Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1. COLORS

  2. HOLE

  3. ORFEA

  4. SOJOURNS

  5. BARTERING

  6. VINEHONEY

  7. THIEF

  8. SANCTUARY

  9. BHOTHY

  10. DHOLAKI

  11. HOUSECLEANING

  12. BRINCHLEY

  13. JAN

  14. NVIRO

  15. HENJA

  17. CHERRYBLOSSOMS

  18. DISEASE

  19. VINCE

  20. CHALKINGS

  21. SLIDES

  22. ASH-KNELL

  23. ALLIUM

  24. OVERCOUNCIL

  25. ELDER

  26. TEST

  27. GO-BETWEEN

  28. BLUE

  29. DESERT

  30. AMBUSH

  31. ISHRANGA

  32. CAVE

  33. NABOLEK

  34. KIDNAP

  35. KASTIYYA

  36. MELFORGER

  37. CHOICE

  The Melforger Chronicles

  BOOK 1

  ™

  DAVID LUNDGREN

  For the diaspora

  1. COLORS

  Wesp coughed into his sleeve and then spat over the side. Shivering, he peered up angrily at the threatening swirls of grey cloud that could just be made out through the foliage high above. Rain was coming, and lots of it.

  The wagon wobbled its way along a worn path that curved around the base of one of the enormous trees that the locals called Ancients. Apparently, the ground here was actually on the branches of these scattered forest giants. Another trader back in Miern had once tried to explain it to him, how the huge branches that grew out from the trunks had been cemented together by vines and plant roots over the centuries until they formed this natural, compact layer that ran above the actual forest floor. Wesp was dubious. And yet, perhaps it was possible; despite having travelled here before, he still found himself bewildered by the sheer, staggering size of the Ancients, soaring upwards to form a distant canopy a hundred yards above the normal sized trees. Nowhere else in the world had he ever seen anything like it, and he’d travelled more than most.

  A clap of thunder pounded through the forest, bouncing between the towering trunks and then fading into silence. An eerie silence. Instead of the usual cacophony from countless birds and insects, there was this muffled stillness with only the occasional ominous creaking of branches. It was as though the heavy skies had taken a deep breath and it was only a matter of time until they burst.

  Automatically, he reached under his coat and brought a battered, leather bag to his mouth, taking a long, noisy swig before recapping it in a practiced motion. It wasn’t the potent whisky he drank in the gambling pits back in Miern, but some sort of mead from Three Ways, the main forest town. It was dwindling fast though. Hopefully, he could stock up on more at the main village in the south before looping back up to the Pass for the long trip home.

  There was also one last crucial item on his list still to find: a local delicacy they called vinehoney. If he could get some, it would justify the entire wretched journey from Miern. There was a craze in the city for the jasmine-tinted syrup that could only be found in the Aeril forest and Wesp had managed to strike a deal with the chief cook at the Gerent’s palace. He was desperate to obtain a few jars for some royal function in a few weeks’ time, and willing to pay a fortune for it – enough that Wesp could perhaps even think about retiring.

  He had a good feeling about this last village, and if they had some vinehoney, it would be easy enough to do some trading for it. They were keen on trading, these foresters. Wesp smiled. Keen, but not particularly good at it. Whereas he had made his fortunes in Miern, and if you could say anything about Wesp Tunrhak, it was that he knew how to haggle with the best. He reached down to pat the leather case that was stowed under the bench and there was a familiar clinking of coins in response.

  Taking another disapproving look at the darkening skies, he turned to spit over the side again and then poked his sandal into the back of the young boy sleeping on the wagon floor.

  “Get up.”

  The boy grunted in pain and then sat up, rubbing his eyes and scratching the tangles of blonde hair that fell around his freckled face.

  “We’re stopping here for the night.” Wesp pointed at the three burly goats. “Get them tied up and fed before this rain sets in.”

  “Why? Where are you g–“

  He cringed as Wesp’s hand sprung out and flicked his shoulder. “Just do what I tell you!”

  Quickly climbing out of the wagon, the boy untied the animals and led them away towards a clump of blackberry brambles. Once he had gone, Wesp jumped down and pushed his way through the dense undergrowth that bordered the path. Drawing a small axe from his belt, he began hacking at a thick web of vines until they fell away. He moved further and further into the brush, carving up branches that stood in his way and kicking over young saplings.

  He stopped when he discovered a small tree wrapped in thick vines and decided to chop it down to use as a base for a fire. Stepping up to it, he hesitated as a sudden whiff of something repulsive filled his nostrils. Covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve, he poked the axe blade tentatively into the vine. It pushed through as if it was made of butter. On the outside it seemed healthy, but on closer inspection, Wesp saw that the inner flesh was a dark mouldy color, so he left it alone and moved to collect branches from the other side of the clearing.

  . . . . . . .

  Raf curled his toes up in his sandals and poked at the leaves that lay scattered around him in a thick mat. It wasn’t an Ancient, but the hollowed section half way up this dead oak was still big enough for him to stand in. And surrounded by leafy strangler vines, it was well hidden from the path below.

  He combed his fingers through his shaggy hair and tried to brush out some of the dust from the climb up the inside of the tree. Probably time to get a haircut soon, really. While most foresters let theirs grow, Raf had inherited his father’s thick, almost black hair, and unless he had it cut every month or so, it turned into an unruly mess that seemed to just attract dirt.

  He’d just managed to escape from a tedious music lesson with Madame Ottery while all of his classmates were still trapped there. He just wasn’t in the mood for school after the incident that morning. His friend Nedrick had overheard someone saying the Festival might not happen, and when Raf had tried to speak to his parents about it during breakfast, his mother completely hit the roof and banned him from mentioning it again. It wasn’t like he’d started the stupid rumor! Sometimes, having two parents who were on the village Council was a huge pain.

  Why was everyone so stressed, anyway? The Festival wouldn’t be cancelled, it was far too important. This time last year, the whole village - the entire Aeril Forest! - had been fired up about the Festival; and that was when it had been hosted way up north. Now, for the first time in many years, it was Eirdale’s turn, and you could almost taste the excitement in the air. Well, until the rumor, anyway.

  As long as it doesn’t mess up my sojourn plans, he thought.

  Sojourns happened at the end of school for every forester. For a few weeks or even months, school-leavers would travel and experience life outside of their village. Raf wanted to go somewhere outrageous. Somewhere far. The furthest he’d ever travelled was up north to Three Ways - and that was still in the Forest! The Foreman himself had said sojourns were good for ‘broadening your perspective’, so why be boring and go somewhere close or similar to home? Cisco’s older brother had spent seven months way south of Sayenham on the coast where he had apparently managed to get work on a fishing boat.
His tales about the turquoise sea and whale music were fascinating. Proper stories, those.

  Raf looked up at the ledges around the hollow chamber that gave him somewhere to prop up his recent attempts at carving. There was a short, rough pipe he’d carved out of rosewood, a hollowed gourd that was the start of a lute, and an attempt at making some panpipes that could’ve been decent if he hadn’t made such a hash job of cutting the holes into the bamboo pieces. Sighing in frustration, he reached up to retrieve the piece of soft cherry wood that he’d picked up on his way from school and ran his fingers over it.

  “All right, here we go again,” he muttered. “I think I’ll name you… Orfea.”

  He pulled out his knife and, giving it a quick wipe on his shirt, set to work whittling away at the wood, his hazel eyes focusing intently on his work. Shavings fell to the floor as he scraped and cut, but only a few minutes later, he sighed again and put his knife back in its sheath.

  “Rubbish.”

  He held the stick up and grimaced at the mess he’d made of it, before throwing it down on the floor in disgust.

  The wind whistled softly through the cracks in the bark around him and as he relaxed against the trunk there came the soothing rustling of leaves, the subtle creaking and groaning of the dead tree, and of course, the never-ending backdrop of birdsong. Two young marmosets sprinted past the window, chasing each other excitedly and he smiled to himself as their chatter faded away. From nowhere, a tune sprang to his mind and he found himself humming it quietly. It was soft and lilting, and his eyes grew heavy and then closed.

  A streak of colors lit up the darkness behind his eyelids.

  What….? His eyes shot open and he straightened his head, but the colors were gone. He frowned and rubbed his eyes before closing them, and waited curiously to see if anything would happen. But when nothing did, he felt himself slowly relax again. After a few moments, he started humming the same tune. There was no mistaking it this time when a wave of colors washed across his eyes, so he kept them tightly closed and peered blindly forwards, still humming.

  He waited for the colors to fade, but instead, they lingered in front of him, flittering aimlessly like feathers being buffeted by the wind. The tune he was humming moved to his favorite part and as it drew more of his attention, the colors grew in intensity. Then they suddenly started moving with purpose, red and purple patterns spinning and spiraling through each other – right in front of him! He stopped humming and sat up in astonishment. Instantly, the colors were extinguished.

  OK, he thought. So now there’s something wrong with my head. Great. I better go see Dr Ferrows and find out if I’m going crazy.

  He pursed his lips. As long as she doesn’t go and tell mom. If she finds out I’m ‘seeing things’ with everything else that’s stressing her out at the moment…

  He lay back, gloomily shaking his head, and closed his eyes. The tune had an annoying way of lurking just beneath his thoughts and he soon found himself humming it again. When the strange colors emerged into view again, he forced himself to ignore them, humming louder and turning his thoughts back to the pipe he’d been trying to make. He focused hard on imagining himself carving the instrument, seeing the shape in such minute detail that he soon forgot about the colors.

  . . . . . . .

  Fergus yawned and stared blankly into the distance as the three goats munched on the berries. Although he had come to adore the Forest as they travelled through it, it was hard working for Mr. Wesp. Aunt Firda had said that he was an important man with lots of money and Fergus should try to learn how to become a trader, but if having money meant you had to act (and smell!) like Mr. Wesp, then he thought he’d prefer to live more like the Forest people.

  A bright green lourie shrieked in the leaves above and made him jump. He giggled with delight as it spread its wings, showing off the fiery red feathers underneath, and soared away around one of the trees. The only birds he had ever seen in Miern were the crows. They were big black birds that lived near the waste dumps making their horrible squawks.

  He suddenly felt his mouth flood as a delicious smell of roasting meat drifted past. He realized what it meant though, and with a worried gasp, he scrambled to the wagon and stood on top. Peering over the bushes nearby, he saw that a big clearing had been cut away. Broken vines and branches littered the floor and in the middle of the mess was the old trader sitting by a huge fire. You weren’t allowed to make fires in the middle of the Forest! Even Fergus knew that; it was the first thing you were told when you came into the Forest. What was Mr. Wesp thinking? There was another rolling boom of thunder and Fergus looked up hopefully, urging the heavy clouds to hurry.

  2. HOLE

  Wesp lifted his mead bag to his mouth and took a long draft. Under his free arm rested the leather case, his hand stroking the straps that held it closed. He stared into the flames, watching as they crackled and danced, the roasted peacock carcass set to one side.

  The breeze strengthened and became damp and cold, so he stood up and made his way to a pine branch propped against the wagon which he seized and up-ended onto the fire. He stepped back as it crashed down, embers flying up in a small storm, but as he turned to sit down again, there was a strange movement under him - a shifting sensation that stopped him in his tracks.

  Wesp stared around trying to determine what it was, when, with a soft tearing noise, several tiny cracks appeared in the ground right in front of him. He moved backwards, staring curiously as the splits spread out across the clearing, when suddenly, the centre buckled and collapsed in a shower of sparks as the bonfire completely disappeared. A jagged hole appeared out of the smoke and dust and widened outwards rapidly as great chunks of ground gave way and fell through.

  Wesp fled, stopping only when he reached the edge of the clearing where he clung to a tree trunk. Bits of the fire that had caught on hanging vines were still flickering away along the sides of the hole. He peered over the edge, which was only a few feet away from him, and was just in time to see the bulk of the fire tumbling down in a glittering cloud through the darkness.

  He pulled himself backwards, fighting dizziness. It was so far down! The flaming logs had been bouncing down the side of a trunk like tiny rag dolls when he spied them, and must have fallen a hundred yards after that before they disappeared into the blackness below. He had no idea the platform was so high above the ground…

  Panting, he stared around and then flinched in shock as he saw where he had been sitting.

  “No!” he rasped, his eyes darting around the mangled ground.

  A sound behind him made him jump but it was only the boy who had skidded to a halt next to him, a shocked expression on his face as he took in the hole.

  “Where is it?” hissed Wesp, spinning to stare in dismay again at the gaping hole - right where he had been sitting. A tight groan escaped from his throat. “It can’t have…”

  “Sir?” quavered Fergus.

  “My leather case!” Wesp scrambled to crouch down at the hole’s edge, staring into the darkness. “No, no… it can’t…” He clutched at his face with dirty hands. “My money…”

  Fergus crawled carefully around to the opposite side of the clearing, peering down into the dusty darkness until he suddenly spotted something underneath the lip.

  “Mr. Wesp, sir!”

  “What? What is it? Can you see it?”

  “Sir, there’s a small tree hanging upside down and your bag’s stuck on it!”

  “Where?” Wesp nervously leaned over and spotted the bag twenty feet down, hanging from a branch it had caught on.

  “No!” He tilted his head back in despair and then stopped, turning to slowly look at the boy. “You… can climb can’t you?”

  “Uhh…. yes, sir, I’m the best in the whole of the Docks.”

  “Time for you to earn your way then,” said Wesp. “I think you’re going to fetch my case, yes, Fergus? When you get it, your aunt will find out how good you’ve been when we get back. Think how proud she’l
l be.”

  Fergus looked over the edge. “But what if it falls? If it breaks…”

  Wesp clenched his fists in rage and marched through the brush up to the boy. “You’re lucky I let you travel with me for the last two weeks! And feed you! Any of the other good-for-nothing orphans like you in Miern would kill for the chance!” He took hold of Fergus’ neck in a painful grip, and walked back around the hole’s edge, forcing the boy in front of him. “Now get down there and fetch my case!” With a shove, he pushed Fergus towards the edge.

  . . . . . . .

  Fergus rubbed his neck and sat down at the lip of the hole, legs dangling over. It wasn’t that different to climbing around back in Miern, really. He just needed to be careful – especially with the rain really starting to come down. He moved forwards and then paused as a rotten smell suddenly hit him. It seemed to be coming from the hole, so he started breathing through his mouth and eased himself over the edge.

  Gripping ripped branch ends and vines, he lowered himself until he reached the trunk of the hanging sapling, its roots splayed and stretched taut, securing it to the solid ground above where Mr. Wesp was crouching. It should have been completely dark underneath, but the dusk light spilling through from the newly created opening revealed a landscape of formless shapes; the nearest ones dull brown and ochre, fading into sullen greys and charcoals as they stretched into the gloom.

  The case was snagged on a small branch jutting out about half way down the dangling tree, so Fergus wrapped his arms and legs around the trunk and shimmied his way down, inch by inch. It was a strange sensation hanging over this dark emptiness. Everything was undefined and murky, although he could see rain drops shooting down in front of him, crystal-bright as they entered the hole, and then disappearing as they sailed downwards.

  “Come on, hurry up!” The trader had slid on his stomach to the edge and was looking down at him.