The Lore Anthology: Lore of the Underlings: Episodes 1 - 5 (7 page)

The ruler’s response came cool and calm.
“A pity. But it matters no more, dear Doolox. You have a new friend now.” The man, middle-aged yet cocksure and quick, jumped back — but too late. A flying flower the red of blood and boney white lit to rest in peace upon his shoulder. “Farewell Doolox. May your soul be not forsaken with your foolish flesh.”

The Semperor turned away, admiring a pleasing array of angel horns, mersies, and forgive-me-nots as he ambled contentedly to his waiting carriage. But a boyish footman suddenly shuddered in horror, going pale as a ghost. “Sire… at your ear…
you have been chosen!”

The great leader gave a fleeting glance then laughed with warm bemusement at the pixie of purple and gold that fluttered playfully by his crown.
“Long ago, my son. Long ago.”

Doolox was given a fresh chevox and clear passage. After three days’ journey, he reached the soaring Cliffs of Syar and home a free man, then leapt to his death in the sea.

After a few moments’ rest, Fyryx cleared his throat and found his own voice once more. “It’s a wonder, old boy
— of the seven who lived that day to join the Treasured as the last of the first, one lives still. We know her now as elderwoman Pum. Even at her olderly age, one of the only to stand for our homeland today. Yes, the Semperor chose well in choosing her… to endure the tests of time, to best the most treacherous, to survive the Wilderness so long…” He reached out to stroke the tip of Arrowborne’s sweetly tapered nose with the back of his hand. “Just as you will survive this…”

It burned his skin with the heat of an evil inferno, dark and unseen.
“Snake spine and rose blood! What devil’s kiss was that?!”

Fyryx spat on his reddened flesh then rubbed in the thick, white foam to soothe it. He grimaced from the sting but recovered quickly, as if daring not to let the silence linger.

“Now look how you’ve made me lose my grip on this tale. Always the trickster you were. Like the way you made us lose count of all the elders on that Crossing Day a score and ten years ago. Braying out numbers, mocking our voices. You got Ayrie angry but I just laughed. I hadn’t learned to figure past my fingers anyway.

“On the other hand, the elders made themselves hard to miss in the pageant of our people. As was their custom from the many trails of tears gone by, they rode afront, just behind the vanguard, leaving the folk to follow as an afterthought and walk in their dusty wake. We traveled amidst them all, between those favored and the foot-borne, with a clear eye of everything. The elders spread out far before us in a carnival of colors, a field of flags abreast by three and long about a hundred strong. Family flags they flew, hoisted high and unfurled with pride to flap a tail or two in the warm wind.

“Flying foremost among them in a silken sheen of lavender and gold, which we could still see despite the distance, waved a banner bearing the fabled bloodname of Pum. The letter runes lilted by graceful design, each embroidered in the finest thread of angel hare with the chilling skill of the netherworld’s needles in a heavenly hand. Above was depicted a scene of supreme glory — of a young Poxanna the Picked, courtess of Pum, adorned in sacred white robes and anointed by the Semperor himself with a glowing touch upon her forehead. So holy the image… though, between you and me, the artist may have taken some liberties. Especially in the fresh-faced maiden portrayed, a breathtaking beauty of pure and perfect female form with flowing flaxen hair, soft full lips, and the pyre-hot peace — the knowing innocence — of one who’s caught glimpse of a godsign. That figure bore little likeness to the tall, almost manly woman of late middle age who rode under it. She who sat stiff and high above all in a grand sedan chair that had been mounted on a heavy chevox and decked in regal fabrics and frills…

“No, this woman who headed the body of elders could not be called comely by any stretch. It was more a skin of shields she wore, battle-pocked and built-up thick, formed at the peak of her powers — a face for fearing, not endearing to young ones like us. We had always avoided
her ironwood eyes, too stern their stare, for surely they’d turn us to stone. So we had to be sly, even to spy her.

“‘She must not catch our count,’ cautioned Ayrie, as he figured the flags in his head.

“At last he had it. ‘Fourteen score, plus fifteen more, then add one Pum… We’re short by four!’

“I fumbled with my fingers like I followed, but must have looked lost.

“‘Oh, little brother,’ he said, shoving back the long licks of red hair that hid his brow and encroached upon his cheeks. ‘You can work this out, I know you can. Use the magic take-away trick I showed you, the one from
Prince Poxum’s Secret Scrollbook
.’

“It took me a minute.
‘Two-ninety-six?’

“‘Treasure!’
He smiled and punched me on the arm.

“‘Ayrie…’ I asked, ‘
do you think it matters? The elder count, I mean.’

“Ayrie pondered a bit and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Father has always told us so, at least by his bedtime tales. But I guess he could have made those up.’

“A silence fell between us as we wondered into our own thoughts and gazed away at the parade of pretty, pretty pennants…

“All of a sudden, you got upset, making that vell kind of whinny and whine. Then something caught Ayrie’s eye. ‘Look!’ he whispered quick, giving me a shake. ‘Look at Madam Pum. Odd how she flies her flag like that.’

“But I had seen it too. Once, twice, thrice she let the banner dip, then reset it high and right again.

“For a moment that seemed the all of it, until the air was split with a scream from the elder fold. And then a flag fell. Angry shouts and grunts were heard, furious fists and rusty blades thrust. A second was torn and thrown to the ground. Then pitiful pleas, someone begging for life. A third banner broken and spat upon, like the others, repainted in blood.

“We stared at each other, Ayrie and me, both mute, less afraid than amazed. Sure we’d heard tell of the elders’ ways, but never seen them laid bare before us like this.
Such brutal truth for two young boys. And it wasn’t done.

“It left a wake, that treble attack. As its dark deeds echoed over the uncaring plain, a few hoots and hollers broke out behind us in pockets among the folk.
Then, with the speed of a well-planned scheme, a gang of seven, all from the same clan and armed with coup clubs, burst from their midst to charge ahead — right past our cart and into the elder ranks. Once there, their flags rose one by one to join the rest. They were crude by comparison, like the raw craft of cruel children. Elsewhere, they might have been taken for a laborer’s old launderings hung out to air, these rags torn to form from fraying frocks and threadbare britches… except for the burnt black and bloody crimson scrawled all over them. Together they made immortal the murders just done, with each one proudly painting a scene — stick folk stabbing stick victims to death and shaking stick stabbards in victory.

“About then I noticed that Madam Pum saw none of this. She rode as rigidly as ever, the commotion at her back, as if she had already figured the aftermath.

“‘Three hundred…’ stammered Ayrie. ‘There are three hundred, Fyrie.’

“A big bump jolted our cart. We pulled ourselves up off the floor only to tumble down again by way of a boney crunch and thud.

“‘Bodies,’ said Ayrie.

“We peered out through cracks in the cart’s sideboards and there they were. The felled elders, discarded in dirt and aground, barely wrapped in their own flags as funeral shrouds. How
darkly had this day of dreams betrayed them. From a trio of treasured gems who had sparkled in that morning’s sun so bright and full of hope, to three sad sacks of blood and broken bone — abandoned, unburied, unmourned, and damned.

“Suddenly, a rider swift and cloaked broke from the vanguard to turn back on us. Galloping hard through the elder rows, the figure aimed dead at our woeful cart while I felt the heart beat in my throat. But then, with his speed, the cloak flew off and I knew not to fear. It was father.

“‘How are my boys, Mister Arrowborne? Did you keep them from that mess?’

“You, friend vell, made a neigh meaning yes then a nod and pranced for a few steps with pride.

“‘Well done!’ father hailed with a nod in return. Then he turned to us with a lesson to learn. ‘It’s the code of the elders, sons. They rule themselves by blade and blood.’

“‘Yes sir,’
we said.

“‘Just as the Semperor wanted. My father, your grand, explained it to me at roughly your age as well.
This game. “Let them check themselves, my son, and you shan’t have elders to fear.” The Guard are taught not to intervene. Even today I have no say.’

“A red-clad pikesman and mount approached from the fiery eye of a sinking sun.
‘Treasuror Hurx!’ he called, voice a-boom. ‘The time draws near now, sir my sir. You are needed at the head.’

“Father gave wave of his hand to confirm.
‘Ayryx, Fyryx, let me look on you two. This is a day to remember. Soon shall we have the home we’ve long sought since even before I was born. Our struggle is all but over.’

“‘Yes sir,’
we said.

“‘Now mind your mother the rest of the ride,’ he ordered, but with a warm laugh.
‘Her sisters and she yet eye your behinds!’

“As father flew off in a cloud of dust, we turned to show our widest smiles to the ladies’ cart nearby. It seemed to entertain them, but mother still shot us a knowing look.

“Ayrie, though face a-fake in grins, couldn’t wait to whisper some secret to me.

“‘We must get a count of the folk,’ he said, ‘including our family, don’t forget.’ Brother sounded excited. ‘If they match the Semperor’s number too that means…’ he paused as
if  searching for something. ‘Well, I’m not keen on what it means, but we need to know. That’s for sure!’

“‘But how?’
I asked, forcing another too-happy look back.

“Ayrie pointed his index finger.
‘There’s just one way left I guess. Arrowboy, it’s up to you!’

“Yet you were way ahead of us two. The words had not passed Ayrie’s lips when you were already off, crashing through the waves of folk, turning their tide from side to side, and parting their number asunder. Then back you were before we knew it.

“Bumping the chevox that drew our cart, you had us pull to the side and stop as mother passed by displeased. The sun, now low, cast a rose and gold glow on the land, which you mined with your cloven front hooves for to find the treasured folks’ sum. We watched you dig figures in the soil, some number runes dead and long forgotten, symbols unburied by your toil, plowed out in an ancient arithmetic. The earth here was rich and black, a mother lode thick with life. It smelled sweet.”

Fyryx, the man, came back for a breath and a glimpse of his breathless old friend. Both forelimbs of this vell lay still
— no counting on them anymore — although just once they seemed to twitch. He slipped his hands beneath a hoof, huge yet light, to lift it up. It was delicate with a beautiful shape but felt to him brittle and ready to break. So gently he set it down in the straw and withdrew to his boyhood again.

“Four types
of shapes, that’s what you drew. Three diamonds inside a perfect circle, enclosed in a square on a triangle base. But what did it mean? What was this design? A trio of gems upon a moon, locked in a box, atop a peak. A sacred mount keeping three secrets safe? Neither Ayrie nor I had a clue.

“So we called an old folkster who came limping by, leathery-skinned, a big pack on his back, and hoped that he knew.

“‘Been an age since me’d seen that,’ he said with a spit. ‘On the knee of me grandy-dad learnt it. Sempyre ciphers they be. That one, this be…’ He bent himself closer and nearly tipped over then hacked an awful cough. ‘Yup. This be yer triplet-ten-three.’

“That didn’t help. And our blank looks got his back up.

“‘What dummy boys do ye be?’ he bristled. ‘The Treasuror’s two? Sad to see. Yer beast it packs more brains.’

“That got a laugh from you, Arrowboy. But the old prune turned only
more bitter.

“‘Now so ye’ll let me go,’ he griped, ‘we’ll give
ye yer cipher red and ripe…’

“He screwed up an eye at us.

“‘A thousand times bloody three,’ he cursed. ‘Er, three bloody thousand, whichever be worse.’

“And with that he spat and slumped off.

“The bulk of the folk had passed us by, some running to reach the wood’s edge before dark. Now they were all but there. But we stood stuck in time, dumbstruck, digesting their constant number. The number the Semperor set years before.”

“A shout from the slower folk woke us up.

“‘A child is born!’

“‘A baby boy!’

“‘The first in this place of promise.’

“‘Our home.’

“The news was like whiplash and laid us flat. It filled me with odd disappointment. A feeling of being let down somehow.

“‘Three thousand and one?’ I asked, my voice quiet.

“‘Three thousand and one,’ Ayrie sighed, a bit sad.

“You see, we wanted the wonder, the lore. A wizardly king to fight for, with charms and curses and spells to break, all to keep his secrets safe. In a world where we could be heroes someday… But a newborn babe now stood in the way of our silly boyish dreams.