Him and him alone.
From eavesdropping on the other servants and combining the details he’d gathered over the years from the outside world, Murlach had complied quite a bit of information of this man and his uncanny intellectual prowess. This many people of the same mind couldn’t be wrong, so the story about Phyllamon meeting him face-to-face, twenty years ago, had to be true. Though most intellectuals only placed their faith in things they could see, this was not the issue for Murlach. He was mostly concerned with the impossibility of finding someone that lived in the heavens, whose whereabouts were probably as random as wave patterns in the ocean, if not more so! And if (by some miracle) they ever did find him, then would come the task of Murlach stealing the information he needed to create Phyllamon’s army and using it against this mysterious foe.
…And that’s counting that we don’t catch our deaths during the assault on this man! It’s absurd, all of it…this plan has far too many unknowns. We’ll die, never having gotten any closer to our goal! Murlach thought, chastising himself. He met Phyllamon’s eyes once more.
“…As I was saying, we only have a handful of competent infantry as it is, Master. This job could be accomplished by the simplest of my creatures. Let’s do things as usual and just use them until we really need Zu.”
“You’re right,” Phyllamon said. “Perhaps Vlajdimir will be a great help in these matters as well. He could use his authority and bully some clues out of people in the Trio.”
“That is if he takes it seriously this time, Master. Last I checked, however, Vlajdimir still didn’t believe he existed. You can’t expect him to make any headway if he doesn’t have an open mind.”
“True,” he nodded, frowning, his bloodshot eyes half closed.
Murlach noticed how exhausted Phyllamon looked.
“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Are you still having the nightmares, Master?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
Though it was twenty years past, Phyllamon was still having nightmares about the day his enemy spared his life. However, this merciful act did not pardon the man from murdering his father, but only caused Phyllamon to loathe him further. (There’d been a creature involved on that day, and it was the reason Phyllamon kept waking himself, his cries echoing throughout the castle in the middle of the night. He mostly endured the dreams under spells of incredible stress when he let his need for revenge get the better of him.)
He and Murlach began walking again, unaware that they were being watched.
The eavesdroppers crouched at a nearby stairwell, gazing at their overlords—one, a muscular dwarf-type, who looked somewhere between human and creature. The other was a self-proclaimed ruler of mankind—an anorexic, nearly seven-foot tree stalk with a bushy unibrow that had an assortment of fine, black and silver hairs. His neck was long like that of a strange animal, as was his body—tall and thin enough for him to be mistaken as a tree branch. However, he was very powerful despite his frailty.
Phyllamon and Murlach often took these walks around the castle to discuss all manners of wanton violence, and, despite the danger involved, the servants followed them. They aimed to get a hint of whether or not their masters were close to finding him...he that was their only hope of escaping enslavement.
They sat on the steps with their ears desperately reaching for every word uttered. They didn’t catch them all, but they had enough and now meant to sneak away. Unfortunately, one of them was clumsy and tripped over his feet, tumbling on the cracked and wobbly steps. He now lay there, aching.
As his comrade crept away undetected, Phyllamon grabbed this one up by the hair and cuffed his face.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what, Master? I only meant to…I was just…finishing up the steps, Sire!”
“You lie!” Phyllamon said, knowing that if he was doing chores, there would have been a broom and dustpan nearby. “You like spying, do you? What did you hear? Perhaps you can give us some useful information…tales of him have circulated throughout this castle for over thirty years, ever since my father died. You know who I speak of, I’m not stupid!”
Phyllamon threw his servant to the floor. The man’s elbow cracked when it hit the stone, and he squealed in pain, trying to crawl away. Phyllamon put a boot in his chest, and the servant now lay coughing as he got his wind back.
“So?”
“Master…I swear…I was only inspecting the steps for dust balls and such!”
“Oh, really!”
Phyllamon placed his foot on the man’s neck, reveling with passion as the man’s eyes bulged and became red at the edges. Next, his trachea and other surrounding bones caved in, and soon the servant’s body went limp.
Again, Murlach stepped away from Phyllamon, not wanting to be the next one grabbed during his temper tantrum. Phyllamon’s voice projected throughout the halls of the castle in a furious rage, chest heaving and spittle flying from his mouth.
“I tire of your ridiculous allegiance to a man who can help NONE of you! You think him your saviour, eh? NEVER! You will die in servitude to me, the whole rotten lot of you! And if you wish for the bastard to walk into my castle and free you from my grasp, you’re sadly unrealistic! FOOLS!”
Phyllamon glared at the open air before him, trying to come up with something to add to his rant, then…
“From this point forward, if I hear his name or even think that you’re talking about him, I’ll sick the Karnovs on you! The very thought of him is barred from this castle!”
(Although he didn’t interject at this last bit, Murlach couldn’t help rolling his eyes at Phyllamon’s overwhelming hypocrisy.)
Nostrils flaring, Phyllamon paced, hands tearing at the air with his knuckles cracking all the while. It was quite some time before he noticed Murlach shaking his head with impatience.
“I understand your anger, Master, but may I inquire about the point of that little episode? What did you accomplish? Nothing. It’s only natural for them to be protective—he gives them hope. Enough hope can make men endure unimaginable evils, so you must know that your underlings would die before giving this man up.”
Murlach paused, hoping that his advice was sinking in.
“The point is, Sire, they will remain loyal to him regardless, so it’s absurd to continue killing those who cook and clean for you! Each time you have one of those foolish episodes, you burden yourself with that servant’s tasks when there are other things you need to focus on!”
Highly irritated, Murlach began treading the steps to the deep of the castle, leaving the master to his rage. Meanwhile, Phyllamon tromped on the corpse once more, furious at Murlach’s wisdom.
He was always right!
Someone who’s so often right about everything shouldn’t be such a bloody disappointment when it comes to assisting my pursuit! After all, he’s the brain between us, and if he can’t do it—
Phyllamon stormed down the hallway, leaving the corpse behind to be defiled by the vermin slithering about the dark corners of the castle. His anger abated slightly, as he dismissed thoughts of his traitorous servants and further contemplated ideas to draw out his enemy. These plans that would greatly accelerate the next day upon his son crawling into the castle, bleeding.
2
Murlach made it to the dungeon, dragging a very heavy bag that left a trail of slick, viscous blood behind. He’d stopped off at the kitchen, which housed a storage room filled with thick cuts of meaty flesh, mostly human parts from castle slaves who were no longer useful (the remains of the peon in the hallway would soon be added). This was a treat to coax his creatures into doing a slightly better job than usual with the assignment he was to give them.
Though he was an excellent breeder, Murlach hadn’t had much luck with creating great thinkers. In fact, some of the beasts were downright stupid! If this were not the case, they were either too big and bulky to ever be let out of their cells in the dungeon, or so vicious that they knew naught but how to kill. The really troubl
esome ones were a combination of both.
Murlach could hear them stir as he approached the cages. Next, from both sides of the corridor, there were hands and tentacles reaching outside the bars of the overcrowded cells, desperately pleading for a morsel or two.
“Master, have you brought us food?”
“No,” Murlach said, rolling his eyes, knowing the oaf had already seen the bloody sack at his side. He hated stupid questions.
“Come now, Master, starve us no longer…we’ve had nothing since yesterday!” a heavy voice said from somewhere deep in the opposite cell.
“Yeah, and we shouldn’t even be in here with the like o’ some o’ these creatures,” said another that climbed to the shoulders of a friend, so he could see. “So why we gots to be sharing food with them?” He pointed in the distance to the pitch-black corner of the cell where they could all hear the bustling about of a pack of snarling, invisible things.
A small army of large and hairy, spider-like creatures with human sized eyes, three each, raced forward on the ceiling. They were followed by a spike-studded tentacle, which whipped in and out of sight along the ceiling, nearly scalping those below. The restless noise from the opposite end of the cell doubled as the creatures’ hunger lured them forward.
“My Lord, you lettin’ us outta’ here today, ain’t ya?” a hunchbacked peon asked nervously as he squeezed his way through the crowd, looking into the darkness with unease.
“That depends on whether or not you exhibit your normal buffoonish behaviour, or if you will actually make an effort not to throw your excrement up against the castle walls just for fun and games! If you’ll not rip each other’s limbs off while rough housing, or send boulders flying through the castle walls while playing ‘kick ball.’ …And if you could please not embarrass me by making spectacles of yourselves while performing the simplest task I’ve asked of you all in a long while, I would greatly appreciate it!”
He unlocked the gate and, with some difficulty (even for his size), squeezed into the cell. Just as he made his way to the center, a bone-chilling cry echoed throughout the chamber. Murlach discovered he was wet, and there was a pungent taste in his mouth. When he looked up, he saw that one of his underlings was showering the chamber in blood.
The tentacle, whipping violently about, had accidentally split the minion from his neck all the way down the middle, nearly severing him. Clearly the beast, as well as others, was ornery from hunger.
“My god, throw the corpse to that hungry thing!” Murlach shouted irritably.
The underlings obeyed, gladly offering up some flesh and bone that did not belong to any of them. Though crowded and blind from having blood sprayed in their eyes, they managed to hoist him above and roll the corpse over the tops of their heads to the end of the cell. When the sound finally came, they were happy to hear the body being dismembered and fed upon, knowing that this would tide the beast over so it wouldn’t go after any of them. This, however, didn’t mean they didn’t have other creatures to worry about, but they were happy to have one of the worst sated for the time being.
Meanwhile, Murlach was both furious at the beast and his own foolishness, knowing he had been stupid to sit some of his more civilized minions in a cell with these savage creatures. Had he arrived later, his subjects might have already been ripped limb from limb.
“You don’t throw temper tantrums! We’ll see about this!” he said, waving his fist in anger.
Though they were crowded and could hardly breathe, some of the others managed to scramble forward as to inquire about Murlach’s orders (and to hopefully get dibs on some of the delicacies he was to dish out!).
There was a deep voice, followed by a gust of horrid breath on Murlach’s left. It said, “What do you need, my Lord?”
“A select group of you will…”
Murlach wasn’t able to finish, because a chorus of noise from heavy taloned feet, racing towards him, suddenly assaulted his ears. The beasts, delivering some serious injuries as they broke through the crowd, began circling Murlach, snapping at the open air around the crimson red, soggy bag. Saliva flung about, forming small pools on the dirty stone floor.
Murlach was unimpressed with the creatures which towered above him, standing six to eight feet in height, each weighing about a ton. This strange breed of his had a lion’s body and mane, but a dog’s face, and birdlike feet with razor sharp talons. In the same manner as the tentacled creature, these—the Karnovs—were also a vicious species. The biggest difference with them, however, was that (whilst being worrisome killers) they were also intelligent. Though they couldn’t speak it themselves, they did comprehend the human tongue and obeyed Murlach and Phyllamon’s every command within their presence.
What made the Karnovs so dangerous were their tempers. It had been many a day that Murlach had come to feed them, only to find that they’d devoured several of their cellmates for some reason or another. In Murlach’s opinion, to say that the Karnovs were unpredictable would have been an understatement. Still, for all of their ferociousness, the beasts obeyed him.
“Down!” he said, snapping his fingers.
The Karnovs went to their knees. Everyone was silenced at his level of command with them. No matter how often they saw Murlach exercise his control, they were awestricken with it every time. Most of them never dared look the Karnovs directly in the eye, lest they be ripped to pieces.
Murlach dug in the sack and pulled out a limbless, slimy torso. It, having been from a servant who was immensely obese, would provide a hearty meal. He pushed the torso in the center of the Karnovs and grinned as they tore into it. Flecks of spittle and body juices landed on Murlach’s jacket, as he turned to exit the cell with the others following him.
Those who followed, a bit over two-dozen, were allowed to pass Murlach as he turned around and dug in the bag again. He pulled out random body parts and began hurling them across the cell, rolling his eyes as his minions attacked each other in attempts to secure their meals. A few, who were tussling over morsels, got too close to the Karnovs and were nearly dismembered.
“Now don’t kill each other! Though some of you are useless, I do require your services on occasion!” Murlach said and turned to lock the remaining savages in. He then looked to the opposite cell.
“Come, you lot…you’ve done enough time in here, methinks.” He squeezed past the others and opening the rusted, steel door.
More than thirty of his underlings came rushing out of the cell. Seeing that Karnovs had already trampled some of their acquaintances in the other cellblock, they didn’t want to be in the way when he tossed a treat to the more violent creatures in their chamber.
Murlach entered and slung the bottom half of a body into the middle of the cell. All the meat from the two buttocks was ripped off immediately, followed by the quick mutilation of the thighs, as a group of beasties worked their way down. There were others who waited patiently off to the side, and Murlach saw them panting. He then hurled an arm, leg, and a pair of feet in the air, laughing as his creatures launched themselves at them, catching the carnal parts like Frisbees.
Surprisingly, this bunch shared equally and didn’t harm one another over their meals, and this pleased Murlach. He threw over a dozen more body parts into the crowd and then turned to leave, locking the steel cage behind him.
“Now, I believe your stomachs are growling as well,” he said, upon exiting.
Murlach sat the bloody sack on the floor amongst his many peons. They dug in greedily, each pulling out random body parts for their self, emptying the bag.
The hunchback shut his eyes in ecstasy as he sank his jagged teeth into the bicep of a muscular arm.
“Thank you, Master,” he said, lightly spraying Murlach with blood and spit.
Murlach wiped his face and set for the outdoors. The underlings followed, carrying along their food. Suddenly, he turned to face them.
“You all see how this works, don’t you? If you exercised the slightest bit of common sense, you
would dine on a regular schedule and not be locked up with the Karnovs and other creatures of a less-than-hospitable nature!”
Murlach was unsure that they heard him, as they were far too busy eating. He shook his head and unlatched the door in front of him, knowing that some of this group would probably be on punishment as early as the next day. This, however, wasn’t the way he wanted it. Though they were not the brightest, he still favoured these minions because they were civilized enough to speak like humans and therefore easier to communicate with—much unlike the tentacled beast and some select other breeds that he could only talk to through a series of hand signals, grunts, and clicks with his tongue.
I don’t want to lock you all in with the savages, but there are times when there is no other way to discipline you!
Murlach was near boiling, as he recalled a recent incident that had irritated him more than anything in a very long while. In the middle of the night, the buffoons had invaded the castle’s liquor room and drunk all the spirits, which were set aside for Phyllamon’s get-togethers with Vlajdimir and Zephranie.
FOOLS!
As they climbed the steps leading from the dungeon to the courtyard, they heard deafening shots echoing throughout the air. Murlach found several of his minions outside, firing laser rifles. Far ahead, they each aimed at their own flat metal target—one square foot and an inch thick, suspended on tall, thin stands. They were a mix of talent, some of them being great shots, whilst others were merely decent or even terrible.
An enormous beast, on the far end, had the best aim of all. His target now hung from a miniscule thread of metal, and that too was destroyed with his last shot. He laid his gun aside and stretched.
“Zu, you’re doing well, I see,” Murlach said.
“Yes, Master, but in all honesty, I would prefer to deliver death in a much messier fashion. You know…crush a man with my fists, or squeeze them until their innards come spewing out of their ends!” he said, laughing.
The Gift of Volkeye Page 2
