Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

  “I shall be whole again,” the Draco-Lich promised, reeling, wincing in pain, shaking off its left hand.

  The long tail of the dragon snapped around, battering Gorias before he could attack anew, sending him into one of the obelisks. He felt ribs crack and tasted the strong tang of blood from inside his throat. Gorias spit scarlet ichor down his beard as he flopped on the ground, barely avoiding the second lash from the tail.

  The Draco-Lich informed him as it picked arrows off its belly, “I was the greatest conjurer of my time, old sinner.” The voice labored some, hurting. “Yes, I fear it was true and will soon be again. I do not need more followers for my life to be restored. I talked with angels and demons, thus, that is why I knew all of the Daemonolateria.”

  On all fours, he thanked the dragon for reminding him that hand-to-hand combat wasn’t the way to beat this creature. He forgot his purpose. Recalling it, he was up and bolted down the avenue of narrow columns. Swords out and slashing, he attacked the freshly inscribed banners of human flesh.

  “No!” the dragon howled and rose up on its wings. Narrowing its eyes at Gorias, it charged the tapered avenue.

  *****

  Nosmada’s army tried to assemble itself for the coming assaults. The problem was, since the army of nearly ten thousand was so spread out, it became difficult to form a solid unit as the barbarians attacked.

  The berserker force advancing around Khabnur threw themselves into the rear of the army. Nearly two thousand screaming barbarians brandished stone axes and clubs, attacking hastily assembled units of pike-men, infantry, and archers. Usually, the artillery and projectiles from archers or longbow classes softened up a charging foe. Few arrows loosed before this barbarian force of berserk killers attacked, though. Many of the archer’s bows were hampered because of the rain, thus, making the strings ineffective.

  The manner of the savages ran vile and unpredictable. Solid units of trained pike-men, well skilled in fighting with stout lances, met this initial force. One force of pike-men stood, supported by a thousand regular infantry fighters with crude bronze short swords and long shields. Hundreds of archers tried again to aim, but only a few dozen managed to loose arrows as the barbarians first thrust hit.

  The heavy slaughter ensued, destroying a hundred pike-men and two hundred infantry in scant time. Many of the barbarians died, but their push proved irresistible. The on-sweeping hordes attacked with communal entreaties to their god, Wodan, and the army bent. Their push caused a few hundred in the cavalry to retreat and take up a different position. With great valor, the pike-men and infantry fought. They met the attack, struggled, and died hard.

  The bloody clubs and axes of the berserker force was only stopped by the armored legion, a thousand elite men in stern body armor, fighting with interlocking shields. Many of these men of Nosmada perished, but more attacks came forward as they went down. An auxiliary cavalry charge, led by Tubal himself, supported by more units of the armored knights, stopped the rear attack of the barbarians cold. The terrible fighting went on, but the barbarians ceased advancing.

  Brock’s mammoth cavalry trumpeted and they charged ahead from the opposite position. The ordered lines of the army of Nosmada felt the earth tremble as over a hundred of the giant beasts trampled forward. No matter what Captain Karter’s forces threw at this thundering advance--arrows, spears, axes--nothing could stop the irrepressible stampede of flat feet. Through lines of scattering infantry and cavalry, these monsters thundered. Men on back of these beasts shot and stabbed as they went. They used arrows mostly, but they carried extra men on the back who dismounted. These men swung stone axes. Axes then did what axes do--they crushed bones and killed people. Quite a few were struck down from their mammoth mounts by the infantry, but the great beasts still crashed on, stumbling through the army of Nosmada. Tusks flaring, feet crushing, the barely tame creatures went wild once their riders were gone.

  From behind this force of mammoths came thousands of warriors from Zenghaus. More berserkers plus regular fighters with any number of weapons poured into the devastated ranks. The bloodlust flooded forward, crashing into the gaps left by the monstrous beasts. With the lines scattered and in tatters, hand to hand combat quickly became the order of the day. Unable to fight as units, many of the infantry in this forward section fell back or fell dead.

  Even the one-handed and the women came up and fought in the wave of heated battle lust. They attacked the horses of the scattered cavalry. Once the men were down from their horses, pitchforks and knives fell onto their breasts. Several of these cripples died as the units of pike-men and green light infantry units hurriedly reinforced the bleeding nose of the army.

  With both ends of the army assailed and dented in, re-organization proved slow. Tolin led a force of cavalry, infantry, and pike-men against the forces exiting Khabnur. These fighters, led by Gorias La Gaul high in the saddle, were truly a division of rabble. A hundred police constables and their deputies; several dozen of the palace guards of Rhan; hundreds of poorly armed citizens that made up a militia; and a few hundred mercenaries, also ill-trained but armed and angry, came out to fight. These men saw a fable on horseback, the great Gorias La Gaul in his dragon armor, leading them onward. So caught up were they in his majestic wake and grandiose fame, they clung hard to be a part of it. They would follow him into Hell itself, but for now they followed him into the only section of the army of Nosmada that counter attacked.

  Tolin led a few hundred of the cavalrymen right at these forces. His hope was to break them fast with a show of power. Indeed, fear showed on the faces in the militia and many others, but the mercs, drunk on La Gaul’s thrall, went on into the killing maw. Even those far behind on the castle walls cheered and shouted their encouragement as the fight was joined.

  With flashing swords, La Gaul cut two riders down. He stabbed, slashed and fought like a man possessed, not stopping as gouting blood painted his armor. Spears broke on his famous armor, unable to penetrate the dragon skin. Almost elegant in his acts of murder, La Gaul wasn’t denied. Both blades dropped on either side of him, both finding homes in the shoulders of pike men. They had rushed to La Gaul and hesitated, truly afraid of the man they knew as larger than life. Gorias ended their fears forever. A loud chunk echoed as the blades found flesh. Armor rent, collar-bones collapsed, and the blades crunched down into the ribs of the men.

  Archers drilled him with arrows, but they glanced off his armor. Even the long bowman’s offerings were rejected.

  Never once did the fabled killer hesitate. He rode deeper into the lines, making his horse rear up and spin. Even La Gaul’s mount fought for him. Harden veteran infantry-men drew back, hesitating for that crucial moment. When they found their courage at last, when they decided they indeed wanted to be the man to kill Gorias La Gaul, a swipe sheared off their sword arms.

  Blind in his odium of Gorias, Tolin charged forward, ravenous for the ultimate kill. All of his senses flared at the sight of the warring man, killing everyone around him, dropping the blades so often one would think he chopped logs.

  Several of those in the cavalry fled rather than attack Gorias. Quickly warriors and mercs aided La Gaul, buoyed by his undaunted bravery. It was the wedge they needed and they drove it deep into the side of the dispersing army.

  Tolin’s skin crawled as he reached La Gaul. The armored legend never flinched. He reached out with a blade and blocked Tolin’s first sword thrust. Gorias even kicked the general in the hip as he passed. La Gaul played with him. Tolin heard him laughing as he kicked a pike man, caving in his ribs, then hooked a passing cavalry fighter with the dew nail of his armor, ripping loose a string of guts and a loud scream.

  And yet…there was something about the combatant that made Tolin’s senses shriek. What was wrong?

  The fighters from Khabnur threw their lives into a meat grinder, but many prevailed. They fought like men possessed, men who were part of a parable in a dru
nken song. They waded into Tolin’s troopers and used them as meat to dull their swords. These were not men accustomed to discipline or long fights. They didn’t have to be, Tolin mused, as he swung around for another shot at Gorias.

  Again, he charged the marvel on the horse. Again, La Gaul repelled him. Tolin reined back, flummoxed. He witnessed his great second in command, Karter, charge in with an extended lance. For an instant, Tolin believed Karter would impale La Gaul. No shock overcame him when Gorias pivoted in the saddle, causing the lance to miss his side. La Gaul then swung his left sword down, snapping the lance. Karter’s momentum carried him close to Gorias and an overhand smash from a gloved fist. The brain buster caused Karter to falter in the saddle and tumble backwards from his mount. Twirling, he landed on his back then rolled on to all fours. Shaking the cobwebs free, Karter tried to rise, but his head hung. He never knew La Gaul sliced at him and missed his head. La Gaul then shouted a single word at him. Karter raised his head up to look. The blade of La Gaul fell.

  Tolin howled when he heard the brittle crunch as the sword bit to bone depth. Captain Karter fell flat on his chest, arms out, and his soul departed.

  The general bellowed and charged La Gaul. Again, he crossed swords with Gorias and the scream of blades whined. The warrior moved fluidly, repelling the attacks with ease. With a circular twist, Gorias motioned his right sword and Tolin’s weapon flew from his grasp.

  Tolin caught himself drawing back in fear, for he inadvertently left a killing avenue open. Yet, Gorias never took it. Strange, an aged fighter would do such a thing…

  With rage in his mind, Tolin realized what was happening. He had been deceived. His horse shuffled back as he reached down for the spike headed mace hanging from his high-pommel saddle.

  *****

  The mammoth cavalry had shoved a great force of the Nosmada’s infantry back towards the Foundry of Syn. Pouring out of the Earth came four hundred well-armed workers, crazed in a primal blood desire. Into the back of the retreating infantry these workers plunged with vigor.

  Tammas saw the children who he came into the foundry with charge into a skull splintering frenzy as they took on the reforming pike-men units. Embodying their savage nature to the fullest, they flooded into the battle lines. The trained pike-men impaled a few of the children, but were unready for the chaos of so many shorter attackers. These children cut low and the lines of men bowed. Tammas joined them in their quest for a lower assault, stabbing and slicing, pinning the feet of the troopers into the ground with knives or bone-honed daggers.

  When the children squirted into the next lines, they encountered armored swordsmen. One of these men stepped up, slew a youth and easily disarmed another. However, his mirth at the ease of his moves allowed the unarmed youth to tackle his shin. Finding a gap in the greave, the barbarian youth sank his gnarled teeth into the tendons in the swordsman’s lower leg. With a shout, the swordsman sliced the boy through the back, and then stabbed him through the heart once he rolled off his leg. Staggering, the swordsman faced Tammas.

  The bard charged, swinging his weapon hard. Though the blow was blocked, the swordsman couldn’t plant his leg and it gave out from under him. He fell to his knee awkwardly and Tammas stepped forward. Making sure the boy never died in vain for his act, Tammas sliced into the belly of the swordsman and then removed his head. It took his a few chops, but he got it done.

  The multitude of youths charged into the blinding war with Nosmada’s men and vanished. Tammas fought well, impaling a cavalry officer with a broadsword from the Foundry and then ascended to his horse. This cavalryman stumbled and fell, forcing a third of the blade back out of his body as he impacted on the Earth. The wash of blood on the thin grass was so prevalent the horse nearly slipped.

  Almost as if his mind screamed it, Tammas bolted the field and headed back toward Khabnur. Once near that raging battle, he thought of the ruins of Larak where Kayla and Gorias disappeared. On his lips was a tune. On his lips was a song of death. On his lips was a smile.

  *****

  Brock Lloydson rode his mammoth across the bodies of many warriors who tried very hard to kill him. The tusks of the great animal ripped and disposed of men far more intelligent than Brock. He sent arrows into the faceplates of soldiers of great breeding. Truly Brock killed, trampled, and ground into the earth many mother’s sons. He thought it funny and exciting. The blood rushed in his veins and spattered across his beard. The scents of brains, intestines, raw horsemeat, and elephant dung drifted on the evening breeze. He felt unashamed over the erection he sported because of it.

  His long bludgeon swung from the mount and Brock kept on his path. To crush through the lines of infantry wasn’t enough. Dispersing the cavalry and crushing the spines of horses didn’t do it for him either. Brock directed his troops to keep running up and down the length of the army.

  When he witnessed the flood of bodies exiting out of the steaming Foundry, both in the form of armed children and the workers, it made him smile. At last, he dropped off his mount and waded into the scattered pike men attacking as reinforcements for their comrades. Brock picked up a sword dropped by a dead foundry worker and put it to better use.

  A cavalry rider attacked him and Brock attacked the soldier’s horse. Predictably, the animal went down and the rider fell to the earth. This man’s helmet fell off, exposing a huge soldier, bald and bruised. He drew a great sword and swung at Brock. The barbarian took to a knee and slashed backwards. Brock cut through the back of the rider’s sword arm, slicing off much of the tricep. Standing tall again, Brock fully removed the bald fighter’s limb with a grunt.

  The bald mad staggered, drawing out a dagger from his girdle. “I’m Tubal, son of Norasha, kindred of the line’ of Seth himself.”

  Brock replied, “I don’t care,” as he ran him through with his sword, blade just below his sternum, like his father taught him. Face near enough to kiss the bald warrior, Brock felt his warm breath as he exhaled, then heard him up close as he gagged--a natural reflex to the turning of the sword. Brock pushed him away. Tubal fell, dying and convulsing on the bloody grass. Dark fluid bubbled from Tubal’s maw like a crimson spring. Brock spit on him and moved on.

  While he sliced another warrior of Nosmada open, Brock saw La Gaul get off his white mount to fight a tall man in well made armor. The twin swords flashed and the fable took the big man down. Another leapt in to fight Gorias, to defend the fallen man. La Gaul slashed the soldiers’ neck quick. The head teetered and fell off backward, sending jets of blood into the sky. Gorias stepped over the fallen man, a General probably. La Gaul put his twin swords side by side and raised them above his head. When they fell, the general blocked the move with a broadsword. The twin swords exploded into glittering shards. Brock heard the general laugh.

  CHAPTER XX

  Deliverance Has Come

  *

  Gorias loped as best he could on his injured leg. His broken ribs screamed at him as he raised weary arms and slashed. He dodged between pillars, renting and shredding the human flesh that constituted the pages of the Daemonolateria. He noticed one sheet of skin sported the tattoo of a scarlet spider on it. Behind him, the howl of the Draco-Lich mingled with what he anticipated: The fall of many of the perfect obelisks.

  In its abiding fury, Carlato Wyss charged. It aimed to discontinue Gorias from destroying the pages of the grimoire just translated. In his haste, Wyss thought too much like a man and not like a dragon, just as Gorias anticipated. The long wings and bulky body of the Draco-Lich slammed into the pillars and obelisks. These objects teetered and fell, smashing into others on their way over, and they into others. Such stood the symmetrical alignment of the stones made to perfection by the fallen angels, whispering to man to be obsessed with the stars. This perfection led to a swifter destruction.

  What fleshy pages he failed to slash the dragon buried in the sand, grinding them together amidst the stones, ruin
ing the words etched by the creature. In time, the monster tripped over rolling stone columns and lurched forward. It smashed into the remaining pillars, snapping many more off. It injured itself as it knocked more structures down.

  The debris ejected during its fall threw him to the ground. Certain a few of his fingers snapped in the process, he tried to ignore the agony of his broken body and rise up to his feet. He failed, making it only to his knees. Blood poured from his stomach through his busted chain mail cover. He held his fists, still clenching his blades, to his belly. Fingers steadily weaker, his temper correspondingly thinner, he trudged on. His aged eyes saw the chest and abdomen of the undead dragon were broken, bleeding out muscled humanity. A few errand arms and legs fell away from the collective body of the Draco-Lich.

  “Gorias!” Kayla called out from a great distance away.

  The world twisted and tilted in the eyes of La Gaul. A rush went threw him and he felt his heart thud in his chest. His blurring vision focused on the Draco-Lich, still not finished, stumbling amongst the broken pieces of the pillars, stepping on sheets of human flesh. The dragon stumbled greatly and its leg went deep into the earth. It was caught, unable to pull its limb from a hollow place below.

  Up at last, he advanced, though staggering. Kayla ran to him, full of fear at his appalling condition. He waved this off and pointed down at the fresh gap in the earth. “The sunlight shows it well. Look! It’s the reservoir for the soul crystals. That’s where Wyss will retreat to if I kill this sonofabitch. He’ll go back to a jewel and await another return.”

  Holding a sword under his armpit, he drew out a dagger, and looked to his left. In the open stone street stood Ezran Gavreel, arms folded. This time he wore an immaculate white cloak and a hood. Ignoring him for a moment, Gorias spoke to Kayla as he gave her the blade, “Get down there and destroy the jewels. This will cut them. It will cut anything.”