Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

  “No pressure?”

  Gorias glanced at Kayla, who appeared dejected and apart from the proceedings. Again, he faced Maddox. “Pressure? The utmost. I have to go kill that bastard at Larak. I promised Ezran I would fight evil and I aim to keep that pledge. All of the silliness, all of the jokes, all of the acting out war games stops this time around. You have played off my name for years, ever walking in my thrall. You will soon discover exactly what it is like to be Gorias La Gaul.”

  The young man gripped the old man wrists and they locked eyes. “I’ll not let you down.”

  “You had better not,” Gorias said, his blue eyes glimmering. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  *****

  Brock shouted at his substantial barbarian horde, sometimes in different dialects. As Gorias, Maddox, and Kayla approached, Brock said, “There are other tribes mixed in with ours, by Wodan. I need to make sure they understand what a pinchers movement is. They know clear enough how to kill those of the offending army, though.”

  Gorias laughed. “They all have to die sometime.” He then disappeared into Brock’s main tent.

  Maddox, still by the main flap of the tent, gaped at the assembled force from Zenghaus then at the sun overhead. “We have plenty of daylight left.”

  “Good,” Gorias said.

  “All of them came in hopes of destroying Nosmada’s army?”

  “Mostly they came for the opportunity to fight and rape the countryside. Some came to get revenge for the atrocities of Tolin north of here in the past. Others, well, they are what they are, right? They have agreed, in principle, to spare Khabnur, for now.”

  Maddox nodded as Brock walked near to him. He faced the barbarian chief. “Grandfather says if this comes out right, Lira Rhan’s chief will be more than generous to buy you off.”

  Brock gave a sardonic laugh. “Yes, would we then be considered civilized if we imitated whores and accepted their cash? We should just be the rude barbarians they think us to be and take it all.”

  Maddox echoed his grandfather. “You fill me with confidence.”

  Brock pointed at Maddox. “I’m a warrior, boy, and have killed men since I was a boy. I live by a code and respect your grandfather. He has the smell of death and blood all over him. An ocean of soap water cannot remove the blood from the ghosts he has sent into Heaven or Hell. That’s the only reason you breathe and that little bitch isn’t riding my manhood as we speak.” Bawdy cheers rose from the crowd of fighters as Brock swelled up. “But I see truth in your grandfather’s words. He’s right to do as he does and we will follow his plan. If it breaks, piss on it, we’ll just go into the jaws of death as we planned.”

  “You have great courage.”

  “Bah!” Brock dismissed Maddox. “You talk of things babies have in my realm. I don’t need to be told of anything. Too much talk, boy. You think it takes courage to die? It takes courage to live! Go forth in your grandfather’s stead and take their courage from them!” He then paused and said, “Or die.”

  Maddox followed his grandfather into the tent and undid his cloak.

  Gorias grunted as he pulled loose one of the armlets. “It’ll be heavy at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

  His hand running over the dragon skin until he touched the dew nail, Maddox opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  *****

  Tammas jogged far from the barbarian’s camp when the clear sunlight washed over their position. The army of children he marched with kept a fast pace. He looked back and saw a great, proud warrior emerge from the tent of Brock. The scales of the wyrmling armor glistened in the sunlight and even the barbarians cooed. Many invoked the name of their pagan god, Wodan. This time, the warrior of renown placed a helmet on his head and put the visor down. This helm of dragon flesh blended in with the rest of the armor. Walking across the camp, everyone gave him a wide berth. He climbed onto Gorias’ white mount and rode toward Khabnur. He road alone.

  A second figure emerged from the tent. This shape was cloaked in tan and walked almost with a feeble gait. He used a spear as a walking stick and made it to Maddox’s horse. With great difficulty, he climbed into the saddle, and rode off in the direction of the singing Draco-Lich. He also rode alone, until a stout female archer climbed on a horse and followed him.

  Tammas heart beat fast in his chest as the words of Gorias La Gaul rang in his ears:

  “Free Noel.”

  *****

  Brock Lloydson sat atop his mammoth and held the heavy reins in his hands. His cavalry of hairy men mounted on hairier pacaderms rowed up into ranks. The barbarian was somewhat disappointed that his massive force would attack separately, on two fronts as La Gaul planned it out. He tried to deal with it in his mind, tried to fight down what he felt in his breast--the savage vehemence that all men like him knew as their guiding vigor in life. He tried to accept that Gorias was correct. He would try it the way of the legend on two legs. For now…

  He roared for their attention then spoke to them in a calm but loud voice. “Know your guts and know the hearts of those you hate. They think us stupid folk. We shall be the kings of knowledge, for after this day only we shall carry the tale of what happens. This day, we will become truth.” His voice raised in power as he commanded, “Seek your enemy. Hate your enemy. I exhort you unto battle, to attack and fight not for peace, but for victory!”

  The cheers of the barbarians from Zenghaus assured him of their passion and determination to follow his words unto death.

  A full half of his armed forces split away from the bearing he faced. On foot, what some would call the main infantry (what he called berserkers, foot soldiers and a ground attack force) moved to his right and around the city of Khabnur. This force would hit Tolin in the rear, or be waiting for Tolin’s men if they retreated. It would also be in a dangerous spot—in-between Tolin’s main force and the reserves he left behind at their encampment.

  These ground forces carried a variety of weapons. Many carried crude swords or heavy bludgeons. Others carried maces and morning stars to go with the knives in their girdles. Toward the back, many older men and women brandished sickles, scythes, and pitchforks. Though these folk adhered to no units, they didn’t meander in a haphazard fashion. They stayed true to their cause and moved forward.

  He gave the battle cry indicating it was time to move the herd of mammoths forward. His forces would curl to the left and attack the main bulk of Tolin’s army. In front of his cavalry a thousand berserkers would run, backed by more footmen and women. Tolin would think this was the barbarian army. He would never think that such a large forced lurked behind the mammoths.

  *****

  Mitre Stillwell sat in his offices at the Foundry of Syn. Sober enough after his waking necessities were preformed, he got down to business. In the bowels of the earth, he was safe. When the Minorc guards of the outer perimeter returned from Khabnur with news an enormous force approached them from the south, he was not worried, for they carried the banner of Nosmada’s mark.

  “It’s about bloody time Tolin showed up for his weapons,” Stillwell brooded, drinking his mead for the afternoon. “Are their arms assembled in the carrier carts on the main floor?”

  “Yes, sire,” the Beholder near his desk said.

  “Good.” Slamming his enormous hands down, he then reached under his desk. “This calls for a drink.”

  “Dear! This early after noon, sire?” the Beholder asked, a stunned look in its central eye.

  “Why the hell not?” Mitre chuckled and poured from a huge wine skin into his mead cup. There was no wine, only whiskey in this container. He drank deeply. As he imbibed, his eye opened wider. “Tell me, you, did it rain all night?”

  “Um, I would speculate to say so, sire.”

  “You’d guess so? Well, sew my ass to my bitches then! Think, you damned floating whelp, or I will rip off your stalks and let
the children in the streets of Khabnur play with your self.”

  The Beholder called in more of its kind for advice. After a great deal of talk, they concluded that it rained most of the night and on into the day.

  Stillwell finished his whiskey and sat forward, his chin on his fist. “I expected another day before they could roll in here then. Huh. How does Tolin brave the wet roads with wagons in such a way?”

  “Though the sun is out now, there are more storms coming, sir.”

  Stillwell arose with haste and grabbed for the ceiling. He pulled down a long pipe near his large chair. He looked into a slot on this pipe and peered out on the surface of the earth. “You are smoking the herbs again, ignorant whelps. There is not a cloud in the sky this day.”

  The Beholders again had a conference and one said, “We hear thunder from the north.”

  Mitre poured himself another whiskey and laughed. “Do you, now?”

  *****

  Tolin’s army moved slowly off the road and into the open roughs. The army, though in a strange area, kept the proficient ranks of a force in attack mode. Though marching, everyone kept to their units. Several divisions of infantry led the forces, followed by pike-men and the regulars who would normally man artillery pieces. The archers marched together, but would move to the sides of the force in a moment of battle.

  The cavalry rode in back and Tolin rode with them. Most all of his men wore armored breast-plates and light chain-mail on their arms. Above their leather boots, greaves of metal protected the lower portions of their legs. All of the army wore head-gear of a fashion. Several of them wore no face plate, as they were used to open confrontation. Others carried on their laps full nasal helms.

  Never was the word happy used to describe the oft melancholy General, but on this day, his Captains would recall, Tolin looked content.

  *****

  As the great army abandoned its camp, leaving nothing in reserve, Kayla Rhan stood beside her horse. She wept, recalling the last conversation she had with Gorias before they all departed.

  “So where do I go in all of this?” she had asked him. “You have never told me where I fit in?”

  “You want my advice?” Gorias said as he prepared the mounts for himself and his grandson. “My advice isn’t worth that much, but don’t tell Brock and the barbarians. Hell, they are staking their lives on me being bright.”

  “Quite a burden you carry, being you.”

  Gorias shrugged, as he often did. “I got used to that years ago. If one concentrates on it, that’s when it gets heavy. I’m too far gone to care any more. I’d advise you to go in after the wake of crippled among the barbarian army. You can get into Khabnur through a murder hole. I’m sure you know of one.”

  Kayla nodded, comprehending him, but not desiring to obey his words.

  “If you can slip in, get inside the main keep and be safe there. If anything, you’ll avoid the bloodbath outside.”

  “They are all going to die, aren’t they? Brock, his people, the children, even Tammas! You sent him to his death…”

  Gorias never looked up from his adjustments on the saddles. “I sent Tammas to his life. It’s was time someone did.”

  “You’re going to send Maddox to his demise as well.”

  “I send Maddox to his destiny. On the south side of Khabnur, on the plains of Shynar, he will find himself. It will be the first day of the rest of his life.”

  “What if he dies?”

  “Then he does. Cowards aren’t worth a chamber pot or the window they are thrown out of, dear. Better a dead lion than a live chicken. No one can live forever.”

  “No one?” she said, a slight sob in her tone. “Not even a fable?”

  Gorias stopped in his motions, took a breath., “Even fables fade to black. I will be forgotten in time. Heroes often fail. No child will be bored by the tales of Gorias La Gaul ever again.”

  She moved close to him. “No, you will live forever. Ones like you never die.”

  Gorias kissed her right hand at the knuckles and they parted. It occurred to her then she was the only one he sent away from the war.

  *****

  Even in the afternoon light, Lira Rhan and her guards could see the armies on the move. Both the forces of Nosmada crowding in to the south and the force of Brock Lloydson split in half at the northern sector.

  “Probably the only one who sees what’s going on,” she said in the zenith of the tower.

  She could see the plan unfolding and could tell the barbarian horde now separated completely. The massive force of men on foot curled around Khabnur. Indeed, they meant to assail the army of Nosmada’s rear. By the way the writhing snakes of human lines moved, they would do just that. These men were not running, but pacing themselves. They conserved energy for battle. The forces of Tolin marched with more vigor, a goal in mind. The main body of Brock’s army would run directly into Tolin’s on the other side of Khabnur.

  Far beyond this force, she thought she saw the dust of a third force curling around. Lira could not comprehend their purpose, for they looked positioned to miss the army of Nosmada all together.

  Down by the first wall of the city, hundreds of her armed mercenaries waited and held the lines. Would they break and run? Would they flee unto their doom? She knew not, and didn’t like waiting to find out.

  “All of my training, all of my negotiating and compromise to appease so many, gone through my fingertips like so much sand. I have become a slave to chance. If… ahh, there are too many ifs… It is almost enough to make a woman pray. Almost.”

  However, her heart lifted when word came she should direct her spyglass at a lone figure approaching the city. Lira Rhan trained her viewer and gasped.

  Over the hill came the mighty stallion, carrying a fable toward her. The sun glittered off the dragon-plated armor the warrior so often hid from view. His name was whispered all over the city. Her deliverance, Gorias La Gaul, rode forward.

  *****

  Amid the dusty, stone ruins on the edge of the desert of Dundayin, the singing Draco-Lich paused in its labors. Flexing its claws, the red eyes of the undead dragon stared down at it servant.

  The high priest of the cult bowed. “Master, a rider approaches us.”

  “Ah, excellent.” The thunderous tones of the Draco-Lich rolled. Sand flew from the ancient stones as the mottled reptilian wings extended. “Is it my own true love?”

  “It is Gorias La Gaul, Master.”

  Rows of fangs parted and laughter echoed from a mouth filled with fetid breath. “Let him come forward, then. I would have this done with him.” The dragon tested his wings while watching the small figure on its way to the ancient ruins. Its scarlet eyes sparkled with intellect. “Gorias La Gaul, his own damned self.” The Draco-Lich looked to the sky and giggled. “God is great!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Footstep of an Assassin

  *

  Of all of the factions moving on that afternoon, Gorias La Gaul had the briefest ride to his intended target. Though all the armies prepared to converge around Khabnur, just as Lira Rhan feared, Gorias’ ride away from the coming action was a short margin. However, after an hour, he let his horse rest. Then he walked through the first set of ruins on the edge of the shifting desert.

  “Larak,” Gorias said. Awe flooded his brain as he took in the locale destroyed not by human hands. He pulled the long cloak about himself and expanded his chest inside the armor he wore. “City by the sea, relaxation place for the mighty and aged, so long ago destroyed by a game of behemoths. I salute you.” He laughed in spite of himself, alone with the grim rubble produced in a battle of angry gods.

  Before he rode through the first set of gigantic stone pillars, ravaged by the weather and now mostly obscured by the sand, Gorias looked at the wreckage to the left and right of the entrance. Rectangular blocks, once arran
ged in perfect symmetry with the stars, now lay collapsed. This path of destruction punched out so clear Gorias could see the path whatever it was followed. Gorias reflected on the great power it took to construct such objects into a perfect circle. He then thought of the great fury it took to destroy them like so many children’s toys.

  The overall area of Larak lay abnormal and disorganized to the eye. A labyrinth of paths presented themselves, seeming to stretch for infinity. He saw many a narrow track in the malignant decay and felt his heart leap, so apprehensive was he of the trap that obviously lurked for him.

  On the crumbled blocks near him, several engraved mosaics depicted bizarre creatures he had never seen before. Some were half men and part fish, others were tentacled creatures crossed with jellyfish. The artist or carver was mad, he thought, for the dichotomy of size concerning the creatures was erroneous. Inside were piles of crumbled walls, once well masoned, now lying in disintegrated mortar and beams pulverized to dust.

  The clear sky was rent by a ripple most men would take for approaching thunder. His ears popped as a voice drifted into his head at a great, baritone volume, vibrating through him, reaching to his toes.

  “Stories are spun about Asmodeous destroying the city of Larak out of spite,” the voice intoned. “The fallen Cherubim became disgusted when many refused to make him the center of their sexual rites in the circles of the sun. In his wrath, Asmodeous smashed the city by the sea and took the sea with him. Behold the corroding of the ages, La Gaul.”

  Gorias gazed across the endless desert, then at the image shifting behind many rows of broken obelisks and shattered temple walls. Finely crafted marble columns in rows looked to have been slapped down by a gigantic hand. The desert had swallowed inner segments of the city completely as the lumpy outer edges of the city contested.

  “Must have been before I was born. Larak has been rubble since I first saw her as a boy.”

  The voice dropped in from everywhere. “You saw this place at the beginning of your life? Excellent. Now in your twilight years, you return to witness it again. This is an unhealthy place for you.”