Ambiorix shook his head from side to side. “Let us be gone from here. I hope we don’t have to return. We shall send the larger pieces of booty back up the mountain. The women and wee ones are waiting for us anyway. Those old enough for man-making time will come along unto Urak.”
The massive force of raiders left the caravan in pieces. They headed northwest, toward the city of Urak.
The leader of the caravan took a few breaths, coughed violently, and then started laughing.
***
II-Bloody House
The sight of a whorehouse brings out the bestial nature in most any man. The more savage they are in breeding, the more frenzied this outward reaction becomes. Ambiorix knew that the series of brothels in the outer ring of Urak would be more than enough to quench the hunger of his men. With any luck, it would further the manhood process of the group of youths they brought in tow.
However, the emotion of terror was not one usually associated with a house of prostitution, aside from fear of performance.
The first of Ambiorix’s men that went into the whorehouse were swiftly out again. One of them vomited onto the hitching posts. Since this was an older tribesman, the one Garretson had dress and prepare the flesh of the horse for later consumption, this spewing of wine troubled Ambiorix.
“Hold your guts, you men,” Ambiorix thundered as he dismounted. Gorias was fast at Ambiorix’s heels, off his horse and stalking behind his towering father.
One of the men shouted from the door of the establishment, “Oh, by Wodan, sir, they are undone!” He then vomited near the watering trough, and then in between horses.
Ambiorix grimaced and looked down at Gorias. “Care to lose your breakfast?”
Bright eyed, Gorias shrugged. “I can eat again.”
Drawing their swords, Ambiorix, Gorias, and Garretson stepped into the brothel. It was a charnel house, full of female and male bodies, bloody and almost inhuman in their appearance. Eyes were burst asunder, pooled up with gray slime and scarlet ichor; mouths locked in the rigor of a horrid death, almost filled up with blood. Tongues lashing out to heaven for mercy were stilled, locked in rigor of crimson. Several of the men in the houses had vomited their guts out in loops. A few of these dead men had drawn their swords in defense, and still held them tight.
Garretson rubbed his mouth, wondering, “Were some of them guards of the house, or just men in for the night? I wouldn’t know a lawman from Urak to see one.”
His anger fuming, Ambiorix retorted, “Does it matter now? They all look alike once your guts are on the outside.” He looked down at his son. Gorias looked a shade of green, but didn’t become sick. “These people have been dead a long time. Look at them. The blood is dry.”
A shrilled, weak voice croaked from the next room, “Run away! Flee from the face of foul necromancy!”
Ambiorix and Garretson exchanged a glance as one of the men stepped forward to try and open the door. Quickly, Ambiorix barked, “Don’t be a fool! This isn’t worth wasting one of our lives over.”
Nevertheless, the hulking youth pulled the door open. His tawny hair flew back and he nearly dropped down to his buttocks. From out of the next room fell a man not bloodied by whatever killed the inhabitants of the whorehouse, but his eyes were gouged out. He crawled out slowly, weeping.
“Who are you and why did this happen?” Ambiorix demanded of him, unsure if truth resided in this man.
“The Elder poisoned them all,” the man muttered as he crawled on shaky limbs. They backed away from the advance of the slobbering man, as if he was a rat. “That is what the dying ones told me when I came for my weekly visit. What he cursed them with, the evil of his own hand, still was strong enough to make me very ill. However, one of the dying grabbed me in their death rictus and I was trapped here for a day.”
“Damn,” Ambiorix said, and no other words came. Gorias reached up with his free hand to touch his father’s, but the chief pulled away, focused forward.
The man blubbered, “Can you imagine what it is like being in a house of the dead for a day? One of them holding your ankle, too tight to escape?”
“He’s mad,” Garretson stated the obvious, with a wave of his left hand. “He gouged out his own eyes.”
“Exactly,” Gorias said with some disdain in his tone. “I would have cut the fingers off the idiot holding me before I went crazy.”
Ambiorix patted his son on the shoulder roughly, and then told Garretson, “Why would an old man come into a place like this? For food or shelter? I doubt for the sex, but one never can tell of these old ones.”
Garretson replied, “I would say so. It was a long trip from the caravan. It took us all afternoon to reach here. I dunno know if he was on foot or not. I knew we should have strung up that Cyrus in the caravan for more words.”
The dying man blurted, “He came for blood! Though he needed sustenance, the Elder satisfied his need for blood by destroying the house with his dismal magic. Through the bloody mess he meted out, he gained what knowledge no man would give. He required blood for his magic.”
Ambiorix never looked at the man again, but said to the group of his fighters, “Some wizards divine in blood or intestines. By the look of this place, this Elder got what he wanted to see.”
“Did they say where this Elder went?” Garretson asked the man on the floor.
“Marduk,” he croaked. “He went unto the Grotto of Marduk.”
Many of the Ingaevones blinked and their mouths dropped open at the mention of this spot. Ambiorix scowled at his tribesman as they talked amongst themselves about legends and tales of the grotto. “This man is crazy. Naught else can be gained from talking to him. I’ll hear no more discussion of medusas and the Grotto. Those are stories to scare weak children and disturb their dreams.” He knelt by the fireplace. The immense hearth was long cold, but it looked as if gray ashes were planted in a burst all over the interior of the structure.
“Are you near the hearth? Don’t touch it.” the man exclaimed. “That is where he threw his finger of wrath! It blew away into a cloud of ash and all of them died because of it.”
Ambiorix didn’t touch the strange design. He breathed hardly at all as his dreams crashed back into the front portion of his brain. Ambiorix motioned at Garretson with his head, a sharp nod. With haste, Garretson drilled his sword down into the back of the insane man. The blow nailed the madman’s heart and left lung to the floor. In an instant, the man raved no more.
“Marduk indeed,” Ambiorix said, bile in his words, as he walked out of the whorehouse.
One of the Ingaevone fighters said to him eagerly, “Chief, it’s not necessary to go into town for whores. We can go back unto our mountains. Our own women or our hands will suffice this night.”
Another younger warrior stepped up, agreeing with him vigorously.
Ambiorix sighed with disgust, reading the fear in his men at the rumors of the Grotto of Marduk. “A troop of dead sluts does not affect your mettle, but mention Marduk and you all want to run away.”
Gorias stepped nearer to his sire. “Isn’t the temple of Marduk far south of here?”
“Yes,” Ambiorix affirmed, returning his sword behind his back as they returned to the horses. “Ya listened good to the yarns at night before we gutted that village, huh? But Marduk was rumored to have traveled West, and never returned to his peoples. It is his grotto that they all get weak-kneed over, son.”
Holstering his short sword at his hip, Gorias said quietly, “I’ve heard the tales of Marduk and how they steal little girls to satisfy his unearthly lust.”
Hand on his saddle, Ambiorix muttered, “People talk too much.”
Gorias went on, saying, “They say Marduk eats them after he splits them in half, in his rapture. That’s the point of his Grotto, is it not?”
Ambiorix barked at his son, “Do not believe every tale you hear aroun
d the hearth.”
Gorias showed no hurt by the vile tone Ambiorix used on him. Instead, Gorias asked, “This Elder Hasan seeks after Marduk? Is he the son of God the man in the caravan mentioned?”
For a period, there was silence among them all, and then Ambiorix said, “Marduk was not the first son of God, nor even one of the first sired by the Angelic or Demonic host.”
Scratching his beard, Garretson put out, “I know what you’re thinking, Ambiorix, but those tales are older than children stories around the campfire.”
Ambiorix frowned at him, speaking softly. “Yes, but they have a grain of truth.”
Gorias spoke up, “Unlike the fireside tales?”
The tall man reared back, prepared to strike his son. Gorias stood still, ready for the blow and closed his eyes. Ambiorix dropped his hand and said, “You’re correct, son. There are many truths amongst the lies in tales spun to children.” As the group thinned out around the horses, Ambiorix grabbed his son and bent so that only the child could hear him. “Next time, do not seal your eyes when expecting a blow. Stare into the face of your fate like a man. Don’t ever let me think I sired a daughter, not the way you fight.”
Clenching his midriff belt, Garretson looked toward the nearby city and said, “I wonder if all of the brothels of Urak are like this?”
Ambiorix looked at the other boys and said, “Do not let this dissuade you from whorehouses, lads. There are plenty of good whores in the world.”
Gorias nodded. “I believe you, father.”
***
III-Trail of the Elder
Following the path taken by the Elder Hasan proved quite easy. One need not be a skilled tracker to follow a trail of dead bodies. Every place they stopped, a boarding house, another brothel, or a hostel-saloon, lifeless bodies abounded. Sometimes on the road there was a fetid corpse, a lodging to a host of flies, locked in strange rigor, as if they fought their demise heartily. However, in each location, the mass murder took on a different guise. For example, in the boarding house and stable, everyone was dead of a swelling at their necks, oozing black fluid from all orifices. In the next brothel, thousands of sores discharging puss covered the flesh of each person, customer and whore alike.
Ambiorix noted that the tavern they visited was lightly populated, probably in conjunction with the high concentration of common people in the brothel. Those deceased in this establishment were drenched in sweat, and left cold with their eyes open.
Each stop the Ingaevones made caused more men to suggest they return home and stop this trek. Ambiorix released a few at a time, instructing them to meet up at the border of Urak, but not to return home just yet.
Garretson gazed at a man by the side of the road, drowned in his own vomit, and suggested, “Ambiorix, no good can come of this. There is naught to gain by pursuing a man who leaves this much death in his wake.”
Ambiorix frowned and gazed into Urak proper. “True. We owe this city nothing by stopping the Elder Hasan.” He faced Gorias and a few of the other youths, reading them well. While they seemed perplexed by the departed men, none wore a guise of fear. Ambiorix lowered his voice to Garretson and said, “I also see nothing to stop this old man from slaying us in such a manner, should we encounter him. I see a pattern, any fool can.”
No longer showing his randy nature, Garretson nodded. “Yes, foolish to come this far, chief.”
Hands turning to fists, Ambiorix leered at him. “I need your counsel, not your scourging, Garretson. My father died long ago.”
As the group mounted up and encircled Ambiorix in the street, Gorias let his mount drift towards Urak, looking down the streets.
“Boy, heed your father,” Garretson said, waving for him to join them.
Still fascinated by something, Gorias never flinched. The warriors looked at the boy and no one moved to join him.
Ambiorix commanded in a strong voice, “Son? Gorias! What is it?”
“Look, father,” he slowly raised an arm and pointed, his manner almost pensive. “You see the statues on either side of the street?”
Indeed, they noted humanoid shapes across the street from each other near to various town buildings. Gorias’ horse trotted in the vicinity of them, and many Ingaevones joined Ambiorix in following the boy.
“What is it?”
Gorias pointed down the avenue, saying, “The path of the medusa victims is clear enough. Look at them. These were not carved by man.”
Stroking hair on the back of his head with nervousness, Garretson looked at the stone figures, and admitted, “Damn cruel stone cutter if they were, boy. Medusas? Gorgons? Wodan forbids it!”
Truly, the shapes appeared dissevered from white rock. Yet, each human was not posing, or looking off stoic, after a heroic deed. These figures stood locked in an expression of horror, afraid, eyes bulging, and mouths agape.
A few of the warriors started to disengage, clearly disturbed by what they saw. They stopped short of fleeing, looking to Ambiorix for orders.
Eyes full of resignation, mind afire with his past dreams of terror, Ambiorix said, “We must go. This isn’t our home or our place to stop this kind of evil.”
With youthful glee, Gorias exclaimed, “Father, are these really the work of gorgons? They really do exist! Did they once pass by here?”
Ambiorix jabbed one of the statues with his boot, causing a bit of the stone to chip away from the human figure’s forearm. “These look to be well weathered. Look closely, son, if these were indeed men turned to stone by the gorgons, it was a very long time ago. If they did, they are the opposite of the sons of god that old man Hasan seems to desire so much.”
Garretson looked down the avenue. “The lords of Urak keep these in the street as a reminder, you figure?”
Shrugging, Ambiorix reined in his horse and declared, “Perhaps. I care not for this vagueness. No treasure can be worth any of this death or dancing so close to the jests of the gods.”
The boy looked at the stone shapes. His eyes never blinked. “Where do the gorgons come from, father?”
Ambiorix spat and said dismissively, “It depends on which lying tongue one listens to, son. Some say they are revolting creatures bred by some demon, while others have a grimmer origin.”
Facing his father, Gorias asked, “What is it?”
Boots shifting in his stirrups, Ambiorix sighed. “You know of the sons of the gods, the Nephilum giants? They are all huge, powerful men, correct?”
Gorias nodded.
Ambiorix posed to him, “It ever strike you as odd that the angelic or demonic host never fathered a female child from the womb of an earth woman?”
Mouth agape, Gorias took a few moments before saying, “Wodan’s beard! The gorgons…”
Reining his horse away from Urak, Ambiorix stated, “Which is why they cannot breed with men, and the males who try, freaks are born. The Curse gets deeper the farther the bloodline strains. Let us begone from this place.”
“Father,” Gorias whispered, again pointing into the city. “That must be the Grotto of Marduk!”
With some violence in his motions, Ambiorix yanked his mount away from the others and joined his son. He leaned over and grabbed Gorias by his outstretched arm and said quietly, “Listen, you young mule, trust the words of your father and let us depart from here.”
Gorias and the rest stared at the stone building as a startled cry split the night. Before any of the stunned men could stop him, Gorias kicked his horse and bolted toward the Grotto of Marduk and where they heard the scream.
***
ACT IV—Grotto of Marduk
Ambiorix kicked his horse, cursing. He followed his son through the dirt streets and towards the stone building devoted to Marduk. If anyone watched as Ambiorix’s mount kicked up the town’s dirt road, they didn’t emerge from their homes or buildings to make it obvious. Still, he felt eyes
on him, either from this world or another.
If anything, the Grotto resembled a figure eight, with two circular structures intersecting at the middle. The Grotto looming like three homes had been stacked atop each other, constructed only of concise bricks. Each stone bore hand-scribed decorations with intricate carvings too small to appreciate from a distance, but, by the bizarre reflection of the torches outside, no two of the polished links were the same.
Gorias had quickly dismounted and ran toward the edifice. The youth stopped, though, and his father caught up with him. Not all of the youthful bravado in the world would make him charge up a railing into a religious site, where a dozen women lay outside, still twitching in death.
With great violence, Ambiorix boxed Gorias’ ears from behind and the boy staggered. A handful of his hair, he turned Gorias around. Pointing in his face, Ambiorix roared, “I will not be disobeyed by a damned pup, even my own.” Ambiorix then thought better of his loud tone, scanning the area as his voice echoed.
Though blood trickled from his left ear, Gorias stood tall and faced his father. Truly, the youth was ready to take the next punishment.
Ambiorix frowned, glared down at the dying women, and released him. “Be not so rash, boy, as to rush headlong into your death. It’ll find you in its own sweet time.”
Gorias pointed at the nearest woman, as a few started to crawl toward them, and said, “Father, they wear robes and finery, their faces are painted as if high born whores.” Indeed, the samite gowns trimmed with gold belonged only on the wealthy or those dressed for a purpose. “What are they doing here at a temple of a god?”
After a shove to the right shoulder forced Gorias to walk back from the steps, Ambiorix said, “They are brides of Marduk, adorning in their best cote-hardie gowns. They all wear hemmin veils, see? They go forth into the temple, I hear tell, to have him deflower them of their virginity.”
Flabbergasted, Gorias waved at the women as they bled from their mouths and gargled on crimson. “Who kidnapped such a group for this evil thing?”
Blood and Steel: Legends of La Gaul, Volume 1 Page 4
