Here you can read an extract of my novel manuscript, ‘The Kingfisher of Mejulas’.
Comprised mostly of chapter one, this version was a competition submission for the Grindstone 2021 Novel Prize, so it’s early and not perfect. Nonetheless, I continue to work on it and it’s a lot of fun. So, here it is.
Enjoy!
Impending Wrath
(Unintelligible scribbles) – Dear Diagara? – ‘No.’ – For, His Majesty of the holiest Empire. Kingdom. – ‘Not quite.’ – The Ayer Kingdom.
‘Awe! Enough of this!’ The Writer flew back, dragging their palms over a face well-charred with peat and scabbing. Their hands dropped after a while, leaving strokes of chalkiness from where their fingers graced. It didn’t matter that for years they’d written these letters, the tediousness of it still made their nerves lurch. They ripped the papyrus sheet in two and lobbed one scrunched-up end into the firepit. The other, pinned beneath a pounding hand – purple in its swelling, darted wildly to and fro the paper until the Writer flopped backwards again with a gutturally-painful sigh. ‘Mungrel, Vwymarc, Copra,’ they raspingly repeated the names, horrified at their difficulty with the vowels and spellings. ‘Bivitathus.’ That was a name they could definitely pronounce – ‘Biva… Biv, vathus…?’
It was gaining on them again, making their efforts falter. Tiredness. Look at the state of you, the thought slipped quietly to mind. A warning: the Writer’s dust-clogged nails started bleeding, their digits shook and mind shut off. The battle had done this to them. The enemy had made a shock advance yesterday morning, cornered them at a bend in the Kapuyan river as they rounded’ the peat swamps. Ashamedly, the Writer and a dozen allies fled. But the Writer had an excuse, surely? After all, couriers were still running, and someone had to reach the King.
Diagara’s weak! A coward! I’m heading for the East! – The sounds of infighting burst out from camp for the seven-hundredth-thousandth time tonight. The Writer sniffled, dragged their head high and blinked hard to stay awake. They crumpled the rest of their work and let it tumble into the fire, searching with their hand in the dark for a satchel, trying their utmost to resist hysteria. They spread out another role of parchment, yawned, ‘Good quality, too, that one.’ And strained themself to write for a bit longer. For they all must relocate soon, come another fateful sunrise.
*
To His Majesty, King Diagara Kischmura of the Ayer Kingdom of Dohehsehr –
Your Majesty, we have regrettably lost Phalporoa to the Centaurus Empire. Our army was ambushed and destroyed November-Sixth, by the Kapuyan river in the early hours around morning twilight. We have no reason to believe Emperor Copra is present in the region. Nevertheless, I can confirm a sizable enemy presence, around sixteen-thousand strong are here. As of early November-Eighth, two of my three-dozen spies have returned, I have lost contact with the Far East’ delegates too. Forgive me Diagara, old friend, for my incompetence and failure to avert this tragedy has cost us dear.
Reports suggest Copra’s thralls are devoting considerable resources towards uncovering the Heir’s Remains and Phalporoa’s ancient knowledge. This push marks a terrible loss. The Centauri now place ahead of both us and the Eastern Empire in Remains possession. My gravest fear is that the fall of Phalporoa will only herald more discoveries for the enemy.
Though I’m unsure which of our partners we can still trust, some reimbursement came my way just a few hours ago – it was a tip once fresh from Centauri-Minor, but the messenger encountered brigands. So, delayed, is news that Copra is mustering a fleet in the Lygosan Strait, bound for the Sea of Marmaria and then western continental waters. This, though very troubling, may be our last glimmer of hope.
If we can ascertain our partners’ loyalty, they can pursue this fleet. It is likely, with the rate of which information relays now a days’, that Copra or his lackeys may have already deciphered from Phalporoa where one of the last three undiscovered Remains is hidden. Diagara, I have failed you once too many, though Copra shan’t gain any more power through abusing the Rite of our holy Heir – our legacy, and our future demands we stop him.
Until the ambush, we continued to study Remains distribution ceaselessly. The pattern follows that of the Heir’s conquest two and a-half thousand years ago, which landed next on Mejulas, a secluded island in the Far West. That’s where the Centauri fleet will likely be headed. Mejulas is home to our distant ancestors, the Grem – who aren’t thought aware of the political climate off their own shores. It’s best we forward a message to their ‘House Master’, Mungrel Bonny, and seek co-operation in anticipation of a Centauri crusade.
What we know of the Grem comes from enemy sources. Island authority is disputed between a newly formed parliament and the military. Vwymarc Oxe is the sole name of a General we have – but word of her commandeering excellence has reached the continent and beyond. These people aren’t to be underestimated, and that’s where we may have an advantage over the hubris Copra. The East too, if this intrigues Bivitathus.
Your Majesty, we’ll follow the Kapuyan south until we reach the Capital. Meanwhile, please do not hesitate to follow the precautions I’ve discussed. I pray we can co-ordinate further efforts together once I reach Soehkónta.
– Canis Coloss.
*
With canopies and emergents scaling the valleys into the clouds, the rainforest looked all too tranquil from above – but its depths weren’t easily graced. The floor was mostly wrought with the corpses of trees and the mush of clogged vegetation. The entanglement of giant roots would’ve made traversing the area impossible, if not for the trail pathed by the enemy. The Marshal, Minus, intended to take full advantage of their hard labouring.
Since his arrival a few months ago across the border, Minus had adapted little to this level of humidity. The environment in Northernmost Dohehsehr was egregiously swampy, nothing like his homeland, Ruhria, where it’d be well into cold long nights by now. He was slowly forgetting what it felt like to be out in the mornings by the barracks – breaths freezing as they scathed his tongue, the frosty air, scraping down his throat. He strained to recall these homely sensations, which gradually slipped from memory once he reached five or-so thousand miles away. Here, senses were blanketed by the heat and staleness. You confronted the forest as an Ayer would; treading what was just recently part of their home, albeit with a disregard only an invader could shoulder.
‘Someday we’ll actually make it to this place.’ Minus swatted at mosquitos with a blunt-edged clumsiness. This big oaf of a man, so alien to this place. His soldiers, eyes fixed on his decorated back, were Sidars – natives of another region annexed from the Ayers, and to quote the Marshal, just another ‘tropic cesspool’ – The Sidarsihna. The Sidars looked to be more accustomed to the environment, lest counting how startled they were by Minus’s comments. ‘It isn’t far now, My Lord.’ General Lan Q’uein tried to reassure him in poor Centauri Speech. She sped up alongside him, ‘We of course would have brought the Remains to you, but they are… are…’
‘Embedded, just like the others.’ Minus came to a halt, grinning frustratedly. Lan didn’t understand what he said, she didn’t wish to pry either. She stood with her head hung low, barely looking him in his buried, swollen eyes. The other parts of Minus’s face were the very same; bones wrapped with the thinnest layers of pulsing skin. The Sidars had met many different peoples through the Ayers and Centauri. However, no one had encountered anything like the Marshal. It was surprising then, that beneath his ailments, the hooded eyes, hooked nose, and rounded face of his father, Emperor Copra Centaurus, could still be made out. Lan was one of just a few Sidars who had beheld Lord Copra – on her tour of the Lygosa region. She could say with confidence that ugliness ran in the family. However, unlike Copra, who was flat-out unattractive, Minus was so obviously and seriously ill. It almost made the Sidars feel sympathy for him. Almost.
The Marshal sneered at General Q’uein, who couldn’t have looked any more discomforted if she tried. He shook his head and continued onwards, cursing and snapping up another bloodsucker. ‘Do you worship Ná?’ He promptly asked the group over his shoulder. They did. All Sidars worshipped Ná. Was that so wrong? What did pure-blooded Centauri worship anyway?
‘Well?!’ He pried for a response. One soldier nervously conceded, ‘O-of course Sir. Ná hailed from The Sidarsihna, the Heir’d chosen us well before the Ayers. Her blood runs through here and that is why we are entrusted with her holy Remains!’
Minus palmed his face and rubbed it grittily. Another one. Another who’s Centauri Speech was near unintelligible. They clearly hadn’t been taught in the slightest how to address the Monarchy properly. This soldier’s words, though fascinating, now only heightened the Marshal’s frustrations with this uncustomary place. He forced a reply, but what came out was some distasteful growl. Minus looked around desperately, trying to distract himself with something, anything – What I’d give to be gone with this place! – So many debates and conspiracies about Ná, yet he cared not for her origin. Minus just sought her Remains, those elusive treasures left in honour of, or by the Heir herself…
He’d use this recovery effort and frankly, once the War was over, his successful leadership throughout the conflict to forward his military career back home. That was his ambition, especially as the War rid Copra of pure-blooded lords to govern his lands. The Marshal saw this all as a test of leadership, his chance to thrive where his elder siblings, burdened by the line of succession, could not. They could never risk their lives on the front lines like Minus had in North Dohehsehr, Copra shan’t have allowed it. But the Marshal
could. He would act on his father’s behalf competently – least heading this recovery of Remains. Then he’d be appointed Lord of Ruhria, hailed as a gleaming obelisk for Centauri success during the War.
But first, Minus had to break free of Copra’s observation – his relentless letters and envoys. The Emperor doubted Minus’s ability, but did he really expect to lead the Empire solely? Whilst undermining his children that weren’t preferred or most-valuable? Perhaps it was Ná, or the Ayers that’d instigated this, but at its core this operation offered Minus a chance to prove himself. To expose Copra’s delusions.
*
The Marshal never spoke to the Sidars again until they reached the site. After that last question, they watched him grow twitchy and paranoid. Lan always knew he was a coward. The tension only festered in the thick air; no blade could’ve parted the atmosphere on that walk. It reminded Q’uein of her not-so-distant past. She was always the Sidar trailing behind Centauri commanders, woefully readying herself for their next prejudicial fit of rage. These were her soldiers, not the Marshal’s – and with them toeing along behind petrified, she couldn’t have felt any weaker.
When the spires appeared, shooting above the canopy and matching the tualangs in the sky, she and her kin could breathe a little easier. Not much longer, and they’d behold the temple.
*
The massive stone complex was nestled deep in the forest. Its elevated rectangular base and hundreds of mandala-arranged temples looked to have stood here for thousands of years undisturbed, until now. The architecture was otherworldly, Minus had never beheld such a place. The main temple must’ve been at least forty meters high – spired, domed, and donned with a weathered statue of Ná – ‘Phalporoa’ – he affirmed, humbled from atop the descending path. He could say with certainty that this place was eerily well preserved, having been present for the discovery of two other sites around Lygosa and Ruhria many years ago. The Lygosa one had been looted – he remembered how gutted Ná Centric worshipers were,
circling the place for days after it was found, in prostration well beyond their own deaths.
The other one in Ruhria had sunk beneath a mudslide last Iunius, thankfully not before the Remains were salvaged. Judging by Minus’s recollection of both sites’ architecture, neither could’ve been as magnificent as Phalporoa, even in their primes. Yet, from all he’d seen and scornfully researched, each complex housed the same series of treasures within. Pristine, priceless, timeless paragons of a Ná Centric world, surviving well into the Sixteenth Century. Her Remains.
Her blood runs through here – One of Minus’s companions had said, but no one knew that for certain. Dozens of tales concerned the Heir and from where her genocidal conquest originated. She existed; the scars still burned deep and rippled through society. However, Ná’s origins were never discovered, lest were the reasons behind her indiscriminatory purging of the world. Her gender was eventually presumed, her true name forgotten. The name ‘Ná’ merely came from the word serpent, in Ayer Levear.
*
The Marshal was in a brief trance before Phalporoa, suddenly grasped by the empty, black eyes of Ná’s statue. He knew then the Dohehsehrians hadn’t given her justice – this depiction did have the writhing body of a serpent, but with bone-thin arms, and the head of a man. No, an Ayer head, with their distinct, thick mane. It may’ve been impossible for such a thing to exist; but here, left for all to witness, was the legacy of another age. Left behind, lest the world forgot something greater.
‘Shall I lead the way, My Lord?’ Q’uein dared to bridge Minus’s chasm of thought. However, the man just couldn’t part with that idea of something greater, no matter how hard he tried. Briefly, absently, he considered handing Q’uein the reigns for a moment. Then something clicked in his mind, and he felt dirty. Minus, least of all Centauri, couldn’t afford to be perceived as intimidated. ‘No.’ He gulped, trotting solely down the hill; still staring at the Heir, still drawn to her:
Ná, great rulers and prophets have passed, yet still to this day we hunt your legacy. What made you put us through this? What exactly were you so afraid we’d forget?
Minus felt the path under his feet change from recently dug mush to the smoothen stone of ancient. And just like that, he was relieved of his thoughts. The questions vanished, but there were no answers. He had previously dismissed any thoughts relating to Ná’s origin, but now Minus felt strongly that there was something about her and the Remains that the world didn’t yet see. The thought gave way to a horrible uncertainty, a rogue and sharp-ended nerve caused his fist to clench – he knew he needed more answers.
The group made their way past the solid stone, ogre-like guardians. They headed towards the excavators and Centauri troops already here. A lot of them were just apprehensively lingering around the area; conspicuously pretending to be interested in the site’s withstanding design.
As Minus conspired, the Sidars halted – boots skidding on the cracked surface.
‘What now?’ The Marshal whipped to see them braced together; shields, bows and swords drawn. They howled in their native language as a giant – shaggy faced and pink skinned – stumbled out between two smaller temples and onto the walkway. Its draping, dark-green gambeson was embroidered with Centauri heraldry, it towered well over two meters in height. Troops came rushing in at the sound of commotion. Whilst the Marshal, he seemed absolutely unphased by the encounter, like he’d experienced it dozens of times over. The giant wobbled around a moment disorientated, then steered a determined gaze towards
Minus. Their eyes met head on. The Marshal, tilting his head towards the Sidars it had frightened as if to say, ‘Sort this out. Now.’
Reluctantly, the giant swung back around. Devising how to address the Sidars. ‘Hesh éh, hipherseh? Grem’sh, doheh humn, hiph?’ It spoke in Levear, a language they may have better understood.
‘Grem? Seh dueár Grem?!’ One cried back, whilst Q’uein lashed out with her pike, ‘Oke-nar tum-whear-or!’ – It looked like they got the message. Minus sat on a crumbling pedestal laughing, none the wiser himself. The giant witnessed his insolence and, rather close to demanding in a low-guttural accent asked, ‘My Lord, may you please just assure these people that I am no enemy? I must speak with you.’
‘Hah! He is no enemy!’ The Marshal stood up and swaggered in a circle, jestingly waving his arms. ‘Lower your weapons. He is a Grem. Like an Ayer, but from an island in the Far West, Mejulas.’
The Sidars felt unanimously insulted. Ayers had blue skin, quill like hair, they were almost universally broad. This beanpole of a thing was no Ayer and Minus knew it. Even Q’uein, who’d toured the Far East had never seen something like it. ‘But it won’t harm us?’ She dreaded to take her eyes of it. ‘Yes. This is Officer Ghuran Centura.’ Said the Marshal, oddly sympathetic for once. ‘See!’ He leaped around the Grem in a headlock, which far bested a giant, man faced snake for the strangest sight that day. ‘No enemy at all.’ He cackled for a while, dwindling back to his usual disciplined self. Ghuran whereas, was a few tugs
away from smashing the Marshal through a nearby temple, for this certainly was nor the place, or time, for jests.
Minus spun around the area, and it soon became apparent again that something wasn’t right. He narrowed his eyes, scanning over the troops who’d gathered. As he cleared his throat to ask Centura something he hadn’t quite formulated yet, Minus noticed the crowds’ heraldry – not from any group under Copra’s Army or his own provision. They were Kathrionaugh’s Guard, she a Ná Centric priest, and the Marshal’s sister.
Shit, here it comes. Ghuran seized up as the Marshal whirled around, hissing through yellowed teeth, ‘Why is she here? What’s going on Ghuran, why aren’t you inside the temple?’ Unleashing the concerns now rolling off his tongue.
‘My Lord, the Centric arrived not long before yourselves. Everyone aside from a handful excavating the Remains were ordered to vacate the site! You weren’t briefed on this then. Gods, I knew this was foul.’
Q’uein rolled her eyes nearby, whilst Minus’s face contorted something awful. He couldn’t forgive the Grem for being so naïve – ‘You heeded her orders? Centura, we’re here on the Emperor’s behalf! Everyone under my command, get your arses back inside that temple!’
‘No, you will not harm Her Holiness!’ A voice echoed from Kathrionaugh’s lot, backed by a few cheers and sniggers. The Marshal felt a pool of rage churn within, his heart started to pace at a frightening rate. I cannot believe… calm yourself. You bested the Ayers; these cowards are nothing.
He told them, ‘This site is under the jurisdiction of the Emperor. Anyone who dares interfere, threatens myself, or my Officers here on His Majesty’s behalf, shall be held accountable for high-treason.’
His words were frank, staunchly Copra-esc. That was a relief, Ghuran feared some fool had just instigated another war by opening their gob. But the Marshal had restrained himself alright. His temper, however, was as volatile as his body – and he exerted all over. If Minus lost control of himself now, his rage may never settle. He muttered unintelligible words of assurance, but something hit back from inside his heart. A voice that understood the Marshal perfectly, full of power, and it pulled him to do whatever it took to remove Kathrionaugh as a threat:
The Centric has sunk her claws in, she has come to steal your prize and your honour. Minus, what will Copra think of all this? Do you know who is remembered in this world? It is you, the powerful, who’s legacy will always be at stake…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Copyright © Tīw Rensine
The right of Tīw Rensine to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by them in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Tīw Rensine 