Cugel’s Calling ¦ Droke Wood ¦ Storm in a Follicle ¦ The Black Queen ¦
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The Black Queen
You've
never seen nothing like it
No
never in your life
Like
going up to heaven and then coming back alive
Let
me tell you all about it —
And
the world will so allow it.
—from
"The March of the Black Queen,” written by Freddie Mercury.
There came
another boom, the loudest yet, and —taking the sounding as a signal for a
moment's rest— I stopped work to lean on my scuffle-iron and look about.
I
had reached the field's centre, and all around me the blubberbloats swayed
gently in the warm, late afternoon breeze, their shoulder-high pastel blooms
choking the air with musty odours. Northwards sprawled the rest of my father's
land, until it met the distant white walls of our farm complex backed by common
land and Saint Flaxen's Hills — field upon rectangular field of tubers,
orchards, and vines. Similar field-strips spread into the east and west, but
these belonged to neighbouring farmers and were differentiated from my father's
by white marker-posts and access roads.
Thick
grey clouds were gathering over Saint Flaxen's, but the booming was not their
thunder
— it had
emanated from the south, and was the noise of a battleground.
In
that direction lay the Cappeloche Rise, dense evergreen woodland that climbed
for some fifteen kilometres before it was abruptly terminated by the
half-kilometre drop of the Cappeloche Landfall — at whose foot, on the
edge of the Fundamental Plains, our Black Queen's forces defended the Ascended
Land from King Difant's.
The
war between our two countries had been raging for months (the inevitable
culmination of a cold war that raged for decades), but it did not rage in our
favour. It was five weeks ago when we first learned our army was retreating
before Difant's Fundamentals, for the southern sky began to murmur and was
nightly illuminated by the soft blue and white flashes of energy weapons
—tell-tales that quickly increased in volume and regularity as the days
progressed and the conflict drew closer. Indeed, this very morning I was jolted
awake by such a deafening peal that I yelled in fright, and decided, like so many
others had already (neighbouring farmers and my father's labourers amongst
them), that it was high-time to depart for the city. I told my father what I
thought, hoping that the stubborn pride and patriotism he exhibited over the
battle —he came from a long line of soldiers that only a severe injury
involving faulty farm machinery had prevented him from lengthening— would
give way before pressing reality. They didn't, and I wonder now that I ever
thought they would.
"Depart?
Never, boy. I have complete faith in our army."
"Father,
I also believed they could not be bettered, but facts are facts and now I
accept I was wrong, and so must you. We are losing! And the war is so close
now. If we don't leave soon, when the Fundamentals gain Cappeloche we will not
have time to flee — we will be doomed. Surely wiser to take advantage of
the citadel's defences?"
"What
is this ‘when?’ It is not even an if! And I accept nothing! Those
base plainsmen will never gain Cappeloche. They will be repulsed, never doubt
it."
"But
what of our army's retreat?"
"The
retreat is tactical, of course. You are a fifteen year-old boy, boy. You do not
know what you talk about. Now, into the fields with you. If those blubberbloats
don't have their pods sliced today they will swell and pop, ruining them and
me. Be about it!"
Explosions
of smoke, veined through with glowing streaks of red, appeared silently in the
air beyond the Cappeloche Rise, to be followed, seconds later, by a trembling in
the earth as yet more deafening blasts tore at the firmament.
Anger,
and not a little fear, filled me. My father was a blind fool. We'd be overrun
within the week! I decided to speak with him again, at once, and damn the
blubberbloats. And, if he still ignored reason when faced with the now black
southern sky, I myself would take my mother and sister to the city and leave
him to his mad faith.
I
began to make my way to the access road and my tractor, but stopped in wonder
as something eclipsed the sun and ran a wide delta shadow over the
blubberbloats. I looked up. Banking and yawing crazily around the field in
utter silence and a mere ten meters above my head, was an Ascended scout-boat,
white smoke billowing from a ragged hole in its drive cowlings, its fore and
aft cannon-emplacements empty, its armour-plates stripped. Standing at its
stubby nose, his right hand moving feverishly over the control panel, his left
pressed to his side, was a young man dressed in the dull red and midnight blue
of the Black Queen's messenger corps. He was staring down at me.
"Boy!"
he shouted, and, wincing with the word, involuntarily clamped his right hand
over his left. The scout-boat, now directionless, dropped from the air with a
heavy double-thud twenty meters away, spraying blubberbloat resin in all
directions. Electrical arcs began to crackle and leap about the drive cowlings
and the white smoke turned black. Still carrying my scuffle-iron, I ran over to
the grounded craft.
The
messenger was lying slumped against the control panel, his eyes closed, both of
his hands
—blooded
to the wrists— uselessly covering an obviously fatal wound below his
right armpit. At the vibration of my leaping into the boat and the clatter of
my scuffle-iron as I dropped it, he spoke, panting with pain. "Boy... The
cut-off... Hit the cut-off. The coils are over... overloading."
I
looked at the panel, a maze of undecipherable readouts and switches.
"Which...?"
"Right
grid... Centre key." I depressed the key. The electrical activity about the
cowlings ceased, the smoke gradually dispersed. I knelt at the messenger's
side, where blood was beginning to pool. Knowing it for a futile act, I removed
my shirt and, after quickly folding it into a wide bandage, made to tie it
about him. At the disturbance he grabbed my hand, slippery with hot blood, and
opened his eyes.
Though
he was physically little older than myself, the messenger's gaze exhibited a
psyche generations beyond mine — a psyche that had gained more levels of
insight and terrible understanding in a few months of battle than any
philosopher could hope for in a lifetime of peaceful learning. Those eyes burnt with the raw truths of human
nature they had witnessed, participated in, and become victims of.
"No
time for that, boy... No use anyway, rot it." A thin trickle of blood
began to flow from the corner of his mouth. "Listen... Do you love your
queen...? Country?"
"Of
course, but —"
"Quiet,
damn you! As you love them, then —Gods' blood— listen to me! You...
You must deliver my message to the queen... You must take it to her, boy."
"What
message? What is it?"
The
flow of blood from his mouth increased, his skin was completely white.
"Not verbal... Implanted in unconscious. You know... Know method?"
I
had heard of it. The Black Queen's messenger corps were trained in all aspects
of information delivery and how best to keep that information from enemy hands.
Only a minor or deliberately false dispatch was entrusted to word of mouth or
normal media recordings, whilst the most important relied upon heavily coded
telemetry, or upon hypnotic implantation in a bearer's unconscious where only a
certain word, phrase, or action from the correct person could ever free it.
"But how are you going to pass the message to me? I don't know the key to
it."
He
actually grinned with sour amusement. "Queen's geneticists provided for
such... Contingencies. Brain cells capable... surviving a day after death
before irreparable... Take head to queen for revitalisation... Can then divulge
message to her... Forget body... Not given same properties and would...
incon... inconvenience you... Trust none but Black Queen herself. Must ensure
message goes directly to her... Only she able to free it."
"But
I can't cut —"
"You
can... Must! But please, boy," he gave another ghastly smile, "Wait
until I'm dead... Before decapitation."
The tractor's
motors, designed for slow, steady pulling power rather than mad dashes through
the countryside, whined in protest at the speed I demanded of them. The dampers
too, squeaked complaints at the furrows the wheels bounced over as, leaving a
trail of ruined produce (which would cost my father dearly if the respective
farmers ever came looking for a reckoning), I sliced through field-strips. I
was heading northwest to Flaxen's Hills and the citadel.
Beneath
me, under the seat alongside my scuffle-iron and wrapped in an old seed-sack,
was the messenger's head.
Separating
it from the body had, predictably, not been easy. I had taken the sack from the
tractor and then stood astride of the corpse for some time, lightly resting the
infinitely fine wire of my scuffle-iron across its throat. Telling myself that
what I was about to do was for the good of the
By
now my parents would be wondering why I had not returned to the complex for the
evening meal. Thinking perhaps the tractor had broken down, my father would set
out to pick me up, and discover, in place of tractor and son, a wrecked
scout-boat and a beheaded corpse. And from this grisly evidence he would have
to draw his own conclusions, for I had had neither time nor materials to leave
an explanation. He might well think me dead, but I had no help for that. I was
on a mission for queen and country (two things extremely close to his heart),
and, when he eventually learned this, I knew he would be very proud of me
— no matter the worry the situation had subjected him and the rest of my
family to.
The
citadel was before me now — clearly discernible in the light of the
setting sun. In less than half an hour I would be at its gates. It was a huge structure,
with walls over fifty meters high and fifteen thick, dotted at all levels with
energy cannons and projectile launchers. Within the walls, commonly rooted
around the edge of the unseen keep, rose a dozen lofty black towers, each
sporting more weapon emplacements and huge domes — observatories from
which —so I had heard— King Difant could be seen at bowls upon his
castle greens deep in the Fundamental Plains. Inwardly radiating from each of
the towers' upper levels —and at this distance and hour visible as little
more than clumps of dark green— were the wide bridges of the Black
Queen's nocturnal gardens, each consisting of various tree-, bush-, and
flower-hybrids which displayed their splendour and released their perfumes
exclusively at night. And, suspended at the bridges' focal point, sharply
tapering top and bottom, was the ellipsoidal Hub — the edifice that
housed the Black Queens personal rooms, halls, courts, and other chambers.
Behind the citadel entire, nestled out of sight amongst the hills, was its
ward, Parasemal, capitol city of the
Ten
minutes passed. It grew darker as the sun slowly set and I drove beneath the
rain-clouds I had earlier noted. With a final, almost grateful squeak from the
tractor's dampers, I came up the high embankment of the east-west Parasemal
causeway and turned to follow it. I was forced to slow considerably to avoid
other vehicles (from whose drivers I received quite a few startled stares and
angry shouts as they in turn compensated for my sudden appearance), most of
which were heavily loaded with bulging cases, blankets, furniture, and other
household paraphernalia. Another kilometre ahead the road forked, one prong
heading north to Parasemal, the other continuing west for a further six
kilometres to the citadel.
My
mind raced. The head had to be transported directly into the queen's
consideration, but how? As soon as I arrived at the barbican the guards would
simply take it and dismiss me, and it would then be passed from echelon to
echelon, vulnerable to whatever knavery its departed consciousness had feared.
What could I, a mere farmer's son, do to prevent this?
More
minutes went by, and stratagems, each wilder and less feasible than the last,
ran through my mind. Steal into the citadel? Past a fifty meter-high wall
protected by countless detection devices and guards? Impossible. Disguise
myself as some foreign dignitary? From where? What would my name be? Where was
my retinue and rich clothing? And since when have dignitaries travelled about
in tractors? What then? What?!
I
gained the fork and sped along the almost empty approach to the citadel's huge
barbican. There, under the watchful gaze of two guards, I de-energised the
tractor, took the sack from beneath the seat, and, feeling somehow comforted by
its presence, also grabbed my scuffle-iron. The sun had set. I took a deep
breath and climbed from the cab. I had been totally unable to concoct a plan.
The
barbican was a small castle in itself — a black cuboid structure higher than
the citadel's walls and bracketed by circular watchtowers each sporting a pair
of cannon. The massive portcullis was up, revealing the long, shadowy, entrance
tunnel, far end closed by the inner portal. Just within the tunnel, on either
side of its wide roadway, stood the guards. Their panoply was starkly
contrasted to that of less uncertain times (such as years ago when my father
had brought my sister and I here to witness the Black Queen's birthday parades)
— brass ceremonial body armour was replaced by matt-black alloy, jauntily
plumed helmets by visored basinets, and gisarmes by stubby carbines slung
across the shoulders.
"And
what can we do for you, farmboy?" said the guard on the left.
What
else had I but the truth? "I have a... Something for the queen. It has to
go directly—"
"What's
in the sack, farmboy? Brought some taters for our queen? No time for gifts,
farmboy. Be on your way."
"It's
not a gift. It's an important package. I must—"
The
guard on the right walked towards me, his carbine clinking softly against his
hip. "Illumination, watchman!" he yelled, causing me to jump
slightly, "Illumination on the approach!"
A
hard blue-white glare from lamps on the battlements eliminated the twilight,
forcing me to squint. The nearing guard lifted his visor but the shadow it cast
prevented me form seeing his face properly — only a meticulously shaven
chin was visible. He stopped half a meter before me. "What have you got,
farmboy? What's in the sack?"
"A
head."
"Of
what, farmboy? A head of what?"
"Of...
Of a man."
The
muzzle of the guard's carbine rose slightly. "You've got a man's head in that sack, eh farmboy? And
why would you want to give a man's
head to our queen?"
"It
belongs... Belonged to one of her messengers. He said I must get it
to—"
"Ah.
A messenger's head. An important head," he paused for a
moment, then, "Well, you've been a good and loyal subject, farmboy. You've
done the correct thing. Give me the sack."
Exactly
what I didn't want to do. "I can't. He said—"
"Who
said, farmboy?"
"The
messenger. He said I had to ensure the Black Queen received it directly."
The
guard paused again, regarding me. "Don't trust me, farmboy?" The
sardonic tone had gone, now his voice was low, threatening. "Want me to
take it from you?" The carbine's muzzle rose again, pointing at my
stomach.
Earlier
thoughts of queen and country, my father's pride, and my desire to honour the
messenger's final wish, began to dissipate. "No, it's only that
he—"
"Don't
concern yourself, farmboy," the guard interrupted, his voice —now he
sensed my lack of resolve— as before, "In my hands the head is in
safe hands. Now, farmboy — pass me the sack."
"What
occurs here, Isol?"
The
voice came from the now invisible entrance tunnel, and on hearing it both
guards immediately snapped to attention, the one closest to me breathing a
muffled curse. Footsteps approached, and a woman, armoured similarly to the
guards but with her basinet tied at her hip alongside a holstered pistol and
her spaudlers printed with captain's insignia, entered the light and walked
towards us. Her hair was jet black and cut jaw length, her skin was pale, her
lips of no great fullness, and her eyes a dark brown almost black beneath the
shadow of her brow. She couldn't be anything over twenty eight and was really
quite beautiful. For a few seconds she considered me with a slight smile, and I
found myself thinking how foolish, even comical, I must seem to her in my
farmer's galligaskins and shirt, scuffle-iron in one hand and sack in the
other. Then her lips straightened and she turned to the guard. "Well,
Isol? Report, if you would be so kind."
Still
standing stiffly to attention, Isol said, "Ma'am, this individual has
informed me that he carries the head of one of Her Majesty's messengers, but is
somewhat unwilling to give it over."
She
turned to me. "And why is this, boy?"
How
I hated to be called "boy" by her! "Eh... He, the messenger,
said I must be certain the queen received it. He said to trust none but the
queen herself."
"I
attempted to persuade him of the needlessness of this, Ma'am," said Isol,
"But—"
"Yes,
Isol. I witnessed your methods of persuasion. Tell me, Isol, what would you
have done, had I not happened here, once you had terrified our friend into
giving the head to you?"
"I
would have informed you of the incident, Ma'am, of course."
"Really,
Isol? This is me, Captain Lyndar. You're not confusing me with one of
Councillor Jatrel's underlings, are you?"
The
guard gave a start. "Ma'am?"
"Forget
it, Isol," she looked at me once more, "Open the sack, boy, let me
see inside." Leaning my scuffle-iron against my shoulder, I did as she
asked. She looked without so much as a grimace, met my eyes for a moment, and
then addressed Isol. "I think we will alleviate this boy's worries. His
loyalty demands it. Does it not warm your heart to see such devotion to our
queen, Isol? I myself will accompany him directly to her court."
"As
you wish, Ma'am."
"Yes,
Isol. As I wish. Come, boy, follow
me." For the first time, as she turned back towards the entrance tunnel
and into the light, I saw her eyes completely free of their concealing shadow.
They were those of the messenger, filled with the same horrible experience and
knowledge.
I
walked behind her into the tunnel, blind after the glare of the approach. I
knew nothing except the sound of our footfalls until, preceded by a soft click,
a dim rectangle of light appeared
— a
wicket. "Carefully, boy. Don't trip over the step."
With
another click, the captain closed the wicket behind me, and I found myself in
the citadel's wide bailey. A hundred meters in front the massive cube of the
keep and the twelve towers it supported glittered with coloured lights beneath
what had, unnoticed by me, become the night sky. Under the citadel's northern
wall were long, shed-like barracks from which came shouts, laughter, and
occasional singing. Spread to the south, positioned in neat rows and lit by
surrounding floodlights, were war machines: air-boats of all sizes from a pair
of cruisers capable of housing eighty men, to dozens of scouts in the same
class of that in which the messenger had crash-landed; four huge land
leviathans brandishing projectile launchers and energy weapons; scores of
stocky antipersonnel automata; and hundreds of cavalry battle-suits (almost
automata in themselves). Small groups of technicians moved amongst the
machines, probing, testing, calibrating.
The
captain spoke. "What you see here, boy, is the last of our Black Queen's
army. All the rest fight, and die, at the Cappeloche Landfall."
"Why
doesn't the queen send them out as re-enforcements?"
"Who
then will defend Parasemal if they are without effect and the
Fundamentals’ gain Cappeloche? They would be better employed here. Wait a
moment."
She
unlaced her basinet from her hip and donned it. I heard her murmur, pause, and
murmur again before removing the helm and re-attaching it to her hip.
"Your message's arrival will be announced at court. Come." We began
to walk at a brisk pace along the road connecting the barbican and the keep's
portal. Striding slightly behind the captain, I stole glances at her. Could I
rely on this beautiful warrior? I felt I could; she had not tried to secure the
head, and she was accompanying me directly to the queen's court, yet... The
messenger had said to trust none save the Black Queen herself. But the whole
army could not plot against her!
"Was
that Isol a spy?" I asked.
She
laughed, once. "Observant, aren't you, my farmboy? Isol, a spy? Gods no,
he hasn't acumen enough for that — but for certain he is no patriot. The
taverns he frequents are somewhat... unsavoury, attracting unsavoury customers
who offer payment for unsavoury deeds. And accidentally mislaying your head
within reach of certain hands or —just as accidentally— commenting
over-loud upon it within range of certain ears, could gain our Isol
considerable profit. And you can safely wager, boy, that these
‘unsavouries’ by now know both of the message's arrival and whose
custody it's in."
"But
then he's a traitor!" I exclaimed.
"Yes,
boy, that he is. But there are degrees even amongst traitors. Isol is the
lowest of the breed — his only concern is money, and he asks no
questions. But what of those who pay him...?"
I
recalled what she had said to Isol at the approach, "Councillor Jatrel and
his underlings drink at the same taverns?"
She
laughed again. "His underlings perhaps, never the councillor himself. But
both are the real traitors, boy — plotting the Black Queen's downfall and
the rout of the Ascended Land; and their employer is none less than Difant himself.
The messenger was right to tell you to depend on no-one, especially if the data
is as important as this command and its transport-mode suggests. Jatrel will
realize its significance and, though unaware of its content, would much rather
it did not reach the queen purely out of principle."
"Do
you mean we could be waylaid?" I was shocked.
A
slight smile. "Unlikely now, my farmboy, it would set too many ripples in
motion for Jatrel and his henchmen's comfort. You see the one to whom I have
just spoken ranks with the councillor and would demand investigation if
something untoward occurred — a risk Jatrel cannot take. Jatrel is forced
to allow the queen to hear the message this time."
I
was only slightly reassured. "Shouldn't these people be arrested or
something? Doesn't the queen know about them?"
"They
should be tortured to death, boy. But the queen, at least where Jatrel is
concerned, would accuse us of slander were we to tell her our thoughts.
Councillor Jatrel, boy, is one of her highest ranking officials — and we
have only suspicions and beliefs to hold against him. Nothing of substance.
Nothing that proves. Still, we watch
and we wait."
"And
you don't take Isol because he may help provide the necessary
‘substance?’"
She
raised an eyebrow and smiled her slight smile, "Your intelligence is
wasted in agriculture, boy."
I
decided to trust her. What choice had I? Without her I would never have passed
the citadel's walls, and would never get within the keep whose steps we now
climbed.
At
the basalt door —eight meters square— the captain stopped me with a
hand on my shoulder. "Stand still, boy, while we are scanned."
Moments went by before, quite silently, the door rolled upwards and we entered
the keep. I had expected to discover a resplendent foyer or corridor; instead I
was standing in an almost featureless cubicle eight meters to each side. The
door fell slowly behind us, accompanied, in perfect synchronization, with
another rising from the cubicle's floor. Small luminares in the ceiling flickered
alight. A timbre-less, source-less voice asked for name, rank, business, and
destination; the captain replied, "Lyndar; Captain; urgent information for
her majesty; Tower Prime, tier twenty-seven, via intersections Talus, Krixa,
and Est."
"Restricted
destination. Code?"
She
spoke a few nonsense syllables, and with a soft lurch and sudden sensation of
pressure deep in my stomach, we were in soundless motion! My wonder at this did
not go unnoticed. "A conceit of the ancients, boy. I don’t think
they liked to walk. Should we so wish, we could travel to Parasemal in this
cube, and farther… But we best not go into that. Now, my farmboy, tell me
how you came to be at the gates of our Black Queen's citadel carrying a
disembodied head in a sack?"
I
told her of the afternoon's events, pleased to have the opportunity to prove I
was no stereotype peasant with concerns only for the blight on my cabbages and
the carbuncles on my floxworts. As I spoke our cubicle variously slowed,
speeded, ascended, or coasted horizontally, each direction-change tugging my
bowels. I realised the keep must largely consist of a honeycomb of passages
through which cubicles —for sure there were others— sped. When I
had finished, she said, "Quite an experience for a farmboy, eh? Something
to talk of whilst treading grapes for years to come, I should think... Oh,
cease your indignation, boy, I tease. You conducted yourself admirably, and I
shall be sure to mention as much to the queen."
"Why
are you helping me?" I asked, "Why didn't you simply take the head at
the barbican and send me on my way as the guards would have done?"
"Oh
come, my farmboy, how can you ask such a thing? If I did that then you, being
such a loyal subject, would have been plagued with doubts until your final
days, wondering whether the queen received her important message. I have a
demanding conscience. Besides," and here she smiled more fully than ever,
"I have a penchant for farmboys, and would stay in their good
graces."
I
flushed and turned away, not knowing what to say. Luckily, the cubicle at that
moment reached its destination and halted. The inner door and a much narrower
outer one slid into their recesses and we stepped out.
Stretching
away from us in a band approximately a sixth as wide as my father's
field-strip, fenced by gracefully wrought ironwork and hung between the tower
we had just exited and the Hub's equator thirty-five meters away, was one of
the Black Queen's lush nocturnal gardens — an eerie riot of
bioluminescence since the sun had set. Slender trees standing singularly or
forming small arbours, their foliage cropped into perfect spheres, emitted deep
reds and blues from threads running around their trunks in fine lattices.
Planted in raised or sunken beds of black soil, discharging almost every
conceivable colour from the most electric blue to the palest yellow, were
fantastic bushes, roses, and shrubs, that shone huge lantern-like blooms,
blinked tiny pin-pricks, or nodded lambent stigmata in the breeze, dappling the
neatly gravelled paths and each other with overlapping shadows. Darting about,
or clambering over the glowing fauna, filling the air with the drone of wings
and other —clearly chitinous— sounds, were thousands of insects
— invisible except for the light-patterns they exhibited: green and
orange arcs created by rapidly beating wings that bobbed and hovered amongst
the trees; soft flutters of red that looked like embers blown from a fire;
tubes of bright emerald and gold; marching clusters of saffron and maroon.
Walking
through this fairy-land of light towards the Hub, breathing the plethora of
aromas (some luscious, others cloying, many so supremely delicate as to be
almost undetectable), we passed an elliptical pond ten meters across. Floating
upon its glittering surface of reflected light were wide lily-pads crowned with
white circular flowers shining like miniature starbursts, and within every
bloom, each no more than fifteen centimetres long, were, surely... babies. I
moved nearer to the pond's border. My impression was correct — tiny
cherubs, pink and naked, were employing the water-lilies as cots. Their minute
eyes were tightly shut, their diminutive mouths roundly open, so at first I
thought they were asleep. But then I discerned high, sweet music, like birdsong
yet infinitely more complex. They were singing.
"The
Black Queen's water babies," said the captain, "Products of her vats.
Don't get any closer or you'll—"
But
it was too late. The babies, as one, suddenly opened their pure black eyes and
stared at me, their song rising beyond hearing in a scream. The next moment
they each scampered to the edge of their respective pads and dived beneath the
water.
"—Frighten
them," finished the captain. "Come, farmboy, before you terrify the
lilies into closing."
As
we proceeded through the garden, a question that I had wondered at since
childhood came to me. "Is it true," I asked, "That the queen
finds the daylight intolerable? That the touch of the sun actually causes her
harm?"
"Is
that the rumour out in the boondocks, boy? For certain she is no diurnal, but
whether the reason is salubrity only she herself knows. However, if such is the
fact of the matter, wouldn't a simple command to her geneticists be enough to
free her of the malady?"
"Well...
What is your opinion?"
"Some
bruit about romantic tales of lost loves as explanation; others whisper of
porphyria, but I have never noted any vampiric tendencies in her. For myself I
think her nocturnal habits are little more than affected — a ploy to lend
her mysterious airs in the imaginations of her subjects, and more especially in
those of her enemies. It's effective, too. Did you know that every night,
before sleep, the Fundamentals burn incense and arrange brass wards into
certain configurations to prevent the spirit of our queen from invading their
dreams? They believe that is how she spends her waking hours
—
launching her psyche into their barbaric heads to direct their nightmares. You
didn't know this? Well, there's a mark for urbanity."
We
reached this particular bridge's entrance to the Hub — an alloy slab lit
above its shouldered arch by a rotund lamp. Standing to attention at each pier
was a guard. They saluted as we approached.
"How
goes the night, soldiers?" asked the captain.
"Quietly,
Ma'am. Do you have the passwords?"
She
spoke what was —to me— a string of gibberish. The guards again
saluted. The left one called, "Friends at the Hub! Tower Prime!", and
the slab slid aside.
We
entered into a low room terminating in an iron-bound ebony door and illuminated
by recessed up-lighting. Simply patterned tapestries adorned the walls. Hanging
beside the door was a silk rope which the captain pulled, twice.
For
over a minute nothing happened, and the captain was just about to tug the rope
once more when, with a click, the door was pushed slightly outwards. A wizened
head, almost bald and wearing thick spectacles, appeared at chest height in the
gap. It looked at the captain's shoulders, checking her insignia. "The one
with this oh-so-important message?" it asked in a voice timbred as if all
the world's woes were piled on its owner's shoulders. "Foolish of me, I
suppose, to expect you to arrive by the main portal like everybody else —
where, incidentally, all my annunciators are positioned. Doubtless I should
have guessed you'd choose a side ingress?"
"Forgive
me, good Chamberlain. I thought it wise to avoid overmuch attention in the
light of my companion's attire," she indicated my presence and the
chamberlain took long, critical note of my shirt and breeches. He grunted.
"Understandable. Must he accompany you?"
"Afraid
so, good Chamberlain. In times of war, all must make sacrifices."
The
little man grunted again, aware of the captain's sarcasm. "Follow
then," he said, and opened the door fully so we could.
Pursuing
the old man —who wore nothing but a black habit and leaned on a
metal-shod walking stick that rapped loudly on the floor's paving— along
a perfectly straight, dimly lit corridor filled with low, undecipherable
murmurs, I considered it unlikely that the captain was truly worried about my
clothing. Wasn't it more likely she chose to ignore the accepted route because
she yet feared interference from Jatrel (regardless of her assurances in the
bailey)? I recalled the complex and lengthy directions she had given to the
cubicle. Another precaution? How safe, in truth, were we?
My
worries were cut short as the murmurs suddenly clarified into a voice:
"... sources inform us that our earlier fears regarding the Fundamentals'
creation of weapons capable of breaching city/citadel force-fielding are
baseless. There are absolutely no signs that such devices have been produced,
are being produced, or are even planned. However, the report adds that Difant's
engineers and scientists are working on targeting and power improvements on
their Sabbor energy cannon, throughout the range."
Sources.
I wondered how many traitors the enemy suffered from.
We
stopped at a door. The chamberlain produced a key, used it, and then turned to
me. "Boy. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not fart audibly or odorously,
do not burp or cough. Try not to gawp. Now come," he looked at the
captain, "As I am forced to announce you myself." He pulled the door
open, stepped through, and was gone.
"Fear
not, my country bumpkin," said the captain, "I will be with
you."
We
followed the chamberlain into another, much shorter, corridor, via which we at
last entered the Black Queen's courtroom.
My
first thought on stepping into the chamber was, "Chessboard!", for almost
everything in that cavernous, wedge-shaped courtroom was black and/or white. It
was floored with huge checked stone slabs; walled with shiny meter-square tiles
of obsidian and porcelain positioned in vertical stripes; and lit, at regular
intervals down the room's centre, by four meter high lamps fashioned to
resemble fully laden pomegranate trees with trunks and limbs of black quartz
and luminous fruits of clear crystal. The chamber's concave open end was
dominated by the main portal —a split ebony door, ten meters tall and
eight wide, studded in silver— and two huge, bracketing rose windows of
heavily polarised glass (I was silently thankful to the captain that I hadn't
had to negotiate such a forbidding entrance, no matter her real reasons for
avoiding it). Looking up, I caught my breath in wonder. The ceiling seemed
invisible beneath a monochrome fresco of such perfect perspective and realism
it was difficult not to believe that the courtroom's walls ascended into pied
infinity and gained ornate balconies, pillars, and hanging lanterns which
seemed to actually shine; or that there was not layer upon layer of naked
people looking down upon me, or cavorting together, or dining from jewelled
bowls and goblets, or watching winged demons and angels battle through the air;
or that at the fresco's false heights —cunningly painted to appear
distance-blurred— there did not float the fabled and fantastic
cloud-cities of the gods.
A
sudden high chattering drew my startled attention back down to the chamber's occupants
— who,
seated upon long, terraced couches built against the converging walls and
clothed to compliment their surroundings, were the chessboard's pieces (having
entered behind room's topmost, left-hand terrace, only those people opposite
were in full view, but, from what was visible of those whom we stood behind,
the two groups were virtually symmetrical). There were roughly a hundred of
them, men and women ranging in years from nonagenarians down to teenagers. Some
wore armour similar to the captain's (though preponderantly white), others were
attired in richer, more formal, garments — ladies in paletots, crinolen,
and peplos, lords in hose, surtouts, and togas. At the terraces' wide end were
posted two groups of four guards, whilst a further four stood at the main
portal. All were armed with carbines.
I
heard the chattering again, clearly angry this time. It came from the chamber's
focus where a wide, unlit dais rose into a shadow that defeated the shining
pomegranates. Barely perceivable atop the dais were a dozen grey macaques
squatting in an inward-facing semi-circle, their hands clasped together and
raised in a parody of prayer. Even harder to discern was the object of the
monkeys' attention — the unsettling and roughly cuboid distortion/reflection
of the personal force-field of the Black Queen of the Ascended.
One
of the macaques, seemingly bored with its position, at odd intervals launched
playful punches at its neighbours, whom, though they attempted a dignified
aloofness and kept their worshipful stance, were nevertheless unable to
restrain themselves from voicing their irritation over the attacks. These were
the source of the incongruous chattering.
There
came a sudden sharp rapping from the chamberlain as he knocked his
walking-stick against the floor and called, surprisingly loud, "Majesty my
queen! The message has arrived."
At
the sound of the chamberlain's voice the mischievous monkey gave up all
appearance of piety, and, screaming in excitement, departed its companions. It
scampered down the dais and along the aisle, whereupon I immediately observed
its fur to be a soft powder-blue rather than grey — a startling streak of
colour amongst the blacks and whites. The chamberlain rolled his eyes to the
ceiling as if at the expected and necessarily tolerated misconduct of a friend.
Heads turned to follow the macaque —some smiling slightly, others
frowning— as it darted up the terrace to paw pleadingly at the
chamberlain's habit. The chamberlain, still appearing to study the fresco, fed
the monkey a caramel from his pocket, quieting the animal.
In
a dehumanized voice that softly rose, fell, and echoed through the force-field,
the Black Queen of the Ascended spoke.
"I
fear you will rot my Hofo's fangs with your caramels, good Chamberlain,"
polite laughter from the terraces at this, then, "What is your message,
Captain?"
The
captain stood smartly to attention, and, looking straight ahead, said,
"Majesty, I beg your indulgence, but the message is not mine. It was
brought to the citadel by a good and loyal subject
— the boy
here. It is housed within the decapitated head of a Royal Messenger, who
suffered serious hardship and ultimately and obviously death to deliver it into
your consideration. Majesty, if I may be so bold, I recommend you learn the
message at your soonest convenience — its medium denotes its utmost
importance."
From
the front row of the opposite terrace, a tall, well-built man, attired in a
black capote, stepped forwards. As he spoke, I saw the captain's mouth tighten,
and guessed him to be Councillor Jatrel. "I heartily agree with the good
captain, your Majesty — we should have a vat readied in the genlabs at
once, and retire there on the instant the message is ready to be
divul—"
Another
man's voice interrupted, its owner out of sight amongst the front row of
courtesans on our side of the chamber. "No, your Majesty. Have the vat
prepared here."
"Why
would you put my geneticists to such inconvenience, General?" asked the
queen.
"For
good reason, Majesty. You are aware that traitors skulk amongst us. You are no
less aware that many messages from the front, spies, and sympathisers all, have
reached us in altered form, or have simply never reached us. For these reasons
I implore you not to allow the head out of your sight, where it may run foul of
‘accidents.’ Let it remain in Captain Lyndar's care while a vat is
primed here — this is the only way to be certain."
For
a moment, there was silence from the flickering cuboid, then, "General
Agvidsin, you are not a trusting man, are you?"
"Majesty,
I —"
"No
matter. We are well matched — I cannot afford to be a trusting queen. My
own subjects would have me bleed for a few material gains; would have the
Fundamentals overrun our beautiful
In
a hesitant voice, the still unseen general interrupted. "Majesty,
I..."
"Yes,
General? What now?"
"I
would prefer Under-Geneticist Trefoy to make the necessary preparations."
In
the terraces opposite, a lean man of indeterminate age in a white smock
launched himself erect, shouting, "Preposterous! Accusing me of betraying
Queen and Country? Pure slander, sir! I
—"
The
queen interrupted, her voice emotionless. "Calm yourself, Gobal. No
accusations have been made. However, we will comply with the General's wish.
Geneticist Trefoy?" A young man, also in a white smock, diffidently arose
beside Gobal and looked towards the flickering cuboid. "Please prepare the
necessary equipment."
Trefoy
bowed, looked once at the fuming Gobal, climbed the terrace, and departed the
chamber via a door opposite that through which we had entered.
"Thank
you, your Majesty," said the general.
"Stay
your gratitude, General. In the atmosphere of distrust that creeps about my
court, how can I blindly assume even your thanks' sincerity? Perhaps you plot my downfall, General?"
"My
queen! Be assured that —"
"Quiet
now, General. Annunciator, continue your report."
From
the front row of the opposite terrace a boy, younger than myself and dressed in
a black silk kirtle, strode to a dimple gouged into the floor's flagstones. In
the voice I had heard from the corridor, he read from a tablet held in his
hands.
"Your
Majesty, in reply to your royal requests, your regal brothers of Kingdoms
Breetchy, Nolt, Morgdoffin, and Affistelly, send these pertinently expurgated
missives: King Doltarch XII, of Breetchy, ‘Glorious sister, my greetings.
Breetchy grieves at the plight of its honoured neighbour, and nightly do I and
my people set ourselves in prayer for its deliverance. Regrettably, however,
more material assistance I cannot offer — the Valshakire troglodytes at
this time of year are particularly boisterous, and demand my forces' devoted
attention lest they overrun our outlying towns.’ King Varronious Luug, of
Nolt, ‘Most revered sister, how the day? I will be candid: I cannot
commit troops to your cause until you verify the militaristic assistance
—at the very least— of Morgdoffin and Affistelly. Secure their aid,
and the Teeth of Baychontz are yours to command.’ Ophelianuss Franjilt,
Regent to Paul of the Infinite Line, of Morgdoffin, ‘Excellent queen,
salutations! I regret —’"
The
queen interrupted. "Herald, do the remaining missives, in essence, all deny my requests for
assistance?"
"In
essence, your Majesty, yes."
There
was silence from the cuboid for a moment, then, "The fools. Annunciator,
depart for the messenger corps' barracks and have these words sent with utmost
celerity to each kingdom," the annunciator touched a button on his
book-tablet, setting it to record,
“‘Dearest blood, do you think Difant will halt at gaining
the
— he
negotiated and was granted such Fundamental independence. His reign continued a
year before the infamous explosion that destroyed his thirty-tiered palace,
killing him and all immediate relatives
— thus
allowing one of Difant's stooges to
rule. And now, what map shows Ferdenchy as a land disparate from the
Fundamental Plains, save by contour line? You must grant me your assistance!
King Difant's thrust must be stopped!’ Mark it with my sign."
The
annunciator switched off the tablet, bowed, and departed the chamber.
During
his report and the queen's reply, geneticists had worked rapidly to prepare the
vat that would allow the dead messenger to deliver his message. It was
positioned at the foot of the queen's dais and seemed quite simple in
construction — a meter-tall grey cylinder sat upon a symmetrical bed of
transparent fist-sized spheres and ellipsoids. Set into the cylinder's side was
a small screen, below which jutted sets of coloured keys. Its controlling
equipment, however, was a rack of complex machinery, all filters, pumps, and
tell-tales, which was wheeled alongside the vat, and attached to its base in an
undecipherable tangle of cables and hoses. At a signal from Trefoy, the
Under-Geneticist who had been directing the proceedings, levers were pulled and
switches closed on the rack. Saffron and ochre fluids began to gurgle through
the cylinder's base. The cylinder's lid was removed, and I watched as it slowly
filled with the un-mixing liquids. Wearing a shoulder-length rubber glove, a
geneticist reached into the mire and pulled from its depths a shallow cotyloid
connected to a thick flexible conduit, which he hung over the cylinder's lip.
After
a quick check of the rack's tell-tales, Trefoy said, "Captain Lyndar, the
head, if you please."
The
captain descended the terrace, and, to grimaces and muffled ejaculations from various
courtesans, removed the head from its sack and passed it to Trefoy, who had
donned his own rubber gloves. With a flourish, Trefoy clamped another, though
knobbed, and slightly smaller, cotyloid to the head's stump, tested its
security with a sharp tug, then proceeded to screw it into the first, using the
head as leverage. Next, he slowly lowered the whole assemblage into the
cylinder and replaced the lid. He doffed the gloves, passed them to an
assistant, and approached the rack. He made adjustments. A low humming vibrated
through the air, tiny nodules, scattered throughout the cylinder's base began
to pulsate.
The
annunciator had departed. Trefoy addressed the force-field. "My queen, the
vat is ready."
"Very
good, Geneticist Trefoy. Please stand back."
Like
lava, the queen's force-field poured
down the dais, scattering the macaques and diffracting the light of the
pomegranates into dazzling iridescent lances. By some unknown selective
process, it engulfed vat and rack both. There was the merest suggestion of
movement from within —as if viewed through a crystal— as the Black
Queen positioned herself before the vat.
There
was silence in the chamber, broken only by the sound of rain beating against
the huge rose windows. I recalled the clouds I had noticed during afternoon,
above Saint Flaxens Hills, that had promised the precipitation. Days ago,
seemingly — but in reality only a matter of hours.
I
looked at the opposite terrace. All pairs of eyes were focussed intently upon
the queen's force-field, save one — Captain Lyndar's. Her's were set upon
Councillor Jatrel. Was his gaze especially rapt?
There
came a hiss from within the force-field. Then further silence.
A
half-hour passed. Another. Then, after another blur of movement within its
protective energies, the force-field retreated up the dais to resume its former
volume. The macaques —still lacking Hofo— again assembled
themselves about it.
All
waited expectantly for the queen to speak. When she finally did, her voice, for
the first time, was not emotionless — it almost faltered with suppressed
fury.
"We
lose this war not through militaristic weakness, incompetence, or cowardice,
but through betrayal. This is now proved. Difant knows everything — our
campaign strategies (such as remain of them), our battle programmes down to the
tiniest manoeuvre, our proposed technical upgrades... All. And so my soldiers
are slaughtered and my realm will be raised. How is Difant so knowledgeable?
His pet ranks amongst the highest of my advisors — and is therefore party
to every nuance of information concerning the defence of the
She
paused, then, "But now the dog that licked my hand whilst it shat upon my
feet is about to be whipped, as all curs must be. A brave, intelligent, loyal," she almost spat that
word, "squadron commander, descrying the truth of things, launched an
unplanned sortie into the heart of the enemy's encampment. He lost two cruisers
and five scouts in the attack, nearly three-hundred troops. But their deaths
were not wasted — information was gained. Now our field generals know the
Fundamentals' manoeuverings for the next five months. But, more importantly, I
now know the name of Difant's friend who would have me believe him mine.
General Agvidsin, arrest —"
A
high-pitched whine needled my brain, the pomegranates dimmed. From amongst the
courtesans opposite, Councillor Jatrel suddenly dashed into the centre of the
chamber and up towards the dais. In one hand he held a silver egg-shaped
object, in the other a stiletto.
Captain
Lyndar raised her pistol, aimed at Jatrel, fired. A small circle of the
councillor’s capote smouldered slightly, but there was no other effect.
Jatrel continued to run for the dais, his mouth wide in a manic grin. Guards
raised their carbines, fired, but only succeeded in singeing more of his
clothing. Someone at the base of my terrace lunged for him, but was
sidestepped.
Jatrel
gained the foot of the dais and sped up it, ploughing through the screaming
macaques. With horror I saw that the queen's force-field was almost
transparent— even in the dimmed light, I could easily discern the royal
form.
Jatrel
was at the top of the dais. Of its own volition, my right arm raised, drew back
my scuffle-iron like a javelin, and let fly.
Gracefully
the iron cut through the air, arching unnoticed above the shocked courtesans'
heads before arrowing smoothly down into Jatrel's neck as he pushed through the
force-field. His head, arcing blood, fell back. Jaw flapping comically, it
bounced from the scuffle-iron's handle, somersaulted twice, and hit the dais
with a wet crack!
His
body stood a moment or two, as if in hesitation, then tottered sideways,
relinquishing the implements it held. Immediately, the whine ceased, the
pomegranates brightened, and the queen's force-field properly energised.
I stood in one
of the citadel's tower cannon embrasures, the complex brass and copper mass of
an energy-cannon looming above me and glinting in the golden light of sunrise.
The
bailey was full of activity as half the citadel's defensive retinue prepared
itself to reinforce those at Cappeloche. Automata, troops, and land leviathans
tramped and rumbled aboard humming cruisers; cavalry clambered into
battle-suits. And, hovering majestically above in tight formation, was what had
persuaded the Black Queen to half her home-guard in do-or-die counter-attack
— two fleets of maroon-and-verdant Nolt battle-boats. Her last message to
King Luug, it seemed, had struck a node.
With
a soft scuffle of booted feet, Captain Lyndar appeared beside me.
"Well,
my little farmboy, how does it feel to have personally saved the life of your
monarch?"
"Tiring."
I
had not slept since the incidents in the audience chamber. Though given a suite
of luxurious rooms usually reserved for dignitaries, and though I actually felt
I could sleep endless weeks, I had been unable to rest. Too many images
—wonderful, terrible, eerie— crowded my mind. I had spent the time
stood upon this embrasure, witnessing the awesome arrival of the Nolt fleets
and the subsequent preparations for battle, my thoughts a near-incomprehensible
jumble.
The
captain laughed. "I hope you are not too
tired, boy — I have plans for you this morning. But first, here, direct
from her majesty's pen."
She
gave me a scroll of thick yellow parchment, tied with black silk. I unrolled it
to read:—
"Farmboy,
you have saved the life of your queen — therefore you may yet save the
lives of thousands. That such unthinking loyalty as yours exists amongst my
lesser subjects when it has proven lacking amongst my greater is cause both for
joy and grief. Perhaps, in the future, my advisors and councillors should
include a sprinkling of peasant-stock? Whatever the wisdom of this, know that
you and yours, once certain pressing matters have been addressed, will be
rewarded in suitably tangible manner. Until that juncture, accept my personal
and heartfelt thanks.
Your
queen."
Beneath
this was the queen's seal — a black unicorn prancing upon the tips of
up-raised spears.
"Well,
my farmboy, what do you think of that?"
I
didn't know what to think. The words seemed meaningless. Wouldn't anyone in my
position that night have done the same?
"She
doesn't dot her ‘I’s,’" I replied.
The
captain stared at me. Slowly, her beautiful pale face broke into a grin, which
quickly widened until she was laughing uproariously, then uncontrollably,
supporting herself against the embrasure's wall, shoulders heaving.
After
almost two minutes of this, while I looked on in amazement, she slowly
quietened. We both stood watching the bailey's activity.
"Do
you think we can repulse the Fundamentals?" I asked.
"We
have a chance, boy. Now we have a chance. Of course, they'll be aware of our
knowledge of their battle-plans, and will adjust accordingly. But such
adjustments take time, and invariably breed confusion — facts that can
only be to our advantage, especially with Luug's backing. If other kingdoms can
be induced to join the cause then victory is almost guaranteed. But enough of
this. I have three hours until my next duties," she laid a hand gently
upon my shoulder, directing me away from the wall and into the suite.
"Come, boy... Teach me of country matters."
Dedicated to
Freddie Mercury, ultimate fairy dandy.