Belly of the Beast

by Warren Thomas

  Only, the square wasn’t empty.

  Royal Army regulars in the blue and green of Kestsax under heavy mail coats surrounded the square. Their spears were presented, and their faces grim within iron helmets. Officers and sergeants barked orders at the newcomers, ordering them to line up for inspection. Those few astride horses or driving wagons were ordered to dismount and stand in line as well. The horses and wagons were immediately led away, despite the owners’ protests.

  “Order of the king, all hale mounts belong to the army until the war is over,” a gray-haired officer in polished cuirass and plumed helmet declared. His accent said he was a highborn Kestsaxian, therefore a Jarlander. “I am Colonel Hans Hertha, Royal Constable. Now, Captains Chantelle and Manas will be walking among you, looking you over. Follow their orders to the letter, and we’ll get this over quickly. Even look like trouble, and you’ll find yourself in lockup. Understood? Good. Captains!”

  A man behind Tane began cursing furiously under his breath. Hazarding a glance backwards, Tane saw an angry warrior in brown homespun under a faded blue gambeson. Tall and powerful looking, despite being gray-haired and balding, something about him held Tane’s eye a moment. Then it hit him – an elf! An elf with Leltic warrior tattoos under his eyes and on his forehead. Other tattoos were half-hidden by a short, well-trimmed beard. But before Tane could wonder on the oddity of a Leltic elf, the two captains began their inspection.

  Captain Chantelle was probably pretty in her youth. She wore the leather breeches and thigh boots that most mercenary woman cavalry wore, with the jangling spurs that only Amazon warriors seemed to like. Captain Manas wore a standard issue Kestsax army uniform, with no frills. He looked as professional as they came to Tane’s eyes, and he was the one walking down Tane’s line.

  The captains stopped briefly before each man and woman, occasionally asking a question or two, then pointing them toward one of two exits before stepping to the next person in line. Very quickly Tane discovered a frightening trend. The old, infirm, and very young were sent to the east exit, while most of the others were sent to the north exit. Of the young and hale, only mothers holding toddlers and younger were sent out the east exit.

  “North, boy,” Captain Manas said to Tane without so much as asking a question or taking a second look.

  “Move it, boy!” a soldier shouted when Tane hesitated.

  The path Tane was raced down was lined with soldiers, all shouting for him to hurry. By the time he reached the tall stone tower, he was exhausted and confused. Tane was ordered against a stone wall with the others before he could get his bearings. While soldiers held spears on them, more soldiers disarmed Tane’s group, with sergeants badgering them with countless questions.

  “Name?” a soldier sitting behind a field table demanded.

  “Tane Kyleson of Bracklin.”

  The soldier nodded as he wrote, saying, “A Jarlander. Any warrior training?”

  Tane bristled at being named a Jarlander. He was a Lelt! He bore the Tribal Tattoos to prove it, too.

  Bearing his tattooed chest, Tane said, “I’m no Jarlander. I am Leltic, a son of the Coratan Tribe.”

  “Tane Kyleson is Tyrian in form, naming you Jarlander, boy,” the soldier snapped. “What are you trying to pull? Who is your father? Is he a citizen of Kestsax?”

  “Of course my father is a citizen,” Tane said, and instantly regretted it.

  His father was a Jarlander, almost three-quarters Tyrian. Tane’s paternal grandfather was full-blooded Tyrian.

  The soldier grinned at Tane’s deep blush, “He’s a Jarlander?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a Jarlander?”

  Tane felt his face heat up again. How could he deny his paternal heritage? Deep down, he knew he was ashamed, mostly due to being raised in a Leltic village by Leltic maternal family members. His Uncle Calvan was the only living member of his father’s family.

  “I am Jarlander,” Tane whispered, wincing at the look of vicious triumph radiating from the soldier.

  “Next,” the soldier said, dismissing Tane.

  A mage in blue robes waited to chant spells over him. Strangely, he didn’t mind, for the mage was a pretty blonde with the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen. It took him a moment, but realized he was being checked for disease and enchantments.

  She dismissed him a moment later, having never made eye contact.

  Tane silently thanked Kamain when the soldier who had earlier taken his sword and pack handed him a brass token with a number inscribed upon it.

  “Where did you take my stuff?”

  Instead of an answer, soldiers hustled him and the others inside a tower and up a spiraling stone stairway. Another group of soldiers cut them off two levels up, turning them into a large chamber. Moments later, the iron bound door shut with a resounding crash. The sound of a heavy bar being lowered echoed through the chamber.

  Chapter 6

  “Damn me for a fool!” cried the tattooed elf Tane had seen cursing earlier. “I knew better than come here! I knew no good would come of it! Sweet Mother, take me for a fool!”

  “Aw, shut up, elf!” a towering Tyrian said. The huge blonde barbarian winked at Tane, a most unsettling act to the Leltic swordsmith. He was big as a bear, and looked twice as strong. “They’re just being paranoid, that’s all. They’ll let us out soon enough.”

  “You’re wrong,” the elf said. “We are about to be inducted into the Royal Army, whether we care to join or not.”

  The Tyrian shrugged. “I came to Kestsax to fight. Why should I care who pays me?”

  Tane didn’t hear the rest of their argument. His head was spinning. The Royal Army! Just his rotten luck. He’d probably spend the next two years following the army, working on a portable forge night and day. Sleeping in wet blankets. Eating cold, stale rations. No reputation of fine workmanship to earn for the future. And lousy pay, to heap insult upon injury.

  Leaning against the wall, he slid down to sit and think on his predicament. There had to be a way to escape his fate. There just had to be! He still had his purse, with a healthy sum of crowns copper, eagles, and half-eagles by any standard. But with a war going on, it might not be possible to bribe his way out of military service. And he might try to bribe the wrong man, and get himself thrown in jail.

  “Better safe than sorry,” he said, bitterly quoting his mother’s oft-repeated advice.

  It was full night before two men arrived, escorted by a dozen soldiers with naked steel in hand. One looked to be an elderly magistrate in black robes, while the other was clearly an army officer.

  “On your feet, scum!” a sergeant barked, crashing the flat of his sword against the door. “Captain Kenelm and Lord Folant have got a few words for you, hear? Now you listen polite like, and me and the boys want have to whump you.” Then turning to the captain, “All yours, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Haley,” Captain Kenelm said quite civilly, but then his dark eyes turned cold. “You men and women have been chosen to join my company of auxiliary light foot. After the induction ceremony, you will be taken to Fox Company’s barracks and assigned bunks. First thing in the morning you will start your training.”

  “What if we don’t want to join?” the elf asked.

  The captain smiled tightly and turned to Lord Folant. The magistrate gave the elf an intent look of disapproval, and then opened a large leather-bound book a soldier handed him.

  “Your token number, please,” Lord Folant said. The magistrate seemed pleasant enough, giving Tane renewed hope.

  “Fifty-six dash three.”

  “And your name,” Lord Folant said.

  “Quinn, Lord Magistrate,” the elf said.

  “Very good. Well, then,” Lord Folant said, clearing his throat. “I hereby place you, Quinn, under arrest for carrying an illegal weapon, resisting arrest and, uh...insulting an army officer, and the whole Royal Army.”

  Lord Folant glanced up, his blue eyes boring menacingly into the stunned
elf, and slammed the book closed.

  “Furthermore, as the king has declared a state of emergency, I am empowered to exercise my full authority as I see fit. And I find you guilty of all counts.”

  “The sentence, my lord?” Captain Kenelm said.

  “Death,” the magistrate said, handing the book back to the soldier. “Captain, please have the prisoner hanged immediately.”

  “My pleasure, my lord,” Captain Kenelm said, signaling to a pair of soldiers to seize the elf.

  “Wait! I didn’t say I refused to join!” Quinn said, backing away from the advancing soldiers. “I just wanted to know my options. That’s all.”

  “Should’ve said something sooner,” Lord Folant said. He gave the elf a haughty sneer. “Once a verdict is handed down, it’s written in stone.”

  “Of course, in a national emergency, the army can accept condemned men into its ranks,” Captain Kenelm said. “And if such a man completes his service honorably, then he is pardoned and set free. Does that sound acceptable, Quinn?”

  “Very,” he said, grimacing. “And I pray to serve your king, who is now my king, to the best of my abilities.”

  “Excellent,” the captain said, smiling broadly. “Now, shall we get on with the swearing in ceremony?”

  Tane, too stunned by the events, and afraid for his own life if he tried to escape the army, did as told. He swore to serve King Borric and Kestsax, to obey the officers placed over him, and to fight to the death if need be to keep his oath. Tane joined the Royal Army.

  Within minutes they were hustled from the tower and rushed through the night-shrouded streets of Kestsax. They were taken to a large wooden barracks pressed up against the city walls. Sullen men and women in simple undyed tunics and blue trousers loitered before the barracks. They were met by a lieutenant and six sergeants.

  The lieutenant was a freckle-faced, red-headed nobleman who looked even younger than Tane. But his voice held all the authority that long practice and good breeding instilled. The sergeants, on the other hand, looked to be some of the most unsavory men and women Tane had ever laid eyes upon. All were Lelts, with the blue Tribal tattoos of half a dozen different tribes. One woman was missing her entire left hand, while another sergeant was missing most of his front teeth and his right eye. Another was missing an ear, and all bore scars on arms and faces.

  Just looking at them told Tane he didn’t want any part of army life.

  When the lieutenant started dividing the new “recruits” up between his sergeants, Tane found his backbone and spoke up. He was almost as surprised by the sound of his voice as the army regulars, but continued on nonetheless.

  “Sir. Lieutenant Artair. Please, a word,” Tane said. The look the officer and sergeants gave him made Tane hesitate. “No one asked me earlier, and I think it might be important.”

  “Speak, recruit,” Lieutenant Artair said, though frowning. “You’re among friends here.”

  The way the sergeants were looking at him made Tane doubt that. But this was his only chance to escape life as a foot soldier. And escape certain death impaled upon the wrong end of a spear or sword.

  “Sir, I am a trained swordsmith,” Tane said. He spoke quickly, afraid he would be cut off too soon. “I came to serve the king in the Royal Smithy. But, I fear, I was accosted and forced to join the army. Now, mind you, I’m not trying to get out of the army. I did swear to serve the king in the army, after all. But I thought it might be to the army’s best interests if I took up the duties in which I can best serve it, as a swordsmith.”

  “Nice speech, recruit,” Lieutenant Artair said, grinning. “And if you had told someone sooner, like before you were sworn in, then someone would probably be showing you your new forge. But we have you now, and we aren’t giving any of you up without a fight.”

  “I want the kid,” the sergeant missing her hand said, eyeing Tane speculatively. Tane felt his throat tighten. “I’ll give up two of mine to Sergeant Gareth for him.”

  The one-eyed sergeant laughed harshly. Tane noted that his one remaining upper front tooth was broken and black. By far, he looked to be the most unsavory of the lot.

  “Not if you gave up a tit, Marji! The kid’s got spunk and bulk, and I’m keeping him,” Sergeant Gareth laughed.

  Tane almost groaned in misery to learn he was assigned to Sergeant Gareth. The man was the only sergeant more frightening looking than Sergeant Marji. He was tall as Tane, with greasy brown hair that hung to his shoulders, a harsh face made worse by his eye-patch and single black tooth, and a burly, scar-covered body. Gareth was clean shaven like the rest of the soldiers, with a bushy grey-streaked mustache. At the moment, he and the other sergeants wore only the blue trousers and green tunic of army regulars.

  Tane listened quietly as the lieutenant divided up the remaining recruits. Once he left, the sergeants spent another twenty minutes haggling and trading recruits among themselves. Sergeant Gareth outright bought the elf’s service from rangy Sergeant Cade, for one recruit and twenty crowns copper.

  Suddenly, Sergeant Gareth laughed and turned away from his peers. He looked Tane and the elf over with relish, then motioned for them to follow him. Tane was surprised to find only himself and Quinn following Gareth, for the other sergeants each had five to eight recruits.

  They were taken to a dark pile next to the barracks, where a corporal checked their tokens and produced their packs and gear, except for their weapons which were already locked up in the arms room. Strangely, the elf grasped his ruck and quickly riffled through it as they walked away. The sergeant then led them straight into the dark, quiet barracks and up a rickety stairway to the third floor.

  Each of the three floors were laid out alike. The floors were open bays divided by four sets of facing rooms evenly spaced down their length. One platoon was billeted on each floor, with the sergeants having rooms to themselves, and each section’s two corporals sharing a room across from their section sergeant. The open bays between the rooms were filled with sturdy bunks.

  “We’re 3rd Section of 3rd Platoon, boys,” Sergeant Gareth said as he led them through rows of bunks filled with sleeping men and women. “I’m senior Section Sergeant in the platoon. Sergeant Knut is Platoon Sergeant, and the biggest, meanest, ugliest Thanir warrior you’ve ever seen, too. Don’t rile him, or me for that matter.

  “Now, you two are part of Corporal Pendar’s squad under me,” he continued. “This company didn’t exist before yesterday, so we’re all just forming up and getting to know each other.”

  “Uh, Sergeant Gareth,” Tane said. “I’m not entirely following you. I’m not a warrior, much less a trained soldier, so I don’t really understand what we do. The captain said we were part of his auxiliary company of foot. Are we spearmen, or swordsmen, or what?”

  “Ha. Good question, kid,” he said. “Auxiliary foot is a fancy way of saying we’re sword fodder. Untrained soldiers for the real soldiers on the other side to hack up for a bit of sport.”

  “And he’s not joking,” the elf said.

  Nearing the far end of the second floor, Gareth said, “This room on the right is mine. The one across is where my corporals stay.”

  The door into the corporals’ room was open, showing it to be empty. He scowled into the dark room a moment, then swept an all inclusive hand at the small bay before them. It was dark, with only a single oil lamp on the wall, turned down low, lighting the area. Most of the ten bunks were occupied with huddled forms under blankets.

  “This is 3rd Section’s territory, and your new home. The left side of the bay is your squad’s responsibility. So, find a bunk along the left wall and call it a night, boys. We’ll be getting you up real early in the morning.”

  Chapter 7

  Dakar glowered at the vast temple complex. Bad enough it wasn’t one of the Old Ones’ pyramid-temples, but this one was laid out in a unique floor plan even for the Arisen Gods. There was a great wrought iron fence surrounding the complex, a sacred circle to protect the God’s “hous
e.” Within, amid lush gardens, sat an imposing structure of whitewashed granite, laid out in the shape of Kamain’s Hammer. The handle was the nave, with the hammerhead the sanctuary holding the High Altar.

  “All is ready, Divine Master,” High Priest Mogens said solemnly.

  Dakar scowled at him. He knew it wasn’t Mogens fault that the temple had been booby-trapped, both magically and mundanely. It wasn’t his fault that twenty-seven of Dakar’s priests and priestesses had perished due to those cunningly conceived and concealed traps. It wasn’t anyone’s fault it took so long to desecrate Kamain’s temple, then consecrated it to Dakar. All the blame lay with the temple’s former priesthood, who were all either dead or His mindless magically-induced slaves.

  “How goes the work in the other temples?” Dakar said as he started for the door.

  He could tell by Mogens’ reluctance to answer the question meant He didn’t want to know. But a question had been asked, and His High Priest had no choice but to answer, no matter how vile the answer would taste.

  “The same as this temple, Divine Master,” was the grim answer. “All the temples knew we were coming, and used their time well in laying traps for us. No trap is repeated anywhere else in the city, making each temple we desecrate a new, deadly experience.”

  What Mogens didn’t know was the very real pain Dakar felt every time one of His servants perished. He was eternally “linked” to them, their pain was His pain. But pain was the least of His concerns, for priests provided living channels of life force flowing to Him. Each priest was the equivalent of a living High Altar, endlessly feeding His Godly powers. The more priests and altars, the greater His power, and vice-versa. Only human sacrifice, which allowed him to “eat” the living soul of a mortal, gave Him more nourishment, more strength and power.

  A deep “oulm” rolled from His assembled priesthood as they prostrated themselves to either side of His path to the High Altar. They were two ranks deep along the aisle, and rightly should’ve been ten ranks deep. The Arisens were insidious in the ways They decimated His servants, and craven in Their avoidance of face-to-face confrontations.