The Secrets of Starellion- the Court of Lincoln Hart
Page 35
He was torn from his observations by the splash of a thick rope, and Ozmic’s growling tongue.
“Get up here, got some broth fer yer. Need ta stop all that wine swilling in yer stomach.”
Lincoln grabbed the rope and tied it around his waist. He found it far too easy to walk up the side of the boat as he was being pulled, but heck, he thought, just the acrobat skill. He wondered if he should have swan dived into the sea, instead of his dead man’s plunge. The dwarves' cheery faces welcomed him, and he realized he’d taken them for granted, allotted them little time. They’d been with him from the start. He knew they deserved better from now on.
Their sturdy arms heaved him over the balustrade and onto the waist of the ship, it’s deck-roasting in the hot sun. Ferrying him to a ring of rope, they sat in a circle and Ozmic handed him a bowl of broth.
“We’ve got a complaint,” said Grimble, all official.
Ozmic stroked his long beard. “An official one. Yer can’t be keeping everything bottled up. Now...” Ozmic leaned in, wagging his finger in admonishment. “Now, we know you adventurers know some strange stuff, stuff that wouldn’t even make sense to Crags or the professor-type gnome what’s-his-name, but that shouldn’t stop yer sharing. What you’re not getting is that it’s our world, not yours, and we should have a say in how we rescue it or how we destroy it—simples.”
Hunched over his bowl, Lincoln spooned in some of the lukewarm broth. He nodded. “Agreed.”
They both looked at him, waiting.
“So?” Grimble said.
“So,” Lincoln said, straightening. “So, my dead wife’s come back to let me know that something—”
“Necromancy!” Ozmic reared back. “Is a demon in yer heart, Lincoln…Hart?”
“Hart, heart!” Grimble roared and pointed. “Speaking to the dead? It ain’t necromancy, stupid. Lincoln ain’t got that magic. Nor is he a psychic. He’s just using his divination skill a little different is all. He’s using it to see past The Endings River.”
Well, that’s a handy explanation, Lincoln thought.
“Exactly,” said Lincoln.
Ozmic leaned closer, his big old eyes drooping to match his lips, his gaze darting around to make sure no one would overhear his next words. “So, what’d she say?”
Lincoln thought about his answer. His three days of wallowing hadn’t helped—he hadn’t quite worked it all out. What he did know was that Belved had to be stopped, as did Pellevere, Scholl, Morlog—the bunch of them. He knew they represented something, that they were gods in this game, that each controlled its own land, that they interacted through those lands—he knew that now. What Joan had shown him was their true nature, and now he knew they were more than gods, they simply…were. They were everything.
What he couldn’t reconcile was how it pertained to what he knew to be the real predicament. Did each god represent a ship—a ship’s AI, its systems, and by attacking one land, was one ship attacking another? That was what he couldn’t grasp, and that was what Joan couldn’t know. She couldn’t know, because she’d died before their ship had even left Earth.
Ozmic’s gaping mouth pulled him from his muse. “What?” Lincoln asked.
“I said, ‘What’d she say?’”
“Put simply?”
“Simply.”
“We’d best save Poleyna, get her crystal thing back into one piece or we’re all dead.”
“Not Lamerell?”
“Not exactly sure where she fits in, yet.”
“Gotcha,” said Grimble.
“Whaddya mean, ‘gotcha,’” Ozmic asked Grimble, elbowing him.
“I mean, he means, that his dead wife means, we gotta find Poleyna else we’re high ‘n dry without leaf an’ ale.”
“Gotcha,” said Ozmic. “Where do we start?”
Lincoln looked over them at the hunchbacked volcano. “There!” he said, stabbing his finger at it.
He glared at both dwarves like an excited megalomaniac. He wasn’t too sure what he’d expected them to do, possibly a little gasp? Maybe a rallying call or even a hearty cheer? Anything would have been better than them looking distinctly unimpressed.
“Well?” he asked.
Grimble reached behind him and picked up a mug of ale. “Probably not the best place to start,” he said.
“Agreed,” said Ozmic.
“But if you want to do the dramatic thing again—the violent stab followed by a single word, choose any other direction,” Ozmic told him.
“Why?” Their peculiar reaction, or more likely, inaction, miffed Lincoln.
“Ah that!” Grimble clapped his hands. “Well, that there is Serenity, and that’s a sacred volcano—sacred only to the beggle. Now, you’ll see that this whole, lush and peaceful land is within the confines of this valley.”
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with the term, ‘Prophecy,’” Ozmic asked.
“Yes…” Lincoln eyed Grimble’s ale. His every taste buds started to pop. He decided he’d fight the dwarf to death for it.
“Well,” Grimble continued, taunting Lincoln by taking a quick swig. “It is foretold—in beggle circles, that one will come whose feet had barely touched the land’s soil, and that he will travel to Beggle on a quest, and that he will go unto the black mountain at their valley’s head, and that he will rouse Mandrake.”
“The dragon, not the guild,” Ozmic pointed out.
Grimble sent his companion daggers, then turned back to Lincoln. “And that the dragon would rise up from the lava flames and save the land.”
“So, all good,” said Lincoln, rubbing his hands together. “Got another mug?”
“Not all good,” said Ozmic. “In rousing the dragon, the prophecy goes, Serenity bursts forth with her fire and as Mandrake’s wings beat on the wind, the fire streams forth, and Beggle is burned to the ground.”
“So, not all good,” Lincoln said, hardly hearing Ozmic’s words. “The ale?”
“Prophecies are a waste of everyone’s time,” Flip’s voice rang out. “If it comes true, then it was a prophecy, if not, it’s forgotten. Let’s say that the vision Lincoln had while…” Flip coughed. “While light headed from all the shinyshrooms, was actually a vision, and that he’s going to march up to Serenity and meet some dragon. Is it his fault if all the beggles are fried to death entombed by the onrushing lava?”
Lincoln jumped up, hunting the ale cask. Finding it, he poured himself a mug and gulped it down. A tut rang out from above, and he saw Dink hovering above him, a disgusted look on her face.
“My bad?” he said. “Look, I’ll tell you what. If I go into the volcano, see a slumbering dragon, I’ll just tiptoe out of there and forget all about it. The beggles live, and everyone’s none the wiser. How about that?”
“Isn’t the rest of the Land of Mandrake worth saving?” Zenith asked as he bent by the barrel. “The prophecy says the dragon will rise and save the land. Would you sacrifice the eight lands of Mandrake for this one valley?”
Lincoln began to hanker for his fetid cabin and its solace. “What do you say we make shore first and just see what happens?”
“Sounds like a plan of action,” said Cutter. “I’ve given you one week to convince me, if you don’t, me and Megan will be on our way.”
“Speaking of your apprentice,” Flip said. “Where is Amaya?”
Cutter pointed up. “Crow’s nest. They’ll be down as soon as we all start moving to leave. I asked her to start teaching the girl the art of survival.” Cutter winked at Lincoln. “You can’t be too careful with a bit of orphaned, royal blood. I suppose we’ll need to hide her for a few years, maybe a farmstead or the like. Then when she reaches an auspicious age, she’ll become all-powerful. So, there’s another prophecy. Take care or it’ll come back and haunt you.”
“Besides,” said Flip, “now you are over your melancholy, you should see Beggle, meet its odd folks. Experience another facet of this land. To the boats!” Flip said, and everyone pushed the
mselves up.
Lincoln drained his ale and followed, Dink fluttering close by.
“They never moved like that when I made my big gesture.”
“The prince is much better at it than you,” she said, and fluttered after them.
Lincoln was shepherded into the first boat, a crew of ten of Flip’s oarsmen already in place. Dink settled on his shoulder, and Zenith sat by his side. The two dwarves took the bench ahead, and they were soon on their way. The oars were quickly finding their rythym and the boat sprinted through the water, barely touching its surface.
The ship receded, the second rowboat trailing by some fifty feet. Lincoln saw Cutter’s mysterious apprentice hugging its bow, looking around like she was taking in everything. He couldn’t actually see her face though, the shadows of her hood casting darkness over her.
He was quite surprised when they rowed on, past the port with the multicolored dwellings, through the throat of the estuary, and into the river itself. The oarsmen never said a word, nor did Lincoln, nor the dwarves. Instead, Lincoln took in the land, its riverbanks, forests, and farms. It felt safe in the valley, safe within the outstretched arms of the volcano. He settled down in the boat, glad to be back in his sound mind; his madness now forgotten.
The sun was on the wane and the volcano loomed overhead when the oars were finally drawn in, and the boat coasted toward a tiny inlet. A small jetty slowly came into view. Lincoln saw a short, stocky man standing on it. He was wearing what looked like a set of cargo pants and a strange gray jacket with hundreds of pockets. His huge, boiled-egg eyes looked out from under rangy, gray eyebrows, held up by a bulbous nose. He reached down and pulled Zenith out of the boat.
“Well, what do you know? Don’t see a shaman for a hundred years and then two come along at once. Who might you be?”
“Zenith, my name’s Zenith.”
“Welcome to Beggle.” The beggle looked down. “Two dwarves. It is an honor to receive our rock brothers.”
“Grimble and Ozmic,” said Grimble, disembarking.
“Welcome to Beggle. So, you must be Lincoln. The prince said he would be bringing you.”
“That I am. And who might you be?”
“The name’s Ramjook, Greman Ramjook, and I have a very special friend who's dying to meet you.”
Lincoln clambered out. “And who might that be?”
“Oh, I think you know who,” Greman said, and moved to one side.
Lincoln saw her edge on to the jetty, and his knees nearly gave way. “Alexa! Alexa!” and he staggered toward her. But something in her eyes stopped him short. A hint of mischief, no more than that, complimented with a slight curl to her lips.
Had she? Did she? Was?
Then from behind her a voice rang out.
“You ready to go questing?” Pog asked, jumping out.
The End…
What do you think? Is he ready, or does his journey lie elsewhere? The next book, Alexa Drey and The Prince of a Cheated House, sees Alexa venture into Petreyer, a land held in the grip of mutant creatures from The Variant. There she meets the colorful Carter Green and gritty Callisto Jack among others. Take the adventure, link here, and I hope you enjoy in.
If you liked The Secrets of Starellion, please leave it a little review. For updates on the releases, join my Facebook Group, or the mailing list.
All the best,
Ember
About Barakdor
The Land of Barakdor was conceived over ten years ago as homage to a few MMORPGs namely Evony, Lords of Ultima, Dragons of Atlantis and the like. ZyBandian played a number of NA worlds, and a few Ultima servers. Alexa Drey was known to ride the odd dragon. Barakdor is an on going series, with six books currently written and a seventh in the mill. It will be complete at the eight-book mark. I hope you enjoy them, and thank you for reading,
Ember
Website - www.emberlanebooks.com
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