Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  “Oh, they already tried that, didn’t they? Tried it and failed.”

  Grondomagnus snorted and spat at Theregond’s foot. “You think you’ll control them any better?”

  Theregond stepped close to the warlord. “We’ll see.” He chortled. “Tonight, we will see.”

  ***

  Grondomagnus and the survivors were corralled into the horses’ pen and left under the watch of the Arriaks. The few Face warriors remaining spat insults and challenge at their pale captors, but the posturing had the brittle note of men denying the inevitable. The women, clutching bloodied rags about violated bodies, bunched together, their hollow stares holding none of their mates’ illusions. Grondomangus sat cross-legged and slightly apart from the others, disdaining an offered cloak, even as the morning temperature plummeted and a fitful drizzle fell. Eyes closed and lips moving in what appeared to be silent prayer.

  “Comfortable?”

  Anzo looked down from the saddle at Theregond. The numbness of his rump and the ache of his spine reminded him that he’d been mounted since dawn—hadn’t been able to get down since, had irrationally felt to do so would make him more a part of the atrocities than he’d already been.

  “Come on, get down.” Theregond held a shovel up to him. “And take this. We’ve got work to do.”

  Frowning, Anzo dismounted and accepted the tool. He’d noticed a mixture of farming implements and the like amongst the riders’ gear before but had assumed they would be for defensive preparations, should the expedition find more than it could handle. But that’s thinking like an Aurid. The raiders had collected an assortment of tools from the wreckage, as well, and groups of men were moving to the far side of the village.

  Trotting by, Zulen spat a phrase at Theregond. The King chuckled. To Anzo’s curious expression he pointed at the shovel. “The white-haired dog says you’ll be more useful with that than you were in the fight.” He turned away.

  Following Theregond, Anzo found the rest of the Vhurrs on the other side of the dome that had been Grondomagnus’ lair. Spades were flashing and dirt already flying. Anzo’s guts knotted. “Seems an awful lot of work to go to, digging a mass grave.”

  “Oh, it’s not a grave.” Theregond grinned about at his men, some of whom chortled darkly. “Well, it’s not one yet.”

  Fixing his face into a mask of concentration, Anzo drove the blade of his shovel into damp ground and started to work. With dozens laboring at a time and shifts switching at regular intervals, the job went quickly and a large hole was opened. Anzo focused on the smell of torn dirt, the cool of sweat on his body, the honest twinge of driven muscles. He took no breaks, accepted only a little ale, kept at the work, anything to avoid thinking. But it wasn’t enough.

  As the excavation widened, Theregond leapt up from hole and took an offered jug. Zulen cantered by, said something, and pointed into the hills above. Anzo followed the gesture with his eyes. Ice wormed down his spine. A small mounted party in white cloaks was meandering down the slope. The priests of Vaethin had arrived.

  Anzo leaned back into the work. The lip of the pit was well over his head now. Dirt flew, caked up his arms. The men around him murmured and moved to give his wild strokes room. The ground about his feet became soggy. Shadows lengthened. Darkness deepened.

  Doesn’t matter, he thought between strokes. Nothing does. I’m nothing. But Heathen and Varya, they’ll be gone, by now.

  Laughter stopped him. Punching the spade into the muck and leaning on the handle, he looked up. The Vhurrs had climbed out of the pit. He was alone, a ring of warriors watching him. Theregond was grinning, was shaking his head. Zulen stood at his side, one of the priests of Vaethin on the other, wearing a spiked, leather mask instead of a hood.

  A grave. Anzo gulped, guts shriveling within him. It’s my grave.

  “That’s a hell of a job you’ve been doing,” Theregond called, “but you’re not going to want to stay down there.”

  Anzo drew a grimy hand across his brow. “Well...is someone going to let go of their dick and help me out?”

  Theregond leaned forward but Zulen got there first, extending a hand. Hiding the disgust of a man asked to pick up a scorpion, Anzo accepted the Arriak’s offer, and let himself be heaved out of the pit. Zulen gripped his hand an instant longer, locking gazes with him. “Weeeasel...”

  Anzo yanked his hand free. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Stay at my side,” Theregond said to him. He turned to the priest, whose masked gaze appeared to be on the western horizon. “Is it time?”

  The sun dipped behind the mountain tops with a last fluttering glare, staining the sky crimson and plunging the hollow into blackness. Torches were being lit. The twilight bejeweled with them as Vhurrs crowded near. Trampled grass winked with moisture in their tossing illumination. The rest of the Vaethin priests were forming at the lip of the pit and spacing themselves evenly, hidden behind masks like the first, who turned to Theregond finally and nodded.

  Theregond touched Anzo’s arm. “I told you once that when you were ready, I would should you a new way, to strength, to power.” His fingers trembled on Anzo’s flesh. “Are you ready, Anzo Severnus?”

  Anzo ground his teeth together, made the reflex seem a smile. “I am, Lord.”

  Theregond’s smile flashed from the dark. Breaking the contact with Anzo, he raised the hand and clenched it into a fist.

  The jangle of weapons and armor came from around the dome, followed by curses and whimpers. Torch-bearing warriors led the prisoners to the pit, prodding with weapons as the condemned saw what awaited them and began to resist. A Face spun to grapple with an Arriak. A swift kick folded the man’s knee, sent him tumbling into the hole. A chorus of moans started from the rest, a woman beginning to scream, the men—stoic until now—bleating, beginning to beg. Without ceremony, they were shoved, kicked, and jabbed into the damp, dark hole.

  Grondomagnus was the last, paused at the lip of the pit, the Arriaks minding him apparently hesitant and anticipating a reaction. The defeated Witch-King glared at Theregond and the priest beside him. Alone of his folk, he seemed resigned. “It won’t be what you think, Theregond,” he called.

  Theregond shook his head in disdain. “Is this what passes as begging for one’s life with you?”

  “Oh, we’re past that.” Grondomagnus pointed at the head Vaethin priest. “They’ve lied to you, just as they lied to me. The power can’t be controlled. It is poison. Worse...it’s like Vaugras, the Great Vyrm, who entices you into His coils with promises of power only to crush your destiny. Except that it’s not death that awaits you. It’s—”

  A Vaethin priest lunged from behind the man and struck him across the back of the skull with a cudgel. Grondomagnus pitched into the hole, to the wails and squeals of his folk.

  Theregond snorted. “They all say that.” He pointed to the head Vaethinian. “Begin.”

  The priest positioned himself above the pit, oblivious to the pathetic clamor from below. He extended his arms out straight to either side, palms up. The other priests did the same, upraised arms linking them though they were not in contact. They began to sway like scarecrows buffeted in a strong wind. The leader’s masked face rose to heavens that had darkened to a sullen red, save twists of receding cloud still catching the faded sunlight in whorls of fire.

  “Arshann.”

  “Arshann,” the other priests answered in a deep tremulous chorus.

  Anzo twitched, as though something with the chill of a knife’s point had touched his mind. The warring smells of clotting blood and ozone filled his flaring nostrils. In the pit, the cries for mercy had stilled to petrified whimpers.

  “Arshann!” The head priest repeated.

  The Vaethinians answered their master in kind, were joined by a low rumble from the gathered warriors. Mist was purling from the night, was spilling over into the hole and bunching about the prisoners, who’d now gone completely silent. Dampness settled on Anzo’s flesh, worked into his pores, his very bon
es, it seemed. He started to shiver. The darkness was a living thing beyond the fluttering light of spitting, guttering torches. More, he sensed something out there, a presence, old and malevolent, circling, scenting the air, quivering in anticipation.

  “ARSHANN!”

  The priest’s shriek was answered from all around the pit, from the Arriaks, from Theregond at Anzo’s side. Twists, vortices of reddish light detached themselves from the sputtering torches, settled as cinders on the shivering mass of the prisoners, but grew where they landed. Men flinched as the weird illumination spread across their bodies. A woman groaned with something that almost sounded like ecstasy, began to writhe as the sorcery engulfed her. Movement boiled through the packed mass, limbs shaking out, eyes flaring widely open and taking on the glow.

  Grondomagnus, blood streaming from his neck down across his torso, had resumed his cross-legged posture, sat in the midst of the spreading fluorescence. Muscles stood out across his body, clenched in some inner struggle as sparks of crimson gathered towards him, clotted on his body, trembled in a furious swarm.

  “Arshann,” the head Vaethinian breathed like a man in orgasm.

  Grondomagnus looked up at Theregond, face a rictus of agonized effort and defiance. Behind him, his folk stiffened, caught in grotesque positions, a frozen image of crimson-washed dance.

  One of the women lunged forward with a feral scream and bit into Grondomagnus’ neck. Blood sprayed, foamed out around sawing teeth as she rent the gristle about his windpipe. He grimaced and reached up to grab her but others were flowing over him, teeth snapping, fingernails gouging. Around them, the rest of the prisoners turned in on each other. Animalistic howls fought gurgles of agony. Meat tore. Bone snapped. Blood bubbled in thirsty maws.

  Anzo stood transfixed, bile rising from the back of his throat. The reddish glow spread, brightened, lit the ghastly melee in terrible, hard detail. The folk of Grondomagnus, the trusted, personal members of his retinue, his lovers, his kin, all twisted and tangled together in slaughter.

  Zulen laughed, was joined by his Arriaks. An arterial plume of gore spat a dozen feet into the air, speckled Theregond, who cackled and held up his hands, as though accepting a benediction. He turned to Anzo, face awash in blood, chords standing out across his neck, shaking with exultation. He held a red-splashed hand out to Anzo, called his name.

  Anzo wobbled, fell back a step. Nausea hammered up from his stomach. Not caring what hellish things stalked the dark beyond the light he spun and raced from the horror.

  ***

  Anzo stumbled through the steaming wreck of the razed village, wobbling like a drunk, his mind awash in images no amount of denial could suppress. He couldn’t say that he followed a course or had anything that resembled a plan. All he knew was that he had to get away.

  It was like they’d been fighting each other, Ulfun—poor, butchered Ulfun—had said what seemed an eternity ago, attacking everyone in sight like mad dogs.

  Anzo neared the tree where he’d tethered his horse. Sickness caught up to him at last. He gripped the charred support beam of a collapsed hut and folded over, vomiting. Spots flashed across his eyes as muscles convulsed. He hardly noticed the heat still lingering in the wreckage as it bit his palm.

  The spots still splotched his vision as he stood, wiping his mouth clear with the back of an ash-coated fist. He lurched towards the waiting mount. The horse twitched at his approach, pawed the soil uneasily. Globes of brilliance persisted, crimson like the afterimages of horror splayed across the insides of his eyelids. He blinked furiously. It was only as he neared the edgy mount that he realized the light came not from some trick of an overwrought mind.

  A figure in Vaethinian white materialized from the dark and put a hand on the horse’s muzzle. The idol dangling at the man’s chest glowed red. Similar beads picked out others, priests and warriors, emerging in a circle around Anzo.

  “Now you know.”

  Anzo spun. From the glimmering embers of the village, Theregond approached, the otherworldly illumination of his idol underlighting his face, reflected in his eyes. Zulen and his Arriaks spread to either side, sabers flashing.

  “Now our true nature is revealed to you.” The King halted a few feet away, sword still in its sheath and hands on his hips. “And now we will see your true nature, Anzo Severnus.”

  Anzo glanced at the masked priests. “Vaethin...” He met Theregond’s stare. “It’s nothing, is it?”

  Sinister chortles echoed from the surrounding men. Theregond’s lips spread into a toothy grin. “A dead god is of little use to us.”

  “And Orkall?”

  Theregond shrugged. “The same. My father, grandfather, all my ancestors followed the Warrior God, and to what result?” An old bitterness pinched his features. “Defeat. Empty glory.” He held up a fist, shook it. “But I’ve found the way.”

  Anzo swallowed back bile taste. “Arshann?” The name felt foul, like puss oozing from a wound.

  “Yes, the Wandering God,” Thereong purred, “beloved by the Lords of a different age and come to us now across an abyss of time.” Theregond turned, gestured fondly at Zulen. “The Arriaks taught us, Grondomagnus and me, long ago.”

  Anzo’s eyebrows arched as surprise jolted his gut.

  “Oh yes.” Theregond folded his arms together. “It was as the He-Witch said: we were brothers, once, learning the Path together as younger men. But the bastard got greedy, tried to keep it all to himself. He was also stupid, clumsy, and short-sighted. Arshann slipped away from him.”

  Anzo licked his lips. Fear gave his tongue an acidy flavor. “And now His favor is with you?”

  “You can be part of this, Anzo. I told you.” Theregond took a step closer. “You don’t have to be the Empire’s Weasel, anymore.”

  Anzo jerked back a step, blood cooled to ice water. “I...don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Laughter intermixed with groans from the gathered priests and warriors. Theregond shook his head knowingly. “Please, we’re past that.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I know what you are—if not your exact purpose here, then at least what kind of man you are. That’s why you’re still alive, Weasel. Maybe you’re not a spy or an assassin, but you are an opportunist.” He held out a hand. “As I’ve said so many times, I can use you.”

  Sweat ran down the small of Anzo’s back, burned the whole way. He regarded the offered palm. “How?”

  “Haven’t you figured it out, yet?” Disappointment colored Thergond’s voice. “I am a builder. The Vhurrs, the Arriaks, Durrim—” he pointed at Anzo “—you.” He spread his arms wide, pivoted on his heel to let his voice carry to all those watching. “A great machine, like the vaunted Aurids and their legions, yet so much more. A nation of conquerors pledged to a True God, one who answers His disciples with tangible power, tangible results!” He whirled back to Anzo, pointed again. “You know what we’re about, now. You know where next we will strike. But most importantly, you know now what power comes with us. None can stand in our way.”

  Anzo shook his head. The motion felt detached, like something done in the terrible instant before battle is joined. “You’re insane.”

  More laughter played about him. Thergond grinned. “You don’t believe that. I have seen it in you. You want what we have. You can stand at our side, Weasel. More, you can be a god amongst mortals. You have only to let go of the fears of a little man and become that which you are destined to be.”

  Anzo glanced around the clearing. They are mad. And doomed. I am doomed. He drew a hand across his brow, cleared it of perspiration. “So...what now?” He let the hand fall to his sword.

  Theregond noticed the motion with a tight smile. “Now, Weasel, you make a choice. You can come with us.” Zulen was stepping near. “Or you can die, right now.”

  Anzo grinned, like he’d done facing the Flinarr in their cave, with madness in his heart, like he’d done in the tomb of the Elder Tyrant, with Varya and Heathen at his side, like he’d done on battlefi
elds and in back alleys and a thousand places where hope had flown and he was left with only himself and his will. “You’re right about me, Theregond.” He ripped the sword from its sheath.

  Priests and warriors flinched back, fumbling for weapons. Zulen sprang to Theregond’s side, saber before him, bloodlust crackling across his pale face.

  Anzo eyed them all, weapon brandished before him. With a manic chuckle he inverted the blade and slammed it into the earth. “Is this how it’s done?” He knelt before Theregond, a hand on the pommel, his eyes meeting the King’s. “I pledge myself to you?”

  Zulen exchanged a look with Theregond, the Arriak visibly fighting himself. The King waved him back, despite a muttered protest, waved back the others crowding in for blood. He met Anzo’s stare again. A wolf crouched over the body of prey pursued across leagues could not have held more triumph.

  “You’re already pledged to me, Weasel.” Theregond shook his head slowly. “No, when we return to Caerigoth, you will pledge yourself to Arshann. Then, only then, will you be one of us.”

  The King and Chosen of Arshann held out his hand.

  Anzo took it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Initiation

  Despite that he rode back to Caerigoth at Theregond’s side, allowed to keep his sword at his hip, Anzo could not have felt less like a prisoner. Zulen was never far, pale eyes promising butchery as spidery fingers caressed the pommel of his saber. Always, an Arriak seemed to be at the corner of his vision, an arrow knocked in his recurved bow. And the priests of Vaethin—no, Arshann—flitted about their lord, hoods wagging, whispers chopping the air at Theregond’s ear.

  Anzo achieved a kind of peace with his doom. Bundled in his blankets when the expedition made camp, he didn’t bother to clutch his sword close, knew nothing would keep the icy fire of a blade from his throat if the others decided his time had come. He rose cheerful with the mornings, joined the warriors and priests at their cooking fires, fully anticipating poison in his meat or gruel. With each moment of life more, he saw their guard relaxing, saw his opportunity grow.