The Nine Nations Book One: The Sliding World

By Jim Beard

The End of the World is Nigh...

 

The denizens of the Nine Nations live their lives between a rock and a hard place, between impassable mountains and un-crossable deserts, and between the lifeless Greylands and the unavoidable Edge. In fact, mere existence across the land is always on t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Beard
• Release date: Aug 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087967882

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THE NINE NATIONS

BOOK ONE: THE SLIDING WORLD

©2021 Jim Beard

A Becky Books Production

Becky Books and the Becky Books logo

© Jim Beard

Rebelynn Ginellan created by Becky Beard and Jim Beard

Associate Editor: John C. Bruening

Cover illustration and design by Matt Orsman

Interior layout and formatting by Maggie Ryel

ISBN: 9798533415323

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced

in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

All characters and situations in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For the Little Woman, who has gone into the West

I shall meet her there once my own quest is done.

Jim Beard

Introduction

Throughout the ten-thousand year history of the Nine Nations, among its plethora of legends, tales, stories, and lullabies, only one could truly be said to embrace the truth: the gods, whoever or whatever they were, no longer existed in the lives of ordinary citizens. In fact, the Law of the land, regardless of borders, was that they could not exist in any way, shape, or form.

Few who lived and breathed in the Nine Nations in modern times knew why the Law existed, or how it came to be. Most simply accepted it as a fact of life—it was the Law, nothing more, nothing less. More important to their daily lives was the fact that the land about them was a prison of sorts, its walls being made of mountains and desert and desolation, a sturdy structure to seemingly limit the advance of humanity and sow frustration among its denizens. For more than ten-thousand years this pot simmered and steamed, bubbling here and there,

now and then, always threatening to boil over and sound the trumpet call of The End of Days…and yet no one in the Nine Nations seemed to know what to do to prevent it.

Life went on, as it will, and some Nations held their ground within their tiny borders while others seemed to suffer the situation with more immediacy. Wars raged, peace followed, but both fleetingly because no matter the strength of the argument or the warmth of the consolation, the people of the Nine Nations all scraped and scratched, all dreamed and danced under the very same hanging sword:

The entire land from end to end was literally sliding into oblivion, every year, every month, every week, every day, every minute…

Part One:

THE FALSE MAJ

Chapter One:

A Knock at the Door

In the nation of Complin, in the great capital city of Greenwall, the King’s Man rested his leather-clad knuckles against a stout wooden door in a poorer section of the East District, drew his clenched fist back and rapped once, twice, three times very neatly upon its pitted surface.

The Polite Knock, sir? queried his second-in-command, a big, thick man with false teeth and a bald pate.

Take it down, sighed the King’s Man somewhat laconically. Frowning, he side-stepped and allowed his subordinate full access to the door.

A small, iron battering ram appeared in the big man’s hands and the two soldiers behind him, both wearing the King’s Sigil on their shoulders, nodded to each other. The ram’s head struck the wooden door once, twice, three times, and its wielder issued a small grunt with each impact. On the third blow, the door’s metal latch shrieked in protest and gave way, parting from the wood around it with a spray of splinters.

The soldiers rushed past their superior without hesitation and through the now-open portal into the darkness beyond.

Inside the invaded home, a woman screamed. The King’s Man glanced skyward and shook his head. His second-in-command did not move, but simply stood there with the battering ram hanging loosely from his fingers. The King’s Man sighed again and motioned impatiently for his lackey to enter the home before him.

Wasn’t sure if you were going in on this one, sir… muttered the subordinate as he stepped over the threshold, his head swinging left and right to assess the situation. A woman appeared through a doorway to the left, dressed only in a barely-there shift, her hair rumpled in disarray.

"What right do you have…" she croaked, her voice strained and stressed.

Ridiculous. The King’s Man stepped into the home himself and eyed the woman’s undressed state. You heard the Knock. You had to have known we were coming in no matter what. He glanced around the room, his eyes taking it in and then the woman again. Did you think we would just go away? Really?

The woman said nothing. Chewing on her bottom lip she looked down at the floor, her hands twisting the hem of her shift into knots, causing it to slip down off one shoulder.

Where’s your man?

The woman flinched a bit, but took the King’s Man’s measure when she raised her eyes again. They were green and clear, and despite her disheveled appearance and nervous hands, she looked back at him unflinchingly. What she saw was a tall, well-built specimen of Complin manhood, perhaps only in the mid-years of his third decade, with a well-trimmed chin-beard, a handsome yet rugged face, and dark, sleepy eyes.

We’ll find him and we’ll drag him out here, he said in a measured tone. And then we’ll most likely beat him. And then you.

The woman opened her mouth to speak just as a shout came from another room.

We have him, Warrant Torck!

Torck nodded and chuckled mirthlessly as if to say, See?

We have him regardless. Bring him in, he commanded his soldiers and looked again at the woman. Why do you keep it so blasted dark in here?

The man of the house proved to be as undressed as his wife, wearing only some sort of dirty wrap about his lower torso. His long hair, unlike the woman’s, was pulled back neatly with a twisted canvas cord.

The King’s Man fixed him with a stare. Where is it?

Where’s what? replied the man, grimacing at the tight hold the soldiers maintained on him.

Games is it to be?

It would have to be, since I don’t know what you mean.

Of course you do. Where is it?

"Or what? You’ll tear my house apart like you have my door? There’s no threat in that. You’ll throw me in prison and I’ll never see it all again anyway."

Warrant Torck nodded appreciatively at that. The woman? Your wife?

We’ve made our peace with each other. We know we’ll never see each other again.

"You grow more reasonable with every word. Now, complete the spilling of your spleen and tell me where it is."

The man did not reply at first. He hung his head and let his body go slack in the soldiers’ hands. They tightened their grip, sensing a trick of some sort. Finally, the man spoke, but quietly, almost to himself.

They’re looser with the Law in other nations…

Torck snapped into a swift step toward the man and wrenched his jaw up with one lightning-quick gesture. His face was suddenly an inch from the man’s, looking down at him with icy eyes.

"This…is…Complin, sir."

The King’s Man looked up sharply at his second-in-command, his face white and full of steel. Tear it apart. Find it.

The big bald man smiled slightly and began swinging. When his battering ram struck an object or a piece of furniture, very little was left behind. In this way, which was far more deliberate than the random violence it appeared as on the surface, he began to clear the room. Standing off to one side, the two soldiers holding the houseowner nodded their heads with every explosive strike of the ram’s head and followed its swath of destruction with steadfast gazes.

High Warrant Torck, the King’s Man, simply stood there, apparently serene and unmoved by the work of his underling. His former anger seemed to have dissipated into the air along with the houseowner’s possessions.

He’s very good at what he does, Torck offered, seemingly to no one in particular. "He’ll find it and—hmm, try higher, Sergeant."

The second-in-command wagged his head and swung the battering ram at a wooden arch that spanned a quarter of the room from one corner of it to the middle of the ceiling. The houseowner yelped.

He’ll bring the whole thing down on our heads!

The King’s Man looked at him. Possibly so. Tell me where it is and I’ll have him stop just short of burying us in this horrid place.

Silence came over the room as everyone stared at the man. Torck stepped over to him and lifted his chin with one gloved hand. Where? he asked simply. An odd look spread over the man’s face, at first suggesting thought and then perhaps resignation. He glanced once at a spot on the floor just next to the sergeant. The King’s Man followed the invisible line from the man’s eyes to the floor and indicated it to his subordinate. There. He pointed at the location.

The sergeant stepped over to the spot, stomped twice on the wooden boards of the floor there, and set the head of his battering ram directly on top of it. With one mighty heave of his arm, he raised the ram and brought it crashing down in the blink of an eye. The boards splintered and groaned but did not fully break. The man’s arm moved again in the same fashion and the ram’s head broke through the boards into a cavity below.

Bring it up, said Torck. Let me see it.

No bigger than a loaf of good Complin bread, the ugly statue of some singular lizard-like creature unheard of in nature stared back at Torck as his subordinate raised it up out of the hole and into the light. Its dark green, mottled surface absorbed illumination rather than reflected it, an altogether disgusting piece of work to the warrant’s mind.

He sighed as he looked it over. You sorry, sorry fools, he muttered, then more loudly, What’s this one called? No; no, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. It’s as illicit as the next and the one before it. Torck turned away from the representation of the little god and strode out of the room and back to the main door, calling over his shoulder for his sergeant to bring it and its pitiful subjects along to be registered, tried, and convicted.

The warrant’s removal to the outer room was most likely what saved him, or so he pondered as a minute or so later he lay on his back in the street, covered with ash and bits of stone and wood. He’d lost his hearing in the blast, a fact he learned all in a rush as he gazed up at some person or another standing over him mouthing words but making no sound other than a great inarticulate roar. Just over to Torck’s right a very hot fire burned, a remainder of the cloud of conflagration that sent him flying through the house’s door—very literally—and into the street beyond.

Lying there, he wondered if he still had any of his limbs, as he certainly couldn’t feel them anymore. At the very least, he felt fairly sure he still had his head because as far as he knew it was his own eyes he was looking through and up at the trail of deep, black smoke that arose from the ruins of the house to stain the blue sky above.

Torck closed his eyes and drifted off, his very last conscious thought before sleep being the incredible vision of an immense, cloud-like face that engulfed him at just the very moment the little god exploded.

Funny that, he thought.

Chapter Two

Over the Edge

High Warrant Torck, the King’s Man, took up his beer and motioned to the tavern keeper that he was stepping out back. Once past the old tapestry hung to cover the doorway from the main room to the outdoor porch behind the venerable establishment, he let much of his cares and woes of the day melt away.

Or so he tried. Mostly he hurt all over.

His ears still rang, though not as loudly as before, and his shoulders, spine, and legs ached with every movement of them, which essentially was every time he walked or lifted something. The back of his head throbbed, and while he was thinking about it his arms hurt, too. In short, he’d never had such a day. He wanted to crawl out of his body and leave it lying somewhere while he soaked his self in a warm bath.

The open air of the porch invited him to linger, and as he gingerly sipped from his beer he looked around and saw he was alone in the area. Few others cared for the porch, but he had always liked it, preferred it actually to the main room. He could sit by himself and think, although the thought of thinking made his head throb all the more.

He took his usual seat in the alcove off to one side of the porch known as the Pool. Six large mirrors hung on the six wall sections surrounding the Pool, each one of the glasses hanging right next to its neighbor, creating a kind of semi-circle of reflections. There were three tables placed among the mirrors, and he sat down at the middle one, as was his custom. The beer he placed on the table in front of him, its perspiration dripping down the stoneware mug which held it.

Great Complin, he hurt.

Due to his discomfort Torck merely glanced at his reflections in the mirrors: the short-cropped black hair, the nose a bit too broad, the eyes black, too, and the smooth face now showing some lines in his thirty-sixth year of life. He knew what he looked like; he’d assessed himself in a mirror right before he’d left the Physicians Ward, as he dressed after waking from his forced slumber following…following the explosion. The memory of the blast brought him a new wave of pain, so he took a bigger swallow of his beer and willed the beverage to have its way with him. It was rare, the desire to allow spirits to have any kind of effect on him beyond pleasing him with their taste. But then again, he had never hurt quite like he did just then.

The sound of the distinct rustle of the tapestry fell upon his ears at the same moment he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone had joined him on the porch and he frowned at the realization.

The warrant turned his head, wincing slightly with the effort, and saw a figure in a long, enveloping cloak walk into the area and sit down at the table nearest the door. Torck shook his head; why couldn’t he just be left alone? It was a peaceful spot, with the scent of the winterblooms in the air, the oncoming dusk just over the porch railing, somewhere far off a young boy singing eventide callings—just what he needed after the day he’d had. A stranger intruding upon his world at that very time was not only unwelcome, it was nearly an insult.

He examined the figure, assuming it to be a man by the size and shape. His boots were of good quality, though worn from long use. A traveler? Torck frowned again; travelers didn’t often make it as deep into the city as where the tavern was. The man’s cloak was very interesting. Of a dusky blue, nearly navy hue, it almost appeared green in the dim light of the porch, especially when the flicker of the wall torches caught it just right—and was it multi-layered? Yes, it appeared to be assembled, sewn together like the scales on a reptile or even like the tight tiers of feathers on some rare river birds. A most peculiar cloak in all, even to its hood, which the man had pulled up over his head to hide his face and hair.

Torck turned his own face away, lest the man suddenly look up and see the warrant staring at him. That wouldn’t do. He’d ignore the person and hope he’d finish his drink and be on his way. Then he could sit in solitude and nurse his aches and pains and perhaps think about the roster of tomorrow’s duties and the nice, clean order of his own personal universe of enforcing the Law.

May I sit with you, friend?

He could scarcely believe it. No; that wasn’t the way of it. He couldn’t believe it in the slightest. The tavern keeper knew of his habit to sit alone on the porch. He didn’t even allow his own men to join him for a drink there. The very thought of the keeper letting this person traipse back onto the porch when he knew full well that the warrant was alone and with a beer and was evidently not having a good day and—

I said, may I sit with—

"I am the King’s Man, sir."

The man in the cloak brought up one hand and opened it palm-up. Yes, that’s plain enough. I only—

Torck seethed, which made his head throb even more, which he thought might have been impossible, or at least improbable.

"In other words, sir, one does not approach the King’s Man at a tavern and request a blasted audience."

He felt like he was about to throw his beer, mug and all. In fact, he was quite certain he was about to throw it, mug and all.

"You look and smell of charpowder,’ said the man.

The warrant rubbed at his eyes, hoping the pressure on them might somehow relieve the pressure on the back of his bruised skull.

What?

The man swung into the chair on the opposite side of the table. Clear green eyes fixed upon his own from under the man’s hood. Charpowder. You were caught in a detonation earlier today, while making your rounds.

Torck took the stare and returned it. My ‘rounds’? Is that what you call it? The King’s Man on his ‘rounds,’ like a common laborer? Perhaps you see it as an easy task, these ‘rounds’?

Beg pardon, sir, the man offered. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather talk about the charpowder.

"What of it?