Back-stabbing wretches, He thought, suppressing a growl so He didn’t frighten His priests. The last time He did, three priests died of strokes in their fear. He couldn’t afford such a luxury as that, at least not yet.
“Prepare for human sacrifices at all My temples, in all My cities,” He said as He marched toward the great golden throne beside His High Altar. Mogens had the throne brought over from the royal castle. The local king didn’t need it anymore, since he was a mindless slave shuffling toward the next city. “Beginning at midnight tonight, I want a youth in his or her prime sacrificed to Me on the hour, every hour of the day and night until I say otherwise. If you can find any elves or dwarves in their prime, even better.”
High Priest Mogens’ eyes flashed in wicked glee. He had long wanted to perform those rites the Arisen had outlawed. As much as Dakar enjoyed the heady feel of power such rites provided, until now He was loathe to kill off His scant supply of worshippers. Unfortunately, the few conquered humans he hadn’t magically enslaved, so he’d have the needed free-willed congregations in His temples, weren’t providing the kind of power He had anticipated. Their hearts weren’t truly into the rites they performed, watering down the nourishment He received. Their prayers weren’t any better.
“It will be as You command, Divine Master,” Mogens said, bowing to hide his smile.
That irritated Dakar. The High Priest had to be reminded who was master.
“You will start the blood sacrifices with Queen Annalis,” He commanded, enjoying the shock and horror of His servant. The nineteen year old queen of Treversax had been Mogens personal slave since her capture. Taking his most prized possession would remind the High Priest of his place, however vaulted it may be. “I will personally attend, to witness your skill and devotion.”
Mogens swallowed hard, understanding his master was displeased with him.
“It will be as You command, Divine Master,” High Priest Mogens said.
“How many temples have you managed to cleanse?”
The change of subject cleared Mogens dark mood. And here was a problem dear to his heart. He was, after all, a warrior born, and loved a challenge such as this.
“Thirteen, Divine Master.”
“Then stop,” Dakar said as He reached the High Altar. Mogens frowned. Dakar understood the High Priest had ideas on how better to deal with the traps, but He had other concerns. “Come full night, I will destroy the rest of the temples, and their traps. I cannot afford to lose any more priests. Once My power is more firmly established, then new temples will be built.”
Dakar reached His throne and promptly sat. He wasn’t one for fanfare and elaborate ceremony. Results got His attention.
“If there is nothing else to report, High Priest Mogens, let us plan the next phase of My campaign,” Dakar said in a booming voice for all to hear.
But before Mogens could voice his first suggestion, a hesitant cough sounded. One of the prone priests looked up, requesting permission to speak. Mogens frowned. Dakar knew that there was something about Nizar al-Sayyid that just didn’t rub right with the High Priest.
“You have something to add?” Dakar asked, His annoyance clear for all to hear.
“Yes, Great One...I mean, Divine Master,” Nizar said, slowly rising to his feet. “I was detailed with clearing out the traps within the former High Priest’s apartments. I found information I believe of dire importance.”
“And you didn’t tell me!” High Priest Mogens bellowed.
“I looked, but couldn’t find you, Your Grace,” Nizar said somberly, looking truly regretful.
“Of no consequences,” Dakar said, irritated His servants were embroiled in some petty human power struggle while He was bent on conquering the world. He had never had that trouble with His former priesthood comprised of the Ancient Races. “What have you found?”
Nizar grinned, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Divine Master, I have found evidence that the Arisen Gods, and Kamain in particular, have set in motion a plan to destroy You.”
Dakar pounced upon Nizar, startling the Tameran half out of his wits. But instead of ripping out Nizar’s throat, or heart, He took the paper away in a massive hand. The script of the modern humans was strange to Him, but being a God had allowed Him to master it within moments. He did not like what He was reading.
“A smith!” Dakar bellowed. “The Arisen are only sending a measly craftsman to destroy me! It took an army of one hundred thousand and six Gods to capture me before!”
“Perhaps it is a ruse, Divine Master,” Mogens said. “It seems incomprehensible that a High Priest would recklessly leave behind such information.”
“He was captured trying to destroy all his documents,” Nizar said in a reasonable tone. “You yourself killed him, High Priest Mogens. Don’t you recall?”
“Ruse or not,” Dakar said, ending their squabble, “I can’t afford to take any chances.”
As he recalled, the Arisen had been newborn Gods at the time. They have had three thousand years to mature and learn. They were cunning adversaries. But They were fallible, for He had learned that the Arisen had effectively outlawed Their own personal participation in the “war.” They had vowed to never again fight a war, God against God, within the Mortal Realm. And Gods, Himself included, were slaves to Their vows. It was Their greatest weakness, by Dakar’s reckoning.
“You have done well, Nizar,” Dakar said, noting how the Tameran’s chest swelled under the praise. The High Priest scowled at the newcomer. “I will grant you a reward. Yes, I will make you a commander within My eastern flank. Serve Me well, and you will receive many more rewards, Nizar al-Sayyid.”
“My God, you honor me,” Nizar said, prostrating himself before Dakar.
Chapter 8
“On your feet!”
Tane started out of deep sleep. Bright lamplight stabbed at his eyes, as loud crashing and stomping sounded all around him. It sounded as if a herd of cattle was stampeding through his room. Then a dark man with angry eyes appeared suddenly beside him, spewing blasphemies and threats.
Remembering where he was, Tane sat up quickly. And banged his head on the bunk above. He crawled out of bed as he furiously rubbed the growing knot on his forehead. The shouting man was immediately before him, demanding he stand in something called “at attention” in harsh tones. Though still sleep-dazed, Tane managed to satisfy the terrible man after a moment. Then the little man in the bunk above his dropped down beside him.
Tane wanted to turn and study the man, for he was of a people Tane had only heard about. He was a Swampman, from the vast Jar Swamp north of Kestsax and astride the mighty Jar River for half its length. So while the yelling soldier was badgering the elf, Quinn, Tane hazard a side glance at the Swampman, and instantly regretted it.
The man’s hair was straight, black and pulled up into a braid that started at his forehead, above a long, narrow face with a hooked nose and sharp chin. He had a greenish-gray complexion. He wasn’t very tall, not even reaching Tane’s shoulder. But the Swampman was looking up at Tane, grinning wolfishly with blackened teeth filed to wicked points. It reminded Tane that Swampmen were half-goblin cannibals, and the look the Swampman was giving him made him uneasy.
“All right, you gutter-scum,” the soldier waking them said in a calmer voice. His accent said he was a Jarlander, probably from the far north, nearer the equator. “I’m Corporal Pendar, 2nd Squad leader. For you who don’t know what squad you’re in, I have the swordsmith, the elf, both Vikon, and the Swampman. The rest of you belong to Corporal Disa. She’s not as sweet as me.”
His grin was broad, but held little humor. No one made the mistake of laughing.
“I’ll be waking you scum every other day, with Disa having the honor the other days,” he said. “Now, since this is your first morning with us, I’ll give you a run down on how it’ll work from now on.
“First thing, you get straight out of bed and make it up fast. After that, you don’t sit or lay on it until the duty d
ay is over. No exceptions. Your corporal will be teaching you how to make your bunks military style later today.
“Now, after you get your bunk squared away, you can relieve yourself in the chamber pots over there. You also shave and clean up at that time. Beards aren’t allowed in the army, but mustaches are acceptable.
“Now, you get thirty minutes to square away yourself, put away your gear for the day, and clean up the bay before you fall out for first call. After roll is called, the company will go for a little run to warm us up for a hard day of training. We’ll eat after the run. It’ll be about daybreak when we finish eating and head over to the parade ground to begin training.”
“We’ll be running before breakfast?” a young Lelt said with a dubious look. By his accent, Tane figured him for a Kestsaxian commoner despite his Tribal Tattoos. “And this’ll all be happening before sunrise?”
“Yes,” Corporal Pendar said. “When the sun comes up, it’s time for weapon’s drill.”
“How are we supposed to be able to think, much less run and fight and otherwise soldier if you wake us up in the middle of the night?” the Lelt said, a bit of anger entering his voice. “This is stupid.”
Corporal smiled cruelly at the recalcitrant youth, casually moving closer to him as he spoke.
“We have an incentive program, to help inspire you scum,” he said, stopping before the Lelt with that too cruel grin widening a bit.
“And what might that be?”
Corporal Pendar slammed his fist into the youth’s belly, then brought his knee up crushingly in his face. The Lelt collapsed with a sob.
“Our incentive program is simple. Obey, and live. Disobey, or just annoy us, and we’ll beat you to bloody death. Slowly and surely,” he said, leering down at him. “You’ve got a decision to make, boy, and just fifteen minutes to go until first call. Now, all of you, move it!”
Everyone ignored the Lelt. Jumping to their bunks, they quickly made them the best they could. Some of the men didn’t have a shaving kit, so had to forego that. Corporal Pendar didn’t care, telling them no one was expecting much from them on the first day. Tomorrow would be different though, since the army would issue them shaving kits.
The huge Tyrian he’d met in the induction room was part of Corporal Disa’s squad. He had loud, outraged words with Corporal Pendar. Not so surprising, Corporal Pendar did not assault the towering Tyrian. The barbarian warrior would’ve ripped his head off and sang of the glory of his pending death as he fought the Kestsaxian soldiers that charged in afterwards.
Though the corporal did not attack the angry Tyrian, giving his name as Everard Boarsbane, neither did he back down on the rule to shave off beards. Tyrians loved their beards, and considered them a sign of their manhood. He, of course, did not have a shaving kit, so was spared that ultimate shame one more day.
“Take it up with your Corporal, Everard,” Pendar finally said, weary of the argument.
“Don’t think I won’t.”
Mops and buckets were provided by the corporal, and the recruits quickly mopped the floor and cleaned out the chamber pots. Tane thanked Kamain he managed to acquire a mop before the corporal pointed out those reeking chamber pots also had to be cleaned out every morning. Quinn and the Vikon female ended up the unlucky pair ordered to do it.
Tane noticed the Vikon pair was the arguing husband and wife he had been behind outside the city gate. They were as sullen as the elf, and didn’t even appear to be speaking to each other.
The so-called “little run” Corporal Pendar told them about proved to be anything but that. It was a grueling trek through the twisting streets of the city, which never seemed to end in Tane’s mind. The recruits were hounded all the way by yelling corporals and sergeants, who questioned everything about them, from their parentage, to their worth as a human being, to their sexual orientation. Some of the things said shocked Tane to the core of his existence. In his village, men fought and died for less.
The run finally came to an end back in front of the barracks. They weren’t allowed to rest, but kept at the position of “attention” while the company First Sergeant gave his orders for the day. Then he turned the company over to the individual Platoon Sergeants, who in turn ordered the Section Sergeants to take command of their troops.
Sergeant Gareth immediately marched his section over to the crowded mess hall. The recruits were forced to stand in line while the officers, sergeants and regular army soldiers entered and ate first. Tane didn’t mind, for he was sick to his stomach after the run. The last thing he wanted or needed was greasy food stuffed down his throat. The mere thought nauseated him.
Of all the recruits in his section, only the elf appeared unaffected by the run. The Swampman and Vikon couple looked as ill as Tane felt. The other members of 3rd Section didn’t look particularly sick, just exhausted.
Eventually the line started moving steadily into the mess hall. By the time he reached the door, Tane’s stomach began to subside. He actually started to feel hungry by the time he reached the stack of hot, wet tin plates. As he looked at the stacks of fist-sized loafs of fresh bread, platters of fried potatoes and cooked ham piled high, and bowls of butter and jams, he remembered he hadn’t eaten since before being “inducted.”
The last two men in their section had to go forward and relieve the men dishing out the food when the first man in their section reached the plates. When the first man from the next section reached the stacked plates, they would be relieved to return to their places in line and be fed. So it was Armin, the Vikon male, who sullenly scooped fried potatoes and bread on Tane’s plate.
“You want pig meat?” the Swampman, Uko, asked. “It’s cooked to leather, you know.”
“Just the way I like it,” Tane said, eagerly accepting the meat.
“Bah. Outlanders have disgusting ways,” Uko said, face screwed up.
That from a man who joyfully eats other people alive, Tane thought, but kept his thoughts private.
To his surprise, Tane and the other recruits weren’t allowed to sit and eat at their leisure. In fact, they weren’t allowed to sit at all. Their corporals badgered them to eat faster and keep moving. The line wended its way along the wall and around to the back exit. Anything still on their plate at the door had to be dumped in a large barrel. They then had to stop and scrub their plates in scolding hot water before stacking them to dry.
Sergeant Gareth waited for them out front when the corporals hounded them into formation. True to Corporal Pendar’s word, Corporal Disa proved herself to be a brutal taskmaster. She was a rail thin Amazon, with dirty blonde hair and the hardest eyes he’d ever seen on man or woman. There was nothing soft about her. Tane thanked every God he could think of for saving him from her squad.
Sergeant Gareth marched them across the parade ground to supply. There, they were forced to strip down and hand over their clothes. The sergeant and corporals walked up and down the line, looking everyone over and making crude jokes. They were especially hard on the Vikon female, who proved poorly-endowed, by their vulgar reckoning, and liberally covered with freckles.
Disinterested supply clerks issued them all blue trousers and the undyed tunics of recruits. Once everyone was clothed, they were marched to the next shed and issued heavy infantry boots and belts. They were warned to take good care of their boots, for the army only provided one pair. They would have to buy them in the future, and they weren’t cheap.
“All right, scum,” Sergeant Gareth said, grinning with approval at his section. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. Corporals, take charge and begin training.”
Chapter 9
Corporal Pendar marched his squad over to the armory to be issued wooden swords and weighted shields. Tane carefully kept the grin off his face, for as a swordsmith he had to know how to wield a sword. At least he wouldn’t be embarrassed. He knew enough to know that soldiers weren’t given the type training he received. They were only taught a limited number of strokes and parries. Fighting in f
ormation was very limiting.
“I’m assuming everyone here knows which end of a sword is which,” Corporal Pendar said. His sarcasm seemed to be lost on the Swampman, who he eyed warily a moment. “How about you, Uki?”
“It’s Uko, corporal. Uko Uzalson.”
“All right, but that didn’t answer my question,” he said, and promptly rapped the Swampman on the head with his wooden sword. “And it ain’t your place to correct a real soldier, scum. Now, do you or don’t you know how to use a sword?”
Eyeing the corporal murderously, and rubbing his throbbing head, Uko spoke through clenched teeth, “Yes. I can use a sword.”
“Good,” he said. After giving them all a good look over, he continued, “Now, just so everyone knows where everyone stands, we’ll all give a rundown of our combat experience. I’ll start.
“Now, I’m from the city of Brajar, up the Jar River a good ways. You might’ve heard of it. Well, at sixteen I joined up with the army there. After serving my time, I took off to be a mercenary. Thought I’d get rich really fast and retire to my own castle. Instead, I wandered from city to city, petty war to petty war until I signed with the Kestsaxian Royal Army and have been here every since. I kind of like the place.
“Well, I’ve fought mostly pirates and Swampmen raiders for the last seven years. This is the first real war Kestsax has been in since I joined. But I fought in two major wars and twelve battles in the Brajaran army, and all those petty squabbles I mentioned earlier,” he said. Turning to Tane, “Give us your name and tell us about yourself, boy.”
“I am Tane Kyleson of Bracklin. I’ve never fought in a battle, and only a few times with my fists,” he said, strangely embarrassed by the admission. “I just finished my apprenticeship as a swordsmith, and came here to join the Royal Smithy.”
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