Orb Sceptre Throne

Very well. Enough dithering. The sun is up, visibility is clear. I may be throwing away a fortune — my nest-egg, so to speak. But here goes.

He threw. The globe splashed into the streaming flow, which was hardly deep enough to cover it, and cracked against the rocks. Tor did not know what to expect, but certainly not the explosive crackling that echoed and re-echoed across the valley.

At the same time, for as far as he could see, all movement in the water suddenly ceased. As did all sound. Leaning closer, he saw that the stream was frozen — frozen solid where it had eddied, splashed and curled. A monstrous icicle that ran the entire length of the valley and on for who knew how far.

Well, that was … impressive. If this didn’t get their attention, then he had no idea what might.

He sat leaning back against his pack and waited. Eventually, running water came trickling down from the heights over and around the streambed and the ice floe that choked it. Eventually, Tor imagined, this unnatural manifestation would melt.

Towards mid-day, when the sun had breasted the opposite valley side, an eerie whirring noise entered the valley. Tor stood. He knew he’d heard that sound before but for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. He peered about in growing unease. It was a sort of rhythmic humming or thumping, like a horse’s distant gallop, only infinitely faster.

Something roared over his head, fanning up great clouds of dust, and he threw himself to the ground. The sound returned, circling around, and Tor hesitantly climbed to his feet to see one of the monstrous Moranth mounts, their quorl, settling down not far away. Its four wings fluttered in a shimmering rainbow blur. The bulbous faceted eyes regarding him seemed empty of emotion; yet perhaps they were not, as he’d heard that these beasts, like their diminutive dragonfly cousins, were carnivores.

A Moranth dismounted from the intricately carved leather and wood double saddle that hugged the beast’s thorax. Tor was astonished to see that it was a Moranth Silver. He wondered if he should bow. The Silver and the Gold were aristocracy among the Moranth. Few ever saw them.

But he was now an emissary, was he not? If sub-rosa. And so Tor merely inclined his head in greeting. Closer, it was actually rather difficult to look directly at the Silver. Its chitinous armour reflected the light like a perfect mirror. The effect was quite dazzling. Also, engraved swirling patterns covered each plate, adding to the confusion of the shimmering.

‘You are Darujhistani,’ the Silver said in accented Daru. ‘What are you doing here on our border marches?’

‘I come as an emissary of the Legate of Darujhistan.’

That gave the Silver pause. Its armour grated as it looked him up and down. ‘In truth? You come as an emissary of this … Legate. All alone. Carrying stolen Blue alchemicals.’

Tor’s stomach seemed to loosen. ‘Stolen? Accusations? Does this pass as manners among you Moranth? I carry those items as gifts.’ Unless that Blue stole them in the first place …

‘Gifts? From whom? Name him or her.’

Tor forced himself to gesture casually even though he felt as if chunks of the ice from the stream were now slithering down his back. ‘Not for you. I am here to negotiate in the name of the Legate.’

The Silver cocked its helmed head. ‘Negotiate?’ A chuckle escaped it and from its high timbre Tor recognized that he faced a female Moranth.

And that chuckle made him damned uncomfortable. But he’d travelled with far more intimidating presences than this Silver and so he raised his chin. ‘Yes. Negotiate. What of it?’

The Silver answered with a wave of her own while she continued to laugh quietly. ‘Very well. Attend me and we will see what will come of these negotiations.’

She returned to the quorl. Tor threw on his pack and followed. He stepped gingerly around the great shimmering translucent wings to reach the long thorax. The Silver had already mounted. She gestured to the rear saddle seat, pointing. ‘Use the long sheaths here for your feet,’ she shouted over the loud whirring of the twitching wings. ‘Push them down all the way. Wrap these straps around your forearms. Cinch them tight. Then hold these sunken handles here on either side.’

Tor nodded. Right. Push down. His slid his booted foot into the leather sheath. It took his leg up to the knee. He swung his other foot over the beast’s back and down the other sheath. Like stirrups, but with broad boots attached. Sitting, he examined the mishmash of strapping before him. Which ones do I wrap?

He’d opened his mouth to ask when the Silver snapped the jesses and the quorl leapt into the air.

Tor found himself gaping down at the receding valley floor, his arms dangling and flailing. A hard gauntleted fist gathered up a handhold of his cloak at the neck and dragged him upright. The Silver shouted something that was lost amid the roaring hum of the wings and the rushing air. Tor quickly took hold of the handles sunk into the leather of the saddle.

Well, whatever that had been it must have been pretty insulting.

He was immediately frozen in the punishing constant wind. He hunched down behind the cover of the Silver’s back. The wind hurt his eyes, too, so it was through the barest slits that he watched a mountain ridge slip drunkenly beneath them as the quorl arched, turning.

Gods … I’m going to puke all over this Silver’s back. How embarrassing.

At the last instant Tor realized he had to but turn his head and the lashing wind would do the rest. His stomach was almost entirely empty anyway and so the gorge that came rushing up in a gagging acid heave hardly amounted to anything. As they swung over the next valley Tor sensed more than heard the Silver’s continuing laughter.

Here Tor was surprised to see square fields of green and the shimmering of irrigation canals. The Silver guided her quorl over a walled settlement that hugged the naked rock of the valley head. Beneath him Moranth of every hue went about their work. Tor marvelled. Never had he heard of such a thing. No traveller that he knew of had ever penetrated the Moranth’s borders.

The quorl began to circle in an ever narrowing spiral that brought them alighting on the broad flat roof of a tower. The Silver dismounted. Tor struggled to free his legs, feeling stiff and queasy with what seemed a curious analogue to seasickness. After much yanking he managed to release himself and staggered free of the quorl. A detachment of Moranth Black had climbed the rooftop. Tor shouldered his pack, eyeing them. The Silver gestured to the Black guards, speaking in the Moranth tongue. The Black encircled him. One motioned for him to drop his gear. Tor looked at the Silver. ‘What’s this?’

She was already on her way to the rooftop trapdoor and stairs down. ‘You are to be imprisoned as a spy and a thief,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘What?’

The Black gestured again, insistent.

Tor waved the Black guard aside. ‘I’ll have you know I am an emissary!’ he called as she disappeared down the stairs.

The Black reached for Tor’s pack. Tor shook his finger in a negative. ‘I am under the protection of the Legate.’ The guard motioned to his fellow on Tor’s left and involuntarily Tor glanced over.

Something smashed into his head from the right and his legs lost all strength. He toppled to the flags of the roof, his last thought a self-recriminatory oldest damned cheap trick around.

When Aman led her to his old shop Taya nearly deserted him at the door. ‘What are we doing here? Give me one minute and I’ll have all those soldiers’ heads.’

The mage was fiddling with the door’s many locks. ‘No, no, my dear. K’rul is not to be underestimated. There is a chance she may get hold of you.’ He shot her a hard glance. ‘Then we’d all be at risk.’

She accepted the warning with a simmering growl. ‘Fine. So what are we — oh, just force it!’

Aman looked up, horrified. ‘Certainly not!’ He opened the last lock. ‘That would invite thieves.’

Inside, the wreckage hadn’t changed. Their steps crushed the scattered litter. ‘Now what?’ she sighed.

‘K’rul and her adherents have obviously planned ahead. What could possibly fend off Seguleh? Why, undead Seguleh, of course!’ He stroked his uneven chin. ‘Quite the poetic solution when one considers it.’