KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT
The Far Kingdoms Series, Vol. 3
Allan Cole and Chris Bunch
THE FAR KINGDOMS SERIES
The Far Kingdoms
The Warrior’s Tale
Kingdoms of the Night
The Warrior Returns
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 1996 by Allan Cole and Chris Bunch.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
THE FAR KINGDOMS SAGA: A PREFACE. 6
BOOK I 8
CHAPTER ONE. 9
CHAPTER TWO.. 27
CHAPTER THREE. 43
CHAPTER FOUR.. 58
CHAPTER FIVE. 66
CHAPTER SIX.. 81
BOOK II 97
CHAPTER SEVEN.. 98
CHAPTER EIGHT. 113
CHAPTER NINE. 129
CHAPTER TEN.. 141
CHAPTER ELEVEN.. 157
CHAPTER TWELVE. 178
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.. 196
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.. 205
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.. 226
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.. 240
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.. 252
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.. 264
CHAPTER NINETEEN.. 280
BOOK III 289
CHAPTER TWENTY.. 290
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. 299
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.. 308
ABOUT THE AUTHORS. 312
DEDICATION
for
Kathryn who sustained us..
and, as always
Li’l Karen
THE FAR KINGDOMS SAGA: A PREFACE
ALLAN COLE
When my late partner, Chris Bunch, and I finished the final book in the eight-novel Sten series, the last thought on our minds was to write a fantasy novel. We were hard science fiction guys — space ships with AM2-powered chain guns — escaping an attacking flotilla into hyperspace.
We both grew up on Buck Rogers Saturday matine serials, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. Other than a sneaking fondness for Conan The Barbarian, we generally avoided swords and sorcery and certainly fairy princesses and unicorns.
So how is it that Team Bunch & Cole ended up writing not one fantasy novel, but four?
It was like this: our editors at Ballantine/Del Rey Books were putting the serious arm on us to come up with a fantasy series. We said not a chance, and ducked and dodged like John Carter fleeing a pride of banth across the desolate plains of Barsoom.
In his usual diplomatic manner, Chris told them, “No way am I writing about fucking elves and Tinkerbell fairies and unicorns and shit.”
I wholeheartedly agreed — and that, it would seem would be that. Besides, we had just sold a trilogy of historical novels under the main title of “The Wars Of The Shannons,” to Ballantine Books and were happily boning up on black powder weapons and colonial-era bayonet tactics.
But they kept the pressure up. Fantasy was hot, they said, and we ought to follow up our success with Sten into the fantasy field. In short, they were as persistent as clotting Alex Kilgour intent on boring Sten’s ears off with a shaggy dog story.
We sighed and shuddered and finally said, okay maybe we’ll think about it. And they burst through that chink in our armor like a depleted uranium round through wormy cheese and before we knew it we were on a strict deadline to come up with something ”pretty damned quick” so we could make the fall schedule.
As it happened, I was relaxing after work reading up on the great explorers and expeditions of old. I became particularly interested in Sir Richard Burton — not the 20th Century actor and husband of Elizabeth Taylor, but the 19th Century explorer genius who found the source of the Nile, entered the forbidden city of Mecca in disguise, spoke 29 languages, was a master with gun and sword and, in his spare time, translated The Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra. (Check out his Wikipedia entry at: http://tinyurl.com/3e765h)
I was telling Chris about the guy, when all of sudden he got this funny look on his face. “Shit!” he said. And he dragged out a bottle of single malt from his desk, poured us both a hefty shot and added, “That’s it, Cole. That’s our fantasy. Hell, there’s enough meat in there for a whole bloody series of the suckers.”
I was dubious. Chris pressed on. “We’ll pattern our hero after Burton. Set the whole thing in a world we invent. An historical novel, but it’ll be a history we make up. Instead of the source of the Nile, we’ll have some legendary far off place, where the streets are paved with gold and such.”
I nodded. “The Far Kingdoms,” I said. Not only understanding his notion but accidentally naming the series.
The only problem was that Burton, by all accounts, was pretty much of a son of a bitch and backstabber. Had no qualms about running up a river in Africa in gunboats, blowing the hell out of the populace in the way of the place he wanted to go. And all those languages? Most of them he got from the assiduous study of “pillow dictionaries;” Girls he bought, or rented, to teach him the local language whilst warming his bones.
So we came up with another character. Made him an innocent — son of a merchant prince, a bit of a wastrel but wants to mend his ways. Enamored with Burton’s vision, he finances the expeditions and goes along, The whole first story is his journal — a first person account of their adventures. We named him Amalric Antero. We named the Burton character, Janos Greycloak. We also created a third character, Rali Antero, Amalric’s warrior sister, who stars in two of the books.
We pitched the whole thing to our editors on the phone. In the end, we came away with a commitment for four novels. The first three — The Far Kingdoms, A Warrior’s Tale, and Kingdoms Of The Night — were written by the two of us. I wrote the concluding volume — The Warrior Returns — solo.
There was one final thing. To make it palatable for science fictions guys to do fantasy, we came up with an ultimate goal — and theme — that ties all four books together. And that’s to discover the secret of a Unified Field Theory, that combines the major forces of the physical world with…. Magic!
Oh, and that unicorn? If you look closely, in one of the books you’ll come upon a scene where a group of bandits is gathered about a campfire, roasting and eating with great relish, a creature that looks very much like a unicorn.
Enjoy the voyage.
Allan Cole, Boca Raton,
9/1/2009
BOOK I
Greycloak
CHAPTER ONE
THE MAD CHARIOTEER
Who shall ever read this, heed me: I am Lord Amalric Emilie Antero of Orissa. Know that this journal and its bearer are under the protection of my family and myself. If you deliver them speedily and safely to my agents you will be paid two thousand gold coins.
But beware — my generosity is double-edged. Do not harm or delay my servants in their mission, or the consequences to you, your family and descendants will be most severe.
All this I swear on this sixth day of the Month of Frosts in the fifteenth year of The Time Of The Lizard.
* * * *
My dearest nephew, Hermias. I write to you from the Far Kingdoms — the real Far Kingdoms, not the false rune of Irayas that Janos Greycloak and I found nearly fifty years ago. I should have realized we were wrong: the wonders of those distant kingdoms that so enthralled us then pale in this realm of miracles and magic.
Poor Janos. He betrayed all he loved and sold his very soul for the truths he believed resided there. And it all turned out to be a monumental lie.
The old Janos — the Janos who was once my friend — would have laughed at his self-delusion.
“The best jests of the gods,” he would have said, “are those that reveal you as an ass. The man who bel
ieves himself wise walks in darkness. Only someone who knows he’s truly a fool can see the light.”
He would also have been glad, I realize now, because our very victory in finding the Far Kingdoms held the seeds of his destruction. For after that, what else was left of value for Janos to discover? If only he could be here now to glory in how much we missed the mark.
That said, I should tell you that in all likelihood as you read these words I will be dead.
Do not grieve.
My life has been long, for the most part fortunate and spiced with much incident and achievement. It amazes me that after all that has happened since we last embraced there is spark enough to guide this pen.
At an age when most men survey all empty ground for a suitable grave, I set out for my last great adventure. I crossed the Forbidden Sea of the East to the unknown Far Shore, dared uncharted rivers, desolate wastelands and frozen mountain peaks. I’ve seen dreams shattered, mended, then imperiled anew. Few men or women have been gifted with a life such as mine. And now that I’ve been granted experiences and adventures that would easily overflow another full span, I can say if the gods don’t love me at least they haven’t ignored me.
But I must not ramble. This is not a journal of reflection like the first.
I write to warn, not to edify.
We are in great danger from forces I am just beginning to understand. Soon my enemies will come for me. And if I should fail in my last task, another must follow to pick up the fallen banner.
That is the purpose of this journal.
Although I must write in haste I will spare no detail so wiser eyes may see what I did not. Study these ink spatterings closely, my dear nephew. And seek the counsel of our bravest and most perceptive friends.
Tell them the end of history is rushing upon us. And if I die it is they who must stop that Mad Charioteer.
It began in the Month of Flowers. All around my villa blossoms were bursting through the earth, filling the air with their essence. Gentle winds played sweet music on the garden chimes and from my study window I could see two lovers strolling the grassy fields, birds bursting from cover in front of their wandering feet. Just beyond them was the meadow where there were colts at play. But all that beauty was lost to me.
I sat before an unseasonable fire, toasting my bones, a rug pulled over my skinny old man’s legs, nursing a cup of brandy and damning what little life I had left for a prison. I pined for Omerye — my life’s mate who made everything worth while. She’d been dead a year and in one corner of the garden I could see the small tomb with her flute-playing likeness carved into its face.
I’d never expected to outlive her. This doubled the shock of the quickness of her death. One moment she was my lively Omerye — full of laughter and music and wisdom the next a corpse. We made love the night before she died. I’m grateful of that. Despite our age our passion for one another was as deep as ever. She fell asleep in my arms.
That night I dreamed we were young again, wandering the wilderness together in search of new horizons.
The next morning I awoke early thinking I heard her pipes. The music had the dawn’s cheer to it, the refreshing chill of morning air.
But I found the Dark Seeker had come and gone. Omerye lay pale and cold beside me, her pipes nowhere in sight.
I’d known such tragedy before — I lost my first wife and daughter to the plague. But I was young then. There were days enough for hope to still live. As I sat in the study I thought of the treasures Greycloak and I found in the Far Kingdoms and all the marvels I brought back from those once-mythical shores. The greatest treasure of all was Omerye — court piper for King Domas himself. It was she who healed me — she who made my days worthwhile.
There is a land I know of, where it is not only acceptable but considered admirable to take one’s own life. There are priests who make an honorable profit assisting them at their task. They ply their customers with an elixir that brings on the happiest of memories. A basin of warm, perfumed liquid is provided and a spell cast so all pain is pleasure.
The sorrowing one — who sees clearly that his best course is lay down the burden and close the final door — takes up a sacred knife, summons the Seeker, then slits his veins.
I was considering this recourse when Quatervals came to collect me. Imagine what a morose, self-pitying sight I made. He groaned as if to say “Not again, my Lord!”
Quatervals was head of my household guard — tall, ruddy-cheeked and bursting with muscular good health. A former Frontier Scout recruited from one of the hill tribes outside Orissa; he was an able soldier who’d risen through the ranks to lieutenant. But troubles at home had forced him to desert, since his tribe believed blood feud the highest duty and justice. Unfortunately, when matters had been settled to his satisfaction, and his enemies interred, he had the moral rectitude to return to his unit.
He was headed for the executioner’s block when his plight came to my attention. I’d rescued him from that fate for motives I’ve occasionally regretted and he joined my service as chief of my guard. He was good at his job and the only complaint I had was he sometimes didn’t treat me with the respect a man of my position is occasionally fool enough and weak enough to believe he deserves.
When Quatervals saw me his face darkened, his brows arched and his bearded smile of greeting turned to a grimace.
“You’re not dressed, my Lord,” he admonished. “We have to hurry or we’ll be late for the ceremony.”
“I’m not going,” I said. “Send my apologies and tell them I’m ill.” I did my best to look wan — touching my forehead as if testing for fever, then sighing as if I’d confirmed my worst fears.
“You don’t look sick to me,” he said. He glanced at the brandy, then at the half-empty crystal carafe. “Feelin’ sorry for yourself again, are you my Lord? Te-Date knows what you’ve got to complain about. You’re richer than any man has a right to be. Prince of the greatest merchant empire in Orissa’s history. Beloved and honored by all. Well, almost all. There’s some that’s got sense enough to see you’re as common a mortal as the rest of us.”
“Meaning you?” I said.
“Meaning me, my Lord,” he replied. “Who else would care enough about such a cranky old man to keep an assassin from doing us all a good turn?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” I snapped. “I know when I’m sick or not.”
He said: “My Lord — if you wanted a polite liar for chief of your guards you shouldn’t have hired the likes of me.”
Despite my foul mood, I had to bury a smile. Quatervals’ fellow tribesmen were a fierce, independent lot noted for always speaking the unvarnished truth. They wouldn’t lie for any reason — even when polite society demanded. A woman asking Quatervals’ opinion of a new hair style or a dinner host wondering over the quality of the meal he served had better be certain of both. For if one is ugly and the other tasteless Quatervals could be counted on to point out those unpleasant facts.
“The only thing that ails you, my Lord,” he went on, “is a bad case of the mopes. You need fresh air, sunlight and the company of others. So, stir your stumps, Lord Antero, because that’s exactly what awaits you.”
“So now you’re a skilled physician, as well as a swordsman,” I said. “I want to be left alone, dammit! I’m old. I have the right.”
“Sorry, my Lord,” Quatervals replied. “But I’ve got a grandmother twenty years your senior and she’s been up four hours by now chasin’ the goats in for their milking. You’re not feeble. But you will be soon if you don’t quit acting like it.”
I was getting angry, still clutching my specialness — my sorrow — to my bosom. But Quatervals beat my bad temper to the finish.
“Besides, this is a ship launching, my Lord,” he prodded. “Your family and employees have been planning the ceremony for weeks. You not only agreed to attend but promised you’d do the honors of blessing the ship.”
“I changed my mind,” I said.
Quatervals
grimaced. “That’d not only be rude, my Lord, but bad luck as well. What if something happened to that ship later on? Jumped by pirates or sunk by storm? It’d practically be your fault for givin’ it a bad start.”
“You don’t actually believe that superstitious nonsense,” I growled.
Quatervals shrugged his hefty shoulders. “I’m a landsman, not a sailor,” he said. “But whenever I’ve been to sea I got down on my knees fast as any old salt when the winds blew fierce. That’s when the gods really make themselves known.”
He laughed. “But you’d know more about that than the likes of me, sir,” he said. “You’re the famous Lord Amalric Antero. Slayer of demons. Rescuer of maidens. The greatest adventurer the world has known.”
Then his look turned mournful. “What a pity,” he said. “That such a man should dry up like dust and blow away.’
“Oh, very well,” I said. “I’ll go... if only to shut you up. But it’ll be on your head if I catch a chill and die.”
“I’ll chance it, my Lord,” he laughed. “Now stir your bones so your man can get you dressed.”
With that he exited.
I drained my brandy and slammed the cup down. That son of a poxed whore! I’d teach him! But as my blood boiled I realized that once again I’d fallen prey to his game. The famous Lord Antero, indeed! Quatervals ought to apply to the Evocators’ Guild for a license. Look how he’d turned self-pity into anger and anger into a renewed interest in life — if only to contemplate how pleasant it would be to toast his bones.
I laughed and called for my man servant. I had to hurry or I’d miss the launching.
I looked out my window and saw the lovers had disappeared. My eyes were still keen enough, however, to make out the place where the tall grass shadowed into a fragrant bed. I saw the grass moving in a steady rhythm.
Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) Page 1
