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Of Nephus's
twin moons Nal and Ito, it is written;
The Queen
and the Fool.
Little Ito
runs the race,
to solemn Nal's steady pace.
Ito chases,
he sprints ahead,
no care for you tucked up in bed,
or thought for beast or bird in flight,
he sweeps the skies, both day and night.
Nal serene,
her beauty bold,
waits to watch the world unfold.
She steps the months out one to ten,
as forty days go by again.
Ito has no
time for season
his frantic dash seems lost to reason,
but count him out to twenty-three,
a funny sum you will agree,
and you will find a week has passed,
days one to eight, from first to last.
As month goes
by Nal shows her grace,
with shaded scarf she guards her face.
She changes mood from coy to bold,
and tempts the seas with eyes of gold.
Adoring, they rise up and fall,
blindly caught in constant thrall.
While men are
born and live and die,
this odd pair will guard the sky.
(Children's
counting rhyme.)
Prologue
The
invasion of Nephus began in the Kingdom of Carolin—in early spring, soon
after the last snows had melted away, and as the first swathes of forest
flowers unfolded their petals to tempt busy insects.
In a clearing in the overgrown remains of a
grand city the crisp morning air shimmered and crackled. A bright hole
opened above the dew-laden grass and a frost coated figure tumbled out. A
moment later the hole closed with a snap.
Wizard
Dusswen’s ice-stiffened robe softened in the sunlight and he uncurled,
stretching his chilled limbs into the sun’s warmth. Elation filled him—as
well as surviving the journey across the void, he was also the first
Harrowen to escape his homeworld Mirt in five hundred years.
Slit nostrils flaring he inhaled
deeply, smelling little more than wildflowers and the rich soil around
him—so very different from the parched lands of Mirt.
Ignoring the throbbing ache in his numbed hands, he peeled back the robe’s
hood and shielded his blood-red eyes
from the daylight. When he saw the two moons floating pale and white in the
sky, the leathery skin on his face stretched into a smile. One moon was
large and round, the other smaller, irregular, and visibly progressing
across the sky—they matched exactly the description in an ancient manuscript
of the moons circling Nephus. This was the right world.
Almost buried in grasses, two
square plinths stood to one side of the clearing. Dusswen walked unsteadily
to the nearest and knelt in front of it. Taking a trowel from his pocket he
scraped a layer of moss from the top of the plinth, exposing smooth, white
marble.
Cautiously
he pressed a hand to the stone. It felt like touching the coldest ice and a
grunt of pain escaped his lips. The instant he drew his hand back the pain
stopped. He nodded in relief, even after all these years the plinth still
held its power.
The bright hole flickered open again and Dusswen’s head snapped around
expectantly. He smiled as a shaped block of stone thumped to the ground, the
first of thirty-five needed to complete an arch and form a World Gate. The
plinths formed the arch foundations.
One last test remained. If the plinth and arch-stone failed to blend
then the gate could not be rebuilt. The invasion would fail before it
began—and he could never return to Mirt. He should wait and rest first, but
he had to know his fate.
Stretching out with his mind, he
embraced the arch-stone and raised it from the ground. With sweat beading
his brow he drew it towards the foundation. As it came close, he felt a
growing attraction between the stones—an excellent sign, but it quickly
threatened to overwhelm his weakening powers.
He fought the attraction, fearing the
arch-stone might crack if it settled too quickly. His heart leapt when the
stone slipped from his control and thumped onto the plinth scattering thin
shards of stone.
Instantly the
magic in the stones merged and multiplied, flowing backwards and forwards,
searching for the next arch-stone. Dusswen breathed a sigh of relief. The
stone was intact, the magic strong, the gate could be rebuilt. His master,
Lord Tekt, would not be disappointed.
Dusswen
crawled to a nearby wall and sagged against it. The next arch-stone would
not arrive for many hours. Projecting him and the first one between Mirt and
Nephus was no easy task, taking the combined will of a hundred Harrowen
wizards. Like him, they would need to rest before their next effort.
When Dusswen
completed the gate it could be opened, and then through the coming months
Lord Tekt would bring soldiers and weapons from Mirt. Gradually building
their numbers until he amassed a huge army—then truly the invasion would
begin.
Chapter [1]
Endor
Caffri travelled along a dusty, tree-lined avenue in his open-topped
carriage. He tilted his head back, but took little pleasure in the late
summer sunshine filtering down through the canopy of branches.
The carriage lurched, jostling him
uncomfortably. Since leaving King Malcor’s service his fine muscular
physique had become immersed in a layer of fat, just one more problem for
him to address before taking to the field of battle.
“Must get this road seen to, eh,
Moleskin!” he called out.
Moleskin, his
household retainer, a small fussy man, answered from the driver’s bench, “It
would definitely make my job a lot easier, sir!”
Endor leant
forward and prodded Moleskin’s back with the top of his cane. “I just
remembered, I thought we put some money aside for repairing this stretch?”
“Oh, eh, yes
sir, I just haven’t had time to organise a work crew.”
Endor settled
back in the padded leather seat. “It can probably wait. More important
things to attend to now!”
“Yes, sir, of
course.”
The evening before a King’s messenger
had brought Endor news of troubles at the edge of the kingdom, and with it a
decree for every town to raise a militia and gather for battle in just
twenty days’ time. Endor would train and lead the Silvermeadow militia.
The prospect of returning to soldiering
held definite appeal. After all it was his life, a more familiar activity
than his current role of country squire, managing the farming community and
lands around the town of Silvermeadow. However, though skilled and admired
in his day, he wasn’t the dashing figure of his youth. There were tough days
ahead for him and the militia volunteers.
Staring
out over the peaceful fields of harvest-ready wheat and orchards laden with
ripening fruit he pondered how noticeably vague the King’s message was about
their enemy. Relations with the Kingdoms near to Carolin were so good it was
hard to imagine that any of them might be invading. Possibly the King had
offered aid to an ally in response to a threat from beyond their frontiers?
But that would normally involve regular forces and not civilian militias.
Though perplexing, there was little he could do about it—King Malcor had
commanded, and duty required Endor respond.
The carriage
swept on towards the neighbouring town of Cadford. Otric Moy, Endor’s
lifelong friend and former comrade-in-arms, managed a small community very
similar to Endor’s. They had arranged a meeting to discuss the financing,
arming and training of their militias.
Endor’s
carriage rattled into Cadford, across its busy, cobbled streets, up a steep
hill in the centre of town and through the courtyard gates to the front of
Otric’s manor house.
Otric strode
onto the porch, waiting until Moleskin set the brake before calling out,
“Good day, Endor. Come on in!”
Endor stepped
from the carriage and walked over. Apart from Otric’s rakish moustache they
could be mistaken for twins—sharing the same barrel-chested build, rounded
faces and curly fair hair. The possibility that one of their fathers strayed
from the marital bed, or worse that another unknown father figure
existed, who wooed both of their mothers, was a topic neither felt
comfortable pursuing.
After an
exchange of greetings and a firm handshake, Otric herded Endor through the
door.
As they
marched across the stone paved hallway to the study Otric waved to a
servant, “You there, bring some wine.”
Entering the
study, Endor immediately noted the bare walls. All the formal displays of
weapons and armour that normally decked them now lay in piles about the
floor. Otric’s passion for weaponry would save them both time. Endor
intended purchasing Otric’s surplus.
“Sit yourself
down,” said Otric. He waved to a seat by a table strewn with neatly written
lists.
Endor sat,
turning one of the lists to read it, an inventory of weaponry. It listed a
very even division of Otric’s resources. Endor nodded his approval. “I’ll
see you right on the price of this lot.”
Otric smiled.
“Didn’t realise how much I’d gathered over the years. To be honest, Liz’beth
will be glad it’s all off the walls.”
Endor laughed.
“I heard you sent her off to fetch her mother? Do you think it’s as bad as
that?”
“Just being
prudent. Thought it best if they were both here.”
“And your lad
Grant?”
“Kept him at
school—I don’t want him caught up in this.”
“Of course
not, no point in interfering with his education. Likely we’ll have this
sorted in time for the harvest festival.”
The servant
arrived with a flagon of red wine and Otric poured two goblets full. “Your
health,” he said, lifting his and taking a long draught.
Endor took a
good swallow, and then settled his goblet on the table. “It’s a peculiar
business this, I can hardly believe the King wants a militia from every
town.”
“Must be
trying to make some sort of a point,” said Otric. “Scare whoever it is into
backing down.”
“Probably
that’s all there is to it. But,” growled Endor, “just who the hell are we
supposed to be fighting?”
“I’ll admit
that was troubling me too.” Otric raised an eyebrow. “Likely we’ll be told
in good time.”
Endor shook
his head and examined another of Otric’s lists, cursing as he noted one of
the entries.
“Something
wrong there?” said Otric.
“Militia
cook!” Endor patted his ample stomach. “Not forgetting my own requirements—a
fighting man needs all the help he can get.”
“So that big
fellow, Bort, he’s not working out?”
“Not one of my
better decisions. That damned Ida Pittle had me spinning on my heels with
all her fancy words and promises of training him up herself—but I’ll tell
you, it’s been pretty plain fare so far.”
Otric laughed.
“You never did get the measure of her, even at school. You should get
yourself married Endor. My Liz’beth handles all those domestic details.”
Endor sighed.
“Doubt there’s any would have me, Otric.”
“What about
Ida? You two would make a grand match.”
“Not very
likely, she barely has the time of day for me unless she’s after something.
Mind you, I suppose I’m being a bit harsh about Bort, it did seem the right
thing to do at the time. You know how Ida is, ever since her father died
she’s made it a life mission to sort out everyone’s problems.”
“Well then,
there’s nothing to worry about—if anyone can sort that Bort fellow out, it’s
our Ida.”
Endor scowled.
“I damn well hope so.” To build strength and stamina a soldier needed to be
well fed. Also, having volunteered their lives to a cause, it would be an
insult and a disgrace to feed his militia anything less than the best he
could offer.
Otric refilled
their goblets and then raised his up. “Before we get down to business—a
toast. Whoever this enemy is—death to them.”
Endor felt a
surge of passion. “Yes! Death to the enemy!”
The men
knocked their goblets together and drained them in one.
#
Ida swung out
her arm and Bort ducked, but too slow to avoid the well-aimed frying
pan in her hand. It smacked off his head and a loud metallic clang echoed
around the kitchen’s coarse stone walls.
“Booger, that
sore!” he said, rubbing his thick skull with fingers better suited to
crushing pebbles than sifting flour or slicing cucumber.
Ida lowered
the pan and raised a wagging finger. “Listen to me, my lad. If you want to
keep this job, then stop your daydreaming and pay attention!”
Bort rocked
his huge frame from side to side. “Bort trying,” he said. “Bort trying.”
“Very,”
snapped Ida. “Now what’s next?”
Ida contained
her impatience as Bort struggled to remember what she had just told him. She
hated to use violence of any kind, but it seemed the only way to get any
results. She tensed her forearm, ready to swing the frying pan again.
“Pan on
stove,” he said quickly.
“That’s
better,” she said, thumping the pan onto the coal-fired range. “What’s
next?”
“Fat,” said
Bort.
Ida dropped in
a large knob of fat. It melted quickly and began to hiss.
Bort rubbed
absently at the stubble of red hair coating his scalp. “Head sore,” he
mumbled.
“It’ll hurt a
lot more if you get this wrong again.” Ida picked up a large bowl of sticky
pancake mixture and gave it a stir.
Bort shuffled
closer.
Ida ladled
some of the mixture into the pan and it spread across the bottom, releasing
a warm buttery smell. “Wait until small bubbles appear on the top,” she
said. “Then, shake and—flip!”
Bort’s broad
mouth fell open as the pancake rose into the air, performed a perfect flip
and landed back in the pan, dead centre.
“Oh booger,”
he said.
Ida scowled.
“It’s flip, Bort, flip.” She let the pancake cook through and then slipped
it onto a dish. Then she turned the frying pan’s handle towards Bort. “Your
turn now.”
She watched
him test the weight of the pan. They way he waved it around, it might as
well have been a paper fan. In this situation, his immense strength became a
handicap, and if he couldn’t learn to control it he would soon be saying
goodbye to soft pillows and hot meals.
He set the
frying pan on the range and she ladled-in some batter. When the bubbles
appeared, she said, “Now, Bort, shake and—flip!”
With clenched
teeth, he attempted a dainty shake and a flip. “Uh-oh,” he said, as the pan
flew from his grasp.
Ida leaned
back to watch it and the pancake take separate paths towards the high
vaulted ceiling. She shook her head in despair as they lingered at the top
of their arc like two fat pigeons bobbing on the breeze.
When they
returned, Bort threw out his hand to catch the handle, but of course missed
it completely. The frying pan clanged onto the range, landing right side up,
and an instant later the pancake plopped into it.
Ida stretched
forward. The pancake was not only intact but also properly flipped.
“Gracious me,” she said. “In all my days I’ve never seen that done before.”
She whacked
him with a handy serving spoon and Bort’s grin disappeared.
“Booger,” he
said, “that sore.”
#
A long way
from Cadford and Silvermeadow a mission had gone horribly wrong for a King’s
spy.
Harsh sunlight
flooded in from the open, balconied side of a room thirty paces square. The
top room of a temporary pyramidal structure, the inward sloping walls and
floor were made entirely from black stained timber, the walls closing to a
point overhead.
A raised
throne, intricately carved in the richest wood, sat close to one wall. Its
tall, powerfully built occupant wore
black leather jacket and kilt. His
slick, black hair was braided in a tight tail that came halfway down his
back. Lord Tekt, commander of the invading army, stood and stared at the
King’s soldier.
Slumped to his knees, the man rocked unsteadily, his face bruised and
swollen from beatings.
Stepping down from the throne Tekt leant forward and gripped the soldier’s
jaw, his clawed fingers piercing the man’s cheeks.
Tekt
formed the unfamiliar human words with a harsh tone, “Such a soft species.”
He gripped the jaw harder and trickles of blood ran over his fingers.
“Listen closely,” he said. “I have a message for your King. Tell him Lord
Tekt is coming. Tell him—death is coming.”
Deep
in the man’s eyes Tekt saw a glimmer of hope as the human realised he would
not be executed. Tekt straightened and sneered as he nodded to the Harrowen
soldiers guarding the man. “Cut off his ears and then take him
to a place where his people will find him.”
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