Belly of the Beast

by Warren Thomas

  “That’s too long,” the priest said. He looked off into space a moment. “This village’s potter was killed in the fight, so I will pray to Dakar that a crucible is sought out and found, and then brought here. In the meantime, you get everything else prepared. How long will it take to forge a sword after the steel is smelted?”

  “A few days,” Tane said. “Five hours in the furnace should produce a steel ingot, which will take all day to hammer into a bar, and then into a blade. Adding the rune inlays could take another full day. Five or six days in all.”

  “You have five.”

  “Time starts when I get a crucible to make the steel,” Tane said, heading over to examine his new workshop. After inspecting the cold forge, he turned to his friends. “Do any of you know how to build a proper forge fire?” All shook their heads no. “Great. I’ll do it myself.”

  “You will begin work immediately,” Nizar said. Glancing about, he continued, “There are a few more hours of light. Enough for a good start, anyway. Your companions will assist in any way you deem necessary. I expect you to have everything ready for when the crucible arrives.”

  Tane shrugged, not liking to even speak with the priest. Nizar seemed satisfied with that small gesture.

  Nizar said, “I have to report in. And get into some clean clothes.” He regarded the group as a whole a moment. “I suppose all of you require food, so I’ll have something sent over.”

  “Such compassion,” Tane said. “And while you’re being so bloody charitable, why not heal my friends’ injuries. Armin and Raven aren’t fit for duty.”

  Nizar’s smile was cold as the south wind. “They are well enough for my purpose. Though it is true that only two, at best, or fit enough to physically restrain you from escaping, all of them will die horrible deaths if you do escape. And that fact alone will keep you here and in line, swordsmith.” He laughed at Tane’s bitter grimace. “I will be back by nightfall to check on your progress, and decide whether or not you have earned a hot meal.” He glanced around at the snow-covered village. “Cold gruel is so damn unsatisfying on a day like this, but nourishing nonetheless.”

  Tane watched the priest until he vanished around a nearby hut. His friends regarded him quietly, their faces showing no emotions. He wanted to scream at them, to bring them out of their trances, but knew better than try anything direct. He didn’t want or need a drubbing at their hands.

  “Quinn, man the bellows,” Tane said, knowing his best thinking was done while busy. He had no intention of actually making Swords of Power if there was any way to avoid it. “Joelle, help me build the fire. Armin, you and Raven can stand guard.”

  Chapter 57

  Nizar scowled as he looked about. He hated the cold of this land. He hated the wetness of this land. He hated the pale, brutish people of this land even more. But most of all, he hated snow, especially this wet snow that was falling. The village streets were quickly turning into a muddy quagmire, a very cold quagmire that sapped his strength and tried to steal his boots when he walked through it.

  “You! Slave, come to me,” Nizar said to a zombie patrolling atop the nearby wall.

  The man was a good head taller than Nizar, with a great belly that said he hadn’t missed too many meals in his life. But despite his girth, his arms and shoulders were thick and powerful looking. Noting the fire-scorched leather apron the zombie wore, Nizar wondered if he had been the village smith before it was overrun.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” the zombie said.

  “Slave, tell me where the priests are billeted?”

  Pointing out the gate and to the inn, “There, Your Grace.”

  It was as Nizar thought, and why he had avoided it so far. He was determined no one with their mind still theirs to command would see him so. It was humiliating enough for brainless zombies to look upon his naked face.

  “Good. Now, where can I find a turban and veil?”

  The zombie’s eyes glazed over more than normal. Nizar gritted his teeth at what that bode.

  “I don’t understand, Your Grace. What is a turban?”

  “Never mind,” he said, fighting the urge to cuff the man. “Does this cesspool of a village have a seamster?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Nizar waited, but the Lelt was not forthcoming with the seamster’s location. After a dozen heartbeats Nizar realized he had forgotten how stupid zombies could be.

  “Where is the seamster’s shop?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “There,” the zombie said, pointing to a nearby hut.

  Without another word, Nizar marched to the hut. A curl of smoke said it was still inhabited. Not that he cared one way or another. He would have taken what he wanted.

  Without knocking, Nizar entered the hut. He found a young family of six huddled around a small fire, whispering nervously. One of the children, no more than four or five, yelped and darted behind his mother. All were blonde, blue-eyed and deathly pale. The father, a thin fellow with a nasty wound festering on his left shoulder, rose up to greet him.

  “Thank you for blessing our home, Your Grace,” the man murmured, bowing repeatedly. “Is there anything Your Grace needs?”

  “A turban and veil,” Nizar said. “You do know what a turban is, don’t you?”

  “Aye, Your Grace, that I do,” he said, indicating a low worktable pushed up against a wall. It was piled high with bolts of cloth, mostly cotton. “I don’t have any turbans available, there being no market for them in these parts. But if you pick out the cloth you like best, I’ll make one for you right away.”

  Nizar glanced at the selection.

  “The gray wool,” he said, indicating his priestly robes.

  “Aye, good choice, Your Grace,” the Lelt said. “I can have the turban and veil for you by midmorning tomorrow.”

  Nizar gave him a cold look. “Do it now. I’ll wait.”

  The man looked uncomfortable, but began cutting the gray wool after a look back at his wife and children. Nizar waited just long enough to ensure the man started, and wasn’t wasting any time, before moving over to check out the contents of their stew pot. There wasn’t much left, but he was starving. With grimy fingers, he quickly shoveled the meager fare into his mouth.

  The thought occurred to him that these people might not have anything else to eat. He shrugged it off. Such was the fate of the conquered.

  Nizar sat cross-legged by the fire, closed his eyes, and started his prayer to Dakar. It took a few minutes, but Dakar entered his mind.

  “Speak.”

  “Divine Master, the swordsmith requires something we do not have in the village. A crucible,” he said. “He can make one himself, but it will take longer to make than the sword, which requires five days. Is it possible for my fellow priests to search potter shops and smithies for a crucible? The sooner we get one here, the sooner the swordsmith can make the sword.”

  “You will have one by morning.”

  Nizar smiled. “Thank you, Divine Master.”

  Chapter 58

  “Taliope smiles upon the prepared man,” Tane said, cautiously studying his friends and surroundings.

  His heart began to hammer at his breast bone.

  The forge fire was loud in the unnatural quiet of the village. While Quinn manned the bellows, and Joelle stoked the fire as needed, Raven and Armin had crept in closer to the warmth. Tane had already smashed up enough iron ore to make a blade. He’d determined how much sand and glass he’d need, as well. And he’d found enough bricks, clay, and charcoal to build his furnace before sunset.

  The nearby gate yawned open, unguarded. The forest beyond looked dark and scary. Perfect to escape into and vanish forever.

  Now is the time to escape, he thought. Quinn is preoccupied with maintaining the fire, as is Joelle. Neither Armin nor Raven are fit to stop me. This is the best chance I’ll ever get.

  But his friends would die. And die horrible deaths at that. Their souls would be eaten by Dakar. And it would be his fault for dese
rting them.

  But didn’t the Arisen Gods deserve their sacrifice? Wasn’t history full of men and women who had to make terrible sacrifices for their people and Gods?

  The priest had healed him of his serious injuries. His body still ached from the beating he took, but he was as strong and healthy as when he started his doomed quest back in Kestsax. He had no doubt he could slip away without being noticed.

  I can vanish into the snow and forest before anyone notices me gone, he thought. I could even continue south, to Caeren.

  “Master,” Joelle said. When Tane looked her way, she said, “I believe the fire is hot enough.”

  Looking into her eyes, even under sway of Dakar’s enchantment, Tane knew he could never abandon her. He couldn’t abandon any of them. To desert his friends would make him as despicable as Dakar. Instead, he resolved to free them, and himself, from Dakar’s power. And he only knew one way to do that.

  They all must die.

  Picking up a broken dagger, he pretended to be studying it for possible use. In truth, he disdained the use of “used” steel in the making of blades. His father taught him to make his own steel, and to trust no one else’s steel. But the dagger could still serve him well.

  Broken off at the hilt, the blade was long enough to reach vital organs if used correctly. Thrust between the ribs, the dagger would quickly kill. A mortal wound broke the enchantment, freeing his friends of Dakar’s vile will for all time. With such a weapon, he could dispatch his friends to the Gods, then swiftly follow. Once his soul was free, he could go before Kamain and tell of his failure. The Gods would have to send another.

  Hiding the dagger blade within his clothes, he began searching the pile for another such blade. He needed another dagger or knife, in case the first was lost in the body. After finding another dagger, he considered the possible need for something bigger. Maybe a broken sword? He absolutely had to stealthily kill two of them. Quinn, for sure, had to be taken by surprise. He was too strong and fast even as a zombie. Joelle would also have to be killed quickly and silently. Armin and Raven were injured enough he probably could take them down if his plan was discovered.

  But who first? Joelle, or Quinn? Though Quinn was stronger and faster, Joelle’s healing magic would save her if his first thrust wasn’t true. Quinn would be upon him in a heartbeat if she managed to voice a warning.

  Tane froze in place, his heart hammering. Joelle’s magic! Her Gift of Healing! If he inflicted a mortal wound, she would be freed of the enchantment. But if death wasn’t instantaneous, her magic could save her. She would be free of Dakar, then she could use her magic to save the others from their mortal wounds!

  But first he had to get Joelle alone, hidden from view. It would take time for her magic to save her, and it wouldn’t do having the others sound the alarm or attack them both. Tane wasn’t sure how they would react to such an attack on one of their number, and was afraid to find out.

  “Joelle,” Tane said, fighting to keep his voice from breaking from excitement. “If that fire is ready, why don’t you go get the hearth fire started? It’s almost dark, and we’ll need a warm place to sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day for us all.”

  Without any acknowledgement, she turned and left the workshop to follow his orders. The others showed no sign of suspicion.

  To distract everyone, and to burn up some nervous energy, Tane picked up a broken sword. He removed the hilt, buried both pieces in the glowing coals, and began the task of welding both pieces of the blade together. The familiar work would sooth his troubled mind, ease over his fears of accidentally killing Joelle in the attempt to save her. Suddenly, he was painfully aware of his inexperience, and just plain ignorance, of such things. Thrust the blade in the wrong spot, and she was dead before her magic could save her. Or worse. She could have the strength to cry out for help.

  The thrust had to be perfect.

  The army had taught him where best to stab someone under different circumstances. A blade in the back, through the ribs and into the diaphragm, would kill even as it stole away the victim’s ability to speak. But would it kill Joelle before she could save herself?

  I don’t have any other choice, he thought, now more scared than excited. Either way, it’s better than this mindless life of slavery.

  Welding the two pieces of steel together, heating them whenever they began to cool, he began the task of forming them into a single, thick bar of steel. He began to hammer upon the glowing bar, thinning it even as it lengthened to blade length.

  He figured Joelle had had time enough to build the fire by that time. And checking her progress would be the perfect excuse for him to leave the workshop.

  With luck, she would still be bent over the fire. A quick thrust into her back, wait to ensure she would survive, tell her of his plan, and return before the others grew suspicious. Five minutes, total. If all went well. Otherwise, he would return, put a crude edge on the sword blade, and use it to kill his three other friends and himself.

  A dreadful plan.

  “Where’s the witch?”

  Tane almost dropped the glowing steel blank at the sound of Nizar’s harsh voice. Turning, he found suspicious black eyes peering at him over a gray veil.

  “I sent her in to build the hearth fire. I’ve slept enough in the cold for one lifetime,” Tane said.

  That seemed to satisfy the priest.

  “Have you made any progress?” Nizar asked, stepping closer.

  He lifted the blade up, held by a thick wrapping of dampened leather around the crude flange.

  “I’m just practicing. Getting my muscles used to working steel again,” he said. Then he indicated the wooden pale. “I’ve prepared the iron ore for the crucible. And I got everything ready to build the furnace once the crucible arrives. So I’m as ready as I can be.”

  “Excellent,” Nizar said. He handed a basket to Armin. “Then you have earned this hot meal. Continue to work hard, and you’ll find Dakar a generous master.”

  “No doubt,” Tane said, turning back to his work. “Once I fold this blade a few more times, then we’ll go in and eat. It’ll be too dark to work by then anyway.”

  Tane prayed for the Gods to intervene and make that terrible man leave. He was spoiling everything. His one chance to get Joelle alone, and preoccupied with the hearth fire, was being ruined by the priest’s presence. If he went inside now, the others would follow. With his lousy luck, the priest would also accompany them inside.

  “Good,” Nizar said, but gave no sign he was leaving anytime soon.

  After folding and hammering the blade back out twice, Tane finally put away his tools in defeat and headed into the hut. As expected, he was followed in by his friends and Nizar. The priest squatted by the fire, his back to the door. Tane took an opposite position, between Quinn and Joelle.

  Armin set the basket down and removed a large piece of pork, a loaf of bread, and a jug of wine. After spitting the pork over the fire to reheat it, they divided up the bread and passed the wine around. It wasn’t a particularly good wine, but no one complained. Tane barely noticed. He was so consumed with bitterness at Nizar ruining his plans he wouldn’t have cared if it was muddy water.

  For his part, the priest kept his thoughts to himself. He squatted by the fire and watched Tane’s every move, as if trying to read his mind. With his turban and veil, all Tane could see of Nizar were his black eyes, intent and penetrating. Tane found it unnerving.

  Once the pork was sizzling again, they quickly devoured it between the five of them. Nizar stayed until the food was all gone, then rose upon wobbly legs to leave.

  “Slaves, I want two of you on watch at all times,” Nizar said. “Do not allow him to escape. He isn’t even to go outside to piss without an escort. I’ll be back in the morning to check your progress, swordsmith.” He then turned a leering grin on Tane. “The women will warm your bed, if you so order it. From firsthand experience, I know the Ashtarite harlot is particularly skilled between the sheets.”


  With that, Nizar departed.

  Embittered by Nizar ruining his escape plans, and disgusted by his suggestion, Tane simply crawled into the nearest pallet and pulled a blanket over himself. Joelle and Armin took first watch. Both Raven and Quinn took blankets and curled up near the fire.

  Chapter 59

  Dakar sat upon His throne of gold, surrounded by a dozen chanting priests, pondering His next move. He could feel the Arisen stirring, mustering Their powers. They fought among Themselves, many still trying to find some way to increase His or Her power and influence once the war was over. He smiled, for They had yet to understand the gravity of Their situation. They did not realize that They were doomed.

  Reaching out with His arcane senses, Dakar could “see” tiny flickers of light across His ever widening domain. Each point of light was a priest, enchanted slave, or willing devotee. The priests were the brightest lights, their faith and devotion the purest. Next were the devoted, His free-minded followers. And the faintest lights were the so called zombies. The zombies were His to control, to use however amused Him, but their souls weren’t His to take.

  When the faithful died, their souls were His to devour. Their deaths nourished Him, strengthened Him. But there were only two ways to possess and consume a soul not given to him freely. One was to rip it from the host body atop a consecrated altar, using the proper rites. The other way was to kill the person with His own hands and capture the soul before it could escape.

  The zombie slaves hadn’t given their souls to Him, so He watched the snuffing of their lights in the battle zones with bitterness. Each soul returned to his or her patron God, empowering that God. The Arisen drew strength and nourishment from the souls They gathered around Them, just as He took it by devouring souls. Different methods, same results. But the bitterest aspect of the continuing deaths was that everyone killed on both sides strengthened His enemies.