The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2) Read online

  The Warrior’s Tale

  Volume 2 of the Far Kingdoms Series

  Allan Cole and Chris Bunch

  THE WARRIOR’S TALE

  Copyright © 1994 by Chris Bunch and Allan Cole

  Ebook edition published by Wildside Press, LLC.

  www.wildsidepress.com

  THE FAR KINGDOMS SAGA: A PREFACE

  by ALLAN COLE

  When my late partner, Chris Bunch, and I finished the final book in the eight-novel Sten series, the last thought on our minds was to write a fantasy novel. We were hard science fiction guys — space ships with AM2-powered chain guns — escaping an attacking flotilla into hyperspace.

  We both grew up on Buck Rogers Saturday matine serials, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. Other than a sneaking fondness for Conan The Barbarian, we generally avoided swords and sorcery and certainly fairy princesses and unicorns.

  So how is it that Team Bunch & Cole ended up writing not one fantasy novel, but four?

  It was like this: our editors at Ballantine/Del Rey Books were putting the serious arm on us to come up with a fantasy series. We said not a chance, and ducked and dodged like John Carter fleeing a pride of banth across the desolate plains of Barsoom.

  In his usual diplomatic manner, Chris told them, “No way am I writing about fucking elves and Tinkerbell fairies and unicorns and shit.”

  I wholeheartedly agreed — and that, it would seem would be that. Besides, we had just sold a trilogy of historical novels under the main title of “The Wars Of The Shannons,” to Ballantine Books and were happily boning up on black powder weapons and colonial-era bayonet tactics.

  But they kept the pressure up. Fantasy was hot, they said, and we ought to follow up our success with Sten into the fantasy field. In short, they were as persistent as clotting Alex Kilgour intent on boring Sten’s ears off with a shaggy dog story.

  We sighed and shuddered and finally said, okay maybe we’ll think about it. And they burst through that chink in our armor like a depleted uranium round through wormy cheese and before we knew it we were on a strict deadline to come up with something ”pretty damned quick” so we could make the fall schedule.

  As it happened, I was relaxing after work reading up on the great explorers and expeditions of old. I became particularly interested in Sir Richard Burton — not the 20th Century actor and husband of Elizabeth Taylor, but the 19th Century explorer genius who found the source of the Nile, entered the forbidden city of Mecca in disguise, spoke 29 languages, was a master with gun and sword and, in his spare time, translated The Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra. (Check out his Wikipedia entry at: http://tinyurl.com/3e765h)

  I was telling Chris about the guy, when all of sudden he got this funny look on his face. “Shit!” he said. And he dragged out a bottle of single malt from his desk, poured us both a hefty shot and added, “That’s it, Cole. That’s our fantasy. Hell, there’s enough meat in there for a whole bloody series of the suckers.”

  I was dubious. Chris pressed on. “We’ll pattern our hero after Burton. Set the whole thing in a world we invent. An historical novel, but it’ll be a history we make up. Instead of the source of the Nile, we’ll have some legendary far off place, where the streets are paved with gold and such.”

  I nodded. “The Far Kingdoms,” I said. Not only understanding his notion but accidentally naming the series.

  The only problem was that Burton, by all accounts, was pretty much of a son of a bitch and backstabber. Had no qualms about running up a river in Africa in gunboats, blowing the hell out of the populace in the way of the place he wanted to go. And all those languages? Most of them he got from the assiduous study of “pillow dictionaries;” Girls he bought, or rented, to teach him the local language whilst warming his bones.

  So we came up with another character. Made him an innocent — son of a merchant prince, a bit of a wastrel but wants to mend his ways. Enamored with Burton’s vision, he finances the expeditions and goes along, The whole first story is his journal — a first person account of their adventures. We named him Amalric Antero. We named the Burton character, Janos Greycloak. We also created a third character, Rali Antero, Amalric’s warrior sister, who stars in two of the books.

  We pitched the whole thing to our editors on the phone. In the end, we came away with a commitment for four novels. The first three — The Far Kingdoms, A Warrior’s Tale, and Kingdoms Of The Night — were written by the two of us. I wrote the concluding volume — The Warrior Returns — solo.

  There was one final thing. To make it palatable for science fictions guys to do fantasy, we came up with an ultimate goal — and theme — that ties all four books together. And that’s to discover the secret of a Unified Field Theory, that combines the major forces of the physical world with…. Magic!

  Oh, and that unicorn? If you look closely, in one of the books you’ll come upon a scene where a group of bandits is gathered about a campfire, roasting and eating with great relish, a creature that looks very much like a unicorn.

  Enjoy the voyage.

  Allan Cole, Boca Raton, 9/1/2009

  THE BOOKS:

  The Far Kingdoms

  The Warrior’s Tale

  Kingdoms of the Night

  The Warrior Returns

  DEDICATION

  For Susan, Karen and especially Kathryn — who suggested this book

  Book One

  The Chase

  CHAPTER ONE

  DEMON AT THE GATES

  I am Captain Rali Emilie Antero, late of the Maranon guard. I am a soldier and a soldier I intend to remain until the Dark Seeker slips my guard. Like most soldiers I praise firm ground under my boots, well-made and well-tended weapons and a hot bath and a hot meal after a long forced march. In short, I’m of practical mind and trust common sense over a wizard’s blatherings.

  For two years, however, I trod the wooden decks of a ship-of-the-line. I fought with rusted blades and was glad we had them. I bathed in cold seas and ate what I could, when I could. I was lost in the uncharted Western Oceans, and doubted I’d ever see my home again. As for common sense, it was nearly my undoing; and it was trust in a wizard and magic that saved me.

  My exploits — and those of my soldiers — have been praised by many. Mythmakers have already coined golden tales of our epic chase across thousands of miles to end history’s greatest evil. The stake, they say, was destiny itself, with all civilization hanging in the balance. Truth has been sorely wounded in these myths and with it the lessons learned from so much bloodshed. Without those lessons, if someday darkness threatens again, we may find ourselves disarmed. Besides, I think you’ll discover in this case the truth makes a more stirring tale than its prettier sister.

  But before you enrich that thief at the book stall for these adventures, I have a caution: I am a woman.

  If you object, keep your coin and depart. I shall not pine for your presence. All others are welcome to my hearth — this journal. If it’s cold, stoke the fire and warm your bones. If you thirst, there’s a hot jug of mulled wine just by the hearth stone. If you hunger, shout up the mess steward for that cold joint I had her put by. Your company is my pleasure.

  My Scribe warns me some beseeching of the gods and goddesses of journal writing is in order here. But I’ve my own deities to keep content and they’re a jealous lot. I’ve told the old fool that a sword beats a quill any day, so the gentle gods of ink are out of luck. My prayers are saved for those who keep my blood in my skin, and that fitted tight and whole about my bones.

  At the outset, I gave the Scribe one further order. The words he writes must be mine and mine alone. I do not gi
ve a dry wineskin if he objects to my choice of phrases. I will speak the truth — be it bald as his pate, or plain as that pale, chinless thing he calls a face. The truth doesn’t need a Scribe’s garlands to sweeten its path. But this fellow is a stubborn, quarrelsome sort — not unlike the three I’ve already dismissed. I’ve told him if he persists I’ll cut off his head and mount it on a post outside my door as a warning to his successor. The Scribe says he fears more for his reputation than his head. He keeps babbling about Scholarship and Art. This is a history, he insists, not a barracks’ yarn.

  I claim the opposite and see no shame. For in arms this story began and in arms it ended. In between there’s many a fallen warrior to mourn and many a deed to honor.

  Unfortunately, I’ve been warned that it’s bad luck to kill a Scribe. Besides, he works for my brother and I’ve promised Amalric to return him in good condition. In the interest of family peace I’ll let him live. And I hereby warrant all blame for what follows is upon my head and I so warn the reader.

  This then, is my tale.

  * * * *

  There are those who claim there were evil omens by the cartful on the morning my story begins: nursing mothers whose milk suddenly soured; a two-headed piglet born to a tavern keeper’s sow; newly sharpened swords mysteriously gone dull at the Armory; a witch whose bone-casting cup shattered in mid-toss. There’s even a yarn about an Evocator who went mad and turned his wife and mother-in-law into a matched pair of oxen.

  I couldn’t say, because on the day in question I woke with a blazing hangover.

  It took a long and agonizing moment to orient myself. In happier times I’d have been lying on the big soft bed in the charming home that was my due as commander of the Maranon Guard. Next to me would have been the beautiful Tries. Ahead would be a day that started with a bit of a tickle and a snuggle; a hearty breakfast; and a brisk hour of exercise with the steel-muscled women who make up the Guard.

  Instead, I found myself in a narrow, bachelors’ quarters’ room, cramped on an iron cot . . . and very much alone. I’d fled my own home three weeks before after our final, angry row. And the previous evening I’d seen my former lover in the company of a fellow Guardswoman with a notorious reputation. She was considered darkly handsome by some, but to my mind she was greasy, wanted bathing and had the shadow of a budding mustache on her upper lip. She was sure to be the ruin of my innocent Tries.

  I’d treated my wounded feelings with first one jug of hot spiced wine, then another until evening became late night, a blur of loud song; alley stumblings, perhaps a fight, and finally the release of falling stuporous upon that hard bed.

  I enjoy strong drink — but rarely to excess. The Goddess blessed me with a quick, powerful body, eyes that can count the lice in the feathers of a distant sparrow and a clear, agile brain. This is no boast, but only the particulars of the gifts I was born with. I did nothing to earn these things, so have always seen it my duty to keep all in as fine a fighting order as the weapons I carry. Drink is as great an enemy to the body and mind as dirt and rust are to a sturdy blade.

  All these things I told myself, as Madame Shame hounded me from the bed and I put my bare feet on the cold stone floor. As a thousand booted troops marched through my head and a thousand more squatted on my tongue, rebellion broke out in my belly, and I rushed for the chamber pot to surrender my innards.

  As I knelt there making a drunkard’s penance, it suddenly came to me this was my mother’s feast day. Each year, on the anniversary of her death, my family gathers at Amalric’s villa to honor her memory. I retched again as Dame Guilt — that old fishwife — shrilled with joy at a new weakness revealed.

  Drunk on this day, of all days, she tsked. I’m not drunk, damn you! I snarled back. I’m only suffering from drink. It was Tries’s fault, the slut! Go ahead, blame that poor girl, Dame Guilt nagged. Meanwhile, your mother’s ghost will flee your foul breath and be forced into the company of strangers. She’ll wander the earth mourning the low state her darling daughter has fallen into.

  "Begone, damn you!" I bellowed. Then I groaned, for I’d shouted aloud and another angry mob charged about my belly. As I hunched over the chamber pot, the door swung open behind me.

  "I see we’re at prayer before the porcelain goddess," came a sarcastic voice. "You are an inspiration to us all, my captain."

  I wiped my chin, came to my feet, and with as much dignity as I could muster, turned to confront my new challenger. It was Corais, one of my chief legates. She was slender and wiry and reminded me of a cat — especially the way she grinned and toyed with her game before she ate it. At the moment, I was her mouse, and she was hugely enjoying my misery.

  "Leave off, Legate," I growled. "I’m in no mood for sarcasm."

  Corais’s grin only grew wider, sharp white teeth flashing behind sensuous lips, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "I never would’ve guessed, Captain," she said. "You hide your troubles so well I doubt there’s a woman in the Guard who knows Tries has banned you from her bed . . . and taken up with another."

  I slumped on the cot, defeated. "Don’t tell me," I moaned. "I was shouting it from the roof tops, wasn’t I?"

  "Not shouting, exactly," Corais said. "But you certainly were in good voice. And although our fair city’s roofs remained safe, Polillo did have to drag you down from the water tower on the parade ground."

  As I picked at this new scab of humiliation, another voice joined us. It rumbled down the hallway like distant thunder:

  "Who speaks my name?" The voice was followed by heavy bootsteps and an immense form filled the doorway. The speaker continued: "By the Goddess who made me, I swear if I catch someone talking behind my back, I’ll cut off her left tit and have it tanned for my purse."

  It was Polillo, who, with Corais, was my other chief legate. As she said the last words, she ducked under the doorway, and strode into the room. Polillo was over seven feet tall, with amazingly long shapely legs and a perfectly proportioned figure padded just enough to hide ropy muscles that became steely knots when she hefted her battle ax. Her skin was nearly as fair as mine, and where my hair was golden, hers was closer to a light brown. If she’d been a courtesan instead of a warrior, Polillo would have soon made her fortune.

  When she saw it was me sitting on the bed, she was instantly taken aback. "Oh . . . I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t know — "

  I waved her to silence. "I’m the one who owes apologies all around," I said. "But if you really feel the need — the line starts behind the chamber pot."

  Polillo boomed laughter and clapped me on the back, nearly breaking my shoulder with her good humor. "You just need a good fight to set you straight, Captain," she said. "And unless those sniveling Lycanthians turn coward, you’ll get it soon enough."

  The mention of Lycanth opened the door to responsibility. I groaned to my feet, stripped off my sleeping tunic and padded to the basin. A servant had crept in while I slept and there was a pitcher of still-steaming water, perfumed with a cleansing aromatic on a pedestal next to the basin.

  I called over my shoulder to Corais, "What’s the news?"

  In the mirror, I saw Corais shrug. "No news, really. Just a lot of rumors . . . some good . . . some bad. The only thing that’s certain is we’re still on the road to war."

  Three weeks before, the Archons of Lycanth had tossed down the gauntlet — sending out a warfleet to sever our links with our allies and harass our trading ships. Their action had come the very day Tries and I’d gone our separate, stormy ways. And as I speak these words to the Scribe, I realize there was no coincidence. My profession was at the heart of our quarrel, and since my profession is war, the news from Lycanth fell like a sword between us.

  "War might be certain," I said to Corais, gloomy, "but what’s not is whether our exalted leadership will allow the Maranon Guard to serve."

  Polillo sputtered. "But we’re the finest soldiers in Orissa. I’d match any one of us against any ten men from any barracks or drill field in the city.
Why, in the name of Maranon, wouldn’t they let us fight?"

  She was only exaggerating our abilities a little, but the answer to her question was in my mirror, as I saw the reflection of my body. Inside, I was a warrior. But in a world commanded by men, the outside made me something less in their view. I saw the tilt in my long neck and knew it to be dainty in appearance — never mind the cables that leaped up when I hefted my sword; my skin has always been my pride: it’s pleasing to the eye and touch, but suffers little from heat, cold, or hard exercise; although I’m past thirty summers, my breasts are firm and high, with nipples of virginal pink; the tuck of my waist is sharp; my hips, although narrow, flare like a bell; and finally, I saw the golden triangle between my thighs that marked my sex.

  It was unlikely the Magistrates would let us fight for three — for them — very good reasons: (1) We were women; (2) We were women; and (3) We were women.

  Everyone in Orissa knows of the Maranon Guard, but few know much about it — other than the obvious fact it is composed solely of women. We are an elite unit whose beginnings stretch back into the city’s dim history. Our usual force is five hundred souls, although in war it’s reinforced to nearly twice that number. We all praise the name and pledge our lives to the service of Maranonia, the Goddess of War. We must forswear men upon entering the Guard — although, for most of us, this isn’t much of a strain. I’m not unusual in my taste for a woman’s company, and a woman’s love.

  Besides, in this so called civilized age we live in, the Maranon Guard is the only world a woman can escape to if she does not wish to be a wife, a mother, or a whore. Among those who still yearn for a man’s bed, the trade off, in my view, is certainly not worth the price of a mounting.