Madrenga, page 1
PRAISE FOR ALAN DEAN FOSTER
“Rip-roaring action sequences and the mystery of Madrenga’s curious powers propel the story through a series of consistently surprising twists and turns.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Alan Dean Foster is the modern day Renaissance writer, as his abilities seem to have no genre boundaries.”
—Bookbrowser
“One of the most consistently inventive and fertile writers of science-fiction and fantasy.”
—The Times (London)
Book Description
He was plainly too young and too inexperienced for the mission, but on the advice of her aged adviser Natoum and with her husband off at war, the Queen reluctantly assigned the task of delivery to Madrenga. Accompanied only by a runt of a pony and a scrap of a pup, he set off to transport the royal message to its destination.
But things are not always what they seem, heroes are sometimes made of the strangest stuff, and love is to be found in the most unexpected places. If while trodding the lethal path one doesn’t die.
Madrenga
Alan Dean Foster
Madrenga
Copyright © 2020 Alan Dean Foster
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
The ebook edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook edition with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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EBook ISBN: 978-1-68057-143-1
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68057-143-1
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-68057-145-5
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Cover design by Alexandre Rito
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Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
Published by
WordFire Press, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument CO 80132
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
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WordFire Press eBook Edition 2020
WordFire Press Trade Paperback Edition 2020
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Printed in the USA
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles by Alan Dean Foster
Chapter One
Both the morning and Her Majesty Queen Alyriata of Harup-taw-shet dawned gray and overcast. It was not that she was in a foul mood as much as she was dubious. While the crimson-lacquered nails of her left hand reached up and back to idly stroke the whispering cantwet that perched on her silk-clad shoulder, the fingers of the other thoughtfully cradled a chin that, while still sharply defined, had seen better times. Nowadays her face, like the kingdom’s politics, required regular applications of cosmetics.
The matter of the moment demanded that she defer to the advice of Chief Counselor Natoum. Used to relying on her own judgment in all things from menus to misters, she was reluctant as always to grant the power of decision to another. But then, she told herself as she leaned slightly forward on the throne that had been carved from a single gutted aquamarine, of what use is a Chief Counselor if one never accepted his counsel? Not in bed, surely, though Natoum would have leaped at the chance. She smiled ever so slightly to herself. The sometime wizard was master of many realms, but not the one that lay between the covers.
“He’s just a boy,” she finally opined.
Smiling confidently behind long whiskers that were in dire need of salvation, Natoum stepped sideways to put a hand on the shoulder of the slim youth who stood nervously facing the Queen.
“He’s not just a boy, your Majesty. He is Madrenga.”
Alyriata of Harup-taw-shet continued to caress the cantwet. Alternately purring and whistling softly on her shoulder, it tucked the nearest of its heads behind an ear that dripped pearls the color of ghosted canaries.
“So that’s his name—Madrenga?”
Distinctly uncomfortable beneath the razor-sharp royal scrutiny, the youth cut his eyes imploringly at the Counselor. A helpful Natoum answered for him.
“Indeed that is his name, your Majesty. Madrenga is what he is.”
“I don’t like riddles, Natoum. Or poor grammar. I don’t have time for either. With the King off fighting the Balatians, the affairs of state fall to me. Or more properly, on me. For this one small thing we speak of today, I make time for myself.” Her head came up and her chin flicked accusingly at the slender youth standing head down before her. “What makes you think this callow stripling is up to such a task?” She sniffed. “I could break him myself.”
If the subject of the insult was offended, he showed no sign of it. From a Queen one suffers much. From a Queen such as Alyriata one suffers anything.
Unlike his young charge, the Counselor was not intimidated. “I assure your Majesty that he is ideal for the task you have in mind.”
“Hmph.” She leaned back in the throne and rested the side of her head against her left fist. As she reclined, the cantwet fluttered its gold and silver wings as it struggled to retain its perch on her left shoulder. “Well, the motley business of empire yammers in the corridors. It rings in my ears when all I want is a quiet day and a hot bath. While my husband defends, I must make amends. To such ends does this mission incur and infer.” The fingers of her right hand began to tap-tap on the arm of the aquamarine throne.
“If he has a name but is also a thing you call Madrenga, then I suppose that will serve him well enough.” She studied the would-be courier grudgingly. “Boy, Natoum shows a confidence in you I do not see. Will you undertake an errand for me?” As if he was in a position to refuse, she mused.
When no response was forthcoming, the Counselor dropped his hand from the youth’s shoulder to his back and gave him a gentle but firm nudge. The reassuring smile that accompanied the gesture was more helpful than the shove in persuading the boy to take a step forward. His voice was halting but the response audible.
“Y-yes, your Majesty. With thanks and pleasure.” He hesitated, plainly wishing to say something else but unable to give movement to the words.
Alyriata raised a hand and gestured impatiently. “Come, come, boy—Madrenga. You heard me. My time is more precious than the throne upon which I sit. If you have something to say, puke it up!”
The youth swallowed. “I have no family, Majesty. Only two companions. Small things they are, but they are all I have. I would not abandon them, not even for a royal mission.”
“Oh, for the love of Saringar! Are you speaking of pets, boy?”
He nodded timidly. “A small dog, your Majesty, and a pony.”
The Queen rolled her eyes. Unlike her hair and much of the rest of her, the fire in them had not aged one whit, and their color was still a match for that of the throne.
“By all means,” she told him with mock gravity, “take them with you. Who can say but that they might prove useful on your journey? For example, if attacked by ravenous beasts you will have something to place between them and yourself while you attempt to make your escape.”
At this bloodthirsty image the youth winced perceptibly, but held his tongue.
Rising, Alyriata came forward and descended the three steps from the dais on which sat the throne of Harup-taw-shet. Natoum bowed his head, whacked his charge on the back to remind the youth to do the same, and stepped aside. Striding to a twisting table of caramel-colored eletak wood that seemed rooted to rather than placed on the floor, she opened a box fashioned of the most precious pietra dura. From within she withdrew a prepared scroll of very thin rolled gold over which the court scribe had labored for much of a day. Re-reading the words to reassure herself of their content, she silently pronounced herself pleased. Securing the scroll with a red ribbon, she slid the thick foil into the engraved corium cylinder that had been fashioned to hold it. The container boasted fine artwork on its exterior but no official markings, the better to mask the royal origin of what was contained within.
Pivoting, she walked over to her Chief Counselor and his protégé. “This is to be delivered to Zhelerasjju, Queen of all the Darians and the lands to the farthest east. It is both a matter of state and a personal matter. I require that this be done with all speed and security. None are to read the contents of the scroll contained herein. Look at me, boy!” His head snapped up. Eyes that were like shards of the throne itself bored into his own. “That inclu
Seeing that his charge was starting to tremble and beginning to wither beneath that royal glare, Natoum took a hasty step forward. “That will not be an issue, your Majesty. The Madrenga—Madrenga, he cannot read.”
Alyriata grunted softly and moved back. “Strong neither in body nor in mind. I hope you know what you are doing, Natoum. If my communication fails to reach Daria, I will have the cost of trying again deducted from your annual recompense.”
“Your Majesty must have trust in my judgment.”
She nodded tersely. “It is not your judgment I question, Natoum, but the muscles of your messenger. Unlike your usually sound counsel, they are nowhere to be found.” She waved a diffident hand. As she did so, the cantwet on her shoulder relieved itself of a flute-like melody. “I can spend no more time on this. Moneymen and honest citizens await the decisions that fall to me. Damn all husbands and their propensity to go to war! I miss him so.” With a last circumspect glance at the Counselor and his chosen youth she turned away and headed briskly for the throne room’s exit, a fast-moving cloud of lavender and lace. Her voice floated back to them.
“See that this Madrenga is properly kitted out, Natoum, and send him on his way. Why should I worry? It will all proceed as you say. Nothing can go wrong. After all, he will have the aid of a puppy and a pony.”
The silence in the throne room was magnified by its vastness. Banners like silken beards and as high as a three-story window looked down upon the two men, one as old as the other was young. Natoum turned to the newly-anointed messenger.
“That went well, I think.”
Madrenga spoke up, his voice a little clearer now that the overwhelming presence of the Queen had left them. “She has no confidence in me, Natoum.”
Once again, a hand came down on the youth’s shoulder. “She expected someone twice your size, boy, clad in glistening graven armor and trailing a sword half his own height.”
The youth let out a soft exhalation. “And instead, she got me.” He eyed the Counselor. “What makes you think I can do this?”
“Because you are a Madrenga, boy. Perhaps the only one in the capital, I’d wager. You know nothing of your parents, of your origin, of your background or heritage.” There was a twinkle in the old man’s eye. “But I do.”
“And how do you know such things, old man? If I myself do not know them about me, how can you?”
Natoum shrugged. “The signs of your heritage are there. The markings, the motions, the subtle movements. I’d wager strong you are of the family Madrenga. I am wagering strong that you are of the family Madrenga. And I had best be right.” He shook his head. “No telling what the replacement cost is of that scroll you now carry. Not to mention the damage to my reputation if you fail to deliver it.”
“I’ve never been to Daria, sir. How will I find the way?”
“I will provide you with directions. And along the way, if you are a true Madrenga, you will muster any help you require. The journey will be long and arduous.”
The youth made a disparaging sound. “Aren’t all such journeys?”
“I wouldn’t know. Never been beyond the borders of Harup-taw-shet myself.” He patted his charge on the arm. “But you’ll do fine, boy, you’ll do fine. When you need it, help will find you—one way or another, I am hoping. Now let’s get your kit together so you can be on your way at first light.”
“Directions or no directions, I wish you were coming with me, Natoum.”
The old man’s eyes widened slightly as he regarded the youth. “I couldn’t possibly, young Madrenga! I am the Queen’s Chief Counselor. My services are all the more necessary with the King off at war. They cannot possibly be dispensed with. Besides, the journey is far too dangerous for someone of my advanced years to undertake.”
“But not for someone of my inexperienced ones,” the youth shot back tightly.
“Oh, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. In a difficult spot you can run whereas I could only mumble hopeful imprecations. Now let’s fit you out. You’ll want a solid meal and a good night’s rest before setting out in the morning.”
“We also need to see to Orania and Bit.”
“What? Oh, yes, your pets.”
“They are not my pets,” the youth countered a bit stiffly. “They’re my companions.”
“They’re a pony and a pup, but however it suits you to call them so may it be. I can’t believe you really intend to embark on this trek with them. Looking after them and attending to their needs can only slow you down.”
“Friends never slow one down,” Madrenga countered.
Natoum pursed his lips and nodded sagely. “Perhaps you’re not so much the fool as our great queen thinks. Certainly I must believe otherwise or I would not have been compelled to recruit you for this singular honor.” He wagged a long, aged finger in the youth’s direction. A ring of mystic power glinted on the furrowed digit. Both were badly in need of a cleaning. “Take care, do well, deliver the scroll, and it may be the making of you. So the old books say about all the family Madrenga.”
“If I truly am one of the kind of which you speak, old man, and if in a moment of need I can indeed find the help of which you speak.”
Natoum shook his head. “You will not find the help. It will find you.” Natoum spoke reassuringly as they began to make their way out of the throne room, striding in the queen’s wake.
“And if it does not? How will I know it if it does?” the youth asked him thoughtfully.
“When the time comes, you’ll know it. Or you will die.”
Though he was offered a mount from the royal stables, Madrenga declined. Two horses would be too much for him to look after. “Besides,” he declared in explaining his refusal, “Orania can carry what little I need.”
As the sounds and smells of the stables swirled around them, Natoum eyed the pony dubiously. Lean of body and lanky of leg, it looked barely capable of keeping itself upright, let alone carrying packed supplies.
“You’ll need more than good spirits to keep you fed and healthy. Money for expenses I’ve already given you.” He nodded in the direction of Madrenga’s waist, where a snap-sealed leather purse formed a counterweight to the scroll container slung on the other side. “But there will be places, times, occasions, when you may not be able to buy what you need.”
“I’ve always heard that he who travels light travels fast.” The youth looked slightly embarrassed. “Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with a royal horse.”
He smiled at the pony, the runt half of a pair of foals. The owner having only wished to keep the larger, healthier one, Madrenga had requested and received permission to take her sickly twin, though the owner’s wife had wanted her for the stewpot. Dark russet splotched with white, her mane clipped short, Orania barely came up to his waist. She quietly cropped hay as a stable boy carefully cinched tight the lightweight leather pack that had been draped across her back. Nearby, Bit noisily gnawed on a bone he had salvaged from the depths of the stables. It was old, filthy, and stank of decay. No wonder the pup found it so tasty. Madrenga turned back to Natoum.
“Didn’t you say yourself, Chief Counselor, that the reason you chose me for this task was because a force of armored and armed men would make too much commotion while traveling and suggest a tempting target to bandits? Whereas I might pass through unnoticed, as one not worth troubling with?”
Natoum nodded. “That is so, boy.” Also, every soldier worth his steel was off fighting beside the King. “You have the knife I gave you?”
