Dassuk: Part the Second: Thunderstroke

By Gordon Greenlaw

Thunderstroke*

Warning!

Contains barbarian warriors, bloodthirsty monsters and weird sex.
Does NOT contain sorcerers, paranormal powers or parallel universes.
Warranted dragon-free.

*The second tranche of the Bignose Cache.

In these scrolls, Leron the Dassuk, or Lord Harum, Wind from the North, to give him his formal titles, reveals more of his unlikely path to absolute power, and we hear from the Standardbearer for the first and only time.

Exactly why Leron was condemned to Winter is explained, and his bonding with Lekk the Nightmare, super-carnivore, described. Leron recounts the Betrayal of the Zeppers, and introduces us to the aggressively vegan Albanovans. And we meet the two women in his life: Khala, the blind pleasure slave whose espionage network is key to the success of the Five, and Lissa, his bedwarmer, who has no fear of dassuks.

Leron knows that the power of the Five will never be secure until he imposes his will on the Mantz, the industrialists, the weaponmasters, whose wealth and influence pose a permanent challenge. How he achieves this through diplomacy, intrigue and selective assassination is revealed, and how, along the way, he acquires a new weapon. Thunderstrokes are primitive explosive devices – Leron considers using them against the rhales, the large, aggressive and fiercely territorial cetaceans that make ocean travel between the planet’s widely separated islands impossible.

Read the final scrolls from the Bignose Cache in Dassuk:, Part the Third: Whipsticker

For more information on the world of the Dassuk, including full colour maps, go to http://www.dassukworld.co.uk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Greenlaw
• Release date: Jul 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301982967

Gordon Greenlaw

Gordon Greenlaw is a nom-de-plume that conceals the identity of a former globetrotting business journalist/desk editor who now spends much of his time writing/editing/collaborating on non-fiction books, mostly about environmental and sustainability issues. The Dassuk trilogy is his first venture into fiction: its genesis dates back more than a decade, its emergence into public view was triggered by a family tragedy. A sequel is already taking shape.

Book preview

Dassuk

by

Gordon Greenlaw

Part the second:

Thunderstroke

Copyright 2013 Gordon Greenlaw

Smashwords Edition

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This book is dedicated to

my beloved son Guy

1972-2009

Table of contents

Prologue

Map 1

Map 2

Second reading – testimony of the standardbearer

Ninth revelation – harum

Tenth revelation – winter

Eleventh revelation – shaghead

Twelfth revelation – Lah

Thirteenth revelation – seers

Fourteenth revelation – khala

Fifteenth revelation – lissa

Sixteenth revelation – Hunters

Seventeenth revelation – slimesuckers

Eighteenth revelation – Lekk

Nineteenth revelation – rhales

Twentieth revelation – jorkis/rhales 2

For more information, including full colour maps, go to http://www.dassukworld.co.uk

Prologue

Midnight. Two moons glow in a misty sky. On the island at the mouth of the bay raw stonework soars upwards. Ramparts and turrets loom over the shallow waters. Torches flare; light gleams on polished metal, confident boots raise martial echoes on the battlements. Dominating the whole complex, rising high above battlements and barbican, is one central, circular tower, its ashlar walls unstained, its conical iron-tiled roof barely rusted.

A soft light spills from a ring of small, unglazed windows below the eaves. Inside, the single room is stark: black iron floor, one black iron door with elaborate bars and locks. Five glass and iron lamps around the plastered, limewashed walls give off elusive fragrances that struggle to mask the odours of fresh mortar and protective oils. To the right of the door hangs a huge tapestry.

Its colours are bright, even garish; it depicts in stylized form a multitude of green islands in a pale blue sea. Seven of the islands dominate the rest; several dozen smaller ones are also represented. There are no names on the map, only a random scatter of heraldic blazons, bright with primary colours.

Opposite the tapestry a man sits at a desk cunningly jointed and carved from ivory. His braided hair is black, his skin a light olive with a hint of indigo, he wears the loose clothing of a tropical culture. In front of him the desk is littered with scrolls, small jars, hand tools, and what can only be short blowpipes with swollen mouthpieces. He hunches over the desk, writing in a flowing, cursive script on crisp, semi translucent paper.

A bell sounds, a grunting, laboured voice murmurs through the low grille in the middle of the door. The writer jumps to his feet, blowpipe in hand, and snaps out an impatient enquiry. Again, the grunting voice answers. Shrugging his shoulders, the writer turns to his desk, operates a long lever. The door swings open.

A tall man in elaborate robes enters. His reluctance is obvious. For a moment he is tongue tied, then, in a carefully neutral voice:

"News from Lord Orcan, fresh from Upper Lah, Lord. He has taken Tanith Hold – many prisoners, many hostages, half a mansweight of silver. He says. his voice falters for a moment, then continues: He says the Lady has shown us her favour again. Glory to the Five, he says."

"Tanith Hold? roars the writer. The Grey Krutz are supposed to be fucking neutrals – we have a treaty, for fuck’s sake." He stamps across the room, glares at the tapestry for a long moment, turns on his heel.

"Lekk? he shouts through the door. Find Mhet now, get him to the Iron House by dawn.

"You he adds, glaring at the robed man, Take ten Troopers, trawl the bathhouses until you find the Dodo, sober him up, get him to the Iron House as well."

Turning away, the writer begins rolling up the documents on his desk and sliding them into ivory cylinders. The robed man lingers at the door, looks over his shoulder, hesitates.

"And Lord Khakis?" he ventures.

A bark of sardonic laughter. That pleasure will be mine.

Map 1

Map 2

Book of Revelations

Compilation authorised by Third Convocation of Pod Yot, with additional material from the Ras Hold Archives and donations by the Elders of Brelana.

Footnotes and comments by the Chosen Archivists

Part the Second

Second Reading

Testimony of the Standardbearer

As dictated to Rani Leronson the Younger, subsequently contributed by the Elders of Brelana and approved for dissemination by the Second Council of Chabbay.

I was there, as the world knows. It was I who first unfurled the Virgin White; it was I, Dharin of the Ropewalkers, who held the Russet and Purple aloft on Corfor. There I stood, beside the Dassuk, and watched the Bo’Hatz and DaDanz go down to red ruin and disaster on Harum Hill. And counted myself lucky to be safe there with the rearguard, well away from the arrowstorm.

But the Lady has been at my shoulder since the night I saved the Dassuk’s life, so long ago. Now I have fame and fortune, a modest but well-chosen seraglio, a high status wife and sons aplenty. True, life is not what it was, but then what is? The sweet flame of my youth burns but dimly now, the days of fierce hope and exultation in victory are long gone and the final darkness is there on the horizon.

So be it. Leron’s Children would silence me if they could, and indeed I have been discreet of late and all but retired from public life. But it seems there are those who would ensure that the true story is preserved, and so here you are, pestering me to break my silence and speak out. To you, Brelani spy that you probably are, with the indigo tinge to your skin and your fancy fingernails.

Do I fear your poisons? Me, who slept beside the Dassuk without a qualm? There is little fear left in me. But I am ready to talk, it is well beyond time for me to talk, and to tell the whole truth at last. And so I will, just keep the arrak coming.

Yes, I will start at the beginning, fear not. Not the beginning you mean, Brelani, not the night I saved the Dassuk, oh no. My beginning, I mean. Yes, I am laughing. Because I know nothing of my beginning, that’s why, nothing of who my father was, nor of which sept or bund I could call mine. I was a foundling, see. Dumped outside the first Ropewalker’s guildhall, naked and grizzling in a rotting basket.

How old was I then? No idea. Old enough to be sold to a slave farmer, certainly, which tells me my mother was no drab in a bathhouse. Probably I was the fruit of a bedwarmer, one who served an indulgent master and was allowed to give their child a better chance of life than a slave would ever know. A prosperous craftsman my father, probably, one with a shrill wife who would never accept a bedwarmer’s get into the household.

He might even have been a ropewalker himself. All pointless speculation, I know, but as I grew older I found myself scrutinising the features of all the senior ropewalkers, hoping to discern a resemblance.

All the guilds took in foundlings in those days, and were glad to get them. None would reveal their Secrets to slaves, so, as Gheenbay boomed, they became increasingly eager to recruit new apprentices.

Guilder children, of course, had a smooth path from birth, and, as I was to discover, even the middle ranks of the hierarchy were exclusively for the Guild-born. But there were still not enough Guild-borns back then to meet the need, so foundlings were taken in willingly.

The guilds themselves were still something of a novelty in those days. Yes, there had been secret Craft societies on all the Great Islands for many seasons, a natural reaction to the incessant and unreasonable demands of the Bundlords, but they had little real power or influence, I was told. But, when the first renegade craftsmen came skulking into Gheenbay, following the silver trail of the Zepps from Chabbay, they soon grew weary of their uncomfortable lives caught between the Zeppers and the Thin Krenditzi.

Ropewalkers, metalsmiths, thatchers, all the crafts found solidarity with fellow craftsmen more relevant than any lingering Bund loyalties. So the guilds were formed, one by one, and the first crude Guildhalls arose. Most had been replaced with much grander structures by the time I was old enough to notice: the Ropewalker’s was one of the finest, of course, although you would expect me to say that.

Then came the Guilds Council. They were brave men, those first Councillors. They knew the Krenditzi might take umbrage at such a flaunting of emancipation, and that they would be the obvious focus of the Krenditzi’s displeasure, and, indeed, in later days, a Councillor would be dragged off to the Arena from time to time, just to remind Gheenbay who had sovereignty here.

But in truth it suited the Krenditzi to have the Council responsible for the setting of rates and the collection of taxes and levies, so while they never formally recognised its existence, they dealt with it as convenient. A similar hypocrisy applied to the Open Cartel.

As far as the Krenditzi were concerned, of course, there was no difference between the Guilds, the Zeppers or the gasmasters. All were Zeppers to them, renegades to a man, almost as low and despicable as the Huntz. We never saw high status Krenditzi in Gheenbay when I was young, just the militias, usually commanded by a low status junior Krenditzi, eager for bribes and ransoms, ever ready to snatch up any stray child that could be sold on to the slave farmers.

Now, since the Awakening, Bundlords come to Gheenbay as humble petitioners, in simple Virgin White robes, a great satisfaction to those old enough to remember different times. These days, unfortunately, no-one bothers to pelt the petitioners with dung. To do so now would be beneath my present dignity, but I still remember with glee how we spattered the first Krenditzi to present themselves for judgement after the Awakening.

Everyone was there; Guild Councillors, Cartel members and gasmasters alike were flinging the shit alongside the hairy men and the militias. A great day, and a better night followed, a wallow in fine arrak and Krenditzi virgins. Something you never forget, and a fitting reward for my services to the Dassuk.

What services, you ask? All in good time. Be patient. This is my story, and it will be told my way or not at all. Understood? Good. So, back to those early days, before the Dassuk arrived, back to my pre-Initiate innocence, safe behind the walls of the Guildhall. All in all, things could have been worse. There were usually around a long dozen of us foundlings in each clutch, under the wing of an elderly widow earning her pension.

She taught us little beyond continence, cleanliness and unthinking obedience, but the food, if plain, was adequate, the beds, if crowded, were dry, and we were allowed to play games and rush around in a shabby courtyard. And no-one was actively or maliciously unkind to us. No-one showed us much affection, either.

My Initiation? You know nothing of such things, do you, Brelani? So we are enlightened now, and no longer believe that untrimmed danglers turn a pubescent child into a monster, hey? Well, I was decently Cleansed and so were all my children when the time came, and so are most in Gheenbay and everywhere in the Seven Islands.

Yes, there are many now amongst us who seek to emulate the Dassuk, but those of us who knew him know it takes more than an untrimmed cock. And yes, he had the Lady always at his shoulder, but who knows why? She’s been at mine for most of my life, and that wasn’t ‘Dassuk’s luck.’ So we still Cleanse our children, and the old decencies are maintained. Too much change is bad for the digestion, we used to joke.

Now I know all Initiations are much the same: lamplight, chanting, incense, solemn oaths, threats, and then the knife. Beforehand I was terrified: fail the test of the knife and I would be Outcast, me, who had hardly ever seen beyond the Guildhall’s walls. Outcasts, we were assured, thrust into an uncaring unfriendly world in only a loincloth, empty-handed and friendless, soon suffered a miserable end. But I need not have worried.

Whatever was still happening in the stricter Bunds, the Ropewalkers had no intention of letting a promising lad fail at the last test, so I went to the Initiator with my first tot of arrak burning in my belly and my dangler numb and tingling from the pungent grease with which it had been discreetly anointed.

Now that is something I have never told anyone before, my Brelani friend. Yes, more arrak, please. You would probably surmise that such chicanery was widespread. Still is widespread, I suppose. Certainly my boys passed the test without a whimper, and none suffered ill effects afterwards. My daughters? What do fathers know of their daughter’s Initiation? All but one survived, and are placed in prosperous households.

And the bride prices were substantial, I will have you know, as befits the daughters of the Standard Bearer. Grandchildren? Of course. My sons have been fruitful – a long dozen of grandsons so far. Now I have what I dreamed of, back in the Guildhall, once I had the Guild Badge on my tunic.

But the ropewalks were no place for dreamers, I can tell you. Before my Initiation I had been one of the drudges, sweeping, sluicing, washing down, mouth wrapped against the fog of reedfibres, eyes watering from the reek of the glomm. And what did I have to look forward to, hey? Sweltering away my life in the same fug, turning handles all day and every day, spinning yarn, strand, rope and cable, until I was too old even for the cuttyhunk walk.

Foundlings never became walkmasters, I soon realised. But if I was to show serious resentment, what then? Off to the glomming tank, no doubt, to dip the finished lines and cables into the foul brew from Sentah that kept the rot away for seven Wets or more, the foul black brew that left men with burning eyes, ulcerated skin, rotting lungs. Something to look forward to, hey?

Yes, of course I was paid for what I did, in silver, and paid better than many in Gheenbay, but after Initiation you have to find your own roof and bed and fill your belly with your own silver, and there was precious little to spare for arrak or women.

So, naturally, I gambled. Why not? To a young lad full of juice it seemed inevitable that I would win all that I desired, surely the Lady would smile on one so special, so deserving. So I thought, in my innocence.

Not that I was truly innocent, you understand, my first spare silver had gone to rent my first woman, but I wanted fresher meat than a bathhouse drab. And better lodgings than the stinking hovel I shared with six other junior ropewalkers, all but one fellow foundlings. And new clothes, fine linens, trinkets and baubles, I wanted them all, and the gambling dens were where I would find them. I thought.

No, no more arrak, I know my limits. An old man like me can acknowledge his limitations without shame, you know. And be patient. The Dassuk will be appearing in my tale before long, never fear.

So, I went gambling. Not to the fancy bathhouses on the Southern Shore, of course. I knew nothing of Match, or the games the rich and fortunate played with those Brelani tablets that were so fashionable then. No, it was the godowns and shebeens of the North Shore that offered what I was looking for – simple games of chance, small stakes, the chance to build up my stake through cautious play. I soon learned the hard way that the shebeens were not for the likes of me.

Cheap fenny muddied my judgement, shills and stooges flattered me into staking more than I could afford, shaved and loaded dice soon emptied my pouch. But the bruises and the mocking laughter taught me valuable lessons, as you will hear.

It was in the back rooms of godowns that I found honest games in the end. Those that stored fibres and the like from Albanova were the most hospitable, for some reason long forgotten. Not that you would find marble tables there or any of those rank eggchairs you Brelanis managed to sell to the rich and credulous, oh no.

Everything would be adobe.

Down one side the floor was usually smoothed, oiled and polished so that the energetic could play at jimjim with fired earth balls. Gaming took place on waist-high blocks of adobe, with the playing area carved into the surface.

Yes, you can smirk, yes, it sounds crude, but it had its benefits, believe me. There would usually be two games in play: Swords and Skulls, what most called the Copper Game, and the Silver Game, Stook, for the serious players. What, never heard of Swords and Skulls – or Stook? You really are from Brelana, then. Swords and Skulls is where I started again. A simple game, yes, but what did we know, who knew nothing but the ropewalk or the tanning sheds or the tripe tanks?

Nobody taught us to read or write or figure, no one explained the odds. A simple game for simple folks, too simple for the likes of you, no doubt. But I will explain it anyway, because I remember it fondly even if forty or more Wets have passed since I last played it.

Six fields on the playing surface, understand, each marked. Sword and Skull, of course, always, and always a rampant Dangler. The rest, well, the most common, I