Blood and Steel: Legends of La Gaul, Volume 1

by Steven Shrewsbury

  The host of hairy men climbed off their horses and led them to the water. There were so many of the barbarians that they refreshed their horses and themselves in shifts.

  From out of these strangers emerged two blue-eyed men. Removing the dark cloth from their faces, they nodded at the watcher and shook off the dust.

  “I am Ambiorix and this is Garretson. We shall use your water.”

  Looking back the way they came, the watcher said, “Far from home, I see.”

  Ambiorix went to the bubbling spring and buried his face in the water. Emerging with a wild gleam in his eye, hair whipped over his head, he looked at the water and then directed his eyes south of the oasis. “Larak is not far from here. I can see the ruins in the distance.”

  The watcher coughed in agreement and then sat in a wooden chair made of sanded-down palm tree trunks. “Not much there, young man.”

  Never taking his eyes from the distant site, Ambiorix murmured, “All that matters is there, oldster.” He then gestured to his men. They unloaded a few long rolls of cloth and lay them at the door of the watcher. “There’s dried meat and nuts in there. We remember who honors us.”

  “I thank you for that and my life.”

  Ambiorix’s eyes still ignored him, but his mouth replied, “No use killing an aged watchman is there?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Previous owners of the food have no more use for it. Call it a gift from Wodan.”

  The watcher faced back to the North. “Wodan? My, you are far from home. By your fair hair and blue eyes, I’d guess you were of the tribes far beyond the Caucaus Mountains nearest here.”

  “You would guess correctly.”

  The old man fell silent. He took a few breaths and then looked toward Larak.

  Ambiorix waved for the women to refill the skins of water, and at last faced the watcher. “And you wonder why we are here, from a world away, so far south?”

  Shrugging, the watchman said, “I’d deduce it has to do with the faction of Ensibzianna in Larak. They absorb many followers and hold up in the ruins. There certainly isn’t anything to rob or rape in the remains of Larak.”

  Ambiorix’s huge hands curled into fists. “That’s not why I … we are here.” He bent over and leered at the watcher. “Why are you out here at the edge of the desert?”

  “My father before me lived and tended this oasis. It’s my life. This is where I live and belong. I do as I was taught. Surely, even you folk of the north know to honor your father and his wishes.”

  “We know of blood, old man,” Ambiorix nodded, and walked to his horse. “My niece here is twice the fighter most men are, and worth dying for.”

  The watcher eyed the stout, blonde girl, barely covered in buckskin clothes and cloaks to keep off the sand. “Take care. There’s a gang of fighters in Larak.”

  Ambiorix smiled. “That’s all right. I brought my own.”

  With a snicker, the watcher wished, “Be of fine fortune then, even if you meet your death. If you seek after your kin, I hope you find them.”

  “I will,” Ambiorix promised. “If they send my ass back to Thule, they won’t send it back alive. The fools in Larak plan a sacrifice tomorrow, a grand hecatomb of children and infants. I know through their by-laws and their slavery to the shifts in the lights of the sky. If anything, these religious dolts are dogmatic and prisoners to their rules. We’ll take them all to Hell before any of my kin falls.”

  “God be with you,” the watcher wished him.

  “God loves men like me,” Ambiorix said, half jovial.

  “Why is that?”

  Ambiorix shrugged. “He just does.”

  As the barbarian leader walked away, the other blonde man Garretson looked at the watcher and proclaimed, “God has balls. So does Ambiorix. God respects that.”

  ***

  Stopping a fair distance from the ruins of Larak, Ambiorix surveyed the scene. He saw heavy-set men and boys, sorry excuses for guards or pickets, scurrying to tell that a massive force stood at the doorway to the despoiled city. That didn’t concern Ambiorix at all. “They need to keep what I want alive,” he muttered to no one. “Don’t they, now, princess?”

  The city of Larak was once a great spectacle, Ambiorix heard tell, but destruction fell on it long before he drew a breath. Previously, his warrior grandfather, Gorian, told him a raging sea once covered the desert of Dundayin. Off to their left, an endless wasteland hemmed in a more fertile ground around Larak; fertile, as to say weeds and some plants grew there.

  One of the warriors said to Ambiorix, “Looks as if that land over yonder is the piss bucket of the gods!”

  After the laughter subsided, Ambiorix nodded toward the ruins ahead. “My grandfather told me around the fire that Larak was destroyed and he didn’t lie. But what sort of creatures could have done that?”

  While rows of obelisks remained, several blocks of these phallic stones lay knocked every which way, as if a child destroyed a playground sand sculpture. Numerous high stonewalls slumped, some broken and jagged, whereas others still formed corners. The ceilings of many of the buildings, which Ambiorix guessed as temples, had caved in, spilling light and sand through the breeches. Grim, chaotic visions swam in the primitive skull of the foreigner to the desert. Ambiorix’s heart started to beat faster, but he never would have admitted to such a fact. It was as if the structures toppled in a pattern, he thought.

  “What vanity,” Ambiorix declared, pondering the configurations not overthrown by human hands. “To build up marble houses for their gods to live in, huh, looks like one of them grew angry enough to knock down the habitations.”

  “Shall we send the new squatters to their fuckin’ gods?” Garretson asked, causing a cheer to arise from the multitude.

  With serenity in his manner, Ambiorix gripped the handle of a sword on his back. “Yes.”

  Whichever riders rode two at a time let their spare dismount. As these lines of footmen assembled behind the procession of horsemen, those inhabiting the ruins of Larak scuttled like disturbed rats. Unorganized and half dressed, the residents created unity only in their communal fear; at the shout of the Northern ruffians, heralding their berserk charge.

  Shouting with insane vehemence, the invading folk moved en masse toward the broken granite carcass of Larak. Ambiorix felt his blood leap in his veins as the thunder in his ears became drowned out by the cacophony of hooves.

  A few dozen valiant souls actually stepped forward to fight. This force of cultists swiftly retreated when they realized the size of the tide of livid humanity bearing down on them.

  Swinging long swords, bludgeons, and stabbing spears, the multitude rode into the crumbling streets, slaying whomever they encountered. Ambiorix lead them in first, removing the skullcap of a bald-headed man. The man swung a curved footman’s axe at him and missed badly. After one swipe from Ambiorix, a slop of brains painted the nearest fallen obelisk. The ancient mosaic of creatures, of a kind half man and half squid, was further obscured by the gray gruel.

  No organized resistance flowed from the cult of Ensibzianna. Since the attack lacked great order, they made the melee additionally turbulent. Most of the savage host leapt from their mounts, dragging downward running members of the religious assemblage. Punching, stabbing and slashing, Ambiorix’s people made rapid work of anyone unlucky enough to be caught.

  Ambiorix and Garretson met, gathering their troops behind their backs. In front of them stood one of the more complete edifices, hardly cracked by whatever destroyed the city. From this structure poured an armed, fighting force, lean men all in thin chain mail, brandishing shields, axes, and short scimitars. Prepared for their deaths, Ambiorix’s tribe screamed for Wodan and charged.

  Blood spattered the ancient pillars anew, and the dust became muddy in the spilled ichor. Ambiorix looked down at a fallen Ensibzianna cultist. The mouth stre
tched open too far, crimson sparkling as it ran out fast like vomit.

  Helmets flew and heads rolled free from them as Ambiorix’s warriors forced their way forward. Links of chain mail bent or shattered under the strength of their strong blows.

  A press of fresh bodies forced Ambiorix’s fighters back to a huge block of stone. While three held him in place, one short-haired man grinned and stepped away from the throng. He held up a flail and spun the metal-spiked head around in victory. He gloated too long before delivering the deathblow, for this gave Garretson time to make a diagonal slash and remove the head from the short-haired cultist, nearly taking off his shoulder as well.

  Ambiorix pushed off one of the cultists, and this man landed on the end of Garretson’s sword. Only impaled through the kidney, the man howled and slipped off the blade, as Garretson cursed. Soon, his left hand swung around, wielding a war hammer. Though the cultist’s head did not explode, it did give a loud, wet popping sound, as the body under it plummeted.

  Swiftly dispensing with the two left to him via his dagger and sword, Ambiorix nodded to Garretson, and they moved closer to the center of Larak.

  Through the massive slaughter, the tribesman ran amok and prevailed. Shoulder to shoulder, they advanced towards the main shelter of the cult of Ensibzianna.

  Suddenly, a huge shape stumbled out of a break in the wall. The invaders froze for a moment, but their tension soon passed. Alagar himself entered the fray. However, this giant, twice as tall as even the hulking Ambiorix, was no fiend incarnate. His muscle tone had gone, and his elongated limbs slacked at the biceps. His stomach hung low over the green silken kilt that covered his nakedness.

  “Fuck, but he’s seen better days,” Garretson remarked, holding back a smile.

  Alagar staggered, trying to hold up his huge mace to fight.

  Ambiorix said, “He was once a lover of great capacity.”

  Garretson affirmed, “Butcher me to fuckin’ Hell if I end up as such.”

  “Agreed,” Ambiorix guaranteed him, and waved an arm at the youths in the tribe.

  These boys, barely in their man-making stage, were along on the trip to complete that particular journey. They launched spears at the immense Alagar. Many of the lances broke, stubbled off on Alagar’s thick skin, but a few of them held in his belly.

  This distraction was all the tribe needed to thrust ahead. Despite the fact that Alagar swung down, crushing the spine of one attacker, the folk swarmed his legs, chopping with great battle-axes, taking his toes and ankles out with ease.

  Alagar fell to his knees and swiped his mighty arms, shoving several off him. Ambiorix and Garretson attacked as one, both swinging their swords down at the top of his shoulders.

  Ambiorix’s overhand swing removed the left arm of Alagar. Garretson’s blade swung into the joint of the right shoulder. The giant lowered his brow and thumped Garretson to the dirt. His head swayed to Ambiorix, and with a clumsy impact caused the leader to drop his sword.

  Frantic, needing a weapon, Ambiorix performed as all barbarians do, and fought with what was at hand. He grabbed the wrist of the giant’s dismembered arm and shouted a wordless war-cry.

  Swinging the limb up, he slammed the bloody stump of the arm into Alagar’s jaw. As if he were stabbed, the Nephilum grabbed his mouth, his injured right arm flailing, and blood spurted out.

  It was an orange fluid. Ambiorix assumed the giant bit his tongue off from the blow. In moments, Alagar felt the points of a dozen spears in his chest and belly. He slumped back abruptly, and breathed his last.

  “At least he fuckin’ came out and fought,” Garretson commented, sucking air, winded by the struggle.

  “He had courage, perhaps as much as any cornered beast, aye?” said Ambiorix, as he turned and saw further members of the cult stream out of the pillar-lined streets. Screwing up their audacity, they meant to retaliate.

  Rushing forward, the counter-offensive had some teeth to it, at least until they beheld their dead Lord Alagar. At the spectacle of his bloated corpse full of spears, they shrieked and fled.

  “The day is fuckin’ ours!” Garretson rejoiced, and many jumped in the air.

  Ambiorix looked into the main shelter. “Almost.”

  Drawing near to Ambiorix, Garretson said in a low voice, “Do you think Neurath warned Alagar that we were coming?”

  Peering into the lopsided stone structure, Ambiorix shook his head from side to side. “No. They were ill-prepared for a strong assault. Besides, how could Neurath have done that?”

  Garretson thought for a second and answered, “Perhaps a power of the fuckin’ mind? They have unearthly parents.”

  Ambiorix gave him a distasteful glance, and motioned for him to follow along, heading on inside. “I doubt that. Besides, the Nephilum all hate each other.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Imagine a family where all of the children think they are god.”

  Grunting a little, Garretson surveyed the interior of the barren building. “I see. Still, we killed his brother.”

  “Neurath will not care,” Ambiorix promised as he walked, unarmed, towards the front of the building. “One less sibling to worry about. Neurath would applaud me if I brought Alagar’s head to him.”

  “Will you?”

  Ambiorix glanced at him and smirked. “No.”

  At the echo of their voices, a few people scrambled from behind a crumpled tapestry. These few older men didn’t make it out alive, running into a line of thickset savages.

  Ambiorix and Garretson never concerned themselves with them. The fallen tapestry revealed a vulgar, decaying stone altar. Once, this small platform was an oversized pair of breasts divided by a phallic symbol.

  An unstable world, or whatever trashed Larak, had ruptured the floor in places, thus making the altar uneven and pinch together, crushing the penis between the breasts. This amused the chief, but when Ambiorix walked behind the slab, his smile faded.

  “Come on out, dog,” Ambiorix snapped, his mouth forming into a snarl.

  The figures popped up so quickly that Garretson stepped back and held up his sword. One person was a man of great age. His eyes flared with vitality as his arm easily subdued the woman under his grip. Arm around her neck, his other hand held a curved blade.

  The flaring eyes of the man danced as he promised, “Come closer and she dies, dirty pig!”

  The woman was much taller than the elderly man. Her ginger-colored hair hung disheveled about a grimy face. She wore a single-pieced cloak, but this simple cover couldn’t hide her advanced state of pregnancy. The look in her eyes was one of terror at the sight of the warriors.

  Ambiorix scowled at them, and his gaze focused on her. Eyes dancing over her appearance, he reached out an arm to Garretson and took the short sword.

  The older man shouted with vigor, “Stop, or I will sever the cow’s throat! I will do it as sure as you live. I don’t care if she’s from the royal house of Transalpina. I am a priest of Alagar, and ready to die, so back away or I shall cut her from ear to ear.”

  The blade of the short sword bounced off Ambiorix’s thigh. He said coldly, “Do as you must.”

  Confusion reigned in the eyes of the priest as his gaze went from Ambiorix to Garretson. From out of the tresses, the woman also registered bewilderment. Tears started to flow from her bulging eyes.

  “I said,” the old cleric repeated. “I will kill her!”

  “Kill her then,” Ambiorix told him as he stepped forward.

  The priest and woman bumped into the stone slab as Ambiorix’s left hand reached out. However, he never grabbed at the old man nor the woman’s arm to pull her free. Instead, he placed his hand lower, on the flat in her middle, below her breasts, above her stomach.

  With an almost elegant thrust, Ambiorix sliced a crescent wound around the belly of the struggling woman. The priest released
her, his voice caught in his throat, and she sprawled on the altar, screaming in horror as Ambiorix carved the baby out of her mid-section.

  Through a splay of screams, spewing cherry-colored fluid and pulpy gray tissue, Ambiorix performed his duty. Stepping back in a moment with the infant, Ambiorix felt the child contort as more pliable gore fell away.

  With his pinkie finger, he cleared the tiny mouth and held the baby up. By means of a scream, the child’s tone joined the throng of barbarians now gathered in the inner temple room.

  With great happiness, they shouted a welcome to their blood, led in cheers by the clapping niece of the chief, herself sporting a bloody nose and gore staining her blouse. Another cut was made and Ambiorix turned, showing them all. Quickly, word spread that it was a boy. He handed the child to his niece.

  “You … bastard….” the celebrant of Alagar stammered, as he glared at the dying woman, who tried to fix her guts back in a few times before the agony overtook her.

  Ambiorix watched as his niece removed the upper flap of her chain mail, and then her bloody blouse. With no hesitation, she placed the child to her left breast and it fed. Smiling, she then bowed her head to her uncle and said, “Though this isn’t my daughter who died weeks ago, I shall raise him as my son.”

  “Good,” Garretson said as the crowd applauded. “Then he’ll not have a mother who tried to sacrifice him to a filthy fuckin’ god for gold.”

  Laughter rippled through the chamber as the priest gaped at the suffering woman. He was about to cut her throat in mercy when Ambiorix slashed at the priest’s wrist. The cleric dropped the knife as blood gouted from his forearm.

  “No compassion for her,” Ambiorix said ruefully. “Let her die as all traitors and the unfaithful must.”

  The mass of hirsute humanity started to recede from the temple and the priest shouted, “That is it? You are just going to leave?”

  “I have what I came for,” Ambiorix replied, waving at his son, feeding and mewling at his niece’s breast. “My one true love.”

  “You destroyed all of my magnificent plans, all of my dreams of power at the great day of sacrifice,” the priest screamed, fists hitting the altar and the dying woman’s head alternately. “I could have beaconed the demons to bestow me proper power, and you slew all of them, all of the other carriers of the seed, for what? For that barbarian bastard?”