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BORT
(c) Alistair Potter
Chapter [1]
The invasion of Nephus began
in the Kingdom of Carolin - in early spring, soon after the last snows had
melted, and as the first swathes of forest flowers were opening their heads
to tempt busy insects.
In a clearing in the overgrown remains of a grand
city, the crisp morning air shimmered and a bright hole opened near the
ground. The air crackled and a frost coated figure tumbled out onto the
dew-laden grass. 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 - not only had he survived the journey across the
void, but he was also the first Harrowen to escape his homeworld Mirt in a
thousand 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 hands, he
peeled back the robe’s hood and then 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 hideous 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, exposing smooth, white marble.
Cautiously, he pressed a hand to the stone. A
grunt of pain escaped his lips as magic deep within the block stole the heat
from his palm and numbed his fingers. It felt like touching the coldest ice.
The instant he drew his hand back the pain stopped. It was a relief to know
that even after all these years the plinth still held its power.
The bright hole flickered open again, and a
shaped block of stone thumped to the ground. It was the first of thirty-five
needed to complete an arch and form a World Gate. The plinths were 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.
Dusswen stretched his mind out to embrace the
arch-stone. With sweat beading his brow, he raised the stone from the ground
and drew it towards the foundation. As it came close, he felt a growing
attraction between the stones - an urgency to unite. With his strength
waning, the arch-stone settled heavily on the plinth.
Instantly their magical energies merged and
multiplied; flowing backwards and forwards, searching for the next
arch-stone. Success! If he were able, Dusswen would have danced with
pleasure.
His master, Lord Tekt, would not be disappointed.
Through the coming months Tekt would bring soldiers and weapons from Mirt,
gradually building their numbers until he amassed a huge army - then truly
the invasion would begin.
Dusswen crawled to a nearby wall and sagged
against it. It would be many hours before the next arch-stone arrived.
Projecting him and the first one between Mirt and Nephus was no easy task.
It had taken the combined will of a hundred Harrowen wizards. They, like
him, would need to rest before their next effort.
With the hood down on his carriage, Sir Elliot
Courtney tilted his head back to enjoy the late summer sunshine. He was
about to return to the life of a soldier, swapping silver topped cane and
feathered hat for a broadsword and a steel helmet. In many ways it was a
welcome prospect; soldiering was his life, a more familiar role than that of
country squire, managing the farming community and lands around the town of
Silvermeadow.
That morning a King’s messenger had brought news
of troubles at the edge of the kingdom, and with it a decree that every town
should raise a militia and muster for battle in just twenty days time. Sir
Elliot would train and lead the militia from Silvermeadow.
The carriage lurched, jostling Elliot - an
uncomfortable experience for someone whose fine muscular physique had, since
leaving King Mathew’s service, become immersed in a layer of fat.
“Watch the road, man!” he snapped.
His household retainer Moleskin, a small fussy
man, called back, “Sorry, sir. It’s this horse, it won’t go where it’s
told!”
Elliot prodded Moleskin’s back with the top of
his cane. “Nonsense! Don’t go blaming the horse - get a grip of those reins
and show it who’s in charge.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”
Elliot settled back, pondering how noticeably
vague the King’s message had been about who their enemy was. Relations with
the Kingdoms near to Carolin had been good for some time, and it was hard to
imagine that any of them might be invading. Possibly the King had offered
aid to one of these in response to a threat from beyond their frontiers? But
that would normally involve regular forces and not civilian militias. It was
quite perplexing. However, there was little he could do about it - King
Mathew had called, and it was his duty to respond.
The carriage swept through the farming estates
outside the neighbouring town of Cadford, passing between fields of
harvest-ready wheat and orchards laden with ripening fruit.
Sir Osborne Murray, Elliot’s lifelong friend and
former comrade-in-arms managed the community of Cadford. Elliot had arranged
a meeting to discuss the training of their militias. Osborne’s manor house
stood at the top of a hill in the centre of the town.
After negotiating the town’s busy cobbled
streets, Elliot’s carriage ratted through the manor house gates and up the
drive to the front of the building.
Osborne came out to the porch, waiting until
Moleskin set the brake before calling out, “Good day, Elliot, you’ve made
good time. Come on in!”
Elliot stepped from the carriage and walked over.
Apart from Osborne’s rakish moustache, the men
could be mistaken for twins - sharing the same barrel-chested build, rounded
faces, and curly fair hair. Of course neither would admit to any
resemblance. The possibility that one of their fathers had strayed from the
marital bed, or worse that another unknown father figure existed, who had
wooed both of their mothers, was beyond contemplation.
After an exchange of greetings and a firm
handshake, Osborne herded Elliot through the door.
As they marched across the stone flagged hallway
to the study Osborne waved to a servant, “You there, bring some wine.”
Elliot immediately noted the bare study walls.
All the formal displays of weapons and armour that normally decked them had
been removed and now lay in piles about the floor. Osborne had already
started his preparations.
“Sit yourself down,” said Osborne. He waved to a
seat by a table strewn with neatly written lists.
Elliot sat, turning one of the lists to read it;
an inventory of weaponry. “I heard you sent Liz’beth off to fetch her
mother?” he said, glancing up. “You don’t think it’s as bad as all that, do
you?”
“Just being prudent. Thought it best if they were
both here.”
“And your lad Grant?”
“Kept him at school - don’t want him caught up in
all this.”
“Of course not,” said Elliot. “No point in
interfering with his education. We’ll have this sorted in no time.”
The servant arrived with a flagon of red wine and
Osborne poured two goblets full. “Your health,” he said, lifting his and
taking a long draught.
Elliot took a good swallow, and then settled his
goblet on the table. “Damned silly 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 Osborne. “Scare whoever it is into backing down.”
“Probably that’s all there is to it. But,”
growled Elliot, “just who the hell are we supposed to be fighting?”
“I’ll admit that was troubling me too. Likely
we’ll be told in good time.”
Elliot shook his head and examined another of
Osborne’s lists, cursing as he noted the last entry.
“Something wrong there?” said Osborne.
“Militia cook! Nothing worse than a ‘bad-un’.”
Elliot patted his ample stomach. “Not forgetting my own requirements - a
fighting man needs all the help he can get.”
“Your new cook,” said Osborne, “that big fellow,
what’s his name - Bort - he 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.”
“You never did get the measure of her, even at
school.” Osborne rubbed his chin. “Now, what was it she used to call you?”
“I really don’t remember.” Elliot buried his nose
in his wine goblet.
“Let me see... Oh yes! Now I remember - Smelliot
- that was it.”
Elliot groaned.
“Don’t you worry,” said Osborne, laughing, “if
anyone can sort that fellow out - it’s Ida Pittle.”
“I damn well hope so.” Elliot knew how important
proper food was to a soldier. Having volunteered their lives to a cause, it
would be an insult and a disgrace to offer them anything less than the best
he could find.
Osborne refilled their goblets and then raised
his up. “Before we get down to business - a toast. Whoever this enemy is -
death to them.”
Elliot felt a surge of passion. “Yes! Death to
the enemy!”
The men knocked their goblets together and
drained them in one.
Chapter [2]
Bort ducked - but was too
slow. The well-aimed frying pan in Ida Pittle’s hand 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. “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?”
Bort eyed the heavy pan in her hand, and in
particular the way the muscles in her wiry forearm tensed and flexed as she
waited for his reply. He couldn’t help noting, that for such a small woman
she had a frightening reach. Just then, the frying pan wavered.
“Pan on stove,” he said quickly.
“That’s better,” said Ida, thumping the pan onto
the coal-fired range. “Next?” she said.
“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, determined not to let his
thoughts wander.
I da 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 thrust the
frying pan’s handle towards him. “Your turn now.”
He grasped the pan and tested its weight. It felt
like a paper fan, which meant trouble; he preferred something with a little
more substance. But it was ‘best effort’ time, or say goodbye to soft
pillows and hot meals.
Ida ladled more batter into the pan. Then, 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.
He leaned back to watch it and the pancake take separate paths towards the
high vaulted ceiling. He smiled as they lingered at the top of their arc
like two fat pigeons bobbing on the breeze. On the way back down he threw
out his hand to catch the handle, but missed it completely.
The frying pan clanged onto the range, landing
right side up, and an instant later the pancake plopped into it.
Both Ida and Bort stretched forward. The pancake
was not only intact but also properly flipped.
“Gracious me,” said Ida. “In all my days I’ve
never seen that done before.”
Bort stopped grinning when she whacked him with a
handy serving spoon.
“Booger,” he said, “that sore.”
A long way from Cadford and Silvermeadow, a
King’s spy was embarked on a mission that had gone terribly wrong.
Harsh sunlight flooded in from the open,
balconied side of a room thirty paces square. A temporary structure, the
inward sloping walls and floor were made entirely from black stained timber;
the walls closing to a point overhead.
Set close to one wall was a raised throne,
intricately carved in the richest wood. Its tall, powerfully built occupant
was dressed in smooth black leather, his slick, black hair braided into a
tight tail that came halfway down his back.
Lord Tekt, commander of the invading army, stared
at the King’s soldier. The man had slumped to his knees, barely able to
walk, his face bruised and swollen from beatings.
Stepping down, Tekt leant forward and gripped the
soldier’s jaw; his clawed fingers piercing the man’s cheeks.
Tekt’s voice was harsh as he formed the
unfamiliar words, “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 was not to be executed. Tekt straightened and
nodded to the Harrowen soldiers holding the man. “Cut off his ears and then
take him to a place where his people will find him.”
Tekt grinned, the man hadn’t understood his
words, but he’d find out soon enough what they meant.
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