had been a fieldserv at Round Shield Ranch for twenty years, and was rumoured to have applied to be a prentice just as many times. The rejection must have worn on him as he now found sadistic glee in torturing Joss whenever the opportunity presented itself. Or maybe he just resented the idea of someone Joss’s age outranking him, even though a prentice had no real power over a serv.

  ‘You should have been here hours ago,’ Joss said, wrapping his blanket tightly around his shoulders to ward off the cold dawn air.

  ‘You got a problem, tell it to the regent. Maybe he’ll plait your hair for you while you do, given that you’re such fine friends now.’

  Joss gritted his teeth as Horace snickered, but decided to let it go in favour of collapsing into his bedroll and snatching a few moments of sleep. Usually his dreams would swirl like crashing waves, the colours sapped by the dim light of a black sun. But now all he could see behind his closed eyes was a golden sword, its blade so bright it threatened to burn him. Only as he blinked awake did he realise that the blinding heat he’d felt was the rising sun, and that the entire camp was now packing up around him.

  ‘Josiah! Quit lazing about and mount up!’ Sur Verity shouted.

  They arrived at Round Shield Ranch just before noon. By now the rocky terrain of the Tournament grounds had given way to the calm green fields for which the southern lands of Thunder Realm were famous.

  Growing up in the nearby township of Makepeace, Joss had always heard of Round Shield Ranch’s majesty. And when he’d finally arrived here five years ago to begin his life as a prentice, he hadn’t been disappointed.

  The ranch was built on a high hilltop and fashioned like an archer’s target, with three circular stonewalls set one within another. The main tower looked out from the centre circle, its view secure but vast from its position at the hill’s summit, its battlements shining with illumisphere receivers. But now, as Joss gazed up at the tower’s slitted windows and smooth grey stones, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the face of a disapproving old man. It looked cold and hard, ready to punish Joss for his supposed insolence and grumpy enough to enjoy it.

  The immense ironbound doors of the outer wall opened with an aching groan as the riders and their livestock approached, and all of the prentices and fieldservs that had been left behind came pouring out. They chattered excitedly among themselves, the din growing louder when they spotted Joss. Clearly they’d already heard of his surprise victory via the illumisphere news service.

  ‘Quiet!’ Sur Verity hollered at the crowd, and the noise died instantly. ‘We need this livestock penned, fed and watered. Get to it!’

  The prentices, paladeros and fieldservs burst into action. When Joss made to do the same, Sur Verity called out to him.

  ‘Not you, Josiah! Stable your lizard and then meet me at Lord Malkus’s chambers.’

  ‘Yes, Sur Verity …’ Joss said, ducking his head and riding to the stables. Azof seemed happy to be home as they passed the other raptors, padding into his stall without having to be led there.

  Joss took his time in removing the reins and harness from the thunder lizard, and when he was finally done he rubbed the beast on the snout. ‘If you’ve got any words of wisdom, pal, now’s the time to share ’em,’ he muttered. Azof clicked his tongue and pressed his head to his master
’s, who ruffled his feathers in return.

  When the raptor was finally settled, Joss shuffled out from the stables to stare once more at the central tower and the walls that surrounded it. What looked impressive from the outside was claustrophobic from within. Unless you were standing atop them, the walls obscured any sign of the sun or the surrounding hills, leaving only cold stone to stare at.

  With one last command to his gut to settle down, he straightened his shoulders and marched to the tower, ignoring the stares of all those he passed. While he’d always been an oddity to his fellow order members, he had never drawn as much interest as this. Generally he was able to escape notice, keeping his head down and working hard at his duties so that one day he might be named as a paladero. When that day came, he would no longer have to bunk down here in the enclosed confines of the barracks with all the fieldservs and the other prentices. Instead, he would be invited up into the tower, where he would be provided with his own quarters that looked across the rolling hills and out at the sky, as big and blue and limitless as the ocean.

  As a paladero he would have his own prentice and his own livestock to herd, and whenever he wasn’t at Round Shield Ranch he would be out on the range, where the sky was even bigger and he was free to decide things for himself. That promise of freedom had always been the most alluring element of Joss’s dreams of being a paladero, but now after five years of loyal service it looked like all those dreams were about to be torn away. His gut grumbled again – louder and more painfully this time – as a wave of nausea rippled through him.

  Arriving at the tower, he found its doors open and leaking heat. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he moved from the cold of the yard into the warmth of the stone hallway and the gallery beyond it, where a fire was blazing untended in the hearth. Joss didn’t linger by its side. Instead he walked with purpose to the circular stairwell set discreetly in the corner of the room.

  Most fortresses would have their lord’s quarters housed in the highest peaks of the tower, but Round Shield Ranch was different. Rather than climbing the stairwell, Joss descended. The stairs wrapped around and around, taking him deeper into the earth until finally he stopped at the entrance to a long, dark hallway.

  Portraits were hung on both walls, commemorating each and every lord to have served as the head of Round Shield Ranch. Great Chief Svarok stared out of his painting as if daring the onlooker to challenge him, while the notoriously corrupt Lord Kenneth Kye reclined against a wall with one hand proffering a golden cup.

  With every step the hallway grew darker, lit only by the twin torches that blazed on either side of the doorway at the opposite end. A splintered circular shield was hung upon the door like a wreath, the metal studs on its surface having long since turned to rust. Approaching the shield, Joss wondered if he should knock on the door or wait for Sur Verity to arrive. If everyone was determined to see him as some brazen upstart, he wasn’t about to give them added ammunition.

  ‘Enter,’ a voice boomed from behind the door, solving Joss’s dilemma for him.

  Joss leant against the heavy old door and put all his weight into opening it. The scent of leather and lamp oil wafted out, with the room almost as dark as the hallway. Inside, a bulky figure sat at a marble table, his iron-grey hair slicked back to reveal a prominent widow’s peak, his eyes as black as tar pits.

  ‘Come in, Josiah. And tell me – what exactly were you thinking?’ said Lord Malkus, his metal teeth gleaming in the darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A PROMISE KEPT

  JOSS tried not to stare. On the rare occasions he had crossed paths with Lord Malkus, he’d always found himself mesmerised by the chief paladero’s silver dentures. He’d heard plenty of stories about how Malkus had lost his teeth, ranging from the vengeful attack of a spurned lover to the swift lash of a tail from a hotblooded stegosaur, though Joss’s personal favourite had to be that the metal incisors were proof the leader of Round Shield Ranch was a cyborg.

  Whatever the reason, Lord Malkus’s silver teeth had become part of his legend. And what a legend it was. He didn’t need a portrait or a statue to honour him. His deeds were testament enough. Though Sur Verity’s time as Blade Keeper had been notably long, it was Lord Malkus who’d held the Champion’s Blade for a record twelve years before retiring from the Tournament undefeated. He had been the youngest paladero to ever be named the lord of an order. Irena Honeylush herself had written and recorded a song about him. Thunder lizards fell into line just at the sound of his name. And now he was staring at Joss with cold expectation.

  ‘Well?’ he said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His song sword was mounted on the stone wall behind him, forged to resemble a broadsword if not for the runes and pinholes spotting its surface.

  Beneath the blade, sitting on a slender pedestal, was Lord Malkus’s Questing Egg. It had to be forty years old at least but not a speck of dust clung to it, the slick black shell polished to perfection and shot through with veins of amber and emerald. It was only one of many that would be displayed in such a manner throughout Thunder Realm, the hand-picked proof of the owner’s worthiness of being a paladero. More than any sword, Joss desired one to call his own.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord – what was it you were asking?’ he said, so distracted by Lord Malkus’s presence and the trappings of his office that he’d completely forgotten the question.

  ‘What was I asking? What were you thinking in conning your way into the Gauntlet, Sarif, that’s what!’ Lord Malkus demanded, making Joss wince slightly with the rising ire of his tone.

  Joss bit his lip, unsure of how to proceed. ‘Sur Wallace was –’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Lord Malkus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose while squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Addled by hellwater again, no doubt. Not the first time he’s done that while on duty, though surprising it would happen at the Tournament. But of what consequence is that to you?’

  ‘If Sur Wallace didn’t run the Gauntlet, then he’d lose his sponsorship and possibly his position. And if he went, so would his prentice. It was my intention to keep that from happening.’

  Lord Malkus reclined in his chair and clasped his hands together atop his stomach, which was flat yet wide. ‘I see. This prentice is a friend of yours, Sarif?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Joss replied, though he felt an odd flickering behind his eyes in doing so.

  ‘I see,’ Malkus said, then sucked his teeth in consideration. ‘And that’s all of it, eh?’

  Joss shuffled. ‘My lord?’

  ‘This bold action of yours, to help a friend in need,’ Lord Malkus leant forward again, as if he’d caught a peculiar scent in the air. ‘It had nothing to do with the Tournament now being done, marking the time that the Grandmaster Council will be asking us which prentices we feel are ready to be sent on the Way?’

  ‘I …’ Joss hesitated.

  ‘Because to win the Gauntlet? To cover yourself in unexpected and historic glory? Surely such a thing would convince anyone that you were deserving of such a chance.’

  ‘Well – I have been here five years now, my lord,’ Joss confessed, unsure of what else he could say. Malkus seemed almost to be guiding him, to be drawing from him the kind of things he would think but never say.

 
‘At which time it would be customary for you to prove your worthiness to become a paladero,’ Lord Malkus interjected. ‘If it weren’t for your young age, that is.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point, my lord,’ Joss said, the spark that Malkus had set inside him quickly growing into a flame. ‘Round Shield Ranch has no other candidates for the Way this year. I’ve been doing this as long as is required, and I’m good at it. In fact, I’m better than most. Even the older prentices.’

  ‘And you feel you proved that in the Gauntlet, do you? Dumb luck and all?’

  Joss’s hand hovered beside the Champion’s Blade, as if that should have been all the evidence he needed. Though wasn’t it enough to have secured Edgar’s place? Why was he allowing Lord Malkus to pull these confessions from him? It felt as if his lordship was playing some kind of cruel game, perhaps raising Joss’s hopes before ultimately dashing them. Unsure of what he should do, he felt a surge of relief when a knock came at the door. And then he remembered who would be doing the knocking.

  ‘Enter,’ Lord Malkus once again commanded, the word ringing off his teeth.

  The weight of the shield seemed nothing to Sur Verity as she swung the door open, regarding Joss dispassionately.

  ‘Sur Verity, good to see you again,’ Lord Malkus said, remaining seated.

  ‘And you, my lord,’ Sur Verity replied, closing the door behind her as she bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The lord waved his hand. ‘Prentice Sarif and I were just discussing his recent … misadventure.’

  ‘Were you, my lord?’ replied Sur Verity, more deadpan than ever.

  ‘Yes. And it seems that his reasons were twofold, though he might have trouble articulating them: to ensure a friend’s place here in our order, and to prove his merit to go on the Way.’