Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

  And prepare him a way.”

  In time, the sound of hooves drowned the boy’s voice out.

  CHAPTER X

  Foundry of Syn

  *

  Tolin and his troopers rode hard, driving their powerful mounts onward. The steeds, bred from the lower outlands of Xylon, were much larger than common horses. From eating the long olive grasses of Xylon, the horses lathered up at a slower pace and they endured the beating their riders imparted with ease. The group skirted the edge of the Foundry of Syn, giving the sprawling underground locale a wide berth. Their pace slackened when they reached the outer defenses of Khabnur. When he surveyed the earthworks, pits, and other defenses of the city, Tolin smiled.

  They paused at the outskirts of the city of Khabnur to water their horses. Numerous mercenaries appeared and sized up the troopers.

  Karter said to Tubal, “Several of these killers, professional and amateur alike, cluster in the outlining neighborhoods.”

  After splashing water across his face, Tubal rubbed his eyes and nodded. “Lotsa boardin’ houses and brothels hereabouts. S’natural spot for them.”

  The riders traversed the gate of the outer most wall of Khabnur. An enormous door made of logs and tick iron rings, the gate was held shut with a locking timber.

  Karter studied it. “The first obstacle in case of a siege.”

  Tubal wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before replacing his gauntlet. “General, those hired mercs musta really be ruthless men, fer sure, for they dunno fear of an army carrying the mark’a Nosmada.”

  Tolin ground his teeth together as he looked back at the city of Khabnur. “They are a filthy rabble, but every man not fit for service, or backstabber with balls enough to fight, is around that city. Hired killers, bah. La Gaul has guts, they are a newer breed, afraid of their own stiffening pricks. It would be like trying to root out an army of rats. Even if they are not well armed, they will bite. The come in here for the trade routes all intersect at Khabnur.”

  His bottom lip turned in, visibly worried about the gathering mercenaries, Tubal wondered aloud, “So, no need to care too much ‘bout them at our backs ‘er flanks?”

  Tolin shrugged and faced forward. “No. Like I said, they are rats trapped behind walls. They are not an army, nor would they have the courage to fight, certainly not to attack us. These men are here for defense, nothing more. Their backs against the wall, they will fight a defensive struggle. There are many of them, I grant that.”

  “Perhaps a few of us should go for some drinks deeper into the town.” Captain Karter said. “Once we pull recon, we could see what the true tenor of this rabble is, eh?”

  Tolin looked to Tubal. “Take a few men with you and do as Karter said. Report back to me by midnight.”

  Tubal saluted, promising, “Yessir! I’ll find out if they’re smellin’ their own piss or just tightenin’ up their asses.”

  These three men detached from the group and returned to the city. The rest rode beyond the city limits to the southwest.

  One of the troopers pointed North of Khabnur and said, “Look, the army of the west pitches camps. Their fires must be huge to make such a dent in the sky. We must be wary of their patrols.”

  Tolin’s hands balled into fists and he swore mightily. “They have advanced faster than I thought possible. Truly they will overrun us before we reach the foundry.”

  Captain Karter cursed the barbarians. “Those damned barbarians from the North, they’re too stupid to be afraid.”

  “The primal mind doesn’t know fear, men,” Tolin said, reining his horse back. “If there was ever a great need for necromancy to aid our cause it is now. I will not be re-routed by a few thousand idiots in bear-skin kilts.”

  The troopers lined up with stern obedience and they spoke as one, “What be your will, General?”

  “I must contact Nosmada with Zillian. In a case this desperate, I must invoke my right to inquire after help.” Taking a few breaths, he calmed down. “I am sure they will see it my way. Go attain what I need.”

  The troopers nodded and Karter rode forward a little. “Since the city wall is well guarded up to the first curtain wall, we will attain the sacrifices from where no one will miss them.”

  Tolin nodded, hand on the tiny wooden box on his saddle. “Go raid the nearest whorehouse. Who will miss them?”

  *****

  Several hours behind Tolin and his troopers, on the opposite side of Khabnur, Gorias and those with him rode toward the Foundry of Syn. Since it was still daylight then, though growing overcast, they couldn’t see the fires of the barbarian army north of the city. Gorias looked in that direction and felt uneasy. When the young ones stopped to look at his ragged expression of perplexity, he motioned for them to press on toward the foundry.

  One passing by would almost never have known a complex existed beneath the earth, save for the rows of smoking stacks belching fumes. Like a bizarre buried animal, the Foundry of Syn let its presence be known from the smoke, ash, and grumble given to the skin of the planet. Each of the travelers placed a cloth around their mouths as they slowly rode onto the desolate plain where nothing grew. The paths and usual dirt roads gave the foundry grounds a distant pass.

  “I have always wondered why there’s no fence around this place,” Maddox said.

  “Why would there be?” Tammas replied, rounding on him. “Is someone going to break in?”

  Even their horses shied away from the vibrating ground. This sensation increased every so often the closer they drew to a series of boulders set away from the stacks.

  “They designed it this way so no major force could just take away the stock,” Gorias said.

  From behind rounded boulders, the sound of stone grinding on steel assaulted them. Annoying enough for all of them to cover their ears up, the sound went on so long, Maddox looked at his grandfather, who quipped, “This has gotta stop sooner or later.”

  They stepped around the rocks, finding a long ramp grading down into the earth. From out of this dark gap emerged a metallic helmet, far too large for a human to wear. The gigantic helm covered only a portion of the oblong skull this creature bore. An ivory horn pointed straight out each side of the helmet. It had dark green skin and black fur across its back and down its legs in uneven spots. So frightening was the thing that walked up the ramp, all three youths stepped behind Gorias. Maddox alone crept out, appearing somewhat hang-dog.

  “By the gods.” Tammas faltered as more like this creature stepped from the hole. “What are they?”

  Gorias rubbed his beard, studying the creatures who were a tad taller than himself. Each one of the pair, thickset at the waist, sported a huge upper body and rangy arms. The legs were squat and out of proportion, but they gave steady support to the corded muscles covering them. Their skulls resembled a steer in many ways, save for the horns were smaller and curving out from floppy ears, like tusks across a piggish snout. Fat lips parted, revealing what looked like canines rowed across the abrupt mouth.

  “They’re Minorcs,” Gorias said, palms resting on the ends of his swords. “They are crossbred from Orcs and Minotaurs. They make good guards but lousy pets. Mutts like their boss.”

  The three wore a communal look of confusion. “But…” Kayla said. “Mitre looks nothing like that!”

  Gorias nodded. “That’s because Stillwell isn’t really an ogre.”

  “Excuse me?” Maddox said with a laugh. “That doesn’t make sense. The few times I was inside the foundry, they said these things were bugbears or some such thing.”

  Tammas agreed. “The songs about Stillwell all claim him an ogre, for a hundred years or more.”

  “Trust one who was there, all right?” Gorias said, with an eyebrow raised. “Stillwell is a crossbreed. He’s half Orc, half Bugbear. There aren’t any around these parts for thousands of miles, so he gets away with
the jape.”

  “I know an Orc is a large, fighting man, but I have never seen one,” Kayla said. “What’s a bugbear?”

  “A big, ugly bastard, cousin to an ogre, kinda what Stillwell looks like,” Gorias said. “These Minorcs are the result of rape and class warfare afar off. There’ll soon be very few pure blooded sectors in this world.”

  The Minorcs never attempted to speak as the travelers talked. They leaned on their spears and looked them over with swinish eyes.

  Hands in the air, Tammas said, “Then why does Mitre call himself an ogre?”

  “There really aren’t that many ogres around to argue the point,” Gorias said, “and you know that’s the truth. I wager it was because being an ogre sounded better. Being a bugbear doesn’t sound as tough as ogre in a tavern or a brothel, now does it? By the looks of these Minorcs they are gelded, eunuchs if you will.”

  Kayla almost laughed, but restrained it as she eyed the hideous beasts in guard uniforms. “Why do you say that?”

  “They’re more bloated in their legs and midsections. Plus, you don’t hear them talking, do you?” Gorias pointed out with a wave of his huge hand.

  Maddox steadily thumbed his new sword’s pommel. “Why is that?”

  “When they cut a Minorc’s sack, he looses the ability to speak. Don’t ask why, because I don’t know. If it were up to me, they’d do that to a generation of humanity and make the world a better place.”

  The Minorcs of Syn made no advance. Thick and cruel in their looks, these guards appeared as unforgiving as any human tough they had ever set eyes on.

  “Ho, travelers! State your business or die,” came the gruff voice from behind the lead Minorc.

  When the enormous, one-eyed head became visible, the four humans put on a brave face. The gigantic head pushed through the Minorcs, revealing that it was floating through the air. Gorias took steps backwards. Long tendrils flowing from the head of this one-eyed creature looked like heavy strains of hair. On the end of each strand an eyeball blinked and observed.

  “Easy, kids,” Gorias said, no fear in his tone. “That’s a Beholder. You think Michael Galenson was a nark, those damn things are really hard to shake.”

  The leathery, almost reptilian, flesh of the Beholder tightened around its mouth as it opened. Rows of fangs decorated its huge maw. “State your business,” it said, “or the Minorcs will destroy you, old man, and enslave the children.”

  Maddox took a step toward his grandfather, who called out, “I’m here to see Mitre Stillwell.”

  The Beholder’s main eye leered at him, while the other eyeballs looked over the three. Strands moving in snaky symmetry, it growled, “Master Stillwell sees no one, save for at his invitation. Move on or sell your youths as slaves to the foundry.”

  “Tell him Gorias La Gaul would like a brief audience.”

  The Minorcs exchanged glances while the Beholder dropped the serious expression then burst out laughing. “Shall I tell him the all-father Adam has stopped by with a bushel of apples? Can I say that Gilgamesh has danced past in search of eternal life while I am at it? Mitre will be thrilled in any case.”

  Hands flexing, Gorias sighed. “The Beholders are short on mirth, too, kids. I guess that’s what you can expect out of wizards making trouble with flesh and bone experiments.” He quickly drew out both of his swords. The lead Minorc nearly fell to his backside. “You can tell him I would like to talk with him, briefly, or I’ll feed your ugly assed Minorcs to the damned leeches.”

  The Minorcs looked to their leader. Pondering this, the Beholder said, “Leave your mounts with Igao here.” The eyestrands pointed at the Minorc in front. “He will tend to them. The rest, come below with me. I will see if I can talk to Mitre.”

  They dismounted and handed their reins to the one called Igao.

  However, when they pulled their bows about themselves, the Beholder said, “No weapons in the foundry whatsoever. It is the law.”

  Gorias waved to the young ones and they disarmed. He placed his swords back in their holsters. “It would take too long to disarm me, shorty. You’ll have to take me on in as an honorable man.”

  The lead Minorc gave a shrug and the Beholder said, “You pull a weapon out, you are as good as dead in here anyway. All of the guards are armed Minorcs and my brethren, the Beholders, watch everything. There is but one way out of the Foundry of Syn.”

  The lead Minorc then produced a bag from under a metal plate that covered his pants pocket. He took out small, waxen plugs and offered them to the strangers.

  “It will help your ears,” the Beholder explained. “Day after day, one will go deaf from the noises.”

  As they inserted these devices and walked down the stone ramp, Maddox wiped sweat from his brow and said, “Perhaps we should wait outside.”

  The Beholder regarded Kayla, who held a defensive pose, and said, “She should, at least. There is no call for an unfamiliar one amongst the workers.”

  Her nostrils flared and she shot back hotly, “There are many women enslaved below, no?” Her index finger stabbed at the Beholder.

  The Beholder studied her up and down with its strands before saying, “It would be ghastly for them to see one as hygienic and handsome as you. I sense you have an egg ready to drop any time. Others will sense this as well.”

  Tammas rolled his eyes toward the stone ceiling in the tunnel, but Maddox couldn’t resist a laugh. Kayla leered at him and Gorias sighed. Kayla was considered no great beauty whatsoever, but compared to what toiled below it would be too much of a distraction.

  “Kayla, Maddox, you go on and wait outside. Tammas, come along with me.”

  Maddox then pointed at his own chest. “You meant me, right?”

  The old warrior extended his index finger at Tammas. “I want the kid to come along. It’ll be a pivotal experience for him. Maddox, you two go outside and try to keep from killing each other.”

  Her face long and hurt, Kayla folded her arms under her breasts as she turned away.

  Maddox, confused at the finality of Gorias’ words, shook his head as he left. Tammas wore a stunned look.

  “Maddox will understand in time,” Gorias said.

  Down flat stone steps they went. The grind of gritty hinges echoed, and the heat blasted them in the face. Heavy footfalls of the Minorcs dulled as the sound level began to rise.

  Tammas folded his hands and tried not to tremble. “Like stepping into Hell itself.”

  Gorias winked, the clang of armor in his ears. “I think that’s a little different. Smell is about the same, though.”

  When the stone door slid closed behind them, the difference between Earth and Hell blurred. All along the left side of the descending ramp hung polished weapons, a gallery of what they produced below all inserted into finely honed stone slots. Heavy broadswords, short staves, daggers, axes and lances decorated this wall of fame for the Foundry of Syn.

  Another Minorc guard stood at an opening of two smaller doors. He eyed the people coming toward him and took down a heavy link chain that sprawled over the entrance. Passing him, they descended a series of steps carved into the sandstone surroundings. Off to their right the great cavern crawled forth. A sturdy metallic rail kept them from falling over into the expanse. Gorias touched it and felt the heat stored in it.

  Tammas rubbed the sweat from around his eyes and looked across at the churning pots of molten fire. “How do they feed such a thing?”

  Gorias waved a hand at the many stout men near the ceiling, who worked cranks for the ventilation billows, and said, “I would guess there’s a mine farther down, no? The raw ores and whatever it takes to fuel the torches or facilities are brought up from there.”

  The Beholder gazed at them with the strands in the back of its head and never answered.

  The set up painted out eerie and truly effective. A deadly symmetry to it all
, Gorias thought, like a spider’s web. However, Stillwell’s office didn’t lie in the middle of the plant. They walked away from that and along the side of the massive production floor.

  Noise reigned, for the grinding and hammering didn’t stop. Countless workers labored in the ungodly heat, barely clad in loincloths. Sweat glistened on them and they frequently drank from heavy containers. The Minorc taskmaster walked a catwalk above them. A Beholder, identical to the one leading the two from the surface, watched a worker lean against a pallet full of sword cases. Staring at the taskmaster, some mental communication took place for the Minorc then unreeled his whip. The lash struck the worker on his back and he screamed. No one around seemed to notice this nightmarish display save for Tammas and Gorias.

  After several minutes, Gorias drew his leather flask and drank from it then gave it to Tammas. As the youth drank, he noted many workers stared at him. Quickly, he handed the flask back to La Gaul. “That was wine!”

  “It’s great for the blood,” Gorias said. “Quaint place.”

  “Yes.”

  “Feels like one could expect a dagger in your back at any moment, aye?”

  Tammas rubbed sweat from his eyes but didn’t reply.

  The Minorc unlocked a door in front of them to let them on to the next catwalk. His keys were so small they were nearly lost in the huge fist.

  Down farther they walked until they reached the main level of the foundry. Their breathing proved hard and the acrid aroma grew more powerful as they walked across the lines of men hammering out swords. Many women sat, wrapping leathery bands around handles.

  Amid these workers toiled an usually tall man, probably as big as Gorias. He honed blades on a grinding wheel then used a small wet stone by hand. The vents from above washed air over him. When he looked up, they saw this worker had but one eye. His left eye was ruined and healed over, his mouth locked in an eternal grimace. The muscle bound man kept to his task, but his eye told a tale. Gorias asked his identity.

  “That is Noel,” the Beholder said. “He was one of Mitre Stillwell’s best supervisors back when he let humans do that task. However, he fell out of favor with the ogre.”