Engines & Demons - The Undestined

Chapter 1i

I'm dedicating this chapter to mizmouse for reading, voting, commenting and sharing. If you haven't seen any of mizmouse's work, check out her little book of poems, entitled 'Fear'. Don't get misled by the title. You'll laugh at them and maybe a little bit at yourself as well.

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PART 1

Sir Kralaford Layne, Pride-commander of the Order of the Plains, was pleased with his new saddle. He would have to give Engineer Sachva his deepest compliments when he next saw her.

He could feel the power of Hakansa's muscles as his steed pounded over the grasslands of the great-bailey hub, the madriel's haunches bunching with each great leap. The movements did not jar, and Sir Kralaford grinned as he lowered his lance and saw how steady he could hold the tip as he closed on the cherossa tree that he had chosen as a target. Sachva had got the suspension of the saddle perfect. The lance tip bounced smoothly with Hakansa's stride, and Sir Kralaford felt as though he could almost pick a single leaf to strike on any branch of the approaching tree.

The cherossa was young, not old enough to have seeded any saplings to grow in its sprawling shade, and not even large enough for that shade to be appealing to a full grown madriel. Maybe in a few years it would become more attractive, though no madriel would take advantage of it by crossing the line of ascension markers that lay half hidden in the long grass to the north of the tree.

Equally, not even Hakansa, as alpha of his pride, would cross that frontier unattended, for he had no claim to the land beyond. It was Sacsensia's territory, and stretched from that line of ascension markers, all the way to the northern edge of the great-bailey, five kilometres distant. Those two borders, and the roads that crossed the land between, were unchanging, but within the markers it was impossible to give the erratic territories of the six prides of Klinberg much physical decree.

Sir Kralaford lifted his lance point as his steed thundered past the sacred cherossa and carried him along the perimeter of the hub, which at that point lay only one hundred metres from the high walls of Klinberg's fortress-bailey. Those walls rose with the hill on which the fortress stood, to the sentinel tower, on top of its wedge of high rock. At that point, the width of the hub opened to the wide flat space of the battle-grounds, and as their path along the hub's edge turned to the south, Hakansa lowered his great head, his dark horns brushing the grass. Sir Kralaford knew he was taking its scent, and he judged that they had left the border of Sacsensia's territory and were passing along the territory of Falsch.

Pride-commander Unsaethel would not be far away.

When they found him, the old knight and his steed were virtually indistinguishable from the long grass in which they lay, on the very edge of the hub. Falsch's hide, like all creatures of the Pride that had lived many years, was scored with a pattern of old scars and was growing pale. Where it had once been dark and tawny, it was now the colour of the dry summer plains, and his curved horns, which had always been bright like burnished metal, were beginning to dull.

He lay on his side with his limbs outstretched and his head on its side, so that one massive horn curved through the long grass and the other arched upwards into the sky. Sir Unsaethel, Pride-commander of Katchewan Chapter, lay with his back resting on Falsch's slab like side, with his eyes closed and a long grass stalk jutting from the side of his mouth. His clothes were the green and black of his Chapter; faded and patched so that they blended with the hide of his steed and the grassland that surrounded them.

"Greetings, Commander Unsaethel," said Sir Kralaford as he and Hakansa approached the somnolent pair.

Falsch, though the old madriel must have smelt the approach of another alpha, even in his sleep, did not stir, but Sir Unsaethel opened one eye to stare balefully at his fellow Pride-commander.

"You are late," he said.

"And you are hardly dressed to carry out the lawful duties of our Order."

Sir Unsaethel took the grass stalk from his mouth and stood. Like his steed, his hair and beard were fading with age, though his body still held the strength of a knight of Klinberg, and his movements betrayed no sign of his gathering years.

"These clothes will do fine for the justice we are to dispense today. The criminals that we are to pass sentence on are hardly worth dressing well for."

"Well at least you have remembered your sword."

"Of, course," said Sir Unsaethel, stooping to retrieve his heavy curved broadsword, which had been lying in its scabbard in the grass beside him. "A man cannot pass judgement without the weapon that has earned him the right."

He buckled the big sword about his waist.

"Though why it was necessary for me to be disturbed at all, I do not know."

"Your seniority makes your presence necessary."

Sir Unsaethel stretched his back and winced.

"My body gives me new discomfort every day," he said.

"You should retire from command, old man."

Sir Unsaethel looked speculatively at the distant battle-grounds and the observation tower standing in their centre, surrounded by its jousting rings.

"One more Tourney for me, I think. I am not so old as to be incapable of teaching my third Echelon a few lessons in the ring."

"Doubtless you are not."

Sir Unsaethel glared at Sir Kralaford again, probably trying to detect the humour in his fellow Pride-commander, but Sir Kralaford deliberately kept his face impassive, and so the older knight turned instead to his slumbering steed.

"Up, beast!" he shouted, nudging Falsch's outstretched paw with his boot. Falsch did not move, except to extend his claws to dig six deep furrows in the dried earth. "Enough of your languor, animal! We have duties to perform. After that you can sleep. Hakansa's females will be dining on outlaw this morning, and if you are lucky then you may even be granted a lump of criminal flesh."

"It sounds like you have passed sentence already, Commander," said Sir Kralaford reprovingly.

"Of course I have. It saves time. Their crime is quite clear and the sentence therefore is quite clear; the rest is a mere formality. Up, you old brute!"

This last shout finally roused Falsch, who lifted his head and opened his eyes which, though they were pale grey, were still sharp and alert. He stood, and it was as though a part of the land had risen with a scent of musk and crushed grass. The great beast lowered his head and roared at Hakansa, and Sir Kralaford's steed bellowed his reply. Their growling was mere formality, for after the exchange, Hakansa lifted his head and sniffed the air with his long slitted nostrils, and Falsch yawned.

Despite his pronouncements of bodily pain, Sir Unsaethel climbed effortlessly into his saddle. He had the grass stem once more clasped between his teeth, but once mounted he pulled it out, threw it to the ground, and spat its tangy residue after it on to the dry earth.

"Let us get to our business," he said. "Lead on, Commander Kralaford. We have judgement to pass."