Gorgoroth (Haladras Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  Continuing on, they passed the open hangars where frigates, tenders, convoy ships, planethoppers, and cargo vessels were safely stowed. Sandstorms posed a constant threat to space crafts.

  Climbing a set of stairs, they made their way to the port office, where they could hire a transport. Skylar looked up at the four-story, steel-plated building, topped with watch tower and command post. The few windows it boasted, running the upper levels, acted as mirrors in the noon Haladrian sunlight. His own thoughts reflected back to that day he entered that building to stand before the Bureau of Interplanetary Travel. Kindor was with him that day. A sharp pang in his stomach reminded him of yet another unhealed wound. Kindor should be at the docks, or even commanding his own ship. If only…

  Does the pain ever stop?

  He shook his head, as if to shake the thoughts out of his head.

  Endrick opened the sliding portal door and stepped inside. Skylar made to follow. He stepped forward, but someone seized his shoulder and jerked him backward. Before he knew what was happening, he was whirled around to face the chest of a massive figure.

  “I thought I told you to clean the latrines,” growled a voice that rattled his bones.

  Rasbus, his old port master, stared down at Skylar with something like a smile on his face. Skylar half wondered if Rasbus might truly put him to work. Rasbus evidently read in Skylar’s face the need for discreetness. He turned to a few dockhands standing nearby and ordered them off on some conjured errand.

  “What ill wind brings you to my docks, Skylar?” he said in a low tone.

  “I’m just here to visit some of my old friends,” said Skylar.

  “That’s a bunch of malarkey. What are you really up to?”

  “I can’t say. It’s…complicated.”

  With his huge thumb and forefinger, Rasbus rubbed his chin. Then grunted.

  “Keep your secrets, then. What do you need?”

  "The Luna, she's docked here. Can you see that she's well looked after? We'll likely be traveling a great distance in her. We need a small transport, too. To get into Kaladra."

  “Consider it done.”

  Within minutes, Skylar and Endrick were climbing into the fastest two-seater Cloud Habor could supply.

  “Whatever you’re up to,” said Rasbus, before they left the harbor, “don’t do anything idiotic. You’re important now—as much as that fact pains me.”

  Skylar nodded, knowing full well he would probably break that promise more than once before their journey was through. With a wordless farewell, the pair sped away from the harbor, out into the endless expanse of Haladrian wasteland. Though he had hoped to avoid contact with anyone he knew on Haladras, Skylar felt gladdened by the brief reunion with his old harbor master. Rasbus would keep his secret. Of that, Skylar felt confident.

  Their first stop in Kaladras was to the Gorge, as it was called by the locals. Further west, that ravine was so harsh, it was named the Devil's Throat. A wide ravine, into whose walls were carved thousands of cave-dwellings and shops, all interconnected by a vast network of switchback paths. The early colonist of Haladras had painstakingly carved the first caves there. Not only did the ravine provide some shelter from the sun and sandstorms, but the rock isolated the dwellings, keeping the heat at bay. Skylar himself grew up in one of the small Gorge caves not far from where they now walked.

  The first shop they visited was an outfitter, where they purchased garments better suited for the Haladrian climate. To Skylar, the clothes felt familiar, yet somehow strange, as if he'd worn them before but couldn't remember when or where. The desert shroud an article he seldom wore during his years growing up on Haladras. Designed to prevent inhalation of sand during a sandstorm, it was mostly worn by colonist in the deep desert, where the storms were harsher and more frequent. Except for newcomers to Haladras, few people in the Gorge wore them. So Skylar would look like a newcomer—all the better. Though dark-lensed goggles and helmet usual accompanied the shroud, he opted to forgo wearing these.

  With Skylar as his navigator, Endrick piloted the transport down into the hidden tunnel that led to his father's underground cavern. Skylar had not visited there since his father's death. Everything lay just as he remembered. The solitary hammock where his father had slept, still hung along one of the side walls. The stone ledge still held its small collection of books. No embers glowed from the fireplace. The same sacks of flour and dried beans sack in the corner. Though, holes in some of the bags attested that desert rats had taken up moved in. His father's desk still sat near the wall opposite the hammock, maps, and parchments strewn across it. A few scattered garments lay on the floor, evidence of a hasty departure. Everything was there—except his father. Skylar scanned the room absently for several minutes before Endrick brought his attention back to what they came for.

  “So, what exactly are we looking for?” asked Endrick.

  “I don’t know,” said Skylar, making his way to the desk against the wall. “Some kind of clue as to the whereabouts of my sister. My father believed her to be alive, but we have no idea why. There must be something here to tell us what he knew.”

  “Right. And if there’s nothing?”

  “There must be.”

  “Excellent plan,” said Endrick, as he began sorting through a collection of books on the shelf of stone above his father’s hammock.

  Skylar sat down at the desk and slowly began searching through its contents. There were maps, star charts, notes, ledgers, invoices, catalogs, supply lists. All these Skylar read thoroughly, pouring over each one as if it were some priceless treasure; a tiny window into the secret life of his father. As he looked through these, he found a crinkled parchment which truly made him pause. It contained an old hand drawing, done in colored chalk. The image it portrayed was smudged from many years of frequent handling. Though little more than just a blur of colors, Skylar recognized the drawing as his own handiwork. He'd long forgotten about that drawing. Seeing it anew made him recall the day he gave it to his father, as though it had just a moment before.

  The picture was supposed to be of himself and his uncle Lasseter. Behind the pair, Cloud Harbor decorated the background. Skylar had only been eight years of age when he drew it. He cringed a little at his poor artistic ability. He never did enjoy drawing much. Those were the days before Skylar knew that Lasseter was actually his father, not his uncle. And not only his father, but King Athylian, believed dead by all. The days before Skylar grew disdain for the strange uncle that lived a secret, secluded life out in the Haladrian desert; that went about cloaked and hooded in the burning sun.

  Skylar continued to stare at the drawing. So many years. For so many years he never knew the truth. The sudden urge to turn back time hit him so hard he winced. The things he would change…

  No. Those days were gone. He forced himself to abandon such thoughts.

  He returned the drawing to its place in the desk drawer. It did not belong to him.

  Pulling open another desk drawer, Skylar continued his search. About mid-way through the drawer’s contents, he found a leather-bound book, with worn pages. Titleless.

  Cracking open the volume, he discovered what looked to be a journal. Precisely what he hoped to find.

  “I think I found something,” he said to Endrick.

  “I hope it’s something worth eating. All I’ve found is some dried beans and a few hard biscuits.”

  Skylar held out the tattered journal to Endrick.

  “Here. I think it’s my father’s journal. Will you read it? I don’t think I can manage it.”

  "Aloud?" replied Endrick, doubtfully.

  “Yes…I think.”

  Endrick took the book in his thick hands. Slowly, opened it and turned to the first page. Then cleared his deep voice before reading.

  Only with the greatest trepidation do I set pen to paper and attempt to recount the desperate condition in which I now find myself. I need not describe the treachery that brought
me to this state. The Royal Chronicles will show how King Athylian, of the House Ducädese, and his family were murdered in cold blood by the Tors. What they will not tell is how the king's own friend and trusted advisor conspired in the whole affair. Nor that the man once called Athylian yet lives.

  I am that man. Though, king I am no more. Nor ever shall be again. My life has but one purpose now: to protect the life of my son. It is only by some cruel and merciful fate that he and I yet live. I cannot close my eyes nor pause for reflection without my mind replaying that terrible day with agonizing clarity.

  The night before had been tiresome. Little Korbyn cried for much of it. And so in the early hours of the morning, I resolved to take the babe for a walk to the nearby village so that my lady might rest. Swaddling him in blankets, for the air nipped the bones, and placing him in a carrier pouch, I left my wife and daughter to the care and protection of my manservant and bodyguard. Korbyn always loved walks, and soon fell fast asleep. But I kept on to the village. Determined to let my lady rest as long as possible, and to purchase some fresh milk and butter for our breakfast.

  Now that I have time to reflect, it maddens me how tranquil and refreshing I found that walk. Not until I had fully left the village and walked halfway back to the vacation cottage, did I see the first plumes of smoke rising above the treetops. The first sign of it gave me no true cause for concern. A hunter’s fire or chimney fire, I believed it. Yet as I went on, the smoke grew and blackened so that I knew something to be amiss.

  Despite the slumbering child nestled in the pouch that I wore around my back, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Very promptly, little Korbyn began to wail. But still I ran. I arrived too late. I have no doubt that the scene which met my eyes as I entered that glade where the cottage stood shall haunt me until I die. Nothing but a fireball could I see of the cottage, the entire dwelling utterly engulfed in those vicious flames. And my darlings inside.

  I must spare further details about the scene, for fear I shall not get through this account. Suffice it to say that I exerted all my effort to enter the house and rescue my beloved wife and daughter. But my efforts were in vain. My arms bear the scars of my failed exertions. A madman I must have looked. I thought I would go mad watching…

  When it was over, I once again became aware of little Korbyn. I had set him down on the grass sometime before my crazed attempts to rescue my family. He was crying inconsolably. I believe those cries were the only thing that kept me from insanity. Straightway, I took him in my arms and went to locate the milk and butter I had purchased. The milk I found half spilled upon the ground. What remained I feed to Korbyn. This calmed him and made him smile at me. It was that smile which gave me resolve to go on, that I must now do all in my power to protect this infant, my son. And reason told me that I must take the child into hiding if I truly would have him safe. For I knew that no accident caused that fire.

  Realizing that the villagers would likely come soon, I determined to set off so that no one would find me there. But before I left, I wanted to find out what I could about the villains who did this. I easily found their tracks in the moist soil. There had been five or six of them. Their tracks I followed away from the cottage until I came to another clearing. The clearing bore obvious signs of a shuttle having launched from it. It was in this clearing that I discovered a partially charged bit of parchment clinging to a bush. I picked it up and read, “bring the little wench to me”. That was all I could read, for the rest of the note was burned away. Still, it gave me hope that the “little wench” might mean my daughter, that she yet be alive. I then turned the parchment over and made out the name “Kava.”

  Four

  “Kava?” said Skylar, interrupting Endrick’s reading. “Is that a person’s name?”

  “No idea,” replied Endrick, scratching his dark hair. “It’s not one I’ve ever heard before.”

  “Does he say anything more about it?”

  Endrick scanned the next page or two of the journal. Then shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  Skylar rested his forehead on his fist.

  "Then we have no idea who wrote that note, or why whoever it is would want my sister."

  “Or even if the note has anything to do with your family,” added Endrick.

  Skylar shook his head.

  “It must. It’s too coincidental not to be related.”

  “Let’s say it is about your sister,” said Endrick. “It’s obvious the orders were not carried out. Your sister’s remains were among the ashes, along with your mother’s and the servant’s.”

  “We don’t know that for certain. Everyone thought that the servant’s body was my father’s. Maybe the girl’s body they found wasn’t my sister’s.”

  “Whose was it, then?”

  Skylar rocked back in the desk chair. He understood Endrick’s point. Things just didn’t quite add up. Had his father been wrong about his sister? It was a possibility which made his heart sink. It nullified months and months of planning and preparation. And what more, it would mean that his sister—whom he never met—truly was dead. That his father had been mistaken. With his last moments of life, Skylar’s father had divulged to him the secret of his sister’s existence, and in the same breath charged him with finding her. Surely his father would not have committed Skylar to such a task without more substantive evidence. Wouldn't he?

  “There has to be something else we’re missing,” said Skylar after a few minutes of exploring possibilities in his mind. “You knew my father. He possessed sound reason and a keen mind. This wouldn’t be like him.”

  “Perhaps so. But the facts aren’t in your favor. Maybe if he had found her doll lying near the launch site, or evidence that the assassins brought another body to replace your sisters, or a ransom—”

  “That’s it,” exclaimed Skylar.

  “What’s it?”

  Skylar involuntarily shuddered as he considered the possibility of what Endrick had suggested.

  "Though it's depraved and barbaric, it would explain where the body came from."

  “You mean you actually believe that they brought some other child as a sacrifice, just so they could cover up the kidnapping?”

  “I don’t want to believe it. It’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard. The whole business is making me feel sick. But we’re dealing with Tors, aren’t we?”

  “It’s all still supposition, Skylar. No facts.”

  “It’s plausible, though. That’s sufficient for me.”

  Endrick raised his hands in the air.

  “Great! Plausible. We’ll go to who-knows-where, chasing after who-knows-who all because it seems plausible that the logical answer is wrong. Good. Glad we’ve got a solid plan.”

  Skylar didn’t respond to Endrick’s outburst but immediately busied his mind with the question of where to continue their search. The Tors were involved. They might have taken her back to their nation. Where, though? He and Endrick might spend years looking without some clue as to where to go first. He thought about the note again. Kava. There must something in that name. What could it be?

  “Surely, you had an idea, Father,” he muttered to himself, and he resumed rummaging through the desk drawers. Give me another clue.

  It did not take long before he found those clues. Among his father's things were star charts, planet diagrams, names of important people, dates—all related to the Tor nation. The Tors. Longtime enemies of the Ahlderion empire. Murders of his biological mother, the queen. They were the reason he would never know her, and may never know his sister.

  All that he found, Skylar studied with interest. Of all the maps, one he noticed appeared more worn than the others. As if someone had handled it many times. It diagramed a region of the planet Gorgoroth. It was a name he knew well enough. The Tor’s head of state resided on Gorgoroth. The region’s name meant nothing to Skylar. Harcain Dun, it was called, located in the planet’s southern hemisphere. But what
Skylar cared about was a thinly scribed circle he discovered. The circle was done by hand, in ink. And it surrounded a tiny blot on the map; a hamlet, with the name Kava.

  “You want to go to that tick mark?” said Endrick after Skylar showed him his discovery. “Of all the places in the universe...”

  “I know it’s a long shot. But it’s the best lead we have, and…my father apparently believed it important.”

  “You don’t have to go, you know?”

  “There he goes again. I’m going, wherever it is, whether you or I like it.”

  “That settles it, then. We leave for Gorgoroth as soon possible.”

  After Skylar had collected all pertinent maps and documents—including his father’s journal—they set off again for Kaladra, to rendezvous with Grüny. The Haladrian sun was still high in the cloudless sky. It was the high summer season in the northern hemisphere of Haladras. And the days blazed on endlessly. They sped their way back across to the desert in silence.

  Back at the Gorge, they went to work procuring the necessary provisions for the remainder of their journey. Mostly, they needed food. Krom had permitted them to take only a two week's supply of food from the castle's larder. Any more than that would have brought unwanted questions. If they were to travel to Gorgoroth, they needed at least another month’s worth. They had visited a dozen different shops before the pair had purchased all the fresh water, dried meats, cheese, and bread wafers they thought they would need.

  After each shop visit, Endrick grumbled about the quality of the provisions. “I knew I should have poached a few more of those meat pies from Maud. I’ll be as skinny as you by the time we get back—if we get back at all.”

  "You could never be thin as I am," said Skylar. "Even if you tried. You're as solid as a chunk of limestone."

  “Well, my stomach’s sure to feel like it’s full of sandstone after eating some of this so-called food.”

  Skylar worried little about what they would eat. Traveling across the galaxy, leaving the empire’s safeguard, exploring an enemy planet: those things worried him. Gorgoroth. The very name produced a feeling of foreboding. Gorgoroth. What good could come from a planet with such a name?