Blood and Steel: Legends of La Gaul, Volume 1

by Steven Shrewsbury

  Ambiorix stopped, turned and said, “All that matters is blood. Isn’t that what all of you rubbish ministers say? Isn’t that what all of your demon lords require for happiness? Hell, isn’t that what the one, true God really is supposed to desire for the forgiveness of sins--blood? Yet, you find it so hard to understand that we would do all of this for blood. You have not the right to survive.”

  Leading the old priest to focus on him, Ambiorix walked across the room. With a fast motion, his niece drew back and threw a dagger. End over end, the blade flew true and struck the priest’s throat. The old man instinctively removed the blade, tearing loose his Adam’s apple. The priest fell, choking and writhing in the dust by the ruined altar of big titties.

  They turned their backs on the dead priest and the crying woman. The tribe left the ruins of Larak.

  Before they set out for their mountainous home, they stopped at the oasis to water their horses. Again, the old watcher came out of his home to see Ambiorix. This time, the watcher’s eyes widened at the sight of the new baby.

  “So,” the watcher said, pondering the significance of what he saw. “You have found your love that was lost in the ruins at Larak?”

  “Yes,” Ambiorix proclaimed with pride in his voice. “This is my son; the only thing truly conjured in the day of iniquity wrought at Larak.” Buoyant laughter traveled through the crowd. “Let that be a lesson to all, old man. If you try to use blood for blood, the wrong thing may come unto you.”

  The watcher nodded and stared at the child. “How is this one to be named?”

  Ambiorix reached out and his huge hand touched the chest of the boy. Tiny fingers gripped the hand of the warrior, and turned into fists. The bluish green eyes of the baby blinked, and peered up at his father.

  “He shall be called Gorias, after my grandfather. The name means, King of the Bastards. Born into a world of blood and violence, let him get his mouth full of it. He better get used to it.”

  The barbarian horde then extolled Wodan to bless Gorias, son of Ambiorix, with life and strength.

  Gorias cried out as well to the clear, afternoon sky. The infant studied the blood on his hands. Years later, Ambiorix’s niece swore unto Wodan that little Gorias laughed.

  The End

  Ashes of the All-Father

  “Life is pleasant.

  Death is peaceful.

  It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”

  -ISAAC ASIMOV

  I-Dreams and the Caravan

  Like many Thulites in the antediluvian world, Chief Ambiorix hated magic. His Ingaevone folk in Thule were loath to trust in workers of the black arts outside the unforgiving Zenghaus Mountains. Granted, the Oracle of Wodan, Ivor, and his shamans held the grim secrets of the netherworld, but mostly Thulites kept that sort of thing quiet. Ambiorix, a man of action, preferred to trust in what he could see, even when crossing the Earth to exact a vendetta.

  At this particular time, due to such a payback, many of his rugged tribe lingered, pitching tents in the southeast by a Black Sea far from their home in the icy north. When terrible dreams assailed the Chief’s mind, he considered seeing the woman in their tribe that dealt in Oneiromancy. He held back his desire and never shared the dreams with others because of fears all barbarians held; that such visions came by demons or spirits reaching out from beyond.

  At least that’s what Ambiorix pondered as he drank himself to sleep. Ambiorix also refused to share because of another primitive fear; that his mind might be weakening due to age.

  When an imperious voice made requests to him in this dreamtime, Ambiorix ceased to drink before retiring, which amazed his young son Gorias a great deal. However, his abstinence from the concoction of slurry of mashed vegetables failed to silence the voice. The stark, even-tempered tone repeated, night after night. The statements imparted to Ambiorix’s savage brow soon led him to new vistas, and showed a peculiar vision.

  An imperious face soon formed within his mind to give the voice more horrors. The image remained cloudy, but what this male persona revealed proved clear, taking the Chief to places only seen by birds in the air. He saw, over the rough lands north of Shynar, a line of travelers. Ambiorix recognized certain fashions or diverse folk from his travels, but many of these people were aliens from his culture and the tribe of kidnappers his folks traveled here to butcher.

  Amidst the groups of camels, horses, carts, and assorted goods in baskets, a man seemed set apart from the rest. This man, a short, older fellow, sported a scarlet glow trimming his frame. The narrator of Ambiorix’s myriad dreams said this individual looked as such to make sure Ambiorix didn’t miss him. The dialogue of the dream didn’t have explain to Ambiorix that the crimson halo blazed to show the calamitous nature for the oldster.

  Each night the dreams deepened, and Ambiorix saw this red man, his manner, attributes, and strange body among the others’ mundane activities. The way the elder one kept to himself and prayed to unknown spirits, Ambiorix soon named him a necromancer. The left arm of the wizard hung in a sling. The only reason this proved abnormal was that on the night the dreams stopped Ambiorix saw the old man use the fingers as weapons; not as a fighter, but literally ripping them off and throwing them at people. They exploded into cloudy mist and people died as if swatted down by a huge arm.

  These images made Ambiorix jerk back into the world of the lucid. Still, he told not his son Gorias, nor his women, of the visions.

  The dreams stopped abruptly. Ambiorix believed the revelations an act of a spirit or forces beyond his control. The face often came back to him of the man who spoke the dreams; the perfect, unblemished countenance he would never forget.

  The tribe set out to return home, a journey of many months, but then word came that a caravan of goods would pass by the base of the mountain where they camped. Ambiorix flinched, but didn’t show concern to his tribe when they put forth the idea of raiding the well-stocked caravan for their trip. Ambiorix reasoned that he hadn’t seen any of his own kin in the visions. He also figured that this might be the only way to remove the dire memories from his head, in facing the caravan and whatever it held. Besides, he wasn’t afraid to die.

  While he looked down on the lumbering caravan, Ambiorix stood with his long-haired tribe and said, “These fools trek across a route hardly well trod. They have no inkling of what terror can fall on them from the mountains. Just a few guards or sleepy pickets to watch for danger, hah, I see they post dwarves for this duty. It makes sense, they’re supposed to have keen eyes.”

  The raid on the trade route along the northern curl of the Euphrates River proved an unabashed success. Certain bandits and bad men lurked in the wilds along any route, but nothing could have prepared those in the train for what thundered out of the Caucaus Mountains. Over two hundred Thulite warriors flooded the caravan and broke the back of the slow-moving train.

  Swinging battle-axes, clubs, swords and war-hammers, the wave of howling giants struck the side of the caravan, killing every man and beast that stumbled into their path. Ambiorix led the charge as any chief would, cleaving the head of the first turbaned man who raised his arm in front of him. A spray of brains sent both left and right, the man fell fast as the raiders passed by. They struck the convoy with a broad-sided stroke, and so many died or were wounded in the first wave that pandemonium reigned.

  Since they crushed the initial resistance, a few of the younger warriors took to jesting with the fleeing caravan members. One lassoed a trader, but the rope tightened about his neck, not his midsection as the Ingaevone planned. As the raider turned to ride, he dragged the man by the neck for a few yards, and then struck a hump the ground. The force popped the head free, leaving him to drag nothing. Blood spurted into the dirt, much to the hilarity of the Ingaevone children also aiding in the raid.

  “They call it obsidian,” the leader of the Ingaevone raiders said, pulling a piece of material from
an overturned cart. Many looked at Ambiorix as he spoke, and eyed the material. “It’ll be good for spear-heads and knives, for it doesn’t break as easy as our crude metals.”

  Many heads turned as a wagon thundered past them. They soon realized two Ingaevone youths drove the wagon, beating the horse into a heavy lather. A twisting, echoing scream wafted from this cart and made Ambiorix squint, curious of its origin. On the rear wheels spun dwarves, spread eagle, obviously affixed there by the boys. Unsure it they were tied or nailed in place, Ambiorix sighed and said to his men, “Tell those boys to quiet down.”

  Though a few errant arrows flew at them, little in the way of resistance came. Perhaps it was the obvious beaten nature of the caravan’s survivors, or the discovery of barrels of beer in one wagon, that made the killing stop.

  Two hirsute barbarians carried a man in baggy robes aloft in jest. His tiny legs kicking, he cursed them saltily as they threw him to the ground before their leader. This ruddy-faced man touched a broken, hawkish nose and continued to curse at Ambiorix.

  Thick arms folded, Ambiorix listened to him with a bored expression on his bearded face. “Garretson, is there any reason we shouldn’t just kill them all?”

  Garretson, the stoutest of the warriors acknowledged, “Their women aren’t worth having, chief. They look brittle like birds.”

  “Where are our young ones?” Ambiorix asked his men. “Where are Gorias and the rest?”

  The men gestured to the edge of the caravan, at dust billowing up in the noonday’s light. Two-dozen youths, all barely over ten years of age, had dismounted and set about smashing the baskets off the camels.

  Ambiorix sighed as one of his men set a cart afire nearby. “Children, heh. If they were older, they would’ve cut the damned cinch strap and stayed on their mounts.”

  The other Ingaevones laughed and Garretson said, “But that’s why they come along at a young age, to learn and experience the world.”

  “True enough,” Ambiorix acknowledged the looming tribesman. He then cast his eyes down toward the smaller man on the ground. “As my son learns the lessons provided by the weak to the strong, is there any reason you can give me why we should spare your miserable lives?”

  The look of vile defiance still framed the bloody-faced man’s maw, and then suddenly it shifted. His anger faded, and he spewed, “The Elder! You will want to go after him into the city of Urak.”

  “Elder? Who is this?” Ambiorix wondered with a dubious tone in his voice, a boot balanced on an overturned cart as screams of the vanquished filtered around them.

  The small man leapt off the ground and put his hands to the chest of Ambiorix. Since the thuggish barbarian wore no shirt, the only thing for him to grasp was the leather strap across his body that supported the broadsword sheath on his back. At this action, Garretson and others took a step toward them, but Ambiorix showed no fear. He let the little man touch him as he made his case.

  “The Elder, the old wizard Hasan, that is who. I am Cyrus, and by Syn I swear that Hasan has great powers he carries, and knows the location of greater booty.”

  Ambiorix grabbed the little man by his shoulders and pulled him off his person. Lifting the man higher to look him in the eye, Ambiorix asked, “Powers, aye, Cyrus? And what treasure is this that Elder Hasan knows about?”

  The man stammered, “He knows where the tomb of the Son of God lies, in all of its riches and splendor.”

  Ambiorix threw the small man down as if he were so much trash. Groaning and grabbing his back, Cyrus turned over. Ambiorix said, “Bah, what have I need of a Nephilum’s tomb? There are sons of God a-plenty in this wretched world, old man. Giants, petty and boring, they are hard to miss in this age of iniquity. I will go visit the ones I know and trust if I have need to see one in person. Why do you think we live in the mountains?”

  Garretson asked eagerly, “Then they all must die, Ambiorix?”

  The youths ran up beside Garretson, faces full of dirt and smiles. “Yes, father,” the auburn-haired youth Gorias exclaimed. He was a head taller than the other boys were, barely eleven years old. “Let it be death for them, all!”

  Ambiorix looked west, in the direction of the city of Urak mentioned by the caravan leader. “Urak, modern city of light, home of more trollops than holy men.” This statement caused mirth from the hairy men, and then Ambiorix eyed the voyager. “You try and barter your lives with this information? Why should it matter what happens now that you have said this? I should appreciate your words and spare your life? Why did this Elder Hasan leave your great company anyway?”

  When the man fell silent, Garretson offered, “I hear in Jericho they use pain and suffering to make a man talk.”

  Ambiorix shrugged. “Torment may make some men speak. A dead man says nothing, though.”

  “Many plotted against him,” the Cyrus admitted. “We only learned of his plans when he drank too much.”

  Garretson quipped, “That’ll happen.”

  Cyrus went on to say, “Hasan grew enraged for what he sought had been moved in months past. That’s why he was with us. For what he hunted after lay in Urak. He feared we would follow him to the exact spot and try to overtake him for the treasure.”

  Ambiorix chuckled as the Thulites looked on eagerly. “You sing a peculiar tune, old one. It’s almost too crazy to be a lie. One would think a man with his life in the balance would tell a better tale.”

  “Urak?” one of the men said. “Is that not where the medusa turned half the men into stone?”

  Garretson snapped, “That’s old woman talk, nothing that will concern a fighting man.”

  The caravan leader was about to speak when his head snapped to the direction of the son of Ambiorix, Gorias. In the young man’s grasp was a bundle of cloth under one arm and a small, jeweled box under the other. Though he tried to face Ambiorix again with a calm face, the chief was no fool. He knelt down and grabbed Cyrus by his baggy robes.

  “What is it?” he requested, and then dropped him. Taking just a few strides, he reached his son and took the box from under his arm. The boy looked on with innocence. “Where was this?”

  Gorias pointed at the destroyed cart near a broken-legged horse. The animal bleated, as Gorias said, “It was in the back of the cart under many blankets, as if hidden, father.”

  Ambiorix was about to speak, but the horse shrill annoyed him. “Cut that damned animal’s throat, would one of you?” he requested, expecting to be obeyed. “Quarter up the meat for later as well.”

  “Yes chief,” a couple of the Ingaevones said, and departed toward the injured horse.

  When silence reigned, Ambiorix studied the box and fiddled with the latch on the front. Easily, the box opened. Ambiorix blinked, and his frown deepened. He showed Garretson, his son, and a few of the men in the area, and then closed the box.

  Addressing the traveler, Ambiorix said, “What insanity is this? Did this belong to this Elder Hasan?” All Ambiorix waited for was a nod from the old man before he asked, “What was he, a leper? Why would he leave his pinkie finger in a box in the caravan?”

  “Wizards do crazy things, savage,” the traveler replied with a mild shrug. “Perhaps he sought the tomb for greater powers to make himself whole again. Hasan was not a well man. His left arm was in a sling. I noticed that he missed fingers.”

  “At least one,” Ambiorix sighed, fighting down tremors induced by the memory of his horrid dreams. He threw the box back into a nearby cart. Gorias’ face darkened, wounded at the action that deprived him of a prize, but Ambiorix’s stern face glared at him. “There will be better boxes to open soon, boy. I say we go unto the city of Urak and leave these fools to gather themselves up. If we find greater treasure, then we’ll go directly back to the mountains. If not, these jackasses cannot repair and scatter away fast as the roaches they act like. We can come back and kill them afterwards.”

 
The Ingaevones seemed disappointed at this, but Ambiorix stepped closer to Garretson and said, “There are great whorehouses at the edge of Urak. That may be enough to quench the thirst of the warriors and continue the education of the boys for now. If not, we’ll ride back and slay all those in the caravan for deceiving me.” Ambiorix looked at Cyrus. “I’ll drag you home until you’re bones.”

  Garretson watched the faces of the boys light up and he asked Ambiorix, “Then you won’t pursue the tales of this Elder Hasan?”

  Ambiorix raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t lying when I told that runt I had no use for the wiles of a son of God, Garretson. A dead one really has no value I can see. At least they talk less.”

  When the Thulites mounted up and prepared to leave, the leader of the caravan leaned on a cart and stared at Ambiorix. “You may be mistaken, chief,” he said with a wry smile. “It isn’t that Elder Hasan seeks any grave, but the body in that grave. That is his treasure, you see. What he seeks is the body of the Son of God itself.”

  Ambiorix chuckled, legs gripping the sides of his mount. “Then he’s a mule and I would be the one trying to ride him in a fancy race if I pursued such a thing.”

  Cyrus replied, “It isn’t just a body, barbarian, and it isn’t just any son of God.” He paused, pointed to the sky, and declared, “It was the first Son of God.”

  Garretson reined in his horse next to Ambiorix and grumbled, “Is that old fool still babbling for his life? Should I cut his damned head off as an example? Or, better yet, let Gorias do it? I always like to see how surprised kids get at how much blood comes out at their first beheading.”