Dispossession

Copyright © 2016 by Amar Mehta.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Rev. date: 10/18/2016

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Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1    The Three Newcomers

Chapter 2    Borg

Chapter 3    The Duel

Chapter 4    A Father’s Demise

Chapter 5    The Buffoon’s Act

Chapter 6    The Eavesdrop

Chapter 7    Evil among Evil

Chapter 8    Up in Old Bower

Chapter 9    The Pact

Chapter 10    In Dust and Dark

Chapter 11    Conflagration

Chapter 12    Behind the Breakfront

Chapter 13    The Script

Chapter 14    Foretoken

Chapter 15    The August Picnic

Chapter 16    A Warrior’s Revelation

Chapter 17    Messengers

Chapter 18    Lady Leera

Chapter 19    The Bow

Chapter 20    The Fan Dance

Chapter 21    Fletching

Chapter 22    Castle Pius

Chapter 23    The Wayward Arrow

Chapter 24    The Bale

Chapter 25    Durben

Chapter 26    Allies

Chapter 27    Schism

Chapter 28    The Spar

Chapter 29    The Final Warning

Chapter 30    The Last Prayer

Chapter 31    The Tournament

Chapter 32    The Star Council

Chapter 33    The Intuition

Chapter 34    The Arc-Angles of Love

Chapter 35    Infirmary

Chapter 36    The Soul

Chapter 37    The Wulgar Invasion

Chapter 38    Free Lance

Chapter 39    By the Light of Leera

Chapter 40    The Champion

Chapter 41    Dispossession

Chapter 42    The Line of Leera

Acknowledgements

This book is

dedicated to my dad, Harshad Parekh, for knowing who I am.

In loving memory of Alexis Lasker. Your heart made me feel at home.

Love:

It draws souls closer

Until you are what you love.

Hate:

It draws souls closer

Until you are what you despise.

—from Lorar Mythos

PROLOGUE

L IGHTNING STRAGGLED IN THE sky. Like the crack of thunder the double doors of the dining hall snapped shut. You killed my son! he roared. He tore off his helm as if it were everything between him and the reality of his fury-stricken grief; his action offered no clarity as how lightning blinds more than illuminates. You killed my son! He threw Lady Leera, the savior of his people, the spirit of his fortress, his mentor, his ally, his mother for none had he had, against the wall. You killed … my son! He threw her other half upon herself—the diamond sword struck the diamond shield. With the only expression left proper to his mind, he set the jewels ablaze with flames so great, they needed not touch the tapestry for the last remaining depiction of Lady Leera to catch fire where it hung on the wall.

The alarums and excursions of surrounding battle shook the tiled floor. Without him his people could only hope to overcome the Wulgar invasion. He was their champion. He was their savior, as the lady had been in her times of yore. But what savior was he if he could not save the person he loved foremost, taken from him by she whom he had trusted foremost?

Flames gave way to tears. Dropping to his hands and knees, he wept openly before the sword and shield. The only light came from the tapestry, burning in the darkness, not actively anymore but in a dying fire.

A feminine voice spoke to him, slowly, deliberately, curried with concern: I am sorry … for your loss.

Quieting, the Champion turned his head. A slender shape slipped into the dining hall, clad in gathering shadows. Her oily black gaze drew closer until she knelt beside him. With a knowing hand, she touched his face, a gesture so confident in its gentleness and knowledge of his helplessness, it mocked him like an insolent slap.

He slapped her hand aside and, drawing a dagger, pressed it between her ribs. Even in my weakest moment can I end this all, the Champion snarled.

She held his gaze, still as she was silent save for the red-gold glinting of affected tears in her eyes.

I know what you come for, he spat. Take Lady Leera. Do with her what you will. Have her know the pain I now know, the pain of my loss and her betrayal.

The Killer snatched up the diamond shield with a vulturous expectancy that mocked his right of choice and the rest of his years ahead. She stood. Her firelit silhouette shuddered as the spirit of the shield attempted to possess her.

She arched her neck and laughed. Ah, Leera Brighteyes, we meet again.

Leave the sword, the Champion said.

Sylfaen’s voice crept from beneath her hood, What need of you with it?

Leave it and leave.

The blood of his son crimsoned the diamond blade in a shimmering tide. He would break the sword. He would break her.

CHAPTER 1

 The Three Newcomers

"Fortress Leera,

Drawing near’a;

Yem stones are burnished bright.

Leera, Leera,

Eyes a mirro’

Of the starful night.

Your O! strong walls

And O! Starhall

Give reason to lax our fear ’a;

Safe from Wulgars,

Home to Lorars,

You are our dear’a Leera."

A SINGING RABBIT-ELF, OR RELF, broke through a grazing herd of parandruses, spinning around with his arms and sleeve-like ears outstretched and his head tipped back, so as for the sun and crystal blueness of the sky to overwhelm his eyes. He howled and whooped, then tripped over his hanging boot soles and crashed into the ground, attracting the wary eye of the parandruses around him.

Trailing him were two others. The bear was of immense stature, with haze gray eyes and fur, and visage as set as his stone jaws. His footsteps raised puffs of dust like smoke from stomped-out flames, and his chest, stripped to the buff and thick with thew, took the brunt of the sun without a shirk. A large haversack clung to his back, while on his shoulder the lethal edge of a fearsome battle-ax sliced sunrays in a glorious fashion.

Beside him, the rocbird hobbled along on her knobby-kneed legs, her bloodred feathers compensating by flashing like rubies in the sweeping sunshine. Her claws and beak hooked like sickles. Her folded wings spanned sixteen-feet, and while the bear’s eyes continually surveyed all points of the grassland, her gaze, more piercing than the tip of her pale beak, stared straight, beyond the Relf, beyond the herd of parandruses, at her goal—the horizon.

Oh, Sir Parandrus, do I startle you? the Relf said as he rubbed one on the back. The parandruses were regal creatures, some splaying their sticklike legs and grazing, some napping on bony beds of broken grass, twitching their ears and swishing their tails. Their hides formed camouflage, while their five tall crowning horns shone black—sharply black—against the golden grassland.

Aloud the Relf reckoned the ridges on the creature’s horns, unaware the parandrus lowered its head to suckle the flask on his girdle.

By the stones in my ears! The Relf pulled away his flask and re-corked it, but the parandrus had imbibed its share by this time and now crumpled to the ground, kicking and writhing. Sir Parandrus, how rude of you to drink from another’s container! The dying creature burst into flames, which soon disappeared: a rare wind came by and transported the ashes away to where lakes silvered the horizon.

The Relf joined his companions, now spilling the golden liquid of the flask down his throat and then offering some to the bear.

The bear denied it in a snarl: Your killing of a harmless creature is nothing to buffoon about!

It was an accident. What more can I say?

Does it occur to you that you may hurt upon those you try to welcome and entertain?

It was an atrocious waste of meat, the rocbird reproved in a raspy voice like a loud crow’s caw.

Grunting, the Relf drooped his ears and wiped sweat from its path down his neck. How much longer?

Silence answered him, and silent it stayed as they plowed through the crisping stalks and herd of parandruses.

Very well! the Relf exclaimed after but a moment, so loudly that his companions flinched. That’s enough of this dreary march! Let us lighten our steps, shall we?

The bear and rocbird made none a response.

What’s your name? the Relf demanded.

Nothing was said toward this.

I take it that your name is privy. How old are you, Privy? the Relf asked, goading the bear in the shoulder with a finger. Nothing to say? Just fine. You resemble one who ought to’ve been dead ten seasons ago, Privy. When’s your birthnight, Privy?

The silence continued.

Where do you live, Privy? Surely not in the privy?

"Do you know where I live? the bear roared. A nearby cluster of reeds caught aflame. I live in a fire-wrought inferno with nothing around me but grass, nothing above me but sun, and nothing beside me but two companions, one of whom is an annoying buffoon of the name Pantaloon, who never leaves a tortured mind in peace. That’s-where-I-live-right-now!"

That’s-the-spirit-I-want-to-hear! Pantaloon encouraged, backslapping his companion.

The bear muttered something and clapped a paw to his face, which served as yet another mistake.

Oh, baby bear, don’t be cwying. What’s wong? Pantaloon squeaked, puckering his lips, squinting his eyes, slackening his ears, and snuffing through his nostrils. I norra gonna believe I made a bear cwy—

For the sake of Adaxus the Mighty, the bear growled, what do you want, Pantaloon the Buffoon?

I have what I want, and I get what I have, but I want what I get, yet I have what I get!

The bear thought on it for a little while. That makes no sense.

Nonsense! Of—

Exactly, that was the word!

I didn’t—

Of course you did. Come here, Relf, said the bear.

Drawing him closer, he rested an arm on Pantaloon’s shoulder—then snapped it into a headlock.

He spoke over Pantaloon’s cry, It’s about time you grow up, Relf. I should lock you in a cellar.

A wine cellar—

Silence! the bear barked, tugging the Relf’s head. When we arrive, I expect you to behave! Sixteen years the Leerans have changed. No talk of Wulgars, war, nor—

Chah! Sixteen years we brought them war.

Lord Begerth, Fortress Leera is ahead, the rocbird said.

The bear released the Relf and continued forward.

We made it! the buffoon cried, collapsing to his knees, his hands and ears shooting to the sky. Through all this toil and turmoil, a trudge through all that drudgery, at last we may lay our eyes upon Fortress Leera!

Mara, the buffoon said as he caught up with his companions, why don’t you fly there now and tell them to prepare some foodstuff for my belly, preferably blueberry pie or strawcherry bumbleberry—

The place is not just a kitchen, Mara cawed. And I’m not leaving you here alone.

Pantaloon cried out in distress, clutching his belly as if it might bounce to the fortress without him. What’s wrong with leaving? Are you afraid of some Wulgars attacking us? For I think not. From his girdle, the Relf slid out two swords with his ears and another two with his hands, and threw a leg back in a fighting stance, his blades pointing outward.

Begerth looked between his two companions. Pantaloon, he said, stop cutting up and put those away.

Plainly, the Relf did not hear. Flinging himself into a wild sword dance, he mowed the ryegrass about him as if he were a windmill and his swords horizontal vanes.

Begerth begrudged a chuckle.

Anyway, Mara, you ought to go ahead, he said.

Nay, Lord Begerth, she denied. For danger could be anywhere.

*

Inside Fortress Leera’s brown, roomy gatehouse were cubbyholes crammed with jeweled ornaments, glass bottles, and rolls of parchment. A handsome breakfront stood against the back wall, its four glass cabinets brimming with bound books and its central projection graced by a horologium, the pendulum of which traced time into the doldrums.

Two fair-skinned elves sat in deep silence, one young and tall, the other aged and taller, both intent on parchments.

The founders of Fortress Leera were—?

The young elf scowled, and clink went the nib of his Ör quill as he dipped it into an inkbottle. He hunched over his test, his bangs tiptoeing on the paper. Leera Brighteyes he inscribed on his answer parchment, adding flourishes to all the letters. Never would he forget that name. He had dreams about her. But who was the Great squirrel who helped her? He turned his mind inside out. This was the sort of question placed at the end of a speculation more as a ritualistic reminder than a test of knowledge… .

One arcmin, Nildor, said the old elf.

Nildor nodded, and as he did, he could see in the reflection of the breakfront’s glass the sunlight that flooded the rose window above him striking the spire of his elven ear and glinting in his hair like metallic fire. His stomach unclenched as he inscribed Sylfaen the Scholar.

I’m done, Master Huber, he said, and leaning his head back, his neck groaned like the ancient hinges of Fortress Leera itself.

The schoolmaster looked up, one of his stern brows rudely curved. I will not take blanks for answers.

I’m done, Nildor repeated. He stretched his hands over his head, tipped his chin back, and bellowed in relief. Four se’nnights, twenty-eight carefree days, lay in front of him, one of which would host the Feast. He combed through the opportunities of this long recess—but found boredom.

Very well then, stow your answer parchment in that cubby, Huber sighed. Leave the test on the table.

Clearing his desk of the inkbottle, inkblots, quills, and parchments, Nildor grew aware of the exasperation in his schoolmaster’s stare. So he added with little guilt, I beg your pardon for my tardiness, Master Huber.

No more second chances will I grant you. You abuse your privilege as the Champion’s grandson.

It’s not that, Nildor said. And then it dawned on him that the second founder of Fortress Leera had been the Great squirrel Seffa, not Sylfaen.

A knock came on the door, Lady Greffier the recorder calling, Somebody’s at the gate!

Ah, it must be the Peregrine… Master Huber stood. And as for … With sudden violence for one so experienced with years, the schoolmaster grabbed the script he had been perusing and stuffed it in a compartment beneath his desk. He strode to the door hotly, saying, Stay. I may be in need of you. And therewith he exited the gatehouse.

Nildor’s heart struck up a quick march. He closed the door and slid over to Huber’s desk.

He plucked out the parchment stuffed in the desk compartment, curious as to what could have caused the schoolmaster to abuse a thing so precious, dappled as it was with age. Carefully he unfolded it—and was reeled backward to see inside rows of cryptic figures dancing and bowing their way down the parchment, forming words he could not fathom apart from those of the first paragraph, which read:

Having foreseen my death, I leave this to you. Herein lies the secret of the Linlorian Lineage. You will behold it in time or may its lore rest with Lorantine. I no longer take pride in it.

What in the realms of heaven? He crunched the parchment back into a ball.

And on the rim of his perception, his mind had notched onto a groove, like a wheel caught rolling along a rut, running toward some unthinkable revelation… .

A breath of noise, the rustling of tree leaves perhaps, derailed Nildor and leapt him to his chair and paused him only long enough to stuff the scroll back into the desk compartment. Seated, he heard the rare groan of Fortress Leera’s gates opening and knew that he indeed had had more time even though he heard some disturbance, some bit of rustle somewhere.

Master Huber’s voice came after a while, Here is the gatehouse.

The gatehouse was hot. But when the door flew open, it was accompanied by a wave of even hotter air. Huber stepped in first, flashing Nildor a look that spoke, Watch your manners now. In the next instant, Nildor’s breath hung with awe, for surely the tapestry of a rocbird in his grandfather’s cabin had magically come to life: An enormous bird squeezed past the threshold, crimson all over save for her glassy-black talons and whitish beak. She was followed by a Relf whose ears rested on his head in what seemed like an inextricable knot. And finally, ducking beneath the lintel, a bear passed inside, his upper body naked and a battle-ax upon his shoulder.

A gatehouse is this? the bear said, clearly amused.

I keep an eye out for Wulgars from above my books, Huber responded. Nildor, this is Lord Begerth, former Bear King.

Nildor sprang from his chair and saluted smartly. Nildor Rauthr, at your service, Lord. He was full of wonder—a Bear King!—and fancied that if he were to punch Lord Begerth, his arm would crumple to unforgiving musculature.

Lord Begerth nodded and clasped Nildor’s hand with calculated strength, benign, yet with enough grip to betoken bone-crushing might.

Huber continued, This is Breeches the—

Rather Pantaloon the Buffoon. The Relf undid his tangled ears and shook Nildor’s hand with an earend so soft that it was almost intimate.

And this is Mara Reddrift, Huber finished, as both Nildor and the rocbird bowed low to each other.

Now then, Nildor, Huber said, show Lord Begerth to PB1, Pantaloon to PP3, and Mara to PR1 lodgings, and after an approximate ten arcmins, collect them therefrom on your way to midday meal.

Permanent lodgings? Nildor said.

Will my lodgings have a fireplace? Lord Begerth asked.

Pantaloon wagged his ear reprovingly at Nildor. Did you think we were here for just one fine Leeran supper when there are endless to be had?

Little need you’ll have for one this summer, said Huber.

It took a moment for Nildor to find his tongue. No, sir—Sir Pantaloon. I had thought you here solely for the Feast. The schoolmaster motioned for him to get on with it, so Nildor continued: Welcome to Fortress Leera, a haven of peace and a home for all Lorars.

At this statement, the three newcomers looked at each other, and Nildor wondered why.

On the eastern stretches of Arnar Country, Fortress Leera was the symbol of refuge to any goodly creature. Gleaming like a moon-struck night, walls of bluestone ashlar climbed over each other like siblings engaged in affectionate rivalry until the innermost wall broke from earthly bounds, taking its rightful place against sky. Once past the fortifications blue stone gave way to the brown wood; walls gave way to cabins and flats connected by linear roads, which gave the fortress a checkered appearance from above.

To look ahead was to be blinded by the sun, but Nildor shaded his eyes with an upward hand, Begerth with his battle-ax, Pantaloon with his ears, and Mara with one of her majestic wings: They wended down the wide vacant road edged by single-story tenements constructed by the Great beavers.

The downcurved roofs and narrow oval windows overlooked the causewayed main road known as the Line. To step off the Line was to be lost for some, but Nildor had wandered the streets many a time during sleepless nights. Seldom during this arc-hour was the Line dispeopled as this: The Leerans celebrated the finish of the academic year in Starhall, where Nildor would have been had he not overslept the morn because of a recurrent dream of a bright-eyed beast in pinewoods. But here he was instead, showing a bear, Relf, and rocbird to their lodgings—and honored to be so doing.

What decided you to stay here? he asked, supposing he would be stupid to silence away his time with such company, slowing his pace so he could speak comfortably to the three newcomers.

While there is a new Garkanyan King, Hur Flaucht, Lord Begerth answered, I need not despair. I have come here to enjoy my retired life with Pantaloon and Mara, my faithful companions.

But this is a peaceful place, lacking warriors of the sort whose company to which you are accustomed, Nildor said.

Begerth laughed. It was not so peaceful here before you were born. Anyway, I do not plan to retire still clutching my warrior ways. All four Lorars turned a corner, pivoting the sun to the side. They dropped the shade from their eyes. I wish to hang my battle-ax, Labrys, beside Lady Leera’s sword.

Lady Leera’s sword? Nildor replied, immediately intrigued. But will her spirit not overwhelm you?

Lord Begerth glanced at Nildor nigh-hand suspiciously. That is only if I touch her weapon, which I would not do for all my life is worth.

For all my life is worth, Nildor thought, I would touch her sword. Coming to the bear’s shoulder, the elf was tall among his peers, his height nonetheless kept gainly by the lean muscle wrapping him, a result of his pastime of flinging stones, swimming, and tree-climbing, moreover sparring with tree branches ever and again with his friend Rimalguan, an activity deemed too violent, ceased when Rimalguan’s parents discovered a scratch atop their son’s eyelid.

In effort to keep the conversation alive and sate his curiosity, Nildor queried about Garkanyon, a Leeran stronghold built atop a sheer crag on the west side of Arnar Country, where the Bear King trained Lorars in the military arts until they were qualified to join the Lorar Rangers. In response Begerth spoke tersely of the stronghold’s history, its prospect, and its lifestyle, of calisthenics, weapon mastery, sentry duty, and warcraft lectures, until Nildor asked, Are the Wulgars the cause of any trouble?

All seems at peace this summer, the bear replied, although it is no longer for me to judge. The Lorar Rangers patrol Arnar Country for any dangerous thing—or Wulgar—but sixteen years it has been quiet.

Ever since the Last Wulgar Invasion? Nildor said, avid to speak of a topic greatly distasted.

You are right. But remember this, young elf, there is and will always be a certain risk to leaving a Lorar stronghold. Begerth gave pause to a hesitation. Then something within him let go as he added in a rush, Arnar Country is still unsafe with the corsairs of archipelago Tursiops. The project I had set out to do and Lord Flaucht is to continue with henceforward is not only to train Lorars for the Rangers but also for a marine cadre. Fortunately, the corsairs remain dormant lending us time to learn from the Great beavers of Beöför.

And in the silence that followed, the bear strode tensely. The only sounds were the bird-calls and the clapping of footwear against cobbles, especially Pantaloon’s boots, whose soles were peeled at the front so that their hanging lips spanked.

Have you ever attempted to rid all of Arnar Country of Wulgars, that we may not worry of their … peaceableness? Nildor pressed.

Nay. For one, what you suggest is nigh impossible, Begerth answered. Understand that Wulgars could be hidden anywhere, for they are razor shells in a vast sea of sand. He glanced appraisingly at Nildor. And you will not understand the other reasons until you meet one. So enough about war, young Leeran. I am here for peace.

Nildor was embarrassed for having pushed the bear to the extent of a complaint and silently continued leading the