Overkill

by Steven Shrewsbury

  Gorias glanced across the lands away from Orsen. “I see yer pride swellin’ over yer homeland. Take it easy, youngster. I get it.” He didn’t feel the need to argue over which land saw itself as better. In his eyes neither land ran much more cosmopolitan than the other. Granted, the regular buildings sported a different thatch and more mortar in Transalpina. In Albion, more working-class domiciles were made of logs and had a centralized chimney system, unlike the ones to the rear of the homes Gorias watched as they passed.

  Gorias looked down the road, recalling how much rockier the avenues in Albion ran centuries ago. The farmers hemmed in their property lines with small walls composed of these bricks, showing that determined folks could make use of any obstacle.

  “Most well-traveled dirt roads go to crap with great rains, but I gotta hand it to the Queen or whoever, the brick and stone streets in some cities are bound to catch on.”

  “The stones are not that difficult to quarry. They make them small and use filler. It’s better on carts and they don’t have anything like it in Albion.”

  “Must be harder on the horseshoes, though, but I reckon the blacksmiths do a good business because of it.” Gorias’ bored face broke and he mumbled, “And folks wonder why I travel and kill people. I wasn’t made for the hearth and all this.”

  “I hadn’t figured you for a farmer.”

  “I tried my hand at that for a few years when I settled in different places. The tree lines out here are scarcer than in Albion.”

  “There are different schools of thought on that. Many think the lines are better for the soil.”

  “Most hands that have ever turned a plow will agree.”

  “Quite, but several of the groves and whatnot have been gutted for timber. Plus, the sacred groves of the less-schooled have been done away with due to the goddess.”

  “Bet that went over well.”

  Orsen raised his nose as if he smelt something foul. “It’s better this way. Such places are reminders of appalling ways and rites. It’s better the innovative way and not dancing naked in a grove full of ticks.”

  They rode in silence for a few hours until Gorias asked, “Something on your mind, son? We can talk more about how red bricks are the fad in Albion rather than this whitewashing of rocks in Transalpina if ya want. I’m all about boring travel talk.”

  “While your mother came from a royal line, I know your father was a tribal chief from a backwater land.”

  Eyes forward, Gorias replied, “Your point?”

  “Certainly, in my mind, your heart would have strove with the ruder folk vanquished by the erudite forces of Transalpina that day, on the Somme.”

  “Get to it, kid. What do ya wanna know?”

  “What did you fight for us?”

  “Your Queen, Lady Garnet, then a princess. I had to repay the slight. Time was, I’d have died for her.”

  “Not now?”

  Gorias smiled. “Hell no. I’ll only die for myself now. The way I feel, the hole in the ground or the slot on the pyre will be comin’ around soon. The value of my ass has increased in the last hundred years, both for those who want satisfaction in a hire or some punk who wants my pelt on his wall.”

  Evening fell by the time they reached the capital city of Qesot. Many times both men slept in the saddle. The outer rim of farms tightened up into gardens and thatched-roofed homes, usually built of logs like Gorias saw before. These simple, but cozy dwellings held many families who’d known much peace in their lives.

  Gorias commented, “They really don’t know they are there to be a buffer zone for invasions, do they?”

  Orsen didn’t answer.

  “Kid, you’ve ridden in here how many times and never pondered that?”

  “Not everyone thinks of dying, death and who they can kill for power every day.”

  Gorias spat to his right and then waved at a pair of stout girls weeding a garden. “That’s why you won’t live to be 700 years old.”

  “If the rumors on the wind are true, the world will end within a hundred years, so, what’s to worry on?”

  “I’ve heard that,” Gorias remarked as a boy ran up and tossed Gorias an apple. The old man caught it and saluted the youth. A few children ran to them, but just petted Traveler as they went. One touched Gorias’ leggings, drawing back fast at the feel of the dragon skin armor. “Transalpinan kids, gotta love ‘em, huh?” He smiled at the rosy-cheeked children, their skin tan from much time in the sun after the spring plantings. At that moment, he thought of another difference from those in Albion. Those across the channel seemed pale of skin and fair no matter how much time spent in the sun. Was that a large enough difference to make them natural enemies?

  “You are a coy man,” Orsen said, watching the worshipful children,

  “Excuse me?” Gorias said between bites of the apple.

  “You act as if your fame has become a chore and you tire of being Gorias La Gaul, but I see a different yarn in your face when those little ones approach.”

  “Aw, they’re kids. It’s the best time of life.” Gorias paused, looked to the distant earthen works about the main walls of the city. “No worries when you’re a kid. Don’t get me wrong, Orsen, being me has its merits. But there’s only one of me and that’s plenty. No one else should have to be me.”

  They passed through the guards, who let them all the way through the logs barring the gap in the works. The inner portion sat mostly empty, but Gorias saw where an army would gather their weapons for a siege at the earthen works, before falling back to the first curtain wall that surrounded the city. Gorias sighed, wishing he could sleep through the trip through that, the streets, and then the next series of walls that protected Queen Garnet in her castle beyond.

  “It’ll be dark by the time we see the Queen.”

  Orsen eyed the waning sunset. “This is true. Perhaps the morning would be a better idea.”

  Once inside the city, they traveled across the cobbled streets toward the castle. Orsen stopped them halfway to the castle and dismounted.

  Confused, Gorias put both his hands out.

  Orsen pointed to a shop made of bricks that belched great puffs of smoke. “You don’t expect to see the Queen without a bath?”

  “Yer killin’ me, son.”

  “Seriously.”

  Gorias dismounted. “I guess I need one.” He turned his head and grabbed his helm from the rear saddlebag. “I see a pie shop over there. Go get me some pie. I gotta eat something of substance. Don’t get pissy, kid, I’ll eat as I clean up.”

  Eyes rolling, Orsen sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  “And if ya bring me back a meat pie I’ll break your damned legs.”

  *****

  Once cleaned and fed, Gorias and Orsen headed to the series of walls that protected the estates of the Queen of Transalpina.

  Orsen sighed, “I thought the bath house owner would bring himself to orgasm if he polished your armor any longer.”

  Gorias held out his left arm and feigned amazement at the shine. “He did a helluva job, no? That sucker’ll tell that tale for the rest of his life.”

  The guards hovering around the entrance to the Queen’s eastern tower wore rough looks. Gorias sized them up as young, brash, and easy enough to kill if the need arose, but dismissed such thoughts. He peered over Orsen’s head across the vast gardens and grounds surrounding the tower, thinking how improbable performing a fighting exit might become.

  “Well, we didn’t beat the sunset, but I like the dark better sometimes. Our luck is holding out.”

  Orsen still struggled with the donkey. “I shall be glad to dispense with this thing.”

  “Yeah, I reckon.” Gorias pulled his cloak over himself more the closer they came to the tower. The walls, though distant, felt nearer and the number of guards increased. In time, they stopped by the tower. Gorias looked up at the many tiers and admired the workmanship. He recalled climbing down one of these towers, the one over by the herbalist’s wall, when he was a younger
man with a greater passion for sex than living another day.

  “Something funny?” one of the young guards gripping the pommel of a sheathed short sword grunted.

  Gorias turned his head to face the guard and peered down. “I didn’t realize I was smiling. I musta been thinking on something else.” Gorias climbed from Traveler and the guard backed up a step. Eyes on the tower again, Gorias directed his words to Orsen. “Garnet still a handsome woman?”

  Orsen’s mouth popped open, but he couldn’t find the words.

  Gorias continued. “She used to have rich, auburn hair but more red in back like God grabbed it with bloody hands and wiped ‘em off.”

  The guards exchanged glances and everyone remained silent.

  “Hey, I’m a fighter not a poet.”

  Orsen said, “You could’ve fooled me. She’s not had that color hair for my lifetime.”

  Another guard, practically a copy of the first, appeared from around the tower and ordered Gorias, “Leave your swords here.”

  Hands to his hips, long cloak billowing back to reveal more of his dragon-skinned armor, Gorias said, “That is something I cannot do.”

  Well aware these guards heard of Gorias’ famed swords since their cradle, he placed the onus on them to go further.

  Orsen spoke up, saying, “I believe Her Majesty will not object.”

  The gruffer of the two guards spat back, “To letting a professional killer into her chambers armed? Unlikely, even with all of the Appra sisterhood on duty.”

  Orsen pressed, “Then let the responsibility rest on me.”

  Gorias wore a modest look. “I’m gettin’ tired of standing here. If you two wanna bugger yourselves over who gets to let me in…”

  Metal scraped on stone as the locking bolts slid from the main tower door. The opening just up the steps swung out and a large form filled the frame. Near as tall as Gorias, the muscled woman leered at the guards, then cast her expression on Gorias. Her bronze eyes softened. Though clad in loose-fitting silk trousers and a vest neatly covering her small breasts, the tall woman stood ready to strike. On her left side dangled a thin sword and on her belt Gorias counted two daggers plus some sort of sharp instrument, probably a throwing star.

  Gorias glanced at her leather boots and guessed the fixtures on the sides of them held thin blades, or pig stickers as he liked to call them. “Evening, or is it afternoon?” He checked overhead, trying to find the faded sun.

  “Gorias La Gaul, you can be no other.” Her voice, deep, but not off -putting, boomed in the cool air. “Come along inside. The Queen awaits you.”

  Gorias walked between the guards and ascended the steps. He soon stood next to the tall woman, who had to look up at him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

  Full lips parting, the bodyguard stated, “Alena Appra.”

  After a single step further up the steps, Gorias paused, allowing her past him. As Alena passed, Gorias asked, “Are you related to General Appra from Lascaux?”

  Her mane of golden-brown hair flipped back as she stood taller on the steps than him for a moment. “Yes. He spoke highly of you, even when the madness of age started to make him bleed from his ears.”

  “Sorry to hear that, well, that he has passed and all.” He recalled the General well, his boxy facial features stuck out of the tall woman, but she was indeed fetching if somewhat plain.

  Her voice echoing up the stone stairwell, Alena said, “It’s a shame for a warrior to die in his bed with only the memories of past glories to keep him company.”

  “I hear you there.” Gorias pondered the General, not what anyone would call a handsome man, but he had charm, macho bravado and guts. Gorias understood that such things could fill in the gaps for a man not so tender to gaze upon.

  Alena didn’t turn back as she asked, “Not your idea of a sweet death, Lord La Gaul?”

  Watching her powerful hips shift as she climbed, he answered, “Not really, but call me Gorias.”

  “Are you contemplating your death now?”

  He came near to responding, I’m pondering you breaking my neck with those proud hips, but held his tongue on that matter. “Just wondering how you’ve made this place smell like lilacs instead of stone.”

  They arrived on the landing of a floor a few stories up and Alena said, “It’s better than musty stone, no?”

  Hands to his belt, Gorias nodded. “Certainly.” He glanced behind himself, seeing Orsen on the final step, waiting. “You’re brave, sport. If my ass fell backwards, I’d have squashed you.”

  Deadpan voice low, Orsen replied, “I live to serve, Gorias.”

  Eyes drinking in the furnishing and everything on the level, Gorias saw a few more women dressed in a similar fashion to Alena in each doorway. “They your sisters?”

  “The twenty daughters of Appra serve Queen Garnet. Loyal subjects are tough to find for an inner guard.”

  “I suppose.” Gorias recalled Appra had no sons back when they fought side by side but that was a lifetime ago. “Your father was a great man.”

  Alena’s head snapped around, her look one of testiness. “General Appra served his Queen as do I. While disappointed he had no legitimate sons, he didn’t cry over it.”

  `”I never said…”

  Her nipples stuck through her tunic as she declared, “Our bloodline is one of honor and we serve Garnet unto death. Beyond her death bad things may happen to the kingdom, thus, the reason for your calling.”

  “I’ve heard the world may end sooner than later.”

  Alena smirked. “I don’t believe everything I hear. I heard once you were of royal blood.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  The other guards came in closer as Gorias stepped further into the chamber. “What is it she wants exactly?”

  Arms folded under her scant bosom, Alena replied, “The Queen has lips and you shall hear from them.” She then dismissed the other guards and Orsen, ever watching as they exited down the steps. Alena then marched across the room and opened the next door.

  Gorias paused, hands to his sides, taking a few breaths.

  “What is it?” Alena quipped in a bashful voice. “Preparing to see the Queen?”

  “Nope,” Gorias answered, taking a few steps toward her before stopping again. “I’m not accustomed to carrying the piss bucket.” He then gave her a severe look. “Anywhere.”

  “Bad things will…”

  Gorias cut her off saying, “I’m not from Transalpina so what do I care if this land goes into the shitter?”

  Her mouth opened, but Gorias wasn’t through.

  “I don’t need to be threatened or impressed to do my work. I came here outta past respect for your Queen. Now, if you’ll kindly move the hell outta my way, I’ll get this over with.”

  Jaw still open, quivering for a moment, Alena’s face reddened as Gorias moved past her.

  Cool air rushed to meet him as Gorias walked through the expansive terrace of the tower. While two walls hemmed in the floor behind his back, the rest spread out open to the air, only obscured by support pillars. He paused, ears picking up the silky sound of fabrics on the polished floor. Gorias turned slowly and saw the queen, Lady Garnet Peverall.

  Probably a hair over five feet in height, the Queen stood, back erect, chin up, gazing across the vast courtyard and lands that butted up against the palace walls. Pretty as a painting, Gorias thought, her elegant yet simple gown one with the floor and tapering up her frame as if painted there by a master. She took a step to one side, head moving as if trying to see a sight in the distance, but her manner betrayed nothing feeble nor a lack of grace.

  Gorias took a few steps forward, certain then that she heard his boots. He stopped, pondered that her hair was not as white as his, and waited.

  “Come see her, Gorias,” said the Queen, her right hand extended out from her powder blue, silken gown.

  Trying not to smile that he obeyed an old rule of not speaking until spoken to by royalt
y, Gorias walked up beside the small woman. Right hand to his hip, Gorias leaned forward and squinted.

  Outside the walls, a carriage drawn by white horses trudged along in the evening. Though guards flanked the ride, many shop owners and common folks were allowed to get near the wheels. They waved, laughed and bowed.

  “What exactly are we looking at, Garnet? That’s pretty far away.”

  Her steely eyes glancing up at him for a moment, she countered, “I wanted to show you what a bitch on wheels looks like.”

  “Oh, I know I’ve seen that before, but who is that down there?”

  Hands folded in front of her, The Queen’s scowl deepened. “My youngest sister, the Lady Mavik of Gordes.”

  “I hardly knew her.” Right hand up to his beard for a moment, Gorias gestured out as he said, “I guess we all got old, huh? Holding a parade for herself this late, is she?”

  Lips curling back, he thought the Queen two seconds from splitting apart. “Looks to be so, no? That carriage can hardly contain her ego and that fake son of hers, the supposed heir to my throne.”

  Hands to his sides, Gorias wore a rueful expression. “Mavik and Vincent? Big time phonies, huh?”

  Her face focused up at the warrior, Garnet replied, “Of the worst kind. Her son isn’t real whatsoever.”

  Gorias noted the young man beside his mother in the carriage, waving and his head turning. “Pardon?”

  “He’s a homunculus, not a real son, just a puppet with blood and some flesh, supposedly raised from the dead by the goddess herself.”

  Face hardening, Gorias nodded. “Well, that’s sure something, then. I figured ya meant Mavik was fake because of her dyed hair and corset-aided big chest.”

  Garnet let her hands drop and her voice turned wistful. “I doubt he even knows, the crown prince Vincent. Everyone thinks him ill, weak of blood, not a one to be seen in the full sunlight.”

  “But you think Vincent is made from scraps and animated? Huh. Ain’t that the crap sundae?”

  Away from the guardrail, the Queen took a few steps and stated, “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  “Not a believer in any sort of resurrection by the goddess?” He turned toward Vincent, replaying her words in his head. “You fear that fake thing in the carriage usurping your succession? How so? That’d be easy enough to prove if he’s a reanimated piece of muck-up whatever it is.”