Harvest Plains: nation north of Rice Empire, west of Chenameg, south of Runcorn and east of Central Ocean; main cities are Selzirk (the capital) and Androlmarphos; rule is by 'kings', regional and city governors appointed by the 'Kingmaker' (currently Farfalla) who is in turn chosen from the common people by the Regency.
No time but sun time. A buzzard wheeling over barefoot fields. Drake at labour, the weather opening cracks deep in his leather-tough heels. Shiny black crickets at scramble in the heat-cracked land.
Nights in a bunkhouse, staring at nothing, scarcely listening to the peons yattering away in their incomprehensible Field Churl. Waking deep in the night. Listening to creaking snores, a snort, a murmur of night-talk. Tasting his own arm with his own lips. Salt of the day still heavy on his flesh.Solitary comfort.Pay day: wages scarcely better than slavery.
Thus Drake Douay lived after exile from Runcorn, doing farm work on an estate near Kelebes, in the Harvest Plains. It was better than starving – though not by much.
He was nineteen years old, and very far from home. And unable to return there, for Stokos was ruled by converts to Goudanism, who would murder Drake if they caught him, on the grounds that he was the son of the demon Hagon.
In the fields, he attacked weeds with a hoe, thinking
how much better that implement would be if its blade was made of steel instead of sharpened wood. He scared birds. He dug and deepened irrigation ditches so a precious trickle of water could dampen the dusty fields. He helped care for the oxen which turned the field-pumps. He spread dung. And he thought.Often it was Zanya he thought of.
Sometimes, gripped by mutilating rage, he dreamed of knifing her, battering her, smashing and gutting, wrecking her beauty to a corpse. For had she not denied him, abandoned him, betrayed him? Surely she deserved to die.
Other times, he imagined scenes of tender reconciliation. He would exlain why he had neglected her so in those last few months in Runcorn. He had been working for them, yes, securing the foundations of their future. That was important. To be strong together, united against the world. . .
Then he would think of Gouda Muck, who had poisoned the world with his madness. He would brood about murder, torture, maiming, hacking, smashing. And would attack weeds with hoe, working the anger out of his system.
Retiring to the bunkhouse at evening to drink water and eat the slave-mash served to labourers like himself. Evening . . . Untranslated voices . . . Sleep. . . Dreams . . .
Late in the season, he dreamed of Zanya. Not for the first time. But on this occasion, her face softened with pleasure, and they toasted each other, then spoke most intimately with hands and with lips. Waking, he knew he had forgiven her – if there was anything to forgive. And knew, too, that he was ready for his next move.Yet what should that next move be?
Drake had no idea, but took to walking in to Kelebes every evening from the estate where he was working. In the town, he sought out the few travellers who were still
moving north and south along the Salt Road, and asked them of the world. One evening, he heard a rumour of events in Hok. The next day, he did not go barefoot to the fields, but put on his boots and set off south, taking the road to Selzirk.
On his long march south to the capital of the Harvest Plains, he begged (or stole) what food and water he needed. And sought news at every opportunity. Everything he heard confirmed the original rumour.
When King Tor had invaded Stokos, rallying many loyal supporters to his banner, his forces had suffered a terrible defeat. King Tor had disappeared from the sight of the world.
Now it transpired that Tor had survived, retreating north across the few leagues of sea which separated the northern coast of Stokos from the rugged mountains of Hok, an almost uninhabited province of the Harvest Plains. There he had gathered his strength, and, after many moons of preparation, was beginning to make war on Stokos. Parties of highly trained assassins were infiltrating Stokos, sent to kill or kidnap selected enemies of the Rightful King.Drake grew increasingly excited.
Lord Menator's attempt to murder King Tor by sending him unsupported to war had failed. The Rightful King lived! Therefore Drake's hopes of a throne on Stokos lived!
Once he reached Selzirk, he would seek further news of Tor. Then he would go down the Velvet River to Androlmarphos. And, from there, south along the coast to Hok. He would place his skills at the service of King Tor. Oh, the ogre king had spoken roughly enough the last time they met, in the Inner Sleeve on Knock. But that was back on the Greaters, when the king was riding high. In exile, fighting a desperate war against dangerous odds, he would surely see the virtues of a young hero like Drake Douay in a better light.
Would there be danger in serving King Tor in a fight against Stokos? Danger is everywhere. Whatever lies ahead, it can't be worse than what I've been through. Anyway. It's the chance. Aye. To fight. To win power. So I can one day settle scores with Gouda Muck. And Menator! And shit-faced Sully Yot!
Could he work some of his friends into his plans for the future? Could King Tor use some good warlord captains? Of course he could!
Maybe he could make Jon Arabin an admiral or such. If it came from the king, not from me, the offer might suit friend Warwolf right enough. Better than being first mate for Abousir Belench, or whatever he is at the moment!
And the Walrus? For him, nothing! If he'd not started that trouble back in Penvash, life would be that much simpler. I'd have stayed with the pirates. I might still have Zanya, aye.Thinking of Zanya made him want to cry.
None of that nonsense, man! We're over that! It's the future to be thinking of now!
In Hok, perhaps, he might meet his brother Heth. If Heth still lived.
And that would be worth the walk. Man, that would be worth waiting for.